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I 
 
 
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WIDOWER JONES: 
 
 A Faithful History of His *<Loss" and Adventures 
 in Search of a " Companion." 
 
 A RBAUSTIO STOR7 OF RURAL LIFB. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND E. SHEPPARD, 
 Amthur tf "Dotty," "Farm Sketches," "A Bad Mtm'e Svmtkemi," tU., 
 
 
 TORONTO: 
 THB SHBPPARD PUBUSHINO COMPANY (Limitbd). 
 
 1888. 
 
fzs. 
 
 ■^S3 ^ Cos 
 
 iiJ, 
 
 frx 
 
 IN. 
 
1 
 
 .»j 
 
 To those who fear ** father toill marry again;" to the wife wh0 
 
 thinks Tier husband may sometime give her children a stefnnother ; 
 
 to the htisband who wonders how his wife would act if he were 
 
 dead; to those who care for jnctures of real life with its sorrows 
 
 and joySy its peciUiarities and pretevisionSi its heartaches and 
 
 Umghter^ I dedicate this book. 
 
 THE iUTHOltt 
 
 L'N 
 
 ^ 
 
 412'U^ 
 
svt*-tfej,»-.^;^; 
 
 ■nSMi^a 
 
 ^'«(**few*«i 
 
 •■'^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Cbaftir. 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VL 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XIL 
 
 XUL 
 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 
 XVL 
 
 H 
 
 XVIL 
 
 B 
 
 xvin. 
 
 -' B 
 
 XIX. 
 
 '«' f^M 
 
 XX. 
 XXL 
 
 Pa«b. 
 Sunday Morning at thb Dsaoon's. • • 1 
 
 Unexpbctbd and Nonb too Wxloomb. - 6 
 
 TrOUBLB AHBAO for IHB Dbaoon. • • 12 
 
 Rbmorsb. ...... 17 
 
 Calyin, Hulda and Aunt Bbckt. • 21 
 
 Anothbb Unwblcomb Gubst at thb Dbaogn's. 24 
 
 Thb Funbral. .-.••• 30 
 
 The Widowbr's Housbhold. • • • 36 
 
 Bbn's First Happt Homb Lifb. • - -40 
 
 Thb Widowbr's Rbturn. - • • 45 
 
 Thb Dbacon Finds a Ck)iiFORTBR. • -50 
 
 Anothbr Photograph of Unlovblt Lifb. • 57 
 
 HoPB Sbbms to Dwbll Eternal in thb Dba- 
 
 con's Breast. • - ' • - -62 
 
 CONSIDBRABLB Va^UB SUSPICION. • 70 
 
 Thb Dbacon Dtbs His Hair and Israel 
 
 Writes a Letter. • • - 75 
 Thb Quilting Bee at Mitchell's— Thb Stort 
 
 that was Started There. - - - 79 
 The Deacon Gobs Awooino. • -84 
 
 Ben's Beturn to Appleburt. - - • 82 
 
 Ben Conspires with Rufb Gilbert. • 96 
 
 AN Aftbr-mb&tin' Dinner Party. - 102 
 
 For Ben's Sake. 109 
 
 '^M: 
 
!▼ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OHAFmL 
 
 XXII. Thk Widowbr'8 Soliloquy — Aix Women 
 
 Hain't Like "Mabiab." 
 XXIII. Lou AND Bessie Express Their Opinion. 
 XXXIV. The Coubse of the Widower's Love Still 
 Seems Smooth. . - - - • 
 
 XXV. A Second Rebuff. . . - - - 
 
 XXVI. Ruth Indulges in Vain Regrets. 
 XXVII. In which Lou Reveals Herself. - 
 XVIII. Hope takes Jen into Her Confidence. 
 XXIX. Sister Hooper's Confession. 
 XXX A Fierce Falling Out. . - - • 
 
 XXXL In which a Story Develops Somewhat. 
 XXXIL A Cleaning up of the Past. - 
 XXXIIL The Widower Finds a "Companion." - 
 
 XXXIV. Ben's Return. 
 
 XXXV. A Frigid Reception. 
 
 XXX VI. The Joys and Sorrows of Lovb. 
 XXXVII. "'TWAS Not a Mortal Wound." - 
 XXXVIII The Trial of Uncle Abe Gaylor. - 
 
 PAOB. 
 
 114 
 119 
 
 124 
 
 128 
 
 137 
 
 141 
 
 146 
 
 150 
 
 154 
 
 160 
 
 164 
 
 168 
 
 174 
 
 180 
 
 183 
 
 188 
 
 192 
 
 BegiHtered According to the Dominion Copyright Act. 
 
^OMEN 
 
 Still 
 
 114 
 119 
 
 124 
 - 128 
 137 
 - 141 
 146 
 - 150 
 154 
 • 160 
 164 
 168 
 174 
 180 
 183 
 188 
 192 
 
 WIDOWER JONES. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 IVirDAY MOBNIMO AT THB DBAOON'S. 
 
 They were singing. The Jones family always sang on Sunday 
 mornings. On other momingH family worship, under the stress of 
 chores; was unaccompanied by song. On this particular Sunday 
 morning the family had Just assembled at what the Deacon in his 
 oft>repeated prayer was wont to designate as their *' family altyer, 
 when the up>express thundered past the house with that profuse 
 hilarity of whistling and screeching peculiar to locomotives, which, 
 from continuous habit, appear to delight in desecrating the Sabbath. 
 The train stopped at the new station, which was not more than a 
 hundred yards from Deacon Jones' house, and a solitary passenger 
 alighted. He stared at the big black letters on the white board, 
 which proclaimed ** Applebury " to he the name of the village, and 
 then glanced at the dingy fprm house on the knoll across the road. 
 
 *' What might yeh be looking fer, mister?" inquired Mr. Shunter, 
 the combined station-master, switchman, express agent and bag- 
 gageman. 
 
 **I might be looking for someone to talk to, but Fm not I** 
 snapped the stranger. '* I suppose that's Sniveller Jones' place over 
 yonder?" 
 
 ** Not Snivel-yer Jones, mister, for that's a name I never heerd 
 of hereabouts, but Adoniram— Deacon Adoniram Jones' place it is 
 over yander, an ther' haint do e'thiy doubt 'bout that ! " 
 
 The stranger stared mockingly in Mr. Shunter's face, and with a 
 laugh swung his heavy valise onto his shoulder, stepped down off 
 the platform and across the railroad to the path which led to the 
 red gate of the farm. About forty years old, big and strong, and yet 
 not coarse, he swung along under his burden as if It were a 
 feather. His clothing was of fashionable make, and though much 
 worn and travel-stained, his garments fitted him as if they were 
 proud of the man. His strong tacc, shaded by a heavy brown 
 beaid, bore maiics of dissipation perhaps, but none of depravity 
 
[' 
 
 2 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 I' 
 
 n 
 
 As he Htrodo alonj? the path leading to the house, the currant 
 bushcH brushed ngainst his coat and the tall sunflowers nodded a 
 lazy welcome. The bees were humming in the clover, and iu the 
 dwarf pear tree a bird was whistling a merry lay. The stranger 
 dropped his valise in the tall, tangled prrass by the rose bush which 
 climhcd over the parlor window, and taking off his stovepipe hat 
 nervously wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 They were singing, and the voice that started the tune was his 
 mother's. The stranger tried to pull his hat down ^ver his eyes, 
 and after a moment of tremulous waiting he hurried to the window 
 of the dining room, and, peering through the hop vines which 
 covered the south side of the house, he saw his father and mother, 
 his brothers and sisters standing up and singing: 
 
 Safely throuirh another week 
 
 Ooil has brought us on our way, 
 Let ua now a blessing seek, 
 
 Waiting in His courts to^lay ; 
 Day of all the week the best. 
 Emblem of eternal rest. 
 
 The Deacon sang vociferously if not melodiously, the boys 
 drawled along in careless but musical bass, the girls, sweet of 
 voice, but without thought or feeling, loitered through the tune, 
 the mother sadly but steadily, her voice quavering here and there, 
 as if age made some notes uncertain. Her tired hands, with their 
 knotted, toil-stalncd finger? clasped together hung hopelessly before 
 her, nnbeautiful and almost deformed by hard work. As she sang 
 her dark, sad eyes grew dreamy— beautiful eyes, like those of the 
 son peering through the hop vines. Age had dulled the lustre of 
 those blue eyes, but beauty still dwelt there, though pathos had 
 replaced the sparkle which had once made her face so bright and 
 Joyous. They were the eyes of one who, uncomplaining, had 
 suffered long, and with patience had borne many burdens. As the 
 verse finished her voice, echoing her heart's weariness* started the 
 refrain : 
 
 —Day of all the week the best, 
 
 Emblem of eternal rest 
 
 The family had followed "mother" thro :h the hymn so often 
 that they did not hear the wail, the soul's cry for rest that went 
 up to God every Sunday morning-; but the son returning after 
 many years— nigh on to a score— felt his eyes fill as he heiird the 
 lifewom woman sing longingly of eternal rest. 
 
 —While we seek supplies of grace 
 
 Through our dear Redeemer's namfl^ 
 Show Thy reconciled face— 
 Tkike away oar Bin and i 
 
 t-'- 
 
 ■i "rhir iii'i ' 
 
 rjiiii^i'ii i)..anri'iii ^tfa««.fci«iij 
 
8UNDA Y MOnyiNG A T THE DBA CON*S, * 
 
 So far they satiR of the second verse, the mother steadilTi the 
 Deacon unctuously, the family lazily, everyone but mother without 
 
 expression. 
 
 —From our worldly carea Mt frae, 
 May we rest this day in Thee. 
 
 And again in the refrain came the wailinp: minor key of the tired 
 wife, the Jaded mother, as she pleaded tee rest, and no ear save 
 God's heard the sobbing of the soul that was pure enough and 
 gentle enough to sit with Mary lovingly, piously, at Jesus* feet. 
 Her son Ben, her first-born, the wanderer, the truant, the prodigal, 
 felt some of her sorrow as he heard her quavering monotone. 
 
 —Here we come thy name to praiie,— 
 Let us feel Thy presence near — 
 
 Ben could stand no more and turned away. 
 "Poor old mother!" he muttered huskily, as he heard her start 
 the third verse, " her voice is nearly gone t How thin the looks I ' 
 Old Sniv. must be worse than ever ! 
 
 —Here affords us, Lord, a ta< 'o 
 Of our everlasting rest : 
 
 Came floating out to the listener. 
 
 " Never a taste of rest has poor old mother had in all these years. 
 I r - ee that— and she never will know v hnt rest is until she 
 dies— or father does. Poor oIj* mother." ne murmured regretfully 
 as he returned to his post of observation. 
 
 **Let us pray!'* tragically exclaimed the Deacon as the singing 
 ceased. Everybody knelt. Israel, f^t and lazy, leaning heavily 
 with his elbows on the seat of his chair, stared in an absent way at 
 the window next to the one through which his eldest brother was 
 looking. Hiram, the school-teacher, drew a slip from his pocket- 
 and studied a recitation he was preparing for an entertainment 
 Bessie, pretty, dark eyed, auburn-haired little Bessie, drew her feet 
 up under her and sat down like a plump little chickie on a roost. 
 She knew the prayer would be long, and her father so taken up 
 with the rhetoric of his petition that he would be unobservant, 
 and 80 prepared to take it easy. She had a hymn book in her 
 hand, and was studying the fly leaf on which some of her lovers at 
 sini^ing-school had written tender phrases. And Louie, too, was 
 guilty of thumbing over her Bible while her father prayed, and as 
 she was near the looking-glass she once in a while made mouths 
 at her pretty self, perhaps to see how she would look if she tried to 
 8<ay several teasing things to her beaux, which were floating through 
 tier mind. The watcher at the window saw all these things at a 
 gUuioe* bat his eyes lingered \<»;th loving solicitude on the mother. 
 
 •■'1^ 
 
WIDOWER joirss 
 
 If". 
 
 k 
 
 \i ■• 
 
 the tall, slim, thin-ehested,- stoop-shouldered mother whose bony 
 hands clasped the back of a chair while her head leaned heavily, 
 wearily, hopelessly on her outstretched arms. 
 
 **Poor old mother," he sighed, and he almost choked in gulping 
 down a sob, and a great big tear rolled down into the brown beard, 
 "she's only a shadow any more." 
 
 The Deacon bogaj, and the air was full of his chest tones and 
 overladen with his sonorous elocution : *' Oh, Lord ! look down on 
 us poor, fallen, sinful and hopeless critters of Thy bown-che-us-nusa 
 as we air gethered round this humly alt-yer of Thy grace." 
 
 **The old man starts off on his prayer just like he used to,** 
 thought the prodigal, as he glanced curiously at his sire. 
 
 Deacon Jones had some of tlie instincts of an actor. His 
 tendency to strike attitudes and mouth his words suggested this 
 to every beholder. While he knelt and prayed he grasped both 
 arms of the rocking chair, and with head thrown back and his face 
 uplifted to Heaven he was an impressive sight. He was sixty-five 
 years old and comely, halo and hearty, white-haired and clean- 
 shaven, except a fringe of beard under his Jaws and chin. His 
 robust frame had hardly known a real attack of sickness, though 
 for twenty years he complained of rheumatism, dyspepsia, neu- 
 ralgia, heart disease, liver complaint and lung disorder. His fond 
 wife had nursed and babied him until he really thought he was in 
 precarious health, and never did he return thanks to his Maker 
 without alluding in sonorous phrase to the wonderful preservation 
 of his life from the numerous "sicknesses, diseases and disorders 
 which infested his e'thly tab^nacle of th' llesh." So regular w^as he 
 in stating to the Divine Physician the condition of his health that 
 the family knew exactly how near completion his prayer had 
 reached by the recurrence of this well-worn period. In a few 
 sentences subsequent to the sanitary paragraph it was his custom 
 to refer in his supplicatloato his family, and with tears and choking 
 voice to implore Heaven to preserve him and his "help-meet and 
 companion in th' strait and narrer way." 
 
 "That's new," thought Ben. "It would be less like murder, 
 however, if he tried to do a little of the * preserving' himself." 
 
 With peculiar rii^ivig emphasis on his "ands," from which, except 
 in prayer, he always dropped the "d's," the Deacon continued : *'0h. 
 Lord, Almighty Maker of Heaven and Earth, and Creator of the 
 Universe, on this Thy footetgol, on which we poor critters of the 
 dust air permitted to crawl, give ear, we most hum'ly beseech Thee, 
 in A'mlghty mercy, to our prayer fer Thy Divine grace, and dwell 
 Into our hearts. And, Oh, Lord God of Abraham and Isaac, and 
 Jfticob. take notice of our sorreriu' young sister here, AND pour Thy 
 
 tii'^i^i 
 
 
SUNDAY MORNING Ai: TBS DEACON* » S 
 
 bam inter her heart, and abein* a orphan without no father nee 
 mother, teach us Thy servants to comfort and cherish her as If wc 
 war her own kin and flesh and blood. And we pray that when 
 at last we air called t' give an answer and an account fer every 
 thought, word, deed, action, and—, and everythin' we do er say 
 er think, that we may not be weighed in th' balance and found 
 wantin', and thet this young sister here and all on us may be re 
 united— AND— AND re-joined to th' loved ones thet hev gone afort." 
 
 A sob from the corner beside the window attracted Ben's atten< 
 tion. He could see a female figure robed in black, and in a passlag 
 thought he wondered who she could be. 
 
 The Deacon had prayed for nearly half an hour, and had padded 
 out his petition with every word and phrase he could muster, but 
 unsatisfied with his catalogue of wants, he concluded with a saving 
 clause, intended to cover all errors and omissions, like a quit-claim 
 deed or a bar-of-dower. " Oh, Lord, grant us these, our feeble per* 
 titions, re-quests and re-quirements, for we know Thou dost not 
 hear us on account of our much speakin', er because of our fro< 
 quent repetitions, as the heathens does, but we know Thou art able 
 AND willin' fur beyond what we kin think of, conceive, understand, 
 er kin enter into th* thoughts of man, to bestow upon us mor'o 
 we kin think of t' ask er enjoy." 
 
 At last he said " Amen," and everyone arose. The mother last of 
 all struggled to her feet, her daughter Lou helping her. 
 
 "How stiff you are to-day, mother," she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, Louisa, every bone m inc aches like's if it was goin' to rain 
 er storm of some kind. I'm feered I can't go t' meet in' t'-day." 
 
 ** But yeh must come, Marier. It sets a ter'ble bad example when 
 th' families of th' leaders of th' church stay away from meetin' and 
 ' fersake th* assemblin* of themselves together,' as th' scriptirs pink 
 out 1" The Deacon spoke authoritatively. 
 
 "I'll go then," she said meekly, "if you think it best** 
 
 " Of course I think it best, an—" 
 
 The Deacon's speech was interrupted. A stranger wearing a plug 
 hat and carrying a big valise entered the door. Dropping his buv^ 
 den, and placing his hat on the half-cleared breakfast tabla, ha 
 stepped hurriedly forward, exclaiming : 
 
 " Mother 1" 
 
 The sad blue eyes of the mother dilated with Joyful surprisa, tka 
 trembling hands were upraised as she cried : 
 
 "Benalel" 
 
 " Poor, dear old mother 1 '* 
 
 ** Oh, Bennie, Bennie ! My little Bennie.** 
 
WIDOWER JONES 
 
 l:- 
 
 He was forty and world-worn, and there was a little bald spot on 
 the top of his head, and yet she called him " Bennie." 
 
 It was evident that bis habits had not been good and his morals 
 were doubtful, and yet the girl robed in black and weeping for her 
 dead thought he was the lovliest man she'd ever seen as he held his 
 mother in his arms and stroked her hair and kissed her forehead 
 while he whispered "Poor, dear old mother!" 
 
 With her arm around his neck, his mother sobbed on his shoulder 
 while the tears streamed down his face. Then the arm that en- 
 circled his neck relaxed, the eyes closed ; had it not been for her 
 sou's strong arms the mother had fallen to the floor. Tenderly he 
 carried her to the alcove bed curtained off the sitting-room, and he 
 did not leave her till, recovering from her fainting fit, she opened 
 her eyes and, as when he was a tiny toddler, stretched forth her 
 arms, crying : ' 
 
 ''Bonnie ! Bennie ! My little Bennie I " 
 
 II ■ 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 UNEXPEGTBD AND NONE TOO WELCOME. 
 
 After his mother had recovered, the Deacon came up to Ben, ex 
 claiming : " Well 1 well ! an' this is you, is it, Ben-ja-n^n?" 
 
 " Yes, father, I've come back I Are you glad to see me again?" 
 answered Ben, kindly, for his mother's tenderness had softened his 
 heart. 
 
 **0f course, Ben-ja-minl Of course! Why not?" The Deacon 
 was confused and gushing, but his quick eye had observed Ben's 
 seedy attire, and the idea that his son was poor and might want 
 help brought a scowl to his face. Ben Jones was too old a reader of 
 human faces to mistake the look in his father's eyes, and as be 
 watched the Deacon's face his own lips curled scornfully, and he 
 answered with a sneer : 
 
 **I may not be welcome to you; I don't believe I am; but Fm 
 going to stay, all the same ; so let's try to be civil for a week or 
 two, anyhow.** 
 
 The girls were standing by waiting to greet their brother, and 
 as his scowling father picked up his hat and le/t the room Ben 
 turned to them : 
 
 ** You're Lou, I'll bet ten thousand bushels of wheat," he ex- 
 claimed, catching both her hands. '* I can see mischief in your eye. 
 Poor old mother was rocking you in the cradle when I went away. 
 That little, scamp there is Bessie! I know that without guessing, 
 though I never- saw her before. Come here and kiss me, and see 
 
UNEXPECTED AND NONE TOO WELCOME 
 
 how it goes to have a new brother. Lord bless you iHrael, how 
 stout you're getting. Nothing like being named after the chosen 
 people ! And you, too, Hiram ; you wereii't any bigger than a 
 hitchingpost when I left home." 
 
 He looked inquiringly at the dark-i-obcd figure by the door, and 
 Louie, catching his eye, called out : 
 
 "Come here, Hope, and be introduced to the prodigal son. Miss 
 Hope Campton, permit me to make you acquainted with Mr. Benja- 
 min Jones. Miss Campton is our foster sister and father's ward, 
 and Mr. Benjamin Jones is our long-lost brother." 
 
 With a pretty bow and comical gravity she continued : 
 
 " Mr. Jones, I hope you will behave yourself so I will not be sorry 
 that I introduced you to Miss Campton. Hope, I advise you to be 
 careful of this new arrival. I never remember seeing him before, 
 and he has been so long away from his most excellent relatives 
 that he may not be nearly so nice as the rest of us." 
 
 Ben grasped Hope's hand in his hearry way and answered with 
 a laugh : "Don't let her prejudice you against me. She ought 
 to be ashamed of herself for suggesting a suspicion that this very 
 mature prodigal was ever guilty of anything worse than wandering 
 away from the poor old mother, who wanted him to stay near her." 
 
 "Oh, Bennie! I've missed yeh sol" sighed the mother, who was 
 sitting in a rocking chair, swinging feebly to and fro. 
 
 " Poor old mother ! " he said, going up to her and placing his 
 chair nearer that he could look into the careworn face. " If I had 
 hoped for a welcome, or even peace with father, in the old home I 
 had come sooner. Even as it is, you can see the old man hasn't 
 fallen on my neck to greet me, nor has he shown signs of producing 
 •the best robe' or killing the fatted steer in honor of my return. 
 Tm afraid, old mother, that the Deacon and I will never pull to- 
 gether. Every time I tried to make up my mind to come home old 
 Sniv's face when he ordered me off the farm has risen up as a 
 warning to stay away. Poor old mother 1"— Ben leaned over- and 
 took the trembling mother in his arms—" I guess I was born to be 
 your affliction I " 
 
 "Oh, Bennie ! yeh musn't talk so about yer father ; it's wrong." 
 She looked up at him, intending to be reproachful. He looked 
 down at her and smiled. How well he knew that attempt to defend 
 his father's hateful prejudices! Their eyes met, and Louie and 
 Hope Campton, gazing wonderingly at them, were struck by the 
 likeness of the two. The mother's nad blue eyes, bright with love 
 for her first-born, her darling; bright with memories of the young 
 days when first she looked into those eyes and saw a love that would 
 never forget or desert her ; bright with the visions she saw there 
 
 m 
 
 
 5^. 
 

 
 
 ^.4. 
 
 V^' 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 
 ir 
 
 of the flrat days of wedded life, when the nky was bright and love 
 was not hidden in the bottom of a well of bitterness. Oht the first 
 days 1 the first years I the birthday of Bennie I the soft seed-time of 
 happiness I How wifely love framed the picture that was to have 
 been her future ! And here was Bennie, with the same beautiful 
 blue eyes, looking at her. She choked with a great sob— he was 
 changed; the eyes were blue and honest, and loving and bright, 
 but Bennie was changed. There were deep lines in his face, gray' 
 hairs like flecks of silver in his brown beard 1 But he was still 
 her baby Bennie ; those eyes were the same that looked upon her 
 when her fir8t-lx>rn at her breast found nourishment and comfort, 
 ^nd she could again feel the touch of the little hands that caressed 
 ;vith baby fingers her neck and fondled her face in those days so 
 ;.ong ago, so very, very long agol 
 
 As the two girls watched his face they saw what few of his 
 companions ever saw— a tear, a softened glance, a loving, tender 
 longing that filled his soul ; an earnest, aye, a despairing desire to 
 atone for his years of neglect, and they looked at one another and 
 whispered, ** Did you ever see two people look more alike?" 
 
 Look alike 1 Yes, and he, tall, strong and massive, and she a 
 stooping shadow. Yes ! alike ! Their souls were alike 1 The blue 
 eyes were shaded by the same long, black lashes, and the heavy 
 eyebrows in arch and faintest curve were the same. They were 
 mother and son, and their souls spoke as the angels speak, without 
 words. He knew what she thought, ard his big brown hand 
 touched the wriukled cheek as once his baby hand had done, and 
 she threw her arms about his neck and pressed his face against her 
 breast, as had been her way near two score years ago. 
 
 Hope Campton began to cry, Lou was bewildered. Everyone else 
 had left the room. Ben had forgotten that others were lookihg on. 
 
 **0h Bennie 1 yeh don't know how happy yeh've made me,'* 
 sobbed the mother. 
 
 " Poor, old mother 1 What a brute I've been! But I never forgot 
 you, and mother, ah, I— er— never forgot to say my prayer, as I 
 promised you when I went away, though sometimes I"— Ben 
 sobbed in an abandon of confession and grief—" I— I was so tipsy 
 I could hardly get into bed, yet I never forgot you, or how you 
 used to look as you bent over my bed at night, or the prayer you 
 taught me 1 ** 
 
 **0h, Bennie ! do yeh drink?" exclaimed the mother hi a frlg})t- 
 ened voice. 
 
 ** Not now, mother. Now when Fm with you. Never so as to 
 hurt anybody but myielL" 
 
UNEXPECTED AND^JfONE TOO WELCOME 
 
 Lou seemed rootw^lji^Hfe floor. Hope Campton toncbtfd her arm 
 aud whispered : ** Come away ; we have no rif^^ht to watch them." 
 
 Twenty minutes later the Deacon, returning from the barn, with 
 much ado, proclaimed that it was time to start for church. The bifr 
 democrat wagon was drawn up by the door. Hiram sat ia the 
 single buggy, and called to Bessie that Hope might as well ride 
 with him if she didn't mind. 
 
 Hope said she guessed she wouldn't go to church. She didn't 
 feel like it. 
 
 " ODme on yourself then, Bess." 
 
 ** I'm going to stay at home, too ; it's— it's so awfully hot I ** 
 
 ** Father won't have it, so you ttuiy just as well get ready. He's 
 going to preach to-day and he won't have his own family set a bad 
 example. See if he does ! " 
 
 Bessie Jones was by no means a pretty girl, and yet she was 
 "taking" and "clever." Her complexion had a hard look, and her 
 hands were never soft, but always rou^h and chapped. Bessie Jones 
 did not lack for lovers, but they were not the lovers she wanted. 
 She had a mind of her own, and though younger than Lou, and 
 the baby in years, when she put her foot down not even the Deacon 
 himself could alter a jot or tittle of her intention. 
 
 ** I'm not going, Hiram, and you and Israel and father may Just 
 as well start, for I know that no one else feels like being shut up in 
 the church for two mortal hours while father goes over his experi 
 ence." 
 
 "But say, Bess, there'll be a deuce of a row if no one but Israel 
 and I go to meeting." 
 
 " Row away then. I know how it's going to he. It's going to 
 be as I say, row or no row." 
 
 Hira u was disappointed. He had hoped to have Hope in the 
 bug^y beside him, and expected on this his first Sunday at home 
 during his vacation to cut quite a swell at the country church. " I 
 think it's real mean of you when I haven't been home for three 
 months ! ' 
 
 " Ben hasn't been home for twenty years, and I'm going to stay 
 home with him and give him a chance to talk with mother, so just 
 go on and don't get father started in one of his tantrums." 
 
 Just at this moment the Deacon came down stairs, brushing an 
 ancient but much venerated stovepipe hat, and called to his wife :— 
 
 "Come, mother, we're ready t' start I Ben-ja-min, yeh kin ride 
 with Hiram an' one of th' girls." 
 
 Ben's face clouded. His mother escaped from his embrace as if 
 in fear of reproof. 
 
 w^f^" 
 
 ijMk 
 
 ^^ 
 
10 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 **1 f^ess maybe I hadn't better go to-duy, father; Im not 
 feelln' very strong, and it's ter'ble hot out in th* sui:," stammered 
 the mother, as she rose and tried to steady lierself by holding the 
 back of the rocker. 
 
 **An' with one accord they began making excuses," quoted the 
 Deacon, with an attempt at a smile which ended in a scowi. 
 
 " It's not an excuse,*' began the mother faintly, " I am weak and 
 dizzy, and I can't stand th' sun, let alone th' heat in th' meetin' 
 house." 
 
 **It's only fancy, Marier ; yer jist as well's I am, an' I must insist 
 on yeh comin' out an' not sett in' a bad example t' other folks. Of 
 course, I know ye'd like t' stay home along i' Ben, but it can't be 
 t'-day, seein's cheire haint no excuse fur th' forsakin' of the as* 
 semblyin' of yerselves together in th' Lord's house on th' first day 
 of th' week an*—'* 
 
 The Deacon's flow of words was cut short by Bessie, who, seeing 
 the black look on Ben's face, tried to avert the storm. 
 
 " Mother isn't fit to go to church to-day, and if you get her started 
 like enough she'd faint like she did after worship this morning." 
 
 The Deacon hated to give in, and was about to begin the argu« 
 ment of the question when Hope Campton, standing listlessly at 
 the door, exclaimed : ** Indeed, she isn't fit to do anything but go to 
 bed." 
 
 What Hope Campton said always settled a question with the 
 Deacon, and without admitting that he heard her, he gave up the 
 point. Turning to Lou he demanded angrily why she wasn't ready 
 for church. Lou was in rebellious mood, and answered with a per- 
 ceptibly exultant sneer, "Because mother told me to stay home an' 
 get dinner." 
 
 " Well, I tell yeh to git yer thinp^s on this minit an' go t' church!' 
 cried the Deacon, his voice rising with his anger. 
 
 *' Yes, Louisa," began her mother, with a faint attempt to be 
 cheerful and restore order—" I'll get dinner." 
 
 "You can't mother," put in Bessie firmly, "You're not fit. 
 Nobody is going to meeting from here but Israel and Hiram, and 
 there needn't be any more fuss about it.** 
 
 Ben was astonished to hear bis sister dictating thus to her 
 father. In his boyhood such words would have led to an interview 
 with a harae-strap or maybe a harness tug. Ordinarily the Deacon 
 would have accepted this from Bessie in quietness, as he had grovha 
 accustomed to her imperious ways, but to-day he was at once 
 angryt jealous and remorseful. Ben's tenderness tp his mother was 
 a reproach to him, and it stirred up the old hatred of his first 
 
\ 
 
 'M 
 
 UNEXPECTED AND NONE TOO WELCOME 
 
 11 
 
 bom's influence over his mother, and with face flaming with passion 
 and voice choking vvitli rage, he bellowed out : 
 
 "Yes, ali on yeh air turned agin rae by Ben s-coming back! 
 An yeh think yeii kin dare me an' defy me, an' do as yeh please, jiat 
 Uekase this reprobate hez turned up t' sponge on me agin. But; I 
 tf 11 yeh I hain't goin' teh hev it, nuther now ner no time, an* if be 
 can't keep from splittin' up th' family he kin jist make tracks an' 
 go." roared the Deacon^ gesticulating with both hands while his be- 
 loved plug hat fell unheeded to the floor, *'fer I won't hev th' 
 Lord's house deserted, despised, an' fersook fer the sake of none uv 
 his haughty an' friv-less ways, an' I say onc't fer all—'* 
 
 The Deacon was trembling with rage, and in another minute 
 svould have been screaming at the top of his voice. Hope Campton 
 stood dumbfounded ; Lou went over to her mother for protection, 
 Uessie glared at her father as if she would like to cuff his ears, 
 iien rose up, tall, powerful, self-possesed ; picked the hat from the 
 lioor, and, walking over to his father, grasped his shoulder, swung 
 iiim round, and marched him out of the room. 
 
 *' This is a nice way to prepare yourself to preach, trying to bully 
 a lot of women and frighten out what life is left in poor, old mother. 
 You're a nice gospel agent, you are \ Here, Hiram, take this old 
 windbag in with you and tote him to church ; nobody else is 
 going. Israel, put the team back in the stable, I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 By this time Ben had opened the gate and Hiram, dumb with 
 wonder and acting under the spell of his brother's fierce eyes, drove 
 out. The Deacon, too, was speechless, and sat mechanically smooth* 
 ing his hat with the cuff of his coat. His shoulder felt as if a 
 bear had been fondling him, though never before had he felt so much 
 strength while being hurt so little. He had been unable to resist, so 
 sudden and overwhelming was the cyclone of his son's proceeding. 
 
 "Say, look-a-here, Ben, what are yeh doin' to the old man. 
 Danged if I like to see him shoved 'round like that," began Israel, 
 from whose hands the reins had fallen as he saw his father hustled 
 into Hiram's buggy. 
 
 "Go and put away the team and come into the house, we want 
 to have a talk ! " Ben commanded fiercely. ** You'd sit there like a 
 bump on a log and see the whole family brow-beaten by that old 
 fraud and never say a word. Go on now, and don't sit there gawk- 
 ing at me like a fool." 
 
 *' Well by the great hen !" Israel began. But Ben had taken the 
 horses by their heads and turned them towards the barn. 
 
 "Gro on. Twelve Tribes, and don't try to talk till you get back 
 your senses.'* 
 
 Jt^j^ 
 
H-y' 
 
 12 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 At the barn door Israel got out of the democrat and unhitched 
 the team. Fur a moment he stood and looked towards the house. 
 Then he began to unharness the horses, stopping a few times to 
 ItAze at the house, and exclaim : '* Well, by the great hen, that is 
 the dangdest perceedln' I ever saw ! " 
 
 One horse was unharnessed and had been turned into the lane 
 leading to the pasture field, and Israel began to undo the buckles 
 oo the harness of the other, when he was constrained to pause and 
 again exclaim : ** Well, by the great oum, ril be danged if I bver! 
 An' that as straight as a string, sure enough I" 
 
 Israel was not a rapid or consecutive thinker. He stood in great 
 •we of bis father, and was the hack horse, the principal beast of 
 burden on the farm, which on many occasions the Deacon had prom- 
 ised to bequeath to him in his will. 
 
 The last horse was scampering down the lane, kicking up hia heels 
 and exhibiting every sign of delight at his release. Israel stood 
 gazing at the house, the oridle still hanging over his arm. 
 
 ** So I hain't goin' to meetin*. It beats the Dutch the way he 
 acted 1 Itdoes, by the great sixty !" 
 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TKOUBLK AHEAD FOB THK DEACON. 
 
 In the house, when Ben returned, he found everyone in tears 
 •xcept Hope Cam ] ton, who stood at the door watching the distant 
 Israel as he unhitched the team. 
 
 " I hope you aren't shocked at uiy sumniary method of conclud- 
 ing the— er— discussion," Ben remarked with a smile, as he came up 
 the steps onto the stoop. 
 
 **xes, I must say I am, and I think any right minded person 
 would be ashamed even to be a witness of your awful treatment of 
 your father." '\A/ith this Hope began to cry, and walked quickly 
 past him into the yard. While she had been gazing toward the 
 stupefied Israel, she had been half defending Ben in her mind bat 
 thoughts came of her own dead father who had been so good to her 
 and at once the very name of "father" seemed sacred, and she could 
 no longer excuse Ben's conduct. 
 
 It was Ben's turn to be astonished. Without another word he 
 passed on and found Bessie bathing her mothers face with cold 
 water, while Lou, with wet eyes and indignant face, stood readj to 
 rt*d Ben out of the family. 
 
 
 JL-f. J^. ., ^l.,Vm ,'*n^ "^-^a ■tm.*-A,\..*:i^.k. 
 
 Ill i^'ltr^/iitiSil''^^*^^-' ■'■-'''' ''^'^^ 
 
 WBW^' 
 
TROUBLE AHEAD FOB THE DEACON 
 
 U 
 
 Bon paused at the door and comprehended the situation. He 
 bad gone too far. They did not understand him or his history. 
 
 *' Well, sister?, I see you have caught your father's frown, and 
 I am to be excommunicated. Mother, too, is sufferins; for me; it 
 would have been better had I stayed away i The best thing I can 
 do now is to go and leave you in peace." Ben spoke bitterly, but 
 in his deep voice was a cadence of sorrow that at once appealed 
 to his sisters. 
 
 ** Oh, Ben 1 you know we are so glad to see you, but how could 
 yon treat father so?" sobbed Lou, who began clinging to Ben's arm 
 and mointening his coat sleeve with her tears. 
 
 '* Little sister, if I stay here long you will see me treat the old 
 man worse than that. Do you want me to stay or shaM I go and 
 leave you all to the old life, with * Old Sniv ' brow-beating every- 
 one, bullyinc mother, and crying and sneaking to people like a 
 whipped cur? Bah I It makes me sick to see throe women and 
 two men growing up under the tuition I escaped Just in time to 
 save my self-respect." 
 
 Lou looked up to inquire who he meant by ** Old Sniv.** 
 
 **The Deacon, to be sure!" cried Ben, falling into the tone his 
 father often used. "Visit th' sick and efflicted and succor th' 
 fatherless and th' widder in ther eviction (sob), and preserve unto 
 me my fam-le (sob), and may th* down-trod and desperut also find 
 rest AND comfert I (sob)." 
 
 The girls could not help laughing. These were their father's 
 words, and the half-sob, half-gruut, was the Deacon's own. 
 
 Ben knew he had touched a point in the Deacon that everybody 
 recognized, and kept on. 
 
 *'Tou've heard him snivel as well as I have. After twenty 
 years, you see, I can repeat his tedious wltiniogs. Is that religion? 
 No ; it's snivelling, and that's why I call Iiira ' Sniv.'" 
 
 Bessie came up to him and put hor hard, shapely little hand, 
 lightly on his lips. ** Brother, don't talk so. It frightens us. And 
 just think what Hope Campton will think of you, for she believes 
 father is perfection. We aren't used to traveled philosophers ; all 
 we know is home and how to make peace, and to try and get along. 
 Now, please, promise not to quarrel with father any more, or call 
 him names ! Can't you see it hurts mother so' " 
 
 Ben looked admiringly at his sister, put his broad palm beside 
 her cheek, and turned her face into the best light. "Yes, my 
 little Quaker, I think we can arrange a cessation of hostilities, but 
 it will require a carefully prepared campaign. Let's talk it over." 
 
 Israel had entered and seated himself. Hope Campton returned, 
 but thinking she was intruding, turned away. " Don*t go, Hope,'* 
 
 ;tr... 
 
1^ 
 
 
 r 
 
 u 
 
 W I DO WEB JONES 
 
 Bessie exclaimed, seizing Hope's dress as she started up-stalrs. 
 ** You belong to the family, and there Is nothing to hide from you." 
 
 Ben went over and sat by his mother. She looked affectionately 
 at him and again began to cry. 
 
 Ben asserted himself. It was necessary. 
 
 **Now," said he, "I want this to be understood at the start, as 
 it will be apparent at the finish. The Deacon hates me like a snake, 
 even if I am his son. I'll have.no peace here unless I pursue a vig- 
 orous policy. You must help me. If I let him brow-beat me and 
 order me around I may as well go ; stand in with me and I'll make 
 him eat humble pie and leave us all alone." 
 
 At this point Hope Campton again turned away, and Lou, call- 
 ing after her, could not detain her. 
 
 *' It seems such an awful thing," she said, ** this plotting against 
 your own father I" 
 
 '* There; you see, Hope's gone off In dignified disgust, and the 
 whole family will be in her bad books. I can see we are to have a 
 general row all round, and how will it all end?" sighed Lou despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 **In a fight, like enough 1 " suggested Israel. 
 
 **No, it won't end in a fight or anything of the kind," Ben ex- 
 claimed, angrily. "All I want you to do is not to side with the 
 Deacon or give him any sympathy, and lie'll soon quit, or my name 
 is Chump." 
 
 ** Well, then, your name Is Chump all right enough," said Lou. 
 **No one in this house can outlast father when he starts being 
 ugly I" 
 
 " Louisa, my dear," Ben began, airily waving his hand towards 
 his sister, "you are uninformed concerning my talent for being 
 irresistibly ugly. I can assure you, my sweet and impulsive sister, 
 that I am absolutely a genius at being disagreeable. In fact, I can 
 show myself to be the worthy son of a talented sire, if I engage in a 
 contest such as seems likely to take place. In the clrcleH where I 
 am best known I am most highly respected as an artist in being 
 supremely offensive. I have letters in my posesssion which prove 
 that my ability to cause trouble is of no mean order and has been 
 recognized. Press opinions without number are in my scrap book, 
 indicating that even publicly I have been presented with testi- 
 monials and urgent requests to leave large and populous cities 
 because of my recognized supremacy in the art of being obnoxious. 
 I am a star, my dear Louisa, and you must see me act in the lurid, 
 tear-drenching tragedy of * Sniv Jones the Second, or Pizened with 
 His Own Pie,' to recognize my lofty genius and be proud that you 
 are my own sister." 
 
 V ■ i 
 
 ■ <- i'^- ,-^ ji iii <» 
 
 
TROUBLE AHEAD FOR THE DEACON 
 
 15 
 
 **0h, Ben, don't!" cried Lou, laughing in spi^e of herself, 
 *'PleaHp don't! Just think of the lives we'll all lead! And 
 mother— she'll get the chief blame, and father'll say she is setting 
 you up to it. He always says she spoiled you by backing you up 
 when you were at home." 
 
 Ben's face darkened for a moment, and looking over kt hiii 
 mother, he asked her if she could stand it for a day or two. 
 
 "I want yeh to stay, Ben, but can't yeh find some way of gittin* 
 along with father in peace an' quietness?" she answered, with a 
 loving look, which meant '* Stay with me, Ben, at any price." 
 
 ** Now, girls, you needn't be scared, for inside this house, for the 
 first time since it held the Jones family, the white-winged dove of 
 peace will hover, or I'll know the reason why. If it wasn't for 
 mother, I'd be gone before the Deacon gets home, but I came a long 
 way to have a visit, and visit it is till I'm ready to go. All I ask of 
 yon is neutrality. No matter what happens manifest no surprise 
 or indignation. Tel! that Campton girl to do the same, and I'll fix 
 Hiram. You Israel Isaacs, if you spoil the scheme you may as well 
 become a lost tribe at once and forever, for I intend to make home 
 happy if I have to do it with a club." 
 
 ''But what are you going to do?" inquired Bessie. "I hate to 
 go into anything blindfold, and you mustn't forget that he's oux 
 father, even if he is cross and tyrannical sometimes!" 
 
 Ben rose tragically from his chair, and strode across the room, 
 where he seized his sister's wrists, and cried in stilted tones: 
 "Elizabeth, Bessie, Bess; good, better, best; sweet, sweeter, sweet- 
 est ; smart, smarter, smartest ; angel, angeller, angellest, I will not 
 confide in thee my own as yet, though later on I may perchance 
 lean upon thee for advice ! But till then I cannot share the gloomy 
 secrets of me he-a-r-t !" la an instant his arm was around her and 
 she was tossed up in the air, and was seated on Ben's broad 
 shoulder, and he was dancing around the room singing a waits 
 song, and now and then whistling like a thrush. 
 
 Bess for once was startled out of her self-possession, and, blush- 
 ing like a rose, as she tried to arrange her dress over a generous 
 section of stocking which was being exposed, begged Ben to put her 
 down and not act so wild. 
 
 "Promise then. Miss Propriety, that you will ever conceal, and 
 never reveal to any person whatsoever." 
 
 " Anything, everything, only put me down ! If anyone should 
 come in and see me — " 
 
 •* Down you come, then, and don't forget your promise." 
 
 '* What a lovely singer you are, Ben," exclaimed Lou. " Hiram 
 
 
16 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 whiHtlen part of that tune. He heard it at a ahow. I wish yoa'd 
 teach it to me/' 
 
 *' All right, Louie, and lots more of ther:<, and the dances, too, 
 
 if 70U like. We'll have a picnic every da} and singing school every 
 
 'night, and pie every day for dinner for the next month, won't we, 
 
 'My pretty Louise, my pretty Louise 1"*— and Ben again broke forth 
 
 in song, this time with Lou gathered up in his arms like a big doll. 
 
 His mother looked on with a smile, but from long habit was un- 
 able to refrain from the mild reproof with which she condoned the 
 faults of her children. ** Remember it's Sunday, Ben ; and Hope'll 
 think we've all gone crazy.'* 
 
 With serio-comic alertness Ben peered through the door to assure 
 himself that no one was listening, and then in awe-struck whisper 
 demanded : ** Who is this Hope Campton, whose opinion is so much 
 dreaded ? Is she a female evangelist or merely a school missus ?" 
 
 "She is teaching school just now," Lou explained, while she re- 
 •arranged her hair, **but she doesn't have to, for sne'll be rich 
 when she comes of age, and father is one of the executors of her 
 mother's will, and her mother wanted her to live with us till she 
 i8,twenty-one. She*s only been here about a week, and father's 
 been just like a lamb till this morning." 
 
 '* No doubt trying to keep up the reputation of being an angel, 
 which obtained the late Mrs. Campton's confidence. How seriously 
 he must have damaged his pious pretensions this morning when hia 
 cussedneas broke loose ! How much longer will this young person 
 have to linger with you ? ** 
 
 " Nearly two years yet.** 
 
 ** Poor thing! Rich, but out of luck. The old man's temper has 
 much improved if he can make the Iamb business last much longer. 
 The chances are that she will prefer to abandon the money rather 
 than sojourn with Deacon Sniv until the time's up. I know I 
 
 would." 
 
 "She's very much attached to father, and her mother thought 
 there never was such a good man I " 
 
 " If the deceased can look down from the exalted home to which 
 she has flown, I'll engage that she's materially altered her opinion 
 of Adoniram by this time. Let's go for a walk, my bonnie Louise. 
 Mother, take a little nap, and brace up for the return of the Deacon 
 and his righteous rage. You look faint; the excitement has been 
 too much for you. I had better leave you for a wiiiie" 
 
 \, . : 
 
 m^-: 
 
 
 ^iVa..;' t.. 
 
 -sr^wsjr-u-' fcWffP *i». 
 
nxMOBss 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Out In the shady lane, strollinp; towards tlio bush, Loulo Jones 
 found timo to obiierve her stalwart brother. Ilo was tall, square 
 shouldered aiul niasjcniflcently built. Hu 'lad the easy air of a man 
 who had been the world, and has seen it from above rather than 
 from below the level of the average man. As he walked silently 
 beside her, his face clouded and those eyes, shaded by the long black 
 lashes, which so much resembled his mother's, were moist us if 
 tears were ready to start. Lou thought hu was the handsomest man 
 she bad ever seen, and more, he didn't look like a bad man. The 
 nose was large and just a little red— maybe it was from the sun— 
 the mouth, too, was large, and the full lips seemed almost straight, 
 lacking those soft curves and arches which make some mouths so 
 subtle and expressive. His mouth was large, strong in character, 
 sensuous and mocking. When he smiled his eyes spoko the senti- 
 men*, his mouth and the even white teeth simply marked the uq- 
 closed lips or gleamed or sneered. He was undeniably handsome- 
 hut the dissipated look— the something that spoke of a life out of 
 the ordinary, of late hours and reckless hilarity — warned even Lou 
 that her brother was no saint and probably held saints in contempt. 
 
 Her sharp scrutiny of his face at last attracted his attention, and 
 pausing beneath a wayside beech he suddenly inquired : 
 
 •• Well, Lou, what think you of me, now you've examined me as 
 minutely as is possible without a miscroscope?" 
 
 Iiou blushed. Ben was the kind of a man that mnko women 
 blush. To his sister he was still a stranger. His gleaming smile 
 and daring laugh were alarming to maidens who were unused to 
 such self-possession and disregard for the mental poise of others. 
 
 He took oS his plug hat and wiped his forehead with a dainty 
 handkerchief. He saw that the handkerchief had attracted Lou's 
 attention, and with quick wit he tossed it to her. 
 
 *' Who is *A. J.'?" she asked, looking at the embroidered corner. 
 
 " I don't know ; I bought a box of them at an auction for a dollar." 
 
 ** I can pick out the ' A ' and put ' B ' in for you, if you like." 
 
 "Never mind, Louie, they arc just as useful marked as exhibit 
 * A' as if they were * B.' But tell me, what is your verdict ?" 
 
 •* I— I— don't know— I never saw anyone like you before, and even 
 if you are my brother you are like a stranger, for I never saw yau 
 before to-day." 
 
 '•<«>.:, 
 
18 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 "Well, what of It?" he inquired, leaninj? over a gate and fixinp; 
 hin mesmeric eyes on her pretty face. "Judging me even as a 
 stranger, what do you think ? Am I to be trusted ? " 
 
 Lou wa? puzzled what to say. His eyes forbade a falsehood, and 
 her tongue couldn't frame the truth so as to express her doubts and 
 still affirm her faith. 
 
 **I know what you think," affirmed Ben musingly, and with 
 a touch of bitterness, "that I am not a good man, and yet you are 
 not entirely averse to me. I can see that this morning's episodes 
 have frightened you, and you are half -inclined to think me a brute, 
 as it is apparent that I am well used to such scenes. Yet you 
 rather like the experience of having an unruly but— er— er somewhat 
 interesting brother rush in and break the monotony. You are like 
 plenty of other people, easy to find words to describe what you 
 dislike, but the good which I can sec even my little sister has dis- 
 covered is so intangible that words come slowly. Never mind, 
 Louie, ril try and make you love .le and believe in me. I've tried 
 many, many times to make people trust me, but they always sus- 
 pected me of something— being a confidence sharp, or a masher or 
 something— and so I either failed or got more than I asked for. 
 I'm going to have a sister for the drst time, and she won't accuse 
 me of lack of fidelity or gratitude, as she expects neither. My little 
 Lou," cried Ben, throwing his arm about his sister's waist, " be 
 good to me, trust me, and teach me to think better of woman than 
 1 do now. Don't sneer at me ever, but be like I hear sweet women 
 are, always ready to defend those they love, right or wrong. You 
 ■won't be sorry, Lou, oven if I do look like a tramp. I hate father 
 —absolutely and unalterably hate him— but if you knew what I 
 suffered from him you'd be surprised that I didn't kill him. Don't 
 look so shocked ; your gentle heart cannot understand how a lifetime 
 has been blighted by a selfish tyrant. Louie, sweet," continued 
 Ben, his deep voice trembling, "I'm thirty-nine, and for twenty 
 years I've never had a home. I went away from mother a baby, a 
 big, hard-handed, soft-headed baby, and I come back soft-handed 
 and bard-headed. I went away with tear-stained cheeks and a 
 heart breaking with father's injustice, and bursting with love for 
 poor, broken-spirited mother. I come back with my life stained 
 with sin, and see the poor, old mother dying— yes, Lou, dying— 
 and her loving eyes tell me that she had only lived on that she might 
 again see me. Do you think I care? Can even my miserable old 
 heart stand the sight of the bent shoulders and her lifeless steps ? 
 Will remorse ever leave me for the scars on those tired hands ? Oh, 
 my God, think of the break -down of the beautiful woman I can re- 
 member, and I was away and never gave her a hand to help her 
 
>■ y 
 
 BEMOBSE 
 
 It 
 
 over the rough places I She was straight and robust and had a 
 form twice as enticingly beautiful as yours, and eyes that spoke 
 and laughed and coaxed just like yours do ; and nowl Oh, Loul it 
 makes me shrink under the load of guilt that my desertion puts upon 
 me I What is she now? A wreck, a poor, old, worn-out household 
 hack, and all these years I could have hired a girl to help her and 
 scarce felt the drain on my purse. Her dim eyes will never cease 
 reproaching me, and her faltering steps will go before me till I die. 
 But, Lou, I never expected it. I really thought when I went away 
 that she and father would be happy. She told me to go. She said 
 father would always be reproaching her while I was at home and 
 saying she was making a loafer of me. She asked me to write to 
 her just as I was going out the door, but father said, 'No ! Let 
 him go fer good, and you an' me'll hev no difference atwixt us.* 
 I tried not to come between them, hut ^luvv I'm sorry I didn't, for in 
 my absence he's found other reasons for persecuting her. Poor 
 old mother ; she'll soon be at rest." 
 
 "Whatl do you think she's really sick, and— and— will likely die 
 —soon ?" questioned Lou, gulping down a great big sob. 
 
 "Yes, and mighty soon, too! The candle has burned oul. Her 
 heart has been aching itself to death. The pain is duller now, 
 because the poor, old heart beats slowly." 
 
 " Have you and Bess been kind to her?" demanded Ben suddenly, 
 his sombre eyes closely scanning his sister's face. 
 
 "I — we— we've tried, I think. I — I — I don't know,'* stammered 
 Louie, as if she read an accusation in Ben's face. She faltered, and 
 clasping her liands, cried piteously, " Oh, please don't look at me 
 so. We didn't think she was so sick, and Bessie's been real good 
 and wouldn't let mother work, and I— I— I— can't think what I've 
 done for her. Oh, how selfish and wicked I've been, and p— " 
 
 ** Never mind, Louie." whispered Ben tenderly, as he lifted the 
 face of the sobbing girl and gently patted her cheek. "You've 
 done much io make her happy by being with her and smiling at her 
 with this face, which couldn't scowl at anyone. You have done 
 more than I have, though I doubt if anyone loves a jcood mother 
 half as she deserves. Dry your eyes, little one; it isn't for me to 
 reproach you, even if you deserve it, and I don't believe you do. 
 You haven't noticed the change In mother as I have— it comes to 
 me like the startling vision in a dreadful dream." 
 
 •Mnd then it's twenty years since you left her, and everybody 
 changes a lot in such a long time," ventured Lou in an uncertain 
 tone which threatened to sob at every pause. "Don't you think 
 maybe you are wrong in thinking her so near— near— so very ■iek?" 
 
^■■r«:..' 
 
 iHuaHTi nUitn ir»-»l[w*' ««»« 
 
 '.pf*^ 
 
 10 TT/DOTTiW? J0^'^5 
 
 "Perhaps, Louie I Perhaps 1 I hope to God I am mistaken, but 
 time will tell; and we must try and make her happy." 
 
 They walked silently homeward, Lou hanging her pretty head 
 in remorseful meditation, Ben with his brow afrown, and now and 
 then viciously kicking aside the purple thistle head's that adorned 
 the unkempt lane. 
 
 " So Bessie is always thoughtful of mother?*' he said at last. 
 
 *' Yes, and so cool 1 Shie can manage father even when he in 
 in a fury. She simply takes her own way, no matter what he says, 
 and when he raves she stands and stares at him as if he was a show, 
 and he can't stand it. Once he got so furious he raised his hand to 
 strike her, but she never took her eyes off him nor winced, and he 
 couldn't do it. He's afraid of her, I believe. Once, five or six years 
 ago, I climbed into a dwarf pear tree and broke it, and fell down. 
 Father and Bessie both came running out, and the minute father 
 grabbed me he gave me a shake and a slap for breaking the tree, 
 and Bess flew at him like a tiger, and said if he ever did that again 
 she'd strike him with a rock. Father almost fainted with astonish- 
 ment, and dropped me and went away without a word. Bess went 
 into the house and no one saw her again till tea-time, and even 
 then father daren't say a word. He struck Bess onc't when she was 
 about ten, and she threw a lit lamp at him and nearly burned down 
 the house. She never gets mad now, though; she's awful quiet ! 
 rather don't make as much of her as he does of me, but she won't 
 notice it, and even when mother pets me, because she says I have 
 *Bennie's ways,' Bess isn'c jealous, but goes around just the same, 
 helping everybody. It's awful mean of me to be out here with you, 
 and Bess home getting dinner, and it's my day, too ! You'll think 
 I'm an awful mean, selfish girl, won't you?" cried Lou, with another 
 spasm of remorse, stronzly tinctured with self-consciousness. 
 
 ** Yes, Louie, I will if you go on leaving all the burdens on Bessie. 
 I hope you don't— always 1 " 
 
 "No indeed, not all. I do most of the sewing," cried Lou spirit- 
 edly, " that is, the nice sewing." Ben's eyes were on her face, and 
 she blushed crimson as she read his thoughts—*' but, of course, 
 Bessie does most of the mending that mother doesn't do. But I'm 
 going to teach school, and have passed my examination, and I 
 haven't bad as much time as Bess, and—" 
 
 Louie was stammering through her apologies, shamefaced and 
 humiliated, till Ben stopped her. 
 
 "Never mind, Louie. I understand you and you.' weaknesses. 
 I guess I have some of them myself and lots of others much worse. 
 I ask nothing of you but to stand by me. If you can't do that I 
 won't like you; if you can do it without waiting to ask If I am 
 
 &> 
 
BEMORSE 
 
 21 
 
 right or wronj?, I'll bolieve in you and love you, even If you are a 
 lazy little butterfly. Everybody can't be induHtrioua In the same 
 way or useful to the same people, but everyone has a mission, and 
 1 guess yours Is to look pretty and to be loving to some forlorn soul 
 who has strength and energy and wants someone to soften him." 
 
 "I hope you'll like me, for if you do almost anybody would, for 
 you've seen so many people and know the kind that's nice ! " mur< 
 mured Lou, looking down. 
 
 Ben glanced sharply at her. She waf pretty, wonderfully shapely 
 and delicate, and with enticing ways, and was selfish— yes, selfish. 
 She looked up at him. and he saw that her eyes were dai^zling, 
 bright and beautiful. As she looked up she caught sight of a demo- 
 crat wagon at the door of the house. 
 
 **Why, there's Calvin and Hulda," she cried, starting forward, 
 ** and gracious alive. Aunt Becky, too.'" 
 
 "Aunt Becky! Good heavens I she isn't alive yet?" exclaimed 
 Ben, stopping stock still. 
 
 '* Yes, and deaf, and dumb, and blind, and eighty, and yet she 
 can see and hear and shriek as well as anyone In Applebury. She 
 has been away on a visit and she is coming back to stay. Oh, Ben 
 she's just awful— and' has fits 1" 
 
 md 
 
 ses. 
 pse. 
 it I 
 am 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CALVIN, HULDA, AND AUNT BECKT. 
 
 *' Jeth fanthy I Why, Louetha, you little pet ! Come an kith mo 
 thith minit ! You look juth ready to drop I Terrible hot, ithn't it? 
 Jeth fanthy, I couldn't get Calvin to sthir— (in a whisper)— only to 
 bring Aunt Becky home. Thath's a splendid looking theller 1 Who 
 ith 'e?" 
 
 " Why, that is brother Ben ; he ju— *' 
 
 **Jeth fanthy! Good heavenths, an' thath's 'Bennie' Calvinth 
 ma'th bin talkin' of tho much? Dear thakes alive, bleth my heart. 
 Jeth fanthy I An' yet how much he rethembleth Cal and hith ma?" 
 
 It made Lou laugh to hear this comparison. Cal was red-haired, 
 red-bearded, pale-eyed, had two teeth missing in front, and was 
 thin, and unkempt, and worried, and slouchy. 
 
 Hulda was buxom to a degree, blonde, with projecting upper 
 teeth, a strong lisp, and an endless flow of conversation. She talked 
 about everything and everybody, and never thought how things 
 sounded. No one ever saw her radient cheeks wear a blush or saw 
 her nimble tongue call a halt. Her heart was large and no beggar 
 
|%:' 
 
 ^|ii» t i.li < i iii i i| roir-.^i i ir ii iii i i .! 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 erttr left ber door naked or hungry, yet people dreaded to see her 
 come. She bad been scandalized, and sbe cared not ; a preacher had 
 been talked about because he liked to eat her good uieali^, and sJiu 
 fondled him as if he were her pet, and yet %he had learned nothiujr 
 of discretion. She dressed neatly because her clothes fitted her, and 
 sbe had a form on which the plainest garments looked well. In 
 fact, she was a streak of nature, a great boisterous, lisping mixture 
 of sunshine and unconscious social dynamite ; and the majority of 
 the neighbors thought her a rather suspicious character. 
 
 **Jeth fanthy! Welcome home, an' bleth your heart for com- 
 ing, for your old mother wath juth dyin' to see yeli!" she cried, 
 seizing Ben's outstretched hand. "There, turn }'er cheek, an* I'll 
 kith you like a thithtah, an' if yeh can't live with yer father, yeh 
 can come up and thtay with me'n Calvin ; can't he, Calvin?" 
 
 '*Thet's what I jist sed," snickered Calvin, with the broadest 
 and reddest-haired grin imag'aable. 
 
 ** An' I know you won't git along 'ith your father fer"— confiden- 
 tially— ** I can't, an' Fm the moth eathily got-along-with daughter- 
 'n-law there ith I Ain't I, Calvin ?" 
 
 ** Thet's Jist what I sed," echoed Calvin with another red grin. 
 
 **Jeth fanthy I good grathious, goodneth, what is gone of Aunt 
 Becky?" 
 
 "I took her into the house before Ben came up, and she went 
 up-stairs to her room," exclaimed Bessie. 
 
 Calvin and Israel had gone to the barn with the team, and Lou 
 and Bess and Calvin's wife were standing on the stoop by the 
 kitchen door when Ben spoke up, and his deep, resonant voice 
 must have startled the attic stillness for the next moment a thin, 
 shrieking voice called out, "Who is it? Who is it?" and next in- 
 stant Bessie, who had opened the door at the foot of the stairs, 
 jumped back. Crippled Aunt Becky, aroused by the idea that there 
 was a visitor, had started down stairs on her hands and knees, 
 feet foremost, and just then lost her footing and shot through the 
 door like a bundle of old clothes. Everybody expected her to be 
 fractured and bruised, but she wasn't seriously hurt, and at once, 
 when assisted to her feet, she fixed her eyes on Ben, and cried: 
 
 "O, ho 1" there's Banjie coomed bock. *The croy-a-babie-cripsey 
 hang-on-e-mammy's-t— • " 
 
 This essentially inelegant distich emanating from the second 
 childhood of Aunt Becky, startled Ben, but Bessie's gentle hand 
 placed over the shrivelled mouth stopped the old dame's flow of 
 words before the couplet was finished. 
 
 Aunt Becky had always been queer, biit her old age was a mar- 
 vel. Except on special occasions she was unable to hear, half*blind. 
 
 i 
 
 I* 
 
 5 
 
 
CALVIN, HULDA, AND AUNT BECKT 
 
 23 
 
 
 t 
 
 and could only make her wishes known by strange, uncouth mum- 
 bling. Again she would be as alert in her hearing as an Indian, aa 
 sharp of vision as the Pathfinder, and as glib of tongue as a spoiled 
 youngster. Her physical activity was never renewed, but an im- 
 pulse to rash uninvited into society often overtook her with most 
 calamitous results, both to her and the company. These spells of 
 childish humor always occurred at the exact time when the family 
 was most earnestly desiring to be undisturbed. It seemed as if a 
 stranger's knock on the door acted as Gabriel's trump in Aunt 
 Becky's ears and woke her up with a consuming anxiety to know 
 who had arrived. The girls hated to have her in the house when 
 visitors came, for even at the sound of strange steps Aunt Becky's 
 cars would tingle, and with a rush she'd start for the door to 
 welcome the newcomers with some poetical allusion from the nur- 
 sery books of nearly eighty years ago. If she did not fall down the 
 stairs in her headlong haste, she ordinarily wound up by having a 
 fit or falling on the stove. When the neighbors spoke of Deacon 
 Jones* virtues they referred to the fact that he had kept Aunt 
 Becky, and the godless ones in speaking of him wondered that such 
 a selfish old tyrant hadn't killed her or sent her to the poor-house. 
 Nothing gave the Deacon more pride than reference to his kind 
 treatment of his sister. '* It hain't nuthin' but my dooty by Becky 
 —no more, ner no less," he was accustomed to say while compla- 
 cently stroking his chin, " fer over forty year she's bin my charge, 
 an* her agrowin' more afflictin' every year, but I haint never tried 
 t' shove her off, ner never complained thet th' Lord in His mercy 
 haint seed fit t' remove her, though I can't deny thet she's bin a 
 sore trial t' me, sure enough!" 
 
 F.e never thoughc how sore a trial she'd been to his patient wife, 
 who for two score years had been slaving fur the beldame with no 
 reward but abuse and heartless interference with the conduct of the 
 household. 
 
 The Deacon had even hinted to his admiring friends that the 
 most grievous feature of the case was the heartless conduct of his 
 wife, who selfishly wanted to get rid of Aunt Becky, and had often 
 begged him with lears and reproaches to send her away. Several of 
 the brethren told him he was a noble man and deserved the King- 
 dom if any man ever did I But when they told their wives about It 
 the women folks took Mrs. Jones' pa;t, and told their husbanda 
 they would like to see them bring *' any such old hag" to their house. 
 
 "So you are still alive, are you?" ejaculated Ben, staring at the 
 old woman in evident disgust. 
 
 She broke into a toothless), crackling laugh, which almost im* 
 mediately died away in a gurgle like the death rattle. Aunt Becky 
 
' t^.ll»lM^tL4bM>*M^ 
 
 wmm 
 
 mmm 
 
 24 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ■ 
 
 Rave him no answer; she had relapsed into her deaf and dumb 
 idiocy, and Bessie half 'led and lialf-carried the old crone co her chair 
 in the corner. 
 
 " Isn't she awful I" cried Louie despairingly, "and we've had her 
 ever since I can remember, and always just like she is now." 
 
 *• Wurth I Louie, dear, wurth I T'he'th an angel now to what 
 t'he uthed to be. Jeth fanthy livin* with th'utch an old vixthen day 
 in an' day out, an' thinkin t'he'd never get t'hick and die like other 
 people. Jeth fanthy I an' th'e mutht have tumbled down sthairth a 
 thouthand timeth I Jeth fanthy I T'he'th only been at our houth 
 a week and t'he'th fell over and down a dozen timeth 1 Jeth 
 fanthy I An' yet t'he'th ath healthy ath a hired man. (Confiden- 
 tially to Bessie)— I left every door open, down thellar an' every- 
 where, hoping the'd manage to finith h^rthelf thumplathe 1 Nothing 
 'H ever kill her except a throke of lightening, an even then I believe 
 if t'he wath hit the'd juth jump up an' thout * who'th there? who'th 
 there?' an' fall down thtairth, trying to get to the door to thay 
 *goothy, goothy, gander,' or thum thutch baby talk." 
 
 CHAPTEB VL 
 
 ▲NOTHER UNWELCOME GUEST AT THE DEACON'8. 
 
 As Hiratn's horse jogsed along the dusty road the Deacon, too 
 upset to speak, continued to rub the nap of his hat with his coat 
 sleeve. The sun was beating down on the gray head, and Hiram 
 suggested, somewhat syiiipathetlcally : 
 
 *• Better put yer hat on, hadn't yeh ?" 
 
 The Deacon straightened himself up, put on his hat, and, as if he 
 had just resumed his self-possession, turned to Hiram as if to 
 speak, but ho caught a queer, quizzical expression in his son's eye, 
 and again he seemed unable to collect his thoughts. Presently he 
 took out his handkerchief and was heard to sob. 
 
 Out of the corner of his eye Hiram glanced at hi9 father, and was 
 touched with a mixed feeling of pity and disgust by the complete 
 collapse of the old man's dignity. The Deacon knew he had fallen 
 in his son's estimation, and decided to work on his sympathy. 
 
 " Thet I should live— t' be (sob) struck by my own son " (sob). 
 
 **Did he hit yeh?" questioned Hiram with rising anger. 
 
 The Deacon knew Hiram had not been a witness of the scene in 
 the house and was anxious to incense him as much as i)ossible 
 against his brother, but was not quite prepared to tell a direct false- 
 hood, 80 be eyaded the question by moaning : 
 
 i 
 
ANOTHER UNWELCOME QUEST 
 
 ** Hell bring my gray hairs teh th* grave 'ith sorrow (sob) If bo 
 doesn't mur-(sob)*der me, as he's threatened to 1" 
 
 " Where did be hit yeh?" Hiram inquired, for lack of something 
 else to say. 
 
 " He's often threatened to kill me, and I thought h'd a' did it 
 when he made thet lunge at me ! " 
 
 Hiram was not in the best of humors, and blamed Ben for liaving 
 deprived Iiim of Hope Campton's company to churcli, and he sliared 
 to a certain extent his father's jealousy of the handsome brother 
 who seemed to carry things with such a high hand. .He knew his 
 father was half shamming, but his ill-nature made him sympathize 
 with everyone opposed to Ben. 
 
 " If I'd a' known he hit yeh, I wouldn't have come away without 
 hittin' him back," Hiram remarked flippantly, as he struck with his 
 whip at the botflies on his horse's side. 
 
 "No, Hiram, no!" the Deacon exclaimed, putting his handker- 
 ohief in his pocket and rising up to smooth out his coat and gain 
 time to answer. He knew Hiram was both cowardly and insincere 
 and wouldn't think of fighting Ben. " No, Hiram, thet'd be wrong, 
 an' two wrongs don t make a right. Don't quarrel with yer brother 
 fer my sake ! I kin stand it, an' it won't be fer long I I feel I 
 hain't gunto be very long fer this airth 1 " 
 
 ** Oh, yes yeh be 1 Yeh're as healthy as any of us ; more likely 
 mother won't live long ! " 
 
 " Thet's th* way 'ith everybody ! They think because Tm healthier 
 lookin' than mother is, I'm stronger than her, but I haint. But I'm 
 prepared, Hiram 1 I'm ready to be called. If I know my own heart, 
 I kin say I'm ready— yes, Hiram, anxious t' be took I " 
 
 If there was anything Hiram disliked it was talking religion or 
 discussing religious topics with his father, and he hastened to change 
 the subject. 
 
 *' I hear the railway company 's goin' to put their shops at Apple- 
 bury, as it's the junction with their branch road. If they do, it'll 
 make things lively." 
 
 '* It don't make much difference t' me what happens," the Deacon 
 answered dolefully, but unable to entirely conceal his interest in 
 the news. " When we come to look at death an' th' grave, it don't 
 make much difference t' a Christian whether he's rich er poor. Any- 
 how it don't t' them as hev thankless an* godless children secb ba 
 Ben." 
 
 ** Well, if it don't make any difference to you, it will to the rest 
 of us, as it'll make the homestead worth as much per acre as the 
 hull thing is worth now.'' 
 
 **Who told yeh?** How is it I never heerd of it?" asked the 
 
86 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 Deacon, who waa warned by Hiram's impatient tone not to rant any 
 farther. 
 
 "I only heard it last night, and you were gone to bed when I got 
 home. The engineers are up at the tavern, and are here lay in' out 
 the site for the shops." 
 
 The Deacon was silent for a time, and then turning to Hiram 
 said, with an unpleasant smile, "Well, it won't profit Ben much, 
 even if my land goes up to five thousand dollars an acre ; I'm feered 
 he's too wuthless to ever take keer of a cent." After a pause— 
 " But that haint nothin' to th* loss of his etairnel soul— that's what 
 most consaims me. An' his miguided mother encouragin' him in 
 it, too." 
 
 The Deacon preached both long and loud that day. It was about 
 the prodigal, and in a voice trembling with emotion he confessed 
 that there was a prodigal in his family, who was so abandoned and 
 k^iven to wicked ways and evil companions that he had no hope of 
 being able to save him from the wrath to come. The congregation 
 said they had never heard Deacon Jones speak so feelingly, and he 
 was pressed to stay to dinner by a dozen of the brethren, who in- 
 quired if he had any bad news about his son who was away. The 
 Deacon confessed with grief-stricken countenance that his ne'er-do- 
 well had returned home to " live on him like he used teh." 
 
 Even Hiram felt ashamed of both Ben and his father when he 
 heard the tone in which the latter spoke of his " scapegrace," and 
 yet he confessed a miserable pride in being better than his hand- 
 some brother. 
 
 The Deacon decided to stay with Brother Gaylor to dinner and 
 go to the camp meeting, five miles distant, in the evening ; and it 
 was midnight before they reached home. 
 
 • •••*••• 
 
 All day Ben had exerted himself to make his motlie** and sisters 
 and brothers enjoy themselves. For fifteen years he liad been a 
 comedian, and his name was known in every hamlet where there 
 was a theater from New York to San Francisco, and e rery trick of 
 his art he employed to amuse his audience. He sang and played on 
 Hope Campton's piano, and told stories and joked and laughed, and 
 for once the Jones family was thoroughly hilarious. Israel was 
 completely won over, and told Hope, who was trying to look 
 shocked, that **he didn't see no harm in being natchel-like, even of 
 a Sunday." 
 
 Hulda was charmed, and Calvin repeated fifty times that that 
 was "Jist what he said." Hulda made Ben promise to spend a 
 month at least with " her *n Calvin," and the latter remarked that 
 
 ♦x,' 
 
ANOTHER UNWELCOME QUEST 
 
 Zl 
 
 he'd "jeHt said them same words." Calvin was wrapped up in 
 Ilulda, and no one could conviiK'e him that he had not junt made 
 whatever remark his wife saw fit to make. She might have said, 
 ''Jeth fanthy, Calvin, your a fool!" and her spouse would say, 
 '* That's Jest what I said, aint it, Uulda ? " 
 
 Before Calvin and Hulda went home Ben's mother moti. ed 
 him to come over to her. She wanted to sing a hymn and have 
 prayer to close the day. She feared she had transgressed, and that 
 they could do nothing less than have family worship to make 
 amends. Ben chose a hymn and played the accompaniment while 
 everyone sang, and then his mother asked Hope to read a chapter, 
 and Calvin, much flustered to have to do it before Ben, offered up 
 a prayer. 
 
 When Hulda, who had noticed the love between Ben and bis 
 mother, said good-by, she whimpered to her mother-in-law, " Jeth 
 fanthy me thaying what I'm going to, but I know I'm right. Calvin 
 ith awful funny and thentimental, and I hope you'll take notice 
 of him and kith him when you say 'goodnight.' " She kissed Hulda, 
 and when Calvin rushed nervously up to say good-night, his mother 
 put her arm round his neck and kissed him. Calvin, overcome by 
 this outburst of affection, returned the embrace, a ad then rushed 
 out and got his team, murmuring to himself, " Poor old mother." 
 
 Everyone was embraced, and mother, last of all, said ** good- 
 night" to Ben. She looked younger and lovelier than even memory 
 painted her as she looked up at hei much-loved " Bennie " and 
 said, "Yer father is surely staying away t* camp meeting and to 
 avoid you. Be good to him to-morrow for my sake. I am so happy 
 now that yeh're home that I want everyone t' be happ> , too. Just 
 think of th' thousands o' nights I've gone to bed v; ondering where 
 yeh were. Never, Ben, did my eyes close without a prayer fer you 
 an' a kiss for my baby boy. Yeh'll always stay near me, won't yeh, 
 Ben?" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " And not drink or be wild t ** 
 
 "Nevfir again, mother." 
 
 "Andyo'llbegood?" 
 
 '•Yes, mother,-ril try; but you'll have to overlook a good many 
 bad attempts." 
 
 " All I want yeh to do is try, Ben." 
 
 " You can be sure, dear old mother, that I'll try." 
 
 " Good night, Bennie 1 " and with another kiss she left him, and 
 Bessie helped her into bed. 
 
 At midnight the churchgoers returned. The Deacon was about 
 
WIDOWER JONES 
 
 to retire, and endeavored to awaken his sleepiniK wife to do some 
 errand for him. She made no response and he took hold of her 
 ■houlder and shook her, saying roughly, ** Marier, yeh sleep as sound 
 as if nuthin' but the last trump 'd wake yeh ! ** 
 
 Her cold hand touched him ; he started, brought the lamp, and 
 looked into her face. 
 
 There could be no mistake ; nothing but the Resurrection Morn 
 would rouse the sleeper. 
 
 The poor old mother was dead. 
 
 For a moment the Deacon stood speechless with surprise and 
 terror. The lamp he held in his hand was slowly losin^r its upright 
 position and leaning forward towards the bed. The smoking glass 
 caught the Deacon's dilated eyes and recalled him to his senses. He 
 ran to the stairway door and shrieked : 
 
 ** Bessie, Bessie, yer maw's dead I Oh, Lord, have mercy on me, 
 yer maw's dead 1 " and then he rushed back to the room where the 
 dead lay and frantically rubbed the cold hands which had toiled for 
 him so long and patiently. 
 
 ** Marier I Marier 1 Answer me Marier ; tell me, Marier, yeh haint 
 dead 1 Bessie I Isrul 1 Hiram 1 run fer the Doctor f er mother I Oh, 
 Marier I Marier ! I've tried to be good teh yeh, haint I, Marier ? " 
 The last words came whiningly, and as he knelt he looked like a big, 
 cringing dog seeking recognition .from a heedless master. 
 
 " No I you haven't been good to her P* hissed Ben, as he roughly 
 pushed his father aside and tenderly raised the lifeless head of his 
 mother. " Poor old mother 1 At rest at last I " he murmured, as he 
 gently placed the gray head on the pillow. *' Don't cry, Bessie. 
 She's better off 1 She's away from the abuse of that old villain, and 
 that itself is heaven after what she's suffered 1" 
 
 " Oh, Ben, don't I " sobbed Bessie. 
 
 " Say 'twas verself killed her, and it'll be more like 1 " shouted 
 the Deacon, who was wildly pacing the floor. 
 
 Ben was about to make a bitter retort when Bessie's hand touched 
 
 his lips. She begged him to be silent. 
 
 ** Don't quarrel over mother's death-bed, Ben. Father, please 
 don't say another word." 
 
 Israel, Lou, and Hope were standing a tearful group around che 
 bed. Hiram came rushing in with the doctor, and made an end of 
 the fierce words of Ben and his father. 
 
 '* She's gone beyond my help,*' the doctor announced at once. 
 **rve been expecting it for years. Her heart, you know," he con- 
 tinned, turning to the Deacon. 
 
 ** Why didn't yeh tell me she was so bad?" demanded the Deacon 
 Utterly. 
 
ANOTHER UNWELCOME GUEST 
 
 **I did!** snapped the doctor, "and more than a doien timenl 
 If I've warned you once, I've warned yon twenty times that she 
 Hhould have no hard work or excitement, or she might go any 
 minute. I suppose she's had some unusual excitement to-day. I 
 hear one of your sons returned this morninfi; after a long absence ; 
 perhaps that was a contributory cause 1" 
 
 "Tea it was, doctor 1 There he stands, the feller that killed 
 her!" shouted the Deacon vengefully, pointing to Ben. **Him as 
 killed his own mother by his awful doin's ! " 
 
 Ben's face paled as his father's accusing finger pointed him out ; 
 but his somber eyes under the great black arclies blazed with fury. 
 For a moment no word was spoken ; Ben's eyes subdued his father, 
 and the old man's hand with its outstretched finger dropped to his 
 side. 
 
 "Doctor!" he fald, "If I killed her it was with joy over my 
 return. Father, take another look at your work and go to bed. 
 Bessie and I will watch till morning." 
 
 Tlie Deacon looked from Ben to the doctor and was about to 
 speak, when the latter remarked, in a severe whisper, audible alone 
 to Ben and his father : 
 
 "Good-night, Deacon, you should be the last man to act as ac- 
 cuser and the first to seek forgiveness. Your wife has worked 
 and worried herself to death, and you certainly are not blameless." 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Louie; gootl-iiight. Miss Campton ; good- 
 night. Miss Bessie," and the doctor, with an elaborate bow to each, 
 and flashing a look of intelligence at Ben, withdrew. " Go to bed 
 Louie, Miss Campton, Israel, Hiram, all of you ; Bess and I will be 
 watchers to-night." Ben spoke authoritatively, and they all retired, 
 the Deacon last, and only after he had taken a weeping look at his 
 dead wife. Ben watched him with scornful gaze and closed the 
 door after him with the exclamation, *' The hypocrite 1" 
 
 Ben and Bessie, while they watched over the dead, talked long 
 and earnestly, pausing sometimes to. listen with unconcealed con- 
 tempt to the ostentatious moanings, wailings and ejaculations of 
 the Deacon who, in mingled remorse and selfish suffering, was 
 rolling about in the parlor and proclaiming his grief to the house- 
 hold. 
 
 "When the gray dawn broke, Ben and Bessie hand-in-hand stood 
 irazing into the dead face of " Mother." 
 
 "I'm glad she's dead, Bessie ; she never knew what rest or peace 
 was till last night. Now she's happy, and we should be." 
 
 Bessie pressed his hand in tearful silence, and Hope and Israel 
 took their places as watchers. 
 
WIDOWEB JONBa 
 
 
 CHAPTER VW. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 This is nofc a history ; it is a tale, and if it were not necessary 
 to a proper understanding^ of tlie Deacon's ciiaracter and of tl>e 
 circumstances and people that surrounded him and the other per. 
 sonages of the story, the gloomy details of the funeral would be 
 passed over. But everyone has not attended a country funeral, 
 and it is at the weddings, buryings and wakes that the characters 
 and customs of peoples have to be studied. And it is there you 
 can learn how coarse and unlovely are the conventionalities which 
 prevail where leisure has not yet been found for culture and refine- 
 mont. 
 
 Aiter the two days of sorrowing and dress making, which follow 
 every respectaule death in rural homes, comes the funeral. From 
 the moment a death is announced the neighbors take charge of the 
 house of mourning— the immediate relatives being expected to 
 abandon all their usual work and do nothing but sit around and 
 mope. They do the housework and make the black robes and trim , 
 the crape-covered hats and bonnets. There are no dressmakers to 
 whom they can go who could furnish the manufactured mourning 
 on sufficiently short notice, and even if it were possible the rural 
 idea of co-operation is too strong, and crops up alike at haxn rais- 
 ings, wood-bees, apple-parings and buryings. Excepting the neces- 
 sary outward appearance of mourning, all these mutual-assistance 
 affairs are conducted in much the same roystering spirit, and each 
 has its standing jokes, warnings, legends and traditions. At the 
 paring-bee the lad who finds a water-core can kiss the girl next to 
 him, and at the funeral-dress-making party anyone who tries on 
 any of the mourning is expected to meet with a bereavement inside 
 of a year which will compel her to wear crape for a twelvemonth. 
 
 But no tradition was stronger around Applebury than that Uncle 
 Abe Gaylor must conduct " the arrangements" at a successful and 
 aristocratic burying. Abe was proud of the distinction this gave 
 him, but he never confessed that the cor .inual calls to funerals 
 were not a terrible burden. He often refu^ited the delegations who 
 went after him and the loan of his thioe-seated democrat-wagon 
 to draw the bearers, but always before the delegates went away 
 would yield a reluctant consent. Abram Gaylor was no common 
 man. For thirty-five years he had been a conspicuous figure in 
 Applebury, asd he directed the first funeral that took place in the 
 
 
iiiHi I f 
 
 * ' »«': 
 
 THE FUNEBAL 
 
 31 
 
 f[C%ft yard "Jine-in|]; the red mcetlnMiounc on the town-line." It 
 was whispered that in youth he had been very wild, and every now 
 jtnd then there came a report that his reformation had never lioen 
 as complete as his saintlv wife might hare desired. Tall and erect, 
 gray-taaired, clean-shaven, with bright, twinkling eyes and broad, 
 manly chest, he was wholesome and happy to look at, ctnd every- 
 body got to calling him *' Uncle Abo." 
 
 Wednesday afternoon at one o'clock it had been announced that 
 *' the friends would meet at the house," and at that hour the lane 
 and yard were hlled with vehicles, and the "stoop" and kitchen, 
 bedrooms and parlor of Deacon Jones* house wore crowded with 
 neighbors anxious to do honor to the dead. The mourning had all 
 been made and fitted, the corpse " laid out " in the cofHn, and tho 
 good matrons of Applebury, who had invited one another ** to come 
 in un' take holt," conceded to themselves that things had been done 
 " nigh about right. ' 
 
 The half-suppressed clatter of many tongues, the anxious discus- 
 sion of this and that piece of mourning, the frequent repetitions 
 of the exact details of the death and the hundred reminiscences of 
 the last words and last moments of the deceased had been floating to 
 Ben's ears for two weary days, but he could not tear himself away 
 from the house. His head ached as he heard the monotonous iter- 
 ation of "her very last words," as mumbled by an old busybody 
 who had invented a tragic leavetaking in order to anpear well posted 
 in the Jones' af'airs. On this burial day he stood with brows afrowu 
 behind the kitchen stove, watching the coming of the "neighbors 
 and friends." A stout woman, who':e name Bon did not know, had 
 established herself as usher and lady-in-waiting and found herself 
 called upon to act as what would be called at a panorama **the 
 delineator." She described everything to everybody In a sepulchral, 
 wheezy whisper : 
 
 *' Yes, she's gone, poor thing (wheeze); all fer the best (wheeze). 
 I bin expectin' of it (wheeze) fer months n' months (wheeze). Yes, 
 t'w 18 her heart, poor thing (wheeze). She and Mrs. Simmers went 
 jist a' same way (wheeze). Poor thing— but its not like a* leavin' 
 a young family (wh6eze) like Mrs.< Wintor, poor thing (wheeze). 
 The Deacon takes on ter'ble (wheeze), but he's a done ev'ry thing he 
 could (wheeze)— an' the most expensivest coffin (wheeze)— a caskit 
 they calls it (wheeze), but I s'pose it don't make no diif 'rence t' her 
 (wheeze). , How's Mary's baby gettin' on (wheeze)? Yes, she died 
 fearful-like (wheeze) ; the Deacon found her stock-stiff when he got 
 home from meetin', poor thing (wheeze). I saw your folks there— 
 ' teh th' meetin' (wheeze). I hcer'd th' Deacon guv a' ter'ble screetch 
 whan he found her stark'n stiff (wheeze). There's Mitchell's folks 
 
WIDOWER JONES 
 
 comtn* In over ther* (wheeze). They'll want t' hear 'bout how she 
 wuz took (wheeze), so good-by— there's cake 'n tea in t' pantry if yeh 
 haint hed dinner. (To Mitchell's folks)— Yes, she's gone, poor thing 
 (wheeze). All fer the best (wheeze). I've bin expectin* it fer 
 months," etc., etc. 
 
 After this the fat woman took her friends into the pantry to 
 partake of the mortuary free lunch, and her voice grew more than 
 evir indistinct as her doleful words became mixed with tea and cake 
 as well as wheeze. 
 
 Ben was almost driven into a rage by a never-ending series of 
 such conversations, and was inwardly praying for the preacher to 
 arrive and begin the servii;us, when his father moved through the 
 crowd in his big kitchen, solemnly shaking hands with everyone aitd 
 wiping his eyes whenever some sympathetic woman pressed ais 
 hand and tried to murmur a word of comfort. When he reat-«jd 
 the stout woman who was again actinr as guide and delineator 
 he shook her hand (for the tenth time tliat day), and quite broke 
 down as he spoke to the Mitchells and Dovers and a number of 
 other prominent neople who were inquiring the facts from the fat 
 lady with the recurrent wheeze. 
 
 " Yes, she's gone, poor thing (wheeze). All fer the best (wheeze). 
 You've done all yeh could fer t' show the last rites of respect 
 (wheeze). I'm sure no one kin say yeh haint (wheeze). What ith 
 mournin' for the gur-r-l-s (wheeze), and sich a han'sonie caskit 
 (wheeze), ther' haint many sich husbands an' perviders (wheeze) 
 and few sich caskits (wheeze)." 
 
 " I've tried to do my dooty by poor Marier— livin' an' dead !" the 
 Deacon began in a broken and uncertain voice, whicJi in Ben's ears 
 sounded like the mouthings of a hypocrite. "I haint uuthin' to live 
 fer now, Mrs*. Dover, 'septin my childern." 
 
 •♦ But it aint as If yeh hed anything to be regretful of, is it. 
 Deacon?" inquired Mrs. Dover, so smoothly and sweetly that the 
 Deacon did not detect the covert sarcasm. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Dover, ther' haint nuthin'. I alius wuz true to her 
 'n word *n deed, an' as I sed t' Hiram when we wuz up town buyin' 
 out a coffin, I didn't want t' stand on th' expense, an' fer him to 
 pick an* choose from the best, jist s' long as it didn't make no talk 
 'bout us bein' proud er 'stravagant, an' he picked thet caskit au' 
 sed we might jest as well hev a caskit an' hev suthin' new, seein'9 
 th' price wa'n't no expcnsiver than walnut. T'wan't only forty- 
 six dollars, an' the name-plate throw'd in, and walnut was forty-five. 
 So no one kin say I was extravagant. But then it don't make no 
 difTrnnoe, nohow ! " 
 
 Ben's ears tingled. He had believed that he knew his father's 
 
THE FCXVJIiAL 
 
 •a 
 
 littleness of soul to the very core, and j'ot here was a fresh revela- 
 tion and a new shame. If the Deacon coild have Hcen the look 13cn 
 gave him he would never again have bragged in his broken- 
 hearted tone of the costlinens of his wife's cotUn. Ben's face was 
 livid with fury, and the impulse moved him to step forward and pay 
 his father for the cofiiu if he would only cease his ill-concealed 
 boasting. 
 
 '* It's higher priced and, to my way a' thinkin*, nicer lookin' than 
 Squire Birch's coffin was, an' him wuth a hundred thousand dollam- 
 But it don't matter to the dead like enuff," and the Deacon sighed. 
 
 At that moment a very young preacher began to read a hymn 
 and soon the assemblage commenced to drone th'-ough a dismal tune 
 which, if sung at a death-bed, would certainly make life less worth 
 living and death a happy escape. ^71^00 the preacher read a chapter 
 Uncle Abe's tall figure was noticed here and there as he quietly 
 arranged the bearers and saw that black bands were pinned on their 
 hats and across their shoulders. 
 
 Uncle Abe could be heard advising his assistants : " You 'n Levi 
 walk together— yer nigh of a heiuht— stand at th' little end of tli' 
 coffin, and see that you tako the lead. Jim, you 'n Hank go next, 
 and yeh two fellers last. I'll tell ye when t' start and don't go atore 
 I say, ner try t' git smart and bungle things by attemptin' to run 
 it yerselves, like they did to Squire Birch's bury in'. I'll tell yeh 
 what t' do, an' mind yeh walk slow !" 
 
 Those whispered instructions ended with the reading, and after 
 prayer Uncle Abe npoke aloud and authoritatively : 
 
 •* Come now, move out'n th' house an' gin th' bearers room t' 
 git out 'ith th' corpse. Yeh'll hev a chance to review th' remains 
 agin at th' meetiu'-house." Again, in a lower tone— "Git on th' 
 other side, Levi ; don't yeh sec th' way yer sash hangs. Take holt 
 an' move on now, steady-like, an' nriJnd yen don't stumble gittin' out 
 th' door." 
 
 There was no hearse ; it wasn't the custom to have one, and be- 
 sides there was none nearer than the county town. An open spring 
 wagon answered instead, and thuo it was, in the absence of a pro- 
 fessional uudortakcr, that Uncle Ab was in so much demand a« 
 director of fiun'Tala. Ben saw the bearers pat the casket in the 
 wagon vii'Xx a shudder born of seeing l>etter things. But no one 
 could have been gentler than those who had lifted the garish coffin 
 into the vehicle, nor more careful than was the driver, who cauti- 
 ously picked his way over the six miles of road which led to "th' 
 red meetin'-houso on the lown-line." The long procession moved 
 at snail's pace ; uiiyLhiik^j; factor than the slowest possible walk was 
 esteemed a disrespect to the dead, even on the most bitterly cold 
 
34 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 I' 
 
 
 days in winter when the road was as smooth as glass. It took 
 nearly two weary, dusty hours to reach the burial place, and then 
 the coffin was carried into the church and placed on two chairs 
 immediately beneath the pulpit. And while the church was filling 
 Unole Abe stood in front guarding the seats reserved for relatives, 
 and every now and then urging the people not to crowd th' 
 mourners— who, by the way, were expected to remain seated all 
 through the service, never moving, while the others stood up in 
 singing or prayer. Singing, reading, prayer, and singing again 
 preceded the preaching, which lasted nearly an hour. As is usual, 
 much reference was made to the virtues of the departed, and accord- 
 ing to custom, the very young preacher concluded by addressing 
 the mourners. These remarks, though generally known as "speak- 
 ing comfort to the mourners," were simply a deliberate attempt to 
 harrow up the feelings of the friends, and succeeded insomuch as 
 Hope Gampton, Louie, and Bessie sobbed aloud and the Deacon 
 burst forth in loud wailings. Israel and Hiram buried their faces In 
 their handkerchiefs and seemed to desire it to be understood that 
 they were weeping. Calvin sat, looking dazed and tearful, at the 
 showy coffin. Hulda's face was red and swollen with much crying, 
 but she affected nothing. Ben's face was a study— his brow afrown, 
 the heavy, black eyebrows almost meeting, so deep were the fu^^- 
 rows, between which ran knotted muscles like heavy cords. His 
 eyes, fierce and tearless, as he almost glared at the voung preacher 
 while he dilated on the goodness and pious grace, of which everyone 
 in the room knew a hundredfold more than the presumptuous and 
 tiresome speaker. Ben trembled, and now and again he felt as if 
 his dizzy brain were whirling around and around, and often came 
 the impulse to rise up. At last, as he felt he must speak to some 
 one or else shriek aloud so overwrought were his nerves, f. little 
 hand was placed on his and Bessie looked up at him, her brown 
 eyes with the deep shadows about them and the tear-drops on the 
 long lashes so full of tenderness and loving pity, that peace came to 
 him as if a divine hand had touched him in benediction. 
 
 Uncle Abe was unscrewing the lid of the coffin and talking at 
 the same time, when Bessie took her hand away and Ben looked up. 
 
 '* Now then, them thet wants to re-view the re-mains kin come 
 forra'd— them sittin' on the east side first, an' passin' out the west 
 door, an' then them on the west side next, all of yeh passin' out t' 
 onct so 's t* give ih' mourners a chance t' take a last look Yeh kin 
 start now, it's gittin' late ! " 
 
 With this last hint that haste was advisable. Uncle Abe stood 
 •side, screw-driver in hand, quizzically watching each face as it bent 
 OTer the dead in curiosity or in grief. And when all the 8traD||;ers 
 
 m. 
 
 •:s^^ 
 
 ^ — ■ -^^^ 
 
THE WIDOWERS HOUSEHOLD 
 
 35 
 
 ciUt passed the family assembled around the poor old mother to say 
 good-by to the dear, patient face that had watclied and wept over 
 them so often. Bessie and Louie kissed the cold lips in a passion of 
 grief, and then Israel and Hiram led them away. The Deacon stood 
 on one side of the coffin and Ben on the other, and as the old man 
 raised his eyes from the face of his dead wife to that of his eldest 
 son» remorse came like a flood with the memory of those days when 
 she, with Bennie in her lap, and he, young, dreaming hopeful 
 dreams and loving them both, had been happy. He wept bitter, 
 bitter tears as he bent down to kiss the face that had never been 
 turned against him in anger. Ben still stood and gazed at his 
 mother, his lips rigid over his set teeth, his dilated eyes fixed on 
 ihe face as if he would engrave forever on his memory those features 
 with their angel smile. Uncle Abe silently twitched his elbow, and' 
 Ben leaned over and kissed the dead lips and the folded hands. 
 He saw the toil stains on those scarred and bent fingers, and as he 
 staggered a*^ay it seemed to him that God had inflicted as his 
 punishment that he should never forget those bruised hands whose 
 toil he had done so little to lessen. 
 
 GHAPTBR VIII. 
 
 THB widower's HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 In country places people seldom express in words their sympathy 
 for a loss by death. Their lives are too near nature for that, and set 
 words stick in their throat. But they make you feel that they are 
 sorry for you, and their very presence is comforting by reason of its 
 silence— and silence in the presence of sorrow is always in good 
 taste. Everybody shook hands with the Jones before they left the 
 unkempt little burying ground, and many were the quiet promises 
 of " Til be up teh see yeh 'fore long 1 " The promised visitors knew 
 it to be the homegoing and home-staying after the funeral of a loved 
 one that are hardest to bear. Never yet on the hottest July day did 
 moi /ners return to the desolate home without feeling a shuddering 
 chill come over them as they enter their door. The quiet, the 
 Absence, the gloom, is increased by the " straight'ning-up " some 
 kind neighbor has done for you; the supper table, prepared in 
 strange position with chairs set for too few ; the windows open to 
 air the house ; the smell of crape and the stamp of iuvAsion— every- 
 thing but mostly the lonesomeness brings desolation home to the 
 heart. 
 
 Hulda, with exceeding cordiality and frightful slaughter of 
 
T^^ 
 
 86 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 *' s's,' asksd Ben to go home with her, and Calvin, in a feeble voice 
 rendered almost inaudible by a convulsive snicker, reiterated the 
 last two words of the invitation and asserted " that was what he'd 
 jistsaidl" 
 
 *• All ri);!ht, FU go," answered Ben, wearily. 
 
 '*0h, Ben ! please don't," Louie begged, catching hold of his arm ; 
 "please come home with us if it's only for to-night. Bessie, make 
 him come I " 
 
 ** Please come Ben, for our sakes ; it will- be so lonesome 1^ Bes- 
 sie added earnestly, nodding towards her father. "You won't have 
 any irouble with him to-night." 
 
 " Say do, Ben ; you can ride in the buggy with Bess, and I'll go 
 in the democrat**— this, from Hiram, decided Ben, and much to 
 Hulda's disappointment, he went home with Bess. 
 
 "Bess, I'm glad it's all over, and mother's at rest." She had 
 been silent as the horse jogged slowly homeward, Ben staring 
 absently at the clouds of dust rising in the early twilight as the 
 neighbors hurried away to their evening work at home. " And the 
 more I think of it the mc re I wish I had been laid beside her to-day. 
 May be in her cc -y'tf-r-v I might have been admitted where she's 
 gone I •' 
 
 " Don't talk like th& Bc;n. You know there's no need of anyone 
 speaking hopelessly of going to Heaven while they ha'^a a chance to 
 —to— to be good and make preparation." Bessie started the sentence 
 without intending anything but sympathy, and began to stammer 
 when she found herself drifting so quickly into what Ben mights 
 consider a suggestion that he should repent and reform. This was 
 increased when Ben turned his dark and dejected face to hers, and 
 looked at her so steadily with his sombre eyes. 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, I suppose there is still a chance. ' While the lamp 
 holds out to burn the vilest sinner may return,' but then again ho 
 may not. He may be discouraged by the amount of repenting and 
 reforming he'll have to do and the miserable material he has to 
 work on. You're right, I've need of * being good' and 'making 
 preparation ' before I rush away to the hereafter and try to be an 
 angel. A nice angel I'd make, wouldn't I Bess ? " 
 
 As his sister caught the cynical look that shone for an inntant 
 in his eyes and glistened fiercely in the row of teeth that gleamed 
 through the brown beard, she fdt shocked and answered sharply : 
 
 " I didn't mean that you are any more unfit than the rest of us. 
 Please don't try to misunderstand me." 
 
 " But I mean that I am much more unfit than ' the rest of us'— 
 barring the Deacon— and please don't try to make me believe you 
 misunderstand the facts. I am not repentant and don't feel the 
 
 .! 
 ,' i 
 
 •VJa-iWKiaHBM 
 
THE WIDOWERS HOUSEHOLD 
 
 SI 
 
 slightest impulse toward 'making preparation/ so don't mismder- 
 Htand me. I only wish it were all over and the total added up, no 
 matter what the result 1 Fm tired of the fight, tired of drinking 
 the gall and wormwood, tired of everything, life included." He 
 spoke with mocking bitterness that ended in a sadly tremulous tone. 
 
 Bessie couldn't understand him, and her puzzled look seemed to 
 amuse him. 
 
 '* Don't you ever get tired of life and wish you were dead and had 
 the money for your clothes?" said he jeeringly, as if ashamed of his 
 emotion. 
 
 " Don't Ben, I don't like you when you sneer. Be yourself to me, 
 and ni try and understand you and not say things to hurt your 
 feelings." As she spoke she laid her hand on Ben's and looked up 
 at him with that honest directness which no one could resist. 
 
 He looked at her intently, but her pure, honest eyes never 
 flinched before him. He took her hand in his, and giving it an 
 affectionate squeeze, told her that she comforted him more than 
 any woman he had ever known excepting his mother. "You're a 
 good girl, Bessie, and I'd be a better man if you were always with 
 me. When father marries again you must come and live with me !" 
 
 ** Ben! How could you say such a thing?" cried Bessie, jerkine 
 her hand away from his. " And coming home from your mother's 
 funeral I You ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 " It may not have been in good taste to make the suggestion, but 
 the facts remain the same. In a twelvemonth our dear parent will 
 have found a stepmother for us. I know it as well as if I had seen 
 the marriage lines. In fact, my unsophisticated young sister, he is 
 already looking over the available females and has made a prelim> 
 inary choice." 
 
 " How can you— how dare you say buch a thing ? Father's grief 
 has been sincere, though remorseful, and you must be an unnatural 
 son to seek out such opportunities of speaking evil of him." 
 
 •' All right, my pretty sister ; if you are so much smarter at 
 reading people than I am, you can have your way ; but I want to 
 tell you that you are blinded by the little love you have left for him, 
 while my eyes are sharpened by my hate for him and my love for 
 mother. If you will promise not to tell any one or in any way 
 betray a knowledge of what I am going to tell you, I'll whisper in 
 your ear the name of her who has been selected to be the future 
 Mrs. Deacon Adoniram Jones." 
 
 "I don't want to hear any more about it. It's too shameful to 
 speak of I I blush to think I have been talking of such a thing." 
 
 Ben discovered in her voice a very considerable contradiction of 
 
 ■TV ■ '♦ I 
 
38 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 i 
 
 ? 
 
 b«r words. Woman's curionity was at work, and he was determined 
 bhe should share hb r-usp!cious. 
 
 " You needn't get on your high horse, Bessie. What I say is true, 
 and I want you to know of it and (after a pause) help prevent it." 
 
 "Tou are mistaken, Ben, but if you want to confide your sus- 
 picions you needn't be afraid I'll ever tell any one how absurd you 
 are." 
 
 *' I take that as a promise, Bessie, never to let anyone know that 
 either you or I have ever thought of such a thing. Is tliat rif^'it ?" 
 
 '*Yes; you can ue sure I'll not let anyone know that wt were 
 wicked enough ^t^ talk of such a thing." 
 
 " Well then, the woman is Hope Campton I" 
 
 •* Ben, you're crazy 1 Why, father's nearly seventy and Hope isn't 
 twenty!" 
 
 '* It makes no difference if father is fire hundred and Hope only 
 five 1 He*s thought of it and she hasn't. She may not accept him, 
 but she'll have a chance to, so don't look so stupefied and repro»;h- 
 ful. Fve seen him hanging around her and looking at her and 
 running to her whenever he had a good crying spell ready. She's 
 chuck full of parental love and duty and that port of thing, and is 
 trying to be good to him. He's fairly sickening, and when he speaks 
 to her in that mushy tone of his I want to go somewhere and be 
 sick. Don't take my word for it ; watch him." 
 
 "I'll do no such thing. The very suggestion of such a folly and 
 such a— a— a cri nt.i air wers itself, and makes me sure you're blinded 
 by your dislike of father." 
 
 '• Now jiessie, don't argue ; simply take notice," said Ben coldly, 
 as he jumped out of the buggy to open the gate. " Here they are 
 coming now 1 " 
 
 The democrat wagon was just behind them, and Bessie turned 
 the horse she was driving to one side as Israel drove into the yard, 
 and let him pass her. Hiram and Israel were in the front seat, 
 while Louie— sitting in her father's lap— and Hope Campton sat 
 behind. Louie, in her afiectionate desire to sooth her father's loneli- 
 ness and grief had taken his hand in hers, and Bessie noticed, with 
 a queer sinking feeling about her heart, that her father's other 
 hand was in Hope's lap clasping one of her white hands. Bess 
 wondered that Hope's sense of propriety had permitted it, and Hope 
 herself, though yielding, had felt a nervous repugnance, which she 
 checked in her anxiety to comfort the poor, heart«broken old man 
 at her side, for it was thus she thought of him. 
 
 Ben closed the gate with a bang after his brother had driven 
 through and, hurrying forward to help Bessie out of the buggy, de. 
 tected the look of dismay on her face and' the cause of it. He winked 
 
THE WIDOWER 8 HOUSEHOLD 
 
 38 
 
 true, 
 It." 
 
 jr sua- 
 fd you 
 
 that. 
 It?" 
 
 were 
 
 isn't 
 
 at. her, and by a gentle push directed her attention to the fact that 
 with unwonted agility her father had jumped from the wagon and 
 forestalled Hiram in his attempt to assist Hope from the vehicle. 
 The sight of this piece of senile gallantry made Bessie blush to the 
 ears, and Ben's question, "What do you chink now?" increased her 
 embarrassment. 
 
 At supper Ben was startled by his father's announcement that 
 he was so lonely and broken down that he couldn't bear to sta}* in 
 the house that had witnessed so much of his wedded bliss, and pro- 
 posed to visit friends in the Western States for the next month. 
 "Ben," said he, in what the gentleman addressed would call a 
 " mushy tone," " You'n me haint never pulled well together, but 
 while Tm gone yeh kin hev' a good chance to visit with yer sisters 
 an' brothers 'ithout any interruption from me an' yeh kin stay here 
 an' welcome till I come back, an' more, too, if yeh want teh." 
 
 Ben was choking with rage before his father got through the 
 invitation, and even Hope felt that the Deacon in his piously con- 
 descending tone had rather overdone the " forgiving father" act and 
 made the bread Ben would have to eat unnecessarily bitter. 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you, and as you won't be home I'll aecept 
 your invitation," answered Ben coldly, his eyes blazing the while 
 in his father's face. 
 
 Hope saw it all, and thinking that the father had gone out of his 
 way to show a forgiving and kindly spirit, she felt that Ben was 
 verily a hardened and vicious man whose dislike of his father must 
 be one of many evil traits. 
 
 "We'd be awfully lonesome, Ben, if you weren't here," said 
 Louie, trying to bring the conversation into a more congenial strain, 
 "for Hope is going away to her aunt's for the rest of her holidays 
 and we'd have a month of desolation for sure." 
 
 "Why, Hope, when did you decide to go?" asked Bessie, much 
 surprised. 
 
 " This morning when I got aunt's letter, but I said nothing of it 
 until we were coming home to-nigbt. I didn't know your father 
 was going away, or I'm not sure I would have gone 1 " 
 
 " It'll do yeh good, Hope," exclaimed the Deacon hurriedly and 
 in deep earnestness, " teh get away from a house of mournin' sich as 
 this is, and thet, too, seh soon after yer own troubbil, an' I advise 
 yeh teh go by all means." 
 
 The Deacon encountered Ben's sneering gaze and dropped his 
 eyes. Bessie was watching her father and wondering that he had 
 resolved to go away on a long visit and it struck her as strange that 
 he should have made up his mind so hurriedly and so evidently after 
 he learned that Hope was going away for a month. The Deacon's 
 
 ■pMMk 
 
mm 
 
 w^mmm 
 
 mmm 
 
 "PP 
 
 40 
 
 WIDOWER JONSM 
 
 \ > 
 
 anztttty that Hope should go to her aunt's now that he had au- 
 aoiinccd his own departure strengthened the suspicion Ben had 
 planted in her mind that her father was already untrue to the 
 memory of her mother. 
 
 The Deacon went to the little hanging bookcase on the wall and 
 brought out half-a-dozeu bibles, which he distributed to the tamily 
 announcfufl; : 
 
 "We'll read a chapter teh-night, verse about, and hev prayer, 
 seein's we've missed it far three days in the murnin'." Ben laid the 
 book his father handed him on the table, and taking a cigar from 
 bis pocket strolled out of the room and out of what was left for him 
 of Hope Campton's respect. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 ben's first hapit home lifb. 
 
 . " Father's coming home on Saturday I" exclaimed Bess dolefully, 
 as she handed the short and badly -spelled letter to Louie. 
 
 The month had nearly gone, and this letter from the Deacon and 
 one from Hope announced the home-coming of the widower and his 
 ward within a couple of days of each other. Lou and Bessie were 
 not slow to express their regret that their father was coming home. 
 They never found pleasure in his society, and his return meant Ben'<( 
 banishment. They had learned to look to Ben for advice. They re- 
 spected his experience, liked his songs and stories, and loved the 
 big, strong man who was so tender and loving to them. 
 
 Ben said nothing, but the dark and scowling look settled on his 
 face. The girls well remembered seeing it there before when his 
 father's name was mentioned. He lay stretched at full lengtli on 
 the grass by the front door and his sisters sat on the steps beside 
 him. His teeth closed firmly over his cigar, the smoke came from 
 his lips in slow puffs, and he looked steadily at the sky above him. 
 
 '•Well, that spoils our nice times with Ben?" Lou remarked in- 
 terrogatively, hoping her brother would announce his intentions. 
 
 *' Why need it?" asked Bessie. "Applebury is big enough to 
 hold both Ben and father, if Ben doesn't have to go back to his 
 home— if he has one?" 
 
 A smile and then a look of sadness flitted over Ben's face as he 
 listened, but he remained silent. 
 
 "Or he can stay at Calvin's," suggested Lou despondently. 
 " Hulda's crazy to have him, and only keeps Aunt Becky on the 
 
BEN'S FIRST HAPPY HOME LIFE 
 
 41 
 
 . 
 
 understanding that when father comes home ahe It to get Bon In 
 trade for the old witch/' 
 
 **We needn't care so much," added Bessie, in utter dejection. 
 "We'll have Aunt Becky to keep us from being lonesome, you 
 know." 
 
 Lou laughed bitterly, and Ben, takin^; his cigar from his mouth, 
 gave an excellent imitation of Aunt Becky's death-rattle laugh. 
 
 "And father will cheer us up, talking about death and how ready 
 and anxious he is to go," continued Bessie more dolefully than ever. 
 
 —"And Hope!" suggested Ben, raising himself and resting his 
 head on his hand. 
 
 "She'll be oppressed by the memory of mother's death and that 
 will continually bring back her own bereavements. Hope is awfully 
 good and kind, but there isn't a particle of jollity In he'r- she's so 
 dead in earnest and thinks over everything she hears or says till she 
 settles whether it's right or not." 
 
 "Hope ought to be a nun," asserted Lou, with an air of settled 
 conviction. " Everything is duty with her ; if she ever gets married 
 it'll be from a sense of duty, wont it, BessT* 
 
 " Yes, and not till she's decided that it isn't because she wants 
 to. I believe she'd think it wicked to get married just because she 
 liked some one." As Bessie flnished her opinion she thou;j;ht of 
 what Ben had said about her father's selection of Hope, and she 
 wondered if a sense of duty would make her marry the Deacon. 
 She glanced at Ben, caught bis eye and l>lushed. 
 
 " She must be a queer girl," said Ben, replacing his cigar and 
 again stretching himself at full length on the grass and resuming 
 his astronomical studies. 
 
 " But you know, Ben," exclaimed Lou ruminativelj', "that with 
 all what we call her queerness, she's the kind of girl you told me 
 you'd been trying to find." 
 
 Bessie turned suddenly, much interested and looked sharply at 
 Ben. 
 
 "1 was not aware, Louisa, that I told you I was trying to find 
 a girl of any kind. When was it I described tlio young lady of 
 whom I am in search?" Ben spoke jokingly, l>iit. Bessie's loolc and 
 the fact that he was turning the description of Hope over in his 
 mind when Lou's words startled him, made him speak with a point- 
 edness which declared him in earnest. 
 
 " Why ! don't you remember, in the walk you took with me, the 
 first Sunday you came home." 
 
 " I remember the wal^' and the talk, my dear Louisa, but not the 
 fragment to which you n '.er. Tell me all of what I said regarding 
 the young person for whom I was eagerly, yet hopelessly, in search.** 
 
42 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^ -^^ Louie, in a hurt tone "or 
 
 I am aware, Elizabeth. *hat wh«f ^P^^^^"*' vigorously. 
 
 " ^hat a Stat, „f .!!f*° "'"• "ontoion. 
 fitting up andta^ta^'t'^^^negation our sister is to - «u. „ 
 
 accuses me o( bei'^g suel ^^ f ''"""ers agamst a tre^ "^h,^?' 
 
 oUhe Spring fes'efoMovetha'rr """ '^ '=»<'- '^e t^:^„ 
 eyes and around n.y ea^ . ,. .. f ^^ "hiblted liere hiJ^ 
 Louise, could mislak^V^ haM-dozen times. Who ^„ l"^ 
 
 they followed the .try r"''*'"'"*^ """""'* ""^ » Tni w""" 
 ears, how red th:;;:t^X " to ."' '''"" '^""""k' '"m "^d °tL" 
 
 -. --e-ereon,-po^— t=--S 
 
 
 A. H ' 
 
BEN'S FIRST HAPPY HOME LIFE 
 
 43 
 
 niHcont liberality as his feet, I would feel sure that fame is in atora 
 for him ! " 
 
 "Dou't let him lease you, Lou ; you know Ben said, last night 
 after he was here, that Mr. Spring was very intelligent I" 
 
 ''But I made an exception— when he was not near Lou. In the 
 presence of the vision of his dreams he took on a look of dull adora* 
 Lion that gave me a misery in my side. And where did his intelli- 
 •lenci; come in when he filled his mouth with boiling hot tea, and 
 l>ecau8e it came from Louie's hand held it in his mouth till one 
 could hear him sizzle clear down to his collar button. The look of 
 :i\vful, but speechless, agony on his face as he turned his head away 
 to hide his tears from his adored, was pitiful to see. And what a 
 Hof t-boiled tone he had for the rest of the evening 1 Everything he 
 said reminded me of an underdone steak." 
 
 " Anyway, he ain't any clumsier than Frank Gaylor," interposed 
 IjOu with ungrammatical eagerness to change the subject of Ben's 
 criticism. " And as for spooning, you should have seen Frank lying 
 In the grass gazing up into Bessie's face last Sunday. Talk about 
 people acting silly, Frank Gaylor's got love-sickness the worst I ever 
 saw 1" 
 
 " If you commence on him I'm going away," said Bessie decid- 
 edly. ** Why can't we talk sense for a change. I think you might 
 tell us, Ben, what you intend to do when father comes home. It'll 
 be awfully lonesome if you go away from Applebury." 
 
 " I don't b'lieve he intends goin' kway I " exclaimed Hiram, who 
 had just joined the group. 
 
 " Why ? " asked both girls in chorus. 
 
 " Because Frank Gaylor told me up at the store just now that 
 he heard Ben had bought Squire Birch's farm from the executors, 
 an' all the stuff in the house, too." 
 
 ** Oh, Ben 1 tell us if it's true ! " cried Lou, rushing over and 
 lightly seizing her brother's beard in her hands. 
 
 ** Yes, girlies, it's true ; I'm not going to leave you entirely, and 
 when the Deacon marries again, as he's sure to, you can come and 
 live with me." 
 
 "Oh, won't that be lovely 1" cried Lou ecstatically. *• Not father 
 getting married again, but living with you. But what makes you 
 think father '11 get married again ? " she inquired, her voice sliding 
 down to a solemn tone. 
 
 " I fer one '11 bet he won't " said Hiram. 
 
 " Wouldn't it be ter'ble if he did 1 " T > « si ejaculated, as he saw 
 a vision of his losing the farm he had been so often promised, "an* 
 like enough raise 'nuther fam'ly an' the rest of us git shoved off." 
 
 " Yes, Twelve Tribes," said Ben, standing up and shoving his 
 
 •*«(- 
 
 mil mmta 
 
A\ 
 
 WJDOWEB JONES 
 
 luiii'.H deep in his pockets, "that's about how it'll work if he getH 
 a now wife. He'll forget whoiio work made the money out in the 
 floldn Just as quick as lie will the memory of the one wlio worked 
 herself to death in the house. You, Hiram, needn't be so quick to 
 express an opinion because you've never thought it out. Bess and I 
 went over the probabilities and decided that the Deacon was already 
 uu the hunt, and I've shown my faith in my opinion by investing 'in 
 old Birch's farm. We may Just as well understand ourselves, how- 
 ever, and try and keep father from making a fool of liimaelf if it's 
 possible. I suppose, even you, Hiram, would agree to help if you 
 saw what I say is right." 
 
 " Oh, of course I " Hiram answered sulkily. 
 
 '' Well then, say nothing to the old man of my motive in buying 
 Birch's place or it'll only encourage him to get married Just to 
 rid of you all. I'm going to shut up the house except when ^ ^ 
 there, and next spring I'll either rent the place or work it on shares." 
 
 " You must be pretty well heeled if you kin go round buyin' the 
 best farms there is, like the Birch place," Hiram suggested envi- 
 ously. 
 
 "I'm not going round buying farms, Hiram," Ben answered 
 gravely, "ana I'm not a millionaire, but I've had a month of quiet 
 with you hers, and the shame that comes to me when I think how 
 I neglected mother has determined me to look after my sisters. 
 Already with them I've tasted for the first time the sweets of home 
 life. Come here. Bess," he called to the figure still sitting silently 
 by the door. "You and Lou are mine, and tliank God I've got 
 enough, so you sha'n't have to drudge or marry for a home. Old 
 Ben may be tough, but you've taught him to love you, and a honr? 
 and your goodness already have made him a better man." With a 
 arm about each lie reverently stooped and kissed them, and they 
 could see tears in his eyes, 
 
 " I'm sorry I can't take you at once, but I must leave you soon-—" 
 
 " Oh, Ben I " sobbed Lou, and Bessie as deeply affected, pressed 
 her brother's arm. 
 
 —"But it won't be for long, my little girls, and besides it's best 
 for you to stay with father as long as 3'ou can, and nob give him an 
 excuse to shame mother's memory by starting out at once wife- 
 hunting with the plea that he's got to find someone to keep house 
 for him. You must all keep your own counsel, and no matter how 
 things go I'll back you up, you Lost Tribes, and Hiram, too." 
 
 ^ ^jlr' i ig 'i ^i. ' '« < \ ' 'ti ' ' ^ I. ^ ' ".* ' ... ' - ' 
 
 r.<rvv.»*»««»*»" 
 
THE WIDOWER'S HETURIf 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WIDDWEIl's RKTTTIIN. 
 
 The shrill shriek of the engine as it drew thu down express 
 around the curve and up Lo the pluttonn of Applebury station, 
 where fien stood, ready for departure, was the signal for parting 
 embraces from Boss and Louie, and many importunities "not to 
 stay away long " and to " write to me now, sure." As Ben moved 
 towards the steps of the car his father came off carrying an im- 
 mense blue carpet bag. 
 
 "Jest goin' away, Ben— ja— min!" exclaimed the old man with 
 evident satisfaction, reaching out his hand. ''Come agin when yev 
 time ! " 
 
 Ben took the proffered hand, and looking his father squarely in 
 the eyes, replied : " You'll see me, perhaps before you'll want to. 
 Good-by I " 
 
 The old man's eyes bad anything but a pleasant look in them as 
 lie watched Ben spring onto the platform of the moving coach, 
 but when he turned and saw his two daughters standing beside 
 him, he beamed upon them with genuine pleasure. 
 
 " Here to meet me, hey ? " he said, clumsily but kindly kissing 
 them both. 
 
 *' Yes, and to see Ben off," announced Lou, unfortunately. 
 
 " Oh 1 I see now. It w^aa Ben, not me, that brought yeh down I " 
 His face clouded instantly. "I s'pose yer sorry enough that he's 
 gone and yer father's come back." 
 
 The girls protested that they were glad to see him, but their 
 efforts to assure liim t hat he was welcome were without avail until 
 supper made him Loigeb his jealousy of his son. As he leaned com- 
 fortably back in his chair after a hearty meal, he inquired cheer- 
 fully when Hope would return. 
 
 "To-morrow night" Bessie answered, waching him with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Singler I I dreamed 'bout her last night an' thought she was 
 teh hum when I got here." Glancing up he caught Bessie's eye, and, 
 after a pause and uneasy shifting in his chair, his face assumed a 
 mournful look, and pullintr out his handkerchief he gave his eyes 
 a rub, exclaiming the while, " Yer maw was a great hand teh tell 
 her dreams, wa'n't she ? " 
 
 Lou began to clear the table, aud seeing the bent of his ideas 
 
 ■iWOl^'jI^'l 
 
46 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 hastened to change the subject by inquirinsE, "Did yon have a nice 
 time when you were away ? " 
 
 *' I was too sad teh hev any pleasure, Lou-i-zy. Yer aunt's folks 
 Bed they never seed anyone thet seemed teh take a loss seh hard as 
 me." 
 
 " They treated you good, I suppose ? '* 
 
 " They couldn't a bin better teh me than they was if I hed bin 
 th' Prince of Whales," answered the Deacon, becinning to brighten 
 up. "They're ter'ble friendly people ouj West. Everybody seems 
 teh take right holt a' yeh as if they alius knowed yeh. I was ast 
 out teh meals every day onct at least, sometimes teh mor'n I cud 
 eat. They're ter'ble good cooks, too, out thar. They're great on 
 fried chicken (becoming very loquacious) and hot biskit, and every 
 place yeh go yeh'il git lemon pie surc's shootin'. I got ter'ble tired 
 on 'em, I hev hed 'em home seh much. (Pausing and saddening sud- 
 denly.) They 'minded me seh much of yer maw I" 
 
 Louie was resolved not to let him become tearful, and continued— 
 
 " Are our folks out there pretty well off? " 
 
 " Yes, middlin*, 'bout like we air fer's this world's goods air con- 
 sarned, but that haint mtich when we come teh laydown'n die!" 
 —dol<^ fully. 
 
 "Did you see the Higginses that moved out there from here?" 
 
 "Yes; they're doin' poor 'nuff. But John Doyland's gettin' 
 rich 1 "—-more cheerfully. 
 
 " Why, sure enough, the Doylands are out there I And you saw 
 them ! " This from Bessie, who was washing dishes in the pantry. 
 
 " Yes. Haint none a' th' girls married yit, and they're th' best 
 housekeepers thereabouts. They won't go 'ith th* shiftless set 
 thet'a all 'round ther, an' I don't blame em none, nutherl Harriet, 
 th' oldest on *em, is a ter'ble fine lookin' woman, kinder stout 
 gittm', but not t' hurt." 
 
 Bess made a mental note of Harriet Doyland and her attractions, 
 and even unobservant Lou gave her sister a quiet nudge. 
 
 " Would you like to go out ther'u live ?" ventured Bess as a lead- 
 ing question. 
 
 "1 can t say's I would— jist yit— but I hated teh come away sure 
 enuff. But then like's not t'was cause I was feelin* seh lonely an* 
 hated t' come back t' where I'd hed my loss." The Deacon leaned 
 forward, and resting his elbows on the table buried his face in his 
 hands in deep distress. 
 
 "The girls looked meaningly at one another and Bessie whisp. 
 .«red, 'Tell him about Ben buying the farm." 
 
 "I s'pose you didn't hoar about Ben buying the old Birch home 
 
THE WIDOWERS RETURN 
 
 ♦7 
 
 A 
 
 ntead ? " queried Louie with ill-concealed delight at having impor- 
 tant news to communicate. 
 
 " What Ben? Not our Ben?" exclaimed the Deacon, straightening 
 up with a jerk. 
 
 " Tea, our Ben—Ben Jones ! " afSrnied Lou with pardonabis 
 pride. 
 
 The Deacon's face was an exclamation point ; his ears, his eyes, 
 his hands wers exclamatory, but he couldn't speak. 
 
 "And all the furniture, the piano and everything jest as it stood. 
 He asked the executors to fix a price, an' he paid it in cash, an' not a 
 word of dispute sed. It's kind a made Ben pop'ler round here. 
 People think he must have money or he couldn't pay down eleven 
 thou-sand dollars without seemin' to go out of his way." 
 
 The Deacon was dumbfounded. He sa^ and stared at the girls for 
 several minutes, and they resumed their work to escape the embar- 
 rassment of the ominous pause before he had recovered enough to 
 speak. 
 
 '"Leven thousand in cashl" he repeated slowly as it struggling 
 to comprehend the amount in connection with such a ne'r-do-well 
 as Ben. 
 
 ''Yes'n he never told any of us an' we never heard it till the 
 neighbors all got holt of it an' Hiram was told of it up to the 
 store ! " 
 
 '*'Loven thousand ! An' he's paid it down— th' hull of it? Then 
 he must a' stole the money ! " 
 
 *' Father*]" cried Bessie, swinging sharply round, holding in her 
 hand a knife and fork she had been cleaning. 
 
 " Yes I Stole it, I say ! I " the old man reiterated excitedly, and 
 seeing the knife in his daughter's hand it sugg ed a still more 
 terrible means of getting money. " Like enuff murdered some one 
 t' git it. I wouldn't put nuthin' past 'im, no matter how desperut ! 
 Nuther burg-u-lery ner murder ner— ner felony I He never got that 
 money honest, that I'll be swore ! " 
 
 *'The knife and fork dropped from Bessie's hand and fell rattl- 
 ing on the floor. Lou, in dumb astonishment, was watching her 
 sister's face as its pallor changed to an angry flush. 
 
 " You should be ashamed to say such fearful things of your son," 
 Bessie began in a hard, constrained tone. " You are only guessing 
 those awful things and making up falsehoods." 
 
 " No I haint I No I haint I " shouted the Deacon excitedly. " He's 
 never come honest by it I 'Leven thousand dollars in the hands of a 
 wuthless critter like him means rob-rey, jest as straight's a string 
 a*n' like enufT the very money he took was th' very muney he paid 
 
 M^ 
 
 — -. ■^. fif,iiWi^#Mii' 
 
 
48 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 ier th' farm. Teh didn't hear if he paid fer th* land in 'Merlean 
 money, did j-^eh?" 
 
 Deacon Jones had so firmly convinced himself of his son's guilt 
 that he made this inquiry wich the air of conviction which comes 
 from the discovery of a very startling clue. 
 
 " No, yeh didn't hear 1" continued the Deacon triumphantly. '*Xo, 
 yeh didn't hear, but yeh will hear soon enough, an' then yeh won't 
 be bragging t' me about how much money Ben hez ; then yeh'U be 
 cryin' in shame teh know thet yer brother's a burguler, er counter- 
 fitterer, er a murd'rer, er mebbe suthin' even wuss 1 " 
 
 The Deacon's imaginary clue had already ripened itself into a 
 complete and abiding certainty that Ben had committed a fearful 
 crime, and he brought his heavy fist down on the table with a bang 
 and shouted again, "Er suthin even wuss I " 
 
 " Father 1" demanded Bessie fiercely, her face aflame. "You 
 only say such things because you wish they was true, because yeh 
 hate Ben and would like teh see him in jail, or hung or disgraced 
 someway." 
 
 Both the girls prided themselves on speaking gramm, <cally and 
 often corrected one another in the pronunciation of words, but in 
 moments of anger or excitement both of them dropped into what 
 Ben called the '* voc-applebury." •* 
 
 "Sit down!" roared the Deacon, but Bessie, who had l)een ap- 
 proaching him as she spoke, paid no attention to the command. 
 
 " Sit down yerself an' quit talkin of yer betters. Ben's no more 
 a thief than you air," and striking Ocrcoly at her father's hand as 
 he caught her b}' the shoulder and tried to push her into a chair, 
 " an* not— not near so much of a bully. If you don't take your hand 
 of'n me I'll sciv^am murder, so's they'll hear me all over the village I " 
 
 Springing to one side and evading his hand, she stood before him 
 in one of those furious passions which had so frequently marred 
 her childhood. Her very rage friglitencd her father, for well he re- 
 membered that lighted latnps and crockery were her favorite missies 
 when in her tantrums. 
 
 "Don't ever lay yer dirty hands on me again, er I'll strike yeh in 
 yer face, yeh old brute. Yeh shan't browbeat me and kfM mc like 
 yeh did mother—" 
 
 "Oh Bess, Bess I" sobbed Louie, rushing hysterically into her 
 sister's arms. " Don't I don't ! " 
 
 "Don't what, Lou?" asked Bessie in a changed, choking Voice 
 that sounded utterly unlike the shrill threatening which Louie 
 interrupted. 
 
 "Don't talk that way to father." 
 
 "He's Ben's father, tool though yeh wouldn't think so teh hear 
 
THE WIDOWERS RETURN 
 
 49 
 
 Mm eallin' him sich names 1" As she spoUe she looked up from her 
 frightened sister and sa v ahnost with pity the ashen face of her 
 father, the mouth drawn as with torturing pain. 
 
 For an instant father and daugiiter conl'ronted eacli other— he 
 sore stricken by her bitter accusation, she repenting; but still de- 
 fiant. 
 
 "Them'r hard words," he said slowly as if pondering them over. 
 
 '* Yes, they was hard words tbet you said about Ben," answered 
 Bessie in self-defence. 
 
 " Hard words them was fer a darter to say t' her father !" His 
 voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and as he started towards the 
 open door he looked vaguely at the girls as if he were absorbed in 
 self-examination and did not see them. 
 
 When he had left them Bessie burst into tears. She hated herself 
 for giving way to her temper, and her father's pitiful look and hollow 
 voice as he said, " Them'r hard words," haunted and accused her. 
 Lou was a poor comforter, her first words being, *' How could you 
 talk so to father?" 
 
 "How COULD I?" answered Bess sharply amidst her tears. 
 "How could YOU keep quiet with father going on like that about 
 Ben ?— anc. after all he thought of you and did for us both— an J 
 after you made out you liked him so much. 
 
 " Don't turn onto me I " retorted Lou. " I don't see as it did Bon 
 any good flaring up like you did. And how do we know but what 
 it's true ! " 
 
 "If what's true?" demanded Bessie, her tears ceasing fnstantly 
 and her eyes fiashine. 
 
 " Why, about the way Ben got his money ! " 
 
 " Lou Jones, how could you say such words?" 
 
 "Well, I often thought," faltered Lou, half-ashamed and yet re- 
 membering her many pangs of unsatisfied curiosity, " that it was 
 queer he never would tell us anything about himself or what he did 
 for a living or anything. 
 
 Bessie regarded her sister with amazement, scarcely compre- 
 hending such treacherous suspicion possible. 
 
 "Lou Jones 1" she cried, with a sudden surging back into her 
 voice and face of the passion of a few moments ago. " ^ou take 
 after your father. I hate you both 1 " 
 
 And them slamming the stairway door behind her, Bessie ran up 
 to bed to cry till morning. 
 
. i .j.ijj i iJM i , ! ^,"". " ' • 'I' yj'v^ijm f V-''- 
 
 ■^ w '>W Pi|Hi»ti y 'wi i i ' Hnmi,m t - i 
 
 M 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DEACON FINOS A COMFORTER. 
 
 When Adonirara Jones desired to be specially disagreeable to his 
 family, he did what Ben was wont to describe as " the heart-broken 
 act." With lugubrious face and darkened brow the Deacon came 
 down stairs next morning, and it was apparent to everyone that he 
 intended to be ostentatiously and ofTensively sad. Whenever he 
 was suffering from one of his spells he spoke in a low, grave tone, 
 and his sorrow-draped words were separated by frequent and long- 
 drawn sighs. In the intervals when he forgot to sigh and bow 
 down his head, he simply looked sullen and ill-tempered, but at 
 no time during an attack of the sulks did he forget to be disagree- 
 able. For years he had oppressed his family in this way, and now 
 that he doubled his sighs and deepened his woe-begone looks, he 
 intended them to notice that his recent loss, combined with their 
 heartless conduct, had bowed his head with sorrow almost to the 
 grave. He asked a blessing at the breakfast table in most sepul- 
 chral tones, and never once during the meal did he lift his eyes to 
 those of his assembled progeny. 
 
 Israel fed himself and then the dog, and after turning the matter 
 over in his mind ventured to wink at Hiram and Lou. Hiram, 
 oblivious to everything else, was thinking of Hope Campton's ex- 
 pected return, and Lou answered Israel's pleasantry by a severe 
 and well-defined frown. Nor was there any comfort in Bessie's face. 
 She had cried all night, and her downcast eyes were shaded by red 
 and swollen lids. She evidently considered herself to blame for the 
 "heartbroken" attack, and thoroughly appreciated the responsi- 
 bility. She wanted to cry, and the lump struggled up in her throat, 
 but she was too brave a girl to yield, though it was all she could do 
 to choke down her feelings with tea and toast. 
 
 Israel felt that to restore a measure of sociability nothing was 
 needed but some one to start a little pleasant and well-timed con* 
 versation. and with his usual tact began : 
 
 " Ter'ble lonesome round here since Ben s'went, haint it, Besst" 
 
 Everyone raised their eyes simultaneously, and following the 
 direction of Israel's question, looked at Bessie. She reddened, 
 hastily put down the cup from which she had been drinking, and 
 with a choking " Yes," hurriedly left the table and went into th« 
 pantry. 
 
THE DEACON FINLS A COMFOBTSB 
 
 51 
 
 was 
 con« 
 
 isst** 
 the 
 
 and 
 the 
 
 Lou nMdftda Hiram with her knee, and he in turn admonished 
 Tsraei by n kick un the nhins, which was not intended to be severe, 
 but caudonary. Ibracl, considerably offended as well as startled by 
 the effect of hfs <vbll-intentioned remark, was in no mood to quietly 
 submit to a kick, and as he rose from the table he returned the 
 compliment by a \-icioud side kick at Hiram's legs and a curt " Keep 
 yer hoofs t* yerself I " 
 
 Hiram shoved his uhalr back from the table and jumped to his 
 feet with an angry exclaiaa^icwi. 
 
 The Deacon spoke angrily : '* Here now, stop that ! ** and then 
 recollecting himself remarked ^nbuintully, '"Pears as if he didn't 
 g'way too soon if this's th' way hu s biu t<)achin' yeh fact I" 
 
 ** Ther* haint bin a cross word ih tW hiAise since yeh bin away 
 tUl nowl" retorted Israel in self-defen^ie jmd with a vague sense 
 that he ought to say so for Ben's sake. 
 
 His father's scowling face told him he was talking out of tune, 
 but he would have gone on had he not caught tight of Bessie shak- 
 tog her head at him from the pantry door. He stt/pped short, but 
 Lou, in dread of another scene, and thinking Israel waj about to 
 talk some more, cut him short by saying with what shb co^asidered 
 very fine discrimination : 
 
 *'Quit harpin' about Ben, can't yeh, when yeh know it ^lAes 
 father angry 1 " 
 
 The Deacon's pale eyes glanced a sulky " thank you " at Lou Sin 
 expressing his feelings and then gleamed angrily as it struck him 
 that her words conveyed the idea Ihat he, Adoniram Jones, was 
 prejudiced against his son Ben and didn't want him to be spoken 
 about. 
 
 " Shet up, Low-i-sy, an' you, too, Isrul 1 Nuther a' yeh seem teh 
 hev sense enuf teh hold yer tongues when yeh haint nuthin' t' say. 
 Yeh hev it made out as if I was sot agin Ben an' wa'n't ready teh 
 do right by him jest like th' rest. I haint never showed no par- 
 shality fer ner a.nm none uv my children, and haint gunto be 'cused 
 nuther, so jest shet up both a' yeh an' hev less t' say." 
 
 With this the Deacon seized his hat and started for the barn, 
 leaving his four children to settle it among themselves. 
 
 Israel, who had not yet lost awe of his father, was overpowered, 
 and with a very red face stumbled out of the door, Hiram audibly 
 hoping that he'd "learned not to make a derned ^ool of himselt" 
 The girls sought comfort in a reconciliation which hi^l first to be 
 offered by Bessie. 
 
 • ••••••.,, 
 
 The Deacon hitched up his horse, and after donniiig hia Sunday 
 
r 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 dothM droTe away to tak6 counsel of Uncle Abe Gaylor, whom he 
 iimukd in his barn getting a grist ready for the milL 
 
 ** How'ye feelin', Dee-kin ? whenje git back t" inquired Uncle Abe 
 cheerily, and with a very strong accent on the last syllable of ** Dee- 
 kin.- 
 
 "Feelin* bad enuff z-cept> as to general ways I" the Deacon 
 answered mournfully. **6ot back last night 1" — with a sigh. 
 •♦Ter'ble cut up, I ami'* 
 
 **Lik0nuff, likenuffl" chirped Uncle Abe, scrutinizing the Dea- 
 con sharply. "What yeh cut up 'bout?" 
 
 Deacon Jones had seated himself on a pile of grain bags and was 
 despondently chewing the end of a straw. 
 
 *' That's jest what I wanted teh talk t' yeh 'bout Brother Gaylor ! 
 Teh day if ye hev time er some day when yeh hey "—after a pause 
 — " an' when we're alone ! " 
 
 Uncle Abe took the hint, and sent little Jimmy, who had been 
 working the handle of the fanning-mill, into the house. Jimmy, 
 however, with a boy's curiosity and lack of fine sense of propriety, 
 went around to the stable door, softly crept under a manger right 
 behind the Deacon, and there awaited developments. ^ 
 
 ** Fire away now. Dee-kin I " said Uncle Abe, as he perched him- 
 self on the seat of a reaper and prepared to listen, still intently 
 scrutinizing the clean-shaven face before him. 
 
 " It's party hard fer a father teh complain 'bout his children, but 
 I haint bavin' no peace 'ith mine, an' haint bed since Ben's comin* 
 back, as I was a' tellin' yeh thet Sunday, d'ye mind, when I went 
 home an' found Marier dead in bed from th' effects a' his goin's on?" 
 
 "Yes, I mind yeh tellin' me," Uncle Abe assented, though not 
 heartily,- for he had heard a different story from his son Frank. 
 " But yeh bin away from them ever sence till last night, an' then 
 Ben was gone, wa'n't he?" 
 
 " I know," said the Deacon, uneasily chewing the straw, " but 
 he didn't go till he'd spiled th' hull famly, an* when I got back 
 they one an' all jest piled inteh me like mad." 
 
 '* Howd'ye mean ? Did they hit yeh er Jaw yeh er what ? " 
 
 "'Course! it haint come t' hittin' me yit, though Ben laid hands 
 onteh me onct. But sich a settin' out as Bessie giv' me was ter'ble I 
 Might jest as well 'cuzed me a' murder 1 " 
 
 " Who did she say yeh'd slew?" asked Uncle Abe, again with the 
 suspicion of a smile. 
 
 "Marier!" whispered the Deacon in a tone of genuine horror. 
 " An' onct Ben told me the same ! Said Fd ' killed her 'ith hard 
 work an' my dam old jaw.' Them's his very words, only he said the 
 iatne tbiag over's over'n agin, so's t' hurt my fMlln's. I didn't 
 
 
TME DEACON FINDS A COMFORT EB 
 
 M 
 
 hands 
 ter'ble! 
 
 mind it s'mucli from Ben, but when Bess sed it I was struck t' th' 
 marrer t' think a child a' mine could find lieart t' reproach her 
 father seh cruel an' false as thet I " 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "It is false 1 haint it Brother Gaylor?" The Deacon looked up, 
 appealiiigly. 
 
 " Fur's I know 'tis I i never heard nuthin' agin th' way yeh 
 treated yer wife 'sept hevin' thet sister a' your'n tormentin' her, 
 but then she hed t' go some place I " 
 
 " Of course she hed,** continued the Deacon slowly, and rather 
 shrinking from the dubious tone of his comforter, "An' then Lou, 
 an' even Isrul, cam' at me this morning' t' th' breakfast table." 
 
 " Well, now I I am s'prised at Is-rul 1 " exclaimed Uucle Abe 
 with a grin. " Thought that feller hadn't dander enuff t' git mad, 
 even when he's imposed on ! " 
 
 " He hed anyhow, an' him'n Hiram come nigh hevin' a fight rl^ht 
 teh th' table 1 " 
 
 " Teh don't say 1 I gess Is-rul could lick Hi ef they bed come to 
 a scrap, hey > " 
 
 "An' Bess got up an' left the table, an* we're hevin' a ter'ble house 
 of it an' no prospeks of it gettin' better, nuther I " 
 
 " I don't think yeh need git in sich a way over jist one little spat. 
 Thiugn'll straighten 'emselves out in a day er two." 
 
 '*'No they wont, nuther. Brother Gaylor ; no they wont ; I know 
 they wont I I know them young uns, and they're goin' wild an* 
 wuthless Jest like Ben since their mother died. It's a ter'ble, 
 ter'ble loss t' lose yer pardner. Brother Gaylor," bruahing hi^ coat 
 sleeve hastily over his eyes. " I hope ye'll never hev t' suffer no 
 sech loss, but if yeh did yeh'd be able t' feel fer me as no one kin • 
 who haint lost their missus.** 
 
 " Tes, it must be a ter'ble loss, Dee-kin," said Uncle Abe syrapa* 
 thetically. 
 
 " I don't know how I kin live lonesome like I am, till I go teh 
 Jine her, fer likenuff it may be a sight o* years yet I " Crushed 
 with woe, the Deacon buried his face in his hands and wept. 
 
 The little wrinkled folds of skin around Uncle Abe's shrewd 
 eyes began to twitch as he watched his friend exhibit his woe. He 
 had not been the oracle of the neighborhood for thirty years without 
 having seen many similar cases. Old bachelors who were uncertain 
 and widowers who were lonely, had often sought comfort and 
 advice from Uncle Abe, and he knew what the preparatory com- 
 plaints were intended to lead up to. As he sat watching the Dea- 
 con's white head bowed in apparently unconsolable grief, he d«- 
 
54 
 
 WIDOWSB JONES 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 cided, not without « feeling of contempt, to lead the mourner direct ly 
 to the confessional. 
 
 **D'ye know, Dee-kin 1" Uncle Abe began, with a most impres- 
 sive inflection of the last syllable, "that I'm perty nigh sure what 
 yeh needf** 
 
 **What is it, A'brum, fer I'm feelin* ter'He helpless?" moanefl 
 the Deacon. 
 
 "It's suthin' to look forar'd to I Yeh want t' think about gittin 
 a new pardner ; that's what yeh want t' do, Dee-kin I" 
 
 *' What I Git married again 1 ** ejaculated the Deacon in a deeply 
 shocked and injured tone. *' How kin yeh speak of socli a thing an' 
 Harier not dead a year ? " 
 
 "I tell yeh it's Jest what yeh want t' make yeli feel like's if yel) 
 hed suthin' t' live fer," continued Uncle Abe with philosophic com 
 placency, now perfectly sure of his ground. "Ther' haint nutliln 
 wrong er unskripteral in thinkin* about marry in' agin ez fer s I 
 know, an' ef there is list pint it out 1 " 
 
 *' Not unskripteral, Brother Gaylor, ner wrong, er yeh wouldn't 
 hev advised it, but kinder unnateral like !" 
 
 ** Un-nateral ! No ; not unnaceral. Dee-kin 1 No ! no ! Th' 
 most nateral thing ther'is! Now, jest look ahere an' I'll pint out 
 why it's th' most nateralest thing thet could be !" 
 
 The Deacon heaved a heavy sigh and was all attention, simply 
 suggesting, "But mebbe it'd look kinder friv'less so soon after, 
 likenuffl" 
 
 " What'f it does! It's only them thet don't feel so ter'ble lone- 
 some thet minds about th* looks ! I kin tell yeh thet, an' I've seen 
 lots on^em in my time now, haint I? ** 
 
 . The Deacon assented with a badly-disguised effort to conceal his 
 admiration of Uncle Al>e's logic. 
 
 "Now, jest look-a-here! Haint it nateral fer a man thet's lost a' 
 good missus t* feel wuss'n th' man thet's lost a bad one? Course 
 it is ! An' haint it nateral fer th' man thet's lost the best missus t' 
 be lonesomest an' t' feel anxyuss-est t' get suthin' t' fill th' achin* 
 void? Now, haint ic? An' what kin fill th' achin' void but a new 
 pardner? Now, haint it? Women talk different jest t' blow 'bout 
 what they'd do, but I consid'r it's a compliment t' his missus fer a 
 widower t' want teh git married agin." 
 
 The Deacon, in spite of himself, was looking almost cheerful, so 
 in a tone of settled conviction Uncle Abe wound up by saying : 
 
 " An' Jest as quick as he kin, too i ** 
 
 The Deacon, thoroughly excited, had risen and was walking 
 up and down the floor, his hands under his coat tails and his bead 
 bent down. 
 
mpnilPiPPHHPHippHHmmH 
 
 THE DEACON FINDS A COMFOSTFB 
 
 6S 
 
 ** * An' jest as quick as he kin,' " quoted the Deacon raminat- 
 ively. '* Mebbe it can't be none too quick fer an' old feller like 
 me I" he said with a sheepish sort of laugh. 
 
 This was another symptom familiar to Uncle Abe. He had catar 
 logued all the unmarried females In the district for all the widowers, 
 and had all the names at his tongue's end, but he didn't propose 
 to make a mistake by recommending his client to any of them 
 without first discovering his preferences. He therefore proceeded 
 to sound the Deacon as to what age, style, etc, would suit him, 
 and to find out if he had already made a choice. 
 
 "Oh, nol AdoniramI" he began cheerfully, his twinkling eyes 
 almost hidden in the little folds of puffy skin. " Ter young yit un' 
 spry, an' as good lookin' as any on 'em. An' I kin tell yeh (mysteri- 
 ously) thet there's lots a' girls thet 'ud like t' be an old man's 
 darlin' ; certain, too, when he's as well fixed fer a home as you be I " 
 
 **I think ef I know myself thet 1 hev th' rcppytashuu of bein' a 
 good pervider," suggessed the Deacon with some pride. 
 
 "Fer my part," continued Uncle Abe impressively, "I haint sot 
 agin elderly people marryin' t' younger folks ef they git suited, 
 which tliey can't a' course alius 1 " 
 
 The bait took. 
 
 *' Ner me I " cried the Deacon eagerly. *' Age haint ev'rythin' 
 when ther's other an' more endurin' ties t' bind 'em tegether—relU 
 gion fer instunce 1" 
 
 Uncle Abo's busy brain was already at work hunting for the 
 religious young person the Deacon evidently had in his mind. 
 
 " Bight ye air. Dee-kin 1 right ye air ! I think she'd •9uit yeh 
 perzactly 1" And as he spoke Uncle Abe winked knowingly. 
 
 " Who d'ye mean ?" asked the Deacon in some confusion. 
 
 "Why, the religious young woman yeh spoke ofl" answered 
 Uncle Abe, with another knowing wink and a puckering-up of his 
 mouth and eyes. 
 
 " I don't know as I hed enny pertickler one in view ! " faltered 
 the Deacon. 
 
 "Oh, yes yeh hedl' winked Uncle Abe encouragingly, chough 
 in great mental perplexity. " An' I'll tell yeh right now she'll hev 
 yeh whenever yeh ast her. Now ther I " 
 
 "D'ye think so, A-brum? D'ye really think she will?" broke 
 forth from the Deacon's eager lips before he even remotely suspected 
 that he was being led out. 
 
 " Yes I I kin honestly say I do ! She respecks yeh a'ready, an' 
 then th' home'll ketch her, she's so clingin' like!" ventured the old 
 rascal, who as yet had not found anyone answering the description 
 

 ■'.','. '!,M'?gS'w 
 
 56 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 of a "religious youii;^ woman" wbo would think for a niiniito of 
 iii.'irryiujn' ihe Deacon. 
 
 'L'he excited widower paused in his jerky walk before liis frie.id, 
 and looked Hcarchingly into Uncle Abe's wrinkled face. 
 
 The rural fum-ral director was a trifle uneasy lest the Deacon 
 would refuse to divulge and his ruse would be found out, eo he 
 nodded, cracked his lips significantly, and reaching forward poked 
 tlie Deacon in the ribs. " Yes, she'll take yeh first astin' er I'm 
 no jedgeof gals !" 
 
 Not a smile brightened the Deacon's face. He was in deadly 
 earnest. " D'ye actilly think Hope Gampton 'd marry a man a' my 
 age?" 
 
 Uncle Abe for once was surprised into an honest reply. 
 
 " No, dang me, I don't !" he exclaimed, looking with amazement 
 into the anxious face before him. Then recollecting himself he 
 tried to recover lost ground. " I didn't think yeh meant her ! I 
 bed Plirony Brigacs in my mind I" 
 
 " Plirony Brings ! " snorted the Deacon. " Her I Why, she haint 
 nuther young ner religious, ner nuthin that I know of 'sept gushin*.'' 
 
 "Still she haint old, Dee-kin," said Abe with another exceed- 
 ingly impreHsive lifting of the final accent. **Ner poor, ner bad- 
 lookin, ner bad-shaped ! I call her hansome, I do ! " 
 
 '* But she don't suit me 1 ' retorted the Deacon angrily, and then 
 pausing to consider : ** Why d'ye think Hope wouldn't hev me, 
 A-brum?" 
 
 ** I wouldn't think no more 'bout her fTa you. Dee-kin. It can't 
 be did ! She's too young an' sentimental, an* ud think yeh was 
 wrongin' yer wife an' fam'ly ! She know'd yc;r mussus too well an' 
 sot too much store by her goodness an' pashence. An' then she 
 knows yer gals, both on 'em's older'n she is 1 An* the boys, too! 
 She'd never think a' tryin t' mother Is-rul an' Hiram, ner Ben I 
 D'ye think she would, now? Tliat would seem kinder unnateral ef 
 auythin' would I More like her to marry Hi er Ben ! " 
 
 "Mcbbc! Mebbel Like'nuif!" answered the disconsolate wid- 
 ower sullenly. "But stranger things hev come t' pass an' mebbe 
 thet may ! " and as ho recalled the ride home from bis wife's funeral 
 when he held Hope's hand in his he softly rubbed his hand against 
 his cheek. 
 
 ** Of course ; of course. . Askin' haint no insult, an' if she wont, 
 no harm done, unless she tells yer gals 1 Go kinder slow 'ith her, 
 rd say I An' keep lookin' round an' mebbe ye'll see someone else 
 thet yeh'd rather hev— (er'll hev you)," Uncle Abe added under his 
 breath. 
 
 •' I gess yer right A-brum 1 I'll hev t' be goin 1 " 
 
 ]'' 
 
 
 Mi 
 
 wWioWNBSP^v 
 
TBS DEACON FINDS A COMFORTSB 
 
 57 
 
 J 
 
 •* Stay t* dinner I - 
 
 He stayed ; and while doing ample justice to Mrs. Gaylor's cook- 
 ing he complained that his girls couldn't cook or keep house like 
 other folks. Tall, slim Frank Gaylor, who loved Bessie Jones and 
 bad often told his mother how good a housekeeper she was, glared 
 at the Deacon, without daring to contradict him. Mrs. Gaylor 
 heard it all in silence and made mental notes of the widower's re- 
 peated reference to his loneliness and discomforts since " his loss," 
 and after the visitor had gone she, with considerable curiosity and 
 much disquiet, took her husband aside and spoke her mind. 
 
 "So he's huntin' fer a second wife a'ready T 
 
 "Yes, hot-foot I" answered her spouse in deep disgust, "an* of 
 all the dangcd, pesky, lovesick fools I ever seed he's the fooliahest 
 an sickest. Wy> tli' dratted critter wants teh marry Hope Camp- 
 ton I" 
 
 "Whaaa-at?" 
 
 "Yes, s'help me. He told me all about it. I draw'd him out like 
 a tape line, an' sympathized till he got soft as mush an* went on till 
 I come nigli gittiu' gagged." 
 
 "Theoldfooil" 
 
 " Yer right mother ; he's th* wust kind a' fool I" 
 
 " Wliat'll he be in six months, mother, ef he keep goin' on. An* 
 drat him, he much as told me he thouglit uv gittin' Hope Campton 
 on th' way home from his wife Marier's bury in'." 
 
 "The heartless old wretch I I never want 't see him to our 
 table agin," cried Mrs. Gaylor, wrapplnt; her bands in her apron 
 and lockin the picture of disgust. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ANOTHKR PHOTOGKAPH OF UNLOVEI.V LIFE. 
 
 "Jethfanthyl" 
 
 The Deacon and Hope Campton had been home for a week and 
 Hulda and Calvin had brought Aunt Becky back. Lou, with incau- 
 tious frankness, had confided in her sinter-in-law that she feared her 
 fathdr was already hankering after a second wife. 
 
 "Jethfanthyl Theoldgooth !" lisped Hulda, throwing up both 
 her hands. " Who ith he after ? " 
 
 " Who ? " groaned Lou. " I don't kno v." 
 
 "Then what maikth you think he want'th to get married? " 
 
 "Everything! Everything! Bess and I watch what he talks 
 about, and can see he thinks of nothing else 1 " 
 
 '■ rtJ*'. 
 
 
S6 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 "Jethfanthyl** 
 
 ** And then he*s so sweet to us girls and wants us to let hira 
 take us everywhere, t' church an' prayer meetin', and to town when- 
 ever he goes ; and wants Hope to play and us to sing whenever he's 
 got a minute in the house. And he's getting so sportive an'— an'— 
 an* kinder silly, it actually makes me sick. 
 
 "Fanthyl" 
 
 ** Oh, Huldal What would you do if you were uat** 
 
 ** Have a Are 1 " whispered Hulda dramatically. 
 
 VAwhat?" 
 
 ** A fire— a fatal fire I ** continued Hulda Impressively. 
 
 "A what kind of a Are?" queried Lou, halMaughlng and evi- 
 dently wanting to hear one of Hulda's jokes. 
 
 '* A fa-tal fire— wliere thome one get'th killed— burned to death ! " 
 
 "Who would It be?" 
 
 **Yer Paw an' hith thith'aw Becky 1" cried Hulda, tragically 
 smiting her capacious bosom with clenched fists. 
 
 ** Why, Hulda I" laughed Lou. 
 
 **Yeth, I mean itl Every word! That'th the only way to fix 'em I 
 I couldn't of th'tood that th'reechin' old victhen another minute! 
 If the'd th'f aid over another meal I'd have jumped at her with a knife 
 an' fork an* cut her all to peethcth 1" When Hulda was in her fierce 
 moments she was irresistibly funny. Her ferocious words were 
 belled by her extremely good-natured face and her warlike gesticu. 
 lations, impeded seriously by her buxom figure, were wonderfully 
 comic. 
 
 " I told Calvin If he had any Parith green In the houth an' any 
 love for you 'n Be'thie, he'd never let Aunt Becky leave our plathe in 
 anything but a boc-th. An' now I th'ee how the Deacon ith actin' I 
 geth we better dothe 'em both together!" 
 
 ** You say the awfuUest things, Hulda ! ** 
 
 " Yeth, an* I mean 'em too ! But tell me all about your father 
 an' how he goeth on I What woman d-o-th he talk moth't about ?*' 
 
 "Oh I no one in particular, but he finds fault with our cooking 
 and housekeeping in the airy, gushing way he's taken on lately, and 
 he sighs and forgives us, saying we're only young things and have 
 no mother. And do you know, Hulda," added Lou with increasing 
 animation, ** he can't tell us often enough to be sedate and womanly 
 like Hope, and all the time he's acting more foolish than we are ! ** 
 
 "Fanthy!" interrupted Hulda thoughtfully. 
 
 " He often says it's stranpc^ what a diflerence ther in a girls ; 
 that Hope, who's the same axa as Bess, seems mo a mother 
 
 to us than a companion ! " 
 
 '•Oh, jeth fanthy I No!! What wa'th it he tiied?" queried 
 
 ., — .,„,„mrtt smMm i ' 
 
ANOTHEH PHOTOGUAPlt OF VNLOVJilLY LI^K 59 
 
 i 
 
 Vlulda vieoroufly, and with every indication tliat she had lieen 
 Htruck wltli an idea. 
 
 ** Why, what*H the matter, Hulda ? You noem Hurprised." 
 
 "Go on, you little gooth, an' tell me again what yer paw thed 
 about thomeone being a mother to you I " 
 
 " Why. that was what he said about Hope I She's so steady and 
 careful-spoken and never laughs out loud, or Is what Hiram calls 
 * fresh.' But I'm sure Bess Isn't either, except when she gets mad, 
 and that Isn't often I" 
 
 Hulda looke^l steadily at Lou for a moment, and in deciding 
 that she had not taken the hint, resolved also that she would not 
 suggest the probability that the Deacon was enamored of Hope. 
 
 "Ha'th Beth been havin' any of her tantrums lately?" Hulda 
 inquired, in hope of changing the subject. 
 
 Louie blushed scarlet, and for a moment struggled not to tell, but 
 yielding at last \o her gossiping impulse, she said : 
 
 ** Tea ; the night father came home her and father had a terrible 
 scene, and then she went at me ! " 
 
 Hulda, the wife of Calvin, ordinarily passed for a chatter-box 
 with considerable more tongue than sense. Her Jolly face— blue 
 eyes brimming with fun, prominent and white teeth— always show* 
 ing in a laugh or while she chattered about something ; her white 
 skin scarce ever reddened by a blush, though she often heard and 
 said things which ladies are supposed never to hear or say, and her 
 jaunty style, well fitting clothes, suggested to everyone the idea of 
 a woman who had no business to be the wife of Calvin Jones unless 
 —well, in the country round about Applebury, where Hulda and 
 her past had only been guessed at, that *' unless " meant a good 
 deal. The surmises as to where the girl came from who married 
 Calvin Jones while she was "working" in the kitchen and dicing* 
 room of the wayside tavern at Applebury may have been correct, 
 but the idea that she took notice of nothing and was a "rattle- 
 head," was a popular error which Calvin's success as a farmer and 
 stock-raiser was beginning to dispel. Of course everyone expected 
 her to be a good housekeeper; she had been "help" in a tavern 
 and no one knew where else I 
 
 "About Ben, eh? An' th'ee flew at you !" repeated Hulda with 
 a careless laugh which Lou wasn't smart cnougli to recognize as a 
 signal of extreme anxiety to hear the details. 
 
 "Yes; father began running Ben down and Bess flew in his face 
 just like a settin' hon." 
 
 "Jethfanthyl" 
 
 " And when I said I didn't see any use in raising a row 0T«r 
 Ben, she got mad at me." 
 
 i ■ 
 
 wmn 
 
 'iai'n!Mr:v ', gsa 
 
 ■jHr"'' 
 
^ 
 
 *P>l!9ff^*^P"^'"¥*iVPP 
 
 P 
 
 m 
 
 ■i 
 
 60 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 I 
 
 f 
 
 " What wa'th it about ; tboraething Ben did?" 
 
 "No I Father said he didn't believe Ben came honest by th« 
 money he paid for the Birch plaec, and just then it struck me that 
 Ben had never toid us anything about himself or where he had 
 l)een or what he had worked at, and I told Bess there was no UBt> 
 flyinK into a ra;;e until she really knew whether Ben did get his 
 money honest or not. Wouldn't you, now ?" 
 
 ** Wouldn't I what?" demanded Hulda with unusual asperity. 
 
 " Why ; want to know something about people before you get 
 in a rage defending them." 
 
 " Where's Be'thie 1 th'ue 'ith worth a ten-acre field full of th'uch 
 atli you ! Th'o you'd go back on Ben thith quick, would ye? After 
 him giving you everytliing he could think of and half-neglecting 
 Be'thie ! You little brule, if you wa'thn't th'o pretty I'd hate the 
 very th'ight of you!" 
 
 Louie was dumbfounded by Hulda's sudden assault, but when 
 at last her siuter-in-law wound up by giving her a hug and a 
 compliment, slie was at a loss to guess whether Huula was Joking or 
 in earnest. 
 
 " Bess is out in the corn patch picking ears to dry. She's been 
 out all afternoon ! " 
 
 " She's got back I" said Bessie, quietly emptying her apron on the 
 table by the duor. 
 
 Hulda rushed over to her, and throwing her arms around her 
 without a word of warning or any previous example of such weak- 
 ness, burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 "Leave us alone," .said Bess thickly, as she observed Lou's look 
 of sulky wonder, and feeling that tliere must have been some dif- 
 ference between ttiem. 
 
 Lou switched out of the room in anything but a merry temper, 
 and it was half an hour before she bethought herself that the sore 
 point she had touched in Hulda's history was the lack of a definite 
 "Past." 
 
 "Why, Hulda, what's wrong?" asked Bessie kindly. "Is there 
 anything the matter at home?" There being no response, "Or did 
 you and Lou have a spat ?" 
 
 " Neither 1 " cried Hulda, straightening herself up and wiping hijr 
 eyes furiously. "Neither, bot Lou wa'tli telling me about your row 
 with your pah over Beu and when th'he th'ided in agen him be- 
 cauthe he didn't tell you where he'd been ir anything, I wath 
 minded of what people uthed to thay about me, even to Calvin, and 
 I got mad, and when— sob— when— sob— I th'aw you standing thers, 
 I— I— broke down 1 " 
 
 :^!t'^^: 
 
 mmmifmmmk 
 
ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH OF UNLOVELY LIFE S\ 
 
 Hulda's tears never fell in copious sliowers, and after another 
 little sob or two she was herself again. 
 
 ** Lou told me what'th been going on and that your pah i'th think- 
 ing of get ting married again I " 
 
 *' Oh I " exclairriecl Bessie shortly. 
 
 **You needn't be afraid Fll tell anything, th'o don't be th'o 
 cruth'ty, Be'thie. I got a notion from what Lou th'ed, though th'ee 
 don't notice it, that it ith Hope Carapton your pah ith after!" 
 
 " Hulda, don't ever say Huch a thing to any mortal soul or Fll 
 never like you again 1" whispered Bessie, fiercely catching hold of 
 Hulda's arras. "I'd want to crawl away and die if people got 
 talking like that about father before mother's dead six weeks." 
 
 "Don't be afraid," nodded Hulda encouragingly, "I'll keep it 
 quiet, and if you want me to, I II help to make him tirtop it ! " 
 
 " Oh, Hulda I I can't hardly think it can be true, but Ben thought 
 the same and told me to watch him, even on the very day of the 
 funeral! isn't it mcst awful? And how people will talk if they 
 ever get hold of it!" 
 
 " Don't mind people talking, Be'thie ; that never kill'th anyone I " 
 
 " I know she won't have him or ever think of such a thing, but 
 we'll all die of shame if he ever gets running round after a second 
 wife like old Byron Storm did, and he was a sensibler man than 
 father before he lost his wife." 
 
 "Ben'th gone, ha'th he?'* inquired Hulda, changing the sirbject. 
 
 " Yes, and he won't be back till spring unless something hap- 
 pens." 
 
 " Well, I geth th'omething will very likely happen if it ha'th any- 
 thing to do with— 
 
 Aunt Becky, slumbering from the elFects of her ride, having 
 wakened up, determined at this moment to come down stairs, and 
 crawling backwards, had taken two steps when she let go and came 
 bowling into the kitchen in a heap. 
 
 They had straightened her up and put lier in her old chair by the 
 8to\e when, with her horrible crackling laugh, as was her invariable 
 cuptom, she commenced her vulgar, crazy rhymes : 
 
 " Jack he went a sailin' ' 
 
 And Bess his jjal wor sad, 
 Fer Jack he left a'hind him 
 A bahy 'Ithout no dad." 
 
 "The old beath'tl" exclaimed Hulda. "How I'd like to put an 
 end to the old hutha I" 
 
 "Never mind I" Bessie answered patiently, as she put her hand 
 over her aunt's shrivelled mouth. " There's nobody here to hear her 
 QsetTtalkl" 
 
^^Wi 
 
 TW^: 
 
 'y\':,.*f\ 
 
 •^^miflfrm' \i'f >' i"«i,n, ■■. *ry «}< 
 
 wff>m 
 
 I 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HOPB SEEMS TO DWELL KTERNAL IN THE DEAGON'S BREAST. 
 
 Hope Campton often wondered why Bessie watched her in such 
 a quizzical way. Frequently she saw the sisters glancing at one 
 another, and sometimes Bessie was petulant— almost rude— to her* 
 During the two mouths since her return she had tried to be one of 
 the family, and had spared no effort to lessen the loneliness of the 
 Deacon and the girls. Lou had seemed more responsive than her 
 sister, and Hope sometimes confessed to herself that she would 
 rather the Deacon were more reserved in sounding her praises and 
 announcing his appreciation of her quiet efforts to make everyone 
 forget the grief of their bereavement. In these efforts she found less 
 time to think of her own sorrow, and became merrier and less 
 sedate. When the Deacon gushed over her and her virtues and ex- 
 horted his daughters to follow her example, she felt ill at ease, but 
 with honest affection set it down as proof of the old man's fatherly 
 love for the child of his dead friend. 
 
 Hope Campton had more than beauty of face and form. She had 
 that rare thing, grace of posture and movement. She was self- 
 possessed, straightforward and loyal. Her gray eyes, deep and soft 
 when she was happy, hard and cold and pale when angry, were 
 truth itself. If she were slow to form friendships, she was slower 
 still to abandon them. While a wave of popularity or enthusiasm 
 would fail to catch Hope on its crest, no amount of calumny, re- 
 proach or evil report would affect her opinion of one she loved. She 
 was not exceedingly clever at anything, and in all her beautiful 
 being there was not a particle of genius or originality and not very 
 much humor. 
 
 For the Deacon, Hope cherished a sincere affection begott'^n of 
 the love her mother— a feeble, weak-minded woman— had felt for 
 him. Mrs. Campton had been bedridden for months before her 
 death, and the Deacon had read the scriptures to her and prayed 
 with her, and in season and out of season had been ready to help 
 the little housekeeper in every way. Night or morning he had been 
 willing to run errands for the sick woman, and he liimself almost 
 wondered why he liked so well to be in Widow Camptor's sick- 
 room. Nowhere else could he talk so wel!, and it seemed like an 
 inspiration when he knew the sick woman and her lovely daugher 
 were llsfeeoing to his prayer. He could weep with them, though 
 
 ^«-->u-.*, 
 
nOPE CAMPTON 
 
 «| 
 
 h> 
 
 when his own tired wife made complaint he sneered or made rough 
 and unfeeling auswertt. 
 
 He often told Hope's mother that he believed God had sent her 
 to Applebury to teach him and the rest of the people patience, 
 godliness, and long suffering. So often and so fervidly he extolled 
 the virtues and Christian fortitude of the poor woman whose life 
 was painlessly ebbing away, she began to lose the terrible fear 
 which had always haunted her, that she was unfit for the Kingdom 
 of Heaven. In proportion as she felt that her saintliness was being 
 recognized by the best people on earth, she felt assured it would 
 not be overlooked in Heaven and her heart, filled with this now and 
 glorious peace, turned lovingly, confidingly towards one who had 
 shown her the way to eternal happiness. As she grew weaker she 
 more frequently sent for the Deacon, and he was never too busy to 
 attend. Some wicked people winked and sneered, but Mrs. Camp- 
 ton was too near death for even the most evil-minded to raise a 
 scandal, and no one who had ever seen Hope was abandoned enough 
 to either think or say anything insinuating that she was the real 
 attraction in the sick-room. Old Birch had said in his Jeering and 
 vulgar way that he *' guessed Deacon Jones was sucking round 
 after a legacy," but the villagers thouteht chere was no great harm 
 in that, for it is hard enough to get money, no matter how, good- 
 ness knows 1 
 
 Hope, without question, had accepted her mother's estimate of 
 the Deacon, and felt herself bound to lose no jot of her love for the 
 old man, though many of his imperfections had l)een revealed to her. 
 Besides all this she had a mistaken sense of gratitude which as- 
 cribed her mother's salvation in part and her own peace and com- 
 fort entirely to the Deacon. She was paying for her board, but she 
 reasoned that that was so only because she had insisted upon it ; 
 it would, thought she, have been also freelv given without any ques- 
 tion of payment. And finally and of greatest effect was the feeling 
 that she had every reason to be proud, grateful and happy because 
 such a good and pious man had found it possible to like her as well 
 as take care of her. 
 
 The Deacon understood her character—or that portion of it which 
 was developed and had been presented to his view— and felt almost 
 sure he could induce her, if not by love or argument, by reproaches 
 and charges of ingratitude and lack of proper duty, to become his 
 wife. And while, impatiently waiting for a decent period to have 
 elapsed after the death of his wife, he once thought of an argu- 
 ment which reddened his sleek face as its shameful strength flashed 
 through his mind. He paled as he thougnt further of it, but his 
 
 •#»*" 
 
 ■•tmmmttm^ltf 
 
WIDOWER J0NE8 
 
 closely kn!t brows and ti^btlj-drawn lipa showed that he had not 
 banished the temptation from him. 
 
 School had commenced after the long summer vacation, and Hope 
 was still in charge of the educational interests of Applebury. One 
 day while Bess and Louie were absent Hope came home, and was 
 somewhat astonished to see the Duacon sitting on the "stoop" ar- 
 rayed in his Sunday garments 
 
 "Jest got home from visitin'l ' lie explained, clumsily rising as 
 Hlie came up the steps. 
 
 "Oh, I seel" she answered pleasantly, but with an uncomfor- 
 table feeling she couldn't explain. 
 
 As he followed her indoors she inquired : " Where are the girls?" 
 
 "Out to Calvin's I guess. An* sccin's ther away "— continuc<il he 
 hurriedly and with evident excitement—" an' as I hev a chance fer a 
 niinnit's privut talk with yeh, jest wait will yoh fer a minnit till 
 I tell yell suthln' thet's bin on my njind fer wei-ks?" 
 
 He had grasped her arm as she opened the stair door to go up 
 lo her room, and with inexplicable repugnance she suirercd herself 
 to be detained. 
 
 " What I'm gunto say," he began, his head in a whirl and the 
 excitement of his opportunity making him incoherent and uncer 
 tain of speech, "mebbe you'll think I hadti't orter say, but then 
 ych don't know an'U think diff' runt when I explain." 
 
 Hope turned round to escape from his hand, and with her sun 
 hat on her arm sat down in the rocking chair. "Sit down while 
 you talk, won't you?" she said, motioning to another rocking chair. 
 
 He was glad of a moment's respite, and as he pulled the chair 
 nearer to her, collected his wildly scattered thoughts. When he had 
 been thinking over the proposition lie was about to make the 
 shame of it never entered his mind, but now he staggered as he 
 thought how Hope's mother would hate and despise him if she knew 
 he was thus seeking to betray the trust reposed in him. He had 
 turned hot and cold while he had been waiting for Hope to return, 
 when he thought how people would talk if they ever heard he had 
 proposed to his trust-child, but this had not turned him from his 
 purpose nor could shame stem the tide of his senile folly. 
 
 When he looked up and met Hope's calm, gray eyes l>is face 
 flushed, and the confused feeling threatened to overpower him 
 again, but his experience came to his rescue the moment that, 
 with downcast eyes, he began his canting phrases, and the habit of 
 two score years helped him through his task, though he didn't look 
 up until he began to think his words were making an impression. 
 
 *• Yeh sc'j, Hope, my dear, I foel as if I was everythln' to yeh 
 since yer maw died an' left me teh ake car' of yeh. Yer maw ha<' 
 
HOPE CAMPTON 
 
 65 
 
 confldence in me an' tbouKht I was the best fit for lookin' after j'cli. 
 Now I want teli know if you think so?"— witli heavy emphasis on 
 " you." 
 
 Hope had been watching his face, but she was no reader of 
 character, and his words and evident emotion only sugs;osted to her 
 that he feared he was not satisfying her as a guardian and wanted 
 to offer her a chance to go elsewhere if she wasn't pleased. 
 
 "Certainly; I have every confldence in you, and I'm sorry I 
 haven't been able to prove it to you so thoroughly that you would 
 have no need to ask. Every night," added Hop** solemnly, " I thank 
 God for His goodness in leaving me in such a Christian home with 
 such a good and kind guardian." 
 
 This staggered the Deacon for a moment only, but his coarse con- 
 science was easily stilled, and his sense of honor had never been a 
 legal tender. 
 
 "Then ef, as yeh say, ye'v confldence in mo like yer poor, dear 
 mother in hevin hed, then ye'll do what I ask yeh— when I teil yeh,' 
 and the Deacon's tone grew solemnly deep, " when I tell yeh I 
 know it's right, why; an' fer how? 'Cause I've prayed over it! 
 Tuk it afore th' throne t Ast fer de-vino aid an' kown-sil ! Ast fer 
 guidance from th' Hand thet's never withheld from them that love 
 an' obey Him 1 Tes I did 1 I tuk it up teh th' throne of grace, an' 
 in the silent watches of night I got my answer an' t'was teh go on 
 an' do what I'm gunto ast yeh teh do 1 Let's hev a word of prayer 
 a fore I ast yeh teh make th' sacriflce-eal oll'erin'." « 
 
 He dropped on his knees and, impelled by her religious training 
 and her respect for his example, Hope also knelt by her chair. 
 
 He prayed for his family particularly, and hinted that every- 
 thing was not going on as it should be. Hope inferred from what 
 he said that both Louie and Bessie were falling into wicked ways 
 and endangering their souls and his home. Ho wept as he spoke 
 of his loneliness and his need of help and comfort in his desolate 
 and thorny path. Then he prayed for Hope to be guided wisely 
 and piously in the answer she was about to make, and dwelt on 
 the desolation and heartbreak she would cause if she chose the 
 selfish and carnal path. His vigorous outbrcathings and magnetic 
 voice liad their etrect, and Hope was in tears before ha had done. 
 
 When they rose he took Hope's hand, and holding it betwv<icn 
 both of his he spoke slowly : " My dear young friend I now ast >eh 
 teh become my wife I " 
 
 Hope for i short moment did not seem to comprehend the mean- 
 ing of his words. Her truthful eyes, moist with tears and dark and 
 luminous with the sacred thoughts which prayer had inspired, 
 locked into his face and reed there the story which no woman can 
 
••iWk. »»»•»» ^'H M-^llBW 
 
 »_V. 
 
 " '• ' ' 'i ' T r 'o ' ^ '* s ' ' yy»'""" ' ,''^ '* :4>' ' -S-? 
 
 .-^ _.^Ul»- 
 
 ? 
 
 66 
 
 TT/DOTTJ^iZ J^0iV^5 
 
 mistake. In an instant she snatched her hand from his grasp, and 
 stood erect, her shoulders tlirown back and her fingers tightly 
 clenched, as if to strike him. 
 
 Her eyes paled and into them came an expression of loathing 
 and contempt he had never seen before, as she coldly demanded of 
 him : 
 
 " What do you mean, sir? How dare you insult me like this ?" 
 
 "Insult yeh, Hopel" stammered the Deacon abashed. 
 
 "Tea, insult me I" repeated Hope sternly, her haughty gray eyes 
 fixed on the downcast face before her. 
 
 "I can't see wher yeh kin find anythin' insultin' in what I've 
 sed t' yeh I" The Deacon, thoroughly disconcerted, wished Hope 
 would break forth in a torrent of tears or reproaches ; anything 
 would be preferable to her cold, contemptuous scrutiny. Slie gave 
 him no chance for an argument. He was put on his defence ; he 
 had none to offer and he knew it. As usual with him in such 
 emergencies, he assumed a forgiving tone and took refuge in tearful 
 cant. 
 
 " God fergive yeh, Hope, fer them words ! I do I I fergive yeh 
 freely an' fully, fer yeh don't know what yer sayin'." 
 
 Having succeeded in filling his eyes with tears, as he sobbed out 
 the last word, he drew himself up and tried to look the young girl 
 in the face. Her frigid and silent self-possession frightened and 
 confused him, and as she moved as if to leave him, visions of 
 charges she might prefer against him to his daughters or maybe to 
 the church inspired him to another effort. 
 
 "I can't stand teh hev yeh look at me that way, Hope," he cried 
 imploringly. ** It breaks my heart teh hev one I hev fostered an' 
 pertected turn on me as if I was pizen an' kerrupshun ! What I ast 
 yeh I did bekuzz I felt it wer' God's will an' fer the best fer us 
 both. I love yeh, but I never let no carnal love enter my hert till 
 I took it afore the Throne! I prayed over it, Hope, an' I got my 
 answer afore I spoke a syllabcU, an' it wuz fer me teh take yeh an' 
 t' onct be a pertecter an* a husband t' yeh! I declare t' yeh afore 
 onr Maker I did, Hope. I watched an' prayed fer nights an' nights 
 an' I got the same feelin' stronger an' stronger, an* I tuk it fer the 
 answer of the Speeret. Where hev I did wrong? I beg on yeh, 
 Hope, teh tell me, an I'll sit in sackcloth an' ashes fer it till I die I 
 
 Though Hope's face showed no signs of the mental struggle she 
 was having it was difficult for her to control her voice, as she re- 
 plied bitterly : 
 
 " You have degraded yourself and religion by trying to take 
 advantage of me 1 " 
 
-^»Jl .»» I v* 
 
 HOPE CAMPTON 
 
 bl 
 
 [rasp, and 
 rs tightly 
 
 ' loathing 
 landed of 
 
 this?" 
 
 gray eyes 
 
 vehat I've 
 hed Hope 
 anything 
 She gave 
 fence ; he 
 n in such 
 in tearful 
 
 irgive yeh 
 
 obbed out 
 oung girl 
 encd and 
 i^isions of 
 maybe to 
 
 he cried 
 itered an' 
 ^hat I ast 
 st fer us 
 
 hert till 
 I got my 
 e yeh an' 
 t^eh afore 
 ,n' nights 
 
 > fer the 
 
 on yeh, 
 I diet 
 iggle she 
 
 I she re- 
 
 to take 
 
 "Oh, Hope!" cried the Deacon, clasping his hands supplicat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " You have insulted me by thinking such a thing as you have 
 proposed possiljle. Tcs, and what's more, you have insulted the 
 memory of your wife and abused the trust my mother placed in 
 you I" 
 
 In the moment when he had seized her hand and proposed mar- 
 riage to her ho had revealed himself in all his moral deformity to 
 her pure mind, and she loathed him. But as he pleaded and as- 
 serted that he had had spiritual guidance, she sought to judge him 
 as a Christian should, and in her effort to see him in the old reli- 
 gious light she began to reason away her womanly intuitions. In 
 this way she commenced to doubt the truth of her conclusions, and 
 with the doubt came a weakening of her attitude. When she began 
 to reproach him the doubt was beginning to trouble her, and she 
 was asking him to defend himself and convince her of his honesty. 
 As her voice softened from scorn into a regretful tremulo when she 
 spoke of her mother, the Deacon noticed the change and found 
 courage to say : 
 
 " Yer maw wouldn't hev bin agin it, Hope 1 I know she wouldn't, 
 Hope ! I'm sure's I'm livin' she'd favored it er I'd never spoke sech 
 a word! An' ef yeh marry me, Hope, I'll be good t' yeh ef eyer 
 there was a man good to a woman. Nothin' yeh want'll ever hev 
 t' be ast fer twict ! I aiut an old man yit, an' even if I was ther's 
 suthin in bem' an old man's darlin' rr'^^er'n a young man's slave. 
 An' yeh would be my darlin', Hope I I'ci wushup you a'most, an' th* 
 only thing I'm afeered on is thet I'd be puttin' yeh afore my Maker, 
 I'd love yeh so much, fer I'm of a ter'ble passionate natur, an' them 
 I love I want near me all th' time an' I can't do too much fer 'em I " 
 
 Hope stood with downcast eyes reasoning with herself. There 
 was not a moment when she faltered in her utter loathing of the 
 Deacon's proposition but she sought to find an excuse for treating 
 him more leniently than her proudlv pure nature had at first sug- 
 gested. She was thinking what her mother would have advised 
 her to do, and to gain a moment's respite from the Deacon's gush- 
 ing, sickening lovemaking she took up his assertion, and inquired 
 in a tone of grave doubt and without raising her eyes: 
 
 "What makes you say mother would not have been opposed 
 to— to— to wliat you ask?" 
 
 She could not bear to put his proposition in words, so repulsive 
 was it to her, but her question convinced the too eager Deacon 
 that she was yielding to his suit and encouraged him to do a little 
 cheerful lying. 
 
 "Well now, Hope, I'll Jest tell yeh why I know! Ouc't when 
 
■*'«>*^^N'*P 
 
 ''f ^-im^i i mtmk i ii\i»msmi' Mtj^^ K^t«wvi**ftui*»5.;«'.^*«^'*-*ii' >i , 
 
 if 
 
 68 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 mother— that is, my late wife,** he explained reddening—** was low 
 with her heart trouble and 'spected t' die every minit, I was t' yer 
 liouse an* was tellin' yer maw I tho't lUce'nuff Marier'd go 'fore 
 many hours, an' she said t* me, yer maw did, as I was sittin' by her 
 bed 'ith a bible in my hand Jest about startin t* read a few passages 
 a* scriptir and hev a word a' prayer, she spoke, yer maw did, an' 
 explained as she didn't like to mention it like, only as she felt it 
 her duty, an' then went on t' say: 'Deacon, if she should go- 
 meaning my missus— an' I should die, too, as I'm likenuff to any 
 minit, it's my dyin' wish thet you'n an' Hope'll git married. If 
 ye'U promise to do thet I'll die easier. Deacon, fer I know Hope'll 
 consent, knowing as she does thet it's my wish an' thet you air 
 worthy.' Them's her very words." 
 
 Hope followed the Deacon, and her mind, unhindered by but 
 little of the humorous or imaginative, carefully compared his state 
 ments with what she held to be facts. Her mother had been weak- 
 minded, but she had a dignity of character which made impossible 
 thoughts of such unnatural match-making as the Deacon descril>ed. 
 Her mother had never in all her widowhood forgotten for a moment 
 her dead husband, and had once or twice in Hope's presence replied 
 to the thoughtless words of a match-making neighbor in words of 
 such genuine shame and anguish that her daughter knew that the 
 dead was loved as loyally as had been the living. The Deacon, 
 delighted to have a chance to talk, and feeling sure of his ground 
 did not read aright the growing pallor of Hope's beautiful face, and 
 as her shapely hands tightened in their clasp of the sun hat she 
 was holding, he imagined she was nerving herself to consent. 
 
 **Hope, them was her very words I" he repeated persuasively, 
 and being about to make another appeal, he reached out, tried to 
 take one of her hands, and had fully determined that his next move 
 would be to kiss her. His fingers scarcely touched her before she 
 fiercely struck his hand from her, and standing erect liefore him 
 she said, with icy calmness which was in strange contrast with her 
 furious gesture when he had tried to touch her : 
 
 ** You are lying to me I Mother never thought nor said auch vile 
 things. I am going to leave your house 1" 
 
 The Deacon saw at once he had over-reached himself, but he had 
 gone too far to turn back. As Hope rose to go upstairs he grasped 
 her arm to detain her. 
 
 **Let me go this minute 1" she demanded in the same suppressed 
 tone. 
 
 ** I won't. You shan't stir till Fm done, an' then when Fve hed 
 my say, yeh kin go if yeh want tehl" The Deacon had ceased to 
 be persuasive and had become peremptory. 
 
 
*(»«Sv"*r-<i»-i<iii. , 
 
 HOPE CAMPION 
 
 60 
 
 ** Let go my arm, then I** she repeat: i, and the look in her gray 
 eyes made him comply. 
 
 " Yeh needn't git on yer high horse, Hope Campton, an' try an' 
 believe thet yer mother wa'n't like other people, fer she was, an' 
 had her failin*8 an* doin's thet mebbe you may have t' hear on yit !" 
 
 "Are you through slandering my mother, who took you for a 
 man mstead of a sneak?" The suppressed fury was beginning to 
 break loose. 
 
 "Nobody's slanderin* yer mother, but I want yeh t' understand 
 tbet I know ail about yeh an* about jer parents, an' I alnt gunto hev 
 yeh runnin' off an' leavin' my house an' makin' talk an' a muss 
 about me, all bekucz I offered yeh a chance t* git a honorubble name. 
 If yeh go I'll publish what yeh air ! " 
 
 The Deacon, enraged by his disappointment and fearful of the 
 consequences of his folly, had determined to play his last card. His 
 threat made in a hissing whisper as he leaned over the back of a 
 chair and glared with lowering brows and cruel eyes, almost 
 startled poor Hope from her self-possession. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" she questioned haughtily. 
 
 " I mean thet I aint gunto be made a laughin'-stock by you, an* 
 I mean thet fer th' present yer gunto stay right here er else th' 
 naberhood'll know thet yeh haint no better'n a lovechild nohow— 
 an' as yer guardeen, Fve got yer own papers t' show it. An' I'll say 
 when I found it out I wouldn't hev yeh round ! " 
 
 Hope's face grew deathly white. " A what did you say 7" she 
 faltered, her rigid lips almost refusing their office. 
 
 Perbaps if the Deacon had been sure of his ground he might have 
 explained before he left Hope what he knew about her birth, but 
 for the moment, determined to crush her pride and humble her into 
 obedience, he halted at nothing and explained with brutal abrupt- 
 ness: 
 
 " No better'n a bastard ! " 
 
 The blood came rushing back to her face, her head swam round 
 and round, everything (crew black ; the Deacon to her affi-ighted 
 gase enlarged and distorted like an ogre, and then with a piteous 
 cry she fell forward on her face. 
 
 JVvm 
 
'^:La 
 
 mSi,Uii^ 
 
 ^' f[liwFW'^^ '!f ^f^^jT'^. W St" * 
 
 
 ^SwiJIfaJA'^^ irit nWia<<> jb/'^M«(teiflMi(U>fa.-^,.-<i«- 
 
 I' 
 
 ( 
 
 70 
 
 fr/z>oiF^i2 Jo:^^i:.9 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CONSIDBRABLB VAGUE SUSPICION. 
 
 Israel, coming to the hous^ almost at the beginning of the coii' 
 versation between Hope and his 1 vther, had made no noise as he 
 walked Over the shore, soft grass, and seating himself on the stoop 
 he heard voices, lazily listened, grew interested, and with slow, 
 working brain followed the dialogue without thought of making his 
 presence known until Hope told the Deacon to release her. Israel 
 started then to rise, but hearing no more complaint remained seated 
 until poor Hope's pitiful wail and the sound of her fall made him 
 rush into the house to her rescue. He found the Deacon raising 
 the prostrate girl, and without a word ho took her from his father's 
 arms, pushed the old man aside, carried her into the sitting-room, 
 and tenderly laid her on the bed in the alcove where his mother used 
 to sleep. 
 
 The Deacon had rushed after water, and Israel cook the basin 
 from him and would not let his father come near the bed. The old 
 man saw the strange expression on Israel's dull face and wondered 
 how much his son had heard, or if that look of frightened horrot 
 was caused by the excitement or a suspicion that something waa 
 wrong. He was afraid to ask, and as Israel showed no further signs 
 of knowing anything more than that Hope fainted and fell, the 
 Deacon began to explain the circumstances. His son cut him short : 
 
 *' Git more water ; she haint coming to 1" 
 
 The old man, rushing out into the kitchen, ran against Lou and 
 Bessie, and at once hastily undertook to explain to them, but Israel 
 ran out shouting : 
 
 " She's adying in there I " This again stopped his father's tongue, 
 and the old man, seizing another basin, ran to the pump, crying 
 as he returned, so Israel and the girls could hear him : 
 
 " Poor critter I What kin be th' matter of her?" 
 
 Bessie's sharp eyes caught Israel's strange expression as he glared 
 up at his father, and she noticed, too, that her brother— usually so 
 deferential— spoke sharply to the old man and told him " to dry up 
 his noise !" But the general alarm over Hope's long spell of uncon* 
 Bciousness made conversation impossible and shielded the half-dis* 
 traught Deacon from comment. 
 
 When she regained sensibility poor Hope gazed wildly about her 
 and seemed unable to recognize her surroundings. Slowly the scene 
 with the Deacon, his loathsome advances and brutal revelations, 
 
 it! 
 
CONSIDERABLE VAGUS SUSPICION 
 
 71 
 
 came back to her, and in her weakness and despair she began to cry. 
 Bessie strove to comfort her, but without avail. When Israel and 
 the Deacon went out of the room Lou beirged Hope to say what was 
 wrong, but Bessie's honest nature, revoltinff against the idea of tak- 
 ing advantage of weakness, rebuked her sister's cariosity and l>egged 
 Hope to rest and say nothing. Hope's look of thankfunless attsured 
 Bessie that she wanted no confidants, and so the fainting fit and 
 the sad face of the Deacon's ward remained unexplained. Hope 
 tried to resume her former demeanor, but with poor succens, and 
 the household recognized not only her effort but her failure as well. 
 
 The Deacon, in his calmer moments and in Hope's presence, ex- 
 plained next morning at breakfast that he was speaking to his ward 
 on family and business matters when she suddenly and unaccount- 
 ably fell in a swoon. Hope said she was sorry she had caused so 
 much disturbance and so great anxiety, and Israel choked when 
 trying to swallow a piece of meat and hastily left the table and went 
 to the barn, forgetting to coma back after the rest of his breakfast. 
 
 "I wonder what's the matter with Hope?" Lou inquired one 
 day of Bessie. 
 
 Bessie was not in a confidential mood, and guessed it was none 
 of her business. 
 
 On Sunday they all went to church and stopped at Uncle Abe 
 Gaylor's for dinner. 
 
 "Bub*' Gaylor giggled when he saw them drive in, and instantly 
 imparted to Danny Hooper who, with his mother, was also staying 
 for dinner, the substance of the interview he overheard in the l}arn 
 between his fatlior and the Deacon, when the latter confided in the 
 former his hopes with regard to winning Hope Campton for his 
 second wife. The two boys laughed over it and then went and 
 stared at tha Deacon and laughed some more. 
 
 Danny, while waiting for dinner, related the whole thing to his 
 mother, who, by the way, was the stout wheezy lady who acted as 
 delineator at Mrs. Jones' funeral. 
 
 With a neigliborly desire to help the Deacon and a feminine im. 
 pulse towards finding out how things stood, she embraced the first 
 opportunity of getting Hope to one side, and at once opened the 
 campaign. 
 
 "She's gone, pore thing, liairjt she? (wheeze). Better off, shore 
 'nuir (wheeze), but must be missed ter'bly!" (interrogatory wheezuV 
 
 "Who do you mean?" inquired Hope coldly. 
 
 "The Deacon's missus t' be shore (wheeze)! I can't 'elp but 
 think (wheeze) of th' pore fam'ly left so lonesome like!'* (sympathe* 
 tic wheeze). 
 
\-jJl^b0tamtKmmmmittifi 
 
 ■I* " 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 i 
 
 *' Indeed, it's a sad bereavement to them all," Hope annwered, a 
 tremor mnning through her low voice. 
 
 "The Deacon's like'nuff t' marry agin, so'm told," (confidential 
 wheeze)— during which Mrs. Hooper approaches closer to Hope and 
 tries to put her fat arm around her waist). 
 
 " I hadn't heard it," said Hope nervously, and with a desperate 
 effort to get away. 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Mrs. Hooper explosively, as if she had re* 
 strained a wheeze until it had become dangerous. " No, now 1 1 " 
 
 She had clutched Hope's dress, and as she pulled her victim back 
 into her clutched she issued a combination of wheeze and greasy 
 laugh which ended in a broad, fat grin, intended to be knowing 
 and cunning. 
 
 " No, now I Why, they do say th' Deacon goes on about yeh t' 
 everybody" (whoczc triumphant). 
 
 " What do you mean ? " exclaimed Hope, a sick feeling creeping 
 down to her very heart. 
 
 "Oh, ye-e-sl" continued Mrs. Hooper, prolonging her "yes" with 
 a siKnificant wheeze and at the same time throwing her head to one 
 side, closing her eyes, and pushing her chin forward. " Oh, ye-e-sl" 
 she repeated. "It's all 'round 'bout you'n th' Deacon (wheeze). 
 I've heerd it from ever s'many 1" 
 
 Again she closed her eyes and wagged her fat old head know- 
 ingly. * 
 
 " Be kind enough to explain yourself, Mrs. Hooper 1 " said Hope 
 frigidly, the creepy feeling setting her every nerve twitching. 
 
 "They do say yer engaged," continued the old torment, again 
 ignoring Hope's interruption. "That is, bomb sezl" Here she 
 wheezed quickly, and then closed her lips deliberatively. " But 
 t'wau't only t'-day I heerd th' real facts" (wheeze). 
 
 Hope's heart stood still. Had the Deacon confided his trouble 
 to this old busybody t She dare not try to speak, her lips felt numb 
 and made silence her only refuge. With a desperate effort to throw 
 off a feeling of faintness she drew herself up and, with all the 
 hauteur at her command, waited for the wheezy gossip to continue^ 
 
 Mrs. Hooper was watching Hope through her half-closed eyes, 
 and the girl's embarrassment made it evident that Danny's story 
 was well founded. All that now remained was to find out bow far 
 the Deacon had gone and whether Hope was likely to coi.senc. 
 
 "Oh, ye-e-sl" she wheezed triumphantly. "You kin rely on 
 me that it shan't go no furder (wheeze). I wouldn't fer th' hull 
 wur-r-r-ld speak a sin-gull wu-r-r-d 'bout what passed between yeh 1" 
 and with these impressive words she rolled her eyes up lo the ceil- 
 
CONSIDERABLE VAQUE SUSPICION 
 
 n 
 
 inff of the bedroom In which she had cornered Hope, as if tu vow 
 secrecv before high Heavou. 
 
 What was intended to invite Hope's confidence seemed to the 
 frightened girl acoutlrmation of her fears that the Deacon had told 
 MrM. Uouper of his prupOHal of marriage and the terrible story of her 
 birth. Slie had seen the Deacon in conversation with the old wo* 
 man, and it forced itself on her mind that he must have engaged her 
 as an ally to press his suit. The shameful story had then been 
 repeated and soon the whole neighborhood would know it. for how 
 could she hope that the tattling old dame would keep it to herself. 
 This thought maddened her. With the burning blush that crim- 
 soned her face there came surging into her heart a torrent of shame 
 and rage that sent to her white lipH a Htorm of passionate words 
 which burst upon the smirking old busybody like a tornado. 
 
 " How dare you insult me, you miserable old hag !" hissed Hope 
 furiously. "What do I care what you've heard! No matter what 
 I am, I'm not so bad as you and the snivelling old sneak who's been 
 telling stories about me. If yau had a heart as big as a pea you 
 wouldn't treat a girl, whose good name once lost can never bo re- 
 stored, like you are treating mo ; and if you ever say a word against 
 me I hope God may strike you dead I" 
 
 With this, Hope, who in her desperation had seized Mrs. Hoop, 
 er's fat shoulder, gave the old woman a shove and ran past her and 
 out of the room, leaving the victim of asthma and anger in a state 
 of complete collapse. 
 
 Desiring to avoid the curious eyes of the Gaylors and their guests, 
 Hope hurried out of the house, down a Utile slope into the orchard, 
 and here by the spring she ran against Uncle Abe and upset the 
 pail of water he was carrying. 
 
 ** Hello there!" exclaimed Uncle Abe good naturedly. "Is ther* 
 a bumble bee after yeh?" 
 
 **1 beg your pardon," murmured Hope in confusion, and bending 
 down to brush the water from her dripping dress, *'I didn't see 
 you!" 
 
 "No, I 'spose yeh didn't," answered Uncle Abe with a twinkle 
 in his eye. ** An' I didn't see you till it was too late t' keep yeh 
 out n the water-pail. Spile yer dress d'ye guess?" 
 
 " No, I guess not ! It'll be all right when it's dry." 
 
 "Like enuft*! Most everything'll rub off after it's dry, 'sept 
 mebbe grease spots an' a bad reppetashun." 
 
 Uncle Abe, in considerable wonder as to the cause of Hope's evi- 
 dent agitation, was scrutinizing her face as he spoke this common* 
 place phrase. 
 
 Hope, still stinging with the reproach she fancied that Mrs. 
 
\ 
 
 i*Wai 
 
 ' MMAMM^iisM*A»iMii^^^ 
 
 74 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 Hooper had cast upon her, thought Uncle Abe's words the result of 
 having heard the Deacon's story about her birth. At once she 
 straightened up her drooping figure, and with flushed face and 
 angry ayes she sharply demanded : 
 
 " What do you mean?" 
 
 " Nuthin', nuthin' ; it's a sayin' I git off when I'm short of suthin' 
 t' talk about," answered the old man composedly. " But what d'yeh 
 mean aittin' mad? Air yeh out of sorts? What air yeh runuin' 
 away from? The Dee-kin mebbe?" 
 
 **1o you are in th' conspiracy, too, are you?" exclaimed Hope 
 hotly. " I should think you'd be ashamed to help persecute a de* 
 fenseless girl into marrying an old sueak like Deacon Jones!" 
 
 " Jes-so I Jes-so ! Jes-so ! In th' conspire-acy, too 1 " repeated Uncle 
 Abe with long pauses bet ween his exclamations. ** Jes-so ! Yes ! 
 Yes, I guess 1 am, fur 's I know I Who else is in th' con-spire-acy 
 along 'ith me. 
 
 Hope was taken aback by Uncle Abe's Jocular good nature. 
 There was nothing of reproach or evil intent in his twinkling eyes 
 set deep in the comical little folds of skin that half-hid his merry 
 look. His mouth, too, was twitching with a half-suppressed grin, 
 and even morbidly sensitive as she was, Hope saw that Uncle Abe 
 was considering nothing but the funny side of the case. 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Hooper and Deacon Jones 1" stammered Hope, feel- 
 ing afraid she'd been too quick to commit herself. 
 
 **Yeh iion't tell mel' Uncle Abe exclaimed, the grin widening 
 into a laugh. "Dear, dear! Me*n th* Dee-kin an' Sister Hooper, 
 liey ? Well, I declare ! Which on 'em was yeh runnin' from when 
 yeh Jumped inter th' waterpail ? " 
 
 *'From Mrs. Hooper," Hope confessed with a gulp which indicate 
 the near approach of tears. 
 
 "So that old c!a,tter-head was tryin' teh git yeh t' marry th' Dee- 
 kin was she ? Well, I swan ! " 
 
 Hope's tears were flowing fast, and great sobs shook her trem- 
 bling figure as she stood before the quizzical old man, whose curi- 
 osity was at length drowned by her tears. 
 
 "Yeh needn't be skeered of me, youngster," said Uncle Abe 
 kindly. " He did speak teh me 'l)out it, but I told him teh quit, an' 
 mother said she thought t'was tl»e ter'blest thing she'd ever heer'd 
 of. We're not agin yeh fcr not wan tin' teh marry that pesky old 
 windbag, we aint ! Mother said she never wanted teh see him at her 
 table agin, soon's she heerd of it, an' he wouldn't been ast t'-day, 
 only Frank wanted mother t' have you girls here fer dinner so'a 
 he'd git a chance teh spoon 'round Bess." 
 
 Uncle Abe was talking Jocularly and with the idea of drying up 
 
CONSIDERABLE VAGUE SUSPICION 18 
 
 Hope's tears, but her sobs grew more hysterical and Uncle Abe 
 began to fear a scene. 
 
 " I'll hev toh take in this pail of water er mother'll be oat here 
 loolcin* fer me ! 'Spose she found mc'n you talking like this she'd be 
 jenlous like'nuif, an' then ther'd be trubbil sure's shootin*. 60 on 
 down tli«r' t' th* spring an* cool yer face 'n come back to th' house 
 'fore they miss yeh t Don't be skeerod of me. I'll make Adoniram 
 (|uit teasin' yeh\ an* don't yeh go away from his house teh board er 
 let on in any way, er mind what stories git 'round 'bout yeh ; people 
 'ull fei'git it a month from now I" 
 
 Abram Gaylor very wisely left Hope to her own devices for con- 
 cealing her tears, but his parting words about *' stories gittin' 
 round" settled Hope's fear into a certainty that the Deacon had 
 told him the shameful tale of her origin. 
 
 CHAPTER XV, 
 
 THE DBAOON DYES HIS HAIR AND ISRAEL WRITES A LETTER. 
 
 Hope became a greater enigma than ever to Lou and Bessie Jones 
 during their ride home that eventful Sunday, from Gaylor's. Both 
 of them noticed her distress, and could And no reason for it. Bessie 
 knew her father had had no opportunity to press his suit or be em- 
 barrassing to Hope, and wondered greatly what could have so 
 affected her. The Deacon wondered aUo, and so did Israel. As the 
 latter unharnessed his horses and leaned heavily against the gate, 
 while he. watched them galop down the lane with many a frisky 
 kick at one another, his mind suddenly made itself up, and, throw- 
 Ino; the bridles to the ground, he slapped his thigh and muttered to 
 himself in an astonished whisper— probably in amaze that he had not 
 thought of it before : " I'll do it, by gum ; I'll write teh Ben an' ast 
 hir '" 
 
 Isr^^ el paused and gazod ruefully at the bridlts at his feet. It had 
 ja ft struck him that writing a letter to Ben meant a very heavy con- 
 . .act, and would be, in fact, the third effort in that line he had ever 
 made. 
 
 His iflrst attempt at letter writing had been to convey to the 
 *' Missus " of the last school he hud attended, the fact that he was 
 wrongfully suspected of having been ono of the young men who in 
 the stilly winter night had spoiled an " examination day" by flllmg 
 the schoolhouse with snow, and the stove, woodbox and teacher's 
 desk full of ice. The teacher accepted the assurance of the fat and 
 bashful youth, and took the earliest opportunity of telling him so. 
 
 :^*Jk^i^iliL:^ 
 
'M^0^^s*AMvJnih:'4f'%-'4»$iti..-'AA!>jm,Md-:sm*u^ 
 
 **«• J. •>. -.' j««-,',«M*' ; 
 
 ; 
 
 // 
 
 76 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 Two hours afterwards, Israel delighted beyond measure at the 
 Hchool ma'm's kindneus, thought of something to say in reply, and 
 wrote several pages of copy-book paper trying to express himself, 
 but he never forwarded the oft amended report of liis feelings. 
 
 A couple of years later he once decided to propose marriage to an 
 Applebury maiden, and had filled several copy-books with his pro- 
 position worded in at least twenty different varieties of bad spelling, 
 and worse grammar. At last he got his heart outpoured over a 
 sheet of foolscap, with only three blots on it, and sent it to his love 
 by mail. That same day his young sister, Lou, found the copy-book 
 in which were the various drafts of his passion, and, being con- 
 siderably amused, she took it to school with her and showed it to all 
 the scholars. The fervor of Iniaers desire to wed, which found 
 utterance in the copy-book, was carried by the school children to the 
 young lady most concerned, and reached her a day in advance of the 
 letter in the village post office. She was not in love with Israel, 
 and could not, therefore, forgive him for permitting the whole com- 
 munity to know that *'Mi grates Joy is two looke in yor eys." 
 Young women do not like to be laughed at, and when next day her 
 yjung brother, who had been up at the store, brought her a letter 
 on which he pointed out to her, with a great guffaw, that her first 
 name was spelled " Margut," she could have cried for shame. She 
 knew Israel had been kept too hard ac work to get much school- 
 ing, but she had no means of knowing that the poor youth had 
 spent a whole Sunday afternoon filling his copy-book with every con- 
 ceivable spoiling of " Margaret," from "Mergit" to "Margat." He 
 was dissatisfied with them all, and hunted in vain through half the 
 Bible for a correct version. He dare not ask his brother or sisters, 
 for they would guess what he wanted and tease him. Finally he 
 settled on "Margut" as being nearest the sound, and the longer he 
 looked at it the stronger became the conviction that there could be 
 no other way of spelling it. When he learned that Lou had showed 
 his copy-book full of skeleton ofl'ers of marriage all over Apple- 
 bury, he was in a frightful rage and swore he would have to run 
 away, people would laugh at him so. Somehow he hoped "Margut" 
 would be kind, and that kopt him from utter despair, until he got 
 a very short, thoueh not at all a sweet note from her, stating that 
 she didn't spell her name *' Margut," and didn't propose to marry an 
 Ignorant fool. In after years, which found her still single— long 
 after Israel's love for her had aclied itself out— she regretted her 
 haste and confessed to herself that there might be many worse 
 things than a husband who couldn't spell. Once she got a ehance 
 to hint as much to Israel, lint he thought for a moment and then 
 remarked with unusual readiness of wit: **My spelUn' haint im< 
 
ISBAEL'S LETTER 
 
 77 
 
 proved any since I writ that letter, but my sense hez.** As he 
 turned and abruptly left her, he saw he had had his revenge and was 
 proud of it for an hour, and determined to let folks know he had 
 got even with Margaret. When he thought it over, his gentle heart 
 softened, and for weeks he was ashamed and sorry because he spoke 
 **mean" to her when she had humbled her prido to him. 
 
 Now, the thought of writing a letter brought all this back to 
 Israel's mind, and as he bent down and picked up the bridles he 
 hesitated. 
 
 '* If I ast anybody 'round here," he muttered to himself, " they'd 
 know ther' waz suthin' wrong, an', like enuif, .tell it all 'round. I 
 da'sent tell Bess, er she'd blaze out an' let th' thing git talked of. 
 I'll hev t* write teh Ben, 'er my head '11 bust tryin' teh think it out ! 
 Bess knows wher' he is, an' I kin git her t'write th' directions fer 
 me ! I must do it, er suthin ter'ble '11 happen 'fore long." 
 
 Israel, gentle and generous, with all his slowness of thought and 
 dullness of face, was as romantic as a girl, and the longer he thought 
 over his father's attempt to marry Hope the more determined he 
 became to foil him. At last he was concerned in a genuine plot, and 
 he felt the responsibility of his position. For three hours he toiled 
 over his letter, and the absent Hiram's ink and paper had to suffer. 
 At last he had it to suit him, and here is a copy of a half page of 
 foolscap as it came from his hand : 
 
 APPLEBURT, Oct. 25, 188- 
 
 dear brother thare is trubble home here father seams goin craze 
 he has ast hope to marry liim an is persooing her shameful the gurls 
 doan no but i herd him ast her she sed no an he sed Rhe was offll 
 things she is weepin an krying offll her hart is broak what will i 
 do i dare not spcke fer she doan no i herd things is offll with her the 
 gurls doan no i am ritin Israel Jones 
 
 father haz died his hare 
 
 It was Monday night before Israel got u chance to quietly ask 
 Bessie to direct an envelope to Bun, and in the meantime Widower 
 Jones had been to the county town and had returned on the evening 
 train, with his hair and the fringe of beard under his chin dyed a 
 nice greenish -black. 
 
 When he entered the door he put his hat on the hanging book- 
 shelf, and, as if anxious to make the break, stood before his as- 
 tounded daughters with a miserable effort to appear unconcerned 
 ftnd natural. 
 
 "Why, father 1" exclaimed Lou; "what havb you been doing to 
 fDorself?" 
 
 "Why, Low-i-syl what makes yeh ast?" enquired the Deacon, 
 «irith an exceedingly sheepish grin. 
 
 "As I live, you've been and got your hair an' whiskers dyedl" 
 
,tiStS^^V.tmy ■ 
 
 
 ' I 
 
 78 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 cried Lou, approaching nearer him to observe the full effect of the 
 change. 
 
 "Well, what uv it?" demanded the Deacon, with an attempt at 
 dignity. 
 
 With laughter In her eyes and mouth twitching with suppressed 
 mirth, Lou turned to Bessie, exclaiming : "Did you ever ! " 
 
 Bessie did not respond to her sister's invitation to laugh, but 
 stood staring at her father, her face a picture of angry shame. 
 
 "No, I neverl" she retorted, bitterly. "I never thoup;ht I'd 
 live to see father make such a fool of himself, and make his own 
 children blush to see the spectacle he is with his dyed tiair." 
 
 "How dare you speak to me like that?" bellowed the Deacon, 
 who had nerved himself for a scene. "What's th' harm in me 
 git tin' my hair colored?" 
 
 " Harm 1" sneered Bessie. '* Harm ? Why you'll be the laughing- 
 stock of the hull neighborhood. Folks '11 say you've gone crazy er 
 want to get married a;;ain, and are trying to look young ! I'll never 
 be seen with you ! I'd die with shame I" 
 
 " T'aint no wusa'n th' way yeh primp and fix yer own hair ; you 
 'nliow-i-syl" 
 
 "We don't do it to try and make people think we're young. 
 How people will laugh ! I'll never, never go outside the door again. 
 And mother only dead three months I " 
 
 Bessie was almost in tears as she spoke. 
 
 The Deacon tried to be stern. " Eiiz-a-beth," he said, in deep 
 basso and pointing his finger at her, "go upstairs teh bed. I won't 
 be spoke to that way by nobuddy. Go, I say, right this minnit 1 " 
 
 "I won't," snapped Bessie, fiercely. "Go up t' bed yerself. If I 
 looked the object you do, I'd go to bed and stay there." 
 
 Israel's entrance at this heated juncture, fortunately put a stop 
 to the quarrel. He noticed his father's changed appearance and 
 stared at his sire till the truth slowly dawned on his sluKgish mind. 
 
 " Well, I swan 1" he ejaculated. " Got yer hair painted I " 
 
 Israel looked at his siuters a moment and then at his father and 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 The Deacon could stand no more, and rushed away, leaving Israel 
 and his sisters starinsc at one another. 
 
 "Lou! Israeli What will we do?" moaned poor Bessie. 
 " Father must have quit his senses ! " 
 
 It was no wonder that Israel, as he prepared to put his letter in 
 the envelope Bessie had addressed, unfolded it and wrote at the 
 bottom the suggestive postscript : 
 "father haz died his hare ! " 
 
 ^ ^^ *jr'''^'"*'"!^^ l^^^^^f^^'^'^ 
 
THE QUILTING BEE AT MITCUELVS 
 
 79 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE QUILTING BEE AT MITCHKLl/s AND THE STOHY WHICH WAS 
 
 STARTED THERE. 
 
 Around about Applebury, parins; bees and quiltings were always 
 numerous when the glories of the Indian summer changed to the 
 chill of coming winter. In the select circles that gathered around 
 the apple-pans and quilting frames Sister Hooper was always a 
 prominent figure. Had anyone been daring enough at one of those 
 industrial parties to describe her as a malicious old busy body or a 
 wilful liar, they would have found an almost unanimous rebuke. 
 She was an institution, a part of the organization of the neighbor- 
 hood, and it was customary to speak of her as " an obliging soul," 
 ready to help those who needed assistance, and willing at a mo- 
 ment's notice to put on her things and accompany a messenger to 
 the bedside of the sick, or help do the sewing and housework for a 
 'oereaved family. 
 
 It was, of course, admitted that she was "a little too chatty/' 
 and cases were cited, by people who were probably jealous of her 
 popularity, where her too-nimble tongue had set afoot tales which 
 refused to be quieted until great damage liad been done. Half- 
 forgotten rumors were sometimes revived about her having separ- 
 ated a husband and wife, and two or three badly-soured old maids, 
 and several cranky bachelors were wont to state that if she ever 
 got to Heaven she would break up all the love matches which are 
 said to be made there, before they had time to reach the earth. 
 Once in a while you would hear of a character or two she had 
 spoiled, and reference was sometimes made to rows in the church 
 which had been due to her indefatigable endeavors to keep people 
 straight. A couple of preachers had blamed her for driving them 
 away from tlie district, and even her friends had to admit that 
 Sister Hooper had led rather an active life. 
 
 But after all, gossip was one of the chief amusements at the 
 "doin's" and **after-meetin' visits," and It was recognized as a 
 legitimate way of spending the few hours of leisure in whicb neigh- 
 bor women had a chance to enjoy one another's society. 
 
 To be sure, innocent people sometimes got hurt, but innocent 
 folk often get hurt at the hands of Providence, in railway accidents 
 and disasters by fire and flood, so why should it be remarkable that 
 a little harmless gossip shouUl once in a while injure them? At any 
 rate, this wa» the argument of those who ever undertook to find ik 
 
'....-»ti. « *i«t.aa»-. *.a.?.?i«f ar«B,»<v..-.w.» . 
 
 80 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 defence for their tattling and "iniesslng" and "putting this and 
 that together." But perhaps Damo Gossip was safest from Attack 
 because everyone was more or less guilty, and there was thus no* 
 body to cast the first stone, 
 
 Mrs, Hooper herself took high ground and alleged that she never 
 spoke of other people's affairs "only as a duty." And no one was 
 wont to express greater regret than she, that in following her line 
 of duty she had frequently to unmask impostors and give truthful 
 versions of stories which had become mixed with error. She re- 
 gretted that she was forced into such painful tasks as speaking 
 to a wife alK)ut the wicked ways of her husband, or to a husband 
 about the frivolous doings of his wife. It might appear strange 
 that, in the performance of these diflBcult tasks, she had so far 
 escaped getting her fat old nose pulled ; but the people of Applebury 
 were slow to wrath, and Sister Hooper had the reputation of being 
 ** tor'ble good to the sick." 
 
 Though Hope Campton had not been the first to speak in anger to 
 Sister Hooper, no one before had ever dared to call her "a miser, 
 able old hag." When Sister Hooper thought of the services she had 
 done to the churcli and community in general ; of how she had 
 waited on the sick and sewed for the sorrowing ; how she had pared 
 apples and stitched quilts and knit socks for nearly everyone for 
 miles around, the idea of being called "a miserable old hag" by 
 Hope Campton made her fold her hands and roll up her eyes in 
 grief, while her breath was almost taken away from her in a pro- 
 longed wheeze. 
 
 There was a "quilting" over at Mitchell's on the Tuesday fol- 
 lowing her interview with Hope, and Mrs. Hooper had her revenge. 
 
 A dozen of the neighbors ;ere gathered in the low-ceilinged sit- 
 ting-room. The autumn sun gleamed brightly through the little 
 square-paned windows, adding a sheen to the gorgeous colors of the 
 chintz curtains, carpet-lounge and gay rag carpet. The latter was 
 the pride of Mrs. Mitchell's heart. The warp was colored, great 
 pains had been taken in sewing and dyeing the rags, and there were 
 more hues in it than there were in the bunch of china astors and 
 zinnias in the broken pitcher resting on the flreless box-stove at the 
 side of the room. That carpet was known all through the neighbor- 
 hood as having the widest red flannel stripe and the broadest bar of 
 green that could be seen in the houses of even the very first fami- 
 lies of the large cities. Mrs. Mitchell was also proud of the bureau 
 that stood at the end of the room, and she often remarked that it 
 was "five drawers high, with three little drawers on top and hed 
 more room for laym' things away in than any otiier bureau in Apple- 
 bury." Such certificate of local leadership in society as was not 
 
THE QUILTING BEE AT MITCHELUS 
 
 81 
 
 furnished by the wide bar of red in the carpet and the high chest 
 of drawers, was at once made unnecessary by the preHonce of the 
 melodeon on which Sis* Dover was now performing the intricate 
 measures of the Java March. 
 
 Sister Hooper had objected to remaining in the room wliilc dance 
 music was being played, but after being assured that nobody danced 
 to a march, had consented to listen to it for the fourth time, as Sis* 
 Dover was by no means baclcward in reproducing tlie gems of her 
 repertoire. 
 
 A quilting frame, supported at each corner by the back of a chair, 
 stood in the middle of the room ; the lining had been stitched to the 
 frames, the wool in batts had been laid thereon, the manyhued 
 patchwork cover had been pinned to the lining, and the altar of 
 Dame Rumor was set up. 
 
 At the head of the frame nearest the window sat Mrs. Dover and 
 Aunt Jane Hornby. Mrs. Hornby always sat erect, and it seemed 
 impossible for her to turn her face without swinging her whole 
 body, which she did with the steady precision that suprgcstcd a 
 pivot and the action of machinery. Sister Hooper and Mrs. Mitchell 
 with a candle-wick line dipped in flour were laying out the surface 
 of the quilt in squares, during which frequent caUn were heard to 
 " pass along that sasser of flour." The other women began to sew, 
 pausing often to lean their elbows on the frame and relate stories of 
 that olass which women are said to indulo'e in when there are no 
 men around. The question of birthmarks and anecdotes relating 
 thereto had come up, when somehow the name of the Jones' family 
 was mentioned, probably in connection with a strawberry mark on 
 Israel's left cheek. 
 
 Mrs. Dover remarked that she had heard the Deacon was likely 
 to marry again. From this a discussion arose as to the probability 
 of the Deacon's second marriage and the chances of this and that 
 eligible female's elevation to the position of Mrs. Jones No. 2. The 
 debate had grown interesting and the merits of a number of aspir- 
 ants had been dilated upon, when Sister Hooper sprung Hope Camp- 
 ton's name on the convention as a leading candidate. 
 
 '♦Not as I think he's likely to hewer," wheezed Sister Hooper 
 maliciously, though she well knew that Widower Jones had as 
 much chance of getting Hope's consent as he had of marrying a 
 sister of the man in the moon. 
 
 " G'way I Yeh must be crazy ! " snapped Mrs. Hornby, straight- 
 ening up from her quilting with a jerk and adjusting her spectacles. 
 
 "That young thing 1 Why, who ever?" purred Mrs. Dover as 
 she folded a couple of patches and laid them aside; ''What put 
 that into your head?" 
 
 iT^^ 
 
t(Kwi«.<ajj*a.-' i.t^t 
 
 lV.Ji>lU4 »»»..• 
 
 82 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ** Why, both E>Iiz-a-both an' Low-z-y air older'n she is ! It'd raiHe 
 a ter'ble talk if th' Deacon tried teh circle 'round hur!'* Tiiin was 
 from Mrs. Mitchell, and that motherly old body looked enquiringly 
 at Sister Hooper for further information. 
 
 **I don't b'leeve ther's a thing in it, 'septlu' that Hope's livin' ther> 
 teh th* Deacon's, and fools git talkin' round 'ithout knowin' what 
 thoy'r talkin' about." Mrs. Hornby after succeeding In adjusting her 
 spectacles, and sitting rigidly upright in her chair, had fixed her 
 eyes on Sister Hooper with a stern and piercing air, as if to read the 
 very thoughts of the asthmatic gossip. 
 
 "My 1 Dear, oh dearl" wheezed Sister Hooper. "Didn't yeh hear 
 nothin* of it afore (wheeze)? Sakes alive 1 I'd never spoke if I'd 
 thouglit I'd abeeu carryin' news 1 " 
 
 "Hub! She's ter'ble pertickler 'bout carryin' news, she isl" 
 snapped Mrs. Hornby as she stiffly revolved on her axis and fixed 
 her gaze on her next neighbor. 
 
 " Tou needn't be so fast," wheezed Sister Hooper angrily ; " fer 
 I haiut goin' teh say another word, an' wouldn't asaid what actu- 
 dentally eggscaped only I 'sposed yoh all know'd 'bout it." « 
 
 Mrs. Hornby had by this time revolved again and focused her 
 eyes on Sister Hooper. " Go on," said she ; " yer dyin' teh tell, 
 so jist Hpit it out, 'ithout no more coaxin'." 
 
 "Well I'm sure, nowl" purred Mrs. Dover, deprecatingly, but 
 cautiously avoiding partizanship. 
 
 " No, I shan't say a word 1 An' then hev Jane Hornby goin' 
 'round an' callin' me a tattle I" Asthma, fatty degeneration and 
 tears were united in the gurgling wheeze, which made it necessary 
 for Sister Hooper to fan herself with a broad-rimmed straw hat she 
 had caught from the back of a chair. 
 
 "Oh, go on an' don't think anybody '11 say anything against 
 yeh ! " eagerly exclaimed a younger seamstress. " Howdyehear ? " 
 
 " How did I hear? My I E'vybuddy's talkin' "bout it 'round our 
 way 1 Queer't yeh didn't hearl" exclaimed Sister Hooper, hurriedly, 
 as if to preserve her sentence from the interruption of a wheeze. 
 
 " Well?" exclaimed half a dozen voices in eager interrogation. 
 
 "I hain't nuthin' more teh say, 'septin' thet I don't think th' 
 match'U ever come off, though ther's plenty teh say that she's bin 
 runnin' after him long afore his poor sick wife, Marier, was even 
 dead!" 
 
 Chorus—" You don't say I" 
 
 " Tess'n I know what I'm sayin' too ! An' th' Deacon was soft 
 enuff teh git silly onner till he heard things thet made him more 
 keerful!" The wheeze had grown short and defiant^ and it was 
 evident that Sister Hooper was excited. 
 
TUE QUILT I NO BEE AT MITCHELL* 8 
 
 83 
 
 '* No, now ! " " Well, I never ! '* exclaimed the maids and matrons 
 ansemhled. Mrs. Hornby's eyes were " fixed" on Sister Hooper, 
 who was carefully avoiding the uupleaHantly steady gase. 
 
 '* What stories wuz theyV" queried one. 
 
 " I haint gunto say. If I can't say good about people I shan't say 
 bad, yeh all know that," sighed Sister Hooper, complacent;ly. 
 
 *' Of course ? " echoed the listeners eagerly. *' But what was the 
 stories about ? " 
 
 "Her karackter!" whispered Sister Hooper, impressively, "an* 
 more'n thet I sha'n't say, ner no one can ever say I hev sed I " 
 
 The women looked at one another in amazement. Hope had 
 been proud and distant, but she had been regarded as the pink of 
 propriety, and this revelation seemed to bring Miss Campton down 
 to the level of ordinary mortals more than they had ever expected. 
 
 ** It must abeen afore she come here then I " exclaimed one. 
 
 " I haint sayin' when it was, nur when it weren't," gasped Sister 
 Hooper, shutting her eyes and looking wondroub wise. "More'n 
 thet 8hc up an' agmitted to my very face thet she was bein' talked 
 about an* things was bein' sed 'bout her karackter which she didn't 
 keer whether they was true ur not, an' when I spoke t' her, an' 
 tried t' do my duty, she flew into a rage an* called me an old hag." 
 
 "An' she wa*n*t fur wrung, nutlier!" Mrs. Hornby's spine had 
 remained unbent and her eyes had not been removed from Sister 
 Hooper's face during the entire recital, and her verdict, reiterated 
 in evident scorn, was rather startling, " An' she wa'n't fur wrong, 
 nuther!" 
 
 " Why Aunt Hornby I" cried Teena Mitchell. 
 
 Aunt Hornby deigned no answer, but sat erect and continued to 
 glare tli rough her spectacles. 
 
 "I hain't tellin' nuthin' second hand, an' if Hope Campton didn't 
 keer wlio knowed it, I guess I hain't wrong in sayin' Jist what she 
 said." 
 
 " But you haven't told us what it was," suggested Mrs. Dover, 
 without seeming much interested. 
 
 " No, ner I won't ! Furder'n what I've sed I won't go an' if you 
 want teh know why jist go'n ast her fer yerself !" 
 
 No amount of urging could elicit any further information, and 
 Sister Hooper quite establislied her reputation as a very reticent per- 
 son, no one but Mrs. Hornby apparently suspecting her of not hav- 
 ing full particulars which she, in pursuance of her duty, refused to 
 impart. 
 
 Speculation was excited by the mystery Mrs. Hooper had thrown 
 around Hope's cimracter, and as women they Anally decided that 
 Hope's misdemeanor was one of those departures from rectitude 
 
 ivV*^ £-' 
 
i0tit^!*mm^ !*>*■ '.■'*•■ 
 
 . «^iW«i»> « < ii.*iMii*ji, - «.; w ? .'.rf 4r«. ««» 
 
 81 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 which, strangely enough, Is so much more unpardonable In a woman 
 than In a man. But who was the man In the case I They guessed 
 at all the young sports In and around Applebury and appealed to 
 Sister Hooper to decide as to the partner of Hope's sin, but the 
 astute but wheezy umpire refused to act. 
 
 ** I haln' sed nuthln' an' shan't go no furderl" she reiterated, half 
 afraid she had already gone too far, and yet thoroughly convinced 
 that Hope had some shameful secret which would be forced from her 
 If a scandal once got circulated. 
 
 The scandal was not slow travelling, and even the school children 
 knew of It before the end of the week, and winked at one another 
 as they looked rudely at the fair schoolmistress and laughed bolster* 
 ously and scornfully when she reproved them during the play hour 
 on Friday. 
 
 Hope saw the change In their conduct towards her, and in bitter 
 agony suspected that they had learned the story of her birth. Her 
 evident confusion and anguish were remarked by her pupils, and by 
 them duly reported to their parents, who saw in this a eonflrnia, 
 tion of Sister Hoopers story. Poor Hope's downcast eyes, with the 
 dark circles under them which spoke of nights of sleepless weeping, 
 failed to move the hearts of the ruder children, who insisted on 
 acting as if she were unworthy of their respect. 
 
 The torture of her position was growing insupportable, when 
 one day an Incident occurred which brought matters to a crisis. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 THB DBACON 00B8 AWOOINO. 
 
 Widower Jones in Sunday garb and seated alone in his son 
 Hiram's buggy, was driving slowly homeward from the county town. 
 
 Ever since Hope's contemptuous refusal of his hand and heart, he 
 had been thoughtfully turning over in his mind his chances of suc- 
 cess and happiness with each of half-a-dozen marriageable women 
 ot his acquaintance. 
 
 With a perversity of desire which his experience with Hope 1 .d 
 not cured, he still clung to the idea of a youthful bride. Even after 
 the night when be played what he considered his trump card with 
 Hope, and hi»d lost, He did not abandon the belief that he could still 
 induce her to yield, until her final and passionate rebuke of his 
 advances. 
 
 As the Deacon's horse Jogged along the uneven road, athwart 
 which fell the shadows of beech and maple, hia cheeks reddened and 
 
 iJi <4. V. >- ,' 
 
THE DEACON GOES AWOOINO 
 
 hia eam tingled as he recalled her bitter words, when availing him- 
 self of a second opportunity, he had renewed his proposal. 
 
 ** Never ! I would rather die than have you touch me. I loathe— 
 I hate you I The sight of you sickens me. 60 on, heap shame upon 
 me— tell the world what you know; no matter how shameful my 
 birth, it cannot bring to me halt the contempt and degradation I 
 would feel for myself if I married such a roan as you 1" 
 
 The Deacon's recollection of these words made him grind his 
 scanty teeth, and reaching forward he struck his horse a fierce blow 
 with the whip. 
 
 "Ill teach the proud huszy thet I kin marry th' best there Isi 
 Yes, and Fll give th' Camptons a reppytashun sich as 11 make th' 
 worst on 'em slow teh marry her." 
 
 But he was speeding too fast, and he pulled his horse up with a 
 Jerk. Switching with his whip at the grey mullein stalks and 
 dustbrowned thistles as his horse idled along at a slow walk, he 
 made up his mind to go and see Ruth Gilbert ** on the town line." 
 
 As he made this resolution, with a sudden impulse to arrange 
 his attire he replaced the whip in its socket, dropped the lines, and 
 taking off his hat ran his wrinkled hand through his scanty crop of 
 badly-dyed hair. After mopping his forehead and rubbing his hands 
 uneasily over his mouth and clean-shaven chin, he seemed partly 
 reassured that his charms were In order, and picking up the lines 
 turned from the highroad to the more scantily travelled town line, 
 where Ruth with her mother and brother were comfortably estab- 
 lished in a little white house surrounded by lilacs, cherry trees and 
 willows. 
 
 His courage almost failed him as he tied his horse to the palings 
 and opened the ricketty little gate leading to the front door. With 
 a shiver of fear that he was on a fool's errand, he remembered the 
 score of lovers he had heard of who had wooed Ruth Gilbert without 
 marrying her. He wondered why. But he had knocked at the 
 door, and without time to answer his own question he found himself 
 face to face with the object of his proposed affection. 
 
 " Why, howdy do. Deacon Jones f Come in I " 
 
 "Tol'ble, thanks ; how's yer maw!" 
 
 ** First rate, thank you^ How's the folks t " 
 
 "Oh, all fairly middlin' when I left them this mornin'. I've bin 
 up town ; Jist gittin' back. Blind o' thought I'd drop in teh see yeh 
 —and yer maw." 
 
 ** Mother '11 be glad to see you Tm sure. Til go and call her." 
 
 "Never mind, don't hurry; I don't want to int'rupt her in 
 nuthin'. Folks all well ? " 
 
 The Deacon was evidently ill at ease, and Ruth Gilbert, in the 
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 last ten years of her life, had had lovers enough to know the signn. 
 
 She was a large, tall and handsome girl, with dark eyes and a 
 wealth of fluffy brown hair. But her chief charm was a coquettish 
 Jollity which hid some of the strongest features of her character, and 
 led many men beside the Deacon to believe that the growing ma 
 turity of her years made her exceedingly anxious to marry. 
 
 **0h, mother isn't busy. She'll be glad to see you," said Ruth, 
 watching the Deacon's downcast face intently. 
 
 Feeling that an opportunity to be alone with Ruth might not 
 occur again, he at once plunged into the subject. 
 
 "Yes, of course. Ter maw's a tur'ble fine woman, but I dropped 
 in teh see you as much as anythin'." And with a sudden jerking of 
 himself together the Deacon managed to raise his eyes and look 
 admiringly at Ruth. 
 
 ^^Ohl" she exclaimed, and her bright eyes flashed, though she 
 made no further effort to assist him in continuing the conversation. 
 
 "I'm— Fm—yeh see, it's tur'ble lonesome up t' our place, an' ] 
 kind o' thought thet mebby yeh wouldn't mind if I dropped in t' see 
 yeh onct in a while." 
 
 The Deacon's face got very red as he looked down at his hands 
 knit tightly together on his knees, and wondered how it was he had 
 never before thought what a handsome girl Ruth was, and he 
 further wondered in his confusion how in the world he had ever had 
 courage enough to go as far as he had. 
 
 Ruth's eyes were sparkling with fun as she watched the Deacon's 
 embarrassment. 
 
 " Why, of course not," she answered lightly. " We will always 
 be glad to see you. You'll stay to tea, won t you?" 
 
 "Well, I don't mind if I do, seein' that I'm here an' yev' been 
 seh kind as teh ast me." 
 
 The Deacon endeavored to speak with composure, but it was 
 evident that he was badly rattled. 
 
 "Rufe is out in the fields somewhere, so you'll have to put your 
 horse in the bam yourself, if you don't mind?" 
 
 " Ohf I don't mind I " exclaimed the Deacon, jumping up and seiz- 
 ing his hat. " I don't need no waitin* on." 
 
 With an assumption of lioyish alacrity he danced out of the room 
 and led his horse around to the bam, with an inward prayer that it 
 might not be his bad fortune to meet Ruth's wayward brother before 
 he got back to the house, and in this fortune favored him. 
 
 Rufus Gilbert was not always a pleasant gentleman to meet. He 
 had an abrupt way of asking questions and making remarks, which 
 very frequently bordered on the impertinent 
 
 He was ostentatiously irreligious, and the Deacon remembered 
 
 ^^y 
 
■'■■i' 
 
 THE DEACOIf GOSS AWOOIKa 
 
 tn 
 
 that on several occasions Buf us had expressed an opinion of himself 
 with a candor which savored much of contempt. The txur-room of 
 the tavern at Applebury had a greater share of Rufe Gilbert's society 
 than had ever 1)een enjoyed by the church of which the Deacon was 
 the leading light. And worst of all, Bufe, who was nearly forty, 
 had been a chum of his son Ben. 
 
 When the Deacon 0>t back to the house he ventured to enter the 
 kitchen door, where he was met by Mrs. Gilbert, who gave him an 
 effi^sive welcome. 
 
 "Why, Deacon, is that you?" she cried. "Why, it's a sight fer 
 sore eyes teh see yeh agin ; thought you folks hed all gone back on 
 us, yeh hain't been here fer seh long. How's all th' folkst" « 
 
 " Tol'ble well, thank'ee ; how air yeh all here ?" 
 
 "Oh, we're all well, 'ceptin' Bufe ; he's complainin' with a kind of 
 sore foot ; been ahurtin' him ever sence he stuck an axe into it last 
 winter, while he was choppin' wood fer th' kitchen stove." 
 
 " Yes, I heerd about that," interjected the Deacon. 
 
 " He was tur'ble bad at th' time," continued Mrs. Gilbert, volubly. 
 " We had the doctor here «very day, fer ttvo er three weeks." 
 
 " Best of yeh all well ?" inquired the Deacon, clumsily. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; all well 'ceptin' Buth. She's been down 'ith another 
 a* her sickheadaches ; she hez th' tur'blest trouble with them 
 sick headaches of hem ; she 'don't have 'em so often as she used 
 teh, sence a pedlar came along and gave her a receipt. It did her a 
 power o' good— helped her more'n any doctor's medicine she ever 
 got. Yeh must know th' pedlar ; guess he calls teh your house— tall, 
 thin, black feller ; wears a mustache and chin whiskers ; sells fer 
 Smith Bros, up to th' county town. We've ben tradin' with him 
 nigh about six er eight years. Seem teh git things jist as reasonable 
 as we do teh th' store ;— have a cheer there— take th' rocker." 
 
 The rocking chair was one of the oId>fashioned sort with a stuffed 
 cushion and quilted patch-work spread over the back. Inclined to 
 slumber by the warmth of the kitchen, Mrs. Gilbert's favorite tabby 
 cat had ensconced himself in the snug seat. The Deacon, none too 
 much at ease, hastily accepting the invitation to be seated did not 
 notice the presence of the feline gentleman who was sleeping so 
 peacefully on the cushion. Dropping neavily into the chair he 
 almost crushed the cat, which, much to the Deacon's discomforture 
 had energy enough left in him to ply, for dear life, both teeth and 
 claws. With a yell of agony the Deacon sprang up snatching 
 wildly at his wounds, while the cat, howling dismally, ran about 
 the room seeking a place of exit. 
 
 Ruth, with an apology for not being able to prevent It, roared 
 with laughter, and then again l>egged the Deacon to excuse her tot 
 
" 'l^fefe^liNf'-Sh* ;r^ .a.v,* v' 
 
 1 W^r"^^^ 
 
 t-f 
 
 
 68 
 
 Tr/J>OTrJSri? JOKES 
 
 Huding merriment in bis misfortune. 
 
 *' Oh, don't mention it," exclaimed the Deacon, with a tremulous 
 effort to appear composed. "I was more skeered than hurt, I 
 reckon. I s'pose yer well yerself 1" he said, turning to Mrs. Gilbert 
 and endeavoring to pick up the broken thread of conversation. 
 
 " Oh, yes, thanks," answered Mrs. Gilbert, with what seemed to 
 the Deacon very like a simper. *' I'm alius well ; there isn't many 
 women hereabouts of my age, ner older nuther, fer I ain't altogether 
 an old woman yit, thet enjoys sich health as I da I often tell 
 Buth an* Bufus here that I can do more work an' stand more 
 roughin' than both on 'em put together.'* 
 
 " And I believe she can too," said Buth, who was stirring the con- 
 tents of some savory dish on the stove. 
 
 This turning of the conversation into the discussion of Mrb. Gil- 
 bert's youth and vigor did not quite please the Deacon, and he was 
 shaping in his mind a compliment for Buth herself, when Mrs. Gil- 
 bert began to cross-examine him as to the health of his own family. 
 
 *• Yer folks are all well, I s'pose ? " 
 
 " Tol'lile, thank yeh, tol'We." 
 
 "Low4-see has got over that sprained ankle of hern, ain't she?" 
 
 ** Oh, yes, oh, yes ; she's jest as lively on her pins as ever." 
 
 "Lively girl Low-i-see is ; she was tellin* me she wa'nt feelin' very 
 well last Sunday anyhow, but I s'posed it wa'nt nuthin' more'n a 
 cold." 
 
 ** No, I guess not," said the Deacon absently. He was watching 
 Buth as she busied herself in the preparations for supper. 
 > **I guess Bess is th' best worker of th' two, aint she?" persisted 
 Mrs. Gilbert, who had seated herself on a low rocker and was behav- 
 ing herself, much to his mortification, as if she were the ** company " 
 be had come to see. 
 
 ** Yes, Bess is a tol'ble hard workin' girl, but pretty peppery, like 
 most of th' smart kind air Vm told " he answered with a smirk at 
 Buth, whose laughing eyes met his and almost made him blush as 
 she answered :— • 
 
 ** I suppose you mean that for me Deacon, but it is a kind of a 
 left-handed compliment." 
 
 ** Yes, I have alius heerd Bess was a peppery kind of girl with a 
 temper of her own" continued Mrs. Gilbert, disregarding the little 
 by-play between her daugher and the Deacon, *' though everybody 
 bays she is'nt as fiery as she used teh be, but that she has growed teh 
 be one of th* sweetest an* most manageabl'st girls one would want 
 teh find." 
 
 **0h yes," said the Deacon, who was thinking what effect this 
 
 ^'f^t.'^-ja 
 
 
') r 
 
 "*"( 
 
 THE DEACON GOES AWOOING 
 
 description of his daughter's temper would have on his chances of 
 getting Ruth to marry him ; " she was tur'ble good to her mother." 
 
 '* Poor Mariar ; she was a tur'ble sufferer, wa'nt she ?" 
 
 ** Yes" said the Deacon mournfully, though exceedingly anxious 
 to escape the subject ; ** she were. I s'pose yeh haint troubled with 
 heart disorder ner roo-matix air ye ?" he concluded absently. 
 
 **0h, no," said Mrs. Gilbert with a self-conscious look which the 
 Deacon did not comprehend; **as I said afore, Fm th' liveliest 
 woman in these parts, takin' into account what I hcv gone through, 
 loosin' my husband an' havin' to bring up my family all by myself I" 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert's widowhood dimly suggested to the Deacon's mind, 
 for an instant, a complication which, without any apparent reason, 
 he at once banished from his thoughts. But in the meanttme Mrs. 
 Gilbert had swung back to her investigation of the health of the 
 Jones' family. 
 
 *• I s'pose they're all well up teh Calvin's ?" 
 
 *' Tol'ble, though I heerd the youngest was down 'ith th' measles 
 er croup, er new-ralage ; but Huldy an' Calvin, they seem teh be able 
 teh do more work than any team of horses in th' county." 
 
 ** Isrul's a great worker, too, haint he ? " 
 
 " Tes, Israel is th' best boy I got ; sticks to hum better, an' is 
 more willin'." 
 
 *' Hiram is away teachin' yet, hain't he?; goin' to study medicine* 
 folks say, er lawyerin'?" 
 
 ** Yes, I've heerd him say he would like teh study drug medicine— 
 er suthin' easier than farmin'." • 
 
 " S'oose yeh hear from Ben sometimes, don't yeh ; he's well, ain't 
 he?" * 
 
 The Deacon's face darkened with an involuntary scowl. Even in 
 the midst of his lovemaking the sound of Ben's name turned all his 
 sweetness into wormwood. 
 
 ** No, I 'aint heerd from him sence he went away." 
 
 " Tur'ble fine lookin' feller Ben is ; gurls was all crazy over him 
 when he was here, an' even Ruth was goin' on 'bout him." 
 
 If Mrs. Gilbert had studied to find out what would hurt the 
 Deacpn most, she could not have succeeded better. The Deacon 
 glanced from under his knit brows at Ruth and thought he detected 
 a blush as she bent over the table that she was spreading for supper. 
 
 ** Yes, if he. was as good actin' as he is good lookin', he would 
 make a better son teh me ner he is 1" 
 
 Ruth gave a quick, fharp glance at the Deacon, but restrained 
 some exclamation she had almost been startled into making. Even 
 Mrs. Gilbert noticed that she had been a little unfortunate in men* 
 tioning Ben's name, and tried to turn the subject. 
 
 %1 
 
 f-.---.-- ,^ 
 
jpm* •*■*'*>>'■• 
 
 dO 
 
 WIDOWSn JONES 
 
 1 1 
 
 t- 
 
 "Yes, I— I— rd heerd Ben an' you didn't pull in harness very 
 well, an' like enough he's wild an' headscronj); like, tliough, of 
 course, nobody minds that. There's alius some one in a family yeh 
 can't git along with ; there was Mr. Gilbert's aunt ; her'n me hed 
 tnr'ble times when we got married first." 
 
 Before Mrs. Gilbert had time to explain whether her husband's 
 aunt and herself had got married, or whether the trouble had oc- 
 curred after Mrs. Gilbert had married Mr. Gilbert, and indeed before 
 she had opportunity to plunge into any further family details, her 
 son Bufus opened the kitchen door and shut it with a slam. 
 
 Buth had lit the lamp and its yellow glow fell on the florid face 
 and dyed hair of Deacon ^doniram. 
 
 Bufus didn't seem well pleased, and he glared at theDeacon as if 
 he were half inclined to throw him out. 
 
 ** Hullo, Brother Jones, so it's you, is it ?" 
 
 ** Yes, y-e-8, it's me," stammered the Deacon. ** I hope yer well." 
 
 "Yes, I'm well, but I don't hope you'r well ; you could'nc die oflf 
 any too quick to suit me." Turning to Ruth, Bufus continued : 
 
 " I wondered whose plug it was out there in the barn, and I gave 
 it some hay and oats that it wouldn't have got if I had knowed it 
 was old Sniv. Jones'." 
 
 The deacon endeavored to laugh. Mrs. Gilbert exclaimed, "Why 
 Bufus, how kin yeh talk sol" Buth simply laughed, and told the 
 Deacon not to mind her brother, as he thought it was smart to go 
 on that way about everybody. 
 
 Bufus Gilbert was a small and very dark man, as much unlike his 
 name as anyone could imagine. Everything seemed to look black 
 around him, and he never seemed blacker than when in the intervals 
 between washing his face and hands and drying them on the towel, 
 he paused with most ungracious deliberation to stare contemptu- 
 ously at the Deacon, utterins; now and then a short, scornful laugh. 
 
 Widower Jones, none too comfortable before, became very much 
 embarrassed, and almost fell over on the table in response to Buth's 
 invitation to sit down to supper. 
 
 "Lead in prayer, Joneseyl" exclaimed his little tormentor. As 
 the Deacon closed his eyes to ask a blessing, Bufus proceeded at 
 once to " help" the plates and pass them around with much clatter, 
 calling attention meanwhile to che sweet expression the Deacon had 
 when his eyes were shut. The Deacon faltered, stammered, stopped, 
 opened ht^ eyes, and endeavored to make the best of the situation. 
 
 " What a tur'ble feller yeh air to carry on, Bufus 1" he said, 
 with a sickly attempt at a srmile. 
 
 Bufus laid down his knife and fork and began to scrutinise the 
 Deacon's hair and whiskers. 
 
THE DEACON GOES A WOOING 
 
 91 
 
 '• Who dyed yer hair, Jones?" 
 
 The Deacon reddened and in his excitement dropped his knife 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Why Rufus ! " exclaimed his mother. 
 
 The Deacon, his face doubly red from bending over the floor 
 in search of hia knife, straightened up and still endeavored to smile. 
 
 *' Oh, never mind Mrs. Gilbert ; I know boys will be boys." 
 
 "Yes," said Rufe contemptuously, "and even old men try to be 
 boys and make fools of theirselves tryin'. " What did yeh git yer 
 hair dyed fer Deacon ? Tryin' teh look young?" 
 
 " Oh. I s'pose so," said the Deacon, his temper rapidly rising. 
 
 Buth looked warningly at her brother, but he did not heed. 
 
 "Who are you shinnin' round here— Ruth er mother?" 
 
 The Deacon was speechless, and Ruth, taking pity on the old 
 man's confusion, seized her brother by the arm and told him to drop 
 that kind of talk, which he did, refusing to utter another syllable 
 until he was just leaving the room, bound, probably, for the Apple- 
 bury tavern. 
 
 " Good night. Brother Jones; Fm goin' up to th* graveyard teh 
 see if th' grass is started growin' on yer wife's grave yet." 
 
 After this introduction it is not to be supposed the Deacon spent 
 a very pleasant evening, but 'both Buth and her mother, heartily 
 ashamed of Bufe's conduct, endeavored to make the widower forget 
 his rude reception. Without intending it they vied with one another 
 in treating the old man well, and when a neighbor dropped in to 
 see Mrs. Gilbert about half-past eight the Deacon had a few minutes 
 alone with Buth, when he hastened to say : • 
 
 "Don't think I mind Bufe and his goin's on; Fm used teh him ; 
 I know he acts that way teh everybody, so it shouldn't make me 
 mad, though, of course, it gets me nervish like, teh be twitted." 
 
 Fearing that Mrs. Gilbert would return he rushed at once into 
 the qncstion nearest his heart, and asked Buth if she would mind if 
 he came up to see her again that night week. She told him she 
 would think over it and let him know at meeting on Sunday, and, 
 unable to resist the spirit of fun, she rather encouraged him in the 
 belief that he would not come in vain. As he heard Mrs. Gilbert's 
 voice bidding adieu to her neighbor at the door he determined to bid 
 farewell. Clasping Buth's hand he assured her he had never spent 
 so pleasant an evening, or felt so much " teh home " with anybody 
 in his life as he did with her. 
 
 "Oh, you're joking now Deacon," she said with a laugh. 
 
 "I hain't nuther ; I'm in dead earnest. 
 
 He gave her hand another squeeze, and in his excitement ex- 
 dimmed incoherently, " Yes, and I love yeh, IJdn tell yeh thatl" 
 
 ».r^c 
 
I;. 
 
 5: 
 
 92 
 
 B^DOTF^iZ JONES 
 
 Without waiting for Ruth's answer he Jammed his hat on his 
 head, said "sood night*' to Mrs. Gilbert and hurried for his horse. 
 
 When he reached the bam be was surprised to find his horse 
 gone, likewise the bug^y and harness, and it did'nt take him long 
 to guess that Rufus was using his vehicle. 
 
 Half an hour later, very much heated, his collar hanginflc like 
 a limp rag around his neck, the Deacon found his horse tied in the 
 tavern shed, and as he was backing it out Rufus Gilbert came out 
 to inquire how the walking was down from the town line. 
 
 The widower could not trust to himself to speak. He clambered 
 into the buggy trembling with rage, nor was his temper sweetened 
 by the feeling that he had sat down on some eggs. Knowing that 
 silence was his only Ralety he struck viciously at his horse and 
 was immediately Jerked out over the dashboard by the uneasy 
 animal, which had lieen unhitched from the buggy by Rufus the 
 unrighteous. The lines escaped from his hand, and as the horse 
 ran off at a sharp canter towards the old red gate of the home- 
 stead the Deacon turned on his tormentor: 
 
 ** You'll suffer fer this, Rufe Gilbert, ye sneakln' coward. Think 
 it's smart teh play tricks on an old man, don't yeh?" 
 
 But Rufe only laughed, and the hilarious voice of a tall stranger, 
 who stood in the shadow of the shed, struck the Deacon as familiar. 
 
 ** Better hitch yerself up in the wagon, Jones ; Fll give yeh a 
 start." 
 
 The advice was good and the Deacon took it. Seizing the shafts 
 he started off at a brisk trot, pulling the buggy after him and not 
 turning to look behind. It struck him that it was getting heavier 
 and Just as he was passing the tavern door on a slight up grade, 
 he glanced back to find Rufe Gilbert standing on the axle behind. 
 The crowd from the bar-room rushed out to laugh ; Rufe Jumped 
 off and giving the buggy a shove said, "Jog along home. Deacon'; 
 I guess I kin walk th* rest of th' way.'* 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 ben's return to applsburt. 
 
 sitting in his comfortable room, in a New York hotel, Ben 
 Jones opened Israel's letter, and a strange feeling of homesick* 
 ness, pity, and wonder came over him as he saw the blotted 
 page and straggling mis-spelled lines over which his brother had 
 toiled so long. 
 
 ** There's something wrong at home, sure," he muttered to hinip 
 
 i) 
 
BEN'S RETURN TO APPLEBUR 
 
 t on his 
 is hone. 
 Is hone 
 lim long 
 
 insr like 
 d in the 
 amo ont 
 
 unbered 
 eetened 
 ng that 
 >ne and 
 uneasy 
 ifus the 
 le hone 
 ) home- 
 Think 
 
 nnger, 
 amiliar. 
 B yeh a 
 
 e shafts 
 ind not 
 heavier 
 grade, 
 behind, 
 lumped 
 beacon'; 
 
 t, Ben 
 kesick- 
 slotted 
 ur had 
 
 »hiii|- 
 
 Mlf. Smoothing out the crumpled and oft-folded sheet he looked 
 thoughtfully and wistfully at it as pictures of home floated befora 
 him. The singing and prayer that morning when he returned ; 
 IiiM mother's drooping form and toil-scarred hands and patient face ; 
 Lou and Bess and Hope Campton too ; the funeral ; the summer 
 evenings as he lay on the grass and talked to his sisten ; the lilac 
 bushes and pear trees, and the village with its half-dozen ill-built 
 stnets, came back to him. But mon than all, excepting his mother, 
 he remembend the Deacon's harsh face, scowling eyes and suspic- 
 ious glance. 
 
 **The Deacon has commenced his shindies Fll be bound," he said 
 to himself, as he began to read : 
 
 " Deer brother ther*! trabbil home here,"— 
 
 ** Yes, trouble at home ! When hasn't there been trouble hornet 
 and there will be as long as the Deacon lasts." 
 
 — " tether Menu goin' krare— 
 
 " Well, Twelve Tribes has got his eyes opened at last, though 
 he charitably suggests that it is insanity and not devllishness that 
 bothen the old man." 
 
 — " hee art hope to many him,"— 
 
 ** Ah 1 the old sinner hasn't waited as long even as I thought 
 he would. What's this— 'e-n is p-e-r-s-oo-i-n-g and has'—. No. 
 
 " and is persooing her shameful"— 
 
 ** The old scoundrel," cried "Ben fiercely. ** A new depth of cussed* 
 ness can l)e found every day in that old hypocrite by anyone Who 
 takes pains to explore him." 
 
 "—the gurls doaa no it i herd him ast her she said no and he sed she was ofB) 
 thinffs-t 
 
 ** She said no, did she" exclaimed Ben joyfully. ** I'm glad of 
 that, and I'll bet she said it so there would be no mistake either." 
 
 ** And the old man said she was awful things, did he f ' mused 
 Ben as he stood up to light a cigar at the gas jet. " That's just 
 like him. If he can't snivel over people he begins to abuse them." 
 
 —Shea weapin and krying ofBl her hart is broak wot wil i do— 
 
 ** The old reprobate 1 C!onfound that fellow Israel I Why does 
 
 . he write to me to know what to do ? If he had the spunk of a 
 
 mouse he would take a club and lay the old man out— that's what 
 
 he ought to do.. But I suppose he wants me to come home and do 
 
 it for him." 
 
 — " i dare not speek fer she doan no i herd—" 
 Oho, Mr. Israel, you have been playing eaves-dropper have 
 youf This is serious." 
 
 >-t" things is offll with love—" 
 
 ** ^irhat does the simpleton mean by that : * things is awful with 
 ||iR|WOht~* things la awfuL With love.'" 
 
 }ll^'Lt^%^^M t\\ 'j^:. 
 
 
 
 ' aV>' Si.. ■^•'i.\i 
 
 j-'-i>f>aii^^/.iai&ii. i, .. '^^•^J-M^.lO: 
 
mm 
 
 •piiipppiipppi*pi|ipppiiwwww^^^ 
 
 
 mvw."i) 
 
 M 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 i. 1 
 
 w. 
 
 ^- ■ 
 
 HF' 
 
 blaci 
 
 r 1 
 
 P 
 
 
 
 K :' 
 
 
 [S?y« 
 
 Brv--,: " 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ^K^-vv'.^i- 
 
 
 
 ^^1^^^ 
 
 
 — " the gorls doui no i am riting Israel Jorw." 
 
 *' What the dickens is this postscript V 
 
 — "father hMB died"— 
 
 ** Heavens 1— Oh 1"— the latter almost regretfully. 
 
 — "hlihare"— 
 
 " 'Father has dyed his hair.' Well, don't that beat.all," exclaimed 
 Ben as he laid the letter on the table before him and leaned back in 
 his chair. '* I fancy I can see the old man with his hair dyed. I'll 
 have to go and observe him and ccpy his * make-up.' " 
 
 . "Yes," thought ho, his face growinfc grave; "111 go home and 
 see what is the matter. Poor Bess, how scandalized she'll feel! 
 Lou, I suppose, will laugh and think it is a good Joke, but it is 
 something serious, or Israel would never have written that letter. 
 Poor old fellow ; must have taken him two days to produce an 
 epistle like that." 
 
 " Hope Gampton— she won't think so much of the Deacon now, 
 and be ready to pick a fight with everyone who refuses to fall down 
 and worship him. A beautiful acirl— I wondered how she could 
 endure it to have that old snoozer mushing around her, but what 
 a straight, loyal, lovely girl she was, and the Deacon * is persooiug 
 her offll,* and she 'krying and her hart is broke.* What line can 
 the Deacon be working? One would think, from tic secrecv and 
 fright of Israel's tone, that our dear father has got some string 
 to Miss Hope. What can it be? She's rich enough not to need a 
 home, and has sense enough to look after herselt" 
 
 His cigar had gone out. He rose and held it to the gas-Jet, but 
 without lighting it, he threw it away. 
 
 " Yes, 111 go and see what it means. My partner can look after 
 my business here, and I am sick of it.'* 
 
 As he caught sight of his face reflected in a mirror he smiled. 
 
 '* I don't believe they would know me with my beard off. Well, 
 it will be a while before I shave again to tread the mimic stage 
 —I'm sick of it. I long for the sweets of Applebury ; the days when 
 I can sleep and live without guzzling wine and haunting theaters. 
 I longed for the time when I would not have to work, and now it 
 has come. Why shouldn't I rest and visit my papa? Papa, dear, 
 I'm coming. Your little Bennie Is coming back to you, and pro- 
 poses to make things red-hot." 
 
 Forty-eight hours later a couple of big trunks were ejected from 
 the baggage-oar at Applebury, and a clean-shaven gentleman of 
 elegant appearance, and looking to be atiout fifty or sixty years 
 old, alighted from the train. His carefully-brushed gray hair was 
 in striking contrast to his black eyebrows and the suspicion of 
 black beard that glistened through his clean-shaven cheeks. Ben, 
 
v\ ^ 
 
 BEN*S RETURN TO APPLEBURT 
 
 96 
 
 following the spirit of fun, had determined to conceal his identity 
 for a few days, and the wig and a few artistic touches were a suf- 
 ficient disguise. He had made the acquaintance on the train of a 
 railroad engineer, whose headquarters were at Applebury, and as 
 he accompanied him to his hotel the idea spread abroad through 
 the village that the elderly gentleman was probably president of 
 the road. The fact that both Ben and the engineer denied the soft 
 impeachment, added to the feeling that the railway company had 
 decided to build a city at Applebury and the president had arrived 
 to buy the land. This at once gave Ben a high place in popular 
 regard. 
 
 On the following evening dusk was deepening into night as Ben, 
 who had been leaning over the gate gazing at his farm, strolled 
 toward the village tavern. A little distance to his left lay the old 
 homestead where so many years of thankless toil had embittered 
 his youth. Thoughts of his mother had l)een with him all evening, 
 as he looked at the comfort he could have given her had she lived, 
 ana now remorse for his own neglect and hatred of his father 
 swelled up in his heart at the sight of the fading outline of the old 
 hous6 on the knolL Occupied with his thoughts and puflSng slowly 
 at a cigar which was almost burned out, he stood in the shadow 
 of a clump of trees watching the moon ri»e behind the woods and 
 tine with yellow light the quiet picture of rural life. The sound of 
 voices startled him, the one in tremulous, beseeching tones he 
 recognized as that of Hope Campton; the other, in insolent confi- 
 dence, was strange to him : 
 
 ** Oh, please leave me ; I do not wish any company 1 " 
 
 ** Never mind bein' seh over anxious teh git rid V me. I haint none 
 too good, but I guess I'm 'bout good's you air, from all I hear I " 
 
 "What do you mean, sirl" demanded Hope, stopping and con- 
 fronting her persecutor. 
 
 ** You know well enough what I mean, an' yeh can't put on no 
 airs 'ith me. I like yeh, an' do'n't keer a cuss what yev done, an' 
 ye'd like me if yeh only gov me a chance teh git acquainted ; 
 but yeh waste yer time try in' teh put on airsl I know yehl I'm 
 no foo], I aintl" 
 
 " Let me pass ! If you are not a fool ; you-'re a rufSan and 
 should be horsewhipped I " 
 
 Ben, still unnoticed, moved quickly to the relief of the fright- 
 ened girl, and reached her just as her iusulter caught her by the 
 arm, and retorted : 
 
 " An' what air you ? Mo decent woman in th' neighborhood 
 •U look at yeh I" 
 
 Ben's fist crashed into the brutal face, which he recognijrod as 
 
 
 f^l^Vyuv. 
 
-' — J. -f! -•.»l W'i'f II iJJ.Jii»5IV«'i>^I»lip« 
 
 -ri ' ; . vmf f ^i^: "v^r^jwiv. ' 
 
 
 I, - 
 
 :'k 
 
 S-;- 
 
 96 
 
 WIDOWES JONES 
 
 belonging to Joe Boach, the hotel-keeper's son, and the worthleM 
 ■camp fell to the ground like a log. Hope, tremblinsc with fear, 
 began to ory, and Ben was turning to comfort her, when she cried : 
 
 •* Look out, hell stab you/' 
 
 Ben turned around just in time to save himself, and another 
 well*directed blow laid his assailant insensible on the grass, where 
 be was quickly disarmed. ** The young scoundrel ought to have 
 every bone in his body broken for the way he insulted yo'i," said 
 Ben coolly, putting Joe's knife in his pocket. 
 
 **Did he hurt you?" gasped Hope faintly, as she struggled to 
 recover her self possession. 
 
 " No, child ; I'm all right, but you are going to faint If you 
 don*t look out," cried Ben kindly, "Let me see you safely home." 
 
 ** Thank you : I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you that much." 
 
 He quietly put her arm within his, and was feeling aggrieved 
 that she had not recognised him, when he remembered his clean: 
 shaven face and the gray wig he hod chosen to use as a disguise 
 while he investigated the causes which l^d up to the writing of 
 Israel's letter. Determined to help Hope out of her trouble, he 
 Invited her confidence by saying : * 
 
 ** Toung lady, I was an involuntary listener to what that young 
 scoundrel said to you. Tour face gives the lie to his insinua- 
 tions. Perhaps I can be of use to you if you are in trouble." 
 
 The honest kindness of the tone and the service Ben had just 
 rendered her broke down her reserve, as she looked up at him with 
 eyes swimming In tears. 
 
 " You are a stranger here or you would know about It," she 
 answered, " I recognize you as the gentleman staying at the hotel.'' 
 
 **Tes, I am a homeless stranger staying at the hotel, but I had a 
 mother ind for her sake and in her name I promise you that if I 
 can be of use to you, I will be glad to serve you." 
 
 ** Thank you— I believe in you ;" she answered, sadly, " I am 
 in trouhlie, biiit am I afraid it can't be remedied." 
 
 **Do not despair. Whatever diflScuIty you are in, face it like 
 a woman and it will disappear. I know joi -*an have done noth- 
 ing wrong and if any one is trying to wrong you and you have 
 no protector I oflCer you my services and you will never have cause 
 to regret your confidence. I will be here for some time and should 
 you want advice or assistauce let me know. 
 
 He held the red gate open to admit her, and as she thanked 
 him she held out her hand : 
 
 **Do not think I am ungrateful, but I am sure you could not 
 help me— I thank you ! Good night," 
 
BEN'S RETURN TO APPLES URT 
 
 m 
 
 Ben had turned on his heel and Just bitten off the end of a cigar 
 when he collided with his brother Israel. 
 
 " Hello mister ! Don t run over a feller ! There's plenty a' room 
 tch pass I" 
 
 '•Hello, Twelve Tribes, where are you going'*' 
 
 Israel stopped short and peered into his brother's face for a 
 moment. 
 
 ** Well, I swan teh man 1 It's Ben 1 " 
 
 '* Hush, Israel, don't shout it ! Don't you see I'm disguised t" 
 
 ** Well, I'm blessed 1 if yeh ain't i" whispered Israel mysteriously. 
 
 " Come with me, son, and tell me ail about the war, and what 
 they kill each other for 1" laughed Ben, as he took hold of Israel 
 and led hira along. •'You see 1 answered your letter promptly, 
 and am on deck to attend to the Deacon, so unload yourself at unce." 
 
 ** Hev yeh turned gray, er is that a wig ye'v got on ?" 
 
 *' It's a wig, silly 1 Go on, tell me everything that's happened 
 since I went away. I was prowling 'rounJ \.;re till ten o'clock 
 last night trying to get a sight of you. You ar.. <:)uch an innocent 
 I was afraid to approach you when anyone ^vas around for fear 
 you'd give the whole thing away." 
 
 '•Was Miat Hope yeh jest took hom^ f inquired Inruel. 
 
 " Ye , ? came across her over by Birch's, where that drunken 
 v«g, Jo Boach, was trying to pick vp an acquaintance, and I had to 
 knock him down a couple of times before I could turn his attention 
 in some other direction." 
 
 ** Well, I swan I Did she know yeh f 
 
 '* No— but I heard Jo say some things to her I couldn't under- 
 stand—about decent women not speaking to her. What did he 
 meant" 
 
 "What does everybody mean?" cried Israel. "TJmt's what I 
 want teh know. They're all talkin' 'ttout Hope, an' even th' 
 school children pint their fingers at lier !" 
 
 *• What did you mean when you said father wanted her to 
 marry him, and said * ofill things ' to her ? " 
 
 "It can't be that— but sit down here an' I'll tell yeh th' hull 
 thing from start teh finish as fer 's I know it." 
 
 The brothers sat down on a log, and with a precision of detail 
 which made the recital a long one, Israel described his father's 
 proposal of marriage, Hope's refusal, and the shameful taunt the 
 Deacon used to compel her to silence. 
 
 Ben listened without a word of comment until the close, and 
 then, rising, he remarked : 
 
 "Israel, I thought I knew the 'nfernal depths of the Deacon's 
 
 "• »!* 
 
 ^,'A 'il.t- 
 
i: 
 
 m 
 
 ■».m ani|»wnq 
 
 i 
 
 I' 
 
 98 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 hypocrisy and cowardice, but this damnable persecution widens 
 my comprehension of villany !" 
 
 "I think Mrs. Hooper er Uncle Abe Gaylor is mixed up somehow 
 Mth th' old man's scheme, but I can't tell 1 Hone acted awful queer 
 coming home from there one Sunday, an' hain't never been th' 
 same since; an' it wasn't long afore th' story got started about 
 suthin* bein' wrong 'ith her car-ack-terl But it's a lie, I know it 
 is," concluded Israel, loyally. 
 
 " A lie ! Of course it Is t A damned, infernal lie, and 111 nail it 
 onto someone's mouth before another week passes, or else believe 
 myself a bigsier fool than some of the rest of you 1 Yes, and you'll 
 find the Deacon at the bottom of it, Israel 1 I'm ashamed to think 
 I am his son! Good night I Keep quiet, and meet me here to- 
 morrow night," 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BEN OONSPIRCS WITH RUFE GILBERT. 
 
 JSen got back to the village tavern just in time to witness his 
 father's discomfiture at the hands of Rufe Gilbert. Supposing that 
 there must be some reason for his old-time friend's practical joke, 
 he found an opportunity of getting Rufe up into his room, where 
 he pulled off his wig, and was recognized at once. 
 
 " Well, by . It's Ben Jones. When in did you git back ?" 
 
 ** Yesterday. I'm laying low for some fun with the Deacon, 
 and I saw you taking a little out ot him yourself tonight, so I 
 thought we mieht as well stand in." 
 
 ** I saw yeh standing there, but didn't know who in it was 1 
 
 They think 'round here yer president of th' railroad, try in' teh 
 git yer graft in on town lots 1 " 
 
 ** Why were you doing the old man up ? Has he been making a 
 fool of himself?" 
 
 Rufe's face took on another degree of blackness as he answered : 
 ** Well, I should say so. He was up to th' house tryin' teh spoon 
 round Ruth, an' for two cents I'd uv throw'd him out inteh th' 
 road!** 
 
 '* The old fool I And what did Ruth say ? " 
 
 "She's always ready for a lark, an' was givin' him taffy till 
 he couldn't see. I thought first it was mother he was after, an' if 
 it had uv been, I'd uv punched his head in a minute. She's gittin* 
 old an* doty-like, an' no tellm' what she might do I But Ruth 1 
 She kin take care u v herself, an' more, too I ** 
 
 mg, 
 
BBN CONSPIRES WITH RUFE GILBERT 
 
 99 
 
 yti widens 
 
 ** Yc8. 1 know 8ho can. I woiuler if she would Join us iualark 
 witli tlie Deacon ? " 
 
 "How d'ye mean?" 
 
 "Why, encourage the old man for a while and then sive him 
 the bounce and call us in to help do it." 
 
 "By that'd be a picnic eh I" Rufe laughed and slapped his 
 
 knee. All at once he seemed to take ofTence and grumbled out : 
 ** But bow'd Ruch look ? I aint gunto have her made a fool uv 1 " 
 
 " Don't talk like a fool yourself Rufe," Ben retorted sharply. 
 " I wouldn't see Ruth put in any false position for all the jokes and 
 deacons in the country, There will be no one to see it excepting 
 those of us who won't tell and Ruth herself will be glad to teach 
 old Sniv. that she doesn't thank tiim for his attentions." 
 
 " Of course 1 All right. I only wanted to see that Roth wouldn't 
 get laughed at or talked about. I don't care nuthin' about that 
 sort of thing fer me but but 'ith Ruth its diff-runt— she's a gurl." 
 Rufe was a great admirer of Ben and his admiration had grown 
 into positive awe, when during the prodigal's visit home he had 
 informed his old chum that he was an actor. To Rufe Gilbert who 
 hod been to the theater but seldom and never before had a speaking 
 acquai»tence with an actor, the mysteries of the greenroom were 
 something that he hardly dare hope to fathom. He was a skeptic 
 in religion, and a blasphemer by everyday practice, but his vener- 
 ation for theatrical mysteries was like that of the Hebrew, who dare 
 not look upon the uplifting of the sacred veil. To be on intimate 
 terms with a real actor, who had probably been behind the scenes 
 in all the best theatres in America, and could tell about the real 
 life of wizards and ventriloquists, nitrger minstrels and clowns, 
 beautiful actresses and the gaudy ballet girls, was a distinction of 
 which he was proud and made him a ready instrument for the 
 torture Ben proposed to inflict on his father. 
 
 " I suppose continued Ben, " the Deacon will be back to see 
 Ruth before long?" 
 
 "How the should I know 1 I left before supper was over, 
 
 and hadn't heard any of their plana I " 
 
 "Unless the old man got down to popping the question on the 
 first trip, you can bet he'll be back, and at an early date too. 
 
 " Yeh don't guess he'd ast mother er Ruth teh marry him first 
 crack, do yeh ? " inquired Rufe, in some alarm, lest, in his absence, 
 some serious step might be taken. 
 
 " Hardly Rufe 1 It would be pretty difficult for even Deacon 
 Sniv. to propose to two women at once, or to either one of then) 
 with the other by. Let me know to-morrow what the old man did 
 and when he'll be there asain. You needn't tell Ruth anything 
 
 . .i.Aii-^.V_ «... 
 
 '^rl 
 

 r. i 
 
 "^m 
 
 « F 
 
 ; » 
 
 :• 
 
 100 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 about me, or maybe she wouldn't have it. Let on that you don't 
 care much what she does and tell her to have all the fun with the 
 Deacon she can." 
 
 " Well, what then ?" queried Bufe with a lingering suspicion 
 that he was making trouble for Buth. 
 
 **Why, when we find out when his nobbs the widower is to 
 renew his suit, I'll fix up and go visiting at your house and be on 
 deck to help throw the Deacon out when he gets too fresh ! " 
 
 " Ruth won't stand that 1 " Rufe interrupted, gloomily. " She'd 
 think it mean and underhanded and kick like a steer. I know 
 she won't stand it so yeh can fix on suthin' else ? " 
 
 "She needn't know it simple! I have make-up's in my trunks 
 that would disguise me from the best friend I've got. I can be 
 deaf and dumb and go up with you to play the piano for her! 
 How would that do? I could sit in the room and hear the whole 
 business. By Jove, I'd give a farm to humilate the old hypocrite by 
 hearing his love making and laughing at him for his pains.*' 
 
 "Fix it just as yeh like, but don't give yerself away till after yeh 
 git away from our place er Buth'd never fergive me." 
 
 After a pause and in a soft voice Bufe continued : 
 
 " I like Buthie an' I don't want her teh hate mc. I s'pose yeh 
 think I hain't capable of likin' anythin', but I am, an' Buthie an' 
 mother's all I got." 
 
 " I admire you for that sentiment, Bufe," exclaimed Ben, warmly, 
 seizing his friend's hand; "you can rely on me to keep the peace 
 and see that nothing happens to offend Buth's sense of what's 
 right. You might give me credit for liking Buth a little myself 
 and having some regard for her feelings." 
 
 . Ben spoke lightly, but Bufe received the impression that his 
 friend intended to convey the idea that he was half in love with 
 Buth himself. When Ben was home on his memorable visit, he 
 had frequently spent an afternoon and evening with the Gilbert's, 
 and in his half -joking way had been very familiar with Buth who, 
 much as she may have wished he had been a lover, never enter- 
 tained the idea. Bufe, though, had a high opinion of his sinter, and 
 had secretly hoped Ben would marry her and settle down. When 
 he heard of the purchase of the old Birch homestead, the foolish 
 fellow at once imagined Buth was to be its mistress, and now the 
 old ambition sprang up within him again. 
 
 " All right, Ben, I know yeh won't do nothin' mean, so plan It teh 
 suit yerself," he concluded, heartily. " I'm in with yeh fer' most 
 anything." 
 
 For half an hour longer Bufe and Ben sat talking together over 
 old times and the scrapes they had been in together. With a 
 
 
 A v^.:^ 
 
BEN CONSPIRES WITH BUFE GILBERT 
 
 101 
 
 eiEigerness he hardly understood, Ben led up to the encouater he 
 had had with Joe Roach, and the cause of it. 
 
 *' What did the young blackguard mean by talking the way he 
 did to the Campton girl?" he inquired. 
 
 **I don't know much more about it than you dol" answered 
 Bufe, suddenly losing his vivacity. " I think it's a shame th' way 
 people are talking about that gurl. I always thought she was too 
 high up an' perfect even teh speak to, but they seem teh say she 
 namt no better'u the rest, though I swear I can't b'lieve it!" 
 
 " What have you heard V* persisted Ben, through a cloud of cigar 
 smoke. 
 
 ** That old Hooper woman was to our place last week an' hinted 
 that Hope hed suthin' th' matter of her character er suthin, an' 
 kind uv let on it happened afore she came here, but she didn't say 
 who th' man was er how she kuow'd ! " 
 
 '* The child is only nineteen now, and she's been here for three 
 or four years." 
 
 " That's what Ruth said, but Mrs. Hooper guessed she was 
 older'n that, and mother kinder sided in an' said she looked teh be 
 nigher twenty-five than twenty. I didn't hear 'em talkin' er I think 
 I would have throwed th' old tattle out of th' house. Ruth did give 
 th' old huzzy a blast, but I notice even she aint in no nurry runnin' 
 after Hope," ' 
 
 " Did Mrs. Hooper tell where she heard the story ?" 
 
 " No, only that she got it seh straight that there couldn't be no 
 mistake. Ruth understood her teh say that Hope owned up teh th' 
 hull thing." 
 
 ** I don't believe a word of it, Rufe ! They are slandering the poor 
 girl, and if I were any relative of her's, I'd sift the thing to the 
 bottom and see what it means." 
 
 ** Ner I don't b'lieve it nuther ; but what kin yeh do if she don't 
 deny it herself?" 
 
 '* I don't think she's ever had a chance to deny itl" 
 
 ** For my part," continued Rufe, shifting uneasily in his chair and 
 seeming much embarrassed, " I can't look at them eyes of hem and 
 that — er—er— religious face an' think she's ever did anythin' wrong ; 
 but if I was teh take her part, people'd be sure she wa'n't right. 
 Now, wouldn't they?" 
 
 *' No, Rufe," said Ben, gravely, " you're mistaken. The worst 
 man there is— and you don't call yourself that— can defend an inno« 
 cent woman without doing her harm, and it is his duty to do it I" 
 
 " Then do it yerself 1 " exclaimed Rufe. " I will help yeh liok 
 anyone that won't b'lieve yeh t " 
 
 ki.^^:f.^:U.i«i:.aa^.. .>,.::■. a.;. x.\i;v.>.:^.;i,a^';.;: a.. .'vi'i.>..,,t..:Agfeitoifc4^^ 
 

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 ** Maybe I will," answered Ben, thoughtfully, ** though Uk»,ti 
 enough I won't get thanked for my interference 1" 
 
 Rufe rose to go. He felt ill at ease, and he was a poor hand at 
 concealment. 
 
 '' Let me know when to come, and be sure and say nothing to 
 Ruth of our plans, I'll fix myself so she won't know me, and it'll 
 be all the more fun." 
 
 *'A11 right; I'll go yeh, Ben; but somehow I feel kinder mean 
 about it. I'll see yeh, teh-morrow." 
 
 Two hours later Ben was still sitting in his dingy little room«r 
 smoking and gazing vacantly at the hideous paper on the walls, 
 seeing nothing but the beautiful face that looked so sadly up at 
 him that night, as he opened the old red gate to let her pass. 
 Could he doubt the innocence and truth of those tearful eyes ? 
 Tet other eyes had looked wistfully and tenderly into his, and a 
 voice as soft as Hope's had spoken love, and vowed to be true to 
 him, and had been false. 
 
 "I'm older now," he argued with himself. "I know the world, 
 and cannot be deceived as I was then." But still the other face 
 would rise up before him, and change into the half-drunken and 
 lustful recklessness it had worn when he discovered her perfidy, 
 and found her carousing with a man as low. and vicious, though as 
 handsome as could be found in all the much abused theatrical class. 
 
 Often as Hope's fair face came to him, the other face came also, 
 but still he did not waver in his belief that Hope was pure and eood, 
 nor did he for an instant falter in his determination to find the truth. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AN AFTER-MEETIN' DINNER PARTY. 
 
 The Deacon and Lou and Israel had been "to meetin'/' and 
 Bessie, who had remained home to take care of Aunt Becky and 
 prepare dinner, was surprised to see them return with quite a com- 
 pany of visitors. 
 
 " Of all people in the world ! " she exclaimed, " if they haven't 
 brought Maggie McTagger and her mother and brother back from 
 meeting with them." 
 
 Hope Campton, who of late had not been attending church very 
 frequently, was leanmg listlessly against the side of the window, 
 looking sadly out at the bright day which held 90 brightness for 
 her. She had been almost tempted to confide her troubles in Beteie, 
 but the fear that the daughter, outof filial affection, migfat sid* with 
 
AN AFTERMEETIN' MNNSM PARTY, 
 
 Itt 
 
 the father, had made it imposBible to speak, though the misery of 
 silence and the longing tor some friend upon whom she could lean 
 was almost insupportable. 
 
 " Who is Maggie McTagger?" she inquired, shrinking back from 
 the window as the visitors drove into the yard. 
 
 ** She's a gushy fool of an old maid, who inflicts us regularly 
 twice a year. She's a good-hearted old thing and always helps with 
 the work, but she's so full of palaver, and everything you've got 
 is so be-a-u-ter-ful and sw-e-et, she makes me sick — ** 
 
 There was time for no more description. Miss McTagger had 
 pushed open the door and rushed inside. ** Why dear — dear— dear 
 Bessie I" she cried ecstatically grasping Bessie around the neck and 
 giving her a violent hug between each "dear." 
 
 After Bessie had escaped from the embraces. Miss McTagger 
 held her at arms' length, exclaiming : 
 
 '* My ! oh my I How beau-ter-ful you've got to be looking 1 My ! 
 oh my 1 The love-li-est hair 1 " 
 
 ** Mai 1 oh mai ! Eleez-a-beth, is that you f I seenks you are 
 looking faine ! " spluttered Mrs. McTagger, giving Bess a couple of 
 very large, moist, and explosive kisses square on the mouth. 
 
 Lou introduced the guests to Hope, who had to listen to a volley 
 of compliments from Mrs. and Miss McTagger to the effect that they 
 had heard so much of her wealth, beauty and goodness that they 
 could hardly find words to express their delight in at last having an 
 opportunity to behold the vision of loveliness itself. They gazed at 
 one another, then in admiration at Hope, repeating "My ! oh myl" 
 and finally declaring that half had not been told about her loveliness. 
 
 Hope had always been averse to hearing compliments and since 
 Deacon Jones had hissed that shameful word in her ear, her sensi- 
 tive nature had been hardly able to bear any society, much less 
 that which might expect her to engage in conversation. Thi« 
 nauseating flattery was loathsome 1^ her, and murmuring a few 
 words of thanks she hurried away to her own room where she won- 
 dered how it would be possible to spend an hour in such company. 
 In the sitting-room below she could hear Maggie McTagger going 
 into ecstacies over the fancy work, artificial flowers, bedspreads and 
 everything'else within the circle of the McTagger vision. 
 
 Bessie was making a noble effort to entertain them and liide her 
 disgust, and the ludicrous fragments of conversation which Hope 
 could not avoid hearing, at last almost moved her to mircb. 
 
 '* Mother 1 Did you ever see so lovely a mat? " 
 
 '* Mai 1 oh mai I " came the echo in prolonged falsetto. 
 
 ** And look at that. tidy ; isn't it Just sweet t** 
 
 1 
 
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 104 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 f' 
 
 I 
 
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 *' Mai I oh mai !" again echoed tlie mottier, who bad a very Htron^E 
 Scotch accent. 
 
 At this point Aunt Becky's voice could be heard screaming from 
 the kitchen, '* Who is it? Who is it?" and a moment later she wus 
 in the room below crooning out, with reference to the tint of Miss 
 McTagger's hair— 
 
 " Red-head go to bed ; 
 Yer mammy's runned away—" 
 
 The Deacon's voice had just joined in the conversation when 
 Bessie after leading Aunt Becky back to her comer, called from the 
 foot of the stairs, " Hope, come down to dinner.'' 
 
 Hope, shrinkinor with aversion and fear, came slowly down stairs 
 and found the family sitting around the table, Bev. Mr. Spring— one 
 of Lou's admirers— and Frank Gaylor, who worshipped at Bessie's 
 shrine, having joined them. 
 
 "How poorly you're looking. Miss Gampton," exclaimed the 
 young preacher, with an abortive effort to seem at ease. "Have 
 you been ill?" 
 
 " Oh, no," Hope replied, coldly. " I'm quite well." 
 
 She could see in his troubled face that he had heard the story, 
 and her dignity at once came to her rescue. 
 
 Frank Gaylor said nothing, but warmly shook her hand and 
 blushed. ** Ah," thought she, with a tremor of weakness, " they all 
 blush to see me." 
 
 The Deacon was in great feather, and his exuberant spirits could 
 not but be noticed. He congratulated Bessie on the excellence of 
 the dinner, and feared she was being worked too hard, looking after 
 the house and taking care of Aunt Becky. He talked excitedly of 
 what he was going to do, and intimated that as times were so good 
 he would fix up the house a bit and send Aunt Becky to some insti> 
 tution where she would get proper care. 
 
 Frank Gaylor stole a glance at the astounded Bessie, who was 
 puzzling her brain to guess what all this meant. Frank caught her 
 eye, and as the position was favorable he winked and waited for an 
 opportunity to give the conversation a new turn. 
 
 "Did you hear that old John Bunner is going to get married 
 again?" he inquired innocently. 
 
 Bess glanced sharply at Frank and then at her father, who 
 flushed a little as he answered : 
 
 " Yeh don't say 1 Who to?" 
 
 »* Mrs. Turner I" 
 
 ** Well, I can't say as I blame 'im. He couldn't git along 'itli all 
 that fam'ly a' his'n 'ithout help a' some kind 1 " 
 
 wr'^ 
 
AN AFTEBMEETIir DINNER PARTY 
 
 106 
 
 ** Why, father I He's got three grown-up girls at home, and if 
 they can't do the work Mrs. Turner can't." 
 
 The Deacon considered a moment before he replied, and in the 
 meantime Lou remarked that as Mrs. Turner had four young chil- 
 dren of her own, it wouldn't make the work much easier. 
 
 '" But then yeh've got teh remember that a mother's influence is 
 needed teh bring up a fam'ly of gurls an* Mrs. Turner's a tur'ble 
 good woman." 
 
 ** The Bunner girls are brought up now and too old to be mothered 
 by Mrs. Turner or any one else, and itll Just make trouble," Bessie 
 protested sharply. 
 
 " Why? Now Jist tell me why! If their father feels lonesome 
 like, an' wants a companion why shed they git mad an' act up ? ** 
 
 ** Of course," chimed in Maggie McTagger, complacently. ** Why 
 should they if their paw's happiness was worth anythin' to them 
 more'n selli^hness." 
 
 *'■ I don't believe in second marriages 1 " snapped Bessie, "particu- 
 larly when people are old and have some one to take care of them." 
 
 The Deacon was too exultant to heed the storm signals, and, hav* 
 ing determined to break the ice while " company" was present, per- 
 severed in the discusston of the question, supported by Maggie 
 McTaggur aud her mother who both beamed on hira encouragingly. 
 
 " If mother hadn't been inarried twict I would never bin here," 
 simpered Maggie, ** an' I've alius heard mother oay her second mar* 
 riage was happier ner the first, wasn't it, mother? " 
 
 *'Mai I oh mail it was surely I Donald, my first mon, was a 
 tay-rebble drenker ! " 
 
 "That doesn't prove anything," retorted Bessie. "You may 
 have had a bad experience first, tut you can't compare that with old 
 John Bunner's marrying again. H^'s first wife wasn't a drinker, and 
 was a great deal kinder to her husband than he deserved. It will 
 be a crying shame if be gets married again ! Won't it, Mr. Spring?" 
 
 "Of course I don't know the <'^*'cnn;i.i;«uct>?,'' answered the 
 young preacher cautiouslv, fearing to offend the Deacon on one hand 
 and Lou on the other, "but as a rule I don't favor second mar- 
 riages when there is a grown-up family. It is almost certain to 
 cause trouble." 
 
 "But thet haint the fault of th' marridge," exclaimed the Dea- 
 con, with his mouth half full of pie, but afraid of losing a chance to 
 put in his oar. " It's the fault of th' fam'ly gittin' mad an' actln' 
 up." 
 
 "Well, who wouldn't get mad and act up, if they saw their 
 mother's place filled by some strange woman ? I know I would I " 
 
 " Mow, Bessie, ' cried Maggie, who saw signs of trouble. "I don't 
 
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 WJDOWEE JONES 
 
 
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 believe yeh would, though I don't s'pose as ever yer paw'll niMti 
 agin, but if he did, yeh wouldn't stand in the way of him beln* 
 happy an' havin' some one teh take care of him when you'n Lou air 
 married off, as I hear hain't unlikely." 
 
 The Deacon's grateful glance, and Maggie's knowing look at 
 Frank and Mr. Spring as she said this, only added to Bessie's anger. 
 
 "You don't know anything about it, Maggie McTagger; no 
 person of any feeling would think of such a thing. How would you 
 like your mother to get married and bring some old man into your 
 house to boss you 'round?" 
 
 *'I wouldn't mind a bit if I thought it'd make mother happy." 
 
 **Mai, oh mai, seech tok I " simpered the old lady in her shill fal* 
 setto, seeming to take kindly to the idea. 
 
 ** What's the good saying such nonsense ? You know you would 
 care, and as for making anyone happy getting married when they're 
 old enough to be thinking of the grave, it's all fudge. You know 
 they're always miserable." 
 
 Maggie McTagger was absolutely and irredeemably red-headed, 
 red-eyed and redskinned. Everything there was of her in sight 
 was either freckled or red. She had made the trip to see the Jones' 
 two months earlier than usual and after writing several letters of 
 condolence to the Deacon, for the purpose of seeing what chances 
 there were of her becoming Mrs. J. No. 2, and now that the question 
 had been broached and the Deacon's intentions made manifest, 
 Maggie was determined to win his favor by fighting his battles. 
 
 "Not alius miserable, Bessie, dear," she replied, with a look of 
 meek adoration at the Deacon. "Not when they choose right com- 
 panions, that fear God and keep His commandments afore their 
 eyes." 
 
 " That ain't the way they choose 'em," said Frank Gaylor In dis- 
 gust. "They ge^ silly about getting parried, and take whoever'll 
 have 'em I " 
 
 " Oh, no, young man ; yeh shouldn't be so fast," put in the Dea. 
 con, with grave but judicial displeasure. ** No more'n young fellers 
 do!" 
 
 "I don't know 'bout that," persisted Frank, anxious to help 
 Bessie in the argument. " Fve seen lots of 'em 'round our place ask- 
 ing father's advice, an' I know they are generally willin' to take 
 most anybody." 
 
 This rather brought the Deacon down off his high horse for a 
 moment. He wondered if Uncle Abe had betrayed his confidence 
 and let this young sprig know of the interview in the bam. Frank 
 had heard it from his little brother " Bub," but it had escaped his 
 mind when he spoke so incautiously. The Deacon's sharp glance at 
 
f '> 
 
 AN AFTEB'MEETIiT DINNER PARTY 
 
 107 
 
 )wt| 
 
 him recalled " Bub's" story and made him blush. The Deacon read 
 t he young fellow's face aright and looked over at Bessie to And out 
 if she had been told. Bessie reddened and hor father at once de- 
 cided that he might as well have the fight at once. Hope's face 
 crimsoned, too, as she thought of Uncle Abe's admission that the 
 Deacon had spoken to him, and all these tell-tale blushes were 
 noticed by Maggie's red-edged, pale blue orbs, while even Mr. Spring 
 and Lou could not help observing that delicate ground had been 
 touched upon. 
 
 **If yeh refer teh me, young feller," said the Deacon, slowly 
 rising from the table, "all I kin tell yeh is, yer wrong; what con- 
 versation yer paw an' me bed was 'bout suthin which, fer reasons 
 thet's nuther here ner there, hez bin dropped." 
 
 "I'm sure I didn't mean you, Mr. Jones," exclaimed Frank, 
 blushing more vividly than ever, " everybody comes to father for 
 funerals and advice, and I didn't mean no one in particular." 
 
 " Ther's no need of yeh per-vari-katin'. I don't deny thet I 
 intend marryin' agin, but yer paw halnt no more idee a' who it's 
 to, then yeh hev herself, an' you haint none." 
 
 This announcement fell like a bolt from the blue sky on every- 
 one alike. Miss McTatrger alone felt that she knew who was 
 meant. The Deacon's deligl^t at seeing her, and the ride home 
 with him in the buggy when he was tio gushing, flowery and affec- 
 tionate made her feel that he had accepted her homage and intended 
 to make her his second wife. She followed him intb the sitting- 
 room and with a loving look sat down as near him as possible. 
 
 Israel had listened to the discussion without uttering a word, 
 but the thought of Hope having yielded to his father's persecution, 
 strengthened by her downcast face and evident agitation, nerved 
 him to ask a question. 
 
 ** D'ye mean teh say yev ast some one ? " he demanded huskily 
 as he stood beside Bessie at the dining-room door. 
 
 " Tes," answered the Deacon proudly, "an' bin the same as 
 assepted t" 
 
 "Who is she?" inquired Israel, thickly. 
 
 Hope, waiting until they had all retired from the dining-room 
 M> as to escape co her own apartment, paused behind Bessie to 
 hear nis answer. 
 
 **I hain't gnnto tell jist yet. I'm goin' up teh see her right 
 now teh git th' day fixed, an' all I kin tell yeh is, thet ther' hain't 
 no hansomer woman round here ner she is, an' when yeh know 
 who it is yeh'U say it wan't no takin' of anyone I cud git but 
 «h' gittin* o' th' best ther' is 1" 
 
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 PW^-^f^'W."*'!-"- 
 
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 106 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ** Father, are you crazy?" exclaimed Bessie, thoroughly aghast 
 at the Deacon's bold attitude. 
 
 **No, I hain't crazy, but I'm guutu be master in my own house 
 so don't try teh crowd me down fer I won't hev it I " 
 
 Mr. Spring had never before been in a family row and was trying 
 to console the weeping Louie. ** Speak to him and get him not to," 
 she sobbed. 
 
 ** Brother Jones," began the young preacher, hurriedly. " It 
 seems a very— er—er— strange proceeding for you to take in this 
 —er~er— unexpected er— er—er— manner 1 Couldn't you take er 
 —er—er— a little time to think it over before er— er— er— commit- 
 ting yourself to such a— an— er—er important step with such er— 
 er—er— serious consequences to er— er—er— yourself and youi 
 family. I er— er—er— would advise " 
 
 " Brother Spring, I would advise yeh not teh git mixed into 
 nobody's bizness but yer own," roared the Deacon. '* I bin buily- 
 rafCKcd an' browbeat inteh makin' a deck— ler— a— shun, an' I'm 
 goin' teh stand by it, an' won't thank no one fer interferin'." 
 
 ** Mai I oh mai ! " gasped Mrs. McTagger. 
 
 *' Duncan git th* team 1 It haint no place fer us here with a 
 fam'ly row goin' on 1" rasped Maggie, who had come to the con- 
 clusion that she was not to be chosen as '* companion " No. 2. 
 "Girls, I'm sorry fer, yeh 1 When I was talkin' I didn't think yer 
 paw could uv fergot his poor dear wife so soon an' carry on like 
 a lunytick. Mother, git on yer things 1 " 
 
 The Deacon was putting on his overcoat, and with pompous 
 dignity suggested tliat "pr'aps it'd be just as well, though as yeh'll 
 hev a long ride, yeh might as well wait till mornin'." Maggie, 
 however was too angry to stay a moment longer and led her 
 mother forth when Duncan got the team. 
 
 As her father left the house, Bessie begged Frank to follow 
 him and see where he went, and Mr. Spring was compelled te 
 leave also, as he had an evening service at a distance. 
 
 It was a disastrous ending to the '* after-meetin' dinner" party, 
 and when everybody had gone Ik>u and Bessie ran up to Hope's 
 room to ask advice and weep tears of shame and anger over their 
 father's senile folly. 
 
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FOR BEN'S SAKE 
 
 U» 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 FOR BEN 8 SAKE. 
 
 **Ss7, Bath, who was old Jones spoonin' round last night? 
 You er mother ? " 
 
 ** Which would you rather?" answered Ruth, leaning on the 
 back of the rocker, and turning her bright face full upon her 
 brother, w^o sat on the corner of the table, swinging his heels 
 viciously to and fro. 
 
 ** I'd ruther hey it you," he answered sulkily. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because you're smart enough teh take care of yerself, an' 
 mother's gittin* old and might take some silly notion about marry- 
 in' agin* I" 
 
 **Tm getting old and might take some silly notion about 
 marrying. Would you care ? " 
 
 ** Not so much if it was a sensible man of yei own age an' able 
 teh keep yeh!" 
 
 ** How would Deacon Jones suit you for a brother-in-law f " 
 
 ** That dam old fool I " snorted Bufe, contemptuously, ** I'm 
 not afraid of him ! " 
 
 ** Don't lie so sure. He's a nice looking old man, and, since he'is 
 got his hair dyed, appears quite young. He can't be over forty-five 
 or fifty I" 
 
 " No, I s'pose not. Ben's only about forty, and .they're brothers, 
 haint they ? " Rufe was staring straight into Ruth's face, as he 
 snarled out his joke, but Joined his sister in the laugh that followed. 
 
 " Are you sure the Deacon isn't Ben's son?" asked Ruth, 
 mirthfully. 
 
 " Like 'nuff," sulked Rufip who had succeeded in resuming his 
 hostile demeanor, " though I never heer'd of Ben bein' married, 
 but like 'nuff that don't make much difF'runce with actor people." 
 
 " His mother told some of the neighbors once that she'd heard 
 Ben was goinfc to get married about ten years ago— I wonder if ,he 
 did." Ruth was still standing by the rocking chair, balancing herself 
 on her dainty right foot, with the other one tucked l>ehind it, 
 and swinging slowly Imckward and forward. She liked to talk to 
 Rufe about Ben and her graceless brother knew it. 
 
 " Why didn't yeh ast him when he was here/' be inquired, still 
 w»tc2ilng her face intently. 
 
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 **8tkj Rufe,** the Mid with Mrio^comie gravity, "do 70a know 
 Ididf- 
 
 " Did what ?- 
 
 " Asked him l" 
 
 **A8t him what?" 
 
 ** If he'd ever been married.** 
 
 *' Well, you had good nerve I ** 
 
 " Haven't I-always?" 
 
 **Too good sometimes 1 What did he say?** 
 
 **He said 'Yes, several times, but Til never do it again!'** 
 
 »• He was jokin'." 
 
 '* Majbe. Both of us were Joking, bat somehow I thought he 
 half meant what he said. Did he ever tell you anything about it t" 
 
 '* No, simple I He never was married any more than you were.** 
 Rufe spoke energetically and was still watching her face, his hab- 
 itual scowl hiding the intense love for her that sought to fathom 
 her heart and find if she were in love with Ben. 
 
 ** Don*t you think he treats women funny f " 
 
 **I never saw mm treat no women, but he treated the boys 
 down at the tavern all right." Rufe laughed at his Joke but Ruth 
 didn't. 
 
 "Ihate the sound of * tavern,' Rufe I Did Ben Jones go there 
 much?" 
 
 *' No, not often ; he's too fine haired f er th' Applebury crowd." 
 
 *' I wish you were 1 " added Ruth gently. 
 
 Rufe hated to be lectured and on ordinary occasions would have 
 Jammed his hat on his head and slammed himself out of the door. 
 Now he was too anxious to find out about the Deacon to take 
 offence, so he remarked sulkily : 
 
 **I wish you know'd enough not teh lecture. Teh know it haint 
 no good, so give me a rest. Who was th' Deacon mushin' round, 
 yon er mother!" 
 
 "I guess it was me, Rufus. Mother's too old for the Deacon," 
 laughed Ruth, her white teeth glistening and her eyes sparkling. 
 
 " But he don't think he's too old fer you?" 
 
 '* Oh dear no, you ought to have seen him dancing *round like 
 a boy before you came. It was a shame for you to treat a beau 
 of mine like you treated him?-" 
 
 ** ril use him better next time if you say so I " sneered Rufe. 
 
 ** And the cat I It was awful the way Tom acted when the 
 Deacon sat down on him. You ought to have seen him Jump I *' 
 
 •• Who ? Sniv er th* cat ?" 
 
 ** Both," and Ruth, suiting the action to the word, described the 
 Deacon's adventure while Rufe laughed till he had to hold hla 
 
 
 ■:a-- :■ 
 
FOB BEITS SAKS 
 
 Ul 
 
 kaoir 
 
 sidttfi, as hit sister first acted the part of the wounded Deacon and 
 then with wonderful mimicry ran ye-o>w-Uug 'round the room in 
 Imitation of the poor crushed Tommy. 
 
 ** He*d find tn' eggs kinder soothin*/' said Rufe reminiscently. 
 
 ** What eggs t *' demanded Ruth, breathless from her exertion, 
 stopping short before her brother. 
 
 " Oh, I put a few on th* buggy seat an' covered 'em orer with 
 grass, Jest teh make him remember me I ** 
 
 Buth laughed, but as her brother described his lark with the 
 deacon's horse and buggy, she began to look serious, and then angry. 
 
 ** How could you do such a thing ? Every one of them bar-room 
 loafers '11 know he was up to see me, and I'll he the talk of the neigh- 
 borhood." 
 
 *' No, they won't, nuther 1 " snapped Rufe. ** I guess Tve aome 
 sense. I told them I'd found the rig tied up teh Mrs. Turner's I ** 
 
 Buth looked relieved, and Rufe saw his chance to find out what 
 he wanted. 
 
 '* If yer seh skeerd of bein' talked about, what did ye ast him 
 backfer?" 
 
 "Iditiu'tl" 
 
 *'But he expects teh come back, er else he lied teh mel" ven- 
 tured Rufe, wrinkling up I^is eyebrows and watching to see if the 
 bait took. 
 
 ** The old idiot ! He asked me if he could come again, and I told 
 him I'd let him know at meeting on Sunday. But if he dares to 
 speak to me I'll make his head dizzy the way I'll give him his walk- 
 ing ticket." 
 
 ** Say, Ruth, let him come I " exclaimed Rufe, with incautious 
 earnestness. 
 
 *• Why ? For you to make fun of ? " 
 
 ** No, not that exactly, but it 'd do him good teh get a real good 
 set-back an' hear an honest opinion uv the way he's actin*. Mebbe 
 it 'd stop him runnin' round fer a spell an' help him wait till his 
 wife's got cold afore he hiftits fer another." 
 
 ** I won't do it. I've had enough of that sort of thing an' if it 
 gets round that every fool-widower comes running after me, I may 
 just as well get ready to mprry one of them or expect to he an old 
 maidf" 
 
 Buth had ^>eated herself in the rocker, and as she spoke her face 
 saddened as if the future she pictured was not the one for which she 
 longed. 
 
 ** But yeh'd be doin' good if yeh stopped th' old fool from prank- 
 ing round after girls afore his wife's licen dead six months ! " 
 
 '**Doing good' I" laughed Buth sarcastically, *' that's the first 
 
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 S|piipi!pp?!P^Pf5i^lWi"P|^f^^ 
 
 118 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 time rye ever heard you talk about 'doing good.' The Deacon 
 must have converted you last night." 
 
 Rufe was floored for a moment, but his inventive powers were 
 equal to the occasion. 
 
 ** I know the Jones girls 'ud be tickled teh death if you d give the 
 old man a whirl that'd stop 'im." 
 
 " Yes, they would, like fun I They'd go round saying I tried teh 
 catch him, and couldn't I That's what they'd say and people 'd be 
 just mean enough to believe them i " 
 
 " N-a-w 1" grunted Rufe, emphatically. " Nuthin' 'uv th' kind 1 " 
 but she felt she had the best of him and he was weakened by a con* 
 sciousness of the deception he was practicing. But he had promised 
 Ben, and would have to see their plan carried out, so he took a new 
 tack. 
 
 *' When Ben was home he told me he waa sure old Sniv, as he 
 calls 'im, 'd be runnin' after a new wife inside a year, an' afore he 
 went away he ast me teh make it as hot fer th' old liippercrit as I 
 knew how. Icrul showed me a letter from Ben not three days ago 
 astin' him how things stood, an' tell in' him not teh let th' old 
 critter get married aglu nohow till he got back. That's what made 
 me uct up th' other night, but I kinder thought I overdid it, an' 
 guessed out a better plan 1" 
 
 **ls Ben coming back soon?" inquired Ruth, with brightening 
 eyes. 
 
 ** He didn't say when, but I guess it won't be long ; least that's 
 what I gethered from th' letter." With all his faults Rufe was a 
 poor liar, and to his sister it was his habit to tell the truth. As she 
 sat there, her great mass of fluffy hair brushed back trom her face, 
 and only stray locks curling down over the low, white forehead, she 
 looked more beautiful to him than any woman he had ever seen. 
 The bright eyes and red lips, the white teeth and shapely throat, 
 the hands clasped behind her head, and the rounded arms and grace* 
 ful curves of waist and limb were to him models of beauty which 
 no man could resist. Rufe had never toI<I her how much he admired 
 and loved her, but she knew it, and more— that if need be, her black- 
 b'cowed, profane and reckless brother would lay down his life for 
 her, or as a pledge of her purity, goodness and truth. She had 
 flirted desperately with men who were unfit companions for a good 
 woman, but never with Rufe's consent. He had stormed and threat 
 env<)d, but with wilful heedlessness she had followed her own coun- 
 sel, and enjoyed the liberty from which a woman's reputation sel- 
 dom comes out unsuspected. Particulaily in country places, where 
 everybody knows everybody's else history, is flirtation a dangerous 
 garae. When the match which has presumably been made, ia 
 
 ^j.aAJ^t^l^-^J-^'^ --■' 
 
FOB BEN'S SAKE 
 
 U3 
 
 broken off, half the noighborhood is ready to say it is her doing 
 and the otlier half is sure to report that ho jilted her. Reasons, too, 
 are conjectured or invented, and the frailties of the sex and the 
 wickedness and suspicion of man are guessed as being at the bottom 
 of it. Nobody had ever dar^d to speak ill of Ruth, but she was 
 spoken of as flighty and giddy, loving the company of men too well 
 for men to trust her. That she had passed through the fire without 
 being singed, gained her no reputation for strength, but rather left 
 her with the reputation of " having gone as far as she dared." 
 
 To a certain extent Rufe knew this and he was the more anxious 
 to have her act discreetly insomuch as he had never shown in his 
 own conduct that he knew the meaning of the word. He saw in the 
 interest she took in Ben tliat he had found the way to influence 
 her, yet he feared to use it. 
 
 "I should think his sisters would be glad, he was so good to 
 them.-. ^ 
 
 **Tes an' he was good to his mother; an' hates teh hev her 
 fergot so quick." 
 
 Ruth sat in silent thought for a few moments, while Rufe kicked 
 his heels together and wished he had never gone into his compact 
 with Ben. 
 
 '* It would be a good joke^ to give the Deacon a lesson if no <»ne 
 found it out," suggested Ruth hesitatingly. 
 
 ''Then ast him up an' I'll help yeh make it hot fer th' old 
 rooster I" 
 
 The possibilities of fun which the visit suggested made Ruth 
 laugh, and with 4 complete abaubonment of herself to the joke she 
 planned it out and told Rufe she would have the Deacon around on 
 Sunday night. 
 
 All day Rufe felt he had done wrong and hiis loyalty to Ben was 
 at war with his love for Ruth, but at night he told Ben to be on 
 hand Sunday evening and the Deacon would be held ready to be 
 operated upon. 
 
 ■I 
 
 At dmrch on Sunday, Widower Jones sidled up to Ruth and 
 caught her hurried whisper, "Come tonight." 
 
 "Yeh'll never regret it," he answered, exultantly, "I'll make 
 yeh th' finest lady in th' land ! " 
 
 Fearful lest ^he might attract a. lention Ruth smiled sweetly on 
 her victim and hastened away, already sick at heart of the game 
 she had chosen to play. 
 
 The Deacon, however, considered his suit accepted and in his 
 delight went home and declared himself. 
 
m 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THB widower's SOLHOQUY— ALL WOMEN HAIN'T LIKE ' MARIER." 
 
 When he left his family in tears and consternation the Deacon 
 determined to have the whole thing, wedding and all, settled 
 promptly and with as little opportunity for discussion as possible. 
 The thought of Ruth's whispered words and the memory of her 
 sweet smile warmed his blood and he sat up straight in his buggy, 
 slapped his horse with the lines and began to hum a lively air 
 which had been adapted to a hymn. The afternoon was drawing 
 to a close but it struck him as being perhaps a trifle early to make 
 his visit. Willing to enjoy his thoughts for a while and prepare 
 himself for the proper conduct of his suit he uurned aside from the 
 direct road and reckoned to drive around for an hour before reaching 
 the "town line.' 
 
 As he drove slowly along he thought over the events of the after- 
 noon and what his family and everybody else would say. Of course 
 there would be talk and some folks might laugh at him for marrying 
 a young girl, but what need he care? " Not that!" he cried snap- 
 ping his fingers, and forgetting that he had a family with claims 
 on his means. " If there's any great talk I kin sell out th' farm 
 inteh town lots an' g'way an' live in a city an' take it easy along 
 'ith her." 
 
 "Her! Her I Along 'ith her 1 " 
 
 This idea started him picturing his life with Ruth in some city 
 where people would know nothing of their history and could make 
 no remarks. '' She'd like it an' it'd be easier 'n she's used to an' 
 she'd like me all th' more fer makin' a lady uv'er I We kin he'v a 
 nice house an' a coal stove, an' sit an' talk an' go out an' see th' 
 sights an' hev jist as much money as any one else. An' if I haint 
 got no chores ner worry I'll feel better an' live longer 1 " 
 
 The Deacon took off his hat and ran his hand through his scanty 
 hair : ** The people won't notice much dilT'runce in us : I hain't old 
 lookin' and kin move round jist as spry as th' next one ; an' if I git 
 on city clothes. 111 be slicker 'n most th' young fellows that's been 
 sportin' 'round her." 
 
 This again led to another thought. Hew was it she had never 
 married any of the gay boys who used to take her out driving and 
 paid her so much court? In another and less distinct form this 
 question had bothered him before. When he had thought of trying 
 to marry her it struck him as a very daring idea, in view of the 
 
THB DEACOirS SOLILOQUY 
 
 115 
 
 score of younger suitors who had wooed in vain. He bad thought 
 of many of them, young, attractive and prosperous, and had won- 
 dered how, if they failed, he could hope to win. His daughters 
 used to speak of the beaux of Ruth Gilbert, and laugh about her 
 having kept company with nearly every young man in the neighbor- 
 hood. Particular instances came to his mind : Young sports'whose 
 reputations were none of the best— drivers of fast horses and livers 
 of fast lives— or such as pass for fast lives in country places. How 
 reckless of her reputation she must have been to be seen with such 
 
 men I Could it be The Deacon almost stopped his horse with 
 
 the nervous jerk he gave the lines as the suspicion darted through 
 his mind. ** No I no ! it can't be thet she's fast 1 " he muttered 
 nervously, as he clutched the lines between his knees and lifted his 
 hat with one hand while he mopped the cold sweat from his forehead 
 with the other. 
 
 The oftener he turned the thought over in his mind the harder 
 it became to account for the fact that she had married none of 
 her lovers— perhaps none of them would have her when they found 
 out what kind of a girl she was. She must have been anxious to 
 marry or she would not have accepted him so quickly ! The Deacon 
 was vain enough, but egotism could not carry him over the obvious 
 fact that she had had many lovers who were much more likely mates 
 for a girl than he was. **Then it must a' bin their fault, not her'n, 
 thet she didn't marry," he argued, as he again grasped the lines 
 with his knees and mopped the sweat of fear from his wrinkled 
 brow, "an' she snapped at th' chance uv marryin' me as if she'd 
 never bed a chance afore an' never 'spected to agin ! " Surely there 
 must have been something wrong I 
 
 ^'Pshawl" exclaimed the Deacon, straightening out the lines 
 which had become entangled with the shafts, ** she bed seh many teh 
 choose from thet she missed all her chances, an' bed teh take up 
 with a crooked stick at last." He grinned uneasily at the idea of 
 calling himself a crooked stick, but could not recover his mental 
 equilibrium. "There was that Foster. She went with him, off an' 
 on fer years, till he bed teh run away teh git out 'n a woman scrape." 
 
 He remembered one night coming home from town he had over-1 
 taken Foster's rig, the horse going at a slow walk, and the occupant8\ 
 of the buggy were close together and apparently making love and^ 
 talking in whispers. This unpleasant recollection almost maddened 
 the Jealous old man, and called up still another episode of a similar 
 kind. The schoolmaster who had been dismissed by the trustees 
 for improper conduct with one of his scholars, had been one of Ruth's 
 admirers and often enough he had seen them out driving together. 
 
 These suspicions would not be quieted ; but in his anxiety to 
 
 ^^i^-'ii'J- 
 
116 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 satisfy himself that she was all right he pleaded her youth and the 
 recklessness of her brother who never taught her better things. 
 " But she hain't young." insisted the tormenting spirit within him. 
 "She's nigh thirty an' it ain't a year since Jim Foster ran away." 
 He leaned back in the butrgy sick with suspicion. "All gurls air 
 alike— giddy an' anxious fer fun," he thought, but his tormentor 
 suggested that " Marier " had never been that kind of a girl. '* But 
 she wa'n't lively like Ruth, offen as I wished she bed bin." But she 
 was truth itself, his conscience told him, and with' a twinge of re- 
 gret, as he thought of his days of youthful courting, he sighed, " all 
 women hain't like Marier." But Lou nor Bess nor Hope Campton 
 would never think of running 'round with all sorts of men. **No,'' 
 he mentally answered, " but they had a strict father teh tell them 
 what teh do." 
 
 But there was Hulda. No ore knew even where she came from. 
 She had worked in an hotel, and there had been lots of bad stories 
 about her life before she came to Applebury and what better wife 
 could there be than she had made Calvin ? This was the most cheer< 
 ful thought he'd had. He had been opposed to the match, but Calvin 
 had been too innocent and stupid to be convinced, and sure enough 
 Hulda had proven his faith to have been well founded. " Even if 
 she had been silly an' did wrong," muttered the Deacon, with a 
 wrench at his heart and a tearing of his pride, " tain't no sign she 
 wouldn't make me a good wife. They'd better hev their fling afore 
 they're married than afterwards." 
 
 He had reduced himself to a belief that she had not been just 
 what she ought to have been, and he now set about convincing 
 himself that women of that kind make the best wives. But on this 
 line he could find no comfort. Half a dozen instances suggested 
 themselves of gadabouts who had married nice men and had cut up 
 in such a way as to have stories about them afterwards. 
 
 And why not Ruth ? suspicion inquired. ** Why not ? " moaned 
 the Deacon, who by this time was utterly miserable. " Why not 
 her ? " His distempered mind began to paint pictures of his future 
 with Ruth as his wife. What could a beautiful and fun-loving girl 
 hnd in him to content her ? What company would he be for a girl 
 who had gone to dances and had sung at entertainments and 
 " doin's " in all the churches and school-houses for ten miles around? 
 What was she marrying him for ? To cloak her carryings-on with 
 other men ? The shame and misery of that thought revenged his 
 poor dead wife for many a pang she had suffered. 
 
 No, Ruth was not that bad ; even the demoralized Deacon knew 
 better, but the poison of the suspicion left another sore. Perhaps 
 she had reckoned that the president of the railroad was going to buy 
 
 ft ^ i- 
 
■y 
 
 THE DEACON'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 117 
 
 his farm and build a town on it, and she was marrying him for his 
 money. *' I'll fool her on that," he thouarht, savagely jerking his 
 horse's mouth to bring him back to the road from which he had 
 strayed during his master's soliloquy. " I could stand that, but not 
 her actin' up with other men ! " On questions of finance, he felt 
 he would have Ruth at his mercy, and it mattered little what she 
 expected or he would have to promise ; he could fix that. Even this 
 slight consolation, however, did not remain with him, for he knew 
 Ruth had been courted by richer men than he was. So it came back 
 to the racking questions to which he could find no answer. 
 
 It suggested itself to him that there was still time for him to 
 retreat. He had made no promise, and rather tlian suffer another 
 hour like the one through which he had Just passed he would live a 
 widower the rest of his days. But he had declared himself to his 
 family, and the preacher, and the McTaggers, and, worst of all, to 
 Frank Gaylor. If he should quit, everybody would laugh at him. 
 However, he had not told her name, and there were other women, 
 " safe ones, too, I kin git." But Ruth was so lovely there could be 
 no one like her 
 
 " Hullo, Dee-kin, air yeh goin' er stoppin'?" chirped Uncle A 
 Gaylor from his gate. 
 
 The Deacon in his confusion stammered out, "Oh, is that you 
 Brother Gaylor?" 
 
 "I guess mebby 'tis. Dee-kin. Don't I look nateral?" 
 
 *'I— I was thinkin' seh hard when yeh spoke teh me, it kinder 
 took me onexpected like." 
 
 " Yeh must a'bin thinkin' fer quite a spell th' way yeh bin comin*. 
 Seems like's if yeh'd bin in sight an hour. I hed teh take a sight 
 along th' tree yander teh see if yeh was movin' er hed got stuck." 
 
 "I was thinkin' out a passage of skripter an' the like, an' kinder 
 fergot where I wuz." 
 
 Uncle Abe knew better. When Frank followed the Deacon out 
 of the old red gate and saw him turn onto the river road, he knew 
 he would have to pass his father's, and so hurried forward by 
 another way, and had easily induced the inquisitive old man to lie 
 in wait for the slow moving lover, and find out where he was going. 
 
 ** So I guessed. Dee-kin 1 Tryin' teh find out if t'was skripteral 
 teh git married agin, wan't yeh now?" laughed Uncle Abe, his eyes 
 twinkling through the comical little fold of skin which made his 
 wrinkled face look so cunning. 
 
 The Deacon reddened but he was too full of his thoughts to dodge 
 the question. ** Mebbe I wuz. Ter gen'ly a tol'ble good guesser." 
 
 "How'^er gitin' along coaxin* Hope Campton teh hevyeh?" in- 
 
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 mmmmmfifmi'Wtmmmmfii^m 
 
 
 1 
 
 118 
 
 WIJ)OWSR JONES 
 
 quired Uncle Abe, bluntly, as he leaned over the bugKJ wheel tt^d 
 looked up into the Deacon's face. 
 
 . *' I haint tryrn' no sich thing. I took yer advice an* gin it tip/' 
 replied the Deacon in sulky confusion. 
 
 " Who yeh after now ?" 
 
 Full of doubts and conflicting impulses, the opportunity to ask 
 advice was tempting and the Deacon would have accepted it at once 
 had it not been that he felt convinced Uncle Abe had betrayed his 
 former confidences to his son Frank. 
 
 **I can't speak free teh yeh now like I could onc't, Brother Gaylor, 
 seein's yeh told Frank an all on 'em 'bout what I said teh yeh that 
 day out'n th' barn." 
 
 "Yer wrong. Dee-kin," protested Uncle Abe, vigorously. **I 
 never told a soul. If Frank's told anything it's be'n what he 
 guessed, not nothin' I told. I hope I may drop 1" This asservation 
 and the dire consequences he called down upon himself in case of 
 untruth convinced the Deacon that Uncle Abe was telling the truth. 
 
 " Teh'U never tell who it is if I ast yer advice agin t" queired the 
 Deacon, nervously. 
 
 ** Never 1 A yoke of wild bulls couldn't drag nuthin' out a' me 
 when I say I won't." 
 
 ** What kind of a gurl is Ruth Gilbert?" asked the Deacon with 
 downcast eyes and uncertain voice. 
 
 " Who?— Who?" cried Uncle Abe who, having been told that the 
 Deacon bragged aliout having been accepted, calculated that the 
 question would be about the woman most concerned. ** You hain t 
 ast her teh hev yeh V* 
 
 ** Why not?" demanded the Deacon, looking down sharply at his 
 friend. 
 
 " Why, dam it, man, she's less likely teh hev yeh than even Hope 
 wuzl" 
 
 Buth was Uncle Abe's special favorite. When they got together 
 as was frequently the case, jokes and pranks of all kinds were the 
 invariable result, and many a time had Uncle Abe told his spouse 
 in the presence of many witnesses, that Buth was his choice for a 
 second wife. Mrs. Gaylor loved Buth, and no amount of gossip 
 could shake her faith or the faith of her husband in the absolute 
 and superlative goodness of their pet. The suggestion of her union 
 with Adoniram Jones seemed to Uncle Abe like sacrilege and 
 caused him to back-slide to the extent of a naughty word. 
 
 ** Is she ? '' remarked the Deacon, with considerable dignity. " I 
 {^ I'Wt ast yeh what my chances air, fer I know that ; I ast what yeh 
 ■'. Ui k of my choice I " * 
 
 T'^u Oeacon had gathered up his lines as if to drive on, and Uncle 
 
THE DEACON'S SOLILOQUY 
 
 lid 
 
 Abe stood back frora the buj^gy brushing the aleevcs of his coat, 
 which had been resting on the dusty wheels, as he angrily replied : 
 
 **Thinlc uvver 1 I tliiiik she's a danged sight too good I'er you, 
 but if she marries yeh I'll thinlc she hain't any better'n she ought 
 teh be, an' thet fer onct I've bin mistook in a woman!" 
 
 **6ood evening. Brother Gaylor !'' replied the Deacon icily, as he 
 looked back. " Yer langwidge surprises me, an' I may heff to bring 
 it afore th* church I" 
 
 The Deacon felt greatly comforted by Uncle Abe's good opinion 
 of Ruth, though personally he resented his expression of her superi- 
 ority to himself. 
 
 Uncle Abe stood for a moment looking at the rapidly disappearing 
 Deacon, and then with a burst of unaccustomed fury and prpfanity, 
 clenched his fist and muttered to himself : 
 
 ** The dam old hipperkrit I If he gits Ruth, I'll be one teh help 
 tar an' feather th' old skunk ! " 
 
 4 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ■ LOU AND BESSIE EXPRESS THEIR OPINION. 
 
 Half an hour later Frank Gaylor drove through the old red gate 
 and ran into the house to tell Bessie the name of her proposed step- 
 mother. He had shared the high opinion his father and mother had 
 of Ruth, and had he not heard the Deacon's declaration and his 
 father's statement that it concerned her, he would have believed 
 it impossible, for, next to Bessie, Frank thought Ruth the best and 
 mof>t l>eautiful woman on earth. When his father came back to 
 the house and said the Deacon was on his way to see Ruth, Frank 
 and his mother laughed at the idea, but Uncle Abe's wrath and 
 his statement that he had promised the Deacon to tell no more, 
 forced them to the conclusion that Ruth it was and no other. 
 
 The kitchen was deserted when Frank entered, but he could hear 
 voices in the sitting room, and thither he hastened without waiting 
 to knock at the door. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and in 
 the darkening room Frank could barely see that Bess and Lou were 
 sitting on the floor, leaning against the lounge, on which Hope 
 was reclining. Israel, silent and miserable, sat in the rocking 
 chair, dismally swaying to and fro, while his sisters, sometimes in 
 tears but always in bitterness, discussed the coming change in their 
 home life. The moment Frank opened the door Bessie sprang to her 
 (•et with the excited question : 
 
 ^ Who is it, Frank? Tell us quick ! ** 
 
 mm 
 
t». 
 
 120 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 " Ruth Gilbert." 
 
 " Wh-a-a-t?" cried the three girls in chorus. 
 
 ** Ruth Gilbert 1 " repeated Frank, sententiously, rather proud of 
 having so quickly obtained the desired information. 
 
 **Herr' cried Lou, fiercely ready to denounce whoever it might 
 be, "That trollop of a thing 1" 
 
 **Hu8h, Louie!" whispered Hope, wartiingly, as she rose to a 
 sitting posture and touched the angry girl warningly on the shoulder. 
 
 *'I won't hushl" sobbed Lou, resentfully, "To think of that 
 flirt coming here to lord it over us. No decent woman would have 
 done it 1" 
 
 *' Louie 1 Louie 1 Don't be in such haste to judge her," insisted 
 Hope so|tly. " There may be a mistake. I can't believe it." 
 
 " Frank, are you sure ? " demanded Bessie. " It doesn't seem 
 possible that Ruth Gilbert would think for a minute of marrying 
 father!" 
 
 ** I guess there isn't any mistake ; the Deacon himself told 
 father!" 
 
 " When did he tell him I" 
 
 "Not half an hour ago. Tou see, after I left here I saw your 
 father turn along the river road goin' just as slow as his horse 
 could walk, and as he'd have to pass our place I hurried on home 
 and got there in time to get father out at the gate to pump him 
 where he was goin'. Father promised the Deacon not to tell what 
 passed between them ; but he was so mad to think of Ruth marryin' 
 him, he blurted out where he was steering for, and I started right 
 off to tell you. That's all I know about it, but father believed it or 
 he wouldn't have got so mad ; he always thought Ruth about right." 
 
 " So did I," said Bessie regretfully, "but if she's going to marry 
 father I'll believe every bad story I ever heard about her 1 " 
 
 " I won't," exclaimed Israel, " I don't b'lieve a word of them." 
 
 " You don't!'' cried Lou scornfully, " what does a silly old stupid 
 like you know about women ? " 
 
 " Not much, mebbe, but if I thought they was as bad as some 
 folks thinks 'em, I'd be sorry I had any sisters," retorted Israel 
 warmly, with a thought of Hope in what he said. 
 
 " Don't compare us with that thing, Israel Jones I Your sisters 
 haven't ever run the roads with men that respuctable girls wouldn't 
 speak to ! " 
 
 " Mebbe they hain't hed a chance I Like enuf if you hadn't hed 
 some one teh look after yeh, there 'd bin stories 'bout yeh I " 
 
 ** Israel Jones I How dare you?" Lou demanded, angrily. 
 
 At this moment Bessie struck a match and lit the lamp. Its 
 
LOU AND BESSIE EXPRESS THEIR OPINION 121 
 
 yellow light discovered Lou, with tear-stained and wrathful face, 
 glaring at her brother. 
 
 *' Don't begin to quarrel, Lou, and lead people to think we fight 
 all the time," suggested Bessie, pettishly. 
 
 ** I don't think you need lecture nie. I'm not the 6ne that does 
 the row-making in this house." 
 
 ** Vou're the one to-night anyway," snapped Bessie, with a look 
 that silenced her sister, '*but I suppose when Ruth Gilbert cornea 
 here to * bring us up,' well all be sweet and quiet as little mice.** 
 
 Lou flung herself into a chair exclaiming, "What'U ever be- 
 come of us f" 
 
 " Likely we'll have a lively time," suggested Bessie sarcastically, 
 " Ruth is very fond of company and I suppose all her old admirers 
 will call to see her and that in itself would make quite a rush." 
 
 Frank Gaylor, sitting astride a chair with his elbows on the 
 oack, suggested to Lou that may be she would be able to make 
 % strike on Jim Foster. 
 
 "The ideal" cried Lou, savagely, "of that nasty brute being 
 A friend of our stepmother! I'll leave the house the instant she 
 comes in," 
 
 " So will I," added Bessie, " nobody'll ever stepmother me 1 " 
 
 "Just think of that Grilbert woman coming here and taking 
 mother's place 1 '* 
 
 " Don't mention her and mother in the same breath," said 
 Bessie, sharply. "She isn't fit to be spoken of—" 
 
 " Hush, Bessie," interposed Hope, gently, " you shou? ^ not 
 speak so harshly of one you know nothing bad about. The stories 
 you have heard of her may be ail false 1 " 
 
 ' * But they're not false > She ran the roads with every low 
 roufch who had a horse and buggy ! That much everybody knows 
 and if she's willing to marry father that shows she isn't good or 
 eveit decent." 
 
 Bope rose to leare the room. The scene with the girls had been 
 extremely painful, as her own misfortunes were every moment 
 recalled by the references to the stories about Ruth. 
 
 "I think you are wrong," said she. "I cannot believe Ruth 
 Gilbert to be a bad woman, nor that she is likely to marry your 
 father. Do not condemn her before you are sure." 
 
 "Oh, I don't wonder you side with Ruth," said Lou, with a 
 laugh that only half hid a sneer. 
 
 "Why?" enquired Hope coldly, a feeling of deadly sickneas 
 creeping over her. 
 
 " Because you've been talked about your " 
 
 "Lou Jones!" screamed Bessie, trying too late to stop her 
 
122 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 
 slater's cruel words, and only checking them at last by putting 
 her hand over Lou's mouth. ** How can you say such a thing to 
 Hope?" 
 
 Lou, thoroughly angered by the afternoon's experience, seemed 
 determined to have her fling, and roughly shoving Bessie to one 
 side, was about to continue, when Israel sprang from his chair 
 and seizing his sister by the shoulders gave her a shake that might 
 have dislocated her spine. 
 
 ** Speak another word," he roared, ** an' ru Jerk th' head off 
 yeh!" 
 
 Israel had never before laid violent hands on either of his 
 sisters, and Lou, dizzy with fright and the shaking up she had 
 received, began to cry in a very shrill and hysterical key. 
 
 ** Israel," whispered Hope, her lips white and trembling, *' don't 
 take my part. What she says is true. I have been talked about 
 awd had no right to stay here as if I were as— as good as other 
 people." 
 
 "Dang It, girl, you air as good as other people, an' a dang sight 
 better 1 I know all about it; I overheard th* hull thing when 
 father was talkin' t* yeh, an' I knowed it wa'n't ycur fault; yeh 
 hain't done nothin' wrong, so whj^t'ter yeh talkin' like this fer?" 
 
 Seeing the look of shame and horror on her face and thinking 
 she feared that he was about to describe the scene he paused and 
 then continued in a lower tone : 
 
 ** Don't be skeered I'm gunto tell, fer I haint ! A yoke a' cattle 
 couldn't drag it out a' me. But I kin say that yer th' best an' 
 nobless woman ever came t' these parts an' them that talk about 
 yeh aughteh be horse-whipped 1 " 
 
 With as savage a glance as his mild blue eyes could give he 
 glared at Lou, who, in expectation of developments had quit 
 crying and was looking wonderingly at her brother. Bessie had 
 stolen up to Hope and thrown her arm around her. 
 
 "An' you'd up go an' throw teh her about stories^'* snorted 
 Israel." You haint heard no stories, fer nobody knows nuthin' 
 'bout it but me'n father 1 If you know'd what she's gone through 
 yeh'd cut yer tongue out fer sayin' them words teh her thet yeh 
 did ! Her I Her ! Why dern yeh she could a' bin yer stepmother 
 if she'd a' wanted teh I If yeh'd heer'd what I did yeh'd say yeh 
 haint fit teh kiss th' ground she walks on an' yet a little ornery 
 brat like you kin throw up teh Tier, that she haint what she 
 oughteh be I If yeh air my own sister I feel like lickin' yeh till 
 yeh'r black'n bluel" 
 
 "That's sol " ejaculated Frank Gaylor In an unguarded moment. 
 
 L**.'. 
 
 
LOV AND BESSIE EXPRESS THEIB OPINION 123 
 
 . ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 anxious to corroborate Israel's statement regarding the Deacon's 
 desire to marry Hope. 
 
 Lou turned fiercely on Frank, glad t>o change the subject and 
 eager to find an object on which to vent her wrath. "Teh would, 
 would yeh? Fd like to see you try to black and blue me! What 
 right have yeh to stick your lip in? Teh seem to think ycr one of 
 the family, but yeh haint ner never will be if father ever hears about 
 yeh being drunk up to the tavern last winter 1 " 
 
 This shaft nad often before been shot at Frank, and though he 
 knew Bess had heard the facts, it pierced him to the core. His face 
 crimsoned and with an appealing look at Bessie, he stammered : 
 
 ** I guess everybody but father'n mother's heard of that an' you 
 can go'n tell them if yeh like." 
 
 **I thank yeh, I ain't goin' round tattlin*, but if yeh try to 
 run on me, I'll show yeh I won't have it I" 
 
 **Lou, shet upl" shouted Israel, **er I'll hev teh slap yeh yit! 
 Teh don't seem teh know nuthin' but teh throw things up. 
 It wa'n't Frank's fault he got tipsy ; the fellers put up a Job oh 
 'im, an' he wa'n't teh blame 'sept fer bein' in bad company, an' 
 he haint bin in it sence. I know that fer a fact. I could throw 
 things up teh you if I minded, 'bout the mischief yev made fer 
 me an' lots of other folks,, but I won't show myself off 'cause you 
 do, but if yeh ever say things agin like yeh did t'night I'll alap 
 yeh, if father throws me off the farm fer it the next minit." 
 
 "Israel, Israel, don't t" sobbed Hope on Bessie's shoulder. "I'm 
 not worth a quarrel. I'll go away to " 
 
 " No yeh Won't g'way ; yer gunto stop right here till things 
 Is set right, an' it won't be long, I kin tell that. Don't let no snip 
 of a girl run yeh off. Tev got friends an' their gunto see yeh 
 through this thing I" vociferated Israel, thoroughly excited. 
 
 "If you're a sample of them]" sneered Lou, who was now 
 seated on the lounge, sur-charged with all the Jones meanness 
 and bad grammar she had inherited from her father. " I wouldn't 
 give much for th' lot. A man who'd threaten teh strike his sister 
 isn't no man I " 
 
 " I hain't never hit yeh yit, often as yeh deserved it, an' mebbe 
 I hain't much of a man no more'n you'r much of a woman, but 
 there's others that is men an' they haint gunto see Hope Campton 
 get the worst of it, nuther." Israel's significant tone aroused 
 Lou's cariosity. 
 
 "Who is it r she asked. 
 
 "TouTl see, an* yehll be sorry fer th' way yev acted t'night 
 'er my name hain't what it is." 
 
 "Israel," said Hope, sadly, "don't discuss it any more, let it 
 
 >; a 
 

 • ■" ' ■ Jf* ^1 ?■ 
 
 124 
 
 Tr/z)oirjp« JONES 
 
 drop. I don't want to be the cause of a family quarrel. JusI ^n 
 soon as I can I'll leave and " 
 
 '*Now, say, you must stop that sort of talk too, Hope," SiJd 
 Bessie firmly, "you are not going to leave till we do. So Just go 
 up stairs and get ready for supper and if I hear another word I'll 
 take the broomstick to the whole of you." 
 
 Hope glad to escape, ran up to her room while Lou in a very 
 •ulky and ugly frame of mind helped her sister to prepare the 
 meal. 
 
 Out in the barn where they were feeding the horses Israel took 
 the disheartened Frank into his confidence and after having made 
 him swear a dozen iron-clad oaths not to tell, he informed him 
 that Ben was home and startling developments might be expected 
 almost any day. 
 
 The Jones were not entirely a happy or harmonious family but 
 there are plenty Just like them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THB OOURSB OF THE WIDOWER'S LOVE STILL SEEMS SMOOTH. 
 
 Love-making without opposition is as flavorless as an egg with- 
 out salt. The excessive ease which the Deacon felt had character- 
 ized his wooing had frightened him, but when he found Uncle Abe 
 making Invidious comparisons, and forbidding the banns, as it 
 were, he felt reassured; and, as he turned into Mrs. Gilbert's 
 yard, his elation at having dumbfounded Uncle Abe, mixed with a 
 tremor of delight at soon being able to kiss Ruth, and a shiver 
 of fear lest he might meet Rufus, had entirely banished his grue- 
 some suspicions. 
 
 While he was clambering somewhat clumsily out of his buggy 
 the kitchen door opened, and Rufe slouched down the steps with 
 a sulky proposal to put the Deacon's horse m the barn and let its 
 owner go in the house and "see the folks." 
 
 This unexpected courtesy startled the Deacon : 
 
 **OhI I kin onhitch all right," he said. " \eh needn't take nO 
 bother 1" 
 
 **I hain't gunto play nO tricks on yer rig, so don't be scared 1 
 Ruth told me teh treat yeh right." 
 
 Rufe's scowling face betrayed no emotion as he sulked out the 
 fib about Ruth, and the Deacon took him at his word and let him 
 lead the horse away, thinking, -however, as he watched him, that 
 here was another evidence of Ruth's eagerness to capture him. 
 
THE DEACON AND RUTH 
 
 125 
 
 Jd 
 •11 
 
 py 
 le 
 
 •k 
 
 le 
 11 
 d 
 
 
 Turning to enter the house the look of sunpicion was in his eyes, 
 ftnd Ruth noticed it as he entered the door. 
 
 **Kufe won't play any more jokes on your horse and buggy, 
 ID dnn't be alarmed," she said, laugliingly. 
 
 *'l'm 'bliged teh yeh fer tellin' him not teh. but I wa'n't thinkin' 
 'bout that," exclaimed the Deacon earnestly and looking intently 
 ii^to her face before again bidding farewell to his suspicions of 
 fier goodness. 
 
 **I did—" She was about to deny the soft impeachment, but 
 remembering the part she was to play, she stopped and blushed. 
 
 He wondered for an instant if it were the blush of innocence 
 or guilt, but overpowered by her loveliness he threw aside his 
 suspicion without waiting for an answer, and rushed forward to 
 catch her in his arms and kiss her. 
 
 She darted to one side with the half -whispered exclamation : 
 ** Mother's coming!" 
 
 *• Why, Deacon, how do yeh do I " cried Mrs. Gilbert, " yer lookin* 
 slicker'n a store clerk." * 
 
 ** Thank yeh ! Thank yeh 1 " replied the Deacon in confusion. 
 * The same teh yerself while compliments is goin' ! " 
 
 *'Had any rhu-may-tiz this fall. Deacon?" 
 
 **Na-aw!" he replied, sharply. "Hain't hed a tech of It fer 
 years." 
 
 **Yeh used teh hev ter'ble colds an' infermashun on yer lungs, 
 Marier's often told me, when it comes r.long fall an' winter," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Gilbert, who, considered it the first rule of hospitality 
 to make the most minute enquiries into the health of a visitor. 
 
 **Not of late years, Mrs. Gilbert. I hain't hed sich health 
 afore sence I kin remember. I used teh be complainin' like, but 
 I guess I've outgrowed it. Sence my trip out west last summer 
 I've bin ter'ble well. Change a' climate likenuf ; I feel this minnit 
 twenty years younger'n I did last fall this time." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert was Just about to speak but the Deacon was not 
 fond of reference to his former ailments and resumed : 
 
 — **An' I'm twenty pounds heavier an' my head's clearer'n it 
 used teh be an' I've heered a sight a' compliments 'bout my 
 preachin'. People all say I never spoke seh well as I been doin' 
 fer this while back." 
 
 *' So I've heard< Mrs. Turner was tellm' me jest this afternoon^ 
 she wondered how a man a' your age could spenk so long as yeh 
 do an' not hev yer voice gin out oeein's yev bin seh much troubled 
 with yer lungs an' heart, an' havin' brown-keetus seh often." 
 
 The Deacon didn't relish this compliment and it struck him that 
 Bath's merry eyes viewed the dialogue as a very good joke, 
 
.«*M»*t#tflhfe*.»J*«ftF\. ■f«rf»'.-*W( «Jk.JlL»Mftri< 
 
 126 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 "Mrs. Turner must a' bin waitin' for meetin' teh git out M 
 she cud see her feller er she W3ul(ln't thought I spoke long; I 
 only took an hour 11' twenty minutes an' felt as fresh's a daisy 
 an' cud spoke another hour easy's wiukin'. A wldder waitin' teh 
 git along 'ith th' man she's gunto marry haint much good at 
 jed'sln' th' length of a sermon 1 " 
 
 " Why, who's Mrs. Turner gunto marry, fer gracious sakes?" 
 
 " Old man Bunner," answered the Deacon, watching Ruth's 
 face as he spoke, to see the effect of something suggestive of 
 matrimony. 
 
 **She must be crazy! Mother, did you ever hear the like?" 
 cried Ruth in amazement. 
 
 *'Well, I never!" exclaimed the mother. "What kin she see 
 in that old hog of a Bunner? An' her well enough off, too, an' 
 four children teh look after. Sam Turner 'd roll over'n his grave 
 if he knowed his wife 'd be sich a fool, an' let old Bunner git hold 
 th' property he slaved teh rake an' scrape tegether fer his childern. 
 Oftdn I've heerd him say after he got poorly thet all he wanted 
 was teh git th' farm paid fer so's his wife 'n family cud git 
 along an' then he'd be willin' teh die, as die he did, poor feller, of 
 consumshun, an' Sarah takin' on as iffer heart w^as broke, an' here 
 she goes'n marries agin inside a year, an' her here this very 
 afternoon an' never told me a word " 
 
 "What's the use going on, mother?" interrupted Ruth, fearful 
 lest truths still more applicable to the Deacon might find utter- 
 ance if her mother once got fairly started. "If Sarah Turner wants 
 to get married again it isn't any of our business, and likely she has 
 good reasons for doing what the Deacon says she's going to do." 
 
 "What's who gunto do?" demanded Rufe, lounging into the 
 room and slinging his hat into a corner. 
 
 "Mrs. Turner's going to marry old man Bunner," answered 
 Ruth, scarcely able to keep a straight face. 
 
 "The h yeh sayi" roared Rufe, bursting into a loud laugh, 
 
 "She must be hard up teh take th' like of him." 
 
 " Likely she's lonesome ! " suggested Ruth, demurely. 
 
 "Lonesome!" snorted Rufe, "I'd rather be lonesouie' than live 
 with such a slobberin' old beast as Jake Bunner." 
 
 "You're only mad because you didn't get her yourself I** 
 
 "Me! I could uv gotter if I wanted to an' that hain't braggin' 
 much. She made eyes at me th' night uv the funeral but I hain't 
 runnin' after wimin thet get so plaguy anxious. Sam Turner often 
 toM me he b'leived his wife'd marry agin an' more'n onct he's 
 wished she'd go first an' then he'd be sure his young uns'd never 
 
 .:2a_il 
 
 ^j^j^io. 
 
 ^SLi 
 
THE DEACON AND RCTH 
 
 137 
 
 have a step-father. So they're gunto have one eh I An' a beauty 
 at that." 
 
 The Deacon was glad to keep out of the discussion and sat 
 longingly watching Ruth as she spread the table for supper and 
 thinking in an absent way of llufe's idea of a woman who was 
 too anxious to marry. When Rufe finished he went down cellar 
 and got a pitcher of cider in which he had inserted a liberal dash of 
 whisky. "If we *r gunto hev fun 'ith th* old fool we may jest 
 as well hev lots uv it," thought he as he msisted on the old man 
 taking a hearty drink. 
 
 "That's good cider, Rufus," said the widower, smacking his lips ; 
 "How d'ye keep it seh sweet?" 
 
 "Putting things in it," snapped Rufe, placing the pitcher high 
 up on the pantry shelf without offering any to his mother or sister ; 
 "I'll give yeh the receipt some day." 
 
 His blood warmed by his libation, and his passions excited by 
 Ruth's beauty, the Deacon's amorousness began to manifest itself, 
 and he gave his adored a sly pinch as she passed him with some 
 dishes. Fortunately for the widower Rufe did not notice it, or 
 there would have been a fight there and then. Ruth's face red- 
 dened, and she was careful to keep away from him, but he gazed 
 at her with a look which made her sick. 
 
 Supper over— the blessing having been omitted by the Deacon, 
 mindful of his previous experience — Rufe produced the pitcher 
 again, and, disregarding Ruth's warning glance, another big bowl- 
 ful was swallowed by the Deacon, who felt his courage rise with 
 every mouthful. It was proposed to adjourn to the parlor, and 
 Rufe, much to the Deacon's discomfiture, led the way. 
 
 "I'll be in soon as supper's cleared off," said Ruth. 
 
 At that moment a loud i*ap at the front door startled them all, 
 and Rufe hastily answered it. 
 
 A squenky voice, speaking rapidly in German, was answered 
 by Rufe's loud laugh as he ushered in the funniest specimen of 
 humanity they'd ever seen. The st-.^nger was a large man with 
 long cur\y red hair on which was perct.ud a cap with a long peak 
 and a top as big as the bottom of a tub. Green glasses hid his 
 eyes and the short blouse, coming scarcely to his hips, was fastened 
 to him by a belt just below his arms, giving him an uncouth and 
 comical appearance. His pants bagged before and behind and 
 stopped short half way between his knees and his shoe-tops. 
 
 With an elaborate bow this strange object at once marched over 
 to the piano and after laying away his cap and bowing again to the 
 company began to pla}'. Rufe roared again and again as he looked 
 at the visitor and at last turned to hie sister and e';cplained : 
 
 'fj 
 
 M 
 
 mmtmm 
 
 m 
 
128 
 
 WIDOWER JONEb 
 
 *' That's the Dutchman I told yeh 'bout. I met him ap teh th' 
 tavern I He's workin* on th' railway an' can play th' piano er 
 anything else. Another feller who kin talk Dutch explained teh 
 me an' so I ast him teh come up an' play fer yeh. He can't speak 
 er understand a word of English, but he kin play can't he now?" 
 
 Ben, for it was no one else, was running his fingers up and 
 down the keys in grand style thoroughly comprehending that his 
 father had no idea of instrumental music and would not detect 
 his lack of skill. He could play simple accompaniments and finally 
 started a yodeling song which had delighted thousands of his 
 audiences. 
 
 '* Well, he kin an' no mistake," exclaimed the Deacon, admiringly. 
 
 ** Keep him at it, I'm goin' out teh th' barn teh do some chores 
 an'll be bacK d'rectly." With a look at his sister, Bufe slouched 
 out of the parlor and shut the door behind him, and at last 
 Adoniram Jones had a chance to talk to Ruth and tell her of his 
 love. Slipping around to the front door Rufe opened it and sat 
 down on the stair step beside the door opening into the parlor, and 
 waited developments. Ben drummed away on the piano singing 
 very softly so he could hear what was going on. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A SECOND REBUFF. 
 
 The parlor of the Gilbert farm house was neither large nor 
 lofty, and the piano was about the only evidence of unusual refine- 
 ment found within its cheaply-papered walls. Its centre-table vtras 
 of the exact roundness of a cart-wheel, and any one sitting on the 
 shining and slippery hair-cloth sofa and gazing at it could not help 
 inagining that every once in a while it spun around like a top. 
 Nestling in the wool of a couple of red and yellow mats were the 
 family bible and a broken-backed album. The latter had been pored 
 over by coquettish Ruth's half-score of lovers on many a Sunday 
 night, as she sat beside them reciting the names of those whose 
 faces shone dimly out from tintypes and yellow photographs. The 
 hair-cloth chairs yiere black and springless and slippery, and sug- 
 gested not only the danger of slipping off and breaking one's neck, 
 but their thin spindle legs made it absolutely dangerous for their 
 occupants to turn around without rising up. A representation of 
 the Last Supper, In a rustic frame covered with pine cones and 
 acorn shells, had the place of honor. A picture of a prim and long- 
 necked young woman, with curls like Bologna sausage, high fore- 
 
 .1^ 
 
A SECOND REBUFF 
 
 129 
 
 A 
 
 head, wide staring eyes, and mouth about the size of the button-hoie 
 of a collar, was labelled "Jane," and gazed forth from a frame cov- 
 ered with beech and nickory nuts fastened to aplaii: pine foundation 
 which, bedaubed with glue, shone through the crevices of its cover- 
 ing like the skin of a mangy dog. The picture of a pudgy female. 
 Inclined to goitre and evidently of a dropsical nature and with a 
 broad grin, a fat nose and curly hair, was called *' Joy," and made 
 the space hideous between the margins of another rustic frame, 
 which was ornamented with peach stones and colored beans. " Our 
 Mary " and " Our George," pictures evidently of impossible children 
 —one holding an apple and the other carrying in her hand an im- 
 mense bouquet of posies— occupied prominent places over the piano. 
 The woolen carpet on the floor was warm and pretty. Ruth had 
 selected it, but Mrs. Gilbert thought it was not half lively enough 
 for a parlor, and otcen made that remark while she boasted that she 
 *' hed made th' frames of them picters herself." A pair of kittens 
 sitting on their haunches, gazmg into one another's face, had the 
 legend beneath, " Two Kittens," which, bad as was the picture, was 
 hardly necessary to explain the subject. A rag mat, in which was a 
 magenta dog with pink eyes and a painfully exact curl to his tail, 
 protected the carpet near the sitting-room door, while another, hav- 
 ing a background of black rags, hooked through canvas, made pro- 
 minent the words "Ruth, 1875," in somewhat soiled yellow letters. 
 On the little oack shelf were a few volumes, which included a 
 catechism, a Fourth and Fifth Reader, Sangster's Arithmetic, Len- 
 nie's Grammar, Lovell's Geography and Cobb's Spelling Bo k. A 
 volume of Longfellow's poems— presented to Ruth by the notorious 
 Jim Foster— Chase's Recipe Book. The Life of Peabody, Living- 
 stone's Travels in Africa and The Autobiography of P. T. Barnum 
 made up the cai,alogue of the Gilbert library, the latter works of art 
 having been forced en Mrs. Gilbert at various times by persistent 
 iD^ok agents. 
 
 As Ber glanced over his shoulder hp could see the whole room, 
 five six spindle legged chairs, the narrow and high-backed sofa on 
 wht''i sat the Deacon, his hands clasped tightly together, his legs 
 extended and his chin bnried deeply between the points of his 
 unstarched collar. Ruth was sitting near the center table much 
 embarrassed and turning over the leaves of the album for lack of 
 something to say. 
 
 The Deacon was watching her from beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
 with a look that made poor Ruth sick. 
 
 " (jome over here an sit on th' sofy, Ruth I" chirped the Deacon, 
 patting the slippery surface beside him to indicate that she could 
 bot get too doae. 
 
 I J 
 
130 
 
 WIDOWEE JONES 
 
 t 
 
 
 ** No thanks, Deacon. I'm very comfortable over here." 
 
 •' Come on ! " he exclHimed, coaxingly. " I won't hurt yeh I" 
 
 *' Why Deacon Jones," cried Ruth, "how would it look, mc sitting 
 on the sofa beside you ? " 
 
 " Why, It 'd look all right," said the Deacon, still more urgently, 
 as he pulled his feet under him and sat on the precipitous edge of 
 the black glacier and leaned forward with his bands extended 
 towards Ruth. 
 
 ** Oh, no it would'nt, Deacon. If mother came in she would give 
 me an awful going-over for being so forward." 
 
 ** Oh yer maw's clearin* off th' table ; she won't be in." Now 
 c-o-m-e on an' gimme a kiss," leered the Deacon, leaning still further 
 forward and trying to catch hold of Ruth's dress. 
 
 "* Why, you awful ! " stammered Ruth, pushing her chair back 
 and blushing violently, 
 
 '*G-o-m-e on I come now 1 do Ruth ; quit foolin'I" half whispered 
 the deacon, his voice tl .•' <^*>«i tremulous. 
 
 Ruth thoroughly friga\ \ and nauseated by the look in the face 
 of her senile admirer replleo itb frigid hauteur : 
 
 '* Deacon Jones, if you don't behave yourself I'll leave the room 1 " 
 
 Ben drumming on the piano and hearing this conversation 
 could scarce keep his seat. He began to realize how loathsome 
 a task he had imposed on poor Ruth and pitied her from the 
 bottom of his heart. 
 
 Rufe sitting on a stair step with his ear close to a crack in the 
 parlor door, as he heard the Deacon's mushy and disgusting 
 tones would have given his best span of horses if he had not 
 led his sister into such a degrading position. 
 
 For a moment the Deacon seemed to recognize that he was 
 making an exhibition of himself and sat up stiffly aaramst the back 
 of the sofa. 
 
 *' Well, I don't see no use of yeh gittin* mad, Ruth. I love yeh 
 an' wanted teh hev yeh close up teh me, but if yeh don't want teh 
 come, of course yeh kin stay where yeh air. When yeh told me 
 this mornin' teh meetin' teh come an' see yeh this afternoon, I 
 supposed it was all right, an* it mr*de me tur'ble happy, I kin tell 
 yeh that. I've been thinkin' all th' afternoon of th' pleasant time 
 I'd hev comin' teh see yeh. If I've thought of it onct, I've thought 
 of it a hundred times what a happy man I oughter be gittin' sich 
 a nice, han'some girl as you air. Right teh th' dinner table teh- 
 day I told my folks I was goin' teh git married ag'in to th' finest 
 lookin* woman hereabouts—though, of course I didn't tell them 
 her name," ejaculated the Deacon as he saw Ruth's frightened 
 look. " I told 'em I was goin' teh send Aunt Becky away to ao 
 
A SECOND REBUFF 
 
 131 
 
 
 asylum, er somethin' o' thet sort, so's my wife wouldn't hev no 
 trouble lookin' after no queer, crazy old critter like her. An' on 
 th' road comin' here I jist thought I'd sell my farm off inteh 
 town lots, seein' as th' railway company air gunto make a big place 
 of Applebury, an' that you 'n me'd go an' live in some city where 
 yeh could hev everythin' that yer heart could wish fer, an' where 
 we'd hev no work er chores, an' nuthin' teh do but hev a good 
 time." 
 
 This vision of marital felicity seemed to warm the Deacon's 
 blobd and destroy his self-control. Ruth, with apprehensive face, 
 was listening to his fervid appeal, and almost jumped from her 
 chair as she saw him again slide forwards on the sofa and reach 
 his trembling hands towards her. 
 
 *' Ruth," he cried hoarsely, " I love yeh I I never hed no sich 
 feelin' fer Mariar as I do fer you. There wa'n't no time I ever 
 knowed her when I'd give seb muc'a to hev her, body an' soul, 
 as I'd give now teh tech yer hand. There's suthin' 'tiout yeh that 
 makes me burn all over. Yer th' loveliest lookin' woman I ever 
 saw," cried the Deacon excitedly, " an' I'd give more fer yer little 
 finger than I would fer everybody else in th' world, my hull family 
 throwed in." 
 
 The widower thought this last clause would convince Ruth that 
 he did not intend to let his family stand in the way of his con- 
 jugal happiness or divide his affections with her. Ruth, praying 
 for her brother to come back and stop this sickening scene, looked 
 nervously at the Deacon as she answered : 
 
 "You wouldn't put Aunt Becky in the poor-house, and turn 
 your family out of the place they were lorn in, for the sake of 
 me, would you?" 
 
 ** Yes, I would ; I'd a'most give up my hope of heaven fer yeh ; 
 an' besides I don't owe my family fer nuthin'. They hain't been 
 any too good teh me, now I kin tell yeh. They kin all git out an' 
 do fer theirselves jist as I did. They^re growed up teh hev a heap 
 sight better start than I hed at their age. If yeh'll take me, I'll 
 give yeh every cent I've got— only kinder keepin' a sort of life 
 lease on it fer myself— so yeh needn't be skeered anybody '11 ever 
 come a'twixt you'n' me. 
 
 ** Don't you think that would be cruel, Deacon?" said Ruth, 
 whose eyes could scarce conceal her contempt. 
 
 ** Cruel I Gruel nuthin' I People hev' got teh think of their* 
 selves in this world er nobody'll think of 'em. I've done my duty 
 by my family an' now they're old enough teh look out fer their- 
 selves an' there aint nuthin' cruel 'boat makin' 'em do it. I've 
 worked hard enoutrh fer what I've got 'ithout keepin* a passel 
 
 im^m 
 
 mumum 
 
 mt^ 
 
 ma 
 
 mi 
 
192 
 
 WinOWFB JONES 
 
 V- 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 rU 
 
 pi 
 
 of \a,zj fiprowd-up children hangin' 'round me doin' nathin*. I'm 
 gunto have a good time from this out an' I want teh hev' yeh 
 enjoy it with me, Ruth," he said, coaxingly, with what he con- 
 sidezed a very fascinating smile, which consisted mostly of a display 
 of his yellow teeth and the vacancies where teeth had once been. 
 
 Ruth was watching him curiously and her next question indi- 
 cated that she had made up her mind to have a serious talk with 
 the old man. 
 
 "Would you really send Aunt Becky away to an asylum?" 
 
 " Jist as sure's I'm a livin' man," exclaimed the Deacon earn- 
 estly, bringing his hand down with sounding force on the seat of 
 the sofa from which tne dust flew in a little cloud. 
 
 **I'm afraid you are only talking. Deacon! If you really think 
 she is a nuisance why didn't you send her away while your first 
 wife was alive?" 
 
 ** Bik cause—bik-cause she wa'n't as bad then as she is now an* 
 Mariar was used teh her ways an' teh hevin' her 'round, but of 
 course I couldn't expect teh hev you bothered 'ith any doty old 
 critter like her." 
 
 '*But maybe you wouldn't do it when it came to the pinch?" 
 
 "I hope 1 may never draw another breath' if I don't send her 
 away th' very day we'r<o married 1" vowed the Deacon, rolling up 
 his eyes and raising his hand. 
 
 **But wouldn't people talk if you did that for me and didn't 
 do it for your first wife ? Everyone knows what a terrible burden 
 and nuisance she's been for the last twenty years." 
 
 "Well, let 'em talk. I don't keer nuthin' for what they say. 
 Talk never killed nobody, and you an' me kin go an' live in some 
 city where there won't be no talkin' 'bout sich friv*lin* things 
 as thet." 
 
 ** But how about Hiram and Lou and Bess— and Israel, wno has 
 always expected to get the farm and has stayed with you and 
 worked like a nlave ? How would it look for you to throw them 
 over without giving them a cent, for the sake of marrying me?" 
 
 " Look? look? Why, what du I keer how it looks ; I don't care 
 nuthin' 'bout looks I All I want is you, Rath. Your looks is all 
 th' looks I keer ferl" 
 
 The Deacon, half puzzled by Ruth's manner, but thinking that 
 she wanted a definite agreement before she yielded, felt encour* 
 aged, and, throwing out his feet and reaching under the front of 
 the sofa with his hands he jerked it towards her. She did not 
 move, but her steady e^es were fixed on his excited face, and at 
 a moment's warning she was prepared to fly from the room. 
 
 **But would it be right. Deacon? Don't you think something 
 
 < 
 
 
 '4 
 
A SECOND REBUFF 
 
 133 
 
 is coming to them after wliat theyVe done f Don't yon think the 
 years of toil that their mother pat in on the farm trying to rake 
 and scrape a tew dollars together ought to yield them some shsre ? " 
 
 "N*o-w Ruth, ye're Jist tryin' teh sound mel I know what 
 yer after, yeh little pussy 1 Ter jist tryin' to find out if I wouldn't 
 k)e scared teh treat yeh as well as I promised yeh." 
 
 The Deacon again slid forward on the sofa and getting as near 
 her as possible endeavored to seize her hand. She gave her chair 
 a push backwards, but taking no further notice of his advances 
 continued her questions. 
 
 **Do you think it would be right? Fm not asking because I'm 
 afraid you'd be too generous to your family, but to know whether 
 you think it would be Christian-like?" 
 
 ** O, pshaw I Ruth ; how yeh talk 1 " laughed the Deacon, 
 uneasily. " Of course it 'ud be right, but whatter yeh sermon- 
 izing fer? Leave thet teh me. I kin do enough of it on a Sunday 
 teh last tb' both of us fer a hull week. If J love yeh, an' want 
 teh marry yeh, of course I expect teh look after yer futur', an' I 
 can't do that 'ithout settlin' my property on yeh, an' there haint 
 no reason why I should give it to a lot of ungrateful an' good- 
 fer-nuthin' young ones an' rob myself an' you." 
 
 The look in the Deacon's lustful face was absolutely repulsive, 
 and unable to endure it 'Ruth averted her eyes while her too im- 
 petuous admirer slowly moistened his blue and crackling lips with 
 his toneue. 
 
 ** Ruth," he exclaimed, in a shrill whisper, " I love yeh ; will 
 yeh be mine— all mine?" 
 
 **HuHh," she answered with downcast eyes, "that m^n over at 
 the piano will hear you 1 " 
 
 ** What if he does ?" answered the Deacon recklessly. " The 
 Dutchman can't understand a word we say an' don't know but 
 what we're married now. Kiss me, dearie ! " As he spoke he 
 sprang up and caught her in his arms. With a sharp cry she tried 
 to push him from her but he grasped her too firmlv. 
 
 "Kiss me," he muttered, half choked with excitement and try- 
 ing to force his wrinkled face against her blushing cheek. 
 
 *'L<Mi me gol" she cried, hysterically, "Let me go this min- 
 ute !— If you don't, I'll scream I Let me go, I say ! " and with a 
 desperate effort she released one of her arms, and with her hand 
 in his face fiercely shoved him backward. But he still clung to 
 her, reiterating, "I won't let yeh go till yeh gimme a kiss." 
 
 The drumming on the piano had almost ceased, and there 
 was no more music in it. Enraged by bis father's conduct Ben 
 could no longer continue playing, though his fingers ran excitedly 
 
134 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 : 
 
 ■. 
 
 OTdr the keys, and with his face half turned towards them he 
 ii^atched the struggle. 
 
 The knob of the door leading into the hall was sharply turned 
 but Rufe restrained himself, hoping that Ben would at once give 
 a signal for a stop to be put to the Deacon's courtship. 
 
 Ruth could endure no more, and aq she could not shove the 
 disgusting face from her, she struck the Deacon with all her 
 might squarely on one of hia eyes. She had plenty of strength 
 in her shapely arms and the blow half-staggered the amorous old 
 man and before he could recover himself Ruth had freed herself 
 from his grasp. 
 
 ** How dare you touch me, you old beast? If I wasn't afraid my 
 brother would kill you I'd scream for help and tell him how you in< 
 suited me," panted poor Ruth, her eyes flashing and her hands 
 clenched. 
 
 " What— whaddye mean?" stammered the Deacon sullenly. 
 
 "I mean that if you ever lay your dirty hands on me again I'll 
 have Rufe horsewhip you clear home." 
 
 " Then yeh haint gunto marry me ? " he demanded angrily. 
 
 *' Marry you ! marry you ! I'd sooner be in my grave than have 
 you as pear me again as you've been to-night," she retorted con- 
 temptuously and turned to leave the room. 
 
 He sprang between her and the door, in his pale eyes the red 
 gleam of an almost murderous rage. 
 
 ** Don't yeh go out there and tell yer mother ! I don't want no 
 row raised 'bout me. I didn't do yeh no harm. I guess it ain't the 
 first time a man's tried teh kiss yeh nuther, even if they haint gone 
 no f urder." 
 
 Ruth, feelino: that she hadn't been altogether blameless, quailed 
 for an instant before the old man's furious look, but the- innuendo 
 in his words and the tone in which they were uttered called up her 
 old spirit. 
 
 '* Be careful," said she, warningly, " and don't insult me worse, 
 or Rufe will break every bone in your miserable old body." 
 
 " I hain't scared of Rufe ner nobody else, nor I hain't gunto be 
 made a fool of by no sich woman as you," hissed the Deacon, throw* 
 ing caution to the winds, " much as I'd oughter knowed better 'n 
 teh hev come teh see a thing thet's run th' road with every dirty 
 black-leg thet's disgraced th' neighborhood t " 
 
 Ruth's face paled and her eyes blazed. Without another word 
 she rushed for the door, but the Deacon intercepted her. 
 
 "I'm goin' now, so don't kick up no rumpus. I jist wanted teh 
 tell yeh what I think ev yeh. Yeh brought me here teh make game 
 ev me—" 
 
 ■J 
 
 . 
 
 I, 
 
A SECOND REBUFF 
 
 135 
 
 he 
 
 " Tes," cried a deep voice behind him, " that is what you were 
 brought here for 1 " 
 
 The Deacon, with one nervous movement, turned sharply around 
 and staggered back. There stood Ben Jones, who, unable to endure 
 the scene any longer, had sprung from the piano stool, and, jerking 
 oif his blonde wig, confronted his father. 
 
 **Yes, that is what you were brought here for. I wanted to 
 sound the deepest depths of your infamous old heart, and I now 
 know that I have for my father the vilest, most cowardly and con- 
 temptible old wretch that Grod lets live ? " 
 
 The trembling Deacon leaned against the wall, first clasping his 
 hands before him, then dropping them and closing and unclosing 
 them, and beginning to button his coat, and then putting his handH 
 behind him and again clasping them in front of him— the picture of 
 a cringing coward and unmasked hypocrite. 
 
 ** Sometimes," continued Ben, his eyes blazing in his father's 
 face," I wondered if I had l}een to blame in making mother's life 
 unhappy, aiid I wanted to know if there had ever been a spark of 
 love in your filthy old heart for the wife you have sneered at to-night 
 while trying to win another. I know you now. I have made no 
 mistake, and all I am sorr7/ for is that I have let Ruth be inflicted by 
 such a beast as you." 
 
 ** Perhaps," sneered tbB Deacon, " if she hadn't knowed yeh was 
 in th' room, I wouldn't bev had seh much trouble tryin' teh kiss 'er." 
 
 This shaft pierced poor Ruth's heart. Overcome by the excite- 
 ment of her strucrgle with the Deacon, and the knowledge that 
 the man she cared most for had been a witness of it, she clasped her 
 fair hands together and raised her l>eautiful eyes with a piteously 
 appealing look at Ben. 
 
 At that moment Rufe, unable to bear the suspense any longer, 
 and without waiting till the Deacon began revihng his sister, and 
 disdaining to enter through the hall door by which he had been 
 listening, entered the room from the kitchen, and, seeing his sister's 
 pitiful look and trembling attitude, threw his arm around her lest 
 she might fall. 
 
 ** What's that th' old sneak *s bin sayin'." he demanded. 
 
 " Nothing," retorted Ben, who feared a serious scene. " The old 
 scoundrel is trying to clear himself by making remarks about other 
 people.** Then turning to his father he said : 
 
 " Your slanderous, tongue C8~ harm no one here. Begone, before 
 Ruth's brother does what I wov'i do if I were not your son— kick 
 you off the place." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert, having concluded her dishwashing, which, in her 
 
 >Mi^i4-^ 
 
 wm 
 
 
 fc>tM.rti.llJ 
 
mm 
 
 ■w" 
 
 ' 
 
 136 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 eyes, had always been more important than the chaperoning of her 
 daughter, had Joined the pleasant little i^arty in the parlor. 
 
 ** Why, gracious alive, what's come to yeh Ruth ? Yeh look as if 
 feh was soin' teh hev a faintin' spell. An' the Deacon, too. Why. 
 what's th* matter of yeh. Deacon? Why, bless my heart to good- 
 ness gracious yeh look as if yeh hed jist bin gettin' a lickin' or heard 
 that yeh hed lost yer farm.*' Glancing up she saw Ben Jones in his 
 queer garb. 
 
 *' Why, law bless my soul to goodness'gra-cions-inercy-me-alive 1 
 If there ain't Ben Jones, jist as if he had just come up from the dead 
 — though not dead nuther— with them clothes on. Why, where did 
 yeh git them short-legged pants? Them's th' tur*blest clothes I ever 
 see. 
 
 *' He was acting a Dutchman and playing th* piano and watching 
 his father making love to Ruth," explained Rufe. 
 
 " Makin' love to our Ruth. Well, I do declare ; if that isn't the 
 worst I ever heard— that old critter makin' love to our Ruth. If I 
 hed known that I would hev run him off th' farm afore he ever got 
 his horse on hitched." 
 
 The Deacon was still leaning against the wall closing and unclos- 
 ing his hands, folding them and buttoning and unbottoning his 
 coat and wondering whether his exit would be accompanied by any 
 violence from Rufus. 
 
 **Adoniram Jones, I'll never call you father again. Get out 1 If 
 you stay much longer the chances are you won't get away with a 
 whole skin Go ! 
 
 Ben'8 gestures and the belief that his departure, unaccompanied 
 by any further discussion, was advisable, started the Deacon home- 
 ward. He pulled his hat and coat from a hook on the kitchen wall, 
 and without waiting to put either of them on or say good night he 
 bolted from the back door towards the barn. Ten minuter later, 
 while the light in the parlor was still burning and Ben was trying to 
 convince Ruth that she hadn't acted an ignoble and disgraceful 
 part, the Deacon was driving homewards and filling the air with 
 "curses not loud, but deep." 
 
 * %:;j;y- 
 
 J{|R^^ltf5S«P^»»*W«'5 
 
BUTE INDULGES IN VAIN REGRETS 
 
 137 
 
 
 /' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 m WHICH RUTH INDULGES IN VAIN REORKTa 
 
 *'It will be a long while, Rufe," Raid Ruth, with a faint 
 attempt at a smile, " before I help you to play any more Jokes 
 like that." 
 
 Rufus needed no accuser as he stood watching ll!s sister's 
 shame-stricken face, but he could not refrain from saying in his 
 own defence : 
 
 ** Tou know I did it fer Ben, Ruth, an' I didn't think th' old 
 sneak would take on like he did, er I never would have put up 
 any sich Job fer th' best farm in th' county." 
 
 Ben understood Ruth's shame, and while he stooped down to 
 divest his clothing of some of the strings and pins which had given 
 him such a grotesque appearance he tried to comfort her by pooh- 
 poohing the idea of any apologies or explanations. 
 
 " Why child, it was nothing but a lark, and if the old man 
 made a fool of himself and got hot because we caught him at it, 
 you oughtn't to feel soi^ about it. You only did what any fun- 
 loving girl would have done. But," said he, straightening up, **I 
 owe you a thousand thanks for giving me an opportunity to prove 
 to my father that he is as mean a man as I always thought him." 
 
 Ruth was not to be so easily comforted. She knew that no 
 woman ever stands as well in a man's eyes after she has been 
 humiliated and reproached even by so worthless a character aa 
 Deacon Jones. She could not but feel that the night's perfor- 
 mance, while it had excited Ben'^ pity, had lowered her m hia 
 estimation. 
 
 "It's all very well," said she faintly, ** to say it Is all right, 
 but I feel ashamed of myself, and I know in your hearts you are 
 both ashamed of me." 
 
 Poor Rufe could not endure his sister's reproaches and in another 
 moment would have gone out to the barn to have a good bawl, 
 accompanied by much profanity directed at himselt The thought 
 that he had been the means of getting his idoTL;<i\ sister into a 
 compromising position tortured him more th«kti it would the 
 mi^jority of men, for all his thoughts and care, all his tender* 
 ness and love were devoted to her, and all his plans for the 
 future were for ^utb and not himself. 
 
 "Why R-n-t-ti,^! don't see what yer takin' on ferf It wa'n't 
 
 Hiiiili 
 
 m 
 
'STT'i* vif-'^^myi!'*. -^jftr 
 
 138 
 
 widoweh joitss 
 
 I 
 
 your fault that th' Deacon made a fool of hisself. What avr yeh 
 lookin' seh down-hearted fer? Air yeh sick, er what's the matter 
 of yeh ?— yev pulled out yer face as long and heart-broke like, as 
 if yeh 'd spiled a new frock." 
 
 ** That's right, Mrs. Gilbert," broke In Ben. ** Give her a good 
 lecture for being so broken-up because the Deacon tried to kiss 
 her and wanted her to marry him. She hasn't anything to feel 
 bad about, though I wouldn't blame the old man for being a trifle 
 dejected after feeling so sure that he had only to ask her to name 
 the day and have the wedding come off at once." 
 
 ** That's Just what I feel so ashamed of," said Buth, sadly 
 raising hor eyes, "that anyone could think of me so meanly or 
 hold me so cheap as your father didl What idea could he have 
 had of me? What led liim to think that he could treat me as 
 he has to-night. O Rufe," she cried, clasping her hands, " I 
 could have died of shame and I never would have stayed In the 
 room a minute if I hadn't promised you and known that you and 
 your friend wanted me to do it." 
 
 Though Ben had partially appreciated Ruth's painful position, 
 he now began to realize what a cruel thing he had done, and that 
 the gay and thoughtless girl, unlike the people with whom ho had 
 associated so long, could not play the part he had chosen for 
 her, without feeling her self-respect injured and her womanhood 
 degraded, beeing how useless it was for him to try to laugh away 
 her humiliation and shame, he was forced to adopt another 
 method. 
 
 "Ruth," he began, "I begin to thoroughly understand your 
 feelings in this matter, and I know I am the chief offender. Don't 
 blame Rufe. I coaxed him into it ; and he never would have con- 
 sented if I hadn't made him believe it would turn out all right, 
 and that you would have as much fun out of it as we would " 
 
 " There 1" interrupted Ruth, sorrow and anger uniting in a 
 tremulous reproach. "That only shows you thought as lightly 
 of me as your father did, and supposed that I had no flue feelings 
 like other women." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert could not half understand what was being said and 
 stood with eyes and mouth open, her hands on her hips, looking 
 first at one and then the other. 
 
 "Why, mercy sakes alive, girl," she exclaimed. "I don't see 
 no harm in him thinkin' yeh full of fun an' ready fer most any 
 caper, fer that's th' kind of a girl yev always been ; and lots a* 
 times when I told yeh not teh do things, yev jist laughed an' 
 told me yeh were goin* teh hev a good time, no matter what come." 
 
 "I suppose you are right, mother," sighed Ruth, struggling 
 
 <irjff rriiiti«iniii -Ki 
 
 / tTT^ j fci .y [ l gr » l» i ytl i in ia ^.T1 ii rW [ l | l iiii l i ir^ l. ii i y i i^ i j l n -i r j , -i i b .^ , ^ p.* 
 
ve,! 
 
 BVTH INDULGES IN VAIN REGRETS 
 
 139 
 
 f 
 
 hard to choke down a sob, "even Rufe seems to have thought 
 me that kind of a girl." 
 
 " No I didn't, Ruth, you know I didn't. I know! I was doln' 
 wrong an' a hundred times since I saw Ben I've thought to myself 
 that I was gittin' yeh' inteh a scrape though I hed no idee that 
 dam old fool 'd hav' acted like he did er I would hev* stopped 
 it long afore it got seh fer." 
 
 By this time Ben was as miserable as a man can be and was 
 busying his brain to find some means of relieving Ruth from 
 her bitter mortification : 
 
 " I plead guilty, Ruth, but I hope you believe that if I had ex- 
 pected any such result as this I would have been the last one to 
 suggest the apparently harmless plot which seems to have involved 
 us all in cdmmon misery. But you are really magnifying the affair 
 and imagining it possible for us to think of you as anything but the 
 sweet, good girl we know you to be." 
 
 A little flush crept into Ruth's pale face as she heard these words, 
 for Ben spoke with a kindness which had a tender thrill in it. 
 
 ** Don't think ot it any more, my little friend," said he, going over 
 \jo her chair, catching her handkerchief and dexterously binding it 
 over her eyes. *' Forbid any more tears to come and reproach us. 
 Let's think and talk of something else." 
 
 Ruth sat perfectly motionless, her hands clasped in her lap. The 
 touch of Ben's fingers on her temples and his presence so near 
 thrilled her with happiness, followed ')y a pang of hopelessness and 
 regret. She raised her hand and quietly removed the handkerchief 
 from her eyes, as she said : 
 
 " I know you are sorry but please don't pity me ; it's just a little 
 bit worse than being scorned." 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert was sitting upright on one of the shiny spindle-legged 
 chairs, making a desperate effort to find out what all these things 
 meant. 
 
 " Why Ruth, what makes yeh so techy ? There haint nobody got 
 nuthm' teh pity yeh fer, seh what's the use actin' as if th' hull 
 world was sot agin' yeh ? 
 
 "The world is not very big, mother," said Ruth sadly," and if 
 the little section one knows of it thinks of one as it seems to of 
 me, it's enough to make anyone feel touchy, and, and— hopeless." 
 
 " Why, R-u-t-h 1" 
 
 " You know it just as well as I do, mother. It was only the other 
 day you told me yourself that it doesn't take much to set people 
 talking about a girl, when Mrs. Hooper was in, saying such a lot of 
 mean things about Hope Gampton. If people talk about as good a 
 girl OS she is and all turn against her just because they have heard 
 
rw? 
 
 ■-yW!^"~' ■ ~ 
 
 
 140 
 
 W7D0WEB JONES 
 
 some story that nobody knows who started, I don't think it Is very 
 touchy for me to feel offended because 1 have made a fool of myself 
 trying to have a lark with Deacon Jones. He'll go and tell it all 
 over the whole neighborhood and to-morrow night when the school 
 children go past they'll all shout at me ** How's the Deacon 1 " 
 
 *'You needn't be scared of that" said Ben. ''The old man will 
 never give it away, and I am sure none of the rest of us will." 
 
 ** Yes, but yesterday he told the girls and everybody else at your 
 place that he was going to get married and likely enough led them 
 to believe that I was the silly creature he had selected. It will get 
 out surely enough." 
 
 Ben was anxious to hear something more about the rumors 
 concerning Hope Campton, and deluding himself with the idea that 
 he was simply desirous of turning the conversation he enquired : 
 
 ** Talking about Hope Campton, what set the people against herf 
 When I was home in the summer my sisters, and everylx)dy else 
 were holding her up as the paragon of perfection and in four short 
 months I find her an object' of suspicion, but I can't learn what it's 
 all ab>ut." 
 
 ** Neither can anyone else," answered Buth, ** and yet I have 
 heard so much that I confess that, much talked of us I must have 
 been myself, I was almost afraid to speak to her." 
 
 ** I have never heard you talked about, Buth, except to hear 
 good of you, and I don't believe there is a word of truth in the 
 shadowy stories people are telling of Hope. Where do these 
 tales come from?" 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert felt justified, at this point, in assuming the 
 burden of the conversation. 
 
 "As fer 's I kin learn Mrs. Hooper knows more about it than 
 anyone else, an' as fer's I kin find out there wa'nt noboby hed 
 heard a word till she begun tellin' suthin' at th' quiltin' bee over 
 teh Mitcheirs. Like enough if anyone follied up the story they'd 
 find out that Mrs. Hooper started it herself, liKe she hez more'n 
 one story afore now." 
 
 ** How's your cider barrel, Bufe?" cried Ben, cheerily. "Let's 
 drop these scandals and talk about something pleasant." 
 
 "I g^ess the barrel 's pretty nigh full," exclaimed Bufe, jump- 
 ing up with alacrity, glad to escape from so dismal a scene. "I'll 
 bring yeh up a snifter that'll make yer hair stand." 
 
 Tha cider having been disposed of, Ben began to tell stories 
 and sing snatches of songs, and it was not long before he had 
 them &11 holding their sides, as hilarious a little company as he had 
 ever amused. He went over to the piano and played and sang 
 and gave imitations of leading actors, and whistled and danced 
 
 " .^ A.'iiHA.i^ lSK 
 
RUTH INDULGES IN VAIN REGRETS 
 
 Ul 
 
 till he hoped Ruth had forp^otten her unpleasant experience, and 
 then pullinfc a little traveling-cap from liiu pocket, and stuffing 
 his wig into the bosom of his blouse, he bade them good-night. 
 Holding Ruth's hand in his own he whispered to her, ''Forgive 
 me, Ruth, for having caused you pain. Ptomise me never to 
 think of it again." 
 
 She looked up at him acratefuUy, but the merry sparkle wenc out 
 of her eyes as she answered : 
 
 " ril try not, but I find it is easier to act silly than to forset it or 
 have it forgotten." 
 
 •' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 IN WHICH LOU RKVEALS H£RSBLF. 
 
 Bess and Lou had not gone to bed when Dencon Jon^ss returned 
 home after his lively experience at the Gilberts*. They had intended 
 to overwhelm him with reproaches and demand an explanation of 
 the declaration he had made at dinner time, but the gray pallor of 
 his face and the furious look in his eyes warned them to be silent, 
 and without a word he hurried oflf to bed. while they sat in lie* 
 wildered consultation as. to the meaning of his sudden change of 
 demeanor. 
 
 ** I guess she wouldn't have him," whispered Lou. 
 
 " He looks as if she had given him a good setting out," answered 
 Bessie. *'■ I haven't seen him look so furious since Ben went away.'* 
 
 "Isn't it glorious?" cried Lou, jumping lightly u^. ^nd down. 
 ** Maybe he'll quit acting so silly if Ruth's really told him what a fool 
 he's making of himself." 
 
 So they whispered and laughed and wondered what she said to 
 him, until they went to bed and lay awake for houra picturing the 
 scene between their father and the girl he felt so sure of marrying. 
 
 Next morning breakfast was no sooner over than the Deacon, 
 having donned his Sunday clothes, hitched up his horse and drove 
 away from the homestead in sullen silence. He hadn't been gone 
 twenty minutes before Ben, who had discarded his wig and dis- 
 guise, opened the kitchen door and strolled in. 
 
 "Grood morning, sisters," he remarked as they looked up In aur* 
 prise, scarcely recognizing his clean-shaven face. Pulling up his 
 coat sleeve he exclaimed tragically : " See, there is the strawberrr 
 mark ; I'm your 1-e-ong lost brother ; come to me a-r-rums," and 
 almost before she had recognized his voice he had seized Bessie in » 
 glidden and overwhelming embrace. 
 
 MiiMiyfli 
 
 '^iMmUk 
 
, '(■: W-I.H- ,"1,..^ 
 
 -|«,»»mi .ni.."j. «t";i?."i'j" "pw"!!?''!?;! 
 
 U2 
 
 TT/DOTTEi? JOi\rjgS 
 
 ** Why, it's Ben 1 " cried Lou, clapping her hands. 
 
 Bessie could say nothing, but burying her face in her brothei^s 
 shoulder began to cry. 
 
 ** Tes, it is Ben come back to make trouble," he said, stooping 
 down to kiss Lou who had rushed up to him, her face beaming with 
 pleasure. "What's little Bessiecrying about" he asked softly, patting 
 her red-brown hair. " I can't ever tell what makes you women cry. 
 Sometimes you laugh till you cry and again you quarrel till you 
 cry ; and sometimes you cry from joy and sometimes from vexation. 
 Which is it makes my little sister moisten the bosom of my coat 
 with her tears ? " As he spoke he gently lifted her face till he could 
 see her tear-stained eyes. 
 
 " Oh Ben, Ben, I'm so glad you've come back," she sobbed. 
 
 ** Tou are glad, are you, sissy ? It's worth a long trip to make 
 you so glad you have to cry about it. I believe I could almost cry a 
 little myself if I half tried, so you had better quit or my naming 
 eyes will take all the curl out of your bair." 
 
 Lou was watching her sister's emotion with a look of apologetic 
 disgust, which Ben resented by an increased tenderness, as he 
 caressed the loving face of his favorite. 
 
 *' What makes you say you are glad, little Bessie? Was there 
 some particular need of my comforting presence ; some actual neces- 
 sity to be here and engage in deadly conflict with the Deacon ?" 
 
 ** Well, I should say so," interrupted Lou. " Father is running 
 around like mad, trying to get somebody to marry him, and we have 
 been just praying for you to come and make him behave." . 
 
 Bess, who had dried her eyes and stood lovinsly watching her 
 brother, felt she would rather talk to him alone, and her silence 
 afforded Lou a splendid opportunity to give an extended description 
 of her father's eccentricities. 
 
 ** Well, didn't you two expect him to act in that way ?" inquired 
 Ben, lazily stretching himself in the Deacon's arm-chair. " It 
 doesn't surprise me. I told Bess before I went away that the old 
 man was mapping out a future for himself with some youn^* damsel 
 as his blushing bride." 
 
 ** Well, I'm sure neither Bess nor I ever thought of any such 
 things" cried Lou, springing lightly to a soat on the table and 
 preparing herself for a recital of the family experiences, " till 
 father commenced to spoon around Hope and tell us she was so 
 steady and sensible she ' seemed more like iii mother than a com- 
 panion to us.' Then, I tell you Bon, we tumbled, as Hiram says. But 
 father heard some stories cf Hope and that kind of stopped him 
 there " 
 
 Ben was watching Bessie and, unseen by Lou, he gave a very 
 
 _-li-:»t.i-'. 
 
 • J 
 
LOU REVEALS HEBSELF 
 
 143 
 
 expressive wink, to which his younger sister responded Yxf a little 
 deprecatory nod. 
 
 ** — though there were some awful queer doings for a while, 
 Hope going moping around looking as heart-broken as if she really 
 wanted to marry father and was going to pine away and die because 
 he wouldn't have her.'* 
 
 Bessie could hardly stand this very unjust description of Hope, 
 but another wink from Ben kept her from making any interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 ** Father and Hope scarcely speak now, and people are telling the 
 awfleat stories about herl But, first of all, I forgot to tell you 
 father was smitten with Harriet Doyland out west. We had to hear 
 about her cooking and housekeeping for a month after he got back. 
 And then after he dropped Hope he began making eyes at all sorts 
 of people, and yesterday at dinner, when Mr. Spring and Frank 
 Gaylor and the McTaggers were all here, he told us be was going to 
 get married again, to the handnomest girl hereabouts, and that he 
 was going right off to see her and fix the day. Frank Gaylor found 
 out who it wa^. and came back and told us it was Ruth Gilbert, and 
 I tell you, if we didn't give her a setting out after we heard it, 
 nobody ever got one. I'll bet her ears burned I But, do you know, 
 when father got home last night he was in such a rage he couldn't 
 speak, so I guess somethi/ig must have gone wrong, but none of us 
 dare ask him what it was. I guess Ruth must have upset his 
 temper somehow, and Bess said she hadn't seen hira so mad since 
 you went away as he was when he rushed olT to his bedroom last 
 night." 
 
 *• Now, sisters," said Ben, impressively, " we don't want to be the 
 talk of the town, so let me warn you not to breathe a word of what 
 you have just been telling me to anybody, and I'll undertake to see 
 that he doesn't marry in this district while I stay in it ; and I have 
 come here with the intention of making quite a long visit." 
 
 *' Oh, Ben, I hope you'll never go away again," exclaimed Bessie. 
 
 " Well, Bessie astore, I won't bind myself to stay here always, 
 but ni agree to stay long enough to make father move away or else 
 behave himself. Where's Hope ? " 
 
 **She has gone to school," answered Bessie, "and a hard enough 
 time of it she's having, poor girl, for the scholars act jusc frightful 
 since these stories have been going around about her ; and she's had 
 to whip A lot of the big boys for being rude and saying things to 
 her that she can't stand." 
 
 *'I admire her grit. A good many women under the same 
 circumstances would have quit the school long ago, and gone to live 
 
 % 
 
T^f^^ 
 
 "mimmr^^^ 
 
 rw: 
 
 ■^ 
 
 144 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 : / i 
 
 1- 
 
 with decent people, where every slander isn't believed as soon as it 
 is started." 
 
 ** I don't know where she would hare gone to," sugeested Bessie. 
 '* I guess everybody is alike in believing bad of folks. I know I feel 
 awfully ashamed the way I talked about Ruth Gilbert last night 
 when I thought father was going to marry her." 
 
 Just then the morning express thundered past the farm house, 
 and Lou Jumped off the table, exclaiming, ** I'm going up to the 
 post office. I have been applying for the Tedley school, and I expect 
 a letter this morning." 
 
 Nothing could have suited Ben better. He wanted a quiet talk 
 with Bessie, and Lou's unsympathetic chatter worried him. When 
 Lou had gone he called Bessie over to the big chair in which he sat, 
 placed her on the broad arm and with both her hands in one of his 
 he began: 
 
 ** Bess, tell me what you think about things. Lou doesn't seem 
 to have the slightest idea of the meaning of what htts been happen- 
 ing. What about Hope ? " 
 
 '* Wasn't it awful the way Lou spoke about Hope ? I think it is a 
 frightful shame the way she has been treated. I know father pro- 
 posed to her, and I believe he started those stories because he was so 
 mad when she refused him." 
 
 ** It would be just like him. He is mean enough for anything," 
 said Ben thoughtfully, his brows afrown. Then with a laugh he 
 added : **I was up at Gilbert's last night when he proposed to Ruth, 
 and took in the whole thing. When she wouldn't have him he 
 turned on her and threw up everything nasty he had ever heard 
 about her." 
 
 ** Tell me all about it," cried Bessie, eagerly. ** I feel as ashamed 
 as can be of the way we calked about Ruth, when there was no one 
 to stand up for her excepting Hope and Israel." 
 
 Ben gave a hurried but graphic description of the scene the night 
 before, putting fierce emphasis on the Deacon's sneers at their 
 mother. " I'm going to follow the Deacon everywhere he goes and 
 give him just as hard a trip as he has had with Ruth. I don't want 
 anyone to hear of last night's adventure or the poor girl will be talked 
 about) as shamefully as Hope has been. And I tell you what, Bess," he 
 exclaimed, restlessly, ** I'm going to trace out these stories al)out Hope 
 and see what they mean. Though she didn't like me any too well 
 when I was home in the summer I guess by this time she has found 
 out that my opinion of the Deacon was pretty near right. I wonder 
 when I could get a chance to talk to her without the old man know- 
 ing it, for I don't want him to think I'm t<^iug her part, or it will 
 make my task all the harder." 
 
LOU REVEALS HERSELF 
 
 145 
 
 "There won't be any chance to talk to he.* at noon hour, 
 so you had better wait till after four o'clock," answered Bess. " You 
 miffht walk home with her from school and if father isn't here I will 
 be watching for you and let you know." 
 
 " If she'll only take me into her confidence and tell me the causes 
 of these remarks it will be an easy matter to clear them up. I only 
 wish Mrs. Hooper was not a woman ; it would give me a world ot 
 pleasure to wring her nose, Tou mark my words," continued Ben 
 after a pause. " I'll drive father away from this place inside of two 
 weeks. I am going to get my house ready to shelter you and Lou 
 when the old man turns you out." 
 
 While he' and Bess were laying plans for the future, Lou 
 returned in great glee with a letter in her hand, appointing her 
 mistress of a school in the little village of Tedley, a dozen miles 
 away. In her exuberant spirits she chattered like a magpie, telling 
 the wonderiul thmgs she was going to do with her salary, and what 
 a good time she would have when she was her own mistress and 
 could buy new dresses without having to beg them from her father. 
 
 ** Say, Ben," she asked, sitting sideways on the arm of the chair 
 opposite Bessie, and looking inquisitively at her stalwart brother, 
 *' how did you make so much money 9 Father and Bess had a ter- 
 rible row over it the day you went away. When we told him that 
 you had bought the Birch farm he said he'd bet you must have 
 stole the money, and Bess 'flew at him like a tiger, and when I told 
 her she had better wait till she really knew how you did make it, 
 before making such a fuss, I thought she was going to scratch my 
 eyes out." 
 
 If Lou had considered for a moment she never would have per- 
 mitted her desire to find out Ben's business to lead her into making 
 this disclosure. The words were hardly out of her mouth before 
 she saw her mistake. Ben's face darkened as he turned sharply 
 towards her, and his eyes had anything but a pleasant look in them. 
 
 " Lou," he said, sternly, " let me advise you, now you are going 
 out in the world to do for yourself, that minding one's own business 
 is the surest way of keeping out of trouble. If I had seen fit to tell 
 you how I had acquired what little I have, I would have done so 
 without any hints or questions from you, and, because I didn't, it 
 was ill-mannered of you to inquire, and you had no reason to suspect 
 me of getting my money dishonestly. I am glad, in your anxiety to 
 obtain information, you've told me how loyal Bess has been to me 
 while I was away. I would suggest that you subdue your cbriosity, 
 or you will have the village of Tedley about your ears, and come 
 home from your school with half your hair pulled out. Now that 
 you have shown such an itching to know my business I'll tell you— 
 
 •a^S^fe,., 
 
 .^^ 
 
fjf^ 
 
 J« 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 N 
 
 r :. 
 
 :^- 
 
 '\ 
 
 
 I have no reason for concealment— I made part of my money as 
 an arcor and the rest of it through fortunate speculation." 
 
 Tie fear sprang up in Lou's sordid little soul that she had irre- 
 triexably damaged her prospects of getting hold of any of Ben's 
 wealth and she made the wildest assurances that she had never sus- 
 pected him of having gotten his money wrongfully, and what she 
 had said to Bess was only in a joke. 
 
 *'Lou, my child," said Ben gravely, ** learn not to joke about 
 anyone's reputation. It is one thing that won't stand joking. The 
 more one's character Is open to suspicion the more faith and loyalty 
 must we demand from our friends. Tou promised me last summer 
 when I came home and we had that long walk in the lane that you 
 would always believe in me and defend me, right or wrong, and yet 
 you forgot so soon. That is just like you women. Don'c think me 
 scolding you, Lou ; you have only acted as most women would. 
 Bessie here is not like the rest of her sex ; the more a man is down 
 the closer she would stick to him." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 HOPE TAKES BEN INTO HER CONFIDENCE. 
 
 The Applebury school-house, when erected, was painted white, but 
 now the clap boards as high as the boys could reach were a register 
 of two generations of scholars, smean d with dirt and covered with 
 jacknife engravings illustrative of the slow rise and progress of good 
 taste and education among the children of the village. A number of 
 broken windows and a demoralized fence gave silent evidence that 
 the Applebury school-board were neither of an orderly or aesthetic 
 turn of mind. As Ben stood at the corner of the street on which the 
 school-house stood he could hear the drowsy hum of the children's 
 voices as they repeated the Lord's prayer, a service insisted upon 
 night and morning by special order of the very pious trustees. 
 Then the little bell in the cupola above the door gave vent to a noisy, 
 tln-panny clamor, and in another moment three-score children 
 rushed wildly forth, swinging their empty dinner pails, shouting, 
 pushing, knocking and lighting one another with all the boisterous 
 vigor of youth. 
 
 For ten minutes longer Ben loitered at the corner waiting for 
 Hope to appear ; then he strolled down the street until he was 
 opposite the school-house. He could hear no sound within, and, 
 yielding to a sudden impulse, he turned through the gate and 
 pushed open the half-closed door. With her hands clasped on the 
 
 
li-(.' 
 
 •• ^4- 
 
 HOPE TAKES BEN INTO HEB CONFIDENCE 147 
 
 desk before her, and her face buried in her arms, Hope sat the 
 picture of loneliness and despair. She had not heard him enter, and 
 Ben felt like quietly slipping away without letting her know he had 
 intruded on her sorrow. Her sobs, and the utter desolation of her 
 attitude, suggested to him thrt now, if ever, his good offices would 
 be acc«»pted by the proud and persecuted girl. Making more noise 
 than was absolutely necessary, he walked directly up to her desk, 
 while she, endeavoring to dry her eyes and conceal her emotion, 
 received him with a haughty confusion of manner, which to him 
 had more of pathos in it than even her tears. 
 
 The shadows of the early winter were already creeping into the 
 bare and dirty school-room, and for a moment she failed to recognize 
 the intruder. 
 
 " Don't you remember me. Miss Campton ? I'm Ben Jones." 
 
 ** Yes— yes, indeed," she stammered. "I remember you now. 
 I'm glad to see you." 
 
 "I hope you mean that, Miss Campton, for I thought I was in dis- 
 grace with you when I left here last summer." 
 
 " Oh, hardly that, Mr. Jones," she answered nervously, turning 
 arcrtnd and taking her hat from the hook beside the blackboard. 
 
 " I suppose you hardly recognize in me the stranger who had the 
 pleasure of a walk home with you after that little unpleasantness 
 with Joe Boach last week." 
 
 " "Why, was that you?" she exclaimed, her face flushing. 
 
 " Yes, I came to apologize for having, during the past week, been 
 engaged in what was intended as a harmless and necessary decep> 
 tion, but which, to you, with your high sense of honor, may appear 
 a grievous sin." 
 
 " It matters very little nowadays what my opinion of people may 
 be. As you learned from Joe Boach, people have so much to say 
 about me that I dare say nothing about them." 
 
 She had thrown a soft, warm shawl over her shoulders and step- 
 ping down from the platform intimated by her actions that the in- 
 terview was over. Ben was not so easily put off. He was deter« 
 mined she should tell him the meaning of the tales he had heard and 
 the despairincr sorrow which was overwhelming her. 
 
 "I wish to talk to you, Miss Campton, and to tell you something, 
 and in return I want you to show some confidence in me. I am not 
 seeking for your confidence out of any curiosity or desire to wound 
 you but that I may be your friend,— and it seems to me that what 
 you need now is some one who will take a couple days' interest in 
 stopping these confounded stories which I feel sure have not the 
 slightest foundation." 
 
 You are very kind, Mr. Jones, bitt> I assi^re you I need no assist- 
 
 it- 
 
 iiiii 
 
 MmtmM 
 
 'iiMiiJiiiiii 
 
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 9m 
 
 ^P^PPl 
 
 148 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
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 [^ 
 
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 ance," answered Hope proudly as she stopped to lock the school 
 house door. 
 
 '*It's no use talking any such nonsense to me. A woman who is 
 not yet twenty does not bury her face in her arms and sob like a 
 broken-hearted child unless she has some trouble be>ond the ordin- 
 ary vexations of life. Don't try to dismiss me so abruntly. Miss 
 Campton," continued Ben steadily as he turned down the street 
 -with his reluctant companion. ** I know the reason of a part if not 
 all your sufferings. You may not be aware of it but my brother 
 Israel heard every word of the proposal of marriage my father made 
 to you and heard as well the infamous innuendo with which he hoped 
 to frighten you into submission." 
 
 Ben did not even glance at Hope as he spoke, for he knew his 
 words would disconcert her, and the shame-faced blush and trem- 
 bling hands so tightly knitted together were unobserved. 
 
 ** I can't find any connection between what the Deacon alleged to 
 be the misfortune ot your birth and the tales people are telling of 
 you. I believe the Deacon lied when he called you what he did, but 
 I have been asking Bessie about the slanders which I have heard 
 about you since I came home, and I find that the Deacon's lie is not 
 the one which the people of Applebury are circulating just now. If 
 what he said were true, no one could blame you, but if what the old 
 women are whispering around their quilting frames, where a repu- 
 tation hasn't any more chance than chaff before the wind, is not 
 contradicted, your good name must really suffer." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she demanded breathlessly, stopping 
 short and looking sharply into his face. 
 
 ** I mean that I don't believe you know what people are saying 
 about you,*' answered Ben slowly, " and I mean to tell you that you 
 think it is some tale connected with your birth which has made the 
 boys rude and the neighbors avoid you, while it is really some vicious 
 lies which affect your character much more seriously." 
 
 ** Do you mean to say," she cried falteringly, '* that I have— that— 
 that— people believe I have done something wrong or disgraceful?** 
 
 "Tes, I mean to tell yuu that that is what they say and Bessie 
 though she loves you like a sister, has been afraid to tell you, and 
 Israel, poor old fellow, was afraid to try to set things right and 
 wrote to me to come and do it, and this is why I offer to be your 
 friend. When I was home in the summer you didn't believe in me. 
 You disliked me because you thought I hated my father. Now, when 
 you must hate him worse than I do, though you have no more reason 
 to despise him than I have, perhaps you may overlook wliat turned 
 you against me then. I have always believed in you. That you dis- 
 approved of me, perhaps has made me more eager to serve you and 
 
 i-f t- 
 
HOPE TAKES BEN INTO UEB CONFIDENCE 149 
 
 more anxtou» to prove that I am really worthy of your esteem than 
 I other wise would have been. A man of the world would be a fool 
 if he could look in your face and believe evil of you. Tour good- 
 ness, truth and loyalty to those whom you love showed me how 
 good a friend you would be to those you deem worthy of your con- 
 •Udence. If you will give me a chance to show that my poor old 
 mother was right when she kissed me and called me * Bennie ' that 
 morning I came back ; that she was not mistaken in thinking there 
 was some good left in me, trust me and I will be your friend." 
 
 They were standing facing one another in the roadway by the old 
 red farm gate, Hope nervously picking at the corners of her shawl 
 and her downcast eyes filled with tears. Fop a moment she could 
 not trust her voice to answer him and when she spoke it was sadly 
 uncertain in tone, though her proud spirit struggled for the mastery. 
 
 **If they say I have ever done anything wrong, or disgraced my- 
 self they tell a cruel, wicked falsehood, and now that you know 
 what passed between your father and me, I have nothing to tell. I 
 supposed that was all. I trust you, and from my heart I thank 
 you." 
 
 As she thanked him she looked up and met that steady mesmeric 
 gaze, so disconcerting to women, without flinching. He held out his 
 hand, and as she placed her ungloved fingers within the warm clasp, 
 it seemed to bring peace and hope to her. 
 
 "Miss Campton, you will never regret any confidence you place 
 in me in tliis matter, and I will not cease till I have followed every 
 rumor to its source. All I want is your friendship and approval. I 
 would have begun my task sooner, only I dare not without your 
 sanction." 
 
 **It is strange," said she sadly, "that you should desire my 
 friendship while the good people of Applebury think it almost in- 
 decent to speak to me " 
 
 " If you want Hope to catch her death of cold," cried Bessie, as she 
 swung open the gate, "you had better keep her out here a little 
 longer. Father's away, and for the last ten minutes I have been 
 making the most frantic signals and motions, according to your in- 
 structions this morning, for you to come in. I wouldn't have come 
 down now to drag you in, only that I know Hope is not strong 
 enough to stand out here in the cold wind." Bessie concluded in an 
 apologetic tone, for as she swung the gate open, she saw Ben release 
 Hope's hand, and with a little pang of jealousy she wondered how 
 long Ben had admired Hope. 
 
 " I told you this morning, Bess," explained Ben, as he put his arm 
 affectionately around his sister, "that Miss Campton had a wrong 
 idea of what was being said about her, and I want you to bear 
 
150 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 >■ » 
 
 r 
 
 
 
 witness right now that I neither believed the first slander nor the 
 second." 
 
 '* That's 80, Ben ; you didn't, and I never heard the first story till 
 to-day, and I can asfiure you I never believed the second." 
 
 "Oh, Bess, Bess, why didn't you tell roe?" cried Hope, tremul- 
 ously. *' You might have known I would never have rested under 
 such a suspicion if I had known what it was. I thought it was the 
 other, and dare not resent it for fear I might only bring more shame 
 on the memory of my parents." 
 
 "Don't say another word about it," said Ben, with a joyousncss 
 in his voice, which, strangely enough, found echo in Hope's gentle 
 protest. ' 
 
 "As soon as you can," continued Ben, cheerfully; "you may hunt 
 up the history of your father and. mother, and get the name of your 
 birth-place and all the facts you have atiout your family afiiiiirs. 
 Just now I'll go up to the hotel, get some supper " 
 
 "Why, stay here to tea, Ben," interrupted Bess, while Hope's 
 bright eyes reflected the invitation. 
 
 "—No Bessie, the Deacon might return— then I will proceed to 
 the residence of Sister Hooper, and that asthmatic old scandal- 
 monger will have to tell me all she knows about the stories she has 
 been circulating." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 SISTER hooper's CONFESSION. 
 
 Sister Hooper was the wife of an Englishman whose first name 
 was George. She was also the mother of a hulking youth with the 
 same given name. From the infancy of the boy Mr. Hooper had 
 always addressed him as "Jarge," and Sister Hooper had adoptt'd 
 the same pronunciation in addressing both husband and son. They 
 lived in an old-tashioned house with a fire-place in it as big as a 
 pantry and the chill of the December night had induced Mrs. 
 Hooper to insist on a fire, before which she sat with feet and hands 
 extended to the blaze taking solid comfort, when a knock sounded 
 loudly on the kitchen door. 
 
 "Jarge, dear (wheeze), see who that kin be (wheeze)." 
 
 "Jarge, jr.," lumbered over to the door and admitted Mr. Ben- 
 jamin Jones who had resumed his grey wig and was masquerading 
 in the role of a lawyer. 
 
 " Is Mrs. George Hooper within t" he inquired, in an oppressively 
 loud and formal tone. 
 
SISTER HOOPER'S CONFESSION 
 
 151 
 
 I 
 
 **Thar' she be," answered George, pointing over his shoulder with 
 his thumb. 
 
 Without waiting for an invitation to enter Bon stalked through 
 the door in the most stately manner, placed his hat on tlie table 
 and, taking his gloves, straightened them out and laid them by his 
 glossy tile. Drawing a chair up to the fire and seating himself 
 directly opposite Mrs. Hooper, whose wheezes were coming thick 
 and fast, he {)laced the points of his fingers and thumbs together, 
 and began in a deep, and what he considered a legal tone, to address 
 the asthmatic matron before him. 
 
 " You are Mrs. George Hooper, I believe." 
 
 *' Tes, sir," she wheezed. Mr. George Hooper, senior, and ** Jarge," 
 Junior, moved their chairs so that they could better observe the 
 dignified stranger. 
 
 *' I need hardly tell you, madame, that my legal advice has been 
 solicited and engaged by a young lady employed in the village of 
 Applebury as a school teacher, whose name is Miss Hope Campton." 
 
 *' Yeh don't say ! " wheezed Sister Hooper, with a very perceptible 
 start. 
 
 " I am informed, madame, and verily believe, that you have been 
 relating, circulating and spreading abroad reports, innuendoes and 
 slanders exceedingly damaging to the young lady's good name." 
 
 A frightened gasp, which ended in a prolonged wheeze and a hys* 
 tericai gulp was Mrs. Hooper's only answer. The face of '* Jarge," 
 senior, wore anything but a happy expression. 
 
 *' These reports, innuendoes and slanders," continued Ben, with a 
 grandiloquent wave of his hand and a look of such sternness that 
 Mrs. Hooper fairly sunk into herself before his gaze, '* have so in* 
 Jured the reputation and feelings of my client that I am safe in say- 
 ing that the worldly belongings of yourself and husband would not 
 repay her if a Jury were to fix the damages in a court of law." 
 
 Apoplexy was evidently about to seize upon Mrs. Hooper as she 
 endeavored to plead not guilty. She was interrupted by Ben's* im- 
 perative gesture as he continued : 
 
 ** Not a word, madame ; I want no argument with you. I have 
 come simply to state the ruinous predicament in which you have 
 involved yourself by that unruly member— your tongue. Miss 
 Campton is already rich, and has no desire to bring ruin on yourself 
 and family, much as your conduct deserves the most unrelenting 
 prosecution and punishment. Before entering into legal proceed- 
 ings, which are about to be begun, I have been instructed to offer 
 you an opportunity to reti'act and thoroughly explain the statements 
 you have seen fit to make. Are you prepared to do it, or will you 
 take the consequences of the law?" 
 
 
 
 ill 
 
152 
 
 WIDOWL'B JONES 
 
 : h 
 
 ?4 I 
 
 As Bon concluded his harangue with a most sonorous stress on 
 the word *'law," lie threw hintHelC back in his chair, and, inserting 
 Itis thumbs in ihu aruiholen of ilia vest, Razed threateningiy at the 
 fat and frightcneii woman. 
 
 **Jarge," senior, reHoiving to have something to say, rose 
 clumsily from his chair and stood beside the Are and opposite his 
 wife and Ben. He was a large, heavy man, whose progress from 
 poverty had been slow. Sixty years of toil had made him a com- 
 petency, but there was notliing so haunted him and i: ade his 
 dreams and imaginings terrible as the fear that by some mischance 
 he might lo^e his farm and go to the *' workus" to end his days. He 
 was not a bad-hearted man, and, always fearful of his own future, 
 had never in his life sent a beggar hungry from his door. He had 
 always minded his own business, and, following his Old Country 
 trade of ditcher and grave-digger, had made many an honest dollar 
 draining the lands and preparing the last resting-places of the 
 people of Applebury. 
 
 Ben could not help admiring the rugged old man who stood so 
 respectfully before him wichout a coat or vest, his flannel shirt 
 open, disclosing a big, hairy chest, looking every inch a man as he 
 stretched his brawny arm warningly towards his wife. 
 
 ** Oi to'ald thee, old 'ooman, thou'd git I and thine into trooble 
 wi' thy clattering toong. I kuowed as that Campton 'ooman had 
 nowt th' matter wi' she, an' I 'ave told thee a doosen toimes t' 
 ho'ald thy toong. Loike enoof," he bellowed, reproachfully, *' w'en 
 we're a' sent t' the workus, ye'll learn summat and keep thy nasty 
 toong for beratin' me and Jarge." 
 
 Big drops of perspiration rolled down the old man's forehead as 
 this awful catastrophe suggested itself. 
 
 " Oh ! Jarge," wheezed Sister Hooper, in such a state of collapse 
 that she dared not even look at Ben. ** Why, Jarge, I've never sed 
 nuthin'l" 
 
 *' Doa'nt try tah lie oot o' it, old 'ooman. Everybody knoaws how 
 much thou't ben sayin' and ther' a'nt noa lyin' oot o't noo." 
 
 The old man was almost crying, and the mouth of "Jarge," 
 Junior, hung wide open and his eyes were as big as saucers. 
 
 " Yes, yeh did, mother *' 
 
 *' Shu't oop, brat," roared his father. 
 
 Ben not wanting to prolong this painful family scene interrupted, 
 just as the old woman began another wheeze. " I am very glad -» 
 see, sir, that you are in no mood to uphold the indefensible coi 
 of your wife." 
 
 " Goa tah bed, booby," roared the old man, making a lunge at uis 
 son, who shambled off with great reluctance. 
 
 i^ ■-■■■ 
 
SISTER IWOPF.KS CONFESSION 
 
 153 
 
 *Noa, I doa'nt, tho' I'm noa 'and fcr goin' bock on ma kin folk, I 
 (ioa'nC want no trooble o' her fetchin'." 
 
 " WoU then," said Ben, *'ifshe will make a statemont to me of 
 how and why she started these ntories. Til take it down in writing 
 and she can sign it, and I will give her and you a written guarantee 
 that there will be no further prosecution.*' 
 
 ** I didn't start nuthin'," wheezed Mrs. Hooper, her fat face look- 
 ing gray and flabby as she sweated in mortal fear. 
 
 " Doan't deny it, hoozy. Sit oop tah th* table, lawyer, I'll stak 
 ma' life her tells yah th' trooth er I'll mak' she, I wull. " 
 
 After an ink bottle had been flshed out of the cupboard drawer 
 and a rusty pen supplied htm, Ben proceeded to crossuxanine Sister 
 Hooper. 
 
 "Now, state to me exactly the origin of the scandal you started 
 about Miss Hope Camptun." 
 
 " Really, mister (wheoze), I didn't intend nuthin' wrong " 
 
 '*Dang It, 'oman, goa otf an' tell thy stoory 'ilhout mackln' ony 
 more if s an* an's." 
 
 ** How it all came 'bout, as fer's I kin tell," wheezed Mrs. Hooper, 
 somewhat revived by the belief that a frank confession would 
 relieve her from any further liability, " me an' my Danny was over 
 teh uncle Abe Gaylor's (wheeze) and Bub Gaylor told our Danny 'bout 
 Deacon Jones proposin* ^eh Hope an* I (wheeze and gulp) ast 
 her 'bout it an' she acted seh queer (wheeze) thet I thought there 
 must be suthin' wrong an' when I press't her 'bout it she (wheeze) 
 got mad an* said suthin' 'bout th' stories goin' round 'bout her, 
 though I hed never heard none of 'em (wheeze) up to then. She 
 (gulp) kind 'o hinted thet th' Deacon must hev* told me some 
 tales 'bout her (wheeze) an' I never did nuthin*, but Jist say 
 that she *Iowed tch me thet there was stories 'bout her 
 that was so, (rapid succession of wheezes) an' I never knowed what 
 they was, an' tai'nt my fault thet people guessed she hed been in 
 some man-scrape (wheeze) afore she come here,— fer that's what 
 struck me as bein' th' matter (wheeze) though I never heard nuthin* 
 agin her nor I don't believe now nobody else hez." 
 
 Sister Hooper having concluded with a series of excellent attempts 
 at an apoplectic fit *' Jarge" brought her a dipperful of water which 
 partially restored her. 
 
 "Then you admit starting these stories," demanded Ben sharply, 
 " out of whole cloth." 
 
 " Well, there ai'nt nuthin' more in it then jist what I tell yeh 
 (sob, gulp and wheeze in succession). I don't know nuthin' wrong 
 'bout her and I never he'rd nuthin' (strangled whee£e>--only what 
 she 'lowed was bein' said, though she never let on what it was.** 
 
154 
 
 WIDOWEB JONF.S 
 
 r 
 
 't 
 
 Ben having drawn up a letter embodying these sitatements, 
 which was' sipjned by Mrs. Hooper and witnessed by " Jarge," pre- 
 pared to talce his departure. 
 
 "Thar' won't be ony moore trooble, will 'ar, lawyer?" inquired 
 ** Jarge," uneasily. 
 
 "No, my friend, there won't be any more trouble. You have 
 acted the part of a man in this matter, and I can promise you that 
 there will 'be no legal proceedings. Tour wife can thank you for 
 getting out of it as easily as she has, ano I hope it will be a warning 
 to her to control her tongue better in future. There is but one stip- 
 ulation that I wish to malce, and that is that you will give me your 
 word that your wife will start out to-morrow morniiig and tell every 
 one she has been talking to that the story she circulated was a false- 
 hood, though she may let herself down easy by saying she thouglit 
 it was true." 
 
 "Jarge " expended his big, hard hand to Ben, with t'^.e assurance, 
 " I'll see 'e old 'ooman doas th' right thing by tii' school-mum, and if 
 she doan't, 1*11 advertise she in the paipers that I woan't be respon- 
 sible fer ony o ahe's debts or th' talks her tells." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A FiERCK FALLING OUT. 
 
 t' ^' 
 
 Deacon Jones on Monday morning was but little less furious 
 than on Sunday night. When coming homo from Gilbert's he would 
 have given all his earthly possessions to have accomplished the ruin 
 and humiliation of Ruth and Ben, but a night of sleeplesb think- 
 ing had revealed the absurdity of his position, and, like every other 
 man, the Deucon couM not endure the thought of being laughed at. 
 He felt sure that Ben and Rufe would tell the story to every 
 lounger in the village tavern, but they would not be believed unless 
 Uncle Abe Gaylor repeated the conversation they had had at his 
 gate the night before. The widocver resolved to make pea:e with 
 Uncle Abe if possible, but felt it would be difficult when he remem- 
 bered the way he had threatened his friend to brin^ him before the 
 church to answer for his profanity. 
 
 "Where's A-brumI" enquires the Deacon, nervously, of the very 
 contemptuous looking matron who opened the Gaylor door in reply 
 to his knock. 
 
 "Out to th' barn buskin' corn. Yer goin* teh be married agin, 
 ain't yeh, Deacon}'* 
 
 T, 
 
 L*.;W >3> 
 
A FIERCE FALLING OUT 
 
 155 
 
 1 ' 
 J 
 
 "Oh, no, Sister Gaylor, thet report's jist a joke on me." 
 
 " Why, yeh said so ycrself, didn't yeh ? I heard yeh was braggin' 
 teh everybody thet yeh was gnnto marry Ruth Gilbert." 
 
 '*0h, no. no. Sister Gaylor; nuthin' of th' kftad. How people dew 
 talk 1 Good morn in'." . 
 
 The already-disconcerted Deacon led his horse up to the barn, 
 tied it to a post and carefully covered it with a buffalo robe, 
 inwardly praying the while that he would find Uncle Abe alone. 
 
 "Why, good mornin', Dee-kin," chirped Uncle Abe, looking up 
 from his work with his eyes twinkling. " Cum teh git me fer a 
 bridesmaid teh stand up teh th' weddin' with yeh ?'* 
 
 " Now, A-brum," protested the Deacon, with an uneasy smirk, 
 "don't run on me. I've come teh ast yer advice. Where's Frank 
 and Bub?" 
 
 " Gone over teh th* other place teh feed th' cattle. Yeh want my 
 advice? I thought yeh'd got too fer fur ihct. Dee-kin," grinned 
 Uncle Abe from his nest of corn-stalks. "I thought from th' way 
 yeh talked last night yeh didn't need no friends no more, since yer 
 gunto marry Rufh Gilbert." 
 
 "I hain't goin' teh marry Ruth Gilbert. Yeh Jumped too quick 
 last night, A-brum." 
 
 " Hain't goin' toh marry her, eh ? Well, dang me, I'm glad a' thet 
 —fer her sake more'nyourn''—addod Uncle Abe, manifesting his pleas- 
 ure by tossing in the air an ear of corn, which fell with a rattle on 
 the yellow heap in the corner of the barn floor. "I didn't think she 
 was fool enough teh throw herself away on th' likes a' you." 
 
 *' Well, yeh air compliment') y, A-brum. What a tur'ble hand 
 yeh air teh twit folks." 
 
 " Well, if I hain't compUraent'ry, Dee-kin," answered Uncle Abe, 
 complacently continuing VkU husking, "I guess it is beca'se I don't 
 feel like handin' any compliments 'round after th' way yeh said yeh 
 was goin' teh hev me afore th* church fer swearin' when no e'thly 
 man could have helped cussin' at th' thought a' you marryin' a nice, 
 honest, merry-hearted little gurl like Ruth Gilbert." 
 
 As he spoke Uncle Abe got excited. " Why, I'd a'ruther bin 
 arrangin' the fun'ral an' seen th' gurl laid out fer her grave than 
 married to a pesky old critter like you." 
 
 The Deacon had a long corn-stalk in his hand, and while fie listened 
 to Uncle Abe's candid remarks he nervously switched at the ears of 
 corn scattered here and there over che barn floor. 
 
 " Don't be soh hard on me, A-brum ; I'm in tur'ble trubble, and I 
 come toh yeh now teh ast yer advice. I didn't think fer a minute 
 thetyou'd Jumpat me an' abuse me like yeh hev, or I'd never sot 
 foot on th' place," sighed the Deacon, his face a picture of grief. 
 
 mm 
 
mmmtmm 
 
 m 
 
 156 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ^ i'' 
 
 Uncle Abe's insatiable curiosity prompted him to a more condll* 
 atory manner. 
 
 " Tain't no wuss then yeh jumped on teh me last night, Dee-kin, 
 but I hain't got no ill-feelin's ; if I kin help yeh out of any scrape, 
 why Jist go right ahead an' tell me all about it." 
 
 " I hain't in no scrape, but thet Ben a' mine has been tryin' teh 
 make a fool a' me." 
 
 "Why, is Ben home?" 
 
 " Tes, he's back, play in' all sorts a' pranks on me ; an' last night 
 up teh Gilbert's he sot Ruth agin' me, an' acted in a way thet nigh 
 broke my heart." 
 
 "Mebby he wants teh marry Ruth hisself ?" 
 
 " Mebby he does. That kind of a feller wants teh marry every 
 goo.Mookin' gurl he sees. Like enuff he's got half-a dozen wives 
 lyin' 'round one place'n another. I hain't no confidence in sich*s 
 him I" 
 
 " He don't seem teh hev much confidence in you, nuther. It's 
 just about even Stephen 'tween yeh, I guess 1" laughed Uncle Abe. 
 "What did he do teh yeh?'* 
 
 ** Well, thet ain't nuther here ner there. All I kin tell yeh is 
 that if folks is punished fer breakin' th' commandment, ' Honor yer 
 father an' yer mother,' I wouldn't want teh be in Ben's shoos when 
 he Stan's afore the great white throne on jedgment day." 
 
 " I suppose he raised a laugh on yeh ? " enquired Uncle Abe, taking 
 out his knife and commencing to whittle a corn-scalk. 
 
 "Let's don't talk no more 'bout him, A-brum. It makes me wild 
 teh think I'd ever a' raised a son thet n'd be guilty a' sich doin's as 
 his'n. I hain't hevin' no comfort 'ith my fam'ly, an' I've made up 
 my mind teh let 'em shift fur 'emselves. I'm a-goin' teh git 
 married agin whether they like it er no', an' if they don't like it 
 they kin jist lump it an' git out!" exclaimed the Deacon, with 
 determination. " I ast yer advice oust ' 
 
 " Yes, an' if ye'd 'uv took it," interrupted Uncle Abe, " yeh'd 
 be'n a blamed sight better off instead o' worry in' that Campton gurl 
 an* startin' stories 'bout her till she looks ready teh drop 'ith shame, 
 an' hardly anybody '11 speak to her." 
 
 " I didn't start no stories 'bout her, A-brum. Yeh never heard 
 me say a word agin her." 
 
 " Well, someone did, an' I've always kind a' thought it was rou 
 frum what Hope let on teh me one day she wa9 here. What's there 
 agin' her anyhow f " enquired Uncle Abe, peering curiously at the 
 Deacon from under those funny little folds of skin which made his 
 eyes look like bright black beads shining throufl^h pleated wrinkles 
 and a shaggy fringe of eyebrows. 
 
A FIERCE FALLING OUT 
 
 157 
 
 ncili- 
 
 The Deacon had not yet forgiven Hope for her scornful refusal 
 of his proposal and after a brief silence, during which his pale eyes 
 were following the squares and circles he was marking with a corn- 
 stalk in the dust of the barn floor, he renolved to tell what he knew. 
 
 " Teh won't never tell, A-brum, if I give yeh th' facts?" asked the 
 Deacon slowly. 
 
 ** Tell I why of course I won't tell. I never told nuthin' anybody 
 ever told me— yeh know that. It's jist as safe as if yeh told it teh 
 th* dead. I won't whisper a word 1 " 
 
 ** Well, then, I kin tell yeh that any stories 'bout Hope havin* 
 done anythin' wrong herself ain't true an' I don't know how they 
 got started, but me bein' an executor, while I was lookin' over some 
 a' her papers I come acrost a marriage cer-tiffy-cut of her paw an' 
 maw an' tied right up 'ith it in th' same bundle was th' cer-tiffy-cut 
 they got when they registered her birth an' I noticed th' marriage 
 lines was in November, 1860, an' " 
 
 The Deacon paused, seized the corn-stalk with both hands while 
 a look of pious horror came into his face at the thought of the dis- 
 closure he was about to make : 
 
 —"the birth cer-tifTy-cut showed thet Hope was born in January, 
 1861. I didn't notis' nuthin' at flrst, but when I got flgurin' out 
 how long it u'd be afore she was of age teh git her property it 
 struck me all to onct " 
 
 Again the Deacon pau&ed and pulled his face out to its full 
 length, as he concluded in an undertone : 
 
 — *' thet she'd been born 'bout pretty nigli as long's they'd been 
 married." 
 
 Uncle Abe, who before now had seen almanacs taken down and 
 calculations made of a similar description, grasped the idea at once, 
 but didn't seem to be as paralyzed with horror as was the puri- 
 tanical Deacon. 
 
 ** Well, what of it, I s'pose if there was anyone mean enough teh 
 do it, thet kalkilations a' that kind 'ud hit lots a' folks 'sides Hope. 
 I don't see nuthin agin' her in that. If she'd been consulted like 
 enough she'd hev be'n born a year er two younger'n she is. There 
 hain't no reason fer yeh puUin' yer mug down till it's as long's thet 
 corn-stalk 'bout anythin' a' thet kind, and if yeh've gone and told it 
 
 'round after th' way her mother trusted yeh, I think yeh're a d n, 
 
 mean old skunk, if I hev to be brought 'afore th' church next Sun- 
 day fer sayin' it," exclaimed Uncle Abe, viciously, shutting his jack 
 knife with a snap and shoving it into his pocket. 
 
 "Bat I hain't told it, A-brum, teh nobody but you, 'ceptin 
 Hope " 
 
 ** An' what'n thunder did yeh go an' tell her fert" 
 
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 I.^IWpw flllRP »^f' W|i »<WJ 
 
 f-»«'tW! 
 
 ffPiifJW 
 
 
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 p ^.■ 
 
 
 158 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ** Well, I thought she ought teh know. I felt it my dooty teh tell 
 her 8o she wouldn't act so haughty an' ovcrbearin' teh people as she 
 docM." 
 
 •* Yer dooty 1 " squeaked Uncle Abe, scornfully. " Yer dooty I 
 Well, dang me if it doesn't make me laugh t* hear yeh talk 'hout 
 dooty I You don't know no more 'bout dooty than a hog does 'bout 
 'rithmetic She never acted haughty ner overbearin' to nobody that 
 minded their own biz-ness. She might hev given yeh a settin' out 
 when yeh ast her teh marry yeh, an' I wouldn't hev thought much 
 uvver if she hadn't. I 'spose that's th' way yeh got even 'ith th' 
 poor critter I " 
 
 ** Brother Gaylor," said the Deacon, severely, but unable to look 
 his friend in the face, or more than furtively raise his eyes from the 
 geometrical exercises with the corn-stalk on the floor, "yeh hain't 
 no right teh talk teh me like that. I guess I know my dooty jist 
 as well's you kin tell me, an' I think my daily walk an' conversa- 
 tion is nigher that ev th' Master's than yourn." 
 
 ** Don't give me none of yer cant. Deacon Jones," shouted Uncle 
 Abe, excitedly, as he sprang from his nest of corn-stalks. ** Either 
 you're goin' teh git kicked out o' th' church on th' town line, er I'm 
 goin' out. Yeh can't call a church meetin' too soon fer me. I've 
 jist took all th' danged snivel an' sass from yeh I'm gun to." 
 
 The Deacon rose with considerable dignity, and, extending his 
 long arm, he shook the corn-stalk he had been holding threateningly 
 at Uncle Abe. 
 
 *• Brother Gaylor, yeh car't bully-rag me. I'vebe'n too consistent 
 a (Christian in this neighberhood fer th' last forty years fer you er 
 anybody else teh make trouble fer me in th' church." 
 
 **CaU yer meetlh' I Call yer meetin' ! Don't stand there shakin' 
 nuthin' at me. I kin bring evidence agin' yeh that'll make 
 yeh sick I" 
 
 *'Yeh can't; yeh can't do it, A-brum Gaylor I I hain't done 
 nuthin' that kin be brought up agin' me, let alone any thin* you kin 
 rake up fer th' church meetin'." 
 
 '* Yeh hain't, eh? How 'bout the cow yeh sold teh Widder Smith, 
 an' her a' takin' in washin' teh keep her fam'l y from starvin*, an' 
 the danged old thing was seh old she hadn't a tooth in her head an' 
 yeh hed teh feed her on mush teh keep her frum starvin', an' yeh 
 charged her the price of two cows? An' how 'bout thet set a' har- 
 ness yeh worked off on th' last preacher thet was here, fer bein' as 
 good as new? An' how 'bout bein' hauled up afore th' cheese 
 factory fer Hkimrnin' th' milk can afore yeh sent it; an' how 'bout 
 abusm' yer wife—" 
 
 :,i»m»^'i;^4Mk'j£m 
 
A FIERCE FALLING OUT 
 
 159 
 
 ** I never abused my wife, Abe Gaylor. If yeh say I did, yer a 
 liar." 
 
 " I kin prove yeh did 1 " 
 
 " Yeh lie ; yer can't prove I did I " 
 
 ** I kin, too, by yer own fam'ly ! " 
 
 " I s'pose Frank told yeh that ?— suthin' he found out hangin' 
 'round our Bess. Well, he'll never marry her, I kin tell yeh that, 
 after th' drunken spree he hed up tch th' village last winter." 
 
 ** Yeh say my Frank was drunk up teh th' village?" demanded 
 Uncle Abe, advancing threateningly. 
 
 '* Yes, I say it, an' I kin prove it, too." 
 
 Uncle Abe glanced around the barn, and a whiffletree leaning 
 against the door caught his eye. He seized it and again advanced 
 towards the Deacon. 
 
 " Take thet back er I'll bust yer head in fer yeh. My Frank 
 drunk! You kin slander women who hain't no friends, but yeh 
 can't say nothin* agin my Frank. He is Mio best boy there is 'round 
 here, and he wan't never drunk," shouted Uncle Abe. " Take it back, 
 I tell yeh I" 
 
 "I won't take nuthin' back," retorted the Deacon, watching for 
 agoodopportunity to close with his antagonist. "He was drunk, 
 an' I'll hev yeh afore th' court fer threat'nin' langwidge." 
 
 "Don't hit him, father, I was drunk," interposed Frank Gaylor, 
 who had entered from the stable and heard tlie Deacon's charge. 
 
 ** Now, didn't I tell yeh ! " snarled the Deacon. 
 
 ••Yes, yeh told him," retorted Frank, fiercely. ''It's prettv nigh 
 a year ago, and you are th' only man in th' village mean enoud^h to 
 let father or mother know about it." 
 
 The whiffletree dropped from Uncle Abe's hands. "Frank,* 
 he cried, •' ^ as yeh drunk ? " 
 
 *• Yes, father, I was. The boys put up a Job on me at the tavern 
 one night. I had no business to be there, but I happened in and sat 
 around listenin' to their talk and drinkin* cider, I thought, but it was 
 half whisky, and I got tipsy and made a fool of myself. Everybody 
 knew I wasn't to blame, except for bein' there, an' they never let 
 you an' mother know." 
 
 His father's passionate espousal of his cause and the shame he saw 
 in his face wounded Frank more than a thousand reproaches. 
 
 "I'll never do it afrain, father," he exclaimed, repentantly, as he 
 stood in his manly \ ay before the old man, whose pride he had 
 always been. "Never, so long as I live, will anybody ever get me 
 to take a drop of anything in a tavern again. I'd ought to have told 
 you sooner, but you have always been so good to me, father, that I 
 was ashamed to." 
 
mm 
 
 '''^^.-■K-Vr*' ■■^■w.ujiiag 
 
 160 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ■ii 
 
 
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 I 
 
 k 
 
 I 
 
 
 **I believe in yeh, Frank, an' wish yeh bed told me afore, but it's 
 all right, Frank," cried the old man, reaching out and seizing his 
 son by the arms. " I wish yeh'd staid away anuther minnit an* I'd 
 a* giv' this old skunk a welt acrost th' head thet would hev made 
 him hump." 
 
 *' Don't quarrel with him— for my sake, and— and -and— for 
 Bessie's sake." 
 
 " Bessie hain't nuthin' teh you an' never will be, an' if I ever 
 ketch yeh on my farm again I'll dog yeh off," snapped the Deacon, 
 buttoning up his coat. " 'Tain't no wonder yer father lets yeh off 
 easy fer th' way ye've acted, for it ain't more'n six months since he 
 was Az full ez a tick while he was away on the jury up at th' county 
 town, an' I'll hev ye afore th' church, Abe Gaylor, inside a week, 
 er I'll know th' reason why." 
 
 "Go ahead," said Frank, "I'm glad he's my father instead of 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, an' I'm glad yer his son an' not mine,"answered the Deacon 
 with a malignant look, as he slunk out of the door. 
 
 " Say, Frank," half whispered Uncle Abe after the Deacon had 
 gone, ** what he says is right 'bout me gitiin' full up teh th' county 
 town, but it hain't happened afore in ten years. It'll come out at th' 
 church meetin*, so yeh might jisl as well know it, but 'cause I hain't 
 jist what I ought to be, hain't no reason fer you carryin' on like th' 
 way we used teh when I was a boy an' hed no bringin' up. Yeh'll 
 never drink agin, will yeh, Frank ? " 
 
 " Never, father,— as long as I live." 
 
 "An' say, Frank, don't let on teh mother.'* 
 
 " I won't, father, you can be sure of that." 
 
 " I'll tell her myself, Frank, jest as soon as I git a good chance 
 afore th' church meetin' comes off, an* while she's good an' mad at 
 th' Deacon she won't be seh hard onto you'u me." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 IN WHICH A LOVB STORY DEVELOPS SOMEWHAT. 
 
 When Ben's interview with the Hoopers was over he hurried 
 liome and it was scarcely half-past nine as ho slipped quietly on 
 the stoop without the farm-house and peered through the kitchen 
 window. Bessie was sitting by the table with some sewing in hor 
 lap, while Hope, with a book before her, sat opposite. They were 
 talking earnestly, and he had never before seen Hope's face look 
 brighter or lovelier. 
 
 i*^ 
 
A LOVE STORY DEVELOPS SOMEWHAT 
 
 161 
 
 Ben tapped ge itly at the door. At once the conversation ceased 
 and Bessie demarided : 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 *' Open the door and see," answered Ben. 
 
 *' Why, it's Bon," he heard her exclaim. A bolt was slipped and 
 the door opened. 
 
 *' Why, who would have thought of seeing you at this hour of the 
 night?" 
 
 ** No one who doesn't know my habits. I heard up at the village 
 that the old man wouldn't be home to-ni{;ht so I thought I'd come 
 down and have a little talk with you and Miss Campton over the 
 matters we were discussing to-day." Then turning to Hope he 
 asked, " Have you found any of those papers I spoke of T' 
 
 '* You are very good, indeed, to take so much interest," she 
 answered with a blush, " but your father has them all and as he is 
 not back yet I could not get them." 
 
 '* They are yours. Miss Campton, and not his. If Bessie can tell 
 me where they are I'll go and get them for you." 
 
 " They are in the top drawer of the bureau in father's room," 
 cried Bessie jumping up and preparing to lead the way. 
 
 " But— but— would it be right to take them when he is away?'* 
 questioned the conscientious Hope. 
 
 " I think it would," answered Ben coolly. " I know we would not 
 get them when he is home, and as they are yours, if you will consti- 
 tute me your attorney I'll hold myself guilty of all the sin connected 
 with examining them. By-the-way, here is a ' : 'tie confession I ex- 
 torted from that Hooper woman." As Ben tO£»sod it over to Hope 
 he began a most graphic description of his interview with " .Targe " 
 and the wheezy old person who had worked so much mischief to 
 Hope. 
 
 "Not so loud," whispered Bessie warningly, as Ben joined in the 
 chorus of laughter his description excited, " or you'll wake Israel 
 and Lou." 
 
 That Ben had accomplished so much in her behalf warmed 
 Hope's heart, and when Bessie returned to the parlor with the 
 bureau drawer, in which her father's state papers were kept, her 
 gentle, eyes were swimming in tears. 
 
 " You can't imagine the load you have lifted from my mind. I 
 could have died with shame to-day when you told me what people 
 were saying, but now I know that is all past and people will treat 
 me differently," cried she, pressing her hands against her heart — 
 and, continuing after an instant's pause—" till they hear the other 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, now, don't commence to fret yourself about the * other 
 
 ,.t.<\ 
 
lii'^i i it " . ' '.'^ i 1^, III " I . v;;,,r. *; i fi, . iT ii^S g 
 
 162 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 Miing' until we have commenced to examine it," said Ben, cheer- 
 fully, as he glanced hurriedly over the papers before him. A couple 
 of small blue documents were in his hand. He glanced first at the 
 one and then at the other, and in spite of himself his face changed. 
 
 " What's the matter?" asked Hope, anxiously, her hand trem- 
 bling as she reached it forth in a voiceless demand for the paper. 
 
 The lamp stood on the little parlor table, over which the papers 
 were scattered. Bessie, with that intuitive knowledge of the 
 eternal fitness of things which is characteristic of a clever woman, 
 had slipped quietly out of the room, leaving Ben and Hope together. 
 
 ** This is the marriage certificate of your parents," answered Ben, 
 quietly, '* and this the registration of your birth." 
 
 **Let me see them," whispered Hope, almost inarticulately, a 
 blush suffusing her face and neck. 
 
 *' Never mind, Miss Campton," he answered, replacing the other 
 papers in the drawer, ** Til take care of them." 
 
 " I must see them," she cried, chokingly. " Give them to me 1 '' 
 
 Ho handed them to her, watching her face intently as she studied 
 them for a moment, and then folding them quietly gave them back. 
 Her face was as white as marble, her eyes downcast and her lips 
 pressed tightly together. 
 
 " He told the truth ; there is a stain on the memory of my 
 parents and on my own name. In spite of everything I didn't be- 
 lieve it, but now," she whispered, looking up at him with eyes large 
 and tearful with regret, " I'm sorry I know it I I know that what 
 you have done was for my good, but I'm almost sorry I didn't let the 
 matter drop and still live with a half faith in the past." 
 
 She rose as if to leave the room, but Ben's gentle hand and 
 kindly voice detained her. 
 
 "Hope," he said eagerly, "don't mistake my motives. What I 
 have done and what I propose to do is because I love you. Don't 
 start away from me, because I don't intend to press my suit. I tell 
 you now for fear you may think I deceived you, and I love you most 
 because you hate deceit. Your loyalty to father which made you dis- 
 like me in the summer ; your love of your parents, which made you 
 think it a sin to smile or sing after they were laid away in the 
 grave ; the honor and purity that shone out of your eyes ; the truth 
 and affection heard in every vibration of your voice, made me lovu 
 you and trust you with my whole heart. While I was away from 
 you every tender memory, except that of mother, was replaced by 
 thoughts of you. When Israel wrote to me that you were in trouble 
 and that father was the cause of it I came back in the hope thai> 
 since you had seen father in his true colors you might forgive me 
 
A LOVE STORY DEVELOPS SOMEWHAT 
 
 16S 
 
 for the conduct which seemed heartless and uunatural when you 
 believed in him and I hated him." 
 
 Hope stood looking at him in speechless amazement, and though 
 Ben was chilled by the thought that she hadn't thought of him as 
 he had of her, he was not discouraged. 
 
 ** All this, no doubt, surprises you. You wonder that a few days 
 of a sorrowful summer could last so long in my memory, but those 
 were days I will never forget— the last day I saw my mother, the 
 days of sorrow and remorse which followed— they are pages of my 
 life to which my memory turns with an eager sorrow, brightened by 
 nothing except the hope that mother is better off and the picture of 
 your face, which has ever been to me the symbol of a pure woman 
 whose heart is full of love of that nature which * suffereth long and is 
 kind, which thinketh no evil ' of one that it loves. You cannot 
 understand how I have hungered for love which will help me and 
 not criticize me. I have wandered and wavered and suffered so 
 much that it has become my one ambition to find someone who has 
 never wandered, never wavered and never suffered for love's sake, 
 to whom I will be everything in the name of love, and she shall 
 be to me a tie binding me to better things, as my mother 
 was—sweetness and beauty and goodness, without a stain of earth 
 upon her. You look at me and wonder! It seems strange to 
 you that I should talk a^ I do, but remember, Hope, that love 
 knows no masters and observes no rules. I am a worldling, 
 and can see Heaven only throu(|;h you. I am old, and yet love 
 never came to me before. I have been faithless ; but in you I have 
 faith. I am cruel enough to delight because you are in trouble, 
 for in it I can hope to make you think of me while I try to serve 
 you. Nothing that has been said, nothing that has been written," 
 cried Ben fervently, as he took the faded blue papers out of her 
 hands, " can make you less to me than you are. Nothing but the 
 acceptance of my love and the gift of yours can make me happier 
 than I am now, standing before you begging that you may think of 
 me and believe in me as you have believed in others who have not 
 loved you more than I do. Don't answer me now. Say nothing, 
 even if there is no hope for me." 
 
 Ben's eyes were never lifted from the beautiful face which 
 watched him with so much wonder, and a slowly changing expres- 
 sion of interest and sympatliy, as he spoke. 
 
 ** I'll copy these papers and give them to Bessie in the morning. 
 For a few days I'll be absent, and when I come back you will know 
 whether there has been a mistake or not, but it will make no differ* 
 ence to me : I hope it will make none to you, if my errand is less sue- 
 oessful than it was with Mrs. Hooper to-night." 
 
^• ^ •tag i^tiiatyi^tiwimfc 
 
 -frS 
 
 vsmss 
 
 164 
 
 TT/DOTT^iJ JONES 
 
 WUbout waiting for a word of reply he quietly opened the door 
 and let her precede him into the kitchen wliere Bessie wai still 
 busy with her sewing and thoughts which Ben would liardly have 
 given her credit for. Womanlike she had already discovered the 
 secret and was prepared to hate Hope if she manifested any sign 
 of not loving Ben as she ou^ht. 
 
 "Good night, little Bess," whispered Ben, bending down and kiss- 
 ing her tenderly, " Good night, Miss Campton 1 Pleasant dreams tu 
 both of you." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A CLEARING UP OP THE PAST 
 
 As Ben walked towards the village he made up his mind that 
 before leaving to investigate the correctness of the documents he 
 carried in his pocket, he would arrange for tiio old Bircli home- 
 !<)tead to be made ready to receive his sisters, and a thrill of happi- 
 ness came to him with the thought that some day he might live in 
 peace there with Hope as his wife. 
 
 Before going to his room he engaged the hotelkeeper's horse and 
 a driver to convey him to the county town. After he had copied the 
 certificates he folded them in this little note addressed to Bessie :— 
 "Dear little Sister: , 
 
 "There is now no telling when the lightning may strike and father come home 
 with a bride. Men will be down in a day or two to fix up the old Birch house. You 
 have the key. Have Israel look after things till I come back. Remember me to Hope. 
 
 " Lovingly yours, Bb»." 
 
 After leaving the letter with a messenger instructed to deliver it 
 next morning Ben started on his long ride through the cold Decem- 
 ber night, his heart warmed and his pulses quickened by the never- 
 fading vision of Hope's lovely face. As the wheels rattled over the 
 frozen ground and the buggy lurched from side to side over the 
 rough road Ben thought how smooth life's Journey would be 
 with Hope by his side. His past life, its disappointments, the 
 revelries in which he had joined, the glare of the footlights, the 
 laughter and applause of the audience, the gay women, the jokes of 
 his comrades, came back to him as if they were part of a distant 
 past. His old ambition to shine as the merriest and most reckless 
 of them all was gone, and there seemed no beauty in anything but 
 the thought of Hope. Now and then the driver tried to engage him 
 in conversation, but Ben replied in monosyllables, and at last the 
 tavern lounger by his side relapsed into sullen silence. 
 
A CLEARING UP OF THE PAST 
 
 166 
 
 -HI 
 
 Half an hour before the morning train left the town Ben's 
 arrangementR had all i)een made. He was pacing up and down the 
 platform of the railway station waiting for the train, when his 
 father, carrying a new oilcloth valise and wearing a shiny hat, 
 entered the depot and purchased a ticket for the place in the West- 
 ern States where ho had been visiting in the summer. The Deacon 
 did not observe Ben till he had entered the car, and after a start of 
 surprise he acknowledged his son's significant "Good morning" 
 by stammering, "Good niornin'; I didn't 'spect teh— teh— see you 
 here." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," said Ben, coolly, seating himself opposite 
 his father, " but I thought I might just as well go along with you 
 and keep you out of mischief." 
 
 The Deacon's hatred of his son had become mixed with whole- 
 some fear, and at the thought of being followed about the country 
 by the self-possessed and sneering face wliich was just then scruti- 
 nizing him with unutterable contempt, big drops of perspiration 
 started out on the Deacon's florid brow. 
 
 " D'ye mean yeh're gunto follow me 'round where ever I go?" 
 
 " Well, that's about the size of it. I noticed the other night that 
 you were hardly fit to travel alone, and as I haven't anything else to 
 do, and knowing you are too modest to invite me, I reckoned I might 
 as well be on hand to stand up at the wedding as a representative 
 of the family which your future wife is to acquire." 
 
 Tlie Deacon glanced around the car fearful lest some acquaintance 
 might overhear the conversation. They were almost alone, and in 
 his desperation the old man determined to " have it out" with Ben. 
 A furious red light was burning in his eyes as he leaned his head for- 
 ward and hissed at Ben in a shrill whisper, " Take keer, Ben Jones, 
 that yeh don't kerry this thing too fur. If yeh follow me 'round when 
 we git out west I'll be th' death of yeh if I hang fer it th' next 
 minnit." 
 
 "It's a long while since I was afraid of you, Deacon; you can't 
 give me any blufT," retorted Ben coolly as he lifted his feet and dis- 
 posed them comfortably on the seat beside his father. " We are 
 likely to have a long journey together, so take it easy on the start 
 and don't heat your blood and get it out of order." 
 
 Ben's quiet strength and bis steady eye overawed the old man 
 who, leaning his head in the corner by the window, covered his face 
 with his hands and began to moan. 
 
 "That sort of thing is played out, Deacon," said Ben contemptu- 
 ously. " You can't work on my feelings. It may have been a good 
 way to bully mother and the girls, but the more you moan the better 
 it pleases me. It makes me really cheerful to see you have a fit." 
 
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 WIDOWBR JONES 
 
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 Deep-drawn sighs and occasional sobs could stUl be heard behind 
 the Deacon's hands. 
 
 **Do yon remember," inquired Ben, leaning forward, *'the 
 morning you kicked me for not taking the cattle to \iatcr? 
 Do you mind the day you knocked me down with a sled -stake 
 because I said something back to you after you hit me over 
 the mouth with your hand ? Do you recollect that pleasant little 
 episode when you abused mother because she brought up some 
 bread and butter to my bedroom where I had been sent snpperless, 
 after a Jiwd day's work, for no other reason than that devil of 
 ugliness was in you as big as a woodchuck ? I suppone you forget 
 the Sunday morning you gave mother a shove and made her fall 
 over the rocking chair because she put her arm around my neck and 
 kissed me and told me not to cry, after you had beaten me for not 
 getting the chores done early euout^h ? I remember, if you don't, 
 every time you ordered me off the farm, every taunt which greeted 
 me when I came back because I wanted to see mother. I'll never 
 forget them. I suppose your memory is not good enough to remind 
 you of the morning I left for good, and you told me not to write to 
 mother or ever dare i^how my face? If you remember all these 
 things you won't be surprised when I tell you that I am not fond of 
 you." 
 
 The Deacon crouched further into his corner, whining ** But ych 
 don't say nuthin' a* how yeh acted teh me an' how yeh wus allu's 
 comin' twixt me 'n'-yer mother." 
 
 *' No, I don't say anything about that. No matter how bad I 
 acted you had nobliing to blame mother for, and yet the otiier night 
 you told Ruth Gilbert you never loved your wife, and sneered at her 
 whose only weakness was her love for the brutal tyrant she mar- 
 ried." 
 
 Ben rose up and seated himself beside his father the more con- 
 yeniently to reproach him. With his elbow on the back of the seat 
 and liis lips close to his father's ear he whispered " Do you remember 
 the funeral ? Do your cruel eyes ever see the scars of toil on thts 
 dead hands which were folded on her breast ? Do those cold lips 
 ever whisper to you in your sleep ? Does that dear old voice never 
 sound in your ears? Do those eyes never stare at you in the dark- 
 ness ? Can it be that that form which stooped and trembled under 
 the burdens you heaped upon it never bends over your bed and asks 
 you why you have so soon forgotten her who toiled early and late 
 without a murmur? Does a cold hand never touch yours " 
 
 *'Ben, fer God's sake," screamed the Deacon, pushing his son 
 away from him, ** don't throw up nuthin' more teh me." 
 
A CLEARING UP OF THE PAST 
 
 167 
 
 To prevent a scene Ben changed his seat and faced the trembling 
 old man. 
 
 **Well, I thought maybe your memory wasn't very good and 
 you'd like to have me remind you of some of the events which 
 have gone to make our lives so pleasant. I can't wish you any 
 worse luck than you will make for yourself. I suppose you are 
 going out west to try to marry one of the Doyland girls. I don't 
 intend to interfere. She will give you bitterer medicine than I can. 
 As we are nearly at the Junction I'll leave you to your own happy 
 thoughts. If you will send me word I'll meet you at the station 
 when you come back. Tou can rest assured we will try and make 
 it pleasant for you at home." 
 
 As the train drew out of the Junction Ben could see his father's 
 head leaning anxiously out of the window to see that his son did 
 not re-embark, and then, full of bitter thought, ho continued his 
 Journey to Hope's old home, still many miles away, where, after a 
 day's search he found the old man whose name appeared as probate 
 Judge on Hope's birth certificate* Ben asked him if he remembered 
 John Campton, who lived there twenty years ago. 
 
 " Well, I should say so. He married my cousin and helped elect 
 me to oflQce the next year after he was married. There was never a 
 better man hereabouts than John Campton, and I don't believe any 
 straighter, honester man e.ver lived than he was." 
 
 Without any more ado Ben told him the story. 
 
 " That can't be right, Mr. Jones; there is some mistake about 
 that. Just come up to the court house with me and we'll see what's 
 the matter. It isn't right, for I remember it Just as well as if it 
 were yesterday when John was married. I was at the wedding, 
 and that was the year before I was elected— see— some time in 1860. 
 Along in the fall of *61 1 was elected, and took ofiice at the beginning 
 of '62 ; so they must have been married over a year before I could 
 have signed any birth certificate. Yet you say my name was on 
 that paper?" 
 
 Ben answered in the affirmative. 
 
 ** And what day did you say it was?" demanded the Judge, as ho 
 stood fumbling over the old folio. " Why, my name couldn't have 
 been on it in '61. I wasn't in office then." 
 
 t/&** Well, that's the date of it. Judge, and it's that date which has 
 caused all the trouble." 
 
 "Why, there it is, in this book— '1862' printed right on the cover. 
 I knew it couldn't have been in '61. That is one of the first entries I 
 made in that book. I remember, now, when I see my writing there, 
 the day John came into this very ollicu and told me that it was a 
 girl, and I wrote that in the book, with all those fiourishes, right 
 
 .. 
 
- T.y».> .«r «i »,-J Hto » ^^ W»^ 
 
 
 168 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 while he was Ht.-iiuling there. And I HaKl, *Ah you're going away 
 from here I'll just give you a curtiticate, and if your daughter ever 
 presentH that to nic when you are dead and gone she can have the 
 best I've gotT I remember how John laughed and said he wjih 
 doing pretty well, and he hoped his girl wouldn't ever have to go 
 begging." 
 
 '* Why, judge, don't you notice that in that book you have got 
 *186L'" 
 
 The judge stared at the entry for a moment and then began to 
 laugh. "Well, now," said he, "don't that beat all. I remember it 
 all now, and like enough that cortiflcate was just as you say. I was 
 feeling so cocky over my election, and it just being after the new year 
 and being accustomed to write ' '61,' I did not think to change the 
 figures and went on writing tlie old numbers— see, I did it for three 
 or four days. See, here is where I f^und out my mistake and began 
 writing "62,"' cried the judge, pointing to the following page. "I 
 guess there are heaps of folks who forget to alter the date for a day 
 or two after the new year comes in." 
 
 *' Yes," said the judge reflectively, " I remember how lots of the 
 fellows around the court house laughed at me over the mistakes I 
 made on the start, but I never thought my carelessness would have 
 got the daughter of my old friend Campton into trouble. You can 
 see for youmclf the mistake I made in this book., and I can see now 
 how it all happened, but it won't take half an hour to get aright 
 certificate and then you can go back and tell the people who ve been 
 talking about John Campton's daughter that they'll have to eat 
 their v/ords or old Judge Topper II come over there and prosecute 
 every mother's son of them for Minnder." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE WIDOWEll FINDS A "COMPANION." 
 
 West of the Mississippi, where the vast prairies are blocked Into 
 squares by osage-oraiige hedges, John Doyland lived amidst toil- 
 gained plenty. He had a large family and he made them all contri- 
 bute to his slow-growing wealth. It was not a happy family. 
 Selfishness and suspicion were the chief characteristics of the parents, 
 and a mean and sordid nature was the natural heritage of the child- 
 ren. The broad and rolling prairies, the cyclones and blizzards and 
 the vastness of everything seem to make tlie Western man bread- 
 minded and generous, but the Doyland family, disliking at first the 
 BhiftleBsuesa and extravagance of their neigh l)ors, bad lived wUhin 
 
 V &cmM, 
 
 tmm 
 
THE WIDOWER FINDS A ** COMPANION" 
 
 169 
 
 themselves, aud later their thrift had enabled them to become the 
 usurers and most hated residents of Shawnee County. Harriet, the 
 eldest of John Doy land's olive branches, was well described by the 
 Deacon to his daughters when he said Hhe was "stout gittin', but none 
 teh hurt." Tall and large, her coarse binck hair was dull and lusterless 
 as an Indian's. Her black eyes, large face and thin lips expressed 
 forceful determination, and her stately llguremade her almost hand- 
 some ; but fear of her had kept the young men of Shawnee County at a 
 distance. She hated the West and made no secret of it, and wtien 
 Widower Jones was the guest of the Doylands the summer before 
 Harriet had almost made up her mind to marry him for the sake of 
 his property and a chance to get back among Eastern people. She 
 cooked dainties, which she hinted were for liiin, and spoke t^ him 
 softly— her one beauty was her voice— and her black eyes told him 
 plainly enough that he had only to ask and be accepted. She almost 
 detested him, but she was thirty jive, knew he was prosperous and 
 she longed for someone to deliver iier from the hated West. 
 
 The Deacon knew this, and moreover he felt sure she had never 
 had a lover. He recngni;;ed the fact that a woman who has seen two 
 score loveless years must eitlier be very strong-minded or hard to 
 please, and as his experience had tausrht him not to enter the lists 
 with youth and good-looks as Jiis rivals, he felt that Harriet Doyland 
 would be a safe companion.* It almost made him laugh to think of 
 anyone trying to take liberties with her I The humiliation he had 
 received from Ruth Gilbert, coupled with the resolve to live alone no 
 longer, had led him to the determination to marry Harriet Doyland 
 and let her " make it hotfer the fam'ly." He thought with malicious 
 pleasure of how dangerous it would be for Bessie to fly in ttie face of 
 a stepmother with such black and unflinching eyes as those of Har- 
 riet Doyland. Ben,— he would find his match ! Lou and Israel— he 
 guessed they wouldn't hang around the farm long if he gave them a 
 good strong-r.'' d'^d stepmother. It troubled him a little to think 
 that Harriet mijsHt make him dance to pretty fast muHic, but then she 
 was goo :li;<cking, a splendid cook, and just the sort of woman to 
 take cart of him. After he left Ben at the Junction, remorse liad 
 given way to vengeful hatred which but strengthened his detcimin 
 ation to marry Harriet to spite hia family who had chosen to con- 
 spire to humiliate and annoy him. 
 
 Jaded by his long trip, he looked old and travel -stained when he 
 arrived at the end of his railroad journey, but r^'itermined to lose 
 not an hour, he hired a man to convey him at once to the Doyland's. 
 His heart beat fast as he nervously knocked at the door, which, 
 after wha^ seemed to him an hour, was opened by Harriet herself. 
 
 " Why, Deacon Jones I " she exclaimed. 
 
 
 
1 ■» ».(WI»iT.*JB»E>>.J«*" 
 
 170 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 ** Tes/' said he, nervously, ** it's me. I guessed I'd s'prise yeh." 
 
 *'Well, you have," she answered, stooping down to pick up his 
 carpetbag. "Come in and make yourself to home. Who'd a' 
 thought a* seein* youY* 
 
 " Nobody, I s'pose,'* answered the Deacon. " I s'pose yeh hain't 
 thought a' me sence I went away?" 
 
 ** O, yes I have, often !" she answered meaningly. "The folks are 
 all away, gone over to the revival ujeetin*." 
 
 "All well, I s'pose?" enquired the Deacon, clumsily. 
 
 " Yes, we're all well ; how's your folks?" 
 
 "Tol'ble, thanks, when I left 'em." 
 
 " Haven't liad supper, have yeh ? " 
 
 " Well, no. I wanted teh «\t here fer tea, so I hurried right on 
 from the station." 
 
 " Well, I'll get you something to eat if you'll excuse me for a 
 while." 
 
 " If yeh don't mind, I'd like teh go out inteh th' kitchen where 
 I kin talk teh yeh while yer workin'— if yeh don't mind." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind ; it's warmer out there, too." 
 
 Seated in a rocking-chair by the stove, he admired the order and 
 cleanliness of the kitchen, the polished stove and shining pans. 
 
 " How are the girls gettin' on keepin' house?" inquired Harriet, 
 who thought she could not too soon offer the Deacon an oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 " None too well— I kin tell yeh that, Harriet. Things is all goin' 
 wrong Ronce I lost my pardner." 
 
 *• How do you mean?" 
 
 " Ben's bin home makin' trouble. He's runnin* things 'ith sich a 
 high hand that I hain't hed a minnit's peace sence I was here in th' 
 Hun)iMor." 
 
 " You don't say ; well now I " 
 
 " Its tur'ble teh hev one's fam'ly act like mine is. I'd Jist got com- 
 fr able like an' they're buildin' a big town at Applebury an* makin' 
 my place val'ble, an' yet I don't hev a minnit's comfort an' the pros- 
 pects is I won't hev nuther, unless I git married an' start my fam'ly 
 off teh do for thelrselves." 
 
 Harriet invited him to sit up and have some supper. In the 
 Hame low, emotionless voice. She understood the meaning of the 
 Deacon's visit and as she watched him, was making up her mind 
 as to the best course to pursue. During his previous visit she had 
 weighed every argument and it did not take her long to conclude 
 that having come so far to get her she could now dictate the 
 terms. How repulsive the old man looked with his dyed hair and 
 his face haggard and grey ? The weariness of his long Journey made 
 
THE WIDOWER FINDS A '* COMPANION'' 
 
 171 
 
 him look so old and feeble that Harriet, watching his trembling; 
 hands as he ravenously satisfied his hunger, concluded she would not 
 have to endure him very long. If she could get hold of his property 
 she decided that after all a few years of life with him would not be 
 much worse than living among the despised people of the West. 
 
 Wiping off his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth the Deacon 
 pushed his chair back from the table. 
 
 " I guess I've eat up most everythin' but th' dishes, Harriet. I 
 tell yeh I was hungrier'n a wolf, an' onct I got holt a' yer good cookin' 
 I was like teh bust myseif." 
 
 ** I'm sorry I hadn't anything cooked or I would have tried to give 
 yeh something real nice," responded Harriet with her sweetest 
 smile. 
 
 " Well, if yeh don't call them vittles nice I never had none, I kin 
 tell yeh that." 
 
 •* That's because you are hungry." 
 
 ** Oh, no it wan't; I was tellin' th' gurls last summer after I got 
 home what a tur'ble good cook yeh was." 
 
 ** Oh, you're trying to flatter me," said Harriet, as she folded the 
 tablecloth and gave her head a coquettish toss. 
 
 '* No I hain't, nuther. I jist wish I hed yeh cookin' fer me all'us." 
 
 *' You'd soon gee tired of it." 
 
 "No I wouldn't, nuther," protested the Deacon with a desperate 
 attempt at a winning smile. 
 
 Somehow the words seemed to stick in his throat. He could not 
 make loVe to her as he had done to Hope and Ruth, and nothing was 
 farther from his thoughts than even trying to touch her, to say 
 nothing of an attempt to kiss her. He was afraid of her. In his 
 heart he felt he was making a mistake. It was now too late to turn 
 back, so with a sensation akin to despair, he screwed uf Lis cour- 
 age, and looking his hands tightly over his knee, he began : 
 
 *' There hain't no use beatin' 'bout th' bush, Harriot. I come out 
 here teh ast if yeh'd marry me. I've got enough teh make us both 
 comf 'r'able, an' 'ith you fer a companion, there wouldn't be nuthin' 
 left fer me ceh wish fer." 
 
 After a pause, during which Harriet quietly seated herself with 
 the stove between her and the Deacon, he continued : 
 
 " I hain't an old man yit, an' Til be Jist as good teh yeh as any- 
 one kin be— I kin tell yeh that." 
 
 Weariness saddened the Deacon's tones, and with downcast eyes 
 he thought of his proposal to Hope and the one to Rutli, and won- 
 dered why he felt so dllTerentiy now. 
 
 " This is very sudden," answered Harriet, without the least 
 
 
mmfommmfmsmsm 
 
 ~^ 
 
 t '^ . ' S ? "' 
 
 I' H I' J i' . ' j '> . l 
 
 172 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 tremor in her voice. " I don't know what to say ; Fd almost made 
 up my mind to be an old maid." 
 
 *' Bein* an old man's darlin' is better than bein' an old maid— I 
 kin tell yeh that ; it hain't »eh lonesome, an' it feels tur'ble good teh 
 have someone teh lean on. I hev found that out sence I lost my 
 companion— I kin tell yeh that." 
 
 The Deacon spoke as if his tongue were anxious to avoid its 
 office, and his frequent "I kin tell yeh that's" were thrown in to 
 round up his awkward sentences and make them a little longer. 
 
 ** Yes, I suppose it is," reflectively, " but then married folks have 
 their troubles as well as old maids." 
 
 " Yes, they do that, but you'n me wouldn't I I'd be good teh yeh 
 an' give yeh everything yeh want an' keep a hired girl, as fur's 
 that." 
 
 "Would your family consent to your marryin' again?" she 
 asked, not so much for information as to lead him to declare the 
 circumstances under which she might expect to live. 
 
 **I don't care whether they'd consent er not," answered the 
 Deacon sharply, ** an' when I git married I hain't goln' teh ast them, 
 ner ever liev none on 'em round, I kin tell yeh that." 
 
 Harriet saw that the Deacon, despite his reckless disregard of 
 the claims of his family, had half-repented of his errand, and de- 
 termined without any further parley to accept him and stipulate 
 her terms. 
 
 '' At our age. Deacon, a thine of this kind is a good deal a business 
 matter," Harriet began, with self-possession which utterly discon- 
 certed her suitor. "I am thirty-flve, and if I'm ever to get married 
 I might as well do it now. I respect you and think we could get 
 along together. I can't think of anything that could come between 
 US except your family and disputes about the property. I know you 
 are willing to do the right thing by m**, and if you make my future 
 safe from want, I'll marry you whenever you say." 
 
 The Deacon swallowed a big lump which had been rising in his 
 throat. Was this a woman or a lawyer he was talking to ? He 
 lifted his eyes and met her steady unblinking gaze. 
 
 "Ahl Oh, ah— er— of course— of c n.rRe— I'll do whatever yeh 
 say's right 'bout that ; your— I— ah, cal'k'lated of course, I'd hev teh 
 settle suthln' on yeh an' there hain't Ruthin' mean 'bout me- 1 kin 
 tell yeh that." 
 
 The Deacon felt generous enough at that moment to have given 
 half his farm if ho had been back in the East away from this black- 
 eyed, self-possessed woman, who talked of marriage in the same 
 business-like tone which she would have used in bargaining for a 
 piece of cotton. 
 
 ',*.^i 
 
THE WIDOWER FINDS A '* COMPANION" 
 
 173 
 
 *' Well, then, Deacon, I suppose it is settled. If we go in part- 
 nership it wiil be on even terms and tlien there '11 never be any 
 dispute." 
 
 The Deacon choked again, stuttered and stammered, but under 
 the influence of this strong-minded woman who had so quickly 
 assumed possession of him and everything belonging to him, his 
 will seemed to have left him. 
 
 " Ah— oh— I— er— of course, of course, it's only fair— jist as yeh 
 say — we'll go halves.'*' 
 
 Harriet Doyland thoroughly understood the Deacon and knew 
 that a night's sleep and mature deliberation would make him repent 
 his agreement, but she believed in herself and decided that her 
 will was strong enough to compel the fulfilment of the promise. 
 
 " '\'7hen would you like the wedding to come off," she inquired, 
 and her low voice was wonderfully sweet. 
 
 ** It can't come off any too soon teh suit me, I kin tell yeh that." 
 
 "Then, when would you like it?" 
 
 "Teh onct— teh-morrow er next day," gasped the Deacon. " We 
 want teh take a little tower and I've got teh git back teh Apple- 
 bury by next Sunday week to a church meetin', so we hain't got 
 only 'bout a week teh git 'round in." 
 
 " All right then ; let it be to-morrow. After it's known that I'm 
 going to be married, I don't want to stay at home here and be 
 pestered by the rest of the fafnily. They would tease me to death. 
 My clothes are not very good, but if they are good enougli to suit 
 you theyll suit me." 
 
 There was power in the woman's voice and this coming to him 
 for protection and the giving of herself up to him began to flatter 
 the Deacon. Harriet found occasion to move across the room and 
 passed close to the Deacon's chair, where she paused with her Iiand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "You will always be good to me, won't youi" slie asked. 
 
 The touch of her hand thrilled him. 
 
 "Yes, I swear I will," he cried, thoA'ing his arm around her. 
 She did not resist. 
 
 " And when we're married you'll promise to forget that you had 
 a wife before^ and — and will never make comparisons t>etwcen me 
 and her?" 
 
 Some will superior to his own brought the Deacon to his feet 
 and with his arms around her waist and his hands clasped be- 
 hind her he vowed that he would never speak of *' Mariar, 
 ner his fam'Iy" H«r hands still rested on his shoulder and she 
 permitted herself to be kissed. The touch of their lips seemed 
 to break down the walls which separated them and the passionate 
 
IV* 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 volubility of the amorous Deacon as;ain manifested itself. Harriet 
 Doyland was a clever woman, aud she had resolved that the 
 Deacon should be an ardent lover until he had promised all she 
 wished, and before he found her shrinking from him he promised 
 that previous to their marriage he would give her half of his farm. 
 
 " I'll make it so they can't none on 'em run on yeh. Yeh'U hev 
 ft so it can't be took from yeh an' anyone that says a word 'bout 
 yeh 'ill hev teh fight 'ith me." 
 
 In bis excitement the Deacon was becoming altogether too 
 demonstrative, and quietly taking hold of his wrists she loosened 
 herself from his embrace and her black eyes had a look in them 
 which forbade any further familiarity. 
 
 When the family came home their surprised greetings were 
 hardly over before Harriet ordered them to go to bed at once. The 
 titter of laughter and exclamations of surprise were checked at 
 once by a motion from her hand and the look in her eyes. Next 
 morning her father and mother, who had been told of her project, 
 accompanied them to the neighboring town, where the Deacon with 
 many misgivings signed an agreement that withm two weeks he 
 would make a deed conveying to her half his property. Then 
 they were married, and with a few scant tears as her mother kissed 
 her good-bye, Mrs. Adoniram Jones hade farewell to the West. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 TELLS OF ben's RETURN AND BRINGS: 
 
 " To the maiden sweet fruition 
 Of a new discovered Joy ; 
 To the lover, crowned ambition, 
 Peace and love without alloy." 
 
 Lou had gone to Tedley. Israel for an hour had sat gaztng at 
 Hope while her eyes were bent on her sewing, but when she looked 
 up he gave his undivided attention to the fat old tabby purring 
 peacefully in his lap. 
 
 " Go to bed, Israel. It's after nine o'clock when good little boys 
 are expected to be asleep." Bessie spoke so affectionately that Hope 
 looked with a half smile at Israel as she said : 
 
 ** I don't know what we'd do, Israel, if we hadn't Bess to look 
 after us." 
 
 " I s'pose not," answered Israel sadlv, as be stroked the glisten- 
 ing fur of the cat. 
 
HOP PS HAPPINESS 
 
 ITS 
 
 **Ran away to bed," insisted Bess, laughingly. "'Early to bed 
 and early to rise,* you know." 
 
 " I guess rd better go then ; though I'm healthy enouffh, there 
 hain't much * wealthy' er * wise' 'bout me." As the big fat fellow rose 
 up and deposited the cat carefully in the chair, he looked so woe- 
 begone that tears came into his sister'H soft eyes. 
 
 ** Good-night, Bess, g'night, Hope," he blurted out, with a sound 
 in his voice suspiciously like a sob. 
 
 "Good-night!" responded the girls together, Hope wondering 
 what had given Israel the blues, and Bessie studiously avoiding any 
 questions by explaining the moment Israel had closed the door 
 behind him : 
 
 " Do you know I feel it in my bones that Ben will be here to night 1 
 The express will be due in ten minutes, and I wanted to get Israel 
 off to bed so you could have a good talk with Ben." 
 
 In her anxiety to protect Israel from remark, Bess had rushed 
 into a delicate subject, and discovered it too late to recract. Hope 
 blushed and bent her head over her sewing, murmuring confusedly : 
 
 " He— he— said it would take him about three days." 
 
 " Won't it be splendid if he finds everything all right?" This was 
 at least the twentieth time Bess had made this remark, for Hope 
 had been continually leading up to a discussion of Ben's return, and 
 her fear that there could be no mistake. Bessie, shrewdly suspect- 
 ing that Hope wanted to talk about Ben, had given her ample oppor- 
 tunity, and poor, romantic Israel had been incessantly reiterating 
 his brother's praiae^i, watching all the while the tell-tale blushes, as, 
 like little waves of color, they swept over Hope's fair face. Bess, 
 however, discouraged the topic when Israel was around, for she 
 well knew how the poor fellow suffered with the thought of Hope 
 leaving his sight, where he was content to worship in silence. 
 
 "I don't hope for that " Hope stopped, her face and neck 
 
 suffused in one vivid blush, but her eager eyes were not averted. 
 
 "What do you hope for then?" demanded Bessie, plying her 
 needle vigorously, and pretending not to be much interested. 
 
 "Oh, Bess, Bess, I hope he won't hate me even if it's all true I " 
 
 "He won't! You needn't be afraid of that," answered Bessie 
 positively, and putting away her sewing, the better to talk. "If he 
 found out you hadp't been born at all, it wouldn't make a speck of 
 difference, he's too far gone ! " 
 
 "Gone?" echoed Hope. 
 
 "Yes, 'gone', in love with you, I mean." 
 
 Hope could not oonceal her pleasure. "Do you think he's loved 
 melongf** 
 
176 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 **l think it was a case of * first sight/ How could you help liking 
 him?** 
 
 **I couldn't/' murmured Hope, **but I thought it would be 
 wrong and I prayed ever so much for help not to think of him 
 I was afraid ho was wicked." 
 
 " Aren*t you now ? " 
 
 ** How could I after he has proven so noble and good " 
 
 ** Hush, wasn't that the gate t " cried Bessie. 
 
 Hope sprang from her chair, her hands clasped before her and 
 her great, glorious eyes dilated with expectancy, flxcd on the door. 
 
 A few quick footsteps, a sound on the porch and Bess threw the 
 door open, dudged behind it, and Ben rushing in met Hope flrHt. 
 
 He stopped abruptly, reading nothing but expectation in her 
 attitude : 
 
 "It's all right? there was a mistake, your birth is as free from 
 stain as mine or Bessie's." 
 
 ** Oh, Ben I'* Hope held out her hands appealingly, '* can you ever 
 forgive me for thinking you wicked ?" 
 
 In an instant she was in his arms, not passively but with her own 
 arms thrown about his neck, her willing lipn upturned to his. 
 Beautiful as the goddess of beauty, her face aglow with love, she 
 yielded herself to him unquestioningly and though she knew Bessie 
 stood l)ehind them, it made no difference. There was no shame in 
 yielding to his caresses. Did she not love him? Henceforth she 
 was his and he was hers. Was there anything to be ashamed off 
 Her pure nature was full of passion and it had been kindled by the 
 torch of love. 
 
 " Really, Ben, you and Hope are making me blush myself out," 
 suggested Bessie, at Ben's elbow. 
 
 " Why, little one, I didn't see you." 
 
 *'No. I guessed not," answered Bess, dryly. "There was no 
 means of escape, except out into the snow, or I would have flown." 
 
 Seated in the big rocking chair, with Hope sitting on one wide 
 oak arm and Bessie perched on the other, he held their hands in his 
 as ho told tiie story of Judge Topper's mistake. Then he spoke of 
 his father's journey and its probable meaning. 
 
 " He's gone to get that Doyland woman, and she'll marry him 
 sure. I remember her, and if I were to wish the old man all the bad 
 luck he can have on earth I'd engage Harriet Doyland to give it to 
 him. At school she was the meanest, crudest she-tyrant I ever saw, 
 and then she was only twelve or fourteen years old. What must 
 shebeatthlrty-flve?" 
 
 " Poor old man, I'm sorry for him ! " said Bess. 
 
 "Don't waste your sympathy, Bessie. He'll be back here and 
 
S^,. ' 
 
 HOPE'S HAPPINESS 
 
 177 
 
 turn you out of the house inHide of a week. How are they fi;otting 
 along fixing up my place?" 
 
 "First-rate. You must have hired all the painters in town." 
 
 ** Don't leave here till you have to. Put father to the test and see 
 what he'll do. Now Hope is mine, I don't think I'll want much 
 more Applebury for a while, and you and Israel can have the Birch 
 farm, if Hope will come to New York with me. Will you, Hope?" 
 he asked ? 
 
 ** Wherever you say," she answered, her voice clear, steadfast 
 and loving. 
 
 ** And whenever?" he continued. 
 
 ** Yes ' and whenever,' ** she responded. 
 
 ** Then we'll get married just as soon as the house is ready. 
 You can tell the village fathers to-morrow to hire some one else to 
 teach the school. If you don't charge them for what you've done 
 they'll let you off, and we'll get ready to spend the winter in a sun- 
 nier clime." 
 
 And while they talked and planned, poor Israel, in the meanest 
 room in the house, sobbed himself to sleep. 
 
 
 " Bounded by themselves and unobservant," describes Hope and 
 Ben, as they walked and talked and superintended the work at The 
 Birches. She made no effort to conceal her love, and even when 
 Israel was present, would slip up to Ben and cling to his arm and 
 accept the kisses he was always ready to bestow. Without a pang 
 of envy, the patient Israel suffered hopelessly and with no question 
 as to the justice of liis punishment for having dared to love one so 
 far above him as Hope Campion. 
 
 Bessie was often irritated because Hope was so demonstrative. 
 She was unable to conceive how a woman could so completely 
 abandon her personality and merge herself in the will and tastes of 
 her lover. Everything was *' Ben." Hope could talk of nobody else. 
 
 They were over at The Birch place, and Bessie was putting up 
 some curtains. 
 
 " Don't you think these would be nicer in the dining-room?" she 
 inquired of Hope. 
 
 " I don't know ; I'll ask Ben." 
 
 " Bless your heart, Ben doesn't know anything about curtains ! 
 What's the good asking him ? " 
 
 It was no use, Ben had to be hunted up ; and when Hope came 
 back, she said Ben didn't care where they were put. 
 
 " I told you so," said Bess. " Where'll we put them ?" 
 
 ** I don't care, either ; wherever you say." 
 
" !t "f >! " 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 I 'spose if Ben didn't want any dinner you 
 
 178 
 
 " Well, I never I 
 wouldn't either," 
 
 **No, 1 don't think I would. I'll go and get him ,to come and say 
 where he wants them put, if you like." 
 
 ** Never mind, he s busy." 
 
 ** I'll go out and see," and without another word she was off. 
 
 Bessie gazed after her in disgust, muttering in her vexation, 
 ** She's the greatest goose I ever saw." 
 
 Five minutes later a gay song floated through the open door, and 
 Ben and Hope came loitering in. 
 
 ^'Why, Hope, where did you learn that song?" asked Bessie. **I 
 never heard you sing anything but hymns." 
 
 ** Ben taught me," she answered, simply. 
 
 " Yes, and she sings like a thrush," added Ben, proudly. 
 
 ** Tou're getting along pretty well, Hope, for two days' tuition, I 
 must say." Bessie didn't intend to be cross, but Israel stooping 
 under a pile of lumber he was carrying past the door, made her sor- 
 row for him curdle for a moment her good nature. 
 
 Ben's reproachful glance brought repentance. ** Don't you think 
 it's pretty near her turn to be happy for a while, Bess ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know it in, but do you suppose I'm going to stand here 
 all day waiting for Hope to find you before shell say where she 
 wants these curtains put?" 
 
 " Put them where you like, little spunky," laughed Ben, "I don't 
 care if you hang them on the clothes line ; you are to live in the 
 house, so fix it to suit yourself." 
 
 *' Of course, that's what I wanted her to do," added Hope seating 
 herself on a box beside Ben. 
 
 Bessie, with her back to them, laughed as heartily as a mouthful 
 of pins would let her. 
 
 '*What are you laughing at sister ?" asked Ben, who at that 
 moment was adjusting some hairpins for Hope. 
 
 " At Hope 1 She's beginning to talk just like Oalvin. I s'pose in 
 a couple of days more she'll say * that's just what I said ! ' like he 
 does whenever Hulda makes a remark." 
 
 Hope looked hurt, but Ben only laughed. 
 
 *' Well ! What if she does? If my pretty sweetheart has as loyal 
 a heart as Calvin's, and loves me with the single-minded affection 
 Calvin has for Hulda, I'll be the happiest man on earth." 
 
 Bessie had pinned the curtains to the rod, and getting down from 
 her perch to see how they looked she caught sight of Hope's "hurt" 
 look. 
 
 "Now silly," she cried, ** don't mind what I say. I'm Jealous 
 
HOPE'S HAPPINESS 
 
 179 
 
 liecAUHe I can't have Ben all to myself and if 1 act like a vixen youMl 
 know the reanon why.** 
 
 »*Jethfanthyl'* 
 
 •* Why Huldy I Where did you spring from f " 
 
 ** I didn't th'pring from anywhere ; I'm too fat to th'prlng ! I 
 brouffht Aunt Becky home for you to look after, and nol)o \y wa'th 
 home. But you couldn't fool me. I know your trick'th, and Calvin 
 got in the window and put Aunt Becky away, and I came over 
 here." 
 
 Hulda had been watchmg Ben and Hope out of the corner of her 
 eye, and when conviction came at last, she exclaimed : 
 
 **Jethfanthy, if that ain't Ben with hl'th whi'thker'th cut oflTl 
 And Hope you're lookin' th'plendid. I th'uppose you're goin' to git 
 married and live here." 
 
 ** Yes, Hulda," answered Ben, "that's the calculation, but Bess 
 and Israel will have it this winter ; Hope and I are going to New 
 York." 
 
 ••Jethfanthyl" 
 
 Hulda volunteered a couple of houro' work, and it wasn't long be- 
 fore she noticed Hope's undisguised fondness for Ben. When they 
 had left the room for a moment, she stopped worK, and with her 
 hands on her capacious hips, and her big blue eyes wide open she 
 addressed herself to Bess : 
 
 *' Jeth fanthy I Who'd a' thought that girl 'd ever thaw out like 
 thatl Jeth fanthy! Dead gone on him ain't th'ho? Perfectly 
 adore'th him I Th'he would lay down and die for him with a 
 th'milel" 
 
 ** Yes, I was Just teasing her about It I " 
 
 *' Don't do it, Bethie ! Don't th'topt it. Hope ha'th never had it 
 before, and won't ever have it again. If Ben fool'th ber it'll kill 
 her." 
 
 ** You needn't be afraid of that, Ben is as spoony as she is, and is 
 exactly suited, just like Calvin suits you." 
 
 "And Jeth like Frank Gaylor suits you, Mith Bethie? Th'ome 
 l)ody n\u'th t>e at the head of the houthe. and when you get married 
 it'll be you, and Frank'll tli'ay 'that'h jeth what I th'aid,' jeth like 
 Calvin do'thl" 
 
 Bessie laughed incredulously, and after finding Ben and Hope 
 they went home to dinner, and found Aunt Becky in a fit with CaU 
 vin working desperately to revive her, assisted by Deacon Jones 
 and the black-eved Mrs. Jones nee Doyland. 
 
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 180 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A FRIGID RECBPTION. 
 
 '*Why, here's Elizabeth," exclaimed the Deacon in an abashed 
 and apologetic tone. '* Come here, dear, an' kiss yer new maw." 
 
 Bedsie, with her head thrown back and her lips drawn tightly over 
 her teeth, stood (daring fiercely at her step-mocher. Ben, with Hope 
 on his arm, leaned carelessly against the side of the doorway, 
 surveying his father with a contemptuous smile, his face full of 
 insolent scorn. Hope, feeling thoroughly happy and safe, still clung 
 to his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder as she curiously 
 watched the mis-mated couple. Hulda at once rushed into the 
 room and assisted Calvin to restore Aunt Becky to consciousness, 
 and knowing that a storm was brewing, ignored the presence of her 
 father-in-law and his new wife. 
 
 '* So you have got some one to have you at last," sneered Bessie. 
 
 "Now, Elizabeth, don't fly off inteh a tantrum, 'twon't do no good 
 an' '11 jist make trouble. Come on an' shake hands 'ith yer maw, 
 an' let's try an' live peaceable." 
 
 The begging tone and cringing attitude of her father surprised 
 and humiliated Bessie more than if she had been met with an out- 
 burst of wrath. Her stepmother, determined to avoid a scene, 
 came over to Bessie and holding out her hand, said smilingly : 
 '* Why Bessie, we used to be friends, and I don't know why we 
 shouldn't be now." 
 
 " There i^ evttj reason, Harriet Doyland, why I should hate you 
 or anyone else mean enough to marry father when mother hasn't 
 been dead six months." 
 
 An ugly look gleamed in the stepmother's eyes as she answered, 
 ** Oh, well, if you've made up your mind that we can't be friends, 
 I guess you'll suffer just as much as I will." 
 
 The old Deacon rushed up to his daughter, and throwing his arms 
 around her, cried pitifully, " Bessie, Bessie, don't quarrel 'ith her 
 — fer my sake treat her good an' try teh live 'ith her." 
 
 There were tears in the old man's eyes, and his voice trembled 
 plaintively. 
 
 ** Oh father, how could you do such a thing ? you must be crazy." 
 
 "Don't throw up things teh me, Bessie ; don't say nuthin*, only 
 Jlst don't quarrel. You'll hev' a home 'ith me jist as long's I've got 
 a rulTover my head,— oniyjis^ try teh git along 'ith her." 
 
 Bessie couldn't resist her fatlier's bes^^eching tone and her pity 
 
A FRIGID RECEPTION 
 
 181 
 
 / 
 
 for him overcame her anger. Taking refuge in a woman's sareRt 
 armor, in a woman's strongest tower, she burst into tears and 
 buried licr face on her father's shoulder. No one was more surprised 
 than Bun, but his deep-seated dislilse of his father and the feeling 
 that every word and tear had t)een carefully calculated intensified 
 the scornful look in his eyes. 
 
 ** How'dy, Mrs. Jones ; glad to meet you," he sneered, turning his 
 face towards his stepmother. "Aren't you coming over to. kiss 
 your little boy?— I'm your oldest son, you know." 
 
 •* Why Ben," whispered Hope reproachfully. 
 
 ** Oh you want to be introduced, do you ?" he laughed, showing his 
 glistening teeth. ** Mrs. Jones, this is Hope Campton ; Miss Hope 
 Campton, Mrs. Jones." 
 
 Harriet, after she had been repelled by Bessie, though her face 
 had reddened at Ben's jeers, stood her ground and now advancing to 
 Hope, extended her hand, her eyes flashing but her low, steady 
 voice under complete control as she said, " I'm gettina; rather a 
 chilly reception, Miss Campton, but I hope there is no reason why 
 we shouldn't be friends." 
 
 "None whatever," answered Hope, cheerfully, though as she 
 took the proficred hand she glanced anxiously at Ben to know 
 whether her action met his approval. 
 
 Ann*-. Becky had at last recovered sufficiently to sit In an easy 
 chair, and Hulda, relieved of her task, bustled forward, shook hands 
 with the Deacon and then with his wife, exclaiming with every 
 breath, "Jeth fanthyl Jeth fanthy!" 
 
 ** Well, Deacon," began Ben, who was still leiining against the 
 side of the door, "how do you like your new wife, now that you 
 have got her? E'ound an angel, haven't you ? If she is as good as she 
 is beautiful you will have to keep her in a glass case or somebody 
 will steal her before morn ins." 
 
 The Deacon's spirit had been bruised but not broken, and this 
 taunt put fire in his eye. 
 
 "Ben Jones," he snarled, "yeh come atwixt me an' yer m&w, 
 but I hain't agoin' teh let yeh break up my fam'ly. Either act 
 decent cr git out. I came back with my mind made up teh do right 
 by all a' yeh, but I hain't goin' teh take no insults from you." 
 
 **Tou mistake my meaning," interrupted Ben, "I was simply 
 offering a delicately- worded compliment to your recently acquired 
 wife and you ought to feel proud that a man of my taste considers 
 her a fit companion for a gentleman of your distinguished 
 character." 
 
 Harriet was biting her lips as Ben spoke, but she had made 
 up her mind not co quarrel. 
 
 ■Mil 
 
 MMilMiririilttiMiiiilll^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^!^ 
 
182 
 
 WIDOWEB JONES 
 
 **I don't see why you should persecute me because I married yonx 
 father. I didn't know it would be objectionable to the family," she 
 said quietly. **IamAureif I had expected a reception like this I 
 would have stayed at home." 
 
 ** No, you wouldn't," answered Ben, coolly surveying her from 
 head to foot. "You thoroughly understood just what sort of a 
 reception you would get, and decided that, for the sake of the old 
 man's money you would stand a good deal of rough treatment, and 
 you needn't try to play off innocence on me. I remember you too 
 well at school. Bess, you and Hope pack up your traps ; I'll send a 
 wagon around for them in an hour. Hullo, Israel 1 go in and see 
 your stepmother." 
 
 Israel, who had Just come from the barn, stood gazing in open- 
 eyed wonder at Harriet. 
 
 **Why, hullo 1 Harriet, when did yeh git here I" cried he, cordi- 
 ally. " Hullo, father I why yeh ain't married, are yeh? " 
 
 ** Tes, Israel, we air," answered the old man, dolefully. 
 
 ** Well, by the great gawsh, if that don't beat all." 
 
 ** Gro and pack up your grip, Israel," snapped Ben, giving his fat 
 brother a shove. " Don't wait to be bounced. Let the old man and 
 his woman have the house. I'll take care of you from this out. 
 Grood*bye, Deacon, I wish you many happy returns of the day. And 
 you, too, Mrs. Jones ; I know if you don't miss your wish you'll be 
 having another wedding before long with a younger and prettier 
 man." 
 
 The Deacon was about to give vent to his wrath when Harriet 
 stopped him. ** Let him go," she whispered, *' the sooner we get rid 
 of the whole crowd the better." 
 
 ** Harriet," whined the old man, ** it's tur'ble hard teh see Bess 
 an' th' hull family goin' off an* leavin' me all alone." 
 
 After a hurried glance around the room to see that they were 
 alone, Harriet caught the Deacon by the arm and with a jerk which 
 half pulled the limb from its socket, snarled out, "Don't be such a 
 fofl ; you won't be alone as long's you've got me." 
 
 " No, Harriet, I s'pose I won't." 
 
 " I ought to be thankful now that we have got rid of your 
 children. You can't send that crazy old sister off to the poor-house 
 any too soon to suit me. If you imagine I'm going to muss around 
 her, bringing her out of fits you've made a big mistake." 
 
 " Don't be too sudden, Harriet, er we'll set people talkin'. Becky 
 has lived ith me fer forty years, an* I don't see how I kin hev th* 
 face teh turn her off, in th' face of a church meetin', too 1 " 
 
 ** Well, you vn.ll send her off; if she isn't away from here by 
 next week I'll throw her out into the yard." 
 
A FRIGID RECEPTION 
 
 183 
 
 ** All ris:ht, Harriet ; I'll see that she is sent off' 'fore Ioiik 
 Mulda'll help yeh git dinner ; Tm goin' out teh th' barn to see how 
 th' stock looks." 
 
 In the barn, with his head buried in his arms, the Deacon leaned 
 against the haymow and groaned aloud. Truly retribution had come 
 to him In its cruelest form. He was back in the old home where for 
 forty years he had lived with " Mariar " and had been babied and 
 taken care of as if he were a superior being, and now his young 
 wife was shoving him around calling him an *' old fool." He heard 
 the dinner horn presently and wiping his eyes he struggled to his 
 feet, looking old and feeble, muttering as he choked down his sobs, 
 **I wish I was dead." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF LOVII. 
 
 " We live together years and years, 
 And leave unsounded still 
 Each other's springs of hopes and fears, 
 Each other's depths of will. 
 
 • 
 
 We hve together day by day, 
 
 And some chance look or tone 
 Lights up with instantaneous ray 
 
 An inner world unknown." — Milnbs. 
 
 In the huge old-fashioned fire-place the flames danced merrily 
 among the logs, lighting up the dining-room of tlie old Birch house, 
 where Ben had gathered Hope and Bess and Israel, leaving his 
 father and stepmother to spend the night alone at the home- 
 stead. It had been a day of excitement and change, and Bessie wa« 
 worn out. Israel had the blues, and though he struggled manfully 
 to laugh at Ben's jokes, it was a failure. 
 
 "I guess I'll go teh bed, Bess, if yeh'll tell me where teh go," he 
 exclaimed, with an ineffectual attempt at cheerfulness. ** It seems 
 tur'ble strange an' lonesome teh me here, seein's I never afore slept 
 a night away from th' old place." 
 
 • **Oh, ho! Lost Tribes 1 Not homesick already, are you?" in- 
 quired Ben, kindly. 
 
 *' Not homesick, Ben," responded Israel, his eyes filling, ** but 
 kinder dumpy, an'— an'— gittin* away from th' old farm makes me 
 feel sorter like's if there wa'n't no use ner place fer* ; nowhere. 
 G'night!" 
 
 ** Israel, old fellow, you mustn't go to bed feeling that way,"* 
 
 iMMiiMiia 
 
 iiiiii 
 
■Wfv 
 
 "IW 
 
 i^i(ui'. m,, 
 
 IM 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 \t 
 
 
 cried Ben, Jumping up and catch inj^ bis brother by the shoulders. 
 ** This farm belongn to you and BeHS, ^\nd tliere'll be use for you, 
 
 and love for you just as long as I live " 
 
 " Yes, and as long as I live, Israel," interrupted Hope, her soft 
 voice, sweet and loving. *'If it hadn't been for you how friendless 
 and helpless I would have been, and I have you to thank for bring> 
 ing Ben back." 
 
 Bessie, watching Israel with aching heart, saw how poor a com- 
 forter Hope was, and thought with lonesome bitterness, **Tes, 
 ♦ Ben,' * Ben,' nothing in her mind but * Ben.' " 
 
 Israel answered Hope with a look of despairing anguish, and 
 without daring to speak a word lest he might break down, hurriedly 
 followed Bessie from the room. 
 
 " Poor old fellow I " sighed Ben. '* It's the first change he ever 
 made and he feels about as forlorn as I did when father drove me ofi 
 the farm." 
 
 ** How sad and lonely your life must have been,** whispered Hope, 
 nestling closer to him on the big settee drawn up liefore the fire. 
 
 " Tes, darling, my life has been lonely enough, but now I will be 
 able to make up for it by never being blue again." 
 
 •• You won't tire of me, will you, Ben ? I know Tm not lively or 
 entertaining as your old companions must have been." 
 
 ** Tire of you. child ! Never 1 Just as likely the saints to tire of 
 Heaven I *' 
 
 The fire with flickering lights made fitful shadows and created 
 strange shapes, as the logs burned away. They had been silent for 
 a moment, rejoicing simply in each other's presence. It is strange 
 how true lovers sit and ere happy without the interchange of a 
 word. Each one is thinking and the . wliile believing each tender 
 thought is shared by the other. As Ben gazed at the fire, his 
 memory played sad tricks with his thoughts and his lips closed 
 tightly and his brow was riven by heavy wrinkles which knotted 
 and deepened as if he were in pain. 
 
 Hope had been watching the fire, her loving heart glowing more 
 brightly than the coals. Looking up to meet Ben's answering 
 glance, she was startled to see the drawn and suffering face. 
 ** What is the matter, Ben deart** she whispered in aflEHght. 
 Ben turned toward her, his lips trembling, his eyes full of gloomy 
 shadows. 
 
 ** I have been thinking, Hope," he answered huskily,** that I have 
 no right to seek your love until you know my past. I do not come 
 to you as you do to me, pure and unspotted from the wickedness of 
 the world. I am a wicked, worthless man with no redeeming fe»> 
 ture but my love for you— and Bess and Israel— but mosUjior you. 
 
 « - 
 
 m^ 
 
THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF LOVE 
 
 185 
 
 Iders. 
 you. 
 
 corn- 
 Yes. 
 
 It ifl only right you should know all about me, and then if you luvo 
 me I " 
 
 ** Ben darling," whispered Hope, *' tell me nothing. I want to 
 know nothing about your past. If I share your future I will be oh 1 
 so happy Ben, so much happier than I deserve that there will never 
 be a moment when I will quit loving you lonfc enough to think of 
 any past for either of us, except that we have spent together." 
 
 ** But I have done so many things which if you knew of, you 
 could not love me/' 
 
 ** Ben," cried Hope, her soft hands on his cheeks and turning his 
 face toward her, "I don't believe you ever did a wicked thing, I don't 
 want to believe it, for I love you, and would still love you, and the 
 only thing would be 1 might learn to fear that you do not love me. If 
 the time ever comes when you don't love me, never tell me of it ; let 
 me ding to my faith even though my senses should teach me 
 differently. Oh, Ben, Ben, I could forgive any sin of yours, except 
 not loving me." 
 
 Her face was upturned to his, beautiful, pure and radiant with 
 the light which shines only from the rare heart that would pour 
 out its life blood as freely. Joyfully, as it pours out its love. The 
 glory of her unselfish goodness made him revere her as he had 
 revered his mother. The torture inflicted by his sense of utter 
 unworthiness of one so exalted above all women conquered his stub- 
 bom spirit, and as if by a light from heaven he saw the great gulf 
 fixed between her noble soul and his degraded nature. With a gasp 
 of fear and self-loathing, he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 Dropping on her knees before him and begging him to tell her 
 that she had not offended him, Hope pulled his hands from his face 
 and kissing his eyes and lips, implored him to say but once that 
 he had not repented of his love for her. 
 
 ** I am unworthy even to touch your hand. I dare not let your 
 eyes see into my soul. I feel ashamed, humiliated, despairing I " 
 
 ** But do you love me, Ben— you have no other one? " 
 
 *' No, my ang^, I have no other love, no one who has any claim on 
 me, but I have desecrated the name of love, and now your dear eyes 
 reproach me with your purity." 
 
 Her arms were around his neck and her kisses answered his 
 fears. " I swear to you, Hope, over the grave of the past you have 
 helped me to bury, that from this hour I will strive to live so that 
 
 there will be nothing in my life which you may not know." 
 
 . • •'• . • . • 
 
 ** What if Heaven, for once its searching light 
 Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all 
 The rude, bad thoughts that in our bosom's night 
 Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall ? 
 
 
 » "I 
 
 t?i 
 
 '■■''' "I : . ■'•■■' '.■•-.; + ■ *^''\i 
 
PM 
 
 1 
 
 h 
 
 186 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 Who would not shun the dreary, unranth plaoe ? 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 So luiKfat we friemnesB live, and die unwept. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Then keep the softening veil in meroy drawn 
 Thou who canst love us though Thou read us true." 
 
 • '• • • • • • • 
 
 The Are was burning lower, the shadows growing longer, ten 
 o'clock was sounding from the old-fashioned clock in the comer 
 and Bessie had rejoined the lovers when someone knocked at the 
 door. 
 
 ** Say, Ben, I want teh see yeh fur a minnit,'* was the abrupt 
 appeal Ben met when he opened the door. 
 
 " Why Bufe, what on earth brings you so far away from home 
 at this time of night ? " exclaimed Ben. " Come in." 
 
 *' No, I don't want ceh 1 Put on yer overcoat an' take a little 
 walk with me— I— I— want teh ast yeh somethin'." 
 
 " All right, old man— in half a minute. Good night, girls— 111 
 be back soon but you'd better go to bed." 
 
 The door swung shut and Ben and Rufe were out in the winter 
 night, walking slowly over the crackling snow. 
 
 ** Now, my friend, tell me what troubles you, for I can see there's 
 something the matter ? " Ben began, anxious to know the reason of 
 the late visit. 
 
 ** Yeh know, Ben, I hain't much given teh mindin' other people's 
 biz'ness," faltered Bufe, " but I don't kuow what else teh do, 'sept 
 what I'm doin', under th' circumstances. I bin thinkin' 'bout it fer 
 a week, an' I hain't slep' a wink hardly, but I couldn't make up my 
 mind till t'night, when I was down teh th' tavern, where I heard 
 yeh'd moved over here, an* after I got three er four drinks inteh me 
 teh give me nerve I struck fer your house, an' here I am now in sich 
 a h of a funk that I'm skeered teh begin.'' 
 
 ** Bless my heart, Rufe, I can't think why you'd be afraid to come 
 to me. You know that anything I can do for you will be a pleasure." 
 
 **It hain't nuthin' teh do fer me," continued Riife, unevenly, as if 
 he were out of breath, ** an' it's because it's 'bout yerself, an'— an*— 
 Ruth, thet I feel seh d flustered I" 
 
 ** About me and Ruth I " echoed Ben in surprise. 
 
 ** Yes, 'bout you'n Ruth, that's what's th' matter. Ever since that 
 night up t' our house, when you played that trick on ch' Deacon, 
 Ruth's bin a diff'runt woman. She seems broken-spirited, an' goes 
 'round th' house lookin' pale an' holler-eyed as if she'd bin cryin' all 
 night an' wa'n't finished. I knowed teh th' time I hadn't oughter 
 
 done it, but Jfst like the d fool I am, I did it fer her— an' she did 
 
 it fer you I " 
 
THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF LOVE 
 
 187 
 
 ** How do you mean that * you did it for her and she did it for 
 me?* " asked Ben, who saw before him the sad-faced girl as she told 
 him it was easier to be foolish than to forget it or have it forgotten. 
 
 '* That's the pint, Ben. I'm tryin' teh git at. I kno\ ed she liked 
 yeh, an' I kinder thought th* joke 'd sorter git yeh tegether, an' she 
 consented because I told her you wanted her teh do it. Teh know 
 Ben, I hain't much of a man ner much good teh nobody, but I like 
 Ruth, an' I've took as good care of her as I could, bein's I hain't no 
 better'n I am, an' she's kmder bin my baby an' everythin' elne till 
 she's the hull world teh me, an' every tear she sheds makes mo 
 suffer more'n if I was bein' chopped inteh chunks 'ith a dull knife. 
 I can't bear teh see her lookin' like she does, an' know I got her 
 Inteh th' scrape that spiled her chances 'ith yeh an " 
 
 ** Spoiled her chances with me 1 " exclaimed Ben. ** What " 
 
 **Jest hold on a minnit, Ben,*' persisted Rufe, excitedly. **I 
 wanted Ruth teh git yeh, because I liked her, an' kinder felt proud 
 of yeh, an' thought yeh let on teh me 's if yeh liked her, but I spiled 
 it. She sed herself you'd never look at her agin after yeh went 
 away that night, an' she 8ed you must have thought her a bad 
 
 woman, after what that d d old Deacon sed 1 I sed 'no,' but 
 
 'twa'n't no use. Sometimes she looks seh reproachful at me I I 
 can't stand it ; fer me teh hev done it, an' her the best an lovin'est 
 Bister, an' good^ Ben, *good' hain't no word t' 'xpre^s it! She's 
 true 's steel an' pure 's gold. She is, so help me God. I know it, I 
 knoiD it, Ben, an' oh God, an here it's me teh be th' one teh throw 
 doubt on her, by gittin* her inteh that mess 1 " 
 
 They were a mile from the fireside where Ben had been broken 
 on the wheel of repentance, and as they walked Ben began to 
 realize the false position in which he was being placed by Ruth's 
 remorseful brother. They strode along side by side, Rufe catching 
 at Ben's sleeve in his excitement, sometimes stopping and fai^ng 
 his silent companion. Ben could not think what to say. He knew 
 be had not sought Ruth's love, but his wretched ruae to humiliate 
 his father I How could he excuse that ? And Ruth 1 What could 
 he do to set himself right ? 
 
 " What kin we do 'bout it?" stammered Rufe, as if he had divined 
 Ben's thoughts. 
 
 ** There must be some mistake, Rufe—" Ben began. 
 
 ** But there hain't ! It's jest's I tell yeh ; she loves yeh, an' I don't 
 b'lieve she'll live till spring if things keep on, an' I'll feel's if I killed 
 
 her by bein* sich a infernal fool," cried the profane little 
 
 man, grasping Ben's coat, his voice almost hysterical with fear and 
 his dark, weather-beaten face contorted and elfish in the moonlight. 
 
 ** You must be mistaken, Rufe. Your sister is not in love with 
 
._ .It- 
 
 
 188 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 me. No one has a higher regard fcr her virtuea or a sincerer admir- 
 ation for her beauty and cleverneHS than I have, but I never thought 
 for a moment of trying to win her, or that she cared for me." 
 
 ** Tes yeh did, Ben ; yes yeh did t Yeh jist the same as told me 
 so th' night yeh ast me t* git her teh hev th' Deacon come up that 
 Sunday I" 
 
 " No, Rufe, you're mistaken " 
 
 **Then yeh was foolin' me, an' tryin' to make a fool out'n mjr 
 sister " 
 
 *' Rufe, you wrong me ; I came back to Applebury to clear up the 
 rumors about Hope Campton, because I loved her and in a few days 
 we will be married 1 " 
 
 ** You d d scoundrel, I wish I could kill yeh I " screamed Rufe. 
 
 ** An' so yeh've made a fool of my sister Jist to suit yer spite agin 
 yer father 1 " 
 
 "Rufe " 
 
 ** Curse yeh ! Curse yeh I " roared Rufe, pouring out a torrent of 
 profanity and frightful epithets. 
 
 Ben saw it was useless to argne with him, and turning on his 
 heel, heavy hearted, started homeward. 
 
 After exhausting his imprecations Rufe staggered and fell upon 
 his face, and Ben seeing him fall was returning to help him when 
 he saw him rise to his feet and with uncertain steps and loud sobs 
 start towards his home. He watched the wretched man, the loving 
 brother, the tender-hearted blasphemer till he was out of sight, and 
 all the while through the still air of the cold winter night came to 
 his ear Rufe's ceaseless crying : 
 
 "Poor little Ruthie; it'll kUl her. My Ruthie'U die an' I did 
 it" 
 
 Ben looked up at the stars and wondered if beyond them there was 
 a place where such sorrows never came. Afar off he could still hear 
 the cry» " My poor little Ruthie— poor little Ruthie 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIl. 
 
 ««»i 
 
 TWAS NOT A MORTAL WOUND." 
 
 Rufe, minglinsr his curses of Ben with his wailing over poor 
 Ruthie, trudged wearily homeward. He walked feebly and his 
 steps were slow, as if he were anxious to delay as long as possible. 
 He could see the light in the kitchen window, and, full of dread lest 
 Ruth might be still sitting up for him, was half Inclined to sleep In 
 the bam rather than meet her sad face. ** But she'll sit up all night 
 
 ii*"}>; 
 
'**TWA8 NOT A MORTAL WOUND*" 
 
 189 
 
 waitin' fer me," he muttered to himself, and this decided him to 
 enter. The lamp on the table had been turned low, and in the dim 
 light of the kitchen he could see Ruth wrapped in a shawl asleep on 
 the lounge, her wealth of fluflfy hair falling over her shoulders and 
 the shapely arms thrown around her head as if she had fallen asleep 
 in the midst of weariness and disquiet. Her face was pale, and poor 
 Rufe*s heart bled afresh as he thought of his share in the cause. She 
 was sleeping soundly and had not heard him enter, so, quietly slip- 
 ping off his boots, he seated himself by the table, and, with his chin 
 resting on his hand, he watched her. How beautiful she was I He 
 could hardly keep from taking her in his arms, as he had when she 
 was a little girl and. needed comforting. Communing softly with 
 himself he whispered her name, **Kuthie,'* as had been his wont 
 before he had felt it necessary to frown and swear and act ** manly." 
 Who was so lovely as his Ruthie 1 Tet Ben had rejected her for 
 Hope Gampton! Truly Hope, too, was beautiful, but not like 
 Ruthie. How lucky Ben was to have two such women love him, 
 while he, Rufus Gilbert, would have given up any claim to heaven 
 if he could but win the love of a woman half as good, half as fair 
 as his sister. 
 
 Ruth gave a little shiver and pulled the shawl more closely about 
 her, but did not open her eyes. 
 
 Rufe was afraid if he did not awaken her she might catch cold, 
 and yet he feared to speak, lest, looking into her truthful eyes, 
 he might be forced to tell of his scene with Ben. How beautiful she 
 looked, how sweet, how innocent, but oh, how sad! How could 
 anyone help loving his beautiful, peerless sister, who had been so 
 full of mirth and careless laughter until now f 
 
 *' Ruth," he called, gently. 
 
 *'What is it, Rufe?" she answered, without moving, as if she 
 had not been asleep. 
 
 ** Gro to bed, child, er ye'U catch yer death a' cold." 
 
 *' I don't care," she answered, with another little shiver, pulling 
 her shawl closer around her. 
 
 ** But I do, Ruth ; I hain't got nobody but you an' I never will 
 have. I always want teh keep yeh with me. We'll alius live 
 together, won't we, Ruth ?" 
 
 The tremor in his voice, the utter weariness and dejection of his 
 attitude appealed to her. 
 
 ** What is the matter, Rufe ? Where have you been ' " 
 
 " Nowhere in pertic'ler ; but teh see yeh lyin' there as if yeh'd 
 gone to sleep cryin' seems a tur'ble reproach teh me fer th' way 
 I've acted.'* 
 
 ** It's not your fault, Rufe ; I have nobody to blame but myselt^ 
 
wmm 
 
 190 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 H; 
 
 
 
 ** You hain't teh blatno, Ruth ; il'h mc— me an' Bon Jones ; curse 
 him, I wish ho'd never come back." 
 
 Ruth pushed her hair back from her face, and sitting up, looked 
 quietly at him for a moment. 
 
 " Come here, Rufe." 
 
 Her brother avoided her glance as he dropped heavily tn the 
 chair beside the lounge. 
 
 ** Did you see Ben to-night ? " she asked. 
 
 '* Bufe looked down at his uneasy ?'^iidH, and. then stammered, 
 ** Yes, fer a minnit." 
 
 ** You remembered what I told you— not to say a word to him 
 about me." 
 
 *• Yes, of course I did." 
 
 "Did what?" 
 
 '* Remembered, of course." 
 
 " Rufe, you are not telling me the truth." 
 
 ** Yes, I be," he answered doggedly. 
 
 *' You are not ; tell me what you said ! " 
 
 Rufe looked at her without answering, his black eyes brilliant 
 and feverish. 
 
 ** Tell me what you said, Rufe I " 
 
 ** I told him he had made a fool of me— an* you." 
 
 Ruth's face reddened and her lips closed tightly together. 
 Anxious to find out exactly what her brother had done she assumed 
 an indifferent air and persisted in her demand to hear everything 
 that had passed between Ben and her brother. After a little more 
 urging Rufe divulged everything until Ruth, unable to restrain 
 herself any longer, flung herself on the lounge crying, *' Oh Rufe, 
 Rufe ; what made you ; how dare you ask him to marry me f How 
 he will despise me ; he'll think I sent you." 
 
 '* No he won't, nuther," cried Rufe, bending over the lounge and 
 wildly endeavoring to soothe his sobbing sister, "I told himljist 
 did it myself because I'd got yeh inteh a scrape an' wanted teh git 
 yeh out." 
 
 " That won't make any difference, Rufe ; he'll think I sent you ; 
 hell hate me forever. Oh, jl id rather died than have had you do 
 what you've done." 
 
 ** It won't make any diff 'rence, Ruth," stammered Rufe inco- 
 herently, " fer he's goin' teh marry Hope Campton, anyhow. He 
 told «ne 6.0." 
 
 " What ! cried Ruth sharply ; " he's going to marry Hope 1" 
 
 *• Yes, that's what he said— right off." 
 
 Ruth buried her face in her pillow. 
 
 ** Don't cry, Ruthie— I did it fer th' best, an' all I said didn't make 
 
 tH-'f- 
 
 i # 'A 
 
'*'TWAS NOT A MORTAL WOUND* 
 
 191 
 
 no diff'runce teh you nuther one way ner th' other. Fm sorry ff 
 he'll think yeh sent me, but he's goin' teh marry Hope an* take her 
 away, an* we won't see him no more, an* then you an' me kin live 
 jist as we hev'." 
 
 Rufe had caught his sister's white, motionless hand, and was 
 fondling and petting it as one would the bruised hand of a child, 
 ** I'll all'us be good teh yeh, an* I sha'n't never leave yeh. Ruthie 
 Don't say 'twas me did it ! H«) ain't worth cryin' about. Yoh'll be 
 better off *ith me, Ruthie, Nobody '11 ever love yeh more'n I do ; 
 nobody '11 ever be seh kind teh yeh as I will, an' I sha'n't never go 
 to th* tavern no more ner do nuthin', unless yeh say I kin. ril 
 promise yeh anythin', Ruthie," he cried, almost hysterically, '* if 
 yeh'll only not blame me, if yeh'll only Jist look at me agin an' try 
 an' be yerself. Please do, Ruth. Fer God's sake look at me an' say 
 yeh forgive me fer bein' sich a fool.** 
 
 Ruth slowly rose from the lounge, brushed the tears from her 
 eyes, and placing her hands on her brotber*s head, she whispered, 
 *' Let's never say another word about it Rufe. Don't think I blame 
 you ; it's all over now. Come, l» other, go to bed now." 
 
 Rufe stagsered to his feet, and they stood looking at one nnother. 
 •' Poor old Rufe," she said. " I believe you feel worse about it 
 than I do. Wt *ve both ac' ::. like a pair of simpletons. All I want 
 now is a chance to show Ben Joues that I am not crying my eyes 
 out atwut him. lamold enon^^h toknowbotter,*' said she, with a 
 laugh, "and now it's all over, and I know the worst, I can promise 
 you I won't go moping about tht: house like a love-sick girl any 
 more ; I'm cured." 
 
 " D' yeh mean that?" cried Rufe, jojrfully. '* I'd rather lose my 
 farm, and hev teh work fer yeh cuttin* cordwood than see yeh feelin' 
 
 bad." 
 
 "Oh, Rufe," she answered, tenderly, " I know how you love me, 
 and ni never reproach you again. Poor old fellow." 
 
 "Then yeh don't really care." cried Rufe, his melancholy face 
 lighting up. 
 
 •' I do and I don't," she answered, reflectively. " I liked Ben, 
 but it didn't have time to become deep-seated. I was mortified by 
 the way Deacon Jones acted and what he said before Ben, but you 
 needn't think I'm going to be miserable for any man who doesn't 
 care for me. I'm getting old maidish and want to get married, X 
 suppose,** and she gave a desolate little laugh, but seeing the gloom 
 deepening in her brother's face she put her arm around his neck and 
 kiMsed him, the first time she had ever given him such a caress. 
 
 " Good-night. When we get up in the morning I will begin life 
 over agam with Ben Jones left out. I haven't been thinking of him 
 
 ^-S.-*<fl 
 
■f ^ ? P5-'^'y - ' ' "' It'". '' . .\?' ^ ' < :/ "I 'il ti vv V ' r^m ** *i j 
 
 
 aasw«ftvvc-u'»& 
 
 '":KSSS^'- K'^^siTWVi^ 
 
 
 102 
 
 WIDOWER JONES 
 
 long enough to miss him much, so don't trouble yonr dear old soi\ 
 "W 1th it any more." 
 
 With a parting look of admiration and tender solicitude Rufc* 
 piclced his cap from the floor and with a clumsy ** Good-night/' 
 went to his room. 
 
 V-'v . 
 
 B-*- ;- 
 
 '■ ■ 
 
 f' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE TRIAL OF UMCLE ABB OATLOB. 
 
 Sunday morning. Like a white mantle of Christian charity the 
 heavy snow of the night before had covered the .uneven and ugly 
 places of Applebury, and as the sun rose the air was brilliant with a 
 cold and wintry whiteness whicb some passionless teachers mifl(ht 
 have us l>elieve more beautiful in life— as in the seasons— than the 
 tropical pictures where warmth and exul)erant vegetation some- 
 times conceal miasma and death. Over the people of Applebury no 
 change had come, nor was their love of scandal hidden, or their 
 thoughtless anxiety to see some one suffer shame, covered by the 
 garment of white that all Nature had put on. 
 
 It was the day of the ** church meetin' " which had been called at 
 the instance of Deacon Jones to try Uncle Abe Gaylor for drunken- 
 ness, profanity and such conduct as injured the *' cause of religion 
 and scandalized the congregation" which assembled at the red meet- 
 ing-house on the Ninth. In all the nomes 'round about Applebury 
 there were unusual preparations for attending church. There were 
 no sluggards who excused their habitual absence by their weari- 
 ness, and even the backsliders who had reason to fear church trials 
 in their own cases were anxious to see the outcome of the charges 
 against Uncle Abe. 
 
 Half an hour before church time the red meeting-house was 
 crowded to the doors and when Deacon Jones walked in with his 
 new wife, shaking hands with everyone about him and trying to be 
 genial and friendly, the partisans of Uncle Abe indulged in well- 
 deflned expressions of scorn, the young folks tittered, nudged one 
 another, tittered again and made many audible and unflattering 
 comments. 
 
 The young men grouped around the stove by which Deacon Jones 
 paused to warm his hands and survey the situation, manifested 
 their dislike of the old man by inquiring of one another which they 
 thought was the oldest— '*' th' Deacon er his new missus "—one young 
 fellow going so far as to exclaim to his neighbors, ** She's ddw*!! I 
 •zpeoted ; I heerd she was only twelve." 
 
 

 *< 
 
 THE TRIAL OF UNCLE ABE GAYLOR 
 
 195 
 
 Hnlda'B black eyes soapped angrily and her thin lips grew 
 thinner still as she contracted them tightly over her teeth. One 
 graceless youth looked boldly into her face while he ejected a gill of 
 tobacco juice, aimed at a red-hot spot on the stove. This fine piece 
 of humor excited the mirth of all the bystanders and the Deacon 
 moved hurriedly forward to find his accustomed place filled, forcmg 
 him to seat his wife on a chair beside the pulpit, while b" himself 
 had to sit on the steps. His lowly position, almost at the feet of his 
 wife, caused another titter, and bitterness began to flood his soul 
 while inward rage reddened his face. The minister in charge of the 
 district was assisted by the Hev. Mr. Spring, and as he read the 
 thirteenth of Corinthians, regarding the excellence of charity 
 " which suffereth long and is kind, and vaunteth not itself, and iG 
 not puffed up, which doth not behave itself unseemly, thinketh no 
 evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all 
 things, believeth all things, hopeth all things and endureth all 
 things," it somehow struck him that Brother Spring had been 
 poisoning the mind of his superior and that this scripture had been 
 chosen to indicate that he. Deacon Adoniram Jones, who so long 
 filled the pulpit on the steps of which he was now forced to sit, had 
 Hhown a lack of charity in bringing a charge against Brother 
 Abraham Gaylor. The sting of this thought was increased by the 
 sneering faces and impertinent glances directed at him and his wife* 
 There, too, sat Ben, with Bessie and Hope and Israel— how he 
 wished they had stayed avvay. Much as he was tormented by his 
 own thoughts he could not but notice the change in Ben's counte- 
 nance. His self-confident air, the accusing look and the hateful 
 smile were all gone ; there was a sadness in his face, a tenderness 
 in his manner, which somehow reminded him of **Mariar." When 
 last he had seen Ben in that church it was on the day of the funeral, 
 and the end of his wife's cofBn had rested on the very chair now so 
 amply filled by the frowning Harriet. With his elbow resting on 
 his knee and his chin on his hand, the Deacon stared vacantly at the 
 seat in which "Martar" had tot for so many years, and her face 
 seemed to come back to him and her voice whispered in his ear with 
 that meek warning which once in a while in life she had dared to 
 offer: ** Wouldn't it be better not teh, Adoniram f yeh may git inteh 
 trouble," and ^ if it were afar off he could hear the preacher's voice 
 as he read, ** For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face 
 to face. Now I know in part ; but then I shall know as even also I 
 un known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity; these three, 
 but the greatest of these is charity." 
 
 The reading was oyer, and he rose mechanically as they stood up 
 losing: 
 
 ■"i^ 
 ^ 
 
 WSi^^li 
 
 Mti^^iii^Ms^M&Ji^kimMkm 
 
 
 "i 'ii^iii "iiriiri'i'iiMriirh"! 
 
->■-■ 
 
 i < "■ 
 
 i 
 
 ."^ 
 
 H;-.^* 
 
 r- 
 
 i 
 
 ■k 
 
 194 TT/DOTTFi? JOi\rJKS 
 
 " Safely throutrh another week, 
 
 Qod has brought ua on our way. 
 Let us now a blening seek, 
 
 Waiting in his courts to-day ; 
 Day of all the week the best. 
 
 Emblem of eternal rest." 
 
 He looked over at Ben and met an answering glance which 
 seemed to be shining through tears. The same thought visited 
 them both— the memory of that morning in the summer when Ben 
 stood by the window and heard his mother's gentle voice singing 
 that same air : 
 
 ** While we seek supplies of graoe, 
 
 Through our dear Bedeemer's name. 
 Show Thy reoonoiled faoe— 
 Take away our sin and shame." 
 
 It was strange to see the Deacon silent while others were sing- 
 ing, and stranger still, as they sang the refrain, to see the tears 
 stealing down his face and his burdened posture, as with hands 
 clasped behind him, he seemed to stare at the audience without 
 seeing. 
 
 It was their habit to stand In prayer, and while the preacher 
 sought divine guidance and implored help in the task before them, 
 the Deacon still stood motionless, voiceless when the "amens" 
 came up from the faithful, heedless of everything but the tmoe in the 
 pew— ** Mariar," with her shabby bonnet, her heavy coarse shawl, 
 hollow cheeks, pinched features and sad eyes. And Ben, how dif- 
 ferent he seemed t He was a little boy again, leaning against his 
 mother's knee looking up at her ! 
 
 Harriet noticed her husband's strange look, and saw fit to nudge 
 him lest he might attract attention, it startled and irritated the 
 Deacon, and he moved away from her as if to avoid her touch. He 
 hated her. 
 
 The Deacon sat down at the end of the prayer much troubled, and 
 through the preaching he did not fl(row happier as he wondered 
 what had induced him to lay charges against Abe Gaylor. All at 
 once he recognised that the whole neighborhood favored Uncle Abe 
 and disliked his accuser. The eyes which had Just now in spirit 
 seen the dead wife were sharpened to a keener vision, and he began 
 to know himself and see himself from a less flattering standpoint 
 than his egotism hail hitherto provided. When all except members 
 of the church were asked to retire, he could hear amidst the noise 
 and bustle of those who were leaving whispered comments on his 
 personal appearance and his meanness in bringing Uncle Abe before 
 the church. Everyone who could reasonably claim membership o^> 
 
 X, 
 
 . , V'.-i 
 
THE TRIAL OF UNCLE ABE GAYLOB 
 
 195 
 
 who could make the ezcnse that they were waiting for some one 
 who was a member, linp;ered in the church, which was still well 
 filled when the outsiders had retired. The preacher read the charges, 
 concluding by asking it the one who had made the complaints had 
 used all scriptural means to reclaim the brother who was alleged to 
 have gone astray, and exhorted the one complained against to con. 
 fess his fault if he were guilty and save the church the scandal of a 
 trial and himself the humiliation which was sure to result from an 
 inquiry. 
 
 Uncle Abe, who had been nervously moving around in his seat 
 and fidgetting with his cap during the whole service, thought the 
 last expression was aimed at him and sprang to his feet. 
 
 "I plead not guilty," he cried excitedly, **teh everything 'cept 
 gittin' full when I was up on th* jury last spring an' teh sayin' 
 *damn' teh Deacon Jones when he was showin' hisself off teh be no 
 man an' runnin' on women who hadn't nobody teh stand up fer 
 
 'em-" 
 
 The minister called Uncle Abe's attention to the fact that he was 
 premature, but he was to? excited to be called down on a point of 
 order. 
 
 " Now parson," he began, " I want fair play, that's all I want—** 
 
 "Be good enough to sit down. Brother Gaylor," retorted th« 
 preacher sharply. 
 
 "I hain't goin' teh be sot on by nobody," snapped Uncle Abe, 
 who, during the ten days which had elapsed since the Deacon's 
 threat, had fully made up his mind that he was going to be expelled 
 from the church, and would make it as disagreeable for everybody 
 concerned as he knew how. He was a good man at heart and re- 
 ligion had done mncb for him, but in his disgust at the Deacon's 
 hypocrisy, as many another man had done before, he was prone 
 to blame the church rather than the individual for the weak- 
 ness and meanness of a brother, Abe was glaring savagely at the 
 minister, and the minister, at a loss what to do, was gazing sternly 
 at Unde Abe, when a voice from the pulpit steps interrupted them. 
 It was the voice of Deacon Jones, but how changed from the confi- 
 dent ring and exuberant tone which had so often re-echoed through 
 the red meeting-house. 
 
 ** Brother Summers," said he, **this thing needn't go no furder. 
 I want teh take back them charges." The Deacon spoke feebly, and 
 his strangely pathetio tone startled everyone, most of all black-eyed 
 Harriet, who looked indignantly and scornfully at her husband, 
 thoroughly despising him for in effect making what aJli* bad nevet 
 made— an admission of wrong doing. 
 
 The minister, seeing that things were about to assume a dlfllNrent 
 
lf».>»-*v»tatti'i.fa:if»ij(i,sa;*.j*«v 
 
 m.- 
 
 
 196 
 
 WIDOWBB JONES 
 
 •>,¥ 
 
 r 
 
 «hape, wisely de<^red Brother Jones to be in order, and permitted 
 him CO speak, and Uncle Abe^ thongh he refused to sit down, waited 
 to hear what the Deacon had to say. 
 
 "Brethren an* sisters,** said the Deacon slowly, still gasing at 
 the pew where "Mariar" used to sit, *'rve did wrong. I hadn*t 
 no bis'ness teh lay no charges agin* Brother Gaylor. I hev been 
 thinkin* it over sence I did it, and I find I hain*t seh good myself thet 
 I kin, cast stones at a brother. I hey been weak an' foolish ; I her 
 said things I hadn't oughter hev said and hev did things that I 
 hadn't oughter hev done. It seems as if th' Speerit had Jist teohed 
 me an' opened my eyes teh show me how wicked I am. Tm 
 afraid," faltered the Deacon, in a bursi; of sincere repentance, ** thet 
 I hain't fit f er th' kingdom. If anybody has been doin' harm teh th* 
 * cause,' as I said there in my charge agin Brother Gaylor, I guess it 
 must be me. I don't want teh say nuthin' agin nobody. Whatever 
 I hev did er said teh wound th' feelin* of- th' brethren er sisters, I 
 take it back an' say Tm sorry fer it. An' brethren "—the tears 
 streamed down the old man's face and his voice was broken and 
 husky—** I ast yeh teh forgive me ; I ast^ them as I hev spoke agin 
 ■an' treated wrong not teh lay it up agin* me, ao's when we all come 
 afore th' great white throne on jedgment day there won't be nobody 
 teh stand up an' say thet Deacon Jones bed hurted them an' never 
 said he was sorry. I am sorry, bretliren an'* sisters, an' feel thet 
 while I hev been preacliin' teh yeh thet I hain't yit put off th' * weak 
 an' beglements of th' world.' Again I ast them an* Brother Gaylor 
 teh forgive me my trespasses in th' same speerit thet they hope 
 God '11 forgive them their trespasses." 
 
 The Deacon sat down ; the congregation was silent. Never since 
 Adoniram Jones had settled in Applebury had he stood so high in 
 the estimation of the people as he did then. 
 
 Thoroughly surprised and overcome by the Deacon's appeal Uncle 
 Abe stammered out a few disjointed sentences confessing that he 
 had done wrong and asking the forgiveness of the congregation ahd 
 his Maker. The preacher in the pulpit felt that nothing more need 
 be said, and dropping reverently on his knees whispered de(voutly, 
 **Let us pray." It had been the habit to stand in prayer In the old, 
 red meeting-house, but everyone knelt, and the spirit of foiglveness 
 and the appeal for grace seemed to be answered, for as they rose to 
 leave but few eyes were dry, few hearts were there but had gone ap 
 in prayer for forgiveness of the sin of uncharity, and bat few went 
 homeward without the resolve that their unworthy lives should be 
 made to conform more to the spirit of the Master. . . 
 
 There was one who did not appreciate the Dijfieon's eonfMsIon of 
 hia faults. His wife Harriet, as they got into the cutter together. 
 
 Ai- 
 
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 TBB TBIAt OF UNCLB ABB QATLOB 
 
 197 
 
 MDuurled in a half -whtaper, *'• Well, yon have made a fool of jeraelf 1 ** 
 He etralghtened hlmaelf up and looked her ateadlly In the eye for 
 
 a moment before he answered. 
 
 *' Yes, Harriet, I gpess I hev— in marryin* yoo.*' 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The wedding was over and Ben Jones and his wife were saytnic 
 goodvbye to Lou and Hiram and Huida and Calrin and Bess and 
 IsraeL Fortunately for poor Israel the train rushed np to the plat- 
 form as he. bade adieu to Ben wbo shoved a big envelope into his 
 hand. 
 
 "That's the deed of the farm for you and Bessie : yon can give 
 her her half when she marries Frank Gaylor. Now, don't say 
 * thank you,' or anything,*' added Ben cheerily, as Israel's dull eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 *' Good-bye, Israel ; God bless you," whispered Hope. 
 
 The train started and Israel hurried away, Bessie following dose 
 by his side. 
 
 ** What's your hurry, Israel t" she asked. 
 
 ** Nuthin' Bess, nuthin' ; if I try teh say another word I'll beller." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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