^. .^J^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) &< r €^ A O ^>\ /. K 1.0 ^1^ 1^ M 11.25 Ijj 1^ ».. 1^ ■4.0 UUla U 11.6 FhotograiJilc Sciences CorpOTalion ^^ <v \ <> 73 WIST MAIN STIt«T WKBSTia,N.Y. MSM (716)I72-4S(>3 ^^ ^\ '^RV i CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHIVI/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historicai IVIicroreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques T t( The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. D D n n n n □ D Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur Covers damaged/ Couverture endommag6e Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurie et/ou pellicuide Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque Coloured maps/ Cartes gdographiques en couleur Coloured init (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) Coloured plates and/or Illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Reli^ avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ La re liure serr6e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge intArieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouttes lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, male, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6tA fiimies. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppltmentaires; L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6X6 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la methods normale de filmage sont indiqu6s ci-dessous. I I Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommagtes Pages restored and/or laminated/ Pages restaur^es et/ou pellicul6es Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Pages ddcoiortes, tachet^es ou piqu^es Pages detached/ Pages d6tach6es v/ D Showthrough/ Transparence I I Quality of print varies/ Quality in^gale de I'impresslon Includes supplementary material/ Comprend du materiel suppl^mentaire Only edition available/ Seule Mitlon disponible Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont M filmtes 6 nouveau de fa^on jk obtenir la meilleure image possible. T P o fi bi tl si o\ fi si oi Tl si Tl w M di er b« "f re m This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est film* au taux de reduction indlquA ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X I I I I I I I |y | I I I I I 26X aox 12X 16X aox 24X 28X 32X The copy filmed here hat been reproduced thanks to tne generosity of: Douglas Library Queen's University The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol -^ (meaning "CON- TIIMUED"), or the symbol y (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: L'exempiaire film* fut reproduit grAce A la gAnArositA de: Douglas Library Queen's University Les images suivantes ont AtA reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nettet* de l'exempiaire film*, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de i»mage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprim«e sont filmte en commenqant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la derniAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration. soit par le second plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont filmte en commenpant par la premlAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'iliustration et en terminf^nt par la dernlAre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur ia dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, selon ie cas: le symbols -^- signifie "A SUIVRE". le symbols V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmte * des tfaux de reduction diffirents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul ciichA, il est fiim« A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite. et de haut en bas, en prenant ie nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 I « ^ s 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 / ^, V \\Jj^ <^ Sir ..\XtA. S.M IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 121 |Z5 ^ lii 12.2 ^ lift It! ■it 14.0 IL25 HI 1.4 ■ 2.0 m ^^ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation <*. ii '^kN ^^^*/^ ^.v^ 3S WKS1 MAIN STMIT WnSriR.N.t. MSM (716) •72-4503 ^ .A- ^'*!t3(i%rf*>i-',ri»*.- *vt'4ii?.'i^^'.» .A ,£li{*a«'i.*i*;v<**i- r - "-'A ■ •■ /'■i/' ''■■(*" : \ a. , 66 TT/DOTTlJi? JONES ;.,r 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^^ I 'I I 1 fl K ^Kl^r* W4im ^B^-*'- ^1 K'' %■ fl IP^'' ^.r^H ^^ ■ ^^^^1 Rl;, ti^^l w^i' y loe irizjoTr^n jo;v:b» ** 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 n 104 WIDOWER JONES f' I .S- ^ *' 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 ^s •iilllii 'Lx-t'.V iiiiiiiiitt^ -^'^■^ is BVUPiiPPi! iiiPPPPil^i^il^PWP?^ 106 WJDOWEE JONES 1 ad"-'' ' X' .'lll W' ~ ' '1 %' :.v jrij^i^ M^ • Sw' ' .^■ B '' ■* B'^ SStVi' \\: J > , t. i'r V. ;*■ -*■ ^. i-v 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" ^ • Y iiiiiiiiiiii^^ w^'Himm^ww, PW^-^f^'W."*'!-"- '■Wmf^^- 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. t- w >^ . ' ■'-'' 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. .( i'^'Wfpep^T^! '.',» V ^ I /'■' ■ V, ^.71 ""w.-^iiji^i r^trt^ T^pH*^/ uo vr/2)0Trj?i? JONB8 **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 iiiiMiWtt iima^afi ,-m m w^^ ppfmr wm^^wm 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- ii I iHiiiiill ill IP^ wmmm 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 w 9m ^P^PPl 148 WIDOWEB JONES ' [^ :;■ ;. I u .,. I 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" ^w^ I.^IWpw flllRP »^f' W|i »<WJ f-»«'tW! ffPiifJW ' ■'' 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 rr 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." : '«i»L£:<«rtA- ^>^'^tUKi^M>m^uam>M,,a^.^.,,^^ IM WIDOWBR JONES ■ \ 1 V i t ■^' I - f. r* ■ '■ i L. - > . t,- m > •■£ '■i ' 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. I .Jj^iil'jUi ifS^^, ^^^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) y -s? '^ A^ C V % z J 1.0 I.I 11.25 •so "^" III^B ■2i Ui2 12.2 1^ 12.0 lU Photographic Sdeiices Carporeition \ ^^" •ss <^ -J^/V '^"'t^''^ ^ ^.V^ ;\ k3 WIST MAIN STRUT WIUTM.N.Y. MSSO (716)«7a-4S03 ^ ■PHiPIPWP ^■PiP!*^^!P!iF 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- X!^ \ 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. i~ yj