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WIDOWER JONES:

A Faithful History of His *<Loss" and Adventures
in Search of a " Companion."

A RBAUSTIO STOR7 OF RURAL LIFB.

EDMUND E. SHEPPARD,
Amthur tf "Dotty," "Farm Sketches," "A Bad Mtm'e Svmtkemi," tU.,

TORONTO:
THB SHBPPARD PUBUSHINO COMPANY (Limitbd).

1888.

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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

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CONTENTS.

Cbaftir.

II.

III.

IV.

VII.

VIIL

IX.

XI.

XIL

XUL

XIV.
XV.

XVL

XVIL

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

WIDOWER JONES

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

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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".

\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

5^.

^.4.

V^'

WIDOWEB JONES

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

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

UNEXPECTED AND NONE TOO WELCOME

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'

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

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...

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

**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

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."

'•<«>.:,

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

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

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"

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.

CALVIN, HULDA, AND AUNT BECKT

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

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 :

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

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

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

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

WIDOWER JONES

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

•:s^^

^ — ■ -^^^

THE WIDOWERS HOUSEHOLD

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^^

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

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

WIDOWER JONES

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

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

w^mmm

mmm

"PP

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

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.**

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

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

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

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

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

— -. ■^. fif,iiWi^#Mii'

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

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

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

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

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

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«-

WIDOWSB JONES

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

** * 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

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 "

]''

wWioWNBSP^v

TBS DEACON FINDS A COMFORTSB

•* 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*'.

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

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 ■

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'iai'n!Mr:v ', gsa

■jHr"''

*P>l!9ff^*^P"^'"¥*iVPP

■i

WIDOWER JONES

" 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^:

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•^^miflfrm' \i'f >' i"«i,n, ■■. *ry «}<

wff>m

WIDOWER JONES

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

«|

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

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

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»_V.

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.-^ _.^Ul»-

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

[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 ,

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

** 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

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(

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

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

*' 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

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^^^

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*' ;

;

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

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

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

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.» .

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

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 »»»..•

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

'* 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

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81 WIDOWER JONES

which, strangely enough, Is so much more unpardonable In a woman
than In a man. But who was the man In the case I They guessed
at all the young sports In and around Applebury and appealed to
Sister Hooper to decide as to the partner of Hope's sin, but the
astute but wheezy umpire refused to act.

** I haln' sed nuthln' an' shan't go no furderl" she reiterated, half
afraid she had already gone too far, and yet thoroughly convinced
that Hope had some shameful secret which would be forced from her
If a scandal once got circulated.

The scandal was not slow travelling, and even the school children
knew of It before the end of the week, and winked at one another
as they looked rudely at the fair schoolmistress and laughed bolster*
ously and scornfully when she reproved them during the play hour
on Friday.

Hope saw the change In their conduct towards her, and in bitter
agony suspected that they had learned the story of her birth. Her
evident confusion and anguish were remarked by her pupils, and by
them duly reported to their parents, who saw in this a eonflrnia,
tion of Sister Hoopers story. Poor Hope's downcast eyes, with the
dark circles under them which spoke of nights of sleepless weeping,
failed to move the hearts of the ruder children, who insisted on
acting as if she were unworthy of their respect.

The torture of her position was growing insupportable, when
one day an Incident occurred which brought matters to a crisis.

CHAPTER XVIL

THB DBACON 00B8 AWOOINO.

Widower Jones in Sunday garb and seated alone in his son
Hiram's buggy, was driving slowly homeward from the county town.

Ever since Hope's contemptuous refusal of his hand and heart, he
had been thoughtfully turning over in his mind his chances of suc-
cess and happiness with each of half-a-dozen marriageable women
ot his acquaintance.

With a perversity of desire which his experience with Hope 1 .d
not cured, he still clung to the idea of a youthful bride. Even after
the night when be played what he considered his trump card with
Hope, and hi»d lost, He did not abandon the belief that he could still
induce her to yield, until her final and passionate rebuke of his
advances.

As the Deacon's horse Jogged along the uneven road, athwart
which fell the shadows of beech and maple, hia cheeks reddened and

iJi <4. V. >- ,'

THE DEACON GOES AWOOINO

hia eam tingled as he recalled her bitter words, when availing him-
self of a second opportunity, he had renewed his proposal.

** Never ! I would rather die than have you touch me. I loathe—
I hate you I The sight of you sickens me. 60 on, heap shame upon
me— tell the world what you know; no matter how shameful my
birth, it cannot bring to me halt the contempt and degradation I
would feel for myself if I married such a roan as you 1"

The Deacon's recollection of these words made him grind his
scanty teeth, and reaching forward he struck his horse a fierce blow
with the whip.

"Ill teach the proud huszy thet I kin marry th' best there Isi
Yes, and Fll give th' Camptons a reppytashun sich as 11 make th'
worst on 'em slow teh marry her."

But he was speeding too fast, and he pulled his horse up with a
Jerk. Switching with his whip at the grey mullein stalks and
dustbrowned thistles as his horse idled along at a slow walk, he
made up his mind to go and see Ruth Gilbert ** on the town line."

As he made this resolution, with a sudden impulse to arrange
his attire he replaced the whip in its socket, dropped the lines, and
taking off his hat ran his wrinkled hand through his scanty crop of
badly-dyed hair. After mopping his forehead and rubbing his hands
uneasily over his mouth and clean-shaven chin, he seemed partly
reassured that his charms were In order, and picking up the lines
turned from the highroad to the more scantily travelled town line,
where Ruth with her mother and brother were comfortably estab-
lished in a little white house surrounded by lilacs, cherry trees and
willows.

His courage almost failed him as he tied his horse to the palings
and opened the ricketty little gate leading to the front door. With
a shiver of fear that he was on a fool's errand, he remembered the
score of lovers he had heard of who had wooed Ruth Gilbert without
marrying her. He wondered why. But he had knocked at the
door, and without time to answer his own question he found himself
face to face with the object of his proposed affection.

" Why, howdy do. Deacon Jones f Come in I "

"Tol'ble, thanks ; how's yer maw!"

** First rate, thank you^ How's the folks t "

"Oh, all fairly middlin' when I left them this mornin'. I've bin
up town ; Jist gittin' back. Blind o' thought I'd drop in teh see yeh
—and yer maw."

** Mother '11 be glad to see you Tm sure. Til go and call her."

"Never mind, don't hurry; I don't want to int'rupt her in
nuthin'. Folks all well ? "

The Deacon was evidently ill at ease, and Ruth Gilbert, in the
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last ten years of her life, had had lovers enough to know the signn.

She was a large, tall and handsome girl, with dark eyes and a
wealth of fluffy brown hair. But her chief charm was a coquettish
Jollity which hid some of the strongest features of her character, and
led many men beside the Deacon to believe that the growing ma
turity of her years made her exceedingly anxious to marry.

**0h, mother isn't busy. She'll be glad to see you," said Ruth,
watching the Deacon's downcast face intently.

Feeling that an opportunity to be alone with Ruth might not
occur again, he at once plunged into the subject.

"Yes, of course. Ter maw's a tur'ble fine woman, but I dropped
in teh see you as much as anythin'." And with a sudden jerking of
himself together the Deacon managed to raise his eyes and look
admiringly at Ruth.

^^Ohl" she exclaimed, and her bright eyes flashed, though she
made no further effort to assist him in continuing the conversation.

"I'm— Fm—yeh see, it's tur'ble lonesome up t' our place, an' ]
kind o' thought thet mebby yeh wouldn't mind if I dropped in t' see
yeh onct in a while."

The Deacon's face got very red as he looked down at his hands
knit tightly together on his knees, and wondered how it was he had
never before thought what a handsome girl Ruth was, and he
further wondered in his confusion how in the world he had ever had
courage enough to go as far as he had.

Ruth's eyes were sparkling with fun as she watched the Deacon's
embarrassment.

" Why, of course not," she answered lightly. " We will always
be glad to see you. You'll stay to tea, won t you?"

"Well, I don't mind if I do, seein' that I'm here an' yev' been
seh kind as teh ast me."

The Deacon endeavored to speak with composure, but it was
evident that he was badly rattled.

"Rufe is out in the fields somewhere, so you'll have to put your
horse in the bam yourself, if you don't mind?"

" Ohf I don't mind I " exclaimed the Deacon, jumping up and seiz-
ing his hat. " I don't need no waitin* on."

With an assumption of lioyish alacrity he danced out of the room
and led his horse around to the bam, with an inward prayer that it
might not be his bad fortune to meet Ruth's wayward brother before
he got back to the house, and in this fortune favored him.

Rufus Gilbert was not always a pleasant gentleman to meet. He
had an abrupt way of asking questions and making remarks, which
very frequently bordered on the impertinent

He was ostentatiously irreligious, and the Deacon remembered

^^y

■'■■i'

THE DEACOIf GOSS AWOOIKa

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

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.

f-.---.-- ,^

jpm* •*■*'*>>'■•

WIDOWSn JONES

1 1

"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

'• 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;.

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

BEN'S RETURN TO APPLEBUR

t on his
is hone.
Is hone
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eetened
ng that
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Think

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B yeh a

e shafts
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beacon';

t, Ben
kesick-
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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.'"

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*' 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

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

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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

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

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■».m ani|»wnq

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

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

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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 "

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** Maybe I will," answered Ben, thoughtfully, ** though Uk»,ti
enough I won't get thanked for my interference 1"

Rufe rose to go. He felt ill at ease, and he was a poor hand at
concealment.

'' Let me know when to come, and be sure and say nothing to
Ruth of our plans, I'll fix myself so she won't know me, and it'll
be all the more fun."

*'A11 right; I'll go yeh, Ben; but somehow I feel kinder mean
about it. I'll see yeh, teh-morrow."

Two hours later Ben was still sitting in his dingy little room«r
smoking and gazing vacantly at the hideous paper on the walls,
seeing nothing but the beautiful face that looked so sadly up at
him that night, as he opened the old red gate to let her pass.
Could he doubt the innocence and truth of those tearful eyes ?
Tet other eyes had looked wistfully and tenderly into his, and a
voice as soft as Hope's had spoken love, and vowed to be true to
him, and had been false.

"I'm older now," he argued with himself. "I know the world,
and cannot be deceived as I was then." But still the other face
would rise up before him, and change into the half-drunken and
lustful recklessness it had worn when he discovered her perfidy,
and found her carousing with a man as low. and vicious, though as
handsome as could be found in all the much abused theatrical class.

Often as Hope's fair face came to him, the other face came also,
but still he did not waver in his belief that Hope was pure and eood,
nor did he for an instant falter in his determination to find the truth.

CHAPTER XX.

AN AFTER-MEETIN' DINNER PARTY.

The Deacon and Lou and Israel had been "to meetin'/' and
Bessie, who had remained home to take care of Aunt Becky and
prepare dinner, was surprised to see them return with quite a com-
pany of visitors.

" Of all people in the world ! " she exclaimed, " if they haven't
brought Maggie McTagger and her mother and brother back from
meeting with them."

Hope Campton, who of late had not been attending church very
frequently, was leanmg listlessly against the side of the window,
looking sadly out at the bright day which held 90 brightness for
her. She had been almost tempted to confide her troubles in Beteie,
but the fear that the daughter, outof filial affection, migfat sid* with

AN AFTERMEETIN' MNNSM PARTY,

Itt

the father, had made it imposBible to speak, though the misery of
silence and the longing tor some friend upon whom she could lean
was almost insupportable.

" Who is Maggie McTagger?" she inquired, shrinking back from
the window as the visitors drove into the yard.

** She's a gushy fool of an old maid, who inflicts us regularly
twice a year. She's a good-hearted old thing and always helps with
the work, but she's so full of palaver, and everything you've got
is so be-a-u-ter-ful and sw-e-et, she makes me sick — **

There was time for no more description. Miss McTagger had
pushed open the door and rushed inside. ** Why dear — dear— dear
Bessie I" she cried ecstatically grasping Bessie around the neck and
giving her a violent hug between each "dear."

After Bessie had escaped from the embraces. Miss McTagger
held her at arms' length, exclaiming :

'* My ! oh my I How beau-ter-ful you've got to be looking 1 My !
oh my 1 The love-li-est hair 1 "

** Mai 1 oh mai ! Eleez-a-beth, is that you f I seenks you are
looking faine ! " spluttered Mrs. McTagger, giving Bess a couple of
very large, moist, and explosive kisses square on the mouth.

Lou introduced the guests to Hope, who had to listen to a volley
of compliments from Mrs. and Miss McTagger to the effect that they
had heard so much of her wealth, beauty and goodness that they
could hardly find words to express their delight in at last having an
opportunity to behold the vision of loveliness itself. They gazed at
one another, then in admiration at Hope, repeating "My ! oh myl"
and finally declaring that half had not been told about her loveliness.

Hope had always been averse to hearing compliments and since
Deacon Jones had hissed that shameful word in her ear, her sensi-
tive nature had been hardly able to bear any society, much less
that which might expect her to engage in conversation. Thi«
nauseating flattery was loathsome 1^ her, and murmuring a few
words of thanks she hurried away to her own room where she won-
dered how it would be possible to spend an hour in such company.
In the sitting-room below she could hear Maggie McTagger going
into ecstacies over the fancy work, artificial flowers, bedspreads and
everything'else within the circle of the McTagger vision.

Bessie was making a noble effort to entertain them and liide her
disgust, and the ludicrous fragments of conversation which Hope
could not avoid hearing, at last almost moved her to mircb.

'* Mother 1 Did you ever see so lovely a mat? "

'* Mai 1 oh mai I " came the echo in prolonged falsetto.

** And look at that. tidy ; isn't it Just sweet t**

104

WIDOWER JONES

.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 "

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AN AFTEBMEETIir DINNER PARTY

106

** Why, father I He's got three grown-up girls at home, and if
they can't do the work Mrs. Turner can't."

The Deacon considered a moment before he replied, and in the
meantime Lou remarked that as Mrs. Turner had four young chil-
dren of her own, it wouldn't make the work much easier.

'" But then yeh've got teh remember that a mother's influence is
needed teh bring up a fam'ly of gurls an* Mrs. Turner's a tur'ble
good woman."

** The Bunner girls are brought up now and too old to be mothered
by Mrs. Turner or any one else, and itll Just make trouble," Bessie
protested sharply.

" Why? Now Jist tell me why! If their father feels lonesome
like, an' wants a companion why shed they git mad an' act up ? **

** Of course," chimed in Maggie McTagger, complacently. ** Why
should they if their paw's happiness was worth anythin' to them
more'n selli^hness."

*'■ I don't believe in second marriages 1 " snapped Bessie, "particu-
larly when people are old and have some one to take care of them."

The Deacon was too exultant to heed the storm signals, and, hav*
ing determined to break the ice while " company" was present, per-
severed in the discusston of the question, supported by Maggie
McTaggur aud her mother who both beamed on hira encouragingly.

" If mother hadn't been inarried twict I would never bin here,"
simpered Maggie, ** an' I've alius heard mother oay her second mar*
riage was happier ner the first, wasn't it, mother? "

*'Mai I oh mail it was surely I Donald, my first mon, was a
tay-rebble drenker ! "

"That doesn't prove anything," retorted Bessie. "You may
have had a bad experience first, tut you can't compare that with old
John Bunner's marrying again. H^'s first wife wasn't a drinker, and
was a great deal kinder to her husband than he deserved. It will
be a crying shame if be gets married again ! Won't it, Mr. Spring?"

"Of course I don't know the <'^*'cnn;i.i;«uct>?,'' answered the
young preacher cautiouslv, fearing to offend the Deacon on one hand
and Lou on the other, "but as a rule I don't favor second mar-
riages when there is a grown-up family. It is almost certain to
cause trouble."

"But thet haint the fault of th' marridge," exclaimed the Dea-
con, with his mouth half full of pie, but afraid of losing a chance to
put in his oar. " It's the fault of th' fam'ly gittin' mad an' actln'
up."

"Well, who wouldn't get mad and act up, if they saw their
mother's place filled by some strange woman ? I know I would I "

" Mow, Bessie, ' cried Maggie, who saw signs of trouble. "I don't

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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

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him recalled " Bub's" story and made him blush. The Deacon read
t he young fellow's face aright and looked over at Bessie to And out
if she had been told. Bessie reddened and hor father at once de-
cided that he might as well have the fight at once. Hope's face
crimsoned, too, as she thought of Uncle Abe's admission that the
Deacon had spoken to him, and all these tell-tale blushes were
noticed by Maggie's red-edged, pale blue orbs, while even Mr. Spring
and Lou could not help observing that delicate ground had been
touched upon.

**If yeh refer teh me, young feller," said the Deacon, slowly
rising from the table, "all I kin tell yeh is, yer wrong; what con-
versation yer paw an' me bed was 'bout suthin which, fer reasons
thet's nuther here ner there, hez bin dropped."

"I'm sure I didn't mean you, Mr. Jones," exclaimed Frank,
blushing more vividly than ever, " everybody comes to father for
funerals and advice, and I didn't mean no one in particular."

" Ther's no need of yeh per-vari-katin'. I don't deny thet I
intend marryin' agin, but yer paw halnt no more idee a' who it's
to, then yeh hev herself, an' you haint none."

This announcement fell like a bolt from the blue sky on every-
one alike. Miss McTatrger alone felt that she knew who was
meant. The Deacon's deligl^t at seeing her, and the ride home
with him in the buggy when he was tio gushing, flowery and affec-
tionate made her feel that he had accepted her homage and intended
to make her his second wife. She followed him intb the sitting-
room and with a loving look sat down as near him as possible.

Israel had listened to the discussion without uttering a word,
but the thought of Hope having yielded to his father's persecution,
strengthened by her downcast face and evident agitation, nerved
him to ask a question.

** D'ye mean teh say yev ast some one ? " he demanded huskily
as he stood beside Bessie at the dining-room door.

" Tes," answered the Deacon proudly, "an' bin the same as
assepted t"

"Who is she?" inquired Israel, thickly.

Hope, waiting until they had all retired from the dining-room
M> as to escape co her own apartment, paused behind Bessie to
hear nis answer.

**I hain't gnnto tell jist yet. I'm goin' up teh see her right
now teh git th' day fixed, an' all I kin tell yeh is, thet ther' hain't
no hansomer woman round here ner she is, an' when yeh know
who it is yeh'U say it wan't no takin' of anyone I cud git but
«h' gittin* o' th' best ther' is 1"

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106

WIDOWER JONES

** Father, are you crazy?" exclaimed Bessie, thoroughly aghast
at the Deacon's bold attitude.

**No, I hain't crazy, but I'm guutu be master in my own house
so don't try teh crowd me down fer I won't hev it I "

Mr. Spring had never before been in a family row and was trying
to console the weeping Louie. ** Speak to him and get him not to,"
she sobbed.

** Brother Jones," began the young preacher, hurriedly. " It
seems a very— er—er— strange proceeding for you to take in this
—er~er— unexpected er— er—er— manner 1 Couldn't you take er
—er—er— a little time to think it over before er— er— er— commit-
ting yourself to such a— an— er—er important step with such er—
er—er— serious consequences to er— er—er— yourself and youi
family. I er— er—er— would advise "

" Brother Spring, I would advise yeh not teh git mixed into
nobody's bizness but yer own," roared the Deacon. '* I bin buily-
rafCKcd an' browbeat inteh makin' a deck— ler— a— shun, an' I'm
goin' teh stand by it, an' won't thank no one fer interferin'."

** Mai I oh mai ! " gasped Mrs. McTagger.

*' Duncan git th* team 1 It haint no place fer us here with a
fam'ly row goin' on 1" rasped Maggie, who had come to the con-
clusion that she was not to be chosen as '* companion " No. 2.
"Girls, I'm sorry fer, yeh 1 When I was talkin' I didn't think yer
paw could uv fergot his poor dear wife so soon an' carry on like
a lunytick. Mother, git on yer things 1 "

The Deacon was putting on his overcoat, and with pompous
dignity suggested tliat "pr'aps it'd be just as well, though as yeh'll
hev a long ride, yeh might as well wait till mornin'." Maggie,
however was too angry to stay a moment longer and led her
mother forth when Duncan got the team.

As her father left the house, Bessie begged Frank to follow
him and see where he went, and Mr. Spring was compelled te
leave also, as he had an evening service at a distance.

It was a disastrous ending to the '* after-meetin' dinner" party,
and when everybody had gone Ik>u and Bessie ran up to Hope's
room to ask advice and weep tears of shame and anger over their
father's senile folly.

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FOR BEN'S SAKE

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CHAPTER XXI.

FOR BEN 8 SAKE.

**Ss7, Bath, who was old Jones spoonin' round last night?
You er mother ? "

** Which would you rather?" answered Ruth, leaning on the
back of the rocker, and turning her bright face full upon her
brother, w^o sat on the corner of the table, swinging his heels
viciously to and fro.

** I'd ruther hey it you," he answered sulkily.

"Why?"

"Because you're smart enough teh take care of yerself, an'
mother's gittin* old and might take some silly notion about marry-
in' agin* I"

**Tm getting old and might take some silly notion about
marrying. Would you care ? "

** Not so much if it was a sensible man of yei own age an' able
teh keep yeh!"

** How would Deacon Jones suit you for a brother-in-law f "

** That dam old fool I " snorted Bufe, contemptuously, ** I'm
not afraid of him ! "

** Don't lie so sure. He's a nice looking old man, and, since he'is
got his hair dyed, appears quite young. He can't be over forty-five
or fifty I"

" No, I s'pose not. Ben's only about forty, and .they're brothers,
haint they ? " Rufe was staring straight into Ruth's face, as he
snarled out his joke, but Joined his sister in the laugh that followed.

" Are you sure the Deacon isn't Ben's son?" asked Ruth,
mirthfully.

" Like 'nuff," sulked Rufip who had succeeded in resuming his
hostile demeanor, " though I never heer'd of Ben bein' married,
but like 'nuff that don't make much difF'runce with actor people."

" His mother told some of the neighbors once that she'd heard
Ben was goinfc to get married about ten years ago— I wonder if ,he
did." Ruth was still standing by the rocking chair, balancing herself
on her dainty right foot, with the other one tucked l>ehind it,
and swinging slowly Imckward and forward. She liked to talk to
Rufe about Ben and her graceless brother knew it.

" Why didn't yeh ast him when he was here/' be inquired, still
w»tc2ilng her face intently.

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**8tkj Rufe,** the Mid with Mrio^comie gravity, "do 70a know
Ididf-

" Did what ?-

" Asked him l"

**A8t him what?"

** If he'd ever been married.**

*' Well, you had good nerve I **

" Haven't I-always?"

**Too good sometimes 1 What did he say?**

**He said 'Yes, several times, but Til never do it again!'**

»• He was jokin'."

'* Majbe. Both of us were Joking, bat somehow I thought he
half meant what he said. Did he ever tell you anything about it t"

'* No, simple I He never was married any more than you were.**
Rufe spoke energetically and was still watching her face, his hab-
itual scowl hiding the intense love for her that sought to fathom
her heart and find if she were in love with Ben.

** Don*t you think he treats women funny f "

**I never saw mm treat no women, but he treated the boys
down at the tavern all right." Rufe laughed at his Joke but Ruth
didn't.

"Ihate the sound of * tavern,' Rufe I Did Ben Jones go there
much?"

*' No, not often ; he's too fine haired f er th' Applebury crowd."

*' I wish you were 1 " added Ruth gently.

Rufe hated to be lectured and on ordinary occasions would have
Jammed his hat on his head and slammed himself out of the door.
Now he was too anxious to find out about the Deacon to take
offence, so he remarked sulkily :

**I wish you know'd enough not teh lecture. Teh know it haint
no good, so give me a rest. Who was th' Deacon mushin' round,
yon er mother!"

"I guess it was me, Rufus. Mother's too old for the Deacon,"
laughed Ruth, her white teeth glistening and her eyes sparkling.

" But he don't think he's too old fer you?"

'* Oh dear no, you ought to have seen him dancing *round like
a boy before you came. It was a shame for you to treat a beau
of mine like you treated him?-"

** ril use him better next time if you say so I " sneered Rufe.

** And the cat I It was awful the way Tom acted when the
Deacon sat down on him. You ought to have seen him Jump I *'

•• Who ? Sniv er th* cat ?"

** Both," and Ruth, suiting the action to the word, described the
Deacon's adventure while Rufe laughed till he had to hold hla

■:a-- :■

FOB BEITS SAKS

kaoir

sidttfi, as hit sister first acted the part of the wounded Deacon and
then with wonderful mimicry ran ye-o>w-Uug 'round the room in
Imitation of the poor crushed Tommy.

** He*d find tn' eggs kinder soothin*/' said Rufe reminiscently.

** What eggs t *' demanded Ruth, breathless from her exertion,
stopping short before her brother.

" Oh, I put a few on th* buggy seat an' covered 'em orer with
grass, Jest teh make him remember me I **

Buth laughed, but as her brother described his lark with the
deacon's horse and buggy, she began to look serious, and then angry.

** How could you do such a thing ? Every one of them bar-room
loafers '11 know he was up to see me, and I'll he the talk of the neigh-
borhood."

*' No, they won't, nuther 1 " snapped Rufe. ** I guess Tve aome
sense. I told them I'd found the rig tied up teh Mrs. Turner's I **

Buth looked relieved, and Rufe saw his chance to find out what
he wanted.

'* If yer seh skeerd of bein' talked about, what did ye ast him
backfer?"

"Iditiu'tl"

*'But he expects teh come back, er else he lied teh mel" ven-
tured Rufe, wrinkling up I^is eyebrows and watching to see if the
bait took.

** The old idiot ! He asked me if he could come again, and I told
him I'd let him know at meeting on Sunday. But if he dares to
speak to me I'll make his head dizzy the way I'll give him his walk-
ing ticket."

** Say, Ruth, let him come I " exclaimed Rufe, with incautious
earnestness.

*• Why ? For you to make fun of ? "

** No, not that exactly, but it 'd do him good teh get a real good
set-back an' hear an honest opinion uv the way he's actin*. Mebbe
it 'd stop him runnin' round fer a spell an' help him wait till his
wife's got cold afore he hiftits fer another."

** I won't do it. I've had enough of that sort of thing an' if it
gets round that every fool-widower comes running after me, I may
just as well get ready to mprry one of them or expect to he an old
maidf"

Buth had ^>eated herself in the rocker, and as she spoke her face
saddened as if the future she pictured was not the one for which she
longed.

** But yeh'd be doin' good if yeh stopped th' old fool from prank-
ing round after girls afore his wife's licen dead six months ! "

'**Doing good' I" laughed Buth sarcastically, *' that's the first

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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

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.

WIDOWER JONES

CHAPTER XXII.

THB widower's SOLHOQUY— ALL WOMEN HAIN'T LIKE ' MARIER."

When he left his family in tears and consternation the Deacon
determined to have the whole thing, wedding and all, settled
promptly and with as little opportunity for discussion as possible.
The thought of Ruth's whispered words and the memory of her
sweet smile warmed his blood and he sat up straight in his buggy,
slapped his horse with the lines and began to hum a lively air
which had been adapted to a hymn. The afternoon was drawing
to a close but it struck him as being perhaps a trifle early to make
his visit. Willing to enjoy his thoughts for a while and prepare
himself for the proper conduct of his suit he uurned aside from the
direct road and reckoned to drive around for an hour before reaching
the "town line.'

As he drove slowly along he thought over the events of the after-
noon and what his family and everybody else would say. Of course
there would be talk and some folks might laugh at him for marrying
a young girl, but what need he care? " Not that!" he cried snap-
ping his fingers, and forgetting that he had a family with claims
on his means. " If there's any great talk I kin sell out th' farm
inteh town lots an' g'way an' live in a city an' take it easy along
'ith her."

"Her! Her I Along 'ith her 1 "

This idea started him picturing his life with Ruth in some city
where people would know nothing of their history and could make
no remarks. '' She'd like it an' it'd be easier 'n she's used to an'
she'd like me all th' more fer makin' a lady uv'er I We kin he'v a
nice house an' a coal stove, an' sit an' talk an' go out an' see th'
sights an' hev jist as much money as any one else. An' if I haint
got no chores ner worry I'll feel better an' live longer 1 "

The Deacon took off his hat and ran his hand through his scanty
hair : ** The people won't notice much dilT'runce in us : I hain't old
lookin' and kin move round jist as spry as th' next one ; an' if I git
on city clothes. 111 be slicker 'n most th' young fellows that's been
sportin' 'round her."

This again led to another thought. Hew was it she had never
married any of the gay boys who used to take her out driving and
paid her so much court? In another and less distinct form this
question had bothered him before. When he had thought of trying
to marry her it struck him as a very daring idea, in view of the

THB DEACOirS SOLILOQUY

115

score of younger suitors who had wooed in vain. He bad thought
of many of them, young, attractive and prosperous, and had won-
dered how, if they failed, he could hope to win. His daughters
used to speak of the beaux of Ruth Gilbert, and laugh about her
having kept company with nearly every young man in the neighbor-
hood. Particular instances came to his mind : Young sports'whose
reputations were none of the best— drivers of fast horses and livers
of fast lives— or such as pass for fast lives in country places. How
reckless of her reputation she must have been to be seen with such

men I Could it be The Deacon almost stopped his horse with

the nervous jerk he gave the lines as the suspicion darted through
his mind. ** No I no ! it can't be thet she's fast 1 " he muttered
nervously, as he clutched the lines between his knees and lifted his
hat with one hand while he mopped the cold sweat from his forehead
with the other.

The oftener he turned the thought over in his mind the harder
it became to account for the fact that she had married none of
her lovers— perhaps none of them would have her when they found
out what kind of a girl she was. She must have been anxious to
marry or she would not have accepted him so quickly ! The Deacon
was vain enough, but egotism could not carry him over the obvious
fact that she had had many lovers who were much more likely mates
for a girl than he was. **Then it must a' bin their fault, not her'n,
thet she didn't marry," he argued, as he again grasped the lines
with his knees and mopped the sweat of fear from his wrinkled
brow, "an' she snapped at th' chance uv marryin' me as if she'd
never bed a chance afore an' never 'spected to agin ! " Surely there
must have been something wrong I

^'Pshawl" exclaimed the Deacon, straightening out the lines
which had become entangled with the shafts, ** she bed seh many teh
choose from thet she missed all her chances, an' bed teh take up
with a crooked stick at last." He grinned uneasily at the idea of
calling himself a crooked stick, but could not recover his mental
equilibrium. "There was that Foster. She went with him, off an'
on fer years, till he bed teh run away teh git out 'n a woman scrape."

He remembered one night coming home from town he had over-1
taken Foster's rig, the horse going at a slow walk, and the occupant8\
of the buggy were close together and apparently making love and^
talking in whispers. This unpleasant recollection almost maddened
the Jealous old man, and called up still another episode of a similar
kind. The schoolmaster who had been dismissed by the trustees
for improper conduct with one of his scholars, had been one of Ruth's
admirers and often enough he had seen them out driving together.

These suspicions would not be quieted ; but in his anxiety to

^^i^-'ii'J-

116

WIDOWER JONES

satisfy himself that she was all right he pleaded her youth and the
recklessness of her brother who never taught her better things.
" But she hain't young." insisted the tormenting spirit within him.
"She's nigh thirty an' it ain't a year since Jim Foster ran away."
He leaned back in the butrgy sick with suspicion. "All gurls air
alike— giddy an' anxious fer fun," he thought, but his tormentor
suggested that " Marier " had never been that kind of a girl. '* But
she wa'n't lively like Ruth, offen as I wished she bed bin." But she
was truth itself, his conscience told him, and with' a twinge of re-
gret, as he thought of his days of youthful courting, he sighed, " all
women hain't like Marier." But Lou nor Bess nor Hope Campton
would never think of running 'round with all sorts of men. **No,''
he mentally answered, " but they had a strict father teh tell them
what teh do."

But there was Hulda. No ore knew even where she came from.
She had worked in an hotel, and there had been lots of bad stories
about her life before she came to Applebury and what better wife
could there be than she had made Calvin ? This was the most cheer<
ful thought he'd had. He had been opposed to the match, but Calvin
had been too innocent and stupid to be convinced, and sure enough
Hulda had proven his faith to have been well founded. " Even if
she had been silly an' did wrong," muttered the Deacon, with a
wrench at his heart and a tearing of his pride, " tain't no sign she
wouldn't make me a good wife. They'd better hev their fling afore
they're married than afterwards."

He had reduced himself to a belief that she had not been just
what she ought to have been, and he now set about convincing
himself that women of that kind make the best wives. But on this
line he could find no comfort. Half a dozen instances suggested
themselves of gadabouts who had married nice men and had cut up
in such a way as to have stories about them afterwards.

And why not Ruth ? suspicion inquired. ** Why not ? " moaned
the Deacon, who by this time was utterly miserable. " Why not
her ? " His distempered mind began to paint pictures of his future
with Ruth as his wife. What could a beautiful and fun-loving girl
hnd in him to content her ? What company would he be for a girl
who had gone to dances and had sung at entertainments and
" doin's " in all the churches and school-houses for ten miles around?
What was she marrying him for ? To cloak her carryings-on with
other men ? The shame and misery of that thought revenged his
poor dead wife for many a pang she had suffered.

No, Ruth was not that bad ; even the demoralized Deacon knew
better, but the poison of the suspicion left another sore. Perhaps
she had reckoned that the president of the railroad was going to buy

ft ^ i-

■y

THE DEACON'S SOLILOQUY

117

his farm and build a town on it, and she was marrying him for his
money. *' I'll fool her on that," he thouarht, savagely jerking his
horse's mouth to bring him back to the road from which he had
strayed during his master's soliloquy. " I could stand that, but not
her actin' up with other men ! " On questions of finance, he felt
he would have Ruth at his mercy, and it mattered little what she
expected or he would have to promise ; he could fix that. Even this
slight consolation, however, did not remain with him, for he knew
Ruth had been courted by richer men than he was. So it came back
to the racking questions to which he could find no answer.

It suggested itself to him that there was still time for him to
retreat. He had made no promise, and rather tlian suffer another
hour like the one through which he had Just passed he would live a
widower the rest of his days. But he had declared himself to his
family, and the preacher, and the McTaggers, and, worst of all, to
Frank Gaylor. If he should quit, everybody would laugh at him.
However, he had not told her name, and there were other women,
" safe ones, too, I kin git." But Ruth was so lovely there could be
no one like her

" Hullo, Dee-kin, air yeh goin' er stoppin'?" chirped Uncle A
Gaylor from his gate.

The Deacon in his confusion stammered out, "Oh, is that you
Brother Gaylor?"

"I guess mebby 'tis. Dee-kin. Don't I look nateral?"

*'I— I was thinkin' seh hard when yeh spoke teh me, it kinder
took me onexpected like."

" Yeh must a'bin thinkin' fer quite a spell th' way yeh bin comin*.
Seems like's if yeh'd bin in sight an hour. I hed teh take a sight
along th' tree yander teh see if yeh was movin' er hed got stuck."

"I was thinkin' out a passage of skripter an' the like, an' kinder
fergot where I wuz."

Uncle Abe knew better. When Frank followed the Deacon out
of the old red gate and saw him turn onto the river road, he knew
he would have to pass his father's, and so hurried forward by
another way, and had easily induced the inquisitive old man to lie
in wait for the slow moving lover, and find out where he was going.

** So I guessed. Dee-kin 1 Tryin' teh find out if t'was skripteral
teh git married agin, wan't yeh now?" laughed Uncle Abe, his eyes
twinkling through the comical little fold of skin which made his
wrinkled face look so cunning.

The Deacon reddened but he was too full of his thoughts to dodge
the question. ** Mebbe I wuz. Ter gen'ly a tol'ble good guesser."

"How'^er gitin' along coaxin* Hope Campton teh hevyeh?" in-

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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 ! "

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 ! **

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

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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

mmtmm

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

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

** 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^

192

WinOWFB JONES

V-

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

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

A SECOND REBUFF

135

" 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-^

fc>tM.rti.llJ

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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

'STT'i* vif-'^^myi!'*. -^jftr

138

widoweh joitss

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

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ve,!

BVTH INDULGES IN VAIN REGRETS

139

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

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.

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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

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—

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J«

WIDOWEB JONES

r :.

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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

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'iiMiiJiiiiii

^P^PPl

148

WIDOWEB JONES

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.,. 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

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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

**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?"

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152

WIDOWL'B JONES

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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.

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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

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}'*

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.

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156

WIDOWER JONES

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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

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p ^.■

158

WIDOWER JONES

** Well, I thought she ought teh know. I felt it my dooty teh tell
her 8o she wouldn't act so haughty an' ovcrbearin' teh people as she
docM."

•* Yer dooty 1 " squeaked Uncle Abe, scornfully. " Yer dooty I
Well, dang me if it doesn't make me laugh t* hear yeh talk 'hout
dooty I You don't know no more 'bout dooty than a hog does 'bout
'rithmetic She never acted haughty ner overbearin' to nobody that
minded their own biz-ness. She might hev given yeh a settin' out
when yeh ast her teh marry yeh, an' I wouldn't hev thought much
uvver if she hadn't. I 'spose that's th' way yeh got even 'ith th'
poor critter I "

** Brother Gaylor," said the Deacon, severely, but unable to look
his friend in the face, or more than furtively raise his eyes from the
geometrical exercises with the corn-stalk on the floor, "yeh hain't
no right teh talk teh me like that. I guess I know my dooty jist
as well's you kin tell me, an' I think my daily walk an' conversa-
tion is nigher that ev th' Master's than yourn."

** Don't give me none of yer cant. Deacon Jones," shouted Uncle
Abe, excitedly, as he sprang from his nest of corn-stalks. ** Either
you're goin' teh git kicked out o' th' church on th' town line, er I'm
goin' out. Yeh can't call a church meetin' too soon fer me. I've
jist took all th' danged snivel an' sass from yeh I'm gun to."

The Deacon rose with considerable dignity, and, extending his
long arm, he shook the corn-stalk he had been holding threateningly
at Uncle Abe.

*• Brother Gaylor, yeh car't bully-rag me. I'vebe'n too consistent
a (Christian in this neighberhood fer th' last forty years fer you er
anybody else teh make trouble fer me in th' church."

**CaU yer meetlh' I Call yer meetin' ! Don't stand there shakin'
nuthin' at me. I kin bring evidence agin' yeh that'll make
yeh sick I"

*'Yeh can't; yeh can't do it, A-brum Gaylor I I hain't done
nuthin' that kin be brought up agin' me, let alone any thin* you kin
rake up fer th' church meetin'."

'* Yeh hain't, eh? How 'bout the cow yeh sold teh Widder Smith,
an' her a' takin' in washin' teh keep her fam'l y from starvin*, an'
the danged old thing was seh old she hadn't a tooth in her head an'
yeh hed teh feed her on mush teh keep her frum starvin', an' yeh
charged her the price of two cows? An' how 'bout thet set a' har-
ness yeh worked off on th' last preacher thet was here, fer bein' as
good as new? An' how 'bout bein' hauled up afore th' cheese
factory fer Hkimrnin' th' milk can afore yeh sent it; an' how 'bout
abusm' yer wife—"

:,i»m»^'i;^4Mk'j£m

A FIERCE FALLING OUT

159

** I never abused my wife, Abe Gaylor. If yeh say I did, yer a
liar."

" I kin prove yeh did 1 "

" Yeh lie ; yer can't prove I did I "

** I kin, too, by yer own fam'ly ! "

" I s'pose Frank told yeh that ?— suthin' he found out hangin'
'round our Bess. Well, he'll never marry her, I kin tell yeh that,
after th' drunken spree he hed up tch th' village last winter."

** Yeh say my Frank was drunk up teh th' village?" demanded
Uncle Abe, advancing threateningly.

'* Yes, I say it, an' I kin prove it, too."

Uncle Abe glanced around the barn, and a whiffletree leaning
against the door caught his eye. He seized it and again advanced
towards the Deacon.

" Take thet back er I'll bust yer head in fer yeh. My Frank
drunk! You kin slander women who hain't no friends, but yeh
can't say nothin* agin my Frank. He is Mio best boy there is 'round
here, and he wan't never drunk," shouted Uncle Abe. " Take it back,
I tell yeh I"

"I won't take nuthin' back," retorted the Deacon, watching for
agoodopportunity to close with his antagonist. "He was drunk,
an' I'll hev yeh afore th' court fer threat'nin' langwidge."

"Don't hit him, father, I was drunk," interposed Frank Gaylor,
who had entered from the stable and heard tlie Deacon's charge.

** Now, didn't I tell yeh ! " snarled the Deacon.

••Yes, yeh told him," retorted Frank, fiercely. ''It's prettv nigh
a year ago, and you are th' only man in th' village mean enoud^h to
let father or mother know about it."

The whiffletree dropped from Uncle Abe's hands. "Frank,*
he cried, •' ^ as yeh drunk ? "

*• Yes, father, I was. The boys put up a Job on me at the tavern
one night. I had no business to be there, but I happened in and sat
around listenin' to their talk and drinkin* cider, I thought, but it was
half whisky, and I got tipsy and made a fool of myself. Everybody
knew I wasn't to blame, except for bein' there, an' they never let
you an' mother know."

His father's passionate espousal of his cause and the shame he saw
in his face wounded Frank more than a thousand reproaches.

"I'll never do it afrain, father," he exclaimed, repentantly, as he
stood in his manly \ ay before the old man, whose pride he had
always been. "Never, so long as I live, will anybody ever get me
to take a drop of anything in a tavern again. I'd ought to have told
you sooner, but you have always been so good to me, father, that I
was ashamed to."

'''^^.-■K-Vr*' ■■^■w.ujiiag

160

WIDOWER JONES

■ii

**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^.^.,,^^

WIDOWBR JONES

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Deep-drawn sighs and occasional sobs could stUl be heard behind
the Deacon's hands.

**Do yon remember," inquired Ben, leaning forward, *'the
morning you kicked me for not taking the cattle to \iatcr?
Do you mind the day you knocked me down with a sled -stake
because I said something back to you after you hit me over
the mouth with your hand ? Do you recollect that pleasant little
episode when you abused mother because she brought up some
bread and butter to my bedroom where I had been sent snpperless,
after a Jiwd day's work, for no other reason than that devil of
ugliness was in you as big as a woodchuck ? I suppone you forget
the Sunday morning you gave mother a shove and made her fall
over the rocking chair because she put her arm around my neck and
kissed me and told me not to cry, after you had beaten me for not
getting the chores done early euout^h ? I remember, if you don't,
every time you ordered me off the farm, every taunt which greeted
me when I came back because I wanted to see mother. I'll never
forget them. I suppose your memory is not good enough to remind
you of the morning I left for good, and you told me not to write to
mother or ever dare i^how my face? If you remember all these
things you won't be surprised when I tell you that I am not fond of
you."

The Deacon crouched further into his corner, whining ** But ych
don't say nuthin' a* how yeh acted teh me an' how yeh wus allu's
comin' twixt me 'n'-yer mother."

*' No, I don't say anything about that. No matter how bad I
acted you had nobliing to blame mother for, and yet the otiier night
you told Ruth Gilbert you never loved your wife, and sneered at her
whose only weakness was her love for the brutal tyrant she mar-
ried."

Ben rose up and seated himself beside his father the more con-
yeniently to reproach him. With his elbow on the back of the seat
and liis lips close to his father's ear he whispered " Do you remember
the funeral ? Do your cruel eyes ever see the scars of toil on thts
dead hands which were folded on her breast ? Do those cold lips
ever whisper to you in your sleep ? Does that dear old voice never
sound in your ears? Do those eyes never stare at you in the dark-
ness ? Can it be that that form which stooped and trembled under
the burdens you heaped upon it never bends over your bed and asks
you why you have so soon forgotten her who toiled early and late
without a murmur? Does a cold hand never touch yours "

*'Ben, fer God's sake," screamed the Deacon, pushing his son
away from him, ** don't throw up nuthin' more teh me."

A CLEARING UP OF THE PAST

167

To prevent a scene Ben changed his seat and faced the trembling
old man.

**Well, I thought maybe your memory wasn't very good and
you'd like to have me remind you of some of the events which
have gone to make our lives so pleasant. I can't wish you any
worse luck than you will make for yourself. I suppose you are
going out west to try to marry one of the Doyland girls. I don't
intend to interfere. She will give you bitterer medicine than I can.
As we are nearly at the Junction I'll leave you to your own happy
thoughts. If you will send me word I'll meet you at the station
when you come back. Tou can rest assured we will try and make
it pleasant for you at home."

As the train drew out of the Junction Ben could see his father's
head leaning anxiously out of the window to see that his son did
not re-embark, and then, full of bitter thought, ho continued his
Journey to Hope's old home, still many miles away, where, after a
day's search he found the old man whose name appeared as probate
Judge on Hope's birth certificate* Ben asked him if he remembered
John Campton, who lived there twenty years ago.

" Well, I should say so. He married my cousin and helped elect
me to oflQce the next year after he was married. There was never a
better man hereabouts than John Campton, and I don't believe any
straighter, honester man e.ver lived than he was."

Without any more ado Ben told him the story.

" That can't be right, Mr. Jones; there is some mistake about
that. Just come up to the court house with me and we'll see what's
the matter. It isn't right, for I remember it Just as well as if it
were yesterday when John was married. I was at the wedding,
and that was the year before I was elected— see— some time in 1860.
Along in the fall of *61 1 was elected, and took ofiice at the beginning
of '62 ; so they must have been married over a year before I could
have signed any birth certificate. Yet you say my name was on
that paper?"

Ben answered in the affirmative.

** And what day did you say it was?" demanded the Judge, as ho
stood fumbling over the old folio. " Why, my name couldn't have
been on it in '61. I wasn't in office then."

t/&** Well, that's the date of it. Judge, and it's that date which has
caused all the trouble."

"Why, there it is, in this book— '1862' printed right on the cover.
I knew it couldn't have been in '61. That is one of the first entries I
made in that book. I remember, now, when I see my writing there,
the day John came into this very ollicu and told me that it was a
girl, and I wrote that in the book, with all those fiourishes, right

- T.y».> .«r «i »,-J Hto » ^^ W»^

168

WIDOWER JONES

while he was Ht.-iiuling there. And I HaKl, *Ah you're going away
from here I'll just give you a curtiticate, and if your daughter ever
presentH that to nic when you are dead and gone she can have the
best I've gotT I remember how John laughed and said he wjih
doing pretty well, and he hoped his girl wouldn't ever have to go
begging."

'* Why, judge, don't you notice that in that book you have got
*186L'"

The judge stared at the entry for a moment and then began to
laugh. "Well, now," said he, "don't that beat all. I remember it
all now, and like enough that cortiflcate was just as you say. I was
feeling so cocky over my election, and it just being after the new year
and being accustomed to write ' '61,' I did not think to change the
figures and went on writing tlie old numbers— see, I did it for three
or four days. See, here is where I f^und out my mistake and began
writing "62,"' cried the judge, pointing to the following page. "I
guess there are heaps of folks who forget to alter the date for a day
or two after the new year comes in."

*' Yes," said the judge reflectively, " I remember how lots of the
fellows around the court house laughed at me over the mistakes I
made on the start, but I never thought my carelessness would have
got the daughter of my old friend Campton into trouble. You can
see for youmclf the mistake I made in this book., and I can see now
how it all happened, but it won't take half an hour to get aright
certificate and then you can go back and tell the people who ve been
talking about John Campton's daughter that they'll have to eat
their v/ords or old Judge Topper II come over there and prosecute
every mother's son of them for Minnder."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE WIDOWEll FINDS A "COMPANION."

West of the Mississippi, where the vast prairies are blocked Into
squares by osage-oraiige hedges, John Doyland lived amidst toil-
gained plenty. He had a large family and he made them all contri-
bute to his slow-growing wealth. It was not a happy family.
Selfishness and suspicion were the chief characteristics of the parents,
and a mean and sordid nature was the natural heritage of the child-
ren. The broad and rolling prairies, the cyclones and blizzards and
the vastness of everything seem to make tlie Western man bread-
minded and generous, but the Doyland family, disliking at first the
BhiftleBsuesa and extravagance of their neigh l)ors, bad lived wUhin

V &cmM,

tmm

THE WIDOWER FINDS A ** COMPANION"

169

themselves, aud later their thrift had enabled them to become the
usurers and most hated residents of Shawnee County. Harriet, the
eldest of John Doy land's olive branches, was well described by the
Deacon to his daughters when he said Hhe was "stout gittin', but none
teh hurt." Tall and large, her coarse binck hair was dull and lusterless
as an Indian's. Her black eyes, large face and thin lips expressed
forceful determination, and her stately llguremade her almost hand-
some ; but fear of her had kept the young men of Shawnee County at a
distance. She hated the West and made no secret of it, and wtien
Widower Jones was the guest of the Doylands the summer before
Harriet had almost made up her mind to marry him for the sake of
his property and a chance to get back among Eastern people. She
cooked dainties, which she hinted were for liiin, and spoke t^ him
softly— her one beauty was her voice— and her black eyes told him
plainly enough that he had only to ask and be accepted. She almost
detested him, but she was thirty jive, knew he was prosperous and
she longed for someone to deliver iier from the hated West.

The Deacon knew this, and moreover he felt sure she had never
had a lover. He recngni;;ed the fact that a woman who has seen two
score loveless years must eitlier be very strong-minded or hard to
please, and as his experience had tausrht him not to enter the lists
with youth and good-looks as Jiis rivals, he felt that Harriet Doyland
would be a safe companion.* It almost made him laugh to think of
anyone trying to take liberties with her I The humiliation he had
received from Ruth Gilbert, coupled with the resolve to live alone no
longer, had led him to the determination to marry Harriet Doyland
and let her " make it hotfer the fam'ly." He thought with malicious
pleasure of how dangerous it would be for Bessie to fly in ttie face of
a stepmother with such black and unflinching eyes as those of Har-
riet Doyland. Ben,— he would find his match ! Lou and Israel— he
guessed they wouldn't hang around the farm long if he gave them a
good strong-r.'' d'^d stepmother. It troubled him a little to think
that Harriet mijsHt make him dance to pretty fast muHic, but then she
was goo :li;<cking, a splendid cook, and just the sort of woman to
take cart of him. After he left Ben at the Junction, remorse liad
given way to vengeful hatred which but strengthened his detcimin
ation to marry Harriet to spite hia family who had chosen to con-
spire to humiliate and annoy him.

Jaded by his long trip, he looked old and travel -stained when he
arrived at the end of his railroad journey, but r^'itermined to lose
not an hour, he hired a man to convey him at once to the Doyland's.
His heart beat fast as he nervously knocked at the door, which,
after wha^ seemed to him an hour, was opened by Harriet herself.

" Why, Deacon Jones I " she exclaimed.

1 ■» ».(WI»iT.*JB»E>>.J«*"

170

WIDOWER JONES

** Tes/' said he, nervously, ** it's me. I guessed I'd s'prise yeh."

*'Well, you have," she answered, stooping down to pick up his
carpetbag. "Come in and make yourself to home. Who'd a'
thought a* seein* youY*

" Nobody, I s'pose,'* answered the Deacon. " I s'pose yeh hain't
thought a' me sence I went away?"

** O, yes I have, often !" she answered meaningly. "The folks are
all away, gone over to the revival ujeetin*."

"All well, I s'pose?" enquired the Deacon, clumsily.

" Yes, we're all well ; how's your folks?"

"Tol'ble, thanks, when I left 'em."

" Haven't liad supper, have yeh ? "

" Well, no. I wanted teh «\t here fer tea, so I hurried right on
from the station."

" Well, I'll get you something to eat if you'll excuse me for a
while."

" If yeh don't mind, I'd like teh go out inteh th' kitchen where
I kin talk teh yeh while yer workin'— if yeh don't mind."

" Oh, I don't mind ; it's warmer out there, too."

Seated in a rocking-chair by the stove, he admired the order and
cleanliness of the kitchen, the polished stove and shining pans.

" How are the girls gettin' on keepin' house?" inquired Harriet,
who thought she could not too soon offer the Deacon an oppor-
tunity.

" None too well— I kin tell yeh that, Harriet. Things is all goin'
wrong Ronce I lost my pardner."

*• How do you mean?"

" Ben's bin home makin' trouble. He's runnin* things 'ith sich a
high hand that I hain't hed a minnit's peace sence I was here in th'
Hun)iMor."

" You don't say ; well now I "

" Its tur'ble teh hev one's fam'ly act like mine is. I'd Jist got com-
fr able like an' they're buildin' a big town at Applebury an* makin'
my place val'ble, an' yet I don't hev a minnit's comfort an' the pros-
pects is I won't hev nuther, unless I git married an' start my fam'ly
off teh do for thelrselves."

Harriet invited him to sit up and have some supper. In the
Hame low, emotionless voice. She understood the meaning of the
Deacon's visit and as she watched him, was making up her mind
as to the best course to pursue. During his previous visit she had
weighed every argument and it did not take her long to conclude
that having come so far to get her she could now dictate the
terms. How repulsive the old man looked with his dyed hair and
his face haggard and grey ? The weariness of his long Journey made

THE WIDOWER FINDS A '* COMPANION''

171

him look so old and feeble that Harriet, watching his trembling;
hands as he ravenously satisfied his hunger, concluded she would not
have to endure him very long. If she could get hold of his property
she decided that after all a few years of life with him would not be
much worse than living among the despised people of the West.

Wiping off his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth the Deacon
pushed his chair back from the table.

" I guess I've eat up most everythin' but th' dishes, Harriet. I
tell yeh I was hungrier'n a wolf, an' onct I got holt a' yer good cookin'
I was like teh bust myseif."

** I'm sorry I hadn't anything cooked or I would have tried to give
yeh something real nice," responded Harriet with her sweetest
smile.

" Well, if yeh don't call them vittles nice I never had none, I kin
tell yeh that."

•* That's because you are hungry."

** Oh, no it wan't; I was tellin' th' gurls last summer after I got
home what a tur'ble good cook yeh was."

** Oh, you're trying to flatter me," said Harriet, as she folded the
tablecloth and gave her head a coquettish toss.

'* No I hain't, nuther. I jist wish I hed yeh cookin' fer me all'us."

*' You'd soon gee tired of it."

"No I wouldn't, nuther," protested the Deacon with a desperate
attempt at a winning smile.

Somehow the words seemed to stick in his throat. He could not
make loVe to her as he had done to Hope and Ruth, and nothing was
farther from his thoughts than even trying to touch her, to say
nothing of an attempt to kiss her. He was afraid of her. In his
heart he felt he was making a mistake. It was now too late to turn
back, so with a sensation akin to despair, he screwed uf Lis cour-
age, and looking his hands tightly over his knee, he began :

*' There hain't no use beatin' 'bout th' bush, Harriot. I come out
here teh ast if yeh'd marry me. I've got enough teh make us both
comf 'r'able, an' 'ith you fer a companion, there wouldn't be nuthin'
left fer me ceh wish fer."

After a pause, during which Harriet quietly seated herself with
the stove between her and the Deacon, he continued :

" I hain't an old man yit, an' Til be Jist as good teh yeh as any-
one kin be— I kin tell yeh that."

Weariness saddened the Deacon's tones, and with downcast eyes
he thought of his proposal to Hope and the one to Rutli, and won-
dered why he felt so dllTerentiy now.

" This is very sudden," answered Harriet, without the least

mmfommmfmsmsm

t '^ . ' S ? "'

I' H I' J i' . ' j '> . l

172

WIDOWER JONES

tremor in her voice. " I don't know what to say ; Fd almost made
up my mind to be an old maid."

*' Bein* an old man's darlin' is better than bein' an old maid— I
kin tell yeh that ; it hain't »eh lonesome, an' it feels tur'ble good teh
have someone teh lean on. I hev found that out sence I lost my
companion— I kin tell yeh that."

The Deacon spoke as if his tongue were anxious to avoid its
office, and his frequent "I kin tell yeh that's" were thrown in to
round up his awkward sentences and make them a little longer.

** Yes, I suppose it is," reflectively, " but then married folks have
their troubles as well as old maids."

" Yes, they do that, but you'n me wouldn't I I'd be good teh yeh
an' give yeh everything yeh want an' keep a hired girl, as fur's
that."

"Would your family consent to your marryin' again?" she
asked, not so much for information as to lead him to declare the
circumstances under which she might expect to live.

**I don't care whether they'd consent er not," answered the
Deacon sharply, ** an' when I git married I hain't goln' teh ast them,
ner ever liev none on 'em round, I kin tell yeh that."

Harriet saw that the Deacon, despite his reckless disregard of
the claims of his family, had half-repented of his errand, and de-
termined without any further parley to accept him and stipulate
her terms.

'' At our age. Deacon, a thine of this kind is a good deal a business
matter," Harriet began, with self-possession which utterly discon-
certed her suitor. "I am thirty-flve, and if I'm ever to get married
I might as well do it now. I respect you and think we could get
along together. I can't think of anything that could come between
US except your family and disputes about the property. I know you
are willing to do the right thing by m**, and if you make my future
safe from want, I'll marry you whenever you say."

The Deacon swallowed a big lump which had been rising in his
throat. Was this a woman or a lawyer he was talking to ? He
lifted his eyes and met her steady unblinking gaze.

"Ahl Oh, ah— er— of course— of c n.rRe— I'll do whatever yeh
say's right 'bout that ; your— I— ah, cal'k'lated of course, I'd hev teh
settle suthln' on yeh an' there hain't Ruthin' mean 'bout me- 1 kin
tell yeh that."

The Deacon felt generous enough at that moment to have given
half his farm if ho had been back in the East away from this black-
eyed, self-possessed woman, who talked of marriage in the same
business-like tone which she would have used in bargaining for a
piece of cotton.

',*.^i

THE WIDOWER FINDS A '* COMPANION"

173

*' Well, then, Deacon, I suppose it is settled. If we go in part-
nership it wiil be on even terms and tlien there '11 never be any
dispute."

The Deacon choked again, stuttered and stammered, but under
the influence of this strong-minded woman who had so quickly
assumed possession of him and everything belonging to him, his
will seemed to have left him.

" Ah— oh— I— er— of course, of course, it's only fair— jist as yeh
say — we'll go halves.'*'

Harriet Doyland thoroughly understood the Deacon and knew
that a night's sleep and mature deliberation would make him repent
his agreement, but she believed in herself and decided that her
will was strong enough to compel the fulfilment of the promise.

" '\'7hen would you like the wedding to come off," she inquired,
and her low voice was wonderfully sweet.

** It can't come off any too soon teh suit me, I kin tell yeh that."

"Then, when would you like it?"

"Teh onct— teh-morrow er next day," gasped the Deacon. " We
want teh take a little tower and I've got teh git back teh Apple-
bury by next Sunday week to a church meetin', so we hain't got
only 'bout a week teh git 'round in."

" All right then ; let it be to-morrow. After it's known that I'm
going to be married, I don't want to stay at home here and be
pestered by the rest of the fafnily. They would tease me to death.
My clothes are not very good, but if they are good enougli to suit
you theyll suit me."

There was power in the woman's voice and this coming to him
for protection and the giving of herself up to him began to flatter
the Deacon. Harriet found occasion to move across the room and
passed close to the Deacon's chair, where she paused with her Iiand
on his shoulder.

"You will always be good to me, won't youi" slie asked.

The touch of her hand thrilled him.

"Yes, I swear I will," he cried, thoA'ing his arm around her.
She did not resist.

" And when we're married you'll promise to forget that you had
a wife before^ and — and will never make comparisons t>etwcen me
and her?"

Some will superior to his own brought the Deacon to his feet
and with his arms around her waist and his hands clasped be-
hind her he vowed that he would never speak of *' Mariar,
ner his fam'Iy" H«r hands still rested on his shoulder and she
permitted herself to be kissed. The touch of their lips seemed
to break down the walls which separated them and the passionate

IV*

WIDOWER JONES

volubility of the amorous Deacon as;ain manifested itself. Harriet
Doyland was a clever woman, aud she had resolved that the
Deacon should be an ardent lover until he had promised all she
wished, and before he found her shrinking from him he promised
that previous to their marriage he would give her half of his farm.

" I'll make it so they can't none on 'em run on yeh. Yeh'U hev
ft so it can't be took from yeh an' anyone that says a word 'bout
yeh 'ill hev teh fight 'ith me."

In bis excitement the Deacon was becoming altogether too
demonstrative, and quietly taking hold of his wrists she loosened
herself from his embrace and her black eyes had a look in them
which forbade any further familiarity.

When the family came home their surprised greetings were
hardly over before Harriet ordered them to go to bed at once. The
titter of laughter and exclamations of surprise were checked at
once by a motion from her hand and the look in her eyes. Next
morning her father and mother, who had been told of her project,
accompanied them to the neighboring town, where the Deacon with
many misgivings signed an agreement that withm two weeks he
would make a deed conveying to her half his property. Then
they were married, and with a few scant tears as her mother kissed
her good-bye, Mrs. Adoniram Jones hade farewell to the West.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

TELLS OF ben's RETURN AND BRINGS:

" To the maiden sweet fruition
Of a new discovered Joy ;
To the lover, crowned ambition,
Peace and love without alloy."

Lou had gone to Tedley. Israel for an hour had sat gaztng at
Hope while her eyes were bent on her sewing, but when she looked
up he gave his undivided attention to the fat old tabby purring
peacefully in his lap.

" Go to bed, Israel. It's after nine o'clock when good little boys
are expected to be asleep." Bessie spoke so affectionately that Hope
looked with a half smile at Israel as she said :

** I don't know what we'd do, Israel, if we hadn't Bess to look
after us."

" I s'pose not," answered Israel sadlv, as be stroked the glisten-
ing fur of the cat.

HOP PS HAPPINESS

ITS

**Ran away to bed," insisted Bess, laughingly. "'Early to bed
and early to rise,* you know."

" I guess rd better go then ; though I'm healthy enouffh, there
hain't much * wealthy' er * wise' 'bout me." As the big fat fellow rose
up and deposited the cat carefully in the chair, he looked so woe-
begone that tears came into his sister'H soft eyes.

** Good-night, Bess, g'night, Hope," he blurted out, with a sound
in his voice suspiciously like a sob.

"Good-night!" responded the girls together, Hope wondering
what had given Israel the blues, and Bessie studiously avoiding any
questions by explaining the moment Israel had closed the door
behind him :

" Do you know I feel it in my bones that Ben will be here to night 1
The express will be due in ten minutes, and I wanted to get Israel
off to bed so you could have a good talk with Ben."

In her anxiety to protect Israel from remark, Bess had rushed
into a delicate subject, and discovered it too late to recract. Hope
blushed and bent her head over her sewing, murmuring confusedly :

" He— he— said it would take him about three days."

" Won't it be splendid if he finds everything all right?" This was
at least the twentieth time Bess had made this remark, for Hope
had been continually leading up to a discussion of Ben's return, and
her fear that there could be no mistake. Bessie, shrewdly suspect-
ing that Hope wanted to talk about Ben, had given her ample oppor-
tunity, and poor, romantic Israel had been incessantly reiterating
his brother's praiae^i, watching all the while the tell-tale blushes, as,
like little waves of color, they swept over Hope's fair face. Bess,
however, discouraged the topic when Israel was around, for she
well knew how the poor fellow suffered with the thought of Hope
leaving his sight, where he was content to worship in silence.

"I don't hope for that " Hope stopped, her face and neck

suffused in one vivid blush, but her eager eyes were not averted.

"What do you hope for then?" demanded Bessie, plying her
needle vigorously, and pretending not to be much interested.

"Oh, Bess, Bess, I hope he won't hate me even if it's all true I "

"He won't! You needn't be afraid of that," answered Bessie
positively, and putting away her sewing, the better to talk. "If he
found out you hadp't been born at all, it wouldn't make a speck of
difference, he's too far gone ! "

"Gone?" echoed Hope.

"Yes, 'gone', in love with you, I mean."

Hope could not oonceal her pleasure. "Do you think he's loved
melongf**

176

WIDOWER JONES

**l think it was a case of * first sight/ How could you help liking
him?**

**I couldn't/' murmured Hope, **but I thought it would be
wrong and I prayed ever so much for help not to think of him
I was afraid ho was wicked."

" Aren*t you now ? "

** How could I after he has proven so noble and good "

** Hush, wasn't that the gate t " cried Bessie.

Hope sprang from her chair, her hands clasped before her and
her great, glorious eyes dilated with expectancy, flxcd on the door.

A few quick footsteps, a sound on the porch and Bess threw the
door open, dudged behind it, and Ben rushing in met Hope flrHt.

He stopped abruptly, reading nothing but expectation in her
attitude :

"It's all right? there was a mistake, your birth is as free from
stain as mine or Bessie's."

** Oh, Ben I'* Hope held out her hands appealingly, '* can you ever
forgive me for thinking you wicked ?"

In an instant she was in his arms, not passively but with her own
arms thrown about his neck, her willing lipn upturned to his.
Beautiful as the goddess of beauty, her face aglow with love, she
yielded herself to him unquestioningly and though she knew Bessie
stood l)ehind them, it made no difference. There was no shame in
yielding to his caresses. Did she not love him? Henceforth she
was his and he was hers. Was there anything to be ashamed off
Her pure nature was full of passion and it had been kindled by the
torch of love.

" Really, Ben, you and Hope are making me blush myself out,"
suggested Bessie, at Ben's elbow.

" Why, little one, I didn't see you."

*'No. I guessed not," answered Bess, dryly. "There was no
means of escape, except out into the snow, or I would have flown."

Seated in the big rocking chair, with Hope sitting on one wide
oak arm and Bessie perched on the other, he held their hands in his
as ho told tiie story of Judge Topper's mistake. Then he spoke of
his father's journey and its probable meaning.

" He's gone to get that Doyland woman, and she'll marry him
sure. I remember her, and if I were to wish the old man all the bad
luck he can have on earth I'd engage Harriet Doyland to give it to
him. At school she was the meanest, crudest she-tyrant I ever saw,
and then she was only twelve or fourteen years old. What must
shebeatthlrty-flve?"

" Poor old man, I'm sorry for him ! " said Bess.

"Don't waste your sympathy, Bessie. He'll be back here and

S^,. '

HOPE'S HAPPINESS

177

turn you out of the house inHide of a week. How are they fi;otting
along fixing up my place?"

"First-rate. You must have hired all the painters in town."

** Don't leave here till you have to. Put father to the test and see
what he'll do. Now Hope is mine, I don't think I'll want much
more Applebury for a while, and you and Israel can have the Birch
farm, if Hope will come to New York with me. Will you, Hope?"
he asked ?

** Wherever you say," she answered, her voice clear, steadfast
and loving.

** And whenever?" he continued.

** Yes ' and whenever,' ** she responded.

** Then we'll get married just as soon as the house is ready.
You can tell the village fathers to-morrow to hire some one else to
teach the school. If you don't charge them for what you've done
they'll let you off, and we'll get ready to spend the winter in a sun-
nier clime."

And while they talked and planned, poor Israel, in the meanest
room in the house, sobbed himself to sleep.

" Bounded by themselves and unobservant," describes Hope and
Ben, as they walked and talked and superintended the work at The
Birches. She made no effort to conceal her love, and even when
Israel was present, would slip up to Ben and cling to his arm and
accept the kisses he was always ready to bestow. Without a pang
of envy, the patient Israel suffered hopelessly and with no question
as to the justice of liis punishment for having dared to love one so
far above him as Hope Campion.

Bessie was often irritated because Hope was so demonstrative.
She was unable to conceive how a woman could so completely
abandon her personality and merge herself in the will and tastes of
her lover. Everything was *' Ben." Hope could talk of nobody else.

They were over at The Birch place, and Bessie was putting up
some curtains.

" Don't you think these would be nicer in the dining-room?" she
inquired of Hope.

" I don't know ; I'll ask Ben."

" Bless your heart, Ben doesn't know anything about curtains !
What's the good asking him ? "

It was no use, Ben had to be hunted up ; and when Hope came
back, she said Ben didn't care where they were put.

" I told you so," said Bess. " Where'll we put them ?"

** I don't care, either ; wherever you say."

" !t "f >! "

WIDOWER JONES
I 'spose if Ben didn't want any dinner you

178

" Well, I never I
wouldn't either,"

**No, 1 don't think I would. I'll go and get him ,to come and say
where he wants them put, if you like."

** Never mind, he s busy."

** I'll go out and see," and without another word she was off.

Bessie gazed after her in disgust, muttering in her vexation,
** She's the greatest goose I ever saw."

Five minutes later a gay song floated through the open door, and
Ben and Hope came loitering in.

^'Why, Hope, where did you learn that song?" asked Bessie. **I
never heard you sing anything but hymns."

** Ben taught me," she answered, simply.

" Yes, and she sings like a thrush," added Ben, proudly.

** Tou're getting along pretty well, Hope, for two days' tuition, I
must say." Bessie didn't intend to be cross, but Israel stooping
under a pile of lumber he was carrying past the door, made her sor-
row for him curdle for a moment her good nature.

Ben's reproachful glance brought repentance. ** Don't you think
it's pretty near her turn to be happy for a while, Bess ? "

" Yes, I know it in, but do you suppose I'm going to stand here
all day waiting for Hope to find you before shell say where she
wants these curtains put?"

" Put them where you like, little spunky," laughed Ben, "I don't
care if you hang them on the clothes line ; you are to live in the
house, so fix it to suit yourself."

*' Of course, that's what I wanted her to do," added Hope seating
herself on a box beside Ben.

Bessie, with her back to them, laughed as heartily as a mouthful
of pins would let her.

'*What are you laughing at sister ?" asked Ben, who at that
moment was adjusting some hairpins for Hope.

" At Hope 1 She's beginning to talk just like Oalvin. I s'pose in
a couple of days more she'll say * that's just what I said ! ' like he
does whenever Hulda makes a remark."

Hope looked hurt, but Ben only laughed.

*' Well ! What if she does? If my pretty sweetheart has as loyal
a heart as Calvin's, and loves me with the single-minded affection
Calvin has for Hulda, I'll be the happiest man on earth."

Bessie had pinned the curtains to the rod, and getting down from
her perch to see how they looked she caught sight of Hope's "hurt"
look.

"Now silly," she cried, ** don't mind what I say. I'm Jealous

HOPE'S HAPPINESS

179

liecAUHe I can't have Ben all to myself and if 1 act like a vixen youMl
know the reanon why.**

»*Jethfanthyl'*

•* Why Huldy I Where did you spring from f "

** I didn't th'pring from anywhere ; I'm too fat to th'prlng ! I
brouffht Aunt Becky home for you to look after, and nol)o \y wa'th
home. But you couldn't fool me. I know your trick'th, and Calvin
got in the window and put Aunt Becky away, and I came over
here."

Hulda had been watchmg Ben and Hope out of the corner of her
eye, and when conviction came at last, she exclaimed :

**Jethfanthy, if that ain't Ben with hl'th whi'thker'th cut oflTl
And Hope you're lookin' th'plendid. I th'uppose you're goin' to git
married and live here."

** Yes, Hulda," answered Ben, "that's the calculation, but Bess
and Israel will have it this winter ; Hope and I are going to New
York."

••Jethfanthyl"

Hulda volunteered a couple of houro' work, and it wasn't long be-
fore she noticed Hope's undisguised fondness for Ben. When they
had left the room for a moment, she stopped worK, and with her
hands on her capacious hips, and her big blue eyes wide open she
addressed herself to Bess :

*' Jeth fanthy I Who'd a' thought that girl 'd ever thaw out like
thatl Jeth fanthy! Dead gone on him ain't th'ho? Perfectly
adore'th him I Th'he would lay down and die for him with a
th'milel"

** Yes, I was Just teasing her about It I "

*' Don't do it, Bethie ! Don't th'topt it. Hope ha'th never had it
before, and won't ever have it again. If Ben fool'th ber it'll kill
her."

** You needn't be afraid of that, Ben is as spoony as she is, and is
exactly suited, just like Calvin suits you."

"And Jeth like Frank Gaylor suits you, Mith Bethie? Th'ome
l)ody n\u'th t>e at the head of the houthe. and when you get married
it'll be you, and Frank'll tli'ay 'that'h jeth what I th'aid,' jeth like
Calvin do'thl"

Bessie laughed incredulously, and after finding Ben and Hope
they went home to dinner, and found Aunt Becky in a fit with CaU
vin working desperately to revive her, assisted by Deacon Jones
and the black-eved Mrs. Jones nee Doyland.

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180

WIDOWER JONES

CHAPTER XXXV.

A FRIGID RECBPTION.

'*Why, here's Elizabeth," exclaimed the Deacon in an abashed
and apologetic tone. '* Come here, dear, an' kiss yer new maw."

Bedsie, with her head thrown back and her lips drawn tightly over
her teeth, stood (daring fiercely at her step-mocher. Ben, with Hope
on his arm, leaned carelessly against the side of the doorway,
surveying his father with a contemptuous smile, his face full of
insolent scorn. Hope, feeling thoroughly happy and safe, still clung
to his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder as she curiously
watched the mis-mated couple. Hulda at once rushed into the
room and assisted Calvin to restore Aunt Becky to consciousness,
and knowing that a storm was brewing, ignored the presence of her
father-in-law and his new wife.

'* So you have got some one to have you at last," sneered Bessie.

"Now, Elizabeth, don't fly off inteh a tantrum, 'twon't do no good
an' '11 jist make trouble. Come on an' shake hands 'ith yer maw,
an' let's try an' live peaceable."

The begging tone and cringing attitude of her father surprised
and humiliated Bessie more than if she had been met with an out-
burst of wrath. Her stepmother, determined to avoid a scene,
came over to Bessie and holding out her hand, said smilingly :
'* Why Bessie, we used to be friends, and I don't know why we
shouldn't be now."

" There i^ evttj reason, Harriet Doyland, why I should hate you
or anyone else mean enough to marry father when mother hasn't
been dead six months."

An ugly look gleamed in the stepmother's eyes as she answered,
** Oh, well, if you've made up your mind that we can't be friends,
I guess you'll suffer just as much as I will."

The old Deacon rushed up to his daughter, and throwing his arms
around her, cried pitifully, " Bessie, Bessie, don't quarrel 'ith her
— fer my sake treat her good an' try teh live 'ith her."

There were tears in the old man's eyes, and his voice trembled
plaintively.

** Oh father, how could you do such a thing ? you must be crazy."

"Don't throw up things teh me, Bessie ; don't say nuthin*, only
Jlst don't quarrel. You'll hev' a home 'ith me jist as long's I've got
a rulTover my head,— oniyjis^ try teh git along 'ith her."

Bessie couldn't resist her fatlier's bes^^eching tone and her pity

A FRIGID RECEPTION

181

for him overcame her anger. Taking refuge in a woman's sareRt
armor, in a woman's strongest tower, she burst into tears and
buried licr face on her father's shoulder. No one was more surprised
than Bun, but his deep-seated dislilse of his father and the feeling
that every word and tear had t)een carefully calculated intensified
the scornful look in his eyes.

** How'dy, Mrs. Jones ; glad to meet you," he sneered, turning his
face towards his stepmother. "Aren't you coming over to. kiss
your little boy?— I'm your oldest son, you know."

•* Why Ben," whispered Hope reproachfully.

** Oh you want to be introduced, do you ?" he laughed, showing his
glistening teeth. ** Mrs. Jones, this is Hope Campton ; Miss Hope
Campton, Mrs. Jones."

Harriet, after she had been repelled by Bessie, though her face
had reddened at Ben's jeers, stood her ground and now advancing to
Hope, extended her hand, her eyes flashing but her low, steady
voice under complete control as she said, " I'm gettina; rather a
chilly reception, Miss Campton, but I hope there is no reason why
we shouldn't be friends."

"None whatever," answered Hope, cheerfully, though as she
took the proficred hand she glanced anxiously at Ben to know
whether her action met his approval.

Ann*-. Becky had at last recovered sufficiently to sit In an easy
chair, and Hulda, relieved of her task, bustled forward, shook hands
with the Deacon and then with his wife, exclaiming with every
breath, "Jeth fanthyl Jeth fanthy!"

** Well, Deacon," began Ben, who was still leiining against the
side of the door, "how do you like your new wife, now that you
have got her? E'ound an angel, haven't you ? If she is as good as she
is beautiful you will have to keep her in a glass case or somebody
will steal her before morn ins."

The Deacon's spirit had been bruised but not broken, and this
taunt put fire in his eye.

"Ben Jones," he snarled, "yeh come atwixt me an' yer m&w,
but I hain't agoin' teh let yeh break up my fam'ly. Either act
decent cr git out. I came back with my mind made up teh do right
by all a' yeh, but I hain't goin' teh take no insults from you."

**Tou mistake my meaning," interrupted Ben, "I was simply
offering a delicately- worded compliment to your recently acquired
wife and you ought to feel proud that a man of my taste considers
her a fit companion for a gentleman of your distinguished
character."

Harriet was biting her lips as Ben spoke, but she had made
up her mind not co quarrel.

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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,"*

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WIDOWER JONES

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.

« -

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 ?

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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

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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^

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190

WIDOWER JONES

** 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

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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-*- ;-

'■ ■

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"!

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."^

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■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^>

. , 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

•>,¥

«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.