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 JOANNA K. WaOD. 
 
 J, svpi^fi 't AiT it SOiW: 
 
 «B riFTM avenui 
 
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 THE OLD RAGMAN AND MRS. DEAN. 
 
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 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
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 THE 
 
 UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 BY 
 
 JOAJSriSTA E. WOOD 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 J. SELWIN TAIT AND SONS 
 65 Fifth Avenue 
 
 * 
 
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 \ 
 
 COPYRIOH'/, 1894, BT 
 
 J. SELWIN TAJT & SONa 
 
 All Rights Reaervsd. 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
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 I 
 
\ 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 i 
 
 i_ 
 
 "Consider this,— 
 
 That, in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation : " — 
 
 It was early spring, the maples were but budding, the 
 birds newly come and restless, the sky more gray than 
 blue, and tho air still sharp with a tang of frost. James- 
 town's streets, however, looked both bright and busy. 
 
 Groups of children went to school, hurrying out to tho 
 street, and looking this way and that for a companion. A 
 mother came to a gate with a little girl, and pointing now 
 to right, now to left, seemed to give her directions which 
 way to go. Tho little girl started bravel '. She W3re a 
 pink cap, and carried a. new school-bag. ^x^rry on!" a 
 girl called to her, and she advanced uncerta. 'y. A hesi- 
 tating dignity born of the new school-bag forbade a decided 
 run ; her friend's haste forbade her to linger. They met 
 and passed on together. 
 
 An old man, with ophthalmia, feeling his way with a 
 stick and muttering to himself with loose lips, went by. 
 Two brothers crossed the street together, one swinging 
 along easily, smoking a pipe, and carrying an axe over his 
 shoulder ; the other advancing with that spasmodic appear- 
 ance of haste which seems the only gait to which crutches 
 can be compelled. 
 
■£.Jtf^ Jru 3 ii iiii K^ ^^»«-J'" 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 *\ % 
 
 An alert dog rushed madly up the middle of the street, 
 pausing abruptly now and then to look round him Tvith 
 sharp interrogation, as if daring anything to "come on!" 
 His challenge was vain, and he was fain to solace himself 
 by scattering a convention of sparrows, dashing into the 
 midst of them and sending the birds up into the maples, 
 followed by insulti? yelps, in reply to which they twit- 
 tered in derision. 
 
 Homer Wilson drove his tcL^n of heavy brown horses 
 through the street at a trot, his sinewy frame clad in 
 weather-beaten blue jeans, his hat pushed far back on his 
 head, as if to einphasize the dcfiart breadth of his 
 forehead. 
 
 The woman still strained her eyes after the little girl, 
 now only distinguishable by the brightness of her cap. 
 They say that mothers often watch by the gateways of life. 
 
 The grocerymau passed to open his store — the baker and 
 butcher were already busy. 
 
 Through this scene of busy commonplace interest and 
 bustle passed a woman, somewhat below the average height, 
 and of strong but symmetrical build. Her face was down- 
 bent and almost hidden in the depths of a cJi*rk sunbonnet 
 of calico. All that could well be discerned in this shadow 
 were two soft, sorrowful eyes, pale cheeks, and down- 
 drooped lips. No one spoke to her, and she addressed no 
 one. She went from place to place, out of one shop into 
 another, with downcast eyes, and with something of that 
 swift directness with which a bird, startled from it3 nest at 
 evening, darts with folded wings from covert to covert. 
 She was Myron Holder — a mother, but not a wife. 
 
 When under no more sacred canopy than the topaz of a 
 summer sky — with no other bridal hymn than the choral 
 of the wind among the trees — in obedience to no law but 
 the voice of nature — and the pleading of loved lips — with 
 
 r 
 
i 
 
 
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 T//£ UNTEMPERED WIND 7 
 
 no other security than the unwitnessed oatli of a man — a 
 v/oman gives herself utterly, then she is doubtless lost. 
 But it must be remembered that the law she breaks is an 
 artificial law enacted solely for lier protection: and it 
 must be conceded that there may be a great and self-sub- 
 versive generosity which permits her to give her all, 
 assuming bonds of sometimes dreadful weight, whilst the 
 recipient goes his way unshackled — uncondemned. 
 
 There may be nothing to be said in defence of Myron 
 Holder; but there is much that could be told only with 
 bleeding lips, written only by a pen dipped in wormwood, 
 of the attitude of her fellows towards her. 
 
 The world of to-day sees its Madonna, with haloed head, 
 standing amid lilies. The world of her day saw neither 
 nimbus nor flowers; they saw what, to *heir unbelieving 
 eyes, was but her shame. Let those who jeer with right- 
 eous lips at women such as this poor village outcast, 
 remember that the meek Maid-Mother whom they adore 
 perchance shrank before the cruel taunts and pointing 
 fingers of women at the doorways and the wells. 
 
 Myron Holder left the butcher's to go to the grocery 
 store ; from thence she crossed diagonally to Mrs. Warner's, 
 the woman who, half an hour before, had looked so linger- 
 ingly after her child. Myron stood at the back door wait- 
 ing, whilst Mrs. Warner came down stairs to answer her 
 knock. "Mrs. Deans wanted to know if Mrs. Warner 
 would lend her the quilting-frames." Mrs. Warner 
 would. 
 
 Mrs. Warner was a very good woman, therefore she 
 looked unutterable contempt at Myron Holder, and left 
 her on the doorstep, whilst she brought out the heavy 
 wooden quilting-frames. Mrs. Warner's husband drove 
 the mail wagon which made one trip daily to the city and 
 back to Jamestown. He would in one hour, us his wife 
 
& 
 
 The UNTEMPEREi) IVIND 
 
 very well knew, pass Mrs. Deans' door, but she did not 
 consider that; and as she had watched her own child out 
 of sight, so she watched Myron Holder's laden form pass 
 down thp street, out into the country — a large basket in 
 one hand, and the heavy quiltiug-frames over her shoulder, 
 pressing sorely upon "the sacred mother-bosom," already 
 yearning for the easing child lips. 
 
 When clear of the village, Myron Holder slackened her 
 pace a little and setting the basket down for a moment 
 turned back the deep scoop of her sunbonnet, that the 
 cooling wind might breathe its benison upon her cheeks, 
 flushed with shame and hot from the exertion of her rapid 
 walk with her burden. Stooping slowly down Siileways, 
 she reached her basket and taking it up proceeded on 
 her way. Her face shone forth from the dark folds of her 
 sunbonnet, and seemed by its purity of line and expression 
 to ^ve the lie to the eyes filmed by acknowledged shame ; 
 only filmed, however, for the eyes themselves held no vile 
 meanings, no defiant avowal of guilt, no hint of sinful 
 knowledge, no glance of callous indifference. She walked 
 on steadily, the spongy earth beneath her feet seeming to 
 breathe forth the essence of spring as it inhaled the 
 warmth of the sunshine. 
 
 Presently the sound of wheels came to her. She strove 
 with her burdened hand to brush forward the sheltering 
 folds of her sunbonnet, but in vain, as her haste defeated 
 its object. Her cheeks were shrouded but in a flaming 
 blush as Homer Wilson drove past. He stared at her 
 steadily; but she did not raise her eyes, and he passed on. 
 His springless wagon jolted over all the stones and 
 inequalities of the country roads, just as Homer Wilson 
 neither b ished aside obstacles nor skirted them when 
 they opposed his path, but, in his obstinate, hard-headed 
 way, rode rough-shod over them, feeling, perhaps, the 
 
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 SHE PAUSED TO REST, 
 
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 Il i 
 
 I I 
 
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 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 9 
 
 hurt of their opposition, but never showing that he 
 
 did. 
 
 Again there was silence on the road. It was too early 
 yet for any insect life, and the sparrows did not fly so far 
 from the houses, but 
 
 "Above in the wi»^ i was tho swallow 
 Chasing itself at its own wild will. " 
 
 The flush for a space died out of her cheeks. As she 
 continued on her way the snake-fence changed to a neat 
 board one, that in turn gave place to one of ornate wire. 
 Ill the middle of this was a little gate, which she passed ; 
 then came a wider five-barred gate through which she 
 entered, and found her way to the rear of a large white 
 frame house, standing in an old apple orchard. 
 
 Her steps were bent to the "cook house," an erection of 
 unplaned pine boards, where, in summer, the kitchen- 
 work of Mrs. Deans' household was carried on. Before 
 Myron Holder crossed its threshold, she sent one long look 
 over to the left, where, leafless yet and gray — save where 
 a cedar made a sullen blotch of green — the trees of Mr. 
 Deans' woodland bounded her vision in a semi-circular 
 sweep. As she turned her to the doorway, a new expres- 
 sion had found place within her eyes — upon her lips — 
 poignant but indecipherable. For resolution, resignation, 
 and despair are sometimes so analogous as to be insepa- 
 rable, 
 
lO 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ** A treasure of the memory, a joy unutterable. " 
 
 " Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried. 
 She could not look at the sweet heaven 
 Either at morn or eventide. " 
 
 Myron Holder's father was Jed Holder, the broom- 
 maker. His death occurred when Myron was eighteen 
 years old. He had clung to his quaint occupation to the 
 last, after factory-made brooms stood even at the store 
 doors in Jamestown. 
 
 His fortunes had fallen off sadly in the last few years of 
 his life, but he worked away as steadily at his trade as in 
 the old days, when, looking from his door, his eyes were 
 met by the mast-like masses of a Kentish hop orchard. 
 He had planted hopvines all about the fence of his little 
 house in Jamestown. They clambered up the sides of 
 the house, twined insinuatingly about the disdainful sun- 
 flowers, and throwing their tendrils abroad from the roots 
 wound round and round the tall stalks of grass, weighing 
 them down with the burden of their unsought embrace. 
 
 Little Myron was often impressed with the truth that a 
 single leaf broken from a growing hopvine kills the whole 
 spray. She learned to "pick up her feet," as her father 
 expressed it, and step daintily between the wandering 
 vines, so that no slurring footstep might injure them. 
 
 Jed Holde" had carried on the broom-making for many 
 years very systematically. Year by year he rented from 
 Sol Disney a bit of the virgin soil of the woodland, and 
 the tall brown tassel of the broom corn overtopped the 
 stumps in the clearing. Year by year the little patch of 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 II 
 
 corn crept nearer and nearer the limit of Disney's dimin- 
 ishing woodland — seeming, as Jed Holder said, "to 
 sweep the trees off before it," but being in its turn swept 
 aside by waves of golden grain. 
 
 It was a sore day to Jed Holder when he sent off his first 
 order for Western broom corn, forced to do so by the 
 impossibility of renting ground rich enough to perfect 
 and mature his crop. 
 
 In the short winter days Jed used to work in Disney's 
 brush helping to " clear" it. In return for his services he 
 received all the young maples they encountered: out of 
 these in the long winter evenings he fashioned his broom 
 handles. 
 
 Jed never could remember how the knowledge was con- 
 veyed to him that broom handles were being made by the 
 thousands by a machine out of the refuse in the wake of 
 logging camps. 
 
 If the recognition of this iconoclastic fact was not an 
 intuition, it must have been something very like one — 
 some transmission of a half contemptuous thought from 
 the brain of the smart groceryman in the city when he 
 ridiculed the price Jed asked for his hand-made brooms. 
 Jed pondered over the matter much, but never could recall 
 the source of his information. But when he lay in his 
 last illoess, watching the shadow of the hopvine on the 
 blinds, all these tormenting thoughts vanished. The 
 murmurs that fell from his lips were all of other days, of 
 hop picking, of England, of Kentish lanes and birds, of 
 one whom he named lovingly as " Myron lass " and yet did 
 not seem to identify with the girl who waited upon him 
 so untiringly, under the direction of her grandmother, an 
 old, old woman, bent with rheumatism, anc^ hard of face 
 and heart, whose lips set cruelly and syes grew stony when 
 her gray-haired son babbled of "Myron lass." When he 
 
12 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 lay in his coffin slio could not grieve, for raging that he 
 was not to lie with all his kin in Kent. 
 
 She made Myron suffer vicariously for her long dead 
 mother, whose death coming soon after Myron's birth had 
 driven Jed Holder to seek strange scenes, away from where 
 he had known the fullest happiness of which he was capable. 
 
 But Myron bore her grandmother's bad temper witli 
 jiatience and without bitterness. Her father often said 
 to her, " The yeast is bitter, but it is the yeast that makes 
 bread sweet." 
 
 Jed Holder died one day in autumn, when the aromatic 
 green cones had been picked from the hops and lay 
 browning upon paper-covered boards in the sun. The last 
 breath Jed Holder drew savored of their fragrance, and 
 the aroma of the hops dispelled the faint odor of mor- 
 tality in the death chamber. 
 
 The winter succeeding his death was a long and bitter 
 one. Fuel was high ; and however sparingly bought, still 
 the plainest provisions cost money. Albeit Myron and 
 her grandmother lived frugally, yet they exhausted Jed's 
 poor hoardings very soon. Spring found them penniless. 
 
 But in summer, life is more easily sustained, and Myron 
 found various occupations which sufficed to keep her 
 grandmother in tolerable comfort. Hoeing and weeding, 
 cleaning house and berrying, doing extra washings, cook- 
 ing for threshers and harvesters, all had their part in 
 Myron's busy life. Her grandmother was never satisfied 
 cither with her ability or her willingness to work; but for 
 all that she worked, and worked well too. 
 
 There was soon proof positive of this given her grand- 
 mother, for after Myron had helped in the half yearly 
 saturnalia of work Mrs. Deans called "house cleaning," 
 the latter arranged to have Myron come to the farm daily 
 to help the bound girl. 
 
THE UNTI'MrEI<:E:> ll'LVP 
 
 13 
 
 For that summer Mrs. Deans had boarders — boarders 
 wlio read, and walked, and brought in great bunches of 
 golden rod, and masses of wild aster, and long trails of 
 virgin bower clematis. 
 
 There were Mrs. and Miss Rexton, Miss Carpenter and 
 Dr. Henry Willis, a young medico. They had all driven 
 to the lake one day from the Mineral Spring Hotel, where 
 they were stopping. The lake curved in a shining semi- 
 circle round Jamestown, and swept off in ever-widening 
 curves far away, until sky and water blended in a band of 
 blinding silver radiance. The party of four had been 
 caught in a thunderstorm, and sought refuge on Mrs. 
 Deans' veranda. 
 
 Then and there they had decided that they must come 
 there for the rest of the summer, and with one accord set 
 about persuading Mrs. Deans to give her consent. Of a 
 truth their persuasion would have had little effect upon 
 that worthy woman, had not the remuneration suggested 
 seemed to her quite extravagantly sufficient; therefore she 
 was pleased at length to accede to their request, and a few 
 days later found the quartette comfortably settled at Mrs. 
 Deans'. 
 
 Miss Carpenter was Dr. Willis' maiden aunt. Miss Rexton 
 believed herself to be his affinity and hoped that he agreed 
 with her. Mrs. Rexton was a chattel of her daughter's. 
 
 Myron Holder's duties were now made more manifold 
 than ever, but she was well content that it should be so; 
 only the long mile she walked night and morning from 
 and to the village tired her greatly, taking the edge off her 
 vitality in the morning and utterly exhausting her at 
 night. So Mrs. Deans proposed that she should stay all 
 night at the farm; not actuated by any kindly thought for 
 Myron, but because, like the good financier that she was, 
 she wanted to get her money's worth out of her. 
 
M 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 As for old Mrs. Holder, she had uo timid qualms about 
 staying alone : she missed the little scraps of news, however, 
 that Myron always had to tell, and — unconsciously — 
 suffered from lack of some one to berate. 
 
 The summer passed slowly — autumn came. Mrs. Beans' 
 boarders departed. Myron Holder once more walked the 
 mile night and morning; she had had a hard summer's 
 work. Her hands and wrists were reddened and coars- 
 ened ; her face was very pale, and histrc shades lingered 
 about her eyes. But she and her grandmother had to live, 
 and after December snows were blowing she still trudged 
 the mile back and forth. 
 
 It was only by great chance that Mrs. Deans retained 
 Myron's services; but her son, a loutish young man of 
 twenty- two, had fallen from a hickory-nut tree and dislo- 
 cated his hip. 
 
 The increasing attention he demanded, and the care of 
 her poultry, and her accumulated sewing kept Mrs. Deans 
 fully occupied. So Myron Holder continued her daily 
 attendance at the Deans farm. January and February 
 passed. March was blowing its wildest, when one day 
 Myron Holder did not come to Mrs. Deans'. 
 
 The latter waited fuming, resolved, as she expressed 
 it, to "give Myron Holder a fine hearing when she did 
 come." 
 
 Mrs. Deans was always promising somebody or other a 
 " hearing," which, by the bye, was an exceedingly misleading 
 term, for in the conversation thus referred to the other 
 party did the listening whilst Mrs. Deans talked. 
 
 The wild wind of the morning had intensified into a 
 bitter sleet, which darted its blasts into the face like sharp- 
 pointed lashes, when Mrs. Deans heard a knock at the side 
 door. She opened it herself to find old Mrs. Holder, bent, 
 wet, furious, standing in the slush. Mrs. Deans b^de her 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 15 
 
 come in, with a meaning look at the corn husk miit before 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Ilohler paid no heed to tlie look, but with muddy 
 feet stepped into the room fair upon Mrs. Deans' new rag 
 carpet, and standing tliere, a quaint old figure, clad in tho 
 forgotten fashion of tliirty years back, proceeded to give 
 Mrs. Deans what that lady herself would have called ** a 
 hearing." 
 
 Mrs. Deans had a ready tongue, an inventive imagina- 
 tion, a fund of vituperative imagery, and a pleasant habit 
 of drowning the voice of any one who chose to contradict 
 her; but in one's own house, to be confronted in this way, 
 abused for some unknown crime, covered with contumely, 
 and showered with contemptuous epithets, and all from an 
 old woman whose granddaughter was honored in doing 
 one's kitchen work, was not conducive to dignity and pres- 
 ence of mind. 
 
 Mrs. Deans was too old a scold, however, to be routed 
 without an effort to vindicate herself. Finding it vain to 
 wait an opportunity for speech (Mrs. Holder never seemed 
 to pause for breath), she simply began to talk also — 
 Myron's non-appearance, Mrs. Holder's impertinence, 
 and her own mystification giving ample subject-matter 
 for her eloquence to do justice to. 
 
 But Mrs. Holder talked on, apparently unconscious of 
 Mrs. Deans' remarks — finally she hurled one direct ques- 
 tion at the latter: " Did you know — that's what I want to 
 find out — did ye? And if ye did, what d'ye think of your- 
 self? You " 
 
 She was about to branch off into a personal description 
 of Mrs. Deans — somewhat unflattering — when the latter 
 seized her cue. 
 
 "Did I know what?" she demanded. 
 
 Mrs Holder came to a dead stop and looked at her. 
 
l6 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 "Did I know what?" reiterated Mrs. Deans niajesticall}'. 
 
 "Did you know — Myron — " she stopijod, this thing waa 
 dittlcult to frame in words. 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. Deans. 
 
 " Did you know Myron was — would be — had — " again 
 the vohiblo Mrs. Holder faltered. Mrs. Deans looked at 
 Mrs. Holder — and something whimpered to her what Mrs. 
 Holder could not say. " Do you mean to tell me — " she 
 paused — lilling up the hiatus with an elvKpient look. 
 
 Then she loosened the tides of her indignation, and 
 sweeping aside all memories of Myron's honesty, and faith- 
 ful service, and patience, launched against her the full 
 flood of her invective. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Holder chimed in: there was something 
 absurd yet tragically repulsive in these two women, but a 
 moment before reviling each other, now absorbed only in 
 the desire to outvie each other in the epithets they hurled 
 against the girl — the granddaughter of the one, the uncom- 
 plaining servant of the other. 
 
 Their attitude, however, was prophetically typical of the 
 treatment Myron Holder was to receive. The whole vil- 
 lage forgot its private quarrels to point the finger at its 
 common victim. Beset witii all the frightful anticipations 
 of motherhood, bowed beneath the burden of a shame she 
 appreciated and accepted, hounded nearly to madness by 
 her grandmother's jibes and reproaches, Myron Holder's 
 heart was wellnigh desperate. 
 
 The spring winds brought her dreadful suggestions of 
 despair. The first hepaticas shone up at her as balefully 
 as the lighted fagots to a martyr's eye. The springing 
 hopvines seemed to twine their tendrils tight and tighter 
 about her heart. All the scents and sounds of spring were 
 ever after to her an exquisite torture. But her soul was 
 of strong fibre. 
 
THE VNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 %^ 
 
 Before all the Hcorn of the village, sill the rebukes of 
 Mrs. J)euii8, all the wrath of her graiulmotlier, all the 
 bitterness and misery and hopelessness of her own heart, 
 Myron Holder was mute. 
 
 No murmur escaped her lips againEt the man who had 
 forsaken her. The village knew her shame, but it couhl 
 not fathom her secret. Myron Holder was deaf to all com- 
 mands, entreaties, persuasions, sneers. Iler face, holy 
 with the divine shadow of coming maternity, turned to 
 her questioners an indecipherable page — writ large with 
 characters of shame and sorrow, but telling naught else. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 There came a night when Myron Holder descended 
 into that hell of suffering called child-birth — straggled 
 with prolonged agony — lielpless and alone — and cried aloud 
 — to that dead father — to that unknown mother — to God 
 — for Death. 
 
 Myron Holder was a woman and had come to years of 
 knowledge, and her fall was doubtless a sin and a shame 
 to her — black and unforgivable; but far as Myron Holder 
 had fallen, deep as was her humiliation, black as was her 
 shame, inexcusable her error, she still shines in effulgent 
 whiteness when compared with those women who refused 
 her aid that long night through, demanding as recom- 
 pense for their ministering the betrayal of her betrayer. 
 Myron Holder would not pay their price. 
 
 The dim gray dawn lighted the pain -scarred face of a 
 sleeping mother, by whose side reposed a fair-haired child; 
 a child the secret of whose parentage was still locked 
 within its mother's heart. 
 
 " Them kind always lives," Mrs. Warner said to her hus- 
 band, when, on a June morning, she ?aw Myron Holder 
 2 
 
18 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 totter past her door. Mrs. Warner should have thanked 
 the God she worshipped, fasting, that it was so: had 
 Myron Holder died, no woman in all Jamestown would 
 have been free from blood-f uiltiness. They had beheld a 
 woman in such extremity as moved the hearts of Inquisi- 
 tors, stayed the torch of persecution, shackled the relentless 
 rack, deferred the vengeance of the law, and had withheld 
 their hands from helping. 
 
 Those sanie hands which wrought garments for the 
 heathen and shamed L'it to offer their alms to God! 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ** It is a wild and miserable world, 
 Thorny and full of care, 
 Which every friend can make his prey at will. " 
 
 " Know how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong. " 
 
 Beneath the quietness of Myron Holder's manner 
 there raged a very chaos of reckless, despairing thought. 
 It is undeniable that at this time no maternal love 
 Tvarmed her heart towards her child. 
 
 There was one night — one dreadful night — whose mem- 
 ory stained forever even the dark pages of her retrospect. 
 A night through the long hours of which she lay and 
 thought of death — not to herbelf — but to the sleeping 
 infant at her side. All the tales she had ever heard of 
 desperate women's crimes came to her, assailing her 
 weakened will and tired brain with insidious suggestions 
 of safety, and freedom, and immunity from blame. 
 
 Pallid, she rose in the early dawn. As she passed the 
 
 imI^I 
 
THE UNTEMPEP.ED WIND 
 
 10 
 
 id 
 Id 
 a 
 
 • 
 
 1- 
 
 ss 
 Id 
 
 le 
 
 I II 
 
 old English mirror in its sliabby gilt franc, she caught a 
 fleeting glimpse of burning cheeks, cracking parched lips 
 and bloodshot eyes. She withdrew her glance shud- 
 dering. 
 
 It was very early in the morning. She crossed the 
 kitchen, and softly opening the door looked forth upon the 
 unawaken'jd world. The air was somewhat chilly, but sweet 
 and soft. A heavy dew spread a pearly film over the 
 grass, broken here and there by a silvery shield, where 
 the spider webs held the moisture : gossamers they are in 
 these early morning hours when the world is pure and 
 quiet, — shreds of the Madonna's winding sheet, as we all 
 know. But what are they when the dew is gone and they 
 are laden with the dust and soot and gi imc of the long hot 
 day? Gossamers still? 
 
 Down between the trees she could see the dull glimmer 
 01 the lake, awaiting the sun to strike it into silver; a few 
 pale stars lingered, loath to bid the world good-by before 
 the moon, which, a wraith-like orb, still soared on high, 
 white and diaphanous. All was calm, passionless, and pure. 
 As Myron Holder looked there grew within her soul a sick 
 shuddering against the woman of the past night. She saw 
 herself vile where all was holy, passionate where all was 
 peace. And from her soul, a plea, indefinite in aspira- 
 tion, and vaguely voyaging to some unknown haven, went 
 forth, that her old heart might be vouchsafed to her, her 
 own suffering, fearing, trusting, loving, betrayed heart, 
 instead of this throbbing centre of pain with its bitter 
 blood of despair and hate. 
 
 Slow resolutions began to stir in her heart: she would go 
 through the world " spending and being spent " for others: 
 she would be patient to her grandmother, always remem- 
 bering she had shamed her : she would be true and faithful 
 and self-sacrificing in every relation she assumed to others : 
 
 *•.- 
 
30 
 
 THE tUVTlMPEKED WIND 
 
 she would be sympathetic to all and she would die soon, 
 very soon, she thought, and the village would mourn her 
 and at last speak of her with loving kindness. Poor 
 Myron! Like "many mighty men," she did not realize 
 the utter barreness of a posthumous joy or understand 
 how diffident Death can be when wooed. 
 
 Her mood was jarred by the child's cry and the grand- 
 mother's querulous complaint. She turned 1 )m the 
 morning just as the sun's rays shot across the lake. 
 
 As soon as she was able to do so she resumed her work — 
 bending over her toil, a patient figure in a worn blue print 
 gown and dark sunbonnet, a humble mark she seemed for 
 public scorn : yet all the scandal and spite of the scurrilous 
 little village played about her. 
 
 As Mrs. Disney expressed it, old Mrs. Holder " took it 
 most terrible hard": therefore the village matrons con- 
 tracted a habit of running in at all hours to the little hop- 
 clad house and condoling with Mrs. Holder, and with her 
 speculating as to the identity of the child's father. 
 
 Now and then these zealous comforters rather overdid 
 the matter, notably when Mrs. Weaver, with a view of 
 exonerating Mrs. Holder from all blame and relieving her of 
 all responsibility for Myron's behavior, remarked that 
 " It did seem as if bad was born in some people." 
 
 Old Mrs. Holder rose at that, and speedily made Mrs. 
 Weaver aware that Myron's badness was purely sporadic, 
 and that heredity had nothing to do with it. She did not 
 express herself in this way, but conveyed the same idea 
 much more forcibly. 
 
 It is possible that, being Myron's grandmother, she felt 
 a slight reflection from Mrs. Weaver's well-meant sugges- 
 tion that Myron had inherited vice as her birthright; be 
 that as it may, she speedily made Mrs. Weaver aware that 
 if there was any truth in such an idea, she herself must be 
 
 m 
 
 'U. 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 21 
 
 fl 
 
 lat 
 be 
 
 ill a perilous state: the old Englishwoman had managed 
 to glean pretty accurate data about the Jamestown people, 
 and she knew that Mrs. Weaver's mother had " tript in her 
 time." Mrs. Weaver called no more upon Mrs. Holder, 
 but the others showed no abatement of their zeal. 
 
 These good Jamestown women had a pleasant habit of 
 sitting with Mrs. Holder until Myron's form appeared at 
 noon or night. They gazed at her while she opened the 
 gate, trod the little path past the front door, and until she 
 turned the corner: when Vice in the person of Myron 
 entered the back door. Virtue embodied in one or more 
 of Jamestown's matrons fled from the front door, hearing, 
 ere the gate was reached, the first measures of the jere- 
 miad with which her grandmother greeted her. There 
 was little wonder that Myron Holder grew morbidly ner- 
 vous and supersensitive. She would scarce have been 
 responsible for any deed, however evil. 
 
 All the morning the anticipated agony of the ordeal of 
 walking up the path, under these scathing eyes, oppressed 
 and tortured her. No martyr ever contemplated with 
 greater dread the red-hot ploughshares than Myron Holder 
 did those few yards of red trodden earth, bordered by fox 
 grass and burdock lea-'os. 
 
 Through the long hours of the slow afternoons she 
 braced herself for the return home at night, but she did 
 not try to elude any of the humiliations of her position. 
 The garden gate was terrible to her as the surgeon's knife 
 to the sufferer — for the hasp was loosened and twisted, tb.e 
 gate had to be lifted before it could be opened, and some- 
 times she was kept fumbling with the fastening until the 
 blood swam before her eyes in a red mist. 
 
 Doubtless she should have considered all these painf-ul 
 contingencies and walked more heedfully, but the thought, 
 which the Jamestown matrons often quoted, did not, p2 
 
I i 
 
 22 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 they seemed to think it should, dull the pain of the thou- 
 sand stings she received daily — it only pressed them home. 
 There are many 
 
 " Dainty themes of grief 
 In sadness t o outiast the mom ; " 
 
 but the tale of Myron Holder's expiation is not one of 
 them — it is a sordid theme, yet, being human, not too 
 sordid to be writ out. It is a painful relation ; but when 
 one woman lived it, we may not shrink from contemplat- 
 ing it, nor hesitate to view step by step the way one woman 
 trod. 
 
 The first summer of her child's life wore away. 
 Autumn came before Myron Holder was goaded into any 
 demonstration of her suffering. 
 
 She was one day working for Mr. Disney, who worked 
 old Mr. Carroll's place on shares. It was the time of the 
 apple harvest. All day long they had been picking, gath- 
 ering, sorting, and carrying the heavy fruit. Between Mr. 
 Carroll and Mr. Disney was waged a continual war of wits, 
 each endeavoring to get the better of the other. The 
 afternoon was far spent when old.- Mr. Carroll came limp- 
 ing out, bent and thin, only his erectness of poise when 
 he stood still evidencing the old soldier. 
 
 The fr it had been divided into two long heaps, alike in 
 their dimensions, but, as all the pickers knew, of widely 
 different quality. 
 
 The grass was sere and yellowed, the sapless apple leaves 
 fell in rustling showers at the lightest breath of wind, and 
 now and then an apple fell with a dull sound upon the 
 earth. The brown side of the drive-house formed a 
 neutral background into which all the sombre tints of the 
 little scene blended, save the brilliant reds and yellows of 
 the two long piles of apples. 
 
 f' 
 
1 
 
 
 THE UNTEMTERED WIND 
 
 23 
 
 ^P- 
 
 |in 
 
 les 
 
 id 
 le 
 a 
 
 (fi 
 
 "Well, Mr. Disney — got the apples sorted?'' asked Mr. 
 Carroll with liffectcd geniality. Mr. Disney, a shallow- 
 witted man, was betrayed by the smile on the lips into 
 disregard of the cold eyes, and replied with rash effu- 
 siveness: 
 
 " Yes — picked, sorted, divided, sold, almost cooked and 
 eaten." Old Mr. Carroll's smile froze. 
 
 "Which is my pile?" he asked with an indescribable 
 intonation of sarcastic contempt, which pierced even 
 Disney's denseness and made a slow red gather to his 
 cheeks as he answered — " That one." 
 
 "Then I'll take this one," replied Mr. Carroll, indicating 
 the other. Disney faltered then — wanted to re-divide — 
 and managed to confuse himself completely. Mr. Carroll 
 listened contemptuously; his keen old eyes had discerned 
 the mud on the apples in the heap assigned to him, and he 
 had decided, rightly enough, that they were windfalls. 
 
 D'sney's half-hearted plea for a re-division was manifestly 
 absurd, and the caustic old man enjoyed a pleasant half- 
 hour in ridiculing the idea. For once he had his enemy 
 fairly "on the hip." 
 
 Tne end of it was that presently, when Mr. Warner 
 drove past, he saw old Mr. Carroll enthroned upon an 
 upturned bushel basket, his cynical old eyes gleaming with 
 amusement, his feet shifting restlessly with delight, his 
 tongue irritating Disney almost beyond endurance. 
 
 He had placed himself on the side of the drive-house 
 door and demanded that his apples be carried in then and 
 there. Disney longed to refuse, but his agreement pro- 
 vided that he perform all the labor of harvesting and stor- 
 ing Mr. Carroll's share. There was nothinj, for it, 
 therefore, but to obey the irascible old man, who, in 
 numerous playful ways, made the carrying in of the fruit 
 a .weariness of the flesh to Disney. He stopped him to 
 
111! 
 
 24 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 pull stray wisps of grass out of his pails, or to examine a 
 parely imaginary blemish in an apple. Ho let his cane 
 slip down so that Disney tripped over it." He took one of 
 the pails, and pretended to fix one of the handles, which 
 was perfectly secure as it was — and all the time he talked, 
 gently, irritatingly, making the most innocent of pauses 
 for replies that Di«ney felt ho must make, l^ut which ho 
 made as briefly as possible. 
 
 The afternoon waned ; finally the last apple of the heap 
 was transferred to the drive-house. Then Mr. Carroll 
 rose, trying his best to conceal the stiffness of his joints 
 from Disney, locked the drive-house door and limped off 
 to his lonely house, solitary but triumphant. 
 
 A little later he watched the departure of the disgusted 
 Disney and his pickers — Myron Holder dragging wearily 
 home alone, body and heart alike aching; the rest slyly 
 nudging one another, with meaning looks at Disney's sullen 
 face. 
 
 Still later, when Mr. Carroll blew out his yellow wax 
 candle, he pushed aside the limp white blind, raised the 
 many-paned window and looked forth into the moonlight. 
 It was very clear and quiet. Disney's pile of apples lay 
 roughly outlined beneath its covering of old sacks. Mr. 
 Carroll looked at it amusedly — as he looked a stray apple, 
 left swinging unseen, fell. As the sound reached his ears 
 a malevolent smile irradiated his face. Still smiling, he 
 put the window down, let the blind fall and sought sleep. 
 
 That night Myron Holder traversed the road home in 
 the deepest dejection ; forced to endure all day the covert 
 sneers of the other pickers, with extreme bodily weariness 
 added to her mental burden, helpless as a fly from which a 
 wanton hand has torn the wings, she felt, as she trod her 
 solitary way home, utterly despairing. 
 
 Ere she was fairly within the doors her grandmother's 
 
I 
 
 THE UNTEMPKREn WIND 
 
 25 
 
 He, 
 irs 
 
 lin 
 jrt 
 
 If' 
 
 taunting words met her. Kou^ed from her long Jipjitliy 
 of mute endurance, she tore her sunbonnet from her liead 
 and flashed one dreadful look of rage and defiance at the 
 old woman — such a look as made Mrs. Holder stagger 
 back, holding up her hand as if to shield herself from a 
 blow. Terrified at the turmoil in her own breast, Myron 
 turned and fled into her room. She saw the boy's little 
 form upon the blue and white checked counterpane of 
 her bed, she rushed up to the couch, her hands were 
 clenched, her heart seemed throbbing in her throat. 
 Dreadful thoughts circled about her, wild and diverse, but 
 all hung upon the one axis of pain. Half in delirium, she 
 bent oyer the child. It looked up at her and smiled, and 
 stirred feebly, but yet as if its impulses made towards 
 her. With a cry she caught it to her bosom. 
 
 There was one creature that yet smiled upon her. 
 Thereafter, from day to day, throughout the long winter, 
 her adoration of her child waxed stronarer and stronger. 
 
 Every instant she could spare from her toiling she held 
 it in her arms. On Sunday, when good Jamestown people 
 did no extra work, Myron Holder had her only pleasure. 
 For then she shut herself into her room with the child, 
 whispering to it, caressing it, soothing it when awake, and 
 during its long slisep holding it with loving avarice in 
 her arms, too greedy of the cherished weight to relinquish 
 it to the couch. 
 
 Her grandmother managed even from this tenderness to 
 distill some bitter drops to add to Myron's cup. She 
 dwelt long and eloquently upon the wrong Myron had 
 done the child. Slowly the winter passed, and Mrs. Deans 
 once more hired Myron Holder to come to the farm daily. 
 The child was left with old Mrs. Holder, while Myron 
 earned a subsistence for all three. 
 
 What Myron Holder endured daily no words can tell. 
 
I! 
 
 36 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 By what written sign may we symbolize the agony of a 
 Iieart, bruised and pierced and crushed day after dayr By 
 wliat hmguage express the torture of a pure soul, stifled in 
 a chrysalis of shame? 
 
 Some souls may be purified by fire, doubtless, as the old 
 Greeks cleansed their asbestos fabrics; but we should be 
 wary how we thrust our fellows into the furnace, for no 
 base tissue will stand the fire, and a soul, to emerge un- 
 smirched and undestroyed, must be of strong fibre indeed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
 Who may be saved? Who is it may be saved? 
 Who may be made a saint if I fail here?" 
 
 " As who should say : ' I am Sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !' " 
 
 There are doubtless a few of us in the world capable of 
 judging and pronouncing sentence upon the rest. 
 
 It is unfortunately inevitable, however, that such capa- 
 bilities remain forever underestimated, and the possessors 
 rarely receive the acknowledgments due from an ungrate- 
 ful world. 
 
 Mrs. Deans was one of the chosen few who recognize 
 their own infallibility, and accept as a sacred trust the 
 knowledge that they are indispensable. To be a god, Mr?. 
 Deans only lacked the minor attribute of immortality — a 
 want of which she was herself unconscious. 
 
 Mrs. Deans strove earnestly to better her neighbors and 
 cause them to conform to her standards of what was right. 
 She was a firm believer that " open rebuke is better than 
 secret love," and whatever risk Myron ran, under Mrs, 
 
 \ 
 
 J 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 27 
 
 of 
 
 )a- 
 )r3 
 
 ce- 
 
 ze 
 
 -a 
 
 
 ll 
 
 i 
 
 Deans' rule she incurred no danger of being " carried to 
 the skies on flowery beds of ease" — a thing much to be 
 dreaded. Nor was there any possibility of her forgetting, 
 for a half-hour at a time, the light in which Mrs. Deans 
 viewed her, which was, of course, tlie somewhat trying 
 illumination that the Children of Light project upon the 
 Children of Darkness. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had a modestly good opinion of herself. 
 " Thou art the salt of the earth" impressed iicr with all the 
 directness of a personal remark. Those Avho enjoyed the 
 privileges of Mrs. Deans' household were, first and least, 
 her husband — Henry Deans. He was a small man, with 
 "a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-col- 
 ored beard." It was five years since his horses, running 
 away as ho returned from the market town, capsized him 
 over a steep bank, down which the barrel of salt he had 
 bought rolled also, and, striking him in the back, partially 
 paralyzed him. 
 
 Since that time he had sat under his wife's ministry. 
 In summer the back porch held his chair, in winter the 
 kitchen. By keeping a careful eye upon the bound girl, 
 he sometimes discovered her in a dereliction ; it was a happy 
 hour for him when this was the case. It had the effect of 
 distracting his wife's attention from him, for one thing — 
 and when too closely centred upon any one person, Mrs. 
 Deans' regard was apt to prove embarrassing; it also won 
 him much commendation from her — being convinced of 
 the utter depravity of the bound girl, both " individually 
 and collectively," it gratified Mrs. Deans to have her 
 "moral certainty" attested by positive proofs. It made 
 her realize her seer-like qualities. 
 
 Mrs. Deans' son, Gamaliel, known to his fond mother as 
 "Maley," and to Jamestown as "Male," stood first in his 
 mother's regard. 
 
28 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 I i I 
 
 I 
 
 Gamaliel was Mrs. Deans' idea of a "fancy" name. 
 She had hesitated long before bestowing it. upon her 
 boy, wavering between Gamaliel and Ambrose. She 
 finally decided upon the former, it being more uncommon. 
 The son of Mrs. Deans' sister-in-law's brother was called 
 Ambrose — and, also, Gamaliel was, as Mrs. Deans said, 
 "more suitable," whether to her son's mental or physical 
 endowments she did not specify. Old Mrs. Holder once said 
 she never could "picture out" any one else being called 
 Gamaliel, nor believe that Mrs. Deans* son could have had 
 any other name. 
 
 He was a stubborn young lout, whose strong will was only 
 subjective to his mother'^ because he did not recognize his 
 own strength. She had curbed him as he bitted the huge 
 young Clydesdale colts. Sometimes a well-broken horse 
 realizes its own strength, and we hear a horrid story of 
 torn flesh and trampled limbs when it turns to rend its 
 master. If Gamaliel Deans ever revolted, his mother 
 would suffer. 
 
 However, he was quiescent enough, for his mother's 
 schemes were all for his benefit. Besides, he appreciated 
 the charms of a quiet life, and had inherited a liberal 
 share of the diplomacy his paralytic father displayed when 
 he feigned sleep for long hours at a stretch, hoping that he 
 might entrap the bound girl into some piece of unwary 
 carelessness. Both Henry Deans and his son Gamaliel 
 had a deeply rooted belief in the value of the bound girl 
 as a counter-irritant. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had had just a " pigeon pair" of children, as 
 Jamestown put it, but her girl had died when an infant. 
 Mrs. Deans was too good a woman not to bear up under 
 the loss, especially as she did not care for girls. 
 
 The bound girl made up the regular trio which Mrs. 
 Peans drove before her oyer roads of her choosing. 
 
 ? 
 
 
 I 
 
 ( ! 
 
I 
 
 ) 
 
 I 
 
 THE UNTEMVKREn WIND 
 
 S9 
 
 It is unnecessary to say much of the bound girl. Mrs. 
 Deans described them often — "Evil iucanuite," she 
 called them. Mrs. Deans changed her bound girls now 
 and then. They came to her with all the different merits 
 and various vices of tlieir unhappy class. They left her 
 different incarnations of the same weary, broken, deadened 
 spirit of labor and endurance. Their individual cluiraC' 
 teristics, capabilities and tendencies had nothing whatever 
 to do witli their case. Woman and mother as Mrs. Deans 
 was, she was never moved by their peculiar needs. 
 
 It is requisite, doubtless, to the "(Jreat Plan" that 
 there be l)ound ones among us, enduring — like the 
 hereditary embalmer — the parischito of Kgypt — a loath- 
 some heritage — and yet — the pity of it! Jiut Mrs. Deans 
 was not one to question the Providence which ordained 
 for these bound girls their lot in life. 
 
 "They're born bad, and bad they are, and bad they'll 
 be — every one of them — evil, root and branch ; you can't 
 bo up to them and their ways." These were Mrs. Deans' 
 sentiments upon the subject of bound girls, and other 
 opinions do not matter. 
 
 The hired men Mrs. Deans treated with the deference 
 due to those who must be conciliated and who are free 
 agents. !RIrs. Deans, if not exactly harmless as the tradi- 
 tional dove, had at least a smattering of the wisdom of the 
 serpent. 
 
 Mrs. Deans was distinctly a leader in Jamestown society. 
 She was a very good woman, liberal to the Church, fot-e- 
 most in collecting for missions, ready to head a donation 
 list at any time; therefore every one said ]\Iyron Holder 
 was very lucky to have won Mrs. Deans' help. That this 
 "help" consisted in being allowed to do tlie hardest work 
 under the most intolerable circumstances for very meap^re 
 pay, they did not stop to consider. Mrs. Deans said sho 
 
T 
 
 W 
 
 30 
 
 ^//^' i^^^T£^'^J,^^J, ,^^^^ 
 
 P'oasant, tl.at tlic Jan.cs o n """ ''"««« "•'e u„. 
 
 ^oHookb, „,o„ Mrs S: "i^r r TT ""' '» "^ »"«'» "l 
 Mrs. \V,„,,er oxprcsso.i ''«'" "' « mHrtyr. 
 
 7" m ui, witl. that Mv ;,. V^T r ^""' Mrs. I)ea„s 
 f « -a. i„j,„,,, ,,^,^3 ,„{:; "f ;; «oi"g about as if 
 
 '" lie UmnMnl to be let i„tn I , '''''' '*'''«'' slic oujrJ.t 
 
 '"•■• -Ling J.eart Was a 1 bl '""" ''"'''«'• ''"^ «bove 
 
 -^■"^o wbero ,ve do IT^^ZT' f'^ -""-'- 
 "«elt above eensure. '*' '■"«' JamcstoTO feJt 
 
 Jll tllC old Piirifn 
 
 «'»'cs there ,va. Ln7""\'-" «- New England 
 ;ceept.e,e ,vere buri J t lose CC b n"" ''" ' -■»-»- 
 fron, tbe I>„,ita„s, or w],o L "^ '''" "• '''^'"•6"^ faith 
 -s e..ned the "da^ne;;. r„er "'C T "' »"• '^'"^ 
 °"t of .eal to do their MasteWs , L •''■ "'^ ^"»'''"«. 
 7? to facilitate the businesrlL, > """""•^'l « "'i 
 «'e goats, or whether it «,?'''"« "'^ *«^P ^rom 
 own sacred d„st from cZV V'' °^ ^o""""? their 
 
 ;l"nmed corno:," whe ebl 'atb"'t7"\ '^^ »" '>-« « 
 
 "f onr disai,i„.obation, ve deno if T, ""'"''"•"W" burden 
 
 vrong. Of course, con mo,' T ^^ "'"^^ ^^ know are 
 
 '-se spots swept ;ith or eritt7 ''''""■'=' "'•••' '^« ''^"P 
 
 t've; an^ ,..;,«„ it ig consit ^^ r* «'"-»'«l'od with invec 
 
 «ven Gamaliel sometimes 1 'V"" « *«■ »«<">«• Ves 
 
 ^'00^ the worth,::; :r,,r.f""''^' " ^''^ "« «'dt 
 
 ^^I's. Deans' m\^ i sinecure. 
 
 '-•• body. Which ::; ZoTT'^'y "' •'-^-g- to 
 
 l-Portious. y,,,^ fat:nd'T;,.t"'-"""'<'fgonL„: 
 
 ami „ A L "^ generous 
 
 ••nJ good-temper should have 
 
 t 
 
 •J 
 
 \ 
 
77//: I'XTEMrEiaU) in XI) 
 
 31 
 
 as a 
 
 icir 
 tar. 
 a 
 icn 
 jiro 
 Icp 
 Ic- 
 Ics 
 
 10 
 
 Is 
 
 ^ 
 
 14 
 
 .:«., 
 « 
 
 l)con 80 l()i)g i)rovi'rl)iiilly jisHotMattul i« (linicuU to (lioconi ; 
 ill 80 far as tl»o ordinary iniiid can analy/o, it would seem 
 as if adipose was a distinet excuse for bad temper. 'I'o be 
 hotter than otlier people in summer and not so cold in 
 winter is one of the simplest and most obvious results of 
 fat — yet who sludl say tliia is conducive to synipatl'V with 
 other people? 
 
 Mrs. ])eans had been a Warner, and was inclined to 
 goitre. Her large head, with its oily bands of fair hair, 
 was always somewhat inclined backwards, ller general 
 appearance suggested, in a remote way, a colossal and 
 bad-tempered pouter jiigeon — a likeness absurdly empha- 
 sized sometimes by the redness of her eyes. 
 
 When Myron Holder crossed the threshold with the 
 quilting-frames, a scene characteristic of the place greeted 
 her. Mrs. Deans stood in the foreground, holding the 
 floor; her husband listened to her eloquence, blinking 
 appreciatively if somewhat apprehensively. You never 
 kijew — to use one of her own expressions — when you " had 
 Mrs. Deans, and when you hadn't." She was apt to deflect 
 suddenly from the chase she was engaged in, and start 
 full cry after another's shortcomings. More than once 
 Henry Deans, enjoying himself hugely while his wife 
 browbeat the bound girls, had his joy turned to mourning 
 by suddenly discovering that the peroration of his wife's 
 address had for its insjnration his own shortcomings. 
 
 His wife was, as he confided to Gamaliel, "onsartain"; it 
 was a perilous joy to listen to her, and, therefore, perhaps, 
 the more exhilarating. 
 
 The bound girl — a slight, tow-headed child with high, 
 unequal shoulders, and arms, and wrists, developed by her 
 life of toil into absurd disproportion to her body — stood 
 by the stove, listening with a dazed look in her weary 
 eyes. She had broken a seven-cent lamp-glass. 
 
. ^i-on l>..t aside the ?«sk,.f ,.t 
 
 "o .onless by the ie, and^M J n '"'' «^'^' ^'"" ^'ood 
 ''"Stand was shifting '°f.7\.0«"ns «''"" talked; her 
 
 oondemnation, „„d oritieisms wit ,'"'' '" P°"'*' ""d ''"r 
 bo altogether pleasant, wTerL.'r?'"^ '"^ ^'^''^I'i"^ 
 Learers, Mrs. Deans' attllf "' ' *° "'« «''''«f of her 
 
 '"•"val of the ragman, wtrir """ '''^'^''«*«<^ ^^ e 
 '"g'' with coarse! b„ W ' 1' "?^' ^""""g van, piled 
 -s-'^od her aunbonnef fnd w ;' "'"'"''^- Mrs. De ns 
 J";n of sixty or so, th 'n "' d f °"* *" '"'"'• »« ^a^ a 
 Mrs. Deans ealled, " An Je'to 1h '""" ' "'""' ^'^ ''^«' 
 '"gh npon the seat of his odf,' "''""'''•" Perched 
 -^■Posod to all the variabi „esf;J """'" '^'•«' ^». ''e ^»' 
 -'n*me and rain i„ good part T'''"' ""' ''« 'oo^ 
 ^orso, save that he was toned^o'T 'T'-^ "*«« "« 
 
 Ho went regular rounds thrllf,"' '""'°«''°y *'»t- 
 «g«.and scrap-iron. His caS ; """"'''' ^''*^"»S 
 c "ssic systcn of barter. tS J ^ '"^"'a' of the oil 
 filled with an array of n,n, I ""'" °^ '"^ van was 
 ;-e; a drawer at tfe t H Id'"'^ "'"'' "*" ^"^'^ ^^ «» 
 >-""ocl knives and forks, Id "T'""" "=°««'y' "orn- 
 t mers „sed. With thes wares L^""?'/'""^ ''« '»« <=•■«- 
 « d .ron. Many a r.honsand „ ■, ^'"'' ^•"" *'>« ■'•''gs and 
 h- oW black horse colTS '"""'^ "' ^'"='' ""^ J>o and 
 
 "-}-™^^^^^^^^^^ Of a ba. . rags 
 
 '^""M say; then weighl^ i^l J,^" "''%Pound," he 
 
 andahaIf,"hewo„ld aZie w:.'' '"''''""' "' *h»'y 
 "s own mistake. Then T *'' "" "''• "* surprise at 
 
 *- *ii«"Uy bestowed up'o''^.^' '"^' *''« ""^ '^ «ld 
 ^a= always one-sided, buTnJrfS^^^f "" ^''"^ ''» '-^ 
 
 ■/ 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 33 
 
 Mrs. Deans always liad rags for him, and invariably 
 bought pie-plates. 
 
 "Who is that?" said he to Mrs. Deans, after the chaffer- 
 ing process was over, and she stood, pie-plates in hand, 
 watching him put the wooden peg througli the staple to 
 keep the hasp tight. He had caught a glimpse of Myron 
 Holder. 
 
 "That — oh, Jed Holder's Myron," returned Mrs. Deans, 
 assuming the face with which she taught Sunday school. 
 
 " 'Tis, eh? What do you have her for?" 
 
 " I feel a duty to have hev here, but it goes ag'in me, 
 Mr. Long — it does that; but there, we all have our cross 
 and we must help along as well as we can. Are you going 
 to call at old Mrs. Holder's? She takes it most terrible 
 hard." 
 
 "Yes, I'll call there; it's a lucky job for tlie girl she's 
 got such a backer as you, Mrs. Deans. 'Twould be a good 
 thing if there was more like you. It beats all what wim- 
 men is coming to these days! Who's the man?" 
 
 "Don't ask me — ask /^er; that's the only place I know 
 to find out; she's that close, though! And stubborn! 
 Even I, for all I've done for her, and put up with, don't 
 know! No more does her grandmother. But I'll find 
 out." 
 
 "Well, well — that's curious," said the ragman, by thi^ 
 time perched aloft again and shaking the reins over the 
 high, lean haunches of his horse; "good day, Mrs. 
 Deans; you have a fine place here." 
 
 "Good morning. When'll you be back? Be sure you 
 call." 
 
 "I'll be round in a couple of months again. Good 
 morning," he replied, as his van jolted away. 
 
 "It seems to roe," said he, soliloquizing, "that Mrs. 
 Deans has washed more'n she can hang out! Jed Holder's 
 8 
 
* 
 
 ^ THE UNTEUPEJiED WWD 
 
 homeward i„ the evening ^"^ ^''"°"' "« ''« drove 
 
 Yes," said old Carrn]?. « 
 scheming lot." ' ''^"'^^ «re a bad Jot, a bad, 
 
 C^h, come, come- von'n l^ 
 
 yo-nggirl one of the'se fine ijavs "f ^^^ T"''"" *" ^o""* 
 man. nne days, retorted the astute ras- 
 
 « T . O 
 
 higWypLed.' "'toL'?:''" ^""^^^'^ *e old n,an, 
 
 The ragman wouid ftl ? '"r" '"'^« « "^OP?" 
 
 the black horse meantime Lhw', *'* '""^^ '"^^'her, 
 
 -t year's grass. througTwhIh «fe ."? /" """"^ "* ">; 
 
 the^new growth were pointing ' ''''"'' ^'' 
 
 -<> ~;*thVrd"war:K ':f' "^ """=" '^'•w- 
 
 Mr^CarrolI's " drop" ^el a gi " ^^^ 7^^ ^e'. a>^d 
 Mr. Carroll came fn fi, i ' "^ ^^^^^ of gin. 
 
 declares she'U fir^ttTe -ot" 'n'""- "^'^- '^-- 
 1 11 warrant," the ragm™ "1 ! J"'' ^'" P"='^'e even her, 
 hly up over the front Xi ^'"^ "' '^^ """"^e" »>m- 
 
 Trust her for f }inf . ,., 
 catch a thief, '" replied T "' "" ""'«• 'Set a thief to 
 
 «^«an lend., evidenced his-ippreciation of this 
 
 J/ 
 
THE VNTEMPlLRED WIND 
 
 ds 
 
 p 
 
 fine wit, and dei^arted, calling out, "Evening — good even- 
 ing — you've got a fine, snug place here, Mr. Carroll." 
 
 His homeward way led through quiet country roads, 
 and long grass-grown "concessions." 
 
 The promise of spring made sweet the air, and although 
 the night felt gray and chill, it did not numb, as do 
 autumn nights of the same temperature. 
 
 The ragman's house stood on the outskirts of a little 
 town, and was dwarfed and overshadowed by the barn, 
 which occupied the main portion of the lot. One little 
 corner of this barn was devoted to the big black horse; 
 the rest was given over to rags. If the rags are not sent 
 to the mills as they are collected, they are "sorted," which 
 means that buttons, hooks, and eyes are cut off, and the 
 woollen separated from the cotton rags. The former are 
 sent to the shoddy mills; the paper factories absorb the 
 others. 
 
 The ragman's trade has its traditions and romances; and 
 the tales of fortunes found by ragpickers are beautiful 
 truths to all of their calling; so this ragpicker, like all 
 others, carefully felt the pockets and linings of the gar- 
 ments that came to him. During his thirty years of rag- 
 picking he had found one two-dollar bill, seven ten-cent 
 pieces, eighteen five-cent bits, one pair of gloves and an 
 average of one lead pencil a year — but he still hoped. 
 
 Finding a fortune in rags, however, is a little like trying 
 to locate the pot of gold at the rainbow's foot. 
 
 Myron Holder had heard plainly the ragman's query and 
 Mrs. Deans' reply. Old Henry Deans, blossoming forth 
 like a snail out of its shell, as soon as his wife's back was 
 turned, said with leering facetiousness, "Ah — a fellow 
 askin' after you, Myron," and pointed his fist with a look 
 that made the blood spring to the woman's cheeks and 
 linger there, a painful blot as though the face had been 
 
3(> 
 
 i-m UNTBMPERSD WWD 
 
 snut o„. sjie bent over her tub in •. 
 
 «;' "nn her. T],e regard of 1 1 """' ^"^ '"^"'^ J'«t 
 
 Myron Holder lived amo^; my no : '"'"/'" ^°'»«'> «' 
 to us, nor their c,itici,„s of anv ; ' ? °^ '""<='' """"e"* 
 "^e remembered that thej formed T'' "'/"' *•"*"""«' 
 »ad their verdict upon Ww ^^™" holder's world; 
 
 ^ith them lay the pCer '^f ";« """*' '""'""""h «« 
 pronounced. ^ "^ miiicting the penalty they 
 
 Mrs. Deans bustled in ratfli.^ ^ • 
 one was at work and „nhL ^ ^^^ P'O'P'ates. Every 
 
 band with a contemjtuot ^ Z ''''' ^'"'""-^ her h ! 
 betook herself to the'ki S:*?;:^/:-™' ^"""'P'^^' «"« 
 quiltmg.frames into poaitkn T ' f ""'" S^"'»g the 
 quilts, which process coSd/n dT"^''' *° "««" her 
 red and bine surfaces wrfX\tS fj"*''™' 
 
 That night, when Mvron hIu ^ '""' y""' 
 thought for the first time once o?f '''"' ''°'»''' «he 
 
 portion meted out to h'; but fb T "'"'"'""^'y- "^the 
 
 ?eroach."^ '- ^- ^» '^-^^irzzzirz' 
 
 t;>";^trXtSr '^. » ^- of beati. 
 Myron Holaer was condemned ,^ ^^Pirituafeing effect, 
 and arrows" that a smtehU n« ""'"''* "" "'e "slings 
 
 --n;^ ShearoseintheCLa niT"'.'' ""^^^ -» 
 to the sound of bitter words dirl^ •"■ ^'^'^ ''^^""^^t 
 
 ■nahgnity of long-suppIS d rt ''*^ '^' ""«""« 
 
 excuseforexpressi!n.'rhTlked 'im"* '"* ^■^*» «" 
 taunts of a vulgar virago Z ' ^*^' '"bject to the 
 
 cub, Gamaliel,' he intoLale r""? "' ''^"^ "'^"''k- 
 paralysed Henry Deans st ? "'"' ^■''^» °^ *he half- 
 greeted by her grandmofh > ™"^ "* "'^ht to be 
 Doubt, she deservrarS-buTr'""^ "'''°-''- 
 -.ht have been different, ^^^ ZaS'Z:!:^ 
 
THE UNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 %1 
 
 no slavish race of clown -trodden serfs. She had sprung 
 from a long line of sturdy English forbears, lowly indeed, 
 but free and bold. It Avould scarcely be a matter for 
 wonder had Myron Holder fought with her back against 
 the wall, defied the world she knew, utterly — its narrow 
 prejudices, cramped conventions, traditionary decencies; 
 but she did not. At this time she neither rebelled nor 
 struggled — she endured ; so did Prometheus. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Oh, the waiting in the watches of the night ! 
 In the darkness, desohition, and contrition and affright ; 
 The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight ; 
 The ever- weary memory that ever weary goes. 
 Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows, 
 The ever- weary eyelids gasping ever for repose — 
 In the dreary, weary watches of the night ! " 
 
 " The flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow dies ; 
 All that we wish to stay 
 
 Tempts, and then flies. 
 What is this world's delight? 
 Lightning that mocks the night, 
 
 Brief even as bright. " 
 
 One day, shortly after the ragman's call, old Mr. Car- 
 roll came to have a talk with Mr. Deans. He did this 
 often. It was not that he had any particular liking for 
 Henry Deans or his wife, but the forced inaction of the 
 former left him unoccupied all day long, and Mr. Carroll 
 dearly liked "to have his talk out" when once he com- 
 menced. As a prelude to the talk proper, they discussed 
 for an hour or so the affairs of the village, the crops of 
 
il 
 
 36 
 
 THE UNTILMPERED WIND 
 
 tlicir neighbors, the scarcity of pasture and the great num- 
 ber of tramps. Into this part of the conversation Mrs. 
 Deans entered heartily. After these matters were canvassed 
 tlioroughly, the men settled themselves more easily in their 
 chairs, and took up tlie more serious business of the hour. 
 
 Now there were only two subjects that Mr. Carroll thor- 
 oughly enjoyed talking about — i)olitics and war; the for- 
 mer he regarded as the " root of all evil," the latter as the 
 only means of reform. Mr. Deans only cared to discuss 
 religion and crops. 
 
 Each talked in his own strain about his own hobby, 
 without regard to what his companion was saying. 
 While one was speaking the other waited, absent-eyed, 
 for the first jiause for breath, when he promptly took up 
 his parable where he had left off when forced to pause for 
 breath himself. The one never heard what the other said, 
 each being too much occupied in thinking what he should 
 say next to bother about listening to any one else. They 
 derived mucli of the same mutual benefit and amusement 
 from these conversations as two dogs do when they race 
 madly up and down opposite sides of a fence, barking at 
 each other. Many learned arguments, held in high places, 
 are conducted upon these same lines. 
 
 The sunny afternoon wore along. Mrs. Deans had 
 yawned several times, yawned audibly and significantly; 
 but her husband, in full cry after the errors of the Catho- 
 lics and the bigotry of the Church of England, disregarded 
 tho danger signal, and went on his conversational way 
 rejoicing. Mr. Carroll, winding his way through the 
 intricacies of the bribery and corruption and scandals of 
 the last election, was oblivious of her yawns, their mean- 
 ing, and even — ungallant as it may seem — of her presence. 
 
 Gamaliel, coming in from his plough to refill his water- 
 jug, looked slyly through the door at the trio. 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 39 
 
 l\ 
 
 "She's putting her cars back," said lie to liiinsclf, with 
 pleasurable anticipation of a row, as he looked at his 
 mother. lie waited a few moments in expectation of a 
 crisis, but at the instant when his hopes were highest an 
 interruption occurred in the arrival of Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 Mr. Carroll loathed Mrs. Wilson, a well-fed -looking hut 
 lugubrious woman, chronically aggrieved. From her own 
 account, she had inherited and endured "all the ills tlio 
 flesh is heir to," but nevertlieless she was plump and com- 
 fortable-h)oking. Her dark eyes were bright, her red 
 cheeks rosy, her nose a pug; her lips showed red against 
 the whiteness of her false teeth — when the teeth were in 
 her lips pouted, when the teeth were out her lips pursed. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson was somewhat perilously given over to vani- 
 ties, and had fringe on her black merino dress and a 
 white muslin rose in her black bonnet. She had her knit- 
 ting with her, an index of her intention to stay for tea, 
 and an encouragement to Mrs. Deans to insist that she 
 should remain. Mrs. Wilson protested she had had no 
 intention of staying, and Mrs. Deans insisted that she 
 should stay. Mrs. Wilson's protestations continued all 
 the while she was laying off her bonnet, and Mrs. Deans' 
 persuasive eloquence flowed freely; finally, with a fine 
 assumption of compulsion, Mrs. Wilson ceased protesting, 
 and allowed herself, knitting in hand, to be led back to 
 the dining-room. 
 
 By the time the two ladies emerged, Mr. Carroll was 
 hobbling out of the gate and Mr. Deans was enjoying a 
 long-deferred chew. The two women sat down opposile 
 each other in rocking-chairs. Mrs. Wilson produced a 
 black apron, which she donned, and then felt in her 
 pocket for the goose-quill she carried to hold the end of 
 her knitting needle, stuck it in her belt, and proceeded to 
 turn the heel of a carpet- wai'p sock ; at the same time to 
 
 %- 
 
 't 
 
lila 
 
 If 
 
 40 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 give Mrs. Deans a full and particular account of her 
 giulferings from erysipelas. Mrs. Deans herself had had 
 some experience with that disease, having once seen a 
 woman in St. Ann's who was bald from its effects. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson's needles clicked; Mrs. Deans' waxed thread 
 hummed as she vigorously sewed carpet-rags; a distant 
 thud-thud told that Myron Holder was churning. 
 
 The sun began to sink. Suddenly Mrs. Wilson dropped 
 her hands and her knitting into her lap, and asked, with 
 an explosive abruptness only excusable as an indication of 
 the startling character of the question : 
 
 " Say, Jane — I want to ask you something ! lias Myron 
 Holder named her young one?" 
 
 Mrs. Doans struck one hand into the other. 
 
 "Well, it beats all! I never! If you'll believe me, I 
 don't know." 
 
 " I just wondered whether she had or not, but I never 
 saw you to ask, or if I saw you I forgot, and I didn't hear 
 tell of its being named yet. Now what do you suppose, 
 Jane, speaking confidential between ourselves, and know- 
 ing it'll go no further — if you was asked, now, what would 
 you say she'd call it, if 'twas put to you?" 
 
 "Well, Marian," replied Mrs. Deans, with the air of a 
 baffled astrologer, "since you ask me plain, I'll tell you 
 one thing — I can see as far through a ladder as most peo- 
 ple, and if I go falling it ain't through going about with 
 my eyes shut; but all I know about it is one thing, and 
 that ain't two; whatever Myron Holder calls the young one 
 she won't call it Jed, for that old Mrs. Holder won't allow 
 at no rate — for no favor. Not that Myron said anything 
 about it; that ain't her way. She's close — terrible close is 
 Myron, and deep beyond belief. But old Mrs. Holder says 
 — and what she says she'll stick to, being stubborn and 
 fixed in her wotions — she says, ' No naming of such brata 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 
 ( 
 
TI/E UNTEMPERED WIND 41 
 
 after my son/ No-not if Myron asks on bended knee, 
 
 Mrs. Holder won't give in." 
 "But say, Jane," hazarded Mrs. Wilson, as one who 
 
 advances an improbable and wild suggestion, " supposing 
 
 Myron Holder don't ask, but just does it? Do you 
 suppose she'd dare?" 
 
 "'Tain't hardly likely," returned Mrs. Deans, looking 
 judicial; "that would be pretty serious, even for Myron 
 Holder. But I don't know; she's bad clean through— 
 that's easy enough seen; why she makes the greatest time 
 over that young one you ever seen. Why, Mrs. Warner 
 told me that the other Sunday, when she went to Holder's 
 well for a pail of water, that the house being very quiet 
 she went and looked in the windows, knowing old Mrs' 
 Holder was out to Disney's for milk. She couldn't see 
 nothing in the front room nor the kitchen, but in the bed- 
 room there she seen Myron Holder with the boy. The 
 boy was asleep, and she was knee ^ng by the bed, talkin<r 
 away to the sleeping child !~'s good's praying to it, Mrs'' 
 Warner said." 
 
 "I've no patience with such goings on as them," said 
 Mrs. Wilson, clicking her needles agitatedly. " I should 
 think she'd be ashamed to act up like that, considering all 
 that's come and gone." 
 
 "Well, you'd think so," agreed Mrs. Deans, windin<r up 
 her ball of rags. "But there, Marian! There's no^'uso 
 talking, her kind don't care for nothing." 
 
 " Well, it's to be hoped she don't throw no slurs on any 
 decent fellow, like your Male or my Homer," said Mrs. 
 Wilson, with dismal foreboding in her voice. " It would 
 be just like her to pick on some fine name. But I warn 
 her of one thing: slurs is something I can't abide and 
 won't put up with." 
 
 "Nor me, Marian, nor me," said Mrs. Deans, her spirit 
 
4a 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 rising in anticipation of tlio imaginary fray. " Let 
 Myron Holder call her brat Gamaliel, and I'll let her know 
 for once, in her life, that respectable people has their 
 rights. Just only let her, once, and that's all. If I don't 
 show her pretty prompt what's what, blame me!" 
 
 " Well, 'twould be a most terrible slur on any fellow, 
 that's all I can say," returned Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 After tea Homer Wilson called for his mother and drove 
 her away, her white muslin rose nodding above the black 
 barege veil she tied across her forehead to ward off neural- 
 gia, her hands clasping lovingly a bottle of liniment dis- 
 tilled from dried "smartweed," which Mrs. Deans had 
 bestowed upon her. Mrs. Deans watched their departure 
 from the veranda; presently she voiced her reflections 
 aloud : 
 
 " Marian don't crack up Homer as much as she used to 
 do; guess that shoe pinches a bit. AVell, served her 
 right! Nobody but a fool gives away his clothes before 
 he's done with them! They shouldn't have been so smart 
 giving Homer the deed." 
 
 "No, I don't hold with doing that. Don't catch me 
 doing any such business, not I," said Mr. Deans' voice 
 from the kitchen. 
 
 Mrs. Deans jerked her shoulders impatiently, and took 
 herself and her meditations out of her husband's hearing. 
 She was gone some little time, having walked down to the 
 pasture to look at the lambs. As she entered the cook- 
 house she murmured to herself, " I can't make my mind 
 up to it somehow, but she was anxious, was Marian, terri- 
 ble anxious about the name — Homer Wilson." 
 
 Homer Wilson and his mother drove homeward. They 
 passed Myron Holder entering the gate of her home. She 
 had taken off her sunbonnet and held it by the strings, as 
 she fastened the gate. Her hair, loosened and roughened, 
 
 ^ 
 
 I 
 
 ,V»:.' 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 43 
 
 ^ 
 
 I 
 
 ,\*' 
 
 / 
 
 wa8 massed about her head in snch a way as to form a soft, 
 shadowy background, from which the pale oval of her face 
 shone forth almost startlingly. 
 
 " Guess Mrs. Deans is taking her money's worth out of 
 Myron Holder," said Homer after they passed. " She looks 
 mighty tired out." 
 
 "Oh, goodness. Homer," said his mother, "don't take 
 up with that girl. 'Tired out!' Serve her right if she is! 
 It's pure charity Jane Deans' having her; and as for stub- 
 bornness and badness, Jane says she can't be beat. I 
 guess her old grandmother has a tough time of it ! Old 
 folks has a poor chance when young ones get the whip- 
 hand. Give — give — and when you've given all you've got 
 you're no more good! Well, time's short here any way, 
 and a good thing it is! No pleasure after one gets old — 
 only burdens on other people." Here Mrs. Wilson sniffed 
 loudly, and ostentatiously wiped away an imaginary tear. 
 
 Homer's face burned in the dusk; his heart rose hot 
 against the reflection his mother's speech was meant to 
 cast upon him. But he made no answer; he was used to 
 such things; they drove on without further speech. The 
 loose links in the horses' traces jingled; their hoof -beats 
 sounded soft on the sandy road. They drew near the 
 house before Mrs. Wilson spoke again; then she said 
 briskly: "Homer, don't go speaking to Myron Holder if 
 you meet her; she's a dangerous girl." 
 
 "She looks it," said Homer, with a touch of sarcasm.. 
 " I don't think I'll be hurt by passing a good day with her, 
 though." 
 
 "That's right — I might have known as much. Get 
 mixed up with her next, as if I hadn't had enough 
 trouble," whined his mother. 
 
 Homer was getting exasperated. The knowledge that 
 he h^d that very morning passed Myron Holder in absent- 
 
 % 
 
 !^^"1 
 f 
 
w 
 
 44 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 minded silence added to the irritation of his mood. His 
 mother's persistent misconstruction of his motives and 
 actions was at times almost unbearable. He answered out 
 of pure perversity: "She's the best looking girl in the 
 village, by long odds; and as for not speaking to her, I 
 fancy the women do plenty of 'passing by on the other 
 side' business without the men helping them. You won't 
 find many men, I reckon, unwilling to speak to Myron 
 Holder." 
 
 A strange conviction of the absolute truth of what he 
 was saying smote across his mind, and suddenly Myron 
 Holder's pale face seemed to show out of the gloom before 
 him, as ho had seen it a little while before against the dark 
 background of her hair. His mother almost groaned aloud ; 
 a dreadful thought flittered momentarily through her mind, 
 but Homer was already pulling up the hor 
 
 He helped her out carefully, and she entered the house 
 absorbed in peevish self-pity. 
 
 Old Mr. Wilson was ready to receive her and eager to 
 hear the "news." When Homer finished attending to his 
 horses and came into the house, he found they had already 
 retired. He heard the murmur of his mother's voice, 
 broken only by a sharp exclamation or a short interroga- 
 tion from his father. He blew out the lamp and sat down 
 at the open window, laying his head on his hands. The 
 frogs in the pond were uttering their weird and dismal 
 note. No other sound has a more melancholy echo, a 
 more desolate tone. An earthy breath of wind was 
 wafted from across the newly ploughed land near the 
 house. In the sunshine the aroma from fresh furrows is 
 sweeter than the breath of sweet grass; at night it brings 
 the odor of the charnel. 
 
 The wind died down ; it was very still and dark. The 
 dew fell. Presently Homer Wilson rose, and, still in the 
 
 I 
 
TUL I'XTKMrEKED WIND 
 
 45 
 
 ) 
 I 
 3 
 
 ,e 
 s 
 
 . 
 
 dark, found his way softly upstairs. His tliick brown 
 hair was hidon with tlio night damps, hut even the fust 
 heavy dews of spring do not leave long, glistening, smart- 
 ing furrows on the cheeks — do not fall in slow- wrung, 
 scalding drops upon clinched hands, do not linger in salt 
 traces about the lips they touch. 
 
 AVhen Homer Wilson avowed conversion in the little 
 Methodist Churcli, his mother confided to Mrs. Deans that 
 she was exceedingly glad thereat. "I can let him go to 
 the city with an easier mind, now that I know he's got 
 religion," she said. Homer had gone to the anxious-seat 
 the night before, during the revival meeting, had been 
 prayed over, and sung over, and had avowed, in a few 
 jerky, hesi^^iting sentences, that "he felt better — happier 
 — there is i load off my mind — I — " But his testimony 
 had been interrupted at this point, greatly to his own 
 relief and his mother's wrath, by enthusiastic Sister 
 Warner beginning to sing, in a high, shrill treble: 
 
 " Once I was blind, 
 But now I can sec ; 
 The Light of the World is Jesus. " 
 
 Homer retired from the meeting feeling a little dazed. 
 He knew he had done what was expected of him, and 
 believed it was the right thing to do, but was a bit con- 
 fused as to the impulse which had prompted him to take 
 the step. 
 
 The next morning he started for the commercial college, 
 where he was about to take a course. He was alert to the 
 possibilities of life, and was clear-headed enough to see 
 that without education his chances were nil. 
 
 He had gone, winter after winter, to the village school, 
 and had a wide reputation among the villagers as a mathe- 
 matician. 
 
 *■ 
 
 s 
 
 '¥:■ 
 
! 
 
 ! 1 I 
 1 . ! 
 
 46 
 
 THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 "ItV pretty hard to fool Uomer Wilson on iiggcrs," was 
 the general verdict. 
 
 lie was too progressive to dream of spending his life in 
 that little hamlet, so he saved all his earnings, and at last 
 had enough to cover the low expenses of a two-year 
 course at the business college — an institution which, 
 among its numerous advantages, promised " to secure good 
 situations for such of the students as shall obtain our 
 diploma." 
 
 When Homer Wilson started from the village, he was a 
 good specimen of the country Hercules; tall, sinev^y, reso- 
 lute, with unflinching will and bulldog courage. His 
 conversion, if it had not sprung from his inmost soul or 
 stirred the deepest depths of his heart, had at least awak- 
 ened and strengthened his better resolutions; his mind 
 was eager 10 receive the knowledge that he knew meant 
 power. His hojies were high, his heart and temper 
 
 generous. 
 
 He met Ihr shortly after he commenced his course. 
 Her brother was attending the college and took Homer to 
 his home one night. Homer thought her perfection, for 
 his standard of conqmrison was not high. She had fluffy 
 yellow hair, and pretty eyes, and pretty ways, and pretty 
 speeches galore. She was winning and cordial, and he 
 thought her absurd questions about country ways and 
 country doings very entertaining. She was bright and 
 quick and quite charmed this keen young man, wlio, 
 for all his shrewdness, proved an easy prey to these trivial 
 acts which girls of her caste exercise so unsparingly. 
 He confided to her all his ambitions, and she listened 
 eagerly. 
 
 Perhaps he gave her a rather too glowing account of the 
 farm at hoi'o. The peaches and grapes were, perhaps, 
 hardly so pi itiful, and certainly were not so easily ob- 
 
 \\ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 m^jtawMMw w «wi " **^iu 
 
.1 
 
 Tim UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 47 
 
 al 
 
 tained. The harvests were, perliaps, not quite so ^olden, 
 the garden perliaps not so lovely, as he depicted it, nor 
 his father so admirable, nor his mother so benevolently 
 kind to everybody. But he had left home for the lirst 
 time, and, after all, despite his ambitions, his heart was 
 yet in the country, with the fields, the sun, the birds and 
 the trees. 
 
 Under these circumstances a man is prone to forget the 
 tedious process of planting and nursing and cultivating 
 the peach trees until they are fit for fruiting — to overlook 
 the ploughing and sowing and harrowing, and the long days 
 of toil before the fields "whiten to the harvest," and to 
 think and speak of both fruit and grain as springing, with 
 all the beauty of spontaneity, from the gracious IVIother 
 Earth. And his listener, if she be a selfish, shallow crea- 
 ture, unthinking and unheeding, is prone to think only of 
 results, and not at all of the toil they represent. 
 
 So life slipped along with Homer Wilson, studying and 
 loving and writing home. Then came a summer day 
 when he took Her for a day's trip to his home in James- 
 town. Ilis mother had outdone herself preparing country 
 dainties. It was the time of strawberries, and there were 
 strawberries and cream, and strawberry shortcake, and 
 crullers, and pies, and boiled ham, and the sun was shining, 
 and t^he fluttered about, genuinely pleased with many 
 things and affecting to be delighted by everything. 
 
 Old Mr. Wilson had been at his best. Mrs. Wilson was 
 urbane in a new dress, and i Tomer strode about, showing 
 Har the farm, erect and hap^nly excited. It was the 
 halcyon day of his life. In the evening there was the trip 
 back to the city, Homer taking care of the basket of straw- 
 berries his mother had l,?stowed upon Ihr. 
 
 That night she promised to nuu'ry him. lie wrote to 
 his people, and his mother returned a somewhat uuinten- 
 
48 
 
 THE VNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 tionally lugubrious epistle, conveying their good wishes 
 jind consent. 
 
 Week^ and months sped, and Homer had never been 
 home since that day. His old people did not take that 
 amiss, for travelling, as they knew, cost money. 
 
 But there came a day when his course was completed, 
 the coveted diploma bestowed upon him, and a situation 
 secured for him as bookkeeper in a lumber-yard, at thirty- 
 five dollars a month. He made up his mind to go home 
 for a day or two before starting work. He reached the 
 village elate — fortune seemed within his grasp. 
 
 His father was surly and harassed-looking; his mother's 
 face looked older and with genuine lines of trouble about 
 the lips, far more significant than the peevish wrinkles 
 of self-pity that creased her brow. 
 
 He soon learned the cause of these things. The 
 mortgage, which had always seemed as much a matter of 
 course to him as the taxes or the road-work, wa's about to 
 be foreclosed. The man who had lent them the money 
 would not renew it; he hinted that he feared for his 
 interest, as it seemed there was no young man to take hold 
 of the place, and in the event of the property deteriorat- 
 ing he feared for his principal. 
 
 The old people before this dilemma seemed numbed. 
 They could think of no expedient, and were apparently 
 incapable of deciding what course to pursue. 
 
 Homer listened to it all in sick wonder tliat he had not 
 been told, rejoicing inwardly that he had cost them nothing 
 at least for two years back, though he also realized with 
 bitterness that he had helped them none. He went to his 
 old room that night to fight a hard battle with himself, 
 and to conquer — to give up his ambitions, which, humble 
 as they seem, were yet great to him; to relinquish the joy 
 of seeing Her daily ; to return to the old, hopeless struggle 
 
^1 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 49 
 
 of striving to make ends meet, to bend his energies to the 
 circumscribed field of making the most of the few acres of 
 the old farm; to come back and be called a failure by his 
 friends ; to have to wait a long, long time before he could 
 call Her "wife." But while that last idea held the 
 bitterest thought of all, in it also lay the kernel of the 
 hope which was to keep his heart alive. He felt he had a 
 sure and certain hope of a happy future, no matter how 
 long deferred, and he remembered, with a pang of pity, 
 that his father and mother had only a past. 
 
 His brothers and sisters were all married long since, and 
 each had struggle enough to keep the wolf from the door. 
 No help from any one but himself could relieve his old 
 people. 
 
 The dawn found him resolved. He told his father and 
 mother at the breakfast- table. They were both delighted, 
 but did not know very well how to express it. To a 
 stranger's mind there might have been some doubt as to 
 whether they appreciated the sacrifice or not. They did 
 not in full. No one save, perhaps, a woman who loved 
 him could have known the magnitude of his renunciation. 
 
 His father and he went that day to see the old man who 
 held the mortgage. He was a shrewd old miser, and was 
 fain to secure himself in every way against anxiety and 
 loss. He insisted that the new mortgage should be made 
 out in Homer's name. He wanted this open -browed, 
 strong, resolute young man for his debtor, and not the 
 vacillating old man, who looked as if no responsibility 
 would trouble him long. So the farm was transferred to 
 Homer's name, and the mortgage also. 
 
 Homer resumed his old life unfalteringly. He wrote 
 and told Her all about his change of plans, and she replied 
 to his letters regularly. Her letters were not very satisfy- 
 ing ; women of her fibre are not usually very fascinating on 
 
 I 
 
50 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 paper. So Homer felt trebly the sacrifice he was making, 
 for he attributed none of his sense of loss to the lack 
 of real feeling in her letters. On the contrary, he 
 thought those letters, with their stilted beginning and 
 spidery writing, the sweetest of all epistles; and thought 
 to himself how altogether lovely she was, when even such 
 letters as these left him unsatisfied and with heart-hunger 
 nnappeased. 
 
 Homer was not one to put his hand to the plough and 
 then draw back. He threw into his work all the energy 
 of his resolute will, and backed it by the severest physical 
 toil he was capable of. It was up-hill and disheartening, 
 work, but he toiled on. He had disappointments enough 
 and to spare, but he wrote them all down to Ihr^ and for- 
 got them when he read that she was "so sorry." 
 
 He had progressive ideas which sometimes worried him 
 sorely, for it was trying to see others availing themselves 
 of modern appliances for cultivating, etc., while Homer 
 felt bound to struggle on with the old implements his 
 father possessed, which called for double the expenditure 
 of labor and time, and even then did not yield satisfac- 
 tory results. 
 
 In the spring, too, it took the heart out of him to walk 
 the rows of his peach orchard and find a third of the trees 
 killed, girdled by the teeth of the field-mice. Homer's 
 heart almost failed him when he discovered this last mis- 
 hap, for he was oppressed by the knowledge that he could 
 have prevented it. It was true that he could not afford 
 the expensive shields of metal for his trees that some of 
 his neighbors had, but if, immediately after that lieavy 
 snowstorm of last winter, he had gone out and tramped 
 the snow tightly round each tree, then they would not 
 have been girdled ; for the snow, if left undisturbed, never 
 clings close to a peach tree; there is always a space 
 
THE UNTEMPEl^ED WIND 
 
 SI 
 
 between, and tlic mice creep round and round the trc^ in 
 this space, gnawing it to the height of the snow. Tlie 
 peach trees next the fence, where the snow had drifted, 
 were girdled completely up to a height of three or four 
 feet. 
 
 Homer had visited Uer in the winter. The week after 
 the heavy snowstorm had been spent with her. His 
 mother reminded him of this, and he flung out of the 
 house angrily. He was fairly sick over the loss of his 
 trees, and to have anything cold said about Her was too 
 much. He wrote Her all about it; perhaps in his des- 
 perate longing for sympathy, loving sympathy and com- 
 prehension, he depicted the disaster as even more serious 
 than it really was. 
 
 He waited for her letter eagerly. It came. Her frivo- 
 lous, mercenary soul had taken fright. She sheltered 
 herself behind the old excuse for disloyalty — worn thread- 
 bare by women of all stations. She wrote that she felt she 
 "did not love him as she should if she was to be his wife." 
 
 He had sent the little Home-boy to the Post-Office for 
 the letter; he brought it to the field where Homer was 
 planting out tomato-plants. Homer Wilson read his 
 letter twice or thrice, put it carefully in its envelope, and 
 then safely in his pocket. He went on with his task— ^ 
 slowly — slowly, though, with none of the tremulous haste 
 with which he had been exhausting himself for months. 
 He packed the roots with soil; it was some relief, the hard, 
 resistent pressure of the earth; there was something left 
 to battle against, if nothing left to fight for. So he con- 
 tinued his row, feeling a fierce wrath if one of the shaky 
 little plants would not stand straight, and hushing the 
 Home-boy's chatter with a terrible, pale look. 
 
 He completed his task, and went about his other work 
 in an atmosphere of enforced calm that was torture. By 
 
 
 I . 
 
 
sa 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 some chance none of his tasks that day called for any out- 
 put of pliysical strength. It was a day of small things, 
 trivial tasks which maddened him by their helpless need 
 for patience, not strength. 
 
 But the weariest hours pass, and night fell over the vil- 
 lage as a veil. Then he wrote to Her a few straightfor- 
 ward, manly lines, setting her free; telling her she had 
 acted rightly if she did not love him. Then he lay down 
 for another night of poignant thought. He recalled Her 
 visit to the farm, and remembered how impatient he had 
 felt when his mother maundered on about sending back 
 the basket the strawberries went in. He had felt a little 
 ashamed of his mother's thrift just then. 
 • When the morning came Homer was ready for work, 
 but there had been a distinct decadence in him during the 
 night that was past. He had no longer anything to live 
 for but money; he rose to search for this only good with 
 eager, greedy eyes. For this poor countryman had come 
 of a long race of penurious, grasping men and women, 
 and that mercenary craving for money and land had been 
 latent in his nature since his birth. When he went to the 
 business college it stirred within him vaguely, and might 
 then have developed, but better ambitions ousted it. But 
 these aspirations were gone, and in their place flourished 
 — grown to its full height in a single night — the Upas 
 Tree of Greed. 
 
 He told his people next day. His mother promptly said, 
 "I knowed how it would be! A big-feeling, handless 
 creature, idle and good for nothing! With her airified 
 ways and her notions; I told you so all along. Homer," etc., 
 etc. But Homer, ere even the second word was spoken, 
 was out of the house and striding along with black brows 
 to hi3 tomatoes. The row he had planted the day before 
 looked limp ; by night they were yellow — withered — dead. 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 53 
 
 In replanting them he found each stalk hroken clean off 
 below the earth; he liad indulged his strength too much 
 in packing the earth about them. Day by day the change 
 in him went on — gradually, almost imperceptibly, but 
 startlingly apparent, had any one contrasted the Homer of 
 the present with the man of the past. It was very pitiful. 
 Worst of all, he was congoious himself of the change, but 
 could not analyze it, so could do nothing to arrest the 
 atrophy of his soul. 
 
 He began to prosper by fits and starts; later more 
 steadily. He had a balance at the end of the summers 
 now, and invested it in better stock, new implements and 
 fine varieties of fruit. He hid his aching heart under an 
 oifensively blustering manner, and was" so morbidly afraid 
 of any one knowing his secret that he was too carelessly 
 gay — too full of pointless jests. Often, after a gathering 
 of the village young people, he strolled home under the 
 stars, dazed and wondering, his throat harsh with much 
 speech, his head aching with tuneless laughter. Was he 
 really the man who had chattered on so a few minutes 
 since? he asked himself. And the other young people 
 said, among themselves, "Homer Wilson does like to 
 show off so!" 
 
 It was an anguish to him when he saw, now and then, 
 a young man leave the village, win what he considered 
 success, and come back smiling, content, and well dressed, 
 for a brief holiday; then back to the world outside again. 
 
 His temper became irascible. When his horses were 
 refractory he was unmerciful; but after any outbreak 
 against a dumb animal his stifled manhood rose against 
 this last, worst outrage against it. But the horses did 
 not recall the extra feeding and light work as they did 
 the blow, and they shrank and shivered and started ner- 
 vously when he approached. He noted this, and it cut 
 
 it 1 
 
 
 
 Hi 
 
S4 
 
 THE UNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 liim to the heart, or stung him into dull wrath against 
 them, as his mood was. 
 
 The farm did better and better, and well it might; all 
 the honest and generous part of a man's nature was being 
 sunk in it. He began to pay the principal of the loan in 
 instalments; at last he had the farm clear. 
 
 His brothers and sisters mirmured against him. Homer 
 had stolen their birthright, ihey whispered; he had got 
 hold of the farm just when the hard times were past; he 
 had wheedled the old people into giving it all to him, they 
 said, and they each and every one had worked as hard as 
 he had, and besides he had all his own way, while they 
 had had to work under the old man's orders. 
 
 So tilt boys came home with their families, and paid 
 long visits and impressed upon the old man how Homer 
 had "bested him." And the girls returned with their 
 children, and condoled with their mother. They de- 
 parted, leaving the old man morose, irritable and repin- 
 ing, the old woman in tearful self-pity; and Homer saw 
 it all and smiled grimly, but said no word. 
 
 So the old people saw grudgingly his hard-won success, 
 although they shared it fully, and spoke of their other 
 children always with the prefix "poor," as if contrasting 
 Homer's prosperous and happy lot with theirs. 
 
 He had, after all, a grim sense of humor, and this 
 Jacob-like light in which his family viewed him filled him 
 with sneering mirth. Verily they were a miserable tribe 
 of Esaus. But the mirth died out at last, leaving a resid- 
 uum of rage against his kin, who so persistently mis- 
 judged him, and one bitter night he lay and cursed the 
 resolution which had brought him back to rescue his old 
 people from the slough of despond. 
 
 With the acknowledgment of this regret, th^ disinte- 
 gration of his soul would seem to be complete. 
 
 ■Ml 
 
THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 55 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "And olj, the carven nioutlj, with all its great 
 
 Intensity of longing frozen fast 
 In such a smile as well may designate 
 
 The slowly murdered hearf, Wv \ to the last, 
 Conceals each newer wound, and back at fate ' 
 Throbs Love's eternal lie :— 'Lo, I can wait !'" 
 
 " And all that now is left me, is to bear. 
 
 >» 
 
 That night in the darkness, Homer Wilson's lip ci^^ud 
 as he thought of his mother's too ready fears for him, 
 nor could he refrain a sneer at the idea of Mrs. Deans' 
 disinterested benevolence. But after that, he set himself 
 to slumber, but in vain. Sleep, that 
 
 " Comfortable bird, 
 That broodeth o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
 Till it is hush'd and smooth, " 
 
 would not bestow its benison upon his tired brain and 
 weary heart, for he was haunted by the memory of Myron 
 Holder's hopeless face. 
 
 ^ It had been, these past years, no unusual thing for this 
 poor countryman to lie the long nights through, tortured 
 by the vision of a woman's face: but it had ever been a 
 fair, iiretty, laughing face that had thus enthralled him 
 within the boun:sof jiainful bought; a face that by its 
 brightness cast a shadow upon every other vision that 
 strove to tempt him to forget;' a face he had worshipped, 
 and thought on tenderly, as his own; a face he hadstriven 
 to imagine old; a face he had even dared to think of, 
 dead, and always— always as his own precious possession. ' 
 But this night his reverie was no selfish one of bygone 
 bliss, or present pain, or future hopelessness j it was wholly 
 
 If 1^ 
 
56 
 
 THE UNTEMPERKD WIND 
 
 of a woman's palo face, carven cameo-liko against a night 
 of hair, and exceeding sorrowful. Ho recalled Myron 
 Holder as she had been, a plump and pretty girl; one 
 whom all the boys in Jamestown had liked, but who had 
 been kept rigidly away from all the village gatherings by 
 her grandmother. Ho recalled the cadence of her voice, 
 Hoftened always and made richer than the strident James- 
 town voice by the English accent she hnd inhorited. Ho 
 remembered having heard her singij.j, ,^... he drove 
 
 past the little hop-clad cottage; as he thought of it, the 
 words came back to him in part ; 
 
 " Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie. 
 
 • • • t t 
 
 Merrily, irerrily, shall I live now 
 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. " 
 
 He recollected how a rippling laugh prolonged the song. 
 He had caught a glimpse of her that day; she was standing 
 beneath a cherry tree — her upstretched arms held a 
 blossomed bough, and she gave it little jerks in time to 
 her singing — the white petals of the cherry blooms show- 
 ered down upon her hair in fragrant snow. Her grand-" 
 mother called her in — scolding her as an " idle maid" ; 
 Myron had fled into the house still laughing, and with 
 the cherry blooms clinging to her dark hair; and as Homer 
 drove on, he thought what a light-hearted girl she was. 
 That was in the first year of his sacrifice — now he caught 
 his breath as he mentally compared the girl beneath the 
 cherry tree finishing her song with thrills of laughter 
 with the woman standing mute in the moonlight as he 
 h"«d so late beheld her. 
 
 How utterly incongruous it seemed to think of Myron 
 Holder now in connection with that heart-whole girl. 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
1 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 57 
 
 How much she had lost! That day when ho heard her 
 laughter and her singing, ho had compared Myron for a 
 moment to //t'/-, — now, alas! she wtw more like.him. This 
 set him off into another tra.a of thought: How much he 
 too had lost! Ho began to wonder dimly if he had been 
 guilty of any cowardice. A phrase of Jed Holder's came 
 back to him; he was full of trite saws, that little English 
 broom-maker, and when any one lost their courage before 
 misfortune, he used to say they "let their bone go with 
 the dog." Had not he — Homer — let slip some of his 
 self-respect before the loss of his love? He hazily per- 
 ceived the difference between self-respect and self-seeking, 
 but he could not condemn himself just yet; he began to 
 dissuade himself from this dissatisfaction with himself; ho 
 recounted his achievements — the paying off the mort- 
 gage — restocking the farm — planting tlie new orchard — 
 and reshingling the barn — sinking the cistern — his suc- 
 cessful experiments — his prudential management — his 
 economy; he marshalled all these arguments against the 
 feeble voice that strove to speak of a narrowed mind, a 
 hardened heart, a bitter spirit, and for the nonce stilled 
 it, only stilled it, however; happily for Homer Wilson, it 
 was not yet stifled utterly. 
 
 It was pitiable, but natural in one so generous as in 
 reality Homer was, that he should overlook completely his 
 real claims to credit: his patience with his whining 
 mother, his generosity to bin father, his tolerance of his 
 ungrateful brothers and sisters. He attained a quasi- 
 self -content after a time, but still tossed restlessly. At 
 last he could endure it no longer; he sprang up, dressed, 
 and going to his window, drew aside the curtain and 
 looked forth toward the village. The dusk of night had 
 given way to the cold darkness of the hour before dawn ; 
 as he looked, a dull yellow light illumined the panes of one 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 ■it 'f 
 
 ir 
 
 -.:y 
 
58 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 low window, then it faded out to reappear outside the 
 house; it went (for at tliat distance its feeble glow did 
 not reveal the hand that bore it) — it went waveringl}' along 
 some liundred yards, then was lowered, and vanished. 
 There was a space of darkness, then the light was 
 raised, and proceeded back to the house; it vanished 
 round the corner, gleamed a moment from tlie window, 
 and again journeyed forth in the dusk, again was lowered 
 — again lost to sight — again its feeble gleam traced its 
 pathway toward the dwelling. 
 
 Homer Wilson knew by the location what house sent 
 forth this wandering light, and following a swift impulse, 
 ran downstairs, pulled on an old pair of soft shoes, let 
 himself out quietly, and sped along the highway to the 
 village. 
 
 The streets were silent, the dwellings dark, Jamestown 
 still slumbered. As he reached the house where the light 
 was, he entered the garden through a gap in the dilapid- 
 ated fence, walked along in the darkest shadow until he 
 came to the corner at the point where the light's journey- 
 ings ceased, and stood there hidden by an overgrown bush 
 of privet; and then \e saw the light come forth: it was a 
 queer old lantern Myron Holder carried, one, indeed, 
 brought from England. It had lighted her mother's 
 happy footsteps along Kentish lanes; but how differently 
 that long dead Myron had sped ! " Merry heart makes 
 light foot," her husband used to say; alas, that their 
 child should lack that happy impetus ! Myron advanced 
 slowly, unsteadily almost — the four little panes of the 
 lantern lighted dimly by the end of a tallow candle. She 
 carried in her other hand a large pail. 
 
 Homer could not understand her errand, creeping forth 
 thus in the sleeping night. She came nearer and nearer, 
 and at kst he understood* 
 
 <«MiHi!!i! 
 

^ 
 
 YOU HAVE COME ! " 
 
 f 
 
HmcmH 
 
 n 
 
 TlfE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 59 
 
 Sljc reached tlio old well (ilio best well in Juinestowii, 
 and the deepest) ; set down her lantern, and taking the 
 handle of the windlas?a began to lower the bucket; creak 
 — creak went the wooden windlass; at last there came a 
 faint splash, and Myron painfully rewound the ch:iin; 
 she emptied the well bucket into her pail, lifted it 
 (throwing, as Ilomor thought, all her physical strength 
 into tl.c lifting of the heavy pail, aiid seer »; . to move by 
 the force of licr will alone), and bcndi\ % far over, i)ro- 
 ceeded to the house. He traced her fouuc.cps by the 
 lanteni's gleam to the kitchen door; he heard the plash 
 of water, and then once more the weary i'ght emerged. 
 Myron Holtler was carrying the water for her grand- 
 mother's washing before starting for her mile^s walk and 
 subsequent day's work at Deans', J lomer Wilson's famil- 
 iarity with household alTairs told him this — whispered 
 also something of her motherhood and its demiuuLs upon 
 her, with which this cruel toil so ill accorded, 
 
 lie was only a young countrymen, rough aiul not relined 
 to careful phrase. 
 
 "It's damnalvie!" he said below his breathj and grounc! 
 his heel into the sand. 
 
 As she approached the well a second time, he waited till 
 she set down her lantern and pail, and then stepped forth 
 from the shadow — a tall, strong figure in the gloom, utter- 
 ing her name softly : 
 
 '" ^[yron— :Myron Holder!" 
 
 For a lieart-beat she stood rigid, tlien her luuuls clasj) : 
 an instant thus she stood, aiid then stretched forth licr 
 arjua with an infinitude of yeariiing helplessness, an agony 
 of tenderness and pleading, a world of relief in the 
 gesture. 
 
 " You have conu-," slu* said. 
 
 lu all his after-Ufej Homer AVilson never forgot th« 
 
 r 
 
 i- 
 
6o 
 
 tup: unteiV,'ered wind 
 
 awful accent in which these words — meant- to-be-welcoming 
 words to the man for whom she had suffered so mnch — 
 were uttered. Horrified at the cruel mistake he had 
 caused, he stood for a moment motionless; the next, he 
 had sprung forward — for Myron Holder fathomed her mis- 
 take and fell without a sound. 
 
 Homer caught her before she touched the ground, and 
 holding her in his arms, distraught with self-rej)roach, 
 strove to awaken her by calling her name. 
 
 "Myron — Myron," he whispered, with all the intensity 
 of suppressed feeling, "Myron — Myron." 
 
 Her eyes unclosed ; she did not stir, nor flush, nor speak. 
 She only looked at him out of eyes which were terrible in 
 their tragic despair; eyes which seemed to accuse him of 
 his manhood, that rendered him akin to her betrayer. 
 
 As Homer Wilson looked upon that pallid face, which 
 the wan light of dawn illumined palely, his soul was sud- 
 denly smitten with self-contempt. What was the grief 
 before which he had abased himself? What was it to 
 endure beside open shame? Life had seemed to him 
 almost insupportable, endurable only because he felt he 
 had not merited the pain. What must it be to this 
 womaji, knowing she had bought contempt at the price 
 of her OAvn folly? 
 
 He recalled with what morbid care he had concealed the 
 pangs he felt; how he had dreaded lest any eye discern 
 his pain. What must it be to endure, not only sorrow and 
 desertion and betrayal, but to endure it all openly; to 
 meet in every eye a question, to hear on every lip a sneer, 
 to know that every heart held scorn? 
 
 This is the doom that has driven hermits to the desert, 
 that has tempted women to — 
 
 "From tlu! world's bitter wind, 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. " 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 6i 
 
 w 
 
 These thoughts did not formulate themselves in his bruin; 
 they rushed upon him — instantaneous impressions — and 
 vanished, leaving ineffable compassion in his heart, as he 
 looked at the anguished face of Myron Holder. She was 
 weakly trying to steady herself, and at last said in a life- 
 less voice, "I can stand alone now." 
 
 "Forgive me, Myron," said Homer, too much moved to 
 feel any awkwardness; "forgive me — I frightened you." 
 
 "No," she said, "you did not frighten me; I thought 
 " She paused, 
 
 " 1 ou thought " He began, but hesitated. 
 
 ''I thought you were he" she said, in breathless tones. 
 Homer shuddered at the inflection of the words. In such 
 accents might one acknowledge Death's dominion over 
 one veil-beloved. He threw off the chill at his heart and 
 caught her hands. 
 
 " Myron," he said, " who is he?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you," she answered. 
 
 "Tell me," he urged; "tell me, and be he far or near, 
 high or low, I will bring him to you." 
 
 " I cannot tell you," she repeated. Then for once moved 
 beyond her self-control, "Oh, that I could!" 
 
 "Why can't you?" he asked hotly. "It is but common 
 justice — let him bear his part." 
 
 "I promised," she replied simply, regaining her calm, 
 the momentary glow of impatience dying out of her voice. 
 
 " Promised !" he echoed. " What's a promise given to 
 liim worth? Nothing — absolutely nothing. Promised! 
 He did some fine promising, I dare swear. A promise to 
 him!" 
 
 "I promised," she said again; then pushing back her 
 head a little that she might look him in the face (for 
 she was hardly of the common height of women), she went 
 on: "I promised, and I will keep my promise; ho will 
 
 
I 
 
 62 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 come, and I can wait." In an instant her head sank. Ilcr 
 own words had brouglit before her a terrible mirago of 
 what that waiting meant. He let fall her hands, and 
 stej^ped back a pace. The action seemed to break the 
 bond that had held at bay the memory of the world. 
 Constraint fell upon Homer Wilson, and Myron's face 
 burned in the dusky light. 
 
 " Did you want anything?" she asked in uncertain tones. 
 
 " No," he answered. " I saw your light from the window 
 at home, and I came to see what work was going on so 
 early." 
 
 " I always do what I can before I go to Mrs. Deans'," 
 she said; "this is wash-day." 
 
 " You will kill yourself," he cried angrily. " What's your 
 grandmother thinking of?" 
 
 Myron's head sank. "I deserve it all, you know," she 
 said. " I " 
 
 "You've no call to kill yourself," retorted Homer hotly. 
 " Mrs. Deans is an old wretch, and your grandmother's 
 a " 
 
 " She's good to my baby," said Myron, checking his 
 speech with a gesture. He recalled the child's existence, 
 and, moved by an odd impulse, said gently: 
 
 "How is your child, Myron?" 
 
 She glanced at him with a gratitude so intense that he 
 flushed and moved uneasily — as one accredited with a 
 worthy deed he has not done. 
 
 " Oh, so well," she said. " lie " She paused, her face 
 
 flaming. " Oh, do go ■' 
 
 "Let me carry that pailful for you?" he asked, hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
 "No — no — do go!" she returned. 
 
 Both were now painfully constrained and eager to be 
 alone. 
 
 \y 
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
r 
 
 ? 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 ^'3 
 
 "Well, I may tis ^.oll bo going, ilieii," said Homer; and 
 turning, made toward the gap in the fence, through which 
 ho had entered the garden. Once on the street, he 
 quickly ran across the two streets of the village, and made 
 his way through the fields, reaching his own barns just as 
 his mother came to the kitchen door. She was looking 
 toward the village, and saying shrilly to her husband : 
 
 " W it did I tell you? Up and gone at this time ! Fine 
 doings ' ese, I must say! Oh, I knowed it by the way he 
 spunked up last night when I jest was giving him a hint 
 to look out for her. I tell ye no such woman as that sets 
 her foot in these doors; no, not if he laws on it. I tell 
 ye " 
 
 "Did you want me, mother?" asked Homer, showing 
 himself at the stable-door, curry-comb and brush in hand. 
 • " Oh, you're there, be yc?" said his mother, with a gasp 
 of surprise. 
 
 "Yes," said Homer; "do you want me?" 
 
 "No; oh, no. I was just looking at the morning," said 
 his mother, and vanished. 
 
 "Just got back in time," soliloquized Homer, contemptu- 
 ously, as he went back to his work. 
 
 Left alone, Myron Holder stood a moment motionless. 
 Then she took a few steps forward, into the shadow of the 
 bush that but lately had held for her such cruel delusion. 
 The mists of the morning that still lingered about the 
 bush parted at her passage and clung round her, chill 
 shreds of vapor. 
 
 The evanescent flush died out of her face ; her eyes were 
 dazed with pain — she locked her hands (stained with the 
 rust of the windlass chain) and wrung them cruelly; 
 now she pressed her quivering lips together — now they 
 parted in shuddering respirations. How many tides of 
 hope had swelled within her heart! How stony were 
 
 I 
 
 H 
 
 |fr \ 
 
64 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 % 
 
 the shores on which they had spent themselves! How 
 salt the memory of their floods! Bu* Ti«ver a wave of 
 them all had risen so high as this one, which iiad swept 
 her forward to the very haven of hope only to leave her 
 fast upon the sands of despair. 
 
 She looked from side to side, with pitiable helplessness 
 in her eyes, over tlie desolate garden. Each bush seemed a 
 mocking sentinel appointed to watch her misery ; nay, to 
 her stricken heart each seemed the abiding place of some 
 new cheat that in time would issue forth to delude and 
 torture her. Unfailing tears gathered in her eyes; she 
 let her face fall in her hands and breathed forth a name — 
 
 " Like the yearning cry of some bewildered bird 
 Above an empty nest" ; 
 
 but more softly than any plaint of bird was that name 
 uttered, whispered so faintly that no cadence of its sound 
 trembled even amidst the leaves that brushed her down- 
 bent head. 
 
 Presently Myron Holder stood erect, her face masked by 
 a patience more poignant than pain, more sublime than 
 sorrow, more dreadful than despair. 
 
 Not all heroic souls are cast in heroic shapes. There was 
 something in this woman's hard-wrought hands, and sim- 
 ple garb, and weary eyes, and tender mouth — nay, in the 
 undefinable meekness of her attitude, that belied her 
 courage. She filled her pail and bore it to the house, 
 setting her face as resolutely toward her fate as she set her 
 hand to carrying the heavy pail ; and, heavy as her burden 
 was, she rebelled no more against bearing it than she did 
 against the weight of the pail that she herself had filled. 
 
 • " Earth has seen 
 [• Love's brightest roses on the scaflfold bloom, 
 
 I Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there. ** 
 
 / 
 
 t 
 
 i 
 
 A 
 
 .te^^:^tf^^>^iaaimjiM 
 
/ 
 
 TnE UNTEMPERED XVTND 
 
 65 
 
 But easier indeed were it to lay Love's roses in full 
 blossom on a scaffold than to cherish them, as this woman 
 did and other women have done, in the \,astes of a 
 betrayed trust — their blossoms dyed a frightful scarlet by 
 the blood of a breaking heart. Love's roses grow in bitter 
 soil ofttimes; their petals are soon spent, but their thorns 
 are amaranthine. 
 
 CHAiTER VIL 
 
 ii 'J 
 
 \ 
 
 " We rest — a dream has power to poison sleep ; 
 We rise — one wandering tliought pollutes the day. " 
 
 " Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of eternity 
 Until death tramples it to fragments. " 
 
 " The silent workings of the dawn " were past, and the 
 whole sky pearled to an exquisite soft grayness when 
 Myron Holder set out that day to go to Mrs. Deans'. 
 The road swam dizzily before her ; the snake fence zig- 
 zagged wildly; the trees whirled round; the very stones 
 appeared as if rolling over and over in awkward gambols; 
 the wayside cows loomed gigantic to her uncertain vision. 
 Her head throbbed heavily — her knees trembled ; the phys- 
 ical reaction following supreme mental effort had set in, 
 and her nerves, denied outward expression of the strain 
 put upon them, \vere racking her frame sorely. She 
 persevered, however, holding a wavering course from one 
 side of the road to the other ; at last she reached the little 
 graveyard of Jamestown, wedged in between the farms of 
 Mr. White and Mr. Deans. Its picket-fence was gar- 
 landed with long trails of the native virgin-bower clematis, 
 
 f 
 
 
 |-»,t 
 
 I I 
 
66 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 just jnitting forth its first leaf-buds. The hepaticas, their 
 blossoms past, sliowed circular clumps of broad, green 
 leaves, standing erect on downy stalks over the prostrate 
 copper-colored ones of last year; the blood-root had lost 
 all its white petals, and its spear-pointed seed-pods and sin- 
 gle, broad, green leaves stood in thick masses, like miniature 
 stands of arms, spear and shield; but the trilliums were 
 nodding their triune-leaved blossoms; the wild phlox 
 swayed daintily its cluster of fragile azure blooms; the 
 meadow violets were clustered in dark-blue masses; the 
 bracken ferns were uncoiling their fuzzy fronds; the May 
 apples (mandrake) were pointing through the mellow soil, 
 like so many small wax candles. Now and then a pungent 
 odor came to her as she trod upon the fresh-springing 
 pennyroyal, or bruised the stems of the mint that grew 
 everywhere. 
 
 She was late already, as she knew, but was moved to go 
 to see her father's sleeping-place. She went slowly 
 between the graves, carefully avoiding treading on any of 
 them. Her father had told her of the ill-luck that fol- 
 lows the foot that treads upon a grave and the hand that 
 casts away bread. By what fearful sacrilege had this 
 woman purchased her fate? 
 
 Her eyes were clearing now ; and as she stood beside her 
 father's grave, she looked upon it steadily enough. She 
 felt a rapt sense of his presence — he had been very good to 
 her in his absent-minded way. If he had lived! The 
 woman found herself grateful that he died before. She 
 rested her thoughts here to ask herself a question : If her 
 father had lived, would she have lost herself? She held 
 her breath for an instant — then turned and sped from his 
 grave. She felt that her gaze defiled it — for, throbbing in 
 each artery, tingling through every vein, poisoning her 
 heart, she felt her whole being rise to affirm its shame — 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
 VUf 
 
 V 
 
t 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 67 
 
 to give the d limning answer "Yes" to that poignant self- 
 iiitevrogation. 
 
 8I10 was certainly late that morning, and Mrs. Deans 
 met her witli Hushed face and angry eyes. 
 
 "Well, this is a nice time of day! 'Laziness is much 
 worth when it's well guided.' It would seem to me, 
 Myron Holder, as if you'd try to make some return for 
 tlie favors I've shown you, and what I've done for you, 
 and what I've put up with. Time and time again, I've 
 said to myself, says I, 'Let her go — what's the good of her? 
 What's the good of keeping a dog and doing your own 
 barking?' But being sorry for you, I never said nothing. 
 But now, I tell you, Myron Holder, this thing's got to quit — 
 either you can come here in decent time, or you can stay 
 home!" Then, in a more insulting tone of voice, she 
 asked: "What time did ye start this morning? I'll 
 ask your grandmother. Pretty doings these, loitering 
 along the roads! I'd have thought you'd had enough of 
 that. Well, don't look at me like that! You're too good 
 to be spoken to, I suppose; it's a pity you didn't do some 
 blushing before now! It's rather late in the day for such 
 delikit feelings — you what? Stopped in the graveyard? 
 I wouldn't wonder, nothing more likely; were you alone? 
 Well 'twasn't your fault, if you were. I guess Jed Holder 
 thinks himself lucky to be rid of the world and sich 
 doings as yours. Poor Jed ! Little did he know what 
 shame he was leaving behind him. How your grandmother 
 stands it and how she abides that brat, 1 can't see. One 
 thing I've always said: 'Don't bring me no such brats as 
 them, for I won't be concerned with no such doings !' But 
 there, what's the use of talking? I never say nothing, 
 but I think a lot. I guess your mother must have been a 
 beauty from all I hear tell. Certainly you didn't get your 
 bad blood off Jed Holder, and you must have took it some- 
 
 .■:'-* 
 
 ''\i 
 
6d 
 
 THE UNTLMPERED WIND 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 where. * Like mother, like chihl' — well — none of puch 
 worry for me!" Then, stepping jiside siuhlonly, and tiius 
 clearing the passage she had hitherto barred, slie went 
 on: " What are you standing looking at? Ain't you going 
 to scrub to-day, or are 3'ou come visiting? I'm sorry if 
 you have" — here a fine sarcasm echoed in her tone — 
 "because I can't go and set down and entertain you, for 
 I have my bread and butter to earn. But don't mind me — • 
 go right into the setting-room and make yourself at home." 
 
 Myron having availed herself of the first opportunity to 
 move from under Mrs. Deans' insulting glances, had 
 already divested herself of her sunbonnet, and was I'etting 
 cloths and water for her scrubbing. >Soon slie escaped 
 from Mrs. Deans' eyes, but the sound of her jibing 
 tongue came harshly to her in every pause of her work. 
 
 The forenoon pa 1. After dinner the iiired man 
 brought the newsp<'ii)tr in and gave it to Mrs. Deans. 
 She looked at the price of butter and eggs, and passed it 
 to her husband. 
 
 He sat blinking by the half-open window: npon the 
 window-sill was a bottle of sarsaparilla, a patch- work pin- 
 cushion, and two or three potatoes Homer Wilson had 
 brought to the Deans as samples — he being agent for a 
 seedsman. Mrs. Deans brought out a big canvas -bag of 
 carpet-balls, and, placing two chairs back to back, began 
 winding the balls into huge skeins. Sho was going to 
 dye them. Mrs. Deans worked away with her hanks, 
 tying them carefully in separate strands, so that they 
 would dye equally. Mr. Deans read his paper, its leaves 
 rustling in his tremulous fingers. The sound of Myron 
 Holder's scrubbing came raspingly through the air. The 
 bound girl was out in the "yard" raking 'ogether dead 
 leaves, bits of old bones, and emptied sarsaparilla bottles, 
 making it tidy for the summer. 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 

 i 
 
 i 
 
 I '*» 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 69 
 
 "Well, Jane!" cjiicuhitcil Iloiiry IVaiis, iu a tone of 
 pleased surpriro, "who d'ye tliiiik'a dead?" 
 
 "Who? Old Mrs. White? U it her? Or Mrs. 
 AVarner's sister up in Ovid? She was hjok tei'ible bad a 
 week ago Friday. It',- young Knimons! I know it! 15ut 
 say, isn't he owing for that last cord of wood? I never 
 seen anything like it, the way people cheat! It's some- 
 thing awful! Hut I'll have that four dollars, though, out 
 of Mame Emmons. If she can afford flannel at llfty cents 
 a yard (and Ann AVliite saw her pricing it), she can alTord 
 to pay her debts. Well, them Emnionses always was 
 shiftless, but " 
 
 "It ain't Emmons, though Homer Wilson says he looks 
 most terrible had; it's Follett!" 
 
 "You don't say!" 'said Mrs. Deans; "you don't say! 
 When was he took?" 
 
 "It don't tell," answered her husband, screwing his 
 eyes horribly as he read the obituary over again. " It 
 don't tell — oh — yts it does! 'Caught a heavy cold a 
 month ago and settled on his kings. Well, he's gone, 
 then." 
 
 "Not much loss, his kind ain't," said Mrs. Deans con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "Wonder if he forgot me before he went?" said her 
 husband, with a reflective enjoyment. "That was a pretty 
 good one, wasn't it, Jane?" 
 
 "Yes; no mistake about it, Henry, you hit the nail on 
 the head that time. Ideclare.it does beat all how time 
 flies. Just think! it's six years full since then " 
 
 " Six years full — no, seven," assented Mr. Deans. 
 
 "No, six," said his wife; "it was just the year before 
 your accident." 
 
 "So 'twas." A pause, then he said, "I think I'll have 
 some sarsa^Ki-illy, Jane." 
 
 J "#1 
 
 I j\ 
 
 f\ 
 
 
 i 
 
TO 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 Mrs. Doiins got a spoon from tljc table-drawer, drew out 
 the gummy (;ork, and gave him a spoonful. 
 
 "Better have a taste yourself," he suggested. 
 
 "Don't know but 1 will," she said, and helped herself 
 to a dram. 
 
 The cork was replaced; silence fell upon the pair. 
 Henry Deans and his wife had partaken of the closest 
 communion they k'^ew. IVIrs. Deans left her rags jires- 
 ently to go out to superintend the placing of some new 
 cliicken-coops, and Mr. Deans dozed off into a pleasurable 
 reverie, evoked by the death of Dan Follett. 
 
 Around the name of Dan Follett clustered the recol- 
 lections of Mr. Deans' happiest achievement — for, using 
 Dan Follett as an unworthy instrument, he had purged 
 Jamestown of malt and spirituous liquors and brought 
 the village within the temperance fold. 
 
 It was thus: Dan Follett had come to "keep tavern" in 
 the old Black Horse Inn. This was a quaint brick build- 
 ing that stood at the corner of the Front Street nearest 
 the lake. It had but a narrow frontage on the Front 
 Street, but stretched back, a long building, on the side 
 street. From the corner of the inn hung a sign-board, 
 depending from an iron rod. The sign was a jet black 
 horse, rrtmjwrtw^, with the legend, "Black Horse Inn." 
 The front of the inn, rising abruptly, as it did, 
 from the side-walk, was more quaint than inviting, but 
 the side view was very hospitable, for all along the side 
 street a veranda (floored with oak and roofed by the 
 second story of the inn, which overhung it) extended, 
 approached by broad, generous steps. It was an old, 
 old building, with queer nooks and corners in it, quaint 
 brass newel-posts in the stairway, odd sideboards built 
 into the walls, and dark, hardwood floors. It was by 
 far th§ oldest building in Jamestown, ?md the huge, 
 
 4 
 
 \ 
 
 ''\\KmmKmm&miMMvimfmaim»mm»mk 
 
THE UN TEMP EKED W'lXD 
 
 71 
 
 
 \ 
 
 nntidy willow tree before the door had grown from n 
 Bwitch thrown down by one of the soldiers, when ho and 
 his comrades departed after their long billet in James- 
 town. 
 
 Jamestown was not called Jamestown in those days, 
 but Kingsville. Times had changed with the village, 
 and its name with them ; but the Black Horse Inn re- 
 mained unchanged — only the bricks had reddened the 
 mortar between them, so that its walls were all one dark, 
 rich red. " Many a summer's silent fingering" had 
 wrought a green lace-work of ivy over the front and at 
 the corners, and about the chimneys a vivid green stain 
 showed the minute mosses that were gathering there. It 
 was having indeed a green old age; and if the second story 
 was beginning to sag a little between the centre-posts, it 
 conveyed no hint of decay, or lack of safety. The droop 
 only showed a kindly and protective attitude towards tlic 
 open-armed chairs that stood on the veranda beneath. 
 
 In the little garden behind the inn, long neglected and 
 overrun, were bushes of acrid wormwood, stray wisps of 
 thyme, straggling roots of rosemary, and bushes of flower- 
 ing currants. In the spring, from among its springing 
 grasses came wliiffs of perfume; for the English violets, 
 planted long, long ago, had spread through and through 
 the tangle of weeds, unkempt grass, and untrimmed 
 bushes. 
 
 The one ambition that had lived in Jed Holder's sad- 
 dened breast after he came to Jamestown was to be able" 
 to rent the Black Horse Inn. But it was only a vague, 
 purposeless wish to possess the right of that little square 
 garden, amid whose desolation he discerned the traces of 
 an English hand. Like so many of Jed's dreams, this one 
 never materialized. 
 
 To this IiQuse, then, came Dan Follett— displayed \m 
 
 
 
 w 
 
 r>' 
 
if 
 
 72 
 
 THE UNrEMPERED WIND 
 
 license to sell "wine, beer, malt and other spirituous 
 liquors," set out some hospitable armchairs, erected ahorse- 
 t-ough before the door, and, having assumed a huge and 
 glistening white apron, strode about, a jolly, good- 
 natured, guardian spirit. Ilis rubicund face was always 
 beaming, his little eyes always blinking away tears of 
 laughter. There was but little trade in Jamestown, but 
 FoUct managed to make ends meet, for the lake was noted 
 for its fishing, and parties of fishermen were right glad to 
 find a place where they could leave their horses and refresh 
 themselves. But Dan Follett and Dan Follett's business 
 were sore rocks of offence in the eyes of the Jamestown 
 brethren. 
 
 At " after meeting" many plans were discussed for the 
 discomfiture of Dan Follett, and, incidentally, the devil. 
 Many a "class meeting" evolved an indignation caucus 
 which dealt with tlie enormity of Dan Follett's calling, 
 which was cited, with many epithets, as the cause of every 
 evil under the sun. But of all this righteous indignation 
 jolly Dan Follett took no heed, and was as ready to lend 
 his stout brown horse to Mr. Deans or Mr. White when 
 their own " odd" horse was busy as he was to hire it to 
 the few fishermen who fancied a ride along the lake shore. 
 
 Henry Deans brooded long over this unholy thing in 
 their midst, and finally hit upon a plan to put the devil, 
 in the person of Dan Follett, to some discomfiture. Mr. 
 Deans was senior deacon in the Methodist Chur«^h and, as 
 such, took it upon himself to provide the bread and wine 
 for sacramental purposes. One Saturday, the day before 
 the spring communion, Mrs. Deans stood admiring her 
 bread. 
 
 "I reckon Ann White'll open her eyes when she tastes 
 that to-morrow," slie said. "There's nothing like making 
 your own yeast — good hop-yeast. I don't take account 
 
K\ 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 73 
 
 \ 
 
 with salt-rising bread ; may be sure enough, but hops for 
 me every time." 
 
 These audible mediations were interrupted by a tramp's 
 voice at the open door — a forlorn-looking object, asking 
 for something to eat. Mrs. Deans gave him some good 
 advice about idleness, drinking, and begging, and sent him 
 off. Then she turned her face to the bread again, separat- 
 ing the loaves carefully, and wrapping two of them up in 
 clean towels. A verse flitted through her mind about 
 takiuQ- the children's bread and giving it to the dogs; it 
 struck her as apposite, but her good memory, strangely 
 enough, failed to recall anything about "a cup of cold 
 water." 
 
 <<• rpi 
 
 Them tramps!" soliloquized Mrs. Deans. "A likely 
 thing I was goin' to break into the bread for the Lord's 
 table for the like of him!" She was just putting the bread 
 into the tin on the pantry floor, where she kept it, when 
 a sudden thought made her drop the bread and stand 
 upright. 
 
 "I declare!" she said. '' Henry'll never remember the 
 wine! I forgot to tell him when he went away! What in 
 the world will we do now? Borrow it of Ann White I 
 won't; that's settled. Well, if it don't beat all!" 
 
 Henry Deans returned from the Saturday market about 
 three o'clock ; Mrs. Deans met him in the yard and asked 
 him, before the horses stopped: 
 
 " Did you remember the wine?" 
 
 A slow smile crept over Henry Deans' face. He pulled, 
 up his horses deliberately. 
 
 "Did j^ou remember the wine?" asked his wife again. 
 
 " Yes, I remembered it," he answered, still smiling slowly. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Deans, " why didn't you say so at first? 
 
 about it 
 
 J' 
 
 nearly 
 
 my 
 
 rying 
 
 9,11 dav. Where is it? Hand it here and I'll take it in. 
 
 ii 
 ,','1*1 
 
 ia 
 
 

 74 
 
 T//E UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 "I haven't got it yet," said her husband, descending 
 nimbly from his perch, and then, for it was dangerous to 
 prolong a joke too far with his wifcj he went and whis- 
 pered in her ear. 
 
 Mrs. Deans' face slowly became irradiate with a joyful 
 and appreciative glow. 
 
 " Well, Henry," she said, "you're no slouch, I tell you; 
 I alv,,iys knew your head was level." 
 
 "Guess that'll sicken him, eh?" chuckled ifenry 
 Deans, and began to unbuckle his harness-straps. 
 
 For the rest of the afternoon Henry Deans and his wife 
 went about in smiling content, chuckling irrepressibly if 
 they chanced to meet. 
 
 They had supper at six. Night was already setting in, for 
 the days were not at their longest yet. About half-past 
 seven, Henry Deans got his hat, and, his wife letting him 
 softly out of the front door, took his v,ay to the village. 
 He soon reached its outskirts. Down the unlighted back 
 street he went, across the short transverse one, until the 
 side door of the Black Horse Inn was reached. Dan Fol- 
 lett answered his knock in person. There was a short 
 colloquy between the two ; then Dan went his way to the 
 darkened bar-room, and, having declined an invitation to 
 go inside, Henry Deans waited. Presently Dan returned 
 with a bottle and, after a generous demur, accepted 
 the money which Mr. Deans insisted on paying, saying: 
 
 " I'm not a church-goer myself, Mr. Deans, but I 
 wouldn't begrudge giving a little now and again;" then 
 after repeating his invitation, bade Mr. Deans a cheery 
 "CJood-night," and closed the door. 
 
 Henry Deans went home, hardly able to restrain his 
 mirth. From far down the road he saw a narrow slit of 
 light, showing the fiont door ajar for him. He slipped 
 inside, to be immediately greeted by his wife. 
 
 T 
 
 1 J.4!:;IMSJ^■M^^^.l^'V^:J 
 
 ^^^S!S&SSS^ 
 
THE UNTEMPKRED WIND 
 
 75 
 
 \ 
 
 "Did you get it?" she asked, brejithlessly. 
 
 "I got it, and liiin, too," said Henry Deans; and they 
 laughed together, as tliey put the bread and wine for the 
 Lord's table in a basket. 
 
 The next day, a sweet and sunshiny Sunday, the mystery 
 of the Lord's Supper was yet again enacted in Jamestown 
 — the symbolic wine, clear and ruddy as heart's blood; the 
 bread, white as an infant's brow. 
 
 Next day Henry Deans drove to the market town. On 
 Tuesday Dan Follett was served with a summons to 
 appear before the Court to show why he had broken the 
 law by selling a bottle of wine to one Henry Deans in 
 unlawful hours. 
 
 Follett's rago was intense, and could only be gauged by 
 the height of Henry Deans' satisfaction. Of course Fol- 
 lett was fined. He had no defence and offered none, but 
 was fain to relieve his mind by attempting to thra-^h 
 Deans, which only resulted in his being laid under bonds 
 to keep the peace. The whole affair had completely sick- 
 ened Follett of Jamestown. He departed to new scenes, 
 and the Black Horse Inn again was tenantless. 
 
 The exploit covered Henry Deans with glory, nnd ho 
 bore the honor with the conscious front of one who feels 
 he is not overestimated. Dan Follett was dead now, and 
 Henry Deans slept the sleep of the just in musing over his 
 memories. And from the lonely garden of the Black 
 Horse Inn the English sweet violets sent up their fra- 
 grance to the unperceiving night. , ' 
 

 76 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WlXD 
 
 gPAPTEU VHT. 
 
 " Oh, yet wc trust tluit sonA(>\\o\v good 
 Will bo the llual goal of ill, 
 To pangs of uatvne, sins of will, 
 Defects of doubt and taints of blood. " 
 
 Next clay, early .in the afternoon, Mrs. Deans put away 
 her sewing, and, donning a black bonnet and a largo 
 brocbe shawl folded corner-wise, betook herself out of tlu) 
 house. She went quietly, even sneakingly — this caution 
 was exercised with an object. Mrs. Deans did not want 
 the bound girl to know she had gone. Such knowledge 
 would be too conducive to a sinful peace of mind. 
 
 Mrs. Deans took her way to the village, intent on get- 
 ting some dye from the store. She hesitated before the gate 
 of the Holder cottage, then, assuming a look calculated to 
 sliow the beholder that the milk of human kindness had 
 in her case turned to cream, she entered the garden. 
 Partly out of a desire to show old Mrs. Holder that this 
 was really a neighborly visit, and partly to come upon her 
 unawares if possible and see what she was doing, and also 
 to have an opportunity of seeing the child without asking 
 to see it, Mrs. Deans followed the little footpath round to 
 the back door. It was open. The small kitchen was 
 scrupulously clean; some washtubs stood in one corner 
 full of soapy water, awaiting the return of Myron to emp^^v 
 them. Mrs. nolder had deferred her washing, evidently. 
 A line hung diagonally across one corner of the room, ard 
 upon it a row of little ill-&haped garments hung drying, 
 fluttered by the slight breeze from the open door. The rest 
 of the s(!anty washing Mrs. Deans could S'^f^ in the garden ; 
 old Mrs. Holder never hung a g-ciTi'mt o+i lie ghild's 
 outside, 
 
 . 
 
 
 lEim&^ZSaSSX 
 
\ 
 
 rnii UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 77 
 
 Mrs. Deans scrutinized all tlicse tliingF, standing at the 
 open door, but not knowing where Mrs. Holder niiglit be; 
 and fearful lest the sharp-eyed old Englislnvoman had 
 already seen her spying out the land, she felt impelled to 
 knock. This she did, and in a moment Mrs. Holder came 
 from the front room. Seeing Mrs. Deans, slie greeted her 
 with the nearest approach to warmth she was capable of 
 displaying, and placed a wooden rocking-chair for her, 
 sitting down herself in a narrow high-bucked wooden 
 chair, bolt upright and with her arms folded. Presently 
 she let fall her hands into her lap, twisting them ner- 
 vously, one within the other; they were bleaclied an 
 unhealthy pallor, and their palms and fingers tips crinkled 
 like crape, from her washing. 
 
 "And how are you, Mrs. Deans?" she asked. Her voice 
 held a strong English accent. 
 
 "Oh, well; for which I ought to be thankful," returned 
 Mrs. Deans, " Considering them as is took that is unpre- 
 pared, we ought to be grateful that 'we're, spared, for it 
 would seem as ./ \hm) that is ready would go the first, 
 pan Follett died last I'harsday. iiofy/ do you find your- 
 self, Mrs Tfolder?" 
 
 "Not well — not ftf/ «]1 well/' retur/i^ ! the old woman, 
 hor voice querulous. " / 'Hm took i'tm) <^ueer last niglit, 
 a gasping /i f tor breath as would n'^ /i/;me. Vm nigh tired 
 enough o' living, if I could die mind ^asy, bn^ f can't." 
 
 " Yes, ' Sttid Mrs. Deans, pursing her lips and shaking 
 her head, "we all have our troubles; ]>ut you have had a 
 terrible affliction, and, as 1 l>ave often said to Henry, 'Old 
 Mrs. Holder does take it terrible hard.' " 
 
 "It do be hard," said Mrs. Hddcr. Then came' a pause. 
 
 Mrs. Deans was in certain ways clever; she knew the 
 futility of attempting to force Mrs. Holder's confidence, 
 therefore she ccntented herself with a lugubrious shako 
 
 I --l 
 
 m. ,: 
 
 Ik. I 
 
 
\ 
 
 78 
 
 T//J£ UNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 \ 
 
 of her lieucl, 11 sympathetic expi sion of eye, iiud iniir- 
 mured : 
 
 "Yes— it's terrible hard!" 
 
 "Yes," began Mrs. Holder, almost reflectively, "to 
 think as it should come to me, being afraid o' being 
 buried, due to not knowing who's going to lay along 0' me. 
 It do seem main hard" — here the speaker's tones grew hard 
 and her beady eyes venomous — "but I'll And a way some- 
 how. Myron Kind's daughter and her bastard brat don't 
 never lay alongside 0' my son and me." 
 
 Light now dawned upon Mrs. Deans. She fully appre- 
 ciated Mrs. Holder's attitude in the matter; she rose to 
 tiio occasion. 
 
 "It's the lot up in the cemetery that's worrying you," 
 she said. "Well, so 'cwouid me, to think a young one 
 sich as that was going to be next hand, touching me in 
 my grave!" 
 
 At that moment there came a sound from the adjoining 
 bedroom, the door was ajar, a chubby hand reached 
 through the opening, and pulled the door v/ide, and the 
 next instant, Myron's baby, roused from his sleep by the 
 sound of their voices, came out, and, walking totteringly 
 across the floor, took hold of his grandmother's dress, and 
 stood eying Mrs. Deans with the frank impertinence of 
 babyhood. 
 
 His yellow hair was tossed and tangled ; his blue eyes, a 
 little heavy yet from sleep, were placid and happy; his 
 face was round and dimpled, one cheek flushed a deep rose 
 from the pressure of the pillow. lie looked indeed per- 
 fect as any cherubic picture. However such children as 
 he may develop — undoubtedly the blond, rosy, dimpled 
 type is the ideal baby. 
 
 TJiere was something gi'otesque in these two women: 
 their souls grimed with the dust of their own sins, their 
 
 % 
 
 .a^giffigia. 
 
! 
 
 TiTK UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 70 
 
 hearts hardened beneath a crust of their own self-seeking 
 lusts, their bodies calloused by the world, defiled by their 
 own passions, fearing contamination, living or dead, from 
 too near vicinity to that child. 
 
 "Eun away. My," said his grandmother, giving him 
 a little push. The baby stood still a moment. A gray cat 
 peeped in at the door, and then withdrew its head ; with a 
 gurgle of laughter, the child trotted after it. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had been eying him steadily since his 
 appearance. 
 
 "Now, iiilio does that young one look like?" said she 
 with emphasis, as if to force an answer by her ear- 
 nestness. 
 
 " Nobody," said Mrs. Holder. " He do be 'witched, I 
 think. I never see a child like him afore. You could 
 always see a likeness in some trick or other, but that young 
 one has no tricks with him; them's his ways, such as 
 you've seen: eat — smile — sleep." 
 
 " Well, it beats all," said Mrs. Deans, feeling exasperated. 
 
 A trill of inarticulate laughter interrupted them, and 
 the baby appeared at the door, the gray cat in his 
 arms, wriggling to free itself. It did. Putting its hind 
 legs against the baby's breast, it sprang out of his arms; 
 the recoil sent the boy down, but he picked himself up 
 and again began the pursuit. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Holder, you was telling me about the cem- 
 etery lot," said Mrs. Deans. 
 
 "Yes;" returned her hostess. "It's this way: there's 
 four graves in the lot, and only one took up. I can't 
 abear to think on It; to think wliether I will or no that I 
 have to lie wi' such a lot an' rise wi' 'em at the day." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Deans, in a meditative voice, "well " 
 — a. long pause, then she added: "Now, if 'twasn't for 
 olTeuding you, Mrs. Holder, I think I can see my way!" 
 
 
 ¥ 
 
 '•>T 
 
 
8o 
 
 THE UMTEMPEIiED WIND 
 
 # 
 
 "Pll be right gliul if you do," said Mrs. Holder, ea- 
 gerly; "it's vexing me sore." 
 
 " Well," began Mrs. Deans, " it's this way. I've done a 
 lot of business, one way and another, and Pm used to 
 seeing through things, and this is what I would suggest, 
 Mrs. Holder — not tliat I want to make or meddle with 
 other folks' business, but being always willing to do what 
 I can to help along, and what I would suggest is this: Get 
 Muir to call here and fix it with him, so as he'll do what- 
 ever's necessary when the time comes; and you give him 
 half the lot for it, so, if anything happens, why every- 
 thing'U be done up proper; and then he'll stak€ off half 
 the lot and you needn't be scared ; he'll not let it out of 
 his hands. That's what I would suggest, Mrs. Holder, not 
 thaf I pretend to bo anything more than common — but 
 I've done a heap of business in my time." 
 
 "It do seem fair wonderful, Mrs. Means," said Mrs. 
 Holder, her fai>e lighting with an ugly oxprtMsion of 
 gratified malice; "it do be fair wonderful, the niiiid you 
 have; but how '11 I get word to Miiii? I don't want 
 1^3 von to know, of I'ourse, and I won'^t go down street with 
 My fiaunting the family shame — and there 1 be fair stuck." 
 
 " I'm passing Muir's as 1 go to the stovo/* wUd Mrs. Duaim, 
 rising. " Oh, no thanks, plotiHO ; \\\\\\\ thank me. AVe nuist 
 all do what we can to help other folks along, you know, in 
 this world, and I don't take it no tioiiltle to do my sbnrc!." 
 
 "Well, I take it rare kindly," returned the old wonum. 
 
 "Oh," Kaid her guest, pausing, "J meant specially to as]i 
 you about Myron ; she was terrible late yesterday niorll- 
 ing. 1 spoke to her about it, and she upunked up dread- 
 ful; got 's red's fire and never said a word. I thought it 
 my duty to tell you, Mrn. WiMim^ being anxious for her 
 good and knowing you couldn't look after her, when sjie 
 was out of your sight." 
 
THE UNTEMPEREi) WIND 
 
 8i 
 
 "She was late yesterday morning in starting," said Mrs. 
 Holder, " but I bo fair ashamed she should show herself 
 like that to you, after your goodness to her, and bearing 
 with her, as you have done. Oh, Myron has her mother's 
 ways — sulky she is, and close-mouthed." (Alas! was this 
 all the memory left of Myron Kind's gentleness and sweet 
 patience!) " You can see what I have to put up with day 
 in and day out. Come here, My!" This to the child, as 
 she saw him going along the path. 
 
 "Yes, you have your own times, I'll warrant," said Mrs. 
 Deans. " What did you raU the young one?" 
 
 "My," replied Mrs. Holder. "That's what she always 
 calls it, and I'm bound it's most fitting, being near her own 
 name. I fair hate that name, Mrs. Deans. Myron's 
 mother took my son away from me and she brought me 
 shame; it's fit and well to call the brat that too." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, you're right there," agreed Mrs. Deans, at 
 once relieved and disappointed; relieved that her Gamaliel 
 was left in undisturbed possession of his name, disap- 
 pointed that Myron Holder had not given some more 
 \Ufiniie name to her child — Homer, for instance. 
 
 Mi'l* peans took her way down street, filled with right- 
 eous 8olf-(!(nigrutulation. The scheme of debarring Myron 
 Jloldur from over lying beside her falher seemed to ..<!r 
 most admirable. Doubtless, from a strictly legal point of 
 view, there might have been difficulties in the way, but 
 who was going to kll Myron that? Mrs. Deans smihid to 
 think of My/on's surprise wlifiu sjie found out. Myroii 
 Holder had never done Mrs. Deans any injury, fnif tbo 
 latter cherished against her that Inexplicable hatred, tliai 
 alien from rliyme or fea«on, HOinotimos f«'/irfi<l)y /(^stored 
 in ^iie human heart. Thin feeling, mature and niifvitii- 
 chised, made the streets of Paris red with blood; has 
 nerved the hand that hurhid a bomb; lias steadied the 
 
 1^^ 
 
 if 
 
 . 
 
 i**:^ 
 
8a 
 
 THE UNTEMPKRED IV/A'D 
 
 aim of the assassin aiul, developed by heredity and in- 
 dulged by training and opportunity, has made the Thugs 
 a people. To inflict what others endure with pain is their 
 life. 
 
 Half-way down the street Mrs. Deans paused before a 
 door overshadowed by a green painted veranda, supported 
 by spindling posts; upon each side of the door was a win- 
 dow. In one was displayed a mortuary wreath, made of 
 white stucco flowers and a star formed of six nickel-plated 
 cottiu-plates, tastefully disposed against a black back- 
 ground, the same being the beaver covering stripped from 
 one of Mr. Muir's defunct tall bats. In the other window 
 was idaced a small coffin. This cheerful display was 
 intended to indicate that the Jamestown undertaker was 
 to be found within. 
 
 As Mrs. Deans entered a A\ hnng over the top of the 
 door rang, and as its note died away in a harsh tinkle 
 steps began to come from the rear of the shop — slow, sol- 
 emn footsteps, the echo of one dying away before the 
 other succeeded it, which gave a sepulchral effect to the 
 tread of Mr. Muir. They were indeed a fitting herald of 
 the little undertaker's appearance, Avhicli distinctly sug- 
 gested his vocation. 
 
 He was short and broad, without being in the least 
 stout. He had a sandy colored beard, so shaggy as to be 
 almost woolly, and which he wore parted in the middle 
 and brushed on either side into the semblance of a gigan- 
 tic Dundreary. He wore habitually a broadcloth suit, and 
 of these he had always three, one in the last stages of 
 dilapidation that he wore when doing his " chores" in the 
 morning, attending to his two spare-ribbed black horses, 
 oiling the wheels of the hearse, etc. ; another he wore when 
 he "kept shop," and when attending to the private 
 offices of his profession; the third was the holiest, and 
 
 u, ^.fUK»-»K!,^ttu*jltiAtte'. 'i 
 
THE rNTEMl\:RF.D IVJXJ) 
 
 83 
 
 reserved for his public fiiiu;tioiis tit tiie fuiu*nils. The suit 
 always cousisted of a frock coat, which fell below his knees 
 and hung around hint in folds; a waistcoat buttoned up 
 to the nock, and a pair of trousers that were always too 
 short, but which made up in width for that deficiency. 
 An odd little bir I of ill-onicn he was. His face was sot- 
 tied into an expression of unalleviated gldnm; his features 
 had assumed an attitude of mournful resignation. From 
 this funereal coui tonauce his eyes shone forth strangely — 
 little bright eyes, keen and acquisitive. 
 
 He advanced, rubbing his hands slowly together. 
 "Mrs. Deans," he said, and bo w(l. ^ 
 
 This bow was an acquir' lent much thought (tf in 
 Jamestown. What more palliating to bereaved feelings 
 than to behold Mr. Muir, in all the black glory of grief, 
 ushering in the funeral guests with a succession of these 
 bows! lie had a clever knack of including the "remains" 
 in each of these genuflections, which were always per- 
 formed at the door of the room where the dead lay. llis 
 appearance upon those official occur ions was little less than 
 sublime; the way in which he removed his tall hat from 
 his head was in itself a poem — hardly ostentatious, yet 
 most impressive — exalting the act to a ceremonial and 
 dignifying the performance unspeakably. 
 
 Mrs. Deans never cared much for Mr. Muir. The little 
 man's eye held a certain proprietary look that chilled one's 
 blood; it was as though he viewed one in the light of 
 prospective " remains" — as who should say, " Go your way . 
 in your own fashion noiv; some day you will go my way in 
 my fashion." A tape-line always showed itself from one of 
 his pockets, and this in itself brought as ^rewsome a sug- 
 gestion as any one cared to contemplate. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. Muir?" said Mrs. Deans. " How d'ye 
 do? How's the world treating you these days?" 
 
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 WIUVIIt,N.Y. I4SM 
 
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 1 
 
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 THE UNTEMPEiRRD WIND 
 
 "Oh, well, very well," replied Mi. Mtiir solemnly, still 
 rubbing his hands together; then lie nodded towards the 
 rear of the shop: "AVill you go in?" he asked. This was 
 Mr. Muir's way of inviting customers to inspect the 
 coffins. 
 
 "No, not to-day," said Mrs. Deans hastily. "I haven't 
 called about any work for you, Mr. Muir, but on 
 business." 
 
 Mr. Muir looked puzzled, the terms evidently bearing 
 some relation to each other in his estimation. 
 
 " It's for old Mrs. Holder," went on Mrs. Deans. 
 
 " If it's to do any burying for her, I won't do it unless 
 the council guarantees it," interrupted Mr. Muir, with 
 decision. "Here I have waited and waited for Jed's 
 money, and only got the last of it last week — got it by fifty 
 centses. It ain't satisfying, getting a bill in fifty-cent 
 pieces; it ain't business. They get the coffin in a lump; 
 they ought to pay in a lump. No, I can't do it, Mrs. 
 Deans, not meaning to disoblige you, though; and I hope 
 you won't hold it against me and keep back the favor of 
 your business. Of course doing for you and doing for such 
 as Holders is two stories. Now, for you or your husband, 
 something more after the style of General " 
 
 Mrs Deans broke in hastily. Once upon a time, Mr. 
 Muir had travelled seven hundred miles to see the funeral 
 of a great general. That funeral was to Mr. Muir what a 
 visit to Eonie is to an artist; and his description of it was 
 a story to outlast the passing of the pageant it pictured. 
 All Jamestown knew the story, and Mrs. Deans felt that 
 prompt action alone could save her. 
 
 "It don't concern burying people at all, Mr. Muir, but 
 burying ground." Mrs. Deans gurgled over her own joke. 
 " And I'll just tell you about it, if you'll wait a minute. 
 You see," looking confidential, "it's like this; Mrs. 
 
I 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 85 
 
 Ilokler takes it terrible hard about Myron's goings-on, and 
 when she dies she can't bear to think her and her young 
 one is going to be put right a- touching her, as you may 
 say, which ain't to be wondered at wiien one considers the 
 importance of the thing." Mrs. Deans paused for breath 
 and to give this time to have due effect upon Mr. Muir, 
 who was once known to complain because peojile spent 
 more on marrying than on burying. 
 
 Mr. Muir nodded his approval, and Mrs. Deans continued : 
 
 " That being the case, Mr. Muir, as I said, it ain't to 
 be wondered at that Mrs. Holder is uneasy and wants to 
 fix it so she 'n' her son'll be undisturbed. So, having asked 
 me about the matter, I siggested to her that you could 
 fix it, if any one could ; and so she wants you to call up to 
 see her, because she can't leave My, aiid she won't bring 
 him out." 
 
 "Who's My?" asked Mr. Muir. 
 
 " Why, that's the young one! Didn't you know? 
 That's more of Myron Holder's slyness. But pshaw! 
 What's the use of talking? Them kind's all alike. But 
 fancy naming it after herself! Well, as I said, old Mrs. 
 Holder, she wanted you should come up to see her and 
 make a trade. Now, I hope you'll go, Mr. Muir, being 
 as I specially siggested t' her that you could help her out." 
 
 "I'll go, Mrs. Deans; I'll go," said Mr. Muir. "Think 
 I'll just slip up by White's and see the lot first; nigh- 
 hand to Warner's, ain't it?" 
 
 " Yes, nigh close to old man Warner's, which was filled 
 when Ann Eliza was buried. Mr. White did say that Ann 
 Eliza overlapped his lot. But there! it doesn't do to say 
 them things; it ain't me to spread talk. She had a queer 
 look, though, Ann Eliza did when she was laid out, hadn't 
 she, Mr. Muir?" Here Mrs. Deans nodded Avith much 
 minister meaning at Mr. Muir, 
 
 A-Sii 
 
 S^i. \\ 
 
 
 !l : 
 
 'M 
 
 
 
 ft 
 
w 
 
 86 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 " Yes, a very wretched-looking body she made. I like to 
 see a cheerful-looking corpse ; something more after the 
 style of Jed Holder. Now, when ho was ready, he was a 
 real credit to me, though his pay was onsatisfactory — 
 very onsatisf actory. " 
 
 " Yes, Jed did smooth out most wonderful," agreed Mrs. 
 Deans. "Then you'll go up to Mrs. Holder's? Better go 
 soon, Mr. Muir; old Warner'll be after more lots some of 
 these days." 
 
 "Yes, without a doubt, Mrs Deans," said Mr. Muir. 
 Mrs. Deans pulled the door open, again the harsh bell rang, 
 and she heard its d}'ing tinkle through Mr. Muir's fare- 
 wells, for he came outside the door with her, and after she 
 betook herself down the street, he still lingered, gloating 
 critically over the arrangement of the colhn-plates in his 
 window. 
 
 Mrs. Deans proceeded down the street, and soon reached 
 the store. As she paused at the store door, she looked 
 back and saw the undertaker just entering his shop. 
 
 "He'll never handle any job for me," Mrs. Deans said, 
 recalling the rudeness of his interruption during their 
 conversation. " I'll get Foster from Ovid for Henry." 
 
 She entered the store, purchased her dyestuffs quickly, 
 and then, all business cares off her mind, set her face 
 steadfastly to go to Mrs. Wilson's. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Deans was extremely eager to find out if Mrs. 
 Wilson's anxiety about the naming of Myron Holder's 
 child sprang from any knowledge or suspicion of the 
 boy's parentage. As she trod heavily along the sandy 
 ^'ootpath to the Wilson farm, she turned the matter over 
 in her mind and considered the best means of getting at 
 the truth, or at least all Mrs. Wilson knpw j_ it,. Gossip 
 is something more, perhaps, thr.a a vulf_,ar propensity — 
 there is art in it, as in everything else. There are several 
 
 1 
 
 II 
 
THE UN TEMPERED IVIXD 
 
 87 
 
 ways of inducing others to talk freely of their aifairs. 
 Mrs. Deans thoroughly appreciated the distinctions 
 between the methods. One way which Mrs. Deans had 
 found very eilective in some cases is to assume high 
 ground; treat the discussion with the careless condescen- 
 sion of one to whom it is an old story ; acknowledge every 
 tid-bit of information with a nod signifying thorough 
 acquaintance with the whole matter; the victim, often- 
 times irritated by your show of superior knowledge, goes 
 on supplying detail after detail, in the hope of startling 
 you out of your apathy. This plan has however, as Mrs. 
 Deans knew, been known to miss fire, and when it fails, it 
 fails completely. She hesitated to try it with Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 Another very seductive plan is to assume an air of great 
 meekness and draw your subject out by seeming to 
 believe she knows all about the mooted question — whilst 
 lowly you know nothing. Few women can resist this — 
 the desire to flaunt the knowledge imputed to them is too 
 strong to be denied. 
 
 Mrs. Deans slowly entered the Wilson gate. The path 
 from the road led up to the house between two rows of 
 large stones, placed at regular intervals from each other, 
 upon the grass at the side of the path. These stones were 
 whitewashed every now and then by Mrs. Wilson, and 
 were considered to give quite an " air" to the place. The 
 spring house-cleaning being just over, they shone daz- 
 zlingly white from afresh coat; their ranks were broken 
 half-way up to the house by two small "rockeries," over 
 which grew "Live Forever," "Old Man," "Winter Ver- 
 bena," and "Lemon Balm;" they were each crowned by a 
 geranium, the one a sweet-scented one, the other a single 
 scarlet. Close to the house grew two plum trees, one on 
 each side of the path. From the branches of one was 
 suspended a hanging-basket made out of half of a cocoa- 
 
 1 : 
 
 \l 
 
 
 iMt- 
 
88 
 
 rill': UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 iiut-slicll, ill which grew " Creeping Charlie," whilst the 
 other tree was adorned by a tin pan filled with the luxuri- 
 antly-growing jointed stems of the "Wandering Jew." 
 On each side of the steps — for Mrs. "Wilson was fond of 
 uniformity — stood a brown shilling crock, one almost 
 hidden beneath a green mat of a trailing vine called 
 "Jacob's Ladder," the other holding an upright and 
 sturdy "Jerusalem Cherry Tree" (known to unimaginative 
 botanists as Solanum), around whose roots were appearing 
 the tiny rosettes of portulaca seedlings. 
 
 Mrs. Deans noted these things not altogether approv- 
 ingly, Marian Wilson being in her estimation somewhat 
 perilously given up to vanities. 
 
 Her knock brought a speedy answer in the person of 
 Mrs. Wilson. "Well, Jane," she ejaculated, "come right 
 in. I was jest expectin' you some of these days; come 
 right into the setting room and lay off your things, and 
 we'll visit together foj a spell." 
 
 "Oh, I ain't come to stop," said Mrs. Deans, suffering 
 herself to be led into the sitting-roo.n. "I ain't come to 
 stop, only as I was just at the store for dye, I thought I'd 
 come on and see you." 
 
 "You done right," said Mrs. Wilson; "you done right 
 there, and I'm real glad you've come. Got your rags all 
 sewed?" 
 
 "Yes, forty-two pounds," replied Mrs. Deans, who all 
 this time had been mechanically untying her bonnet- 
 strings and affecting to be oblivious of the actions of Mrs. 
 Wilson, who was unpinning her shawl. Presently, the 
 bonnet-strings being unloosened, Mrs. AVilson dexterously 
 switched away bonnet and shawl, and said triumphantly: 
 
 "Now, Jane, come and set down." Then, and not till 
 then, Mrs. Deans awoke with a start to the fact that her out- 
 ^ocr garb had been removed. 
 
 
 f 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 89 
 
 • 
 
 1 
 
 "Why, Marian, I declare," she said, " you do beat all !" 
 
 Having siiifered herself to be led to and installed in a 
 rocking-chair, Mrs. Deans settled herself comfortably for 
 a talk. 
 
 "What colors are you going to dye, Jane?" asked Mrs. 
 Wilson. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Deans, checking off the list on her 
 fingers, "I've got hickory bark for yellow, and walnut 
 shucks that I saved last fall for brown, and barberry stems 
 to mix with bluing for green; and I've bought red and 
 magenta and blue, and I was thinking that, being as I 
 didn't want much color, that would be enough." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Wilsjn, "I never care for a carpet 
 that is just a mess of colored rags. I like a good deal of 
 yellow, though. I seen one in the market the othe^ day; 
 a woman from Ovid had it for sale, and it was real neat- 
 looking. It had a brier twist of yellow and black in tho 
 middle of the pattern, and a stripe of red at each side; 
 then there was a wide piece of purple and a narrow stripe 
 of green; the filling up was mixed, with a lot of blue in 
 it, and she had it wove with red warp." 
 
 "I didn't get any purple," said Mrs. Deans, "but I 
 might get it " 
 
 " Say, wouldn't red and blue mix for purple?" asked 
 Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 " Why, I don't know but they would ! Where did she 
 have hers wove?" 
 
 "Up to Skinner's at the Pinewoods," said Mrs. Wilson. 
 "They do say the Skinneises keeps back the rags andheli')s 
 themselves to the warp ; but the way I do is to weigh the 
 warp and the rags, and then when I get the carpet' back I 
 weigh that." 
 
 " A very good way, too," agreed Mrs. Deans. " I'd like to 
 see the carpet-weaver that would cheat me!" 
 
 i^ 
 
 
 i . 
 
 m 
 
 i ' 
 
 i 
 
\ 
 
 90 
 
 T//E UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 "Have to get up early in the morning, ch, Jane?" said 
 Mrs. Wilson, approvingly. 
 
 "Yes, earlier than before night," chuckled Mrs. 
 Deans. " Suppose you heard Dan Follett was gone?" 
 
 " Yes, Homer seen the funeral; 'twas a most terrible big 
 one, and nothing would do Homer but he must follow on 
 with it to the cemetery. It do seem hard to think how 
 one's son'll go on doing sich things. The idea!" Mrs. Wil- 
 son concluded between a sniff and a snort. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Deans, sympatheMcally. " Well, there's 
 one good thing, no one would hold you responsible for 
 Homer's doings now. I tell you when men gets his age, 
 they're bound to go their own wa3'S." Then abruptly, "I 
 was at Mrs. Holder's to-day." Here Mrs. Deans looked full 
 at Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 "You was?" said her hostess. "You was? Who did you 
 see?" 
 
 **I seen old Mrs. Holder and the young one; it's 
 named " 
 
 "What?" asked Mrs. Wilson, breathlessly. 
 
 "Well, you'd never guess," said Mrs. Deans, mali- 
 ciously prolonging her hostess' agony. "You'd never 
 guess. I'm sure I never suspicioned she'd call it that. I 
 suppose it's fitting, most fitting, I should say — but there! 
 What's the odds what it's called? I wouldn't let it worry 
 me, no matter what she called it." 
 
 "What is its name, Jane?" asked Mrs. Wilson, with 
 such directness that Mrs. Deans could not disregard it. 
 
 " My," answered she, " My — short for Myron." 
 
 "Well, Jane," gasped Mrs. Wilson, in relief, and affect- 
 ing tiiat her exclamation was one of surprise; "well, it 
 beats all!" 
 
 Mrs. Deans felt satisfied on one poiiu Mrs. Wilson had 
 certainly liad grave fears in regard to the naming of the 
 
 \ 
 
f 
 
 THE VNTEMPEKI D WIND 
 
 91 
 
 \ 
 
 r 
 
 cliild — too gnivo to be causeless, Mrs. Pi ims assured her- 
 self. Well, Mrs. Deuns had never thought much ot 
 Homer Wilson — ho was altogether too conceited, and he 
 never spoke in revival meeting any more than that once; 
 and he was too sure of himself, and too independent. 80 
 it was Homer Wilson, then! AVhy hadn't ho married her? 
 AVhy hadn't Myron told? Now, if she — Mrs. Deans — 
 could only expose the two of them, how meritorious that 
 would he! A hazy plan to attack Homer on the question 
 flitted through her brain; to ask him sudderdy, wIkmi he 
 was unprejiared, point-l)lank — would that startle him into 
 a confession or a betrayal of the truth in spite of himself? 
 
 Mrs. Deans and ]\Irs. Wilson talked the afternoon awny, 
 peaceably and amicably, and in the twilight !Mrs. Deans 
 went home. She met Myron half way to the village and 
 stopped her. 
 
 " I been into see your grandmother to-day," she said. 
 "I wonder at you, Myron Holder, that you ain't ashamed 
 to show your face; she's failing fast, your grandmother is, 
 aiul no wonder! Well, I wouldn't have your conscience 
 for something. Poor old woman, slaving herself to death 
 over a young one like that But you'll be found out yet, 
 ]\ryron Holder; and when you do, don't look to me, think- 
 ing I'll back you up, for I won't; the time for that's past, 
 unless you want to take yonr last chance and own u^) the 
 whole of it now." Mrs. Deans paused — her very attitude 
 an interrogation. 
 
 "Good-night, Mrs. Deans,." said Myron, in her soft 
 English voice, and passed on with down-bent head. 
 
 Mrs. Deans stood for quite a minute amazed, looking 
 after the quiet form going wearily into the dusk of the 
 gathering night— to be left thus was a trifle too much. 
 "I'll take it out of her for that!" said Mrs. Deans, flush- 
 ing with wrath. " I'll let her know what's what, or my 
 
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92 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 name ain't Deans. Tlio idea ! Slie'll walk oiT and leave me 
 staiuling talking to her, will she? AVell, " 
 
 Mrs. Deans resumed her irate way. Myion Holder held 
 on her path to the village. She was numb alike in mind 
 and body; the accumulated weariness of days of toil and 
 nights of painful thought pressed upon her; it was mar- 
 vellous how she endured the fatigues of her life without 
 breaking down physically. " As thy days so shall thy 
 strength bo!" has hidden a germ of bane as well as bless- 
 ing. Does it not often seem as if sorrow imbued life 
 witli its own bitter tenacity? Wfis ever such a fearful 
 doom j)ictured as that of the Eternal AVanderer "mocked 
 with the curac of immortality"? 
 
 So Myron Holder went home in the twilight, and Mrs. 
 Deans went home revolving fresh schemes for her humilia- 
 tion, inventing new burdens for her overtaxed shoulders. 
 " Ciod," they say, " builds the nest of ihe blind bird." Is it 
 man who lines it with thorns? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "A sleepy land, where under the same wheel, 
 The same old rut would deepen year by year. " 
 
 "A life of nothings — nothing worth 
 From that first nothing ere his birth 
 To that last nothing under earth. " 
 
 The Jamestown people, in making a pariah of Myron 
 Holder, were not urged to the step by any imperative 
 feeling of hurt honor or pained surprise. 
 
 Such faults as hers were not uncommon there; but never 
 before had the odium rested upon one only. Besides, 
 there had always been some "goings on" and some "talk" 
 
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 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 93 
 
 indicative of the ufTair. In Myron Holder's case, tlio 
 Jiuneatowu people hud been ciii;ght napping. In smdi 
 cases a marriage and reinstatement into public favor was 
 the usual sequel, arrived at after much exhilarating and 
 spicy gossip, much enjoya'hle sjieculation, nnich mediation 
 upon the part of the matrons, and niuch congratulation 
 that all had ended so well. 
 
 For another thing, Myron Holder was an outsider, and 
 there was no danger that u word si)oken against her would 
 provoke any one else to anger. The Jamestown people 
 were all the descendants of some half-dozen families, the 
 original settlers of the country. They had stagnated 
 year after year, generation after generation nuirrying and 
 intermarrying. The Jamestown people of Myron Holder's 
 day bore a strange resemblance to one another. The 
 descendants of the same families, subjected to the same 
 mental influences, the same conditions of life, the same 
 climate, the same religion — it was not to be wondered at 
 that every prominent or indi\idnalized feature of mind 
 and body had been obliterated and averaged down to a 
 commonplace uniformity. 
 
 Distinct physical types were rare here, very dark or very 
 fair people being seldom seen. The iPeatures were coarse 
 and ill-defined, the nostrils merging into the cheeks, the 
 chins into the necks, the pale lips into the dull-colored 
 faces, with no clear line of demarcation, no pure curve to 
 define form. 
 
 Certain peculiarities appertained to certain families, 
 however. When one of the few — very few — Jamestown 
 men who had gone forth to the outside world returned, 
 he had not much difficulty in approximating at least the 
 parentage of the children he encountered in the streets; 
 for one had the Deans nose, a pinched-in, miserly, censo- 
 rious feature, given to the smelling out of scandal ; another 
 
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 I 
 
 '#:, 
 
T 
 
 04 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 luul the Warner walk, a gait tluit in a horse wonhl be 
 termed nicking; a third iniglit have the Wilson scowl, a 
 l)eculiar expression that seemed to emanate from sulkiness ; a 
 fourth was evidently a scion of the Disney stock, for ho 
 gazed out of the Disney eyes, always rheumy and without 
 lashes. 
 
 There appeared in Jamestown families every now and 
 then an imbecile, presenting, as in a terrible composite 
 l)icture, the mental and moral weaknesses of his related 
 ancestors. 
 
 Nearly every family counted, in some of its branches, 
 one or more of these unfortunates. 
 
 Jamestown's attitude towards these maimed souls was 
 characteristically utilitarian; they were fed and clothed 
 until they arrived at an age when, if they were' harmless, 
 they became useful, or if they were violent, their mania 
 became dangerous. In the former case they were given a 
 full quota of work, and kept out of sight so far as possible, 
 toiling early and late, horrible brownies, working unseen, 
 unpaid, unthanked, unpitied. If they were violent, they 
 were sent as paupers to the governmental institutions and 
 forgotten. 
 
 Jamestown was stirred by no noble ambition, thrilled 
 by no eager hope, excited by no generous impulse, 
 moved by no patriotic enthusiasm, undisturbed by visions, 
 unmoved by wars, — craved neither glory nor fame — 
 
 " Though fame is smoke, 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought. " 
 
 And how poor a pot?herd the human temple is, when sav- 
 ored with no incense of endeavor! Better the bitter 
 breath of failure than the dank vapor of stagnating facul- 
 ties. The haloes of defeated effort are sweeter than the 
 lotus of inaction. 
 
 : 
 
 I 
 
 .,;t-**n i S 'W ia.-^arefc ia E. ' - v via aaawar 
 
T 
 
 : 
 
 THE UNrEMPERI'in U'lXD 
 
 95 
 
 Jamestown 'a religion? If tho (Jod of 'vvlioni preachera 
 jjiato so familiarly really exists, witli what awful scorn 
 must y/c behold siieli worship! As monkeys, mowing anil 
 moping, might mock a pageant, so did theso i)eople simu- 
 late religion. Old Eliza — Mrs. Wilson's mad cousin — 
 worshipped better when she dabbled her liands in the way- 
 side horse-trough, rejoicing in its coolness; when she 
 smoothed with tender fingers the torn fur of a half-shot 
 rabbit; when she replaced the unlledged birds in the nest 
 from which they had fallen — nay, even when she sped 
 across the sunlit fields, lier sodden face irradiate with an 
 inarticulate feeling of the warmth and freedom of the air. 
 
 Nature spread about and before theso people all her 
 beauties, unfolded to their gaze all the enchantment of 
 her seasons, but in vain; their eyes were darkened, their 
 hearts hardened; the magical mystery of Spring left them 
 ineloquent; Summer came and lingered, and went reluc- 
 tantly; Autumn browned, and Winter fulfilled its bitter- 
 ness, and they were unmoved save by the eifect upon the 
 crops. 
 
 The site of Jamestown and the country surrounding it 
 was historic ground. Here nen had fought and bled and 
 died. The fathers and mothers * " the presant generation 
 told how, when children, they had oen hurried off to the 
 woods, to hide there whilst the sold, rs ransacked the de- 
 serted houses, eating and appropriating all they fancied, 
 and spitefully spilling milk, wantonly cutting holes in the 
 cheeses, and throwing the frying-pans and flatirons down 
 the wells for mischief. These leisurely warriors were not, 
 however, the ones whose blood had darkened the soil in so 
 many adjacent spots. The Jamestown people had no per- 
 sonal reminiscences or knowledge of these sterner fighters, 
 but evidences of their existence and warfare were plentiful. 
 
 Year by year, the neighboring farmers, in tilling their 
 
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 li 
 
 1 i 
 
96 
 
 THE UNTLMPERED WIND 
 
 land, found bullets, broken bayonets, portions of old- 
 fashioned guns, military buttons, and Indian arrow heads of 
 flint. Thc«e latter relics were often defaced, pointless, 
 and chipped, but sometimes they had preserved in perfec- 
 tion tlaeir venomous pointed form, sharp to sting to the 
 death when hurled through the air from a hostile bow. 
 Year after year, these tokens of conflict were found in the 
 fresh furrc '; the supply seemed inexhaustible. It was as 
 though the earth was determined to cast forth from her 
 bosom those deadly fr ^irients whose mission had been to 
 maim and slay her children. Yet Mother Earth is but !i 
 cruel stepdame to some of us, less kindly than the bullet, 
 more cruel than the flint arrowhead. 
 
 The people in Jamestown thought little enough of these 
 relics, though in springtime they were to be found in the 
 pockets of every ploughman; but little Bing White had a 
 collection of some hundreds of them. They had a strange 
 fascination for the little elfish boy. People said he had 
 just escaped being an idiot: that was far from the truth. 
 
 A keen and acute intelligence shone from his eyes, but 
 perverted by morbid and horrible cravings. lie was of a 
 Newtonian and speculative turn of mind also, and was per- 
 petually pondering upon problems of weighty import, sug- 
 gested to him by the simplest manifestations of every-day 
 life: Why dogs barked at bakers? Why blacksmith-shops 
 were never new? Why buttered bread falls butter-side 
 down? were questions that he strove with. The wonder 
 of the arrowheads appearing year after year in the furrows 
 was to him a source of never-ceasing thought. How was it 
 they came to the surface? What strange grinding went 
 on below the grain and the grass, to produce that flinty 
 grist each springtime? Ke brooded much over the mat- 
 ter, turning his many specimens over and over with iinger- 
 ing, affectionate touches. 
 
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 THE UNTEMPEREb WIND 
 
 97 
 
 Bing kept liIs treasures in the space between the lath 
 aud plaster of tlie secoml story and tlie roof of his father's 
 house. There wjis no room for garrets there — hut there 
 was a space in whicli Bing's diminutive figure could 
 stand erect. The ingress to this long, low, dark chamher 
 was through a tiny trap-door, in the ceiling of one of the 
 back rooms. Through this, he would wriggle swiftly, 
 replace the trap-door (in reality only a broad board), speed 
 like a cat from joist to joist across the whole lengtli of 
 the house to where, through the round panes of the little 
 gable window, the light fell full upon his collection, laid 
 out in rows upon boards placed across the joists. 
 
 Each arrowhead of the lot had an individuality for this 
 boy ; every misshapen fragment a story. Indeed he dwelt 
 longer over the pointless and defaced specimens than over 
 the others, for more fascinating than any perfection of 
 curve or point was the speculation as to ^vliere the frag- 
 ments of the broken ones rested. Could it be possible tiiat 
 the long tapering point of the arrowhead he held in his 
 band had pierced some red-clad bosom, some dusky naked 
 breast brought low, some hclmeted head, some feather- 
 decked crown, and won a costly coffin for itself to be 
 buried in? Those notches on the side of the heavy white 
 flint one, were they the scars of a conflict between the 
 arrow and armor? 
 
 Bing White was not an imbecile, but he had strange fan- 
 cies in that dusky treasure chamber of his, gloating over 
 his arrowheads, whispering to himself of l.^ody deeds 
 wrought and cruel blows deal by these flints he held in 
 his palms. 
 
 There was one long, narrow arrowhead, sharp and 
 
 keen-edged, that he had a great affection for. He used 
 
 to take it up lovingly and, baring his forearm, draw it 
 
 lightly — lightly — close to the skin, his eyes dilating, his 
 
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 98 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 nostrils quivering; now and then, his hanrt faltering, he 
 let it touch the flesh, and the keen edge swiftly brought 
 blood. 
 
 At the pain he would drop the flint, but at the crim- 
 son drops which showed its bite he would gaze hun- 
 grily, delightedly, tracing them out in tiny red lines upon 
 the white flesh of his meagre arm until the last vestige 
 had disappeared ; and then he would start and tremble, 
 his fingers twitching strangely, his eyes peering here and 
 there through the dusky perspective of his refuge, as if 
 hoping to see some blur of the crimson fluid he loved. Then 
 he would kiss the vicious arrowhead, and fondle it, until, 
 hearing his mother's call, he would lay it down gently and 
 flee across the joists, surefooted and nimble, to the trap- 
 door. 
 
 By the time he descended his face would have lost the 
 wild irradiation of his hidden joy; but his eyes followed 
 any small creature, the cats, the chickens, the self-satisfied 
 ducks. lie whispered to himself in his dreams of a day 
 when he would not deny his desire for blood. 
 
 A strange impish development of character was his: 
 daugerous by reason of the stubbornness of his race, and 
 strangely blended and nurtured with and by a love of 
 vivid and bright color. This latter characteristic was 
 instilled into the White blood, when one of the far-back 
 Whites, who had been to the war, returned, bringing with 
 him a gypsy camp-follower as his wife, making her the 
 great-grandmother of this boy, who cherished the flint 
 arrowheads for the pain they could inflict, and who 
 dreamt long dreams, the atmosphere of which was crim- 
 B< iied with blood and vocal with cries of pain. 
 
 This unhealthy mental state found for itself plenty 
 of sustenance, as all vile plants and animals do, sucking 
 the virus of its unhealthy existence from every phase of 
 
 4 
 
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I 
 
 1 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 99 
 
 nature, every homely incident in village life, lie let : o 
 chance escape him to enjoy his ghoulish pleasure; the kill- 
 ing of the poultry twice a week for market was a festival 
 he never missed. 
 
 At the village shambles he was a frequent guest; at 
 a pig-sticking he was always on hand, interested, help- 
 ful; no scientist in a clinic ever watched with greater 
 enthusiasm the performance of a new exjieriment than 
 did Bing White the bleeding of a horse — of all these 
 events he had accurate information. If all these failed 
 him, he sped far down the margin of the lake, to where 
 the gilluets were, and appeased his craving by watching 
 the slow, turgid drops that fell when they prepared the 
 fish. 
 
 In autumn, when the paths through the ample woods 
 were overhung with crimson canopies of leaves, which the 
 winds brought down like blots of blood to be trodden 
 under foot; when the brambles clung red about the fences 
 or trailed scarlet along the ground; when the bitter-sweet, 
 hung in vermilion clusters from its bare stems, and the 
 Virginian creeper clothed the cedars in a fiery mantle — 
 at this time Elng White's eyes were ever gleaming with 
 unholy happiness, only no one ever noticed it. 
 
 It is from such material as this boy that those morbid 
 murderers are evolved who do murder for murder's sake. 
 Just where in his ante-natal historv the love of color 
 flamed into a love of blood, who shall say? But it burned 
 within him, a consuming fire; if quenched, to be quenched 
 only by the annihilation of the being that embodie<l it. 
 If left to burn? . . . 
 
 He had much knowledge of and liking for animals, but 
 it was the liking of the instinctive vivisector. Inexplica- 
 ble cases of maimed and killed animals attested his devo- 
 tion to the gratification of his curiosity. The sudden 
 
 3' I 
 
 
 
 lit ' 
 
100 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 elongation and apparent telescoping of a ciyt's paw was a 
 subject that for hours had kept him sleepless. 
 
 He had solved the riddle llrst by putting it down to some 
 trick of his eyesight, but the keenness of his vision was 
 l)roverbial in Jamestown, and that did not long content him. 
 'J'hen he took a tape-line and measured a paw, and waited for 
 the stretching process. It came. The huge Maltese 
 stretched out his forepaws in languorous indolence. Bing 
 promptly caught one and began to measure ; the cat instantly 
 contracted its muscles. Bing strove to hold the paw out by 
 force, with the result that the cat (which was of the giant 
 order, and no degenerate descendant of its wild progeni- 
 tors) fixed its teeth through the fleshy j^art of his 
 thumb, from which it was with difficulty disengaged. 
 The wound inflamed and festered, but the symptoms disap- 
 peared in a week or two. Shortly after the cat died in a fit. 
 
 The dilation and contraction of the eyes of animals was 
 a source of continual speculation to Bing; a matter he 
 strove in horrid ways to elucidate. There was something 
 hideously repulsive in this boy's secret cruelties, horrible 
 to relate, sickening to contemplate. But the creatures he 
 tormented, maimed, killed, knew neither anticipation nor 
 remembrance ; the " corporeal pang " w as all. 
 
 There was a strange and horrible parallel between his 
 nature and the nature of the women who tortured so 
 ceaselessly the woman whom fate had made their victim; 
 a little difference in method, a little divergence of applica- 
 tion, a slight change from the physical to the mental world — . 
 that was all save a dreadful difference in the victim; but 
 the instinct of cruelty was the same. 
 
 Tliere is an organized society in one of our gfeat cities 
 for putting dumb animals out of pain — out of existence. 
 It had been well for Myron Holder had she been one of 
 those creatures to which a merciful death is vouchsafed. The 
 
 } 
 
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 tSSU.. 
 
T 
 
 i 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 loi 
 
 lilied purity of her womanliood hiight bo gone, but wc do 
 not rend tlie petals of even spent flowers. It is Imrd to 
 tread upon even a crushed blossom, and painful to see a 
 broken lily flung to smother in a sewer. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Desolation is a delicate thing. 
 
 It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, 
 But treads with killing footsteps, and fans with silent wing, 
 
 The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear ; 
 Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above, 
 
 And the music-stirring motion of its soft a;.d busy feet, 
 Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster Love, 
 
 And wake, and find the shadow Pain. ..." 
 
 " The smoke is falling, the ducks and geese are flying 
 about, the maple leaves are turned underside up, the cocks 
 are crowing, the cat is eating grass, the gulls have left the 
 lake and fly over the land, the flies sting, and the 
 cement on the cellar floor is damp, so I think it's going 
 to rain ; and if it does, I ain't a-going to begin to color my 
 rags," said Mrs. Deans, Btanding arms akimbo on the 
 doorstep. 
 
 "Yes," said her husband, "it's a deal like rain; the 
 moon had a shroud on it last night, and the Irogs crouked 
 terrible, and my rheumatics has just been ramping." 
 
 "Yes," went on Mrs. Deans, "my corns has ached intol- 
 erable, and the cows have been lowing since daybreak ; 
 there's no doubt but what it's going to rain. I vvonder if 
 Myron Holder is a-coming, or if she ain't!" 
 
 "Oh, she'll be here in time for breakfast!" said ^Ir. 
 Deans, with would-be sarcasm. " How you can abide that 
 
 I 
 
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f 
 
 102 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 girl and Liz I don't know, Jane; no mortal good's fur's I 
 see. That Liz eats her head off every day she rises, and as 
 for Myron Holder, she picks and pecks and turns up her 
 nose as if the eatin' wasn't good enough for her; it beats 
 me what's the good of 'em." 
 
 " Well, ' said his wife, sharply, " there ain't no great 
 call, fur's I see, for you to see whether they're any good 
 or not, an' no need for you to worry over the victuals, for 
 that I'll make shift to attend to. I suppose you'd like mo 
 to slave myself to death, and git along without 'emV 
 Well, if that's what's on your mind, Just relieve your feel- 
 ings of it right away — for be a slave to no man I won't, and 
 that settles that!" with which Mrs. Deans betook herself 
 out to the gate to look for further manifestatons bearing 
 upon the weather, and to see if Myron Holder was coming. 
 
 Mr. Deans shrunk up in his chair, blinking as he 
 chewed, and taking his rebuff very philosophically. He 
 was accustomed to his wife's "onsartainness," and when 
 any of his remarks i)roved a boomerang, he simply con- 
 soled himself with the thought of " better luck next time" 
 and subsided. 
 
 Mrs. Deans went out 1;0 the gate. It was early morning, 
 and the sun was rising unseen behind heavy masses of 
 water-charged clouds ; there was a soft grayness of impend- 
 ing rain in the air, a fresh smell of springing grass, and 
 new leaves, and newly turned earth ; the gulls had deserted 
 the lake, and were soaring in oblique circles through the 
 gray, glisteningly white; the swallows from under the eaves 
 of the barn were journeying forth to the pond for the clay 
 to coat their nests; the sparrows were chirping saucily, as 
 they robbed the young chicks of the grain scattered for 
 them; from the field behind the barn came the bleating 
 of the lambs, and now and then tliere sounded a distant 
 voice as Gamaliel or the hired men shouted to their horses. 
 
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J 
 
 m 
 
 CI 
 
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 r//E- UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 103 
 
 The bound girl, coming in from milking, paused to 
 make grimaces at the unconscious back of licr benefactress, 
 an accomplishment at which Liz was an adept. After 
 contorting her face horribly for a few moments, accom- 
 panying herself mentally with unflattering epithets 
 addressed to the same unconscious back, Liz went on her 
 way to the cellar, having very much enjoyed the relaxation 
 of her facial muscles. Mrs. Deans stood looking down 
 the road. Her eyes were red and watery this morning, and 
 she wiped them on the corner of her apron. Far down 
 towards the village she could descry a vehicle of some 
 kind, but no one on the footpath. She returned to the 
 house, and, satisfied that Myron Holder would not arrive 
 for some time at least, went up to the garret to " sort over" 
 the contributions that had been sent in for the mission- 
 box that was going to the far West. First, however, she 
 called to her husband to watch for Myron Holder's 
 appearance, and rap on the wall with his stick when he 
 saw her, so that she might come down and "be ready for 
 her." Mrs. Deans always welcomed Myron Holder with 
 sneers or rage in the morning, just as her grandmother 
 greeted her with reproaches or revilings at night. There 
 would have been something comic, had it not been so 
 cruel and so sad, in the way these women played battledore 
 with this girl as shuttlecock and tossed her from one to the 
 other to be buffeted. 
 
 That morning Myron Holder had just got clear of the 
 village, when she heard behind her the rumble of wheels; 
 they drew nearer, and at last her down -cast eyes caught 
 the image of a wagon, but she did not look up, and did 
 not know whose it was until she heard Homer "Wilson's 
 voice. 
 
 "Good-morning, Myron," he said; "are you going out 
 to Deans'?" 
 
 
 
I04 
 
 THE L\\ TEMPER ED WIND* 
 
 "Good-morning. Yes," she answered, blushing and ill 
 at case, for ho had pulled up his horses. 
 
 "Then climb in and have a ride; Fm going to town," 
 ho said. 
 
 "Oh, no; no thank you!" said Myron, hanging back. 
 
 "What for? Come, get in," he said. 
 
 Myron was so well used to being told what to do, and so 
 little used to refusing, that she half made a step towards 
 the wagon then — "No, I mustn't" — she paused — "you 
 know— I " 
 
 "Don't be a goose, Myron," returned ho with decision. 
 " Climb in here ! I never see you these days, and we used to 
 
 be good friends " The infrequent tears rushed to her 
 
 eyes. Without more ado, she went to the side of the wagon 
 and set a foot on the step ; the impatient horses started, and 
 she felt herself half lifted in by Homer's strong arm. The 
 horses sprang forward, to be soon checked, though, for 
 Homer was evidently in no hurry that morning; indeed, the 
 horses were restrained to an unwilling walk. 
 
 "How's things getting on with you, Myron?" asked 
 Homer, trying to speak in a commonplace tone. 
 
 "Oh, just the same," she answered, unsteadily. "Mrs. 
 Deans kindly keeps me on." 
 
 "Oh, she does, does she?" asked Homer. "Very good of 
 her, I'm sure; she's a most charitable woman, Mrs. 
 Deans is!" 
 
 Myron somehow felt her heart sink at this. Of late, 
 aroused from the first bewilderment of her shame, she had 
 wondered once or twice if Mrs. Deans was so wholly 
 admirable in her life and intentions as she said she was; if 
 she herself was so utterly vile. Homer's reply showed 
 her, or so she thought, that she was wrong in doubting 
 Mrs. Deans. 
 
 "Yes," went on Homer, "Mrs. Deans is what Ma calls 
 
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 fi 
 
S- 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 105 
 
 a * mother in Israel, ' and no mistake. How many she's 
 mothered! All thrse Home girls! And now struggling 
 with you! Really, Myron, you might be thought most 
 fortunate to get into such a household." Something in 
 his voice gave Myron courage to look up. She did — but let 
 her eyes fall before the bitter sneer that lurked on his lip, 
 the scorn that shone in his eyes. In that instant she 
 gathered, however, that none of it was for her ; the next 
 she wa*" conscious of a desire to say something to Homer of 
 Mrs. Deans' meanness, backbiting, insincerity, hypocrisy. 
 Myron Holder had naturally a sweet disposition, but the 
 happiest of us, even, have sometimes a longing desire to 
 pull another down, and for a moment this temptation 
 assailed her with almost irresistible strength. She was so 
 inurod to blame herself, that to hear another dispraised, 
 and that other the woman who embittered each hour of 
 the day for her, was perilously sweet. She half parted her 
 lips, but the generous spirit that had survived so many 
 blows, so much injustice, yet endured and stifled the 
 impulse. She sat silent. A jingling of loose tires, a 
 rattling of loose bolts, and the uneven beating of a lame 
 horse's hoofs struck upon their ears; some one was coming 
 from the village. 
 
 "Hullo," said Homer, without looking round, "here's 
 old Crow Muir coming!" The young men of Jamestown 
 had an irreverent habit of calling Mr. Muir "Crow" — due 
 to the solemn hue of his garb. A poor compliment any 
 self-respecting crow would have deemed it, at least, when 
 Mr. Muir was attired, as he was this morning, in his oldest 
 suit of black. 
 
 Mr. Muir's vocation compelling him to travel usually in 
 a silent and slow way, he liked, when not bent upon an 
 official errand, to go as swiftly and noisily as he 
 QQiild, He hftd an old piebald mare, the original plan of 
 
 I' 
 
io6 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 whose anatomy was so obscured by lumps and distorted by 
 twists as to be almost obliterated; she was very lame in 
 the nigh forefoot and had the stringhalt in her off hind 
 leg, so that her gait was somewhat startling to behold ; her 
 neck was long and lean, her head heavy, her nose Roman, 
 her eyes set close together in a bald face, her tail was more 
 like a mule's than a horse's ; but despite these peculiarities, 
 which by some people might have been considered disabili- 
 ties, she was the fastest animal in Jamestown, and her pro- 
 geny was noted far and wide among the local sports. The 
 vehicle behind this gallant steed was as direct a contradic- 
 tion to the stately hearse as could be imagined. It was a 
 light wagon, set upon ridiculously high wheels, which, 
 being always adjusted loosely at the axle, had a lateral as 
 well as an onward movement ; the body of the wagon was 
 not more than five inches deep and painted a bright 
 green (the same paint that coated the undertaker's 
 veranda made his wagon a thing of vernui beauty). The 
 seat was uncushioned and had rungs in the back, like a 
 chair — in fact, it was a section taken from one of the long, 
 old-fashioned desks that had been removed from the school 
 a few years before this time. 
 
 In this state and equipage, then, did Mr. Muir overtake 
 Homer and Myron. 
 
 "Homer, good-morning!" said Mr. Muir, solemnly, as 
 he came abreast of them ; and then he was past, his wagon 
 jingling crazily, his knees nearly touching his chin, each 
 wheel running at a different angle and leaving wavering 
 tracks in the dust. 
 
 "Oh, Homer," ^.aid Myron. 
 
 " Well," said Homer, " what's the matter?" 
 
 « Mr. Muir— he'll talk," she said. 
 
 "You're quite right there," said Homer, with a vicious 
 tightening of the lips. " It'll do him good. " He gave the 
 
 * 
 
I 
 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 107 
 
 restive horses a ship with tlic reins, hut tlie next moment 
 checked their sudden speed. 
 
 "Don't mind me, Myron," he said, fhishin^^ under Ids 
 hrown skin as he felt her nervous start. " I am in a had 
 temper this morning, and disgusted with tlie way people 
 gahhlo about nothing." And then they drove on in 
 silence again. As they passed the little cemetery, they saw 
 the piebald mare, in a ridiculous "stanJ at ease " position, 
 tied beside the gate. 
 
 "Hear of any one dead?" asked Homer. 
 
 "No, not a word," said Myron, her thoughts reverting 
 painfully to her last visit to her father's grave. 
 
 "Well, maybe old Crow's gone to sec if any of 'em are 
 coming up," said Homer. Then, the thought suggested to 
 him by the field of young springing grain opposite, ho 
 added, "Not much of a crop from old Crow's planting." 
 After this grim speech there were no further words until 
 they were opposite the wire fence of Deans' so-called 
 garden. 
 
 "Myron," said Homer hastily, "any time you want a 
 friend for anything, come to me, will you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said simply, looking at him with ineffable 
 gratitude and wonder in her eyes. " But have you for- 
 gotten " 
 
 "My memory's as good as most folks' is," said Homer 
 gruffly ; then, wishing once for all to let her see he accepted 
 the facts of her life, he said : " What do you call your 
 child, Myron?" 
 
 "My," she answered, with the indescribable mother- 
 voice of love, " little My." 
 
 "A very good name, too," said Homer, with conyiction. 
 "I'm coming in to see him some day." 
 
 Myron fairly gasped in terror. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said, with entreaty in her tones and eyes; 
 
 5* 
 
 ''ft; 
 
io8 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 I i 
 
 "oil, no, promise you won't tliink of sncli a tiling — prom- 
 ise you won't" — he was drawing up tholiorsesat the Deans* 
 gate, and she chisped both liands over his arm in her 
 urgency. " Promise," slic urged, lie looked down at her, 
 his face som])re; he gathered the beauty of her face and 
 pleading eyes, his old self awakened for an instant from 
 its bath of bitterness, and his old natural smile made his 
 stern face bright and gent)e as he said: 
 
 " Of course, I won't, if you don't want me to. Is it your 
 grandmother?" 
 
 " Yes, and " she unclasped her hands and began to 
 
 descend. " Thank you so much," she said. 
 
 " For not coming?" he asked. Ilis face was dark again. 
 
 "No; for speaking to me," she answered, as she turned 
 quickly to the house, and he went on to the city, as fast now 
 as his horses could spurn the miles, and he had gone 
 some distance before his face lost the expression caused 
 by her last speech ; but long ere he reached the town, the 
 old gloom again settled ujion his countenance. 
 
 From the high window Mrs. Deans had watched Myron 
 and Homer as they drove from the foot of the garden; as 
 they passed the corner of the house she sped to a more 
 advantageous window, arriving in time to see Myron 
 unclasp her hands from his arm and descend from the 
 wagon. Mrs. Deans could hardly restrain herself from 
 calling aloud to them, and proclaiming her discovery of 
 their "brazenness," if not from the house-top, at least from 
 the attic window; but with much strength of will she 
 denied herself and kept silent until Homer's wagon van- 
 ished, and she heard a vigorous rap-rap down stairs. 
 Then she collapsed upon a heap of winter quilts that were 
 piled in the attic and communed with herself. 
 
 "She was doin' some rare begging, but the Wilsons is 
 strong set when they've made up their minds. But ^UQli 
 
THE Ui\ TEMPERED WIND 
 
 tOQ 
 
 cheek ! To drive her np to mij door as bold as brass, and 
 in no hurry out of sight, either; at least," bethinking 
 herself, **ho did drive oil mighty quick, when once she 
 got out; wonder if she wanted me to see him! Weii, if 
 thaVs her idea, 'twon't do her no good! She should have 
 told me when I asked her; I won't take no notice, now; 
 she can't get me to back down from what I've said; it's a 
 terrible disgrace on Marian AVilson — well, they did talk 
 about Marian and that stonecutter one time, but he went 
 rway, and it was all smothered up, but I had niy own 
 thoughts. Well, this is a judgment on her now; she was 
 too set up when Homer came back to the farm; like's 
 not, he was druv to it! Fine goin's on, I warrant, ho 
 hrd in the city! Thank the Lord, Maley's not sich as 
 Homer Wilson; but then he's been brought up dilTerent, 
 and it's all in the bringin' up. And there was something 
 very queer about that stonecutter business; that would 
 account for Homer's being so bad." 
 
 Mrs. Deans went about her work dreamily, struggling 
 with the problem of Homer's depravity; her philosophy — 
 like some other philosophies — first created a r<5sult, and 
 then strove to invent circumstances to justify and ex- 
 plain it. 
 
 Mrs. Deans was sorely tried to decide what course was 
 best to pursue : she would have liked to go at once to Mrs. 
 Wilson, and proclaim her son's iniquity to her and see 
 " how she took it"; she Icr.ged to go to Mrs. Holder's and 
 announce that she had discovered the secret which had so 
 puzzled the village; she would have dearly loved to shower 
 upon Myron Holder the new and expressive epithets that 
 were trembling upon the tip of her tongue, but the pecu- 
 liar view she had adopted of the situation suggested to her 
 that Myron Holder wanted the secret she had kept so long 
 and so well discovered ; and greater than her desire to see 
 
 ^ii 
 
 <^M 
 
no 
 
 THE UNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 her lifelong friend disgraced by the proof of her son's 
 fault — greater than her desire to vindicate her own superior 
 cunning — greater even than her desire to berate Myron 
 Holder, was her determination to make Myron Holder 
 suffer; so she dec'ded to take no active step in the affair, 
 no matter how hard the repression of her rigliteous wrath 
 might prove. 
 
 She felt, however, there could be no harm in giving 
 Mrs. White a hint of how things stood, for the Sunday 
 before this Homer Wilson had tied up young Ann White's 
 buggy shaftb when he found her at a standstill on the way 
 home from church. Here Mrs. Deans wandered a little 
 from the main track, and dwelt a while on the enormity 
 of Homer Wilson tearing along the roads, or through the 
 woods, or along the lake shore, the whole Sabbath dr^y, 
 iuMtoad of going to church ; here she recalled, with a 
 shock, that Myron Holder never went to church either, 
 and Mrs. Deans, putting two and two together, decided 
 that not only of sin, but of sacrilege, were these two 
 guilty. 
 
 Mrs. Deans felt fired with a great zeal for young Ann 
 White's soul: if she should be led into marrying Homer 
 Wilson, what a dreadful thing it would be! Not but what 
 the Whites needed something to take them down a peg; 
 still the pleasure of balking Homer, if he had any thoughts 
 in Ann White's direction, would be something. Besides, 
 although Mrs. Deans did not formulate this to herself, it 
 would relieve the pressure of restraint to tell Mrs. White 
 tlie circumstances, and Mrs. Deans concluded to herself: 
 " It can't do no harm to let Ann White know. I miss my 
 guess if she has her sorrows to seek; that Bing isn't ten 
 removes off an idiot." 
 
 So Mrs. Deans contented herself all the forenoon by 
 staring at Myron Holder Avith a concentrated glare of con- 
 
my 
 ten 
 
 t 
 
 
 THE UNTRMPERED WIND 
 
 III 
 
 tempt and triumph, varied only by sudden calls to Liz to 
 '' come back from there" whenever she approached Myron, 
 and when Liz "came back," which she did in a hasty and 
 indefinite way, not knowing very well why Myron had sud- 
 denly become so dangerous, Mrs. Deans would say : 
 
 "Haven't you got enough evil in you, but what you 
 must learn more bad off of her?" or, "There ain't no use 
 my striving to bring you up decent, when your natural 
 bent is to be bad," or some other remark to the same 
 effect. 
 
 In the afternoon, the rain heralded by so many infallible 
 signs made its appearance, and Mrs. Deans perforce 
 remained at home. She took her sewing to the kitchen, 
 and set Myron and the bound girl to v^ork to mend the 
 grain bags; and as the storm outside whipped the maples, 
 and struggled with the oaks, and stripped the horse-chest- 
 nut trees of their brittle blossoms, so the storm of Mrs. 
 Deans* vituperation raged over the heads of the two girls 
 sitting on the floor surrounded by the dusty grain bags. 
 Liz was in such a state of nervousness that she was stick- 
 ing her needle into her fingers at every second stitch, when 
 Myron Holder began to feel the floor rising with her — the 
 bags whirled round and round in a circle of which she was 
 the centre; the floor ceased to rise evenly and tilted up — 
 up — on one edge — tilted until it was perpendicular, and 
 flung Myron Holder off — a long distance off — into an abyss 
 of darkness, through which whirled great wheels of light 
 that rushed toward her as if they v/ould utterly destroy 
 her, but always passed by a hair's breadth ; the last one 
 passed, its Mght vanished, the whirring of. its rapid flight 
 died away, even the darkness disappeared — Myron Holder 
 had fainted. She still sat, needle in one hand, bag in the 
 other. Liz reached across for another bag and chanced to 
 knock against her slightly ; Myron fell over like a log. 
 
 'si 
 
rr 
 
 ixa 
 
 THE U^TEMPERED WIND 
 
 " She's dead!" screamed Liz, and sprang up with hysteri- 
 cal cries. 
 
 Mrs. Deans* face blanched. 
 
 "You fool, get out of the way I" she said, and pushed 
 Liz aside savajoly, as she rushed toward Myron's prostrate 
 figure. " Take hold of her," ordered Mis. Deans, in a voice 
 that quelled the bound girl's hysterics. Together they got 
 her to the door; Mrs. Deans flung it wide, and Myon 
 opened her eyes with the summer rain beatii \ in her face 
 and the waving masses of green trees and tossing branches 
 before her eyes. To that blankness succeeded a quick 
 memory of its approach, a shuddering recollection of 
 that final plunge into darkness, to be obliterated by phys- 
 ical weakness and nausea; she clung to the door to sup- 
 port herself, and Mrs. Deans released her hold of her 
 arms. 
 
 "You can go lie down on Liz's bed till you come to," 
 said Mrs. Deans, " and then you can go home for the rest 
 of the day." 
 
 " Thank you," said Myron, and Mrs. Deans went to the 
 dining-room, while Myron crept to the tiny kitchen bed- 
 room — each unaware of the horrible bathos of Myron's 
 speech. Mrs. Deans did not come to the kitchen for some 
 time, and when she did Myron was gone — out into the 
 storm unseen of any, to struggle through rain and mud to 
 the village, " a reed shaken by the wind" indeed. 
 
THE VNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "All things rejoiced beneath the sun— the :weed8, 
 The river, and the cornfields, and the reeds, 
 The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze, 
 And the firm foliage of the larger trees. " « 
 
 The rain that brought back sense and sound to Myron 
 Holder lasted for three days, falling steadily during that 
 time; it was succeeded by the most joyous of weather. 
 The spring was past; the grass grew lush and green beside 
 the little ^vaterways that the rain had created by the road- 
 side; these mimic rivers had in miniature all the diver- 
 sities and beauties of their greater brethren. There was a 
 gradual decline from the inland to the lake, and adown 
 this many of these evanescent streams found their way. 
 
 The stream that passed the Deans farm was the very epit- 
 ome of Life. Now a large stone obstructed its course and 
 divided its shallow flood, which crept sadly round either 
 side of this rocky islet, to gush gayly together beyond it; 
 after a short space of calm it rushed against an upturned 
 sod and, broken and ragged, fell in tatters over the brink 
 into the liti,!e pool below, in whose tiny vortex floated 
 twigs and bits of last year's grass, and perchance a glisten- 
 ing white feather from the breast of a gull ; freed from its 
 durance in the pool and not yet schooled to peace and 
 patience, the stream sped on hastily and noisily, striving 
 to find its way between the interlaced red roots of a cedar ; 
 its haste to get out into the sunlight defeated its ob- 
 ject, and the close-knit fibres flung it back again and 
 again, but it returned to the charge with tiny banners of 
 foam and ripples of defiance ; so the strife continued until 
 the gathering ranks of water rose strong enough to toss the 
 8 
 
 
 u 
 
 ■ ^\ 
 
 
114 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 foremost clear over the barriers, and tlie stream went on 
 its way cheerily until the dark culvert that took it across 
 the road was reached, and as souls that plunge into the 
 darkness of death leave all behind them, so this little 
 stream left its foam, its ripples, its burden of twigs and 
 wisps of grass and all its infinitesimal fiotsam and jetsam, 
 and essayed the darksome passage, a naked little stream ; 
 once out in the light again, it rippled on reflectively, 
 until at last, its " tribute wave delivered," it merged its 
 identity in the lake — losing (and here we cry with breath- 
 less lips, "Let it be like the soul in this also!") losing all 
 puny consciousness of individual existence, only aware of 
 being a part of that shining reservoir, dispensing benefi- 
 cent gifts to air, and blessing and being blessed by the 
 sun, that shone down more sweetly now upon it than when 
 it was a vain and fretting brook. 
 
 The broad burdock leaves grew so rapidly in these days 
 that their unstable stalks could not sustain them., and 
 they trailed near the ground, bleached and unhealthy- 
 looking, defacing the plant they should have adorned, like 
 purposes unfulfilled for lack of will. 
 
 The wood violets spent all their surplus sap in leaves, and 
 their later blooms were smothered in this luxuriance of 
 foliage, as good resolves die 'mid jiany words. 
 
 Tn the maples, besides the singing of birds, there was now 
 to be heard the " lisp of leaves" murmuring nature's alpha- 
 bet. The swallows did not fly about so wildly, nor the 
 bob-o-link, singing, soar so high — for the swallows hov- 
 ered ever near the gray eaves of the barns, where, in their 
 clay houses, the white eggs were being patiently warmed 
 to life, and the bob-o-link (that slyest of birds) lingered 
 ever in the grass meadows, where, upon a nest hid most 
 cunningly, its mate sat listening to its singing. The 
 ponds and the margins of the lake were alive with wrig- 
 
 I 
 
TJIE UN TEMP FRED WIKD 
 
 II 
 
 %\ 
 
 1 
 
 gling tadpoles, and Bing White hung enchanted over a 
 pool left at the foot of his father's field where, when the 
 sun was high, the water spiders darted hither and thitlier. 
 It was not the insects Bing watched, but the shadows cast 
 by them upon the sandy bottom of the pool; for, by a 
 conspiracy between the water f*nd the sun, the minute 
 disks that form the feet of these creatures, and enable 
 them to "walk upon the water" in very truth, were magni- 
 fied a thousand times, and this enlarged refraction, like 
 spots of gold, wavered through the Avater in consonance 
 with the spiders' movements on the surface. When the 
 sun shone brightly, the spiders came out in force, and 
 darted about untiringly ; it was as though the spiders wove 
 a web of shining water, flinging round golden bobbins 
 through the woof and weft of their fabric. 
 
 A little fawn-colored wild duck, beluted in its journey 
 to the north, came to this pool, a solitary but contented 
 little bird, until Bing stoned it so persistently that it fle\^ 
 away one day, never to return. The spring grains wer3 
 growing strongly, and the fall wheat was tall and vividly 
 green, except that patches, bare save for knotty roots 
 upthrown upon the surface, showed where, upon the high 
 ground, it had been "winter killed," or spaces of bleached 
 and yellowed blades indicated where, in the hollows, the 
 heavy rains had " drowned it out." The blossoming of the 
 fruit trees was past, thnt marvellous season of efflorescence 
 and beauty, when the air is heavy with perfume and the 
 paths strewn with petals — the rose and white of the apples, 
 the mother-o'-pearl purity of the cherry, the fragrant 
 ivory of the pears, loose-leaved plum flowers, and the hiding, 
 faint-pink quince blooms — these and the peach blows that 
 made gay and glad the gardens ana \ "^ orchards. 
 
 And the woodlands and the lanes rejoiced also — for 
 theirs were the cloyingly sweet blooms of the pea tree and 
 
 i 
 
 
 ' )i 
 
t!6 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED JVIND 
 
 the insignificant-looking i)ut lioney-smolling flowers of 
 the locust, the bitter-sweet blossoms of the wild plum, so 
 finely cut in tiny petals, so filled with snow-white stamens, 
 so thickly massed together as to make the tree seem a 
 fragrant snow cloud ; then there was the red and pink of 
 the "natural" apples, the ungrafted trees that had sprung 
 up in every neighboring woodland; their taste was in- 
 sipid, and had u. peculiar, smoky flavor, but their blos- 
 soms were not less sweet than those of their cultured kins- 
 folk, and side by side with them stood the "choke cherry" 
 with its long sprays of fragile blossoms that nauseate with 
 their odor. Best of all, either in woodland or garden, 
 orchard or lane, there was the wild crab-apple, upon whose 
 gnarled and thorny branches grew its unspeakably sweet 
 flower. The pink- veined petals folded about its perfumed 
 centre, or opening but an hour or two, to discloss its 
 golden heart, then, paling and falling, overcome by its 
 own breath; for in the perfume of the wild crab-apple 
 there lies all the story of the year, all the life of love; it 
 has taken to itself all the sweetness, the bitterness, the 
 languors, the fever, the desire, the satiety, the distaste, 
 the joy, the sting of winter, the swoon of summer, the 
 expectancy of spring, the overcoming of autumn, taken 
 all, and mingling it with that we dream of, but know 
 not, offers it to us upon thorny branches. And the fruit 
 of these blossoms is bitter. 
 
 AVhen the bloom was gone from all the trees, then the bees 
 began to hum about the currant bushes, sipping the 
 sweets of their green flowers, and there rose from orchard 
 and field the savor of grape bloom. For Jamestown sent 
 many hundred tons of grapes to the wine factories every 
 year, and around the fences or over the cedars, there grew 
 the " fox" grape, the " chicken" grape, and the bitter wild 
 grape from which they distill a syrup for the throat. 
 

 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 117 
 
 i! i 
 
 f 
 
 Mrs. Deans* garden was " made," planted from side to side 
 with vegetables, daily growing higher; the leaves were 
 thickening on the currant bushes, and the young grape 
 leaves were losing their downy whiteness and growing 
 green and thick. Young turkeys, goslings, ducky, and 
 baby chickens disputed with each other for the food dis- 
 pensed so liberally to them; but Mrs. Deans rr.led her 
 poultry -yard, as she did her other belongings, with a rod of 
 iron. The turkeys were the aristocrats of the place; they 
 ate milk, white curds and chopped lettuce, and boiled eggs 
 minced fine, with pepper; the rest fared on common 
 meal — only all the spare time the bound girl had was 
 spent in digging worms for the ducks. 
 
 "See that big worm there, Myron," she said one day, 
 pointing to a huge, wriggling worm that two ducks were 
 disputing 2>ossession of; "see that worm? Well, that's 
 Mrs. Deans; of all the trouble that contrary critter give 
 me I can't tell! It near wore me out, a-digging and 
 a-digging; now it's in trouble its own self — you see — it'll 
 be torn in two yet,^ yes — glad of it — the^*e it goes! That'll 
 happen to Mrs. Deans some day, when the Lord gets hold 
 of her. Hush? I won't hush! Ain't she always a jan- 
 gling? Jangling is something I can't abide, and how she 
 goes it about nothing at all ! She'll be tore in two along o' 
 her ways, see if she ain't." With which satisfactory and 
 encouraging prophecy Liz betook herself indoors. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had never found the time to go to Mrs. 
 White's, but when one day her son Gamaliel told her he 
 had seen Homer Wilson and Myron talking together in 
 the " open village street" the heart of Mrs. Deans burned 
 within her, and she reproached herself that she had not 
 gone sooner; if she waited any longer it might be stale 
 news; if they were brazen enough to talk to each other 
 pa th^ street — people — Jamestown people — would not fail 
 
 i\ 
 
 4 
 
 
 1 
 
 J 
 
 31 
 
ii8 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 \ 
 
 to notice it; now tlmt there was a possibility of other lips 
 telling "young Ann White" of Homer Wilson's badness 
 Mrs. Deans felt it incumbent upon her to act at once, to 
 arise in her strength and baffle the designs of the evil one 
 upon the unsuspecting citadel of young Ann White's 
 heart. Mrs. Deans called it, to herself, " putting Homer 
 AVilson's nose out of joint in that quarter anyhow," but 
 the phrase matters little, the intention expressed being 
 identical. 
 
 To " stir up the lazy and strengthen the weak" is a pro- 
 ceeding much to be admired doubtless, being enjoined by 
 no less authoritative edict than the Westminster Confes- 
 sion ; and however Mrs. Deans regarded the latter half of 
 the injunction, she had nothing to reproach herself with 
 in view of one of its requirements. That Mrs. Deans 
 regarded all people under her as being lazy, as well as the 
 majority of her neighbors, may be taken as granted; it 
 will therefore be seen that she had little time for the lat- 
 ter half of the command. Before she left for Mrs. 
 White's that day, she went to the kitchen and gave Liz 
 and Myron an eloquent extempore narration of their past 
 sins and shortcomings, their present delinquencies, their 
 future state of sin and misery, proceeding to a peroration 
 regarding the probabilities of their immortal lives, and 
 rounding off her address with a pleasant prediction of 
 eternal perdition for both of them. Having given them 
 tasks they could not possibly perform before her return, 
 Mrs. Deans turned her attention to her husband. As he 
 could not move about much, and as he had a maddening 
 gift for holding his tongue, Mrs. Deans was often exasper- 
 ated by him; upon this occasion, having absolutely no 
 handle to hinge her remarks upon, she contented herself 
 with a few well-considered and audible reflections upon his 
 utter uselessness, " either to Go(i or man" as she put it, 
 
 1 
 
THE UX TEMPERED WIND 
 
 no 
 
 which threw such a burden upon her "lielpless" shouhlcrs; 
 tlien she picked up his phig of cliewing tobacco and nar- 
 rowly regarded how much of it was gone, with a view to 
 gauging the quantity lie consumed in her absence, lie 
 squirmed under this ; it affected him more than bitter words. 
 
 Having made every one as uncomfortable as possible, 
 Mrs. Deans went her way. 
 
 Myron and Liz went out to their hoeing, Liz saying 
 when once out of earshot of Mr. Deans : 
 
 " Did ye hear her jist, Myron, v ith that talk about 
 'eternal lakes of burning' — what's 'eternal' but 'contin- 
 ual?' — an' if Mrs. Deans ain't a continual burning torment 
 her own self, I'll never drink water! Ain't she now, 
 Myron? Why don't you speak out and say what you 
 think? Keep still? Told us not to talk? Of course she 
 did! She'd stop the dogs from barking if she could; I'll 
 talk all I like! Old Stiffen can't see me till I get past the 
 third currant bush, and I'll take care to be quiet then — 
 old wretch he is! I'd like to scald him some day to see if 
 that would limber him up and take him out of the 
 kitchen, a-watchin' and a-watchin'." Liz, as a matter of 
 fact, talked more than she hoed ; but she had worked hard 
 in a compulsory silence since daybreak, so it was hardly to 
 be wondered at that she should be both slow and voluble now. 
 
 Myron's own eyes were heavy, and as she bent above her 
 hoeing, her hands were none too eager for the toil, nor her 
 feet too ready to advance; she worked on steadily 
 though, and was beginning a new row before Liz com- 
 pleted her first one ; as Liz passed her after some time to 
 begin her second row, she said in an explosive undertone: 
 
 " You can't scare me with no hell-fire after living along 
 o' Mrs. Deans;" then seeing Myron paid no heed, she mut- 
 tered to herself, "and old Stiffen, too, he'd sicken any 
 devil, a-watchin' and a-watchin'," 
 
 
 
 •V 1 
 
 .1: 
 
120 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 
 Liz, it will bo seen, was not the model cliild of story 
 )jook fume; the girl was the ordinary type of her class, with 
 a thousand inherited failings, a dozen minor vices; but 
 against these she had a heart that ached for love, a tongue 
 that told the truth tliougli it earned a blow; a generous 
 and impulsive soul: but, alas, in Mrs. Deans' house she 
 absorbed naught of good to offset her faults, save the vir- 
 tue of courage and endurance, which, seeing Myron 
 Holder's bravery, she cultivated through shame. 
 
 The hours passed. 
 
 AVatching the girls as closely as ho could, Henry Deans 
 sat blinking in the sun, like a malevolent lizard lying in 
 wait for flies. 
 
 Mrs. Deans meantime made her way along the road to 
 Mrs. White's. The AVhite house stood back some distance 
 from the road, and was approached by a long, narrow lane, 
 bordered by weather-beaten rail fences, none too well kept, 
 Mrs. Deans thought wrathfully, as she stumbled over a 
 broken rail; the grass had grown so rank about it that it 
 was almost entirely hidden. Mrs. Deans inveighed agaijist 
 shiftiessness in general, and the White type in particular, 
 all the way to the front door, whose iron handle and heavy 
 knocker bespoke the age of the house; it was, indeed, one 
 of the old landmarks, built at a time when the settlers 
 hewed the finest oak trees in the wood for their kitchen 
 rafters, and begrudged not to use the magnificent black 
 walnuts for their stairs. This house had been the first 
 one in Jamestown to have shutters — massive, solid affairs 
 of oak, adjusted and held in place by heavy bars of iron 
 that extended diagonally across them; the Whites, how- 
 ever, were much distressed by the old style of these shut- 
 ters, and a year or two previously had -substituted modern 
 green slatted shutters upon the front of the house. 
 
 Young Aaa AVhitQ wswered Mr^. Deans' knock, ancl 
 
 T 
 
i 
 
 )4IIS, PFANS CALLS ON MRS. WHITB. 
 
 .. ,;< 
 
 
 
 ■i 
 
 'l^M 
 
 "'il 
 
 
 Itj 
 
 
 ■Ml 
 
 T i 
 
 ^ 
 
 
f 
 
 THE UNTEArrKKED WIND 
 
 131 
 
 ushered her in with awkward cordiality. Young Ann 
 White's name was Osaie Annie Abbio Maria Wliite, named 
 after '* four aunts and her i)a" as Mrs. Wliito said. Tiio 
 Jamestown people pronounced the iirst three names with 
 a strong accent upon the first syllable, and the middle syl- 
 lable of Maria they clung to until they lost breath and 
 relinquished it with ft gasp; as they uttered it, Miss 
 AVhite's name was a sentence by itself. 
 
 Mrs. White came bustling in before Mrs. Jeans got 
 seated, and after expressing hor pleasure at seeing her, 
 saying, " I declare, Jane, the sight of you's good for sore 
 eyes!" entered with great zest into the discussion of 
 village gossip. Mrs. White's sitting room was an apart- 
 ment that evidenced loudly the taste and industry of Afrs. 
 White and her daughter. It had a " boughten" carpet on 
 the floor, and upon this were strewn hooked mats of strange 
 and wonderful design, trees with roses, daisies and blue 
 flowers of name unknown, growing luxuriantly upon every 
 branch; bright yellow horses and green dogs stood 
 together upon the same mat in millcnium-liko peace, 
 undisturbed by the red birds and white cats that tnjoyed 
 the same vantage ground with them ; but finer than any of 
 the others was the black mat placed in the centre of the 
 floor, as being less likely to be trodden upon there; its 
 design was a salmon-pink girl in a green dress. By what 
 was little less than inspiration, Mrs. White had formed 
 the eyes out of two large and glistening black buttons. 
 The chairs were black haircloth, each adorned with a 
 crocheted tidy worked by Miss White; the making of 
 these tidies was iier life — by means of them she divided her 
 life into times and seasons. ITer one tragedy was com- 
 passed by the unholy fate of one which, being just com- 
 jdeted, fell into the paws and from thence to the jaws of 
 a mischievous collie puppy, and was speedily reduced to 
 
 € 
 
taa 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 rags. Ilor great acliievement was the making of a " Rose 
 of Sharon" tidy out of No. 100 thread. She could always 
 fix any date by recalling what tidy she was engaged upon 
 at the time. There was the "Spider-web tidy," the 
 "Sheaves of Wheat," the "Rose of Sharon," the "Double 
 Wheel" ; one she called a " Fancy patterning tidy," and an- 
 other was known as the " One In strips." 
 
 The room had a large old-fashioned mantel-piece of 
 heavy oak ; beneath it had been a huge square fireplace, 
 big enough to hold a roaring fire of logs, but the massive 
 lire-board stood before it winter and summer now, for it 
 was never used. The fire-board was also of oak, darkened 
 to that tint that the virtuoso loves and the dealer in 
 spurious antiques strives after in vain. I?ut this year, 
 ]\lrs. White had papered it over with wall paper, pink 
 roses on a white ground, and a blue border. 
 
 " It does look so much more genteel and cheerful!" said 
 Mrs. AVliite, and Mrs. Deans agreed with her. 
 
 The mantel was decked with a gaudy china vase, with 
 paper fiowers in it; a lamp, in the oil of which was a piece 
 of rod fiannel, thought to be decorative as it showed tliTough 
 the glass; a crosscut out of porf orated cardboard, and two 
 curious round objects like spheres of finely carven wood ; 
 these were clove apples. It was common in polite society 
 in Jamestown to ask " How old is your clove apple?" The 
 answer was usually given in years, and would have greatly 
 surprised any stranger to clove apples. To make a clove 
 [ipple, they selected the largest specimen of apple to be 
 found (and in Jamestown that meant a very big apple 
 indeed). Having got the apple, the next proceeding 
 was to stick it full of cloves, as closely as possible; that 
 was all — the cloves absorbed aiul dried the juices of the 
 apple — the apple shrunk and shrunk, wedging the cloves 
 tighter and tighter together; until at last they became so 
 
THE UM TEMP EKED WIXD 
 
 123 
 
 tightly welded togetlier by the pressure that it was jihrfo- 
 lutely impossible to pull, pry, or cut one out; Ihey were 
 popular ornaments in Jamestown sitting-rooms. Mrs. 
 White, when any reference to clove apples was made, in- 
 variably said that she remembered the time when tomatoes 
 were called love apples, and kept for "ornamings," by 
 which she meant ornaments. 
 
 The walls of Mrs. White's sitting-room were hung with 
 pictures; there was a highly colored print representing a 
 pair of white kittens against a red velvet background, 
 playing with dominoes; there was a glazed chromo of a 
 preternaturally blonde ba])y, sleeping in a preternaturally 
 green field, bestrewn with jn'oteriKiturally wliite daisies; a 
 woodcut of Abraham Lincoln, one of Queen Victoria, and 
 a diploma for the excellence of Mr. White's fat cattle 
 completed the decoration of the walls, except above the 
 door, where purple wools on a perforated cardboard asked 
 again the piercing question, " What is Home Without a 
 Mother?" 
 
 There was a oentre-table, with a large 13ible overlaid 
 with a crocheted mat upon it, and a home made foot-stool 
 that tripped you up every time you entered the room. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had brought no work with her, and when 
 Mrs. White produced a basket and began to piece a block 
 of a quilt, Mrs. Deans begged for thread and needle. 
 Young Ann White rose to get them, and Mrs. Deans said : 
 
 " Well, Ann, now who's this quilt for?" The girl bridled 
 and tossed her head until her rough hair stood on end ; 
 her dull skin and phlegmatic temperament made blushing 
 an impossibility. Mrs. White broke in with boisterous 
 good humor; 
 
 "Oh, Ann knows who it's fer all right enough; it's a 
 poor hen can't scratch fer one chick, and that's all Sam 
 and me has got — one apiece — Ann and Bing. Ann's got 
 
 t\ 
 
 h 
 
1^4 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 eight quilts fill pieced now; this is the album pattern. 
 When I finish this, I'm going to work on a 'Rising Sun' 
 and — show Mrs. Deans that lace you made fer pilly cases, 
 Ann." 
 
 Ann went to obey. 
 
 "She's so set on them things," continued her mother in 
 an undertone, with many nods and headshakings; "so set 
 01] 'em. It's really wonderful ; it makes me real nervous 
 sometimes. There was Sarah — my cousin twice removed 
 by marriage on Sam's side — and when she had consump- 
 ting, nothing would do but she must have a boughten 
 feather ; time and time again I argued with her, but never 
 to no account — a boughten feather she would have, and 
 being near the end, and being the only one the Clem 
 Whiteses had, why they took to it that they'd humor her. 
 So one day off Clem started and got the feather; he went 
 to a millingnery store, and he says, says he, *If the 
 feather don't suit the lady — if it ain't becomin,' he said, 
 for the clerk looked up sharp; * If it ain't becomin,* Clem 
 said, being always one to use fine language, * if it ain't 
 becomin,' I'll bring it back and change it for something 
 else. ' 
 
 " So he took the feather home, and th i .>o days after 
 Sarah died, real reconciled 'cause she'd g v iLe feather; 
 they was real afraid she'd ask them to buij '■ /.ith her, 
 she thought so much of it, but they'd head her oif if they 
 thought she was going to speak of it, and remind her her 
 end was near, which didn't make her enjoy the feather 
 any the less, but just made her say less about it. Well, 
 when the end came, it came suddent and she had no time 
 to ask any promises; but she held on to it and when they 
 drawed the pilly away, she still had it in her hand ; well, 
 her mother took it back to the millingnery store and got 
 a whole black bunnit for the price of that feather. It's 
 
IHJL UNrEMPERLD WIND 
 
 125 
 
 % 
 
 toirible wliat they do ask for them; they say Sam War- 
 ner's wife had more than an idea of getting one in the city 
 when they went down to soil the wool, bnt I guess she 
 thought that would be just a little more than his people 
 would stand, and give up the idea — but pshaw! I 
 wouldn't be surprised any day to see her with a feather; 
 she's bought buttoned shoes for that young one of hers; 
 why, my land ! our Ann never had a pair of buttoned shoes 
 till long after she had spoke in after-meeting. 
 
 " But Ann's so set on them things, it fairly makes mo 
 wonder if it ain't a warning that she'll be cut down. 
 You know how 'tis with us all, Jane, 'the flower fadeth.' " 
 Here Ann returned with various rolls of crochet trimming 
 for Mrs. Deans to see ; she unpinned the ends, extended 
 them upon her black apron, and waited the praise she 
 deserved. Mrs. Deans gave it liberally, but did not fail to 
 describe the work she had seen at Mrs. Wilson's, left 
 there by one of her market customers who came out to 
 spend the day. Mrs. Deans described this production in 
 such marvellous terms that Ann gathered up her treas- 
 ures quite sadly, and as she pinned up each fat little roll 
 wondered if by any possibility she could get the pattern. 
 
 Ann sat down down to a tidy of intricate design — her 
 mother babbled on about Bing and Ann, and her chickens 
 and her garden; Mrs. Deans felt irritated. The door of 
 the sitting-room opened upon the veranda; it was Hung 
 wide open, and held back by a cloth-covered brick, and 
 the sunshine streamed gloriously across the gaudy mats. 
 
 Mrs. White was flowery of speech, being much given to 
 the quoting of Scripture and apt to indulge in poetical 
 similes drawn from the poetry of Mrs. Ilemans, as 
 used in the school-books. She was herself a poet of wide 
 local repute, having composed the epitaph for a son lost in 
 babyhood; engraved upon his tombstone it read: 
 
 if 
 
 ' J 
 
 'I 
 
 A 
 
i] 
 
 126 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 "Goo(l-by, young William Henry White, — 
 The fever took you from me quite. 
 The time has come for us to sever ; 
 But, William llcury, not forever. " 
 
 Mrs. White wore her hair, still dark and abundant, in 
 rows of curls. It was only after Ann grew up that slie 
 discarded the blue ribbon she had affected since her own 
 girlhood. 
 
 Sitting in the sunshine, Mrs. Deans felt this comfortable 
 self-satisfaction to be an unholy thing upon the part of the 
 Whites. So she said abruptly : 
 
 "Isn't it a terrible thing about Homer Wilson? Well, 
 it'll teach Marian a lesson; she set too much store on 
 Homer altogether. I knowed what Homer Wilson was long 
 before this came out!" 
 
 "Why, Jane, I never heard anything against Homer! 
 What do you mean?" asked Mrs. White, looking over her 
 spectacles at Mrs. Deans. 
 
 "Why, they say — but I don't want this mentioned, 
 Ann; I want this kept particular confidential between us 
 two, and no one else to be the wiser, though the talk's 
 getting round, as others can tell beside me. But what 
 folks tell is that if Myron Holder's young one ain't named 
 Homer, it ain't because it hadn't ought to be." 
 
 "Well, my lands!" said Mrs. White, whilst her daugiiter 
 said nothing, but got up and went out of the room. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Deans, "that's what they say, and I 
 could tell things. But standing in the light of one who's 
 tried to do the best she can for everybody, I never said a 
 word! But there — there's no use talking over them; 
 the point was, I felt it a duty when I heard he was sitting 
 up with your Ann." 
 
 Mrs. Deans paused — there was no reply — so she contin- 
 ued: "I felt you ought to know the truth of how things 
 
TtTE UMTEMPRRED WIMD 
 
 ii7 
 
 stood ; so putting aside my own feelings, as I have to do 
 very often, I came to let you know what sort of a fellow 
 Homer Wilson is." 
 
 " To think of it!" said Mrs. White. " Truly 'this life is 
 but a fleeting show!' Homer Wilson! What he has said 
 to Ann I can't say, not knowing; but as for sitting up, 
 whatever sitting uj) was done was done irregular, now 
 and then, as luck chanced; there was nothing regular, no 
 promising, no conversational lozenges, no buggy drives. 
 No, Ann ain't no call to be worried, though it's terrible to 
 think how he'll suffer when he knows Ann is not for him, 
 can never be his; no, that hope is gone — no. Homer Wil- 
 son, thou must go thy ways withouten help from Ann." 
 
 Mrs. Deans felt exasperated. " Such stuff and nonsense," 
 she thought. " Homer Wilson would never look at Ann 
 White, if he could get another girl; Ann White, indeed!" 
 She woke from her silence with a start. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad it's no worse," she said; "only you'd 
 better tell Ann to be careful, for people are so ready with 
 their tongues." 
 
 "Jest let me hear any one mention Ann's name and 
 his'n," said Mrs. AVhite; "jest let me hear 'em, they'll 
 have to prove their sayings! *Tell it in the country, tell it 
 in the court,' is my motto. I'd never stand no creepin', 
 sneakin' talk about my folks !" Here she was interrupted by 
 her son Bing, who dashed along the veranda, flung him- 
 self down on the open door-step, and ejaculated : 
 
 " Bats bring bedbugs." 
 
 " What?" said Mrs. Deans. 
 
 "For the land's sake, Bing, what are you talking 
 about?" asked his mother. 
 
 " Bats," said Bing, chattering his words out with his 
 customary rapidity. " Caught one in the back bedroom 
 between the shutter and the window; bites like the rais- 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 if 
 
 J 
 
 1 
 
 111 
 
138 
 
 THE UjVTEMPE/^ED WIND 
 
 cliief ; got round ears tliat stick up — got fur ou it — got 
 leather wings, and bedbugs under 'em." 
 
 "Well, it beats all," said his mother, and Mrs. Deans 
 looked at him curiousl}'. But keen as her eyes were, they 
 saw no change in him from the boy of four or five years 
 back. For although Bing was between sixteen and seven- 
 teen, he was no larger than a child of twelve : an ill-con- 
 ditioned, withered, hard little figure. His frame was spare, 
 his little face, with its high cheek-bones, was always 
 flushed, as though fevered by a dry and burning heat; his 
 eyes were very light blue, very small, very cruel-looking. 
 They were set in a network of wrinkles. His hands were 
 horny and thin. He stayed but a moment, then rushed 
 off as quickly as he had come. 
 
 " Bing don't grow much," said Mrs. Deans, with a curious 
 intonation in her voice and a covert glance at Mrs. White. 
 
 Mrs. White looked a little uncomfortable, and answered 
 rather hastily : 
 
 " No, the Whites is all slow growers. Sam grew after we 
 wab married, and Sam's brother grew till he began to get 
 bald!" 
 
 Mrs. Deans preserved a disagreeable silence. 
 
 Young Ann entered the room as composedly as she had 
 left it. 
 
 " Where have you been, Ann?" asked her mother, a lit- 
 tle sharply. 
 
 " Fixing curds for the turkeys," said the girl, placidly. 
 
 "Well, I declare, I'd forgotten it entire!" said Mrs. 
 White. " I am glad to find that you have such a thought- 
 ful mind." 
 
 "Oh, ma!" said young Ann, in an acme of admiration. 
 Mrs. White smiled, as who should say, " I can't restrain my 
 muse," and continued in the same voice: " Shall we go out 
 and see the feathered tribe eat their humble portion?" 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 120 
 
 Mrs. Deans rose gladly, and out they went into the sun- 
 shine. It was one of those days — so perfect, if one can 
 enjoy it without toil, in darkened rooms or shady nooks — so 
 intolerable, if bodily toil beneath the blazing sun is 
 demanded. They went about leisurely, watched the 
 melancholy young turkeys picking daintily at their food, 
 encouraged to the attack by the solitary little chicken 
 that was domiciled in their coop. When the turkey eggs 
 were hatching, c, reful poultry-keepers put one hen ^gg 
 in with them, so that the chicken might "show them how 
 to eat." This one, a vigorous little black Spanish chick, 
 certainly performed its duties nobly — its compact little 
 body darting here and there among the turkeys, staggering 
 about on their long, fragile legs. They passed Bing, lying 
 on his back under a chestnut tree. 
 
 Mrs. Deans and Mrs. White grew very affable over the 
 poultry, and the clouds dropped down, with the dewy dark- 
 ness of a moonless summer night, before Mrs. Deans went 
 home. 
 
 She was, upon the whole, dissatisfied with her visit. 
 Those Whites were so disgustingly equable — so ridicu- 
 lously pleased with themselves — and that Bing White ! of 
 all the objects! Mrs. Deans slept at last, her brows drawn 
 in the ill-natured pose her thoughts suggested. 
 
 The Whites slumbered peacefully, save where Bing lay, 
 his eyes gleaming in the dark, as he dreamt long, waking 
 dreams of ghastly pleasures; but he too slept at last, his 
 fingers twitching as he slept, his lips like two streaks of 
 blood. 
 
 Myron Holder slept the too-sound sleep of weariness, her 
 yellow-haired baby on her breast, her face placid and 
 calmed into severe lines of beauty. 
 
 Homer Wilson tossed and flung his strong arm above his 
 head and murmured a woman's name, and crossed it with 
 9 
 
 •fl 
 
 
 •1« 
 
136 
 
 THE UiSTTEMPERED WIND 
 
 another, clinched his upraised hand; and, murmuring, 
 slept. *, 
 
 Deeper and deeper fell the silence ; darker and darker 
 grew the midnight; heavier and heavier sleep sank upon 
 those different hearts; until they all beat with the meas- 
 ured cadence of oblivion — until, albeit delayed by devious 
 paths and difficult gates, they all reached the poppied 
 meadow of deep sleep. 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Lo ! where is the beginning, where the end, 
 Of living, loving, longing?" 
 
 " But were there ever any 
 Writhed not at passed joy? 
 To know the change and feel it, 
 When there is none to heal it. 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
 Was never said in rhyme. " 
 
 It was late summer. The whirring of reaping-machincE 
 sounded upon every side ; the roads were strewn with grain 
 from the harvest wagons; the air was murmurous with 
 insects; the ground, parched and thirsty; the grass, sere 
 and harsh; the leaves, laden with dust; the birds sang 
 only in the hours of earliest dawn or in the twilight. At 
 noontide, the horses' flanks dripped sweat, and the men's 
 faces and necks were blistered with the heat. The cows 
 stood knee deep in the ponds, and flicked at the flies with 
 their long tails. The ponds were low, and their wide 
 margins of mud were alive with tiny frogs, that hopped 
 about in thousands. Upon the surface of the water was 
 a glaze of curious animalculae, as red as blood. Clumps of 
 
 "*i 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 X3I 
 
 bullrushes and tasselled tufts of reeds grew in the water, 
 and dragon-flies flitted tlirongli the green stems, like dart' 
 ing flashes of blue light. The Jamestown children called 
 thv;m darning-needles ; and being assured of their propen- 
 sity for sewing one's ears up, viewed them with serious 
 apprehension. Often the birds, their breasts panting with 
 heat, came to the ponds, and, fluttering to the margin, 
 splashed the water over their little backs. They were 
 timid, though, and liked better to find a spot where the 
 deep imprint of a hoof was filled with water than to bathe 
 in the ponds. 
 
 The little streams by the roadside had long since disap- 
 peared, and the famous stream on the Wilson farm, that 
 welled up from the "living rock," stole along sosluggisldy 
 that it scarce stirred the watercresses that grew along its 
 course. 
 
 It was the culmination of the year's endeavors : a hard 
 season on man and ^^east; from day-dawn to dark was 
 heard the shouting of men, the trampling of horses, the 
 noise of machines — a feverish season, the fruition of a 
 twelvemonth's expectancy. 
 
 "A good harvest, and fine harvest weather," said one 
 and all. 
 
 It was natural that these weeks of incessant labor should 
 tell upon the men— indeed many of them looked utterly 
 worn out, with red rims encircling their eyes, and faces 
 from which each drop of moisture seemed to have oozed ; 
 but Homer Wilson, during the excessive heats of that 
 summer, looked worse than any of his neighbors; His 
 blue jeans hung loose upon him ; and when he threw aside 
 his smock, his shoulders seemed sharp and thin under his 
 shirt. The outline of his strong jaw was clearly defined, 
 and by reason of the lack of superfluous flesh the contour 
 of his head was strikingly apparent, and suggested almost 
 
 ?ll! 
 
 m 
 
 1 4 
 
 
132 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 unpleasantly the dominant force of his character. Ilia 
 eyes were sunken; and although at the end of a long day's 
 work his face might grow ashen, his muscles twitch ner- 
 vously, and his strong fingers tremble, yet the fire in his 
 eyes remained undimmed. 
 
 lie could not sleep. At night he used to go to the lake — 
 very solitary then, when the fishing season was past — and 
 plunging into the water swim far out in the moonlight. 
 Sometimes he beat his arms upon the water at each stroke, 
 striving to communicate his own excitement to the water, 
 that shone up with such maddening placidity to the stars. 
 Sometimes he would swim out until the shore behind him 
 was but a dimness, seeming as unsubstantial as the clouds; 
 then, turning on his back, he would float there, silent, his 
 eyes searching the sky. The harvest moon — 
 
 "The loveliest moon that ever silver 'd o'er 
 ": A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did soar 
 
 So passionately bright, " 
 
 floated above him. Silence was upon the face of the 
 water, and he, in the embrace of the wave and the night, 
 was alone indeed. 
 
 " The lidless train of planets" passed him by ; the moon 
 drew a mantle of mist about her and sailed away. A pre- 
 monitory shiver crept along his limbs; he reached the shore, 
 chilled to the bone; but the heat at his heart still parched 
 him with thirst, for there had awakened within him a 
 great longing for loving eyes, a great hunger for woman's 
 touches, a great dread of his own solitariness, a great dis- 
 gust of himself. lie was realizing slowly, numbly, his own 
 decadence, groping for some rope by which he might pull 
 himself up out of the abyss into which he had fallen. 
 
 It is doubtless nobler to dispense with the rope and climb 
 out of the pit unaided; the rockiest precipice may be 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 133 
 
 hewn into painful steps, but in shifting sands wlio can 
 form a stairway? 
 
 "Seems to me, Homer," said Mrs. Wilson one day, as 
 she stood moulding her bread in the early morning, " seems 
 to me you need something; now there's yarbs just hanging 
 up and spilin' for the want of drinking; there ain't any- 
 thing more buildin' than yarbs is— 'The yarbs of the field,' 
 it says in the Bible, which means all yarbs, and I have 
 them mostly there." Here she glanced at the long row of 
 paper bags which, tied round the stems of the dried plants, 
 hung along one side of the kitchen. "Maybe it's ague 
 workin' on you, or m'laria you're sickening for; I'll make 
 up some boneset agin noon and " 
 
 "Don't make any brews for me, mother," said Homer. 
 "I don't need any; it's the heat." He was putting oat- 
 meal into the water-pails for the men to take to the field. 
 
 "There," said his mother, "I knowed it! I'd no hope 
 as you'd be led by me in this any more'n anything else. 
 Well, it's to be expected, I suppose. I know who the nursin' 
 and settin' up will fall on, but I kin stand it; I've had to 
 bear with a good deal in my time, and the Lord '11 give me 
 strength for this, too — but it does seem liard. " She sniffed, 
 and, wiping away an imaginary tear with her floury apron, 
 left a smudge of white upon her rubicund countenance. 
 
 "It is hard," said Homer, very quietly, and went out, 
 pails in hand, to where the horses stood ready harnessed for 
 the day. The hired men were sticking branches of wal- 
 nut leaves on their bridles and in the backhands, and 
 bathing their flanks and breasts with smartweed oil, to 
 keep off the flies. 
 
 Homer gave the men their pail of oatmeal and water, 
 and went to his own team. As he passed his horses, he put 
 out his hand to take the nearest one by the bridle. It 
 started and swerved nervously from his extended hand. 
 
134 
 
 THE UNTEMPHRED WIND 
 
 His face lowered for an instant; the next moment it flushed 
 as though his swartliy cheek felt the impatient blow ho 
 liad given the horse the day before. He took the lid off 
 his pail and let the horses drink the contents, giving them 
 the pail alternately; each pushed its nose down through 
 the cool water to get at the meal at the bottom, making a 
 great sucking as it did so, and resisting stubbornly the 
 efforts of the other to usurp the pail. They made short 
 work of the draught, but were loath to give up the pail, 
 and stretched their noses after Homer as he hung it 
 upon a fence-stake. He took their bridles and proceeded 
 to the field, their harness-chains clinking, the leaves on 
 their heads and backs rustling, their noses quivering as 
 they licked at the grains of oatmeal sticking to their bits. 
 
 Homer was reaping the west field. A forty-acre expanse 
 of growing grain it had been a few ^ ys before, but now 
 it was all down save a little square he hollow, at one 
 corner of which stood the self-binder, an ungainly affair, 
 with its windmill-like arrangement for pushing the 
 sheaves along. 
 
 The shocks of grain stood round and round tl. Is square of 
 standing wheat, as if they fain would protect it from the 
 fate that had laid them low ; but Homer and his horses 
 threaded their ranks, and soon the lumbering machine was 
 in motion, leaving a track of prostrate sheaves that pres- 
 ently the men would take in pairs, and, putting eight 
 together, leave them for the sun to dry. 
 
 Through all that long forenoon Homer thought of his 
 mother. It was not " yarb tea" he needed, but 
 
 " To take in drauglits of life from the gold fount 
 Of kind and passionate looks. " 
 
 The heat grew intense. The horses were panting, the 
 ew^at lathering from beneath the harness-straps; a stifling 
 
 """"ITT'^mIIU'iH^WI 
 
i 
 
 THE UNTEMPEKED H'/ND 
 
 «35 
 
 diiet was rising from tlio wlieels and covering Homer's face 
 with a grayish veil; the grasshoppers lied in thousands 
 before the machine; the grain gleamed dizzily golden in 
 the sun. It was just the color of hvr hair — perhaps the 
 feverishness of the heat made the thought unpleasant. 
 That hair had been bright enough to drive him almost 
 mad, but it was not brightness ho wanted now, nor gayety, 
 nor laughter; he wanted the benison of calm eyes, the 
 shadow of cool hair, the tenderness of tears, the strength 
 of a tried soul, and out of this chaos of longing was slowly 
 evolved a figure. 
 
 Beginning with a dark cloud, that hovered for a time 
 before him and then floated away fragment by fragment 
 till all was gone save enough to halo round a pale and 
 steadfast face, with dark locks of hair, and the face at 
 first aly outlined by the curving tresses, gradually assumed 
 features — dark eyes and 
 
 " most tender brows, 
 Meant for men's lips, to make them glad of God * 
 
 Who gives them such to kiss" — 
 
 pale, sorrowful lips, and a cliin which told of strength to 
 endure, yet pleaded most eloquently against a test ; nad then 
 came patient shoulders and the bosom of a mother. He 
 gazed at this figure long — or so it seemed. It eased his 
 eyes, and the heat was really blinding; even this vision 
 could not blot it out. He closed his eyes. The next 
 moment frightful sounds confused his ears, he felt a 
 sharp pain in his head, heard a cry — surely from the. lips 
 he had just seen in his waking dream. . . . With a great 
 gasp. Homer Wilson came back from his momentary swoon 
 to find himself lying on the ground, his machine a fow 
 yards in advance, and Myron Holder bending over him, 
 >Yith tears raining down h^r white facjQ, 
 
 
136 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 "Oh, Homer — Homer," she cried," are you killed?" 
 
 "What is it, Myron?" he said, and tried to put his 
 hand to where the pain was — but failing to reach his head, 
 it faltered and fell upon one of Myron's arms, over which it 
 closed. He realized that her arm was under his head, 
 and that he was leaning heavily upon her. He tried to 
 gather himself together, but one of his feet was held fast. 
 He looked at her inquiringly. At that moment she was the 
 source of life — knowledge — everything to him. The blood 
 was streaming from a cut in his temple. She replied to 
 his unspoken question promptly. 
 
 " The reins are tangled round your feet," she said. " Oh, 
 I thought I couldn't get here in time! I thought they 
 would surely drag you to death ; and you fell so near the 
 
 wheels, I " here she gave way to a paroxysm of tears. 
 
 She tried to stifle them. The sight set Homer's manhood 
 for a moment again upon its throne. He untied the neck- 
 erchief he wore, clumsily dried her tears, and then 
 applied it to his own head. She rose. Just then two 
 men came in sight ; they had been on their way home to 
 dinner. Turning at the gate, ^hey had seen something was 
 wrong, and hastened back. As they approached, Myron 
 snatched up her sunbonnet from where it had fallen and 
 tied it on with trembling fingers. 
 
 " How was it. Homer? What's up?" called the men as 
 they drew near. Homer's evanescent strength was gone ; 
 he was supporting himself on one elbow, upon which he 
 seemed to be whirling, as on a pivot. He looked at Myron, 
 and she answered for him : 
 
 " I was looking for Mrs. Deans' turkeys; they've 
 strayed," she said. " As I came over the knoll, I saw him 
 drop the reins and fall; I ran as hard as I could and 
 BtoT)ped the horses; they were dragging him; he must 
 ha V fj struck on a stone when he fell, " She paused ; her voice 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 13: 
 
 was tienibliiig. "It's the sun," she said; and, turning, 
 was over the crest of the knoll, her sunbonnet disap- 
 pearing among the stacks on the opposite side, before the 
 men made any comment. 
 
 As she disappeared. Homer's long-tried elbow gave way, 
 and his head sank upon the stubble. 
 
 The men untied the leather rein from his foot, tied up 
 his head as well as they could, steadied him as he rose to 
 his feet, and helped him to mount the gray horse. 
 
 A day's rest set him right. The touch of sunstroke had 
 been neutralized by the cut, whoso bleeding had relieved 
 the pressure on the brain and in a measure from his heart, 
 for he no longer battled with intangible desires and mad- 
 dening uncertainties of purpose; he yearned with his 
 whole heart for the clasp of Myron's Holder's arms. 
 
 His mother heard the story of his accident and by whom 
 a much more serious one was averted. She was thoroughly 
 enraged and excited. She harped upon the one string 
 until Homer's new-found store of patience reached an end, 
 and he was fain to betake himself out of doors in the 
 evenings until sleep stilled his mother's tongue. 
 
 It was a week or so after his fall — the wound on his 
 temple had already healed in the wholesome skin — Avhen, 
 one night as dusk fell, he was beset with desire to see 
 Myron. The vision ho had had in tlie field returned to 
 him often now; that strange vision — com2)ound of reality 
 and dream, part wrought of the needs of his own heart, 
 pai't woven of the glimpses his reeling eyes caught of tlie 
 woman's figure in the distance. As lie liad emerged •from 
 the chaos of indefinite yearnings to a definito desire, so 
 he had put aside all women for one womaii ; to his credit 
 be it told, he tliought of INIyrou Holder as she was — the 
 disgraced motli^r of a fatherle;^s child. lie could draw no 
 fine distinction b(?tweeu letter and spirit, deduce no hair- 
 
 i- 
 
 
 k If 
 
 ^ifK 
 
 w^- ri 
 Wa 1 
 
 P8} 
 
 '! n 
 
I 
 
 138 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 splitting arguments to bear out his views, being only a 
 ror^h countryman, unused to subtle mental processes. But 
 he decided for himself that it was not muttered rites and 
 outward forms that made the mother, but all the dolorous 
 agonies of maternity. Which of them had this woman not 
 endured? What jot or tittle of woman's horrible heritage 
 had not been hers? And what more holy than a mother? 
 
 " God knows," he said to himself, as he strode along that 
 night to the village, "a woman needs to be pretty bad 
 before she's not good enough for the average man!" He 
 had reached the fence round the Holder cottage — that 
 fence in which the gaps grew greater and greater as old 
 Mrs. Holder used the pickets for kindling-wood — and was 
 just about to enter quietly, when Gamaliel Deans drove up. 
 He recognized Homer and called out : 
 
 " Hi, there! Ho! What are you lookin' for?" 
 
 "A lift out to old Carroll's," said Homer promptly, 
 cursing Gamaliel in his heart. 
 
 "Well, I'm yer man, then," said Oamaliel. "I'm just 
 goin' for the vet. The sorrel mare's bad — sunstroke." 
 
 " Too bad," said Homer, springing into the light wagon. 
 " Who was driving her?" 
 
 "I was — worse luck," said Gamaliel, sulkily. "I seen 
 her stagger, but I thought she could make it to the end 
 of the swathe ; but she dropped in her tracks, and there 
 she's laid since, with us pouring water on her head. It 
 don't seem to do her much good, though, and she was 
 beginning to kick out when I hitched up and started." 
 
 "Well," said Homer, and he had a grim satisfaction in 
 saying it, " if she was beginning to strike out, you may as 
 well go home, for she'll die!" 
 
 " I guess she will," said Gamaliel, philosophically; "but 
 things was gettin' pretty hot round there, and I thought 
 it safe to make tracks. Mann's in a regular ramp over iU" 
 
m" 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 130 
 
 "No wonder," said Ilomor severely; " she's n, fine mare." 
 
 The twinkling lights of Mr. Carroirs window were in 
 view. They neared them swiftly. Gamaliel half-pulled 
 up and Homer sprang out. 
 
 " So 'long !" said Gamaliel. " This is a matter of life and 
 death, ye know," he added, chuckling at his own wit. Ho 
 drove on quickly, speculating as to whether the mare was 
 dead. She was. 
 
 Homer meanwhile stood a moment irresolute, as the 
 wagon disappeared. He had spoken upon impulse when, 
 in answer to Gamaliel's inquiry, he said he was going to 
 Mr. Carroll's. It was the first name that entered his 
 head, and chosen for that reason. 
 
 Homer had once gone a great deal to old Mr. Carroll's, 
 but never had resumed the visits since his return to the- 
 farm. He shrank morbidly from observation then, and old 
 Mr. Carroll's eyes were sharp. This night, however, he 
 decided to go in ; he feared no man's eyes now. He rapped 
 at the door and waited. He could hear the tapping of the 
 old man's cane, then saw a light beneath the door, as Mr. 
 Ca roll called out in well-rounded tones for so old a man: 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 " Homer Wilson !" shouted Homer. 
 
 "Pass Homer Wilson!" said the old soldier, and pulling 
 back the simple bolt, let his visitor enter. Through a 
 dusky narrow hall, to a room with very heavy wooden raft- 
 ers and whitewashed walls, he led the way. 
 
 Those walls were a great saving of paper to him, Mr. 
 Carroll was wont to say; and that there was reason in his 
 statement could be readily seen, for all the farm 
 accounts, the taxes, the mill accounts, the dates of any 
 events he wished to remember, with any stray memorandum 
 of a chance reflection or idea he wished to see in words, 
 were pencilled upon the walls. 
 
 f 
 
 « » 
 
 ' I 
 
 
140 
 
 THE UNTEMPEkED WIKD 
 
 On the last iiiglit of the old year, Mr. Carroll hud the 
 Willis whitewashed, and began a "clean sheet with fonr big 
 j)ages," as he said, every New- Year's. 
 
 One of his i)leasantest reflections was that he had never 
 yet needed to begin the new year with any debts staring 
 him in the face, " and no one owing me, either," he would 
 say, as though that too were a triumph ; but certain people 
 said old Mr. Carroll was a fool in this ; he was so set on 
 carrying out his whim that he whitewashed over ac- 
 counts that were still due him, because, of course, it was 
 for his own selfish gratification, and not from any gener- 
 osity that ho forgave certain needy families the little debts 
 they owed for flour, and hams, and chicken-feed ! 
 
 Mrs. Deans considered this sinful; and, impelled by her 
 usual sense of self-sacrificing duty, spoke to him upon the 
 subject once, saying, to clinch her argument, that " he'd 
 have more money for foreign missions, if he didn't throw 
 his substance away on those miserable, ailing, complaining 
 paupers over Stediiam way." But Carroll had speedily 
 brought the discussion to a close by demanding, with some 
 heat, what possible interest he could have in " a batch of 
 naked niggers, ma'am" — an irreverent way of referring to 
 the interesting heathen, surely. 
 
 "Sit down. Homer; sit down!" said his host, pushing a 
 chair toward him with a gesture of genuine hospitality ; 
 ^*sit down, and we'll have a glass of something." 
 
 lie went to a cupboard, whose diamond-shaped glass 
 panes were backed by faded green silk, produced an old- 
 fashioned heavy glass decanter, two glasses, some sugar 
 and old silver spoons — talking all the time. His lameness 
 necessitated several trips to the cupboard, and as he 
 brought each object and set it down on the table he 
 would pause a moment, feign a start, and say — " Tut — 
 tut — how forgetful I ami" and jauntily journey back, 
 
'litE UNfEMPERiiD WIND 
 
 .it 
 
 Until he had all the requisites for a brewing of hot whis- 
 key. So well he did the little by-play that he ul^^ost be- 
 lieved himself that it was forgetfulness that caused him 
 to make repeated trips for the few articles and not the 
 necessity for a cane, which left him only one free hand. 
 
 " A cold drink for a cold day, and a hot drink for a hot 
 day; that's my idea," said the old man, settling himself 
 into his chair with a suppressed twinge as he twisted his 
 lame leg. " So now, you put a match to the fire, and we'll 
 see if it's a good one." 
 
 Homer lit the fire, already laid, and the copper kettle 
 placed upon the stove soon began to sing. Homer had 
 talked readily enough at first, but he was growing absent- 
 minded, his thoughts wandering back to that dilapidated 
 cottage in the village. Presently the glasses of hot whis- 
 key steamed between them. During the process of con- 
 coction Mr. Carroll related, with many strong expressions 
 and much richness of detail, the idiocy of Male Deans, by 
 whom he had sent to town for lump sugar. Lump sugar 
 was an unknown commodity to Male, and he insisted there 
 was no such thing, and declared Mr. Carroll couldn't "get 
 the laugh on him that way. " At last Mr. Carroll resorted 
 to strategy. He wrote out a list of things he wanted from 
 the grocery store, and smuggling loaf sugar in at the bottom 
 of the list, gave it to Male and told him the grocery man 
 would have all ready for him as he passed from the mill. 
 So he got the lump sugar. Homer was a little hazy himself 
 as to the existence of, or necessity for, lump sugar, but 
 evidently it was of vital import to Mr. Carroll. 
 
 " Yes," the old man said, splashing another lump into his 
 second glass of hot whiskey, " the ass! I've no. doubt he'd 
 put filthy loose sugar in this — floor-sweepings." Then 
 came silence. Homer felt he must say something; he cast 
 about for a subject; an incident of the day suggested itself: 
 
 ^1 
 
 4 
 
 r 
 
 'P* 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
t42 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 "Wc killed a copperhead snake in the rye, to-day," he 
 Baid ; " the first I've seen in years. I was cutting a road 
 found the field for the machine with the cradle, and it 
 darted at me. I killed it with a fence-rail. It was an ugly 
 beggar, and a good three-foot long." 
 
 ** A snake!" said old Carroll. "A snake! There's many 
 kinds of snakes. Copperheads are dangerous, and rattle- 
 snakes are, but there's worse snakes than either. You 
 killed it with a stick? Did I ever tell you about the man 
 1 knew who killed so many snakes?" 
 
 "No," said Homer, looking at him, for his tone was 
 strange. "No. Who was he?" 
 
 "He was a man," said Mr. Carroll, looking fixedly at 
 his guest, " he was a man that overcame many snakes of 
 many different kinds, and how he fared at last I'll tell 
 you." 
 
 He rose, snuffed the two candles, snipping off their 
 wicks adroitly with a pair of old brass snuffers, and sat 
 down, again fixing his gaze upon Homer's face. The tin- 
 derwood fire in the stove had died away to a mere glow of 
 crisping embers; the kettle sang in dying cadence; its 
 steam and the steam from the glasses floated athwart 
 Homer's vision of Mr. Carroll's body, seeming to give 
 greater keenness to the alert face, and the eyes which, 
 always bright, seemed to glint to-night with absolute 
 brilliancy. 
 
 "It was sometime ago," said Mr. Carroll, "that this 
 man I speak of used to kill the snakes. He had a peculiar 
 dislike to all snakes, for a friend of his had had the life 
 squeezed out of him in the folds of a serpent, and another 
 friend had been bitten by one, so that he too died, having 
 first gone mad; and another had the very breath of life 
 sucked from him by a sly snake, so that he died — died 
 himself, body and soul, and never knew it: only his 
 
 1 
 
THE VNTEMPEkED WIND 
 
 143 
 
 friends saw the corpse of his ohl self, and knew their 
 friend to be gone from their midst and only his sem- 
 blance left, and they rejoiced much when at last this sem- 
 blance died also, and they could bury it decently, like 
 other corpses. 
 
 " There was no wonder my friend hated snakes. 
 
 " He waged war upon them; and it was his method 
 when he found one, to take it by the tail and, with a 
 sudden jerk, snap its head off. He killed a great many 
 in this way; and it was always his habit to search for 
 the head. lie longed to look into the eyes, and learn 
 wherein the power lay by which they deceived and 
 deluded men until they stung them; but he never could 
 find the head. Between disappointment at this, and 
 despair because the more snakes he destroyed the more 
 there seemed to be, my friend grew very sad. He had a 
 horrible pain at his iieart too, that no drug could ease. 
 Time went on and the pain grew no better — it even shot 
 through his head sometimes; but my friend persevered, 
 and no snake escaped him. 
 
 "Well, one day he was walking in his garden, under his 
 own trees, within his own walls, where it would be thought 
 no snake could come, when a snake, more brilliant in color 
 than any he had ever seen, crossed his path. For the first 
 time, he understood a little of the feeling that makes a 
 man spare a snake because it is beautiful ; but he put the 
 thought from him, and, catching it by the tail, jerked off 
 its head and flung aside the body. Then he began to 
 search for the head, feeling if he could but look into the 
 jewel eyes of that snake that all the mystery of men's 
 delusions would be revealed to him; and, knowing the 
 secret of their delusions, surely he could dispel them. 
 
 "He bent to his search, but felt such a great pain in 
 his heart that he stood up, casting his eyes down upon 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ■t 
 
 '.*<! 
 
 1 M 
 
 
 ■ \ ■ j 
 
 ^1 
 
 ^ 
 
Mif 
 
 144 
 
 THE UNTRMPERED JF/A'T) 
 
 liimself, for tlio pain wus so great it seemed his heart 
 would burst the bonds of liis ribs; and as lie looked, he 
 saw the swelled eyes and forked tongue of the snake's 
 head, for it had fastened on his breast above his heart. He 
 looked again ; it was gone. With wild haste, he tore off his 
 coat. 
 
 " It was not there. His waistcoat — no sign of it. He 
 dragged his clothing from him till he stood like Adam in 
 the garden, and then he knew that that snake's head and 
 all the others were in his own heart. Standing naked in 
 his garden, he felt the snakes in his heart, and knew that 
 his labor for mankind was vain — knew that not till he could 
 rend and read his own living heart would he understand 
 and dispel the delusions of men. The disappointment 
 made him mad. It was the disappointment, nothing else — 
 not the pain of the snakes, for many men have snakes in 
 their breasts, she snakes, that amuse themselves by seeing 
 how tight they can tie their hair about the heart." 
 
 The old man drained his glass. Homer was glad there 
 was a little left in his tumbler — he swallowed it hastily. 
 
 " Rattlesnake oil is a grand thing for weak eyes," Mr. 
 Carroll said, composedly; "and for horses' eyes it hasn't 
 any equal." 
 
 "That's true," said Homer, "but ifspretty expensive — 
 five dollars an ounce." 
 
 "Yes," returned his host, "old Dargo used to try out 
 the oil and then eat the cracklings; but the best oil for 
 medicine is got after letting the snake hang a while." 
 
 "So they say," said Homer; "but I never could bring 
 myself to have anything more to do with a snake than to 
 smash it with the first thing I could catch hold of." 
 
 They talked on a little longer, then Homer rose. " I 
 must be getting along," he said; "I'ye quite a walk 
 before me." 
 
. 4 
 
 ■I \ 
 
 "LOOK AT IT, IIF. SAID, "LOOK AT IT WELL! 
 
 I" 
 
H 
 
 J 
 
 Jf ISi 
 
 ;i^" 
 
THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 »45 
 
 " Well, come back soon," said Mr. Carroll, ligliting him 
 to the door with a wavering candle. Homer had his hand 
 on the latch, when the old man said suddenly: 
 
 " Hold the candle a "linute." lie felt in his pocket, and 
 drew forth a small bla(;k case, opened it, and thrust it 
 before Homer's eyes. "Look at it," he said, "look at it 
 well, and then you'll know a snake the next time you see 
 one — one of the dangerous kind, not a simple copper- 
 head, or a gentle rattler." In the midst of the glow of a 
 golden background, dimmed here and there by a pearl, 
 was a painted face— fair enough to woo a king, false 
 enough to sell a kingdom. Homer looked, and somehow 
 understood all its beauty and treachery. 
 
 Mr. Carroll shut the case with a snap, took the candle, 
 and Homer let himself out. 
 
 " Good-night, Homer," called the old man. " Come back 
 soon." 
 
 "Good-night. I will," said Homer, and the door closed 
 between them. 
 
 "1, 
 
 .1 I 
 
 CHAPTER XITI. 
 
 " Pleasure is oft a visitant, but pain 
 Clings cruelly to us — " 
 
 " Whoso encamps 
 To take a fancied city of delight— 
 Oh, what a wretch is he ! " 
 
 Church was in. That meant that all the respected and 
 self-respecting peoi)le of Jamestown had come forth, mor- 
 ally and physically clothed in their best, and bestowed 
 themselves as comfortably as circumstances permitted V[\ 
 the wooden pews of Jamestown's only church. 
 19 
 
I4^t 
 
 ritE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 From the prciicher's dosk, the coiigregution looked like 
 ji huiiuin theme witli variations, the original w^o/// being 
 a stolid, expressionless mask of llesh, unanimated, immo- 
 bile, vvitli rudely (jarvcn features, and no decided tints. 
 Upon this primitive scale nature had rung every change 
 her shackled hands could compass; but between the high- 
 est note, struck perhaps in Ossie Annie Abbie Maria 
 Willie, whose face was inoftensive, and the lowest personi- 
 lied by old Ann Lemon, whose countenance was a mere 
 mass of flesh, there was but a short thought. The men 
 were sandy-haired, meagre, undersized; or heavy, florid, 
 dark, with lack-lustre eyes and coarse lips. 
 
 It was a delightful autumnal day — a djiy more provoca- 
 tive of tears than laughter, more suggestive of retrospect 
 than anticipation; a «lay to dream old dreams, feel old 
 heartaches, read old books, tell old tales, hear bygone 
 singing, recall lost voices; a pure, sweet day — the air rare- 
 fled by the first touch of frost; a day, in short, to remind 
 one of the sweet, the sad, the strange in life; but withal, a 
 day to perfect the tint on the apples, mellow the juices of 
 the late grapes, and promising a "fine spell of good weather 
 for the fall ;loughing," as each male member of the con- 
 gregation had said to each other male member that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Mother Earth got but little rest at the hands of 
 these eager seekers. Hardly had her bosom been shorn of 
 its crop of a yellow grain before the keen ploughshares 
 were again j lunged into the soil and it was lacerated 
 afresh, and the man looked best content that morning 
 behind whose plough there lay the greatest number of brown 
 furrows, for the fall ploughing was of great furtherance 
 when the rush of the spring came on; so the horses, 
 loosed from the lumbering reaping machine, were yoked 
 to the plough, that most graceful of all farmer's implements, 
 
 i 
 
THE L'XTEMrEUi-.n w'lxn 
 
 147 
 
 \ 
 
 and strained at tluMr collars an it turned the furrow, seiul- 
 ing its earthy frai^ranco to mingle with the fruity savor 
 from the vineyards. 
 
 Light mists, proijhetic of the later haze, lloated in 
 shreds and wisps across the fields, and gathered and li)i- 
 gered ahout the trunks of the trees in the woodland. 
 
 The hirds were silent, and daily V-shaped ilights of 
 ducks and wild geese passed over the village, winging 
 their way to the south. 
 
 Service went on in the church, to the staid and sedate 
 measure of well-understood and long-established usage. 
 
 Ann Lemon wtw nodding off the intoxication of the 
 night before in a jiew well to the front. Ann felt she 
 needed to assert her religious feelings lest there be some 
 doubt of their existence. 
 
 Behind her sat Mr. and Mrs. White, young Ann, and 
 Bing — the first three mentioned of the family looking as 
 gloomy and downcast as their self-complacency permitted. 
 Bing blinked wickedly in his corner, making sly swoops at 
 the sluggish flies, and tearing them in bits when ho cap- 
 . tured any. 
 
 Across the aisle Clem Humphries flourished. Clem was 
 one of those world-worn wrecks that are cast away and 
 left stranded in nearly every small village the world over. 
 How they drift there no one knows; whence they come 
 no one cares; why they stay they could not tell them- 
 selves. Fate rattles us all in her dice-box, and we lie where 
 we fall. 
 
 Clem was by turns a fisherman, Mr. Muir's assistant, 
 a knife-grinder, a peddler; he had superior skill in 
 making axe-handles, and out of wire he could twist and 
 twine the cunningest of traps. He was acute and wise 
 in his day and generation — at heart a scoffing old vaga- 
 bond ; yet he professed to be most religious, and evidenced 
 
 II 
 
148 
 
 THE UN TEMP EKED WIND 
 
 it in tlio siimc way as tho peoi)lo about him did, by 
 going to church with painful regularity, where he sat, a 
 sore rock of offence to Mrs. Deans, for Clem was fain to 
 relieve the tedium of the service and aggravatvi Mrs. 
 Deans (whom he hated) by a succession of tricks that 
 irritated her almost beyond endurance. 
 
 Mrs. Deans sat immediately behind Clem, and pursed 
 her already pursed-up mouth, sniffed her already ^iinched- 
 in nose, and glared at him fiercely from her chronically 
 inflamed eye, but all to no effect. He was full of offence, 
 and Mrs. Deans had several times accused him in after- 
 meeting of "conduct misbecoming in a Christiar," but 
 Clem had answered to the charge so volubly, so diplomati- 
 cally, so humbly that the rest of the church members, 
 and particularly Mr. Prew, the minister (to whom Clem 
 always ostentatiously removed his hat), decided that Mrs. 
 Deans had " a pick" at Clem, and regretted a little that such 
 a pious woman should stain her noble record by such com- 
 plaints as she made against this humble follower. 
 
 lie had an evil habit of setting his stout stick upright 
 beside him in the pew, balancing it with a skill all the boys 
 of Jamestown emulated in vain, and then placing his hat 
 upon it, so that in full sight of the congregation, it stood 
 perilously balanced, but never falling, during the entire 
 time of service, 
 
 A strange minister had once been sadly disconcerted by 
 the sight of the immovable hat in that pew. He could 
 see nothing of what supported it, and could hardly restrain 
 his wrath at the irreverence of the dwarfish individual who 
 sat covered in the Lord's house. Animated by the thought, 
 ho seized the sword of the Spirit and began to fight against 
 this evil one. He dilated upon the perils of irreverence 
 until the majonty of his listeners dared hardly breathe. 
 Hq thundered forth thq denunciation pf tl^Q wicked an4 
 
 mm 
 
n 
 
 THE UNTEMPERRD WIND 
 
 149 
 
 stubborn of heart nixtil all the women wept, led by Ar.n 
 Lemon, who, by reason of excessive piety and much gin, 
 had no nervea left at all, and who showed her emotion by 
 a series of subdued howls. He exhausted vituperation and 
 himself, and sat down — a beaten man, for the hat was 
 unmoved, whilst Clem beside it was rolling up his eyes 
 and trying to induce a tear — an effort beyond even his art. 
 
 When the preacher discovered the true state of affairs, 
 which ho did when ho saw Clem pick ut^ +he cane and its 
 burden, carry it to the door, give it a j /k, bending his 
 head at the same time, and so receivt th? hat at his own 
 peculiar angle, he felt as if all goou was but a dream and a 
 delusion. 
 
 Clem every Sunday i)rodnced a large and not over- 
 clean handkerchief tied in many intricate knotSc These 
 he untied painfully and laboriously with teeth and fin- 
 gers, until lie reached the last, which, when untied, dis- 
 closed a copper cent, which was his weekly contribution. 
 This performance he made an absolute torment to Mrs. 
 Deans, but with the cent he made her life a burden. He 
 dropped it, and scrambled around on liis hands and knees 
 for it. He polished it on his trousers until it seemed as if 
 he might wear the fabric through. Worst of all, he put it 
 on^theback of the seat before him, where Mrs. Wilson's 
 plump back must inevitably knock it off. Mrs. Wilson, 
 despite her many trials and the multitude of diseases she 
 believed were concealed about her person, was very stout, 
 and therefore subject to all the fatigues incident to bear- 
 ing such a burden of flesh. In spite of this, howev . Mrs. 
 Wilson was animated by an eager desire to do her duty as 
 became a " mother in Israel," and by her deportment con- 
 vey the impressive lesson of example to the less holy mem- 
 bers of the flock. With this end in view, she, strove to 
 ^ttidn an upriglit and rigid poeition of an uncomfortably 
 
 I' * 
 11 
 
 .« 1 
 
 4*' I 
 
 i ] 
 
 p 'II 
 
I50 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 piety; but the flesh is weak. Presumably the weakness 
 increases in ratio to the flesh, for before the first prayer 
 was over Mrs. Wilson was beginning to settle. When 
 the preacher announced his text, she usually took a fresh 
 grip of her failing resolution, and assumed a ramrod-like 
 pose, but it was of short duration. She gradually collapsed, 
 her shoulders drooped, the back of the pew dented further 
 and further into the broad black expanse that leaned 
 against it. 
 
 Clem's penny crept nearer and nearer the edge as the 
 encroaching back advanced. Presently Mrs. Wilson, worn 
 out in her efforts to listen to the sermon and fight 
 against her own lassitude at one and the same time, gave 
 way, and, with a sigh, leaned back restfully. The penny 
 flew off, and Clem, whilst apparently gazing at the 
 preacher so attentively as to be oblivious of all else, 
 reached forward and caught it adroitly, to place it again 
 in jeopardy, and then again to lose sight of its peril. 
 This performance, being repeated a half-dozen times dur- 
 ing one service, enraged Mrs. Deans beyond expression. 
 One unlucky day, she prodded Clem in the back with a 
 rigid forefinger, and upon his turning round, which ho 
 did with an exaggerated start that vibrated through tluj 
 whole congregation, she made a sharp gesture of with- 
 drawal, and gazing at the offending penny, just ihcn 
 trembling on the edge, left the rest to Clem's understai 1- 
 ing — a perilous thing to do, for Clem chose to interprc * 
 the signal in quite a different way than she intended, 
 
 Down Mrs. Wilson's black merino back there strayed a 
 long light brown hair. To Mrs. Deans' consternation, Clem 
 reached gingerly forward, took the hair, and, with the sud- 
 denness Mrs. Deans' gesture had indicated, withdrew his 
 hand. Now the hair had merely strayed, and was not lost 
 from Mr§, Wilsoji's knot, hepce the sharp jerk brought a 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 151 
 
 sakness 
 prayer 
 
 When 
 a fresh 
 rod-like 
 Ihipsed, 
 further 
 
 leaned 
 
 i as the 
 in, worn 
 id fight 
 ne, gave 
 le penny 
 
 at the 
 all else, 
 
 it again 
 its peril, 
 mes dur- 
 pression. 
 !k with a 
 vhich ho 
 DUgh tho 
 
 of with- 
 list ihcn 
 derstai 1" 
 
 interpn ^ 
 intended, 
 
 strayed 11 
 ion, Clem 
 1 the sud- 
 hdrew his 
 as not lost 
 
 brought Oi 
 
 smothered exclamation and a sudden start from her — a 
 start which sent the detestable copper spinning. Clem 
 caught the coin dexterously with one hand, whilst he 
 turned to offer Mrs. Deans the hair with the other. That 
 worthy woman looked positively apoplectic, and, giving 
 Clem just one look, turned her attention markedly to the 
 preacher. Clem turned, with a fine expression of bewil- 
 dered disappointment upon his face, replaced the hair on 
 Mrs. AVilson's shoulder and the coin on the ledge, and lost 
 himself in pious meditation. 
 
 This occurred some time before this autumn Sunday, 
 but Mrs. Deans had suffered in silence since then. She 
 was prone to leave church with her temper thoroughly 
 on edge. Clem was surpassing himself that day : he wore 
 a long-tailed coat of the fashion of many years before, 
 and, when he arrived, which he did just as the first 
 psalm was announced, he deliberately stood up, and, pull- 
 ing round first one coat-tail and then the other, emptied 
 them of a multitude of small articles — tobacco, pipes, 
 balls of twine, lead sinkers, little twists of wire, a big 
 jack-knife, stray nails, and a varied assortment of bits of 
 iron and buttons. Having put these all on the seat beside 
 him, he deposited himself with the air of a man who puts 
 aside worldly things to listen to better. Hardly was he 
 seated before he imagined the flies were troubling him. 
 He made several spasmodic slaps at his bald head, and then 
 drawing forth his handkerchief, folded it carefully in four 
 and laid it on the top of his head. Thus adorned, he 
 rose to sing, knelt to pray, and finally listened with rever- 
 ential attention to the sermon. 
 
 "Few are thy days, and full of woe, 
 O man, of woman born ; 
 Thy doom is written, ' Dust thou ftrt 
 
 A«4 Bbftlt tg du§t return, ' " 
 
 1 I 
 
 t 
 
 k 
 
I5» 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 So they sang; and the wailing air, upborne by the harsh, 
 untrained voices, reverberated from the bare walls of the 
 church, its jangling cadence pierced by one pure and 
 bell-like voice, for Bing White, with the heart of a vul- 
 ture, had the voice of a lark. 
 
 One passing outside smiled — half amusedly, half sadly — 
 as he heard the singing, and went on his way with the 
 music following him in ever fainter notes, forcing itself 
 upon him. 
 
 On Sunday Myron Holder had her only relaxation. 
 Her grandmother, preserving the prejudices of the little 
 Kentish village from which she had come, detested all 
 other religions save the Episcopal. Her folks had all 
 been strong for Church and State, and she scorned the idea 
 of going to the Methodist church, or, as she contemptu- 
 ously said, "to chapel." Her vocabulary knew no more 
 derisive epithet than " a Methody. " This in itself was 
 enough to isolate the Holders in the midst of a community 
 that regarded Episcopalians as being " next door to out-and- 
 out Catholics," and Catholics as surely doomed. As Mrs. 
 Holder did not go to church herself, neither did she allow 
 Myron to go after the work for the day was done, so 
 she was free to lavish her heart on her chikl. It was 
 her custom, whilst church was in and the streets empty, 
 to take the boy and go out into the fields or lanes with 
 him, severing herself from the house that had held such 
 agony for her and from the woman whose stinging tongue 
 kept her wound raw. Once with her boy — alone in the 
 air and sunshine — she gave herself up to introspectve 
 soul-searchings. Upon one side she set herself, and upon 
 the other all things good; in the great gulf between 
 there hovered the shade of the man to whom she owed her 
 piisery. Jn the abandonment of her self-abasen^ent, she did 
 
THE VtfTEMPERED WIND 
 
 tS3 
 
 not place herself even upon his level, whilst as for little 
 My — he shone amongst the holiest of those things to 
 which it seemed to her she was herself in such direct 
 opposition and contradiction. The great marvel of her 
 life was this child, who owed its existence to her. She 
 looked at it with eyes of adoration — touched it almost 
 humbly, as the Madonna we are told of may have tended 
 the Christ-child on her breast. The child seemed to 
 mbody all the dead delight of her own girlhood, to have 
 irbed all the peace, all the calm., all the gayety she had 
 lost. Tliere seemed no varying moods to cross its baby 
 mind ; it was the embodiment of trusting love. 
 
 Myron, in the face of this miracle, this perfect blossom 
 which sunned itself in her eyes only and expanded beneath 
 her tenderness, was bewildered and amazed. She began 
 to ponder over the matter, and presently to wonder if there 
 was any phase of the entire situation that made her less 
 blameless — to ask herself in what way she could possibly 
 obliterate shame from her record for his sake. 
 
 ■pK 
 
 
 "Are your garments spotless? 
 Are they white as snow ? 
 Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" 
 
 
 The words came to her as a personal and crushing query 
 as the congregation energetically sang them. Little My 
 clapped his hands and laughed delightedly; the music 
 pleased him. So Myron stood outside until the voices died 
 away, and the murmur of prayer succeeded; then taking 
 My up in her arms, that they might make greater speed, 
 she went rapidly out of the village. She turned to her 
 left, and, going a short distance along the road, lifted My 
 over the fence into Mr. Warner's grass meadow. Through 
 the centre of this field ran a deep ditch, to carry off the 
 surface drainage in spring. Its course was marked by a 
 
 % 
 
 I 
 
154 
 
 ,TH£ UnTEMPERED WIND 
 
 thick growth of low-growing shrubs, among which grew 
 short stubby oaks, whilst here and there great graceful 
 elms sprang up in lofty columns, crowned with drooping 
 branches; parasitic vines, suckiug the life-juice of the 
 tree they adorned, crept up these elms; their delicate 
 Icsves, already scarlet, showed vividly against the gray 
 bark of the trees, and looked like thin streams of blood 
 trickling down. Particularly was this the case where, 
 upon one of the elms, the creeping-vine had reached the 
 point where a branch had been broken off by the wind. 
 The semblance was thus complete: there was the wound 
 — there the blood, and above, the sighing leaves de- 
 plored the pain. At the foot of this tree was a huge 
 and brightly green mound, which, as Myron approached, 
 seemed almost artificial, so close were the leaves set, so 
 impenetrably were the tendrils woven together; for this 
 mound was formed of two oak trees over which, completely 
 hiding them, grew a huge wild grape vine, forming a per- 
 fect canopy of dense green, and, more honest than the 
 vine that sapped the elm tree, the grapevine^ by its luxu- 
 riant growth and the vigor of its stem and branches, 
 seemed to proclaim its settled purpose to smother the trees 
 that supported it if possible. 
 
 To this Myron bent her footseps. Pressing into the 
 shrubs some distance below, she won her way through 
 them until she came to the foot of the elm tree, and 
 entered the green tent formed by the grapevine. Between 
 the trunks of the two scrubby oaks was a space of heavy 
 green grass, which, springing up before the vine leaves 
 had shut ofE the sun, kept green and fresh in their 
 shadow through all the heats of summer. Here she and 
 her child sat down ; they were completely shielded from 
 observation — the grape garlands at their backs, before 
 them the masses of shrubs on the other side of the ditch. 
 
THE Ul^TEMPERED tVIND 
 
 '55 
 
 Myron took a biscuit from her pocket and gave it to tlie 
 boy, and then, clasping her hands about her knees, lost 
 herself in dreams. She had cast aside her sun-bonnet, and 
 the light, with difficulty piercing the shade, shone upon 
 her in pearly lights and gleams — a colder radiance than 
 shone elsewhere. 
 
 The soft characterless face of the young girl had been 
 frozen into the enforced calm of passionless despair. Her 
 face gave a strange impression, as of features that would 
 remain unchanged no matter how long time endured for 
 their possessor; as if the voice of pain and shame had 
 bade her life stand "till, nor evidence its aging in her 
 countenance. No network of wrinkles, no deep marks of 
 care, could have been half so sad as these youthful outlines 
 veiled by such grief. Her eyes were heavy; her mouth 
 would have been bitter, but that the patience of the 
 face belied all bitterness save that of self-contempt. Under- 
 neath this mask of arrested life, vivifying it with tragic 
 meaning and rendering it inexpressibly sad, burned an 
 intense suppressed expectancy, as of one who doth 
 
 "Espy 
 A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. " 
 
 « 
 
 This lent her face the artistic value of motive, and 
 transformed what might, without it, have been but a sad- 
 faced woman, such as the world holds in countless thou- 
 sands, into a creature of tragic force. 
 
 Myron pondered in the shadow, whilst her child played 
 at her side. It was very still. The child's soft breathing 
 as he plucked at the soft grass was the only sound that 
 broke the listening silence; opposite her was a little 
 maple tree; a single leaf near the top was whirling round 
 and round, caught in some miniature tempest that left 
 unmoved the leaves on either side. In the midst of uni- 
 
 
 -c 
 
 ^11 
 
 *¥ 
 
 Ik 
 
;l I 
 
 is6 
 
 fI/£ VnTEMPERI^D iVINV 
 
 versal calm, this lonely leaf was tossed and troubled, 
 singled out for unrest, as Myron Holder had been set apart 
 for pain. But Myron's thoughts were not upon the leaf, 
 albeit she saw it fluttering. She was struggling against a 
 futile wrath, which welled up in her heart and at times 
 nearly mastered reason — a hot rage against herself — Mm — 
 the village. Her cheeks flushed — her hands involuntarily 
 closed. 
 
 Why had this lot been meted out to her? In what 
 was she different from these other women whose fault had 
 been no less than hers? Why was continual bitterness 
 her portion whilst they dwelt at ease? Simply because, 
 though tardily, their children had been given a name. 
 She felt a bitter wish spring up within her breast that 
 all those jibing at her were such as she; that all those 
 cruel women might feel the touch of shame ; that they 
 might be brought low, and taste the bitter bread that was 
 her portion, and drink the cup they held to her lips. And 
 then she sank into an evil dream. In it she beheld herself 
 sitting in the judgment seat of respectability and meting 
 out judgment to those who so lately had been her judges; 
 for, in her dream, he had returned and justified her ; she 
 had risen, and all the rest had fallen ; and as they toiled 
 along the thorny path her feet had known, she beheld 
 herself pass by on the other side. How she would with- 
 draw from them (her eyes grew cold) ! How she would 
 avert her head (her lips were scornful) ! How she would 
 look them up and down with contemptuous condemnation, 
 and turn and whisper her verdict into willing ears. That 
 would bring the blood to their cheeks. That would — she 
 paused, arresting her thoughts with a sudden knowledge 
 of their shame ; the cold eyes filled with tears, the scornful 
 lips drooped and trembled ; she realized the horrible wick- 
 edness of her own thoughts — thoughts — no hope, she 
 
flt& VNTEAfPEHED WtNd 
 
 til 
 
 owned to herself, and crying aloud, "I am wicked, 
 shameless!" she flung herself upon her face in the grass 
 and wept out the bitterness of her soul. The child crept 
 to her side and strove to turn her face toward him ; she 
 kept it hidden, but stretched forth her arm and clasped 
 his little form. 
 
 My, frightened at the silence with which his overtures 
 were met and at his mother's unusual attitude, and shaken 
 by her sobs, began to cry. Myron roused herself, and 
 taking him in her arms, held him to her breast, rocking 
 back and forth in the abandonment of her grief. The 
 motion soothed and reassured the already drowsy child, and 
 in a few moments he slept, whilst his mother, stilling her 
 sobs that she might not disturb his slumber, bent above 
 him a face wrung by pain. 
 
 She mused over her late vision of retaliation. With 
 what cruelty had she hit upon the mode of showing her 
 revenge! Alas, the lesson had been well taught her, for 
 she had known the averted gaze, the scornful lip, the con- 
 temptuous regard. She had simply chosen those means 
 from which she herself had suffered most keenly. There 
 came back to her the memory of an early morning, when, 
 standing in the doorway, she had looked out into the 
 dawn and had peen 
 
 
 
 -I 
 
 £ iK«l 
 
 *'*| 
 
 " The horizontal suu 
 Heave his bright shoulders o'er the edge of the world, " 
 
 and had vowed herself to the service of others, and to the 
 atonement of her sin, and hoped for an early death. 
 
 Here, under the cold rays of the autumnal sun, and 
 abased before the memory of her late musings, she re- 
 newed those vows and scourged her soul with stripes of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 When My woke, they went forth from their refuge, 
 
rsi 
 
 TlfE UNTEMPERED WIUD 
 
 across tlio fields, up tlic street to the village; the streets 
 were empty. A shiinibliug figure in the distuuee, bespeak- 
 ing Clem Humphries by the lengtii of the coat-tails and the 
 thinness of the legs, was making toward tiie lake. Tt was 
 indeed Clem, going to indulge in a little surreptitious 
 sport as an antidote to the sermon. Clem looked upon 
 his churc;hgoing as one of his many professions, like the 
 making of wire snares uinl the digging of graves. 
 " Only," he said to himself as he rellectod upon the mat- 
 ter, "give me a grave to dig for choice." 
 
 Homer Wilson passed the church that day just as they 
 were singing that lugubrious paraphrase. He smiled a 
 little to himself, and went on, snying, "Very cheerful 
 that — very; but they haven't anymore idea of returning 
 to dust than I have, at least not for a while. " But it seemed 
 he could " t get beyond the echo of the singing. The 
 voices followed him far through the rarefied air; tlicre 
 came to him little snatches of the gloomy words, persist- 
 ently forcing themselves upon him. He quickened his 
 pace, and was soon beyond the farthest-reaching note, and 
 yet it seemed to vibrate in his ears. Once clear of the 
 village, he struck across country. 
 
 The sorrel showed red, the ragweed white, between the 
 short stalks of the yoilow stubble; here and there in the 
 lanes and by the gateways were spots of bright green 
 verdure, looking unhealthily brilliant among these dull 
 browns and yellows. 
 
 This was where the over-ripe grain, falling to earth, had 
 sprung up to wither at the touch of the first frost. 
 Homer frowned a little at this. It bespoke careless man- 
 agement, and the instinct of the farmer was strong in him ; 
 but his brow speedily cleared, for his thoughts were of far 
 other things. His walk was very silent; the eas li had 
 indeed "grown mute of song," and all these resting field ^ 
 
TIH'. iJf^TEMrEREn IV/JV/} 
 
 m 
 
 were duiii]); no crisping c'ri(;kct, no whirring insecst, no 
 singing birti, nothing <liriUirbe<l tho serenity of tliu hour. 
 It seomc'J a liiutus in tlio procosseH of nature — u suHponsion 
 of all activity, a breatiiless i)aiise of ecstasy or pain, like 
 the instant before a first kiss (;r the moment before a 
 linal fiirewell. 
 
 Unde»- those conditions tliought was easy, and Homer 
 went on and on, his mind dwelling upon the one all- 
 abaorbing theme. 
 
 "Myron — Myron," ho said once, aloud, but his voice 
 seemed at fret with the quietude, and he walked on 
 swiftly, to escape its cheerless echo. Tresently he found 
 himself entering the woodlaiul, and knew he was a full ten 
 miles from Jamestown. A straight course through the 
 woodland brought him to the margin of the lake, which 
 bayed in here in a sharp curve. 
 
 Close to the margin lay great prostrate logs, whitened 
 by wind and weather till they looked like huge }»leached 
 bones. Beyond these were stones and a narrow strip of 
 gravelly bea h, broken here and there by boulders, against 
 which the water lapped softly in a thousand ripples, wear- 
 ing away the rock into tiny cells, and honey-combing them 
 with gentle but resistless touches. Stretching out into the 
 water, a succession of large stones showed their stubborn 
 heads, leading by irregular stejis out to where the last one, 
 large enough to be a tiny rocky islet, showed two feet 
 high above the encircling water. 
 
 Homer made his way across these perilous stepping- 
 stones, until he reached the largest; sitting down, he sank 
 into a reverie so profound that he scarcely seemed to 
 breathe. His face grew pale as he sat there minute after 
 minute, the water lap-lapping among the rocks, the trees 
 silent behind him, tho sky mute above. Once he mur- 
 mured a few words, paraphrased with no thought of irrev- 
 
 m 
 
 % 
 
f6d 
 
 TUB UI^TEUfPEfiED Wtl^0 
 
 erenoo: "As u Ijimb before its sheuriT is dunib, so shef 
 opened not lier mouth." Jlis voice fsilteretl in what might 
 have been a sob, but was resolutely forced back. 
 
 The sun began to fall behind the trees before Homer 
 rose. As lie did so, ho cast a look at the rock upon which 
 he had been resting ; there, caught in a crevice, lay an old- 
 fashioned bullet. Ho picked it up and looked at it lying in* 
 his palm. One could scarcely imagine it speeding through 
 the air upon a hurtful mission. It had wandered on to 
 find a victim, until, its impetus spent, it had fallen inglo- 
 riously to lie upon this rock, mocked by the sunlight which 
 it had been meant to darken forever for some living 
 creature. Homer slipped it into his pocket and began to 
 make his way shoreward, leaping lightly from stone to stone. 
 As he sprang to land again, he said between his teeth, " I'd 
 like to hear any she-cat in the crowd open her lips to my 
 wife !" It will be seen his reverie had developed its subject. 
 
 Homer held his way home happily, his eyes alight, his 
 face aglow with his old generous spirit. He was once more 
 the Homer of the past. Realizing this, he recognized the 
 debt he owed Myron Holder, and paid homage to that 
 strong soul whoso mute endurance of ignominy and 
 betrayal had shamed his own sleeping soul into life. It is 
 plain to us that Myron Holder's shame was Homer Wil- 
 son's salvation. It is an ugly thought, but inevitable, that 
 such instances may not be rare. But may not that virtue 
 we hold "too high and good for human nature's daily 
 food" — may not even that be bought too dear? What an 
 ugly complexion it would put upon our intolerant atti- 
 tude to those fallen ones, if we dreamed for one moment 
 that our immaculate virtue was preserved by their vice ! 
 It would be hard to ask us to renounce heaven, but if 
 heaven for one meant hell for another, it were at least well 
 for us not to blow the fire. 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 i6i 
 
 Kut Homer Wilson was not thinking of any generaliza- 
 tions; ho was simply concerned with the deht he owed 
 Myron Holder and how to pay it; for, and be it told with 
 no thought of disparaging Homer Wilson, ho felt ho 
 would bestow an inestimable benetit upon Myron Holder 
 by making her his wife. He believed he would, at one 
 blow, free her from tho shackles of shame. He never 
 thought of the woman-soul that strove to justify itself by 
 rigid adherence to those vows that had seemed so sacred, 
 uttered, as they were, by lips that were almost divino to 
 the listening heart they had betrayed. 
 
 It must be rememl)ered that Homer was nothing but a 
 plain countryman. It was therefore natural that he 
 should look ujion himself somewhat in the light of ij, deliv- 
 erer when he considered himself in relation to Myron; and 
 yet, inarticulate but existent, there was a hesitancy in 
 his heart, not born of self-conceit or paltry self-seeking, 
 but rooted in the knowledge of his own weakness in time 
 of trial. But he put aside all this; and as he pushed on 
 towards Jamestown mused happily upon tho happiness 
 that was his, for he loved Myron Holder. Poor Homer! 
 
 " Whoso encamps 
 To take a fancied city of delight, 
 Oh, what a wretch is he ! " 
 
 i 
 
 i\ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " For thy life shall fall as a leaf, and be shed as the rain ; 
 
 And the veil of thine head shall he grief, and the crown shall be pain.^ " 
 
 It was late autumn. The grapes were all cut, although 
 their aroma still filled the air, for stray bunches, super- 
 jripened by the frost, hung visible pow upon the leafless 
 

 i6a 
 
 THE UNTEMPRRED WIND 
 
 stems where they had been concealed by the foliage from the 
 cutters. The late apples were all picked, and in the 
 orchards were great piles of new barrels ready to be filled. 
 
 Bright green fields checkered the face of the sombre 
 countryside with vivid squares, showing the advance of 
 the fall-sown wheat. The chestnut-burs had opened in 
 the woods, and the hickory-nuts were strewn thick beneath 
 the trees. All the boys in Jamestown had brdwn-stained 
 fingers, from the shelling of walnuts and butternuts. The 
 Indian corn was being cut and bound into tent-shaped 
 shocks, so that the fields had the appearance of a plain, 
 set thick with tiny wigwams. Now and then, along the 
 roads, a great wagon passed, piled high with apples, wind- 
 falls and culls going to the cider mills. Their drivers went 
 out to Ezra Harmon's and loitered about in his big barn 
 where the cider press stood, and watched their apples 
 poured into the wide hopper, heard them grinding and 
 groaning between the wheels, and saw their juices drain 
 out through the clean rye straw into the pails beneath. 
 
 People began to talk about the threshing of the grain, 
 to bank up their cellars, and to speak of the portents of a 
 severe winter. The leaves were all down. They lay a 
 foot deep along the roads, where the maples grew in regu- 
 lar avenues, and rustled, wind-blown, between the tree 
 trunks in the woodland. The squirrels skimmed about 
 in their eiforts to secure their winter hoard. In the 
 woods, great heaps of hickory-nui; hulls and emptied 
 chestnut-burs, showed where, with their sharp teeth and 
 persistent paws, they had removed the superfluous cover- 
 ing before storing away the nuts. 
 
 The horses were growing shaggy and the dogs* fur 
 lengthening. In short, winter was drawing near. 
 
 In Homer Wilson's orchard all was noise, confusion, and 
 Tfork, Homer Jiimself was packing the apples— putting 
 
m 
 
 msm 
 
 mmm 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 163 
 
 in a layer of newspapers, then carefully "laying" by hand 
 several rows of apples, before emptying in the pailfuls of 
 picked fruit that were brought to him, for the bottom of 
 a barrel in the orchard is the top of the barrel when it is 
 opened by the dealers. Next in order to Homer was Sam 
 AVarner, who was heading the barrels, the tap tapping 
 of his hammer ringing clear in the frosty air. Homer 
 sliouting out directions every now and then in a sepul- 
 chral voice from the depths of the barrel. There was a 
 great gathering in the orchard of the neighbors, for a fruit 
 dealer had bought up all the apples in Jamestown to send 
 to England, aiul they were to bo shipped by the car-load 
 upon a certain date. So, following the suggestion of the 
 buyer (to whom time meant money), they had agreed to 
 help each other with the fruit. This was not a usual cus- 
 tom in Jamestown ; there was too much jealousy to admit 
 of such interchange of labor. 
 
 It was Homer Wilson's benefit this day, and both out- 
 side in the orchard and within doors all was happy, hur- 
 rying confusion. There was nothing renuukable alx)ut 
 the day or the scene; but exactly a year after this, Homer 
 Wilson was to act in a somewhat different scene, and after 
 he played his part in that his neighbors recalled this day 
 "just a year ago." They said, " Who would have tiionght 
 it?" 
 
 Bing White was in the Wilson orchard, and Si AVarner, 
 pnd other of their cronies. No one ever expected Bing 
 to work ; his idleness was looked upon with tolerant 
 inuifff'rencc, a perilous indication in this neighborhood » 
 ?vherc to bo a hard worker and a good church-goer meant 
 perfection, and to fail in cither grace was to be utterly 
 Jost. People began to look at Bing White attentively now 
 and then, and shake their heads with ominous import, 
 for the S9n and heir of the Whites \vas daily becoming 
 
 \% 
 
 ■M 
 '*, 
 
 i\ 
 
 W^r 
 
 It U 
 
i64 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 \ 
 
 more elfish-looking, more ovil-cyed, more mocking of 
 speech, more stubborn of purpose. After racing here and 
 there over the orchard, he climbed (not without scratched 
 hands and torn clothes) into the heart of a juniper tree 
 that grew in the corner, and, hidden there, began to make 
 what was known among school children in Jamestown as a 
 *' wolf-bite" upon his arm. This he did simply by baring 
 the arm, putting his lips to the flesh, and sucking at it 
 until the blood showed in red pin-points at every pore; 
 this was a wolf-bite. There was a thread of savagery run- 
 ning through these Jamestown children — hardly one of 
 them but had a mark of this kind upon his arm. But 
 Bing White's meagre arms looked hideously repulsive — 
 like raw flesh almost — so completely was the skin disfig- 
 ured by liis vampire-like amusement. The fading marks 
 were of an ugly unhealthy color, like a livid bruise, the fresh 
 ones fierily encarnadined and inflamed ; for Bing pursued 
 this pastime to a perilous pitch. 
 
 Another custom indulged in every now and then by the 
 boys and girls in Jamestown was the making of " fox-bites," 
 which meant simply the rubbing with a moistened finger 
 of a spot upon the back of the hand until the skin was 
 worn away and a spot of red flesh left ; this was a fox- 
 bite — no cut, burn, or bruise took so long to heal, and in 
 the little schoolhouse there were always some of those 
 hungry -looking sores, attesting the perseverance and forti- 
 tude of the sufferers. Rather grewsome pastimes these 
 seem — sprung perhaps from some Indian custom, wit- 
 nessed by some early settler, described by him to his 
 l)rcathless circle of little ones, by them to be practised in 
 their play and perpetuJited in the mysterious manner that 
 makes a meaninjgjess mu^j^mery survive as a sacred rite. 
 
 Myron HoJ4p?''s grandrapther had been failing during 
 the entif^ summer. She sanjc rapidly as the autumA 
 
 -«gJ !B ^.ii i 
 
I 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 165 
 
 advanced, her strength ebbing as the days shortened. 
 Myron went no more to Mrs. Deans', but stayed at homo 
 to wait upon her grandmother. Tlie old woman was a 
 querulous invalid, Avitli no specific disease, only a gradual 
 decline of her vitality. Myron waited upon her untir- 
 ingly, giving her every possible comfort she could devise 
 out of their scanty means and her scantier knowledge. 
 IMtter as her grandmother's tongue had been, harsh as 
 had been her rule, Myron yet shrunk with a nick feeling 
 of defenselessness from the hour when that tongue would 
 be forever silenced, from the moment when, that rule 
 ceasing, she would be left rudderless. 
 
 In these days of autumn quietude, little My grew 
 dearer aiul dearer to his mother; she caught him to her in 
 the pauses of her work, to kiss him for a moment. 
 
 « 
 
 " O soft knees clinging, 
 O tender tread ings of soft feet, 
 Cheeks warm witli little kissings — 
 O child, child, what have we made each other?" 
 
 This was the translation of her heart's mute cry above 
 her boy. Myron Holder, denied the religion of those 
 about her, given no other in its place, founded for herself 
 a now sect, and created for herself a god, and the god was 
 this yellow-haired child, and the worship she accorded 
 him was expressed in every tender tendance of her loving 
 hand. He chattered away to her ceaselessly when he was 
 awake, and the echo of his uncertain tones mingling with 
 her grandmother's bitter words robbed them of their sting. 
 
 Mrs. Holder sank daily. Iler tongue was silent now, save 
 for murmurs of discontent or chiding, for her strength 
 did not permit of much speech ; but her eyes shone bale- 
 fully as they followed Myron's figure about the room; and 
 Bometiraes, when Myron bent over her, their depths were 
 
 ■■■ Wa 
 
 
<: 
 
 1 66 
 
 r//E UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 ii 
 
 
 lighted by malignant mirth, fiw her thoughts were turned 
 to that little plot in the gravcyurd where two tiny pine 
 stakes stood now, marking a new boundary. 
 
 The day the first snow fell, Mr«. Holder's n\U\d, hitherto 
 fixed solely upon her sorrows and Myron '« ahan\e, began to 
 wander. She too, like her dead son, began to Hpoak of Eng- 
 land, but not so sweetly as he. Old bits of village scandal, 
 flashes of old spites against this one or that, the expression 
 of old dislikes, broke from her lips with painful force, 
 together with reflections upon household affairs and daily 
 needs, which told that she was in spirit back amid the old 
 manners and the old people. 
 
 One day Myron watched her fall asleep, and then crept 
 out to the kitchen to steal a look at the boy, who was also 
 sleeping. She returned in an instant, but in that time a 
 change had come to her grandmother's bewildered brain. 
 She was awake again, and her eyes met Myron's with cruel 
 scorn, as she paused involuntarily upon the threshold of 
 the bedroom ; it was an expression that spoke not only of 
 dislike, but loathing, fury, hatred. Myron would have 
 approached to replace the coverlets that were falling from 
 the couch, but her grandmother grew furious if she 
 advanced a step. „ 
 
 "Out of my sight, Myron Kind!" she cried. "Out wi' 
 ye! AVhat? Ye'll follow my son within his own doors, 
 to win him? Out, you! Go — on — out " , 
 
 Myron retreated, seeing her grandmother was confusing 
 her with the memory of her mother. Thrice she tried to 
 enter, and thrice withdrew before the rage that seemed to 
 shake the sick woman's frail form so cruelly. Then, feel- 
 ing she must have aid, Myron hurried to the street, and 
 going to the nearest house, which happened to be Mrs. 
 Warner's, knocked at the door. 
 
 *'Will joii come ovfr?" shi? Lal<!, when ^J^ra. Wariiej 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 167 
 
 answered her knock. " Grandmother's out of her head ; she 
 thinks I'm my mother, and won't let me go near her." 
 
 "Poor ohl woman!" said Mrs. Warner, catching at a 
 clean white apron. " Poor old woman! You've made her 
 life a burding to her between you, I'll be bound." 
 
 In a few moments they were in the cottage again, and 
 Mrs. Warner installed herself in the sickroom, somewhat 
 disconcerted because Mrs. Holder persisted in calling her 
 "Bet," but delighted that circumstances had brought her 
 to the front at such a time, for Mrs. Warner was one of 
 the matrons of the village who, not yet attained to the 
 elect, like Mrs. Deans, Mrs. White and Mrs. Wilson, was 
 yet far in advance of the young wives in experience, and 
 thought herself quite capable of sustaining any responsi- 
 bility. 
 
 To be present and assisting at the coming of a life 
 or the passing of a soul was the highest excitement and 
 most precious pleasure these women knew ; but this was 
 a height to be attained only after many years of wife- 
 hood. A' d wh»t novitiate of suffering experience — years, 
 knowledge — miglit fitly propart; ///f these mysteries! The 
 taking up and laying dow/i of the burden, the brginning 
 and the ending of i\w. spinniu /— for, from onr first 
 moments, our liaf/^l* »re bound to the loom; we must 
 weavu our own webs, but Vn,iii d(4//s^ out the thread and 
 Circumstance dyes the fabric, ikA as ^f will, but as Des- 
 tiny /h'signs, and Death spares no pattern, however lovely, 
 but stops the shuttle when owt reel of thread is spun. 
 
 By what holy purification, by what fastings, by what 
 soul-searc})ings may we prepare to enter Nature's holy of 
 holies? Surely, ere entering the meanest hut of clay and 
 wattles wherein life springs or withers, we should put the 
 shoes from off our feet, 
 
 Uut of aU this Wn. WiU'ypr recked }iothin|^. It waji upji 
 
 25 
 
 1 
 
 "11 
 
 ■^ ili' i n i rtlff 
 
i68 
 
 THE r VTEMPERED WIND 
 
 the spirit she was interedted in, but the body it was casting 
 olf ; the gasping lips, and not the vital breath that already 
 almost eluded them. 
 
 Mrs. Holder sank rapidly. The women began to gather 
 in; Mrs. Warner maintained her plane as chiefest in the 
 synagogue, and put aside, with judicial firmness, all hands 
 but her own. Most of the women congregated in the 
 kitchen, where they eyed the scanty furniture and whispered 
 of Myron's hard-hear tedness, for she did not weep. She 
 was feeling bitterly her impending loneliness and isola- 
 tion, for deep down in her heart there yet lived that mar- 
 vellous tenderness for kith and kin that takes so much to 
 kill. Of a verity, "blood is thicker than water." The 
 woman dying so fast in that inner room was her grand- 
 motherj the woman who had borne for her father what she 
 had borne for My. She clasped My in her arms and hid 
 her face in his curls. Mrs. Holder's voice came fitfully 
 through the half-closed door to the women" outside. Mrs. 
 Warner came to the door just as Mrs. Deans entered the 
 kitchen, hurrying in from the outer air, and bringing a 
 new excitement with her to intensify the suspense. Mrs. 
 Warner beckoned and whispered : 
 
 "She's speaking of hearing music and singing, now; 
 they mostly don't last long after that." 
 
 " They," not " we" ! Oh, strange race of dying people, that 
 are set apart from all men by death's approach, that we 
 never identify with ourselves! Oh, weird world to which 
 ihey go, which doubtless we shall never enter! Oh, dreary 
 passage they must tread, upon whose threshold we shall 
 never stand! Oh, awful pang of severance they must 
 enduf 9, which we will never have to bear — and yet 
 
 "Fear not then, Spirit, Death's disrobing hand; 
 'Tis but the voyage of a clarksomo hour ; ) 
 
 The traasieut gulf— dream of a atartling sleep !** 
 
THE UN TEMPER ED tV/ND 
 
 l6() 
 
 Mrs. Deans and Mrs. Warner entered the room. Mrs. 
 I)eans' experienced eye told her liow nearly time was ended 
 for the dying woman. She turned to the kitchen. 
 
 " You better come in, Myron," she said. 
 
 Myron, with her child in her arms, entered, fearful yet 
 of her grandmother denying her; but the old woman's 
 eyes held no knowledge of her presence now. They wan- 
 dered from one to the other of the throng of women im- 
 partially, and then as they fastened upon the child and 
 lightened, as eyes might do which behold long- lost ones 
 once dear, she held out wavering arms to the child. 
 
 "Jed, my own little lad," she said. 
 
 >ryron went swiftly forward and laid My by her grand- 
 mother's side. Ho nestled to her lovingly, and she mut- 
 tered tender words to him, calling him "Jed" and caressing 
 him with fluttering fingers. He clasped his warm arms 
 about heis, in which the blood was already cliilling, and 
 smilingly fell asleep, and a little later sleep came to her 
 also. 
 
 It was the night after her grandmother's death, and 
 Myron Holder, with a sinking heart, had watched the 
 form of the last visitor pass out of the gate. The early 
 dusk of winter enveloped the house and promised a long, 
 dreary night — anight of terror she was to endure alone, for 
 the Jamestown women had gone each to her own house 
 and left her with her dead and her child. Her imagina- 
 tion, stored with transmitted superstitions, peopled each 
 familiar corner with horrors. She saw in every flickering 
 light a death fire, in every shadow a shroud ; each breath 
 of wind spoke of ghostly visitants, each sound seemed to 
 herald <t light. She lit the lamp in the kitchen, and pro- 
 ceeded to u/idress My and put him in his cradle for the 
 night, pausing to listen between each movement. 
 
 She had been anticipating and fearing this ordeal for 
 
 i ■ 
 
 # 
 

 til 
 
 I ! 
 I I 
 
 
 I ! 
 
 tJO 
 
 THE VNTEMPEIHED WIN/) 
 
 days; now that it had come upon her, she sickened at 
 heart. 
 
 The definite darkness of night set in, and the child 
 slept. She began to hear soft stirrings succeeded by shud- 
 dering silences. Beset by a thousand fears, she pursued 
 the worst possible plan : she constrained herself to abso- 
 lute inaction, and sat — her hands clasped in her lap — an 
 image of fear. The silence about her gradually gave way 
 to a babel of weird voices, through which there suddenly 
 sounded the muffled pat-patting of ligh;: footsteps. As 
 she became conscious of this definite sound, all the imag- 
 inary murmurs died, and she found herself in deep 
 silence, broken only by the muffled repetition of the soft 
 sound that chilled her heart. This noise, which she 
 recognized as actually existent, stood out against the back- 
 ground of tlioHO imaginary fears with friglitful distinct- 
 \\\sm. All the time of fear which had ])as8ed seemed now 
 to have been but an interval of llHtoiiIng for vvliiit bad come. 
 
 At this moment, the flame of tiie little lamp which had 
 been for some time b'lniing palely suddenly flared up — 
 onco — twice; grew for an instant bluish, then went out, 
 leaving her, in the acnu) of her terror, In durknoss. N)ie 
 closed her eyes and liHteluul to the soft sounds — coming 
 now at intervalM (nily, but linked eaoh to each by fear of 
 the lust and antici])ation of the next, forming a chain 
 that bound Iht in the Place of Fear. But at. last silence! 
 fell again, a silence most horrible. She felt impelled l.o 
 o])en her <!yeM, and did ho, gazing with wide lids straight 
 into the gloom; there was nothing Miere, For a moment 
 her heart was reassured: then came the thought of that 
 open door l;i?hind her; slowly she turned her head. 
 Does any one live who has not, at one time or other, recog- 
 nized that it may require, under certain circumstances, 
 the supremest effort of will to look l>ehind one? 
 
TITE UNTEAfPEKED W/ND 
 
 tit 
 
 That effort Myron IloUler made, but sustained tlio gaze 
 but a moment; for, gleaming from the death chamber, nay, 
 from the very couch of death, shone two balls of livid 
 liglit. With a moan of extreme terror, Myron slid from 
 her chair and, catching at the boy's cradle, fell helpless 
 to the floor. 
 
 Homer Wilson did not stand long knocking at the cot- 
 tage door: his heart misgave him when he saw there was 
 no light. Homer had returned from town late that night; 
 his mother had told him of Mrs. Holder's death. She said 
 no word of Myron, and Homer forebore to question. As he 
 passed his father's md mother's room that night, he 
 heard his mother close the shutters and say: 
 
 "It's a mighty spooky night. I wouldn't like to be in 
 Myron Holder's shoes, a-settin' death-watch all alone over 
 a woman I had worried into her grave." 
 
 Homer's heart stood still. Could it be possible those 
 women had left Myron alone? Surely not I When it 
 was customary for five or six to go and stay over night in 
 the house where <leath was? Surely not! And yet — 
 "The hags!" said Homer to himself, and went down 
 stairs. 
 
 |fe was soon on the road, with a lantern. He recalled 
 tlio iUmiU of liis sister, and remembered how the neighbor 
 women had sat whispering together in the n-iHiantfy 
 lighterl kitchen, brewing tea for themsc^lves, and now and 
 then stealing on lip-t(;o to look in upon the silent one. 
 
 Arriving ui: the gate, the darkness of the cottage gave 
 color to all his vague f(turs of ill to Myron. Ah lie rjrogsed 
 the little garden, slinking rats, drawn by thejr ^IiomMhIi 
 instincts to the house of ilmih, fled before the li^lik, but 
 pausing as he frmmiMl^ followinl to the threshold, their evil 
 broath white in the frosty nir, their pljosplioresoerifc eyes 
 gleaming in the dark. 
 
fji 
 
 THE UMTEMPERED WIND 
 
 I 
 
 When he saw Myron, lying prostrate and silent, his lirst 
 sensation was one of relief, lie hiid feared that hla- had 
 fled into the desolate night; he realized that she had been 
 frightened and had fainted. Raising her in his arms, he 
 called her name softly. Her senses were already reassert- 
 ing themselves. She soon stirred, looking up at him with 
 eyes of blank terror, which faded slowly into wonderment 
 as she recognized him. She held her hands up to him, 
 and pressed closer to the shelter of his breast. He cauglit 
 both her hands in one of })is, and groped for a chair 
 with the other. In turning, liis eyes caught a vision of 
 the open door of the death chamber. He saw dimly the 
 couch, with its rigid burden, and saw those dreadful glar- 
 ing eyes. For a moment, he caught his breath. IMyron, 
 seeing the direction of his gaze, clung shudderingly to 
 him, and hid jr face on his arm. An instant more, and 
 Homer perceived the outline behind those glear ing spots. 
 
 " It's a brute of a cat," he said; and Myron, understand- 
 ing all at once the origin of the sound, broke down in sobs 
 of relief. She caught up the lantern, whilst he Went in and 
 seized the bristling creature, crouching upon the corpse, 
 and flung it out among its lurking companions. 
 
 " How is it you arc in the dark?" asked Homer. 
 
 "The lamp went out," she answered. "There's some oil 
 in the cupboard." 
 
 He held the lantern, whilst she filled and re-lit the lamp. 
 Then he explained his presence. 
 
 " How good you are!" said Myron. 
 
 "Good?"* he said, his eyes fastening upon her forlorn 
 figure bending over the cradle, for My was stirring. 
 
 "Good?" Then he burst forth, "What beasts these 
 women are to leave you alone!" 
 
 " It was dreadful," she said, trembling. " The darkness, 
 the noises, the loneliness— those eyes, and her!" looking 
 
 y' 
 
Ttl^ UN TEMP EKED U IND 
 
 ili 
 
 towards the inner room. Tlien siuldeiily she caught his 
 sleeve: "Don't leave me till dayliglit, will you? Oh, 
 don*t! I can't stay alone; I am frightened! 1 — oh, 
 don''t leave me, will you?" 
 
 "Leave you? Of course not. I wish- — ," ho chocked 
 himself uhruptly. It was on his ton^^nio to say, "I wish I 
 might icver leave you," hut a sense of lier ahsolute isolation 
 smote him so keenly that the words stuck in his throat. 
 Had he spoken theii, how many things might have been* 
 dii!ereii , lor Myron, in her utter loneliness, was ready to 
 cling to any outstretched hand. 
 
 " I'm going to make you some tea," he said. 
 
 (loing to the bedroom door, ho dosed it, took his lan- 
 tern out to the littlf^ "lean-to" Avoodslied, and split up some 
 bits of lightwood ; with these he roused tht dying lire to 
 life. With much precision, he put on tho kettle, and 
 when it boiled asked in a matter-of-fact wuv for the tea. 
 
 Myron rose, with My half awake in her arms, and went to 
 tho pantry-shelf to get it. It wha chill there: -^he wrapped 
 her apron about My's bare toes. Ho soon went to sleep 
 again, and Myron Holder and Homer Wilson sat down 
 together to drink tho tea. Her eyes rested upon iiim, as if 
 Avell content, and he noted this with delight. The ti th 
 was they dared not yet stray elsewliere, lest tho spectres ho 
 had banished might jibber at her from the dusky corners 
 of tho room. 
 
 Love is served on strange altars, and the sacrifice of a 
 heart was again proffered in that lonely cottage, whose 
 atmosphere was chill with the dreadful influence of death, 
 whose silence was broken by tho soft breathing of- a child 
 of shame. Homer looked upon the woman of his heart 
 and loved her. When the first breaking of the skies 
 ushered in the dawn, ho left. 
 
 The women returned early, for it was considered an 
 
 
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 THE VNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
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 honorable thing to have the ordering of a funeral — to be 
 able to speak ex cathedra of the mode of procedure. 
 
 Mr. Muir came. The last ghastly toilet for the grave 
 was made. Nothing remained but to wait for the morrow, 
 when the funeral was to be. 
 
 The women looked at her curiously when they came that 
 morning, and Mrs. Warner expressed the sentiment of the 
 rest when she said : " That Myron Holder is bad clean 
 through. Any other woman would have been drove crazy 
 last night; but look at her! She's a hardened one!" 
 Mrs. Warner did not consider that this speech cast any 
 reflection upon herself and her friends who had subjected 
 a woman to an ordeal calculated to drive her crazy. 
 
 Night sank slowly down; and once more the women, 
 departing, cast wondering glances at Myron's pale face, 
 steadfast in the knowledge that she would have some one 
 near her to chase those horrid visions away. 
 
 When Homer arrived, she was sitting beside her sleeping 
 child, sewing upon an old black skirt of hev grandmother's 
 that some of the women, with an eye to funeral effects, 
 had pinned up to suit her shorter stature, and bade her 
 sew, that she might be properly clothed on the morrow. 
 The work was nearly done, and the needle hung loosely be- 
 .tween her listless lingers. Her eyes ached for lack of sleep ; 
 every joint trembled from fatigue; every nerve tingled 
 from overstrain. 
 
 She greeted Homer more by a gesture than by speech, 
 and perceiving her exhaustion, he insisted upon her rest- 
 ing. She made some demur, but he overruled it with a 
 word. She rose a little unsteadily, and bent over My. 
 
 "Where do you want him taken?" asked Homer, and 
 lifted him in his arms. 
 
 She led the way to the little bedroom off the kitchen, 
 opposite to the one in which her grandmother lay. 
 
Tlt^ UI^TEMPEKED IV/JVP 
 
 tii 
 
 Homer laid My down upon tlie blue and white checked 
 counterpane — spun in England by Myron's mother. 
 
 " Good-night!" he said. " Uood-night, Myron !" 
 
 " Good-night !" she answered in almost a whisper, for she 
 was inexpressibly weary. Almost before he had reached 
 tiie next room, she had si^nk down upon her bed 
 
 It was broad daylight when Myron awoke and rose, 
 chilled and stiff. Utter weariness had overcome the discom- 
 fort of her cramped position; slie had slept as she had 
 first thrown herself down; she shivered as one does who 
 has slept in his clothes. The morning air was cold, and 
 the window-panes glistened with frost. 
 
 Hurrying out to the kitchen, she found Homer had 
 done what he could for her comfort before leaving. The 
 stove held a glowing mass of hardwood embers; evidently 
 the fire had been well banked up before he stole away at 
 dawn. The kettle stood singing on the stove; the table 
 was drawn up by the fire, and awkwardly set out with 
 dishes for her solitary breakfast. 
 
 I- 
 
 The hour of the funeral was at hand. 
 
 Mr. Muir, determined to have nothing to blame himself 
 for in regard to his bargain, had come dressed in hisoflicia] 
 broadcloth. His horses stood outside the gate in all the 
 panoply of sable plumes and black fly-netting, the latter 
 surely superfluous, but ornamental. These horses looked as 
 if they had never appeared before a less stately equipage than 
 a hearse, yet every one had seen them pass that very morn- 
 ing dragging an unpaintcd lumber-wagon. They looked 
 as if they had never known a baser burden than " stained 
 cherry with mahogany finish, plated handles and bevelled 
 glass," yet an unplaned pine box had constituted their load 
 that morning; and as they passed, each on-looker had said 
 to the other, "There goes old Mrs. Holder's shell." 
 

 i ! 
 
 176 
 
 THE UMTEMPERED IV/NI) 
 
 "Who's Myron Holder goin' with?" said Gamaliel 
 Deans to his mother, as they drove along to the village 
 the day of Mrs. Holder's funeral. 
 
 " I don't know," answered ^\is mother. " Mrs. AVarner's 
 took a mighty lot to do with everything, so like's not 
 she'll take her." 
 
 " Seems to me Mrs. Warner's been putting herself for- 
 ward some," suggested Gamaliel, di^olomatically. 
 
 "Indeed she has," agreed Mrs. Deans; "enough sight 
 more'n she's got any call for — considerin' all things." 
 
 They passed the little graveyard, silent beneath the light 
 snow. 
 
 "Is there any track?" asked Mrs. Deans, looking across 
 the white expanse, with her hands shielding her rheumy 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said Gamaliel, "the shell was took out this 
 morning ; you can see it from here. " He gazed interestedly 
 across to where the corner of an unpainted pine box 
 showed as the terminus of an ugly black track which the 
 wheels of Mr. Muir's wagon had scarred upon the snow. 
 
 They drove on without further speech. The first snow 
 had fallen in the night. It lay now white and untrodden, 
 over field and lane, over bush and tree, over house and 
 barn. The air seemed spaced in vistas of cloudy hite- 
 ness, a purity which suffused itself in the atmosphere, and 
 seemed to fill it with particles of impalpable white dust 
 that the motionless air held in suspension. The trees 
 glistened in the sun, whose rays were silver instead of gold. 
 All the world was rimed with hoar frosts-nature presenter', 
 in beautiful parable, the story of the iron hand in the vel- 
 vet glove ; for, despite the whiteness, the softness, and the 
 silvery sun, it was intensely cold. 
 
 Presently through this white world there wended the 
 gloomy little funeral, the more gloomy for the lack of any 
 
5^ 
 
 TJIE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 177 
 
 real grief. They reached the graveyard, where gaped an 
 ugly brown gash, beside which the earth lay in frozen 
 clods. 
 
 Mr. Prew's brief prnyer was ended, and he departed, 
 stamping his feet. There was the bustle as the coffin was 
 lowered; then, one by one, the onlookers straggled away; 
 one by one the vehicles departed, until Myron Holder was 
 left alone by the grave — yet not wholly so, for My shivered 
 in her aims, and old Clem Humphries was hastily pushing 
 the earth atop the coffin. And presently Myron became 
 aware that there was another patient one also, for Homer 
 Wilson came to her side, carrying a buffalo robe in his 
 arms. He laid it down on the frozen ground, and, taking 
 her arm, drew her gently towards it. She looked mute 
 thanks to him from eyes round which the slow tears lin- 
 gered, rimming them with grief. He came nearer and 
 hold out his arms to My, but the child cowered closer to 
 his mother, and looked at Homer from the vantage of her 
 shoulder. 
 
 The little group embodied all the stages in life's progres- 
 sion. There was the child, cowering in a world already 
 cold to him. There was the woman, bearing in her coun- 
 tenance the ineffaceable traces of woman's agony. There 
 was the young man, strong in the choice of will and heart; 
 the old man, drawing the last coverlet over the last sleep; 
 and, severed from these by only a short depth of kindred 
 substance, she who had passed, her bed rapidly rounding 
 to a giave. 
 
 At last, Clem began i)atting the mound with the back 
 of his spade ; his work was nearly done. Each ccholess blow 
 struck upon Myron's heart; and, thinking of the shame 
 she had wrought the dead woman, she dealt herself those 
 blows that she had been accustomed to endure froi^ her 
 grandmother's bitterness. 
 
 
 v^ 
 
i -ij'jl ' U«iJ ' Sflffl?ll 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
 178 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 Homer broke the silence, which seemed deepened instead 
 of lightened by the thud-thud of the spade. 
 
 "Come, Myron," he said; "you better go home." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, heavily, " I may as well;" and she 
 turned to the footpath that led across the graveyard to the 
 road. 
 
 " Not that way," said Homer; "the horses are here." 
 
 "The horses!" she said; "the horses! Is your mother 
 waitin' for me?" 
 
 "No," he answered, a little grimly. "No, she isn't; 
 but I am, and the horses are." 
 
 He recalled the stormy little scene his mother had made 
 but a little while ago : her contemptuoi.a words when he 
 asked her to wait; the scornful and bitter accusation she 
 had flung at him \ it had leaped forth from her lips like 
 an arrow held long at the bowstring. It was barbed with 
 all the poison of accumulated suspicion, and winged by 
 the impulse of unreasoning anger, such as springs within 
 mean breasts against hands that succor them; but it had 
 reacted swiftly upon herself, for at the words something 
 came into her son's eyes not good to see — a blending of 
 surprise, indignation, denial, that paled his face, and made 
 it implacable. Before it Mrs. Wilson faltered in her 
 tirade, wavered in her steps, and finally turned and, cross- 
 ing quickly to where Gamaliel was waiting for his mother, 
 was soon seated with Mrs. Deans in the back seat. 
 Gamaliel backed his horses slowly out of the throng, and 
 they drove away. 
 
 The incident had not been unnoticed, but no comment had 
 been made, although meaning looks, of which Homer now 
 knew the interpretation, were exchanged. He had seen 
 some such looks pass between his neighbors of late. A hot, 
 impotent rage filled his heart against the false position in 
 Fhich be was placed^ but it did not alter Jjis determinatioji^ 
 
THE UN TEMPER ED IVEVD 
 
 179 
 
 "Are you waiting for anything, Homer?" Mr. Warner 
 could not refrain from calling out before starting. 
 
 " Yes. What of it?" said Homer, turning round 
 sharply. His brows were knit, his lips firm; an interro- 
 gation, not defiant, but direct, was expressed in every line 
 of face and figure. " Yes," he said again, and unmis- 
 takable interrogation this time made the answer a question. 
 
 Mr. Warner snook the reins hastily over his horses. 
 
 "Oh, nothing — nothing," he said, "I was only won- 
 dering." 
 
 Homer turned away abruptly. " Better keep his wonder- 
 ment to himself," he muttered, with a frown. "They 
 
 better all keep their amazement to themselves or " 
 
 his hand clinched in ^ very suggestive fashioi?. Then he 
 had gone for the buffalo robe for Myron to stand on, and 
 as he gazed at her forlorn figure his anger changed to 
 deep and abiding pity, to stern and righteous wrath. So 
 Homer drove Myron home to the cmjity cottage, with 
 Clem Humphries sitting in the bottom of the wagon, with 
 his feet dangling over the tailboard, a quid of tobacco in 
 his mouth, peace within his bosom. Clem was, as he 
 expressed it, "a dollar to the good," and he was meditating 
 unctuously upon the quantity of good Canadian Rye he 
 could buy with the money, and speculating where he 
 could beg, borrow, or (be it admitted) steal a jug. He had 
 no mind to pay for one out of the dollar. 
 
 Mr. Prew, the minister, passed. He regarded Homer and 
 Myron with incredulous horror, and returned Homer's 
 somewhat brusque greeting in a very scandalized • way. 
 Clem took off hij hat with a labored flourish; Mr. Prew 
 returned his salute with condescending affability, and 
 drove on to Mrs. Deans', where, presently, over hot soda- 
 biscuits, doughnuts, and other good things, he praised 
 Plem as " nn humble, but ver^ worthj old mao^ " 
 
 m 
 
 ■- (ii 
 
I 
 
 i8o 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 "Humbugging old hypooiite!" ejrculiitcd tlic "worthy 
 old man," as soon as his pastor w;i out of l)earing. " Mis- 
 eiable, designing old cuss he is. I'd like to use him for 
 bait!" Then this humble follower relapsed into his 
 reverie upon the modus 02)erandi of getting a jug. 
 
 No other words were uttered during the ride. Ilr.iier 
 and Myron were both silent; botli knew that Homer had 
 flung down the gauntlet to the gossips; both realized the 
 import of the step ; both pondered upon its significance 
 from the village point of \\qv. 
 
 Clem jumped off nimbly when they were opposite Mr. 
 Muir's verdant veranda. 
 
 "You are not angry with mc, Myron?" asked Homer. 
 
 " Oh, no," she cried; "you are so good to me." 
 
 "I'm good to you for my own sake," he answered. 
 "Don't you see that? Don't you suppose I am looking 
 out for my own happiness?" He paused. "Don't you 
 think I am?" he resumed, an insistent note in his voice. 
 
 They were near the cottage, but she felt obliged to answer. 
 
 "But, Homer," she said, "I have no happiness to give 
 anyone! What return can I make for this sacrifice?" 
 
 They were opposite the cottage. Clustered heads in the 
 window of the Warner house showed how their return had 
 been waited for; Homer discerned the white muslin rose 
 in his mother's black bonnet, and if the sight made his 
 face hard, it softened the touch of his hands as he lifted 
 Myron down from the high seat, and then put the boy in 
 her arms. 
 
 The little gate stood leaning against the fence. It had 
 been lifted off its hinges, to leave free room for the coffin 
 and its bearers to pass. Myron paused between the gate- 
 posts; Homer bent above hor. 
 
 "I will tell you some da^; ' iie 3^id; " what you can give 
 

 CiLt C SOf^ 
 
 *' I WILL TELL YOU SOME DAY WHAT YOU CAN GIVE ME,"/ 
 
 / < t 
 
THE I'NT/'.Arr/cKi'.n hind 
 
 iRi 
 
 "Gootl-by," she said; and, tiirnin<,% i>asscd down tlio 
 desolate garden, feeling remorseful that slio had left him 
 unthanked. 
 
 Homer, now that the tenderness evoked by her presence 
 was left unsustjiined, felt a spiteful deliance waken in his 
 heart. Jle walked slowly to his horsos' heads, pretending 
 to adjust the harness; then, after iiuSpeeting them with 
 critical deliberateness, drove slowly past the curious eyes at 
 the window. 
 
 "Might as well give them the full bcnelit of the sight," 
 he said to liimself ; " it seems to strike them as interesting." 
 
 All day long, as he swung his axe in the woodland, he 
 mused npon Afyron as he had seen her last, with pure, 
 uplifted brow and chin, as she said good-by. 
 
 He returned at night, calm, and braced, as he tliouglit, 
 to receive a storm of reproaches. He found a table 
 " coklly furnished forth" for his supper; the kitchen was 
 deserted, and from his mother's room came the hum of 
 voices. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson expected to crush her son utterly by this 
 isolation, but it was a treatment he could endure much 
 longer than she could suffer to inflict it, for to women of 
 her type the expression of auger in words is essential; 
 any repression of speech is a physical pang. It was well, 
 though, for this one night that it should be so, for 
 Homer's calm was but as the brittle crust that forms on 
 seething lava, that neither controls nor cools it; that melts 
 at a touch, and offers no restraint to the force beneath. 
 Too hot an anger yet fdled his heart to admit of peaceful 
 argument; his hand was too ready to clincli yet when he 
 thought of Warner's tentative rpiestion. He ate his sup- 
 per, smoked a peaceful pipe, ar.d soon slept, dreaming, 
 even as he had done all day, of the calm sweetness of 
 those patient eyes. 
 
 ' t 
 
 ; 9 
 
 ' 
 
 1 ^^B 
 1^1 
 
 1 
 
I82 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 Myron was having lior first of solitude, passing it in 
 brief watches of wakefiihiess and sliortcr spaces of sleep. 
 
 And in the lonely little graveyard a new-made mound 
 was slowly whitening under the falling snow. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "This ii])ovc all— to thine own self be true ; 
 And it must foHow, as tlie ni^ht the day, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man. " 
 
 "Tliough Allah and Earth pardon 8in, remaineth forever Remorse. " 
 
 Winter lay white over the land — a bitter winter. The 
 road, beaten to a glassy whiteness, glistened between 
 unbroken plains of dull, lustreless white, for the fences 
 were bidden by the heaviest snowfall ever known in James- 
 town. Tlie cold was intense; for twenty days the icicles 
 had hung unmcltcd in the sun. The crows, tamed by 
 hunger, Happed their sluggish wings over the barnyards. 
 Here and there in the fields a black blotch showed where 
 one of them had fallen, half-starved, half-frozen. 
 
 The foxes, grown bold amid the silence, came to pillage 
 the henroosts in broad daylight. The rabbits, traced by 
 their uneven tracks in the snow, were easy game; numbctl 
 by the cold, they were quickly overtaken. The sparrowa 
 clustered close together in the barns, winning their way 
 in at evv^ry cranny. 
 
 The last year of Jed Holder's life, he had one day lun 
 into the cottage, excitedly calling to Myron and his mother 
 to "Come out and see the sparrow — a real little English 
 sparrow, a regular old-fashioned little spadger." Tears 
 ran over his thin, browned face as he watched it upon the 
 
THE VN TEMPER ED WIXD 
 
 183 
 
 Hliiirp ridgo of tlio (!ottMg(» roof, llo roiiM not cut. liis 
 wood tluit (hiy for li8tt'Jiiii«^ to tlio finniliar tliittoriiii^' of its 
 wings as it llittcd hitlior und tbitlier in tlic cottage gar- 
 den, pushing its wjiy inquisitively into tlie thi(^kest 
 brandies of tlie privet buslies and bustling out indignantly 
 when it found iiotliing there worthy of its impertinent 
 scrutiny. 
 
 It eyed Jed v;1l)i much friendliness. Two English exiles 
 indeed these were — banished from the red-tiled cottages, 
 tlie hop orchards, the old meadows, the sunken lanes, the 
 hawthorns, the hollies; but in a few days there came 
 another fluttering sparrow, and resemblance ceased be- 
 tween Jed and the important, bustling bird, busy now in 
 building the nest. Ere the summer was gone there was 
 a chattering little flight of them to swoop down among the 
 placid hens and snatch the grain from their very mouths. 
 
 Now these birds were regarded by the farmers as a pest, 
 and an overzealous government offered a bounty for their 
 little feathered heads. Clem Humphries proved himself a 
 valiant hunter of this puny prey. He boiled barley and 
 then drew a stiff bristle through each grain. The spar- 
 rows ate and died, and Clem drank their blood-money. 
 
 But they still flourished. The cats waged war against 
 them, and many a palpitai little breast was torn by 
 their pointed teeth. The oln Maltese cat at Deans' had 
 perpetually a downy feather sticking to his cruel mouth, 
 and his strong paws were ever stained with red. An ugly 
 brute he was: half of one ear was gone; from the other, 
 hung a tiny blue wool tassel fastened through a hole like 
 an earring; his nose was always scarred and torn, and of 
 his tail only an inch or two survived the teeth of the dogs 
 with which he had waged war. 
 
 He lay in wait for the sparrows by the hour at the door- 
 step of the henhouse, and with depressed back and evii 
 
 1^ 
 
 r 
 
1 84 THE UNTEMTERED WIND 
 
 eye stole between the fowls as they pecked at the grain ; 
 then came a pounce, the hens flounced about hysterically, 
 and the cat, with his captive, came out to sit in the wood- 
 shed and devour it at his leisure. The first time he 
 caught a bird, he had tried to torment it after the tender 
 manner of his kind; but at the first toss with his paws the 
 terrified bird had soared far beyond his most vaulting 
 ambition. But; alas, evil minds learn wisdom soon. It 
 was long since then, and now he always gave them short 
 shrift. 
 
 It was a bitter winter. The horses and cows were cov- 
 ered with exceptionally long hair, and the dogs were shaggy 
 as bears. The hens straggled about with bleeding, frozen 
 combs; the yellow feet of the ducks were white from 
 frostbites; the turkeys' wings drooped dejectedly, and 
 many died; the geese were disconsolate, their white plum- 
 age soiled and unsightly, for there was no water for them 
 to baiihe in. 
 
 The snowbirds twittered cheerily for a short space at 
 noontide, but vanished as the day waned. Only where 
 any crumbs or grain might be likely to fall, their tiny 
 footprints were woven in delicate tracery on the snow. 
 
 The gulls flew over the village, until, their wings 
 wearied, they turned them again to the lake, to rest upon 
 a cake of ice. A long rest it proved to many, for their 
 feet froze to the ice, and they uttered their hoarse cries 
 as they strove in vain to rise. 
 
 It was a bitter winter. Every pond in »)amestown waia 
 frozen solid to the bottom. All day long there were slow 
 processions of cattle passing to and from the lake. 
 
 The pumps were all frozen, and a great boiler stood on 
 every kitchen stove, melting snow .'o? household uses. 
 The rats swarmed in the houses iind the barns. Each per- 
 son had tales to tell of frozen noses, frostbitten ears, 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 185 
 
 iHunbed fingers, aching feet. Mrs. Wilson brewed 
 "yarbs" and drank them all day long. Henry Deans 
 grew stiffer and stiffer, and seemed shrunk to a mere shell. 
 Bing White had already killed enough sparrows to buy 
 him a pair of skates. 
 
 But in the midst of all the winter's white desolation, 
 there glowed the hearth fires of home. Used to the cold, 
 these hardy farmer folk defied it; and if the} might not 
 brave its blasts, stayed warm and close indoors. 
 
 There were tea-meetings and socials, temperance meet- 
 ings and the half-yearly revivals, shooting matches with 
 poultry as the prize, and raffles for turkeys. Then there 
 was the threshing to be done, and the pig-killing, and next 
 summer's fuel to cut in the woods. 
 
 The women sewed carpet-rags, patched quilts, and 
 knitted mittens and heavy socks of homemade yarn. It 
 was a terrible winter, and it was going hard with Myron 
 Holder. 
 
 She h'ad to endure all the rigors of the cold, all the soli- 
 tude of shame, all the privations of poverty, all the terrors 
 of night's loneliness, all the anxieties of motherhood, all 
 the regrets of remorse, all the hopelessness of dead Hope, 
 all the apprehensions of want : this in a solitary cottage, 
 creaking at every blast, shivering in every wind, swaying 
 in every storm. 
 
 Think of it, you holy women, who fare delicately, sleep- 
 ing on soft couches, guarded and consoled, caressed and 
 kept from all evil ! For you are like Myion Holder jn one 
 thing: Not in suffering, nor shame, nor sorrow; not 
 perhaps in humbleness of heart, nor meekness of spirit, 
 nor in courage, in patience, in faithfulness, nor in hope- 
 lessness; not in poverty, nor in endurance; but with her 
 you share, despite yourselves, a common womanhood. Re- 
 member that! 
 
1 86 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED iVIND 
 
 Remember also she bore upon her brow the marks of 
 motherhood's crown of thorns. Remember who with tears 
 washed Jesus' feet, and do not forget to whom, we are 
 told, He said, "Neither do I condemn thee.'' 
 
 Homer Wilson, in defiance of his mother, public opin- 
 ion, and Myron's own objections, had taken her ample 
 wood for the winter. Old Mr. Carroll had given her a 
 supply of flour and a ham, and hired her to clean up his 
 house and whitewash his kitchen walls against the New 
 Year. 
 
 She milked Mrs. Warner's cows at night and morn, 
 receiving for this service a small can of milk daily. This 
 was for My. No drop softcied the harsh mullein tea she 
 drank herself. Her life was inexpressibly desolate. The 
 wind whistling over the cottage brought her the loneliness 
 of the lost. Sometimes for days she saw no one to speak 
 to, and, worse than all, she began to lack the necessaries 
 of life. Flour means much, so does a ham; bat for a 
 woman and a young child more is needed. My began to 
 look white, and at times his face had that expression we 
 called "peaked." 
 
 Seeing this, Myron took a resolution. It cost her much, 
 for her grandmother had often spoken of the disgrace of 
 " going on the parish," as she put it; but the sight of My's 
 face was too much for his mother, and she resolved to 
 apply to the council for township aid. 
 
 It was a bitter day's cold when she came to this resolu- 
 tion. Pile the wood as high as she might in the stove, she 
 could not banish the rime from the windows. The latch 
 of the door stuck to her fingers every time she opened it. 
 A tiny slanting rift of snow lay in the little bedroom, 
 where it had crept in through the badly jointed windows. 
 . It was Saturday. On Saturday nights the youths of 
 Jamestown went courting. As twilight deepened into 
 
f 
 
 THE UNTEMPEliED WIND 
 
 187 
 
 irks of 
 ,h tears 
 we are 
 
 c opin- 
 : ample 
 n her a 
 a up his 
 he New 
 
 a morn, 
 y. This 
 a tea she 
 te. The 
 loneliness 
 I to speak 
 ecessaries 
 oat for a 
 began to 
 •ession we 
 
 ler much, 
 isgrace of 
 t of My's 
 Bsolved to 
 
 his resolu- 
 stove, she 
 
 The latch 
 
 opened it. 
 bedroom, 
 windows, 
 youths of 
 
 3ened into 
 
 night, she heard the frequent jingle of sloigli-bolls. They 
 tingled through her hetirt siiid iiwakcned a now loneliness 
 iu her breast. She sat always in the dark now, for oil 
 cost money. She had but a lampful in the house, and 
 that must be kept in case of emergency. The light from 
 the hearth of the wooci fire shot forth dusky little flashes 
 into the darkness of the room. These feeble shafts were 
 not strong enough to banish tlie hosts of shadows, but 
 they so far prevailed as to leave them lurking in the cor- 
 ners of the room only But there they held silent car- 
 nival — mocking at the lonely woman sitting silent within 
 the wavering circle of the feeble light, stretching out 
 impalpable arms to embrace her, extending icy fingers to 
 touch her, waving their draperies over her head, and 
 always biding their time, until weariness should drive her 
 to her bed; then they sallied forth in their strength, and 
 danced and gestured about her until sleep closed her eyes 
 to fears. 
 
 My slept upon her knees. The sound of the latest 
 sleigh-bells dying away left the silence seeming still more 
 profound, as a momentary light intensifies the succeeding 
 darkness. She heard footsteps crunching on the snow; 
 then a knock. 
 
 " Come in," she said. 
 
 Despite herself, she felt a momentary hope flicker in 
 her heart. 
 
 The door opened and, entering. Homer said : 
 
 "It's me, Myron; Homer Wilson." 
 
 So faint had been her hope that she scarce felt a sting 
 in relinquishing it. 
 
 « Yes," she said. " Wait until I light the lamp." 
 
 She did so, and Homer came forward into the light, his 
 broad shoulders seeming to fill the room as he stood, clad 
 in a rough frieze coat that enveloped him from shoulder 
 
' .mt ^mm m a iKt m' m / Lm rmm 
 
 188 
 
 r//Jt UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 to lieel. He took it off silently, laid it over the chair she 
 had placed for him, and, going at once to her side, put his 
 hands upon her shoulders. 
 
 "Well, Myron," he said, "do you remember asking 
 what you could do to repay me for what I had done?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, knowing that her time of trial had 
 come. 
 
 "Then," he said, bending over her, his face flushing, 
 his tones vibrant, " I can tell you in a moment." He 
 paused, to steady his voice. " Will you marry me, Myron?" 
 
 Tliere was a moment of breathless suspense — an instant 
 of absolute silence. 
 
 "No," she said, firmly enough; but her hands closed 
 tremblingly upon his sleeve. 
 
 "Myron!" he ejaculated. "Myron! You do not mean 
 it! Why — I love you, Myron!" lie broke forth, with 
 passion; "I will have you! Do you think I would be bad 
 to you? Do you think I would be unkind to the boy? I 
 can't stand to see you live like this!" He glanced at the 
 bare room, which suddenly seemed to show all its gaunt 
 corners, all its angles, all the scantiness of its meagre 
 comforts. It was the very skeleton of a home. 
 
 "Myron!" He stopped — she was looking at him with 
 words upon her lips. 
 
 " Listen," she said. "Do not be angry with me, but tell 
 me one thing: Would you ask Suse Weaver to marry yoii, 
 or Jenny Church, or Eliza Disney?" 
 
 "Why, Myron, they're married already," said he, in 
 a maze. 
 
 " So am I," said Myron, throwing back her head so that 
 her eyes met his, whilst the color flooded her face, giving 
 it a dangerous and triumphant charm. " So am I. When 
 he bade me be silent, he bade me be true. He swore that 
 he would be. He explained to me how little the saying of 
 
^!Pi>Hrrr". »..-.'- u^i. 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 189 
 
 marriage vows meant. He said it was the keeping of tliem 
 that made the marriage. I have kept them. I believed 
 his promise under the sky, whilst we were alone, was as 
 true and binding as mine when I said I would be silent 
 and do all he wished me to ; and he taught me to see that 
 in this twofold faith lay the real marriage, and not in 
 words spoken before people. He twid me the stars were 
 truer witnesses than men. That heaven was nearer there, 
 among the trees, than in the churches; and it did seem 
 near — so near I almost entered in. I believed we were 
 married as sacredly as. though Mr. Prew had married us. 
 Believing that, I gave myself to him. He has been false 
 to his promise, but I will never be to mine. I thought 
 myself married then. I will hold myself in marriage bonds 
 until he comes — or death. For the rest, let him look 
 to it!" 
 
 As she had spoken, Homer's face changed with her 
 changing words, but the resignation of her last words 
 inspired no calm in him; it woke instead a, fierce resent- 
 ment. He was to lose her. She was to continue to suffer 
 the old ignominy; the village was still to have its victim — 
 and all for a brute who had deliberately deluded and 
 deserted her. Homer's next speech began with an impa- 
 tient oath, but half stifled. 
 
 " Myron," he said, his tones so determined as to be 
 almost harsh, "have you not realized yet how false his 
 promises were? How wrong his persuasions? How 
 utterly false and untrue all this fine talk about the 'stars 
 as witnesses' and 'heaven being near' was? The stars are 
 very convenient witnesses for curs of his stamp, being 
 silent in face of any perjury. Do you not see the pit he 
 prepared for you? Do you not fall, pierced by the stakes 
 at the bottom? Do you not see that his promises are all 
 lies? Can you not understand, then, that the rest of his 
 
U)0 
 
 THE VN TEMPERED WIMD 
 
 
 twaddle was no better? Why will yon continue to bind 
 yourself witli a wisp of straw? Your hands are free — give 
 them to me!" 
 
 " I realize all — I see everything," she cried, "and feel 
 — God! what have I not felt? But — oh, Homer, don't 
 you see how it is? I could not kiss my child — I could 
 not endure to see my own face as 1 bend over the well, if I 
 thought of another man. Don't you see I would then be 
 vile?" 
 
 "No, I don't," said Homer. "Marry me — you and the 
 hoy will have my name, and let me hear man or woman 
 say one word against it!" 
 
 "I can't," she said. 
 
 "Marry me," he urged. "Let me take care of you. 
 Let me show you what a man is. Let me give you a heart 
 and a home. You are lonely, you will be lonely no more ; 
 defenseless, I will protect you ; sad, I will make you happy ; 
 shamed, I will compel them to respect you. Myron" — he 
 held out his arms — " marry me!" 
 
 Myron Holder had thought of this hour ever since the 
 day of her grandmother's funeral. Her thoughts had all 
 been of his pain. She had never realized how it might mean 
 almost intolerable temptation to herself. 
 
 The contrast between the picture his words presented and 
 her own life was poignant. She stayed a moment, gazing 
 at that brighter scene, then put it by and turned herself 
 to the reality that she had accepted as her bounden duty. 
 
 The sense of sacrifice with which she did this showed 
 her how strong was the sorcery of the thought. 
 
 " No," she said. 
 
 "Myron," said Homer, paling, "don't you understand? 
 I will take My as my own. I will give him a name in very 
 truth. I — for My's sake, Myron!" 
 
 It was the supreme temptation. In a moment Myron 
 
THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 191 
 
 saw wliat it meant, tlio niatorializatiou of lier evil dream 
 in the meadow — the stilling of the scandal that else nuist 
 attach itself forever to My; the ending of all her own 
 shame and solitude, or as much of it, at least, as appeared 
 to other's eyes. But sorrow and shame teach subtle 
 truths; etched clear upon the metal of this woman's soul, 
 burned deep upon the tablets of her heart, their acids hud 
 graven the symbols of their teachings. Myron had battled 
 against many fears, and knew, with the absolute certainty 
 of conviction, that after the first triumph there would 
 come a bitter reaction. She knew she would be forever at 
 war with her own conscience. She knew that life held no 
 prize high enough to pay for infidelity. There came sud- 
 denly athwart the dreary room the mirage of another 
 scene: A wide stretch of sky and water, blended in a far- 
 off blue, a mass of tossing tree-tops, a scent of fresh green 
 ferns and flowering grasses, a swimming sense of light, 
 exhilaration, freedom. . . . Homer was speaking. She 
 did not hear his words; his voice was but an oUigato to 
 other tones that struck across it. She paid no more heed 
 to Homer's voice than she had done that day to the rustle 
 of the leaves, the whispering of the water far below. . . . 
 
 " Trust me," a voice was saying in her ear. " Trust me, 
 I will never leave you; believe me, I will never fail you. 
 Why do you distrust me? You do not love me. Do you 
 not understand this is the real church, more holy than any 
 building made with hands. Do you not understand it 
 is the mutual faith makes marriage, and not mere maun- 
 dering words? Don't you? . . . So long as you are true 
 to me, you are in very truth my wife?" . . . The voice 
 ceased there, it had said enough. 
 
 The sky, the water, the tree-tops, and the fresh fra- 
 grance of the woodland weeds passed in an instant; but 
 they had left behind an unfaltering resolution. 
 
 
19' 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 i 
 
 "No," she said; aiicl so brief a time liad sufTicctl for that 
 retrosjiective vision that Homer did not remark any dehiy 
 in her reply. Only his heart shrank, for something in her 
 tone besjioke the finality of hor decision. 
 
 The disappointment was cruel. He dropped into a 
 chair and buried his face in his hands. She knelt before 
 him, and pulling his hands from his face clasped them 
 close against her breast. She looked up into his face from 
 eyes that spoke of tears held back by bitterness. 
 
 "You understand, Homer?" she said. "If I cannot 
 justify myself in my own eyes, I shall go mad. To do so, 
 I must indeed remain as I am. I must act as thougli 
 I were in very tmth his wife. What does a wife do for 
 her husband? Give up all? Have not I? Suffer? I 
 have suffered. Obey him? I have o>)eyed him. Be true 
 to him? I have chosen him before myself. Trust him? 
 I have. I have trusted and waited, I Will wait to the 
 end." 
 
 She ceased. 
 
 Homer's eyes left her face, to look about the desolate 
 room. The wood fire was dying for lack of attention, and 
 the air was growing colder. 
 
 " But how am I to make it easier for you?" he asked, at 
 length. 
 
 "You can't make it easier for me," she said. "*I have 
 made my own bed,' as grandmother often said, and must 
 lie on it. I went against the world's ways, and I suppose 
 it's only right now to expect' the world to be against me. 
 No one can help me but him.'* 
 
 "Who is he, Myron?" asked Homer; and she saw a sly, 
 venomous look light his eyes. 
 
 "Homer!" she said, her voice holding reproach and 
 interrogation. 
 
 "Yes, I would," he said. "I would kill him as readily 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 i')3 
 
 'or that 
 y f^eluy 
 ; in her 
 
 into a 
 
 before 
 
 1 them 
 
 30 from 
 
 cannot 
 ) do so, 
 thougli 
 
 do for 
 ler? I 
 3o true 
 jthim? 
 
 to the 
 
 lesolate 
 m, and 
 
 ked, at 
 
 I have 
 i must 
 nppose 
 ist me. 
 
 1 a sly, 
 
 h and 
 
 readily 
 
 as I would sot my jiCol on a snake. Widowa marry!" 
 There was axi ugly jmphasis on the word, an emphasis 
 that held unconsciously somewhat of tlu) derision of a 
 sneer. But the sneer was turned against his own in)po- 
 tence. 
 
 "You are frightening me," said Myron, and the words 
 brought him to himself. 
 
 He rose, drawing her to her feet beside him, " You arc 
 "'ght, of course, Myron," he said. "But — this is the 
 second time I have loved — you remember the girl I 
 brought to the farm one day? Well, I loved her. She 
 and I were to have been married, but I had to come back 
 to the farm, and she changed her mind. iSince then I have 
 been a fool — worse, indeed. I have set aside everything 
 for the sake of money. I was fast getting to be such 
 another as old Haines or Jacob Latshem — all pocket and 
 no heart. But I saw your courage, and it made me think 
 shame of myself. You saved me — I thought to save you. 
 It would seem as if I had offered vou another shame. 
 You know how little I care what people say of you ! Poor 
 girl, they can't say worse than they have done. So, will 
 you let me do what I can to make things better for you? 
 You know I have plenty. Will you let me bo your friend, 
 to help jou, comfort you, and to see you and talk with 
 you, as friend does with friend?" 
 
 "Dare you?" she asked. 
 
 "Try me," he answered. 
 
 She held out her hand. He took it. It trembled in 
 his grasp. 
 
 "To think," she said, "of my having a friend!" The 
 smile that lit her face transfigured it. 
 
 Homer put from him the desire that sv.elled within hit? 
 heart to take her in his arms, and began to talk of lier 
 position. 
 18 
 
 :35;-i 
 
mfsm 
 
 III 
 
 194 
 
 77//i UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 \ 
 
 " You ctin't go on like this," he said. ^ 
 
 " If it was only summer," sighed Myron. 
 
 "I'll tell you what," he went on, after a moment. 
 *' Clem Humphries and Ann Lemon have both applied for 
 help to the township. They'll have to be boarded some- 
 where. Supposing I get them sent to you to board. The 
 township would allow something for yourself also." Then 
 he added, hastily, " WonH you let me give you enough to 
 put you through the winter? Do, Myron." 
 
 "No," she said, answering his last proposition first, 
 "but I would be so glad if they'd let me work for Clem 
 and Ann." 
 
 " Well, I'll see about it," said Homer. 
 
 A day or two after that, the council, of which Homer 
 was a member, met, and the applications of Ann Lemon 
 and Clem Humiihries were laid before them. Homer roiio 
 and made a formal projiosition on the lines which he had 
 suggested to Myron. It was carried at once. Mr. White 
 was tlie other Jamestown member of the council, and ho 
 was much more concerned about getting home to take his 
 cattle to the lake to water them than about anything else. 
 He made no objection, and the other members of the 
 council had matters relative to their own districts that 
 they were anxious to have considered. The council meet- 
 ings were open to every one, and the school-house was 
 crowded with village people. Homer observed the looks 
 that passed from one to another, and could not beat back 
 the blood that reddened nis swarthy checks as he put the 
 formal motion before the council " on behalf of one Myron 
 Holder." 
 
 " What about tlie kid? Don't it need any allowance ?" 
 a voice said in the corner of the room, and another 
 answered, " Oli, Ilomer'll attend to that." A roar of 
 laughter followed, Homer grew white enough when he 
 
^i 
 
 THE UNTEMPKRED WIND 
 
 195 
 
 was 
 
 hoard this, ami turned a look toward the comer whence 
 the voices had come that made the group occupying it 
 stir and shift about uneasily aiul start fragmentary con- 
 versations among tlieniselvcs, as if to disarm that bitter look 
 and disavow the speech that provoked it. 
 
 In this group Homer discerned CJanudiel Deans and Lou 
 Disney, the latter tlie bully of the county. liou and 
 Oamaliel had been running together all winter, and rumor 
 spoke not very flatteringly of their errands. 
 
 The meeting dragged along wearisomely to an end, and 
 the men thronged out from the close, warm schoolroom, 
 where the air was heavy with the fumes of tobacco and 
 reeking with the moisture evaporating from the coats 
 hung against the wall, for it had been snowing when the 
 meeting began. 
 
 Night was just beginning to fall. It had ceased to snow, 
 and the air was keen with intense frost, that crackled 
 under foot and squeaked beneath the runners of the 
 sleighs. 
 
 There was much stretching and talking and laughing as 
 they went out, and Homer, among the iirst, heard his own 
 name uttered, followed by a laugh. Then he heard Lou 
 Disney's voice in a disjointed sentence — 
 
 "Pretty cheeky, that! First" — Homer lost the words 
 here — "and then ask the council to keep 'em." 
 
 Homer turned in an instant, flinging himself through 
 the crowd with the relentless impetus of fury. He swept 
 the throng aside regardless of any obstacle, and seized Lou 
 Disney's throat whilst the words still lingered on his lips, 
 choking in that first fierce grasp the laugh that gurgled 
 up to echo its own wit. 
 
 In a silence that appalled the crowd, used at such a time 
 to much speech and few blows, Homer tore him from the 
 4oor, to which, with the instinct of a fighter, he had put 
 
 { 
 
 1 
 
 i|i 
 
 n 
 
196 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 liis back. Pressing him backward through the throng, 
 Homer loosed him, with a curse, when fairly outside the 
 straggling group. 
 
 "Now," said Homer, "eat your words, Disney, this 
 minute — every lying syllable of them — or I'll thrash the 
 Boul out of you!" 
 
 Disney was no coward. The words had not left Homer's 
 lips before he was tearing off his coat. The next moment 
 they rushed at each other. 
 
 The fight was so fierce, so furious, so short, that few 
 there could afterwards tell the story of it. Disney was the 
 bigger man, and quite as clever with his hands as Homer; 
 but the latter's arm was nerved by every insult Myron 
 Holder had endured. As Disney sprang forward, he 
 uttered her name, coupled with an epithet that simply 
 maddened Homer. There was no resisting the fury of his 
 attack. . . . Many hands dragged Homer from the man 
 ho had knocked insensible and bade fair to kill, if left 
 alone. 
 
 He stood trembling, a great bruise darkening on his face, 
 showing where Disney's first savage blow, aimed at the 
 jaw, had fallen. Presently Gamaliel drove Lou off in his 
 cutter, and the throng melted away. Clem Humphries 
 lifted Homer's coat and brought it to him. The old sin- 
 ner's face glowed with excitement and gratification. 
 
 " You punched him well and he needed it bad," said he. 
 " Never seen a man suffering for a licking more'n Lou 
 Disney was; and he got the cure for his complaint with- 
 out asking twice, he did. There's something," he went 
 en, keeping pace with Homer, as the latter began to move 
 away, " there's something so satisfying in seeing a man get 
 v/hat he wants, and get it like that, too, and — you should 
 have seen Male Deans' eyes, sticking out like door-knobs, 
 the boiled idiot!" 
 
J.,. 
 
 
 
 "^m^t^^^ 
 
 tSCjftr-T-H 
 
 : 
 
 
 if 
 
 'I 
 
 CLEM LIFTED IIOMER'S COAT AND BROUGHT IT TO HIM, 
 
 III 
 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 1^7 
 
 Clem parsed in disgust, then went on again : " Why 
 didn't you lick him, Loo? That would have been oncom- 
 mon satisfactory!" 
 
 "There, said Homer hastily, "shut up, Clem! Pm 
 going home." Whereupon he lengthened his stride and 
 set forward at a pace which left Clem far behind, to 
 make his way towards the other end of the village, with 
 much complacency. His wicked old heart was full of 
 pleasure. He had danced from one foot to the other, 
 howling out a stream of encouragement and curses during 
 the progress of the brief fight; had protested vigorously 
 aqjainst the hands that pulled Homer from Disney, and had 
 pushed Gamaliel Deans forward with all his might in 
 Homer's way, hoping to enjoy a continuance of tlie battle. 
 Failing this, he had gone along behind Disney and 
 Gamaliel for some distance, reviling them as they drove off, 
 until, remembering his religious principles, he had arrested 
 himself in the delivery of a choice gibe, to slink behind the 
 school-house corner until the crowd was gone. 
 
 " He woke up the wrong dog that time," chuckled Clem, 
 thinking of Lou Disney, " and got bit." 
 
 Clem had a bitter grudge against Gamaliel Deans and 
 every one connected with him. The day of old Mrs. 
 Holder's funeral Clem had searched over all the barns he 
 knew, in the hope of finding an empty jug that he could 
 take to get his dollar's worth of whiskey in. But luck 
 was against him. The cider-jars that had figured at the 
 last threshings had seemingly all been carried away. He 
 was quite disconsolate when, in the late afternoon, ho 
 returned to Mr. Muir's. He had hardly arrived there 
 before Mrs. Muir sent him on an errand to Mrs. Deans. 
 Having dispatched his message, Clem sought the barn, and 
 the first thing his eyes lit upon was a fat and capacious 
 brown jug. Gamaliel was in the barn mending harness, 
 
 'tal^ i 
 
 ^S 
 
 r 
 
■■a 
 
 196 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED Wn\'D 
 
 and to Clem's rr jiiest replied that he might take it, add- 
 ing that it was dsed at tiie last threshing. 
 
 Clem returned to the village late, partook of the some- 
 what meagre supper Mrs. Muir tendered him, and, going 
 out at once, got his jug, rinsed it at the pump, and with it 
 under his arm, trudged off to town to get it filled. 
 
 Now, unfortunately for Clem, it had not contained cider, 
 but black oil, for the threshing machine. There was a 
 thick coating of the oil within it, but the cold had fastened 
 it stiff to the sides, and Clem's somewhi , perfunctory wash 
 with the icy water from the pump did not remove it. All 
 unconscious of this, Clem proceeded upon his errand, got 
 his whiskey, and started for Jamestown. 
 
 Manfully he resisted the temptation to take a drink. 
 Clem knew his own weakness and the strength of his ap- 
 petite when whetted by a taste. He hugged the jug close 
 to him and trudged on. At length he reached Jamestown, 
 and ensconced himself in the hay in Mr. Muir's stable-loft. 
 But the alcohol had acted very differently from the water. 
 It had completely dissolved the oil and incorporated it 
 with itself. Clem's first long mouthful was his last. 
 
 The mixture was atrocious. Clem cursed till he ex- 
 hausted himself, arose and broke the jug into the small- 
 est fragments, and ever after hated Gamaliel Deans with a 
 holy hatred, being firmly convinced that he had been inten- 
 tionally tricked. Thus it was that Clem's delight was so 
 genuine as he made his way to Mr. Muir's barn, where for 
 the present his headquarters were. .He entered, and, with 
 a view to a supper of 3nacks from Mrs. Muir, proceeded to 
 attend to the wants of the two black horses and the pie- 
 bald mare, stopping to slap his brown old hands on his 
 thin legs every now and then, ejaculating, "The boiled 
 idiot!" — a pet expression of Clem's, not inexpressive of 
 mental softness. 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
The untempered wind 
 
 igO 
 
 Clem moved about stiffly, and it was some time before he 
 sought Mrs. Muir's kitchen door, his knobby old hands 
 stiffened and glazed from holding the handle of the hay- 
 fork. But not only had Clem accomplished his tasks in 
 the barn, but eaten his supper, warmed himself and 
 crawled ofE to his bed in the hay before Homer Wilson 
 arrested his headlong walk. He had gone far beyond his 
 farm — far, far beyond the farthest light of Jamestown. 
 But at last, his strength leaving him suddenly, he paused 
 and, reeling, turned towards home. It took him hours to 
 retrace his steps. 
 
 The late dawn c^ the next wintry day fell upon Homer 
 as he had flung himself down upon his bed, fully dressed, 
 and with shining drops drying upon the livid bruise that 
 disfigured his face. 
 
fiOO 
 
 Tun UN TEMP RUED WIND 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Piteous my rhyme is 
 What while I muse of love and pain, 
 Of love misspent, of love in vain, 
 Of love that is not loved again ; 
 
 And is this all, then ? 
 As long as time is, 
 Love loveth. Time is but a span, 
 The dalliance space of dying man ; 
 And is this all immortals can? 
 
 The gain was «mall, then. 
 
 "Love loves /<?r«®«?*/ 
 And finds a sort of joy in pain, 
 And gives with naught to take again, 
 And loves too well to end in vain ; 
 
 Is the gain small, then ? 
 Love laughs at ' never, ' 
 Outlives our life, exceeds the span 
 Appointed to mere mortal man ; 
 All which love is, and does, and can, 
 
 Is all in all, then. '* 
 
 The talk that grew out of the fight at the school-house, 
 the scandal that succeeded the talk, the gossip that spread 
 the scandal, occupied the attention of the whole village for 
 weeks, and the darkest shade possible was cast upon 
 Homer's share of the affair. Every one felt it a species of 
 self-justification to rail at Homer and excuse Disney, 
 who had a devoted following among the young men of his 
 own age and calibre. His manner was more fortunate 
 than Homer's, though his intentions were far from being 
 so generous. 
 
 Certain mental preoccupations had kept Homer some- 
 what apart from the men of his own age in the district — 
 
 

 i 
 
 d 
 •r 
 n 
 
 
 TtfE VNTEMPEkEty WIND 
 
 201 
 
 first, his ambitious dreams of a course at the commercial 
 college, which led him to try to keep up his studies during 
 the long summers when he was kept out of school to work ; 
 then came his absence in the city, when all his knowledge 
 of the village filtered from the unready pen of his mother. 
 
 Upon his return to the farm his eyes were yet blinded 
 by the glamour of lier hair, so that he found it sw^oter to 
 lie upon the grass, with his hands beneath his head, gazing 
 up at the skies and thinking of her, than to join in any of 
 the young people's enjoyments. He saw her eyes in every 
 star, her hair in every moonbeam, her form in every grace- 
 ful cloud. He felt her breath in every zephyr, he heard 
 her voice in the rippling of the leaves, her laugh in the 
 babble of the brook or the lapping of the lake. 
 
 Enchanted thus with his own imaginings, he made no 
 effort to grasp the swiftly slipping cable of sympathy with 
 his fellows. When his visions were dispelled and dese- 
 crated by her infidelity, well — he had made one or two 
 futile snatches at the vanishing strand that had bound his 
 heart and interests to those of his old school friends. But 
 either it sped too fast from him, or he strove to grasp it 
 too rudely, for he withdrew his hands from the task and 
 found himself loath to make an effort in that direction 
 again. This piteous outreaching for sympathy that is 
 withdrawn sears the soul deeply, even as sliding ropes 
 sear the hands; and yet we must not shrink from the life- 
 line that is to save us from the flames. We must endure 
 the hurt to escape the greater peril. And it is better to 
 live, even with torn and bleeding palms, than to shrivel 
 in agonizing flames or suffocate in smothering smoke. 
 
 Withdrawn from temptation. Homer did not go forth to 
 seek it, for he was nauseated of all desire. Thus there 
 was no danger of his soul consuming in the evil fire of his 
 own passions. But how nearly he had succumbed to the 
 
 XI 
 
ir 
 
 ioi 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 miasmatic exhalation that rose from the Slough of 
 Despond into which his faculties had sunk! Now, indeed, 
 he was winning his way out. 
 
 "Men may rise on stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higlier things. ** 
 
 But it is a painful progress, for each stone must be won 
 from the strong edifice erected by ourselves to bar our 
 way, of which each block is a pt.Jsion, a sin or a folly, 
 camented together by selfishness and self-indulgence, based 
 upon self-pity, garrisoned by prideful spirits that mock 
 at our efforts. Driven from the ramparts, they throng 
 about our feet to jostle us from our hard-won stepping- 
 stones. 
 
 The Sir Galahads of life are much to be admired, and 
 yet shall we not crown those also, who, having fallen, 
 have again found firm footing — those strong souls, over- 
 come omce, tliut have struggled through all this and at last 
 sprung to shore? Let us hope, at least, that they find 
 those long-sought shores flowerful and pleasant. 
 
 Alas! Homer AVilson looked but upon a barren pros- 
 pect, waste and drear, disappointing as th6 alkali lakes that 
 mock the wanderer dying of thirst in the desert. There- 
 fore it was not much wonder that ho grew sad-faced and 
 silent. 
 
 Had the woman he loved been happy, his life would not 
 have been whoUv desolate, for his love was of that unselfish 
 type that desires rather the happiness of its beloved than 
 its own gratification. But from Myron's desolate heart- 
 fires there could come no joyful radiance. The only light 
 her life diffused across his path was a pale glimmer of dy- 
 ing hope, that illumined the sorrows of their separate ways. 
 Myron was indeed relieved from thp pressure of actual 
 want, for Clem Humphries and Ann Lemon were domi- 
 
 . 
 
 .1 
 
 
THE VMTEMPEkED W'IKD 
 
 203 
 
 . 
 
 1 
 
 
 : 
 
 
 ciled with her; but of comfort or peace of heart she had 
 none. 
 
 Neither Clem nor Ann had ever been compelled before 
 to seek township aid, and, with the perversity of human 
 nature, they agreed in associating Myron with their down- 
 fall, and persisted in regarding her as being in some way 
 responsible for it. They both were devoted to stimu- 
 lants — Clem's choice being whiskey, Ann's gin. When the 
 monthly instalments of money from the council arrived, 
 they both, with one accord, set to work to wheedle some 
 of it from Myron, with a view of gratifying their spirituous 
 desires. In this, however, they were entirely balked. 
 Beneath Myron's meekness and patience an iron will was 
 strengthening. 
 
 Homer had said: " Don't give either of them any money. 
 I'll give Clem tobacco when he needs it, but don't you 
 begin giving them the money, or there'll be no stop to it." 
 
 That was enough. No peisuasion moved Myron after 
 that, either to yielding or to anger. 
 
 " She be a fair devil for obstinateness," said Clem upon 
 one of these occasions. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Ann, venomously, "and who be she to 
 lord it over the likes of us? We're decent, if we be poor." 
 
 It was, however, only upon these occasions that Clem 
 'md Ann agreed at all. They quarrelled continually, 
 taunting each other with a fondness for liquor, and each 
 making mock of the hypocrisy the other displayed in go- 
 ing to church, m.uch upon the principle of one negro call- 
 ing another a " black nigger." 
 
 The remarks they indulged in were, to say the least, 
 personal, and each displayed a fiendish aptitude for finding 
 out the weak spots in the other's armor. 
 
 Ann still cherished the shreds and patches of youthful 
 vanities, mouldy remnants of adornment with which she 
 
 
^04 
 
 TH^ UNTEMPEJ^ED WIND 
 
 disfigured herself on high days and holidays. She had a 
 little house in the village, and a lot with some plum trees 
 upon it. In summer she made shift to live very comforta- 
 bly, what with the plums, and her chickens, and odd days' 
 work. Indeed, she might easily have saved sufficient to 
 keep her during the winter, but Ann was not of those who 
 "go to the ant," and, after due consideration of her ways, 
 become wise. 
 
 Iler habit was, when she had a few dollars by her, to 
 adorn herself with her best, go to town in the mail-wagon, 
 get as much gin as she could for the money, and then give 
 herself over to the enjoyment of her purchase. Upon these 
 days it was no small excitement for the Jamestown children 
 to watch the going and returning of Mr. Warner and his 
 mail-wagon. 
 
 Long before mail-time Ann might be seen arranging her 
 finery. She wore a black merino skirt, draggled into a tat- 
 teied fringe at the bottom, and stained here and there by 
 the drops that fell more swiftly as Ann's hand grew less 
 steady. By some chance, she had once bought some 
 bright blue ribbon from a peddler. She put two rows 
 of this round her black skirt. Unfortunately the ribbon 
 proved too short for the two rows, so that in the second 
 one there was a hiatus of some twelve inches between the 
 ends of the ribbon. This to some people might have been 
 a somewhat insurmountable difficulty, but not to Ann. 
 Catching her skirt just at that point where the ribbon 
 failed to connect, she raised it gracefully with one hand, 
 displaying the edge of a red flannel petticoat and a goodly 
 length of robust limb. It is not recorded that she was 
 ever seen so drunk as to forget herself sufficiently to loose 
 her hold of the skirt, although upon several occasions she was 
 carried helpless into her house, laid upon her bed, and 
 left, as the good Samaritans of Jamestown expra^ved it, to 
 
 .: 
 
 f 
 
t 
 
 THE UNTEMPRRF.n WIND 
 
 205 
 
 f 
 
 "sober up and be ashamed of herself." Tier bodice was 
 only an ordinary calico one, but she covered its deticion- 
 cies by a black cashmere tippet of antiquated shape and 
 ample size. It had a tassel between the shoulders, and 
 certain lonely sparkles here and there showed that in the 
 days of its youth and beauty it had been be-bugled. At 
 the neck of this she pinned a knot of faded magenta 
 ribbon, fastening it with a shell pin. 
 
 Hut the crowning glory of Ann's holiday toilet was her 
 "front." This "front" was the only bit of false hair iu 
 Jamestown, and was regarded as an unholy thing, a direct 
 manifestation of "the Devil and his works." Mrs. Deans 
 always declared that Mrs. Wilson had " as good as owned up" 
 that she would like a similar front; and indeed Mrs. Wil- 
 son, good woman, had been moved almost to defiance of 
 public opinion by the evil fascinations of that sinful scrap 
 of tousled hair. As a matter of fact, Ann's " front" was 
 somewhat the worse for wear; the parting was a parting 
 indeed, and several curls being gone at one side, there was 
 a bare spot, where the black-net foundation showed. But 
 Ann's bleared eyes looked out right jauntily from beneath 
 this lopsided coiffure. 
 
 Perched upon her head was a bonnet. Originally cov- 
 ered with red silk, it had grown glossy and dark from much 
 wear. Upon one side of it was stuck grotesquely a shape- 
 less knot of black crape — limp, rusty, soiled by mud and 
 weather, yet a symbol still of the loss of husband and 
 child, and of a deeper loss than this — the loss of hope, the 
 loss of self-respect, the loss of self-control, and the triumph 
 of an evil appetite. 
 
 For long ago Ann had had a husband and a bonny 
 daughter, and she herself was a big, buxom woman, fresh- 
 colored and wholesome. But her husband died, and the 
 daughter w^ carried hpme d^ad to her one day, with thc) 
 

 2o6 
 
 T//E UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 water that had drowned her dripping from her long hair 
 and leaving a dotted line upon the flooi as it ran from the 
 liand that hung over the edge of the rude bier. 
 
 Ann never "picked up" after that. Despite the admoni- 
 tions of her Christian neighbors and their warnings 
 against sinful repining, she yet dwelt ever upon her loss, 
 seeking oblivion when she could in drink. Well, she was 
 wrong, of course, but " the heart knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness," and in the empty niches of her heart there perhaps 
 lurked the shadow of an excuse for her. 
 
 In a certain old neckerchief, mottled with gay colors and 
 bordered with purple, were tied a few tawdry relics, a 
 string of black wooden beads, a knot of discolored blue 
 ribbon that had clung to a tress of the drowned girl's hair, 
 a dark pipe with the tobacco still in it, a waistcoat barred 
 with bright stripes of yellow, a heavy plated watchguard — 
 these were all that remained to Ann of the joy of life, and 
 yet upon them fell as bitter tears as ever dimmed a dia- 
 mond-set portrait or a pearl-clasped lock of hair. 
 
 This woman, for whose coming husband and child had 
 once watched, was now an amusing spectacle for James- 
 town boys. As Mr. Warner drove along the street Ann 
 would go out and await his coming in all the dignity of 
 conscious grandeur. She never started for town until she 
 had enough to pay for her ride there and back, besides 
 the money for her gin, for,.as she often said, she wasn't 
 much of a hand at walking. 
 
 Before getting into the mail-wagon, which was simply 
 an ordinary two-seated light wagon, with a flat canopy 
 upheld at the corners by ipon rods, she paid Mr. Warner 
 fifty cents, which was the fare to town and back. Then 
 she mounted to the back seat, where she sat enthroned, her 
 feet upon the canvas mailbag. 
 
 She ergoyed the drive thoroughly, nodding with much 
 
 
THE UNTKA/PEKED ll'/XD 
 
 207 
 
 • 
 
 affability to every one they met, irrespective of wlictlier alie 
 knew them or not, and saying, "Poor crittur! Who bo he, 
 I wonder. He don't know me," when any one failed 
 to return her salute. 
 
 At the door of the Post-Office Ann got out, having paid 
 no heed to the gingerly hints Mr. Warner had given her 
 about getting out when they came to the town limits. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to stretch a bit, Mrs. Lemon, before 
 we get into town?" he would say, tentatively. 
 
 "No, I ain't a mite stiffened up to-day," she would 
 reply. 
 
 "Because I'll stop and let you out if you'd rather," 
 Mr. Warner continued. 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't put you to no trouble," Ann demurred, 
 politely. 
 
 "It wouldn't be no trouble," he would feebly protest. 
 
 But Ann only said : " I'm all right, Mr. Warner. No 
 rheumatics in my knees, thank Providence and red 
 flannels! I can sit, walk, or ride with the best of them 
 yet." Then, animated by sudden concern for him: " But 
 look here, if you're crippled up, jest get out and walk 
 alongside and I'll drive. Do now, just reach the reins 
 acrost here. I can drive as straight as a string." 
 
 But this ordering of affairs was still less to his liking; 
 so, resigning himself to the inevitable and comforting him- 
 self with the thought of the fifty cents, he drove on to the 
 Post-Office. 
 
 Here Ann alighted, and then began making inquiries as 
 to the precise time of leaving, which side of the street he 
 would be on, whether any one else was going, besides many 
 other details that suggested themselves to her as legitimate 
 excuses for prolonging the conversation, during which she 
 surveyed Warner haughtily. Finally she sailed off, with 
 9, last imperative injunction " to be punkshuL" 
 
2o8 
 
 THE UX TEMrERED IVIArD 
 
 When kIio ii'tnnKMl, slio was nsnally pretty far gone. 
 SI»o rolled in her walk, and fiery glan(;ca shot from her 
 eyes. The tippet was usually screwed around, so that the 
 tassel depended like an epaulet upon one shoulder, and the 
 insigetita ribbon did duty upon the other. Her Iwnnet 
 had a trick, that amounted to a habit, of cocking itself 
 hilariously over one ear, and the " front" usually pointed 
 straight at the other. 
 
 Mr. Warner took care always to be ready to leave wlien 
 she came. lie had a painful recollection of a day when 
 ho loitered about the Post-Oftico longer than usual, and 
 came out at length, mailbag over his shoulders, to find 
 Aim the centre of an admiring group that applauded her 
 whilst she gave a full, particular (and, be it whispered, 
 true) account of the Warner family history. 
 
 In every little village there are certain stock stories 
 that are told about certain families. If it be a scandal- 
 monging little hole, the stories usually have a tang to 
 them. 
 
 The tales about the Warner family were particularly 
 spicy ones, the men being notoriously cruel to their horses 
 and " close-fisted" in their dealings. Some of the women 
 were not all they ought to be, and the whole family con- 
 nection so penurious as to be but one remove from misers. 
 
 An was giving a veritable epic illustrative of each of 
 these family failings, and had just got to the point bearing 
 upon their cruelty to their horses. 
 
 " The bones of the horses the Warners killed stopped up 
 the drains in Jamestown." Turning, she whipped up the bit 
 of felt saddle-cloth under the harness of the mail-wagon 
 horse, and showed the galled patch on its back ; then she 
 drew attention to the raw places on the shoulders that 
 Warner had smeared with black wagon-grease, to render 
 th^m less poticeable. \Varner wt^ lurious, t^nd wpwW 
 
 J 
 
 
J 
 
 
 J 
 
 THE UNTEMrEKEl) H'/XD 
 
 209 
 
 right gladly huvo left her thero, but \\q did not know how 
 fur her tongue had taken her or how far it could go, and 
 he felt it safer to insist upon her getting into the wagon. 
 
 Then her mood changed. She insisted he was her best 
 and only friend, embraced him from behind with one 
 arm round his neck until she nearly strangled him, whilst 
 she strove to give him a drink from her black bottle with 
 the other; wept because she could not climb over into the 
 front seat beside him, and finally si' 1 -vied into nuiudlin 
 tears of repentance and retrospect, mingled with i)iou8 
 ejaculations of thanks for the comfort she had that day 
 received. 
 
 Warned by this experience, Warner was always ready, 
 waiting for her when she appeared, and had acquired some 
 skill in persuading her to mount inw the wagon immedi- 
 ately upon her arrival. Her untimely demonstrations of 
 affection, however, were never to be guarded against and 
 his llesh crept upon his bones until he was clear of the 
 town and out into the country. It was decidedly a trial 
 to have Ann for a passenger, only there was one saving 
 mercy about it — afterward Warner had fifty cents more. 
 To the Warner mind that meant a great deal. 
 
 It was a popular saying in Jamestown that *' a Warner 
 would take a kicking for a quarter any day." 
 
 Without these occasional exhilarations Ann grew morose 
 and vindictive. She glowered at My as he played about 
 the floor, gave Myron a myriad pin-pointed stings anent 
 his existence, saying, with pious unction, that whatever 
 little she had to be thankful for, she never should cease 
 being grateful that she was decent, and relieved the 
 tension upon her feelings by an active and aggressive 
 warfare against Clem. 
 
 Clem returned her complimentary attentions in kind, 
 and exhausted his ingenuity in planning to torment Ann, 
 14 
 
p 
 
 2IO 
 
 T//£ UNTEMTERED WIND 
 
 There were several battles royal between the two that 
 marked the history of their warfare, as great victories star 
 a campaign. There was the evening, when they all sat 
 round the little table drawn up close to the fire, and Clem, 
 nodding his head with drowsy satisfaction, took the first ' 
 morsel of a plug of chewing tobacco Homer had given 
 him. Clem half-closed his eyes and gave himself up to 
 its enjoyment. Myron rose softly, to carry the sleeping 
 baby to bed. Ann's eyes wandered malignantly from 
 Clem's contented countenance to the plug of tobacco (so 
 near her hand), and from thence all round the room. She 
 looked longingly at the fire, but shook her head ; discovery 
 would be too prompt. Her eyes fell upon a tub of water, 
 set close to the fire to prevent its freezing against the 
 morrow. Her face lighted — an evil inspiration had come 
 to her. 
 
 Slowly — slowly — she put forth her hand. Clem's eyelids 
 wavered — she withdrew it swiftly — there was a pause. ' 
 Again her itching fingers approached the square of tobacco 
 — again were withdrawn before a flicker of those eyes. 
 Another breath — then carefully, stealthily, she grabbed the 
 tobacco, withdrew her hand, and, bending far over, slid her 
 prize into the tub of water. 
 
 Then, to all appearance, sleep suddenly overpowered her. 
 Her head began to nod, her eyes to close, she breathed 
 heavily, and her relaxed hand fell linply by her side. 
 
 Clem rose presently to build a new fire, and, being ex- 
 travagantly inclined because of his plentitude of tobacco, 
 ejected his " chew" into the ashes, anr", after putting on the 
 wood, returned to his seat and put out his hand for his 
 tobacco. 
 
 Myron entered at that moment from the bedroom. The 
 fire crackled as it caught the new fuel ; old Ann sat like a 
 nodding mandarin, oblivious (outw^rdl^) of everything. 
 
 ilJ I — i«>W 
 
X- 
 
 o, 
 le 
 lis 
 
 he 
 a 
 
 rilE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 211 
 
 v 
 
 .p 
 
 Clem's astonishment at its disappearance was great. 
 Nevertheless he did not grow wrathful until he had turned 
 out his many pockets and bestrewn the table with their 
 varied contents. lie banged each article viciously upon 
 the table, but Ann still slept. She was somewhat over- 
 doing her role, and Clem's smouldering wrath flamed up 
 into active indignation as she sat there calm amidst the 
 storm. 
 
 " Get up!" he said. " Get up, you stovepipe, and let me 
 see if it ain't under your chair? You know something 
 about it, I'll swear you do! If 'twas a glass of gin, I'll 
 warrant you'd scent it out! Get up, will you?" Saying 
 this, he jerked her chair aside by the back, so that Ann, 
 who was feigning all the languor of one suddenly aroused 
 from deep sleep, slid oil the chair to the floor. She im- 
 proved the occasion, however, by knocking the chair over 
 on Clem's corns as she rose. Clem gave a frightful oath, 
 and Ann stood erect, with a jeering laugh. Myron, anxious 
 to preserve peace, joined Clem in his hunt, whilst Ann 
 stood by. 
 
 "Call me stovepipe, will you?" she asked. "Stove- 
 pipe indeed, and me the best figger of a woman in the 
 village in my time! Stovepipe! With my waist, too! 
 Stovepipe indeed!" An indignant snort rounded off her 
 sentence. 
 
 The little kitchen was so bare that any search was either 
 easy or hopeless. Myron and Clem searched and searched, 
 going over and over the same ground, as the wisest of us 
 do when we look for something lost — for pleasure in old 
 pain, for joy in bygone voices, for hope in withered joys. 
 
 Ann waxed more and more derisive. 
 
 " If 'twas a spoonful of whiskey, now," she began, plagiar- 
 izing and paraphrasing his own words to her; "if 'twas a 
 spoonful of whiskey now, I'll go bail you'd nose it out, 
 
212 
 
 THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 ! I 
 
 You'd ha' run ag'in it long ago. You're better at getting 
 whiskey than at getting clean jugs to put it in, though." 
 
 Clem turned to glare at her, and stubbed his toes against 
 the tub. He cast his eyes down, with a curse, but his gaze 
 was held by something which, even as he looked, sank to 
 the bottom, thoroughly saturated. 
 
 In a moment he had it out — his tobacco, bloated out of 
 all semblance to its dark-brown self. One glance was 
 enough. With accurate aim, he Hung it with all his might 
 at Ann's triumphant countenance. 
 
 It struck her across the lips, parted for another gibe. 
 She subsided, sputtering, anO Clem, gathering up his be- 
 longings from the table wii' ..le sweep into his hand- 
 kerchief, flung himself out of the room. 
 
 Myron's life was passed in a continual jar and fret 
 because of these quarrels. She strove to interpose herself 
 as much as possible between them, for Ann's malice grew 
 more and more venomous, and Clem's dislike threatened 
 to bi'cak bounds, and from speech become blows. Ann was 
 persistent in her demands for " somethin' warmin'," and do 
 what she could Myron could not satisfy them. 
 
 But their bitter words did not sting as her grand- 
 mother's had done. Love has a sl'if j)otency in pain 
 and pleasure. ^ 
 
 There is poison upon, the tongue oi ,i friend Avhen it 
 turns against us. No dart pricks so deep as one launched 
 by a hand we love^ Gall and wormwood are mingled in 
 the draught when the bitter cup is pressed to our lips by 
 the hand that has tended us in childhood. No thorns are 
 so- sharp set to pierce our feet as those implanted in our 
 path by one we love. 
 
 Some years ago there was a marvellous tale told of a 
 woman in the mountains of Africa, wondrous old and 
 
 beautiful, and exceeding wise, We are told that by the 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 213 
 
 mg 
 inst 
 
 i to 
 
 it of 
 
 was 
 
 light 
 
 gibe. 
 8 be- 
 iiaud- 
 
 [ fret 
 lerself 
 grew 
 ,teiied 
 in was 
 ind do 
 
 •and- 
 pain 
 
 Iheii it 
 inched 
 led in 
 lips by 
 rns are 
 lin our 
 
 of a 
 id and 
 by thQ 
 
 toiieli of lier finger-tip 8Ue blanclicd a snowy streak athwart 
 a girl's dark locks. Later, witli anotlier malignant gesture, 
 she reft the girl of life, so that she fell dead in an instant. 
 
 Myron Holder's soul was being blanched by the pointing 
 fingers of her world. Would they stop there? Or would 
 the cruel allegory be completed? Would those merciless 
 mockers not cease until, deprived of life and hope, Myron 
 Holder faltered and fell to what they pictured her? For 
 there was every chance she might. 
 
 Her face had gained a pale and — inapplicable as the 
 word seems — lofty beauty. Her eyes held within their 
 depths the secret of all pain, and the storehouses of such 
 knowledge are often more beautiful than those that garner 
 gayer truths. Her lips, softened by the love of her child, 
 were warm and red ; his kisses kept them so amid the pallor 
 of her face, like a little hearth in a waste of snow. So 
 small and sweet the mouth was, so tremulous, so shrinking, 
 it seemed the pallor of cheek and chin encroached upon it 
 daily. It did not seem a mouth for speech: there was 
 but space for sobs and kisses, and yet — it had had kisses, 
 and kisses leave strange savors sometimes, and it had parted 
 in many a sob. Who, then, could tell if the pressure of 
 those lips brought pain or pleasure? And what man but 
 would dare all to know? 
 
 Behind her lids lay love, too, gleaming through the veil 
 of her sorrows, as the reflected sun shines from a well. At 
 present it was all for her child — later? 
 
 Nowadays, when on every side they talk so much of the 
 force of "suggestion," it almost makes us wonder if our 
 fellows' lives are not a reflex of our conception o{ them — 
 if a consensus of opinion that a person is guilty does not 
 tend to make him wliat we assume him to l)0. 
 
 It would seem tlie Jamestown people did the best they 
 could to aid the devil, whom they professed to sacrifice, 
 
 3 
 
214 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 i 
 
 when, with the pointed forks of malice, they thrust Myron 
 Holder forward to his fires. Each time Homer Wilson 
 came to sit in the cottage his heart ached more and more 
 for this woman. Against the background of Ann's slovenly 
 form and Clem's squalid coarseness she shone like a jewel 
 in a rough clasp. Each time he departed the wrench was 
 greater, but he could not deny himself the pleasure of 
 seeing her. As for her, his visits were the only allevia- 
 tion of her life, his visits and My. For the child was 
 beginning to talk now, and pattered after her every step. 
 She had taught him a meaningless baby jingle — " Mama's 
 My," she said ; " My's mania," answered My — and when he 
 got to know it well, he would chatter it out in swift alter- 
 nation with her, until the simple words, expressive of the 
 absolute inviolate bond that united them, pierced her soul 
 with a sense of their isolation, and she caught him to her 
 as of old Ilagar may have pressed Ishmael to her dis- 
 honored bosom. 
 
 But out of Homer's visits fresh spite and scandal sprung. 
 For old Ann, denied money for gin, grew bitter and re- 
 vengeful, and took to going from kitchen to kitchen with 
 the song of her sorrows. Finding her welcome and enter- 
 tainment proportioned exactly to the amount of news she 
 had to tell, she did her best, like a good laborer, to be 
 worthy of her hire. 
 
 Every incident of Myron's life was noted and enhanced 
 by Ann's evil imaginings — was bruited from lip to lip. 
 Myron knew this. In the old days, whatever bitterness 
 had awaited her within the walls of the cottage, they had at 
 least shielded her from the curious eye and whispering lip 
 of the village. They did so no longer. Her last refuge 
 was taken from her. She felt she lived in a veritable glass 
 house, pierced by day and night by relentless eyes. The 
 knowledge made her restless and ill at ease. 
 
THE ILV TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 215 
 
 she 
 be 
 
 iced 
 lip. 
 ncss 
 dat 
 lip 
 [uge 
 ;la8S 
 iThe 
 
 Ann did her best, as has been said, to deserve the welcome 
 she received at Mrs. Dean's, Mrs. White's, Mrs. Warner's, 
 and the other houses slic went to. She crawled up from 
 her warm couch to listen at Myron's door at night, and 
 crept back, shivering with cold, and angry that Myron did 
 not justify the vileness of her suspicions. 
 
 The " long glories of the winter moon" sent shafts of 
 pale light to illumine both the sleepers and the listener. 
 Within the chamber were the two shamed ones — the sinful 
 mother, the child of sin. The two faces close together, 
 both calm — for one heart was ignorant of the world and 
 its cruelty, and the other for a brief space oblivious. Two 
 hands were hidden, close clasped, beneath the coverlet; 
 two lay palms up, so that the moonshine lit them palely — 
 the one pink-palmed, unscarred, unstained; the other 
 so worn, so hard, having lifted such heavy loads and 
 borne such bitter burdens, having been stung by flowers 
 that change to undying nettles, having so often shielded 
 shamed eyes, having so often pressed against a breaking 
 heart, having so often been raised in fruitless supplication, 
 so often wrung in despair. 
 
 Without the door the listener, tremulous with eagerness, 
 leant, holding her breath, and longing for the confirmation 
 of her evil thoughts. She caught only the cadence of the 
 breathing of mother and child — a music sweet to the old 
 gods long ago, they say, and sacred still to us, the incense 
 of love's devotion and sacrifice of suffering. 
 
 And is the oifering less sacred because ascending from an 
 altar differing in shape from the law's design? In what 
 strange quality were these commingling breaths lacking that 
 they should rise in vain? 
 
 Love bestows upon many things its own immortality. 
 Why not upon the air, that gives it life? The air that has 
 been breathed by the mutual lips of love can never again 
 
 ^ 
 
 i I 
 
2l6 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 commingle with the grosser ether of our earthly atmosphere. 
 It ascends afar, and perchance shall form the winey atmos- 
 phere of that fabled Land of Compensation, where, we 
 are told, " the crooked shall be made straight." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " All the secret of the spring * 
 
 Moved in the chambers of the blood. " 
 
 " Lovely spring 
 A brief sweet thing, 
 Is swift on the wing. " 
 
 Queen Eleanor — "... Some 
 
 Flowers, they say, if one pluck deep enough. 
 Bleed as you gather. " 
 
 Bouchard— " That means love, I think. 
 You gather it, and there's the blood at root. " 
 
 Winter was softening to spring. It was the dismal 
 transition period, when half -frozen mud and icy slush ta^;e 
 the place of snow. The deep drifts of the winter were 
 gone; only in the fence-corners there yet remained 
 darkened icy ridges, showing their outline. 
 
 The fields were bare, but the discolored snow still lay in 
 patches on the roads, where it had been beaten hard. The 
 world never looks so desolate and disreputable as at this 
 time, when the earth, looking up inquiringly to a comfort- 
 less sun, pleads — or so it would seem — for heat, that its 
 nakedness may be clothed with verdure. 
 
 The tree-tops in the woodlands clashed together, and the 
 blows seemed to start the sap within them, for their buds 
 began to swell, and all along their branches the satiny 
 receptacles, wherein were coiled the lirst leaves, glistened. 
 
ta^ie 
 
 were 
 lained 
 
 |lay in 
 
 The 
 It this 
 ifort- 
 lat its 
 
 id the 
 buds 
 Isatiny 
 Itened. 
 
 THE UN TEMP EKED WIND 
 
 ai7 
 
 The sugar maples sparkled uigiit and morning with tiny 
 icicles, where the sweet sap tljat oozed out at noon froze 
 in the colder breath of evening. Every schoolboy in 
 Jamestown had swollen lips from eating these icicles — 
 dainty morsels they were, too, their flavor the very essence 
 of sweetness. 
 
 All the trees in the forest seemed to stand at " atten- 
 tion," awaiting the command of the sun to leap to life. 
 Only the low-growing witch-hazel, that uncanny tree, asso- 
 ciated with ilie Black Art from time immemorial, had 
 taken upon itself to bedeck its limbs with fuzzy little yel- 
 low and brown tufts of bloom. 
 
 But none of the other trees followed its example. They 
 waited the heat of the sun. From all accounts, the root 
 of the witch-hazel seeks less celestial fires to draw its life 
 from. At any rate, this overwise tree knows all subterra- 
 nean secrets, all the wonders of the water, all the wind's 
 weird whisperings. Passed along the surface of the earth, 
 does it not divine where, far beneath, the hidden springs 
 gush forth? Launched uj^on the water, does it not stop 
 and tremble where the drowned one lies? Before the 
 coming of the storm, do its leaves not dance, and nod, and 
 rustle, though moved by no perceptible influence save the 
 intoxication of their own evil sap? Besides, what magi- 
 cal mysteries, what eerie orgies, does it not share witli 
 hairs from black cats' tails, and moss from gravestoiics, 
 and teeth of dead people? Ugh! It is no wonder that its 
 deep, deep roots know where to seek for warmth. 
 
 The moss upon the rocks that faced the lake front was 
 vividly green. Last year's dead leaves had rotted beneath 
 the snows, and the empty seed-vessels of the tall weeds 
 served as bells for the Jesting wind. 
 
 Whatever suggestions of bygone beauty, whatever antici- 
 pations of unborn flowers lurked in the woods, the village 
 
ai8 
 
 THE UN7EMPERED WIND 
 
 at tliis time looked depressingly squalid. Relying upon 
 the snow's charity in covering a multitude of sins, the 
 untidy housekeepers had imposed upon it. Now they 
 were shamed. The malting snow left exposed all the debris 
 of the winter. Heaps of tea-leaves cast forth by careless 
 hands beside the doors, ashes flung out hastily, bones, 
 broken crockery, and the heads of decapitated chickens 
 bestrewed the streets. 
 
 Outwardly, at least, Jamestown had been quite a decent 
 village before the snow melted; now, it showed like a 
 hypocrite from whom the robe has been torn away. 
 
 With the first break in the winter weather, the men 
 began to " go over" the fences, rebuilding those the snow 
 had broken, replacing the rails and boards that the wind 
 had torn off, and sinking new posts where the frosts had 
 heaved the old ones out of the earth. 
 
 Clem Humphries had long been impatient to leave 
 Myron's and get out of the reach of Ann's irritating 
 tongue, and his eager search for work got the reward 
 of being hired by Mr. White to bore post-holes. 
 
 He stuck to his task until he earned a few dollars ; then 
 his long-saved thirst drove him to town. The money 
 went for the old purpose, and Clem got gloriously drunk. 
 A sudden brief but biting spring frost setting in, he 
 was found next morning in Mr. White's barnyard, lying 
 by the strawstack, his fingers clasping rigidly an empty 
 bottle, his long boots frozen to his feet. 
 
 They carried him in beside the kitchen stove, cut off his 
 boots, and by noon old Clem was as sprightly as ever ; only 
 he cursed sulphurously when he saw the wreck they had 
 made of his foot-gear. This was particularly annoying to 
 him, because he knew that had he " only had sense enough, 
 he could have got a good quari: more of rye for them very 
 boots they cut up, as if they weren't worth a cent. " 
 
 i I 
 I I 
 
 -^^^ 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 219 
 
 Many men might have suffered from this experience, 
 but alcohol has great preservative qualities and old Clem's 
 system was saturated with it. 
 
 Clem being now " off the township" and exposed to all 
 the inclemencies of Fortune's variable winds, it behooved 
 him to supply himself with a new suit of religion, as the 
 snake takes to himself a new skin. This he did. He 
 spoke piously of his failings, his experiences, his backslid- 
 ings and beliefs, bo that Mrs. White held him in godly 
 commiseration, as one sore beset by the enemy. 
 
 So Clem fed and fattened, whined diligently, and 
 worked as little as he could help, and laughed in his sleeve 
 at them all. 
 
 Mrs. Deans said to Homer Wilson, with sneering em- 
 phasis : 
 
 "If you should see that Myron Holder, Homer, I wish 
 you'd tell her I want to speak to her." 
 
 "Very well," said Homer, unmoved. 
 
 "Will you be like, to see her?" pursued Mrs. Deans. 
 
 "Yes," said Homer, in a matter-of-course tone. "Oh, 
 yes, of course I'll see her." 
 
 "Still, after all," Mrs. Deans hesitated with a fine show 
 of prayerful reflection, " maybe I hadn't ought to ask you 
 to call there? There's no use making things worse than 
 they are, and I'd never forgive myself if I thought I put 
 you in the way of wrongdoing." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Homer, calmly. "Is there 
 anything wrong about your message?" 
 
 "Not about my message," answered Mrs. Deans; "but, 
 after all that's come and gone, I dare say you would not 
 like to go to the Holder place. Well, I don't know as 
 I blame you. It's terrible discouragin' to be mixed up 
 with such a story; but there, never mind, I can send 
 Haley. No one would think anything of his going." 
 
»--r; 
 
 '■-"^ 
 
 320 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 " Make your mind easy, Mrs. Deans," said ITomcr, con- 
 tuniptuously. "Ann lionion, I am sure, lias let you know 
 thsit I am in the habit of going to Myron's as often as 
 slie'll let me. I'll bo very glad of your message as an 
 excuse to go again." 
 
 With this Homer departed, leaving Mrs. Deans as 
 nearly dumbstruck fis it was possible for her to be. 
 
 That afternoon Myron stood knocking at Mrs. Deans' 
 kitchen-door, holding My by the hand, whilst he strug- 
 gled to get away to the collie dog which lay on the porch, 
 its front paws crossed in an attitude of dignified leisure. 
 
 From the poultry-yard came the mingled babble of the 
 fowls' cries. A thin blue banner of smoke uncoiled in a 
 long spiral from behind the house. It diffused an aroma 
 of herbs and withered grass: the rakings of the garden 
 were being burned. Gamaliel and the hired men were 
 opening a ditch in the field next the house. Their coarse 
 voices and coarser laughing c.ime clearly through the 
 spring air. A sparrow ilew down and, laden with a long 
 straw, flew up again to the woodshed eaves, where its mate 
 proceeded to help it to weave the straw into the walls of 
 their nest. The old cat, thinner now than in the winter, 
 looked up at their toiling malignantly. Every now and 
 then the eye was conscious of a dark speck above the line 
 of direct vision, as the swallows soared in long sweeps over 
 the building. 
 
 The sky was bright, but not very warm ; and when one 
 of the many floating clouds interposed a veil betwixt its 
 rays and the earth, there came a quick sense of chill. The 
 men's voices grew higher and more confused. Then, 
 clear above the murmur that they made, came shrill whis- 
 tles and shouts of "Bob! Bob!" The collie sprang up, 
 and, throwing dignity to (he wind, wriggled between the 
 boards of the garden fence and darted across the field, to 
 
rilE UNTEMrERKD WIND 
 
 221 
 
 / 
 
 enjoy presently a liiliirious chase after a pair of water-rats 
 that tlie men liad found in tlie stopped up drain. 
 
 It was a spring day — all delicate sunshine and shinnner- 
 ing shadow, all soft witii tints of niother-o'-pearl, with 
 hints of after-heats and breaths of bygone bitterness. 
 Above floated "the wind-stirred robe of roseate gray," 
 and beneath the earth lay murmurous, sentient, expectant, 
 and eager, with little streams finding their way to the 
 lake, each seeming the bearer of sweeter secrets than we 
 know. 
 
 1 one 
 xt its 
 The 
 hen, 
 svhis- 
 np, 
 the 
 d, to 
 
 "O water, thou tluit waiulercst, wliisporing, 
 Thou keep'st th}"^ counsel to tlie hist! 
 What spell upou thy bosom shouhl Love cast, 
 His message thence to wring V" 
 
 A spring day — yet somewhat sad, and strange with the 
 uncertainty of u-nfulUllcd dreams. It was but one minor 
 note in Nature's glad interlude between "winter's rains 
 and ruins" and summer's languorous perfections, fleeting 
 to the eye, elusive to the memory, but lingering long in 
 the heart. 
 
 Myron knocked and waited. Presently Liz opened the 
 door. She had a knife in one hand, a potato in the 
 other, and her fingers were stained a deep brown. Liz was 
 cutting seed-potatoes, and even as slie walked back to her 
 place by the window, dexterously sliced the potato she held 
 into angled bits, preserving in each an eye for growth to 
 spring from. Mrs. Deans came, and when Myron left she 
 had arranged for another summer's toil under her benign 
 influence. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had decided to raise poultry more extensively 
 than ever this year, and, berate Myron as she might, she 
 recognized fully how valuable her faithful services were. 
 Mrs, Deans proposed that My should be left with Ann 
 
 V' 
 
'«iiii 
 
 HWWMHMMMaaW 
 
 flaa 
 
 THE UNTEAirERED WIND 
 
 I 
 
 III 
 
 Lemon during the day, but Myron said humbly but very 
 decidedly that the child must come with her. Mrs. Deans 
 demurred, but read Myron's pale determination aright, and 
 finally consented. It gave her an excuse, however, for 
 still further reducing the meagre pay she had given Myron 
 the summer before. 
 
 Myron had been prepared for this, and did not grumble 
 when Mrs. Deans named the lower wage, whereat Mrs. 
 Deans was wroth with herself that she had not said still 
 loss. 
 
 Ann Lemon went back to her own house, and Myron once 
 more went back and forth to the village. The winter had 
 changed her. She no longer shrank from before the gaze 
 of those cold eyes that met hers daily. Listead, she met 
 their glances with firm lips and unmoved eye, not boldly, 
 not appealingly, but with ncceptance of rebuke and 
 scorn that was stronger in iio endurance than wrath, with 
 a patience more pathetic than any appeal. 
 
 No smile ever moved her lips, no anger ever raised her 
 voice. If tears ever dimmed her eyes they were unseen. 
 If any ray of hope yet flickered within her breast, it was well 
 hidden ; its fires never flushed her cheeks nor troubled her 
 eyes, and those humble eyes were " deeper than the depth 
 of waters stilled at even." 
 
 The spring advanced. Each evening whispered of a new 
 beputy, each night saw the birth of a new mystery, each 
 morning revealed it in nature's mirror, each day bespoke 
 some completion of beauty, some fulfillment of hope. 
 
 Spring — "all bloom and desire" — is not the time for 
 love to end. It is rather the growing time of every tender 
 joy, and Homer Wilson found himself hoping against 
 hope. He contrived to meet Myron very often now, in 
 the early mornings or late twilight, as she traversed the 
 road between the village and Mrs. Deans', He had don© 
 
 
THE UNTEMri'.RED WIND 
 
 333 
 
 5pth 
 
 for 
 ider 
 linst 
 in 
 I the 
 
 one 
 
 
 what he could to dissuado her from going to Mrs. J)ean8*, 
 but a refusal to do so meant a full acceptance of his aid. 
 JNfyron held back her hand from such overwhelming alms. 
 Homer had done, therefore, what he could for her — 
 ploughed the little lot about her house and planted it with 
 potatoes and vegetables for her, and mended the fence and 
 piled great heaps of split wood in the woodshed. 
 
 He pleaded with her sometimes, but to no avail — at least 
 none that was perceptible to him. The water beating 
 against a rock does not realize its own victories; but wo 
 see the honeycombed cells that attest its persistence, and 
 predict that some day the water will have won a way for 
 itself over the fragments of the rocky barrier. But the 
 springs run dry sometimes, and the rock remains uncon- 
 juered, but barren and parched, thirsting for the water 
 that loved it once. To each successive plea Myron felt it 
 harder and harder to say " No." 
 
 When Homer asked for her love, his face shone with that 
 seraphic light that never yet "has shone on land or sea," 
 and she felt it very bitter to banish it. Sometimes he 
 touched her to tears. Sometimes, dry-eyed she begged 
 him so piteously to desist that he felt himself a cur to have 
 urged her. 
 
 Indeed, in those calm spring weeks his heart was the 
 abode of perpetual conflict, the place of passion and pain, 
 the home of love and longing — 
 
 " O fretted heart, tossed to and fro, 
 Rest was nearer than thou wist. " 
 
 Through all these turbulent times Homer bore himself 
 well. He had again the old genial manner, the old 
 patience, the old generosity. His people presumed upon 
 his unfaltering good-temper, and made their demands 
 jnore and more exf^cting. He gave all they sought of his 
 
 |i 
 
I 
 
 S24 
 
 rilE UNTEMrKRED WIND 
 
 il 
 il 
 
 if * 
 
 time, trouble, and inone}^ juul to their re2)roaclic8 replied 
 uot Hgjiin. 
 
 Upon every subject under the sun ho heard them 
 patiently, save the one subject next his heart. That he 
 held sacred. 
 
 His mother had said to him one day: 
 
 " You'll never marry her, Homer?" 
 
 *' (Jod knows I'm afraid 1 won't," he stud. 
 
 " Do you mean to say " began his mother. 
 
 "There is nothing but this to say," he answered, very 
 (piietly, but in a voice that silenced her; " 1 would give my 
 right hand — my life — everything — if 1 could persuade 
 Myron Holder to marry me." 
 
 So he left her; but his nu>thtr's incredulous exclanuition, 
 "You'll never marry her!" cankered in his heart like a 
 bitter prophecy. 
 
 Afterwards, when Mrs. Wilson thought over all the days 
 and doifigs of her son, she thought of this also, and told the 
 conversation to her neighbors, and they all then looked 
 upon Myron Holder as one wno, having gotten a nuin's 
 soul, would not lot him assoil himself by marrying her. 
 
 But this was after. 
 
 The old rag peddler going his rounds stopped once more 
 at Mrs. Deans' door. Little My trotted out from the 
 kitchen, and the ohl peddler eyed him with the longing 
 gaze of a childless man. Mrs. Deans bargained for her 
 pie-plates, and My stood gazing reflectively at the big black 
 horse. 
 
 " Say, Mrs. Deans," said the ragman, " whose young one 
 is that?" 
 
 "Oh," answ'cred Mrs. Deans, feelingly, " tiiat's Myron 
 Holder's brat!" 
 
 "You don't say! Well, 'taint much like the Holders. 
 I kaowed Jed," he added, after a pause. 
 
cd 
 
 L?tU 
 
 ho 
 
 very 
 
 ) my 
 iiado 
 
 .tioii, 
 like a 
 
 days 
 id tho 
 
 toUed 
 |nau'B 
 Icr. 
 
 more 
 in the 
 
 Ir lier 
 I black 
 
 1 2 one 
 
 r o 
 
 l^lyrou 
 llders. 
 
 THE VNTEMrERlil) WIND 
 
 225 
 
 That night tlio ragman drove homo, his van licavily 
 hulen, and Iiis wifo helped \\\\\\ to bestow tho canvas sacks 
 in the barn, and hiter looked over his stock of tins and 
 ran over the book. She was a queer little figure. Her 
 dross was of dark woollen stull that they gave her husband 
 at the shoddy-mills. It was curiously and lavishly adorned 
 with buttons: thero wore rows of buttons on the sleeves 
 from wrist to elbow, a veritable breast-plato of them on 
 the bodice; they jingled on her shoulders and glistened on 
 her skirts. 
 
 In a deep-down corner of her miserly little soul there 
 lurked a taste for finery. Denied legitimate exproasion 
 by her miserliness, it fouiul vent in this barbaric adorn- 
 ing of her gowns. The pearl and crockery buttons she 
 did not use — those she sewed on cards to resell; but all the 
 fancy metal ones she found on the rags, being unsalable, 
 she appropriated toward the decoration of her penurious 
 person, and let her fancy run riot in tho arrangement of 
 them. 
 
 " Where's the littlo red tin mug?" she asked her hus- 
 band, as she pored over his ragged daybook. " I don't see 
 it in the van, and I don't see it nuirked in the sales." 
 
 Her husband shifted uneasily. 
 
 "I give it to Myron Holder's young one. Ho was play- 
 ing about tho wagon at Deans'." 
 
 " You did !" said his wife. " You dnl ! What for?" 
 
 " Iknowed Jed," began her husband, apologetically; but 
 he was cut short by a contemptuous snub from his wife. 
 
 This was tho chronicling of a little incident that glad- 
 dened Myron's heart inexpressibly. 
 
 In Myron's mind tliere was slowly forming an idea at 
 this time — an idea of change. It was but dimly sliadowed 
 fo.*th yet; but wlien the time came for it to take definite 
 t did so at once, and was so well established that it 
 
 shape 
 
 \\\ 
 
 i5 
 
226 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 seemed the settled and legitimate conclusion of long rea- 
 soning. In the mean time the thought only came to her 
 hazily — sometimes in the i)auses of her work when she 
 heard Mrs. Deans speaking of the town ; sometimes when, 
 in the early morning, she saw far away across the lake 
 the smoke of a steamer; sometimes when, at noontide, 
 the whistle of far-off trains smote through the air, or when, 
 returning to the village at night, she noted the telegraph- 
 poles, with their single wire. ' They seemed to incline from 
 the village — away from its self-righteous roof-trees and 
 censorious chimneys; away and above its babbling door- 
 steps and carping streets — and to point out into a wider, 
 freer, unknown world. 
 
 Often she turned to look along the way they pointed. 
 They took her eyes eastward, and at night the eastern 
 prospect is dull and gray. From this forbidding outlook 
 she would turn her eyes, with a shudder, and they would 
 fall upon the trees of Deans' woodland, illumined by the 
 sun which set behind them. 
 
 But if the eastern gray made her despond, the western 
 glow behind those trees made her despair. She withdrew 
 her gaze and hastened to the blank twilight of the village. 
 
 It was summer, and Homer Wilson, walking through 
 his fields, was thinking of. Myron Holder. He had gone 
 early to town that morning, and as he passed the cottage 
 she issued, with little My, from the door. 
 
 The dew lay heavy on the grass ; the silence was stirred 
 by the singing of birds; the haze that lay over the land 
 presaged a day of intense heat. The fires were being 
 lighted in the village, and the first smoke was lingering 
 lazily above the roofs. The hopvines about the cottage 
 glistened at every point with drops of dew, and, as the 
 sparrows twittered through the tendrils, they sent sparkling 
 little showers down. The morning-glories that Myron had 
 
 1 J 
 
 r 
 
*n 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 227 
 
 
 planted beneath the window were covered with their cup- 
 like blooms. There is no flower on earth more beautiful in 
 delicate fragility of texture, in purity of tint, in shape 
 and translucent color than a morning-glory with the dew 
 upon it. 
 
 It was a morning to live and love in. And it seemed to 
 Homer Wilson that the whole gracious aspect of the day 
 was completed by the forms of Myron and her boy as they 
 stood without the gate. 
 
 His heart yearned for her as he helped her into the 
 wagon by his side. At Mrs. Deans' he lifted her down, 
 holding her for an instant in his arms. The keen 
 " possessive pang" that thrilled him shook his spirit with 
 its sacred sweetness. 
 
 And to-night he was going to her with yet another 
 prayer upon his lips. 
 
 The sultry day had fulfilled the prophecy of the misty 
 morning. The air was heavy with odors. Every weed 
 and grass, each flower and vine, each bush and tree, had 
 given its quota of perfume to form the frankincense that 
 nature offers to the midsummer moon. The exhalations 
 from a million tiny cells mingled together in that odorous 
 oblation. 
 
 And as he crossed the fields Homer saw the moon, round 
 
 and red, rising slowly over the lake. Slowly — slowly — it 
 
 rose, paling as it attained the higher heavens, until it 
 
 soared — 
 
 " In voluptuous whiteness, Juno-likc, 
 V A passionate splendor" — 
 
 most worthy to be worshipped. 
 
 As Homer knocked at Myron's door the- moon veiled 
 itself behind some close-wreathed clouds, so that from the 
 dimness of the cloudy sky Homer passed within the 
 doorway. 
 
 I 
 
•iLm^mm 
 
 228 
 
 T//E UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 \ i 
 
 The moon was etill obscured when he emerged, so that 
 liis face was hid. But before him there stretched, at 
 hist seen with clear eyes, tlie defniite dreariness of a soli- 
 tary life. Behind him he knew a woman lay prone upon 
 a bare floor, sobbing and wrestling with the evil of her 
 own nature, with hard-wrought hands half-outstretched 
 to him — half-withdrawn, to cover her shamed eyes. 
 Within his breast he bore the memory, not of rejection or 
 of rebuke, but the echo of a plea for mercy — the broken 
 syllables of a woman's voice raised in an appeal for help 
 against her own weakness. 
 
 Nor had it been made in vain. For Homer Wilson, in 
 the moment of that supreme temptation, had risen supe- 
 rior to himself — had put aside his own strength to help her 
 weakness — had overcome his passion with his love. He 
 had uttered a passionate word or two of comprehension, 
 offered an incoherent pledge of aid — comfort — approval — 
 and then, stumbling out of the door, hastened away, disre- 
 garding, for lier sake, the cry of "Homer — Homer!" that 
 seemed to follow him. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 Each of us has a wilderness and a temptation therein, 
 although oft we pass through it, unrecking of the devils that 
 attend us until they have stolen all they sought. Some- 
 times our wilderness is a perfumed garden, through which 
 insidious devils dog our laggard footsteps. Sometimes it 
 is a shaded pleasaunce, through which we tread with 
 stately steps, unwitting of the derisive demons that smile 
 as they mock our pageantry of pride. With retrospective 
 agony, we turn to gaze upon the mirages of these scenes, 
 as one views sunlit seas where wrecks have been, and cry 
 aloud, "Here much precious treasure was lost!" But 
 there are other wildernesses wherein we wander, con- 
 sciously beset with lilvil Spirits whose faces we know, 
 
rilE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 229 
 
 hat 
 
 ich 
 
 lith 
 I lie 
 live 
 ^es, 
 3ry 
 Jut 
 m- 
 
 
 It was thus with Myron Holder. Her wilderness was 
 indeed "a land of sand and thorns," thorns whose acrid 
 Bap was sucked from salt pools of tears. And the Spectre 
 Demon that beset her there wtis the Devil of her own pas- 
 sion. By day it lingered round her steps, tempting her 
 with suggestions of the Lethean draught its jileasures 
 would bring, whispering to her how excusable she would 
 be if she yielded to its allurements ; for it did not fail to 
 point out that she had no debt of kindness to repay with 
 worthiness. 
 
 All day she fought against this Tempting One, who 
 speedily enleagued all the other evils of her nature to aid 
 him. 
 
 The battle raged fiercely, the bright light in her eyes, 
 the flaming cheeks and trembling hands attesting the 
 strife. One night, when the heat of summer made even 
 the night winds sultry, when all nature was in the full 
 height of its development, when the fields were deep in 
 grass and the clover heavy with bloom — on such a night 
 the door of a hop-clad cottage in Jamestown opened softly 
 and closed as gently, and through the sleeping streets and 
 out into the country a wild figure sped. She, for it was a 
 woman, with flushed cheeks .ind loose-coiled hair, 
 advanced a short distance along the highway, and then, 
 swiftly climbing the fence, made her way diagonally across 
 the fields of dew-drenched grass — across one field, another, 
 and another — holding her slanting course as steadily and 
 unswervingly as though she followed a beaten track. 
 
 As she ran, the spirit of the night and the intoxicating 
 odor of flowers and grasses entered into her and steeped 
 her senses in a delirium of freedom. She sprang on — now 
 running, now half-dancing, once going a rod or two in the 
 old childish " hippety-hop" fashion. 
 
 She reached the boundary of Deans' woodland, and 
 
* m- 
 
 230 
 
 TI/£ UNTEMPRRED WIND 
 
 plunged into its shadows with as littlo hesitation as she 
 had entered tlie field of clover. She threaded the wood 
 swiftly, her eyes fixed straight before her, never seeming to 
 see the obstacles which opposed her path, although she 
 avoided them unerringly. 
 
 Bats whose eyes have been pierced out exercise this 
 same blind avoidance of obstacles, and it was only this 
 woman's heart that had been wounded. 
 
 She held on her way. 
 
 At length she saw a far-off gleam of water, and knew she 
 had all but reached her destination. 
 
 On she went, and, pushing through the dense mass of 
 witch-hazel bushes that grew along the top of the lake 
 bank, jumped. It seemed a leap to destruction, for 
 Deans' woods bounded the lake here with high, precipitous 
 cliffs; but the path to that spot was marked by her heart- 
 blood, and she had made no error in following it. She had 
 a drop of four feet or so ; and then she stood upon a long, 
 narrow, jutting ledge, surrounded by the tops of the trees 
 that grew below it on the bank proper. From the top of 
 the bank it was almost invisible — entirely so, unless the 
 looker penetrated the witch-hazel hedge. From the lake 
 it was plainly seen. 
 
 Here, then, she paused, looking forth over the water, 
 and being scorned by the ihoon — 
 
 " For so it is, with past delights 
 
 She taunts men's brains and maizes them mad. " 
 
 
 She stood upon the rocky point and held out her 
 clasped hands despairingly. Her hair, loosened by many a 
 tugging branch, fell about her in wild disorder — now blown 
 across her flushed cheeks, wild eyes and parted lips; now 
 wrenched back by the high wind, its whole weight stream- 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 «3f 
 
 ing behind her; now framing her face in dusky convolu- 
 tions. 
 
 In the mute agony of her gesture, slie seemed a fit em- 
 blem of despairing grief — the grief of Psyche for Adonis. 
 
 The moon broke from the embrace of its clouds and 
 sailed high up into the night, then faded towards the 
 horizon. 
 
 And still she stood, outwearing her passion by her 
 patience. About her surged all the weird melodies that 
 loneliness and night and despair smite from the heart- 
 strings. The blood sang in her ears, a monotonous ohli- 
 gaio to those piercing notes. 
 
 3r, 
 
 m 
 ^w 
 
 She looked out into the night. Her eyes demanded 
 from it some balm to soothe their burning; her heart 
 some solace for its pain. Her soul cried out against the 
 silence without, which seemed such a maddening environ- 
 ment to the fightings within. Her whole being demanded 
 an answering emotion from some one or something. 
 
 "Shake out, carols 1 
 Solitary here — the night's carols 1 
 Carols of lonesome love 1 Death's carols ! 
 Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon — 
 Oh, under that moon where she drops almost down into the sea ! 
 Oh, reckless, despairing carols 1 " 
 
 But the moon was mute, the night silent, and she was 
 alone. She could not analyze her own emotions, nor vivi- 
 sect her own soul; could not separate shreds of Desire, 
 fibres of loneliness, tissues of misery, until she had disin- 
 tegrated the whole mass of Despair that was crushing her. 
 
 She could but suffer. 
 
 She lay prone upon the ledge of rock, her hands clutch- 
 
333 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 ing the short, glossy mountain grass; resisting the wooing 
 of the airy space below that called her to oblivion, pur- 
 chased by one leap outward — a leap — 'uo, one single step — 
 out into the kindly air. 
 
 How small a price at which to buy immunity from those 
 thorny roads she trod with bleeding feet, alone! Alone? 
 Ah! Little My! . . . The leaves were stirring with 
 the morning's breath; the birds had not begun to sing 
 yet, but were moving lestlessly upon the branches and 
 uttering their first waking calls — those ineffably sad herald- 
 ings of earliest dawn or latest night! 
 
 " Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns, 
 The earliest pipd of half-awakened birds ! " 
 
 The world lay silent under a reflectionless moonstone 
 dome of gray when Myron Holder, with dew-drenched 
 skirts and hair, relaxed limbs and pallid cheeks, entered 
 the house where her child yet slept. Of the night's tur- 
 moil there was no trace save the signs of physical exhaus- 
 tion. Her face was calm, her lips firm ; her eyes shone 
 undimmed with tears, unblurred by passion. 
 
 if 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " Yea, then were all things laid within the scale- 
 Pleasure and lust, love and desire of fame, 
 
 Kindness, and hope, and folly, all the tale 
 Told in a moment — as across him came 
 That sudden flash, bright as the lightning flame, 
 
 Showing the wanderer on the waste how he 
 
 Has gone astray 'mid dark and misery. " 
 
 Outwardly the lives of Myron Holder and Homer Wil- 
 son gave no sign of these conflicts. It is the petty worries 
 and every-day griefs of life that trace lines upon the 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 233 
 
 I 
 
 \- 
 
 Is 
 
 brow. A fretful discontent often leaves a wrinkle when 
 a great grief obscures itself behind the placidity of despair. 
 
 Myron Holder's face now shone in unaltered — and it 
 seemed unalterable — calm. That wild night had not been 
 spent in vain. Self-2)oised, if humble, her life seemed 
 centred calmly at last. 
 
 As for Homer Wilson; H, was different with him. His 
 heart was still parched with the " thirst that thirsteth on," 
 but he no longer sought for draughts to slake it. His 
 attitude approximated that of those who, dying of seme 
 dreadful disease, accept their fate and, looking the inevit- 
 able in the face, long for the end. 
 
 One day he found in his pocket the old bullet ho had 
 picked up from the crevice in the rock. He turned it 
 over, wondering where he got it; then remembering, a bit- 
 ter thought crossed his mind that he was like that bullet. 
 His life-impetus gone, he was but a thing for the sun to 
 scorn. Myron, no longer trembling for herself, felt a deep 
 tenderness spring within her heart for Homer, and sought 
 to show him in every way that he was her only friend and 
 that she trusted him. 
 
 Myron had almost made up her mind to leave James- 
 town, and a little incident that occurred one day strength- 
 ened this thought to a resolution. The school-house 
 was quite near the Holder cottage: the playground bor- 
 dered one side of the cottage garden ; a fence of slackly 
 hung wires was bet 7een them; beyond the fence in the 
 playground was a little ditch with heaped-up sides, on 
 which grew many yellow buttercups. This was a favorite 
 haunt for the younger school children, and their voices 
 came in mingled cadences across Myron's rows of vege- 
 tables. 
 
 One day in later summer Myron was at home from Mrs. 
 Deans', having by that lady's desire brought the weekly 
 
 ,*l 
 
234 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 washing from the farm, to do it in the cottage. The win- 
 dows were flung high, and tli rough the rising steam from 
 her wash tubs Myron's eyes followed My's golden head as 
 he trotted about the garden. Looking up once, she saw 
 him standing by the fence, holding to one swaying wire 
 and peering through at the children in the playground. 
 A momentary pang shot through her heart — he seem id so 
 isolated there ; and yet the barrier that separated him from 
 the other Jamestown cln'l'^ '^n w so slight — just a slack- 
 wire fence — that any one couia ooe through, that hung 
 irregularly between its supports, now so low that it could 
 be stepped over, again so high it seemed impassable, only 
 where it was so lofty the spaces between the wires were 
 wide enough to creep through. 
 
 The sunlight shone on both sides the same. The butter- 
 cups straggled through to the vegetables, seeming by their 
 persistence to wish to bloom there, and the singing of the 
 catbird in the elm tree was as sweet to My's ears as to 
 Sammy Warner's upon the other side. 
 
 Nature made no diiference; aevertheless there was a bar- 
 rier. My was effectually severed from the rest of the 
 village, but he himself had not recognized that yet, and 
 the next time Myron looked up she saw My had gone 
 through the fence and had seated himself beside the 
 others. 
 
 They had taken their places in an irregular row .among 
 the buttercups, jostling and nudging each other, saying 
 " Gimme elbow room," and " Quit pushin'," as they settled 
 themselves comfortably to the business of the moment. 
 
 This was the time-honored trial to decide wliich of them 
 liked butter, ascertained by holding a spray of buttercups 
 against the throat, so that the reflection was cast \x\ on the 
 uptilted chin. The taste for butter is proportionate to 
 the yellowness of the reflection. 
 
 
 iilHIl 
 
 \ Hi I 
 
 ci II 111 
 
THE VNTEMPERED WIMD 
 
 235 
 
 3m 
 
 ips 
 
 the 
 
 to 
 
 k 
 
 Little Jenny Muir wtis jiulgo and the rest jury, craning 
 their necks forward to h)ok as slio passed from oTie to the 
 other, holding a bunch of buttercups against their chests 
 whilst they tilto ^ their chins far back. The dull blues, 
 washed-out reds, and russet browns of the children's frocks 
 enhanced the brilliant yellow of the flowers. The shadows 
 of the big pear tree, glossy of leaf but barren of fruit, 
 modulated the sunshine, so that the whole group showed in 
 a soft, subdued glow, an idyl of child life not unlovely, 
 for the heads in the row were not yet bent to the dust to 
 search for money, nor lifted to heaven in self-righteous 
 conceit. Time had not dulled the childish gold to brown, 
 nor deadened the flaxen heads to lustreless drab. 
 
 My placed himself at the end of the row, his head a 
 golden period at the end of the human sentence that 
 spoke of life's beginnings. With unembarrassed childish 
 mimicry, ho emulated the gestures and laughter of the 
 others. 
 
 Myron's heart lightened. She wondered for a moment 
 if My miglit not in time merge his life with those others 
 and be no longer solitary. The hope soon vanished. 
 Looking out again, she saw My sitting alone, his head 
 tilted far back as he waited for his turn. Just disappear- 
 ing down the slight decline to the school -house, she saw the 
 other children, their hands held over their months, their 
 faces red with suppressed laughter, stepping with elaborate 
 pretence of quiet, and turning now and then to look over 
 their shoulders at My, sitting alone, his face patiently 
 uptilted to the sun, unconscious of his loneliness. Beside 
 him lay the bunch of buttercups, flung down as Jenny 
 Muir clapped her hands over her mouth and fled across the 
 soft sward. 
 
 In a moment Myron was out of the house, running down 
 the path to the fence side. Ere she reached it, My's tired 
 
236 
 
 THE UX TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 little nock relaxed, and ho looked about him wonder ingly, 
 the light fading from his face. His eyes were fdled with 
 tears, and his lips quivered when hia mother called him. 
 Tliere was a hasty scramble over the ditch, a strnggle 
 through the fence, and My was back on his mother's side 
 of the barrier. That straggling fence was, after all, not so 
 easily crossed. 
 
 My had forgotten the whole affair ten minutes after, as 
 he excitedly chased grasshoppers along the paths; but all 
 day long the laughter of the playing children smote 
 Myron's heart like the crack of a whip that stings. 
 
 After that day it became a matter of conscience for 
 Myron to play the " buttercup game" Avith My, and a fever- 
 ish eagerness fairly consumed her to get away from a place 
 where even the children were cruel. She began to scrimp 
 and save every penny she could, hoarding her meagre 
 gatherings in the bottom of the old clock-rase that stood 
 on the shelf beside the window. 
 
 It was lite autumn. Between the tree-tops were skyey 
 lakes of uiue more brilliant than any blue of summer sky, 
 more evanescent than any of spring. The sun shone 
 through the tree-tops with an ineffable, clear, cold light, 
 displaying every fibre in their leaves and imparting to them 
 a fragility wholly sad. 
 
 A light uncertain wind rippled through the sumachs, 
 giving their leaves a delicate, lateral movement, as though 
 upon some aerial lyre they harped their own requiem, 
 touching its invisible strings lightly with blood-tipped 
 fingers, for the autumn coloring stained the green. 
 
 Between the boughs of the trees glistened those huge 
 octagonal webs that the wood-spiders spin so persistently 
 at this season. There was no sound of birds, only the 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 237 
 
 lil 
 
 ;yey 
 
 fky, 
 
 lone 
 rht, 
 liem 
 
 3h8, 
 
 3m, 
 )ed 
 
 ige 
 Ltly 
 Ithe 
 
 1 
 
 cheerless shrilliii<? of the autumnal crickets and tlio dry 
 rustle of (lead leaves as the few grasshoppers left alivo 
 hopped torpidly T'-om place to place till they came to the 
 spot to die. 
 
 The katydids, that six weeks before had prophesied so 
 cheerily the frost that was to kill them, lay here and 
 there, little pale-green corpses, wrapped in their lace-like 
 
 wings. 
 
 The tall weeds by the pathway, that in summer had dis- 
 guised themselves with blossoms of different colors and 
 shapes, now stood confessed, with panicles of burs crown- 
 ing their dishonored heads. 
 
 It was upon such a day that Homer walked through 
 his woods, searching for a young hickory tree suitable to 
 cut down for axe-handles. His heart, caught in the 
 embrace of the surrounding silence, suddenly stilled its 
 throbbing to a steadier rhythm than it had known of late. 
 He thought out clearly the motive that must actuate his 
 life, the inspiration that must point his path. 
 
 Passion was indeed eliminated from his heart, but not 
 forgotten. They tell us that when an arm or leg is ampu- 
 tated, one still feels shadowy aches and ghostly pangs, in- 
 tensifying the desolate sense of incompleteness and loss. 
 The maiming of one part of the body may preserve the 
 whole alive, but yet one looks back with anguished regret 
 to the days when he stood complete. 
 
 Homer Wilson was learning that each must " dree his 
 ain weird," and the only complaint he made against his 
 Fate was that he could not alter Myron's. 
 
 Night fell soon and swiftly now. The sun seemed glad to 
 sink out of sight. Its feeble rays brought no heat to the 
 leaves it had called to life. The sad silence of the trees 
 seemed a mute reproach against the light that brought 
 forth but could not sustain their foliage. 
 
Mtmmii 
 
 THE UNrEMPERED WIND 
 
 That evening in the chill twilight, Homer overtook 
 Myron and her boy returning from Mrs. Deans'. Slackening 
 his pace, he walked with them to the village. The air was 
 very quiet, "silent as a nun breathless with adoration." 
 As they passed along the road there came an earthy breath 
 from the fresh-turned soil in the fields, whei . they had 
 been lifting the potatoes and the turnips. It had none of 
 the fresh fruitiness of spring: instead it was redolent with 
 sad suggestions, an atmosphere in which one involuntarily 
 lowered the voice and stilled, a laugh. 
 
 They passed the little graveyard where the virgin bower 
 clematis, already denuded of leaves, garlanded the pickets 
 with brittle, bare, brown branches, softened here and there 
 by the downy whorls of seed. Myron was telling Homer 
 of her wish to leave Jamestown, and asking his advice. 
 He had long felt this to be one possible solution of the 
 position, but there were points that troubled him sorely. 
 It was obvious that the best that could happen to Myron 
 would be the return of the man for whom she had sulfered 
 so much. Homer confessed to himself that he had no 
 hope that he would return, but yet had grown very un- 
 certain and humble about his own judgment, and ho 
 thought Myron still believed in her betrayer's return. If 
 he should return and Myron be gone? Would that not 
 afford him a somewhat tenable excuse for continued infi- 
 delity? Suppose he should return and inquire for Myron 
 Holder in the village? Homer sickened to think of the 
 distorted picture that would then be drawn of her patient 
 life. 
 
 As has been said. Homer had not a shadow of hope that 
 he would return, but he thought Myron had. Sharpened 
 as Homer's perceptions were by pain and love, they were 
 not yet keen enough to grasp clearly how slight a shred of 
 hope remained of all her brave fabr?^ of belief. He could 
 
 /i 
 
 /■?^::"^itt'. 
 
TY/iS UmWTEMPERED WIND 
 
 339 
 
 3nt 
 
 lat 
 
 led 
 
 lore 
 
 of 
 
 bid 
 
 
 not imdv'jrstand how nmch of Myron's faithfulness was due 
 to her own womanhood, how little now to any hope of 
 reparation. He therefore hesitated when, laying every- 
 thing before him, she asked him to decide. 
 
 As they nertred the village they walked yet more slowly. 
 They had mnch to say, and since that midsummer night 
 Homer had never entered the oott' : oor. There seemed 
 to issue from its portals forever . vok! calling, "Homer, 
 Homer," a voice whose infinite longiiigs and needs shook 
 his soul with a sense of liis own impotency. 
 
 Little My wearied, and Homer iu,iaed him in his arms. 
 So they made their way to the cottage — they two alone, for 
 the child slept, and a strange loneliness Jay over the quiet 
 road and empty street. Myron took My witliin doors, 
 and, coming out, she and Homer paced, side by side, up and 
 down the little centre path. On either side were vege- 
 tables and withering grass, and down in the far corner the 
 huge yellow globes of the pumpkins; showed solidly through 
 the dusk. 
 
 " Indeed, Myron dear, it would be easier for you if you 
 went," he said, as they stood together \i\ the sliadow of the 
 elm tree; "and later on My might have a happier time. 
 For my part, I would have spoken of it long since, only — 
 
 only '' He paused, and added in lower tones, " I knew 
 
 the hope you lived In." 
 
 She bent toward hrm and said, very quietly bii' teadily, 
 '' I have no vestige of tliat hope left. Homer." 
 
 He looked down at her, an eagerness that strove against 
 repression in his eyes. 
 
 * Kg, "she continued, "My and I must hold our way 
 alono. Teil me, then, Homer, do you think it would be 
 ever so little easier if we went away from here?" 
 
 Her eyes lield his, pleadingly, and filled with tears. It 
 was one of the rare times when she felt self-pity. 
 
 _e " 
 
240 
 
 THE UN TEMPER ED WIND 
 
 "Yes, dear," he said, taking her hands, that fluttered 
 nervously; " yes, we will make it easier — we will find a way 
 for you to leave all this behind. You shall go and lose 
 yourself, so that their prying eyes shall never find you, 
 their itching ears never hear of you, their lying lips have 
 nothing to tell of you — only, Myron, you will never try to 
 hide from me, will you?" 
 
 "Oh, Homer!" she cried, "I would be lost indeed then. 
 Oh, no! I could not bear to have you forget me." 
 
 His face lighted in the dusk with a happiness that had 
 long been a stranger — a chastened light, perhaps, when 
 compared with the radiance evoked by his first love, but a 
 steadier flame, lit in the heart, not in the eyes alone. 
 
 "Well, I will think it all out, Myron; to-morrow will 
 surely find me with a way planned for you. I wish, 
 indeed, that I too could go with you, that I also could find 
 a road out of Jamestown." 
 
 He said good-night, and turned to go. He was almost 
 at the gate when she ran after him. 
 
 " Wait a moment. Homer," she called softly; " wait!" 
 
 He turned quickly. 
 
 "You know how I think of you?" she asked. "You 
 know you are my only friend — my dear friend — my 
 brother? You know this? Do you think that going away 
 from Jamestown will make up for not seeing you? I am 
 afraid — I — I — I think. Homer, I will stay." 
 
 Homer gave a little laugh, so sweet these words were to 
 him. 
 
 " My dear, you shall go away, and yet shall see me too, 
 sometimes. I could not stand it to be without a sight of 
 My and you now and then." 
 
 She clasped her hands. 
 
 "Oh, could I se3 you sometimes? Then think hard to- 
 jiight, Homer, and find out the way to-morrow," 
 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 241 
 
 J 
 
 to 
 
 of 
 
 Thero was another good-night, and they parted. 
 
 Tlie next day Myron, having been sent to the village by 
 Mrs. Deans, went to the grocery store to buy some things 
 for herself, for it was Saturday, and she did not go to Mrs. 
 Deans' on Sunday. Whilst she stood waiting until Mrs. 
 Wilson was served. My ran in and out of the door, a little, 
 tottering figure, clad in a queerly made blue and white 
 checked piuafore. Mrs. Wilson did her shopping leisurely, 
 discoursing upon the pros and cons of asthma the while, 
 for which she strongly recommended the smoking of cigars 
 made of mullein-leaves. She turned from the counter at 
 length, and, passing Myron Holder with uplifted chin, 
 made her way to the door. It was encumbered with an 
 open barrel of salt mackerel, by which stood little My, 
 balancing slowly back and forth on his uncertain feet, the 
 sun glinting on his yellow head. Mrs. Wilson pushed the 
 little form roughly aside and went out. My swayed and 
 fell, striking his head on the step. 
 
 Hot anger flushed Myron's cheeks at the incident. She 
 picked up the boy, soothed him with a word or two, and 
 gave him a biscuit from the bag the groceryman was 
 weighing for her. My trotted off to the door, and pres- 
 ently crossed the threshold into the street. 
 
 Myron Holder was just opening the shiny old purse to 
 pay for her small purchase when a confused sound of shout- 
 ing and exclamations came to her. Through the hum of 
 voices sounded the thud- thud of flying hoof- beats. Her 
 eyes sought My. He was not there ! 
 
 She and the groceryman reached the door in an instant. 
 The street seemed thronged with people. Mrs. Wilson had 
 just emerged from Mrs. Warner's, and stood with her at 
 the door. 
 
 Homer Wilson was about to untie his team, that stood 
 before the harness-shop just opposite the grocery store. 
 10 
 
242 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 \ I ii 
 
 At the same moment that Myron emerged from the store 
 Homer turned his eyes to the street. He saw and under- 
 stood what Myron's anguished eyes had perceived at the 
 first glance. In the middle of the sandy street, the biscuit 
 in one hand, the corner of his pinafore in the other, his 
 head shining in the sun which bedazzled his eyes, stood 
 little My. 
 
 Thundering down the street, almost upon the child 
 already, came Disney's great black horse, its huge head 
 outstretched, its nostrils distended — two glowing scarlet 
 pits — its lips drawn back, exposing the gleaming teeth 
 flecked with blood-stained foam, flinging its forefeet out 
 so madly that the glitter of its shoes could be seen from 
 the front. Shreds of its harness clung to it and lashed it 
 to greater fury. 
 
 Without a second's hesitation, Myron Holder rushed to 
 her child — to death, as she doubted not. But another form 
 sprang forward also. Homer Wilson darted diagonally 
 across the street until he was directly in the pathway of 
 the horse, but a yard or two beyond My. He had not time 
 to steady himself before the brute was upon him. He 
 grasped at the distended nostrils of the horse, caught them, 
 but in a sliding grip, — the horse reared upright. There 
 came two sounds — of hoofs, striking not on the resonant 
 roadway, but with the horrible echoless blow that falls 
 upon flesh, and then the horse swept on ; but only one of 
 his shoes was shining now, the rest were dim with blood 
 and dust. 
 
 Myron snatched her child out of the way as the horse 
 passed by a hand's breadth, and in a moment she was kneel- 
 ing by Homer's side. 
 
 He was dying, but a flicker of life bespoke the want that 
 could only go out with life. She raised his head from the 
 dust and iissed him on the mouth. He opened his eyesj 
 
 ^ite^tlx' 
 
HE HAD NO TIME TO STEADY HIMSELF liEFORE THE BRUTIJ 
 
 WAS UPON HIM, 
 
THE UNTEMPFRED IVIIVD 
 
 245 
 
 tliey met hers, and an ineffable and unearthly radiance 
 overspread his face. 
 
 That was all. He had found his wa^ out of Jamestown. 
 Myron's was still to seek. 
 
 He was quite dead when the others reached him. His 
 chest was battered in, and the calk of one hind shoe had 
 pierced through the thick brown hair and brought death. 
 
 " He has outsoared tbe shadow of our night, 
 Envy, and calumny, and hate, and pain ; 
 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight 
 Can touch him not and torture not again. 
 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 He is secure ; and now can never mourn 
 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain. " 
 
 Myron knelt by him, calling his name and imploring 
 him to answer her. Rough hands pushed her aside. She 
 fell, half -dazed. AVhen she came to herself, My was cryin"- 
 by her, and a slow throng was moving towards Homer's 
 wagon, where it stood before the harness-shop. 
 
 Myron rose and ran after them, but was met by a 
 frightful figure of rage. The mother of the dead man, 
 who had witnessed his death, rushed at her, shrieking out 
 names of which " murderess" was the least hard, and would 
 have struck her, but some one caught the upraised arm 
 and bade Myron, with a curse, be gone. 
 
 Affrighted and bewildered, she caught up My and fled 
 to the cottage. 
 
 Homer Wilson was carried, in due time to the little 
 graveyard. There followed a great train of slowly moving 
 vehicles, for the Wilson family connection was a large one, 
 and his tragic death drew people to come through morbid 
 curiosity. Mr. Prew preached and prayed at length, and 
 the throng lingered long about the grave. 
 
 Away behind the stone wall that flanked the far side of 
 
 i ^.. 
 
 : 
 
 i 
 
 «■». 
 
 ^41 
 
.^ 
 
 244 
 
 TitE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 the graveyard two figures stood hidden, watching the 
 funeral rites from afar. 
 
 Myron had been refused admittance to the Wilson home 
 when she had gone to plead for one look at Homer's face. 
 She had been forbidden to enter the graveyard. But they 
 could not prevent her bringing My through the desolate 
 fields to watch with baby eyes the burial of the man who 
 had saved his life. 
 
 There were many black-clad figures that day in the 
 graveyard — many wet eyes — many lamenting lips; but the 
 real mourners stood afar off, as we are told they did one 
 day long ago when a cross with a living Burden was up- 
 reared upon a hill. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson wept that Homer had been " took unpre- 
 pared." But who can tell what penitence or prayer purged 
 his soul when, between the hoof-beats, he looked death in 
 the eyes? Who can say there was not time for both plea 
 and pardon in those seconds — if, indeed, there be One to 
 whom prayers go, from whom pardons come — if there be 
 One to whom a thousand years are but as yesterday when 
 it is past, and as a watch in the night? 
 
 Well, all these things are for us to strive with, and few 
 there be that bring back any trophy of truth from that 
 warfare; yet "still we peer beyond with craving face." 
 
 As for Homer Wilson — 
 
 " Peace, peace ! — he doth not sleep ; 
 He hath awakened from the dream of life. " 
 
 J 
 
the 
 
 fjtli: ON TEMPERED WIND 
 
 Mi 
 
 the 
 tthe 
 [ one 
 I up- 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " The road to death is life, the gate of life is death ; 
 » We who wake shall sleep, we shall wax who wane. 
 
 Let lis not vex our souls for stoppage of a breath, 
 The fall of a river that turneth not again. " 
 
 " All things are vain that wax and wane, 
 For which we waste our breath ; 
 Love only doth not wane and is not vain — 
 Love only outlives death. " 
 
 The winter set in — a dreary, desolate winter of wind and 
 rain, mud and slush. The snow never lay upon the 
 ground for two days together, and the air, unpurified by 
 frosts, hung heavy and dank over the land. 
 
 A black New Year makes a green graveyard, says the 
 old proverb ; and the wisdom of these old saws was demon- 
 strated yet again that year in Jamestown, for there was 
 much sickness. There was hardly a family that had not 
 lost a member, scarcely a house in which there was no 
 illness. 
 
 "There's a turrible lot of sickness," said Mrs. Deans to 
 Mrs. Wilson one day at the church door. 
 
 ** Yes, a turrible sight of it," agreed Mrs. Wilson. " The 
 old folks is droppin' fast; but what's an ordinary sickness 
 to what I've bore with?" 
 
 "That's so," said Mrs. Deans. " But a living sorroAv's 
 worse than a dead one, they say; and it's turrible when 
 one's own flesh and blood goes wrong." 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Wilson; "but it's turrible dis- 
 couragin' when they're cut down in the midst and no one 
 can say, *What doest Thou?' " 
 
 Mrs. Wilson's tone implied that there might be some 
 
 i 
 
% 
 
 Mi 
 
 
 ^! I 
 
 f4^ 
 
 ^^^ UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 consolation if she were permitted to " talk back" at the 
 Lord. Mrs. Deans noticed this and said warningly: 
 
 "Don't murmur; whatever you do, don't murmur; we 
 can't tell what a day may bring fortli. Look at me, what 
 I have to put up with — Henry all crippled up and not able 
 to earn salt for liis bread. No, don't murmur, whatever 
 you do." 
 
 "I ain't a-murmuring," said Mrs. Wilson, somewhat 
 aggrieved. "I'm sure it ain't Homer; it's his soul I'm 
 thinking on. Might's well be took off in a fiery chariot as 
 killed the way he was." 
 
 "Oh, it's discouragin', I'm bound to say it is," conde- 
 scended Mrs. Deans. " Enough to uike the ambition out 
 of one altogether. I suppose you haven't heard about old 
 Mr. Carroll, have you?" 
 
 " Why, \\< said MrSo Wilson, abruptly suspending the 
 task of sniffling into her handkerchief under pretence of 
 weeping. "Why, no; you don't tell me he's sick?" 
 
 "Yes, it seems ho was taken last night with spasms, and 
 they say he might have died and no one been the wiser; 
 but one of that Dedham tribe he was always feeding up 
 came over to beg something, and there he laid on the 
 floor." 
 
 "Well, for the land's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson. 
 
 " Yes, I'm going over after dinner. I sent Myron Holder 
 over to do what's needed this morning. They say the only 
 words the old man's spoke sence he was took was to tell 
 them to send to town for a doctor." 
 
 Here Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Deans parted, each joining 
 different groups and spreading the news of Mr. Carroll's 
 seizure. 
 
 The women resolved to go and see the ins and oi ^ of 
 his house for themselves — sickness is such an admirable 
 excuse for impertinent curiosity to gratify itself. 
 
 ^m^stJ^ 
 
THE CS'TEMPERED WIXD 
 
 247 
 
 ' at the 
 
 (lur; we 
 le, what 
 (lot able 
 'hatever 
 
 mewhat 
 oiil I'm 
 ariot as 
 
 conde- 
 ion out 
 out old 
 
 ng tlie 
 snce of 
 
 IS, and 
 
 wiser ; 
 
 ng up 
 
 m the 
 
 on. 
 
 lolder 
 eonly 
 to tell 
 
 )ining 
 •roll's 
 
 its of 
 liable 
 
 The men speculated as to what would become of his 
 property. Thero had been a story at the time he bought 
 the property, some hint of family trouble, some whisper 
 that he had "money back of him ' — a b izy tale that he 
 had come to hido from some sorrow that pursued him. 
 But all conjecture was so vague that, instead of giving 
 birth to any definite idea, it died away, only to be aroused 
 when the village wondered at some act of generosity upon 
 his part. 
 
 Old Carroll lived among them quietly — paying his taxes, 
 going his own way and ex]>ressing himself freely upon every 
 subject but his own affairs. 
 
 A week after his seizure ho died, and a lawyer's clerk 
 came from town and took possession of the house and 
 cliarge of the funeral — in very different fashion from what 
 his neighbors expected, for the body was taken away and 
 sent to the gre.tt city, which in their eyes typified Babylon 
 with ail its sin and splendor. 
 
 The lawyei 's clerk spoke with much deference of the 
 dead man, and signified that the name of Carroll was high 
 in the land ; whereat the villagers bethought themselves 
 that they had entertained an angel unawares, and were 
 inclined to accuse the dead man of " doing" them. 
 
 Mrs. Deans boasted much of the intimacy of her husband 
 with the old soldier, and speedily forgot the latter's 
 impious sneers at foreign missions. 
 
 The farm was advertised for sale, and Disney bought the 
 land he had so long worked on shares. Disney and his 
 family moved into the empty house. Conjecture and 
 interest gradually died away. 
 
 In the great city a woman with brittle, dyed hair and 
 simpering lips and powdered throat laughed as, turning, 
 over a trunk full of odds and ends packed by the lawyer's 
 clerk, she came upon a miniature set in pearls — laughed 
 
 
f 
 
 i I; 
 
 24S 
 
 THE UNTEAfPEklW Wl^'V 
 
 and looked at tho picture long; but the laugh died as she 
 noted tlio freshness of the pictured face, (crossing tho 
 room, she set the miniature agaiuHt her own cheek and 
 leaned close to a mirror, comparing tlio two. And pres- 
 ently she cast tho painting from her and iled from tho 
 mirror with widened eyes. 
 
 "I am old — old!" slio said. "He is dead, and I am 
 old! It is this room, which is too liglit — it is glaring — 
 horrible!" And she drew even closer the shades of silk, 
 through which tho light shone with a soft roseate glow. 
 Then she searched for and found the picture where it had 
 fallen on a soft rug, and again went to the mirror. 
 
 But if tho dimmer light softened the lines in her face, 
 it gave the pictured face another charm — the soft illusion 
 of mystery and youth. Tho woman gazed at the dual re- 
 flection long until her breath blurred the mirror, so that 
 all was blotted out save tho brightness of the gold frame 
 and a pair of wild, questioning eyes. A sharp sob parted 
 her lips, and the mirror was empty. 
 
 Not long after, this woman was found daad. By her side 
 was an empty bottle, such as they sell poison in, and in 
 her hand was a painti' ^ of a beautiful woman framed in 
 gold. Those who found her said the picture resembled 
 her a little. 
 
 But this was far away from Jamestown, where Myron 
 lived and suffered. That winter was a very busy one for 
 her. Tender of touch, strong of arm, brave of heart, 
 she was an ideal nurse. It is said a great grief has before 
 now made a poet out of what was only a man. Myron's 
 sorrows had changed her from a commonplace woman to a 
 creature of most subtle sympathies. The pleading of 
 .pained eyes was eloquent to her, and the curves of dumb 
 lips told her the tale of their sufferings. The touch of 
 her hand brought rest, the pressure of her palms, peace; 
 
 'feftu .|[i 
 
THE VNTPlMPEkED WIND 
 
 949 
 
 whilst tire infiuitc syftipatliy from a licart that had itself 
 been smitten eased those pangs which, keener than any 
 physical anguish, rend those that are near death. 
 
 But Myron herself reaped no blessing of peace from 
 these duties. What a strange fantasy it is to dream, as 
 many do, that the occupation of nursing is one which heals 
 a hurt heart and reconciles yearning hands to their empti- 
 ness! What dreary days did Myron not know! What 
 solemn, silent nights, when alone, she sat at Misery's 
 banquet and supped with Sorrow — with shame, regret, and 
 betrayed trust to hand the dish. 
 
 "We live in deeds, not years ; in tlioughts, not breaths ; 
 In feelings, not in figures on u dial. 
 We should count time by lieart-tlirobs. " 
 
 So some one says ; and, reckoning by this higher nota- 
 tion, how many centuries of weariness had not Myron lived? 
 The spring months came, scarce changed in sky from those 
 of winter, only the gathering heat of the sun sent up 
 "sorrow from the ground." Malaria, influenza, and 
 typhoid overspread the country. The whole neighborhood 
 was gloomy. The rain fell day after day. The plough 
 horses splashed through mud, and the furrows filled with 
 water behind the plough. 
 
 Myron had been working at a cousin's of Mrs. 
 Warner's, whose baby was sick unto death. The child 
 died, and its mother, in the first rebellion of grief, had 
 said to Myron : 
 
 " 'Tain't just — I can't think it is — nor right, neither — 
 for my baby to be taken when there's so many left alive that 
 ain't any use. There's old Humphries, and paralytic 
 Henry Deans, and drunken Ann Lemon — what's the good 
 of them to anybody — it's a shame !" 
 
 Myron soothed her as well as she could, but she burst 
 forth again: 
 
igd 
 
 THE UKTEMPERED WIND 
 
 Sf 
 
 ^ilDfcife^' 
 
 1':!. 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 ; 
 
 I 1 
 
 
 H 1 
 
 
 "Fancy my child dead! If it had heen that young one 
 of yours, now, tliore would have been some sense in it — a 
 young one without even a name — that would have been a 
 good riddance — but mine — mine!" 
 
 For once Myron's very soul was shaken with rage. She 
 turned where she stood, and looked the other woman in the 
 face. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, "you wicked, wicked woman!" 
 
 The words carried all the accusation of outraged mother- 
 hood in their tones. The woman shrank back, and Myron, 
 taking her boy, set off to the village. 
 
 It began to rain before they were half way. Myron's 
 thoughts turned to Homer. She never forgot him for long 
 at a time. It falls to the lot of few to be so sincerely sor- 
 rowed for. 
 
 She and My were both wet through when they reached 
 the cottage, and Myron was very weary with the boy's 
 weight. She lit the fire, and My played about in the 
 kitchen. He was of a peculiarly sunny and equable dis- 
 position — 
 
 " One of those happy souls 
 Which arc the salt of the earth, and without whom 
 The world would smell like what it is — a tomb. " 
 
 Myron was glad when the time came for bed, for she 
 was utterly weary. 
 
 The old clock on the wall was pointing to one o'clock, 
 when Myron suddenly started up, wide awake. The 
 mother instinct, keener than her other faculties, had 
 awakened her, not the boy. For the strange, low, gur- 
 gling sound he made would scarce have aroused the lightest 
 sleeper, and Myron had been sunk in the deep sleep of 
 exhaustion. 
 
 In a moment she had the lamp alight. The boy lay, his 
 blue eyes wide open, his round cheeks scarlet with the 
 
 ' 
 
r 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 251 
 
 ling one 
 
 in it — a 
 
 been a 
 
 e. She 
 m in the 
 
 mother- 
 Myron, 
 
 Myron's 
 for long 
 rely aor- 
 
 reached 
 
 le boy's 
 
 in the 
 
 ble dis- 
 
 for she 
 
 o'clock, 
 . The 
 OS, had 
 w, giir- 
 lightest 
 sleep of 
 
 Iny, his 
 ith the 
 
 fatal flush of fever, his lips swollen and parted in gasping 
 respirations, his body almost rigid with the efforts he made 
 for breath. One glance showed her this. The next 
 instant she was undoing the little nightdress and shirt. 
 With tremulous haste she placed some goose-gvease in a 
 little tin and strove to melt it by holding it over the lamp. 
 The light was weak and wavering. She removed the 
 chimney, and thrust the cup into the flame. Her fingers 
 scorched till the skin cracked ; she did not know it. Slie 
 appliei the melted oil and flew to wet his parched lips. 
 The horrible, croupy cough cut her to the heart as it issued 
 from My'b swollen throat. She used every remedy her 
 homely skill suggested, some of them ellicacious enough 
 often — but little My was dying. His blue eyes were filming ; 
 his baby lips twitching; the little hands, that had of late 
 grasped her fingers so Ih'mly as to suggest protectioM, made 
 wavering, feeble movements toward her face and bosom, or 
 clutched with waning strength at his own tortured throat. 
 
 She knelt beside the beu She hardly dared toiicii the 
 litiile form before her lest the mother in her, which had 
 grown fierce in her dread, should cause her to clasp It too 
 ciose. She lifted her voice in prayer, and cried aloud in 
 frightful accents of despair, entreaty, expostulation, nay, 
 even of tlireatening. No prayer more eloquent of human 
 agony ever beat against deaf skies, yet it was but the repeti- 
 tion of one word — " My — My!" 
 
 An hour crept by. The flush had deepened on My's 
 cheeks; his eyes were glazed. Once again, in surpassing 
 pain, Myron Holder called aloud her child's name. There 
 came no heavenly answer ; but the true little heart, beating 
 so faintly, responded once more to the beloved voice. 
 Little My's eyes cleared a space and his fingers closed round 
 his mother's. 
 
 " My's raamal" He uttered the alliterative little babble 
 
J^»^\ 
 
 252 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 in strange, shackled tones. The woman — his motlier — felt 
 a stricture at her tliroat; she strove in vain to force it down 
 as she answered : 
 
 "Mama's My." 
 
 A strange change passed over the little gray face, like a 
 gleam of sunlight on a wintry day — hardly that — like the 
 watery nimhus of the sun through a cloud. It was little 
 My's last smile. 
 
 "Mama's My," the woman whispered; and, true to his 
 love-taught lesson. My strove to give the answer, "My's 
 mama." The fust word was articulate, the last but half- 
 shajied ere the stiffening lips were drawn in the convulsion 
 which ended time for little My. 
 
 Over him " the eclipsing curse of birth" had lost its 
 power. 
 
 At daybreak next morning a messenger knocked long at 
 the door of the Holder cottage. He had been sent in haste 
 to summon Myron back to the house she had left in such 
 anger the day before. Finding he could get no response, 
 he lifted the latch and entered the kitchen. It was empty. 
 There was a strong odor of kerosene oil, and absolute 
 silence reigned. The man crossed the kitchen to an open 
 door, and looking in saw the bedroom. Upon a little table 
 stood a lamp which had evidently burned itself out. The 
 chimney was off, and a great sooty blotch against the wall 
 showed how the wick had smoked. In a chair by the bed 
 sat Myron Holder, her eyes fixed straight before her — her 
 pose rigid — her face pale as that of the dead child she held 
 upon her knees. 
 
 ** What is it, Myron?" he gasped. 
 
 "He's dead," said Myron, in the hoarse tones of one 
 whose throat muscles are constrained and swollen. 
 
 The man turned and made for Mrs. Warner^s. The 
 cottage soon filled. Myron neither stirred nor spoke. 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 SS3 
 
 They took the cliikl and prepared it for burial. They told 
 her to eat, and she swallowed the bread and tea they placed 
 before her. All her faculties were benumbed, absorbed in 
 an effort to realize her loss. 
 
 The little plain coffin was in the kitchen, surrounded 
 by a group of people that filled the room — those who 
 considered it part of a Christian's bounden duty to attend 
 funerals. Mr. Prew, sent for by Mrs. Duans, had just 
 finished his address. Myron, with bare head, and hands 
 plasped on her knees, was seated ))y the coffin, gazing down 
 at the face there, when there was a sudden stir at the door, 
 ai\d Mrs. Wilson pushed herself through the throng. 
 
 " Wait!" she said, authoritatively, to Mr. Muir, who was 
 advancing to screw down the coffin-lid. "Wait!" Then 
 she turned to Myron Holder. " Listen to me, Myron 
 Holder," she said. " Is that child my grandson?" 
 
 *' No," said Myron, rising to her feet, and giving a help- 
 less look around at the curious faces about her. 
 
 "What!" said Mrs. AVilson. "What, you'll lie in the 
 very face of your dead child! Lay your hand on that 
 coffin, Myron Holder, and then tell me if that ain't 
 Homer's son!" 
 
 Myron sank by the coffin and fiung her arms athwart it. 
 
 "^e is not r she cried. Then her long calm gave way, 
 and she began to sob and cry. "He belongs to none of 
 you ; he is mine — my own baby — my own child — My — My !" 
 
 Mrs. Wilson left the house. Mr. Muir put aside the 
 clinging arms and prepared the coffin for burial. Some 
 one led Myron to a wagon and she got in. 
 
 Mr. Muir was not free from fears when they stopped at 
 the paupers' corner of the graveyard. Myron looked 
 around, half-dazed, when she alighted, and, advancing, 
 |;ouchea Mr. Muir's arm. 
 
254 3r//£: UNTKMPERED WIND 
 
 " Wriy liere?" she asked, pointing to the oj)cu grave. 
 "Why not by father?" 
 
 " Your granclniother sold the other half of the lot," said 
 Mr. Mulr haeiily. 
 
 Mhf Deans wa(.(!||p(l the little scene with much inward 
 satiHriintloii. Mjfinll made no further Hign, uttered no 
 other word. The coflin was lowered into the grave. 
 
 Mr. I'rew put up a prayer, in which petitions for the 
 "child of sin" and the "sinful mother" were about efjua||y 
 balanced. The throng departed each to his own place. 
 Old Humphries fdled up the grave, and Myron was left 
 alone. 
 
 The next day she went to Mr. Muir's and inquired how 
 much she owed him. He told her, and to his surprise she 
 paid him at once. Then she set out for town, along 
 dreary country roads, betwixt desolate fields, until she 
 came to the outskirts of the straggling town; through 
 these, until she was absorbed in the hurrying throng that 
 crowded the narrow streets. 
 
 It was very late when she returned to Jamestown, and 
 as she passed the Deans place she encountered Gamaliel, 
 just returning from some expedition with his bosom friend. 
 
 *' Hullo, Myron; where' ve you been?" he asked. 
 
 "I've been to town," said Myron, still in those strange, 
 hard tones, and passed on. 
 
 There was much speculation as to her errand, which was 
 set at rest when a few days later a wagon entered ihe little 
 graveyard and the men who came with it proceeded to put 
 np a tiny white tablet at the head of a new-made grave. 
 On it there was carved only one word, and that a short one — 
 MY — a word which in its brevity and meaning was not 
 unsuitable as an inscriptior oy»^r ti^a.. gave. Myron had 
 spent the last penny of her pai^ivi yp.vii'^i; in marking the 
 ^ot where her child la^ . «» r 
 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 355 
 
 '* Let grief be her own mistress still. 
 81ie love til her own anguish deep 
 More than niiieh pleasure. Let her will 
 Be clone— to weep or not to weep. " 
 
 So says the hnmanest of our poets; but such luxurious 
 grieviug is for those who fare delicately and live in kings' 
 courts. Myron Jlolder inul lier bread to earn— her feet 
 were tied to the treadmill of toil. 
 
 So she fariBd forth on her journey as best she might; and 
 then, and for long after, Jamestown women told how Myron 
 JTolder perjured herself with her hand on her dead child's 
 
 IM.IIIll 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " When some beloved voleo, that was to you 
 * Botli so rid and sweetness, faileth suddenly, 
 
 And silence, ixgil\mi which yo(/ /f^fe not cry, 
 Aches round you like a .stro//// /Ijscase and M'w— 
 What !iope? What help? Wiy;it music will undo 
 That siie/jrr fo your sen.sc/" 
 
 "I'll tell you, hopeless grief is i)&MiffAf^m. " 
 
 It was the season of the half-yearly revivaf meetings in 
 Jamestown. The little Methodist Church filled rapidly. 
 There was a soup(;on of plea^^urable excitement about a 
 revival which was very enticing to the youth of James- 
 town. Besides, all the " stiddy" young men were expected 
 to go, and they always did what w^w expected of them. 
 
 Mrs. Deans camt in witli the minister, her face, with 
 its self-important expression, irradiated with the glow of 
 Bj)iritiiul as well as worldly well boin^. She had proffere.^ 
 
y 
 
 < f i 
 
 256 
 
 r//E UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 i 
 
 lier bid for the company of tlu officiating ministers in good 
 season, and the first of them had been knocked down to 
 her in consequence, much to tlie chagrin of the Mesdames 
 White, AVilson, Disney, and the rest, for they knew that 
 the second minister on the list was an old personal friend 
 of Mrs. Deans and would doubtless elect to stay at her 
 house; thus they would have no opportunity to display 
 their pious zeal and forehanded housekeeping. 
 
 Mrs. Deans' self-complacency was veiled, but not ob- 
 scured, by an anxious air, as who should say, " I am not 
 free of responsibility if all does not go off well." 
 
 It is a weakness of such women to consider themselves 
 divinely appointed judges of the souls of their neighbors 
 and friends. 
 
 The minister with her was pretty well hidden among the 
 cluster of men and women to whom Mrs. Deans was intro- 
 ducing him. She introduced him with discrimination, 
 however. She did not propose giving any one the chance 
 of prefixing a remark with " The other night when I was 
 speaking to Mr. Hardman," or "Mr. Hardman said to me 
 the other day," unless she felt quite sure the recipient of 
 the honor was worthy of it. 
 
 But to her consternation, Mr. Hardman broke bounds, 
 passed the confines of the little group of important church 
 members, and went out from one to another of the men 
 and women, picking out, with the unerring divination of a 
 man whose heart is in sympathy with the sorrows ratlier 
 than the joys cf mankind, the oldest, most forlorn, most 
 miserable-looking of his prospective hearers. 
 
 To see the ministe." thus throwing away the apostolic 
 benediction of his smile upon old Ann Lemon and Clem 
 Humphries whilst Mrs White stood with uplifted nose in 
 the doorway, unnoticec, was an unholy thing, more partic- 
 ularlj as Mrs, White, willing to bftve hei' dispomfiture 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 857 
 
 in good 
 lowu to 
 jsdames 
 }W tliat 
 friend 
 at her 
 display 
 
 not ob- 
 am uot 
 
 mselves 
 iglibors 
 
 ong the 
 ,s intro- 
 ination.^ 
 chance 
 m I was 
 i to me 
 )ient of 
 
 bounds, 
 cliurch 
 he men 
 ion of a 
 I ratlier 
 n, most 
 
 postolic 
 
 d Clem 
 
 nose in 
 
 partic- 
 
 wfiture 
 
 shared by some one else, turned to Mrs. Deans with a 
 surprised air, and said : 
 
 " Why, I thought the minister was with you?" 
 
 "So he is," Mrs. Deans was fain to avow. "We came 
 a xew minutes ago. He is great on missions, I think, and 
 young." The latter half of her sentence was given in the 
 tone of a hostess who excuses a guest. For the rest, it is 
 probable that both ladies regarded his present occupation as 
 distinctly a missionary effort. 
 
 Presently the minister straightened himself and pro- 
 ceeded up the aisle to the platform. Mrs. Deans' expres- 
 sion changed from an anxious, proprietary one to one of 
 spiritualized commiseration. Was the misguided man 
 actually going to begin service without asking one word 
 about the ordinarv routine of services in Jamestown 
 Methodist Church? If so, he would make a line hash of it. 
 
 Besides she had not informed him that a collection was 
 to be taken up to defray the cost of extra lighting, etc., 
 and she had promised Mr. White at class-meeting to do 
 so. She had thought of telling Mr. Hardman, but pre- 
 ferred waiting until the minister sought for information 
 before imparting it. His opportunity for that was now 
 past, unless, indeed, he descended from the platform to do 
 so. A pleasing thrill, inspired by this idea, turned to a 
 chill as she saw Mr. Hardman take from his pocket a well- 
 thumbled and shabby little Testament, and, opening it, 
 seem to find a place. Then he laid it down, open, upon 
 the big church Bible, and rose to pray. 
 
 Mrs. Deans' expression of anxiety was now unalleviated 
 by any spiritual exaltation; it was unvariegated gloom. 
 Any man who could disregard the gilt edges, thick covers, 
 and ornate binding of that book, and leave it closed 
 whilst he read from what her experienced eye told her was 
 a Bible Society Testament that probably cost ten cents, >yo8 
 
258 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 fi ! 
 
 « 
 
 certainly in need of anxious watching. Nor was it to be 
 supposed that a discourse begun upon lines like these would 
 be productive of much good. How many sermons she had 
 heard rounded off by the banging of those covers together! 
 How many final injunctions had been given a dramatic and 
 artistic interest by the holding of that book, half-open, 
 ready to put a period to the peroration by a sanctified thud ! 
 
 Well — Mrs. Deans sighed audibly. 
 
 Mr. Hardman began to read in a deep and sympathetic 
 voice. He was a tall man, of twenty-eight, muscularly 
 built, but not brawny; his studies had been too close to 
 admit of that. Ho had square shoulders, rather higher 
 than they should be, and rounded with the stoop that the 
 ^cholar and the ploughman share. His hands, as he raised 
 them in infrequent gestures, were seen to be rather broad 
 and short- hauilri, it would seem, (if a moelianlo, but not 
 toil-HtaiuiMl. Indeed, their whitetirss m ill iignu-d willi 
 their shape that a sense of something in(3ongruou8 forced 
 itself upon one when looking ii( them. His hair was 
 almost blaek, and was tossed anci disarninged by iiis habit 
 of running his fingers through it. His face was pale. 
 
 His brow Avas sqiuire and overhiVM^ing -of the ])ent- 
 hoitHo order, rather forblihliug; the brow inherited from a 
 generation of tollers, men who, friuu their own bleak 
 corner of the world, looked forth at the panorama of life 
 with sombre eyoM, Intrenching themselves behind a barrier 
 of silent endurance, concealing their weakness, their 
 wantg, their hopoK »tnd fears, their few joys and pitiful 
 ambitiouH behind an impenetrable mask, until it would 
 seem that their linearrii^nts adjusted themselves to their 
 mental attitudes; and i\\\%^ their son, presented to the 
 world this square brow, strong, secret, sad. Bat its stern- 
 ness, and alas! a great deal of its strength, was negatived 
 by the eyes which looked out from beneath it. V^erj dark- 
 
THE UNTEMPERED fVjJVD 
 
 259 
 
 gray these eyes were, and made eloquent by the expression 
 of infinite love and sympathy for his kind; but their dilat- 
 ing pupils evidenced an emotional nature, and they were 
 somewhat too soft for a man. Yet, looking in steady 
 kindness at the world, they often seemed fit eyes for a 
 strong, culm soul. 
 
 But Philip Iliirdman felt himself neither calm nor 
 strong. As he looked upon the expectant faces of those 
 before him, the doubt which was gnawing at the heart- 
 strings of belief suddenly seemed to grip his own heart 
 and brain and threaten 11 oh. 
 
 He had no message to give these people! What were 
 they there for? Was it not all a myth and a delusion? 
 Was it? 
 
 Then he broke the spell which held him, and his words 
 rushed forth. His congregation stirred and swayed and 
 yielded — not to pernuasion, for of that there was none; not 
 to the minister's personality, for they had forgotten him; 
 not in the hope of reward, for he spoke but of wrath and 
 pitiless requital of sin, and merciless judgment, and 
 nfMllfRS woe — they yielded to their own fears. 
 
 \fi\V I Ills man ^vas lashing his own soul with the copy- 
 ri^lihiil inv<)(il,iv() of his sect, pronouncing against isimself 
 and (as in the midHl. of his mental agony ho realized) 
 HgHJMHt all mankind a doom of woe iind wratli if they di^ 
 not believe. Ho strove to f<friify his own soul int^) the 
 submission It doniod, and strove to awaken in th<« \mi\Ae 
 before him a reflex of the emotion lie fain would foi'l. 
 They responded to his words, but not to his feeling. They 
 wept and abased ih^mmlsufk bocauae of the fear, not because 
 fcl^^y feared unbelief. 
 
 Oold drops tricklexl down Mrs. Deans' face Ufid bo 
 dabbled her second-best bonnet-strings. Mrs. Wilson grew 
 almost hysterical. Ann Ij^mon wondered vaguely if she 
 
 r 11 
 

 II i ! 
 
 ; 
 
 fl 
 
 fi i 
 
 I; I : 
 
 I: I 
 
 260 
 
 TirE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 had " the horrors," and hohl on to the pew with both hands, 
 whilst she looked about her with bewildered, lack-lustre 
 eyes. Clem Humphries sat outwardly unmoved, but in- 
 wardly vowing if he " once got out of this he'd never be 
 wheedled into a revival meeting again." 
 
 The younger men thought revival meetings " no slouch," 
 as Gamaliel Deans expressed it; and, comparing the ex- 
 citement with that of a cock-fight he had attended suh 
 rosa in the old brewery, he decided in favor of the revival. 
 
 The minister's voice failed and faltered. Like all 
 magnetic natures, his exhausted itself. He paused, looked 
 at the men and women before him, and, realizing the shal- 
 lowness of their facile emotions, felt the pall of self-disgust 
 envelop his soul. A horrible contempt for himself and 
 them, even for the religi 1 that had inspired this mental 
 debauch, overwhelmed him. He shuddered as he realized 
 the impiousness of his own thought, left the platform, went 
 swiftly down the aisle and out into the darkness. 
 
 Mr. White closed the meeting, and prayed enthusiasti- 
 cally for the "young brother who had so awakened them," 
 and ended amid a chorus of ejaculations. 
 
 Mrs. Deans, finding herself so agreeably disappointed, 
 
 went home content. She wished to-morrow night were 
 
 come. What crises of emotion might not be expected then ! 
 
 She found Mr. Hardman pacing the veranda slowly, his 
 
 brow bare to the stars; his frame was relaxed and weary, 
 
 his eyes tired. He refused any refreshment, and long into 
 
 the night Mrs. Deans heard him pacing back and forth. 
 . • • • ' • • • 
 
 Another night had come, and Philip Hardman was 
 again to stand before an assembly of his fellows and voice 
 the truths they held eternal. Mrs. Deans had no doubts 
 now as to his competency. She anticipated an exciting 
 struggle with spiritual foes, and the better to gird herself 
 
rni: UNTEMJ'EftED WIND 
 
 261 
 
 nted, 
 were 
 hen ! 
 his 
 eary, 
 into 
 h. 
 
 for the fray, went early, leaving Mr. llanlnum (o follow. 
 She fiiltthis implied a delicate eoniplimeiit to the preacher, 
 recognizing in it a sunulacrum of John the Baptist's mis- 
 sion in the wilderness. 
 
 So Philip lljirdrniin was left to walk the mile from the 
 Deans farm-house to the village alone. It was evening — 
 late evening in snmmer. The air was lilled with that in- 
 definite, receptive nnirmnrthe earth gives forth as it opens 
 its pores to the dew. Without wind, there was yet a sense 
 of motion in the atmosplh re, at once calming and exhilarat- 
 ing. It brought a keen sense of the fact that the world is 
 rushing through space, with ith |)uny burden of men and 
 their works. The sun hii<i set, but the western skv was 
 radiant with an amber afterglow, against which the tree- 
 tops in Mr. Deans' woodland showed a mass of dark, bil- 
 lowy green, the light behind them intensifying the depth 
 of their color, so that they showed sombrely against the sky. 
 
 Before him stretched the dusty road, the grass at either 
 side parched by the heat; now and then a maple over- 
 shadowed him; now and then he startled nested birds from 
 out the low-growing trees of the wild plum. He walked 
 swiftly, tl e grasshoi)pers and little whirring insects and 
 dragon-flies flitting about his path. 
 
 At a turn in the road, where Mr. Deans' land joined 
 Mr. White's, was wedged in the little cemetery of James- 
 town. It was fenced with sharp-pointed palings, over 
 which the native virgin bower clematis clung in feathery 
 festoons, just blossoming out in fragile greenish -white 
 flowers. Within, he saw the untidy graves and inebriated 
 gravestones of a country churchyard. Those slanting 
 stones and graves, almost obliterat^^d by masses of peri- 
 winkle and white-leaved balm and ribbon grass, appealed 
 to him strongly. 
 
 lie looked at his watch. He had started in. fair time. 
 
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 Me a^f^sitPEkEi) iP'WD 
 
 "but, lost in thought, had walked rery quickly, fife fiaci 
 time to linger a few minutes here. Perhaps amid tlie 
 graves of Jamestown's dead he might learn the open sesame 
 to the hearts of the living. 
 
 He entered through a gap in the palings, pushing his 
 way through a little thicket of thorny locust bushes that 
 had sprung up in a scattered cluster. The graves were 
 nearly all marked by gravestones. In Jamestown it was 
 considered a mark of respectability to erect a memorial to 
 one's dead, but this done, all care for their graves ceased. 
 Philip Hardman wandered about, noting the weather-beaten 
 grayness of the older stones and reading their inscriptions 
 almost mechanically. One broad, thin slab, with a weep- 
 ing -willow sculptured upon it, bore a legend in memory of 
 "Amelia Warner, beloved wife of Josiah "Warner, aged 
 sixteen years." Poor little wife! In the fifty years of her 
 rest her grave had sunken almost level with the path ; the 
 lichen on the stone was striving to obliterate her name 
 there, even as it had been long ago forgotten upon earth. 
 A wild hawthorn bush was springing from under one 
 corner of her tombstone and tilting it over perilously. 
 
 Some of the more recent graves had odd little jingles of 
 original rhyme carven upon their stone?. One, of but a 
 year before, bore the brief prayer, too human for its 
 glistening coldness, " Meet me in Heaven. " Hardman read 
 the name on this grave with a little start — "Jennie Best, 
 wife of William Best." Yesterday Mrs. Deans had pointed 
 out William Beat and his new-made bride. How futile 
 and absurd the little legend seemed ! But Jennie Best slept 
 as securely and as sweetly as though her husband still cher- 
 ished in his inmost heart these last words of hers and 
 walked as though he hoped to realize them, instead of 
 writing them upon her tombstone and marrying within a 
 year of her death. 
 
 ^■i i|v 
 
Ttm uNTEMPEkED m/zr^ 
 
 ibS 
 
 e had 
 d the 
 sesame 
 
 ng his 
 3S that 
 s were 
 it was 
 )rial to 
 ceased, 
 •beaten 
 iptions 
 t weep- 
 nory of 
 ., aged 
 of her 
 ;h; the 
 name 
 earth, 
 er one 
 
 y- 
 
 igles of 
 but a 
 or its 
 an read 
 Best, 
 jointed 
 futile 
 st slept 
 1 cher- 
 rs and 
 ;ead of 
 ithin a 
 
 There were graves of old and young in this little church- 
 yard — men and women, boys and girls, infants of days, and 
 men of many years. Beneath one stone slept seven friends, 
 who "perished ir the yacht Foam oQ the coast" — a nar- 
 row space, truly, for seven to occupy, set in this out-of-the- 
 way village; seven such as these who had hoped to fill great 
 places in the world before their liver, were laughed out by 
 the little ripples of the lake. 
 
 The shadows lengthened. Gleaming through the dusk, 
 Hardman noticed a white stone with gilt lettering. 
 "Homer Wilson" was the name it bore, but it meant 
 nothing to the preacher; only he sighed as he noted the 
 age of the man sleeping there, and a half-env;ous thought 
 crossed him, as he looked around, that " these had com- 
 pleted their journey. " 
 
 Philip Hardman turned his steps to the road again, but 
 he paused yet once more. Close undei the shadow of the 
 high stone wall which bounded the graveyard on the village 
 side, he almost stumbled over a woman's figure, which, in 
 the deepening gloom, he had not observed. She was almost 
 prone beside a little mound whereon the sods had not yet 
 taken root. The woman's arms were outstretched toward 
 the grave — almost embraced it. Her whole attitude spoke 
 eloquently of a hopeless and passive despair. 
 
 Hardman stopped a moment irresolutely; she had not 
 observed him. 
 
 "You are in great trouble," he said, bending down and 
 touching her shoulder. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, raising her head without a start. 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her voice was painfully constrained. The words seemed 
 to issue with difficulty, and the tones were harsh. Speech 
 seemed strangely dissonant with the hour and place. Her 
 mute despair seemed the only fitting emotion for the scene. 
 
III! 
 
 i I 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 Her eyes, from out a pallid face, looked up at liiin, filmed 
 by misery. Her cheeks were hollowed in delicate shadows. 
 Her pale lips drooped. She seemed the Mourning Spirit 
 of the place. 
 
 "Come and pray," he said, looking at her with infinite 
 pity in his kind eyes. " Come," he urged. 
 
 He waited for her reply, but none came. She was sit- 
 ting by the grave now, her hands locked round her knees, 
 her eyes looking hungrily into vacancy and seeing neither 
 hope nor recompense for her pain. 
 
 A bat held its angled flight past them. He roused him- 
 self to a sense of time. He looked down upon the woman 
 at his feet, r.n expression of inefl'able compassion lit his 
 face ; then he turned to go. 
 
 As his eyes left that pallid face the scene seemed to 
 darken suddenly. He realized the lateness of the hour, 
 and, finding his way out of the graveyard, strode rapidly to 
 the church. 
 
 After all, he was in time — indeed, had a few minutes to 
 spare. He did not, however, again shock Mrs. Deans by 
 n promiscuous friendliness. He went straight to the plat- 
 form and sat down behind the reading-desk. His :;hougnts 
 reverted to the woman whom he had just seen, and he 
 felt he ought to have made a more eloquent appeal to her 
 to come to church. Mental habit led him to decide at 
 once that prayer was the only efficacious care for grief 
 such as hers. It was thus with this man always. In 
 calm moments, when all went well with him, he strove to 
 elucidate those problems of reason and right which pre- 
 sented themselves to him in season and out of season — 
 strove to live a life of austei3 truth without factitious aid of 
 self-delusion, without hope of ultimate reward. 
 
 But in times of distress or pain, whether his own or others', 
 h^ turned again to his old beliefs, and prayer appealed to 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 265 
 
 filmed 
 ladows. 
 ; Spirit 
 
 infinite 
 
 was sit- 
 
 i' knees, 
 
 neither 
 
 ;ed liim- 
 > woman 
 I lit his 
 
 emed to 
 le hour, 
 apidly to 
 
 nntes to 
 )eans by 
 he plfit- 
 h on gilts 
 and he 
 al to her 
 ecide at 
 for grief 
 lys. In 
 strove to 
 lich pre- 
 season — 
 )us aid of 
 
 r others', 
 )ealed to 
 
 him as the only panacea. Orthodox folk plead this as a 
 triumphant and sure vindication of the truth of their 
 creeds. It may be in some cases, but in Philip Hardman's 
 it was only the result of inherent weakness of will and 
 vacillating decision, and, alas! a cowardly shrinking from 
 mental torture. Face to face with grief such as this 
 woman's, he could not bear to look the inevitability of 
 such bereavements in the face; could not endure to think 
 of the irreparable loss of a vanished life; could not calmly 
 lecognize one single instance of what he was ever mourn- 
 ing over — the sadness and futility of life. 
 
 He must hallow each blow as a " merciful dispensation;" 
 muffle it from prying eyes with the tabooed veil of "sacred 
 predestination"; set it beyond close scrutiny by asserting 
 to himself the impiety of questioning "divine will"; and 
 at such times the beauty of his solacing faith lit in his 
 soul fresh fervor for the cause. 
 
 For a few moments Philip Ilardman sat motionless. 
 The hands of the clock reached the hour for service to 
 begin, ilis audience settled themselves in the pews and 
 stilled themselves to attention, 
 
 Mrs, Deans ostentatiously ceased her whispered remarks 
 to Mrs. Wilson, straightened herself in her seat, looked 
 about with a critical and judicial eye, and then, con- 
 vinced that all was well, hemmed several tim.es expectantly. 
 
 Philip Hardman rose, and, in brief words, asked for 
 Divine guidance through the service. He ceased. The 
 bowed heads were raised. He was about to begin the 
 reading of the Scriptures, when, silently, slowly, Myron 
 Holder entered the open door and, advancing only to the 
 nearest seat, which happened to oe in the farthest back 
 pew, sat down. So quiet were her movements that, save by 
 a few of the young men who had taken the rear seats the 
 better to observe the antics of the elect, she was unobserved. 
 
HI 
 
 ) 
 
 1 1 
 
 266 
 
 TUE UNTEMPERED WWD 
 
 Philip Ilardman, however, had seen her. He changed 
 his intention of reading, and announced a hymn instead. 
 He wanted a few minutes to familiarize himself with that 
 tragic face before attempting to utter any message of love 
 or hope to the woman who had thus obeyed his suggestion. 
 While the singing went on he looked at his audience, and, 
 in a flash, their narrow, sordid, often miserabb lives 
 seemed revealed to him. These were the people he had 
 lashed with spiritual fears the night before. As he 
 recalled it, his heart smote him witii terrible reproach. 
 His eyes grew dim as he looked at the pt-ople before him 
 and saw, shining through their midst, the pallid face of 
 Myron Holder. 
 
 By what strange chance had this woman come to James- 
 town? For he decided at once she was no native of the 
 village. Th J purely cut, martyr face ; the broad brow, 
 sensitive lips, and cameo-like nostrils were too utterly 
 unlike the other faces in tho church to be for one moment 
 associated with them. 
 
 There came to him a fantastic thought, that this woman 
 was sent to bear the griefs of this village, even as One 
 long since — the Carpenter's Son — had borne the griefs of 
 the world and become a " Man of Sorrows and acquainted 
 with grief." But alas! this woman had no divine mes- 
 sage to give ; instead, she was wandering in the wilderness 
 of hopeless despair. But — and Hardman's hand tightened 
 on nis Testament — a message she should have. 
 
 " Other refuge have I none, 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. 
 Leave, oh, leave nic not alone ! 
 Oh, protect and comfort me !" 
 
 So they sang. Philip Hardman found his place — 
 
 " All my hopes on Thee are stayed, 
 All ray wants to Thee I bring ; 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 367 
 
 changed 
 instead, 
 itli that 
 } of love 
 forestion. 
 
 so 
 
 ice, and, 
 !>b lives 
 5 he had 
 As he 
 ceproach. 
 if ore him 
 d face of 
 
 to James- 
 ive of the 
 )ad brow, 
 utterly 
 e moment 
 
 lis woman 
 n as One 
 griefs of 
 acquainted 
 vine mes- 
 wilderness 
 tightened 
 
 Cover my defenceless licad 
 With the shadow of Tliy wing. " 
 
 Rapt in an infinite sorrow for his kind — inspired by the 
 need of this woman of help — exaked by the dependence 
 and confidence expressed in tlie hymned words — seeing 
 in all his audience but one pallid face — Philip Ilardman 
 rose to speak. 
 
 This choosing of a subject upon the spur of the moment, 
 to meet the needs of on 3 woman, was no disadvantage to 
 him, for he was a fluent and ready speaker, and his whole 
 training had been that spontaneity was absolutely essen- 
 tial. He liad none of the measured method that develops 
 a subject into "three hcad& and an application." The 
 evangelistic sect to which he belonged abjures notes, j^nd 
 hops along to the halting cadence of a quasi-inspiration. 
 
 Happily, however, it has now and then a man like 
 Philip Hardman, whose words flow freely forth, and never 
 so eloquently as when heart and sympathies are touched. 
 Hardman was never at a loss for words of his own to trans- 
 late his feelings into language ; but this night his sermon 
 was but the enunciation of a sweet and comforting doc- 
 trine uttered in the language of the Book which has pre- 
 served it. 
 
 " Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
 and I will give you rest," he said, and held out as a free 
 gift the inestimable boon of peace. " I will not leave you 
 comfortless," uttered in his vibrant tones, bore the assur- 
 ance of divinest aid. "Let not your heart be troubled," 
 he voiced as a sacred command to cease from grief, and 
 then the general invitation, " Let whosoever will drink of 
 the water of life freely." 
 
 With these words as a thesis, a human heart to be com- 
 forted, a soul alight with belief and confidence, a rare 
 natural eloquence to frame his plea — was there any won- 
 
368 
 
 THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 
 
 \\\\{ 
 
 der that the sermon was effective any wonder that to the 
 Wx^ary heart of the listening woman it appealed almost 
 irresistibly? 
 
 Perhaps Philip Ilardinan dwelt too exclusively upon the 
 blessings of his religion, ignored too utterly the thorn in 
 the crown — offered it too freely, avowed it too confidently. 
 But what will you? Even the greatest purists in religious 
 faith find it hard to disabuse their minds of the idea that 
 martyrdom means and merits the Kingdom, and Philip 
 llardman's theology was not of the sternest sort. 
 
 He felt, somehow, that this woman had suffered enough to 
 win Heaven, whether she merited it in other respects or 
 not. So he set himself to present his faith to her in the 
 most glowing aspect, always seconding his message with 
 his eyes. 
 
 Just as Philip Hardman saw but one face in his audi- 
 ence, so Myron Holder was, after the first few moments, 
 unconscious of any other presence save his. Her eyes had 
 won a straight path to his face between the heads and 
 shoulders, and her gaze never faltered. There was a tall, 
 white-shaded lamp on each side of the desk. As she 
 looked, his figure, in strong relief against the light-blue 
 background of the walls, seemed to absorb and ladiate 
 the light. It was simply an ordinary optical effeci,, and 
 Myron Holder herself recognized vaguely that it was " only 
 the light," and yet that pale irradiation around his head 
 seemed to add a dignity and sanctity to the man and lend 
 his utterance a deeper, higher import. 
 
 Her eyes never left his face — that kind, weak face, so 
 full of contradictions, whose beetling brow seemed ready 
 to do battle for his Faith, whose lips quivered with the 
 feeling in his own voice. ' 
 
 Her eyes were hot and dilated from the long strain 
 3y.h.en^ wiUi hands uprais.ed above the standing people, he 
 
THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 269 
 
 X to the 
 almost 
 
 pon the 
 thorn in 
 ifidcntly. 
 religions 
 idea that 
 d Philip 
 
 snonghto 
 aspects or 
 tier in the 
 sage with 
 
 his audi- 
 1 moments, 
 eyes had 
 heads and 
 was a tall, 
 As she 
 light-blue 
 d ladiate 
 iffeCi,, and 
 was " only 
 his head 
 and lend 
 
 Ik face, so 
 jed ready 
 with the 
 
 )iig strain 
 I people, he 
 
 r 
 
 uttered the benediction, " Peace 1 leave with you. My 
 peace I give unto you; not as tlie world givoth give I unto 
 you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it bo 
 afraid. Amen." 
 
 Philip Hardmau descended from the platform and strove 
 to make his way toward Myron, but he was hemmed in 
 by outstretched hands, and had to make his way slowly 
 through a throng, all eager to say "Good-bye," for he left 
 on the morrow. Myron was just stepping out of the shel- 
 ter of the porch wh^n he overtook her. He held out his 
 hand, which she took, her own toil-hardened one trem- 
 bling in the clasp of his softer fingers. He looked down 
 at her and spoke with grer.t gentleness: 
 
 "Did you take the message I gave you to-night?" 
 
 " Is it for me?" she asked. 
 
 "Surely," he answered. 
 
 " You do not know me ; you cannot tell. If you knew" 
 
 "Whosoever will," he replied, with steady emphasis. 
 And in his heart he marvelled at the humbleness of this 
 woman, whose candid brow and clear eyes bespoke her life. 
 
 Then, the man mii^gling with the priest in him, he 
 continued, still more gently: 
 
 "The message is even to the greatest sinner. To see you 
 is to know you have the right of one of the least." 
 
 She put up two hands, clasped in miserable deprecation ; 
 her cheeks flamed red an instant, then paled to a ghastly 
 white; she turned silently, and swiftly went down two 
 steps of the broad entrance stair; then pausing and look- 
 ing back at him with a gaze such as one might fix upon the 
 flames before he steps into them, she said clearly: 
 
 "Ask Mrs. Deans who Myron Holder is!" She slipped 
 away, the gloom of the unlighted street absorbing her fig- 
 ure, as though it gathered to itself its righteous belonging. 
 
; 
 
 370 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 " We arc the voices of the wuntlering wind, 
 Which seek for quiet, mid (luicit can never find. 
 Lo ! as the wind is, so is mortal life — 
 A moan, a sob, a sigh, a storm, a strife. " 
 
 M EXT morning Philip Hardman left Mrs. Deans' early. 
 He was leaving by the first train from the little flag station 
 which was at the far end of the village; besides, he was 
 determined to seo Myron Holder. 
 
 Mrs. Deans had endeavored to dissuade him from this, 
 but he was firm, and, recognizing this, Mrs. Deans sug- 
 gested that she accompany him upon his mission ; but he 
 stated gently, but firmly, that he could achieve . better 
 results alone. Mrs. Deans felt bitterly aggrieved at being 
 treated thus, for behind his gentle words she read 
 a settled determination "to keep her out of it," as she 
 phrased it to herself. 
 
 She bade him good-bye, however, with well-affected geni- 
 ality, as he stood upon her doorstep; but the shallow 
 smile died very soon, and a malevolent expression replaced 
 it upon her fat features. 
 
 "I'll speak to Brother Fletcher about this," she said. 
 " That Hardman is sorely puffed up in his own conceit and 
 vainglorious! Well, by himself he can do nothing," she 
 concluded, piously. 
 
 But whether it was the absence of the Lord or herself 
 from Hardman 's side that was going to militate against his 
 success she left undetermined. There might also have been 
 some doubt in the mind of the impartial hearer as to 
 whether she was glad or sorr^ that his mission was likely to 
 be a failure. Certainly her tone was not indicative of anj 
 great ^rief^ 
 
Till'. VN TEMPER ED 11/ M) 
 
 871 
 
 carlv. 
 
 station 
 lie was 
 
 n this, 
 IS sug- 
 but ho 
 . better 
 t being 
 e read 
 &s she 
 
 d geni- 
 shallow 
 Bplaced 
 
 e said, 
 eit and 
 g," she 
 
 herself 
 inst his 
 ve been 
 as to 
 ikely to 
 
 of anj 
 
 She betook liorself indoors, and set about preparing a 
 fresh 8up}»ly of country dainties for the Ueverend 
 Fie teller. 
 
 IMiilip Ilardinan's fico changed also after ho turned it 
 from Mrs. Doans' self-contenteil countenance, and the new 
 expression was not far removed from one of t'isgusted con- 
 tempt; and, it must be confessed, a somewhat sneering bit- 
 terness made his keen eyes sombre, lie had asked Mrs. 
 Deans tlio night before who Myron Holder was, and had 
 been told — tola! but in such a fashion! Mrs. Deans' 
 evil words still stung his heart witli shame for his kind. 
 He felt as tliough one nad smitten his lips with nettles. 
 
 And the pious speeches with which Mrs. Deans had 
 besprent her tale — bah ! It was like sprinkling a weak 
 disinfectant over a heap of filth. It was indeed the 
 " poison of asps" to hear Scripture — nay, the very words 
 of his Master — so defiled. ♦ 
 
 Well, llardman compressed his lips and hurried on. 
 
 The morning was sweet and calm, the "shoreless air" 
 very clear and still, and, little by little, his spirit attuned 
 itself to the hour; shred by shred, the mantle of bitterness, 
 fell from him. The memories of the evening mingled 
 with the hopes of the morning, into a driiught that was 
 very sweet to him. AVhen he reached the cottage door his 
 eyes were exalted, his lips calm, his heart confident. 
 
 The door was open, and through it he saw a bare room» 
 the walls stained a deep yellow with ochre ; a carpetless 
 floor, comfortless but clean ; a square table, with a coarse 
 white cloth covering it, stood in the middle of the room; 
 upon it was some food. Myron sat there alone, but there 
 was another plate laid, beside which stood a battered tin 
 mug. All this he took in at a glance, and then his eyes 
 fastened upon the woman's face. She was as yet uncon- 
 scious of his presence. She sat at the table in such f 
 
 
 
 ■ \ 
 
 
 •1; 
 
 i. 
 
 1 
 
 ii 
 
 i 
 
 s 
 
272 
 
 THE I'NTEMrERlil) IVIXD 
 
 ■ t I 
 
 position tliat the profile of licr face was outlined sharply 
 against the bright yellow of the walls. 
 
 Her face, as ho beheld it thus for the first time in clear 
 daylight, struck him with swift remembrance of an exqui- 
 site picture he had once seen, a meek-mouthed Madonna 
 painted on a bright brass plaque. There was the same 
 pose of head, tlie same heavy knot of nut-brown hair, the 
 same outward sweep of the lashes from tiie same drooped 
 lids, the sanio exc'uisite line where the check softened to 
 the throat. lUit, alas! thero was no heavenly nimbus 
 round this living head, no holy glow of happy maternity, 
 no pure halo of womanhood. 
 
 At that moment Myron turned towards the doorway, 
 and, as her eyes met his, his imagination suddenly supplied 
 the aureole that before she seemed to lack, and, in com- 
 pletion of the picture, a stray line or two of poetry came 
 back to him with all the happy force of aj^plicability: 
 
 "Eh, sweet, '\ 
 
 . Yoii have the eyes men ehoose to paint, you know ; 
 And just that soft turn in the little throat, 
 And bluish color in the lower lid, \ 
 
 They make saints with. " 
 
 He started as he realized that he was comparing the 
 Madonna to this unblest mother — an ideal of saintly beauty 
 to this sinning one. But all in an instant there came to 
 him a swift certainty that this was not the face of an evil 
 woman. This woman bore in her countenance the indeli- 
 ble lines of pain and suffering, the ineffaceable traces ri 
 bodily and mental anguish. She had been bowed beneath 
 the burden of woman's inalienable heritage of agony, had 
 lived through the Gethsemane of childbirth and won to 
 the heights of motherhood's Golgotha — a child's grave. 
 But in all this, rememberj there is nothing vile ; it is only 
 infinitely pitiful, 
 
1 
 
 1 
 
 liarply 
 
 1 clear 
 exqiii- 
 iidonna 
 c same 
 lir, tho 
 Irooiied 
 cned to 
 nimbus 
 ternity, 
 
 oorway, 
 mpplied 
 ill com- 
 ;ry came 
 
 ty: 
 
 riug the 
 y beauty 
 
 came to 
 f an evil 
 e indeli- 
 
 races cl 
 
 beneath 
 Dny, had 
 won to 
 
 s grave. 
 
 t is only 
 
 A M£EK-MOUTH£0 MAPONtf A, 
 
 ji 
 
 ■ ri; 
 
 * 
 
\ 
 
 1 1 
 i 1 
 
 1 ! 
 
 P- i ■ »"' 
 
TIfE VNTEMPERED WIND 2„ 
 
 Whilst be gazea and thougl.t these things swiftly, she 
 had nser f.o>n her place and stood with cl4od hand' and 
 
 hat he felt a great throb of pity. lie took a step for- 
 ward and lield out bis liand. 
 
 ea,'iv "tlfr""'- ',"/'■' *™'"'" ''" ^"'''= "'^"' I '•»■"'' »»vay 
 caiJ}, tliat I might sec yon." 
 
 tated^"" '"'' ''"'^ ^'^" ''" ^"""'"'^^ "bnf-sbe besi- 
 
 nn!i^"l-'''1'" '" "'■«*"' ^'''''y' ''oWingboth her bands 
 and looking down at ber. 
 
 " Do yon know who I am?" she asked. 
 " Yes," be answered, " I know everythin.^ " 
 voi'Z"" ™ked Mrs. Deans!" she said in^an incredulons 
 
 Ho flushed at the tone. It told so clearly that she fully 
 
 nnderstood what Mrs. Deans would say; and somehov, it 
 
 eemed to hnk hnn with Mrs. Deans, as if he and that 
 
 worthy woman stood on one side of a river and Myron 
 
 Holder alone on the other. He could not bear that. 
 
 _^ i es but I always judge for myself," be said quickly. 
 
 Oh ! she sa.d. You are " She stopped, bnt gave 
 
 the note ot those swift glances of ineffable gratitude Ihat 
 had so often stirred Homer's heart 
 
 And, looking at ber thus, Hardman forgave her every- 
 thing, for Love pardons the nnpardo.mble past;" and 
 ihis man from that moment loved ber, altho. jb he did 
 not yet know it. -^ 
 
 ZIaT I"'"' T ""'^ '''""' *" y""'" ''^ «'i'J' glueing at 
 
 ^ It zrir^""^^" ^"""' ''''-^' "'---''- 
 
 "Ah, so dear!" she answered. 
 Thers after a moment's pause, she went on swiftly 
 Oh, you can understand wliat it was-surely you can^ 
 
 11 
 
 
 
 1 ' 
 
 '- 
 < 
 
 ' 
 
HtS 
 
 "Hi^l i lX iitiaB 
 
 
 274 
 
 THE UNTEMPEl^ED WIND 
 
 \»- V 
 
 in 
 
 'f' 
 
 you arc so good! He was everything to me, absolutely 
 everything! The thought of him kept me from greater 
 sin ! I was nearly blind with weariness, and the way was 
 getting dimmer and dimmer to my eyes; but his laugh 
 showed me where the right road lay, and, when I found it 
 again, his steps kept me company! Oh, can you think 
 what it is to see the only creature — the only living thing 
 in all the world — that loves you — die?" She looked at 
 him, an interrogation so poignant as to be imperative in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "we are two lonely souls, Myron. In 
 all the wide earth there is none who cares whether I live 
 or die." 
 
 " I am so sorry," she said. " Only, you are so good you 
 can have friends for the seeking. As for me, I am not fit 
 to be any one's friend. I had one friend here, but he is 
 dead too" — she added the last sentence with a strange, 
 swift sense of justice. Even though Homer was dead, she 
 could not bear that he be classed with those others who 
 had been so cruel. 
 
 "Yes," answered Hardman, "I heard of him." 
 
 "Did she tell you that he died to save My'a life?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, she told me," he answered. 
 
 Tliere was a pause, then Myron said: 
 
 " It was so good of you to come!" He noticed the harsh 
 tones of her voice. 
 
 " Have you a sore throat?" he asked. 
 
 "No," she said; " but my child died of suffocation. His 
 throat was swollen with inflammation and croup, and when 
 he tried to speak to me his voice was hard, like mine is 
 now. It made my own throat ache; and ever since, the 
 pain has been there and I have spoken in this way." 
 
 Thus, simply, Myron told of tliat marvel, that extraordi- 
 
>lntely 
 
 greater 
 
 [ly was 
 
 laugh 
 
 und it 
 
 tliiuk 
 
 thing 
 
 ked at 
 
 tive in 
 
 n. In 
 r I live 
 
 od you 
 not fit 
 b he is 
 trange, 
 ad, she 
 3r8 who 
 
 3^' 
 
 she 
 
 le 
 
 harsh 
 
 n. His 
 id when 
 mine is 
 nee, the 
 
 [traordi- 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 275 
 
 nary instance of the power of Love. For this was indeed 
 so. In Myrcn's case had been made manifest one of those 
 marvellous mysteries of tlie human mechanism that now 
 and again thrills the scientist with a burning zeal to dis- 
 cover the real relation between mind and matter, to enter 
 the penetralia of humanity and learn its secret. That 
 desolate night in the cottage the mother-heart appre- 
 hendea each pang of the choking child, and the mother 
 endured in her own organism a like agony. How sad to 
 think she had no Divine license to do so! How strange 
 that such a love should spring from shame! 
 
 Hardman's mind grasped the significance of her words 
 upon the instant. For a moment the realization of this 
 woman's strength held him silent. Then he remembered 
 her loneliness and bent towards her. 
 
 " Myron," he said, " will you be my friend?" 
 
 "Oh, do you mean it?" she asked, breathlessly. 
 
 "Assuredly," he said. 
 
 Then once more Myron gave her hands as a seal of 
 friendship. 
 
 There was only a short time left after that— a few 
 moments of earnest prayer from Philip Hardman— a few 
 words asking her to go to the rest of the meetings— a brief 
 promise from her and briefer acknowledgments of his 
 goodness faltering between her sobs— then Hardman had 
 said good-bye, and his form was already vanishing from 
 sight before Myron realized that she was once more alone. 
 
 Philip Hardman hurried to the station and caught his 
 train. The first stage of his journey was short, only some 
 fifty miles to the city, where he was to meet the Reverend 
 Mr. Fletcher. He found him at the depot, ready to go to 
 Jamestown, In a few hurried words Hardman told him 
 of Myron Holder— of her sin— her punishment— her sor- 
 row. He commended h'^r to Mr. Fletcher's prayers, and 
 
 If 
 
276 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 asked him to preach so that her difiidcnt lieart might find 
 some message in his words. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher prom.ised, and expressed with some little 
 emphasis a hope that Ilardman'sown labors might be blest. 
 
 Then he departed. His train was just pulling out when 
 Hardman ran up to the open window, by which Mr. 
 Fletcher had settled himself. 
 
 "You'll be gentle with her, Brotlier Fletcher? She is 
 indeed a bruised reed." 
 
 There was no time for answer. Mr. Hardman did not 
 witness the scorn with which this advice — no entreaty 
 — was received. He stood looking after the swiftly 
 vanishing train somewhat sadly; then, rousing himself, 
 went to find out about the train that was to take him to 
 his new charge. 
 
 Philip Hardman's father had been a mechanic, a life- 
 long worker in one of those sooty, befouling foundries 
 where the great furnaces gleam like so many mouths of the 
 Pit — where all day long there is the roar of flames, the 
 blast of hot air, the clang of metal, the heat of Hades, the 
 hiss of molten iron, the angry flight of sparks struck from 
 huge anvils; all the haste and fury and dumb-brutish 
 endurance of men working at the top notch of physical 
 exertion, rushing hither and thither like demons before 
 the fires, or clad in grotesque masks and armor, turning 
 great masses of glowing, cooling metal so that the steam- 
 hammers may forge them into shape. 
 
 In this atmosphere Philip Hardman's father had spent 
 all his life since he was a little lad, carrying water to the 
 workers — water in which flying gi)arks quenched them- 
 selves, hissing. It would be no wonder if from a race 
 of fathers, such as these blackened workers, gnome-like 
 children were to be born, all action and no thought; 
 swift, tireless, inhuman. But these men, darting about in 
 
 pnnii 
 
gilt find 
 
 ne little 
 be blest, 
 lit when 
 ich Mr. 
 
 She is 
 
 did not 
 entreaty 
 swiftly 
 himself, 
 3 him to 
 
 I, a life- 
 sundries 
 IS of the 
 mes, the 
 ides, the 
 ck from 
 i-brutish 
 physical 
 s before 
 turning 
 i steam - 
 
 id spent 
 ir to the 
 d them- 
 n a race 
 Dme-like 
 bought; 
 about in 
 
 
 THE UNTEMPEKED WIND 277 
 
 the glare of the dusky fires, hke devil-riddcn spectres, had 
 some of them, time for thought. Indeed, the man who 
 moves unmoved amid these masses of incarnate heat, steps 
 over and around streams of liquid fire, watches those infer- 
 nal lakes, plumbago-shored, which one single drop of water 
 converts into death-dealing volcanoes, and stands beside a 
 torrent of molten iron as it Jlows fron. the crucible, ready to 
 dam its resistless tide on the instant, may well be credited 
 with capacity, if not time, for thought. 
 
 To Philip Hardman's father during those long, hot 
 hours of breathless haste there came ideas-distorted 
 meagre, and ill-developed, perhaps-which, when he left the 
 works at night, pallid-faced beneath the grime, still bore 
 him company : nebulous visions of great labor-saving devices 
 by which men forever would be exempt from the dreadful 
 toil that scorched both soul and body. 
 
 There was many a rich germ dormant in these ideas of 
 his, but lackin.- the cohesion of long, uninterrupted 
 thought, and wanting the quickening of accurate knowl- 
 edge. For there lay Philip Hardman's great stumbling- 
 block. To perfect his inventions, he required a knowledge 
 of chemicals and of difl'erent forces and their application 
 and an insight into the cause of the effects he wished to 
 produce. 
 
 How blindly, painfully and heart-brokenly he toiled 
 after tliis knowledge no one ever fully appreciated. His 
 son, long years after his death, realized it m some fashion 
 He did not ask assistance of any one, for he feared, with 
 the traditional dread of the inventor, lest the one from 
 whom he sought advice should steal his idea. He saved to 
 buy books that were useless to him, and pored over th'eir 
 misleading pages with eyes from which all moisture seemed 
 scorched away, until the very eyeballs themselves felt hot 
 and hard; but he kept them painfully fastened upon 
 
27^ 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 those pages frcm which he strove to wrest a secret they did 
 not hold, to learn those things which would enable him to 
 set free forever his fellows from the necessity of enduring 
 that soul-baking heat. 
 
 Perhaps his invention, even if perfected, would not have 
 compassed all he dreamed it would, for he was prone to 
 endow it almost with thinking as well as executive powers, 
 and to think of it as animated by a great zeal for mankind 
 as, with its nerveless phalanges, it performed those awful 
 tasks. Perhaps there may be greater ideals than the 
 thought of setting men free from one of the most terrible 
 and exhaustive forms of labor; but none knew better than 
 this man the terrors of heat, none understood more clearly 
 how the mind narrowed as the body shrank before the 
 stifling blasts. And, after all, if we all set ourselves to 
 alleviate the special misery we understand, there would be 
 fewer misshapen lives in the world. 
 
 Well— 
 
 " How many a vulgar Cato has compelled 
 His energies, no longer tameless then, 
 To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail ! " 
 
 M 
 
 i\ 
 
 Philip Hardman's mother was a woman of a hysteri 
 nature, who scarcely thought enough of this world to make 
 her husband and children comfortable in it. The chil- 
 dren were narrow-chested, weak little creatures. Tlicy 
 heard from her lips terrible tales of the wrath to come, 
 couched in symbolism they well understood, for their 
 father worked daily amid just such scenes as their mother 
 depicted the abode of the damned to be. The parallel 
 between the Hades her words pictured forth and her hus- 
 band's life never struck Mrs. Hardman. 
 
 Even when her husband died — going to his grave a 
 broken-hearted man, barren of achievement, leaving not 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 270 
 
 ave a 
 g not 
 
 one labor-saving device, not one little bolt or wheel called 
 by his name — she did not regret or realize the hard life he 
 had had, nor think she might have made it easier. She 
 only tortured herself daily by wondering if she had suffi- 
 ciently represented to him his lost condition. 
 
 It is to be feared that she was more interested in con- 
 vincing herself that she was free of responsibility than that 
 he was saved. 
 
 In time, however, she began to fee! that she had done 
 her best, and, feeling it would be too much like " them 
 Catholics" to pray for the soul of a dead man, she turned 
 all her attention to her own. Doubtless she was right; 
 and yet, is it not a beautiful myth to think that prayer 
 from a loving heart may benefit those we love, even if they 
 have passed "beyond these voices"? 
 
 If we must needs pick and choose delusions, why not 
 take those unselfish ones, so beautiful, if inutile? Is it 
 not an idea really worthy of a Divinity to think that by 
 our self-flagellations our loved ones may bo freed from 
 stripes? Are there not some of us who would gladly thus 
 requite debts of incalculable benefits received — some of 
 us who would dare accept even a Hell to know our loved 
 one had a Heaven? 
 
 Philip Hardman's father had belonged to various insur- 
 ance societies, such as workmen form for mutual benefit. 
 It would have sufficed to keep life in all the children until 
 such time as they became self-supporting; but one by one 
 they died, until only Philip was left. He worked in the 
 "pattern-shop" in the works until he was twenty, when 
 his mother died. Then he took the residue of his father's 
 insurance money and his own savings and went to school. 
 
 It is not strange that he should choose the ministry. 
 He had inherited all his father's love for his kind and 
 much of his mother's fervor of purpose, added to which 
 
 
28o 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 II I 
 lii 
 
 J 
 
 lio had his own ])irthright of lofty idealism ; but ho had 
 j.lso somctliiiig of the weaknesses of both parents. His 
 iiiotlKir's instability clung to him and nuidc him vacillat- 
 i.LT, and the secrecy of his father in regard to his inven- 
 licijs survived in him under the guise of habitual reti- 
 ctr.ci'. lie was deeply impressed with the sadness of life, 
 .';n(l thought he saw in religion the one jianacea for pain, 
 liosidcs, he too wished to llec from the wrath to come. 
 
 He had been preaching some seven years when he vis- 
 ited Jamestown, and during that time he had bitten 
 through to the ashes more than once. The fruit he held 
 against his lips was losing even its fair seeming. 
 
 His charges were always amid the poor, and he was 
 beginning to rebel against a doctrine that accused a 
 Divine Being of all the cruelties life holds. " The poor 
 have the Gospel preached to them" he had once looked 
 upon as the expression of Divine benefaction; now it 
 struck him as being redolent of a peculiar and brutal 
 sarcasm. 
 
 Philip Hardman had all his life thought of his religion 
 as only true M'hen environed in an atmosphere of severity. 
 One day, just after a tumult of doubt and a corresponding 
 influx of faith and confidence, he went into a Roman 
 Catholic cathedral. The exact reason for this is hard to 
 divine. Perhaps it may have been some mad thought of 
 attacking Rome in her own citadel. At any rate, he 
 went in and sat down, looking about him with right- 
 eous contempt at the " idolatrous images" in their carven 
 niches. His religious dreams had ever been barren of 
 that ecstasy which springs from the grandeur and dignity 
 of gorgeous ceremonials, sonorous chanting, vibrating 
 music. He had never experienced the breathless hush of 
 suspense between the intoned invocation of priests and the 
 thrilling choral response. He had never, at the clear- 
 
' 
 
 Th'E UN TEMP EKED WIND 
 
 281 
 
 right- 
 
 
 tongued ringing of a bul!, let full his head and abased his 
 spirit. But now he experienced an emotion such as 
 possessed the monks of the Kosy Cross, when to their fervid 
 vision the stony walls of their cells parted and disclosed 
 vistas of heavenly beauty. He adored with the fervor of 
 the true fanatic The Church — saw her for the first time 
 in the light of a beautiful mistress, to bo worshipjied 
 alon«^- -for herself — her beauty — her charm — her power. 
 
 Philip Ilardnian left the cathedral, his eyes kindled, 
 his step light, lie had had doubts of his love, but they 
 were all gone now. He had been dwelling apart from 
 her; he hati but heard echoes of her voice; ho had never 
 seen her as he should have seen her, at home — mystical, 
 with dim, subdued and vaporous light, clad in gorgeous 
 vestments; incensed with heavenly odors, irradiate with a 
 hundred colors as the sunlight fell through the painted 
 windows and the altar lights smote answering flames from 
 the gold of the altar; served by humble servitors nuule 
 holy by their service. 
 
 He had regarded her as a poor bride, without a wedding 
 garment, chilled by the cold breath of the world, abashed 
 by the insulting sneers of the ungodly. He now beheld 
 her as she was, a Queen upon a throne, in all the regal 
 magnificence of her regal state. 
 
 He was no longer the cherisher of a feeble flame, striving 
 to make it shine in darkness; he was an humble slave of 
 a great lamp, blessed if the farthest-reaching rays from 
 the sacred centi'c of light shone upon his unworthy head 
 or gilded his outstretched hands. He had thought of 
 his creed pitifully as a " torn leaf out of an old book 
 trampled in the dirt." There was none of that here — no 
 apology — no plea; there was only a triumphant paean of 
 a glorious creed, a sad mourning over those that wore 
 without it. 
 
 ij 
 
\ 
 
 282 
 
 T//E UNiEMPERED WIND 
 
 This spiritual exaltation working upon his eager nature 
 imparted to him a physical stimulus exhilarating and 
 strange. He strode along vig( rously. He felt that ho 
 was "strong and fleet" in spirit, mind, and body. He 
 walited on; the day waned; distinct thought had long 
 since departed. His mood, which in an Oriental would 
 liave induced tlie coma of the hasheesh eater, prompted him 
 luizily to form great })lans for tlie good of his kind. The 
 good of his kind? No, the glory of Tlic Church. He 
 followed few of these plans to any conclusion. They 
 ended as they had begun, in nel)ulous imaginings of 
 glory. And, as glory is easily transferable from the wor- 
 shipped to the worshipper, the endiug of his dreams 
 included a cloud of incense to himself — the incense of 
 approval, admiration, and the sweet savor of self-inllicted 
 martyrdom. 
 
 He walked on, pitiably unaware of the St. Simeon 
 Stylites attitude he had assumed. Night dimmed down; 
 the wind rose, dead elm leaves were blown across his 
 path, rustling under foot. The night wind, chill with 
 first frosts, aroused him with a shiver to remember where 
 he was. He found himself in the country ; long vistas of 
 barren fields stretched out before him a dreary panorama. 
 
 The gray sky was darkened by crows flying silently 
 towards their nightly roosts. He passed pools of lifeless 
 water, choked with sodden leaves. A laborer slouched 
 by — a laborer from the railway going home, content 
 because he had earned double pay for a Sunday's work. 
 The odor of decaying vegetables somewhere near struck 
 painfully upon Hardman's senses. This, he thought, with 
 disgust, was the odor of nature — of the world. 
 
 The night suddenly dropped down from the clouds, and 
 the darkness urged him to seek shelter. He approached a 
 cottage he observed dimly, finding his way to it up an 
 
ture 
 and 
 t ho 
 
 He 
 long 
 ronUl 
 I him 
 
 The 
 
 He 
 
 They 
 
 58 of 
 
 wor- 
 rcanis 
 ISO of 
 tlicted 
 
 linieon 
 down ; 
 ss his 
 with 
 where 
 tas of 
 •ama. 
 ilently 
 lifeless 
 uched 
 ontent 
 work, 
 struck 
 t, with 
 
 , and 
 
 iched a 
 
 up au 
 
 THE UN TEA/ r EKED WIND 
 
 283 
 
 uneven lane bordered by a fantastic fence of uprooted 
 stiinips, whoso ragged branch-like roots, twisted and dis- 
 torted, stood out in solid blairk masses against the insub- 
 stantial mist of the night. He sliuddercd. 
 
 It seemed to his supersensitive fancy that these grotesriuo 
 slijipes were nuge simulacra of tlie aninuUcuUi) tluit the 
 nncrosco[)e discovers in water. His nuiscles shrank as ho 
 imagined these huge shapes, unseen but not unseeing, 
 writhing through the air, flourishing their weird forms 
 over and around his head, embracing him with their 
 euistic antennji3 and moving with him encircled in their 
 horrible, impalpable embrace. With what devilish skill 
 they swept nearer and nearer to him, avoiding him by a 
 hair's breadth, and perceiving how his spirit shrank from 
 their approach ! He gazed up into the night, striving to 
 see there the dreadful shapes his fancy had woven into a 
 Dante-like vision. The side glimps^es his eyes held of the 
 fantastic forms of the roots projected themselves upon the 
 curtains of the night before him. His breath quickened; 
 he felt stifled; he withdrew his gaze from tlie clouds and 
 fastened it upon his path, which, to his distorted fancy, 
 seemed to contract until it narrowed down to an impassa- 
 ble barrier of threatening, twining arms. 
 
 He stumbled on. 
 
 As he staggered across the threshold of the cottage he 
 brushed through a mass of dried, sweet grass, cut down and 
 left to wither in the pathway. Its snuff-like odor brought 
 back the incense of the afternoon. With a strong revul- 
 sion of feeling, he threw off alike the sensuous charm of the 
 odor and the horrid phantasmagoria that his imagination 
 had conjured up. 
 
 He knocked at the door, feeling a self-disgust that 
 amounted almost to physical nausea. 
 
 Philip Hardroan after this was especially bitter in his 
 
 hi 
 
284 
 
 77/ A- UNTKMrEKED WIND 
 
 %M 
 
 sermons against Rome — her priests — her altars — her in- 
 cense — her teachings. He regarded liimsclf aa having 
 escaped, hardly hy the skin of his teeth, from the clutches 
 of the Scarlet Woman tluit sitteth upon the Seven Kills, 
 and besought his hearers oft, with all his own peculitir 
 eloquence, to keep themselves withdrawn from the tempta- 
 tions of Kome, of which, ho avowed almost with tears, ho 
 had felt the power. 
 
 This experience has no hearing upon the story of INFyron 
 Holder, save inasmuch as it indicates the emotional insta- 
 bility of Philip llardmau. Poor Myron! 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 
 "Beliold, we know not anything ! 
 I ciin but trust that s^ootl shall fall 
 At last — far olT — at last, to all ; 
 And every winter change to spring, " 
 
 "O Wind, if winter comes, can spring bo far behind?" 
 
 Mr. Fletcher arrived in Jamestown in due time and 
 was met at the station hy Mrs. Deans. Hardly had they 
 started ujion their drive to Mrs. Deans' before Mr. 
 Fletcher inquired about Myron Holder. Mrs. Deans 
 launched forth eloquently, and Mr. Fletcher was soon in 
 possession of the same facts and fancies concerning ]\Iyron 
 Holder as Philip Hardman had been deluged with; but 
 the Reverend Fletcher viewed the recital differently. He 
 regarded Mrs. Deans' indignation as being the natural feel- 
 ing of a good woman toward a bad one, and saw in this 
 drawing away of the skirts nothing derogatory to Mrs. 
 Deans* womanhood. 
 
 \ 
 
and 
 d they 
 3 Mr. 
 Deans 
 oon in 
 ;Myron 
 h; but 
 He 
 al feel- 
 in this 
 io Mrs. 
 
 THE UNTl.MrKKEl) IVLYD 
 
 flSs 
 
 
 The cluirch was filled that evening, und many eyes 
 watched the door eagerly, for the ])robable appearance of 
 Myron Holder had been a iniKih discussed theme that day. 
 Many of them had missed seeing lier the night before, 
 but there certainly was no danger that the like would 
 occur again. 
 
 The Keverend Mr. Fletcher entered with his hostes.^, 
 and, like the clever church diplonuit that he was, spoke to 
 tlie class-leaders and the elect, und smiled benignly but 
 condescendingly upon the lesser lights, and then pro- 
 ceeded, without further parley, to the platform. He was 
 a Juird-faced man, with hawk-like features, coarsened by 
 wind and weather; keen, hard eyes, wherein passion hnd 
 left its light but not its warmth; strong, square jaws, that 
 inilicated at once the tenacity and stubbornness of the man. 
 The Keverend Fletcher was indeed a good specimen of the 
 evangelist who goes forth with the Sword of the Smitcr 
 rather tlian the Halm of the Healer. There was no fear of 
 his beguiling any one by false promises of perilous peace. 
 
 When he had taken his position behind the reading- 
 desk, he too began to watch the door. From Mrs. 
 Deans' description of Myron Holder he had formed an 
 idea of her appearance. Ho looked to see some flaunting, 
 rustic beauty, bold of eye, brazen of deportment, gayly 
 dressed perhaps, and defiant of bearing. 
 
 It lacked but a moment or two of the time for service 
 when Myron Holder entered the church. She paused a 
 moment in the doorway, looking about her for an incon- 
 spicuous seat. There was one but a step from the doorway ; 
 she sank into it. 
 
 The Reverend Fletcher observed her pale face shine, 
 star-like, for a moment against the darkness of the un- 
 lighted porch ere she stepped within the church. He 
 decided instantly that this was indeed one of the elect, 
 
It'-'' '^ 
 
 286 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 Ih 
 
 
 I 
 
 i i!i i 
 
 . I i 
 
 lij! 
 ii 
 
 in 
 
 and gave no further thought to her. His whole attention 
 was absorbed in looking for the sinner for whose soul he 
 was to do battle. He thirsted for the fray, but the min- 
 utes passed and no one else entered, so he took up his 
 discourse, and bOon had his congregation in a spiritual 
 tumult. Ejaculations came thick and fast from his hear- 
 ers, and there were as many weeping women as any 
 preacher could desire; but the heart of the Reverend 
 J^letcher was hot within him against She, the godless one, 
 who sat at home whilst the warnings an'^ threatenings pre- 
 pared for her were poured iato the ears of every one else in 
 the village. 
 
 Meantime Myron sat half-dazed. Truly this was another 
 doctrine than the one she had listened to the night before. 
 Where, amid all these words, was the promise of the 
 pitying Christ? She was out and aAvay the moment Mr. 
 Fletcher uttered his last Amen. As he stood mopping 
 the perspiration from his brow she was speeding through 
 the silent street, and by the time the church was empty she 
 had flung herself, sobbing, on her bed. 
 
 AVhen the Reverend Mr. Fletcher discovered that, after 
 all, Myron Holder had been in the cLurch, he was decid- 
 edly disgusted. He always liked aiming his remarks at 
 some particular person, and always felt as though he were 
 firing blank cartridges when he could not see the target, 
 'i'hercfore he was more than annoyed to find that he had 
 so scattered his fire when he might have taken accurate 
 aim at Myron. He remarked to Mrs. Deans, with some 
 irascibility, that her description of Myron Holder had 
 been somewhat misleading. 
 
 *'0h, she's deep," said Mrs. Deans; "and that sly 
 there's no being up to her. Always goin' about as if but- 
 ter wouldn't melt in her mouth; but as for wickedness 
 and genuine, inborn badness! Why, Brother Fletcher, 
 
THE UNTEMPI'.RED WIND 
 
 287 
 
 t sly 
 but- 
 dness 
 icher, 
 
 it's my belief and solemn opinion that she was jest makin' 
 a set at Brother ILirdman with them eyes of her'n. Fm 
 glad, Brother Fletcher, that Brother Hardman was 
 called away. He was very young. Brother Hardman was 
 — very." 
 
 The Eeverend Mr. Fletcher, recalling Hardman's words 
 at the depot, decided that Myron was a dangerous creature — 
 a sly serpent, evidently, in a dove's disguise. The Kever- 
 end Fletcher girded his loins to the fray, and was fain to 
 look well to his breastplate of righteousness and to give 
 thanks thnt it had fallen to his fate to emulate Saint 
 Anthony. 
 
 Mrs. White and Mrs. Wilson were invited to take tea 
 " along with the minister" next day, and Mrs. Wilson played 
 her role of sorrowing mother to perfection. The two other 
 ladies paid her the delicate compliment of looking fixedly 
 at her for a moment, then shaking their heads lugubri- 
 ously and Gxchahging a meaning glance with each other. 
 When the cockles of their hearts were warmed by the 
 Japan tea, they began making allusions to "dispensa- 
 tions," and "afflictions," and "merciful Providences" 
 (terms which in the vocabulary of the sanctified seem to 
 mean the same thing) ; and Mrs. Wilson began making 
 remarks about " troubles" which were not very intelligible, 
 owing to her beginning them with a sniff and ending in a 
 snivel. 
 
 All this fired the zeal of the preacher to no small 
 degree. He resolved they should see the strength of the 
 spiritual sword when wielded by his hands. He assured 
 them that the stubborn neck of the offender should be 
 bowed beneath the Scriptural yoke; that the flinty heart 
 of the sinner should be broken, and that the cause of all 
 this trouble and scandal should be made to do penance. 
 
 These cheerful predictions tilled the hearts of bis hear- 
 
 11 
 
288 
 
 Till' UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 ers with much joy, and they parted in a little flutter of 
 excitement to meet again at the church, where they antici- 
 pated, as Mrs. White expressed it, that " Brother Fletcher 
 would show that Myron Holder up in her true colors." 
 
 That night Myron sat again in that far-back seat, and 
 again the spiritual thunders of the Keverend Fletcher 
 spent themselves over her head. In all his harangue there 
 was no word to touch her soul. 
 
 Death — death — death — was the burden of it all. Now 
 death is a bogy to fright happy children with, not weary 
 women. Life had been so bitter to this woman that its 
 antithesis could not be aught but alluring. 
 
 
 mill I 
 
 It was the last night of the Reverend Fletcher's minis- 
 tration in Jamestown. For three nights he had fired 
 volleys of fire and brimstone at Myron Holder; for three 
 nights she had sat patient, pale, unmoved — her eyes grow- 
 ing wearier and wearier, her face sadder and sadder, as her 
 hope of finding peace grew less and less. It was such a 
 vague hope, not concerned with repentance of sin at all, 
 but wholly comprehended in an ineffable longini^ for the 
 fabled rest of Philip Hardman's preaching. She had 
 heard no further word of it, and she was beginning to- 
 doubt if she had heard aright that night when the sweet- 
 ness of the words had left a tiny germ of hope behind. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Fletcher was also sorely troubled. 
 His reputation as a revivalist was at stake. The eyes of 
 the village were upon him. It is true that he had had 
 a great measure of success. Every night the anxious-seat 
 had been filled with weeping women. Ossie Annie Abbie 
 Maria White had waxed fairly hysterical as she avowed 
 her sins ; Ann Lemon had howled forth a lengthy lamenta- 
 tion of her wickedness ; Sol Disney had professed conver- 
 sion, after "resisting the workings of the spirit within 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 289 
 
 him for twenty-seven years," as he testified. But all this 
 garnered grain was but as tares in the sight of the Rever- 
 end Fletcher because of that one stubborn thistle that 
 refused to bow its head to the Scriptural sickle. 
 
 But the Reverend Fletcher was a strategist as well as a 
 fighter. He recalled what Mrs. Deans had said regarding 
 Myron's inordinate love for her child, and, remembering, 
 resolved to win Myron Holder's soul despite herself. 
 
 With this resolution strong within him, he took his 
 place for the last time befol*e a Jamestown audience. It 
 ought to have been very gratifying to the ministerial eye — 
 that audience — for all the village was there. All — save 
 with on^. notable exception. Clem Humphries' place 
 before Mrs. Deans' was vacant, and never again would he 
 vex that worthy woman's soul by his presence in the 
 Jamestown Tabernacle. Clem had left Jamestown. The 
 night before this last meeting Clem, willing to sustain his 
 role of a religious individual, rose in his place and in 
 sepulchral tones asked for the prayers of the congrega- 
 tion. It is probable that such a request was never so 
 promptly granted before, for hardly had he resumed his 
 seat before Ann Lemon was upon her feet. 
 
 Always voluble, Ann had no difficulty in finding words 
 wherewith to ad 1 'ess the Lord, which she proceeded to do 
 upon Clem's behalf, as follows: "0 Lord," she com- 
 menced, "save this sinful man who seeks Tliy aid! You 
 know what he is, Lord! You know his pretences, his 
 hypocrisy, his sinfulness; but save him, for You can! 
 You know what a sinful man he is, far beyond any hope 
 of good in this world ; but, oh, save him. ! You know he 
 drinks, putting an enemy into his mouth to steal away his 
 soul I You know he lies, and is lazy, and is a Sabbath- 
 breaker, spending in sinful sport the hours when he 
 should worship Thee! You know he makes his religion 
 19 
 
 ^^ I .' 
 
 
 \ 1 
 
 !l • ,-3 
 
 f" ■ ■ 
 
 1 
 
 ' 1 ■ 
 ' 1 
 
290 
 
 THE VN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 just a cloak for his deceit! You know all this, for noth- 
 ing is hid from Thee ! You know he oppressed the widow 
 all last winter; but save him, Lord, for You can! Save 
 him now, whilst he seeks Thy aid! Yon know he did it 
 for his own ends, to make people believe in his goodness; 
 but save him now — now, Lord, when he can't get out! 
 Save him in spite of himself — make him indeed one of 
 Your sheep !" 
 
 Ann sat down, amid a chorus of Aniens, and Clem was 
 eagerly besought to testify; but Clem was literally dumb 
 with rage, and sat mute whilst the Keverend Fletcher 
 prayed that the " new-found brother might be given the 
 gift of holy speech" that he might " show forth the mercy ho 
 had found," concluding by giving thanks for the conver- 
 sion of this great sinner. And this to a man who liad been 
 so long a favored one with the godly in the land! It was 
 too much. Clem trembled with rage. Ann's life would 
 hardly have been safe at that moment could Clem have 
 laid hands on her. As it was, she did not fall in his way, 
 and old Clem took French leave of Jamestown that night, 
 shaking the dust from off his feet as a testimony against 
 it. lie resolved as he left the village never again to try 
 to keep up with the religious folk. Clem decided they 
 made the place too hot for him. 
 
 ^rhe Reverend Fletcher rose and began his address. 
 Robbed of its exuberance of expression it was an effective 
 one. He concluded with an impassioned appeal to his 
 hearers to accept the truth. 
 
 "Is there," ho said, "none among you to whom there 
 appears a little, lonely grave, whose whispering grasses 
 plead to you to think of the little one buried there? 
 AVandering alone in Heaven, seeking there the love it had 
 on earth, already wearied by its long waiting, already 
 faltering as it searches for the loved face, already heart- 
 
THE UNTEMPLRED WIND 
 
 39X 
 
 there 
 [asses 
 I ere? 
 had 
 [eacly 
 leart- 
 
 sick as it listens to the angels singing the names of the 
 saved on earth — but never, never hears that loved name in 
 the heavenly roll-call? Is there none among you who has 
 an empty heart? Is there none among you who feels, in 
 memory only, the loving touch of baby fingers? Is there 
 none among you who, in dreams only, hears a baby voice 
 cry 'Mother — Mother'? If there is such a mother, will 
 she sit stubbornly silent here whilst her lonely child- 
 orphaned even in Heaven because of her hard-heartedness 
 — searches ever on and on for the mother that will not 
 come to him?" 
 
 Mr. Fletcher paused. There was breathless silence for a 
 moment, then there was a stir far back near the door. 
 The congregation moved, looked round, and murmured, A 
 woman's figure came swiftly down the aisle, reached the 
 clear space before the platform — stood — wavered. The 
 next moment Myron Holder had fallen to the floor, pros- 
 trate as a novice beneath the pall. 
 
 Myron Holder and the Reverend Fletcher stood alone in 
 the empty church. Mrs. Deans waited impatiently out- 
 side. Slie had never dreamed Mr. Fletcher Avould treat 
 her thus! The noise of the departing congregation was 
 dying away, and Mr. Fletcher was carrying out a stern 
 resolution he had made. He was talking to Myron Holder 
 of her sin and its enormity; upbraiding her for the past, 
 and cautioning her against the future. She listened 
 meekly, admitting her sin and saying no single word in 
 palliation of it. He was giving her stern advice regard- 
 ing her attitude towards the rest of the village, when she 
 interrupted him for the first time. 
 
 " I am leaving Jamestown to-morrow," she said. 
 
 "What?" said Mr. Fletcher. 
 
 " I am leaving Jamestown to morrow," she repeated. 
 
 The Reverend Fletcher's brow grew stern. 
 
292 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 " Is that how you are going to evidence the new niercy 
 you have found — by going out into the world to deceive 
 people?" 
 
 " I will deceive no one," she said. "I can do nothing 
 here. In winter I shall have to go on the township again. 
 I must go to earn my living." 
 
 " Evil will come of it. Your influence will not be for 
 good. You will spread a moral pestilence. Once I took 
 a long journey in the cars; the car was very dirty, and 
 there was much soot and smoke, and the black coat I wore 
 absorbed the dust and grime. Well, it lost nothing of its 
 good appearance; it was a black coat, like other black 
 coats — to look at. But listen ! One day soon after, in a 
 crowded train, I sat next a woman with a white dress on. 
 What was the result? Her dress was smirched and dark- 
 ened where her sleeve touched mine. So it was always. 
 That coat deflled everything it touched, until I put it from 
 me. It was a good coat, and I could ill afford to do it, 
 but still less could I ^IgyH to pollute whatever I touched. 
 It is thus with you. Out of evil, evil will come. We do 
 not gather figs of thistles. Your life has been evil ; your 
 heart is bad. Can good emanate from this? You will go 
 forth to the world in fair seeming, no trace of your sin 
 visible to the eye, and yon will spread the contagion of 
 your sin. Listen to me, Myron Holder. Do not dare go 
 forth in silence! Do not dare conceal your real nature! 
 Do not dare! Say to each man and woman with whom 
 you have more than the most brief association, *Lo, I am 
 one who has sinned; I have been a mother but not a 
 wifely- 
 Myron gazed at him with horror- wide eyes. His were 
 implacable. 
 
 "Am I so dreadful?" she said. "Oh, must I proclaim 
 my shame aloud?" 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 293 
 
 in a 
 
 were 
 klaim 
 
 / 
 
 "You must," he said. "What! Would you deny your 
 child on earth and hope to meet him in Heaven?" 
 
 She let fall her face in her hands. There was silence 
 for a space, then she raised her head. 
 
 " Very well," she said, " I will do as you say." 
 
 She turned from his side, and made her way down the 
 church. A strange and new distinction of manner seemed 
 to have enveloped her — a dignity of absolute isolation. 
 She passed through the door, and for the last time Mrs. 
 Deans' eyes looked into hers. That steady gaze lasted 
 some seconds, and then Myron Holder went out into the 
 night. 
 
 But in that last meeting of eyes Myron Holder's were 
 not the ones that faltered. As Cain went forth with his 
 curse, did his eyes fall before any living face? He was 
 subject only to fear of his fate. Myron Holder feared only 
 the years she had to live. 
 
 That night, in her cottage, Myron Holder sat sewing, 
 fashioning a tiny bag out of one of My's misshapen 
 aprons. When completed, she put something carefully in 
 it and hung it round her neck, concealing it beneath her 
 gown. She folded up her few articles of clean clothing 
 and tied them up, with My's little tin mug, into a neat 
 parcel. She took a last look around the silent rooms, and 
 then went out, closing the door gently behind her, as if 
 heedful not to awaken one who slept. 
 
 All along the little path voices seemed to bear her com- 
 pany : the voices of her father, her grandmother. Homer's 
 strong, tender tones, and My's uncertain voice, and each 
 awoke a loving echo in her heart — yes, even the strident 
 voice of her grandmother. They each and all whispered 
 "Good-bye— Good-bye," save the little child's: that was 
 inarticulate, and babbled but of childish love and confi- 
 dence. 
 
294 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 She made her way along the road she liad trodden so 
 many times in anguish. She reached the gr-veyard, and 
 there held her last vigil by the side of My's grave. 
 
 The stars were yet in the sky — the mysterious stars of 
 morning skies — when she rose to her feet. She went to 
 each of the other graves that her heart held, and then 
 came back to this one, the newest and smallest of the 
 four. She looked down upon it with the pain of child- 
 birth in her eyes, then up to the "mindful stars." She 
 turned away with a prayer upon her lips — the same 
 in which was uttered her agony in the cottage ; the same 
 prayer that had faltered from her lips in the church — not 
 "Lord— Lord," but "My— My!" 
 
 So Myron Holder left Jamestown, and with her we leave 
 it also. There is much yet that might be told of the 
 place — of the strange death that befell Bing White; of the 
 marriage of Gamaliel Deans to Liz, the bound girl ; of the 
 penance of pain that was m^eted out to Mrs. Deans for the 
 evil she had wrought; of how Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were 
 turned out of their farm by those of their children who 
 liad so pitied them whilst Homer lived; of how, after all, 
 the old ragman found a fortune in rags, though not in 
 the way he had dreamed of; of how the new church wr.s 
 built, and of how the old Holder cottage still stands, a 
 ruin airiid its garden, peopled only by sparrows; of how a 
 new railway runs through the school playground, and 
 banishes the buttercups by its cinders to the other side of 
 the broken-down fence. There they run riot, having 
 spread even up to the doorstep of the old cottage, where 
 they cluster about the roots of the hopvines. 
 
 There have been many changes in Jamestown — great 
 factories disfigure the margin of the lake, defile the 
 streams with their refuse, and befoul the atmosphere with 
 
■i 
 
 THE UN TEMP EKED WIND agj 
 
 tlieir smoke. A long row of workmen's cottages, depress- 
 mgly alike in gable and window, has crowded the Black 
 Horse Inn out of existence. Its old bricks pave the paths 
 over which the mill-hands go to work; the last vestige of 
 its violets has vanished. 
 
 The hearts of the Jamestown women, however, have 
 not changed. The game merciless virtue that hounded 
 Myron Holder pursues the poor factory girl who falters on 
 her way. The same pointing fingers sting her soul. The 
 same condemnation, the same cruelty, the same scorn, 
 greet her as were meted out to Myron Holder. 
 
 In the olden days it was the vestal virgins, charged 
 with keeping alight the fires that burned upon the altars 
 sacred to home, that doomed the fallen gladiator to death; 
 their inflexible gesture negatived the pleading of the 
 upraised hand. There is no single instance given where 
 they exercised the power of pardon vested in them. And 
 to-day the verdict upon the fallen comes from women also; 
 and is there any record of pardons? 
 
 But, women, think well before you utter a harsh 
 judgment! Your verdict is the more sacred by virtue of 
 being pronounced upon your own sex, for woman is more 
 nearly allied to woman than man to man. Each woman is 
 linked to her sister women by the indissoluble bond of com- 
 mon pain. "For men must work and women must weep" 
 may have its exceptions as to men who, by favoring for- 
 tune or a kindly fate, may escape their heritage of labor; 
 but did a woman ever elude her birthright of tears? 
 
 It rests with women whether the bitter cup these un- 
 happy ones drink be brimmed to the lip or not. 
 
 Ah, well! there are many Jam estowns, and many women 
 therein. " By their Avorks ye shall know them." 
 To the Jamestown women we have known through 
 
THE VMTE^4PERED WIND 
 
 their treatment of Myron Holder )?re say farewell gladly, 
 only asking them — 
 
 "HAVE YE DONE WELL? They moulder flesh and bone, 
 Who might have made this life's envenomed dream 
 A sweeter draught than ye shall ever taste, I deem. " 
 
 CIIAPTEU XXIIT. 
 
 "God gives him painful bread, and for all wine 
 D( th feed Iiim on sharp salt of simple tears, 
 And bitter fast of blood. " 
 
 " Come — pain ye shall have and ])e ))lind to the ending ! 
 Come — fear ye shall have 'mid the sky's overcasting ! 
 Come — change ye shall have, for far are ye wending ! 
 Come— no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting 1 " 
 
 Myron Holder, in the blue garb of a professional 
 nurse, stood one spring morning looking out of one of the 
 high windows in the great hospital where she worked. 
 Three years had passed since that daybreak when she 
 turned her back on Jamestown. With what trembling, 
 steps she had made her way to town, to the house of the 
 doctor who had attended old Mr. Carroll ! He had 
 suggested to her the vocation of professional nursing, 
 having observed her natural aptitude for it when she was 
 tending Mr. Carroll. He had given her his address, and 
 bade her come to him if she decided to adopt the course 
 he had indicated. She had done so, and, through his 
 recommendation, she had obtained admittance to this hos- 
 pital. Since then she had worked and studied hard, and 
 had gained her certificate as a trained nurse. 
 
 She had gone forth from Jamestown "lonely as a cloud,'' 
 and not without sorrow. The wild flower that grows by 
 
 ill 
 
ladly, 
 
 le, 
 
 fasting!" 
 
 ssional 
 ; of the 
 vorked. 
 len she 
 mbling, 
 e of the 
 e had ' 
 ursing, 
 she was 
 ss, and 
 course 
 ugh his 
 his hos- 
 ,rd, and 
 
 cloud,'* 
 rrowsby 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ' 
 
 THE UNTEMPKKED WIND 
 
 297 
 
 tho bleakest roadside wilts and droops for a time, at 
 least, when transplanted to even the most sheltered gar- 
 den. Tiie stunted cedar, clinging to a crevice in tho 
 granite, drawing its meagre juices hardly from the nig- 
 gard soil, yellows and dies when rciit by the resistless .viiid 
 from its rocky resting-place. Tho barrenness of tlie 
 mountain-side seems kinder to it than tho green meadows 
 to which it is hurled. 
 
 For some little time Myron was bewildered by the 
 strange .world which she had entered, but it did not 
 remain long strange; it soon developed familiar phases. 
 
 She bore forever the burden of tho hateful pledge the 
 Reverend Mr. Fletcher had wrung from her. In the old, 
 harsh days of Puritanical prudery and intolerance, the 
 Evil Woman bore upon her breast a flamy insignia of 
 shame — a beacon warning all not to trust their hopes or 
 fears or joys to that perfidious bosom which had been 
 false to its own womanhood, a something which could be 
 seen afar off, a mute, yet eloquent, cry: "Unclean — 
 Unclean!" 
 
 But the milder methods of modern Christianity were 
 far different. They fastened no physical sign of degra- 
 dation upon tho object of their righteous wrath; no 
 burning letter or brand. Hers was no torch of shame to 
 light the beholder to other paths than that which lay by 
 her side. 
 
 Hawthorne's stately Evil Woman bore an implacable 
 face above that fatal mark; strode upon her way with 
 "the stern step of vanquished will," defied by her mien 
 her accusers and her judges. Upon her countenance 
 was writ in all the varied hieroglyphics of tint and 
 expression, line and curve, the story of her passion and 
 her shame. 
 
 Kot 80 this humble village outcast. Her mien showed 
 
 •} 
 
 ill 
 
agS 
 
 THE UN TEMP EKED IIJXD 
 
 
 H 
 
 ratlier the tender sorrow of ii face created for tears — a 
 face wlioso lips held pain enough prisoned behind their 
 paleness to wail the woe of the whole world ; eyes which 
 liad looked at death unllinchiu'^ly througii the pangs of 
 the sublimest torture wonuinhood knows rather than 
 betray the coward who had forsaken her; eyes which had 
 looked at misery aiul pain, sult'eriiig and deatli, so often 
 that they seemed to have lost the power of rcllecting aught 
 else; eyes which held in their dcpilis nothing but the 
 resignation, despair, and the settled purpose of undeviating 
 will. Sometimes, when the child was alive, there had 
 shone in their depths varying shadows; then there were 
 moments when she allowed herself to^vishand hope and 
 fear. I^ut that was past, just as was her mad rebellion 
 against his death. 
 
 Such was Myron Holder — meek, quiet, hopeless; bear- 
 ing the burden ini posed upon her by convention's unsparing, 
 if righteous, hand. Men, looking at her, instinctively felt 
 their own vileness; and women saw in her a refuge from 
 their own weakness and sins until they knew of hers; 
 then, rejoicing that they yet had power to wound some- 
 thing, crucified her afresh. Many a time her heart bled 
 from tings implanted by lips she had moistened night 
 after night. Many a time her face flushed before the 
 scorn expressed in eyes that would have been forever 
 darkened but for her untiring skill and patience. 
 
 Truly, to lay npon this woman the task of avowing lier 
 guilt to each human being who should ever look upon her 
 with kindly tolerance wjis a measure that the old Puritans 
 would not have adopted. The stake had not receded quite 
 so far into the dim perspective of the past as it has now; 
 and if they had deemed her worthy of the supremest tor- 
 iure, they would probably have chosen the more merciful 
 flames. 
 
THE UNTEMrERED WIXD 
 
 899 
 
 )\\ her 
 •itans 
 quite 
 now ; 
 It tor- 
 Ire if nl 
 
 ^^yro»l itidciHl stood within tlic sluuhjw of tlic 'TOHd. 
 l»iit it must be rernemhcrcd tljjit whilst the cross has licen 
 tlie emblem of miK^h mercy, it was also the symbol beneath 
 whicli the Intjiiisition sat in council. It must be eon- 
 ceded that the Church is not very lenient with women. 
 We remember its attitude when chloroform was intniducejl. 
 
 The mercy tliat the llevercnd Mr. Fletr^ »• had prof- 
 fered Myron Holder was much like the salt tiuit Eastern 
 torturers rub into the wounds of their victims. 
 
 There was little to be seen from the high window where 
 Myron stood — the topmost branches of a horse-(;hestnut 
 tree just leafing out; a wide arch of gray-blue sky; and, 
 far off, a confused mass of chimneys, where tlie city lay 
 beneath its veil of smoke. 
 
 But Myron was not thinking of the busy city, of the 
 tapping chestnut boughs, nor even of the overspan of 
 pellucid sky. Slie was thinking of a cruel, sordid, bab- 
 bling little village and of the silent, unkempt field wherein 
 its dead lay. ller musings were interrputed by the ring- 
 ing of a bell. She turned and hastened from the room — 
 blue-clad, white-capped, capable — to find a new patient 
 had arrived in her ward; a new patient, with thin, broad, 
 stooped shoulders, overhanging pent-house brow, sad and 
 secret, above sunken gray eyes that shone with unalterable 
 love for mankind ; a patient who, when he saw her coming, 
 held out his hands and whispered "Myron — Myron!" 
 and gave her such a look as banished all the bitterness of 
 her barren belief and again bestowed the blessed benedic- 
 tion of peace. 
 
 Thus Philip Hardman and Myron Holder met again. 
 
 Philip Hardman was no longer a recognized minister of 
 the Church. His doubts had grown too strong for his 
 belief, or his beliefs had grown greater than his creed; and 
 he had gone forth from the church to become an itinerant 
 
■■■ »H,- 
 
 300 
 
 THE UN TEMPERED WIND 
 
 preucJier, like the iiuin Christ Jesus, lie was miserably 
 uncertain and unsettled. 
 
 Little bands of devotees gathered about him in every 
 town he visited. They were those who were mentally 
 maimed, or halt, or blind; those whose aspirations 
 exceeded their capabilities; those in whose hearts a ncvcr- 
 healing sore throbbed in unison with the suffering of man- 
 kind; those who were, like Philip Ilardman, striving to 
 flee from the wrath to come and found themselves bewil- 
 dered amid the crossways. His followers were, in all 
 places, strangely alike. They gathered to him gradually, 
 and when he left they scattered. There was no unity of 
 purpose among them, no common determination toward 
 one end, to bind them together. 
 
 The Western worlds are not ready yet for those creed- 
 less, formless. Eastern dortrines of Universal Love. Poor 
 Philip Ilardman, in an Oriental world, would have made 
 an excellent devotee, to dream away his years in s])iritual 
 abstraction with the best of them ; nay, he might even have 
 found courage to release his soul by fire from its earthly 
 charnel like the old East Indians; but he made a poor 
 minister; he was a good enough 2)rcachei\ eloquent 
 enough, and earnest enough, pitiful towards others, mer- 
 ciless to himself; but, constantly bewildered by the indefi- 
 niteness of his own aspirations, he could not minister any 
 healing balm to the sorrows he deplored. 
 
 He never felt awkward nor constrained with his follow- 
 ers, only desperately unhappy. They looked to him for a 
 messtige, and he had none to give them ; he raised hopes in 
 their breasts which he could not justify; held out a cup 
 which proved empty when thirsty lips drew near. 
 
 When he left a town he was haunted for days by the 
 yearning eyes ho had left unlit by hope; yet he could not 
 bring himself to desert the cross utterly, for 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 301 
 
 w tbo 
 id not 
 
 " Ever on the fafnt and flagging air 
 , A doleful spirit with a dreary note 
 
 Cried in his fearful ear, 'Prepare — Prepare ! ' " 
 
 So he had stumbled on, the strong in him strong only 
 to discern the needs, the wants, the sadness and cruelty 
 of the world, not strong enough to evolve a creed of Truth 
 to alleviate its misery; the weak in him only weak enough 
 to make him shrink from givijig up utterly the old dogmas 
 that hampered his hands, not weak enough to permit him 
 to steep himself in scriptural ease and spend all his time 
 striving to save his own miserable soul. 
 
 Hardman had come to the charity ward of the hospital to 
 be treated for that common and troublesome disease famil- 
 iarly known as " preacher's sore throat." It was a very nat- 
 ural result of speaking night after night in all sorts of 
 weathers in the open air. I le had persisted in his preaching, 
 however, until his voice had become attenuated almost to a 
 whisper; then suddenly realizing the gravity of his case, he 
 had lied to thr hospital in a panic. Myron's post was in 
 the charity ward, by far the most arduous department in 
 the hospital. Thus Hardman came directly under her care. 
 
 Relieved from the nervous excitement of his occupation, 
 Hardman 's fictitious strength suddenly collapsed, and, 
 having squandered his resources recklessly, he was now 
 left with very little stamina to fall back upon. But 
 Myron tended him night and day, throwing into her 
 efforts all the determination of her strong nature; and, 
 little by little, she conquered. Philip Hardman himself 
 had been as passive during the struggle as a bone for which 
 two dogs fight; but after the fever left him he began to 
 realize how nearly his doubts and surmises had been all 
 solved, and looking at Myron's weary face read in a 
 moment all the meaning of its weariness. From that time 
 Jj^r c^re wag seconded by his eager desire for health. 
 
 '' ' 
 
 
IS; 
 
 m\ 
 
 Ml 
 
 til 
 
 111 I I 
 
 
 lii ! 
 
 202 
 
 T//£ UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 Then there fell upon those two that strange enchant- 
 ment which entered the world when the first bird sang its 
 first love song, which will endure till " the last bird fiy 
 into the last night." 
 
 " What time the mighty moon was gathering light, 
 
 Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise. " ' 
 
 What strange paths he has trodden since then! What 
 devious ways he has threaded ! What strait gates he 
 has entered! Upon how many sandy shores he has left 
 his immortal footprints! For all the oceans of human 
 life, all its flood tides of hope, ftU i't' ebb tides of despair, 
 cannot efface them. Let I-ove once set his signet seal upon 
 a brow, and all the gilding of glory, all the blackness of 
 shame, the rose wreath nor the crown of thorns — nay, even 
 Death itself — cannot blot it out. 
 
 Life — Love — Death — the true Trinity, teaching all 
 things, could we but decipher them. Of Life we know 
 the ending; of Death, the beginning; of Love, nothing* 
 It springs without sowing, and bears many harvests. To 
 these two lonely souls it brought a gift of " unhoped, great 
 delight." 
 
 "Love, that all things doth redress, ■ .Lted out for a 
 space the toil and moil of their lives. T^ ardman told 
 Myron how he had loved her ever since he saw her ; told 
 her how her name had been mentioned in every prayer hie 
 lips had uttered since he left Jamestown ; told her how ho 
 had written to her, and of how the letter had been, aftev 
 many days, returned to him from the Dead Letter Office, 
 Myron smiled a little at that; she understood so well the 
 pang it must have cost Mrs. Warner to return it. Indeed, 
 Mrs. Warner (who was postmaster in Jamestown) had 
 Duffered real tortures of curiosity and kept the letter twice 
 the regulation time before she sent it to the Dead Letter 
 
THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 303 
 
 hant- 
 ng its 
 rdfly 
 
 What 
 ;e8 he 
 as left 
 liuman 
 espair, 
 il upon 
 nesB of 
 ,y, even 
 
 ing all 
 e know 
 lothing* 
 ts. To 
 d, great 
 • 
 at for a 
 lan told 
 ler; told 
 :ayer hie 
 • how ho 
 en, aftev 
 jr Office, 
 well the 
 Indeed, 
 wn) had 
 ter twice 
 id Letter 
 
 Office. But "The Government" was a vague and awful 
 power in Mrs. Warner's eyes, and, as she expressed it to 
 her husband, " You never know what it knows, and what 
 it don't." 
 
 Philip did not tell Myron about his doubts, nor that he 
 had voluntarily forfeited his standing in the orthodox 
 church. And she did not tell him of the promise that the 
 Reverend Mr. Fletcher had exacted from her. Perhaps it 
 was this mutual reticence that wrecked them. But for a 
 short space they were indeed happy. 
 
 But as Philip grew stronger the inevitable problem of 
 the future presented itself. 
 
 Philip asked Myron one day if she had attended the 
 rest of the meetings after he left Jamestown. 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " I am a Christian." 
 
 That calm statement of hers seemed to impose an 
 impassable barrier between them. She had attained the 
 peace he had lost. She held fast the hope that he was all 
 but relinquishing. She was strong in the faith in which 
 he was so weak. 
 
 Sho told him of her first struggle in the hospital; of the 
 difficulty she had had in mastering the " book learning" of 
 her profession ; of the weariness she endured and the hope- 
 lessness she had overcome; and, listening, he thought his 
 heart would break. How could he take from her the Faith 
 that had made this possible? How deprive her of the 
 inspiration that kept her worthy? Poor Philip Hardman 
 thought he had alienated himself from his church utterly; 
 but he had in no wise cast off its bonds; he still clung to 
 the enervating doctrine of dependence upon supernatural 
 help, and could not realize that in Myron's womanhood 
 alone lay the strength, the purity of purpose, and the 
 endurance that had brought her thus far upon her way. 
 
 Sometimes he wondered if it were possible that he could 
 
304 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 ^ 
 
 ti I! 
 
 pass the cup from lip to lip, and the morsel from mouth 
 to mouth, ami yet be himself athirst and hungry. Now 
 and then the thought came to him that lie was but suffer- 
 ing from some spiritual sickness tiiat would pass from him 
 like a physical disease, and leave him weak, perhaps, but 
 safe in his old beliefs. When he thought of this, he pic- 
 tured himself in his old position as minister and wondered 
 if to marry Myron would conserve the interests of his 
 Faith. This was the one unworthy thought of which 
 he was guilty. The man was weak, but this was shame- 
 ful. 
 
 It seems incredible to us that this man, having, as he 
 knew, this woman's hapinness in the hollow of his hand, 
 loving her as he undoubtedly did, should have hesitated. 
 Had he fully understood the conditions of her life, it is 
 impossible to believe he would have done so; but so few 
 of us know each other "face to face." 
 
 And Philip Hardman was very humble in his estimate 
 of himself. He did not allow himself to thi:nV that his 
 life would compensate to Myron Holder for the spiritual 
 benefits she might lose by marrying him. Indeed, this 
 poor, tossed soul sometimes recalled with a shudder that 
 mysterious Sin for which there is no forgiveness, and won- 
 dered if he had been guilty of it; then he trembled when 
 Myron Holder approached lest she be contaminated. 
 
 It seems this poor man was incapable of understanding 
 the true beauty of Love. So that now he would wonder 
 if Myron Holder as his wife would stultify his efforts for 
 the Faith, and presently tremble lest he drag her down to 
 the perdition he feared. At this juncture he deliberately 
 shifted the burden from his own shoulders to those of 
 Myron Holder. He asked her to decide, expressing his 
 pwn love for her and saying tenderly : 
 
 "And you, Myron, you love me?" 
 
THE V^TEMPERED WWD 
 
 305 
 
 mouth 
 Now 
 siiffer- 
 n liim 
 )s, but 
 ;e pic- 
 iidered 
 of his 
 which 
 shame- 
 
 , [IS he 
 ; hand, 
 litatcd. 
 e, it is 
 so few 
 
 itiniate 
 iiat his 
 liritual 
 [1, this 
 |r that 
 won- 
 wheii 
 
 Inding 
 louder 
 ks for 
 to 
 :ately 
 Ise of 
 his 
 
 She only looked her answer, but the eloquence of her 
 look seemed to argue and decide the whole case. 
 
 . This conversation occurred in the morning. In the 
 evening, just as dusk fell, Myron came to the ward and sat 
 by him for a little space. Now that the burden was 
 shifted off his own shoulders Philip felt calm and happy. 
 
 He lay long, and gazed upon her as she sat beside him, 
 gathered the tender strength of her face, the swet t woman- 
 liness of her form, the resolution and patience that made 
 bright her brow, and noted all the beauty of her eyes. He 
 pictured their future life together; he thought of her 
 sitting by him in the twilight; of her bidding him good- 
 bye in the morning; of her welcoming him at night; he 
 thought of her looking up at him in the pauses of some 
 household task; he imagined her eyes as they would turn 
 to him for guidance; he dreamed of their comfort when 
 he looked to them for love. He thought of all these 
 things, and then abased himself before the vision of a holy, 
 patient face, — the face of the mother of his child. 
 
 'Mid these thoughts speech does not find ready way. 
 They were together silent, hand in hand. 
 
 The time came for Myron to go. It was almost dark in 
 the ward, and an angled screen hid them from view. 
 
 " Myron," whispered Philip, and looked at her pleadingly. 
 
 She looked at him — her head sank near his — he kissed 
 her — her lips were trembling. He passed an arm about 
 her shoulder and gave her a tender, reassuring pressure. 
 
 "I will know in the morning?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, and turned to leave him. She 
 hesitated at the foot of the bed and then turned toward 
 him again. "Good-night," she said. "Good-night, 
 Philip." 
 
 Then she turned and went swiftly from the ward, pass- 
 ing the night nurse at the door. 
 
 1 
 
l-i 
 
 t 
 
 506 
 
 THE UNTEAfPERED WIND 
 
 I 
 
 I m 
 
 Hardman felt a moisture on his hand, the hand she ha^ 
 held as she said " Good-night." 
 
 " She was crying, bless her, and I never knew it," he 
 thought. 
 
 He soon slept. It would seem that he was content so 
 long as Myron made the decision and thus relieved him 
 from the responsibility and consequences of doing so. 
 Well, we cannot tell. " The heart knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness," and it is not for us to judge Hardman. But whilst 
 withholding judgment upon him we need not spare to pity 
 Myron, who, prone upon the narrow couch in the bare 
 dormitory, was face to face with her own soul. 
 
 Whilst Hardman slept, having cast off his burden, 
 she was tasting the bitterness of death. Myron Holder's 
 agony would have indeed bewildered him could he have 
 witnessed it. It was in such strong contrast to the peace 
 of that perfect hour just past. He could not have realized 
 the battle Myron had done with herself, her tears, her 
 fears, whilst she sat by him; and he comforted himself 
 with visions of an illusive future. Alas! Poor Myron — 
 poor Hardman ! Not for them was " The House of Fulfill- 
 ment of Craving," not for them the "Cup with the roses 
 around it." 
 
 We cannot trace step by step the progress of the 
 struggle. 
 
 "A sign— a signl" she cried in her pain. "Oh, what 
 shall I do?" 
 
 It was at midnight when the sign was given her and 
 the path pointed out. The clock in her room had just 
 struck twelve when the electric bell at her bedside rang, 
 summoning her downstairs. She rose hastily, and quickly 
 dashing a little cold water in her face, assumed her cap 
 and hurried out. She found the entire staff of nurses 
 assembling. They were gathering about the medical 
 
slie had 
 
 ' it," he 
 
 ntent so 
 ived him 
 niig so. 
 n bitter- 
 it whilst 
 e to pity 
 the bare 
 
 burden, 
 
 Holder's 
 
 he have 
 
 ;he peace 
 
 realized 
 
 ;ars, her 
 
 himself 
 yiyron — 
 
 Fulfill- 
 he roses 
 
 of the 
 
 |h, what 
 
 ler and 
 
 [ad just 
 
 |e rang, 
 
 jqaickly 
 
 ler cap 
 
 nurses 
 
 ledical 
 
 r/i£ UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 iOf 
 
 officer in charge of the hospital. He held a telegram in 
 his hand. When they had all come, he read it aloud. 
 It was brief. An urgent appeal from a quarantine station 
 asking for volunteer nurses for cholera patients. The 
 doctor read it and waited. The little crowd of women 
 before him murmured confusedly. Some faces reddened, 
 some paled. The doctor read the telegram again, and 
 said quietly: 
 
 " The need is urgent, but I advise no one. If, how- 
 ever, any of you will go, she must be ready in an hour. 
 The express leaves then." 
 
 He paused. There was no answer. His face paled a 
 little. He had been very proud of his intrepid nurses, 
 this doctor, and somehow, in this time of triU, they 
 seemed about to be found wanting. 
 
 "As soon as each one makes up her mind," he said, 
 "she will return to her duties or acquaint me with her 
 determination to go." 
 
 The group before him parted as if by a single impulse, 
 each seeking to escape unseen to her place. Only one 
 came forward quietly, and said steadily : 
 
 " I will go, sir, if you will let me." 
 
 The departing ones stayed their steps and listened. 
 
 " It is Nurse Myron," they said to each other. 
 
 "Yes," said the doctor, catching one of these remarks, 
 "it is Nurse Myron, of whom you have made a pariah. 
 Go back to your duties, please." His voice, usually so 
 gentle, was stern and peremptory. They went. 
 
 An hour later, Myron Holder left the hospital. As she 
 camedoivn from the dormitory, clad in the blue serge gown 
 with its cape and close-fitting hat, she went into the 
 charity ward. Quietly she stole along its length until she 
 came to the bed in the corner. A straight shaft of moon- 
 
30^ 
 
 TfTK VA'TfJrr£fiED U'lA'D 
 
 light fell upon the pillow. It made visible all tho 
 strength and beauty of Ilardman's brow and showed all 
 the sweetness of his mouth, all the kindly expression of 
 his face. His brow was placid; his lips smiled. To the 
 woman's eyes there was nothing weak, nothing cowardly, 
 in the man before her. He was her saint among men. 
 
 "He will know in the morning," she said. The doctor 
 beckoned from the door. She murmured again, " He will 
 know in the morning," and so bade him an eternal fare- 
 well. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Next morning Philip Hardmau learned from the doc- 
 tor of Myron's act. 
 
 " The nurses say you are a minister, and that she loved 
 you," said the doctor. " If praying is your trado, pray for 
 her, man; she has need of it." Then he passed on. Ho 
 was a little bitter and stern, the good doctor, that 
 morning. 
 
 There comes a time to some of us, 
 
 " When happy dreams havo just gone by 
 And left us without remedy 
 Within the unpitying hands of life. " 
 
 Those of us who have lived through such an hour can 
 understand what had come to Philip Hardman. He saw 
 now clearly what he ought to have done, but it was too 
 late. He tried to comfort himself with the hope that she 
 would come back, and then^ he told himelf, no power in 
 earth or heaven should come between them. 
 
 How vain this hope was the event proved ; but it was 
 well he had it at the moment, else his self-reproach would 
 have been too poignant. As it was, his fever returned and 
 it was many days before he heard his last tidings of Myron 
 
Hoved 
 ray for 
 L lie 
 thut 
 
 |r can 
 |e saw 
 
 is too 
 it she 
 rer in 
 
 It was 
 f^ould 
 and 
 lyron 
 
 "he will know in the morning." 
 
Tf/E Uf/TE^fPEKED trLVD ^^g 
 
 Holder He was told, and lived. That is all we need say 
 or care to hear of Philip Ifardrnan. 
 
 "I^tjrplext in faith, hut pure in deeds, 
 At last he beat his music out. " 
 
 OIIAPTEK XXIV. 
 
 " Death conies to set thee free, 
 Oh, meet him cheerily 
 
 As thy true friend ; 
 Tlien all thy cares shall cease 
 And in eternal neace 
 
 Tliy penance end. " 
 
 "Even the weariest river 
 Winds somewhere safe to the sea. " 
 
 The arrival of the new nurse had been announced to the 
 doctor in charge of the quarantine station. He waited 
 for her coming in his office. She entered the room 
 paused for a moment on the threshold, and then came 
 forward. The light, to which his back was turned, fell 
 full upon her face,-a face devoid of bitterness as it was 
 of joy Her form, clad in the regulation nurse's garb of 
 blue, showed in strong relief against the unpainted pine 
 walls of the great doctor's office-a somewhat broad, low 
 figure, not slight, nor lissome, Imt most eloquently 
 womanly. Her lips parted in a question which he did not 
 
 Time had gone back with him. He stood upon a jut- 
 ting ledge of rock, which from the ridge hung out into 
 the blue. He was alone, and waiting-waiting with every 
 faculty of his will strained to the utmost; looking through 
 
?IV 
 
 310 
 
 THE UXTEMPERED WIND 
 
 
 a parting in the loaves between tlie trec-trnnl\S, Tie wjiteliecl 
 for a girl's figure. Far away there was a gliiinner of 
 water; somewhere a village band was praetisiiig, but dis- 
 tance deadened all sound from it save the throb of the 
 heavy drum which pulsed through the air and seemed to 
 add motion to the heavy, odorous vai)or of the summer 
 night and send it eddying np in perfumed waves about 
 the craggy jdatform. Then he saw one coming, flushed, 
 and "foot gilt with all the blossom dust" of wild venollia, 
 ileabane and spent moondaisies. And then he held once 
 more a trembling maiden form within his clasp. Again 
 from out the hollow of his arm there looked up at him two 
 eyes of clearest, purest glance. Again he dwelt upon the 
 smooth forehead with its faint upraised brows. Again he 
 Ivissed the white throat bent outward like a singing bird's, 
 as her head rested against 1 and her eyes met his. 
 Again he saw those eyes grow ymxi and moist. Again he 
 felt the encircled form tremble. Again he stilled the 
 appealing lips with a kiss. Again he vowed eternal faith. 
 Again he heard her say — 
 
 " Will you be good enough to tell me my duties?" the 
 new nurse was saying, in low, strained tones, in a voice 
 without modulation and suggestive of reiteration. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked, with unstrung joints. 
 
 " I am Myron Holder," she said, and looked at him. 
 
 Her lips did not quiver. Her cheeks did not flush. 
 Her eyes did not falter. All the majesty of a wronged 
 womanhood shone upon her brow. Her glance spoke of a 
 dignity far beyond the gift of man, above the world's 
 honor — a dignity bought at a terrible price and sealed with 
 a terrible seal of loneliness and separation. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, and leaned upon the table at his side, 
 mentally acknowledging the strength of her presence. " I 
 am Henry Willis," he said. " Did you knov/ me?" 
 
THE UNTEMrERKD ll'/XD 
 
 311 
 
 "I 
 
 "I recognized you when I came into the room," alio 
 answered, in u monotonous tone. 
 
 There was a pause, ller eyes rested upon him unwav- 
 eringly, and sent from tlieir deptlis intolerable meanings 
 of contempt and righteous indignation and hopeless 
 reproach. 
 
 He came a step nearer. 
 
 " Let mo—" he began. She stepped back— her nostrils 
 dilated. ' 
 
 " Would you be good enough to tell me my duties?" she 
 said. 
 
 " Tell me how you came here. " 
 
 "I am Nurse Myron," she said, and uttered no further 
 
 word. 
 
 He waited in a silence she did not break. 
 
 " If you will come with me," he said at length. *' 
 
 She signified her acquiescence and followed him. 
 
 Days passed— long days and nights which seemed to 
 outlast eternity in their dreary passage. Day by day the 
 nurses and physicians did battle with the foul pestilential 
 scourge they were striving to stifle. The great ')r. Willis, 
 the eminent bacteriologist, peered and pried incessantly 
 over his gelatin films, striving to win the secret of infec- 
 tion and its origin from the minute particles of matter he 
 held prisoned there. But yet more earnestly did he 
 strive to learn the secret of one strong, brave soul, but 
 in vain. 
 
 The quality Dr. Willis most admired, respected and un- 
 derstood was Will, but here it reigned in such transcendent 
 strength that he stood appalled before it. From that 
 moment of retrospect and recognition he had awakened 
 with a galling sense of his own inferiority. Never before 
 had Henry Willis owned the domination of a living will. 
 J^ow the wid^ earth held no sweetness, all his achievements 
 
312 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 •f 
 
 It/' : 
 
 t- 
 
 m !i!i 
 
 no triumph for him, unless he could once more possess the 
 woman who had, so long ago, been wholly his. 
 
 They worked side by side. As the cases multiplied, and 
 two of the men nurses were stricken with the disease, 
 Henry Willis perforce threw aside his experiments and 
 flung himself into the fray. Day by day f,aw these two 
 drawn closer and closer together by the exigencies of their 
 peculiar and dreadful position. No more volunteers were 
 forthcoming. The force in the quarantine station was 
 weakening. The physician, albeit wiry and of an iron 
 physique, was pale and thin. 
 
 Myron Holder's strong frame and bravo heart were giving 
 way; only her will sustained each. Her eyes shone neither 
 steadily nor calmly now, but burned with desperate courage. 
 
 Dr. Willis came to her one day with a newspaper cou- 
 tnining reports of their work. The names of Dr. Henry 
 Willis and Nurse Myron were coupled with honorable and 
 enduring encomiums. She read it standing in the corridor 
 before his office door. As she read and gathered the 
 import of the words, a change overspread her face. Her 
 eyes, of late so hot and dr^, grew moist; her lips trem- 
 bled ; from brow to chin the color flushed her face, bring- 
 ing back to it all the charm of a crushed and subordinate 
 womanhood. She read the article over and looked him 
 full in the face. 
 
 "My name is here and yours," she said. Then, in a 
 voice which had burst from its shackles at last, and rang 
 out clear and high, " They should be read above the grave 
 of a nameless child. " 
 
 She paused a moment— long enough for the man before 
 her to gather the meaning of her words — long enough to 
 allow memory to whelm her own heart and break it at last, 
 and then she sank upon the floor, weeping and crying 
 J ioud for her dead child. 
 
sess the 
 
 ed, and 
 disease, 
 its and 
 3ge two 
 3f their 
 rs were 
 on was 
 m iron 
 
 giving 
 neither 
 jurage. 
 )r con- 
 Henry 
 )]e and 
 orridor 
 3d the 
 . Her 
 trem- 
 bring- 
 'dinate 
 id him 
 
 , in a 
 1 rang 
 i grave 
 
 before 
 igh to 
 .t last, 
 crying 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 3,3 
 
 When Henry AVillis carried her to the office, the first 
 paroxysmal symptoms of cholera had set in. 
 
 AD hope was over. Nurse Myron was dying. Every 
 remedy despairing skill could suggest had been resorted to, 
 but m vain. Transfusion of blood had brought not even 
 an evanescent strength. The disease had culminated, and 
 death was simply a question of minutes— an hour at most. 
 Her face liad become olive in tint, and shone up with 
 Murillo-like beauty of tint and form from the pillow. 
 Beside her, in all the abandon of shattered hope, knelt 
 Henry Willis. But to all his pleading Myron Holder was 
 deaf, until, by the inspiration of despair, he cried aloud: 
 " For his sake, to give him a name!" 
 Then she consented. In the presence of the remnant of 
 nurses left, blessed by the devoted minister who also lived 
 among these dangers, Myron Holder and Henry Willis 
 took each oth3r for man and wife. 
 
 They were alone. He held her hand, awed by the 
 supernal brightness of her eyes. 
 
 " You will write his name above his grave?" she said 
 "His real name— Henry Willis? Do you know what I 
 called hirn? My— little My." 
 
 "Live," he murmured. "Live to let me atone—to be 
 happy— to be adored. Live— you can if you will." 
 
 "Could I?" she said. "Life holds nothing for me- 
 D^ath him, or f orgetf ulness. " ' 
 
 Her eyes began to film. He bent over her distractedly, 
 calling her tender names, pleading for a look— a sign. 
 
 "Speak to me— forgive me," he cried. "Myron- 
 Myron!" ^ 
 
 "I forgive you," she said, looking at him once again 
 with calm and steadfast eye of divine forgetfulness. She 
 ^^k into a stupor, through wbich she murmurTjd " My— 
 
314 
 
 THE UNTEMPERED WIND 
 
 little My" — tenderly, as to a sleeping child. Then sud- 
 denly her eyes opened, u flood of ineffable brightness illu- 
 mined her face, she stretched forth her arms and uttered a 
 name in a cry of joyous hope, and sank back. The world 
 was over for her. There but remained the involuntary 
 efforts of life against annihilation, efforts which, happily, 
 were few and brief. Twenty minutes after she became a 
 wife, Myron Willis had passed — 
 
 "'And surely,' all folk said, 
 'None ever saw such joy on visage dead. ' " 
 
 They buried her, as the law required, with the rest of 
 those who died of the pest. Upon her breast they found 
 an ill-made little bag of checked blue and white cotton. 
 AVithin it was a flossy skein of child's hair tangled by many, 
 tears and. kisses. They brought it to Dr. Willis, and he 
 replaced it upon the dead breast with whose secret sobs 
 and sighs it had risen and fallen for so long. 
 
 The newspapers gave a pathetic account of the " Ro- 
 mance in a Quarantine Station," and told how the famous 
 Dr. Willis, meeting his " girl love" in the hospital, had 
 married her on her deathbed. The tale cast quite a 
 romantic lustre over the doctor's somewhat prosaic career 
 of medical achievement. 
 
 There was no word said, however, of their first meeting 
 and parting, nor of a little grave that to this day is 
 unmarked save for a tiny tablet whereon is carven one syl- 
 lable—MY. 
 
 a 
 
 IS 
 
 T^E PNP, 
 
 / ** 
 
sud- 
 iUu- 
 rcd a 
 vorld 
 iitary 
 
 ime a 
 
 rest of 
 found 
 10 1 ton. 
 ' many 
 md he 
 3t sobs 
 
 . "Ro- 
 
 fanious 
 al, had 
 quite a 
 J career 
 
 meeting 
 
 day is 
 
 one syl- 
 
 COPYRIGHT AND MISCELLA- 
 
 I 
 
 NEOUS PUBLICATIONS ISSUED 
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 What One Woman Thinks. 
 
 Essays of Haryot Holt Cahoon. With frontispiece. 
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 " Mr. Alden is a born humorist, and his book ought to heighten the joy of the 
 nations."— A'l Y. Recorder. 
 
 "Stories like these of Mr. Alden's affect the mental appetite afler the manner of a 
 piquant gauce. . . . The ' ridiculous ' power of the whol? Ij5t p/ gtorija is wpjj- 
 dmnV'—Boftpn Ideas, 
 
 f 
 
Memoirs of Anne C. L. Botta. 
 
 Written by her friends. With selections f. -^'n her corres- 
 pondence and from her writings in prose anu poetry. 
 Edited by Professor Vincenzo Botta. A limited edition, 
 printed on Holland paper, with gilt top and untrimmed 
 edges. Engraved portrait of Mrs. Botta. Cloth, 8vo, 
 475 pages, $3.50. 
 
 " An extraordinary tribnte and one that could not have been called forth by any 
 ordinary character. Mr. James Anthony Froude, Mr. Parke Godwin, Mrs. Julia 
 Ward Howe, Mr. E. C. Stedman, Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, Miss Kate Field. 
 Miss Kate Sanborn, Mr. John Bigelow, Miss Edith M. Thomas, Mr. Richard 
 Watson Gilder, Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, Mr. Moncure D.Conway, Mr. Justin 
 McCarthy, and many more, have contributed these memoirs," — The New Votk Sun. 
 
 " The volume recently edited by Professor Botta, in memory of his wife, . . . 
 will have an ennobling and uplifting effect upon all who read it, by reason of the 
 picture it presents of an ideally beautiful life. We commend this symposium to 
 the consideration of those ladies who are ambitious to emulate the fame of those 
 of their sex whose names have become historical as the creators of salons." 
 
 — The Home Journal. 
 
 " There is a touching charm about many of these memoirs ; they gl<nv with the 
 splendor of lofty and real attachment, and, they pulsate with generous and respon- 
 sive life as do hearts. . . . For nearly two generations Mrs. Botta was a con- 
 spicuous force and figure in the social and intellectual life of this city. When she 
 died Julia Ward Howe remarked, 'AH her friends remain her debtors.' . . . 
 Andrew D. White quotes Horace Greeley, who said : 'Anne Lynch is the best 
 woman that God ever made.' . . . Froude declares that while he lives he cau 
 never cease to remember her. . . . Charles A. Peabody will remember her ' as 
 a benefactor so long as memory shall continue to serve me.' " — New York Times. 
 
 "The volume of memoirs which her husband has edited is a lasting and impres- 
 sive monument to her n^emory, builded by many hands and adorned with the affec- 
 tionate and loving utterances of scores of distinguished persons who regret her 
 loss. • . . The m'jmoirs are most handsomely printed on heavy rough-edged 
 paper, and are embellished with a portrait of Mrs. Botta in ' the flower of her old 
 age.' " — New York Mail and Express. 
 
 " Mrs. Botta was a woman of acute intellectual insight and a most charming char- 
 acter. Her presence acted as a powerful stimulus in developing the social talents 
 of others, and her 'evenings' were a recojjnized institution in New York, where 
 the best writers, poets, and artists of the time attended these popular receptions. 
 It was at one of these that Poe gave the first reading of the '^ Raven.' Emerson, 
 Bryant, Irving, Bancroft, Bayard Taylor, Dr. Bellows, the Carey sisters, Horace 
 Greeley, H. W. Beecher, Edwin Booth, Froude, Proctor, Charles Kingsley, 
 Matthew Arnold, Lord Houghton, and other prominent people attended Mrs. 
 Botta's receptions, and happy recollections of these social gatherings animate the 
 portion of this memorial contributed by her friends. ... A portrait of Mrs. 
 Botta taken late in life explains what Edmund Clarence Stedman said of her: 
 ' Her grace, her personal charm, her gift of perpetual youth, were those of an ideal 
 womanhood.' It is a stimulating hook."— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 
 " This book, commemorating a good, wise, and lovable woman, is hardly a biog- 
 raphy, though the course of a beneficent life may be traced in its pages. , . . 
 It IS an enviable testimony to the beauty of Mrs. Botta's character and the worth of 
 her brains that these chapters set forth. . . . What she seemed to one among 
 themany foreigners of distinction, who have tested her hospitality in later years, 
 IS set forth in this passage from a letter written by Mr. Froude : ' I have kno-.vn 
 many interesting women in my life, but about her there was a peculiar grace which 
 I have never seen in any other person. She had brilliant gifts, yet she never 
 seemed to know that she had any gifts at all. 
 
 ,' J-i^** •"^'■o^"'^^ '"to Mrs. Botta's salon forty-four years ago, either by Dr. Rufus 
 Wilmot Griswold or by Mr. Bayard Taylor. Mrs. Botta, who was then Miss Anne 
 Charlotte Lynch, was known to me before the date I have specified through her 
 PJ>€["s 'n Graham's Magazine and other periodicals. ... To meet this accom- 
 plished gentlewoman was a distinction, since in meeting her one met her friends, 
 ^leastofwhom was worth knowing. . . ," 
 
 —Richard Henrv Stoddard m The Jndependfift^f 
 
The Gist of Whist. 
 
 By Charles E. Coffin. Pocket i2mo, red edges, cloth, 
 75 cents; flexible leather, red edges, $i.oo. 
 
 " A valuable addition to whist literature, and must be greatly appreciated by all 
 loversof the intellectual game. . . The author has examined all the standard 
 authorities, and presented the gist of the whole subject in the least possible com- 
 pass, and in the most interesting and complete and comprehensive form." 
 
 — Evening Post, Burlington, Iowa. 
 
 " A clever and thoroughly practical manual."— /%t7arf^//Ata Ledger. 
 
 "A book to be bought, read, and cherished forever." — Providence Sunday /ournai. 
 
 " Presents the chief features of the game in a strong and simple way." 
 
 — Boston Advertiser, 
 
 " Simple and direct in statement. The laws and leads are made clear in condensed 
 and practical form."— Boston Times. 
 
 " ' The Gist of Whist ' meets a long-felt requirement. ... In its one hundred 
 pages are contained concise, readable, and comprehensive instructions of the 
 game, under such practical heads as Fundamental Principles, American Leads, 
 Conventional Plays, and Practical Precepts. . . . The whole is in just the shape 
 for informative reading or quick reference. The binding, too, is dainty indeed 
 and of itself sufficient to make one desire its possession."— ^oj/o« Ideas. 
 
 "A perfect hand manual of this king of card games ; contains the essence of all the 
 best guide books on the subject, including the improved method of American leads 
 and a complete glossary of the common and technical terms, to which is added 
 ' The Laws of Whist ' as revised at the Third American Whist Congress. 
 
 ' Know the leads and when to make them. 
 Know the tricks and when to take them. 
 Know the rules and when to break them, 
 Know the laws and ne'er forsake them.' 
 
 " Beginners and moderate players at whist need to have the information of the 
 game presented to them in an entertaining manner in order to awaken interest and 
 encourage them to proceed. 
 
 " I believe ' The Gist of Whist ' will possess this characteristic in a marked degree, 
 judging from the advance sheets wnich I have seen. It is bright in style, ana 
 presents the chief features of the game in a strong, simple way. 
 
 All maxims and tables of leads follow the latest and best authorities, so that the 
 work is entirely reliable ; and it is broad and comprehensive enough to graduate 
 good players."— Cassius M. Paine, Editor of IVhist. 
 
 Barrack-room Ballads and Other Verses. 
 
 By RuDYARD Kipling, author of " Mij:e Own People," 
 "Soldiers Three," etc. i2mo, cloth, $i.oo; paper, 50 
 cents. 
 
 " These poems are full of dramatic vigor, crisp, terse, witty, and entertaining. 
 Those entitled ' The Betrothed,' ' You May Choose Between Me and Your Cigar ' 
 remind one of Bret Harte or Thackeray, and are alone worth the price of the book." 
 
 The Woman of the Iron Bracelets. 
 
 By Frank Barrett, author of " Kitty's Father," "Olga's 
 Crime," etc. i2nio, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50c. 
 
 " In evenr way an excellent story. A well-balanced, charming work of fiction, 
 clean and brij;^at."—i70j/0» Times. 
 
Who is tlie Man? 
 
 By J. SELtviiJ Tait, authot 0/ " Uy Friend Pasquale," 
 "The Neapolitan Banker," etc. Illustrated. i2mo, cloth, 
 $1.25. 
 
 " The reader's interest is held spellbound from the beginning of the book to its 
 rlose, and the mystery of the volume deepens with every page until the final solu- 
 tion comes upon him with a shock of startled surprise. The bull fight on the plain 
 and subsequent duel are as thrilling as the chariot race in ' Ren Hnr ' anrf th» 
 interest is never allowed to flag." — Recorder, 
 
 " A Story which, from the opening pages to the last chapter, creates and holds the 
 reader's eager mterest."— /%i7arf<?/^Aia Inquirer. 
 
 " A well-sustained story of the concealment and discovery of the authorship of 
 crime. The action opens in Wyoming Territory but is continued and concluded 
 on the Scottish border. The plot is thoroughly natural, and the narrative is vig- 
 orous and engrossing."— 7%^ Congregationalist, 
 
 My Friend Pasquale. 
 
 By J. Selwin Tait, author of "Who is the Man?»* 
 "The Neapolitan Banker," etc. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " The most noteworthy of the stories in this volume is the first, bearing the plain 
 unpromismg superscription ' My Friend Pasquale.' A most remarkable, and we 
 might say a most brilliant, attempt to illustrate the wide range of the human in:- 
 agination. The little plot has been most naturally and unaffectedly laid and faith- 
 fully conducted to a rather eccentric close. . . . The story is absorbingly fas- 
 cinating and keeps one's attention actually spellbound from its beginning to its 
 close."— Public Opinion, as 
 
 The Lost Trader; 
 
 Or, THE Mystery of the "Lombards." By Henry 
 Frith. i2mo, cloth, illuminated cover. Four illustrations. 
 
 " It is wholesome and uplifting in its tone and chacnxcitr."— Boston Herald. 
 
 " A healthy and stirring romance of the sea."— Philadelphia Press. 
 
 "A splendid sea story of the days when steam had not yet destroyed the romance 
 ofthedeep."— ^00* Chat. 
 
 !' A capital story of marine adventures. Pirates, slave-traders, mutineers, desert 
 islands, shipwrecks, sea-fights, and hidden treasures are Mr. Frith's paraphernalia 
 and he makes full use of them all. The book will be a delight to boys." 
 
 —Charleston News and Courier, 
 " The author is a famous spinner of yams ; there is no flagging of interest 'from 
 cover to cover."— Philadelphia Record. 
 
 " Most picturesquely bound and well illustrated. One of the books the uprisinc 
 feneration will fully appreciate."— ^<>//M»/ifeM. 
 
The Bedouin GirL 
 
 By Mrs. S. J. HiGGiNSON, author of "A Princess of Java." 
 Illustrated with 5 original drawings by Steeple Davis. 
 i2mo, cloth, with appropriate design, $1.25. 
 
 " ' The Bedouin Girl ' s a striking story. Mrs. Higginson is one of the few white 
 women who have jourr, eyed with the Haj-Caravan on its holy pilgriniag:e, and she 
 has done other strang<! feats of traveling which are seldom indulged in by Amer- 
 ican women, though Et.glish women frequently attempt them. . . . The story 
 is decidedly original ana has local color not usual in Oriental tales written by out- 
 side barbarians. , . . The description of the Pilgrimage from Bagdad seems to 
 me capital and realistic. Not quite as gorgeous and lurid as that of the passing of 
 the caravans in ' The Prince of India,' but very life-like. 
 
 " The Bedouin girl is a beautiful little thing and clever, and is quite a new character 
 in the stories ofthese^w de Steele days. Her escapes are well told, and there is a 
 decided humorous touch about the woman Ayeba who curled herself into a ball 
 and rolled in the sand when her husband Metaah began to kick and beat her. 
 "Mrs. Higginson has written to entertain, and the unusual characters and scenes of 
 her story will accomplish that object. The book makes a new ripple upon the sea 
 of literature."— JBANNETTE Gilder in The Chicago Tribune. 
 
 Out of Reach. 
 
 By ESMfi Stuart. 1 2mo, cloth, illuminated cover. Four 
 illustrations. 
 
 " A perfectly beautiful story for older girls, by Esm6 Stuart, well remembered 
 through 'A Little Brown Girl' and ' Mimi.' . . . The book is prettily bound 
 and illustrated." — Baltimore American. 
 
 " A romantic tale which touches a bit the atmosphere of the weird, but which is in 
 itself not the least so, being brisk and vigorous throughout. . . . The idea of 
 the story is excellent and it is strongly handled. . . . Parts of it are very sweet, 
 all interesting, much cleverly placed. The diction is always clear and forceful and 
 the story, with all its romantic resources, developed amid a specially fruitful 
 atmosphere, is one that will be widely enjoyed."— ^oj/on Ideas. 
 
 " ' Out of Reach,' by Estnfi Stuart, is for a young girl what a novel by Mr. Grant 
 Allen might be for her mother. . . . The book is entertaining and rather unus- 
 ual in churactQT,"— Literary JVorld. 
 
 Black, White, and Gray. 
 
 By Amy Walton. With 4 illustrations. Illuminated 
 cover. i2mo, cloth. 
 
 A iitory of three homes. An excellent story for children. 
 
 " It is to be recommended heartily to all who want something innocent and pleas* 
 ing to add to the children's home library."— jSoj/om Beacon. 
 
 " An amusing tale of three kittens and their homes by Amy Walton. It is a sensi- 
 ble, jolly book for little boys and girls. ... It is not often that one comes 
 across such a natural, sensible story so pleasantly \.o\A."— Literary fVorld. 
 
 "It contains a wealth of sympathetic touches that will make each child who reads 
 it more reflective and thoughtful in her intercourse with other boys and girls." 
 
 —Boston Herald, 
 
At the Rising of the Moon. 
 
 By Frank Mathew. Illustrated by Fred. Pegram and 
 A. S. Boyd. i2mo, cloth, $1.25. 
 
 " ' At the Rising of the Moon ' is but a little volume, and its stories are brief and 
 not many, but the very heart of Ireland beats in them. One by one the various 
 national types appear ; it is a motley compjany, but every figure abounds in charac- 
 ter, and Mr. Mathew, whether by imitation or by grace of similar natural gift, 
 makes each one as effective as Mr. K-oling himself could make it." 
 
 — Boston Herald. 
 
 " They are as true to Irish life as the songs of Tom Moore sutg."— Literary World. 
 
 " In this series of stories and studies the biographer of Father Mathew has done 
 for Moher and its people very much what Mr. Barrie has done for Thrums in his 
 ' Idylls.' The writer brims over with Hibernian hilarity, and his book teems with 
 that apparently unconscious humor which is so racy of the soil." 
 
 — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " A volume of gracefully written and interesting sketches of Irish life. Mr. 
 Mathew has a delicacy of touch and a certain refinement that udd to the value of 
 his studies of Irish character." — World. 
 
 " Ireland has found her Kipling and that is no small good fortune for her. . . . 
 The very heart of Ireland beats in these stories. . . . There is a warm welcome 
 in store for a dozen such books if they be as good as ' At the Rising of the Moon.' " 
 
 — Boston Herald. 
 
 " An attractive collection of Irish stories and studies. The Rev. Peter Flannery 
 might have been one of Charles Lever's characters. ... All the tales are set m 
 that minor key to which all true Irish melodies are attuned."— 7%^ Churchman. 
 
 " The pages bear a ripple of genuine Hibernian feeling, both grave and gay ; and 
 the printing and illustrations are excellent."— /Mrf<?/^nrf««/. 
 
 "True lovers of Ireland who are homesick for the smell of the 'ould sod* will 
 find this book very much to their liking."— £vemng^ Telegraph, Philadelphia, 
 
 The Soul of the Bishop. 
 
 By John Strange Winter (Mrs. Arthur Stannard, 
 F.R.S.L.). Handsomely illustrated, with frontispiece of 
 author. Cloth, 310 pages, i2mo, $1.25. Paper, 50c. 
 
 An engrossing work which clergymen of all denominations— as well as laymen — 
 will do well to read and carefully ponder. 
 
 In her preface the author says: " I have tried to show how a really honest mind 
 may, and, alas, too oflen does, suffer mental and moral shipwreck over those rocks 
 which the Church allows to endanger the channel to a harbor never easy to navi- 
 gate at any time." 
 
 " Both theme and motive are timely, and are artistically developed." 
 
 — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 " The book is a noteworthy protest against the retention of outgrown dogmas in 
 the constitution of any churcl.."— Literary World. 
 
 " A book of unmistakable force. The situation is perfectly natural ; not an over> 
 strained note appears in it."— Philadelphia Ledger. 
 
Cheap Jack Zita. 
 
 By S. Baring-Gould, author of **MehaIati," "Juditii,'' 
 ''John Herring," etc. i2mo, cloth, finely illustrated, $1.25. 
 
 Paper, 50c. 
 
 Apart (fm his acknowledg[ed skill as a writer Mr. Gould is the highest living 
 authority on the wonderful fen-life in the Lincolnshire marshes, and the book is 
 as full of strong local color as " Lorna Doone," which it somewhat resembles. 
 
 The Dooms womaii. 
 
 By Gertrude Atherton, author of "Hermia Suydam," 
 " Los Cerritos," "A Question of Time," etc. i6mo, 
 cloth, ornamental, $1.00. Paper, 25c. 
 
 •'Full of incident, passion, color, and character."— TVi*? Critic. 
 
 •'A powerful dramatic representation of old California life." 
 
 — LippincotV s Magazine. 
 
 "Conspicuously superior to any novel that any Californian has done." 
 
 — Ambrosk Bikrce in San Francisco Examiner. 
 
 " ' The Doomswoman ' is an immensdy clever book, and there are pages in it that 
 deserve to live as being some of the ablest contributions to the literature of the 
 human emotions which the English litenUure contains."— /Virw Figaro. 
 
 " Mrs. Atherton has given to us a picture of the manners, social life, traditions, 
 feuds, and ambitions of a by-gone time and a virtually by-gone race. . . . 'The 
 Doomswoman ' is not only an interesting and vivid stoiy, but a book of permanent 
 histonical \i\\XK."— Boston Times. 
 
 " The characters in the book are very fine. The action is rapid and Interesting. 
 The descriptions are artistic, and all is clothed with a charming style. It is a de- 
 lightful book." — New Orleans Picayune. , 
 
 "It is in the realized fulness and complex emotions of life that Mrs. Atherton 's 
 strength lies. Chonita, ' The Doomswoman,' is a character whose completeness 
 cottla be surpassed by few authors. A breathing reality created by a master hand ; 
 and she is not less real because she is an uncommon, an original character. This 
 is high praise but it is not too high." — Vanity Fair, London. 
 
 " The novel is full of a vivid life and personality, of freshness and fascination, of 
 pictures which will not easily be forgotten. ... 4ir It is by far 
 
 the most picturesque and characteristic showing that has been made of that time 
 (the old Spanish days)." — Literary IVorld. 
 
 " Though Mrs. Atherton's descriptions of the land and of the estates, of the dwell- 
 ings and of the inhabitants, of their christenings and marriages with the joyous 
 accompaiuments of feast ana dance, are vivid and interesting, yet her novel has in 
 it an abundance of thought, a critical intellectuality, an acuteness in character 
 analysis that give it abundant worth even were it not placed in au attractive set- 
 ting of unusual scenery." — Public Opinion. 
 
 " Mrs. Atherton's realism can be praised because it is natural and not pretended. 
 Given the strange atmosphere in which her chaiacters move, they are men and 
 women with the virtues and failings of genuine people. Her descriptions of social 
 life in California are vivid, and they have the effect of dissipating some of those 
 ceremonious forms which were crystallized in much old-iashionea fiction respect- 
 ing the Spaniards in America."— .aW York Tribune, 
 
 " A novel of early Californian and Mexican days before the discovery of gold* 
 Told with force and vivid eS^cV— Baltimore Sun, 
 
 ^ . -y 
 
Cosmopolis, 
 
 By Paul Bourget. Authorized edition; handsomefy 
 illustrated by A Casarin, a pupil of Meissonier. Large 
 i2mo, cloth, gilt, $1.50. Paper {not illustrated), 50 cents. 
 
 " A work of extraordinary power and deep mieresiy— Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 " Bourget has Riven us a series of portraits which are elaborated and re- 
 fined. . . . ' Cosmopolis ' is an admirable piece of portraiture in all ways." 
 
 —New York Tribune. 
 
 The Curb of Honor. 
 
 By M. Betham-Edwards, author of " The Romance of 
 a French Parsonage." i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50c. 
 
 A romantic story of the Pyrenees, that peculiar French atmosphere with which 
 that talented author alone of English writers can endow a picture of French life. 
 
 " With many and effective descriptions of scenery in the Pyrenees this story of the 
 French and Spanish border line runs along very pleasantly." — The Independent, 
 
 " Grandly clear-cut is this story, harmoniously true and deeply strong. A gem cut 
 from Nature's very heart, rather than from her clothing."— ^oj/o« Ideas. 
 
 "This story is well told and is not commonplace." — Telegram. 
 
 "The author shows a man, yet one full of inspiration, genius, and wit; and his 
 great love for the waif of the storm, Eldred Eden, is exquisitely portrayed. ' The 
 Curb of Honor ' will add to the author's name and fame. — Boston Times. 
 
 ." Miss Betham-Edwards's new book contains some excellent descriptions of Py- 
 renean scenery and of life in one of the remote mountain valleys on the borderland 
 between France and Spain. Miss Betham-Edwards has made French Protestant 
 parsonages quite a specialty of her own, and turns them to very pleasant use." 
 
 — Athenceum. 
 
 " The pictures of French life and scenery are fine. They belong'to a',field in which 
 the author excels."— £>ai7y News, Denver. 
 
 Mrs. Clift-Crosby's Niece. 
 
 By Ella Childs Hurlbut. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 25c. 
 
 This is an exceedingly piquant society novel. It abounds in striking passages, 
 and its easy, unbroken style makes its reflection of fashionable life singularly faith- 
 ful and clear. It is rare, indci'd, that fashionable New York finds so gifted an 
 illustrator as Mrs. Hurlbut. 
 
 " It is a fascinating society novel of the^fw de siecle type. The story is really brill- 
 iant at times, with a finished, terse style that is singularly true, in detail, to the 
 fashionable life that it describes." — Boston Times. 
 
 " The book is a picture of New York life ; the story is well painted ; clearly, 
 smoothly, cleverly." — Boston Ideas. 
 
 " New York fashionable society is the subject in general and the career of Mrs. 
 Clift-Crosby's niece the theme in particular of the present issue. Skimming 
 lightly over the surface of life with an occasional peep into its depths, it depicts 
 various phases of ' swelldom,' including a love affair with a French count and all 
 the necessarv adjuncts. This story will doubtless interest the summer reader." 
 
 — Public opinion. 
 
 " Mrs. Hurlbut has given us an interesting picture of contemporary fashionable 
 New York Society and has told the story of^the crossed love of a wayward but 
 very attractive and very real girl. The conception and the style of the author are 
 genuinely artistic."— Xewiew 0/ Reviews. 
 
 *■ /" 
 
The Celebrated "Pseudonym" Library. 
 
 A daintily bound and printed long i6mo pocket edition of 
 the best new fiction. Cloth bound, gilt top, 50 cents per 
 volume. 
 
 Every work In this world-renowned series is a literary Kem, and tlie volumes 
 themselves are specially adapted in size, appearance, antTquality for boudoir or 
 drawing-room use. 
 
 Vol. I. MAKAR'S DREAM. 
 
 This is the tale of the dream which poor Mak&r dreamt on Christmas Eve— the very 
 MakAr who is mentioned by the Russian proverb as the step-child of Kate. The 
 storv is in turn weird, uncanny, and entrancing, and it holds the reader with won- 
 derful ijaiscination. Once reaa it will never be forgotten. 
 
 Vol. II. HERB OF LOVE. 
 Greek by Eliz. M. Edmonds. 
 
 Translated from the 
 
 This is a fascinating story of Greek peasant life, introducing a couple of gypsy 
 characters and relieving them against the stolid and superstitious Greek peasantry 
 with strong effect. 
 
 Vol. III. HEAVY LADEN. Translated from the 
 German by Helen A. Macdonell. 
 
 " Use Frappen, above all things, paints life at first hand. She possesses the true 
 artist's eye; and the Hamburg that could draw from Heine only the most cynical 
 and scathing sarcasm has revealed to her a wealth of poetic material." 
 
 Vol. IV. THE SAGHALIEN 
 OTHER STORIES. 
 
 CONVICTS AND 
 
 These stories illustrate life in a quarter of the world with which the reading 
 public is but little acquainted. The lover of fiction will find in these pages much 
 to delight and instruct. The scenes and characters are all novel but described 
 with a degree of art which invests them with something of the familiarity of that 
 which has been seen h^ioxQj"— Philadelphia Item. 
 
 Vol. V. THE SCHOOL OF ART. By Isabel Snow. 
 
 This story is told with wonderful verve, and yet, amid all its swing and rapidity 
 of movement we pause at times to brush away the ready tear. It is intensely true 
 to life, and the atmosphere is nature's own. 
 
 Vol. VI. A BUNDLE OF LIFE. By John Oliver 
 HOBBES (Mrs. Craigie), author of " Sinner's Comedy," 
 " Some Emotions and a Moral," and " Study in Temp- 
 tations." 
 
 No work of fiction in the English language contains more brilliant writing in the 
 same space. 
 
 The first edition was exhausted on the date of publication, and the second within 
 SIX days. 
 
A BUNDLE OF U¥E— Continued. 
 
 "To my mind Mrs. CraMe (John Oliver Hobbcs) is the cleverest of all the women 
 who have spruiii; iii'o fame within the last two or three years. . . . IfSiirah 
 Grand liad Mrs. Crai^i.-'s condensation 'The Heavenly Twins' would be a much 
 stronger book. . . . iv». s. Craigie is a cynic, and I have heard that her cynicism 
 comes from her own experiences in life, which have not been of the happiest. 
 . . . Mrs. Craigie is especially clever at epigram ; her books are epigrammatic 
 from the first to the last page, and in this form of literature she is much more strik- 
 ing than Uscar Wilde. With Oscar Wilde it seems to be a cultivateti cleverness- 
 with Mrs. Craigie it is entirely spontaneous, and is her way of looking at things! 
 . . . The book must be read, and it will be read, for it is one of the brightest 
 that has been published in many a lon^ day. ... I think that I have proved in 
 the foregoing that 'A Bundle of Life' is well worth reading, and that Mrs. Craigie, 
 or John Oliver Hobbes if one prefers, is a woman of sparkling though sarcastic 
 wit."— Jkannktte L. GiLDUK in Ihc JVew York lyortd. 
 
 " That brilliant woman who chooses to be known as 'John Oliver Hobbes ' is one of 
 the wittiest of modern writers, and her latest tale will be keenly relished for its 
 piquancy and its clever dramatizing of a little comedy of the heart." 
 
 — Boston Beacon. 
 
 " The book contains a wealth of expressive word-painting, and will be warmly 
 welcomed as one of the gems of the Pseudonym Library, which is one of the choic- 
 est series published. The Pseudonym Librarv represents convenient size, excep- 
 tional good taste, and a nameless attraction which wins one the moment its cover 
 strikes the view. The type is a delight to the eye, and the whole book holds a 
 charm over the aesthetic sense." — Boston Ideas. 
 
 " How often in our own experiences have we found it difficult to decide whether 
 some important change in the tide of our affairs is brought about by * a dispensation 
 of Providence or the interference of Satan ! ' And, in the society of to-day, are there 
 not Lady Lurewells and Mrs. Portcullises who can ' dress up a sin .so religiously 
 that the devil h» 'iself would hardly know it of his own making ? ' " 
 
 — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 
 
 " A well-written and interesting slory."— Christian at IVork. 
 
 "John Oliver Hobbes' masterpiece is clearly ' A Bundle of Life.' " 
 
 — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 Gossip of the Caribbees; 
 
 Or, Sketches of Anglo-West Indian Life. By 
 William R. H. Trowbridge, Jr. Illustrated. i2mo, 
 illuminated cloth, $1.25. Paper, 50c. 
 
 ' These sketches of Anglo- West Indian life have an unmistakable flavor of Mr. 
 Kipling about them. . . . They are interesting bits of colony life, told for the 
 most part in graphic, forceful style, with occasional touches of rather daring 
 r&iWsm."— Literary IVorld. 
 
 " In a succession of slight sketches or .short stories Mr. Trowbridge deals with the 
 Windward group of the West Indian Islands ih its social aspects. . . . ' Mrs. 
 Clarendon's Dance ' is an excellent piece of social comedy, and there is a great 
 deal of capital broad farce in the misfortunes that befall the ambitious hostess 
 whose little dance proves a dismal failure. ' The Old Portrait is a thrilling ro- 
 mance of the last century, which nevertheless seems to bear internal evidence of 
 keeping pretty close to actual facts. ' For the Sake of the Cross " is a really power- 
 ful tale of noble self-sacrifice."— 5a/«yrfay Review, London. 
 
 " The book opens out a new and unexplored region to the majority of American 
 readers, and is intensely interesting both in style and subject matter." 
 
 — Evening Post, Chicago. 
 
 " The sketches are very interesting and give one a clear and comprehensive idea of 
 the topography, climate, manners, and customs of Anglo- West Indian life in Barba- 
 does and the adjacent colonies." — Town Topics. 
 
 "These short stories contain a pleasing admixture of light satire and unaffected 
 ^i\xos."—The Athenaum, London. 
 
mSSSSSSSBSm 
 
 Fragments m Baskets. 
 
 By Mrs. W. Boyd Carpenter (Wife of the Bishop of 
 Ripon). Beautifully illustrated. i2mo, cloth,, elegantly 
 embossed, $i.oo. [7^^^ Published, 
 
 These fragments comprise a series of twelve exquisite apologues, attr.»ctive alike 
 to youth and age. A daintily illustrated volume admirably adai)ted for presen- 
 tation. 
 
 Athletics as a Means of Physical 
 Training. 
 
 By Theo. C. Knauff. Richly illustrated. i2mo, 
 cloth, $2.00. 
 
 There are many text-books in every department of athletics from which one may 
 learn rules, or how to become an expert by making a business of a pleasure. This 
 book, however, covers the whole broad field of athletics, and with sufficient detail 
 not only to determine the value of each pursuit as a mea^is of physical culture, but 
 to demonstrate what is excess and to ascertain what has been done, or what may 
 still remain to be accomplished, by the average business man who caimot devote a 
 lifetime to the cultivation of athletics, and who naturally desires every hour which 
 he is able to devote to it should be one of continuous progress, and not of wasted, 
 Ill-regulated efforts, which are ofl times disastrous to his physical well being. 
 The peculiar needs and opportunities for women in the same relation receive 
 attention. 
 
 The work is treated very exhaustively, and in an interesting and atti active form. 
 It has not been written from a medical point of view, but with the t)liiect of fur- 
 nishing a popular work. The object has been to create a standard authority, and 
 we think that the public will agree with us that it has been accomplished. 
 *rhe volume has a wealth of original illustrations, including many life studies of 
 
 {freat value. Some of these will appeal very strongly to those who have been neg- 
 ecting the care of their own bodies, with the result of impaired health and vitality, 
 as well as lessened capacity to enjoy life. 
 
 Americans in Europe. 
 
 By One of Them. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50c. 
 
 This remarkable volume, which casts so strong and at times so fierce a light on 
 American life abroad, and the evils to which it is constantly exposed, is, beyond 
 all doubt, destined to make a very great stir, and especiallv among travelers and 
 those who are already to some extent familiar with the conditions of existence in 
 European capitals. 
 
 The author, whose identity is only withheld temporarily, has had an unequnled 
 opportunity of acquainting himself with his subject, and the result is a trenchant 
 and powerful work without a single dull line within its covers. The book is abso- 
 lutely indispensable to all contemplating a European residence for themselves or 
 relatives. 
 
 A work of remarkable power. The writer is absolutely fearless in his denuncia- 
 tion of American practices abroad which he condemns. ' 
 
 " The author of ' Americans in Europe ' is to be lauded for his patriotism." 
 
 —New York Times. 
 '• A book that is sure to have a sale and to be talked about. "—iVkrzt/ York Herald. 
 " The author has pungent chapters on the dangers to which America young men 
 and girls are exposed in Pans when they go there to study art ano music, arid 
 mothers are warned not to send their daughters to the American Sunday-school at 
 the French capital, that institution being denounced as a hot-bed of flirtation." 
 
 —Boston Beacon. 
 
The Larger Life. 
 
 By Henry A. Adams, M.A. (for some time rector of the 
 Cathedral Church of 3t. Paul, Buffalo, and ihe Church of 
 the Redeemer,, New York). With a very fine portrait of 
 the author. i2mo, cloth, gilt top, $i.oo. 
 
 This is Father Adams's reply to the storm of criticism which broke over him upon 
 his becoming a CathoJjc. Dedicated " To my Former Parishioners." 
 "The personality behind these eight sermons is an ijilense one. The sermons 
 Utemselv^'is are stirring and impressive and calculated to do much good.'' 
 
 — Public Opinion. 
 
 "The almost electrical energy of his spoken ' > r es is in the type itself. The 
 
 eight sermons on 'The Larger Life' are a <^r-x\.-^ of condensation. The old 
 
 Carlyleish way of puliing truths appears ever vlu w.. —Buffalo News. 
 
 "Clear, f.houghtful, ai:d slimulating."~0'Wir>^i'i'. '"' alist. 
 
 " Every line in the work is worthy of a c reful perusal ; the sermons are models of 
 
 puipit eioque?icc."— /iZ'(.v«'«jf /tent, Philadelphia. 
 
 " These sermons are strange discourses, not su-h as are commonly preached anv- 
 
 where; earnest and good, and well adapted u, make an mipression, but chielty 
 
 valuable for their heat and stimulation. The book f.oatains a fine portrait of tlie 
 
 author." — Bosioti Herald. 
 
 " The force and sincerity of these sermons are two very decisive qualities." 
 
 —Boston Beacon. 
 
 "These sermons trace out broad theories of Christianity and follow no stated 
 creed, so that while l.ie author has been impelled to change the form of his own 
 belief the spirit of the essays rises above sectarian limits. "-~i>'Oi-^i'« Times. 
 
 A Chronicle of SmaU Beer. 
 
 By John Reid. Iliustrated. i2mo, cloth, $1.00. Paper, 25c. 
 
 A mosl delightlld work treating of Scotch life and character, not t'. b 
 by James Matthew Barrie in his " Little Minister." Thede^cnpUon of 
 in the Coup " is finer than that of " Tom Brown's School-days. 
 "- The book is one that will delight the heart of a boy, but will 'oe equally successdil 
 in finding older re-acJers, for it has a flavor that carries one back iiistinctiveiy to his 
 age of pranks and air castles. Of the twenty sketches in the book not one is with- 
 out interest. . . . The book is well gotten up, illustrated asid handsomely 
 hound: '—Lowell Daily Courier. 
 
 he surpassed 
 The Fight 
 
 Oriole's Daughter. 
 
 h 
 
 By Jessie Fothergill, author of "The First Violin," ctc» 
 375 pages, i2mo, $1.25. 
 
 Like "Cosmopolis" this most interesting book—the last written before her death 
 bv thf gifted author of " The First. Violii" "---opens >n the City of Rome, and as in 
 the '-ase of BourgH's chef iV'Vuvre it is Ihe moral miasma of that tainted city 
 which threatens to the point of destruction one or two very beautiful lives. 
 The story is one of wild oats sown in youth and reaped m middle life in hitter 
 penitence of soul ; of an innocent and beautiful daughter sacrificed in marriage by 
 an unnatural mother to a wealthy avid repulsive rou^ ; of a human sou! seared into 
 indifference by the horrid contact, and ola great lemp1..ation~the natuial outcome 
 of the situation— escaped as by fire. , , ^ .. , , ,, s j «• * « 
 
 The story is well and clearly tcid ; it is full of exquisite passages, is delicately 
 written, and absolutely free from any suspicion of grossaess^ 
 
mmim^smmmmiM 
 
 CavalPijLifeiiiTenta'^FiBld 
 
 -BY — 
 
 MRS. ORSEMUS B. BOYD. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, $1,00, Paper BinfUng, 50 cents. 
 
 MORE FASCINATING THAN THE 
 
 MOST SENSATIONAL FICTION. 
 
 An intensively interesting narrative of army frontier life 
 ^ in Nevada, California, Arizona, New Mexico and 
 Texas, ending with the death of Captain Boyd from hard- 
 ships endured while in pursuit of a band of marauding 
 Apaches. It is also, incidentally, the story of a noble and 
 stainless life, darkened at the outset by the shameful 
 
 CRIME OF A BROTHER CADET AT WEST POINT. 
 
 From Current Literature of June, 1894, 
 
 Mrs. O. B. Boyd, the author of Cavalry Life in Tent and Field has 
 had an experience of "roughing it" on the plains as the wife of a cavalr} 
 officer, such as has probably not fallen to the lot of any other tenderly 
 nurtured woman. No one to look at Mrs. Boyd would imagine she had 
 endured the hardships and dangers of frontier life for a period of fifteen 
 years, and that a score and more of years ago she was a wanderer in the 
 wilds of Arizona, in hourly terror of Indians, and so destitute of every 
 element of comfort tluit in moving with her husband to far outlying 
 military stations she was compelled, for security and comfort, to have 
 her infant child carried upwards of a thousand miles in a champagne 
 basket. It is safe to say that mentally and physically Mrs. Boyd has 
 endured hardships which have not been surpassed in the experience 
 of any American officer's wife. * * * The book is a wonderful 
 record of frontier life as seen through the eyes of a Cavalry officer's wife. 
 No more descriptive work has appeared in recent years, and apart from 
 this the book has a value far beyond the mere skill of the narrative, as 
 ,those who are acquainted with the melancholy history of the late 
 ^ptain Boyd wiil readily understand. 
 
SANDOW'S 
 
 Method of Physical Culture, 
 
 FOR MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 Capt. G. MERCER ADAM. 
 
 A large Octavo, Handsomely bound in cloth and embell- 
 ished with SO superb half-tone illustrations. 
 
 Prick S2.00. 
 
 Every physician should study this book, every athlete 
 should master its instructions, and every young person, 
 male or female, can find in its pages valuable hints for the 
 proper regulation of their daily routine. — The Spirit cj 
 the Times. 
 
 A handsome book, strikingly and beautifully illustra- 
 ted. — New York Sun. 
 
 A remarkably handsome volume with a profusion of 
 Illustrations. — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 A splendid volume, superbly illustrated. Its illustra- 
 tions are worth many times its cost. — Baltimore American. 
 
 The reproduction of photographs of Mr. Sandow 
 present outlines and dimensions that attain the classic. — 
 Philadelphia Enquirer. 
 
 We welcome just such a book as this, because it will 
 gtir the ?imbitions pf tens of thousands, — N. Y, Herald, 
 
The Green Bay Tree, 
 
 BY 
 
 W. H. Wilkins and Herbert Vivian, 
 
 389 pages, 12mo, cloth $1,00. Pajwr binding (Kenil' 
 
 worth Series) 50 cents, 
 
 TJNDOUBTEDLY the most trenchant and brilliant, as 
 well as the most cynical work of fiction published during 
 the present year. The style is as crisp and citptivating as that 
 <y ^^/ohn Oliver Hobbes"" in A bundle of Life, 
 
 The chief representative of the ungodly, — who flourish 
 like the Green Bay Tree of Scripture — is a rather pleasing 
 villain in the form of a young man gifted with a polished ex- 
 terior and address, but utterly devoid of conscience. This 
 young man has the rare advantage of thoroughly knowing him- 
 self from the outset, and from the time he enters Harrow 
 School until he becomes a Member of Parliament, unhandi 
 capped throughout by any suggestion of principle, he exhibits a 
 market aptitude for getting on by very worldly methods, at the 
 expense of everybody and everything which can in any way 
 contribute to his success, be the cost what it may to them. 
 
 The moral of the book goes to show that so far as suc- 
 cess in this world is concerned, Godliness will not ensure it in 
 a contest with those unweighted by scruple of any kind, unless, 
 indeed^ a good spice of worldly wisdom is added. 
 
 " The Publishers are anticipating a success, I have read 
 the advance sheets of the book, and I can see why they feel a$ 
 they do about it:' JEANETTE L. GUDER inth^N^V 
 

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