A FAB-AWAY MELODY 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 A HUMBLE ROMANCE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 One Vol., Is. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 A Humble Romance. 
 Two Old Lovers. 
 A Symphony in Laven 
 der. 
 
 A Tardy Thanksgiving. 
 A Modern Dragon. 
 An Honest Soul. 
 A Taste of Honey. 
 
 Brakes and White Vi - 
 
 lets. 
 
 Robins and Hammers. 
 On the Walpole Road. 
 Old Lady Pingree. 
 Cinnamon Roses. 
 The Bar Lighthouse. 
 A Lover of Flowers. 
 
 Original and characteristic little taL 
 True, in the widest sense of the word." Satur 
 day Review. 
 
 "Nothing can be more refreshing than an 
 hour spent among the rustics whom MissWil- 
 kins portrays in her delightful pages." Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 " Not for a long time have we come in contact 
 with so much sweet and simple pathos." Star. 
 
 EDINBURGH : DAVID DOUGLAS. 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY 
 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS 
 
 EDINBURGH 
 DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET 
 
EDINBURGH : Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE for 
 
 DAVID DOUGLAS 
 LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND Co. 
 
5 
 
 AUTHOR S PREFACE TO THE 
 EDINBURGH EDITION. 
 
 THESE little stories were written about 
 the village people of New England. 
 They are studies of the descendants of the 
 Massachusetts Bay colonists, in whom can 
 still be seen traces of those features of will 
 and conscience, so strong as to be almost 
 exaggerations and deformities, which char 
 acterised their ancestors. 
 
 These traces are, however, more evident 
 among the older people ; among the younger, 
 they are dimmer and more modified. It 
 therefore seems better worth the while to 
 try to preserve in literature still more of 
 this old and probably disappearing type of 
 New England character, although it has 
 been done with the best results by other 
 American authors. 
 
 I hope these studies of the serious and 
 
 446682 
 
self-restrained New England villagers may 
 perhaps give the people of Old England a 
 kindly interest in them, and I have ac 
 cepted with pleasure the proposal of Mr. 
 Douglas to include A Far- A way Melody in 
 his "Series of American Authors." 
 
 M. E. W. 
 
 Dec. 5th, 1889. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A FAR-AWAY MELODY, . . .11 
 
 A MORAL EXIGENCY, 26 
 
 A MISTAKEN CHARITY, .... 47 
 
 GENTIAN, . . . .. .70 
 
 AN OBJECT OF LOVE, 92 
 
 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES, . . . .111 
 
 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER, . . . 135 
 
 IN BUTTERFLY TIME, 162 
 
 AN UNWILLING GUEST, .... 183 
 
 A SOUVENIR, ...... 211 
 
 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN, .... 237 
 
 A CONFLICT ENDED, 257 
 
 A PATIENT WAITER, 281 
 
 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY, .... 305 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 THE clothes-line was wound securely 
 around the trunks of four gnarled, 
 crooked old apple-trees, which stood pro 
 miscuously about the yard back of the cot 
 tage. It was tree-blossoming time, but 
 these were too aged and sapless to blossom 
 freely, and there was only a white bough 
 here and there shaking itself triumphantly 
 from among the rest, which had only their 
 new green leaves. There was a branch 
 occasionally which had not even these, but 
 pierced the tender green and the flossy white 
 in hard, grey nakedness. All over the yard, 
 the grass was young and green and short, 
 and had not yet gotten any feathery heads. 
 Once in a while there was a dandelion set 
 Closely down among it. 
 
 The cottage was low, of a dark-red colour, 
 with white facings around the windows, 
 which had no blinds, only green paper 
 curtains. 
 I The back door was tn the centre of the 
 
17 A ^AIl-A\VAY MELODY. 
 
 house, and opened directly into the green 
 yard, with hardly a pretence of a step, only 
 a flat oval stone before it. 
 
 Through this door, stepping cautiously on 
 the stone, came presently two tall, lank 
 women in chocolate-coloured calico gowns, 
 with a basket of clothes between them. 
 They set the basket underneath the line 
 on the grass, with a little clothes-pin bag 
 beside it, and then proceeded methodically 
 to hang out the clothes. Everything of a 
 kind went together, and the best things on 
 the outside line, which could be seen from 
 the street in front of the cottage. 
 
 The two women were curiously alike. 
 They were about the same height, and 
 moved in the same way. Even their faces 
 were so similar in feature and expression 
 that it might have been a difficult matter to 
 distinguish between them. All the differ 
 ence, and that would have been scarcely 
 apparent to an ordinary observer, was a 
 difference of degree, if it might be so ex 
 pressed. In one face the features were both 
 bolder and sharper in outline, the eyes were 
 a trifle larger and brighter, and the whole 
 expression more animated and decided than 
 in the other. 
 
 One woman s scanty drab hair was a shade 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 13 
 
 darker than the other s, and the negative 
 fairness of complexion, which ^generally ac 
 companies drab hair, was in ono relieved by 
 A slight tinge of warm red on the cheeks. 
 /This slightly intensified woman had been 
 Jeommonly considered the more attractive of 
 the two, although in reality there was very 
 little to choose between the personal appear 
 ance of these twin sisters, Priscilla and Mary 
 Brown. They moved about the clothes-line, 
 pinning the sweet white linen on securely, 
 their thick, white-stockinged ankles showing 
 beneath their limp calicoes as they stepped, 
 and their large feet in cloth slippers flattening 
 down the short, green grass. Their sleeves 
 were rolled up, displaying their long, thin, 
 muscular arms, which were sharply pointed 
 at the elbows. 
 
 ^ They were homely women ; they were fifty 
 and over now, but they never could have 
 been pretty in their teens, their features 
 were too irredeemably irregular for that. 
 No youthful freshness of complexion or ex 
 pression could have possibly done away with 
 the impression that they gave. Their plain 
 ness had probably only been enhanced by 
 the contrast, and these women, to people 
 generally, seemed better-looking than when 
 they were young. There was an honesty 
 
14 A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 and patience in both faces that showed all 
 the plainer for their homeliness. 
 
 One, the sister with the darker hair, 
 moved a little quicker than the other, and 
 lifted the wet clothes from the basket to the 
 line more frequently. She was the first to 
 speak, too, after they had been hanging out 
 the clothes for some little time in silence. 
 She stopped as she did so, with a wet pillow 
 case in her hand, and looked up reflectively at 
 the flowering apple-boughs overhead, and the 
 blue sky showing between, while the sweet 
 spring wind ruffled her scanty hair a little. 
 
 * I wonder, Mary," said she, " if it would 
 seem so very queer to die a mornin like 
 this, say. Don t you believe there s apple 
 branches a-h&ngin over them walls made 
 out of precious stones, like these, only there 
 ain t any dead limbs among em, an they re 
 all covered thick with flowers? An I wonder 
 if it would seem such an awful change to go 
 from this air into the air of the New Jeru 
 salem." Just then a robin hidden some 
 where in the trees began to sing. I s pose," 
 she went on, * that there s angels instead of 
 robins, though, and they don t roost up in 
 trees to sing, but stand on the ground, with 
 lilies growin round their feet, may be, up 
 fco their knees, or on the gold stones in the 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 15 
 
 street, an play on their harps to go with 
 the singin . " -* 
 
 The other sister gave a scared, awed look 
 at her. " Lor, don t talk that way, sister," 
 said she. " What has got into you lately ? 
 You make me crawl all over, talkin so much 
 about dyin . You feel well, don t you ? " 
 
 "Lor, yes," replied the other, laughing, 
 and picking up a clothes-pin for her pillow 
 case ; "I feel well enough, an I don t know 
 what has got me to talkin so much about 
 dyin lately, or thinkin about it. I guess 
 it s the spring weather. P r aps flowers 
 growin make anybody think of wings sprout- 
 in kinder naterally. I won t talk so much 
 about it if it bothers you, an I don t know 
 but it s sorter nateral it should. Did you 
 get the potatoes before we came out, sister ? " 
 with an awkward and kindly effort to 
 change the subject. 
 
 "No," replied the othei*, stooping over 
 the clothes-basket. There was such a film 
 of tears in her dull blue eyes that she could 
 not distinguish one article from another. 
 
 "Well, I guess you had better go in an 
 get em, then ; they ain t worth anything, 
 this time of year, unless they soak a while, 
 an I 11 finish hangin out the clothes while 
 you do it. " 
 
i6 A FAR-AWAT MELODY. 
 
 / "Well, p r aps I d better," the other 
 / woman replied, straightening herself up 
 \from the clothes-basket. Then she went 
 Unto the house without another word ; but 
 [down in the damp cellar, a minute later, she 
 (sobbed over the potato barrel as if her heart 
 twould break. Her sister s remarks had 
 filled her with a vague apprehension and 
 grief which she could not throw off. And 
 there was something a little singular about it. 
 Both these women had always been of a deeply 
 religious cast of mind. They had studied 
 the Bible faithfully, if not understandingly, 
 and their religion had strongly tinctured 
 their daily life. They knew almost as much 
 about the Old Testament prophets as they 
 did about their neighbours ; and that was 
 saying a good deal of two single women in a 
 New England country town. Still this re 
 ligious element in their natures could hardly 
 have been termed spirituality. It deviated 
 from that as much as anything of religion 
 which is in one way spirituality itself 
 could. 
 
 Both sisters were eminently practical in 
 all afrairs of life, down to their very dreams, 
 and Priscilla especially so. She had dealt in 
 religion with the bare facts of sin and repent 
 ance, future punishment and reward. She 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 17 
 
 had dwelt very little, probably, upon the 
 poetic splendours of the Eternal City, and 
 talked about them still less. Indeed, she 
 had always been reticent about her religious 
 convictions, and had said very little about 
 them even to her sister. 
 
 The two women, with God in their 
 thoughts every moment, seldom had spoken 
 his name to each other. For Priscilla to 
 talk in the strain that she had to-day, and 
 for a week or two previous, off and on, was, 
 from its extreme deviation from, her usual 
 custom, certainly startling. 
 
 Poor Mary, sobbing over the potato barrel, 
 thought it was a sign of approaching death. 
 She had a few superstitious-like grafts upon 
 her practical, commonplace character. 
 
 She wiped her eyes finally, and went up 
 stairs with her tin basin of potatoes, which 
 were carefully washed and put to soak by 
 the time her sister came in with the empty 
 basket. 
 
 "* At twelve exactly the two sat down to 
 dinner in the clean kitchen, which was one 
 of the two rooms the cottage boastedf The 
 narrow entry ran from the front door to the 
 back. On one side was the kitchen and 
 living-room ; on the other, the room where 
 the sisters slept. There were two small un- 
 
 B 
 
1 8 A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 finished lofts overhead, reached by a step- 
 ladder through a little scuttle in the entry 
 ceiling : and that was all. The sisters had 
 earned the cottage and paid for it years 
 before, by working as tailoresses. They 
 had, besides, quite a snug little sum in the 
 bank, which they had saved out of their 
 hard earnings. There was no need for Pris- 
 cilla and Mary to work so hard, people said ; 
 but work hard they did, and work hard they 
 would as long as they lived. The mere habit 
 of work had become as necessary to them as 
 breathing. 
 
 ^ Just as soon as they had finished their 
 meal and cleared away the dishes, they put 
 on some clean starched purple prints, which 
 were their afternoon dresses, and seated 
 themselves with their work at the two front 
 windows ; the house faced south-west, so the 
 sunlight streamed through both. It was a 
 very warm day for the season, and the win 
 dows were open. Close to them in the yard 
 outside stood great clumps of lilac bushes. 
 They grew on the other side of the front 
 door too ; a little later the low cottage would 
 look half -buried in them. The shadows of 
 their leaves made a dancing network over 
 the freshly washed yellow floor. 
 (The two sisters sat there and sewed on 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 1 9 
 
 some coarse vests all the afternoon. Neither 
 made a remark often. The room, with its 
 glossy little cooking -stove, its eight-day 
 clock on the mantel, its chintz-cushioned 
 rocking-chairs, and the dancing shadows of 
 the lilac leaves on its yellow floor, looked 
 pleasant and peaceful. ) 
 
 Just before six o clock a neighbour dropped 
 in with her cream pitcher to borrow some 
 milk for tea, and she sat down for a minute s 
 chat after she had got it filled. They had 
 been talking a few moments on neighbour 
 hood topics, when all of a sudden Priscilla 
 let her work fall and raised her hand. 
 " Hush ! " whispered she. 
 
 The other two stopped talking, and lis 
 tened, staring at her wonderingly, but they 
 could hear nothing. 
 
 " What is it, Miss Priscilla ? " asked the 
 neighbour, with round blue eyes. She was 
 a pretty young thing, who had not been 
 married long. 
 
 " Hush ! Don t speak. Don t you hear 
 that beautiful music?" Her ear was in 
 clined towards the open window, her hand 
 still raised warningly, and her eyes fixed on 
 the opposite wall beyond them. 
 
 Mary turned visibly paler than her usual 
 dull paleness, and shuddered. " I dodPt 
 
20 A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 hear any music," she said. " Do you, Miss 
 Moore? " 
 
 " No-o," replied the caller, her simple 
 little face beginning to put on a scared look, 
 from a vague sense of a mystery she could 
 not fathom. Mary Brown rose and went to 
 the door, and looked eagerly up and down 
 the street. " There ain t no organ-man in 
 sight anywhere," said she, returning, "an 
 I can t hear any music, an Miss Moore 
 can t, an we re both sharp enough o hear- 
 in . You re jest imaginin it, sister." 
 
 " I never imagined anything in my life," 
 returned the other, " an it ain t likely I m 
 goin to begin now. It s the beautifulest 
 music. It comes from over the orchard 
 there. Can t you hear it? But it seems 
 to me it s growin a little fainter like now. 
 \ guess it s movin off, perhaps." 
 ( Mary Brown set her lips hard. The grief 
 and anxiety she had felt lately turned sud 
 denly to unreasoning anger against the cause 
 of it ; through her very love she flred with 
 quick wrath at the beloved object. Still she 
 did not say much, only, "I guess it must be 
 movin off," with a laugh, which had an un 
 pleasant ring in it. ) 
 
 After the neighbour had gone, however, 
 she said more, standing before her sister 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 21 
 
 with her arms folded squarely across her 
 bosom. "Now, Priscilla Brown," she ex 
 claimed, * I think it s about time to put a 
 stop to this. I ve heard about enough of it. 
 What do you s pose Miss Moore thought of 
 you ? Next thing it 11 be all over town that 
 you re gettin spiritual notions. To-day it s 
 music that nobody else can hear, an yester 
 day you smelled roses, and there ain t one 
 in blossom this time o* year, and all the 
 time you re talkin* about dyin . For my 
 part, I don t see why you ain t as likely to 
 live as I am. You re uncommon hearty on 
 vittles. You ate a pretty good dinner to 
 day for a dyin person." 
 " I didn t say I was goin to die," replied 
 Priscilla meekly : the two sisters seemed 
 suddenly to have changed natures. " An 
 I ll try not to talk so, if it plagues you. I 
 told you I wouldn t this mornin , but the 
 music kinder took me by surprise like, an I 
 thought may be you an Miss Moore could 
 hear it.**"I can jest hear it a little bit now, 
 like the dyin away of a bell. " 
 ( " There you go agin ! " cried the other 
 sharply. "Do, for mercy s sake, stop, Pris 
 cilla. There ain t no music." 
 
 " Well, I won t talk any more about it," 
 she answered patiently ; and she rose and 
 
22 A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 began setting the table for tea, while Mary 
 sat down and resumed her sewing, drawing 
 the thread through the cloth with quick, 
 uneven jerks. ) 
 
 ~ That night the pretty girl neighbour was 
 aroused from her first sleep by a distressed 
 voice at her bedroom window, crying, " Miss 
 Moore ! Miss Moore ! " 
 
 She spoke to her husband, who opened 
 the window. " What s wanted ? " he asked, 
 peering out into the darkness. 
 
 " Priscilla s sick," moaned the distressed 
 voice; " awful sick. She s fainted, an I 
 can t bring her to. Go for the doctor- 
 quick ! quick ! quick ! " The voice ended in 
 a shriek on the last word, and the speaker 
 turned and ran back to the cottage, where, 
 on the bed, lay a pale, gaunt woman, who 
 had not stirred since she left it. Immovable 
 through all her sister s agony, she lay there, 
 her features shaping themselves out more 
 and more from the shadows, the bed-clothes 
 that covered her limbs taking on an awful 
 rigidity. 
 
 "She must have died in her sleep," the 
 doctor said, when he came, " without a 
 struggle. " 
 
 When Mary Brown really understood 
 that her sister was dead, she left her to the 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 23 
 
 kindly ministrations of the good women who 
 are always ready at such times in a coun 
 try place, and went and sat by the kitchen 
 window in the chair which her sister had 
 occupied that afternoon. 
 
 There the women found her when the last 
 offices had been done for the dead. 
 
 " Come home with me to-night," one said ; 
 " Miss Green will stay with Aer," with a 
 turn of her head towards the opposite room, 
 and an emphasis on the pronoun which dis 
 tinguished it at once from one applied to a 
 living person. 
 
 " No," said Mary Brown ; " I m a-goin 
 to set here an listen. " She had the window 
 wide open, leaning her head out into the 
 chilly night air. 
 
 The women looked at each other ; one 
 tapped her head, another nodded hers. 
 " Poor thing ! " said a third. 
 
 "You see," went on Mary Brown, still 
 speaking with her head leaned out of the 
 window, " I was cross with her this after 
 noon because she talked about hearin music. 
 I was cross, an spoke up sharp to her, be 
 cause I loved her, but I don t think she 
 knew. I didn t want to think she was goin 
 to die, but she was. An she heard the 
 music. It was true. An now I m a-goin 
 
24 A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 
 
 to set here an listen till I hear it too, an 1 
 then I 11 know she ain t laid up what I said 
 agin me, an that I m a-goin to die too." 
 
 They found it impossible to reason with 
 her ; there she sat till morning, with a pity 
 ing woman beside her, listening all in vain 
 for unearthly melody. 
 
 Next day they sent for a widowed niece 
 of the sisters, who came at once, bringing 
 her little boy with her. She was a kindly 
 young woman, and took up her abode in 
 the little cottage, and did the best she 
 could for her poor aunt, who, it soon be 
 came evident, would never be quite herself 
 again. There she would sit at the kitchen 
 window and listen day after day. She took 
 a great fancy to her niece s little boy, and 
 used often to hold him in her lap as she sat 
 there. Once in a while she would ask him 
 if he heard any music. " An innocent little 
 thing like him might hear quicker than a 
 hard, unbelievin old woman like me," she 
 told his mother once. 
 
 -^ She lived so for nearly a year after her 
 sister died. It was evident that she failed 
 gradually and surely, though there was no 
 apparent disease. It seemed to trouble her 
 exceedingly that she never heard the music 
 she listened for. She had an idea that she 
 
A FAR-AWAY MELODY. 25 
 
 could not die unless she did, and her whole 
 soul seemed filled with longing to join her 
 beloved twin sister, and be assured of her 
 forgiveness. This sister-love was all she 
 had ever felt, besides her love of God, in 
 any strong degree ; all the passion of devo 
 tion of which this homely, commonplace 
 woman was capable was centred in that, 
 and the unsatisfied strength of it was kill 
 ing her. The weaker she grew, the more 
 earnestly she listened. She was too feeble 
 to sit up, but she would not consent to lie 
 in bed, and made them bolster her up with 
 pillows in a rocking-chair by the window. 
 -At last she died, in the spring, a week or 
 two before her sister had the preceding year. 
 The season was a little more advanced this 
 year, and the apple-trees were blossomed 
 out further than they were then. ~~ She died 
 about ten o clock in the morning. The day 
 before her niece had been called into the 
 room by a shrill cry of rapture from her 
 " I Ve heard it ! I Ve heard it ! " she cried. 
 " A faint sound o* music, like the dyin 
 away of a bell " 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 AT five o clock Eunice Fairweather went 
 upstairs to dress herself for the soci 
 able and Christmas-tree to be given at the 
 parsonage that night in honour of Christmas 
 Eve. She had been very busy all day, 
 making preparations for it. She was the 
 minister s daughter, and had, of a necessity, 
 to take an active part in such affairs. 
 
 She took it, as usual, loyally and ener 
 getically, but there had always been seasons 
 from her childhood and she was twenty- 
 five now when the social duties to which 
 she had been born seemed a weariness and 
 a bore to her. They had seemed so to-day. 
 She had patiently and faithfully sewed 
 up little lace bags with divers-coloured 
 worsteds, and stuffed them with candy. 
 She had strung pop-corn, and marked the 
 parcels which had been pouring in since 
 daybreak from all quarters. She had taken 
 her prominent part among the corps of inde 
 fatigable women always present to assist on 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 27 
 
 such occasions, and kept up her end of the 
 line as minister s daughter bravely. Now, 
 however, the last of the zealous, chattering 
 women she had been working with had 
 bustled home, with a pleasant importance 
 in every hitch of her shawled shoulders, 
 and would not bustle back again until half- 
 past six or so ; and the tree, fully bedecked, 
 stood in unconscious impressiveness in the 
 parsonage parlour. 
 
 Eunice had come upstairs with the resolu 
 tion to dress herself directly for the festive 
 occasion, and to hasten down again to be in 
 readiness for new exigencies. Her mother 
 was delicate, and had kept her room all day 
 in order to prepare herself for the evening, 
 her father was inefficient at such times, 
 there was no servant, and the brunt of 
 everything came on her. 
 
 But her resolution gave way ; she wrapped 
 herself in an old plaid shawl and lay down 
 on her bed to rest a few minutes. She did 
 not close her eyes, but lay studying idly the 
 familiar details of the room. It was small, 
 and one side ran in under the eaves ; for 
 the parsonage was a cottage. There was 
 one window, with a white cotton curtain 
 trimmed with tasselled fringe, and looped 
 UD on an old porcelain knob with a picture 
 
2$ A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 painted on it. That knob, with its tiny 
 bright landscape, had been one of the pretty 
 wonders of Eunice s childhood. She looked 
 at it even now with interest, and the marvel 
 and the beauty of it had not wholly departed 
 for her eyes. The walls of the little room 
 had a scraggly -patterned paper on them. 
 The first lustre of it had departed, for that 
 too was one of the associates of Eunice s 
 childhood, but in certain lights there was a 
 satin sheen and a blue line visible. Blue 
 roses on a satin ground had been the origi 
 nal pattern. It had never been pretty, but 
 Eunice had always had faith in it. There 
 was an ancient straw matting on the floor, a 
 home-made braided rug before the cottage 
 bedstead, and one before the stained-pine 
 bureau. There were a few poor attempts 
 at adornment on the walls ; a splint letter- 
 case, a motto worked in worsteds, a gay 
 print of an eminently proper little girl hold 
 ing a faithful little dog. 
 
 This last, in its brilliant crudeness, was 
 not a work of art, but Eunice believed in it. 
 She was a conservative creature. Even after 
 her year at the seminary, for which money 
 had been scraped together five years ago, she 
 had the same admiring trust in all the reve 
 lations of her childhood. Her home, on her 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 29 
 
 return to it, looked as fair to her as it had 
 always done ; no old ugliness which famili 
 arity had caused to pass unnoticed before 
 gave her a shock of surprise. 
 
 She lay quietly, her shawl shrugged up 
 over her face, so only her steady, light-brown 
 eyes were visible. The room was drearily 
 cold. She never had a fire ; one in a sleeping 
 room would have been sinful luxury in the 
 poor minister s family. Even her mother s 
 was only warmed from the sitting-room. 
 
 In sunny weather Eunice s room was cheer 
 ful, and its look, if not actually its atmo 
 sphere, would warm one a little, for the 
 windows faced south-west. But to-day all 
 the light had come through low, grey clouds, 
 for it had been threatening snow ever since 
 /norning, and the room had been dismal. 
 
 A comfortless dusk was fast spreading 
 over everything now. Eunice rose at length, 
 thinking that she must either dress herself 
 speedily or go downstairs for a candle. 
 
 She was a tall, heavily-built girl, with 
 large, well-formed feet and hands. She 
 had a full face, and a thick, colourless skin. 
 Her features were coarse, but their com 
 bination affected one pleasantly. It was a 
 staunch, honest face, with a suggestion of 
 obstinacy in it. 
 
3O A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 She looked unhappily at herself in her 
 little square glass, as she brushed out her 
 hair and arranged it in a smooth twist at 
 the top of her head. It was not becoming, 
 but it was the way she had always done it. 
 She did not admire the effect herself when 
 the coiffure wab complete, neither did she 
 survey her appearance complacently when 
 she had gotten into her best brown cash 
 mere dress, with its ruffle of starched lace 
 in the neck. But it did not occur to her that 
 any change could be made for the better. 
 It was her best dress, and it was the way 
 she did up her hair. She did not like either, 
 but the simple facts of them ended the matter 
 for her. 
 
 After the same fashion she regarded her 
 own lot in life, with a sort of resigned dis 
 approval. 
 
 On account of her mother s ill-health, she 
 had been encumbered for the last five years 
 with the numberless social duties to which 
 the wife of a poor country minister is liable. 
 She had been active in Sunday-school pic 
 nics and church sociables, in mission bands 
 and neighbourhood prayer-meetings. She 
 was a church member and a good girl, but 
 the rdle did not suit her. Still she accepted 
 it as inevitable, and would no more have 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 31 
 
 thought of evading it than she would have 
 thought of evading life altogether. There 
 was about her an almost stubborn steadfast 
 ness of onward movement that would for 
 ever keep her in the same rut, no matter 
 how disagreeable it might be, unless some 
 influence outside of herself might move her. 
 
 When she went downstairs, she found her 
 mother seated beside the sitting-room stove, 
 also arrayed in her best a shiny black silk, 
 long in the shoulder-seams, the tops of the 
 sleeves adorned with pointed caps trimmed 
 with black velvet ribbon. 
 
 She looked up at Eunice as tshe entered, 
 a complacent smile on her long, delicate 
 face ; she thought her homely, honest-look 
 ing daughter charming in her best gown. 
 
 A murmur of men s voices came from the 
 next room, whose door was closed. 
 
 " Father s got Mr. Wilson in there," ex 
 plained Mrs. Fairweather, in response to 
 Eunice s inquiring glance. " He came just 
 after you went upstairs. They ve been 
 talking very busily about something. Per 
 haps Mr. Wilson wants to exchange." 
 
 Just at that moment the study door 
 opened and the two men came out, Eunice s 
 father, tall and round-shouldered, with 
 greyish sandy hair and beard, politely al- 
 
32 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 lowing his guest to precede him. There 
 was a little resemblance between the two, 
 though there was no relationship. Mr. 
 Wilson was a younger man by ten years ; 
 he was shorter and slighter ; but he had 
 similarly sandy hair and beard, though they 
 were not quite so grey, and something the 
 same cast of countenance. He was settled 
 over a neighbouring parish ; he was a widower 
 with four young children ; his wife had died 
 a year before. 
 
 He had spoken to Mrs. Fairweather on 
 his first entrance, so he stepped directly 
 towards Eunice with extended hand. His 
 ministerial affability was slightly dashed 
 with embarrassment, and his thin cheeks 
 were crimson around the roots of his sandy 
 beard. 
 
 Eunice shook the proffered hand with 
 calm courtesy, and inquired after his chil 
 dren. She had not a thought that his em 
 barrassment betokened anything, if, indeed, 
 she observed it at all. 
 
 Her father stood by with an air of 
 awkward readiness to proceed to action, 
 waiting until the two should cease the in 
 terchanging of courtesies. 
 
 When the expected pause came he him 
 self Dlaced a chair for Mr. Wilson. " Sit 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 33 
 
 down, brother Wilson," he said nervously, 
 " and I will consult with my daughter con 
 cerning the matter we were speaking of. 
 Eunice, I would like to speak with you a 
 moment in the study." 
 
 " Certainly, sir," said Eunice. She looked 
 surprised, but she followed him at once into 
 the study. Tell me as quickly as you can 
 what it is, father," she said, " for it is 
 nearly time for people to begin coming, and 
 I shall have to attend to them." 
 
 She had not seated herself, but stood lean- 
 ing carelessly against the study wall, ques 
 tioning her father with her steady eyes. 
 
 He stood in his awkward height before 
 her. He was plainly trembling. * Eunice, " 
 he said, in a shaking voice, " Mr. Wilson 
 came to say he would like to marry you, 
 my dear daughter." 
 
 He cleared his throat to hide his embar 
 rassment. He felt a terrible constraint in 
 speaking to Eunice of such matters ; he 
 looked shamefaced and distressed. 
 
 Eunice eyed him steadily. She did not 
 change colour in the least. "I think I 
 would rather remain as I am, father," she 
 said quietly. 
 
 Her father roused himself then. " My 
 dear daughter," he said with restrained 
 c 
 
34 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 eagerness, " don t decide this matter too 
 hastily, without giving it all the considera 
 tion it deserves. Mr. Wilson is a good man ; 
 he would make you a worthy husband, and 
 he needs a wife sadly. Think what a wide 
 field of action would be before you with 
 those four little motherless children to love 
 and care for ! You would have a wonder 
 ful opportunity to do good. " 
 
 "I don t think," said Eunice bluntly, 
 " that I should care for that sort of an 
 opportunity. " 
 
 "Then," her father went on, "you will 
 forgive me if I speak plainly, my dear. 
 You are getting older ; you have not had 
 any other visitors. You would be well pro 
 vided for in this way " 
 
 "Exceedingly well," replied Eunice 
 slowly. " There would be six hundred [dol 
 lars] a year and a leaky parsonage for a man 
 and woman and four children, and nobody 
 knows how many more." She was almost 
 coarse in her slow indignation, and did not 
 blush at it. 
 
 " The Lord would provide for his ser 
 vants." 
 
 " I don t know whether he would or not. 
 [ don t think he would be under any obliga 
 tion to if his servant deliberately en cum- 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 35 
 
 bered himself with more of a family than he 
 had brains to support." 
 
 Her father looked so distressed that 
 Eunice s heart smote her for her forcible 
 words. " You don t want to get rid of 
 me, surely, father," she said, in a changed 
 tone. 
 
 Mr. Fairweather s lips moved uncertainly 
 as he answered : No, my dear daughter ; 
 don t ever let such a thought enter your 
 head. I only Mr. Wilson is a good man, 
 and a woman is best off married, and your 
 mother and I are old. I have never laid up 
 
 anything. Sometimes May be I don t 
 
 trust the Lord enough, but I have felt 
 anxious about you, if anything happened to 
 me." Tears were standing in his light-blue 
 eyes, which had never been so steady and 
 keen as his daughter s. 
 
 There came a loud peal of the door-bell. 
 Eunice started. "There ! I must go," she 
 said. We 11 talk about this another time. 
 Don t worry about it, father dear." 
 
 4 But, Eunice, what shall I say to him ? " 
 
 * Must something be said to-night ?" 
 
 fc It would hardly be treating him fairly 
 otherwise." 
 
 Eunice looked hesitatingly at her father s 
 worn, anxious face. "Tell him," she said 
 
3& A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 at length, " that I will give him his answer 
 in a week." 
 
 Her father looked gratified. " We will 
 take it to the Lord, my dear." 
 
 Eunice s lip curled curiously, but she said, 
 "Yes, sir," dutifully, and hastened from the 
 room to answer the door-bell. 
 
 The fresh bevies that were constantly 
 arriving after that engaged her whole at 
 tention. She could do no more than give 
 a hurried "Good-evening" to Mr. Wilson 
 when he came to take leave, after a second 
 short conference with her father in the 
 study. He looked deprecatingly hopeful. 
 
 The poor man was really in a sad case. 
 Six years ago, when he married, he had 
 been romantic. He would never be again. 
 He was not thirsting for love and com- 
 munion with a kindred spirit now, but for 
 a good, capable woman who would take care 
 of his four clamorous children without a 
 salary. 
 
 He returned to his snabby, dirty par 
 sonage that night with, it seemed to him, 
 quite a reasonable hope that his affairs 
 might soon be changed for the better. Of 
 course he would have preferred that the 
 lady should have said yes directly ; it 
 would both have assured him and shortened 
 the time until his burdens should be light- 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 37 
 
 ened; but he could hardly Ijave expected 
 that, when his proposal was so sudden, and 
 there had been no preliminary attention on 
 his part. The week s probation, therefore, 
 did not daunt him much. He did not really 
 see why Eunice should refuse him. She 
 was plain, was getting older ; it probably 
 was her first, and very likely her last, 
 chance of marriage. He was a clergyman 
 in good standing, and she would not lower 
 her social position. He felt sure that he 
 was now about to be relieved from the un 
 pleasant predicament in which he had been 
 ever since his wife s death, and from which 
 he had been forced to make no effort to 
 escape, for decency s sake, for a full year. 
 The year, in fact, had been up five days 
 ago. He actually took credit to himself for 
 remaining quiescent during those five days. 
 It was rather shocking, but there was a 
 good deal to be said for him. No wife and 
 four small children, six hundred dollars a 
 year, moderate brain, and an active con 
 science, are a hard combination of circum 
 stances for any man. 
 
 To-night, however, he returned thanks to 
 the Lord for his countless blessings with 
 pious fervour, which would have been less 
 ened had he known of the state of Eunice s 
 mind just at that moment. 
 
38 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 The merry company had all departed, the 
 tree stood dismantled in the parlour, and 
 she was preparing for bed, with her head 
 full, not of him, but another man. 
 
 Standing before her glass, combing out 
 her rather scanty, lustreless hair, her fancy 
 pictured to her, beside her own homely, 
 sober face, another, a man s, blonde and 
 handsome, with a gentle, almost womanish 
 smile on the full red lips, and a dangerous 
 softness in the blue eyes. Could a third 
 person have seen the double picture as she 
 did, he would have been struck with a sense 
 of the incongruity, almost absurdity, of it 
 Eunice herself, with her hard, uncompro 
 mising common-sense, took the attitude of a 
 third person in regard to it, and at length 
 blew her light out and went to bed, with a 
 bitter amusement in her heart at her own 
 folly. 
 
 There had been present that evening a 
 young man who was a comparatively recent 
 acquisition to the village society. He had 
 been in town about three months. His 
 father, two years before, had purchased one 
 of the largest farms in the vicinity, moving 
 there from an adjoining State. This son 
 had been absent at the time ; he was re 
 ported to be running a cattle ranch in one of 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 39 
 
 those distant territories which seem almost 
 fabulous to New-Englanders. Since he had 
 come home he had been the cynosure of the 
 village. He was thirty and a little over, 
 but he was singularly boyish in his ways, 
 and took part in all the town frolics with 
 gusto. He was popularly supposed to be 
 engaged to Ada Harris, Squire Harris s 
 daughter, as she was often called. Her 
 father was the prominent man of the vil 
 lage, lived in the best house, and had the 
 loudest voice in public matters. He was a 
 lawyer, with rather more pomposity than 
 ability, perhaps, but there had always been 
 money and influence in the Harris family ; 
 and these warded off all criticism. 
 
 The daughter was a pretty blonde of aver 
 age attainments, but with keen wits and 
 strong passions. She had not been present 
 at the Christmas tree, and her lover, either 
 on that account, or really from some sudden 
 fancy he had taken to Eunice, had been at 
 her elbow the whole evening. He had a 
 fashion of making his attentions marked : 
 he did on that occasion. He made a pre 
 tence of assisting her, but it was only a pre 
 tence, and she knew it, though she thought 
 it marvellous. She had met him, but had 
 not before exchanged two words with him. 
 
40 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 She had seen him with Ada Harris, and he 
 had seemed almost as much out of her life 
 as a lover in a book. Young men of his 
 kind were unknown quantities heretofore to 
 this steady, homely young woman. They 
 seemed to belong to other girls. 
 
 So his devotion to her through the even 
 ing, and his asking permission to call when 
 he took leave, seemed to her well-nigh in 
 credible. Her head was not turned, in the 
 usual acceptation of the term it was not an 
 easy head to turn but it was full of Burr 
 Mason, and every thought, no matter how 
 wide a starting-point it had, lost itself at 
 last in the thought of him. 
 
 Mr. Wilson s proposal weighed upon her 
 terribly through the next week. Her father 
 seemed bent upon her accepting it ; so did 
 her mother, who sighed in secret over the 
 prospect of her daughter s remaining unmar 
 ried. Either through unworldliness, or their 
 conviction of the desirability of the marriage 
 in itself, the meagreness of the financial out 
 look did not seem to influence them in the 
 least. 
 
 Eunice did not once think of Burr Mason 
 as any reason for her reluctance, but when 
 he called the day but one before her week 
 of probation was up, and when he took her 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 4! 
 
 to drive the next day, she decided on a re 
 fusal of the minister s proposal easily enough. 
 She had wavered a little before. 
 
 So Mr. Wilson was left to decide upon 
 some other worthy, reliable woman as a 
 subject for his addresses, and Eunice kept 
 on with her new lover. 
 
 How this sober, conscientious girl could 
 reconcile to herself the course she was now 
 taking, was a question. It was probable 
 she did not make the effort ; she was BO 
 sensible that she would have known its 
 futility and hypocrisy beforehand. 
 
 She knew her lover had been engaged to 
 Ada Harris ; that she was encouraging him 
 in cruel and dishonourable treatment oi 
 another woman ; but she kept steadily on. 
 People even came to her and told her that 
 the jilted girl was breaking her heart. She 
 listened, her homely face set in an immov 
 able calm. She listened quietly to her 
 parents remonstrance, and kept on. 
 
 There was an odd quality in Burr Mason s 
 character. He was terribly vacillating, but 
 he knew it. Once he said to Eunice, with 
 the careless freedom that would have been 
 almost insolence in another man : " Don t 
 let me see Ada Harris much, I warn you, 
 dear. I mean to be true to you, but she 
 
42 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 has such a pretty face, and I meant to be 
 true to her, but you have I don t know 
 just what, but something she has not. " 
 
 Eunice knew the truth of what he said 
 perfectly. The incomprehensibleness of it 
 all to her, who was so sensible of her own 
 disadvantages, was the fascination she had 
 for such a man. 
 
 A few days after Burr Mason had made 
 that remark Ada Harris came to see her. 
 When Eunice went into the sitting-room to 
 greet her, she kept her quiet, unmoved face, 
 but the change in the girl before her was 
 terrible. It was not wasting of flesh or 
 pallor that it consisted in, but something 
 worse. Her red lips were set so hard that 
 the soft curves in them were lost, her cheeks 
 burned feverishly, her blue eyes had a fierce 
 light in them, and, most pitiful thing of all 
 for another woman to see, she had not 
 crimped her pretty blond hair, but wore it 
 combed straight back from her throbbing 
 forehead. 
 
 When Eunice entered, she waited for no 
 preliminary courtesies, but sprang forward, 
 and caught hold of her hand with a strong, 
 nervous grasp, and stood so, her pretty, 
 desperate face confronting Eunice s calm, 
 plain one. 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 43 
 
 " Eunice ! " she cried, " Eunice ! why did 
 you take him away from me ? Eunice ! 
 Eunice ! " Then she broke into a low wail, 
 without any tears. 
 
 Eunice released her hand, and seated her 
 self. " You had better take a chair, Ada," 
 she said, in her slow, even tones. " When 
 you say him, you mean Burr Mason, I sup 
 pose." 
 
 " You know I do. Eunice ! how could 
 you ? how could you ? I thought you were 
 so good ! " 
 
 " You ask me why 7 do this and that, but 
 don t you think he had anything to do with 
 it himself ? " 
 
 Ada stood before her, clinching her little 
 white hands. "Eunice Fairweather, you 
 know Burr Mason, and I know Burr Mason. 
 You know that if you gave him up, and re 
 fused to see him, he would come back to 
 me. You know it." 
 
 " Yes, I know it." 
 
 " You know it ; you sit there and say 
 you know it. and yet you do this cn^el thing 
 you, a minister s daughter. You under 
 stood from the first how it was. You knew 
 he was mine, that you had no right to him. 
 You knew if you shunned him ever so little, 
 that he would come back to me. And yet 
 
44 A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 you let him come and make love to you. 
 You knew it. There is no excuse for you : 
 you knew it. It is no better for him. You 
 have encouraged him in being false. You 
 have dragged him down. You are a plainer 
 girl than I, and a soberer one, but you are 
 no better. You will not make him a better 
 wife. You cannot make him a good wife 
 after this. It is all for yourself your 
 self ! " 
 
 Eunice sat still. 
 
 Then Ada flung herself on her knees 
 at her side, and pleaded, as for her life. 
 * Eunice, Eunice, give him up to me! 
 It is killing me ! Eunice, dear Eunice, say 
 you will ! " 
 
 As Eunice sat looking at the poor, di 
 shevelled golden head bowed over her lap, 
 a recollection flashed across her mind, oddly 
 enough, of a certain recess at the village 
 school they two had attended years ago, 
 when she was among the older girls, and 
 Ada a child to her : how she had played 
 she was her little girl, and held her in her 
 lap, and that golden head had nestled on 
 her bosom. 
 
 * * Eunice, Eunice, he loved me first. 
 You had better have stolen away my own 
 heart It would not have been so wicked 
 
A MORAL EXIGENCY. 45 
 
 or so cruel. How could you ? ^ Eunice, 
 give him back to me, Eunice, won t you ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Ada rose, staggering, without another 
 word. She moaned a little to herself as 
 she crossed the room to the door. Eunice 
 accompanied her to the outer door, and said 
 good-bye. Ada did not return it. Eunice 
 saw her steady herself by catching hold of 
 the gate as she passed through. 
 
 Then she went slowly upstairs to her own 
 room, wrapped herself in a shawl, and lay 
 down on her bed, as she had that Christmas 
 Eve. She was very pale, and there was a 
 strange look, almost of horror, on her face. 
 She stared, as she lay there, at all the 
 familiar objects in the room, but the most 
 common and insignificant of them had a 
 strange and awful look to her. Yet the 
 change was in herself, not in them. The 
 shadow that was over her own soul over 
 shadowed them and perverted her vision. 
 But she felt also almost a fear of all those 
 inanimate objects she was gazing at. They 
 were so many reminders of a better state 
 with her, for she had gazed at them all in 
 her unconscious childhood. She was sick 
 ened with horror at their dumb accusations. 
 There was the little glass she had looked in 
 
4O A MORAL EXIGENCY. 
 
 before she had stolen another woman s dear 
 est wealth away from her, the chair she had 
 sat in, the bed she had lain in. 
 
 At last Eunice Fairweather s strong will 
 broke down before the accusations of her 
 own conscience, which were so potent as 
 to take upon themselves material shapes. 
 
 Ada Harris, in her pretty chamber, lying 
 worn out on her bed, her face buried in the 
 pillow, started at a touch on her shoulder. 
 Some one had stolen into the room unan 
 nounced not her mother, for she was wait 
 ing outside. Ada turned her head, and saw 
 Eunice. She struck at her wildly with her 
 slender hands. " Go away ! " she screamed. 
 
 "Ada!" 
 -"Go away !" 
 
 " Burr Mason is downstairs. I came 
 with him to call on you." 
 
 Ada sat upright, staring at her, her hand 
 still uplifted. 
 
 * I am going to break my engagement 
 with him." 
 
 " O Eunice ! Eunice ! you blessed " 
 
 Eunice drew the golden head down on her 
 bosom, just as she had on that old school-day. 
 
 "Love me all you can, Ada," she said. 
 " I want something." 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 HPHERE were in a green field a little, low, 
 JL weather-stained cottage, with a foot 
 path leading to it from the highway several 
 rods distant, and two old women one with 
 a tin pan and old knife searching for 
 dandelion greens among the short young 
 grass, and the other sitting on the door-step 
 watching her, or, rather, having the appear 
 ance of watching her. 
 
 " Air there enough for a mess, Harriet ? " 
 asked the old woman on the door-step. She 
 accented oddly the last syllable of the 
 Harriet, and there was a curious quality in 
 her feeble, cracked old voice. Besides the 
 question denoted by the arrangement of 
 her words and the rising inflection, there 
 was another, broader and subtler, the very 
 essence of all questioning, in the tone of 
 her voice itself ; the cracked, quavering 
 notes that she used reached out of them 
 selves, and asked, and groped like fingers 
 in the dark. One would have known by 
 the voice that the old woman was blind. 
 
 47 
 
48 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 The old woman on her knees in the grass 
 searching for dandelions did not reply ; she 
 evidently had not heard the question. So 
 the old woman on the door-step, after wait 
 ing a few minutes with her head turned 
 expectantly, asked again, varying her ques 
 tion slightly, and speaking louder 
 
 * Air there enough for a mess, do ye 
 s pose, Harriet ? " 
 
 The old woman in the grass heard this 
 time. She rose slowly and laboriously ; the 
 effort of straightening out the rheumatic 
 old muscles was evidently a painful one ; 
 then she eyed the greens heaped up in 
 the tin pan, and pressed them down with 
 her hand. 
 
 " Wa al, I don t know, Charlotte," she 
 replied hoarsely. "There s plenty on em 
 here, but I ain t got near enough for a mess ; 
 they do bile down so when you get em in 
 the pot ; an it s all I can do to bend my 
 j ints enough to dig em." 
 
 "T d give consider ble to help ye, Har 
 riet," said the old woman on the door-step. 
 
 But the other did not hear her ; she 
 was down on her knees in the grass again, 
 anxiously spying out the dandelions. 
 
 So the old woman on the door-step crossed 
 her little shrivelled hands over her calico 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 49 
 
 knees, and sat quite still, w$h the soft 
 spring wind blowing over her. 
 
 The old wooden doorstep was sunk low 
 down among the grasses, and the whole house 
 to which it belonged had an air of settling 
 down and mouldering into the grass as into 
 its own grave. 
 
 When Harriet Shattuck grew deaf and 
 rheumatic, and had to give up her work as 
 tailoress, and Charlotte Shattuck lost her 
 eyesight, and was unable to do any more 
 sewing for her livelihood, it was a small and 
 trifling charity for the rich man who held a 
 mortgage on the little house in which they 
 had been born and lived all their lives to 
 give them the use of it, rent and interest 
 free. He might as well have taken credit 
 to himself for not charging a squirrel for his 
 tenement in some old decaying tree in his 
 woods. 
 
 So ancient was the little habitation, so 
 wavering and mouldering, the hands that 
 had fashioned it had lain still so long in 
 their graves, that it almost seemed to have 
 fallen below its distinctive rank as a house. 
 Rain and snow had filtered through its roof, 
 mosses had grown over it, worms had eaten 
 it, and birds built their nests under its eaves ; 
 Nature had almost completely overrun and 
 
5O A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 obliterated the work of man, and taken her 
 own to herself again, till the house seemed as 
 much a natural ruin as an old tree-stump. 
 
 The Shattucks had always been poor 
 people and common people ; no especial 
 grace and refinement or fine ambition had 
 ever characterised any of them ; they had 
 always been poor and coarse and common. 
 The father and his father before him had 
 simply lived in the poor little house, grubbed 
 for their living, and then unquestioningly 
 died. The mother had been of no rarer 
 stamp, and the two daughters were cast in 
 the same mould. 
 
 After their parents death Harriet and 
 Charlotte had lived along in the old place 
 from youth to old age, with the one hope 
 of ability to keep a roof over their heads, 
 covering on their backs, and victuals in 
 their mouths an all-sufficient one with 
 them. 
 
 Neither of them had ever had a lover ; 
 they had always seemed to repel rather 
 than attract the opposite sex. It was not 
 merely because they were poor, ordinary, 
 and homely ; there were plenty of men in 
 the place who would have matched them 
 well in that respect ; the fault lay deeper 
 in their characters. Harriet, even in her 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 51 
 
 girlhood, had a blunt, defiant manner that 
 almost amounted to surliness, and was well 
 calculated to alarm timid adorers, and Char 
 lotte had always had the reputation of not 
 being any too strong in her mind. 
 
 Harriet had gone about from house to 
 house doing tailor-work after the primitive 
 country fashion, and Charlotte had done 
 plain sewing and mending for the neigh 
 bours. They had been, in the main, except 
 when pressed by some temporary anxiety 
 about their work or the payment thereof, 
 happy and contented, with that negative 
 kind of happiness and contentment which 
 comes not from gratified ambition, but a 
 lack of ambition itself. All that they cared 
 for they had had in tolerable abundance, for 
 Harriet at least had been swift and capable 
 about her work. The patched, mossy old 
 roof had been kept over their heads, the 
 coarse, hearty food that they loved had been 
 set on their table, and their cheap clothes 
 had been warm and strong. 
 
 After Charlotte s eyes failed her, and 
 Harriet had the rheumatic fever, and the 
 little hoard of earnings went to the doctors, 
 times were harder with them, though still 
 it could not be said that they actually 
 suffered. 
 
52 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 When they could not pay the interest on 
 the mortgage they were allowed to keep the 
 place interest free ; there was as much fit 
 ness in a mortgage on the little house, any 
 way, as there would have been on a rotten 
 old apple-tree ; and the people about, who 
 were mostly farmers, and good friendly folk, 
 helped them out with their living. One 
 would donate a barrel of apples from his 
 abundant harvest to the two poor old 
 women, one a barrel of potatoes, another a 
 load of wood for the winter fuel, and many 
 a farmer s wife had bustled up the narrow 
 footpath with a pound of butter, or a dozen 
 fresh eggs, or a nice bit of pork. Besides 
 all this, there was a tiny garden patch be 
 hind the house, with a straggling row of 
 currant bushes in it, and one of goose 
 berries, where Harriet contrived every year 
 to raise a few pumpkins, which were the 
 pride of her life. On the right of the garden 
 were two old apple-trees, a Baldwin and a 
 Porter, both yet in a tolerably good fruit- 
 bearing state. 
 
 The delight which the two poor old souls 
 took in their own pumpkins, their apples 
 and currants, was indescribable. It was 
 not merely that they contributed largely 
 towards their living ; they were their own, 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 53 
 
 their private share of the great, wealth of 
 Nature, the little taste set apart for them 
 alone out of her bounty, and worth more to 
 them on that account, though they were 
 not conscious of it, than all the richer fruits 
 which they received from their neighbours 
 gardens. 
 
 This morning the two apple-trees were 
 brave with flowers, the currant bushes 
 looked alive, and the pumpkin seeds were 
 in the ground. Harriet cast complacent 
 glances in their direction from time to time, 
 as she painfully dug her dandelion greens. 
 She was a short, stoutly-built old woman, 
 with a large face coarsely wrinkled, with a 
 suspicion of a stubble of beard on the square 
 chin. 
 
 When her tin pan was filled to her satis 
 faction with the sprawling, spidery greens, 
 and she was hobbling stiffly towards her 
 sister on the door-step, she saw another 
 woman [standing before her with a basket 
 in her hand. 
 
 " Good-morning, Harriet," she said, in a 
 loud, strident voice, as she drew near. "I Ve 
 been frying some doughnuts, and I brought 
 you over some warm." 
 
 " I ve been tellin her it was real good in 
 her," piped Charlotte from the door-step, 
 
54 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 with an anxious turn of her sightless face 
 towards the sound of her sister s footstep. 
 
 Harriet said nothing but a hoarse " Good- 
 mornin , Mis Simonds." Then she took 
 the basket in her hand, lifted the towel off 
 the top, selected a doughnut, and deliber 
 ately tasted it. 
 
 "Tough," said she. "I s posed so. If 
 there is anything I spise on this airth it s a 
 tough doughnut. " 
 
 " O Harriet ! " said Charlotte, with a 
 frightened look. 
 
 " They air tough," said Harriet, with 
 hoarse defiance, and if there is anything 
 I spise on this airth it s a tough doughnut." 
 
 The woman whose benevolence and cookery 
 were being thus ungratefully received only 
 laughed. She was quite fleshy, and had a 
 round, rosy, determined face. 
 
 " Well Harriet," said she, " I am sorry 
 they are tough, but perhaps you had better 
 take them out on a plate, and give me my 
 basket. You may be able to eat two or 
 three of them if they are tough. " 
 
 " They air tough tumble tough," said 
 Harriet stubbornly ; but she took the basket 
 into the house and emptied it of its contents 
 nevertheless. 
 
 "I suppose your roof leaked as bad aa 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 55 
 
 ever in that heavy rain day before yester 
 day ? " said the visitor to Harriet, with an 
 inquiring squint towards the mossy shingles, 
 as she was about to leave with her empty 
 basket. 
 
 "It was turrible," replied Harriet, with 
 crusty acquiescence " turrible. We had 
 to set pails an pans everywheres, an move 
 the bed out." 
 
 " Mr. Upton ought to fix it." 
 
 " There ain t any fix to it ; the old ruff 
 ain t fit to nail new shingles on to ; the 
 hammerin would bring the whole thing 
 down on our heads," said Harriet grimly. 
 
 " Well, I don t know as it can be fixed, 
 it s so old. I suppose the wind comes in 
 bad around the windows and doors too ? " 
 
 " It s like livin with a piece of paper, or 
 mebbe a sieve, twixt you an the wind an 
 the rain," quoth Harriet, with a jerk of her 
 head. 
 
 "You ought to have a more comfortable 
 home in your old age," said the visitor 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Oh, it s well enough," cried Harriet, 
 in quick alarm, and with a complete change 
 of tone ; the woman s remark had brought 
 an old dread over her. " The old house 11 
 last as long as Charlotte an me do. The 
 
5b A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 rain ain t so bad, nuther is the wind ; there s 
 room enough for us in the dry places, an out 
 of the way of the doors an windows. It s 
 enough sight better than goin on the town." 
 Her square, defiant old face actually looked 
 pale as she uttered the last words and stared 
 apprehensively at the woman. 
 
 " Oh, I did not think of your doing that," 
 she said hastily and kindly. " We all know 
 how you feel about that, Harriet, and not 
 one of us neighbours will see you and Char 
 lotte go to the poorhouse while we ve got a 
 crust of bread to share with you. " 
 
 Harriet s face brightened. "Thank ye, 
 Mis Simonds," she said, with reluctant 
 courtesy. " I m much obleeged to you an 
 the neighbours. I think mebbe we 11 be 
 able to eat some of them doughnuts if they 
 air tough," she added mollifyingly, as her 
 caller turned down the footpath. 
 
 " My, Harriet," said Charlotte, lifting up 
 a weakly, wondering, peaked old face, 
 "what did you tell her them doughnuts 
 was tough fur ? " 
 
 "Charlotte, do you want everybody to look 
 down on us, an think we ain t no account at 
 all, just like any beggars, cause they bring 
 us in vittles?" said Harriet, with a grim 
 glance at her sister s meek, unconscious face. 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 57 
 
 " No, Harriet," she whispered* 
 
 " Do you want to go to the poorhousel" 
 
 "No, Harriet." The poor little old 
 woman on the door-step fairly cowered be 
 fore her aggressive old sister. 
 
 " Then don t hender me agin when I tell 
 folks their doughnuts is tough an their per- 
 taters is poor. If I don t kinder keep up an 
 show some sperrit, I sha n t think nothing 
 of myself, an other folks won t nuther, and 
 fust thing we know they 11 kerry us to the 
 poorhouse. You d a been there before now 
 if it hadn t been for me, Charlotte ? " 
 
 Charlotte looked meekly convinced, and 
 her sister sat down on a chair in the door 
 way to scrape her dandelions. 
 
 "Did you git a good mess, Harriet?" 
 asked Charlotte, in a humble tone. 
 
 "Toler ble." 
 
 "They ll be proper relishin with that 
 piece of pork Mis Man brought in yester 
 day. Lord, Harriet, it s a chink ! " 
 
 Harriet sniffed. 
 
 Her sister caught with her sensitive ear 
 the little contemptuous sound. "I guess," 
 she said querulously, and with more per 
 tinacity than she had shown in the matter 
 of the doughnuts, "that if you was in the 
 dark, as I am, Harriet, you wouldn t make 
 
58 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 fun an turn up your nose at chinks. If 
 you had seen the light streamin in all of a 
 sudden through some little hole that you 
 hadn t known of before when you set down 
 on the door-step this mornin , and the wind 
 with the smell of the apple- blows in it came 
 in your face, an when Mis Simonds brought 
 them hot doughnuts, an when I thought of 
 
 the pork an greens jest now Lord, 
 
 how it did shine in ! An it does now. If 
 you was me, Harriet, you would know there 
 was chinks." 
 
 Tears began starting from the sightless 
 eyes, and streaming pitifully down the pale 
 old cheeks. 
 
 Harriet looked at her sister, and her grim 
 face softened. * Why, Charlotte, hev it that 
 thar is chinks if you want to. Who cares ? " 
 
 " Thar is chinks, Harriet." 
 
 " Wa al, thar is chinks, then. If I don t 
 hurry, I sha n t get these greens in in time 
 for dinner. 
 
 When the two old women sat down com 
 placently to their meal of pork and dande 
 lion greens in their little kitchen, they did 
 not dream how destiny slowly and surely 
 was introducing some new colours into their 
 web of life, even when it was almost com 
 pleted, and that this was one of the last 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 59 
 
 meals they would eat in their did home for 
 many a day. In about a week from that day 
 they were established in the "Old Ladies 
 Home " in a neighbouring city. It came 
 about in this wise : Mrs. Simon ds, the 
 woman who had brought the gift of hot 
 doughnuts, was a smart, energetic person, 
 bent on doing good, and she did a great 
 deal. To be sure she always did it in her 
 own way. If she chose to give hot dough 
 nuts, she gave hot doughnuts ; it made not 
 the slightest difference to her if the recipi 
 ents of her charity would infinitely have pre 
 ferred ginger cookies. Still a great many 
 would like hot doughnuts, and she did un 
 questionably a great deal of good. 
 
 She had a worthy coadjutor in the person 
 of a rich and childless elderly widow in the 
 place. They had fairly entered into a part 
 nership in good works, with about an equal 
 capital on both sides, the widow furnishing 
 the money, and Mrs. Simonds, who had 
 much the better head of the two, furnishing 
 the active schemes of benevolence. 
 
 The afternoon after the doughnut episode 
 she had gone to the widow with a new pro 
 ject, and the result was that entrance fees 
 had been paid, and old Harriet and Char 
 lotte made sure of a comfortable home for 
 
6O A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 the rest of their lives. The widow was hand 
 in glove with officers of missionary boards 
 and trustees of charitable institutions. 
 There had been an unusual mortality 
 among the inmates of the "Home" this 
 spring, there were several vacancies, and 
 the matter of the admission of Harriet and 
 Charlotte was very quickly and easily ar 
 ranged. But the matter which would have 
 seemed the least difficult inducing the two 
 old women to accept the bounty which 
 Providence, the widow, and Mrs. Simonds 
 were ready to bestow on them proved the 
 most so. The struggle to persuade them to 
 abandon their tottering old home for a 
 better was a terrible one. The widow had 
 pleaded with mild surprise, and Mrs. 
 Simonds with benevolent determination ; 
 the counsel and reverend eloquenoe of the 
 minister had been called in ; and when 
 they yielded at last it was with a sad 
 grace for the recipients of a worthy charity. 
 It had been hard to convince them that the 
 " Home " was not an almshouse under an 
 other name, and their yielding at length to 
 anything short of actual force was only due 
 probably to the plea, which was advanced 
 most eloquently to Harriet, that Charlotte 
 would be so much more comfortable. 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 6l 
 
 The morning they came away, Charlotte 
 cried pitifully, and trembled all over her 
 little shrivelled body. Harriet did not cry. 
 But when her sister had passed out the low, 
 sagging door she turned the key in the lock, 
 then took it out and thrust it slyly into her 
 pocket, shaking her head to herself with an 
 air of fierce determination. 
 
 Mrs. Simonds husband, who was to take 
 them to the depot, said to himself, with dis 
 loyal defiance of his wife s active charity, 
 that it was a shame, as he helped the two 
 distressed old souls into his light wagon, 
 and put the poor little box, with their 
 homely clothes in it, in behind. 
 
 Mrs. Simonds, the widow, the minister, 
 and the gentleman from the " Home " who 
 was to take charge of them, were all at the 
 depot, their faces beaming with the delight 
 of successful benevolence. But the two 
 poor old women looked like two forlorn 
 prisoners in their midst. It was an impres 
 sive illustration of the truth of the saying 
 that "it is more blessed to give than to 
 receive." 
 
 Well, Harriet and Charlotte Shattuck 
 went to the " Old Ladies Home " with 
 reluctance and distress. They stayed two 
 months, and then they ran away. 
 
62 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 The "Home" was comfortable, and in 
 some respects even luxurious ; but nothing 
 suited those two unhappy, unreasonable old 
 women. 
 
 The fare was of a finer, more delicately 
 served variety than they had been accus 
 tomed to ; those finely flavoured nourishing 
 soups for which the * Home " took great 
 credit to itself failed to please palates used 
 to common, coarser food. 
 
 " O Lord, Harriet, when I set down to 
 the table here there ain t no chinks," Char 
 lotte used to say. "If we could hev some 
 cabbage, or some pork an greens, how the 
 light would stream in ! " 
 
 Then they had to be more particular about 
 their dress. They had always been tidy 
 enough, but now it had to be something 
 more ; the widow, in the kindness of her 
 heart, had made it possible, and the good 
 folks in charge of the " Home," in the kind 
 ness of their hearts, tried to carry out the 
 widow s designs. 
 
 But nothing could transform these two 
 unpolished old women into two nice old 
 ladies. They did not take kindly to white 
 lace caps and delicate neckerchiefs. They 
 liked their new black cashmere dresses well 
 enough, but they felt as if they broke a 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 63 
 
 commandment when they put thfem on every 
 afternoon. They had always worn calico 
 with long aprons at home, and they wanted 
 to now ; and they wanted to twist up their 
 scanty grey locks into little knots at the 
 back of their heads, and go without caps, 
 just as they always had done. 
 
 Charlotte in a dainty white cap was piti 
 ful, but Harriet was both pitiful and comi 
 cal. They were totally at variance with 
 their surroundings, and they felt it keenly, 
 as people of their stamp always do. No 
 amount of kindness and attention and they 
 had enough of both sufficed to reconcile 
 them to their new abode. Charlotte pleaded 
 continually with her sister to go back to 
 their old home. 
 
 " Lord, Harriet," blie would exclaim 
 (by the way, Charlotte s " Lord," which, as 
 she used it, was innocent enough, had been 
 heard with much disfavour in the " Home," 
 and she, not knowing at all why, had been 
 remonstrated with concerning it), " let us 
 go home. I can t stay here no ways in this 
 world. I don t like their vittles, an I don t 
 like to wear a cap ; I want to go home and 
 do different. The currants will be ripe, 
 Harriet. Lord, thar was always a chink, 
 thinking about em. I want some of em ; 
 
64 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 an the Porter apples will be gittin ripe, an* 
 we could have some apple-pie. This here 
 ain t good ; I want merlasses fur sweeting. 
 Can t we get back no ways, Harriet ? It 
 ain t far, an we could walk, an they don t 
 lock us in, nor no thin . I don t want to die 
 here ; it ain t so straight up to heaven from 
 here. O Lord, I ve felt as if I was slanten- 
 dicular from heaven ever since I ve been 
 here, an it s been so awful dark. I ain t 
 had any chinks. I want to go home, 
 Harriet." 
 
 "We ll go to-morrow mornin ," said 
 Harriet finally ; * we 11 pack up our things 
 an go ; we 11 put on our old dresses, an* 
 we 11 do up the new ones in bundles, an 
 we 11 jest shy out the back way to-morrow 
 mornin ; an we 11 go. I kin find the way, 
 an I reckon we kin git thar, if it is fourteen 
 mile. Mebbe somebody will give us a lift." 
 
 And they went. With a grim humour 
 Harriet hung the new white lace caps with 
 which she and Charlotte had been so pes 
 tered, one on each post at the head of the 
 bedstead, so they would meet the eyes of 
 the first person who opened the door. Then 
 they took their bundles, stole slyly out, and 
 were soon on the high-road, hobbling along, 
 holding each other s hands, as jubilant as 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 65 
 
 two children, and chuckling to themselves 
 over their escape, and the probable astonish 
 ment there would be in the "Home" over 
 it. 
 
 " Lord, Harriet, what do you s pose 
 they will say to them caps ? " cried Char 
 lotte, with a gleeful cackle. 
 
 " I guess they 11 see as folks ain t goin to 
 be made to wear caps agin their will in a 
 free kentry," returned Harriet, with an 
 echoing cackle, as they sped feebly and 
 bravely along. 
 
 The " Home " stood on the very out 
 skirts of the city, luckily for them. They 
 would have found it a difficult undertaking 
 to traverse the crowded streets. As it was, 
 A short walk brought them into the free 
 country road free comparatively, for even 
 here at ten o clock in the morning there was 
 considerable travelling to and from the city 
 on business or pleasure. 
 
 People whom they met on the road did not 
 stare at them as curiously as might have 
 been expected. Harriet held her bristling 
 chin high in air, and hobbled along with an 
 appearance of being well aware of what she 
 was about, that led folks to doubt their own 
 first opinion that there was something un 
 usual about the two old women. 
 
66 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 Still their evident feebleness now and then 
 occasioned from one and another more par 
 ticular scrutiny. When they had been on 
 the road a half -hour or so, a man in a covered 
 wagon drove up behind them. After he had 
 passed them, he poked his head around the 
 front of the vehicle and looked back. Finally 
 he stopped, and waited for them to come up 
 to him. 
 
 "Like a ride, ma am?" said he, looking 
 at once bewildered and compassionate. 
 
 " Thankee," said Harriet, " we d be much 
 obleeged." 
 
 After the man had lifted the old women 
 into the wagon, and established them on the 
 back seat, he turned around, as he drove 
 slowly along, and gazed at them curiously. 
 
 " Seems to me you look pretty feeble to 
 be walking far," said he. " Where were 
 you going ? " 
 
 Harriet told him with an air of defiance. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed, "it is fourteen 
 miles out. You could never walk it in the 
 world. Well, I am going within three miles 
 of there, and I can go on a little further as 
 
 well as not. But I don t see Have you 
 
 been in the city ? " 
 
 "I have been visitin my married darter 
 in the city," said Harriet calmly. 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 67 
 
 Charlotte started, and swallowed convul 
 sively. 
 
 Harriet had never told a deliberate false 
 hood before in her life, but this seemed to 
 her one of the tremendous exigencies of life 
 which justify a lie. She felt desperate. If 
 she could not contrive to deceive him in 
 some way, the man might turn directly 
 around and carry Charlotte and her back to 
 the * Home " and the white caps. 
 
 " I should not have thought your daugh 
 ter would have let you start for such a walk 
 as that," said the man. "Is this lady your 
 sister? She is blind, isn t she? She does 
 not look fit to walk a mile. " 
 
 " Yes, she s my sister," replied Harriet 
 stubbornly : " an she s blind ; an my darter 
 didn t want us to walk. She felt reel bad 
 about it. But she couldn t help it. She s 
 poor, and her husband s dead, an she s got 
 four leetle children." 
 
 Harriet recounted the hardships of her 
 imaginary daughter with a glibness that was 
 astonishing. Charlotte swallowed again. 
 
 " Well," said the man, " I am glad I over 
 took you, for I don t think you would ever 
 have reached home alive." 
 
 About six miles from the city an open 
 buggy pansed them swiftly. In it were 
 
68 A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 
 
 seated the matron and one of the gentle 
 men in charge of the " Home." They never 
 thought of looking into the covered wagon 
 and indeed one can travel in one of those 
 vehicles, so popular in some parts of New 
 England, with as much privacy as he could 
 in his tomb. The two in the buggy were 
 seriously alarmed, and anxious for the safety 
 of the old women, who were chuckling malici 
 ously in the wagon they soon left far behind. 
 Harriet had watched them breathlessly until 
 they disappeared on a curve of the road ; 
 then she whispered to Charlotte. 
 
 A little after noon the two old women 
 crept slowly up the footpath across the field 
 to their old home. 
 
 " The clover is up to our knees," said 
 Harriet; "an 5 the sorrel and the white- 
 weed ; an there s lots of yaller butterflies." 
 
 "O Lord, Harriet, thar s a chink, an I 
 do believe I saw one of them yaller butter 
 flies go past it," cried Charlotte, trembling all 
 over, and nodding her grey head violently. 
 
 Harriet stood on the old sunken door-step 
 and fitted the key, which she drew triumph 
 antly from her pocket, in the lock, while 
 Charlotte stood waiting and shaking behind 
 her. 
 
 Then they went in. Everything waa 
 
A MISTAKEN CHARITY. 69 
 
 there just as they had left it. *, Charlotte 
 sank down on a chair and began to cry. 
 Harriet hurried across to the window that 
 looked out on the garden. 
 
 " The currants air ripe," said she ; " an 
 them pumpkins hev run all over everything." 
 
 "0 Lord, Harriet," sobbed Charlotte, 
 " thar is so many chinks that they air all 
 rannin together 1 ;! 
 
GENTIAN. 
 
 IT had been raining hard all night ; when 
 the morning dawned clear everything 
 looked vivid and unnatural. The wet leaves 
 on the trees and hedges seemed to emit a 
 real green light of their own ; the tree 
 trunks were black and dank, and the spots 
 of moss on them stood out distinctly. 
 
 A tall old woman was coming quickly 
 up the street. She had on a stiffly starched 
 calico gown, which sprang and rattled as she 
 walked. She kept smoothing it anxiously. 
 "Gittin every mite of the stiff nin out," 
 she muttered to herself. 
 
 She stopped at a long cottage house, 
 whose unpainted walls, with white window- 
 facings, and wide sweep of shingled roof, 
 looked dark and startling through being 
 sodden with rain. 
 
 There was a low stone wall by way of 
 fence, with a gap in it for a gate. 
 
 She had just passed through this gap 
 when the house door opened, and a woman 
 put out her head. 
 
GENTIAN. . 71 
 
 " Is that you, Hannah ? " saio^she. 
 
 "Yes, it s me." She laid a hard em 
 phasis on the last word; then she sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 4 Hadn t you better hold your dress up 
 comin through that wet grass, Hannah ? 
 You 11 git it all bedraggled." 
 
 " I know it. I m a-gittin every mite of 
 the stifFnin out on t. I worked half the 
 forenoon ironin on t yesterday, too. Well, 
 I thought I d got to git over here an fetch 
 a few of these fried cakes. I thought mebbe 
 Alferd would relish em fur his breakfast ; 
 an he d got to hev em while they was 
 hot ; they ain t good fur nothin cold ; an I 
 didn t hev a soul to send never do. How 
 is Alferd this mornin , Lucy ? " 
 
 " Bout the same, I guess." 
 
 " Ain t had the doctor yit ? " 
 
 " No." She had a little, patient, pleasant 
 smile on her face, looking up at her ques 
 tioner. 
 
 The women were sisters. Hannah was 
 Hannah Orton, unmarried. Lucy was Mrs. 
 Toilet. Alfred was her sick husband. 
 
 Hannah s long, sallow face was deeply 
 wrinkled. Her wide mouth twisted em 
 phatically as she talked. 
 
 " Well, I know one thing ; ef he was my 
 husband he d hev a doctor 
 
72 GENTIAN. 
 
 Mrsr ToHet s voice was old, but there was 
 a childish tone in it, a sweet, uncertain -pipe. 
 
 " No ; you couldn t make him, Hannah ; 
 you couldn t, no more n me. Alferd was 
 allers jest so. He ain t never thought 
 nothin of doctors, nor doctors stuff." 
 
 " Well, I d make him take somethin . In 
 my opinion he needs somethin bitter. " She 
 screwed her mouth as if the bitter morsel 
 were on her own tongue. 
 
 " Lor ! he wouldn t take it, you know, 
 Hannah. " 
 
 " He d hev to. Gentian would be good 
 fur him." 
 
 "He wouldn t tech it. " 
 
 " I d make him, ef I put it in his tea un 
 beknownst to him." 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn t dare to." 
 
 "Land ! I guess I d dare to. Ef folks 
 don t know enough to take what s good fur 
 em, they d orter be made to by hook or 
 crook. I don t believe in deceivin gene 
 rally, but I don t believe the Lord would 
 hev let folks hed the faculty fur deceivin 
 in em ef it wa n t to be used fur good some 
 times. It s my opinion Alferd won t last 
 long ef he don t hev somethin pretty soon 
 to strengthen of him up an give him a 
 start. Well, it ain t no use talkin . I ve 
 
GENTIAN. 73 
 
 got to git home an put this ^dress in the 
 wash-tub agin, I s pose. I never see such a 
 sight jest look at that ! You d better 
 give Alferd those cakes afore they git cold. " 
 
 * I shouldn t wonder ef he relished em. 
 You was real good to think of it, Hannah. " 
 
 "Well, I m a-goin . Every mite of the 
 stiff nin s out. Sometimes it seems as ef 
 thar wa n t no end to the work. I didn t 
 know how to git out this mornin , anyway." 
 
 When Mrs. Toilet entered the house she 
 found her husband in a wooden rocking- 
 chair with a calico cushion, by the kitchen 
 window. He was a short, large-framed old 
 man, but he was very thin. There were 
 great hollows in his yellow cheeks. 
 
 " What you got thar, Lucy ? " 
 
 " Some griddle-cakes Hannah brought." 
 
 "Griddle-cakes ! " 
 
 " They re real nice-lookin ones. Don t 
 you think you d relish one or two, Alferd ? " 
 
 " Ef you an Hannah want griddle-cakes, 
 you kin hev griddle-cakes." 
 
 " Then you don t want to hev one, with 
 some maple merlasses on it ? They ve kept 
 hot ; she hed em kivered up." 
 
 " Take em away." 
 
 She set them meekly on the pantry shelf ; 
 then she came back and stood before her 
 
74 GENTIAN. 
 
 husband, gentle depreeatfoTi-m her soft, old 
 face and in the whole poise of her" little 
 slender body. 
 
 "What will you hev fur breakfast, 
 Alferd ? " 
 
 " I don* know. Well, you might as well 
 fry a little slice of bacon, an git a cup of 
 tea. " 
 
 " Ain t you most afeard of bacon, 
 Alferd ? " 
 
 "No, I ain t. Ef anybody s sick, they 
 kin tell what they want themselves bout as 
 well s anybody kin tell em. They don t- 
 hev any hankerin arter anythin unless it s 
 good for em. When they need anythin , 
 natur gives em a longin arter it. I wish 
 you d hurry up an cook that bacon, Lucy. 
 I m awful faint at my stomach." 
 
 She cooked the bacon and made the tea 
 with no more words. Indeed, it was seldom 
 that she used as many as she had now. 
 Alfred Toilet, ever since she had married 
 him, had been the sole autocrat of all her 
 little R/ussias ; her very thoughts had fol 
 lowed after him, like sheep. 
 
 After breakfast she went about putting 
 her house in order for the day. When that 
 was done, and she was ready to sit down 
 with her sewing, she found that her husband 
 
GENTIAN. 75 
 
 had fallen asleep in his chair. She stood 
 over him a minute, looking af his pale old 
 face with the sincerest love and reverence. 
 Then she sat down by the window and sewed, 
 but not long. She got her bonnet and shawl 
 stealthily, and stole out of the house. She 
 sped quickly down the village street. She 
 was light footed for an old woman. She 
 slackened her pace when she reached the 
 village sj;ore, and crept hesitatingly into the 
 great lumbering, rank-smelling room, with 
 its dark, newly -sprinkled floor. She bought 
 a bar of soap ; then she stood irresolute. 
 
 " Anything else this mornin , Mis Toilet?" 
 The proprietor himself, a narrow-shouldered, 
 irritable man, was \vaiting on her. His tone 
 was impatient. Mrs. Toilet was too ab 
 sorbed to notice it. She stood hesitating. 
 
 " Is there anything else you want ? " 
 
 "Well I don know; but p rhaps I d 
 better hev ten cents wuth of gentian." 
 Her very lips were white ; she had an ex 
 pression of frightened, guilty resolution. If 
 she had asked for strychnine, with a view to 
 her own bodily destruction, she would not 
 have had a different look. 
 
 The man mistook it, and his conscience 
 smote him. He thought his manner had 
 frightened her, but she had never noticed it. 
 
76 GENTIAN. 
 
 " Goin to give your husband some 
 bitters ? " he asked affably, as he handed 
 her the package. 
 
 She started and blushed. " No I 
 thought some would be good fur me." 
 
 " Well, gentian is a first-rate bitter. 
 Good morning, Mis Toilet." 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Gill." 
 
 She was trembling all over when she 
 reached her house door. There is a subtle, 
 easily raised wind which blows spirits about 
 like leaves, and she had come into it with 
 her little paper of gentian. She had hidden 
 the parcel in her pocket before she entered 
 the kitchen. Her husband was awake. He 
 turned his wondering, half-resentful eyes 
 towards her without moving his head. 
 
 " Where hev you been, Lucy ? " 
 
 " I jest went down to the store a minit, 
 Alferd, while you was asleep." 
 
 What fur ? " 
 
 "A bar of soap." 
 
 Alfred Toilet had always been a very 
 healthy man until this spring. Some people 
 thought that his illness was alarming now, 
 more from its unwontedness and consequent 
 effect on his mind, than from anything seri 
 ous in its nature. However that may have 
 been, he had complained of great depression 
 
GENTIAN. 77 
 
 and languor all the spring, and had not at 
 tempted to do any work. 
 
 It was the beginning of May now. 
 
 * Ef Alferd kin only git up May hill," 
 Mrs. Toilet s sister had said to her, "he ll 
 git along all right through the summer. . It s 
 a dretful tryin time." 
 
 So up May hill, under the white apple and 
 plum boughs, over the dandelions and the 
 young grass, Alfred Toilet climbed, pushed 
 and led faithfully by his loving old wife. At 
 last he stood triumphantly on the summit of 
 that fair hill, with its sweet wearisome 
 ascent. When the first of June came people 
 said, "Alfred Toilet s a good deal better." 
 
 He began to plant a little and bestir himself. 
 
 " Alferd s out workin in the garden," 
 Mrs. Toilet told her sister one afternoon. 
 She had strolled over to her house with her 
 knitting after dinner. 
 
 " You don t say so ! Well, I thought when 
 I see him Sunday that he was lookin better. 
 He s got through May, an I guess he 11 pull 
 through. I did feel kinder worried bout 
 
 him one spell Why, Lucy, what s the 
 
 matter ? " 
 
 "Nothin . Why?" 
 
 " You looked at me dretful kind of queer 
 an distressed, I thought." 
 
78 GENTIAN. 
 
 " I guess you must hev imagined it, 
 Hannah. Thar ain t nothin the matter." 
 She tried to look unconcernedly at her 
 sister, but her lips were trembling. 
 
 "Well, I don t know bout it. You look 
 kinder queer now. I guess you walked 
 too fast comin over here. You allers did 
 race. " 
 
 "Mebbeldid." 
 
 " For the land sake, jest see that dust 
 you tracked in ! I Ve got to git the dust 
 pan an brush now, an sweep it up." 
 
 "I ll doit." 
 
 " No ; set still. I d rather see to it my 
 self." 
 
 As the summer went on Alfred Toilet con 
 tinued to improve. He was as hearty as 
 ever by September. But his wife seemed 
 to lose as he gained. She grew thin, and 
 her small face had a solemn, anxious look. 
 She went out very little. She did not go to 
 church at all, and she had been a devout 
 church-goer. Occasionally she went over to 
 her sister s, that was all. Hannah watched 
 her shrewdly. She was a woman who arrived 
 at conclusions slowly ; but she never turned 
 aside from the road to them, ^^us/ 
 
 " Look-a here, Lucy," she said one day, " I 
 know what s the matter with you ; thar s 
 
GE:N TIAN. 79 
 
 somethin on your mind ; an I think you d 
 better out with it." 
 
 The words seemed propelled like bullets 
 by her vehemence. Lucy shrank down and 
 away from them, her pitiful eyes turned up 
 towards her sister. 
 
 " Hannah, you scare me ; I don t know 
 what you mean." 
 
 " Yes, you do. Do you s pose I m blind ? 
 You re worrying yourself to death, an I 
 want to know the reason why. Is it any 
 thing bout Alferd ? " 
 
 " Yes don t, Hannah." 
 
 " Well, I ll go over an give him a piece 
 of my mind ! I 11 see " 
 
 " Hannah, don t ! It ain t him. It a 
 me it s me." 
 
 " What on airth hev you done ? " 
 
 Mrs. Toilet began to sob. 
 
 " For the land sake, stop cryin an tell 
 me ! " 
 
 " Oh, I give him gentian ! " 
 
 " Lucy Ann Toilet, air you crazy? What 
 ef you did give him gentian ? I don t see 
 nothin to take on so about." 
 
 "I deceived him, an it s been most 
 killin me to think on t ever since. " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I put it in his tea, the way you said." 
 
80 GENTIAN. 
 
 " An he never knew it ? " 
 
 " He kinder complained bout its tastin 
 bitter, an I told him twas his mouth. He 
 asked me ef it didn t taste bitter to me, an 
 I said, * No. I don know nothin what s 
 goin to become of me. Then I had to be so 
 keerful bout putting too much on t in his 
 tea, that I was afraid he wouldn t get 
 enough. So I put little sprinklin s on t in 
 the bread an pies an everythin I cooked. 
 An when he d say nothin tasted right now 
 adays, an somehow everything was kinder 
 bitterish, I d tell him it must be his mouth." 
 
 " Look here, Lucy, you didn t eat every 
 thin with gentian in it yourself ? " 
 
 " Course I did." 
 
 " Fur the land sake ! " 
 
 " I s pose the stuff must hev done him 
 good ; he s picked right up ever since he 
 begun takin it. But I can t git over my 
 deceivin of him so. I ve bout made up my 
 mind to tell him." 
 
 " Well, all I ve got to say is you re a big 
 fool if you do. I declare, Lucy Ann Toilet, 
 I never saw sech a woman ! The idee of 
 your worryin over such a thing as that, 
 when it s done Alferd good, too ! P rhaps 
 you d ruther he d died ? " 
 
 " Sometimes I think I hed most ruther. 
 
GENTIAN. 8 1 
 
 Well ! " 
 
 In the course of a few days Mrs. Toilet 
 did tell her husband. He received her dis 
 closure in precisely the way she had known 
 that he would. Her nerves received just 
 the shock which they were braced to meet. 
 
 Thsy had come home from meeihig"~OTi a 
 Sunday "might. Mcs. Tollt stood before 
 him ; sjo^-ira d" not even taken off her shawl 
 aHtTlittle black bonnet. 
 
 "Alferd," said she, "I ve got somethjn 
 to tell you; it s been on my mind a long 
 time. I meant it all fur the best ; but I Ve 
 been doin somethin wrong. I Ve been de- 
 ceivin of you. I give you gentian last 
 spring when you was so poorly. I put little 
 sprinklin s on t into everything you ate. 
 An I didn t tell the truth when I said twas 
 your mouth, an it didn t taste bitter tame." 
 
 The old man half closed his eyes, and 
 looked at her intently ; his mouth widened 
 out rigidly. * * You put a little gentian into 
 everything I ate unbeknownst to me, did 
 you?" said he. " H m ! " 
 
 "0 Alferd, don t look at me so ! I 
 meant it all fur the best. I was afeard you 
 wouldn t git well without you hed it, Alferd. 
 I was dretful worried about you ; you didn t 
 know nothin about it, but I was. I laid 
 F 
 
82 GENTIAN. 
 
 awake nights a- worry in an prayin . I know 
 I did wrong ; it wa n t right to deceive you, 
 but it was all along of my worryin an my 
 thinkin so much of you, Alferd. I was 
 afeard you d die an leave me all alone ; an 
 it most killed me to think on t. ^y 
 
 /Mr. Toilet pulled off his boots, then pat 
 tered heavily about the house r locking the 
 -preparations for retiring 
 
 He woul(ijnafc speak another word to his 
 \vife_about the matter Ftheugh i3 
 
 Next morning, Iwkile she was getting 
 
 A breakfast, he went cjjpwn to the store. The 
 
 meal, a nice one fijie had taken unusual 
 
 pains with it was 
 turned ; but he nevj 
 hands were full of bu| 
 
 with painstaking de iberation. His wife 
 
 the table when he re- 
 glanced at it. His 
 dies, which he opened 
 
 watched apprehensiv* 
 teapot, a pound of te 
 cheese, also a salt ma 
 
 Mrs. Toilet s eyes 
 her lips were white.^ 
 pinch of tea in the new teapot, and filled 
 it with boiling water from the kettle. 
 
 "What air you a-doin on, Alferd?" she 
 asked feebly. 
 
 "I m jest a-goin to make sure I hev 
 
 y. There was a new 
 and some bread and 
 
 kerel. 
 
 hone round and big ; 
 Her husband put a 
 
GENTIAN. 83 
 
 some tea, an somethin to eat without any 
 gentian in it." 
 
 " O Alferd, I made these corn-cakes on 
 purpose, an they air real light. They ain t 
 got no gentian on em, Alferd." 
 
 He sliced his bread and cheese clumsily, 
 and sat down to eat them in stubborn 
 silence. 
 
 Mrs. Toilet, motionless at her end of the 
 table, stared at him with an appalled look. 
 She never thought of eating anything her 
 self. 
 
 After breakfast, when her husband started 
 out to work, he pointed at the mackerel. 
 " Don t you tech that, ".said-fee. 
 
 " But, Alferd " 
 
 " I ain t got nothin more to say. Don t 
 you tech it." 
 
 Nw-er a morning had passed before but 
 Lucy Toilet had set her house in order ; to 
 day she remained there at the kitchen-table 
 till noon, and did not put away the break 
 fast dishes. 
 
 Alfred came home, ^kindled up the fire, 
 cooked and ate his salt mackerel imper- 
 turbably ; and she did not move or speak 
 till he was about to go away again. Then 
 she said, in a voice which seemed to shrink 
 of itself, " Alferd ! " 
 
84 GENTIAN. 
 
 He did not turn his head. 
 
 " Alferd, you must answer me ; I m in 
 airnest. Don t you want me to do nothin 
 fur you any more ? Don t you never want 
 me to cook anything fur you agin ? " 
 
 * No ; I m af eard of gittin things that s 
 bitter." 
 
 " I won t never put any gentian in any 
 thing agin, Alferd. Won t you let me git 
 supper ? " 
 
 "No, I won t. I don t want to talk no 
 more about it. In futur I m a-goin to cook 
 my vittles myself, an that s all thar is 
 about it." 
 
 "Alferd, if you don t want me to do 
 nothin fur you, mebbe you 11 think I ain t 
 airnin my own vittles; mebbe you d 
 rather I go over to Hannah s " 
 
 She sobbed aloud when she said that. 
 He looked startled, and eyed her sharply 
 for a minute. The other performer in the 
 little melodrama which this thwarted, arbi 
 trary old man had arranged was adopting a 
 rdle that he had not anticipated, but he was 
 still going to abide by his own. 
 
 " Mebbe twould be jest as well," said he. 
 Then he went out of the door. 
 
 Hannah Orton was in her kitchen sewing 
 when her sister entered- 
 
GENTIAN. 85 
 
 "Fur the land sake, Lucy,^ what is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 "I ve left him I ve left Alferd! Oh! 
 Oh!" 
 
 Lucy Toilet gasped for breath ; she sank 
 into a chair, and leaned her head against 
 the wall. Hannah got some water. 
 
 " Doft t, Lucy there, there ! Drink this, 
 poor lamb ! " 
 
 She did not quite faint. She could speak 
 in a few minutes. " He bought him ft new 
 tea-pot this mornin , Hannah, an some 
 bread an cheese and salt mackerel. He s 
 goin to do his own cookin ; he don t want 
 me to do nothin more fur him ; he s afeard 
 I 11 put gentian in it. I vie left him ! I ve 
 come to stay with you ! \ 
 
 "You told him, then?" 
 
 " I hed to ; I couldn t go pn so no longer. 
 He wouldn t let me tech that mackerel, an 
 it orter hev been soaked. It was salt 
 enougli to kill him." \ 
 
 " Serve him right ef it did." 
 
 " Hannah Orton, I ain t a-goin \o hev a 
 thing said agin Alferd. " \ 
 
 " Well, ef you want to stan up fur Alferd 
 Toilet, you kin. You allers would stan up 
 fur him agin your own folks. Ef you want 
 to keep on carin fur sech a miserable, set, 
 unfeelin " 
 
86 GENTIAN. 
 
 " Don t you say another word, Hannah 
 not another one ; I won t hear it." 
 
 " I ain t a-goin to say nothin ; thar ain t 
 any need of your bein so fierce. Now don t 
 cry so, Lucy. We shell git #long real nice 
 here together. You 11 get used to it arter a 
 little while, an you ll see" you air a good 
 deal better off without him ; you ve been 
 nothin but jest a slave ever since you was 
 married. Don t you s pose I ve seen it? 
 I ve pitied you so, I didn t know what to 
 do. I ve seen the time when I d like to 
 ha shook Alferd." 
 
 "Don t, Hannah." 
 
 " I ain t a-goin >to say nothin more. 
 You jest stop cryin , an try an be calm, or 
 you 11 be sick. Hev you hed any dinner ? " 
 
 " I don t want none." 
 
 " You ve got to eat somethin , Lucy Ann 
 Toilet. Thar ain t no sense in your givin 
 up so. I ve got a nice little piece of lamb, 
 an* some pease an string-beans, left over, 
 an I m a-goin to get em. You ve got to 
 eat em, an then you 11 feel better. Look-a 
 here, I want to know ef Alferd drove you 
 out of the house cause you give him gen 
 tian ? I ain t got it through my head yet." 
 
 " I asked him ef he d ruther hev me go, 
 an he said mebbe twould be jest as well 
 
GENTIAN. 87 
 
 I thought T shouldn t hev no right to stay 
 ef I couldn t git his meals for Him." 
 
 " Right to stay ! Lucy Ann Toilet, ef it 
 wa n t fur the grace of the Lord, I believe 
 you d be a simpleton. I don t understand 
 no sech goodness ; I allers thought it would 
 run into foolishness some time, an I believe 
 it has with you. Well, don t worry no 
 more about it ; set up an eat your dinner. 
 Jest smooth out that mat under your feet a 
 little ; you ve got it all scrolled up." 
 
 No bitter herb could have added anything 
 to the bitterness of that first dinner which 
 poor Lucy Toilet ate after she had left her 
 own home. Time and custom lessened, but 
 not much, the bitterness of the subsequent 
 ones. Hannah had sewed for her living all 
 her narrow, single life ; Lucy shared her 
 work now. They had to live frugally ; still 
 they had enough. Hannah owned the little 
 house in which she lived. 
 
 Lucy Toilet lived with her through the 
 fall and winter. Her leaving her husband 
 started a great whirlpool of excitement in 
 this little village. Hannah s custom doubled : 
 people came ostensibly for work, but really 
 for information. They quizzed her about 
 her sister, but Hannah could be taciturn. 
 She did their work and divulged nothing, 
 
88 GENTIAN. 
 
 except occasionally when she was surprised. 
 Then she would let fall a few little hints, 
 which were not at Lucy s expense. 
 
 They never saw Mrs. Toilet ; she always 
 ran when she heard any one coming. She 
 never went out to church nor on the street. 
 She grew to have a ( morbid dread of meet 
 ing her husband or seeing him. She would 
 never sit at the window, lest he might go 
 past. Hannah could not understand this ; 
 neither could Lucy herself. 
 
 Hannah thought she was suffering less 
 and was becoming weaned from her affec 
 tion, because she did so. But in reality she 
 was suffering more, and her faithful love for 
 her imperious old husband was strengthen 
 ing. 
 
 All the autumn and winter she stayed 
 and worked quietly _in the spring she grew 
 restless, though n&k perceptibly. She had 
 never bewailed herself much after the first ; 
 she dreaded hei/sister s attacks on Alfred. 
 Silence as to hdr own grief was her best way 
 of defending Kim*-/ 
 
 Towards spring she often let her work fall 
 in her lap, and thought, jj^en she would 
 glance timidly at Hannah, as^lf she could 
 know what her thoughts were ; but Hannah 
 
GENTIAN. 89 
 
 was-Jie mind-reader. Hannah, when she set 
 out for meeting one evening in "May, had no 
 conception whatever of the plan which was 
 all matured in her sister s mind. 
 
 Lucy watched her out of sight ; then she 
 got herself ready quickly. She smoothed 
 her hair, put on her bonnet and shawl, and 
 started up the road towards her old home. 
 
 There was no moon, but it was clear and 
 starry. The blooming trees stood beside the 
 road like sweet, white, spring angels ; there 
 was a whippoorwill calling somewhere over 
 across the fields. Lucy Toilet saw neither 
 stars nor blooming trees ; she did not hear 
 the whippoorwill. That hard, whimsical 
 old man in the little weather-beaten house 
 ahead towered up like a grand giant be 
 tween the white trees and this one living 
 old woman ; his voice in her ears drowned 
 out all the sweet notes of the spring birds. 
 
 When she came in sight of the house there 
 was a light in the kitchen window. She 
 crept up to it softly and looked in. Alfred 
 was standing there with his hat on. He 
 was looking straight at the window, and he 
 saw her the minute her little pale face came 
 up above the sill. 
 
 He opened the door quickly and came out. 
 " Lucy, is that you ? " 
 
9O GENTIAN. 
 
 " O Alferd, let me come home ! I 11 never 
 deceive you agin ! " 
 
 " You jest go straight back to Hannah s 
 this minute." 
 
 She caught hold of his coat. "O Alferd, 
 don t don t drive me away agin ! It ll kill 
 me this time ; it will ! it will ! " 
 
 " You go right back." 
 
 She sank right down at his feet then, and 
 clung to them. " Alferd, I won t go ; I 
 won t ! I won t ! You sha n t drive me away 
 agin. O Alferd, don t drive me away from 
 home ! I ve lived here with you for fifty 
 year a most. Let me come home an cook 
 fur you, an do fur you agin. Alferd, 
 Alferd ! " 
 
 " See here, Lucy git up ; stop takin on so. 
 I want to tell you somethin . You jest go 
 right back to Hannah s, an don t you worry. 
 You set down an wait a minute. Thar ! " 
 
 -fcilcy luuked ttt-kim. "What do you 
 mean, Alferd?" 
 
 " Never you mind ; you jwt go right 
 along. * 
 
 Lucy Toilet sped back along the road to 
 Hannah s, hardly knowing what she was 
 about. It is doubtful if she realised any 
 thing but a blind obedience to her husband s 
 will, and a hope of something roused by a 
 
GENTIAN. 91 
 
 new tone in his voice. She sat^ down on the 
 doorstep and waited, she did not know for 
 what. In a few minutes she heard the 
 creak of heavy boots, and her husband 
 came in sight. He walked straight up to 
 her. 
 
 " I ve come to ask you to come home, 
 Lucy. I m a-feelin kinder poorly this 
 spring, an I want you ter stew me up a 
 little gentian. That you give me afore did 
 me a sight of good. " 
 
 " Alferd ! " 
 
 " That s what I d got laid out to do when 
 I see you at the winder, Lucy, an I was 
 a-goin to do it." 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 niHERE were no clouds in the whole sky 
 JL except a few bleak violet-coloured ones 
 in the west. Between them the sky showed 
 a clear, cold yellow. The air was very still, 
 asd the trees stood out distinctly. 
 
 " Thar s goin to be a heavy frost, sure 
 enough," said Ann Millet. " I 11 hev to git 
 the squashes in." 
 
 She stood in the door, surveying the look 
 outside as she said this. Then she went in, 
 and presently emerged with a little black 
 shawl pinned closely over her head, and 
 began work. 
 
 This was a tiny white-painted house, with 
 a door and one window in front, and a little 
 piazza, over which the roof jutted, and on 
 which the kitchen door opened, on the rear 
 corner. The squashes were piled up on this 
 piazza in a great yellow and green heap. 
 
 "A splendid lot they air," said Ann. 
 " I d orter be thankful." Ann always spoke 
 of her obligation to duty, and never seemed 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 93 
 
 to think of herself as performing the duty 
 itself. "I d orter be thankful," said she 
 always. 
 
 Her shawl, pinned closely over her hair 
 and ears, showed the small oval of her face. 
 The greater part of it seemed to be taken up 
 by a heavy forehead, from under which her 
 deep-set blue eyes looked with a strange, 
 solemn expression. She looked alike at 
 everything, the clear cold sky and the 
 squashes, soberly and solemnly. 
 
 This expression, taken in connection with 
 her little delicate old face, had something 
 almost uncanny about it. Some people 
 complained of feeling nervous when Ann 
 looked at them. 
 
 "Thar s Mis Stone comin ," said she. 
 " Hope to goodness she won t stop an hin 
 der me ! Lor sakes ! I d orter hev more 
 patience." 
 
 A tall, stooping figure came up the street, 
 and paused at her gate hesitatingly. 
 
 "Good evenin , Ann." 
 
 Mis Stone. Come in, 
 
 Mrs. Stone came through the gate, walked 
 up to the piazza, and stopped. 
 
 " Gettin in your squashes, ain t you ? " 
 
 I didn t dare resk em out to- 
 
94 AN OBJECT OF LOVfc. 
 
 night, it s so cold. I left em out last year, 
 an they got touched, an it about spoilt 
 em." 
 
 * Well, I should be kinder afraid to resk 
 em ; it s a good deal colder than I hed any 
 idea of when I come out. I thought I d run 
 over to Mis Maxwell s a minute, so I jest 
 clapped on this head-tie an this little cape 
 over my shoulders, an I m chilled clean 
 through. I don know but I ve tuk cold. 
 Yes ; I d take em in. We got ourn in last 
 week, such as they was. We ain t got 
 more n half as many as you hev. I 
 shouldn t think you could use em all, Ann." 
 
 "Well, I do. I allers liked squashes, an 
 \Villy likes em too. 1 ou d orter see him 
 brush round me, a-roundin up his back an 
 purrin when I m a-scrapin of em out of 
 the shell. He likes em better n fresh 
 meat." 
 
 " Seems queer for a cat to like sech things. 
 Ourn won t touch em ; he s awful dainty. 
 How nice an big your cat looks a-settin 
 thar in the window ! " 
 
 " He s a-watchin of me. He jumped up 
 thar jest the minute I come out. " 
 
 " He s a good deal of company for you, 
 ain t he ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is. What on airth I should do 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 95 
 
 this long winter that s comin , without him, 
 I don know. Everybody wants somethin 
 that s alive in the house." 
 
 " That s so. It must be pretty lonesome 
 for you anyway. Ruth an me often speak 
 of it when we look over here, specially in 
 the winter season, some of them awful stormy 
 nights we hev. " 
 
 " Well, I don t mean to complain, any 
 way. I d orter be thankful. I ve got my 
 Bible an Willy, an a roof over my head, an 
 enough to eat an wear ; an a good many 
 folks hev to be alone, as fur as other folks 
 is concerned, on this airth. An p rhaps 
 some other woman ain t lonesome because I 
 am, an may be she d be one of the kind that 
 didn t like cats, an wouldn t hev got along 
 half as well as me. No : I ve got a good 
 many mercies to be thankful fur more n I 
 deserve. I never orter complain." 
 
 " Well, if all of us looked at our mercies 
 more n our trials, we d be a great deal 
 happier. But, sakes ! I must be goin . I m 
 catchin cold, an I m henderin you. It s 
 supper-time, too. You ve got somethin 
 cookin in the house that smells good." 
 
 "Yes; it s some stewed tomarter. I 
 allers like somethin I kin eat butter an 
 pepper on sech a night as this." 
 
96 AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 "Well, somethin of that kind is good. 
 Good night, Ann." 
 
 " Good night, Mis Stone. Groin to meet- 
 m. to-night ? " 
 
 "Pm-goin* ef Ruth don t. One of us has 
 to stay with the children, you know. Good 
 night." 
 
 Mrs. Stone had spoken in a very high- 
 pitched tone all the while. Ann was some 
 what deaf. She had spoken loudly and 
 shrilly, too ; so now there was a sudden 
 lull, and one could hear a cricket chirping 
 somewhere about the door. 
 
 Mrs. Stone, pulling her tiny drab cape 
 tighter across her stooping, rounded 
 shoulders, hitched rapidly down the street 
 to her own home, which stood on the 
 opposite side, a little below Ann s, and Ann 
 went on tugging in her squashes. 
 
 "I m glad she s gone," she muttered, 
 looking after Mrs. Stone s retreating figure. 
 "I didn t know how to be hendered a 
 minute. I d orter hev more patience." 
 
 She had to carry in the squashes one at a 
 time. She was a little woman, and although 
 she had been used to hard work all her life, 
 it had not been of a kind to strengthen her 
 muscles : she had been a dressmaker. So 
 she stepped patiently into her kitchen with 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 97 
 
 a scjnash, and out without one ; then in 
 again with one. She piled them up in a 
 heap on the floor in a corner. 
 
 " They 11 hev to go up on that shelf over 
 the mantle," said she, "to-morrow. I 
 can t git em up thar to-night an go to 
 meetin nohow." 
 
 She had a double shelf of unpainted pine 
 rigged over the ordinary one for her 
 squashes. 
 
 After the squashes were all in Ann took 
 off her shawl and hung it on a nail behind 
 the kitchen door. Then she set her bowl of 
 smoking hot tomato stew on a little table 
 between the windows, and sat down con 
 tentedly. 
 
 There was a white cloth on the table, and 
 some bread and butter and pie beside the 
 stew. Ann looked at it solemnly. "I d 
 orter be thankful," said she. That was her 
 way of saying grace. Then she fell to eat 
 ing with a relish. This solemn, spiritual- 
 looking old woman loved her food, and had 
 a keen lookout for it. Perhaps she got a 
 spiritual enjoyment out of it too, besides 
 the lower material one. Perhaps hot 
 stewed tomatoes, made savoury with butter 
 and pepper and salt, on a frosty November 
 night, had for her a subtle flavour of home 
 I r. 
 
98 AN OBJECT Of LOVE. 
 
 comfort and shelter and coziness, appealing 
 to her imagination, besides the commoner 
 one appealing to her palate. 
 
 Before anything else,^hough, before seat? f 
 ing herself she had given her cat his saucer 
 of warm milk in a snug corner by the stove. 
 He was a beautiful little animal, with a 
 handsome dark striped coat on his back, 
 and white paws and face. 
 
 When he had finished lapping his milk, 
 he came and stood beside his mistress s 
 chair while she ate, and purred he rarely 
 mewed and she gave him bits of bread 
 from her plate now and then. She talked 
 to him too. "Nice Willy," said she, " nice 
 cat. Got up on the window to see me bring 
 in the squashes, didn t he? There s a 
 beautiful lot of em, an he shall hev some 
 stewed for his dinner, to-morrow, so he 
 shall." 
 
 And the cat would purr, and rub his soft 
 coat against her, and look as if he knew 
 just what she meant. 
 
 There was a prayer-meeting in the church 
 vestry that evening, and Ann Millet went. 
 She never missed one. The minister, when 
 he entered, always found her sitting there 
 at the head of the third seat from the front, 
 in the right-hand row always in the same 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 99 
 
 place, a meek, erect little figure, in a poor, 
 tidy black bonnet and an obsolete black 
 coat, with no seam in the whole of the 
 voluminous back. That had been the style 
 of outside garments when Miss Millet had 
 laid aside dressmaking, and she had never 
 gone a step further in fashions. She had 
 stopped just where she was, and treated her 
 old patterns as conservatively as she did her 
 Bible. 
 
 She had had a pretty voice when she was 
 young, people said, and she sang now in a 
 thin sweet quaver the hymns which the 
 minister gave out. She listened in solemn 
 enjoyment to the stereotyped prayers and 
 the speaker s remarks. He was a dull, 
 middle-aged preacher in a dull country 
 town. 
 
 After meeting Ann went up and told him 
 how much she had enjoyed his remarks, and 
 inquired after his wife and children. She 
 always did. To her a minister was an 
 unpublished apostle, and his wife and 
 family were set apart on the earth. 
 No matter how dull a parson laboured 
 here, he would always have one disciple 
 in this old woman. 
 
 When Ann had walked home through the 
 frosty starlight, she lit her lamp first, and 
 
IOO AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 then she called her cat. She had expected 
 to find him waiting to be let in, but he was 
 not. Shfc stood out on her little piazza;* 
 which ran along the rear corner of her house 
 by her kitchen, door, and called, "Willy! 
 Willy! Willy!" 
 
 She thought every minute she would see 
 him come bounding around the corner, but 
 she did not. She called over and over and 
 over, in her shrill, anxious pipe, " Willy ! 
 Willy ! Willy ! Kitty ! Kitty ! Kitty ! " 
 
 Finally she went into the house and waited 
 awhile, crouching, shivering with cold and 
 nervousness, over the kitchen stove. Then 
 she went outside and called again, " Willy ! 
 Willy ! Willy ! " over and over, waiting be 
 tween the calls, trembling, her dull old ears 
 alert, her dim old eyes strained. She ran 
 out to the road, and looked and called, and 
 down to the dreary garden-patch behind the 
 house, among the withered corn-stalks and 
 the mouldering squash-vines all white with 
 frost. Once her heart leaped ; she thought 
 she saw Willy coming ; but it was only a 
 black cat which belonged to one of the 
 neighbours. Then she went into the house 
 and waited a little while ; then out again ; 
 calling shrilly, " Willy ! Willy ! " 
 
 There were northern lights streaking the 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. "101 
 
 sky ; the stars shone steadily ithpougb" tfo 
 rosy glow; it was very s^iJ^a^drloneFoma 
 and cold. The little thin, shivering o!4 
 woman standing outdoors, all alone in t)ae 
 rude, chilly night air, under these splendid 
 stars and streaming lights, called over and 
 over the poor little creature which was 
 everything earthly she had to keep her com 
 pany in the great universe in which she her 
 self was so small. 
 
 "Willy! Willy! Willy!" called Ann. 
 " Oh, where is that cat ? Oh dear ! Willy ! 
 W T illy ! " 
 
 She spent the night that way. Mrs. 
 Stone s daughter Ruth, who was up with a 
 sick child, heard her. 
 
 " Miss Millet must have lost her cat," she 
 told her mother in the morning ; "I heard 
 her calling him all night long." 
 
 Pretty soon, indeed, Ann came over, her 
 small old face wild and wan. " Hev you 
 seen anything of Willy?" she asked. " He s 
 been out all night, an I m afraid somethin s 
 happened to him. I never knowed him to 
 stay out so before. " 
 
 When they told her they had not, she 
 went on to the next neighbour s to inquire. 
 But no one had seen anything of the cat. 
 All that day and night, at intervals, people 
 
102 Al* OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 heather plaintive, inquiring call, " Willy 1 
 Wiflj? Will*-? Willy!" 
 
 The next Sunday Ann was not out at 
 3hurch. It was a beautiful day too. 
 
 "I m goin to run over an see if Ann 
 Millet s sick," Mrs. [Stone told her daughter, 
 when she returned from church. " She 
 wa n t out to meetin to-day, and I m afraid 
 somethings the matter. I never knew her 
 to miss goin ." 
 
 So she went over. Miss Millet was sitting 
 in her little wooden rocking-chair in her 
 kitchen, when she opened the door. 
 
 "Why, Ann Millet, are you sick?" 
 
 "No, I ain t sick." 
 
 " You wa n t out to meetin , an I didn t 
 know " 
 
 " I ain t never goin to meetin agin." 
 
 "Why, what do you mean ? " 
 
 Mrs. Stone dropped into a chair, and 
 stared at her neighbour. 
 
 " I mean jest what I say. I ain t never 
 goin to meetin agin. Folks go to meetin 1 
 to thank the Lord for blessin s, I s pose. 
 I Ve lost mine, an I ain t goin . " 
 
 " What hev you lost, Ann ? " 
 
 " Ain t Host Willy?" 
 
 " You don t mean to say you re makin 
 such a fuss as this over a cat ? " 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 1 03 
 
 Mrs. Stone could make a good deal of 
 disapprobation and contempt manifest in 
 her pale, high-featured face, and she did 
 now. 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 * Well, I ain t nothin agin cats, but I 
 must say I m beat. Why, Ann Millet, it s 
 downright sinful fur you to feel so. Of 
 course you set a good deal by Willy ; but it 
 ain t as ef he was a human creature. Cats 
 is cats. For my part, I never thought it 
 was right to set by animals as ef they was 
 babies." 
 
 "icSTi hear what you say." 
 
 " I never thought it was right to set by 
 animals as ef they was babies. " 
 
 "I don t keer. It s comfortin to have 
 live creatures about you, an I ain t never 
 hed anything like other women. I ain t hed 
 no folks of my own sence I kin remember, 
 I ve worked hard all my life, an hed nothin 
 at all to love, an I Ve thought I d orter be 
 thankful alLthe same. But I did want as 
 much as a cat." 
 
 " Well, as I said before, I ve nothin agin 
 cats. But I don t understand any human 
 bein with an immortal soul a-settin so much 
 by one. " 
 
 " I can t hear what you say." Ann could 
 
104 AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 usually hear Mrs. Stone s high voice without 
 difficulty, but to-day she seemed deafer. 
 
 " I don t understand any human bein with 
 an immortal soul a-settin so much by a cat." 
 
 11 You ve got folks, Mis Stone." 
 
 " I know I hev ; but folks is trials some 
 times. Not that my children are, though. 
 ,1 ve got a good deal to be thankful for, I 11 
 own, in that way. But, Ann Millet, I 
 didn t think you was one to sink down so 
 under any trial. I thought the Lord would 
 be a comfort to you." 
 
 " I know all that, Mis Stone. But when 
 it comes to it, I m here an I ain t thar ; an 
 I ve got hands, an I want somethin I kin 
 touch." Then the poor soul broke down, 
 and sobbed out loud, like a baby : * I ain t 
 never felt as ef I d orter begrutch other 
 women their homes an their folks. I 
 thought p rhaps I could git along better 
 without em than some ; an the Lord 
 knowed it, an seein thar wa n t enough to 
 go round, he gave em to them that needed 
 em most. I ain t never felt as ef I d 
 orter complain. But thar was cats 
 enough. I might a hed that much." 
 
 "You kin git another cat, Ann. Mis 
 Maxwell s got some real smart kittens, an 
 I know she wants to get rid of em." 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 105 
 
 " I don t want any of Mis Maxwell s 
 kittfens ; I don t never want any other cat." 
 
 " P rhaps yourn will come back. Now 
 don t take on so." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " P rhaps yourn will come back." 
 
 " No, he won t. I 11 never see him agin. 
 I ve felt jest that way about it from the 
 first. Somebody s stole him, or he s been 
 p isoned and crawled away an died, or he s 
 been shot fur his fur. I heerd thar was a 
 boy over the river makin a cat-skin kerridge 
 blanket, an I went over thar an asked 
 him, an he said he hadn t never shot a cat 
 like Willy. But I don know. Boys ain t 
 brought up any too strict. I hope he spoke 
 the truth." 
 
 * Hark ! I declar I thought I heard a cat 
 mew somewhar! But I guess I didn t. I 
 don t hear it now. Well, I m sorry, Ann. 
 I s pose I Ve got to go ; thar s dinner to git, 
 an the baby s consider ble fretty to-day. 
 Why, Ann Millet, whar s your squashes ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Where are your squashes ? " 
 
 " I throwed em away out in the field. 
 Willy can t hev none of em now, an I 
 don t keer about em myself." 
 
 Mrs. Stone looked at her in horror. 
 
106 AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 When she got home she told her daughter 
 that Ann Millet was in a dreadful state of 
 mind, and she thought the minister ought 
 to see her. She believed she should tell him 
 if she were not out to meeting that night. 
 
 She was not. This touch of grief had 
 goaded that meek, reverential nature into 
 fierceness. The childish earnestness which 
 she had had in religion she had now in the 
 other direction. Ann Millet, in spite of all 
 excuses that could be made for her, was for 
 the time a wicked, rebellious old woman. 
 And she was as truly so as if this petty 
 occasion for it had been a graver one in 
 other people s estimation. 
 
 The next day the minister called on her, 
 stimulated by Mrs. Stone s report. He did 
 not find her so outspoken ; her awe of him 
 restrained her. Still, this phase of her 
 character was a revelation to him. He told 
 his wife, when he returned home, that he 
 never should have known it was Ann 
 Millet. 
 
 In the course of the call a rap came at the 
 kitchen door. 
 
 Ann rose and answered it, hopping ner 
 vously across the floor. She returned to 
 the minister with more distress in her face 
 than ever. 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. IO7 
 
 " Nothin but a little gal with a Malty 
 cat," said she. "The children hev got 
 wind of my losin Willy, an they mean it 
 all right, but it seems as ef I should fly 1 
 They keep comin and bringin cats. They 11 
 find a cat that they think mebbe is Willy, 
 an so they bring him to show me. They ve 
 brought Malty and white cats, an cats all 
 Malty. They ve brought yaller cats and 
 black, an thar wa n t one of em looked any 
 like Willy. Then they Ve brought kittens 
 that they knowed wa n t Willy, but they 
 thought mebbe I d like em instead of him. 
 They mean all right, I know ; they re real 
 tender-hearted ; but it most kills me. 
 Why, they brought me two little- kittens 
 that hadn t got their eyes open jest before 
 you come. They was striped an white, an 
 they said they thought they d grow up to 
 look like Willy. They were the Hooper 
 children, an they knowed him." 
 
 It would have been ludicrous if the poor 
 old woman s distress had not been so genu 
 ine. However, Mr. Beal, the minister, was 
 not a man to see the ridiculous side ; he 
 could simply be puzzled, and that he was. 
 
 It was a case entirely outside his experi 
 ence, and he did not know how to deal 
 with it. He wondered anxiously what he 
 
io8 AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 had best say to her. Finally he went away 
 without saying much of anything, he was 
 so afraid that what he said might be out 
 of proportion to the demands of the case. 
 
 It seemed to him bordering on sacrilege 
 to treat this trouble of Ann Millet s like 
 a genuine affliction, though, on the other 
 hand, that treatment was what her state of 
 mind seemed to require. 
 
 Going out the door, he stopped and 
 listened a minute ; he thought he heard a 
 cat mew. Then he concluded he was mis 
 taken, and went on. He watched eagerly 
 for Ann the next meeting night, but she did 
 not come. It is doubtful whether or not 
 she ever would have done so if she had not 
 found the cat. She had a nature which 
 could rally an enormous amount of strength 
 for persistency. 
 
 But the day after tne meeting, she had 
 occasion to go down cellar for something. 
 The cellar stairs led up to the front part of 
 the house; indeed, the cellar was under 
 that part only. Ann went through her 
 chilly sitting-room she never used it ex 
 cept in summer and opened the cellar 
 . ^.jjoor, which was in the front entry. There 
 was a quick rush from the gloom below, and 
 Willy flew up the cellar stairs. 
 
AN OBJECT OF LOVE. IO$ 
 
 " Lor sakes ! " said Ann, with a white, 
 shocked face. " He has been dtiwn thar all 
 the while. Now I remember. He foiloweeT 
 me when I came through here to git my 
 
 ^cloak that meetin night, an he wanted to 
 go down cellar, an* I let him. I thought 
 he wanted to hunt. Lor sakes ! " 
 
 She went back into the kitchen, her 
 knees trembling. The cat followed, brush 
 ing against her and purring. She poured 
 out a saucer of milk, and watched him 
 hungrily lapping. He did not look as if 
 he had suffered, though he had been in the 
 cellar a week. But mice were plenty in 
 this old house, and he had probably foraged 
 successfully for himself. 
 
 Ann watched him, the white, awed look 
 still on her face. "I s pose he mewed an I 
 didn t hear him. Thar he was all the time, 
 jest whar I put him ; an me a-blamin of 
 the Lord, an puttin of it on him. I ve 
 been an awful wicked woman. I ain t been, 
 
 to meetin , an I Ve talked, an Them 
 
 squashes I threw away ! It s been so warm 
 
 _they ain t froze, an I don t deserve it. I 
 hadn t orter hev one of em ; I hadn t orter 
 hev anythin . I d orter offer up Willy. 
 Lor sakes ! think of me a-sayin what I 
 did, an him down cellar ! " 
 
110 AN OBJECT OF LOVE. 
 
 That afternoon Mrs. Stone looked across 
 from her sitting-room window where she 
 was sewing, and saw Ann slowly and pain 
 fully bringing in squashes one at a time. 
 
 "Look here, Ruth," she called to her 
 daughter. "Jest you see. Ann Millet s 
 bringing in them squashes she threw away. 
 I don t believe but what she s come to her 
 senses." 
 
 The next meeting-night Ann was in her 
 place. The minister saw her, rejoicing. 
 After meeting he hurried out of his desk 
 to speak to her. She did not seem to be 
 coming to see him as usual. 
 
 When she looked up at him there was an 
 odd expression on her face. Her old cheeks 
 were flushing. 
 
 "I am rejoiced to see you out, Miss 
 Millet," said the minister, shaking her hand. 
 
 " Yes. I thought I d come out to-night. 
 
 "I am so happy to see you are feeling 
 better. " 
 
 * The cat has come back," said Ann. 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 A DAMP air was blowing up, and the 
 frogs were beginning to peep. The 
 sun was setting in a low red sky. On both 
 sides of the road were rich green meadows 
 intersected by little canal-like brooks. Be 
 yond the meadows on the west was a distant 
 stretch of pine woods, that showed dark 
 against the clear sky. Aurelia Flower 
 was going along the road towards her home, 
 with a great sheaf of leaves and flowers in 
 her arms. There were the rosy spikes of 
 hardback ; the great white corymbs of 
 thoroughwort, and the long blue racemes of 
 lobelia. Then there were great bunches of 
 the odorous tansy and pennyroyal in with 
 the rest. 
 
 Aurelia was a tall, strongly-built woman ; 
 she was not much over thirty, but she looked 
 older. Her complexion had a hard red tinge 
 from exposure to sun and wind, and showed 
 seams as unreservedly as granite. Her face 
 was thin, and her cheek-bones high. She 
 
 111 
 
112 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 had a profusion of auburn hair, showing in 
 a loose slipping coil beneath her limp black 
 straw hat. Her dress, as a matter of fashion, 
 was execrable ; in point of harmony with 
 her immediate surroundings, very well, 
 though she had not thought of it in that 
 way. There was a green under-skirt, and 
 a brown over-skirt and basque of an obsolete 
 cut. She had worn it just so for a good 
 many years, and never thought of altering 
 it. It did not seem to occur to her that 
 though her name was Flower, she was not 
 really a flower in regard to apparel, and 
 had not its right of unchangeableness in the 
 spring. When the trees hung out their cat 
 kins, she flaunted her poor old greens and 
 browns under them, rejoicing, and never 
 dreamed but they looked all right. As far 
 as dress went, Aurelia was a happy woman. 
 She went over the road to-night at a good 
 pace, her armful of leaves and blossoms nod 
 ding ; her spare, muscular limbs bore her 
 along easily. She had been over a good many 
 miles since noon, but she never thought of 
 being tired. 
 
 Presently she came in sight of her home, 
 a square unpainted building, black with age. 
 It stood a little back from the road on a 
 gentle slope. There were three great mapl* 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 113 
 
 trees in front of the house ; their branches 
 rustled against the roof. On the left was a 
 small garden ; some tall poles thickly twined 
 with hops were prominent in it. 
 
 Aurelia went round to the side door of the 
 house with her armful of green things. The 
 door opened directly into the great kitchen. 
 One on entering would have started back as 
 one would on seeing unexpected company in 
 a room. The walls were as green as a lady s 
 bower with bunches and festoons of all sorts 
 of New England herbs. There they hung, 
 their brave blossoms turning grey and black, 
 giving out strange, half-pleasant, half-dis 
 gusting odours. Aurelia took them in like 
 her native air. 4< It s good to get home," 
 murmured she to herself, for there was no 
 one else : she lived alone. 
 
 She took off her hat and disposed of her 
 burden ; then she got herself some supper. 
 She did not build a fire in the cooking-stove, 
 for she never drank tea in warm weather. 
 Instead, she had a tumbler of root-beer 
 which she had made herself. She set it out 
 on one end of her kitchen-table with a slice 
 of coarse bread and a saucer of cold beans. 
 She sat down to them and ate with a good 
 appetite. She looked better with her hat 
 off. Her forehead was an important part of 
 H 
 
114 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 her face ; it was white and womanly, and her 
 reddish hair lay round it in pretty curves ; 
 then her brown eyes, under very strongly 
 arched brows, showed to better advantage. 
 Taken by herself, and not compared with 
 other women, Aurelia was not so bad look 
 ing ; but she never was taken by herself in 
 that way, and nobody had ever given her 
 any credit for comeliness. It would have 
 been like looking at a jack-in-the-pulpit and 
 losing all the impression that had ever been 
 made on one by roses and hyacinths, and 
 seeing absolutely nothing else but its green 
 and brown lines : it is doubtful if it could 
 be done. 
 
 She had finished her supper, and was 
 sorting her fresh herbs, when the door 
 opened and a woman walked in. She had 
 no bonnet on her head : she was a neighbour, 
 and this was an unceremonious little country 
 place. 
 
 " Good evenin , Relia," said she. There 
 was an important look on her plain face, as 
 if there were more to follow. 
 
 Good evenin , Mis Atwood. Take a 
 chair." 
 
 " Been herbin again ? " 
 
 "Yes; I went out a little while this 
 afternoon." 
 
A GATHERER OP SIMPLES. 11$ 
 
 " Where d you go ? up on Green Moun 
 tain?" 
 
 "No; I went over to White s Woods, 
 There were some kinds there I wanted." 
 
 " You don t say so ! That s a matter of 
 six miles, ain t it ? Ain t you tired ? " 
 
 " Lor , no," said Aurelia. " I reckon I m 
 pretty strong, or mebbe the smell of the 
 herbs keeps me up ; " and she laughed. 
 
 So did the other. "Sure enough well, 
 mebbe it does. I never thought of that. 
 But it seems like a pretty long tramp to 
 me, though my bein so fleshy may make a 
 difference. I could have walked it easier 
 once." 
 
 " I shouldn t wonder if it did make a 
 difference. I ain t got much flesh to carry 
 round to tire me out." 
 
 " You re always pretty well, too, ain t 
 you, Relia ? " 
 
 "Lor , yes ; I never knew what twas to 
 be sick. How s your folks, Mis Atwood ? 
 Is Viny any better than she was ? " 
 
 " I don t know as she is, much. She feels 
 pretty poorly most of the time. I guess 
 I 11 hev you fix some more of that root-beer 
 for her. I thought that seemed to liven 
 her up a little." 
 
 " I ve got a jug of it all made, down 
 
Il6 4. GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 cellar, and you can take it when you go 
 home, if you want to." 
 
 " So I will, if you Ve got it. I was in 
 hopes you might hev it." 
 
 The important look had not vanished 
 from Mrs. Atwood s face, but she was not 
 the woman to tell important news in a 
 hurry, and have the gusto of it so soon 
 over. She was one of the natures who 
 always dispose of bread before pie. Now 
 she came to it, however. 
 
 "I heard some news to-night, Relia," 
 said she. 
 
 Aurelia picked out another spray of hard- 
 hack. " What was it ? " 
 
 Thomas Rankin s dead." 
 
 Aurelia clutched the hardback mechani 
 cally. "You don t mean it, Mis Atwood ! 
 When did he die ? I hadn t heard he was 
 sick." 
 
 " He wasn t long. Had a kind of a fit 
 this noon, and died right off. The doctor 
 they sent for Dr. Smith from Alden called 
 it sunstroke. You know twas awful hot, 
 and he d been out in the field to work all 
 the mornin . I think twas heart trouble ; 
 it s in the Rankin family ; his father died 
 of it. Doctors don t know everything." 
 
 "Well, it s a dreadful thing," said 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 117 
 
 Aurelia. " I can t realise % There he s 
 left four little children, and it ain t more n 
 a year since Mis Rankin died. It ain t a 
 year, is it ? " 
 
 "It ain t a year into a month and six 
 teen days," said Mrs. Atwood solemnly. 
 "Viny and I was countin of it up just 
 before I came in here." 
 
 " Well, I guess tisn t, come to think of 
 it. I couldn t have told exactly. The 
 oldest of those children ain t more than 
 eight, is she ? " 
 
 " Ethelind is eight, coming next month : 
 Viny and I was reckinin it up. Then 
 Edith is six, and Isadore is five, and Myrtie 
 ain t but two, poor little thing." 
 
 "What do you s pose will be done with 
 em?" 
 
 "I don t know. Viny an me was talk 
 ing of it over, and got it settled that her 
 sister Mis Loomis, over to Alden, would 
 hev to hev em. It 11 be considerable for 
 her, too, for she s got two of her own, and 
 I don t s pose Sam Loomis has got much. 
 But I don t see what else can be done. Of 
 course strangers ain t goin to take children 
 when there is folks." 
 
 " Wouldn t his mother take em ? " 
 
 "What, old-lady Sears? Lor , no. You 
 
IIS A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 Know she was dreadful put out bout 
 Thomas marryin where he did, and de 
 clared he shouldn t hev a cent of her money. 
 It was all her second husband s anyway. 
 John Rankin wasn t worth anything. She 
 won t do anything for em. She s livin in 
 great style down near the city, they say. 
 Got a nice house, and keeps help. She might 
 hev em jest as well as not, but she won t. 
 She s a hard woman to get along with, any 
 how. She nagged both her husbands to 
 death, an Thomas never had no peace at 
 home. Guess that was one reason why he 
 was in such a hurry to get married. Mis 
 Rankin was a good-tempered soul, if she 
 wasn t quite so drivin as some. " 
 
 "I do feel dreadfully to think of those 
 children," said Aurelia. 
 
 " Tis hard ; but we must try an believe 
 it will be ruled for the best. I s pose I 
 must go, for I left Viny all alone." 
 
 "Well, if you must, I ll get that root- 
 beer for you, Mis Atwood. I shall keep 
 thinking bout those children all night." 
 
 A week or two after that, Mrs. Atwood 
 had some more news ; but she didn t go to 
 Aurelia with it, for Aurelia was the very 
 sub-essence of it herself. She unfolded it 
 gingerly to her daughter Lavinia a pale, 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. IIQ 
 
 peaked young woman, who looked as if it 
 would take more than Aurelia^ s root-beer to 
 make her robust. Aurelia had taken the 
 youngest Rankin child for her own, and 
 Mrs. Atwood had just heard of it. " It s 
 true," said she ; " I see her with it myself. 
 Old lady Sears never so much as sent a 
 letter, let alone not coming to the funeral, 
 and Mis Loomis was glad enough to get rid 
 of it." 
 
 Viny drank in the story as if it had been 
 so much nourishing jelly. Her too narrow 
 life was killing her as much as anything 
 else. 
 
 Meanwhile Aurelia had the child, and 
 was actively happy, for the first time in her 
 life, to her own naive astonishment, for she 
 had never known that she was not so before. 
 She had naturally strong affections, of an 
 outward rather than an inward tendency. 
 She was capable of much enjoyment from 
 pure living, but she had never had anything 
 of which to be so very fond. She could only 
 remember her father as a gloomy, hard 
 working man, who never noticed her much. 
 He had a melancholy temperament, which 
 resulted in a tragical end when Aurelia was 
 a mere child. When she thought of him, 
 the same horror which she had when they 
 
120 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 brought him home from the river crept over 
 her now. They had never known certainly 
 just how Martin Flower had come to die ; 
 but folks never spoke of him to Aurelia and 
 her mother, and the two never talked of 
 him together. They knew that everybody 
 said Martin Flower had drowned himself ; 
 they felt shame and a Puritan shrinking 
 from the sin. 
 
 Aurelia s mother had been a hard, silent 
 woman before ; she grew more hard and 
 silent afterwards. She worked hard, and 
 taught Aurelia to. Their work was pecu 
 liar ; they hardly knew themselves how they 
 had happened to drift into it ; it had seemed 
 to creep in with other work, till finally it 
 usurped it altogether. At first, after her 
 husband s death, Mrs. Flower had tried 
 millinery : she had learned the trade in her 
 youth. But she made no headway now in 
 sewing rosebuds and dainty bows on to 
 bonnets ; it did not suit with tragedy. The 
 bonnets seemed infected with her own mood ; 
 the bows lay flat with stern resolve, and the 
 rosebuds stood up fiercely ; she did not 
 please her customers, even among those 
 uncritical country folk, and they dropped 
 off. She had always made excellent root- 
 beer, and had had quite a reputation in the 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 121 
 
 neighbourhood for it. How it happened she 
 could not tell, but she found herself selling 
 it ; then she made hop yeast, and sold that. 
 Then she was a woman of fertile brain, and 
 another project suggested itself to her. 
 
 She and Aurelia ransacked the woods 
 thereabouts for medicinal herbs, and dis 
 posed of them to druggists in a neighbour 
 ing town. They had a garden also of some 
 sorts the different mints, thyme, lavender, 
 coriander, rosemary, and others. It was an 
 unusual business for two women to engage in, 
 but it increased, and they prospered, accord 
 ing to their small ideas. But Mrs. Flower 
 grew more and more bitter with success. 
 What regrets and longing that her husband 
 could have lived and shared it, and been 
 spared his final agony, she had in her heart, 
 nobody but the poor woman herself knew ; 
 she never spoke of them. She died when 
 Aurelia was twenty, and a woman far be 
 yond her years. She mourned for her mother, 
 but although she never knew it, her warmest 
 love had not been called out. It had been 
 hardly possible. Mrs. Flower had not been 
 a lovable mother ; she had rarely spoken to 
 Aurelia but with cold censure for the last 
 few years. People whispered that it was 
 a happy release for the poor girl when her 
 
122 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 mother died ; they had begun to think she 
 was growing like her husband, and perhaps 
 was not " just right." 
 
 Aurelia went on with the business with 
 calm equanimity, and made even profits 
 every year. They were small, but more 
 than enough for her to live on, and she paid 
 the last dollar of the mortgage which had 
 so fretted her father, and owned the whole 
 house clear. She led a peaceful, innocent 
 life, with her green herbs for companions ; 
 she associated little with the people around, 
 except in a business way. They came to 
 see her, but she rarely entered their houses. 
 Every room in her house was festooned 
 with herbs ; she knew every kind that 
 grew in the New England woods, and 
 hunted them out in their season and 
 brought them home ; she was a simple, 
 sweet soul, with none of the morbid mel 
 ancholy of her parents about her. She 
 loved her work, and the greenwood things 
 were to her as friends, and the healing 
 qualities of sarsaparilla and thoroughwort, 
 and the sweetness of thyme and lavender, 
 seemed to have entered into her nature, till 
 she almost could talk with them in that 
 way. She had never thought of being un 
 happy ; but now she wondered at herself 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 123 
 
 over this child. It was a darling of a 
 child ; as dainty and winsome a girl baby 
 as ever was. Her poor young mother had 
 had a fondness for romantic names, which 
 she had bestowed, as the only heritage 
 within her power, on all her children. 
 This one was Myrtilla Myrtie for short. 
 The little thing clung to Aurelia from the 
 first, and Aurelia found that she had an 
 other way of loving besides the way in 
 which she loved lavender and thorough- 
 wort. The comfort she took with the child 
 through the next winter was unspeakable. 
 The herbs were banished from the south 
 room, which was turned into a nursery, and 
 a warm carpet was put on the floor, that the 
 baby might not take cold. She learned to 
 cook for the baby her own diet had been 
 chiefly vegetarian. She became a charming 
 nursing- mother. People wondered. "It 
 does beat all how handy Relia is with that 
 baby," Mrs. Atwood told Viny. 
 
 Aurelia took even more comfort with the 
 little thing when spring came, and she 
 could take her out with her; then she 
 bought a little straw carriage, and the two 
 went after herbs together. Home they 
 would come in the tender spring twilight, 
 the baby asleep in her carriage, with a 
 
124 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 great sheaf of flowers beside her, and 
 Aurelia with another over her shoulder. 
 
 She felt all through that summer as if she 
 were too happy to have it last. Once she 
 said so to one of the neighbours. "I feel 
 as if it wa n t right for me to be so perfectly 
 happy," said she. " I feel some days as if I 
 was walkin an walkin an walkin through 
 a garden of sweet-smellin herbs, an nothin 
 else ; an as for Myrtie, she s a bundle of 
 myrtle an camphor out of King Solomon s 
 garden. I m so afraid it can t last. " 
 
 Happiness had seemed to awake in Aurelia 
 a taint of her father s foreboding melancholy. 
 But she apparently had no reason for it until 
 early fall. Then, returning with Myrtie one 
 night from a trip to the woods, she found 
 an old lady seated on her door-step, grimly 
 waiting for her. She was an old woman 
 and tremulous, but still undaunted and un 
 shaken as to her spirit. Her tall, shrunken 
 form was loaded with silk and jet. She 
 stood up as Aurelia approached, wondering, 
 and her dim old eyes peered at her aggres 
 sively through fine gold spectacles, which 
 lent an additional glare to them. 
 
 "I suppose you are Miss Flower ? " began 
 the old lady, with no prefatory parley. 
 
 " Yes." said Aurelia, trembling. 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 125 
 
 "Well, my name s Mrs. Matthew Sears, 
 an I ve come for my grandchild- there." 
 
 Aurelia turned very white. She let her 
 herbs slide to the ground. "I hardly 
 understand I guess," faltered she. " Can t 
 you let me keep her ? " 
 
 " Well, I guess I won t have one of my 
 grandchildren brought up by an old yarb- 
 woman not if I know it. " 
 
 The old lady sniffed. Aurelia stood look 
 ing at her. She felt as if she had fallen 
 down from heaven, and the hard reality of 
 the earth had jarred the voice out of her. 
 Then the old lady made a step towards the 
 carriage, and caught up Myrtie in her 
 trembling arms. The child screamed with 
 fright. She had been asleep. She turned 
 her little frightened face towards Aurelia, 
 and held out her arms, and cried, " Mamma ! 
 mamma ! mamma ! " in a perfect frenzy of 
 terror. The old lady tried in vain to hush 
 her. Aurelia found her voice then. "You d 
 better let me take her and give her her 
 supper," she said, "and when she is asleep 
 again I will bring her over to you." 
 
 "Well," said the old lady doubtfully. 
 She was glad to get the frantic little thing 
 out of her arms, though. 
 
 Aurelia held her close and hushed her, 
 
126 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 and she subsided into occasional convulsive 
 sobs, and furtive, frightened glances at her 
 grandmother. 
 
 " I s pose you are stopping at the hotel ? " 
 said Aurelia. 
 
 " Yes, I am," said the old lady stoutly. 
 "You kin bring her over as soon as she s 
 asleep. " Then she marched off with uncer 
 tain majesty. 
 
 Some women would have argued the case 
 longer, but Aurelia felt that there was 
 simply no use in it. The old lady was the 
 child s grandmother : if she wanted her, she 
 saw no way but to give her up. She never 
 thought of pleading, she was so convinced 
 of the old lady s determination. 
 
 She carried Myrtie into the house, gave 
 her her supper, washed her, and dressed her 
 in her little best dress. Then she took her 
 up in her lap and tried to explain to her 
 childish mind the change that was to be 
 made in her life. She told her she was 
 going to live with her grandmother, and she 
 must be a good little girl, and love her, and 
 do just as she told her to. Myrtie sobbed 
 with unreasoning grief, and clung to Aurelia ; 
 but she wholly failed to take in the full 
 meaning of it all. 
 
 She was still fretful, and bewildered by 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 127 
 
 her rude wakening from her nap. Presently 
 she fell asleep again, and Aurelia laid her 
 . down while she got together her little ward 
 robe. There was a hop pillow in a little 
 linen case, on which Myrtie had always 
 slept ; she packed that up with the other 
 things. 
 
 Then she rolled up the little sleeping girl 
 in a blanket, laid her in her carriage, and 
 went over to the hotel. It was not much of 
 a hotel merely an ordinary two-story house, 
 where two or three spare rooms were ample 
 accommodation for the few straggling guests 
 who came to this little rural place. It was 
 only a few steps from Aurelia s house. The 
 old lady had the chamber of honour a large 
 square room on the first floor, opening 
 directly on to the piazza. In spite of all 
 Aurelia s care, Myrtie woke up and began to 
 cry when she was carried in. She had to go 
 off and leave her screaming piteously after 
 her. Out on the piazza she uttered the 
 first complaint, almost, of her life to the 
 hostess, Mrs. Simonds, who had followed 
 her there. 
 
 " Don t feel bad, Relia," said the woman, 
 who was almost crying herself. "I know 
 it s awful hard, when you was taking so 
 much comfort. We all feel for you. " 
 
128 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 Aurelia looked straight ahead. She had 
 the bundle of little clothes and the hop 
 pillow in her arms ; the old lady had said, in. 
 a way that would have been funny if it had 
 not been for the poor heart that listened, 
 that she didn t want any yarb pillows, nor 
 any clothes scented with yarbs nuther. 
 
 "I don t mean to be wicked," said Aurelia, 
 "but I can t help thinking that Providence 
 ought to provide for women. I wish 
 Myrtie was mine." 
 
 The other woman wiped her eyes at the 
 hungry way in which she said "mine." 
 
 "Well, I can t do anything; but I m 
 scrry for you, if that s all. You d make 
 enough sight better mother for Myrtie than 
 that cross old woman. I don t b lieve she 
 more n half wants her, only she s sot. She 
 doesn t care anything about having the other 
 children ; she s going to leave them with 
 Mis Loomis ; but she says her grandchildren 
 ain t going to be living with strangers, an 
 she ought to hev been consulted. After all 
 you ve done for the child, to treat you as 
 she has to-night, she s the most ungrateful 
 I know one thing ; I d charge her for 
 Myrtie s board a good price, too." 
 
 " Oh, I don t want anything of that sort," 
 said poor Aurelia dejectedly, listening to- 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 1 29 
 
 her darling s sobs. " You go in an try to 
 hush her, Mis Simonds. Oh P* 
 
 "So I will. Her grandmother can t do 
 anything with her, poor little thing ! I ve 
 got some peppermints. I do believe she s 
 spankin her the " 
 
 Aurelia did not run in with Mrs. Simonds ; 
 she listened outside till the pitiful cries 
 hushed a little ; then she went desolately 
 home. 
 
 She sat down in the kitchen, with the 
 little clothes in her lap. She did not think 
 of going to bed ; she did not cry nor moan 
 to herself ; she just sat there still. It was 
 not very late when she came home between 
 eight and nine. In about half an hour, 
 perhaps, she heard a sound outside that 
 made her heart leap a little voice crying 
 pitifully, and saying, between the sobs, 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! " 
 
 Aurelia made one spring to the door. 
 There was the tiny creature in her little 
 nightgown, shaking all over with cold and 
 sobs. 
 
 Aurelia caught her up, and all her calm 
 was over. " you darling ! you darling ! 
 you darling ! " she cried, covering her little 
 cold body all over with kisses. " You sha n t 
 leave me you sha n t ! you sha n t J Little 
 i 
 
I3O A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 sweetheart all I ve got in the world. I 
 guess they sha n t take you away when you 
 don t want to go. Did you cry, and mamma 
 go off and leave you ? Did they whip you ? 
 They never shall again never ! never ! 
 There, there, blessed, don t cry ; mamma 11 
 get you all warm, and you shall go to sleep 
 on your own little pillow. O you darling ! 
 darling ! darling ! " 
 
 Aurelia busied herself about the child, 
 rubbing the little numb limbs, and getting 
 some milk heated. She never asked how 
 she came to get away ; she never thought of 
 anything except that she had her. She 
 stopped every other minute to kiss her and 
 croon to her ; she laughed and cried. Now 
 ehe gave way to her feelings ; she was 
 almost beside herself. She had the child 
 all warm and fed and comforted by the 
 kitchen fire when she heard steps outside, 
 and she knew at once what was coming, and 
 a fierce resolve sprang up in her heart : they 
 should not have that child again to-night. 
 She cast a hurried glance around ; there 
 was hardly a second s time. In the corner 
 of the kitchen was a great heap of herbs 
 which she had taken down from the walls 
 where they had been drying ; the next day 
 she had intended to pack them and send 
 
GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 131 
 
 them off. She caught up Myrtle and covered 
 her with them. "Lie still, darling!" she 
 whispered. " Don t make a bit of noise, or 
 your grandmother will get you again." 
 Myrtie crouched under them, trembling. 
 
 Then the door opened ; Mr. Simonds 
 stood there with a lantern. "That little 
 girl s run away," he began "slipped out 
 while the old lady was out of the room a 
 minute. Beats all how such a little thing 
 knew enough. She s here, ain t she ? " 
 
 "No," said Aurelia, "she ain t." 
 
 " You don t mean it ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Ain t you seen her, though ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Mr. Simonds, who was fat and placid, 
 began to look grave. "Then, all there is 
 about it, we ve got to have a hunt," said 
 he. " Twon t do to have that little tot out 
 in her nightgown long. We hadn t a thought 
 but that she was here. Must have lost her 
 way. " 
 
 Aurelia watched him stride down the 
 yard. Then she ran after him. "Mr. 
 Simonds ! " He turned. " I told you a lie. 
 Myrtie s in the corner of the kitchen under 
 a heap of herbs." 
 
 "Why, what on earth " 
 
132 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 "I wanted to keep her so to-night. 
 Aurelia burst right out in loud sobs. 
 
 " There, Relia ! It s a confounded shame. 
 You shall keep her. I 11 make it all right 
 with the old lady somehow. I reckon, as 
 long as the child s safe, she ll be glad to 
 get rid of her to-night. She wouldn t have 
 slept much. Go right into the house, Relia, 
 and don t worry." 
 
 Aurelia obeyed. She hung over the little 
 creature, asleep in her crib, all night. She 
 watched her every breath. She never 
 thought of sleeping herself her last night 
 with Myrtie. The seconds were so many 
 grains of gold-dust. Her heart failed her 
 when day broke. She washed and dressed 
 Myrtie at the usual time, and gave her 
 her breakfast. Then she sat down with her 
 and waited. The child s sorrow was soon 
 forgotten, and she played about as usual. 
 Aurelia watched her despairingly. She 
 began to wonder at length why they did 
 not come for her. It grew later and later. 
 She would not carry her back herself, she 
 was resolved on that. 
 
 It was ten o clock before any one came ; 
 then it was Mrs. Simonds. She had a 
 atrange look on her face. 
 
 " Relia," she said, standing in the door 
 
A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 133 
 
 and looking at her and Myrtle, " you ain t 
 heard what has happened to our house this 
 mornin , hev you ? " 
 
 No, " said Aurelia, awed. 
 
 " Old Mis Sears is dead. Had her third 
 shock : she s had two in the last three years. 
 She was took soon after Mr. Simonds got 
 home. We got a doctor right off, but she 
 died bout an hour ago." 
 
 " Oh," said Aurelia ; "I ve been a wicked 
 woman. " 
 
 " No you ain t, Aurelia ; don t you go tc 
 feeling so. There s no call for the living to 
 be unjust to themselves because folks are 
 dead. You did the best you could. An 
 now you re glad you can keep the child ; 
 you can t help it. I thought of it myself 
 the first thing." 
 
 "Oh, I was such a wicked woman to 
 think of it myself," said Aurelia. " If I 
 could only have done something for the poor 
 old soul ! Why didn t you call me ? " 
 
 "I told Mr. Simonds I wouldn t; you d 
 had enough." 
 
 There was one thing, however, which 
 Aurelia found to do a simple and touching 
 thing, though it probably meant more to her 
 than to most of those who knew of it. 
 
 On the day of the funeral the poor old 
 
134 A GATHERER OF SIMPLES. 
 
 woman s grave was found lined with fragrant 
 herbs from Aurelia s garden thyme and 
 lavender and rosemary. She had cried when 
 she picked them, because she could not help 
 being glad, and they were all she could give 
 for atonement. 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 TjISTHER GAY S house was little and 
 I A square, and mounted on posts like 
 stilts. A stair led up to the door on the 
 left side. Morning-glories climbed up the 
 stair railing, the front of the house and the 
 other side were covered with them, all the 
 windows but one were curtained with the 
 matted green vines. Esther sat at the un 
 curtained window, and knitted. She perked 
 her thin, pale nose up in the air, her pointed 
 chin tilted upward too ; she held her knit 
 ting high, and the needles clicked loud, and 
 shone in the sun. The bell was ringing for 
 church, and a good many people were pass 
 ing. They could look in on her, and see 
 very plainly what she was doing. Every 
 time a group went by she pursed her thin 
 old lips tighter, and pointed up her nose 
 higher, and knitted more fiercely. Her 
 skinny shoulders jerked. She cast a sharp 
 glance at every one who passed, but no one 
 caught her looking. She knew them all. 
 
136 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 This was a little village. By and by the 
 bell had stopped tolling, and even the late 
 church-goers had creaked briskly out of 
 sight. The street, which was narrow here, 
 was still and vacant. 
 
 Presently a woman appeared in a little 
 flower-garden in front of the opposite house. 
 She was picking a nosegay. She was little 
 and spare, and she bent over the flowers 
 with a stiffness as of stiff wires. It seemed 
 as if it would take mechanical force to 
 spring her up again. 
 
 Esther watched her. It s dretf ul hard 
 work for her to git around," she muttered 
 to herself. 
 
 Finally, she laid down her knitting and 
 called across to her. " Laviny ! " said she. 
 
 The woman came out to the gate with 
 some marigolds and candytuft in her hand. 
 Her dim blue eyes blinked in the light. 
 She looked over and smiled with a sort of 
 helpless inquiry. 
 
 * Come over here a minute. " 
 
 "I guess I can t." 
 
 Esther was very deaf. She could not 
 hear a word, but she saw the deprecating 
 shake of the head, and she knew well 
 enough. 
 
 "I d like to know why you can t, a 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 137 
 
 minute. You kin hear your mother the 
 minute she speaks." 
 
 The woman glanced back at the house, 
 then she looked over at Esther. Her 
 streaked light hair hung in half curls over 
 her wide crocheted collar ; she had a little, 
 narrow, wrinkled face, but her cheeks were 
 as red as roses. 
 
 "I guess I d better not. It s Sunday, 
 you know, " said she. Her soft, timid voice 
 could by no possibility reach those deaf ears 
 across the way. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I guess I d better not as long as it b 
 Sunday. " 
 
 Esther s strained attention caught the 
 last word, and guessed at the rest from a 
 knowledge of the speaker. 
 
 " Stuff," said she, with a sniff through 
 her delicate, up til ted nostrils. "I d like 
 to know how much worse tis for you to 
 step over here a minute, an tell me how she 
 is when I can t hear across the road, than to 
 stop an talk comin out o meetin ; you d 
 do that quick enough. You re strainin , 
 Laviny Dodge." 
 
 Lavinia, as if overwhelmed by the argu 
 ment, cast one anxious glance back at the 
 house, and came through the gate. 
 
138 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 Just then a feeble, tremulous voice, with 
 a wonderful quality of fine sharpness in it, 
 broke forth behind her. 
 
 " Laviny, Laviny, where be you goin ? 
 Comeback here." 
 
 Lavinia, wheeling with such precipitate 
 vigour that it suggested a creak, went up 
 the path. 
 
 "I wa n t goin anywhere, mother," she 
 called out. " What s the matter ? " 
 
 " You can t pull the wool over my eyes. 
 I seed you agoin out the gate. " 
 
 Lavinia s mother was over ninety and 
 bedridden. That infinitesimal face which 
 had passed through the stages of beauty, 
 commonplaceness, and hideousness, and 
 now arrived at that of the fine grotesque - 
 ness which has, as well as beauty, a certain 
 charm of its own, peered out from its great 
 feather pillows. The skin on the pinched 
 face was of a dark-yellow colour, the eyes 
 were like black points, the tiny, sunken 
 mouth had a sardonic pucker. 
 
 "Esther jest wanted me to come over 
 there a minute. She wanted to ask after 
 you," said Lavinia, standing beside the 
 bed, holding her flowers. 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 " She jest wanted me to come over an 
 tell her how you was." 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 139 
 
 " How I was ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 * Did you tell her I was miser ble ? " 
 
 " I didn t go, mother." 
 
 " I seed you a-goin out the gate." 
 
 " I came back. She couldn t hear thout 
 I went way over." 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 "It s all right, mother," screamed Lavinia. 
 Then she went about putting the flowers in 
 water. 
 
 The old woman s little eyes followed her, 
 with a sharp light like steel. 
 
 " I ain t goin to hev you goin over to 
 Esther Gay s, Sabbath-day," she went on, 
 her thin voice rasping out from her pillows 
 like a file. " She ain t no kind of a girl, 
 Wa n t she knittin ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 " Yes, she was knittin , mother." 
 
 " Wa n t knittin ?" 
 
 "Y-e-s, she was." 
 
 " I knowed it. Stayin home from meetin 
 an knittin . I ain t goin to hev you over 
 thar, Laviny." 
 
 Esther Gay, over in her window, held her 
 knitting up higher, and knitted with fury. 
 " H m, the old lady called her back," said 
 
I4O AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 she. " If they want to show out they kin, 
 I m goin to do what I think s right." 
 
 The morning-glories on the house were 
 beautiful this morning, the purple and white 
 and rosy ones stood out with a soft crispness. 
 Esther Gay s house was not so pretty in 
 winter there was no paint on it, and some 
 crooked outlines showed. It was a poor 
 little structure, but Esther owned it free of 
 encumbrances. She had also a pension of 
 ninety-six dollars which served her for sup 
 port. She considered herself well to do. 
 There was not enough for anything besides 
 necessaries, but Esther was one who had 
 always looked upon necessaries as luxuries. 
 Her sharp eyes saw the farthest worth of 
 things. When she bought a half -cord of 
 pine wood with an allotment of her pension- 
 money, she saw in a vision all the warmth 
 and utility which could ever come from it. 
 When it was heaped up in the space under 
 the house which she used for a wood-shed, 
 she used to go and look at it. 
 
 " Esther Gay does think so much of her 
 own things," people said. 
 
 That little house, which, with its preci 
 pitous stair and festoons of morning-glories, 
 had something of a foreign picturesqueness, 
 looked to her like a real palace. She paid 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 14! 
 
 a higher tax upon it than she should have 
 done. A lesser one had been levied, and 
 regarded by her as an insult. My house 
 is worth more n that, " she had told the 
 assessor with an indignant bridle. She paid 
 the increased tax with cheerful pride, and 
 frequently spoke of it. To-day she often 
 glanced from her knitting around the room. 
 There was a certain beauty in it, although 
 it was hardly the one which she recognised. 
 It was full of a lovely, wavering, gold-green 
 light, and there was a fine order and clean 
 ness which gave a sense of peace. But Esther 
 saw mainly her striped rag-carpet, her for 
 mally set chairs, her lounge covered with 
 Brussels, and her shining cooking-stove. 
 
 Still she looked at nothing with the 
 delight with which she surveyed her grand 
 daughter Hatty, when she returned from 
 church. 
 
 "Well, you ve got home, ain t you?" 
 she said, when the young, slim girl, with 
 her pale, sharp face, which was like her 
 grandmother s, stood before her. Hatty in 
 her meeting-gown of light-brown delaine, 
 and her white meeting-hat trimmed with 
 light-brown ribbons and blue flowers was 
 not pretty, but the old woman admired 
 her. 
 
142 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 "Yes," said Hatty. Then she went into 
 her little bedroom to take off her things. 
 There was a slow shyness about her. She 
 never talked much, even to her grandmother. 
 
 " You kin git you somethin to eat, if you 
 want it," said the old woman. "I don t 
 want to stop myself till I git this heel done. 
 Was Henry to meetin ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "His father an mother?* 1 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Henry was the young man who had been 
 paying attention to Hatty. Her grand 
 mother was proud and pleased; she liked 
 him. 
 
 Hatty generally went to church Sunday 
 evenings, and the young man escorted her 
 home, and came in and made a call. To 
 night the girl did not go to church as usual. 
 Esther was astonished. 
 
 " Why, ain t you goin to meetin ? " said 
 she. 
 
 "No; I guess not." 
 
 "Why? why not?" 
 
 "I thought I wouldn t." 
 
 The old woman looked at her sharply. 
 The tea-things were cleared away, and ahe 
 was at her knitting again, a little lamp at 
 her elbow. 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 143 
 
 Presently Hatty went out, and sat at the 
 head of the stairs, in the twilight. She sat 
 there by herself until meeting was over, and 
 the people had been straggling by for some 
 time. Then she went downstairs, and 
 joined a young man who passed at the foot 
 of them. She was gone half an hour. 
 
 " Where hev you been ? " asked her grand 
 mother, when she returned. 
 
 I went out a little way. 
 
 Who with?" 
 
 Henry." 
 
 Why didn t he come in ? " 
 
 He thought he wouldn t. " 
 
 I don t see why." 
 
 Hatty said nothing. She lit her candle 
 to go to bed. Her little thin face was 
 imperturbable. 
 
 She worked in a shop, and earned a little 
 money. Her grandmother would not touch a 
 dollar of it ; what she did not need to spend 
 for herself, she made her save. Lately the 
 old woman had been considering the advisa 
 bility of her taking a sum from the savings 
 bank to buy a silk dress. She thought she 
 might need it soon. 
 
 Monday, she opened upon the subject. 
 "Hatty," said she, "I ve been thinkin 
 don t you believe it would be a good plan 
 
144 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 for you to take a little of your money out of 
 the bank an 5 buy you a nice dress ? " 
 
 Hatty never answered quickly. She looked 
 at her grandmother, then she kept on with 
 her sewing. It was after supper, her shop- 
 work was done, and she was sitting at the 
 table with her needle. She seemed to be 
 considering her grandmother s remark. 
 
 The old woman waited a moment, then 
 she proceeded : "I Ve been thinkin you 
 ain t never had any real nice dress, you 
 know that it would be a real good plan for 
 you to take some money, now you ve got it, 
 an buy you a silk one. You ain t never 
 had one, an you re old enough to. " 
 
 Still Hatty sewed, and said nothing. 
 
 " You might want to go somewhar," con 
 tinued Esther, "an well, of course, if any- 
 thin should happen, if Henry It s jest as 
 
 well not to hev to do everythin all to once, 
 an it s consider ble work to make a silk 
 dress Why don t you say somethin ? " 
 
 " I don t want any silk dress." 
 
 * I d like to know why not ? " 
 
 Hatty made no reply. 
 
 * Look here, Hatty, you an Henry Little 
 ain t had no trouble, hev you ? 
 
 " I don t know as we have." 
 
 "What?" 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 145 
 
 " I don t know as we have." 
 
 " Hatty Gay, I know there s somethin 
 the matter. Now you jest tell me what tis. 
 Ain t he comin here no more ? " 
 
 Suddenly the girl curved her arm around 
 on the table, and laid her face down on it. 
 She would not speak another word. She did 
 not seem to be crying, but she sat there, hid 
 ing her little plain, uncommunicative face. 
 
 " Hatty Gay, ain t he comin ? Why ain t 
 he comin ? " 
 
 Hatty would give the old woman no infor 
 mation. All she got was that obtained from 
 ensuing events. Henry Little did not come/ 
 she ascertained that. The weeks went on, 
 and he had never once climbed those vine- 
 wreathed stairs to see Hatty. 
 
 Esther fretted and questioned. One day, 
 in the midst of her nervous conjectures, she 
 struck the chord in Hatty which vibrated 
 with information. 
 
 "I hope you wa n t too forrard with Henry, 
 Hatty," said the old woman. " You didn t 
 act too anxious arter him, did you ? That s 
 apt to turn fellows." 
 
 Then Hatty spoke. Some pink spots flared 
 out on her quiet, pale cheeks. 
 
 "Grandma," said she, "I ll tell you, if 
 you want to know, what the trouble is. I 
 K 
 
146 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. - 
 
 wasn t goiii to, because I didn t want to 
 make you feel bad ; but, if you re goin* to 
 throw out such things as that to me, I 
 don t care. Henry s mother don t like you, 
 there ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Henry s mother don t like you." 
 
 "Don t like me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why, what hev I done? I don t see 
 what you mean, Hatty Gay." 
 
 " Grace Porter told me. Mrs. Little told 
 her mother. Then I asked him, an he owned 
 up it was so." 
 
 * I d like to know what she said. " 
 
 Hatty went on pitilessly. " She told 
 Grace s mother she didn t want her son to 
 marry into the Gay tribe anyhow. She 
 didn t think much of em. She said any girl 
 whose folks didn t keep Sunday, an stayed 
 away from meetin an worked, wouldn t 
 amount to much. " 
 
 " I don t believe she said it." 
 
 " She did. Henry said his mother took 
 on so he was afraid she d die, if he didn t 
 give it up." 
 
 Esther sat up straight. She seemed to 
 bristle out suddenly with points, from her 
 knitting-needles to her sharp elbows and 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 147 
 
 thin chin and nose. " Well, he kin give it 
 up then, if he wants to, for all me. I ain t 
 goin to give up my principles fir him, nor 
 any of his folks, an they 11 find it out. You 
 kin git somebody else jest as good as he 
 is." 
 
 " I don t want anybody else." 
 
 " H m, you needn t have em then, ef you 
 ain t got no more sperit. I shouldn t think 
 you d want your grandmother to give up 
 doin what s right yourself, Hatty Gay." 
 
 " I ain t sure it is right." 
 
 "Ain t sure it s right. Then I s pose 
 you think it would be better for an old 
 woman that s stone deaf, an can t hear a 
 word of the preachin , to go to meetin an 
 set there, doin nothin two hours, instead 
 of stayin to home an knittin , to airn a 
 leetle money to give to the Lord. All I ve 
 got to say is, you kin think so, then. I in 
 a-goin to do what s right, no matter what 
 happens. " 
 
 Hatty said nothing more. She took up 
 her sewing again ; her grandmother kept 
 glancing at her. Finally she said, in a 
 mollifying voice, " Why don t you go an 
 git you a leetle piece of that cake in the 
 cupboard ; you didn t eat no supper hardly. " 
 
 "I don t want any." 
 
148 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 "Well, if you want to make yourself 
 sick, an go without eatin , you kin." 
 
 Hatty did go without eating much 
 through the following weeks. She laid 
 awake nights, too, staring pitifully into the 
 darkness, but she did not make herself ill. 
 There was an unflinching strength in that 
 little, meagre body, which lay even back of 
 her own will. It would take long for her 
 lack of spirit to break her down entirely ; 
 but her grandmother did not know that. 
 She watched her and worried. Still she 
 had not the least idea of giving in. She 
 knitted more zealously than ever Sundays ; 
 indeed, there was, to her possibly distorted 
 perceptions, a religious zeal in it. 
 
 She knitted on week-days too. She 
 reeled off a good many pairs of those re 
 liable blue-yarn stockings, and sold them to 
 a dealer in the city. She gave away every 
 cent which she earned, and carefully con 
 cealed the direction of her giving. Even 
 Hatty did not know of it. 
 
 Six weeks after Hatty s lover left, the old 
 woman across the way died. After the 
 funeral, when measures were taken for the 
 settlement of the estate, it was discovered 
 that all the little property was gone, eaten 
 up by a mortgage and the interest. The 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 149 
 
 two old women had lived upon the small 
 house and the few acres of land for the last 
 ten years, ever since Lavinia s father had 
 died. He had grubbed away in a boot-shop 
 and earned enough for their frugal support 
 as long as he lived. Lavinia had never 
 been able to work for her own living ; she 
 was not now. " Laviny Dodge will have 
 to go to the poorhouse," everybody said. 
 
 One noon Hatty spoke of it to her grand 
 mother. She rarely spoke of anything now, 
 but this was uncommon news. 
 
 " They say Laviny Dodge has got to go 
 to the poorhouse," said she. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " They say Laviny Dodge has got to go 
 to the poorhouse." 
 
 "I don t believe a word on ? t." 
 
 " They say it s so." 
 
 That afternoon Esther went over to 
 ascertain the truth of the report for herself. 
 She found Lavinia sitting alone in the 
 kitchen crying. Esther went right in, and 
 stood looking at her. 
 
 " It s so, ain t it ? " said she. 
 
 Lavinia started. There was a momentary 
 glimpse of a red, distorted face ; then she 
 hid it again, and went on rocking herself to 
 and fro and sobbing. She had seated her- 
 
I5O AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 self in the rocking-chair to weep. " Yes,** 
 she wailed, " it s so ! I Ve got to go. Mr. 
 Barnes come in, an said I had this mornin ; 
 there ain t no other way. I ve got to 
 go. Oh, what would mother have said ! " 
 
 Esther stood still, looking. " A place 
 gits run out afore you know it," she re 
 marked. 
 
 " Oh, I didn t s pose it was quite so near 
 gone. I thought mebbe I could stay as 
 long as I lived." 
 
 " You d oughter hev kept account." 
 
 " I s pose I hed, but I never knew much 
 bout money -matters, an poor mother, she 
 was too old. Father was real sharp, ef he d 
 lived. Oh, I ve got to go 1 I never thought 
 it would come to this ! " 
 
 * I don t think you re fit to do any work." 
 
 * No ; they say I ain t. My rheumatism 
 has been worse lately. It s been hard work 
 for me to crawl round an wait on mother. 
 I Ve got to go. O Esther, it s awful to 
 think I can t die in my own home ! Now 
 I Ve got to die in the poorhouse ! I Ve 
 got to die in the poorhouse ! " 
 
 " I Ve got to go now," said Esther. 
 
 " Don t go. You ain t but jest come. I 
 ain t got a soul to speak to." 
 
 " I 11 come in agin arter supper," said 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 15! 
 
 Esther, and went out resolutely, with 
 Lavinia wailing after her to come back. At 
 home, she sat down and deliberated. She 
 had a long talk with Hatty when she re 
 turned. "I don t care," was all she could 
 get out of the girl, who was more silent 
 than usual. She ate very little supper. 
 
 It was eight o clock when Esther went 
 over to the Dodge house. The windows 
 were all dark. "Land, I believe she s 
 gone to bed," said the old woman, fumbling 
 along through the yard. The door was fast, 
 so she knocked. " Laviny, Laviny, be you 
 gone to bed ? Laviny Dodge ! " 
 
 " Who is it?" said a quavering voice on 
 the other side, presently. 
 
 " It s me. You gone to bed ? " 
 
 " It s you, Mis Gay, ain t it ? " 
 
 " Yes. Let me in. I want to see you a 
 minute." 
 
 Then Lavinia opened the door and stood 
 there, her old knees knocking together with 
 cold and nervousness. She had got out of 
 bed and put a plaid shawl over her shoulders 
 when she heard Esther. 
 
 " I want to come in jest a minute," said 
 Esther. " I hadn t any idee you d be gone 
 to bed." 
 
 The fire had gone out, and it was chilly 
 
152 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 in the kitchen, where the two women sat 
 down. 
 
 " You 11 ketch you re death of cold in 
 you re night-gown," said Esther. " You d 
 better git somethin more to put over 
 you." 
 
 "I don t keer if I do ketch cold," said 
 Lavinia, with an air of feeble recklessness, 
 which sat oddly upon her. 
 
 " Laviny Dodge, don t talk so." 
 
 "I don t keer. I d ruther ketch my 
 death of cold than not ; then I shouldn t 
 have to die in the poorhouse." The old 
 head, in its little cotton night-cap, cocked 
 itself sideways, with pitiful bravado. 
 
 Esther rose, went into the bedroom, got 
 a quilt and put it over Lavinia s knees. 
 " There," said she, "you hev that over you. 
 There ain t no sense in your talkin that 
 way. You re jest a-flyin in the face of 
 Providence, an Providence don t mind the 
 little flappin you kin make, any more than 
 a barn does a swaller." 
 
 "I can t help it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I can t help it." 
 
 " Yes, you kin help it, too. Now, I 11 
 tell you what I ve come over here for. I ve 
 been thinkin on t all the arternoon, an 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 153 
 
 I ve made up my mind. I want you to 
 come over and live with me. " *, 
 
 Lavinia sat feebly staring at her. " Live 
 with you ! " 
 
 " Yes. I Ve got my house an my pension, 
 an I pick up some with my knittin . Two 
 won t cost much more n one. I reckon we 
 kin git along well enough." 
 
 Lavinia said nothing, she still sat staring. 
 She looked scared. 
 
 Esther began to feel hurt. " Mebbe you 
 don t want to come," she said stiffly, at last. 
 
 Lavinia shivered. "There s jest one 
 thing " she commenced. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " There s jest one thing " 
 
 "What s that?" 
 
 " I dunno what Mother You re 
 
 real good ; but Oh, I don t see how I kin 
 
 come, Esther ! " 
 
 "Why not? If there s any reason why 
 you don t want to live with me, I want to 
 know what tis. " 
 
 Lavinia was crying. " I can t tell you," 
 
 she sobbed ; " but, mother If you 
 
 didn t work Sundays. Oh ! " 
 
 " Then you mean to say you d ruther go 
 to the poorhouse than come to live with me, 
 Lavinia Dodge ? " 
 
154 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 " I can t help it." 
 
 " Then, all I ve got to say is, you kin go." 
 
 Esther went home, and said no more. In 
 a few days she, peering around her curtain, 
 saw poor Livinia Dodge, a little, trembling, 
 shivering figure, hoisted into the poorhouse 
 covered wagon, and driven off. After the 
 wagon was out of sight, she sat down and 
 cried. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon. Hatty had 
 just gone to her work, having scarcely tasted 
 her dinner. Her grandmother had worked 
 hard to get an extra one to-day, too, but she 
 had no heart to eat. Her mournful silence, 
 which seemed almost obstinate, made the 
 old woman at once angry and wretched. 
 Now she wept over Lavinia Dodge and 
 Hatty, and the two causes combined made 
 bitter tears. 
 
 " I wish to the land," she cried out loud 
 once, " I wish to the land I could find some 
 excuse ; but I ain t goin to give up what I 
 think s right." 
 
 Esther Gay had never been so miserable 
 in her life as she was for the three months 
 after Lavinia Dodge left her home. She 
 thought of her, she watched Hatty, and she 
 knitted. Hatty was at last beginning to 
 show the effects of her long worry. She 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 155 
 
 looked badly, and the neighbours began 
 speaking about it to her grandmother. The 
 old woman seemed to resent it when they 
 did. At times she scolded the girl, at times 
 she tried to pet her, and she knitted con 
 stantly, week-days and Sundays. 
 
 Lavinia had been in the almshouse three 
 months, when one of the neighbours came 
 in one day and told Esther that she was 
 confined to her bed. Her rheumatism was 
 worse, and she was helpless. Esther dropped 
 her knitting, and stared radiantly at the 
 neighbour. " You said she was an awful 
 sight of trouble, didn t you ? " said she. 
 
 "Yes; Mis Marvin said it was worse 
 than takin care of a baby." 
 
 " I should think it would take about all 
 of anybody s time. " 
 
 " I should. Why, Esther Gay, you look 
 real tickled cause she s sick ! " cried the 
 woman bluntly. 
 
 Esther coloured. "You talk pretty," 
 said she. 
 
 "Well, I don t care; you looked so. I 
 don t s pose you was," said the other, 
 apologetically. 
 
 That afternoon Esther Gay made two 
 visits : one at the selectmen s room, in the 
 town-hall, the other at Henry Little s. One 
 
156 AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 of her errands at the selectmen s room was 
 concerning the reduction of her taxes. 
 
 " I m a-payin too much on that leetle 
 house," said she, standing up, alert and 
 defiant. "It ain t wuth it." There was 
 some dickering, but she gained her point. 
 Poor Esther Gay would never make again 
 her foolish little boast about her large tax. 
 More than all her patient, toilsome knitting 
 was the sacrifice of this bit of harmless 
 vanity. 
 
 When she arrived at the Littles , Henry 
 was out in the yard. He was very young ; 
 his innocent, awkward face flushed when he 
 saw Esther coming up the path. 
 
 "Good arternoon," said she. Henry 
 jerked his head. 
 
 " Your mother to home ? " 
 
 "Ye s." 
 
 Esther advanced and knocked, while 
 Henry stood staring. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Little answered the knock. 
 She was a large woman. The astonished 
 young man saw his mother turn red in the 
 face, and rear herself in order of battle, as 
 it were, when she saw who her caller was ; 
 then he heard Esther speak. 
 
 "I m a-comin right to the p int afore I 
 come in." said she. "I ve heard you said 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 157 
 
 you didn t want your son to marry my 
 grand-daughter because you didtr t like some 
 things about me. Now, I want to know if 
 you said it." 
 
 "Yes; I did," replied Mrs. Little, tremu 
 lous with agitation, red, and perspiring, but 
 not weakening. 
 
 "Then you didn t have nothin again 1 
 Hatty, you nor Henry ? Twa n t an ex 
 cuse ? " 
 
 "I ain t never had anything against the 
 girl. " 
 
 "Then I want to come in a minute. I ve 
 got somsthin I want to say to you., Mrs. 
 Little." 
 
 " Well, you can come in if you want to." 
 
 After Esther had entered, Henry stood 
 looking wistfully at the windows. It 
 seemed to him that he could not wait to 
 know the reason of Esther s visit. He took 
 things more soberly than Hatty ; he had 
 not lost his meals nor his sleep ; still he 
 had suffered. He was very fond of the girl, 
 and he had a heart which was not easily 
 diverted. It was hardly possible that he 
 would ever die of grief, but it was quite 
 possible that he might live long with a 
 memory, young as he was. 
 
 When his mother escorted Esther to the 
 
I5S AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 door, as she took leave, there was a marked 
 difference in her manner. " Come again 
 soon, Mis Gay," he heard her say ; " run up 
 any time you feel like it, an stay to tea. 
 I d really like to have you." 
 
 "Thank ye," said Esther, as she went 
 down the steps. She had an aspect of 
 sweetness about her which did not seem to 
 mix well with herself. 
 
 When she reached home she found Hatty 
 lying on the loungje. "How do you feel 
 to-night?" said she, unpinning her shawl. 
 
 "Pretty well." 
 
 "You d better go an brush your hair 
 an change your dress. I ve been over to 
 Henry s an seen his mother, an I shouldn t 
 wonder if he was over here to-night. " 
 
 Hatty sat bolt upright and looked at her 
 grandmother. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "What I say. I ve been over to Mrs. 
 Little s, an we Ve had a talk. I guess she 
 thought she d been kind of silly to make 
 such a fuss. I reasoned with her, an I 
 guess she saw I d been more right about 
 some things than she d thought for. An 
 as far as goin to meetin an knittiu Sun 
 days is concerned Well, I don t s pose I 
 
 kin knit any more if I want to. I ve been 
 to see about it, an Laviny Dodge is comin 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 159 
 
 here Saturday, an she s so bad with her 
 rheumatiz that she can t movQ, an I guess 
 it 11 be all I kin do to wait on her, without 
 doin much knittin . Mebbe I kin git a 
 few minutes evenin s, but I reckon twon t 
 amount to much. Of course I couldn t go 
 to meetin if I wanted to. I couldn t leave 
 Laviny. " 
 
 " Did she say he was coming ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she said she shouldn t wonder if 
 he was up." 
 
 The young man did come that evening, 
 and Esther retired to her little bedroom 
 early, and lay listening happily to the soft 
 murmur of voices outside. Lavinia Dodge 
 arrived Saturday. The next morning, when 
 Hatty had gone to church, she called Esther. 
 " I want to speak to you a minute," said she. 
 
 "I want to know if Mr. Winter brought 
 
 me over, and he married the Ball girl that s 
 been in the post-office, you know, and some- 
 thin he said Esther Gay, I want to 
 know if you re the one that s been sendin* 
 that money to me and mother all along? 1 
 
 Esther coloured, and turned to go. " I 
 don t see why you think it s me." 
 
 " Esther, don t you go. I know twas ; 
 you can t say twa n t. " 
 
 " It wa n t much, anyhow." 
 
I6C AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. 
 
 Twas to us. It kept us goin a good 
 while longer. We never said any thin about 
 it. Mother was awful proud, you know, 
 but I dunno what we should have done. 
 Esther, how could you do it ? " 
 
 " Oh, it wa n t any thin . It was extra 
 money. I airn d it." 
 
 "Knittin ?" 
 
 Esther jerked her head defiantly. The 
 sick woman began to cry. "If I d ha 
 known, I would ha come. I wouldn t have 
 said a word." 
 
 " Yes, yon would, too. You was bound 
 to stan up for what you thought was right, 
 jest as much as I was. Now, we ve both 
 stood up, an it s all right. Don t you fret 
 no more about it." 
 
 "To think " 
 
 "Land sakes, don t cry. The tea s all 
 steeped, and I m goin to bring you in a cup 
 now." 
 
 Henry came that evening. About nine 
 o clock Esther got a pitcher and went down 
 to the well to draw some water for the 
 invalid. Her old joints were so tired and 
 stiff that she could scarcely move. She had 
 had a hard day. After she had filled her 
 pitcher she stood resting for a moment, star 
 ing up at the bright sitting-room windows. 
 
AN INDEPENDENT THINKER. l6l 
 
 Henry and Hatty were in there : just a 
 simple, awkward young pair, with nothing 
 beautiful about them, save "the spark of 
 eternal nature, which had its own light. 
 But they sat up stiffly and timidly in their 
 two chairs, looking at each other with full 
 content. They had glanced solemnly and 
 bashfully at Esther when she passed through 
 the room ; she appeared not to see them. 
 
 Standing at the well, looking up at the 
 windows, she chuckled softly to herself. 
 "It s all settled right," said she, "an 
 there don t none of em suspect that I m 
 a-carryin out my p int arter all." 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 QfEEMS to me the butterflies is dretful 
 
 kJ thick this season, Becca." 
 
 " Yes, they do seem to be consider ble 
 thick, mother." 
 
 "I never see em so thick. Thar s hull 
 swarms on em : lots of them common yaller 
 ones, an leetle rusty red ones ; an thar s 
 some of them big spotted ones, ain t thar? 
 Near s I kin see through my specs, thar s 
 one now a-settin on that head of clover." 
 
 " Yes, there is one, mother." 
 
 "Thar s lots of grasshoppers too. The 
 grasshoppers air a-risin up around my feet, 
 an the butterflies air flyin up in my face 
 out of the flowers. Law, hev we got to the 
 bars a ready ? I hadn t no idee on t. Be 
 keerful about lettin on em down, Becca. " 
 
 The younger of the two old women let 
 down the bars which separated the blooming 
 field which they had been traversing from 
 the road, and they passed through. 
 
 " S pose you d better put em up agin, 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 163 
 
 Becca, though thar ain t any need on t, as I 
 see. Thar ain t nothin in tke field to git 
 out but the butterflies an the grasshoppers, 
 an they 11 git out if they want to, whether 
 or no. Let me take holt." 
 
 " There ain t any need of it, mother." 
 
 " Yes, I will, too, Becca Wheat. 1 m 
 jest as strong Jin my arms as ever I was. 
 You ain t no call to think I ain t. " 
 
 * I don t think so, mother ; I know you re 
 real strong." 
 
 " I allers was pretty strong to lift 
 stronger n you." 
 
 The bars up, the two women kept on 
 down the road. It was bordered by stone 
 walls and flowering bushes. Ahead, just as 
 far as they could see, was one white house. 
 They were going there to a woman s prayer- 
 meeting. 
 
 The older of the two kept a little ahead 
 of the younger, trotting weakly through the 
 short, dusty grass. Her small, old head in 
 a black straw bonnet bobbed in time to 
 every step ; her sharp, yellow little face 
 peeped out of the bonnet, alert and half 
 aggressive. She wore a short black shawl 
 tightly drawn over her narrow, wiry back, 
 and held her hands folded primly in front 
 over the two ends. 
 
164 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 The other woman, her daughter, pacing 
 dreamily behind, was taller and slenderer. 
 Her face was pale and full, but slightly 
 wrinkled, with a sweet, wide mouth. The 
 pleasant expression about it was so decided 
 that it was almost a smile. Her dress was 
 slightly younger, a hat instead of a bonnet, 
 and no shawl over her black calico afternoon 
 dress. 
 
 As they drew nearer to the house the old 
 woman peered anxiously ahead through her 
 spectacles. 
 
 " See any one thar, Becca? " 
 
 " I should think two women jest went in. 
 I couldn t tell who they was. " 
 
 " You d orter wear your spectacles, Becca; 
 your eyesight ain t so good as mine was at 
 your age. She s got her front room open 
 for the meetin . I kin see the curtains 
 flappin . " 
 
 Quite a strong soft wind was blowing. As 
 they went up the front walk between the 
 phlox bushes with their purplish-pink heads, 
 the green curtains with a flowery border 
 swung out of the windows of Mrs. Thomas s 
 best room, the one on the right of the front 
 door. 
 
 The door stood open, and a mildly curious 
 face or two showed through the windows. 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 165 
 
 " Thar s old Mis Wheat an Becca," said 
 some one in a whisper to Mrs. Thomas, and 
 she came to the door. 
 
 There was a solemn composure on her 
 large, comfortable face. "Good afternoon, 
 Mis Wheat," said she; good afternoon, 
 Becca. Walk in." 
 
 They walked in with staid demeanour, 
 and took their seats. The chairs were set 
 close to the walls around the room. There 
 were nine or ten women there with good, 
 grave faces. One old woman sat close to 
 the mantel-shelf, and Mrs. Wheat took a 
 vacant chair beside her. 
 
 "How d ye do, Mis Dill?" whispered 
 she, reaching out her little skinny hand. 
 
 The other shook it stiffly. She was as 
 small as Mrs. Wheat, but her little face was 
 round, and her chin had a square decision 
 in its cut, instead of a sharp one. She had 
 a clean, nicely -folded white handkerchief in 
 her lap, and she wiped her spectacles care 
 fully with it and looked through them at 
 Mrs. Wheat before replying. 
 
 "I m enjoyin pretty good health jest 
 now, thankee, Mis W T heat," whispered she. 
 
 Mrs. Wheat s eyes snapped. " You do 
 seem to be lookin pretty middlin for one 
 of your age," said she. 
 
1 66 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 Mrs. Dill gave a stony look at her. 
 
 The meeting began then. The good 
 women read in the Bible and prayed, one 
 after another, the others silent on their 
 knees beside her. Their husbands and sons 
 in the hay-fields, the children in the district 
 school, the too light-minded though innocent 
 village girls, the minister wrestling with his 
 dull sermon faithfully in his shabby study, 
 the whole world, were remembered in their 
 homely petitions. The south wind sang in 
 at the windows ; a pine-tree around the 
 corner of the house soughed ; the locusts 
 cried shrilly over in the blossoming fields ; 
 and their timid prayers went up. 
 
 Old Mrs. Wheat, in her corner, on her 
 knees, listened with an outward show of 
 reverence, but she was inwardly torn with 
 jealousy. She was the last one called upon 
 to take part ; even old Mrs. Dill was pre 
 ferred before her. But she had her revenge ; 
 when she did get her chance to speak, long 
 and weary was the time she kept her devout 
 sisters on their aching knees. 
 
 She had been storing up a good deal to 
 say while the others were praying, and now 
 she said it. For church and town and 
 commonwealth, for missions at home and 
 abroad, her shrill cry went up. Lastly she 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 167 
 
 prayed, with emphatic quavers, for old Mrs. 
 Dill. " Lord," pleaded sh& " remember, 
 we pray thee, this aged handmaiden at my 
 side. May she long enjoy what blessin s 
 are left to her in her age an 5 decrepitood. 
 Sanctify her trials unto her, an enable her 
 to look away from the feebleness an want 
 of strength which is now her lot on this 
 airth, to that better country where the 
 wicked cease from troubling and the weary 
 air at rest. " 
 
 When the prayer was ended, Mrs. Dill 
 rose softly from her knees and sat down. 
 Her face was absolutely immovable as she 
 met Mrs. Wheat s glance when the meeting 
 dispersed. 
 
 The two old ladies were left alone in the 
 best room for a little while. Mrs. Thomas, 
 who was Mrs. Dill s daughter, wanted to see 
 Becca about something, so she called her 
 out into the sitting-room. 
 
 "You an Mis Wheat can visit a little 
 while, while Becca an I are out here," said 
 she. 
 
 Mrs. Dill looked at her daughter when 
 she said this, as if inclined to decline the 
 proposal. Then an expression of stubborn 
 fortitude came over her face, and she settled 
 herself solidly in her chair. 
 
1 68 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 The two looked primly at each other when 
 they were left alone. 
 
 "How is Mis Thomas?" said Mrs. Wheat; 
 " and how is Adoniram? " 
 
 " They air both well, thank ye." 
 
 " I s pose Adoniram is to work ? " 
 
 " Hayin ." 
 
 " I thought I ketched a glimpse of him in 
 the field over thar when I come in. Adon 
 iram grows old, don t he ? " 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 "I sot lookin at him in meetin last 
 Sabbath, an thinkin how dretfully he was 
 altered. I hope he ll be spared to you as 
 long as you live, Mis Dill. It s consider ble 
 better on your account that he hain t never 
 got married, ain t it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dill reddened, and stiffened her chin 
 a little. " Thar s a good many folks don t 
 git married, Mis Wheat, men, an women 
 too, sometimes." 
 
 * Becoa could a got married dozens of 
 times, if she d wanted to, Mis Dill." 
 
 "I s pose so." 
 
 " See here, Mis Dill, s pose we come to 
 the p int. You re allers kinder ningin at 
 me, an I know well enough what it means. 
 You ve allers blamed me cause you thought 
 I come betwixt my Becca an your Adon 
 iram, an I didn t as I knows on." 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIMfc. 1 69 
 
 " Oh no ; course you didn t." 
 
 " I s pose you don t believe it, Mis 
 Dill?" 
 
 " No ; I ain t forgot how Adoniram come 
 home from your house, jest about this time 
 o year, a matter o forty year ago." 
 
 " I don t know what you mean." 
 
 Mrs. Dill sat up straight in her chair, and 
 talked with slow emphasis. Her eyes never 
 winked. 
 
 "Jest about this time in the afternoon, 
 an this time o year, bout forty year ago, 
 Adoniram come home from your house. 
 They d got the hay in the day before, so he 
 had a leetle restin spell, an he went right 
 over thar. I knowed where he d gone well 
 enough, though he made up an arrant after 
 a rake to Deacon White s. I knowed he d 
 stop to Becca s before he got home. She d 
 been off visitin , an he hadn t seen her for a 
 week. She d jest got home that mornin . 
 Well, Adoniram went, an he come home. 
 I was a-goin through the front entry when 
 he come in through the settin -room. He 
 was jest as pale as death. I asked him what 
 the matter was, an he wouldn t say nothin . 
 The door stood open in here, an he come in 
 an dropped into a cheer by the table, an 
 put his head down on it. I coaxed an 
 coaxed, an finally I got it out of him. He d 
 
1 70 LN T BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 been over to Becca s, an you d treated him 
 so he couldn t ever go agin. He said you 
 didn t like him, an that was the end on t. 
 Becca couldn t go agin her mother s wishes, 
 an he wasn t ever goin to ask her to. Adon- 
 iram had jest joined the church that spring, 
 an he d jest as soon cut his hand off as to 
 lead Becca to disobey her parents. He s 
 allers had a strong feelin that marriages 
 made that way wa n t blessed. I ve heerd 
 him say so a good many times. So " 
 
 "I d like to know what I ever did to 
 mistreat Adoniram, Mis Dill." 
 
 " He never told me the hull perticklars. 
 Thar was somethin bout a butterfly." 
 
 " Lor , I remember. Twa n t nothin 
 nothin at all. Young folks air so silly ! 
 I remember jest as well as ef twas yister- 
 day. Adoniram an Becca was out in the 
 yard in front of the house. Becca had it 
 all laid out in flower-beds jest as it is now, 
 an thar was swarms of butterflies round 
 em. They was out thar in the yard, an 
 I was in the settin -room winder. They 
 was kinder foolin , an all of a sudden Adon 
 iram he begun chasin a butterfly. It was 
 one of them great blue-spotted ones. He 
 caught it mighty spry, an was a givin it 
 to Becca, when I said somethin out o the 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 1 71 
 
 winder. I don t know jest what it was. 
 I thought twas dretful silly for him to 
 waste his time ketchin butterflies, an 
 Becca had some sewin I wanted her to 
 do. I s pose twas somethin bout that." 
 
 " You didn t think Adoniram was good 
 enough for Becca ; that was the hull 
 on t. " 
 
 " That wa n t it, Mis Dill. I don t see 
 how you come to think such a thing." 
 
 " You d jest set your heart on havin her 
 git that rich Arms feller ; you know you 
 had. But she didn t ; she didn t git any 
 body." 
 
 Mrs. Dill s thin voice quavered and shook, 
 and her little bony form trembled all over, 
 but the spirit within her manifested itself 
 bravely through shakes and quavers. 
 
 * You air mis judgin of me, Mis Dill, an* 
 you ain t showin a Christian spirit. You 11 
 be sorry for it when you come to think it 
 over. You ll see twas all jest the way I 
 said twas, an I didn t mean nothin . Let 
 alone anything else, it s awful cruel to ketch 
 butterflies ; you know that, Mis Dill." 
 
 "You ve done a crueller thing than 
 ketchin butterflies, Martha Wheat." 
 
 "Well, Mis Dill, we d better not talk 
 bout this any longer. Tain t jest becomin 
 
172 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 after the meetin we ve jest had to git to 
 disputin . Thar s Becca. " 
 
 Going home along the green-bordered road 
 and across the flowery field, Rebecca Wheat 
 noticed that something seemed to have dis 
 turbed her mother. The nervous old woman 
 fretted and fidgeted. In the middle of the 
 field she stopped short, and almost danced 
 up and down with feeble, childish wrath. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, mother ? " 
 
 " Them pesky butterflies ! " ejaculated 
 her mother, waving her trembling hands. 
 * I d like to poison their honey for em. " 
 
 " Let me go on ahead, mother ; then they 
 won t bother you so much. I kin kinder 
 brush them away. " 
 
 "Well, you may, ef you re a mind ter. 
 Say, Becca speakin of butterflies brings it 
 to mind. You never thought I was ter 
 blame bout separatin you an Adoniram 
 Dill, did you ? " 
 
 The old daughter looked pleasantly into 
 her old mother s face. " I didn t blame 
 anybody, mother. I didn t think you used 
 to like Adoniram very well ; but it s all 
 over now. " 
 
 " You didn t take it to heart much, did 
 you, Becca?" 
 
 " Not enough to hurt me any, I guess. 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 173 
 
 Do you mind the butterflies so much with 
 me ahead ? " 
 
 " No, I guess I don t. I Ve kinder been 
 thinkin on t over lately, an ef I was kinder 
 sharp bout that butterfly business, an hin 
 dered you an Adoniram s makin a match 
 on t, I ain t above sayin I might hev been 
 a leetle more keerful. Adoniram s turned 
 out pretty well. Mis Higgins told me 
 yisterday that he d jest bought that ten- 
 acre lot of Deacon White s. I guess he 
 must hev been layin up money. Well, 
 Becca, I dessay you air better off than you 
 would be ef you d been married. It s pretty 
 resky. " 
 
 Rebecca, plodding before her mother, 
 looked ahead at the familiar landscape, 
 with that expression of strong, pleasant 
 patience which the years seemed to have 
 brought out in relief on her face, like the 
 chasing on silver. It made her more attrac 
 tive than she had been in her youth, for she 
 had never been pretty. 
 
 She and her mother reached the comfort 
 able house, with three great elms in front of 
 it, where they lived, two hours before sunset. 
 
 About an hour later Adoniram Dill also 
 went home from his labour across the fields. 
 He was a tall, muscular old man, with a 
 
174 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 strong-featured, beardless face. He was so 
 straight and agile that he looked, the width 
 of a field away, like a young man. When 
 he came nearer, one saw his iron-grey hair, 
 the deep seams, and the old brown tint of 
 his face, with a start of surprise. 
 
 Supper was not quite ready, so after he 
 had washed his face and hands at the kitchen 
 sink he went into the sitting-room, and sat 
 down in a calico-covered rocking-chair with 
 a newspaper. His mother looked in pre 
 sently, and saw him there. 
 
 She stood in the entry -door and beckoned 
 him solemnly. " Come into the parlour a 
 minute, " she whispered ; " I ve got some- 
 thin I want to tell you, an the children 
 will be racin in here." 
 
 Adoniram rose and followed her in obedi 
 ently. 
 
 She shut the parlour door and looked 
 round at him. " Adoniram, what do you 
 think ? Mis Wheat was over to the meetin 
 this arternoon, and she an me hed a little 
 talk arter the others was gone, an she 
 brought up that old affair of you an Becca 
 agin." 
 
 " There ain t any use bringin it up, 
 mother." 
 
 " She says she didn t mean a thing when 
 
LN BUTTERFLY TIME. 1 75 
 
 Bhe talked to you so about that butterfly 
 business. She jest thought you hadn t orter 
 be was tin* your time doin sech cruel things 
 as ketchin butterflies, an she wanted Becca 
 to come in an do some sewin . That s what 
 she said. I let her know I didn t believe a 
 word on t. I told her right to her face that 
 she thought you wa n t good enough for 
 Becca, an she wanted her to hev that rich 
 Arms feller." 
 
 " Seems to me I d have let it all gone, 
 mother. " 
 
 " I war n t goin to let it all go, Adoniram. 
 I m slow-spoken, an I don t often speak, 
 but once in a while I ve got to. She s the 
 most aggervatin I don t know what you 
 would hev done with her ef you hed merried 
 Becca. You d hed to hev her arter Mr. 
 Wheat died. She ain t never liked me. 
 She tried to be dretful nice to me to-day, 
 cause she d got an axe to grind ; but she d 
 got so much spite in her she couldn t help it 
 showin out a leetle. Why, she kerried it 
 into the prayer-meetin , she did, Adoniram. 
 She prayed for me, cause I was so old an 
 broken down, an she s three year older n 
 me. I think it s awful to show out that 
 way in a prayer-meetin ." 
 
 " P rhaps she didn t mean anything." 
 
176 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 " Yes, she did. I knew jest what she 
 meant by the hull on t, Adoniram Dill. 
 She s got kinder sick livin thar alone with 
 Becca, without any man to split up kindlin - 
 wood an bring in water, an she $ tryin to 
 git you back agin. She jest the same as 
 said she hedn t no objections to it. I guess 
 she thinks you Ve been doin pretty well, 
 too. She thinks it would be a mighty nice 
 thing now to hev you step in thar with your 
 money an wait on em. I see through her." 
 
 " P rhaps it ain t so, mother." 
 
 " Yes, tis. Adoniram Dill, you don t 
 mean to say you d hev any idee of marryin 
 Becca Wheat, arter you Ve been treated as 
 you hev ? " 
 
 " You ain t heard me say any such thing, 
 mother." 
 
 " I thought you looked kinder queer. You 
 wouldn t, would you, Adoniram ? " 
 
 " Not if it didn t seem for the best. I 
 don t know." 
 
 All of a sudden Adoniram Dill sat down 
 beside the little parlour table and leaned his 
 head on it as he had forty years ago. 
 
 4 * What s the matter ? " his mother asked, 
 with a scared start, looking at him with awed 
 eyes. It was almost like a coming back of 
 the dead, this rising of her son s youth from 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 177 
 
 its snowy and grassy grave in her sight. 
 " O Adoniram, you poor boy ^ you ain t felt 
 jest the same way about her all these years ? 
 It s awful. I hadn t any idee on t. " 
 
 " Never mind, mother. Jane s callin us 
 to supper ; you go right along, an I 11 come 
 in a minute." 
 
 " Thar ain t any need of your havin any 
 more frettin about it, anyhow, Adoniram. 
 Her mother s willin , an I ain t a doubt but 
 Becca is. I Ve seen her look kinder down 
 hearted sometimes ; for all she s so good an 
 uncomplaining I guess she s been worried 
 as well as some other folks. You jest slick 
 up arter supper, an go right over an ask 
 her. Thar ain t no reason at all why 
 you shouldn t. You ain t nuther of you 
 so very old, not more n sixty. An I don 
 know as Mis Wheat 11 be so very bad to 
 git along with. I dessay she s meant all 
 right." 
 
 Adoniram said nothing. He rose with 
 an effort, and went out to supper with hi 
 mother, who kept gazing at him with loving, 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 "Ain t you goin ?" she whispered when 
 they were in the sitting-room again. 
 
 " I guess not to-night, mother." 
 
 " Well, mebbe tis jest as well to wait till 
 M 
 
1 78 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 to-morrer. I don t want Mis Wheat to 
 think you was in too much of a rush. " 
 
 After his mother had gone to bed, and 
 out of doors the summer night was complete 
 with all its stars, he sat down alone on the 
 front door-step, and thought. He felt like 
 a wanderer returned to some beautiful, dear 
 country, the true home of his heart, which 
 he had thought to never see again. To-night 
 the golden gates of youth swung open with 
 sweet music for Adoniram Dill, with his 
 grey locks and his hard, seamed face, and 
 he entered in, never knowing he was any 
 different. 
 
 The steadiness with which he had kept to 
 his ideas of duty for the last forty years 
 gave his happiness, now that the long strain 
 was over, an almost unearthly, holy char 
 acter. It was truly the reward of virtue. 
 The faithful old man who had taken what 
 he considered to be the right course for him 
 self and the woman he loved, without ques 
 tion or appeal to that mandate of obedience 
 which he read so literally, was capable at 
 sixty of being as freely happy as a child. 
 
 The sordid motives which had possibly 
 actuated Becca s mother to withdraw her 
 opposition at last did not fret him at all. 
 He was far above it. That hard, shrill voice 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 179 
 
 which had rung out of that sitting-room 
 window for him for the last forty years was 
 still. The voice had truly said cruel things, 
 more cruel than its owner would own to now. 
 The poor, honest young man had gone away 
 that day with the full and settled under 
 standing that his sweetheart s mother was 
 bitterly opposed to him, and that must be 
 the end of it all. He never dreamed of such 
 a thing as urging her to marry him without 
 her mother s consent. 
 
 So he had never been since in that front 
 yard, full of roses and pinks and butter 
 flies. 
 
 He and Rebecca had met in the village 
 society like kindly acquaintances for all 
 these years. 
 
 Adoniram, looking across the little country 
 church Sunday after Sunday as the years 
 went on, might have seen the woman grow 
 ing old who should have grown old by his 
 side, with bitter regret, and Rebecca, with 
 patient sadness, have marked his entrance 
 among all the congregation ; but no one had 
 known. 
 
 The day after the meeting Adoniram had 
 to drive over to the store on business. On 
 his way back he passed a house where an 
 aged sister of Mrs. Wheat s lived, and saw, 
 
l8o IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 with a start, the latter s thin face at a 
 window. " I wonder if Becca s home ? " said 
 he. Then he drove on quicker, with a 
 gathering resolution. 
 
 About four o clock he was going across 
 lots through the field towards the Wheats . 
 He had on his Sunday coat. When about 
 half-way across he saw a woman s figure 
 approaching. Soon he saw it was Rebecca. 
 He stood in the narrow footpath, between 
 the tall clover and daisies and herd s-grass 
 which came up to his knees, and waited. 
 
 She greeted him, when she reached him, 
 in her usual good, placid way. " How do 
 you do, Mr. Dill ? " 
 
 "I was comin to see you, Becca." 
 
 She looked at him, and the calm lines in 
 her face changed a little. "I 11 go back. I 
 was going after mother, that was all \ but 
 she won t be in any hurry. * 
 
 "No, there ain t any need of your goin 
 back. I can say what I wanted to jest as 
 well here, an then you can keep right on 
 after your mother. Becca, supposin twas 
 forty year ago, an you an me was here, an 
 your mother was willin , what would you 
 say ef I asked you to marry me ? " 
 
 Great tears stood in her eyes. "Oh 
 Adoniram, it wouldn t be fair ! " 
 
IN BUTTERFLY TIME. l8l 
 
 " Don t you think your mother would be 
 willin ?" 
 
 " I don t think she *s so set agin it as she 
 was, but twouldn t be fair. I m sixty year 
 old, Adoniram." 
 
 "So ml, Becca." 
 
 She shook her head. " No, Adoniram, it 
 ain t any use. It might have been different 
 once. Now, after all this time, when I m 
 old an broken down, an the fault of all 
 the trouble on my side of the house, I ain t 
 goin to be so mean as to let you marry me. 
 It ain t fair." 
 
 Adoniram gave one step forward, and 
 caught his old sweetheart in his arms. 
 "I ve been waitin for you forty year, 
 Becca, an there ain t nothin more comin 
 betwixt us. Don t you say anything more 
 about its not bein* fair." 
 
 You know mother 11 hev to live with us. " 
 
 " I 11 try an make her jest as happy as 
 lean." 
 
 The clover and the grasses rustled in the 
 wind, and the butterflies came flying around 
 the old man and his old sweetheart standing 
 there. It would have made no difference to 
 them if they had been waiting in their little 
 chrysalis coffins a hundred years or so, they 
 were butterflies now. There were yellow 
 
1 82 IN BUTTERFLY TIME. 
 
 ones and little rusty red ones, .and now and 
 then a gorgeous large one with blue spots on 
 his black wings. Seeing one of these made 
 Adoniram remember something swiftly. 
 
 " Want me to ketch a butterfly for you, 
 Becca ? " 
 
 "I ve got one now you caught forty year 
 ago." 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 " T VE been lookin in the pantry, an you 
 
 JL ain t got a bit of cake in the house. 
 I m goin to work an make you a good loaf 
 of cup-cake before I go home." 
 
 "Oh! I wouldn t, Mis Steele ; it ll be 
 too much work." 
 
 " Work ! I guess I ain t quite so feeble 
 but I can make a loaf of cup-cake. " 
 
 " You ve got on your nice silk dress." 
 
 " H m ! I ain t afraid of this old silk. 
 Where s the eggs ? " 
 
 " There ain t a bit of need of our havin 
 any cake Lawson an me don t eat much 
 cake, anyway. Besides, he can make it." 
 
 " Guess he ain t much time to make cake 
 whilst he s plantin . Besides, twould drive 
 me crazy to have a man messin round. 
 Where 11 I find some eggs ? " 
 
 " I don t believe there s any in the house. 
 You re real good to offer, Mis Steele, but I 
 don t believe there s any need on t. " 
 
 " Where d the eggs be if there was any 
 in the house ? " 
 
 183 
 
1 84 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 * I guess he keeps em in a little brown 
 basket in front of the window in the 
 pantry." 
 
 "Here s the basket, but there ain t any 
 eggs in it. Don t you s pose I could find 
 some out in the barn ? " 
 
 "You don t want to go huntin round in 
 the barn with that good dress on." 
 
 " Guess I sha n t hurt it any." 
 
 Mrs. Steele stalked out of the room, the 
 little basket dangling from her hand. Her 
 black-silk dress rattled, and her new, shiny 
 shoes creaked. She had on some jingling 
 chains and bracelets, and long gold ear-rings 
 with little balls attached, which swung and 
 bobbed and tinkled as she walked. 
 
 Susan Lawson, at the window, could not 
 see her, as she was faced the other way, but 
 she listened to the noise of her departure. 
 She heard two doors slam, and the creaking 
 steps very faint in the distance. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said she. She pressed her 
 lips together and leaned her head back. 
 The clock ticked loud ; a sunbeam, with a 
 broad slant of dancing motes in it, streamed 
 in the window. Susan s old face looked 
 like porcelain in the strong light, which 
 seemed to almost shine through it. Her 
 skin was thin and clear, and stretched 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 185 
 
 tightly over the delicate face-bones. There 
 was a faint pink on the cheeks. 
 
 "Oh dear!" she said, the second time, 
 when she heard the creaking footsteps 
 nearer and louder. "Did you find the 
 eggs?" asked she meekly, when the door 
 opened. 
 
 "Yes, I found the eggs, an I found 
 somethin else. For pity s sake, Susan, 
 what does Lawson mean by havin so many 
 cats in that barn ? " 
 
 " I know it. I ve said all I could to have 
 him get rid of some of em. " 
 
 " Well, I guess I d say, an keep a-sayin , 
 till he did. I don t believe I m stretchin 
 it a mite when I say I saw fifty out there 
 just now. I hadn t any more n shut the 
 sink -room door before the evilest-lookin 
 black cat I ever saw popped its head out of 
 a hole in the wall. Then I went a few steps 
 further, an two or three scud like a whirl 
 wind right under my feet. Much as half a 
 dozen flew out of one corner when I went 
 in to look for eggs. I declare I thought 
 they d scratch my eyes out ; I was actually 
 afraid of em. They were as black as minks, 
 and they had the greenest eyes ! The barn s 
 alive with em. I don t see what Lawson a 
 thinkin 1 of." 
 
1 86 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 "I know there s a lot; there was the 
 last of my bein about, when I used to go 
 out there, an I s pose there s more now. " 
 
 " Why don t Lawson kill some of em ? " 
 
 "I ve talked to him about it till I ve 
 got tired of it. Two years ago he did get 
 so far s to load the gun one afternoon an 
 go out in the barn. But I listened, an it 
 didn t go off. I guess he was kinder afraid 
 on t ; to tell the truth, he don t know much 
 about fire-arms." 
 
 "Well, if I was a man, an couldn t fire 
 a gun, I wouldn t tell of it. I d risk it, but 
 I could shoot some of them cats. I guest 
 my barn wouldn t be overrun with em if 1 
 knew it." 
 
 Mrs. Steele carried the eggs into the 
 pantry ; then she came back with a resolute 
 look on her large face with its beetling nose. 
 " Where is that gun ? " asked she. 
 
 " O Mis Steele, you don t " 
 
 "I ain t goin to have you so overrun 
 with cats if I can help it. If Lawson can t 
 fire a gun, I can. The amount of it is, if 
 one cat s killed, the rest 11 leave, and I 11 
 risk it but I can hit one. I ain t afraid to 
 try, anyhow. Where s the gun ? " 
 
 Susan turned white. "0 Mis Steele, 
 don t ! " 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 187 
 
 " Where s the gun ? " 
 
 "You ll get killed. Oh, you will! you 
 will ! Don t please don t." 
 
 " Get killed ! I should laftgh. What do 
 you s pose I m goin to do point it at my 
 self instead of the cat ? Where is it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Steele stood in front of the other 
 woman, her large, short-waisted figure, in 
 its smooth, shiny black silk, thrown back 
 majestically on her heels, and looked at her 
 imperiously. 
 
 Susan felt as if her answer were a thread, 
 and Mrs. Steele had a firm clutch on it, and 
 was pulling it surely out of her soul. She 
 had to let it go. 
 
 "It s in the back chamber," said she. 
 "Oh, don t!" 
 
 "You just sit still, an not worry." 
 
 Susan clutched the arms of her chair with 
 her little bony hands, and sat listening. 
 She heard the footsteps on the back stairs, 
 ascencrlng and descending, then, after an 
 interval of agonised suspense, the sharp 
 report of the gun. 
 
 Her heart beat so heavily that it made 
 her tremble all over. She sat thus, her poor 
 little house of life all ajar with the heavy 
 working of its enginery, and waited. Two, 
 three minutes passed, and Mrs. Steele did 
 
f88 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 not come. Five minutes passed. Susan 
 began to scream : " Mis Steele, Mis 1 
 Steele, ar.e you killed ? Mis Steele, answer ! 
 Why don t you answer? Mis Steele, are 
 you killed ? Oh ! oh ! Here I am, an can t 
 stir a step ; p rhaps she s bleedin to death 
 out there. Oh, where s Lawson ? Lawson ! 
 Lawson ! come come quick ! Mis Steele s 
 killed ! Mis Steele ! Mis Steele ! " 
 
 " Susan Lawson, what are you hollerin so 
 for?" said Mrs. Steele suddenly. Susan had 
 not heard her enter amid her frantic outcries. 
 
 "0 Mis Steele, you ain t killed?" she 
 said faintly. 
 
 " Killed ? I d laugh if I couldn t shoot 
 a cat without gettin killed. What have 
 you gone an got into such a stew for ? " 
 
 " You was so long ! " 
 
 "I thought p rhaps I d get aim at 
 another, but I didn t." 
 
 " Did you kill one ? " 
 
 "I guess so. She ran, but I guess she 
 was hurt pretty bad. " 
 
 Susan peered round at her. " Why, you 
 look awful white, Mis Steele. You ain t 
 hurt, are you ? " Susan was shivering now 
 so that she could scarcely speak. Her eyes 
 looked wild ; her thin lips were parted, and 
 she panted between her words. 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 189 
 
 " Hurt, no ; how should I be hurt ? 1 ve 
 been lookin kinder pale for a few days, 
 anyway ; quite a number s spoke of it. " 
 
 "Why, Mis Steele, what s that on your 
 dress ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "All over the back of it. Why, Mis 
 Steele, you re all covered with dust. Where 
 hev you been? Come up here, an let me 
 brush it off. There s hay-seed, too. It s 
 too bad on this nice dress." 
 
 "Land! I guess twon t hurt it any. I 
 must ha rubbed against something out in 
 the barn. That s enough. I m goin to 
 put my shawl on, an that will cover it up. 
 I 11 take it off an give it a good cleanm 
 when I get home. Come to think it over, I 
 don t know s I d better stop to make that 
 cake to-night, if you don t care much about 
 it. I ll come over an do it to-morrow. 
 It s a little later than I thought for, an 
 I ve got to bake bread for supper." 
 
 "I wouldn t stop, Mis Steele. It ain t 
 any matter about the cake, nohow." 
 
 "She goes kinder stiff," thought Susan, 
 watching Mrs. Steele in her black silk and 
 cashmere long shawl going out of the yard. 
 "How beautiful an green the grass is gettin 
 I m thankful she wa n t hurt." 
 
IQO AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 In the course of half an hour Jonas Law- 
 son, Susan s husband, came up from the 
 garden, where he had been planting pease. 
 The woman at the window watched the tall, 
 soberly moving figure. The broad yard 
 was covered with the most beautiful spring 
 grass, and the dandelions were just begin 
 ning to blossom. Susan watched her hus 
 band s spreading feet anxiously. "There! 
 he s stepped on that dandelion ; I knew he 
 would," said she. 
 
 Lawson opened the door slowly and 
 entered. " Who was it fired a gun a little 
 while ago ? " said he. His arms hung 
 straight at his sides, his long face was 
 deeply furrowed, the furrows all running 
 up and down. He dropped his lower jaw 
 a good deal when he spoke, and his straight 
 black beard seemed to elongate. 
 
 "O Lawson, it was Mis Steele. She 
 skeered me most to death." 
 
 Lawson stood listening to the story. 
 "The gun kicked, most likely," said he 
 soberly, when Susan mentioned the dust 
 on Mrs. Steele s black silk. "It s apt to. 
 It ain t a very safe gun ; I m most afraid of 
 it myself. I reckon she got knocked over." 
 
 "Oh dear 1 do you suppose it hurt her 
 much, Lawson?" 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 19! 
 
 " Shouldn t be surprised if she was pretty 
 lame to-morrow. " 
 
 "Oh dear! I wish she hadn t touched 
 it." 
 
 " I heard the gun, an I thought I d come 
 up as soon as I got that row of pease planted, 
 an see if there was anythin the matter. 
 I knew you couldn t do nothin to help your 
 self, if anybody was to kill you." 
 
 Lawson plodded about, getting tea ready. 
 Susan had been unable to walk for several 
 years, and all the domestic duties had de 
 volved upon him. She had taught him how 
 to cook, and he did fairly well, although 
 he was extremely slow and painstaking. 
 Susan had been very quick herself, and 
 sometimes it fretted her to watch him. 
 
 " It took him jest three hours and a half 
 to make a pan of ginger-bread this mornin ," 
 she told Mrs. Steele one day. "It was 
 real good, but it seemed as if I should fly, 
 seem him do it. He measured the flour 
 over ten times I counted." She was all 
 of a nervous quiver telling it. 
 
 Nobody knew the real magnitude of the 
 trial which the poor vivacious soul had to 
 bear, sitting there in her calico-covered 
 rocker, with her stiff feet on a little wooden 
 stool, from morning till night, day after day. 
 
192 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 She fluttered and beat under Providence as 
 a bird would under a man s hand ; but she 
 was held down relentlessly in that chair, 
 and would be till the beating and fluttering 
 stopped. 
 
 Lawson turned her chair about, as was 
 the custom, that she might watch him pre 
 paring the meal. 
 
 He spread the cover on the table and 
 placed the plates ; then he was in the pan 
 try a long time fumbling about. 
 
 "What are you doing, Lawson?" Susan 
 asked, trying to peer around the corner. 
 
 "I can t seem to see the knives any 
 where. It s curious. I allers put em in 
 one place." 
 
 "Ain t they in the knife-box ? " 
 
 "They appear to be gone, box and all." 
 Lawson spoke in a tone of grave perplexity, 
 and fumbled on. 
 
 " Ain t you found em yet ! " 
 
 "No, I don t seem to see em yet. It s 
 curious. " 
 
 " Oh dear ! push me in there, an let me 
 see if I can t see em. Mis Steele came in 
 here an righted up things," said Susan, after 
 sitting in the pantry and staring vainly at 
 the shelves ; " she must have put em some 
 where else." 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 193 
 
 They spread their bread-and-butter with 
 Lawson s jack-knife that night. 
 
 "Mis Steele means real w.ell," said Law 
 son, labouring with the narrow blade, " but 
 it seems as if she kinder upsets things some 
 times." 
 
 " I ain t goin to hear a word again Mis 
 Steele. She put em up somewhere ; they re 
 safe enough." 
 
 " Oh, I ain t no doubt of it, Susan ; we 11 
 come across em. I don t mean a thing 
 again Mis Steele." 
 
 Lawson, after he had cleared away the tea 
 things, fumbled again in the pantry. 
 
 " What are you huntin for now? " Susan 
 called out. 
 
 " Nothin but my shavin things. I don t 
 seem to see em. It s curious. " 
 
 " Ain t they in the corner of the top shelf, 
 where they allers are ? " 
 
 " I don t seem to see em there. I guess 
 mebbe Mis Steele set em somewhere else. 
 It ain t no matter. I was kinder thinkin of 
 shavin an goin to meetin , but mebbe it s 
 jest as well I didn t. I feel kinder stiff to 
 night." 
 
 " Seems as if you ought to go to meetin . 
 You re sure they ain t right there ? " 
 
 "I don t see em. I guess Mis Steele 
 
194 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 must ha put em up. Well, it don t make 
 no odds." 
 
 Lawson sat down and read the paper. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Steele came over, and 
 revealed the knives and the shaving appar 
 atus in the top drawer of a bureau in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 "There wa n t nothin in there," said she, 
 "an 5 I thought you could use it for a kind 
 of sideboard. " 
 
 That day Mrs. Steele made the cup-cake 
 and broached a plan. 
 
 " You be ready, Susan," said she, stand 
 ing with her bonnet and shawl on, taking 
 leave ; " I m comin over with the horse an 
 wagon to-morrow, to take you to my house." 
 
 "Oh no, Mis Steele!" 
 
 " You needn t say a word. You re comin , 
 an you re goin to make me a good long 
 visit." 
 
 " Oh, I can t ! " 
 
 " Can t? I don t see any reason why you 
 can t." 
 
 " I can t leave Lawson." 
 
 " Goodness ! if Lawson can t take care of 
 himself six weeks, I should think twas a 
 pity." 
 
 " Mis Steele, I couldn t stay six 
 weeks ! " 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 195 
 
 " Don t you say another word about it. 
 I m comin over to-morrow, an you be 
 ready. " v , 
 
 " I couldn t git into the wagon." 
 
 " Me an Lawson can lift you in. Don t 
 you say a word. You ain t goin to sit in 
 that chair without any change a day longer, 
 if I can help it. You be ready." 
 
 "0 Mis Steele." 
 
 But she was out in the yard, looking back 
 at the window, and nodding emphatically. 
 
 When Lawson came in from his planting 
 he found Susan crying. 
 
 " What s the matter? ain t xou feelin as 
 well as common to-day ? " he inquired, with 
 long-drawn concern. 
 
 " Lawson, what do you think ? Mis 
 Steele s comin over with her horse an 
 covered wagon to-morrow, an take me over 
 to her house, and keep me six weeks." 
 
 " Don t you feel as if you wanted to go?" 
 Lawson said, with a look of slow wonder. 
 
 "I m scared to death. You don t think 
 about it ; nobody thinks nothin about it : 
 how I ve been sittin here in this house nigh 
 on to ten year, an what an awful thing it is 
 for me to think of goin out of it. " 
 
 "Don t you feel as if it might do you 
 good ? " 
 
IQ6 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 " Good ! I ve been lookin at that grass 
 out there. I feel as if I d stayed in this 
 house so long that I m rooted, jest as the 
 grass is in the yard. An now they re goin 
 to take me up root an all, an I m only a 
 poor little old worn-out woman, an I can t 
 stan it ; I can t stan it ! " Susan sobbed 
 hysterically. 
 
 "It seems to me, I d tell her I couldn t 
 come, if I felt so about it, " said Lawson, his 
 c ace lengthening, and the long furrows in it. 
 
 " There s them lilacs an them flowerin 
 almonds gettin ready to blow under the 
 window here ; An the yard s greener than 
 I ever see it this time o year." 
 
 " The grass round Mis Steele s place is 
 uncommon forrard ; 1 noticed it goin by 
 there the other day. " 
 
 " What do you s pose I care about her 
 grass ? You can t git along alone, Lawson, 
 neither. " 
 
 " Oh, I shall do well enough ! I can 
 make me some pies. " 
 
 " Yes, you won t make a thing but mince- 
 pies, an git sick, I 11 warrant." 
 
 "I was calculatin to make some apple- 
 pies." 
 
 " Mis Steele made some cup-cake to-day, 
 an I expect nothin but that ll make you 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 197 
 
 sick, now I m goin away. It s rich. She 
 put a cup of butter and two whole cups of 
 sugar in it. I didn t kno\y; how to have her, 
 butter s so high, but I couldn t say nothin . 
 She was real good to do it. " 
 
 In the night Susan aroused Lawson ; she 
 had thought of another tribulation connected 
 with her prospective visit. 
 
 "Lawson," said she, "I ve thought of 
 somethin else. I can t go, nohow." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Lawson, with his 
 usual steady gravity not even his sudden 
 awakening could alter that. 
 
 " I ain t got a bonnet that s fit to wear. 
 I ain t been out to meetin for ten year, you 
 know ; an I ain t hed a sign of a bonnet for 
 all that time." 
 
 " Is the one you hed when you was taken 
 sick worn out ? " 
 
 "Worn out? No; but it don t look 
 nothin like the bonnets they wear nowadays. 
 It s as flat as a saucer, an Mis Steele s is 
 high in front as a steeple. I ain t goin to 
 ride through the town in such a lookin 
 thing. I ve got some pride left." 
 
 But for all poor Susan Lawson s little 
 feminine pride concerning attire, for all her 
 valid excuses and her tearful, sleepless night, 
 she went. She tied on nervously the flat 
 
198 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 Neapolitan bonnet, with its little tuft of 
 feathery green grass, which had flourished 
 bravely in some old millinery spring ; the 
 strings also were grass green. 
 
 Lawson and Mrs. Steele carried her out 
 between them in her chair. Poor Susan in 
 her old bonnet, coming out into the sweet 
 spring world, was like the feeble blossoming 
 of some ancient rose which had missed the 
 full glory of the resurrection. The spring, 
 which one thinks of as an angel, was the 
 same, but the rose and the old woman were 
 different. The old woman felt the difference, 
 if the rose did not. 
 
 "Oh, dear! I ain t what I used to be," 
 she groaned, as they hoisted her, all trenv 
 bling with fear, into the wagon. "I can t 
 do as I used to, an my bonnet is all behind 
 the times." 
 
 Mrs. Steele s vehicle was a " covered 
 wagon." There was no opening except in 
 front ; the black curtains buttoned closely 
 over the back and sides. Susan sat, every 
 nerve rigid, on the glossy back seat, and 
 clutched the one in front firmly. Mrs. 
 Steele sat there driving in a masterly way, 
 holding the lines high and taut, her shoulders 
 thrown back. The horse had been, though 
 he was not now, a spirited animal. 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 199 
 
 Years ago a long stable at the right of 
 Mrs. Steele s house had been well filled with 
 horses. Mr. Steele had been an extensive 
 dealer in them, and had thus acquired the 
 wealth which his widow now enjoyed. She 
 had always been well conversant with her 
 husband s business, and now she liked to 
 talk wisely about horses, though she had 
 only one of their noble stock left. 
 
 "Ain t you afraid, Mis Steele?" Susan 
 kept asking nervously. 
 
 Afraid ! Why, I Ve drove this horse 
 ever since John died." 
 
 " Then you re used to him ? " 
 
 "I should hope I was. He s rather 
 smart, but he s a pretty fair horse. He s 
 been a little lame lately, but he s gettin 
 over it all right. He interfered goin down 
 that steep hill by Sam Basset s one time, 
 last February, an hurt him. Two year ago 
 I thought he had a spavin, but it didn t 
 amount to nothin . John always thought a 
 good deal of this horse ; he valued him 
 pretty high." 
 
 Susan looked with her wide, wondering 
 eyes at a small galled spot on the horse s 
 back, and thought innocently that that was 
 the fraudulent spavin. 
 
 She watched timorously every motion of 
 
2OO AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 the animal, and felt such a glad sense of 
 safety that she did not repine, as she had 
 expected, when she was carried over Mrs. 
 Steele s threshold by Mrs. Steele and her 
 hired man. 
 
 But the repining came. Susan was quite 
 prostrated from her unusual exertion, and 
 had to lie in bed for several days. Stretched 
 out there in Mrs. Steele s unfamiliar bedroom, 
 staring at the unfamiliar walls, that terrible, 
 anticipated home-sickness attacked her. 
 
 " I don t want you to think I ain t grate 
 ful," she told Mrs. Steele, who found her 
 crying one day, "but I do kinder wish, if 
 I in goin to be sick, that I was to home in 
 my own bed." 
 
 " You ain t goin to be sick," pronounced 
 Mrs. Steele, with cheerful alacrity ; * an if 
 you was, you re a good deal better off 
 here." 
 
 In a few days Susan was able to sit up. 
 Mrs. Steele arranged her complacently in a 
 stuffed easy-chair beside her sitting-room 
 window. 
 
 "There, Harrison," she told her hired 
 man that night, * * that poor soul in there is 
 goin to take a little comfort for a few weeks, 
 if I can bring it about." 
 
 Harrison Adams, the hired man, had come 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 2OI 
 
 into the service of the Steeles in his boyhood. 
 Now he was married, and lived at a short 
 distance ; but he still carried, pn the farm for 
 Mrs. Steele. She was not a woman to live 
 idly. She could not deal in horses, but she 
 could make a few acres profitable, and she 
 did. 
 
 This man was all the servant she kept. 
 She managed her house herself. She was a 
 fine cook, and Susan, during her visit, could 
 complain of no lack of good living. The 
 house was comfortable, too ; indeed, it was 
 giand compared with the guest s own domi 
 cile. 
 
 But all this made no impression on Susan. 
 The truth was that she had become so ac 
 customed to her own poor little pebbles, 
 and loved them so, that she thought they 
 were diamonds. 
 
 Seated there in Mrs. Steele s soft easy- 
 chair, she would sigh regretfully for her 
 hard creaking rocker at home. She tasted 
 Mrs. Steele s rich food, and longed for some 
 of Lawson s cooking. She looked out of that 
 pleasant front window on the broad road, 
 with the spring garlands flinging over it and 
 the people passing, and muttered, " It ain t 
 half so pleasant as my window to home." 
 Mrs. Steele s fine sitting-room, with its 
 
202 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 brave Brussels and its springy hair-cloth, 
 what was it to her own beloved kitchen, 
 with the bureau in the corner, the table and 
 stove and yellow chairs, and its voice the 
 clock ? 
 
 On the morning of the day when the six 
 weeks were up, Susan woke in a tumult of 
 joyful anticipation. Nothing was said, but 
 she supposed that her going home that day 
 was an understood thing. So, after break 
 fast, she sat waiting for her hostess to men 
 tion it. Mrs. Steele was busy in the kitchen 
 all the morning; the sweet, rich smell of 
 baking cake floated into the sitting-room. 
 
 " Mebbe she thinks we d better not go 
 till afternoon ; she seems pretty busy, " 
 Susan thought patiently. 
 
 But when the afternoon was spinning out, 
 and Mrs. Steele sat sewing and said nothing, 
 Susan s heart sank. 
 
 "Mis Steele," she said timidly, "don t 
 you think we d better go before much later ? 
 I m afraid it 11 be growin damp." 
 
 " Go where?" 
 
 * Why, go home." 
 
 "Go home?" 
 
 1 * Why, I thought I was goin home to 
 day ; it s six weeks since I came." 
 
 "Oh, you ain t goin home yet a while; 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 2OJ 
 
 you re goin to stay till you get better. 
 Your visit ain t half out yet." 
 
 "O Mis Steele, you re real good, but I 
 feel as if I must git home. " 
 
 " Now, Susan Lawson, I should like to 
 know what earthly reason you have for 
 wantin to go home. You can t do nothin 
 when you get there." 
 
 " I feel as if I d oughter get home. I ve 
 left Lawson a long spell now." 
 
 " Nonsense ! a man that can cook as well 
 as he can ! " 
 
 " He won t make nothin but mince-pies, 
 an get sick." 
 
 " I didn t see but he looked well enough 
 when he was here last week. You ain t 
 goin , so don t you say another word about 
 it. You re goin to stay here, where you 
 can be took care of an have things as you d 
 ought to." 
 
 "You re real good, Mis Steele." 
 
 Susan turned her face towards the window. 
 There were tears in her eyes, and she saw 
 the trees all wavering ; the grassy front yard 
 seemed to undulate. 
 
 Mrs. Steele watched her sharply. "I de 
 clare I m most mad with her ! " she said to 
 herself when she went into the kitchen to 
 
2O4 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 get tea. " Seems as if anybody might know 
 when they was well off." 
 
 June came, and poor Susan Lawson still 
 visited. Her timid entreaties and mild 
 protests had availed nothing against Mrs. 
 Steele s determined kindness. Once she 
 had appealed to Lawson, but that had been 
 fruitless. 
 
 "She doesn t want to go," Mrs. Steele 
 had assured him, following him to the door. 
 " She 11 be all off the notion of it to-morrow. 
 Don t you do nothin about it." 
 
 "Well, jest as you say, Mis Steele," 
 Lawson had replied, and gone home undis 
 turbedly and eaten his solitary pie for tea. 
 
 In the second week of June, on Sunday 
 afternoon, Susan was all alone in the house. 
 Mrs. Steele had gone to church. It was 
 a lovely day. The June roses were in 
 blossom ; there were clumps of them in the 
 front yard. Susan, at her window, poked 
 her head out into the sweet air, and stared 
 about. 
 
 This poor old troubled face at the window, 
 and the beautiful day armed against grief 
 with roses and honey and songs, confronted 
 each other. 
 
 Then the old woman began complaining, 
 as if to the other. 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 2O5 
 
 "Oh," she muttered, "there s roses and 
 everything. It s summer, an I ain t to 
 home yet. I m a poor old w.oman, that a 
 what I am a poor old woman with a longin 
 to get home, an no legs. Oh, what shall 
 I do ? Oh dear ! oh dear me ! " 
 
 Harrison Adams came strolling up the road. 
 He was not a constant church-goer. Susan 
 eyed his swinging arms in their clean white 
 Sunday shirt-sleeves, and his dark red face 
 with its sun-bleached blond moustache. 
 
 " Harrison!" she called. Her voice 
 quavered out shrilly. "Won t you please 
 come up to the window a minute?" she 
 cried out again, when he stopped and looked 
 around inquiringly. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" he asked, standing 
 under the window and smiling. 
 
 * * I want you to harness up an take me 
 aome." 
 
 "Why, Mis Steele s got the horse," the 
 young man said, staring at her. 
 
 "Can t you git one somewhere can t 
 you ? " 
 
 " Why, Mis Steele 11 carry you when she 
 gets home. Twon t be more n half an hour." 
 
 "No, she won t she won t!" Susan s 
 voice rose into a wail. " She won t ; an I 
 want to go home." 
 
206 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 "Why, she would if you asked her 
 wouldn t she?" Harrison looked at her 
 apprehensively. He began to think there 
 was something wrong with her head. 
 
 " I ve asked an asked her." 
 
 " Well, I should think it was pretty work 
 if she wouldn t let you go home when you 
 wanted to. " 
 
 "Mis Steele means all right. I ain t 
 goin to hear a word again her. She s done 
 everything for me, an more, too ; but she 
 don t know how gold ain t yaller an 5 honey 
 ain t sweet when anybody s away from home 
 and wantin to be there. She means all 
 right." 
 
 "Well, I don know but she does; but 
 it seems pretty hard lines if you can t go 
 home when you want to," said the young 
 fellow, growing indignant and sympa 
 thetic. 
 
 " Can t you git me home somehow ? I ve 
 got to git home ; I can t stan it any longer. 
 It seems as if I should die." She began 
 sobbing. 
 
 Harrison stood looking at her ; her little 
 frail, quivering shoulders, her head with its 
 thin, yellow- grey hair, her narrow, knotty 
 hands, which covered her poor weeping 
 face, her peaked elbows, which seemed 
 pricking through the sleeves, those pitiful. 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 2O7 
 
 stiff, helpless feet on the cricket. Before 
 this young man, with all his nerves and 
 muscles, all his body-servants ready to obey 
 joyfully and strongly his commands, this 
 woman seemed like a little appealing skele 
 ton, who, deprived of her own physical 
 powers, and left stranded in an element 
 where they were necessary, besought the 
 assistance of his. 
 
 " I don t know," said he. "I m perfectly 
 willin to carry you home, if we can fix it. 
 But you see the horse is gone. " 
 
 " Ain t there another you can git ? " 
 "Nobody s but White s over there. 
 They Ve gone to meetin , but I can get into 
 the barn, I guess. But I don know bout 
 takin you with him. He s an awful smart 
 horse, jumpin at everything. They don t 
 drive him to meetin because the women 
 folks are so scared of him. He ran away 
 last spring, an one of the boys was throwed 
 out an had his arm broke. I ain t afraid 
 but what I can hold him, but you might get 
 uneasy. " 
 
 "I ain t afraid. Harness him up quick." 
 
 " Well, I 11 do just as you say. I can 
 
 hold him fast enough, an there ain t any 
 
 danger really. I 11 go an see if I can get 
 
 into the barn." 
 
 " Hurry, or she 11 be home. " 
 
208 AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 That black, plunging horse had to be 
 securely tied to the stone post while Harri 
 son lifted Susan in. Then he unfastened 
 him and sprang for his life to the seat. 
 Then they flew. 
 
 "Don t you be afraid, Mis Lawson," 
 said Harrison, the veins swelling out on his 
 forehead, his extended arms like steel. " I 
 can hold him. " 
 
 " I ain t afraid." 
 
 Harrison glanced at her. That old wasted 
 face looked above fear. Her eyes were 
 fixed ahead, and rapt. 
 
 " You re pretty spunky," said he. 
 
 " I Ve allers been scared of horses, but 
 I m goin home now, an I don t care for 
 nothin else." 
 
 The horse was somewhat subdued by the 
 time they reached the Lawson place. 
 
 Susan gave a cry of rapture when they 
 came in sight of it. Then she leaned for 
 ward and looked. Just a low, poorly-kept 
 cottage, with a grassy yard sloping to the 
 road to the ordinary eye ; but no one knew, 
 no mortal could ever know, what that poor 
 homesick soul saw there. 
 
 As they drove into the yard one of the 
 black cats peered around the open door of 
 tiie barn ; her wild green eyes shone. 
 
AN UNWILLING GUEST. 2O$ 
 
 " How bright that cat looks ! " said Susan 
 admiringly. 
 
 Presently Lawson opened^the side door. 
 He had an apron on, and his hands were 
 white with floor. 
 
 " Lawson, I ve got home ! " 
 
 "I was jest makin a few apple-pies," 
 said he, going out to the buggy. "I don t 
 calculate to do such things Sunday, but I 
 was drove yesterday, hay in , an I got short. 
 How do you do, Susan ? " 
 
 When Susan was safely in the kitchen, 
 seated in her old beloved chair, she leaned 
 her head back, and closed her eyes with a 
 happy sigh. "Oh!" she said, "I ain t 
 never set in a chair so easy as this ! " 
 
 Lawson stood looking uneasily at a bowl on 
 the table. " I reckon I 11 set this up," said 
 he; "it s a little mince-meat I had. I 
 brought it out, but I didn t really think I d 
 use it ; I thought I d make a few apple-pies. " 
 
 "I d make the mince ones, Lawson; I 
 guess they d taste good. You need some- 
 thin hearty whilst you re hayin ." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it would be a good idea 
 for me to." 
 
 " Lawson, them cherry-trees out in front 
 of the house are loaded with cherries, ain t 
 they ? " 
 
 o 
 
2IO AN UNWILLING GUEST. 
 
 Lawson stared at her. There ain t a 
 cherry on em this year," said he; "I ve 
 been wonderin what ailed em. Porter 
 thinks it s that frost we had, when they 
 were blowed out." 
 
 " You d better go an look again by and 
 by. I guess you didn t look very sharp ; 
 the trees was red with em. Them blush- 
 roses is beautiful, too. " 
 
 "Why, there ain t one rose on the 
 bushes. " 
 
 " I rather guess I know when I see em." 
 
A SOUVENIR. 
 
 " "VTANCY, why don t you show Paulina 
 1 M that ? " 
 
 " Now, Charlotte, it ain t worth showing." 
 "Now do show me what it is: you ve 
 got my curiosity all roused up," said Paul 
 ina. She cocked up her face at the other 
 two women, who were taller. She was 
 very small and lean ; she wore her black 
 hair heavily frizzed, and had on a fine black 
 silk dress, and a lace bonnet with some red 
 flowers. Charlotte, otherwise Mrs. Stead- 
 man, was very proud to take her about, she 
 was so airy and well dressed. She was Mrs. 
 Jerome Loomis, an out-of-town lady, a 
 cousin of her late husband s, who was visit 
 ing her for a few days. She had taken her 
 over to call on her sister Nancy, Mrs. 
 Weeks, this afternoon. She herself had on 
 nothing better than a plain black-and-white 
 checked gingham ; it was a warm afternoon, 
 but she had realised keenly her reflected 
 grandeur as she had walked up the street 
 
212 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 with her well-dressed guest. She was a 
 tall, spare woman, and usually walked with 
 a nervous stride, but to-day, all uncon 
 sciously, she nipped, and teetered, and 
 swung her limp gingham skirts with just 
 the same air that Paulina did her black silk 
 one. It was a nervous imitation. Mrs. 
 Steadman was incapable of anything else : 
 she was not a weak woman. Her mind, 
 being impressed, simply produced a reflex 
 action in her body. She would have de 
 spised herself if she had known it, because 
 of the very pride which led her into it. 
 
 The call had been made, and the three 
 women were standing in Mrs. Weeks s entry 
 taking leave. 
 
 Paulina went on coaxingly : * Now do 
 show it Lo me. What is it ? I know it is 
 something beautiful, or your sister wouldn t 
 have said anything about it. " 
 
 Paulina had a protruding upper jaw, and 
 when she smiled her mouth stretched far 
 back. She smiled a good deal when she 
 talked. She jerked her head too, and moved 
 her eyes. She affected a snapping vivacity 
 of manner, or else she had it naturally. 
 She did not know which it was herself, but 
 she admired it in herself. 
 
 Mrs. Weeks, who looked a deal like her 
 
A SOUVENIR. 213 
 
 sister, except that she was paler, and her 
 hair was greyer, and she wore spectacles, 
 coloured up faintly. 
 
 " Tain t worth seem ," said she deprecat- 
 ingly ; "but as long s Charlotte s spoke 
 of it, I don t mind showin it to you." 
 
 Then she opened the door opposite the 
 sitting-room, and with an air at once solemn 
 and embarrassed, motioned her callers to 
 precede her. 
 
 Paulina bobbed her head about engag 
 ingly. "Dear me, which is it? There are 
 so many pretty things here I never could 
 tell which you meant." 
 
 Mrs. Weeks was innocently proud of her 
 best parlour. She had so much faith in its 
 grandeur that she was almost afraid of it 
 herself. Every time she opened the door 
 its glories smote her freshly, and caused 
 her to thrill with awe and delight. Until 
 the last two years she had been used to the 
 commonest and poorest things in the way 
 of furniture ; indeed, this parlour had not 
 been finished and plastered till lately. To 
 have it completed and furnished had been 
 the principal longing of her life ; now it 
 was accomplished by dint of the closest 
 work and economy ; it was the perfect 
 flower, as it were, of all her wishes and 
 
214 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 fancies. When she had her parlour she 
 had always meant to have something good, 
 she had said, and now it was superlatively 
 good to her simple eyes. There was a 
 gilded paper on the walls, and a Brussels 
 carpet with an enormous flower pattern on 
 the floor. The furniture was covered with 
 red plush everybody else in the town had 
 haircloth, plush was magnificent audacity. 
 Every chair had a tidy on its back ; there 
 was a very large ruffled lamp-mat for the 
 marble -top table ; there were mats for the 
 vases on the shelf, and there was a beautiful 
 rug in front of the fireplace. 
 
 Paulina darted towards it, her silk and 
 her stiff white skirt rattling. " Is this it ? " 
 
 " This," said Mrs Steadman, pointing im 
 pressively at the wall. 
 
 "Oh! Why, Mrs. Weeks, where did 
 you get it ? who made it ? " 
 
 " She made it," said her sister ; " an she 
 wa n t long about it either." 
 
 " Why, you don t mean it 1 How could 
 you ever have had the patience ? All those 
 little fine, beautiful flowers are made of " 
 
 "Hair. Yes, every one of em. Jest 
 look close. Thar s rosebuds, an lilies, an 
 pansies, an poppies, an acorns, besides the 
 leaves." 
 
A SOUVENIR. 215 
 
 "I see. Oh, that dear little rosebud in 
 that corner made out of sandy hair ! And 
 that acorn is so natural ! and that sprig of 
 ivy ! Mrs. Weeks, I don t see how you can 
 do such things. " 
 
 Even Nancy Weeks s mild nature could 
 not hinder her from straightening herself 
 up a little out of mere self-respect as she 
 gazed at her intricate handiwork with her 
 admiring guests. 
 
 " I made the whole wreath," said she, 
 " out of my folks hair out of the Wilsons 
 Charlotte an me was Wilsons, you know. 
 I had a good many locks of em way back. 
 I had some of my great-grandmother s hair, 
 an my grandmother s. That little forget- 
 me-not in the corner s made out of my 
 great-grandmother s I didn t hev much of 
 that an that lily s grandmother s. She 
 was a light-favoured woman, an her hair 
 turned a queer kind of a yeller-grey. I had 
 a great piece of it mother cut off after she 
 died. It worked in real pretty. Then I 
 had a lot of my mother s, an some of my 
 sister s that died, an a child s that mother 
 lost when he was a baby, and a little of my 
 uncle Solomon White s, mother s brother s, 
 an some of my father s. Then thar s some 
 of the little boy s that Charlotte lost." 
 
2lb A SOUVENIR. 
 
 "They re all dead whose hair is in it?" 
 said Paulina, with awed and admiring in 
 terest. 
 
 Nancy looked at her sister. 
 
 " Well, thar s one in it that ain t dead," 
 said Charlotte hesitatingly, returning her 
 sister s look. " Nancy wanted some hair 
 that colour dreadfully. None of the Wil 
 sons was sandy. That reddish rosebud you 
 spoke of was made out of it. " 
 
 "Whose was it?" asked Paulina curi 
 ously. 
 
 "Oh, well somebody s." 
 
 " Well," said Paulina, with a sigh, " it s 
 beautiful, and it must have been a sight of 
 work. I don t see how you ever had the 
 patience to do it. You re a wonderful 
 woman. " 
 
 " Oh no ! It wa n t so very much to do 
 after you got at it." 
 
 " It s such an ornament, and apart from 
 that it must be such a comfort to you to 
 have it." 
 
 "That s what I tell Nancy. Of course 
 it makes a handsome picture to hang on the 
 wall. But I should think full as much of 
 keepin the hair so ; it s such a nice way." 
 
 " That oval frame is elegant, too." 
 
 After her callers had gone, Nancy, with 
 
A SOUVENIR. 217 
 
 simple pleasure and self-gratulation, thought 
 over what they had said. This innocent, 
 narrow-minded, middle-aged woman felt as 
 much throbbing wonder and delight over her 
 hair wreath as any genius over one of his 
 creations. As far as happiness of that kind 
 went she was just as well off as a Michael 
 Angelo or a Turner ; and as far as anything 
 else, she was just as good a woman for be 
 lieving in hair wreaths. 
 
 She had toiled hard over this one ; seem 
 ingly, nothing but true artistic instinct, and 
 delight in work, could have urged her on. 
 It was exceedingly slow, nervous work, and 
 she was a very delicate woman. Many a 
 night she had lain awake with her tired 
 brain weaving the hair roses and lilies 
 which her fingers had laid down. 
 
 Paulina spoke to Charlotte on their way 
 home about her sister s looking so frail. 
 
 " I know it," said Charlotte. " Nancy 
 never had any backbone, an she s worked 
 awful hard. I s pose it s more n she ought 
 to do, makin all those fancy fixin s ; but 
 she s crazy to do em, can t seem to let em 
 alone ; an she does have a real knack at it. " 
 
 "That hair wreath was beautiful," as 
 sented the other ; " but I should have been 
 afraid it would have worn on her. " 
 
2l8 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 When they got home, Mrs. Steadman s 
 daughter Emmeline had tea ready. She was 
 a capable young woman ; she took in dress 
 making, and supported herself and mother, 
 and had all she could do. She was rather 
 pretty ; tall and slender like her mother ; 
 with a round face, and a mouth with an 
 odd, firm pucker to it when she talked, 
 that strangers took for a smile ; she had 
 very rosy cheeks. 
 
 There was a prayer-meeting in the church 
 vestry that evening, and after tea Mrs. Stead- 
 man proposed going, with her company and 
 her daughter. Emmeline demurred a little. 
 She guessed she wouldn t go, she said. 
 
 " Why not? " asked her mother sharply. 
 She still kept a tight rein over this steady, 
 dutiful daughter of hers. " You don t ex 
 pect anybody to-night ? " 
 
 Her mother said * anybody " with a re 
 gard for secrecy ; she meant Andrew Stod- 
 dard. 
 
 Emmeline coloured very red. "No, I 
 don t," she said quickly; "I ll go" She 
 was not engaged to the young man, and felt 
 sensitive. It seemed to her if sne should stay 
 at home for him, and he should not come, 
 and her mother and her cousin should sus 
 pect her of it, she could not bear it ; besides. 
 
A SOUVENIR. 219 
 
 she did not really expect him ; there was 
 nothing but the chance he might come to 
 keep her. So she put on her. hat, and went 
 to the meeting with her mother and Mrs. 
 Loomis. 
 
 She wondered when she got home if he 
 had been there, but there was no way of 
 finding out. He had to drive from a town 
 six miles further up the river to see her. He 
 was the son of the country storekeeper there, 
 and acted himself as head clerk. He was a 
 steady, fine-looking young man, though he 
 had the name of being rather fiery-tempered. 
 People thought he was a great catch for Em- 
 meline. He had been to see her some six 
 weeks now. She hoped he would ask her to 
 marry him : she could not help it ; for she 
 had grown fond of him. 
 
 Her mother was sure that he would in 
 fact, she hardly knew but he had. Emmeline 
 herself was not so sure ; she had never a very 
 exalted opinion of herself, and was more 
 certain of her own loving than she was of 
 anybody else s. 
 
 When Sunday night came she stayed at 
 home from meeting, without any comment 
 from her mother, who put on her best 
 bonnet and shawl, and went alone. Paulina 
 Loomis had gone home the day before. 
 
220 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 Emmeline had put the little front room, 
 which served alike as dressmaker s shop and 
 parlour, in the nicest order. It was a poor 
 little place anyway. There was a worn rag- 
 carpet, some cane-seated chairs, and one 
 black wooden rocker covered with chintz. 
 An old-fashioned bureau stood against the 
 wall ; and of a week-day a mahogany card- 
 table, made square by having its two leaves 
 up, was in the centre of the room. Emme 
 line used this last for cutting. 
 
 To-day she had put down the leaves, and 
 moved it back against the wall, between the 
 two front windows. Then she had got the 
 best lamp out of the closet, and set it on the 
 table. It was a new lamp, with a pretty 
 figured globe, one she had bought since 
 Andrew began coming to see her. She had 
 picked a bunch of flowers out in her garden, 
 too, and arranged them in a gilt-and-white 
 china vase, and set it beside the lamp. 
 There were balsams, and phlox, and lark 
 spur, and pinks, and some asparagus for 
 green. She had tucked all her work and 
 her patterns out of sight in the bureau 
 drawers, swept and dusted, and got out a 
 tidy to pin on the rocking-chair. Then she 
 had put on her best dress, and sat down to 
 wait. She thought, perhaps, he would come 
 
A SOUVENIR. 221 
 
 before her mother went to church ; but he 
 did not. So she sat there alone in the fading 
 light, waiting. Every time sh,e heard a team 
 coming, she thought it was his ; but it would 
 roll past, and her heart would sink. At last 
 the people began to flock home from meet 
 ing, and her mother s tall, stooping, black 
 figure came in through the gate. She 
 thought Andrew was there, so she went 
 straight through the long narrow entry to 
 the kitchen ; Emmeline knew why she did. 
 After a while she opened the door from the 
 kitchen cautiously, and peered into the dark 
 room : she had a lamp out there. 
 
 "There s nobody in here, mother," said 
 Emmeline ; "you needn t be afraid." 
 
 " Didn t he come ? I thought I didn t 
 hear any talkin ." 
 
 " No; nobody s been here. 
 
 " Why, I wonder what s the reason ? " 
 
 " I s pose there s some good one," replied 
 Emmeline puckering up her lips firmly. 
 " I m tired ; I guess I 11 go to bed." 
 
 If she felt badly she did not show it, ex 
 cept by her silence at her mother s wonder 
 ing remarks ; but she had always been very 
 reticent about Andrew, not often speaking 
 his name. She did not cry any after she 
 went to bed indeed, she could not, for 
 
222 . ( A SOUVENIR. 
 
 her mother slept with her ; her father was 
 dead. 
 
 The weeks went on, and Emmeline got 
 ready for Andrew a good many times, half- 
 surreptitiously. She would put sundry little 
 ornamental touches to the room, or herself, 
 hoping her mother would not observe them ; 
 but he never came. The neighbours began 
 to notice it, and to throw out various hints 
 and insinuations to Mrs. Steadman. They 
 never said anything to Emmeline. She was 
 so still, they did not dare to. Her mother 
 met them frostily. Emmeline didn t care if 
 Andrew Stoddard didn t come. She guessed 
 she should laugh to see her fretting over 
 him. She even hinted, in her rampant 
 loyalty, that p rhaps there was some reason 
 folks didn t dream of why he didn t come. 
 Mebbe he d been given to understand he 
 wasn t wanted. 
 
 One afternoon she came home from one of 
 the neighbours with some news. She had 
 seen a woman who lived next to the Stod- 
 dards, and Andrew had gone West. 
 
 " Has he?" said Emmeline, and went on 
 sewing. 
 
 "You re a queer girl," said her mother. 
 She liked Emmeline to be dignified and re 
 ticent about it to other people, but she felt 
 
A SOUVENIR. 223 
 
 aggrieved that she did not unbend and talk 
 it over with her. 
 
 About this time her sister Nancy was 
 taken sick with a slow fever. She lingered 
 along a few weeks ; the fever left her, but 
 she had no strength to rally ; then she died. 
 It was a hard blow to Charlotte. She had 
 been very fond of her sister, and had an ad 
 miration for her which was somewhat singu 
 lar, since she herself was much the stronger 
 character of the two. She had seemed to 
 feel almost as much satisfaction in Nancy s 
 fine parlour and fancy-work as if they had 
 been her own. Perhaps she consoled her 
 self in that way for not having any of her 
 own, and maintained to herself her dignity 
 among her neighbours. 
 
 After her sister s death she began to think 
 that some of these fine things ought by right 
 to belong to her. 
 
 " Nancy earned em jest as much by savin 
 as Thomas did by workin ," she told Emme- 
 line. "It wouldn t be nothin more n fair 
 for her sister to have em." But Thomas 
 Weeks had in him capabilities of action of 
 which people generally did not suspect him. 
 
 He was a little, spare, iron-grey, inoffen 
 sive-looking man, but he had been a small 
 tyrant over his mild-visaged, spectacled wife. 
 
224 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 Now she was dead he had definite plans of 
 his own, which matured as soon as decency 
 would permit, and which did not include 
 his giving his deceased wife s sister his fine 
 red-plush furniture. She visited him often 
 and hinted, but he smiled knowingly, and 
 talked about something else. 
 
 Nancy had been dead about six months, 
 when, one afternoon, Mrs. Steadman saw 
 him drive past in a shiny buggy with a lady. 
 Her suspicions were aroused, and she talked, 
 nd worried, and watched. She found out 
 he had a new hat and coat, and was having 
 the house painted, and the sitting-room and 
 kitchen papered. Everybody said he was 
 going to get married, but nobody seemed to 
 know to whom. At last it came out. He 
 came to church one Sunday with his bride 
 a short, stout, sallow woman in middle- 
 aged bridal finery, no more like poor Nancy 
 than a huckleberry bush is like a willow 
 sapling. She was a widow from a neigh 
 bouring town, and reputed to have quite a 
 snug little property four or five thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 Emmeline and her mother sat just across 
 the aisle from the newly wedded couple. 
 Mrs. Steadman had given one startled, 
 comprehensive glance at them when they 
 
A SOUVENIR. 225 
 
 turned into the pew. After that she did 
 not look at them again, but sat straight and 
 rigid, holding her chin so stiffly against her 
 long neck that it looked like a double one, 
 pursing up her lips as if to keep back a 
 rushing crowd of words which were clamour 
 ing behind them. 
 
 She told Emmeline, when they got home, 
 that it was all she could do not to speak 
 right out in meeting and tell Thomas Weeks 
 just what she thought of him. 
 
 * I d like to get right up," said she, " an 
 ask him f he remembered it was hardly six 
 months since my poor sister was laid away, 
 an f he d ever heerd of such a thing as 
 common decency an respect for folks 
 memory, an f he didn t think it was treat- 
 in some folks pretty hard to bring another 
 woman in to use their dead sister s things, 
 when he d never given them a penny s 
 worth of em." 
 
 As far as the results went, Charlotte 
 might just as well have spoken out in meet 
 ing, and accused her recreant brother-in-law 
 openly. She had always been a woman 
 who talked a great deal, and could not help 
 making funerals for all her woes, and now 
 there was not a woman in the town with 
 whom she did not discuss Thomas s second 
 
226 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 marriage, and her own grievances in connec 
 tion therewith. They all sympathised with 
 her : women always do in such cases. 
 
 She warmed up on the subject to every 
 body who came into the shop. Emmeline 
 kept quietly sewing, giving her opinions on 
 her work when asked for them, but not say 
 ing much besides. Her mother did not 
 understand her ; privately she thought her 
 unfeeling. Emmeline had not heard a 
 word from Andrew Stoddard all this time. 
 For a while she had had a forlorn hope of 
 a letter, but it had died away now. Out 
 wardly she was living just as she always 
 had before he had come ; but the old homely 
 ways, whose crooks she had thought she 
 knew by heart, were constantly giving her 
 a feeling of pain and strangeness. She was 
 not imaginative nor self-conscious ; she never 
 really knew how unhappy she was, or she 
 would have been unhappier. She kept 
 steadily at work, and ate and slept and 
 went about as usual ; she never dreamed of 
 its being possible for her to do anything 
 else, but the difference was all the time 
 goading her terribly. 
 
 Her mother s fretting over the affair had 
 disturbed her actively more than anything 
 else ; she was almost glad now to have it 
 
A SOUVENIR. 227 
 
 turned into another channel. And this new 
 one threatened to be well worn indeed before 
 Mrs. Steadman should leave it. She scolded 
 and cried in it. She was divided between 
 grief and indignation. 
 
 Poor Nancy s few articles of finery rankled 
 more and more in her mind. She journeyed 
 up to Thomas s house evening after evening 
 to see if there were a light in the best parlour; 
 report said that they used it common now. 
 She came home trembling : there was one. 
 
 "To think of their usin poor Nancy s 
 best plush furniture like that ! " she said ; 
 " settin in them stuffed chairs every evenin 
 jest as if they was wooden ones ; they won t 
 last no time at all. An to think how hard 
 she worked an saved to get em, an how 
 choice she was of em. Then thar s all 
 them tidies an mats an rugs, an that 
 beautiful hair wreath made out of my folks 
 hair ! " 
 
 This last seemed to disturb Charlotte 
 more than anything else. She had not a 
 doubt, she said, but what working on it 
 had hastened Nancy s death, and to think 
 that that other woman should have it ! 
 
 One Friday evening Mrs. Steadman 
 started for meeting. Emmeline did not go. 
 She had some work she was hurrying on, 
 
228 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 and her mother, contrary to her usual habit, 
 did not urge her to ; indeed she rather 
 advocated her staying at home. 
 
 About half an hour after her mother left, 
 Emmeline laid down her work it had 
 grown too dark for her to see without light 
 ing a lamp. As she sat at the window, a 
 moment in the dusk, she saw a figure hurry 
 ing up which she did not think could be 
 her mother s, it came so fast and flurriedly ; 
 besides, it was not time for meeting to be 
 out. 
 
 But when the gate opened she saw it was. 
 Her mother scuttled up the steps into the 
 entry, and opened the shop door cautiously. 
 
 " Emmeline, anybody here ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 She came in then. She had something 
 under her arm. "Light the lamp, Emme 
 line quick ! See what I Ve got ! " 
 
 Emmeline got up and lighted the lamp. 
 * * Why, mother ! " said she, aghast. Her 
 mother was holding the hair wreath, in its 
 oval gilt frame, with an expression of 
 mingled triumph and terror. "Why, 
 mother, how did you get it ? " 
 
 " Get it ? I walked into the house an 
 took it," said Charlotte defiantly. "I don t 
 care ; I meant to have it. Nancy made it, 
 
A SOUVENIR. . 229 
 
 an worked herself most to death over it, 
 an it s made out of my folks hair, an I 
 had a right to it." 
 
 " Why, mother, how did you ever dare?" 
 
 "I peeked into the vestry, an saw em 
 both in thar on one of the back seats. 
 Then I run right up to the house. I knew 
 unless they did different from what they 
 used to, I could git in through the shed. 
 An I did. I went right through the 
 kitchen an sittin -room into the parlour. 
 It made me feel bad enough. That plush 
 furniture s gettin real worn, usin it so 
 common ; the nap s all rubbed off on the 
 edges, an the tidies are dirty. I saw a 
 great spot on that Brussels carpet, too, 
 where somebody d tracked in. It don t 
 look much as it used to. I could have sat 
 right down an cried. But I was afraid to 
 stop long, so I jest took this picture down 
 an come off. I didn t see a soul. I s pose 
 you think I ve done an awful thing, Emme- 
 line?" 
 
 * I m afraid you 11 have some trouble 
 about it, mother." 
 
 "/ain t afraid." 
 
 In spite of her bravado she was afraid. 
 She tucked away the wreath out of sight 
 upstairs, and when Thomas Weeks came 
 
230 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 to the door the next day, she answered his 
 ring with an inward trepidation. She had 
 an inclination to run out of the back door, 
 and leave Emmeline to encounter him, but 
 she resisted it. 
 
 She came off victorious, however. Even 
 Thomas Weeks succumbed before the crush 
 ing arguments and the withering sarcasms, 
 tumbling pell-mell over each other, which 
 she brought to bear upon him. 
 
 "He says I may keep it," she told 
 Emmeline when she went in. "He guesses 
 Mis Weeks don t set no great store by it, 
 an he don t care. He was awful toppin at 
 first, but he began to look kind of shamed, 
 an wilted right down after I d talked to 
 him a while. I told him jest what I thought 
 of the whole business from beginnin to end." 
 
 After that the hair wreath was hung up 
 in state in the front room, and openly dis 
 played. Everybody upheld Charlotte in 
 taking it, and she felt herself quite a heroine. 
 Nothing delighted her more than to have 
 people speak about it and admire it. 
 
 One day she was descanting on its beauties 
 to one of the neighbours, when a question 
 arose which attracted Emmeline s attention. 
 
 " Whose hair is that reddish rosebud 
 made out of? " asked the woman. 
 
A SOUVENIR. 231 
 
 Mrs. Steadman gave a warning " Hush ! " 
 and a scared glance at her daughter. Emme- 
 line saw it. After the woman had gone she 
 went up to tiis wreath, and looked at it 
 closely. ( Mother, " said she, * whose hair is 
 in that rosebud ? " 
 
 Mrs. Steadman shrank before her daugh 
 ter s look. 
 
 " Mother, you didn t go to my drawer and 
 take that out ! I missed it ! How did you 
 know I had it ? " 
 
 "Now, Emmeline, thar ain t no reason 
 for you to get so mad. I went to your 
 drawer one day for something, an happened 
 to see it. An poor Nancy wanted some hair 
 that colour dreadfully, an she didn t really 
 want to go out of the family, an we all 
 thought " 
 
 " Mother, did he know it ? " 
 
 " Now, Emmeline, it s ridiculous for you 
 to fire up so. I s pose he did. You re 
 member that last Friday night when Paulina 
 was here last summer, an we all went to 
 meetin ? He came that night, and we 
 warn t to home, and Nancy was settin on 
 her door-step when he drove by, an she had 
 to call him in an show him the wreath. 
 An I s pose she let on bout his hair bein in 
 it. I told her she was awful silly ; but she 
 
232 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 said he kinder cornered her up, an she 
 couldn t help it. I scolded her for it. She 
 said he seemed kinder upset." 
 
 " Mother, that was the reason." 
 
 " Reason for what ? " 
 
 " The reason he stopped coming, and 
 everything. " 
 
 " Emmeline Steadman, I don t believe it. 
 Tain t likely a fellar d get so mad as that 
 jest cause somebody d made a rosebud out 
 of his hair to put in a wreath ; taint reason 
 able. I should think he d been rather 
 pleased than anything else. " 
 
 " O mother, don t you see? He gave 
 it to me, and he thought that was all I cared 
 for it, to give it to Aunt Nancy to put in a 
 hair wreath. And he is awful sensitive and 
 quick tempered." 
 
 " I should think he was, to get mad at 
 such a thing as that ; I can t believe he did ! " 
 
 " I know he did ! " 
 
 " Well, there ain t any call for you to feel 
 huffy about it. I m sorry I did it : I m 
 sure I wouldn t if I d dreamed it was goin 
 to make any trouble. I didn t have any 
 idea he was such a fire-an -tow kind of a 
 fellar as that. I guess it s jest as well we 
 didn t have him in the family ; thar wouldn t 
 have been no livin with him." 
 
A SOUVENIR. 233 
 
 That night Emmeline wrote a letter to 
 Andrew Stoddard. She sat up for the 
 purpose, pretending she had some work to 
 finish, after her mother had gone to bed. 
 She wrote the sort of letter that most New 
 England girls in her standing would have 
 written. She began it " Dear Friend," 
 touched very lightly on the subject of the 
 hair, just enough to explain it, then decor 
 ously hoped that if any misunderstanding 
 had interrupted their friendship it might 
 be done away with ; she should always 
 value his very highly. Then she signed 
 herself his true friend " Emmeline E. Stead - 
 man. " 
 
 Nobody knew what tortures of suspense 
 Emmeline suffered after she had sent her 
 poor little friendly letter. She sewed on 
 quietly just as usual. Her mother knew 
 nothing about it. 
 
 She began to go regularly to the post- 
 office, though not at mail times. She would 
 make an errand to the store where it was, 
 and, after she was through trading, inquire 
 quietly and casually if there were a letter 
 for her. 
 
 One morning she came home from one of 
 those errands, dropped down in a chair, and 
 covered her face with her hands. Her 
 
234 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 mother was frightened : she was mixing 
 bread : they were both out in the kitchen. 
 
 " Emmeline, what is the matter ? " 
 
 Emmeline burst into a bitter cry : " He a 
 married. Mrs. Wilson told me just now. 
 Mrs. Adams told her : she lives next to his 
 folks." 
 
 " Why, Emmeline, I didn t know you 
 cared so much about that fellar as all 
 that ! " 
 
 "I didn t!" said Emmeline fiercely; 
 "but I wrote to him, an what s he goin 
 to think ? I d died first, if I d known. 
 Oh, if you d only let that lock of hair alone ! 
 You brought all this trouble on me ! " 
 
 * Well, Emmeline Steadman, if you want 
 to talk so to the mother that s done for you 
 what I have, on account of a fellar that s 
 showed pretty plain he didn t care any great 
 about you, you can. " 
 
 Emmeline said no more, but, with a look 
 gf despair, rose to go upstairs. 
 
 " I ve told you I am sorry I took it." 
 
 " I think you d better be," said Emme 
 line, as she went through the door. 
 
 She did no more work that day; she 
 stayed upstairs, and would see nobody : she 
 did not care now what people thought. Mrs. 
 Steadman grew more and more conscience 
 
A SOUVENIR. 235 
 
 stricken and worried ; she went for the 
 night mail herself, with a forlorn hope of 
 something, she did not know what. 
 
 When she got back she came directly up 
 stairs into the room where Emmeline was. 
 " Emmeline," said she, in a shaking voice, 
 "here s a letter for you ; I guess it s from 
 him." 
 
 Emmeline took it and opened it, her face 
 set and unmoved ; she had it all settled that 
 the letter was to tell her of his marriage. 
 She read down the first page, her face 
 changing with every word. Her mother 
 watched her breathlessly, as if she too were 
 reading the letter by reflection in her 
 daughter s face. 
 
 At last Emmeliue looked up at her mother. 
 She was radiant ; she was trying to keep 
 from smiling, lest she betray too much ; but 
 she could not help it. She looked blissful 
 and shamefaced together. 
 
 " Mother he ain t married after all ; and 
 he says it s all right about the hair ; and 
 he s coming home ! " 
 
 Charlotte s face was as radiant as her 
 daughter s, but she said, " Well, what do 
 you think now ? After you ve been such 
 an ungrateful girl, blaming your mother, 
 an talkin to her as you did this mornin , I 
 
236 A SOUVENIR. 
 
 should think you d be ashamed. You don t 
 deserve it ! " 
 
 Emmeline got off the bed ; with her letter 
 in her hand she went over to her mother, 
 and kissed her shyly on her soft, old cheek. 
 " I m real sorry I spoke so, mother." 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 A STRONG, soft south wind had been 
 blowing the day before, and the trees 
 had dropped nearly all their leaves. There 
 were left only a few brownish-golden ones 
 dangling on the elms, and hardly any at all 
 on the maples. There were many trees on 
 the street, and the fallen leaves were heaped 
 high. Mrs. Wilson Torry s little door-yard 
 was ankle-deep with them. The air was 
 full of their odour, which could affect the 
 spirit like a song, and mingled with it was 
 the scent of grapes. 
 
 The minister had been calling on Mrs. 
 Torry that afternoon, and now he stood 
 facing her on the porch, taking leave. He 
 was very young, and this was his first 
 parish. He was small and light and mild- 
 looking ; still he had considerable nervous 
 volubility. The simple village women never 
 found him hard to entertain. 
 
 Now, all at once, he made an exclamation, 
 and fumbled in his pocket for a folded 
 
238 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 paper. "There," said he, "I nearly for 
 got this. Mr. Plainfield requested me to 
 hand this to you, Mrs. Torry. It is a pro 
 blem which he has been working over ; he 
 gave it to me to try, and wanted me to 
 propose, when I called, that you should see 
 what you could do with it. " 
 
 She seized it eagerly. * Well I 11 see 
 what I can do ; but you an he mustn t make 
 no great calculations on me. You know I 
 don t know anything about the rithmetic 
 books an the rules they hev nowadays ; 
 but I m willin to try." 
 
 " Oh, you 11 have it done while Mr. Plain- 
 field and I are thinking of it, Mrs. Torry." 
 
 " You ain t neither of you done it, then ? " 
 
 "He had not at last accounts, and I 
 have not," replied the young man, laughing, 
 but colouring a little. 
 
 The old lady s eyes gleamed as she looked 
 at him, then at the paper. " I dare say I 
 can t make head nor tail of it," said she, 
 "but I ll see what I can do by an by." 
 
 She had something of a childish air as 
 she stood there. She was slender, and so 
 short that she was almost dwarfed ; her 
 shoulders were curved a little by spinal 
 disease. She had a small, round face, and 
 a mouth which widened out innocently into 
 
AX OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 239 
 
 smiles as she talked. Her eyes looked out 
 directly at one, like a child s ; over them 
 loomed a high forehead with bulging temples 
 covered with deep wrinkles. 
 
 "You have always been very fond of 
 mathematics, haven t you, Mrs. Torry?" 
 said the minister, in his slow retreat. 
 
 "Lor , yes. I can t remember the time 
 when I wa n t crazy to cipher." 
 
 " Arithmetic is a very fascinating study, 
 I think," remarked the minister, trying to 
 slide easily off the subject and down the 
 porch steps. 
 
 " Tis to me. An there s somethin I 
 was thinkin about this very forenoon 
 seem* all them leaves on the ground made 
 me, I s pose. It s always been a sight of 
 comfort to me to count. When I was a 
 little girl I d most rather count than play. 
 I used to sit down and count by the hour 
 together. I remember a little pewter por 
 ringer I had, that I used to fill up with 
 beans an count em. Well, it come into 
 my head this forenoon what a blessed privi 
 lege it would be to count up all the beauti 
 ful things in this creation. Just think of 
 countin all them red an gold-coloured 
 leaves, an all the grapes an apples in the 
 fall ; an when it come to the winter, all 
 
240 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 the flakes of snow, an the sparkles of frost ; 
 an when it come to the spring, all the 
 flowers, an blades of grass, an the little, 
 new light-green leaves. I don know but 
 you ll think it ain t exactly reverent, but 
 it does seem to me that I d rather do that 
 than sing in the other world. Mebbe some 
 body does have to do the countin ; mebbe 
 it s singin for some." 
 
 She stared up into the warm, blue air, 
 in which the bare branches of the trees 
 glistened, with a sweet solemn wonder in 
 her old face. 
 
 The minister, in a bewildered way, 
 pondered all the old woman had said, as he 
 rustled down the street. .Later, Mr. Plain- 
 field (the young high-school teacher) and he 
 would have a discussion over it. They often 
 talked over Mrs. Wilson Torry. 
 
 After her caller had gone, the old woman 
 entered the house. On the left of the little 
 entry was the best room, where she had 
 been entertaining the minister ; on the 
 right, the kitchen. A young girl was in 
 there eating an apple. She looked up when 
 Mrs. Torry stood in the door. 
 
 " He s gone, ain t he ? " said she. 
 
 "Why, Letty, when did you come?" 
 
 " A few minutes ago, School s just out. 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 24! 
 
 I came in the back door, and heard him 
 talking, so I kept still." 
 
 " Why didn t you come in and see him? " 
 
 "Oh, I didn t want to see him. What 
 you got there, grandma ? " 
 
 " Nothin but a sum the minister brought 
 me to do. He an Mr. Plainfield have been 
 workin over it." 
 
 " Couldn t they doit?" 
 
 " Well, he said they hadn t neither of em 
 done it yet." 
 
 "Is it awful hard?" 
 " I don know. I ain t looked at it yet." 
 
 " Let me see. He didn t get it out of any 
 of our books, I know. We never had any 
 thing like this." 
 
 "I s pose it s one he come across some 
 where. I guess I 11 sit down an look at it 
 two or three minutes." 
 
 An old bureau stood against the wall ; on 
 it were arranged four religious newspapers 
 in the exact order of their issues, the latest 
 on top, Farmers almanacs for the last four 
 years filed in the same way, and a slate sur 
 mounted by an old arithmetic. The pile of 
 newspapers was in the middle ; the slate 
 and almanacs were on either end. 
 
 Letty, soberly eating her apple, watched 
 her grandmother getting out the arithmetic 
 Q 
 
242 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 and slate. She was a pretty young girl ; 
 her small, innocent face, in spite of its 
 youthful roundness and fairness, reminded 
 people of Mrs. Torry s. 
 
 "I don t think much of Mr. Plainfield 
 anyhow," said she, as the click of her grand 
 mother s pencil on the slate began ; * and 
 he knows I don t. He overheard me telling 
 Lizzie Bascom so to-day. He came right 
 up behind us on the street, and I know he 
 heard. You ought to have seen his face. " 
 
 " I don t see what you ve got agin him," 
 remarked Mrs. Torry absently, as she dotted 
 down figures. 
 
 " I haven t much of anything that I know 
 of against him, only I don t think he s much 
 of a teacher. He can t do examples as 
 quickly as you, I know, and I don t think a 
 man has any business to be school-teaching 
 if he can t do examples as quickly as an old 
 lady." 
 
 Mrs. Torry stopped her work, and fixed 
 her round unwinking eyes full on the girl s 
 face. 
 
 " Letty Torry, there s some things you 
 don t understand. You never will under 
 stand em, if you live to be as old as Methu 
 selah, as far as that s concerned. But you 11 
 get so you know the things air. Sometimes 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 2^ 
 
 it don t make any difference if anybody s 
 ignorant, an ain t got any book-learnin ; 
 air old, an had a hard-workin life. There 11 
 be somethin in em that everybody else ain t 
 got ; somethin that growed, an didn t have 
 to be learned. I Ve got this faculty ; I can 
 cipher. It ain t nothin agin Mr. Plainfield if 
 he ain t got it ; it s a gift." Her voice took 
 on a solemn tone and trembled. 
 
 Letty looked at her with childish wonder. 
 "Well," said she, with a subdued manner, 
 "he has no right to teach, anyhow, with 
 out it. I guess I 11 have another apple. I 
 was real hungry." 
 
 So Letty ate another apple silently, while 
 her grandmother worked at the problem 
 again. 
 
 She did not solve it as easily as usual. 
 She worked till midnight, her little lamp 
 drawn close to her on the kitchen table ; 
 then she went to bed, with the answer stiff 
 in doubt. 
 
 " It ain t goin to do for me to set up any 
 longer," said she forlornly, as she replaced 
 the slate on the bureau. " I shall be sick 
 if I do. But I declare I don t see what s got 
 into me. I hope I ain t losin my faculty." 
 
 She could not sleep much. The next 
 morning, as soon as their simple breakfast 
 
244 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 was eaten and Letty had gone to school, she 
 seated herself with her slate and pencil. 
 
 When Letty came home at noon she found 
 her grandmother still at work, and no dinner 
 ready. 
 
 "I do declare ! " cried the old woman. 
 "You don t mean to say you re home, 
 Letty ! It ain t twelve o clock, is it ? " 
 
 " Course it is ; quarter past." 
 
 " I ain t got one mite of dinner ready, 
 then. I ve been so took up with the sum I 
 hadn t no idea how the time was goin . I 
 don know what you will do, child." 
 
 " Oh, I 11 get some bread and milk, grand 
 ma ; just as soon have it as anything else. 
 Got the problem done ? " 
 
 " No, I ain t. I feel real bad about your 
 dinner. I ll kindle up a fire now an fry 
 you an egg there be time enough." 
 
 " I d rather have bread and milk." 
 
 After Letty had gone to school for the 
 afternoon, and Mrs. Torry had been working 
 fruitlessly for an hour longer, she dropped 
 her pencil. 
 
 " I declare," said she, "I m afraid I am 
 losin my faculty ! " 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes. " I won t give 
 up that I am, anyhow," said she, and took 
 the pencil again. 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 245 
 
 When Letty returned, in the latter part 
 of the afternoon, she scarcely knew it, with 
 the full meaning of the word. She saw her, 
 but her true consciousness was so full of 
 figures that Letty s fair face could only look 
 in at the door. 
 
 Letty ran in hastily ; a young girl was 
 waiting for her outside. " grandma," 
 cried Letty, * * Lizzie s going to Ellsworth to 
 do an errand for her mother ; she s coming 
 back on the last train. Can t I go with 
 her ? " 
 
 Her grandmother stared at her for a 
 minute and made no answer. 
 
 " She J s got tickets for both of us. Can t 
 I go, grandma ? " 
 
 4 Yes." 
 
 Letty smoothed her hair a little and put 
 on her best hat ; then she went. 
 
 " Good-bye," said she, looking back at the 
 intent old figure ; but she got no answer. 
 
 Grandma s so taken up with an example 
 she s got that she doesn t know anything," 
 she told her friend when she was outside. 
 " She didn t answer when I said good-bye ; 
 she forgot to get dinner to-day too." 
 
 Mrs. Torry worked on and on. She never 
 looked up nor thought of anything else until 
 it grew so dark that she could not see her 
 
246 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 figures. "I 11 have to light the lamp," said 
 she, with a sigh. 
 
 After it was lighted she went to work 
 again. She never thought of wanting any 
 supper, though she had eaten nothing since 
 morning. 
 
 The kitchen clock struck seven Letty 
 should have been home then eight, and 
 nine, but she never noticed it. A few 
 minutes afterwards some one knocked on 
 the door. She ciphered on. Then the 
 knocks were repeated, louder and quicker. 
 
 "Somebody s knockin , I guess," she 
 muttered, and opened the door. Mr. Plain- 
 field stood there. He was a handsome young 
 man with rosy cheeks ; he was always smil 
 ing. He looked past her into the room in 
 quiringly. " Is Letty at home ? " said he. 
 
 "Letty?" 
 
 " Yes, Letty. Is she at home ? " 
 
 Why, yes, she s here. Letty ! " 
 
 " Has she gone to bed ? " 
 
 "Why, yes, I guess she has." Mrs. 
 Torry opened the door at the foot of the 
 stairs. "Letty! Letty!" 
 
 "I guess she must be asleep," said she, 
 turning to the young man, who had stepped 
 into the kitchen. "Want me to go up an 
 see ? Did you want anything pertickler ? " 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 247 
 
 He hesitated. " If you had just as soon 
 I had something special " 
 
 The old lady climbed the steep, uncarpeted 
 stairs feebly, with a long pat on every step. 
 She came down faster, reckless of her 
 trembling uncertainty. "She ain t there! 
 Letty s gone ! Where is she ? " 
 
 "You knew she went to Ellsworth with 
 Lizzie ? " 
 
 "No I didn t." 
 
 "Why, she said something to you about 
 it, didn t she ? " 
 
 "I don know whether she did or 
 not." 
 
 "Lizzie just told me that she missed her 
 in the depot. She left her there for a 
 minute while she went back for something 
 she had forgotten. When she came back 
 she was gone. The train was all ready, and 
 Lizzie thought she must be on it, so she 
 got on herself. She did not see her in the 
 depot here, and has been crying about it, 
 and afraid to tell till just now. I came 
 right over as soon as I knew about it. " 
 
 "O Letty! Letty! Where s Letty? 
 Mr. Plainfield, you go an ; find her ! 
 Go right off ! You will, won t you ? Letty 
 allers liked you." 
 
 "I always liked Letty," said the young 
 
248 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 man brokenly. "I ll find her don t you 
 worry." 
 
 " You 11 go right off now ? " 
 
 * Of course I will ; I won t wait a minute. " 
 
 "0 Letty, Letty! Where is she? 
 What shall I do ? That little bit of a thing 
 and she was always one of the frightened 
 kind out all alone ; an it s night ! She 
 never went to Ellsworth alone in her hull 
 life. She didn t know nothin about the 
 town, an she didn t have a cent of money 
 in her pocket." 
 
 "I 11 send Mrs. Bascom over to stay with 
 you," Mr. Plainfield called back as he 
 hurried off. 
 
 Soon Mrs. Bascom came, poking her 
 white, nervous face in the door inquiringly. 
 "She ain t come?" 
 
 "No. Mis Bascom, what shall I 
 do?" 
 
 " Mis Torry, I do feel so bad about 
 it I don t know what to do. If Lizzie had 
 only told before ! but there she was up 
 stairs crying, and afraid to tell. I ve been 
 scolding her, but she felt so bad I had to 
 stop. She called me, an told me finally ; 
 an I guess twa n t long before Mr. Plain- 
 field started off to find out if she was home. 
 It was lucky he was boarding with us. 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 249 
 
 He 11 find her if anybody can ; he s as 
 quick as lightning. He turned white s a 
 sheet when I told him." 
 
 " Mis Bascom ! " 
 
 "Now, don t give up eo, Mis Torry. 
 He ll find her. She can t be very far off. 
 You ll see her walking in here first thing 
 you know. He s got a real fast team, an 
 he s started for Ellsworth now. He went 
 past me like a streak when I was coming 
 up the road. He 11 have her back safe and 
 sound before morning. " 
 
 "0 Letty! Letty ! Oh, what shall I 
 do ? It s my own fault, every mite of it e 
 my own fault. Tis ; you don t know 
 nothin about it. The minister brought me 
 a sum, he an Mr. Plainfield had been 
 workin on, to do, yesterday afternoon, an 
 I jest sat and ciphered half the night, an 
 all day. I didn t know no more what Letty 
 asked me, when she came in from school, 
 than nothin at all. I didn t more n half 
 know when she come. I didn t know nothin 
 but them figgers, an now Letty s lost, an 
 it s my fault." 
 
 4 Why, you might have let her gone if 
 you d known." 
 
 " I guess I shouldn t let her gone all alone 
 with your Lizzie, to come home after dark 
 
2$0 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 in the last train, little delicate thing as she 
 was. I guess I shouldn t ; an I guess I 
 should have started up an done something, 
 if I d known, when she wasn t here at train 
 time. I didn t get the sum done, an I m 
 glad of it ; it seems to me jest as if I was 
 iosin my faculty as I m growin older, an 
 I hope I am." 
 
 "Now, don t talk so, Mis Torry. Sit 
 down an try to be calm. You 11 be sick." 
 
 " I guess there ain t much bein calm. I 
 tell you what tis, Mis Bascom, I ve been 
 a wicked woman. I Ve been thinkin so 
 much of this faculty I ve had for cipherin 
 that I ve set it afore everything I hev. 
 Only yesterday that poor child didn t hev 
 any dinner but crackers an milk, cause I 
 was so took up with the sum that I forgot 
 it. An she was jest as patient as a lamb 
 about it ; said she d rather hev crackers 
 an milk than anything else. Oh, dear ! 
 dear !" 
 
 " Don t cry, Mis Torry." 
 
 " I can t help it. It don t make no differ 
 ence what folks are born with a faculty 
 for whether it s cipherin , or singin , or 
 writin poetry the love that s betwixt 
 human beings an the help that s betwixt 
 em ought to come first. I ve known it all 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 251 
 
 the time, but I ve gone agin it, an now 
 I ve got my pay. What shall I do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bascom remained with her all night, 
 but she could not pacify her in the least. 
 She was nearly distracted herself. She was 
 fearful that her Lizzie might be blamed. 
 
 The next day people flocked to the house 
 to inquire if there were any news from 
 Letty, and to comfort her grandmother. 
 Sympathy seemed fairly dripping like fra 
 grant oil from these simple, honest hearts ; 
 but the poor old woman got no refreshing 
 influence from it. She kept on her old strain 
 in their ears. She had lost Letty, and it 
 was all her own fault, and what should she 
 do ? Mr. Plainfield did not come home. 
 The minister took his place in school. 
 Nothing was heard until noon ; then a 
 telegram from the teacher came. He 
 thought he was on Letty s track, he said ; 
 they should hear again. 
 
 Next day there was a second message : 
 Letty was safe ; coming home as soon as 
 possible. The following day passed then, 
 and not another word came. The old 
 grandmother s faith and hope seemed to 
 have deserted her. She knew Letty was 
 not found ; she never would be found. She 
 and Mr. Plainfield were both lost now. 
 
252 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 Something dreadful had happened to both 
 of them. 
 
 "The worst of it is," she told Mrs. Bas- 
 com one afternoon, with a fierce indignation 
 at herself, " I can t help thinkin about that 
 awful sum now after all that s happened. 
 Them figgers keep troopin into my head 
 right in the midst of my thinkin about 
 Letty. It s all I can do to let that slate 
 alone, an not take it off the bureau. But 
 I won t I won t if it kills me not to. An 
 all the time I jest despise myself for it : 
 a-lettin my faculty for cipherin get ahead 
 of things that s higher an sacreder. I do 
 think I Ve lost my faculty now, an I most 
 hope I hev. But it won t make no differ 
 ence bout Letty now. Oh dear 1 dear ! 
 What shall I do ? " 
 
 On the fourth day after Letty s disappear 
 ance, between six and seven o clock in the 
 evening, Mrs. Torry was sitting alone in her 
 kitchen. The last sympathiser had gone 
 home to eat her supper. 
 
 The distressed old woman had drunk a 
 cup of tea ; that was all she would touch. 
 The pot was still on the stove. There was 
 a soft yellow light from the lamp over the 
 room. The warm air was full of the fra 
 grance of boiling tea. 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 253 
 
 Mrs. Torry sat looking over at the bureau. 
 She would have looked the same way if she 
 had been starving and seen food there. 
 
 " Oh," she whispered, " if I could only 
 work on that sum a little whrle, it does seem 
 as if twould comfort me more n anything. 
 
 Lord ! I wonder if I was to blame ? Twas 
 the way I was made, an I couldn t help 
 that. P rhaps I should hev let Letty gone, 
 an she d been lost, anyway. I wonder if I 
 hev lost my faculty ? " 
 
 She sat there looking over at the slate. 
 At last she rose and started to cross the 
 room. Midway she stopped. 
 
 " Oh, what am I doin ? Letty s lost, an 
 
 1 m goin to cipherin ! S pose she should 
 come in an ketch me? She d be so hurt 
 she d never get over it. She wouldn t think 
 I cared anything about her." 
 
 She stood looking at the slate and think 
 ing for a moment. Then her face settled 
 into a hard calm. 
 
 " Letty won t come back she won t ne^er 
 come back. I might as well cipher as any 
 thing else." 
 
 She went across the room, got the slate 
 and pencil, and returned to her seat. She 
 had been ciphering for a minute or so when a 
 sound outside caused her to start and stop. 
 
254 AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 
 
 She sat with mouth open and chin trembling, 
 listening. The sound came nearer ; it was 
 at the door. Of all the sweet sounds which 
 had smote that old woman s ears since her 
 birth songs of birds, choral hymns, Sabbath 
 bells there had been none so sweet as this. 
 It was Letty s thin, girlish treble just out 
 side the door which she heard. 
 
 For a second as she sat listening, her face 
 was rapt, angelic ; in spite of its sallowness 
 and wrinkles it might have figured in an 
 altar-piece. Then it changed. The slate 
 was in her lap. What would Letty think ? 
 
 It was all passing swiftly ; the door-latch 
 rattled; she slipped the slate under her 
 gingham apron, and sat still. 
 
 " O poor grandma ! " cried Letty, run 
 ning in ; " you ve been frightened most to 
 death about me, haven t you ? " She bent 
 over her grandmother and laid her soft, 
 pretty cheek against hers. 
 
 1 * O Letty ! I didn t think you d ever 
 come back." 
 
 " I have ; but I did have the dreadfulest 
 time. I got carried way out West on an 
 express train. Just think of it ! I got on 
 the wrong train while I was waiting for 
 Lizzie. I was frightened almost to death. 
 But Mr. Plainfield telegraphed ahead. He 
 
AN OLD ARITHMETICIAN. 255 
 
 found out where I was going, and they took 
 me to an hotel ; and then he came for me. 
 You haven t said anything to Mr. Plainfield, 
 grandma." 
 
 The young man was standing smiling 
 behind Letty. She looked astonished when 
 her grandmother did not rise to speak to 
 him, but sat perfectly still as she uttered 
 some broken thanks. 
 
 " Why, grandma, you ain t sick, are you? " 
 said she. 
 
 " No I ain t sick," said her grandmother, 
 with a meek tone. 
 
 When Mr. Plainfield left, in a few mo 
 ments, Letty gave a half-defiant, half- 
 ashamed glance at her grandmother, and 
 followed him out, closing the door. 
 
 When she returned Mrs. Torry was stand 
 ing by the table pouring out a cup of tea for 
 her. The slate was in its usual place on the 
 bureau. 
 
 " Grandma," said Letty, blushing inno 
 cently, * I thought I ought to say something 
 to Mr. Plainfield, you know. I hadn t, and I 
 knew he heard what I said to Lizzie that day. 
 I thought I ought to ask his pardon, when 
 he had done so much for me. I Ve made up 
 my mind that I do like him. There s other 
 things besides doing arithmetic examples." 
 
256 AN OLD APJTFTMETICIAN. 
 
 " I guess there is, child. Them things is 
 all second. I think I d rather have a man 
 who hadn t got any special faculty, if I was 
 goin to git married. " 
 
 " Nobody said anything about getting 
 married, grandma." 
 
 Pretty soon Letty went to bed. She was 
 worn out with her adventures. 
 
 " Ain t you going too, grandma ? " asked 
 she, turning around, lamp in hand, at the 
 foot of the stairs. 
 
 " Pretty soon, child ; pretty soon. I ve 
 got a little somethin I want to do first." 
 
 The grandmother sat up till nearly morn 
 ing working over the problem. Once in a 
 while she would lay down her slate and 
 climb upstairs and peep into Letty s little 
 peaceful girl-chamber to see if she were safe. 
 
 " If I have got that dear child safe, an 
 ain t lost my faculty, it s more n I deserve, 
 muttered she, as she took her slate the last 
 time. 
 
 The next evening the minister came over. 
 "So, Letty s come," he said, when Mrs. 
 Torry opened the door. 
 
 " Yes, Letty s come, and I ve got that 
 sum you gave me done." 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 IN Acton there were two churches, a Con 
 gregational and a Baptist. They stood 
 on opposite sides of the road, and the Bap 
 tist edifice was a little further down than 
 the other. On Sunday morning both bella 
 were ringing. The Baptist bell was much 
 larger, and followed quickly on the soft peal 
 of the Congregational with a heavy brazen 
 clang which vibrated a good while. The 
 people went flocking through the street to 
 the irregular jangle of the bells. It was a 
 very hot day, and the sun beat down heavily ; 
 parasols were bobbing over all the ladies 
 heads. 
 
 More people went into the Baptist church, 
 whose society was much the larger of the 
 two. It had been for the last ten years 
 ever since the Congregational had settled a 
 new minister. His advent had divided the 
 church, and a good third of the congrega 
 tion had gone over to the Baptist brethren, 
 with whom they still remained. 
 
 It is probable that many of them passed 
 
258 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 their old sanctuary to-day with the original 
 stubborn animosity as active as ever in their 
 hearts, and led their families up the Baptist 
 steps with the same strong spiritual pull of 
 indignation. 
 
 One old lady, who had made herself pro 
 minent on the opposition, trotted by this 
 morning with the identical wiry vehemence 
 which she had manifested ten years ago. 
 She wore a full black silk skirt, which she 
 held up inanely in front, and allowed to 
 trail in the dust in the rear. 
 
 Some of the staunch Congregational people 
 glanced at her amusedly. One fleshy fair- 
 faced girl in blue muslin said to her com 
 panion, with a laugh: "See that old lady 
 trailing her best black silk by to the Baptist. 
 Ain t it ridiculous how she keeps on showing 
 out? I heard some one talking about it 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The girl coloured up confusedly. Oh 
 dear ! " she thought to herself. The lady 
 with her had an unpleasant history con 
 nected with this old church quarrel. She 
 was a small bony woman in a shiny purple 
 silk, which was strained very tightly across 
 her sharp shoulder-blades. Her bonnet was 
 quite elaborate with flowers and plumes, as 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 259 
 
 was also her companion s. In fact, she was 
 the village milliner, and the girl was her 
 apprentice. 
 
 When the two went up the church steps, 
 they passed a man of about fifty, who was 
 sitting thereon well to one side. He had a 
 singular face a mild forehead, a gently 
 curving mouth, and a terrible chin, with a 
 look of strength in it that might have 
 abashed mountains. He held his straw hat 
 in his hand, and the sun was shining full on 
 his bald head. 
 
 The milliner half stopped, and gave an 
 anxious glance at him ; then passed on. In 
 the vestibule she stopped again. 
 
 "You go right in, Margy," she said to 
 the girl. " I 11 be along in a minute." 
 
 1 Where be you going, Miss Barney ? " 
 
 " You go right in. I 11 be there in a 
 minute." 
 
 Margy entered the audience-room then, 
 as if fairly brushed in by the imperious 
 wave of a little knotty hand, and Esther 
 Barney stood waiting until the rush of 
 entering people was over. Then she stepped 
 swiftly back to the side of the man seated 
 on the steps. She spread her large black 
 parasol deliberately, and extended the handle 
 towards him. 
 
26O A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 "No, no, Esther; I don t want it I 
 don t want it." 
 
 "If you re determined on setting out in 
 this broiling sun, Marcus Woodman, you 
 jest take this parasol of mine an use it." 
 " I don t want your parasol, Esther. I " 
 " Don t you say it over again. Take it." 
 " I won t not if I don t want to." 
 " You 11 get a sunstroke." 
 " That s my own lookout." 
 " Marcus Woodman, you take it." 
 She threw all the force there was in her 
 intense, nervous nature into her tone and 
 look ; but she failed in her attempt, because 
 of the utter difference in quality between 
 her own will and that with which she had 
 to deal. They were on such different planes 
 that hers slid by his with its own momen 
 tum ; there could be no contact even of 
 antagonism between them. He sat there 
 rigid, every line of his face stiffened into an 
 icy obstinacy. She held out the parasol 
 towards him like a weapon. 
 
 Finally she let it drop at her side, her 
 whole expression changed. 
 
 * Marcus, "said she, " how s your mother?" 
 He started. "Pretty well, thank you, 
 Esther." 
 
 " She s out to meeting, then ? 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 26 1 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I ve been a- thinking I ain t drove jest 
 now that may be I d come over an see her 
 some day this week." 
 
 He rose politely then. " Wish you would, 
 Esther. Mother d be real pleased, I know." 
 
 " Well, I 11 see Wednesday, p rhaps, if 
 I ain t too busy. I must go in now ; they re 
 most through singing. " 
 
 "Esther " 
 
 ( I don t believe I can stop any longer, 
 Marcus." 
 
 "About the parasol thank you jest the 
 same if I don t take it. Of course you know 
 I can t set out here holding a parasol ; folks 
 would laugh. But I m obliged to you all 
 the same. Hope I didn t say anything to 
 hurt your feelings ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; why, no, Marcus. Of course I 
 don t want to make you take it if you don t 
 want it. I don t know but it would look 
 kinder queer, come to think of it. Oh dear ! 
 they are through singing." 
 
 " Say, Esther, I don t know but I might 
 as well take that parasol, if you d jest as 
 soon. The sun is pretty hot, an I might 
 get a headache. I forgot my umbrella, to 
 tell the truth." 
 
 " I might have known better than to have 
 
262 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 gone at him the way I did," thought Esther 
 to herself, when she was seated at last in 
 the cool church beside Margy. Seems as 
 if I might have got used to Marcus Wood 
 man by this time." 
 
 She did not see him when she came out of 
 church ; but a little boy in the vestibule 
 handed her the parasol, with the remark, 
 " Mr. Woodman said for me to give this to 
 you." 
 
 She and Margy passed down the street 
 towards home. Going by the Baptist 
 church, they noticed a young man stand 
 ing by the entrance. He stared hard at 
 Margy. 
 
 She began to laugh after they had passed 
 him. " Did you see that fellow stare ? " 
 said she. "Hope he ll know me next 
 time." 
 
 " That s George Elliot; he s that old 
 lady s son you was speaking about this 
 morning. " 
 
 * Well, that s enough for me. " 
 
 " He s a real good, steady young man." 
 
 Margy sniffed. 
 
 " P rhaps you ll change your mind some 
 day. " 
 
 She did, and speedily, too. That glimpse 
 of Margy Wilson s pretty, new face for 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 263 
 
 she was a stranger in the town had been 
 too much for George Elliot. He obtained 
 an introduction, and soon was a steady 
 visitor at Esther Barney s house. Margy 
 fell in love with him easily. She had never 
 had much attention from the young men, 
 and he was an engaging young fellow, small 
 and bright-eyed, though with a nervous 
 persistency like his mother s in his manner. 
 
 " I m going to have it an understood 
 thing," Margy told Esther, after her lover 
 had become constant in his attentions, 
 "that I m going with George, and I ain t 
 going with his mother. I can t bear that 
 old woman. " 
 
 But poor Margy found that it was not so 
 easy to thrust determined old age off the 
 stage, even when young Love was flying 
 about so fast on his butterfly wings that he 
 seemed to multiply himself, and there was 
 no room for anything else, because the air 
 was so full of Loves. That old mother, 
 with her trailing black skirt and her wiry 
 obstinacy, trotted as unwaveringly through 
 the sweet stir as a ghost through a door. 
 
 One Monday morning Margy could not 
 eat any breakfast, and there were tear- 
 stains around her blue eyes. 
 
 " Why, what sthe matter, Margy? " asked 
 
264 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 Esther, eyeing her across the little kitchen- 
 table. 
 
 * Nothing s the matter. I ain t hungry 
 any to speak of, that s all. I guess I 11 go 
 right to work on Mis Fuller s bonnet." 
 
 " I d try an eat something if I was you. 
 Be sure you cut that velvet straight, if you 
 go to work on it. " 
 
 When the two were sitting together at 
 their work in the little room back of the 
 shop, Margy suddenly threw her scissors 
 down. " There 1" said she, "I ve done 
 it ; I knew I should. I ve cut this velvet 
 bias. I knew I should cut everything bias 
 I touched to-day." 
 
 There was a droll pucker on her mouth ; 
 then it began to quiver. She hid her face 
 in her hands and sobbed. " Oh, dear, dear, 
 dear ! " 
 
 * Margy Wilson, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " George and I had a talk last night. 
 We ve broke the engagement, an it s kill 
 ing me. An now I Ve cut this velvet bias. 
 Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear ! " 
 
 " For the land s sake,, don t mind anything 
 about the velvet. What s come betwixt you 
 an George ? " 
 
 " His mother horrid old thing ! He said 
 she d got to live with us, and I said she 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 265 
 
 shouldn t. Then he said he wouldn t marry 
 any girl that wasn t willing to live with his 
 mother, and I said he wouldn t ever marry 
 me, then. If George Elliot thinks more of 
 his mother than he does of me, he can have 
 her. I don t care. I 11 show him I can get 
 along without him." 
 
 { Well, I don t know, Margy. I m real 
 sorry about it. George Elliot s a good, 
 likely young man ; but if you didn t want 
 to live with his mother, it was better to say 
 so right in the beginning. And I don t 
 know as I blame you much : she s pretty 
 set in her ways." 
 
 " I guess she is. I never could bear her. 
 I guess he 11 find out " 
 
 Margy dried her eyes defiantly, and took 
 up the velvet again. " I ve spoilt this 
 velvet. I don t see why being disappointed 
 in love should affect a girl so s to make her 
 cut bias." 
 
 There was a whimsical element in Margy 
 which seemed to roll uppermost along with 
 her grief. 
 
 Esther looked a little puzzled. "Never 
 mind the velvet, child : it ain t much, any 
 way." She began tossing over some ribbons 
 to cover her departure from her usual reti 
 cence. "I m real sorry about it, Margy. 
 
266 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 Such things are hard to bear, but they can 
 be lived through. I know something about 
 it myself. You knew I d had some of this 
 kind of trouble, didn t you ? " 
 
 " About Mr. Woodman, you mean?" 
 " Yes, about Marcus Woodman. I 11 tell 
 you what tis, Margy Wilson, you ve got 
 one thing to be thankful for, and that is 
 that there ain t anything ridickerlous about 
 this affair of yourn. That makes it the 
 hardest of anything, according to my mind 
 when you know that everybody s laugh 
 ing, and you can hardly help laughing your 
 self, though you feel most ready to die." 
 " Ain t that Mr. Woodman crazy ? " 
 "No, he ain t crazy ; he s got too much 
 will for his common-sense, that s all, and 
 the will teeters the sense a little too far into 
 the air. I see all through it from the be 
 ginning. I could read Marcus Woodman 
 jest like a book." 
 
 " I don t see how in the world you ever 
 come to like such a man. " 
 
 " Well, I s pose love s the strongest when 
 there ain t any good reason for it. They say 
 it is. I can t say as I ever really admired 
 Marcus Woodman much. I always see right 
 through him ; but that didn t hinder my 
 thinking so much of him that I never felt as 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 267 
 
 if I could marry any other man. And I ve 
 had chances, though I shouldn t want you 
 to say so." 
 
 " You turned him off because he went to 
 sitting on the church steps ? " 
 
 " Course I did. Do you s pose I was going 
 to marry a man who made a laughing-stock 
 of himself that way ? " 
 
 " I don t see how he ever come to do it. 
 It s the funniest thing I ever heard of." 
 
 * I know it. It seems so silly nobody d 
 believe it. Well, all there is about it, 
 Marcus Woodman s got so much mulishnesa 
 in him it makes him almost miraculous. 
 You see, he got up an spoke in that church 
 meeting when they had such a row about 
 Mr. Morton s being settled here Marcut 
 was awful set again him. I never could 
 see any reason why, and I don t think he 
 could. He said Mr. Morton wa n t doctri 
 nal ; that was what they all said ; but 1 
 don t believe half of em knew what doctri 
 nal was. I never could see why Mr. Morton 
 wa n t as good as most ministers enough 
 sight better than them that treated him so, 
 anyway. I always felt that they was really 
 setting him in a pulpit high over their heads 
 by using him the way they did, though they 
 didn t know it. 
 
268 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 "Well, Marcus spoke in that church 
 meeting, an he kept getting more and more 
 set every word he said. He always had a 
 way of saying things over and over, as if 
 he was making steps out of em, an raising 
 of himself up on em, till there was no 
 moving him at all. And he did that night. 
 Finally, when he was up real high, he said, 
 as for him, if Mr. Morton was settled over 
 that church, he d never go inside the door 
 himself as long as he lived. Somebody spoke 
 out then I never quite knew who twas, 
 though I suspected an* says, * You ll have 
 to set on the steps, then, Brother Woodman. 
 
 " Everybody laughed at that but Marcus. 
 He didn t see nothing to laugh at. He 
 spoke out awful set, kinder gritting his 
 teeth, I will set on the steps fifty years 
 before I 11 go into this house if that man s 
 settled here. 
 
 " I couldn t believe he d really do it. 
 We were going to be married that spring, 
 an it did seem as if he might listen to me ; 
 but he wouldn t. The Sunday Mr. Morton 
 begun to preach, he begun to set on them 
 steps, an* he s set there ever since, in all 
 kinds of weather. It s a wonder it ain t 
 killed him ; but I guess it s made him 
 tough " 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 269 
 
 " Why, didn t he feel bad when you 
 wouldn t marry him ? " 
 
 " Feel bad ? Of course he did. He took 
 on terribly. But it didn t make any differ 
 ence ; he wouldn t give in a hair s-breadth. 
 I declare it did seem as if I should die. 
 His mother felt awfully too she s a real 
 good woman. I don t know what Marcus 
 would have done without her. He wants 
 a sight of tending and waiting on ; he s 
 dreadful babyish in some ways, though you 
 wouldn t think it. 
 
 " Well, it s all over now, as far as I m 
 concerned. I Ve got over it a good deal, 
 though sometimes it makes me jest as mad 
 as ever to see him setting there. But I try 
 to be reconciled, and I get along jest as 
 well mebbe, as if I d had him I don t 
 know. I fretted more at first than there 
 was any sense in, and I hope you won t." 
 
 "I ain t going to fret at all, Miss Barney. 
 I may cut bias for a while, but I sha n t do 
 anything worse. " 
 
 " How you do talk, child ! " 
 
 A good deal of it was talk with Margy ; 
 she had not as much courage as her words 
 proclaimed. She was capable of a strong 
 temporary resolution, but of no enduring 
 one. She gradually weakened as the days 
 
270 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 without her lover went on, and one Saturday 
 night she succumbed entirely. There was 
 quite a rush of business, but through it all 
 she caught a conversation between some 
 customers two pretty young girls. 
 
 "Who was that with you last night at 
 the concert ? " 
 
 " That oh, that was George Elliot 
 Didn t you know him ? " 
 
 " He s got another girl," thought Margy, 
 with a great throb. 
 
 The next Sunday night, coming out of 
 meeting with Miss Barney, she left her 
 suddenly. George Elliot was one of a wait 
 ing line of young men in the vestibule. She 
 went straight up to him. He looked at 
 her in bewilderment, his dark face turning 
 red. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Wilson," he stam 
 mered out finally. 
 
 "Good evening," she whispered, and stood 
 looking up at him piteously. She was white 
 and trembling. 
 
 At last he stepped forward suddenly and 
 offered her his arm. In spite of his resent 
 ment, he could not put her to open shame 
 before all his mates, who were staring 
 curiously. 
 
 When they were out in the dark, cool 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 27 1 
 
 street, he bent over her. "Why, Margy, 
 what does all this mean ? " 
 
 " George, let her live with us, please. 
 I want her to. I know I can get along with 
 her if I try. I ll do everything I can. 
 Please let her live with us. " 
 
 "Who s Aer?" 
 
 " Your mother." 
 
 "And I suppose us is you and I? I 
 thought that was all over, Margy ; ain t it?" 
 
 "O George, I am sorry I treated you so." 
 
 " And you are willing to let mother live 
 with us now ? " 
 
 " I 11 do anything. O George ! " 
 
 "Don t cry, Margy. There nobody s 
 looking give us a kiss. It s been a long 
 time ; ain t it, dear ? So you ve made up 
 your mind that you re willing to let mother 
 live with us ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, I don t believe she ever will, 
 Margy. She s about made up her mind 
 to go and live with my brother Edward, 
 whether or no. So you won t be troubled 
 with her. I dare say she might have been 
 a little of a trial as she grew older." 
 
 You didn t tell me." 
 
 " I thought it was your place to give in, 
 dear." 
 
272 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 " Yes, it was, George." 
 
 " I m mighty glad you did. I tell you 
 what it is, dear, I don t know how you ve 
 felt, but I ve been pretty miserable lately. " 
 
 " Poor George!" 
 
 They passed Esther Barney s house, and 
 strolled along half a mile further. When 
 they returned, and Margy stole softly into 
 the house and upstairs, it was quite late, 
 and Esther had gone to bed. Margy saw 
 the light was not out in her room, so she 
 peeped in. She could not wait till morning 
 to tell her. 
 
 "Where have you been?" said Esther, 
 looking up at her out of her pillows. 
 
 " Oh, I went to walk a little way with 
 George. " 
 
 " Then you ve made up ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Is his mother going to live with you ? " 
 
 " No ; I guess not. She s going to live 
 with Edward. But I told him I was willing 
 she should. I ve about made up my mind 
 it s a woman s place to give in mostly. I 
 s pose you think I m an awful fool. " 
 
 "No, I don t; no, I don t, Margy. I m 
 real glad it s all right betwixt you and 
 George. I ve seen you weren t very happy 
 lately." 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 273 
 
 They talked a little longer ; then Margy 
 said "Good night," going over to Esther 
 and kissing her. Being so rich in love made 
 her generous with it. She looked down 
 sweetly into the older woman s thin, red- 
 cheeked face. " I wish you were as happy 
 as I," said she. "I wish you and Mr. 
 Woodman could make up too." 
 
 "That s an entirely different matter. I 
 couldn t give in in such a thing as that." 
 
 Margy looked at her ; she was not subtle, 
 but she had just come out triumphant 
 through innocent love and submission, and 
 used the wisdom she had gained thereby. 
 
 "Don t you believe," said she, "if you 
 was to give in the way I did, that he would ?" 
 
 Esther started up with an astonished air. 
 That had never occurred to her before. "Oh, 
 I don t believe he would. You don t know 
 him ; he s awful set. Besides, I don t know 
 but I m better off the way it is. " 
 
 In spite of herself, however, she could not 
 help thinking of Margy s suggestion. Would 
 he give in ? She was hardly disposed to run 
 the risk. With her peculiar cast of mind, 
 her feeling for the ludicrous so keen that it 
 almost amounted to a special sense, and her 
 sensitiveness to ridicule, it would have been 
 easier for her to have married a man under 
 
274 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 the shadow of a crime than one who was the 
 deserving target of gibes and jests. Besides, 
 she told herself, it was possible that he had 
 changed his mind, that he no longer cared 
 for her. How could she make the first over 
 tures ? She had not Margy s impulsiveness 
 and innocence of youth to excuse her. 
 
 Also, she was partly influenced by the 
 reason which she had given Margy : she 
 was not so very sure that it would be best 
 for her to take any such step. She was 
 more fixed in the peace and pride of her old 
 maidenhood than she had realised, and was 
 more shy of disturbing it. Her comfortable 
 meals, her tidy housekeeping, and her pro 
 sperous work had become such sources of 
 satisfaction to her that she was almost wedded 
 to them, and jealous of any interference. 
 
 So it is doubtful if there would have been 
 any change in the state of affairs if Marcus 
 Woodman s mother had not died towards 
 spring. Esther was greatly distressed about 
 it. 
 
 " I don t see what Marcus is going to do, 5 
 she told Margy. " He ain t any fitter to 
 take care of himself than a baby, and he 
 won t have any housekeeper, they say." 
 
 One evening, after Marcus s mother had 
 been dead about three weeks. Esther went 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 275 
 
 over there. Margy had gone out to walk 
 with George, so nobody knew. When she 
 reached the house a white cottage on a hill 
 she saw a light in^the kitchen window. 
 
 " He s there," said she. She knocked on 
 the door softly. Marcus shuffled over to it 
 he was in his stocking feet and opened it. 
 
 " Good evening, Marcus," said she, speak 
 ing first. 
 
 " Good evening." 
 
 " I hadn t anything special to do this 
 evening, so I thought 1 3 d look in a minute 
 and 4 see how you was getting along." 
 
 "I ain t getting along very well; but 
 I m glad to see you. Come right in." 
 
 When she was seated opposite him by the 
 kitchen fire, she surveyed him and his sur 
 roundings pityingly. Everything had an 
 abject air of forlornness ; there was neither 
 tidiness nor comfort. After a few words 
 she rose energetically. " See here, Mar 
 cus," said she, " you jest fill up that tea 
 kettle, and I m going to slick up here a 
 little for you while I stay." 
 
 " Now, Esther, I don t feel as if " 
 
 " Don t you say nothing. Here s the tea 
 kettle. I might jest as well be doing that 
 as setting still." 
 
 He watched her, in a way that made her 
 
276 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 nervous, as she flew about putting things to 
 rights ; but she said to herself that this was 
 easier than sitting still, and gradually lead 
 ing up to the object for which she had come, 
 She kept wondering if she could ever accom 
 plish it. When the room was in order, 
 finally, she sat down again, with a strained- 
 up look in her face. 
 
 "Marcus," said she, "I might as well 
 begin. There was something I wanted to 
 say to you to-night." 
 
 He looked at her, and she went on 
 "I ve been thinking some lately about 
 how matters used to be betwixt you an 
 me, and it s jest possible I don t know 
 but I might have been a little more patient 
 than I was. I don t know as I d feel the 
 
 same way now if " 
 
 " Esther, what do you mean?" 
 " I ain t going to tell you, Marcua 
 Woodman, if you can t find out. I ve 
 said full enough ; more n I ever thought J 
 should. " 
 
 He was an awkward man, but he rose and 
 threw himself on his knees at her feet with 
 all the grace of complete unconsciousness of 
 action. " Esther, you don t mean, do 
 you ? you don t mean that you d be willing 
 to marry me ? " 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 277 
 
 * No ; not if you don t get up. You lock 
 ridickerlotis." 
 
 4 Esther, do you mean it ? " 
 
 * Yes. Now get up." 
 
 * You ain t thinking I can t give up 
 what we had the trouble about, any more 
 now than I could then." 
 
 " Ain t I said once that wouldn t make 
 any difference ? " 
 
 At that he put his head down on her 
 knees and sobbed. 
 
 "Do, for mercy sake, stop. Somebody 11 
 be coming in. Tain t as if we was a young 
 couple." 
 
 I ain t going to till I ve told you about 
 it, Esther. You ain t never really under 
 stood. In the first of it, we was both mad ; 
 but we ain t now, and we can talk it over. 
 
 Esther, I ve had such an awful life ! 
 
 I ve looked at you, and Oh, dear, 
 
 dear, dear ! " 
 
 * Marcus, you scare me to death crying so." 
 
 "I won t. Esther, look here it s the 
 gospel truth : I ain t a thing again* Mr. 
 Morton now." 
 
 * Then why on earth don t you go into 
 the meeting-house and behave yourself ? 
 
 " Don t you suppose I would if I could ? 
 
 1 can t, Esther I can t." 
 
278 A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 " I don t know what you mean by 
 can t." 
 
 "Do you s pose I ve took any comfort 
 sitting there on them steps in the winter 
 snows an the summer suns ? Do you s pose 
 I ve took any comfort not marrying you? 
 Don t you s pose I d given all I was worth 
 any time the last ten year to have got up 
 an walked into the church with the rest of 
 the folks ? " 
 
 " Well, I 11 own, Marcus, I don t see why 
 you couldn t if you wanted to." 
 
 " I ain t sure as I see myself, Esther. All 
 I know is I can t make myself give it up. I 
 can t. I ain t made strong enough to." 
 
 " As near as I can make out, you ve taken 
 to sitting on the church steps the way other 
 men take to smoking and drinking." 
 
 " I don t know but you re right, Esther, 
 though I hadn t thought of it in that way 
 before. " 
 
 " Well, you must try to overcome it." 
 
 " I never can, Esther. It ain t right for 
 me to let you think I can. " 
 
 " Well we won t talk about it any more 
 to-night. It s time I was going home. " 
 Esther did you mean it ? " 
 
 "Mean what?" 
 
 * That you d marry me any way ? M 
 
A CONFLICT ENDED. 279 
 
 "Yes, I did. Now do get up. I do 
 hate to see you looking so silly." 
 
 Esther had a new pearl -coloured silk 
 gown, and a little mantle like it, and a 
 bonnet trimmed with roses and plumes, and 
 she and Marcus were married in June. 
 
 The Sunday on which she came out a 
 bride they were late at church ; but late as 
 it was, curious people were lingering by the 
 steps to watch them. What would they 
 do? Would Marcus Woodman enter that 
 church door which his awful will had 
 guarded for him so long ? 
 
 They walked slowly up the steps between 
 the watching people. When they came to 
 the place where he was accustomed to sit, 
 Marcus stopped short and looked down at 
 his wife with an agonised face. 
 
 " Esther, I ve got to stop." 
 
 " Well, we ll both sit down here, then/* 
 
 " Your 
 
 "Yes; I m willing." 
 
 " No ; you go in." 
 
 " No, Marcus ; I sit with you on our 
 wedding Sunday." 
 
 Her sharp middle-aged face as she looked 
 up at him was fairly heroic. This was all 
 that she could do : her last weapon was 
 used. If this failed, she would accept the 
 
28O A CONFLICT ENDED. 
 
 chances with which she had married, and 
 before the eyes of all these tittering people 
 she would sit down at his side on these 
 church steps. She was determined, and she 
 would not weaken. 
 
 He stood for a moment staring into her 
 face. He trembled so that the bystanders 
 noticed it. He actually leaned over towards 
 his old seat as if wire ropes were pulling him 
 down upon it. Then he stood up straight, 
 like a man, and walked through the church 
 door with his wife. 
 
 The people followed. Not one of them 
 even smiled. They had felt the pathos in 
 the comedy. 
 
 The sitters in the pews watched Marcus 
 wonderingly as he went up the aisle with 
 Esther. He looked strange to them ; he 
 had almost the grand mien of a conqueror. 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 " ~OE sure you sweep it clean, Lily." 
 
 D "Yes, m. I ain t leavin a single 
 stone on it. " 
 
 " I m most afraid to trust you. I think 
 likely as not he may come to-day, an not 
 wait to write. It s so pleasant, I feel jest 
 as if somebody was comin . " 
 
 " I m a-sweepin it real clean, Aunt 
 Fidelia." 
 
 "Well, be pertickler. An you d better 
 sweep the side-walk a little ways in front 
 of the yard. I saw a lot of loose stones on 
 it yesterday. 1 
 
 "Yes, m." 
 
 The broom was taller than the child, but 
 she was sturdy, and she wielded it with 
 joyful vigour. Down the narrow path 
 between the rows of dahlias she went. Her 
 smooth yellow head shone in the sun. Her 
 long blue gingham apron whisked about her 
 legs as she swept. 
 
 The dahlias were in full bloom, and they 
 nodded their golden and red balls gently 
 
282 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 when the child jostled them. Beyond the 
 dahlias on either side were zinnias and 
 candytuft and marigolds. The house was 
 very small. There was only one window 
 at the side of the front door. A curved 
 green trellis stood against the little space 
 of house wall on the other side, and a yellow 
 honeysuckle climbed on it. 
 
 Fidelia Almy stood in the door with a 
 cloth in her hand. She had been dusting 
 the outside of the door and the threshold, 
 rubbing off every speck punctiliously. 
 
 Fidelia stood there in the morning light 
 with her head nodding like a flower in a 
 wind. It nodded so all the time. She 
 had a disease of the nerves. Her yellow- 
 grey hair was crimped, and put up care 
 fully in a little coil, with two long curls on 
 either side. Her long delicate face, which 
 always had a downward droop as it nodded, 
 had a soft polish like ivory. 
 
 When Lily Almy, who was Fidelia s orphan 
 niece, whom she was bringing up, had 
 reached the gate with her broom, she peered 
 down the road ; then she ran back eagerly. 
 
 * Aunt Fidelia, " she said, in a pre 
 cise slow voice, which was copied from her 
 aunt s, " there s a man comin . Do you 
 s pose it s him ? " 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 283 
 
 " What kind of a lookin man ? " Fidelia s 
 nead nodded faster ; a bright red spot 
 gleamed out on either cheek. 
 
 * A real handsome man. He s tall, and 
 he s got reddish whiskers. And he s got 
 a carpet bag." 
 
 " That s the way he looks." 
 
 "O Aunt Fidelia, do you s pose it s him ? " 
 
 " Tain t very likely to be." 
 
 "Here he is." 
 
 Fidelia ran into the house, and knelt 
 down by the parlour window, just peering 
 over the sill.- Her whole body seemed 
 wavering like her head ; her breath came 
 in great gasps. The man, who was young 
 and handsome, walked past. 
 
 Lily ran in. " Twa n t him, was it?" 
 said she. 
 
 "I didn t much expect it was. I ve 
 always thought he d come on a Tuesday. 
 I ve dreamed bout his comin Tuesday 
 more times than I can tell. Now I m goin 
 to fix the flowers in the vases, and then 
 I m goin down to the post-office. I feel 
 jest as if I might git a letter to-day. There 
 was one in the candle last night. " 
 
 Fidelia moved, nodding, among her flowers 
 in her front yard. She gathered up her purple 
 calico apron, and cut the flowers into it. 
 
284 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 "You run out into the garden an git 
 some sparrow-grass for green," she told Lily, 
 * an pick some of that striped grass under 
 the parlour window, an some of them spider- 
 lilies by the fence. " 
 
 The little white-painted mantel-shelf in 
 Fidelia s parlour was like an altar, upon 
 which she daily heaped floral offerings. And 
 who knows what fair deity in bright clouds 
 she saw when she made her sacrifice ? 
 
 Fidelia had only two vases, tall gilt- 
 and-white china ones, with scrolling tops ; 
 these stood finely in the centre, holding 
 their drooping nosegays. Beside these were 
 broken china bowls, cream- jugs without 
 handles, tumblers, wine-glasses, saucers, and 
 one smart china mug with " Friendship s 
 Offering " in gold letters. Slightly withered 
 flowers were in all of them. Fidelia threw 
 them out, and filled all the vessels with 
 fresh ones. The green asparagus sprays 
 brushed the shelf, the striped grass over 
 topped the gay flowers. 
 
 "There," said Fidelia, "now I m goin 
 to the post-office." 
 
 " If anybody comes, I 11 ask him in here, 
 an tell him you ll be right back, sha n t 
 I ? " said Lily. 
 
 " Tell him I 11 be back in jest a few 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 285 
 
 minutes, an give him the big rockin - 
 chair. " 
 
 The post-office was a mile away, in the 
 corner of a country store. Twice a day, 
 year out and year in, Fidelia journeyed 
 thither. 
 
 "It s only Fidelia Almy," people said, 
 looking out of the windows, as the poor 
 solitary figure with its nodding head went 
 by through summer suns and winter winds. 
 
 Once in a while they hailed her. "See 
 if there s anything for me, won t you, 
 Fidelia?" 
 
 At last it was an understood thing that 
 Fidelia should carry the mail to the dozen 
 families between her house and the post- 
 office. She often had her black worked bag 
 filled up with letters, but there was never 
 one of her own. Fidelia Almy never had a 
 letter. 
 
 " That woman s been comin here the last 
 thirty years," the postmaster told a stranger 
 one day, " an she ain t never had a letter 
 sence I ve been here, an I don t believe she 
 ever did before. " 
 
 Fidelia used to come in a little before the 
 mail was distributed, and sit on an old 
 settee near the door, waiting. Her face at 
 those times had a wild, strained look ; but 
 
286 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 after the letters were all in the boxes it 
 settled back into its old expression, and she 
 travelled away with her bag of other people s 
 letters, nodding patiently. 
 
 On her route was one young girl who had 
 a lover in a neighbouring town. Her letters 
 came regularly. She used to watch for 
 Fidelia, and run to meet her, her pretty face 
 all blushes. Fidelia always had the letter 
 separated from the others, and ready for 
 her. She always smiled when she held it 
 out. "They keep a-comin ," she said one 
 day, " an there don t seem to be no end to 
 it. But if I was you, Louisa, I J d try an 
 git him to settle over here, if you ain t 
 married before long. There s slips, an it 
 ain t always safe trustin to letters. " 
 
 The girl told her lover what Fidelia had 
 said, with tender laughter and happy pity. 
 * Poor thing ! " she said. " She had a beau, 
 you know, Willy, and he went away thirty 
 years ago, and ever since then she s been 
 looking for a letter from him, and she s 
 kind of cracked over it. And she s afraid 
 it 11 turn out the same way with me. " 
 
 Then she and her sweetheart laughed to 
 gether at the idea of this sad, foolish destiny 
 for this pretty, courageous young thing. 
 
 To-day Fidelia, with her black broadcloth 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 287 
 
 bag, worked on one side with a wreath and 
 on the other with a bunch of flowers, walked 
 slowly to the office and back. As the years 
 went on she walked slower. This double 
 journey of hers seemed to tire her more. 
 Once in a while she would sit down and 
 rest on the s+one wall. The clumps of dusty 
 wayside flowers, meadowsweet and tansy, 
 stood around her ; over her head was the 
 blue sky. But she clutched her black letter- 
 bag, and nodded her drooping head, and 
 never looked up. Her sky was elsewhere. 
 
 When she came in sight of her own house, 
 Lily, who was watching at the gate, came 
 running to meet her. 
 
 ** O Aunt Fidelia," said she, "Aunt 
 Sally s in there." 
 
 " Did she take off her shoes an let you 
 brush em before she went in ? " 
 
 " She wouldn t. She went right straight 
 in. She jest laughed when I asked her to 
 take her shoes off. An , Aunt Fidelia, she s 
 done somethin else. I couldn t help it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "She s been eatin some of Mr. Lennox s 
 plumcake up. I couldn t stop her, Aunt 
 Fidelia. I told her she mus n t. " 
 
 " You didn t say nothin bout Mr. Len 
 nox, did you ? " 
 
288 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 "No, I didn t, Aunt Fidelia. Oh, did 
 you get a letter ? " 
 
 "No; I didn t much think I would to 
 day. Oh dear ! there s Sally eatin cake 
 right in the front entry." 
 
 A stout old woman, with a piece of cake 
 in her hand, stood in the front door as 
 Fidelia and Lily came up between the 
 dahlias. 
 
 " How d ye do, Fidelia ? " cried she 
 warmly. 
 
 " Pretty well, thank you. How do you 
 do, Sally ? " Fidelia answered. She shook 
 hands, and looked at the other with a sort 
 of meek uneasiness. " Hadn t you jest as 
 soon step out here whilst you re eatin that 
 cake?" asked she timidly. "I ve jest 
 swept the entry." 
 
 " No ; I ain t goin to step out there an 
 inch," said the other, mumbling the cake 
 vigorously between her old jaws. " If you 
 ain t the worst old maid, Fidelia ! Ain t 
 seen all the sister you ve got in the world 
 for a year, an wantin her to go outdoors 
 to eat a piece of cake. Hard work to git 
 the cake, too." 
 
 "It don t make any difference," said 
 Fidelia. "I m real kind o used up every 
 time I sweep nowadays, that s all. " 
 
A PATIENT WAITER 289 
 
 " Better stop sweepin , then ; there ain t 
 no need of so much fussin . It s more J n 
 half that s got your nerves out of kilter 
 sweepin an scrubbin from mornin till 
 night, an wantin folks to take off their 
 shoes before they come in, as if they was 
 goin into a heathen temple. Well, I ain t 
 goin to waste all my breath scoldin when 
 I Ve come over to see you. How air you 
 now, Fidelia?" 
 
 "I m bout the same as ever." Fidelia, 
 following her sister into the parlour, stooped 
 shyly to pick up some crumbs which had 
 fallen on the entry floor. 
 
 " Just as shaky, ain t you ? Why, Fidelia 
 Almy, what in creation have you got this 
 room rigged up so fur ? " 
 
 " Rigged up how ? " 
 
 " Why, everything covered up this way. 
 What hev you got this old sheet over the 
 carpet fur ? " 
 
 * * It was f adin dreadfully. " 
 
 " Fadin ! Good land ! If you ain t got 
 every chair sewed up in caliker, an the 
 
 pictures in old piller-cases, an Fidelia 
 
 Almy, if you ain t got the solar lamp a-set- 
 tin in a little bag ! " 
 
 " The gilt was gittin real kind o tar 
 nished." 
 
29O A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 " Tan.ished ! An every single thing on 
 the tablo the chiner card-basket an Mrs. 
 Hemans Poems pinned up in a white rag ! 
 Good land ! Well, I ve always heard tell 
 that there was two kinds of old maids old 
 maids an consarned old maids an I guess 
 you re one of the last sort. Why, what air 
 you cuttin on so fur ? " 
 
 Fidelia gathered up all her trembling 
 meekness and weakness into a show of 
 dignity. " Things are all fadin and wear- 
 in out, an I want to keep em decent as 
 long as I last. I ain t got no money to buy 
 any more. I ain t got no husband nor sons 
 to do for me, like you, an I ve got to take 
 care of things if I hev anything. An 
 I m goin to. " 
 
 Her sister laughed. " Well, good land ! 
 I don t care. Cover up your things if you 
 want to. There ain t no need of your gittin 
 riled. But this room does look enough to 
 make a cat laugh. All them flowers on the 
 mantel, an all those white things. I de 
 clare, Fidelia Almy, it does look jest as if 
 twas laid out. Well, we won t talk no more 
 about it. I m goin out to hev a cup of tea. 
 I put the teapot on, an started the fire." 
 
 Poor Fidelia had a distressing day with 
 her visiting sister. All her prim household 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 2Q1 
 
 arrangements were examined and commented 
 on. Not a closet nor bureau drawer escaped 
 inspection. When the guest departed, at 
 length, the woman and the child looked at 
 each other with relief. 
 
 "Ain t you glad she s gone?" asked 
 Lily. She had been pink with indignation 
 all day. 
 
 "Hush, child; you mustn t. She s my 
 sister, an I m always glad to see her, if she 
 is a little tryin sometimes." 
 
 " She wanted you to take the covers off 
 an let the things git spoiled before Mr. Len 
 nox comes, didn t she ? " 
 
 * She don t know nothin about that." 
 
 " Are you goin to make another plum- 
 cake to-night, Aunt Fidelia?" 
 
 "I don know. I guess we d better 
 sweep first." 
 
 The two worked hard and late that night. 
 They swept every inch of floor which that 
 profane dusty foot had trod. The child 
 helped eagerly. She was Fidelia s confi 
 dante, and she repaid her confidence with 
 the sweetest faith and sympathy. Nothing 
 could exceed her innocent trust in Fidelia s 
 pathetic story and pathetic hopes. This 
 sad human experience was her fairy tale of 
 childhood. That recreant lover, Ansel Len 
 
2p2 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 nox, who had left his sweetheart for Cali 
 fornia thirty years ago, and promised falsely 
 to write and return, was her fairy prince. 
 Her bright imagination pictured him beau 
 tiful as a god. 
 
 " He was about as handsome a young 
 man as you ever see," said poor Fidelia. 
 And a young Apollo towered up before 
 Lily s credulous eyes. The lapse of thirty 
 years affected the imagination of neither ; 
 but Lily used to look at her aunt reflec 
 tively sometimes. 
 
 "I wish you could have some medicine 
 to make you stop shakin before that hand 
 some Mr. Lennox comes," she said once. 
 
 " I m in hopes that medicine I m takin 
 will stop it," said Fidelia. " I think, mebbe, 
 it s a little better now. I m glad I thought 
 f -o put that catnip in ; it makes it a good 
 deal more quietin ." 
 
 On the narrow ledge of shelf behind 
 Fidelia s kitchen sink stood always a blue 
 quart bottle of medicine. She prepared it 
 herself from roots and herbs. She experi 
 mented and added new ingredients, and 
 swallowed it with a touching faith that it 
 would cure her. Beside this bottle stood 
 another of sage tea ; that was for her hair. 
 She used it plentifully every day in the hope 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 293 
 
 that it would stop the grey hairs coming, 
 and bring back the fine colour. Fidelia used 
 to have pretty golden hair. 
 
 Lily teased her to make the sage tea 
 stronger. " You ve been usin it a dreadful 
 long time, Aunt Fidelia," said she, "an 
 your hair s jest as grey as twas before." 
 
 " Takes quite a long time before you can 
 see any difference," said Fidelia. 
 
 Many a summer morning, when the dew 
 was heavy, she and Lily used to steal out 
 early and bathe their faces in it. Fidelia 
 said it would make people rosy and keep 
 away the wrinkles. 
 
 " It works better on me than it does on 
 you, don t it ? " asked pink-and-white Lily, 
 innocently, once. The two were out in the 
 shining white field together. The morning 
 lit up Lily as it did the flowers. Her eyes 
 had lovely blue sparkles in them ; her yellow 
 hair, ruffled by the wind, glittered as radi 
 antly between one and the light as the cob 
 web lines across the grasses. She looked 
 wonderingly at her aunt, with her nodding 
 grey head, plunging her little yellow hands 
 into the dewy green things. Those dull 
 tints and white hairs and wrinkles showed 
 forth so plainly in the clear light that even 
 the child s charming faith was disturbed a 
 
294 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 little. Would the dew ever make this old 
 creature pretty again ? 
 
 But " You can t expect it to work in a 
 minute," replied Fidelia, cheerfully. And 
 Lily was satisfied. 
 
 " I guess it ll work by the time Mr. 
 Lennox comes," she said. 
 
 Fidelia was always neat and trim in her 
 appearance, her hair was always carefully 
 arranged, and her shoes tidy ; but summer 
 and winter she wore one sort of gown a 
 purple calico. She had a fine black silk 
 hung away in the closet upstairs. She had 
 one or two good woollens, and some delicate 
 cambrics. There was even one white muslin, 
 with some lace in neck and sleeves, hanging 
 there. But she never wore one of them. Her 
 sister scolded her for it, and other people 
 wondered. Fidelia s child-confidante alone 
 knew the reason why. This poor, nodding, 
 enchanted princess was saving her gay attire 
 till the prince returned and the enchantment 
 ceased, and she was beautiful again. 
 
 "You mustn t say nothin about it," 
 Fidelia had said ; " but I ain t goin to put 
 on them good dresses an tag em right out. 
 Mebbe the time 11 come when I 11 want em 
 more." 
 
 * * Mr. Lennox 11 think that black silk 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 295 
 
 is beautiful," said Lily, "an that white 
 muslin. " 
 
 " I had that jest after he went away, an 
 I ain t never put it on. I thought I wouldn t ; 
 muslin don t look half so nice after the new 
 look gits off it. " 
 
 So Lily waited all through her childhood. 
 She watched her aunt start forth on her 
 daily pilgrimages to the post-office, with the 
 confident expectation that one of these days 
 she would return with a letter from Mr. Len 
 nox. She regarded that sacred loaf of plum- 
 cake which was always kept on hand, and 
 believed that he might appear to dispose of it 
 at any moment. She had the sincerest faith 
 that the time was coming when the herb 
 medicine would quiet poor Fidelia s tremu 
 lous head, when the sage tea would turn all 
 the grey hairs gold, and the dew would 
 make her yellow, seamy cheeks smooth and 
 rosy, when she would put on that mag 
 nificent black silk or that dainty girlish 
 muslin, and sit in the parlour with Mr. 
 Lennox, and have the covers off the chairs 
 and the mantel-piece blooming with flowers. 
 
 So the child and the woman lived happily 
 with their beautiful chimera, until gradu 
 ally he vanished into thin air for one of 
 them. 
 
296 A PAT1EIST WAITER. 
 
 Lily could not have told when the con- 
 viction first seized her that Mr. Lennox 
 would never write, would never come ; that 
 Aunt Fidelia s grey hair would never turn 
 gold, nor her faded cheeks be rosy; that 
 her nodding head would nod until she was 
 dead. 
 
 It was hardly until she was a woman 
 herself, and had a lover of her own. It is 
 possible that he gave the final overthrow to 
 her faith, that it had not entirely vanished 
 before. She told him all about Mr. Lennox. 
 She scarcely looked upon it as a secret to be 
 kept now. She had ascertained that many 
 people were acquainted with Fidelia Almy a 
 poor romance, except in its minor details. 
 
 So Lily told her lover. "Good Lord!" 
 he said. " How long is it since he 
 went ? " 
 
 " Forty years now," said Lily. They were 
 walking home from meeting one Sunday 
 night. 
 
 "Forty years! Why, there ain t any 
 more chance of hearing anything from 
 him . Did he have any folks here ? " 
 
 " No. He was a clerk in a store here. 
 He fell in love with Aunt Fidelia, and went 
 off to California to get some more money 
 before he got married." 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 2Q7 
 
 " Didn t anybody ever hear anything 
 from him ? 
 
 "Aunt Fidelia always said not; but 
 Aunt Sally told me once that she knew 
 well enough that he got married out there 
 right after he went away ; she said she heard 
 it pretty straight. She never had any 
 patience with Aunt Fidelia. If she d known 
 
 half the things Poor Aunt Fidelia ! 
 
 She s getting worse lately. She goes to the 
 post-office Sundays. I can t stop her. 
 Every single Sunday, before meeting, down 
 she goes." 
 
 " Why, she can t get in." 
 
 "I know it. She just tries the door, and 
 comes back again." 
 
 " Why, dear, she s crazy, ain t she ?" 
 
 * No, she ain t crazy ; she s rational 
 enough about everything else. All the way 
 I can put it is, she s just been pointed one 
 way all her life, and going one way, and 
 now she s getting nearer the end of the 
 road, she s pointed sharper and she s going 
 faster. She s had a hard time. I m going 
 to do all I can for her, anyhow. I 11 help 
 her get ready for Mr. Lennox as long as she 
 lives." 
 
 Fidelia took great delight in Lily s love 
 affair. All that seemed to trouble her was 
 
298 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 the suspicion that the young man might 
 leave town, and the pair be brought to 
 letter-writing. 
 
 " You mind, Lily," she would say, "don t 
 you let Valentine settle anywhere else be 
 fore you re married. If you do, you 11 
 have to come to writin letters, an letters 
 ain t to be depended on. There s slips. 
 You d get sick of waitin the way I have. 
 I ain t minded it much ; but you re young, 
 an it would be different. " 
 
 When Valentine Rowe did find employ 
 ment in a town fifty miles away, poor 
 Fidelia seemed to have taken upon herself 
 a double burden of suspense. 
 
 In those days she was much too early for 
 the mails, and waited, breathless, in the 
 office for hours. When she got a letter for 
 Lily she went home radiant ; she seemed to 
 forget her own disappointment. 
 
 Lily s letters came regularly for a long 
 time. Valentine came to see her occasion 
 ally too. Then, one day, when Lily ex 
 pected a letter, it did not come. Her aunt 
 dragged herself home feebly. 
 
 "It ain t come, Lily," said she. "The 
 trouble s begun. You poor child, how air 
 you goin to go through with it ? " 
 
 Lily laughed. "Why, Aunt Fidelia!" 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 299 
 
 said she, "what are you worrying for? I 
 haven t missed a letter before. Something 
 happened so Valentine couldn t write Sun 
 day, that s all. It don t trouble me a 
 mite." 
 
 However, even Lily was troubled at 
 length. Weeks went by, and no letter 
 came from Valentine Rowe. Fidelia tot 
 tered home despondent day after day. The 
 girl had a brave heart, but she began tc 
 shudder, watching her. She felt as if she 
 were looking into her own destiny. 
 
 "I m going to write to Valentine," she 
 said suddenly, one day, after Fidelia had 
 returned from her bootless journey. 
 
 Fidelia looked at her fiercely. " Lily 
 Almy," said she, "whatever else you do, 
 don t you do that. Don t you force yourself 
 on any feller, when there s a chance you ain t 
 wanted. Don t you do anything that ain t 
 modest. You d better live the way I ve 
 done." 
 
 " He may be sick," said Lily pitifully. 
 
 " The folks he s with would write. Don t 
 you write a word. I didn t write. An 
 mebbe you 11 hear to-morrow. I guess 
 we d better sweep the parlour to-day." 
 
 This new anxiety seemed to wear on 
 Fidelia more than her own had done. She 
 
30O A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 now talked more about \ 7 alentine Rowe 
 than Mr. Lennox. Her faith in Lily s case 
 did not seem as active as in her own. 
 
 "I wouldn t go down to the post-office, 
 seems to me," Lily said one morning 
 Fidelia tottered going out the door; "you 
 don t look fit to. I 11 go by an by." 
 
 "I can go well enough," said Fidelia, in 
 her feeble, shrill voice. "You ain t goin 
 to begin as long as I can help it. " And she 
 crawled slowly out of the yard between the 
 rows of dahlias, and down the road, her 
 head nodding, her flabby black bag hanging 
 at her side. 
 
 That was the last time she ever went to 
 the post- office. That day she returned with 
 her patient, disappointed heart for the last 
 time. 
 
 When poor Fidelia Almy left her little 
 house again she went riding, lying quietly, 
 her nodding head still for ever. She had 
 passed out of that strong wind of Providence, 
 which had tossed her so hard, into the 
 eternal calm. She rode past the post-office 
 on her way to the little green graveyard, 
 and never knew nor cared whether there 
 was a letter for her or not. But the bell 
 tolled, and the summer air was soft and 
 sweet, and the little funeral train passed 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 301 
 
 by ; and may be there was one among the 
 fair, wide possibilities of heaven. 
 
 The first day on which Fidelia gave up 
 going to the post-office, Lily began going in 
 her stead. In the morning Fidelia looked 
 up at her pitifully from her pillow, when 
 she found that she could not rise. 
 
 "You ll have to go to the office, Lily," 
 she whispered; "an you d better hurry, 
 or you 11 be late for the mail. " 
 
 That was the constant cry to which the 
 poor girl had to listen. It was always, 
 "Hurry, hurry, or you ll be late for the 
 mail." 
 
 Lily was a sweet, healthy young thing, 
 but the contagion of this strained faith and 
 expectation seemed to seize upon her in her 
 daily tramps to the post-office. Sometimes, 
 going along the road, she could hardly be 
 lieve herself not to be the veritable Fidelia 
 Almy, living life over again, beginning a 
 new watch for her lost lover s letter. She 
 put her hand to her head to see if it nodded. 
 She kept whispering to herself, " Hurry, 
 hurry, or you 11 be late for the mail." 
 
 Fidelia lay ill a week before she died, 
 and the week had nearly gone, when Lily 
 flew home from the office one night jubi 
 lant. She ran in to the sick .woman. * * 
 
3O2 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 Aunt Fidelia!" she cried, "the letter s 
 come ! " 
 
 Fidelia had not raised herself for days, 
 but she sat up now erect. All her failing 
 forces seemed to gather themselves up and 
 flash and beat, now the lifeward wind for 
 them blew. The colour came into her 
 cheeks, her eyes shone triumphant. "An 
 sel s letter ! " 
 
 Lily sobbed right out in the midst of her 
 joy: "0 poor Aunt Fidelia! poor Aunt 
 Fidelia ! I didn t think I forgot. I was 
 awful cruel. It s a letter from Valentine. 
 He s been sick. The folks wrote, but they 
 put on the wrong state Massachusetts 
 instead of Vermont. He s comin right 
 home, an he s goin to stay. He s goin to 
 settle here. Poor Aunt Fidelia ! I didn t 
 think." 
 
 Fidelia lay back on her pillow. " You 
 dear child," she whispered, "you won t 
 have to." 
 
 Valentine Rowe came the morning of the 
 day on which she died. She eagerly de 
 manded to see him. 
 
 " You re a- goin to settle here, ain t you? " 
 she asked him. " Don t you go away again 
 before you re married ; don t you do it. It 
 ain t safe trustin to letters ; there s slips." 
 
A PATIENT WAITER. 303 
 
 The young man looked down at her with 
 tears in his honest eyes. "I ll settle here 
 sure," said he. "Don t you worry. I ll 
 promise you." 
 
 Fidelia looked up at him, and shut her 
 eyes peacefully. "The dear child!" she 
 murmured. 
 
 Along the middle of the afternoon she 
 called Lily. She wanted her to put her 
 head down, so she could tell her something. 
 
 "Them dresses," she whispered, "up 
 stairs. You d better take em an use em. 
 You can make that white one over for a 
 weddin dress. An you d better take the 
 covers off the things in the parlour when 
 you re married, an eat the plumcake." 
 
 Near sunset she called Lily again. " The 
 evenin mail," she whispered. "It s time 
 for it. You d better hurry, or you 11 be 
 late. I shouldn t be a bit surprised if the 
 letter came to-night." 
 
 Lily broke down and cried. " dear, 
 poor aunty ! " she sobbed. The awful piti- 
 fulness of it all seemed to overwhelm her 
 suddenly. She could keep up no longer. 
 
 But Fidelia did not seem to notice it. 
 She went on talking. "Ansel Lennox 
 promised he d write when he went away, 
 an he said he d come again. It s time for 
 
304 A PATIENT WAITER. 
 
 the evenin mail. You d better hurry, or 
 you 11 be late. He promised he d write, 
 an " she looked up at Lily suddenly ; a 
 look of triumphant resolution came into her 
 poor face " / ain t goin* to give it up yet." 
 
A CONQUEST OF mJMILITY. 
 
 TWO o clock had been the hour set for 
 the wedding. It was now four, and 
 the bridegroom had not yet appeared. The 
 relatives who had been bidden to the festivi 
 ties had been waiting impatiently in the two 
 square front rooms of Maria Caldwell s 
 house, but now some had straggled out into 
 the front yard, from which they could look 
 up the road to better advantage. 
 
 They were talking excitedly. A shrill 
 feminine babble, with an undertone of 
 masculine bass, floated about the house and 
 yard. It had been swelling in volume from 
 a mere whisper for the last half -hour ever 
 since Hiram Caldwell had set out for the 
 bridegroom s house to ascertain the reason 
 for his tardiness at his .own wedding. 
 
 Hiram, who was a young fellow, had 
 gotten into his shiny buggy with a red, 
 important face, and driven off at a furious 
 rate. He was own cousin to Delia Caldwell, 
 the prospective bride. All the people 
 assembled were Thayers or Caldwells, or 
 u 
 
306 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 connections thereof. The tardy bride 
 groom s name was Lawrence Thayer. 
 
 1$ was a beautiful summer afternoon. 
 The air was hot and sweet. Around the 
 Caldwell house it was spicy sweet with 
 pinks ; there was a great bed of them at the 
 foot of the green bank which extended under 
 the front windows. 
 
 Some of the women and young girls pulled 
 pinks and sniffed them as they stood wait 
 ing. Mrs. Erastus Thayer had stuck two 
 or three in the bosom of her cinnamon- 
 brown silk dress. She stood beside the 
 gate ; occasionally she craned her neck over 
 it and peered down the road. The sun was 
 hot upon her silken shoulders, the hori 
 zontal wrinkles shone, but she did not 
 mind. 
 
 "See anything of him?" some one called 
 out. 
 
 " No. I m dreadful afraid somethin has 
 happened. " 
 
 "O mother, what do you think s hap 
 pened ? " asked a young girl at her side, hit 
 ting her with a sharp elbow. The girl was 
 young, slim, and tall ; she stooped a little ; 
 her pointed elbows showed redly through 
 her loose white muslin sleeves ; her face 
 was pretty. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 307 
 
 "Hush, child! I don t know," said her 
 mother. 
 
 The girl stood staring at her with help 
 less, awed eyes. 
 
 At last the woman in cinnamon-brown silk 
 turned excitedly about. " He s comin ! " 
 she proclaimed, in a shrill whisper. 
 
 The whisper passed from one to another. 
 
 "He s coming!" everybody repeated. 
 Heads crowded together at the window ; all 
 the company was in motion. 
 
 "It ain t Lawrence," said a woman s 
 voice disappointedly. It ain t nobody 
 but his father with Hiram. " 
 
 "Somethin* has happened," repeated Mrs. 
 Thayer. The young girl trembled and 
 caught hold of her mother s dress ; her 
 eyes grew big and wild. Hiram Caldwell 
 drove up the road. He met the gaze of the 
 people with a look of solemn embarrass 
 ment. But he was not so important as he 
 had been. There was a large, white-headed 
 old man with him, who drew the larger 
 share of attention. He got lumberingly out 
 of the buggy when Hiram drew rein at 
 the gate. Then he proceeded up the gravel 
 walk to the house. The people stood back 
 and stared. No one dared speak to him 
 except Mrs. Erastus Thayer. She darted 
 
308 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 before him in the path ; her brown silk 
 skirts swished. 
 
 " Mr. Thayer," cried she, " what is the 
 matter? Do tell us ! What has happened?" 
 
 " Where s Delia? " said the old man. 
 
 " Oh, she s in the bedroom out of the par 
 lour. She ain t been out yet. Mr. Thayer, 
 for mercy s sake, what is the matter ? What 
 has happened to him ? " 
 
 David Thayer waved her aside, and kept 
 straight on, his long yellow face immovable, 
 his gaunt old shoulders resolutely braced, 
 through the parlour, and knocked at the 
 bedroom door. 
 
 A nervously shaking woman in black silk 
 opened it. She screamed when she saw 
 him. "0 Mr. Thayer, * s you! What 
 is the matter ? where is he ? " she gasped, 
 clutching his arm. 
 
 A young woman in a pearl-coloured silk 
 gown stood, straight and silent, behind her. 
 She had a tall, full figure, and there was 
 something grand in her attitude. She stood 
 like a young pine-tree, as if she had all 
 necessary elements of support in her own 
 self. Her features were strong and fine. 
 She would have been handsome if her com 
 plexion had been better. Her skin was 
 thick and dull. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY, 309 
 
 She did not speak, but stood looking at 
 David Thayer. Her mouth was shut tightly, 
 her eyes steady. She might have been 
 braced to meet a wind. 
 
 There were several other women in the 
 little room. Mr. Thayer looked at them 
 uneasily. "I want to see Delia an her 
 mother, an nobody else," said he finally. 
 
 The women started and looked at each 
 other ; they then left. The old man closed 
 the door after them and turned to Delia. 
 
 Her mother had begun to cry. " Oh 
 dear! oh dear!" she wailed. "I knew 
 somethin dreadful had happened." 
 
 " Delia," said he, "I don t know what 
 you re goin to say. It ain t very pleasant 
 for me to tell you. I wish this minute 
 Lawrence Thayer didn t belong to me. 
 But that don t better matters any. He 
 does, an somebody s got to tell you. " 
 
 " Oh, is he dead?" asked Delia s mother 
 brokenly. 
 
 "No, he ain t dead," said the old man; 
 "an he ain t sick. I don t know of any 
 thing that ails him except he s a fool. He 
 won t come that s the whole of it." 
 
 "Won t come!" shrieked the mother. 
 Delia stood stiff and straight. 
 
 " No, he won t come. His mother an I 
 
3IO A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 have been talkin an reasonin with him, 
 but it hasn t done any good. I don t know 
 but it 11 kill his mother. It s all on account 
 of that Briggs girl : you might as well know 
 it. I wish she d never come near the house. 
 I ve seen what way the wind blew for some 
 time, but I never dreamed it would come to 
 this. I think it s a sudden start on his 
 part. I believe he meant to come, this 
 noon, as much as could be ; but Olive came 
 home, an they were talkin together in 
 the parlour, an I see she d been cryin . 
 His mother an I got ready, an when he 
 didn t come downstairs she went up to see 
 where he was. He had his door locked, an 
 he called out he wasn t goin ; that was all 
 we could get out of him. He wouldn t say 
 another word, but we knew what the trouble 
 was. His mother had noticed how red Olive s 
 eyes were when she went back to the shop. 
 She d been takin on, I suppose, an so he 
 decided, all of a sudden, he d back out. 
 There ain t any excuse for him, an I ain t 
 goin to make up any. He s treated you 
 mean, Delia, an I d rather have cut off my 
 right hand than had it happened ; that s all 
 I can say about it, an that don t do any 
 good." 
 
 Mrs. Caldwell stepped forward suddenly. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 311 
 
 " I should think he had treated her mean !" 
 she said her voice rose loud and shrill. " I 
 never heard anything like it. If I had a 
 son like that, I wouldn t tell of it. That 
 Briggs girl ! He ought to be strung up. If 
 you an his mother had had any sort of 
 spunk you d made him come. You always 
 babied him to death. He s a rascal. I d 
 like to get hold of him, that s all ; I " 
 
 Delia caught her mother by the arm. 
 "Mother, if you have any sense, or feeling 
 for me, don t talk so loud : all those folks 
 out there will hear." 
 
 The older woman s shrill vituperation 
 flowed through the daughter s remonstrance 
 and beyond it. "I would like to show him 
 he couldn t do such things as this without 
 gettin some punishment for it. I " 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 Mrs. Caldwell changed her tone suddenly. 
 She began to cry weakly. " Delia, you 
 poor child, what will you do ? " she sobbed. 
 
 " It isn t going to do any good to go on 
 so, mother." 
 
 "There s all them folks out there. Oh 
 dear ! What will they say ? I wouldn t 
 care so much if it wa n t for all them Thayera 
 an Caldwells. They 11 jest crow. Oh dear! 
 you poor child ! " 
 
312 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 Delia turned to Mr. Thayer. " Somebody 
 ought to tell them," said she, " that there 
 won t be any wedding." 
 
 " Delia, how can you take it so calm?" 
 wailed her mother. 
 
 " I suppose so," assented the old man ; 
 " but I declare I can t tell em such a thing 
 about a son of mine. I feel as if I d been 
 through about all I could." 
 
 " The minister would be a good one, 
 wouldn t he ? " said Delia. 
 
 Mr. Thayer took up with the suggestion 
 eagerly. He opened the door a chink, and 
 asked one of the waiting officious guests to 
 summon the minister. When he came he 
 gave him instructions in an agitated whisper ; 
 then retreated. The trio in the bedroom 
 became conscious of a great hush without ; 
 then the minister s solemnly inflected voice 
 broke upon it. He was telling them that 
 the wedding was postponed. Then there 
 was a little responsive murmur, and the 
 minister knocked on the door. 
 
 "Shall I tell them when it will take 
 place? they are inquiring," he whispered. 
 
 Delia heard him. " You can tell them it 
 will never take place," said she in a clear 
 voice. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 313 
 
 * 0h!" groaned her mother. Then the minis 
 ter s voice rose again, and directly there were 
 a creaking and rustling, and subdued clatter 
 oiJUiic^s._.The_gufiats.were departing. 
 
 After a little, Delia approached the door 
 as if she were going out into the parlour. 
 
 " O Delia, don t go! wait till they re 
 all gone ! " wailed he*- mother. " All them 
 Thayers and Caldwells ! " 
 
 "They are gone, most of them. I ve stood 
 in this hot little room long enough," said 
 Delia, and threw open the door. Birectly 
 opposite was a mahogany table-jith the 
 wedding presents on it. Three or four 
 women, among them Mrs. Erastus Thayer 
 and her daughter, were bending over them 
 and whispering. 
 
 When the door opened they turned and 
 stared at Delia standing there in her pearl- 
 coloured silk, /with some drooping white 
 bridal flower^ on her breast. They looked 
 stiff and embarrassed. Then Mrs. Thayer 
 recoveredynerself and came forward. 
 
 " Delia," said she, in a soft whisper, "dear 
 girl." / 
 
 Sh<3f put her arm around Delia, and at 
 tempted to draw her towards herself ; but 
 the girl released herself, and gave her a 
 slight backwaid push. 
 
" 
 
 314 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 " Please don t make any fuss over me, 
 Mrs. Thayer," said she ; " it isn t necessary." 
 
 Mrs. Thayer started back, and went 
 towards the door. Her face was very red. 
 She tried to smile. Her daughter and the 
 other woman followed her. 
 
 " I m real glad she can show some temper 
 about it," she whispered, when they were 
 all out in the entry. "It s a good deal 
 better for her." X 
 
 " Ask her why he didn t come," one of 
 the women whispered, nudging her. 
 
 " I m kind of afraid to. I 11 stop and ak 
 Hiram on my way home ; mebbe Mr. Thayer 
 told him." 
 
 Delia, in her bridal gear, stood majestic 
 ally beside one of the parlour windows. 
 She was plainly waiting for her guests to go. 
 They kept peering in at her, while they 
 whispered among themselves. Presently 
 Mrs. Thayer s ^daughter came across the 
 room tremblinglyl\ She had hesitated on the 
 parlour threshold, but her mother had given 
 her a, .slight push on her slender shoulders 
 and she had entered suddenly. She kept 
 looking back as she advanced towards Delia. 
 Mother wants to know," she faltered, 
 in her thin girlish pipe, "if you wouldn t 
 rather she d take back that toilet set she 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 315 
 
 brought. She says she don t know but it 
 wilt make you feel bad to see it." 
 
 Of course you can take it. " 
 
 " Mrs. Emmons says she 11 take her mats 
 too, if you dlrke^to have her." 
 
 " Of course she can take them." 
 
 The young girl shrank over to the table, 
 snatched up the toilet set and ma,ts, and 
 fled to her mother. 
 
 When they were all gone, David Thayer 
 approached Delia. He had been sitting on 
 a chair by the bedroom door, holding his 
 head in his hands. 
 
 "I m goin now," said he. "If there s 
 anything I can do, you let me know." 
 
 "There won t be anything," said Delia. 
 " I shall get along all right." 
 
 He shook her hand hard in his old trem 
 bling one. "You re more of a man than 
 Lawrence is," said he. He was a very old 
 man, and his voice, although it was still 
 deep, quavered. 
 
 " There isn t any use in your saying much 
 to him," said Delia. " I don t want you to 
 on my account. " 
 
 " Delia, don t you go to standin up for 
 him. He don t deserve it." 
 
 "I ain t standing up for him. I know 
 he s your son, but it doesn t seem to me 
 
31 6 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 there s a great deal to stand up for. What 
 he s done is natural enough ; he s been 
 carried away by a pretty face ; but he has 
 shown out what he is. 
 
 * * I don t blame you a bit for f eelin so, 
 Delia." 
 
 * I don t see any other way to feel ; it s 
 the truth." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, Delia. I hope you 
 won t lay up anything again his mother an 
 me. We 11 always think a good deal of 
 you." 
 
 4 I haven t any reason to lay up anything 
 against you that I know of," said Delia. 
 Her manner was stern, although she did 
 not mean it to be. She could not, as it 
 were," relax her muscles enough to be cor 
 dial. All the strength in Delia Caldwell s 
 nature was now concentrated. It could ac 
 complish great things, but it might grind 
 little ones to pieces. 
 
 " Well, good-bye, Delia," said the old 
 man piteously. He was himself a strong 
 character, but he seemed weak beside her. 
 
 After he had gone, Delia went into the 
 bedroom to her mother. Mrs. Caldwell was 
 sitting there crying. She looked up when 
 her daughter entered. 
 
 "0 Delia," she sobbed, " what are 
 
A. CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 317 
 
 you goin to do ? what are you goin to 
 do?" 
 
 " I am going to take off this dress, for one 
 thing." 
 
 " I don t see what you will do. There 
 you Ve got this dress and your black silk, 
 two new silk dresses, and your new brown 
 woollen one, and your new bonnet and mantle, 
 all these new things, and the weddin -cake." 
 
 " I suppose I can wear dresses and bonnets 
 just as well if I ain t married ; and as for 
 the wedding-cake, we 11 have some of it for 
 supper." 
 
 " Delia Caldwell !" 
 
 " What s the matter, mother ? " 
 
 Delia slipped off the long shimmering 
 skirt of her pearl -coloured silk, shook it out, 
 and laid it carefully over a chair. 
 
 Are you crazy ? " 
 
 " Not that I know of. Why ? " 
 
 " You don t act natural." 
 
 "I m acting the way that s natural to me." 
 
 "What are., yon-going to do? you 
 poor child ! " 
 
 Mrs. Caldwell laid hold of her daughter s 
 hand as she passed near her, and attempted 
 to pull her to her side. 
 
 " Don t, please, mother," said Delia 
 
 -reimquiglred her _ hold, and 
 
3l8 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 sobbed afresh. " I won t pity you if you 
 don t want -me to," said she, " but it s 
 dreadful. There s another thing. You ve 
 lost your school. Flora Strong } s spoke for 
 it, an she won t want to give it up. " 
 
 " I don t want her to. I 11 get another 
 ..one/ -..._* 
 
 Delia put on a calico dress, and kindled a 
 fire, and made tea as usual. She put some 
 slices of wedding-cake on the table : per 
 haps her will extended to her palate, and 
 kept it from tasting like dust and ashes to 
 her. Her mother drank a cup of tea be 
 tween her lamentations. 
 
 After supper Delia packed up her wed 
 ding gifts and addressed them to their re 
 spective donors. There were a few bits of 
 silver, but the greater number of the pre 
 sents were pieces of fancy-work from female 
 relatives. She folded these mats and tidies 
 relentlessly with her firm brown fingers. 
 There was no tenderness in her touch. She 
 felt not the least sentiment towards inani 
 mate things. 
 
 "I think they re actin awful mean to 
 want to grab these things back so quick," 
 said her mother, her wrath gaining upon hei 
 grief a little. 
 
 ; It goes weir with the rest," said Delia, 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 319 
 
 Among the gifts which she returned was 
 a little embroidered tidy from Flora Strong, 
 the girl who had been engaged to teach her 
 former school. 
 
 Flora came over early the next morning. 
 She opened the door, and stood there hesi 
 tating. She was bashful before the trouble 
 in the house. "Good morning, Mrs. Cald- 
 well ; good morning, Delia," she faltered 
 deprecatingly. She had a thin, pretty face, 
 with very red lips and cheeks. She fumbled 
 a little parcel nervously. 
 
 "Good mornin*, Flora," said Mrs. Cald- 
 well. Then she turned her back, and went 
 into the pantry. \ 
 
 Delia was washing dishes at the sink. 
 She spoke just as she always did. " Good 
 morning," said she. "Sit down, won t you, 
 Flora?" 
 
 Then Flora began. "0 Delia," she 
 burst out, " what made you send this back ? 
 what made you ? You didn t think I d 
 take it ? " 
 
 "Take what?" 
 
 " This tidy. Delia, I made it for you ! 
 
 It doesn t make any difference whether " 
 
 Flora choked with sobs. She dropped into 
 a chair, and put her handkerchief over her 
 face. Mrs. Caldwell heard her, and began 
 
32O A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 weeping, as she stood in the pantry. Delia 
 went on with her dishes. 
 
 "0 Delia, you ll take it back, won t 
 you ? " Flora said finally. 
 
 "Of course I will, if you want me to, 
 It s real pretty." 
 
 " When I heard of it," the girl went on 
 "I don t know as you want me to speak 
 of it, but I Ve got to I felt as if I declare 
 I d like to see Lawrence Thayer come up 
 with. I 11 never speak to him again as long 
 as I live. Delia, you aren t standing up for 
 him, are you? You don t care if I do say 
 he s a villain ? " 
 
 " I hope she don t," wailed her mother 
 in the pantry. 
 
 "jfrfo," said Delia, "I don t care." 
 
 Then Flora offered to give up the school. 
 She pleaded that she should take it, but Delia 
 would not. She could get another, she said. 
 
 That afternoon, indeed, she went to see 
 the committee. She had put the house to 
 rights, pinned Flora s tidy on the big rock 
 ing-chair in the parlour, and dressed herself 
 carefully in a blue-sprigged muslin, one of 
 her wedding gowns. Passing down the hot 
 village street, she saw women sewing at 
 their cool sitting-room windows. She looked 
 up at them and nodded as usual. She knew 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 32! 
 
 of a school whose teacher had left to be 
 married, as she had done. She thought the 
 vacancy had possibly not been filled. Very 
 little of the vacation had passed. Moreover, 
 the school was not a desirable one : the pay 
 was small, and it was three miles from the 
 village. Delia obtained the position. Early 
 in September she began her duties. She 
 went staunchly back and forth over the 
 rough, dusty road day after day. She had 
 the reputation of being a very fine teacher, 
 although the children were a little in awe 
 of her. They never came to meet her and 
 hang about her on her way to the school- 
 house. Her road lay past the Thayer house, 
 where she would have been living now had 
 all gone well. Occasionally she met Law 
 rence ; she passed him without a look. 
 Quite often she met Olive Briggs, who 
 worked in a milliner s shop, and boarded at 
 Lawrence s father s. She always bowed to 
 her pleasantly. She had seen her in the 
 shop, although she had no real acquaintance 
 with her. The girl was pretty, with the 
 prettiness that Delia lacked. Her face was 
 sweet and rosy and laughing. She was fine 
 and small, and moved with a sort of tremu 
 lous lightness like a butterfly. Delia, meet 
 ing her, seemed to tramp. 
 
322 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 Everybody thought Lawrence and Olive 
 Briggs would be married. They went to 
 evening meetings together, and to ride. 
 Lawrence had a fine horse. Delia was at 
 every evening meeting. She watched her 
 old lover enter with the other girl, and 
 never shrank. She also looked at them 
 riding past. 
 
 " Did you see them, Delia?" her mother 
 asked in a fluttering voice one afternoon. 
 She and Delia were sitting at the front 
 windows, and Lawrence and Olive had just 
 whirled by the house. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You kept so still, I didn t know as you 
 did." 
 
 People kept close watch over Lawrence 
 and Olive and Delia. Lawrence was sub 
 jected to a mild species of ostracism by a 
 certain set of the village girls, Delia s mates 
 honest, simple young souls ; they would 
 not speak to him on the street. They 
 treated Olive with rough, rural stiffness 
 when they traded with her in the one mil 
 liner s shop. She was an out-of-town girl, 
 and had always been regarded with some 
 thing of suspicion. These village women had 
 a strong local conservatism. They eyed 
 strangers long before they admitted them. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 323 
 
 As for Delia, the young women friends of 
 her own age treated her with a sort of de 
 ferential sympathy. They dared not openly 
 condole with her, but they made her aware 
 of their partisanship. As a general thing 
 no one except a Thayer or a Caldwell 
 alluded to the matter in her presence. The 
 relatives of the two families were open 
 enough in expressing themselves, /either 
 with recrimination or excuse for Lawrence, or 
 with sympathy or covert blame for Delia. 
 She heard the most of it, directly or indi 
 rectly. Like many New England towns, 
 this was almost overshadowed by the rami 
 fications of a few family trees. A consider 
 able portion of the population was made of 
 these Thayers and Caldwells two honour 
 able and respectabte old names. They 
 were really, for the mfc^t part, kindly and 
 respectable people, conscious of no ill inten 
 tions, and probably possessed of few. Some 
 of them expostulated against^ receiving back 
 those vain bridal gifts, but Delia insisted. 
 Some of them were more willing to give 
 than she to receive their honest and most 
 genuine sympathy, however ungracefully 
 tbey-migfat-proffor it. 
 
 Still the fine and exquisite stabs which 
 Delia Caldwell had to take from her own 
 
324 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 relations and those of her forsworn bride 
 groom were innumerable. There are those 
 good and innocent-hearted people who seem 
 to be furnished with stings only for those of 
 their own kind ; they are stingless towards 
 others. In one way this fact may have proved 
 beneficial to Delia : while engaged in active 
 defence against outside attacks, she had no 
 time to sting herself. 
 
 She girded on that pearl -coloured silk as 
 if it were chain armour, and went to merry 
 makings. She made calls in that fine black 
 silk and white-plumed wedding bonnet. 
 It seemed at times as if she were fairly 
 running after her trouble ; she did more 
 than look it in the face. 
 
 It was in February, when Delia had been 
 teaching her new school nearly two terms, 
 that Olive Briggs left town. People said 
 she had given up her work and gone home 
 to get ready to be married. 
 
 Delia s mother heard of it, and told her. 
 "I should think she d be awful afraid he 
 wouldn t come to the weddin ," she said 
 bitterly. 
 
 "So should I," assented Delia. She 
 echoed everybody s severe remarks abow* 
 Lawrence. 
 
 It might have be*n a month later when 
 
A CONQUEST OP HUMILITY. 325 
 
 Flora Strong ran in one morning before 
 school. "I ve just heard the greatest 
 news ! " she panted. " What do you think 
 she s jilted him ? " 
 
 "Jilted whom?" 
 
 "Olive Briggs she s jilted Lawrence 
 Thayer. She s going to be married to 
 another fellow in May. I had it from Milly 
 Davis ; she writes to her. It s so." 
 
 " I can t believe it," Mrs. Caldwell said, 
 quivering. 
 
 " Well, it s so. I declare I jumped right 
 up and down when I heard of it. Delia, 
 aren t you glad ? " 
 
 " I don t know what difference it can 
 make to me." 
 
 " I mean aren t you glad he s got his 
 pay?" 
 
 "Yes, I am," said Delia, with slow deci 
 sion. 
 
 * She wouldn t be human if she wasn t, " 
 said her mother. Mrs. Caldwell was cold 
 and trembling with nervousness. She stood 
 grasping the back of a chair. "But I m 
 afraid it ain t so. Are you sure it s so, 
 Flora?" 
 
 " Mrs. Caldwell, I know it s so." 
 
 Delia on her way to school that morning 
 looked at the Thayer house as she passed. 
 
326 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 44 1 wonder how he feels," she said to her 
 self. She saw Lawrence Thayer, in her 
 stead, in the midst of all that covert ridi 
 cule and obloquy, that galling sympathy, 
 that agony of jealousy and betrayed trust. 
 They distorted his face like flames ; she saw 
 him writhe through their liquid wavering. 
 
 She pressed her lips together, and marched 
 along. At that moment, had she met Law 
 rence, she would have passed him with a 
 fiercer coldness than ever, but if she had 
 seen the girl she would have been ready to 
 fly at her. 
 
 The village tongues were even harder on 
 Lawrence than they had been on her. The 
 sight of a person bending towards the earth 
 with the weight of his just deserts upon his 
 shoulders is generally gratifying and amus 
 ing even to his friends. Then there was 
 more open rudeness among the young men 
 who were Lawrence s mates. They jeered 
 him everywhere. He went about doggedly. 
 He was strong in silence, but he had a sweet 
 womanish face which showed the marks of 
 words quickly. He was still very young. 
 Delia was two years older than he, and 
 looked ten. Still, Lawrence seemed as old 
 in some respects. He was a quiet, shy 
 young man, who liked to stay at home with 
 
A CONQUEST OP HUMILITY. 327 
 
 his parents, and never went about much 
 with the young people. Before Olive came 
 he had seldom spoken to any girl besides 
 Delia. They had been together soberly and 
 steadily ever since their school-days. 
 
 Some people said now, "Don t you sup 
 pose Lawrence Thayer will go with Delia 
 again ?" But the answer always was, " She 
 won t look at him." 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, about a year after 
 Olive Briggs s marriage, Mrs. Caldwell said 
 to Delia, as they were walking home from 
 church, " I jest want to know if you noticed 
 how Lawrence Thayer stared at you in meet- 
 in this afternoon ? " 
 
 " No, I didn t," said Delia. She was look 
 ing uncommonly well that day. She wore 
 her black silk, and had some dark-red roses 
 in her bonnet. 
 
 " Well, he never took his eyes off you. 
 Delia, that feller would give all his old shoes 
 to come back, if you d have him." 
 
 " Don t talk so foolish, mother." 
 
 " He would you depend on it." 
 
 "I d like to see him," said Delia sternly. 
 There was a red glow on her dull, thick 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Well, I say so too," said her mother. 
 
 The next night, when Delia reached the 
 
328 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 Thayer house on her way from school, Law 
 rence s mother stood at the gate. She had 
 a little green shawl over her head. She was 
 shivering ; the wind blew up cool. Just 
 behind her in the yard there was a little 
 peach-tree all in blossom. 
 
 She held out her hand mutely when Delia 
 reached her. The girl did not take it. 
 " Good evening," said she, and was passing. 
 
 11 Can t you stop jest a minute, Delia ? " 
 
 " Was there anything you wanted ? " 
 
 " Can t you come into the house jest a 
 minute ? I wanted to see you about some- 
 thin ." 
 
 "I don t believe I can to-night, Mrs. 
 Thayer." 
 
 " There ain t anybody there. There was 
 somethin I wanted to see you about. " 
 
 The green shawl was bound severely 
 around her small, old face with its peaked 
 chin. She reached out her long, wrinkled 
 hand over the gate, and clutched Delia s 
 arm softly. 
 
 "Well, I ll come in a minute." Delia 
 followed Mrs. Thayer past the blooming 
 peach-tree into the house. 
 
 The old woman dragged forward the best 
 rocking-chair tremblingly. "Sit down, dear," 
 said she. Then she seated herself close be- 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 329 
 
 side her, and, leaning forward, gazed into 
 her face with a sort of deprecating mildness. 
 She even laid hold of one of her hands, but 
 the girl drew it away softly. There was 
 a gentle rustic demonstrativeness about 
 Lawrence s mother which had always rather 
 abashed Delia, who was typically reserved. 
 41 1 wanted to speak to you about Lawrence," 
 said the old woman. Delia sat stiffly erect, 
 her head turned away. "I can t bear to 
 think you are always goin to feel so hard 
 towards him, Delia. Did you know it?" 
 
 Delia half arose. "There isn t any use 
 in bringing all this up again, Mrs. Thayer ; 
 it s all past now." 
 
 "Sit down jest a minute, dear. I want 
 to talk to you. I know you ve got good 
 reason to blame him ; but there s some 
 excuse. He wa n t nothin but a boy, an 
 she was sweet-lookin , an she took on 
 dreadful. You d thought she was goin to 
 die. It s turned out jest the way I knew 
 twould. I told Lawrence how twould be 
 then. I see right through her. She meant 
 well enough. I s pose she thought she was 
 in love with Lawrence ; but she was flighty. 
 She went home and saw another fellow, an 
 Lawrence was nowhere. He didn t care so 
 much as folks thought. Delia, I m goin 
 
33 A CONQUEST OP HUMILITY. 
 
 to tell you the truth : he thought more of 
 you than he did of her the whole time. 
 You look as if you thought I was crazy, 
 but I ain t. She jest bewitched him a little 
 spell, but you was at the bottom of his 
 heart always you was, Delia." The old 
 woman broke into sobs. 
 
 Delia rose. "I d better go. There isn t 
 any use in bringing this up, Mrs. Thayer." 
 
 " Don t go, Delia don t. I wanted to 
 tell you. He got to talkin with me a little 
 the other Sabbath night. It s the first 
 time he s said a word, but he felt awful bad, 
 an I questioned him. Says he, Mother, 
 I don t dream of such a thing as her havin 
 of me, or carin anything about me again ; 
 but I do feel as if I should like to do some- 
 thin if I could, to make up to her a little 
 for the awful wrong I ve done her. That 
 was jest the words he said. Delia, he ain t 
 such a bad boy as you think he is, after all. 
 You hadn t ought to despise him." 
 
 4 * He 11 have to do something to show 
 I ve got some reason not to, then," said 
 Delia. She looked immovably at the old 
 woman, who was struggling with her sobs. 
 She told her mother of the conversation 
 after she got home. 
 
 " You did jest right," said Mrs. Caldwell. 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 331 
 
 " I wouldn t knuckle to em if I was in your 
 place." She was getting tea. After they 
 had finished the meal, and sat idly at the 
 table for a few minutes, she looked across 
 at her daughter suddenly, with embarrassed 
 sharpness. " Speakin about Lawrence, you 
 wouldn t feel as if you ever jcould take him, 
 anyhow, would you ? " said she. 
 
 Mother, what are you talking about ? " 
 
 In a few weeks the anniversary of Delia s 
 defeated wedding came. She spoke of it 
 herself after dinner. She and her mother 
 were making currant- jelly. 
 
 "Why, it s my wedding-day, mother," 
 said she. "I ought to have put on my 
 wedding-gown, and eaten some wedding- 
 cake, instead of making jelly." 
 
 " Don t talk so, child," said her mother. 
 Sometimes Delia s hardihood startled her. 
 
 Delia was pressing the currants in a 
 muslin bag, and the juice was running 
 through her fingers, when there was a loud 
 knock at the door. 
 
 "Why, who s that," her mother said, 
 fluttering. She ran and peeped through 
 the sitting-room blinds. " It s Mrs. Rastus 
 Thayer," she motioned back, "an Milly." 
 
 "I ll go to the door," said Delia. She 
 washed her hands hurriedly, and went. 
 
332 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 She noticed with surprise that the two 
 visitors were dressed in their Sunday best, 
 Mrs. Thayer in her nicely kept cinnamon- 
 brown silk, and Milly in her freshly starched 
 white muslin. They had an air of con 
 strained curiosity about them as they en 
 tered and took their seats in the parlour. 
 
 Delia sat down with them and tried to 
 talk. Pretty soon her mother, who had 
 prinked a little, entered ; but just as she 
 did so there was another knock. Some of 
 the Caldwell cousins had come this time. 
 They also were finely dressed, and entered 
 with that same soberly expectant air. They 
 were hardly seated before others arrived. 
 Delia, going to the door this time, saw the 
 people coming by twos and threes up the 
 street. They flocked in, and she brought 
 chairs. Nothing disturbed her outward com 
 posure ; but her mother grew pale and tremu 
 lous. She no longer tried to speak ; she sat 
 staring. At two o clock the rooms were filled 
 with that same company who had assembled 
 to see Delia wedded two years before. 
 
 They sat around the walls in stiff silence ; 
 they seemed to be waiting. Delia was not 
 imaginative, nor given to morbid fancies ; 
 but sitting there in the midst of that 
 mysterious company, in her cotton gown, 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 333 
 
 with her hands stained with currant juice, 
 she began to fairly believe that it was a 
 dream. Were not these people mere phan 
 toms of the familiar village folk assembling 
 after this truly fantastic manner, and sit 
 ting here in this ghostly silence ? Was not 
 the whole a phantasmagoria of the last 
 moments of her sweet old happiness and 
 belief in truth? Was not she herself, dis 
 enchanted, with her cotton gown and stained 
 hands, the one real thing in it ? 
 
 The scent of the pinks came in the 
 window, and she noticed that. "How real 
 it all is?" she thought. "But I shall 
 wake up before long." It was like one of 
 those dreams in which one clings staunchly 
 to the consciousness of the dream, and will 
 not sink beneath its terrors. 
 
 When Lawrence Thayer entered she 
 seemed to wake violently. She half rose 
 from her seat, then sank down again. Her 
 mother screamed. 
 
 Lawrence Thayer stood by the parlour 
 door, where everybody in the two rooms 
 could hear him. His gentle, beardless face 
 was pale as death, but the pallor revealed 
 some strong lines which his youthful bloom 
 had softened. He was slender, and stooped 
 a little naturally ; now he was straight as & 
 
334 A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY. 
 
 reed. He had a strange look to these people 
 who had always known him. 
 
 "Friends," he began, in a solemn, pant 
 ing voice, " I have asked you to come 
 here on the anniverspjry of the day on which 
 Delia Caldwell and I were to have been 
 married, to make to her, before you all, the 
 restitution in my power. I don t do it to 
 put myself before you in a better light : 
 God, who knows everything, knows I don t: 
 it s for her. I was a coward, and mean, 
 and it s going to last. Nothing that I can 
 do now is going to alter that. All I want 
 now is to make up to her a little for what 
 she s been through. Two years ago to-day 
 she stood before you all rejected and slighted. 
 Now look at me in her place. " 
 
 Then he turned to Delia, with a stiff 
 motion. It was like solemn, formal oratory, 
 but his terrible earnestness gave it heat. 
 " Delia Caldwell, I humbly beg your pardon. 
 I love you better than the whole world, and 
 I ask you to be my wife." 
 
 "I never will." It was as if Delia s 
 whole nature had been set to these words ; 
 they had to be spoken. She had risen, and 
 stood staring at him so intently that the 
 whole concourse of people vanished in black 
 ness. She saw only his white face. All the 
 
A CONQUEST OF HUMILITY, 335 
 
 thoughts in her brain spread wings and flew, 
 swiftly circling. She heard what he said, 
 and she heard her own thoughts with a 
 strange double consciousness. All those 
 days came back the sweet old confidences, 
 the old looks and ways. That pale speaking 
 face was Lawrence s Lawrence s ; not that 
 strange other s who had left her for that 
 pink-faced girl. This revelation of his inner 
 self, which smote the others with a sense of 
 strangeness, thrilled her with the recognition 
 of love. " A coward and mean." Yes, he 
 
 had been, but . Yes, there was some 
 
 excuse for him there was. Is not every 
 fault wedded to its own excuse, that pity 
 may be born into the world? He was as 
 honest in what he was saying as a man could 
 be. He could have had no hope that she 
 would marry him. He knew her enduring 
 will, her power of indignation. This was no 
 subtle scheme for his own advantage. Even 
 these people would not think that. They 
 would not, indeed, believe him capable of 
 it. The system of terrible but coolly calcu 
 lated ventures for success was one with 
 which this man would not be likely to 
 grapple. He was honest in this. There sat 
 all the Thayers and Caldwells. How they 
 would talk and laugh at him ! 
 
336 A CONQUEST OP HUMILITY. 
 
 Lawrence turned to go. He had bowed 
 silently when she gave him her quick an 
 swer. There was a certain dignity about 
 him. He had in reality pulled himself up 
 to the level of his own noble avowed senti 
 ments. 
 
 Delia stood gazinjg after him. She looked 
 so relentless that she was almost terrible. 
 One young girl, staring at her, began to cry. 
 
 Mrs. Erastus Thayer sat near the door. 
 Delia s eyes glanced from Lawrence to her 
 face. Then she sprang forward. 
 
 " You needn t look at him in that way," 
 she cried out. " I am going to marry him 
 Lawrence, come back." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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