Southern Branch 
 of the 
 
 University of California 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 Form L I 
 
 PS 
 1807 
 
 36
 
 i nis DOOK is ULJC, on 
 
 OCT 21 192* 
 
 NOV 1 8 t 
 
 Form L-9 5(-l -.'- :
 
 SISTER JANE 
 
 HER FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES 
 
 A NARRATIVE OF CERTAIN EVENTS AND 
 
 EPISODES TRANSCRIBED FROM THE PAPERS 
 
 OF THE LATE WILLIAM WORNUM 
 
 BY 
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 3 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 tess, <ambti&rje 
 
 1896
 
 Copyright, 189C, 
 By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 
 The Riverside. Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by U. O. Houghton & Co.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 I. A QUIET PLACE 1 
 
 II. AN OLD FRIEND 16 
 
 III. WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR . . 29 
 
 IV. THE BABY is PUT TO BED .... 44 
 V. SISTER JANE TAKHS BOARDERS . . . .54 
 
 VI. Miss MARY BULLARD 68 
 
 VII. THE PICTURES ON THE WALL . . .83 
 
 VIII. THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN .... 98 
 
 IX. A CHILD is LOST . 117 
 
 X. FREB BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS . . . 130 
 XI. Two OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER . . . 145 
 
 XII. THE MANTLE OF CHARITY 159 
 
 XIII JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLINO . . . 175 
 
 XIV. THE COLONEL'S WIFE 193 
 
 XV. JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND .... 213 
 
 VI. A PERIOD OF CALM 223 
 
 XVII. THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON . . . 236 
 XVIII. A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S . . 252 
 
 XIX. THE LAD'S RIDE . 208 
 
 XX. MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD . . . 283 
 
 XXI. Two STRANGERS ARRIVE 298 
 
 XXII. AN ANGRY WOMAN 314 
 
 XXIII. COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES .... ,329 
 
 XXIV. THE END OF THE SKEIN . 347
 
 V 

 
 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 
 
 A QUIET place and the quietest spot in the quiet 
 place these were iny delight as soon as I discov 
 ered that life had no great honors in store for me. 
 And this discovery was made early. There was 
 plenty of ambition to urge me on, but the ends it 
 aimed at were vague and shadowy. I would be 
 noted physician, a great lawyer, or a renowned 
 tesman; I would be a writer of books, an ex 
 plorer, a famous soldier. 'Twas all a passing 
 fancy a dream to breed pleasant recollections 
 instead of useless regrets. If opportunity came, 
 I knew it not; it made no noise at my door; there 
 was no fluttering of wings at my window. No 
 matter in what direction vague desires carried my 
 feet, in the end I always sighed for the quiet little 
 side porch, shaded by a honeysuckle vine, or for 
 the snug little room behind the porch where so 
 many years of my life had been spent. They 
 were the years of my youth and of my young, 
 manhood, and somehow I could not be brought
 
 2 SJSTER JANE. 
 
 to believe they had been wasted, though now, at 
 thirty-five, I was nothing more than a modest 
 practitioner in the Superior courts of the Oconee 
 circuit. 
 
 The little porch and the cosy room behind it * 
 belonged to a rambling one-story house standing 
 sidewise to one of the two main thoroughfares of 
 the village. The building had been a small cot 
 tage of three rooms, in which my father dwelt 
 and carried on the tailoring business; but in times 
 of prosperity lie had had the forethought to add 
 four more rooms, so that now the house was in 
 the shape of a big U, its head facing the street 
 and its heels stretching toward a garden that ran 
 behind the house and behind the stores that were 
 ranged along the southern angle of the street. 
 The sign, "William Wornum, Tailoring," hung 
 on the corner, next to the little porch for sev 
 years after my father's death, but one windy night 
 it came clattering down, and was stored away 
 among the small stock of family relics. 
 
 My sister Jane was the only mother I had ever 
 known. She was the eldest by twelve years, and 
 most nobly and fitly did she fulfil the duties that 
 Providence imposed upon her. Whatever sacri 
 fices she was called on to make and they were 
 many she made with an eagerness that went 
 beyond anything of the kind I have ever seen, or 
 ever expect to see, in this world. Our father 
 had had his little weaknesses weaknesses that 
 are sometimes a sore trial to a sensitive and lov-
 
 VI 
 
 I T 
 
 !?. 
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 3 
 
 ing heart, but they were all condoned and freely 
 forgiven. In this way sister Jane became grounded 
 in experience, so far as the demands of an exact 
 ing household go, long before she had grown even 
 to young womanhood. It is perhaps due to the 
 doubts, perplexities, and responsibilities that shut 
 her out from the ordinary pleasures and enjoy 
 ments that should belong to the life of a young 
 girl, that her tongue and temper were somewhat 
 sharper than they should have jbeen. To those 
 who knew her those characteristics were but the 
 twang and flavor that told of the kindest heart 
 and openest hand that ever woman had. 
 
 My father died when both his son and daugh 
 ter were old enough to face the small world of the 
 village in which they were born and reared. 
 They buried his weaknesses with him, and thanked 
 eaven that his failings, had taken no serious turn. 
 Jpr he was faithful to his children, industrious, 
 Htoomical, and, besides the house that he had 
 m^ht and paid for, and to which he had made 
 additions from time to time, he left a com 
 petence, which, though modest, was sufficient to 
 make my sister comfortable the rest of her days. 
 Moreover, he had taken pains at odd hours to 
 teach her how to make men's clothing, and such 
 was her aptitude that, when he died, she might 
 have kept up the tailoring business with as much 
 success as, or even more than, our father had won. 
 But she contented herself with obliging only the 
 best of village customers, or those whom (accord-
 
 4 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ing to some mysterious rule of her own) she had 
 conceived a liking for ; for I have known her to 
 sit late at night over a frock-coat for some one 
 who had no thought of paying even the small 
 est part of his debts : on the other hand, I have 
 seen her refuse, with a vigor almost impolite, to 
 sew for those who came with money in their 
 hands. 
 
 On these occasions I said nothing, for I knew 
 that her reasons, however illogical they might be, 
 were good and sufficient from her point of view. 
 Logic becomes almost impertinent when it begins 
 to strut before the door of views and beliefs that 
 are unchangeable. So far as sister Jane was 
 concerned, the whole village knew of her peculiar 
 ities, her str.ong will, her firm opinions, and the 
 sharp flavor she conveyed into the most ordinary 
 discussions ; the whole village knew of these, 
 only a few knew how thin and frail a partiti 
 stood fluttering between the shrewd tongue 
 <the tender heart. None knew as I knew none 
 could know. 
 
 Verging on years of age my sister was still 
 plain Jane Wornum. Her hair was turning gra*y, 
 but her eye was as bright and her step as firm as 
 ever. Her features were strong, but not coarse. 
 She had the heartiest laugh ever heard, when in 
 the humor, but it was not wasted on everything 
 that came to her ears or fell under her observa 
 tion. She had a firm chin, and lips that were 
 ready at all : ' times and under all circumstances
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 5 
 
 to frame the decisive word. She never had an 
 affair of the heart, such as we read of in books. 
 I used to say to myself that if she had caught 
 Master Cupid hiding in her rose bed, she would 
 have run him off the place at the point of the 
 broomstick, much as if he were a stray cat. She 
 expressed supreme contempt for men who had no 
 knack of getting along in the world, but secretly 
 pitied them. 
 
 As for myself well, I am not writing my own 
 history. My place is in the background of the 
 events and episodes that are to be mentioned in 
 this chronicle. It may be said of them here that 
 they attracted my attention without seriously dis 
 turbing my repose. There is much that is preten 
 tious in the altitude that is called philosophical; 
 but it is a fact well attested that the birds sing as 
 Kveetly, the roses flare forth as proudly, and the 
 wind that steals through the honeysuckle vine is 
 as odorous after a moral cataclysm or a physical 
 disturbance us they were before. 
 
 My own little porch was my point of view in 
 pleasant weather, and when the rain or* the cold 
 season came, there was the window that opened 
 on the porch and looked beyond it. This arrange 
 ment did not face the street, but lay sidewise to 
 it. You opened a wicket gate, went forward five 
 paces, mounted three small steps that led to the 
 porch, -turned sharply to the right, and there you 
 found yourself at the door of the room, which was 
 always open in pleasant weather until long after
 
 6 SISTEK JANE. 
 
 the nine o'clock bell had rung. Beyond the door 
 was the window I have spoken of, and a few 
 inches farther the honeysuckle vine hung its frag 
 rant curtain. The porch was so small that there 
 was room only for a wooden seat that was built 
 along the side, and for the cushioned rocker in 
 which I sat. Sometimes during the summer even 
 ings the seat was occupied by my sister Jane, 
 but for the most part my sole companion was 
 Tommy Tinkins, the large yellow house cat, who 
 was either too old or too lazy to waste his nights 
 in prowling. The only occasion on which he dis 
 played anything like energy was when his domain 
 was invaded by some strange Tommy. At such 
 times Tinkins would slip quietly from the wooden 
 seat and rush into the garden, from which pres 
 ently would issue a series of blood-curdling yowls. 
 Then, after escorting the intruder from the prem* 
 ises at race-course speed, Tinkins would return 
 soberly to his place on the bench and proceed to 
 celebrate his victory by washing his face. But 
 as a rule, in spite of this occasional display of 
 energy, 'Tommy Tinkins was buried too deep in 
 his own reflections after nightfall to pay much 
 attention to passing events. 
 
 The old cat, sleek and lazy, was a great favor 
 ite -with my sister Jane. She had rescued him 
 from a crowd of negro children when he was 
 a small and disreputable-looking kitten, and he 
 repaid the care and attention by an affection that 
 was as complete and as touching as anything of
 
 T' 
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 1 
 
 the kind I have ever seen. He had a peculiarity 
 which, although it is possessed by some animals, 
 was developed in Tommy Tinkins to a degree that 
 was amazing. He was an infallible reader of 
 human character. He knew instinctively whether 
 a person had mean traits or good ones. Sister 
 Jane found out this gift long before I did. She 
 knew by the action of the cat whether to trust or 
 distrust an acquaintance or a stranger; and it 
 finally came to be a matter of common observation 
 with both of us. Whether we would or no, the 
 Tommy Tinkins test was applied to all who crossed 
 our threshold to old and young, to familiars as 
 well as strangers. If the cat showed a disposition 
 to run away, or took refuge under sister Jane's 
 chair, the person who was the cause of this distur 
 bance was not to be taken into our confidence 
 r trusted in any way. On the other hand, if 
 y Tinkins made friendly advances and be 
 trayed his satisfaction by walking around, rub- 
 ing against chair legs and purring complacently, 
 the person who was the source of the manifesta 
 tions was entirely worthy of confidence. 
 
 In this way, at one time and another, we came 
 to know all our neighbors and acquaintances as 
 well as they knew themselves, and when some one 
 in the village went wrong it was a common thing 
 for sister Jane to exclaim, with an appearance 
 almost of satisfaction: "What did Tommy Tin- 
 kins tell you? " One by one the cat's predictions 
 (if they may be so called) came true; but there
 
 8 SISTER JANE. 
 
 was one exception which I felt and said must, in 
 the nature of things, remain an exception. It 
 was the case of our good friend, Colonel Cephas 
 Bullard, who, although he lived at the far end of 
 the block, was our nearest neighbor. Our home, 
 as I may have stated before, was next to the stores 
 and shops that ran along the southern side of the 
 square, facing the stuccoed courthouse, and front 
 ing the thoroughfare that ran at right angles with 
 our own. On the northern corner of the square 
 stood Colonel Bullard's fine mansion, and between 
 our humble home and his lay the large garden. 
 The greater part of this garden belonged to Col 
 onel Cephas, but there was no fence or other 
 boundary -mark to show where his land began and 
 ours ended. He knew and we knew that he had 
 so many feet of land ; we knew and he knew that 
 we had so many feet; and, as there was no room 
 for contention, so there was no need of a bound 
 ary-mark. We planted asparagus and bachelor's 
 buttons on his ground, and he had planted his 
 favorite coleworts and made a bed of violets on 
 ours. It was the hand of his daughter Mary that 
 planted and tended the violets ; but no matter ; I 
 have mentioned the fact only to show the relations 
 between the two families. When people use each 
 other's land indiscriminately they must be on the 
 best of terms. "Neighborly dealing makes neigh 
 borly feeling," as I have heard sister Jane say a 
 hundred times. 
 
 But where Colonel Bullard was concerned, nei-
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 9 
 
 ther neighborly feeling nor neighborly dealing 
 had any influence on Tommy Tinkins, the cat. 
 From the days of his innocent kittenhood (when 
 he chased his shadow in the sunshine, or his tail 
 in the shade) to the years of his sober maturity, 
 the appearance of Colonel Bullard in the garden 
 or on the sidewalk was the signal for Tommy 
 Tinkins to disappear under the hpuse or under" 
 the bed. And he only ventured forth from his 
 hiding place with extreme caution, looking care 
 fully about in all directions, and holding himself 
 ready to vanish if he heard the colonel's voice. 
 
 I had small patience with Tftmmy Tinkins 's 
 panic-stricken behavior in so far as it concerned 
 Colonel Bullard, and I often chided the cat in 
 round terms for running away from so amiable a 
 gentleman and so friendly a neighbor. But sister 
 Jane said nothing, and my chiding had no effect 
 on Tommy Tinkins, who was repose itself until 
 the colonel's measured tread sounded on the grav 
 eled garden -walk. When that came to his ears 
 he seemed to be charged with all the energy that 
 fear can give rise to. In spite of this Colonel 
 Cephas Bullard was one of the most affable of 
 men. I have frequently heard sister Jane say 
 that she would n't be afraid to meet the colonel's 
 ghost at the dead hour of night. "It couldn't 
 help being polite and nice," she explained. 
 
 And, indeed, if actions count for anything, the 
 colonel merited the respect and esteem that he 
 had won in the community and all the praise that
 
 10 SISTER JANE. 
 
 his name suggested. It is easy to be affable; 
 society has never invented a thinner mask than 
 the formal politeness it has given currency to; 
 but Colonel Cephas Bullard was something more 
 than affable. His politeness had the old-time 
 flavor of sincerity. If his manner sometimes had 
 the appearance of condescension, it was because 
 of his natural dignity. His benevolence was well 
 known, and his charity was so gentle that his 
 voice always sank to a whisper when he protested 
 against the attacks that anonymous gossip fre 
 quently makes on our neighbors and acquaintances. 
 He was deeply religious; he was a class -leader in 
 his church, superintendent of the Sunday-school, 
 and, in that capacity, frequently delivered the 
 most elevated and profitable lectures to the young 
 people. He had a fine baritone voice, which he 
 employed with fine effect in leading the congrega 
 tional singing ; and rumor went that in his young 
 days he was proficient with both the violin and 
 the flute, but these he had laid wholly aside on 
 account of their worldly use and reputation. I 
 never passed him on the street, nor did I ever 
 know him to go by our door, but he was humming 
 a sacred tune. Even between the pauses of con 
 versation, I have heard him hum a bar or two 
 from some air to be found in the "Golden Harp," 
 and I used to say to myself, "Truly, here is a 
 man who has set his piety to sweet melodies." 
 
 The personal appearance of Colonel Cephas 
 Bullard fitted his character like a glove. He was
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 11 
 
 tall and straight as a soldier. His hair, which 
 had been auburn, had turned to what sister Jane 
 called "a pepper and salt" color. He was not 
 portly, neither was he lean. Over his prominent 
 nose he wore spectacles. Behind his glasses (I 
 never saw them otherwise except on one memo 
 rable occasion), his eyes were of a cold gray color. 
 His face, which was smooth and round enough to 
 be handsome, wore a complacent smile, as was 
 becoming to a man who was at peace with his 
 Maker and all the world. His title of colonel 
 was not a military one, although, as I have said, 
 he had the stature and carriage of a soldier. It 
 was purely a title of respect, a mark of the esteem 
 in which he was held by his friends and neighbors, 
 a tribute to his moral and business qualities. 
 True, it was a feeble mark of respect, and a very 
 small tribute, but it seemed to please him. He 
 accepted it, and adorned it. And truly he had 
 ;he appearance of a real colonel as he walked 
 along the street wearing his broadcloth suit, his 
 Marseilles waistcoat, his black satin stock, flourish 
 ing his gold-headed cane and bowing kindly to all 
 whom he chanced to meet. 
 
 His wife was a pale little woman, who rarely 
 went out of the house. Sometimes, when twilight 
 had taken possession of the garden, she would 
 glide swiftly through the shrubbery, and have a 
 few minutes' friendly chat with sister Jane. But 
 she usually talked in a, tone of voice hardly lifted 
 above a whisper, as if she were afraid some one
 
 12 SISTER JANE. 
 
 would recognize her voice, and she always seemed 
 to be in a hurry to run home before any one had 
 missed her. One peculiarity she had was that 
 she either laid one hand on sister Jane's arm 
 while talking, or'touched it lightly with her fore 
 finger whenever she desired to emphasize a word. 
 She had a beautiful hand and wore some very 
 large and showy jewels on her fingers. She must 
 have been a very beautiful girl, but now there 
 was a weary look in her eyes that told either of 
 invalidism or trouble; and yet there was some 
 thing about her that suggested f riskiness. 'T was 
 either a trick of the mouth or a turn of the hand. 
 Whether from choice or no, she lived a secluded 
 life; but on rare occasions she was to be seen 
 riding out in the family carriage, and when the 
 Methodists held a meeting, she was to be seen 
 at church, though I have heard it said she was a 
 Presbyterian at heart. 
 
 When my reflections ran in the direction of the 
 colonel's wife I invariably found myself wrangling 
 with the problem she presented. The more so as 
 Tommy Tinkins afforded no clew whatever to her 
 character. The cat neither ran away at the sound 
 of her voice, nor made any display of satisfaction 
 when she came. Sister Jane was as much puzzled 
 as I was, for she always called her "That poor 
 creature," and I have noticed that when one 
 woman fails to understand another with whom she 
 is on friendly terms, she ends by pitying her. 
 
 There was another member of Colonel Billiard' s
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 13 
 
 family that was more interesting than either the 
 colonel or his wife their daughter Mary. She 
 was a study for those who love beauty for its own 
 sake, as well as for the more serious-minded who 
 watch with expectant eyes the slow but sure 
 unfolding of the flower of womanhood. I had 
 dandled Mary on my knee when she was a child, 
 and twenty times a day she used to run to me for 
 aid, for advice in her troubles, or for comfort in 
 her childish sorrows. Until she was twelve, and 
 I had turned twenty, we were companions and 
 playmates, and then she went away to reap such 
 advantages as are to be found in a young ladies' 
 seminary. When she returned to spend her first 
 vacation she was still, in a sense, the same girl 
 who had gone away six months before. But she 
 was never the same after that. She was friendly, 
 even cordial, but there was a difference. We had 
 no more romps among the rose bushes; indeed, it 
 would have been unseemly for an old fellow to be 
 seen capering around ; nevertheless I felt some 
 what hurt at the various manifestations of in 
 difference that the young lady took no pains to 
 conceal. Being sensitive and somewhat diffident 
 where the women are concerned, I drew myself 
 within my shell, took "Urn Burial" from the 
 book case, and mentally bade farewell to the child 
 that had given place to a beautiful young girl. 
 
 Then came a year or two at some finishing 
 school in Philadelphia, and, behold! instead of 
 the beautiful young girl who had gone away,
 
 14 SJSTR JANE. 
 
 there returned to the village and her friends a 
 more beautiful young woman. To me, whose 
 memory had been so steadfastly fixed on the girl, 
 the woman was a dazzling revelation. A miracle 
 had been performed and nature had made no fuss 
 over it. I watched this young woman, who had 
 sprung from the germ of the girl I had known, 
 with emotions impossible to describe. But chief 
 among them all were astonishment and a bewil 
 dering sense of loss a sense of having been 
 cheated out of some precious possession. Strange 
 to say, this young woman, who had returned to 
 dazzle us all, made no show of pride or affecta 
 tion. She was as simple and as natural as she 
 had been when a little girl; she brought back 
 with her none of those airs that seem to stick, 
 like cockle - burrs on a sheep, to many young 
 ladies who have had the advantages of the finish 
 ing schools; and, withal, she had a natural dig 
 nity of manner that made a charming foil for 
 her frankness. 
 
 Her attitude toward me also underwent a kalei 
 doscopic change. Where she had been cool and 
 indifferent she was now friendly, and she discov 
 ered to me by many pleasant allusions that she 
 had not forgotten the time when she poured all 
 her childish troubles in my ear. But the day had 
 passed when I found myself at ease in her pres 
 ence, and when she ran in to see sister Jane, which 
 she never failed to do at least once a day, I was 
 happy if I chanced to be in my room or in the
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 15 
 
 little porch, where, unembarrassed, I might listen 
 to the clear tones of her voice and picture to 
 myself each little gesture she might be making; 
 how she was holding her head, and when she was 
 smiling. In her presence I felt awkward, old, 
 and unhappy. She carried with her an atmo 
 sphere so entirely different from that in which I 
 had always moved she imparted so much light, 
 and warmth, and color to our dull and prosy sur 
 roundings that I was always glad to return to 
 the solitude that gave me a world of my own, 
 where, as the humor chanced to seize me, I might 
 be president, dictator, or emperor, and where all 
 the treasures of the world were mine if I might 
 choose to appropriate them. I was more than 
 content if, concealed by the porch and the fra 
 grant honeysuckle screen, I might watch her mov 
 ing about the garden, making the flowers more 
 precious by her presence, or romping with her 
 little brother, a toddler of uncertain age her 
 movements as graceful as if she were borne along 
 on wings. Many and many a time I have seen 
 her press a rose to her lips and blush at some new 
 thought that blossomed in her innocent breast. 
 
 And so the days went by, she radiant and happy 
 and making all things lovelier by her happiness, 
 sister Jane busy and critical, and I reasonably 
 comfortable, but somewhat disturbed by a vague 
 uneasiness that had never troubled me before.
 
 n. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 LET it not be supposed that my sister Jane and 
 myself led a lonely life. We had more company 
 than we sometimes found comfortable, and might 
 easily have enlarged the list of those who seemed 
 to find a pleasure in visiting us. But, for the 
 most part, we were sufficient to ourselves sister 
 Jane with her sewing and I with my ruminations 
 and reflections. We cared neither for the small 
 gossip of the town nor for the large questions of 
 politics, being content to feel that the gossip was 
 unprofitable, and that the great questions would 
 settle themselves sooner or later. Howbeit, we 
 had one caller who was as persistent as the seasons 
 themselves. This was Mrs. Sally Beshears. Hot 
 or cold, wet or dry, we knew when evening fell 
 and the hands of the old brass time-piece began to 
 turn to eight o'clock, that Mrs. Beshears would 
 come limping along the sidewalk and lift the latch 
 of the gate that opened near the porch. 
 
 When the latch clicked on the stroke of eight, 
 sister Jane would say, "There's Sally. I hope 
 she won't want me to give her nigger boy another 
 biscuit to-night." Then a light rap would fall on
 
 -l.Y OLD FRIEND. 17 
 
 the outer door, and Mrs. Beshears would come in 
 leaning on her walking-stick, saying, "I believe 
 in my soul you 've all gone to bed." Then as she 
 opened the inner door, "Why, no, you haven't, 
 but it 's a wonder." And in Mrs. Beshears would 
 walk, followed by the small negro boy, who trot 
 ted after her wherever she went. 
 
 "Come in, Sally, and take off your things and 
 stay a while," sister Jane would say. "Make 
 that nigger fetch you a chair I 've got this press- 
 board on my lap, or I'd fetch it myself." 
 
 It was the same thing over and over again even 
 ing after evening, and yet somehow we never tired 
 of Mrs. Beshears. She was older than my sister, 
 being above sixty, and but for the fact thaf; there 
 was a halt in her walk, the result of a fall, she 
 was as pert as a woman of forty. She had a keen 
 eye, a resolute mind and sharp tongue, as many 
 people knew. Observation had done for her what 
 the best education fails to do for the great major 
 ity of mankind. Her knowledge and her humor 
 gave a spice to her conversation that I can remem 
 ber and appreciate, but cannot hope to faithfully 
 report. She was a woman of some property, 
 which was held in common by her and two older 
 sisters, Miss Polly and Miss Becky Pike, 
 one seventy-five and the other eighty. Their 
 place, indeed, was something of a plantation, 
 covering above five hundred acres of good land, 
 just outside the corporate limits of the village. 
 In addition to this they owned twenty-five or
 
 18 SISTER JANE. 
 
 thirty sleek-looking negroes, who, according to 
 report, worked when in the humor and played 
 when they pleased. The dwelling-house and all 
 the out-houses were relics of the days when the 
 country round about was a wilderness. They were 
 substantial, but were built of logs, and the chim 
 neys were made of rough stones and mud. The 
 hand of time that tumbles all material things 
 about, had touched these old chimneys with some 
 severity. The rains had eaten away the mud in 
 the parts that were exposed to the weather, and 
 they presented a jagged and grinning front to the 
 passer-by. All things about the place were of the 
 most primitive character, so that they gave rise 
 to solemn thoughts, such as haunt and sometimes 
 overwhelm us in old graveyards, telling us of the 
 brevity of life and the mutations of time. 
 
 Two Sundays in the year, and sometimes on 
 the Fourth of July, my sister Jane and myself 
 were in the habit of spending the day with Mrs. 
 Beshears and her two sisters, Miss Polly and Miss 
 Becky. These old ladies were spinsters, but the 
 ^energy and individuality of the family were cen 
 tered in Mrs. Beshears, and Miss Polly and Miss 
 Becky remained in such seclusion that their names 
 and even their existence had been forgotten by 
 many people to whom they had once been known. 
 Miss Polly was tall and fat, and Miss Becky was 
 tall and lean. Their hands trembled so that a 
 negro boy had to light their pipes for them. But 
 they were both good-humored and seemed to be
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 19 
 
 sincerely glad when we went to see them. Their 
 dining-room was apart from the dwelling, and I 
 never had dinner there but the chief feature of 
 the meal was roast goose, over which sister Jane 
 said grace with unction. 
 
 Sometimes Mrs. Beshears would ask me to 
 walk with her about the place to look at the 
 fowls, the pigs and the horses. "Folks ask me 
 why I don't have the place fixed up," she would 
 say; "but who on earth shall I fix it up for? 
 Pap started to fix it up, but he took sick and died ; 
 and then Uriah," (her husband) "he begun to fix 
 it up, and lie took sick and died. It 's the living 
 truth. Now, whoever wants to fix it up is wel 
 come to try it. I 'm old and ugly, but I don't 
 want to be put on my cooling-board on account of 
 driving a new set of nails in the front palings." 
 I could but acknowledge that there was a good 
 deal of truth at the bottom of Mrs. Beshears 's 
 remark, leaving the omen altogether out of view. 
 Why should these old people go to the trouble of 
 putting up new fences and new gates ? They had 
 no heirs and cared nothing about appearances. 
 Moreover the Cherokee rose was rapidly cover 
 ing the broken-down fences with its glistening 
 green shield and its fragrant white flowers. 
 
 While it was in the nature of a holiday excur 
 sion for sister Jane and myself to visit Mrs. 
 Beshears, yet it was not pleasing to sit and listen 
 to the wandering and random talk of the two old 
 women Miss Polly and Miss Becky now verg-
 
 20 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ing on, if they had not already entered, their sec 
 ond childhood. There is a certain charm to be 
 found in the melancholy that is pressed home upon 
 you in many of the pages of Sir Thomas Browne. 
 To read of the futility of fame and reputation, 
 and to take it home to your reflections in the soli 
 tude of your room, are matters that appeal to the 
 imagination. But to be brought face to face with 
 
 O <-5 
 
 the futility of life itself in the presence of these 
 old ladies left no room or excuse for the perform 
 ance of the imagination. Here mortality, with 
 its own hands, had torn off the thin mask under 
 which it parades, showing the grim and unseason 
 able reality. I doubt not the lesson would be 
 wholesome to those who have not the knack of 
 reflection; but, as for me, I preferred to be mel 
 ancholy in my own way and at my own pleasure. 
 
 Sister Jane, who was more practical, perhaps, 
 seemed to take pleasure in talking to Miss Polly 
 and Miss Becky, and the conversation sometimes 
 took such strange terms that I felt in my bones 
 she was experimenting with their faculties, see 
 ing how far they had fallen into decay. Fre 
 quently they would fall to laughing at nothing, 
 and continue in the fit until the tears ran from 
 their eyes. On one occasion Miss Polly suddenly 
 remarked : 
 
 "La! have n't you heard ? Sally's about to git 
 married." 
 
 I expected an explosion from Mrs. Beshears, 
 but she only said, "Yes, Jane, and they are both 
 as jealous as they can be."
 
 AN OLD FRIEXD. 21 
 
 "La! no, we ain't neither," exclaimed Miss 
 Becky, bridling. "You may marry who you 
 please, but narry thrip of our money do you git." 
 
 "It's as much mine as it is yours," remarked 
 Miss Polly. 
 
 "I don't care if 'tis," said Miss Becky; "she 
 won't git a thrip of it when she comes a-bringin' 
 a young feller around here a-honeyin' and a-hug- 
 gin'." 
 
 "Dp you reckon she 's really fixing to get mar 
 ried?" Sister Jane asked, pretending to be very 
 serious. 
 
 "If she ain't," cried Miss Becky, "what under 
 the sun is she trapsein' and trollopin' up town for 
 every night the Lord sends? " 
 
 "Why, she comes to see me," replied sister, as 
 much amazed as amused. 
 
 Here Miss Becky transferred her pipe from her 
 mouth to her trembling hands, closed her eyes, 
 and began to nod her head emphatically. " Sally 
 may tell you that," she said, solemnly, "and you 
 may believe it; but she can't fool us, and she 
 won't git narry thrip of our money." 
 
 "Much money you've got!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Beshears, with kindly sarcasm. 
 
 "She thinks she's mighty smart," said Miss 
 Becky, reaching over and touching Miss Polly on 
 the knee. 
 
 "Don't she, though! " exclaimed Miss Polly. 
 
 I was curious to know how Mrs. Beshears would 
 compose this senseless quarrel; but 't was the
 
 22 SISTER JANE. 
 
 easiest thing in the world. She placed her hands 
 over her face, sighed deeply, and turned to sister 
 Jane with an air too solemn to be duplicated on 
 the stage. 
 
 "Jane," said she, "there's a vacant room at 
 your house. It 's not a big room, but it 's big 
 enough for me. I '11 just send my things up there 
 and come along myself after supper. As I 'm not 
 wanted here, I '11 go with you. We '11 see, then, 
 if money will wake the niggers in the morning, 
 and make Polly's and Becky's coffee and sweeten 
 it. There 's too much money here for me." 
 
 By this time Miss Polly and Miss Becky were 
 sobbing, and if their tears had meant anything 
 more than the tears of children mean, I should 
 have laid the matter up against Mrs. Beshears in 
 my mind; but she soothed them at once, and in 
 a minute they were laughing as blithely as they 
 had been crying bitterly, and with no more excuse 
 in one case than in the other. So that when sister 
 Jane and myself bade them good-bye on that par 
 ticular occasion, I carried away a better opinion 
 of Mrs. Beshears than I had ever had before. 
 My first impressions of her, formed long ago, 
 were not of the best. Out of sight and hearing 
 of her two sisters she had a hectoring way, and I 
 think it was her natural way. Her voice was 
 harsh, and she had a way of saying things that 
 left a sting. But, after the incident I have 
 related, I was no longer surprised that Tommy 
 Tiiilims, the cat, should be so anxious to run and
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 23 
 
 greet her when she came, his tail carried as erect 
 as a battle-flag, and his back curved upward to 
 meet the hand that was always ready to give him 
 a friendly touch. I knew, too, that when she had 
 put her aged and decrepit children to bed the im 
 pulse to escape from her surroundings, by visiting 
 sister Jane, was more than she could resist; and 
 so it happened that her company came to be as 
 agreeable to me at last as it had been to sister 
 Jane from the first. 
 
 She always called me William, having known 
 me from a child, and seemed to keep a watchful 
 eye on my moods, for when, as sometimes hap 
 pened, I remained in the room after she came, 
 instead of going to my own, she would say at 
 precisely the right moment: "Well, William, 
 you can go and do your moping by yourself. 
 Jane and I have some matters that we want to 
 talk about." This took from me the excuse of 
 politeness and sent me off whether or no, for 
 which I was duly grateful. Many a time I have 
 listened and waited for sister Jane and Mrs. 
 Beshears to lower their voices in talking over 
 these confidential "matters." But they kept right 
 on in the old familiar strain, and in this way I 
 found that Mrs. Beshears's confidential "matters " 
 were purely mythical, invented for the purpose of 
 giving me an excuse to return to my books or my 
 reflections, as whim or fancy might lead me. 
 
 I could sit in my room or on the little porch 
 and hear every word the two old friends said, and
 
 24 SISTER JANE. 
 
 was under no necessity of affecting an interest I 
 did not feel. Howbeit, a great many things they 
 said were sufficiently interesting as well as amus 
 ing. On one occasion I heard a conversation be 
 tween Mrs. Beshears and sister Jane that gave 
 me a feeling of uneasiness I could not account for. 
 
 "Mary Bullard hollered ' howdye ' at me as I 
 limped by," remarked Mrs. Beshears. "When 
 is she going to git married? 'T won't be long, I 
 reckon." 
 
 "The Lord knows. I hope she'll get a good 
 husband. You know how it is good woman, 
 shiftless man; good man, tacky woman. Provi 
 dence has paired them off that way, I reckon." 
 
 "It looks so," said Mrs. Beshears. "Why 
 don't " if she mentioned a name it never reached 
 my ears ; it struck me afterwards that she wrote 
 it in the air with her forefinger. "Why don't 
 drop his wing and cut the double-shuffle around 
 her? I lay that would fetch her." 
 
 There was a long pause during which I imag. 
 ined that sister Jane was dampening the seams of 
 a trouser leg, preparatory to pressing them, an 
 operation which she always performed in silence. 
 Presently she remarked, in a lower tone of voice 
 than usual : 
 
 "Why, bless your soul, child, he wouldn't do 
 at all. He has n't got the chink. He don't belong 
 to the big-bugs." 
 
 "And what if he don't? What if he don't?" 
 asked Mrs. Beshears with a touch of indignation
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 25 
 
 in her tones. "Ain't he every bit and grain as 
 good as any of the Bullards that the Lord ever 
 let live on the earth?" Sister Jane said nothing; 
 she was probably testing the warmth of her tailor's 
 goose ; and Mrs. Beshears went on, her voice be 
 coming more strained and tense: "If you talk 
 and feel that way, Jane Wornum, don't never up 
 and tell me that you know Cephas Bullard, be 
 cause you don't. But old Sally Beshears knows 
 him through and through, up and down. Why, le' 
 me tell you, Jane Wornum ! Cephas Bullard " 
 
 "Sh-sh-h! " whispered sister Jane, loud enough 
 for me to hear. She probably jerked her thumb 
 or waved her hand in my direction. 
 
 "I don't care," cried Mrs. Beshears, louder 
 than ever. "I don't care who hears me, not if 
 it 's old Cephas himself. The next time you see 
 him jest ask him where his brother is and what 
 has become of his brother's property; and if he 
 wants to know how. come you to ask him, jest up 
 and tell him that old Sal Beshears, cross-eyed and 
 crippled, told you to ask him. And if that don't 
 make him flinch, it '11 be because the Old Boy 's 
 done took possession of him." 
 
 Sister Jane made some comment in a tone of 
 voice too low for me to hear, though I was listen 
 ing with all my ears. 
 
 "Oh, I don't doubt that," replied Mrs. Be 
 shears. "Mary 'd be an angel if this climate 
 suited angels. She 's as good as she 's handsome, 
 and that 's more 'n you can say for the common
 
 26 SISTER JANE. 
 
 run of gals. Why, she 's just as different from 
 old Cephas as she is from old Jonce Ashfield." 
 
 This was putting it pretty strong, for old Jonce 
 was noted far and wide as an irredeemable toss 
 pot. A long silence followed this surprising re 
 mark a silence that was finally broken by Mrs. 
 Beshears. 
 
 "I believe in my soul Mary's in love with him," 
 she said. 
 
 "With ?" asked sister Jane. Could it be 
 
 possible that she, too, wrote the name in the 
 empty air with her forefinger? If so much as a 
 murmur of it had passed her lips it would have 
 come to my ears. 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Beshears. "She came to 
 my house the other day, with her little brother, 
 hunting sweet-gum, and I teased her about him. 
 She blushed might 'ly and looked as purty as a 
 peach. She looked at me much as if she 'd say, 
 ' Hey,' old lady ! how 'd you find out my secret?' 
 And I ups and says, says I, ' Ah, honey, inno 
 cence don't know how to hide its heart from eyes 
 that are old and sharp. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I hope it ain't so," remarked sister 
 Jane, after a while. 
 
 "Why?" asked Mrs. Beshears, plumply. 
 
 "Because " Here sister Jane paused and got 
 no further in her explanation. 
 
 "Fudge! fiddlesticks!" cried Mrs. Beshears. 
 "A whole quintillion of becauses ain't as big as 
 a grain of sand in a matter of that kind."
 
 .4.V OLD FRIEXD. 27 
 
 I heard no more of that conversation, for I went 
 out into the garden bare-headed and walked, for 
 an hour up and down trying to get rid of a feeling 
 of strange uneasiness that possessed me, and for 
 which I could not account. It was a feeling as 
 near to fear as any I ever had, and there was a 
 queer buzzing in my head. After walking for an 
 hour, I felt better, and then I went into my room 
 and went to bed, promising myself to be careful 
 of my diet hereafter. 
 
 Next morning, the first 'thing that popped into 
 my mind was the conversation of the night before, 
 and at breakfast I tried to broach the subject. 
 
 "Sister Jane," said I, "didn't Mrs. Beshears 
 say last night that Mary Bullard was to be mar 
 ried shortly? " 
 
 "If she did, I didn't hear her," replied sister 
 Jane, decisively. 
 
 "But I 'in sure," I persisted, "that I heard her 
 say Mary is in love with some one." 
 
 "No, Sally didn't say that," sister Jane an 
 swered. "She said she thought Mary was in 
 love." 
 
 "Who is the happy man? " I asked. 
 
 "You, I reckon," said sister Jane, giving 
 Tommy Tinkins a morsel of meat. 
 
 I felt the blood mount to my face, and then 
 rise upward to the very roots of my hair. "Non 
 sense ! "NVhy, you must take me for a nincom 
 poop. I 'm no child for you to play with." 
 
 At this, sister Jane fell to laughing and con-
 
 28 SISTER JANE. 
 
 tinued until she was on the verge of convulsions, 
 and I was painfully conscious that my red face 
 and my efforts to maintain my dignity were the 
 cause of her merriment. 
 
 "Don't you know," she remarked when she 
 could control her voice, "that I 'm not going to 
 blab everything Sally Beshears tells me?" 
 
 Thereupon, I rose from the table and strode 
 out of the room feeling very much offended. But 
 I paused at the door long enough to hear sister 
 Jane say to Tommy Tinkins. 
 
 "Well, well, well! If men ain't fools, I wish 
 somebody 'd show me a sure enough one! " 
 
 But all these things passed out of my mind as 
 the season passes, and my thoughts fell back into 
 their old channels, where doubtless they would 
 have remained but for a circumstance that stirred 
 our little household as it had never been stirred 
 before a circumstance that brought about unex 
 pected complications, and changed the course of 
 more than one life.
 
 III. 
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT QUR DOOR. 
 
 ONE night in the winter of 1848 I think it 
 was the 17th of January I was sitting in my 
 room ruminating as usual. The fire on the hearth 
 had burned low, the weather having been rainy 
 and warm during the day. Through the closed 
 door, I heard the subdued hum of conversation be 
 tween Mrs. Beshears and my sister Jane, and it 
 made my solitude more cheerful. Once, hearing 
 the whistle of the rising wind, I looked from the 
 door, and saw that the rain-clouds that had been 
 coming from the west all day were now driving 
 swiftly before a northwest wind. Patches of dark- 
 blue sky showed here and there in the zenith, and 
 in these the stars twinkled as freshly as if they 
 had been washed clean by the white vapors that 
 went whirling through the sky. 
 
 By the time the nine o'clock bell had rung, the 
 temperature had fallen considerably, and I was 
 compelled to replenish my fire. The northwest 
 wind increased to a gale, and presently I heard 
 the tinkling spatter of sleet as the wind hurled it 
 against my window-blinds. Sometimes the wind 
 would rise away from the earth and roar in the
 
 30 SISTER JANE. 
 
 tops of the trees and chimneys; then it would fall 
 to the ground again, bringing with it a blast of 
 cutting sleet. Mrs. Beshears had stayed longer 
 than usual, and I wondered how she and the 
 negro boy who always accompanied her would 
 manage to get home through the storm. Worried 
 somewhat by this thought, I rose from my rock 
 ing-chair and walked nervously about the room. 
 Suddenly I heard the sound of voices on the side 
 walk. What they said at first was drowned by 
 the roaring wind, but presently I heard a woman's 
 voice : 
 
 "I ain't goin' narry step, an' you can't make 
 me. I '11 die fust." 
 
 Then came the voice of a man: "Ef you don't 
 come, you '11 rue it. You 've come this fur; you 
 might as well go furder. Come on, I tell ye ; I '11 
 call 'em to the door." 
 
 "I won't!" exclaimed the woman. "I won't 
 and I shan't!" 
 
 There was an ominous pause. The woman 
 cried out again: "Mind now! Ef you hit me, 
 I '11 holler. You can't keep me from holler in'." 
 
 "You slut!" said the man, his voice choked 
 and shaking with rage. "You slut! Don't you 
 never dast to let me see your face ag'in. I '11 
 murder you ef you do! " 
 
 "Hoity-toity! " I said to myself. "What 's all 
 this about at such a time of night?" and I made 
 up my mind, if any more threats were made by 
 the man, to go out and give him a genteel pummel-
 
 WHAT THE STOR^f LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 31 
 
 ing, dark as it was. I imagined I heard some one 
 raise the latch of the gate, and I thought, too, 
 that I heard a shuffling sound on the little porch, 
 but on a stormy night the mind has ears of its 
 own, and has a habit of conjuring up every sound 
 that the physical ears would be unlikely to hear. 
 So I traced the click of the latch and the shuffling 
 on the porch to some queer trick of the wind. 
 
 And it was an easy matter to account for the 
 savage dialogue that came to my ears through the 
 walls. Three miles from the village there was a 
 cotton factory that had just been put in operation. 
 It was a small affair, indeed, but it had already 
 gathered about it a class of population that seemed 
 to me to be somewhat undesirable. The men 
 had already begun to straggle into town after fac 
 tory hours, and the most of them, when they went 
 straggling back, carried a jug of rum home with 
 them, besides the drams they had inside their 
 skins. They were as lanky and as lousy-looking 
 a set as I had ever seen pale, cadaverous, and 
 careworn veritable "clay eaters," as I have 
 heard sister Jane call them. What more nafc- 
 ural than that one of these men, coming to the 
 village after a jug of rum, should be followed by 
 his wife ; that both should have taken a dram too 
 much ; and that they were in a somewhat maudlin 
 condition when they paused under the eaves of 
 my room to carry on a meaningless quarrel? I 
 had dismissed the matter from my mind when 
 I heard Mrs. Beshears coming along the hall-
 
 32 SISTER JANE. 
 
 way, followed by sister Jane (as usual) with a 
 lighted caudle. 
 
 "Gone to bed, William? " cried Mrs. Beshears, 
 briskly tapping on the inner door. 
 
 "Come in," I replied. "I have been waiting 
 to escort you home." 
 
 "Me?" exclaimed Mrs. Beshears, in some as 
 tonishment. "Oh, my! Think of that, Jane! 
 What a compliment! " She curtsied in a way 
 that I had not thought her capable of. "Do you 
 reely think, Jane, that a young thing like me 
 Ought to trust herself alone, or as good as alone, 
 with as gay a beau as William is? No, I thank 
 you, William. I won't pester you to go to-night. 
 Some other night, when the moon is shining, and 
 the wind ain't so high." 
 
 "But," I persisted in all seriousness, "there 
 has been a tremendous change in the weather. 
 Sleet is falling, even now. The wind will blow 
 you away." 
 
 "And what would you be doin', William? 
 A-hanging on to my frock, and a-squalling, I '11 
 be bound. And folks 'd stick their heads out o' 
 the windows, and say : ' Run here, everybody, 
 and look! Yonder goes the old witch a-flying 
 high, with a young man to help her sweep off the 
 sky. ' No, William ; I know you mean what you 
 say, but by the time you 've faced as many storms 
 as old Sally Beshears, you won't never want any 
 body to put themselves out for you. Bless your 
 heart, honey! Here's what's faced wind and
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 33 
 
 rain, sleet and hail, these many long years, with 
 abundance of thunder flung 1 in for good measure." 
 
 "I 've begged and begged her to stay all night, 
 but she won't listen to that, " remarked sister Jane. 
 
 "No, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Beshears, shaking 
 her head and rapping on the floor with her cane. 
 "I know I'm jest as welcome as anybody could 
 be, and I 'd stay, if I could, if only for the.sakes 
 of that nigger boy. I 'm a red-eyed tory if I 
 don't believe he '11 have every stitch o' clothes 
 blow'd off of him before he gits to the next cor 
 ner. And that '11 be more patching and sewing 
 for me and the Lord knows I have enough of 
 that. No, folks, I can't stay. If them two 
 babies of mine was to wake up in the night and 
 miss me, they 'd git to wandering hither and yon 
 in the dark, and they might fall and hurt them 
 selves, poor old souls ! " 
 
 Of course there was nothing to be said after 
 that, so I stationed myself at the door ready to 
 open and close it as quickly as possible, while 
 sister Jane, as was her nightly habit, poised the 
 candle so as to hold it above her head, as if by 
 that means to light Mrs. Beshears on her way. 
 
 "Come on, little nigger. I 'm mighty sorry for 
 you, but I can't keep the wind from blowing nor 
 the sleet from sleeting." 
 
 But she was careful to tie around his neck the big 
 knitted scarf which she had worn over her head, 
 wrapping her cape around her own ears. Then 
 sister Jane came to the rescue with her big striped
 
 34 . SISTER JANE. 
 
 shawl, and, in a moment, Mrs. Beshears was 
 ready for her homeward journey. 
 
 "Good-night, folks," she said once more. "If 
 it keeps on blowing I '11 likely not come to-morrow 
 night, Jane, and if William cries about it, le' me 
 know. Come on, little nigger." 
 
 As sister Jane held the candle above her head, 
 I opened the door, and as Mrs. Beshears and the 
 negro slipped out, tried to push it quickly to. But 
 the storm was quicker. The wind swirled in, 
 caught the door and held it against all my strength, 
 blew out the candle, and sent the sparks and ashes 
 flying out of the fireplace all over the room. It 
 was the work of a moment. Sister Jane dropped 
 the candle, gave a little shriek of dismay, and ran 
 about the room, knocking the sparks and coals 
 from the counterpane and curtains, and from the 
 rug. She had hardly begun to do this, when there 
 came a tremendous thumping at the door, which I 
 had managed to close, and we heard Mrs. Beshears 
 screaming so as to make herself heard above the 
 rush and roar of the storm : 
 
 "Jane! Jane! William! For God A'mighty's 
 sake come here ! William! Jane!" 
 
 Then she began to beat frantically on the pan 
 els with her walking-cane. I jumped to the door 
 at the sound of her voice, but in my haste and 
 confusion I forgot to turn the key, and stood 
 turning and wrenching the bolt. Mrs. Beshears 
 must have divined the trouble, for she screamed 
 from the other side :
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR.. ' 35 
 
 "Unlock the door! Here's somebody dead or 
 a-dying!" 
 
 At last habit, more than presence of mind, 
 came to my assistance. I turned the key mechan 
 ically, drew back the bolt, and the wind burst the 
 door open. By this time sister Jane had thrust 
 a handful of fat pine splinters in the fireplace, 
 and now held the flaming torch aloft. 
 
 "It's a woman!" gasped Mrs. Beshears. "A 
 woman and a baby. I found out that much ! " 
 
 It is wonderful how active the mind is in mo 
 ments of extreme excitement, and how prone the 
 memory is to seize and register the most trifling 
 details. With one glance I saw that sister Jane 
 was pale, but composed, that Mrs. Beshears was 
 white as a ghost, that sister Jane's big tortoise- 
 shell comb had fallen from her head, and that one 
 of Mrs. Beshears 's big crescent-shaped ear-rings 
 had been loosed from its fastening. 'Twas all as 
 momentary as the lightning's flash. It was for 
 tunate indeed that in the very nick and point of 
 time the little negro boy, who was clinging con 
 vulsively to the skirts of his mistress, should sud 
 denly set up a series of shrieks and yells which, 
 being wholly unreasonable, and therefore irritat 
 ing, served to recall us all to our senses. 
 
 "Sally, for the Lord's sake give that imp a 
 cuff that '11 take his breath away," said sister 
 Jane. 
 
 This timely advice was promptly followed, and 
 the confusion and excitement we had all felt a
 
 36 SISTER JANE. 
 
 moment before were sensibly allayed. I stepped 
 on the porch, and, by the dim light of the pine- 
 torch held aloft by sister Jane, saw a woman hud 
 dled in one corner. Her feet were stretched out, 
 and, from having been in a sitting posture, her 
 head had drooped forward until it touched a bun 
 dle she had in her lap. Around this bundle her 
 arms were twined. I soon found she was not 
 dead, for she moved and a rigor shook her frame 
 when I laid my hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "Get up and come in the house," I said, shak 
 ing her by the arm. "Come! Get up! You'll 
 freeze out here." 
 
 She raised her head, shook back her hair, and 
 glanced wildly about her. 
 
 "I won't go up yonder!" she moaned. "I'll 
 die fust! Oh, me! Why why why can't I 
 die an' be done with it? " 
 
 It was the pitifullest cry that had ever come to 
 my ears. It reached sister Jane's, too, for she 
 threw her torch in the fire, came forward, and 
 took command. 
 
 "Lift her by that arm, William, and I '11 lift 
 her by this. Get up, and come in the house. 
 This is .no place for you out here. Come, let 's 
 go to the fire." 
 
 Sister Jane's voice was so firm, and yet so kind 
 and sympathetic that the woman looked up in a 
 dazed way. 
 
 "Who are you?" she asked, brushing her hair 
 back with her finder.
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 37 
 
 "Nobody, much," replied sister Jane, "and if 
 you keep me standing out here in the cold, I 
 won't be anybody at all." 
 
 "Won't you go in 'less I go?" asked the 
 woman. 
 
 "No, I won't! " said sister Jane, decisively. 
 
 Without another word the woman rose to her 
 feet with our help; and went in the house. I was 
 truly glad when the door was closed, for the 
 weather was bitter cold the coldest, it was said 
 afterwards, that had ever been experienced by the 
 oldest inhabitant. Sister Jane carried the woman 
 into her own room, where there was a warm fire, 
 followed by Mrs. Beshears, who was moved by 
 both sympathy and curiosity. 
 
 The woman was duly installed in the big rock 
 ing-chair, and, by the uncertain light of the can 
 dle, presented a picture so forlorn, so desolate, 
 and so miserable that I hope never to see its like 
 again. It was not the faded sunbonnet that she 
 tried hard to pull over her eyes, nor the shabby 
 dress, nor the coarse and muddy shoes, nor all 
 these together. They were the merest accessories. 
 The forlornness and misery lay deeper, in some 
 subtile way presenting themselves to the mind 
 rather than to the eye. 
 
 "Let me take your bonnet," said sister Jane. 
 
 "I don't mind it; it don't bother me," replied 
 the woman. 
 
 "It's better off," persisted sister Jane, as she 
 gently and deftly untied the strings.
 
 38 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "I reckon my head 's a plum sight," said the 
 woman, true to her sex. 
 
 The one glance that I got of her face when her 
 bonnet came off for she bent her head over the 
 bundle in her arms showed that she was quite 
 a young woman, not more than twenty at the 
 most. Her hair was as black as a crow's wing 
 and as sheeny. I judged that if she were fur 
 nished forth with the tassels and toggery of 
 fashion, she would be strikingly handsome. So 
 far as I could see, Mrs. Beshears had not be 
 stowed a glance on the young woman, but sat 
 gazing steadily into the bed of hickory coals, tap 
 ping the andiron gently with the end of her cane. 
 Presently she turned in her chair. 
 
 "What have you got in that bundle? " 
 
 "Nothing but a little bit of a baby," replied 
 the young woman, hugging it closer to her bosom. 
 
 "A baby! " exclaimed sister Jane. 
 
 "Yes'm. An' ef he don't pester me, I don't 
 see how he can pester anybody." Hearing no 
 comment on this, the young woman looked up. I 
 could see despair in her eyes; I could see misery 
 in the flutter of her nostrils, and in the droop of 
 her mouth. Hopelessness, friendlessness all the 
 misfortunes that go trooping after sin had set 
 their seal on that face. 
 
 How she misread the sympathy that was written 
 in every line of sister Jane's face, I have never 
 been able to understand, for tears were standing 
 in those honest eyes. But the young woman half
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 39 
 
 rose from her chair and began to gather the thin 
 and shabby shawl more closely around the child. 
 
 "Gi' me my bonnet, an' I'll go," she said. 
 " I know 'd in reason I ought not to 'a' come in 
 here. I ain't got no more business in this house 
 than I 've got on the inside of a church, an' that 's 
 the Lord's truth. Show me the door, please, 
 ma'am. The cold ain't no more to me than the 
 heat, an' the night 's lots better than the day. 
 I 've brung mud in your house on my shoes. 
 Where's my bonnet? Thess gi' me my bonnet. 
 It 's all the head-wear I 've got left." 
 
 "Sit down," said sister Jane. "Give me that 
 child. If it ain't frozen, it ain't your fault." 
 
 "No 'm ! No 'm ! " protested the woman. "Le' 
 me go I must go! I did n't want to come in, 
 but you all took an' drug me. I ain't no more 
 wuth your thought than the four-footed creeturs 
 in the woods. Gi' me my bonnet." 
 
 " Sit down ! I tell you to sit down ! Give^jne 
 that child." Sister Jane's commands were given 
 in a tone that convinced the woman that 't would 
 be unreasonable as well as useless to resist, so she 
 sank back in the rocking-chair, and surrendered 
 the bundle into arms that had not borne such a 
 burden in thirty -odd years. Holding the bundle 
 first on one arm and then on the other, (to further 
 the process of unwrapping), sister Jane took off 
 the blanket or shawl whatever it was, it was 
 shabby enough and in a moment there was dis 
 closed to our curious eyes a fat and rosy, but
 
 40 SISTER JANE. 
 
 extremely sleepy infant. The woman had already 
 indicated that it was a boy, and he was certainly 
 a fine one to all outward appearances. As sister 
 Jane held him up to get a good view of his face, 
 his head wabbled about on his shoulders, and he 
 half opened his eyes. Then he smiled, and leaned 
 his head against my sister's bosom. Whereupon 
 she laughed aloud. 
 
 "I declare! He's about the cutest thing I 
 ever saw!" she cried. "Look at him, Sally 
 he 's right now as happy as a lord." 
 
 "He ain't cold, is he?" asked Mrs. Beshears, 
 going forward to inspect him. 
 
 "Why, he's as warm as a toast," said sister 
 Jane, as proudly as if she had been the means of 
 keeping him warm. 
 
 "How old is he?" asked Mrs. Beshears, turn 
 ing to the mother. 
 
 But there was no answer from that quarter. 
 The woman's right hand hung limp by her side; 
 the other was caught in the partially open bosom 
 of her dress. Her head had fallen to one side, 
 and all the color had left her face. 
 
 "Take this child, William !" exclaimed sister 
 Jane, thrusting the baby into my lap. No doubt 
 I held him awkwardly enough, but I cuddled him 
 up in my arms to the best of my ability, which, 
 in this direction, at least, was poor enough. 
 
 With a promptness and decision beyond all 
 praise, sister Jane seized the sponge which she 
 used to dampen cloth before pressing it, dipped
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 41 
 
 it in a pan of cold water that was always within 
 reach, and applied it to the face and wrists of the 
 poor woman, whose fainting-spell was the result 
 of a reaction from the strain that misfortune and 
 exposure had imposed upon her. She was young 
 and robust, but fainting-spells seem to be a part 
 of the equipment of the sex, and are intended, no 
 doubt, to shield them from the most acute forms 
 of mental and physical anguish. 
 
 The woman was soon revived, and, after a glass 
 of muscadine wine, which sister Jane had made 
 with her own hands, and which was uncorked only 
 on the rarest occasions after a glass of this pun 
 gent and aromatic wine, the woman was as well 
 as before. Better, in fact, for the forlorn expres 
 sion slowly died out of her face, the color found 
 its way back into her cheeks, and her eyes grew 
 brighter. 
 
 "Plow old is your baby?" inquired Mrs. Be- 
 shears once more. She had not forgotten that 
 her curiosity in this particular had not been satis 
 fied. 
 
 "A risin' of five months," replied the mother. 
 
 "Where's your husband?" Mrs. Beshears 
 asked. 
 
 For answer, the woman placed her hands to her 
 face, leaned back in the chair, and said nothing, 
 but I could see that she was deeply moved. 
 
 "Dead, I reckon?" persisted Mrs. Beshears. 
 
 The woman, still holding her hands before her 
 face, shook her head with emphasis, and then
 
 42 S1STK JANE. 
 
 began to cry as uncontrollably as a child might. 
 Mrs. Beshears looked at sister Jane, sister Jane 
 looked at Mrs. Beshears, then both looked at me, 
 and I looked at the baby. No word was said, 
 but all of us knew that the unfortunate creature 
 who sat there weeping had descended into the 
 valley, where sin and shame have their abiding 
 place a valley that is deep, but not far to seek. 
 
 I looked at the baby when sister Jane and Mrs. 
 Beshears looked at me, and I" was surprised to 
 find that it was looking at me. Its bright eyes 
 were wide open, and when they met mine, the 
 child smiled and tried to hide its face on my 
 shoulder. Presently it reached its dimpled hand 
 to my cheek, and began to pinch it gently. It 
 was such a pretty and cunning trick that I invol 
 untarily hugged the little one closer in my arms, 
 and realized for the first time in my life how 
 sweet and thrilling the glory of motherhood must 
 be to a woman even to the poor woman sitting 
 near me, consumed as she was with shame and 
 misery. 
 
 "I told you as plain as I could talk," she 
 sobbed, "that I hain't no business to be in this 
 house. For mercy's sake, gi' me my poor little 
 baby an' my bonnet, an' le' me go! " 
 
 Not knowing what else to do, I rose from my 
 chair, and was about to comply, when sister Jane 
 said sternly : 
 
 "What are you doing, William? Give the 
 child to me."
 
 WHAT THE STORM LEFT AT OUR DOOR. 43 
 
 "He 's not asleep," I remarked, with as much 
 austerity of manner as I could at the moment 
 assume. 
 
 "Go show your grandmother how to make a 
 goose-yoke," said sister Jane, sarcastically. 
 
 "You seem to know a great deal about babies," 
 I suggested, with some show of dignity. 
 
 "I ought to, goodness knows," replied sister 
 Jane, "for I've had one on my hands for the 
 better part of my life." 
 
 If I said nothing in rejoinder, it was not be 
 cause of a lack of a disposition to do so, but be 
 cause there was nothing else to be said. More 
 over, I felt that Providence had directed me 
 aright when I rose to place the child in its 
 mother's arms. If I had said, "Woman, stay," 
 the woman would have had to go. But, by an 
 involuntary movement, I had said, "Woman, 
 go! " Therefore she would stay. The perversity 
 which attaches itself to the feminine mind, as the 
 mistletoe to the bough of the crab-apple sprout 
 ing from the under side, if -it can find no more 
 convenient footing was as marked in my sister 
 Jane as in any woman ; but I thank heaven that 
 it never hardened her heart nor soured her temper 
 so far as I was concerned.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE BABY IS PUT TO BED. 
 
 THE situation was so interesting that Mrs. 
 Beshears forgot that she was obliged to go home. 
 As for me, though it was long past my bedtime, 
 I had no thought of sleep. Sister Jane held the 
 baby with a deftness that showed her hand had 
 not lost its cunning; and the little thing played 
 the same trick with her that it had with me. It 
 reached forth its dimpled hand and gently pinched 
 her neck. 
 
 "Look at him, Sally! He 's pinching my neck, 
 and he keeps on at it," said sister Jane. "And 
 he 's looking right at me ! " 
 
 She put her face against the baby's and rocked 
 back and forth in her chair, looking at the bed of 
 coals on the hearth. The matter of her thoughts 
 I could not even guess, but I knew she was happy, 
 for her face wore a smile that made her look 
 younger by twenty years. 
 
 The mother of the child was far from comfor 
 table, as I could see. She moved restlessly about 
 in her chair, and I felt rather than saw that the 
 inquisitive eyes of Mrs. Beshears were fixed upon 
 her. With her baby in her arms, she could have
 
 THE BABY IS PUT TO BED. 45 
 
 hid her face, but now all she could do was to 
 change her position by moving about in her chair. 
 The woman could not know, of course, that there 
 was neither scorn nor condemnation in the eyes of 
 Mrs. Beshears, but only a sort of sympathetic 
 curiosity. Suddenly Mrs. Beshears spoke : 
 
 "Child, what is your name?" The question 
 was blunt and sudden, but the woman seemed to 
 be relieved at hearing the sound of a voice. Such 
 composure as she could command she showed now. 
 
 "Mandy Satterlee," she replied. 
 
 "Well, I thought so. I used to see you when 
 I went to the mill. Jane, don't you mind me 
 telling you what a good-lookin' gal I saw running 
 wild in the bushes? " 
 
 But sister Jane evidently failed to hear this 
 appeal to her memory. When she did speak, she 
 said : 
 
 "Sally, I wish you 'd look at Tinkins." 
 
 While I had been watching the woman and 
 Mrs. Beshears out of the corner of my eye, 
 Tommy Tinkins had come in from a night's ram 
 ble, a rare event in his later life. Seeing sister 
 Jane holding something in her arms, he jumped 
 in her lap to discover what it might be. He 
 looked curiously at the baby's face it was still 
 awake put his nose against the chubby arm, 
 and then began to show his satisfaction in a man 
 ner more marked than I had ever noticed before. 
 He purred loudly, making a noise like a small 
 flutter-mill, such as the children play with; he
 
 46 SIS TEE JANE. 
 
 rubbed his sides against the baby ; he rubbed his 
 chin on the baby's arm; and even when he tried 
 to stand still his forefeet were moving up and 
 down as a soldier would mark time. Not content 
 with this, he. jumped from sister Jane's lap, and 
 went to the baby's mother. He was so well satis 
 fied with her that he jumped in her lap and went 
 through the same performance. At the end of it, 
 he stretched himself out on her knee, placed his 
 muzzle on his forepaws, and closed his eyes con 
 tentedly. Neither sister Jane nor myself had 
 ever seen Tommy Tinkins in a stranger's lap 
 before, and both expressed astonishment. 
 
 "I reckon Mandy's got catnip on her clothes," 
 said Mrs. Beshears, by way of explanation. 
 
 "No," replied Mandy , "I hain't seen no catnip 
 not sence I was a little bit of a gal." 
 
 "William," remarked sister Jane in the tone 
 she always employed when her mind was made 
 up, "I '11 thank you to light the fire in the next 
 room." 
 
 "If you're lightin' it for me, Jane, don't do 
 it," said Mrs. Beshears. "I'd stay if I could, 
 but I 'm ableedge to go home. I 've got to go if 
 I have to fly." 
 
 "No, Sally; there's another room if you make 
 up your mind to stay," replied sister Jane. 
 "Light the fire, William." 
 
 As I went from the room, I heard her talking 
 all sorts of foolish talk to the baby, as women will, 
 while the baby was cooing a pretty reply. The
 
 THE BABY IS^ PUT TO BED. 47 
 
 hearth was fixed ready for an emergency. Pine 
 splinters of the required "fatness" were stuck 
 here and there between the seasoned hickory logs, 
 and it was no trouble at all to make the fire. 
 The draft in the chimney flue, responsive to the 
 wind outside, was very strong, and a warm and 
 cheerful blaze was soon roaring on the hearth. 
 
 Standing before it a moment, I noticed that the 
 fury of the tempest outside had abated somewhat, 
 though the wind was still blowing stiffly. I heard, 
 too, a suspicious tinkling sound on the panes of 
 the window that had no blinds. Drawing aside 
 the curtain, I saw that the ground was covered 
 with snow, and that it was still snowing briskly. 
 This was so rare a spectacle in our part of the 
 country that not many .children in the village 
 under ten years of age had seen it, and I caught 
 myself wondering what impression it would make 
 on them. Then I heard the clock striking twelve, 
 and, before the sound had died away, there came 
 a knocking at the outer door. Wondering what 
 this might mean, I hastened to respond, and found 
 on the outside a tall negro man. 
 
 "Who are you, and what under the canopy of 
 heaven do you want at this time of night?" I 
 asked with some show of irritation. 
 
 "'T ain't nobody but Mose, suh. I fotch de 
 buggy atter Miss Sally, ef she 's here, en ef she 
 ain't here, de Lord knows whar she is, kaze she 
 ain't at home, ner nowhars nigh dar." 
 
 Of course I knew Moses. Mrs. Beshears had
 
 48 SISTER JANE. 
 
 selected him to be the foreman on her place, be 
 cause he was a little bit less lazy than the rest of 
 the negroes. So I made Moses come in, and car 
 ried him to my own room, where a fire was still 
 burning. He wiped his feet over and over again, 
 shook the snow from his clothes, and struck his 
 hat against the wall several times before he ac 
 cepted the invitation to come in and warm himself 
 while Mrs. Beshears was getting ready to go. 
 There was no light in the room except the dim 
 one that came from the red glow of the hearth, 
 and as Moses stood in front of it, changing his 
 hat from one hand to the other as he warmed 
 each by turns, his stalwart figure cast an imposing 
 silhouette on the wall and ceiling. 
 
 "I'm name Moses," he said, as if talking to 
 himself, "en ef dish yer fire ain't de prommus 
 Ian', I ain't never seed no prommus Ian'." 
 
 "Is the weather very cold?" I asked, as I fas 
 tened the door. 
 
 "Hit gittin' wuss en wuss, suh," he replied. 
 "De fros' done got in de sap er de trees, suh, en 
 ez I wuz driving' long thoo de grove out yan', I 
 hear one un um pop. Yes, suh, I hear de tree 
 pop, en she pop so loud, 't wuz much ez I could 
 do ter hoi' dat ole hoss out dar. Little mo' en 
 he 'd a run'ded away dat ole hoss would." 
 
 I left Moses enjoying the warmth of the fire, 
 and went to inform Mrs. Beshears that she had 
 been sent for. I walked along the hallway, 
 opened the door, and was about to speak to her
 
 THE BABY IS PUT TO BED. 49 
 
 when I heard sister Jane's "sh-sh-h!" and saw 
 her raise her hand in warning. In some alarm, 
 I enquired in a whisper what the trouble was. 
 A gesture of her hand told me that the baby was 
 asleep, and I was glad to find that., it was nothing 
 worse, for the events of the night had prepared 
 me to fear that some new complications had taken 
 shape during my absence from the room. 
 
 Breathing a sigh of relief, I told Mrs. Beshears, 
 in a tone not calculated to disturb the baby, that 
 Moses had come for her. She tiptoed to sister 
 Jane's chair, peeped at the sleeping baby and said 
 good-night. Then she tiptoed to Mandy Satterlee 
 and shook hands with her. This done, a new 
 trouble arose. How was she to arouse the little 
 negro boy, who was one of the seven sleepers? 
 At my suggestion, made in pantomime, she took 
 him by one arm, while I seized him by the other. 
 In this way, we lifted him bodily from the room 
 into the hallway, shut the door, and dragged him 
 along the best we could in the dark to my room, 
 where, after a shake or two from Mrs. Beshears, 
 and a word from Mose, the boy was able to stand 
 on his feet without assistance. 
 
 "I reckon we can talk like folks out here," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Beshears. "You hear me say it, 
 William, if Jane Wornum ain't gone daft over 
 that young 'un, I 'd like to know the reason. 
 Why, the minnit it shet its eyeleds, nobody could 
 say a word. If you spoke to Jane she 'd shake 
 her head and p'int to the baby. At her time of
 
 50 SISTER JANE. 
 
 life, too! I declare, it beats all. Is that you, 
 Moses? "Well, why n't you wait till mornin' to 
 come after me?" 
 
 "Kaze, Mistiss, I knowed mighty well you 'd 
 wanter come fo' mornin'," replied Moses, ignor 
 ing the sarcasm. 
 
 "Well, I 'd 'a' waited till after sun-up, anyway, 
 if I 'd 'a' been you," remarked Mrs. Beshears. 
 "Did you fetch the wheel-barrer or the ox-cart?" 
 
 "I fotch ol' Sam en de buggy, ma'am," an 
 swered Moses. 
 
 " Well, good Lord ! are you going to walk and 
 lead old Sam, or shall I have to walk and lead 
 him? He can't haul us all." 
 
 "He mighty gaily ter-night, ma'am. Much 
 ez I kin do ter hoi' him whence we 'uz comiii' 
 'long des now. Better wrop yo'se'f up good, 
 Mistiss, kaze dish yer wedder is de kin' what '11 
 creep under de kiver, I don't keer how much you 
 may pile on." 
 
 But Mrs. Beshears was fortified in this respect. 
 When she was ready to go she bade me good 
 night, Moses bowed, as I held the door open, and 
 in a moment I heard the horse's feet crunching 
 through the snow, which had already formed an 
 outer crust. Then I went back to sister Jane's 
 room to see if I could be of any service before 
 going to bed. Mandy Satterlee was still holding 
 the cat in her lap, gazing into the depths of the 
 fireplace. The color had returned to her face, 
 and though her hair was tossed about, its black
 
 THE BABY IS PUT TO BED. 51 
 
 masses made a fitting frame for her features ; and 
 I saw at a glance that among her- other misfor 
 tunes she had the dower of beauty. Sister Jane 
 was still holding the baby, humming a low tune. 
 Her warning hand told me that I had forgotten 
 to steal into the room on my tiptoes, perceiving 
 which, the baby's mother intervened. 
 
 "You may make all the fuss you want to, 
 now," she said. "He 'd wake ef you drapped 'im 
 on the floor, maybe, but I don't know what else 
 would wake 'im. He hain't no trouble in the 
 wide world." She made this remark with a touch 
 of pride that was unmistakable. "I'll take 'im, 
 now," she went on. "Oh, the Lord knows I 
 don't want to worry you-all. I know I ought n't 
 to be settin' here. I ain't nothiii' ner nobody." 
 
 "William," said sister Jane, "turn down the 
 bed-cover in the next room, and warm the pil 
 lows." 
 
 "Le' me do it! Oh, le' me do somethin', so 
 I won't run ravin' crazy. I don't know how to 
 set here holdin' my han's an' a-doin' of no good," 
 said the baby's mother. 
 
 "Show her the way, William." Sister Jane's 
 tone was not less imperative because her voice 
 was pitched in a lower key. So I made haste to 
 show Mandy Satterlee where the room was, and 
 while she turned down the cover and smoothed 
 out the snow-white sheets anew, I took occasion 
 to renew the fire, so that the room would remain 
 comfortably warm for the rest of the night. Hav-
 
 52 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ing finished this I stood before the fire, expecting 
 to see the young woman fetch the pillow to be 
 warmed. After watching the fire a moment, and 
 hearing no sound, I turned and saw Mandy lean 
 ing on the foot-board of the bed, which was a 
 high one, silently weeping. So I took the pillow, 
 placed one end on the floor and leaned it against 
 a chair. Presently sister Jane came in bringing 
 the baby. 
 
 "If the pillow's warm, William, put it back 
 on the bed." 
 
 I made sure of the warmth, for I knew that 
 sister Jane would test it by laying her cheek 
 against it, and placed it on the bed. She gave 
 it a light blow with her free hand, laid the baby 
 down, and drew the cover over it with the great 
 est care. Then she turned to the mother. 
 
 "What's the matter, Mandy?" she asked in 
 her practical way. 
 
 "Nothin' in the wide world," replied Mandy, 
 eagerly, though the tears were streaming down 
 her cheeks. " Pleas 'm don't le' me worry you. 
 I 'm happier right now than I 've been sence 
 sence I don't know when. It ain't when I cry 
 that I 'm in trouble; it 's when I can't cry." 
 
 "Then come and sit by me," said sister Jane, 
 "and cry to your heart's content. It'll do you 
 a world of good. See to the doors and the fires, 
 William." 
 
 Taking this as a gentle hint, I went out, and 
 inspected all the outer doors, trying the locks, to
 
 THE BABY IS PUT TO BED. 53 
 
 make sure that they were fastened. This was a 
 part of the nightly routine, but it was a useless 
 task to be set for me, for sister Jane was sure to 
 slip around to each door after I had gone to bed, 
 to satisfy herself that it was secure. 
 
 What these two women said to each other in 
 that hour the one strong and self-reliant, but 
 charitable, the other weak and erring, but peni 
 tent in heart and mind I never knew ; I never 
 wanted to know. For revelation would have 
 made commonplace a matter over which secrecy 
 had thrown a sacred veil. There are mysteries 
 which divination exalt, and this was one of them. 
 The cry of a penitent is heard with more joy in 
 heaven than the prayer of a saint; it may be 
 misunderstood here, but it is rightly heard there 
 through all the riot and uproar of the spinning 
 worlds. 
 
 After I had attended to everything, as usual, 
 I opened the door of the room to bid sister Jane 
 good-night, as had been my habit since childhood. 
 But what I saw made me pause on the threshold. 
 Sister Jane sat in a low chair with her arms 
 around Mandy Satterlee, who was kneeling on the 
 floor at her side. Mandy's hair fell in black coils 
 to the floor; neither one heard or saw me. There 
 was a murmur of conversation, but I did not pause 
 to hear. Closing the door gently, I went to my 
 room, and was soon sound asleep.
 
 V. 
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 
 
 THE next morning the negro boy who was in 
 the habit of making the fires failed to put in an 
 appearance. And no wonder. The snow was 
 piled to such a height in the little porch, having 
 been blown into a drift by the wind, that it 
 reached nearly to the door-knob. But a beauti 
 ful sight met my eyes when I looked out. One 
 could almost be tempted to believe that a miracle 
 had been performed in the night. Everywhere 
 the snow lay thick and white, and over the trunks 
 and branches of the trees a thin mantle of ice had 
 been woven. An arbor- vitae tree standing in the 
 garden was so heavily-laden with this unusual gift 
 of winter that its branches gave forth a queer 
 creaking sound when they swayed in the light 
 breeze; and the honeysuckle vine made a rare 
 show in its garment of mingled sleet and snow 
 winter's patchwork. 
 
 But I had no time to enjoy the scene. I made 
 haste to go to the cook-room, intending to start 
 the fire, and, in this way, help sister Jane as 
 much as possible. But when I got there a fire 
 was roaring on the hearth, and Mandy Satterlee 
 was sitting before it. She rose as I entered.
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 5o 
 
 "I 'm mighty glad you 're up," she said, with a 
 movement of her lips that was almost . a smile. 
 "I slipped out of bed an' come out here to see ef 
 I couldn't he'p aroun' a little. I started the fire 
 an' then had to set down an' wait for somebody. 
 I didn't want to wake her up, 'cause I know in 
 reason she must be teetotally fagged out. Ef you 
 know how to give out things," ?he went on, "I '11 
 whirl in here an' git breakfast fer you-all in three 
 - shakes of a sheep 's-tail." 
 
 I found the cupboard key, and showed Mandy 
 where the meat, the meal, and the flour were kept, 
 but further I could not go. How much or how 
 little to give out for making a meal and prevent 
 ing all waste, was a problem I had not mastered. 
 Instead of laughing at my total ignorance Mandy 
 shoved me gently aside and took charge of mat- 
 ;ers. 
 
 Then I made a fire in my own room, after many 
 efforts, and when I went back, sister Jane was up 
 and out and engaged in a friendly quarrel with 
 Mandy Satterlee. 
 
 "Why, what in the world do you mean by not 
 waking me? " sister Jane was saying. "Where 's 
 William? William, why didn't you wake me 
 and let this poor thing rest? " 
 
 "For the best reason in the world," I answered. 
 "I was sound asleep myself, and when I did 
 wake, I found a fire roaring in the chimney here." 
 
 "Well, this beats all," remarked sister Jane. 
 "I'm no chicken, and this is the first time I 've
 
 56 S1STEK JANE. 
 
 ever overslept myself since I 've been a woman 
 grown." 
 
 "That 's because you 've never had to retch out 
 an' pick up a poor stray creetur before," said 
 Mandy Satterlee. 
 
 "'T ain't that," explained sister Jane. "I've 
 been up just as late, and I 've been through just 
 as much and more, too, for that matter; but 
 sun-up never caught me in bed before, not since 
 I was a slip of a gal." 
 
 "Well, once in a way won't hurt," remarked 
 Mandy. "By the time you turn 'roun' once or 
 twice breakfus '11 be ready." 
 
 Sister Jane opened her eyes wide and made an 
 exclamation, which, plainly enough, was not the 
 result of surprise alone. For, though particular 
 about many things, she was most particular about 
 the preparation of her food. She would never 
 tolerate a negro cook. Cleanliness was a part of 
 her religious creed, and she practiced it unceas 
 ingly and (I sometimes thought, especially on 
 scouring days) unsparingly. I am sure she winced 
 inwardly when Mandy Satterlee said that break 
 fast was nearly ready. 
 
 "I reckon I done wrong," said Mandy; "I'm 
 good at that. But I jest had to do somethin'. 
 Ef you hain't never had the feelin' I hope you 
 never will. When I git that a-way, I 'm jest 
 ableeged to do somethin'. But ever'body says I 'm 
 a good cook. I begun it when I wuz a little gal, 
 an' I 've been a-doin' of it off an' on ev'ry sence.
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 57 
 
 I do hope you '11 jest taste of the vittles any 
 how." 
 
 "Well, my appetite ain't so mighty good this 
 morning, and I don't care what I eat," replied 
 sister Jane, with characteristic bluntness. Then 
 she went into the room where the baby was still 
 asleep. When she came out, her face wore a 
 pleasanter expression. "He 's sleeping like a 
 log," she said. 
 
 By that time breakfast was ready and the table 
 set. It was surprising with what deftness Mandy 
 handled the crockery -ware, and how apt she was 
 in discovering where everything was kept. Pres 
 ently she said, with a somewhat embarrassed air, 
 "Well, I reckon ever'thing 's ready. Set down 
 an' eat it while it 's warm." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked sister 
 Jane, seeing that plates had been laid for two 
 only. "Fix a place for yourself." 
 
 "Oh, no'm! I '11 hand the things around. I 
 never eat with any heart right after I 've been 
 cookin'. It '11 rest me to help you." 
 
 Sister Jane placed a chair and plate for Mandy 
 and insisted that she should sit down with us. 
 But neither persuasion nor insistence had any 
 effect on her. She only shook her head, and, 
 finally, closed sister Jane's mouth by placing a 
 plate of smoking waffles under her nose. 
 
 Now, if there was anything my sister was fond 
 of it was hot waffles. She often tried to make 
 them and as often failed, and finally had placed
 
 58 SISTER JANE. 
 
 the irons out of sight behind the pots, and kettles, 
 and ovens. A pleased smile fluttered around her 
 mouth, as she got a whiff of her favorite dish. 
 
 "Why, Mandy, where in the world did you 
 find the waffle-irons?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "I know 'd in reason that you ought to have 
 a pair," replied Mandy, "an' I jest hunted till I 
 found 'em." 
 
 "I hope you cleaned them," said sister Jane. 
 
 "The waffles '11 tell you more about that than 
 I can," was all Mandy would say. 
 
 The breakfast was very fine, and I enjoyed it 
 as much as sister Jane did. The waffles were 
 delicious, the coffee retained the fresh aroma of 
 the roasted berry, the ham was broiled to a turn, 
 and, in fact, everything showed the hand of an 
 adept. In reply to a question, Mandy said her 
 mother had taught her how to cook, and then we 
 remembered that the daughter of a Virginia gen 
 tleman, who had emigrated to this region to better 
 his condition, had outraged her parents and 
 shocked her friends by eloping with Duncan 
 Satterlee. Here, then, were my sister Jane and 
 myself actually enjoying the remote results of a 
 social dislocation (if I may so term it) which had 
 caused no little stir when it happened, and which 
 was still talked of when old people desired to 
 point a moral for the benefit of their daughters. 
 It was so curious that I determined to make the 
 matter a subject for an essay, written after the 
 manner and in the style of those that still delight
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES HOARDERS. 59 
 
 us in Mr. Addison's little paper, "The Spec 
 tator." 
 
 I have dwelt on these trifles purposely. They 
 were a part of the order of events, and who shall 
 say whether they were not as important in their 
 results as any ? Who shall decide whether Mandy 
 Satterlee's own personality, (which was far from 
 displeasing), or that of her baby, or her art of 
 cookery, was most influential in bringing my sister 
 to decide that the unfortunate young woman 
 should thereafter make her home with us? 
 'T would be a rough and an unsatisfactory way 
 of disposing of an important matter to say that 
 a mere trifle caused my sister Jane to make up 
 her mind to fly in the face of public opinion ; but 
 trifles that seem to be light as air are frequently 
 heavy enough to turn the scale. 
 
 At any rate, sister Jane decided that Mandy 
 Satterlee should remain with us. I was consulted 
 about it as a matter of form, and (that my indi 
 viduality might assert itself) I offered some argu 
 ments against the proposition and pressed them 
 with a show of heat that I was far from feeling. 
 I foresaw that whatever objection I might put 
 forward would cause sister Jane to make up her 
 mind more firmly, for she was never sure she was 
 right until opposition confirmed her intuitions. 
 We talked the matter over for a good quarter of 
 an hour, and I own that I never heard my sister 
 argue as well as she did when she was pleading 
 the cause of this poor outcast. For my part, I
 
 60 SISTER JANE. 
 
 was glad to see her make so trenchant a display 
 of the true Christian spirit toward one of her 
 own sex. The quality of charity is both rare 
 and noble; it is felt oftener than it is practiced. 
 Therefore I was glad that our poor house had 
 been illuminated, as it were, by so large a mea 
 sure of that virtue. 
 
 The upshot of the matter was that, what with 
 the sympathy and tenderness that were a part of 
 her nature, the rosy and cunning baby, the waffles 
 and the coffee, sister Jane decided to give Mandy 
 Satteiiee a home with us until she could find a 
 better. She was sitting with her baby in her lap, 
 fondling and cooing over it, when sister Jane told 
 her. Without a word she placed the youngster 
 on the floor (where it sprawled, and kicked, and 
 crowed), whipped out of the room, and, cold as it 
 was, went into the garden and stood near a peach- 
 tree, breaking off a twig now and then, and send 
 ing its icy covering tinkling along the frozen crust 
 of the snow. She stood there until sister Jane 
 called her, and then she came slowly in with 
 downcast eyes. 
 
 "Don't stand out there in the snow, Mandy. 
 You '11 catch your death of cold." 
 
 "There hain't no danger of that," replied 
 Mandy. "I 'm used to the weather, an' ef I 
 wa'n't, 'twould be all the same. Nobody in the 
 world can ketch cold when the'r heart 's as warm 
 as mine is right now." 
 
 She spoke in- a low voice, and sister Jane was
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 61 
 
 chattering away at the baby, but I think we both 
 heard what Mandy said. For, after a while, sister 
 Jane touched the young mother on the shoulder 
 and said : 
 
 "You 've no right to fret and worry as long as 
 you 've got that child to look after." 
 
 "That's so," Mandy assented, and then she 
 went about cleaning up the house for the day, 
 displaying a dexterity in this business that was 
 astonishing. 
 
 Naturally, in a community as small as ours, 
 the episode that brought Mandy Satterlee to our 
 door was soon bruited about, and I have no doubt 
 the gossips rolled it as a sweet morsel under their 
 tongues. I had no objections to this, though it 
 is possible that sister Jane was somewhat irritated 
 at the thought that her action in the matter would 
 be misconstrued and bandied about from gossip 
 to gossip. 
 
 The first of our neighbors to call was Mrs. 
 Roby. She had not visited us for months before, 
 but now she came, halter-skelter (as you may say), 
 to investigate and satisfy her mind. She was 
 sweet as butter sauce. It was, " Why, Jane ! how 
 well you 're looking I reely believe you are 
 getting yaunger but look at me how faded and 
 wrinkled I am I declare I 'in getting old so fast 
 I don't know what kind of clothes to put on 
 and how is that clever brother of yours? Why, 
 here he is now how are you, William? It is 
 a shame you should keep yourself shut up so.
 
 62 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Why don't you get married? " and so on in an 
 endless stream of questions to which no answers 
 were expected, and comments that were not in 
 tended to attract any attention. Mrs. Roby kept 
 it up for some time, and then, finally, settled 
 down to the main business to which we owed the 
 honor of her visit. 
 
 "Jane I reckon you won't mind me talking 
 about it before William, because William seems 
 just like one of my own family, and what I 
 wouldn't say before him I wouldn't say before 
 my own brother. I '11 tell anybody that, I don't 
 care who Jane, what's this great rigmarole I 
 hear about old Sal Beshears a-going out of your 
 door yonder and finding a gal and a baby and 
 a-bringing of 'em in? I don't see how under the 
 canopy o' heaven old Sal Beshears could 'a' drug 
 any living human being, or a dead one either for 
 that matter, out of the blinding snow I was at 
 class-meeting that night and I know mighty well 
 that if old Sal Beshears could 'a' drug herself in 
 after she once got out 't would 'a' been as much. 
 And yet I hear 'em say, up and down, that old 
 Sal done all this by her own self." 
 
 "Well, Maria," remarked sister Jane, when 
 Mrs. Roby paused to take breath, "what if she 
 did? What is wrong about it? " 
 
 " Nothing, Jane nothing in the world. It 
 looked to me like it was past all reason that a 
 crippled old soul like Sal Beshears could 'a' done 
 what they say she done."
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. G3 
 
 " Sometimes when folks get excited they can do 
 lots more than they could if they were calm," 
 suggested sister Jane, pleasantly, though my prac 
 ticed eye could see that she was boiling inwardly 
 if I may venture to employ the metaphor. 
 
 "That 's so," replied Mrs. Roby, placidly shift 
 ing her ground; "that 's certainly so, because I 
 recollect jest as well as if it happened yesterday 
 that one time when I was in my chicken-house 
 nailing on a plank, a settin' hen flew in my face, 
 and it was all done so sudden that it flung me off 
 my balance, and I struck at her with the hammer 
 and missed her, and splintered a scantlin' as big 
 as my leg please excuse me, William, because 
 I always look on you as one of my own family. 
 I couldn't 'a' done it if I hadn't 'a' been excited 
 to save my life." 
 
 "Well, the fact is that Sally Beshears didn't 
 drag the woman in any more than you did," said 
 sister Jane, as she basted the lining in a frock- 
 coat. 
 
 "Why, you don't tell me! Well, that outdoes 
 me ! And it 's the talk of the town. Everybody 
 says that old Sally Beshears took and drug the 
 woman in. And that ain't all no, ma'am! If 
 you '11 believe me, that ain't all by a long sight. 
 They say that the woman and her baby are here 
 right now. Sister Pulliam says that they are jest 
 as much at home here as if they 'd 'a' been born 
 and brought up here. I says to her, says I, 
 ' Sister Pulliam, we both belong to the same
 
 64 SISTER JANE. 
 
 church, and I don't mind telling you that you 
 ought not to talk that a-way unless you know 'd 
 that what you say is so, because, ' says I, ' I 've 
 been knowing Jane Wormim a mighty long time, 
 and I know mighty well that she 's not the 
 woman,' says I, ' to take - no risks unless she 's got 
 some good reason,' says I." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad you told 'em that, Maria," 
 exclaimed sister Jane in a tone suspiciously sweet. 
 "If you '11 look over on the sofa there, you '11 see 
 the baby, and its mammy ain't so far off but 
 she 'd come running in if she heard it -holler." 
 
 Mrs. Roby sat as if she had been petrified. 
 Her tongue for some moments resigned its office. 
 She could only rub her chin and wag her head. 
 After a while she managed to say : 
 
 "Well, I told 'em you had some good reason." 
 
 "The best in the world, Maria," said sister 
 Jane. "If you ain't certain what it is, you'll 
 find it in the Bible, and if you haven't got a 
 Bible, ask your preacher. I '11 be bound he can 
 tell you if he knows his business." 
 
 "Why, you know I've got a Bible, Jane. It 
 sets right on the centre -table in my parlor in fidl 
 view. You 've not been to my house much, but 
 you 've been often enough to see the Bible in my 
 parlor." 
 
 "Put it in your living room, then, for the 
 Lord's sake, where you can read it every chance 
 you get." The asperity of sister Jane's tone was 
 ill-concealed by the genial smile that played
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 65 
 
 around her mouth. A woman never smiles more 
 sweetly or sincerely than wnen she feels or knows 
 she is saying things that are calculated to make 
 a friendly enemy wince. 
 
 "I declare, Jane!" exclaimed 'Mrs. Roby, "if 
 anybody that didn't know you was to hear you 
 talking, they 'd think you were mean and frac 
 tious. But we know her too well for that, don't 
 we, William?" 
 
 I assented to this very heartily, for though 
 Mrs. Roby had made the remark sarcastically, I 
 knew it to be true that my sister had the tenderest 
 heart in the world. Suddenly Mrs. Roby broke 
 forth again : 
 
 " Oh, yes ! There 's another thing I like to 
 V forgot. Sister Cosby says that Sister Flewellen 
 told her day before yesterday that the reason you 
 was keeping the gal was because you wanted to 
 take in boarders. But I told Sister Cosby "- 
 
 Before Mrs. Roby could ramble off into another 
 of her rigmaroles, sister Jane brought her hand 
 down on the press-board with a resounding 
 thwack. 
 
 "Well, I thank Sue Flewellen for that," she 
 cried. " I had n't thought of it before, but it 's the 
 very thing. I never did think Sue was right bright, 
 but I '11 have to change my mind. William, 
 think it over. I don't know how many times the 
 clerks in Harvey's and Ward well's and Slade's 
 stores have asked me why I didn't take a few 
 boarders, and every time I 've told 'em it was
 
 66 SISTER JANE. 
 
 because I had to do my own cooking and now 
 the Lord has sent me the best cook in the United 
 States, if I do say it myself." 
 
 The point of this remark lay in the fact that 
 Mrs. Roby herself kept boarders, and was, at 
 that moment "entertaining" (as she was pleased 
 to call it) the young gentlemen who were clerking 
 in the stores sister Jane had named. It was most 
 interesting to a student of human nature to watch 
 the expression of Mrs. Roby's face as sister Jane 
 spoke. Dismay, disgust, chagrin, doubt, and 
 amazement fluttered over her countenance a 
 tangled medley of emotions. For once in her life 
 she knew not what to say, and when she did 
 speak, her voice was pitched low. 
 
 "All I can say," she remarked, as she rose to 
 go, "is that I hope you'll have better luck and 
 less trouble with your boarders than I 've ever 
 had with mine. Well, I must go; I just dropped 
 in to say howdy and let you know that I hadn't 
 forgot you." 
 
 "No need to tear yourself away," said sister 
 Jane, hospitably. "Well, good-by, if you will 
 go. When you see Sue Flewellen, tell her I 'm 
 mighty much obliged to her for her hint. It 's 
 a good one." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Roby was neither as voluble nor as 
 gay when she went out as when she came in, and 
 I could but remark, with a vague feeling of 
 regret, that, in proportion as Mrs. Roby's spirits 
 had fallen, my sister's had risen.
 
 SISTER JANE TAKES BOARDERS. 67 
 
 "I think Maria put her foot in it this time," 
 said sister Jane, laughing heartily, as she returned 
 from the door. "A nice woman she is to go 
 around telling folks about the slurring remarks 
 that other people have made about them, and all 
 the time a-prying around and nosing about to see 
 what she can find out." 
 
 It turned out that sister Jane was more than 
 half serious when she said she intended to take 
 day boarders. The idea dropped by Mrs. Roby 
 grew clay by day, until, on the advice of Mandy 
 Satterlee, it developed into a fact. It was not 
 wholly agreeable to me at first thought; but, on 
 reflecting that it would get my sister out of the 
 habit of tailoring, which seemed to grow on her 
 year by year, and bring us both in contact with 
 fairly pleasant people, I decided to offer no objec 
 tions whatever. Of this I was glad when expe 
 rience had convinced me that a certain degree of 
 amusement, as well as instruction, is to be derived 
 from listening to the small talk and studying the 
 characters of a parcel of lively young men who 
 regard life as a less serious problem than their 
 elders are wont to do.
 
 VI. 
 
 MISS MAKY BULLARD. 
 
 THE young men (as I have hinted) were no 
 bother to me. They came with their light hearts 
 and leaping hopes, enlivened each meal by their 
 chatter, and then were off again. If a time came 
 when I had no desire to hear their small talk, I 
 had but to remain away from the table, knowing 
 that either my sister or Mandy Satterlee would 
 put by something for me. 
 
 And so the days went by, winter giving place 
 to the gradual approach of spring. One of the 
 first intimations was the fluttering of a pair of 
 bluebirds around a hollow post in the garden. 
 Then came Miss Jennie Wren and her chosen one 
 peeping about in my honeysuckle vine, and mak 
 ing an extraordinary disturbance for so small a 
 pair when they saw Tommy Tinkins promenading 
 in that neighborhood. Following hard upon their 
 heels (if one may say so) a mocking-bird perched 
 himself in the top of the cedar, and swinging as 
 in a hammock, took it upon himself to show the 
 other birds how they should deliver themselves of 
 the songs that are native to their throats. Then 
 the plum-trees put forth their forward blossoms,
 
 MfSS MARY BULLARD. 69 
 
 followed by the peach-trees, until, presently (in 
 a night, as it were), spring was upon us, and 
 Mary Bullard filled all the garden with her pres 
 ence, her beauty and innocence comparable only 
 to the first shy flowers of the season. 
 
 If her name has not been mentioned more fre 
 quently in these pages it is not because she ceased 
 to play a definite part in the scenes, commonplace 
 or otherwise, that were a part of our daily expe 
 rience. She was in and out of the house con 
 stantly, only the severest weather preventing her 
 from paying a daily visit to sister Jane. It may 
 have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that 
 after she had been told the story of the findingof 
 Mandy Satterlee in the snow and sleet on "that 
 bitter cold night, her manner was a shade more 
 pensive than before. It was as if she had some 
 thing more serious to think about, some new and 
 strange problem to unravel. When the weather 
 became really fine, she would wander in the gar 
 den with a book, which she only read by snatches. 
 Many a time, as she sat in the latticed summer- 
 house, I have seen the book slip through her 
 fingers and fall to the ground unnoticed, while 
 she gazed into space lost in thought. I used to 
 say to myself with a sigh, as I watched her from 
 my covert of honeysuckle vines, that her thoughts 
 were not my thoughts. She was blossoming into 
 young womanhood, while my star of destiny (if 
 perchance I had one) had already passed the 
 zenith.
 
 70 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Say what you will, there is a wide gap between 
 twenty and thirty odd when these numbers mark 
 the years. There is a wider gap still between a 
 girl of nineteen or twenty, full of life and the joy 
 of living, and an old man of thirty -five or forty, 
 who begins to look backward instead of forward, 
 and who sighs for the days that are gone instead 
 of fixing expectation on those that are to come. 
 Sir Thomas Browne says it is the heaviest stone 
 melancholy can throw at a man to tell him he is 
 at the end of hi nature; but melancholy has 
 pebbles which, on occasions, she fits to her sling. 
 She throws a jagged one when, knocking at the 
 door of a man's heart, she tells him that he has 
 arrived at the age when love is not for him, that 
 he has come to the period when youth and beauty 
 must pass him by. I never looked at Mary Bui- 
 lard but this jagged pebble came whizzing through 
 the honeysuckle vines. Sometimes, indeed, it rat 
 tled harmless at my feet, but there were other 
 times when it hit the mark and left a wound. 
 
 It seemed to me that pensiveness added a new 
 charm to Mary's beauty, or it may have been that 
 her beauty lent a new charm to pensiveness. 
 Sometimes she would leave her book and her hat 
 in the summer house, and make our kitchen beau 
 tiful by her presence. There she would maka 
 herself agreeable to Mandy Satterlee, and such 
 was her gift for attracting the love of all who 
 knew her that Mandy, as she often said herself, 
 came to worship the ground that Mary walked on.
 
 MISS MARY BULLARD. 71 
 
 And Mandy was not without companionship in 
 this ; she had her fellow worshippers. By instinct 
 or intuition Mary Bullard seemed to know that 
 here was a woman who stood in sore need of the 
 sympathy of the innocent and pure-minded of her 
 own sex. This sympathy Mary gave to Mandy 
 Satterlee in full measure, and found her reward 
 in a devotion that was beautiful to behold. 
 
 I found out long afterwards that sister Jane 
 never told Mary the story of Mandy Satterlee's 
 troubles. Nor did my sister ever tell it to me; 
 I only came to know it gradually, as it is unfolded 
 in these pages. And I thank heaven that all the 
 facts never came to Mary's ears until Providence 
 had robbed the episode of some of the features 
 that had else been such a severe shock to her 
 innocence. 
 
 Innocence! Her character, her conversation, 
 every tone of her voice, every gesture of her 
 hands, each glance of her eye, gave a new mean 
 ing and illumination to the word. This had been 
 so borne in upon me that when Mrs. Sally Be- 
 shears, on an occasion that has already been 
 described, made some sneering remarks about 
 Mary Bullard's father, the colonel, and hinted at 
 some mistreatment of his brother, my surprise 
 was not greater than my indignation, but, besides 
 having a feeling of regard for Mrs. Beshears, I 
 felt that I was no match for her in the bandying 
 of words. Reflecting on the matter afterwards 
 and analyzing the motives that lay behind my
 
 72 SISTER JANE. 
 
 indignation, I was soon enabled to discover that 
 Mary Bullard was behind it, and, though the 
 darkness of night enveloped me as a mantle, I 
 could feel that the discovery carried the warm 
 blood to my face. Try as I would, I could find 
 no other motive. In my mind the innocence of 
 Mary Bullard was a cover and protection for her 
 father's good name. 
 
 Something or other I hardly knew what, for 
 self-examination fails to reveal everything the 
 words of Mrs. Beshears became grounded in my 
 memory, and I rarely saw Colonel Bullard go by 
 in his stately and measured way without defend 
 ing him in my own mind from the haphazard and 
 flippant attack that Mrs. Beshears had made on 
 him; not an attack either, but merely a reckless 
 hint of what she might say if she had a mind to. 
 Sometimes I felt that the habit of solitary reflec 
 tion led me to exaggerate the importance of a 
 chance word dropped from the tongue of an old 
 woman who rarely took the trouble to measure the 
 effect of her statements. Once I mentioned the 
 matter to sister Jane, who had good judgment in 
 such matters, but I got small consolation from her. 
 
 "For the Lord's sake, William!" she ex 
 claimed, "what have you got to do with Colonel 
 Bullard? He 's at one end of the block and 
 you 're at the other. He 's attending to his busi 
 ness every day and not bothering you ; why can't 
 you attend to your business, if you 've got any, 
 and not pester him? "
 
 MISS MARY DULLARD. 73 
 
 "But you heard what Mrs. Beshears said about 
 him," I persisted. 
 
 "I ain't so mighty certain of that, neither," 
 said sister Jane. "As people talk, so I listen. 
 Sally Beshears don't know what she 's going to 
 say until the word 's out of her mouth, and by the 
 time it 's out of her mouth, it 's out of her mind. 
 But what have you got to do with Colonel Bui- 
 lard's ups and downs, I 'd like to know?" 
 
 "Well, there 's Mary," I suggested. 
 
 "And what about Mary?" 
 
 "She 's his daughter." 
 
 "Well, you are coming on! " cried sister Jane, 
 lifting her eyebrows in a way I didn't like. 
 "You are so tied up with yourself that I didn't 
 know but you might think Mary was the colonel's 
 grandmother. She was in here to-day, and said 
 she didn't believe you had looked at her since she 
 got back from ' Philamadelphy, ' as old Sol, the 
 negro, calls it." 
 
 "She 's very much mistaken," I answered with 
 some heat. 
 
 "Don't get mad with the poor child. She 
 wasn't crying when she said it, I '11 tell you that." 
 
 "I can well believe that," said I. "Why 
 should she care whether I cast my eyes towards 
 her or not? " 
 
 "She doesn't," remarked sister Jane, with an 
 emphasis I did not relish. "But it 's the honest 
 truth, William, you don't treat Mary with com- 
 mou politeness. She never conies in the house
 
 74 SISTER JANE. 
 
 but you jump up and scramble about until you 
 get your legs under you and then shuffle off to 
 your den as if you were afraid the child would bite 
 you. Why, if she had tushes and the will to do 
 it, she couldn't gnaw through your hide in a 
 week." 
 
 There was enough truth in what sister Jane 
 said to make it both disagreeable and embarrass 
 ing, and I felt myself growing red in the face. 
 
 "I don't say you ought to follow her up and 
 dawdle around her," sister Jane went on, repent 
 ing a little; "you 're too old for that; but you 've 
 been knowing her ever since she was a little bit 
 of a gal, and what 's the use of running away 
 every time she darkens the door? 'T ain't been 
 a week since she asked me what was the matter 
 with you. I wanted to know what she meant, 
 and she said you had changed so since she went 
 off to school that she did n't know what to make 
 of it." 
 
 "Why, don't you see what the trouble is?" I 
 cried. "The change is in her. She was a young 
 girl when she went away, and when she came 
 back she was a grown young woman." 
 
 "That sort of talk is like lighting a candle in 
 a dark room and then snuffing it out again. She 's 
 changed from a girl to a likely young woman, but 
 that 's no reason why you should act as if you was 
 afeared she 'd eat you up the first chance she got. 
 I declare if you wasn't my own blood kin, the 
 way you do when that child conies in would be
 
 MISS MARY BULLARD. 75 
 
 comufal. I always have to think up some cock- 
 and-bull story to account for it, because reely 
 I don't want Mary to see how ridiculous you 
 are." 
 
 I turned and stalked out of the room with a 
 show of indignation that was partly feigned and 
 partly real, and I determined then and there to 
 conduct myself with more dignity when Mary 
 Bullard happened to find me in sister Jane's 
 room, or in that part of the house. 
 
 One day, in reflecting over what sister Jane had 
 said, it suddenly occurred to me that, by changing 
 the subject in such a manner as to take me off my 
 feet, she had neatly avoided expressing her opinion 
 as to the truth or falsity of Mrs. Beshears's innu 
 endoes in regard to Colonel Bullard. But fortune 
 (as I thought) seemed to favor my inquisitiveness 
 in this matter, for it was not long before Mrs. 
 Beshears, paying us one of her regular evening 
 visits, happened to mention the name of Colonel 
 Bullard. Whereupon I was prompt to remind 
 her of the remarks she had made about him some 
 months before. She laughed somewhat harshly, 
 exchanged glances with sister Jane, which struck 
 me as somewhat singular, and then looked into 
 the flame of the candle. There was silence for 
 a while, and then sister Jane spoke. 
 
 "If all fools were fiddlers, Sally, we'd know 
 'em by the bag they 'd carry," she remarked. 
 
 "That 's a true word, Jane," assented Mrs. 
 Beshears. Then they both laughed, but, for my
 
 76 SISTER JANE. 
 
 part, I was totally in the dark as to the cause of 
 their merriment, and am to this day. 
 
 "I'll tell you, William," said Mrs. Beshears, 
 turning to me in a kindly way that was almost 
 motherly, "you mustn't remember every word 
 that the old woman lets drop. Sometimes she 's 
 fretted, but that 's because she has a heap more 
 on her mind than you 've any idee of. As you 
 see Colonel Bullard now, so he 's been for many 
 a long year. My advice, William, is for you to 
 take folks as you find 'em, an' if they don't pester 
 you, don't you pester them." 
 
 "But. you said something about his brother," 
 I ventured to suggest. 
 
 "Did I, reely ? " asked Mrs. Beshears. " Well, 
 I might 'a' done it, because the colonel had a 
 brother. You know, William, the colonel's folks 
 moved here from the Goosepond settlement down 
 yander in Wilkes, an' that 's where my folks 
 come fi$m. The colonel had a brother, there 
 ain't no manner o' doubt about that. What did 
 I tell you his name was, Jane? Oh, yes, Clar 
 ence Clarence Bullard. He 'd be somewhere's 
 about fifty year old if he 'd 'a' kept straight, but 
 his daddy named him a book name." 
 
 "A book name!" cried Mandy Satterlee, who 
 was sitting near the candle-stand doing some 
 mending. "Well, the lawsy massy! What kind 
 of a name is that ? " 
 
 "A name took out of a book," replied Mrs. 
 Beshears. "I've heard all my life that a name
 
 MISS MARY BULLARD. 77 
 
 took out of a book is mighty apt to stunt a child, 
 if it don't make him go wrong when he grows up. 
 Well, when the colonel's brother was born, his 
 daddy wanted a nice name for him, so he read 
 and read in books, and bimeby he come across 
 this name of Clarence, and he slapt it onto the 
 poor little baby without knowin' or a-keerin' 
 whether it fit or not." 
 
 "Why, what is the matter with that name?" 
 I asked in some surprise. 
 
 "Matter!" exclaimed Mrs. Beshears. "Every 
 thing 's the matter with it. Did you ever hear of 
 anybody named Clarence a-doin' a day's work in 
 all your whole lifetime ? If you 've ever heard of 
 it, jest let me know an' I '11 up an' make a black 
 mark on the chimney -jam there." 
 
 Mrs. Beshears looked at me so seriously that 
 I was obliged to smile, seeing which, she resumed 
 her argument, and in a way not very comfortable 
 to me. 
 
 "Take your own name," she said. "If Jane 
 here had called you Bill, you would 'a' grow'd 
 up to be a tall stout man, but she called you 
 William, an' that stunted you in heft an' height. 
 Don't tell me there ain't nothin' in a name. I 'm 
 lots too old to be fooled that a-way. Why, sup- 
 posin' they'd 'a' called me Sarah, stidder Sal: 
 what under the blue canopy would I 'a' looked 
 like?" 
 
 Truth to tell, I was both vexed and amused, 
 but I was quick to remember that the wisest of
 
 78 SISTER JANE. 
 
 men is no match for a shrewd woman's tongue. 
 Moreover, I was fortunate enough to perceive 
 that my anxiety to defend Colonel Bullard was 
 ridiculous in the extreme. It came to me in a 
 flash, when Mrs. Beshears inquired in a tone more 
 solemn than usual : 
 
 "William, has the colonel got you hired in a 
 law-case, or somethin' of that sort?" 
 
 "No, ma'am!" I replied emphatically, realiz 
 ing the awkwardness of my position. "What 
 put that queer idea into your head ? " 
 
 "I didn't know," she answered. 
 
 "What became of the colonel's brother?" I 
 asked, more to hide my own confusion than to get 
 the information I asked for. The brother was 
 nothing to me. 
 
 "Now that 's what pesters me," said Mrs. Be 
 shears reflectively. "The colonel was his guar- 
 deen, but as soon as Clarence come of age, he 
 took his name an' what little of his belongings 
 that he had left and packed 'em all up in a carpet- 
 sack, an' jest made a teetotal disappearance. But 
 I most always say to myself, when I think about 
 it, that nobody, not even the colonel, don't want 
 any brother, when he 's got as handsome a gal as 
 Mary Bullard. How is Mary, Jane? She ain't 
 been out my way not sence the apples was in blos 
 som." 
 
 Then the conversation drifted to matters in 
 which I had no interest, and I took myself off to 
 my room, to sit in the dark and have strange
 
 MISS MARY BULLARD. 79 
 
 thoughts, and, when drowsiness overcame me, to 
 go to bed and dream strange dreams. For, small 
 as the room was, it was the door of the world to 
 me, especially when the dark had fallen and the 
 lights in the village had been put out one by one. 
 I had but to enter it and set my fancy free, as 
 a wild bird is loosed from a cage, and, lo! the 
 stars became lanthorns to guide my imagination 
 on her way. The dull world, where, of necessity, 
 I had my board and lodging, went reeling and 
 plunging through its shadow, leaving me far be 
 hind, or found me, when black midnight peered 
 around the corner, journeying far ahead. It gave 
 me pure joy to know and feel that I was not the 
 awkward, commonplace mortal that my acquaint 
 ances knew ; to feel that I could lift my thoughts 
 as high as the heavens and claim an ownership in 
 the whirling orbs of fire that I found there. 
 
 But the earth is the earth, after all, and it was 
 not without a feeling of satisfaction that I found 
 my feet there after my nightly routs among the 
 constellations. On this particular night, when I 
 went to my room, after talking with sister Jane 
 and Mrs. Beshears, my thoughts did not lift them 
 selves to the abiding-place of the serene stars. I 
 had a vague idea that I had been made the victim 
 of chaff. And then it suddenly occurred to me 
 that Colonel Bullard had not passed through the 
 garden on his way to and from his business since 
 the day of the big snow. This struck me as a 
 curious circumstance, for he had been in the
 
 80 SISTER JANE. 
 
 habit of coming and going that way at least twice 
 a day, especially of mornings, when he would 
 look in and say a pleasant word to sister Jane 
 (while Tommy Tinkins, the cat, hid under the 
 house) or remark to me in a cheery tone : 
 
 "How's business in the legal world, William? 
 Not good, I hope, for when lawyers lack for 
 clients it is a sign that neighbors are at peace." 
 
 And then, without waiting for an answer, he 
 would begin to hum a religious tune, and go on 
 his way, dignified and benignant. Being in the 
 habit of picking my own thoughts to pieces, as 
 the negroes not very long ago picked the lint from 
 the cotton-seed, I wondered why I had not missed 
 the colonel's large presence from the garden some 
 time before. Winter had become spring, and 
 summer was putting on her robes, and yet, until 
 now, I had not observed that Colonel Bullard no 
 longer passed through the garden. If a shrub 
 had been taken from the flourishing expanse, I 
 should have missed it; if one of the little wrens 
 nesting above the door had lost a feather from 
 a wing, I should have known it; and how my 
 observation had failed in the case of Colonel Bul 
 lard, I could not understand. If it had been 
 Mary but that was different, entirely different ; 
 there is a certain atmosphere a beautiful girl car 
 ries with her that makes her presence felt. 
 
 For weeks after this, I watched for the colonel 
 to come through the garden, but he never came. 
 Once I saw him, through force of habit, come
 
 MISS MARY BULLARD. 81 
 
 part of the way, but lie turned suddenly, as though 
 he had forgotten something, went back, and finally 
 came along the sidewalk. I made it a point to be 
 at our little gate when he passed by and gave him 
 a good-morning as heartily as I could. He bowed 
 coldly and formally, and failed to hum a tune, so 
 far as I could hear. It was plain to the dullest 
 eye that Colonel Bullard was worried about some 
 thing, and I could not help pitying him. 
 
 Whatever his troubles were, they must have 
 been serious. He did not hold his head erect as 
 formerly, and he grew so absent-minded that he 
 frequently went home on the sidewalk opposite his 
 house, a proceeding that was so at variance with 
 his usual methodical habits that the circumstance, 
 though trifling, was remarked by others less ob 
 servant than myself. Others remarked also the 
 gradual change in his manner. In this way these 
 things were so borne in upon me, that I at length 
 felt justified in mentioning the matter to sister 
 Jane. I had intended to refer to them in sequence, 
 but I got no farther than the fact that Colonel 
 Bullard had ceased to pass to and fro through the 
 garden. At this point sister Jane lifted up her 
 voice. 
 
 "Mandy! Mandy Satterlee ! " she called at the 
 top of her voice. Mandy, who was in the cook- 
 room, came running in, brushing the flour from 
 her bare arms. "Mandy, I wish you'd take a 
 quarter of an hour off, and go round the house 
 and see if any of the walk has caved in, or if the 
 underpinning has give way anywhere."
 
 82 SISTER JANE. 
 
 A startled expression sprang into Mandy's face. 
 "Why, Miss Jane! what under the canopies is 
 the matter?" 
 
 "Why, William here says that Colonel Bullard 
 actually don't come through the garden for to tell 
 us howdy any more. If that's so, I know there 
 must have been a cave-in somewhere." 
 
 Mandy Satterlee usually laughed at my sister's 
 sallies, but this time surprise and expectation 
 faded out of her face without giving place to 
 amusement. She merely said, " We '11 hunt for 
 it to-morrow," and went back to her cooking. 
 As for me, I went out of the room with as much 
 dignity as I ' could command under the circum 
 stances. 
 
 But there came a time, and that shortly, when 
 we all pitied Colonel Bullard and his family. 
 Speaking for myself, I am free to say that I was 
 both shocked and grieved, for the circumstances, 
 so far as I know, were without parallel or prece 
 dent in our section of the Union.
 
 VII. 
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 
 
 As may well be supposed, the observations that 
 have been recorded here in regard to the peculiar 
 conduct of Colonel Bullard covered not a week, 
 nor a month, but a period embracing a part of 
 spring and the whole of the summer following the 
 big snow. Nor was I the only one who noted and 
 commented on the change that had taken place in 
 his manner. It had attracted the attention of 
 almost everybody in the community. Some sug 
 gested that he was suffering from liver troubles, 
 while others said that the bank failures had wor 
 ried him. In the entire village, I knew of but 
 three people who were willing to admit that they 
 could see no change in the colonel sister Jane, 
 Mrs. Beshears, and Mandy Satterlee and two 
 of them, I knew, had eyes as sharp as it is ever 
 given to mortals to have. 
 
 On one occasion, when the matter had become 
 common to the gossip and chatter of the village, 
 I heard Mrs. Sue Flewellen, who had come to 
 see sister Jane for the express purpose, making 
 such inquiries as would lead, ordinarily, to a dis 
 cussion of the colonel's mental, physical, and 
 pecuniary condition.
 
 84 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "Er Jane, how is er Colonel Bullard now?" 
 asked Mrs. Flewellen. 
 
 "Well as common, Sue, I reckon. If he's 
 sick, it ain't come to my ears," replied sister 
 Jane. 
 
 "Er well, that is real funny, now. Why, er 
 Jane, they say he's going er off into a decline." 
 
 "He may be for all I know," was the unsatis 
 factory response. "Nobody ain't too good to go 
 into a decline when the time comes. It 's what 
 everybody has to expect some time or other." 
 
 "Oh, but, er Jane, you must er have noticed 
 the change in er Colonel Bullard it's er such 
 a change ! I declare ! I er feel real sorry for his 
 er wife and family. Why, er Jane, he 's not the 
 same man; he 's er no more like Colonel er Bul 
 lard used to be than er I am." 
 
 "Well, I'll take a good look at the colonel 
 next time I see him," said sister Jane, "and see 
 what 's the matter with him. If he looks like he 
 needs any physic, I '11 tell him to go and see old 
 Free Betsey. If she can't cure him, she can 
 conjure him." 
 
 "Oh, it's er awful, Jane and you've never 
 er noticed it! " 
 
 "Sue," remarked sister Jane, with solemn 
 emphasis, "a man's no more to me than a jay 
 bird. I hear a flutter in the chaney-berry tree, 
 and look up and see a jaybird. I hear somebody 
 stepping along as big as if he owned the town, 
 and I look up and see a man. The bird hops off
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 85 
 
 and the man walks on. Out of sight, out of 
 mind. If Colonel Bullard was to come and set 
 in that cheer thare, I might notice that he wasn't 
 looking well, but that 's about all. Why, I 
 would n't know whether William was well or not 
 (and he 's here in the house) if he wasn't so help 
 less and good for nothing that I have to take pity 
 on him." 
 
 Now, I would have taken it for granted that 
 sister Jane was merely playing with Mrs. Flewel- 
 len if she hadn't made a like reply to my own 
 questions a reply not in the same terms, but to 
 the same purport. Mrs. Beshears had seen no 
 thing queer about the colonel, nor had Mandy 
 Satterlee, who, indeed, was not expected to note 
 any change, haying been born and bred some dis 
 tance from the village. 
 
 But we soon became used to whatever change 
 of demeanor Colonel Bullard may have displayed. 
 Gradually his old dignity reasserted itself; he 
 began to hum religious tunes again; and if he 
 was not as cordial to me as formerly he had been, 
 he was polite. But he came through the garden 
 no more, continuing to pass on the opposite side 
 of the street in going to and from his home. So 
 that what had been for a time the occasion of 
 much talk was soon forgotten, especially by those 
 who had made the matter the subject of aimless 
 gossip. 
 
 Meanwhile summer had drawn away into au 
 tumn. The skies were filled with the mystic haze
 
 86 SISTER JANE. 
 
 that marks the season, and the gray green of the 
 great woods stretching away on all sides deepened 
 into more sombre tints, or blazed forth in scarlet, 
 crimson, and yellow. The roses bloomed in their 
 richest beauty, and the crisp cool nights and the 
 dewy mornings were a sufficient compensation for 
 the heat of the days. 
 
 It was on one of these fine mornings that my 
 attention was called to a group of men and chil 
 dren white and black standing in front of 
 the dead wall of an old building on the opposite 
 side of the street. During the night the wall had 
 been covered with flaming pictures, and it was 
 these that had caught the eye of the crowd. I 
 could hear the negroes and the children making 
 many exclamations of wonder, while the white 
 men seemed to be absorbed in studying the gaudy 
 pictures. To satisfy my own curiosity, I crossed 
 the street, and saw that these immense bills were 
 intended to inform the public at large that Rob 
 inson & Eldred's circus and menagerie would 
 pitch its tent and display its wonders on the date 
 set forth, which, as I have good reason to remem 
 ber, was the third day of the first week in Novem 
 ber, the bills having been posted sufficiently in ad 
 vance of that time for all the country-side to have 
 notice served on it that the wonderful show was 
 coming. 
 
 A great many people in the village had heard 
 of circuses, but not more than half a dozen had 
 ever seen one merchants who traveled once a
 
 THE PICTURES OX THE WALL. 87 
 
 year to Augusta, Charleston, or New York to lay 
 in supplies of goods. These favored ones brought 
 back wonderful reports of the sights they had 
 seen at the show, arid the flaming bills now spread 
 forth on the walls seemed to be a confirmation of 
 their reports. I sympathized somewhat with the 
 natural curiosity of the community, strange as it 
 may seem, and presently found myself as deeply 
 absorbed in studying the pictures as the most 
 enthusiastic urchin in the crowd so absorbed, 
 indeed, that sister Jane was obliged to send for 
 me, her messenger being the negro boy whose 
 business it was to wait on the table. 
 
 "Marse Willyum," said that grinning imp, 
 "Miss Jane say mus' she sen' yo' brekkus out 
 yer, er mus' she put it back in de oven? Kaze 
 de bell done ringded en' dem ar yuther white 
 folks eatin' hard ez dey kin." 
 
 Seeing that the boy enjoyed my embarrassment, 
 I slipped away from the crowd, and went to break 
 fast. To forestall the sarcastic remarks that I 
 thought would be directed at me by sister Jane, 
 I gave Mandy Satterlee a full description of the 
 wonders pictured forth on the gaudy bills. 
 
 "Well, the lawsy massy!" cried Mandy, gen 
 uinely amazed. "What '11 folks do next? Mr. 
 William, you reckon them folks reely ride a-stan- 
 in' on the'r heads, an' you reckon the gals reely 
 skip the rope an' jump through the hoop while 
 the bosses is a-gallopin' ? I lay they jest put that 
 in the picturs to git you in the show an' git your
 
 88 SISTER JANE. 
 
 money. I '11 go right over after I clean up the 
 things an' take a look at 'em for myself." 
 
 To my surprise, sister Jane displayed consider 
 able enthusiasm about the circus. 
 
 "I '11 go if I have to sell my Sunday bonnet," 
 she declared with emphasis. "I haven't been on 
 a frolic since I went to a picnic in the Glades 
 before William there was born and you can tell 
 by looking at him that that 's been a mighty long 
 time ago." 
 
 Mandy Satterlee applauded sister Jane's pur 
 pose very heartily, and when she had washed the 
 dishes and put the kitchen to rights, she took her 
 baby on her arm he was now a bouncing young 
 ster, able to walk about the house and went 
 across the street to get a closer view of the show 
 bills. By this time the curiosity of the small 
 boys had been satiated, or they had gone to other 
 quarters of the town where other pictures had 
 been posted, as I noticed later. At any rate, 
 Mandy and her baby were not disturbed by other 
 spectators. While they were standing there, 
 Colonel Bullard came out of his house, crossed 
 over, as was his habit, and walked down the 
 street. He would be compelled to pass within a 
 few feet of the flaring pictures. 
 
 I determined to watch him narrowly and observe 
 whether his troubles, whatever they might be, had 
 washed curiosity out of his nature. He came 
 down the street, turning his head neither to the 
 right nor the left. Mandy's baby had demanded
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 89 
 
 a closer acquaintance with one of the big red 
 horses, and to satisfy him, she had gone near 
 the picture to allow the youngster to slap it with 
 his hand, and make various ineffectual efforts 
 to secure it. She was standing thus when Colonel 
 Bullard passed by. He turned his head in a 
 stately manner, looked hard at the pictures (as it 
 seemed) and then hurried on. He went a few 
 steps, paused, turned back, and then, catching a 
 glimpse of me, whirled 011 his heel, and went down 
 town, going a little more rapidly than usual. 
 
 I saw it all at a glance. Here was the colonel 
 passing by the pictures. He read in a moment 
 the big letters that explained them, but considered 
 that it would be beneath his dignity and standing 
 to pause and satisfy his curiosity. Then, when 
 he passed on, the temptation to give them a clear 
 examination was so strong that he turned again, 
 saw me, and, rather than compromise his dignity, 
 beat a retreat. This was the explanation I made 
 of the event to sister Jane, who, to my surprise, 
 seemed to be more interested in Colonel Bullard 's 
 actions than in the show bills, for she was particu 
 lar to have me describe every motion he made and 
 every step he took. Mandy Satterlee heard a 
 part of the description. 
 
 "How nigh was I to him when he passed?" 
 she asked in a low voice. 
 
 "You might have put forth your hand and 
 touched him," I replied. 
 
 "Ugh!" she exclaimed with a shudder. "I
 
 90 SISTER JANE. 
 
 reckon it 's a mighty good thing I did n't see 
 him." 
 
 "Why, you needn't be afraid of him," said I; 
 " though he is dignified and serious, he is not 
 severe." 
 
 Sister Jane laughed aloud, and Mandy smiled 
 faintly. 
 
 "I declare, William Wornum! for a grown 
 man you 're as big a goose as ever nibbed green 
 grass. You 've pored and pored over them books 
 in yander till you can't make head nor tail out of 
 anything that ain't to be found betwixt their leds. 
 Why, you 've got so you talk like 'em. ' Don't 
 ' be afeared,'" she went on, mimicking my tone 
 and air; "'though he's dignified and serious, he 
 ain't severe.' Now, who on top of the globe (or 
 on the bottom of it, either, for that matter), ever 
 heard of anybody talking that way outside the 
 leds of a book too big to tote? " 
 
 " Well, in the books that I read I can find out 
 everything I want to know everything that is 
 worth knowing," I replied. 
 
 "What books? " asked my sister. 
 
 "The Bible, Shakespeare, Montaigne, and Sir 
 Thomas Browne." 
 
 "As for the Bible, well and good," commented 
 sister Jane. "But if I 've ever caught you read 
 ing it more '11 twice, I hope I may never see the 
 back of my neck. As for the balance, one was 
 a play-actor, and nobody couldn't expect any 
 better of him ; and the t'others nobody ever heard
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 91 
 
 of till you fished 'em out of some trash pile. 
 Now, I want to ask you," she continued "when 
 will Mandy here have gray hair? " 
 
 "Nobody knows," I answered. 
 
 "You mean you can't find out in your books," 
 she said ; " but I can tell you when her hair will 
 turn gray." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "When she's af eared of Colonel Bullard," 
 exclaimed sister Jane, somewhat snappishly. 
 
 Of course it was beyond my power to carry on 
 an argument in behalf of my favorite books with 
 any hope of silencing sister Jane, so I did as many 
 a wiser man has done before me sought comfort 
 in the books themselves, and found it there ; be 
 coming for the moment as oblivious to the joys, 
 sufferings, vainglories, and hard trials of this 
 world as the writers were themselves, who long 
 ago had been taken to the restful bosom of our 
 old mother, the earth. 
 
 And I had another means of diversion that had 
 gradually come to me unawares, and that I could 
 turn to when my mind grew too dull to find enjoy 
 ment in my books Mandy Satterlee's baby. 
 This rosy urchin grew in strength, if not in grace, 
 and had somehow taken a great fancy to me. Before 
 he could walk, he began to wriggle to my door on 
 hands and knees, and made his presence known by 
 bumping his head against the panels becoming, 
 in this way, a sort of baby battering-ram. I was 
 under no necessity of standing on ceremony with
 
 92 SISTER JANE. 
 
 this visitor. If his coming was not ill-timed, I 
 opened the door; if it was, I had but to remain 
 silent, and presently he would wriggle himself 
 away, perfectly content. 
 
 In the turmoil and confusion that Mandy Sat- 
 terlee became the centre of, after the child found 
 its way into this vain world, she had neglected or 
 forgotten to give it a name. She called it Mo 
 ther's Precious, and that was all; but sister Jane, 
 more versatile if less felicitous, had bestowed on 
 the youngster a handful of names, ^,11 supposed to 
 bear some relation to one another. She called 
 him Klubs, Klibs, Klubbins, Klibbins, and 
 Keezes, indifferently, and he, as indifferently, 
 answered to any or all. Out of this quaint collec 
 tion I chose two for my own use Klibs and 
 Keezes; so that in one humor I called him Klibs, 
 and in another Keezes. 
 
 Now, there were occasions when Klibs came 
 knocking at my door that I was glad to open to 
 him. Especially was this the case when I had 
 spent an hour or two in court, fiddling over the 
 trifling details of a petty lawsuit, or when my own 
 thoughts wearied me and books had temporarily 
 lost their flavor. For I had no reason to be on 
 my dignity with Keezes. I could speak to him 
 gravely on matters that concerned me most, or I 
 could be as nonsensical as I chose. I could even 
 go off into a rhapsody, or impart to him secrets 
 that I 'should have blushed to whisper to other 
 ears. It was all one to Klibs. There was a per-
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 93 
 
 feet understanding between us. He would sit for 
 long minutes staring at me with owl-like wisdom 
 while I talked to him, and when I was compelled 
 to pause for want of breath, he would give me to 
 understand, with some show of impatience, that 
 he longed for more of the attic eloquence for 
 which (within these four walls) I was famous. 
 
 In this way, and with such intermissions as the 
 nature of the case called for, Keezes and I used 
 to spend hours together hours that were most 
 pleasantly and* profitably spent, so far as I was 
 concerned. Sometimes his mother would inter 
 rupt us, fearing that the baby was troublesome. 
 If Klibs was ready to go, he would permit him 
 self to be carried off without a murmur ; otherwise 
 he would crawl behind my chair and squall lustily 
 if any attempt were made to remove him. I grew 
 very fond of the child in consequence, for even a 
 baby can flatter our vanity. We love those who 
 love us, or, if we do not love them, we give them 
 cause to think we do, which (until we come to the 
 end of all things, and our manifold hypocrisies 
 confront and overwhelm us), amounts to pretty 
 much the same thing. 
 
 Whether Keezes was wiser than any other baby 
 is not for me to say. My experience in such 
 matters was circumscribed. But he had traits 
 and predispositions that I found profitable to 
 study. Long before he could talk, he seemed to 
 understand the high-flown statements which, with 
 an affectation of solemnity, I was in the habit of
 
 94 SISTER JANE. 
 
 making to him. If he reached forth a dirty hand 
 to touch a book, I had but to say: "Nay, nay, 
 Keezes! touch not, taste not, handle not. Go 
 cleanse the disreputable member." Whereupon 
 he would look hard at his hand and presently fall 
 to picking the ravelings in the frayed edge of the 
 rag carpet, listening patiently all the while to 
 whatever discourse I might choose to pour into his 
 unprotected ear. He had the gift of patience, a 
 quality that, admirable in man, amounts to genius 
 in a child. I can say now, even at this writing, 
 that Klibs was the only genius I ever was on 
 familiar terms with. He had taste, too, for he 
 was exceedingly fond of Mary Bullard ; and dis 
 cretion : I have seen him carry a rose in his hand 
 for an hour and never destroy one of its petals. 
 It was thus an easy matter for a man, enamored 
 of solitude and impatient of needless interruptions, 
 to tolerate nay, to enjoy the companionship 
 o&this quaint baby, whose very name had been 
 blotted out by the bar sinister. 
 
 As the time for the circus drew near, the expec 
 tation, that was on tiptoe, had the ground cut 
 jrom under its feet by the protests that were 
 made from the pulpit. These protests might have 
 been anticipated, but they were not; and they 
 caused as much of a splutter as the pouring of a 
 gourd full of cold water in a hot oven. The very 
 name of the village Hallyton might have 
 been a warning to those who knew its origin. 
 When the settlement was founded by pioneer
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 95 
 
 emigrants from Wilkes County, the church that 
 was built gave its name to the place. It was 
 called Bethel. Travelers passing through, later, 
 on their way to and from the Indian trading- 
 posts, always found the people of Bethel carrying 
 on a religious revival. Among these travelers 
 were to be found many ungodly men, who scof- 
 fingly gave Bethel the name of Hallyloo by way 
 of indicating the extreme piety of the people. 
 The name stuck so fast that when the settlement 
 grew into a village and became the county site, 
 the people met together and compromised the 
 matter by giving to the place the name of Hally- 
 ton. 
 
 Now, the lapse of years, if it had not intensi 
 fied, had by no means dimmed the piety that 
 provoked the ridicule of the scoffers. Conse 
 quently, the pillars of the church, as such men as 
 Colonel Bullard were called, began a crusade 
 against the sin of circus-going (which, indeea, 
 owing to the absence of active temptation, was 
 not very prevalent amongst us) much to the disgust 
 of the younger generation. What real effect the 
 crusade had is beyond conjecture. It caused some 
 hard feelings in the different congregations, but it 
 gave everybody something to talk about. Mrs. 
 Sue Flewellen came all the way across the village 
 (and it was a pretty step, too) to tell sister Jane 
 that she heard Mrs. Lucindy Winslett say that 
 Mrs. Cosby had declared that she heard Mrs. 
 Printup say that if she had known all this fuss
 
 96 SISTER JANE. 
 
 was to be made over one poor little show (and it 
 must be a mighty poor show to come to such a 
 town as this) she would never have joined the 
 church until the last of November; and she didn't 
 care who knew it or who heard her say it. 
 
 "What sort of religion do you call that ?" in 
 quired sister Jane, sarcastically. 
 
 "Oh, er don't ask me, Jane, er ask most any 
 body er but me. Er between you and me, er 
 Jane, I 'd give am/thing to go to er that circus. 
 Pony Harvey er has been to see it, and he says 
 it's er just grand; er the finest music he ever er 
 listened at, and er bangles and er spangles till 
 you er want to quit er lookin' at 'em." 
 
 "If you want to go, why don't you go?" sister 
 Jane asked sharply. "You are white and free, 
 and mighty nigh twice twenty-one if not more. 
 What 's to hender you from going? " 
 
 "Er well, you know how they er talk. Why, 
 I^i er never hear the last of it. Er when folks 
 move in the er first circles, Jane, er like you and 
 me, the very least er thing they do is er picked 
 up and er turned over, and er looked at, and so 
 er we 've got to toe the er line. We 've made it 
 and er we 've got to toe it, Jane; you know that 
 er yourself." 
 
 "In the first circles?" cried sister Jane, with 
 unmixed amazement. 
 
 "Why, of er course, Jane." 
 
 Sister Jane laughed heartily. "Well, Sue," 
 she said, "you know I used to tell you at school
 
 THE PICTURES ON THE WALL. 97 
 
 that you wa'n't right bright. I can tell you now 
 that you ain't improved a bit. You 've hit off 
 a joke and you don't laugh at it. What in the 
 world is the matter with you? Why don't you 
 laugh at your own fun. First circles! and in 
 Ashbank deestrict ! Why, I '11 get William to 
 put it down and send it to old Billy Grier to put 
 in his almanac." 
 
 "I declare, er Jane! You turn everything 
 into er fun. No matter about the er place; some 
 body is er bound to be on top." 
 
 Sister Jane suddenly grew serious. "Sue Flew- 
 ellen, what can out-float trash?" 
 
 Mrs. Flewellen gave up the contest by chang 
 ing the subject. Fortunately for my peace of 
 mind, none of sister Jane's acquaintances took 
 her sharp comments seriously. The older ones 
 were inured to their twang and flavor, and the 
 younger ones enjoyed the humor that inspired 
 them. When wit and tenderness go into partner 
 ship in the same mind, the product is humor. 
 
 Meanwhile, it is to be observed that as the day 
 for the circus approached, sister Jane became more 
 and more undecided as to whether she should go or 
 stay away, and she remained undecided to the last 
 moment.
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 
 
 THE day set for the circus dawned clear and 
 warm. There had been a frost the night before, 
 but the first rays of the morning sun drove it out 
 of sight and out of mind. One of the summer's 
 brood of mocking-birds that had been reared in 
 the garden was trying his pipes in the big cedar. 
 He sang so low that, to the unpracticed ear, he 
 would have seemed to be far away; but I knew 
 that he was not ten feet from my little porch. 
 He paused every now and then to listen, and well 
 he might, for, early as it was, there was a great 
 stir in the village. The white boys and negroes 
 and even some of the white men were running 
 about in great excitement, for the circus had 
 arrived during the night, or in the early hours 
 of dawn. Indeed, even then I could hear the 
 lumbering sound of heavy wagons in the road 
 behind the tavern, and when I opened my door I 
 could catch the whinnying sound of hungry horses. 
 Sallying forth after breakfast I could see, from 
 the corner of the public square, dozens of men 
 currying and rubbing down piebald horses and 
 ponies an operation that was watched with both
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 99 
 
 interest and awe by all the urchins in the village, 
 white and black, that were able to get away from 
 home at that hour. In the big vacant lot behind 
 the tavern I could see the tops of the centre-pole 
 and the smaller poles, suggesting the illusion that 
 a big ship had sailed up in the night and cast 
 anchor there. 
 
 Later, when I returned home, I found a 
 stranger leaning by the gate in an expectant atti 
 tude. He was a stranger, but I thought I had 
 seen him before, and so I bowed pleasantly as 
 I paused before entering. There was a sullen 
 expression on his face, and I thought I could 
 catch the odor of rum about him, but he bowed 
 politely, and said : 
 
 "Ef this is Mr. Wornum, I wish you'd tell 
 Mandy Satterlee that her brother would like 
 mighty w r ell to see her." 
 
 "Did you knock at the door? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes, I did," he replied, "an' I heard a shuf- 
 flin' of feet in thar, but nobody ain't come to the 
 door. Jest tell Mandy that Bud wants to see her 
 an' tell her good-by. She '11 know. She allers 
 useter call me Bud before" he paused, cleared 
 his throat, and then stood staring at the ground 
 and pulling nervously at the lappels of his shabby 
 coat. 
 
 "Wait one moment," I said. "I'll send her 
 at once." 
 
 But when I opened the door, and went in search 
 of Mandy, I found both her and sister Jane labor-
 
 100 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ing under a strange excitement. Mandy, white 
 as a sheet and trembling, was clinging to sister 
 Jane and begging her not to go to the door. 
 Sister Jane, armed with the fire-stick (a heavy 
 piece of metal weighing four or five pounds), and 
 as red in the face as Mandy was white, was wav 
 ing her weapon in the air, and making an effort 
 to get to the door. 
 
 "Get out of my way, Mandy Satterlee!" she 
 was saying. "If you are afraid of the vagabond, 
 I ain't. Get out of the way, and let me brain 
 him where he stands." 
 
 "Tut-tut! " I cried; "what does all this mean? 
 What is the trouble?" 
 
 Sister Jane quieted down at once. I think she 
 felt that I was laughing in my sleeve, for she then 
 and there told me that the man at her door was 
 the very rascal and vagabond (I use her own de 
 scriptive epithets) who had brought Mandy away 
 from home and to town that bitter cold night, and 
 left her to freeze to death at our door. 
 
 "He ast me to do somethin', and I said I 'd do 
 it," said Mandy, thinking the explanation would 
 stand for an excuse, "but when I got to town I 
 jest couldn't do it, not ef I 'd 'a' died for it." 
 
 "Are you afraid of him?" I asked. 
 
 "Afeard of Bud!" she exclaimed. "Why, 
 no more 'n I am of ol' Tommy Tinkins." 
 
 "Then go to the door," I said: "He 's waiting 
 for you." 
 
 "Go and stand close by," sister Jane com-
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 101 
 
 manded, " and if the vagabond says a word out of 
 the way, run out and brain him." 
 
 To ease my sister's mind, I went as far as the 
 inner door of my room and stood there. I thus 
 became an eavesdropper without intending it. 
 The outer door being open, every word that passed 
 between Mandy and her brother was conveyed to 
 my ears as distinctly as if I had been standing 
 between the two. 
 
 "Howdy, Bud? How 's ever'body? They 
 don't miss me much, I reckon." Neither interest 
 nor concern could be detected in Mandy's tone, 
 and yet I knew that her mind was controlled by 
 both. 
 
 There was a pause. The brother, as I judged, 
 though I could not see him, was looking at the 
 sister carefully, examining her clothes and every 
 feature of her face. 
 
 "You look like you 're doin' mighty well," he 
 remarked presently. "You ain't never comin' 
 back to the settlement, I reckon ? " 
 
 "No, I reckon not. They hain't nobody out 
 there that 'd want to see me, an' they 's a whole 
 passel of folks not so mighty fur from there that 
 I don't want to see." There was a touch of sad 
 ness in Mandy's voice, as she said this. 
 
 "Well, there '11 be one left out thar when I 'm 
 gone that 'd like to see you mightily," remarked 
 her brother. 
 
 "I 'd like to know who," said Mandy. 
 
 "Jincy."
 
 102 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "Jincy Meadows? Well, the laws 'a' massy! 
 what under the canopy does he want to see me for 
 now?" 
 
 "Well," said the brother, slowly, "you know 
 how Jincy is. Folks useter call him quare, an' 
 some say now he 's a half-wit one o' these here 
 moon -calves but Jincy 's been mighty good to 
 me lately. He don't run into any of his whimsies 
 when he talks to me. I know right p'int-blank 
 that he 's got more sense than half the people in 
 the county. He may n't come to see you, but ef 
 he does, don't give him the back of your hand." 
 
 "Does he know? " asked Mandy, sadly. 
 
 "Who? Jincy? He knows ever 'thing, but 
 you 'd never find it out by his common ever'day 
 talk." 
 
 There was a pause a longer pause than usual. 
 Then the brother said : 
 
 " I jest drapped in to say good-by. I hope you 
 ain't got nothin' agin' me, sis." 
 
 This was too much for Mandy. She broke 
 down. "Anything agin' you, Bud? Oh, me! 
 Oh, me!" she sobbed, "the shoe's on t'other 
 foot. It 's you that oughter have ever'thing ag'in 
 me. Oh, me ! Bud, I 'm lots sorrier for you 
 an' for mammy an' pap than I am for myself. 
 They 're dead an' gone, but, oh, me! I couldn't 
 bear to look at the'r graves. It 'd kill me." 
 
 "Don't cry, sis," said the brother. "The folks 
 in the house '11 hear you, an' think I 'm doggin 1 
 at you. Hush, honey! Don't you be afeard but
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 103 
 
 what I '11 make that man pay for it! " There was 
 a ring of genuine passion in his voice. "I wanted 
 to kill him, an' I oughter 'a' done it, but I '11 do 
 wuss 'n that. I '11 let him live an' eat the bread 
 he 's made you an' me eat. You won't see me no 
 more for a mighty long time, but you '11 know 
 when that man has been paid back. Great God, 
 sis ! when I think of mammy an' pap a-lyin' out 
 thar in the woods " 
 
 "But they 're not lyin' there on account o' that, 
 Bud not on account o' that ! " cried Mandy, 
 wildly. 
 
 "No, honey, not on that account. But when 
 I think of 'em sis, jest say the word, an' I '11 
 go an' kill 'im right now an' come back an' show 
 you his damned blood! It won't take me ten 
 minutes." 
 
 "Oh, for the Lord's sake, Bud, don't make 
 matters wuss. They 're bad enough now. One 
 more tetch, an' I'd topple over. Don't do no- 
 thin' wrong, Bud. Don't put yourself where you'll 
 be hunted down like a wild creetur. I'll git down 
 on my knees to you, Bud, ef you '11 only promise." 
 
 After a pause, the brother said: "Well, good 
 bye, sis; ef I live, you'll see me ag'in; ef I 
 don't, it don't make no difference. I ain't no 
 good nohow." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that, Bud! please don't! Ef 
 you ain't no good it 's because of me. Oh, don't 
 leave that hard sayin' a-ringin' in my ears! " 
 
 All the answer that Mandy Satterlee got was a
 
 104 SISTER JANE. 
 
 short harsh laugh. I heard the gate slammed 
 to, and knew that the queer interview was over. 
 I turned to go away, but came near running over 
 sister Jane, who was standing at my elbow listen 
 ing with all her ears. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she cried. Having 
 cooled off, she was as practical as ever. "There 
 is no need to break your neck or to cripple me. 
 The man is not after you." 
 
 There was, indeed, no need for haste in the 
 matter, for Mandy Satterlee, instead of coming 
 into the house, had gone to the gate, where she 
 stood and watched her brother until he was out of 
 sight. I was so puzzled by some of the remarks 
 I had heard, that I wanted to ask sister Jane 
 about them, but the matter was an extremely deli 
 cate one, and, besides, she gave me no fitting 
 opportunity. By the time Mandy came into the 
 house we were sitting in sister Jane's room I '11 
 not say quietly, for my sister, whose temper had 
 already been ruffled, was giving me a lecture 
 about the precipitate way in which I had run 
 against her. 
 
 "Where's Mother's Precious?" said Mandy. 
 Lifting the baby in her arms, she held it against 
 her breast as she rocked to and fro, and had what 
 sister Jane called "a good cry." Klibs appeared 
 to appreciate the situation, for he patted his 
 mother's face gently, and held his soft and rosy 
 cheek against hers as long as she showed any signs 
 of grief.
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 105 
 
 "I declare!" she exclaimed, when her tears 
 had spent themselves; "Bud has got a heart as 
 tender as any human bein' that ever lived a 
 good heart an' a bad temper." 
 
 "You'd 'a' better let me gone out there and 
 brained him," remarked sister Jane, snappishly. 
 "' Bud,' as you call him, will do you some big 
 damage yet. You mark my words." 
 
 " Oh, no no ! I'm the one that ought to be 
 brained. I 'm the one that 's done the damage 
 to myself an' to ever 'body else that 's kin to me." 
 
 Mandy's tears were beginning to flow afresh, 
 when sister Jane put an end to the scene. "Put 
 that child down or give him to me, and go and 
 see about dinner. The tavern bell will be ringing 
 directly, and we won't have ours in the pot, much 
 less on the table." 
 
 She spoke in a peremptory tone, but I knew that 
 she did it to take Mandy's mind off her troubles. 
 It was effectual, too, for in less than a quarter of 
 an hour Mandy could be heard, above the rattling 
 of the pots and pans, singing an old folk song. 
 But the song had a peculiarly plaintive air, so 
 that it must have rhymed with her thoughts. 
 
 I sat listening to the song, my mind wandering 
 back to the days of my youth, when, suddenly, a 
 blare of trumpets and a clash of cymbals in the 
 s'treet drowned both song and memories, and I 
 knew the parade of the circus w r as going by. It 
 was a brave sight for the children and negroes 
 and for those grown people who are not accus-
 
 106 SISTER JANE. 
 
 tomed to look below the surface of things ; but to 
 me the tawdriness of the affair was most manifest 
 and pitiful. The men and women strove in vain 
 to look gay. The toggery they wore was faded 
 and tarnished; the horses were lean and jaded; 
 the red paint on the wagons had been sobered by 
 wind and rain; the very plumes that waved so 
 proudly in the headstalls of the horses were dirty 
 and bedraggled. There was nothing entrancing 
 about the affair but the music ; nothing gay but 
 the painted clown who rode a diminutive mule, 
 and even his gayety was a matter of paint and 
 grimace. 
 
 And so the cheap procession passed, carrying 
 with it a surging crowd that had gathered in the 
 village from all parts of the county. I turned 
 away from it with a feeling akin to melancholy, 
 perceiving in a dim way that the tawdry empti 
 ness of the thing bore some relation to the social 
 parade which, however great or small, passes 
 before the eyes of every observant person. This 
 idea led me into a reverie from which I was 
 aroused by the laughing voice of Mary Bullard in 
 conversation with sister Jane. Presently I heard 
 them coming, and before I could escape by the 
 outer door of my room, they were upon me. 
 
 "Don't run, William; we are not ready to eat 
 you yet; we 'd need a sack of salt and a week of 
 preparation for that," said sister Jane. 
 
 "Yes; do come back, Mr. William, and hear 
 us for our cause, as one of your dear friends said
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 107 
 
 in Rome," laughed Mary Bullard. "Tell him what 
 it is, please," she went on, turning to sister Jane. 
 
 "Oh, no, Mary, that would never do. Tell 
 him yourself. He always makes a wry face when 
 I want him to do anything." 
 
 "Please don't look so solemn, Mr. William," 
 cried Mary Bullard, opening her beautiful eyes, 
 and folding her white hands with a pretty air. 
 "It isn't much we want him to do, is it?" She 
 turned to sister Jane to confirm her statement. 
 
 "It ain't anything at all," placidly remarked 
 her ally. 
 
 "Shall I tell him?" she asked again in a hesi 
 tating way that but enhanced her loveliness. Re 
 ceiving an encouraging nod from sister Jane, 
 Mary went on: "It's this, Mr. William 
 mamma says that I may go to the circus if you 
 and Miss Jane will go with me." 
 
 "But" I began. 
 
 "Please say yes, Mr. William!" she cried, 
 coming closer and laying her hand on my arm. 
 Light as the touch was, it sent the blood mount 
 ing to my face, seeing which, she blushed also, 
 and turned and leaned against sister Jane. 
 
 "I was about to observe," I stammered, "that 
 it is very curious " 
 
 "Take a chair, Mary, and make yourself com 
 fortable," said sister Jane, sarcastically. "Law 
 yer Wornum is about to make one of his cele 
 brated speeches before the Jestice court. I wish 
 to goodness old Judge Bowden was. here ! "
 
 108 SfSTER JANE. 
 
 "Now, I don't think that 's right," cried Mary, 
 protesting, but laughing, too. "I know Mr. 
 William will say the right word at the right time. 
 He always does." 
 
 I swallowed my embarrassment with a gulp. 
 "Why, of course, we will go with you, Miss 
 Mary. What need to ask ? We were going any 
 how." This last statement, I could see, rather 
 took the edge off. There was a change in the 
 young lady's countenance too subtle to describe. 
 
 "He's fibbing," said sister Jane. "He never 
 had no more idea of going to that circus than he 
 had of flying to the moon. I wanted to go myself, 
 but I did n't dast to. I'm mighty glad you come 
 running at me with a ready-made excuse." 
 
 "Well, it's such a little fib, we'll forgive it," 
 remarked Mary. "Mamma kept putting me off, 
 but finally said I could go if Mr. William and 
 you would take me. She never had the slightest 
 idea you were going." 
 
 "We had no such intention," said I, boldly 
 going back to the truth. "But now I wouldn't 
 miss it for anything." 
 
 Sister Jane regarded me curiously. "Why, 
 William!" she exclaimed, "you are coming out. 
 I didn't know you had it in you." 
 
 "But I knew it all the while," Mary declared, 
 with such an air of sincerity that I felt the blood 
 mounting to my face again, and saw it rising in 
 hers. 
 
 "Mamma didn't know I was such a politician,"
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 109 
 
 she remarked. "When I go back, she'll look 
 frightened and whisper, ' what will your father 
 say?' and I'll laugh and promise to tell papa 
 about it myself after it is all over." 
 
 So it was settled that Mary Bullard, sister Jane, 
 and myself were to go to the circus to hear what 
 was to be heard and see what was to be seen. 
 We were both ready when Mary Bullard came 
 tripping down the garden walk. I do not know 
 what changes she had made in her apparel, or 
 how the trick was done perhaps it was my fool 
 ish imagination but it seemed possible that she 
 had just stepped out of fairyland; a woman of 
 flesh and blood, and yet so radiantly beautiful as 
 to suggest some turn of magic. 
 
 I was afraid that I would carry my awkward 
 ness with me, but Mary disposed of it in a moment. 
 When we started, she placed her hand on my 
 arm, not lightly, but confidingly, and from that 
 moment I was a new man, and have never been 
 quite the same since. 
 
 The circus was all a dream to me. I remember 
 that there was a dingy weather-beaten tent, a 
 crowd of people standing outside, and inside a sea 
 of faces, with its. waves piled above one another, 
 row on row ; I remember that I had to give a firm 
 hand to Mary as we climbed upward to be lost in 
 this sea; I remember a confusion of music, a 
 whirling panorama of horses and riders, a painted 
 clown who danced about and caused the people to 
 shout themselves hoarse ; I even remember sister
 
 110 S1STEK JANE. 
 
 Jane's awful frown when a woman in skirts that 
 hardly reached her knees came tripping forth and 
 was lifted to a horse's back. I remember these 
 things, and I remember that Mary always leaned 
 a little closer to me when some daring or danger 
 ous feat was in course of performance ; but beyond 
 this everything was vague. .There was Mary Bui- 
 lard sitting next me, leaning against me. That 
 was all I knew or felt, but that was enough. If 
 the whole affair, tent, audience, horses every 
 thing had been lifted in the air, leaving me 
 sitting there with Mary Bullard, I should have 
 been none the wiser until Mary herself had called 
 my attention to it. 
 
 But it was over all too soon for me. It seemed 
 but a few moments, before the people began to 
 crowd towards the entrance of the tent. 
 
 "Is this all? Is the show at an end? " I cried. 
 
 "Why, yes," replied Mary. "Didn't you hear 
 what the man said that 'the afternoon's per 
 formance is now over, ladies and gentlemen,' and 
 that there would be an entire change of pro 
 gramme to-night? " 
 
 "No, I did not," I replied truthfully, "I nei 
 ther saw the man nor heard him." 
 
 "I know you didn't enjoy it," remarked Mary, 
 with a little sigh, "and I 'm sorry." 
 
 "Enjoy it! " I exclaimed. "I haven't enjoyed 
 an afternoon so much since since you were a 
 little girl." 
 
 She fixed upon me a look that I could not
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. Ill 
 
 fathom. I knew not whether it had doubt or 
 curiosity behind it. Presently the color deepened 
 on her face, and she turned her head away to 
 watch the crowd, which was clambering and clat 
 tering down the rattle-trap seats, and surging 
 toward the door. We remained in our places 
 until the people on the rows below us had made it 
 safe to descend. 
 
 "Did I hear you say you enjoyed it, William? " 
 asked sister Jane. She waited for no reply. 
 "Well, if you look that glum when you 're enjoy 
 ing yourself, I 'd like to see how you 'd act if you 
 had to go to the gallows." At which observation 
 Mary Bullard laughed until the tears came into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I didn't go so far as to say that I enjoyed the 
 circus," I explained, "and yet I have had more 
 real enjoyment to-day than I have had since one 
 day in May ten years ago." 
 
 "Well, if you 're as full of joy as your famine 
 has been long, I wonder that something or other 
 don't give way," remarked sister Jane, bluntly. 
 
 Mary laughed at this so heartily that I was not 
 surprised to see her face grow red. As we were 
 descending the rows of seats, she asked if there 
 was n't a picnic on that day in May ten years ago, 
 and when I answered that there was, the expres 
 sion of her face grew so serious that I was truly 
 sorry I had mentioned the matter at all. For on 
 that May day ten years ago, she was a little girl, 
 and she went to the picnic under my care and
 
 112 SISTER JANE. 
 
 protection. Yet her seriousness was only a pass 
 ing humor. In five minutes it had disappeared, 
 and was succeeded by a fit of gayety that was 
 delightful to witness; and surprising, too, for 
 I had never seen her quite so buoyant since she 
 was a romping girl. She made believe she would 
 pirouette in the public street; she chaffed sister 
 Jane; she chaffed me; and carried herself so 
 merrily withal, and so discreetly, too, that I, who 
 knew she was the loveliest woman in the world, 
 had never seen her so lovely before. Her laugh 
 ter was a delight to the ear, as her every move 
 ment was a delight to the eye; her eyes shone 
 with an unwonted brilliance, and the tenderest 
 rose-flush played on her cheeks. 
 
 Once in the house, she began to play all sorts 
 of kittenish pranks. She pulled sister Jane's ears 
 and then kissed her. She tossed Keezes, much 
 to that youngster's delight, and then cuddled him 
 in her arms and cooed over him; she seized 
 Tommy Tinkins by the forelegs, and made believe 
 he was her partner in a dance ; she did a hundred 
 things I had never seen her do since she was 
 a child, each performance more charming than the 
 last. Suddenly, while standing in the middle of 
 the room, with her white hand raised in a pretty 
 gesture, she became serious. The change was so 
 unexpected that I involuntarily glanced through 
 the windows, thinking that she had seen some 
 one. But no one was in sight. 
 
 "I'm too happy!" she cried. "It's a bad
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 113 
 
 sign. When I am happy like this something is 
 sure to happen." 
 
 "Well, child, if something or other don't hap 
 pen, we '11 have a mighty quiet time of it the few 
 years we 've got to live," remarked Sister Jane. 
 
 But, though she was still smiling, and her eyes 
 still shining with the joy she felt, she shook her 
 beautiful head wisely. "It's a bad sign," she 
 repeated; "I 've heard Free Betsey say so; and I 
 remember that when I was coming home from 
 Philadelphia, I was just as happy as I am now. 
 But after I came home I was miserable." 
 
 "Why, what in the world was the matter?" 
 asked sister Jane. 
 
 "Oh, everything was changed." 
 
 "I don't see how that could be, child," persisted 
 sister Jane. "What happened? " 
 
 "Something," replied Mary, demurely, almost 
 sadly; "but what it was, I wouldn't tell for the 
 world." 
 
 Down I came tumbling to the earth. I saw in 
 an instant, as by a revelation, that she had been 
 disappointed in some childish love affair. I felt 
 myself shrunken and ugly, and older than ever. 
 But I said nothing. I had intended to accompany 
 her home, dusk having fallen, but now I held my 
 peace. Something in my face must have told her 
 that the lights had been blown out in my house of 
 cards, for she came nearer. 
 
 "You have given me a happy day," she said, 
 "both of you. You have put yourselves out for
 
 114 SISTER JANE. 
 
 me; but I 'm not going to say ' thanky,' I '11 just 
 let you imagine how grateful I am. As for you, 
 sir," she cried, with mock dignity, "having es 
 corted me to the circus, you must now patch out 
 your gallantry, as Miss Jane would say, and 
 escort me as far as my gate, if no farther." 
 
 "I expect I '11 have to go with you," sister Jane 
 remarked before I could answer a word. "When 
 William once settles down for his nap, it 's a 
 hard matter to get him to stir." 
 
 This grim satire would have amused me at 
 another time, but I did not relish it now. I made 
 haste to place myself at Mary's disposal, surprised 
 at so unusual a request, but happy to grant it. I 
 took pains, however, not to rekindle the flaring 
 lights that had illuminated my poor little house of 
 cards all the afternoon. 
 
 So we went together through the garden, Mary 
 leaning on my arm as confidently as a child might 
 lean on its father's. The pinks distilled their 
 spices and the roses shed their perfume for my 
 especial benefit that night, and the constellations 
 sparkled with unwonted lustre. We said little, 
 for there was nothing to say. At the gate she 
 said good-night and went tripping up the steps. 
 
 I had noticed that there was an unusual stir in 
 the house. The servants were running from room 
 to room with lighted candles, and as I walked 
 toward home, there were loud cries of alarm. I 
 stopped still in my tracks, the better to hear, 
 when I saw Mary come running down the walk.
 
 THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN. 115 
 
 I knew her movements, though I could not distin 
 guish her features. 
 
 She saw me, and gave one frightened sob as 
 she clutched me by the arm. 
 
 "Oh, what shall I do?" she cried, though her 
 voice was scarcely above a whisper. 
 
 Trembling from a hundred vague fears, -I drew 
 her into my arms and held her so. I tried to 
 speak, but my tongue refused its office. I could 
 only hold her in my arms, and, with a shaking 
 hand, stroke her hair as I used to do when she 
 was a child. 
 
 " Freddy is lost ! my poor little brother is lost ! 
 He can be found nowhere. The whole town has 
 been searched^ Oh, to think that he is out in the 
 dark alone, and crying for me ! What shall I do ? 
 Where shall I go? Oh, my poor little brother! " 
 
 Thus she moaned, with her head on my shoul 
 der, clinging to me and shivering. My first 
 thought was of sister Jane, and to her we went, 
 Mary seeming to have a revival of energy. I ran 
 fast, but she ran faster, and by the time I reached 
 the door, my sister had the poor girl pressed to 
 her tender heart, and was getting such small in 
 formation as she could obtain. 
 
 With sister Jane, to think was to act. Her 
 bonnet lay on the bed where she had thrown it. 
 She seized it, dashed it on her head recklessly, 
 and, saying to Mary "come!" sped out of the 
 house and along the garden walk. As for me, I 
 was too much shocked to think, though all the
 
 116 SISTER JANE. 
 
 trifles I have mentioned seized hold of my mind 
 and stuck fast in my memory. I fell rather than 
 sat on a chair, and remained there supinely. 
 
 Mandy Satterlee had seized her baby, and held 
 it tightly to her breast, as if by that means she 
 would save it from the misfortune that had over 
 taken Mary's little brother. She now sat crying 
 and sobbing as if her heart would break. 
 
 "What is the matter, JViandy? Why excite 
 yourself in that manner?" I inquired with some 
 severity. Her grief seemed so entirely out of, 
 proportion to her interest in Freddy Bullard that 
 it irritated me. 
 
 "Oh, that child!" she sobbed. "That little 
 boy!" 
 
 "You make yourself ridiculous," I said. "Of 
 course the child will be found. It is impossible 
 that he should be lost." 
 
 Mandy, turning her streaming eyes upon me, 
 raised her right hand in a gesture that her earnest 
 ness made tragic. 
 
 "That poor little boy will never be found in the 
 round world! " she cried. "It 's proned into me." 
 Her arm fell to her side, and she betook herself 
 again to her grief.
 
 IX. 
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 
 
 THERE was not much sleeping in the village 
 that night. Each family seemed to take the loss 
 home to itself. The men old and young 
 organized themselves into searching parties, while 
 the women flitted about the streets, going from 
 house to house, seeking information, and finding 
 new opportunities and occasions for gossip. The 
 news seemed to spread over the community as by 
 magic. The negroes were as active as anybody. 
 Old Sol, Colonel Bullard's carriage driver, had 
 stirred them up and was leading them. No nine 
 o'clock bell rang for them that night. They went 
 running hither and yonder and whither they 
 pleased. The tramping of feet and the sound of 
 men running and of women calling to each other 
 in the dark came to my ears from the street, as 
 I sat in the shadow of the honeysuckle. . Though 
 the air was chill, and the .long wisps of clouds 
 combed out by the wind gave token of dampness, 
 the signs went unheeded so far as I was concerned. 
 
 What struck me as most peculiar ominous, 
 indeed was the tone in which the people passing
 
 118 SISTER JANE. 
 
 by, especially the women, spoke of the lost child. 
 "He was such a bright little boy." "So full of 
 life and fun." "He would have been five years 
 old next August." "It was so sudden like a 
 clap of thunder out of a clear sky." I remem 
 bered with a shiver that many and many a time 
 I had heard people talk so of the dead. And 
 then the prophecy of Mandy Satterlee crept back 
 into my mind (from which I had ousted it), and 
 remained there. 
 
 After a while I heard sister Jane coming along 
 the garden walk, and I joined her in the house, 
 where Mandy Satterlee was still sitting, having 
 now recovered from her hysterical burst of grief. 
 There was no information in sister Jane's eyes, 
 and so I forbore to question her. She called 
 Mandy to a consultation in the kitchen as soon as 
 Klibs could be tucked under cover, and they 
 remained there some minutes. As they came 
 back I heard sister Jane say solemnly : 
 
 "It 's the Providence of God, Mandy," and this 
 terse remark struck deeper into my mind than 
 many a sermon has done. Truly, it was the 
 Providence of God. Whether the little fellow 
 was dead or alive, or safe, to be returned to his 
 friends, or fated to be lost to them until dooms 
 day, he was in the hands of the Almighty. 
 
 In a measure quieted by these reflections, I 
 seized my hat and walked along the street toward 
 Colonel Bullard's home. A large crowd had 
 assembled in the pillared portico, all friends and 
 
 -
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 119 
 
 all sympathetic. Midway down the flight of steps 
 that led from the street to the door, I saw Mary 
 Bullard standing. She held a lighted lanthorn in 
 her hand, and seemed to be expecting some one to 
 join her. 
 
 "I was waiting for you," she said, as I went 
 forward. She ran down the steps and for the 
 fourth time that day laid her hand on my arm. 
 
 "Waiting for me?" I asked, taking the lan 
 thorn. There was no surprise in either my voice 
 or my mind. I made the inquiry to make sure 
 that my ears had not deceived me. 
 
 "Yes," she replied simply, and I was satisfied. 
 It seemed the most natural thing in the world 
 that she should be standing there waiting for me 
 with the lanthorn in her hand. By some strange 
 conceit or delusion of the mind, the incident was 
 as old and as familiar to my experience the 
 moment it happened as if it had occurred at the 
 very threshold and beginning of my life, and 
 found a thousand repetitions since. 
 
 I turned to the impulse of her movements, and 
 we went towards the public square. In a few 
 moments I found that we were going in the direc 
 tion of the circus. For an instant a bare instant 
 the idea that Mary was distraught by reason of 
 her grief took possession of me; took possession 
 of me and shook me as no thought ever did before 
 or ever will again." Some symptom of it must have 
 been conveyed to her, for she leaned more heavily 
 on my arm.
 
 120 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she asked. 
 
 For answer I lifted the lanthorn and looked 
 into her face. She smiled ever so faintly and 
 turned her head away. Her face was pale, in 
 deed, but, thank God, reason and intelligence 
 shone above grief in her sad eyes. 
 
 "Don't," she said. "I'll not bear inspection 
 to-night." 
 
 I made no reply, not even by way of apology, 
 but the consternation that had seized me passed 
 away as a noxiou^ vapor before the morning sun. 
 
 The night was not yet old, and the show under 
 the dingy tent was still in full blast. The music 
 of the band flung sweetly over the uproar made 
 now and then by the motley crowd; and, as we 
 drew near, the hundreds of lights that were set in 
 a circle around the centre pole gave a brilliant 
 effect that could be seen from the outside, where 
 groups of whites and negroes stood, the unfortu 
 nates who were too poor or too economical to pay 
 the admission fee. Through these groups we went, 
 inquiring if they had seen anything of the child. 
 
 Business was over for the man who stood at 
 the entrance of the tent, and he was now taking 
 his ease in a chair, his feet flung over one of the 
 ropes. He rose as we approached, and regarded 
 us with a stare in which there was more amaze 
 ment than respect. I was for paying the fee, but 
 Mary stopped me by a gesture. 
 
 "I am hunting for my little brother," she said. 
 "He has been missing since this afternoon."
 
 A CHILD JS LOST. 121 
 
 "Mercy! that's bad!" said the man, taking 
 off his hat. He raised his hand, and some one 
 who was lounging near came running forward. 
 "Tell Dorkins to come here." 
 
 The messenger darted away, and in half a 
 minute Dorkins came running. "What is it, 
 sir?" he asked. 
 
 "Show this lady and gentleman through the 
 tent. A child has been lost. What is the name, 
 ma'am? Bullard! Not Colonel Bullard? Well, 
 bless my stars ! Wait, Dorkins. You stay here. 
 Come with me, ma'am." 
 
 We went inside, and it seemed to me that the 
 eyes of the whole multitude were fastened on us 
 Mary, with her beautiful hair falling about her 
 shoulders, and I with the lanthorn, which looked 
 dim indeed in all the glaring light. Major Fam- 
 brough, who was a prominent politician and who 
 was therefore always looking for an opportunity 
 to make himself conspicuous, saw us at once, and 
 was quick to jump to the conclusion that some 
 thing serious had occurred. 
 
 "Unless you are out hunting for an honest 
 man, Wornum, something is wrong," he said, 
 touching me on the shoulder, and taking his hat 
 off to Mary. "What is it?" 
 
 "My little brother is lost," replied Mary. 
 
 "Lost! Why, you amaze me!" cried the 
 major. He tried hard to wear a look of concern, 
 but the man's eyes fairly sparkled, and I soon 
 saw the reason why. "We'll see what can be
 
 122 SISTER JANE. 
 
 done," he said, and, walking into the middle of 
 the ring, which was vacant just then, he raised 
 his hand to command attention. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, " a great 
 calamity has befallen our little community." 
 ("Take him out!" some one cried. "Bring in 
 the muel, and let him ride!" yelled some one 
 else.) "If my political opponents desire to ridi 
 cule me," the major went on, "they should wait 
 for the proper time and opportunity. At present 
 I desire to announce that the family of our re 
 spected fellow -townsman, Colonel Cephas Bullard, 
 have suffered a severe affliction. Little Freddy 
 Bullard is lost and cannot be found. If my 
 opponents desire to make capital out of that, they 
 are welcome to do so." 
 
 There were sympathetic exclamations from the 
 crowd, and a great many people began to leave 
 their seats, but I felt that Major Fambrough had 
 made a miserable spectacle of himself. My 
 cheeks burned with the shame that he was a 
 stranger to. 
 
 The man who had constituted himself our guide 
 laughed softly. "If we had that chap in the side 
 show," he said, "he 'd draw the crowds." 
 
 He led us through the big tent into the dress 
 ing-room. The painted clown was sitting on a 
 coil of rope reading a letter by the light of a 
 candle he held in one hand. Other men were 
 leaning about with heavy overcoats flung over 
 their thin costumes. A woman, in short and fluffy
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 123 
 
 skirts, was trying to pin a rent in her bespangled 
 waist, and she was the first to see us. She drew 
 back with an exclamation, snatched a cloak from 
 a stool, and held it before her. Through the 
 hideous rouge on her face I could see her blushes. 
 To her Mary went straight. 
 
 "My little brother is lost," she said. "We 
 are trying to find him." 
 
 "Ah!" the rouged woman exclaimed, turning 
 to the rest, "her little brother is lost." 
 
 If I ever saw sympathy and pity depicted on 
 the human countenance, I saw it on that woman's 
 face and on the faces of the others. Somehow 
 they all seemed to remember that they had homes, 
 and when we turned away, I noticed that the 
 woman was crying, and that the clown, who, on 
 a near view, had an old and a wizened look, had 
 clenched his hand and crumpled his letter until it 
 bore small semblance to a written page. 
 
 Meanwhile the man who had come with us 
 through the tent sent his men in every direction 
 with orders to search for the child ; but they all 
 returned with the same story. Mary thanked 
 them all, placed her hand on my arm again, and 
 we went home, the man going a part of the way 
 with us, and giving us the comfort of such hope 
 as experience and self-possession can impart. At 
 the last he promised that if he found the child the 
 next day, or heard any tidings of it, he would 
 mount a messenger on one of his best horses, and 
 send us word. I joined my thanks to Mary's.
 
 124 SISTEX JANE. 
 
 "Don't thank me," he said to Mary. "I have 
 a special reason for doing whatever I can a 
 very special reason." With that he laughed 
 softly to himself, bowed, and was gone. At an r 
 other time I would have regarded this as a very 
 neat compliment to Mary, but now I felt that the 
 stranger was under some obligation to Colonel 
 Bullard. I suggested this to Mary, who replied 
 with a sigh: "I shouldn't wonder. Father is 
 always helping somebody, or doing good some 
 where." 
 
 So we went back home unsuccessful, but Mary 
 was better satisfied. She had done something 
 that nobody else had thought of, and her mind 
 was more at ease. I would have carried her to 
 see sister Jane, but she insisted on going straight 
 home. 
 
 "Good-night," she said at the steps the por 
 tico above was still crowded with people who were 
 as heavily charged with curiosity as with sympa 
 thy "good-night. This has been the happiest 
 and most miserable day of my life ; and you have 
 been so kind and thoughtful through it all." 
 
 I murmured something in reply, watched her as 
 she went slowly up the wide steps, and then turned 
 and went home. There I found Mrs. Beshears, 
 who, on account of the excitement in the village, 
 had remained longer than usual. Sister Jane was 
 sitting where she always sat, Mrs. Beshears was 
 in her corner, Mandy Satterlee was rocking her 
 baby, and Tommy Tinkins was stretched out on
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 125 
 
 the hearth-rug ; everything was in its usual place ; 
 and yet I felt that there had been a change a 
 tremendous change. The idea was so strong in 
 my mind that I paused on entering the room and 
 looked around ; and it was not until months after 
 wards that I discovered the change was in me and 
 not in my surroundings. 
 
 "For mercy's sake, William, what is the mat 
 ter?" said sister Jane. "You look as if you've 
 been bewitched." I suppose something queer in 
 my attitude or in my countenance must have 
 attracted her attention, for she had a quick eye 
 for such things. " Where 've you been gallantin' 
 to?" 
 
 I related as briefly as possible what has been 
 set down here, not omitting a description of Major 
 Famb rough's oration at the circus. This last 
 seemed to be most interesting of all, for both 
 sister Jane and Mrs. Beshears laughed until the 
 tears came in their eyes. 
 
 "It's a livin' wonder," remarked Mrs. Be 
 shears, "that that man ain't been elected to some 
 big office too long ago to talk about." 
 
 "Why, yes," said sister Jane. "He's a big 
 enough fool to go to the legislature. The lunatic 
 asylum ain't so mighty far from the state house. 
 They tell me you can stand on the roof of one and 
 fling a rock on top of t'other." 
 
 Then they fell to discussing the sensation of the 
 day, which was the disappearance of little Freddy 
 Bullard. My theory was that he would be found
 
 126 SISTER JANE. 
 
 to-morrow, and it was a theory that lasted through 
 many long days. For if the child had been taken 
 up into the clouds, or if the earth had opened and 
 swallowed him, his disappearance could not have 
 been more complete or more mysterious. 
 
 The search was continued for weeks, and was 
 extended to the neighboring counties. All the 
 wells were examined, all the ponds and streams 
 for miles around were dragged, and the circus was 
 followed and watched by two or three young men 
 who had been paying Mary Bullard some atten 
 tion. But all to no purpose. The child was not 
 to be found; and so, in the course of time, the 
 village went about its business in the usual way, 
 and the disappearance of Freddy Bullard became 
 a story to frighten children with. 
 
 Even the fortitude with which Colonel Bullard 
 bore the burden of his grief ceased to be the sub 
 ject of remark. He seemed to accept it as his 
 share of the misfortunes which come to the sons 
 of men, and continued to go up and down as 
 usual, winning the sympathy of the thoughtful 
 and retaining the respect of all his fellow-citizens. 
 
 The event wrought a change in Mary, though 
 I knew not whether it was visible to any eyes but 
 mine. I can only vaguely describe it by saying 
 that she grew more womanly, more gracious, and 
 more charming. To me she had always been 
 charming and gracious, but now these qualities 
 took (or seemed to take) new lustre from her grief. 
 And when her grief had subsided into sorrow, as
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 127 
 
 it must do in the most faithful hearts as time goes 
 on, her pensiveness, whether it shone through her 
 smiles or took the shape of gentle melancholy, was 
 as sweet and as touching as the notes of some old 
 melody fluttering through the dusk from a far-off 
 flute. 
 
 I saw with much satisfaction that the half dozen 
 young men who had striven hard to make them 
 selves agreeable to Mary gradually ceased their 
 visits. They withdrew by degrees, and sullenly 
 (or so it seemed to me), as if they were loath to 
 acknowledge that they had failed to make an 
 impression. My satisfaction at their evident dis 
 composure did not spring from envy. God knows, 
 I never had that feeling. I should have been 
 gratified if Mary's innocent heart had found ref 
 uge in the love of some man, standing high above 
 his fellows a man among men in gifts and posi 
 tion a man entirely worthy of her. But where 
 was such a man to be found? 
 
 The young men I have mentioned were clever 
 enough, as cleverness goes. They were blessed 
 with this world's goods; they belonged to the 
 first families; and they were regarded as "good 
 catches " by the mothers of marriageable daugh 
 ters in all the counties round about. So much so 
 that I often shuddered at the thought that Mary 
 (a mere child from my point of view) might be 
 thoughtless enough to have her head turned by 
 the flattery of their attentions. But I did her 
 rank injustice in my thoughts. She was ever
 
 128 SfSTZR JANE. 
 
 above the small vanities that belong to youth and 
 her sex, and the larger ones she never so much 
 as dreamed of. Her motives were open as the 
 day. She was the embodiment of truth and in 
 nocence, and neither vanity nor the pride that 
 consumes had any part in her nature. She was 
 as gracious to the humblest as she was to the 
 highest. Her consideration could skim the sur 
 face of the earth as easily as it could soar above 
 the heights. 
 
 As I have said, life in the village soon dropped 
 into the old uneventful channels. It seemed that 
 nothing could reach the stature of an event after 
 the episode I have tried to describe. All things 
 dwindled and shrunk by comparison. And yet 
 the doubt besets me that I have failed to picture 
 forth the shock that was given to the whole com 
 munity. Looking back over these pages the affair 
 seems tame and spiritless. 
 
 Let nie say here, while the opportunity is ripe, 
 that this and other episodes to be told of are not 
 to be judged by the narrative alone. There are 
 gaps and lapses the reader must fill out for him 
 self. The knack of narration belongs to the 
 gifted few, who need neither art nor practice to 
 fit them for the work. With me, all is lacking. 
 When the impressive moment arrives the apt and 
 trenchant word eludes me. The sparkling phrase, 
 the vivid grouping, and the illumination that 
 flashes the whole scene upon the mind, are want-
 
 A CHILD IS LOST. 129 
 
 ing. I have tried to give the crude outline only, 
 leaving the imagination of the reader to inject 
 into it the elements necessary to impart a pleasure 
 and a satisfaction that my poor gifts could never 
 convey.
 
 X. 
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 
 
 THE name of Free Betsey has been mentioned 
 somewhere in the preceding pages. I was better 
 acquainted with her reputation than with her per 
 sonality, but I knew her when I saw her, as, in 
 deed, everybody in this section did. She struck 
 me as a queer mixture of humility, audacity, and 
 cunning. She told fortunes by cards, carrying a 
 greasy pack with her for that purpose, and she 
 sold ginger-cakes on public days and during court- 
 week, eking out in this way a living that served 
 her purposes well enough. 
 
 Free Betsey and I came to a closer acquaintance 
 in a very curious way. During the early winter 
 it was my habit to take long walks in the woods, 
 frequently going far beyond the town branch 
 a small stream that was a mile from the court 
 house. Happily, I never found it necessary to 
 walk in the public highway. Through the big 
 woods and fields in all directions numerous by 
 paths ran paths that had been made first by the 
 Indians and wild beasts and were afterwards fre 
 quented by the negroes and cattle. They wound 
 about, crossing one another, and frequently formed 
 a labyrinth interesting to work out.
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 131 
 
 On one occasion, while following one of these 
 paths that led me in a direction I had never trav 
 eled before, I suddenly saw Free Betsey walking 
 ahead of me. The woods were not thick, and the 
 path was straight and open, so much so, that the 
 sudden appearance of Free Betsey where I had 
 seen no one a moment before set me to wondering. 
 Cover and hide as we will, our learning and cul 
 ture have not struck deep enough to remove the 
 dregs of superstition. These seem to have settled 
 at the very bottom of our natures, as it were, and 
 resist all the processes of enlightenment; so that 
 whatever comes upon us refusing to submit to plau 
 sible explanation is like to send a cold chill along 
 the marrow of the spine. 
 
 I had some such feeling as that when Free 
 Betsey took shape in the path before me, congeal 
 ing (as it seemed) out of the vapors of the forest. 
 I knew it was Free Betsey by her antics. She 
 bowed and curtsied to imaginary people as she 
 went along, such was her seeming humility. It 
 was "Howdy, mars'er," "howdy, missis," 
 howdy, trees, howdy, ground, howdy, sky, 
 howdy, everybody that lives, and howdy 
 everything that creeps, or crawls or exists bow 
 ing here, bowing there, to the left and to the 
 right, and dropping low curtsies to all. A more 
 uncanny figure it would have been hard to find. 
 I could hear her talking to herself as she bowed 
 and waved her hands, for though I had slackened 
 my pace to avoid overtaking her, and she seemed
 
 132 SISTER JANE. 
 
 to "be going as rapidly as ever, I drew nearer 
 and nearer. Not content with her bowing and 
 curtsying, she broke into a song with this queer 
 refrain : 
 
 " Man come to my house it's howdy, oh, howdy ! 
 Man come to my house oh, it's howdy, howdy do ! " 
 
 This over, she shook her head and laughed 
 shrilly, and then suddenly sat squat on the ground, 
 and fell to making marks in the path with her 
 forefinger. 
 
 "Ah-yi! I been waitin' fer you, Mars'er 
 Willyum waitin' long time. Squinch-owl say 
 ' he comin' ' he no come. Whip'will say ' he 
 comin' ' he no come. Blue jay say, ' day J 
 day! '-he come." 
 
 "Waiting for me!" I exclaimed, looking at 
 her in some astonishment. Age had taken the 
 plumpness from her face, but her eyes shone like 
 those of some wild animal. 
 
 "Yasser yasser! " she cried, rising nimbly to 
 her feet. "Waitin' long time, an' you come. 
 Waitin' in de woods, an' you come. My house 
 yander on de hill dere." She walked along the 
 path and I followed. "What you done wid my 
 young mistis ?" she inquired. 
 
 "Your young mistress?" 
 
 " Eh-heh ! De gal what you pull f um de snow. 
 Whar she been gone dis long time? I look fer 
 see her I no see her." 
 
 "Do you mean Mandy Satterlee?" I inquired. 
 
 "Eh-heh! Yasser! Dat ve'y gal. She my
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 133 
 
 young mistiss. Hit come like dis: I b'long'ded 
 to her ma's pa, an' he sot me free: yasser, he gi' 
 me my papers. I ain't no Myrijck nigger; no^ 
 suh! My ole man, he 's a Myrick nigger, but dat 
 ain't no bindin' reason fer me ter be a Myrick 
 nigger. No, suh ! My mars'er ain't set back an 
 hire his niggers out to Tom, Dick, an' Harry. 
 He got up fo' day wid um., an' worked um. Dey 
 had ter arn der livin', but dey got it atter dey 
 arned it. I'm a Bowden nigger, myse'f. Ole 
 Gabe Bowden wuz my mars'er, an' ole Gabe 
 Bowden sot me free, an ole Gabe Bowden wuz de 
 grandaddy er Mandy Satterlee, an' I bless God 
 eve'y day an' eve'y night dat ole Gabe Bowden 
 done dead an' gone ter heav'm whar he b'longded 
 at. Dead dead ! Yasser dead ! " 
 
 While she was pouring forth this volume of 
 speech, she was walking along in the path ahead 
 of me, waving her arms and shaking her head, 
 and occasionally looking around to see whether I 
 was following. I remembered, of course, that 
 Gabe Bowden the name was spelt Bowdoin on 
 the records of the court was Mandy Satterlee's 
 grandfather, that his daughter had eloped with 
 Satterlee, and that her disobedience in this matter 
 gave him a blow from which he never fully recov 
 ered. He died not more than a year after his 
 disappointment, and his daughter died the year 
 following, having in the meantime given birth to 
 a son and daughter. The family seemed to be 
 pursued by a storm of disasters.
 
 134 SISTER JANE. 
 
 In a few moments we came to Free Betsey's 
 house, which was built on land owned by Mrs. 
 ^eshears and her sisters. The woman asked me 
 in, and placed a chair for me. It was a stout log 
 cabin, of one room, and everything about it was 
 neat as a pin. Even the hearth, which would 
 otherwise have presented an unseemly appear 
 ance (being made of rough stones) was glossed 
 and veneered by a coat of red clay, smoothly laid 
 on. The cooking-things were clean, and the tin 
 cups and pans shone as if they had been freshly 
 burnished. A white counterpane was spread over 
 the bed, and the valances were frilled and fluted 
 quite in the style. I wondered at this, for there 
 was nothing in Free Betsey's appearance to indi 
 cate a love of order and neatness. She must have 
 followed my thoughts, for she said, as she seated 
 herself on the door-sill : 
 
 "Don't git skeer'd 'bout ole Betsey, suh. I 
 wuz raise in de white folks' house. Dat ar coun 
 terpane dar older dan what you is dat ar skillet 
 older dan Sally Beshears dat ar trivet was 
 brung fum Ferginny 'fo' de white folks an' de 
 tories fell out an' fit. Ne'r min' 'bout dat. 
 Whar Mandy Satterlee? Whar my young niis- 
 tiss at?" 
 
 "At our house," I replied. 
 
 "What she doin' dar?" 
 
 " Well, she is doing what she wants to do 
 cooking and helping around." 
 
 "Ah-hah! " cried Free Betsey. "I know'd it.
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS TEE CARDS. 135 
 
 She's dar playin' de nigger! Oh, dey can't fool 
 me dey des can't do it! She's dar playin' de 
 nigger! Why n't she go 'way turn dar? Whafe 
 she want ter stay dar playin' de nigger fer?" 
 
 Age and the pretense of humility gave Free 
 Betsey privileges which she was in the habit of 
 pushing to their utmost limit. So I replied by 
 asking a question : 
 
 "Where should she go?" 
 
 "She kin come yer right yer in dis ve'y 
 house ! " exclaimed Free Betsey, striking the floor 
 with her clenched fist. "What gwine ter hender 
 her? Oh, you nee'n'ter to be lookin' 'roun'," she 
 went on, catching the glance of my eye. "Dat 
 ar bed dar ain't never been slep' on by no white 
 folks, much less a nigger. Dat ar counterpin', 
 an' dat quilt, an' dem ar sheets ain' never kiver'd 
 no livin' human 'ceptin' ole Gabe Bowden. Look 
 at dis ! " She rose, went to the bed, lifted a side 
 of the valance, and exposed to view a trundle bed. 
 "Dat whar I sleep at. What I keep dis house 
 clean fer? Fer me? Naw! What I keep dat 
 bed fer ? Fer me ? Naw ! What I keep fire on 
 deha'thfer? Fer me? Bless God, naw! What 
 I want wid um ? What I gwine do wid um ? " 
 
 Gradually, as her meaning, which had been 
 doubtful at first, dawned on me slowly, and yet 
 surely, admiration for the negro crept into my 
 mind and remained there. 
 
 "Tell me dat," she went on, growing more 
 earnest. "What I gwine do wid all dis? What
 
 136 8I8TER JANE. 
 
 I gwine do wid it ? How come Mandy Satterlee 
 don't stop play in' nigger at yo' house, an' come 
 ter dis house, whit dey 's a nigger waitin' fer her 
 a nigger, an' a monstus good un, ef I does say 
 itmyse'f? Now tell me dat! Ain't I gone an' 
 nuss'd her when she wuz a baby, an' hilt her in 
 my arms, an' sot dar huggin' her whiles ol' Sat 
 terlee wuz cussin' an' 'busin' me 'cause I wuz a 
 free nigger? Ef dey ever wuz a hellian he wuz 
 one!''' she cried in a burst of passion. "Ef 
 you '11 put yo' pillow over yo' head at night des' 
 fo' you go ter sleep an' when eve'ything is still, 
 you kin hear 'im holler in Torment. I does dat 
 away eve'y night, an' it makes me laugh when I 
 hear ole Satterlee holler in Torment." 
 
 Free Betsey paused to take breath, tore a frag 
 ment of bark from one of the pine logs and began 
 to pick it to pieces. Presently, with a cry of dis 
 gust and hatred, she flung it from her. 
 
 "Satterlee!" she breathed the name with a 
 hiss. "Dey 's pizen in de blood! Look at Mandy 
 Satterlee ! Look what de pizen has brung her to ! 
 Playin' nigger ! Ef dey 's any salvation in dis worl' 
 fer her, de Bowden blood '11 save her. I dunner 
 how it gwine ter be when she die. Ef she 's got 
 one drap mo' er de Satterlee blood dan what she 's 
 got er de Bowden blood, de angels can't save her." 
 
 Free Betsey paused again, and regarded me so 
 earnestly that I felt uncomfortable. 
 
 "How do she do? Do she cry an' take on? 
 Do she do like her sperret done broke? "
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 137 
 
 "Yes, she is very unhappy," I replied. 
 
 "Well, I thank my God fer dat much! " cried 
 Free Betsey, lifting her hands high over her head. 
 "Dat's de Bowden blood. Oh, tell her ter cry 
 
 cry cry! An' den, when cryin' don't do 
 her no good, tell her dat her ol' nigger is waitin' 
 fer her out yer in de woods." 
 
 "Why don't you come to see her?" I sug 
 gested, struck by her devotion. "No doubt she 
 would be glad to see you." 
 
 "Me come dar?" She lowered her voice, and 
 a pleased expression crept into her face. " God 
 knows, I been layin' off ter come, suh, but I 'm 
 skeer'd. I ain't nothin' 't all but a ole no-count 
 free nigger, an' I been skeer'd dat ef I come dar 
 an' ax fer my young mistiss 't would make you all 
 mo' 'spicious er de gal dan what you is." 
 
 I followed Free Betsey's thought rather than her 
 words, and my admiration for her grew steadily. 
 
 "I use ter know Miss Jane," she went on, "an' 
 she '11 fly up an' flew at you at de drappin' uv a 
 hat an' drap it herse'f. Ef I come I 'm comin' 
 kaze you ax me, an' not kaze Mandy Satterlee 
 want ter see me. She may not want ter see me, 
 an' I don't speck she do, but dat ain't needer yer 
 ner dar; ef I know'd Miss Jane want gwine"1!er 
 fly up an' flew'd at me, I 'd come. I sho would 
 
 not in de day time, but in de dark er de 
 moon." 
 
 "You may come any time," said I. 
 
 Free Betsey laughed gleefully. "Well, suh,
 
 138 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I 'm mos' tickled ter death ter hear you talk dat 
 away. An' ef dat's de case, I '11 hatter tell yo' 
 fortune." She rose from the door sill, went to 
 a shelf on which was perched a small, square 
 mirror, and picked up a pack of playing cards. 
 
 "Nonsense!" I protested. "You don't think 
 I believe in that sort of stuff? " 
 
 "Eh-eh!" cried Free Betsey. "Don't make 
 ! no diffunce 'bout b'lievin' er not b'lievin'. Dat 
 j don't hurt de trufe. It mostly in giner'lly hurt 
 dem what don't b'lieve de trufe." Crude as it 
 was, this was sound reasoning, but it bore no rela 
 tion to fortune -telling, and so I informed Free 
 Betsey. 
 
 "Ef dat's de case," she replied, "'t ain't gwine 
 ter hurt you no how; an' ef 'tis de trufe maybe 
 it 's lots purtier dan what you specktin' it ter be." 
 "With that she sat on the door-sill again, smoothed 
 her lap out, and began to shuffle the cards, show 
 ing a dexterity in the performance that I have 
 never seen surpassed. Suddenly she dropped the 
 pack in her lap, and turned to me. 
 
 "Who dat you had wid you at de circus dat 
 time?" she asked. 
 
 The question was so unexpected, and was put 
 so plumply that I was taken aback. I suppose 
 I must have blushed, for Free Betsey threw her 
 self on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter, whether 
 real or feigned I had no means of knowing. 
 
 "Oh, you ain't done forgot de name," she 
 cried. "I know by my nose an' my two big toes."
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 139 
 
 "I was with my sister and Miss Mary Bullard," 
 I remarked after a while with a dignity befitting 
 the occasion. 
 
 "De reason I ast," Free Betsey explained, 
 "was dat I run de kyards 'bout you de day de 
 circus wuz a callywhoopin' aroun', an' dey runded 
 mighty quare. Dey make me open my eyes 
 wide! I say ' Heyo, how come dis? ' an' ' Heyo, 
 how come dat ? ' But dey wuz all mixt up wid 
 sump'n er nudder, I dunner what. But wait! 
 I '11 see how dey talk now." 
 
 She shuffled the cards again, then divided them 
 into four equal parts, placing each part to itself, 
 until she came to the fourth. This she retained 
 in her hands, running the cards rapidly through 
 her fingers, and studying the combinations that 
 presented themselves. This she did a half dozen 
 times. At last she laughed aloud, and ex 
 claimed: 
 
 "Man, dis beats all! 'T ain't much better dan 
 'twuz de day er de circus. Yer de gal dark 
 complected same gal trouble all roun' 'er, 
 but not de big trouble dat dey wuz yer she is, 
 gwine up an' down an' dar's de trouble." 
 
 She laid the cards in her lap and took the next 
 division, passing the pieces of painted pasteboard 
 so nimbly between her fingers, one by one, that 
 they seemed to move of their own will and voli 
 tion. 
 
 "Name er de Lord!" she muttered. "What 
 de matter wid deze kyards? De trouble ain't no
 
 140 
 
 SISTER JANE. 
 
 big trouble dey ain't no sickness dey ain't 
 no journeys dey ain't nobody makin' no trouble 
 
 what de matter?" She put the cards down 
 and picked up the next division. "Folks all 
 gwine 'long 'tendin' ter der own business no 
 ups an' downs no nothin'." She took the 
 fourth and last division in her hands and went 
 through the same formality of skimming them 
 through her fingers. "Ah-yi!" she exclaimed. 
 "Yer de light complected man! what he doin' 
 'way off yer by his own lone se'f ? Mo' trouble 
 
 all er he own makin'. What de matter wid 
 'im?" She took the first division and added it 
 to the one she held in her hands. "Look at um! 
 De dark-complected gal gwine up an' down 
 makin' trouble fer 'er own se'f de light-com 
 plected man settin' still makin' trouble fer he 
 own se'f. Dat what de kyards say," she went 
 on, looking hard at me, " an' de kyards know what 
 dey talkin' 'bout. Dat 's your fortune, Mars'er 
 Willyum Wornum, an' I'm mighty glad 't ain't 
 no wuss; I 'm glad fum de bottom er my heart." 
 
 "It's not much of a fortune," I remarked, 
 dryly. "But since you are so apt at such things, 
 why don't you tell of the little boy that was lost 
 -Freddy Bullard?" 
 
 "Don't you know 'dout any tellin'?" she 
 asked, with some eagerness. 
 
 "I know he is lost, certainly," I replied; "we 
 all know that." 
 
 "Isdatall?"
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 141 
 
 "It is all anybody knows," I said. 
 
 "Ain't Miss Jane done toF you?" 
 
 "She knows no more than I do." 
 
 "Well, ef dat don't beat all! Ain't Miss Jane 
 tol' you, sho miff ? " 
 
 I was nettled more by the tone of Free Betsey 
 than by her words, which had no meaning for me. 
 "Of course she hasn't told me anything more 
 than everybody knows," I replied, with some 
 heat. 
 
 "Well den, ef she ain't done tol' you, I ain't 
 gwine tell you, kaze she got some good reason. 
 'T ain't kaze she dunno. Man, suh! dey can't 
 fool Sally Beshears an' dey can't fool Free Bet- 
 sey." 
 
 "Why, you must be crazy," I exclaimed, petu 
 lantly. 
 
 "Dat des what de matter," she said, in a whis 
 per. "OF Free Betsey ain't only gone crazy; 
 she 'uz bornded crazy. Dat 's it dat 's it! " 
 
 Of course Free Betsey, with characteristic cun 
 ning, was trying to find out what I knew (though, 
 indeed, I knew nothing) of the fate of Freddy 
 Bullard, so as to weave it into a rigmarole of her 
 own when she came to "run " the cards. 
 
 "If you can tell fortunes with your cards," said 
 I, "you can surely tell me something of Freddy 
 Bullard." 
 
 "Not wid de kyards," she replied. "I got 
 sump'n better 'n kyards." 
 
 With that she went to a chest that stood in one
 
 142 SISTER JANE. 
 
 corner of the room a very substantial looking 
 chest it was, too and drew from its depths a 
 crystal of peculiar formation, such as are some 
 times found on the hills of middle Georgia. It 
 was a very large and beautiful stone, weighing, 
 perhaps, a pound. The surface was clear, but in 
 its depths were flecks and splotches of white, hav 
 ing the appearance of a milky vapor. I took it 
 in my hands and examined it curiously, turning 
 it about, and weighing it in my palm. It was as 
 fine a specimen of the kind as I ever saw, and I 
 wondered to what use Free Betsey would put it. 
 My curiosity was soon satisfied. She took the 
 stone and closed both hands over it, and held it to 
 her face, and breathed on it her warm breath. 
 Then she rubbed it briskly on her apron and held 
 it to the light. It may have been my imagina 
 tion, or it may have been the angle at which my 
 eyes fell on the stone, but it seemed to me that 
 the vaporous white flecks were both thinner and 
 fewer in number. But the appearance of the 
 stone did not seem to satisfy Free Betsey. She 
 warmed it again by breathing upon it, and rubbed 
 it briskly with her apron. 
 
 "It mighty cloudy in dar," she exclaimed. 
 
 She breathed on it, and rubbed it the third 
 time, and held it up to the light. This time I 
 was sure that some change had taken place. The 
 stone seemed to be dazzlingly clear, not transpar 
 ent, but teeming with pale sparks of light. This, 
 after all, may have been due to a trick of hand-
 
 FREE BETSEY RUNS THE CARDS. 143 
 
 ling, but, if so, the trick was cleverly done. Free 
 Betsey gazed steadfastly into the clear depths of 
 the stone, mumbling something in an undertone. 
 Presently she said : 
 
 "A long road an' a mighty rough un. Man 
 got de chil' by de han'. Sometimes dey er ridin' 
 an' sometimes dey er walkin'. Sometimes de man 
 tote de chil', sometimes he make 'im walk. Some 
 times dey set down on de side de road to res'." 
 
 Free Betsey spoke slowly and hesitatingly as 
 if she found difficulty in making head or tail of 
 the tangle she found in the mysterious depths of 
 the stone. 
 
 "Now dey er walkin' walk, walk, walk, 
 dodgin' in de woods when somebody come by. 
 Trudge, trudge; chil' a-cryin', man a-cussin'. 
 Miles 'pon top er miles cross big rivers an' 
 little uns up hill an' down hill 'cros^ moun 
 tains yit way off yander de Lord knn\* s whur. 
 Bimeby dey come to er place whar .some/ waggoners 
 campin'. I see smoke, I see fire, I see de tops er 
 de wagons one, two dozen wagons. Man an' 
 chil' set down. Chil' mighty nigh dead he so 
 hungy an' tired. Man slap de chil' fer to 'im 
 hoi' up he head. So den! Man jine wid de 
 wagons. Travel an' travel wid um. Bimeby set 
 de chil' down in de road an' go off an' lef ' 'im. 
 Man gone ! he done gone ! Man wid black 
 beard come 'long take de chil' in he arms an' 
 much 'im, an' den he gi' 'im sump'n t' eat. 
 Man " she paused, turned the stone over in her 

 
 144 SISTER JANE. 
 
 hands. "Done gone," she said, with a sigh. 
 "De clouds done come back." 
 
 I took the stone in my hand again, but the 
 white vaporous flecks (if they had ever disap 
 peared) had now come back, thicker, it seemed to 
 me, than ever. Turn the stone as I would, it 
 refused to show the lustre that it gave forth in 
 Free Betsey's hand. This fact struck me, but it 
 gave me no reason to place any confidence in her 
 power to read the future. Yet it gave me a 
 strong sense of the impression that her apparent 
 earnestness and sincerity might ' make on weaker 
 minds. I gave her a sevenpence piece, and left 
 her; but before I had got out of hearing, she 
 hollered at me this prophecy : 
 
 "You'll see what I tol' you, an' you'll know 
 mo'n dat 'fo' you git many year older."
 
 XI. 
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 
 
 IT has been said that time moves more slowly 
 in a village than elsewhere; but when a man is 
 nearing his climacteric (and mine I reckoned to be 
 the age of forty) it moves all too fast for him, no 
 matter where Providence has stationed him. 
 There were moments when I could have wished to 
 stop the hands on the dial, or to do with the sea 
 sons what Joshua did with the sun bid them to 
 stand still. But even if the age of miracles was 
 not past, as many claim and believe, it were a 
 vain and an idle thought for an obscure country 
 lawyer to hope to grow younger as the years went 
 by or to stay the hands of time. Nor did I repine 
 that this was so. Providence has given us the 
 knack of accommodating ourselves to circum 
 stances, and this gift is in the nature of a fortune. 
 I was a part of the vast procession, and, while I 
 had my fancies, I was not averse from g-?o \vn*g Old 
 with the rest. In thic Business I knew that I had 
 the world, the planets, and the myriad stars for my 
 companions, and. we were all journeying along 
 together fulfilling the same divine order.
 
 146 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I felt that the burden of age, rightly carried, 
 was far more precious than the vapors of youth. 
 The happiness of youth is according to nature; 
 the rarer happiness of age is according to philoso 
 phy. Youth has no other knowledge than to seek 
 its pleasure; but where experience can extract 
 content and happiness from life, that is a gift 
 above nature. And I felt that I had it. 
 
 Yet I could have my fancies, too, and they did 
 me no harm. I could fancy, when I saw Mary 
 Bullard (and I saw her every day), how it might 
 be if I were younger ; and if I dropped a sigh at 
 such times, my discontent was as fleeting and as 
 momentary as a gust of summer wind. I had but 
 to turn in my chair to find diversion. I had but 
 to pass into the street to find an ample supply of 
 the humor that life provides for those who have 
 eyes to see and ears to hear. 
 
 It was on one of these occasions when I had 
 gone into the street to rid myself of fancies, 
 which, though entirely harmless, were unprofit 
 able, that I chanced to meet with two old friends 
 and acquaintances (Grandsir Johnny Roach and 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby), men who had known my 
 father and who had been his warm friends. 
 Grandsir Roach and Uncle Jimmy Cosby lived 
 '6getbef--*i f ew miles from the village, and had 
 been neighbor* 1 of the Satterlees. They were 
 sitting on the steps ot the coart-house, talking to 
 gether, and I walked across the public square to 
 shake hands with them for the sake of old times.
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 147 
 
 The two old men were well-to-do. They owned 
 land and negroes, horses and carriages; but back 
 of their prosperity were the experience of the 
 pioneer and the spirit of true democracy. As 
 they were, so were their neighbors, for in this 
 section the aristocracy of caste could hardly find 
 a spot of ground on which to plant its dainty feet. 
 The essence of manhood is character, and the sub 
 stance of character is integrity; and integrity 
 went farther than wealth among this people. The 
 two old men had the independence that cares little 
 for appearances, and the spirit of economy that 
 adapts itself to circumstances. I could see that 
 they had taken their feet in their hands (as the 
 saying is) and walked to the village, as they had 
 done many times before. They seemed to have 
 some joke between them, for they were chuckling 
 and nudging each other at a great rate. They 
 were as glad to see me as I was to see them, and 
 I was very soon let into the matter of the joke 
 that had convulsed them. 
 
 Grandsir Johnny Roach had started to the vil 
 lage with the understanding that his comrade and 
 neighbor, Uncle Jimmy Cosby, would follow in 
 a few moments and overtake him. Once under 
 way, Grandsir Johnny Roach, with the harmless 
 conceit of age, made up his mind to sururise Uncle 
 Jimmy Cosby by pushing forwail/rotnCTv>^ly as 
 his legs would allow him. He w me it 's a l 
 all his seventy -odd years, and thonjiore 'n a quarter 
 tism had left him with what he
 
 148 SISTER JANE. 
 
 knee," he could manage to move with considerable 
 celerity. The result was that Uncle Jimmy Cosby 
 failed to overtake him until he had reached the 
 public square. Though both were fagged out 
 with the unusual exertion, they regarded it as a 
 good joke, and seemed to enjoy it immensely. 
 
 "He cotch up wi' me, William, right in the 
 aidge of town, an' I lay he hain't strained hisself, 
 nother. Well, well! It's nothin' to boast on, 
 Brother Cosby. I reckon I frittered away my 
 wind a-cuttin' up capers in my young days, an' 
 now I 'm a-payin' of the fiddler. Ther 's a turri- 
 ble crick in my knee-jint, an' a tremblin' in my 
 hams if I but overdo my gait." 
 
 "Oh, yes! I cotch up wi' 'im, William," 
 remarked Uncle Jimmy Cosby, complacently, 
 "but I laid off to overtake 'im at the Baptizin' 
 Creek. I 've had to walk yes, sir! I 've had 
 to walk as I hain't walked these many long years. 
 I put out ten minnits arter you left, Brother 
 Roach> an' I pulled right along wi'out lookin' 
 uther to the right or uther to the left. I allowed 
 maybe you was in some big hurry er 'nother." 
 
 Grand sir Johnny Roach smiled pleasantly over 
 this neighborly tribute to his powers of endurance. 
 
 "No, no, Brother Cosby! " he protested; "I 'm 
 lots too old to be in any hurry ; I thess taken my 
 ^riuo^in' 'long an' a-studyin', an' a-study- 
 on the ste' n ' 'long thinkin' eve'y blessed 
 gether, and I wa'd walk up behin' me an' slap me 
 shake hands with
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 149 
 
 "I allowed you had somethin' er 'nother on your 
 min', Brother Roach," Uncle Jirnmy Cosby as 
 sented, "bekaze I holla 'd at you from the top of 
 yan hill, but you kep' a-polin'." 
 
 "I'm like a steer, Brother Cosby. When he 
 begins to git warm in the flanks he draps his head 
 an' makes fer shade an' water." 
 
 "Well, we 're both here, Brother Roach," said 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby. "We're both here, an' 
 likewise William Wornum an' what more can 
 you ax than that? " 
 
 "Nothin'," replied Grandsir Johnny Roach, 
 with something like a sigh "nothin' but a 
 rockin' -cheer an' a jug of fresh buttermilk. Yit 
 I lay we '11 be obleege to put up wi' a stump an' 
 a tussock." 
 
 The two old men sat silent for a while, appar 
 ently lost in thought. It was evident that my old 
 friends had grave dffairs to deal with. Finally 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby spoke : 
 
 "The days is shortenin' up. We 've come from 
 home an' it hain't taken us long, but before 
 we 've been an' gone an' transacter'd a speck o' 
 what little business we had, here 't is mighty nigh 
 twelve o'clock." 
 
 Grandsir Johnny Roach cast a glance upward 
 at the sun. It was swift and casual, but it was 
 the glance of an expert. "No, Brother Cosby, 
 you 're wrong. My two eyes tell me it 's a leetle 
 better 'n half arter ten. It ain't riore 'n a q'l-irter 
 to eleven, if it 's as much."
 
 150 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "Maybe so, Brother Eoach; maybe so; I'll 
 not dispute you. One hour more or less hain't 
 wuth wranglin' over, speshually on a Sat'day. 
 One hour or three, we 've got the balance of the 
 day before us." 
 
 "That's so, Brother Cosby ; that's so. If we 
 was on a frolic now, an' the fiddle was a-gwine, 
 we 'd find two hours ample time for to git happy 
 in ample time." 
 
 At that moment I heard some one singing on 
 the other side of the public square. The two 
 old men also heard it, and paused in their aimless 
 conversation to listen. The singer appeared to 
 be coming in the direction of the court-house, but 
 was out of sight on the other side. 
 
 % 'Can you make him out, Brother Cosby?" 
 Grandsir Roach asked. 
 
 "That I can, Brother Roach ; that I can. It's 
 that half-wit, Jincy Meadows. It 's a God-send 
 that he hain't got sense enough to be as mean as 
 his daddy. Larkin loved money better '11 he did 
 his childern, an' now here 's his son a-trollopin' 
 about from post to pillar, an' no manner account. 
 I laugh at 'im sometimes, but it makes me sorry 
 for to see sech a fool." 
 
 "Don't laugh at 'im, Brother Cosby; don't. 
 You know what the sayin' is 'Don't squeal at 
 a sow; don't blate at a cow; don't kick at a mule; 
 don't laugh at a fool.'" 
 
 "Why, you laugh at 'im yourself, Brother 
 Itoach."
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 151 
 
 "Not me, Brother Cosby, not me! I laugh wi' 
 'im, but that 's bekaze I can't he'p myse'f, he 's 
 so nimble wi' his tongue. Lord 'a' mercy! 
 I 've seed lots bigger fools in my day an' time 
 than that same Jincy Meadows." 
 
 Jincy Meadows came around the corner of the 
 court-house singing blithely. He was a lightly- 
 built young fellow, apparently about twenty-five, 
 quick in his movements and rather prepossessing 
 in his appearance indeed, not far from hand 
 some. I had frequently had occasion to laugh at 
 his flippancies, for they often went deeper than the 
 common apprehension cared to follow. Though 
 he bore the reputation of a half-wit, which is a 
 genteel name for a harmless lunatic, he struck me 
 as a young man of uncommon parts. As he came 
 around the corner of the court-house, he sang : 
 
 " ' Oh,' said the peckerwood, settin' on the fence, 
 ' Once I courted a comely wench, 
 
 But she proved fickle and from me fled, 
 
 And ever sence my head 's been red.' " 
 
 He paused as he came upon our little group, 
 bowed swiftly to me, and then turned to the two 
 old men, his arms akimbo, and a comical expres 
 sion of astonishment on his face. 
 
 "Why, the great Jiminy Craminy!" he cried, 
 "What is this? The state legislator in session, 
 and nobody to do the wind work! This fetches 
 my dream true. I dreampt last night I was 
 elected, an' 'stead of callin' on me to speak, they 
 called on me to treat."
 
 152 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "We'll not ax you that, Jincy," Grandsir 
 Roach responded with as much gravity as was his 
 to command. 
 
 "Well, that spiles the dream, then," remarked 
 Jincy, "because I up'd and told the boys that a 
 member of the legislatur, and likewise a Son of 
 Temperance, had to be mighty keerful about the 
 platform he stood on. But we 're all here, now, 
 and what a team we make ! Johncy, Jimpsy, and 
 Jincy wisdom, experience, and prudence! I 
 name these names because no kind of weather will 
 sp'ile 'em." 
 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby nudged Grandsir Roach with 
 his elbow. "Jest lis'n how that boy runs on! " 
 
 "Wait! hold on!" exclaimed Jincy, holding 
 up his forefinger warningly. "Be right still! 
 Let 's jine hands and stand in a ring. Catch hold 
 of hands, Johncy and Jimpsy; now take Jincy's. 
 That 's it; that 's the idee. Steady now! Johncy, 
 you must blink; Jimpsy, you must wink; and 
 Jincy '11 stand here and think. Now, then, all 
 make a wish one, two, three ! and there you 
 are!" 
 
 Jincy dropped the hands of the two old men, 
 who had unhesitatingly placed theirs in his, 
 stepped back, leaped into the air, and cut what is 
 called "the pigeon wing" with indescribable ease 
 and grace. 
 
 "Go 'way, Jincy; go 'way! You're a plum 
 sight; go 'way!" cried Grandsir Roach, giving 
 the young man a playful punch with his cane.
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 153 
 
 Jincy Meadows made a comical gesture of 
 despair. "There now!" he exclaimed. "You 
 can't get your wish; you teched me whilst the 
 spell was on me. But I know what your wish 
 was, Johncy and yours, Jimpsy." 
 
 The old men chuckled, but appeared to have no 
 desire to challenge Jincy's occult powers. 
 
 "What are you doin' for a livin', Jincy?" 
 asked Uncle Jimmy Cosby. 
 
 "Bridging the Oconee, Jimpsy. Have n't you 
 heard about it? Why, it 's the talk of the whole 
 county. I had the bridge finished last Saturday, 
 but it had to be tore down." 
 
 "Tore down! " exclaimed Uncle Jimmy Cosby. 
 "What for, I 'd like to know? " There was gen 
 uine interest in the tone of his voice. 
 
 Jincy looked around carefully, as if to see that 
 no one outside our little group would overhear 
 him. "Don't tell anybody," he said, in a loud 
 whisper. "I found a knot hole in one of the 
 stringers." 
 
 Grandsir Roach shook his head and sighed. 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby 's countenance fell. "Well, 
 well, well!" said one, and "Well, well, well!" 
 echoed the other. 
 
 I was so charmed with this unique method of 
 throwing an insurmountable barrier across the 
 path of inquisitiveness, that I resolved to test the 
 young man's ability farther. 
 
 "Jincy," said I, "what were our two friends 
 wishing just now?" In an instant I regretted
 
 154 8 1ST ER JANE. 
 
 the question, but it was too late. Jincy Meadows 
 whirled on his boot-heel and, quick as a flash, 
 replied : 
 
 "They were wishing they knew whsre Mandy 
 Satterlee is, and how she is getting on. Now, 
 Johncy and Jimpsy ! fair and square! " His face 
 was flushed a little, and there was an eager gleam 
 in his eye that I had missed before. 
 
 "Well, sir," replied Grandsir Roach, speaking 
 slowly and with emphasis, "uther you hyearn me 
 a-thinkin' or you 're a witch for guessin'. Them 
 thoughts was in my min'." 
 
 "An' likewise in mine," assented Uncle Jimmy. 
 
 "Now that is queer," said I. "Mandy Satter 
 lee is at our house, and has been there for many 
 months." 
 
 "At your house?" inquired Grandsir Roach, 
 as if he had suddenly become hard of hearing. 
 
 "Yes," I replied. 
 
 "She's at his house," remarked Grandsir 
 Roach, nudging Uncle Jimmy Cosby. 
 
 "Who? Mandy?" Uncle Jimmy asked as 
 innocently as if he had heard not a word of the 
 conversation. 
 
 "Yes, Mandy Satterlee," I reiterated. 
 
 Grandsir Roach stroked his beard, cleared his 
 throat, and moved uneasily. "Well, sir," he 
 said, after a pause, "I reckon she 's well, an' 
 doin' well; not overcome, as you may say, by 
 er by the er by whatsomever hard trials 
 that may or may not have been her lot, an' not
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 155 
 
 only her 'n, but of hunderds an' thousan's, fer the 
 way is liter'lly strowd wi' traps an' pitfalls." 
 
 While Grandsir Roach's embarrassment showed 
 painfully in his voice and manner, and while he 
 was speaking, Jincy Meadows was walking about 
 in a quick, restless way. 
 
 "Yes, Mandy is well," I responded. 
 
 "Well, sir," said Grandsir Roach with a dis 
 play of feeling that rarely comes to the surface in 
 age, "when next you see Mandy Satterlee, tell 
 her that Grandsir Roach axed arter her perticu- 
 lar, an' said God -bless her! " 
 
 "An' tell her that her Uncle Jimmy Cosby said 
 Amen! to that," remarked that individual with 
 unction. 
 
 "Johncy an' Jimpsy, what word shall I send 
 her? " cried Jincy Meadows. "I can crack jokes 
 with you all day, but when it comes to Mandy, 
 my head's in a whirl. My mind flutters like a 
 rag in the wind." 
 
 Grandsir Roach came to the rescue. "Tell 
 Mandy," said he, with the simple dignity that 
 only age can easily and unconsciously assume, 
 "that you met three of her old-time friends who 
 ain't f ergot her. Call out the'r names plump an' 
 plain, an' tell her that they axed arter her an' 
 said God bless her ! " 
 
 "Why not come with me and see her?" I 
 asked before Jincy Meadows could say a word. 
 "Surely she would be glad to see her old friends 
 who still take an interest in her. Come ! "
 
 156 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Grandsir Roach stroked his beard thoughtfully. 
 "Now, maybe she hain't prepar'd to see us. She 
 may n't be strong. It mought do harm. Wimmen 
 is mighty quare; you don't know one minnit what 
 they 're a-gwine to do the next. An' no wonder 
 bekaze they don't know their self what they 're 
 a-gwine to do." 
 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby nodded an assent to this 
 that would have been vigorous if it had not been 
 so solemn. 
 
 "An' yit," Grandsir Roach went on, "if you 
 think Mandy '11 be one half as glad to see us as 
 we '11 be to see her, we '11 go right along an' say 
 narry 'nother word." To which Uncle Jimmy 
 again nodded his solemn assent. 
 
 "Come!" I exclaimed, with as much enthusi 
 asm as I could now muster, for I had suddenly 
 bethought me of sister Jane, and I was doubtful 
 as to the light in which she would view the visita 
 tion. But Grandsir Roach and Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby were even more anxious to see Mandy than 
 I had suspected, and when the invitation was 
 repeated, they accepted it with alacrity. 
 
 Jincy Meadows, it seemed, was of another 
 mind. "I '11 go as close as the corner," said he, 
 "an' wait there. Johncy and Jimpsy, when they 
 come out, can tell me more than I could find out 
 for myself. I 'm a mighty poor hand with wim- 
 men folks. Them that don't think I 'm crazy 
 don't keer whether I am or not, and so it goes." 
 
 He broke into a lilting song :
 
 TWO OLD FRIENDS AND ANOTHER. 157 
 
 ' ' The chickadee married the old blue dart, 
 And like to have broke the gos-hawk's heart. 
 The wedding took place in the finest weather, 
 And nothing was left of the bride but a feather. 
 
 "Well, Jincy, you know your own notions 
 better 'n we do," remarked Grandsir Roach, in a 
 kindly, soothing way. " We '11 tell Mandy we 
 seed you, but what else to say I don't know." 
 
 "Jest tell her I 'm the same old Jincy, good- 
 for-nothin' and no account. That '11 please her 
 jest as well as anything." 
 
 The young man's tone was so peculiar that I 
 looked at him narrowly, and saw that his counte 
 nance had lost the happy-go-lucky expression it 
 usually wore. Instead, he was frowning as if his 
 thoughts were anything but pleasant. At the 
 corner we left him, and as we entered the gate 
 that opened on the little porch in front of my 
 room, I looked back and saw him whittling away 
 with his pocket knife on the tree-box, against 
 which he was leaning. He was not the gay figure 
 I had laughed at a quarter of an hour earlier. 
 
 It was with some misgivings that I introduced 
 Grandsir Roach and Uncle Jimmy Cosby under 
 our roof on their present mission ; but their com 
 ing was at my invitation, and their age, their 
 standing in the county, and their interest in 
 Mandy Satterlee all pleaded mightily in their 
 behalf. What I dreaded was the reception that 
 sister Jane might accord them. If it occurred to 
 her mind that they had come out of mere curios-
 
 158 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ity, or for the purpose of placing upon Mandy a 
 burden of perfunctory and therefore useless advice, 
 she would not hesitate to send them about their 
 business with their ears tingling. In view of such 
 an emergency, I determined to leave the two old 
 men in my room and send Mandy to them. Ac 
 cordingly I placed chairs for them, begged them 
 to make themselves entirely at home, and excused 
 myself while I went to inform Mandy of their 
 presence.
 
 xn. 
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 
 
 I HOPED to find Mandy Satterlee in the kitchen, 
 but she was sitting in sister Jane's room. 
 
 "Mandy," said I, "two of your old friends 
 have called to see you." 
 
 She looked at sister Jane with a startled expres 
 sion on her face. "I wonder what they want wi' 
 me!" she exclaimed. "I ain't got no friends 
 that 'd take the trouble to call on me not that 
 I know of." 
 
 "Who are they, William?" inquired sister 
 Jane, in a severe tone. 
 
 "Grandsir Koach and Uncle Jimmy Cosby," 
 I replied. The startled expression went out of 
 Mandy's face, but a contraction of her eyebrows 
 showed she was puzzled. 
 
 "Old Johnny Roach!" exclaimed sister Jane. 
 "Why, I thought he 'd been translated and trans 
 mogrified too long ago to talk about. What do 
 they want with Mandy? " 
 
 "Merely to see her," I explained. "They are 
 old friends, and they seem to take an interest in 
 her." 
 
 "Well, I hope we ain't to have the Georgy
 
 1GO SISTER JANE. 
 
 militia trooping in here the next time there 's a 
 general muster; that's what I hope. Where'- 
 bouts did you leave 'em? In your room; well, 
 tell 'em to shake the mud off their huffs and come 
 in here. If they 're so keen to see Mandy, here 's 
 the place to see her." 
 
 I went back and invited Grandsir Roach and 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby into sister Jane's room. 
 They had both known us from childhood, but of 
 late years they had seen my sister only at rare 
 intervals. 
 
 Grandsir Roach entered the room and looked 
 around. Mandy had withdrawn to primp a little, 
 as women will do, no matter how their minds 
 may be racked with trouble. 
 
 "Where 's Jane? " Grandsir Roach asked, bow 
 ing formally to my sister, and then turning to me. 
 
 "You must be losing your eyesight, Grandsir 
 Roach, if you don't know me," said sister Jane. 
 
 "Why, is that reely you, Jane?" he cried, 
 taking her hand and shaking it heartily. "Well, 
 well, well! Why, I'd never 'a' know'd you in 
 the roun' worl'. No; my sight is good better'n 
 it was ten year gone; but how was I to know 
 you? I says to myself, as I come along, says I, 
 ' I reckon Jane must be agein' some, because she 
 hain't no chicken.' That's what I said. But 
 never did I hope to fin' you lookin' so well an' 
 so young. Why, you hain't changed a mite in 
 twenty year! " 
 
 It was a neat compliment deftly delivered, and
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 161 
 
 its deftness lay iu its unexpectedness. It was so 
 clearly the inspiration of the moment, that sister 
 Jane was mightily pleased, as I could see. 
 
 "This here 's Jimmy Cosby, Jane; shorely you 
 ain't gone an' forgot Jimmy," Grandsir Roach 
 went on. "Me an' Brother Cosby has been close 
 neighbors for now gwine on fifty year." 
 
 "Why, of course I haven't forgotten Uncle 
 Jimmy," said sister Jane, shaking his hand. 
 "How could I? I used to ride his horse to water 
 court-week." . 
 
 "That's a fact that's a fact, Jane," Uncle 
 Jimmy assented. "Many an' many 's the time 
 you use to ride my hoss to water when you was 
 a little bit of a gal. I was mighty much obleegft 
 to you, an' yit many 's the time I 've been af eared 
 you 'd fall off an' hurt yourse'f." 
 
 "Yes, an' she 'd 'a' rid my hoss to water if it 
 hadn't but 'a' been a mule," remarked Grandsir 
 Roach with a chuckle. "She was a right smart 
 of a tomboy, Jane was, but she draw'd the line at 
 mules." 
 
 "An' I don't blame her a bit," Uncle Jimmy 
 put in, "not narry single bit. They hain't no 
 body under the sun can git the bulge on a mule 
 'ceptin' it 's a nigger. They know one another 
 'crost a fifty acre lot." 
 
 "An' don't you mind, Brother Cosby," said 
 Grandsir Roach, chuckling more than ever, "that 
 Jane was so little that when she taken your hoss 
 to water, she rid straddle?"
 
 162 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "Yes, sir she did!" exclaimed Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby, "she certainly did. It had e'en about 
 drapped out 'n my min'. If I hadn't saw it, an' 
 had to be told of it, I never would believe it. 
 No, sir, never!" 
 
 Whereupon the two old men laughed heartily, 
 and, although sister Jane laughed heartily, too, 
 I noticed she was very red in the face as she? 
 placed chairs for our guests and begged them to 
 be seated. 
 
 "We're glad to see you, Jane, mighty glad," 
 said Grandsir Roach, "but we called more spesh- 
 ually for to see Mandy Satterlee. I fully expected 
 to see her settin' here." 
 
 Promptly upon the mention of her name Mandy 
 appeared in the doorway and stood there. Her 
 face was pale, and I noticed a hard, almost defiant 
 expression in her eyes. 
 
 Sister Jane must have noticed it, too, for when 
 she said, "There 's Mandy, " her voice was 
 pitched in a more subdued tone than usual. 
 
 "Why, Mandy, honey! Howdy, howdy!" ex 
 claimed Grandsir Roach, rising from his chair, 
 and going toward her. " I 'm monstus glad to see 
 you. Me an' your Uncle Jimmy thar come spesh- 
 ually for to see you, an' to see how you was gittin' 
 'long. Didn't we, Brother Cosby? That's the 
 reason we come, honey, an' for nothin' else in the 
 worl'." 
 
 I thought Mandy would have fallen to the floor. 
 She swayed back and forth, but caught the side
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARJTY. 1G3 
 
 of the doorway with her hand, and then, with the 
 cry of a frightened child, threw her arms around 
 Grandsir Roach's neck. When she raised her 
 head the color had returned to her cheeks, and 
 she was weeping. Still weeping, she ran from 
 Grandsir Roach to Uncle Jimmy Cosby, and by 
 the time she had so far recovered herself as to be 
 able to talk, the two old men were wiping their 
 eyes and snuffling as if they had suddenly been 
 overtaken by acute summer colds. 
 
 It is the privilege of age and of womanhood to 
 think no shame of the display of those intimate 
 emotions that are the spring of human love and 
 duty, and these old men and this young woman 
 made no effort whatsoever to conceal their feel 
 ings. Sister Jane went about the room pretend 
 ing to arrange things, the better to hide her agita 
 tion. She even went so far as to knock over the 
 candlestick, which was no easy thing to do. The 
 clatter made by this accident (for the candlestick 
 fell from the mantel to the hearth, and the dent 
 made in it is there to this day) acted somewhat as 
 a restorative. 
 
 "I declar' I hain't been kotch a-blubberin' like 
 this sence well, not sence I dunno when," said 
 Grandsir Roach, "I reckon maybe we're gittiii' 
 ol' an' fibble-minded, Brother Cosby." 
 
 "Maybe so, Brother Roach," replied Uncle 
 Jimmy Cosby, "but I allowed it was bekaze we 
 hain't saw Mandy in sech a long time, an' we use 
 to see her off an' on forty times a day. She was
 
 164 SISTER JANE. 
 
 in an' out, out an' in, constantly," Uncle Jimmy 
 went on, seating himself once more an example 
 that was followed by all. "If she wa'n't a-comin' 
 she wuz a-gwine; an' not a bit er trouble, not the 
 least bit. She could tease an' yit not pester." 
 
 "That's the fact truth," remarked Grandsir 
 Roach "it shorely is. It's the way of some 
 gals," he went on, turning to me. "They can 
 be allers in the way apperiently an' yit not pester 
 you. An' now she has been gone gwine on a year 
 or sech a matter." 
 
 , I was in the habit of noticing trifles, and it 
 struck me as curious that although Mandy was 
 present in the flesh, the old men talked about her 
 as if she were absent. 
 
 " She 's lookin' well, oncommon well," sug 
 gested Uncle Jimmy. 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," assented Grandsir Eoach 
 in a judicial tone. "She hain't sufferin' for lack 
 of provender." 
 
 "How's Aunt Sally an' Aunt Prue?" Mandy 
 inquired. 
 
 Grandsir Roach nodded toward Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby and Uncle Jimmy Cosby nodded toward 
 Grandsir Roach. "I know 'd it!" said one; "I 
 told you so!" echoed the other. And they were 
 even more emphatic in giving quaint advertise 
 ment of their foreknowledge. 
 
 "I know 'd that the minnit I laid eyes on 
 Mandy, she 'd up an' ax about her Aunt Sally. 
 I know'd it 'd be e'en about the fust word she 'd
 
 T1IL MANTLE OF CHARITY. 1C5 
 
 say. An' I says to Brother Cosby, says I, ' Bro 
 ther Cosby, you watch Mandy watch her right 
 close, -an' see if she don't up an' ax arter her 
 Aunt Sally the miniiit she lays eyes on me. ' I 
 leave it to Brother Cosby if I did n't." 
 
 "He said them very identical words," responded 
 Uncle Jimmy, as solemnly as if the matter was of 
 the gravest possible moment. "An' I says to 
 him, says I, as plain as ever I spoke in my life, 
 ' Brother Roach, ' says I, ' keep your two eyes on 
 Mandy an' see if she don't make quick inquire- 
 ineiits arter her aunt Prue,' says I. Did n't I say 
 them words, Brother Roach?" 
 
 "Identically word for word," Grandsir Roach 
 promptly assented. "Sally's my wife," he turned 
 to me to explain, "an' Prue 's his'n. They hain't 
 no manner er kin to Mandy, but they 're lots closer 
 kin on that account." 
 
 "Aig-zackly so!" said Uncle Jimmy Cosby; 
 he spoke deliberately and slowly so as to give the 
 proper emphasis. 
 
 Mandy laughed shyly, with a blush of pleasure 
 on her cheeks, and no wonder. It had been long 
 since such kindly words had fallen on her ears. 
 "You hain't told me how they are yit," Mandy 
 protested. 
 
 "AVell as common well as common," replied 
 Grandsir Roach,- with a sigh. "OF age is 
 a-creepm' on. Not that they're cripple; no, oh 
 no! They git about same as ever, but they ain't 
 nigh as soople as they was; not nigh. But they 're
 
 166 SISTER JANE. 
 
 constantly a-complainin'. Your Aunt Sally can't 
 have a ache but what your Aunt Prue can match 
 it wi' a pain; an' your Aunt Prue can't have a 
 tetch er pneumony but what your Aunt Sally '11 
 have a tetch er plooisy. I leave it to Brother 
 Cosby there, if it hain't so. He 's settin' whar 
 he can cont'adict me." 
 
 "That's them!" exclaimed Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby. 
 
 "Oh, I can see 'em now! " cried Mandy, clasp 
 ing her hands together tightly. "Aunt Sally 
 a-weavin' an' quar'lin' when the thread broke, or 
 when the sleys wouldn't work; an' Aunt Prue 
 shooin' the chickens out 'n the gyarden an' siccin' 
 the dogs on the pigs, an' Aunt Sally a-hollerin' 
 at Nancy, the house gal; an' Aunt Prue a-holler 
 in' fer the little niggers to come an' git some fresh 
 buttermilk I see 'em now." 
 
 "Aig-zackly so!" remarked Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby in his deliberate way, while Grandsir 
 Roach, with his chin in the hand that held his 
 cane and a pleased smile on his face, watched the 
 young woman. 
 
 "An' Aunt Sally an' Aunt Prue settin' in the 
 same pew at church on the fust Sunday in the 
 month Aunt Sally fat an' Aunt Prue lean an' 
 a-taking in ev'ry word the preacher says. An' 
 Aunt Sally a-dishin' out the chicken pie at her 
 house, an' Aunt Prue the apple dumplin' at her 'n." 
 
 " She knows a thing or two," remarked Uncle 
 Jimmy Cosby, turning to me.
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 167 
 
 "It hain't been so mighty long ago, honey," 
 said Grandsir Roach, "when your Aunt Prue an' 
 Brother Cosby picked up an' come over to our 
 house le' me see : wa'n't it last Sunday night, 
 Brother Cosby ? Yes last Sunday night. Your 
 Aunt Sally an' your Aunt Prue is constant 
 a-gwine an' a-comin', but it hain't so mighty 
 often that Brother Cosby, thar, an' me picks up 
 an' goes wi' 'em. But your Aunt Prue come last 
 Sunday night, an' Brother Cosby, thar, come wi' 
 'er. Now when me an' Brother Cosby strike up 
 wi' one another, an' hain't got nothin' better for 
 to do than to smoke our pipes, we most allers 
 in giner'lly gits tangled up on politics an' sech 
 matters. Brother Cosby's a dimercrat an' I 'm a 
 whig. He wants to run the country one way an' 
 I want to run it another, an' so we argy, an' argy 
 as hot as pepper, an' uther he gits mad or I fly 
 up like a fool an' that, too, when they hain't 
 no more chance of uther one a-runnin' the coun 
 try than they is of his jumpin' to the moon. If 
 politics wa'n't hatched for to kick up a flurry 
 betwixt neighbors, I dunno what they was hatched 
 for, danged if I do! 
 
 "But last Sunday night, as luck would have 
 it," Grandsir Roach went on, "politics wa'n't 
 brung up betwixt us. We sot an' smoked an' 
 listened at the wimmin a-gwine on. Your Aunt 
 Prue had saw some new-fangled bonnet some'rs er 
 nother, an' she sot right flat-footed in her cheer 
 thar an' pictur'd out to your Aunt Sally ev'ry
 
 168 SISTER JANE. 
 
 flower an' folderol an' all the conflutements that 
 the consarn had on it. I winked at Brother Cosby 
 an' lie winked at me, as we sot a-smokin' an' 
 a-lis'nin'. Then, not to be outdone, your Aunt 
 Sally, she up 'd an' tol' your Aunt Prue about 
 a new frock she seed some 'oman er nother have 
 011, an' thar they had it up an' down. Sech a 
 frock I ain't hyearn tell on in many a long day 
 before. It had purty, flowin' sleeves, an' the 
 waist was cut bias, so your Aunt Sally said, an 
 there was a streak er ribbin here an' a stripe of 
 yaller trimmin' thar, an' the skyirt was gethered 
 so, an' braid run down the sides. An' ' whar- 
 bouts was the placket ? ' says your Aunt Prue, 
 an' ' 'Twas teetotally hid out 'n sight,' says your 
 Aunt Sally. That 's the way they run on with 
 their rigamarole. 
 
 " Bimeby I sez to Brother Cosby, says I, ' Bro 
 ther Cosby, how 's craps ? ' says I. Did n't 1, 
 Brother Cosby ? I leave it to you." 
 
 "You said them very words, Brother Roach," 
 replied Uncle Jimmy Cosby, " an' I ups an' says, 
 says I, 'Well, Brother Roach,' says I, 'they're 
 lots better 'n we desarve, but not as good as I 
 hoped for,' says I." 
 
 "He said them identical words," continued 
 Grandsir Roach, looking proudly around to see 
 what effect had been produced 011 his small audi 
 ence. "An' then I hitched my cheer back an' 
 says, says I, ' I wonder whar 'bouts in this wide 
 worl' Mandy Satterlee is this night ? ' At that,
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 169 
 
 the wimraen squared aroun' an' looked at me an' 
 then looked in the fireplace. You mind that 
 cheer you use to set in, don't you, honey? The 
 one what was so high that I had to saw the legs 
 off so you could make your feet tech the floor? " 
 
 "That was when I was a little gal," remarked 
 Mandy. 
 
 "That's so, honey," Grandsir Roach went on, 
 "but you never sot in no other cheer, not in my 
 house, less'n you was a-settin' at the dinner-table. 
 Well, thar sot your cheer in the cornder whar it 
 allers sets at. Your Aunt Sally looked at it an' 
 sorter draw'd a long breath, an' says, says she, 
 ' Thar sets her cheer. It looks like it 's a-waitin' 
 for her to come back,' says she." 
 
 "Oh, did she say that?" cried Mandy. "Tell 
 her I love her more an' more the older I git." 
 
 "Them was her words," said Uncle Jimmy 
 Cosby, with more gravity than ever. 
 
 " Jes' so ! " Grandsir Roach went on " jes' 
 so ! It 's like I tell you. . But that ain't all. Your 
 Aunt Prue she looks over at the cheer, an' ups an' 
 says, says she, ' I ain't got no cheer fer Mandy in 
 pertickler, but they 're all her'n ef she '11 come an' 
 set in 'em. They 're all her'n,' says she, ' an' the 
 Lord knows my heart jest natchully yearns arter 
 that gal. Day or night,' says she, ' no matter how 
 she comes, no matter when she comes, no matter 
 whichaway she comes, my arms is open for herj' 
 says she." 
 
 " Word for word that was what she said," re 
 marked Uncle Jimmy Cosby.
 
 170 SISTElt JANE. 
 
 " Oh, I love 'em both," said Mandy, almost in 
 a whisper. Her voice was husky, and to hide her 
 tears she turned sidewise, threw her arms on the 
 back of her chair and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " Yessum an' yes, sir ! " exclaimed Grandsir 
 Roach, nodding first to sister Jane and then to 
 me ; " that 's the way it happened. An' then we 
 all sot right still an' looked in the fire, an' all 
 a-thinkin' an' a-thinkin' 'bout Mandy Satterlee. 
 Terreckly, your Aunt Sally ups an' says, says she, 
 ' The settlement hain't what it use to be when 
 Mandy was aroun'. She 'd come a-runnin',' says 
 she, ' an' grab me 'roun' the neck an' gi' me a good 
 hug most 'fore I know'd who under the blue cano 
 pies it was,' says she, ' an' when it come to fillin' 
 the sleys, her fingers was nimble as a gray spider's 
 legs,' says she. 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' says your Aunt Prue, says she ; 
 ' whatsomever was to be done she 'd do an' sing 
 all the time she was a-doin' of it,' says she, ' an' 
 many a time when it looked like she was lonesome, 
 she 'd come an' cuddle down on the floor,' says she, 
 ' an' lay her face agin my knee an' set cuddled up 
 that a-way for ever so long. If a day passed that 
 she did n't come, I 'd begin for to feel oneasy,' says 
 she. I '11 leave it to Brother Cosby here, honey, 
 if that wa' n't about the upshot of what your Aunt 
 Prue said." 
 
 " Even so, even so, Brother Roach," remarked 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby. " An' more than that, when 
 me an' your Aunt Prue went home that night
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY, 171 
 
 it 's but a step ; little better 'n a quarter of a mile 
 the fire had kinder died out on the h'ath, an' so, 
 jest as natchual as you please, I sot to work to 
 kindle a light. I got me a light-'ud knot whar I 
 allers keep 'em, an' then I got down on my knees 
 an' blow'd, an' blow'd tell it looked like I could n't 
 blow no more, an' all that time I did n't hear your 
 Aunt Prue make a sign of fuss. I come mighty 
 nigh a-losin' both my mind an' my temper, the 
 fire was so hard for to kindle ; an' bimeby I says 
 to your Aunt Prue, says I, ' Ma ! ' I allers call 
 her ma sence we had childun an' lost 'em I hol- 
 la'd out, I did, ' Ma, what in the Nation do yott 
 reckon has got into the fire ? ' says I. Yit not a 
 sign of a soun' did she make, so I allowed she had 
 gone into the next room, or maybe in the kitchen. 
 Then I took my ol' wool hat an' fetched the h'ath 
 a swipe or two, an' the blaze sprung up so sudden 
 that I most fanned it out ag'in before I could 
 ketch my han'. I looked up an' there was your 
 Aunt Prue a-standin' right at me, an' she had her 
 hankcher out a-cryin'. 
 
 " ' Why, ma,' says I, ' what on the roun' earth 's 
 the matter ? ' bekaze it hain't so mighty often you 
 see your Aunt Prue a-cryin' that a-way. I says, 
 says I, ' You 're nervious, ma, an' you better go to 
 bed.' An' then," Uncle Jimmy Cosby paused 
 here to chuckle " an' then she flew up like wim- 
 men will. * I hain't no more nervious than you,' 
 says she, ' an' I '11 go to bed when I git good an' 
 ready. It 's come to a mighty purty pass when I
 
 172 SISTER JANE. 
 
 can't cry when I want to,' says she. I know'd 
 right then she was a-cryin' 'bout Mandy, an ? when 
 she had sorter cooled off she up 'd an' tol' me so." 
 
 Mandy raised her head and exclaimed, " Oh, 
 don't let 'em cry for me. Oh, please don't. I 
 hain't wuth a thought from narry one of them good 
 wimnien. I love 'em I love 'em lots better 'n 
 if they was any kin to me ; but I ain't fitten to be 
 loved by nobody." 
 
 " Why, honey ! " said Grandsir Roach gently. 
 " You 're f ergittin' all about the Bible." 
 
 " I ain't fitten to think about the Bible," pro 
 tested Mandy. 
 
 By a lift of her eyebrows and a slight motion of 
 her head sister Jane gave the two old men to 
 understand that it would be well to let Mandy 
 fight with her troubles in her own way. Grandsir 
 Roach lifted his hat from the floor beside his chair 
 where he had dropped it, and Uncle Jimmy Cosby 
 did the same. 
 
 " I thank you kindly, Jane, for permittin' of us 
 to come an' see Mandy. I thank you from the 
 bottom of my heart. It '11 do us a sight of good 
 if it don't do her none. An' we '11 go back home 
 an' tell her Aunt Sally an' her Aunt Prue how 
 comf 'tubly she 's fixed, an' they '11 be might'ly holp 
 up might'ly holp up." 
 
 He turned to Mandy. " Good - by, honey. 
 We '11 drap in an' see you once in a way when we 
 come to town if we hain't wore our welcome out 
 wi' Jane here."
 
 THE MANTLE OF CHARITY. 173 
 
 " You can't wear your welcome out in this 
 house," said my sister with more earnestness than 
 I had seen her display toward people with whom 
 she was not intimate. 
 
 " I thank you kindly, Jane ; I do from the bot 
 tom of my heart," Grandsir Roach responded. He 
 turned again to Mandy. " Honey, when you git 
 w'ary an' tired, you know whar to come. When 
 you git homesick " 
 
 " Oh, I 'm allers homesick ! " cried Mandy. 
 " Day an' night, night an' day." 
 
 " That 's a great compliment to me," said sister 
 Jane, trying to give a lighter turn to the conversa 
 tion. 
 
 For answer, Mandy ran and seized sister Jane 
 in her strong arms. " I love you as well as I ever 
 did anybody," she sobbed. " Nobody in the world 
 has done more for me than what you've done. 
 Oh, please don't talk that away." 
 
 Sister Jane petted and consoled the poor 
 girl much as if she had been a child, and as effect 
 ually. 
 
 " We left Jincy Meadows out thar," remarked 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby, " an' we Ve got to be 
 agwine." 
 
 " How is Jincy ? " asked Mandy. 
 
 " Well as common e'en about the same ol' 
 Jincy full of queer notions. If you want to see 
 him " Uncle Jimmy paused, and stood waiting. 
 
 " Not now," said Mandy, " not now ; maybe 
 never I dunno."
 
 174 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " That '11 be a mighty hard tale to tell Jincy, 
 honey," suggested Grandsir Roach. 
 
 " I '11 think I can't tell," cried Mandy, stand 
 ing irresolute. " Some time but not now. Oh, 
 I hain't fitten for Jincy to be a pesterin' hisse'f 
 'long of." 
 
 " Bless your heart, honey," said Grandsir Roach 
 with a chuckle, " it don't pester Jiucy the least bit 
 in the worl'. I '11 tell 'im for to come see you 
 some day when you're feelin' well." 
 
 Then the two old men took their leave of Mandy 
 and sister Jane. As I went with them to the 
 outer door I remarked to Grandsir Roach : 
 
 " You and Uncle Jimmy Cosby certainly know 
 how to deal out charity." 
 
 " Charity ! " exclaimed Grandsir Roach. " Why, 
 William, what does Paul say ? Look it up in the 
 Bible ! Why, take charity out 'n religion an' what 
 in the name of common sense would be left? No- 
 thin' but the dry peelin's. It 'd be like takin' corn 
 out 'n the shuck. Shucks '11 maybe do for steers 
 an' dry cattle, an' they 're mighty poor ruffage 
 e'en for them ; but you give shucks to creeturs 
 what 's got any sense an' they '11 snort at 'em an' 
 walk away from the trough. Why, William, a 
 man that reely knows he 's got a soul for to save 
 is bound by his own sins to be charitable when it 
 comes to t' other folks's sins." 
 
 I shook hands with my two old friends and 
 made haste to write down Grandsir Roach's sermon 
 on charity.
 
 XIII. 
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 
 
 AFTER that, I noticed that Mandy went about 
 the business she had taken on herself much more 
 cheerfully. She had a knack of singing from the 
 first, but I had found out long ago that it was the 
 result of habit rather than of mental exaltation. 
 I had remarked on her singing one day when she 
 looked at me with surprise. 
 
 " La ! was I singin' ? " she asked. " I did n't 
 know it, an' I 'm mighty certain I don't feel much 
 like singin'. I reckon you an' Miss Jane take me 
 to be a mighty quare creetur." 
 
 But in a short while I heard her singing again, 
 and then I knew it was a habit that afforded some 
 relief from her distracted thoughts, such as I was 
 sure she had. I had seen the evidence of it too 
 often to doubt it. Yet her songs were a shade 
 blither, it seemed to me, after the visit of Grandsir 
 Roach and Uncle Jimmy Cosby ; and I thought 
 there was a brightness about her that had been 
 lacking before. But I could not be sure, for sister 
 Jane had charged such wild extravagance to my 
 imagination that I was sometimes inclined to doubt 
 the evidence of my own eyes. But in this matter
 
 176 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I had Klibs as a witness, for that stout toddler was 
 staring at me one day, not long after the visit of 
 Mandy's two old friends, when he suddenly re 
 marked : 
 
 " Mammy ting now. Fwen me git feepy, she 
 don't ky no mo. Her ting." The solemnity of 
 this remark was shattered when Klibs followed it 
 almost immediately with a dire threat and prophe 
 sied its results. " Me dine ter tut off Tommy tat's 
 tail. Den Nanny Dane will tut off my wears." 
 Which, being interpreted fairly and fully, was as 
 much as to say that Klibs intended to cut off 
 Tommy Tinkins's tail, a crime that would be pun 
 ished by the loss of Klibs's ears. 
 
 So I said to him as solemnly as I could that it 
 would be well to save his ears by allowing the cat 
 to carry his tail in comfort and peace. 
 
 " Oo tut off Tommy tat's tail," suggested Klibs, 
 by way of a compromise. " Me dit de tizzers." 
 
 " No, I thank you, Klibs," I replied. " Aunty 
 Jane would cut off my ears, too." 
 
 " Oo tan byake de 'ookin-dass, den." 
 
 " No, no, Klibs ; go and break it yourself." 
 
 " Uh-uh ! " said the toddler. " Nanny Dane tut 
 off my finners." 
 
 I was much struck by the fact that the change 
 in Mandy had been observed by the child, who 
 was now about two years old. It is gratifying to 
 have our notions confirmed, no matter from what 
 source, and I have often observed that the most 
 ordinary person, becomes important in our estiina-
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALL1XG. 177 
 
 tioii in proportion to his ability to flatter us by 
 confirming our views or agreeing with our opin 
 ions. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Klibs, the baby, 
 was as viciously disposed as his conversation would 
 lead one to suspect. He had been told not to 
 worry the cat, not to play with the scissors, and 
 not to break the looking-glass ; and, like our first 
 parents in the garden, his mind dwelt on that 
 which he was forbidden to do. In fact, the inter 
 diction he regarded as a suggestion, and, young as 
 he was, his " finners " (as he called them) ached 
 and itched to go about getting the scissors to cut 
 the cat's tail off : and when that was impossible he 
 wanted to see the mirror broken by some other 
 hand. Here was the old Adam over again ; and. 
 so plain a case that it confirmed the suspicion in 
 my mind that the original Adam, not being will 
 ing to assume the responsibility, begged mother 
 Eve to pluck the apple and taste it on the sly. 
 
 As may be supposed, the baby had thrived won 
 derfully. Without a special nurse, it grew to be 
 an independent youngster, and having no other 
 children to play with, it took on older ways than 
 most youngsters have, and came to be very preco 
 cious. Nevertheless it may be said of Klibs that 
 he never knew what real life and enjoyment was 
 until Free Betsey came to see her young mistress, 
 which she did shortly after the episode that- has 
 already been described. Mandy Satterlee, know 
 ing Free Betsey of old, had all confidence in her
 
 178 SISTER JANE. 
 
 trustworthiness. Indeed, when the negro woman 
 took the child in her arms and was gone for half a 
 day, as sometimes happened, Mandy betrayed less 
 uneasiness than did sister Jane, who was constantly 
 running to the little gate and looking up and down 
 the street. More than once I could see that sister 
 Jane was irritated with Mandy for not sharing her 
 anxiety about the child. 
 
 Once I heard her say, " I '11 be bound, if I had 
 a child I would n't trust it to no old nigger trollop 
 and let her tote it off, you don't know where, and 
 keep it half the day." 
 
 To which Mandy replied : " Well, if you know 'd 
 Mammy Betsey as well as I do you would n't let 
 it pester your mind a minnit not a blessed, 
 minnit." 
 
 " I may not know Free Betsey so mighty well," 
 retorted sister Jane, " but I know the nigger tribe, 
 an' I would n't trust one of 'em out of sight with 
 anything that I set store by." 
 
 On one occasion it happened that sister Jane, 
 by reason of an unforeseen accident that befell 
 Klibs, was able to shake her head and cry, " I 
 told you so." Free Betsey was in the habit of 
 carrying the baby to see Mrs. Beshears in the 
 mornings or during the afternoons. She was al 
 ways welcome there, for Mrs. Beshears had taken 
 a great fancy to the baby. It chanced that there 
 was an old gray goose brooding on a nestful of 
 eggs in the narrow space that separated two negro 
 cabins. Whether Klibs saw the old gray goose
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 179 
 
 and desired to introduce himself, or whether he 
 was merely exploring the nook because it presented 
 new possibilities of mischief, it is impossible to 
 say. All that is clearly known is that there wa,s 
 a tremendous noise of squalling, and flapping, and 
 fluttering. Free Betsey was on hand before the 
 old gray goose could do any serious damage with 
 her strong beak and wings, but the incident exer 
 cised a wholesome influence over Klibs that lasted 
 many months. As sister Jane dryly remarked, 
 when she came to appreciate the humor of the 
 affair, " Klibs came home sober for the first time 
 in many weeks." 
 
 , We laughed heartily when Free Betsey gave 
 her version of the event, remarking among other 
 things that the baby was too badly frightened or 
 too much astonished to cry. Klibs listened to the 
 narration with a solemn air that was too funny to 
 admit of description. When Free Betsey paused, 
 he toddled to the middle of the floor and stood 
 there a moment gravely regarding us. When he 
 spoke it was to the point. 
 
 " Doose say sh-h-h ! " then he waved his chubby 
 hands up and down and ran about with his mouth 
 open to show how demon-like the attack had 
 been. He concluded the pantomime by flopping 
 down on the floor and rolling over and over to show 
 by what shrewd antics he had escaped annihilation. 
 Then he sat up and gave us the owl-like stare that 
 always preceded his efforts to engage in conversa 
 tion.
 
 180 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Nanny Dane dine tut ol' doose's finners off," 
 he remarked, adding : " Me byake ol' doose's 
 'ookin-dass ; me tut 'im tail off wif de tizzers." 
 
 Whereupon sister Jane swooped down upon him, 
 lifted him in her arms, and proceeded to " hug him 
 to death," a threat she often made. " You pre 
 cious child ! " she exclaimed. " That old gray 
 goose shan't treat you so Nanny Dane will cut 
 off the old goose's fingers, and you shall cut off 
 her tail with the scissors," with much more to the 
 same effect, some of it untranslatable. 
 
 Klibs's adventure with the old gray goose was 
 very fortunate in many respects. It was a strong 
 source of discipline, as we shortly found out. .If 
 he started to go where he had been told not to go, 
 or to do anything he had been told not to do, we 
 had but to mention the old gray goose. He had 
 deep thoughts about the goose. He pondered over 
 the problem she presented. He would sit for long 
 minutes apparently studying his chubby hands, 
 and suddenly remark : " Me ol' doose ! " Then 
 he would shake his arms up and down as the goose 
 shook her wings. I often thought Klibs must 
 have had a keen eye to see so much in such a 
 short space of time, for those who have disturbed 
 old mother goose when she is brooding have good 
 reason to know that she never pauses to count her 
 steps when making an attack. 
 
 One morning several weeks after the visit of 
 Grandsir Roach and Uncle Jimmy Cosby, I heard 
 a light knocking on my door. Opening it, I found
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 181 
 
 Jincy Meadows standing on the little porch. He 
 was better dressed than usual, but his face wore an 
 expression of extreme embarrassment. 
 
 " Sh-h-h ! " he whispered. " Don't holla my 
 name out loud. I knocked and then I got ready 
 to run, but before I could jump off the porch you 
 opened the door. Why, you must 'a' been standin' 
 right there ready and waitin'." 
 
 " Come in come in," I said, with as much 
 hospitality as I could muster at the moment. 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 " Don't holla so loud," Jincy protested. " Why, 
 they can hear you on the fur side of town, much 
 less in the house." 
 
 " I 'm not talking above a breath," I explained. 
 
 " Maybe not," remarked Jincy with a comical 
 air of trepidation, " but to a skeer'd man it sounds 
 like thunder." 
 
 " Come in," I insisted. 
 
 "Well, don't shet the door too tight," said 
 Jincy. " I 'm two minds whether to stay or 
 whether to cut and run. Leave the door on the 
 crack, for if I was to hear a bug hit agin the wall 
 I 'd make a break." 
 
 " Well, there is nothing here to hurt you, 
 Jincy," I remarked, determined to humor his 
 whims. 
 
 " That 's the trouble," he explained, " I don't 
 mind knockin' and bein' knocked ; I 'in allers the 
 skeerdest when there 's nothin' to be skeer'd at." 
 
 " Very well," said I, " if you want to be fright-
 
 182 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ened at nothing, there 's no harm done, and if you 
 want to run, I '11 clap my hands and cry ' Well 
 done!'" 
 
 " Now that 's right," replied Jincy. " I feel lots 
 more at home when I know you don't mind if I 
 break and run. If anybody had 'a 1 told me ten 
 minnits ago that I 'd be a-settin' up in here, I 'd 'a' 
 said they was the biggest liars on the face of the 
 earth. And yit I laid off for to come here when 
 I loped out from home." 
 
 " Well, you are all dressed up," I suggested. 
 "If I had met you on the street, I should have 
 said to myself, ' There goes a young buck intent 
 on paying a call.' " 
 
 " Would you now ? " inquired Jincy, a broad 
 grin spreading over his face. " Well, I '11 be 
 dang ! You 'd 'a' saw me and 'a' know'd it ! But 
 that 's jest the trouble," he went on, hitching his 
 chair a little closer to mine. " I don't know what 
 fool notion made me fling on this Sunday rig. It 
 makes me feel like pitchin' out and 'tendin' some 
 church or other. I ain't met a man in the road but 
 what I expected him to pop his whip and drap me 
 a scriptur' text. It 's the cloze ; nothiu' but the 
 cloze. I says to myself, when I put 'em on, * I '11 
 go call on Mandy Satterlee.' Then, when I got 
 to the town branch, I watered my hoss and says, 
 ' No, I '11 not call on her ; I '11 jest go and ax how 
 she 's a-gittin' on.' When I got to town, I says, 
 ' No, I '11 jest make like I 'in axiu' about her ; I '11 
 go to the door and knock on it, light as a feather,
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 183 
 
 and then walk off as big as anybody.' Did you 
 reely hear me knock, or was you comin' out on 
 your own hook ? " he asked. 
 
 " Of course I heard you knock," said I. " It 
 sounded as though some one were trying to batter 
 the door down." 
 
 He doubled his fist and looked at it apparently 
 with great curiosity. Then he spread out his hand 
 on his knee and viewed it critically. It was not 
 an ugly hand by any means, having known very 
 little hard work. 
 
 " That hand 's lots too heavy," he remarked ; 
 " lots too heavy for the rest of my body. I hit 
 that door as light as I could to save my life. 
 But, shucks ! my luck 's on the wrong side of the 
 fence, and it 's a fence I can't climb, jump, nor 
 creep through." 
 
 " You wanted to come without being seen, and 
 knock without being heard," I suggested. 
 
 " That 's it ; you 've hit the nail pluni' on the 
 head. I jest wanted to make like I 'd been and 
 called on Mandy. You know how the boys play. 
 They straddle a cornstalk, or a broom-handle, and 
 it 's every bit and grain as good as a horse to them. 
 I wanted to play like I 'd come and axed after 
 Mandy, and I 've gone and made it too natchal. 
 I 'd 'a' done jest as well, and I 'd 'a' felt a dang 
 sight better, if I 'd 'a' stopped at the corner and 
 sent my thoughts in 'stead of me." 
 
 Now, strange as it may appear, the humor of 
 the lad jumped queerly with mine. I had lived
 
 184 SISTER JANE. 
 
 his experience over a thousand times, but had 
 never carried it to the point of knocking at the 
 door. I had sat in my snug room and sent my 
 thoughts out my thoughts that were so swift of 
 foot that they could travel across the garden in an 
 instant, and so light of hand that they could knock 
 at a window I knew and make no more noise than 
 a flake of thistle down. I knew that if the lad 
 before me had the whimsies, the same trouble had 
 seized me, the difference being that I was more 
 secretive, or more diplomatic, to use a pleasanter 
 phrase. All this passed through my mind while 
 Jincy Meadows was talking. 
 
 " Well, we all play at the game of make-believe 
 more or less," I said. " I know of nothing more 
 comforting." 
 
 " Is that so ? " inquired Jincy. " All the folks 
 say I 'm a fool except a passel of old wimmen that 
 don't know no better. I reckon a fool gits to be a 
 wise man when he larns how to keep his mouth 
 shet." 
 
 " That is about the way of it," I answered. 
 
 "I 'ma leetle worse 'n the balance of 'em," 
 Jincy persisted, " 'cause they play make - belief 
 where nobody can't see 'em except them that 
 knows 'em. But look at me ! When I start the 
 game, I run everything in the ground and break it 
 off. Look where I am now ! " 
 
 "You're in good company," said I, " though I 
 dare say you think you might be in better." 
 
 He shook his head, thought a moment, glanced
 
 JINCT MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 185 
 
 at his watch, which was a very fine one, and rose 
 hurriedly. " I must go," he said ; " it 's a quarter 
 of an hour later than it was a while ago, and I 've 
 got a special appointment with myself on the other 
 side of town." 
 
 " I think Mandy would be glad to see you," I 
 suggested ; " but if you are obliged to go, why that 
 is another matter. What message shall I give to 
 her?" 
 
 But I had no need to carry a message, nor Jincy 
 time to invent one, for, as I spoke, the inner door 
 opened, and Mandy herself came into the room. 
 The surprise was mutual. Jincy backed and 
 bowed, and made as awkward appearance as pos 
 sible. Mandy blushed furiously, whether with 
 pleasure or with sheer embarrassment it was im 
 possible to say. Being a woman, however, she 
 was the first to recover her self-possession. 
 
 " Why, howdy, Jincy ? " she said cordially, and 
 yet somewhat coolly, seeing* that Jincy and she 
 had known each other all their lives. Jincy took 
 her extended hand, and shook it with formal po 
 liteness. 
 
 " I was jest a-talkin' with the squire, here," 
 Jincy stammered. 
 
 " How 's ever'body an' ever 'thing ? " Mandy 
 asked, instinctively looking at her reflection in the 
 glass door of one of the book-cases. 
 
 " Well, speakin' one way," replied Jincy, " ever' 
 body an' ever'thing is gittin' on tollable well ; an' 
 speakin' another way, they ain't gittin' on so well."
 
 186 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " How 's that ? " Mandy inquired, giving him a 
 quick glance. 
 
 " Easy enough," answered Jincy, recovering his 
 equanimity somewhat. " Some 's rambled, some 's 
 ambled, some 's took to their bed, an' some 's 
 dead." 
 
 I wondered if Mandy, perhaps with a keener 
 apprehension in this matter than mine, could 
 understand what the lad was driving at. She 
 laughed, and was about to say something, when 
 sister Jane walked in. 
 
 " Well, the Lord 'a' mercy ! " she cried, " what 's 
 all this ? And Jincy Meadows, too ! Why, Jincy, 
 I ain't seen you in a coon's age not since the 
 day you sassed me in the street and I made your 
 daddy spank you for it. That 's what you got for 
 telling the truth on me. I 've been sorry for it a 
 thousand times, Jincy. Th'em that have got a glib 
 tongue, man or woman, have the right to use it. 
 I hope you don't bear no grudges, Jincy." 
 
 " Why, not the least bit in the world, Miss 
 Jane," answered Jincy, laughing. " It made me 
 think about you, and if them that you think about 
 is worth thinkin' about you 're more than apt to like 
 'em. That 's the way I 've worked it out ; but I 
 reckon it 's a fool way. That 's what they all say." 
 " No, no, Jincy ! not all, nor yet half of 'em," 
 said sister Jane. " When you hear me say you 're 
 a fool, Jincy, you may know it 's time to go to the 
 asylum. I ain't said it yet. But this ain't fair 
 two grown men against one lone woman. Come
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 187 
 
 in my room, Mainly, and if William and Jincy 
 like hunting us up, why, they can do so espe 
 cially Jincy." 
 
 " Well 'm, I 've got some business on t' other 
 side of town," explained Jincy, " and I reckon I 'd 
 better go and 'tend to it." 
 
 " Business, Jincy? " exclaimed sister Jane, with 
 good-humored scorn. "Why, you never had a 
 scrimption of business in all your born days. 
 Come in my room and tell me all the news." 
 
 Sister Jane was a constant surprise to me, as 
 all women are to those who try to please them, but 
 nothing she ever did (except on a later occasion) 
 was more surprising to me than her attitude to 
 ward Jincy Meadows. I traced it to her goodness 
 of heart, for Jincy had the reputation of a ne'er- 
 do-well, and was in fact leading a roving and aim 
 less existence, though, as,- 1 have said, his father, 
 Larkin Meadows, was well to do, owning a fine 
 plantation and many negroes. The majority of 
 people thought Jincy was a half-wit and a vaga 
 bond, and only a few suspected that the lad had a 
 mind gifted above the common. 
 
 With an embarrassment that was almost painful 
 to witness, Jincy followed sister Jane and Mandy. 
 He tried to relieve his feelings by turning and 
 winking at me in the most solemn manner as I fol 
 lowed the three down the hallway. But I could 
 see that this attempt at comic by-play was futile. 
 It was far from relieving his feelings. He had 
 evidently stumbled into a predicament (if it could
 
 188 SISTER JANE. 
 
 be called such) where his drollery had lost its 
 flavor. Yet with all his embarrassment, which I 
 could appreciate to the fullest extent, he managed 
 to put a good face on his inward misery. 
 
 Pausing at the door of sister Jane's room, he 
 turned to me and said : " I reckon you ain't never 
 accidently fell in the creek on a cold mornin', have 
 you, squire ? " Before I had time to answer, he 
 went into the room and I followed. 
 
 " I did n't have any hopes of seein' the ladies," 
 remarked Jincy in self-defense, as he seated him 
 self. " I jest come to talk to the squire here about 
 a little p'int of law, and I did n't have time to git 
 around to it before you ladies come a-rushin' in." 
 
 " Maybe I can tell you more about it than 
 William," said sister Jane. "William has his 
 shingle hung out, but the whole neighborhood 
 knows that I 'm the lawyer of the family." 
 
 " Well 'm, it 's this," replied Jincy, winking at 
 me : " I called on the squire for to ax him if it 's 
 lawful for a country chap to jine in with these 
 town play-actors that call themselves ' The Philo- 
 logians.' It 's a mighty big word for to git jined 
 on to and I did n't know but there was some sort 
 of a trap set in it for to catch greenies." . 
 
 " La ! I would n't jine it, Jincy, wi' sech a name 
 as that," said .Mandy. " They might want to do 
 you some bodily harm or somethin'." 
 
 "The what?" asked sister Jane. 
 
 " The Philologians. Ain't it so, squire? " 
 
 Now there was really a company of the young
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 189 
 
 men in the village who were trying to arrange for 
 amateur theatricals, and they had formed a club 
 which, without regard for the proper meaning of 
 the term (or a great deal, according to the way 
 you viewed it), was called "The Philologians." 
 Therefore I promptly and heartily corroborated 
 Jincy's statement. 
 
 " Then there was another question I wanted to 
 ax the squire," said Jincy, who was now beginning 
 to feel more at ease. 
 
 " Out with it," exclaimed sister Jane. "I'm 
 as good a lawyer as William any day in the week, 
 and Sunday too." 
 
 "You ain't answered the first p'int," replied 
 Jincy, with a lift of his eyebrows that changed the 
 usual vacant expression of his face to one of ex 
 treme shrewdness. 
 
 " Good ! " I cried, laughing to see the effect of 
 Jincy's reply on sister Jane. 
 
 " Maybe she can tell better when she gits the 
 two p'ints together and jines 'em," suggested Jincy. 
 
 " That 's so, Jincy," said sister Jane with an air 
 of relief. " You 're a better lawyer right now than 
 William." 
 
 " Well, the next p'int is this," Jincy went on ; 
 " they want me to be a lady. I 've got to have a 
 husband named Fazio, and I 've got to put on 
 frocks and things, and strut around right smart. 
 Now, what I want to know, ain't it a plum' breakin' 
 of the law for me to put on frocks and make out 
 I 've got a oF man ? "
 
 190 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Sister Jane laughed heartily and then grew 
 solemn. " So they say you 're a 'fool, do they, 
 Jincy ? Well, I wish all the people I know had as 
 much sense as you 've got. I 'd like 'em lots 
 better 'n I do." 
 
 " Well 'm, it 's so easy to have what folks call 
 sense, that I ease my mind by playin' the fool." 
 
 Mandy laughed at this remark, but there was a 
 touch of uneasiness in her manner, for at that 
 moment Klibs marched in, accompanied by Tommy 
 Tinldns. The baby stationed himself by sister 
 Jane's knee and stared solemnly at Jincy. " Oo 
 dat, Nanny Dane ? " he asked. 
 
 " Old Zip Coon ! " replied Jincy so suddenly 
 that Klibs retreated behind sister Jane's chair, and 
 from that coign of vantage smiled serenely at the 
 young man. Tommy Tinkins, however, had no 
 share in Klibs's alarm or bashfulness. He in 
 sisted on jumping to Jincy's knee, and was not 
 satisfied even with that demonstration of confidence, 
 for he reared himself to the lad's shoulder, and 
 rubbed against his chin and neck. 
 
 "He's not that friendly with everybody that 
 comes along, Jincy," explained sister Jane. 
 " That cat knows a thing or two." 
 
 " Well 'm, they 're all mighty friendly wi' me," 
 remarked Jincy ; " cats, dogs, cattle, bosses, and 
 all the wild creeturs, specially the birds." 
 
 "What about that mocking-bird swinging on 
 the cedar out there ? " I asked. 
 
 Jincy rose and glanced at him. " Why, he 's
 
 JINCY MEADOWS COMES A-CALLING. 191 
 
 the same to me as if he was in a cage," he re 
 plied. " I can walk right out and call him to my 
 hand." 
 
 " He can so ! " protested Mandy, seeing me 
 laugh as if the lad had made an idle jest. 
 
 " The proof of the pudding is chewing the bag," 
 remarked sister Jane. 
 
 " That 's so," said Jincy, " and I '11 show you. 
 Come out and see, but don't git too close." 
 
 So we adjourned to the garden. Jincy went near 
 the tree and gave a whistling chirrup. The bird 
 was so startled by the unexpectedness of the call 
 that it flew to the top of the cedar, swung there a 
 moment, giving forth the " chuh " cry that stands 
 for anger, alarm and surprise, and then flew wildly 
 to the top of the big china tree on the sidewalk. 
 Again Jincy gave his whistling call, and the bird 
 came fluttering back, this time making as if it would 
 light on his hat, but flying away again. Once 
 more the whistling call sounded, and the bird 
 fluttered around and over Jincy's head in the most 
 peculiar way. 
 
 " What 's the matter with you ? " cried Jincy 
 impatiently. Then his eyes fell on Tommy Tin- 
 kins, who was crouching at his feet and watching 
 every motion of the bird with eager eyes and trem 
 bling jaws. " Shucks ! it 's the cat ! " Jincy said. 
 " I know 'd somethin' was wrong." 
 
 I enjoyed the spectacle immensely and treasured 
 the incident in my mind. It gave me a new and 
 higher opinion of Jincy. He begged to be excused
 
 192 SISTER JANE. 
 
 from returning into the house, on the ground that 
 he did n't want to wear his welcome out. So we 
 begged him to call again whenever he felt in the 
 humor, and he went away after formally shaking 
 hands with each one, even the baby.
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 
 
 As I gradually learned the story of Mandy Sat- 
 terlee's girlhood and young womanhood, gathering 
 it from her own remarks and from occasional con 
 versations with sister Jane, the more deeply I 
 sympathized with her. No reparation that she 
 could make so far as the world was concerned 
 would place her on the level from which she had 
 fallen. Though this was a heavy penalty to pay, 
 my impression is that she never questioned the 
 justice of the social verdict that imposes such a 
 penalty. I sometimes reflected on % the seeming 
 paradox that repentance could restore such a sin 
 ner to the favor of heaven, but not to the forgive 
 ness of society and the world. The gates of heaven 
 stand ready to fly open before the most abject, the 
 most miserable, the most woeful of those who vio 
 late the laws that were thundered from the heights 
 of Sinai if they come repenting ; but the laws of 
 the world are more inflexible where a weak woman 
 is concerned. To protest against this were worse 
 than foolish ; what these laws are they have been, 
 and so they will remain. Whether they have be 
 come a part of the social order as the result of in-
 
 194 SISTER JANE. 
 
 stinct or reason, 't were bootless to inquire. As 
 they stand now, so they would stand at the end of 
 all discussion. The most that can be done per 
 haps all that should be done by those whose 
 humanity is inclined to resent the sweeping and 
 implacable verdict that society renders against err 
 ing womankind, is to mitigate as far as possible, in 
 special cases, the anguish of those who (as it were) 
 have taken so wild and desperate leap in the dark, 
 and who have turned again toward the light, bear 
 ing the heavy burden of repentance. 
 
 That Mandy Satterlee felt and understood the 
 source and nature of my sympathy (as she did 
 that of sister Jane's) I was sure. I was sure, too, 
 that she gathered strength from the fact strength 
 that she stood sorely in need of. In a thousand 
 ways, none of them obtrusive, she showed her ap 
 preciation and gratitude. It is curious, too, how 
 one small spark of sympathy will kindle into a 
 flame of charity. If we had shut our door on 
 Mandy Satterlee and left her to perish in the cold, 
 our conduct would have met the approval of many 
 Christians , who mistake their emotions for piety. 
 If we had taken her in, cared for her until the 
 storm was over, and then set her adrift on the 
 world, after discovering the source of her despair, 
 the whole community would have applauded and 
 magnified the righteousness of our judgment. In 
 stead of this, sister Jane, with my hearty approval, 
 and with full knowledge of the step she was tak 
 ing, had made Mandy Satterlee an inmate of our
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 195 
 
 small household. This naturally excited some 
 gossip, and perhaps severer criticism than ever 
 came to our ears. But, strange to say, in course 
 'of time the community came to share in some de 
 gree the sympathy which we felt and manifested 
 toward Mandy Satterlee. This was due to the 
 fact that Mandy, in her daily walk, in her comings 
 and her goings, more than justified the humane 
 impulse that made our little home her harbor. It 
 was repentance that won from the Lord of all the 
 forgiveness that made the life of Mary of Magdala 
 beautiful, and the repentance of Mandy Satterlee 
 was no less sincere. That much we knew, and in 
 time the village knew it. 
 
 I hope that this was due to our example, and 
 yet it may have been partly due to the attitude of 
 Mrs. Bullard, Mary's mother, whose seclusion was 
 regarded by a majority of the women in the com 
 munity as exclusiveness. They criticised her for 
 it, attributing it to pride, but secretly looked up to 
 her as a social model, her family being of the best 
 and her fortune an unusually comfortable one. 
 Now it happened that Mrs. Bullard (" Mrs. Colo 
 nel Bullard," the village called her) had appar 
 ently taken a great fancy to Mandy Satterlee, and 
 never came slipping through the garden to see 
 sister Jane (arrayed as if she were going to a 
 party) but she asked after our charge, and some 
 times hunted through the house until she found 
 her. I observed that Mandy always disappeared 
 when the Colonel's wife whisked in at the door.
 
 196 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Whether she stood in awe of the lady's fine jewels, 
 or of the fact that she was very rich, or that she 
 belonged to what the common people called the 
 aristocracy, or whether she doubted Mrs. Bullard's 
 sympathy, or was overwhelmed by her individual 
 ity, I never knew nor had occasion to inquire. 
 But it is certain that the young woman always met 
 the lady with extreme embarrassment. Avoiding 
 her whenever possible, Mandy always maintained 
 in Mrs. Bullard's presence a reserve that bordered 
 on sullenness, and was dumb but for the few awk 
 ward monosyllables that could be wrung from her. 
 But this made no difference in Mrs. Bullard's atti 
 tude. If she noticed Mandy's embarrassment at 
 all she no doubt interpreted it as a tribute to her 
 position in the small world of the village. 
 
 If the lady was familiar with Mandy's history, 
 she got no inkling of it from sister Jane. Yet she 
 must have heard or suspected the truth, for I often 
 noticed that she was more gracious and conde 
 scending to the young woman than to many who 
 were more nearly her equals in family and fortune. 
 Delicate as she was, the Colonel's wife had dig 
 nity, and to spare. She was accomplished, too, 
 and could make herself agreeable. There were 
 moments, indeed, when she was a most charming 
 woman, and at such times she reminded me of 
 Mary. 
 
 On one occasion, Colonel Cephas Bullard being 
 away, I found it necessary to consult her about 
 some business for a client of mine. I found her
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 197 
 
 cold, barely polite, cautious, calculating, and 
 shrewd. When the business was concluded, or, 
 rather, when the talk about it came to an end, for 
 she would or could do nothing to satisfy my client 
 she offered me a glass of wine, sang a little song 
 for me at the harp (which I had heard Mary do 
 better), and made herself so thoroughly agreeable 
 that I carried away a better impression of her than 
 I had entertained before. And yet somehow I felt 
 that I had been played with. Either she had be 
 trayed her true character in discussing a business 
 question, with which she showed unexpected famil 
 iarity, or she had assumed it for the purpose of 
 baffling me. The incident gave me, indeed, a re 
 spect for her ability that I had never had, but it 
 also gave me fresh reasons for doubting her sincer 
 ity. It was nothing to me whether or no she was 
 sincere, but the less reason we have for mistrusting 
 people, the more comfortable we feel in their pre 
 sence. 
 
 But, as I have said, Mrs. Bullard was singularly 
 gracious to Mandy Satterlee. When twilight be 
 gan to deepen into dusk, it was nothing unusual to 
 hear a rustle in the hall, and to see the Colonel's 
 wife whisk in at the door, always pale, always com 
 posed, and yet as nimble and as light in her move 
 ments as a child. And she always had some ex 
 cuse for her appearance. She wanted to see sister 
 Jane about this, that, or the other, but always 
 about something that was of no importance what 
 ever. If Mary chanced to be talking with sister
 
 198 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Jane, then Mrs. Bullard had come for Mary. If 
 Mary was at home, then her mother had come be 
 cause of that fact ; or she had slipped away to take 
 a little airing, or because the Colonel had company. 
 It is enough to make one dizzy to recall the changes 
 she rung in order to impress us with the idea that 
 her visits were either urgent or accidental. On 
 one occasion I heard sister Jane say to her some 
 what sarcastically : 
 
 " Well, Fanny, some day when you have n't got 
 anything to trouble you, just pick up and come 
 because you 've a mind to. It would look a heap 
 better, and you 'd feel lots more comfortable. I 
 would, I know." 
 
 " Oh, I would dearly love to come, Jane," re 
 plied the Colonel's wife, " but with such a large 
 house to look after, and some one always calling 
 for the keys to get something out or to put some 
 thing away, it is impossible. The strain is terri 
 ble, Jane." 
 
 " It must be," rejoined sister Jane, " 'specially 
 when you ain't got more than six dozen fat and 
 good-for-nothing niggers to look after your prem 
 ises for you." 
 
 " Well, you know how Colonel Bullard is, Jane," 
 said the lady. " He will have a yardful of ser 
 vants, three or four in the house, and more on the 
 lot. He thinks they will be a help to me, but 
 they are hardly any help at all. I only have so 
 many more to look after. But if I complain he 
 will be sure to imagine that I don't appreciate his
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 199 
 
 tiioughtf ulness, though I am just as grateful as I 
 can 1)3. You know how men are, Jane." 
 
 " No, I don't, and I 'm glad I don't," sister Jane 
 responded with emphasis. " I know jest enough 
 about 'em not to want to know any more." 
 
 " Why, here 's Mr. William," said the Colonel's 
 wife, waving her white and jeweled hand in my 
 direction. u I 'm sure he ought to give you a 
 favorable opinion of the lords of creation." She 
 made a queer, coquettish little gesture, as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I don't count William among 'em," remarked 
 sister Jane. " More than that, I 've had the rais 
 ing of him. William and the cat know mighty 
 well when to get out of the way of my broom- 
 handle." 
 
 While she was talking, the Colonel's wife stood 
 close to sister Jane in an attitude almost affection 
 ate, touching her lightly on the arm with one hand, 
 the other being free to gesture, or to play with a 
 corner of the wide lace that the Colonel's wife 
 always wore over her bosom. Such would have 
 been her attitude with Mandy Satterlee, but Mandy 
 invariably managed to remain out of reach of the 
 lady's hand. 
 
 The Colonel's wife was always beautifully, even 
 daintily, dressed, reminding me of pictures I had 
 seen. Her hair was very fine, having the yellow 
 gleam of amber about it, and she wore it in curls 
 that were caught behind her ears and hung on the 
 back of her neck and shoulders with fine effect.
 
 200 SISTER JANE. 
 
 On her head she wore a square of rich lace that 
 was wide enough to resemble a matron's cap, but 
 was caught up at one corner with a bow of pink 
 or pale blue ribbon, which gave it a jaunty and 
 picturesque effect. Pink and pale blue were the 
 colors of the frocks she wore, and though I knew 
 not the names of the stuffs they were fashioned 
 from, I judged by their lustre and by their silken 
 rustle that they were rich and costly fabrics. 
 
 It was said when her little boy disappeared so 
 mysteriously, that the Colonel's wife was on the 
 border of distraction. I never doubted this, and 
 for that reason it was something of a shock to me 
 when she came whisking through the garden some 
 time afterwards, her pink frock gleaming in the 
 dusk and her blue ribbons fluttering in the air. 
 It was something of a shock, but common sense 
 prevented me from rendering a harsh judgment 
 against her. The sombre habiliments that grief 
 chooses to employ as its signal were never much to 
 my taste, making (as it were) too much of an out 
 ward show. But as these are matters to be settled 
 by individual taste or preference, I felt 't would ill 
 become me to criticise the one extreme or the 
 other. Every heart knoweth its own sorrow, and 
 what one may desire to parade another may strive 
 to conceal. 
 
 There were lines of trouble and suffering in the 
 lady's face which all her vivacity, natural or as 
 sumed, could not hide ; and these added to her 
 seclusion ought to have told the whole story. But
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 201 
 
 there were moments when I doubted all these evi 
 dences, and when my sympathy was somewhat 
 repelled. I had vague suspicions that refused to 
 frame themselves in intelligible thoughts. I felt, 
 in some mysterious way, that the Colonel's wife 
 regarded me with contempt ; and I was almost sure 
 she knew I doubted her sincerity. Yet with all 
 this, I admitted to myself that possibly I was un 
 just to her. As for her dress, I could understand 
 how that might be a passion with her, her one 
 source of recreation and enjoyment. 
 
 It was certain that she did not wear her rich 
 fabrics for the sake of display, for she went no 
 where. I knew from the gossip of the negroes that 
 she would spend an entire afternoon before her 
 mirror, lighting a candle to enable her to see how 
 to give herself the last touches that tell of perfec 
 tion. This done she would whisk through the 
 garden, spend half an hour with sister Jane, whisk 
 back again, retire to her room, and have her even 
 ing meal sent to her. 
 
 Her daughter Mary resembled her in nothing 
 except daintiness of dress. But where the mother 
 chose colors, the daughter preferred contrasts, 
 whereby no single color was left as a mark for the 
 eye, but harmonized with its surroundings, as in a 
 fine painting. The Colonel's wife was fond of 
 finery and of the frills and furbelows that the fem 
 inine hand knows so well how to arrange. They 
 were all in good taste, too, all possessing the 
 quality of daintiness. But the effect was not so
 
 202 SISTER JANE. 
 
 fresh and wholesome, and not nearly so harmonious, 
 as her daughter's refined simplicity of dress. 
 
 The contrast between them must have been 
 apparent to the most casual observer who chanced 
 to see them together. It was not by any means 
 confined to the choice and arrangement of the ap 
 parel they wore, but was to be seen in their man 
 ner and attitude. The mother was airy, almost 
 frisky, and had some curious tricks of face and 
 hand such as belong to play-acting women who are 
 showing how cleverly they can assume a part. Her 
 eyes evaded yours, however constantly they might 
 rest on your face, and she insisted on conversing 
 on the most frivolous topics, though I knew she 
 was a woman of uncommon ability. Mary, on the 
 other hand, except on rare Occasions, was repose it 
 self. Her lustrous eyes were steady as twin stars 
 when they looked at you, and sincerity and inno 
 cence shone in them. Whenever she lifted her 
 hand in gesture (the most beautiful hand I have 
 ever seen) it seemed to illuminate and make more 
 effective whatever she was saying. She was viva 
 cious sometimes even prankish ; but behind it 
 all was sincerity, the touchstone. Yoii knew she 
 was not playing a part, or taking your measure, or 
 trying to deceive you ; but that she was true to her 
 own innocent nature and disposition. 
 
 By some means, I knew not how, I conceived the 
 idea that there was a measure of secret antagonism 
 on the part of the mother toward the daughter. The 
 idea could not have grown out of the differences of
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 203 
 
 character and temperament that lay between them, 
 for I knew well that opposite natures are almost 
 invariably attracted to one another. No ; it was 
 some sign or symptom that the mother manifested 
 a sudden, an unexpected and a momentary lift 
 ing of the veil (if I may say so), that surprised 
 me into the suspicion that this fine lady was play 
 ing the part of a mother, as she seemed to be play 
 ing other parts. Perhaps the suggestion forced 
 itself upon me in too downright a fashion, but I was 
 ever awkward at splitting hairs, even in an argu 
 ment in the court-house. I cannot recall, even to 
 my own mind, save in a blurred and indistinct 
 way, the sign or symptom that stirred my suspi 
 cions to activity ; but, whatever it was, it made on 
 me a deep and a lasting impression. 
 
 I said a while ago that it was nothing to me 
 whether or no the Colonel's wife was sincere. 
 Perhaps that is too flat a statement. There were, 
 indeed, many reasons why I was interested in 
 studying her character and in trying to get at the 
 heart of the mystery that she presented to my im 
 agination. For one thing, it was ever my habit to 
 study human nature in the persons of my acquaint 
 ances to measure their motives by their actions 
 and to weigh them against what they were, what 
 they pretended to be, and what they ought to 
 have been. Rightly pursued, this is no mean 
 diversion. Through knowing others I sought to 
 know myself to separate my outward self from 
 my true self. I found that the more I studied
 
 204 SISTER JANE. 
 
 human nature in others the more likely I was to 
 recognize it in myself. For another thing (to return 
 to the Colonel's wife), the lady was Mary's mother, 
 and it pleased me to try to discern in the mother 
 some mark on which I could lay my finger and say, 
 " Heredity has transmitted this to the daughter." 
 But there were few such marks, and no wonder. 
 Mary was so truly her own true self as original 
 in her mind as she was unique in her beauty 
 that my studies in this direction came to naught. 
 But I never wholly gave them up while opportunity 
 for comparison remained. 
 
 Colonel Bullard had not married early in life. 
 He was next to the youngest of several sons, who 
 as they reached their majority drifted away from 
 the parental roof and went west, some to Alabama, 
 and some to the rich Mississippi bottoms, each car 
 rying with him (in the shape of negroes, horses, 
 mules, and wagons) a portion of the family estate, 
 which was a large one. But when the Colonel came 
 of age, he elected to remain on the big plantation, 
 that stretched up and down the Oconee River to 
 the extent of several thousand acres. He had two 
 good reasons for this, as I have heard said : his 
 father was growing old and feeble (his mother 
 being already dead), and his younger brother was 
 too young to take charge of the business of the 
 estate. This younger brother was but fifteen, and 
 away at college, according to Mrs. Beshears (who 
 kindly furnished me all the facts that lay beyond 
 my memory and experience), when Cephas Bullard
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 205 
 
 reached the years of manhood. So that the latter 
 had no choice but to remain on the plantation and 
 take control of affairs, which, as may be supposed, 
 he already had well in hand. 
 
 By the time Clarence Bullard, the youngest 
 brother, had reached the age of seventeen, the 
 father died, and Cephas Bullard applied in due 
 form for letters of administration on the estate, 
 and was appointed guardian of the minor brother. 
 After the usual course, the business of the estate 
 was finally wound up ; the elder brothers came 
 forward again and expressed their satisfaction at 
 the way matters had been managed ; each received 
 his fair portion, if any portion was still due ; and 
 Cephas Bullard was relieved of the duties and 
 responsibilities of administrator. He retained the 
 home place and a large part of the plantation, and 
 was still the guardian of Clarence Bullard. 
 
 Now, when Clarence returned home from college 
 to attend his father's funeral, he remained for sev 
 eral weeks, and it soon became bruited about that 
 he had learned more about drinking, gambling, 
 and cock-fighting than was usually to be imbibed 
 from a course in the classics. Public opinion, 
 hearing of some of his frolics and other escapades, 
 came promptly to the conclusion that Clarence was 
 as reckless a blade as the county had ever har 
 bored. There was also a great deal of wonderment 
 expressed, for the boy was handsome and clever, 
 and seemed to be well disposed. Mrs. Beshears's 
 memory was to the effect that he was as pretty as
 
 206 SISTER JANE. 
 
 a picture, with black, curling hair, fine eyes, a 
 beautifully, shaped mouth and chin. Many young 
 ladies were enamored of him in spite of his reck 
 lessness. 
 
 He returned to college, but the taste of freedom 
 he had had was too much for him. He grew rebel 
 lious, and the authorities expelled him in sheer self- 
 defense. He came home again, caring (it is said) 
 as little for his disgrace as possible. For a period 
 of several months he kept the old people groaning 
 and the young ladies blushing over the reports of 
 his deviltry. And evil is an element of such vig 
 orous constitution, that rumors of his wild exploits 
 still remained current after the man himself had 
 disappeared and was all but forgotten. It was 
 only necessary to set the old people's tongues to 
 wagging, and Clarence Bullard and his gray mare 
 went tearing through the country again. Time's 
 perspective has such a softening influence on cold 
 facts, that he lived in my mind as the most roman 
 tic rascal I had ever heard of outside the lids of 
 my books. 
 
 But he finally disappeared and was seen no 
 more, whereupon gossip, that must needs have 
 many dainty giblets of scandal to stimulate its 
 digestion, began to announce in an authoritative 
 way that there had been a stormy scene betwixt 
 Clarence and Cephas, and that the elder brother 
 had driven the other from beneath his father's roof 
 without a penny. A great many other things were 
 said (as I have been told), some sensational and
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 207 
 
 all scandalous. But these things are not at all to 
 the purpose of this narrative. 
 
 Cephas Bullard remained on his plantation, 
 looked carefully after his interests, and thrived. 
 He devoted himself so closely to his business that 
 his wealth grew apace. By the time he was thirty, 
 he had made as much money as his father had 
 been able to make after years of hard labor. By 
 that time, too, he came to be known as the bach 
 elor planter, and he showed no more disposition to 
 marry at that age than he had shown at twenty. 
 He set up a grist-mill on his place, and invested in 
 a wool-carding machine. He raised his own mules 
 and horses, and they were fine ones. He made his 
 own corn, meat, and all his plantation supplies ex 
 cept the clothing necessary for his negroes. He 
 bought shoes, cloth, hats, and blankets from the 
 wholesale houses. By the time he was thirty-five 
 he had formed the habit of going north every year, 
 for the purpose of laying in these supplies. 
 
 It was on one of these trips (and while the stage 
 coach was journeying through Virginia) that he 
 met the lady who became his wife, and she herself 
 is the authority for the facts concerning that epi 
 sode. I heard her tell them to sister Jane with 
 many dainty gestures, and in a manner not with 
 out suggestions of humor. Her voice was soft, 
 low, and well modulated, and she made it more 
 effective by the air of vivacity I have tried to de 
 scribe. 
 
 She was the daughter of Cecil Brandon of Bran-
 
 208 SISTER JANE. 
 
 don-on-the-James (she pronounced it Brondon-on- 
 the-Jeeras), and must have been a very lively young 
 lady according to her own account, fond of horses, 
 dogs, and of going to the play when the players 
 strolled to Richmond. 
 
 " I was nothing but a child, Jane only seven 
 teen. Just think of that, positively a mere 
 child. I can see it all now, but then I thought I 
 was a grown lady. That was my father's fault. 
 You have heard of Cecil Brandon, of Brandon-on- 
 the-Jeems. The family is older than the history 
 of England. He was the best man that ever lived, 
 Jane a perfect gentleman. But he was like all 
 gentlemen. For months yes, months, Jane 
 he 'd allow me to have my own way, never cross 
 ing me in anything, and then all of a sudden 
 p-r-r-t" she made a sharp chirping sound with 
 her lips " his temper would be gone, and peace 
 would take wings and fly from the place. At such 
 times he forbade my most innocent amusements. 
 He was a man, Jane, and you know a man does n't 
 know when to be rough and when to be tender. 
 Why, if I were a man, I 'd be mean and cruel 
 sometimes, but always at the right time." 
 
 The Colonel's wife laughed as she said this, and 
 her eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the jewels 
 that flashed on her fingers. 
 
 The upshot of it was that once, when Cecil 
 Brandon, of Brandon-on-the-James, was in one of 
 his tantrums, Fanny Brandon mounted her horse, 
 rode to Richmond to the house of a kinsman, and
 
 THE COLONEL'S WIFE. 209 
 
 sat out the play that night in borrowed finery. 
 Her father concluded that this prank was part of 
 a disposition that should be tamed, whereupon he 
 had his daughter's trunk packed, bundled her in 
 the carriage, got in himself, and set out on a jour 
 ney to Washington, intending to take Fanny to a 
 convent school in Baltimore. 
 
 " Think of that, Jane ! " exclaimed the Colonel's 
 wife in telling of the episode. " Think of a con 
 vent for a young girl who had been used to having 
 her own way except at odd times ! " 
 
 The second day the carriage broke down, and 
 the break was so serious that it could be mended 
 neither by Cecil Brandon nor his negro driver. 
 Still overwhelmed in the tantrums, Mr. Brandon 
 determined to wait for the stage-coach, which they 
 had passed on the road an hour or two before. He 
 bade the negro driver to take the horses home, paid 
 a farmer not far from the roadside to haul the 
 wreck of the carriage away and hold it until sent 
 for, hailed the stage-coach when it came along, and 
 with little or no palaver, found a place for Fanny 
 Brandon inside, while he rode on top. Evidently 
 he was a man who did even small things in a large 
 way, and before such men all difficulties are apt to 
 disappear. 
 
 An accommodating passenger surrendered his 
 seat inside to pretty Fanny Brandon, and when she 
 had fairly settled herself, the first man on whom 
 her eyes fell was Colonel Cephas Bullard, the man 
 who was to be her husband.
 
 210 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " I never dreamed of such a thing, Jane. Why, 
 he was old enough to be my father ; but you see 
 how it is ; we never know what Providence has in 
 store for us." 
 
 Cecil Brandon, swinging his legs from the top 
 of the coach, was not long in finding congenial 
 company, and was soon telling jokes and laughing 
 heartily. He found, too, some gentlemen of the 
 green cloth, and as few things suited him better 
 than a long toddy and a brisk game of cards (the 
 statement is his daughter's word for word), he 
 made arrangements for a tussle with chance when 
 Washington was reached. 
 
 Now, Fanny Brandon, though she was doubtless 
 looking very pretty, was far from happy, and when 
 she heard her father's jolly laugh nothing would 
 do but she must fall to crying softly. This being 
 so, it was natural that Colonel Cephas Bullard, 
 sitting opposite, should extend his sympathies, and 
 offer his services, and make all effort to console 
 her. He was so successful that Fanny Brandon 
 was soon able to smile shyly at him. At the next 
 stopping-place, which was a tavern where they had 
 dinner, Colonel Bullard made bold to introduce 
 himself to Cecil Brandon, and it turned out 
 these Virginians having a great knack of knowing 
 in person or by repute everybody that is worth 
 knowing that Mr. Brandon knew of the Bui- 
 lards and had a good part of their family history 
 at his tongue's end. Indeed, he hinted that there 
 was kinship somewhere in the background.
 
 THE COLON EDS WIFE. 211 
 
 When the travelers reached Washington, Cecil 
 Brandon placed his daughter in charge of Colonel 
 Cephas Bullard, begging him to see her safe to 
 Baltimore and to the conventual school, and betook 
 himself to the card-table. This was providential. 
 Fanny Brandon had no more idea of entering the 
 convent school than she had of flying, and when 
 they arrived in Baltimore she turned to Colonel 
 Bullard and said (I can imagine with what a 
 charming air) : 
 
 " I '11 not go on, and I can't go back ; so what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 Colonel Cephas was taken by surprise. He was 
 helpless. He could not command, and he would 
 not desert. While he was considering what was 
 proper to do under these unparalleled circum 
 stances, Fanny Brandon threw her head back de 
 fiantly, crying out: "I wish some respectable 
 gentleman would ask me to marry him ! " 
 
 Colonel Cephas strode up and down a few mo 
 ments, paused in front of the young lady and said 
 simply : " Would you marry me ? " 
 
 "Would I?" exclaimed Fanny Brandon, and 
 placed her hand in his. 
 
 " Don't you think that was a queer courtship, 
 Jane ? " the Colonel's wife paused to inquire when 
 narrating these circumstances. And sister Jane 
 replied : " There 's nothing quare, Fanny, after 
 you get used to it." 
 
 They married, and Colonel Bullard, instead of 
 going on to New York, went back to Washington
 
 212 SISTER JANE. 
 
 with his wife, sought out Cecil Brandon, of Bran 
 don - on - the - James, and informed him that his 
 daughter Fanny Brandon had now become Mrs. 
 Bullard. Mr. Brandon was paralyzed for a mo 
 ment, and it was the fall of an eyelash whether he 
 would seize Colonel Cephas by the throat and cane 
 him. But Brandon's humor came to the rescue. 
 He burst into a roaring laugh. 
 
 " Damn it, sir, give me your hand ! I like you ! 
 I' 11 lay you five to one, sir, that Fan popped the 
 question. Come, Fan ! Did n't you ? " And 
 when Fan demurely admitted it, Brandon of Bran- 
 don-on-the-James roared so loudly that the win 
 dows of the room rattled. 
 
 That was the way Fanny Brandon became Mrs. 
 Cephas Bullard. The Colonel brought her to his 
 plantation home a very fine place, not far from 
 the Oconee. But after a time she grew tired of 
 the quiet life ; whereupon the Colonel bought the 
 Clopton mansion in the village, furnished it in 
 grand style, and brought his young bride there. 
 The society she found here was probably different 
 from that she had been used to in Virginia ; it may 
 have lacked refinement, as it certainly wanted gay- 
 ety ; but for one reason or the other, or for all to 
 gether, young Mrs. Bullard gradually secluded 
 herself.
 
 XV. 
 
 JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND. 
 
 SUCH was the account the Colonel's wife gave 
 of her courtship and marriage. For a long time I 
 suspected that, following the impulse of some 
 whimsical notion, such as frequently takes control 
 of the feminine mind, she had exaggerated the af 
 fair by foreshortening some of the details that 
 otherwise might have given it a perspective more 
 satisfying to those who stickle over proprieties. I 
 suspected that she desired to draw a strong con 
 trast between her headstrong and wayward youth 
 and the soberness and discretion that marked her 
 career as a matron ; or that she intended to mag 
 nify her temper and courage when a girl, in order 
 to impress us with her ability to carry herself 
 boldly, though she might now be delicate and 
 dainty in her ways and desires. But gradually I 
 came to believe that she had given the facts simply 
 and with no other desire than to relieve her mind 
 and to place herself on a semi-confidential footing 
 with sister Jane ; for after that, and at various odd 
 times, she told us more of her history, which need 
 not be repeated here at any length, since the part 
 she played in the small history I have set out to
 
 214 SISTER JANE. 
 
 chronicle was unimportant up to almost the last 
 moment, when Fanny Brandon herself stepped out 
 of the past (as it were) and gave us cause for spe 
 cial wonder. But that is a matter to be told of in 
 its proper place. 
 
 Meanwhile, nature went forward in her resist 
 less course as severely as ever. The days came 
 and the nights fell the beautiful nights with 
 their glittering millions of stars trooping westward 
 in orderly constellations and the days and nights 
 became weeks, and the weeks became months, and 
 the months brought the seasons and the seasons 
 the years. I could but compare the feeble and 
 ^fluttering troubles of humanity, its spites and dis 
 putes, its wild struggles, its deepest griefs and its 
 most woeful miseries, with the solemn majesty of 
 nature. I could but feel that the solitude of the 
 great woods and the infinite spaces of the sky, 
 though dumb, were charged with the power and 
 presence of the Ever-Living One. So that when 
 reflection sat with me at odd times, I was seized 
 with the deepest pity for all the human atoms 
 (myself among the rest) that were surging and 
 struggling, grabbing and grasping, and jostling 
 against one another, less orderly and purposeful 
 than the procession of tiny black ants that was 
 marching day and night from the garden to sister 
 Jane's cupboard. 
 
 Of all that I knew there was but one that seemed 
 to employ life and the days thereof in a way that 
 might be acceptable in the sight of heaven, and
 
 JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND. 215 
 
 that one was Mary Bullard. Yet she made no 
 pretensions to piety ; she simply went about among 
 those who were poor and unhappy on missions of 
 charity and benevolence, comforting those who 
 were under the ban of public opinion, and carry 
 ing succor to the shabby homes of the poverty- 
 stricken, always helping them without asking why 
 they failed to help themselves, and carrying with 
 her everywhere the blessings of all she met. 
 
 She had a great admirer in Jincy Meadows, who 
 met her once when he came to see Mandy Satterlee. 
 I introduced him to Mary simply to enjoy his em 
 barrassment, but, to my surprise, he betrayed no 
 shyness whatever. His self-consciousness, which 
 was sometimes almost painfully apparent, disap 
 peared entirely, and he conversed with an ease and 
 fluency quite remarkable. Mary was very much 
 amused at his drolleries and drew him out in the 
 deftest way, taking pains to put him at his ease. 
 
 When she went away, Jincy watched her moving 
 through the garden and then turned to me. 
 
 " Shucks, squire ! " he exclaimed, " if I had n't 
 'a' taken a good look at Miss Mary I 'd 'a' never 
 believed that the world held the like of her now 
 that 's honest ! " 
 
 " How is that, Jincy ? " I asked. 
 
 " I '11 tell you, squii-e if Miss Mary 'd go out in 
 the woods and sorter git use to things out there, 
 she 'd soon have the birds a-flyin' after her, and all 
 the wil' creeturs a-follerin' her. She 's got the 
 ways, and she 'd soon git the knack."
 
 216 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "I noticed, Jincy, that you didn't blush and 
 stammer as I 've seen you do," I remarked. 
 
 " I did n't have time, squire that 's a fact. 
 I looked in her eyes, and I know'd right then and 
 there that she was somebody that would n't make 
 fun of me, and go off thinkiii' I 'm a bigger fool 'n 
 I reely am. So I jest braced up and felt at home. 
 Squire, did you hear her laugh once in particu 
 lar when I told her about , the crooked tree ? It 
 sounded jest like a soft note on a fiddle." 
 
 Did I remember it? Aye, and a hundred little 
 graces that escaped Jincy's eyes. Yet I was 
 struck, as well as gratified, by the fact that Jincy 
 had heard and noticed the rippling music of her 
 laughter. In the midst of his drolleries, he was 
 telling of an experience he had in clearing up a 
 new ground, and why he never intended to engage 
 in that kind of work again. 
 
 " I hope you '11 believe me, ma'am," he said, 
 " when I say that I went at this cle'rin' of the new 
 groun' with as good a heart and disposition to take 
 hold of it and git it out of the way as anybody 
 could. I taken my axe and went into the timber, 
 and started to begin on a saplin'. But I looked 
 at the axe and then I looked at the saplin', and I 
 says to myse'f , says I, ' Jincy, what in the world is 
 the use of tryin' your hand on a baby tree ? If 
 you want to begin right, why n't you pick out a 
 tree that 's got age and size on its side ? ' 
 
 " So I swung the axe over my shoulder and went 
 through the timber till I found a big fine tree. I
 
 JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND. 217 
 
 tell you what, she was a whopper. It looked like 
 a squirrel would have to take a runnin' start and 
 climb a quarter of a mile before he got to the top, 
 because there wa'n't narry a limb half way where 
 he could rest. 'T was all body from root to branch, 
 and no branch till you got to the top. 
 
 " I went up and laid my hand on it, and then I 
 stepped back and raised the axe, but before I let 
 the lick fall, a thought struck me. I lowered the 
 axe and walked round the pine. Says I to myse'f, 
 says I, ' Jincy, here 's a tree what is a tree. May 
 be it s upwards of a thousand years old, and ain't 
 grown yit ; and if 't ain't, what a pity to cut it 
 down in the bloom of youth,' says I. So I walked 
 around the pine ag'in it was a whopper, ma'am 
 and I says, says I, ' Jincy, here 's a pine and a big 
 one. It would n't make enough lumber to build a 
 court-house, nor enough timber to build a bridge,' 
 says I, ' and yit, if all the people of all the United 
 States was to meet in one big convention and pass 
 resolutions, and throw in more money than seve'm 
 hunder'd steers could pull, they could n't have this 
 pine put back after it 's cut do,wn. The harrycanes 
 ain't hurt it and the thunder ain't teched it, and 
 now here 's poor little Jincy Meadows, more 'n half 
 a fool, and yif not half a man, a-standing round 
 and flourishing his axe and gittin' ready to cut it 
 down,' says I. 
 
 " I drapped my axe and shuck my head, ma'am, 
 and went on through the timber s'arching for an 
 other place to begin cleanin' up the new groun'.
 
 218 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I had n't gone so mighty fur when I come to a 
 clean lookin' hickory ; so I ups and I says, ' Jincy, 
 here 's your chance. If you ever speck to make 
 any big name for cleanin' up new groun's, you 've 
 got to make a beginnin' some'rs, and right now 's 
 the time, and this here 's the place. This hickory 
 is tough, and by the time you git it down you '11 be 
 warm enough for to go right ahead and cut 'em 
 down as you come to 'em.' I swung my axe 
 aroun' my head a time or two to feel of the heft, 
 and I was jest about to make a start, when I heard 
 a fuss up in the tree, and here come a little gray 
 squirrel with a hickory nut in his mouth. He was 
 comin' right down the body of the tree, but when 
 he seen me he stopped and give his bushy tail a 
 flirt or two as much as to say, ' Hello, Jincy ! 
 what's up now?' Then he got on a limb and sot 
 up and looked at me as cunnin' as you please. I 
 taken my hat off to Little Gray, and says, says I, 
 * Excuse me, mister, if you please ! I was jest 
 about to up and knock down your hickory nut 
 orchard, and I 'm mighty glad you spoke when you 
 did. I would n't trespass on your premises, not 
 for the world ! ' says I. 
 
 " So I ups and shoulders my axe and goes on 
 through the timber a-huntin' for a place where I 
 could begin the job of cleanin' up the new groun', 
 for it jest had to be cleaned up. I come to a big 
 poplar, and when I tapped if with the eye of the 
 axe, I found it was holler. So I says, says 1, 
 ' Jincy, here 's a big tree that 's outlived its in-
 
 JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND. 219 
 
 nerds and 't ain't no manner account. I '11 jest up 
 an' take it down,' says I. But, bless gracious, 
 when I tapped on the poplar 't was the same as 
 knockin' at a door. I heard a scratchin' and a 
 clawin' fuss, and then I seen the lady of the house 
 stick her head out of the window. 'T wa'n't no 
 body in the world but old Miss Coon, and I know 'd 
 by the way she looked that she had a whole passel 
 of children in there. So I bowed politely, and 
 says, says I, ' I ast your pardon, ma'am. I thought 
 you lived f urder up the creek. I hope your fam 
 ily 's well,' says I. Old Miss Coon shuck her head 
 like she did n't half believe me, or it might 'a' been 
 a blue-bottle fly a-buzzin' too close to her ears. 
 
 " But I let her house alone, and went along 
 through the timber, a-huntin' for a place where I 
 might begin for to clean up the new groun', be 
 cause it jest had to be cleaned up. I went along 
 till I come to a young pine, an' I says, says I, 
 ' Jincy, here 's the very identical place I 've been 
 lookin' for and this here 's the tree. It ain't too 
 big, it ain't too tall, it ain't too young, and it ain't 
 too old,' says I. But before I could make my ar 
 rangements for to cut it down, I heard a squallin' 
 in the top, and I looked up and seen a jay-bird's 
 nest. The old jay got on a limb right at me, his 
 topnot a bristlin', and he give me the worst cussin' 
 out I 've had since my hoss run away and broke 
 old Jonce Ashfield's jug of liquor. Says I, ' Hey, 
 hey, Mr. Jay ! Is this where you stay ? Then 
 I '11 go 'way.' "
 
 220 SISTER JANE. 
 
 In repeating these rhymes, Jincy fitted his voice 
 to the notes of the jay with remarkable effect. 
 Mary laughed at this, but she took his story as 
 seriously as he did, and saw deeper into it, perhaps, 
 than he suspected or intended. 
 
 " I picked up my axe," he continued, " and went 
 through the timber a-huntin' for a place where I 
 could begin to clean up the new groun', for it jest 
 had to be cleaned up. After a while I come to a 
 tree that was dead from top to bottom. It was so 
 dead that there wa'n't a limb on it, and all the 
 bark had drapped off. So I says to myself, says 
 I, ' Now, Jincy, here you are ! Now 's your time ! 
 You can't do no damage here. The new groun' 's 
 got to be cleaned up, and here 's the place to be 
 gin,' says I. I shucked my coat, for the walkin' 
 had sorter warmed me up, and grabbed my axe, 
 but before I hit the lick, I thought maybe I 'd save 
 elbow grease and jest push the old tree down. I 
 give it a right smart shake and it sorter swayed 
 and tottered, but jest about that time, I heard a. 
 big flutteration at the top, and out come a pair of 
 wood-peckers. I drapped my axe and bowed. 
 ' You must reely excuse me, Mister Flicker,' says 
 I, * because I thought you 'd have a better house 
 than this at your time of life,' says I. 
 
 " I picked up my coat and my axe and went 
 a-huntin' through the timber for a place where I 
 could start to cleanin' up the new groun', because 
 it had to be cleaned up there wa'n't no two ways 
 about that. I went along, keepin' a sharp eye out,
 
 JINCY IN THE NEW GROUND. 221 
 
 and after a while I come across the identical tree 
 I had been a-lookin' for. It was a stunted black 
 jack. It had started to grow up, and then it had 
 started down ag'in. Then it went back and grow'd 
 out to'rds the east, and then it grow'd back to'ards 
 the west this-away, that-away and ever' which- 
 away. It had as many elbows as the Baptizin' 
 creek, and as many twists as a gin screw. So I 
 says, says I, ' Howdy, black-jack ! I '11 jest start 
 with you.' And I did. I drapped my coat on the 
 groun', and had n't hit a dozen licks with the axe 
 before down came the black-jack. And no sooner 
 had I saw what I done than I was sorry." 
 
 " Sorry ! " exclaimed sister Jane. " What for, 
 Jincy ? " 
 
 " Well 'm," replied Jincy, with just the faintest 
 shadow of a smile showing in the corner of his 
 mouth, " that black-jack was so crooked that it 
 could n't lay still. By the time it got fairly settled 
 one way, it 'd wobble and turn over. It wobbled 
 sideways an roun' and roun' ; it wobbled a piece 
 of the way up hill, and then turned and wobbled 
 down. It got a kind of a runnin' start when it 
 headed down hill, and could n't stop itself. Old 
 Molly Cotton-Tail was a-settin' under a bush nigh 
 the edge of the thicket, jest as comfortable as you 
 please. She heard the black-jack a-coming in the 
 nick of time, and- if she had n't made a break when 
 she did, she 'd 'a' been run over and crippled. She 
 was a skeered rabbit, certain and shore and the 
 worst of it is, she got the idee that Jincy was after
 
 222 SISTER JANE. 
 
 her, and 'twas the longest after that before she 'd 
 set still and le' me scratch her behind her ears. 
 
 " The black-jack tried to wobble back where it 
 lived, but the slope was too steep, and it went on 
 wobbling down the branch. A passel of hogs 
 feedin' down there seen it a-comin' and went 
 through the woods a-humpin' and a-snortin.' The 
 hogs skeer'd a drove of cattle, and the cattle broke 
 and run down a lane, and skeer'd old Miss Favers's 
 yoke of steers, and the steers skeer'd a plough 
 mule, and the plough mule broke loose and run 
 home and skeer'd the old speckled hen off her nest." 
 
 " What became of the black-jack? " I inquired. 
 
 " You are too much for me, squire," replied 
 Jincy. " I reckon it 's a wobbling yit if 't ain't 
 got caught' in a crack of the fence. I left them 
 diggin's. I says to myself, says I, ' Jincy, you ain't 
 got much sense, but you 've got sense enough to 
 know that you ain't much of a hand to clean up 
 new groun',' says I ; and then I lit out and went 
 home." 
 
 " That 's Jincy all over," remarked Mandy smil 
 ing. 
 
 I could see that Mary enjoyed Jincy's narrative 
 of his adventures very much, and that she appre 
 ciated the humane motive that ran through it like 
 a thread of gold. Jincy saw it, too, and that is why 
 he made the remark that has been quoted already : 
 
 " Shucks, squire ! if I had n't 'a' taken a good 
 look at Miss Mary, I 'd V never believed that the 
 world held the like of her now that 's honest."
 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 
 
 THERE are periods of quiet that are difficult to 
 describe, especially in a simple chronicle that 
 makes no claim to go beyond the surface of events. 
 For three, four, yes, five years the village, 
 the people, and especially our little household saw 
 few changes worth noting. So far as events are 
 concerned we were becalmed. It would be an 
 easy matter, if what is here written were a mere 
 piece of fiction, to invent a succession of episodes 
 to add interest to the narrative. I have in my 
 mind now a half dozen scenes that are admirably 
 fitted to do duty here. Or I might employ some 
 such formula as I have met with in the lighter 
 books " Several years have now elapsed." 
 Nevertheless, I know that during this period of 
 calm the strangest events were slowly taking shape 
 and growing gradually toward culmination. The 
 years of quiet that are so flippantly disposed of in 
 light pieces of fiction are frequently the most im 
 portant of all in real life. Out of such periods 
 Fortune comes with its favors, or Fate (as some 
 say) with its sword. 
 
 It was so now. Colonel Bullard grew visibly
 
 224 SISTER JANE. 
 
 older, Mary more beautiful, and the Colonel's wife 
 more restless, as it seemed to me, whisking through 
 the dark garden between sunset and dark like a 
 pink and white moth. Mrs. Beshears remained 
 vigorous enough to continue her visits, and her 
 two sisters Miss Polly and Miss Becky seemed to 
 be no feebler in mind and body than they had been 
 in some years. Sister Jane appeared as young as 
 ever to my eyes, but my mirror told me that a man 
 is not as young at forty-odd as he is at thirty-five. 
 Mandy Satterlee was cheerful, but not gay and 
 I often thought that her cheerfulness sprang from 
 her mother-love for her boy, who had grown to be 
 a fat and saucy rascal of nearly six years. Jiucy 
 Meadows came to see Mandy regularly every 
 Saturday, and it was plain to all eyes, except 
 Mandy 's, that he was desperately in love with her. 
 As for Mandy, she said over and often that love 
 was not for such as she, and though she laughed 
 when she said it, her voice was charged with mel 
 ancholy. 
 
 It has been said that Mrs. Beshears remained 
 vigorous. Yet she was growing older and she felt 
 it and knew it, for one day she came into the 
 village and asked me to write her will. Its terms 
 were in keeping with her peculiarities. First and 
 foremost, her share of the property, land and 
 negroes, was to go to her two sisters to be held 
 for their use and benefit, should she die first 
 with this exception, that the home place, which was 
 hers, was to go to Mandy Satterlee, her heirs and 
 
 .,.
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 225 
 
 assigns, provided Mandy would agree to take 
 charge of the two sisters and administer faithfully 
 to their wants. At the death of the two sisters, 
 the home place and one hundred acres of land were 
 to be Mandy Satterlee's portion. In the course of 
 the will Mrs. Beshears expressed a desire that, at 
 the death of her two sisters, the negroes should be 
 given their freedom, and that the portion of real 
 estate not otherwise devised should be sold for the 
 purpose of transporting them to a free state. I 
 saw a great many complications in this, should any 
 claimants to the estate turn up, and so advised 
 Mrs. Beshears ; but her blunt reply was that if I 
 was n't lawyer enough to draw her own will the 
 way she wanted it, she 'd " go to somebody else 
 and maybe have the job done better." So I drew 
 the will the best I could, and had it witnessed by 
 men of property and standing. Mrs. Beshears 
 was as impatient of these formalities as she was of 
 the legal terms, technicalities, and circumlocutions, 
 which indeed are whimsical enough even to those 
 who employ them. But she was satisfied when the 
 matter had been concluded, and seemed to feel 
 better. 
 
 I was surprised that she should leave so substan 
 tial an evidence of her regard for Mandy Satter- 
 lee, having never made any special manifestation 
 of it so far as her actions were concerned ; and I 
 took occasion to make a remark to that effect. 
 
 " Well, you know, William, folks is selfish to the 
 last. If I could take wi' me when I die what little
 
 226 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I 've got, I reckon I 'd hold onto it, though the 
 Lord knows it 's been enough trouble to me in this 
 world, let 'lone the next. But I can't take it 
 wi' me, an' so I jest give it to Mandy Satterlee 
 to git her to take keer of them two ol' babies of 
 mine. Somebody 's got to do it, an' I reckon 
 Mandy '11 treat 'em jest as good as anybody else, 
 maybe better, specially when she 's paid well to 
 do it." 
 
 " But suppose they die first ? " I suggested. 
 " It is to be expected. In the course of nature 
 you ought to outlive Miss Polly and Miss Becky 
 many years." 
 
 " It 's all guess-work, William. Natur' has its 
 course as you say ; but I 've know'd it to take 
 short-cuts, an' maybe that 's the way it '11 do now. 
 Anyhow, I 've made up my mind to pick up an' 
 go to church next Sunday. I hope I won't 
 skeer the natives." 
 
 Mrs. Beshears was not in the habit of going to 
 church, and her statement caused me to open my 
 eyes a little wider. She must have seen this, for 
 she laughed and said : 
 
 " Don't git skeer'd, William. If I go I '11 try 
 to behave myself, an' you nee' n't cut your eye at 
 me if you see me there. Jimmy Dannielly 's goin' 
 to preach, they say, an' I want to hear him. I use 
 to know Jimmy when he was a rip-roarin' sinner. 
 Why, he use to go 'roun' the country a-cussin' like 
 a sailor, an' a-bellerin' like a brindle bull; but 
 now they tell me that he preaches jest as hard as
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 227 
 
 he use to cuss, an' if that 's so, I want to hear him. 
 So when you hear me a-thumpin' up the aisle, 
 don't turn 'roun', bekaze I won't be much to look 
 at. If Jimmy 's in the pulpit when I go in, I 
 hope he won't think I 'm mockin' him, because my 
 stick makes as much fuss as his wooden leg." 
 
 Uncle Jimmy Dannielly was the most noted 
 preacher we had in middle Georgia. He was a 
 revivalist, and although he was a Methodist, his 
 preaching was acceptable to the members of all 
 denominations the Baptists and Presbyterians 
 that had found a foothold among the people. 
 The reason of this was that Uncle Jimmy was 
 never known to preach what is called a doctrinal 
 sermon. He did not concern himself with creeds, 
 but preached the religion that he found in the 
 New Testament. He was a very earnest man, and 
 his fervor gave rise to a great many eccentricities. 
 Sprung from the common people, he used the lan 
 guage of the common people, and I never knew 
 how fluent, flexible, and picturesque every-day 
 English was until I heard Uncle Jimmy preach. 
 Perhaps his manner his earnestness had some 
 thing to do with it ; but there was more in the 
 matter, for a mere attitude of the mind cannot 
 give potency to language, nor can fervor, nor ex 
 altation, nor even a great thought, always sum 
 mon the apt and illuminating word, as I have long 
 ago found out to my sorrow. 
 
 It was said that, on one occasion, when Uncle 
 Jimmy Dannielly was preaching in a neighboring
 
 228 SISTER JANE. 
 
 town, a dandified young fellow rose in the midst 
 of the sermon and went down the aisle toward the 
 door, twirling a light cane in his hand. The 
 preacher paused in his sermon and cried out, 
 " Stop, young man ! Stop where you are and 
 think ! There are no dandies in heaven with rat 
 tan canes and broadcloth breeches." The story 
 goes that the young man waved his hand lightly 
 and replied that there were as many dandies with 
 canes in heaven as there were wooden-legged preach 
 ers. The truth of this last I doubted. Such a re 
 mark as that credited to the young man would have 
 outraged public opinion, and no young man can 
 afford to do that. The whole story is doubtless an 
 invention, but the words attributed to Uncle Jimmy 
 Dannielly were characteristic of his bluntness. 
 Though in all probability he did not utter them, 
 they nevertheless had the flavor of his style and 
 his uncompromising methods. 
 
 Large crowds always went to hear Uncle Jimmy 
 preach, some to renew their religious faith and 
 fervor, some to discover the source of his reputa 
 tion, and some (the great majority, it is to be 
 feared) to be amused at his eccentricities. As it 
 was in other communities, so it was in ours. On 
 the Sunday morning when Uncle Jimmy was to 
 preach in the old Union church, Sister Jane and 
 myself found a large crowd present, though we had 
 come early. Usually the men sat on one side and 
 the women on the other, but on this particular oc 
 casion the custom vanished before the anxiety of
 
 A PERfOD OF CALM. 229 
 
 the people to see and hear the preacher. I found 
 myself, therefore, with a good many other men, sit 
 ting in the pews usually reserved for the women. 
 I was one pew behind that in which sister Jane 
 sat on the very seat, as I suddenly discovered, 
 that I had sometimes occupied when a boy, not 
 willingly, but in deference to the commands of sis 
 ter Jane, who, in those days long gone, made it a 
 part of her duty to take me prisoner every Sunday 
 morning and carry me to church whether or no. 
 
 There, on the side of the pew, were the letters 
 W. W., which many years ago I had carved with 
 my barlow knife. They were as distinct as if they 
 had been made but yesterday, and I passed my 
 fingers over them as one might do in a dream. It 
 all came back to me the beautiful singing, the 
 droning prayer, the long sermon, the doxology, the 
 solemn benediction. I was too tall now to lean 
 my head against the back of the pew, and gradu 
 ally become oblivious to all sights and sounds ; but 
 in the old days, keenly alive to my imprisonment, 
 I used to sit and wish for the end until the obliv 
 ion of sleep lifted me beyond the four walls and 
 out into the freedom of the woods and fields. 
 Sometimes the preacher, anxious to impress some 
 argument upon the minds of his hearers, would 
 bring his fist down on the closed Bible with a bang 
 that startled me out of dreamland. I remembered 
 how I used to sit and watch the beautiful rays of 
 sunshine streaming through the half-closed blinds 
 of the high windows, and how I used to envy the
 
 230 SISTER JANE. 
 
 birds that sang and chirped in the shrubbery of 
 the old graveyard hard by. At such times a sense 
 of loneliness crept over me, especially if I could 
 hear the voices of children at play in the pleasant 
 sunshine ; and I smiled to remember what a sense 
 of isolation it gave me if a cow lowed in the green 
 pastures behind the church. 
 
 Over my head now was the same high ceiling 
 that had attracted my attention, if not my admi 
 ration, in the days of my childhood. It had been 
 painted to represent the sky, but the hand that 
 held the brush was not the hand of an artist. Yet 
 it was no doubt an ambitious piece of woi'k. Long 
 waving blurs of white represented the rims of the 
 clouds, and in the blue spaces a few white splotches 
 stood for the stars. The ceiling was lifted high 
 above the tall pulpit and above the gallery, which 
 ran around the church on the sides and on the 
 end opposite the pulpit, and was supported by 
 a row of tall and stately white pillars that lent a 
 solemn dignity to the interior perspective, no mat 
 ter in what part of the building the observer sat. 
 The height of the ceiling was effective in another 
 way. However bright the sun might shine out 
 side, there was always a mysterious twilight haze 
 overhead not dark, nor even dusky, but dim. 
 No matter how bright a light poured into the 
 church from the windows beneath the gallery, it 
 was mellowed and subdued ere it reached the ceil 
 ing. 
 
 Looking up now I could see a bat circling over-
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 231 
 
 head, and, as I watched, it was joined by another. 
 I remembered that in the days of my youth I used 
 to sit on the hard and uncomfortable seat and watch 
 the bats whirling in giddy circles, sometimes close 
 to the ceiling, and sometimes darting as low as the 
 gallery. I used to wonder where they went when 
 the church was closed and the windows shut. Some 
 times they would disappear for a moment in the 
 dark space that hung grim and awful (as my child 
 ish mind had pictured it) between the gallery and 
 the recess behind the belfry. Then, as if they had 
 merely gone to carry a message, they would reap 
 pear almost immediately, and begin their gyra 
 tions anew, flitting about ceaselessly until slumber 
 closed my eyes to their movements, or a sudden 
 twitch or pinch from sister Jane's ready fingers 
 caused me to turn my head, but not my mind, 
 in the direction of the preacher's voice. 
 
 Thus it came about that I rarely entered the old 
 church that I did not live over again some part of 
 my childish experience, and the more so now, since 
 I was confronted by the crooked and uusymmetrical 
 "NV. W., that I had managed to carve on the back 
 of the pew in spite of sister Jane's watchful eye. 
 
 While these various thoughts and reminiscences 
 were tumbling over one another in my mind, the 
 people continued to assemble. I saw Mary Bul- 
 lard come in the door, pause on the threshold, as 
 if waiting for some one, and then go down the aisle 
 with modest grace, followed by her mother. Then 
 came Colonel Bullard, marching along with meas-
 
 232 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ured and dignified tread. Their pew was to the 
 right of the pulpit and very near it, so that it 
 might be said of the Colonel, as it was said of an 
 other, that he had placed himself under the drip 
 pings of the sanctuary. 
 
 From my place I could just see the top of the 
 preacher's head as he sat behind the pulpit desk, 
 engaged either in reading the Bible or in silent 
 prayer. He was evidently waiting for all the con 
 gregation to gather, so that there would be no noise 
 or disturbance after services began. My eyes 
 moved over the congregation, and finally rested on 
 sister Jane, who sat bolt upright in her seat. 
 There was an air of grim defiance about the set of 
 her bonnet. One arm rested on the end of the 
 pew, and I noticed that her turkey-tail fan, which 
 she always carried with her on occasions of mo 
 ment, was swinging in the adjoining pew. I could 
 see the bow of the modest ribbon by which the fan 
 was attached to her wrist. I observed, too, that 
 in this pew sat a little boy apparently eight or ten 
 years of age. He sat very still, but I noticed that 
 there was a look of interest and expectation in his 
 eyes as he turned his head from side to side. His 
 face was brown with the sun, but was not the less 
 attractive for that. I tried to remember if I had 
 ever seen him before, having no other matter to 
 interest me. Failing in this, I tried to place him 
 by tracing his family resemblance in his features. 
 I failed here also. 
 
 While I was idly studying the lad's face, his
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 233 
 
 eye fell on sister Jane's turkey-tail fan. With a 
 quick glance he looked from the fan to its owner. 
 What he saw there must have satisfied him, for he 
 reached forth his hand and began to examine the 
 morocco shield which held the ends of the feathers 
 together. Sister Jane felt the movements of the 
 fan, saw that the boy was touching it, and drew it 
 away with an impatient gesture. I regretted it in 
 a moment, for the lad regarded her with some 
 amazement, and then slowly moved as far away 
 from her as he could get, and leaned against the 
 back of the pew. Instantly a hand was laid ten 
 derly on the lad's shoulder, and he rested his cheek 
 against it, appearing to take great comfort from its 
 support. One of the huge pillars intervened be 
 tween the owner of the hand and my eyes. I could 
 not see him no matter how I shifted my position or 
 craned my neck. 
 
 But the hand was strong and firm, and browner 
 by far than the boy's face. On the third finger 
 was a ring that I judged by its color and lack of 
 finish to be of virgin gold. Sister Jane noticed 
 the surprised expression in the lad's face and saw 
 his movement away from her neighborhood. There 
 was nothing petulant in the movement, nor any ex 
 pression of sullenness in the child's countenance. 
 He seemed to be grieved as well as surprised, that 
 he had been repulsed. Perceiving all this, sis 
 ter Jane relented, as I knew she would. Her at 
 titude became less rigidly uncompromising. She 
 leaned against the end of her pew and allowed her
 
 234 SISTER JANE. 
 
 turkey-tail fan to fall into the position from which 
 she had drawn it when she felt the touch of the 
 child's hand. She even went so far as to push the 
 fan a little closer to the boy than it had been be 
 fore. He saw the movement, of course, but evi 
 dently did not understand it, for he sat perfectly 
 still, his hands resting in his lap, and his head 
 leaning with confidence on the firm brown hand 
 that lay gently on his shoulder. 
 
 For my part I heartily regretted the episode. 
 It was a small thing after all, but I knew it would 
 rankle in sister Jane's tender heart for many a long, 
 day. I have heard her say time and again that 
 but for the small worries of life a great many peo 
 ple, especially women, would be happy, and I now 
 felt, with a sort of pang, that she would carry with 
 her the thought that she had wounded the feelings 
 of this lad thoughtlessly and unnecessarily. The 
 child would forget it in a jiffy, perhaps he had 
 already forgotten it, but sister Jane would re 
 member it, though she might never refer to it. 
 
 But my thoughts were soon diverted from this 
 trifling episode. Suddenly, as though moved by a 
 common impulse, the congregation, led by Colonel 
 Bullard, began to sing the beautiful melody to 
 which some inspired hand has set the poem begin 
 ning- 
 
 " How tedious and tasteless the hours." 
 
 The volume of the song filled the church from 
 floor to ceiling. When it was finished, the Bap 
 tist minister, who sat in the pulpit with Uncle
 
 A PERIOD OF CALM. 235 
 
 Jimmy Dannielly, rose and asked tlie people to 
 join him in prayer. Some stood with bowed heads, 
 others knelt on the floor, while still others sat in 
 their seats and leaned their heads on the backs of 
 the pews in front of them. When the prayer was 
 finished, the Methodist minister, who also sat in 
 the pulpit, rose and read a hymn and then gave it 
 out, two lines at a time. A silence that seemed to 
 be full of expectation fell on the congregation when 
 the last note of the song had died away. Uncle 
 Jimmy Dannielly rose slowly from the cushioned 
 seat behind the desk, stepped forward with a limp, 
 leaned both hands on the pulpit, and allowed his 
 eyes to wander over the assembly.
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 
 
 As he stood thus, the revivalist presented a 
 very striking figure. His long iron-gray hair was 
 combed straight back from a high forehead. His 
 eyes, though sunken, were full of fire. His face 
 was lean, but full of strength ; the nose was long 
 and slightly curved in the middle : the mouth was 
 large and the lips thin, but not too thin to shut out 
 generosity ; and the chin was massive. His dress 
 was of the plainest. His coat of linsey-woolsey 
 was even shabby. His waistcoat was cotton stuff 
 dyed with copperas. His shirt, though white, was 
 of homespun ; the collar was wide and loose ; and 
 there was no sign of stock or neckerchief. When 
 he began to speak, his voice was not lifted above a 
 conversational tone, but it penetrated to every 
 nook and corner of the church and reached every 
 ear in the congregation. 
 
 " When I last stood in this pulpit," he said, 
 " Brother Collingsworth sat in that seat there." 
 He pointed a long finger toward one of the front 
 pews. " Right behind him was the most beautiful 
 young woman these old eyes ever looked on." The 
 congregation knew that he was referring to Eliza-
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON.. 237 
 
 beth Allen, who had been dead half a dozen years. 
 " Over there " pointing to the right " was a 
 man in the prime of life. Over the.re " pointing 
 to the left " was a woman who was blessed with 
 the loveliest fruits of motherhood. In the back 
 of the church, against the wall, I saw a young man 
 who had just reached the year of his majority. I 
 saw all these and many more. I look for them to 
 day, and I fail to find them. Will some of you peo 
 ple who live here in town tell me something about 
 them ? Can you give me any news of them ? They 
 were all my friends. More than my friends," he 
 went on, his voice rising a little, " more than my 
 friends. I loved them every one. They are not 
 here to-day, and my heart tells me something has 
 happened. What is it ? Why are they not here 
 to-day? Why do I miss them ? " 
 
 He paused and turned to Mr. Ransom, an old 
 white-haired man who sat in a chair near the pul 
 pit. 
 
 " Brother Ransom, you were well acquainted 
 with Brother Collingsworth. Where is he to- 
 day?" 
 
 The reply of Mr. Ransom was in so low a tone 
 that the greater part of the congregation failed to 
 hear it. But the preacher left no doubts on their 
 minds. 
 
 " In heaven ! " he cried ; " in heaven ! a place he 
 had worked more than half of a long life to reach. 
 Pray with me, brothers, sisters, high and low, rich 
 and poor, that every man, woman, and child that
 
 238 SISTER JANE. 
 
 has ever sat in this church or ever shall, pray that 
 they may be found in heaven with Brother Col- 
 lingsworth at the last day." 
 
 The preacher paused again and wiped his face 
 with his big red pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " I see more changes than that," he went on. 
 " I see silks and satins, and I hear them a-rustling. 
 I see finger-rings and breastpins a-flashing and 
 a-shining. Let the women move their heads ever 
 so little, and I see their ear-bobs a-trembling. 
 What is it all for ? To help you to worship God ? 
 To help you to humble yourselves before our Lord, 
 the Saviour? Oh, you women ! look at me ! Here 
 you are bedecked with your finery, while I have 
 scarcely a shirt to my back. Why, if I thought that 
 silks and satins, and finger-rings, and ear-bobs, and 
 frills and finery would help me to worship my Lord 
 and make me humbler by so much as a single grain, 
 I 'd go into the pulpit loaded down with them. If I 
 could n't buy them, I 'd beg and borry them I 'd 
 do anything but steal them but what I 'd have 
 them. Why, if it 'd help me in the sight of God, I 'd 
 put bracelets on my arms, and shiny rings on my 
 ankles, and bells on my toes, and feathers in my 
 hair, and when I walked into a church, the children 
 would scream and cry and the gals faint because 
 they 'd think I was a Hottentot or a wild Injun. 
 But their blessed mothers would console them and 
 hush them, and say, ' Don't be afraid. He 's dressed 
 up so because it helps him to praise and worship 
 God.' "
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 239 
 
 Pausing again, the preacher with a swoop of his 
 hand threw open the big Bible that lay on the 
 pulpit desk, and read (apparently) the first verse 
 that fell under his eye : 
 
 " ' They which are the children of the flesh, these 
 are not the children of God ; but the children of 
 the promise are counted for the seed.' Don't make 
 any mistake, good friends," he went on, " I 'm 
 not taking any text. I don't have to hunt texts to 
 preach God's word. They swarm and flutter in my 
 mind. Every face before me is a living, breathing 
 text, and there 's a text in every minute that 
 passes, every day that closes. 
 
 " Paul was writing to the Romans, and quoting 
 from the Old Testament. Before the atonement, 
 the children of the flesh were not the children of 
 God. But when our Lord gave himself up for the 
 sake of sinners, and was nailed to the tree, He 
 pointed the way by which every child of the flesh 
 may become a child of God. He showed the world 
 the road of repentance, and suffered on the cross 
 that the road might be clear. We are all children 
 of the flesh ; we are all little children of the world ; 
 we are all children of God through the Lord our 
 Saviour. What is there hard about a saying that 
 carries a message of life to a repentant sinner? 
 You '11 hear it said on every hand that love begets 
 love, that our very nature tells us to love them that 
 love us. Are we dumb brutes, that when the Child 
 of Bethlehem comes to us with love and mercy in 
 his eye?, and words of love and mercy on his lips,
 
 240 STSTER JANE. 
 
 we must harden our hearts and turn our heads 
 away? 
 
 " We are all little children of the world. All 
 of us are sinful, but only a few of us are sorrow 
 ful. Why? Plough, and you '11 have corns on 
 your hands ; sin, and continue to sin, and your 
 hearts will be covered over with callousness 
 case-hardened. Little children of the world ! 
 And it needs but a lifting of the mind, and a bend 
 ing of the knee to make us the children of God. 
 Children ! But what is a child without innocence. 
 A monster, a deformity in the sight of God and 
 man. But the world swarms with them ; the towns 
 are full of them ; and they wander up and down all 
 over the land. They are right here in the sound 
 of my voice ! They are looking in my face, and 
 a-wondering what I 'm going to say next. 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you what I 'm going to say next, 
 and I '11 say it so loud that the very walls '11 hear 
 it and repeat it to the roof, and the roof to the 
 world above. There are men and women in this 
 church to-day (and I could go and put my hand 
 on them) that are so deep in sin, so double-dyed 
 in all manner of iniquity, that they are afraid to 
 get down on their knees and tell God about it. 
 They have hid it from men and they think they 
 are hiding it from the Almighty. They hold 
 their heads high, but how many weeks, how many 
 days, before they will be brought low ? If they 
 can't fool a poor old man like me, how can they 
 fool the Lord of Hosts ?
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 241 
 
 " Little children of the world ! They are not 
 children ; they are ravening wolves, pursuing the 
 innocent and devouring them. And yet what a 
 simple thing stands between them and a clear con 
 science ! Oh, you men and women that know I 'in 
 a-talking about you, why not try repentance? 
 When remorse pulls you out of sleep at the dead 
 hours of night, why not mix repentance with your 
 misery ? Remorse ain't repentance. Remorse is 
 nothing but fear fear that your sins will find 
 j'ou at the wrong place and at the wrong time. 
 Don't trust to remorse. But when it seizes hold of 
 you when it is tearing and gnawing your very 
 vitals drop on your knees and beg the Saviour 
 to take you into the arms of his mercy and forgive 
 ness. And where you can make restitution, make 
 it. And where you can make confession, make it. 
 But repentance first, repentance last, and repen 
 tance all the time ! 
 
 " And, oh, believe me ! hard and heavy as its 
 burthens are, it is not too high a price to pay for 
 a clean heart and a contented mind, even if these 
 were all. But they are not all they are not 
 half they are not the thousandth part of the 
 blessing that repentance will bring. It will be as 
 a dazzling light to show to you the unspeakable 
 beauties of our Saviour's love and mercy. 
 
 " Don't think I 'm a-talking about your neigh-* 
 bor. Don't think I 'in a-talking to stir up the 
 feelings of the weak-minded or the tender-hearted. 
 Much as the cause of Christ may need reviving in
 
 242 SISTER JANE. 
 
 this town, I 've not come here to revive it. I 
 ought to be miles from here to-day, but I met a 
 human wreck in the public road a fortnight ago 
 oh, a. wretched and a miserable wreck ! that the 
 Lord must have sent there that my eyes might see 
 and my ears hear him. My promise called me away, 
 but my heart brought me here. And here I am 
 not to publish, not to condemn (for who am I that 
 I should sit in judgment?), but to warn, and, may 
 be, bring a few hearts to repentance." 
 
 The preacher paused, and when he spoke again 
 his voice was low and tremulous with emotion. 
 
 " Oh, unhappy world ! where sin has power to 
 smite and wound the innocent ! Oh, unhappy men 
 and women that must drag their children into 
 the mire of sin and disgrace ! Look at your feet ! 
 You are standing by an open keg of powder. 
 Soon the pitch a-dripping from passion's torch will 
 kindle it, the, explosion will come, and then ? Oh, 
 the pity of it ! The innocent and the helpless will 
 be blackened and burned by it." 
 
 In this strain the sermon, if it could be called 
 a sermon, went on. I have selected only a few 
 paragraphs from rough notes made while the matter 
 was fresh in my mind. But these can give no 
 idea of the manner of the preacher. He had the 
 gift of oratory the magnetism that holds the 
 attention and electrifies. By a movement of his 
 hand or a sweep of his arm he threw a new and 
 thrilling meaning into the most commonplace re 
 marks. But his magnetism was not necessary on
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 243 
 
 this occasion to hold the minds of his hearers. 
 The mysterious allusions he made to meeting a 
 wretched man in the public road, and the pointed 
 almost personal appeals he made to members 
 of the congregation who were evidently known to 
 him, were enough to arouse curiosity to the high 
 est pitch and hold it there. 
 
 Some of those who went to hear the sermon ex 
 pected to be surprised or amused, while others 
 hoped to be edified ; but the effect went far 
 beyond surprise or amusement, and, oh the vital 
 point, fell far short of edification. When the 
 congregation was dismissed and we came out, I 
 noticed that the women, who had a habit of linger 
 ing before the church door to exchange words of 
 greeting and frequently of gossip, talked in lower 
 tones than usual, and some of them wore a scared 
 look. Colonel Bullard and his wife entered their 
 shining carriage, and were whirled away, but Mary 
 joined sister Jane and myself, and together we 
 walked home. Behind us I could hear the voices 
 of Mrs. Roby and Mrs. Flewellen, rising in volume 
 the farther they got from the church. 
 
 " I declare er, Sister Roby ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Flewellen, " I 'm er all but pairlized. Er did you 
 eyer hear er such talk in all your er born days ? 
 It 's a scandal and I er don't care who hears me 
 er say it. Who er was he a-hittin' at, do you er 
 reckon ? And er what is at the er bottom of it ? " 
 
 It was impossible to catch the reply that Mrs. 
 Roby made, but Mrs. Flewellen kept on talking.
 
 244 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Why, the er bare idee that anything can er 
 happen in this town and er me not know nothin' 
 't all about it ! Er Brother Dannielly is a good 
 man there er ain't no manner of er doubt about 
 that ; er he 's a godly man ; but er somebody has 
 played on er his mind. But er wouldn't it be er 
 the wonder of the world if er there was something 
 or other er brewing ? " 
 
 I could but reflect on the whimsical and insub 
 stantial mind that doubted in one breath and 
 believed in the next. As for Mary she never men 
 tioned the sermon except to comment on the ear 
 nestness of the preacher and the remarkable effect 
 of his unstudied gestures. Sister Jane had nothing 
 to say whatever, either about the sermon or the 
 preacher. "As we went along I saw just ahead of 
 us the lad who had attracted my attention in 
 church. He was clinging to the hand of a tall, 
 strong-looking man who was a stranger to me 
 clinging to the man's hand and talking as seriously 
 as a grown person. The man was walking slowly, 
 but with a free and swinging stride that betokened 
 great strength and vitality. Presently I heard 
 the child say : 
 
 " Well, you know mighty well, Dan, that I 
 would n't have hurt the fan if it was a fan." 
 
 I looked at sister Jane and saw that she was re 
 garding the lad with a curious expression. 
 
 "Why, of course, .Cap, /know you wouldn't 
 have hurt the fan ; but think of the lady she 
 did n't know you would n't hurt the fan," replied
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 245 
 
 the man in a soothing tone. " I '11 see her before 
 long and ask her about it, and I '11 bet you a thrip 
 against a shirt button that she '11 say she thought you 
 were one of those little town boys that are always 
 up to some mischief." 
 
 " Will she say that, Dan ? " the lad asked, a 
 pleasant smile hovering around his mouth, but not 
 settling there. 
 
 " Why, of course she will. I looked at her once 
 when she turned her head, and she 's got a good 
 face. Did n't you see her put the fan back and 
 push it towards you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I did," replied the boy, "but I didn't 
 know what she meant. I thought she knew I 
 would n't touch it after she jerked it away." 
 
 " I 'm sorry you did n't," said the man. 
 
 "Well, why didn't you punch me with your 
 thumb, Dan?" 
 
 " Ah ! it was in church, you know," the man 
 suggested. 
 
 " That 's so," assented the lad. " Did you see 
 the bats, Dan ? Did you see the big dark place 
 they kept flying into ? Ugh ! " he exclaimed with 
 a shiver, " I would n't go into that place, not for 
 not for" - 
 
 " Not for what ? " the man asked. 
 
 " Not for the little girl that was on the ship." 
 
 " She said she was going to write to you," re 
 marked the man. 
 
 " I hope she will," said the lad. 
 
 When we came to the end of the grove of big
 
 246 SISTER JANE. 
 
 oaks in which the church nestled, Mary Bullard, 
 sister Jane, and myself crossed the street, while the 
 stranger and the lad turned to the right and went 
 along on the opposite side. 
 
 "Do you know 'em, William?" sister Jane in 
 quired. 
 
 " I never saw them before," I replied. " They 
 probably came on the stagecoach yesterday after 
 noon." 
 
 " As likely as not," sister Jane assented, and 
 relapsed into silence. 
 
 " The boy is a bright and manly-looking little 
 fellow," remarked Mary with a sigh. I knew she 
 was thinking of her brother. 
 
 " Yes ; I noticed he called his father ' Dan,' " I 
 said. 
 
 " His father ! " exclaimed sister Jane. " Why, 
 not a minnit ago you said you 'd never seen 'em 
 before, and now here you are telling a part of their 
 family history." 
 
 " It is reasonable to suppose the man is the boy's 
 father," I explained. 
 
 " Now he 's supposing," said sister Jane. " Mary, 
 keep your eye on these men." 
 
 " Oh, I do, Miss Jane. Did you never notice 
 it ? " was Mary's laughing response. Sister Jane 
 laughed, too, and the talk turned to matters in 
 which I was not interested. I indulged in a habit 
 formed long ago, of listening to Mary's voice 
 (when she was talking to some one else) without 
 paying particular attention to the words her lips 
 formed.
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 247 
 
 During the afternoon, sister Jane was honored 
 by a friendly call from Mrs. Roby and Mrs. Flew- 
 ellen. Mandy Satterlee had gone to visit Mrs. 
 Beshears, as she sometimes did on Sunday after 
 noons. 
 
 " Don't git noways scared, Jane," said Mrs. 
 Roby, as she and Mrs. Flewellen came in. " We 
 ain't come to take the place, because I just saw 
 Sister Flewellen walkin' about in her yard, a-doin' 
 nothin' and a-lookin' lonesome, and so I hollas 
 and says, says I, ' Sister Flewellen, supposin' we 
 fling on our things and go around and see Jane,' 
 says I, 'because it'll give her the all-overs,' says 
 I, ' but we ain't been there in the longest, and 
 maybe she can put up with us the little time we 've 
 got to stay,' says I." 
 
 " Yes, er Jane," Mrs. Flewellen assented, " she 
 said them er very words ; and I says, says I, ' Don't 
 you er reckon it '11 worry Jane ? ' says I, and she 
 er hollas back and er says, says she, ' I er reckon it 
 will, but er she '11 git over it before er Christmas,' 
 says she. And er so we flung on our er things and 
 come, and er here we are, and as the er twin calves 
 said er to the old cow, ' Er what are you going to 
 er do with us ? " 
 
 " I hope you don't fit the whole tale," remarked 
 sister Jane, as she shook hands with the two ladies. 
 
 " Er how is that, Jane ? " inquired Mrs. Flew 
 ellen. 
 
 " Why, the twin calves turned out to be bull 
 yearlings," said sister Jane dryly.
 
 248 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Now er that 's Jane all over ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Flewellen, laughing behind her fan to hide her 
 teeth. " Er did you hear that, er Sister Roby ? I 
 er declare, Jane ! You always er give as good as 
 anybody sends er don't she, Sister Roby ? " 
 
 But Mrs. Roby had other fish to fry. She had 
 seated herself, but instead of paying any attention 
 to Mrs. Flewellen's commonplace remarks, she 
 craned her neck, first on one side and then on the 
 other, trying to look behind her. Then she said : 
 
 " I don't see Mandy Satterlee, Jane. Where 's 
 she gone? She ain't here, is she? " 
 
 " Mandy 's gone out to take the air," replied 
 sister Jane. " If you 've got any message for her, 
 I '11 tell her about it if I can recall it." 
 
 " Was she at church to-day, Jane ? " 
 
 " If she was, she run out somewhere betwixt the 
 sermon and the doxology," sister Jane answered, 
 " for I found dinner ready and a-waiting for me ; 
 and there was nobody to cook it but Mandy." 
 
 " Well, I do hope she did n't go, Jane," said 
 Mrs. Roby, with well-affected solicitude, " because 
 I know in reason you must have heard what the 
 preacher said about her? " 
 
 " Which preacher ? " inquired sister Jane with 
 amazement. 
 
 " Why, Uncle Jimmy Dannielly," replied Mrs. 
 Roby in a tone less confident than before. 
 
 Sister Jane regarded Mrs. Roby with a stare 
 in which amazement, pity, and curiosity were all 
 mingled.
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 249 
 
 " Well, for the Lord's sake ! " she said after a 
 while, raising her hands and allowing them to fall 
 helplessly in her lap. 
 
 " Why, you must 'a' heard him, Jane, because I 
 saw you there with my own eyes, and you could n't 
 'a' helped but hear him." Mrs. Roby's voice had 
 grown weak. 
 
 " Now, Maria ! " cried sister Jane, in a tone in 
 which scorn and contempt played a large part, 
 " do you mean to set flat-footed in that cheer there 
 and tell me that such a man as Jimmy Dannielly 
 would leave bigger game and fly at that poor gal 
 and he not a-knowing her from a side of sole- 
 leather ? " 
 
 " Well, you heard what he said, Jane," Mrs. 
 Roby explained, " because your ears is as good as 
 mine any day, if not better, because I ain't never 
 intirely got over that risin' that busted in my 
 head before I had my first baby, and I know you 
 could n't 'a' kept from hearin' every word, and if 
 he did n't mean Mandy Satteiiee who in the round 
 world could he 'a' meant, because when anybody 
 talks that plain, specially in the pulpit, they 're jest 
 obliged to mean somebody ; now who did he mean ? 
 I wish you 'd tell me that." 
 
 Sister Jane settled her high back-comb a little 
 more firmly on her head a favorite gesture of 
 hers when patience was giving way to irritation. 
 " Maria, age don't improve you one single bit," 
 she said. " You ought to know mighty well from 
 what you 've heard of Jimmy Dannielly that he
 
 250 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ain't the man to stumble over names. If he did n't 
 call 'em out, it was n't because he was afeard, but 
 because he did n't want to. He 'd just as soon V 
 called the name as not, every bit and grain. My 
 hearing ain't as keen as it used to be, but if I 've 
 got any ears at all, Jimmy Dannielly said the peo 
 ple he was talking about was right there in the 
 house ; he said he could go and put his hand on 
 'em ; he said they held their heads high, and that 
 they would soon be brought low. That 's what he 
 said. Does Mandy Satterlee hold her head high ? 
 Did you ever see her strutting around these 
 streets?" 
 
 Sister Jane closed her lips firmly, as though she 
 had no more to say. Mrs. Roby looked at Mrs. 
 Flewellen, as if inviting assistance, but that lady 
 shook her head slowly and solemnly. 
 
 " Er he said them er very words, Sister Roby 
 er them very identical er words. I says to myself 
 er at the time, says I, ' I er wonder who it is er in 
 this house er that the cap fits,' er says I." 
 
 " I believe he did say that, Jane, but the whole 
 thing took me back so, that I pledge you my naked 
 word that I forgot everything about what he said 
 excepting that he was a-scoring somebody, I did n't 
 know who, and I thought it was mighty quare if 
 Mandy Satterlee was a-settin' in the back of the 
 church and he was a-hittin' at her, poor thing, 
 'stead of trying to lift her up, and I 'd 'a' looked 
 back to see if I could see Mandy, but I know some 
 of the men would 'a' thought right straight that I 
 was a-lookin' at them, because you know how con-
 
 THE PREACHER AND THE SERMON. 251 
 
 ceited they are, Jane, all except William, here, 
 who I look on more as a member of my own family 
 than anything else, and I says to myself, says I, 
 ' I '11 go over and see Jane, and find out if Mandy 
 Satterlee was at church, because I know if she 
 was Jane '11 be a-b'ilin' over, and no wonder,' says 
 I, because what right has a preacher or anybody 
 else got to attack anybody that 's a-tryin' their best 
 to get along and do right, for I reely do believe 
 that Mandy Satterlee is tryin' to do what 's right, 
 because she could mighty easy do wrong if she 
 wanted to ; and there 's another thing, Jane ; who 
 was that fine-lookin' man a-settin' behind the pew 
 right next to yours ; you could n't 'a' helped seein' 
 him because he had his hand on a boy's shoulder 
 in the pew right next to yours, and you could 'a' 
 retched out and tetched him with the end of your 
 fingers, not the man, but the boy, and I saw 
 the man lookin' at you, and I says to myself, says 
 I, ' Honey, if Jane could turn and see you a-starin' 
 at her in that fashion she 'd make you feel like 
 sinkin' through the floor,' says I." 
 
 Mrs. Roby paused from sheer lack of breath. 
 
 " I saw the child, but I did n't see the man until 
 we came out of church, and then I saw only his 
 back," replied sister Jane. " I don't know him 
 from Adam's cat." 
 
 And so the conversation ran on a great many 
 words about nothing in particular a singular 
 mixture of friendliness, hypocrisy, cant, and insin 
 cerity. The ladies went away after a while, and a 
 restful silence filled the house.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 
 
 THE next morning, shortly after breakfast, there 
 came a knock to which I responded. I was some 
 what surprised, on opening the door, to see the 
 stranger whom I had noticed the day before as we 
 came away from church ; and with him was the 
 lad of whom mention has been made. 
 
 " I beg pardon," said the stranger with a bow 
 that stamped him at once as a man of some refine 
 ment : " I believe you take boarders here ? " 
 
 " After a fashion," I replied, hesitating a mo 
 ment. 
 
 " I am told it is a very pleasant fashion," he re 
 marked with a smile. 
 
 " But you will have to see my sister," I sug 
 gested, " that is, if you " 
 
 " Naturally of course," said the stranger, in 
 terrupting me with the most genial laugh imagin 
 able ; " here as everywhere the word is, ' Make way 
 for the ladies ! * May I see your sister ? " 
 
 I invited the gentleman in, I was sure he was 
 both a gentleman and a reader of books, placed 
 a chair for him and one for the lad, and went in 
 search of sister Jane. I found her somewhat flur-
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 2,53 
 
 ried over some trifling detail of housekeeping, and 
 not in the best humor in the world. I stood expect 
 ant a moment waiting for her irritation to subside. 
 Whereupon she exclaimed : 
 
 " Good Lord, William ! don't be standing there 
 like you was deaf, dumb, blind, and cripple. Say 
 what you 've got to say and then go and let me 
 have a minuit's peace. If I ever undertake to 
 make any more jelly out of dried apples I hope I 
 may be forgiven beforehand for the sins I '11 com 
 mit. You 've got something on your mind, 
 William ; spit it out." 
 
 I told her there was a gentleman in the parlor 
 who wanted to see her about engaging board. 
 
 " Well, you can jest go right back and tell him 
 to take himself off. I 've got more boarders now 
 than I can stomach. They are all like lambs when 
 they first come ; butter would n't melt in their 
 mouths ; but by the time they 've swallowed one 
 meal they are ready to strut around and spit on 
 the floor, and do like they owned the whole house 
 with the trash-barrel throw'd in for good measure. 
 No ; go and tell the man, whoever he is, that 
 enough of a good thing is enough, and too much is 
 the greatest plenty." 
 
 Seeing that I stood my ground, sister Jane 
 paused and stared at me. " The gentleman that 
 wants to see you," I said, "is the stranger who 
 walked before us from church yesterday. I have 
 already told him that you will see him in a mo 
 ment."
 
 254 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Well, you 're taking a good deal on yourself, 
 William, I must say," sister Jane snapped. Then 
 in the same breath, but in a far different tone, " I 
 look like a fright, I reckon. How 's my hair be 
 hind there ? I 've jest got to change this cape. It 
 smells like somebody 'd rubbed it with bacon rind. 
 Go back and tell him I '11 be in directly, and if 
 he looks like anybody, try to make yourself polite, 
 and don't look all draw'd up like you was afeard 
 somebody was going to say ' boo ' at you." 
 
 I hardly had time to deliver my message before 
 sister Jane followed me. With easy address and 
 a genial smile the gentleman bowed. " This is 
 Miss Wornum, I believe ? " Sister Jane nodded 
 her head. " My name is Cowardin." 
 
 " Did n't I see that child at church yesterday ? " 
 asked sister Jane. 
 
 " What about it, Cap ? " Mr. Cowardin inquired 
 with a broad smile. 
 
 The lad hung his head and fell to picking at the 
 side of the chair on which he sat. Presently he 
 half raised his head, with a smile and a blush, very 
 much as a girl would do. " Yes, ma'am, you saw 
 me," he said. 
 
 " Well, my feelings have been hurt about you 
 ever sence," sister Jane confessed. " Wait a 
 minnit." 
 
 She whipt out of the room, and presently came 
 back with her turkey-tail fan. 
 
 " There, honey," she said handing it to the lad. 
 " Take it and look at it to your heart's content,
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JAKE'S. 255 
 
 and you may tear it up for what I care. I 've been 
 feeling mean ever sence I jerked it away from you 
 yesterday." 
 
 " It was n't anything to feel bad about," the lad 
 protested stoutly, but I could see that his eyes 
 shone, and that the blush on his tanned face 
 deepened. 
 
 " You make too much of it, Miss Wornum," 
 said Mr. Cowardin. " The biggest things soon 
 pass out of a child's mind." 
 
 " Yes, but they remember the little things 
 the things that have a taste of meanness in 'em," 
 remarked sister Jane positively. 
 
 " That is so," Mr. Cowardin assented. " It is so 
 in my case anyhow." He paused, allowed his eyes 
 to rest on the floor, and seemed to be lost in thought. 
 " I beg your pardon," he said. " I wanted to get 
 nice quarters for that boy of mine. I believe you 
 take boarders only by the day ; but I hope you '11 
 take Cap there and give him a bed as well as 
 board. You '11 find him the least trouble in the 
 world. I'll not bother you myself. The tavern 
 is good enough for me." 
 
 Sister Jane looked at the boy, and then looked 
 at Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 The latter evidently understood what was in -her 
 mind. He fumbled about in his pockets, and drew 
 forth a small key. 
 
 " Cap, go to the tavern and bring the lady a 
 handful of shells from your trunk." 
 
 The lad took the key and was about to rush
 
 256 SISTER JANE. 
 
 away. Suddenly he bethought himself, took the 
 fan from the chair where he had laid it, and handed 
 it to sister Jane. 
 
 " It is a nice fan, and I 'm very much obliged to 
 you," he said. 
 
 " Why, you 're a thousand times welcome, honey, 
 and more too ! " exclaimed sister Jane heartily. 
 
 " I sent him away," said Mr. Cowardin, when 
 the child was gone, " because you were ready to 
 ask me some questions about him. It worries him 
 very much to hear people talking about him." 
 
 " Is his mother dead ? " sister Jane asked. 
 
 " I don't know whether she 's dead or alive." 
 
 " Is he your son ? " 
 
 " Except through Adam, he 's no relation of 
 mine that I know of." 
 
 " Well," said sister Jane bluntly, " I hope you 
 ain't trying to pack him off on me and then run 
 away and leave him." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin threw his head back and indulged 
 in a laugh genuine enough to dispel sister Jane's 
 suspicions. 
 
 " Run away and leave Cap ! " he cried. " Why, 
 I 've carried him on my back hundreds of miles ; 
 I 've gone hungry to feed him ; and I 've suffered 
 from cold to keep him warm." 
 
 " Then who is he and what is he ? " asked sister 
 Jane with genuine curiosity. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin stroked his iron-gray beard 
 thoughtfully. " The most that I know the most 
 that I can say is that he is one of the Little
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 257 
 
 Children of the World." He smiled as he said 
 this, and I knew he had in his mind the sermon 
 \ve had heard the day before. " In 1850, a party 
 of us started from St. Louis to go to California. 
 The gold fever was at its height then, and as soon 
 as the news got abroad that a few of us were 
 going, hundreds asked to join us. We were glad 
 enough of their company. We asked no questions. 
 We just told everybody that came that they were 
 welcome to go with us. It made no difference 
 whether a man was a thief, or a vagabond, or an 
 honest man. I was pretty much of a vagabond 
 myself about that time." 
 
 " Well, you don't look like it," said sister Jane. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin laughed. " Looks don't amount 
 to much, Miss Wornum. I used to think they did 
 when I was young. Why, the worst man I ever 
 saw was fixed up just like a preacher one Sunday, 
 and I saw him hanged the next Friday." He 
 paused as if the incident swarmed with unpleasant 
 memories. With a quick gesture he went on. 
 " Well, hundreds wanted to go, and we told them 
 to be ready on a certain day, the only conditions 
 being that they should carry along provisions 
 enough to last four months. We didn't know 
 what might happen. When the day came we 
 found that there were forty wagons. We thought 
 there would be more, but these were enough. 
 Before starting, my partners and myself saw that 
 there would have to be some sort of organization, 
 somebody to manage and control. So we called
 
 258 SISTER JANE. 
 
 the men together (there was a pretty big crowd of 
 them), and I told them that there must be some 
 one to take charge of matters whenever it became 
 necessary. I explained the matter as well as I 
 could, and then some one asked me my name, and 
 before I knew it they had made me Captain. 
 
 " This pleased the men better than it did me, 
 but no matter ; the choice had been made. I 
 sent twenty wagons twelve hours ahead, in charge 
 of one of my partners, and followed with the rest. 
 We kept up this order for many days. The fifth 
 day out from St. Louis, as I was riding ahead of 
 the wagons (I had my saddle-horse) I saw a child 
 sitting on the edge of the trail. It was crying, 
 and was so badly scared that its limbs jerked as 
 if it were afflicted with some queer kind of disease. 
 I jumped from the saddle and took the little fellow 
 in my arms, and soon had him quieted. When I 
 asked him his name, he shook his head and said, 
 ' Fraley,' or something that sounded like it. He 
 could talk plainly for a child so young, and I sup 
 posed of course that ' Fraley ' was his name. 
 
 *' Naturally, I thought he had been accidentally 
 left by the wagons ahead of us. There were sev 
 eral families along, and perhaps twenty children 
 not larger than this child. I judged that he was 
 asleep in the rear wagon, and had in some way 
 fallen out just how I could not imagine. I 
 thought that as soon as he was missed some one 
 would come rushing back along the trail, searching 
 for him. So I made no bother about the matter.
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 259 
 
 I let the little chap ride on the saddle in front of 
 ine until he fell asleep, and then put him in charge 
 of one of the women in my train, telling her to 
 feed him and take care of him until his people 
 called for him. 
 
 " In this way I made my mind easy about the 
 child, and for some hours forgot him altogether. 
 When I did go to the woman's wagon to inquire 
 about him, he was wide awake and lively, but as 
 soon as he saw me he held out his little hands to 
 come to me, and refused to be comforted when I 
 started to ride off without him. The upshot of it 
 was that I took him on my saddle, and after that, 
 as no one came to claim him, he used to ride in 
 front of me for hours at a time, and I became so 
 accustomed to his company that he was n't in my 
 way at all. The woman took care of him and 
 tidied him up when he was n't riding with me, but 
 after a while I took him in my own wagon at 
 night." 
 
 " Well, for the Lord's sake ! did n't you never 
 inquire about his folks ? " sister Jane asked. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, Miss Wornuin, I had 
 bigger things than babies on my mind just then. 
 I had to think for all those people, and we were 
 going through a dangerous part of the country. 
 I had to put a stop to gambling ; I had to settle all 
 disputes and put down all quarrels. The men 
 were not members of any Sunday-school at that 
 time ; they had knives, pistols, bad tempers, and a 
 good deal of mean whiskey along, and you know
 
 260 SISTER JANE. 
 
 what that means. I might have done many things 
 that I did n't do. But I found out afterwards 
 that the child was really a waif. There was no 
 one to lay claim to it. The woman I was telling 
 you of pointed out a man a slouching, ugly fel 
 low who scared the boy nearly to death every 
 time he came near ; but I thought little of that 
 until one day when we were eating dinner the 
 child screamed and ran to me, and I saw the man 
 going by. I called him back and asked why the 
 youngster was afraid of him. His explanation 
 was that on one occasion, in a spirit of mischief, 
 he had made a face at the little chap. This was a 
 likely story, for the man was as ugly as sin when 
 he screwed his face up to show me how the boy 
 had been scared. 
 
 " I had no time to think it over then, but I have 
 thought since that the man knew all about the 
 child. Anyhow I let the matter pass. The young 
 ster stayed with me, and nearly half the time he 
 was in the saddle in front of me. The men got 
 to calling him Young Cap, and I began to call 
 him Cap myself, and have kept it up ever since. 
 We 've seen hard times and good times together. 
 We 've lived like wild beasts in the woods, and 
 we 've lived like princes, and through it all we 've 
 stuck together, and I would n't like it much if 
 somebody was to jump up some day and say, ' That 
 boy is mine and not yours,' and prove it." 
 
 " Colonel Bullard's little boy was stolen several 
 years ago," I remarked. " Maybe "
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 261 
 
 " So I have been told," replied Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " It would be queer, uow " 
 
 " Goodness, William ! " exclaimed sister Jane. 
 " How could Freddy Bullard be found a-settin' by 
 the road the other side of nowhere ? " 
 
 " It would be very queer, indeed," said Mr. Cow 
 ardin ; " in fact, next to impossible in my opinion. 
 Yet the thought that it might be so was what 
 brought me here." 
 
 " You knew the circumstance, then ? " I sug 
 gested. 
 
 " I chanced to be in this town the day it hap 
 pened," Mr. Cowardin said. " I remember you 
 very well. That night you went to the show with 
 a young lady Miss Bullard hunting for the 
 lost child. The man at the entrance of the tent 
 took you through, and walked part of the way 
 home with you. He has changed greatly, has n't 
 he?" 
 
 " Well, upon my word ! " I cried. " And you 
 were that man ! You were very kind to us, but 
 your voice was sharper severer than it is 
 now." 
 
 " Ah, I was on duty then," he explained with a 
 laugh. " Moreover, five years of such experiences 
 as I have had are calculated to take the rough 
 edges off a man particularly when he has seen 
 some of his plans turn out to be successful." 
 
 " And you think this child may possibly be little 
 Freddy Bullard ? " I ventured to remark. 
 
 " As I said, I think it is next to impossible if
 
 262 SISTER JANE. 
 
 we take all the facts into consideration. And yet 
 where there is one chance in a million, it does no 
 good to doubt or to hesitate. I remember an inci 
 dent in California that will fit this case. I had 
 worked in the ditches and gulches for months, and 
 had hardly found enough gold to buy a pound of 
 flour. Times were squally, I can tell you. I had 
 worked new claims, and dug over old ones, and at 
 last I just naturally gave up. I had no hope, and 
 did n't care for anything except the boy. I could 
 have picked up a fair living in the gambling-sa 
 loons ; but there was Cap. I took him with me one 
 day, and began to work over an old claim that had 
 once been the richest in the camp. At last I 
 paused. I was hot, tired, and disgusted. I looked 
 at Cap. He was sitting on the bank nodding in 
 the shade of a pine. I woke him and asked him, 
 half in fun and half in earnest, where I must dig 
 to find gold ? ' Right under me,' he said. I 
 told him to get from under the swing of the pick. 
 He rolled away, and was sound asleep before you 
 could snap your fingers. Now the spot where he 
 was sitting was a rock, and it jutted out from the 
 bank considerably, showing that it had been par 
 tially dug around already* 
 
 " I swung the pick over my head and tried to 
 drive it through the rock. But it sank into the 
 ground up to the eye. When I pried against it, 
 the rock fell forward at my feet splashing mud 
 and water in my eyes, and when I opened them 
 again "
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 263 
 
 The lad came running in at this moment. He 
 had the shells in a beautiful little basket. 
 
 " Oh, Dan ! " he cried, and then stopped still 
 and waited. 
 
 " What did I see, Cap, that day in the gulch, 
 when I got my eyes full of mud and water ? the 
 last day we worked in the ditches together ? " 
 
 " Goodness, Dan ! You saw gold. You said 
 that if I had n't been asleep you 'd have yelled so 
 that everybody in the camp would have come run 
 ning." 
 
 " I believe you ! " exclaimed Mr. Cowardin. " I 
 had struck a pocket, and in that pocket I found as 
 much gold as I wanted." 
 
 Sister Jane shook her head incredulously. 
 " Well ! you are the first human being in this 
 world that ever found as much gold as he wanted." 
 
 " I have told you the simple truth," was Mr. 
 Cowardin's reply. " I found as much as I wanted ; 
 but I took all I found. I had been working 
 harder than any negro ever worked for three 
 years, but the nuggets I found in that pocket were 
 enough to make a dozen men rich." 
 
 "You know the old saying," remarked sister 
 Jane, " ' Easy come, easy go.' " 
 
 " But for that boy," said Mr. Cowardin, " the 
 saying would have been partly true in my case." 
 He turned to the boy. " Well, Cap, how about 
 the shells ? Did you find them ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dan ! the pretty pink one that I wanted 
 to give the lady is lost. I can't find it anywhere."
 
 264 SJSTEE JANE. 
 
 " No ; it is somewhere in my trunk. I saw it 
 the other day. We '11 get it when we go back to 
 the tavern." 
 
 The shells were exquisitely beautiful the 
 most peculiar I had ever seen before or have ever 
 seen since. Mr. Cowardin explained that they 
 were found on the coast of an island in the South 
 Seas. Sister Jane was in ecstasies over them. 
 She had two old conchs that she had treasured for 
 years on account of the wonderfully delicate pink 
 color that marked them. She looked at every 
 shell, there were dozens of fine ones, and then 
 reluctantly handed them back to the child. 
 
 " They are for you," he said, putting his hands 
 behind him with a gesture that was both graceful 
 and gentle. 
 
 " For me ! " cried sister Jane. " Well, I de 
 clare, honey, nobody in the world could 'a' given 
 me anything that I 'd prize more. I '11 empty 'em 
 out directly, so you can get your basket." 
 
 " The basket goes along with them," the lad 
 explained. 
 
 " If you '11 notice, Miss Wornum, it 's a very 
 pretty piece of workmanship. It is made of the 
 scales of a fish they catch in the South Seas." 
 
 Sister Jane's delight shone in her face, and 
 well it might. The scales had been polished until 
 they wore the lustre of pearls. They shimmered 
 and gleamed in the light. 
 
 " Honey, how can I thank you ? I don't know 
 what I 've done to have such good luck. I hope I
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 265 
 
 won't wake up in the morning and find that I 've 
 been dreaming. If this is what I get by being 
 mean to a nice boy, I '11 be mean to the next one 
 I see. But I don't know where in the world I '11 
 find another as nice and as clever as you are." 
 
 The child blushed with pleasure, and I listened 
 with some degree of astonishment, for I had never 
 before heard sister Jane pay such a compliment to 
 any one, especially to one of the male sex. 
 
 " You may run out in the garden and pick some 
 roses," she said. 
 
 " Oh, may I ? " cried the lad. He waited for. 
 no confirmation, but darted from the room. 
 
 There was silence for a while, and then Mr. 
 Cowardin spoke. 
 
 " If you can take Cap, Miss Wornum, it would 
 relieve me of a great deal of anxiety and not add 
 to yours. He is a manly little fellow, but gentle 
 and thoughtful. He will not be here long before 
 he can discover from your countenance whether 
 you are pleased or displeased, and he will do what 
 he can to please you. He has seen rough times, 
 rough countries, and rough people, but he has been 
 with me so long that he has old ways about him. 
 He 's the best child I ever saw to be full of health 
 and fun." 
 
 "Well, I'll talk with William," said sister 
 Jane. " I '11 find out how he feels about it. I 
 think we can fix up for the child that is, if you 
 think the place will suit him." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin laughed. " Don't allow that idea
 
 266 SISTER JANE. 
 
 to trouble you. He will be delighted, xsliall feel 
 lonely without Cap at night, for he has been my 
 only companion for many a long day, but he can 
 come and sit with me sometimes at the tavern 
 until I find better quarters." 
 
 " Or you can come and sit here with us after 
 tea," I suggested. 
 
 " Yes ; I had intended to ask permission to do 
 that," he said. 
 
 " Or you can take your meals here if the fare 
 suits you," remarked sister Jane. "Not that I 
 want any more boarders. The Lord knows them 
 that I 've got are enough to make a sinner out of 
 a saint." 
 
 " That would be better a great deal better. 
 I could be with Cap oftener," said Mr. Cowardin 
 eagerly. " I am not trying to get rid of the boy. 
 He is a pleasure to me every hour of the day. 
 But he must go to school that is certain it 
 can't be helped." He spoke as if he were repeat 
 ing an old argument that he had had with himself. 
 " I have skimmed through some books with him, 
 and he can read, write, and cipher ; but he must 
 go to school : he must get with other boys, good or 
 bad. And then I want him to have a place that 
 w.ill be like home to him. He has never known 
 what a home is and here he can find out about 
 it. As to terms," Mr. Cowardin went on after a 
 pause, " make them to suit yourself. Just imagine 
 that we are to give you no end of trouble and fix 
 your price accordingly. That is the way to do busi-
 
 A NEW BOARDER AT SISTER JANE'S. 267 
 
 ness with strangers. Fix a good round sum and 
 make them pay in advance." 
 
 " I '11 not grumble at what I get out of you," 
 said sister Jane bluntly. " If I grumble at all 
 it '11 be at what I don't get." 
 
 And so from that time forth, and for many 
 days, Mr. Cowardin and the lad became a part 
 and parcel of our household.
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 
 
 IT came to pass that Mr. Cowardin gave us a 
 great deal of his company, especially in the even 
 ings, and it was very pleasant company, too, for 
 he was not merely a fluent talker. Travel, wide 
 experience, and keen observation had given him 
 something to talk about. He visited all parts of 
 the United States, the islands of the sea, and the 
 countries of the east that are most conveniently 
 reached by going west. He was well educated to 
 begin with, and this fact had served him well. 
 When information comes to the mind of a man 
 who has prepared himself properly it goes through 
 a sifting process that transforms it into know 
 ledge that is power when it is active, and culture 
 when it is quiescent. 
 
 It may be imagined, therefore, that we found 
 Mr. Cowardin's conversation both interesting and 
 instructive. He thus brought us in touch with 
 the teeming world beyond our sober horizon, the 
 great world that we knew of mainly by report. 
 He told us of queer peoples and of strange inci 
 dents by land and sea, and managed in this way to 
 broaden our views and to give a wider range to
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 269 
 
 our sympathies. He had so much to talk about 
 that he rarely had occasion to refer to himself, 
 and this was a refreshing novelty in a provincial 
 village where people have little else to talk of. 
 
 Mrs. Beshears had a fancy of her own that she 
 had seen Mr. Cowardin somewhere before, but 
 when, for my own amusement, I asked her to trace 
 her impression to its source, it was found to rest 
 on the belief that the expression of his face re 
 minded her of some one she had known, but, for 
 the life of her, she couldn't say who. He "favored 
 somebody," but who he favored, Mrs. Beshears 
 did n't know. At any rate she liked him, for no 
 matter how many questions she might ask (and 
 her inquisitiveness seemed to be without bounds 
 or limit) he was always ready to answer them 
 nay, more, his good nature and his sense of humor 
 were so fused that he seemed to invite her curiosity 
 that he might not only please her, but also enjoy 
 her blunt comments and observations. Naturally, 
 therefore, the heart of Mrs. Beshears warmed 
 toward this man of the world who treated her with 
 such patient deference. I think all our hearts 
 warmed toward him, for he had that indefinable 
 charm of manner that attracts the confidence of 
 men and women alike. He had the repose that 
 strength imparts, and the gentleness that belongs 
 to good breeding. 
 
 As for the lad, the boy he called Cap, he 
 was even more charming in his ways than the 
 guardian Providence had sent him. He had the
 
 270 SISTER JANE. 
 
 advantage of youth and it is a tremendous ad 
 vantage, say what we will. Each day that passed 
 over my head (as the saying is) made me more 
 keenly alive to that fact, and more sensitive to it, 
 too. The child had this great advantage, and he 
 seemed instinctively to know how to employ it. 
 He had never associated to any extent with other 
 children, and this fact gave him sober and 
 thoughtful manners. He had been so long thrown 
 upon his own resources, so far as amusement was 
 concerned, that he had what the women-folk called 
 " old-fashioned ways." And these gave an addi 
 tional charm to his youth, for they were based on 
 a certain manliness of character that was clearly 
 above all the small and petty tricks of mischievous- 
 ness that are common to boys. He was strong, 
 healthy, and as full of animal spirits as a colt 
 and yet shy, reserved, gentle, and polite. 
 
 From the very first he took a great fancy to 
 Mary, and she to him, and when she used to ask 
 for her little sweetheart (as she called him) I 
 always felt with a pang how much happiness 
 youth could have if it only knew how to seize and 
 appropriate it. The lad was fond of me, too, and 
 seemed to enjoy nothing better than to sit in my 
 room, or on the little porch outside, and read such 
 books as I was willing to put in his hand. He 
 had many of the girlish ways and cute methods 
 that innocence stamps its seal on. 
 
 It was a great sensation in the village when Mr. 
 Cowardin bought the lad a pony out of a drove of
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 271 
 
 horses, a pony that even the traders advised him 
 not to buy if he was buying it for a boy. But 
 he bought it, nevertheless, and, when cornered 
 and caught, it seemed to be impatient even of 
 the halter. A negro hostler, after some trouble, 
 led the creature around to the front of the building 
 in which Mr. Cowardin had his lodgings. From 
 among his traps (as he called them) he fished 
 a bridle with a long heavy dragoon bit, and a 
 saddle that was in some respects unlike any I had 
 ever seen, being entirely barren of skirts. It was, 
 in fact, nothing but a saddle-tree. The stirrups 
 were of wood, and the straps in which they hung 
 were wide enough to protect the legs of the rider. 
 After a struggle, the pony was bridled and sad 
 dled ; but he was a vicious - appearing creature. 
 He had a bald face, and his ears were continually 
 moving in opposite directions. My heart jumped 
 in my throat when I found that our lad was to 
 ride the horse, and somehow I felt cooled toward 
 Mr. Cowardin. It was a feeling that I fully re 
 covered from only after a long interval, though I 
 could but see that the boy was eager for the ride. 
 
 "Shall I try him first, Cap?" Mr. Cowardin 
 cried out. 
 
 " No, Dan ; you 're too heavy." 
 
 With that the lad went forward, stroked the 
 pony on the nose, with no perceptible soothing 
 effect, so far as I could see, and then stood by the 
 stirrup. By the side of the horse they called 
 the creature a pony because he was a trifle under
 
 272 SISTER JANE. 
 
 size the lad looked small and frail indeed. He 
 placed his foot in the stirrup. As he did so the 
 horse swerved wildly away from him, but the lad 
 was already in the saddle. The creature tried to 
 rear, but was held by Mr. Cowardin ; it whirled 
 and almost sat upon its haunches, and then out of 
 the dust and confusion I heard the clear voice of 
 our lad cry out : 
 
 "All right, Dan ! Give him his head." 
 But the horse was no freer when Mr. Cowardin 
 removed his hands from the bridle than he was 
 before. The dragoon bit acted as a powerful 
 lever, even in the comparatively weak hands of 
 the lad, so that, although a terrible struggle 
 ensued between the horse and rider, a struggle 
 that held my alarm up to the highest possible 
 pitch as long as it lasted, an expert might have 
 seen what the end would be. But I was no expert 
 in such matters, nor desired to be. I could only 
 remember that the boy was a mere child and that 
 the horse was strong and vicious. The creature 
 made a series of terrific leaps and bounds, but 
 somehow the lad seemed to be prepared for each 
 successive shock. Once the horse fell, but the lad 
 was on his feet in an instant, and in- the saddle 
 again when the animal rose. Mr. Cowardin kept 
 as close to the horse and rider as possible, and 
 when the horse rose from his fall, passed a keen 
 rawhide to the lad, remarking, 
 
 " Now give him his medicine, Cap. Make him 
 remember you."
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 273 
 
 The rawhide descended with a swishing sound, 
 not once, but many times, and I could hear its 
 swish as far as I could see the horse and rider, 
 for they went careering up the village street like 
 mad. In a little while perhaps a half an hour 
 they came back. The lad's face was flushed 
 with the exercise, and the horse was going at an 
 easy canter. 
 
 " Why, Dan, he 's as gentle as a dog. He goes 
 as easy as a canoe." 
 
 There was considerable applause from the spec 
 tators who had been attracted by the episode, but 
 I confess I did not share in it. I only waited to 
 make sure that the child was not hurt, and then I 
 turned away from the scene with more disgust 
 than I would have cared to confess at the time. 
 Mr. Cowardin must have discovered it from the 
 expression of my face, for, after telling the lad to 
 ride the horse slowly about until he had cooled 
 off, he joined me as I walked homeward. 
 
 " You don't admire fine horsemanship," he sug 
 gested. 
 
 " Well, I confess I don't relish an exhibition 
 where a child is pitted against a wild beast," I re 
 plied. 
 
 " But you see what has happened," he said. 
 
 " Yes ; I thank Heaven the lad is unhurt," I 
 answered. " There were a thousand chances 
 against him where there was one in his favor. 
 Providence is kind even to those who tempt it." 
 
 " Chance ! " exclaimed Mr. Cowardin, laying his
 
 274 SISTER JANE. 
 
 broad hand on my shoulder in a friendly way. 
 " My dear sir, do you imagine that I would trust 
 Cap where there is even one chance against him ? 
 Think half a second ! For six, yes, nearly seven 
 years, until lately, that boy has never been out of 
 reach of my hand. Would I be likely to trust him 
 where there is danger and not share it with him ? " 
 
 " But you must admit there was danger of an 
 accident," I said. 
 
 " Beyond all question. But if you will tell me 
 where the lad will be safe from all accident I will 
 gladly carry him there." 
 
 He spoke seriously, and I saw he had the better 
 of the argument. But the human mind teems with 
 its whims and prejudices, and somehow it was long 
 before I could think of Mr. Co ward in without a 
 slight feeling of revulsion. It would have been 
 impossible to convince me then and there that he 
 was not a cruel man at bottom. I may as well say 
 here that I did him rank injustice in this, as well 
 as in another matter to be spoken of later. But 
 the spectacle of that child mounted on the snort 
 ing and plunging horse gave a shock to my mind 
 that it was long in recovering from. 
 
 " Cap is as much at home on a horse," Mr. Cow- 
 ardin went on to say, " as you are in your rocking- 
 chair. When he had been with me a year he was 
 a fairly good rider, and he 's been riding ever since. 
 He learned to ride unruly horses as everything 
 else is learned by degrees. For months those 
 he mounted were held by a lariat. In course of
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 275 
 
 time, he could ride them without assistance as well 
 as anybody, and a great deal better than many 
 grown men who had been practicing for years. I 
 have seen him mount horses an hour after they 
 had been caught in the wilderness. And if he 
 could manage them why should I be afraid to trust 
 him. with a horse that has been broken to the 
 saddle?" 
 
 " How did you know that ? " I inquired. 
 
 " By the saddle marks on his back," replied Mr. 
 1 Cowardin. " Whenever the saddle chafes and 
 scalds a horse's back the hair will grow out white 
 and remain white." 
 
 Inside the house, we found sister Jane boiling 
 over with indignation. She had witnessed a part 
 of the spectacle, and she was still nervous. 
 
 " Well, good Lord ! " she cried ; " if he 's dead 
 or onj'inted don't fetch him in here. When there 
 ain't no sort of excuse for a funeral I don't want 
 none in my house." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " I asked, well knowing 
 that I would have to stand the brunt of the storm. 
 
 " William Wornum, don't you dare to stand up 
 there like a wax figger and ask me what I mean," 
 she exclaimed. " You know mighty well what I 
 mean ! And there you stood with your mouth 
 wide open, a-grinning like a simpleton, your hands 
 in your pockets a-watching that hoss a-trying to 
 kill that child that baby, as you may say ! I 
 declare, William Wornum ! if it had n't 'a' been 
 for the scandal of it, I 'd 'a' picked up a stick and
 
 276 SISTER JANE. 
 
 come out there and give you a frailing. An' if 
 I 'd 'a' come," she went on significantly, " you 
 would n't 'a' been the only one I 'd 'a' f railed, 
 neither. What did you do with the child after 
 you picked him up? Don't be a-standing there 
 grinning at me, William Wornum ! I ain't no 
 baby on no hoss. Where did you take the child ? 
 I '11 go and look at him and see that he 's fixed 
 straight on his cooling-board, but he shan't be 
 brought here." 
 
 " What are you talking about, sister Jane ? " I 
 asked again. " Mr. Cowardin here does n't under 
 stand you any more than I do." 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you what I mean, William 
 Wornum," she said, turning upon me. "If I 'd 
 'a' been in the place of two men, one as big as a 
 mule (and not much better) and the other about 
 the size of a stunted steer (and with no more 
 sense), I 'd 'a' cut off my right hand before I 'd 'a' 
 let that innocent child git on that hoss. Woman 
 as I am I 'd 'a' cut off my right hand before I 'd 
 'a' risked that child's life. I say it here and I '11 
 say it anywhere." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin laughed good-humoredly and 
 would have said something, but just at that mo 
 ment the lad came skipping along the hallway. 
 
 "Oh, Dan," he cried, "I told the hostler to 
 walk the pony and then rub him down. I hap 
 pened to think that I saw Miss Jane standing in 
 the porch out there when the pony fell, and she 
 looked so scared that I thought I 'd run home and
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 277 
 
 tell her how nice it is to ride a pony that is n't used 
 to riding." 
 
 He ran to sister Jane, and caught hold of her 
 hand. 
 
 " Why, honey, you 're all in a muck of a sweat." 
 She got a towel and wiped the lad's face, and 
 brushed his hair back behind his ears. " Where 
 are you hurt, honey?" she asked with motherly 
 solicitude. 
 
 " Hurt ! " the lad exclaimed. " Why, I have n't 
 a scratch on me." 
 
 " Well, it 's the wonder of the world, and you 'd 
 better thank the Lord that the day of meracles 
 ain't gone by. The way that hoss flung around 
 wi' you was enough to jolt your soul-case loose. If 
 you 're alive and well you don't owe them two any 
 thanks for it." She nodded her head toward Mr. 
 Cowardin and myself. 
 
 " Pshaw ! if all horses were as easy to ride as 
 that one was I 'd like to have a new one every two 
 hours," said the lad. 
 
 Whereupon, he proceeded to inform sister Jane 
 how he had learned to ride and how much he en 
 joyed it ; and he did it with more success than 
 either Mr. Cowardin or myself could have hoped 
 to achieve. 
 
 " Well, all I 've got to say," remarked sister 
 Jane, " is that if you two ain't got nothing better 
 to do than to put that child where he 's liable to 
 have every bone in his body knocked out of j'int, 
 I want you to take your monkey show somewhere
 
 278 SISTER JANE. 
 
 where I can't see it. I 'm that weak I can hardly 
 lift my hand to my head, and I don't know when 
 I '11 git over it." 
 
 " Well, I 'm very sorry," said Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " Sorry ! " cried sister Jane. " What good does 
 that do, I 'd like to know ? The man that went 
 out one night and shot his grandmother in the 
 corn-patch, thinking she was a bear, was sorry, but 
 that did n't help matters. To be sorry don't mend 
 no broken bones, neither does it call the dead back 
 to life. If that hoss had broke the child's neck, 
 we 'd 'a' all been sorry, but what good would it 'a' 
 done?" 
 
 There was no reply to such an argument as this, 
 and Mr. Cowardin attempted none. The result 
 was that sister Jane was soon in a good humor, 
 and in the course of a few days she talked of the 
 affair in a manner that showed she was proud of 
 the lad's accomplishments as a rider. 
 
 Now, as I have said, I shared in a measure 
 sister Jane's feeling of indignation at the eques 
 trian performance, but, in my case, the feeling 
 took the shape of disgust. I hoped that Mary 
 Bullard had not been a witness of the scene, for 
 I felt sure that her sensitive nature would be 
 shocked by it. But, to my amazement, she came 
 running through the garden for the express pur 
 pose of telling the lad how bold he was, and how 
 beautifully he sat the horse. Her enthusiasm 
 showed in her face, too, for her eyes sparkled 
 with pleasure, and she was lovelier than ever.
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 279 
 
 And presently which was more wonderful 
 still Mary's mother came gliding along the gar 
 den walk to congratulate the child. She took his 
 face between her hands and kissed him on his 
 forehead. She was even more enthusiastic than 
 Mary. 
 
 " I must thank your little boy for reminding me 
 of my home," she said to Mr. Cowardin. " I 
 have n't seen such a thing oh, it has been years. 
 Why, when the child began to use the whip and 
 the horse went plunging by, everything faded be 
 fore my eyes and I was at home again. I never 
 thought anybody but a Brandon could manage a 
 horse like that." 
 
 " A Brandon ! " The exclamation came from 
 Mr. Cowardin. The Colonel's wife understood it 
 to be put as an interrogation. 
 
 " My father's family name," she said, holding her 
 head a trifle higher, I imagined. " I never saw 
 any one but a Brandon ride as this child did to 
 day. He reminded me of my brother Fred. I 
 was a tot of a girl, but I can remember how my 
 brother rode when he mounted an unruly horse. 
 My father kept a stable of racers," she explained. 
 " Oh, and it carried me back to old times when I 
 saw this child to-day ! " she opened and closed her 
 delicate white hands nervously. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin made some deferential response 
 that seemed to please Mary and her mother, for 
 they both laughed, and Mary blushed. I have 
 forgotten what the remark was some pleasant
 
 280 SISTER JANE. 
 
 formality, for at that moment I seemed to see 
 everything in a new light. It came over me sud 
 denly (and the thought announced itself to my 
 mind with a sharp pang) that, possibly, Mr. Cow- 
 ardin had made a deep impression on Mary. My 
 ears buzzed and the room seemed to be reeling 
 around me, and I was compelled to catch hold of 
 the back of the chair behind which I was standing 
 to reassure myself that the people and things 
 around me were substantial. 
 
 I have never been able to discover what put such 
 an idea in my head. It was probably the outcome 
 of many incidents, all of which became more sug 
 gestive than ever when illuminated by the possibil 
 ity I have mentioned. I remembered a hundred 
 things that had seemed to be but trifles until this 
 possibility shed a new light upon them. I remem 
 bered how eagerly Mary had listened to the ac 
 counts which Mr. Cowardin gave of his adventures 
 with what rapt attention she had followed not 
 only his words, but his every gesture. And now, it 
 seemed to me that her enthusiasm over the horse 
 manship of the lad was intended as a tribute to 
 Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 And why not ? Here was a man who seemed to 
 possess every quality necessary to make a fond wo 
 man happy. If he was older than I, which seemed 
 to be probable, he was still in the prime of life. 
 His years sat upon him lightly. He was evidently 
 a man of affairs. I knew he was rich, and while 
 lie was not an Apollo, he was not unhandsome.
 
 THE LAD'S RIDE. 281 
 
 He was a man of character and education just 
 such a man, in short, as would be likely to attract 
 a woman who admired strength allied with gentle 
 ness. 
 
 And then, somehow, I felt myself relegated to 
 the rear carried to the infirmary (as it were), 
 where I might speculate on the pleasures of life, 
 but could participate in them no more. I could 
 admire Mr. Cowardin, I thought, but I felt that 
 my disgust over the risk he had caused the lad to 
 run could not easily be dissipated. So thinking 
 I made some excuse and went out into the garden, 
 where presently I stood gazing at space until I fell 
 into a profound reverie that was not all unpleasant, 
 for it is so ordained that a mind not given entirely 
 over to the small affairs of life has its own special 
 resources that it can draw upon at pleasure. 
 
 From this reverie I woke to the fact that Mary 
 was near. 
 
 " I 've heard of such things, but I never saw a 
 man in the clouds before," she said laughingly. 
 
 " Where ? " I asked, looking toward the zenith. 
 My thoughts were so far afield that I took her 
 words literally a fact that caused me to blush and 
 wonder at my own stupidity. This made Mary 
 laugh all the more. Then she grew serious. 
 
 " You were disturbed when you came out a while 
 ago," she remarked. " What was the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing nothing at all," I replied with 
 increasing embarrassment. 
 
 " Oh, please don't tell fibs," she insisted.
 
 282 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Something was troubling you. Won't you tell 
 me what it was ? " 
 
 " Old people should never bother young folks 
 with their troubles," I replied. " I am older than 
 Mr. Cowardin." 
 
 " What a pity you are so old," she said, her 
 face reddening. "You ought to get a pair of 
 crutches. What has Mr. Cowardin to do with it ? " 
 
 " Nothing. He appears to be a young man." 
 
 She smoothed a knot of ribbon, hesitated a mo 
 ment as if about to speak, then sighed and turned 
 away.
 
 XX. 
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 
 
 'T WAS impossible to say whether Mary was 
 angry or no. 'T was impossible for me to fathom 
 her moods, but that my self-humiliation might be 
 made more complete, I chose to torment myself 
 with the belief that some thought of Mr. Cowardin 
 had evoked the sigh. I did now, as I had done 
 many a time before : I went to my room, locked 
 the doors, seized my other self by his ears, dragged 
 him to light, and asked him by what right of 
 possession, hope, or expectation he had reason to 
 feel anything but pleasure when Mary Bullard 
 gave a friendly or even a fond smile to any human 
 being who seemed to be worthy of it. As usual 
 on such occasions, the miserable Ego tried to take 
 refuge in all sorts of lame and paltry excuses, but 
 I gave him a lesson that he would long remember, 
 and finally tucked him under my waistcoat out 
 of sight again. To do him justice it should be 
 said that he went to sleep and slept comfortably 
 for some time, not daring to intrude on me with 
 his troubles. 
 
 When Mrs. Beshears came as usual the night 
 following the lad's display of horsemanship, sister
 
 284 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Jane described it with all those little exagger 
 ations, of adjective and gesture that a woman 
 instinctively employs. Nor was she sparing in 
 criticism of the carelessness that prompted Mr. 
 Cowardin and myself to place the child on the 
 vicious horse, though she knew I had no more to do 
 with it than a person who had never heard of it. 
 
 " Well ! that puts me more in mind of some 
 of the deviltries of Clarence Bullard than anything 
 that 's come to my ears in many 's the long day," 
 remarked Mrs. Beshears. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin turned half around in his chair 
 and looked hard at Mrs. Beshears ! " Did you 
 know Clarence Bullard ? " he asked. 
 
 " What I did n't know of him I heard about 
 him," remarked Mrs. Beshears, nodding her head 
 in a self-satisfied way. " Not that I ever blamed 
 him for anything I know'd or heard. No, bless 
 you ! His daddy named him a name out'n a book, 
 an' the poor child couldn't help that. He was 
 tetotally ruined before his eyes was open, as you 
 may say." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin laughed heartily, almost glee 
 fully. " Did Clarence ever do any serious harm ? 
 Did he ever rob or kill anybody? It has been 
 many a day since I 've heard his name mentioned. 
 I had come to the conclusion that he had been for 
 gotten by everybody in the land of the living." 
 
 " No, he never done any rank harm that I know 
 of," said Mrs. Beshears. " He was jest full of 
 devilment, an' he used to go ridin' aroun' from
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 285 
 
 post to pillar, whoopin' an' yellin'. Come down to 
 the pinch, he had more harm done to him than he 
 ever done to anybody. So I 've heard an' so I 
 believe. If you want to know all about it jest 
 ax Cephas Bullard. Bless your heart ! he knows. 
 Did you ever strike up with Clarence Bullard in 
 his travels ? " 
 
 Mr. Cowardin was looking hard at Mrs. Be 
 shears and her question seemed to take him by 
 surprise so much so, that he rose from his chair, 
 straightened himself to his fullest height, and then 
 sat down again. 
 
 " Why, yes," he replied. " I knew Clarence 
 Bullard very well. I was with him in California. 
 In fact, we went there together. ^He was one of 
 my partners." 
 
 " Did he get rich, too, like the rest of you ? " 
 Mrs. Beshears inquired. 
 
 " He was comfortably well off when I bade him 
 good-by," said Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " Well, I 'm glad of that from the bottom of my 
 heart ! " Mrs. Beshears exclaimed. " He won't 
 miss what 's been filched from him." 
 
 " I never heard him complain of anything of 
 that kind," said Mr. Cowardin. " If he had any 
 such trouble he kept it to himself." 
 
 " I believe every word of that," cried sister 
 Jane. " You need n't mind Sally. She says a 
 heap more than she means. She talks about how 
 wild Clarence Bullard was, and yet I 've heard her 
 sing his praises to the skies."
 
 286 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " That 's a fact, Jane," said Mrs. Beshears, 
 with a smile. " I say what t' other folks said. 
 Clarence Bullard was as handsome a young man 
 as the Lord ever made/' 
 
 " Handsome is as handsome does," suggested 
 Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " That 's so," assented sister Jane ; " but I 
 mind how Sally and me went to camp-meetin' once 
 on a time. She was married and I was done past 
 the rnarryin' age, but we went with a crowd, and 
 when we got there, we was like two fish out of water. 
 We stood around with our mouths open, a-feeling 
 like two fools that did n't know where to go nor 
 what to do. Clarence Bullard was there, dressed 
 up fit to kill, and he had a crowd of giggling gals 
 around him. When his eye fell on us, he made 
 his excuses to the gals, and come a-running with 
 his hat off. He wa'n't nothing in the world but a 
 boy in looks, but he know'd what to say, and 
 't wa'n't a minnit before we was a-feeling at home 
 and a-having jest as much fun as the next one, and 
 maybe more. He brought us water, and he took 
 us to dinner. Make me believe Clarence Bullard 
 was mean ! Why, all the lawyers in Philadelphy 
 could n't do it." 
 
 " And yet it was a very small thing to do," said 
 Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " You may think it 's a little thing for a young 
 man to make two lone wimmen feel like they 
 ain't lost, but I don't," remarked sister Jane with 
 kindling indignation.
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 287 
 
 " No, ner I," cried Mrs. Beshears. 
 
 Mr. Covvardin rose from his chair. " Well, if 
 Clarence Bullard knew that he was so kindly re 
 membered for one small act of politeness he would 
 be very grateful to you," he said, and turned to go 
 from the room. 
 
 " Wait ! " cried Mrs. Beshears ; " come here 
 and le' me look at you right close." With that 
 she limped across the room, took Mr. Cowardin by 
 the arm, and led him closer to the candle-stand, 
 where she scrutinized his face closely, much to his 
 embarrassment, as it seemed. " I jest wanted to 
 see if my old eyes fooled me," she explained. 
 " Now you can go." He went out laughing, - 
 followed by the lad. 
 
 " That 's so about Clarence Bullard," Mrs. Be 
 shears remarked, after she and sister Jane had 
 exchanged glances. " I 've had so many ups and 
 downs sence then that I had clean forgot it. The 
 Lord knows, old folks like me hear so much an' 
 know so little that it 's mighty nigh onpossible to 
 keep from doiu' harm wi' the tongue." 
 
 " I 've had ups an' downs myself " 
 
 " But not like me, Jane not like me. Oh, no, 
 Jane ! not anyways like me. I declare, I 'm so 
 nigh fagged out that I 'm right on the p'int of 
 givin' up. That 's the truth if ever I spoke it." 
 
 " I 've had my ups an' downs," sister Jane 
 Went on, " but that ain't hindered me from recol 
 lecting how Clarence Bullard done that day at the 
 camp-meetin'."
 
 288 SISTER JANE. 
 
 "Well, you know, Jane," explained Mrs. Be- 
 shears, " I was married, an' I did n't set so much 
 store by what Clarence Bullard done as you did. 
 But he treated us mighty nice, an' I 'in glad 
 truly glad that he 's got money of his own an' 
 ain't beholding to none of his kinnery." 
 
 The lad came back in a little while, told us all 
 good-night (placing his arms around sister Jane's 
 neck in a way that pleased her mightily), and went 
 to bed. Somehow the conversation lagged. Mrs. 
 Beshears wds not as lively as usual, and she started 
 home earlier than was her habit. 
 
 " I 'm not feelin' well, Jane," she said, as she 
 bade us good-night. " I 'm not well at all. I 'm 
 right on the p'int of givin' out. If I ain't feelin' 
 no better to-morrow night than I am to-night you 
 need n't look for me. My room 's better 'n my 
 company, I reckon, an' you won't miss me much ; 
 but I declare ! I 've been a-comin' so regular that 
 I '11 have to git some of the niggers to watch me 
 in the forepart of the night for fear I '11 git up 
 an' try to come in my sleep." Mrs. Beshears 
 laughed at the thought, but the laugh was neither 
 strong nor gay. 
 
 " Do as I do," remarked sister Jane, almost 
 sternly. " Don't give up to your sick whims and 
 fancies." 
 
 " Lord ! I 've been a-holdin' of 'em at arm's 
 length for so long that I 'm a-gittin' weak. The 
 feelin' that I 've got now ain't no fancy. I wish 
 it was. But I 'm a-gittin' old and tired."
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 289 
 
 And it was even so. Never again did Mrs. Be- 
 sliears come limping to our gate. We thought 
 little of the matter the next night when she failed 
 to come, but when two nights passed without bring 
 ing her, sister Jane began to grow uneasy, and 
 the next day she sent Mandy Satterlee to see what 
 the matter could be. Mandy could hardly have 
 arrived there before Mose, the negro foreman on 
 Mrs. Beshears's place, came to inform us that his 
 mistress was very ill indeed, and to beg that Miss 
 Jane be so good as to go see what the trouble was. 
 
 " Has a doctor been called in ? " sister Jane 
 asked. 
 
 " No 'in, dey ain't," answered Mose, scratching 
 his head. " Miss Sally so sot ag'in doctors an' 
 doctor truck dat I skeered fer ter fetch one dar, 
 kaze dey ain't no tellin' but what she 'd bounce 
 out'n bed an' lam' me an' de doctor too." 
 
 Sister Jane was truly indignant, and no wonder. 
 " Well, the Lord 'a' mercy ! " she cried ; " do you 
 mean to stand up and tell me that you 've been 
 setting at home, letting your mistress die with 
 out calling in a doctor, you trifling, good-for-no 
 thing rascal ? " 
 
 Moses seemed to be very much alarmed at sis 
 ter Jane's display of anger. He moved about on 
 his feet uneasily, and pulled at his hat, which he 
 held in his hand, in a way that showed his embar 
 rassment. 
 
 " Wellum, you know how Miss Sally is, yo'se'f, 
 ma'am. She ain't make much complaints. She
 
 290 SISTER JANE. 
 
 des lay dar an' not say much, an' we-all ain't know 
 how sick she is twel I hear her runuin' on like she 
 out'n her head, an' den I come atter you hard ez 
 I kin, kaze I know'd you 'd tell us what ter do." 
 
 " No," said sister Jane, " you did n't want any 
 doctor there. You and the rest of the niggers out 
 there have got it in your heads that if Sally Be- 
 shears pegs out you '11 be free. But you '11 be sold 
 off'n the court-house block if I have to have it 
 done myself. Go and tell Dr. Biggers to hurry 
 out there as hard as he can. I want to see you 
 move now ! " Mose, thoroughly frightened, went 
 off at a run. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, Free Betsey came, and the 
 word she brought from Mandy Satterlee was that 
 Mrs. Beshears was very low indeed, that sister 
 Jane was to come at once, and that Free Betsey 
 would get dinner and attend to the baby if that 
 arrangement was satisfactory. It was the best that 
 could be done, and when sister Jane had called in 
 one of her lady acquaintances to superintend affairs 
 for her, she was ready to go. For a wonder she 
 asked me to accompany her, and I was more than 
 willing, for I had a sincere regard for Mrs. Be 
 shears, albeit her sharp tongue had fretted me 
 many times. 
 
 When we arrived, the doctor, a jovial old gen 
 tleman of great experience, was already there. He 
 was so accustomed to such scenes that he smiled as 
 he told us that nothing could be done. An attack 
 of influenza had caused a general breaking-down.
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 291 
 
 of the system. That was all, and yet it was 
 enough. Dr. Biggers had met us at the door on 
 his way out to his buggy, but he turned again and 
 went with us into the sick-room. Through force 
 of habit he again felt the pulse of Mrs. Beshears, 
 and this seemed to fret' her, for she jerked her 
 hand away with a muttered exclamation of impa 
 tience. 
 
 " She has had a very strong constitution," re 
 marked the doctor suavely, " but you know, Miss 
 Jane, the strongest constitution will break down 
 after a while." His smile was blandly cute as he 
 spoke. " I have left something to be given from 
 time to time. The young woman there " point 
 ing to Mandy " knows what to do. She was an 
 old friend of yours, I believe, Miss Jane ? " 
 
 " She is yet," replied sister Jane tartly. 
 
 " Of course of course," remarked the doctor 
 in a soothing tone. " I understand. I appreciate 
 your feelings, Miss Jane. They do you credit." 
 
 He pulled on his gloves as he spoke, smiling all 
 the while, and then bade us good-day, still smiling. 
 As he went out, he slammed the door, quite by ac 
 cident. The noise seemed to arouse Mrs. Beshears 
 from her stupor, and she began to talk. 
 
 " Howdy, Jane ? You well ? Weather don't 
 bother me, does it ? I jest come anyhow, if I have 
 to paddle through mud and wade through water." 
 There was a pause, for Mrs. Beshears's breath came 
 short and quick. " Where's the baby?" She 
 reached forth her arm and felt around until her
 
 292 SJSTJt JANE. 
 
 hand rested on a pillow. This she patted gently. 
 " Don't wake the child up. Keep the cover on it. 
 Where's Phyllis? Tell her to look after Polly 
 and Becky. Give 'em their coffee an' put plenty 
 sugar in it. Heigh-ho ! I 'm that tired I don't 
 know what to do. There ought to be a man to 
 look after this place. Oh, Lord ! " 
 
 I chanced to look toward the fireplace where 
 Miss Polly and Miss Becky sat. Miss Polly 
 reached across and touched Miss Becky on the 
 knee. 
 
 " You hear her, Becky ? " 
 
 "I hear her, Polly," replied Miss Becky, shak 
 ing her head as solemnly as her palsied condition 
 would permit. 
 
 " Arter a man ! " said Miss Polly grimly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Miss Becky, " allers arter a man. 
 She '11 git none of our money." 
 
 " Not a thrip ! " responded Miss Polly. 
 
 " They 've been a-gwine on that a-way ever sence 
 I put my foot in the house," said Mandy to sister 
 Jane in an awed tone. 
 
 " And before, too," remarked sister Jane. " Let 
 'em alone." 
 
 " I must git up," said Mrs. Beshears. " Where 's 
 my shoes ? Somebody 's kicked 'em under the bed, 
 I reckon. Git 'em out ! I 've laid here long 
 enough. I must go and see Jane. I 'm obleege 
 to go. Why, if I was- to miss goin' she 'd think 
 somethin' terrible had happened." . 
 
 Miss Polly nudged Miss Becky again. "Jest
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 293 
 
 listen at her," said Miss Polly. " Wants to git 
 out'n bed an' go gaddin' up-town." 
 
 " I 'm a-list'nin'," replied Miss Becky. 
 
 " Wants to go gaddin' arter a man," remarked 
 Miss Polly. 
 
 " Allers a-gaddin' up-town," echoed Miss Becky. 
 "She shan't have none of our money." 
 
 " Not a thrip ! " Miss Polly declared. 
 
 While these two decrepit old women were nod 
 ding their heads together like two muscovy ducks, 
 Mrs. Beshears was growing more and more talka 
 tive. Her mind wandered far afield, but it always 
 came back to thoughts of sister Jane, and it seemed 
 to me that she was less restless, when she was talk 
 ing about her long-time friend. 
 
 Sister Jane tried to talk to her and to soothe 
 her, for she had a deft way with sick people, but 
 Mrs. Beshears was always impatient at these at 
 tempts to call her back to consciousness. 
 
 " Don't pester me ! " she railed out. " Some 
 body 's all the time a-pesterin' me when I 'm goin' 
 to see Jane, or when I 'm tryin' to have a confab 
 with her. Oh, go 'way ! Don't pester me. You 
 thought I wa'n't comin', did n't you, Jane ? But 
 here I am, as the flea said to the sick kitten. 
 How 've you been since I saw you ? And where 's 
 that great Mr. Somebody I saw t' other night ? " 
 
 Again Miss Polly nudged Miss Becky. 
 
 " You hear that, don't you ? " she asked. 
 
 " Don't I ? " said Miss Becky. " Arter a man. 
 She shan't have none of our money."
 
 294 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Not a thrip," Miss Polly assented. " She 
 could n't find it to save her life." 
 
 In this way, Mrs. Beshears rambled in her de 
 lirium, her sisters tracing everything she said to a 
 desire to gad about in order to find another hus 
 band. She sank very rapidly. Her remarkable 
 energy and the manifold cares she bore on her 
 shoulders had worn out her nature, and now she 
 had come to the end of it. When her thoughts 
 flew away from sister Jane, they went back to the 
 days of her youth, and in this way it pleased Hea 
 ven to lighten her last moments by permitting her 
 to live over again in the brief space of a few hours 
 the happiest years of her life. 
 
 Sister Jane sat by the bed, and held one of her 
 old friend's hands, weeping softly all the while. 
 At the last, Mrs. Beshears opened her eyes, half 
 raised herself in the bed, and cried out : 
 
 " Jane, yonder 's Sarah Ann ! Wait, honey, 
 an' tell me the news ! " 
 
 Her head sank back on the pillow, and in a mo 
 ment all was over. Mrs. Beshears had joined her 
 sister Sarah Ann, who had died fifty years before. 
 
 By the terms of Mrs. Beshears's will, Mandy 
 Satterlee was to take charge of Miss Polly and 
 Miss Becky and administer to their wants, but, 
 to my surprise, Mandy refused to have anything 
 to do with them. 
 
 " Why, I would n't live there an' listen at them 
 two poor ol' creeturs a-talkin' about the'r money 
 an' about somebody a-marryin' I would n't stay
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 295 
 
 there an' have all that kind of talk ding-dong'd 
 into my head eve'y day, not fer all the land in the 
 country, nor fer all the money that could be scraped 
 together betwixt this an' Kingdom Come." 
 
 And nothing could change her. Sister Jane tried 
 to convince her that it was to her interest to go, but 
 Mandy disposed of all arguments by falling into a 
 fit of weeping, saying that if she wasn't wanted 
 where she was, she could go somewhere else, but 
 never would she go where " them poor ol' creeturs 
 was," unless somebody tied her and toted her there, 
 and even then she would n't stay. I think sister 
 Jane was secretly pleased with Mandy's decision. 
 
 Under the circumstances, there was but one 
 thing to be done. The Judge of the Inferior 
 Court had appointed me administrator of the es 
 tate, and I felt it my duty to send Miss Polly and 
 Miss Becky to the asylum at Milledgeville, where, 
 as pay boarders, they would receive the best of 
 care and attention. This, in fact, was the sugges 
 tion of the Court, and I lost no time in carrying it 
 out. I imagined that the most difficult part of my 
 duty would be to get the two old women to consent 
 to make the journey. But the way was smoothed 
 by Free Betsey, who, under pretense of telling their 
 fortunes, informed them that they would shortly 
 go on a journey. For this, strange to say, they 
 were eager, and gladly allowed Free Betsey to 
 get out their faded finery, shabby and long out of 
 date, and brush it up. 
 
 So completely had the idea of the journey been
 
 296 SISTER JANE. 
 
 impressed on their minds by Free Betsey that they 
 were for getting ready every time they heard the 
 wheels of a buggy or carriage rolling by. 
 
 Free Betsey prepared them for the day, and they 
 were ready and waiting when Mr. Cowardin and 
 myself went for them in a carriage hired for the 
 occasion. It was thought best that I should go 
 with them, and Mr. Cowardin had volunteered to 
 go with me, and proposed to make himself useful 
 by driving the carriage. I gladly accepted his 
 offer, and found that the journey, short as it was, 
 would have been lonely indeed but for his genial 
 and interesting conversation. But sometimes a 
 silence fell between us, and then it was pitiful in 
 the extreme to hear the worse than childish talk of 
 Miss Polly and Miss Becky. 
 
 " If Sally had n't been so sot on gaddin' about 
 she might 'a' come wi' us," said Miss Becky. 
 
 " We 're gittin' 'long mighty well wi'out her, I 
 think," Miss Polly declared. 
 
 " Lawsy, yes ! " Miss Becky assented, and then 
 began to chuckle. " She '11 come back an' find us 
 gone, an' then what '11 she do ? Won't she be took 
 back when they tell her we 've gone a-travelin' ? 
 1 would n't be as jealous as Sally is, not for the 
 world. Oh, she '11 be sorry she went a-gaddin' ! " 
 
 " She won't do a thing when she finds out 
 we 're outer sight an' hearin' but go a-huntin' 
 aroun' for our money," Miss Becky declared. 
 
 "She'll dig under the house, an' under the 
 trees, an' maybe under the bushes in the yard."
 
 MEMORIES OF CLARENCE BULLARD. 297 
 
 " But she won't git it. It 's hid wher' she won't 
 never look," said Miss Polly. 
 
 " Maybe we ought to a-brung it wi' us," sug 
 gested Miss Becky, taking alarm at her own de 
 mented fancies. 
 
 "Don't you fret, Becky," said Miss Polly. 
 " It 's hid wher' she '11 never git it." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Beshears ! She had devoted herself to 
 her sisters, and now they did n't even know she was 
 dead. They had been told so, but they imagined 
 it was part of a scheme to deceive them. 
 
 " She thought she was mighty cunnin'," re 
 marked Miss Becky. " She told the folks that 
 come to see us that she was dead, an' they did n't 
 have no better sense than to b'lieve her. She 
 did n't fool us, did she ? " 
 
 " Fool who ? " cried Miss Polly, with a fine as 
 sumption of scorn. " I went an' looked at her, an' 
 thar she was, all laid out. I looked at her right 
 close, an' she wa'n't no more dead than I am. If 
 you 'd 'a' said man or money to her, she 'd 'a' opened 
 her eyes an' 'a' jumped up. She thought she was 
 mighty sharp, but she did n't fool me ! " 
 
 I was truly glad when the journey was over, and 
 the two demented old women were safely placed 
 in the state asylum. We gave the horses and 
 ourselves a good night's rest, and started back 
 home, which we reached in due time, though an 
 incident occurred that seemed to puzzle and worry 
 Mr. Cowardin.
 
 XXI. 
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 
 
 As we were nearing home, being not above 
 four miles from the village (Mr. Cowardin driv 
 ing, and I sitting on the seat beside him for com 
 pany), we heard the rattle of wheels behind us. 
 Turning, I saw a light two-horse top-buggy, a 
 vehicle that was rare enough in these parts to 
 attract attention, drawn by a pair of fine bays. 
 Two men were seated in the buggy. One was 
 large and handsome, having the color of health in 
 his face, while the other was smaller and had a 
 sallow complexion. The large man wore a mus 
 tache and a tuft of beard on his chin. The face 
 of the other had not known the touch of a razor 
 for months, perhaps for years. It was covered 
 with a dark yellow beard. They overtook and drove 
 around us at a convenient place in the road, and 
 I saw a bottle between them. When they had 
 passed us a little way, the large man, who was 
 driving, pulled his horse up, turned his face toward 
 us, and asked how far it was to Hallyton. I in 
 formed him to the best of my ability. The smaller 
 man seemed to be very impatient. 
 
 " 'T ain't fur," he said. " Not more 'n four mile. 
 Did n't I tell you so?"
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 299 
 
 I saw then that the face of the large handsome 
 man was flushed not with the color of health, but 
 with liquor, and I judged from the tone of the 
 other that he, too, had been free with the bottle. 
 
 The buggy went forward more rapidly than our 
 lumbering old carriage, and it was soon lost to 
 view. 
 
 "I'll be worried until I go to sleep," said Mr. 
 Cowardin, when the travelers were out of sight 
 and hearing. u I 've seen that sandy-haired man 
 somewhere before." 
 
 " Why, so have I," was my reply. "He's some 
 countryman hereabouts that the gentleman is 
 accommodating with a ride." 
 
 " No," Mr. Cowardin insisted ; " I have seen him 
 somewhere in my travels. But where? Were 
 you ever bothered about such things ? They give 
 me no end of worry." 
 
 " Why, not at all," I remarked. " If I see 
 people once and can't remember their names when 
 I see them again, it is well and good with me. I 
 go on about my business and think of them no 
 more. Now, I 'm certain I have seen the sandy- 
 haired man somewhere, but when and where I 
 neither know nor care." 
 
 " Well, it is different with me," said Mr. Cowar 
 din. " If that man's face was n't impressed on 
 my mind I should never remember it. I '11 bother 
 with it until I go to bed, and then to-morrow, when 
 I 'm not thinking about it, the name, place, and all 
 the circumstances will pop into my head, and that 
 will be the end of the matter."
 
 300 SISTER JANE. 
 
 He allowed the horses to jog along, and for some 
 time seemed to be lost in thought. Suddenly he 
 turned to me. 
 
 " What is your opinion of Mary Bullard's 
 mother?" he asked. 
 
 " My dear sir," I replied, " that is a very pecu 
 liar question." 
 
 " It is, indeed," said he, with a smile. "But it 
 was not intended to be a question. I simply hap 
 pened to speak my thoughts aloud. We have 
 queer thoughts sometimes. I was just thinking 
 that Mrs. Bullard is out of her element here. She 
 seems to try hard to fit herself to circumstances, 
 but they are so different from those she was brought 
 iip in that they refuse to be fitted. Were you 
 ever in Virginia, Mr. Wornum ? " 
 
 " I never was." 
 
 " Then, of course, you can't understand the dif 
 ference between between well, the right word 
 is lacking ; but let us say roughly, between the 
 society there and the society here. If I could get 
 hold of some word that meant social hospitality 
 and all its results, that would be the word to use. 
 But you can see what I mean. Now, in Virginia, 
 where Mrs. Bullard came from, society means a 
 great deal more than the word conveys. To put 
 it broadly, the home life of the people has ex 
 panded until it takes in all who are congenial. 
 Now there is not the smallest symptom of that sort 
 in your little community here. There is a touch 
 of it to the east of us in Wilkes Countv and
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 301 
 
 that region. I am as sorry for Mrs. Bullard as I 
 ever was for anybody in my life. I should ima 
 gine she was a very high-spirited woman." 
 
 I could appreciate to some extent the justice of 
 his remarks, but I was surprised to find that he 
 was such a close observer. 
 
 " I have no need to ask your opinion of the 
 daughter," he went on with a smile, whereupon I 
 felt my face reddening "nor anybody else's 
 opinion for that matter," he hastened to say, as if 
 by that means to cover my blushes. " I have some 
 times wondered that she has never married, con 
 sidering at what an early age the girls marry now 
 adays. I have had the same thoughts about you, 
 and it is as impertinent in the one case as in the 
 other." He laughed good-humoredly and chir 
 ruped to the horses. 
 
 " As for me, I have passed the limit by a dozen 
 years," I remarked. 
 
 " And pray what is that limit ? " 
 
 " Thirty years." 
 
 " So ! Then I am a quarter of a century be 
 yond it. If I were you, I should lift the limit to 
 suit the circumstances. What is a dozen years 
 this side of fifty ? " 
 
 "As to your case," I suggested. 
 
 " Why, bless you ! a quarter of a century is 
 something substantial. It stands fiery off, like the 
 poet's star. Besides, where the inclination is lack 
 ing the will is dead. Tut, tut, boy ! look at me ! 
 I wanted but a half dozen years of twenty-one
 
 302 SISTER JANE. 
 
 when you were born. I was rambling about the 
 world as full of sedition as Aaron Burr before you 
 had shed your milk teeth. You 're a mere child ! " 
 
 Mr. Cowardin's good humor ran high higher 
 than I had known it to do before. His talk 
 rambled in all directions, but almost invariably 
 came back to the Bullards or to our own little 
 household. 
 
 " If you were not so ready to blush," he said as 
 we drove through the public square of the village, 
 " I could give you some good advice and tell you 
 some good news. But 't would all be in vain ; 
 you 'd blush violently, refuse to take the advice, 
 brand the news as a piece of fiction, and say in 
 your heart, ' The man is a spy.' Some day when 
 you ' ve nothing on your mind but pleasant thoughts, 
 remind me of the advice and of the news and I '11 
 give you a dose of both. No, no ! not now, not to 
 day ! " he protested when I showed a disposition 
 to seek the advice and the information. " Any 
 other day would be better than this. What we 
 need now is a good dinner and some hours of rest." 
 
 But I noticed with some surprise that Mr. 
 Cowardin ate but a bite of dinner when we reached 
 home, and took no rest at all, for I saw him soon 
 after walking about the village with the gentleman 
 we had seen driving the buggy. Pie finally came 
 with the gentleman as far as our gate, showed him 
 Colonel Bullard's house, and then came into my 
 room. 
 
 " I 'm still puzzled over the chap we saw this
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 303 
 
 morning," he said as he seated himself. " The 
 man who was driving the buggy is a Mr. More- 
 land of Richmond. He used to know Mrs. Bui- 
 lard in Virginia when she was a girl. He has just 
 gone to pay her his respects. No doubt she '11 
 be glad to see anybody she knew when she was 
 a girl. But this man seems to be a pretty tough 
 customer. They tell me at the tavern that he 
 had the whole town searched until a handful of 
 mint was found, and then he seemed to be as 
 happy as a lord. He smells as if some one had 
 poured a bottle of bergamot oil over his clothes. 
 Faugh ! " exclaimed Mr. Cowardin, " wherever he 
 goes, people will imagine he is a typical Virginia 
 gentleman. Outwardly he 's the poorest kind of a 
 counterfeit, whatever he may be inwardly." 
 
 " What is he doing so far from home ? " I in 
 quired, striking involuntarily the usual note of 
 provinciality. 
 
 "Traveling traveling as he thinks all Vir 
 ginia gentlemen should," said Mr. Cowardin. 
 " But think of a Virginia gentleman talking about 
 nothing but racing events, cock mains, and driving 
 all over the country to see them ! Nonsense ! If 
 you could search under the seat of his buggy 
 you 'd find all the tools of a blackleg, including a 
 dozen bottles of liquor." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin seemed to be very much disgusted 
 with the handsome Mr. Moreland. And the man 
 was handsome, despite the somewhat puffy appear 
 ance of his face. He had curly black hair, a strong
 
 304 SISTER JANE. 
 
 profile, and he walked with a swagger that was by 
 no means unbecoming. 
 
 " As to the other fellow," Mr. Cowardin was 
 going to say, when I interrupted him 
 
 " But if this Mr. Moreland disgusts you, why 
 bother about the other fellow, who may be worse." 
 
 " That 's the point. I want to see whether he 's 
 worse or better. He may be the real gentleman, 
 you know. But this Moreland pretends to know 
 as little about him as I do. It seems he picked 
 him up somewhere several weeks ago, and has 
 been carrying him along for company. Moreland 
 is n't even sure of the man's name. He calls him 
 Satellite, but thinks his name is Simpson or Samp 
 son. The name is nothing to me. I know the 
 man's face ; it puzzles me, and I want to find out 
 where I saw him last." 
 
 " Well, I see nothing in him to puzzle or to in 
 terest anybody." I said. " I too have seen the man 
 somewhere, but I would n't give a copper to know 
 when or where." 
 
 " Oh, you have other matters to think about," 
 remarked Mr. Cowardin, with a twinkle in his eye, 
 "interesting matters, too, if I'm any judge; 
 while I have little else to occupy my mind at the 
 present moment. I 've already found out that my 
 man has gone out of town into the country, and that 
 he rode ' shank's mare,' as the saying is." 
 
 " What did I tell you ? " I cried. " I was cer 
 tain he belonged hereabouts. The next time you 
 see him, he '11 be driving a yoke of steers, hitched
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 305 
 
 to a big wagon, and in the wagon he '11 have three 
 pounds of frothy white butter, two dozen eggs, and 
 a half dozen sickly chickens. He '11 exchange these 
 for eight yards of calico, a hank of yarn, a plug of 
 tobacco, and a bottle of Maccaboy snuff." 
 
 Mr. Cowardin laughed, and, calling for Cap, 
 the day being Saturday and a school holiday, 
 went out into the street, and a little while after I 
 saw them go by on horseback, the lad on the 
 pony, which, instead of being vicious, was now 
 merely f idl of spirit. As they rode away, I no 
 ticed (and not for the first time) a striking resem 
 blance between the two a resemblance that was 
 not confined to their pose and gestures, but was 
 carried out in the profiles of their faces ; and I 
 wondered whether this man was playing a part, 
 whether the story he had told us about the child 
 was not a fabrication. It was an idle thought, and 
 I did not pursue it far, keeping my eye on the 
 door of Colonel Bullard's house. I desired to see 
 how long the stranger would remain, yet I knew 
 that such curiosity was vulgar and unworthy. It re 
 mained ungratified, too, for the stranger failed to 
 issue forth from the house while I sat in my room. 
 I judged from this that he had found a warm wel 
 come there, which was, indeed, the fact, as we found 
 out from Mary, who declared with a laugh that her 
 mother was entertaining one of her old beaux. 
 
 " You should see her," Mary said to sister Jane. 
 " You can't realize the change. I went into the 
 parlor to entertain him while mamma was primp-
 
 306 SISTER JANE. 
 
 ing, and I thought I was succeeding pretty well. 
 But when mamma came sweeping in, looking like 
 a girl, she cast poor me into the shade. ' Why, 
 Fanny ! ' said the gentleman, ' you look hardly a 
 day older than you did the day I last saw you,' 
 and in the midst of their compliments I slipped 
 out. And just think of it ! they never missed 
 me ! Don't you think it is too bad, Mr. William," 
 she went on turning to me, " that a poor girl should 
 have a mamma as young as she is ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " I replied stoutly ; " not when 
 the mamma is as beautiful and as charming as the 
 daughter." 
 
 Sister Jane paused in her work, whatever it was 
 (for she was never idle a moment save when she 
 was sound asleep), and looked hard at me, and 
 Mary opened her eyes wide. 
 
 " William is coming out," said sister Jane. 
 " He 's been to the asylum in a carriage, and he 's 
 got charge of a tumble-down plantation, where the 
 buzzards are setting on the fence, waiting for the 
 mules and cows to die of starvation. Why, a month 
 ago he 'd no more 'a' spoke a piece like that, jest 
 dry so without any provocation, than he 'd 'a' 
 jumped in the Oconee River with his clothes on." 
 
 " No, I don't think he 's coming out at all," re 
 marked Mary, laughing at sister Jane's good-na 
 tured sarcasm. " It does n't seem natural to hear 
 him paying compliments. Yet it was such a neat . 
 and pretty one I think we should forgive him this 
 time. Mamma would, I know."
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 307 
 
 " For one of my age " I tried to speak as 
 blandly as I knew how, but I could feel my voice 
 shake a little " it should have been a compliment 
 to the mamma, but it was n't." 
 
 Sister Jane pretended to heave a sigh of relief. 
 " I declare, William ! when you said ' one of my 
 age,' I thought you were going ahead and speak 
 that piece about ' appearing in public on the stage,' 
 and I says to myself, * Laws have mercy ! Maybe 
 we 've gone and left the wrong folks at the asy 
 lum.' " 
 
 I sometimes thought that sister Jane pushed her 
 humorous comments too far, and this was one of the 
 occasions ; but Mary neither laughed nor paid any 
 attention to the remark. 
 
 " You are indeed venerable, Mr. William," she 
 said lightly. " After a while I shall have to lend 
 you a crutch. We have a pair somewhere about 
 the house." 
 
 I felt grateful to her for passing off so serious a 
 matter as a joke, and I looked my thanks, if I did 
 not speak them. 
 
 " William's age is like the moonshine," remarked 
 sister Jane ; " bright enough to blind, but not hot 
 enough to burn. It 's a disease with him. He '11 
 be old long before his time." 
 
 " What I mean," said I, " is that I am old as 
 compared with Mary." 
 
 " Oh, is that it ? " cried Mary. " Then I am old 
 and decrepit as compared with Mr. Cowardin's 
 little boy. It is dreadful to be so old. I '11 limp
 
 308 SISTER JANE. 
 
 home and see whether our famous company has 
 gone, or whether he is to stay to tea." She limped 
 from the room, but, the moment she was outside, 
 ran along the garden walk as nimbly and as grace 
 fully as a fawn. 
 
 The gentleman stayed to tea, and for some time 
 afterwards, and we heard that night what was new 
 to our ears the rippling, musical laughter of 
 Mrs. Bullard come floating across the garden. 
 
 " Fanny Brandon 's come to life again," re 
 marked sister Jane grimly, when she heard it. 
 
 The next day or the day after, Grandsir Roach 
 and Uncle Jimmy Cosby came knocking at our 
 door, as they had done many times since Mandy 
 Satterlee took up her abode with us, and I was 
 glad of it, for they always had something both sen 
 sible and cheerful to say. Their visits seemed to 
 make Mandy brighter, being the strongest evidence 
 that she still had a hold on the hearts of those who 
 had known her in her happier days. These old 
 friends came now, bearing gifts. There were some 
 dozens of fresh eggs and a few pounds of butter 
 for sister Jane, some yards of checked cloth for 
 Mandy, and some socks, a knit jacket, a pair of 
 mittens, and a cloth hat for Klibs, Mandy's baby. 
 Grandsir Roach explained the matter : 
 
 " When I seed what Sally and Prue was a-doin' 
 or as you may say, what they had done gone 
 an' done, for I never know'd what 'pon top of the 
 green globe they was a-doin' ontil it was done done 
 when I seed how big it looked to bring, an' how
 
 TWO STXAXGESS ARRIVE. 309 
 
 little it'd look arter it was brung, I says to 'em, 
 says I, ' What in the name of sense are you two 
 wimmen a-doin' ? Don't you know in reason that 
 this little bunch of eggs an' this here little dab of 
 butter will look mighty poor an' small by the side 
 of the store what Jane has already got laid in ? ' 
 says I. I leave it to Brother Cosby here." 
 
 " He said them very words," remarked this will 
 ing witness. " ' They '11 look poor an' small,' says 
 he, ' by the side of the store what Jane has already 
 got laid in,' says he." 
 
 Grandsir Roach looked relieved. " An' Sally 
 
 it mought 'a' been Prue, but I think 't was Sally 
 
 says, says she, ' Well, I don't keer how they 
 look ; the eggs is new laid an' the butter is fresh 
 made, an' we '11 send 'em anyhow, let 'em look 
 ever so small by the side of what Jane 's got,' says 
 she." 
 
 " Well, goodness knows," sister Jane began, but 
 Grandsir Roach closed his eyes, pressed his lips 
 together, shook his head, and lifted his hand. He 
 would not be interrupted, and sister Jane was com 
 pelled to pause and listen. 
 
 " 'T was uther Sally or Prue, I '11 not be too 
 mighty certain which, an' she says, says she, ' Let 
 'em look small as they will by the side of what 
 Jane 's got, we '11 send 'em anyhow,' says she, ' be- 
 kaze it hain't the size, or the heft, or the wuth of 
 the things it 's the intent,' says she." He turned 
 his head slowly and looked at his companion for 
 confirmation.
 
 310 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " You 've got eve'y twist and turn of the dis 
 course, Brother Roach," said Uncle Jimmy Cosby ; 
 " you 've got it pat. 'T was uther Prue or Sally, 
 I '11 not say which. * It 's not the heft of what 's 
 in the hamper,' says she, ' it 's the intent what goes 
 wi' it for good measure,' says she. Whichever an' 
 whatsoever it was, she said them very words." 
 
 " Well, may the Lord bless the good old souls ! " 
 exclaimed sister Jane with real enthusiasm. " Jest 
 tell 'em that if there was but one egg and but one 
 spoonful of butter, I 'd be glad to have it. It 'd be 
 a sign they had me in their minds, and what more 
 do I want than that ? " 
 
 " We '11 tell 'em, Jane ; we shorely will. It '11 
 make 'em both feel better," said Grandsir Roach. 
 
 " Yes 'in," remarked Uncle Jimmy Cosby, 
 " we shorely tell 'em, an' they '11 be might'ly holp 
 up might'ly holp up." 
 
 " Mandy, honey, did Sandy tell you wharabouts 
 he 'd been at, an' all he 'd saw sence he 's been 
 gone ? " asked Grandsir Roach. 
 
 Who Bud ? " cried Mandy. " Why, I hain't 
 laid livin' eyes on Bud, not sence the day he come 
 an' tol' me good-by." 
 
 " You hain't ! " exclaimed Grandsir Roach. He 
 turned his eyes solemnly on Uncle Jimmy Cosby. 
 "You hear that, Brother Cosby! Mandy hain't 
 seed nuther ha'r nor hide of Sandy, not sence the 
 day she told him good-by ! " 
 
 " Tooby shore ! Tooby shore ! " said Uncle 
 Jimmy Cosby in sad surprise. " You may well say
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 311 
 
 ' tooby shore,' Brother Cosby," remarked Grandsir 
 Eoach. 
 
 " Yes," replied Uncle Jimmy Cosby, " bekaze we 
 seed him no longer 'n yistiddy." 
 
 " Bud ? You seed Bud? " cried Mandy. 
 
 " With our four eyes," replied Grandsir Roach 
 solemnly. " An' more 'n that, we teched him with 
 our hands, an' talked wi' 'im by word of mouth." 
 
 " A true word ! We seed 'im wi' our four eyes ! " 
 echoed Uncle Jimmy Cosby. " As true a word as 
 ever was spoke." 
 
 " An' you reely seed Bud ! " Mandy's voice was 
 low, as though she knew not what to say. She 
 seemed to be dazed. 
 
 " As plain as we see you a-standin' thar," said 
 Grandsir Roach. " We not only seed him, we 
 talked wi' 'im ; we not only talked wi' 'im, we shuck 
 hands wi' 'im, an' passed the time of day." 
 
 " Percizely ! " responded Uncle Jimmy Cosby. 
 
 " I says to him, says I, ' Sandy, your cloze is all 
 right, but you look stove up. You look much as 
 if you 'd been drug thoo a hot sandbank feet fore 
 most.' I said them very words. ' What in the 
 nation is the matter wi' you ? ' says I." 
 
 " He says, says he, ' Grandsir, you ought to 
 know as well as me. You know I 've had fam'ly 
 troubles,' says he. Says I, * Sandy, the only fam'ly 
 trouble I ever know'd you to have was Dram,' 
 says I. ' You had it by the time you could vote, 
 if not before, an' you 've got it yit, or your breath 
 belies you,' says I."
 
 312 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Oil, don't blame Bud blame me ! " cried 
 Mandy. " Lay all the blame on me ! " 
 
 "You hear that, Jane, William, an' Brother 
 Cosby ? " said Grandsir Roach solemnly, almost 
 reproachfully. " It 's mighty few things you could 
 ax me, honey, that I would n't run an' jump to do, 
 but I '11 be danged if I do that." 
 
 " What did I say to you, Brother Roach ? " in 
 quired Uncle Jimmy Cosby indignantly, " Did n't 
 I say to you right before his face that Sandy Sat- 
 terlee was a triflin' vagabon' from the day he put 
 on britches ? Did n't I tell him so, an' dar' him 
 to take it up?" 
 
 " You did, Brother Cosby ; I '11 say that for you. 
 You shorely did." 
 
 " If Bud 's a vagabon' I 'm the cause of it," said 
 Mandy. " I know it an' feel it. Oh, me ! " 
 
 She placed her hands before her face to hide 
 her tears. At this sister Jane stepped forward, 
 caught hold of Mandy's hands, and forcibly 
 pulled them away from her face. 
 
 "Look at me, Mandy ! " she said sternly ; " that 's 
 not the truth, and you know it, and if you don't 
 know it it 's because you 've got the tenderest, lov- 
 ingest heart that ever beat." 
 
 " Oh, I don't want it to be the truth," cried 
 Mandy, " but I 'm afeard it is I 'm afeard it is ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Jane ! Thank you kindly for 
 that," said Grandsir Roach. " Brother Cosby an' 
 me can set an' think, an' we do a heap of it fust an' 
 last, but not like you, Jane. You know how to
 
 TWO STRANGERS ARRIVE. 313 
 
 say the right word. Good-by, Jane; good-by, 
 honey, ontell you see me ag'in. Me an' Brother 
 Cosby have got to be a-makin' our departure. 
 We '11 drap in before long an' may God bless 
 you all ! " 
 
 Uncle Jimmy Cosby shook hands in silence until 
 he came to Mandy. He held her hand a moment 
 in both of his, patted it gently, and said : 
 
 " Don't fret, honey ; don't fret. We 're con 
 stant a-thinkiu' about you."
 
 XXII. 
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 
 
 MANDY seemed to be very much troubled be 
 cause her brother, whom she had not seen for so 
 many years, had ignored her on his return, and 
 she wondered why it was so, and grieved over it as 
 a woman will. 
 
 " He started out as a vagabond," said sister 
 Jane in her matter-of-fact way, " and he 's got 
 worse and worse. You may thank your stars 
 that he 's done gone and forgot all about you. 
 He ain't worth a thought." 
 
 But this explanation was not satisfactory to 
 Mandy. " I 'm to blame," she repeated over and 
 over again. "I'm the one that's to blame. Ef 
 it had n't but 'a' been for me, he 'd 'a' stayed here 
 at home, an' maybe he 'd 'a' been doin' well by 
 this time. Oh, me ! " 
 
 " Was he doing well before he went away ? " 
 sister Jane inquired. 
 
 " Well, he was gittin' ready to go to work an' 
 settle down," was Mandy's reply. 
 
 " It frets me to hear you talk so," sister Jane 
 insisted. " He 's never done a hand's turn in his 
 life, and he never will. He was born trifling
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 315 
 
 and he 's stayed so. He ain't worth the wrappings 
 of your little finger. He '11 never put his foot in 
 side my gate, not if I know it." 
 
 Sin has a long arm, but Mandy gave it credit 
 for having a longer. So she worried herself over 
 her brother day after day. But he never came to 
 see her, and when he did come, it seemed to be 
 mightily against his will. 
 
 When Jincy Meadows made his visit to Mandy 
 he brought news of her brother, and, although it 
 was puzzling to me, it seemed to be the most satis 
 fying that she had heard. 
 
 " I reckon maybe you ain't seen much of Sandy 
 sence he took up his residence with the dry cattle," 
 said Jincy. 
 
 " I hain't laid eyes on him," replied Mandy, 
 " bekaze he hain't been a-nigh me." 
 
 " And he ain't comin' if he can help it," Jincy 
 went on. " Why, he 's a sight to behold, Sandy is. 
 What he 's got on his mind, I can't tell you, be 
 cause I don't know, but it 's lots bigger than he 's 
 got room for I can tell you that." 
 
 " Oh, I know he 's troubled about me," cried 
 Mandy. 
 
 " You would n't say so if you could see him," 
 said Jincy. " He goes about the woods like a 
 stray steer. If he had horns and know'd how to bel 
 low, he 'd be the identical thing itself. His voice 
 is as squeaky as if he 'd been callin' out the figgers 
 at a stag dance. He 's got horns, but he gits 'em 
 out of a bottle."
 
 316 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Yes I know," cried Mandy. " I Ve drove 
 him to drink." 
 
 " There you go ! " exclaimed Jincy. " Ain't I 
 tellin' you that Sandy 's done something he 's sorry 
 for ? You know what sort of a chap he is better 'n 
 I do, and I know him toler'ble well. I run up on 
 him in the woods the other day. He was settin' at 
 the foot of a tree dozin' like, and close to his head 
 was a bottle. Says I, ' Sandy, what 's the word ? ' 
 says he, ' Jincy, if I was as happy as you it would 
 be a good word.' Says I, ' If I was sorry, Sandy, 
 I would n't try to drown it in the flowin' bowl, nor 
 in the bottle neither.' Says he, ' The bowl that 's 
 big enough to drown mine in ain't never been 
 made, Jincy.' Says I, ' Sandy, have you been to 
 see your sister sence you got back ? ' Says he, 
 ' Jincy, I could n't bear to have Mandy look at 
 me. I used to rail at her,' says he, ' but she 's' too 
 good to so much as look at me.' " 
 
 "Did he say that?" asked Mandy in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " He did," said Jincy, " and more ! " 
 
 I thought to myself that if it was a piece of 
 Jincy's own invention it was done cleverly and 
 in a good cause. 
 
 " What more ? " Mandy inquired. 
 
 " He says, ' The next time you see Mandy, 
 Jincy, tell her howdy, and tell her that if I 'd 'a' 
 done as she wanted me to do I 'd 'a' been better 
 off than I am right now or ever will be ag'in.' " 
 
 " Poor Bud ! I never was so sorry for anybody
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 317 
 
 in my life ! " Mandy sighed deeply, and no doubt 
 would have wept if Jincy had n't been sitting close 
 by with his Sunday clothes on. Nevertheless, it 
 was something of a relief to her to feel that she 
 was not directly responsible for her brother's con 
 dition of mind and body. 
 
 A day or two afterwards Mr. Cowardin called 
 me aside. "I've found my man," he said. "The 
 man we saw with our friend Moreland," he ex 
 plained, seeing that I did not follow him. 
 
 " Where is he ? " I inquired in rather an aim 
 less way. 
 
 " In my room," he replied. " He 's a little 
 shaky, arid needs bolstering up, but as sure as 
 you 're born, the fellow has information in him. 
 Why, he 's an old traveling companion of mine. 
 He was in the wagon train that I carried to Cali 
 fornia. He 's as cold-blooded a scoundrel as I ever 
 saw," Mr. Cowardin continued almost savagely, 
 " and I expect to have many a pleasant hour with 
 him." 
 
 I did n't pretend to understand this, but it was 
 all the explanation I could get at the time. Mr. 
 Cowardin went off in high glee, apparently, and 
 we saw little of him, except at meal-times, for two 
 or three days. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Moreland, the Virginian gentle 
 man, was a daily visitor at Colonel Bullard's. If 
 he wasn't there in the afternoons he was there 
 after tea. The Colonel's wife evidently found him 
 very agreeable company, for on more than one
 
 318 S/STER JANE. 
 
 occasion we saw her riding out behind his hand 
 some bays, to the great astonishment of the 
 villagers. It could not be denied that they made 
 a handsome couple as they whirled through the 
 streets in the buggy drawn by the high-stepping 
 horses. The Colonel's wife seemed to have grown 
 very much younger. Her eyes sparkled with some 
 thing of the ardor of youth, and color began to 
 show in her face. She came to see sister Jane 
 once after she had been riding with Mr. More- 
 land, and I could imagine how beautiful she had 
 been in her youth. Indeed, she was not so old 
 now, and only a little excitement and exercise in 
 congenial company were necessary to make her a 
 very handsome woman. I could see that, and I 
 wondered if Colonel Bullard himself was sp blind 
 that he failed to perceive the necessity of provid 
 ing the gentle stimulant of congenial company and 
 outdoor exercise for his wife. 
 
 Such was my thought, and I have remembered 
 it and smiled a hundred times over its shallow in 
 consequence, for, right upon its heels, I found my 
 self the unwilling spectator of an episode so ex 
 travagant and sensational as to cause me to doubt 
 the evidence of my own eyes and ears. 
 
 Of one episode, did I say ? It never rains but it 
 pours, and for a time I seemed to be overwhelmed 
 with a flood of the most painful experiences that 
 could be imagined. And yet in these, as in the 
 ordinary affairs of life, the hand of Providence 
 was guiding, and the fact struck me with such force
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 319 
 
 as to enable me to fortify my mind and to main 
 tain a confidence in human nature that otherwise 
 would have been sadly shaken. 
 
 I said awhile ago that the Colonel's wife came 
 to visit sister Jane after one of her rides with 
 Mr. Moreland. As matters turned out, it was 
 her last ride with that person. That night sister 
 Jane and myself were sitting in her room, talking 
 about poor Mrs. Beshears and the affairs of her 
 estate, when we heard Mr. Cowardin enter the 
 house. We knew him by the firm way in which 
 he walked. He came along the hall, paused as if 
 listening, and then, coming to sister Jane's room, 
 rapped lightly on the lintel, the door being partly 
 closed. 
 
 " Come in and tell us howdy," said sister Jane. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin came in, looked about the room, 
 and then went to the door again and looked up 
 and down the hallway. 
 
 " I saw a buggy standing at the door," he ex 
 plained, " and I was certain you had company." 
 
 " A buggy ! " cried sister Jane. " Why, what 
 upon earth ! " 
 
 " Mr. Moreland's team," said Mr. Cowardin. " I 
 thought the gentleman had come to shake hands 
 all around." His tone was half serious, half sar 
 castic. 
 
 " When I want to shake hands with a demi 
 john," remarked sister Jane, " I '11 go over to the 
 tavern and shake hands with a new one." 
 
 Ordinarily, Mr. Cowardin would have laughed
 
 320 SISTER JANE. 
 
 at this comment, but now he did not even smile. 
 He stood in the floor with his hands in his pock 
 ets, and stared steadily at the dim flame of the 
 candle that was sputtering on the stand close to 
 sister Jane's head as she leaned over her sewing. 
 
 " You know the fellow I was hunting for and 
 found," he said, turning his eyes on me. " Well, 
 he 's an interesting person. He 's a little shaky on 
 his feet, but he 's sober now, as he says, for the 
 first time iu several years. He 's full of informa 
 tion, and some of it will surprise you as much as 
 it did me. He told me something that I thought 
 was a preposterous lie, but I 'in afraid it 's the 
 truth. At any rate we shall soon see." 
 
 Pat upon the word, we heard a rustle in the 
 hallway, the light tread of nimble feet, and the 
 next moment Mrs. Bullard entered. She seemed 
 to be arranged for a journey. She had on a dove- 
 colored frock, the soberest garment I had ever seen 
 her wear. She had entered the room apparently 
 in great haste, but paused as she saw Mr. Cowar- 
 din. He made way for her, lifted his hat, and, 
 without speaking, turned and went outside the 
 door into the hall. The surprise that the Colonel's 
 wife felt on seeing him showed plainly in her face 
 and manner, but she recovered herself almost im 
 mediately. 
 
 " I Ve just come to say good-by, Jane. I 'm go 
 ing back to my home and people. You know what 
 my life has been here, but you don't know all. 
 You don't know what I know. Just think of a
 
 AM ANGRY WO MAX. 321 
 
 Brandon, Jane, leading the dog's life I have led. 
 Go out to-morrow and look at the big kennel on 
 the corner, and thank God that Fanny Brandon 
 has broken the chain at last." 
 
 " Why, what on earth is the matter ? " asked 
 sister Jane. " You talk like a crazy person." 
 
 " Don't ask me, Jane don't ask me ! You '11 
 find out soon enough. Crazy ! I have never had 
 a sane moment until this hour ! Where is Mandy 
 Satterlee ? I must thank that woman for giving 
 me an excuse for leaving the people I loathe and 
 the life I hate ! " 
 
 She had worked herself into a grand passion, 
 and she seemed to me to be more beautiful the 
 more furious she grew. Mandy, who was in the 
 room across the hall, came in just then. 
 
 " Did anybody call me ? " she asked. Seeing 
 Mrs. Bullard, she blushed. " I declare, I 'in a 
 sight to be comin' in here. I did n't know you. 
 had company." 
 
 " Never mind the company, Mandy Satterlee ! " 
 exclaimed the Colonel's wife. " I 'm going away 
 from here, and I 've called to tell you good-by and 
 to thank you for what you 've done for me." 
 
 " What I 've done for you ! " Even by the dim 
 light of the sputtering candle I could see Mandy's 
 face grow white. 
 
 " You. know what it is, Mandy Satterlee ! You 
 know well, and I want to thank you. Who could 
 have thought that you would have been the one to 
 give me freedom ? "
 
 322 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Oh, me ! Oh, have n't I had trouble enough ? " 
 Mandy's cry was a heart-rending one. It was a 
 note of anguish, of self-condemnation, and an ap 
 peal for mercy. I hope never to hear such a cry 
 a^ain either in this world or the next. She threw 
 
 O 
 
 herself on the floor by the side of a chair, leaning 
 heavily across it, the picture of misery and de 
 spair. 
 
 The Colonel's wife went close to Mandy and 
 stood above her with clenched hands, breathing- 
 hard. 
 
 " Oh, to think of it ! " she exclaimed, turning to 
 sister Jane with tragic hints in her eyes. "To 
 think that she " the Colonel's wife raised her 
 hand and pointed at Mandy with a gesture of rage 
 and scorn " to think that she should have been 
 the one ! Why, Jane," - she lowered her voice 
 almost to a whisper, " I loved that man ! You 
 would n't believe it, would you ? I loved him 
 but now I hate him oh, I loathe the very air he 
 breathes ! " 
 
 " Oh, why why can't I die ? " moaned Mandy. 
 
 "Die!" cried the Colonel's wife. "Why do 
 you want to tie? Who are you, and what are 
 you ? I am the one to die and I am dead to 
 that man. Oh, the miserable creature ! Why did 
 Satan throw him in my way ? " 
 
 At that moment Mr. Cowardin appeared in the 
 doorway and motioned me to him, whereupon I 
 hastened out of the room, glad of any sort of an 
 excuse to fly from a scene so paralyzing. I re-
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 323 
 
 member that I was glad to feel I could use my 
 limbs at all. Once out of the room I breathed 
 freer. 
 
 In the dark hallway, Mr. Cowardin laid his hand 
 on my shoulder. " If she starts away," he said, 
 " detain her. Use force if necessary. Within 
 twenty-four hours she '11 thank you for all the 
 bruises you give her." 
 
 He turned and went swiftly out into the street. 
 What he did there he told me within half an hour. 
 He went to the buggy, and leaned against it, 
 placing one hand on the framework and the other 
 on the whip-thimble. 
 
 " The latly sends word that she can't come," he 
 said. " She says the gentleman must go away with 
 all possible speed." 
 
 The occupant of the vehicle was Moreland, and 
 he seemed to be more than half drunk. 
 
 " Where 's Fanny ? " he cried. " I saw her go 
 in the house there. Let her bring her own mes 
 sages. Go back and tell Fanny that I '11 not go 
 till she herself tells me to." 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Cowardin had hardly reached 
 the street before the Colonel's wife went to sister 
 Jane and laid a hand on her arm as of old. 
 " Good-by, Jane ! You are a good woman. All 
 the rest of us are devils. Where 's William ? " 
 
 She came out into the hallway as she asked for 
 me, and I stepped forward and barred the way. 
 She seemed surprised at this, and I thought the 
 shadow of a contemptuous smile flitted across her
 
 324 SISTEIi JANE. 
 
 face, but I was not certain ; yet the bare thought 
 of it rendered me less infirm of purpose than be 
 fore. 
 
 " You seem to be glad to see me go, William," 
 she said, taking the hand I held out to stay her 
 passage. " Well, it is natural. We have long 
 misunderstood each other : you have taken me to 
 be a fraud, and I have judged you to be a fool. 
 Right or wrong, we are quits. Good-by." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Bullard," I said with a firmness that 
 was as surprising to me as it was to her, "it is not 
 good-by. You are to remain here." 
 
 She looked hard at me as if trying to read my 
 mind. " Then you are a fool," she said through 
 her clenched teeth. With a strength for which I 
 was totally unprepared, she wrenched her hand 
 from mine and whisked past me in the hallway like 
 a shadow. She was fleet, but I reached the outer 
 door as she did, and placed both hands against it, 
 holding it shut with all my weight and strength, 
 knowing now that I had to deal with a desperate 
 woman. 
 
 But even this knowledge did not prepare me for 
 the tactics she employed. She seized me below 
 the waist, dragged me suddenly backwards, and I 
 fell prone upon my hands and knees. Before I 
 could recover myself, she had wrenched the door 
 open and was gone. But she never crossed the 
 sidewalk. As she jumped through the door I heard 
 Mr. Cowardin exclaim : 
 
 ' Look to yourself, sir ! " and then I heard a re-
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 325 
 
 port like a pistol. He had seized the whip and 
 brought it down upon the backs of the horses with 
 a blow so powerful that it sounded like an explo 
 sion. The creatures gave one leap forward, and 
 then broke into a wild run. Fortunately they kept 
 in the middle of the street, and in a few moments, 
 as we three stood listening, we heard them settle 
 down into a steady gallop, which showed that the 
 man in the buggy, drunk as he might be, had 
 them under control. 
 
 " I 'm sorry I did n't hit the man instead of the 
 horses," said Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " Perhaps you '11 be pleased to lay it on my 
 back," said Mrs. Bullard with smothered rage. 
 She rushed toward him, and tried to wrench the 
 whip from his hand. But she made only one ef 
 fort. The knowledge of her impotence suddenly 
 overcame her, and all her strength left her. She 
 would have fallen to the ground but for the sus 
 taining arm of Mr. Cowardin. But, such was her 
 versatility, if I may use the word here, that she 
 recovered almost immediately. 
 
 " Don't touch me ! " she exclaimed savagely. 
 
 " I '11 not hurt you, madam," said Mr. Cowardin 
 gently. " If I have come between you and your 
 designs, it was not for your sake, but for the sake 
 of one I love dearly. You '11 thank me for what 
 I've done, when I tell you the news I have for 
 you. But we must go inside." 
 
 " I have nowhere else to, go," she said simply. 
 " I '11 not go back yonder ; I '11 die first ! " She
 
 326 SISTER JANE. 
 
 stretched a hand toward her home, looming up cold, 
 dark, and solemn in the darkness. " Who are you, 
 sir, that you are bold enough to take advantage of 
 a weak woman whom you know nothing of and 
 who has done you no harm ? " Her rage rose 
 again as she turned toward Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 "Madam, with the exception of your husband 
 and your own family no one in the world has a 
 better right to do what I have done," he answered. 
 " I have some news for you that is of more im 
 portance than anything that has happened to you 
 during your whole life." 
 
 " It is not true, sir," she replied. " I have lost 
 my son, I have lost my husband, and I have given 
 up my home. What could be more important than 
 these things ? " 
 
 " Come inside," said Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " Yes, for the Lord's sake, Fanny, come in ! " 
 exclaimed sister Jane from the darkness of the 
 doorway, and her voice brought us all back to the 
 realities of every-day life. For my part, I was be 
 ginning to forget on which end I stood, so astound 
 ing were the transactions that had taken place 
 before my eyes. 
 
 " Excuse me, Jane," said Mrs. Bullard in a 
 more natural tone ; " I had forgotten where I 
 was." 
 
 She went in, and Mr. Cowardin and I followed. 
 The Colonel's wife was calm enough when she 
 
 O 
 
 got inside the door almost too calm, it seemed 
 to me, after the tremendous outbreak that has
 
 AN ANGRY WOMAN. 327 
 
 been described. But I could see that the fires of 
 anger still glowed in her eyes ; she was calm, but 
 still desperate. 
 
 The noise that had been made had aroused 
 Klibs from his innocent sleep, and Mandy was 
 holding him close against her bosom when we 
 returned to the room. Hearing our footsteps, 
 and possibly suspecting that we had succeeded in 
 detaining Mrs. Bullard, the unfortunate young' 
 mother had moved her chair to the darkest corner 
 of the room, where, with her back hair falling over 
 her shoulders and her child hugged to her breast, 
 she could safely hide from human eyes whatever 
 emotion she felt. 
 
 " Now, sir," said the Colonel's wife, turning to 
 Mr. Cowardin, " what is the information you have 
 for me ? I hope it is important enough to excuse 
 your unmannerly yes, your unmanly conduct 
 to-night. Don't think you 'd be standing there or 
 I here if I were a man ; or if there was a man in 
 this miserable community to whom I might appeal 
 for protection. Wait ! " she said, as Mr. Cowardin 
 made a movement as if to speak. Her voice was 
 hard and cold. " Wait ! Don't imagine for a 
 moment that I will believe a word you say. After 
 what I 've seen of your actions to-night, I know 
 you are capable of any lie. I want to hear how 
 you are going to excuse yourself." Her Virginian 
 blood and grit showed to advantage here, undoubt 
 edly, and I began to admire her. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin regarded her with kindly eyes
 
 328 SISTER JANE. 
 
 and his voice was very gentle when he spoke. 
 " Madam, if you think you can afford to wait here 
 five minutes until I can go across the street and 
 return, I shall try to make good my promise." He 
 paused expectantly. 
 
 " What can I do but await your pleasure and 
 convenience ? " she asked with a contemptuous 
 smile. " Owing to you, I have nowhere to go even 
 if I were not disposed to wait. Pray where could 
 I go?" 
 
 Mr. Cowardin regarded her with a puzzled look. 
 He seemed to doubt whether he had followed her 
 meaning. At that moment neither he nor I had 
 the key to either her words or her extraordinary 
 actions. But he turned and walked down the hall 
 way. Just as he reached the door we heard a 
 hasty knocking. He opened the door almost be 
 fore the Knocking ceased. Then we heard the 
 voice of Colonel Bullard. 
 
 " William ! have you seen " Here Mr. Cow 
 ardin interrupted, but we could not hear the words. 
 " Excuse me, sir ; in the dark I mistook you for 
 William, who is an old friend of mine. Show me 
 the way. I must see Jane and William ! " 
 
 At the same moment the Colonel's wife whisked 
 out and across the hall. I saw her enter the room 
 that had been given up to Mandy.
 
 XXIII. 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 
 
 As Colonel Bullard entered the room I saw that 
 a great change had come over him. His gait was 
 unsteady. A letter or paper that he held in his 
 hand shook as though he had been seized with a 
 rigor. 
 
 Sister Jane did not wait for him to speak. She 
 rose and stood looking at him. " Cephas Bullard, 
 you are the very last person in the world that I 
 ever expected to see darken my doo/ after know 
 ing what I know and you knowing that I know it 
 the very last person in the world." But her 
 voice had no note of surprise in it; on the con 
 trary it was charged with indignation. 
 
 " I was compelled to come, Jane. My darling 
 wife has left me ; here is her letter. I am a ruined 
 man, Jane. Have you seen Fanny ? Has she 
 been here, William ? " 
 
 " Yes, Colonel, she has," I replied. 
 
 " She came to say good-by," remarked sister 
 Jane. 
 
 " Where was she going, Jane ? What did she 
 say ? Did she leave any word for me ? Did n't 
 she send me some message? Oh, I know her
 
 330 SISTER JANE. 
 
 heart, Jane, and I never will believe that she went 
 away from me without leaving me some word more 
 satisfactory than this." He held the letter on a 
 level with his eyes, his hand trembling so that the 
 paper made a rattling noise. 
 
 " She said she was going away from this hate 
 ful place for good and all," explained sister Jane. 
 " She did n't tell me her reasons, and I did n't 
 ask her, because I know'd 'em well enough." 
 
 " Don't be too hard on me, Jane," he pleaded. 
 
 " It 's not me that 's hard on you, Cephas Bui- 
 lard. It's your own wickedness." 
 
 " Oh, it 's true, Jane ! it 's all true ! But if you 
 only knew how I have suffered ; if you only knew 
 the agony I 've endured." He paused as if seek 
 ing sympathy, but he got none. I was shocked at 
 sister Jane's manner until she spoke again, and 
 then the whole truth that I had been utterly blind 
 to before burst upon me, and it brought with it a 
 feeling of disgust for Colonel Bullard that I was 
 long in overcoming. 
 
 " I reckon it 's so fixed that other folks can suf 
 fer some as well as you," said sister Jane. 
 
 She stretched forth her hand and pointed to 
 Mandy Satterlee, who was bending so low above 
 her child that she seemed to be crouching in the 
 rocking-chair. Colonel Bullard's glance followed 
 the direction of sister Jane's gesture, and he shrank 
 back as his eye fell on Mandy. 
 
 "You are right, Jane, and I am wrong," he 
 cried in a broken voice. " I 'm a terrible sinner,
 
 COLONEL BULLAKD'S TROUBLES. 331 
 
 Jane. That is why my dear wife has left me. 
 That man Moreland told her about my wretched 
 sinfulness, and I confessed it, Jane. I did n't 
 spare myself. I ought to have told her long ago ; 
 but it is a fearful thing to confess, Jane, and I 
 never had the courage. It is a terrible thing to 
 do, and yet " (the Colonel lowered his voice) 
 " I thought oh, I fondly hoped, Jane that my 
 dear wife would forgive me. And I shall always 
 believe that she would have forgiven me if she 
 had known how I love her. That will be my only 
 comfort, Jane, if I ever have any peace of mind 
 at all!" 
 
 I could but remark how, even in the midst of 
 his penitence, he seemed to regard his own trouble 
 and his own misery as of more importance than 
 all other troubles and miseries put together. It is 
 the way of the world, especially the way of man. 
 I have seen women who could put their own trou 
 bles aside to sympathize with the miseries of others, 
 but I have never seen one of my own sex who had 
 the courage or the generous impulse to make the 
 attempt. 
 
 " You say she 's been here, Jane," said Colonel 
 Bullard, after a pause, during which he re-read the 
 letter in his hand, holding it close to the candle. 
 It was a very brief note, as I could see, and doubt 
 less had the rare merit of terseness. 
 
 " She came to tell us good-by," remarked sister 
 Jane, " but she spun it out into a good many 
 words."
 
 332 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " What did she say, Jane ? Did she seem to 
 be particularly bitter against me? Oh, that I 
 could have, seen her for one moment ! " he ex 
 claimed in a despairing tone. 
 
 " It's jest as well you didn't," said sister Jane, 
 with an abundant lack of sympathy in her voice. 
 " You know Fanny Brandon most as well as I 
 do, I reckon, and you can figure to yourself about 
 what she said." 
 
 " That 's the way she signed herself here 
 ' Fanny Brandon.' " The Colonel spoke as if he 
 had heard nothing that sister Jane said save his 
 wife's maiden name. He repeated it again 
 " Fanny Brandon " and then slowly placed the 
 letter in his pocket and clasped his hands behind 
 him. 
 
 " I '11 not deny that I expected to find her here, 
 Jane," he said after a pause. " At least I hoped 
 to find her here. But that is not all I came for." 
 He turned to me as a source from which he might 
 expect more sympathy than sister Jane had shown 
 him. " I came, William, to make what reparation 
 I can. Surely, surely, it is not yet too late for me 
 to do that. It ought to have been made long ago ; 
 but it is not too late don't tell me it is too late." 
 
 Before I could make any reply indeed, I 
 knew not what to say sister Jane spoke. 
 " What do you mean by that ? " she asked. 
 
 Colonel Bullard hesitated, and then drew from 
 his pocket a roll of bank bills, and laid it on the 
 candle-stand. Released from the pressure of con-
 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 333 
 
 finement the bills slowly swelled out, and would 
 have fallen to the floor had not the Colonel reached 
 forth and placed his hand upon them. 
 
 " Here is a sum of money, William. I want 
 you to take it and invest it for the benefit of Miss 
 Satterlee and her child. If the sum seems too 
 small, I am willing to double it at your sugges 
 tion." 
 
 It was curious how the voice of the Colonel 
 assumed a business-like tone when he came to speak 
 of a money transaction. Mechanically I reached 
 my hand to take the money, but I drew it back 
 quickly at a word from Mandy Satterlee. She had 
 risen from the rocking-chair, and now stood not 
 far from sister Jane. She had placed her sleeping 
 child on the sofa. Both hands were held to her 
 head as if to prevent her hair from falling about 
 her face. With a sweeping gesture she flung her 
 hair behind her and stretched forth her arm, point 
 ing at the Colonel. 
 
 "Take your money away from here ! Take it 
 away ! I would n't tetch it, not to save my own 
 life much less your'n ! Take it out'n my sight ! 
 I never said a word ag'in you in my life ; not by 
 word or look have I ever laid any of my trouble 
 at your door ; and yit here you come wi' money ! 
 Miss Jane," she went on, turning to my sister, 
 " this man 's a-takin' a mighty heap on hisself . It 's 
 a lot more my trouble than it 's his'n. I was out 
 there in the woods, lonesome, an' I wanted somethin' 
 I could call mine somethin' that 'd be my own
 
 334 SISTER JANE. 
 
 somethin' that nobody on the wide earth would 
 dast to claim. Here it is ! " She stepped swiftly 
 to the sofa and kissed her child, and as swiftly 
 returned. " I never dreamed of the trouble an' 
 misery it 'd .bring on me an' other folks, an' I 've 
 suffered, an' I 'in mighty sorry, I '11 allers be 
 sorry, but I 'm the one that 's to blame. Make 
 him put up his money, Miss Jane." 
 
 Oh, the passion of motherhood ! For the first 
 time in my life I began to realize its nature its 
 weakness and its strength. 
 
 " What can I do, William ? " said the Colonel. 
 " I 've lost my son, my wife, and I can turn no 
 where for comfort and peace." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you can," exclaimed sister Jane. 
 " Where 's your Bible, I 'd like to know, and where 
 are your prayers ? " 
 
 " No, Jane ; I "m the vilest hypocrite that ever 
 breathed the breath of life." 
 
 " If you reely think that, Cephas Bullard, you 're 
 already a long ways on the road to'rds forgiveness," 
 said sister Jane. 
 
 " It is well enough to talk that way, Jane, but 
 my wife is gone. If you knew her as I know her 
 you would know what that means. Jane, I love 
 that woman. She '11 never forgive me, and she has 
 run away with a man she used to know when she 
 was a girl ; but if she were to come back to-night, 
 to-morrow, or a year from now I 'd be glad to for 
 give her." 
 
 " You would? " cried sister Jane.
 
 COLONEL EULLAJRD'S TROUBLES. 335 
 
 " Most assuredly, Jane." 
 
 " Well, you 're one among a thousand." 
 
 Sister Jane had hardly spoken the words before 
 the Colonel's wife glided into the room, and laid 
 her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Did you say you could forgive me ? " she cried. 
 " Oh, if you can forgive me I can forgive you ! " 
 Her whole attitude had changed. 
 
 The Colonel stood stock-still and looked at his 
 wife in a dazed way. 
 
 " Is it really and truly you, Fanny ? " he gasped, 
 " or am I losing my senses ? " He passed his hand 
 over his face. 
 
 She answered by leaning her head against his 
 shoulder and laughing hysterically a laugh that 
 jarred on my nerves because of its theatrical flavor. 
 And yet I knew that such a laugh strained and 
 artificial was intended to hide emotions that led 
 far from laughter. 
 
 " Fanny ! Fanny ! " the Colonel cried, " you 
 don't know how you have frightened me." 
 
 " I am worse frightened than you- were," she re 
 plied. She clung to him as a child might. Pres 
 ently her eyes met mine. She ran to me and threw 
 her arms about me. " Oh, William ! You don't 
 know what you have saved me from you and 
 Mr. Cowardin ! " 
 
 She ran back to her husband and clung to him 
 almost frantically. He caressed her as though she 
 were a spoiled child. 
 
 " I thought I was a ruined man, Fanny. I
 
 336 SISTER JANE. 
 
 knew I deserved to be, but it was so hard to give 
 you up. " 
 
 He clung to her and she to him, and I saw then 
 that they had come to a clearer understanding than 
 had, perhaps, ever existed between them. I saw, 
 too, that my whimsical and unexplained prejudices 
 had been severely unjust to the lady. For the 
 first time in my life I understood to what lengths 
 the rage and fury of jealousy will lead a woman 
 of spirit. 
 
 " Please make him take his money," said Mandy, 
 touching the Colonel's wife gently on the shoulder. 
 " I would n't tech it, not to save a thousand lives." 
 
 " I '11 relieve you of it," remarked the Colonel's 
 wife with a slight frown. She took the money, 
 rolled it tightly, and placed it in her belt. 
 
 " I think we will go now," suggested the Colonel. 
 " Jane, I am sorry to have disturbed you. I trust 
 you will forgive me." 
 
 " Well, there 's been a good deal of forgiving 
 going on around here," said sister Jane. " If you 
 feel any better you need n't worry about me. But 
 I '11 say this, I 've got a lots better opinion of you 
 than I 'd 'a' had if you had n't 'a' worried me in 
 jest the way you have. You ain't half as good as 
 you might be, but you 're a heap better than I 
 thought you was." 
 
 " But / love him, Jane," the Colonel's wife 
 asserted, as if that disposed of the matter. 
 
 " Oh, I hope you do," said sister Jane. " I 
 don't expect everybody's stomach to be as weak as
 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 337 
 
 mine when it comes to lovin' folks. Where 's 
 Mary all this time while you two are a-prancin' an' 
 a-caperin? up and down ? " 
 
 " We must be going, Fanny," the Colonel in 
 sisted. " It would n't do to have that child fright 
 ened at our absence." 
 
 " Mary 's perfectly happy," replied the Colonel's 
 wife. " She 's deep in one of William's books. 
 But we ought to go. Jane, I hope you '11 not be 
 too hard on me. I 'm happier now than I 've been 
 in years." 
 
 " I 'm truly glad, Fanny, " replied sister Jane. 
 " It takes so mighty little to make folks happy, 
 that I wonder there ain't more of it in the world. 
 If we keep a sharp lookout we '11 get our share of 
 it, I reckon." 
 
 The Colonel and his wife bade us good-night, 
 and were going away when we heard footsteps in 
 the hallway, and in came Mr. Cowardin, ushering 
 in the man I had seen riding in the Moreland 
 buggy. He was completely sober now, and I 
 knew him at once as Mandy's brother Sandy. She 
 knew him, too, and ran to him, crying, " Why 
 Bud, what 's the matter ? Have they took you 
 prisoner ? " 
 
 For answer he said : " Howdy, Mandy ; you 're 
 lookin' monstus peart." His sister's hand was on 
 his shoulder, but he made no attempt to greet her 
 in a brotherly fashion. He stood stolidly, almost 
 stupidly, it seemed to me, and the bad opinion I 
 had of him grew rapidly worse.
 
 338 SISTER JANE. 
 
 Mr. Cowardin had summoned the Colonel and 
 his wife back, and the lady remarked as she re- 
 entered the room, " I had almost forgotten you, 
 Mr. Cowardin, and that means I have forgiven you 
 for what I thought was your rudeness awhile ago." 
 
 " It means, too," said Mr. Cowardin, " that you 
 had forgotten about the interesting information I 
 had promised to give you." 
 
 " Yes, I had forgotten it entirely," the Colonel's 
 wife confessed. " I am so happy, you know." 
 
 " In that case, we may as well postpone the story 
 this man has to tell. Satterlee, I '11 not need you 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, no, squire ; you can't come that game," 
 protested Sandy. " When I go out of that door 
 out yonder I ain't comin' back no more tell I send 
 fer Mandy. Oh, no, squire ; I don't want nobody 
 a-doggin' arter me arter to-night." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked the Colonel. " It is pos 
 sible that he knows about our son, Fanny our 
 darling child that was lost." 
 
 " Oh, is it that ? " cried the Colonel's wife. 
 
 Sandy paid no attention whatever to either one. 
 " You 've done the right thing by me, squire, an' 
 I '11 do the right thing by you. But I '11 tell you 
 now, I 'm not gwine to hang on the pleasure of 
 that feller no, I '11 be danged ef I do ! An' 
 I '11 not be dogged arter." 
 
 " Then tell what you know, and be done with it," 
 said Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 \\ hat Sandy told, the reader may have suspected
 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 339 
 
 from the first, though the fact did not dawn on me 
 until the man entered the room. He had stolen 
 Freddy Bullard, made good his escape, and at 
 last dropped him on the wagon trail in the far 
 West, where he was found by Mr. Cowardin. 
 Sandy Satterlee had no qualms of conscience. He 
 was sorry for the child, but he suffered no remorse 
 over what he had done. When he had concluded, 
 he paused a moment, and then said : 
 
 " Now, ef there 's anybody aroun' here that wants 
 to know why I took the baby jest let 'em up an' 
 say so, an' I '11 tell 'em why. An' ef there 's any 
 body here that wants to drag me up in court about 
 it, let 'em drag." 
 
 The Colonel, holding his wife's hand in one of 
 his, patted it gently, as he replied : " No, sir ; there 
 is no one to make any complaint. My friends here 
 all know why you took the child. You caused the 
 innocent to suffer ; but that was my fault all 
 my fault. I have taken all the blame. I know 
 that the Almighty has not entirely forsaken me, 
 for He has had my boy restored to me." 
 
 Sandy seemed to be very much disappointed at 
 this, or else I mistook the expression of his face. 
 He rubbed his hand over his beard in a dazed way. 
 
 " Dang it all, squire ! " he exclaimed, as he 
 turned to Mr. Cowardin. " I allowed I 'd git my 
 head took off over here, an' I come primed to do 
 some taking 1 on my own hook." 
 
 " Then you 'd better take yourself off somewhere 
 and try to Tarn to be honest," said sister Jane
 
 340 SISTER JANE. 
 
 quick as a flash. "You ain't worth the powder 
 an' lead it 'd take to kill you." 
 
 " Phew ! " whistled Sandy under his breath. 
 " Show me the door, squire, an' I '11 jest hop across 
 the street an' jump in bed." 
 
 When Sandy was gone, the Colonel's wife was 
 wild to see Freddy; she insisted that he should be 
 roused from his sleep so that she might carry him 
 home. But Mr. Cowardin was not to be prevailed 
 upon. He would not permit the child (as he said) 
 to jump out of sleep into conditions so new to his 
 experience ; and though the Colonel's wife added 
 both tears and threats to her entreaties, Mr. Cow 
 ardin remained obdurate. For one more day, he 
 said, the child should be his. Then Mrs. Bullard 
 changed her ground. Might she see her child as 
 he lay sleeping ? Certainly, if she would solemnly 
 promise not to arouse him. So the mother and 
 father, with Mr. Cowardin, sister Jane, and myself, 
 went on tiptoe to the lad's bedside. And he made 
 a beautiful picture as he lay there, rosy with health, 
 dreaming pleasant dreams that brought a faint 
 smile to his half-parted lips. His mother crept 
 toward him and gazed at him with clasped hands, 
 smiling, although the tears ran down her cheeks. 
 Then, quick as a flash, she stooped and kissed him. 
 The child stirred, but did not open his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, I hoped he would wake ! " she whispered, 
 as she turned away. 
 
 " I thought so," said Mr. Cowardin in a warning 
 tone.
 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 341 
 
 " Oh, I think it is cruel not to allow us to take 
 our child home I " said the Colonel's wife. She 
 seemed to be greatly agitated. 
 
 " It may seem so," replied Mr. Cowardin. " But 
 his mind must be prepared for the great change 
 that has taken place in his condition. I must 
 teach him " he paused, looked hard at the flame 
 of the candle, and stroked his beard " that there 
 are others he must care for more than he has ever 
 cared for me." 
 
 " Might we not be depended on to do that ? " 
 The voice of the Colonel's wife was gentle, but 
 there was something about it that jarred on my 
 nerves. 
 
 "That is the trouble, madam," said Mr. Cow 
 ardin ; " that is a part of the infliction. But you 
 will have to excuse me." He crossed the hallway, 
 went into the lad's room, and closed the door after 
 him. 
 
 By one word, sister Jane covered his retreat and 
 changed the current of our thoughts. " Which one 
 of you had the good manners to thank the man for 
 what he has done?" she asked bluntly. 
 
 Mrs. Bullard started impulsively into the lad's 
 room again, but sister Jane stopped her. 
 
 " Oh, I want to get on my knees and thank him, 
 Jane. I '11 not speak above a whisper." 
 
 " No ; don't go in there. There 's plenty of 
 time for thanks. Go home and dream over your 
 good luck," said sister Jane. 
 
 Whereupon the Colonel and his wife bade us
 
 342 SISTER JANE. 
 
 good-niglit, and went home by way of the street in 
 stead of by way of the garden. 
 
 It was owing to this fact that Mary missed them 
 when she came running through the garden. She 
 was laughing when she entered the room, but her 
 face wore a scared expression, and I thanked 
 Heaven that she had not seen and heard all that 
 had happened near where she now stood. 
 
 She had been reading, she said, and had not 
 noticed how quiet the house was until she closed 
 her book. The servants had all retired, and she 
 went to her mother's room. Finding no one there 
 she roused the house girl and searched the house. 
 Then she came running through the garden, think 
 ing to find her mother talking to sister Jane. She 
 was surprised that her father had also paid us a 
 visit, and seemed pleased, too. 
 
 " I could tell you some mighty good news," re 
 marked sister Jane, " but I reckon I '11 have to 
 leave it to William as he takes you back home. 
 If you stay to hear it your folks '11 think you 've 
 run away." 
 
 So, as we walked through the garden, the weather 
 being warm and fine, I told her as briefly as I 
 could (suppressing Sandy Satterlee's motive alto 
 gether, and making him out a worse villain than he 
 really was for which I hope Heaven will foi'give 
 me) how her brother had been stolen, and how he 
 had been recovered and brought back by Mr. Cow- 
 ardin. Whereupon, Mary, womanlike, insisted on 
 going back to see her brother as he lay asleep. I
 
 COLONEL SULLARD'S TROUBLES. 343 
 
 told her the objections to this, and protested as 
 strongly as I could where Mary was concerned, 
 but she pleaded so prettily and with such sweet 
 eloquence, that I was fain to turn back with her 
 and to be the means of gratifying her desire to see 
 once more the brother she had long mourned as 
 dead. 
 
 We returned, therefore, much to the surprise of 
 sister Jane. Mr. Cowardin was very gracious in 
 the matter. He was willing that Mary should see 
 her brother, and I noticed that he did not lay her 
 under the injunction of silence. She stood by the 
 lad's bed and gazed on him with heaving bosom. 
 Then she knelt at the bedside, burying her face 
 in her hands. She came out smiling beautifully 
 through her tears. 
 
 " How can I thank you ? " she cried, giving 
 Mr. Cowardin both her hands. He held them, I 
 thought, a trifle longer than good taste demanded, 
 regarding her all the while as if his mind were far 
 afield. My idea of his violation of good taste, or 
 etiquette, or whatever you may please to call it, 
 was blown to the four winds by his next words. 
 
 " It would please me very much," he replied, 
 " to hear you call me ' Uncle Clarence ' the next 
 time I see you." 
 
 " But if you are not Uncle Clarence ? " Mary 
 suggested in a half-frightened way. 
 
 " But if I am," he insisted. 
 
 " I don't understand," said Mary, turning away 
 from him and going to sister Jane.
 
 344 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " No, it is not easy for a little girl to under 
 stand," he remarked with something like a sigh. 
 " But no matter. It is not absolutely necessary for 
 you to call me ' Uncle Clarence.' " 
 
 " But I want to, if " - 
 
 " If he 's the genuine article, guaranteed not to 
 rip in the seams or frazzle at the sleeves," laughed 
 Mr. Cowardin. 
 
 " Wait ! I '11 tell you whether he 's your Uncle 
 Clarence or not," said sister Jane. " Hold this 
 candle, William." She put on her " sewing-specs," 
 as she called them, went forward in a business-like 
 way, placed one hand over Mr. Cowardiu's beard 
 and the other over his mouth, turned his face to 
 the left and then to the right, and subjected him 
 to the closest inspection. She saw what poor Mrs. 
 Beshears must have seen the night she scrutinized 
 the gentleman's countenance. 
 
 " If it ain't him you may kill me dead ! " she 
 exclaimed, turning to Mary. " I ought to 'a' 
 know'd him long ago. Clarence Bullard ! what 
 on earth do you mean by changing your name 
 and acting like this ? What have you done to be 
 ashamed of your own name ? I hope to the Lord 
 you ain't one of Murrell's men." 
 
 " I have n't changed my name at all," he said, 
 laughing genially. " I merely lopped off the Bul 
 lard when I left home." 
 
 " It brought you good luck, I reckon," remarked 
 sister Jane. " Mary here will have to change her 
 name before she 's right happy."
 
 COLONEL BULLARD'S TROUBLES. 345 
 
 And Mary, innocent child, not seeing the deep 
 meaning of the words, merely laughed at the con 
 ceit, as she said : 
 
 " My uncle's name was Clarence Cowardin Bul- 
 lard. It is written out so in all his school-books. 
 Oh, I hope you are he ! " she cried still doubtfully. 
 " I should be so happy ! " 
 
 "Go and be happy then, my dear. You cer 
 tainly deserve to be the happiest woman in the 
 world. Good-night ! " She ran to him and kissed 
 him, at which he seemed to be mightily pleased. 
 
 I may as well say here that, to my mind, there 
 is nothing so stupid as a mystery that seems to be 
 without excuse, and I could not, for the life of me, 
 imagine why Clarence Bullard should change his 
 name and go strolling about the country from post 
 to pillar. I think he saw something of this in my 
 face, for he seized the first opportunity, when there 
 was no one to hear him but sister Jane and myself, 
 to touch upon the matter. 
 
 " A man never has an idea of his own until he 's 
 thirty," he remarked. 
 
 " Thirty ! " exclaimed sister Jane. " You 'd 
 better say eighty ! " 
 
 " 'T would come nearer the mark," he replied. 
 " But I was a mere lad, though a pretty wild one, 
 when I left home. I had a tremendous quarrel 
 with my brother, and fresh fuel was added to my 
 anger by the fact that he told me some very un 
 wholesome truths about my conduct. At bottom, 
 as I know now, I was more disgusted with myself
 
 346 SISTER JANE. 
 
 than with him, but I was sure then that I hated 
 him so vigorously and resented his authority so 
 keenly that I despised the very name of Billiard. 
 The feeling was so strong in me that it was months 
 before it cooled down, and by that time I had 
 lopped off the Bullard part of my name. Even 
 then I was sure I had done right, and for years I 
 hugged the delusion that my brother had driven 
 me from home with the intention of robbing me of 
 my share of the property. The truth is, he never 
 drove me from home at all, but simply refused to 
 supply me with funds until I had reformed." 
 
 "He didn't want to be Satan's banker," re 
 marked sister Jane, " no matter how close he got 
 to the Old Boy in other ways." 
 
 " Precisely so," he assented with a smile. " It 
 was not until I found the child, and began to feel 
 that I had a responsibility on my shoulders, that 
 I began to realize what a fool I had been. Don't 
 be deceived in me," he said with a more serious 
 air than I had ever seen him assume. " It is only 
 very lately only during the last half dozen years 
 - that I have played the part of a gentleman. The 
 rest of the time I have played the part of a vaga 
 bond. Don't imagine I was a very nice man when 
 you saw me at the circus, or that I had any kind 
 feelings for my brother. What I wanted to do 
 was to find his child and restore him with the words : 
 * That is the way I repay you for robbing me of my 
 own ! I was a vagabond, indeed, but a romantic 
 one, don't you think?"
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 
 
 ONCE more I walked with Mary through the 
 garden. The September dew had moistened the 
 air, and saturated it with the rich perfume of the 
 roses that had now begun to renew the glory of 
 their springtime bloom. Though I w^rwith Mary, 
 I had a sense of loneliness that I found troublesome 
 to account for. Whether the sensational events 
 of the past few hours had depressed me, or whether 
 my own thoughts had suddenly taken on a melan 
 choly hue and flavor I could not say. 
 
 We walked along in silence until nearly opposite 
 the summer-house that stood in the middle of the 
 garden. Finally Mary spoke : 
 
 " Oh, I am so happy and thankful ! " she cried. 
 " It is just like a story in a book." 
 
 " No," said I ; "in books of the lighter kind 
 chance and accident try to play the part of Provi 
 dence, but neither one is orderly enough. It was 
 no accident that caused your Uncle Clarence to 
 bring Freddy back." 
 
 I then told her all the circumstances, as Clarence 
 Bullard had told them to me. 
 
 " Well, we have found what we lost," she said 
 at last.
 
 348 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " No, we have not," I replied. I was not too 
 melancholy to be contentious. " I have lost some 
 thing that I cannot find again and never expect to." 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried. Then, after a pause, " What 
 was it ? " 
 
 " Why, years ago I lost a little sweetheart, and 
 I have never been able to find her since." 
 
 " Did she die? " Mary asked. She spoke in so 
 low a tone that I barely caught the words. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " I replied with a miserable attempt 
 at levity ; " she just grew up and ' from me fled,' 
 as Jincy Meadows said in the song." 
 
 She made no response, but, somehow, we had 
 paused under the stars in the garden walk, and 
 the odor of the "roses wrapped us round. I was 
 never more frightened in my life, and my heart 
 went down into my shoes as I suddenly asked my 
 self what sister Jane would say if she could have 
 heard what I had already said, and could see me 
 standing there staring at Mary like a fool. The 
 thought made me more desperate than ever, and 
 I made another plunge. 
 
 " Yes ; I lost my little sweetheart in the summer- 
 house yonder. She put her arms arou,nd my neck, 
 kissed me, and said she would always be my little 
 sweetheart. She was only twelve years old, but 
 after that she gradually disappeared, and a young 
 lady appeared in her place." 
 
 " Do you really remember that ? " Mary asked, 
 looking me in the face. 
 
 " Is it so easy to forget such things ? "
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 349 
 
 She made 110 reply but looked off into the night. 
 " Do you remember it ? " I asked. 
 
 Still she made no reply, but the dim light of the 
 stars showed me something in her face that was 
 more eloquent than any words could have been. 
 And I drew her toward me and held her in my 
 arms, and began at that instant a new life and a 
 new experience blissful beyond all expression. 
 
 How long we stood there I do not know. It was 
 Mary herself who brought me back to the world 
 and its affairs. 
 
 " Please, please tell me what you could see in 
 me to be afraid of ? " 
 
 A dozen other questions she put to me none of 
 which I could answer. When I bade her good 
 night at last, and turned away, she called me back. 
 
 " Tell me truly," she said, " were n't you just 
 a little bit jealous of Uncle Clarence when you 
 thought he was Mr. Cowardin ? " 
 
 " More than a little," I replied with such em 
 phasis as to cause her to laugh. 
 
 There was a pause after this and I stood awk 
 wardly waiting to be dismissed. 
 
 " Well, sir ? " she suggested demurely. 
 
 " Good-night ! " I said again, but still stood 
 waiting. She came very close to me. 
 
 " Is that the way you say good-night ? " It was 
 the sweetest challenge that Innocence ever gave to 
 Timidity, and though she blushed mightily, I did 
 not allow the challenge to pass. 
 
 I returned home in a very exalted state of mind,
 
 350 SISTER JANE. 
 
 as may well be supposed. I seemed to be walking 
 on the air. Unconsciously I was whistling a gay 
 melody when I entered sister Jane's room, and the 
 sound was so unusual, coming from me, that she, 
 plodding away with her sewing, looked up iu sur 
 prise. 
 
 " You must V had a mighty tough time toting 
 Mary home," she said as I seated myself. " I 
 allowed she must 'a' tripped over an ant-hill and 
 broke her neck, poor gal." 
 
 " What put that idea in your head ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Why, you 've been mighty nigh a half hour 
 walking up to Cephas Bullard's and back ag'in. 
 I can shet my eyes and go and come in less '11 five 
 minutes, and not be bellowsed neither." 
 
 I vouchsafed no explanation, and she went on 
 with her work. I tried to sit quietly in the chair, 
 but the effort was beyond me. I crossed and re- 
 crossed my legs, moved my feet about and con 
 stantly changed my position, and caught myself 
 unconsciously snapping my thumbs and fingers. 
 
 " What did Mary have to say about her uncle? " 
 asked sister Jane. 
 
 "Oh, Mary ! " I replied, coming back to earth. 
 My thoughts were so abstract and unusual that 
 even the name of my dearest had a strange sound 
 when spoken by other lips. " Well, Mary did n't 
 have much to say." 
 
 Sister Jane looked at me again, and this time 
 more narrowly. 
 
 " What under the sev'm stars has come over
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 351 
 
 you, "William Wornum ? You 're setting there 
 acting for all the world like a jumping-jack ! 
 Have you got the fidgets ? And what are you 
 grinning at ? You look like you 'd seen a monkey 
 show out there in the garden." Then the truth 
 seemed to dawn on her, and she burst out laughing, 
 and laughed till the tears came in her eyes. " I '11 
 bet a thrip to a ginger-cake that Mary got you in a 
 corner out there in the garden and asked you to 
 marry her." 
 
 " She did nothing of the kind ! " I cried, embar 
 rassment lending more heat to my words than the 
 occasion demanded. 
 
 " I know better, William Wornum. I told 
 Mary no longer than yesterday that if she ever got 
 you, she 'd have to pop the question herself. And 
 now it 's happened ! She 's asked you to marry her, 
 and you 've told her you 'd have to think the mat 
 ter over before you made up your mind." 
 
 " Nonsense ! What do you take me for, sister 
 Jane ? " I cried. 
 
 " For a simpleton that has had his head between 
 the leds of books so long that he don't know day 
 light when he sees it," she replied. 
 
 " Oh, don't I ? You '11 know better shortly." 
 
 The humor that danced in her eyes faded away 
 into a tenderer expression. She took up her work 
 again, and spoke as if addressing it : 
 
 " I wish I may die if I don't believe he 's had 
 sense enough to see what everybody knows ! " 
 
 " What is that? " I inquired.
 
 352 SISTER JANE. 
 
 " Why, that you and Mary Bullard have been 
 head over heels in love wi' one another sence the 
 year 1." 
 
 " Well, good-night," I said. 
 
 " Wait ! " She put by her work, came to me, 
 pushed the hair back from my forehead, and kissed 
 me. " The Lord knows, if she loves you half as 
 well in her way as I do in mine and I believe in 
 my heart she does you '11 be the happiest man 
 in the world." 
 
 Though my dear sister has been dead for years, 
 I can close my eyes now and feel the gentle touch 
 of her hands, and hear the notes of love and tender 
 ness ringing true in the tones of her voice. 
 
 The day after my memorable experience in the 
 garden with Mary an experience that softened 
 and subdued all the events of my life both before 
 and after Jincy Meadows came to see Mandy 
 Satterlee. He came dressed in his best, as usual, 
 but this time he wore a different air. There was 
 something more decisive in his manner. I chanced 
 to be in my room when he knocked, and I opened 
 the door and invited him in. 
 
 " Squire," he said, " did you ever ast a gal to 
 have you ? " 
 
 The question was so sudden and unexpected that 
 it took me back as the saying is. 
 
 " That is a leading question, Jincy," I replied ; 
 " the court will have to rule it out." 
 
 " Banged if I don't believe you have, and that 
 right lately ! " he burst out after regarding me a
 
 THE EXD OF THE SKEIN. 353 
 
 moment. " If it 's so, I hope Miss Mary is the one 
 you ast." 
 
 " She is too good for me, Jincy," I remarked. 
 
 " Oh, I know that, squire. I know that mighty 
 well," he assented plumply. " She 's too good for 
 anybody, when it comes right down to the plain 
 facts. But somehow I 've allers coupled you two 
 together in my dreams. Hundreds of times in my 
 sleep I 've seen Miss Mary and you a-walkin' along, 
 and Mandy and me a-comin' along behind. And 
 if one half of the dream is to come true, I hope to 
 gracious the other half will too." 
 
 " I hope so, too," I said. 
 
 " Honest, squire ? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 " Why, certainly. Why not ? " 
 
 " I 'm mighty glad of it, squire ; and I tell you 
 now, I've come to see Mandy about them very 
 dreams. Now, how can I git a fair chance for to 
 see her by her own 'lone self, as it were ? " 
 
 " Now is your opportunity, Jincy as good as 
 you '11 ever have. Sister Jane has gone shopping, 
 and Mandy is in the room back there doing some 
 mending." 
 
 He hesitated a moment. " Squire, do I have to 
 holla ' Hello ! ' in the woods, and ring a cow-bell 
 before I go in there where she 's at ? " 
 
 I told him there was no need for any formality 
 in the matter, and invited him to go right in. He 
 shook my hand with humorous gravity. 
 
 " Good-by, squire. If you 're writin' any letters 
 to anybody soon, remember me to all kind friends
 
 354 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I love so dear, and over my grave shed one bright 
 tear." 
 
 With that Jincy walked down the hallway, tread 
 ing so lightly that I could hardly hear his footsteps 
 on the floor. Presently I heard Mandy give a 
 little scream. The hallway conveyed every sound 
 to me through the open doors. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried ; and then after a pause, 
 "Jincy Meadows! you oughter be ashamed of 
 yourself to come slippin' in that a-way. Where 's 
 everybody ? How did you git in ? " 
 
 " I crawled under the door, but don't tell any 
 body ; they 'd never believe it," Jincy replied. 
 
 " You might 'a' knocked," protested Mandy. 
 
 " I 've knocked about so much that I don't want 
 to do any more knockin'. Folks might think it 
 was my trade." 
 
 " Oh, go off, Jincy ! " cried Mandy ; and then, 
 " Have a cheer. I dunno where Miss Jane is." 
 
 " No, I '11 not set down. I 've jest come to tell 
 you a dream." 
 
 " Oh, you 're allers a-dreamin', Jincy." 
 
 " I don't mind it when I don't wake up hungry." 
 
 " Set down an' tell me your dream." 
 
 Whereupon Jincy told the dream he had hinted 
 of to me, only amplifying some of the details. 
 
 " Now you reckin that dream '11 ever come true, 
 Mandy ? " he asked. 
 
 " It ought n't to," she replied. 
 
 "That's mighty hard on the squire and Miss 
 Mary," said Jincy calmly.
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIX. 355 
 
 " Oh, I was n't talkin' about them" protested 
 Mancly. 
 
 " What 's the reason the other part ought n't to 
 come true ? " he insisted. 
 
 " I can't tell you, Jincy, but I can show you." 
 
 I heard her cross the hall, and stupidly wondered 
 what reason she could show him. Then as she re- 
 crossed the hall, the truth came to me in a flash. 
 She had gone to fetch her child which was taking 
 its morning nap. 
 
 " That 's the reason, Jincy," she said sadly, as 
 she returned to the room. 
 
 There was a pause, during which I judged that 
 Jincy was subjecting the child to a critical exami 
 nation. 
 
 " I 've seen bigger reasons," he remarked after 
 a while, " but not any that was more plumper, as 
 you may say." 
 
 I heard him walk slowly out of the room to the 
 wide back entrance, where he stood perhaps half a 
 minute chirruping to a mocking-bird. Then I 
 heard him walk into the room again. 
 
 " Why, what in the world are you cryin' for, 
 Mandy ? I jest stepped out on the back porch to 
 laugh." 
 
 " What was you laughin' at ? " she cried with 
 mingled grief and indignation. 
 
 " Why, because you said I was going to git in a 
 dispute wi' that young un." 
 
 " I never said so," she declared. 
 
 " Why, you did, and if the squire was here I 'd
 
 356 SISTER JANE. 
 
 prove it. You said the young un was a reason. 
 Now a reason is a argyment, and a argyment 's a 
 dispute, and on account of the dispute the most 
 principal part of my dream could n't come true." 
 
 " Well, I did n't mean to say all that, Jincy." 
 
 " That 's what I allowed. Now, I 'm not dis- 
 putin' wi' the young un, because I want to give it 
 the identical thing it needs." 
 
 " What 's that? " inquired Mandy. 
 
 " A daddy ! " responded Jincy promptly, and, 
 as I thought, bluntly. " Now, I '11 ast you why 
 that part of my dream can't come true ? " 
 
 " I ain't good enough fer you, Jincy." Mandy's 
 tone was full of despair. 
 
 " Well, you know I ain't much, nohow," said 
 Jincy. 
 
 " I don't know any sech of a thing," cried 
 Mandy. " You 're better 'n anybody I know." 
 
 " Then allers take the best when it 's no trouble 
 to git it. What about the dream ? Can't it come 
 true ? " 
 
 " Oh, I reckon." 
 
 " Don't reckon." 
 
 " Oh, go off, Jincy ; I '11 have to say Yes to git 
 rid of you, you pester me so ! " 
 
 After a little Jincy came out, but I made it con 
 venient to be standing on the sidewalk by the 
 gate. 
 
 " You need n't remember me to all kind friends 
 I love so dear, squire," he said, shaking my hand 
 again. " The dream done the business. So long ! "
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 357 
 
 / 
 Mandy's announcement of the affair to sister 
 
 Jane was characteristic. 
 
 " I reckon I 'm the biggest fool in the world," 
 she said by way of a beginning, and then went on 
 with whatever work she was doing. 
 
 " What 's the matter now ? Have you gone and 
 broke a piece of my blue chany ? " sister Jane 
 inquired. 
 
 " It 's lots worse 'n that," replied Mandy, laugh 
 ing. 
 
 " If it is you 'd better be laughing on the other 
 side of your mouth. What is it ? " 
 
 " Oh, jest me an' Jincy," said Mandy, moving 
 about the room more briskly than ever. 
 
 " Well, what about you an' Jincy ? " 
 
 "Did n't I tell you I was a fool ? " Mandy ex 
 claimed with well-affected surprise. " I ain't got 
 a grain of sense. Who is Jincy Meadows anyhow ? 
 Ever'body says he 's a born loony, an' I 'd a heap 
 ruther stay here wi' you-all than to marry him 
 a heap ruther." 
 
 " The stars above ! " cried sister Jane. 
 
 " Ain't it the truth ! " said Mandy, though 
 apropos of what I failed to discover. " We 're 
 allers a-doin' what we hain't got no more idee of 
 doiii' than the man in the moon. I declare to 
 goodness ! When I think of what a fool I reely 
 am, it turns my stomach. But that Jincy Mead 
 ows, he come in here an' taken me so by surprise 
 that I did n't know my own name. How he got 
 in, I '11 never tell you, but git in he did ; an' when
 
 358 SISTER JANE. 
 
 I up'd an' looked, thar he stood wi' his ban's in 
 his pockets an' his mouth wide open. I dunno 
 but what his tongue was a-hangin' out. He like to 
 V skeer'd the life out'n me." 
 
 " Then up you jumped and run to him, an' says, 
 ' Oh, yes, Jincy ! I '11 have you and thanky too,' " 
 remarked sister Jane. 
 
 " Why, Miss Jane ! " Mandy blushed red as 
 fire. " Please 'm don't talk like that. We got to 
 runnin' on, an' he told me about a dream he had, 
 an' a whole lot of fool talk, an', before I know'd 
 it, I had done up'd an' tol' him I reckon I 'cl 
 marry him. If I had n't 'a' done it, I 'd 'a' never 
 got rid of him on the face of the earth. I never 
 did see anybody that could pester me like Jincy 
 Meadows can. I never had no more idee of tellin' 
 that man that I 'd marry him than I had of flyin' 
 not a bit." 
 
 " Well, you might 'a' done worse," said sister 
 Jane. "Where you'd 'a' done better, I don't 
 know. Jincy Meadows has got more sense than you 
 and me and William all put together." 
 
 " You reckon ! " exclaimed Mandy with a tone 
 akin to awe in her voice. 
 
 " I know it ! " sister Jane declared. 
 
 " I don't keer," Mandy protested ; " his havin' 
 sense don't hender me from bein' a fool. I know 
 I look like one." 
 
 " It 's mighty easy to be one," was sister Jane's 
 comment, and there, for the time, the matter 
 dropped.
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 359 
 
 Late that afternoon Clarence Bullard came in 
 with our lad. The two had been off in the woods, 
 and there, in the solitude of the forest, Freddy was 
 told the facts of his history that were already fami 
 liar to sister Jane and myself. The lad did n't 
 seem to be very much elated over the change in 
 his fortunes. 
 
 " Just think of me calling Dan ' Uncle Clar 
 ence ' ! " he said with fine scorn. " I '11 bet they '11 
 want me to call Miss Jane and Mr. William by 
 some new name. I won't do it ! " 
 
 " You don't have to, honey. Jest call us any 
 thing that pops into your mind, and if we know 
 you 're a-callin' us we '11 come a-runnin' ! " remarked 
 sister Jane soothingly. 
 
 " Sure enough ? " The frown on the lad's face 
 gave place to a pleased expression. 
 
 " Try it some day," said sister Jane with great 
 apparent earnestness. 
 
 The youngster laughed, but the puzzled expres 
 sion soon came back on his face. " But if I was 
 to call Dan ' Uncle Clarence,' he would n't come ; 
 he ain't used to it." 
 
 " Call me plain Dan just as long as you want to," 
 said his uncle. 
 
 " Yes, but I '11 know I ought not to," the lad in 
 sisted. " I don't mind saying ' sister Mary,' but all 
 the rest of it will choke me before I get through 
 with it I just know it will." 
 
 But we managed to soothe him after a while, and 
 when he had dressed himself in his best, which was
 
 360 SISTER JAXE. 
 
 as good as money could buy in our village, he went 
 with his uncle to his father's house. Both wanted 
 sister Jane and myself to go with them, the boy 
 being keen for our company ; but we thought that 
 our presence at such a time would be in the nature 
 of an intrusion. So we sat at home and sent our 
 kindest thoughts and best wishes along with our 
 friends. 
 
 It was all a seven days' wonder in the village, 
 especially among the negroes, who imagined that 
 only a miracle could have brought the child safely 
 home after so long a time. Old Sol, Colonel Bui- 
 lard's man-of-all-work, who always pretended to be 
 wiser than anybody else, was not behindhand now. 
 When I saw him a day or two afterwards, cleaning 
 up and clearing away the summer's growth in the 
 garden, he leaned on his rake long enough to say : 
 
 " I know'd in reason, Marse William, dat dat ar 
 chil' wa'n't no common chil'. Kaze he useter 
 come down yancler ter de stable whar I wuz at, an' 
 he'd sorter mope 'roun' like he los' sumpin'. I 
 say, I did, 'What de matter, honey?' He say, 
 4 Look like ter me dey ought ter be a gray hoss in 
 dat stall ctar, an' a side-saddle hangin' on dat peg 
 dar.' I say, ' Dey useter be dar many 's de day 
 gone by, but how come you ter know it, honey ? ' 
 He say, ' I dunno how come. I speck I des up an' 
 dremp it.' I shuck my head, I did, an' 'low ter 
 myse'f, ' Uh-uh ! sumpin' n'er gwine ter happen 
 'roun' yer sho.' An' you see yo'se'f, Marse Wil 
 liam, what done happen."
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 
 
 It turned out that the lad really had a vague 
 recollection about his parents and his home, but he 
 was. ashamed to say anything about it at the time. 
 
 Not long after the episodes that have been re 
 lated, another event occurred that had a sobering 
 effect on some of our people. The day had been 
 sultry for September, and for hours not a breath 
 of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. About 
 three o'clock black clouds began to roll in from the 
 southwest. Among them, and in the centre, was a 
 great whorl of dun-colored vapor that seemed to 
 rise higher and reach lower than the rest. 
 
 Before I could realize it almost before I could 
 shut the doors a terrific storm burst upon us 
 with a roar so deafening and a force so violent that 
 it seemed as if the great globe on which we stood 
 would be shaken to its very centre, if not torn apart. 
 It was a roar such as might be expected if the 
 thunders of heaven should drop from the sky and 
 run along the ground trailing their deafening 
 chorus after them. The storm was over and gone 
 in five minutes, being followed by a downpour of 
 hail. Then the air grew cold as winter, and a half 
 hour afterwards the sun was shining as brightly as 
 ever. But the storm left with me a new knowledge 
 of the weakness and impotence of man, and with it 
 came a feeling of depression almost unaccountable. 
 And yet, as I found out afterwards, the centre of 
 the storm had passed a mile to the west of us, strik 
 ing fairly across the Beshears place. 
 
 Late that afternoon, Mose, who was still the
 
 362 SISTER JANE. 
 
 foreman of the place, came knocking at our door 
 with a small sack full of gold and silver coins of 
 all descriptions about five hundred dollars in all. 
 The wind had blown the dwelling-house to atoms, 
 and in the ruins of one of the chimneys the negroes 
 had picked up these coins. 
 
 A feeling of sorrow came over me as I handled 
 the money. This was the precious store that had 
 been hidden away by Miss Polly and Miss Becky 
 the accumulation of years of pinching and sav 
 ing. The hand of the Almighty had lifted the 
 cover from their hoard, and scattered it about with 
 the rest of the rubbish. 
 
 I wondered that the negroes did not appropriate 
 the money for their own use, and said so. 
 
 " Well, suh," explained Mose, " dat ar money 
 b'longed ter Miss Polly and Miss Becky. Dey 
 yearned it, an' dey hidden it dar. Hit 's der'n. 
 Mo' 'n dat, dey done losted der min's, an' when any 
 body taken money f um folks like dat, sunvp'n bleeze 
 ter happen to um. Dat what dey tells me." 
 
 I placed the money in custody of the court, glad 
 to be rid of the hoard and have it off my mind. 
 
 What remains to tell has practically all been 
 told. Heaven was kind to us all, and especially to 
 me, singling me out, as it seemed, for as much 
 happiness as ever falls to man's lot in this world. 
 I saw, too, that, though the wounds that sin makes 
 may be deep and grievous, the sorrow that repent 
 ance brings can heal and hide every one. We saw 
 Mandy Satterlee frequently after she became Mrs.
 
 THE END OF THE SKEIN. 363 
 
 Meadows, and though she was cheerful and con 
 tented, the light of penitence was always in her 
 eyes. 
 
 As for Colonel Bullard, he gave his closing years 
 to good deeds, and if penitence did not shine in his 
 eyes, it manifested itself in his life and made its 
 influence felt throughout the community.
 
 *iiE or itzBiri i;awer3 
 
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