AN IDYL 
 
 WABA
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA NICHOLAS 
 
 Made out o' truck 'afsjes 1 a-goiri 1 to waste 
 'Cause smart folks thinks it's altogether too 
 Outrageous common. RILEY. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HURST & COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright 1898 
 The Bowen Merrill Company 
 
 Copyright 1912 
 The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 
 
 An M7lonbeWbh
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 2137335
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 AN IDYL OF THB WABASH i 
 
 AT A WAY STATION 32 
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART . . . .60 
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 77 
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 101 
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 131 
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 141 
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR ...... 177 
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 201 
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL .... 221
 
 Herewith together you have flower and thorn, 
 Both rose and brier, for thus together grow 
 Bitter and sweet, but wherefore none may know. 
 
 ALDRICH.
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 WHEN Miss Callista Rogers first came 
 from her Vermont home to the little 
 Indiana town of Honeyport, on the Wabash, 
 she had a sense of almost perilous adventure 
 something like that felt by the pioneer women 
 who followed up the ever-advancing and now 
 forever vanished frontier. 
 
 "It is so very far away," she said to her fam- 
 ily before starting, "and while, of course, there 
 are no Indians and no danger of having one's 
 scalp taken, or anything of that sort, still, things 
 will be queer and the people can't be expected 
 to be like those in Vermont, not having had the 
 same advantages." 
 
 After she reached Honeyport she wrote to her 
 sister that the people were queer, but that they 
 seemed friendly, and she thought she should get 
 along real well. At that time Miss Callista was 
 not much past her first youth, but she had lived 
 I
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 long enough to have imbibed the very firm con- 
 viction that New England opinions and New 
 England ways were the only opinions and only 
 ways worth considering seriously. Holding 
 such belief, it might naturally have been expect- 
 ed that she would come into conflict with her 
 new associates, but a fair degree of discretion 
 prevented her from airing her views too aggress- 
 ively, and her wholesome humor and evident 
 kindliness of spirit led her Hoosier friends to be 
 indulgent to such of her unflattering opinions as 
 were inadvertently betrayed and to regard her 
 with considerable favor. 
 
 She had come to Indiana to teach school, and 
 to Honeyport through the intercession in her 
 behalf of Deacon Knox, an old family friend at 
 home whose second cousin had married Rev. 
 Calvin Evans, pastor of the Presbyterian Church 
 at Honeyport. 
 
 In those days it was soon after the war 
 teaching, especially in the rural districts and vil- 
 lage communities, was not the complicated and 
 exacting science it has since become. Miss 
 Callista was fairly well grounded in the common 
 English branches ; in the way of accomplish- 
 ments she knew a little music, and as a crowning 
 2
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 acquirement had an acquaintance with the rudi- 
 ments of the Latin language. This last she was 
 not called upon to teach, but the consciousness 
 that she was on familiar terms hardly a speak- 
 ing acquaintance, to be sure with the ancient 
 tongue was a soure of infinite satisfaction to her ; 
 it gave her a sense of superiority and power. 
 
 There were some preliminaries to be under- 
 gone before she was officially authorized to teach 
 the young idea of Honeyport, an examination 
 among the rest, but this was not severe, and she 
 stood it successfully. As for the methods of 
 teaching to be adopted, there were no fixed 
 rules as now under the elaborate and inflexible 
 system in vogue. She was free to follow her 
 own judgment, which was for the most part 
 good, being based on New England common 
 sense and a power of adaptation to the pupils' 
 individual needs which every successful teacher 
 must have. So she taught in one of the two 
 schools of Honeyport very acceptably to the 
 people, who were easy-going and not yet 
 affected by the "higher education" fad. 
 
 But Miss Callista did not so easily adapt her- 
 self to her new environment in all respects. She 
 did not like the appearance of the town and the 
 3
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 surrounding country, to begin with. The coun- 
 try was too level. Her soul yearned for the hills 
 as the souls of those born among them must do 
 till memory fails. She missed the blue dis- 
 tances, the lights and shadows, the feeling of 
 companionship the mountains gave. The prairie 
 was monotonous and the sky shut down too 
 close. The village itself was trying to her sense 
 of thrift and order. She could not free her 
 mind concerning it in her letters home, for she 
 was resolved to give nothing but agreeable im- 
 pressions to the mother and sister back in the 
 trim and prim but picturesque Vermont town. 
 To Mrs. Evans, the pastor's wife, she unbur- 
 dened her mind when her sensibilities were too 
 deeply outraged. In Mrs. Evans she had found 
 a congenial acquaintance. That lady had lived 
 in Indiana for so many years that she had ac- 
 quired some of the habits and peculiarities of 
 what Miss Callista called the natives, but she 
 had been born in New England and cherished 
 its traditions. Consequently, she sympathized 
 in a measure with the strictures made by the 
 new teacher, but she was a discreet woman, as 
 became a minister's wife, and the confidences 
 poured into her ears went no further. Un- 
 4
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 derstanding this, Miss Callista felt free to ex- 
 press her true sentiments on all matters. She 
 was especially indignant over the slipshod ways 
 of the village. 
 
 "It's perfectly scandalous," she said, "the 
 way they let the grass grow in the gutters and 
 the way they let the pigs and cattle run loose in 
 the street. They ought to have more pride. 
 Why, when I rode up Main street in the Paw 
 Paw hack that first day and saw the sidewalks 
 almost covered by high grass, and cows and pigs 
 lying right on the walks, and people stepping 
 around them, I expected to find slovenly house- 
 keeping, too. Like town, like people, I thought. 
 Didn't turn out jest that way, I'm free to con- 
 fess. There are some very nice, neat house- 
 keepers here." 
 
 Another peculiarity of the natives excited Miss 
 Callista 's scorn. 
 
 "I never see," she told Mrs. Evans, "such a 
 dowdy set as they be. Why, they don't care 
 how they look. The women don't dress up of 
 afternoons, and farmers' wives don't put on a 
 fresh dud when they come to town ; jest wear 
 their old limpsy calicoes and sunbunnets. The 
 men ain't a mite better, though, to be sure, that's 
 5
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 the women's fault. Husbands are much what 
 the wives make 'em, as you know. I don't set 
 no great store by fashions and folderols myself, ' ' 
 she went on, "but it's certainly a dreadful shame 
 they don't slick up more when they go to meet- 
 ing particularly the Campbellites. Go over to 
 that church an' you won't see a man with a 
 starched shirt bosom. Not that I look at such 
 things, specially, but if you have eyes you must 
 see. Clean enough, all of 'em, mebbe, but no 
 stiffenin'. I'd like to clearstarch 'em all once 
 men, women and children. 
 
 "And there is another thing. Folks around 
 here surmise and wonder, but can't guess one of 
 the main reasons why I set up my own little 
 housekeeping. Of course, in the first place, I 
 wanted to economize, but, Mrs. Evans, another 
 great thing was that I jest wanted something 
 good to eat. I do' know as I'm so very dainty 
 about my eating, an' I do' know but I be. Any- 
 how, I don't like the cooking I get at most places. 
 Of course, if you'd felt clear to take me it would 
 a' been all right s' far as the table's concerned, 
 but most places they don't suit me. They can't 
 make a good cup o' tea; they don't know how 
 to make yeast bread, and not one of 'em can 
 6
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 make a decent pie. I will say for 'em, though, 
 that they can fry chicken to beat all creation." 
 
 Miss Callista conceived a peculiar animosity 
 toward the religious sect variously known as 
 "Disciples," "Christians" and Campbellites." 
 Just why was not clear. It may have been due 
 to the fact that she had never heard of the de- 
 nomination back in Vermont, and being, as she 
 considered, a purely western product, it was, 
 therefore, to be distrusted as somehow unortho- 
 dox and subversive of pious principles. The sect 
 was numerously represented in that locality, and 
 the congregation which worshiped in one of 
 the three churches of Honeyport was larger than 
 either the Methodists or Presbyterians could 
 muster. 
 
 "I shan't call 'em Disciples," sniffed Miss 
 Callista, "jest as if they were as good as the 
 Twelve, an' I shan't call 'em Christians. The 
 idear! Jest as if they had a patent on the 
 name. They don't like to be called Campbell- 
 ites, but I shall call 'em Campbellites the hull 
 time. How any reasonable human being can 
 believe in the docterns of that church does beat 
 me. An' there they'll set an' listen to jest the 
 scrappiest kind o' sermons, when, by crossin' 
 7
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 the street, they could hear your husband's stir- 
 rin' discourses." 
 
 It will be seen from this that Miss Callista was 
 not a woman of broad mind, and that, though 
 she made her opinions plain to the comprehen- 
 sion, they were not expressed in that correct and 
 elegant language so desirable in the teachers of 
 youth. It is but just, however, to say that she 
 was aware of some of these verbal lapses. As 
 she herself remarked : 
 
 "Nobody understands grammar, and what is 
 proper language, better than I do, and in school 
 I always take great care to speak correctly. 
 When I come home, though, it's too much 
 trouble to be thinking of the parts of speech, 
 and I drop into an easier sort o' talk, as I put 
 on a kitchen apron or an old pair o' shoes." 
 
 Her idioms and accents she was unconscious 
 of, and therefore could not drop. The born 
 New Englander seldom does. She would say 
 "Indianar," and " idear," and " Mariar " to 
 the end of her days. She was quick to detect 
 what she considered errors in others, however. 
 
 "'Bucket!' Don't let me hear you say 
 'bucket,' " she would tell her pupils. "It's 
 a ridiculous word; say ' pail.' And don't say 
 8
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 you 'reckon ' or 'low ' you'll do so and so; say 
 'guess.' ' 
 
 Miss Callista had come West to teach because, 
 ev.en if she could get a school at her home, 
 with all the eager candidates in competition for 
 every place, better salaries were paid in Indiana. 
 For her own part she would have preferred to 
 stay in Vermont, even with the scant wages of 
 the district school, but she had a mother and 
 sister who needed her earnings, and it was for 
 them she started out to seek a better fortune. 
 The mother was a widow with a tiny home to 
 call her own and an income hardly in proportion ; 
 the sister, a fragile girl with the New England 
 scourge, consumption, already making its signs 
 visible. Miss Callista must be the bread win- 
 ner, and she went bravely about her task. 
 She loved her family and her home ; she had 
 none of the self-assertiveness that is needed for 
 those who would get on in the world; she 
 dreaded the separation from her dear ones, and 
 yet it never occurred to her to rebel against fate 
 that made such a trial possible. She did not 
 dream that she was heroic, and yet it is in such 
 actions that the heroism of the latter days is
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 found a heroism not less than that which led 
 the knights of old on their crusades. 
 
 Many and many a day in her new abiding place 
 homesickness pressed upon her like a tangible 
 weight ; her heart ached for a sight of dear faces 
 and familiar scenes ; the very sun shining in the 
 heavens took on a forbidding look, and the birds 
 sang a melancholy tune. But if the poor, lonely 
 little woman wept it was when no one knew. 
 She kept a brave face and wrote cheery letters 
 to the invalid at home. Every penny of her 
 salary but that which supplied her own barest 
 needs went to make the life of that invalid easier. 
 She not only made no complaint over her own 
 deprivations and sacrifices ; she made the sacri- 
 fices gladly and did not know them to be such. 
 Women are often like that. If the beneficiaries 
 accepted the gifts as a matter of course and 
 without appreciation of the life that was being 
 jiven also, why, that was not unusual either. 
 The human creature is often so. 
 
 The years went on until five had passed since 
 Miss Callista had seen the faces of her kin and 
 the blue Vermont hills. At the beginning she 
 had not dreamed that so long a time would 
 elapse before she could return, but one thing 
 10
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 and another had delayed her visit. The invalid 
 sister had needed so many things. The malady 
 made inroads and delicacies were wanted to 
 keep up her strength; medicines, too, and the 
 doctor must be paid. Once a famous specialist 
 came up from Boston to see her, and that cost 
 money. This fifth winter just ended had been 
 spent by the ailing one in Florida, but she was 
 now at home again, and a turn of fortune in the 
 shape of a railroad rate war made it suddenly 
 possible for Miss Callista to go to see her and 
 the dear mother. The cost of travel, the rival 
 passenger agents declared, was less than that of 
 staying at home. So, the spring term having 
 just ended, she joyfully went her way. 
 
 She was in time for the end. Though it was 
 early June and the sun shone with torrid strength 
 on the Honeyport prairie, and the roses were in 
 bloom, it was not so surely summer but that a 
 wintry blast swept down from the north through 
 the Vermont valleys and undid all the healing 
 wrought by the Florida airs. The ailing sister 
 was cut down as a lily by the frost. She died 
 in Miss Callista's arms faithful arms that had 
 scarce time to rest before they held the mother's 
 weary form while her soul breathed itself away. 
 II
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 The mother had lived for the stricken daughter, 
 and that beloved life ended, she, too, was done 
 with earth. 
 
 The summer vacation was not over when Miss 
 Callista came back to Honeyport. The charm 
 of her childhood's home was gone. Later in 
 life the glamour of the mountains would come 
 back to her and her heart would yearn for a sight 
 of them, but now they chilled her and she was 
 glad to return to the once despised village on the 
 Wabash, with the unbroken, shadowless land- 
 scape and the level horizon. Out of the old home 
 life were left only memories and a few household 
 gods. When some of these treasures were un- 
 loaded at the door of her Indiana home a 
 heavy oaken secretary, a spindle-legged table, a 
 straight-backed, comfortless-looking chair the 
 men who lifted them into place wondered that 
 she went to the expense of shipping such old- 
 fashioned furnishings when she might have 
 bought finer ones at home for less money. But 
 the women who saw them did not wonder 
 women who had found for themselves how the 
 heart clings to inanimate things when they alone 
 are left to speak of the dead. 
 
 So Miss Callista, permanently transplanted, 
 
 12
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 settled down in a bit of a cottage next to the 
 Presbyterian parsonage, still occupied by her 
 friends, the Evanses, and resumed her occupa- 
 tion of teaching. There was no one now to 
 save for and deny herself for, but, being an un- 
 selfish creature, this only brought her pain. 
 Nevertheless, as time went on life grew more 
 comfortable for her. She indulged in an occa- 
 sional bit of finery; now and then she went on 
 an excursion somewhere. Once she went to In- 
 dianapolis to attend the state fair, and once she 
 went to Chicago and came back dizzy and be- 
 wildered, glad to be in the quiet home away from 
 the busy whirl. 
 
 The years went on until more than fifteen 
 had passed since she set foot on Hoosier soil. 
 All this time she had not escaped the specula- 
 tions all normally constituted people are bound 
 to indulge in concerning the matrimonial pros- 
 pects of their spinster friends. It was assumed 
 that she was not only ready, but anxious to 
 marry when the opportunity and the man offered, 
 and kindly neighbors kept a lookout for both. 
 Miss Callista alone seemed indifferent. Appar- 
 ently she took no thought of such possibilities. 
 She was polite in a sedate way to the occasional 
 13
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 marriageable men who showed a disposition to 
 hover around her, but she gave encouragement 
 to none. Her Honeyport friends suspected that 
 she had wasted her heart on some unapprecia- 
 tive Vermont Yankee, but this was not the case. 
 The truth was that the marriageable male beings 
 who had come within her range of possibilities 
 had not been quite to her liking. The farmers 
 who constituted the most of these eligibles were 
 too rough and careless in dress, too much given 
 to tobacco chewing and too loudly hilarious in 
 their conversation to please her somewhat fas- 
 tidious taste. She may not have cherished a 
 definite ideal of the man who would meet her 
 requirements, but she had a clear conception of 
 what would not do. So the years had gone 
 swiftly by, bringing few changes in the routine 
 of her life, or even in her appearance. She was 
 a plump and comely body, and in some respects 
 more attractive than in her younger days, for 
 lines of care and anxiety and homesickness had 
 given way to placid contentment in her work 
 and in every-day affairs. She looked forward 
 to no change in her mode of life or her experi- 
 ences, but, as so often happens when change 
 comes into an uneventful existence, it comes un- 
 14
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 expectedly and creates a complete transforma- 
 tion in the little world. 
 
 Mrs. Evans, still her nearest neighbor and 
 closest friend, fell ill and came swiftly down to 
 death's door. Before she passed through she 
 said to Miss Callista, who was her faithful at- 
 tendant : 
 
 "When I am gone Calvin will marry again 
 after a proper time. He will; oh, yes. It is a 
 man's way, and it will be Calvin's way. He 
 will need somebody to look after him. I want 
 you to be the one, and I have told him so. You 
 will know how and will do for him as I would." 
 
 This was said gaspingly between paroxysms 
 of pain, but with all the firmness and decision 
 for which Mrs. Evans was noted when at her 
 best estate. It was the supreme proof of a 
 woman's faith in another that she could put her 
 husband into her keeping, and, having given it, 
 she closed her eyes and opened them no more. 
 
 This last communication made a powerful im- 
 pression on Miss Callista. It was a startling 
 surprise, but she accepted it unquestioningly as 
 a guide to her future. 
 
 What Mrs. Evans wanted Mr. Evans to do had 
 always been done, and she had not the faintest 
 IS
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 doubt that he would follow his wife's instruc- 
 tions in this, as he had been accustomed to do 
 in all other matters. 
 
 She grieved for her friend's death, but almost 
 insensibly she began to adjust herself to coming 
 conditions. The bereaved man assumed the 
 conventional appearance of gentle melancholy 
 by which the newly-made widower is so easily 
 recognized, and his earliest sermons had a ten- 
 derly pathetic tone that she, in common with 
 the other women of the congregation, considered 
 very touching and appropriate. But even in 
 this sacred stage of his widowerhood she felt 
 herself looking upon him with a new interest and 
 a secret sense of possession. She had been 
 brought up to revere ministers as a class, and 
 had always had a respectful regard for Mr. Ev- 
 ans because of his profession and because he had 
 been kind to her. He was not her ideal of 
 manly beauty, being gaunt of frame and bald of 
 head ; moreover, he was twenty years older than 
 she, being nearly sixty. However, she recog- 
 nized the fact that it was not for her to make age 
 a barrier, since no widower of sixty was likely 
 to consider himself other than desirable even to 
 a maid of twenty. 
 
 16
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 She also confessed to herself that she had 
 always considered the wife of a minister blessed 
 among women, and that, while she had never 
 hoped to marry one, the sudden and unex- 
 pected prospect of doing so was very agree- 
 able indeed. She felt herself fitted to the labor 
 of smoothing life's pathway for a servant of 
 the Lord. Not that she could assist in sermon- 
 writing, as she had suspected the first Mrs. Ev- 
 ans of doing, but she could minister to his com- 
 fort in a more material way. She could take 
 household cares from his shoulders ; she could 
 make him presentable to the public; she could 
 keep him posted on many ins and outs of the 
 parish; above all, she could feed him well, and 
 she held that of all men ministers needed to be 
 well fed. She considered it a reasonable propo- 
 sition that a man could administer a far higher 
 degree of spiritual consolation to his flock when 
 his stomach was comfortably filled than when it 
 was empty or dyspeptic from poor food. 
 
 The very church building began to take on a 
 new aspect. She saw that it needed a new car- 
 pet and a coat of paint, and her mind leaped 
 forward to the time when, as minister's wife, she 
 could have an influence in bringing such im- 
 
 2 17
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 provements about. But she kept all such 
 thoughts concealed in her own heart. Her 
 manner toward her pastor was more sedate and 
 dignified than ever. The knowledge imparted 
 by her deceased friend had given her a self-con- 
 sciousness which put an end to the little neigh- 
 borly attentions she had been accustomed to of- 
 fer when the wife was alive, such as sending 
 over a favorite dish, or now and then an em- 
 broidered handkerchief, or even taking his hose 
 from the mending basket and darning them in 
 the highest style of the art. Now, she thought, 
 such things would "make talk" dreadful bug- 
 bear of lone women and she left Mr. Evans 
 entirely to the mercies of Nancy, his inefficient 
 and elderly serving woman, and to other female 
 parishioners who, with husbands to approve 
 their actions, might safely venture where she 
 could not tread. 
 
 It was the more easy to give up her accus- 
 tomed service in her reverend neighbor's house 
 from the fact that her spare hours were now 
 largely devoted to the entertainment of the Lit- 
 tledale twins the three-year-old children of the 
 Rev. Amos Littledale, the Campbellite minister, 
 who lived across the street. 
 18
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 Miss Callista's animosity to the Campbellites 
 had in no wise abated, and was generally under- 
 stood in the community, but the feeling was di- 
 rected to them as a sect and not as individuals. 
 Certainly, it did not include the babies, especially 
 such sweet and attractive ones as these. Long 
 before their mother died, several months back, 
 her heart had gone out to those twins, and when 
 they manifested a fondness for her, based though 
 she knew it was on her supply of buns and cook- 
 ies, she became their devoted friend. She had 
 once confided to Mrs. Evans, with a maidenly 
 blush, that if she had been married and the 
 Lord had seen fit to bless her with children, she 
 would have liked twins. 
 
 Mr. Littledale's young sister was his house- 
 keeper and guardian of the babies, and Miss 
 Callista, seeing that the burden of care was 
 heavy for the girl, cheerfully relieved and 
 aided her in many ways. It would do no 
 harm to make the young things happy while 
 it could be done, she thought. "It wasn't at all 
 likely they would have much chance to be hap- 
 py if their father married that flirty young Mat- 
 tie Stone, over on the West pike, as seemed 
 likely. Strange that a man couldn't show bet- 
 19
 
 ter judgment when he married, especially when 
 he took a second partner. There was Mr. Lit- 
 tledale, all of thirty-one, or maybe thirty-two 
 years old, and Mat Stone wasn't over twenty, 
 and a giddy piece, too. There was Jane Em- 
 bree, steady and settled, and of a suitable age, 
 and willing, and he never so much as looked her 
 way. But law sakes, what could you expect of 
 a man and a preacher at that, in a church that 
 had the hull New Testament for its creed and no 
 confession of faith and no definite thing you 
 could get at to tell what the members did be- 
 lieve, or why they couldn't be just plain Baptists, 
 or even Methodists or Presbyterians, who will im- 
 merse you if you insist on it?" 
 
 But, with all her absorption in the infants Miss 
 Callista did not fail to keep a watchful eye on 
 Widower Evans. She was a woman and not un- 
 observant, and had therefore not failed to note 
 the peculiarities of widowers. She knew at about 
 what period deepest grief began to lift its clouds 
 and life present some attractions once more ; it 
 was a very early period in a majority of cases. 
 She could invariably detect the first indications 
 that the bereaved one was ' 'able to take notice, ' ' 
 as cynical old ladies have it ; she knew well the 
 20
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 signs that he was not only contemplating further 
 matrimonial possibilities in a general way, but 
 also when he had ceased to generalize and had 
 fixed his eye upon a concrete individual as a de- 
 sirable consoler. She saw Mr. Evans emerge 
 into the first of these stages, her proximity as 
 next-door neighbor being a point of vantage. 
 He shaved oftener than he had been accustomed 
 to doing; he buttoned his frock coat when he 
 went out, instead of allowing it to hang open in 
 a saggy, slovenly way; he carried himself more 
 erectly, and with almost a jaunty air. Before 
 his best coat was in the least shiny he began to 
 wear it every day, and bought a new one for 
 Sundays. 
 
 Miss Callista observed this piece of extrava- 
 gance with a thrill ; it was significant of imme- 
 diate activity in the matrimonial field. It was 
 barely six months since Mrs. Evans had died, 
 but her expectant successor considered it prob- 
 able that he would wish to marry as soon as the 
 conventional year of mourning had expired, and 
 it was a matter of course that the necessary pre- 
 liminaries should be arranged before that date. 
 
 Almost unconsciously she began to preen her- 
 self like a little bird in the spring. Her brown 
 
 21
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 hair waved with an extra crinkle; she put a 
 fresh bow on her summer bonnet and wore a 
 pink ribbon at her throat where brown had been. 
 People said how young Miss Callista looked and 
 how well she "held her age." They also be- 
 gan to say what a suitable wife she would make 
 for Mr. Evans; some of them, in the free- 
 spoken rural way, said it to her, and made her 
 blush and try to look angry. But they began 
 to say, too, that Mr. Evans seemed to be look- 
 ing with a favorable eye upon the Widow Jack- 
 son, out on West Main street. He had been 
 seen to walk home with her from prayer- meet- 
 ing, and he dropped in with what some con- 
 sidered needless frequency to administer spiritual 
 consolation to the widow's son, who was in the 
 last' stages of what was known as "decline." 
 
 This information gave Miss Callista a shock. 
 Could it be possible, she asked herself, that he 
 was about to disregard his wife's dying injunc- 
 tion? He showed no indications of any leaning 
 in her direction, save that he had come over 
 once or twice in a neighborly way, and when 
 other neighbors were present, to sit on her little 
 porch and chat in the twilight. But he had 
 never walked home with her from prayer-meet- 
 
 22
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 ing, though she attended regularly and it was 
 right in his way. She cogitated over the matter 
 a good deal, and as a result of her reflections 
 decided upon what she considered a bold move 
 and a counter attraction to the widow's bland- 
 ishments. She resolved to invite him to supper, 
 no matter if folks did say she was setting her 
 cap for him. She wasn't doing anything of the 
 kind, and she wasn't anyways anxious, she said 
 to herself, to marry him, but something was 
 due to her friend Mrs. Evans; and certainly that 
 lady would not approve of Mrs. Jackson. And 
 what a poor figure she would cut at the head of 
 the missionary society and the sewing circle, 
 sure enough! Perhaps, it was her (Miss Cal- 
 lista's) duty gently to remind him of his late 
 partner's wishes. So she spent the most of one 
 Saturday afternoon in concocting the preacher's 
 favorite dishes, and when they were ready to 
 serve, stepped to the back fence, and, in a 
 casual way, as if it were a sudden thought, 
 asked him to come over and have a bit of sup- 
 per. She said, she knew Nancy had gone to 
 see her folks, and she thought he might enjoy a 
 cup of tea and something warm instead of a cold 
 bite by himself. 
 
 23
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 He came with alacrity, and was presently 
 installed at the table with Miss Callista op- 
 posite and a Littledale twin at each side of her. 
 It had seemed to her that the presence of the 
 twins would at once preserve the proprieties 
 and offer no barrier to confidential conversa- 
 tion. The babies behaved like little angels, 
 but there was no conversation that all the 
 world might not have heard. She plied her 
 guest with fried chicken, with the lightest of 
 rolls, with strawberry shortcake and with his 
 favorite temperance tipple of diluted blackberry 
 cordial, put up by her own hands the year be- 
 fore. He ate heartily and joyously, and made 
 a variety of facetious remarks to the twins, but 
 he went home without so much as a look indi- 
 cating a thought of his wife's sacred injunction. 
 
 Miss Callista did not like it. She took the 
 twins to their gate and kissed them good-night 
 with an abruptness and irritation of manner 
 hitherto unknown to them. She was beginning 
 to have a little resentment on her own account 
 as well as on that of the departed Mrs. Evans, 
 whose request was being ignored. Her vanity 
 was touched. Queer taste a man had, she 
 thought, who could see anything in that Widow 
 24
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 Jackson better than he saw in her ; and every- 
 body knew the widow couldn't cook a decent 
 meal to save her life. 
 
 Miss Callista was modest, but no woman is so 
 unduly self-depreciating that she does not se- 
 cretly recognize her own superiority to certain 
 other women. 
 
 But the supper did have its effect, after all, 
 for during the weeks following Mr. Evans fell 
 into the way of walking home with Miss Cal- 
 lista after Sunday evening service and of coming 
 oftener to sit on her porch in the dusk. But he 
 did not discontinue his visits to the widow. The 
 situation was quite interesting to the parishion- 
 ers and the village gossips, and people began to 
 take sides. The women discussed the matter 
 over the back fences, and the men who sat 
 around the grocery stores wagered small sums 
 on the cutcome. 
 
 One day in August Miss Callista was surprised 
 by the receipt of a letter. It was from Mr. 
 Evans, who had been spending a week or so 
 with a sister in Lafayette. It read thus: 
 
 " Miss Callista Esteemed Friend: I take this means 
 of addressing you in regard to an important matter. When 
 my lamented Jane was in her last illness, she foresaw that 
 
 25
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 I should find the burden of loneliness too great to bear, and 
 she advised me to marry again after a proper time had 
 passed, and strongly recommended you as a suitable part- 
 ner. Indeed, she was so urgent that she exacted a promise 
 that I would follow her advice. At that time I was much 
 agitated and distressed, and scarcely knew what I was 
 saying, but since I have recently come to reflect upon the 
 matter it has seemed to me that her views were very 
 judicious. The time is near when I can, without re- 
 proach, enter again into the marriage state, and for many 
 reasons it seems expedient for me to do so. Inasmuch 
 as you were on terms of close friendship with my dear 
 Jane, and will doubtless desire, as I do, to carry out her 
 wishes as far as possible in all respects, I ask your con- 
 sideration of the matter in hand. As my wife you can 
 greatly increase your field of usefulness, and I feel assured 
 that the Lord will fit your strength to the new duties and 
 responsibilities. I write this in order to prepare your 
 mind. I shall return to-morrow and will call on you, 
 when we can discuss the subject in all its bearings. 
 "Yours in the Lord, 
 
 "CALVIN H. EVANS." 
 
 Miss Callista read this epistle several times. 
 At first she experienced a sense of triumph and 
 elation. There was no longer any doubt about 
 the matter. She, and not the Widow Jackson, 
 had won the prize. On the second reading she 
 added the comment, "if he is a prize." The 
 third time red spots began to grow on her 
 
 26
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 cheeks, and she talked to herself as people who 
 live alone are apt to do. 
 
 ' ' He talks as if he were asking me to marry 
 him all on his first wife's account, and had no 
 special interest in the matter himself. Mrs. 
 Evans was a good woman, but another woman 
 wants some better reason for marrying the wid- 
 ower than that. And then he doesn't out and 
 out ask me to marry him; jest takes it for 
 granted that I will jump at the chance once my 
 mind is prepared. Conceited old thing, if he is 
 a preacher. He seems to have some doubt, 
 too, of my being equal to the new duties, and 
 and he never even says he likes me or will 
 try to make me happy, or anything. A woman, 
 even if she is going to be a second wife and isn't 
 as young as she was, wants a little love-making 
 on her own account." 
 
 Miss Callista did not reflect, or perhaps did 
 not know, that men to whom it is not given to 
 be sentimental and affectionate on pa^>er are 
 sometimes most eloquent of speech in the tender 
 cause. She continued to cherish resentment, 
 but, nevertheless, went about preparing green 
 corn fritters incase the parson should happen in 
 about supper time. 
 
 27
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 The twins happened in, as they were wont to 
 do whenever they found the gates unfastened, 
 and after them presently came their father osten- 
 sibly in search of the truants. He had come 
 so often on the same errand that he was quite at 
 home, and detected at once Miss Callista's ap- 
 pearance of irritation, for there was a dangerous 
 sparkle in her usually mild eyes. 
 
 "Have the children worried you? I will take 
 them home at once," he said. 
 
 "Worry me those dear babies? No, indeed ; 
 they couldn't do that. Older people than they 
 are the ones who worry." 
 
 Rev. Mr. Littledale might have made a repu- 
 tation in the legal profession, he had such a 
 knack of getting the information he wanted by 
 skillful but apparently purposeless questioning. 
 Miss Callista had no intention of telling about 
 Mr. Evans's proposal, or, more accurately, his 
 proposition, but she was full of the subject, and 
 presently sat down on the sofa in the cool lit- 
 tle parlor, the twins promptly climbing up and sit- 
 ting one on each side with their arms about her. 
 
 "What would you think, Mr. Littledale, of a 
 man who would ask a woman to be his second 
 wife just because he thought it would please his 
 28
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 first wife? I know I know a lady I have 
 heard of a case of the kind." 
 
 Mr. Littledale was shrewd. He had had his 
 eye on Mr. Evans, and needed to know no more. 
 
 "Miss Callista," said he promptly and with 
 shameless disregard of the other man's possible 
 claims, "Miss Callista, such a man isn't worth 
 thinking about. He's a selfish wretch, and no 
 woman could be happy with him. A second 
 wife deserves as much consideration as the first, 
 and on her own account, too. And while we 
 are talking about marrying, Miss Callista, shall 
 I tell you what I have been wanting to say for 
 some time? I want you for my wife. I love 
 you, Miss Callista; the twins love you; won't 
 you come to us?" 
 
 The twins , cherubic creatures , promptly echoed , 
 " Love oo, Miss C'lista," and proceeded to em- 
 brace her, but were dispossessed by their parent. 
 
 Miss Callista was taken completely by sur- 
 prise, but this variety of surprise never wholly 
 disconcerts the most timid of women. She 
 thought rapidly for a moment. 
 
 "There! Mr. Littledale 's been dropping in 
 all summer, staying to supper and making him- 
 self at home generally, and I never thought any- 
 29
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 thing of it, because he's younger than I be; 
 and, besides, I s' posed he was engaged to that 
 Stone girl. Folks will say I tried to catch him. ' ' 
 
 Like a flash, too, came the thought: " If I 
 say yes, Mr. Evans will have to look somewhere 
 else, and I don't care if he does. I never made 
 any promise to Jane. The Widow Jackson can 
 have him." 
 
 What Miss Callista said was: "Why, Mr. 
 Littledale, I'm seven years older than you be, 
 and and I'm a Presbyterian." 
 
 "What do a few years matter? We won't 
 count them," was the reply. "And I'm sure 
 I have nothing against Presbyterians. If you 
 mean that I'm a Campbellite, why, please try 
 to forgive me." 
 
 Evidently he received forgiveness, for when 
 Mr. Evans arrived that evening he found Mr. 
 Littledale sitting with Miss Callista on the vine- 
 covered porch, and the corn fritters had all been 
 eaten. The new condition of affairs was gently 
 disclosed to him by his successful rival, and he 
 was perceptibly discomfited. He had, perhaps, 
 not valued Miss Callista at her true worth while 
 he considered her his for the asking, but now 
 that another man had taken her from him she 
 30
 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH 
 
 suddenly seemed highly desirable. Possibly 
 the discovery of Rev. Evans's designs may have 
 inspired Mr. Littledale to unpremeditated action, 
 but this is only a surmise. It is the way of man 
 to be so influenced. Mr. Evans made but a 
 short call, and when he entered his own home 
 the door was heard to slam with what seemed 
 unnecessary violence. 
 
 But the Presbyterian pastor was not inconso- 
 lable. The very next evening he walked home 
 with the widow Jackson from prayer-meeting 
 and stayed till IO o'clock. The morning after, 
 the widow, under strict injunction of secrecy, 
 told Deacon Todd's wife of her engagement, 
 and by night the whole town knew of it. 
 
 Miss Callista also confided in Mrs. Todd. 
 
 "I never would have supposed that I'd marry 
 a Campbellite, that is, a Disciple never, or 
 that I'd be one myself. Of course, a minister's 
 wife ought, in all decency, to belong to his 
 church, and, of course, I will. I ought to be 
 able to accept the doctern if it's the hull New 
 Testament, as they say. And there! I'll have 
 to be immersed, too, I s'pose. I hadn't thought 
 of that ; but I guess I can stand it to go through 
 water, or fire either, for them blessed twins." 
 31
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 npHIRTY years ago a certain railroad in In- 
 1 diana was new enough to be still a source of 
 deep interest and curiosity to the people of the 
 sparsely-settled region through which it passed. 
 They had not yet ceased to gather at the stations, 
 morning and evening, to see the "down train" 
 and the "up train." The projectors of this 
 thoroughfare, having in view, perhaps, legisla- 
 tive appropriations and private subscriptions of 
 stock, had artfully led the public to think that a 
 farming country of marvelous richness was suf- 
 fering for an outlet ; that passengers and produce 
 impatiently waited to crowd its cars. So im- 
 pressed were guileless citizens with this idea that 
 only a brave man or a fool would have dared to 
 say: "Goto! We need no railroad." Thus 
 far in the existence of the road the great rush of 
 travel and traffic had not begun ; in the mean- 
 32
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 time, one train daily each way was found enough 
 for all needs. 
 
 Few among the rural population along the 
 route ever went from home; fewer still ex- 
 pected visitors. Yet they went regularly to 
 see the engine and the gayly painted cars ; they 
 indulged in wild speculations as to the probable 
 business and destination of the travelers of whom 
 they caught glimpses. The occasional stranger 
 who stopped at any village was confronted on 
 the platform by groups of men in blue or butter- 
 nut jeans, all chewing tobacco and expectorat- 
 ing profusely. He passed women in lank calico 
 dresses and limp calico sunbonnets some old 
 and wrinkled, some young enough to be pretty, 
 but, with rare exceptions, hopelessly plain. Even 
 the dull-eyed babies, in their mothers' arms, 
 lacked the charm of health and wholesomeness. 
 If the traveler chanced to wonder how one woman, 
 with an expanse of toothless gums, could endure 
 to smile, he might marvel that the next one ap- 
 peared in public before having her unsightly 
 teeth removed. And while he considered the 
 sad effect of quinine, soda and tobacco on human 
 beauty, he would have been amazed had he 
 known the curiosity his own person excited. 
 3 33
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 "Who is he?" "Where does he live at?" 
 "What brings him down this away?" "How 
 long will he stay?" were questions eagerly dis- 
 cussed. 
 
 The railroad had given them something to 
 think about. Do you know what that means, 
 you who have never lived in the country, remote 
 from a business center? It means that the resi- 
 dents, having little outside interest, few books, 
 perhaps no newspapers (there are such places 
 yet), have narrowed their lives down until fresh 
 subjects for thought and conversation are rare. 
 They have talked about each other, about the 
 crops, the calves, the pigs and the weather, until 
 each man knows what another is going to say 
 while he is yet afar off. Any unusual event, a 
 death, an elopement, a fire, is seized upon, talked 
 about from every point of view, turned to every 
 light, over and over, until each thread and shred 
 of the story is worn with age. Finally, it seems 
 to die away, but suddenly revives, and passes on 
 its round until set aside by something equally 
 startling. Think, then, of the vast store of en- 
 tertainment afforded by a railroad ! 
 
 On this October evening, thirty years ago, 
 the echoing scream of the locomotive, strange to 
 34
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 say, did not draw out the usual number of idlers 
 to gape, open-mouthed, as the train halted, 
 then passed on. More strange still, many pas- 
 sengers alighted at each stopping place the na- 
 tfves, themselves, returning home with the air of 
 adventurers, breathing sighs of relief, too, as of 
 having safely accomplished a perilous journey. 
 Capacious lunch-baskets, as well as certain addi- 
 tions to their every-day attire wide hoop- 
 skirts on the women, shirt-collars on the men, 
 for example suggested that some sort of festiv- 
 ities had been indulged in. 
 
 As the excursionists lingered, reluctant to go 
 while anything remained to be seen, their last 
 glances turned from the long line of crowded pas- 
 senger coaches to a baggage-car with the doors 
 tightly closed, and a curious hush fell on them as 
 it rolled by. What did it mean? A "through 
 passenger," in search of knowledge, found the 
 path an easy one. The long, lean man at his side, 
 with sunburned, straggling beard and a mouth 
 like a cavern, was full of information. "Political 
 meetin' ! Lord, no ! 'Lections stirs a feller up 
 some, but there ain't ary stump-speaker in In- 
 diana 'at kin fetch sech an all-fired big crowd as 
 was out to Newburg to-day. Hangin' yo' 
 35
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 know Bill Murdock's. Hain't heard about 
 him? Reckon yo' cain't live 'round hyer, any- 
 wheres, or yo'd a knowed the peticklers. Been 
 a powerful sight o' talk about it, fust an' last. 
 Yo' see 't happened 'bout this hyer way: Bill, 
 he tuck a notion one night, nigh two months ago 
 now, 'at he'd go down to the Corners to Gim- 
 ble's an' get some ten-penny nails. 
 
 "He was a-workin' old Carter's farm on the 
 sheers an' lived up there, full two mile from the 
 Corners. His wife was a finicky little critter, 
 with a mite of a baby, an' 'peared like she had 
 a warnin' o' some kind, for she done her best to 
 coax him to stay to home. But go he would, 
 though what he wanted with them nails jest at 
 that time, more 'an a pin with two heads, no 
 one could ever make out. After he'd bought 
 'em an' talked with the fellers in the store a bit 
 mebbe had a drink or two in the back room 
 in come Jake Jillson. Jake was a airy sorto' 
 chap could afford to be, 'cause his father 'd 
 left him one o' the best farms in the township, 
 an' he was beholden to nobody. Well, there'd 
 been some old grutch atween him an' Bill no 
 one knows zackly what. Some says Jake had 
 courted Bill's wife in times past, an' that she 
 36
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 throwed him over; but I don't reckon that waa 
 it. Jake was married two years afore Bill was, 
 an' taint no ways likely 'at a female woman 'u'd 
 give a well-to-do feller like Jake the go-by an' 
 take up with a pore man like Bill. They're too 
 long-headed, women be. 'T any rate, however 
 'twas, the two soon come to a quarrel. Nobody 
 'at heard 'em seems to agree jest how it was. 
 Jake he was aggravatin' an' kep' anaggin'. Bill 
 allays was high-tempered, an' fore anyone seen 
 'at they was really in airnest, Bill he was chasin' 
 of Jake over the boxes an' bar'ls. It was on'y 
 a minute afore he ketched him an' hit him. The 
 breath was knocked out o' Jake for good an' all 
 with that air very pound o' ten-penny nails. 
 
 "Jerusalem! What a racket it raised ! After 
 the folks come to their senses like, they got the 
 sheriff an' a posse o' constables an' scoured 
 around the country right smart of a spell huntin' 
 Bill, afore they thought o' going to his house. 
 At last they went there an' found him a-walkin' 
 the floor with his baby. He was teetotallj 
 wropped up in that woman an' young un o' his, 
 but sick baby or not he was drug off to jail, 
 an' not a minute too soon. A lot o' men in 
 masks camea-gallopin' down, an' would a' made 
 37
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 short work o' him if he'd been there. No, I 
 don't know who they were, an' ef I did, 'twould 
 be safe fer to keep my mouth shet. These hyer 
 things hev to be looked after now an' then the 
 law bein' so slow an' oncertain. Wasn't much 
 time lost, though, on this case. The jury 
 wouldn't a' dared to a' brought in ary other 
 verdict than guilty, considerin' how many rich 
 relations Jake had scattered about this county. 
 They'd made it mighty lively for ary juryman 
 'at would vote to clear his murderer. An' so 
 Bill, bein', as I said, a pore man, with no friends 
 to help him, had no show, an' had to swing. 
 'Twas all right, I reckon ; somebody has to be 
 made a example of. 
 
 "Me an' Mandy that's her in the red caliker 
 a settin' over yonder 'lowed we'd go up to 
 Newburg to-day, where the hangin' was at. 
 Hadn't ary one of us ever saw a man hung, an' 
 she hadn't never been on the steam kyars. I 
 hadn't no notion o' takin' the boys, but Mandy, 
 she says, 'Lawsy, let 'em go, it'll be a warnin' 
 to 'em to behave theirselves when they've 
 growed up.' So we all went. An' jeminey! 
 what a crowd ! Best part o' two counties there, 
 I reckon." 
 
 38
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 After a pause, during which the long, lean 
 man ejected tobacco juice vigorously across the 
 traveler into the aisle, he added reflectively: 
 "A circus, I'm free to say, would a' been more 
 to my taste, but it wouldn't a' been so im- 
 provin' to the community. Elder Borum says 
 circuses are corrupt an' a snare o' the devil." 
 
 Another pause and more tobacco. 
 
 "The the deceased is on a kyar back o' 
 this hyer." 
 
 Just then the train quivered, slackened, 
 stopped where a lonely country road crossed the 
 track; not a human being, not a house in sight 
 only a platform and a pile of walnut lumber 
 to hide the long, straight, western horizon be- 
 yond miles and miles of "rolling" country. In 
 the summer, perhaps, it might have a certain 
 beauty ; in the dusk of this autumn day it was 
 desolation. Toward the north a grove of girdled 
 trees waved white, ghostly arms; rain had 
 fallen and the gray earth, the heavy sky alike 
 seemed sodden. The long gray and black 
 curves of the wagon-track wound in and out like 
 a huge serpent crawling over the earth. 
 
 Out upon the platform was helped from the 
 baggage-car a young, slender woman with a 
 39
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 baby in her arms a woman in whose eyes was 
 no longer hope, were no more tears. 
 
 After her was lifted a pine coffin roughly 
 stained. The men who had touched her gently 
 were less tender of this other burden. They 
 dropped it with a jar that brought a little cry of 
 pain from the woman's lips. She sank down 
 and placed her hand upon the box as if to shield 
 from harm that which was within. The child 
 upon her lap stared solemnly at the sky. The 
 engine shrieked fiercely as- if in haste to go, then 
 rushed on, leaving her with her dead and her 
 despair. 
 
 Curious passengers, looking back from a bend 
 in the road, saw her crouching motionless, while 
 a last red gleam from the setting sun broke 
 through the clouds and touched her with a 
 weird light. 
 
 Around a curve of serpentine highway they 
 saw, too, a country wagon, the driver an old 
 man with bent head, the horses slow and spirit- 
 less. Then the train swept on out of sight. 
 
 Not a pleasant story, do you say? 
 
 No, yet " 'tis true, 'tis pity." It is one of 
 those dark threads so common in the weft of life 
 that, to our short-sighted eyes, mar the pattern 
 40
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 that else might be so fair. We even doubt the 
 wisdom of the Weaver who permits such de- 
 fects, such shadows to hide the clearer outlines 
 of the web. As if we knew His designs ! 
 
 Do you wish to hear the sequel to follow to 
 an end the twisted thread that seems to have 
 crossed and tangled uselessly in the loom of 
 fate? 
 
 The mother, who was left with her child at 
 the lonely station, would have been glad to die, 
 no doubt; but, for the sake of the babe, she 
 must live on. She was one of those timid, 
 clinging creatures such as all women are ex- 
 horted to become. Masculine wisdom says the 
 manifest destiny of such a one is to be a wife 
 and mother; the same sagacity neglects to go 
 further and provide for her helplessness when 
 destiny fails her. But these two lived, and 
 the child grew and thrived. How they lived 
 only a woman, poor and alone, who toils for 
 her children, day and night, can tell. This 
 mother, like the rest, worked early and late at 
 anything her hands could find to do. She 
 sewed, she washed, she nursed the sick, she 
 drudged for the farmers' wives in busy seasons. 
 Hours when she should have slept were spent 
 41
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 in making the scanty garments of baby Nancy. 
 Little sympathy was manifested for her, though 
 doubtless more was felt than found expression ; 
 the American farmer is not demonstrative. She 
 did not ask for pity, and no one saw her weep. 
 The neighbors said "Mrs. Murdock bore up 
 right well under her man's takin' off; lucky 'at 
 she was one o' them kind 'at didn't have no 
 deep feelin's." 
 
 Not so with the other widow. Mrs. Jillson's 
 display of grief was loud and violent. Never 
 was woman so cruelly bereaved, she said. She 
 knew she could not live. If there were no Mur- 
 docks on the face of the earth she should die 
 easier; she could grind them to powder herself. 
 "What right had that sly, deceitful hussy to be 
 alive? Not a bit of doubt she worked Bill up 
 to the murder. Jealous, you see, because Jake 
 looked at her once before he knew me." 
 
 Before long, however, her excessive sorrow 
 moderated . She allowed herself to think favora- 
 bly of life once more. Hysterics and "sinking 
 spells" grew less frequent. In less than a year 
 she married again entirely on her son's ac- 
 count, she told her friends. "A lone widow 
 woman couldn't rightly bring up a boy." 
 42
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 Mrs. Murdock's feelings toward the family of 
 her husband's victim were curious. For them 
 she cared nothing, but for "Billy's sake" she 
 cherished a strong desire, a feverish anxiety to do 
 them some service. Had she been of the Roman 
 Catholic instead of the Methodist faith she 
 would have starved herself, if need be, to pay 
 for masses for the repose of his soul. As it was, 
 ministers of the gospel well-meaning men 
 who had "labored and prayed" with Murdock 
 before his execution, told her that he had re- 
 fused the means of grace. While admitting 
 regret for the crime committed, he had declared 
 that he did not love God ; that he knew nothing 
 about Him. "When yo' talk, Elder, about lov- 
 in'," he would say, "I could sense yore 
 meanin' mighty well ef yo' was a p'intin' at my 
 woman an' the little chickabiddy. Them's all 
 I've got ary love fer in this hyer world. I nev- 
 er knowed the Lord here, an' ef it depends upon 
 my believin' in an' lovin' of Him now, I reckon 
 I shan't know Him in the next place." With 
 which grim statement the preachers were finally 
 forced to silence. 
 
 Being taken thus in the blackness of his sins, 
 unconverted, of course he must pay the penalty 
 43
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 hereafter, they told the grieving wife. The pen- 
 alty, she had always been taught and had un- 
 doubtedly believed, was unspeakable torture 
 forever and evermore. 
 
 Now, in her extremity, she did as we all do 
 when a creed is too narrow for our own special 
 needs she passed it by. Turning from that 
 monument of human wisdom, she groped for a 
 gate where hope was not shut out. 
 
 "Billy must be punished, for he done a wick- 
 ed thing, but he was not bad, he was not bad. 
 I knowed him so well. He was always kind, 
 on'y his temper quick God must know that 
 too, an' surely, surely He can't be hard on him 
 always 'cause he lost control over his self jest 
 once. Ef I could on'y do something for Mrs. 
 Jillson, seems as if 'twould count for Billy some 
 way. Ef she would let me work for her I 
 might see some chance, but 'pears like she 
 won't let me come a-nigh." 
 
 Having no one else, she whispered her 
 thoughts, her wishes to the little Nancy. In- 
 stead of tender songs and baby talk, the child 
 was lulled to sleep with stories of her father, 
 with broken sobs and prayers. Who knows how 
 early she became aware of a shadow upon her 
 44
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 life? How soon she was conscious of a differ- 
 ence between herself and other children whom 
 she saw? Her presence was only tolerated by 
 the busy farmers' wives because the mother 
 could not leave her ; no noisy play, no mischiev- 
 ous pranks were permitted or excused. 
 
 The children of the poor and unfortunate learn 
 self-control and self-repression at an early age. 
 When Nancy was ten years old she was done 
 with childhood. She could make herself useful 
 in many ways to the women who wanted 
 "help." She could " earn her own living," 
 and talk gravely of a half day's or a full day's 
 time. Her mother, perhaps feeling that she 
 could do no more for her daughter, and having 
 no other interest in life, let this world slip from 
 her feeble hold, and went out over the border 
 into the unknown. 
 
 As she grew up, people were not often unkind 
 to Nancy. On the contrary, they were usually 
 friendly in a somewhat condescending way 
 when she did her work well. Had she been a 
 timid, confiding creature, less self-reliant and 
 reserved, no doubt they would have shown her 
 many a favor that would have made her heart 
 glad. As it was, the occasional rude taunts of 
 45
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 other children (what is more barbarous than a 
 cruel child?) and now and then rough allusions 
 to her father's death by older people, raised in 
 her nature the armor of silence and assumed in- 
 difference. Withdrawing into herself, asking no 
 help, she was allowed to go her way alone as 
 best she could. So she toiled and served until 
 she came to eighteen years of age. That time 
 found her in the home of a farmer, twenty miles 
 from her birthplace. 
 
 Had you asked the girl if she were happy, 
 she might have said yes. The farmer and 
 his wife, who had no children, were kind to 
 her. There was plenty of hard work, to be 
 sure, but she had known nothing else. Met- 
 aphysical questions had not troubled her; she 
 had never asked herself if life were worth living, 
 had accepted fate without rebellion. She had 
 read no novels. Mr. Rhorer, the farmer, some- 
 times asked her to read to him from The 
 Weekly Reaper " types were so much littler'n 
 they used to be, readin' kind o' made his head 
 dizzy." Nancy certainly might absorb facts, 
 but not romance, from the able dissertations she 
 spelled out upon the treatment of lambs, the 
 weevil in wheat, or the advertisements of patent 
 46
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 churns. Even the household department of the 
 paper did not develop artistic tastes. She had 
 no colored tissue papers wherewith to construct 
 lamp-mats. Why should she make elaborate 
 frames of walnut shells or crooked sticks, when 
 she had no pictures to put in them? 
 
 An ignorant, uninteresting serving-maid, you 
 see very different from the aesthetic, cultured 
 heroine, so popular nowadays. Yet this one 
 was a woman, "with the heart and the hopes of 
 a woman." Hardly conscious, perhaps, that 
 she had a heart, so long had it been starved. 
 As in her childish days, she still held aloof from 
 the young people, though, had she been so dis- 
 posed, more than one young granger would 
 have been glad to become her "beau," for 
 Nancy was fair to see. They were not so fas- 
 tidious as to birth and family that her bright 
 eyes might not have won them. 
 
 The one small interest and excitement in 
 Nancy's life this summer was watching the even- 
 ing passenger train. It stopped for a few mo- 
 ments at a water station not far below the house, 
 and there she waited, when her work was done, 
 to catch a glimpse of the wonderful outside 
 world, that she could see in no other way. Day 
 47
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 after day found her there, leaning against the 
 old gate under a wide beech tree. She liked to 
 look at the strange faces, and took deep interest in 
 the variety of hats and bonnets, the only articles 
 of apparel visible from her point of view. It 
 puzzled her to guess where so many people 
 could always be going. If she should ever go 
 traveling she would not look so tired and cross 
 as many of them did ; she was sure she would 
 feel sorry, too, for girls who could only stand 
 outside and see the cars go by. Once she saw 
 a man carefully fasten a wrap around his wife's 
 throat, and heard words of tender anxiety for 
 her comfort. She wondered vaguely if any one 
 would ever care for her in that way ; it was not 
 likely, she thought. Somehow she did not wish 
 to stay that night until the train started. She 
 was tired, and the hissing of the steam made 
 her head ache. 
 
 One day she became conscious that the young 
 man who stood smoking a cigar on the back 
 platform was the same one who was there yes- 
 terday, perhaps the day before that. With eyes 
 turned away she became aware, too, that he was 
 looking at her with bold admiration the subtle 
 
 48
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 magnetism, conveyed no scientists quite explain 
 how, made her cheeks scarlet. 
 
 What was there in a trifle like that to make 
 her sleep that night less dreamless than before, 
 in spite of sound health and weary young body ? 
 
 The next evening she went to the usual place. 
 A little shyness about her now, but why should 
 she stay away? She could not know that the 
 young man would be there again ; but he was 
 there, and this time lifted his hat and smiled at 
 her. If Nancy lived to be an old woman, and 
 never saw him again, he would stay in her mem- 
 ory for that one act. She looked at it, not as 
 an impertinence, but as a mark of respect. No 
 man had ever lifted his hat to her before. The 
 rustic beaux had not attained that touch of pol- 
 ish, and would have sneered had they seen him, 
 yet have envied him his style and city man- 
 ners. 
 
 The refined, accomplished lady of whom we 
 like to read would not have been pleased with 
 this young man. She would have seen a "per- 
 son" of twenty-one or twenty-two years of age 
 with sandy hair and a jet black moustache. A 
 penetrating odor of hair oil and cinnamon essence 
 diffused itself about him. Wherever jewelry is 
 4 49
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 admissible in masculine outfit he had given it 
 room not expensive ornaments, perhaps, but 
 large and showy. A hat worn upon one side of 
 his head, a cigar c!arried in the opposite corner 
 of his mouth, as if to balance the organ of brains, 
 were peculiarities of his style. 
 
 The thrill which filled poor Nancy with de- 
 light would have been a shudder of disgust to 
 our fastidious maiden. 
 
 Poor Nancy? No. Something had entered 
 into her days which made labor light and hours 
 short. Only smiles and glances, but these may 
 mean so much. Once he threw a kiss at her 
 when no one else could see ; she tried not to 
 think of that except when by herself, for fear 
 some one might guess her thoughts. 
 
 One day her heart was set to fluttering, and 
 her cheeks to burning when Mr. Rohrer brought 
 the young man yes, there could be no mistake 
 the same young man home to dinner with 
 him. His name was Valentine Gipe. 
 
 "My stepfather's name, did you say, Mrs. 
 Rhorer? Yes, I've always went by name of 
 
 Gipe instead of ." (A door slammed and 
 
 Nancy did not catch that.) "Live up at New- 
 burg, with maw an' paw. Maw, she's that 
 50
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 wropped up in me she won't hardly let me out 
 of her sight. Am in business with Uncle Joe, 
 down to the junction, an' havin' a free pass, it's 
 just as cheap to board at home, so I go up and 
 down on the road every day. We're dealin' 
 in stock right smart at present. Heard Mr. 
 Rhorer had some fat cattle to sell, an' have 
 took a run up to see. Betcher boots I can't be 
 beat in jedgin' the pints of a nanimal. Uncle 
 Joe, he knows it, too; has dead loads o' confi- 
 dence in me." 
 
 It took a long time to buy those cattle. Mr. 
 Gipe came and went, and came again. When 
 one purchase was made another was talked of, 
 and the summer was ended before the stock was 
 sold. 
 
 Long before that time Nancy's heart was 
 gone. All the love that other girls divide 
 among friends and relatives was concentrated 
 and lavished upon a creature who did not know 
 what treasure was laid at his feet. He had 
 nothing but empty words to give in return, was 
 having a little fun, a little flirtation, he said to 
 himself but upon these words of love Nancy 
 lived and was happy. The world took on a 
 beauty she had never seen before. She won-
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 dered, as she sang at her work, that she had 
 not noticed what a pretty blue was the sky, how 
 bright were the sunsets; nothing in heaven, she 
 thought, could be fairer than the moon-lit sum- 
 mer nights. 
 
 The light of her passion brightened every- 
 thing. Even the gray, heavy face of her mis- 
 tress was touched with a reflected glow. Hith- 
 erto the girl had felt an unconscious pity for that 
 worthy matron's plainness. With feminine faith 
 in beauty, she had wondered, idly, how Mr. 
 Rhorer, himself no Adonis, could ever have mar- 
 ried so unprepossessing a creature. Now she 
 could see that the good woman might not have 
 been so plain, after all, when young. 
 
 Mrs. Rohrer saw nothing of the play that went 
 on before her face. Not a whisper of the old, 
 old story reached her dull ears. She had forgot- 
 ten that she was young once ; she did not re- 
 member that the blood of youth is riotous, its 
 pulses swift and eager not sluggish, as her own. 
 The girl was "only Nancy." Her mistress did 
 not see that she was fair, did not dream that she 
 had a want that was not supplied by herself. It 
 never occurred to her that Valentine's frequent
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 visits were for any one but her husband, because 
 she knew . 
 
 A part of what Mrs. Rhorer knew Nancy 
 learned one day. Summer had gone then; the 
 first bleak weather of fall had come, and sitting 
 by the kitchen fire, the prudent farmer's wife 
 began planning for the winter. "I wish to good- 
 ness Dan'el an' Val Gipe would finish up their 
 trade about that last lot o' cattle. We don't 
 want to winter them steers over. The young 
 feller's keen at a bargain, but powerful cautious. 
 It's jest as well, though, I s'pose, fer him to go 
 slow an' take care of his money, fer he'll have 
 a heap of it some day. His Uncle Joe's an old 
 bachelor, an' most likely '11 leave him all he's 
 got, an' then his pap left him right smart of a 
 lump." 
 
 "His pap dead? Why, child, didn't I ever 
 tell ye 'at Val's pap was murdered when he 
 was a baby? Gipe's on'y his stepfather Jill- 
 son's rightly his name. The man was hung who 
 did the killin'. 'Member me and Dan'el was at 
 
 the hangin' . Why ! Bless my soul ! What 
 
 ails the critter, a whiskin' out thataway an' 
 
 slammin' of the door? Is she why lawsy, 
 
 come to think, the man who was hung was her 
 
 53
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 pap, and I clean forgot it. Mighty touchy she 
 is, to be sure, but I wouldn't a' said anything if 
 I'd a' thought. Was going to tell her about 
 Val's wedding that's to come off next month. 
 Wonder if we'll get an invite." 
 
 Nancy's mind was in a whirl. One thought 
 only was clear. Val was coming that night. 
 He would have "something particular" to tell 
 her, he had said, and she, in her innocence, had 
 blushed and thought of but one thing he could 
 say. Now she must tell him this awful thing; 
 of course he did not know it, and what would he 
 say? Quite likely he could not marry her now, 
 for his mother would never consent. But how 
 could they live apart? 
 
 With the simplicity of a woman who loves 
 and knows nothing of coquetry or flirtation, 
 she had accepted Val's tender words with- 
 out misgiving. That he had said nothing of 
 marriage had not troubled her; so iar the 
 love had been all-absorbing, without thought 
 for the morrow. She had not doubted that 
 he knew her history "everybody did" and 
 mixed with her affection was a strong feel- 
 ing of gratitude that he had not held aloof. She 
 would care for him just the same, she knew, if 
 54
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 all his relatives were thieves and murderers, but 
 this was different. Her early years had left a 
 vivid impression on her mind of the relentless 
 hatred of Mrs. Jillson to her mother and herself. 
 It 'could hardly be hoped that time had made 
 much change. If Val should ask his mother, 
 perhaps it might be 
 
 Like on^ dazed she went about her tasks. 
 Would the day never end? How gray and cold 
 it was ! The morning, she remembered, had 
 been bright and clear. After supper she was 
 sent to the cross-roads grocery, a mile and a half 
 away, on some household errand. It grew dark 
 early now, but she was not afraid. What was 
 there to fear? She must hurry, though, to be 
 back when Val came. It was nearer to go up 
 the railroad than around by the turnpike, so 
 she started home that way. It was a lonely 
 walk even in the daylight, through dense woods 
 and through deep cuts, but she thought only of 
 the man she was hastening to meet. 
 
 Suddenly in the darkest part of the road, 
 where it made a short curve, she came upon an 
 obstruction. Partly with eyes accustomed now 
 to the darkness, partly by touch, she found logs 
 and stones piled high across the track. 
 55
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 How they came there she did not stop to con- 
 sider. Like a flash came the thought, "the 
 evening express is due ; it will be wrecked and 
 Val is on it." One moment, then followed 
 the thought and the deed for which she had 
 lived her eighteen years. "If I can reach the 
 water-station I can warn the engineer ; there is 
 no other way. I shall save Val yet." Softly 
 she crept over the logs ; with swift feet she sped 
 up the gloomy road, and thought not of the 
 darkness. Like an illumination around her was 
 the feeling ' ' My Val shall not die , I will save him . " 
 Swifter yet she ran it was a mile or more . Once 
 she fell ; with her ear upon the ground she heard 
 the vibrations of the coming train. Could she not 
 go faster? On and on, past the woods, through 
 the cornfields now the stalks still standing 
 breast-high after the western fashion. How the 
 dry leaves rustled! Her footsteps seemed to 
 echo. Plainly now she heard the throbbing of 
 the engine ; its fiery eye shone far up the road 
 there was yet time, she vias nearly there. 
 Louder sounded the thunder of the train, but 
 above that and the beating of her heart she heard 
 again the cUioing steps. Some one followed 
 her, called to her to halt, threatened her, but 
 56
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 still she ran faster, faster, A pistol shot, another, 
 but she went on, staggering now. The train came 
 thundering on, seeming in the gloom, like a de- 
 stroying monster, stopped impatiently at the 
 station, and Nancy dragged herself to the engi- 
 neer's cab. Her work was done. The creatures 
 who, for malice or plunder, had planned the 
 wreck were defeated, but had wreaked vengeance 
 on her. 
 
 On board that train were lives worth more 
 than the one for which she had given her own 
 men for whom other women would have died, 
 no doubt; wives and children for whom hearts 
 would have broken had they come to their homes 
 no more. She had saved these passengers from 
 destruction, but her thoughts were only for one. 
 ' ' Val ! my Val ! ' ' was her cry maidenly shy- 
 ness gone now in the solemn presence of death. 
 To her it was as though they two were alone in 
 all the world. When they carried her to the 
 house the young man followed reluctantly. 
 
 "I did it for you, Val. I know'd you'd be 
 on the train. Seemed as if the Lord must let 
 me get there in time. I kep' askin' Him over 
 an' over, an' He did. I reckon it's all up with 
 me, though. This mornin' I'd a been sorry, 
 57
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 but it's just as well. You couldn't a married me, 
 Val, a-knowin' who I be, an' it don't 'pear as if 
 I could a-lived away from you. You're all I've 
 got. Mother' 11 be glad 'at I did this. Mebbe 
 it '11 count for father, as she always was sayin'. 
 Mebbe yer ma '11 forgive us all now." 
 
 Valentine Jillson was selfish. Some woman 
 had ministered to his comfort, his vanity, all his 
 life. This one, he thought, had only done what 
 was proper, everything considered. He was 
 base, but with those dying eyes upon his face 
 he did not remind Nancy that he had never 
 spoken of marrying her. He could not tell the 
 girl what he had come that night to say that 
 their acquaintance must come to an end, be- 
 cause he was to marry Squire Jones's daughter, 
 Juniata, next month. 
 
 And she, even with the prescience of death, 
 could not read his treachery. With his hand 
 clasped tightly in her own she did not know him 
 false. 
 
 Swiftly her life ebbed away. She grew 
 weaker, weaker. "I am so tired. Kiss me 
 once more Val. Say you love me. My 
 Val. I love love . It is dark." 
 
 With his words, his kiss (heaven would par- 
 58
 
 AT A WAY-STATION 
 
 don this last deceit), Nancy's eyes closed to 
 open no more on this earth. On the other side, 
 it may be, she took up the thread of existence 
 that had lain in the shadow here and carried it 
 on into the eternal brightness the glory that is 
 neither of sun nor of moon. 
 
 59
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 MRS. HANNAH BROOKS, "Aunt Han- 
 nah," as she was commonly known, had 
 been a consistent member of the Methodist 
 Episcopal Church from the time she was eleven 
 years old, and she was now sixty-two. For 
 over fifty years she had walked in the strait 
 and narrow path and had never failed to observe 
 the ordinances of the church, or to rebuke sin 
 wherever she detected it. Many people, even 
 church members, felt that Mrs. Brooks's stand- 
 ard of behavior was a little too exacting and se- 
 vere for nineteenth century use. She was quite 
 as austere in her views as if she had been a 
 direct descendant of a Puritan father and had 
 lived all her life on stony New England soil in- 
 stead of having been born in Indiana of parents 
 who had come from the "old country." The 
 Puritan influence affects all American character 
 60
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 more or less, and it is a mistake to suppose that 
 the stern and rigid code of conduct commonly 
 ascribed to that influence is confined to one lo- 
 cality or is accepted only by Americans whose 
 family trees were planted in this soil before the 
 Revolution. 
 
 Mrs. Brooks had early been taught to be- 
 lieve that dancing was a device of the ene- 
 my of mankind to ensnare the souls of youth. 
 Card playing was an abomination that none 
 could tamper with without danger of missing 
 heaven ; while as for the theater, that was sim- 
 ply an open door to the place of everlasting tor- 
 ment. All through her life she had frequently 
 found it necessary to warn and reprove young 
 people of her acquaintance who showed an incli- 
 nation to indulge in the two first-named frivoli- 
 ties, but the theater evil was one she had en- 
 countered only in recent years. Aunt Hannah 
 had never lived in the city, her home having 
 been first upon a farm, and, later, and for many 
 years now, in the little town of Cicero, which has 
 no opera house and whose dramas are not 
 played upon the stage. With increasing fre- 
 quency the rumor came to her that some young 
 man or maiden had visited the theater in Indian- 
 61
 
 MRS. BROOKS S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 apolis to see a performance by graceless play- 
 actors a "show" they called it and if these 
 erring young persons were in the church she in- 
 variably took pains to make a personal remon- 
 strance and to urge them to turn again to the 
 strait and narrow path. 
 
 Among themselves these young people, feel- 
 ing a little guilty and conscience-stricken over 
 their conduct, nevertheless, said sometimes that 
 Aunt Hannah was hard and unsympathetic, and 
 that she would not talk so if she were not so 
 old-fashioned and understood how harmless 
 theaters really were. But Mrs. Brooks was not 
 unsympathetic. She believed firmly that all 
 these things were wicked. She had been taught 
 so, and had seen no reason to change her opin- 
 ion. Believing thus, and being very direct, out- 
 spoken and fearless in her methods, she hesitated 
 not to free her mind when occasion seemed to 
 require. 
 
 She was an uncommcnly intelligent and well- 
 informed woman for one of her limited oppor- 
 tunities, being a close reader of such literature 
 as came in her way the range extending from 
 the Bible and the life of John Wesley to Roe's 
 novels and the weekly newspaper. But read- 
 62
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 ing must be supplemented by experience and 
 observation before it gives breadth of view and 
 liberality of judgment. She realized vaguely 
 that a change of sentiment had taken place in 
 recent years concerning card playing, dancing 
 and kindred amusements, but she felt that this 
 was merely a symptom of the degeneracy of the 
 times and was strongly to be combated. Even 
 the ministry was being tainted with moral weak- 
 ness, for had not Presiding Elder Daniels and 
 he one of the most influential men in the con- 
 ference, too ! said to her one day when she 
 was discoursing on this subject had he not 
 used these almost incendiary words : 
 
 ' 'People must have amusements, SisterBrooks, 
 and perhaps it is better to let them enjoy their 
 pleasures under the sanction of the church. In 
 old times they danced before the Lord, you 
 know." 
 
 This was heresy that horrified the good lady, 
 but she resolved, let come what might, that she 
 would abate not a jot or tittle of her efforts 
 against sin. Whatever others might do she 
 would obey the spirit of the rules and regulations 
 laid down in the Methodist Book of Discipline, 
 and one of these rules charged that no entertain- 
 63
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 raent be entered into on which the blessing of 
 the Lord could not be asked, or words to that 
 effect. And to the best of her ability she did. 
 She neglected none of the accepted means of 
 grace. She was a regular attendant at prayer- 
 meeting, where her voice was frequently raised 
 in exhortation and prayer, as is the custom with 
 devout and elderly sisters in that fold. She was 
 faithful at class-meeting, and there confessed her 
 shortcomings with such reservations as seemed 
 expedient in view of the fact that the listening 
 ears were those of a dozen or so neighbors in- 
 stead of a single father confessor vowed to 
 silence. For instance, she saw no necessity for 
 relating in detail that she lost her temper and 
 thought a dreadful thought, which if put in 
 print would have contained a dash, when her 
 clothesline broke on Monday and let her week's 
 "wash" into the mud. All she considered 
 essential was to acknowledge, in a general way, 
 that she was a weak and sinful creature, and to 
 ask the prayers of her brethren and sisters that 
 she might overcome the old Adam and lay hold 
 more firmly on divine grace. If any of her 
 friends and neighbors had dared to arise in the 
 same meeting and to speak of her as weak and 
 64
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 sinful it would have been a very different affair. 
 But none of them did. They only sighed heav- 
 ily, looked dismal and said "Amen!" or "Lord 
 bless!" after the relation of each "experience." 
 
 Of late, as it happened, Mrs. Brooks's atten- 
 tion had been especially attracted to matters of 
 a theatrical drift. A son living in Chicago occa- 
 sionally sent her a Sunday paper, and those pa- 
 pers, as everybody knows, devote a considerable 
 share of their space to the drama in its various 
 phases. She had serious doubts as to the pro- 
 priety of reading these newspapers because they 
 were labeled ' ' Sunday, ' ' but, reflecting that it 
 was along in the middle of the week before they 
 reached her, she decided, through some obscure 
 train of logic, that there was no moral delin- 
 quency in finding out just what had been going 
 on in the world three or four days before. 
 
 It was something of a task to read a twenty, 
 thirty or forty-page Chicago paper through from 
 beginning to end with the religious care that she 
 did her county weekly, but in the two or three 
 weeks that each copy lay around before another 
 arrived she accomplished the task. Conse- 
 quently she read a good deal about the thea- 
 ters, much of it not to edification, because she 
 5 6 5
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 had never seen a play nor read one, and failed 
 to comprehend many allusions. There was 
 something about these columns that attracted 
 her, however, and she continued to peruse them 
 with interest. One day she found something 
 within her comprehension. In response to pop- 
 ular demand, Joseph Jefferson had reproduced 
 his ' ' Rip Van Winkle ' ' that season after its 
 semi-retirement for some years, and Chicago 
 papers had a great deal to say about it and 
 about him all in the way of praise. Now, 
 Mrs. Brooks knew all about " Rip Van Winkle " 
 and all about Jefferson. The daughter of her 
 next-door neighbor on the east was a school- 
 teacher in the city said city meaning Indian- 
 apolis, of course and subscribed for the Century 
 Magazine, sending each copy home after she had 
 read it. When the family was through with it, 
 it was passed around the neighborhood, begin- 
 ning with Mrs. Brooks. Among other things 
 she found in it was Jefferson's autobiography. 
 She began reading this under the vague impres- 
 sion that Joseph Jefferson was a statesman of the 
 Thomas Jefferson type; or, if not, perhaps 
 a great writer, though she did not remember to 
 have heard of him. At any rate, he must be a 
 66
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 distinguished man, for only that kind wrote bi- 
 ographies of themselves and got them printed. 
 When she learned that he was only an actor she 
 felt something of a shock, but by that time 
 she was interested in his career and pleased with 
 the good principles he seemed to possess and 
 the excellent moral sentiments he enunciated 
 incidentally. It did seem strange, though, that 
 such a man should engage in so reprehensible a 
 calling. 
 
 When she came to the account of his appear- 
 ance as Rip Van Winkle she was again surprised 
 and pleased, for had she not read Irving' s story 
 of that good-for-nothing but winsome idler? 
 Her next-door neighbor on the west had received 
 a copy of the "Sketch Book" as a prize for sub- 
 scribing for the Weekly Bugle, and, like most 
 other books in the village, it had eventually grav- 
 itated into her hands. 
 
 Altogether, she was fairly well posted in re- 
 gard to this particular bit of drama, and was 
 startled one day by the discovery that she was 
 actually wishing to see the play and to see Jef- 
 ferson. The idea was really shocking. She, a 
 member of the Methodist Episcopal Church, in 
 good standing, to think of going to the theater 
 67
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 of all places in the world. Satan himself must 
 have put the suggestion into her mind. Did 
 not the church Discipline enjoin members to en- 
 gage in no pastimes which could not be per- 
 formed to the glory of God? Certainly no one 
 could praise God at the theater; and yet and 
 yet, there was nothing especially objectionable 
 about "Rip Van Winkle," while Mr. Jefferson 
 seemed a good sort of man according to his light. 
 However, perhaps the theatrical columns of the 
 Sunday papers were just as well left alone, and 
 she would have no more of them. 
 
 The truth was that Mrs. Brooks had, without 
 suspecting it, a liking for the dramatic and for 
 the spectacular. She patronized all the enter- 
 tainments given under church auspices, and was 
 pleased with them in proportion as they were 
 picturesque or exciting. She liked elocutionary 
 performances, and was partial to the more dra- 
 matic recitations. She never missed charades or 
 tableaux arranged by the young people, and 
 made no criticisms, though the representations 
 were scenes from profane history or heathen gods 
 and goddesses arranged in white cotton drapery, 
 such as gods never wore before. She liked 
 lively music dance music, if she only knew it 
 68
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 revival meetings of the stirring, fervid sort, 
 and temperance meetings where the emotions were 
 played upon by skillful speakers. 
 
 A week or so after this twinge of worldly 
 temptation Mrs. Brooks went to spend a few 
 days with her married daughter in Indianapolis 
 to help that young matron with her winter sew- 
 ing. The very evening of her arrival her son- 
 in-law remarked to his wife at the supper table : 
 
 "Maria, Joe Jefferson is to play 'Rip Van 
 Winkle' to-morrow night. You know we have 
 been waiting to see him again, and I have 
 bought tickets." 
 
 Now, Mrs. Brooks knew that since her mar- 
 riage her daughter had departed from the strict 
 ways of her youth, and now and then indulged 
 in that perilous frivolity, progressive euchre, and 
 attended the theater. She had made vigorous 
 remonstrance, as in duty bound, but, finding 
 her protests of no use, had abandoned the fight, 
 at least till an opportune season. Out of respect 
 to her mother's feelings, Maria tacitly ignored 
 the subject, and now endeavored to signal her 
 husband to silence, but he went placidly on and 
 invited his mother-in-law to go with them, say- 
 ing he would secure another seat. Much to his 
 69
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 and more to that of his wife, Mrs. 
 Brooks did not manifest that animosity toward 
 theaters which a mention of them in her pres- 
 ence had been wont to arouse, and which the 
 artful son-in-law had hoped to excite on this 
 occasion for his own delectation. On the con- 
 trary, she took up the subject with a show of 
 interest more eager than she knew, and dis- 
 played so much familiarity with Jefferson and 
 his play that the two younger people looked at 
 each other in wonder. But when urged to say 
 whether or not she would go she suddenly stif- 
 fened and responded coldly: 
 
 "George Henry, you know my principles in 
 regard to such places. To-morrow night I shall 
 go to hear Francis Murphy., I know the way 
 to the hall, and am not afraid to go and come 
 alone." 
 
 Next evening came, but Maria had a head- 
 ache and could not go. George proposed to 
 escort his mother-in-law to the Murphy meeting 
 and leave her there while he went to the theater 
 for an act or two ' ' for it was really a pity to 
 miss it when we had the tickets and the time. 
 You know, Mother Brooks," he said solemnly, 
 winking at his wife over his mother-in-law's 
 70
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 head, " you know going to see Jefferson is not 
 like going to see other actors. He plays such 
 nice, clean, moral plays and is such a high-toned, 
 moral man church member, and all that that 
 it is almost as good as going to a religious meet- 
 ing to hear him." 
 
 "Church member, is he?" was Mrs. Brooks's 
 only response, but the acute George Henry de- 
 tected an expression in her eye that led him to 
 whisper to his wife, as he kissed her good-night: 
 "If we are not home till late you may know that 
 I have inveigled your esteemed parent into a 
 wild orgy at the theater." 
 
 It was a fair night, and they walked down. 
 The Grand Opera House was on the way to 
 Tomlinson Hall, and as they drew near its por- 
 tals the orchestra could be heard discoursing 
 some very lively music preliminary to the raising 
 of the curtain. When they reached the entrance 
 George Henry turned toward it. 
 
 " Come, Mother Brooks, let's hear Jefferson. 
 You may never have another chance. He beats 
 Francis Murphy all hollow. It's all right. 
 You'll find lots of good people there who would- 
 n't go to any other play nor to see any other 
 actor for the world." 
 
 71
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 There was a faint remonstrance where were 
 Mrs. Brooks 's accustomed vim and decision? 
 There was a feeble holding back of her steps, 
 but her eyes were fixed on the distant drop cur- 
 tain, visible through the open doors and in she 
 went. 
 
 It was an event in her life. The stage with 
 its setting, was as novel to her as to a child. 
 There it all was, just as she had read about it, 
 but so much more real the village green, the 
 old Dutch burghers, the vixenish Gretchen, lit- 
 tle Katrina and the happy-go-lucky, lazy, but 
 lovable Rip. As played, the story had some 
 points she did not recall in the book, but what 
 mattered ! There was Rip doing the best he 
 could. Suppose he was lazy and shiftless and 
 did get tipsy sometimes, such a wife was enough 
 to drive a man to drink. Mrs. Brooks forgot 
 time and place in following his fortunes. She 
 leaned forward, filled with visible wrath when 
 Gretchen scolded, and when, at last, the wife 
 drove him from home with his dog, and Rip 
 turned and bade her and his child a touching fare- 
 well, tears ran down her cheeks unheeded. 
 
 Then, how she thrilled at the thunder of the 
 mysterious ninepins rolled in the hollows of the 
 72
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 Catskills by Hendrick Hudson's men ; how weird 
 those old Dutchmen were ; how wonderful was 
 the red fire that flashed over them, making them 
 look like creatures from the infernal regions! 
 How her heart and her throat ached for the poor, 
 pitiful old man when he woke from his twenty 
 years' sleep and wandered back to his home to 
 find the world changed ! What a wonderful 
 thing it was altogether that one man for the 
 others in the play did not matter much that 
 one man could make a mere story, an impossi- 
 ble legend, seem so true, such a thing of actual 
 life! And what a delightful creature he was, 
 that Rip, that Jefferson, with his airy wave of 
 the hand and his confidential, infectious smile. 
 
 She was glad she had seen him; glad, glad. 
 
 And this statement she adhered to. George 
 Henry was discreet enough to say very little 
 about this escapade of his mother-in-law, but 
 she knew that she would meet no such consid- 
 eration at home, for in coming out of the opera 
 house she had jostled against young Hiram 
 Jones, of Cicero, whom she had often rebuked 
 for his theater-going, and whose father was her 
 class leader. But she was not cast down. She 
 had no intention of concealing her act. Next 
 73
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 Sunday she went to church as usual, serene in 
 the consciousness of looking well in a brand 
 new, though properly plain, bonnet bought in 
 the city. As usual, she appeared in class meet- 
 ing when the hour came. Her keen eye de- 
 tected a movement of interest and curiosity on 
 the part of others present, which convinced her 
 that young Hiram had told his story. 
 
 Brother Minshall, being called on after the 
 opening prayer and hymn, arose and repeated 
 with nasal emphasis the formula of forty years, 
 beginning: "Brethren and sisters, I feel to re- 
 joice that I am spared to be with you another 
 Sunday, that I may tell you of the wondrous 
 work of grace in my heart." 
 
 Sister Angeline Martin told her hearers in 
 droning phrase that she was a weak and sinful 
 worm of the dust, but that she had fixed her 
 trust in the Lord and knew that He would lift 
 her up. 
 
 Uncle Ezra Hinshaw was glad to add his 
 testimony and to say that he was on the Lord's 
 side, and had been for nigh on to forty year. 
 An hour spent here, he said, was worth all the 
 fleeting joys the world could give. 
 
 74
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 And so it went on until Mrs. Brooks arose. 
 She wasted no time in preliminaries. 
 
 "I take it for granted, brethren and sisters," 
 she said, "that you know I attended the theater 
 when I was in the city last week, and that you 
 want to know how I reconcile it with my pro- 
 fessions. I did go; I got no harm, but very 
 much enjoyment, and, I think, some good. I 
 learned that whatever some theater plays may 
 be, some others are as good as the best sermons. 
 I have found out that it doesn't do to abuse all 
 theaters because some are bad. I don't feel 
 that I did anything wrong. I don't advise any- 
 body else to go, and I don't advise them not. 
 It is a matter with their own conscience. Mine 
 is clear. I expect never to go again, but I am 
 glad I went, and glad I learned what I learned, 
 and glad I saw Joe Jefferson. Praise the Lord ! ' ' 
 
 "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," 
 said the leader with solemn intonation, but with 
 a faint twinkle in his eye. He was a discreet 
 man, and had been to the theater in his time, 
 too. So the class sang the doxology and was 
 dismissed. 
 
 Going out, Aunt Hannah met young Hiram 
 
 75
 
 MRS. BROOKS'S CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 Jones, looking a little sheepish, and shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 "Wasn't it beautiful?" said she. "Ain't you 
 glad you went, and ain't Joseph Jefferson great? 
 May he live long and prosper."
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 THE woman who was a critical reader of mag- 
 azines met her friend, the writer of stories, 
 in the little railroad station at Mullins, in south- 
 ern Indiana. The writer had just arrived from 
 Indianapolis ; the other was waiting the north- 
 bound train. 
 
 "What have you come to this dull, lonely, 
 forlorn place for? Not for literary material, 
 surely? My grandmother lives here, and I 
 have known the town all my life. Nothing ro- 
 mantic ever happened to anyone here ; there are 
 no incidents, no tragedies, no characters worth 
 studying; the people simply vegetate." 
 
 "I never hunt for 'material' anywhere," re- 
 plied the woman who wrote. "It comes to me 
 crowds itself on me. I have been sent for by 
 an invalid cousin, and expect not to think of lit- 
 erary matters ; but if I were searching for themes 
 I have no doubt I could find them, even here." 
 77
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 "I am sure you could not. What, for in- 
 stance (here the speaker's voice was lowered), 
 what could you make out of that spiritless, 
 meek, faded-out creature there? She is a resi- 
 dent here; I have seen her often, but she is so 
 colorless I never had the curiosity to ask even 
 her name. I am sure she never had a vivid 
 emotion, never really lived in all her life." 
 
 "Perhaps not," laughed the writer, "but I 
 believe she has a story. I will find it out and 
 tell it to you." 
 
 This is the story she told a month later : 
 Martin Davis did not look much like a man 
 with aesthetic sentiment in his soul as he left his 
 plow in the furrow that afternoon in early April 
 and drove his tired horses up the lane. His face 
 was weatherbeaten, his hands rough and hard, 
 his clothing cheap and coarse, his high boots, 
 into which his jeans trousers were tucked, caked 
 with mud. But he was young and vigorous; 
 his eyes were bright and eager, and he felt him- 
 self a man to be envied, for had he not a wife 
 waiting for him at the house a bride of but a 
 few weeks ? In the band of his rusty felt hat he 
 had slipped a bunch of yellow violets. 
 78
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 " I knew ye liked posies, Lizzie," he said as 
 he handed them to her at the kitchen door, 
 "and these are the first I've seen this season, 
 'tbout it's the little white windflowers that wilt 
 while ye're pickin' them. These yellow things 
 are way ahead of time. I've never found them 
 before earlier than May; they're not common 
 hereabouts, anyhow, but I know of a spot down 
 in the holler where they always flourish." 
 
 When she put them in a teacup and set them 
 on the supper table he wondered vaguely why 
 he had never known before that flowers made a 
 room look so cheerful almost as if the sun were 
 shining, though that luminary had sunk be- 
 hind the western hill. He did not know that 
 the brightness was not of the flowers, but was 
 the light of love reflected from his heart and 
 hers. 
 
 It was but a brief time that his happiness lasted. 
 That was the spring of '61, and the country was 
 even then calling upon her loyal sons. Martin 
 Davis turned his horses into the pasture, left his 
 crops for others to harvest and went unhesitat- 
 ingly to answer the call. Oh, the heroism of 
 the myriads who thus went out from home, and 
 peace, and love, to the battlefield in those 
 79
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 dreadful years! What if they did not know 
 that the ninety days would lengthen until no 
 man could name the end, and that the slain 
 would be like the leaves of the forest for num- 
 bers? What if they did go simply from a 
 matter-of-fact sense of duty, and with little feel- 
 ing of risk and danger, or because the riotous 
 spirit of youth yearned for adventure? The 
 fact remains the tremendous, immutable fact 
 that they went by hundreds, by thousands, by 
 tens and hundreds of thousands, and that they 
 offered their lives. Greater love than this hath 
 no man, and yet we, in this frivolous later day, 
 dare sometimes speak lightly of those men and 
 their sacrifices. 
 
 It was a monotonous and a hard life for the 
 most part, that of a private soldier in the war 
 for the Union. Its story has been told in frag- 
 ments at home firesides and by campfires, but 
 never in literature as a whole for the world to 
 know. Perhaps it never will be. The veterans 
 tell of battles and of victories and of stirring 
 events, but they do not, as a class, care to dwell 
 upon their hardships and sufferings. The ex- 
 perience cut deep, and the scars are even yet 
 too sensitive to touch upon. 
 80
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 Martin Davis 's life was not different from the 
 rest. There was the drill and the camp life, the 
 picket duty, the marching, the digging of 
 trenches and building of breastworks, the 
 skirmishing, the expectation of encounters with 
 the enemy all this for slow and weary months, 
 and at last a great battle. 
 
 Lizzie, the young wife at home, waited from 
 week to week and month to month, as women 
 did in those days, with what show of patience 
 and composure they could muster a proof of 
 courage and patriotism not less than that of going 
 to war. The soldiers' story may sometimes be 
 told, but where is the historian who shall portray 
 the agony of the women's waiting hearts, the suf- 
 fering of uncertainty and suspense? Who shall 
 comprehend the anguish of their tears? Who 
 understand that the strain of constant dread of 
 evil news from husband and brother and lover 
 was greater than that felt by the soldier before 
 the enemy's guns that it left unhealed scars 
 that aged them before their time? 
 
 Lizzie Martin fared like the other women 
 
 hoping and praying, living upon the letters that 
 
 came at irregular intervals, going about her tasks 
 
 by day, with heavy heart, and enduring long 
 
 6 81
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 nights with their visions of war and woe. In the 
 little town from which the flower of the young 
 men had already gone, existence was not gay at 
 the best of times, and was now more monotonous 
 than ever to the women, whose part was to wait. 
 There were few things to distract their minds 
 from their own anxieties; they were not the 
 ' 'new" women, with many and diverse activities, 
 and so they sat at home and thought of what 
 might be. Mrs. Davis did not love her husband 
 more than the other lonely women loved theirs, 
 perhaps ; but without him she was quite alone 
 in the world, and it was natural that no event of 
 the war was important in which he had no place. 
 That brawny private, that long-limbed, awkward 
 farmer boy, was all the world to her. No future 
 opened to her vision which he did not share. 
 She was a commonplace little creature, narrow 
 in thought and limited in capacity, but other and 
 greater women have found it all of life to love 
 one man. 
 
 Letters came to her from Tennessee now. 
 Martin wrote that it looked as if some righting 
 would be done very soon that would scatter the 
 rebels and end the war. Then came the fall of 
 Forts Henry and Donelson, and he wrote with 
 82
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 still greater certainty that the war was soon to 
 close. Men better informed than he thought so 
 then. After that there was marching across 
 country, transportation by boat up the Tennes- 
 see, more marching, with rain and mud and cold 
 as features of the travel all this described in 
 fragmentary scrawls. One of them, dated April 
 5th, and written on a scrap of paper while he 
 stood in the rain with his company awaiting 
 orders, said there would be fighting soon, and 
 added: "Here's a yellow violet; just found it 
 under a bank. Season's early down here. 
 We're going to beat the rebs out of their boots. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 This note, and then silence. There had 
 been a battle; it was Shiloh bloody Shiloh. 
 On its gory field, when the /th of April dawned, 
 the dead lay by thousands the blue and the 
 gray. Oh, Shiloh ! the waiting hearts that 
 broke when your victory was won ! 
 
 Private Davis, of Company D, was numbered 
 among the dead. A comrade wrote to Lizzie, 
 telling her that Martin had died like a hero . A part 
 of his regiment had faced about and retreated, 
 broken in a panic before the Confederates' furi- 
 ous onslaught; but he had remained, had seized 
 83
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 the flag from the hand of the fleeing color-bearer 
 and gone on triumphantly to meet the coming 
 foe. In the thick of the fight he was seen to 
 fall, "and," said the writer, with no art at soft- 
 ening cruel truth, "he was buried in a trench." 
 To the widow a realizing sense of the death 
 did not come. It is often so when those away 
 from home are taken ; to their families they seem 
 still temporarily absent and likely to return at 
 any hour. She accepted the situation dumbly, 
 uncomplainingly. She had no longer a keen 
 interest in life, and was without the strength of 
 character to rise above her grief and force her- 
 self to accept new interests. She was simply an 
 every-day woman, who had loved her husband 
 and continued to love and to think of him day 
 and night, though he was dead. She sold her 
 farm to a rich neighbor, who took advantage of 
 her ignorance to pay her but half its value, and 
 she was deprived of a large share of the pro- 
 ceeds by a sharper to whom she intrusted them 
 for investment. Then she settled down in the 
 little town and became a neighborhood drudge. 
 She sewed, nursed the sick, took care of the 
 new babies, and was at the beck and call of any
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 housewife who needed her in domestic emergen- 
 cies. 
 
 The years went on with little variety. The 
 war ended, and affairs settled into new grooves. 
 A flood of prosperity swept over the country 
 and affected even this quiet town, but made lit- 
 tle difference in Mrs. Davis's plodding, unevent- 
 ful existence. No one pitied her especially for 
 her lonely and hard-working life. She was 
 spoken of as "the widow Davis," but she was 
 only one among many widows the war had cre- 
 ated, and, as she made no ado over her woes, 
 no one else thought to do it for her. They had 
 their own troubles to think of. They did say, 
 along at first, that she didn't take Mart's death 
 very hard. She "didn't make no fuss," they 
 said, and they " 'lowed" she was "ruther shal- 
 ler." Afterwards they practically forgot him, 
 and assumed that she had done the same. But 
 she never put off her simple mourning garb; her 
 mouth fixed itself in a pathetic little droop ; her 
 brown hair faded early. And she would not 
 marry again. Ten years after Shiloh, John 
 Holt, a thrifty widower, attracted by her quiet, 
 industrious ways, sought her as a step-mother 
 for his children. 
 
 85
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 "No, Mr. Holt," she said. "I can't be 
 your wife. Martin Davis is dead and buried, 
 but I can't make him seem dead nohow; I 
 never have, an' I don't reckon I ever can. I 
 ieel as if he was gone jest on a trip; an' I 
 dream of him o' nights, an' I'm always glad 
 when night comes, because them dreams come, 
 too. I'll go along by myself till the time comes 
 for me to go and meet Martin but it's long, 
 long!" 
 
 And then, her self-repression overcome by 
 the sudden compassion in the man's eyes, she 
 bowed her head upon the table and sobbed and 
 wept in the utter abandonment of a grief which 
 knows no pretense. 
 
 John Holt went away thoughtful, and was 
 afterwards heard to say it was a "sing'lar dis- 
 pensation o' Providence that took a man away 
 from a wife like that an' let other men live 
 whose wives wouldn't a-mourned for 'em over 
 night if they'd drownded theirselves." 
 
 More years went, until, one day, Mrs. Davis 
 heard of an excursion that filled her patient 
 soul with longing. This was a trip by boat to 
 Shiloh battleground. She had never been 
 iurther from home than to Cincinnati, fifty miles 
 86
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 away, where she had gone once when a girl, 
 but she determined to make this journey. It 
 was a great undertaking, and she got ready for 
 it. with an excitement such as had not stirred 
 her for years. She never thought of the South 
 but as the rebels' country, and, though she 
 knew there were no rebels now, there was down 
 in her heart a dull hatred of all Southerners, 
 because but for them there would have been no 
 war but for a certain one of them who had fired 
 a fatal shot she would not have been left in 
 loneliness all these long years. 
 
 Men and women of the world who, through 
 contact with people of many localities, have 
 gained the ability to judge their fellow-be- 
 ings dispassionately find it difficult to compre- 
 hend the limitations of one who has but a single 
 point of view. Lizzie Davis had had but one 
 great interest in life, and had never been able to 
 consider the outside world in any other than its 
 relation to herself. 
 
 The trip down the Ohio river, though novel, 
 aroused no emotion ; once on the Tennessee she 
 began to brighten. Martin had made this jour- 
 ney not long before his death. The war, now 
 so far past, was brought close to her. The bat- 
 87
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 tie seemed but a little while back. On the 
 wooded bluffs she could almost see rebel skir- 
 mishers in hiding. Her meek, feminine soul, 
 which had never before directed a cruel thought 
 toward any individual, suddenly throbbed with 
 fierce resentment; the slow, easy-going natives, 
 who strolled down to the landings and leisurely 
 carried their freight up the bank in primitive 
 fashion, seemed to her to represent a blood- 
 thirsty, murderous people. She eyed them 
 malevolently. 
 
 One day the captain of the boat sat down by 
 her side on the deck. He was a middle-aged 
 man of slow, soft speech and gentle manner as 
 far removed from the typical bluff, gruff, pro- 
 fane, aggressive river man of literature as possi- 
 ble. He had already won Mrs. Davis 's confi- 
 dence by his deferential courtesy and attentions 
 to which she was a stranger at home. There no 
 one was unkind, but certainly no one was no- 
 ticeably considerate of the comfort of women, 
 especially those of no particular importance. 
 He narrated to her bits of history about the 
 places along the river, with every foot of which 
 he was familiar, and told anecdotes of the peo- 
 
 88
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 pie, half of whom he seemed to know by their 
 Christian names. 
 
 " How can you speak so kindly of them, an' 
 you a soldier, too?" she broke out at last. 
 " Rebels I reckon they were, most of 'em, an' 
 killed our men, an' would do it again if they 
 had a chance." 
 
 He turned to her slowly and without a sign of 
 surprise; she was not a new type to him. 
 
 "Madam, these people along heah were 
 mostly Union sympathizers during the wah. 
 I was a soldier in the Confede'at ahmy." 
 
 It was a shock. Ex-rebels had found their 
 way to her little village since the war, but a 
 good many sons had gone out from there to 
 fight for the Union, and never to return, and 
 those wanderers from the South were not made 
 welcome, but had mostly drifted on to regions 
 elsewhere in Indiana where were friends and 
 sympathizers. She had never so much as talked 
 with one before. 
 
 Then he told her, in a quiet, reminiscent way, 
 some stories of his youth and his far Southern 
 home ; of how the South was then all the coun- 
 try he knew, and the North a far-off, cold re- 
 gion, whose people, he was taught, cared only 
 89
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 to buy and sell, and to subjugate and rob the 
 South ; of how the war broke out and one by 
 one his neighbors joined the army, then his 
 brothers, and then himself, a boy of sixteen all 
 filled with fierce patriotism and the blind belief 
 that they were fighting for the right ; of how his 
 brothers had been slain, and how he had gone 
 home, when at last the conflict was over, to find 
 that home dismantled, the mother who had been 
 its center forever gone, and he, yet a boy in 
 years, lonely, disheartened and forlorn. 
 
 It was a revelation to the woman of few ideas 
 that rebels rebels ! were creatures with loves 
 and sorrows like her own. 
 
 And they went on up the shining river, and a 
 little of the peace and beauty of it entered into 
 her soul. It was May, and the fields and for- 
 ests were in freshest array. The gray-green 
 willows, the rank water maples and the glossy 
 oaks that crowded the river bank were fringed 
 with undergrowth, and their trunks lost in a tan- 
 gle of honey-suckles, grape-vines and ivy. It 
 was primitive wilderness, such as the Indian 
 must have looked at in his day. 
 
 Then came Fort Henry. The boat, which 
 stopped accommodatingly wherever a would-be 
 90
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 traveler waived a handkerchief, obligingly made 
 fast while passengers climbed the hill and wan- 
 dered over the old earthworks that made the 
 walls of that famous fort. In the glamour of 
 the moonlight and the softness of the shadows 
 could almost be seen the soldiers who had once 
 crowded the place but trees had grown up 
 within the walls since that day, and the soldiers 
 where were they? 
 
 Then Pittsburg Landing and Shiloh, and the 
 woman from the little Indiana town had reached 
 her Mecca. 
 
 They wandered over the battlefield, those 
 tourists ; they saw it almost as it looked on the 
 fatal Sunday so long ago, only to-day the sun 
 shone, and then the very heavens had wept at 
 the sight below. They saw the place where the 
 fight was fiercest and most furious the "Hor- 
 net's Nest," where Union men and Confederates 
 met hand to hand and the slaughter was so 
 great that the dead lay in heaps. They saw 
 the pool whose margin had been red with the 
 blood of wounded men who had dragged them- 
 selves there to quench their raging thirst. To- 
 day cattle drank from it undisturbed. 
 
 There were houses here and there primitive 
 91
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 structures, hardly more than cabins. Mrs. Davis 
 stopped at the door of one to ask for water. An 
 old woman came out, a woman with a scant 
 calico gown and clumsy shoes, and eyes blurred 
 perhaps with age, possibly with tears, but kindly 
 still. She grew garrulous in response to a timid 
 question. 
 
 "Yes, she had lived hereabouts evah since 
 befo' the wah. She an' her ole man was Union, 
 but their six boys couldn't no ways agree, an' 
 three j'ined the Union ahmy an' three the Con- 
 fede'at. An', yes yes, it's all done ended 
 long ago, but some days the time seems yistiddy, 
 an' it all comes back. Her ole man couldn't 
 keep out no ways when the boys was gone, an' 
 he jined, too, when General Sherman come 
 along. An' yes, the boys was all killed; three 
 at Donelson, two here at Shiloh Church, an' one 
 at Chattanooga. Their pap didn't live long after ; 
 sort o' broke down like. An' if it wasn't that 
 the boys who died here were buried in a Con- 
 fede'at trench (did the visitor see the ridge over 
 thataway?) she reckoned she'd disremembah 
 which was Union an' which wasn't. Such things 
 didn't seem to make no difference, nohow, when 
 they alls was gone to rest twel jedgment day." 
 92
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 The woman who had lost one and the woman 
 who had lost seven looked in each other's eyes 
 and knew the kinship of grief, and somehow the 
 visitor from the North felt no longer a personal 
 resentment for her loss. Though it might have 
 been a son of this woman who shot her Martin, 
 he had thought he was right and meant no 
 evil. 
 
 Then she entered the gates of the National 
 Cemetery, where the Union dead are laid in 
 long lines, with a granite block marking each 
 resting place. The captain of the boat joined 
 her at the gate, and as he passed in he plucked 
 a sprig of cedar. The sun shining through the 
 branches of the great forest trees flecked the 
 grass upon the graves ; a soft May breeze scat- 
 tered the leaves of the early blooming roses. 
 Down between the rows of stones they walked, 
 and the captain, pausing at one bearing the 
 number 1607, lifted his hat reverently and laid 
 the bit of cedar upon it. 
 
 "I put a little posy there every time I come," 
 he said gently ; "I reckoned that may be the 
 wife or mother of the boy lying there might like 
 it." 
 
 The man lying there might be her Martin, 
 93
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 thought the little widow, and from that moment 
 her heart ceased to cherish animosity toward any 
 man who had fought on the other side. 
 
 She stood on the bluff and looked down on 
 the sparkling, glinting river. The panorama of 
 water and sky and hill stretching for miles be- 
 fore her was a vision fair to see. The flag of 
 her country floated from the great staff above ; 
 the only sound was the singing of the birds, and 
 the peace of God was over all. 
 
 More years went by, and the Widow Davis 
 plodded patiently through them, getting a little 
 more weary as they passed and finding the bur- 
 den of loneliness none the easier to bear as age 
 crept on. That visit to Shiloh had taught her 
 some things, toleration among the rest, but it 
 had also taken away one thing that had been a 
 secret source of comfort to her. Until that time 
 she had pictured to herself the return of her 
 husband. She was a woman with but scant 
 imaginative power, but where even the dullest 
 mind dwells much upon one subject it weaves 
 about it a network of fancy far different from 
 reality. She had not seen her husband dead ; 
 a battle was a vague thing to her ; he had sim- 
 94
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 ply gone away and had not come back. Per- 
 haps he had been wounded, had lost a leg or an 
 arm, and a prisoner in rebel hands was long in 
 recovering. Then, perhaps here her fancy 
 took a wild leap perhaps he was told by some 
 one that she was dead, or that she, thinking 
 him dead, had married again, though she didn't 
 quite see how he could believe she could marry 
 another man. But such things had happened 
 she had read of them ; and supposing he had 
 believed it, he would wander away and never 
 care to revisit his old home until, at last, he 
 somehow learned the truth and hastened to her 
 with joy. Or it might be that he had escaped 
 from his rebel prison, had reached the sea-coast, 
 had crept on board some foreign vessel, and 
 had been carried to far-off lands, whence he 
 would some day return. 
 
 Vain imaginings, but lonely women dream 
 strange things while they go half mechanically 
 about their monotonous daily tasks. Even the 
 happiness of happy women is half in this unreal 
 inner life. After this visit to Shiloh these com- 
 forting pictures were conjured up no more in 
 Lizzie's mind. It was all real now, the battle 
 and the slaughter, and she had seen the graves 
 95
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 where the soldiers lay; her thoughts centered 
 about " 1607," where the captain's tribute 
 rested, and she felt more and more convinced 
 that Martin slept beneath that stone. It was 
 nearly thirty years, a lifetime, since he went, 
 and he would come to her now only after 
 heaven's gate had opened to let her in. She 
 had mourned her lost love for thirty years. She, 
 a little, commonplace woman of whom no one 
 would have thought as a heroine of romance. 
 She would not have known what the term 
 ' ' grand passion ' ' meant ; she had been simply 
 faithful to a memory in a quiet, undemonstrative 
 way ; her life had been bound up in a sentiment, 
 that was all. 
 
 One day in April it was the 3<Dth Shiloh 
 anniversary she was at her little cottage, no 
 neighbor needing her services as nurse or seam- 
 stress. It had been an early spring, and she 
 went out in the garden to look at the signs of 
 life among her few cherished flowers. In a sun- 
 ny corner wild violets grew and had pushed 
 green leaves above the mold, but no buds were 
 yet in sight. 
 
 " I remember," she said, speaking to a neigh-
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 bor who had paused in passing, ' ' I remember 
 seeing violet flowers as early as this." 
 
 She was thinking of those stuck in the band of 
 Martin's hat that day so long ago when he came 
 from the field, and as she spoke she looked 
 down the village street, wondering at the unu- 
 sual boisterousness of the school children. They 
 followed after and jeered at a man who came 
 slowly and hesitatingly along, as if uncertain of 
 his way. His clothing was rough, his shoulders 
 bent and his gait shambling. On his head was 
 a military cap, such as some old soldiers still in- 
 sist upon wearing, and on its side was some- 
 thing like a decoration on a woman's bonnet. It 
 was this that made the children jeer. Mrs. Da- 
 vis put her hand over her eyes and looked at it 
 intently. Hardly knowing what she did, she 
 went out upon the walk and down the street to 
 meet him. When she came closer she saw that 
 the decoration was a bunch of yellow violets. 
 She stopped before the man and looked at him. 
 She had never thought of her husband as other 
 than erect, and strong, and young; this man 
 was feeble, and dim-eyed, and old, but she 
 knew him. 
 
 "Martin ! " she said ; ' 'Martin ! " and reached 
 7 97
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 out her hands, forgetful of watching neighbors 
 and wondering children. 
 
 Something like a miracle happened in that 
 moment. The years fell away from her as a 
 garment ; the flush in her cheek, the love light 
 in her eyes transfigured her. 
 
 " Lizzie!" said the man, the dull, dazed ex- 
 pression clearing from his face. " Lizzie," and 
 he fumbled at his cap, " I I thought ye'd like 
 some posies, and came round by the holler and 
 got them." 
 
 She took him by the hand and led him into 
 the house, her face still illumined. 
 
 The woman" who wrote stories and the other 
 who read them met again on the street of Mul- 
 lins. Toward them came Lizzie Davis. She 
 was the woman who had been at the station 
 weeks before, but she was like one born again. 
 Her hair was faded, it is true; her complexion 
 gray, her dress old-fashioned and rusty, but her 
 eyes were bright, her bearing erect and proud, 
 her face smiling. She stopped a moment to 
 speak to the woman who wrote. 
 
 "Just think, Miss," she said; "Martin lived 
 over in Jonesboro, just beyond the Ohio line, 
 98V
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 and not fifty miles from here, for twenty years. 
 I've just seen a man from there. Where he had 
 been before that time the Lord knows. The 
 man says that they all knowed something was 
 the matter with his head. Seemed to do his 
 work well on the farm, but every now an' then 
 he'd get uneasy an' talk an' talk about some 
 place he'd ought to go if he could only just 
 think of the name ; an' when he heard any one 
 call 'Lizzie' he always got worried and fidgety. 
 Come spring, too, every year, he'd pick flowers 
 an' wear 'em in his hat. Then at last one day 
 his recollection seemed to come to him sudden, 
 and he up an' started off, the man said, acting 
 like a crazy lunatic. He found his way here, 
 an' he's getting to be more like himself every 
 day, an' it almost seems as if he'd never been 
 away." 
 
 A glow was on her cheek like the blush of a 
 bride; the thirty years of loneliness were as 
 naught; the children that might have been hers, 
 the happiness and peace she had missed were 
 forgotten. The mother heart in her went out to 
 the broken-down man and was satisfied. He 
 came shuffling down the walk. 
 
 "See how well he looks," she said, as she 
 99
 
 AN ABIDING LOVE 
 
 hastened toward him, with a face through which 
 love shone as it must shine on the faces of the 
 angels in heaven. 
 
 "You were wrong, you see," softly said the 
 woman who wrote, to her friend; "you were 
 wrong when you declared there was no romance 
 here; that the people merely vegetated. That 
 woman has lived." 
 
 "Yes," said the other, "she has loved," 
 
 IOO
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 " TT WAS an exceptional case, that of the Mar- 
 1 shalls, Brother Johnson, or I never should 
 have advised them to the course they tpok." 
 
 The speaker, familiarly known as Father Allen 
 to all the region round about, was a minister of 
 the Methodist denomination, who, after an itin- 
 erant life of forty years, had, as his professional 
 brethren put it, ' ' assumed the superannuated re- 
 lation." This being interpreted, meant- that he 
 had retired from regular duty and occupied him- 
 self, as age and strength would permit, in ren- 
 dering such service to neighboring members of 
 his old flock as occasion called for. An old 
 minister comes to be identified with a family as 
 no newcomer can. He has comforted its mem- 
 bers in their sorrows and participated in their 
 pleasures ; he has been with them at their funer- 
 als and their marriage feasts, and in the emer- 
 gencies of life they turn to him. 
 101
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 To-day, Father Allen had accompanied the 
 Reverend Mr. Johnson, the young preacher 
 lately stationed at Amber Center, the little In- 
 diana town whose roofs were visible far across 
 the prairie, on his first round of pastoral calls. 
 They had just taken their departure from the 
 white farmhouse of the Marshalls, bearing with 
 them the look of ineffable content that comes 
 to mankind only after the consumption of a 
 bountiful meal, and were discussing the affairs 
 of their entertainers, as is the ancient custom of 
 guests of all degree, regardless of canons of 
 etiquette. 
 
 Acting on the principle that a pastor should 
 be thoroughly acquainted with the history of his 
 flock in order to meet its spiritual needs, as a 
 physician is better fitted to prescribe for a pa- 
 tient's ills when he understands his physical 
 constitution, the old minister gave, with some- 
 what garrulous, not to say gossipy, detail, par- 
 ticulars of each individual's life to the new shep- 
 herd. 
 
 "Yes, it was an exceptional case. It is hardly 
 
 necessary to say, I hope, Brother Johnson, that 
 
 I am opposed to divorce. The ease with which 
 
 legal separations are to be had is one of the 
 
 102
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 greatest evils of our time ; I need not enlarge on 
 that. Still Brother Johnson, one must use 
 judgment, and it is difficult to make an iron-clad 
 rule for all cases. 'A rule already made,' do 
 you say? Well, yes, yes of course. As a 
 general thing it is best to abide by the literal 
 scriptural injunction, and I am the last person 
 to countenance any other course. Nevertheless, 
 my son, you will find, as your experience with 
 the realities of the world broadens, that it is 
 sometimes inexpedient to insist upon too rigid 
 an application of the letter of the law. 
 
 "Now, in the case of the Marshalls, John was 
 very deeply attached to his first wife, whom he 
 married on the day of his enlistment in the 
 army, twenty years ago ; very deeply attached, 
 no doubt of it. His wife, pretty Rose Lytle, 
 was fond of him in her way, too, but she was 
 of a clinging, dependent nature, and would, per- 
 haps, have been equally happy had it chanced 
 to be another than John, who had so devoted 
 himself to her. The woman who loved him 
 most deeply on the day of his marriage was 
 Rose's cousin and adopted sister, Mary; but 
 that was her secret. Many a woman has such. 
 Rose was a pretty creature. It wa? twenty
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 years ago, but I remember her well. She 
 reminded me my wife's name was Rose, too." 
 
 The old man's voice faltered. It was not 
 upon the prospect near that his dim eyes were 
 wistfully fixed, but upon something far beyond. 
 Before them the western sky was gorgeous with 
 crimson and purple and gold fit reminder of 
 the gates of the New Jerusalem but Mr. John- 
 son removed his gaze from the glory of the sun- 
 set to glance curiously at his aged companion, 
 knowing as he did, that the name of the present 
 Mrs. Allen was Sarah, and that the neatly 
 framed portrait of her immediate predecessor 
 was carefully labeled, "My beloved consort, 
 Matilda." 
 
 "A week later," resumed the elder gentle- 
 man, " John was on his way with his regiment 
 to the South, and the women were left to each 
 other's company. The months following went 
 by slowly enough, no doubt, to the girl in the 
 lonely prairie home and to the man toiling in 
 Virginia trenches, or marching over sodden 
 hills ; time moves slowly, you know, when one 
 is young and impatient." 
 
 "When the 'body is in Segovia' and the 
 'soul is in Madrid,' " softly interpolated the lis- 
 104
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 tener, who was yet young enough to permit sen- 
 timent to come to the surface now and then. 
 
 "But time goes for all, " continued the old min- 
 ister, "and before the year's close it had ended 
 to the consciousness of one of the pair. A re- 
 port that John had been killed in battle came 
 suddenly to the ears of the waiting wife a false 
 report, as later appeared, like so many that 
 came from 'the front' in those days. Next day 
 their son was born, but the mother had no smile 
 at the sight of the baby face. The shock of the 
 news had deprived her of reason. Physical 
 strength came back in time, but with its return 
 the insanity increased until she raved with mad- 
 ness and became dangerously violent. The hus- 
 band, who had been wounded only, came home 
 on furlough, but his presence excited her to 
 fierce outbursts. 
 
 " It was a long time before John or the cousin 
 Mary, patiently devoted to mother and child, 
 would consent to send the cherished and petted 
 girl away from their own care to an institution 
 for the insane ; but finally the safety of all de- 
 manded it. She was taken to an asylum and is 
 there to-day. 
 
 "John rejoined his regiment, and when the 
 105
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 war was over came back to find his home and 
 child well cared for by the faithful Mary. Mat- 
 ters went on in this way for a while, with the ad- 
 dition of himself as head of the household. Left 
 to himself, he would perhaps have discovered 
 no reason why the agreeable conditions should 
 not continue, but when Mary, the center of this 
 home life, suddenly resumed her old occupation 
 of teaching, and would give no explanation of 
 her course to the bewildered man save that she 
 preferred the change, there were neighbors will- 
 ing to enlighten him. In the matter of social 
 conventionalities and proprieties people in coun- 
 try communities are very exacting, Brother 
 Johnson, and it was not considered proper that 
 Mary should remain as housekeeper for a man 
 who was her brother-in-law only by courtesy. 
 
 "Naturally, this was the beginning of the 
 end. They soon discovered each other's senti- 
 ments and came to me for advice, separately 
 and together. The physicians had assured 
 them that Rose was hopelessly insane; that 
 while no one could say with absolute certainty 
 that she would not recover, the tendencies in her 
 case gave no encouragement for such hope. In- 
 sanity was not specified as legal cause for di- 
 106
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 vorce, but in those days, Indiana courts were 
 allowed by the statutes far greater liberty and 
 discretion than now, and, under the circum- 
 stances, there was no difficulty in the way of 
 securing a decree of separation. The only 
 question with these two, Mary and John, was 
 whether it was right for John to be divorced 
 even with conditions as they were. They were 
 conscientious and argued for and against them- 
 selves." 
 
 "To me it seemed one of the exceptional cases. 
 Marshall needed some one at the head of his es- 
 tablishment ; he had not so warm an affection for 
 this woman, perhaps, as for Rose, but he would 
 make her a good husband. Mary cared for him 
 as she never could for another. It is best for 
 women to marry. It seemed to me expedient 
 that these two should be united, and so I ad- 
 vised the divorce. I am still of the opinion that 
 the course was wise." 
 
 "Mrs. Marshall's expression did not strike 
 me as that of a particularly happy woman," 
 said Mr. Johnson. "She looked sad, I thought, 
 and anxious." 
 
 "Women, as a class, are foolish," hastily ex- 
 claimed the old man. "The best of them have 
 107
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 imaginary troubles. Mrs. Marshall allows her- 
 self to be tormented by the fear that Rose will 
 yet be cured, and reproaches herself at the same 
 time for dreading what ought, under other cir- 
 cumstances, to be a blessing. However, as I 
 said, women will find something to worry over, 
 and if it were not for this fanciful notion, Mrs. 
 Marshall, good, sensible woman that she is, 
 would have some other. I believe she did 
 well." 
 
 As they drove up the village street in the 
 haze of the late Indian summer twilight the 
 young minister breathed a sigh. He had been 
 impressed by what the poet calls the large, 
 sweet calmness of the prairie ; but peace, after 
 all, did not, it seemed, abide with the people. 
 He wondered what would be the end if, at last, 
 the innocent, but cast-off wife should be restored 
 to the realities of life. 
 
 Back in the white house on the prairie the 
 first chapter of the sequel to the old minister's 
 story had even then begun. 
 
 After the visitors had driven away, John 
 Marshall and his wife stood on the steps, his 
 eyes fixed absently on the purple line of the hor- 
 108
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 izon far across the level plain, she, with her 
 face turned toward his. A question was on her 
 lips, but she did not speak, only touched his 
 arm softly while the look of vague apprehension 
 in her eyes deepened into what was almost ter- 
 ror. At last he moved until his glance met 
 hers. 
 
 "What you have always dreaded has hap- 
 pened," he said. "Rose has recovered her 
 mind." 
 
 The woman at his side did not cry out nor 
 moan she was not of the demonstrative sort; 
 but a change come over her while she stood 
 there as if she had suddenly grown old and 
 feeble. Her face looked pinched and gray. She 
 took her hand from his arm and moved back a 
 pace a movement that told its own story. Af- 
 ter a moment he went on steadily : 
 
 "The doctor writes that it is a very unex- 
 pected recovery ; quite remarkable in the history 
 of such cases. She is well as ever, mentally, 
 but oddly enough her bodily strength has as 
 suddenly failed, and, according to what he says, 
 she is not likely to be better. It is not probable 
 at the best that she will live many months 
 perhaps not even weeks ; but in order to pro- 
 109
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 long her life, as well as to retain her mental bal- 
 ance, she must be carefully guarded from a 
 shock of any sort. This, above all things, must be 
 the care of those about her, he says, and ex- 
 plains that he has said nothing to her concern- 
 ing our family affairs. And," after a pause in 
 which he glanced uneasily at his wife, "Rose 
 wants to come home." 
 
 She looked at him with calm, tearless eyes. 
 
 "Do you wish her to come?" she asked. 
 
 "Well," he answered, hesitatingly, "it's a 
 queer fix. We're all she's got, you know, you 
 and I , and to send her among strangers now it 
 doesn't seem just right. She was our little Rose, 
 
 you remember, and . If she were well it 
 
 would be different, of course. Still, if you think 
 it won't do if you can't have it so, let it be as 
 you please, Mary." 
 
 "I only wanted to know what you wished. 
 Do you think I would say to you, I who took 
 her place, that our doors must be shut against 
 her? We will go to-morrow and bring her home, 
 and I will do what I can to make her last days 
 happy." 
 
 John Marshall breathed a sigh of relief as if a 
 
 no
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 weight were lifted from his mind. He looked 
 at his wife approvingly. 
 
 "You are a good woman, Mary," he said. 
 
 Many a man addressing such words to his 
 wife would have followed them with a caress, 
 but John Marshall turned away and went about 
 his evening tasks while Mary passed slowly and 
 wearily into the house. A coat belonging to 
 her husband hung in the hall. She caught the 
 sleeve in her hand and kissed it. A girl or a 
 gay young matron might have been thus child- 
 ishly demonstrative without suspicion of any 
 deeper feeling than an impulsive outburst of 
 affection toward the owner of the garment. Dis- 
 cerning eyes like those of Father Allen, grown 
 keen with a half century's study of human 
 weaknesses, would have seen in the act of this 
 middle-aged woman the betrayal of a heart's 
 hunger. 
 
 Mechanically she went about her household 
 duties and preparations for the guest, the dread 
 of whose possible coming had hung over her 
 like a shadow for fifteen years. No detail was 
 overlooked in arranging for the comfort of 
 "John's wife," as Mary caught herself calling 
 in her thoughts the woman who had dropped 
 in
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 oat of conscious existence so long ago. She 
 had come back to life as from the dead. If a 
 wrong had been done to her in her helpless 
 state those who had committed it must, as they 
 hoped for mercy hereafter, do what they could 
 to save her from its consequences; there was 
 no other way. They, the wrong-doers, she 
 and John, must suffer in the performance of 
 their duty; but they had no right to complain. 
 It was Rose, little Rose, whom they had loved 
 and who had trusted them so completely, who 
 was coming back, and she must find the doors 
 open. 
 
 Like a dream that day and the next seemed 
 to her afterwards. The journey to the city, the 
 meeting with the one so miraculously restored 
 to them, the return home, were events that fixed 
 themselves but dimly on her memory. The cen- 
 tral fact that the companion of her girlhood, the 
 wife of John's youth, was with them again ab- 
 sorbed her faculties to the exclusion of lesser mat- 
 ters. It was not until Rose was installed in the sun- 
 ny upper room and the domestic routine had 
 adjusted itself to the change in affairs that the sec- 
 ond wife realized the nature of the task she had 
 
 112
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 set herself to do that had been imposed upon 
 her she whispered in bitter protest sometimes. 
 
 Her married life had been haunted by the fear 
 that Rose might regain her reason, but the pic- 
 ture formed in her fancy had been of a wan and 
 haggard creature heaping reproaches on the hus- 
 band who had been unfaithful in her absence, 
 and on the woman who had promised a dying 
 father to care for her and had then usurped her 
 place. Never had she, in her wildest dreams, 
 contemplated anything like the reality which she 
 now faced. 
 
 It was no pallid, wild-eyed woman who sat in 
 the upper chamber s but a smiling guest whose 
 every wish was honored. Strangely enough, 
 the change that had been wrought in Rose's 
 mental condition had its counterpart in a phys- 
 ical transformation. The deathly paleness, the 
 hollow cheek, the look of age which had charac- 
 terized the insane woman had given way to a 
 color rivaling the peachy bloom of twenty years 
 before; the blue eyes, dull for so long, shone 
 with all their old vivid brilliancy beneath the 
 long lashes ; the face was rounded out, and its 
 youthful outlines were emphasized by the baby- 
 ish rings of fair hair that lay about the white 
 8 113
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 forehead. The weakness and languor that ac- 
 companied this change and did not pass away 
 only added to her attractiveness. As she 
 leaned back upon the cushions of the chair that 
 she seldom left it was difficult to believe that the 
 face was that of one who had lived past her girl- 
 hood. To the lookers-on it seemed that nature 
 had endeavored to compensate for the lost years 
 by a veritable renewal of youth and beauty. 
 
 It was not the difficult task that had been 
 feared to guard her against injurious shocks. 
 She quietly assumed, without question, that the 
 relations of her loved ones were as they had been 
 of old; indeed she seemed not to realize the 
 time that had passed since she left them. John 
 was her husband ; Mary, the dear sister who had 
 kept his house and awaited her recovery and re- 
 turn. Rose asked for her son but showed little 
 emotion when told with hesitant caution this 
 was one of the things that could not be concealed 
 or denied that he had been a feeble child 
 who, after five years of baby life, had left them 
 and gone to heaven. The infant had not formed 
 a part of the life she remembered, and knowledge 
 of his death did not move her deeply. In tell- 
 ing the story of the little one whom she had loved 
 114
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 like her own, Mary thought, with almost a guilty 
 feeling, of the sturdy boy who called her mother 
 and whose existence must be so carefully hid- 
 den. The presence of a boy in the house might 
 be easily enough accounted for, but he must not 
 come where "Aunt Rose" was lest she ask fatal 
 questions. 
 
 "It is enough that you and I must deceive 
 her, but my boy shall not be taught to lie or to 
 deny his birthright," said Mary, with fierce de- 
 cision, and John had agreed. 
 
 A negro and his wife who had followed John 
 from "ole Kaintuck" to find a home in the 
 North, and who had been faithful servants ever 
 since, formed the rest of the household. Visit- 
 ors were few. A prairie road after November 
 rains is not a thoroughfare sought by any ex- 
 cept those on journeys of necessity. The few 
 old friends or curious neighbors drawn thither 
 by the news of Rose's return were quietly cau- 
 tioned not to touch on personal matters in their 
 conversation with the invalid. This caution and 
 the chance allusions Rose made to her "hus- 
 band" led the visitors, ignorant of the kindly 
 deceit being practiced upon her, and doubtful, 
 as the most intelligent people often are, of the
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 entire recovery of those once insane, to believe 
 that her mind was not yet sound. So it came 
 about that the little drama being enacted in that 
 prairie farm-house had few spectators. 
 
 Rose expressed little curiosity concerning 
 events that had happened during her absence, 
 and showed no interest in affairs outside their 
 own little circle. She was content to live like a 
 child, taking up life where she had left it, and 
 thinking nothing of the morrow. One thing 
 only she demanded as her right, and that the 
 hardest of all for one member of the household 
 to grant. "Her John's" society she claimed in 
 all of his leisure moments, and as a farmer in 
 the position of this man is an independent being 
 who orders his own goings-in and comings-out, 
 the result was that John, "my dear John," as 
 Rose called him, was at her side many hours in 
 the day. Mary might be there, too ; Rose 
 wanted Mary also at hand, or within call, but 
 without John she fretted and was restless. 
 
 At first Mary quieted her misgivings with a 
 sense of shame at their existence. John, she 
 said, was, like herself, trying to do his duty. 
 She could serve the invalid in other ways; he 
 could only bear her company. But the days 
 116
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 went on, and that upper room became a place 
 of torture for the lawful wife so steadfastly doing 
 that which seemed best. 
 
 Johr was good; he was a good man, she said 
 over and over. Not to himself would the loyal 
 soul willingly utter a complaint of the one she 
 loved, but at last she could no longer close her 
 eyes to the truth. In an agony which could 
 find no expression, Mary acknowledged to her- 
 self that her husband sought the presence of that 
 transfigured woman who had been the bride of 
 his youth, because in that presence he found 
 pleasure and delight. All through the fifteen 
 years of her life with him she had been conscious 
 of a lack of responsiveness to the cravings of her 
 affection ; but she had stilled the aching of her 
 heart with the thought, not that he mourned the 
 loss of Rose, but that a sentiment of self-reproach 
 for having set her aside in her misfortune had 
 raised a barrier in his nature between himself 
 and the companion in the wrong which he could 
 not overcome. And now she knew that this cold- 
 ness was because he loved this other as he had 
 not loved her. 
 
 During those long years she had never been 
 quite happy because of the invisible barrier; 
 117
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 sometunes she had fancied herself wretched. 
 Looking back to that time now, she felt, in the 
 sharpness of her suffering, that she had lived in 
 paradise. Then, it was a vague, unsubstantial 
 thing that held them apart ; now, it was a beau- 
 tiful woman who thought herself his wife. 
 
 That room had a fascination for Mrs. Mar- 
 shall ; she suffered when there, but after leaving 
 it she hastened back. Neither occupant seemed 
 to mind her presence. Rose did not; con- 
 scious of no wrong, why should she? John did 
 not, being apparently unaware, as he sat near, 
 and often with Rose's pretty hand in his, that 
 he was exceeding the part of a courteous host. 
 
 One day, to Mary, going quietly about some 
 task in an outer room, floated a voice in soft re- 
 proach : 
 
 "John, do you love me?" 
 
 "Why Rose, my dear Rose, don't you know 
 we all love you?" 
 
 " 'We!' I am not talking of 'we,' but of 
 you. Do you know, John, that you have never 
 kissed me since the day I came home? Is that 
 the way a man behaves who loves his wife?" 
 
 And Mary, her heart faint with pain and 
 shame and outraged love, saw the man succumb 
 118
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 to the pleading eyes and outstretched arms. A 
 kiss like that, she knew, had never been given 
 her. Alive with the quick instinct to possess 
 her own she started forward, but in a moment 
 turned and crept away like a wounded creature, 
 even then excusing the one who had pierced her 
 soul. 
 
 "Could any man do differently? Only a 
 saint could resist that loveliness for the sake of 
 a woman such as I, worn with care and on-com- 
 ing years." 
 
 She could not breathe under that roof. Out 
 into the chill November day she hastened, not 
 caring whither. Heavy gusts of rain swept 
 across the sky, shrouding the prairie in a gray 
 mist through which the scattered trees loomed 
 dimly, their bare boughs tossing like the spars 
 of a ship in a laboring sea. Conscious of little 
 but her own thoughts, she hurried on until her 
 footsteps were checked by the surprised voice of 
 Father Allen hastening from the performance of 
 some errand of mercy to gain shelter from the 
 wintry storm. 
 
 "Are you crazy, daughter?" 
 
 "It would be better if I were; it would save 
 trouble. If John could have left me at the
 
 A FBRMHOUSiS DRAMA 
 
 asylum when he brought Rose away how much 
 better it v/ould have been. But this life is kill- 
 ing me I shall die, I shall die and be out of 
 their way. Rose will get well do you hear 
 me, Father Allen? When I married John I 
 prayed that Rose, my little cousin Rose, might 
 never recover her mind. I founded my hap- 
 piness on her misfortune. Now, I can see 
 no happiness while we both live. I am like a 
 murderer, Father Allen ! But my punishment 
 has come. The Lord does not wait until the 
 hereafter." 
 
 The burst of passion ended in tears and sobs, 
 and the old man, dismounting from his horse, 
 led her unresistingly home and delivered her 
 into the hands of the faithful black 'Liza, whose 
 ire had long since been excited by what she de- 
 scribed to her spouse, Tom, as the "scan'lous 
 goings on ob dat crazy woman with Mistah 
 John." 
 
 "I will remonstrate with Brother Marshall," 
 thought the ministerial visitor. "It is a pecul- 
 iar case, and he means no harm, I am sure ; but, 
 really, it is a very trying position for Sister Mar- 
 shall, and he should be more considerate." 
 
 Mr. Allen was old ; the woes of women did 
 120
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 not impress him as they might have done a 
 younger man, or as they would have impressed 
 him even now, perhaps, had not the many sor- 
 rowful tales poured into his ears during the forty 
 years of his ministry somewhat dulled his sensi- 
 bilities. So it happened that he was not stern 
 and severe in his remonstrance with Mr. Mar- 
 shall when he drew him aside that night after 
 supper, at which Mary presided, pale but self- 
 possessed once more. 
 
 "If Mary wishes to tell Rose the truth and 
 kill her, she may do so, or you may do it; I 
 will not," said John. "While she is here I 
 shall treat her kindly, whatever others may do. 
 Come up and see her." 
 
 The old minister followed his host. In that 
 radiant presence he, too, forgot the aching heart 
 below and thought only of Rose and the wife of 
 his youth whose likeness he fancied he saw in 
 the face before him. 
 
 That night Rose moaned in her sleep, and 
 Mary, rising from her couch near by, found the 
 white hands clasped over the heart and won- 
 dered if the pangs of actual disease could equal 
 her own pain. 
 
 Next day the wild storm continued and the 
 121
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 minister, who had remained over night, pro- 
 longed his stay. Mary wandered restlessly 
 over the house, now in the kitchen with 'Liza, 
 now talking lightly with Father Allen in the 
 pleasant parlor, but never long absent from the 
 spot up-stairs where all interest centered. 
 
 "You look pale are you not well?" said 
 Rose once. "John, you must not let Mary 
 work too hard for me. Dear Mary! How 
 should we do without her?" 
 
 Mary's answer was short and brusque as she 
 hurried away, thinking bitterly that John had 
 no thought to spare for any illness of hers. Re- 
 penting, presently, of her ungracious response 
 to a kind inquiry, and returning, she saw re- 
 peated the loving scene of the day before. John 
 was on his knees by Rose's side, her arms 
 about his neck. 
 
 "I dreamed of our baby last night, John. 
 When I am well I think I shall be well soon 
 I want you to take me down to see where you 
 have laid him. If I should tfie I want my 
 there, there hush! I. know you love me; I 
 know you do, and I won't talk again of leaving 
 you. Poor John ; he has had no one to pet and 
 care for him, and he wants his little Rose." 
 122
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 Half an hour later 'Liza, intent on some house- 
 hold service, found Mrs. Marshall lying pros- 
 trate on the floor of an unused room. She was 
 not unconscious women out of books do not 
 faint when their hearts break but nature had 
 reached a limit, and after the storm of tears and 
 strong crying had come a dullness of feeling that 
 was almost insensibility. 
 
 'Liza stooped to raise her, but suddenly 
 changed her plan. "This is Mistah John's busi- 
 ness, an' I'll be boun' he 'tends to it." 
 
 No delicately conscientious scruples troubled 
 her mind. 
 
 "Mistah John's a mighty good man; nevah 
 had nothin' to say 'gainst him befo', but it do 
 look mighty cur'ous to see him hangin' roun' a 
 crazy woman that he divorced hisself from, an' 
 thinkin' no mo' o' this hyer po' lamb than if 
 the ole elder hadn't done married 'em fas' an' 
 tight. 'Taint gwine on no mo', nohow, if this 
 chile kin stop it. Bettah be the crazy woman 
 than Mis' Mary if somebody gwine die fo' it." 
 
 And 'Liza, muttering ominously, marched to 
 the front room. There even she paused. 
 
 "Ole 'Liza's a mighty mean niggah when the 
 blessed Lawd's grace done loose its hold on her, 
 123
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 but the devil aint nevah gwine make her huht 
 Mis' Rose, who looks like a angel o' the 'poca- 
 lypse, crazy or no crazy." 
 
 And so, very quietly, she called Mr. Marshall 
 out of the charmed presence. Father Allen, on 
 his way upstairs, was summoned also. Once in 
 that distant room over the half conscious "Mis' 
 Mary," 'Liza's wrath broke forth. 
 
 "Ole 'Liza's done thought a heap o' you, 
 Mistah John. I nevah reckoned I'us trailin' out 
 o' ole Kaintuck aftah a man who was gwine have 
 two wives undah one roof. Is yo' that stone 
 bline an* onfeelin', Mistah John, that yo' aint 
 see this blessed lamb dyin' foh the love o' yo' 
 on 'count o' the way yo' carryin' on? What 
 yo' reckon the Lawd thinkin' o' class-leadah 
 Mahshall 'bout now?" 
 
 She was on the floor holding Mary's head on 
 her ample bosom, loosening her dress, chafing 
 her hands. 
 
 "Yo' an' Eldah Allen, hyer, yo' alls think 
 its Mis' Mary's duty to make it easy foh you 
 uns, an' aint a carin' if she done make a bu'nt 
 offering o' herself. Yo' alls may be mighty 
 good in yo' minds, but yo' am' got no kind o' 
 feelin's. Ary man what wants his wife to stan' 
 124
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 back an' be sweet an' purty wiles he honeys up 
 to a nurrer woman is boun' to get all broke 
 up in he cackleations. No woman, black or 
 white, ain' made thataway. Ole Mis' Duncan, 
 down in Kaintuck, used to 'low, ' 'Liza,' she 'low, 
 'ebery male man that was evah bohned would be 
 a Mohmon or a heathen Tuhk if he wasn't 
 'shamed to have folks know it.' Ole Mis' hadn't 
 had good luck with her husban's an' was down 
 on the sect pow'ful ha'd, but the longah I live 
 the mo' I's 'pressed with the 'pinion that a man 
 what wants to get into the heabenly kingdom's 
 got to live mighty close in this worl', mighty 
 close." 
 
 John made no attempt to check this impetu- 
 ous tirade, but during its progress his eyes had 
 become wide open to the situation. His cheeks 
 burned with shame. He took Mary from Liza's 
 arms and laid her upon a bed. The sound of 
 his voice brought her to herself. Half dazed 
 she struggled to her feet. 
 
 "Father Allen," said the man, "We, I 
 have made a mistake. One wrong can not be 
 set right by another. Mary, here, is my wife. 
 We will have done with this deception, and will 
 
 125
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 go and tell Rose, let the consequences be what 
 they may." 
 
 Supporting his wife, he moved toward the 
 room across the house, followed by the old min- 
 ister, with 'Liza, alarmed now at the result of 
 her temerity, bringing up the rear. Even at that 
 moment, Mary, beginning to recover herself, 
 forgot her own grief and pleaded brokenly for 
 delay. Strong as had been John Marshall's res- 
 olution of a moment before, his steps faltered 
 as they approached the door. A moment more 
 and all paused involuntarily arrested by the 
 words they heard and the sight before them. 
 
 Standing by Rose's side was Mary's son, the 
 lad of twelve. Coming into the house he had 
 heard the sharp alarm of Aunt Rose's bell and, 
 finding no one to answer the call, had gone up 
 and peeped bashfully in. 
 
 Rose, gasping for breath in sudden faintness, 
 motioned for water and air. She revived pres- 
 ently, the boy watching her, meanwhile, with 
 wondering eyes. 
 
 "I have heard you about the house," she 
 said faintly but with a smile ; ' ' why have you 
 never been to see me before?" 
 
 126
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 " I wanted to come, but they said you must 
 not be worried," stammered the lad. 
 
 ' ' ' They ' ? Who are ' they ' ? 
 
 "Why, father and mother," he answered in 
 surprise. 
 
 "Well, your father and mother, whoever they 
 may be, should have known that boys would not 
 trouble me; I like them. And what is your 
 name, child?" 
 
 The group at the door heard this and the 
 boy's quick answer: 
 
 "My name is Richard Dick, for short 
 Richard Marshall, you know." 
 
 Mary staggered forward as if to stop the 
 words on the boy's lips. 
 
 "Save her, Lord!" she whispered. 
 
 Father Allen held her arm. "Hush! it is 
 too late. It is the will of God." 
 
 John stood as one paralyzed. 
 
 "Richard Marshall," she repeated wonder- 
 ingly "the same name. And are you related 
 to Mr. John Marshall? He did not tell me " 
 
 "Why, Mr. John Marshall is my father, 
 didn't you know? You must have forgotten, 
 Aunt Rose. And, of course, Mrs. Mary Mar- 
 shall is my mother." 
 
 The revelation which they had so guarded 
 127
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 against had been made; the shock so dreaded 
 had been given. 
 
 Rose seemed to realize the truth slowly. Her 
 startled eyes fell upon the terror-stricken group 
 at the doorway. Gradually, as comprehension 
 of the situation dawned upon her, a change 
 came over the sweet face. It grew gray and 
 sharp; the brightness vanished. She suddenly 
 seemed no longer young. 
 
 ' 'Is it true, John?" 
 
 "It is true," he whispered. 
 
 "Why, then, when you had taken another in 
 my place did you deceive me? Why was I 
 allowed to think " 
 
 "Rose, my darling, we did it for the best. 
 We thought you would suffer ; we had done you 
 a wrong and were afraid Rose, Rose, it was 
 for your sake. Can you not forgive?" 
 
 John Marshall had drawn near to the woman 
 on whom the shadow of death now plainly lay. 
 Mary crept to the bedside and crouched there 
 with head bowed low. For a long time, hours it 
 seemed to the spell-bound watchers, the dying 
 woman lay silent with her hands clenched over 
 her heart. No sound was heard save the dash 
 of rain upon the window and the crackling of 
 the fire upon the hearth. At last she spoke : 
 128
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 "It would be better for us all if I had died 
 long ago, or if I had never come to myself in 
 the asylum. I have wanted to live, but it does 
 not matter now. I will go to my baby ; the 
 Lord will let me have him for my own in heav- 
 en. I thought," the words came slowly and 
 more faint "I thought you were all mine, all 
 mine, and you belonged to Mary. I had no 
 one. But John," triumphantly it was the last 
 flash of the woman nature regardless of human 
 law for love's sake "John, you loved me best 
 once; you love me now, don't you, John?" 
 
 The man, with his head bent upon the pillow, 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 "Always, my darling." 
 
 After a pause she spoke again : 
 
 "You did not mean to hurt. I have been 
 happy happy. Kiss me, John." 
 
 The face brightened with a strange light. 
 
 "Mary, don't cry. I am going to my 
 baby. Do you see? Mary, forgive ." 
 
 Then the blue eyes looked on death. 
 
 A pale gleam of sunshine, the first for days, 
 broke through the clouds and fell upon the still 
 face. Father Allen, with uplifted hands, 
 pered softly, "Let us pray." 
 
 129
 
 A FARMHOUSE DRAMA 
 
 Six months later, Father Allen and the young 
 pastor, driving across the prairie, stopped again 
 at the Marshall home. Only the wife was 
 within. In answer to a whispered inquiry from 
 the older man, as he departed, she said gently, 
 but with an unconscious touch of defiance in her 
 speech: "I am happy, of course. He is mine, 
 now all mine. One does not fear the dead." 
 
 It was not quite a look of peace that filled her 
 eyes as they left her gazing wistfully down the 
 length of the level road. 
 
 A mile beyond, at the other side of the 
 broad prairie farm, was the little cottage where 
 the dead Rose had spent the first brief months 
 of her married life. It had never been occu- 
 pied since by strangers. A marble shaft gleamed 
 through the trees near by. Against the fence sur- 
 rounding this leaned John Marshall, absorbed in 
 contemplation of the two flower-grown mounds 
 within. His horse, in the road at a little dis- 
 tance, neighed impatiently, but the watcher 
 gave no heed. 
 
 "It seemed to me expedient," said Father 
 Allen, half to himself, as they drove, unnoticed, 
 by; "but I may have been wrong. The Lord 
 knows." 
 
 130
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 THERE is a conviction among certain educated 
 that with increased intellectual culture comes a 
 keener susceptibility to pleasure and pain. Is it so? 
 Turn anywhere among the " short and simple annals of 
 the poor," and we can find passion, and romance, and trag- 
 edy. They do not call these incidents of life by ouch 
 names ; they only live them. When love or suffering 
 and what else is life? comes to us, we can analyze our 
 emotions, and label them with high-sounding words ; we 
 can tell of them in verse, or in language compared to- 
 which theirs is but an inarticulate cry. Are our feelings, 
 therefore, deeper? 
 
 "Slave! Yassum, an' sot free by de prock- 
 elmation. Hab I lib in dis yer house so long 
 an' yo' nebah know I'se done been a slave?" 
 And Aunty Smith, the African dame, who rep- 
 resented that domestic institution known as "our 
 girl," gave the fire a vigorous poke. 
 
 "Tell yo' 'bout it? Dar ain't nuffin' to tell 
 wuth the while for yo' to listen. An' ole nig- 
 gah ain't got no hist'ry dat's for white folkses.
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 Didn't I heah yo' a readin' 'bout de hist'ry ob 
 Jawge Washin'ton an' den talkin' to me? 
 Sho!" 
 
 The black lips parted over broad white teeth 
 in a quick laugh, but no smile touched the sol- 
 emn eyes given to her race by generations of 
 bondage. 
 
 "Time to be a-takin' yo' quinine, honey; 
 bettah take it mighty reg'lah ef yo' specks to 
 get dem chills bruck. 'Trouble?' Yas, in- 
 deedy, I's had heaps ob trouble, but I nebah 
 did go roun' talkin' 'bout it. Makes mattahs 
 wuss to be forebber a-talkin' an' a-talkin' ob 
 yer trials. An' I's allus noticed dis yer fac', 
 dat mos' people likes to tell deir own 'sperience 
 'stiddy o' hearin' 'bout yours. Co'se I has to 
 tell somebody an' I tells de Lawd, but 'pears 
 like de Lawd's a long way off, sometimes. Ef 
 I could be shore dat He allus heard a pore nig- 
 gah I couldn't nebah grieve no mo'." 
 
 "Has doubt seized the believers?" I thought. 
 "If the rest of us were sure of that one thing 
 what burdens would be lifted ! ' ' 
 
 "I's done been mahied fo' times. Yassum ! 
 By de preachah ebry time; dey couldn't hab 
 no foolishness wid dis chile. My first husband's 
 132
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 name was Caesah Mahshall. He b' longed to 
 Kunnel Mahshall, who at dat time was courtin' 
 my mastah's daughtah, Miss Betty, an' ob 
 course Caesah he spen' a heap ob time 'round 
 dar. Caesah he a likely boy, an' all de gals 
 tort dey gwine git him. But laws! I knowed 
 he didn't keer for none o' dem niggahs. I did 
 keep a mighty keen eye, dough, on Lize. She 
 a yaller gal allus a-rollin' her eyes an' tossin' 
 her head, an' thinkin' herself good as white 
 folkses; one o' dese yer sly kind, too, a say in' 
 flatterin' things dat make a man think she a- 
 dyin' for lub o' him. I gib her mighty little 
 chance to try any of her sassy tricks on Caesah. 
 Men's dat pow'ful vain you des know it's so, 
 honey dey swallahs ebry soft an' sugary speech 
 ob de female sect asef 'twar de libin' trufe. But 
 Caesah he wouldn't hab no one but des' me. 
 He sayed I was like Solomon's wife dat de 
 Bible tells ob, 'black but comely.' I ax de 
 preachah once ef Solomon was a cullud gemlan. 
 He look scared, an' sayed he couldn't 'splain 
 dat tex' to an ig'nant pusson like me; sayed it 
 didn't mean what it sayed, but was a yallerglory 
 'bout de chu'ch. Preachahs don't know ebry 
 thing more'n we'uns, an' what's de use for twis' 
 133
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 de words ob de good book diff'rent from what 
 dey is? 
 
 "Well, Caesah an' me we done got mahied, 
 an' lived in a little cabin neah my mastah's 
 house, cause I had to wo'k hahd waitin' on ole 
 mistis an' de young ladies. Dey wore heaps 
 ob fine muslins an' lawns in dem days an' no 
 one could do de washin' an' i'nin' to suit dem 
 but me. But I had a little time in my own 
 house an' Caesah he come often. I was dat 
 happy I went roun' singin' from mawnin' twel 
 night; neber tort 'bout the nex' day an' what 
 it might bring fo'th. Ef I was too happy with 
 de things ob dis worl', de Lawd knows my 
 heart been heavy dis many yeahs to pay foh it. 
 'Pears like all dat's happen since has des' teched 
 de outside ob my feelin's an' lef all de heavenly 
 sweetness ob dat time shet off to itself. 
 
 "De time went by twel one mawnin' in de 
 summah Caesah he agwine to come an' tote de 
 chile ober in de hills to a camp-meetin'. She 
 was two munce old, an' I hadn't neber had her 
 'way from home befo'. Dar's no tellin' how 
 proud we bofe was ob dat baby. 
 
 "Dat mawnin' I dress her an' I waited. De 
 people roun' de place dey get ready an' go. 
 134
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 None ob dem stopped to talk, but I 'membered 
 aft' wards dey look mighty queah at me. Lize, 
 dat yaller gal I'se tellin' yo' ob, she run back 
 an' hug de baby. Yo' pore crittah, I thought, 
 yo'd gib all dat finery for sich a honey-drop ! 
 
 "An" I waited. Plenty things might ob hap- 
 pen for to keep Caesah away, so I sang Rosy to 
 sleep. Den somehow I 'gan to 'member de 
 looks an' de whispers dat I hadn't noticed at de 
 time, an' it seem to grow dark, dough de sun 
 was a-shinin' ; an' de chills crep ober me. Ole 
 mistis's mockin'-bird up at de big house, how 
 it did sing! I 'spise a mockin'-bird eber sence. 
 I waited an' aft' while ole mistis come walkin' 
 down the paf. She was bawn an' raised in de 
 Nawf, was ole mistis, an' neber 'peared to like 
 de black people. She hab berry sharp eyes 
 'bout de color ob de blade ob a new razah, an' 
 when she come close an' look at me I felt as ef 
 dey cut me clean froo. She hab a soft voice, 
 an" dar was a little smile on her face when she 
 tole me she tole me she stretch up an' pick 
 some yaller roses from de bush dat grow'd ober 
 de do', an' she say dat if I 'spect to git to 
 camp-meetin' I better be agwine; dat I'd haf to 
 pack de chile de whole way, for Caesah he fur 
 135
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 'nough off now. She tole me he been sold down 
 Souf, whar he'd be 'bliged to pick cotton an' 
 git ober some ob his fine notions. 
 
 "When she were gone 'way I tore de yaller 
 rosebush down an' tromp it undah my feet. 
 Aftah dat for a spell I don't rightly 'member 
 what happened. Dey tole me dat Caesah he 
 try to 'scape frum de tradahs ; dat dey chase 
 him wid de dogs, an' when de men tort he gwine 
 to cross de ribah dey done shoot him dead. 
 Heabenly Mastah ! an' I lubed him so ! 
 
 "I lib through it all. Many a woman, black 
 or white, could tell yo' dat she goes on a-libin' an' 
 every night a-prayin' de Lawd her soul to take. 
 
 "I foun' out dat Kunnel Mahshall he felt so 
 mighty pore dat he had to sell some of his 
 people. De Kunnel he one o' de real Ken- 
 tucky gemlen ; great man to be a-bettin' an' a- 
 hoss racin'. He'd loss a heap of money on his 
 fas' hoss, 'kase it wasn't so fas' as some o' de 
 rest, an' he an' Miss Betty gwine to be mahied ; 
 so ob co'se he must hab money an' he sold 
 Caesah. 
 
 "Den Rosy died; an' when I look at her in 
 de little coffin I's dat glad I couldn't cry. I's 
 glad, honey, 'kase she nebber hab no trouble. 
 136
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 "Well, de time go on, an' diff'rent men 
 dey ax me to marry, but I tole dem to go off 
 'bout deir business. But laws ! a man cain't 
 b'lieve a woman don't keer nuffin fer him ! So 
 dey kephangin' roun' twel Mistis she say I mus' 
 marry. Mistis she hab a thrifty turn an' wanted 
 all her people to marry an' raise chillen, kase 
 chillen proputty in dem days. Bless de Lawd ! 
 I didn't hab no mo' chillen fer her to count as I 
 do de pigs. 
 
 "At las' I mahied Big Tom to git shet ob 
 him, but I done miss it, fer shore as yo' lib, dat 
 crittah tuck de kinsumption. He war de mos' 
 misable, no-'count niggah I 'member to hab 
 knowed. I waited on dat man night an' day, 
 an' like to run my laigs off; tried to be as good 
 to him as ef he were de light ob my eyes ; but 
 nuffin pleased him no ways. One day he shied 
 a flat-i'n at me an' cut a gashober mylef year. 
 De scar's dah yit. I's pow'ful mad den, an' 
 says I, 'Ole man, ye kin cough yo' livah an' 
 lights up foh all me, an' de soonah de bettah.' 
 
 " 'Bout dat time mastah done send him down 
 
 de ribah on some business. Tom he were 
 
 mastah's right han', an' mastah didn't pay no 
 
 'tention to de kinsumption dat he say ailded 
 
 137
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 him. Well, de steamboat blowed up, an' I 
 s'pose Tom done get blowed up too, for I's 
 neber seed him since. 
 
 "Aft' dat, a spell, I mahied Joe, 'kase he was 
 lively, an' kept us all a-laughin' with his jokes. 
 He played de fiddle like an angel, too, an' 
 when I sot an' listened, seemed as ef I could see 
 beyond the stahs clar into de New Jerusalem. 
 But Joe didn't have good jedgment 'bout some 
 mattahs. De wah was gwine on by dis time, 
 an' nuffin' would do but Joe he mus' go with 
 Kunnel Mahshall down into Jawgy for to jine de 
 'federate ahmy. De Kunnel was his mastah, 
 but he didn't hab to go. He was gwine to be 
 a drummah, an' was dat heedless he nevah 
 'fleeted dad he was on de wrong side; reckon 
 he nevah s'posed dar'd be anything else but 
 playin' on de fife an' drum. In de berry fust 
 skrimmage dey had, Joe was killed. Might a 
 knowed he'd hab bad luck, an' I tole him so 
 'fore he went. Joe had a good heart, dough, 
 an' I don't 'spect de Lawd will be hahd on him 
 for habin' been bawn so giddy. 
 
 "Aftah while, when de prockelmation set de 
 culled people free, de family bruck up, an' I 
 went up to Louieville for to get washin' an i'nin'. 
 138
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 Dah I met Mistah Smith at pra'r-meetin'. He 
 were pow'ful in pra'r, an' he seem struck with 
 my 'pearance (I had on my violent dress for 
 de fust time). At de second pra'r-meetin' he 
 tole me he'd had a hebenly vision which sayed 
 I was to be his second pahtnah. Co'se I 
 couldn't stan' out 'gainst de will ob de Lawd, 
 an' dat's why I's now Mrs. Smith. His name 
 was Obadiah, but he 'quested me for to call him 
 Mistah Smith; sayed it 'corded bettah wid de 
 condition ob de woman to be 'spectful to de 
 husban' ; man, he say, bein' so s'perior. 
 
 "Mistah Smith an' me we done git along 
 comf'tably twel he died, which was des befo' I 
 come heah. I nebah had no fault to fine, 'cept 
 dat he did talk too much 'bout de fust Mrs. 
 Smith. I's had a heap ob trouble wid dat boy 
 ob hers, but I's tried to do my juty by him. I's 
 whipped him once a week reg'lah, 'kase he's 
 pow'ful bad, but he's mos' too big for me now, 
 an' I'se 'fraid de debbil '11 ketch him. 
 
 "What' 11 I do in hebben wid so many hus- 
 ban's? I won't hab but one, bless de Lawd, 
 an' dat's Caesah. Tom he won't be dah; Joe 
 he'll be so tuck up wid de harps an' de banjos 
 
 139
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT 
 
 dat he won't think ob nuffin' else; an' Mistah 
 Smith can 'joy hisself wid dat fust wife. 
 
 " I'll hab Caesah an' I'll hab Rosy, an' we'll 
 hab a little mansion with a passion vine an' 
 roses roun' de do' ; an' we'll be happy for eb- 
 ber an' ebber. Glory! Glory!" 
 
 The light that shone on the black face as she 
 turned away was a token of faith and hope ; an 
 outward sign of an inward grace the whitest of 
 us seldom wear. 
 
 Floating back to the room, like an echo of a 
 thought, came a triumphant voice : 
 
 "Dah ebahlasting spring abides, 
 An' nevah fading flowahs," 
 
 I4O
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 MRS. ABNER HALE and Mrs. Silas Ad- 
 ams walked slowly out Main street after 
 the regular Thursday meeting of the Branchville 
 Ladies' Literary Circle. When these ladies 
 organized their society they decided to call it a 
 circle instead of a club, because the latter word 
 sounded "so mannish, somehow." 
 
 "That was a beautiful paper of Alfaretta Mil- 
 ler's on theosophy," Mrs. Hale remarked, in 
 rather a questioning way. 
 
 "Oh, lovely!" said her companion, in the 
 tone women use when they wish to be agreeable, 
 no matter what their real thoughts may be con- 
 cerning the matter under discussion. "Yes, 
 Alfaretta can write on most any subject. She's 
 got a good mind. She's a credit to our Circle." 
 
 "What idea did you get from the paper?" 
 pursued Mrs. Hale, hesitatingly, and then, with 
 an impetuous outburst, "Martha Adams, what 
 is theosophy, anyway?" 
 141
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 "Land! Mrs. Hale, don't ask me. I have 
 n't the faintest idea, and never expect to have, 
 if I should hear a dozen papers. Alfaretta 
 wanted me to be prepared to discuss the subject 
 and loaned me a book to read up in, but it 
 made me dizzy. I did copy a sentence or two 
 out, though, that I meant to recite off at the 
 proper time, just to show that I wasn't ignorant, 
 but I forgot it. To tell the truth, I kind of lost 
 track of what she was saying in studying out 
 just how the trimming was fixed on Jennie Wil- 
 son's new silk waist. I'm making one for my 
 Sis, you know. Near as I can get at it, from 
 all I've read and heard, theosophy is a sort of 
 spiritualism that the heathen believe in and that 
 our folks have taken up out of curiosity sort of 
 a moony, spooky thing, with spheres and ma- 
 hatmas whatever they are and astral bodies, 
 and ever-so- many-times- on-earth, and all that 
 kind of foolishness. I ain't sure that it's quite 
 the thing to talk about in our Circle. Some 
 that's not so well balanced as you and me might 
 be influenced by it. Not but what there's deep 
 'things that it would be real satisfying to know 
 about. Sometimes I think there's something 
 
 142
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 genuine about spiritualism the rapping and 
 slate-writing kind." 
 
 Mrs. Hale looked at the speaker with an ex- 
 pression of severe disapproval, but had no chance 
 to utter a word of protest before that voluble 
 lady began again. 
 
 "Yes, I do, Mrs. Hale. Lemme tell you 
 something. ' ' Here Mrs. Adams's voice was low- 
 ered to a confidential whisper, although no one 
 was within sight or hearing. "The most of it's 
 foolishness, I'll allow, and there's a lot of hum- 
 buggery about it, but there's queer, unaccount- 
 able things, too. Cousin Jim Lawson's wife 
 was telling me one of 'em the last time I was in 
 Indianapolis. She'd been to visit a slate-writing 
 medium and had had a communication from her 
 mother, who'd died suddenly not long before 
 when she was away from home on a visit. Cousin 
 Jim's wife couldn't reconcile herself to having 
 no last word, and so she went to this medium, 
 who, it seems, is no common person, but a real 
 lady. She'd always had the power, but only a 
 few knew about it, and she never thought of 
 earning money by it until after she was left a 
 widow and had to do something to make a liv- 
 ing for herself and little girl." . 
 143
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 "Well" and here the whisper grew more 
 impressive "Cousin Jim's wife, she went and 
 never told her name or anything, and right in- 
 side of that double slate, with the medium's hands 
 laid flat on top in plain sight, came a message 
 signed by her mother, Eunice Bascom, telling 
 her she (Mrs. Bascom) was very happy, was 
 glad to have the opportunity to talk to her and 
 urge her to be reconciled, and also to tell her to 
 give her (the mother's) cashmere dress and her 
 wrappers and aprons to Jane, the other daughter, 
 and to keep the new black silk and the fur collar 
 herself. Cousin Jim's wife said you could a' 
 knocked her down with a feather. The thought 
 had come to her several times that that would be 
 a fair way to divide their mother's things, seeing 
 she had so much more use for dressy clothes 
 than Jane, who lived in the country and never 
 went anywhere, but she hadn't had the clothes 
 in mind that day at all, and had no notion any- 
 thing would be said about them. It was a real 
 comfort to her, though, to have what you might 
 call official authority for disposing of the gar- 
 ments, for she'd been a little afraid Jane would 
 be inclined to complain; so she bought the slate 
 
 144
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 with the writing on and took it home with her. 
 Now, Mrs. Hale, wasn't that remarkable?" 
 
 " It seems to me," protested that lady in re- 
 ply, " that I shouldn't like to have my mother 
 come back from the other world to talk about 
 clothes," but as she was going on to express 
 her fixed objection to such doings, such unholy 
 tampering with sacred things, as she considered 
 it, they reached Mrs. Adams's gate, and that 
 sprightly person, after unavailingly urging her 
 companion to enter, hurried in, saying she would 
 sew a little on Sis's waist before dark. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, who was not really a townswoman 
 at all, but a farmer's wife, and lived nearly a mile 
 beyond the point where the highway ceased to 
 be a street and became the pike, went leisurely 
 on her way over the quiet country road, saying 
 to herself, with a shake of the head, that Martha 
 Adams was a good soul, but too ready to be- 
 lieve everything she heard. Then her mind 
 drifted to other matters. She always remem- 
 bered her wandering thoughts of that afternoon, 
 and sometimes spoke of them long after, as 
 showing how little foreknowledge has the hu- 
 man mind. She thought complacently of her 
 own paper on the French Revolution, which she 
 10 145
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 had read before the Circle the week previous. 
 She was sixty years old and had never done 
 such a thing before, and it was a great event in 
 her life, but she told her husband, when it was 
 over, that she didn't see but what her piece was 
 "full as good as the average." She owned 
 frankly that she got the most of it from the en- 
 cyclopedia and the rest from an old magazine 
 belonging to Joe, " but, of course, they couldn't 
 expect me to write a thing like that out of my 
 own head," she said, " and if I used the same 
 language, why, what's the difference? I'm sure 
 I couldn't have said it as well, and, anyway, it 
 was all new to the Circle." 
 
 But the Circle soon passed into the back- 
 ground on this autumn afternoon, and Joe, never 
 far from the front in the mother's mind, occu- 
 pied her thoughts exclusively Joe, the son of 
 her old age, she called him. He was a young 
 civil engineer, and through the influence of an 
 instructor in the school of which he was a grad- 
 uate had had the good fortune, as he considered 
 it, to be made one of a government surveying 
 party to Alaska that summer, starting in April. 
 He was on his way home now. A letter had 
 come from Seattle saying he had left the party, 
 146
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 which was coming east over the northern route, 
 and was about to go down the coast in a small 
 sailing vessel, whose captain had happened 
 to take a liking to him. He did this because it 
 was inexpensive and he wanted a glimpse of Cal- 
 ifornia, not knowing when he should visit the 
 western coast again. He must have reached 
 San Francisco by this time, his mother reflected, 
 and another letter was nearly due, though pos- 
 sibly he would not think it worth while to write, 
 he was coming so soon himself. Mrs. Hale's 
 fond heart beat faster at the very thought of 
 seeing her boy once more, and as she looked 
 about her over the fields, golden with the Sep- 
 tember sunshine, the sight, dear from long asso- 
 ciation, seemed to take on a new charm. It was 
 a beautiful world, she thought, not realizing that 
 it was the contentment of her soul that made the 
 Indiana landscape doubly fair. 
 
 She entered the door of her home with a song 
 in her heart and upon her lips. She put her 
 bonnet carefully away, and, with a look at the 
 clock to assure herself that she had yet a few 
 minutes before it was time to prepare supper for 
 Abner and the hired man, she sat down to rest 
 and to glance at the paper she had brought 
 147
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 from the post-office. She opened the sheet and 
 looked over it with mild interest. What fate 
 turned her eyes straight upon the obscure para- 
 graph that in times of much news would have 
 found no space in the inland paper? Thus 
 blindly and unsuspectingly are we led into the 
 tragedies of our lives. It was a brief dispatch, 
 dated at San Francisco, and mentioning the sink- 
 ing of the schooner Yakima through being run 
 down by the steamship Montana. The Yakima 
 was bound for San Francisco with a cargo of 
 coal, and filled and sank so rapidly after the col- 
 lision that only one person on board escaped. 
 The Montana put out her boats and picked up 
 one sailor, who reported that in addition to the 
 crew the schooner had had on board one passen- 
 ger, a man from Indiana named Hale. The cause 
 of the accident would be investigated and the 
 responsibility fixed, said the dispatch. 
 
 The mind comprehends slowly the full mean- 
 ing of death when a loved one has gone. It is 
 only as weeks and months pass that the loss, the 
 desolation, the awful loneliness are realized. 
 Sitting with her paper in her hand that after- 
 noon, Mrs. Hale saw her husband coming 
 through the orchard, and her first conscious 
 148
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 thought was one of pity for him that he had no 
 son. Concerning her own bereavement she had, 
 as yet, no sensation; the sudden blow had 
 made her numb. She watched him come slowly 
 and heavily through the gate and up the walk 
 a gray-haired man, with bent shoulders, who 
 had not kept his youthful elasticity as had his 
 wife. 
 
 "He has not many years of grief to bear, ' ' she 
 said, as she went out to him, bearing the mes- 
 sage of evil. 
 
 The history of the next few days she could 
 hardly have told later. She went about her 
 household tasks mechanically, for the living 
 must eat and drink, though the best loved lie 
 dead, but her mind wandered far and scarce 
 knew what her hands did. There was a sending 
 of telegraphic messages, a writing of letters and 
 the gathering of all the information that could 
 be secured, but this was little more than the first 
 newspaper dispatch had contained. The Yakima 
 had sunk, only one person on board had been 
 picked up at the time which was just after 
 midnight on the 2Oth of September and the 
 sea being rough that night there was no proba- 
 149
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 bility, even had any one been overlooked in the 
 careful search made, that a survivor could have 
 remained afloat till morning. 
 
 Hope, catching at the faintest chance, died 
 hard, but when weeks went by and brought no 
 word Joseph Hale's death was accepted as a 
 certainty. His mother put on a black gown; 
 his father went to and fro about his work with a 
 look that made the neighbors say he was aging 
 fast ; they tried to bear their affliction with the 
 fortitude and resignation becoming to their 
 Christian professions, but they knew that for 
 them the zest of life had passed with their son's 
 going, and that the years to come must be en- 
 dured, not enjoyed. They read the grief in 
 each other's eyes, but spoke little of it, Abner 
 being taciturn at all times, and his wife, like so 
 many men and women of the Anglo-Saxon race, 
 never having learned to express her deepest 
 emotions in words. 
 
 One day in October services in memory of the 
 young man were held in the Presbyterian church. 
 Sympathy with the bereaved parents was deep, 
 and the curious, but not unkindly, desire of 
 their friends to see how they were affected by 
 the remarks of the minister, and how they bore 
 150
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 their sorrow, caused the emotion of a young wo- 
 man near the door to go unnoticed. She was 
 Nellie Hamilton, a teacher in one of the village 
 schools. She and Joe Hale had known each 
 other all their lives, and were on such friendly 
 footing and so free from self-consciousness that 
 no one had thought of them as lovers. She had 
 been aware for a long time of the state of her 
 own affections, but it was only a few days be- 
 fore his departure that Joe had begun to learn 
 where his heart belonged. She had seen the 
 awakening in his eyes ; she had felt it in the 
 subtle change of manner ; she had read his secret 
 through the prescience of her own love, and her 
 heart leaped in her bosom and was glad. He 
 had not spoken before he went away, but she 
 did not feel the less secure, for she saw also that 
 he had not discovered her secret, and was in 
 that state of doubt where he feared to test his 
 fate. Maiden-like, and with a touch of coquet- 
 ry, she had refrained from betraying a hint of 
 the truth, coyly holding back, confident in the 
 knowledge that when she chose to offer a sign 
 he would come. Not long since had come a 
 letter telling her that on his return he had a 
 question to ask one which he had "always
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 thought a man ought to be brave enough to put 
 to a woman face to face, and not by letter." A 
 reply would not have reached him had she writ- 
 ten it, and now he was dead ; he was dead and 
 would never know; was dead and she had not 
 the right to weep for him, but must go about 
 with calm face, for she had not let him speak, 
 and he was not hers in the sight of the world. 
 She envied his mother the liberty of tears, of 
 outspoken grief and of unsmiling face. Life was 
 bitter. 
 
 The days went on drearily. Mrs. Hale neg- 
 lected the Ladies' Circle, the Missionary Society 
 and all the various interests that had made her 
 social world, and, shut in her rural home, 
 brooded over her loss. October passed and 
 November came, with heavier rains and more 
 lowering clouds, it seemed, than ever Novem- 
 ber had had before. Thanksgiving day ap- 
 proached, and Mrs. Hale grew restless. On 
 that day it had been the custom to invite to 
 dinner all the kinfolk living thereabout, but this 
 time she and her husband could not make fes- 
 tivity for themselves or others. When the 
 morning came Mrs. Hale arose and went about 
 her tasks with an unusual look of determination. 
 
 152
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 "Father," she said to her husband at break- 
 fast, "I don't feel as if I could go to our church 
 this morning, and I am going into the city. I 
 know you don't want to go, so I sha'n't ask 
 you. I'll come out on the one-o'clock train, 
 which will give me time to have dinner by three. 
 It'll be a good dinner. I've fixed ready for it." 
 
 Abner offered no objection to the plan, but 
 hitched up the horse and took his wife to the 
 train, meeting her, also, upon her return. Her 
 face bore a different expression, he noticed, 
 from that it had worn in the morning a brighter, 
 more cheerful look. They chatted of various 
 things on their way home of Rev. Mr. Wil- 
 letts's sermon, which Abner had heard; of the 
 music by the new choir, which Abner did not 
 like, because he didn't know what was being 
 sung tunes or words. 
 
 "That Hamilton girl Nellie is her name, 
 isn't it? took sick in meeting," he said casu- 
 ally. "Screamed and had to be helped out to 
 the air. Hystericky. I guess." 
 
 "Poor thing!" commented his wife. "I ex- 
 pect she's overworked and run down. I must 
 ask her out to spend some Sunday. She and 
 Joe used to be good friends." 
 153
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE. 
 
 They ate their Thanksgiving dinner rather 
 silently and their thanks were not fervent, but 
 perhaps the Lord forgave them, knowing their 
 sore hearts. It was not till dinner was over and 
 Abner's chores done that Mrs. Hale disclosed 
 the purpose of her morning's visit to Indianap- 
 olis and its result. It had not occurred to her 
 husband's rather slow-moving mind, until that 
 moment, that she had as yet said nothing about 
 it. He had assumed that she had attended a 
 city church and had received consolation from 
 the words of the pastor. If she was nervous 
 over the confession of a different course of action 
 she did not betray the feeling, but went boldly 
 about it. 
 
 "Father, I've got something to tell you. I 
 went in town to-day and visited a spiritualist 
 medium a slate-writer. She didn't know I was 
 coming. She didn't know my name. She didn't 
 ask a question, but she sat down at a little table, 
 took this little folding slate that Johnny Miller 
 left here (I carried it with me), laid her hands 
 on it, never a minute out of my sight, and while 
 I was looking the little pencil inside began to 
 scratch, and when it stopped here was this writ- 
 
 154
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 ing," and Mrs. Hale produced the slate and 
 began to read from its pages. 
 
 "Dear Mother," the writing ran. "Dear 
 Mother: I am so glad you have come at last. 
 Have been looking for you anxiously. I knew 
 you grieved because I passed into the spirit 
 world before you, and because you knew so lit- 
 tle of the going, but I knew you never believed 
 that one who had gone could ever return and 
 talk to his friends, so was afraid the truth would 
 not be impressed on you and you would not 
 come. But it is true, mother. This is your 
 own Joey boy. It was all true about the ship- 
 wreck ; we went down without warning and were 
 drowned. I didn't have time to think about it, 
 and you will be glad to know I didn't suffer. I 
 shouldn't have wanted to go if I had known 
 beforehand what was to happen, but it's all 
 right now. I am happy perfectly happy. 
 Everything is beautiful here. I can't tell you 
 just how it is, because we are not permitted, but 
 you will know some day. Father isn't looking 
 well. Now that that affair of Lester's is off his 
 mind he ought to cheer up. Tell him not to 
 fret about me. It's all right. Come and talk 
 
 155
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 to me again some day soon. Your loving son, 
 Joseph Albert Hale." 
 
 Down in one corner was added : ' 'What have 
 you done with old Major? I don't see him 
 about." 
 
 Mrs. Hale read this communication, as she 
 called it, slowly and impressively, but with vis- 
 ible excitement and elation. Then she paused 
 a moment for her husband to speak, but he re- 
 mained silent, and she burst out : 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful, Abner? I know you 
 never believed in spiritualism, and neither did 
 I, but you can't deny that there's something in 
 this. Why, here's Joe's very own handwriting, 
 and his signature, with the quirl at the end that 
 he always makes and his middle name written 
 out in full. That was a notion he picked up 
 when he was at school, but I never could get in- 
 to the fashion of addressing his letters any other 
 way than 'Joseph A.' And in the letter he 
 calls himself 'Joey boy.' I used to call him 
 'Joey,' you know, for a pet name. And who 
 but Joey could have mentioned that trouble with 
 his cousin Lester, when only we four ever knew 
 you got the young rascal out of a scrape, and 
 you know very well none of us ever mentioned 
 156
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 it Lester least of all. Then, father, he says 
 you are not looking well, which is true, and 
 shows he must have seen you. Think of that! 
 And he missed old Major. I never wrote to 
 him that the dog had died; kind of hated to. I 
 tell you, father, it's wonderful, wonderful! I 
 never would have believed that I could have an 
 atom of faith in spiritualism, and I must say that 
 I wish Joe could communicate with us at first 
 hand, and not through a total stranger. But 
 this way is better than nothing, and what I've 
 got here's a great comfort to me. I'm going 
 again, and if you " 
 
 Abner's face had slowly assumed an expres- 
 sion that caused his wife to pause suddenly and 
 observe him with some apprehension. He 
 looked at her fixedly and sternly, then spoke with 
 a voice trembling with anger : 
 
 "Sarah Jane!" They addressed each other 
 in the sweet, old-fashioned way, as "father" 
 and "mother," except on those occasions when 
 storms loomed in the domestic sky. "Sarah 
 Jane Hale, has it come to this, that you, a pro- 
 fessing Christian for forty years, a member of 
 the Presbyterian church in good standing; that 
 you, the wife of a ruling elder, have taken up 
 157
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 with this abominable witchcraft, and have the 
 indecency to glory in it? Have you not read 
 that the wrath of God comes upon those who 
 practice such vile arts? Have you forgotten 
 your religion? Do you care nothing for the 
 safety of your immortal soul? I am shocked, 
 Sarah Jane! I am astonished and grieved, and 
 I insist that there shall be no more of this idola- 
 trous business. It was thoughtlessness that led 
 you to the den of the witch this time, may be, 
 but the visit must not be repeated. I want you 
 to promise not to go again, and I should like to 
 hear you say you are sorry for this visit." 
 
 Mrs. Hale, after a gasp of surprise, got her 
 breath and her bearings. 
 
 "She is not a witch, but a respectable lady, 
 I'd have you know, Abner Hale, and she doesn't 
 live in a den, but in a house that's better than 
 this one, and she's a member of the Baptist 
 church. And I wouldn't be as narrow-minded 
 and stiff-necked as you are for a farm. There's 
 things in this world that you haven't found out 
 yet, if you are a ruling elder; and, anyway, I 
 won't be dictated to just as if I were a disobedient 
 child and had no judgment or rights of my own. 
 You don't seem to understand how I miss Joe. 
 158
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 It was a real comfort to me, that letter from 
 him, and I'm not sorry I went, and I shall go 
 again if I want to. So there ! " 
 
 After which feminine outburst she threw her- 
 self upon the lounge and sobbed with as much 
 abandon as if she were ten years old instead of 
 sixty. Abner was not moved to compassion by 
 her tears. 
 
 "Sarah Jane," he said, solemnly, "I am dis- 
 appointed. I have always considered you a sen- 
 sible woman one not likely to be led away 
 from true Christian principles, though at times 
 you haven't been as faithful to the means of 
 grace as would be becoming in an' elder's wife. 
 I know Joe's death was hard on you. He was 
 was my son, too, but I haven't found it neces- 
 sary to consort with Satan's emissaries for com- 
 fort. This taking up with evil things is a mat- 
 ter that calls for church discipline. It ought to 
 he laid before the session, but I ain't ready to do 
 that yet, Sarah Jane. I want you to have time 
 to consider the iniquity of your course before it 
 is made public, and until you can realize it I 
 sha'n't speak a word to you, not a word from 
 this hour." 
 
 159
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 Mrs. Hale dried her tears suddenly and sat 
 up, looking at her husband with curiosity. 
 
 "Are you six years old or sixty-five, Abner 
 Hale, getting mad and 'not speaking?' " she 
 inquired, sharply. 
 
 Abner deigned no reply, but wound the clock, 
 kicked the cat out and slammed the door with 
 more energy than was becoming to a ruling 
 elder, then stalked majestically off to bed in 
 silence. 
 
 Mrs. Hale was not especially overcome by this 
 exhibition of conjugal authority. The neigh- 
 bors were wont to speak of Mr. Hale as " terri- 
 bly set in his ways and domineering." On ac- 
 count of these traits the women were inclined to 
 congratulate themselves on not being married to 
 him, but this feeling was not really a sound 
 basis for an adverse verdict on his character. 
 The disposition of women to wonder how other 
 women can ' ' put up ' ' with their respective hus- 
 bands arises, perhaps, out of feminine inability to 
 comprehend thoroughly the idiosyncrasies of 
 more than one man at a time. Not all wives are 
 martyrs who seem so to outside eyes. At all 
 events, Mrs. Hale had never so regarded her- 
 self, and did not now. She had lived with Ab- 
 160
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 ner for forty years and understood him. He 
 had "ways," and she had adapted herself to 
 them, bringing him, in the long run, to her way 
 of thinking; or, at least, so modifying his as- 
 perities of thought and character as to make him 
 quite satisfactory to her. She had never run so 
 directly counter to his prejudices as in this case, 
 but was not alarmed at his wrath and only mod- 
 erately resentful. 
 
 " I didn't suppose he'd take it so hard," she 
 said long afterward, " but I might have remem- 
 bered that he hadn't been thinking the matter 
 over for a month or so, as I had. I ought to 
 have talked it up to him in advance and got him 
 into the notion by degrees. Poor soul! He 
 tried not to show it, but he grieved for Joe every 
 day and all day while he was alone at his work, 
 and his nerves were all wrought up. Women 
 ain't the only ones that get cross and crabbed 
 from nervousness. However, I wasn't going to 
 give in right at once. I didn't want him to think 
 he could dictate to me that way. It doesn't do 
 to give a man such an advantage, even once." 
 
 Down in the village that Thanksgiving night, 
 while this domestic episode took place in the 
 farm-house, pretty Nellie Hamilton lay upon her 
 II 161
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 bed with wide-open eyes, staring into the dark, 
 her mind intent upon the experience of the 
 morning. The choir had performed its final 
 "voluntary," the minister had just given out his 
 text, "Let us come before His presence with 
 thanksgiving, ' ' and the congregation was settling 
 itself into the pews, when choir, minister and 
 people faded out of sight and she looked upon a 
 far different scene not only looked upon it, but 
 seemed a part of it. There before her, almost 
 at her feet, was a lake, half shadowed by a 
 mountain, whose bare and rocky summit pierced 
 the sky. A vivid green forest, whose appear- 
 ance was strange and tropical, circled the water 
 and was thick about her. In a little opening 
 were two or three huts, and near them, swung 
 between two trees, was a hammock, in which 
 lay her lover, Joe Hale. Pale and ill he looked, 
 but was unmistakably Joe. As she stood, or 
 seemed to stand, ready to step forward to his 
 side, so softly as not to awaken him, she became 
 aware of a swarthy, half-clothed foreign-looking 
 man slipping toward the hammock from the 
 further side. His face wore an evil look, and 
 he glanced furtively about. His hand crept 
 toward the pocket in the breast of the flannel 
 162
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 shirt worn by the occupant of the hammock, but 
 the movement, soft as it was, roused the sleeper, 
 and he started up. Quicker than it could be 
 told, a bright blade flashed in the air, blood 
 spurted over the sick man's breast and he fell 
 back as if dead. It was at this moment that 
 Nellie Hamilton startled the congregation with a 
 scream, and was assisted to her home under the 
 belief that she was suddenly taken ill. 
 
 Lying there, puzzling over it, she could not 
 solve the mystery. It could not be a dream. 
 She had just seated herself when the vision came, 
 and had had no time in which to grow drowsy 
 if she were so inclined. She was thinking of 
 Joe at the time ; it was seldom in those days that 
 he was far from her mind, but she pictured him 
 as battling with fierce waves, and as sinking 
 slowly, surely, and, at last, despairingly, into 
 their cruel depths a hideous vision that haunted 
 her, awake or asleep. She had never associated 
 him with far southern lands ; she had never been 
 outside of her own state of Indiana, yet she knew 
 that an actual tropical landscape could never be 
 more real to her than this phantasmal scene of 
 the morning. She could almost see it yet the 
 shining green of trees, whose names she did not 
 163
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 know, the vines that stretched from branch to 
 branch like great serpents, the rank undergrowth, 
 the intense blue of the sky, the mountain, with 
 its upper height a bare, stony peak. What did 
 it mean? She remembered hearing her Scotch 
 grandfather talk mysteriously of second sight, 
 but had never troubled herself to know just what 
 he meant, and she had never before had an ex- 
 perience like this. Besides, if Joe had been 
 drowned in the Pacific, and he must have been 
 drowned, or he would have been heard from long 
 ago, this vision must have been a delusion. 
 Could she be losing her mind? she wondered 
 drearily, and fell at last into troubled sleep. 
 
 The days and weeks dragged slowly by, 
 Abner Hale kept strictly to the letter of his 
 threat to speak no word to his wife until she 
 showed signs of repentance for what he con- 
 sidered her ill conduct. She addressed him 
 freely when occasion required, and sometimes 
 when it did not, but he made the hired man his 
 medium of communication, directing his re- 
 marks ostensibly to that personage, but really 
 to Mrs. Hale; and the hired man, being but a 
 stupid creature, concerned more with eating all 
 that was set before him than with what went on 
 164
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 in the house, never discovered that he was used 
 as a convenience. With neighbors who drop- 
 ped in Abner talked freely and even eagerly, 
 which, in view of his usual taciturnity, caused 
 them some surprise. Once his wife detected 
 him furtively examining the slate containing 
 Joe's letter, which she kept in a drawer of Joe's 
 old desk, but he showed no sign of interest 
 when she made another visit to the city, and he 
 had reason to assume that she again visited the 
 woman he had denounced as an agent of the 
 evil one. 
 
 She did, in fact, visit that person, not once, 
 but twice or more, as the holidays drew near, 
 and she felt the need of aid in resisting the de- 
 pressing influences of other people's gayety. 
 Each time was repeated, with somewhat greater 
 amplification, the story that had been told on 
 the slate the first day. Each time some allus- 
 ions were made or questions asked which con- 
 vinced her anew that Joe's spirit must inspire 
 the pencil's movements, since none but he and 
 herself had knowledge of the matters involved. 
 Each time came the assurance afresh that the 
 unseen writer was Joe, her son, come back to 
 her in this way from the other world. She 
 165
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 could not doubt that this was true, but some- 
 how the slate writings did not continue to be 
 the comfort to her that she had first found them. 
 There was a consciousness of something lacking, 
 something unsatisfactory; there was a barrier 
 between her and her son that she could not 
 overcome. He told her so little, after all. It 
 dawned on her one day that he had really writ- 
 ten nothing that she had not herself known or 
 believed before. She was thinking of this as 
 she left the station one afternoon on her way 
 home from one of these visits, and had won- 
 dered if it would not be just as well to fall in 
 with Abner's notions and tell him she was will- 
 ing to give up the medium. "But I won't do 
 it just yet," she decided. "He hasn't been 
 behaving well, and I don't want to encourage 
 him in such doings by giving in so easily. He 
 ought to come half way, anyhow, and I think 
 he will before long. He's getting very un- 
 easy." 
 
 Nevertheless, she sighed as she thought of her 
 silent home, and when she chanced to meet Nel- 
 lie Hamilton, something wistful in the girl's face 
 attracted her notice and she urged her to accom- 
 
 166
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 pany her to the farm. Visitors were always 
 welcome now. 
 
 ' ' Come out and spend the afternoon with me, 
 and if, as you say, you must be home to-night, 
 Abner will bring you." 
 
 It was the last day of the year, but the clear, 
 crisp air and the bright sunshine brought sug- 
 gestions of spring, and both women felt cheered 
 in a vague way when they reached the country 
 home. Mrs. Hale talked to Nellie of her lost 
 son that afternoon, and found a sympathetic lis- 
 tener. She related anecdotes of his boyhood ; 
 she brought out the tintypes and photographs 
 he had had taken at various stages of his career ; 
 she showed specimens of his handiwork about 
 the house; she told how thoughtful and consid- 
 erate he was always and what a source of com- 
 fort. But with all the confidences bestowed she 
 did not mention her visits to the medium or the 
 story on the slate ; all that was too intimate an 
 experience to relate to this girl, who, for all her 
 evident appreciation of Joe, might have an igno- 
 rant prejudice against spiritualistic manifesta- 
 tions. She had had it herself not so long ago. 
 Nor did Nellie Hamilton venture to tell the elder 
 
 167
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 woman of her vision on Thanksgiving day, nor 
 of the later one the day before Christmas. 
 
 It rained on the latter occasion, and as she 
 stood on the school-house step, looking up the 
 dreary street, after the children had gone home, 
 suddenly street and houses vanished, the dark 
 sky cleared, and before her stretched a wide 
 sweep of gray, sandy desert, patches of gray- 
 green vegetation only adding to the dreariness ; 
 not far distant were barren hills, and beyond 
 them arose mountains, gray, too, and craggy, 
 with lines of white near their summits, glittering 
 in the pitiless sunshine. Almost at her feet lay 
 a horse, gasping as if for breath, his tongue, 
 cracked and bleeding, hanging from his mouth. 
 Near him a man was stretched face downward 
 on the sand. As she looked he raised his head, 
 and, with dull eyes, gazed drearily about, but 
 she had not needed the movement to know that 
 the man was Joe Hale. He was gaunt of 
 frame, but his face was brown, not white, as she 
 had seen it the other time, and there was a red 
 scar on his forehead not there before. The gray 
 desert stretched away until it melted into the 
 horizon line, and no other creature was in sight 
 in all its space. But while she looked, and be- 
 168
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 fore she could take the one step forward that 
 seemed to divide her from the man she loved, 
 the scene was changed, and she stood upon the 
 school-house steps, staring blankly into the mud- 
 dy street of Branchville. 
 
 She began to be afraid of herself, and would 
 have liked to take Joe's mother into her confi- 
 dence and ask what these visions could mean, 
 but had not the courage. So the two women 
 talked together about one who was so dear to 
 both, and each kept from the other her closest 
 thoughts concerning him. After supper, when the 
 guest would go, pleading duties that demanded 
 her attention in the early New Year's morning, 
 Abner entreated delay, and as they sat about 
 the fire he, too, conscious of sympathy, fell to 
 relating stories of the dear lost son. And while 
 they talked the gate opened, a step was heard 
 on the walk, then on the porch, and Mrs. Hale, 
 her face suddenly radiant with hope and joy, 
 rose swiftly, and before he could touch the latch 
 opened the door to her son. The intuition of 
 the mother rose superior at this moment to the 
 mysterious power that brought visions from far 
 off to the younger woman. 
 
 There were laughter and tears, kisses and 
 169
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 embraces, and if the visitor shared these neither 
 father nor mother stopped to wonder. There 
 were incoherent questions and answers when all 
 talked at once and no one listened ; there was 
 silence of deep emotion as the parents looked 
 upon their boy, who had been lost and was 
 found, and put their hands upon him again and 
 again to be convinced anew that he was truly in 
 the flesh. And when the excitement quieted 
 they all gathered close while Joe told them the 
 story of his adventures ; how he had been ship- 
 wrecked, as they had read in the papers; how 
 the steamship had made little effort instead of 
 much to save its victims ; how he had clung to 
 a floating plank till morning and had been 
 picked up by a tramp boat which had mysterious 
 errands, whose nature he did not inquire, to 
 Central American ports, and was anxious to 
 avoid California harbors for reasons that he sus- 
 pected to have connection with customs officers. 
 He told how, at his own solicitation, he was 
 put ashore at the first Guatemalan port, and 
 how, instead of being able to work his way back 
 to San Francisco, as he had hoped, being with- 
 out money after the shipwreck, he fell ill with 
 fever and would have fared badly but for a party 
 170
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 of American miners and prospectors, themselves 
 scant of funds, who ran across him, doctored 
 him, and took him far into the interior before 
 he fairly realized their kind purpose. They 
 were going north overland in search of one of 
 the famous lost mines of Mexico, to whose loca- 
 tion they thought they had a clew. It was a 
 wild country they traveled through, and their 
 journeying was slow. They did not come near 
 the civilization of which railroad trains and tele- 
 graph wires were a part, and so he wrote no let- 
 ters, but looked forward to the day when he 
 should reach home in person, and fretted that 
 progress was so slow. 
 
 "I had one or two close calls," he said light- 
 ly, with the disregard for dangers past common 
 to the young. "While I was lying in a ham- 
 mock one day (it was the Thanksgiving day here, 
 by the way, and I was dreaming of home), a 
 Mexican thief crept up and gave me this," 
 touching a scar on his forehead, "and another 
 on my shoulder. He aimed at my heart, of 
 course, and it's a wonder he missed. And only 
 last Monday, just a week ago to-day, I thought 
 I was gone. I had left my friends to their rain- 
 bow chasing and started to make the rest of the 
 171
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 way to Tucson alone. I wandered off the trail, 
 my skeleton of a horse broke down we were both 
 famished for water and I thought for a bit that 
 the jig was up. But while I was on the sand 
 thinking the matter over, what did I hear or, 
 rather, feel but the faint jarring of a railroad 
 train and the echo of a far-off whistle ! It was 
 miles away, but I knew I was all right. It was 
 the sweetest music I ever heard. Actually, the 
 old horse pricked up his ears, scrambled to his 
 feet and jogged on. We struck the track after 
 two or three hours and followed it to a station. 
 From there I got to Tucson, where Tom Bailey, 
 my old room-mate, is, and he lent me money to 
 get home with. So here I am." 
 
 The women shuddered at the tale, and looked 
 upon this youth, who talked so carelessly of his 
 perils, as a hero of heroes. 
 
 The hour grew late, and Nellie, making a 
 movement of withdrawal, found Joe eager with 
 his proposal to accompany her. She was un- 
 willing to disturb the family group, but read en- 
 treaty in the young man's eyes, and so declined 
 her hostess's invitation to remain. They scorned 
 the thought of driving, and went out gayly to 
 walk the short mile on the highway, that was 
 172
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 to them that night a path to paradise. Under 
 the moonlit sky Joe asked her the question he 
 had said ought never to be written, and she 
 whispered her answer so low that even the owl 
 blinking in the tree overhead could not hear. 
 But Joe heard. 
 
 As they loitered down the road, unmindful 
 that it was the season of frost and not of roses, 
 she told him of her visions, and a wonder fell upon 
 them that she had seen so true. Yet, after all, 
 they reflected, with the beautiful confidence of 
 youth in the supreme power of love, it was not 
 so strange that two souls in such harmony as 
 theirs should come to each other across the 
 world. As they looked up at the starry sky, think- 
 ing of this, heaven seemed very near, and they 
 caught a glimpse of its mysteries. Then the 
 bells rang that ushered in a new year, and they 
 felt that it was the beginning of life for them. 
 
 Back in the farm-house another subject was 
 under discussion. Mrs. Hale had stood in the 
 doorway looking after her son with a pang at 
 her heart in spite of her joy at his return. Sud- 
 den insight had come to her, and she knew that 
 though the lost was found he would never be all 
 173
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 her own again. She sighed as she shut the 
 door and turned, with absent-minded gaze, to- 
 ward her husband. He sat by the fire, with a 
 hand on each knee and a puzzled expression 
 on his face. Through all the confusion and 
 excitement of the evening he had remained 
 faithful to his promise, and had not addressed a 
 word to his wife, but now, without preamble, 
 and as if no silence had intervened, he began : 
 
 "Mother, what do you reckon it was that 
 made the writing on them slates at Madame 
 Victorine's?" 
 
 "I don't know," she answered. "It cer- 
 tainly wasn't Joe, for he didn't get drowned 
 and he wasn't dead, and still some of the things 
 written were family matters no one could have 
 knowledge of but one of us three. But it wasn't 
 Madame Victorine; it was Mrs. Mary Ellen 
 Johnson who was the medium." Then, with 
 the swift intuition of a woman who reads her 
 husband like a book: "Abner Hale, I believe 
 you went to visit Madame Victorine yourself to 
 get slate writings, or you wouldn't know any- 
 thing about her! You did. I know by your 
 sheepish look you did. Madame Victorine, of 
 all creatures, too ! Why, she isn't a decent 
 174
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 woman, if all they say's true; five or six hus- 
 bands, and nobody knows where one of 'em is, 
 or whether they're alive or dead. You ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself an elder in the 
 church. And all the time holding off from 
 speaking to your own wife." 
 
 Abner got in a word here. 
 
 "I wanted to investigate a little on your ac- 
 count, and I thought you mentioned Madame 
 Victorine," he urged, feebly. 
 
 "My account nothing!" was her scornful 
 ejaculation. "You were just filled with curiosity, 
 for one thing, and a desire to hear from Joe, for an- 
 other don't deny it ! And not speaking a word 
 to me for a whole month, and talking of church 
 discipline! Huh!" 
 
 Abner had risen to his feet and affected a 
 dignity it was obvious he did not altogether feel. 
 
 "Well, mother," he said, in a conciliatory 
 tone, but with the masculine reluctance to own- 
 ing himself in the wrong clearly apparent ; ' 'well, 
 mother, I guess we haven't either of us done 
 anything we want to talk about before folks. It 
 looks as if the devil was in the thing, anyway, 
 as I told you at first. I guess we'd better say 
 
 175
 
 AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE 
 
 nothing about th'e matter to any one to any one, 
 not even to Joe." 
 
 She looked at him intently and reflected for a 
 moment, then laughed a little, not being without 
 humor. 
 
 "I guess so, too," she said. 
 
 And she never did mention the affair to any 
 one but Joe, who, of course, told his wife. 
 
 176
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 WERE you ever at Michigan City, in Indi- 
 ana? Stop! Let me put the question 
 more carefully. Were you ever compelled to 
 wait for a train at Michigan City? The first in- 
 quiry sounds innocent enough, but a Hoosier 
 would detect a covert insult in it. Why? Be- 
 cause one of the three state penitentiaries is sit- 
 uated there and is the town's chief distinc- 
 tion to the outside public. A native of the 
 state living elsewhere can conceive of no reason 
 why a man should voluntarily take up his resi- 
 dence in the place, or even why he should 
 "stop off," except to visit some erring and 
 unfortunate relative. Hence, to avoid trouble, 
 those persons in search of local information do 
 well to be on their guard. 
 
 I had passed through, many times, on my 
 way to and from Chicago, but until this trip had 
 12 177
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 never taken closer observations than through 
 the car windows. To-day the "lightning ex- 
 press ' ' on the Michigan Central road was three 
 hours too early for the one train that in those 
 days some years ago now daily jogged along 
 down the road leading south. What should I 
 do with the time? I looked into the waiting- 
 room of the station. No passenger had left the 
 train but myself, and the place was empty save 
 for an old couple, who had evidently just come in 
 from the country. 
 
 I went out and explored the town. Up one 
 street and down another I strolled, until the cir- 
 cuit was made. In every direction was sand 
 mountains of sand, valleys of sand. It was in 
 drifts upon the sidewalks, in hillocks in the 
 streets. The houses were built upon it. Many 
 dwellings leaned from the perpendicular at va- 
 rious angles, according to their age, the shifty 
 foundations had so worn away and blown away. 
 Though it was a bright April day but few 
 people were on the street, and these seemed in 
 haste to disappear as soon as seen. It may 
 have been a biased imagination that saw this, or 
 the cause may have been the chill lake wind. 
 
 Was it fancy, too, that made the women and 
 178
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 children, visible here and there at the windows, 
 seem to draw back, as if to hide? The scatter- 
 ing tufts of grass in the front yards seemed 
 to have given over the ambition to cover the 
 earth with green, and were creeping under the 
 sand. Did I imagine a burden in the air, as of 
 grief or guilt? The shadow of the prison seemed 
 to hover over the place. It grew oppressive. 
 
 In desperation, I resolved to climb the near- 
 est sand-hill and view the world from that 
 eminence. Perhaps I might find an elevation 
 of spirits when I could survey the prospect 
 from above. Were not poets always telling us 
 to commune with nature, and thereby escape 
 from fret and care ; to seek the solitude of a 
 height and see the earth grow fair beneath our 
 feet, the mists and clouds melt into sunlight? 
 Laboriously I crept and scrambled up the slip- 
 pery side of that miserable hill. From the foot 
 it had not looked far to the summit perhaps 
 not over one hundred feet nor yet steep ; but 
 with each step forward and each slip back it 
 seemed to grow, until, when half way up I 
 stopped to breathe, it loomed above me like a 
 mountain. Out to the north was Lake Mich- 
 igan, blue and cold. Far distant could be seen- 
 179
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 the smoke of steamers; nearer, the white wings 
 of sail-boats; but all were outward bound. 
 
 Along the shore the sand dunes stretched 
 for miles. Once, long ago, the lake is said to 
 have covered this ground. Having been given 
 tip by water, the earth had not had thrift to re- 
 claim the waste. Even the idle train of vagrant 
 weeds had not wandered in to hide the barren- 
 ness. Beyond the town rose the grim, bare 
 walls of the prison. Hundreds of men in- 
 side were wearing out the long hours of weary 
 days in toil that was heavy and bitter, because 
 it was enforced. Deprived of freedom of will, 
 of liberty of body, without hope for the future, 
 they waited for what? For release from bond- 
 age, to spend the remnant of their lives as Ish- 
 maelites, followed in the world by sneers and 
 suspicion, or received, if at all, with a virtuous 
 condescension no easier to bear. Probably they 
 deserved their fate. Some of those men had 
 stolen, some had forged, some had murdered ; 
 and the way of the transgressor was hard, we 
 were told. It was right that they should suffer, 
 then; but we Pharisees, were we without sin, 
 that we should cast a stone? Had we not done 
 those things that we should not, left undone that 
 1 80
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 which we should? Perhaps, my friend, yon 
 took advantage of a man's need and made an 
 unrighteous profit. Did you not foreclose a 
 mortgage and distress a debtor, when you could 
 have waited? Perhaps you did not love your 
 neighbor, or, may be, you loved his wife too 
 well. Such things had been known. Perhaps 
 but the catalogue was long. Because the law had 
 not touched us, were we to proscribe those on 
 whom its finger was laid ? Life was bitter at best. 
 What were we, good Lord, that we should take 
 all the sweet of existence from any man? 
 
 This little sermon I preached to myself, for 
 lack of a better audience ; but the wind was too 
 keen to encourage moralizing. What should 
 I gain by climbing to the top of this hill? Each 
 step higher would only show a wider sweep of 
 desolation. Why should I emulate the young 
 man of Alpine fame? He was a foolish youth 
 and came to an untimely end. I had no ambi- 
 tion ; besides I had brought no banner to plant 
 at the top to commemorate my deed. It was a 
 gloomy world. Nothing was worth while. I 
 would go down. 
 
 The descent was rapid and undignified. Eyes, 
 ears and clothing were full of sand. To such 
 181
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 irritation of mind had I come that I felt ready 
 for reckless deeds, but I swallowed wrath and 
 sand together and walked on. 
 
 Suddenly, in a sunny corner, between a pile 
 of railroad ties and another of fragrant pine lum- 
 ber, I came upon the old couple whom I had seen 
 at the station. There they were she with a nap- 
 kin spread upon her lap and nibbling daintily at a 
 bit of cake ; he helping himself freely to sand- 
 wiches or chicken, now from the lap that served 
 as table, now from the basket at their feet. In- 
 voluntarily, I paused; perhaps, to apologise for 
 the intrusion, perhaps, attracted by the people 
 themselves, or drawn, maybe (who knows?) by 
 the luncheon. Who can tell afterward just how 
 an acquaintance began? In ten minutes we 
 were chatting briskly, and I was cheerfully help- 
 ing to empty that lunch basket. I think the 
 wife opened the conversation by saying that they 
 had seen me climb the hill, and only wished 
 themselves a little younger, that they might do 
 the same. 
 
 No one is so charming to a traveler as a 
 woman, young or old, who knows when and 
 how to dispense with formality, and talk kindly, 
 
 182
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 yet with dignity, to a stranger. It is a rare 
 grace, however, I h?ve come to know. 
 
 If my old lady whom I met that day on the 
 sand told too much of her own story, it was 
 not her fault, but mine. I asked questions now 
 and then to lead her on. As we talked about 
 the weather, of the trains, of the time drifting 
 along in the shallows of conversation as strangers 
 do I became slowly conscious of a something 
 out of the common in the manner of these old 
 people. Just what it was was hard to define. 
 There was nothing at all remarkable in their 
 personal appearance. He was tall, spare, with 
 a mild, benevolent face, and it needed only one 
 glance to be assured that he was a minister of 
 the Gospel. A Presbyterian minister I would 
 have said, judging from a certain stiffness of car- 
 riage and gentle dignity, as well as from the ex- 
 treme neatness of his well-worn garments. With 
 a little surprise, I learned that he was, as he 
 put it, "the Lord's servant in the Methodist vine- 
 yard" Methodists of the old school whom I 
 had heretofore met being noticeable rather for 
 a carelessness of dress and a soldierly bearing, 
 as of those who had conquered men. His wife 
 was a slender, nervous little body; one of the 
 183
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 women who in these days are called "delicate" 
 and of whom little is expected ; one of those who, 
 when the tests of life come, sometimes develop a 
 power of endurance, mental and physical, mar- 
 velous to see. 
 
 "No, we don't live here," she said. "We 
 have been spending a day in the country with 
 some old friends, but we came up to see a young 
 man who is in prison for murder. He was a 
 school-mate of our son Gabriel, and had the 
 making of a man; but he took a wild and reck- 
 less turn as he grew up, and never got on the 
 right track again till now." 
 
 "You smile," said the old minister; "but 
 you know that building is a place of bondage 
 and of punishment for breaking our laws only, 
 and not God's laws. If a man steal, we shut 
 him up to teach him that he shall not touch our 
 property; but, unless he repent of his sin, I 
 hold that the Lord will punish him still, the 
 same as if we had let him go free. This boy 
 drank to excess, he quarreled, and the jury 
 found that he had killed a man. For the sake 
 of his dead mother and of our son, who is dead 
 and had loved him, we came to see if we could 
 help him on the way to be forgiven ; and the 
 184
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 good God has blessed us. We found him wretched 
 and without hope . We could give no comfort ; we 
 could only pray for help, and the comfort came. 
 Before we came away he began to feel that there 
 was mercy waiting for him. A little light shone 
 out of the darkness ; just a glimpse of the glory 
 beyond. It is not for me to say that he was 
 more guilty than another ; but we all have need 
 of grace. Cynthy and I pray that the little 
 grain of faith in that boy's heart may take deep 
 root, until he can bear his punishment with 
 patience; until he can say with humility, 
 ' Though He slay me, yet will I trust in 
 Him.'" 
 
 "It made my heart ache to leave him," said 
 Mother Ellis (I knew her pet name must be 
 "Mother," it fitted so well); "but God, who 
 has been so good to us, has pity for him." 
 
 There was no want of reverence in this con- 
 tinual allusion to the Almighty; no cant, no 
 grating familiarity. This old couple talked of 
 Him as of a revered friend, with whom they 
 had constant intercourse and in whom they had 
 utter faith. Their simplicity was unworldly and 
 beautiful. 
 
 "The folks down to Freedom, where we've 
 185
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 been living lately, wanted us to go to Chicago 
 and see the sights, while we were so near; but 
 John and I we're too anxious to get home." 
 Here she looked at John and blushed, and he 
 took her hand in his. They were like a pair of 
 young lovers. It was curious. 
 
 Presently she went on, with a contented sigh, 
 as if the little by-play needed some explanation : 
 
 "You see, John and I, we're going home 
 to a home of our own for the first time in our 
 lives, though we've been married forty years 
 come June. Forty years! It's a long time, 
 looking at it some ways ; but again it only seems 
 a little while since we were young and lived 'way 
 back in York state. Those hills and woods were 
 pretty to look at. I've never seen their like 
 since. Maybe it's wicked, but I always think o' 
 the hills 'round the New Jerusalem as being like 
 those about the head-waters o' the Allegheny. 
 Like as not, though, the New York hills have 
 been cleared and 'improved' till they're bare 
 enough and ugly ; but I've no fine words to tell ye 
 how they used to look to me. I've learned now to 
 see beauty in a level country ; but it took a long 
 while. When we first came to Indiana, John 
 and I, seemed as if I couldn't any way get used 
 186
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 to the low land . Do you remember Chestnut H ill , 
 John, over toward Cattaraugus? If I were one 
 o' the painter folks I could make a picture of it 
 now. There was a tall, dead tree at the very 
 top, with two branches reaching out like arms, 
 making a cross that could be seen for miles. 
 When I was young and foolish, I used to wish I 
 were a Roman Catholic, that I might go and 
 pray at the foot of that tree rather than in 
 church." 
 
 " I don't remember about the hills being so 
 pretty 'bout the same as others, I guess," said 
 unpoetical John; "but I reck'lect the road 
 through the pine woods. Do you, Cynthy? " 
 
 Again the faded eyes of both brightened with 
 love that is ever young. Again came the blush 
 on the wife's wrinkled cheek, and this time John's 
 feeble arm went around her waist. There was 
 silence for a little space ; but I doubt not the air 
 was filled with the fragrance of the pine forest, 
 that their ears heard the murmur of the trees. 
 Once more they listened with their hearts to the 
 words of long ago, which had made that wood- 
 land path so fair a memory. 
 
 ' 'When I first knew John he taught our dis- 
 trict school, and used to come to my Uncle 
 187
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 Isaac's pretty often. Teachers boarded around 
 in those days, and I did think he took his turn 
 at Uncle's pretty often. I knew he was a pious 
 young man, who'd had a call to be a preacher, 
 and, like a silly girl, was a little afraid of him 
 and didn't want to see him. He stayed all sum- 
 mer when there was no school, helping my 
 uncle and the neighbors in haying and harvest, 
 studying between times. In those days the 
 best of men worked in the harvest-field. Be- 
 fore early apples were ripe I mistrusted what 
 was keeping him, and somehow I had got all 
 over being afraid of him. I had found out that 
 he was an orphan, like myself, and had no home. 
 I was only staying with Uncle Isaac, and it must 
 have been that which made my mind turn to- 
 ward him. But he never said anything, John 
 didn't; only kept hanging 'round and looking 
 as if he wanted to speak. John was bashful ; 
 but, though I've heard o' men too bashful to 
 ask a girl to marry 'em, I never knew one, and 
 I guess John 'u'd a plucked up courage after 
 awhile, even if the revival hadn't come. 'Long 
 in October Brother Duzan came along through 
 that region, and held meetings that were power- 
 fully blessed. It was early in the season for a 
 1 88
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 revival ; but everybody turned out to the meet- 
 ings at our school-house. I had never ex- 
 perienced religion then, though Uncle Isaac 
 often made me the subject of prayer. I was 
 giddy and thoughtless, and, like many another, 
 I couldn't or, rather, wouldn't see how good 
 the Lord was to me. 
 
 "Well, I went with the rest to the meetings; 
 but my heart was hard. Seemed as if it grew 
 harder the more the brethren and sisters prayed 
 and exhorted, though all the young folks I knew 
 were going forward to the mourners' bench and 
 were being converted. One night Brother Du- 
 zan preached his dreadful sermon on future pun- 
 ishment of the godless, that he always kept for 
 the crowning effort. He told, in awful words, 
 how the unconverted sinner would finally suffer 
 and burn in endless torment, and everybody was 
 crying and groaning but myself. That threat 
 couldn't soften me then, and I'm free to confess 
 has no effect now. Then John, he led in prayer. 
 His voice was so soft and gentle that it hushed 
 the excitement. He besought the tender Shep- 
 herd, who loved all His sheep, to look with spe- 
 cial care upon the playful lambs, whose willful 
 feet refused to follow whither they were led ; to 
 189
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 draw them back with merciful hands before they 
 should learn, too late, that only the narrow, 
 rocky path led to the green pastures that were 
 beside still waters. 
 
 "I knew he prayed for me, and my heart was 
 melted then ; and, for fear the tears would come, 
 I slipped out of the door, while the rest were on 
 their knees. But John saw me though how he 
 could, with his back turned, I never knew and 
 I didn't get far into the pine woods alone. He 
 began where the prayer had stopped. 'The 
 Lord was waiting/ he said, 'for me to stretch 
 out my hands, and He would take me into the 
 blessed fold.' And I? What should I do but 
 cry, as a woman always does when she should 
 not. Then John, to comfort me, began to tell 
 how God loved me ; and from that, some way, 
 it was easy to say how well, no, John, I shan't 
 tell what you said then, and don't you, either. 
 I kind o' forgot for a minute that we were not 
 alone, and was thinking out loud, I guess. I 
 hope our friend will excuse me, for when she 
 comes to be old such places in her life will stand 
 out clear in her memory, where many another 
 important thing has faded away. 
 
 "The next night I went to meeting, and made 
 190
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 a profession of religion. What could I do but 
 praise the Lord for being so good to me, who 
 was so undeserving. Had he not given me 
 John, and what was I that such a blessing should 
 be mine?" 
 
 Here, the mild eye of Reverend John looked 
 at me over his wife's head with a mischievous 
 twinkle. As she went on, however, his face 
 resumed its serenity. 
 
 ' 'We have lived many years since then. Some- 
 times the way has been rough and hard. We have 
 had trials and losses ; but mercy and goodness have 
 followed us, for we have borne the burdens to- 
 gether. I can confess now, though I never said so 
 to John, that one of the heaviest crosses of my 
 life has been the wish for a home. When we 
 were married, I knew that I was taking an 
 itinerant Methodist preacher for better or worse 
 (it has always been the better, never the worse, 
 John) ; but I could not know till I had tried it 
 what a wandering, unsettled life it was. Dif- 
 ferent in the early days from now, too. When 
 we came out here, it was looked upon as more 
 of an undertaking than going to Europe now. 
 There were no railroads then running here and 
 there across the country ; so we came by water 
 191
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 on a flat-boat to Pittsburgh and in a steamboat 
 from there. Stopped at Cincinnati to see the 
 sights. It was a fine city then, but they say 
 it's grown since. 
 
 "Daughter, a volume would not hold our ex- 
 perience of forty years. We have been sojourn- 
 ers, never long in one place. It's only of late 
 years, you know, that Methodist ministers are 
 allowed to labor more than two years in one 
 church. Then there was the loneliness; for 
 sometimes John would be gone on the circuit, 
 away from his family for weeks at a time. I 
 could not go, because of the children. We 
 have been here and there, here and there, and 
 used to live in pretty wild places, with few 
 neighbors." 
 
 John took up the thread here: "I never 
 was what is called a popular preacher," he said, 
 with a gentle smile. "I tried to do my duty 
 the Lord knows that; but the people would 
 sometimes grow anxious about building up the 
 church, and would want a man who could bring 
 in large accessions to the membership. I tried 
 to win souls to the Master, with His help ; but, 
 though I trust my sheaves will contain more 
 than weeds, the harvest in my field has been 
 192
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 less abundant than in many. The elders and 
 bishops are judges of men, and they stationed 
 me where I could do best, no doubt. Latterly, 
 some have told me that people nowadays do not 
 like to hear so much about Christ and Him 
 crucified, that they prefer the religion of 
 humanity, and that I should adapt my style to 
 the times; but it is too late. I am too old to 
 learn a new religion or to sugar-coat or rarefy 
 the old one. It was a lack of faith, I fear, that 
 caused a disappointment when they sent me to 
 an obscure corner, a by-way, as sometimes they 
 did. It was all the Master's vineyard, and I 
 should have worked without a murmur ; but I 
 thought too much, perhaps, about the little 
 earthly reward and that I could make no pro- 
 vision for old age. We knew the Lord had 
 always been good to us, Cynthy. We should 
 have trusted Him in this, for He had never failed 
 us and He never will. 'Underneath us are the 
 everlasting arms.' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Cynthy, "the Lord has provided 
 for us. We are to have a home of our own in 
 our old age; a home where our children can 
 come to visit us or to stay. As I said, I couldn't 
 complain. It was the will of Heaven that we 
 13 193
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 should live as sojourners. We could not set our 
 hearts upon this house or that tree, as people 
 will. The room where the son died or the 
 daughter married could not be kept sacred, for 
 we must leave them; the roses and the vines 
 which we might plant would grow to gladden 
 other eyes than ours. Such worldly affections 
 do not seem wrong; but they might have been 
 a snare to us. For a year or two John has been 
 so afflicted with rheumatism that he could not go 
 about, and has been put on the superannuated 
 list. 
 
 "If you know anything about Methodists, you 
 know they do not contribute to the fifth col- 
 lection as liberally as to some others, and the 
 fund for worn out ministers is small. I suppose 
 they do not realize the needs of any one so near 
 them. We have always lived on a little no 
 one knows so well as a Methodist preacher's 
 family how to make much out of nothing; 
 but of late we have been sore pressed. Our 
 children only five are living out of ten are 
 scattered far and wide. Two are missiona- 
 ries in India ; two are teaching in the south, and 
 our oldest son, a farmer in Texas, is the only 
 one who is at all forehanded. He has wanted 
 194
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 us to make our home with him ; but we couldn't 
 quite make up our minds. Seemed as if we 
 couldn't quite give up to go so far and get used 
 to new things and a new country. Old people 
 get dreadful set in their ways, you know. 
 
 "It had got to look, though, as if the Lord 
 meant that we should go, and we were beginning 
 to make our plans and to talk of a few farewell 
 visits we must make. 
 
 ' 'We have some old friends we should want to 
 see once more, and we must take another look at 
 the graves where our children were laid at rest. 
 It had come to be about settled that we were 
 to go. The Gosport Howitzer had mentioned 
 it in its personal column, saying we should be 
 greatly missed, when a letter came telling us the 
 Widow Green up at Arcady had died and left us 
 her property. We'd been up to see Mrs. Green 
 not long before, and she talked then of leaving 
 what she had to the Foreign Missionary Society, 
 and we never once thought of her mentioning us 
 in her will. But she did leave us the home. 
 Not much, maybe you'd say its only a little 
 cottage and an acre o' ground ; but it's a home, 
 for all that, an' I've wanted one for so many 
 years. * 
 
 i95\
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 "We regret the Widow Green, of course. She 
 was a good Christian woman, though a trifle 
 irritable; but she'd been bedridden and so af- 
 flicted for many a day that it was her desire to 
 go whenever the call should come. We shall 
 have no care for ourselves the rest of our days, 
 for the future is provided for. We are such 
 weak creatures that faith is not always strong 
 enough to take no thought for the morrow. We 
 want a sign something we can see and touch. 
 
 "Is it wrong, I wonder, to think so much about 
 worldly things? I have planned how every 
 room shall look. I have seeds of all the flowers 
 I can find like the ones that grew in the yard 
 when I was a girl. We shan't have very much 
 money; but, with our share of the Retired 
 Preachers' Fund and with our garden, we shall 
 have enough. I'm spry if I be old, and always 
 had a knack at making things grow. John's 
 a master hand to work in the garden, too, when 
 he's well. I tell John (don't laugh at a foolish 
 old woman) I tell John that this is like a wed- 
 ding journey. We traveled a long way when 
 we were married; but we didn't reach the home 
 for forty years. John is as anxious to get there 
 as I, but is more sensible and not so impatient. 
 196
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 We are going to stop at Kokomo to-night with 
 Brother and Sister Roberts, and in the morning 
 we shall go on home to Arcady. Home ! How 
 sweet the word sounds, John!" 
 
 There had been a movement of freight cars in 
 our vicinity for some minutes ; distant whistles 
 of locomotives echoed around, and John had be- 
 come restless. He rose stiffly, but eagerly. 
 "Cynthy, I think it must be near time for our 
 train ; it would never do for us to miss this one, 
 or we shouldn't get home till to-morrow night. 
 Let us go." 
 
 I left them on the car, with hope and expecta- 
 tion in their faces, and said farewell as to old 
 friends. "Come and see us in our home, my 
 daughter," was their last word. May the Lord 
 bless you as he has blessed us, and good-bye!" 
 
 As I waited yet a little for my train the bene- 
 diction seemed to linger. The boats were com- 
 ing gayly in to shore now; the western sun 
 shone with a warm glow upon the distant prison 
 windows ; school children laughed and shouted 
 as if care and crime were not. Truly, the world 
 had not all gone wrong. There was hope yet, 
 and life was worth living after all. 
 
 197
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 A year later, in the station at Indianapolis, I 
 caught a glimpse of the two kind old faces once 
 more. The eagerness had gone out of them; 
 there was peace and resignation instead of hope. 
 They looked out of a car that was westward 
 .bound. A farmer, standing at my elbow, told 
 the story. 
 
 "Father Ellis? Yes. Him and his wife is 
 goin' West, to jine their son 'at has a cattle 
 ranch some'rs in Texas. One o' these yer 
 onlucky Methodis' preachers, the old man is. 
 Preached around on circuits in Indianny fer a 
 matter o' thirty or forty year. Married an' had 
 right smart o' children, of course, as his perfes- 
 sion allays does. How they managed to scratch 
 along an' raise them young-uns on the skimped 
 wages Methodist preachers do get beats me. 
 Seems 'sef people like them ort to be fed by the 
 ravens, as Elisha was, or some sech way; or 
 their meal-bar 'Is filled up, likethewidder Cruse's. 
 How's'ever, I s'pose some way's allays pervided. 
 In this case the old man had got past his 
 preachin' days, an' not a nickel saved fer old 
 age, when old Mis Green, at Arcady, north o' 
 hyer, up an' died, an' left him her little jag o' 
 
 198
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 proputty. Not worth much, to he sure; but 
 a right snug little home. 
 
 "With this an' what he'd get from the super- 
 annuated fund, they was fixed to inch along com- 
 fortable to the end o' their days. But law! 
 what does the old fellow do, when they hadn't 
 got more'n fairly settled, but go security fer 
 Jim Jeffries, out Cicero road ! Anybody with 
 a grain o' business sense 'ud a knowed it was 
 flyin' in the face o' Providence, for Jeffries 
 allays was slack an' shif'less an' 'twan't noways 
 likely't he'd be able to meet them notes; an' 
 he didn't nuther, an' Father Ellis he hed to 
 pay the debt, but it took all they was. So 
 hyer they be, all tore up by the roots, so to- 
 speak. Doggoned pity, I say." 
 
 I went aboard the car to speak a word of 
 greeting. The aisle was blocked by a small 
 woman, with a large basket, and by a young 
 miss who exchanged farewell giggles with a de- 
 parting friend, interspersed with messages to their 
 respective beaux. While I waited just behind 
 them, the old wife's voice reached me, soft and 
 clear, amid all the confusion. I listened, and I 
 turned away, sure that they needed no comfort 
 I could offer. 
 
 199
 
 AN ITINERANT PAIR 
 
 "The Lord has been very good to us, John. 
 I can see now that my heart was set too much 
 on worldly things, and it was best they should 
 be taken away. The Lord doeth that which is 
 good, John. He has left us each other." 
 
 "Yes, Cynthy, He has said: 'I am with 
 thee and will keep thee in all places whither thou 
 shalt go.' We are old, my dear, and night will 
 soon pass forever into the dawn of eternal day. 
 May we enter together into the land that is no 
 longer very far off. Let us pray, love, that 
 death shall not part us; that, still together, 
 when the morning is come, we may open our 
 eyes in the Heavenly Kingdom, where a place 
 is prepared for us." 
 
 200
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 IT was Sunday forenoon, and Lodilla Jackson 
 was engaged in "doing up" the morning's 
 work. She had washed the breakfast dishes, 
 put the kitchen in order, made the beds, helped 
 get her young brother and sister off to Sun- 
 day-school and her mother started to church, 
 and had got the dinner well under way. Lodil- 
 la worked during the week in the establishment 
 of a manufacturing chemist, or, as the place was 
 otherwise known, a patent-medicine factory, 
 where she pasted labels on bottles and pill-boxes, 
 afterwards putting these articles in elaborately 
 printed wrappers. Sunday was her "off" day, 
 but she usually spent the first half of it in the 
 manner described in order to relieve her mother, 
 who was also a hard-working woman, as widows 
 with children and little money are apt to be. 
 She was twenty years old, and a good girl. 
 Ever since she was fourteen she had been earn- 
 201
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 ing money, and, with the help of her mother^ 
 her brother two years younger, and, now, of a 
 younger sister who answered to the call of 
 "H-e-r-e, C-a-s-h," in a dry goods shop, had 
 almost succeeded in clearing their little house of 
 the mortgage that encumbered it when her fa- 
 ther died. Almost, but not quite. There was 
 still necessity for frugality and self-denial, and 
 little chance for indulgence in the vanities and 
 luxuries in which girls delight. Nevertheless, 
 Lodilla was not downcast or unhappy; far from 
 it. She looked forward confidently to the time 
 when debt would cease to be a burden, and, 
 meanwhile, planned a little for that happy day. 
 This morning, while the corned beef and cab- 
 bage boiled merrily on the stove and the molas- 
 ses cake browned in the oven, she opened the 
 parlor door, and, dust-cloth in hand, gazed med- 
 itatively about that retreat. The room had been 
 a source of great comfort to her mother and 
 herself. Its possession seemed to them a visi- 
 ble token of their respectable social standing. 
 It was not every one of their neighbors on the 
 quiet little South-side Indianapolis street who 
 could afford a parlor. A good many of the 
 people in their part of town lived in houses so 
 
 2O2
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 small, or had families so large, that not a cor- 
 ner of their establishments could be spared for 
 company uses exclusively. Or, sometimes, 
 when the extra room was there, the occupant of 
 the house could not afford the necessary outlay 
 for suitable furniture. 
 
 The fittings for the Jackson parlor had been 
 bought when the paternal Jackson was alive and 
 in the enjoyment of health and good wages. 
 The selection of this furniture had been the out- 
 come of much thought, consultation and finan- 
 cial calculation on the part of the two older mem- 
 bers of the family, Lodilla at that time being of 
 an age when her opinion on such matters was 
 not influential. There, as the foundation of the 
 outfit, was the ingrain carpet, with a green and 
 black vine of most luxuriant growth meandering 
 over its bright red ground. There, against the 
 widest wall space, was a haircloth sofa, now 
 worn to a gloss that rivaled the Russia-iron 
 stove, and with a lumpiness of surface and weak- 
 ness of springs unknown to it when new. The 
 stove, an upright cylinder, decorated with much 
 nickel-plating, was regarded when purchased as a 
 great ornament to the room, and, although now 
 adapted to the use of natural gas instead of the 
 203
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 coal for which it was originally meant, was still 
 held in much esteem in the household. There 
 were several cane-seated chairs, a table which 
 held a large glass lamp, and, on a shelf under- 
 neath, the family Bible. The crowning glory of 
 the room was the small cabinet organ in one cor- 
 ner. Lodilla, at an early age, had learned to 
 play ' ' by ear ' ' a few simple tunes and accompa- 
 niments, and when the family and their visitors 
 gathered there on Sunday afternoons and sang 
 " Shall We Gather at the River," " Hold the 
 Fort," "Whiter than Snow, "In the Sweet 
 Bye and Bye," and other "gospel hymns," 
 Mrs. Jackson, for one, felt that she enjoyed 
 many blessings, while the pleasure felt by all in 
 the music would certainly have been far less in- 
 tense at a symphony concert. 
 
 But it was not on any of these pieces of fur- 
 niture that Lodilla was looking with some dis- 
 content visible in her face ; it was upon the more 
 decorative features of the apartment . Over the 
 high wooden mantel hung a crayon portrait of 
 her departed father, enlarged to a head of life 
 size from a tintype of thumb-nail proportions by 
 one of those mysterious processes practiced by 
 peripatetic artisans. Her father had been gone 
 204
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 too long for her to feel any deep personal senti- 
 ment In regard to him, but the picture was in- 
 vested with the interest of a sacred relic, and she 
 had no thought of disturbing it. On the wall, 
 over the sofa, hung that pair of chromos, "Wide 
 Awake" and "Fast Asleep," which, when, as 
 newspaper prizes, they found places in a multi- 
 tude of homes years ago, were so universally 
 characterized as "perfectly lovely." Lodilla 
 was a trifle tired of these pictures, not because 
 she detected any lack of artistic merit, but be- 
 cause she did not think the chubby little girl 
 portrayed in them a pretty child. Still, she 
 did not at this time cherish any designs against 
 them. 
 
 Her eyes moved slowly along the row of pho- 
 tographs of various sizes resting on the mantel, 
 from there passed to the framed marriage certifi- 
 cate of her parents hanging above the cabinet 
 organ in a line with the framed certificates of 
 baptism of herself and her brother and sister, 
 then wandered from these to a large "memorial 
 piece, ' ' framed in black and hanging in the place 
 of honor between the windows, and rested there 
 with especial dissatisfaction. This piece, which 
 was printed in very black inks, with very deep 
 205
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 shadows and very white high lights, represented 
 a marble tombstone of dazzling whiteness, a 
 willow tree and a kneeling widow, who had evi- 
 dently come to weep, but had changed her mind 
 and was looking up with ecstatic gaze at a 
 angel with powerful wings bearing the astral 
 body of the occupant of the grave up to a heaven 
 beyond a flock of woolly clouds. Printed on 
 scrolls in the corners were sundry comforting 
 texts, and below, the full name of the deceased 
 Jackson, engrossed in an ornamental, Spencerian 
 hand. This remarkable work of art was kindly 
 furnished to the widow for $2.75 $1.25 off for 
 an immediate sale by the agent of an enter- 
 prising engraving firm soon after her husband's 
 death. 
 
 "I do wish, ma," said Lodilla to her mother, 
 who entered just then, "I do wish I had a pho- 
 tograph album one like Nell Abbott's, a big 
 plush-covered one. It would be so stylish on 
 the table, and, besides, is so much better for 
 keeping photographs than setting them around 
 on things. And, ma " 
 
 Here Lodilla hesitated and blushed a little. 
 
 "Ma, Joe Mr. Little is getting his pictures 
 taken great big cabinets and if he gives me 
 206
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 one it would be nice to have a place to put it. 
 He just admires Nell's album; told her he 
 thought every family ought to have one." 
 
 It will be observed that Lodilla, capable 
 young woman that she was, was not quite up to 
 date in this matter, but in her behalf it must be 
 said that she had not had the advantage of asso- 
 ciation with young society women, who claim to 
 lead in fads and fashions of this sort, and who 
 abandoned the album as a drawing-room orna- 
 ment some time since. Her ideas as to the de- 
 sirability of the article had been gathered from 
 visits to the homes of her friends, who were still 
 in the plush album and chromo stage of devel- 
 opment. She had also gone with her mother on 
 one occasion to carry a basket of mended cloth- 
 ing to a bachelor apartment, where, in the com- 
 mon sitting-room of the half dozen young men, 
 the center-table held six large family albums 
 arranged about the lamp, and presumably con- 
 taining - likenesses of the relatives, sweethearts 
 and favorite actresses of the respective owners. 
 Lodilla, who was much impressed with the lux- 
 ury of other fittings of this room, felt that the 
 albums were the crowning touch of elegance, 
 and had longed for one ever since. She had 
 207
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 particularly desired one since Joe Little, brake- 
 man on the Big Four railroad, had loomed on 
 her social horizon. She wanted his picture, and 
 fancied that he would be the more willing to be- 
 stow it if she had a suitable casket for the treas- 
 ure. She was an unsophisticated girl, you see, 
 unaware that no man needs encouragement to 
 his vanity beyond the mere willingness on the 
 part of a young woman to accept a likeness of 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson, who, mother-like, would have 
 been glad to gratify all her daughter's tastes, 
 looked a little troubled. 
 
 "I don't see, Dilly," she said hesitatingly, 
 " I don't see how we can afford one now." 
 
 ' ' Of course not, ma ; of course not, ' ' said 
 Lodilla, with a sudden return to cheerfulness. 
 " I know we can't afford it yet a while, and I'm 
 not grumbling. Don't you think it. I was just 
 wishing and talking, and that don't hurt, you 
 know. But some day, ma, I'm going to have 
 that album, and some day I'm going to buy 
 some pictures and get you to put the memorial 
 piece and the certificates in your bedroom. 
 They've hung where they are so long I'd like a 
 
 208
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 change, and the parlor needs a little freshening 
 up and more style." 
 
 Her mother sighed a little, without looking at 
 all sad. Her grief for the departed Jackson was 
 so mitigated by time that the sighs brought by 
 allusions to him were more from habit than 
 emotion, and no longer indicated the least de- 
 pression of spirits. 
 
 "I always liked that memorial," she said. 
 " It's so sort of satisfactory. That angel who's 
 carrying your pa is so big and strong that you 
 can easy enough see how he can do it. He 
 looks so substantial. The Widow Thomas, she 
 has one where the angel's just starting down af- 
 ter Thomas a little, thin, weakly angel you can 
 see through, and you know the old man must 
 have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds if he 
 did one. Of course, we don't suppose his spirit 
 was heavy, but, somehow, there don't seem to be 
 a fitness in sending such a puny messenger after 
 him. It seems a pity to put that memorial out of 
 sight in the bedroom, but young folks must have 
 their way, I reckon. You don't think of taking 
 the chromos down, do you? " she asked, anx- 
 iously. " Your pa gave them to me before we 
 was married, and people come from all around 
 14 209
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 to see them, and everybody said they were just 
 the finest pictures that had ever been seen in 
 Cherry Corners. Old Mr. Van Lew offered ten 
 dollars for them, because Little Wide Awake 
 looked so much like his grand-daughter, Lucy 
 Ann Rodibaugh. But I wouldn't a' taken 
 twice that then." 
 
 Dilly assured her mother that she had no in- 
 tention of removing ' ' Wide Awake ' ' and ' ' Fast 
 Asleep," and hastened to look after her dinner. 
 
 The cabbage which had boiled so long and 
 steadily, was tender, the potatoes mealy, the 
 corned beef just as it should be, the molasses 
 cake light and sweet and delicious just the 
 cake that children remember all their lives as 
 the kind mother used to make, a memory which 
 causes them, when they are old, to wonder why 
 no one else can ever make as good. 
 
 And if you -think the family gathered around 
 that board and partaking of that frugal fare were 
 not as happy as it is often given to people to be 
 in this rather pleasant world, then you know lit- 
 tle of the rewards of honest toil, of the delights 
 of home provided, and its comforts earned and 
 paid for by the efforts of all ; you have forgot- 
 ten the eager appetite of healthy youth, which 
 210
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 gives the plainest food a zest that a Lucullus 
 feast could not offer now. And if you think 
 Miss Lodilla, with her narrow life, her daily 
 labor and her simple hopes and ambitions, was 
 wasting time or energy in repinings at her lot, 
 or fancied herself in any respect ill-used by fate, 
 then you little understand the serene indepen- 
 dence of the self-reliant, self-supporting Ameri- 
 can girl, who, confident of her ability to provide 
 for herself, envies no one. 
 
 Lodilla, in her neat black skirt and shirt waist, 
 in summer oh, the ever-useful, universal shirt 
 waist! and her trim cloth jacket over the waist 
 in winter, wended her way back and forth each 
 day between home and factory, making one of 
 the great army of working women, but having 
 her own little plans and cares apart from such 
 associations, and her maidenly dreams, just as 
 other girls do with more time for dreams just 
 as all girls do while life is young and love is 
 sweet. Joe Little, the big, fair-haired brake- 
 man, figured a good deal in these meditations. 
 He came to see her now and then, when he had 
 no "run" to make, but it was always on a week- 
 day evening. Sunday evenings he spent with 
 Nellie Abbott, Lodilla's dearest friend. That 
 211
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 is, she had been her nearest and most confiden- 
 tial friend, the girl to whom she had confided all 
 her little secrets, but lately the intimacy had 
 waned somewhat, and perhaps Joe Little had, 
 unconsciously to himself, something to do with 
 the coolness. These ardent friendships between 
 girls are so apt to die a sudden death when an 
 attractive young man comes on the scene. 
 
 Joe Little had first met both the girls at a 
 church strawberry festival, but had seemed to 
 give preference to Nellie. The chief sign of his 
 favor was the fact that his calls upon her were 
 made on Sunday nights, and in their social circle 
 this meant more serious intentions than an ordi- 
 nary week-night visit. He was a musician of 
 local repute, being known as a "boss fiddler," 
 and this accomplishment gave him welcome ad- 
 mission to the best society of the neighborhood. 
 Nellie, being something of a coquette, did not 
 appear to care especially for him, and, for that 
 matter, neither did Lodilla she was too fully a 
 woman for that but she did care, and was learn- 
 ing to think about him more and more. 
 
 "I really don't think Nell's prettier than I 
 am," she would say to herself, looking anxiously 
 in the glass. "Nell's got a real good complex- 
 212
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 ion, lots better than mine, but her nose is pug 
 and her eyes are squinty. They are; she can't 
 deny it, and they do say cross-eyed people get 
 to have bad tempers, even if they don't begin 
 with them. Nell's awful peppery sometimes 
 now when things don't go her way. It can't 
 be her looks; it must be other things. She's 
 got a piano and can play the 'Maiden's Prayer,' 
 'The Brook,' 'The Gussie Waltz' and a lot of 
 pieces, and he likes music so. And she's got 
 a photograph album, and, oh dear!' 
 
 You people who accept the assurances of 
 novelists and cheap critics that women with the 
 smallest claims to comeliness and where is she 
 who has none? are satisfied with themselves, 
 and unable to recognize the charms of their 
 rivals you merely show your ignorance. The 
 normal girl is distinctly aware of her own de- 
 fects, and as keenly conscious of the other girl's 
 especial attractions. She recognizes, with a 
 pang at her heart, the captivating effect of the 
 little curl on her rival's white neck, the dimple 
 in her chin, of the long lashes, under which she 
 glances so bewitchingly. She may honestly 
 wonder why the man in the case is so stupid 
 and blind as not to detect that other girl's faults 
 213
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 of character which are so clear to her, but she 
 never undervalues the outward allurements. 
 
 Strawberry time and its festivals were now 
 long past, and early winter was here, but Joe 
 Little showed no signs of change in his fancy 
 for Nellie Abbott, except that his calls at the 
 Widow Jackson's were rather less frequent then 
 they had been. Lodilla began to have little 
 heartaches, and if she cried when her sister was 
 asleep and she could smother her sobs in the 
 pillow, it would not be at all surprising. But 
 if anybody guessed her sadness and its cause it 
 was only her mother, and mothers never betray 
 such secrets. 
 
 She worked as industriously as ever over her 
 bottles and pill-boxes, chattered as gayly with 
 her companions as usual, and loitered before the 
 shop windows during the noon hour with the 
 natural and wholesome curiosity of a healthy 
 young woman. Love, of the lurid, all-absorb- 
 ing kind we read about, that takes the appe- 
 tite, banishes sleep and destroys other interests 
 of life, is less frequent than the variety which 
 permits other sentiments to exist simultaneously 
 and allows the sufferer intervals of comparative 
 comfort and cheer. 
 
 214
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 One evening Mr. Little dropped in unexpect- 
 edly and brought his fiddle he did not call it a 
 violin. He did not tell Lodilla that he had in- 
 tended to go to Nellie's, but from across the 
 street had chanced to see William Marvin, 
 freight conductor on his road, enter before him 
 and receive a warm greeting from the young 
 lady. He "never could abide Bill Marvin," and 
 wouldn't spend an hour in the same room if he 
 could help it. 
 
 Lodilla made herself particularly agreeable 
 that evening. She begged him to play for her, 
 and he did play the "Wrecker's Daughter," 
 "Fisher's Hornpipe," "Drunkard's Heecups" 
 a tune in which the plunking of the strings gives 
 the realistic effect of hiccoughs the "Arkansaw 
 Traveler" and a Strauss Waltz. At least these 
 are what he told her they were, and she thanked 
 him and praised him and said she loved the fid- 
 dle, and could never grow tired of it ; and then 
 she sang all her songs to the cabinet organ ac- 
 companiment with its undertone of wheezy 
 groans, suggestive of misery in its inside, and 
 never before had she put such feeling and earn- 
 estness into tunes or words. And, after the 
 visitor had been served with doughnuts and 
 215
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 a big glass of unfermented grape juice that ma 
 put up herself, he went home, well pleased with 
 himself and all the world, Lodilla included. She 
 was happy, but not confident. She had still an 
 oppressive fear of her rival. 
 
 The very next day she was drawn by irresist- 
 ible attraction into a crowd in front of a big 
 Washington street shoe-shop, and stood there 
 with fascinated eyes watching a man in the win- 
 dow who painted a beautiful landscape while 
 you waited. There he stood, painting clouds, 
 trees, rivers and river banks, grassy knolls, mos- 
 sy dells and gray rocks with lightning swiftness 
 laying on one color and then another, and 
 bringing out marvelous effects before you fairly 
 knew what he had intended. 
 
 A yellow circular thrust into her hand by a 
 boy informed her that she could have one of 
 these works of art free of cost if she would pur- 
 chase a pair of shoes in the shop the frame 
 only being charged for. 
 
 A sudden ambition filled her mind. She had 
 the money in her pocket for a pair of shoes and 
 meant to buy them that very afternoon. Why 
 not purchase them here instead of at the little 
 shop on the side street, which she had always 
 216
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 patronized? They might cost a little more 
 here, but then, just for once, and with this prize 
 in view, she might surely venture the additional 
 outlay. The frame was extra, but she would 
 take a ninety-eight-cent one and save the 
 amount after awhile out of the price of her win- 
 ter gown. Without giving herself time to re- 
 consider, she bought the shoes, selected the 
 picture she had seen painted, or one precisely 
 like it, and went her way, feeling the fearful joy 
 of a wish gratified at the cost of wild extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 The purchase created a sensation at home, 
 and though the careful mother shook her head 
 doubtfully over the investment of so much mon- 
 ey for purely decorative purposes, she did not 
 remonstrate, but joined with the rest of the fam- 
 ily in admiring the new possession. 
 
 "You see, ma," said Lodilla, with intent to 
 justify herself, "you see, hand-painted pictures 
 are the thing no w-days ; everybody says so, and 
 they cost like everything. Nell says her un- 
 cle's sister-in-law in Chicago paid twenty- 
 five dollars for a painting not more than ten 
 inches across, and Joe Little, he told me about 
 a five-hundred-dollar picture he'd seen a man 
 217
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 carrying home on the train one day, and there 
 wasn't a thing to it but two or three sheep and 
 a dog on a side-hill. And just think! This 
 didn't cost a cent without the frame." 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and frequent were 
 Lodilla's visits to the parlor to look at her treas- 
 ure hanging in state between the windows, in 
 place of the memorial piece, now retired to the 
 privacy of ma's bedroom. That night who 
 should come but Joe Little to ask her to go to 
 church. She accepted the invitation with se- 
 date dignity, but with secret joy. Sunday 
 night! That meant so much. 
 
 Nellie Abbott was there with the freight con- 
 ductor, whom Lodilla mentally classified at once 
 as "perfectly horrid," and was instantly con- 
 vinced that her old friend was consumed with 
 envy of her superior good fortune in securing 
 the handsome and altogether more desirable es- 
 cort. Filled with which thought, she smiled 
 with great sweetness on Miss Nellie. 
 
 After services were over Joe came in with 
 intent to sit by the sheet-iron cylinder and enjoy 
 an hour of social converse. Lodilla wished her 
 new art acquisition to dawn upon him unan- 
 nounced, and sat in tremulous expectation of his 
 218
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 verdict. Finally, after talk about the weather, 
 ma's cold, the new choir and various neighbor- 
 hood topics had begun to languish, Mr. Little's 
 glance chanced to fall upon the picture. He 
 rose slowly and stood before it, inspecting it 
 closely with a critical eye ; then he made a tele- 
 scope of his hands and viewed it from a more 
 distant standpoint. Then he said impressively : 
 
 "Lodilla, that's a mighty good thing; it's got 
 good points. You don't want to stand too close 
 to one of them hand-painted oil pictures, they're 
 apt to blur, but just get off a piece and they 
 come right out. That lightning artist's a dandy. 
 Shows what a painter man can do who puts his 
 mind to it and isn't afraid to work. It must make 
 those fellows who potter over one picture for 
 weeks just sick to see him dash them things off 
 at such a rate. I tell you, Lodilla," he added 
 with animation, after a pause and further inspec- 
 tion, "it looks like a place on the old farm down 
 home. I've set on that rock, or one like it, and 
 fished for bass in just such a hole many of a 
 time." 
 
 Then, as if with inspiration of the instant; 
 "And say, Lodilla" here he faltered and his 
 voice grew soft "say, don't you want to marry 
 219
 
 A MOVEMENT IN ART 
 
 me some day and go down there and visit the 
 home place and the old folks?" 
 
 It was sudden, but she was equal to the emer- 
 gency. His arm was around her, and her answer 
 was whispered on his shoulder, but not so low 
 that he could not hear. 
 
 When Christmas came, a few weeks later, he 
 gave her a big red plush album with gilt trim- 
 mings and a little mirror set in the corner, and 
 she felt that her cup of bliss was full. 
 
 The album was a treasure, but Lodilla will 
 value that picture between the windows till the 
 end of her days. It brought her love and Joe. 
 Art education is not always a rapid process. Her 
 children may learn to appreciate picture posters 
 and know what Beardsleyism means, but she will 
 be forever satisfied with her landscape painted in 
 nine minutes as her mother before her was with 
 the chromos. 
 
 220
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 A RELIGIOUS revival had been in progress 
 in the churches of Greenbrier, Indiana, for 
 six weeks that is, in the Methodist, the Bap- 
 tist and the Presbyterian churches. The Roman 
 Catholics went on calmly with only their usual 
 services, and were regarded with more than the 
 ordinary measure of pity by their Protestant 
 neighbors as persons who had never been prop- 
 erly converted, and were little better than be- 
 nighted heathen. Episcopalians, too, continued 
 in the even tenor of their way, and had their 
 customary dancing and card parties, which were 
 frowned on with greater sternness than ever by 
 the rigid Methodist, Presbyterian and Baptist 
 brethren who had not yet reached the tolerant 
 stage in relation to these amusements attained 
 by members of their denominations in larger 
 cities. Even the young people of these churches 
 who had been wont to think longingly of the 
 221
 
 THE QJJICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 forbidden entertainments, and sometimes to par- 
 ticipate in them surreptitiously, now looked 
 askance at the frivolous givers of the parties and 
 promised themselves that by the help of the 
 Lord they would never be led into such evil do- 
 ings again, for these young people were among 
 the fruits of the revival, and had bidden farewell 
 to sin. 
 
 Such a wonderful ingathering of souls had 
 not been known before in the history of Green- 
 brier. The revival movement began simultane- 
 ously in the three churches, and almost from the 
 beginning a wave of religious emotion manifest- 
 ed itself. Young and old were affected by it; 
 innocent children and case-hardened sinners suc- 
 cumbed, the first unresistingly, the second reluc- 
 tantly, to its power. Every night the churches 
 were crowded and every night penitents seeking 
 salvation rose for prayers, or went forward and 
 knelt at the altar as the custom of the respective 
 sects required. Every night numbers of these 
 penitents declared that they had found what they 
 sought, that they had shaken off the bonds of 
 iniquity and had entered upon a new life. Back- 
 sliders returned and renewed their faith. The 
 interest was intense. A subdued excitement 
 222
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 was in the air and affected the transaction of 
 business and household affairs throughout the 
 town. People hurried through their evening 
 meals in order that they might miss no feature 
 of the coming services. Now, after six weeks, 
 though there was no falling off in attendance, it 
 began to be said that the meetings would soon 
 close. As one pious but practical elder put it, 
 the harvest was gathered, and why go raking 
 over the ground? A few sinners remained un- 
 converted, it was true, but they were seemingly 
 hopeless and must be left to the Lord's mercy. 
 On this Friday night of the sixth week as 
 many people as ever hastened along the streets 
 to the places of meeting and the Methodist 
 Church, at least, quickly filled with a congre- 
 gation as large as at any time during the re- 
 vival season. People had come to depend on 
 the excitement and dreaded a termination of it. 
 In their narrow village life the meetings took 
 the place of drama and opera and social gaye- 
 ties, with the addition of a personal and emo- 
 tional element that such entertainments lack, 
 and that held them through night after night of 
 prayer and exhortion without wearying. A 
 
 223
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 thorough-going revival in a town of this kind 
 has uses not contemplated by its promoters 
 
 Among the later arrivals was a group of 
 young girls who entered a pew not far from the 
 door. There was a little crowding and confus- 
 ion as they passed in, and if Althea Hood, the 
 youngest member of the party, had been ob- 
 servant of her companions she would have 
 seen that their purpose was to give her a seat 
 next the aisle. She saw nothing and sat con- 
 tentedly enough, her thoughts absorbed in the 
 scene about her. Althea was not yet sixteen ; un- 
 til these meetings opened she had never attended 
 a religious gathering more exciting than the 
 Sunday morning services in the Episcopal 
 church where she went with her parents, and 
 the regular weekly Presbyterian prayer-meeting 
 to which she had gone with an elderly neighbor 
 on several occasions. Her parents, easy-going 
 and indulgent, after the American fashion, had 
 allowed their young daughter to take her own 
 way, and when she showed herself disinclined 
 to confirmation ceremonies had not insisted, 
 saying to each other it was better that she 
 should choose the bonds she would wear when 
 she was old enough to know her duty to God 
 224
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 and her fellow-creatures. So far were they out 
 of sympathy with revival methods that, perhaps, 
 it did not occur to them that their self-contained, 
 unemotional child was likely to be affected by 
 them, and, indeed, she had shown no signs of 
 being so. 
 
 One by one her school associates had suc- 
 cumbed to the pleadings of the pastors, evange- 
 lists or other workers in the vineyard, had passed 
 through a period of penitence and grief, and had 
 finally declared, in more or less childlike and in- 
 coherent phrase, that they felt the burden of 
 sin lifted from their souls and an assurance that 
 they were saved by divine grace. Henceforth 
 they would turn their backs upon the tempta- 
 tions of this world and would love God and 
 praise Him for the rest of their days. So many 
 of these school-mates had professed conversion 
 that at last Althea was the only one of her circle 
 who remained unmoved by the appeals that had 
 so affected the others. She took a deep inter- 
 est in all the proceedings, but seemed to make 
 no personal application of the exhortations. She 
 watched her companions curiously. That a 
 change of some sort had passed over them was 
 plain. It manifested itself in an increased se- 
 15 225
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 dateness of behavior; she was aware, too, in the 
 presence of certain ones, of a pitying condescen- 
 sion, as if she were no longer on an equality with 
 with them. Others two or three went about 
 with a rapt and radiant air as if, indeed, they 
 had entered upon a new life, and with glorified 
 vision looked out upon a more spiritual world 
 than the unregenerate saw. These she observed 
 somewhat wistfully, but it was at no time borne 
 in upon her that she, too, could share their joy. 
 
 She was not self-conscious ; had she been so 
 she would have become aware on this Friday 
 night that unusual attention was directed her 
 way. Long after, she learned that she had been 
 regarded by the elder brethren and sisters as a 
 " soul " whose conversion was, for various rea- 
 sons, much to be desired, and that a determined 
 and concerted effort to break her hitherto un- 
 moved ''calm was prearranged for that evening. 
 
 All these meetings were informal. Some one 
 began to sing, "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," and 
 the congregation joined in with more than com- 
 mon fervor. It was the old-time tune even 
 more touching than the words. Althea added 
 her ciear young voice to the rest as she had done 
 before : 
 
 226
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 "All my trust on Thee is stayed, 
 
 All my help from Thee I bring; 
 Cover my defenseless head 
 
 With the shadow of Thy wing." 
 
 As the verse came to an end an elderly sister, 
 passing by, touched Althea softly on the shoul- 
 der and whispered : 
 
 "You should come, dear, and give yourself 
 to Jesus so you could sing that with your 
 heart " 
 
 An aged brother lifted up his quavering voice 
 in prayer. He was illiterate, but it is piety and 
 not erudition, we must believe, which counts with 
 the Maker of men. 
 
 "Oh, Lord," he prayed, "Oh, Lord, there 
 ain't but a few sinners left in this yer congrega- 
 tion, an' ef you'll jest pour out the speret upon 
 us to-night, jest pour it out free, we'll fetch 'em 
 in. They cain't stand out agin that power; they'll 
 realize thet they're pore an' needy. Bless us, 
 Lord, bless us right now!" 
 
 Then came the pleading hymn : 
 
 " Come ye sinners, poor and needy, 
 Weak and wounded, sick and sore ; 
 Jesus ready stands to save you, 
 Full of pity, love and power ; 
 He is able, He is able, 
 He is willing, doubt no more." 
 227
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 The exhortations of the old pastor, commonly 
 so fatherly and gentle, had an almost youthful 
 fire that night. He preached the wrath of God 
 as he had not done in all the weeks. The guilt 
 of the one withholding complete submission was 
 pictured in the darkest colors. Repentance for 
 sin, acceptance of atoning grace, love for the 
 Son, were the only means of averting this wrath. 
 Neither gifts nor praise, neither good works nor 
 clean living, could avail if the doer of righteous 
 things walked not humbly by faith in God. De- 
 lay meant death. Let the young yield up their 
 hearts now, or else risk the loss of life eternal. 
 
 After him came a young evangelist who was 
 becoming noted for his success as an "awaken- 
 er." He was a thin-faced, long-necked young 
 man, spoken of by admiring women as ascetic 
 and spiritual. Discriminating observers would 
 have been apt to class him as dyspeptic and his 
 eloquence as sounding brass; nevertheless, with 
 his peculiarly musical voice and pleading man- 
 ner he won attention where others failed. Al- 
 thea Hood had dreamed dreams about this 
 young man. If she had understood the secrets 
 of her own foolish little child-heart she would 
 have been aware that his presence was one of
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 the attractions that had made her attendance so 
 constant at the meetings. She was not in love 
 with him the sentiment had no such strength 
 as that. She was simply experiencing the first 
 faint flutterings of femininity roused to life by 
 masculine influence. 
 
 The evangelist clasped his hands before him 
 in the praying-Samuel position, and tossing 
 back his long mane began to plead with those 
 lambs which had wandered away from the Shep- 
 herd's loving arms. He said nothing of sin or 
 of guilt, repentence or forgiveness. He only 
 called upon the wanderers to come where love, 
 and shelter, and tender care awaited them. He 
 quoted beautiful poetic passages from the Bible 
 and comforting promises; he talked of green 
 pastures and still waters, of light, and life, and 
 love, but love was chiefly his theme. It was 
 divine love, of course, but the speaker's voice 
 was soft and low ; his eyes were directed toward 
 Althea, and she, poor child, thrilled at his tones 
 and only half comprehended his words. In con- 
 clusion he held out his hands entreatingly and 
 sang: 
 
 " Love divine, all loves excelling, 
 
 Joy of heaven to earth come down ; 
 Fix in us thy humble dwelling, 
 All thy faithful mercies crown." 
 229
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 These little tenor solos, interspersed through 
 his talks, were distinctive features of his methods 
 and were considered especially effective. The 
 revival spirit was fully aroused now. Song and 
 prayer quickly succeeded each other. Ejacula- 
 tions of praise and murmurs of ecstatic feeling 
 were heard from all parts of the room in antiphonal 
 likeness. Brethren and sisters, gifted as plead- 
 ers, or led by sense of duty to exercise their in- 
 fluence, moved among the congregation, seeking 
 out the few who, as the accepted phrase was, 
 had not yet "confessed Christ." One after an- 
 other besought Althea to yield up her heart. 
 Tears fell from the eyes of the old pastor as he 
 urged her to go forward to the "mourners' 
 bench" and take what might be her last chance 
 for salvation. 
 
 They were singing fervently just then: 
 
 " Alas, and did my Savior bleed, 
 And did my Sovereign die ? 
 Would He devote that sacred head 
 For such a worm as I ? " 
 
 "But I am not a vile sinner," she protested. 
 "I am not a worm," and would not go. 
 
 Her school-mates who had so lately read their 
 own titles clear added their petitions ; her teacher 
 230
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 urged upon her the duty of subduing her pride 
 and indifference ; women and men for whom she 
 had the greatest respect, came to her and 
 pointed out the strait and narrow path. They 
 left her still unmoved so far as outward in- 
 dications showed. The young evangelist ap- 
 proached. Her lips set together firmly; her 
 hands, already moving nervously, clenched them- 
 selves; the strain was becoming great, but, "I 
 will not go," she whispered to herself. He 
 reached out his hand. "Come, little sister," he 
 said. "Come; the Good Shepherd wants this 
 lamb that is outside the fold. Come." And 
 she arose and followed him. 
 
 In front of the pulpit was a long bench at 
 which already were two penitents an old man 
 who was converted at every revival and as regu- 
 larly became a backslider when the excitement 
 subsided, and a young man who was commonly 
 spoken of in the community as a "hard case." 
 She knelt beside them mechanically. 
 
 The congregation was singing with great vol- 
 ume of sound, "There's a Land That Is Fairer 
 Than Day." The young evangelist turned and 
 lifted his hand. There was silence, and with 
 hands clasped and eyes uplifted he sang "The 
 231
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 Ninety and Nine." It was like a solo by a fa- 
 mous tenor in an opera a feature of the even- 
 ing that women, at least, would not have missed 
 for the world. He sang it through, and when 
 he reached the last triumphant strain excitement 
 was at hysterical height: 
 
 "But all through the mountains thunder-riven, 
 
 And up from the rocky steep, 
 There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 
 'Rejoice ! I have found my sheep ! ' 
 And the angels echoed around the throne, 
 'Rejoice ! for the Lord brings back His own !' " 
 
 There was a chorus of amens. "Bless the Lord !" 
 shouted one brother ; ' ' Praise His name ! ' ' ex- 
 claimed another. There were groans and inar- 
 ticulate cries. A woman uttered a piercing 
 shriek, and falling prone upon the floor in the 
 aisle, lay there like a log. No one heeded her; 
 she had the ' ' power ' ' and would come to her- 
 self in good time. Breathing was short and 
 quick; faces were flushed; women and girls 
 wept silently, or with hysterical sobs, as their 
 temperaments constrained them ; there was a 
 rhythmical swaying of bodies ; some one prayed 
 loudly but no one heard; the amens, the groans, 
 and the bless-God ' s were still louder. Althea, half 
 232
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 terrified by the tempest of emotion about her, her 
 self-control broken at last, sobbed convulsively. 
 
 A mother in Israel knelt beside her and en- 
 treated her to open her heart and let love and 
 forgiveness come in. The old man at the 
 mourners' bench rose with a joyful shout and 
 announced that he felt to rejoice that he had 
 once more been anointed with the oil of gladness 
 and had obtained forgiveness for his sins. 
 
 "Come let us anew our journey pursue " be- 
 gan a voice near by, and the congregation took 
 up the strain. 
 
 The young man, who was a hard case, rose 
 and stammeringly declared that he had given 
 his heart to God and hoped, by His help, to 
 live a Christian life from that time on. 
 
 As suddenly as Althea's tears had begun they 
 ceased and her excitement was over. She rose 
 to her feet just as her favorite hymn was being 
 sung favorite, because of the pathetic minor 
 cadences, not the words whose sentiment was 
 beyond her experience yet. Unconscious as a 
 bird, she joined in: 
 
 "Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God! I come." 
 233
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 The brethren and sisters near the front pressed 
 around her with congratulations. The pastor 
 took her hand and patted it, his face beaming. 
 
 "My daughter, I knew there was a blessing 
 for you if you would take it. Add your word 
 of testimony now." 
 
 "But I did not mean," she said with startled 
 emphasis. "I am not I have not had a bless- 
 ing." 
 
 They saw her lips move, but no one listened 
 to her words, and the song drowned them: 
 
 "Hallelujah 'tis done! I believe on the Son, 
 I am saved by the blood of the crucified One!" 
 
 Following this triumphant outburst came the 
 joyful hymn : 
 
 " How happy are they 
 Who their Savior obey, 
 
 And have laid up their treasures above! 
 Tongue can not express 
 The sweet comfort and peace 
 
 Of a soul in its earliest love ! " 
 
 She was counted among the converts. The 
 pastor thanked God for her in his prayer, and 
 was a shade less enthusiastic in thanks for the 
 rescue of the backslider and the hard case. 
 
 Althea did not join in the singing of the dox- 
 234
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 ology. All at once a meaning seemed to come 
 into the words which hardly had a meaning to 
 her before. 
 
 " Praise God from whom all blessings flow !" 
 
 Could she really praise God? Praise Him for 
 what? 
 
 As she passed slowly down the crowded aisle 
 hands were stretched from every side to grasp 
 hers in the kindly Methodist fashion ; many a 
 blessing was invoked upon her by the older 
 brethren and sisters ; younger friends said they 
 were glad she had become one of them. She 
 only smiled faintly and was silent. Silence 
 seemed cowardly, but how could she tell them 
 that it was not true, that she had experienced 
 no change of heart, that she was the same in 
 every way that she had been the day before? 
 Or could it be, and she grasped at the thought, 
 could it be that a change had come and she did 
 not know it? She had been excited, had wept 
 and then become calm like all her newly con- 
 verted friends. Then her eyes fell upon the 
 hard case as he met his mother an old woman 
 with care-worn, tear-stained face, transfigured, 
 now, with joy. His reckless, defiant expression 
 235
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 had given way to a look of what was it? de- 
 termination, gladness, high endeavor? She felt 
 that he had attained something she had not and 
 her hopeful thought for herself vanished. 
 
 Pressed by the crowd into the angle of a door- 
 way she heard the young evangelist say in con- 
 fidential tone to a leading member: "In this 
 business you have to make a study of people. 
 Different methods must be worked on old and 
 young men, old women and young ones. Not 
 many '11 hold out if you go at 'em in the right 
 way. I felt sure I'd fetch the Hood girl. You 
 know they say I have a taking way with the la- 
 dies," and he laughed foolishly. 
 
 "I'm powerful glad ye fetched her, it makes 
 the even one hundred and fifty I don't count 
 the other two who went for'ard to-night, they 
 won't stick and one hundred and fifty is a 
 mighty good showing in a town like this; they'll 
 build up the church amazing. Besides, her 
 father, Colonel Hood, '11 be madder' n a hornet. 
 He don't b'lieve in religious revivals. He's 
 Tiscopal." 
 
 The old man chuckled in an ungodly way. 
 Althea, hurrying by, felt, with the changing im- 
 pulse of youth, that she hated them both, and, 
 236
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 with mist of romance suddenly and cruelly 
 cleared, she saw the evangelist as a lean, lank, 
 commonplace, self-conceited youth, and an inno- 
 cent, girlish ideal of manliness was forever gone. 
 It was not a happy frame of mind for a new 
 convert. 
 
 A few months after the revival, which re- 
 mains famous in the annals of Greenbrier, life 
 began for Althea Hood. This first experience 
 of life grew out of acquaintance with death. 
 The destroyer came suddenly to her father, not 
 yet an old man. Under the shock the mother 
 drooped and soon followed her husband. 
 
 Althea, with the bewilderment which comes 
 to the young who encounter the great mystery, 
 mourned and suffered as only the young do 
 without the philosophy, the resignation, some- 
 times the peace and hope that bereavement 
 brings to age. Pious friends talked to her of 
 the duty of submission she was still rebellious ; 
 of God's love she did not know their meaning. 
 The experience of the revival had left her with- 
 out religious feeling; it was as if her heart, 
 which might have unfolded as naturally to spirit- 
 ual truth as a rose opens under sun and dew, 
 237
 
 THE QJJICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 had ceased to grow, like a bud when torn apart 
 by rough hands. 
 
 Life was not easy. Poverty was her portion, 
 and a home with uncongenial relatives until 
 school days were past and she became a teacher 
 among new scenes and new people in the 
 capital of the state. 
 
 There are teachers who profess to love their 
 calling for its own sake. Being truthful in 
 other matters they must be believed in this. 
 Althea Hood was not one of these. She found 
 teaching irksome, and when David Phillips asked 
 her to marry him she promptly said yes, and 
 gladly gave up her work. 
 
 Althea loved her husband with as deep an 
 affection as she was capable of entertaining at 
 her stage of development. 
 
 In occasional moments of introspection Althea 
 realized that she did not have that absorbing, 
 overwhelming affection for him that novelists' 
 heroines entertain for their chosen lovers, but 
 satisfied herself with the theory that such ardent 
 emotions did not belong to real life. 
 
 David Phillips was a prosperous, energetic 
 business man several years older than she a 
 quiet, self-contained person who smiled indul- 
 238
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 gently over his young wife's aesthetic tastes, her 
 fondness for poetry and romance, her little out- 
 bursts of sentiment, her feminine ways in gen- 
 eral. If he did not seem to sympathize he, at 
 least, did not antagonize, and she was fairly con- 
 tent in her little daily round. There were the 
 housekeeping and social duties, the music, the 
 reading, the various odds and ends that fill the 
 time of the woman who has no ambitions out- 
 side her home, no consciousness of work to be 
 done there these made up her routine. There 
 were no ecstacies, no deep emotions; it was 9 
 narrow life, and yet a day came when she looked 
 back to this period of peace as one of enviable 
 bliss. There are but few heights of joy in any 
 life, and, in most, many depths of grief, so it 
 may be that the dead level of calm content, the 
 absence of emotion, is the happiness to be 
 chosen if choice were in human power. 
 
 Althea attended church during this time. It 
 was respectable to do so ; it had been her early 
 habit, and, besides, the beauty of the Epis- 
 copal ritual pleased her. She could join in 
 the prayer, ' ' Have mercy upon us miserable 
 sinners," with an intellectual pleasure in the 
 sonorousness of the response, but with as little 
 239
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 understanding of heart as when the brethren at 
 the revival besought her to seek forgiveness for 
 sin. But though she did not comprehend, some- 
 times she wondered if all those who joined in the 
 prayers were as unmoved as she, and, if not, what 
 secret they possessed that she did not. 
 
 Then, one happy day, a new interest entered 
 into her life. Her baby came and her soul 
 began to grow. It is not always so, though it 
 is the fashion to talk of mothers as gifted with 
 a world of new spiritual and moral graces. To 
 those who look on, it too often seems that moth- 
 erhood means a narrowing of vision and an in- 
 tensity of selfishness. But Althea's horizon 
 widened. With her own child in her arms she 
 looked out upon a new world. Her eyes were 
 suddenly opened to the needs of other little ones. 
 A vast pity filled her heart for the waifs, the 
 hapless creatures who are born to poverty and 
 know suffering almost with their first breath. 
 "The cry of the children" appealed to her as it 
 had never done before. Her eyes once open, it 
 was strange what vistas of both joy and sorrow 
 spread before them; she questioned why she 
 had not seen these things before. 
 
 Her little son waxed fat and fair. He was 
 240
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 the delight of her days ; waking and sleeping he 
 was in her dreams. She rejoiced in his infantile 
 graces, but her thoughts ran on and on and pic- 
 tured him as he should be as time went by the 
 sturdy lad loved by his playmates, the youth 
 excelling his companions in all noble undertak- 
 ings, the strong, proud man honored by th 
 world, but through all the changes her own dear 
 son, still loving and true. 
 
 Her husband looked on, pleased at the sight 
 of the maternal joy, the look a little wistful at 
 times, perhaps, because the wife was so lost in 
 the mother that he seemed half forgotten and 
 quite unessential to her happiness. 
 
 Then one terrible day the baby died, the lit- 
 tle child who had lacked no care that love could 
 give. Out of the mother's arms they took the 
 fair dimpled body for the last time ; they folded 
 the rose-leaf hands that would flutter upon her 
 bosom no more ; they took him away, the life 
 of her life, and laid him under the flowers. 
 
 Is there agony for any human creature greater 
 than that of the mother bereaved? 
 
 She mourned in bitterness and without hope. 
 Between her and the "land that is fairer than 
 day, ' ' the land of which she once sang so un- 
 16 241
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 thinkingly, rose a wall through which came no 
 answer to her resentful cries. In her wretchedness 
 she turned against her husband. She fancied 
 that he was not sympathetic, that he really 
 missed their child but little. She brooded over 
 this imaginary trouble in addition to the genuine 
 woe and brought herself into such a state of an- 
 tagonism that nothing he could do pleased her, 
 and she withdrew her companionship from him 
 to a degree that left him bewildered and help- 
 less. He ascribed her irritability and coldness 
 to her recent bereavement. It was really one 
 of those critical situations that occur in most 
 married lives before the art of living together in 
 harmony has been mastered. The little rift may 
 close itself or become a chasm never to be bridged . 
 David recommended change of scene. Would 
 she go south and get the early spring breezes? 
 Would she come with him on a trip to New 
 York which business compelled him to take? 
 Would she go anywhere her fancy preferred and 
 win back health to mind and nerves? These 
 were questions he asked her, but to all she cold- 
 ly answered "no." She "wished to be alone," 
 she said, and he left her reluctantly. 
 
 242
 
 Scarcely had he started on his journey when 
 a thing happened the like of which has been 
 known to occur among people we hear of; 
 people of whom our friends know and, whisper- 
 ing, tell the tale. A woman called to see Al- 
 thea a woman who had possibly been comely 
 at one time in her life but was no longer, a 
 creature unprepossessing enough now. With her 
 was a child two or three years old. It was not 
 a pleasant story she told, but she told it in a 
 way convincing to her hearer. She was the 
 woman, she said, who should have been David 
 Phillips's wife ; the child was hers and his, but he 
 had cast them both off. They were in want; 
 would Mrs. Phillips help them? 
 
 She gave the woman money and sent her 
 away in haste, telling her never to return, and 
 that she did not believe her story; but she 
 never doubted its truth for a moment. Would 
 a woman, even a lost creature, advertise her 
 shame needlessly? She had never dreamed that 
 her husband, David Phillips, had ever been 
 other than upright and honorable, and had heard 
 and thought but little in her life about evil of 
 this sort. But she had seen that David was 
 changed ; he was growing more quiet and reti- 
 243
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 cent every day. Perhaps he was losing his love 
 for her, and he had not seemed to care when 
 the baby died. Her little son! And he was 
 the father of her son. 
 
 A whirlwind of rage swept over her at the 
 thought that he had covered the memory of this 
 lost darling with shame, that he had brought 
 humiliation upon her. How could she go on 
 and live in the same world with him and with 
 those others. A wild impulse to take herself 
 out of it came to her ; a vision of the river, deep 
 and dark, rose temptingly. 
 
 Her wrath turned against the man who had 
 deceived her. At times she longed for him to 
 be there that she might face him with her knowl- 
 edge of his iniquity; then, with revulsion of feel- 
 ing, rejoiced at his absence. No one seeing her 
 then could charge her with being unemotional. 
 Vindictive passion stirred her one hour, shame 
 weighed her down the next, then followed a 
 wave of grief for the vanished days of peace. 
 Life was not the joyous thing it had seemed in 
 the old Greenbrier days ; now, she knew that it 
 meant tears, and heartache, and sorrows worse 
 than death. She wrote brief notes in reply to 
 her husband's letters. Why she postponed 
 244
 
 THE OjttCRENlNG OP A SOUL 
 
 writing him that their lives could not go on to- 
 gether she hardly knew, since she had deter- 
 mined to send such a letter. One day she be- 
 gan the task. Before she had finished illumina- 
 tion came. She knew suddenly that she loved 
 the man she was preparing to put out of her life 
 loved him in spite of his sins, of his wrong to 
 herself, loved him with an intensity she had not 
 dreamed of when she married him. It was not 
 the love she had read of and had not thought to 
 experience, it was a thousand times stronger. 
 She did not want it so ; she resented the truth 
 and would have denied it to herself but could 
 not. 
 
 For days she fought with her impulses, and 
 then resisted them no longer. She was too 
 frank and transparent to dream of concealing her 
 knowledge of the wretched secret, and, besides, 
 she had conceived a plan whose carrying out 
 involved mutual explanation and consultations. 
 
 With trembling haste, now that she had re- 
 solved upon a course, she wrote the letter tell- 
 ing him her story of the woman and child, of 
 her grief and resentment, and, finally, of her 
 love and willingness to forgive and receive him 
 back. Then she added it was the crowning bit 
 245
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 of self-sacrifice "I want to provide for the 
 child; if you like, I will find it and bring it 
 home." 
 
 She sent the letter and waited. With all her 
 spirit of forgiveness and her impatience for his 
 return she was not unmindful of the fact that she 
 was doing an unusual thing, one he would have 
 no right to expect, a truly Christian act. In- 
 deed, the spirit of condescension, of goodness 
 stooping to the sinner, was manifest in the let- 
 ter. 
 
 She did not know where the woman and child 
 might be found, but spent those days of waiting 
 in wandering about a quarter of the city she had 
 known but little of, thinking that by chance she 
 might find them. Once she caught a glimpse 
 of the woman in a passing street car a hard- 
 faced creature in tawdry garb she looked in the 
 pitiless sunlight. 
 
 Hurrying home, a little belated, one evening, 
 she was driven by a sudden spring shower to 
 the nearest shelter, which chanced to be a dilap- 
 idated warehouse, hardly more than a shed, 
 from whose open door the sound of singing is- 
 sued. By the dim and flickering light of a few 
 lanterns hung about she saw a motley company 
 246
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 seated on improvised benches, or standing next 
 the wall. There were men who looked like 
 tramps and others, better clothed, who might 
 be worse. There were women who might be 
 honest mothers of families, others who as surely 
 were not. Unwholesome looking children of 
 various ages looked curiously on. 
 
 But one voice was heard ; evidently the crowd 
 was not familiar with the words of the song. The 
 man standing by an upturned box with a cheap 
 glass lamp upon it was the singer. "There Is a 
 Fountain Filled With Blood," was the hymn; 
 he sang one stanza through alone. As he be- 
 gan the second a woman joined in in a thin, un- 
 certain soprano: 
 
 "The dying thief rejoiced to see 
 
 That fountain in his day; 
 And there may I, though vile as he, 
 
 Wash all my sins away, 
 Wash all my sins away." 
 
 With the third verse the woman stopped and 
 sat down, sobbing loudly, but not before Althea 
 had seen her face ; it was that of the woman she 
 was seeking. 
 
 The man by the box began to speak in a low, 
 conversational tone. As he stepped out of the 
 247
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 shadow into the light of the lamp she recog- 
 nized, with a start of surprise, the "hard case" 
 of the Greenbrier revival. He did not look like 
 a hard case now. He was shabbily dressed, 
 but his thin, dark face wore an expression of 
 earnestness, of absorbed interest, of what even 
 seemed like love for the people about him. 
 
 "I was vile, like that thief," he said; "I de- 
 fied God. I cared nothing for Him; I believed 
 He cared nothing for me. I broke His laws 
 recklessly and rejoiced in my wickedness, or I 
 pretended to rejoice, though I could never quite 
 quiet the pricks of conscience, for I knew better. 
 I had a mother who loved me and prayed for 
 me. One day I suddenly saw all my guilt and 
 was without hope, but light came and forgive- 
 ness even to me to me! to me! and since 
 that day 'redeeming love has been my theme, 
 and shall be till I die.' " 
 
 Then he pleaded with his hearers in impas- 
 sioned but simple language to leave their sins 
 and live good lives for the sake of the One who 
 died upon the cross, for their own sakes, for the 
 sake of those about them. It was not a sermon ; 
 it was not even a connected discourse ; it was 
 neither learned nor logical, but it was a cry 
 248
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 from the heart, and the listeners knew it and 
 were moved accordingly. 
 
 Althea knew that she had encountered again 
 the mysterious something which had passed her 
 by. The hard case whose conversion at Green- 
 brier had been so lightly regarded that he was 
 not counted in by the revivalists when they 
 "made up their jewels," had found there the 
 spiritual gift that made him a new man. Some- 
 times she had suspected that those who professed 
 to have consciously won this blessing deceived 
 themselves, but there was something genuine 
 here. But she could not speculate on this now. 
 She stepped to the side of the yellow-haired girl 
 and touched her arm. 
 
 "Where is your baby?" she whispered. The 
 girl looked up with red eyes, stupidly. "My 
 baby?" she repeated wonderingly, and then 
 comprehended. Through the artificial color on 
 her cheeks a genuine red showed. She dropped 
 her head and then lifted it and looked straight 
 in Althea 's eyes. 
 
 "I have no baby, lady; I never had. I was 
 
 just fooling you. I wanted money. I never 
 
 knew your husband only by name, and he never 
 
 saw or heard of me, I reckon. I read in the 
 
 249
 
 THE QJJICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 paper that he'd gone to New York. I wanted 
 money, and I'd seen you, and I guessed you 
 were, well an easy mark, and so I fixed up the 
 story. I thought you looked, too, as if you had 
 no sympathy for such as me, and maybe that 
 made me pick on you to give you a little trouble 
 instead of another. You didn't know a body 
 could be so wicked, did you? The baby is Mrs. 
 Caffrey's, across the street. His mother's good 
 to me and lets me take care of him when she 
 goes washing. I've been a bad girl, lady, but 
 I'm going to be better. I'll pay you back that 
 money some day." 
 
 But Mrs. Phillips was gone. She flew across 
 the street. The door of the two-room shanty 
 was open and she stepped in after a hasty knock. 
 The baby she would have known it anywhere 
 lay asleep on a bed ; a woman stood at a ta- 
 ble ironing. 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Caffrey, and whose baby is 
 this? " asked the visitor. 
 
 "Oim Mrs. Caffrey, and thot boy is mine, 
 born in howly wedlock, av ye plaze, an' wud have 
 a lather this blessed minute av ut hadn't bin for 
 the hayt'nenish shtame cars thot wudn't shtop to 
 rouse up a man who'd set down on the thrack to 
 250
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 rest as he was comin' from a wake. An' phwat 
 wud ye be likin' to know for, ma'am?" 
 "It isn't Maggie Miller's baby? " 
 " Maggie Miller the likes av her ! My little 
 Patsy asked av his mother was an ondacent fa- 
 male him that had an honest father married to 
 his mother by the praste. Och, the impident 
 question ! Maggie, she's got no baby, betther's 
 her luck. Not thot Maggie's so bad, poor 
 body. She's good to little Patsy, an' she's over 
 now helpin' thot preacher man sing the hymns 
 she used to hear in the counthry when she was a 
 betther gurrl. She'd be betther askin' the 
 Howly Mother to shpake for her, an' be confes- 
 sin' her sins to Father Ryan; but av this ware- 
 house religion kapes her from divilmint it's not 
 the likes av me to shpake ill av it. But phwat 
 is it, leddy?" 
 
 The lady, with a strange look on her face, 
 apologized confusedly for her visit and hurried 
 up the street, Mrs. Caffrey peering after her and 
 talking volubly to herself. Her mind was in a 
 tumult. She had condemned her husband on 
 the first charge against him, without question 
 and without giving him a chance for defense. 
 She had emphasized the injury by offering to 
 251
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 extend pardon to him. Pardon! When she 
 was the one to need forgiveness ! And he was 
 away and she wanted to see him at once. 
 
 In the morning came a message. There had 
 been a railroad accident at a junction fifty miles 
 away. David Phillips had been seriously hurt. 
 Would she come? 
 
 She was on the train in an hour. It seemed 
 years since the calm, uneventful period of her early 
 married life when she had sometimes fancied 
 that she was born with a limited capacity for 
 emotion. She knew better now; depths had 
 been sounded and were stirred. She had learned 
 what love and suffering meant, and more suffer- 
 ing was before her. The thing that most be- 
 wildered her was being suddenly and unques- 
 tionably in the wrong. She had been accus- 
 tomed always to be right, or to think herself so. 
 She had never been a suppliant to God or man. 
 She wondered if she had been self-righteous, and 
 was filled with sudden humility. She was ready 
 to humble herself before man, at least. The 
 train did not move fast enough. Would David 
 forgive her? Would she reach him in time? 
 
 She found him at a farm-house with a broken 
 leg and many bruises, but he would live. She 
 252
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 had long explanations to make, but as she knelt 
 by his side could only gasp : 
 
 "I was wrong; it was not true; I was mis- 
 taken." 
 
 He drew her face to his, and she knew pardon 
 was hers, and love. 
 
 "It hurt me, sweetheart, that you believed 
 the story," he whispered, faintly, "but when 
 you were ready to take me back in spite of what 
 you believed, when you could forgive such a 
 wrong, I knew you loved me and and I had 
 been afraid." 
 
 He closed his eyes with a look of utter peace 
 and the doctors decreed silence, but she sat 
 by his side through the day, nor knew that the 
 hours were long. 
 
 The miracle of spring was being wrought 
 upon the world. But yesterday the trees had 
 been bare ; to-day in the sunshine their buds 
 had burst into green, the peach trees were pink 
 with bloom, the dandelions shone yellow in the 
 grass. A sense of growth, of transformation, 
 was in the very air. 
 
 What comes so suddenly to buds and flowers 
 may come to the human soul. 
 
 Under the sod and through the harsh reign of 
 253
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 frosts and snows the way had been prepared for 
 the wonder of the trees. Motherhood, bereave- 
 ment and tears, injured love and humiliation, 
 and the later happiness had done their silent 
 work upon the woman nature. The time had 
 come for a new birth. 
 
 In the dusk she left David and wandered 
 down a grassy lane. In the western sky beyond 
 the broad prairie, the gorgeous tints of the sun- 
 set faded into blue and pearl. The soft, damp 
 air brought the smell of the fresh earth from 
 the newly plowed field; a spicy odor from a 
 wild apple tree, now a mass of pale pink, was 
 wafted to her. A robin chirped sleepily among 
 the young maple leaves overhead. The tender, 
 elusive charm of the season of growth was all 
 about her. But was it only this that so moved 
 her, she vaguely wondered. She had known 
 the joy of spring before, and it was not like 
 this. Her soul seemed lifted up. She felt 
 dimly that a greater glory than she had known 
 was just beyond. 
 
 Inside the open door of a little cottage down 
 the lane a woman sat by a lamp sewing and 
 singing. Her voice rose sweet and clear: 
 
 254
 
 THE QUICKENING OF A SOUL 
 
 "Just as I am though tossed about. 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
 With fears within and foes without 
 O Lamb of God, I come!" 
 
 All her life she had been familiar with the 
 hymns that expressed the thoughts of the world 
 seeking God hymns of penitence, of agony, of 
 peace and praise, of ecstatic worship and she 
 had not known their meaning. All at once 
 light came. She lifted up her arms. 
 
 "O Lamb of God! O Lamb of God!" she 
 whispered. The cloud that had obscured her 
 spiritual sight lifted. She saw herself an im- 
 perfect human creature, but, with all her faults 
 and frailties, an atom of the divine essence; her 
 little life a part of the divine plan ; her sorrows 
 and trials the discipline inflicted by love. Be- 
 fore her suddenly appeared her lost child, the 
 child she had mourned without hope, a glorified 
 vision. Its baby hands beckoned her ; its sweet 
 lips smiled. Love for child and husband, the 
 old earthly love, filled her bosom with a power 
 she had not known, but there was a love greater 
 than this. Could that be hers, also? 
 
 She tried to pray, but could not form her 
 
 255
 
 THE <^UICKNING Of A SOUL 
 
 thoughts. Was that a touch upon her hair, a 
 
 whisper in her ear ? Surely she heard the words : 
 "Come unto Me all ye that are heavy laden." 
 
 She stood trembling as in a holy presence. Her 
 
 face turned toward the sky. 
 
 "O Lamb of God O Lamb of God, I come. ' ' 
 He heard in heaven. Joy enfolded her as a 
 
 garment. Divine peace fell upon her. Her 
 
 soul was born. 
 
 2$6
 
 A 000125534