na
 
 ITRAflD W!1M 
 ACRE* Of- OOK9 
 14* PACIFIC AVfNUB
 
 Cinch 
 And Other Stories
 
 Books by 
 Will Allen Dromgoole 
 
 jn 
 
 The Heart of Old Hickory and 
 
 Other Stories Tall i6mo, $1.25 
 
 The Valley Path i 2 mo, 1.25 
 
 Hero- Chums Thin i2mo, .50 
 
 Cinch and Other Stories umo, $1.25 
 
 A Boy's Battle Thin lamo, .50 
 
 Rare Old Chums Thin umo, .50 
 
 * 
 
 Dana Estes & Company, Publishers 
 Boston, Mass.
 
 CINCH 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 TALES OF TENNESSEE 
 
 BY 
 
 WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 
 
 Author of " The Heart of Old Hickory," 
 
 " The Valley Path," " Hero-Chums," 
 
 " A Boy's Battle," etc. 
 
 BOSTON 
 DANA ESTES &f COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCXCVIII
 
 Copyright, 1898 
 BY DANA ESTES AND COMPANY 
 
 Second Edition 
 
 (Colonial fyttts 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonda & Co. 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 To one 
 
 who has followed 
 
 my career with kind and faithful 
 
 interest : who has sympathized with my 
 
 struggles, grieved for my sorrows, and rejoiced 
 
 in my successes : my friend 
 
 fllmcfaug i,. J9ofon0 
 
 5
 
 Contents 
 
 PACK 
 
 CINCH . . ... . . ii 
 
 THE LEPER OF THE CUMBERLANDS . . 63 
 
 OLD HICKORY'S BALL . . . . . 88 
 
 A SCRAP OF COLLEGE LORE . . . no 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON'S " BUFDAY " . . 146 
 
 A PARABLE OF FOUR TALENTS . . . 163 
 
 SWEET 'LAASES ...... 199 
 
 A GRAIN OF GOLD . . * . .231 
 
 A DAY IN ASIA . , . . 261 
 
 A HUMBLE ADVOCATE . . . . 288 
 
 TAPPINE . . - . , * ' * 319
 
 Cinch 
 
 THE air was full of plaintive sugges- 
 tiveness : drifting leaves, bursting 
 burrs, the startled scurry of a rabbit 
 through the crisping brown grasses. Au- 
 tumn in the mountains ; Nature's time to 
 die. A haze lay upon the river, the old, 
 Indian-loved Hiwassee, and veiled the 
 finer line of mountains rising above Sweet- 
 water Valley. Higher up, where the road 
 lay along the rim of the mountain, over- 
 looking the valley, a rider had drawn rein, 
 and sat gazing down into the mist-en- 
 wrapped silence in a sort of fascination 
 that seemed for the nonce to illumine 
 his bearded, sunbrowned face. 
 ii
 
 12 Cinch 
 
 " Well," said he, rousing from his rev- 
 erie, " it is pretty. It has growed more 
 prettier since I been gone, danged if it 
 ain't. Lord, Lord, but if I haven't 
 a-thirsted for it, as that there Texas 
 parson useter say, ' like rain in a dry 
 an' thirsty land.' The very sight of it's 
 coolin', blamed if it ain't. An' if yonder 
 am' Sugar Creek friskin' along same's 
 ever to the Hiwassee. Well, well, well ! " 
 
 He had been absent eight years, yet 
 the fact that Nature had stood still during 
 the interval of his own varied wanderings 
 filled him with surprise. It was like 
 meeting, after years of separation and 
 silence, a friend, and finding his friendly 
 heart unchanged. 
 
 "Now, I do wonder if old man 
 Stamps's cabin is still standin' over yon- 
 der on the side o' the Knob where it 
 useter stand. I'm good mind to ride 
 down there an' see; they're blood kin to 
 me, an' if the old folks are gone, maybe 
 that triflin', liquor-lovin' Jerry's livin*
 
 Cinch 13 
 
 there. An' if I ain't forgot more'n I 
 think, I know a nigher cut to the house 
 than the big road. Oh, but it is pretty, 
 the mountains is; an' I've missed 'em; 
 oh, I've missed 'em might'ly ! " 
 
 He had fallen to dreaming again, his 
 keen, dark eye passing from peak to 
 peak, sighting Cardwells, Chilhowee, and 
 Frog Mountains. The sound of a horn, 
 long, winding, melodious, among the 
 steeps, aroused him. He shook him- 
 self, as if the witchery of dreaming had 
 been a material bulk, to be thrown off 
 at will. 
 
 " Well, I must be mosin' on ; Christ- 
 mas'll be comin' along here by an' by," 
 he declared. 
 
 Giving the reins a jerk that turned the 
 horse's head eastward, he struck off into 
 one of the little cattle-trails with which 
 the mountains abound, laughing the while 
 like a boy to discover how well he re- 
 membered the old paths. For two miles 
 he rode on silent, after the manner of the
 
 14 Cinch 
 
 mountaineers. Only once, in the woods 
 upon his right hand, his sharp eye de- 
 tected a buckeye-tree, and instantly he 
 rode his horse under the freighted, low- 
 drooping limbs. 
 
 " The best luck in the world, findin' 
 a buckeye-tree is," he told himself; and 
 gathering two of the largest buckeyes he 
 could reach, slipped them into his pocket 
 and rode on, back by the cattle-trail, in 
 the direction of Stamps's cabin on the 
 Knob. 
 
 In a little while the woods broke away ; 
 the whole earth seemed to lie at his feet, 
 bathed in sunshine and carpeted with pur- 
 ple, and scarlet, and bright gold. He 
 found himself upon one of those odd ele- 
 vations, neither hill nor mountain, which 
 across the Carolina line are known as 
 " balds," but upon the Tennessee side go 
 by the no more euphonious name of 
 " knobs." Almost at his very feet stood 
 a house, a weather-worn log cabin of the 
 primitive build, a room on either side,
 
 Cinch i 5 
 
 with a broad, open passage between, a 
 shed-room in the rear, an ash-hopper so 
 near that it gave the impression of being 
 a part of the house. A group of gnarled 
 old cedars brushed their dark boughs 
 in a kind of rhythmic time against the 
 gray-boarded roof. 
 
 In the open passage, in the full glare 
 of sunlight, a woman was sitting. She 
 was busily at work upon a piece of sewing 
 that lay in a white heap, its coarseness 
 concealed by distance, upon her knees. 
 She had not noticed the stranger's ap- 
 proach. The face attracted him strangely ; 
 there was a cameo delicacy about the 
 pretty, pinkish features, and the October 
 sunshine made a warm sheen in the brown- 
 red hair. The face, the attitude, the half- 
 suggestion of weariness in the slightly 
 drooping figure, even the gold-red tints in 
 her hair, all were in keeping with the 
 overcoloured death abroad in the hills. 
 The strange man studied the picture in- 
 tently while his horse went down the little
 
 1 6 Cinch 
 
 bridle-path to the gate, his hoofs giving 
 out only a soft rustle among the drifted 
 leaves and dry grasses. To his restless, 
 wandering heart it was like heaven ; the 
 restful sweetness of the sad young face 
 might have belonged to the face of a Ma- 
 donna. It stood out in contrast against 
 his own turbulent nature as the quiet of 
 the mountains contrasted with the wild 
 Western life to which, for eight homeless, 
 danger-crammed years, he had given him- 
 self. As he drew nearer, the horse set his 
 foot upon a loose stone ; the woman gave 
 a little start, and looked up. 
 
 " Good mornin'," said he, over the 
 rickety gate. "Is this where the Stampses 
 live?" 
 
 "Yes, Jerry Stamps lives here," was 
 the reply. " Leastways," she went on, 
 quickly, " he calls this home ; mostly he's 
 to be found at the settlement on the 
 mount'n." 
 
 He did not in the least understand her 
 meaning, though he detected the reproach
 
 Cinch 17 
 
 in her voice, and noted the quick attempt 
 to conceal the rash and too ready com- 
 plaint in a show of hospitality. " Won't 
 you-uns 'light an' come in ? Jerry'll be 
 along befo' long, an' while you're waitin' 
 I'll knock you up a snack fur yer dinner." 
 
 There are moments that come to all of 
 us when fate stands at the elbow of life, 
 ready to take advantage of the next step 
 made ; " fateful moments " we call them, 
 and, looking back upon them through the 
 dust of after-years, we can trace all life, 
 for shade or shine, from the step taken at 
 one of these moments. It was such a 
 moment with him ; he hesitated, saw 
 her get up and go into the room at the 
 left of the passage. She was hiding her 
 sewing, the odd little heap of domestic ; 
 he did not know that she tucked it care- 
 fully under the bolster of her bed, blush- 
 ing scarlet while she drew the cover 
 securely over it. 
 
 When she went back he had dis- 
 mounted, and was coming down the little
 
 1 8 Cinch 
 
 pretence of a walk to the door. He was 
 well dressed. To her, accustomed only 
 to the coarse jeans of the mountains, he 
 was royally clad. A gaudily prominent 
 chain depended from his watch-pocket; 
 in the bosom of a white shirt three golden 
 studs shone lustrously. For a moment 
 she felt almost timid. But the moun- 
 taineer is ever king of his own domain, 
 ever the hospitable host. 
 
 " Hadn't! you better put yer nag up ? " 
 she asked, the red still tinging her cheeks. 
 In the eyes lifted to his he saw the liquid 
 lights come and go with vitalising warmth. 
 
 " No'm," said he. " I'll just set a bit, 
 if you don't mind, and wait for Jerry. 
 Thank you, ma'am, but I can get my 
 own cheer." 
 
 He dropped into the shuck-bottomed 
 chair with a lightness that seemed to her 
 young experience the perfection of all 
 grace. It brought back the fair days of 
 her own first sweet youth, not long gone, 
 when she had tripped lightly over the
 
 Cinch 19 
 
 puncheon floors to the tune of " Rollin' 
 River," in far-away Sequatchie Valley. 
 
 She seated herself upon the doorstep, 
 in the sunlight, and he saw the warm 
 sheen return to the pretty gold-red hair, 
 coiled girlishly upon the shapely small 
 head. For a moment both were silent; 
 he, with wonder at the luck that had 
 dropped him down in the company of the 
 very girl, he told himself, that he had 
 " travelled earth over to find." 
 
 " Pretty country hereabouts," he found 
 voice to say, at last. 
 
 " Hit's fair," was the uncertain reply. 
 " I ain't keerin' fur the mount'n country 
 much. I'm valley-born. I'm a S'quatchie 
 Valley gal." 
 
 There was the familiar, drawling sweet- 
 ness in her voice that had tracked and 
 trailed his memory like a sleuth-hound in 
 all his weary wanderings, in his yearnings 
 for home, and had driven him back at 
 last, homesick, heart-hungry for the scenes 
 that had surrounded his first manhood.
 
 20 Cinch 
 
 He talked only enough to keep her talk- 
 ing, the voice was heaven's music to 
 him. 
 
 " Yer horse looks like it might 'a* come 
 a toler'ble fur ride," she said, with a glance 
 at the wind-blown, foam-flecked animal 
 fastened to the low fence palings. 
 
 "He ain't come so far; he's just from 
 Cleveland down here ; he wasn't much 
 shakes of a horse to begin with," he told 
 her. 
 
 " Air you-uns from Cleveland ? " 
 
 " Texas." 
 
 " From whar ? " 
 
 Had he said from Paradise she would 
 not have been more surprised. Texas, 
 that far-off myth-land of the mountaineer. 
 He laughed aloud at her wonder ; he 
 knew that to the people of her class Texas 
 was the limitation of all distance, almost 
 of all life, indeed. 
 
 " Lord, I know just how you feel," he 
 declared. " I useter feel the same way till 
 I went there, eight years ago. Now it ain't
 
 Cinch 21 
 
 no more than a canter over inter Kintucky 
 or Alabama. Still," he modified, " lookin' 
 at it one way, it seems a good bit off, too. 
 When a fellow gets homesick it seems like 
 the tag end o' creation. And I always was 
 homesick ; I always wanted to come back. 
 I'm mount'n born. Me an' Jerry useter 
 play together, played marbles in this 
 very yard ; and when we got bigger we 
 fished together in Sugar Creek many a 
 time ; to say nothin' of Hiwassee River. 
 And I just couldn't forgit it. I was 
 always hankerin' for the mount'ns." 
 
 The wonder in her eyes gave place to 
 incredulity. " 'Pears to me," she declared, 
 "as I'd shake the dust of 'em off mighty 
 quick if/ could git to Texas." 
 
 Poor, pretty young thing ; there was a 
 wound somewhere in the young heart that 
 could not quite hush its plaining. He set 
 himself to find it, to learn the nature of 
 the hurt, after which he meant to look 
 to a remedy. 
 
 " Would you like to go to Texas ? "
 
 22 Cinch 
 
 he asked. " It's mighty far an' lone- 
 some." 
 
 " Would I ? Lonesome ? Psher ! / 
 know lonesome." 
 
 There was no need of further words. 
 " / know lonesome." That expressed it 
 all ; the longing and loneliness of her life. 
 He felt its narrowness and pitied her, 
 he who had seen Texas. 
 
 " Yet," he said, as though following out 
 his own thought, " it's lonesome ; a body 
 can't content hisse'f to love the levels when 
 he's once knowed the heights. You'd be 
 honin' for the hills again in no time. You'd 
 soon be sorrowin' for Tennessee. You'd 
 die out there for the sight of a tree" 
 
 " Sorrer ain't killin'." There was knowl- 
 edge, founded upon experience, in the 
 simple declaration. "Sorrer ain't killin'. 
 If it ware, the graveyards 'ud be full." 
 
 She lifted her eyes to the distant peaks ; 
 the little complaint seemed to be made to 
 them, the veiled, unresponsive hills, rather 
 than to him. Yet his large man's heart
 
 Cinch 23 
 
 went out to her in sympathy. To her, 
 trouble was imaginary, of course. She 
 was too young to have felt the real fangs 
 of it ; yet, to youth, pain is pain, whether 
 it be real or fancied ; and so he fancied he 
 pitied her, felt for her, wondered what 
 petty, girlish grief had unblinded her 
 young eyes to the heavy truth that "sor- 
 row doesn't kill." 
 
 " Do you live here ? " Even as he 
 asked the question he remembered that 
 she had said she was " a Sequatchie 
 Valley girl." Her reply quite startled 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, I live here, of course. I am Jerry 
 Stampses wife." 
 
 He had supposed her a young girl, a 
 visitor perhaps, perhaps a kinswoman ; at 
 most a poor girl earning a home for her- 
 self by working out, among friends. 
 
 " I'm Jerry's wife," he scarcely heard 
 her, "married better'n a year ago. If 
 you don't believe it, look " She had
 
 24 Cinch 
 
 begun to unbutton the wristband of her 
 sleeve ; there was a bitter note in her 
 voice, a hard line about the mouth that 
 should have known only girlish gladness. 
 A moment she hesitated, pushed the 
 sleeve slightly up, hesitated again, then, as 
 though ashamed of her impetuous confi- 
 dence, drew it quickly down, buttoned the 
 band again, and laughed. 
 
 A harsh, mirthless laugh it was, that 
 made him shudder, and think of a young 
 fellow the cowboys had hung one night, 
 away out on the Rio Grande. He was a 
 lad just come out from Kentucky, and 
 brave as the bravest. A belt containing 
 money, belonging to one of the gang, was 
 missing ; they had searched for it for three 
 days, and finally charged the Kentucky 
 lad with having stolen it. Proud, hot- 
 blooded, and defiant, he had sworn he 
 would die before he would submit to be- 
 ing searched. And they had hung him ; 
 they had not really intended to hang him, 
 only, they said, " to scare the little fool
 
 Cinch 25 
 
 into measures." Instead of being fright- 
 ened when they led the pony under a limb 
 and adjusted the rope about his neck, he 
 had laughed, and flung himself from the 
 saddle ; cheating them, he had believed, of 
 their triumph. The next day the belt was 
 found where the owner had secreted and 
 then forgotten it. And in the dead boy's 
 trunk they found a little diary, kept in a 
 boy's unformed hand. There were pages 
 and pages of impassioned nonsense; then 
 came other pages of wild ravings because 
 of some one's falseness, some one he had 
 loved. Ah Christ ! that love, humanity's 
 comforter, can still be the root of her 
 keenest agony. The wild determination to 
 run away, go West and be a cowboy. But 
 it was the last entry had caught and held 
 their hearts : " Life holds for me no hope 
 so sweet as that of laying it down" After 
 all, they had but given him that which he 
 sought, death. 
 
 And this girl-wife of Jerry Stamps's had 
 recalled to him the young martyr. She,
 
 26 Cinch 
 
 too, had learned that laying life down is 
 not always its hardest feature. 
 
 She drew her sleeve down, holding it 
 fast, lest the inclination to disloyal confi- 
 dence return with irresistible force. 
 
 " Shucks ! " she exclaimed, when the 
 silence began to grow embarrassing, " it 
 ain't anything. An' yonder comes Jerry 
 down the road. I can't see him yet, but 
 I can hear his horse. Thar ain't another 
 horse critter in this country comes galli- 
 vantin' down the mount'n like Jerry 
 Stampses. I reckin Jerry must 'a' scented 
 comp'ny an' come home ; it couldn't 'a' 
 been dinner he smelt, fur I ain't teched it, 
 more'n ter put on the punkin." 
 
 She went back into the shed-room, leav- 
 ing him to make his own introduction to 
 her husband : though, as for that, he had 
 forgotten to tell her who he was and why 
 he had called. He had cared only for her 
 story ; his own appeared as nothing against 
 the petty misery of hers. He wanted to 
 tell her not to bother with getting dinner
 
 Cinch 27 
 
 for him, but she had not given him the 
 opportunity ; already he could hear her 
 among the pots and pans, and already 
 the man of the house was coming across 
 the yard 
 
 The visitor rose, hat in hand, and stood 
 waiting. A moment, and the tall, slender 
 figure of Jerry Stamps cast its gigantic 
 shadow upon the floor. A bloated, reck- 
 less face, a boyish face despite the marks 
 of dissipation, met his. The two regarded 
 each other intently, before the stranger 
 extended his hand, and with a low, chuck- 
 ling laugh said : 
 
 " Howdy, Jerry, if you haven't for- 
 got old friends and kinfolks." 
 
 " Bob Binder, or I'll be blowed," ex- 
 claimed Stamps. " Whar'd yer come 
 from, what made yer stay so long, an' 
 how long ware yer gittin' here ? If this 
 don't beat my time ! Settin' here gossip- 
 pin' just like yer useter do eight year ago. 
 Whar'd yer come from, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Texas."
 
 28 Cinch 
 
 " Texas ? Hell, yer better say ; thar 
 ain't no sech great differ'nce as / can 
 make out. Had yer dinner?" 
 
 "No, but it's no matter. Don't let 
 your wife go to any trouble for me" 
 
 " Waal, she may go ter a little fur me, 
 then: I'm hungrier' n a b'ar. Hurry up 
 thar, Belle ; thar ain't but twenty-fo' 
 hours in a day." 
 
 He dropped down upon the step where 
 she had sat, and from the kitchen Isabel 
 could hear their talk ; now low and rem- 
 iniscent, now merrily resonant with some 
 gay experiences of the Western plain. 
 Once, when her husband's laugh echoed 
 through the passage, she paused in the 
 work of slicing potatoes for the frying- 
 skillet, and drew up her sleeve. A blu- 
 ish, sullen-looking bruise shone revealed 
 against the pink-white flesh. The laugh- 
 ter seemed to have set the wound 
 stinging. 
 
 " I ware about ter show him that" she 
 sobbed, " ter prove ter him I ware a law-
 
 Cinch 29 
 
 fill wife. Any fool 'ud know a woman 
 wouldn't take a lick like that off any but 
 her husband. No other man have the 
 right ter so abuse her." Alas ! that man 
 should so mistake his privileges. Her 
 tears fell softly, unchecked ; the bitterest 
 of them were for the reflection that she 
 was a wife of but one year. 
 
 " Been cowboyin' ? " Her husband's 
 voice drowned the soft sound of her 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Some." 
 
 How restful this new tone that had 
 come into her life for a moment. And 
 how pleasant the outspoken sympathy she 
 had recognised in his eyes searching out 
 her sorrow, how temptingly, ruinously 
 pleasant. 
 
 " I had a ranch for three year, out on 
 the Rio Grande, an' made myse'f a bit of 
 a start. Then I went to San Antony, an' 
 Houston, and Dallis. Saw a bit o' the 
 world." 
 
 " What business d'ye foller all that
 
 30 Cinch 
 
 time ? Must V done something jedgin' 
 from the size o' yer watch-chain." 
 
 There was a moment's silence before 
 her husband's laugh again reached the 
 ears of the woman in the kitchen. " I 
 see," said he. " Been suckin' of yer paws, 
 I reckin. What the hell fetched ye back 
 here ? Anybody as can make money, buy 
 gold chains an' store clothes, an' can see 
 the sights o' the world, ter come a-mosin' 
 back here amongst hedgehogs an' screech 
 owels air pretty bad off fur gumption, 
 that all." 
 
 " Wall," said Binder, " as I was tellin' 
 your wife, I got homesick." 
 
 " ' Homesick,' hell ! " 
 
 " Fell to hankerin' after the mount'n ; 
 the run of water in a laurel thicket ; the 
 feel of a boulder under my feet ; the sight 
 of a tree." 
 
 " Did, eh ? Told Is'bel that ? I'll be 
 boun' she didn't respon' ter no sech slack 
 jaw as that. Said shed like ter git a 
 chance ter see Texas ; she'd like ter git
 
 Cinch 3 1 
 
 foot loose o' Tennessee sile one time. 
 Oh, I know Belle." 
 
 " I tell you, Jerry," the visitor quietly 
 ignored the outbreak, " I have laid 'wake 
 nights in the corral long o' the horses, 
 with the stars shinin' down on me, that 
 lonesome that I actually cried. Cried for 
 the sound o' the wary wind in the tops of 
 a Tennessee cedar, man as I was. Think 
 of it : long, level miles o' land, nothin' 
 but land, and wavin' grass that made your 
 brain rock ; sunshine until your very eye- 
 balls blistered. Then nights so still you 
 could a'most hear your own ghost go by ; 
 moonlight so constant an' so bright, it re- 
 minded you of them midnight suns you've 
 heard tell of off yonder in Norway some- 
 whers. Why, it's most daylight on them 
 Texas prairies before the moon goes 
 down. An' fires, great God ! they swoop 
 down, an' skit across them prairies, an' 
 sweep your ranch off the face o' the earth 
 in half a minute. Northers, chills, 
 tarantulas, horse-thieves : that's Texas."
 
 32 Cinch 
 
 " An' what air Tennessee ? " demanded 
 Stamps. " A bed o' rock ; a chunk o' 
 mount'ns, with ribs o' iron and belly o' 
 coal that's bought up in a lump by the 
 rich syndicates, who set the pore ter work 
 it at a dollar a day, an' a passel o' stinkin' 
 convicts fur comp'ny. A little runt of a 
 corn fiel' now'n then over which state an 
 gov'mint air wras'lin' like the devil ; what's 
 the gallon o' whiskey come ter after state 
 an* gov'mint have had their pull at the 
 kaig ? Sometimes the kaig air left fur the 
 owner o' the corn fiel', but more of'n he 
 gits the bare cob of a stopper fur his sheer. 
 Taxes, an' trusts, an' syndicates, an' booms, 
 an' starvation; that's Tennessee. Damned 
 if hell ain't healthier, or Texas either." 
 
 How different to the other, the wan- 
 derer from home. The injustice of the ac- 
 cusation hurt his very soul. His voice, 
 even, when he repudiated the calumny, 
 had a softer tone ; unconsciously he fell 
 into the dialect of his people, which he 
 had lost among his Western associates.
 
 Cinch 33 
 
 " She ware allus mighty sweet ter me," 
 he declared. " Tennessee ware allus home 
 ter me, Texas or no Texas. I honed fur 
 her like a man hones for his wife an' 
 babies. Why, once when I were cowboyin* 
 it out on the Rio Grande I rid thirty mile 
 ter hear a Metherdis' preach, beca'se he 
 allus preached about the mount'n. I didn't 
 tell the boys, they'd 'a' laffed me out 
 o' Texas. I lied ter them ; told 'em I ware 
 goin' court'n'. But I went ter meet'n', 
 ter hear the old Metherdis' talk about the 
 mount'n. He give out thar that day that 
 Christ allus loved the mount'n might'ly, 
 an' that he useter go off an' lonesome 
 on it, all by hisse'f. An' seem ter me I 
 knowed precisely how he felt. Whilst he 
 ware talkin' I could see Frog Mount'n, 
 plain as day. An' I got ter honin' fur 
 home till I fell away ter skin an' bone, an' 
 couldn't sleep o' nights. Lord ! Lord ! 
 I'd 'a' died if I'd knowed I couldn't come 
 back to they-uns" 
 
 He waved his hand, a kind of salute to
 
 34 Cinch 
 
 the sombre, mist-veiled peaks. His dark, 
 deeply set eyes kindled with the joy of 
 nearness. Life might offer broader vistas, 
 but none more fair, more dear. 
 
 When Isabel called them to dinner, 
 they kept right on with their talk, Jerry 
 ignoring her presence, and she refusing to 
 allow Binder to draw her into the conver- 
 sation, though she knew that he talked for 
 her. For her were recounted the mid- 
 night rides across the prairies, the race 
 from Indians, the capture of wild horses. 
 For her he described the wonderful cities 
 he had visited, the magnificent buildings, 
 museums, theatres, churches. He even 
 attempted a description of the fine women 
 he had seen, the cotton fields, acres and 
 acres, white as the drifted snow, and corn, 
 bare miles of it without stump or stone to 
 bar or break the level beauty of the pic- 
 ture. He was rewarded with a quick 
 brightening of her eyes, a smile, when he 
 told of the " furbelows an' fine fixin's " of 
 the women ; silk skirts that trailed a yard
 
 Cinch 35 
 
 on the floor, and hats loaded with feathers, 
 costing, to her simple experience, a small 
 fortune. It was worth a trip to Texas to 
 be able to bring back the smiles to that 
 poor little face. 
 
 "How long ye goin' ter stay?" said 
 Stamps. " Long 'nough to give yer nag 
 a bite, I reckin." 
 
 He had not intended stopping for any 
 great time, but the pathetic little face of 
 his cousin's wife, repeating with silent 
 eagerness the question her husband had 
 asked, bewitching him with its unspoken 
 pleading, held him with a fascination as 
 new to him as it was delightful. Was 
 Jerry really unkind to her, he wondered ; 
 was he mean, brutal ? Or was it neglect 
 alone that had printed that hopelessness 
 in the fair young face ? He decided to 
 stay awhile ; at all events until he had sat- 
 isfied himself that she preferred to unravel 
 her life's tangle without his assistance. 
 
 " Well," he replied to his cousin's ques- 
 tion, " if you've got a spare peg for my
 
 36 Cinch 
 
 hat, I'll hang it up a day or two. If you 
 haven't I'll stop down ter uncle Silas 
 Moore's down the valley ; or else over to 
 Cleveland." 
 
 "Silas fiddlesticks! " said Stamps. " Stay 
 right whar ye air ; if ye can put up with 
 poor folks' livin'. I'll hitch up an' go fur 
 yer duds after dinner. Thar's the whole 
 o' the roof-room fur yer, and, if that is too 
 cramped, thar's the horse lot, an' you can 
 occupy hit, Texas fashion." 
 
 He laughed aloud at his own smartness. 
 He was not sorry to have his fine kinsman 
 stay ; the latter's nimble tongue and rare 
 experiences rendered him particularly 
 pleasant company. 
 
 " I guess I'll choose the roof-room," 
 said Binder. " Say, Jerry, what's become 
 o' the old cabin us boys useter sleep in? 
 Useter stand in the front yard." 
 
 " Waal, the last time I see that cabin, 
 it ware only yistiddy evenin* ; it had been 
 invited ter a back seat, an' ware occupied 
 by as likely a fam'ly o' gopher rats as ye
 
 Cinch 37 
 
 ever set eyes on. The ole man gopher 
 ware settin' on the do'step pickin' his 
 teeth with a cedar splinter, an' a-jawin' at 
 the ole 'oman fit ter kill." 
 
 " Is the door locked ? " 
 
 " Locked ? Who'd ye 'spect ter lock 
 it ? It ain't been locked sence Bragg 
 busted of it open, endurin' of the war, 
 ter git we-uns's meat out fur the rebels ter 
 feed on. Locked ? / say ! " 
 
 He got up, pushed his chair back, and 
 crammed his hat down upon his long, 
 tangled hair. 
 
 " Look after Bob's nag, Belle," he said, 
 to his wife. " I'm goin' ter hitch up the 
 wagon." 
 
 " I can attend to my own horse," 
 Binder interposed. "An* I'd rather go 
 for my trunk, too. There's valu'bles in 
 it." 
 
 "Valu'bles ? " laughed Stamps. " Paw 
 suckin' must pay out in Texas. Can't 
 yer put a feller on ter yer tricks ? Come, 
 Bob, now what game did yer play ? "
 
 38 Cinch 
 
 " We played cinch. I'll learn you how 
 to play, if you want." 
 
 A teacup slipped from Isabel's hands, 
 and crashed upon the hard, puncheon 
 floor into a dozen pieces. Had Stamps 
 been an interpreter of the human counte- 
 nance, he must have seen the pleading in 
 the glance his wife gave their guest. But 
 Stamps saw nothing but the fascination of 
 a new game of chance, and with the gam- 
 bler's greed he was ready to seize upon it. 
 He slipped his arm through Binder's, and 
 the two walked off together, gamblers 
 both, to the heart's core. 
 
 When Binder's trunk had been put 
 away in the spare room, and Isabel had 
 cleared away the supper things, by the 
 light of a dripping tallow candle they 
 had their first game of cinch. It was a 
 four-handed game, but Binder explained 
 that it could be played with two dummy 
 hands until Stamps could become ac- 
 quainted with it.
 
 Cinch 39 
 
 " Then we'll play with the boys at the 
 settlement, maybe. Unless cousin Belle 
 here'd like to take a hand." 
 
 A pallor crept over the face lifted for a 
 moment from the sewing upon her lap, 
 and she got up quickly, to leave the 
 room. 
 
 " I ain't playin' o' no cards, wryse'f," 
 she said, " an' thar'd never be none played 
 in my house, if I had a house." 
 
 " Pity ye ain't got none," Stamps 
 retorted, as the door closed upon her. 
 
 It was an every-night thing. Jerry 
 resented Isabel's opposition to the game 
 as an insult to his guest, and at last she 
 learned to be silent. He even forced her 
 to sit by while they two played. He gave 
 no further heed to her, however, and was 
 ignorant that she paled and flushed, 
 trembled and quaked, under the steady, 
 searching eyes of the man calling himself 
 a Texan. Not that she was afraid of him. 
 It was herself she feared ; her own poor, 
 starved little heart, aching and breaking
 
 40 Cinch 
 
 with its own desolation. His eyes were 
 foil of the unspoken sympathy her life 
 yearned for ; she had but to respond once 
 to the glance she dared not interpret, in 
 order to have the wild, passionate devo- 
 tion her girlhood had dreamed of, her 
 wifehood missed, poured at her feet. He 
 understood her thoroughly ; and, while 
 he played to the husband's passion, he 
 played upon the wife's loneliness. At 
 times a great pity for her would spring 
 up in his heart; and more than once, 
 while the beautiful Indian summer drifted 
 into the desolate winter, he resolved to 
 go away and leave her to work out the 
 riddle of neglected wifehood, as neglected 
 wives must, alone. Then her sweet face 
 would beam upon him, and he would de- 
 clare that it was for her good that he 
 stayed on ; for her good that he was 
 opening to her profligate young husband 
 another road to ruin. He saw her grow- 
 ing whiter, frailer, more silent every day ; 
 and thought how upon the warm, sun-
 
 Cinch . 41 
 
 flooded prairies of Texas his affection 
 would woo the roses back to the thin 
 cheeks, the smiles to the colourless lips. 
 His heart yearned for her, ached to take 
 her away from the daily death she suffered. 
 
 She had not been, like her husband, 
 bewildered by his wealth and show. She 
 might have been, had she, like him, had 
 a craving for such. But she did not have ; 
 yet had he assailed her chiefest weakness, 
 also, her craving for affection. If he 
 could have assured her a taste of the real 
 blessedness of the wifehood that had been 
 her dream and her delusion, she would 
 have followed him to the earth's ends 
 gladly. 
 
 One afternoon he came upon her as he 
 had seen her first, in the sunshiny pas- 
 sage, the little bundle of sewing upon her 
 knees, her hands folded idly upon the 
 small, white heap, her fathomless eyes 
 fixed upon the distant peaks of moun- 
 tains. Jerry had been off on a drunken 
 spree for three days.
 
 42 Cinch 
 
 Isabel started, and crushed the coarse 
 domestic under her palms when Binder 
 stopped at her side and stood looking 
 down upon her with that strange, com- 
 pelling gleam in his eyes. 
 
 " Cousin Belle," said he, " this is a 
 mighty hard road you have elected to 
 travel in." 
 
 Her bitterness of heart found outlet in 
 words at last : " This here cinch o' yours 
 ain't makin' of it any more easier, as / 
 can see," she replied. 
 
 He placed his hand lightly upon her 
 bright, bowed head, stroking the soft 
 waves gently. 
 
 " Ain't it, Belle ? " he said. Then I'll 
 ought to go away, an' not bother you 
 about it. I meant it for good ; I swear 
 it. I meant it ; I played it so's I could 
 stay along here, an' kind o' look after 
 you, Belle. 'Feared to me you war lone- 
 some. I didn't mean to worry of you, 
 cousin, an' I'll go away if you say so ; 
 to-day, now"
 
 Cinch 43 
 
 Without a word, she seized his hand 
 and carried it to her lips, held it there, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 So in the heart of a neglected woman is 
 one touch of tenderness enough to sweep 
 away the barrier of all bitterness. 
 
 " Never you mind, now," he said, reas- 
 suringly. " Don't you worry. I'm 
 a-thinkin' of how to pleasure you, con- 
 stant. That's what I'm here for, just to 
 help you. You just trust to me, cousin 
 Belle." 
 
 " I can't," she sobbed. " I can't never 
 trust ter nobody any more. My trust air 
 all killed, killed, killed. It's been so long 
 since anybody tried to pleasure me, 'pears 
 like I've clear forgot the feel of pleasure." 
 
 He took her hands in his, pressing her 
 head against his side. There was an odour 
 of musk in his clothes. Even in her sorrow 
 she noticed the perfume, and thought what 
 a great thing it was to be a man, and free, 
 free to go to Texas, where life was all 
 glitter and perfume.
 
 44 Cinch 
 
 She did not observe that the bundle of 
 work had slipped from her lap and lay 
 upon the floor. But Binder, whose keen 
 eyes lost but little, saw the scrap of domes- 
 tic as it fell ; shaken out of its wrinkles, 
 he saw it take the shape of a little shirt, 
 a tiny baby garment, and he understood, 
 for the first time, that she was soon to be- 
 come a mother. For a moment he was 
 dumb. That little muslin shape, telling 
 in unspoken pathos the story of the un- 
 tried, unshared, uncomforted motherhood, 
 shamed and silenced him. Then his hot 
 anger was kindled against the man who was 
 to be father to the little unborn babe. To 
 be alone, abused, neglected, at a time like 
 this ! no wonder she went about the place 
 like a doomed soul, ready to accept any 
 refuge offered. 
 
 " I'm going to fetch you away from 
 here, Belle," Binder broke out, fiercely. 
 " I've heard his talk to you when he was 
 drunk ; an' when he's sober, he's off, 
 neglectin' you shameful. I'm goin' to
 
 Cinch 45 
 
 fetch you away from here, away from 
 Tennessee ; away to Texas, where they 
 string up a fellow for wife-beatin', same's 
 a bologna sausage. I've got money, 
 Belle, lots of it; enough to give you 
 rest the balance of your days. You'll 
 go back with me, won't you, Belle ? " 
 
 Go ? The temptation lay before her 
 weary eyes a golden pathway, straight 
 from her darkness into day's perfection. 
 Safety, shelter, peace, love. Women will 
 barter heaven for these things. 
 
 "I dunno," she faltered. "I ware 
 not thinkin' o' that. I dunno what 
 Jerry'd do if he knew this. Kill me 
 plumb, I reckin." 
 
 " I'll make him give his consent." 
 
 "Make Jerry Stamps? " She gave her 
 head an unconscious little lift that made 
 him laugh outright. 
 
 " Well, I can" he said. " I've got the 
 screw will press him. Will you go if he 
 gives his consent?" 
 
 He saw the hesitation, the wavering ; the
 
 46 Cinch 
 
 temptation had its charms. He slipped 
 his arm about her shoulders and with a 
 sudden swift movement stooped and 
 kissed her, full upon the parted, trem- 
 bling lips. 
 
 The effect was electric ; she bounded 
 like a startled fawn to her feet, eyes ablaze, 
 the delicate nostrils distended, lifted her 
 arms, dropped them ; the white lid fell 
 under his passionate glance, and she saw 
 the little brown domestic shirt lying upon 
 the floor, between them. 
 
 The rebound came with quick, delicious 
 thrills, that swept through her whole body. 
 The motherhood awoke, and seemed to 
 whisper presciently of the craving for 
 affection that was soon to be satisfied, 
 when baby fingers should press the no 
 longer lonely bosom. She shook off his 
 touch upon her shoulder, stooping to 
 regain her treasure : 
 
 " I dunno," she said, sharply. " I 
 dunno anything. I don't even know 
 what I ware sayin' of."
 
 Cinch 47 
 
 She covered her blushes with both 
 hands, the little shirt against her cheek, 
 and staggered away from him. He heard 
 the latch fall heavily into its place as the 
 door of her room closed upon her. 
 
 For days he did not see her again, ex- 
 cept when Jerry was about. And the 
 autumn faded ; the time of Christmas 
 drew near, and with it came the time of 
 her deliverance. 
 
 He thought she grew sadder, more 
 thoughtfully quiet ; she no longer ran 
 away when she found herself alone with 
 him. She was too weary to contend 
 against her temptation. And he offered 
 it her constantly, in a thousand little care- 
 ful acts which her condition rendered her 
 doubly capable of appreciating. But when 
 he pleaded with her to fly with him, she 
 always gave him the same uncertain reply : 
 
 " Wait till after Christmas ; I'll tell you 
 after Christmas." 
 
 " But if I get his consent ? " he urged, 
 shrewdly.
 
 48 Cinch 
 
 " His consent means that he flings me 
 off," was her thought. Then aloud : " Oh, 
 yes ! I reckin I'll have ter go if he gives 
 his consent, after Chris'mas." 
 
 The hours were days while he waited, 
 and the effort to keep up the good feeling 
 between the husband and himself became 
 indeed an effort. Yet he never once left 
 off trying to hold the confidence of the 
 man whose peace he was about to slay. 
 He held him in his toils as a snake holds 
 its victim. If Binder was late joining 
 him at the store, where they played 
 cinch with the men there, Jerry would 
 walk the floor, and rage for him like 
 a youth for his first sweetheart. The 
 game ended, he would call to him, " Tell 
 us about the night ye rode ter the ranch 
 before the prairie fire, Bob ; " and he 
 would enjoy the interest expressed in the 
 recital as keenly as though it had been his 
 own story they were applauding. And 
 all the while he drank, drank, drank ; with 
 his last glass reminding Binder to take him
 
 Cinch 49 
 
 home to bed all right. There was scarcely 
 a night that he was not in his power; 
 scarcely a night that he could not have 
 dropped him off the bluff, and had a 
 dozen witnesses to swear he was too 
 drunk to have walked down the path 
 without falling off the mountain side. But 
 he restrained himself; he was waiting to 
 get the consent without which Isabel 
 would refuse to go, waiting for that, 
 and for Christmas. She had stipulated 
 Christmas, " after Christmas." He did 
 not know that she was waiting for the 
 baby, and the effect its coming might 
 work. 
 
 As the blessed season drew nearer and 
 more near, his impatience became torture. 
 There were days he did not eat, nights 
 when he thought his brain was giving way. 
 And good St. Hilary's cradle did not 
 swing within the radius of his grasp, to 
 rock him back to reason. 
 
 The night before Christmas he sat with 
 the men in the back room of the settle-
 
 50 Cinch 
 
 ment store, among mackerel and coffee 
 scents, playing his last game of cinch. 
 Others came in and went out, or sat about 
 among the boxes, listening to the talk, 
 watching the game. 
 
 He had not seen Isabel for five days, 
 having absented himself from the house 
 that she might feel the full weight of her 
 aloneness before he put to her his final 
 offer of escape. But he had calculated as 
 man calculates, leaving out God, who 
 stands beyond man ; and leaving out the 
 unexpected, which, they tell us, is that 
 which always happens. 
 
 He had plied Stamps with whiskey un- 
 til his tongue began to thicken ; he had 
 told his best stories ; sung, laughed, cried 
 " Merry Christmas," " as they do it in 
 Texas," and staked his silver dollars until 
 the eyes of his fellows were fairly dazzled. 
 
 It was when the hands of the little 
 dusty clock on a shelf over the door 
 pointed to midnight, that he chanced to 
 glance towards the window, against which
 
 Cinch 5 i 
 
 the moonlight fell weirdly, grotesquely 
 bright. The next moment he shuddered, 
 and started up with an oath. 
 
 ,He had seen distinctly, pressed against 
 the murky, dusty pane, a gaunt, gray face, 
 a woman's face. Isabel it was, but 
 grown old ; how old and haggard and 
 gray. 
 
 " What ails ye ? " said the storekeeper. 
 " Somethin' give ye a start ? " 
 
 " I seen a ghost ; a sure enough ghost, 
 Mr. Hartson. Its face was pressed against 
 that window yonder." 
 
 " You seen the devil," laughed Stamps. 
 " Mighty quare, a feller come from Texas 
 not ter know his friends when he meets 
 'em." 
 
 This raised a laugh in which Binder did 
 not join. At that moment a fleshless, 
 ghoulish hand appeared, and tapped against 
 the pane. 
 
 " There ! there it is again. Look for 
 yourself. See its hand, like a yellow bone, 
 at the window."
 
 52 Cinch 
 
 They did look, every one of them, and 
 they saw the ghost's face return ; it was 
 close against the pane. 
 
 " Jerry ! Jerry ! Jerry ! " a quavering 
 voice called. 
 
 He half rose, with an oath. " What the 
 devil's ter pay out thar ? " he demanded. 
 
 "Jerry, I've come from my granddaugh- 
 ter Is'bel. Thar's a mighty fine boy 
 down to you-uns' place, Jerry." 
 
 The ghost vanished, its midnight mis- 
 sion accomplished. The men laid down 
 their cards to laugh, all but Binder. In 
 an instant he felt his plans give way ; his 
 unholy hopes perish before this new- 
 comer, this baby born at Christmas. It 
 had come, as life always comes, for good or 
 ill, for better, for worse, for power or pain. 
 Only a babe's life ; a thread that a breath 
 might snap in sunder. A tiny thing ; the 
 babe's head had not learned the pressure 
 of the mother's breast, nor its lips the 
 secret of milk drawing. Young ; one of 
 God's little ones. The Christmas sun
 
 Cinch 53 
 
 would be the first of suns to give the little 
 strangeling welcome into the world it 
 shone upon, and in which he, God will- 
 ing, would have the right to shine also. 
 Through every chink and crevice the 
 golden rays would come rejoicing; search- 
 ing for the babe born in the cabin, as once 
 in old Judea the startled stars stood still 
 before the babe born in a manger. 
 
 The tallow candle sputtered and flared, 
 and cast the shadows of the gamblers upon 
 the bare brown wall, grotesquely. But 
 the game had lost its flavour. It was the 
 babe's doing. 
 
 " Well," said Hartson, " I reckon it's 
 about time ter quit ; Jerry'll be wantin' 
 ter git off" home ter see his heir." 
 
 Clearly Stamps had no idea of allowing 
 himself to be teased ; he tilted his chair, 
 his boot heels fastened securely upon the 
 lowest rung, and with his largest air of 
 bluff said : 
 
 " Got mighty keerful o' Jerry all't 
 once. When I git so blamed anxious ter
 
 54 Cinch 
 
 go home as not ter be able no ways ter 
 stand it, I'll notify the crowd. Pass that 
 thar jug over here, Texas. An' deal the 
 cyards, Jim." 
 
 " Naw," said Hartson, " naw, he won't. 
 It's time ter stop. Ye ought ter go home 
 ter yo' sick wife. If me an' Jim stop, you- 
 uns'll be bound ter, seein' as it takes four 
 ter play this here cinch. H it'll soon be 
 Chris'mas day anyhow." 
 
 " Well, what if it air ? " demanded 
 Stamps. Hit'll come off just the same, I 
 ^pect, whether ye play cyards or not. I 
 ain't goin' home till I git ready. I ain't 
 never goin' if I don't feel like it." 
 
 Binder's dark eyes emitted flashes ; he 
 was thinking of the woman in the cabin, 
 alone in her hour of trial, save for the old 
 grandmother, whom she had sent, upon 
 her last hope of enticing the ungracious 
 father to his home, with the news of the 
 baby's coming. 
 
 The stragglers got up and went out, 
 followed by Hartson, who declared he
 
 Cinch 55 
 
 was going to close up. Only Jerry and 
 Binder remained in the back room. 
 
 " Take another drink, Jerry," said he. 
 " One more for lagniappe, as they say in 
 Houston ; we call it f luck ' in Tennessee." 
 
 As the already drunken Stamps lifted 
 the jug to his lips, Binder added : " That's 
 what a man gits fur bein' married. Now 
 look at me : I can go all the world over 
 if I'm so minded. Better trade 'em off, 
 Jerry. Say the word, an' I'll trot 'em off 
 ter Texas ter-morrer an* give you your 
 freedom. Or, better," he leaned forward 
 and half whispered in Stamps's ear, " I'll 
 give you-uns the money ter light out, an' 
 I'll stay here in your stead." 
 
 Stamps lifted his eyes ; in a twinkling 
 Binder had lowered his, but too late. 
 Quick as he was, Stamps had caught the 
 serpent gleam hiding in their dark, unholy 
 depths. In that one swift, devouring 
 glance all the unholy passion, the sinister 
 and secret meaning of his every action 
 since he had come to his house that fair
 
 56 Cinch 
 
 October morning, lay revealed. This was 
 why he had lingered, this the foundation 
 of all his fine talk, and finer professions of 
 friendship. For this he had tossed his 
 money constantly before the bewildered 
 eyes of the victim he was making ready to 
 stab. It was all plain reading to Stamps. 
 He lowered his right hand, and lifted it 
 to the table again ; the sickly candle rays 
 reflected the glitter of steel where the 
 muzzle of his pistol shone beneath his 
 broad, brown hand. 
 
 " You damned son of Satan," he hissed. 
 " So that air yer game, air it ? Be still 
 thar; move a finger, an' I'll blow yer 
 blasted brains out fur ye. Cinch ! ye think 
 ye've got a cinch on a feller's soul, I 
 reckin. Damn ye ! Ye Texas gintleman 
 ye, ye're a damned Tennessee sneak- 
 thief, that's what ye be, gol-darn yer black 
 heart, ye." 
 
 Binder had half risen, his hand upon 
 his hip. The two men who had made 
 partners for the others came rushing back
 
 Cinch 57 
 
 to separate the angry cousins. They even 
 got Binder's pistol from him, leaving him 
 helpless, at the mercy of the man he had 
 wronged. 
 
 It was scarcely a glance that Stamps 
 cast upward, into the dingy rafters, fes- 
 tooned with the web of the spider, and or- 
 namented with the nests of wasp and dirt 
 dauber. But in that glance he saw, be- 
 yond, behind the gray, gauzy spiders' web, 
 the dust and soot, a woman's face, pictured 
 against the smoke-discoloured boards ; a 
 face full of unspoken reproach ; eyes in 
 which hope's hard death was reflected 
 plaintively. It was the face of the woman 
 for the possession of whom a professional 
 gambler had offered him money. 
 
 " God ! " 
 
 The quick, stifled exclamation burst 
 from his lips in spite of his effort to re- 
 strain it. It came to him like a knife 
 thrust, this cruel, barbarously inhuman 
 thing that he was doing ; leaving his wife, 
 his wife who had lain upon his heart, and
 
 58 Cinch 
 
 had once believed him tender, leaving 
 her to the pity, the confidence, the insulting 
 affection of a man whose extremest sense 
 of honour boasted no loftier height than the 
 gambler's table. What a travesty was he 
 upon the sacred name of husband, and of 
 father, for he was a father. He had not 
 thought of that before, and as his heart 
 whispered the blessed word, he felt the 
 warm thrill of conscious fatherhood creep 
 through him, something new, and 
 strange, and indescribably sweet. 
 
 Slowly he rose, his hand still grasping 
 the glittering weapon, his keen eyes never 
 for an instant turned from the startled 
 man who had too rashly risked his last 
 throw of the die upon which his fate 
 swung dependent. Amid breathless silence 
 he lifted, poised the weapon : " I give you," 
 he said, in low, even tones, "jest three 
 minutes ter quit this country. Open that 
 door thar, Hartson. Git up ; take that 
 path up the mount'n, an' the fewer stops 
 ye make this side o' Texas the better it'll
 
 Cinch 59 
 
 be fur yer health, ye cussed runaway 
 ye." 
 
 A moment, and the tall, skulking fig- 
 ure disappeared like a black shadow in 
 the white moonlight that lay upon the 
 mountain. 
 
 In the chill gray of the Christmas dawn 
 Stamps lifted with trembling fingers the 
 latchstring of his own little cabin. As he 
 did so there came to him the faint cry of a 
 little child, a baby. Again that delicious 
 sense of fatherhood swept his being ; again 
 he remembered that other Christmas babe 
 in far-away Judea. With noiseless step he 
 entered ; a slow fire burned in the deep 
 old fireplace. An iron lamp swung by a 
 rod from the sooted jamb, a tiny blue 
 blaze sputtering a protest against the liquid 
 grease that threatened its extinguishment. 
 The old grandmother, who had tramped 
 up the mountain with news of the babe's 
 birth, nodded in the corner, her fireless 
 pipe held fast between her toothless 
 gums.
 
 60 Cinch 
 
 Jerry seized the lamp, and carried it to 
 the bedside. Isabel's bright head lay like 
 a heap of spun gold upon the pillow ; the 
 lamplight brought out all the hidden, bur- 
 nished beauty of the soft, girlish tresses. 
 The blue reflection of the blaze fell upon 
 her face, tingeing it with daintiest sapphire ; 
 it bathed her bosom, bare and white, show- 
 ing him the tiny head pillowed against the 
 exquisite fairness, in dreamless, infant 
 slumber ; it stole beneath the mother's 
 eyelids and they opened. 
 
 She smiled and put out her hand, to lay 
 it on his bosom : " Hush," she whispered, 
 " else you'll wake our baby." 
 
 Or, not mine ; the simple words 
 touched him as no sermon could have 
 done. 
 
 " God ! " 
 
 It was not spoken as he had been wont 
 to speak the name of God ; it was more a 
 breath of reverence that had come with 
 the babe at Christmas time. He drew 
 nearer, almost afraid of the little bundle
 
 Cinch 6 i 
 
 of humanity that had come to claim his 
 sonship. 
 
 Isabel's glad eyes waited his approval ; 
 he read the motherhood beaming in their 
 honest depths, and knew the man he had 
 sent stumbling out across the mountain 
 would not be missed in the heart the babe 
 had come to fill. The neglected wife might 
 fall a victim to the tempter, but never the 
 worshipping mother. 
 
 Many thoughts awoke in his heart, hold- 
 ing him silent. To Isabel his silence held 
 a different meaning ; she withdrew her 
 hand, turning her face from him, and 
 speaking for the baby at her breast : 
 
 " If yer ain't got a word o' welcome fur 
 us, Jerry Stamps, I reckin we'll have ter 
 do without it," she said, sharply. 
 
 He laid his hand upon her head, strok- 
 ing it gently ; it was the first time she had 
 ever seen him embarrassed. 
 
 " I can't think of a blessed thing ter 
 say, honey, exceptin' of jest ( Christmas 
 gift.' "
 
 62 Cinch 
 
 She laughed softly, like a happy child, 
 and lifting her arm, placed it about his 
 neck, drawing his rough, red face down to 
 her own soft cheek. 
 
 " We're goin' ter be mighty happy now, 
 I reckin," she whispered. " An' I'm 
 mighty glad he come at Chris'mus ; 'pears 
 like he's almost of some kin ter Christ." 
 
 And who shall doubt the mission of the 
 two, at all events, was one, a mission 
 of love, humanity ; a message of " good 
 tidings of great joy," of peace to all and 
 good will ?
 
 The 
 Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 FAR above the valley, in solitary gran- 
 deur, rises the weird old summit of 
 the Milksick Mountain. 1 Too distant to 
 claim kinship with the Cumberlands, too 
 remote to be named among the brother- 
 hood of the Great Smokies, it stands 
 alone, a monarch without subjects, a 
 banished king of a proud old range, 
 trending off to the eastward, ever away 
 from its accursed companionship. It 
 presents an awesome front, even in its 
 
 1 This mountain, as described, may be found in White 
 County, Tenn. The secret of the Milksick poison has 
 never been discovered, though scientists are constantly 
 at work seeking to unravel Nature's great mystery. 
 W. A. D. 
 
 63
 
 64 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 affliction, refusing baser fellowship than 
 the clouds which sometimes drop a kindly 
 veil across its rugged brow. The very 
 fence surrounding it has a pitiful signifi- 
 cance, as though it said, " Set Apart ! " 
 " Stricken ! " 
 
 The verdure, true, is always green there, 
 summer or winter, making a tantalis- 
 ing temptation for the cattle constantly 
 grouped without the bars, watching with 
 longing eyes the hardy luxuriance which 
 crowns the Milksick Mountain. But woe 
 to the cattle venturing beyond the prohibi- 
 tory bars ! Woe to the cattle, and woe to 
 the lips that drink of their milk ! 
 
 It had brought woe enough, indeed, to 
 the humble dwellers of the valley around 
 about, had this " mountain of poison," as 
 they called it; and one by one, as the 
 deadly Milksick had left its mark upon 
 them, the afflicted families had moved 
 farther on, and away from the dangerous 
 locality, until only grandad Corbin's 
 little cabin remained in the shadow of
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 65 
 
 the " Stricken Monarch." This is the 
 name scientists have given it ; for the 
 Milksick Mountain has baffled science, 
 lo, these years. 
 
 To the people in Bear Cove it is 
 known as the " Leper of the Cumber- 
 lands ; " and what to do with it, how to 
 protect themselves from its uncompre- 
 hended curse, was a question finally set- 
 tled by the erection of a great fence entirely 
 surrounding it, and made doubly secure 
 by placing a fine of one hundred dollars 
 upon the hand lifted to lower the bars, 
 for any cause whatsoever. 
 
 The fence might be scaled at will, but 
 the bars were not to be removed, lest by 
 a slip of man's memory the cattle should 
 find an opening into the deadly pasture. 
 True, the bars might have been dispensed 
 with altogether, only that the mountaineer 
 never dispenses with them ; and the fine 
 was found to be an ample protection. 
 
 Secure in this safeguard, grandad Cor- 
 bin and his wife, granny, had dwelt for
 
 66 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 more than fifty years under the shadow 
 of the mountain guarding the eastern pass 
 to Hickory Valley. 
 
 Poor grandad spent much wonder upon 
 the nature of the poison which affected 
 the bright, tender growth ; but to granny it 
 was neither a matter of worry nor conjecture. 
 
 " I air not questionin' o' the Lord's 
 doin's," she would declare. "He made 
 the Milksick ez it air, so I reckin it air all 
 right, bein' ez I ain't never heeard ez he 
 ware give ter makin* mistakes. I reckin 
 it air all right." 
 
 All right ! That is just what the peo- 
 ple of Hickory Valley, and more espe- 
 cially that part of it belonging to Bear 
 Cove, would have expected granny Cor- 
 bin to say. 
 
 Indeed, Ben Sykes, surly Ben Sykes, 
 declared : " Granny air mightily noted for 
 that word. Everything air ( all right ' ter 
 her. That air the chorus ter her song, 
 an' she air tolerble steddy ter sing it. 
 ' All right ; ' it air allers ' all right.' All
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 67 
 
 troubles an' ailments that comes ter folks 
 air f all right,' an' just what it ought ter 
 be, ef a body listens ter granny Corbin. 
 But I'm a-waitin' ter see ef things'll 
 be so mighty * right ' when the trouble 
 lays at her own door. Granny's had a 
 precious little ter fret over, an' it's mighty 
 easy ter say trouble an' afflictions air c all 
 right ' when they air sent ter other folks. 
 Granny's got her name up fur that. I'm 
 a-waitin' ter see how she bears her own 
 troubles." 
 
 So she had, as Ben said, " got her name 
 up " as a comforter among her humble 
 neighbours. Where trouble went they 
 had learned to look for granny Corbin, 
 and it was seldom, indeed, that they 
 looked in vain. 
 
 She had such a gentle way of carrying 
 hope to afflicted hearts, such a natural 
 way of making trouble seem less hard 
 than it was, she was a very welcome visi- 
 tor among the suffering, was dear old 
 granny Corbin.
 
 68 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 None knew this better than Ben Sykes; 
 for, despite his braggadocio and scepticism, 
 Ben had very sad and tender recollections 
 of the day his only girl died, and all sun- 
 light and warmth seemed to have left the 
 world together with the little form they 
 were laying away under the dogwood-trees 
 on the side of the mountain beyond Lost 
 Creek ; and when they had left her there 
 alone, under the blooming dogwood, he 
 had crept back when the rest were gone, 
 to weep by the little grave that held his 
 heart. For Ben's life at home was not a 
 sunny one ; his wife was quarrelsome, and 
 hard to please ; and now that the child 
 was gone, he dreaded what it might be 
 the place he called home for himself 
 and his son Ruben. Ruben, he knew, 
 would not stand it very long ; for he was 
 full grown at eighteen, and only the week 
 before had threatened to leave " if the 
 etarnal fuss went on." 
 
 It was the child had held the divided 
 house together, the little girl sleeping
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 69 
 
 under the dogwood-trees. The little heart 
 would grieve no more for the harsh words 
 spoken ; the little lips would no more 
 kiss away the furrows of care and frowns 
 of impatience. Ben sighed for his future 
 peace as he crept back for a last moment 
 on the little red mound that covered 
 his baby girl. It had seemed so bare 
 and desolate, just as her little life had 
 been. If the grass would only hurry 
 and cover it, he thought it would not be 
 so hard to leave her there. He longed 
 for, and yet dreaded to see it, the little 
 barren mound. But when he saw it, his 
 heart gave a great bound, and the tears 
 started to his eyes, and ran down his 
 rough cheeks. 
 
 " Granny Corbin," he said, " it ware 
 certainly granny ez done it." 
 
 The little grave was literally covered 
 with the delicate dogwood blossoms. 
 First the petals, creamy and pink and 
 pure white, telling how the trees had 
 been violently shaken, until the grave
 
 yo The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 beneath them was well-nigh covered. 
 Then there were sprigs of the pretty 
 blossoms, armfuls, grouped about the 
 little mound until it was, seemingly, only 
 a mound of bright blossoms. 
 
 It was a very simple thing to do, a very 
 little thing, maybe, but it helped him in 
 his sorrow. He never thought of his 
 child again as lying alone in the damp, 
 dark earth. She was asleep in a bed of 
 flowers. It was a very sweet and com- 
 forting thought, and in his heart he 
 blessed the hand that had decked the 
 resting-place of his darling. 
 
 The next week she had come to him 
 again, dear old granny Corbin, come 
 to him, as she always came, on the heels 
 of sorrow. Ruben had left, run away ; 
 " gone for ever," he declare^. And granny 
 had come over to tell him it was " all 
 right " that his son should desert him, and 
 his child should die, and his house " be 
 give over ter torment." He was very 
 angry, and he told granny to " cl'ar out,"
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 71 
 
 and go home and learn what trouble 
 meant before she went out as com- 
 forter. 
 
 " It's mighty easy ter tell folks trouble 
 air f all right ' so long ez it air not your 
 own," he declared. " But wait tell it 
 stops ter yer own door, an' see ef it's 
 all so right. Wait tell it stops, I say, an' 
 then come a-sayin' ez it air all right, 
 an' maybe I'll b'lieve ye." 
 
 Ben was not the only one who scoffed, 
 however, and wondered if affliction would 
 not weaken the woman's faith, but at the 
 same time was comforted and helped by 
 her. 
 
 There was the widow Larkins, whose 
 son Jeff was brought home one day with 
 a bullet in his breast, and the scent of 
 whiskey still upon him. Granny had 
 slipped in behind the men bringing the 
 dead boy home ; and when his old 
 mother, blind with grief, had reached 
 her hands across the bed in a helpless, 
 stricken way, they had met granny Cor-
 
 72 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 bin's warm, friendly clasp come to meet 
 her from the other side. 
 
 Sympathy was not abundant in the Lar- 
 kins's neighbourhood, for many had felt 
 the effects of JefFs drunken recklessness. 
 But granny did not stop to consider that. 
 Death is death in the household, whether 
 it takes the pet lamb or the black sheep. 
 So she helped to wipe away the blood, 
 and smoothed the tangled hair upon the 
 white temples, and folded his hands gently 
 upon his breast, and laid a sprig of sweet 
 azalea blossoms upon his bosom, and 
 another against his cheek ; and then car- 
 ried his mother to look at her boy, lying 
 so still and pale and gentle among the 
 white sheets and the sweet azalea blos- 
 soms. 
 
 He had never seemed so clean, so pure 
 and childlike, since the days when he slept 
 upon her bosom, the far-away days of 
 babyhood. Into the mother's heart there 
 crept a hope, a faith, that was to cheer her 
 always, that he might perhaps " be fit to
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 73 
 
 die after all." It was her boy, her babe, 
 come back again, clean and white, in the 
 arms of death. 
 
 " It's mighty easy," Ben Sykes said, 
 when he heard of it, " it's mighty easy ter 
 comfort when ye don't know what trouble 
 air. Jest wait, I tell ye, tell it stops ter 
 her door ; then ye'll see ef it air { all 
 right,' though it air ' sent of the Lord.' ' 
 So Ben said, and said it until others 
 began to say it, and began to wait, with- 
 out really knowing it, for the trouble 
 that was to unsettle granny Corbin's 
 faith. 
 
 And granny lived on in the cabin under 
 the shadow of the Milksick Mountain, 
 " blessed of the Lord," she declared, for 
 her son Ab and his wife and their five 
 little ones shared the chimney corner 
 with her and grandad. 
 
 " Not a chick nor a child missin'," Ben 
 declared ; " how can she know the sorrer 
 of death an' of deserlation ? "
 
 74 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 True, they were poor, as the world 
 went, but wealth was a stranger among 
 the Bear Cove people, and granny was as 
 well off as the rest of them. She had the 
 cabin and the patch of ground surround- 
 ing it, and " old Star," the cow that had 
 " literally raised the two last chillen, ez her 
 mammy had the oldest ones afore her." 
 The land, true, was a trifle too near 
 the Milksick to be of any great value ; 
 for the unknown poison was liable to 
 spread, and had a way, the neighbours 
 said, " of travellin' 'round ekel ter the 
 mumps an' the 'hoopin' cough." But 
 granny troubled herself very little about 
 the mountain. Grandad worried some, 
 to be sure, but after all it was more 
 wonder than worry that made him sit for 
 hours under the low eaves of the cabin, 
 with his faded eyes fixed upon the awe- 
 some old summit. 
 
 " I allers wondered what ailed it," he 
 said, one day, as he watched the shadow 
 clouds drifting above the stricken height.
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 75 
 
 " I allers wondered what ailed the Milk- 
 sick, anyhow." 
 
 Granny looked up from the heel she 
 was turning upon her knitting-needles. 
 " I air not questionin' the doin's of the 
 Almighty," she declared. "He made the 
 Milksick ez it air, so it air bound ter be 
 all right, since he done it." 
 
 But grandad could not accept the riddle 
 so quietly. For half a century he had 
 lived under its shadow, to wonder at the 
 curse. 
 
 "Waall," he insisted, "I'd jest like 
 ter know, afore I die, what it be ez hev 
 pizened the Milksick Mountain." 
 
 "Ye can't Tarn it, Obadiah," said 
 granny. " Smarter folks nor we-uns hev 
 been a-doctorin' of it, an' a-wonderin', an' 
 at the last they-uns hain't no wiser nor 
 we-uns." 
 
 " Parson Orman, he 'lowed," said gran- 
 dad, " ez it air a leper, an' hed ter be sot 
 aside, 'count o' its bein' onclean. It ware 
 a likely sayin' o' Parson Orman's ; fur
 
 76 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 whenever I look at the Milksick, fenced 
 off ther' ter itse'f, it seems ter be a-sayin', 
 e Onclean ! onclean ! ' ever' time I look." 
 
 " Yes," assented granny, " it do seem 
 ez ef the hand o' the Lord ware upon it. 
 Yit, I'm thinkin' it air all right, spite o' 
 its ailmints." 
 
 " I ud like ter go over thar," said 
 grandad, " an' look about a spell, an' try 
 ef I couldn't make out what ails it. Some 
 o' the scienters 'lowed it ware the dew on 
 the yarbs, an' ez it ware all right after the 
 dew dried up. But the cattle ez went in 
 in dew time died jest like them ez got in 
 when the dew ware gone. All of 'em went 
 a-flyin' down ter the creek, ravin' mad, ter 
 drink theirse'ves ter death. An' some 
 'lowed t'ware min'ral in the groun' ez pi- 
 zened the yarbs above the groun'. But 
 they digged, an' digged, an' thar never 
 ware no min'ral foun', not ter this good 
 day. So they jest h'isted the fence, and 
 furbid folks a-projeckin' with the Milksick 
 Mount'n any more. But I ud like ter try
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 77 
 
 ter find it ; 'twould be wuth consider'ble 
 ter find out what air hid over thar in the 
 Milksick pen." 
 
 " Obadiah ! " Granny's voice was sharp 
 in remonstrance. " Ye hev got no bus'ness 
 ter be talkin' sech afore the chillen. Nex' 
 thing we-uns know Burke an' David'll be 
 lett'n' down them bars ; an' who's ter pay 
 the hundred-dollar fine fur the life of me 
 I can't see." 
 
 Grandad said no more ; but he thought 
 about it a good deal. He had always won- 
 dered at the old Milksick curse. But pub- 
 lic feeling was against any tampering with 
 the poisonous growth. The folks had 
 suffered too much from broken rails, and 
 bars left down, and poisoned cattle, and 
 deadly milk. Their feelings were very 
 emphatic on the subject. Grandad knew it. 
 
 " Ef a cow ware ter git in fifty years 
 from now, they'd say I done it, ef they 
 once knowed I hed been in thar," he said. 
 So he never ventured beyond the bars ; 
 discretion was the better part of curiosity.
 
 7 8 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 But unfortunately grandad's caution did 
 not descend to his grandsons, Burke and 
 David, or else they were too young for its 
 development. Long after the old man 
 was asleep that night, the boys lay awake 
 in the trundle-bed, whispering in each other 
 of the wonderful something which grandad 
 had said was hidden in the Milksick pen, 
 and which must be worth so much to the 
 finder. 
 
 The moon was flooding the poisonous 
 pasture with her full, soft light when two 
 figures slipped noiselessly through the 
 cabin door, and sped away towards the 
 grim old mountain rising to the left of 
 the garden patch. 
 
 Click ! clack ! the bars were dropped 
 from nervous little hands, carefully 
 dropped. But when a low " moo " 
 sounded among the azalea bushes across 
 the road, both boys started with guilty 
 fear, and the half lifted rail fell with a 
 crash that seemed to awake the very hills. 
 
 Both took to their heels, but stopped,
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 79 
 
 breathless and panting, when they heard 
 old Star's bell tinkling among the azalea 
 bushes. It was only the cow that had 
 frightened them, but guilty consciences 
 refused to face their fears a second time. 
 They crept back to the trundle-bed where 
 the little sisters were quietly sleeping. It 
 was not long until they, too, were asleep. 
 And while they slept, old Star was con- 
 tentedly grazing within the poisonous 
 limits of the Milksick pen. 
 
 It was " sun-up " when Ben Sykes and 
 Abner Corbin, returning from an all-night 
 fox hunt, stopped at the gate of the Cor- 
 bin place. Early as it was, Ab's wife had 
 breakfast ready. The odour of broiling ba- 
 con came, deliciously appetising, through 
 the cabin door when Ab's wife opened it 
 a moment to bid Ben " come in an' have 
 a bite of warm vittels along of Ab." 
 
 But Ben declared he must go on, and 
 was about to do so, when the sound of 
 childish laughter made both men turn and
 
 8o The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 look where the boys, Burke and David, 
 were coming down the road, holding to 
 old Star's tail, and shouting as they came. 
 
 In response to their shouts the cabin 
 door opened again, and two tangled tow 
 heads appeared in the light of the misty 
 morning. Polly and Docie, their frocks 
 unbuttoned, and their faces unwashed, but 
 with their tiny tin cups bright and clean, 
 came bounding out at the first sound of 
 the cow's coming. 
 
 Within the cabin another ear had caught 
 the familiar tinkle of the cow-bell, and baby 
 Bess turned in her trundle-bed. 
 
 Another turn, and the bare feet touched 
 the puncheon floor ; then came a kind of 
 swift, right-about movement, a half pull, 
 half crawl, that brought her to the cabin 
 door, where she sat waving her hands and 
 calling " Too Tow " as lustily as the rest. 
 
 Ben watched the little ones gathered 
 about the docile animal. Burke was the 
 real milker, and he sat with the piggin 
 between his knees, guiding the streams of
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 81 
 
 creamy milk safely through the tiny cups 
 that were thrust now and then between 
 his hand and the piggin, when the younger 
 milkers found their own efforts a trifle 
 slow. Close to Burke's side sat David, 
 ostensibly " keeping off the calf," in 
 reality waiting his turn on the milking- 
 stool. Polly and Docie crouched close to 
 old Star upon the other side; so close, 
 indeed, that more than once Burke called 
 out : 
 
 "Git back thar, Polly, else ye'll be 
 tromped ter death ! " Or else, " Move 
 back, Docie, afore ye upset the piggin ! " 
 
 The two men at the gate watched until 
 one tiny cup was full, and Polly ran to 
 fetch it to the baby, crowing delightedly 
 in the cabin door. 
 
 " I declar'," said Ben, " them babies of 
 yours air a plumb pretty sight ; an' ole 
 Star air a wonder fur gentleness." 
 
 " Yes," said Ab, " them youngsters 
 would find it mighty dry livin' without 
 the cow." And then Ben said "good
 
 82 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 day," and Abner Corbin went in to his 
 breakfast, and his family grouped about 
 the modest table. 
 
 A frown darkened Ben's brow as he 
 trudged homeward. No cheery welcome 
 and happy children awaited him at the 
 cabin in Bear Cove. A bit of broiled 
 bacon and corn bread, seasoned with his 
 wife's ill temper, was the best be could 
 hope for. 
 
 " No wonder they-uns kin talk so 
 cheerful," he muttered. " Not a chick 
 nor a chil' missin'. No wonder granny 
 finds things f all right ' allers. Wait till 
 trouble comes ter they-uns, / say ; jest 
 wait till it comes." 
 
 It came, swift and sharp and ter- 
 rible. One of those blows before which 
 reason itself falls in the grasp of despair. 
 
 Ben himself grew sick with horror 
 when a messenger went through the cove 
 at sunset, telling the awful story of the 
 Milksick poison that had appeared, with 
 terrible fatality, in granny Corbin's cabin.
 
 The Leper of the Cumber-lands 83 
 
 It was noon of the next day when he 
 visited the stricken house. He could not 
 bring himself to go sooner ; he felt some- 
 how as though he had expected calamity 
 until expectation had become a wish for 
 it. " But not this," he told himself, " oh, 
 my God, not all this ! " 
 
 He had not looked for patience and 
 forbearance in the face of this terrible 
 trial ; it was too much to ask of the 
 human heart amid such dire misfortune. 
 
 The neighbours had shrouded the dead 
 when Ben arrived, and made them ready 
 for their humble burial. David, Polly, 
 and Docie lay on the little trundle-bed, 
 fast-locked, pretty, sinless lambs, not in 
 the sweet dream of restless childhood, but 
 in the old, old sleep of death, that 
 sleep which locks alike the lips of child- 
 hood and of age, and seals alike the laugh 
 or sigh upon the lips of grave or gay, 
 that old, old sleep of death. 
 
 Under the white sheet on another bed, 
 Bess, the baby that had crowed in the
 
 84 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 sunshine on the cabin doorstep, lay a 
 little frozen mountain flower, poor little 
 dead babe by the side of grandad. 
 
 As for him, the old man upon whose 
 silver-crowned temples death had laid a 
 gentle hand, the smile upon his face 
 might have been the smile of childhood 
 come again, or, perchance, the smile of 
 knowledge gratified, when death made 
 clear the mystery that had baffled science, 
 and led the old man to the light through 
 that self-made riddle, the Milksick 
 poison. 
 
 Burke crouched in a corner, sobbing 
 beside the bed where Abner watched the 
 course of the poison throbbing in his 
 wife's veins. 
 
 Granny moved from bed to bed, where 
 lay the living and the dead, ministering 
 to one, tenderly stroking the marble 
 brows of the other. The blow had fallen 
 heavily, mercilessly. More than once the 
 assembled neighbours sought to speak 
 their sympathy, but words were choked
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 85 
 
 by sobs. She, indeed, the stricken and 
 afflicted, was the calmest of them all. 
 It seemed as though she needed sym- 
 pathy of none, nor asked for it. But 
 they understood, those simple folk, she 
 leaned upon a stronger arm than theirs. 
 
 Once she stopped beside the bed where 
 grandad lay, and lifted up the sheet, and 
 looked down at the calm, dead face of him 
 who had travelled at her side for half a 
 century. 
 
 While she stood thus, tearless and 
 heart-broken, a shadow fell upon the 
 doorstep. It was Ben, the scoffer, but 
 silent now, and full of shame. 
 
 Granny turned to him, and lifted up 
 her face, pale with grief, and scarred with 
 age. The memory of his words awoke 
 in the poor brain, words spoken when 
 his own heart lay crushed and bleeding : 
 
 " Wait tell trouble stops at yer own 
 door, then say ez it's 'all right,' an' I'll 
 believe ye." 
 
 The words came back with startling
 
 86 The Leper of the Cumberlands 
 
 meaning ; her faith was in the balance. 
 She who had preached confidence must 
 now prove her own, and that, too, to this 
 man whose future might depend upon her 
 own strength, sorely tried. She glanced 
 at Ben, standing in the sun-lighted door- 
 way, then at her dead, stretched in solemn 
 stillness under the white sheets. 
 
 The poor lips opened to speak. " It 
 hev come, neighbour," she said, " the hand 
 of the Lord air upon me," she hesitated 
 for a single instant, and the silence grew 
 intense. But if they expected any falter- 
 ing, any swerving of the faithful old heart, 
 they were mistaken. One faded hand was 
 laid on grandad's marble brow ; the other 
 pointed to the trundle-bed, where the 
 dear dead babies lay: 
 
 "It air all right, else it had not V 
 been." 
 
 There was a hush, and not devoid of 
 reverence, as many a doubting heart took 
 hold again on hope. To Ben the troubles 
 that had well-nigh crushed him down
 
 The Leper of the Cumberlands 87 
 
 seemed puny things, before that majesty 
 of faith which, wrapped in the fires of 
 pain, could rise triumphant from the 
 ashes of despair to say " It's well."
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 IT was in the good year of our Lord 
 1 806 ; the season, September ; in the 
 State of Tennessee, and the tenth year of 
 its age as a State. 
 
 The summer was over, the harvests 
 ripe, the year growing ruddy. Down in 
 the cotton fields the bolls had begun to 
 burst, and the " hands," with their great 
 baskets, to trudge all day down the long 
 rows, singing in that dreamy, dolefully 
 musical way which belongs alone to the 
 tongue of the Southern blacks, and to 
 the Southern cotton fields. Across the 
 fields, and the rich old clover bottoms 
 that formed a part of the Hermitage farm, 
 the buzz of the cotton-gin could be heard,
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 89 
 
 adding its own peculiar note to the music 
 of Southern nature. 
 
 A cotton-gin ! It was a rare possession 
 those days, and General Jackson's was 
 known from Nashville to New Orleans. 
 Indeed, the whole of the previous year's 
 cotton crop had not yet been disposed of. 
 The great bales were heaped about, waiting 
 for the flatboats that would carry them up 
 the Cumberland, down the Ohio and the 
 Mississippi, and land them at the great 
 New Orleans market. A slow trip for 
 the bulky bales. Could they have fore- 
 seen the time when the tedious river's 
 journey would be shortened to one day's 
 run over a steel track, what must the big 
 bales have thought ! And those gigantic 
 heaps of seed which all the cows in the 
 country could not consume, could they 
 have " peered into the future " and found 
 themselves in the lard cans ! As for the 
 old gin, it would have groaned aloud 
 could it have known that it was buzzing 
 itself into history as surely as was going
 
 90 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 there the tall, spare, erect man coming 
 across the field in the late afternoon to 
 see that the day's work was well done. 
 
 What a heroic figure ! and a face that 
 even in youth bore the impress of one 
 marked by destiny for daring deeds. 
 Imperious in temper, majestic in courage, 
 unyielding in will, he was one born 
 to lay hold on fate and bend it to his 
 desires. Yet was there a timidity in that 
 eye which no danger could make quail. 
 And when down the lane there came the 
 clatter of horses' hoofs striking the hard, 
 dry earth, and with the horses a vision of 
 long, dark skirts waving like black banners 
 in the breeze, made by the hurrying steeds, 
 the owner of the cotton-gin stepped within 
 the gin house, and beyond the vision of 
 the lady visitors. 
 
 But they were not to be outgeneralled 
 even by a general ; and straight up to the 
 gin the horses were headed. 
 
 " General Jackson," one of the ladies 
 there were but two called to the
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 91 
 
 timid hero who had run away at her 
 approach. Instantly he appeared. He 
 wore a large, white beaver hat, the broad 
 brim half shading the clear-cut, strongly 
 outlined features. When he lifted it, 
 Beauty herself could not fail to see 
 the high and noble forehead, the eagle 
 eye, the delicate flush that swept across 
 the patrician features. " General Jackson, 
 I have come in the name of charity. No, 
 no, you need not take out your wallet. 
 We are not asking money." 
 
 A smile played across the strong, 
 thin lips. " How ? " said he, " doesn't 
 charity always mean c money ? ' I was 
 of the impression the terms were syn- 
 onymous." 
 
 " Then for once own yourself in the 
 wrong," laughed Beauty. " We have 
 come to ask the privilege of a charity 
 ball at the Hermitage." 
 
 " A what ? " 
 
 "A charity ball ; and at the Hermitage." 
 
 A most comically pleased expression
 
 92 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 came into the earnest eyes of the master 
 for an instant. Only an instant, and then 
 a heavy frown contracted his forehead. 
 A flash of the eye and a curl of the 
 sensitive lip told of the suppressed anger 
 that had suddenly smitten him. 
 
 " The Hermitage," said he, " is the 
 home of my wife. She is its mistress, 
 and to her is confided its honour and the 
 honour of its master. To her, and to her 
 alone, the right to choose its guests, and 
 to open its doors to her friends. I am 
 surprised you should come to me with 
 your request." 
 
 Ah ! she was forearmed ; how fortunate! 
 Beauty smiled triumphantly. " But your 
 servant who opened the gate told us that 
 Mrs. Jackson was not at home." 
 
 " Ah ! " The frown vanished, and the 
 hand ever ready to strike for her he loved 
 with such deathless devotion was again 
 lifted to the broad old beaver. 
 
 " I think," said he, " in that case I may 
 answer for Mrs. Jackson, and pledge for
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 93 
 
 her the hospitality of the Hermitage for 
 charity" 
 
 Again he lifted his hat : across the fields 
 the sound of a whistle had come to him, 
 and a servant waited, with polite patience, 
 near by, with the horse that was to carry 
 his master down to the river where the 
 boats were waiting to be inspected, the 
 new boats which, like everything pertain- 
 ing to the master of the Hermitage, were 
 to have a place in history. 
 
 " Ladies," said he, " Charity is not the 
 only voice calling upon the Hermitage 
 farmer. Our country," he waved his 
 hand towards the river where the boats 
 were being builded, " or one who nobly 
 represents her, is calling for those vessels 
 now in the course of construction yonder." 
 
 " Will there be war ? " 
 
 How the clear eyes danced and shone 
 beneath that question which over and 
 over again he had put to his own heart : 
 " Will there be war ? " 
 
 " We hope so," he replied. " All the
 
 94 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 West wishes it, the people demand it, and 
 the time is ripe for it. Already a leader 
 has been chosen for it ; those boats were 
 ordered by him." 
 
 "Colonel Burr?" 
 
 "Aye, Aaron Burr." 
 
 The night was balmy and deliciously 
 fragrant with the odours of cedar and sweet 
 old pine. Balmy and silent, save for a 
 rebellious mocking-bird that trilled and 
 trolled, and seemed trying to split its 
 little throat in a honeysuckle bush before 
 the open window of a " two-story " log 
 house set back from the road in a tangle 
 of plum-trees, wild rose-bushes, and sweet 
 old cedars. 
 
 Every window was wide open, and from 
 both windows and doors streamed a flood 
 of light, to guide and welcome the guests 
 who came by twos, and threes, and half 
 dozens to the Hermitage ball. They 
 were not in full-dress array, for most of 
 the guests were equestrians, or equestri-
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 95 
 
 ennes, and brought their finery in the 
 little leathern bandboxes securely buckled 
 to the saddle-horse. Stealthily the fair 
 ones dismounted, and stealthily crept 
 along the low piazza, through the side 
 room, carefully past the pretentious " big 
 room," and up the stairs, a narrow little 
 wooden concern, each tenderly hugging 
 her precious bandbox. 
 
 There were but three rooms below, bar- 
 ring the dining-room, which was cut off by 
 the low piazza. The stairway went up 
 from Mrs. Jackson's little bedroom into 
 a duplicate guest-chamber above. Two 
 others, as diminutive, one above and below, 
 were tucked on to these. And this, with 
 the " big room/' was the Hermitage. A 
 very unpretentious cabin was the first Her- 
 mitage ; the humble and honoured roof 
 of Rachel and Andrew Jackson, the couple 
 standing under the waxen candles in the 
 big room, waiting to receive their guests. 
 The master was resplendent, if uncom- 
 fortable, in his silken stockings, buckles,
 
 96 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 and powder, and rich velvet. For, what- 
 ever his faults, he was no coxcomb, and 
 the knee-breeches and finery had only 
 been assumed for that one occasion, at 
 the " special request " of charity's fair 
 committee. 
 
 The vest of richly embroidered silk was 
 held at the waist with a glittering brilliant, 
 and left open to the throat, as though in 
 deference to the flutes, and frills, and 
 delicate laces of the white shirt-bosom. 
 There was a glitter at the knees where 
 the silver buckles caught now and then 
 a gleam from the waxen candles dangling 
 from the low ceiling in a silver and irides- 
 cent chandelier, to the imminent peril of 
 the white roll of powdered hair surmount- 
 ing the tall general's forehead. At his 
 side, proud, calm, and queenly in her 
 womanly dignity and virtue, stood Rachel, 
 the beloved mistress of the Hermitage. 
 Her dress of stiff and creamy silk could 
 add nothing to the calm serenity of the 
 soul beaming from the gentle eyes, whose
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 97 
 
 glance, tender and fond, strayed now and 
 then to the figure of her husband, and 
 rested for a brief moment upon the 
 strong, gentle face, with something akin 
 to reverence in their shadowy depths. 
 Her face, beautiful and beneficent, was 
 not without a shadow, a shadow which 
 grief had set there to mellow, but could 
 not mar, the gentle sweetness of the 
 patient features. 
 
 There was the sound of banjo and 
 fiddle, as one by one the dusky musicians 
 from the cabins ranged themselves along 
 the wall of the big room, which had been 
 cleared of its furnishings, and young feet 
 came hurrying in when the old Virginia 
 reel sounded through the low rooms, 
 calling to the dance. 
 
 More than one set of ivories shone at 
 door and windows, where the slaves 
 gathered to " see the whi' folks dance." 
 But prominent and conspicuous, in a suit 
 as nearly resembling his master's as might 
 be, and in a position at the immediate
 
 98 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 right hand of the slave who played the 
 bass viol, stood Caesar, the general's 
 favourite man-servant. He bore himself 
 with the same courtly dignity, the same 
 dignified courtesy, and had stationed him- 
 self beside the viol in order to have a 
 more thorough view of the dancers, and, 
 above all, of his beloved master. He had 
 faithfully ushered in the last guest, and 
 had hurried to his place in order to see 
 General Jackson step down the long line 
 of dancers and bow to his partner. Not 
 for worlds would he have missed that bow, 
 to him the perfection of grace and dignity. 
 
 Two by two the couples entered, crossed 
 to the centre of the room, and bowed each 
 other to their places opposite in the 
 long, wall-like line which characterises 
 the stately reel. 
 
 The ladies dropped like drooping lilies 
 for one brief moment in the midst of 
 their silken stiffness, skirts that " stood 
 alone," and made their curtseys to their 
 swains with proper maiden modesty.
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 99 
 
 Caesar saw it all from his post of 
 vantage near the big viol, but he was 
 not interested in the visitors, he knew 
 what they could do. He was waiting to 
 see his master " lay 'em all in the shade 
 bimeby." Of course he would open the 
 ball. He wasn't fond of dancing, but it 
 was the custom of the day, and he and 
 Miss Rachel " knew their manners." 
 
 But for once the custom of the day was 
 changed. Caesar was destined to disap- 
 pointment. Mrs. Jackson's rustling silk 
 announced her approach before she ap- 
 peared, leaning, not upon the arm of the 
 general, but in company with a florid, 
 rather fleshy gentleman, no stranger, how- 
 ever, to the Hermitage hospitality. Much 
 to the negro's chagrin, he led her to the 
 very head of the long line of bright dresses 
 and gay gallants, and stepped himself, as 
 Caesar declared, " like a young cock," into 
 the general's own place opposite. The 
 master stood at the very foot, the escort 
 of a lady Caesar had never set eyes upon
 
 ioo Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 before, and who for the life of him he 
 could not forgive for being the general's 
 partner. 
 
 He was grievously disappointed, so 
 that when the florid fat gentleman at the 
 head danced down between the gay col- 
 umns, and made his manners to the lady 
 at the foot, as gallantly as any one could 
 have done, Caesar expressed his opinion 
 loud enough to be heard by the very 
 gentleman himself. 
 
 " Mr. Grundy tryin' step mighty high 
 to-night," he said. 
 
 But it was when " Miss Rachel " danced 
 down in her silken skirts and met the 
 master midway the line, and dropped a 
 low curtsey, her full skirts settling about 
 her like a great white umbrella, and the 
 stately general bowed over his silver 
 buckles like some royal knight of old, 
 that Caesar's enthusiasm got the better of 
 his indignation. 
 
 " Beat dat, Mr. Grundy ! " he said, in a 
 low, if enthusiastic, whisper ; " beat dat,
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 101 
 
 sah." And Mr. Grundy pranced down 
 again to " beat " the master in the " swing 
 with the right " movement of the old- 
 fashioned dance. 
 
 Promptly the general followed, meeting 
 " Miss Rachel " half-way with a second 
 curtsey over the tips of her fingers, just 
 visible under the lace ruffles at her wrists. 
 
 " Try dat y now, Mr. Grundy ! " And 
 this time Csesar forgot to whisper, so that 
 a burst of applause followed the challenge, 
 to Mr. Grundy' s extreme chagrin, for 
 he, alas ! had forgotten his bow before 
 swinging the lady. 
 
 It was then the dancing assumed some- 
 thing of the appearance of real rivalry. 
 
 Down the line galloped Mr. Grundy 
 again, stopped, bowed, "swung with the 
 left," and bowed again. 
 
 The general had been outdone ; even 
 Caesar had to admit it, and the dancers 
 laughed aloud and clapped their hands at 
 the pretty little gallantry. 
 
 But the master was equal to the emer-
 
 102 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 gency. Again the stately figure met 
 " Miss Rachel," the couple bowed, swung 
 with the left, bowed again, hands still 
 clasped, and then the powdered head of 
 the master dropped for an instant over 
 the lady's hand, that was lifted to his lips, 
 and the dancers parted. 
 
 Amid the spirited confusion of "chasing 
 the fox," and passing under the gates held 
 " high as the sky," and passing back again 
 into line, Caesar's voice could be heard still 
 sounding the challenge : 
 
 " Beat it, ef you kin, Mr. Grundy. 
 Cbassay to yer best, Mr. Grundy ! Back 
 yerse'f to de lead, Mr. Grundy ! " 
 
 Clearly, Mr. Grundy was not the fa- 
 vourite. Caesar's " backing " had inspired 
 confidence in the general. 
 
 However, if Mr. Grundy was, as he 
 said, " a cock," he was nevertheless a game 
 one. Down the centre he tripped again, 
 flushed and determined, curtseyed exceed- 
 ing low, swung " with both " hands, then 
 dropped for an instant upon one knee
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 103 
 
 while the lady tripped back into line. 
 There was a murmur of quick appreci- 
 ation, and all eyes were turned on General 
 Jackson. Would he, could he, think of 
 anything so delightfully graceful ? 
 
 Caesar's mouth stood wide open. His 
 confidence in his stately master never once 
 faltered. He knew he would never suffer 
 Felix Grundy to outdo him in the simple 
 matter of a bow. But how ? What ? 
 
 Straight on came the general ; bowed, 
 extended his arms, when, as ill luck would 
 have it, he set the toe of his shoe upon 
 the front hem of " Miss Rachel's " silken 
 gown, and, rising from her curtsey, there 
 was nothing to do but drop forward into 
 the arms extended, amid the shouts of the 
 assembled guests, emphasised by Caesar's 
 emphatic 
 
 " Dar ! " 
 
 He had done a very awkward thing. 
 One of those happily awkward things 
 which crown a man conqueror more 
 surely than all the tricks of art.
 
 104 old Hickory's Ball 
 
 Nobody attempted to surpass that feat, 
 and when the couples had each in turn 
 passed their parade, for such is the old 
 Virginia reel, and the dancers filed into 
 the supper-room, General Jackson was 
 still, in the judgment of his servant 
 at all events, the master of grace and 
 chivalry. 
 
 A sumptuous supper and worthy the 
 mistress who planned it. At the head of 
 the table sat General Jackson ; at the 
 foot, the young statesman and guest, Mr. 
 Grundy. 
 
 When the company had all been seated, 
 the master rose, his right hand resting 
 upon a tiny tumbler of red wine, such as 
 stood at every plate. He motioned Mr. 
 Grundy, and lifted the tumbler. "The 
 man," said he, " honoured by fate, and 
 fostered by fortune. The man chosen 
 and set apart for the service of the nation. 
 A man whose name shall go down the 
 years the synonym of courage and of 
 honour. The foremost man of the age,"
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 105 
 
 and the voice ever strong for the 
 friend, absent or near, pronounced the 
 name of one at that moment tottering 
 upon the brink of ignominious destruction 
 and disgrace, " Aaron Burr." 
 
 There was an instant of intense silence, 
 but not a tumbler was lifted. Insult to 
 the host, or insult to conviction ? was the 
 thought which held each guest ; when 
 quick into the breach stepped Mr. Grundy. 
 With one palm pressed upon the rim of 
 his tumbler, and with head proudly lifted 
 in a half defiant sternness, wholly belying 
 the careless voice in which he offered the 
 compromise, " No absent heroes," said he. 
 " In lieu of that I offer Andrew Jackson ! 
 the future President of the United States 
 of America." It was said in jest, yet not 
 one but understood that Mr. Grundy 
 refused to drink to the man with whose 
 name one stinging, startling word was 
 already cautiously whispered, traitor. 
 
 General Jackson's fine eye flashed ; but 
 courtesy could unsheath no sword against
 
 io6 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 a guest. And after all, it was nothing. 
 A mere flash of words. Aye ! yet some- 
 thing whispered that the flash carried a 
 meaning, was, indeed, a spark from that 
 mightier flash of arms, that would, ere 
 long, blaze out at the very mention of 
 that name. 
 
 The ball was over; still wearing their 
 evening finery the master of the Her- 
 mitage and his wife sat over the fading 
 embers, smoking their " last pipe " before 
 retiring. 
 
 Caesar had bowed the last guest from 
 the door, and was about to close it for 
 the night, when the sound of galloping 
 hoofs attracted his attention. It was a sin- 
 gle horseman, and he was making straight 
 for the Hermitage. The servant waited 
 under the low piazza, curious but not 
 uneasy. The horse stopped at the block, 
 and into the long line of light streaming 
 from the open doorway came the figure 
 of a man, hurrying as if to reach the
 
 Old Hickory's Ball 107 
 
 door before it should close. He had 
 ridden hard, and had barely arrived in 
 time. 
 
 " Is General Jackson at home ? " he 
 asked. " I must see him to-night, at 
 once. Tell him so." 
 
 The servant bowed, and silently ushered 
 the late arrival into the deserted banquet- 
 room. 
 
 His keen eye took in the surroundings 
 with a half-amused, half-bewildered ex- 
 pression. The banquet-table, despoiled of 
 its beauty, the half-emptied wine glasses, 
 the broken bits of cake, crumbled by 
 beauty's fair fingers ; the odour of dying 
 roses, smothered in their bloom, mingled 
 with the scent of the undrunken wine ; all 
 told the story of revelry and its inevitable 
 destiny. 
 
 The stranger crossed the room to the 
 pillaged sideboard, and with the air of a 
 man thoroughly at home found a de- 
 canter, and, pouring a tumbler full of wine, 
 lifted it carelessly to his lips, drained it,
 
 io8 Old Hickory's Ball 
 
 and with the emptied vessel still in his 
 hand turned to meet the master of the 
 house. 
 
 He still wore the finery in which he 
 had decked himself for the ball. In one 
 hand he carried his pipe, over which he 
 had been dozing with Rachel. But the 
 eye was alive now ; that quick, eagle eye. 
 The ball had become a thing of the past. 
 And as he stood for one brief moment in 
 the doorway, himself in his gala dress, 
 seemed but another illustration of that 
 indomitable grimness which hangs about 
 a forsaken banquet-room. At that mo- 
 ment the stranger lifted his face. It was 
 a face stamped with the cunning of a fox, 
 the courage of a lion, the simplicity of a 
 child, the ambition of a god. 
 
 The master met the cool, fixed eye, 
 and into his own leaped the smothered 
 fire of outraged dignity. He lifted his 
 hand, as though to curse : 
 
 " Do you know, sir, that the world is 
 branding you a traitor ? And that Felix
 
 Old Hickory's Bail 109 
 
 Grundy refused to drink your health in 
 my house to-night ? " 
 
 A sneer flitted across the handsome 
 features, but the low, rich voice only said, 
 "Let him." 
 
 It was the voice of Aaron Burr.
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 FROM the old homestead kitchen a 
 voice rang out in song. The dreamy, 
 drawling pathos of the music betrayed 
 the nationality, no less than the sex of 
 the singer. 
 
 " Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Ter wash me white as snow." 
 
 Over and over again, in the cracked, 
 crazy voice of an old woman, a negress ; 
 but withal full of a strong, strange faith, 
 that seemed to fix itself upon something 
 unseen but felt, and to cling there, and 
 hold. 
 
 The woman was busy preparing the 
 
 no
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 1 1 1 
 
 early supper; for the sun would soon 
 drop behind the ragged old oaks that 
 studded the west lawn, and the master 
 of the house would expect his beaten 
 biscuit, whether he came at sunset or at 
 midnight. Andjust as like to come at one 
 time as at the other, was the profligate 
 young master. 
 
 It would have been difficult to per- 
 suade old Tildy that he was not the mas- 
 ter of the house, although the old master's 
 last will and testament made it appear so. 
 Handsome, reckless, and dissipated to the 
 last degree, he was, nevertheless, to the old 
 slave-mammy, the same young master com- 
 mitted to her care by the real master, in 
 that same will which had seemingly cast 
 him off. That was five years before ; it 
 was nine years since the mistress had com- 
 mitted the young master likewise to her 
 love and care. He was still young, and 
 the only one of the seven children born to 
 the squire and his wife that had passed 
 beyond the years of early childhood. And
 
 H2 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 he had broken their hearts ; had begun 
 early upon the downward road, and kept 
 steadily on all those years. Thinking of 
 those years, the biscuit beater made a 
 sudden stop, as if the years, those heavy 
 weights, had snapped, broken by their 
 own heaviness. 
 
 The old woman leaned upon the 
 wooden handle, and watched, her face to 
 the kitchen window, the last rays of the 
 sunset creeping across the bare, brown 
 cotton field, and tinging the gnarled oaks 
 of the lawn with purple and red and dull 
 amber. An azure haze followed the sun- 
 light, creeping up from the river beyond 
 the field, Stone River in the heart of 
 Tennessee. 
 
 The face turned to the sunset was 
 seamed and broken, but such a face. An 
 artist, catching the fervour of devotion, 
 the magnetic mingling of pain and pride, 
 lightened by the finer lines of faith, the 
 whole mellowed by that chastened pa- 
 tience which is born of love and sorrow,
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 1 13 
 
 would have held his breath, lest fancy 
 cheat him of an ideal, a something in 
 bronze, that should puzzle the world for 
 a name. 
 
 She was watching the azure shadows 
 creeping across the cotton field ; the 
 azure mist stirred sleeping memories, 
 leading the slave-woman back where the 
 smoke circled above a light-boat, plying 
 somewhere along the Virginia waters. 
 There was a slave-prison, and a market- 
 place ; and a woman, a strong, silent 
 woman, who held a little child by the 
 hand. 
 
 The woman was her mother, the child 
 herself, a baby of six years. She hid her 
 face in the woman's dress while a shrill 
 voice called for " a bid." A bid for a 
 " likely nigger, going for a song." 
 
 " Fifty dollars ! " there came a bid. 
 The hand clasping the child's grew cold, 
 the clasp closer. 
 
 Then a voice, she remembered that 
 voice in her dreams sometimes, even yet,
 
 ii4 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 that voice sweeter than music, that had 
 said, " One hundred." 
 
 One hundred dollars for a baby ! He 
 had carried her home in his lap, before 
 him on the saddle ; and the heart of the 
 strong old woman who had held the child's 
 hand had gone with him. 
 
 She had crept to his feet and begged 
 leave to hug her baby, "just once, good 
 marster," before she herself should be 
 shipped to New Orleans. 
 
 " Don't beat her, marster ! " the 
 slave's prayer still sobbed upon the winds 
 of memory. " Don't beat her ! she's only 
 a nigger, but she's my baby ! dont beat 
 her ! " 
 
 And the promise given had been faith- 
 fully kept by the then young master. 
 " Never a lick shall she have, so help me 
 heaven." 
 
 The sunlight faded from the field, the 
 amber and red left the oak-trees, the 
 shadows deepened. Before the slave's 
 eye came the face of one fast in the
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 115 
 
 agonies of death, a gentle face, a 
 broken-hearted mother's face. It lay 
 upon her arm. 
 
 " My boy," the white lips whispered. 
 " My poor, poor boy ! Mam-Tildy ? " 
 
 " I'm here, mistiss." 
 
 She put her black face close to the 
 gentle white one. 
 
 " As I have dealt with you, Mam- 
 Tildy." 
 
 She understood, true old slave-heart. 
 
 " I'll foller him ter de grave, mistiss, 
 an' hand him inter heaben ter yer, ef de 
 good Lord spar's me." 
 
 Since then, when duty seemed too hard, 
 and devotion reaped only ingratitude, she 
 heard again, in dreams, the soft voice 
 pleading : 
 
 " As I have dealt with you, Mam- 
 Tildy." 
 
 And waking, the old heart had renewed 
 to itself the promise, " I'll foller him ter 
 de grave, an' hand him inter heaben ter 
 his mammy, ef de good Lord spar's me."
 
 1 1 6 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 The old master slept beside the young 
 mistress, in the family burying-ground 
 beyond the meadow, in sight of the gen- 
 tle waters of Stone River. His proud old 
 heart had broken, too. The tears rolled 
 down the woman's dark cheek as she 
 recalled the last night on the old planta- 
 tion, when it rained, and rained, and the 
 storm rattled at the windows, and the 
 river burst its banks, flooding meadow 
 and field, until the cries of the drowning 
 things down in the low ground rang 
 through the house piteously. 
 
 Such a night ! such a pitiless night, and 
 black with despair ! An old man waited, 
 that black night, with bowed head, for a 
 step ; a boy's careless step ; waiting and 
 listening while the storm beat furiously. 
 Oh, these footsteps of erring children ! 
 Note ye the hell or heaven they carry ! 
 The gray dawn shivered at the window 
 like a frozen foundling ; and a song, 
 a senseless, drunken song, reached the 
 strained ears of the master. A reeling
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 117 
 
 figure tottered up the strong old stairs, a 
 shuffling, loathsome thing, calling himself 
 his son, and who, but for the will that day 
 executed, would have inherited those fair 
 Tennessee lands, to be squandered in 
 drunken college revels. 
 
 The disappointment was too bitter. A 
 shot rang out. The old man could bear 
 the burden of his son no longer. 
 
 The will left the plantation house to 
 the old nurse, the baby bought at Rich- 
 mond six and forty years before. The 
 balance of the great fortune had been 
 squandered long ago. 
 
 There Mam-Tildy's dreaming always 
 ended. She came back to her biscuit 
 beating at this point, to protest, as 
 usual. 
 
 " It orter be Marse Hal's house," she 
 said to the dough, crisping beneath the 
 blows she laid upon it. " Ef I cud sell 
 it I cud pay his debts ter-morrer." 
 
 That was precisely what the old master 
 meant she should not do, when he had tied
 
 1 1 8 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 the property against the young reprobate, 
 his son and lawful heir. 
 
 Mam-Tildy would take care of him, 
 but he would not take care of Mam- 
 Tildy ; and therefore the will had judi- 
 ciously set the property in the safer 
 hands. 
 
 It was hers, Mam-Tildy's, " during her 
 natural life." 
 
 " But it orter been Marse Hal's," she 
 declared ; " he needs it mighty bad." 
 
 She spread the dough with the cedar 
 rolling-pin, rolling it to a precise thick- 
 ness and keeping a kind of time to the 
 song with which she had begun her task : 
 
 " Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Ter wash me white as snow. 
 Way ober Jord'n, Lord " 
 
 The song abruptly ended. Some one 
 came up the gravelled walk ; a quick, boy- 
 ish step ; a step she knew full well, al- 
 though it did not stagger now, as was its
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 119 
 
 wont. It ran, or the owner of it ran, 
 straight across the piazza, into the kitchen ; 
 and although the hand placed on Mam- 
 Tildy's arm shook, she knew the young 
 master was not drunk. 
 
 " Hide me ! Mam-Tildy, hide me ! " 
 he gasped. " I have killed a man, and 
 they are after me ! " 
 
 There was a boyish ring in the voice, 
 despite the situation, that belonged wholly 
 to Hal Gordon's character; a carelessness 
 which had so annoyed the old squire, his 
 father, who called it " dare-devilism," and 
 which Mam-Tildy noticed even in the 
 extremity of her distress. 
 
 She gave a hurried glance around the 
 kitchen, then shoved her biscuit-board 
 aside, and pointed to the large empty 
 barrel upon which the board rested. 
 
 The next moment the board was in its 
 place again, she was rolling her dough and 
 singing : 
 
 " Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Ter wash me white as snow."
 
 I2O A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 The sheriff's posse coming down the 
 piazza had detected no break in the song ; 
 and the sheriff himself saw nothing odd 
 in the fact that he had to call twice from 
 the kitchen doorway before the busy old 
 negress turned to hear his demand for 
 Harry Gordon, the runaway from justice. 
 
 She dropped the rolling-pin with a great 
 clatter; perhaps because she heard a de- 
 fiant little laugh in the barrel ; perhaps 
 because she was, as the officer thought, 
 so taken by surprise. 
 
 " Marster," she begged, " don't tease a 
 pore ole nigger dat er way. Ef Marse 
 Hal hab done somefin, shore miff, for de 
 love ob God, don't stan' dar foolin', but 
 tell ole Tildy an' let her go to him." 
 
 She had rubbed the dough from her 
 hands and taken off her apron ; the tears 
 were raining down her cheeks when she 
 reached for her sunbonnet hanging upon 
 a convenient peg. 
 
 The men were completely disarmed ; 
 touched to the quick by her prompt
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 121 
 
 response to the danger threatening the 
 beloved master. 
 
 " Go back, aunt Tildy," said the 
 sheriff. "He isn't worth your affection. 
 You can't go to him, for we have not 
 yet found him. Go back to your dough, 
 and don't waste any more sleep on that 
 ungrateful scamp." 
 
 They left her, with her apron before 
 her eyes, rocking to and fro, and moaning. 
 
 " Ter de grave ! ter de grave ! " she 
 sobbed. " I promused his mammy. Yes, 
 Lord, good Lord, ter de grave." 
 
 That night the fugitive received the 
 coins, all Mam-Tildy's ready money, 
 which she poured into his hand, and 
 stole away under cover of darkness. 
 
 " Ef I cud jest sell the place, little 
 marster," she said at parting, " de money 
 ud fetch you out o* danger." 
 
 " Damn the place ! " was the reply. 
 " Only let me get well away from it ; it 
 is getting too all-fired hot here to suit my 
 fancy."
 
 122 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 He drew his coat about his ears, a soft, 
 fashionably made garment, and started 
 towards the door. Twice he looked back. 
 The old nurse sat in a corner with her 
 apron over her head, rocking and moaning. 
 
 She had sat thus, in that very corner, 
 the night his mother died. He went 
 back, and laid his hand lightly upon her 
 head. 
 
 " Mam-Tildy," he said, " I'll write to 
 you if ever I land beyond the county jail, 
 and you shall come to me. Hush ! I 
 swear it. Good-bye now. If I ever 
 should get to heaven, Mam-Tildy, 
 mind, I don't expect to, but if I should, 
 it will be your work." 
 
 He laughed softly, and, stooping, put 
 his lips to the apron covering her head. 
 She could not see that, despite the laugh, 
 the boyish blue eyes held tears ; nor did 
 she understand that he knew that never 
 again would he set free foot upon the 
 threshold of the once proud old homestead. 
 
 She only knew that he passed out with
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 123 
 
 a curse and a low rippling laugh, and that 
 her old heart was very desolate. 
 
 The next day news came ; he had been 
 taken. The man he had shot lived a 
 week, and in two months the murderer 
 had received his sentence, life servitude in 
 the State prison. 
 
 She rented the house, and followed him 
 to the loathsome den in the mountains 
 which had been dignified by the name of 
 Branch Prison. It had been by special 
 pleading of his attorney, and for his frail 
 health, that he had been removed to the 
 Branch. He knew it was the old black 
 mammy's work. Her little whitewashed 
 cabin stood upon a green rise between the 
 stockade and the coal mine ; from either the 
 door or the window she could see him at 
 morning and evening going to and coming 
 from his work. At noon she often went 
 down where the men were eating their din- 
 ner, to carry him something hot from her 
 own kitchen. He laughed at her for this,
 
 124 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 telling her it was as foolish as her old 
 song of " Free grace and dying love." 
 
 One evening a squad of convicts com- 
 ing in from the mine heard her singing, 
 in that quaint, quavering treble, that same 
 old hymn, and laughed, making many a 
 joke of the song and singer. Odd, how 
 those in its worst extremity make the light- 
 est jest of life, solemn, serious old life 
 with its burdens and heartaches. He 
 who laughs at life is apt to cry out against 
 death. The convicts laughed at the old 
 crone and her song ; the convicts, black- 
 ened with coal, and with that deeper stain 
 sin. The one who laughed loudest 
 was a young man of perhaps five and 
 twenty years. Dissipation had been some- 
 what obliterated from the boyish face by 
 five years' imprisonment and confinement 
 in the underground workshops the 
 mines. 
 
 The complexion was as fair and delicate 
 as a child's ; and the hands, which Mam- 
 Tildy kept carefully provided with gloves,
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 125 
 
 were small and white, and delicately fem- 
 inine. He had changed but little; in all 
 but dissipation, so far as any one knew, 
 he was the same Harry Gordon of five 
 years before. 
 
 " Yer mammy's singing for ye, sonny," 
 laughed one of the squad. 
 
 " I wonder where she got that queer 
 song," said another. " There isn't so 
 much in the words, yet somehow it makes 
 a fellow want to go home to his mammy." 
 
 Again there was a laugh ; life is such a jest. 
 
 " Because it's 'free,' I reckon," said a 
 third. " It's the only thing hereabouts 
 that is." 
 
 "It is the first thing I remember to 
 have ever heard," said Hal, who, as a rule, 
 had but little to say to the men. " She 
 trotted me on her knees and sang it. I 
 think she sang it the day I was born, and 
 I expect she will sing it at my funeral, if 
 mine chances to get in ahead of hers." 
 
 Then the squad passed on up the hot, 
 coal-sooted path to the stockade gate, and
 
 126 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 stood a moment to be counted. The 
 old woman's song still reached their ears, 
 faintly, 
 
 " Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Ter wash me white as snow." 
 
 The chains rattled, the gate swung back, 
 and the squad went in. There was no 
 trace of emotion of any kind in any of 
 their faces, except in the face of Gordon ; 
 he was smiling. 
 
 A few minutes later he stood before his 
 cell door, humming under his breath, 
 
 " Free grace and dying love, 
 To wash me white ' ' 
 
 " What a funny old song," said he. 
 " I wonder what it means, anyhow. ' Free 
 grace and dying love : ' I shall ask Mam- 
 Tildy next visit she makes to my State 
 apartment." 
 
 He laughed again in that half merry, 
 half defiant, boyish way, and drew the 
 little iron door open. 
 
 As it swung back he glanced up at a
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 127 
 
 bit of dainty carving just above the en- 
 trance to his cell. 
 
 It was done in Latin, daintily, dexter- 
 ously done, with his own pearl-handled 
 penknife. 
 
 "Err are est bumanum." 
 
 That was all of the college lore he had 
 carried out into the world with him. All 
 the use he had found for it was to make 
 a motto for a felon's cell. His college 
 course, like his life course, ended in a 
 convict's cell. Ended, summed up, in 
 that one sentence, Errare est bumanum. 
 
 He laughed, as he divested himself of 
 his mining clothes. The cleanly and care- 
 ful were allowed a second suit; he was 
 cleanly enough, and Mam-Tildy would 
 have been more than satisfied if he had 
 been half as careful with his soul as he was 
 with the coarse prison uniform. 
 
 He was thinking of the motto ; that 
 little Latin device had wrought so many 
 amusing incidents.
 
 128 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 First, Mam-Tildy, when she came to 
 bring the sweet cakes she had made for 
 him, had asked what the inscription meant. 
 How the old face had lighted up when he 
 told her ; and it had ever afterward been 
 impossible to convince the old woman 
 that it was a mere bit of handiwork, 
 utterly without heart on the part of the 
 convict. 
 
 The prison chaplain, too, had caught 
 sight of the carving, and had straightway 
 come into the cell, his mild eyes full of 
 tears, and pressed the hand of the convict- 
 student, and, kneeling by the little iron 
 prison bunk, had prayed, prayed, with the 
 beads upon his brow, and agony in every 
 feature, yet not once opening his lips for 
 words. And Hal had stood by, that old 
 boyish smile parting his daintily curved 
 lips while the old chaplain prayed. He 
 laughed aloud when later he had found 
 the chaplain's card upon his little shelf. 
 The bit of white pasteboard bore his own 
 little motto in Latin, to which the pious
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 129 
 
 man had added in pencil, " Condonare est 
 divinum" 
 
 That pleased Mam-Tildy mightily, 
 when he told her about it ; and she had 
 teased him to add the preacher's " sign " 
 to his own above the door, but he had 
 laughingly refused. 
 
 The " sign " had amused him greatly ; 
 one morning, he remembered, a new gang 
 had arrived at the Branch. Among the 
 convicts was a young man convicted of 
 murder in the second degree, and sen- 
 tenced to ten years in the pen. In his 
 native town he was considered a dangerous 
 character; a boy utterly without friends, 
 since the college career had broken his 
 mother's heart. 
 
 Hal came upon the man the morning 
 of his arrival at the prison. He was 
 standing in the corridor before young 
 Gordon's cell ; he still wore his ball and 
 chain, and he was manacled with iron, just 
 as the guard had left him. He was gaz- 
 ing at the Latin inscription above the door.
 
 130 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 " To err is human" He had met only 
 upbraidings, reproaches, doubts, revilings. 
 That little Latin device was the first hint 
 of forbearance that had ever seemed to 
 come to him ; the first whisper of condo- 
 lence or of condonation that had ever 
 touched his wretched, ill-spent life since 
 he began his downward career. It came 
 like a breath from paradise. He forgot 
 his chains, his handcuffs, the long score of 
 crime-blotted years. The sweet old boy- 
 hood time came crowding back; he chased 
 the ball across the college campus ; pored 
 over his Greek and Latin under the sweet 
 old maple-trees. 
 
 " Errare est humanum" It was one of 
 those mysterious messages that strike 
 straight for the soul, and, battering its 
 wall of rebellion down, make an abode 
 there. The ten years' term was com- 
 muted to five ; the five by " good time 
 made " became four ; and one morning 
 the prison door swung back and he 
 passed out, a free man.
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 131 
 
 He had been very fond of young Gor- 
 don, fancying that to him he was indebted 
 for his reformation ; had wept upon his 
 shoulder at parting, and begged to be re- 
 membered sometimes. Hal remembered 
 that he had laughed and pushed him off; 
 the merry sparkle still danced in his blue 
 eyes when the two said good-bye, for ever. 
 They were totally unlike. Strange he 
 should have carved the inscription above 
 his door : he, so light, so shallow, so in- 
 different. Even Mam-Tildy had begged 
 of him to " try en be sober, en see things 
 as they is." 
 
 " Sober ! " he had replied. "It is bad 
 enough to be here, Mam-Tildy, but it is 
 lucky I can laugh over it." 
 
 " Naw 'tain't, little marster," she sobbed. 
 " It am like slappin' ob de good Lord in 
 de face. 'Tain't allus right ter laff; it am 
 better ter cry en ter laff sometimes, Marse 
 Hal." 
 
 Yes, his scrap of college lore had stood 
 him well. The lady missionaries to the
 
 132 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 prison had been attracted by it; read a 
 story of high birth, strong temptation, 
 and earnest repentance in the simple 
 words, and gave him special prayer. It 
 was as though a dignified, refined sorrow 
 hid in the old college exercise. All who 
 saw it conceived a tender interest in the 
 fair-faced young convict. A glamour of 
 romance gathered about him. Young 
 girls sought his cell with flowers and 
 gifts of jewels ; even the old ladies sent 
 in pretty bits of needlework to decorate 
 the cell of " the poor student." 
 
 " To err is human ! " What an appeal ; 
 and to go up from that black hole ; and 
 from a soul cultivated ; used to the higher 
 walks. Why, it was as though he said, 
 " Careful, careful now how you judge, 
 the way is slippery, and to err is human. 
 Your own feet " 
 
 He was very peaceable and good-na- 
 tured ; the guards and wardens all liked 
 him, although they still continued to won- 
 der if the lightness was genuine, or if the
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 133 
 
 man truly had no feeling. He seldom 
 gave evidence of any, either of impatience, 
 or rebellion, or of temper. He always 
 did his work, just what was required of 
 him ; never a lick beyond or a blow below 
 the requisite amount. The miners called 
 him a " lazybones " at first ; but when 
 they saw that always his work was faith- 
 fully and exactly done, they gave that up, 
 remembering how their own went beyond 
 the requirement to-day, and to-morrow fell 
 far below it. Nobody ever thought the 
 peculiarity might have been a lack of am- 
 bition, for nobody cared especially ; they 
 only knew there was a peculiarity. His 
 hands were always clean, conspicuously 
 clean, down the long prison dining-table 
 where the hard-fisted coal diggers were at 
 their meals. He never held aloof from the 
 others, yet they seemed to feel, instinc- 
 tively, that he was apart from and above 
 them. It was because of the Latin over 
 his cell. His was a life sentence ; he had 
 no hope of reaching the outside world
 
 134 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 again, and he seldom gave it a thought, 
 except to laugh at Mam-Tildy's foolish 
 fancies that he would some day gain a 
 pardon by some great deed of heroism. 
 There was a hint in these foolish fancies, 
 if he had but considered it. But he did 
 not consider, considering meant melan- 
 choly, discontent. So he put aside all 
 unpleasant comparisons and unavailing 
 longings ; he read the books the old 
 nurse brought him, played with the 
 flowers sent him, and munched the deli- 
 cacies left every day at his door, much the 
 same way that he ate the coarse prison 
 fare, and with the laughing indifference 
 with which he had met his mother's tears 
 and his father's curse. 
 
 They tried to make a hero of him be- 
 cause of the Latin, but he did not respond 
 to the effort ; nothing in him responded 
 to the heroic in any sense. Only to poor 
 old Mam-Tildy, in her tireless devotion, 
 her daily pilgrimage to his cell with clean 
 sheets, a white counterpane, fresh under-
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 135 
 
 clothing, never without some offering, 
 only to her was vouchsafed an abiding 
 hope, a faith that at last, at last, the little 
 marster would " see things right." 
 
 One morning when, having received 
 permission to do so, she was scouring 
 out his cell, and singing in the old familiar 
 way, he stopped on his way to join the 
 mine gang, and said : 
 
 " Mam-Tildy, that is a funny old song 
 of yours. What does it mean, anyhow, 
 your * free grace and dying love ? ' 
 
 She paused in her work, and looked up 
 at him from her knees, where she had crept 
 in order to carry her scouring-cloth well 
 under his bed. There was a perplexed, 
 worried look in the faded old eyes. What 
 did " free grace " mean ? Free grace and 
 dying love. Oh, for words, words, that 
 might tell him the meaning of that grace, 
 that love ! She knew ; her soul had rec- 
 ognised the meaning long ago ; but the 
 poor old tongue had no cunning. 
 
 She shook her head, gray it was,
 
 136 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 carefully bound in a white, knotted hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 " You'll know some day, little marster," 
 she said. " I can't tell yer, honey ; ole 
 Tildy ain't got much sense ; but you'll 
 know what free grace am some day." 
 
 That noon, at the counting of the pris- 
 oners, he was absent. There is always a 
 thrill follows the announcement that a 
 convict is missing. Escaped ? Dead ? 
 Pardoned ? Gordon was neither ; he was 
 lying on an iron bunk in the hospital, 
 unconscious, in a deadly stupor; white 
 and innocent-looking as a little child. A 
 little child, he was like a child in many 
 things ; yet he had broken many hearts, 
 his old father's, his poor mother's, and, 
 last of all, Mam-Tildy's. 
 
 He had been hurt down in the mine; 
 but before the news had fairly reached the 
 stockade, the old negress was at the mouth 
 of the pit, and would have gone on, right 
 into that roar of nauseous gas and stifling 
 sulphur, only that a guard prevented her.
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 137 
 
 " Stop, aunty," he said, " you can't pass 
 there." 
 
 The old eyes filled. 
 
 " Oh, marster, fur de lub ob God, 
 lemme go ter him ! " she begged. 
 
 "No, come back; the tunnel is full of 
 gas and smoke and falling slate. You can 
 do him no earthly good. Come back, I 
 tell you ! " 
 
 " Marster, I promised his mammy ter 
 foller him ter de grave itse'f." 
 
 She was moving right on, and weeping ; 
 not heeding, if indeed hearing, the com- 
 mand to " come back." 
 
 " I promised ole Mis' " the smoke 
 was stifling. Again the guard called to 
 her: 
 
 " Will you come back ? " 
 
 " Naw, marster, I won't, I can't," she 
 was already in, beyond the black opening. 
 " My feet wouldn't turn back ef I tried ter 
 make 'em ter ; lemme go ! " Her voice 
 came back to him from the tunnel, muffled 
 and seeming afar off. " Fur de lub ob
 
 138 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 God, lemme go ter him. I promised 
 ole Mis' " 
 
 The words were a wail of agony and 
 devotion. 
 
 They brought him out, however, by 
 another tunnel, and the guard sent some 
 one in to tell Mam-Tildy. When she 
 came back they carried him up to the 
 prison hospital, and all the town knew of 
 the " little student's " injury. 
 
 Feeble, and old, and heart-broken, the 
 old nurse tottered to the stockade gate, 
 the tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, 
 her gray hair forgotten, its covering gone ; 
 she stopped to question the guard there. 
 
 " They say he will die," he told her, his 
 heart full of a great pity. 
 
 But that was not what she wished to 
 know. 
 
 " Marster," she said, "how wuz it? " 
 
 "The slate fell on him while he was 
 eating his noon lunch, that was all." 
 
 All ; she sighed and turned away, her 
 last poor hope of heroism gone.
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 139 
 
 They refused her admittance at the hos- 
 pital, but allowed her to crouch at the door 
 of his empty cell, just under the old col- 
 lege text, and to nurse her grief near some- 
 thing that had been his. All the afternoon 
 she sat there, moaning when no one was 
 near, and praying always. She had prayed 
 for so many years, poor old black mammy, 
 and received for her faith silence ; si- 
 lence, that maker of infidels and blas- 
 phemers. Yet her faith held ; she was 
 ignorant, but it held, held ; let the wise 
 and the favoured look to it. It held even 
 while the white face of him who was the 
 object of her prayers lay back upon the 
 coarse prison pillow, waiting for death ; 
 still the old nurse's faith held. 
 
 It was a fair face, so touchingly child- 
 like ; the old smile still curved the delicate 
 lips ; the smile which had met the ills and 
 failures of life, met death with the same 
 boyish defiance, a foil to rob him of his 
 terror. 
 
 The prison physician, together with the
 
 140 A Scrap of College Lore 
 
 chaplain and the warden, had endeavoured 
 vainly to rouse him out of that deadly stu- 
 por. There was no response, not a quiver 
 of the eyelids to tell that he heard or lived. 
 
 " Is there nothing," said the chaplain, 
 " that will arouse him ? Nothing that 
 will touch him ? " 
 
 "He has been here five years," said 
 the warden, " and I have never known 
 him to show the slightest feeling, except 
 one morning when one of the men at- 
 tempted to play a prank upon his old 
 black nurse. He didn't really show any 
 feeling then, for he laughed at the same 
 time that he cracked the fellow's skull. It 
 was hushed up ; nobody held any ill- 
 will against the boy, and the other had 
 made himself obnoxious to the officials." 
 
 The physician, his hand upon the 
 pulse of the unconscious convict, turned 
 suddenly to the warden. 
 
 " Go bring the old nurse," he com- 
 manded. 
 
 They had not far to go, and she came
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 141 
 
 at once, tottering, the old body well-nigh 
 spent. The surgeon was removing the 
 electric battery with which he had been 
 vainly endeavouring to recall life into the 
 benumbed faculties, when the old negress 
 entered. They moved aside to make 
 room for her, for she was growing strangely 
 feeble. Is it instinct that teaches those 
 old black heroines those great, grand 
 strokes upon the chords of the human 
 heart ? Is it instinct, like the brutes pos- 
 sess ? Who dare insult Divinity with such 
 a charge ? 
 
 The old nurse tottered to the low bunk, 
 her gray, grizzled hair made a kind of 
 setting for the dark face. Trouble in 
 every wrinkle ; grief, such as tender 
 mothers know, in every motion of the 
 trembling lips ; but love, abiding devo- 
 tion, burning in the fond, faded eyes rest- 
 ing upon the fragile form bound in linen, 
 upon which the blood-stains showed glar- 
 ingly. She bent over him, no tears in her 
 eyes now.
 
 " Marse Hal," she said, " does yer 
 know me, honey ? How is yer, little 
 marster ? " 
 
 O thou great electric king ! Out upon 
 thy puny power, that the whisper from a 
 slave's lip can put thee to such shame ! 
 The delicate white hand moved slowly 
 across the yellow sheet until it found 
 the hand of the old nurse, and, clasping 
 it, rested there. The prisoner sighed 
 softly. 
 
 "Mam-Tildy?" 
 
 " Yes, my lam'." 
 
 " Take me home ? " 
 
 It was the voice, the pleading prayer of 
 a homesick child. The nurse was the only 
 one of the little group whose eyes were 
 dry. 
 
 " Yes, honey," she replied, " Mam- 
 Tildy gwine sen' yer home soon ; she 
 done promise ole Mis '." 
 
 She covered his small hand with both 
 her own, and held it against her faithful 
 old black breast, and sat there, with eyes
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 143 
 
 that saw not, but with a kind of peace 
 upon her tired face, as though in- 
 deed they bad been 1 transported back to 
 the innocent days upon the old planta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Mam-Tildy ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lam'." 
 
 " Sing ! " 
 
 She began to rock to and fro and to 
 croon a hymn ; but he stopped her with a 
 movement of his head. 
 
 " No, no ; sing your old c free grace ' 
 
 you used to sing it in the kitchen 
 
 at home" 
 
 Tremblingly, trustfully, the old cracked 
 voice began, and went bravely on to the 
 end : 
 
 " Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Free grace an' dyen' love, 
 Ter wash me white as snow." 
 
 When she finished he lay so still they 
 thought him gone indeed, till his lips 
 moved faintly, and he murmured some-
 
 144 A. Scrap of College Lore 
 
 thing about " the old college text," and 
 " something " which he said " the chap- 
 lain added to it." Mam-Tildy's old 
 song was running through his brain, 
 too ; confusing him absurdly ; for he was 
 mumbling something about, " To err 
 is human, free grace divine," and smil- 
 ing, knowing that he had tangled 
 song and text. Mam-Tildy tried to help 
 him: 
 
 " It's free grace an' dyen' love, Marse 
 Hal," said she. 
 
 " I know," he whispered ; and sud- 
 denly, with strange strength, he lifted 
 himself in bed and clasped his arm about 
 the old mammy's neck, smiling the while, 
 that same boyish smile she knew so 
 well. 
 
 The surgeon took out his watch ; one, 
 two, five minutes passed ; he placed his 
 finger upon the delicate, blue-veined wrist 
 lying against the old black neck, and 
 motioned a guard to drop the window 
 curtain.
 
 A Scrap of College Lore 145 
 
 " Mam-Tildy," he said, gently, " you 
 may go now." 
 
 "Yes, marster, I's raidy. Old Tildy's 
 work am done." 
 
 And unclasping his arm, she laid the 
 dead boy back upon his pillow.
 
 George Washington's 
 "Bufday." 
 
 /^l EORGE WASHIN'TON ! You 
 
 V_T George Washin'ton, you ! Ef you 
 don' come 'long here when I call yer, I'll 
 take a bresh broom ter yer, sah, dat I 
 will ! " 
 
 Aunt June stood in the cabin doorway 
 calling, shrilly and sharply, to a boy at 
 that moment reluctantly making his way 
 to the cabin from the direction of the 
 "spring branch" that skirted the field 
 in the low ground. 
 
 " Come 'long here, sah ! Don' you 
 see I's waitin' ? " 
 
 George Washington obeyed reluctantly, 
 146
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 147 
 
 however ; for it was the season of the year 
 when trout were biting. The small rod 
 and bucket that he carried told, silently, 
 the story of an interrupted minnow excur- 
 sion, preparatory to a day's fishing in 
 Duck River. 
 
 His mother wore her best dress, a 
 bright magenta skirt and a brown worsted 
 waist ; a bonnet of curious shape and col- 
 ours, and a pair of very white, home-knit 
 gloves. A long, brown barege veil floated 
 majestically from the bows and blossoms 
 of her bonnet. 
 
 A large market-basket, and a tin bucket 
 covered with a clean white cloth, stood on 
 the doorstep ; a crazy little cart with a 
 white mule nodding between the shafts 
 waited at the gate. In lieu of leather 
 reins a white cotton rope passed from the 
 bridle bit to the seat upon which aunt 
 June was preparing to mount. 
 
 " Is yer goin' ter town, mammy ? " said 
 George Washington, with a rueful glance 
 in the direction of the waiting wagon.
 
 148 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 His black face expressed better than 
 words his heart's disappointment at the 
 unexpected disarranging of his plans. 
 
 " Co'se I's gwine ter town ! How's 
 de butter gwine git dar ef I ain' fetch it ? 
 Huccome yer reckin hit's gwine walk dis 
 day, stidder waiting fur me ter fetch it 
 same's udder days ? You's ter stay right 
 in here wid de baby till I git back. Does 
 yer hear ? Ef de baby cries, gib her de 
 biscuit on de she'f ; and don' let her fall 
 in de flan. Does yer hear me ? Why'n 
 yer answer me, George Washin'ton ? " 
 
 " Yessum," said the boy, " I hears 
 yer;" and with a glance at the little 
 black bundle squatted upon the floor, 
 " Wash," as he was called on ordinary 
 occasions, began to whimper. 
 
 Since the baby was born he had been 
 its nurse ; not a willing one always, but 
 always a faithful one. To-day, for the 
 first time, the rebellion took a tearful 
 turn. 
 
 " Shet up, I tell yer, and ten' ter dat
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 149 
 
 chile. Po' little sister; ain' yer shame 
 yerse'f ? " 
 
 " Won't yer fetch me a stick of striped 
 candy ? " sobbed Wash, seeking to make 
 the best of an unpleasant duty. 
 
 " I'll fetch a stick ter stripe yer back ef 
 I hear anudder word fum yer; see ef I 
 don't. Shet up, I tell yer." 
 
 If the rebellion was bitter, it was short- 
 lived. Before the crazy little wagon had 
 creaked out of sight Wash was squatted 
 beside his sister, industriously stuffing her 
 with the big biscuit that had been provided 
 for her refreshment. 
 
 Aunt June, sailing into the county town 
 in all the grandeur of her own turnout, 
 soon forgot all about the children in the 
 cabin at home. George Washington was 
 to be relied upon, she knew, and so she 
 gave herself no further uneasiness on the 
 subject. 
 
 Aunt June always went to town in style. 
 The big basket went along for style, too, 
 for aunt June was not neglectful of her
 
 1 50 George Washington's " Bufday " 
 
 reputation, which was large among her 
 acquaintance. The curious old bonnet 
 bobbed many a mild "good morning," 
 as the old mule jogged along the lanes or 
 the white turnpike. As she neared the 
 town, however, the bows became less cor- 
 dial and a trifle just a trifle conde- 
 scending. The reason was soon made 
 known to the white mule. 
 
 " Dese trifling town niggers ! " she mut- 
 tered. " Dey-all 'ud rather lay about town 
 in rags, and go ha'f-starved, ez ter go ter 
 de country, whar dey's plenty ter eat and 
 drink, too. De lazy lot ob 'em ! Jest 
 look at 'em, eight erclock in de mawnin', 
 and not a bressed thing ter do, de day's 
 work done ! " 
 
 Aunt June was a thrifty soul, as was 
 uncle Jake, her " ole man." There were 
 seven pounds of fresh, yellow butter in 
 the tin pail at her feet, in exchange for 
 which she would bring many a comfort to 
 the cabin that she and Jake had bought 
 with their own savings ; the deed was
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 151 
 
 safely registered in the clerk's office in 
 town. 
 
 Aunt June scowled, grunted, and then 
 sighed for the less fortunate ones of her 
 race ; but, as she said, the town negro had 
 no love for the quiet country life that 
 had been her prosperity. 
 
 The wagon had passed through the last 
 toll-gate when aunt June spied an acquain- 
 tance among some workmen who were re- 
 pairing a bridge over which her team must 
 pass. She pulled up the mule and beck- 
 oned the man to her. He came promptly, 
 and stood with his hand upon the mule's 
 back while passing the compliments of the 
 day. 
 
 " How you do, Mis' Pennin'ton ? " 
 said he. " I ain' see you in a long time." 
 
 " I's toler'ble," was the reply. " Yous- 
 all well ? " 
 
 " Toler'ble. Gwine ter town dis mawn- 
 ing, Mis' Pennin'ton ? " 
 
 "Yes, sah. I hab some butter ter 
 fetch in, and some groc'ries ter fetch out.
 
 152 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 'Pears lack dey-alls at home keeps me 
 toler'ble busy gwine in town fur groc'ries ; 
 but Jake and de chillen am hearty, and so 
 am I ; so we ought ter be thankful fur 
 dat, I tell 'em." 
 
 " Yessum, dat you ought. Plenty hab 
 got de health and de appetite what ain't 
 got de groc'ries, I tell yer, Mis' Pennin'- 
 ton. Dat dey is." 
 
 " Dat am a fac'," said aunt June, giv- 
 ing the big basket a turn. " 'Pears lack 
 you-all's toler'ble busy ter-day." 
 
 " Yessum ; we's trying ter finish dis 
 here bridge ter-day, bekase we don't work 
 ter-morrer. Hit's George Washin'ton's 
 bufday." 
 
 Aunt June straightened herself with a 
 jerk: 
 
 "What' dat you say? Hit's whose 
 bufday ? " 
 
 Instantly the negro assumed the gran- 
 deur of enlightener : " Hit am de bufday 
 ob George Washin'ton ; de " 
 
 " What dat you saying ? " demanded
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 153 
 
 aunt June, uncertain whether to take the 
 man seriously and be angry, or whether to 
 laugh at him for a joker. 
 
 The man grinned and patted the white 
 mule's back. " Yessum, hit am George 
 Washin'ton's bufday. He wuz " 
 
 " Shet up ! You reckin I don't know 
 what he wuz ? Yer think I ain't got a 
 scrop o' sense. Tellin' me about George 
 Washin'ton's bufday ? I say it ! " 
 
 " I heerd it ober in town," said the 
 negro. 
 
 " Des listen at dat, will somebody ? " 
 cried aunt June. " What town got ter 
 do wid George Washin'ton, I'd lack ter 
 know ? Talking 'bout de town saying hit 
 'uz George Washin'ton's bufday ! " 
 
 The negro broke into a laugh. " Well," 
 said he, " it am de sho' fac'. Dey 
 
 M 
 
 say 
 
 " Shet yo' mouf. I don' want hear 
 none yo' big talk. I wonder if yer takes 
 me fur a fool, or a what ? Letting on I 
 don't know when's George Washin'ton's
 
 154 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 bufday ! Hit ain' ter-morrer, I tell yer. 
 Ter-morrer ain' no mo' his bufday dan it's 
 mine. I reckin I ought ter know when 
 George Washin'ton wuz bawn. I reckin 
 I wuz dar, at de bawning." 
 
 The negro broke into a laugh so loud 
 that his fellow workmen looked from their 
 work to smile encouragingly, and wonder 
 what had tickled him so. He stumbled 
 back to them bent almost double, and 
 holding his sides with both hands, laugh- 
 ing until the tears chased each other down 
 his dark, furrowed cheeks. 
 
 To him it was a great joke. He sup- 
 posed aunt June had merely disputed the 
 question in order to prove herself not lack- 
 ing in the general knowledge of the day. 
 But when she stated, " as a clincher," he 
 said afterward, that she "was there," the 
 joke became so funny that he could not 
 contain himself. 
 
 Aunt June gathered up her lines and 
 clucked to the white mule. " Git up 
 dar," she exclaimed. " You's gitting ez
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 155 
 
 lazy ez one of dese here town niggers ; 
 dat you is." 
 
 The mule started off rather briskly, but 
 not too briskly to let aunt June hear the 
 parting shot from the bridge : 
 
 " Look out, folkses ; look out. Dar 
 goes de oPest 'oman in de worl'. Look 
 at her well. You ain' gwine nebber hab 
 no sech chance ter see sech oPes' 'oman 
 ag'in in dis worl'. De ol'est 'oman eber' 
 was, ef de troof wuz all told." 
 
 Aunt June's anger had cooled some- 
 what when she reached the store at which 
 she did her trading. The butter was 
 weighed, and she began selecting supplies 
 in exchange for it. If she was slow the 
 merchant was patient, for aunt June's 
 butter was of the best, and there was al- 
 ways a demand for it. There were forty 
 cents to be traded out when the town 
 clock in the court-house steeple struck 
 twelve. 
 
 " Lor, marster," she declared, " I'm 
 'bleeged ter g'long back home. Hit am
 
 156 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 twelbe erclock and de chillen ain't got a 
 bite ter eat. I'll be 'bleeged ter come 
 back and finish ter-morrer." 
 
 "You'll have to get through to-day, 
 aunt June," said the merchant. " The 
 store will be closed to-morrow ; it is 
 George Washington's birthday." 
 
 Aunt June dropped the hank of yellow 
 yarn she had been fingering for some 
 minutes. " Marster," she exclaimed, 
 " who tole you dat ? " 
 
 " Who told me ? Why, I don't know. 
 Everybody knows that; it is in all the 
 papers." 
 
 The black face wore a puzzled expres- 
 sion. " Yer don't sesso." 
 
 " Why, yes," said the merchant, smil- 
 ing, " why shouldn't it be ? We all love 
 George Washington, aunt June." 
 
 " Yes, sah ; yes, sah ; sholy ; ter be 
 sho'." 
 
 She finished her trading and went out 
 to arrange her packages in the cart ; she 
 was puzzled ; she didn't at all understand
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 157 
 
 what it meant ; yet there was a pleasant 
 something about it, too. 
 
 " Dat chile sholy been and done some- 
 thing and not let on ter we-alls, his pappy 
 and me," was her thought. Then in her 
 honest old heart she felt a twinge of 
 regret for her anger at the bridge ; she 
 wondered if the old negro could have 
 been right after all. 
 
 " But naw," she mused, " hit couldn't 
 V been in de winter time he wuz bawn. 
 I 'members hit wuz in de summer, be- 
 kase Jake wuz threshing wheat dat day. 
 And dey wuz cabbage fur dinner, fur 
 Liza Ann come ober and cooked it. 
 Naw, sah, dey all am sholy wrong." 
 
 At that moment a gentleman to whom 
 the woman and her cart were familiar, 
 passing at the moment, called out pleas- 
 antly to her : 
 
 " Hello, aunt June ! Must be going 
 to celebrate George Washington's birth- 
 day from the number of your packages. 
 Been buying yourself rich ? "
 
 158 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 There it was again, George Washing- 
 ton's birthday ; she heard it everywhere. 
 The very banks would be closed, she 
 heard somebody say ; and the post-office 
 would be open but an hour all day. 
 Clearly it was George Washington's 
 birthday. 
 
 To be perfectly sure about it, however, 
 she determined to step around to " Marse 
 Tom's office," and ask about it. Marse 
 Tom was once her husband's old master, 
 and he would be pretty sure to tell her 
 the truth. 
 
 " Marse Tom," said she, thrusting her 
 head in a moment at the door, " what am 
 de incasion ob all de incitement in de 
 town ter-morrer ? " 
 
 " It is George Washington's birthday, 
 aunt June. Come in and get warm," 
 said the master, without looking up from 
 the paper he was busily preparing for the 
 court that would convene the next week. 
 But aunt June was gone ; she went 
 straight back to the grocery.
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 159 
 
 " Ef dey's all detarmint ter hab it so, I 
 reckin it am got ter be so," she declared ; 
 and she bought back a pound of the butter 
 she had sold, two pounds of cheese, and 
 a dozen sticks of striped peppermint 
 candy. 
 
 " Ef ev'ybody else ain' gwine to be- 
 grudge de chile de celebrating, I reckin 
 sholy his own mammy ain' gwine do dat," 
 she said. " I'se gwine straight home and 
 kill a hin." 
 
 She felt relieved in crossing the bridge 
 to find the workmen gone. 
 
 " I don' want hear no more of dat 
 nigger's mouf," said she. " Lack ez not 
 he'll be thinking I don' know de bufday 
 ob my own chillen atter while." 
 
 She made several convenient stops on 
 the way home, however, and at each stop 
 explained why she was imposing so upon 
 the mule. 
 
 " Dey's a lot of things in de cart, to 
 be sho," said she. " But hit am George 
 Washin'ton's bufday ter-morrer."
 
 160 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 And for the life of her she couldn't 
 help saying it just as the people in town 
 had said it; as something that everybody 
 ought to know. Whether these knew or 
 not she was not able to divine, since the 
 same reply met her at each repetition of 
 the announcement : " Yessum ; it am." 
 
 She was planning a great feast ; she 
 meant to make a cake and stuff it with 
 raisins. " He ain' no onery nigger, dat 
 boy ain't," said she, as the white mule 
 plodded patiently homeward. 
 
 Little Wash couldn't understand his 
 sudden rise to greatness, though he very 
 cheerfully washed the potatoes, killed and 
 picked the hen, and was told that he 
 might beat the whites of the eggs for a 
 cake the next day. 
 
 " A cake fur yo' bufday dinner, son," 
 his mother told him. 
 
 That night when his father came home 
 aunt June asked him if he couldn't get 
 off from his work next day and eat dinner 
 at home.
 
 George Washington's "Bufday" 161 
 
 "Hit am George Washin'ton's bufday," 
 she explained again in the town tone. " I 
 done been getting de chile up a bit of nice 
 victuals." 
 
 Uncle Jake scratched his head and 
 pondered. " Ole 'oman," said he, after 
 a pause, " you's mistookin', honey, 'bout 
 dat. Ter-morrer ain' Wash's bufday. 
 Wash 'uz bawned in de summer time. 
 Don' yer reckerlict de threshing ? " 
 
 "Yes, sah, dat I does. But de town 
 folks dey all say ter-morrer 'uz George 
 Washin'ton's bufday. Dey all wouldn't 
 hab it no udder way. De very niggers 
 on de pike say it 'uz George Washin'ton's 
 bufday. And seeing dey wouldn't hab it 
 no udder way, I jest stepped 'round ter 
 Marse Tom's office and ax him. Kase I 
 know ef Marse Tom say it so, it am so. 
 So I put my head in de do' and says I : 
 * Marse Tom, what's ter do ter-morrer ? ' 
 or something mighty lack dat. And says 
 he : ' Hit am George Washin'ton's buf- 
 day.' Den I come 'long and kilt a hin ;
 
 1 62 George Washington's "Bufday" 
 
 kase I know it mus' be so den ; aldo I 
 reckerlick it am so." 
 
 Uncle Jake tilted his chair back and 
 broke into a laugh. " Ole 'oman," said 
 he, " you're all wrong 'bout dat. Dey 
 wuz talking 'bout anuder George Wash- 
 in'ton. I heered all 'bout dat long 'go. 
 Dey wa'n' meaning we-alls' po' little 
 Wash here." 
 
 Aunt June's eyes flashed for a minute ; 
 only a minute, however, and she ducked 
 her head to laugh. 
 
 " I done kilt a hin," said she, " and it's 
 got ter be et, naw, sah; George Washin'- 
 ton am gwine hab dat bufday. He been 
 mighty handy he'ping 'bout de baby and 
 all, and he kin hab two bufdays dis year 
 well ez not. Dey ain' no sech gre't dif- 
 fer'nce 'twix the twenty-seckin o' Feb'- 
 iary an' de twenty-ninth of July, ez I 
 kin see. Seed de reesuns, son, fur de 
 cake ; hit's fur yer bufday dinner ter- 
 morrer."
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 m 
 
 TEN o'clock, and the lamp still 
 burned in the little back sitting- 
 room of the Laurel Street bakery. That 
 was a trifle irregular ; for, unless some- 
 thing unusual was to pay, the sitting- 
 room was always dark at ten o'clock. 
 Something unusual was to pay ; first, the 
 hoarhound cough syrup simmering in 
 Miss Marietta's bright stew-pan had not 
 reached the proper thickness, and Miss 
 Marietta had made up her mind to sit up 
 with it "until it was done, if it took till 
 midnight." For old Mrs. Rodgers was 
 coughing herself to death while the syrup 
 was dilly-dallying. 
 
 The waiting was not unpleasant ; for 
 163
 
 164 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 while Miss Marietta was not given to 
 literature, she could not for the life of her 
 make a light roll and a good book strike 
 the same weight in the scale of her appre- 
 ciation ; she kept up with the leading mag- 
 azines, too : the Laurel Street letter-carrier 
 could have testified to that. " Because," 
 she said, "it is so vulgar to fall behind, 
 and so easy to keep up. Then, too, one 
 feels much more respectable with a good 
 magazine calling around every month. A 
 regular visitor from the great folks, as it 
 were, good company into which the poor- 
 est may enter for a very small considera- 
 tion." So she took the magazines and 
 read them, and laid them carefully away 
 on the book-shelves where Mrs. Brown- 
 ing and Jean Ingelow smiled at her winter 
 evenings in the friendliest, most feeling 
 way. Not that they inspired to any liter- 
 ary ambition. Miss Marietta's season of 
 ambition was ended long ago. With the 
 life at the St. Cecilia Orphanage indeed, 
 which life ended just five and twenty years
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 165 
 
 before the night she sat in the back sitting- 
 room of the Laurel Street bakery concoct- 
 ing a cough syrup for a beggar in the city 
 hospital. 
 
 She had cherished some very gay hopes 
 then, in the old days at the orphanage, 
 but she had left them there, in the conse- 
 crated old convent, along with her draw- 
 ing-pencils, when she decided to learn 
 the baker's trade. She had burned the 
 bridges behind her as she went, and the 
 fires from the bake ovens had long ago 
 drawn the fire from her ambition. 
 
 But she had kept up her magazine 
 reading. That kept her abreast with the 
 world in general, she said, and it kept her 
 in sight, at least, of her own old world in 
 particular. A very strange woman was 
 Miss Marietta Brown, a very strange, 
 tender gentlewoman, despite the bakery 
 and the bread and the odour of spiced 
 pies. 
 
 It was due to the magazine reading, 
 perhaps ; possibly it was her nature, in-
 
 1 66 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 herent. Perhaps it was the result of the 
 fifteen years at St. Cecilia. It was due to 
 St. Cecilia that she ever heard of a maga- 
 zine, certainly ; and it was due to the 
 magazines that she ever heard of the book 
 lying upon her knee, whose contents 
 had served to keep her awake, while she 
 waited the thickening of the beggar's 
 broth. 
 
 She had finished the book ; " scanned 
 it," she called it. She would read it for a 
 full year to come. 
 
 She closed the lids and laid the volume 
 upon her knee, and with her elbows rest- 
 ing upon the arms of her easy chair, and 
 her sharp little chin dropped forward upon 
 her thin locked fingers, her thoughts went 
 trooping back, down the shadowy paths 
 of memory, to the convent with its solemn, 
 gray walls, half hidden by clinging old ivy. 
 And within, the clean floors and stately 
 galleries, and further on, up the broad old 
 stairway, past the gloom and awe, to the 
 old sunshiny garret, with its low, deep win-
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 167 
 
 dows where she was wont to sit with her 
 former friends (" friends in adversity " 
 they called themselves then), Hannah, 
 Kate, and Tom, and make plans, and 
 dream dreams : such queer, wild dreams ; 
 dreams that had not been entirely barren 
 of fulfilment for them, the other three, but 
 which, for Miss Marietta, had been truly 
 dreams. 
 
 The others had caught and held fast all 
 the glory and glitter, if fame meant glory, 
 for each was famous. She alone had 
 fallen upon no special destiny. 
 
 To " feed the hungry " had been the 
 sum total of her achievements. Tom, 
 oh, how well she remembered Tom, and 
 the songs he sang at the funerals of the 
 dolls, and the burials of the dead doves 
 and the pet rabbits ; bits of opera caught 
 here and there, snatches from the mass 
 learned from the priests, or a strain or two 
 from the Ave Maria the nuns had taught 
 him. 
 
 He was now leading tenor in a famous
 
 1 68 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 opera troupe ; Tom, who had sung at the 
 funerals of the dolls and rabbits ! Miss 
 Marietta had kept up with him through 
 the press and the magazines. She was 
 not surprised at the boy's advancement. 
 His destiny had been foreordained and 
 apparent since that day (the dear old 
 Mother Columbia had told them about it) 
 when a weary, heart-broken stranger had 
 knocked at the convent door, and placed 
 the motherless boy in the Mother's arms, 
 saying only "In the name of the blessed 
 Mother ; " and then crept away to die. 
 And the child had cried and cried, until 
 gentle Sister Eulalie had taken him in 
 her arms and coaxed him to sleep with 
 the Ave, soft and low and tender. 
 
 He had grown up there among the 
 nuns, fiery of temper and given to spells 
 of melancholy, a child of moods and 
 strange fancies, but with a love for music 
 so deep, and a soul so responsive, that 
 after awhile it absorbed all other feelings 
 and interests until he was adopted by a
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 169 
 
 lady, a childless woman, the wife of a 
 musician. Now he was a leading tenor in 
 a great company. Miss Marietta sighed. 
 She had gone to hear him once, when 
 the troupe visited Memphis, the city in 
 which Miss Marietta and the bakery lived. 
 Oh, yes, the bakery lived ; it was a very 
 live establishment indeed, the bakery in 
 Laurel Street. 
 
 Miss Marietta had meant to invite him 
 home with her to a tea-drinking in the 
 sitting-room when the play was over. 
 But when he danced down before the 
 footlights, so young-looking and fine and 
 handsome, bowing before the applause 
 which greeted his appearance, it had been 
 a trifle difficult to associate the famous 
 " Bernardi " and the sentimental, fitful 
 Tom of the old days in her mind as one 
 and the same person. She had " slapped 
 his cheek " many a time, then kissed away 
 the sting of the blow before he had time 
 to be angry. The little old maid had 
 blushed as she thought of it. She felt so
 
 170 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 old, so worn and faded, when she looked 
 at him, so young and fine, that she de- 
 cided not to make herself known. 
 
 And the singer, if he noticed the lit- 
 tle old figure in rusty brown, sobbing 
 down in the parquet, had doubtless at- 
 tributed her tears to the play, the ten- 
 der, heart-breaking music, and had sung 
 on. It was his business to make people 
 weep. 
 
 But above the music with its wonderful 
 thrills and pulsations, Miss Marietta had 
 heard the chatter of childish voices. The 
 footlights had disappeared, and the golden 
 sunlight was streaming in the wide win- 
 dows of memory ; the doors of fancy 
 flew back on golden hinges, and the Tom 
 of the past pushed aside the Bernardi of 
 the present. Instead of the grand opera 
 in the great theatre, the Ave Maria was 
 ringing through the St. Cecilia orchard 
 where the dead doves were buried under 
 the long dry grasses. She had wept, fool- 
 ish little woman ; she, alas, she had learned
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 171 
 
 the agony of bringing the " Is " to sit in 
 the seat of the " Might Have Been." 
 
 So she had returned alone to the bakery 
 on Laurel Street, and he had gone on to 
 new triumphs and nobler successes. 
 
 " Each to his own," she had said, as she 
 turned the key in the lock after letting 
 herself in at the bakery door. 
 
 " Each to his own," she had said again, 
 when she had turned the yeast jars below 
 the low fire. She had said it many times 
 since, when his work and hers had re- 
 curred to her mind. And she said it 
 again, " Each to his own," as she sat 
 before the sitting-room fire, and, turning 
 the leaves of the book she had been read- 
 ing, saw through its gilded pages the 
 green groves and the gray walls of the St. 
 Cecilia orphanage come up to meet her. 
 
 For it was Kate's book. " A strong- 
 minded work," the magazine reviewer had 
 called it. Miss Marietta remembered that 
 Kate had always been " strong-minded." 
 Back in the days at the orphanage, when
 
 172 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 only a child, she had a way of making her 
 plans, and living strictly up to them, refus- 
 ing any offer, however advantageous, that 
 meant a conflict with these plans. More 
 than one good home had been offered 
 Kate before she left St. Cecilia's, but she 
 had begged so hard to stay that she had 
 been allowed to do so, until one morn- 
 ing she left the orphanage the adopted 
 daughter of a great physician. 
 
 The book lying upon Miss Marietta's 
 knee, a scientific work upon the treat- 
 ment of certain surgical operations, was 
 the " direct result," so the little baker 
 woman said, of that adoption. It was 
 very like Kate, this work of her brain. 
 It was the woman of the child that had 
 been ; the result of years of planning and 
 dreaming and study ; the flower of the 
 inherent bud. 
 
 At the orphanage she had been known 
 as Doctor Kate ; Miss Marietta remem- 
 bered that she had set the broken leg of a 
 pet rabbit once, and that she had patched
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 173 
 
 more than one lacerated arm, plastered 
 cuts and doctored bruises among the 
 children, stanched the blood and taken a 
 stitch in a ghastly wound from which stern 
 old Sister Mildred turned away sick and 
 faint when the sufferers were carried to 
 the infirmary. 
 
 " Send for Doctor Kate." 
 
 Miss Marietta laughed as she thought 
 of little Kate Norton with her bottles and 
 plasters and boxes, and glanced again at 
 the title-page of the book upon her knee. 
 
 " Catharine Norton, M. D." 
 
 It had a very stately, solemn look ; a 
 later edition of the prim little Kate Nor- 
 ton of the old days at St. Cecilia's. 
 
 Surely Doctor Catherine had no more 
 attentive reader than the little old maid 
 who had broken brown bread into a bowl 
 of milk, side by side with the miniature 
 surgeon and author for some dozen years 
 at the dear old orphanage. 
 
 She was still breaking bread, poor aim- 
 less little Miss Marietta, breaking it in a
 
 174 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 quiet, humble, but wholly generous way, 
 for the hungry mouths of the city's poor. 
 But Kate, well, she had not lived " by 
 bread alone," at all events. 
 
 " Catherine Norton, M. D." 
 
 Neither had " Bernardi, the star of the 
 operatic stage." 
 
 And before the little bakery a square of 
 gaudily painted tin told the Laurel Street 
 folk that " M. Brown's Bakery " kept a 
 fresh supply of " Rolls, Buns, and Loaves" 
 constantly on hand. 
 
 Music, books, and bread. Each to his 
 own. 
 
 She thought of a familiar stanza, become 
 familiar through constant repetition, which 
 she had found in one of her magazines : 
 
 " You may grind their souls in the self-same mill, 
 
 You may bind them brow to brow, 
 But the poet will follow the rainbow still, 
 While his brother will follow the plow." 
 
 Miss Marietta sighed and gave the 
 stew-pan a gentle turn. " Yes," she said,
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 175 
 
 " Tom and Kate have followed the rain- 
 bow, and have found the bag of gold." 
 
 " Each to his taste," she told herself, 
 when in reality it was each to his need. 
 Only, the others would not sacrifice talent 
 to necessity, while she had taken the first 
 offer made her, errand girl and apprentice 
 to the old baker woman of Laurel Street. 
 True, she had only meant it as a begin- 
 ning, a living, until her brush and pencil 
 should sweep away the obstacles in her 
 way to independence. Alas for it ! Be- 
 ginnings are mere prophecies of the end, 
 and false beginnings can not achieve great 
 ends. 
 
 The hand of humanity is too weak, for- 
 sooth, to roll away the stone from the 
 grave of mighty aspirations and possible 
 achievements that have been strangled in 
 the grasp of unwise beginnings. She had 
 not been willing to trust her talent, lean 
 upon it, believe in it, and, live or die, 
 to cling to it. She did not know that 
 great gifts belong to great souls, and will
 
 176 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 admit of no rivalries, no false or faltering 
 allegiance in their possessor ; they demand 
 all, the soul entire. 
 
 " Catharine Norton, M. D." The 
 words had a strong, honest look. Tom's 
 name on the handbills had looked differ- 
 ent. There was a picture of himself ; the 
 pretty, round head, with its short, cling- 
 ing curls ; how vain he had been of those 
 dainty ringlets in the old orphanage days! 
 
 And beneath the face, the beautiful, 
 haunting face with its melancholy mouth, 
 and eyes that seemed to be gazing into a 
 kind of dream world, the " promised 
 land " of the poets, was his name, " Ber- 
 nardi," in Tom's own handwriting. 
 
 Miss Marietta smiled as she recalled 
 the picture. It was so like Tom, that 
 half melancholy. The same expression 
 had been borne upon the face of the boy 
 Tom, and he had been rather vain of it, 
 in the days of obscure boyhood. It made 
 him interesting, he said in the days of ob- 
 scurity. It made him no less so in the
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 177 
 
 days of his success. He was known as 
 the " Sad-eyed singer, Bernardi." 
 
 At the orphan asylum, he had been 
 simply " sentimental Tom." Still, Miss 
 Marietta remembered there were seasons 
 of gloom, melancholy, when he would 
 steal off and spend hours and hours alone 
 down under the apricot-tree in the asylum 
 orchard. And when she would find him 
 there, with his face buried in the long 
 brown orchard grass, and try to comfort 
 him, he would cry out : 
 
 " Etta, oh, Etta, it is unbearable." 
 
 She would crouch down in the grass 
 beside him, and sob with him, poor ten- 
 der little heart, until Hannah, beautiful, 
 brown-eyed Hannah, as much a nun by 
 nature as Tom was an artist, Kate a sur- 
 geon, and she a baker, came with a touch 
 of her gentle hand, the sound of her 
 sweet voice that could bring the light back 
 to Tom's face, the song to his lips, as 
 nothing else could. 
 
 She would kneel down beside him in
 
 178 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 the grass and talk about the " blessed 
 Mother " in her trustful, devout way, un- 
 til Tom's melancholy was gone. And 
 after awhile they would go home to the 
 convent, hand in hand, through the or- 
 chard grasses, the sunset trailing a crim- 
 son path behind them, while she, little 
 Marietta, sat under the shade of the apri- 
 cot-trees, trying to glean comfort from the 
 song they were singing : 
 
 " Hear the heart's lonely sigh, 
 Thine, too, hath bled." 
 
 Sitting before the fire in the back room 
 of Laurel Street bakery, the old feeling of 
 desolation came back, the 
 
 " Or a pro nobis " 
 
 trembled upon her lips as it did that far- 
 away afternoon when she knew that Tom 
 loved Hannah. But he had been true to 
 his talent, his ambition. For when he 
 began to love he fled. Left the con- 
 vent. Away from that which threatened 
 his ambition.
 
 Parable of Four Talents 179 
 
 But Etta had fled first : fled to the 
 baker woman, and the odour of spiced 
 pies. The sticky pastes, the jams and 
 jellies, the hot ovens and the white flour, 
 were infinitely more bearable than Tom's 
 love for Hannah. So she had proved 
 false to her gift ; the abandoned brushes 
 left beside the garret window, the unfin- 
 ished head of a saintly Madonna, testified 
 the shameful desertion. She had been 
 unwilling to suffer for her talent's sake, 
 while he had turned his back upon joy, 
 and rushed with determined soul into the 
 very arms of desolation, in order to ren- 
 der the altar of his worship free of other 
 gods. 
 
 And Hannah, devout, wholly uncon- 
 scious of the anguish she had caused, 
 more than once solemnly shook her pretty 
 head and refused the love offered her in 
 costly homes that still lacked wealth enough 
 to buy the little maiden's loyalty. 
 
 " A nun inherent," Miss Marietta had 
 said the night she had gone back to St.
 
 180 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 Cecilia's to see the gloriously golden 
 tresses sweeping the altar where Hannah 
 knelt in bridal robes ready to become 
 " the bride of the Church." 
 
 Sweet Sister Magdalene in serge and 
 cap was born that night, and where the 
 beautiful girl Hannah went in, the pale 
 nun came forth. 
 
 Forth into the world to minister, not 
 dreaming of fame and not caring for it. 
 Yet it had come to her ; a reward per- 
 haps for loyalty, who shall say? For 
 when the loathsome fever plague struck 
 the Southern cities, and those who could 
 flee fled, leaving the stricken to drag 
 themselves into their lonely beds and die 
 there, a beautiful nun with the name of 
 the blessed Mary upon her lips, and the 
 love of humanity in her heart, had has- 
 tened down to smooth the pillows, cool 
 the lips of the stricken, and gently speed 
 the souls of the dying. 
 
 It was a grand thing to do, a grandly 
 heroic thing, and very like indeed to the
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 181 
 
 little orphan Hannah was the brave deed 
 of the Sister Magdalene. 
 
 All the world heard of it. The world 
 beyond Laurel Street never heard of the 
 " Brown Bakery," though it had been a 
 thriving business for five and twenty 
 years. 
 
 All the world heard of Hannah, for 
 wherever the demon of disease planted 
 his banner, there she followed with the 
 rosary and crucifix. She was a nun in- 
 herent, and had been true to her heritage, 
 as had Tom and Kate. 
 
 Miss Marietta wondered where they 
 were, as she sat there dreaming over 
 Kate's book. She did not wish for them, 
 no, no ; she had no wish to ever meet 
 the old asylum mates familiarly again, 
 unless it might be Hannah. Hannah 
 would understand, she thought. Tom 
 would feel sorry ; oh, how that would 
 hurt her ! And Kate would run her eyes 
 along the shelves and counters with their 
 brown loaves and egg-polished buns, and
 
 1 82 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 say nothing, except in look. That look 
 would say, " You always were wanting in 
 ambition, Etta." 
 
 The very loaves themselves, and the 
 greasy doughnuts, would appeal to Tom. 
 Miss Etta could almost hear him cry 
 out, in the old heart-hurt way of the asy- 
 lum days, " Oh, Etta, it is unbearable ! " 
 But Hannah would see deeper than 
 the achievement ; Hannah would catch 
 a glimpse of the endeavour suddenly 
 choked, the ambition strangled. And she 
 would say something good, and strong, 
 and tender ; that would be very like Han- 
 nah. Miss Marietta bottled her syrup, 
 and glanced at the clock on the mantel. 
 
 " Too late to carry it over to-night," 
 she said, but she set the alarm an hour 
 earlier than she was accustomed to rising, 
 so that she might have time to run over 
 and carry the medicine before the hour 
 for opening her shop. 
 
 She might have sent her errand girl, to 
 be sure, but she had been an errand girl
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 183 
 
 herself, and the day old Victory Marble, 
 the baker mistress under whom she 
 served, died and went to her reward, 
 and she had stepped into her shoes, 
 Miss Marietta had vowed a vow, the only 
 one perhaps she had ever made. She 
 would make no pack-mules of heavy- 
 hearted errand girls. Such was the vow 
 made in memory of her own over- 
 burdened youth. 
 
 So the syrup was set aside for her own 
 carrying, and Miss Marietta gave the 
 yeast a turn before the smouldering fire, 
 saw that the pie boards were carefully 
 covered, and, taking her lamp, climbed 
 the stairs to her bedroom in the upper 
 story. 
 
 But Doctor Catharine's book had set 
 her thoughts awrangle ; she could not 
 sleep. She got up and stood for a moment 
 at the window. The curtains were drawn 
 back and the shutters wide open, for 
 Miss Marietta was fond of sleeping where 
 the moonlight could find her pillow. She
 
 184 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 had learned that at the convent, where the 
 windows had neither shades nor shutters. 
 
 The bakery window looked down upon 
 a tangle of rustling brown hop-vines, and 
 looked up at the star-spangled heavens. 
 She, too, had looked upon hops, fed upon 
 husks. They, Tom, Hannah, and Kate, 
 had studied the stars. 
 
 It was the old, old story of fortune's 
 ups and downs, she thought. Yet her 
 education had not justified such meagre 
 results, although it had been unfinished 
 when she went to old Victory Marble. It 
 was strange, the destinies that had fol- 
 lowed the four orphans of St, Cecilia's. 
 But, indeed, it was a problem with a very 
 plain meaning. They had been true, 
 those other three, to their talent, their 
 genius ; had believed in, and relied upon 
 it. And genius had rewarded faith. Miss 
 Marietta tiptoed to watch a light burning 
 in an upper story of a tall building far- 
 ther down the street. The building was 
 the hospital where ebbed and flowed the
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 185 
 
 pauper life of this great city. Miss Mari- 
 etta knew what the light in the upper 
 story meant. 
 
 " Little Joe is worse," she said. " I 
 must send him a nice roll in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Bread, bread, bread. The old familiar 
 text came to her : " Man shall not live 
 by bread alone." 
 
 She turned away from the window and 
 the staring white moonlight, and crept 
 back to bed. 
 
 The basket that went to hospital next 
 morning contained a book of rare engrav- 
 ings hidden away under the snowy rolls. 
 
 "Joe has a taste for drawings," Miss 
 Marietta said aloud when she placed it 
 there ; in her heart she said : " c Man shall 
 not live by bread alone.' ' 
 
 There was silence in the city, the silence 
 of sorrow and desertion. The mild win- 
 ter, for which the poor had kissed their 
 crosses and thanked the blessed Mother, 
 had proved traitor, and had brought in its
 
 1 86 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 wake that disease and death whose germ 
 must needs have frost and ice to check its 
 deadliness. 
 
 The brown earth cracked and crum- 
 bled ; and down in the lower levels out- 
 side the city's limits, the sluggish pools 
 were covered with a greenish scum, 
 through which the hot breezes struck, 
 only to flaunt forth from the loathsome 
 stagnancy, the leprous breath of fever. 
 
 The yellow scourge spread like a va- 
 pour through the parched city, causing a 
 wail among the huddled masses of hu- 
 manity. And as the tell-tale signal rose 
 here and there, among the house tops, 
 floating its demoniac greeting to some 
 other signal, the frightened people gath- 
 ered their children in their arms, or left 
 them to perish, and fled ; fled anywhere 
 and everywhere, their only thought being 
 to escape the awful fever-death. 
 
 Down in Laurel Street the little baker 
 woman toiled on over the hot ovens ; the 
 fires were not extinguished day or night,
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 187 
 
 the ovens were never cool ; the sieve never 
 rested, and the tidy floors wore still the 
 dusty prints of feet along with the white 
 dust of flour. Yet the shelves were 
 empty, and the cases held neither bun 
 nor loaf. And for all the hurried and 
 unnecessary labour, not a penny had 
 dropped into the baker woman's till, four 
 full weeks. 
 
 She had not thought of that; at such 
 times as these men do not stop to cast up 
 gain or loss. When death is on his steps, 
 Dives remembers Lazarus. 
 
 Miss Marietta toiled on. Bread ! 
 bread ! bread ! it seemed as if the world 
 was starving. Every day the bakery sent 
 the brown loaves out to find the poor who 
 could not fly, and must not perish. 
 
 And while she baked they blessed her, 
 and kissed their crosses, praying the Vir- 
 gin's care upon her. 
 
 But there came a day when the loaves 
 were missing : down in Laurel Street 
 another door was closed. The store was
 
 1 88 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 strangely desolate looking, stripped of its 
 wheaten adornment. The ovens in the 
 bake-room were cold, the flour waited un- 
 kneaded in the tray where she had placed 
 it when the message came. The blinds 
 were closed and the curtain drawn fast. 
 The errand girl had opened them at 
 daybreak to put out the fever-flag, and 
 then closed them again, mutely wonder- 
 ing who would do the same for her the 
 next morn, or the next, when she should 
 lie in Miss Marietta's place, waiting for 
 death. 
 
 It had come so sharp and sudden, the 
 message, and Miss Marietta had received 
 it so calmly ; she had been baking^ too 
 busy to think of the scourge, and late in 
 the afternoon had gone to the door to 
 fetch a tray of warm loaves to a volunteer 
 hospital nurse waiting there for them. 
 
 " No abatement ? " the girl had heard 
 her ask the man. 
 
 " No, ma'm, it grows worse and worse. 
 Two of our doctors died last night, and four
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 189 
 
 sisters of charity this morning ; and there 
 is not a soul to say mass for the dead 
 nuns ; for the priest died just ten minutes 
 after." 
 
 Miss Marietta did not speak until the 
 big " band wagon," that was rattling by, 
 had passed on. The gaudy festival car- 
 riage bore in gilded letters upon its crim- 
 son sides, " To the races." Within, it 
 bore the dead ; a score of rude pine 
 boxes ; a full score. Death on the race 
 track had distanced all rivals. When the 
 wagon had passed by, Miss Marietta 
 spoke : 
 
 " Where are the bodies of the nuns and 
 the priest ? " 
 
 The man pointed to a coal cart that was 
 following in the direction the band wagon 
 had gone. 
 
 " That was all we could get, ma'm," he 
 said. " And that is driven by a young 
 society chap, ma'm. One of the nuns 
 nursed him through the fever, and the 
 priest buried his mother three days ago.
 
 190 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 It takes a plague like this, ma'm, to break 
 a path to men's hearts." 
 
 The nurse steadied the tray upon his 
 head, and said, " Good evening," but he 
 turned back a moment to say : 
 
 " Little Joe died last night." Miss 
 Marietta gasped for breath. " Yes'm, he 
 had a lot of pictures, and a book he begged 
 to have put in the coffin with him ; he was 
 certain he would die from the first. But 
 bless you, the box they brought for him 
 was so narrow we had to lay him on his 
 side. I did slip in a Madonna's face ; 
 slipped it in the child's jacket. I thought 
 it looked a trifle like my mother when I 
 picked it up. She died with the fever 
 nearly a month back." 
 
 The nurse went on to his work, and 
 Miss Marietta went into the shop. She 
 went back to the tray in the kitchen, and 
 sifted the flour for the next baking. Then 
 she laid the sieve aside and called to the 
 errand girl. 
 
 " Order the fires put out," she said,
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 191 
 
 "and pay off the hands." Then she 
 crept up-stairs and into her bed. The 
 errand girl bent over her. 
 
 " Hannah ! Oh, if Hannah would 
 come ! " 
 
 In an hour her eyes were sunk and 
 staring, and her skin like yellow parch- 
 ment. The furrowed hands clutched at 
 the white covers of the bed whenever the 
 terrible agony struck her. Then, when 
 the pain had passed for a moment, she 
 would drop among the pillows and moan: 
 
 " Hannah, oh, Hannah ! " 
 
 The errand girl thought the angels must 
 have told her, and crossed herself when 
 the door opened, and the tall, strong fig- 
 ure of a nun entered, and a voice whose 
 very tone was music said : 
 
 " Etta ! Etta ! Hannah has come." 
 
 The nun threw off her veil and bent 
 over the sunken yellow face on the pillow. 
 
 Death stood back a moment as the 
 dying woman's eye caught the face bent 
 over her ; and then a cry went up from
 
 192 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 that poor place, a cry of such joy, such 
 infinite rapture as the old shop had never 
 heard. 
 
 " Hannah ! oh, Hannah ! " 
 
 The strong arms and the weak ones met 
 in one fond embrace. Sisters, indeed, in 
 charity. That charity which is greater 
 than hope, and mightier than faith. But 
 death is mightier than either, and death 
 was there. The clock upon the mantel in 
 the sitting-room below had ceased to run, 
 for no one thought to wind it ; but from a 
 convent in the next street the angelus 
 sounded when Miss Marietta opened her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Sister, the ring-doves are all dead, 
 and the rabbits are too old to play, and I 
 have buried my goldfinch under the apri- 
 cot-tree down in the orchard." 
 
 The nun drew the slight figure into her 
 arms, and rested her soft chin on the yel- 
 low temple. She, too, was travelling again 
 the old paths through the convent gar- 
 den. The path down which four orphans
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 193 
 
 had travelled into such widely different 
 destinies. 
 
 There were the rabbits, and the dead 
 ring-doves, and sweet Sister Xavier trying 
 to comfort the troubled hearts of the tiny 
 mourners. And then they were carrying 
 Etta's pretty goldfinch to bury it. It was 
 Etta herself who was drawing the nun back 
 through the old paths of childhood. It 
 was Etta who threw off the circling arms 
 and sobbed : 
 
 " Sing, Tom ! sing the Ave." 
 The nun stood up and folded her hands 
 upon her bosom. 
 
 " Ave sanctissima ! 
 
 We lift our souls to thee." 
 
 The hymn rose and fell, soft and sweet 
 and trustful. And when the last note 
 died away in her beautiful throat, she 
 beckoned to the errand girl, telling her 
 beads in the corner. 
 
 " Can you make out to shroud her 
 while I try to find a priest ? "
 
 194 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 "Yes, Sister." 
 
 For the plow had reached the end of 
 the furrow ; the rainbow still spanned the 
 heavens. 
 
 The rainbow still spanned the heavens; 
 and they, those other three, still followed 
 in the seven-coloured glow, until one day 
 in the summer one foot slipped the radiant 
 path, and Hannah went out with the mul- 
 titudes whose cause had been her calling. 
 
 In the nun's graveyard, under the 
 shadow of the convent walls, sleeps the 
 beautiful dust of the Sister Magdalene. 
 The simple headstone tells only that she 
 waits there the final resurrection of the 
 saints. But over to the westward, where 
 the city is crossed by the great passways, 
 one leading to the city, the others to the 
 river, just where the priests seeking the 
 Cathedral in the city's heart, the labourer 
 hurrying down to the flat, or to the cotton 
 fields beyond the river, can see and re- 
 member, a statue, an angel, in bronze, 
 with wings outspread, as if hastening on
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 195 
 
 its mission of love, commemorates the 
 work of Hannah. 
 
 The marble pedestal says, " Sister Mag- 
 dalene." So her work ended with her 
 life. She had been true to her calling, 
 her talent, which is sometimes called by 
 the broader name of genius, but which, 
 after all, means only that special One 
 Thing, which is bestowed on each and all, 
 and which, seized and nurtured and be- 
 lieved in, brings its own reward ; and 
 which, however humble, if cast aside for 
 an alien, or buried in a napkin, throws 
 back on its repudiator tears, desolation, 
 regret. 
 
 In an old churchyard, just without the 
 city of Florence, a great unglossed pillar, 
 a pillar of stones, rises upon the green 
 banks of the Arno. It records no name, 
 inasmuch as it arose there stone by stone, 
 brought thither by the lovers of " Ber- 
 nardi." The days are never too hot, 
 the wind never strikes too chill for the 
 pilgrim visiting the tomb to carry his
 
 196 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 stone, which helps to build the monument 
 to the sad-eyed singer whose voice once 
 stirred all Florence, and whose memory 
 still lives through all Europe. He had not 
 been happy. What of that ? Ambition 
 and happiness are unacquainted. He had 
 been true ; true to his talent, his genius. 
 
 Happiness is not mentioned in the be- 
 stowal of talents. That comes with the 
 end, the reckoning ; he had done his best, 
 thrown aside every weight in making his 
 race for the rainbow. He had found the 
 bag of gold in the unglossed monument 
 where the chase ended on the green banks 
 of the Arno. 
 
 Far away in the North, a woman, strong 
 bodied and with lips that told of purpose, 
 a woman who had flung the world her 
 scorn of its opinions, folded the paper she 
 had been reading while she sipped her 
 coffee. 
 
 She had read news in the morning jour- 
 nal, news that would have affected most 
 women ; but there was no tremor of the
 
 A Parable of Four Talents 197 
 
 firm lips, and the hand that removed the 
 gold-bowed glasses from the cold eyes 
 were the same steady hands of the sur- 
 geon, Catharine Norton, M. D. 
 
 " So he is dead," she said. " Well, he 
 succeeded ; that is worth dying for." 
 
 She returned to her books and her lab- 
 oratory ; she had her work, it absorbed 
 her, demanded every feeling of her soul. 
 She had no sentiment to waste upon dead 
 singers. Yet she approved him ; he had 
 striven, clung to his talent, and it had 
 repaid him. 
 
 And so indeed did hers ; for when she 
 died her bones were sent to rest in marble, 
 and her life was gathered on gilded pages 
 which the world still reads and applauds. 
 
 She had lived her life solitary and alone, 
 but it was her life. She had been created 
 for that; she recognised it, accepted it, 
 and had done her best with it. Her 
 talent had doubled itself. She had fed 
 no poor, comforted and sustained none ; 
 that was not her work, and " no man can
 
 198 A Parable of Four Talents 
 
 serve two masters." She had attended to 
 her own talent, seeing that it accomplished 
 that for which it was given. 
 
 And so indeed had he, Bernardi, and 
 she, the nun Hannah. And for her, the 
 little human-hearted baker woman, she 
 had toiled and given and wept ; fed the 
 hungry and clothed the naked. But, 
 plowing in other men's fields, she had 
 lost the world an artist.
 
 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 IT was twilight in Mullein Town. 
 Down the dusty street, of which 
 Mullein Town boasted but one, sounded 
 the uneven, loitering step of the labourers 
 going home from their work over in the 
 city " on the other side the creek." 
 
 It was only a village, a little settlement 
 of negroes, that was interesting, if not 
 large ; select, too, and original, bound by 
 no strict obedience to the laws that gov- 
 erned their more pretentious friends over 
 in the city " on the other side the creek." 
 
 The other side the creek meant much 
 to the denizens of Mullein Town. They 
 cautioned their children against " soshatin' 
 with any sech triflin' niggers as dey-all on 
 tudder side de creek." 
 199
 
 2OO Sweet 'Laases 
 
 On the other hand, the Mullein Town 
 tribes were " a passel o' cunjure niggers 
 what don't know butter fum beeswax. 
 Dey ain't nothin' fitten ter talk 'bout in 
 dat Mullein Town. Better keep 'way 
 fum dar ef you don't want a spell flung 
 ober you ; dat you had. Ef you don't 
 want ter wake up some day wid all de ha'r 
 gone out yer haid, or else yer feet done 
 furgit how ter walk, you better stay on 
 dis side de creek." 
 
 So was there great enmity between the 
 two sections. Mullein Town boasted no 
 house of worship, and although she was in 
 consequence forced to cross the creek and 
 worship with the " other side," even then 
 the enmity was not forgotten. 
 
 She was welcome to come over and sit 
 under the sanctuary, to catch such crumbs 
 of comfort as might fall from the tables of 
 her pretentious neighbours, and she might 
 drop her mite into the same basket along 
 with theirs ; they would send it along in 
 the same message to the same suffering
 
 Sweet 'Laases 201 
 
 heathen ; she might shout and sing and 
 shake hands with the saints from the 
 " other side " on religious occasions, but the 
 line must be drawn somewhere, and it was 
 drawn at church festivals, suppers, con- 
 certs, and the like. She must keep on 
 her own side the creek when it came to 
 carrying off the honours at these entertain- 
 ments. Let her presume to carry off a 
 prize, and see what would happen. 
 
 Mullein Town knew what would hap- 
 pen ; for had not yellow 'Liza, the belle 
 of the " 'cross the creek " town, carried off 
 the last three cakes at the last three walk- 
 ings ? And she would do it again ; they 
 could depend on 'Liza to uphold their 
 pride and to outdo the " stuck-up niggers 
 on de udder side de creek." 
 
 'Liza was busy packing the fresh, clean 
 clothes into the basket ; she was in a great 
 hurry, as great a hurry as a Mullein 
 Town negro could get in. She had to 
 carry those clothes home across the creek; 
 for 'Liza did such washing as the fine
 
 2O2 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 folks on the other side were fain to recog- 
 nise and glad to get. 
 
 She was singing as she worked ; one of 
 those dreamy, drawly, half-hymn, half- 
 jubilee melodies, that nobody composed 
 and nobody but a Mullein Town negro, 
 a woman at that, knows how to sing : 
 
 " Oh, mo'ner, le's go home. 
 
 Bless God ! 
 He's a-wait'n ober yander fur ter see you come, 
 
 Bless God ! Bless God ! 
 Oh, rise up, sinner, an' shake off yer sin 
 Ef yer s'pec' de anguls ter let you in, 
 Bless God ! 
 
 " Bless God ! Bless God ! 
 Salvation's free ter you an' me, 
 Bless God 1 Salvation's free." 
 
 She sang in a low, crooning way that 
 was not unmusical despite the uneven 
 measure of the words, which she twisted 
 into a sing-song melody of her own, add- 
 ing a note where the words were too 
 many, and dropping into a long, soughing,
 
 Sweet 'Laases 203 
 
 moan-like sound that effectually covered 
 up any lack where words were wanting. 
 For metre is a small thing to the negro ; 
 he thinks of the music, not of the metre. 
 The more wise he. 
 
 Through the open door of her cabin 
 came the prattle of children playing about 
 the streets, varied now and then with the 
 loud laugh, or the friendly " How-you- 
 do's " of villagers passing to or from their 
 homes, to the workmen coming out from 
 their work over in the town across the 
 creek. 
 
 Over all sounded the almost ceaseless 
 creaking of the well-sweep ; for all Mul- 
 lein Town watered at the public well. 
 Moreover, it was supper-time in Mullein 
 Town, and it was a natural thing that the 
 pails should stand empty about the curb- 
 ing while Mullein Town exchanged the 
 gossip of the day in the dusky, dusty twi- 
 light. 
 
 They were talking about the cake-walk- 
 ing that was to be that very night at the
 
 204 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 church across the creek. Every word 
 came as distinct and as sure to the ear 
 of the young woman packing her laun- 
 dry basket as though the talk had been 
 designed solely for her ears. 
 
 " Jes' wait till 'Liza tackles 'em, I tell 
 yer. Eh-eh ? Dey ain't seen dat gal 
 strack a plank yit. Dey all better not go 
 ter brayin' till dey's cl'ar o' de stable, / 
 tell you. 'Liza'll fetch 'em." 
 
 It was a man's voice that replied : 
 
 " Dey say dey got a new gal ober dar 
 what dey fotch fum somers 'way off. Dey 
 say she kin sho' walk. Dey say she strack 
 a walk once ober dar whar she come fum, 
 dat dey ain' nebber stop talkin' 'bout yit. 
 Dey say she kin beat our 'Liza all ter 
 pieces ; dat's what de town niggers say." 
 
 " Yes, an* dey say dat de las' time. Dey 
 say dey got a nigger what skeer a jack rab- 
 bit hitse'f off'n de track. But it ain' skeer 
 'Liza Ann, ez nobody ebber heeard tell 
 on. 'Liza walked home wid de angul cake 
 on her haid jus' de same ; onconsarned as
 
 Sweet 'Laases 205 
 
 if hit 'uz a basket o' clean clothes she 'uz 
 fetchin' home fum washin'. Eh-eh ? Fotch 
 anudder jack rabbit fur 'Liza ter beat, is 
 dey ? All right, 'Liza'll beat him ; we-all 
 ain't skeered 'bout 'Liza." 
 
 Their praise was pleasant. 'Liza smiled 
 as she folded a pair of dainty fluted pillow- 
 cases and laid them upon the white heap 
 in the over-full basket. Get the cake ? 
 She hadn't a doubt of it ; no more than 
 her friends and neighbours outside at the 
 well. 
 
 She meant to hurry home and get her 
 cabin in order before going to the " walk- 
 ing," for she would be pretty sure to have 
 company after the entertainment ; she 
 always had after similar entertainments. 
 Tall Rufus, the Mullein Town beau, who 
 had a barber's shop " across the creek," 
 always walked home with her after a cake- 
 walking, and they always had a cosy hour 
 together, enjoying the spoils that 'Liza 
 Ann brought home from the battle. 
 
 When 'Liza stepped outside with the
 
 206 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 basket carefully balanced upon her head, 
 the streets were almost deserted. The 
 odour of frying ham told how the late gos- 
 sips were employed. 'Liza was late, the 
 ham reminded her. 
 
 " Eh-eh ? dis nigger got ter move ef 
 she gits ter de cake-walkin' dis night," 
 said she as she turned the key of the 
 cabin door and, slipping it into her bosom, 
 started off in a brisk little walk down the 
 dusky, moonlighted road. 
 
 A few straggling stars were shining, and 
 through the locust-trees a silver disk hung 
 low in the heavens, the new moon. 'Liza 
 Ann had walked but a short distance when 
 she gave her head a sudden little twist 
 (she was thinking of the girl over in the 
 town who expected to outstrip her in the 
 contest for the cake that night) and saw 
 the silver bow, suspended like a thing of 
 evil, straight through the full branching 
 limbs of the locust-trees. 
 
 Unconsciously she gave a little startled 
 scream.
 
 Sweet 'Laases 207 
 
 " I saw it through de trees," said she. 
 " Oh, my Lord ! I saw de new moon 
 through de trees. Dar's gwine ter be 
 bad luck." 
 
 She was not thinking of the cake, how- 
 ever, nor of the " bad luck " that might 
 come to her through failure to win it. 
 She was thinking of that man who always 
 walked home with her after the walking 
 and helped her to eat it. What if he 
 should fail to come ? 
 
 She was relieved, however, of the fear 
 before she had walked a hundred yards. 
 Down the road, in the half light of the 
 dying day, a quick step was hastening 
 towards her. In an instant she was the 
 coquette, pretending not to see him. 
 
 Nearer and nearer he came. 'Liza was 
 humming a hymn under her breath, and 
 heard, seemingly, nothing. 
 
 " How's my Sweet 'Laases dis eve- 
 nin' ? " 
 
 When he spoke she gave a startled 
 little scream and clutched the clothes
 
 2o8 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 basket, that tottered upon her saucy 
 head as naturally as though it had been 
 trained to the pretty deception. And 
 indeed it might have been, for the num- 
 ber of times it had helped 'Liza Ann to 
 play that same part she was playing this 
 evening. 
 
 " Did I skeer my Sweet 'Laases ? " 
 
 'Liza Ann dropped her head as much 
 as the big basket would permit, and 
 laughed coyly. Her beau fell into step 
 and walked back with her a little distance 
 to the bridge that spanned the dividing 
 creek. As they walked they talked, in 
 the low, coquettish way of lovers from the 
 rural ranks. 
 
 " My Sweet 'Laases goin' to de cake- 
 walkin' dis night ? " 
 
 " Uh-huh." 
 
 " Her goin' ter win de cake ober de 
 town gal fum furrin parts ? " 
 
 " Dal she am!" 
 
 " Eh-eh ; hear dat ; dat's de way talk 
 it ter 'em? My Sweet 'Laases goin' let a
 
 Sweet 'Laases 209 
 
 cullud man 'scort her home 'longside o' 
 dat cake ? " 
 
 Uh-huh." 
 
 " Same's ef he's fitten ter soshate wid 
 prize walkers en fine ladies ? " 
 
 " I 'spec'." 
 
 " You's a lady ; dat's what you am ; a 
 lady fum 'way back. I 'spec' I gwine 
 kiss dem ruby lips when we's done wid 
 de cake?" 
 
 " Uh-huh ; I 'spec'. Ef dat 'ar' town 
 gal fum de furrin parts don't beat me 
 walkin'." 
 
 " Listen at dat now : beat you ? Who 
 gwine beat you ? Ef she do dat she got 
 git up 'fo' day ; 'way long yon'er 'fo' day 
 too, I tell you. Beat you nothin'. Dey 
 ain' no furrin gal gwine beat my Sweet 
 'Laases, / tell you ; else she ain' gwine be 
 my Sweet 'Laases no mo'." 
 
 The flattery was sweet, sweeter than the 
 cake itself. 'Liza Ann lent a willing ear. 
 She even opened the road for more. 
 
 " I got some raid shoes ter w'ar," said
 
 2io Sweet 'Laases 
 
 she. " Some generwine ones. I'm gwine 
 ter git 'em dis minute. Miss Mamie what 
 I washes fur done say she'd sell 'em ter 
 me fur de week's washin'. I's gwine walk 
 in 'em ter-night." 
 
 " Uh-huh. Lan' o' Canaan ! won't we 
 be fine ? A cake an' a pair o' raid shoes. 
 Dat furrin gal won't be in dis pleasuring 
 I tell you. What else you got, hon ? " 
 
 'Liza Ann drew a trifle nearer. The 
 clothes basket was a great nuisance this 
 evening. 
 
 " I got a little chick'n ter brile, an' a 
 pan o' hot biscuits, an' a couple o' col' 
 dumplin's." 
 
 " An' de cake, hon ; you sholy ain't 
 gwine furgit de cake ? " 
 
 " Naw, I ain't furgit de cake," said she. 
 " Hit's a mighty nice one, I reckin ; hit's 
 a angul cake." 
 
 " De anguls gwine be dar ter eat it, 
 too, ain't dey, hon, when de walkin's 
 ober ?" 
 
 " I sholy 'spec' so," she replied with a
 
 Sweet 'Laases 211 
 
 laugh. " Lor', I cl'ar furgot, but" (strange 
 she should have thought of it at that mo- 
 ment), " I see de new moon through de 
 trees ter-night." 
 
 " De moon ain't got de gibbin' ob de 
 cake, hon," said Rufe. " Don't you min' 
 de moon, but jest keep a eye on yer 
 feetses. I got to leab my Sweet 'Laases 
 here an' git 'long back ter de shop ef I 
 'spec' ter see dem raid shoes walk inter 
 de kingdom dis night. But I'll see you 
 at de cake-walkin', an' den I'll walk 
 home wid de angul cake an' de angul 
 too." 
 
 They separated with a laugh and a 
 promise of meeting again, and each went 
 his own way, she happy in the certainty 
 of success and of that other certainty of 
 youth, love. 
 
 He was thinking of the angel cake over 
 which he was to preside when it should 
 come into the actual rather than the pros- 
 pective ownership of his lady-love. He 
 was well acquainted with those angel cakes;
 
 212 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 he had partaken of more than one of them 
 with 'Liza in the cabin over in Mullein 
 Town. 
 
 'Liza meanwhile hurried on with the 
 basket of laundry. Besides making her 
 own toilet, she wanted to spread her table 
 and tidy up the cabin before going to the 
 cake- walking. 
 
 The lamps were lighted when she 
 climbed the steps of the house that held 
 the coveted scarlet footwear. The mis- 
 tress herself counted out the pieces of 
 fluted lace and lawn as 'Liza lifted them 
 from the basket. When the last had been 
 counted she took out her pocketbook, and 
 offered the girl the two bright silver dol- 
 lars that were due her. 'Liza stopped her 
 with a gesture. 
 
 " Now, Miss Mamie," said she, " you 
 promise I might hab de raid shoes fur dis 
 week's washin'." 
 
 The mistress hesitated. 
 
 "'Liza, you surely are not in earnest 
 about wanting those slippers," said she.
 
 Sweet 'Laases 213 
 
 " They pinch my own feet, still less 
 What size do you wear, 'Liza ? " 
 
 " I mostly w'ars a fo', but I's gwine 
 w'ar a two dis night," said 'Liza. 
 
 " Why, they'll pinch you to death; you 
 won't be able to walk a step in them." 
 
 " Eh-eh ! don't you b'leeve a word o' 
 dat, Miss Mamie. I'll git 'em on. Ez 
 far de pinchin', hit's wuf a pinch ter git de 
 cake ober dat furrin yaller gal. 'Sides, 
 Miss Mamie, I's 'bleeged ter hab dat cake, 
 becase I done axed comp'ny ter he'p me 
 eat it." 
 
 She dropped her head forward upon her 
 breast and laughed ; the mistress herself 
 could but smile at the audacity of the 
 proceeding. 
 
 "But what if you fail to get the prize?" 
 said she. 
 
 Such an idea had never entered the girl's 
 head. 
 
 " Eh-eh ! " said she. " I's 'bleeged ter git 
 it. He done say I ain't his Sweet 'Laases 
 no mo' ef I ain't win dat 'ar' cake."
 
 214 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 The mistress dropped into a chair and 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 " His what ? " 
 
 " His Sweet 'Laases ; dat's what he calls 
 me, Miss Mamie ; he say I's his Sweet 
 'Laases becase I takes all de cakes fum 
 de udder gals. Gimme de shoes, Miss 
 Mamie. I got ter run 'long an' set de 
 table 'ginst I go ter de chu'ch." 
 
 As she opened a drawer of the bureau, 
 the mistress said : 
 
 " You're a great goose to do it, 'Liza ; 
 but if you will have them " 
 
 " Yessum," said 'Liza, " I 'spec' I am ; 
 but we's all gre't gooses sometimes, Miss 
 Mamie, when we's somebody's Sweet 
 'Laases." 
 
 "Well yes; perhaps so. Here are 
 the slippers : you'd better keep your hard 
 earned money, though, Eliza." 
 
 But 'Liza was gone, back to the cabin 
 in Mullein Town, with her treasure in 
 her hand. As she thrust her key into the 
 lock and pushed open the cabin door it
 
 Sweet 'Laases 215 
 
 occurred to her that she was tired. It had 
 been a busy day, and she had stood at the 
 ironing-table well-nigh the whole of it. 
 And she had walked over with the clothes, 
 and made a little visit to old aunt Nancy, 
 who was down with the rheumatism, in a 
 cabin at the further end of the village ; 
 then she had carried home the flat-iron 
 she had borrowed at another house, and 
 had " stepped " over to uncle Jeb Moon's 
 to borrow two nails and a hammer with 
 which to do a little needed carpentry about 
 the place. 
 
 Yes, she was tired. The low, shuck- 
 bottomed chair before the hearth had a 
 tempting something about it ; for one 
 moment the glories of the cake-walking 
 dimmed before the demands of exhausted 
 nature. Only for a moment, however; 
 for as she drew off the paper wrapper, and 
 the bright red, high-heeled slippers lay in 
 her hand, weary nature was relegated to a 
 back seat. 
 
 There were long brilliantly red ribbons
 
 2i 6 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 attached to each ; a tie-string that was cal- 
 culated to heal the most rebellious case of 
 weariness on record. 'Liza Ann was her- 
 self again in half a minute. She placed 
 the shoes upon the mantel where she 
 could see them while she tidied the room. 
 They had the appearance of a gaudily 
 plumaged bird perched above the little 
 mantel among the white papers, neatly 
 scalloped, which served as lambrequin, 
 and the glass tumblers filled with gaily 
 coloured tapers that were kept ready for 
 the hero of "Sweet 'Laases." 
 
 She swept and dusted the room, spread 
 a white sheet over the bed, and drew a 
 pair of shams, embroidered in turkey red, 
 over the pillows, shook out the white 
 muslin window curtains, and then she 
 "set the table." 
 
 A clean, fresh cloth, two plates, a couple 
 of cups and saucers, knives and forks, and 
 two small white napkins. A pitcher of 
 red chrysanthemums occupied one corner 
 of the board, while the broiled chicken in
 
 Sweet 'Laases 217 
 
 a glass-covered dish filled another. The 
 biscuit and other knick-knacks were ar- 
 ranged with systematic nicety about the 
 board. In the centre of the table there 
 was a tall glass cake-stand, set in a fluff of 
 red and white fringed papers. The stand 
 was empty, reserved for the cake that was 
 to be won that night. 
 
 When all had been made ready, 'Liza 
 made her toilette ; a neat figure and trim 
 enough in a modest dress of dark gray 
 stuff with a fresh white apron and linen 
 collar. She finished off her costume, how- 
 ever, with a flaming scarlet bow hoisted 
 upon her short, kinky hair, immediately 
 above her forehead. Then came the slip- 
 pers, and then too came the tug of war. 
 They refused to go on ; twist and turn, 
 pull and persuade as she might, the num- 
 ber two refused the foot of the number 
 four. The poor feet were weary and 
 swollen with their day's tramping, and the 
 shoes were small. 
 
 'Liza was in despair.
 
 2 1 8 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 " You's got ter go on," she declared to 
 the offending reds ; " you's got ter go, 
 and you'd as well ter do it." 
 
 There was another pull and twist, and 
 then 'Liza Ann took heart. 
 
 " Dey come mighty nigh it dat time," 
 she declared, triumphantly. " Dey didn't 
 lack more'n a inch dat time ; ef my feet 
 wuzn't swelled dey'd go on, I mos' 
 knows." 
 
 She got up and rilled the kettle and 
 swung it over the fire that had served to 
 heat the irons all day, and while the water 
 was heating she ate a bite of cold victuals 
 and finished her preparations for the frolic. 
 Then she filled a tub with the hot water 
 and, lifting her skirts, placed her feet in 
 the steaming vessel. She soaked them for 
 ten minutes, then drew on her shoes and 
 stockings, and slipping the red shoes 
 under her shawl, she started for the 
 cake-walking. 
 
 " Dey'll go on now," she told herself, 
 " becase dey's got ter go ; but I reckin I'll
 
 Sweet 'Laases 219 
 
 jest fetch 'em along in my han' an' put 
 'em on at de do'." 
 
 She was late, but as all Mullein Town 
 was late, her tardiness created no special 
 comment. She was tired too ; she couldn't 
 forget it either ; even in the gay scene 
 about her the ironing-board and the 
 tedious tramping she had done would ob- 
 trude like "spots upon the feast" of her 
 pleasure. 
 
 She had many friends among the as- 
 sembled revellers, and she had many 
 enemies. Varied and many were the 
 salutations which greeted her arrival at 
 the church. 
 
 " Dar's 'Liza Ann ; now look out far 
 yer cake," was the first challenge from the 
 Mullein Town side, responded to with 
 prompt disregard of feeling from the 
 opposing candidate's friends. 
 
 " Eh-eh ! raid shoes. 'Spec' ter carry 
 off de cake, does yer ? 'Spec' dem raid 
 shoes ter p'intedly walk off wid it, eh- 
 eh?"
 
 220 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 The slippers did create a sensation and 
 no mistake. 'Liza Ann felt repaid for 
 the pain they were giving her, though she 
 had some fears concerning the ominous 
 cracking of threads in the neighbourhood 
 of the 'heel. They represented just one 
 week's work, though that was a small 
 matter as compared with the winning of 
 the cake. 
 
 She laughed and flirted and was happy 
 in hearing herself called " Sweet 'Laases " 
 now and then as the tall figure of Rufus 
 the barber bent over the scarlet bow upon 
 her head. 
 
 There were a full dozen who had en- 
 tered the lists, but only 'Liza and the 
 champion from a neighbouring town were 
 the favourites. 
 
 'Liza scanned the. contestants as they 
 took their places along the row of benches 
 reserved for them. At the very end of 
 the bench, arrayed in regal purple, and 
 with a white feather drawn majestically 
 across her head and fastened above her
 
 Sweet 'Laases 221 
 
 ear with a brooch of flaring brightness, 
 'Liza Ann beheld her rival. 
 
 Her costume created a stir; 'Liza 
 trembled for her own modest gray. A 
 glance at the red slippers, however, reas- 
 sured her ; the red slippers and the barber 
 who was waiting for a slice of that same 
 cake resting at that moment in full view 
 of the assembled multitude, upon a tall 
 glass stand in the centre of a table at 
 the end of the room. It was an angel 
 cake ; only the angel cakes were deemed 
 worthy of admission to a contest of this 
 kind. 
 
 Promptly at the hour appointed the 
 master of ceremonies called the assembly 
 to order. 
 
 " Bredderin," said he, " an' sisters, we 
 will open de exercises ob de ebenin' wid 
 prayer ; let us all pray." 
 
 The prayer was as earnest as though he 
 had been conducting a protracted meeting, 
 and the amens were as hearty. When it 
 ended they sang a hymn, and then they
 
 222 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 cleared the space down the centre of the 
 room, and the cake-walking was on. 
 
 But little attention was given to the 
 first ten contestants; interest was centred 
 upon the two rival walkers, who had made 
 a record at similar contests. 
 
 'Liza Ann was the last upon the list. 
 When she saw her rival rise and shake 
 out her purple skirts amid a murmur of 
 " urn's " and of " eh-eh's," it required 
 more than one lingering glance at her 
 scarlet-shod feet to keep down her fears. 
 Still her faith in her adornment was suffi- 
 cient. Moreover, she knew the weak- 
 nesses of her kind. 
 
 " A nigger'll vote fur raid shoes whether 
 dey's got any feet in 'em or not," she told 
 herself, when the murmur for her rival 
 broke out into actual applause. She even 
 smiled as the yellow girl from afar took 
 her place at the end of the room and, set- 
 ting her foot upon the plank that had 
 been chalked for the purpose, waited the 
 command to start.
 
 Sweet 'Laases 223 
 
 It came from the master of ceremonies 
 stationed at the opposite end of the room. 
 
 "Raidy, start!" 
 
 The girl lifted her head with a proudly 
 conscious little toss, and held it erect, mo- 
 tionless, until she had caught the gaze of 
 every eye in the room. Nobody thought 
 of the broad flat foot walking down the 
 middle of the floor ; nobody thought of 
 the walk itself; they were all too intent 
 upon the bright, piquant face under the 
 droop of the white ostrich feather, to 
 notice that the girl had made her feet 
 thoroughly comfortable in a pair of loose, 
 unpretentious old shoes, whose only adorn- 
 ment was a fresh coat of blacking. They 
 failed to see that she swerved more than 
 once from the chalk lines, which indicated 
 the limits allowed for grace and the extra 
 " steps " which were sometimes indulged 
 in by the prize walkers. The purple 
 dress, the white feather, and the laugh- 
 ing black eyes were carrying everything 
 before them. She nodded here and
 
 224 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 smiled there, and once it was just at 
 the moment when she caught the eye of 
 tall Rufe the barber she actually lifted 
 her hand to her lips and threw a kiss. 
 
 Such a shout as went up ! 
 
 " Uh-uh ! dat gal kin walk wid her eye 
 shet." " Cake-walkin's easy ez eatin' ter 
 dat nigger." " Some folks'll hab ter git 
 up 'fo' day ef dey beats dat 'ar'." " Land 
 o' Canaan ! Look at dat, will somebody ? " 
 
 She reached the end of the room in a 
 perfect storm of applause. 
 
 " Raised sech a wind de feather in her 
 haid got ter wavin' hits own se'f," one of 
 the sisters was heard to declare, while an- 
 other even got up and shook hands with 
 the candidate, and told her in a knowing 
 way that " dey ain' been no sech walkin' 
 as dat, not sence de war." 
 
 And then, when the noise had subsided, 
 came 'Liza's turn. She took her place 
 where the late victor had taken hers, and 
 in her turn awaited the signal to start. 
 She felt, by that intuition that comes to
 
 Sweet 'Laases 225 
 
 all of us, that she had lost in the gain of 
 her rival; but she had friends who were 
 still loyal, still hopeful, still enthusiastic. 
 
 She glanced at tall Rufe, but he was 
 bending over the white feather, uncon- 
 scious of, or else indifferent to the fact 
 that she, his own " Sweet 'Laases," was at 
 that moment about to pass through the 
 painful ordeal of walking for the prize. 
 She turned her eyes away. One more 
 glance in that direction, and the red shoes 
 would never be called upon to bear her 
 upon the journey down that long yellow 
 pine plank. The next moment she ral- 
 lied and took courage. Rufe looked up, 
 smiled, and came a step nearer. After 
 all, she had a chance to win ; and should 
 she lose, she still had him, her lover. 
 Life couldn't be wholly void nor defeat 
 utterly crushing so long as fate left her 
 love. 
 
 She lifted her skirts, ever so slightly, 
 when the signal for starting had been 
 given. There was a ripple, slight, but
 
 226 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 sufficient to show that the tide might be 
 turned. 
 
 A trifle higher rose the gray skirt ; there 
 was a hint of fluted ruffling visible at the 
 hem, white and neat as 'Liza's hand could 
 make it. Not one there but rendered 
 Caesar his due when it came to laundry. 
 Not one but had great respect for the tub 
 over which 'Liza Ann presided. 
 
 If she had not been so set upon calling 
 attention to the slippers, poor 'Liza ! all 
 might have been well. But the slippers 
 were her ruin ; the slippers, designed for 
 triumph, were destined to prove her down- 
 fall. She had the attention of the house ; 
 her late enemy herself leaned forward with 
 parted lips and flashing eye to watch the 
 progress of the red feet down the pine 
 plank. 
 
 'Liza had many little tricks of grace ; 
 she had a way of turning her toes a trifle 
 out and then giving them a sudden turn 
 in ; sometimes she would lift one foot, like 
 a young pullet about to steal upon a for-
 
 Sweet 'Laases 227 
 
 bidden flower-bed where the seed has been 
 newly sown, and then follow it cautiously 
 with the other. This step never failed to 
 elicit applause. The other girl had really 
 taken no " steps ; " they would remember 
 it when 'Liza Ann had showed them hers. 
 Sometimes she minced, like an old maid 
 that is afraid of not being graceful ; but 
 being young and free from any hint of 
 awkwardness, in 'Liza the trick was passed 
 for grace, as other old tricks will sometimes 
 pass upon young tricksters. And again 
 sometimes she would drop into a long, 
 swinging step that was the perfection of 
 grace itself. 
 
 She had just started out upon her pro- 
 gramme when another stitch broke in the 
 back seam of the slipper. Another step 
 and she remembered the ironing-board and 
 the long tramp to carry the clothes home. 
 She was tired ! One step more and ah ! 
 there was an unmistakable limp in the 
 pretty walk. 
 
 A limp that grew with every movement
 
 228 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 of the scarlet slippers. R-r-r-r went the 
 seam at the back, and r-r-r-r went 'Liza's 
 hopes and 'Liza's heart. 
 
 While the judges were taking the vote 
 she crept outside and drew on her old 
 shoes, folded the remains of the red slip- 
 pers under her shawl and made ready to 
 go home. She had lost the prize ; she 
 knew that ; but she was too tired to care 
 very much, and after all she had her lover. 
 She waited there for him, at the door, back 
 in the shadow where the light from the 
 lantern above the door could not find her ; 
 waited and revelled in the sympathy which, 
 after all, was as sweet to anticipate as the 
 victory had been. 
 
 The crowd filed out, singly, then in 
 groups, laughing, joking, enjoying or com- 
 miserating her defeat. Nobody saw the 
 lonely little figure crouched against the 
 shadowed wall ; not even Rufe, who came 
 out at last, the prize-winner upon one arm, 
 and the great cake, the beautiful angel cake, 
 lifted high above his head with the other.
 
 Sweet 'Laases 229 
 
 They passed so close she could have 
 touched them with her fingers, but she 
 would as soon have thought of touching a 
 poisonous reptile. 
 
 She hurried home alone, and rumbled 
 under the doorstep for the key. As the 
 door swung back, a golden dash of moon- 
 light streamed into the room, showing her 
 the white-spread table and the preparations 
 she had made for her lover's coming. 
 
 The memory of joy anticipated, though 
 it be nipped in the first fond flower of its 
 conception, is sometimes more keenly 
 bitter than the actual death of the joy 
 itself. 
 
 'Liza Ann had kept her disappointment 
 down and had held her grief under re- 
 straint, until that carefully prepared table 
 with its mocking decoration of crimson 
 flowers met her eyes. The white cloth 
 was like a shroud to her poor heart. 
 
 She walked over to the fireplace, stirred 
 the red coals into a white heat, and with a 
 hand that did not falter she tossed the red
 
 230 Sweet 'Laases 
 
 shoes into the equally red coal-bed. Then 
 she dropped into the seat she had set for 
 her lover and, burying her face in the 
 snowy table-cloth, burst into tears. 
 
 " Hit ain't de angul cake," she sobbed ; 
 " I don't keer nothin' 'bout de ole angul 
 cake ; I don't keer fur de money flung 
 'way on de shoes, an' I don't keer 'bout 
 dey-alls laffin* at me, but I heerd him 
 call dat yaller gal bis Sweet ' 'Laases ! "
 
 A Grain of Gold 
 
 EVERYBODY said he would go to 
 the bad ; everybody expected it of 
 him. Whether it was the fulfilment of 
 the promise, " As thy faith so be it," or 
 whether he felt any conscientious obliga- 
 tion resting upon him not to disappoint 
 public expectation, nobody knows. No- 
 body was surprised, however, when news 
 went over the town that Jim Royal was 
 going to the penitentiary. 
 
 Going to "the pen" at sixteen years of 
 age. Nobody thought of that. More- 
 over, the old Tennessee prison contains 
 scores of boys under sixteen, for that mat- 
 ter ; and if they do not work satisfactorily, 
 the lessees of the prison have made no 
 231
 
 232, A Grain of Gold 
 
 complaint of them ; therefore, they do 
 work satisfactorily ; for the lessees are not 
 likely to pay the State for the privilege of 
 feeding worthless hands. But as for vag- 
 abond Jim, if anybody thought of him at 
 all, it was something after this wise : 
 
 " Safe place. Keep him out of mis- 
 chief. Protect other people's boys. Bad 
 influence, Jim's. Town's scourge. Bad 
 mother before him. Questionable father. 
 Made to work." 
 
 Now there were two considerations in 
 this category, concerning which the public 
 opinion was exactly correct. More so, 
 indeed, than public opinion is usually 
 known to be. Namely : Jim would " be 
 made to work." No doubt about that. 
 There were straps for the obstreperous, 
 the water-pump for the sullen, the pool 
 for the belligerent, the lash for the lazy, 
 and for the rebellious, the shotgun. 
 
 Oh, yes ; Jim would be made to work. 
 The town was quite right about that. 
 
 The other consideration, although not
 
 A Grain of Gold 233 
 
 altogether so important, was a trifle more 
 interesting. Jim's " questionable father ! " 
 
 It was his mother's fault that public 
 interest (?) was not gratified. And it never 
 forgave the poor outcast for leaving the 
 world with that seal of secrecy still unbro- 
 ken. The heart broke, but not the seal. 
 They cast her off utterly when, poor girl- 
 mother, she stubbornly refused to reveal 
 the name of her betrayer. To them there 
 was nothing heroic in the answer, " Because 
 my life is ruined, shall I ruin his ? " 
 
 So they treasured it against her in 
 her grave, and against her son after her, 
 in his grave too : that living, loathsome 
 sepulchre, the State prison. 
 
 But they had surmised a good deal 
 regarding Jim's paternal parentage. They 
 searched for resemblances, birthmarks, pe- 
 culiarities of feature, owning that nature 
 always set her brand upon the bastard, 
 and that the features, as well as the iniqui- 
 ties of the father, are always visited upon 
 the illegitimate. If this be the case, Jim
 
 234 A Grain of Gold 
 
 must have come of some strange blood. 
 Knowing him and his history, some 
 might have traced the poor mother in 
 the boy, although of that mother he 
 knew very little. He had been told 
 oh, yes, he had been told that she was 
 found in a garret one December morning 
 with a vagabond baby nursing at her dead 
 breast. And old Nancy Piatt, the only 
 one who ever seemed to dislike talking to 
 the lad about it, had told him that she was 
 " a pretty corpse ; as pretty as the grave 
 ever held," and that the dead lips " wore 
 a smile," those dead lips that never would, 
 and never could, give up their pitiful 
 secret. Poor lips; death had granted that 
 which life denied them, a smile. Stub- 
 bornness, the town gossips called the wo- 
 man's silence. In other circumstances it 
 would have answered to the higher term 
 of fidelity, or, perhaps, heroism. Jim 
 was very like his mother, old Nancy said, 
 despite Dame Nature's habit of branding. 
 Surely Nancy ought to be authority, for
 
 A Grain of Gold 235 
 
 when the boy was left, at two months old, 
 on the town, old Nancy Piatt, a drunken 
 old crone, who washed the clothes of the 
 rich all the week, and drank her earnings 
 Saturday evenings, was the only one who 
 offered to " take the cub " whom the 
 authorities were ready to give away. 
 
 A sorry chance had Jim, although he 
 never realised that. At ten he could 
 drink as much liquor as Nancy herself, 
 and outswear the ablest lawyer in the town. 
 At twelve he could pick a lock better 
 than a blacksmith, and was known as one 
 of the most cunning sneak-thieves in the 
 place. At fourteen he beat a little boy of 
 eight unmercifully. (Did anybody expect 
 old Nancy to tell him that was the crown 
 crime of cowardice ?) 
 
 Then some one suspected Nancy of a 
 crime. One of those nameless crimes 
 concerning which the law is very jealous, 
 not considering the slander prevented, the 
 " good name preserved," and the disgrace 
 averted. All in high circles, and all set
 
 236 A Grain of Gold 
 
 in the scale against a useless little baby, 
 a wicked little illegitimate baby, that is 
 so heartless as to be born, and thereby 
 bring a world of trouble upon wealthy 
 and respectable people. 
 
 That old Nancy for handsome con- 
 siderations had made away with the self- 
 ish baby, Jim knew as well as anybody. 
 And when he was offered quite as hand- 
 some a sum to tell all he knew about it, 
 his reply was to plant his fist in the eye 
 of the man who had made the offer. Not 
 that he cared for the cause the babe's com- 
 ing had disgraced. He only meant to 
 stand by old Nance, and not all the money 
 in the county's coffers could have forced 
 his lips to speak that which would hurt 
 her. He was afterward arrested and 
 brought before the magistrate, together 
 with Nance, and swore, not by the cal- 
 endared saints, he hadn't made their 
 acquaintance, but by " George," by 
 " Gum," by " Gosh," and even by God 
 himself, that he knew nothing at all about
 
 A Grain of Gold 237 
 
 the matter. They knew he was lying, 
 but there was no way to prove it, as he 
 attempted no dodge. He was merely 
 ignorant. Nance hadn't asked him to do 
 this ; she knew he would do it if neces- 
 sary. She had not attempted to win his 
 love, his confidence, or his gratitude. 
 Perhaps she believed, in her blind way, 
 that these things are born, not won, like 
 respect, and honour, and admiration. He 
 was fifteen when this happened. At six- 
 teen Nance died from the effects of a blow 
 from a policeman's club while trying to 
 arrest her. Two weeks later the police- 
 man died from the effects of a blow from 
 Jim's club while trying to protect old 
 Nance. Two months later the prison 
 door closed on Jim, and the town took 
 breath again in a long, relieved sigh of 
 " Safe at last ! " As if vagabond Jim's 
 salvation had lain a weight for sixteen 
 years upon their consciousness. 
 
 It was certainly the face of a hardened 
 creature that followed the sheriff to the
 
 23 8 A Grain of Gold 
 
 railroad station that June morning. June, 
 sweet old love-laden, rose-burdened June. 
 Of all the year, to give up one's freedom 
 in June ! And how many years before he 
 would breathe the free, rose-haunted air 
 of another June ? Twenty. Why, the 
 twentieth century would be dawning be- 
 fore he would be free again. Would his 
 face be any the less hard at the expiration 
 of his term ? The penitentiary isnt a hot- 
 bed of virtue, and Jim wasn't wax. No- 
 body wasted any hopes on him, except 
 the lessees, who, rinding him able-bodied, 
 young, and healthy, sent him to the 
 Branch prison to dig coal. 
 
 True, an old gray-bearded warden of- 
 fered a plea for his youth, and a protest 
 against the associations of the Branch, and 
 was promptly reminded that the Tennes- 
 see State prison was not a reformatory 
 institute, but that it had been leased as a 
 financial speculation, which was expected 
 to yield at least ten per cent, on the 
 money invested by the lessees.
 
 A Grain of Gold 239 
 
 So Jim went to the coal mines in the 
 mountains, leaving his life, his poor, puny 
 sixteen years of dust and degradation, 
 behind him. If there was anything of 
 brightness, any softening memory, any 
 tender touch of the human dream 
 touches are they to the castaway which 
 Jim carried with him, it was the memory 
 of old Nance, drunken, filthy, murderous 
 old Nance, and the face of the gray- 
 bearded warden who had lifted his voice 
 in his behalf. 
 
 It was noon of a day in June, early in 
 the eighties, that Jim trudged across the 
 coal-sprinkled ridge upon which rose the 
 great gray, weather-beaten, rat-infested 
 fence, which was dignified by the name of 
 stockade. To go out of life into a dun- 
 geon like that, and at noon of a day in 
 June ! That Jim made no sign was ac- 
 credited to his hardness of heart. That, 
 having registered and heard an official 
 sneer at the name, Jim Royal, and having 
 passed through the hands of the barber,
 
 240 A Grain of Gold 
 
 and being duly entered at last among the 
 State's hired help, and dropped down on 
 his ill-smelling bunk, a rat came and 
 gnawed his ear, and the vermin crawled 
 unmolested over him, and still he gave no 
 sign, was set down to the account of his 
 laziness. 
 
 " He won't be vicious," the warden said, 
 " he is too lazy," and he thought yearn- 
 ingly of the rawhide lash hanging in the 
 office. That the stupor might be the 
 result of weariness had never once sug- 
 gested itself. If it had, why, still there 
 was the lash. The lessees' ten per cent, 
 must be gotten out of that herd in the 
 stockade, even if it should be necessary to 
 beat it out. 
 
 But when, the next morning, Jim fell 
 into his place as brisk as any, the warden 
 began to waver between the lash and the 
 pool. If he did not need the one, he was 
 fairly sure to require the other. All of 
 them needed some one, may be two, of 
 the prison's medicines, and the warden
 
 A Grain of Gold 241 
 
 made a special point of spying out the 
 diseases of new arrivals, and applying the 
 remedy as soon as possible. It told them, 
 more plainly than words, precisely the 
 manner of treatment they were to expect 
 in case of any appearance of any of the 
 several moral diseases with which all con- 
 victs, young, old, rich, or poor, were 
 supposed to be afflicted. 
 
 Therefore, the warden " had his eye on 
 Jim." And when the gang started from 
 the stockade across the black, coal-dusted 
 mountains, to the blacker mine beneath, 
 he called to the new arrival, draining the 
 last of some sloppy coffee from a dingy 
 tin cup at the greasy board table of the 
 shed room that served for dining-room 
 and laundry during the week, and for 
 chapel on Sundays : 
 
 " Come here, sir ; what's your name, 
 sir? At least, what one did you leave 
 on the book out there ? " 
 
 " The only one I've got," said Jim. " The 
 clerk down there made it to spell Royal,"
 
 242 A Grain of Gold 
 
 " Royal." A sneer curled the lips of 
 the official. "Here, Black," to the 
 guard, " add this royal renegade to your 
 company. Here, you fellow, fall into 
 line here, and be quick about it." 
 
 To Jim, accustomed from the day his 
 dead mother's nipple had been taken from 
 his toothless gums to having his own free 
 will, the surly command came like a threat. 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Will you come, you bit of carrion, or 
 shall I fetch you ? " 
 
 Jim stood like a young lion at bay. 
 His hands unconsciously drew up into 
 fists ; one foot moved forward ; the pris- 
 oners stood in wondering groups, some 
 recalling the day, five, ten, fifteen, ay, 
 even twenty years before, when they, too, 
 had thought of defiance. They, too, had 
 stood at bay. But they had learned the 
 folly of it, and they knew Jim would learn 
 too ; but still they half hoped he would 
 get in that one blow before the lesson 
 began.
 
 A Grain of Gold 243 
 
 Such fists ! Such strength ! And he 
 came on like a young tiger, his eyes 
 ablaze, his nostrils quivering, his arm 
 poised, his full chest expanding, perfectly 
 aware the ofHcer was feeling for the pistol 
 at his belt, when, quick and noiseless, a 
 small hand, delicate as a woman's, reached 
 out and drew the clenched fist down ; a 
 voice, softened by despair, said : " It isn't 
 any use ; they'll down you at last, and 
 you only make it harder." 
 
 It was all done so quickly, the guards 
 around had not had time " to draw," else 
 the rebellious one had received the reward 
 of rebellion. 
 
 The warden replaced his pistol, with a 
 curse upon it for not obeying his effort to 
 draw it. The young convict had ceased 
 hostilities, and stood submissive by the 
 side of his unknown friend. He had not 
 once glanced at him, but something in 
 his voice had controlled and subdued his 
 passion. 
 
 " Away with him," cried the officer.
 
 244 A Grain of Gold 
 
 " To the pump, and afterward to the 
 pool. Get the straps ready there. We'll 
 show our royal friend who is master here." 
 
 Again came an idea of resistance, but 
 the same small hand was laid upon his 
 arm. 
 
 " My friend, it isn't any use. I tried 
 it all. Go on and be punished. It is 
 part of the life here. You receive it 
 whether merited or not." 
 
 They dragged him off, strapped him, 
 hand and foot, and writhing, foaming, like 
 the untamed wild beast that he was, they 
 thrust him under the great prison pump. 
 
 " That will cool his royal blood," 
 laughed a guard, as the fearful force of 
 the cold current beating upon his shaven 
 head knocked him senseless. 
 
 Drenched and beaten, utterly exhausted, 
 he lay like a limp rag, until three men had 
 spent their strength upon the pump. 
 Then to the pool they dragged him, and 
 " ducked " him three times into the dark, 
 stagnant water. Then back to the war-
 
 A Grain of Gold 245 
 
 den, who asked if he " thought he had 
 enough." 
 
 " Not enough to make me take your 
 jaw," was the foolish answer. 
 
 "The lash," said the warden, and the 
 miserable, half-drowned creature was taken 
 away to be beaten " into subjection." 
 
 The guard overlooked the punishment. 
 A stout, burly convict was required to per- 
 form it. He would have refused, being in 
 like strait, only that he knew the useless- 
 ness. He had been there a long time, 
 many years, and, according to his sentence, 
 would be there for fifty more. He had 
 picked up a little Scripture at the prison 
 Sunday school, so that when he lifted the 
 whip above the back they had made bare 
 for it, he whispered, by way of apology: 
 
 " And one Simon, a Cyrenian, him they 
 compelled to bear the cross." 
 
 But Jim didn't understand, even if he 
 had heard. All he heard was that low, 
 patient voice calling him " friend." 
 
 In the afternoon he was sent down to
 
 246 A Grain of Gold 
 
 the mines, subdued but not conquered. 
 Every evil passion of his nature had been 
 aroused, and would never slumber again. 
 
 After that first day's experience he 
 seemed indeed a wild beast. He fought 
 among the prisoners, rebelled against the 
 rules of the prison, would have nothing 
 to do with any but the worst of the men, 
 shirked his work until he had to be 
 strapped and beaten ; in short made a 
 record that had never been surpassed by 
 any previous man on the prison books. 
 
 Yet, when there was danger of any kind, 
 he was the first there. One morning there 
 was an explosion in the mine, and more 
 than a score of prisoners were in danger 
 of being suffocated before help could reach 
 them. Indeed, everybody was afraid to 
 venture in that black hole from which 
 the hot, sulphurous gases were pouring. 
 Everybody but Jim. Even the warden 
 had to admit Jim's courage. "He ain't 
 afraid of the devil," he declared, when he 
 saw the boy jump into an empty coal-car,
 
 A Grain of Gold 247 
 
 call to the mule to "git up," and disap- 
 pear in the gas and smoke with the empty 
 cars rumbling behind him. It was a long 
 time before he came out, but he brought 
 ten insensible convicts in his first haul. 
 The lessees recommended him for that, 
 and promised to make it good sometime 
 if he kept on at that rate. 
 
 Another time there was a fire. The 
 rumbling old rat-hole was threatened with 
 destruction, and with it three hundred and 
 seventy-five of the State's charges. The 
 men glared like beasts through the cracks 
 of the tottering stockade. Liberty, it 
 would come surely in some form. The 
 fire was confined for a time to the wing 
 where the hospital was. But when it 
 mounted in a great blood-dappled sheet 
 of flame to the top of an old rotten tower 
 above the main building, where the pris- 
 oners were huddled, it became evident 
 that all must go unless the old tower 
 could be torn away. Up the uneven, 
 rickety wall went Jim, nimble as a squir-
 
 248 A Grain of Gold 
 
 rel. Crack ! crack ! fell the dead boards ; 
 then with a clang and clamour, down rolled 
 the old bell from its perch, carrying with 
 it the last of the burning tower. 
 
 Jim climbed down as sullen as ever. He 
 didn't care to save the old shanty, or to win 
 any praise from anybody. He was simply 
 not afraid, and his courage would not per- 
 mit him to do other than what he did. 
 
 Nobody cared for him specially, al- 
 though the soft -voiced man with the 
 small, womanish hands spoke to him 
 often, and always kindly. Jim never for- 
 got that he had called him friend. The 
 memory of it stayed with him, like the 
 kiss of a first love that lingers long after 
 love is dead. Most of the men were 
 afraid of him, so fierce was his temper, 
 and so easily aroused. Even the warden 
 had learned that he could not tame him. 
 The strap, the lash, the pool, the pump, 
 had been applied times without number. 
 The warden was still " looking around " 
 for the time to apply the last resource, the
 
 A Grain of Gold 249 
 
 shotgun. It was pretty sure to come, for 
 the boy was entirely " unscrupulous." 
 
 Summer set in again. Again June 
 came, and tried to bloom even on the 
 coal-tracked mountain about the mine. 
 Somewhere up, back among the pine and 
 shadows, the wild roses were blooming, 
 and the grapes. Their odours came down 
 to the men as they tramped across the 
 hot, bare, coal-strewn way between the 
 stockade and the mines. 
 
 With the coming of June came a num- 
 ber of strangers to the mountain. They 
 always came in the warm season, but they 
 quartered themselves over in the town, 
 beyond the stockade, and the stench, and 
 filth, and crime found there. 
 
 Only one, a young man, a minister who 
 had been expelled from the church in the 
 city where he had preached, found his way 
 to the prison. He went out one Sunday 
 afternoon, and asked permission to preach 
 to the convicts. It was freely granted. 
 Such wild heresy ! Such odd, eccentric
 
 A Grain of Gold 
 
 ideas ! Such flights of oratory ! Such 
 fiery brands tossed into the old tabernacles 
 of religious belief! Such blows upon the 
 old batteries of narrowness and impossi- 
 bility ! They had never heard anything 
 like it. Had he preached thus anywhere 
 else he would have been promptly silenced. 
 But a lot of convicts was not an audience 
 likely to be injured by the too free circu- 
 lating of the doctrine he advocated. What 
 if he should convince them that eternal 
 punishment was a myth, and an insult 
 flung in the face of the Creator ? A slur 
 upon his justice, and a lie to his divine 
 goodness? What if he snapped his finger 
 at a lake of brimstone and of eternal fire ? 
 And his wild ravings about an inconsistent 
 Being, accepted as the head of all wisdom, 
 and tenderness, and mercy, and at the 
 same time as the perfection of all cruelty 
 and injustice, in that he creates only to 
 destroy, what if the seed scattered should 
 take root ? What if those old sin-black- 
 ened souls should comfort themselves with
 
 A Grain of Gold 
 
 the new doctrine, the idea that no good 
 can be lost ? God cannot be God and 
 destroy any good thing. It is wicked, 
 it is devilish, to kill that which is good. 
 God cannot be wicked and be the good 
 God, the kind All-Father, at the same 
 time. Nor has he created any so vile as 
 to be without some one virtue. In the 
 dust of the evil he has not failed to drop 
 one grain of gold to glisten, and to make 
 glad the dull waste of life. The grain is 
 there, planted by God's hand, in every 
 soul. It was in their souls, poor, old, 
 sin-covered, forsaken souls, toiling up to 
 the light through those begrimed walls, 
 among the filth, and dust, and mould. 
 Not one of them but was God's work, 
 and bore his grain of gold. None would 
 be lost, not one. What matter if the 
 prison registrar's table of death did record 
 so many " Found dead ! " " Drowned ! " 
 "Killed!" "Shot!" "Blank!" "Blank!" 
 " Blank ! " Meaning they disappeared, 
 nobody knows how or when.
 
 A Grain of Gold 
 
 It was a strange, sweet hope to them, 
 that came in that wild sermon of a bishop- 
 silenced young heretic. They thought 
 about it a good deal, and began, some of 
 them whose terms were to expire with life, 
 to dig down into the rust and mire with 
 the spade of conscience for the hidden 
 grain. 
 
 The minister was at the stockade often, 
 cheering, sympathising, and always com- 
 forting the convicts with the certainty of 
 eternal love, and the folly of eternal pun- 
 ishment. One day he stumbled upon a 
 man who was being strapped and prepared 
 for punishment at the pump. His face 
 was sullen, and there were splotches of 
 blood upon his clothes, and he limped 
 when he attempted to walk. Still there 
 was something in the old young face 
 that neither cruelty nor threats could kill. 
 They might turn on the icy water, and 
 exhaust themselves with lashing him, but 
 that stoic determination would not yield. 
 They might murder him, but from his
 
 A Grain of Gold 253 
 
 fixed, dead eyes, /'/ would glare at them, 
 that same heroic, immovable something 
 that had shone in the staring eyes of his 
 dead mother. 
 
 No visitors were allowed in that part of 
 the prison, so the minister held back until, 
 fearing the limp figure under the pump 
 would be beaten to death by the cruel 
 pour of water upon his head, he stepped 
 forward to interfere. 
 
 "In God's name, I beg you to stop," 
 he cried, his hand uplifted, his eyes full 
 of tears. " Your punishment is beastly. 
 What has the fellow done ? Is some one 
 murdered ? " 
 
 " Some one ought to be," sullenly replied 
 the man at the pump-handle. "And some 
 one might be if this sneaking rascal was 
 the only hope of preventing it." 
 
 There had been a plot among the con- 
 victs to batter down the shaky old stock- 
 ade, and break for freedom. They had 
 secured a gun and some ammunition, 
 where, no one could tell, and the plot had
 
 254 A Grain of Gold 
 
 well-nigh succeeded. The guard on the 
 wall had been killed, three men had es- 
 caped, and the prison bloodhounds were 
 lying in the kennel with their throats cut. 
 
 Already the governor of the State had 
 telegraphed freedom to the convicts not in 
 the scheme who would give the names of 
 those engaged in it. Even the leader's 
 name ; for that freedom was offered, par- 
 don unconditional. 
 
 Something let fall discovered to the 
 warden that Jim, while not in, was familiar 
 with the whole history of the insurrection. 
 The offer of freedom had no further effect 
 upon him than a careless refusal to comply 
 with the terms set forth. But when force 
 was suggested, he set his lips in that old 
 way that belonged to his mother, and said 
 nothing. Three days they gave him to 
 " knock under." But the only change 
 noticeable during that time was a more 
 decided sullenness, a look in the cold gray 
 eyes that meant death rather than yield- 
 ing.
 
 A Grain of Gold 255 
 
 Once the soft-voiced young man who 
 had put out his hand in his defence the 
 day of his arrival at the stockade, and had 
 afterwards called him " friend," the only 
 time he had ever heard the word addressed 
 to himself, once the young man came over 
 where Jim sat cleaning the warden's boots, 
 and motioned him. 
 
 Jim shook his head, and went on black- 
 ing the big boots. But when the young 
 convict drew nearer, and tried to take his 
 hand, he drew back, and struck at him 
 viciously with the blacking-brush. 
 
 " Git out, will you ! And don't come 
 a-fooling with this brush, lest you want 
 your d n head broke." 
 
 He had seen a guard spying upon them 
 at a half open door in the rear of the young 
 convict. At Jim's outburst of temper the 
 guard entered. 
 
 " Come away from him, Solly," he said. 
 "The surly beast is as like as not to knock 
 your brains out." 
 
 The convict turned to obey, but the
 
 256 A Grain of Gold 
 
 glance he got of Jim's face carried a full 
 explanation. The temper was affected to 
 keep down suspicion. After that came 
 the punishment at the pump, the merciless 
 beating, and then, all things proving un- 
 availing, he was put in the dungeon to 
 have the " truth starved out of him." 
 
 After three days he was brought out, 
 faint, pale, ready to die at every step, but 
 with that same immovable something shin- 
 ing in his eyes, and his lips still set in the 
 old way that he had of his mother. 
 
 His hands were manacled, and an iron 
 chain clanked about his feet as he dragged 
 them wearily one after the other. For 
 three days he had tasted no food, except a 
 rat that he had caught in the dungeon. 
 He ate it raw, like a dog, and searched 
 eagerly for another. Just as he had found 
 it, and skinned it with the help of his 
 teeth, the guard peered through the grat- 
 ing, and seeing what he was doing, entered 
 and put the handcuffs upon him, after first 
 removing the raw flesh to a point where
 
 A Grain of Gold 257 
 
 he could see, but not touch it. And there 
 it lay, torturing him while he starved. And 
 there it lay until it became carrion, and tor- 
 tured him again. And then they had 
 dragged him out again; out under the 
 blue sky, where the trees the old sweet- 
 smelling pines were waving their purple 
 plumes upon the distant mountains, and 
 the wild grape filled the air with perfume, 
 and the wild roses were pink as child- 
 hood's sweet, young dreams, and over all 
 was bending the blue heaven. And heaven 
 spread before him, heaven; behind him lay 
 hell, fifteen years of it less one. And they 
 gave him choice again betwixt the two. 
 They even crammed a bit of moral in the 
 offer. " It was right," they said, "to tell 
 on those who had broken the prison reg- 
 ulations ; mere justice to the lessees." 
 Right ! too late to talk to him of right. 
 He glanced once at the pines, going far- 
 ther away, whiffed at the pleasant odour 
 of the grapes, waved his hand to the roses, 
 in farewell, perhaps, lifted his face to
 
 258 A Grain of Gold 
 
 the blue heaven, he had never looked 
 heavenward before in all his wretched 
 years, then, wearing that same old look 
 of his mother's, he turned, without a 
 word, and reentered the prison. 
 
 Back to the pump, the lash, and at last 
 to the dungeon. 
 
 But he no longer dreaded it. It was 
 the Sabbath, and the shackles had been 
 removed, but he was too weary to notice 
 the rat that came out and sat peering at 
 him, nibbling at his wet prison clothes, 
 and his feet and hands. Even the carrion 
 did not disturb any more. The scent of 
 the wild grape blooms was still in his nos- 
 trils. And when the day wore on, and 
 the two o'clock bell sounded, calling the 
 men to Sunday school, he started up with 
 a cry of " Here." He had thought the 
 bell a voice at the dungeon door, and 
 fancied that it said, " Friend." 
 
 He dropped back, with a smile on his 
 lips. Could old Nance have peered in at 
 that moment she would have pronounced
 
 A Grain of Gold 259 
 
 him very like his mother with that smile, 
 and that stanch old heroism shining in his 
 wide, dead eyes. 
 
 Down in the office the registrar entered 
 upon the death list : 
 
 " James Royal Natural death." 
 
 Natural ? Then God help the unnat- 
 ural. 
 
 " The worst one ever fell into our 
 hands," the warden told the minister as 
 he came out of the chapel with the soft- 
 voiced friend of the dead man's. " Not a 
 spark of good in him, parson. Jim Royal 
 knocks your theory all to pieces." 
 
 But the friend had been telling the min- 
 ister a story. And as he passed out at the 
 rattling stockade gate, he, too, glanced up 
 at the blue sky. His doubts were gone, 
 if there had been any ; his faith was 
 planted in God's eternal goodness. 
 
 " Can such die ? " he mused ; " such 
 faithfulness, such magnificent courage, 
 such glorious fidelity ? Is it possible that
 
 260 A Grain of Gold 
 
 such can pass away into eternal tor- 
 ment ? " 
 
 The soft wind touched his cheek and 
 bore heavenward the prayer he breathed : 
 
 " Forbid it, Almighty God."
 
 A Day in Asia 
 
 IT was a great day in Asia, a gala 
 day, some would have said, for al- 
 though the occasion was a religious one, 
 it was not without its tinsel, its dash of 
 jollity, and its flash of fashion. It was the 
 day of the great annual foot- washing of 
 the coloured Baptists, "de Hard-shells, 
 honey, ez some names de { Hard-sides,' 
 an' den, agin, some names de ole f Pri- 
 munters.' ' 
 
 Once a year it comes, the "big 
 meet'n'," that is always held in Asia, 
 the little negro settlement on the banks 
 of the Elk, that creeps along with noise- 
 less content among the foothills of the 
 
 Cumberlands. A foot-washing, why, 
 261
 
 262 A Day in Asia 
 
 heaven itself has built the basin, and set it 
 flowing, fresh, fair, and free. Surely the 
 rivers of Tennessee are they not better 
 than all the tubs of Asia ? Might they 
 not wash in them and be clean ? 
 
 By sunup the hordes were on the way. 
 They came by horse, by foot, and by 
 great wagon-loads, each with a basket, 
 each wearing his holiday dress, and each 
 with soul brimful, running over, breaking 
 out, with religion. 
 
 The breaking out assumed a varied form. 
 Sometimes it was a loud laugh, at a mo- 
 ment when all was still ; sometimes a deep 
 groan as a solitary horseman passed a 
 wagon-load of worshippers ; sometimes it 
 became a shriek, a cry of " Glory ! glory ! 
 my soul's happy, en I wanter go home ; " 
 again it was a fervent "Amen!" and again 
 a knowing " Hmk-umk ! " sometimes it 
 was a quiet interchange of " news," 
 friendly gossip, as two wagons came in 
 speaking distance ; and sometimes it took 
 the form of a lively, if brief, little fight in
 
 A Day in Asia 263 
 
 a wagon where two women wrangled over 
 their respective titles to one escort. The 
 fight must, however, have been tinctured 
 with religious fervour; for at the close 
 of each bout the combatants closed their 
 eyes, adjusted anew their mutilated finery, 
 and, swaying back and forth with the 
 rocking of the wagon, began to sing, 
 sometimes together with the same tune, 
 sometimes in solo, and sometimes each with 
 her own preferred hymn, and each trying 
 to out-sing the other. The favourite 
 melody, however, and drawn out with 
 that long, fervent, not unmusical drawl 
 that is peculiar to the negro, was one 
 in which all the inmates of the wagon 
 joined, and even the passing horsemen 
 now and then lent their voices to swell 
 the chorus : 
 
 " Ez I wen' down in de valley ter pray, 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Glory ! 
 Steddyin' about dat good ole way, 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Glory ! 
 Marse Jesus, he come erlong dat day, 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Glory !
 
 264 A Day in Asia 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " Lawd, who's gwine ter w'ar dat stairry crown, 
 Lawd, who's gwine ter w'ar dat stairry crown, 
 Lawd, who's gwine ter w'ar dat stairry crown, 
 Ter meet my Jesus in de Glory ? 
 
 " Whar I wen' down ter wras'le en pray, 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Glory ! 
 Marse Jesus, he come erlong dat day, 
 
 Glory ! Glory ! Glory ! 
 A-p'intin' out dat good ole way, 
 Glory! Glory! Glory!" 
 
 The song rose and fell, reverberating 
 with peculiar sweetness among the hills at 
 times, at times jarring inharmoniously, as 
 some twangy treble strove to reach a tone 
 above the voices of the others. Some- 
 times it was as if the very heart of nature 
 stood still to listen ; sometimes a fox, 
 secure in the distance, barked a rejoinder 
 from the river bluffs far below the wind- 
 ing road to Asia, or a blue jay, with sacri- 
 legious impertinence, sent back a note of 
 contempt in response to the hymn as the 
 wagons passed under his nesting-place.
 
 A Day in Asia 265 
 
 Once, only, however, was there any se- 
 rious opposition offered ; this was in the 
 case of a diminutive yellow fise that ran 
 out from a farmyard, and with shrill and 
 vigorous barking, elevated tail and ears, 
 vociferously disputed the right of way to 
 Asia. 
 
 Despite the protestations of the fise, 
 however, Asia was expecting her guests. 
 Every door stood wide open, as if Hospi- 
 tality had stepped outside to meet half 
 way the visitors. The houses were tiny 
 cabins, neatly whitewashed and carefully 
 adorned with vines of every creeping 
 kind. 
 
 A little garden spot was basking in the 
 sunlight about every door, and, being too 
 early in the season for vegetables, the gar- 
 dens did duty as ornament. There were 
 tulips and phlox and petunias, lady pease 
 in full bloom, cymlings with yellow blos- 
 soms, peeping slyly at the bolder colour- 
 ing of its neighbour and kinsman, the 
 gourd. A pretty scene, and flanked by a
 
 266 A Day in Asia 
 
 still prettier, where the mountains lifted 
 their craggy summits to the clouds, purple 
 with the haze of distance. Nearer the 
 pines were waving their long arms to 
 the river, the gentle Elk, nestled among 
 the laurel-crowned bluffs. 
 
 A good day for worship ; such a day as 
 might have charmed the Druids to their 
 temples, or, indeed, made all the world 
 turn Druid and worship likewise in the 
 groves. 
 
 Most of the cabins were empty, their 
 owners gone down the road to meet ex- 
 pected friends. 
 
 No fear of thieves to-day ; the rogues 
 would all be at " meet'n'." " Be dar long 
 ob de balunce ob de Chrischuns," the 
 Widow Brown declared, as she spread her 
 table, before leaving for the little " meet'n'- 
 house " at the foot of the hill beyond the 
 river. 
 
 The widow was a pillar of the church in 
 Asia. She was " well off," too, so far as 
 this world's goods were concerned. And
 
 A Day in Asia 267 
 
 she was a " good liver," a rarely " good 
 feeder," a something unusual among 
 the coloured race, who work well, cook 
 well and carefully for their white em- 
 ployers, but who do their own work with 
 a half-hearted, unwholesome disregard of 
 both health and comfort. 
 
 The Widow Brown lived well ; every- 
 body in Asia knew her cooking. And 
 even among the visitors many a hope was 
 harboured that the widow would " ax me 
 ter fetch my baskit ter her house." 
 
 She had her own plans, however. She 
 had sent out no invitations for that day, 
 although the dinner-table, when the "good 
 liver" stood back to admire it, might have 
 fed all Asia. She meant to have one guest, 
 and but one. She had even sent her 
 children over to Winchester the day be- 
 fore, on a visit to their gran -pap, in order 
 to have a clear field and a day without 
 interruption. 
 
 She had put the last touch to the big 
 pound cake when she caught sight of a
 
 268 A Day in Asia 
 
 stumpy gray tail in the sumach thicket in 
 the rear of the church, where the preacher 
 always hitched his mule. 
 
 The preacher is the idol, the good God 
 in human form, of his members. The 
 Widow Brown was not the only one of 
 his flock who had been watching for the 
 switch of that gray mule's tail in the 
 sumach thicket. 
 
 She was the first to get there, however, 
 and she was blissfully ignorant that " lill' 
 Sis Moore," the young mulattress who 
 lived "a piece up de road, on de side 
 todes de mount'n," had run down the 
 road, at her mother's request, to speak to 
 the parson as he went by. 
 
 The widow found him beside his 
 mule, the Reverend Benjamin Franklin 
 George Washington Henderson, fat, 
 fifty, and well fed by the members of the 
 respective churches under his charge. She 
 was^r-r/, evidently, to greet the mogul. 
 
 " How you does, Brudder Hen'son ? " 
 she began.
 
 A Day in Asia 269 
 
 " I's toler'ble," said the brother. 
 
 " How's yo folks does, Brudder Hen'- 
 son?" 
 
 " Dey's toler'ble." 
 
 " Yo ma well, Brudder Hen'son ? " 
 
 She's toler'ble." 
 
 " You well, Brudder Hen'son ? " 
 
 " I's toler'ble. How's you, Siste' 
 Brown ? " 
 
 " I's toler'ble." 
 
 "Yo folks well?" 
 
 " Dey's toler'ble. You come t' my 
 house ter dinner, Brudder Hen'son. I 
 got nice lill' bar'bcue shoat fur dinner 
 ter-day." 
 
 The reverend gentleman chuckled. 
 
 " Lill' Sis Moore done ax me ter dinner 
 wid dey-alls." 
 
 The widow's face wore for an instant 
 a mingled expression of doubt, disap- 
 pointment, and good-natured determina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Dat lill' heifer ? " She laughed aloud. 
 " She ain' no han' ter cook vittuls. You
 
 270 A Day in Asia 
 
 come t' my house, Brudder Hen'son ; 
 dat's de fattes lilP peeg yo eber sot yer 
 teef in, / tell ye." 
 
 Alas for the widow ! The bright young 
 face of " Liir Sis " had raised a tumult in 
 the reverend old heart. Other things 
 than juicy pigs and pound cake swayed 
 the holy man to-day and controlled his 
 movements. 
 
 " Her say dey-all's peeg more fatter en 
 your'n," laughed the parson. 
 
 At this the widow showed fight. She 
 would not have her cooking slandered ; 
 not at all, 
 
 "Sis Moore's mouf ain't no pra'r book," 
 she declared; "en no dicshuner, neider, ef 
 it do op'n en shet. I knock her teef down 
 her thoat she say dat. You tek dinner at 
 my house, Brudder Hen'son. De good 
 book say yer boun' ter kep keer ob de 
 widder en de orf'n, Brudder Hen'son. 
 Hit doan sey noth'n' bout young gals ez 
 runs roun' arter folks ter eat dey peegs 
 up. I's de widder woman de Bible tells
 
 A Day in Asia 271 
 
 'bout, I is. You be sho' ter come ter my 
 house, Brudder Hen'son ! " 
 
 The arrival of others cut short all fur- 
 ther conversation. The widow consoled 
 herself that her cause was not hopeless. 
 
 " Dat peeg'll tetch up his 'mem'bunce 
 all dis day," she told herself. 
 
 Everybody made it a point to seek out 
 the preacher. Soon such a crowd had col- 
 lected about the reverend gentleman that 
 the widow moved off, to mingle with the 
 visitors who were come to worship in Asia. 
 
 There was aunt Ellen, the conjure 
 woman, who could charm away warts 
 and lift spells, a shining light among 
 the Hardshells, alias Hardsides, alias 
 " Primunters." 
 
 And there was " old Jinny," who had a 
 habit of talking to herself; a habit known 
 among her class as " talkin' wid de ole 
 boy," for it is a belief with them that to 
 talk to one's self is to talk with the devil. 
 
 Then there was " Lean Jim," the rag 
 buyer. Other things than rags had been
 
 272 A Day in Asia 
 
 found in Jim's sack, often. But nobody 
 charged Jim with that "at meet'n'." 
 Moreover, Jim had long ago explained 
 how these things happened. They hap- 
 pened in Benjamin's day, too, he declared, 
 and in Benjamin's sack. 
 
 " 'Count o' bein' put dar fur ter bring 
 reproach upon de Chrischuns. Dar's lots 
 o' meanness in dis worl', honey, lots en 
 lots ob it." 
 
 So Jim argued in setting himself straight 
 with the church. At Asia Jim occupied 
 the right-hand amen corner, and led in the 
 foot-washing. 
 
 Then there was among the celebrities in 
 Asia, that last foot-washing day, May, first 
 Sunday, year eighteen hundred ninety-two, 
 aunt Milly, " de oldes' 'oman in de worl', 
 honey." 
 
 Too old, indeed, to care for or to desire 
 any other name than simple " aunt 
 Milly." As to age, the negro has a 
 peculiar idea. Ask aunt Milly, for in- 
 stance, "How old are you, aunt Milly?"
 
 A Day in Asia 273 
 
 " Lor, honey, I done furgit, long 'go. 
 I been here long time, mighty long 
 time. I spec' I been here twenty year, 
 might nigh." 
 
 And near aunt Milly, calmly sedate, 
 "jes wait'n fur de trumpit," sat aunt 
 Winnie, another of the old-timers. Her 
 ideas of time are as vague as those of the 
 old woman at her side. She has spent her 
 life puzzling over her age. " Ole marse 
 died fo' I uz ole nuff ter want ter know," 
 she was wont to declare. " Den ole miss, 
 her died too, an' nuver telled. En dey 
 ain' nobody else ter ax. But I's mos' two 
 hundred, I reckin. I sho' am, fur I 
 wuz here fo' de war, chile. Dat I wuz. 
 I's boun' ter be nigh two hundred." 
 
 Of a truth she was about forty-five ; 
 while aunt Milly, " mos' twenty," was 
 long past the seventieth mile-post. 
 
 Another distinguished worshipper in 
 Asia was " Short Ann," the stumpy little 
 old woman who " made soap fur de whole 
 country."
 
 274 A Day in Asia 
 
 " Don' mek it tweel de moon gits right, 
 ef yer please. En fur de Lord's sake 
 don't cep' one ob de family stir hit. Hit 
 won't jelly ef two stirs de kittle ; hit sho' 
 won't." 
 
 Uncle Sam, the witch-ridden, was there, 
 too, assisting in the services. " He say 
 de witches rid him agin las' night, en he 
 got a wire roun' 'is neck fur ter keep 'em 
 off." 
 
 So the good sisters told each other 
 while they waited at the church door for 
 Yellow Jane, the fortune-teller, who was 
 crossing the foot-log with "lill' Jack," her 
 boy, who had been conjured " so's he los' 
 growth," held in the hollow of her side, 
 just above the right hip. All come to 
 meet'n, all come to worship together. 
 Witch and wizard, saint and sinner, old 
 and young, the halt and the whole, the 
 ignorant and superstitious, the rogue, the 
 honest man, the gay and thoughtless, 
 the old and careful, all Christians, all 
 brothers for that one day, all of one nature
 
 A Day in Asia 275 
 
 at last: a nature that laughs at poverty, 
 shakes its fist in the face of want, and sings 
 over the corpse of morality as lustily as 
 over the washtub of a day in June, an 
 emotional nature, touched to despair by 
 grief and ready to break into shouting 
 before the presence of joy, all one in 
 that Asia day. 
 
 Such a day ! Asia had never felt a 
 fairer. The worshippers were loath to 
 leave the sunlight, the ride, the gay little 
 street of the village, where they wandered 
 about, with gossip and friendly greeting. 
 
 They were all brethren for one day. All 
 the burdens of life were laid down, thrown 
 off; all the rest of the year they might 
 toil, suffer, battle with poverty and pain, 
 but this day, this one day, ah, it was so 
 much snatched from life ! this their one 
 day in Asia. 
 
 The service of the morning was to begin 
 at ten o'clock. At half-past nine the wor- 
 shippers had begun to move in the direc- 
 tion of the church, not knowing they were
 
 ij6 A Day in Asia 
 
 sorry to give up the sunshine and the 
 gossip. 
 
 At ten they were all in, seated deco- 
 rously in their places, their hearts full of 
 warmth, their tongues tuned for praise. 
 
 The preacher rose ; he was a poor man, 
 a widower, and one not too often surfeited 
 with the good things of this world. If 
 visions of roasted pig, savoury odours of 
 vinegar and spice, and crisping bacon 
 mingled with his devotions, the devotees 
 of Asia were in blissful ignorance of their 
 pastor's wanderings. He arose with his 
 accustomed dignity, a hymn-book, held 
 bottom up, in his hand. 
 
 " Brudderin," he began, " you will 
 please to sing the hymn on de page " 
 he paused. Through the wide open door 
 a spectacle was presented which held his 
 ecclesiastical gaze until the whole congre- 
 gation turned to see what it might be that 
 had attracted him. 
 
 The widow's little pig might simmer in 
 its own bastings ; far better a dinner of
 
 A Day in Asia 277 
 
 herbs where love is, than the fatted porker 
 of the unloved member. 
 
 Down the little foot-path through the 
 red-oak woods tripped a lithe, graceful fig- 
 ure of a young girl. Boldly, daringly gor- 
 geous through the cool greens of the forest 
 shone her attire, like the plumage of some 
 brilliant bird. At first a dash of crimson, 
 a flash of gay blue and filmy white, then 
 came the full figure, in all its splendour, 
 of little Sis Moore, the belle of Asia. 
 
 She wore a skirt of bright crimson, 
 gaily festooned with lace, a cheap white 
 cotton pattern, valued for its effect rather 
 than its quality ; a jacket of cheap blue 
 silk, caught at the slender waist with a 
 large rosette of blue ribbon and lace ; 
 a hat of coarse white straw, the whole 
 scarcely larger than a bird's nest, with a 
 cluster of large red roses planted tip-top 
 the crown, and a fall of lace around the 
 brim, making a rare setting for the bright, 
 coquettish face beneath. She wore slip- 
 pers, too, and red stockings. And, mighty
 
 270 A Day in Asia 
 
 straw to wreck the strained camel's back, 
 above the giddy, girlish head, a crimson 
 parasol flashed before the dazzled eyes of 
 the worshippers, and the belle of Asia 
 came down the path, lifted her skirts 
 above the red-hosed ankle, tripped dain- 
 tily over the foot-log, the river was 
 narrow at this point, and deposited her 
 finery in the very door of the meeting- 
 house. 
 
 The parson, heavy and clumsy, was 
 prepared to appreciate grace and nimble- 
 ness. He saw the apparition, the study 
 in red, white, and blue ; and his reverend 
 old heart gave a bound that struck him 
 for the moment dumb. 
 
 The Widow Brown saw, too, and the 
 sight, from a different cause, produced a 
 like effect. She broke off in her singing 
 to express herself unto herself: 
 
 "Look at dat! Look et dat ! Dat 
 yaller nigger think she mighty fine, / 
 reckin, becase she tuk de cake et de 
 walkin' last night. Nice way ter glorify
 
 A Day in Asia 279 
 
 de Lawd. Ef I gits my ban's on dem 
 eyes, I ull scratch de brazenness out'n 
 dem. I ull bus' her wide op'n ef I gits 
 my han's on her, de low-live triflin' 
 hussy, 
 
 " ' Marse Jesus he come erlong dat way, 
 Glory! Glory! Glory!' " 
 
 And the Widow Brown went bravely 
 on with her devotions. 
 
 During the prayer, however, the widow 
 became possessed of a desire to peep at 
 the parson. " Hit's de debbul temptin' 
 ob me, I knows," she told herself; and 
 stooping a trifle lower upon her knees, 
 she managed to look between the bowed 
 heads about her, straight at the parson. 
 He was kneeling, his hand before his face, 
 " fairly wras'lin' in pra'r." Suddenly the 
 fat fingers parted, just where they had 
 met before the parson's left eye, and the 
 Widow Brown groaned her contempt to 
 see him, in the very agonies of prayer, 
 steal a glance at the successful cake win-
 
 280 A Day in Asia 
 
 ner, the prize walker, Sis, the belle of 
 Asia. 
 
 " Dat hussy !" But for the " Amens," 
 and "Yes, Lords," and " Dar nows ! " 
 and " Hmk-umks ! " that were ascend- 
 ing and descending in a hundred different 
 sharps and flats, the widow's wrathful out- 
 break might have reached the very ears 
 of the parson himself. 
 
 " Dat hussy ! Ought ter be chuched ; 
 bofe ob 'em ought ter be chuched ; ain' 
 no 'ligion in such doin's." 
 
 Just then uncle Zack, the water-witch, 
 took up the prayer where the preacher 
 left off. 
 
 " Good Lawd," he began, " we's all 
 bent en boun' fur de kingdom " 
 
 " Amen ! " said the widow. " Bless de 
 Lawd ! Dat's de Gord's troof. Bent 
 en boun' fur de prommus Ian'. Glory ! 
 glory ! My soul's happy, en I wan' ter 
 go home." 
 
 The " happiness " was evidently con- 
 tagious, for in three minutes after the
 
 A Day in Asia 281 
 
 widow's outbreak the entire congregation, 
 men, women, and children, had raised a 
 shout. Every soul was " happy ; " every 
 soul "wanted to go home" all except 
 the girl sitting demurely on the second 
 seat from the front, the girl, Sis. She 
 had been to school at Winchester, the 
 county town, and had " learned better," 
 she declared. 
 
 " L'arned de debbul," the Widow 
 Brown said. " Done gone en got above 
 everybody, en de gospil, its own se'f. Be 
 ter big fur de kingdom come, I reckin, 
 wid her fine clothes en her book readin's. 
 L'arned to be 'bove foot-washin's en 
 shoutin', en gloryin' in de Lawd ! " 
 
 " No," the girl had replied to the 
 charge. " I learned when's the proper 
 time to wash yer feet, an' it be Sadday 
 night." 
 
 So she took no part in the great annual 
 event. More than one of the younger 
 members would have liked to follow the 
 lead of the pretty little heretic who had
 
 282 A Day in Asia 
 
 with her own hand sowed the first seed of 
 doubt in that little assembly, a seed 
 that was destined to spring up ; to yield 
 ten, fifty, and an hundre'd fold. 
 
 She saw the benches moved back into 
 four long rows, two confronting each 
 other on one side of the house, and two 
 on the other; the left hand for the sisters, 
 the right for the brethren. She saw the 
 minister gird himself with a towel, a per- 
 formance immediately followed by the 
 congregation. She alone was left out ; 
 had no part with them. Yet she was 
 smiling when Water-witch Zack and Lean 
 Jim, the rag buyer, came in bringing each 
 a tin pan filled with water, and set them, 
 one between each row of benches. She 
 saw the people begin to remove their 
 shoes and stockings. The sisters took 
 their places opposite each other on the 
 left hand benches ; the brethren separated 
 to the other side. Each was girded with 
 a towel. A hymn was sung, and during 
 the singing the preacher removed his shoes
 
 A Day in Asia 283 
 
 and came down out of the pulpit to take a 
 chair that had been set for him. 
 
 Lean Jim met him there with a tin 
 basin, and he plunged his bare feet into 
 it. Jim knelt upon one knee and took 
 them, one foot at a time, between his 
 palms, rubbed them gently, wiped them 
 with the towel he wore ; and then ex- 
 changing places while the congregation 
 sang, Jim put bis feet into the basin, and 
 the preacher performed the humble ser- 
 vice for him. 
 
 Then it was the occupants of the benches 
 began. Each sister washed, and dried, 
 with her towel, the feet of the sister oppo- 
 site, and the vessel was passed on to the 
 next, the singing being kept up by those 
 whose turn had not yet come and those 
 who had already performed. Among the 
 brethren occupying the other rows of seats 
 a similar scene was enacted. Midway the 
 two lines the vessels were emptied through 
 two convenient boles in the floor, prepared 
 for that purpose, and fresh water supplied.
 
 284 A Day in Asia 
 
 As the couples completed their part of the 
 service they withdrew, and others were 
 invited to " come forward and take their 
 places." 
 
 The preacher could not read, but he 
 explained again and again, as the occu- 
 pants of the benches changed, that "havin' 
 girded hisse'f with a towel, he took de 
 cup, en give thanks, en sed tek it in de 
 mem'brince ob me." A hopeless tangle 
 of two institutions. 
 
 It was well into the afternoon when the 
 service ended. There had been three ser- 
 mons, much singing, and a continuance in 
 prayer that must have left an impression 
 upon many knees, at all events. 
 
 Chief among the worshippers was the 
 Widow Brown ; and when the service 
 ended, she hung back, ostensibly to "shake 
 hands " with the saints, in reality to offer 
 a last invitation to the parson. 
 
 That pig ! It had been on her heart 
 all day. So indeed had the " yaller gal." 
 She would not believe the preacher really
 
 A Day in Asia 285 
 
 meant to set her aside for " dat lill' mink 
 in her raid petticoat." 
 
 " I 'ud jis' lack ter see her git up a 
 chuch dinner by her own se'f, lack the 
 parson's 'oman got ter do. Dis her 
 mammy's dinner she done axed Brudder 
 Hen'son ter eat. She can't cook, dat lill' 
 Sis, She kin read en write, en dey-alls 
 sey she gwine teach schul bimeby. Dat 
 ain' gwine tek de place ob vittuls, sho' 
 'tain't. She too young fur dat man any- 
 hows ; why, he done berried one 'oman, 
 en his ma keep'n ob his chillen fur him." 
 
 So consoling herself, the widow waited. 
 At last he came out, hat in hand, too hur- 
 ried to stop, and too much interested in a 
 vision of blue and red disappearing up the 
 path through the red-oak woods to notice 
 the member of his flock standing alone 
 beside the door. He merely glanced at 
 the retreating colour, and set out at a 
 brisk little run in the wake of "little 
 Sis." 
 
 The Widow Brown watched him with
 
 286 A Day in Asia 
 
 feelings of mingled emotion. He was fat 
 and awkward. 
 
 " Ef he keep up dat gait he am' gwine 
 cross dat foot-log," she said ; " en dat 
 hussy yonder ! Look at her ! Done 
 turn roun' en wait fur him. Look! look 
 dar now ! " 
 
 The parson had seen the girl stop and 
 had increased his speed. He reached the 
 foot-log all safe, and, without a moment's 
 hesitation, started across, with the daring 
 of an athlete. 
 
 Suddenly there was a swerve ; one 
 freshly washed foot " missed its hit ; " 
 there was a scramble, a reaching out of 
 both hands, a loud shout of laughter from 
 the widow, and something from the par- 
 son that sounded very like an oath, and 
 then Parson Henderson struck the log 
 a-straddle. There was a low titter from 
 neighbourhood of the red and blue, but 
 the parson was blissfully ignorant of this. 
 
 Distinct enough, however, came the 
 voice of the widow :
 
 A Day in Asia 287 
 
 " Dar now ! Dar now ! Air? yo glad 
 God made yer forkid ? " 
 
 The next moment he heard her singing, 
 complacently pious as ever, as she went 
 down the hill, where the visitors were 
 spreading their dinners under the trees, to 
 invite Lean Jim, aunt Winnie, and Zack, 
 the water-witch, to help eat the pig and 
 pound cake. 
 
 " En I'll meet Marse Jesus in de Glory, 
 Glory ! Glory! Glory!" 
 
 She was still laughing over the preacher's 
 mishap. She felt repaid for all her disap- 
 pointment.
 
 A Humble Advocate 
 
 SUNRISE in Jones's Cove. The great 
 encompassing mountains stood sol- 
 emn and weird and silent, capped with 
 cloud and carpeted with everlasting green 
 about their feet where the winter scarce 
 finds an entrance into the well-screened 
 cove slumbering among their rugged 
 bases. Winding in and out among the 
 gaps and crevices of the mountains, Big 
 Pigeon River might be seen fighting its 
 way to the beautiful French Broad. 
 
 The sun was peeping over the moun- 
 tains, a great round, red eye of fire. The 
 cove still lay in shadow and in silence. 
 It might have been a dead world, indeed, 
 for all sign there was of life, save for the 
 288
 
 A Humble Advocate 289 
 
 one lone figure leaning upon the low pal- 
 ings of the rude gate in front of a little 
 weather-beaten cabin standing at the 
 Cove's head, just at the point where the 
 road begins the ascent of the mountain. 
 
 As for the woman, she, too, might have 
 been a part of the deadness, as she stood 
 there with one small, knotted labour- 
 marked hand clasping the paling, the 
 elbow of the other arm resting upon it, 
 her chin in her hand, and her bright, 
 brown eyes fixed in melancholy musing 
 upon the distant peaks of mountain rising 
 above the valley. Only, looking well 
 into the face, one could not fail to see the 
 fire that still hid in the dark eyes, like a 
 slumbering coal-bed that waited only the 
 revivifying breath of excitement to fan it 
 into a living glow. 
 
 Within the cabin a man lay sleeping 
 upon a bed over which was thrown a quilt 
 of many-coloured stripes. Two burly, calf- 
 skin-covered feet depended floorward be- 
 neath the coverlet, and the arm, thrown
 
 290 A Humble Advocate 
 
 with the careless abandon of the weary 
 sleeper over the man's head, wore a sleeve 
 of heavy gray jeans. Evidently he had 
 thrown himself down to sleep without un- 
 dressing. Upon a low trundle-bed at his 
 side a boy of six years and a baby of one 
 were sleeping. The woman at the gate 
 was waiting for the man to awaken and eat 
 his breakfast. It was already cooked, and 
 was only waiting the pleasure of the liquor- 
 sodden sleeper before the woman would 
 bring it out from the skillets and pots 
 ranged about the hearth, where she had 
 set it to prevent the food getting " stone 
 cole " before he should sober up suffi- 
 ciently to call for it. 
 
 It was a dreary life, a cat-and-dog exis- 
 tence for her, the silent young watcher at 
 the gate. 
 
 " Ef I could only get my own cornsent 
 ter hold my tongue I reckin it would be 
 better," she mused. " But pears like I'd 
 be obleeged ter die sometimes ef I didn't 
 try ter head Ike Gary off in some o'
 
 A Humble Advocate 291 
 
 his doin's. 'Special when he begins ter 
 hender the chillen ; the pore little chillen 
 as can't holp the'rse'ves in noways. I jest 
 can't be still then ; I be obleeged ter fight 
 far my chillen. Even the old hen out 
 thar'll do that much fur her young ; or 
 the wil' varmints in the woods. I can't 
 git my own cornsent ter be less keerful o' 
 my young than the hens an' the b'ars an' 
 sech." 
 
 It wasn't an unpleasant face that was 
 lifted for a moment to the sunlight 
 stealthily creeping over the mountains ; 
 it showed resolve, spirit, and a courage 
 that death itself could not put to shame. 
 
 " I hev sarved that thar man in thar 
 ten year, good an' faithful. I didn't come 
 ter him em'ty-handed nuther. I had a 
 hundred head o' cattle an a half a hundred 
 acres o' valley Ian'. An' I ware not ac- 
 counted a bad-lookin' gal nuther, them 
 days. But the law allowed as Ike Gary 
 could keep my Ian* an' truck more better 
 nor me, an' so it ware his'n after I ware
 
 292 A Humble Advocate 
 
 married ter him. Whose it air now I can't 
 tell. The still-house got it o' Ike, I know 
 that much. They-uns useter say, too, 
 over yander in Elmiry whar I ware raised, 
 that I ware right sprightly. Some allowed 
 I'd make my mark ef I lived an' got my 
 growth. I made it, yes ; a mighty crosty 
 kind o' mark it ware, when I married 
 Ike. I ain't lacked in my sarvice none 
 nuther, as I can see ; an' what I hev got 
 in exchange fur hit air blows and hard 
 names. Lord, ef it ware not fur the 
 chillen, the chillen that he air ruinin' of, 
 I'd h'ist my heels an' take that thar road 
 up the mount'n, an' travel away from 
 here quicker'n yer could say c Jack Rob- 
 erson.' If it ware not fur the chillen I'd 
 do it." 
 
 For the children ; how many weary 
 women have bowed their backs to their 
 burdens, and taken their crosses again for 
 the sake of the children, the children, 
 God-given to keep soul and body in har- 
 ness if not in unison !
 
 A Humble Advocate 293 
 
 " You Josephine ? Am I got ter wait 
 all day fur a mouffull o' cole victuals ? 
 Or hev ye gone spang deef that ye can't 
 hear noways, when I call ter yer? Hi 
 God, ye air gitten too peart an' independ- 
 ent ter suit my fancy. Standin' thar sun- 
 gazin', air ye ? an' me a-waitin' fur my 
 breakfus'. Gol darn ye, ef yer don't come 
 in here an' fish out them victuals I'll fling 
 the shovel at yer; else't this here brat as 
 can't make out ter git itse'f wake like 
 other folks." 
 
 She was in the cabin long enough before 
 the man had completed his complaint, 
 and was dishing up the breakfast. She 
 paid no heed to his threats until he strode 
 over to the trundle-bed where the baby 
 was sleeping, the older child having risen 
 when Gary called his wife to get his break- 
 fast up. 
 
 " Stan* back from thar," she com- 
 manded. "You-uns jest let that thar 
 chile be, Ike Gary." 
 
 Whether it was the glitter in the rest-
 
 294 A Humble Advocate 
 
 less eyes, or whether he was too stupidly 
 indifferent to carry out his threat, she 
 neither knew nor cared ; with a low laugh 
 of derision he drew his chair up to the 
 table and began to eat his breakfast. The 
 woman sat near, not eating, but waiting 
 upon her husband, and the little boy, who 
 scrambled up into a chair at her side and 
 began calling for a dodger. 
 
 " I'd wash my face an' hands first ef I 
 ware ye," said the mother. "It air plumb 
 bad manners ter eat without washin'." 
 
 " Let him be," said Gary. " What be 
 the use anyhow? They-uns'll be dirty 
 ag'in 'ginst dinner-time. Eat yer break- 
 fus', son ; pappy'll let ye." 
 
 " That ain't no way .ter raise chillen," 
 said Mrs. Gary. As she had so many 
 times told herself, she couldn't get her 
 own consent to hold her tongue where 
 the children were concerned. 
 
 The man made no reply ; he was busy 
 with the chicken she had broiled and set 
 before him. When he had finished and
 
 A Humble Advocate 295 
 
 pushed back his plate, he seemed in a 
 better humour, disposed to talk, indeed; 
 though the talk always meant either an 
 argument or a season of ridiculing the 
 woman whom he regarded as his weaker 
 half. 
 
 "Whar did you-uns stay las' night?" 
 She put the question timidly, knowing 
 from experience what the reply would 
 be. 
 
 " Waal, now, Miss Master, whar do ye 
 reckin ? " said he. " I ware somewbars, 
 that ought ter satisfy ye. But Lor, these 
 women ; they air obleeged ter know it all. 
 Waal then, ef ye must know, I ware down 
 to the Forge ; an' some o' the candidates 
 ware thar, an' we had all the liquor we 
 could carry, an' more. An' they-uns 
 ware powerful anxious ter git my vote, 
 too, I can tell ye. Offered me " 
 
 She bent her small, bright eyes upon 
 him a moment, then made a gesture as of 
 waving him off: 
 
 " Ef you-uns hev been a-takin' of bribes
 
 296 A Humble Advocate 
 
 an' sech, Ike Gary, / don't want ter know 
 it." 
 
 "Jest as ye please, jest as ye please. 
 But stir yer stumps an' get the cuckle- 
 burrers out'n that thar brat's head. I 
 aims ter fetch him ter town with me ter- 
 day." 
 
 " He ain't fit ter go," she replied. 
 "He ware ailin' all night. I gin him 
 paregoric twicet endurin' o' the night." 
 
 " He's a-goin' jest the same," said 
 Gary. " An' ef you-uns wants ter sen' 
 him off lookin' like the witches hev had 
 him, / ain't keerin'. He's my chile, I 
 reckin, an' I aims ter do ez I please with 
 him. Git up, son, an' git yer hat. 
 Pappy's gwine let ye ride behin' him 
 down ter S'vierville ter-day." 
 
 Rebellion was useless ; she had tried it 
 too often not to know. She smoothed 
 out the tangled yellow hair, and washed 
 the face that shone again with the antici- 
 pation of a ride to the county-seat. And 
 when the man extended a leg and reached
 
 A Humble Advocate 297 
 
 his hand to the boy to drag him up to the 
 saddle behind him, she stood at the gate 
 and "saw them off" with the best grace 
 she could summon. 
 
 " Keep a holt on the tail of yer pappy's 
 coat, son," she admonished the smiling 
 youngster. " An' Ike, you-uns hoi' on 
 ter Benny ; he ain't use ter ridin' behin', 
 an' he'll slip off inter Pigeon River or 
 somers, an' git hisse'f drowned, ef ye ain't 
 keerful of 'him." 
 
 " Lord, Lord, listen at the critter," said 
 Ike. "Air he my chile or not? That's 
 what I'd like ter know." 
 
 As they rode away she stood watching 
 them through eyes in which anger had 
 dried the tears that might otherwise have 
 come to her relief. 
 
 " Ter hear that man talk, anybody 
 would think as it air all his chile, an' that 
 he never had no mammy ; leastways that 
 she got no more ter say in the raisin' of 
 him than ef she ware a stick. Women air 
 no better than that nohows, I'm a-thinkin'.
 
 298 A Humble Advocate 
 
 The laws o' this kentry gins a man the 
 right ter hoi' the lash, an' he hoi's it. 
 
 " The laws ; I say I A pretty thing the 
 laws o' this land air, a-settin' by an' seem' 
 chillen bein' kerried ter thar death, an' 
 allowun' as it air all right becase the 
 father hev a right ter do as he likes with 
 his own chillen. An' whar air the laws fur 
 the woman, I say? Why don't they let 
 the women he'p make 'em ef they-uns hev 
 got ter live up ter 'em ? That's what / want 
 er know. Lor, but wouldn't I like ter 
 he'p make the laws fur this country ; an' 
 wouldn't I jest give the women a showin' 
 ter live, though ? Wouldn't I? " 
 
 She had never heard of woman suffrage 
 in her life. She only knew that she had 
 felt the lack of the law's protection, and 
 recognised in a vague way that the man 
 who governs the woman is not competent 
 to make impartial laws for her. The 
 thought had come to her often before ; 
 but this morning she was so impressed 
 with it that she did not hear a step com-
 
 A Humble Advocate 299 
 
 ing along the path, the nigh cut down the 
 mountain. She had unconsciously given 
 voice to her thought, not knowing that 
 she had an audience : " Set a passel o' 
 men ter make laws fur the women they 
 expec' ter own ! Shucks ! Like ter make 
 good uns, I reckin." 
 
 A man stood at the foot of the path ; 
 he had heard every word of the foolish 
 complaining. 
 
 " Never you min' 'bout that, Mis' 
 Gary," said he. " Thar's better days a 
 comin' fur the women-folks, I shouldn't 
 wonder. I heeard las' week whenst I 
 ware down ter Knoxville ter witness fur Si 
 Odem, as ware indicted fur stealin' of a 
 horse Si never took the horse no more'n 
 you did, an' I went down ter witness as 
 he ware over ter my house the very day he 
 ware 'cused o' stealin' the cussed critter 
 over in Knox County. I tol' the jury 
 that, but they-uns 'peared not ter take my 
 word somehows, an' Si ware sent ter the 
 penitentiary fur ten year. But I heeard,
 
 300 A Humble Advocate 
 
 whiles't I ware thar witnessin' fur Si, as 
 how the women-folks ware goin' ter be let 
 ter vote befo* mighty long. I went ter 
 one o' the'r meetin's whiles't I ware thar. 
 'Tware helt in a tent ; an' how them 
 women did talk about the men ware a 
 scan'le, Mis' Gary. Lord, Lord, ef the 
 women don't beat my time ! Wantin' ter 
 be let ter vote, same as men ! First thing ye 
 an' me knows, Mis' Gary, they'll be axin' 
 ter be let wear pantaloons, and galluses, 
 an' sech. Then who air ter cook breakfus', 
 I'd like ter know? Thar ain't no tellin' 
 what the women o' Tennessee won't be 
 a-wantin' of next." 
 
 She was listening with wide, dilated 
 eyes ; her heart was beating like a ham- 
 mer. 
 
 " Air it true that they ull be let ter vote ? 
 Air that a true word, Jeff Bynum ? " 
 
 "Wall, now, Mis' Gary, hit ain't quite 
 settled yit," said Jeff. " This air the shape 
 they-uns hev got inter. The women-folks 
 they-uns allows thar be lots o' meanness
 
 A Humble Advocate 301 
 
 kerried on in Tennessee, an' they let on 
 as how if they-uns be let ter vote they 
 ull send good men ter the legislatur' 
 men as won't take bribes, an* will put 
 down liquor, an' wipe out wife-beatin', an' 
 mebbe kill the Ole Scratch hisse'f, fur all 
 anybody knows." 
 
 There was a flash of the dark eyes, a 
 quiver of the strong lips that should have 
 had a girlish laugh upon them, instead of 
 that weary woman-look they wore. 
 
 " Did the women o' Knoxville say that 
 air ? " Her face flushed with the pride 
 she felt in them ; she could have fallen at 
 their feet in very worship. 
 
 " The women o' Knox an* Hamilton, 
 an' some from as fur as Shelby hitse'f," 
 said Bynum. " I declar' ter goodness, 
 Mis' Gary, it ware a plumb caution the 
 way they-uns talked. One got up an' 
 allowed as she wanted ter vote ter holp 
 ^velop a ;0ralerty in gov'mint. I won- 
 dered what the fool allowed she ware 
 talkin' 'bout. An' another one wanted
 
 302 A Humble Advocate 
 
 ter vote becase she didn't want ter be 
 classed with luner//Vj, she said. Another 
 one didn't want ter be put with idjits, 
 though 7 could see mighty plain as she 
 ware one, p'int blank. An' one ware 
 ag'in bein' put down in the law with crim- 
 ernals an' furriners, an' said she wanted a 
 ekal right ter her own chillen. f Wom- 
 en's rights' they-uns called it. Lord, 
 Lord, my wife gits all the rights she air 
 entitled to in this worl' ; all her entitle- 
 mints an' more, ef the truth ware knowed. 
 She hev got the right ter milk the cow, 
 an' cook the victuals, ter rise up an' ter 
 set down. What more mortal critter air 
 wantin' of air too much fur Jeff Bynum 
 ter say." 
 
 He waited for her to agree with him, 
 but she was silent. She was no longer 
 listening ; she was thinking of those brave 
 women in Knoxville. How her soul 
 went out to them ! The slumbering fires 
 of her nature awoke and made response 
 to their effort, those brave few fighting,
 
 A Humble Advocate 303 
 
 contesting every inch of the road, their 
 way to freedom, their way, and the way 
 of all womanhood. She was with them 
 as surely as though she had been in their 
 meetings, been one of them. She recog- 
 nised the need ; her heart responded to 
 the justice of their claims. She would 
 have footed it all the way to Knoxville, 
 gladly, just to have told them how she 
 thanked them for their effort. 
 
 The visitor saw the keen interest in the 
 young face, and, not unwilling to make 
 himself interesting, proceeded to talk. 
 
 " I tell ye now, Mis' Gary," said he, 
 " I be goin' down ter fed'ral court nex' 
 month, ter witness fur Abe Stores, as air 
 indicted fur illicit distillin' ; an' I'll keep 
 my ears pricked, an' ef I heear any more 
 about this here thing o* the women votin' 
 I'll let ye know. It air a mighty fine 
 subject now, shore. They-uns allowed 
 the law let ever' created critter have a 
 sesso except lunertics, an' convic's, an' 
 idjits, an' furriners, an' babies, an women.
 
 304 A Humble Advocate 
 
 But shucks, says I. Whar's the good o' 
 votin' ? Hit ain't henderin' the workin's 
 o' Satan, as / can see. He air jest as 
 lively ter-day as befo' the women axed ter 
 be let ter vote, Mis' Gary." 
 
 She made no reply, and glancing at her 
 face, he saw that she was not thinking of 
 him. Half aggrieved, he turned away. 
 
 " Waal, I must be a-mosin', " said he. 
 
 The words recalled her wandering 
 senses ; she remembered, even in her won- 
 der over the strange knowledge that had 
 come to her, the courtesy due a visitor. 
 
 " Won't you-uns come in an' git a bite 
 o' breakfus' ? " she said. " Hit ain't cole 
 yet, though Ike hev et his an' gone." 
 
 " Naw'm, I must be a-mosin' on ; I 
 ware at a coon hunt las' night, an' the ole 
 'oman she'll be a-lookin' fur me ter be in 
 time fur breakfus'. Good day, Mis' Gary. 
 I'll be shore ter let ye know 'bout the 
 votin' whenst I come back from witnessin' 
 fur Abe." 
 
 He was laughing silently as he went
 
 A Humble Advocate 305 
 
 down the sun-flooded road with the loiter- 
 ing step of the all-night reveller. 
 
 " Lord, now, wouldn't she cut a figger 
 at the polls ? An' wouldn't the boys jest 
 etarnally laugh Ike out'n the Cove ef his 
 wife ware ter take ter votin' an' sech ? 
 But ef she ware ter take a notion ter it, 
 all S'vier County couldn't stop her, she 
 air that heady an' high-strung." 
 
 Ike, meanwhile, was pursuing his way 
 as calmly unconcerned as though he had 
 the world at his feet. When he reached 
 his store, early as it was, he saw the usual 
 crowd of loafers congregated, waiting for 
 him to open up for the day. 
 
 He tossed the key into the midst of 
 them as he rode past, half turning in the 
 saddle to call out to them : 
 
 " Open the darned thing, some of ye. 
 An' some of ye shut the door ter-night, 
 'g'inst varmints an' sech. Holp yerse'ves 
 ter barter an' sech, an' leave yer truck 
 somers in thar. I'm goin' down ter 
 S'vierville ter lay in some goods, mebbe.
 
 306 A Humble Advocate 
 
 Bob Bolton, air that yer snaggletooth 
 countenance over thar? Whar air that 
 root o' rattlesnake's-master you-uns ware 
 gwine ter fetch ter trade fur some sor- 
 ghum so brisk? Mis' Durham she jest 
 doctored herse'f on corn whiskey whiles't 
 she ware waitin' on the rattlesnake's-mas- 
 ter, that thar time she got herse'f bit. 
 Got t'arin' drunk, tight as the devul ; 
 killed the p'ison, howsomever. But fetch 
 it 'long, fetch it 'long; thar's a plentier 
 more folks fur the rattlers ter cut the'r 
 teeth on exceptin' o' ole Mis' Durham. 
 Good day, folkses. Walk in an' make 
 yerse'ves ter home. An' ef so be thar's 
 any 'mongst ye not hones' enough ter 
 charge up what he gits, why, let him steal 
 it, he's welcome. Ef he'd rather be a 
 rogue as ter be a hones' man, he hev got 
 my cornsent ter so be." 
 
 The summer waned, the days grew 
 shorter; then came the light frost, and 
 autumn, gaily resplendent, settled upon 
 the hills. The trees were a rustling bur-
 
 A Humble Advocate 307 
 
 den of scarlet and gold and amethyst. 
 Then came the hoarfrost, and vegetation 
 died like a newly born joy in the heart of 
 a woman. The scarlet and gold gave 
 place to ashes and dust ; denuded nature's 
 heart lay bare. Then came the rains, 
 November, and the election. Mrs. Gary 
 had heard nothing from Bynum ; indeed 
 she had not expected to hear. She had 
 heard enough to awaken her heart to the 
 great possibilities that lay buried in the 
 bosom of that mysterious future that 
 might dawn sometime for the women of 
 Tennessee. 
 
 She felt sometimes that, had fate dealt 
 her a different lot, she might indeed have 
 been one of them, one of the helpers in 
 the great cause that was already dear to 
 her. Yet, " I dunno, nuther," she would 
 tell herself when this thought was in her 
 heart. " I dunno ; mebbe I wouldn't 
 know so well what the need air ef I 
 hadn't V felt it as I hev done." 
 
 Experience, mighty mother of despair,
 
 308 A Humble Advocate 
 
 had taught her what it was to be a slave 
 to man's meanness and ignorance. A 
 slave, she remembered that one of the 
 Knoxville women had said she wanted 
 the ballot because she wanted her liberty. 
 The thought had taken possession of her, 
 that humble woman, lost among the hills 
 of Tennessee, lost to everything but ig- 
 norance and despair. Liberty ; why, it 
 was liberty that reared Bunker Hill, made 
 America, liberty, the foundation and 
 chief corner-stone of the very government 
 itself; the palladium of all peace; the base 
 of the triangle upon which is founded all 
 brotherly love and faith and hope. And 
 woman was the only one of God's crea- 
 tures to whom it was denied. But it 
 would come, it must; the mighty minds 
 of earth would take hold some day and 
 knock off her shackles and set her free. 
 The idea possessed her ; she could talk 
 of nothing else. Afternoons when Ike 
 would be away at the store, or off on a 
 drunken bout somewhere, she would take
 
 A Humble Advocate 309 
 
 the children and go off to some of the 
 neighbour women's houses and talk to 
 them about it. But she got little sym- 
 pathy ; they called her " cracked," after 
 awhile, and some wondered why Ike 
 Gary didn't make her " stop sech etarnal 
 foolishness." 
 
 She had never attempted to talk to Ike 
 about it but once. It was one evening 
 when he came home from Pigeon Forge 
 in high glee because of a speech he had 
 heard down there in favour of his chosen 
 candidate for the State legislature. 
 
 " Did ye hear anything o' the women 
 bein' let ter vote, whiles't ye ware down 
 ter the Forge ? " 
 
 She had put the question timidly ; per- 
 haps that was why it angered him. 
 
 " Listen at the fool," said he. " The 
 idee o' women votin' ! What do women 
 know about the laws o' the land ? I de- 
 clar ter God, Josephine, ef you-uns ain't 
 gittin' foolisher an' foolisher ever' day ye 
 lives. Ye ain't got as much gumption as
 
 310 A Humble Advocate 
 
 that thar chile thar this minute. Now, I 
 want ter tell ye as I hev heard enough 
 'bout that thar fool notion you-uns hev 
 took up. I air not goin' ter be laughed 
 plumb out'n the State o' Tennessee, ef I 
 know it." 
 
 The next day she took her baby under 
 her arm and went to pay a little visit at 
 the house of her neighbour. It was near 
 the time of the election ; the men were 
 going to and from the county-seat every 
 day. She might learn something of the 
 great question that had so agitated her 
 mind. But the woman did not once 
 broach the subject, and it was not until 
 she was leaving that Mrs. Gary herself 
 mustered courage sufficient to ask about 
 it. 
 
 " De Lor', Mis' Gary," was the reply, 
 " ye an' me better stay at home an' 'ten' 
 ter the chillen an' the men-folks, an' leave 
 votin' an' law-makin' to them as the Lord 
 meant ter take charge o' it. Naw'm, I 
 air not lookin' ter vote. My ole man
 
 A Humble Advocate 311 
 
 allows as a woman's place air ter milk 
 the cow an' cook the victuals an' 'ten' 'ter 
 the men-folks, ef they-uns hev got any 
 men-folks ter 'ten' ter; them as haven't 
 may go votin', 7 say, an' the Lord hev 
 mercy on the'r souls." 
 
 And as Mrs. Gary walked homeward 
 in the gray twilight, the woman regarded 
 her from the doorstep with a curiously 
 pitying expression. 
 
 "Josephine Gary air in an' about de- 
 ranged," said she. " She hev took ter 
 vagrantin' roun' the mount'n till folks air 
 talkin' mightily about her. An' they do 
 say as she talks polertics same as a man. 
 Land o' Moses ! what air this worl' 
 a-comin' ter, / say." 
 
 Mrs. Gary had not made herself ob- 
 noxious, however, even to the men. She 
 would talk politics ; they found that hard 
 to forgive, 'tis true, because she didn't 
 always agree with them ; but as to the 
 question of the women voting, the men 
 made light of that, and because it was
 
 312 A Humble Advocate 
 
 something so entirely novel and unlikely, 
 they forgave her that " bit o' gol-darned 
 foolishness." But many were the jokes 
 cast at Ike on her account ; her shoulders 
 bore the marks of them. Ike had his 
 own ideas as to the proper means of 
 putting a stop to the ridicule she excited. 
 
 The morning of the election dawned at 
 last, clear, cool, a forerunner of the near- 
 ing winter. The voting was done in the 
 old way, so long customary among the 
 mountains, and Ike's store was utilised as 
 a precinct. 
 
 Josephine had settled it in her own mind 
 that she would go to the poll, merely 
 as a matter of interest. There could be 
 no harm in her going ; it was at her hus- 
 band's store, and other women would be 
 coming in to trade before the day was 
 over. Ike had taken the older boy with 
 him early in the morning. It was nine 
 o'clock before Josephine set a pot of 
 pumpkin to boil, and, gathering the baby 
 under her arm, set off up the mountain.
 
 A Humble Advocate 313 
 
 A stranger, a man from one of the 
 valley towns, was seated near the election 
 boxes, leaning back against the low, rough 
 counter. He glanced up when Josephine 
 entered, to wonder at the brightness of the 
 small, dark eyes regarding him from be- 
 neath the black sunbonnet. Her entrance 
 was the signal for the settlement jokers to 
 begin ; the forms of greeting were varied : 
 
 " Come ter vote, Mis' Gary ? " asked 
 one. 
 
 " Lor, Mis' Gary, the women ain't let 
 ter vote yit." 
 
 " You-uns air jest ninety-nine year 
 ahead o' the time, Mis' Gary." 
 
 " Fetch the baby 'long ter vote, too, 
 Mis' Gary ? Ye know ef the law allows 
 the woman it ought ter allow the baby ter 
 vote, too. Women an' babies air dis- 
 barred ; the law disbars ye both ; mebbe 
 it'll admit ye both by and by." 
 
 The woman shifted her baby to the other 
 hip, and regarded her teasers silently for 
 a moment ; she was like some wild crea-
 
 314 A Humble Advocate 
 
 ture of the forest at bay, as she turned 
 upon them, with the only weapon at her 
 command, her tongue : 
 
 " Yes," said she, " the law air ekal ter 
 that; the laws o' Tennessee air ekal ter 
 'most anything. But " she paused, 
 set the baby upon the counter, and put 
 into its hand the end of the ball of twine 
 used for tying bundles, then slowly lifted 
 her hand " some o' you-uns'll live ter 
 see the women o' the land cast'n' o' the'r 
 votes yet. Let them as laugh look ter it." 
 
 The prophecy fell with strange force 
 from the narrow, strong lips. They 
 regarded her with a kind of awe for a 
 moment, the boldest among them forget- 
 ting to sneer. 
 
 It was at this moment that Ike, who 
 had been in the rear of the house rilling a 
 quart bottle with kerosene for a customer, 
 came forward, the bottle in his hand. He 
 glanced a moment at the silent, gaping 
 crowd, with their gaze fixed upon the 
 woman who had lifted her voice in proph-
 
 A Humble Advocate 315 
 
 ecy. His swarthy face grew livid ; with- 
 out a second's hesitation he lifted his arm 
 and hurled the bottle with all his strength 
 at her head. It crashed past her and 
 went to pieces in a thousand fragments 
 upon the wall behind her. The woman 
 never flinched. 
 
 " What air ye doin' here ? " demanded 
 the angry husband. " Didn't I tell ye ter 
 stay at home whar ye b'longed, ye dad- 
 burned hell-cat ? Comin' here ter make a 
 fool o' yerse'f befo' a passel o* fools as 
 ain't got no more sense than to laugh at 
 ye ! Lemme git at ye ; I'll see ef " 
 
 The group separated to make way for 
 him as the half-drunken man strode past 
 them ; he carried a rawhide whip that he 
 had jerked from the hand of one of the 
 men who had driven a yoke of oxen to 
 the store. The woman moved aside, not 
 to dodge the blow, but to shield the child 
 playing with the twine-cord upon the 
 counter. One sharp, cutting blow de- 
 scended upon the thin, stooped shoulders,
 
 316 A Humble Advocate 
 
 but before he could lift the whip for a 
 second the strange man leaning against 
 the counter sprang to his feet and seized 
 his arm. 
 
 " Don't you do that again," he com- 
 manded. " Don't you dare to strike that 
 woman again, you damned brute, you. 
 I mean what I say ; no man shall strike 
 a woman where I am, not if I have to 
 hang for it. Drop that lash, you coward, 
 and get back to your oil-tubs. A pretty 
 thing, you, to call yourself a man ! 
 Men," he turned to the wonder-stricken 
 crowd about the door, "you see for 
 yourselves how the laws of the State need 
 mending. If I go to the legislature from 
 this county the very first bill I shall in- 
 troduce will be one to make wife-beating 
 a felony in the State of Tennessee. Now 
 you may elect me on that ticket or not, 
 just as you choose." 
 
 A few minutes later he stood outside 
 watching for Josephine to come down the 
 rude steps, preparatory to going home.
 
 A Humble Advocate 317 
 
 "Why did you come here, my good 
 woman ?" he said, wishing to offer some 
 kind of help to the poor creature. " Why 
 did you come here ? See what you have 
 brought upon yourself." 
 
 He pointed to a blood-stain upon her 
 shoulder where the rawhide had cut 
 through to the skin. She glanced at the 
 stain and then at him. Something in his 
 voice appealed to her; this was her op- 
 portunity to say a word, to help along the 
 women of Knoxville. 
 
 " I am not keerin' fur that," said she ; 
 "what I'm keering for air my liberty; 
 I want my liberty. 'Pears like the women 
 air the only created critters as hev not got 
 the'r freedom in this worl'." 
 
 Instinctively there recurred to him a 
 scene he had witnessed in his youth : a 
 slave was being beaten for running away ; 
 he was bound with thongs, and another 
 slave was made to ply the lash ; it was of 
 rawhide also, and there was blood upon 
 the slave's shoulders. He received his
 
 318 A Humble Advocate 
 
 punishment without a groan ; but the next 
 day he ran away again, and was found 
 dead along the roadside en route to liberty. 
 And this woman of Tennessee, with her 
 bruised and burdened back, demanded hers. 
 
 "Ay, God, and she shall have it," he 
 told himself as he galloped home through 
 the midnight ; "she shall have it, if word 
 of mine can avail to help along her cause. 
 Liberty ? Why, men have died for liberty ; 
 they have died to give the gracious boon 
 to other men. Yet for woman, who has 
 thought of her ? " 
 
 The words of the mountain woman 
 throbbed in his thoughts : " 'Pears like 
 woman air the only created critter as ain't 
 got her freedom." 
 
 He saw again the gaping crowd, the 
 sneering faces, the uplifted lash. Again 
 in his ears was sounding the one word of 
 defence offered : " Some o' you-uns'll live 
 ter see the women o' the land castin' o' 
 the'r votes yet." 
 
 Prophetic words, and big with meaning !
 
 Tappine 
 
 E1VE that is born in the heart of a 
 woman, what a curious thing it 
 is ! It comes uncalled, unsought, and 
 often unwanted. And oh, the ravages 
 it makes ! Now, there was Tappine, 
 who ever would have looked for love like 
 that in the heart of a little mountain 
 maiden ? But then, love, like God, is no 
 respecter of persons. Which is natural 
 too, since God and love are one. 
 
 It was morning at Beersheba ; every 
 cedar and pine astir with the good winds 
 that sweep across the mountain, making 
 the great plateau indeed a health-crown 
 to the brave old Cumberlands. 
 
 Already the summer was astir, the 
 319
 
 3 2O Tappine 
 
 guests arriving. The big hotel would 
 soon open its doors to the nature-loving 
 few who still haunt the beautiful still- 
 nesses of Beersheba. 
 
 Over among the cottages, picturesque 
 log palaces indeed, might be seen one set 
 apart from the rest somewhat. Larger, 
 handsomer, furnished with all the richness 
 of a Southern ease-lover. The windows 
 stood wide open, a banner of lace waving 
 from each. In the piazza a hammock of 
 gay colours was swinging, and in the ham- 
 mock the young Mrs. Ennerly lay curled 
 up among her silken pillows. She held a 
 book, but Mrs. Ennerly was not reading. 
 Her thoughts were far away among the 
 purple distances of another mountain, 
 where, in the first fond flush of girlhood, 
 she had registered her one romance, her 
 " one folly," she sometimes told herself; 
 though she always told herself this with 
 a sigh, as though the folly might have 
 had its tender side, no less than its fool- 
 ish.
 
 Tappine 321 
 
 Her one romance ; life has but one 
 romance, indeed ; say what we may, do 
 what we please to disprove it, there is, 
 deep down in every heart, but the one 
 truly warm spot upon which the soul 
 will fondly fix itself at last, when youth 
 and dreaming shall have given place to 
 memory. 
 
 The lady in the hammock was thinking 
 of her one bright spot, where the winds 
 soughed softly in the autumn-time, and 
 the brown leaves drifted down among the 
 hollows of a hundred old graves, over on 
 that other mountain where her poor little 
 romance had begun and ended all in one 
 bright, brief autumn. 
 
 Suddenly the dreamer lifted herself 
 upon an elbow to listen ; through the 
 open door of the dining-room the voice 
 of her husband's mother came, softly 
 modulated, after the manner of well-bred 
 gentlewomen, and in striking contrast with 
 the joyously untrained voice of the visi- 
 tor, with whom the lady was conversing.
 
 322 Tappine 
 
 "Yes, we are back early this year," the 
 elder Mrs. Ennerly was saying. " Alice 
 was really homesick for the mountain, 
 and so we ran off before the season was 
 fairly open. My son will not come for 
 awhile, and then for just a little time ; he 
 is busy, always busy ; so that we shall be 
 quite alone, we two. How is your grand- 
 mother, this summer ? " The younger 
 Mrs. Ennerly leaned forward in the ham- 
 mock : 
 
 " Mother ! Oh, mother ! Send Tap- 
 pine to me." 
 
 Tappine did not wait to be sent; in 
 another moment she stood framed by the 
 dark doorway, a picture that had caught 
 the artistic eye of the city woman many a 
 previous summer. A slight, frail figure, 
 full of lissome grace, and of the innocent 
 ease that belies the knowledge of posing. 
 She wore a gown of dark blue cotton that 
 brought out with peculiar emphasis the 
 fair pinkish complexion, always found 
 among the very young girls of the moun-
 
 Tappine 323 
 
 tains, and the bright, loose waves of hair 
 that fell about the slight, evenly sloped 
 shoulders. 
 
 Her eyes were blue, darkly, richly blue, 
 with lashes that fell like a fringe of lace 
 upon the softly babyish cheek. Yet de- 
 spite her youth, and the pink and 
 white of the childlike complexion, there 
 was that about her, in the flash of the eye, 
 the curve of the thin, well-cut lip, that 
 bore evidence of strength, which might, 
 under stress of necessity, leap into life. 
 
 The blue eyes danced with undisguised 
 delight as they rested upon the figure in 
 the hammock. Mrs. Ennerly extended 
 a jewelled hand : " Tappine, I had begun 
 to believe you had really forgotten that I 
 was here." 
 
 There was that in the voice, that tone 
 of real pleasure, that caused the older 
 woman, listening, to wonder again, as she 
 had so many times wondered, at the 
 strange affection that had sprung up be- 
 tween these two whom fate had seemingly
 
 324 Tappine 
 
 set as far apart as fate well could do. She 
 had told herself more than once that it 
 was the child's beauty for Tappine was 
 undeniably pretty and a sort of sym- 
 pathy for her surroundings that had 
 won the affection of her daughter-in-law. 
 Again she had told herself that it was 
 lack of company that had brought her 
 daughter to seek the girl for a companion 
 in her tramps through the woods. But 
 as the season advanced and there was no 
 lack of company, had she chosen to have 
 it, and the lady still chose Tappine in 
 preference to any of the visitors that 
 thronged the hotel, the good woman 
 ceased to wonder, and accepted the odd 
 friendship as one of her daughter's freaks, 
 that she would tire of by and by. 
 
 As for Tappine, she recognised nothing 
 odd in the friendship ; the mountaineer 
 does not look for distinctions, does not 
 see them. The girl stood framed in by 
 the old dark door until the lady in the 
 hammock extended her hand. At that
 
 Tappine 325 
 
 she stepped quickly forward and took 
 the soft bejewelled hand between her own 
 sun-browned palms. 
 
 "I say 'forgot,'" she laughed; "as 
 though I ain't been honin' ter git here 
 ever sence the stage horn blowed fur 
 Beersheby yistiddy. But granny took a 
 suddint notion ter be spinnin' an* thar 
 ware no wool for bats in the house, so I 
 ware obleeged ter go over ter Alt'mont 
 after some. Becase when granny goes 
 to spinnin' well ! she air a-goin', that's 
 all. I rid like a Injun all the way, in 
 hopes ter git back in time ter come over 
 here las' night. But when I got home 
 granny had a mis'ry in her side an* 
 wouldn't be. lef alone, lest she might 
 die an nobody ever know it. This 
 mornin' " 
 
 Tappine's pretty face broke into dim- 
 ples, which the handsome lady was quick 
 to interpret : 
 
 " This morning you came, anyhow ? 
 In defiance of * bats' and 'mis'ries;' is
 
 326 Tappine 
 
 that it? Well, draw up that footstool 
 there, and tell me all about yourself. 
 How is Ben ? And are there any new 
 flirtations ? And is Jeff behaving him- 
 self after his usual bearish fashion ? Tap- 
 pine, you are blushing; your pink ears 
 tell me so." 
 
 In the blue eyes something glittered 
 with suspicious brightness before the 
 fringed lids veiled their secret. 
 
 " Now, Mis' En'ly," the slow voice 
 was lifted in protest, " you know Jeff air 
 jest allers a-makin' believe he air mad 
 about the boys, Ben Gary an' them, 
 a-comin' ter see me. Las' week he ac- 
 tually got fightin' mad with Nate Beene 
 fur axin' of me ter dance with him at the 
 infare down in Dark Holler, as old Mis' 
 Beene give ter her daughter Judy, as got 
 married. Nate's mail-carrier acrost the 
 mount'n, you know. Well, them two 
 had a tolerable tussle, an' Nate he jest lit 
 in an* whipped Jeff plumb good fashion. 
 I liked ter 'a' kilt myse'f laughin', it ware
 
 Tappine 327 
 
 so comical, an' so onexpected to Jeff, who 
 air mostly give ter doin' the whippin' his 
 own se'f. An' Jeff he got that mad he 
 sent Nate word he'd meet him in the 
 Hollow some o' these days an' wallop him 
 until his folks couldn't tell which ware 
 man and which ware mail-sack. An' Jeff 
 air good to do it, ef he can ; you rickerlict 
 Jeff can be toler'ble catawampus in his 
 temper now'n then." 
 
 " I recollect that he never was worth 
 one good, honest thought from you, Tap- 
 pine," was the reply; "and I had hoped 
 that you would have found it out for 
 yourself by this time, and would have 
 been ready to give your heart to good, 
 honest Ben, who really loves you. As 
 for Jeff, he is just a cross-grained, jealous, 
 ne'er-do-well " 
 
 The girl lifted a silencing finger. 
 
 " Now, Mis' En'ly, you never would 
 give Jeff jestice. He's a sight better 
 than you think, an' I shouldn't wonder 
 ef I ware ter blame far most of we-uns*
 
 328 Tappine 
 
 little fracases anyhows. You-uns can't 
 jedge him like me as have lived nigh 
 him allers." 
 
 "But " 
 
 The argument was promptly brought 
 to an end by a dexterous move on 
 Tappine's part. 
 
 " Mis' En'ly," said she, " the mount'n 
 air jest full o' laurel, an' the trailin' arbu- 
 tus ain't nigh all gone. I allowed maybe 
 you'uns 'ud like ter take a walk." 
 
 Evidently the mountain girl understood 
 the weaknesses of her city friend, and in- 
 deed she well might, since she had trailed 
 the mountain with the great lady since a 
 little girl in short frocks, hunting for the 
 forest treasures, first of flowers, later of 
 nuts and the bright leaves of the autumn. 
 Tappine had not misjudged the fascination 
 of the familiar paths. In a short time Mrs. 
 Ennerly had exchanged her house gown 
 for a short, dark walking-dress, and was 
 deep in the heart of the woods with 
 Tappine.
 
 Tappine 329 
 
 "We will go down the Backbone and 
 take a peep into Dark Hollow," said the 
 lady, " and then we will climb back up the 
 bluff and go over to Ben's house and give 
 the order for the summer wood. Is that 
 your grandmother calling, Tappine ? " 
 
 They were passing a little low, pictur- 
 esque cabin, half hidden under a mass of 
 greening vines, gourds, and jack beans. 
 An old woman stood in the door, shading 
 her eyes with her gaunt, brown hand and 
 calling shrilly to the girl too absorbed in 
 her companion to hear the querulous, 
 well-known voice. 
 
 " Tappiny ! Tappiny, I say ! Thar 
 ain't no meal in the barr'l ; some-un'll be 
 obleeged ter go ter mill afore long." 
 
 Tappiny ! Was it possible to twist 
 that name, with its own pretty music, into 
 such a hideous sound ? Tappiny ! The 
 girl herself rebelled. 
 
 " Pears like," she declared, when, after 
 a friendly word to the old woman, the two 
 passed on, "pears like I could put up
 
 330 Tappine 
 
 with granny's tormentin's a sight better 
 ef she would call me * Tappine/ or else 
 c Teen/ like Jeff an' the rest calls me. I 
 just hate that thar f Tappiny' Hush ! 
 some un's comin' down the Backbone, 
 Mis' En'ly." 
 
 They stood upon that little narrow 
 steep, with its curious distortions and 
 contortions, long and steep and danger- 
 ous, rising like a blank wall, with rigid, 
 sharp sides, between the two valleys, to 
 which the mountaineers have given the 
 name of Backbone. On one hand lay the 
 mythical lowland known as the " Gulch," 
 on the other, deep down, and full of awe- 
 some glooms, and rank, even at midday, 
 with the shadows, nestled the Hollow, 
 Dark Hollow indeed, as the mountaineers 
 had named it. What a spot for a suicide; 
 what a dangerous, deadly spot for a leap 
 into eternity, and what a spot for a horse 
 travelling adown that steep incline with 
 the one narrow broken path before, and 
 certain death on either side in case of a
 
 Tappine 331 
 
 misstep, or a slip over the ragged, rock- 
 ribbed steep ! 
 
 The horseman coming down the steep 
 at that moment had evidently no fear of 
 the Backbone ; the two women crowded 
 close to the bluff's edge as the sound of 
 hoof-beats, uneven, careless, indifferent 
 alike of danger or of strangers, came 
 nearer and nearer. A moment more, and 
 the horse, a gallant gray, trotted leisurely 
 into the open highway. The rider was a 
 young man, stalwart and straight as an 
 Indian. He sat his steed, too, with some- 
 thing of the easy abandon of the man of 
 the plains. He wore neither coat nor 
 vest, and his feet and lower limbs were 
 encased in long leathern riding-boots as a 
 precaution against the mountain streams 
 through which his route would carry him. 
 For the rider was neither more nor less 
 than Jeff Mabry, the ne'er-do-well of the 
 neighbourhood, who had been so fortu- 
 nate as to win the heart of Tappine, the 
 mountain belle.
 
 332 Tappine 
 
 Jeff was going hunting, evidently, for a 
 rifle was slung across the saddle bow, and 
 a cartridge-belt was tightly buckled about 
 his waist. As the familiar, graceful figure 
 became silhouetted against the bright 
 blue of the sky that seemed to almost 
 rim the dangerous steep, a flush mounted 
 to the girl's cheek. Instantly Tappine 
 was the coquette, ready to almost repu- 
 diate the acquaintance with the man 
 whose praises her nimble tongue had but 
 a moment before delighted to sound. As 
 the gray horse trotted nearer, the attitude 
 of the girl changed, the scarlet of the 
 pretty face gave place to a half pallor; 
 the coquetry was lost in the anxiety with 
 which she awaited the action of her 
 capricious lover. 
 
 Was he still jealous ? Tappine was 
 but human, after all, and so long as Jeff 
 allowed this flame of his adoration to 
 blaze before her eyes, just so long was 
 she ready to add fuel to its fire. 
 
 But to-day she felt keenly anxious that
 
 Tappine 333 
 
 he should be friendly, should appear well 
 in the eyes of the woman who had so 
 often, and so strongly, condemned him. 
 
 But a glance at the sullen, boyish face 
 convinced her that her hopes were doomed 
 to their usual disappointment. She drew 
 farther back, to the very edge of the bluff, 
 as he passed her with a scowl and a care- 
 less " Howdy, Teen," together with a sul- 
 len little nod at her companion, whom he 
 at once recognised as " the fine lady from 
 the valley as Teen have took up with." 
 
 There were tears in Tappine's eyes 
 when the gray horse trotted out of sight 
 down the Backbone. Mrs. Ennerly 
 laughed softly : 
 
 " Is he jealous of me, Tappine ? " she 
 asked. " Is he afraid I shall run away 
 with you some day, spirit you off the 
 mountain, and so away from his uncanny 
 influence ? Or is it just the ugly, bearish 
 nature of the man that renders him so 
 uncivilised ? Take care, Tappine, it isn't 
 a pretty promise you are holding out to
 
 334 Tappine 
 
 your life, in consenting to marry Jeff 
 Mabry." 
 
 " Now, Mrs. En'ly," the girl immedi- 
 ately assumed the defensive again ; " you- 
 uns mustn't lay it up ag'inst Jeff fur not 
 speakin' more friendly. He air just mad 
 at me, an' he done that ter spite me. 
 He ain't got any grudge ag'inst you-uns." 
 
 The lady stopped and placed a hand 
 upon the girl's arm, firmly : " Tappine," 
 said she, " I am a woman of the world, 
 and I know men as well as women. The 
 man who treats his sweetheart whom he 
 hopes to win, as that boy treats you, will 
 be Jto the wife he has won, a brute. I 
 shouldn't allow him to trifle with me a 
 moment longer, were I you, and I 
 shouldn't love him either, were I in 
 your place." 
 
 The girl tossed her bright head and 
 broke into a laugh, a loud ringing laugh, 
 which, despite the music of it, was lack- 
 ing in that more delightful quality, mirth. 
 
 " Now, Mis' En'ly," said she, "jest ter
 
 Tappine 335 
 
 listen at you-uns ! A woman can't holp 
 who she loves, and she can't allers love 
 as she knows ter be wise an* right. Why, 
 she might tell herse'f she ware a fool till 
 she drapped dead, an' still go right on 
 lovin' foolish, plumb inter eternity. That's 
 woman natur, I know that much, Mis' 
 En'ly, an' I ain't no * woman of the 
 world ' neither, an' I don't know so pow'- 
 ful much about men, but I know that 
 much o' women. They can't allers love 
 ter suit the'rse'ves, an' mighty seldom ter 
 suit the balance o' the world." 
 
 The worldly-wise woman was silent. 
 " Women can't always love to suit them- 
 selves." She had no philosophy with 
 which to argue the too sad truth of the 
 mountain girl's dearly acquired wisdom. 
 
 Farther down the mountain, where the 
 great distortion inclines to the level again, 
 the narrow road separated into two forks, 
 one leading down into the dismal fastness 
 of Dark Hollow, the other sloping gently 
 into a little tilled enclosure, in the centre
 
 336 Tappine 
 
 of which stood a cabin of new-hewn logs. 
 The sunshine lay in bright, golden patches 
 upon the doorsteps, and full in the midst 
 of the brightness a man was sitting, bus- 
 ily at work upon some diminutive bit of 
 carpentry that was engaging the attention 
 of two children pressing as close to the 
 knees of the young carpenter as the brisk 
 playing of a handsaw would permit. It 
 was a pleasant face, beaming with honest 
 and surprised delight, that was lifted in 
 response to Mrs. Ennerly's call. He 
 rose at once and strode briskly for- 
 ward, leaving his unfinished work for the 
 youngsters to enjoy after their own 
 ideas. 
 
 " Waal, now, if this air not a surprise, 
 I'll be blessed ! " he exclaimed, with the 
 unaffected sincerity of the mountaineer, 
 who recognises distinctions neither of 
 class nor of wealth. " Howdy-do, Mis' 
 En'ly, an' Teen too ; waal, waal, waal. I 
 hope you-uns air well, Mis' En'ly. No'm, 
 I ain't fitten ter shake hands ; the chillen
 
 Tappine 337 
 
 got after me ter make 'em a wagin ; they're 
 my sister Emily's chillen, an' I have been 
 a-tinkerin' on that wagin till my hands 
 air that rough an' splintery they ain't fitten 
 to be shook. But I'm monstrous glad to 
 see you back to Beersheby, I sholy am. 
 I heeard night befo' last you-uns ware on 
 the way, an' I laid off in my mind ter go 
 by ter-night an' ax Teen to go over thar 
 with me, an' find out ef you wanted the 
 wood same as common. I flung one load 
 overanyhows, ter begin on. I reckin it's 
 all right. I knowed Teen would be 
 willin' ter go, because Teen ain't never 
 been knowed ter refuse ter go ter Beer- 
 sheby yit, after it air known you-uns' 
 house air open." 
 
 He laughed and looked at the girl, 
 waiting for her to admit the pleasant 
 charge. But Tappine was not listening. 
 Her glance was fixed upon the Hollow, 
 with its deep and echoless shadows, its 
 mysterious glooms and mist-shrouded 
 paths into which her lover had ridden
 
 33 8 Tappine 
 
 away with a careless word and an angry 
 heart. " Women can't love to suit them- 
 selves." Alas ! poor Tappine, hers had 
 been a wisdom born of that most bitter 
 teacher, experience. 
 
 It was not till Ben put his hint into a 
 plain request that Tappine came back to 
 a realisation of what he was saying. 
 
 " Will you-uns walk over to Beersheby 
 ter-night, Teen ? I want ter be ss.rtain 
 Mis' En'ly found the house all right, as it 
 ware lef ' ter my care." 
 
 Tappine hesitated ; she had that mo- 
 ment resolved that she would leave off 
 teasing Jeff by her flirtations, and meet 
 the sensitive, jealous lover upon his own 
 terms. Jeff was reasonable enough, she 
 considered, when she didn't " vex him 
 with her foolishness." Which meant that 
 Jeff was so wholly unreasonable as to 
 demand the entire allegiance of his sweet- 
 heart. Ben was waiting for her answer, 
 however, and Mrs. Ennerly was watching. 
 She shook off her sudden, unspoken sub-
 
 Tappine 339 
 
 jection, and replied with careless indiffer- 
 ence : 
 
 " Yes, I can go, I reckin, ef my granny 
 don't need me." 
 
 It was a week later that Mrs. Ennerly 
 came over to the cabin to challenge the 
 girl for a tramp through the forest. Tap- 
 pine was leaning upon the low palings of 
 the gate, her long, loose hair floating lightly 
 in the brisk breeze of the mountain sum- 
 mer, her bare, brown arms crossed upon 
 the wooden palings, her eyes following 
 the fast receding outlines of a horse and 
 rider disappearing down the road in the 
 mist of the morning. 
 
 Something bright and bitter shone 
 in the blue eyes for a moment, and 
 trickled slowly down, to fall unchallenged 
 upon the bare, brown arms. The instant 
 horse and rider disappeared, the bright 
 head of the watcher dropped upon the 
 folded arms, and Tappine burst into tears. 
 
 " Tappine! Tappine ! " It was the soft 
 voice of the well-bred " woman of the
 
 34-Q Tappine 
 
 world," who " understood men," and who 
 understood so poorly the tender, human 
 heart of woman. 
 
 " Tappine, what a little goose you are. 
 Leave off your crying and come away to 
 the woods with me. Is it another quarrel, 
 or is it that granny's demands are too 
 many this morning ? " 
 
 Tappine lifted her head a moment and 
 pointed down the long, zigzag road to the 
 Backbone. 
 
 " It's all over for true this time," said 
 she. "Yonder goes Jeff, ridin' away 
 down the mountain, an' ridin' out o' my 
 life, fur ever. He got mad becase Ben 
 fetched me over ter you-uns' house last 
 week, an' he allowed oh, Mis' En'ly, he 
 allowed as how I might go to the 
 devil." 
 
 " Tappiny ! You Tappiny, I say ! " 
 The shrill voice of the old grandmothei 
 came from the cabin door. " The din- 
 ner's ter bile, Tappiny ; stir yer stumps, 
 chile, stir yer stumps."
 
 Tappine 341 
 
 Clearly there could be no walk that 
 day. Mrs. Ennerly said good-bye, and 
 Tappine took her sore little heart into 
 the old cabin, and set about her humble 
 task of preparing the midday meal. And 
 all day the sunshine fell in golden patches 
 about the cabin door, shooting long, shim- 
 mering rays far into the room, as though 
 to woo her from her grief. But Tappine 
 did not see the brightness. For her there 
 were only shadows, and premonitions of 
 evil about to fall upon the little life that 
 had been scarcely more than a bird's light 
 life, flitting in and out among the shine 
 and shades of the mountain. 
 
 Ben dropped in after dinner to tell her 
 of the great times they were to have at a 
 protracted meeting near by, and to ask 
 her to go " along of him." 
 
 But Tappine sighed, and allowed she 
 couldn't go, there was so much to do at 
 home. So poor Ben said good-bye long 
 before he was ready to go, because he saw 
 that Tappine was not listening to him, or
 
 34 2 Tappine 
 
 thinking of him in the least. But at sun- 
 set Ben came galloping back on his fiery 
 brown mare, and, throwing the bridle-reins 
 over the little low fence paling, which the 
 gallant little mare must have long since 
 learned to regard as her proper hitching- 
 place, went dashing into the cabin where 
 Tappine sat at her spinning-wheel, with 
 such a tale of horror upon his lips as sent 
 the hot blood freezing back to the girl's 
 heart while she listened. And he had 
 scarcely finished his story before Tappine 
 was speeding away across the mountain to 
 Beersheba, her hair damp with the even- 
 ing dews, her lips white and dry, her 
 throat aching with the strange, wild news 
 she carried. She burst into the little sit- 
 ting-room, where Mrs. Ennerly, sitting 
 among the twilight glooms, busy with her 
 thoughts and fancies, rose impulsively at 
 the first sound of the girl's voice, hoarse 
 and broken as she had never heard it. 
 
 " Mis' En'ly ! Oh, Mis' En'ly, he air 
 gone. Jeff" air gone ; he have kilt Nate
 
 Tappine 343 
 
 Beene, the mail rider, an' have run away, 
 an' they air trackin' of him with dogs " 
 She fell forward into the extended arms 
 of the strange, beautiful woman, in whose 
 heart the innocent, warm-souled girl of 
 the hills had made for herself a place. 
 
 Later the story was told again, by Ben, 
 while Tappine lay among the silken 
 pillows of Mrs. Ennerly's own couch ; 
 and listening, Tappine's were not the 
 only tears shed for sorrow's sake. 
 
 They had found the mail-carrier where 
 the river wound like a sluggish snake, 
 among the laurel brakes of Dark Hollow. 
 A bullet from Jeff's own rifle was in his 
 brain, and Jeff had ridden straight down 
 to the ford, turned his horse loose, and 
 struck out, they said, straight for the 
 mountains. 
 
 She never saw him again, poor Tappine, 
 for he never returned-, and after awhile 
 she tried to persuade herself that he was 
 dead. " Wandered away, maybe, some-
 
 344 Tappine 
 
 whars, an' fell off a bluff an' ware kilt," 
 she told herself, "or else some un maybe 
 have murdered of him." Yet she never 
 forgot to be thankful that he escaped the 
 dogs, the track-hounds with which they 
 had set out to hunt him. 
 
 The summer waned, the brown leaves 
 were drifting down to fill the deeper 
 hollows of the wood, and one morning 
 Tappine went over to the cottage at Beer- 
 sheba. For with the coming of the brown 
 autumn Mrs. Ennerly would be going. 
 Tappine found the lady with her couch 
 drawn up before the fire, for the air was 
 chilly already. 
 
 They talked of many things, quietly at 
 first, for the lady so well versed in the 
 affairs of the world knew enough of the 
 heart to understand that its griefs are 
 sacred and are jealously guarded even in 
 the hearts of the humblest. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Ennerly reached her 
 hand and placed it upon Tappine's gently. 
 
 " Tappine," said she, " hadn't you
 
 Tappine 345 
 
 better marry Ben? He is such a good 
 fellow, and would count it all joy just to 
 be allowed to walk by your side, and to 
 care for you. You are young, Tappine, 
 and you've no idea what a sombre thing 
 life is for a woman alone, and unloved. 
 You will feel the loneliness of it as 
 you grow older, and will yearn for the 
 companionship of human sympathy and 
 affection. Couldn't you give Ben the 
 joy of caring for you, Tappine ? " 
 
 The brown fingers closed with spas- 
 modic strength about the white bejewelled 
 ones. The words had cut like a knife 
 into the wounded heart. 
 
 " I couldn't do that, Mis' En'ly," said 
 Tappine, " I couldn't git my own con- 
 sent ter so harm a man as never harmed 
 me, but jest only loved me. I couldn't do 
 it nohows. Pears like it would in an' about 
 break my heart ter look acrost the table 
 ever' mornin* fur a face I love an' find 
 another face thar. An' ter wake up in the 
 night a-dreamin* it may be of the arms I
 
 346 Fappine 
 
 love, an' daresn't cry out with the pain of 
 disapp'intment even ; fur fear o' troublin* 
 him, the man as loves me, an' I don't 
 love. I couldn't bear it nohows. Pears 
 like 'twould be more lonesomer than 
 'twould be ter set alone all yer life, with 
 the free right ter think o' him yer love, 
 an' ter sob it ter yer pillow at night, in 
 the dark, an' know it air no sin, because 
 thar be no unloved husband lyin' next of 
 you. Pears like 'twould be more com- 
 fortin', jest ter make a sort o' friend o' 
 sorrer. Pears like I'd feel myself a awful 
 coward, jest to marry a man fur fear o' 
 livin' lonesome all my days, an' maybe 
 wantin' of a home an' sech." 
 
 The fine lady among her cushions held 
 her book before her face, upon the pretty 
 rounded outlines of which the firelight 
 had been playing pleasantly. As Tap- 
 pine's low voice died into silence, the 
 book slipped from the slender fingers, 
 and Mrs. Ennerly rose with the quick, 
 impulsive movement of a child. Tappine
 
 Tappine 347 
 
 unconsciously rose at the same time. The 
 lady placed a hand upon either shoulder 
 of the slight figure before her, heavily, 
 bearing the girl down to her knees before 
 the couch upon which she herself dropped 
 wearily among her cushions, and, her 
 hands still pressing the girl's shoulders, 
 began to talk. She talked rapidly, as 
 though afraid she should repent the con- 
 fidence; her eyes sparkling the while, and 
 her throat, where the lace fell away from 
 it, shining white and polished as marble. 
 
 " Tappine," she said, " I am a woman 
 of almost another world than yours. It 
 is impossible we should look at life from 
 the same standpoint, and to some it would 
 seem almost unnatural that we should ever 
 have crossed each other's lives in this 
 friendly, altogether unconventional way. 
 Yet women are women, or woman is 
 woman, the world over, and possessed 
 of woman's weakness. In this are they 
 alike : every woman has hidden in her 
 heart a grave ; under lace or homespun,
 
 348 Tappine 
 
 it makes no difference ; the grave is 
 there. Not one but has it. Some sow 
 the spot with deeds of charity, which 
 spring into a sort of blooming after 
 awhile, which serves to hid the grave's 
 unsightly outlines. Some plow it down, 
 level and batter it smooth with the shovel 
 of folly, hoping to hide it from the 
 world's eye. Some go grandly on, bearing 
 their grave with them, scorning disguise 
 and make believe content. They do 
 God's work ; do it grandly, bravely ; 
 hearing his voice above the sounding 
 of the hollow tombs. Yet, the grave 
 yawns ; the soul sorrows, Tappine ! 
 Tappine! " 
 
 She withdrew her hands from the girl's 
 shoulders, and, dropping back upon the 
 couch, buried her face among the silken 
 cushions. 
 
 To the ignorant, sorrow-stricken girl 
 watching her, with undisguised surprise, 
 there was something exquisitely sacred in 
 the sudden abandon of grief. She under-
 
 Tappine 349 
 
 stood so well what sorrow meant ; she 
 understood so well that the grave in the 
 lady's heart was open to her sympathetic 
 confidence. Bending over the prostrate 
 figure, she softly stroked the bright waves 
 of her hair lying against the fair temples ; 
 a caress in every stroke of the brown 
 fingers. 
 
 " Mis' En'ly," the low voice was full of 
 its own natural healing, " I reckin I ought 
 not ter say it, but it somehow helps me 
 mightily ter know as how you-uns have 
 suffered an' been sorrowful, too." 
 
 At this reference to her secret, Mrs. 
 Ennerly, in the full tide of the confidence 
 for which her heart had so long hungered, 
 drew the girl to a seat beside her, and, 
 covering the brown hands with her jew- 
 elled fingers, said : 
 
 " You are a brave girl, Tappine, a 
 brave girl. I am a coward. I haven't 
 so much as the right to nurse my sorrow 
 and make a friend ' of it ; for I am one 
 of those who wake to find the unloved
 
 350 Tappine 
 
 arms about them, and dare not cry out 
 for fear of hurting him, my husband. 
 
 "Yet, once (every woman has her once), 
 I loved a man, oh, so dearly ! A man 
 whose very voice made heaven in my life. 
 I met him in the mountains, not here ; 
 no matter where, we met but that one 
 brief autumn-time. Yet those two short 
 months make all the summer of my life's 
 little love. We used to scour the moun- 
 tain, he and I, horseback, in the golden 
 autumn afternoons. Sometimes we stopped 
 to rest and ramble among the graves of a 
 little old, old graveyard among the moun- 
 tains, where the dead for more than half 
 a century had slept along the mountain's 
 side. Long abandoned as a burying- 
 ground, the quaint old tombs held charms, 
 fascinations, that I could not describe to 
 you. It was our favourite resort ; that 
 quaint, deserted burying-ground. 
 
 " One evening, passing the place at 
 sunset, we discovered that some one was 
 being buried there ; the sound of voices,
 
 Tappine 351 
 
 and low, suppressed sobs, first warned us 
 we were close upon a funeral procession. 
 
 " Full of curiosity, we waited until the 
 train, following their pathetic burden, had 
 passed in among the tombs ; then we dis- 
 mounted and followed, determined to 
 witness the interment. 
 
 "It was two babies, little new-born twins, 
 they were laying away to sleep among all 
 that array of old, old dead. Alas ! the 
 sadness of it, the pity ! And that grave- 
 yard, that lonely little resting-place 
 among the pines and soughing cedars ! 
 I buried my heart there, my youth ; all 
 of me that was worth the living I left dead 
 there in that humble little spot among 
 the ancient dead and the new-born babes. 
 I felt it dying while the acorns dropped 
 among the gray tombs ; and the leaves, 
 amber and scarlet, and gay purple, went 
 drifting down to fill the hollows of the 
 sunken mounds. Did he know ? Did he 
 dream I loved him? Did he understand? 
 Did the dead there understand what I
 
 352 Tappine 
 
 had left with them when I rode away in 
 the scarlet sunset ? " 
 
 She had forgotten the girl at her side ; 
 she was communing with her own heart, 
 as she had communed all the lonely years 
 in silence. 
 
 " Did he know my heart broke, I 
 wonder, while he told me in that slow, 
 tortuous way of his approaching mar- 
 riage ? Was it nothing to him that the 
 scarlet and amber of my life were dying 
 like the tints upon the autumn ? Did he 
 dream I loved him more than God ? Did 
 he understand that in the telling of his 
 story, a grave yawned between us, deeper, 
 more real than those ancient, dust-filled 
 hollows at our feet? 
 
 " When he lifted me back to my horse, 
 I caught one glimpse of his face: a wild 
 joy thrilled through me. The devil 
 tempted me, Tappine. Did he love her, 
 that other one who was soon to be his 
 wife ? His hand on mine lay half a 
 second, burning, throbbing ; one word
 
 Tappine 353 
 
 from me, and then I put my devil from 
 me, Tappine : I laughed, spoke a careless 
 word of congratulation, mounted, and rode 
 with him away through the scarlet even- 
 ing, away into the sombre future. It is 
 all right, child ; don't weep so. Sorrow 
 has its compensation, ever : mine has been 
 that I did not speak the word that would 
 have made my happiness, and made her 
 whom he married other than his wife. 
 Throw back the shutter, Teen, and let 
 the light in, child. We've been too long 
 among these graves." 
 
 No more was said, ever ; from that time 
 the grave in the beautiful woman's heart 
 was closed indeed. To Tappine the con- 
 fidence was something too sacred, almost, 
 to remember, a confidence wrung from 
 despair. While for the older woman, the 
 unburdening of her heart had been as a 
 gentle shower to a dry and thirsty land ; 
 from henceforth her sorrow was a memory, 
 fair and fond and sacred, rather than a 
 tomb. True, she did not forget the pain
 
 354 Tappine 
 
 of it, but it was a chastened sorrow, some- 
 thing to be remembered at quiet evening 
 times, when peace and gentle summer lay 
 upon the world. And thus did she 
 remember. 
 
 And sometimes there came to her fan- 
 cies, vague and beautiful, that on that 
 other mountain, where her dream was 
 born and perished, she was not forgot- 
 ten ; sometimes, in the quiet evenings, 
 she loved to think of him as lingering 
 in the dewy dusk about the little rural 
 burying-ground, with perhaps a sigh for 
 memory. 
 
 But for Tappine, sorrow had not 
 learned to " sob itself to sleep." Could 
 she have known her lover dead, she 
 would have felt less keenly the pain of 
 loving. But always she held a vision of 
 him as of one fleeing, fleeing, for ever flee- 
 ing from his pursuers ; the bloodhounds 
 upon his track, danger in every bush and 
 brake and gorge. At night she wakened 
 to hear, as part of her troubled and un-
 
 Tappine 355 
 
 easy slumber, the deep, relentless baying 
 of the dogs, and the far-away clatter of 
 hoofs, still fleeing, fleeing. One morn- 
 ing Ben rode over in hot haste ; again the 
 brown mare stood at the gate, the lines 
 tossed lightly over the low palings, while 
 Ben stopped to say a word in low tones 
 to the old grandmother, carding her bats 
 under the crisping leaves that still hung 
 from the eaves of the little porch. 
 
 Tappine, the frail body but a shadow 
 among the deeper shadows of the room, 
 sat back among the glooms of the kitchen, 
 her head resting against the spokes of the 
 idle wheel, where her hand had been wont 
 to make gay music in the old glad days 
 of summer. 
 
 She lifted her face; an eager, startled 
 look sprang to her eyes as her quick ear 
 caught a carefully spoken name. The 
 next moment she was at Ben's side, the 
 old fires in her eyes and in her heart. 
 
 " What is the word you-uns have 
 brought, Ben Gary ? " she demanded.
 
 356 Tappine 
 
 " What is the word you have brought of 
 Jeff?" 
 
 Her tone forbade parleying, or sub- 
 terfuge of any kind. He told her the 
 truth at once. 
 
 " Jeff air not run away, Teen," said he. 
 " Or leastways they have tracked him to 
 his hidin'-place. He air hid out in a 
 cabin over yander on Collins River " 
 
 Slowly the last drop of blood left her 
 face ; her eyes seemed to burn into him, 
 like coals of fire. He hesitated, but she 
 lifted her hand in majestic command. 
 
 " Go on," said she, " go on." 
 
 " Well, Teen, I don't know as I ought 
 to tell you, but Jeff have sent word to his 
 folks that he could make out to git away 
 now, since the stir for him air over some, ef 
 he had a horse. But the man he sent the 
 word by, it ware Jeff's own blood kin, 
 too, he fetched the word to the sheriff 
 'stead o' to Jeff's folks, becase thar's a 
 tolerable big reward out fur Jeff fur killin' 
 of the mail-kerrier. I heeard the men
 
 Tappine 357 
 
 talkin' at the tanyard as I come by, and 
 the men allowed as the sheriff would git 
 here from Altamount long befo' the old 
 'oman, Jeff's mammy, got the word o' his 
 wantin' of a horse. Though to be sure it 
 air a mighty short little cut through to the 
 cabin whar Jeff air in hidin' ; ef thar ware 
 some one to warn him. It air that old 
 cabin as they useter hold meetin' in till 
 Collins River et the foundation out ; jest 
 across the foot-bridge, nigh the old trail. 
 What air you-uns a-goin' ter do, Teen ? " 
 
 She had pushed past him, and stood a 
 moment in the cabin door, her eyes 
 aflame, her hand lifted. 
 
 " Stand out of my way, Ben Gary," she 
 commanded. " Stand out o' my way ! 
 Only one word wanted fur a man as be 
 hunted and hounded ter his death, an' 
 you-uns refuse to speak it. I'd hate ter 
 call myse'f a man, an* be you-uns. Stand 
 out o' my way ! I ain't got any time to 
 waste on sech as you be." 
 
 Mechanically he moved aside. To him
 
 358 Tappine 
 
 there was something regal in her bearing. 
 A protest came from another quarter, 
 however ; the old grandmother planted 
 herself in her path. 
 
 " Whar air you a-goin' of, Teen ? " 
 she demanded. " It air aginst the laws of 
 the State to holp sech as be runnin' away 
 from jestice. Do you-uns go back in the 
 house, Teen." 
 
 Alas ! the days of blind obedience were 
 gone. 
 
 " Stand out o' the way, granny," said 
 the girl. " This air no time for foolish- 
 ness." 
 
 She turned her back upon the shadows 
 of the house that had indeed been a dwell- 
 ing-place of shadows for her ; her face to 
 the light, and to danger, which was light 
 too, since it was danger incurred for love's 
 sake. The two watched her silently from 
 the little brown porch. Her head made a 
 golden target for the sun's rays as she 
 stood a moment at the gate, and, with a 
 quick, graceful movement, peculiar to the
 
 Tappine 359 
 
 women of the hills, she slipped the bridle- 
 reins from the low palings and tossed 
 them over the brown mare's head. A 
 moment, and she was in the saddle, dex- 
 terously twisting the lines into a lash. A 
 stinging blow fell between the ears of the 
 sensitive, half-broken steed, that sent her 
 bounding forward at a rate that must have 
 unseated any but the most fearless of 
 riders. Before the two upon the porch 
 could fully understand her meaning, the 
 sharp, reverberating sound of hurrying 
 hoof-beats came back to them from the 
 road down which the fearless rescuer had 
 disappeared in a cloud of yellow dust. 
 
 She had not heard the startled shout of 
 the mare's owner, imploring her not to 
 strike the. animal. 
 
 " Don't hit her ! Don't hit the mare, 
 Teen ! She'll plumb break your neck if 
 you hit her ! " 
 
 But Teen was gone ; the mare had shot 
 from the blow dealt her like a ball from a 
 rifle. As the last glimpse of horse and
 
 360 Tappine 
 
 rider vanished, the old woman turned to 
 Ben. 
 
 " Go after her ! " she shrilled into his 
 startled ears. " Go after her ! Ef the 
 mare don't break her neck, the sherirFll 
 arrest her and fetch her ter jail. Go ! 
 thar's a nigh cut through the woods. 
 Run, I tell you ! Don't stand thar like 
 a fool an' let my gran'chile be killed." 
 
 Breathless and spent, he reached the 
 forks of the road where she must come 
 down the Backbone into the Hollow, be- 
 yond which stood the forsaken meeting- 
 house in which the fugitive had taken a 
 temporary refuge. Not once had his ear 
 lost the sound of those hurrying hoof- 
 beats ; he could hear them now, as he 
 stood at the crossing to wait for her ; 
 away up, high above him, in the air, as it 
 were ; those quick, sharp, unerring beats, 
 in even gallop. The mare had not once 
 broken her gait ; he remembered that, 
 even in the midst of his fright for the 
 gallant rider, riding at that moment along
 
 Tappine 361 
 
 the narrow, dangerous ledge of the Back- 
 bone, that little wall-like comb that 
 divided two almost impenetrable gulches. 
 
 Nearer came the hoof-beats, and nearer ; 
 a moment, and clean-cut, an exquisite 
 silhouette against the bright blue of the 
 sky, her hair a banner of floating gold, 
 the mare a chiselling of gleaming bronze, 
 Tappine dashed into view along the Back- 
 bone. He watched, breathless and admir- 
 ing, at the foot of the road where it 
 inclined to the level again. 
 
 " It's a God's mercy ef the mare don't 
 kill her befo' she ever gits off o' that thar 
 ridge," he murmured, as the brave beast 
 bore gallantly down, without a swerve or 
 break, towards the forks at the foot of the 
 great ridge. Her courage, the boundless 
 heroism of her love, that brooked neither 
 death nor danger, was to Ben something 
 sublime, grand ; something a man might 
 fall down and worship. 
 
 " Lord ! if I could win a woman like 
 that, ter love me like that "
 
 362 Tappine 
 
 The mare was galloping straight on, 
 down the steep incline, as evenly as across 
 the velvety cove-lands ; a moment more 
 and she stood upon the narrowest ledge 
 of all that narrow wall. 'That passed, and 
 Tappine might hope for life. Suddenly, 
 far down the Hollow, a shot rang out; 
 some careless hunter, perhaps, on the trail 
 of a fox. But Ben, watching the flying 
 steed dashing along the narrow ledge, 
 gave vent to a sudden startled cry of hor- 
 ror. For one instant the brown mare 
 seemed to literally stand on air, as she 
 lifted herself in one desperate leap before 
 she went crashing down the blufFs side, 
 through brake and bush, carrying her 
 dauntless rider to her death. 
 
 THE END
 
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