CLARK

 
 The Quakeress
 
 Books by the Same Author 
 
 Out of the Hurly Burly (1874) 
 
 With 400 illustrations by A. B. Frost. W. L. 
 Shepherd and Fred B. Schell. 
 
 Price $1.25 
 
 Nearly one million copies of this book have been sold. 
 
 Captain Bluitt (1901) 
 
 With illustrations by John Henderson Betts 
 Price $1.50 
 
 In Happy Hollow (1903) 
 
 Profusely illustrated by Herman Rountree and 
 Clare L. Dwiggins. 
 
 Price $1.25
 
 Abby Woolford.
 
 TliEQuAKERESS 
 
 A TeUe 
 
 By Charles HeberCiark 
 
 With IHustrations in Color by 
 
 George Gifobs 
 
 The John C Winston Co 
 
 Philadelphia 
 
 1905 

 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY 
 
 CHARLES HEBER CLARK, 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 ENTERED AT STATIONERS* HALL, LONDON. 
 
 Published, April, 1905.
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 RICHARD CAMPION 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA 
 
 In remembrance of many acts of 
 sincere friendship 
 
 2135308
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. IN A GARDEN 5 
 
 II. THE SOUTHERNERS 20 
 
 III. FIRST-DAY AT PLYMOUTH MEETING 38 
 
 IV. AT THE GREY HOUSE 59 
 
 V. BY THE GREAT SPRING 75 
 
 VI. THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES 98 
 
 VII. IN THE CHURCH 128 
 
 VIII. GEORGE FOTHERLY TRIES His FATE.... 147 
 
 IX. THE OTHER WOMAN 167 
 
 X. DOLLY HARLEY GOES HOME 193 
 
 XI. THE SASSAFRAS PLANTATION 207 
 
 XII. DAYS AT SASSAFRAS 230 
 
 XIII. WITH THE WORLD'S PEOPLE 245 
 
 XIV. ABBY RETURNS TO CONNOCK 264 
 
 XV. AT BAY 278 
 
 XVI. INTO THE GULF 292 
 
 XVII. ISAAC WOOLFORD GOES INTO A FAR 
 
 COUNTRY 312
 
 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. THE SCHOOL-HOUSE 327 
 
 XIX. "WITH CONFUSED NOISE AND GARMENTS 
 
 ROLLED IN BLOOD" 342 
 
 XX. A NEW MASTER FOR THE GREY HOUSE. . . 362 
 XXI. "FAREWELL, A LONG FAREWELL!" 380 

 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 ABBY WOOLFORD Frontispiece. 
 
 Drawn in Color by George Gibbs. 
 
 " FOR MANY MINUTES THE TWO SAT THUS AND 
 
 WORSHIPPED " 8 
 
 Drawn in Color bv George Gibbs. 
 
 PLYMOUTH MEETING HOUSE 48 
 
 THE GREY HOUSE, THE PARSONAGE AND THE 
 
 CHURCH 68 
 
 ' SHE FELL UPON THE CUSHIONED SEAT " 140 
 
 Drawn in Color by George Gibbs. 
 
 "SHE LEAPED INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN THE 
 ANTAGONISTS " 262 
 
 Drawn in Color by George Gibbs. 
 
 THE GULF GAP 182 
 
 THE GULF CHURCH 292
 
 THE QUAKERESS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 In a Garden. 
 
 THE main street of Connock dips sharply from the 
 crest of the hill towards the river, and when it has run 
 downward between the high levels on which a few 
 dwelling-houses stand and passed further on the hun- 
 dred or more shops that border it, the road sweeps 
 across the canal and the river, and then out, a ribbon 
 of white dust, among the Merion hills. 
 
 On a First-day morning in Sixth month of the year 
 1 86 1 George Fotherly drove in his square carriage 
 with his stout bay horse along the road from his farm 
 amid the hills and up the steep incline of the street. 
 
 It was near to the hour of service in the Episcopal 
 Church, and the pavements were thronged with well- 
 dressed people walking leisurely to the sanctuary, when 
 George stopped his horse at the grey double house just 
 at the top of the first level of the hill to the right the 
 house separated from the church by the space of its 
 own garden and that of the parsonage. 
 
 From the window of the living-room of the house a 
 young girl saw him, and when he had tied his horse 
 to the ijon post by the curb, she opened the front door 
 
 (5)
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 and came upon the porch to greet him with a smile 
 and an extended hand. 
 
 She was dressed in a frock of grey India silk, with 
 a white linen collar turned over it and with no jewel at 
 her throat. Unadorned with lace or other finery, the 
 dress shaped itself to her slender form and fell in ample 
 folds from her waist. Her soft, brown hair was drawn 
 smoothly from her forehead without a fluff or a curl 
 that had not resisted her effort to restrain its wilfulness, 
 and beneath the rich simplicity of her hair was a face 
 of delicate beauty. 
 
 Out of her blue-grey eyes looked gentleness and 
 goodness, and the flush of health was upon her cheeks. 
 The fine straight little nose, the slightly rounded firm 
 chin, the low wide forehead and the mouth just large 
 enough for beauty, with lips that escaped both fullness 
 and thinness, helped to give to her conspicuous loveli- 
 ness. She was a girl whom to see for the first time 
 was to have a strong impression of celestial purity. 
 
 The man who hurried up the steps, through the iron 
 gate and along the brief paved way to the porch where 
 the girl stood awaiting him, was a burly fellow. Tall, 
 broad-shouldered, masterful in form and bearing, with 
 a strong, rough face, close-shaven and browned by the 
 sun, with a firm, resolute chin and with eyes that 
 seemed to have depth in them, he contrasted strongly 
 with the slight figure and the delicate features of the 
 girl who clasped his hand. 
 
 They stood for a moment, he upon the step just lower 
 than the level of the porch-floor that he might speak to 
 her face-to-face. 
 
 "Is thee not ready, Abby?" he asked with a note 
 of surprise in his voice when he saw that she did not 
 wear her bonnet.
 
 In -a Garden. 
 
 It was his practice to stop for her each First-day 
 morning and drive her over to the Plymouth Meeting, 
 two miles away, while her father and mother went 
 together in another vehicle. 
 
 "I am not going to meeting to-day, George," she 
 said. 
 
 "Not going ! What is the matter ?" 
 
 "Father is away from home," she murmured, "and 
 mother is not so well that I can be absent all the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 George, looking disappointed and serious, came upon 
 the porch and sat upon a chair, while Abby seated her- 
 self near to him. 
 
 "But thee can go alone," she said. 
 
 "Not without thee, Abby," he answered, and she 
 seemed to have expected him to say so. Plainly she 
 was not displeased. 
 
 When they had talked for a while about her mother 
 and about other subjects, Abby said to him : 
 
 "We may have a meeting of our own, George." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "it will be better." 
 
 George parted from her to take his horse around to 
 the stable, while she re-entered the house. They met 
 again upon the porch. 
 
 "Shall we have the meeting with mother?" asked 
 Abby. 
 
 George was silent for a moment, and then yielding 
 to an impulse not altogether free from selfishness, he 
 said : 
 
 "The garden will be very pleasant, Abby." 
 
 "Let us go into the garden then," said the girl with 
 a smile. 
 
 Together they descended the porch-steps and strolled
 
 8 The Quakeress. 
 
 along the gravelled path, around the north corner of 
 the house and over the lawn to where the mighty apple- 
 tree, widespreading its branches, drooped them down- 
 ward like a canopy. Beneath, by the trunk of the tree, 
 was a slatted bench whereon the young man sat, wear- 
 ing his broad hat and holding out his hand for his 
 companion. 
 
 Around them the flowers bloomed, the grass was soft 
 to the tread and pleasant to the eye, the cherry trees 
 bore ripening fruit among the green leaves, the grape 
 vines near by them on the left hand thrust out their 
 tendrils to the trellis that upbore them, and the soft 
 wind blew in from the southwest across the lawn, flut- 
 tering the leaves and warm with the promise of the 
 summer-time. Beyond the screen of rose-bushes which 
 partly shut away the street, the last stragglers hurried 
 to the church, and when Abby sat upon the bench the 
 two Friends were alone. Before them was the stretch 
 of grass dotted by shrubs and ending at the southern 
 fence of the garden ; beyond, far away across the roofs 
 of the town, uplifting from the deep valley of the inter- 
 vening river, was the dark verdure of the great hills, 
 covered by forest-trees. 
 
 As they composed themselves for worship, Mrs. Pon- 
 der, the minister's wife, whose rule was to be late for 
 church and late for everything, came hastily out upon 
 the porch of the parsonage. Looking over the hedge 
 and around the lilac bush, she saw them sitting there, 
 and, as she forced her fingers into her glove she said : 
 
 "Deliberately shutting themselves out from the 
 means of grace!" 
 
 Then, as she went down the steps and along the 
 path to the side-door of the church, she added :
 
 " For many minutes the two sat and worshipped."
 
 In a Garden. 
 
 "It is a shame for that rough, big man to have that 
 darling girl!" 
 
 But those who knew them well would not have 
 thought ill of such a union. The strong, true man and 
 the tender, pure woman are Nature's perfect material 
 for the fusion of soul and body in the wedlock which 
 moves through eternity to closer and closer union. 
 
 This man and this woman were well-born in the 
 high sense of that phrase. Behind them were two cen- 
 turies of clean physical living and spiritual victory. 
 Both had a precious heritage of impulse to lofty things 
 given by a long line of ancestors who were steadfast 
 to righteousness. The true Quaker prepares the ruddy 
 cheek and the pure soul for his children's great grand- 
 children, and the forefathers of these two had been 
 faithful. 
 
 Thus in the glory of the summer morning these heirs 
 of the conquerors together sought the illumination of 
 that Presence which had brought light and blessing to 
 the spirits of their fathers. 
 
 A spiritual nature strengthened by spiritual exer- 
 cise had given to the man the power of almost com- 
 plete abstraction. When he closed his eyes as he sat 
 with Abby beneath the tree the natural world was gone. 
 There was in his soul, it is true, a subtle sense of the 
 woman's presence, but he was not conscious of it ; and 
 if he had perceived it he would have felt that it was a 
 part of that exalted spirituality into which he had 
 entered. He worshiped, but the object of his worship 
 was Divine Love, and what was the sentiment with 
 which he regarded Abby but an emanation of that 
 Love? This he had said to himself more than once. 
 He did not say it now or think it. Simply he flung
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 open the door of his soul and sought to have the Divine 
 Inflowing; to meet God there in that hidden chamber 
 and to have the secret place made holy by communion 
 with the Most High. 
 
 And so Nature vanished from his sight and all its 
 sounds were hushed, all its loveliness was hidden, while 
 he was lifted up to fellowship with Him whose love 
 has made all things beautiful. 
 
 But for Abby there was a less exclusive sense of the 
 Spiritual Presence. Through her shut eyelids she could 
 not help seeing the glow of the sunshine. She heard 
 the note of the robins that ran upon the grass, the soft 
 quaver of the cuckoo in the neighboring tree, the twit- 
 ter of the sparrows that rustled about in the leafy plant 
 that climbed upon and covered the wall of the house. 
 She was enveloped by the perfume of the clustered roses 
 and the lilacs and she felt the gentle air that breathed 
 upon her cheek. 
 
 These were influences that affected her soul, and, 
 besides, she heard faintly from the window of the dis- 
 tant church the deep droning of the diapason and the 
 strain of the higher music that seemed like the hum- 
 ming of melodious bees ; and all these things combined 
 to help her to spiritual exaltation. 
 
 It was in the very fibre of her nature to find in the 
 visible things that tell of a Divine Maker the evidence 
 of His presence with her; and perhaps the Spirit does 
 speak to some souls more distinctly through these 
 things, even while He has His own secret contact with 
 the inner nature. To Abby the faint, sweet strain of 
 distant music was like an audible fragrance of flowers. 
 
 But, alas for George ! his presence gave no fervor to 
 the flame of her devotion.
 
 In a Garden. 
 
 For many minutes the two sat there and worshiped 
 while the Lord was in His holy temple, which is the 
 soul that waits for Him; and so they both had peace. 
 
 Now and then from the railway deep down in the 
 valley upon the margin of the river there came the 
 harsh sound of the steam whistle and of the rush and 
 roar of the train; but, save for this and the panting 
 of a distant iron furnace, silence was upon them, until 
 at last the man opened his eyes and, looking as if he 
 had had refreshing, turned to Abby and clasped her 
 hand to end the period of worship. 
 
 They did not rise for a time, so fair was the scene 
 when they looked through the rifts in the foliage out 
 upon the hills, and so beautiful the lawn before them, 
 dappled by the glints of sunlight that filtered through 
 the leaves. When they had sat silent for a few 
 moments George, waving his hand outward toward the 
 hills, said : 
 
 ' 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence 
 cometh my help.' I think of that often, Abby, when 
 I drive among the shadows in the clefts of them. It 
 is a lesson not to look for strength to the mean things." 
 
 "Yes," said Abby, who perhaps did not at once 
 sound the full depth of that allegory ; and as she spoke, 
 the sound of singing came to them half-muffled from 
 the church, and Abby, as she heard it, said again : 
 
 "And that, too, is beautiful, George, isn't it?" 
 
 "We have a better way, I think; the way of quiet- 
 ness." 
 
 "Yes, George," said Abby, softly, "but their way 
 may be also acceptable to Him. If the singing is from 
 the heart, surely it is so. 'Let everything that hath 
 breath praise the Lord.' Thee must not judge thy 
 brethren harshly, George."
 
 12 
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 "No," he answered, "I would not do that, but I can- 
 not understand. The way of the Spirit is not noisy. 
 We reach Him in the secret chamber, without utter- 
 ance." 
 
 "I know it," replied the girl, and indeed she did know 
 it, "but, George, while there is a beauty of holiness 
 there is also a real divine beauty of the blue sky, the 
 green hills, the sweet grass and the music of birds and 
 men." 
 
 George smiled at her as he saw her face become 
 eager with the force of her feeling, and as they rose 
 to go to the house he said : 
 
 "There is much to be said upon thy side of the mat- 
 ter, no doubt, but if thee is to become fond of church 
 music, Abby, thee must take care, or thee will drift 
 away from Friends." 
 
 When they had lingered among the roses and George 
 had plucked a posy which Abby should give to her 
 mother, the two went into the house, where George 
 greeted Rachel Woolford. Then, coming out, he 
 brought his horse to the front of the house, and bidding 
 farewell to Abby, he drove away. 
 
 She went to the corner of the porch behind the clem- 
 atis that climbed high upon the lattice, and as she 
 followed him with her eyes while he passed quickly 
 down the street homeward, she thought of him. 
 
 In the seclusion of her village home, in her village 
 life, mingling chiefly with Friends, this man had been 
 much in her mind and in her company. She had 
 known him always, it seemed to her. Together they 
 had learned lessons in the Friends' school at Plymouth, 
 and she had seen him at the meetings on First-day, 
 across the bare benches, ever since she could remember.
 
 In a Garden. 13 
 
 Even when a boy, he had never failed to come to speak 
 to her under the sycamore trees after meeting, and 
 when he had grown to manhood and had a horse of his 
 own, he began the practice of driving her to meeting 
 on the day of worship. 
 
 Her father and mother sanctioned this companion- 
 ship. Plainly, also, it had the approval of the watchful 
 members of the Meeting, for no word of discourage- 
 ment was heard. George was a favorite with them. 
 He wore the plain garments in simplicity; his speech 
 and his conduct were those of a consistent Friend; 
 and sometimes when he was moved to exhortation in 
 the meeting on First-day he had power that gave 
 to Friends fresh assurance of the purpose of the Spirit 
 to choose fitting instruments through which to speak 
 to God's people. 
 
 What could be better than that this strong man 
 among the children of the Spirit should cherish and 
 espouse this lovely girl, a very Friend of Friends, 
 whose gentleness and reverence and sweet, modest be- 
 havior gave proof, as George's preaching did, of the 
 complete excellence of the theories and the methods 
 of the Society? 
 
 Abby herself could not have told just when the first 
 thought came to her of George as her lover. She 
 had always liked him, and if she had come to love him 
 enough to be his wife, the change had been made in- 
 sensibly. He had said no word of love to her, but 
 he had acted as if he felt sure of her affection, and 
 she knew that he felt sure of it, and she did not venture 
 really to question if she herself felt sure of it. 
 
 Love for one whom one should marry seemed to 
 her as if it might be just a strong liking such as she
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 had felt for George from childhood. She was fond 
 of being with him; she liked his talk; in her gentle, 
 quiet, timid life the forcefulness of his character 
 seemed to her wonderful and admirable; and when 
 George had been called upon to bear testimony in the 
 meetings she marveled at his words while she felt 
 deep reverence for the man through whom the Divine 
 power condescended to speak with so much eloquence. 
 If this feeling of hers was not love, what is love? 
 
 Sometimes as she peeped out into the great world 
 lying beyond the range of her experience she caught 
 glimpses of something different, and now and then she 
 wondered if there were not indeed for people who 
 are to marry a love more uplifting and glorious. In 
 books that 'she had read and in the public journals 
 there had been intimations of a glowing, fiery passion 
 which sometimes transformed its possessors and bore 
 them upwards to miraculous heights of bliss and some- 
 times impelled to awful catastrophe. But this kind 
 of emotion she thought could not be for her, a quiet 
 little girl up in the hills, far away from the world's 
 people and their vanities; nor could she wish it to 
 be hers. 
 
 If at times she felt in her woman-nature a craving 
 for affection so strong that it might become almost 
 like a consuming fire, she closed her eyes and her 
 heart to it all and turned away with a prayer that the 
 tranquil life should always remain with her. She 
 was sure that was best the life of quietness, of peace, 
 of holiness and of the Indwelling Spirit. She knew 
 what that meant and George knew it, too. Could she 
 not still find peace, perhaps even a higher peace, in 
 wedlock with one whose spirit was perfectly har- 
 monious with hers ?
 
 In a Garden. 15 
 
 She knew that when George should ask her to be 
 his wife she would say yes, and say it with some glad- 
 ness ; but her heart did sink a little bit, perhaps, when 
 she contemplated that possible crisis of her life. 
 What if, in that most solemn union, it were indeed 
 required that there should be a fervor of spirit far 
 more intense than she could ever have for George? 
 And what if, when the bond was made, she should 
 discover that she had never really known what true 
 love is? 
 
 She thought deeply of this while George was speed- 
 ing homeward, with no doubts in his heart of the 
 fervor of his affection, and while she meditated, Mrs. 
 Ponder, freed from church, came through the gate 
 and then upon the porch. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder had heard that Abby's mother was not 
 well, and with neighborly kindliness had called to ask 
 about her. Abby led the minister's wife into the room 
 where Rachel Woolford lay upon the sofa, and when 
 Mrs. Ponder had exchanged greetings with Rachel 
 and had expressed sympathy for her in her illness, 
 Mrs. Ponder lay back in the rocking chair, and taking 
 a palm-leaf fan from the table with which to toy while 
 she talked, she said to Abby : 
 
 "I saw you, Abby dear, in the garden with Mr. 
 Fotherly, as I went into church this morning." 
 
 "Yes," answered Abby, "the day was so lovely that 
 we found the open air pleasant." 
 
 "Persons feel differently about such things," said 
 Mrs. Ponder, "and I am far from wishing to criticise 
 any one, but, 'my dear, much as I love Nature, I could 
 not bear to neglect worship." 
 
 "We were worshiping," said Abby, shyly, with her 
 eyes downcast. "We had meeting."
 
 16 The Quakeress. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder looked at Abby for a moment with 
 surprise upon her face, and then she said : 
 
 "Why, my dear child, how perfectly, perfectly 
 sweet! Just you two! It is charming; and so orig- 
 inal, too! Dr. Ponder will be interested and amused. 
 In his sacerdotal character of course he would be com- 
 pelled to regard the proceeding as irregular, but looked 
 at from any other standpoint it is really lovely. Per- 
 haps, though, I should not speak of it as original. 
 No doubt our first parents worshiped in their garden 
 in some such fashion on the day of rest ; but, of course, 
 we must remember in their behalf that they had no 
 consecrated structure to go to." 
 
 Neither Abby nor her mother inclined to interrupt 
 the flow of Mrs. Ponder's talk. 
 
 "The truth is," she continued, "there must have 
 been the want of a great many things in the Garden 
 of Eden. How dreadfully uncomfortable! Nothing 
 could induce me to live in such a place ! But I never 
 could have done it, at any rate. Even in this delight- 
 ful June weather I do not dare to go out of doors 
 without overshoes. The ground never gets entirely 
 dry." 
 
 "But I do believe, dear Abby and Mrs. Woolford, 
 that if I had been there I should have done very much 
 better than Adam did. One does not like to speak 
 harshly of one's fellow men, but, do you know, really 
 I think he was but a poor creature, at the best! No 
 wonder the race made a bad start, with him at the head 
 of it ! The only thing in the nature of an extenuating 
 circumstance that you can urge in his behalf is that 
 he had no church-training and no good examples about 
 him, unless his wife was a good example, and I am
 
 In a Garden. 
 
 far from clear that she was, when we consider every- 
 thing. I often think that if Dr. Ponder could have 
 had an hour alone with Adam the results to our poor 
 human race might have been so different ! The doctor 
 has a sermon on Sublapsarianism that I am perfectly 
 certain would have straightened matters out if the man 
 had been amenable to reason. Are you a Sublapsarian 
 or a Supralapsarian, Abby, dear?" 
 
 Abby smiled and answered : 
 
 "Indeed I hardly know. Thee is so much more 
 learned than I am about such matters." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder looked at her half in compassion, half 
 in reproach, and said : 
 
 "Not exactly learning, my dear. Call it training, 
 or, if you please, learning that comes from training 
 applied from earliest infancy. Within the fold of the 
 Church even the infant mind learns to grasp the truth 
 about Sublapsarianism, not under that name, but the 
 name is of small importance if the mind is saturated 
 with the facts. O that those dear people who belong 
 to the Friends' Society would consent to make these 
 great truths their own, even in their adult years !" 
 
 "I know Dr. Ponder would be only too glad to have 
 permission to open out this particular subject to you 
 to open it out fully. He is so happy in dealing with 
 these questions and making them plain. May I say 
 so to you? I know you will pardon me, but the truth 
 is the doctor's success in converting Friends has been 
 really extraordinary. He brought in seven in his first 
 parish!" 
 
 Mrs. Ponder's manner in telling of this triumph was 
 that of one who should relate how a successful sports- 
 man came home with wild game,
 
 The Quakeress 
 
 "I know I ought not even to appear to cast any 
 reproach upon people who are so lovely as the Friends, 
 but O, my dear Mrs. Woolford! their very loveliness 
 impels me to yearn for them ! I am a very poor mis- 
 sionary, though, and I fear I give offence oftener than 
 I produce conviction. You will forgive me, won't 
 you? Mrs. Paxton was furious the other day when 
 I told her, in the kindest manner, that I feared her 
 views were tainted with Erastianism. I am sure she 
 does not know what Erastianism is, but she declared 
 she would never set her foot in our church again, and 
 the doctor had the greatest difficulty in soothing her. 
 You are not Erastian, are you?" 
 
 "I hardly know," responded Abby. 
 
 "I am sure you are not, for Friends are the greatest 
 kind of people for discipline; at least I have always 
 understood so; and that is exactly as it ought to be. 
 The longer I live, though, the more I am convinced 
 there is really but one safe way : put your feet firmly 
 upon the Thirty-nine Articles and stand there. 
 
 ''And now, dear Mrs. Woolford and Abby, I must 
 not keep the doctor's dinner waiting. I must go. I 
 am so glad to find you but slightly ill. Send for me 
 at once if I can help you in any way." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder rose from the rocking chair and was 
 about to put her fan upon the table, when a thought 
 occurred to her and she hastily sat down again. 
 
 "I almost forgot to tell you that my niece and 
 nephew, children of my sister, Mrs. Harley, are com- 
 ing to the rectory this week to stay for a little while. 
 They live in Maryland. Dolly is a dear girl, and I 
 know both of you will love her; and, as for Clayton! 
 I do really think he is the handsomest, finest, bright-
 
 In a Garden. 19 
 
 est fellow in the world. You will come to see Dolly, 
 won't you, Abby?" 
 
 Then Mrs. Ponder said farewell and went away; 
 but Abby, who had walked with her to the porch, hid 
 herself again by the clematis vine before she should 
 wait upon her mother. 
 
 For those last words of Mrs. Ponder's, lightly said, 
 foolishly said, for aught Abby knew, had made a 
 strange impression upon the girl. It was as if a door 
 had been suddenly opened through which she had a 
 vista of another and more wondrous world. She could 
 not understand it would have been foolish and futile 
 even to try to understand a feeling which had no 
 basis in probability. But she was sure she had a thrill 
 of pleasure mingled with foreboding. She knew dimly 
 that the time was coming swiftly to her when the 
 foundations of her peace would be shaken. 
 
 If there be no Power that knows the future, and 
 man unaided cannot read its mystery, whence does 
 the soul, as its great hour draws near, get presage of 
 its destiny?
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Southerners. 
 
 Miss HARLEY came to the parsonage late on 
 Thursday morning with her negro maid and her 
 trunks, and early in the afternoon Mrs. Ponder called 
 at the grey house to entreat Abby to return with her 
 that she might know Dolly at once. ''Clayton could 
 not come to-day, my clear," said Mrs. Ponder. "He 
 will be with us on Friday, I think, and meantime you 
 will have a good chance to be well acquainted with 
 Dolly." 
 
 So Abby, without bonnet or wrap, went over to the 
 parsonage with the minister's wife, and Dolly came 
 running down stairs at her aunt's summons. Abby 
 extended her hand to the girl, but Dolly in a moment 
 flung her arms about Abby's neck and kissed her. 
 
 "You must come right up to my room with me 
 Miss Miss what must I call you ?" demanded Dolly. 
 
 "Just Abby, if thee pleases," was the reply, given 
 with a smile, for Abby felt that she should like this 
 stranger. 
 
 "Well, then, Abby, do you think you could bear to 
 sit down in the litter of a disordered room while I try 
 to put my things away? If you can, w r e will go up 
 and leave aunty to her nap or her household cares." 
 
 The room was indeed in disorder. Both trunks 
 gaped open in the middle of the floor, and a young 
 negress, neatly dressed and with a cap upon her head, 
 busied herself with removing the articles from the trunk 
 
 (20)
 
 The Southerners. 2i 
 
 and placing them in the bureau and the closets at the 
 bidding of her mistress. Dolly touched nothing with 
 her own hands. Flinging herself, half sitting, half 
 lying, upon the bed, with a huge pillow at her elbow, 
 while Abby sought a chair, Dolly seemed to care 
 more to enjoy the presence of her visitor than to super- 
 intend the distribution of her articles of apparel. 
 
 "Aunty has often spoken to me of you. You must 
 be very good, indeed, to please her so much when you 
 do not belong to her church." 
 
 Abby laughed and said, "I like Mrs. Ponder very 
 much, and we are glad to have her for so near a 
 neighbor." 
 
 "I never met a Friend before," said Dolly, "and you 
 almost make me feel that I should like to be one. But 
 I should have to give up so much, shouldn't I, if I 
 should join them?" 
 
 "There are some things that Friends do not ap- 
 prove," said Abby, pleasantly, "but I do not know 
 whether thee has many of them or would find it hard 
 to give them up." 
 
 "I couldn't wear a frock like this, could I?" said 
 Dolly, jumping up and snatching from the servant's 
 hand a bright silk dress covered with lace and other 
 finery. 
 
 "I never saw a dress of that kind upon a Friend. 
 It would startle our meeting, I fear." 
 
 "But I could renounce it without a pang if the 
 Friends' dress became me as it does you. Your frock 
 makes mine look tawdry. And that bonnet! Penny, 
 hand it. to me! Abby, what would you look like in 
 such a bonnet? It would really spoil your looks, I 
 do believe. There, will you let me try it on you ?"
 
 22 The Quakeress. 
 
 Without waiting for permission Dolly put the bonnet 
 upon her companion's head, tied the strings beneath 
 her chin and then led her to the glass that she might 
 look at herself. 
 
 Abby, with her cheeks rosy, felt half ashamed to 
 look, but, when she did look, she thought the vision 
 not repulsive, and Dolly said, "Why, my dear, you look 
 perfectly lovely in it ! I had no idea it was so pretty." 
 
 Abby took it off in some haste, but with a smiling 
 face. She was not displeased with the figure in the 
 glass or with Dolly's freedom, but she had a feeling 
 that it was not quite right for her even to play with 
 such things. 
 
 But Dolly would have her try on other and even 
 gayer garments, always expressing admiration after 
 each experiment; and at last, throwing herself upon 
 the bed again, she said : 
 
 "No! I think I could not give up fine clothes. I 
 love them too much. But do all Friends dislike 
 them?" 
 
 "It is not dislike, exactly," said Abby. "The theory 
 of Friends is that they should not love fine clothes ; 
 that fine clothing is vanity. They think that the mind 
 is diverted by them from more important things." 
 
 "But fine clothes are so very important and so de- 
 lightful." 
 
 "And Friends believe that they should find delight 
 in something better. In old times they had a rhyme 
 about it which I knew when a child, but it will be un- 
 pleasant for thee to hear." 
 
 "No, no, no! not a bit unpleasant! Do give it to 
 me." 
 
 "Thee will think me unkind. The rhyme is not
 
 The Southerners. 23 
 
 heard now, I think. It was written for children in 
 the old, old time." 
 
 "I know you will say it for me." 
 
 Abby hesitated for a moment, and colored, and then 
 she said, "It is this : 
 
 " Dress not to please, nor imitate the nice 
 Be like good Friends and follow their advice. 
 The rich man, gaily clothed, is now in hell, 
 And Dogges did eat attired Jezebel." 
 
 "It is horrid, isn't it?" asked Abby when she had 
 done. 
 
 "It is very funny," said Dolly, "and I am so much 
 obliged to you. But Abby?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Don't repeat it to aunty, will you ?" 
 
 "O no!" 
 
 "Because, you know, Clayton and I call her Aunt 
 Jezebel. Her name is Isabel, but they are just the 
 same names really, did you know ? and we do it to tease 
 her. By the way, I forgot about Clayton. I am so 
 eager to have you meet him. He will be here on 
 Friday, and we shall have great times. Did aunty 
 tell you about him?" 
 
 "Just a little." 
 
 "But a little can't do him justice. He is a cavalier ; 
 a perfect Southern gentleman. I know you will like 
 him. He is a dear. Women always fall in love with 
 him. Are there any nice men about here?" 
 
 Abby hardly knew what answer to make to the 
 question. She could think of no very nice young man 
 but George, and she felt that she could not speak of 
 him to this girl who was so eager an inquirer after 
 men.
 
 24 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Not many," she said. 
 
 "It must be so dull for you!" responded Dolly. 
 "That is another reason why you will like Clayt. 
 When you come to see me upon our plantation, and 
 you will come some day, won't you? I will introduce 
 you to a dozen or more nice fellows." 
 
 Abby felt that she did. not care to continue the talk 
 along that line, so she said : 
 
 "Thee lives upon a plantation, does thee?" 
 
 "Yes, right on the bank of the Sanaquan River.'' 
 
 "And thee has slaves ?" 
 
 "More than a hundred. Penny, my own maid here, 
 is a slave." 
 
 Penny had gone down stairs for a moment. 
 
 "Really belongs to thee? Thy property?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "And thee can sell her if thee wishes and spend the 
 money thee gets for her?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed! And I will sell her if she doesn't 
 behave herself. We have whipped her sometimes." 
 
 Abby did not reply. She turned and looked out of 
 the window. Dolly, for a moment, seemed not so 
 charming a companion.. And Abby felt that she 
 should like to look at Penny again. 
 
 She had never seen a slave, and to be in the house 
 with one gave a little shock to her. When Penny en- 
 tered the room Abby looked at her with curious interest 
 which, for a moment, made her deaf to Dolly's talk. 
 Then the negress, in handling some article taken from 
 the trunk, aroused Dolly's displeasure, and that young 
 woman, springing up and stamping her foot upon the 
 floor, exclaimed : 
 
 "Penelope! how dare you muss that scarf in that
 
 The Southerners. 25 
 
 manner ! You bad girl ! Here, give it this instant 
 to me!" and Dolly, snatching the scarf with her left 
 hand, gave an angry blow upon her servant's cheek 
 with the other. 
 
 "Worthless niggers!" she said, only half aloud, as 
 she turned toward Abby while she smoothed and re- 
 folded the scarf. 
 
 A thrill ran along the Quaker girl's nerves ; a thrill 
 of pity for the servant, and of dismay at the act and the 
 words of Miss Harley. She had never heard any 
 woman speak so harshly to a dependent. She had 
 never seen such a manifestation of unreasonable anger. 
 She was surprised that Penny showed no surprise. 
 She had a sense of shame that Dolly was not ashamed. 
 But that person, flinging herself upon the bed again, 
 went on with her talk as if this little outburst of anger 
 were a not unusual thing. 
 
 "Clayt sings divinely," she said. "But perhaps you 
 do not care for music ?" 
 
 "O, yes/' said Abby, "I love it." 
 
 "You are not a musician?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Aunty told me that Friends do not approve of 
 music. And you have no piano in your house?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And never dance?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "No music, no balls, no low dresses ! But, my dear, 
 how do you pass your existence? It must be dread- 
 ful." 
 
 "But thee does not think such things the whole of 
 life, does thee?" asked Abby, with a smile. 
 
 "Not absolutely the whole; but things of that kind,
 
 26 The Quakeress. 
 
 things that give pleasure, help to make life tolerable 
 at any rate pleasant, and you, poor Abby, can have 
 none of them !" 
 
 "My life is very, very pleasant," said Abby. 
 "Friends are taught to find pleasure in inward things ; 
 and if one has that kind of pleasure, one learns to care 
 less for things that are outward." 
 
 Dolly looked at her and flung her head backward 
 with a gesture of impatience : 
 
 "I need something more substantial, my dear. The 
 things you speak of are too shadowy ; and dreadfully 
 tiresome, too. I suppose we shall have to go to church 
 here and listen to Uncle Ponder's prosing. Did you 
 ever hear him preach? He is particularly dull, poor 
 old man ! I always go to sleep in church. I care only 
 for the music; and that, too, is often stupid. Clayt 
 won't go. He never does. Men have so many priv- 
 ileges! I wish I were a man." 
 
 Abby went home with a feeling in her mind of per- 
 plexity about her new acquaintance. She had hoped 
 to like Dolly; she wished to like her, but she doubted 
 if she should ever have a near friendship for such a 
 girl. She was hardly conscious that behind her wish 
 to like Dolly was that strange feeling of curiosity and 
 of premonition with which she had heard of Dolly's 
 brother. Nobody could account for or interpret the 
 vague, shadowy impression that this man would come 
 to mean much to her. The first impulse of any one 
 would be to put it aside as foolish, but to Abby it was 
 a w r onderful f act, f and her experience has been that 
 of myriads of others into whose nature the spark of 
 true love has been mysteriously blown. ) 
 
 She did not see Dolly on Friday morning, and Clay-
 
 The Southerners. 2 7 
 
 ton did not come. Late on Friday afternoon Abby 
 and her mother sat upon their porch while Abby told 
 her mother much of the meeting with the Maryland 
 girl. She said nothing of the angry treatment of 
 Penny or of Dolly's inquiry about men ; but Rachel 
 Woolford had clear vision and she said : 
 
 "Thee did not look with favor on her, did thee, 
 dear?" 
 
 "She is not just like our people," answered Abby, 
 and then, thinking that if Clayton came, she must not 
 seem indifferent to the sister, she added, "But she has 
 much that is charming. Thee knows, mother, she has 
 been brought up so differently from our ways." 
 
 "I know," said Rachel, "and we must be careful 
 of harsh judgment and self-righteousness. Is it a 
 slave-girl that is with her?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "She is free, if she chooses, when she comes here, 
 if she knew it. But we may find it wiser not to meddle 
 with the matter. Thy father, though, may not be of 
 that opinion. The brother has not yet come, has he?" 
 
 "No, mother." 
 
 Rachel was silent for a moment. Then she put her 
 hand tenderly upon her daughter's arm and said : 
 
 "If thee is civil to him it will be enough." 
 
 Abby felt almost as if her mother had read her soul. 
 She colored slightly and answered : 
 
 "It will be perhaps enough." 
 
 "For I think \ve may well desire not to enlarge very 
 much our acquaintance among the world's people. 
 They do not understand us, and they have many dan- 
 gerous allurements for young people particularly. 
 We must always walk circumspectly, dear. Thy love
 
 28 The Quakeress. 
 
 for music, which is very innocent even that may be 
 a snare for thee." 
 
 "I cannot think sweet music harmful, mother." 
 
 "No, quite likely it is not. God made the sounds 
 possible and gave thee an affection for them. It is 
 pleasing to me, too, sometimes, but Friends see peril 
 in it, and for thee, if thee prefers it to spiritual things." 
 
 A young man came slowly up the street, looking 
 about him from house to house. The women upon the 
 porch saw him, and he, coming by the gate of the 
 garden and perceiving them, walked up the stone steps, 
 bowed graciously, and said : 
 
 "Will you pardon me for asking where Dr. Ponder 
 lives?" 
 
 He looked at Abby, but her mother answered the 
 question, and then, when the question was answered 
 he still looked at Abby while he bowed again and re- 
 turned to the pavement. 
 
 "It is the brother, I think," said Rachel, tranquilly. 
 
 "I think so," said Abby, but indeed she knew it, 
 and her heart beat strongly as she watched him go 
 upon the parsonage porch and summon the servant to 
 the door. She would not forget that slight, graceful 
 figure, the black eyes and hair and the handsome face. 
 The memory of them was to be with her henceforth 
 until her dying day. 
 
 Rachel also had seen that he was good-looking, but 
 she said : 
 
 "His Aunt Ponder will wish to introduce him to 
 her church people, where he can have gaiety. We 
 shall avoid seeing much of him, Abby." 
 
 But this was not Abby's idea, nor Dolly's, nor Mrs. 
 Ponder's. That very night after supper Dolly came
 
 lie Southerners. 
 
 over to introduce Clayton and to bring from her aunt 
 an insistent invitation that Abby should take tea with 
 them on Saturday evening, and Abby consented to go. 
 
 Dr. Ponder appeared at the tea-table and greeted 
 Abby with tenderness, putting his hand upon her 
 shoulder and smiling graciously upon her. Long ago 
 he had marked her as another trophy of his skill as a 
 bringer-in of Quakers. "One of my lambs," he said 
 to himself as he placed her by his side at the table. 
 
 The doctor's grace was said standing. It was long, 
 and it included a petition for the Jews. The Quakers 
 he reserved for the silent entreaties of the closet, instead 
 of associating them with removal of the pangs of 
 hunger. 
 
 Dr. Ponder's thought was upon the subject of the 
 Jews as the meal began. 
 
 "I have no doubt whatever," he said, "that we are 
 the lost tribes. The evidence" 
 
 "By 'we' you mean ?" asked Clayton. 
 
 "I mean the Anglo-Saxon race, to which you and 
 I belong," answered the doctor. "Most of the 
 prophecies have been fulfilled in us. The riches, the 
 power, the splendid intellectual development, the purity 
 of our religion, all these things go to prove that we 
 are indeed a part of the Chosen People. We are in 
 the broadest sense the heirs of the promises." 
 
 "But we were lost," said Clayton. 
 
 "Yes," answered the doctor, "our ten tribes were." 
 
 "I am so glad we were lost," said Mrs. Ponder, 
 positively. 
 
 "Glad, wife! How can you speak in that way?" 
 
 "I mean, birdie," responded Mrs. Ponder, "glad we 
 were lost in the sense that we wandered off somewhere
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 and finally came over here. It seems to me that the 
 tribes that were not lost got the worst of it." 
 
 "I'm a little glad myself," said Clayton. "Mary- 
 land's ever so much more delightful than Palestine, 
 I should think, just now, at any rate." 
 
 "You can find traces of the truth," said the doctor, 
 taking up the general matter again, "even in names. 
 Why should the lost tribes be Saxons? The subject 
 is obscure until you reflect that that very name is in- 
 dicated in the phrase 'Isaac's son/ and we are all 
 Isaac's sons if we are the lost tribes." 
 
 "And we are not so very proud of our ancestor, 
 either," whispered Dolly to Abby. 
 
 "The cradle of the race, you remember," said the 
 doctor, "was between the Black Sea and the Sea of 
 Azov, in Scythia, which is really Sacae that is, the 
 last syllable of the name Isaac, from which Saxon 
 has been derived. There is little doubt that Sargon 
 transported the ten tribes of Israel from Media in 
 Assyria, whither they had been taken by Shalmanezer 
 721 B. C, to Scythia, and that is why there are so 
 many Jews in Russia now. High authorities trace 
 the royal family of Great Britain back to David, and 
 it is really a remarkable example of the persistent in- 
 fluence of heredity that its members have the blonde 
 hair and complexion of David. London is named 
 after Dan; Lon-Dan; and then, when you think of 
 the lion of Judah and the British lion" 
 
 "I think," interposed Mrs. Ponder, "that we ought 
 to be very careful not to exaggerate or to guess wildly 
 in these matters. Uncle only conjectures we are the 
 lost tribes." 
 
 "Partly conjecture, wife, and partly demonstrated 
 fact."
 
 The Southerners. 31 
 
 "In my childhood," persisted Mrs. Ponder, "I was 
 misled frequently by the ignorance or the depravity 
 of the publishers of Sunday School books. The 
 pictures showed the spies returning with the grapes 
 of Eschol, and each grape was as large as a water- 
 melon, and Absalom was always represented as swing- 
 ing from a tree by hair much longer than he was." 
 
 "The Bible does not say he was caught by his hair," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 "I know it, birdie, and I'm sure the Good Samaritan 
 did not pour oil and wine from a bottle into an orifice 
 in the poor man's chest as the Sunday School books 
 represented." 
 
 "Riper knowledge and better taste have resulted in 
 the retirement of those foolish books," said the doctor. 
 "No grape, even in that favored land, was ever so large 
 as a melon, and the Samaritan in that lovely story 
 simply cleansed and soothed the sufferer's wounds." 
 
 "A lesson for all of us, too!" reflected Mrs. Ponder, 
 while renewing the tea in Abby's cup. "Kindness for 
 each other, well directed and judicious kindness, which 
 I am afraid we do not always exhibit. I have never 
 been satisfied, for example, with the missionary box 
 that we made up last Christmas for the clergyman 
 in Colorado." 
 
 "Why not, auntie?" asked Dolly. 
 
 "Somebody in the Ladies' Aid Society suggested 
 that as Christmas was near, we should send a plum , 
 pudding. So when the box was to be made ready ~ 
 four ladies brought plum puddings, and there was 
 almost nothing else in the box but some underclothing ' 
 and two pairs of dumb-bells, and I said plainly to the 
 meeting that it was a queer outfit for a missionary in
 
 32 Tlie Quakeress. 
 
 a cold climate. The mercury out there goes to thirty- 
 two below, and there is a blizzard every other week." 
 
 "Not quite so often as that, wife!" said Dr. Ponder, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Nearly that often, at any rate. I would have filled 
 the box properly without the Ladies' Aid, but well 
 well, I will say it in the privacy of my own family: 
 the fact is that Dr. Ponder will never in the other 
 world have it laid to his charge that 'he heapeth up 
 riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.' ' 
 
 "I wouldn't say that, wife," remarked the doctor, 
 coloring. 
 
 "Very well, perhaps it were better unsaid; but how 
 people with souls can be so inconsiderate of a poor 
 minister who is working in the cold part of the vine- 
 yard, is inconceivable to me." 
 
 "Are you sure they have souls?" asked Clayton. 
 
 "Not so very sure," answered Mrs. Ponder, smiling, 
 "and sometimes I think it might perhaps be better if 
 none of us had, like that fabled girl. What's her 
 name? Dudheen or ?" 
 
 "Undine," said Abby, modestly. 
 
 "Yes, Undine. I knew it was something like that; 
 because, then, we should have so much less trouble. 
 Think what a relief it would be to uncle there not to 
 have to care for them !" 
 
 "But, wife," said Dr. Ponder, in protest, "I do not 
 at all count it trouble. It is joy. Most assuredly it 
 could give me no kind of satisfaction to know that 
 my fellow beings are like the beasts that perish." 
 
 "Maybe the beasts have souls, too," ventured Dolly. 
 
 "My dear," said the doctor, to Mrs. Ponder, "you 
 recall Senator Wigger, who was a vestryman in my
 
 The Southerners. 33 
 
 first parish? He inclined, I am sorry to say, to hold 
 the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of 
 souls. He thought that men's souls after death took 
 up a new life in the bodies of animals." 
 
 "Senator Wigger reversed the process," said Mrs. 
 Ponder. "If I believed at all in transmigration, which 
 I do not, I should be compelled to believe that brute 
 animal souls come into human bodies. I know plenty 
 of cat women and parrot women, and pig men are 
 common. You always find them in church vestries 
 generally they are accounting wardens. In uncle's 
 first parish" 
 
 "I would defer allusion to that, wife," said the doc- 
 tor, lifting his hand. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, birdie, but when a vestry- 
 man in a Christian church tries to pay his pew-rent by 
 sending the minister sprouted potatoes and mouldy 
 flour, it is useless for any one to pretend that in his 
 inner nature he belongs to the human family." 
 
 "I fear, wife," said the doctor, sadly, "you will give 
 to our dear young Friend, here, wrong notions of the 
 Church. These things, my dear Abby, of which Mrs. 
 Ponder speaks, are but trifles matters incident to the 
 weakness of poor human nature. A church may be 
 thoroughly Apostolic in all its departments and yet 
 have folly and sin fulness and selfishness among its 
 members." 
 
 "Friends have faults, too," said Abby, courteously. 
 
 "Many, many faults!" said Dr. Ponder, with em- 
 phasis and some eagerness. "It is appalling to think 
 of them. Take, for example, their complete neglect 
 of the" 
 
 "Not now, birdie, not here!" said Mrs. Ponder.
 
 34 The Quakeress. 
 
 "The poor child will not care for a full discussion of 
 the matter while she is with us to meet Mary's chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "No doubt you are right. But Abby, my dear, I 
 must, upon a favorable opportunity, open out the whole 
 subject to you, so that you may see precisely how far 
 and in what particulars the Friends, worthy as they 
 are, have surrendered the very vital and" 
 
 "Birdie!" exclaimed Mrs. Ponder, with a touch of 
 severity in her tone. The doctor said no more, but 
 took a fresh muffin. 
 
 "I think myself," said Clayton, "that uncle would 
 have more time for an exhaustive treatment of the 
 subject upon some other occasion. You don't care 
 to go into it now, do you, Miss Woolford?" 
 
 Abby laughed lightly and made no reply; but Dolly 
 leaned over to her and said : 
 
 "Uncle is just absurd! Let us go out to the porch 
 and be reasonable." 
 
 After supper the three young people went out to 
 the darkness of the porch, and presently Mrs. Ponder 
 joined them, while Uncle Ponder withdrew to his 
 study to write the last words of his evening sermon 
 for the next day. All were in high spirits, and Mrs. 
 Ponder, who never failed of vivacity, was in sympathy 
 with them. Her mind not unnaturally was much oc- 
 cupied with church matters, and these found a place 
 in her conversation frequently. 
 
 Clayton told many good stories and related many 
 wonderful adventures in which he had taken part, and 
 animation and fervor were in his talk because for one 
 of the listeners he had conceived great admiration. 
 Dolly was a capital story-teller, and she almost sur- 
 passed Clayton in supplying entertainment.
 
 The Southerners. 35 
 
 Abby told no stories and she had had no adventures. 
 She listened eagerly to her companions and laughed 
 heartily, and found Clayton a very pleasing person 
 indeed. Toward her he used that manner of ex- 
 treme deference which women always like. 
 
 "You must sing for us, Clayt," said his sister at 
 last; and both Mrs. Ponder and Abby entreated him 
 to do so. He made no pretence of reluctance. Softly, 
 with a clear tenor, he sang one or two songs to Abby's 
 great delight, and then Dolly said : 
 
 "And that lost-love song." 
 
 "It is too sad," answered Clayton. "We don't 
 want dismal things." 
 
 But Dolly urged him and so, hesitating for a mo- 
 ment, he sang with tenderness and true feeling the 
 song for which his sister had asked him. Abby felt 
 the deep pathos of it, but the tears trickled upon her 
 cheeks when the singer took up the final verse : 
 
 " O my lost love, and my own, own love, 
 
 And my love that loved me so ! 
 Is there never a chink in the world above 
 
 Where they listen for words from below? 
 Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 
 
 I remember all that I said, 
 And now thou wilt hear me no more no more 
 
 Till the sea gives up her dead." 
 
 There was silence when the song was ended. Then 
 Clayton said something of a light nature to Abby, but 
 she could not at once answer him, lest the quaver in 
 her voice should show her feeling. 
 
 "I wish we had you in our choir, Clayton," said 
 Aunt Ponder, bringing relief to the tension. "Our 
 tenor does not know how to articulate. Nobody can
 
 36 The Quakeress. 
 
 hear a word of what he is singing; although, for my 
 part," she continued, "there are some words in the 
 hymn book that I would as lief not hear. I never 
 could bear that hymn that begins 'Stand up, my soul,' 
 for I think a person ought not to sing to his own soul 
 when he goes to church, and souls can't stand up, any- 
 how." 
 
 "How do you know, aunty?" asked Clayton. 
 
 "I don't know; but if they are anything like those 
 pictures of cherubs the horrid little creatures without 
 legs, I mean of course they can't." 
 
 Although Abby lived but a few steps away, Clayton 
 would go with her to her home when she had said 
 farewell, and he lingered at her door for a minute or 
 two to talk with her before she entered and went 
 up stairs with the music and the words of that song 
 running through her memory : 
 
 " My own, own love, and my love that loved me so." 
 
 And while the song sang itself to her, her mind was 
 busy contrasting Clayton with George. She saw be- 
 fore her the big, handsome farmer with the broad 
 shoulders, the mighty hand brown with the sun and 
 hard with toil; the serious man, who rarely jested; 
 who talked little and not often lightly; who seemed 
 to live in a spiritual height above her; who in his 
 preaching sometimes showed knowledge of things that 
 were hidden from her; who, despite his tenderness 
 and gentleness and refined feeling, cared not for the 
 music that thrilled her soul, and would have shut his 
 ears to the passion of the song she had just now heard. 
 She honored him; she revered him; she had a kind 
 of strange awe of him while she liked his companion-
 
 Southerners. 
 
 37 
 
 ship. But this other man! Not much taller than she 
 was; with small white hands, small feet, delicate feat- 
 ures, a pallid skin made more pallid by the intense 
 blackness of his thick curly hair and his dark eyes. 
 This man, with the sweet musical voice and evidently 
 a nature of exquisite sensitiveness to the music and the 
 sentiment of the song he had sung! She felt herself 
 somehow upon a level with him. She felt so, although 
 her fancy inclined to lift him up until he seemed to 
 be too beautiful and too -gifted for a plain, ordinary, 
 commonplace girl, such as she was, to have compan- 
 ionship with. She tried to rid her mind of him as 
 she prepared for sleep, but always his image came back 
 to her, and with it that great question, What does he 
 think of me? And while she thought of it and of 
 him, and was half happy in her meditation, all the 
 matter became sweet and strange confusion to her, and 
 she slumbered.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 First-day at Plymouth Meeting. 
 
 ON First-day after breakfast Clayton went out upon 
 the porch of the parsonage to taste the sweetness of 
 the morning, and Dolly followed him. The air, bear- 
 ing the odors of the flowers, was filled with the de- 
 licious moist coolness of the night and the dew. The 
 hills were violet and misty beyond the valley. The 
 wind moved gently through the trees of the Woolford 
 garden, where the birds were fluttering and twittering 
 and the sun was bringing warmth to the shining wet 
 grasses and the beaded leaves. The Harleys were 
 not used to the hills, which to the dweller in a flat 
 country always have about them something surprising 
 and mysterious. They were now softened and made 
 remote by the light vapor that hung in the atmos- 
 phere, the tribute of the river to the cloud. 
 
 The brother and the sister stood by the porch-rail 
 looking out upon them, and while they gazed silently 
 Abby came from the rear door of her house, in her 
 First-day garments, but wearing a white apron and 
 a filmy hood upon her head. 
 
 She did not see the Harleys, for she went along the 
 graveled walks among the flower beds, clipping the 
 blooms from the bushes and catching them in her 
 apron. In fact, her thought was much upon the par- 
 sonage and its guests; but in that house late-rising 
 was the practice and she had not expected to find any 
 one upon the porch. So she did not look up, but 
 
 (38)
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 39 
 
 went from plant to plant without raising her eyes and 
 without considering if any one were watching her. 
 
 But Clayton's eyes were gleaming as he looked at 
 her, and in Dolly's soul, mingled with admiration, was 
 a touch of envy of the girl whose loveliness was far 
 beyond the need of artifice. 
 
 Going hither and thither, among the beds, Abby 
 came nearer to the border fence, and she had just lifted 
 her hand to pluck a great lilac blossom from the bush 
 when she saw the watchers upon the parsonage porch. 
 She gave a little cry expressive of the shock of the 
 surprise, and then with the flush deepening upon her 
 ruddy cheek and rising to her white forehead, she 
 laughed and said, "Good morning!" 
 
 Then Clayton leaped over the porch-railing and 
 came to her, and she greeted him with sweet gentle- 
 ness. Plucking some roses from her apron she said 
 to him : 
 
 "These are for thy sister." 
 
 "And is there none for me?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, one for thee, if thee will have it," and she put 
 into his hand a crimson bud. 
 
 Then Clayton asked the favor that he might come 
 over into the garden and help her gather the flowers. 
 But she said : 
 
 "No, I thank thee. I have quite enough, and I 
 must go into the house for my duties there." And 
 then she added, shyly, "but thee can come some other 
 time and help me and help thyself and thy sister " 
 
 "Some other time" seemed to Clayton almost too 
 far distant and too indefinite for his eagerness, and 
 so he said : 
 
 "Are Friends very strict about Sunday and Sunday 
 things, like visiting?"
 
 40 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Not very strict," answered Abby, smiling, "but 
 we go to meeting always on First-day morning." 
 
 "Meeting? Where?" asked Clayton. 
 
 "To our regular meeting; Plymouth meeting." 
 
 "How far from here is it?" 
 
 "About two miles; right out that way," answered 
 Abby, pointing to the northeast. 
 
 "May I go with you to-day?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 Abby hesitated. George would come for her as 
 he always did. He would have a carriage for two 
 persons. If Abby should go off with this stranger, 
 what would George's feelings be? She saw quickly 
 that if Dolly could go with George the difficulty 
 would be removed; but Dolly probably would not 
 care to go to meeting, and George might not wish 
 to ask her to go in his carriage. So after a moment 
 of perplexity, Abby said : 
 
 "I have a custom of going in a carriage with a 
 friend of my father's who comes for me, but " 
 
 "And there is no room for me?" demanded Clay- 
 ton. 
 
 "Usually there is room but for two persons and " 
 
 "Well, then, you will walk over with me, won't 
 you? It is cool enough and bright and beautiful 
 enough. Let us walk there, and you can show me 
 the scenery and tell me all about meetings and about 
 Friends. Please take me with you." 
 
 "I should like to go, too," said Dolly. "I wonder 
 if your friend will not let me have your place in the 
 carriage?" 
 
 "I will ask him," replied Abby, who for herself had 
 some feeling of pleasure at the promise of this ar- 
 rangement, but some doubts about George.
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 41 
 
 A little later than nine o'clock the two girls and 
 Clayton sat upon the Woolford porch when George 
 drove up and hitched his horse in front of the house. 
 He had expected to see no one but Abby, and when 
 he had been introduced to the Harleys and had sat 
 with them for a few moments, Dolly said to him: 
 
 "Mr. Fotherly, I want so much to go to your 
 meeting. Abby and my brother have agreed to walk 
 there, but I never could take long walks, and so 
 Abby intended to ask you if I might ride with you.'"' 
 
 There could be but one response to that sugges- 
 tion, and George made it with grave courtesy, con- 
 cealing bravely his disappointment. Then, as Abby 
 and Clayton, bidding the others farewell, went out 
 from the gate and turned up the street to begin 
 their journey, George lingered for a moment to talk 
 with Dolly and to say good morning to Rachel 
 Woolford within the house. 
 
 George was troubled to think of Abby gone 
 away with the young Southerner upon a journey 
 she had been used to make with him and to give 
 happiness to him; but he said to himself, "It is but 
 courtesy to her neighbors' guest, and not to be se- 
 riously considered." And then the natural man in 
 him had not been so thoroughly subdued that he 
 should be indifferent to the charm of this bright 
 young creature with rosy lips and sparkling eyes, who 
 plainly wished to ride with him. 
 
 The fanciful clothing, gay with ribbons and color, 
 might indeed seem odd in the carriage with the 
 grave preacher; but Friends would understand the 
 need of attention to a visitor, and for the reproach 
 of others he cared nothing.
 
 42 The Quakeress. 
 
 He helped her to mount into the carriage and 
 then he sat beside her, and at once she began to talk 
 to him with animation. She put aside levity. She 
 was deferential. She looked up to him. Her opin- 
 ions were presented timidly as suggestions. With- 
 out clear purpose, but as it were instinctively, she 
 made constant tribute to his superiority. She sat 
 at his feet as a learner. She invited him to talk. 
 She drew him out. She was a mere thirsty attendant 
 at the fountain of wisdom. She was eager to learn 
 about Friends. She was warm in expressing her ad- 
 miration of much that she saw in them; and she 
 praised Abby with real enthusiasm. 
 
 Often, as she spoke, she would turn her face 
 around and upward, her eyes, when they met his, 
 seeming to appeal to him and to express respect and 
 trust. Her manner was as if she would say: "You 
 are so strong and wise that my weakness and ignor- 
 ance impel me to you for help. I want you to help 
 me and instruct me and to let some of your light 
 shine in upon my darkness." 
 
 It was plain to George that she liked him, and no 
 man is great enough to be indifferent to the subtle 
 admiration of a young and pretty woman. He 
 seemed to her so big and strong and forceful ! She 
 had never cared for small men. Behind his glove on 
 the broad hand that held the rein, she could see that 
 he had a wrist like Esau's. "Such a splendid manly 
 man !" she said to herself. 
 
 Before the carriage reached the very top of the 
 hill George found himself really in a little glow of 
 friendliness for his companion. Then, in the very
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 43 
 
 midst of one of her sentences her eye caught the glo- 
 rious picture that lay below them in the hollow to the 
 left, where for mile after mile the green billowy fields 
 roll away to the far-off Chester hills. Dolly stopped 
 abruptly, and putting her finger-tips upon George's 
 arm, she uttered an exclamation of astonishment and 
 delight. Pointing to the valley, she said : 
 
 "O, look there ! Isn't that lovely !" 
 
 The touch of the hand, light, but for a moment, 
 unconscious, it might be, upon her part, made 
 George irresponsive to her talk about the landscape. 
 The landscape he knew. To him it had ever been 
 glorious, and never so glorious as when with Abby 
 by his side he had looked upon it. But now with 
 the thrill of the finger-tips upon him, he was con- 
 scious that, whatever might be in the soul of his 
 companion, there was right here for him a summons 
 to gird himself for conflict. 
 
 He urged his horse forward, and though Dolly 
 talked on as if she had not observed his neglect to 
 answer, he said little more in response to her but 
 Yes, or No, and as if by carelessness he withdrew 
 from contact with her garments. She seemed not 
 to perceive this, but when the jolting of the car- 
 riage by a stone thrust her slightly against him, she 
 laughed, asked pardon sweetly, and resumed her 
 talk and her questioning while a ribbon from her 
 dress fluttered its end against his shoulder. 
 
 And while she talked and seemed to him so fasci- 
 nating that he could hardly restrain himself from 
 speaking to her in such a fashion as to commend 
 himself to her, his memory went back to an old, old
 
 44 The Quakeress. 
 
 battleground on which in fierce anguish, in wrest- 
 ling prayer, with strong crying and tears he had at 
 last won a mighty victory. He had conquered, but 
 even while he stood triumphant there had been half 
 regret that the triumph was achieved. Strange soul 
 of man, in which one seems to fight against himself! 
 where the spiritual nature must conquer or die, but 
 cannot conquer without remembering and still feel- 
 ing the exquisite sweetness and the strong allure- 
 ments of the evil thing that was conquered ! 
 
 George felt his soul shudder as the thought came 
 to him that there may have been no final victory, 
 but that again he must buckle on his armor and take 
 up the conflict. And yet he knew that that is the 
 appointed lot of man in this earthly life; that there 
 is no end of battle till the carnal man has been left 
 behind by the flight of the spiritual man to the world 
 of spirits. And while the girl beside him prattled on 
 and he was civil to her in monosyllables, his thought 
 went out and over the matter and once more he saw 
 plainly how vain it is to look to formalism for help 
 in such a strife. "How shall ceremonies avail," he 
 said to himself, "how shall priest, or pomp, or 
 flaunting finery of worship give strength to a man 
 in that struggle? It is a death-grapple with hell, 
 and in the combat with spiritual wickedness in high 
 places none can help but the Divine Spirit of Him 
 who, tempted at all points like as we are, was the 
 conqueror just where I must conquer or give up 
 fellowship with Him." 
 
 It was with feelings of relief and of pleasure that 
 George saw the meeting-house yard at the turn of
 
 Plymouth Meeting 45 
 
 the road, and that he helped Dolly to alight by the 
 women's door and then led his horse away to the 
 shed to tie him there. He was resolved not to take 
 her home with him if he could help it; but he saw 
 that there was small hope that he should have his 
 way. 
 
 Dolly waited by the door for Abby and Clayton 
 to come, and while she waited she watched George 
 striding off across the grass with his hand upon the 
 bridle of his horse. She would ride home with him, 
 she thought, and she did not guess that, while he 
 strove to quell the tumult within him, he thought 
 of that with dismay and foreboding. 
 
 "We must walk smartly," said Abby, as she and 
 Clayton turned into the street from her garden-gate. 
 "Meeting begins at ten and there are two full miles 
 to go." 
 
 Beneath the shade of the trees they went upon the 
 village sidewalk, mounting higher and higher by 
 slow ascent until the boundaries of the town were 
 reached, and then they came out into the open coun- 
 try upon the treeless road. There from the hill-top 
 was the view across the lowlands that had excited 
 Dolly, but Abby would not now consent to tarry 
 that Clayton might look at it. 
 
 "Thee may stop as we come back, if thee pleases," 
 she said, "but now I would not be late for meeting." 
 
 So they went downward toward Plymouth, walk- 
 ing together upon the firm earth beside the carriage- 
 way, and both with joy. Abby indeed was radiantly
 
 46 The Quakeress. 
 
 happy. The sunshine was glorious. The air was 
 cool and full of the sweetness of the fields; both the 
 man and the woman had youth and health, and the 
 woman's soul was pure. She did not measure nor 
 did she attempt to understand the feeling of exalta- 
 tion that possessed her. It was a species of intoxica- 
 tion. She saw everything about her in a kind of 
 golden mist. The glory of the light seemed to have 
 a new and strange brilliancy, and all the loveliness 
 of the grass and the fields and the purple hills and 
 the blue sky seemed more lovely than it had ever 
 been. Her step was light and her heart was light. 
 Clayton's talk was full of pleasure for her and she 
 had always an answer, and many a laugh they had 
 as they strode along. 
 
 She had never gone to meeting before in such a 
 fashion; and, if she had considered, the contrast 
 would have been strange between the high spirits 
 which now upbore her and the tranquillity with which 
 she had been used to traverse this road. But youth 
 does not consider. The new strange joy of the 
 present moment was too intense to be dulled by se- 
 rious reflections. She yielded herself to it com- 
 pletely without compunction and foreboding. She 
 could not have expressed the fact in words; she did 
 not even perceive it in clearly defined shape, but into 
 her soul had come that wonderful new life that is 
 born of love. The man and the woman; the woman 
 waiting for the man with longing that she may 
 hardly discern to be longing. The man eager to find 
 that one woman who is his very own and never con- 
 tented while he makes quest for her. They meet,
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 47 
 
 and in the silence, behind polite conventions and 
 formal talk, regardless of plans and pre-arrange- 
 ments, in defiance sometimes of fair reasonableness, 
 each soul leaps to its mate. It is not caprice, it is 
 not carnal passion, it is not just a fancy that might, 
 but for accident, have been directed elsewhere. The 
 wiser man, you say, would have chosen better. The 
 woman who knew the world would have been critical 
 and indifferent. The prudent would have considered 
 circumstance. Well, folly there is and beyond com- 
 putation, in such matters; folly and recklessness and 
 wickedness. But there are men and women, and 
 innumerable multitudes of them, who meet and are 
 sure once for all by tokens that cannot be mistaken 
 that they have come at last to their own. Two, pre- 
 pared for one another. Two that belong together 
 as the sea belongs to the earth. Two for whom 
 there can be no peace but in union, no heaven that 
 will bring separation. 
 
 Abby, poor girl, could not on her way to meeting 
 sound the depths of these things; but as she came 
 with her companion to the meeting house enclosure 
 and thought of George and of her past life, she felt 
 as if all that life had been lived in shadow and in 
 dreariness. 
 
 The ragged grass, over-running the gravelled 
 driveway, was soft to the tread as Abby and Clayton 
 slowly passed the gateway and came into the meet- 
 ing-house yard. About the enclosure upon the two 
 sides whereby the turnpikes ran was a rough wall 
 of stone capped by wooden roofing, whilst upon 
 another side were carriage-sheds, ending at thfc fence
 
 48 The Quakeress. 
 
 that marked the line where the burial-ground began. 
 The old meeting-house, grey, drawn in straight lines, 
 without trace of ornament, stood in the midst of the 
 great yard, having narrow porches upheld by pil- 
 lars untouched by lathe or graving tool after the 
 saw had shaped them. Two score sycamore trees 
 reared their wide-girthed trunks from the sward 
 and far aloft waved their spotted branches in the 
 wind while their foliage covered the house and yard 
 with shade. 
 
 A few groups of men in the garb of Friends lin- 
 gered near the building for soft-spoken words, but 
 of those that drove into the yard the larger number 
 helped the women to alight and then, driving to the 
 shed and tying the horses, returned at once to seek 
 a place in the meeting-house. 
 
 Clayton observed that there were no equestrians 
 as he had been used to see them swarming about the 
 churches in Maryland on a Sunday morning. There 
 was no loud conversation, no frivolity in the dress or 
 demeanor of the young men. The boys and girls, 
 the young men and the maidens, were of sober coun- 
 tenance, of homely garb, of quiet behavior, like the 
 elders. Reverence was not at all a dominant quality 
 in Clayton, but the conduct of these people im- 
 pressed him. He thought of the Sunday morning 
 scenes about and in his father's church at home; the 
 planters who gathered before the service to talk of 
 crops and politics; the young men who prepared for 
 the sanctuary by discussing horse races and hops and 
 by flirting with the girls who stood about and passed 
 to and fro in bright attire. The way of the Friends
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 49 
 
 seemed even to him to be better. He knew he 
 should find in the meeting-house none of the prepa- 
 rations for tobacco-chewers that were in every pew 
 in the church at home; for nobody about him seemed 
 to be using tobacco. These plain, noiseless folk 
 manifestly had come together for worship; for wor- 
 ship without the help of gauds of music, of color, of 
 trappings of furniture; of things that are craved as 
 stimulants by the carnal mind. For them, if wor- 
 ship were to be, there must be the sheer unaided 
 uplift of the secret soul toward the Holy One who 
 seeth in secret and hearkens to the unspoken word. 
 
 Clayton did not think closely of these things, but 
 the place and the people made at once upon him an 
 impression of solemnity; but indeed if he had re- 
 flected, or if his own spirit had been devout, he might 
 have discerned in the serene blue of that cloudless 
 sky, in the glory of the sunshine that covered alt 
 the fields, in the sweet scent of the grass, the tender 
 softness of the air, and the blithe songs of the birds 
 in the sycamore trees, beauty enough to satisfy the 
 cravings of the eye that was hungriest for material 
 loveliness. 
 
 It was almost a wrong to enter the house of God 
 that bore the lowly shingled roof, whilst the greater 
 house of God canopied by the infinity of azure and 
 glorious with the sunshine lay outside the walls call- 
 ing to worship of Him who made it. 
 
 But Friends must act with Friends, and so Abby 
 and Clayton came to a door upon the porch of the 
 meeting-house, and Abby turned and said to him, 
 pointing:
 
 50 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Thee must enter by that door, at the other end." 
 
 "But, may I not go in and sit by you?" asked 
 Clayton in surprise and disappointment. 
 
 Abby smiled gently upon him and said: 
 
 "That is not the way of Friends. The women and 
 the men are separated. Thee cannot sit with me and 
 thy sister. I am sorry if thee is not pleased, but thee 
 must go in over there." 
 
 Then she turned and went through the doorway 
 with Dolly; and Clayton, looking after her, could see 
 her finding a place upon one of the benches. 
 
 Vexed at this practice of separation, which seemed 
 to him completely unreasonable, Clayton sought the 
 door to the men's side of the meeting resolved, if 
 he could, to occupy a place where he could look at 
 Abby during the hour of worship. 
 
 He found a seat from which he could see her plain- 
 ly, or could glance from her sweet face out through 
 the open doorway to the green yard and past the 
 high sycamores and the stone wall to the fields that 
 rolled in grassy undulations far away toward the 
 Connock hills. 
 
 He removed his hat as he sat down. Then, per- 
 ceiving that he alone had an uncovered head, he 
 doubted for a moment if he should replace his hat, 
 but habit was strong upon him and he felt that he 
 could not do that. He looked about him. Over 
 there upon the women's side was Abby. She did 
 not turn her head. He knew that she would not 
 look for him, or look about her at all. Next to the 
 north wall three benches were placed one behind 
 another, the second and the third a little higher than
 
 Plymouth Meeting. s* 
 
 the other. Upon these sat a dozen men, some of 
 them old, all of them venerable, and with them, he 
 observed, sat George Fotherly. All wore hats with 
 wide brims, all were dressed in grey or brown. All 
 looked straight before them, excepting that two had 
 shut their eyes, and one, of advanced years, had his 
 hands clasped over the top of his staff, like Jacob, 
 and his chin resting upon them. He, too, had shut 
 out the world behind closed eyelids. Close by this 
 group of elders, but separated by a partition opened 
 four feet from the ground, the matrons of Israel sat; 
 the women elders, some in deep bonnets, some in 
 bonnets that revealed the profile; and all in sober 
 garments, with silken kerchiefs folded over the breast. 
 Abby sat directly across the aisle from these honorable 
 women and when Clayton had looked at the men and 
 the women, at the bare white walls, at the climb- 
 ing blackness of the pipe that ran from the stove 
 to the chimney-hole near to the ceiling, at the un- 
 painted, severely plain benches, and at the glory of 
 the out-of-doors, he turned his eyes to Abby and he 
 kept them there. 
 
 There was perfect silence in the room. Through 
 the doorway the sunshine came and shadowed upon 
 the white floor the flickering of the leaves, and the 
 sound floated in of the rustling of the foliage upon 
 the sycamore. Or the stamping of an impatient 
 horse upon the earth of the carriage-shed was heard, 
 and the twittering of the birds among the branches 
 of the trees or upon the grass. One venturesome 
 sparrow hopped into the doorway and out again and 
 soon another darted in upon its wings and flew
 
 52 The Quakeress. 
 
 hither and thither in bewilderment; but none no- 
 ticed it excepting Clayton, until presently it found an 
 open window and plunged out again to seek its com- 
 panions. 
 
 A dog ran in from the highway and across the 
 green, stopping on the threshold of the meeting- 
 house, lifting a foreleg and looking about him as if 
 doubtful that his master was present, and then a 
 creaking wagon came along upon the road, and went 
 slowly by, its harsh sound magnified by the silence. 
 For a few minutes it disturbed the peace until it 
 turned the corner of the road, and the noise fell 
 away into softness behind the barrier of the carriage 
 sheds. 
 
 The meeting sat in quietness for a long time, and 
 Clayton, quite unused to such methods of worship 
 and hardly perceiving indeed that there was wor- 
 ship, began to wonder if anybody would do anything 
 to disturb the monotony; when suddenly he heard a 
 shrill voice from the benches of the elders, announc- 
 ing a text of Scripture. This utterance ended, an 
 old man of unalluring appearance slowly arose, re- 
 moved his hat and began to preach. At first Clayton 
 felt an inclination to laugh. The speaker had little 
 heed for the requirements of grammar; his voice was 
 grating, his method of speech a queer sniffling into- 
 nation, droning on through a sentence which finished 
 in a drop downward and a leap upward, like a 
 Gregorian chant. The matter of the sermon was not 
 very much better than the manner, and Clayton be- 
 gan to admire the vitality of the spiritual force that 
 could find sustenance in such food.
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 53 
 
 The speaker ended as suddenly as he had begun, 
 and silence again enveloped the meeting; until pres- 
 ently a man who looked like a worn-out farm hand 
 stood up and with closed eyes made a prayer that 
 thrilled even the soul of the young Southerner, who 
 had not been used to prayer. 
 
 This being ended, a woman arose and softly, for 
 three minutes, made a little sermon full of grace and 
 truth and not wanting in eloquence of feeling. 
 
 Then George Fotherly got upon his feet, and in 
 his deep voice said : "Who shall ascend into the hill 
 of the Lord or who shall stand in His holy place? 
 Even he that hath clean hands and a pure heart." 
 
 He spoke slowly, with clear articulation, in flowing 
 sentences, without gesture, but with intonation that 
 interpreted every shade of meaning. His eyes were 
 wide open, but one perceived that he saw no out- 
 ward thing; for the spirit that was used to look 
 through them was turned inward upon itself. It 
 hearkened to the message from the Divine sources 
 of which it had become the interpreter. The lips 
 unconsciously framed into words the promptings of 
 the Spirit, and so this burly farmer, with the rough- 
 ened face and the calloused hand, filled the homely 
 meeting-house with the splendor of his eloquence. 
 He would not have owned it as his eloquence. He 
 had no art, he had had no training in the schools. 
 But he had spiritual grace that found in his musical 
 voice, his strong, handsome countenance and his 
 readiness of utterance power of expression that is 
 rare even among the most gifted of the Friends. 
 
 Did the inspiration to choose that theme come to
 
 54 The Quakeress. 
 
 him because of the ride to the meeting-house with 
 the woman whose heart he discerned to be not wholly 
 pure? He could not have answered that question, 
 perhaps. But as he sat there waiting in the solitude 
 and silence of the meeting for the Light to shine 
 through the opened door of his soul, these words of 
 the Poet of Israel poured in upon him and seemed 
 to call to him to speak to the people of God and to 
 the world's people present of the purity that alone 
 can give passport into the Holy Place. 
 
 There is, he said, a Holy Place; the unclean can- 
 not walk there. To them the glory of the Lord 
 would be thick darkness. It is darkness here, for 
 what to the profane man is the light of God's pres- 
 ence in the soul? He cannot discern it. He scoffs 
 at it. Even here, if it be hallowed by the Divine pres- 
 ence, the soul is the ante-chamber of the celestial 
 palaces. It is then holy. When that presence is 
 shut out then there is black night. The pure in heart 
 shall have the vision of the Almighty because He is 
 pure nay, he is Purity itself, and like ever goes to 
 like, the clean to the clean, the unclean to the un- 
 clean. 
 
 The hands? They cannot sin. They are but dead 
 matter. They are tools for doing the work of God 
 or the tasks of Satan. The spiritual nature wields 
 them as its implements. No sin was ever done but 
 the soul did it. First and last and forever, the power 
 to choose between good and evil is there and there 
 alone. When the heart is pure the hands are clean. 
 There can be no separation. To clean the hands 
 alone, to make action and the duties of life right, is
 
 Plymoutk Meeting. ss 
 
 impossible. The soul must be filled full of God and 
 then all the members and all the life will be His. The 
 man to whom this has come, he and he only may as- 
 cend the hill of the Lord he has ascended it. But 
 the loftiest summit perhaps lies beyond. There is a 
 glory for the freed spirit that it hath not entered into 
 the heart of man to conceive. 
 
 In such fashion the Quaker farmer spoke with his 
 grey eyes open, but open only as if he were in a 
 trance. And all the people hearkened, some with 
 high exultation and some perhaps with shame and 
 mourning and with fear lest they might never scale 
 that height. 
 
 Clayton listened to the preacher at first with some 
 curiosity, then with indifference; and finally fixing 
 his eyes and his mind wholly upon Abby, George's 
 words passed over the young Southerner without 
 making an impression upon his consciousness. He 
 did not even hear them. 
 
 Dolly followed the preacher with some sharpness 
 of interest. At the end she could have given a full 
 outline of the discourse, but for her it had absolutely 
 no significance. To have ears and to hear not is to 
 baffle the mightiest gospeller. While she sat and 
 watched George and caught his words, her mind was 
 busy with the music of his voice, with the play of his 
 intellect, with the manly beauty of his countenance, 
 and with the large, powerful, finely proportioned bulk 
 of his body. Intellectual force and physical force, 
 and grace with force, were there; and on the woman's 
 side were acute sensibility to these qualities and ad- 
 miration for them that kindled and flamed while she
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 looked and listened. The lessons that the preacher 
 teaches usually miss those that need them most. 
 Spiritual things are spiritually discerned. You must 
 want to ascend into the hill of the Lord before you 
 can care to learn how to do it. 
 
 As for Abby, sitting over there on the woman's 
 side, with her hands meekly folded upon her lap ajid 
 her eyes downcast, she had been struggling to keep 
 her mind away from Clayton, until George's familiar 
 voice reached her and then she heard him with her 
 heart. Sometimes she felt as if he were soaring away 
 from her and speaking of things unknown, and some- 
 times, as she thought of his love for her, she had a 
 dim sense of guiltiness. To feel like a sinner seems 
 to be the sign and token of saintship. 
 
 There was silence again when George ended his 
 discourse, and presently the two oldest men in the 
 gallery reached out and clasped hands and the meet- 
 ing was ended. 
 
 Clayton darted quickly to the door whence Abby 
 came out, and, neglecting his sister, who was caught 
 in the crowd in the house, they strolled through the 
 gateway to the road and thus homeward. So George 
 found Dolly waiting for him and there was no escape 
 from taking her with him. While he went to the 
 shed for the horse, he found that his vexation was 
 strangely mingled with pleasure. He would rather 
 go without her and he would have done so with some 
 sort of stern satisfaction; but now that he must go 
 with her he was less than half sorry, and ashamed 
 within himself that he was not sorry altogether. 
 
 But she did not guess his feeling in one way or the
 
 Plymouth Meeting. 57 
 
 other, and again she began the pleasant talk as they 
 drove down the turnpike. "It was so nice a meet- 
 ing," she said, "and so solemn a method of worship," 
 and then she was bold enough to add : "And the ser- 
 mon was so good." To which George, half savagely, 
 replied: "Satan said so to the preacher when he 
 ended." 
 
 So she spoke no more of the meeting but of lighter 
 things, and George listened and liked the talk and felt 
 that the talker was charming. Thus they came again 
 to the summit of the road, where the wind blew in 
 strongly from the gap in the hills at Spring Mill, and 
 a gust of it threw off Dolly's hat and George caught 
 it as it came to him and held it for a moment while 
 she, arranging her hair, prepared to put it on again. 
 
 She offered him her hand when at the gate of the 
 parsonage she bade him good-bye and looked at him 
 strongly; and when he had driven across the river' 
 and up the hill-side to his farm, he led the horse to 
 the stable and put him away. Then climbing to his 
 bedroom, he flung himself upon a chair and, with 
 his hands clenched upon his face, prayed that he who 
 by the Spirit had preached for righteousness, might 
 by the power of that same Spirit be forgiven and be 
 delivered from the horrible power of unrighteousness. 
 
 "It was my first meeting," said Clayton, as he and 
 Abby strolled homeward. "It was decorous, but 
 don't you find it dull?" 
 
 "One has to be spiritually-minded to like it." 
 
 "I fear I am not,"
 
 58 The Quakeress. 
 
 "You must try," responded Abby. 
 
 "I will," he said, but he did not mean to. "How- 
 ever, I like it ever so much better than Uncle Pon- 
 der's services. You can sit still all the time, and 
 then the preacher didn't plead for the Jews." 
 
 "George is such a great preacher," said Abby 
 rather proudly. 
 
 "Do you say he made no preparation? That he 
 did not know what he should say before he came 
 there? Not a word or a thought?" 
 
 "I am sure he did not." 
 
 "Wonderful !" exclaimed Clayton, who was willing 
 to have Abby think him an attentive listener. "Won- 
 derful, too, that you could all worship while sitting 
 there in silence. I know I could not help thinking 
 of worldly things." 
 
 They stayed for a while at the hill-crest, looking 
 out on the one hand through the gap where the 
 river cleaves the hills as it runs southward, and on 
 the other hand across the wide sweep of the valley 
 where beyond the steeples of the distant county 
 town may be seen the faint blue of the Chester hills. 
 And then they came again down the street and to 
 Abby's home and she bade him farewell. 
 
 "I think the Friends are lovely," he said when he 
 parted from her; and she sought her chamber in a 
 glow of happiness to recall his face and the tones of 
 his voice again and again, and to think of every word 
 that he had said.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 At the Grey House. 
 
 ON Monday afternoon Clayton and Dolly visited 
 Abby and at her suggestion the three went to the 
 lawn at the back of the house to play croquet. Be- 
 fore they had finished the first game, George Foth- 
 erly came galloping up the street upon a stout bay 
 horse, making a fine figure. He halted by the Wool- 
 ford gate and dismounting went in to keep an ap- 
 pointment with Abby's father. Of late there had 
 been a money-trouble for Isaac, and George had come 
 to him a month or two before, as he had done more 
 than once in preceding years, to lend a helping hand. 
 
 Isaac Woolford, like his father and his grandfather, 
 was a manufacturer of iron. At Spring Mill, just a 
 mile down the river from Connock, he had a blast- 
 furnace wherein the ore and the limestone of the 
 neighborhood and the coal from the upper valley 
 were heaped and fused and melted. Isaac had some 
 skill in the business of smelting ore, but he was not 
 dexterous as a commercial man and he had involved 
 himself in difficulties. The panic of 1857 almost 
 ruined him, but he struggled valiantly to maintain 
 himself and had fairly succeeded in reaching moder- 
 ate prosperity, when the civil war flamed into exist- 
 ence. Other men, with clearer vision, found in the 
 outbreak, which sent prices of commodities of all 
 kinds flying upward, an opportunity that gave them 
 
 (59)
 
 60 The Quakeress. 
 
 riches. But it was Isaac's misfortune to have been 
 enticed into a contract to supply pig-iron for a year 
 to one of his customers at prices still depressed by 
 the influences of 1857; and now, with coal and lime- 
 stone and ore and labor becoming more and more 
 costly day after day, there seemed a fair prospect that 
 his losses of the panic-year would be surpassed by 
 those of a year of swift-rising values. He was de- 
 spondent and pressed for money. Always he had 
 found in George a sympathetic friend and helper, 
 and a man, moreover, who knew how to lend money 
 and to deal in money without finding his heart grow 
 hard. A rare man indeed ! 
 
 George, but a month or two before this visit to 
 Isaac, had bought from him, with indifference for 
 everything but Isaac's convenience, a tract of farm- 
 land of sixty acres on the Ridge Turnpike. It seems 
 to be in the nature of things that when a man does 
 not care if his bargain be good or bad it usually turns 
 out to be good to a remarkable degree; and so it hap- 
 pened that George had not owned the tract long be- 
 fore he discovered that much of it was underlaid by 
 rich deposits of the very ore and limestone that 
 Isaac needed for his furnace. Isaac was not the kind 
 of man to make complaint of his hard fortune in 
 losing this mass of wealth; nor indeed was George 
 Fotherly the kind of man to regard with pleasure 
 the profit that had thus come to him unexpectedly. 
 His religion was always in good working order for 
 dealing with worldly things ; and while he was a not- 
 able preacher, he could practice even better than he 
 could preach. Thus, in this particular case he felt
 
 At the Grey House. 61 
 
 an obligation of religion, but hardly less imperative, 
 an obligation of heredity, to stand fast by Isaac; for 
 if any Fotherly had ever done a thing that was not 
 clean and wholesome, there was no record of it or 
 memory of it in the county. 
 
 None of the Fotherleys had genius or even what 
 is called talent. None of them had ever written 
 books, or performed any large public service. None 
 had ever showed skill in science or in the fine arts. 
 The name did not appear often in the newspapers. 
 There had been in the family no great capitalists, no 
 daring adventurers, no organizers of huge industrial 
 enterprises. They were quiet people, busy with 
 their own modest concerns, thrifty but generous; 
 given to hospitality; full of kindly interest in the 
 troubles of their neighbors; always regarding the 
 spoken promise as the equivalent in value of the writ- 
 ten bond; always accepting spirit as well as letter 
 of their contracts; with no expressed animosities; 
 charitable in judgment when they judged at all; re- 
 strained of speech; better at listening than at relat- 
 ing; and with a habit of language which excluded 
 superlatives, expletives and slang; having the plain 
 Yea, Yea and Nay, Nay for its model. 
 
 But their shining quality was that uncommon thing 
 misnamed common sense. This was the guide for 
 their judgment, their words and their conduct, and 
 it was always at their command, in every emergency, 
 an instrument to point them the way to justice, to 
 peace, to business success and to the high esteem of 
 their fellow men. To possess that quality is a better 
 thing than to have all the powers of genius and the
 
 62 The Quakeress. 
 
 fame that rings around the world. The man who 
 has it comes close to the secret of true blessedness 
 in this troublesome world. 
 
 Isaac had been sitting upon his porch waiting for 
 George, and as he saw the big farmer come swiftly 
 up the street, both man and horse having the look of 
 prosperity, he manfully thrust down and out of his 
 soul the mean feeling of envy that arose in him. To 
 the half-crushed man who bears the growing burden 
 of a business that will not succeed, the unweighted 
 freedom of him who has been victorious in his af- 
 fairs seems to have an element of unfairness. To pay 
 when you can pay is so very easy that he who can 
 discharge all obligation with a check can rarely meas- 
 ure the misery, sometimes the despair, of the man 
 who cannot pay. 
 
 "I am glad to see thee, George," said Isaac, clasp- 
 ing George's hand. "Sit down." 
 
 There was clicking of the croquet balls, and laugh- 
 ter and pleasant talk upon the other side of the house 
 as the two men drew into the far corner of the porch ; 
 but George did not hear the sounds; his mind was 
 rilled with the matter of his errand. Isaac did not 
 know what it was; nor could he guess when George 
 wrote to him to ask him to be at home this afternoon. 
 
 He waited with some curiosity for the visitor to 
 tell the purpose of his visit. 
 
 George did not make haste. He spoke of the 
 crops, of the weather, even of the later war news, 
 striking the arm of his chair lightly with his open 
 hand meanwhile, and looking out upon the street 
 or up at the sky. At last he settled himself back in
 
 At tke Grey House. 6 3 
 
 his chair, folded his fingers and put his thumbs to- 
 gether, and then, half shyly, as if he found it some- 
 what difficult to open the subject, he said: 
 
 "Does thee know, Isaac, that we found ore and 
 limestone under the Ridge tract that I bought of 
 thee?" 
 
 "Thomas Shorter tells me thee did." 
 
 "The ore is rich, too, they say. I know nothing 
 about ore myself." 
 
 "It is good ore," answered Isaac. "Thee will give 
 me a price for it. I can use all thee can take out." 
 
 "Hah !" exclaimed George, removing his broad 
 hat and passing his hand across his white forehead. 
 "Thee would not care to buy back the tract from me, 
 would thee?" 
 
 Isaac smiled in a sad way and answered: 
 
 "Even if I were willing to take that advantage of 
 thee, I no longer have the money." He restrained 
 an impulse to say "Nor credit either." 
 
 "Thee does not think I knew the beds were there, 
 does thee, when I bought the tract?" 
 
 "Thee knows I have no such thought, George. 
 No; surely not." 
 
 "No suspicion of it was in my mind," said George. 
 "I did not covet the tract, Isaac; thee understood 
 that?" 
 
 "Fully. Thee took it for my convenience." 
 
 "Well, there is no favor, either, for I thought it 
 worth the money." 
 
 "And so it was." 
 
 "And more, much more," answered George. 
 
 "To him that hath shall be given," said Isaac, with
 
 64 The Quakeress. 
 
 the least flavor of bitterness in his mind, but not in 
 his tone. "But I have no thought to complain. Thee 
 is a just man, and thee has dealt most liberally with 
 me." 
 
 George seemed to be seeking for the best words 
 in which to express himself. 
 
 "But I am not a just man, Isaac, if I buy from 
 thee for a low price that which is worth a high price 
 if thee had known the truth. Suppose there had 
 been a gold mine upon the property?" 
 
 "The law would give it to thee, and I would ap- 
 prove the law and have no ill feeling at thy good for- 
 tune." 
 
 "Thee and I, Isaac, try to obey a higher and better 
 law. How would the Golden Rule work, does thee 
 suppose, in this case between thee and me." 
 
 Isaac laughed lightly and answered : 
 
 "That is a rule between two men. We are two 
 and I say to thee plainly now, if thee asks me to 
 appeal to the Rule, I would have thee keep the tract 
 and sell me the ore at a fair price." 
 
 "I won't do it !" answered George, sharply. 
 
 "Thee has some fantastic notion in thy head? I 
 cannot buy back the land from thee." 
 
 "Yes thee can." 
 
 "No; as I tell thee, I have spent the money; spent 
 it long ago." 
 
 George put his hand into the inside breast-pocket 
 of his coat and withdrew a package of papers. 
 
 "Thee can buy it and thee must. Here is a deed 
 transferring the tract to thee again and here is a 
 mortgage for the money I paid to thee. It will be a
 
 At the Grey House. 65 
 
 loan. Thee will owe it to me, and thee will save 
 enough on the value of the ore to pay the interest. 
 Will thee agree to this?" 
 
 Isaac's hand was over his face. For a moment he 
 could not speak. 
 
 "Yes, George," he then said. 
 
 "Very well ; then we will record the deed and thee 
 will sign the mortgage. No, No ! thee must not 
 thank me, Isaac. It would be infamous for me to 
 take thy property for almost nothing. Let us go into 
 the house and find pen and ink; and thee must cheer 
 up. my friend; God will not forsake thee so long as 
 thou art a just man." 
 
 The two entered the house, and the game upon 
 the lawn became merrier. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder, with knitting in her hands, sat upon 
 the side-porch of the parsonage watching the croquet 
 players beyond the fence, and after a while Dr. Pon- 
 der, returning from some pastoral calls, came 
 through the front gate and sat beside her. Mrs. 
 Ponder's mind was highly charged with the thought 
 that had occupied her while she sat alone. 
 
 "Clayton, birdie, seems to be quite enchanted by 
 Abby, and she, in her quiet way, appears by no 
 means indifferent to him. It would be a lovely match 
 and of such great advantage to Clayton on the one 
 hand and to Abby on the other." 
 
 Dr. Ponder addressed his mind to the subject, thus 
 for the first time presented to him. He clasped his 
 hands over the rotundity of his waistcoat, rotundity 
 out of all proportion to his salary of eight hundred 
 dollars, and meditated. He was a short, chubby man,
 
 66 The Quakeress. 
 
 with thick bushy grey hair and small dark eyes 
 which blinked and twinkled beneath his hat-rim while 
 his mind worked. 
 
 "It would steady Clayton and settle him, and it 
 might be the means of bringing Abby into the 
 Church," added Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "Clayton is not in it himself," responded the doc- 
 tor, not fully contented to have indirect agencies at 
 work to accomplish a feat that he aspired to do sin- 
 gle-handed. "And he went to meeting with her last 
 Sunday, in disrespect for me and for the church." 
 
 "It was novelty the novelty of Friends' methods 
 of worship and the charm of Abby's companionship." 
 
 "But, wife, how can Clayton's indifference, if not 
 clear unbelief, and Abby's Quakerism, put together, 
 work out into churchmanship ? I can't see it." 
 
 "Clayton's training and instincts are for the 
 Church. He lacks piety. Abby has piety, but no 
 training or instinct for the Church not yet, at any 
 rate. Love may fuse the two and make one good 
 churchman." 
 
 "If it would do any good to call them over here 
 and read to them that sermon of mine on the Repos- 
 itory of Faith, I might do it, or had I not better speak 
 to each of them separately?" 
 
 "No, birdie, let unassisted nature do her work un- 
 til the time is ripe for interference. He must win her 
 first, and really he seems to be carrying on a vigor- 
 ous campaign. I wish Dolly's had as bright an out- 
 look." 
 
 "Who have you in your mind for her?" 
 
 "If George Fotherly could fancy her, he would "
 
 At the Grey House. 67 
 
 "My dear! Impossible! She would have to join 
 the Quakers; and the conversion of Abby with the 
 perversion of Dolly would leave us just where we are. 
 After all our toil and prayers the thing would only 
 come out even." 
 
 "Possibly Dolly might swing George around." 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Dr. Ponder, almost angrily. 
 "That man is as set and determined in his unscriptu- 
 ral views as if he were George Fox himself. I gave 
 him up long ago to his strong delusions. Think of 
 a man who actually denies that there is any warrant 
 for my considering myself a priest and challenges me 
 to produce from the New Testament any authority 
 for it!" 
 
 "Did you produce it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "We needn't go into that now. It is enough for 
 me to say that there is actually an element of ab- 
 surdity in the notion that Dolly can bring that stub- 
 born man over, and even more in the idea that he 
 can make a Quaker of her. I wish she were a better 
 church-woman and would come to her own church 
 instead of wandering off to meeting as Clayton did." 
 
 "She went to hear George preach." 
 
 "That's it! Went to hear that unordained young 
 man promulgate error while her own uncle, set apart 
 for the sacred ministry, was preaching a sermon which, 
 if I do say it myself in the privacy of the conjugal re- 
 lation, had true unction and would have convinced 
 any fair mind that there is nothing but darkness out- 
 side the Apostolic succession. I still think it might
 
 68 The Quakeress. 
 
 perhaps be serviceable if I should read that sermon 
 at family worship to-night. The seed ought to be 
 sown. You might ask Abby to come in with us." 
 
 "It would be inopportune, birdie. Let us wait 
 If Abby is to come into the family I think we can 
 manage her, but as for George " 
 
 "George!" said Dr. Ponder impatiently. "There 
 is no hope for m'm." 
 
 "There he is now!" exclaimed Mrs. Ponder. 
 "With Mr. Woolford. Perhaps Dolly has some at- 
 traction for him, after all." 
 
 When the business had been done between 
 George and Isaac within the house, Isaac led his 
 guest through the back door of the hall to a little 
 porch which snuggled there in the shade. He had 
 not thought of the players upon the lawn, but had 
 considered only that he and George might escape 
 the afternoon warmth and glare of the front porch. 
 
 The players did not observe the two men as they 
 came out of the door, and while the game was con- 
 tinued with much glee, Isaac and George stood and 
 watched it. Presently Abby looked up, after strik- 
 ing a ball, and found George's big eyes fastened 
 upon her. They seemed to penetrate to her soul. 
 She spoke sweetly to him, but her cheek flushed and 
 she tried to cover her feeling by returning to the 
 game and pretending interest in it. Then Dolly 
 saw him and fluttered her hand toward him in a 
 light way and Clayton looked up and recognized the 
 presence of the man whom he knew only as a 
 preacher. 
 
 For a few moments longer the game went on.
 

 
 At the Grey House. 69 
 
 Isaac withdrew to the house upon an errand of some 
 kind and George sat upon a rustic seat to watch the 
 players. 
 
 He had not expected to find them here. Busy 
 with the thought of his transaction with Isaac, he 
 had hardly reflected that he might meet Abby; but 
 here he was in the presence of both Abby and Dolly, 
 and here was that youth who had taken from him 
 on First-day his accustomed companion in his jour- 
 ney to the meeting-house. He had no pang of jeal- 
 ousy. He did not fear. If peril for him had been 
 suggested by that companionship he would at that 
 moment have put the thought away as fool'ish. He 
 could not have believed it at all possible that this 
 worldly and apparently frivolous young man should 
 come between him and the steadfast Quaker girl, 
 of whose love for him he felt very sure. 
 
 No, it was not jealousy of Clayton that engaged 
 his mind while he sat there an onlooker of the play. 
 There was, rather, a confused sense of his pure deep 
 love for Abby and of the undeniable attractiveness 
 of the other woman. The feeling that flung him into 
 his chamber on the First-day morning to wrestle 
 with evil had become a kind of dim memory. It had 
 spent its force and here he was again face to face 
 with the very enticement from which he had wished 
 to separate himself upon the ride on First-day, and 
 which had then filled him with alarm. Just now, it 
 seemed less dreadful. The girl had grace; her laugh 
 was charming; her figure was graceful; her face was 
 full of innocent beauty; she had about her a sugges- 
 tion of fervor which made Abby appear cold.
 
 7 TKe Quakeress. 
 
 He had an impulse to rise and go away; but the 
 argument for remaining where he was had force. 
 Courtesy to Isaac, regard for Abby, consideration 
 for her guests, the gracelessness of an unexplained 
 retreat, all appealed to him to yield to that strong 
 temptation to stay that was supplied by contempla- 
 tion of Dolly's personality. He determined to lin- 
 ger for a while. 
 
 Then the game ended and Abby introduced him 
 to Clayton, and Dolly greeted him as if he were an 
 old friend. To breathe a while and for George's 
 sake, they laid down their mallets and Abby and 
 Clayton sat upon the edge of the porch whilst Dolly 
 took her seat upon the bench by George. 
 
 She began at once to urge him to join the game, 
 and when Abby and Clayton added their entreat)' 
 he stood up, half consenting as they gathered about 
 him. 
 
 "And you will be my partner, won't you?" de- 
 manded Dolly, taking hold of a button upon his coat, 
 as if to fasten herself upon him. 
 
 He agreed and they walked together to their 
 places, George feeling as if that First-day sermon 
 of his were away off somewhere in the half-forgotten 
 past. 
 
 "George is actually going to play with them," 
 said Mrs. Ponder, "and on Dolly's side." 
 
 Dr. Ponder looked and made up his mind that 
 Dolly should not go to bed that night without hear- 
 ing from him at least a part of his famous sermon on 
 the errors of the Quakers. 
 
 George played the game, not with the skill of
 
 At the Grey House. 71 
 
 practice, but with the certainty of a strong hand and 
 a clear-seeing eye. Dolly openly exulted in the accu- 
 racy of his strokes, and when he and she were out 
 of turn she stood by him and spoke to him with the 
 freedom of an old companion, so that George could 
 hardly help yielding to her tacit demand upon him 
 for reciprocal freedom and friendliness. Abby's man- 
 ner towards him had some small measure of re- 
 straint, for she was not artful enough to conceal her 
 feeling that a barrier had come between them. She 
 was half afraid when she considered in her soul how 
 vast a change had come upon her life within the past 
 few days. 
 
 When the game was over Mrs. Ponder summoned 
 Dolly and Abby to the parsonage and George and 
 Clayton, upon Isaac's invitation, came to sit with 
 him upon the little porch. 
 
 It was almost inevitable that, when Clayton spoke 
 of his Southern birth and of his home in the South, 
 the conversation should turn at last to the subject 
 of the war. 
 
 Clayton could hardly suppress an expression of 
 the insolent disdain with which some of the people 
 of that region, just at that time, were used to regard 
 the North. 
 
 "My people," he said, "do not believe the North 
 will really fight." 
 
 "They seem to be preparing in earnest to do so," 
 said Isaac. "Friends do not favor war, but thee may 
 perhaps deceive thyself about this matter." 
 
 "We are ready for it, in any case," said Clayton. 
 "The Southron is a born fighter. We are proud of 
 it."
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 "And is fighting the best thing?" inquired George 
 Fotherly. 
 
 "It is a good thing, or rather perhaps a necessary 
 thing, sometimes," answered Clayton. 
 
 "Is there nothing higher than to vanquish thine 
 enemy and to tear out his heart?" 
 
 "It is the manly way." 
 
 "I know of something better," said George. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "To vanquish thyself. To conquer thine own 
 spirit." 
 
 "It is the coward's refuge," said Clayton, almost 
 with contempt. 
 
 "I think not," responded George. "To fight 
 is sometimes the refuge of the worst cowards. 
 You cannot conquer a man's soul. Can thee prove 
 slavery right by killing me? or can thee con- 
 vince me that it is right by forcing me to fly from 
 thee?" 
 
 "No," said Clayton, "but where you think a cer- 
 tain policy is right and I think it wrong and neither 
 of us will yield, the appeal to force is necessary if 
 one policy or the other is to be put into operation. 
 You can't convince a thief by argument that hon- 
 esty is best, but you can lock him up where he can't 
 steal." 
 
 "Is not the way of the savage and the brute, just 
 the way thee praises? Fight it out and keep your 
 hand on the throat of the beaten man!" 
 
 "It is the method of the savage," replied Clayton, 
 "because no other method is possible. The instinct 
 of the race impels to it. Why shouldn't I hold you
 
 At the Grey House. 73 
 
 by the throat, when, if I let you go, you will throttle 
 me?" 
 
 "Has thee ever tried forgiveness?" 
 
 "No, and I never will try it where I have been 
 wronged." 
 
 "Well," said George, "thee will forgive me if I 
 say to thee plainly thee has yet much to learn. How 
 deeply has thee looked into spiritual things? Be- 
 lieve me, there are wonders there. If thee will con- 
 sider thee will find, I think, that the hater is the 
 chief victim of his own hate, and that the sweetness 
 of revenge is bitterness compared with the joy of 
 conquering thyself." 
 
 "Thy fondness for war has not led thee into the 
 rebel army," remarked Isaac. 
 
 Clayton's face flushed and his lips framed a hot an- 
 swer; but he remembered that this was Abby's 
 father, and perhaps no offence was meant. 
 
 "My State has not joined the Confederacy," he 
 said. "My allegiance is to her. If she goes, I will 
 go." 
 
 While he spoke, Abby came home again and Clay- 
 ton withdrew and went over to the parsonage. 
 George declared that he too must say farewell, and 
 Abby, half sorry for him, half ready still to persuade 
 him that all the old friendliness remained, walked 
 with him to the gate. He took her hand and said : 
 
 "Old friends are the best friends, Abby, aren't 
 they? Life would be dark to me but for thy friend- 
 ship." 
 
 Then she watched him mount his horse and wave 
 his hand at her and ride down the street, and the
 
 74 The Quakeress. 
 
 thought that filled all her soul found muttered ex- 
 pression as she said, turning to go into the house, 
 and carrying with her the image of the stalwart 
 horseman : 
 
 "But Clayton is beautiful!"
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 By the Great Spring. 
 
 AFTER supper Mrs. Ponder must go to a meeting 
 of women in the parish building and Dolly was per- 
 suaded to go with her. So Clayton, left alone upon 
 the porch with the daylight still far from done, fell 
 to thinking of Abby and wondering if he might ven- 
 ture again that day to visit the grey house. And 
 while he considered he saw the fair Quakeress come 
 from the front door upon her porch and sit in a 
 chair and smooth out her apron and begin gently 
 to rock to and fro. Father and mother were within, 
 or they might be absent, Clayton thought, but in 
 either case she was alone and he was alone, and to 
 be in her company was the strongest desire in his 
 soul at that moment. He had resolved to go to her, 
 when she arose, and after coming to the edge of the 
 porch and looking at the sky, went down the steps 
 and along the gravelled walk among the flower-beds. 
 Clayton called to her. She looked up and with smil- 
 ing face answered him. Then he asked if he might 
 come to her, and she said yes; so he leaped the fence 
 and walked with her in and out between the beds 
 and the grass, and then they came to the rustic 
 bench beneath the apple tree and sat upon it. 
 
 Over in the west the horizon still had flushes of 
 the glory of the sun that had gone down, but the 
 sky overhead was grey and cool and the shadows 
 
 (75)
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 were deepening in the corners behind the house 
 where the trees overhung. The wood-robin in the 
 great cherry tree was singing his final song before 
 he made ready for sleep, and here and there amid 
 the shrubs and even high among the foliage of the 
 trees the faint-flashing spark of the fire-flies told of 
 the coming of the darkness. 
 
 "It is the very sweetest time of a summer day, 
 isn't it?" said Abby. "The glare of the sun has 
 gone, and all the tints are softened, and the air is 
 cool and heavy with the odor of the flowers." 
 
 "Yes, but the freshness of morning is lovely and 
 the noon is glorious when there is not great heat, 
 and even the darkness has a charm if we are in the 
 mood to find it. We are the children of the earth 
 and the sky, and it is good to be out-of-doors with 
 our kinsfolk, the flowers and the shrubs and the 
 stars, and particularly good if we have pleasant com- 
 pany of our nearer human kin. One reason why 
 I like my own Southland is that life in the open air 
 is easier there. Winter touches us harshly some- 
 times, but where I live the yellow roses grow in 
 giant masses without fear of cold, and the plants 
 that perish here thrive mightily. You have never 
 been in the South, have you ?" 
 
 "No," answered Abby. 
 
 "But you must come and see it. I will have my 
 mother entreat you to come and visit my sister. 
 Our country is strangely different from this. There 
 are no hills. The land is almost flat, but there are 
 rich fields and thick woods and peach orchards and, 
 better than all, there are rivers and inlets tree-bor-
 
 By the Great Spring. 77 
 
 dered and beautiful to look at and filled with all 
 manner of life that is good for the hunger of man. 
 If you will come to us we will show you all the coun- 
 try and the bays and the streams and we will have 
 you know the people, the warmest hearted, bravest, 
 most generous, most chivalrous people in the world, 
 I do believe." 
 
 Abby laughed lightly at his enthusiasm and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "Everybody says that of the Southern people, and 
 I am sure I should be glad to know them." 
 
 "I don't mean," said Clayton, with a little pang 
 of repentance as he remembered he was speaking 
 to a Northern girl, "that our people have all the vir- 
 tues. I cannot be blind to the charm of many per- 
 sons whom I meet in the North, but I do not ex- 
 aggerate nor does my love for my own people mis- 
 lead me when I say that they have a warmth of feel- 
 ing that is not commonly manifested here, even 
 though it may exist. And believe me also that I find 
 very, very much, in this region at any rate, that 
 seems to me singularly excellent. You will think 
 me really sincere when I say that in my view the 
 Friends in many things come nearer to being right 
 than any people I know of." 
 
 "They are widely different from those that thee 
 has been used to," said Abby. "Some of their ways 
 might repel thee." 
 
 "I like the plainness of their dress. How com- 
 pletely unworthy of an intelligent being is the frip- 
 pery of elaborate costume! I think their speech 
 with that lovely thee and thou more than admirable.
 
 Tlie Quakeress. 
 
 Even their worship, which is much too highly spir- 
 itual for my poor reach, surely is best if a man can 
 attain to it. And the preaching ! Did you say 
 that Mr. Fotherly has no forethought when he 
 preaches?" 
 
 "He speaks when the inspiration comes to him 
 in the meeting, and if it does not come he remains 
 silent." 
 
 "Wonderful! That young man without preparation 
 or consideration and without training, actually 
 preaches far better sermons than Uncle Ponder with 
 all his learning and his work with his pen. Poor 
 Uncle Ponder! I am sure his people go to sleep. 
 Do Friends go to sleep in meeting?" 
 
 "I really do not know," said Abby, smiling. "They 
 sit with their eyes shut usually, but I think they 
 sleep very rarely, at any rate." 
 
 "And I like your meeting ever so much better 
 than our church at home. It is a little barn of a 
 building, as plain as your meeting-house. The peo- 
 ple come to it from all the country round, and stand 
 about beneath the trees, talking politics and business 
 sometimes until the service is half over. Then the 
 men come trooping up the narrow aisle, making a 
 great clatter, and sit in the pews chewing tobacco 
 and dozing while our minister drones along over a 
 tiresome manuscript. The one thing that impressed 
 me most strongly at your meeting was the reverence 
 of the people. I have not very much of it myself, 
 but surely it is a fitting thing for a place where God 
 is to be worshiped. When I go home I intend to 
 read all about George Fox and William Penn and 
 the other great Quakers."
 
 By the Great Spring. 79 
 
 While he spoke there was a sound in the street of 
 drum and fife and presently passed by the grey house 
 a company of young men who had been out in the 
 cool of the day drilling. It was a company just now 
 recruited for service in the Federal army. Clayton 
 watched it with a scornful smile upon his face. 
 
 "George Fox," he said, "would not have approved 
 of that, would he?" 
 
 "No," answered Abby. "Friends are opposed to 
 strife; and oh, Friend Harley! does it not seem a terri- 
 ble thing for men who ought to love and be kind to 
 one another to be trying to kill one another in- 
 stead?" 
 
 "It is not nice, certainly," he said, "but sometimes 
 it appears to be necessary." 
 
 "This awful war has given Friends much perplex- 
 ity. They cannot approve of fighting, and yet they 
 cannot approve of slavery, (forgive me, will thee, for 
 saying that?) and they do not wish the Union to be 
 broken in pieces. Their part must be to pray for 
 peace and to minister to the sufferers of both sides." 
 
 Clayton was conscious that it would be no easy 
 task to commend himself to this Quaker girl while 
 standing fast for the cause of the South, but he said : 
 
 "Pardon me, Miss Woolford, but you do not have 
 the notion that the South is fighting for the preser- 
 vation of slavery, do you?" 
 
 "That is what everybody says: that the Southern 
 people are afraid the negroes will be made free and 
 that they have taken up arms to prevent it." 
 
 "It is not so !" said Clayton. "Will you permit me 
 to put the case fairly for you? The State of Mary-
 
 8 The Quakeress. 
 
 land, wherein I live, is a sovereign State. It is a 
 complete political unit, capable of directing its own 
 affairs, of protecting its people, of conducting its 
 own business. When the Union was formed, Mary- 
 land joined with the other States in arranging a cen- 
 tral general government, and it surrendered to that 
 government, for convenience-sake, a few of its own 
 powers. Maryland remained, just what it was be- 
 fore, a solid, immovable political unit, with sole 
 power to manage its affairs, with complete mastery 
 over its own policy, and with positive right to deter- 
 mine if it would or would not take back the powers 
 it surrendered, or rather lent, to the central govern- 
 ment. Maryland never promised not to demand 
 them again; she did not consent to part with them 
 irretrievably; she still had her sovereignty and all 
 that belongs to sovereignty. Now, if the central 
 government, overstepping the authority given to it 
 by the States that created it, presumes to meddle 
 with the affairs of a sovereign State and to restrict 
 the action of the State in a manner to which the 
 State never consented, then the State has a clear 
 right to repent of its agreement with the central 
 government, to take back what it gave, to withdraw 
 from the Union and to resume its original condition 
 of independence. Maryland has not yet done this, 
 but other Southern States have." 
 
 Poor Abby was not learned in these political mat- 
 ters; she had heard the Northern argument many a 
 time, but the Southern view was new to her; and 
 this advocate of the Southern cause was so persua- 
 sive.
 
 By the Great Spring. 81 
 
 "But has slavery nothing to do with the quarrel?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "This much to do with it," answered Clayton. "If 
 I hold a negro as my property under the laws of my 
 sovereign State, I claim the right to take my prop- 
 erty where I will and I deny the right of the central 
 government or of any other government to set the 
 negro free, or to forbid me to go to this place or that 
 with him, or to permit any man or body of men to 
 harass me because I have such property. As for 
 slavery itself, that is quite another matter. I know 
 you do not approve of it and perhaps that you think 
 hardly of me because I speak for the cause of the 
 slave-holders. I tell you plainly that I do not like 
 it. The South is most unfortunate in being bur- 
 dened with it. I know yff should be far better off 
 if the blacks were sent/wck to Africa or swept into 
 
 4 I 
 
 the sea. But we dja .-jiot bring the blacks to our 
 country; we did not gtnslave them; we cannot return 
 them to Afjica 0r i^irust them into the ocean; we 
 cannot free them without peril to us and to them. 
 The negro is h^e; slavery is here; we must accept 
 the fact as it standfT As it does stand our rights are 
 absolutj aF thf^central government and the free 
 States fiavp no/more right to meddle with it than 
 I have to Interfere in your father's household. This 
 horrible war/thus begun, is a war of aggression, of 
 usurpation./ We will fi^jit^it to the death. Your 
 people do tot kn<p$fi\y pepple. The Southerner is 
 a horseman, "a man used o arms from his youth; a 
 man of high courage, a/dent, daring, a soldier by 
 nature. Even if theiNomih shall really fight, the war
 
 82 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 will be short; the South is sure to win. Imagine a 
 band of Southern gentlemen opposed to such a body 
 as that which just now went down the street." 
 Clayton laughed scornfully, but plainly Abby was 
 not pleased at such comparison, so he said further: 
 
 "Of course what I mean is that skill must win the 
 victory. How can a group of raw young men, many 
 of whom never handled a firearm, stand before a 
 body of highly-trained soldiers?" 
 
 "Thy State has not seceded from the Union," said 
 Abby with the thought in her heart that she should 
 be sorry to have this man become a soldier. 
 
 "Not yet, and perhaps force may be used to com- 
 pel her to stay in the Union; but they cannot prevent 
 that her sons should cast in their lot with their brethren 
 of the South." 
 
 Abby remained silent for a moment while the 
 question in her heart trembled on her lips : 
 
 "But thee will not go, will thee?" she asked. 
 
 "I have always intended to go," he answered, 
 "but now " He hesitated to complete the sen- 
 tence. He could not dare to speak his mind upon 
 the subject. Now indeed a new person and a new 
 thing had come into his life, and all his plans were 
 overturned, all his thoughts were changed, all his 
 purposes ran in a new direction. The cause of the 
 South called less clamorously to him, for the strong- 
 est passion that comes to the -soul of man called him 
 to the North. So then, after a moment's pause for 
 swift thought, he said : 
 
 "But now perhaps I may find that my duty lies 
 along the ways of peace."
 
 By the Great Spring. 
 
 He looked at her as he spoke, and it seemed to 
 her that she saw in his eyes the thought he could 
 not venture to utter, and then his own eyes were 
 turned to the ground. 
 
 When the darkness began to fall about them and 
 the moment was near when they must go to the 
 house where others would be with them, Clayton's 
 mind was fixed that he would arrange to spend at 
 least a portion of the morrow with Abby. His stay 
 in Connock would be brief, and he felt that he cared 
 for nothing so much as for the companionship of 
 this Quaker girl. He talked with her therefore of 
 walks that might be taken, and when Abby sug- 
 gested that the North lane was beautiful and that 
 at its end lay her father's furnace and a lovely stretch 
 of the river, both worth seeing, it was agreed that 
 Abby and Dolly and Clayton should go thither in 
 the morning. 
 
 "In the afternoon," Abby said, "thy aunt has 
 asked me to drive with thee and thy sister to 
 George's farm. She will ask him to let them have the 
 picnic for the Sunday School in his woods." 
 
 Thus when Clayton parted from Abby there was 
 for both of them the assurance that for still another 
 day they were to be together. 
 
 In the morning Dolly was half reluctant to go 
 down the North lane. 
 
 "Why didn't we send for Mr. Fotherly to join us ?" 
 she asked, with clear perception that Clayton would 
 much rather have Abby to himself. But George had 
 not been asked, and Abby protested her unwilling- 
 ness to go without Dolly, and so at last the three 
 strolled up the main street and then out the turn-
 
 84 The Quakeress. 
 
 pike-road that began at the top of the hill. The sky 
 was overcast, but the air was clear enough to permit 
 the eye to reach the farthest limit of the landscape. 
 Half a mile or more from the town the young women 
 and their companion under Abby's guidance turned 
 into a hedge-rimmed lane with here and there a great 
 tree reaching its branches across the drive-way. 
 The hedges were so high and the lane so crooked 
 that the pedestrian could see nothing but the foliage 
 about him and the grey sky overhead. But pres- 
 ently the party came to the end of a turn in the 
 road where the descent towards the river began. 
 
 "Look!" exclaimed Abby, pointing downward. 
 
 The lovely neighborhood of Connock has no 
 scene finer than that which lay below them. The 
 river, flowing for a time upon a line at right angles 
 with this North lane, suddenly turns at Spring Mill, 
 and runs as if it were a direct continuation of the 
 lane. The hills on either side have their greatest 
 height where the turn is made and looking far to 
 the southward through the gap the stream resem- 
 bles a narrow lake stretching away until it loses it- 
 self in the misty distance. Down amid the gleaming 
 of the water a green island lies low, covered with 
 trees and giving to the view the last touch that 
 brings it to the level of perfect beauty. 
 
 "Many a famous landscape in Europe is not so 
 beautiful," said Dolly, "and to think that nobody 
 ever heard of this one before." 
 
 "But it is famous hereabouts," said Abby, smiling. 
 "We do not let the world hear us boast of it." 
 
 "I have seen Loch Katrine," said Clayton, "and 
 it is not more charming."
 
 By the Great Spring. 85 
 
 "But it has been well advertised," added Dolly. 
 
 "The Scottish hills are not wooded," continued 
 Clayton, "and that makes them inferior to these glo- 
 rious hills ; and the river, in which the hills are mir- 
 rored, is as lovely as Katrine ever was !" 
 
 The decline of the road became more steep, as the 
 pedestrians came nearer to the river. But before 
 reaching the stream Abby turned to the left and led 
 her companions over a bridge that lay athwart a 
 swift-running brook of transparent water. Then 
 their way was across a meadow covered by rank 
 grass to a grove whereby a great pool swelled be- 
 tween its banks of sod, and fed the rivulet with its 
 overflow. 
 
 They came near and looked into the almost circu- 
 lar basin. The shadowed water had no secrets. The 
 sandy bottom could be seen plainly, and from it in 
 a score of places the water oozed and bubbled con- 
 tinuously. It is a mighty spring, fed from the hid- 
 den channels of the limestone hills all about it and 
 gushing forth its waters in undiminished volume 
 even when drought lies long upon the land. 
 
 The clustering willow trees, the clear pool, the 
 grassy hollows of the grove, make it a place of rest 
 and peace. Nearby a band of gypsies had come with 
 sure knowledge of the fitness of the place for them, 
 and Dolly was filled with curiosity to see them. 
 Abby had timidity, but Clayton was brave and Dolly 
 was positive, and so they walked across the meadow 
 to the edge of the camp. 
 
 There were queer wagons and many horses and 
 gaudy coloring upon the women's dresses and the
 
 86 The Quakeress. 
 
 tent equipage; and upon the ground were cooking 
 utensils and other articles of convenience. 
 
 "Their preference," said Clayton, when he had 
 looked at them for a moment, "apparently is to be 
 near to water, but not too near." 
 
 "Not caring for godliness," said Dolly, "I sup- 
 pose they are careless also about its next door neigh- 
 bor." 
 
 "I am sorry for them that they should live so for- 
 lornly," was the comment made by Abby. 
 
 The vagrants were not indifferent to the presence 
 of their visitors. The men who lounged by the 
 fires looked sharply at the young women and spoke 
 among themselves in low tones. Then an old woman 
 came forward and greeted them; an offensive per- 
 son in her visage, her dress and her general dishev- 
 elment. 
 
 Clayton was inclined to banter her, but she did 
 not heed his words. Whatever the measure of her 
 degradation she could not be made ridiculous. 
 
 "Let me tell the fortunes of the ladies and the 
 gentleman," she said. 
 
 "No, no," whispered Abby to Dolly, "do not have 
 her do that." 
 
 But Dolly would have it. "Oh, yes," she said, 
 "let her do it. It will be good fun. Of course it is 
 all nonsense. Shan't we try it, Clayt?" 
 
 "If you wish. The investment will be small, and 
 the enlargement of our stock of information smaller." 
 
 "I will tell you truly," the woman said. "You do 
 not guess my power." 
 
 "I do not like such things," said Abby softly, to
 
 By the Great Spring. 
 
 Dolly. She had a feeling of dread as she looked at 
 the woman's hard, almost malignant, face. 
 
 "Pooh, my dear!" responded Dolly. "It is folly, 
 of course, but there can be no harm. I am greatly 
 interested. She is the first gypsy woman I have 
 seen." 
 
 "I will take the gentleman first," said the woman, 
 possibly with a purpose to put the transaction upon 
 a perfectly safe financial basis at the beginning. She 
 took Clayton's hand and looked at it. Then she 
 stooped and dipping some water from the brook, 
 poured it into the hollow of his palm. 
 
 "Look there," she said. "Do you see anything?" 
 
 "Nothing but water," he answered, when he had 
 glanced at it. 
 
 The woman looked again and then moving so 
 that she would stand between him and his compan- 
 ions, she whispered : 
 
 "But I see something. I see you lying dead upon 
 the ground with your face white and a great hole 
 torn in your breast." 
 
 There was that in the woman's manner which 
 gave to Clayton a little shock of pain. He turned 
 his hand and wiped it upon his handkerchief and 
 laughed as if he would appear indifferent. He would 
 have preferred to end the performance, but the 
 woman had taken Abby's hand, and Abby shuddered 
 a little at the touch. Then the sybil poured water 
 in the open palm as she had done with Clayton, and 
 looked long. 
 
 "What do you see?" demanded Dolly. 
 
 The woman did not heed the question. Leaning 
 over, she said, so that Abby alone could hear:
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "You will die, my poor dear, with a broken heart." 
 
 Abby was ashamed to care, but she could hardly 
 restrain her tears. She could not believe that this 
 vagabond woman should know the future, but some-- 
 how the words thus spoken found a strange re- 
 sponse in her own mind. 
 
 "Let us go," she said, turning away and walking 
 for a pace or two. 
 
 "Not until I have my turn," said Dolly. "What 
 did she say to you two? I shall insist upon know- 
 ing; and I must know my fate also. Here," she 
 said, holding her open hand toward the woman. 
 
 The gypsy gazed upon her palm and put water 
 there, and looked long, and then she went to Clay- 
 ton and thrust at him the money he had given her. 
 He would not take it. 
 
 "What is my fortune?" demanded Dolly. 
 
 The woman took the silver coin and whirled it 
 into the air. It fell into the depth of the spring and 
 lay there gleaming white. 
 
 "I will not tell you!" she said to Dolly and then 
 she strode away to the camp and was lost amid the 
 wagons. 
 
 Dolly was vexed and Clayton felt angry with him- 
 self that he should be depressed by the woman's 
 prophecy, but Abby turned and walked toward the 
 river as if she wished to separate herself from the 
 scene. 
 
 "You will not tell me what the wretched creature 
 said to you, Clayt?" asked Dolly. 
 
 "Nothing but nonsense," he answered. "It is not 
 worth repeating; and Miss Woolford has been dis-
 
 By the Great Spring. 89 
 
 pleased by it. I am sorry we encountered the wo- 
 man. Let us speak no more of the matter. But 
 I will tell you after a while what she said to me, that 
 is if I can remember it." 
 
 While Clayton spoke lightly of the scene that had 
 passed and Dolly began some cheerful talk, they 
 came to the little bridge and when they had passed 
 over Clayton with a laugh exclaimed : 
 
 "Now we are safe! You know you can always 
 break a witch's spell by crossing running water. 
 Good Quakers and good church people ought to let 
 Satan's friends alone. We shall tell Uncle Ponder 
 ard he will give us a powerful sermon with the 
 Witch of Endor for a text." 
 
 But somehow Abby could not find herself in har- 
 mony with this jesting spirit, and so in silence she 
 led her friends around and across the mill-race to 
 the ground, covered by crushed cinder, whereon the 
 great furnace stood. 
 
 In the office Abby met her father, busy with his 
 accounts and having worry written upon his face. 
 He was gracious to his visitors, but too much en- 
 gaged to give them attention, so he called a work- 
 man and told him to show them what was worth 
 seeing. 
 
 To Dolly all of it was worth seeing; the heaps of 
 ore and coal and limestone carried to the top of the 
 furnace and hurled into the flaming pit below; the 
 grimy men who toiled above, where the burning gas 
 jetted from the open door; the soughing of the 
 blowers that with their hot breath fanned the burn- 
 ing mass within the stack; and then the scene in the
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 casting room where the fluid iron poured forth and 
 ran along the channels to the moulds, filling the 
 chamber with furious heat and ill-smelling vapor. 
 
 The two girls and Clayton were glad to come 
 again into the open air where they could look up at 
 the mighty stack above them and watch in the low- 
 roofed house the swift movements of the great en- 
 gine. 
 
 "It sounds like the panting of some colossal 
 beast," said Dolly, as the blowers slowly forced the 
 air into the stack. "Sigh after sigh, sigh after sigh, 
 as if the monster were in dreadful pain. I have 
 heard it every night since I came here and knew not 
 what it was. I should become melancholy if I heard 
 it always. It makes me think of hell." 
 
 "Thee would become used to it," said Abby. "I 
 never hear it any more. And then," she added, 
 lightly, "I could not think it mournful. It means 
 bread and butter for us." 
 
 "And it means more than that," said Clayton, 
 gravely. "It means strength for the North in the 
 war that has begun. If the South shall be beaten it 
 will be by these great industries that it has neglected 
 while the North has multiplied them." 
 
 "Our poor furnace," answered Abby, "is for peace 
 and blessing. It makes iron for useful industry. I 
 pray that none of it may become shot and shell to 
 slay our brethren." 
 
 Then they turned and walked homeward, part of 
 the way by the brink of the river; and while Clayton 
 could not help thinking of the gypsy woman's evil 
 words and of the possibility that iron from that very
 
 By the Great Spring. 91 
 
 furnace might, strangely, help to the fulfilment of 
 her prophecy, Abby found her mind lingering over 
 the words spoken to her. 
 
 When she parted from her friends and shut her 
 chamber-door upon them and her mother, she could 
 not be rid of foreboding. A week ago the thought 
 that her heart would break was far from her; but 
 now? She remembered the sad, anxious face of her 
 father and his business troubles; she considered the 
 terrible war that menaced her country; she reflected 
 that this man who had suddenly transformed her life 
 might not care for her; or if he should care for her, 
 tLat she could have him for her own only at the 
 cost of separating herself from the Friends she loved 
 so much. And George ! If her heart was to be sor- 
 row-smitten until it should break, what would be his 
 doom, the man who had always loved her and she 
 knew would endure anguish if she were lost to him? 
 She was filled with pain as she thought of him; but 
 when she looked deeply in her soul she saw there 
 with perfect clearness something mightier than the 
 fear that enshrouded her; and she felt sure finally 
 that love was her master and that she should hold 
 fast to it and be faithful to it though all the rest of 
 her life should become hopeless, black disaster. 
 
 She spent the afternoon in her room and in help- 
 ing her mother with the house-duties. After tea 
 Dolly and Clayton came again to propose a game of 
 croquet, and while the young people played, Dr. 
 and Mrs. Ponder sat upon their porch. The doctor 
 was glad to have an opportunity to speak alone with 
 his wife.
 
 '92 The Quakeress. 
 
 The land was full of the sounds of war and of the 
 movements of armies, and Dr. Ponder had had a 
 summons to play a part in the military operations. 
 
 "My dear," he said as soon as they were seated, 
 "something strange has happened to me. I have 
 been offered the chaplaincy of Colonel Boulter's 
 regiment which is now organizing at Wyncote." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder had a little shock of surprise and 
 alarm. 
 
 "But you haven't accepted it?" 
 
 "No; the offer was made to me only this after- 
 noon. We shall have plenty of time to consider it, 
 The salary is fifteen hundred dollars." 
 
 "I don't care for that," said Mrs. Ponder. "I 
 think of the danger for you." 
 
 "Nor do I care much for it, although I do not 
 despise the money. As for the danger, it must be 
 hardly worth considering. You will believe me, 
 wife, I wish to be guided solely by perception of 
 duty. Can I be of more service to my Master there 
 than here?" 
 
 Believe you, birdie ! You never think of yourself 
 at all. It would be terrible for me to let you go, but 
 I am willing to make the sacrifice if your country 
 needs you. Do chaplains wear uniforms?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You would be beautiful in a uniform. I should 
 be proud to see you in it. But you are almost too 
 stout I should think for marching." 
 
 "As a staff officer the chaplain I believe rides a 
 horse." 
 
 "But we have no horse."
 
 By the Great Spring. 93 
 
 Dr. Ponder laughed and said, "No doubt the gov- 
 ernment or patriotic citizens or somebody supplies 
 a good horse; but really, wife, I am rather afraid I 
 can't ride very well." 
 
 "I am sure you can with a little practice." 
 
 "Are you willing that I should take the place? or 
 would it be better, do you think, for me to not take 
 it? I have no plans. I feel an impulse to go, but 
 that may be because of the novelty of the experience 
 or because the whole country is filled with enthu- 
 siasm about the army. Let us talk it over calmly." 
 
 "You would have no vestrymen or accounting 
 wardens to bother with. That is one good thing 
 about it," said Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "I do not care so much for that. I cannot reason- 
 ably complain very much of my vestry. One of my 
 doubts is if I can preach effectively to rough and 
 heedless soldiers." 
 
 "Nobody can do it any better." 
 
 "Do you think they would care very much about 
 the Captivity and the Lost Tribes?" 
 
 "I should certainly think so. Soldiers are rea- 
 sonable beings. Then you can preach about Joshua 
 and David and Gideon and all the other fighters. 
 The story of David and Goliath could be made very 
 interesting and profitable to them, I am sure." 
 
 "Cornelius the Centurion was a soldier, too." 
 
 "Yes, and Sennacherib." 
 
 "But he was on the wrong side, you remember!" 
 
 "I know, but you could use him as a warning. He 
 is a verv striking example, it seems to me." 
 
 "Of what?"
 
 94 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Well, of several things; just an example." 
 
 "I suppose I could hardly go into Erastianism 
 with the soldiers." 
 
 "I don't see why not. No doubt many of them 
 are far from being rooted and grounded in the truth. 
 But, birdie, I think you ought to have command 
 of something. A rector and a member of the sacred 
 ministry is entitled to exercise positive authority. 
 Do chaplains say to this man go and he goeth; and 
 to another man do this and he doeth it?" 
 
 "They exercise only religious authority and that 
 is enough for me and for my sacred office." 
 
 "But I remember Muhlenberg in the Revolution, 
 how he preached a patriotic sermon and then threw 
 off his gown, showing his uniform underneath and 
 dashing from the pulpit led his congregation into 
 the fray." 
 
 "It was grand!" replied the doctor, "but a thing 
 of that kind is much too dramatic for me and be- 
 sides very few in my congregation want to enter 
 the service. In fact, my talents are not military, 
 though I hope I am a good fighter against Satan." 
 
 "You are one of his most formidable opponents. 
 Have you spoken to any member of the vestry about 
 it?" 
 
 "To Mr. Togg only; and he said very emphatically 
 'Go !' But I fear my dear he \yould not be sorry to 
 be rid of me. He said I would make a splendid fight- 
 ing parson." 
 
 "I can't bear that man! Why doesn't he go him- 
 self, if he is so anxious to have people go? If you 
 go he will have a younger man called in your place 
 and you will never be received here again."
 
 By the Great Spring. 95 
 
 "That is a point of the first importance. If I enter 
 the army I must leave you alone; then, when the 
 war is over, I may have much trouble to get another 
 parish ; and besides, I am half afraid I am too old for 
 military service. Under the best circumstances it 
 must be hard. How would it do to compromise by 
 accepting the position of honorary chaplain to the 
 Connock Home Guard that drills down on the river- 
 meadow every night? I could have experience in 
 that way, and learn if the work suited me." 
 
 "But it would be hardly worth while to preach to 
 them about Gideon and Sennacherib. They will 
 never be in a battle." 
 
 "Not unless the rebels invade Connock. But may 
 be if I were chaplain I could get them to come to 
 church on Sundays. Not one of them comes now." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder could see no objection to the accept- 
 ance of the chaplaincy of the Home Guard, and 
 although the chaplaincy in Col. Boulter's regiment 
 had in it some elements of attractiveness, she con- 
 cluded that she could hardly bear to have the doctor 
 give up his present charge, and move her from her 
 home and face the perils of the field of war. 
 
 "Very well, then." said Dr. Ponder, "we will put 
 the matter by, for the present, at any rate. But, 
 wife, sometimes I fear my people here are becoming 
 tired of me. That would be an awful thing, wouldn't 
 it? I notice an air of weariness occasionally in the 
 congregation. Alfred Togg yawned occasionally 
 during the sermon last Sunday, and Mr. Duckett fre- 
 quently sleeps." 
 
 "Little vessels are soon filled," answered Mrs. 
 Ponder.
 
 96 The Quakeress. 
 
 The doctor remained silent for a few moments, 
 and then he said : 
 
 "What will happen to us, wife, when I am turned 
 out and left helpless, as numbers of my brethren 
 have been? I cannot dig and to beg I am ashamed. 
 Many of them have children to care for them, but 
 we" 
 
 Dr. Ponder's voice quavered and broke. Mrs. 
 Ponder moved her chair over by his side and took 
 his hand in hers. She had had her own misgivings 
 about the future, but she said cheerily: 
 
 " 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' That 
 is the promise, birdie; the promise to us, and we have 
 no right to fear as we look to the future." 
 
 "And he is faithful that promised," said the doc- 
 tor. "He has always blessed us and he will bless us 
 still. Perhaps he will call me to himself before I 
 shall be cast out and then there will be peace. If 
 you could go with me I should be glad to have the 
 summons come." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder leaned over and kissed him. 
 
 "God will permit us to go together, I am sure. 
 You would not be happy in Heaven without me." 
 
 "No," he said; "no; I cannot conceive of happiness 
 even there without you; and if we cannot go to- 
 gether, one of us will wait for the other. Do you 
 think there will be any tears there, dearest?" 
 
 "The Bible says there will be none." 
 
 "It says that God shall wipe away all tears and so 
 there must be some at the beginning. If you were 
 there and I had waited long to join you, I should 
 have to cry a little just for joy when I first met you 
 again. Then there would be no more."
 
 By the Great Spring. 97 
 
 When love is the theme, young lovers are the 
 favorites for its embodiment and illustration; but the 
 lovers long married and not far from translation to 
 that place where everything is love are not unworthy 
 of a share of sympathy.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 DR. PONDER'S custom had been to take his Sunday 
 School upon a picnic on every Fourth of July, and 
 when in 1861 the first of the four dreadful battle- 
 summers of the civil war began, the doctor was more 
 resolute than ever that the little lambs of his fold 
 should celebrate with joyousness and patriotic fer- 
 vor the anniversary of the birthday of American lib- 
 erty. Upon Mrs. Ponder devolved the duty of mak- 
 ing preparations for the festivity, and when she had 
 considered where a fitting place for it might be 
 found, she resolved to ask the Quaker, George Foth- 
 erly, if his woods might not be used to give pleasure 
 to the children of the Church. 
 
 "I want you and Abby and Clayton to drive over 
 there with me, Dolly dear," she said to her niece. 
 "It is a delightful drive, and George's place is charm- 
 ing." 
 
 "I shall be glad to go," said Dolly. 
 
 "But first," said Mrs. Ponder, "I must ask Mrs. 
 Woolford to let me have their horses and two- 
 seated carriage, and Clayton can drive. It is really 
 too bad, my dear, isn't it, that we have to depend 
 upon the kindness of our neighbors for a convey- 
 ance? In uncle's first parish the vestry supplied him 
 with a horse and carriage so that he could visit his 
 flock in the outlying districts. To be sure, the horse 
 
 (98)
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 99 
 
 was not showy. In fact he was in a degree decrepid, 
 and Senator Wigger vulgarly alluded to him in un- 
 cle's presence as a 'glandered ruin;' but the horse 
 did move, if with difficulty, and the carriage, though 
 forlorn, had wheels that would actually go around; 
 but in uncle's present parish he must walk, or hire 
 or borrow from his friends." 
 
 "Clayton will hire a horse and carriage, auntie, 
 I am sure," said Dolly, "rather than have you feel 
 badly about borrowing. In fact, I should much 
 rather have him do so." 
 
 "No, my love," answered Mrs. Ponder, "we will 
 borrow so as to make a kind of protest against the 
 theory of the Quakers that we have 'a hireling min- 
 istry,' who enrich themselves at the expense of their 
 flocks. Your uncle, with his fine powers, would 
 have been a millionaire, I am sure, if he had taken 
 up the law or almost any other secular employment. 
 His life is a perpetual sacrifice. The laborer is indeed 
 worthy of his hire, and this particular kind of laborer 
 is worthy of much more hire than he gets. We em- 
 phasize this fact to the Quakers every time we bor- 
 row their horses." 
 
 Mrs. Woolford was willing to lend her carriage, 
 and so, at four o'clock in the afternoon, Clayton 
 with Mrs. Ponder and the two girls drove across the 
 river bridge and then, turning to the left, entered 
 the deep shadows of the Aramink gorge that winds 
 in and out among the hills until it ends upon the 
 high plateau of the summit. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder's mind as she rode along was upon 
 the coming picnic.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "I am almost sure Mr. Fotherly will let us use his 
 woods," she said. "He is a kind man and should be 
 glad to give happiness to little children. It is hap- 
 piness. I suppose, but sometimes I am not perfectly 
 satisfied about Sunday School picnics. The early 
 church never had any, and the Fourth of July is not 
 in the Church calendar; and, at any rate, it seems 
 really queer to mix up religion and patriotism and 
 lemonade and sandwiches in the children's minds 
 and stomachs. Is it any wonder some of them 
 do not have clear views when they grow up?" 
 
 "There is George now!" exclaimed Abby when 
 the carriage came to a turn in the road at the upper 
 end of the gorge. 
 
 In a field above the level of the road George 
 Fotherly was at work with a dozen laborers. He 
 wore just shirt and trousers and a broad straw hat, 
 and his sleeves were rolled almost to his elbows. In 
 his hand was a rake. The master and the men toiled 
 together. 
 
 When Mrs. Ponder called him he came forward 
 with a smile upon his face and, without lifting his 
 hat, greeted the people in the carriage. He asked 
 them to alight, and when they would not, he leaned 
 his arms upon the fence-top in the shade of a great 
 chestnut tree while he talked to them. 
 
 His figure was in clear relief against the sky, as 
 he stood above them, and Dolly was not indifferent 
 to the charm of the strong, erect, manly form, with 
 the broad arms, the bare throat visible to his chest 
 and the handsome sun-burned face with the deep 
 brown eyes. She did not cease to look closely at 
 him while he stayed there.
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 101 
 
 George needed no urging to grant Mrs. Ponders 
 request. He said he should be glad to have the chil- 
 dren come to the woods and he should be glad to be 
 there with them if he might. Mrs. Ponder asked 
 him to come, and Dolly thought within herself that 
 this Sunday School picnic really might not be so 
 stupid after all. 
 
 Then George asked Mrs. Ponder if she would like 
 to visit the woods, and when she said she would, he 
 lay down his rake and leaped the fence and coming 
 into the road walked by the side of the carriage 
 close to Dolly. She chatted gaily with him, and 
 when the bars were down and the woods were 
 reached he lifted her out and helped Mrs. Ponder 
 and Abby to descend, and they moved among the 
 trees to choose the place where the tables should be 
 fixed. 
 
 George led them to the side of a swift little brook 
 that bubbled from the earth in a hollow and then 
 went dancing down the hillside. Mrs. Ponder said 
 the place was a delightful one for a picnic, and when 
 George had promised to provide the tables and 
 some chairs and to bring his men to help, he put 
 Mrs. Ponder and the girls into the carriage, and as 
 they drove off up the road to return home by the 
 Gulf Gap, he went back to work again. 
 
 "It seems so odd," said Dolly, when George had 
 been left behind, "to see Mr. Fotherly actually work- 
 ing with his own hands in the fields." 
 
 "Odd, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "I think it is all right, auntie," said Dolly quickly, 
 remembering Abby's presence, "but you know with
 
 102 The Quakeress. 
 
 us a gentleman like Mr. Fotherly never would do n 
 stroke of work in the field. Only the servants do 
 that. And then it is so queer, too, isn't it, Clayton, 
 to see no black people harvesting? In our country 
 the fields would swarm with blacks and the overseer 
 would be sitting upon his horse watching them and 
 cracking his whip at them." 
 
 "Does thee not like our way better?" asked Abby. 
 
 Dolly laughed and took Abby's hand in hers. 
 
 "All of us like our own ways better, dear, but Mr. 
 Fotherly is a fine gentleman no matter where he is 
 or what he does." 
 
 On the morning of the picnic Mrs. Ponder, with 
 a palm-leaf fan in her hand, for the air was very 
 warm, stood by the porch-railing at the front of the 
 parsonage watching the teachers and the children 
 gather upon the church pavement beneath the trees. 
 Dr. Ponder, Clayton, Dolly and Abby sat upon the 
 far side of the porch waiting for the Sunday School 
 folks to start. Mrs. Ponder was the commander of 
 the expedition. With her fan in rapid motion she 
 noted the new arrivals, she instructed the sexton 
 about the collection of the baskets of provisions so 
 that they might readily be put upon the wagon; she 
 congratulated the teachers upon the fairness of the 
 day; she commended the good little girls, and she 
 reproved the unruly little boys. 
 
 The boys were disposed to be restless, noisy and 
 quarrelsome until the wagon came to take the bas- 
 kets, and then Mrs. Ponder summoned them to help 
 the sexton load the wagon. This was done by the 
 time the other wagons came, and then Mrs. Ponder
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 103 
 
 had to employ her severest manner and the greatest 
 activity to restrain the boys from climbing in before 
 the girls were seated. Clayton came to help her, 
 and soon nearly all the scholars and all the teachers 
 had found places. Mrs. Ponder, putting her fan 
 under her elbow and wiping her face, which had 
 grow r n very red, said to the Sunday School before 
 the start was made: 
 
 "Now, children, there are to be no firecrackers. 
 We are told to 'make a joyful noise,' but the noise 
 of firecrackers is not a bit joyful; it always makes me 
 jump; and then they are very, very dangerous and 
 smell dreadfully." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder had hardly ceased speaking and was 
 just turning to say good-bye to her husband and 
 friends on the porch, when Randy Jones, of the Wil- 
 ling Helpers, exploded half a pack of firecrackers 
 on the other side of the basket-wagon, causing the 
 horse to plunge in a threatening manner. Mrs. 
 Ponder was very angry. She turned again and tried 
 vainly to catch Randy, and she declared he should 
 stay at home; but he insisted that the crackers had 
 gone off by accident, and then he climbed up to ride 
 with the driver of the wagon. He seemed so firmly 
 established there, and he was so high, and Mrs. 
 Ponder was so warm, and so tender-hearted at that 
 moment, that she concluded to overlook the inci- 
 dent. 
 
 The wagons were crowded although an extra 
 wagon had been ordered for fear there should not 
 be room enough. 
 
 "It is really wonderful," said Mrs. Ponder to the
 
 104 The Quakeress. 
 
 teacher of the Busy Workers who was to ride with 
 her upon the hind seat of the last wagon, "how the 
 number of scholars in our school always swells just 
 before the Fourth of July picnic and the Christmas 
 festival." 
 
 While the wagons rolled down the main street 
 of Connock the girls sang patriotic songs and the 
 boys dropped lighted firecrackers. In half an hour 
 the woods were reached. George was there to greet 
 his visitors and to learn from Mrs. Ponder that the 
 doctor would drive over with Abby and Dolly and 
 Clayton. 
 
 George and his men had four great tables ready 
 and there were swings upon some of the tall trees 
 and chairs for the older folks to rest comfortably 
 upon. 
 
 The children at once spread through the woods 
 and began to play in the shallow brook until the 
 great bowl was rilled with lemonade and put upon 
 the end of the longest table; then the young people 
 swarmed about it and refreshed themselves with the 
 iced drink. Mrs. Ponder feared for Randy Jones 
 when she saw him take his fourth glassful and she 
 drove him away, but Randy's own conviction was 
 that his capacity was heartlessly underestimated. 
 
 The teachers unpacked the baskets and arranged 
 the provender upon the tables as the children had 
 more and more fun. Dr. Ponder arrived with his 
 young friends; and George, helping the ladies to 
 alight, sent the horse away to his stable. The doctor 
 thanked George heartily for giving his woods for 
 the picnic, and after pointing out to him that it was
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. *s 
 
 really a modern form of the Feast of Tabernacles, 
 asked him to partake of the repast. 
 
 While the doctor talked with George, Bud Ma- 
 guire, of the Cheerful Givers, and Tommy Fowler, 
 of the Band of Love, became involved in combat 
 over a question of swinging one of the little girls, 
 and for a few moments behaved in a disgraceful man- 
 ner. When George and Clayton with difficulty had 
 torn them asunder and brought them battered and 
 disheveled to Dr. Ponder, the doctor spoke to them 
 in his severest manner, reminding them of Cain and 
 Abel, and turned them over to the sexton with strict 
 orders to confine the Cheerful Giver in one wagon 
 and the member of the Band of Love in another, de- 
 priving both of food and drink. 
 
 But, when the dinner was spread and the diners 
 were summoned, and Dr. Ponder began to say the 
 grace in which he breathed new aspirations for the 
 children of Israel, both the combatants were beside 
 their teachers, and both were peaceable, hungry and 
 hopeful. 
 
 There was more than enough food and the boys 
 seemed to feel a solemn obligation to reduce the di- 
 mensions of the surplus. Mrs. Ponder, having had 
 her attention called early in the day to the thirst of 
 Randy Jones, could not help singling him out from 
 the other children and noting that, apart from sand- 
 wiches and other solid provender, this sturdy mem- 
 ber of the Willing Helpers had had two large slices 
 of watermelon and had been helped four times to 
 ice cream. Then after making himself fairly bulge 
 with cake, he moved toward the lemonade-bowl and
 
 106 The Quakeress. 
 
 would have done fresh duty there had not Mrs. Pon- 
 der dexterously and firmly headed him off. 
 
 "I cannot understand it," she said to the teacher 
 of the Busy Workers. "He still seems perfectly well 
 and he is such a very small boy, too. His appetite is 
 really supernatural." 
 
 When the children had eaten and were full much 
 too full, Mrs. Ponder thought of some of them 
 Dr. Ponder rapped upon the table and asked that 
 there should be silence. Some of the older boys, 
 with experience in Dr. Ponder's Sunday School and 
 at his picnics, slipped beneath the table and crept 
 away. 
 
 The doctor was not the man to slight so good 
 an opportunity as this to edify and enlighten. He 
 spoke about the day the anniversary so glorious 
 for Americans, and of how it reminded him of the 
 wonderful night when the Chosen People had been 
 brought forth to liberty and to blessing. He ex- 
 plained how it was that the Ten Tribes happened, 
 long subsequently, to be lost; and then he told what 
 had become of them and how we had found them 
 and how some of the Chosen People at that very 
 moment, once lost, now found, were sitting around 
 the festal board in the Fotherly woods replete with 
 nourishment. 
 
 Then the doctor turned a\vay back into history 
 and by some means wandered to Cush and expended 
 no little energy for a few moments in explaining why 
 he believed there had been a primeval Cush as well 
 as a post-diluvian Cush, and how the fact of two 
 Cushes having lived, complicated by the fact that
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 107 
 
 there was a country named Cush, (which Dr. Ponder 
 said he was sure he knew, and would at some time 
 prove conclusively, was Abyssinia) had confused the 
 minds of the unlearned. 
 
 "And no wonder!" said Clayton to Abby. 
 
 After a while the doctor worked his way down 
 again through the generations and at last got to 
 Erastianism, which he spoke of with indignant fer- 
 vor, showing to the Busy Workers and Cheerful 
 Givers and Willing Helpers who sat before him 
 charged with sandwiches and cake and watermelon, 
 that one of the certain tests of true Americanism is 
 bitter hostility to Erastianism in all its forms, and 
 calling upon the young folks as loyal children of the 
 Church, not less than as heirs to the glories of the 
 Republic, to put their little feet firmly down now 
 and lift up their hands and pledge themselves to re- 
 sist Erastianism to the death. 
 
 The intermittent explosion of firecrackers over by 
 the brook by the boys who fled when they found the 
 sermon coming, irritated the doctor to some extent, 
 but did not stem the torrent of his talk. 
 
 And when he had firmly clenched in the young 
 minds hatred of Erastianism, the doctor really could 
 not help expressing to the scholars, sleepy as some 
 of them looked, his deep and permanent regret that 
 some of our worthy neighbors, people that we love 
 and honor, and who are willing to make us their 
 guests and to help us to have innocent pleasure, per- 
 sist in closing their eyes to the Truth and in remain- 
 ing outside the Church. 
 
 Poor little Sunday School children ! They have
 
 Quaker 
 
 ess. 
 
 to endure so much and they are so patient and" long- 
 suffering. They look sometimes as if they wondered 
 at the folks who talk and talk to them about things 
 not to be understood, but they never bear malice for 
 it. They seem to accept the speakers as part of the 
 mysterious dismalness which comes into life now and 
 then, like hand lessons and earache. They know the 
 talk will stop sometime or other, and so they bear it 
 and try to seem cheerful and never have a thought 
 of hating the big people who make them suffer. 
 Does it not really seem a matter of mere justice 
 that more than half the people in Heaven are chil- 
 dren? 
 
 Mrs. Ponder did not find the doctor's address tire- 
 some or inappropriate; but she did say to the teacher 
 of the Men's Bible Class : 
 
 "We have too many sermons for the young. I do 
 wish the doctor would preach more sermons, for the 
 old. They are much more wicked and in need of 
 reproof." 
 
 Randy Jones, excluded from access to the lemon- 
 ade bowl, turned to firecrackers. In a moment of 
 absentmindedness, caused probably by his gorged 
 physical condition, he put a piece of lighted punk 
 into his pocket and set his clothes afire. Clayton. 
 who was nearest to him, seized him promptly and 
 plunged him into the creek, whence he was with- 
 drawn extinguished and dripping, but looking fairly 
 happy and ready for either fireworks or food. 
 
 When the after-dinner games began, Dolly asked 
 George to show her his farm buildings, whose praise 
 she had heard from her aunt and uncle, and while
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 Abby strolled away with Clayton around the hillside 
 and down the path that led to the thicker forest 
 overhanging the river, Dolly and George faced the 
 other way toward the hill-top. There was a wind- 
 ing road that rose by easy gradients toward the farm 
 buildings, but there was a shorter way through the 
 dead leaves that lay upon the steep bank a hundred 
 yards from the picnic ground, and Dolly said she 
 would go there if George were willing. And so he 
 must step upward first and holding her hand lift 
 her bravely from one level to another until the bor- 
 der of the wood was reached. Then there was but 
 a short walk across a mown field amid the stubble, 
 to the farm yard gate. 
 
 The girl was joyful to be with this man, and she 
 talked to him lightly and with bright humor; but in 
 her heart she was half afraid of him. He was not 
 just like any other man she had ever met. His man- 
 ners were perfect, he talked well and he seemed to 
 enjoy a bit of fun; but she was conscious that he was 
 above her in every way; and that the giant body was 
 the true symbol of the spirit that lay hidden within. 
 
 There is a masterful man who dominates fate and 
 circumstance, and George was such a man. His will 
 is stronger than the force that retards and makes for 
 failure. Resolute, open-eyed, sure, he controls his 
 business and his destiny. When he takes up com- 
 merce he becomes rich. When he deals with reli- 
 gion he proceeds almost without wavering towards 
 holiness. 
 
 And there is a man, like Isaac Woolford, for whom 
 fate and circumstance are too strong 1 ; who drifts
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 here and drifts there, clutching at this chance and at 
 that, barely able to keep afloat and likely at any mo- 
 ment to be overwhelmed and submerged and lost. 
 
 A few men are born masters. The multitude of 
 necessity are hewers of wood and drawers of water, 
 or else victims of the mischance that awaits the over- 
 confidence of the feeble. 
 
 Dolly Harley's interest in the appurtenances of 
 agriculture was at no time large, and at this moment 
 it was almost wholly engaged with the charm of her 
 companion, but she could not fail to contrast the 
 cleanliness and order of this centre of the great farm 
 with the slovenliness and disorder that were usual 
 in the plantation buildings of her own country. The 
 floor of the stable-yard was made of cement, and it 
 had not upon it a wisp of straw or a particle of litter 
 of any kind. The barn, the stables, the implement 
 sheds, the carriage and wagon houses, were fresh and 
 bright and clean with paint and within they were 
 as cleanly as they were without. The coats of the 
 horses shone and the vehicles, even the farm wagons, 
 looked almost as if they had never been used. The 
 cows in the enclosure beyond the barn were all of 
 the best breeds, and every cow among them seemed 
 to have been brushed and groomed for exhibition. 
 
 "It is really surprising," exclaimed Dolly, as she 
 and George turned back into the stable yard. "I 
 never imagined that such places could be made to 
 look so well or that they could be managed at all 
 without dozens of servants. On father's plantation 
 we have twenty blacks around the stables and barns 
 and yet our buildings are really shameful when com-
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 pared with yours. Your cows are lovely, but I am 
 sure you cannot have better horses than we have." 
 
 "I don't know," said George. "Our horses are 
 not in any way remarkable, but they are all fairly 
 good. I have but three or four for riding and driv- 
 ing. Thee knows we Northern folk do not ride so 
 much as the Southern people. I do not know pre- 
 cisely why." 
 
 "I love to ride," exclaimed Dolly. "Show me one 
 of your riding horses." 
 
 George summoned a stableman. 
 
 "Bring out Major, if thee pleases, John," he said. 
 
 A few moments later the man led a very handsome 
 young bay horse from the stable. 
 
 "It is a beauty!" exclaimed Dolly, who had no 
 small acquaintance with horse qualities. "I wish I 
 might ride him." 
 
 "Thee shall," said George, "but thee must be care- 
 ful. Thee is a good rider?" he asked. "However, 
 I know that all the women of the South ride well. 
 John," he said to the man, "put the side saddle on 
 Major." 
 
 "You have a side saddle, then ?" asked Dolly, smil- 
 ing. "I thought this was wholly a bachelor estab- 
 lishment." 
 
 "It belonged to my mother," answered George. 
 "It is very old, but in good order, and I am sure thee 
 will find it both comfortable and safe. How far will 
 thee ride? Thee must not go very far for we shall 
 have to return soon to the picnic and thy uncle and 
 aunt." 
 
 "Only down the road to the gate yonder and back
 
 112 
 
 TKe Quakeress. 
 
 again," said Dolly. "But I do wish I could have a 
 good long ride some day through this lovely coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Thee shall," said George, ''if I can arrange it." 
 
 "Does Abby ride?" she asked, looking at him 
 closely. 
 
 "No!" answered George, without seeming to no- 
 tice her look. "She has never learned and her 
 mother is timid about it at any rate. But thee can 
 go with me, perhaps, if I can find opportunity." 
 
 "It will be delightful." 
 
 When Major was led out, Dolly said to George: 
 "Give me your hand for a help in mounting, won't 
 you?" and George, extending his broad hand, she 
 placed her dainty foot upon his palm and with a 
 bound he lifted her into the saddle. The horse was 
 spirited and at once he galloped down the road, 
 Dolly keeping her seat firmly and waving her hand 
 at George. 
 
 George dismissed his man; then he looked after 
 the graceful figure of the woman with her skirts fly- 
 ing in the wind, as she bent to the movements of the 
 horse of which she was perfectly the mistress. "It 
 is a perilous business," he whispered to himself in 
 answer to the thought that ran through his mind, 
 "but I did not seek it, I am not responsible for it 
 and I will not be dismayed." 
 
 The girl reached the great gate that opened out 
 upon the highway; she wheeled the horse at a gal- 
 lop, turned him upon the sod of the wide lawn that 
 dipped downward from the place where George 
 stood; then came at full speed back again to the met-
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. "3 
 
 ailed road, dashed directly up to George, and stop- 
 ped so suddenly that the panting horse was almost 
 upon him. It was dexterous horsemanship and 
 George admired it. The girl had spirit and courage. 
 The Quaker would have been less than half a man 
 not to find these qualities attractive in a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 "Now you must lift me down," said Dolly, toss- 
 ing to him the reins that he put over his arm. 
 
 George came near to her. She leaned over and 
 put her hands on his shoulders. Then she leaped 
 and he caught her full in his arms while her hands 
 for an instant held him fast. He felt her warm 
 breath upon his face. He was angry with himself 
 that he was not more displeased. She seemed not 
 to notice that he turned his head away when she 
 reached the ground. His brown face was reddened, 
 while he pretended to fix the bridle. Then while he 
 led the horse to the stable-yard gate, she walked 
 beside him praising the horse and speaking with de- 
 light of her short ride. 
 
 "No woman in this county rides so well as thee," 
 said George. 
 
 "You will trust me again with your horse some 
 day, then, will you not, when you ride with me?" 
 she said. 
 
 When the man had taken the horse George said 
 to her: 
 
 "Shall we return to the picnic, or will thee look 
 further at my place? Thee is my guest and I must 
 do thy pleasure. My house " 
 
 "O, I should dearly love to see your house," said
 
 H4 The Quakeress. 
 
 Dolly eagerly. "May I? Are you sure you would 
 like it?" 
 
 "If thee wishes to look at it thee is very welcome," 
 said George, striding off toward the house half glad 
 and yet half sorry that the visit was to be prolonged. 
 
 They entered the door at the back of the great 
 double stone house, and as they strolled through the 
 wide hall George opened the doors that his compan- 
 ion might peep into the rooms. Upon the wall by 
 the staircase and close by the tall clock hung an 
 engraving of George Fox, with that spiritual face 
 cf his and the eyes with the strange look in which 
 some think they find fanaticism, while others are 
 sure they perceive a vision of celestial things. Op- 
 posite, upon the wall, was a picture of William Penn, 
 not in armor, but with the dress of an English gen- 
 tleman of his time and the rounded smiling face that 
 told of serenity and bland self-contentment. 
 
 George did not urge Dolly to enter the rooms. 
 For her a glance was enough. She saw that they 
 were plainly furnished, but that the tokens of wealth 
 and refined taste and comfort were there. It seemed 
 a large house for one man to live in, and Dolly's 
 thought went out to the Quaker girl across the river 
 who might come here some day to be the mistress 
 of a lovely home. 
 
 The air within the house was cooler than that upon 
 the outside, but when George swung open the front 
 door, the porch seemed to Dolly more tempting. 
 For from the wide porch, supported by pillars all 
 entwined by creeping plants, one could look across 
 the sharp descent of the lawn, over a field or two
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. "5 
 
 and a clump of trees upon the lower levels, directly 
 upon the river only three hundred yards away, and 
 there the shining surface of the stream could be fol- 
 lowed along the windings of the valley until it van- 
 ished far down towards the city. 
 
 Dolly and George took seats in the shady corner 
 of the porch where the south wind blew, and while 
 she looked at the green of the hills and the silver 
 of the water, he pointed out to her the places of 
 interest in the valley. When he showed her the 
 cluster of trees that marked the springs at Spring 
 Mill, the visit to the gipsy camp came to Dolly's 
 remembrance, and she told him of it. 
 
 "And the woman would not tell me my fortune," 
 she said with mock indignation. 
 
 "I would not mourn for that if I were thee," said 
 George. 
 
 "You don't believe in palmistry then, do you?" 
 
 "I should think thee was joking if thee said thee 
 believed in it." 
 
 "I don't know," responded the girl. "There are 
 some queer things about the hands, and queer dif- 
 ferences in hands, too." 
 
 "Couldn't we say the same of ears and noses and 
 mouths, and even elbows? A look at a man's face 
 will tell much more than a look at his hand; much 
 more to me, at any rate." 
 
 "Perhaps because you have never learned palm- 
 istry." 
 
 "Has thee learned it?" 
 
 "No, but still I know what some of the lines and 
 criss-crosses mean, and shall I try to tell your fu- 
 ture from your hand?"
 
 116 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 "If thee chooses," answered George, placing his 
 broad, brown right hand, palm upward, upon the 
 low table that stood between him and his compan- 
 ion. 
 
 Dolly drew her chair nearer and leaned over the 
 table, looking closely at the hand. With her own 
 ungloved fingers she spread out the great fingers 
 and held down the tips of them that the palm might 
 have strong relief. With the index ringer of her 
 other hand she indicated some of the lines of 
 George's palm, touching them now and then while 
 she seemed to study them intently. 
 
 "You are rich and fortunate," she said, without 
 lifting her eyes. "There is much more good fortune 
 in store for you, but I see here the shadow of a great 
 disappointment; you are crossed in love; you will 
 never have your heart's desire." 
 
 She looked up at him and smiled. 
 
 "Is that all?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "excepting that now you must 
 read my hand." 
 
 She thrust out her arm, bare to the elbow, round- 
 ed, white and beautiful, and put her upturned hand 
 where his had been. 
 
 He placed his elbows upon the table and his 
 clasped hands rested upon his temples while he 
 looked at the soft, moist, white palm that lay there 
 before him. Dolly pretended not to watch him. Her 
 face was half turned away. A drop of sweat formed 
 upon his forehead and rolled down his cheek. He 
 brushed it away with his left hand. The veins stood 
 out upon his temples.
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 "Well?" asked the girl. "What do you see there?" 
 
 He made no answer. He withdrew his arm from 
 the table; he put forward his right hand and touched 
 her fingers; then, a moment hesitating, he lifted her 
 hand and bending over it he kissed it. 
 
 She did not snatch her hand away. She withdrew 
 it slowly and gently and then she looked off across 
 the lawn to the river. 
 
 "You are as indefinite as the gipsy woman was," 
 she said. "Could you read Abby's fortune any bet- 
 ter?" 
 
 "Let me see thy hand again," he said. 
 
 A moment passed before she responded. "Per- 
 haps he is actually going to propose to me," she said 
 to herself. Then she put her hand again upon the 
 table, and still averted her eyes. 
 
 He did not take it. He put his own big brown 
 hand over it and held it there and then looking at 
 her until she turned her eyes to his, he said : 
 
 "I could read thy soul more easily than thy palm." 
 
 The sudden solemnity of his manner impressed 
 her. "He is going to preach to me, perhaps," she 
 said to herself. She felt defiant. 
 
 "It is a singular gift," she answered. 
 
 "Thy face is so fair that thee seems to belong with 
 the angels, but " 
 
 "Men always tell women they are angels. The 
 compliment is somewhat worn. However, you were 
 going to qualify it. I am like an angel, 'but' " 
 
 "I have never had the habit to pay idle compli- 
 ments," said George. "I will make no qualification. 
 I will not judge thee. I will not even claim that I
 
 118 The Quakeress. 
 
 can understand thee, but this I will do: I will long 
 for thee that thy thought may be as lovely as thy 
 countenance." 
 
 "Now that is a compliment; a handsome compli- 
 ment! But you are hurting my hand. Let it go, 
 please." 
 
 He lifted his hand, and she withdrew hers from 
 the table. He arose and stood by the porch-railing 
 facing her. She was angry, but she was curious to 
 hear what he would say. He was a handsome, 
 splendid fellow, even if he would insist upon prefer- 
 ing preaching to flirtation. 
 
 "I am sorry that I hurt thee," he said. "Thee will 
 forgive me, will thee not? I would suffer much to 
 help thee, rather than to hurt thee." 
 
 "Help my thoughts? Why bother yourself about 
 my thoughts, whether they be lovely or unlovely? 
 At least they are my own?" 
 
 "Thine own indeed, but they influence other peo- 
 ple; thee does not live to thyself, nor I to myself. 
 What I think, that I am; and what I am affects my 
 fellow men for good or evil. When I choose my 
 thoughts I pick my company." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "Where does thee think hell is?" 
 
 "Down below there, somewhere; that is if there 
 is a hell. What is your interest in it just at this mo- 
 ment? The fire is hot, I suppose, and they are 
 poking one another with hot pitchforks and other 
 unpleasant implements. The subject is not an allur- 
 ing one for contemplation." 
 
 "Hell is in the soul. When I have wicked 
 thoughts I am in hell."
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. "9 
 
 "Are you there often?" she asked, but he did not 
 heed her. 
 
 "All the evil in this world is evil thought. All the 
 evil in the other world is evil thought. It is one 
 thing in both worlds. When I think evil I have dev- 
 ils for my comrades. When my thought is holy the 
 kingdom of heaven is within me. I can have either : 
 the kingdom of heaven or the kingdom of hell. My 
 best wish for thee is that thee shall be angelic in thy 
 inmost soul where thee touches the spirit world. 
 God forgive me that I kissed thy hand a while ago. 
 God help thee, and help me also, lest when I have 
 preached to others I myself should be a castaway. 
 The fear of that is always with me. It was my duty 
 not to be flippant with thee, or to have dalliance with 
 thee, but to hear the voice of the Master saying, 
 'She is mine. I gave myself for her.' That is it! I 
 must reverence thee and look at thee from afar, be- 
 cause thee is His trophy. Thee is bought with a 
 price." 
 
 Dolly sat with her head bowed and her eyes upon 
 the floor while George spoke, and grew more and 
 more fervid until he ended. She tapped her foot 
 impatiently as she listened and in her heart cared 
 for nothing that he said. Her preference was for 
 dalliance. 
 
 "And now, please, let us return to the picnic," she 
 said rising. "The experience has been delightful, 
 but we must not be too self-indulgent." 
 
 They stepped from the porch to the lawn, and 
 turned toward the wood beyond the farm buildings 
 and the mown field. Both were silent for a time. 
 Then she laughed and said :
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Thank you for showing me your lovely place. 
 It was so kind of you, and then you are a much bet- 
 ter preacher, I think, than Uncle Ponder." 
 
 He did not respond to her. He walked slowly by 
 her side, with a long stride, his hands clasped behind 
 him and with mingled shame and fear in his soul for 
 himself and for her. They came into the broad road 
 that wound about the hill through the woods on the 
 side towards the river, and when they had come 
 around to the northern slope, they passed a sharp 
 turn of the road, and there they saw two familiar 
 figures. 
 
 When Clayton left the picnic ground with Abby, 
 they strolled through the wood to the place where 
 a great rock overhanging the pathway and upheld 
 by the stony earth on either side made a kind of 
 cave which the people of the country-side named 
 the Indian Cave. A rustic seat had been made 
 there and Abby and Clayton tarried to look at the 
 cave, which was blackened by the smoke of fires 
 kindled by sojourners in the forest. Then they 
 turned and sat to face the view to the north. The 
 brown, dead leaves, gathered for a century, made a 
 cushion for their feet, and over them and around 
 them the foliage of the great trees shaded them and 
 framed the picture of the valley below them. A 
 thread of a stream dashed vehemently down the nar- 
 row gorge a dozen feet from them and plunged into 
 the river far down the hill-side. Over and beyond the 
 river, softened by the faint haze that filled the air,
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 lay Connock and behind it the sweet Plymouth val- 
 ley with tilled fields and low farm houses and clumps 
 of woodland, and here and there the white gash of 
 a quarry. There was no sound but of the rushing 
 water of the brook and of the fluttering leaves, ex- 
 cepting when from the river-side came the roar of 
 a swift flying train or the shrill scream of a steam 
 whistle. 
 
 They sat in silence for a while and upon Abby's 
 spirit came a feeling of solemnity that was almost 
 oppressive. She felt that serious things were to be 
 said to-day, and that she should not go home with 
 her love still voiceless. 
 
 "It is more beautiful than my own country," at 
 last said Clayton, making with his right hand a quick 
 gesture toward the distant scene, "although I think 
 that very beautiful. But perhaps it is not just the 
 loveliness of the landscape that makes it so charm- 
 ing for me. The mind gives its own coloring to the 
 picture always, does it not?" 
 
 "I think so," answered Abby. 
 
 "Beautiful as it is, however," said Clayton with 
 mournfulness, "I shall see it no more," and he thrust 
 out his hand again as if to wave farewell to the val- 
 ley, the river and the trees. 
 
 A little shiver ran through Abby's frame and she 
 clenched her hands closer as she held them in her 
 lap. 
 
 "Is thee going away? Must thee go home 
 again?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 "To-day," he answered, still looking at the far 
 scene, as if he dared not turn his eyes to her. "I 
 must go to-day."
 
 122 The Quakeress. 
 
 ''I am sorry," she said quietly. 
 
 He seemed not to hear her, and then he said: 
 
 "I have no summons to go. There is no business 
 to call me. My father has not said he needed me. 
 Perhaps I may not go to my home. Perhaps " 
 
 "Thee will not become a soldier, will thee? O 
 do not do that." Abby's cheeks were white and her 
 eyes were moist with the coming tears. 
 
 "I do not know," said Clayton, still not turning 
 his face to hers. "I am in a strange tangle of per- 
 plexity. The South seems sometimes to call to me 
 to come to help her in her cause; but but there is 
 something else there is something mightier than 
 the home tie or the love of country; something that 
 Do you know why these woods and waters and all 
 these rolling hills and green valleys are lovely to 
 me? Do you know?" he asked almost fiercely, and 
 then, turning his face fu 1 ! to hers and dropping his 
 voice to tones of tenderness he answered his own 
 question. "It is because you are here." 
 
 Abby did not speak. She clenched her hands 
 tighter and the flush rose upon her cheek and spread 
 to her forehead. 
 
 "Yes," said Clayton, passion beginning to color 
 his voice. "I came to Connock reluctantly, because 
 I ought; because my mother wished me to be con- 
 siderate of my aunt. I thought to be wearied of it 
 in a day or two and to go back, leaving my sister 
 here. But when I saw you sitting on the porch 
 with your mother, I knew that I should stay. I 
 knew that the crisis of my life had come. You will 
 not believe me that I passed a sleepless night that
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. I2 3 
 
 first night of my arrival here. You will not believe 
 that I have been in half delirium since that time; 
 exaltation sometimes so that it seemed as if I could 
 not bear such joy, and then despair that would fill 
 all my soul with pain. 
 
 He saw that the tears were trickling down Abby's 
 cheeks as he spoke. 
 
 "For, while it was plain to me that there could be 
 no peace for me again, no peace unless you were 
 mine, I said to myself how shall such an one as I 
 with his life all stained and sinful, dare to ask that 
 girl to join her pure and holy life to his? You 
 seemed beyond me, far, far beyond me, and you 
 seem so now; and yet you have been very gracious 
 to me and have not disdained me and have put your 
 hand sometimes in mine. So I could not help loving 
 you, and then the hope would come that perhaps 
 despite my unworthiness despite despite (I can- 
 not say it) you might stoop to return that love." 
 
 Abby arose and walked to the brink of the little 
 stream and put her hands over her face. Clayton, 
 surprised at the movement, sat still for a moment, 
 and then, rising, he went toward her. 
 
 "It is over then?" he said, standing close behind 
 her. "I should not have spoken. I knew that I 
 ought not to speak. But I am going away. I shall 
 be gone at once. But oh ! that I may see your face 
 once more and hear you say that you forgive me!" 
 
 She turned and a swift glance showed him that he 
 had misjudged her. He flung his arms passionately 
 about her, and with her arms clasping his neck, she 
 hid her face upon his breast half crying. He lifted
 
 "4 The Quakeress. 
 
 her head gently and kissed her fondly and with 
 misty eyes she looked into his eyes. 
 
 "You love me my dearest, you do love me then?" 
 
 "Yes !" she whispered, and once more he held her 
 to him and kissed her again and again. He led her 
 to the rustic bench. 
 
 "Thee will not go now?" she asked with a tremu- 
 lous voice. 
 
 "No," he said, "I will not go to-day. I cannot 
 bear to leave you, my darling, my love, my Abby! 
 I must have time to think, time to tell you things 
 you must know." 
 
 "What things?" asked Abby. There was in his 
 voice and manner that which gave her foreboding 
 of evil, even in this very ecstasy of her joy. 
 
 "Not now," he said, waving his hand as though 
 to dispel a vision that was hateful. "Not now, when 
 this splendor of happiness, this miracle of peace has 
 come to us. Let me look into your 'eyes and see 
 there your love for me! Let me hold you fast and 
 kiss you, my sweet, dear love. God gave you to me 
 from the very beginning. You were always mine, 
 my precious wife." 
 
 "I thank Him for it. It is His gift to us both." 
 
 "Did you love me from the first, dear Abby?" 
 
 "O yes !" she said, dropping her eyes. 
 
 "When you first saw me?" demanded this lover 
 with eager curiosity. 
 
 "Yes, and before. When Mrs. Ponder told me 
 thee was coming; then I do not know why; I did 
 not understand, but I felt sure thee was coming to 
 claim me; sure of it."
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. 
 
 "It was from eternity! It will be forever," said 
 Clayton with solemn fervor. 
 
 "Forever!" repeated Abby. "I will never change." 
 
 "Not if sorrow come and separation? Not if 
 bitter fortune says Disown him? Not if I go away 
 to the Southland and to the wild chance of war?" 
 
 "Not that, dear Clayton! O, not that! I cannot 
 bear that you should fight. We are peace people. 
 But to fight against my country! I pray, pray that 
 you will not do that." 
 
 "I feel sometimes like a coward that I stay at 
 home when all my people are in arms, but it is my 
 strong love for you that holds me. I may not go if 
 you will weep for me, but O my love! there may 
 be other things to thrust us apart and give us heart- 
 ache. Though your father and your mother should 
 frown upon us and your Friends in the meeting 
 should disapprove, you will love me still, will you 
 not?" 
 
 "I cannot help it," answered Abby, with a shadow 
 of dread in her heart. "I have lost the power to con- 
 trol my feelings. Father and mother will be most 
 sorrowful and Friends will cast me out, but if I 
 must die for thee I will." 
 
 Again he kissed her passionately. 
 
 "I asked too much of you when I asked you to be 
 mine," he said. "I am not worthy any sacrifice and 
 yet I summon you to it. I summon myself to it. I 
 am ready for it. I cannot help loving you until love 
 seems to me the whole of life, but, rather than you 
 should suffer, I will give it all up. I will go away 
 and never see your face again. Shall I go?"
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 She put her hand in his and looked gravely in his 
 face: 
 
 "No; anything but that; anything. I cannot give 
 thee up." 
 
 "I have asked myself a thousand times," he said, 
 "the source of this strange and wonderful passion 
 that impelled you to me and me to you. We did 
 not create it; we are not responsible for it; we dare 
 not defy it. The impulse is Divine. The Creator of 
 all things created us for each other; and no human 
 authority can put us asunder." 
 
 "Let us wait patiently," she said with a tranquil 
 voice. "The same Spirit that led you to me and gave 
 you to me, will show us the right way if we trust 
 ourselves wholly to Him." 
 
 Clayton looked troubled and he made as if he 
 would speak to her; but he held his peace, and at 
 last he said: 
 
 "If we are helped in that way, it will be your fel- 
 lowship with Him that helps us. I dare not ask for 
 a blessing for myself." 
 
 He took her hand, and slowly they walked along 
 Abby, loyal in her love for Clayton and without a 
 doubt of him. "And now," she said, "shall we not 
 return to the company? It is growing late." 
 
 He took her hand, and slowly they walked along 
 the forest-path, both joyful in triumphant love, but 
 in the woman's soul joy was mingled strangely with 
 foreboding, whilst the heart of the man bore the 
 burden of clear certainty that on this day he had 
 chosen dishonor for his portion. 
 
 Presently Clayton felt Abby's hand clench upon
 
 Feast of Tabernacles. I2 7 
 
 his and she withdrew her hand. She had heard foot- 
 steps. She turned and saw George and Dolly upon 
 the road behind them. Dolly had seen her hand in 
 Clayton's. George was not sure that the quick mo- 
 tion he saw was the act of unclasping the hands of 
 the two, but the thought came into his mind and 
 with it a flash of anguish. No suspicion had ever 
 before come to him that Clayton might supplant 
 him. Now the full force of the possibility swept in 
 upon his soul, and instantly he saw in it retribution 
 for the sin into which he had, in his thought, been 
 led by the woman who walked with him. 
 
 Together the four, when civil greetings had been 
 exchanged, walked with outward tranquillity to the 
 noisy picnic ground; and Dolly deep down in her 
 heart was exultant that Clayton had won the love 
 of the Quaker girl and that in doing so he had 
 stabbed at the heart of the man who had dared to 
 repulse and reprove her.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 In tke Ckurck. 
 
 CLAYTON HARLEY was already married when he de- 
 clared his love for Abby and asked her to be his wife. 
 The marriage was hidden from the members of his 
 family and his friends, and his wife was far away from 
 him in another country. He bore the burden of his 
 secret lightly while he cared no more for any woman 
 than he cared for his wife; but it had become heavy 
 since he began to love Abby, and all but intolerable 
 since she had plighted her troth to him. He had 
 come home from the picnic and from that entrancing 
 love-passage with her to a night of misery and self- 
 reproach. In the sleepless hours he thought of a 
 hundred plans for extricating himself from the dis- 
 honor in which he was involved; but every one of 
 these was shattered against the hard facts that his 
 marriage with Abby was barred by another marriage 
 and that, even if he could free himself from the wife 
 he scorned, the pure and gentle Quaker girl would 
 be unlikely to marry a man in such a situation. An- 
 other thing was clear to him : he could jiot give her 
 up. He had gone too far for that; too far for him 
 and for her. He truly loved her and he was not capa- 
 ble of such a sacrifice. He knew that she loved him 
 truly and he feared both the effect upon her of revela- 
 tion of the truth, and that she would despise him if 
 she did not hate him. 
 
 But out of bewilderment and conflicting emotion,
 
 In the Church. "9 
 
 out of the struggle between inclination and positive 
 obligation there came at last conviction that he must 
 find courage to tell the truth to Abby, and to accept 
 the consequences. This he resolved to do, dreadful 
 as the task was for him and repulsive as the revela- 
 tion must be for her. 
 
 Through the early morning, holding fast to a pur- 
 pose that wavered often and sometimes seemed likely 
 to lose its strength, he considered in what manner 
 and in what secluded place he might give to the girl 
 this terrible confidence. There must be privacy and 
 security from interruption and he must not take her 
 far from home, for how should the return journey be 
 made if she should spurn him ? 
 
 He thought of his uncle's church, close at hand, 
 and, sure of Dr. Ponder's habits, he resolved that he 
 would induce Abby to go thither with him at an hour 
 of the morning when no one would be likely to in- 
 trude upon them. He would make her love for music 
 the bait to tempt her, for he had no little skill as an 
 organist. 
 
 Abby was quick to consent to go with him, and at 
 once they entered the church through the street- 
 door. Clayton locked the door again when he had 
 closed it. 
 
 "I did not know thee was an organ-player," said 
 Abby, as Clayton opened the instrument and, sitting 
 upon the stool, started the motor and arranged the 
 stops. 
 
 "I learned something of the art while I was at col- 
 lege," said Clayton, "but hardly enough to call my- 
 self an organist."
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 Abby retreated to a distant part of the church that 
 she might listen. The day was clouded and the 
 painted windows permitted but a half-light to fill the 
 room. Before Clayton touched the instrument there 
 was perfect silence. A faint odor of the flowers that 
 stood upon the table in the chancel lingered in the 
 air. The girl was not used to the sentiment that 
 finds sacredness in buildings, but she felt it now and 
 felt it strongly. The crimson tints of the huge win- 
 dows, the warm color upon the walls, the deep yellow 
 tints of the roof-timbers, the glittering brasses of the 
 pulpit and the lectern, the draperies and ornaments 
 of the communion table, the solemn hush that seemed 
 to fill the building all these things impressed a mind 
 that was ever sensitive to such influences. And when 
 Clayton, beginning with the soft sweet stops, filled 
 the holy place with rich harmonies, Abby scarcely 
 could restrain her tears. 
 
 The player became bolder and the tenderness of 
 the music gave way to the grandeur and exultation 
 of the diapasons. To Abby the tones of the organ, 
 
 "Moaning like a god in pain," 
 
 were made more rapturous by her passion for the 
 player. She thought him beautiful as he sat there 
 swaying his body slightly and moving his head while 
 he handled the instrument. 
 
 When Clayton ended the playing he closed the lid 
 of the console and wheeling about, descended from 
 the stool, resolved that now he would venture upon 
 the dreadful task to which duty called him. The girl 
 would have had him remain longer at the organ, but
 
 In the Church. 
 
 be would not, and he moved towards her trying to 
 hide behind an appearance of levity the tremulous- 
 ness that was in his soul. He turned for a moment 
 into the pulpit and addressing Abby he said: 
 
 "Here Uncle Ponder pours out his soporifics upon 
 the congregation. I wonder if I could put you to 
 sleep if I should talk to you from here?" 
 
 Abby laughed lightly, but she had been too deeply 
 moved by the music to respond in feeling to this fool- 
 ishness. Clayton came into the aisle, and as he 
 walked slowly along he looked at the great window 
 with the saints and the angels shining in the light, and 
 he said : 
 
 "It is a queer notion, isn't it, to put plates around 
 their heads? Fancy your own portrait, Abby, with 
 a white disk for a background !" 
 
 He came and sat in the pew with the girl in the 
 gloomy corner almost behind one of the great pillars 
 that upheld the yellow timbers. She was glad to 
 have him there. He took her hand in his. She felt 
 entirely happy, and she had no impulse to speak. The 
 sacredness of the place seemed to give a kind of con- 
 secration to her affection. She began to perceive in 
 what manner the colors, the atmosphere, the trap- 
 pings of the sanctuary warm the emotions of wor- 
 shipers. It would have given her contentment to 
 sit there for hours, in silence, holding the hand of her 
 lover. Her home, and all Connock, seemed far away, 
 as if she were in a strange distant country, filled with 
 the glory of a new and higher and holier life. 
 
 Clayton would have broken the silence if he could 
 have summoned courage to speak. He knew he must 
 do it, but horror and dismay filled him as he thought
 
 Tlie Quakeress. 
 
 how his avowal would plunge this lovely and loving 
 girl from the exaltation of happiness to an abyss of 
 sorrow and shame. More than once in his mind he 
 had framed a sentence which would serve to prepare 
 her for the revelation, but before his lips could utter 
 it he quailed before the terror of the ordeal, and 
 withheld his words. At last he said : 
 
 "Abby!" and then he could go no further. 
 
 She looked at him in answer, and she saw that his 
 face was pale. His hand grew cold in hers. 
 
 "Is thee ill, dear?" she asked with some disquiet. 
 
 Clayton laughed nervously, and said: 
 
 "O, no! Why should you think so?" Then he 
 tried to divert his own thoughts and hers. He with- 
 drew his hand, and pointing to the window he said, 
 in jesting tones : 
 
 The painters who put the wings on those angels 
 couldn't have known or cared much for anatomy, 
 could they? Human shoulder-blades and heavenly 
 wings are not near relations." 
 
 "Isn't there Scripture authority for it?" she asked. 
 "Of course thee knows that the wings are merely fig- 
 urative. Don't they represent swift, unimpeded move- 
 ment, the flight of the spirit as through air; and also 
 instant obedience?" 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "I think the idea beautiful," she said. 
 
 "You believe in angels?" he asked. 
 
 "Surely; and thee does, too?" 
 
 "I believe in human angels, anyhow; and I would 
 rather they had no wings." 
 
 "There are good angels," said Abby, "and bad an-
 
 In the Church. 
 
 gels. Isn't that an awful thing to think of? Evil in 
 a spiritual form; infinite power for harm; inextin- 
 guishable life that is all hate, as contrasted with life 
 that is all love ? 
 
 "Awful," responded Clayton. "Do you remember 
 Victor Hugo's poem 'The Djinns?' In the rhythm 
 of the verse you can almost hear the flapping of the 
 bat wings." 
 
 "Are there men who are all evil?" asked Abby, 
 with a half shudder, '"and who carry their wickedness 
 with them into the spirit-world?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Clayton, "but I am sure most men 
 who sin do it largely through force of circumstances. 
 Folly, ignorance, hot passion, sudden, overwhelming 
 temptation are accountable for more sin than cold, 
 malignant purpose." 
 
 "I hope so," said Abby. She was thinking how far 
 she was from the reach of such influences and how 
 safe she was in the shelter of her father's home and of 
 the love of a good man, when Clayton desperately 
 seized this chance to tell her the truth about himself. 
 
 "Abby," he said in a voice that was not quite his 
 own, and that seemed to him to come from a throat 
 all the muscles of which were tense. "I wish to tell 
 you a story." 
 
 "Very well," she said, but the strangeness of his 
 voice and his manner gave her a feeling of dread. 
 
 "I knew a boy once who when he had quitted col- 
 lege went upon an errand to Mexico. Some of his 
 people had property there, mines and other things, 
 and he was sent thither partly that he might look into 
 the business and report upon it, but chiefly, I sup-
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 pose, that he might see a bit of the world and learn 
 to take care of himself. He was gone for a year, and 
 so little did he learn about taking care of himself that 
 he became the victim of a sharp woman and a mer- 
 cenary father and like a fool married the woman." 
 
 "Why do you tell me this?" asked Abby, into 
 whose mind a faint gleam of fear had come. 
 
 Clayton did not heed her inquiry. 
 
 "This stupid boy persuaded himself that he was in 
 love, and the woman and the father so entangled him 
 that, when he found he had deluded himself, he could 
 not retreat. He married her and then, his eyes wide 
 opened by the ghastly consequences of his folly, he 
 left her and left her forever. This boy afterwards met 
 a lovely girl to whom he was drawn by the force of a 
 passion high and holy and it became his duty to tell 
 her the truth." 
 
 Abby was weeping and her face was white. 
 
 "I am that boy," continued Clayton. "I have 
 sinned against you, and I have brought you here that 
 I might make confession to you and ask your forgive- 
 ness." 
 
 Abby made no answer. In a moment all her joy 
 had shriveled up and vanished and she found herself 
 enveloped in misery which almost paralyzed her fac- 
 ulties. 
 
 Clayton leaned towards her and waited for her to 
 speak; but she looked out through her tears into 
 what seemed thick darkness beyond, her and still 
 held her peace. 
 
 He reached for her hand and took it in his. She 
 yielded to him for a moment and then gently with- 
 drew her hand.
 
 In the Church. 135 
 
 "Can you say nothing to me, Abby?" he asked. 
 
 She tried to turn her head to look at him, but the 
 movement ended instantly, and she folded her hands 
 upon her lap and stayed silent. 
 
 Clayton refrained from urging her further. He sat 
 still beside her, loathing himself as he believed she 
 loathed him, and filled with fear that the shock of this 
 revelation might bring grave harm to her. While 
 he waited his mind recurred to the scene at the In- 
 dian cave and to the rapture with which he had found 
 her yielding to his caresses. For him that seemed 
 now clear infamy. 
 
 "Let us go," she said, rising, when many minutes 
 had elapsed without utterance from either of them. 
 He arose with her, and with deference of manner as 
 if he should hardly dare to speak to her, he said : 
 
 "And all is over between us?" 
 
 "I do not know," she answered, wearily, looking" 
 away from him. "I am but an ignorant girl, not used 
 to the world's ways. What shall I do? Have pity 
 upon my weakness. I know not which way to turn." 
 
 "I have sinned deeply against you," he said. 
 
 She seemed as if she did not hear him. 
 
 "How shall I love another woman's husband and 
 not sin against God ?" 
 
 "But I will be free," he dared to say. 
 
 "Divorced ! My people will scorn me if I marry 
 one whose lawful wife is living. No; not that! not 
 that !" 
 
 "There is no hope then?" he said. "The door is 
 closed forever?" 
 
 "It is all darkness to me," she murmured. "It is 
 the bitterness of death."
 
 136 The Quakeress. 
 
 He could say nothing. Then turning to him she 
 said: "Will thee not go back to her and be faithful 
 to her? Then I can take up my heavy burden and 
 bear it and thee can bear thine as thee ought to do. 
 This is what people have meant when they spoke of 
 enduring pain and sorrow. It is hard, but it is better 
 than disgrace." 
 
 "I cannot give you up," he said passionately, and 
 seized her hand and kissed it. She looked down at 
 him as she caught her hand away and said, sadly: 
 
 "That was very sweet to me yesterday; but now! 
 You put shame upon me, Clayton." 
 
 "Forgive me ! O forgive me !" he said. "Surely 
 you cannot believe that I would do that ! I love you 
 so truly that I would willingly give my life to save 
 you from one pang of sorrow. You know that, do 
 you not? I have not sinned against you willingly or 
 deliberately. I could no more help loving you when 
 I saw you than I could stop the beating of my heart. 
 I am not wicked. I am entangled in misfortune." 
 
 "I can believe it," she answered, "but still we must 
 go apart. I will bid thee farewell." 
 
 "Not yet!" he said eagerly. "Hear me but for a 
 moment longer. If you leave me now you will never 
 understand me; you will never cease to censure me. 
 I am willing to go away if you wish it as soon as we 
 leave this church, but O ! do not thrust me aside until 
 I have a chance to remove some of the reproach that 
 rests upon me." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, and then sat down to 
 hear him, but she would not look at him. 
 
 "I pray that you will understand," he said, "that
 
 In the Cliurcli. 
 
 I never for a single moment loved any woman but 
 you. I am actually not responsible for the marriage 
 I told you of. That I was not much more than a 
 child when it occurred is not excuse enough. I was 
 ensnared, cajoled and intimidated. The woman is 
 coarse, illiterate and much older than I am. She 
 never really attracted me for a moment, but in an 
 instant of blind and reckless folly I was made to seem 
 to ask her to marry me. I was surrounded by men 
 of violence, in a lawless mining settlement, and partly 
 to save my life, partly from a false sense of honor, 
 to make good what in my childish ignorance seemed 
 to me my word, I consented to have a ceremony per- 
 formed. The next day I fled and I have never seen 
 the woman since. She may be dead for aught I 
 know." 
 
 Abby looked at his handsome face, pale with the 
 violence of his emotion, and she felt her resolution 
 becoming weaker. 
 
 "I have no right," he continued, "to involve you in 
 the consequences of my weakness and my misfortune. 
 But you have loved me and I know you can pity me 
 and withhold your scorn. I should have fled away 
 as soon as I saw you. The first word I spoke to you 
 was fatal to me. I forgot everything but the longing 
 of my soul for you. Even now I would rather part 
 with my life than give you up; life will have nothing 
 for me when I am forced to do that. But I will do it 
 if you wish. Yes, I will do it." 
 
 "What else is there to do?" asked Abby with a 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 "Nothing else, if that woman lives; I know it, But
 
 138 The Quakeress. 
 
 can we not, when we part, have some communication 
 with one another, so that if she shall die ?" 
 
 "To wish for the death of another person is mur- 
 der !" said Abby. 
 
 "Not to wish for it," he said piteously, "but to wait 
 for it. It may have come already. I will make in- 
 quiry. I will at once try to discover the truth. May 
 I not remain in touch with you until then?" 
 
 Abby did not answer. She found it not easy to re- 
 concile her strong inclination with her conviction of 
 duty. Then in a kind of desperation, Clayton said : 
 
 "Shall I talk to Uncle Ponder about it? Per- 
 haps he may be able to perceive what is just the right 
 thing to do?" 
 
 "No," said Abby, after a moment's pause, "Dr. 
 Ponder can give no help. It is perfectly clear to me 
 that I must see thee no more. No one can advise 
 anything else and be right." 
 
 Clayton buried his face in his hands and bent his 
 head to the back of the pew before him. Abby re- 
 strained her impulse to rise and leave the church. 
 There was a movement in her soul of deep pity for 
 this unhappy man. 
 
 Then Clayton lifted his head and standing up with 
 his face pallid and his eyes filled with tears, said : 
 
 "I will go, then! This accursed life of mine shall 
 afflict you no longer. It was abominable cruelty for 
 me to bring the horror of it into your pure and sweet 
 existence. I should have controlled myself better. 
 But my punishment is heavier than my sin deserves. 
 Here, in this sacred place," he said passionately, lift- 
 ing his right arm and looking upward, "I protest
 
 In the Church. 139 
 
 against it ! I call God to witness that I am a victim 
 of wrong, and no deliberate offender. It is unjust 
 that I should have such ferocious suffering inflicted 
 upon me for such an offence. Is God just? Where 
 is his justice? Where is the justice that would tear 
 my heart from my breast because of a sin that was 
 almost no sin?" 
 
 "Curse God and die !" The words flashed through 
 Clayton's mind, and he felt as if he should like to ac- 
 cept their blasphemous counsel; but he refrained and 
 sank into his seat. Then, leaping to his feet, he said : 
 
 "Come, we will go now," and he led the way down 
 the aisle. At the door he took the key from his pocket 
 and put it in the lock. Then he turned to Abby and 
 said: 
 
 "It is the last time I shall see your face. It is for- 
 ever ! O my dear ! O my love ! my heart is broken !" 
 
 Abby put her hands tightly over her face, and tot- 
 tered as if she would fall. Clayton sprang to her. 
 He thought he would simply keep her from falling. 
 When he touched her she dropped her hands, and in 
 an instant his arms were about her, she held him 
 fast and her face was hidden against his breast. She 
 clung to him, all her good resolutions gone, all her 
 convictions and purposes flung away and forgotten, 
 and while he kissed her over and over again she spoke 
 no more of shame or of parting, but said to him while 
 he caressed her and pressed her close to his heart : 
 
 "I cannot give thee up ! I cannot !" 
 
 But moments of ecstasy are fleeting and when Clay- 
 ton turned again to the church door and unlocked it, 
 Abby felt that she could not, as she was, go out to
 
 140 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 face the unsentimental life of Connock and the people 
 in her home. 
 
 "Go first," she said to Clayton, "and I will stay for 
 a while in the church to compose myself." 
 
 Then when he had gone she turned the key and 
 entering a pew, her face crimson and her hair disor- 
 dered, she fell upon the cushioned seat with her heart 
 beating fast and her brain excited almost to madness. 
 Hardly conscious of what she was doing, but with 
 fear that some one should discover her, she put her 
 hair in order. Then she tried to steady her mind that 
 she might consider her situation. She found that she 
 could not easily do this. She had an impulse to pray; 
 but then suddenly the thought swept in upon her and 
 overwhelmed her: "to love the husband of another 
 woman is to commit crime. I am a criminal;" and 
 then the flush upon her face deepened and she 
 thought with horror of the hot kisses that still lin- 
 gered upon her cheek, kisses that belonged to the 
 lawful wife who had been deserted. What would her 
 mother think, if she could know what had happened? 
 She felt that she could hardly find courage to look 
 into her mother's eyes again. What would George 
 Fotherly think ? For a moment George in his saint- 
 liness seemed lifted up far above the faithless husband 
 who had just left her. Then her passion for Clayton 
 again poured in upon her soul and she almost hated 
 George for appearing to be a better man than Clayton 
 was. Clayton was the prey of evil-doers, not at all 
 himself an evil-doer, and George was better because 
 he had not been tempted; or because no subtle wicked 
 \roman ever laid a trap for him.
 
 "She Fell Upon the Cushioned Scat."
 
 In tKe Cliurcn. 
 
 Her mind reverted then to the worship she had 
 with George in the garden, but a few weeks ago. It 
 seemed ages ago. She had grown old since then. 
 She seemed to have been living amid storm and tem- 
 pest all the intervening time, and while the peace and 
 the quiet of that old life looked lovely to her as she 
 glanced back upon it, she said to herself that in truth 
 it was empty and worthless because she did not love 
 Clayton then. She would rather have tumult and suf- 
 fering with the love than to possess peace without it. 
 Looking forward, she saw that this passion was so 
 fierce and so imperious that she might find herself 
 driven by it far from everything she had been used 
 to reverence, and she shuddered and clenched her 
 hands upon her lap as this vision of evil rose before 
 her mind. 
 
 She remembered how she prayed that day in the 
 garden with George, and now she had wandered so 
 far away from the right that she dared not pray. That 
 seemed horrible, too. What was to be the destiny of 
 a girl who could not ask God to help her and to bless 
 her and save her? 
 
 Those angels there in the window were happy and 
 smiling. She gazed at them until they appeared to 
 be almost real personages. They smiled because their 
 hearts were pure, and all heaven is pure, but heaven 
 is not for the woman whose face has been stained by 
 the kisses of another woman's husband. It would be 
 well for her, she thought, if she had been called there 
 weeks ago; "but then I should not have known Clay- 
 ton," she said; and when she looked at her heart she 
 saw that she had no desire for heaven without him.
 
 142 The Quakeress. 
 
 It was such a heavy burden, all this sorrow and 
 distraction, for the poor little soul that had never be- 
 fore borne a burden of any kind. Disappointed love, 
 she felt, would have been hard enough to bear, but 
 love requited and then in all its fruitions made impos- 
 sible, was too terrible; and yet even this load of misery 
 must be made heavier by the fact that the love was 
 tainted by crime. She tried again to look down the 
 years to come and she could see nothing but long, 
 dreadful waiting for an event that it were murderous 
 to hope for, and which might be postponed until she 
 herself was gone. 
 
 Abby sat long in the church, how long she did not 
 know, and while her pulse grew quieter and the flush 
 passed from her face, her mind lost none of its dis- 
 quiet. She had just resolved to leave the building 
 and to go home, when she was startled to hear voices 
 in the vestry-room near to the chancel. She rose to 
 creep down the aisle to the door, but fear came upon 
 her that she should be seen, so she hicl herself behind 
 the pillar and at that moment Mrs. Ponder came into 
 the church with Dolly. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder always prepared for Sunday by finding 
 the lessons in the Bible for her husband, fixing the 
 numbers of the hymns on the bulletin board and ar- 
 ranging in an orderly manner all the things upon 
 the communion table and in the chancel. 
 
 "Dolly," she said, "look in the index of the hymnal 
 and find the number of the hymn, 'I was a wandering 
 sheep'; that's a good girl! I never could find any- 
 thing alphabetically. I can't remember if I comes 
 before M or after P. Then please get the step-lad- 
 der and fix the numbers of all the hymns for me."
 
 In the Church. 
 
 143 
 
 While Dolly turned the leaves of the hymnal Mrs. 
 Ponder said: 
 
 "It was really very odd for Clayton to leave us so 
 suddenly. Do you think, dear ?" Mrs. Ponder 
 hesitated to express her own thought. 
 
 "He seemed a good deal agitated, and he gave 
 me a note for Abby," answered Dolly. 
 
 "Something was the matter," said Mrs. Ponder. 
 "Abby could hardly have refused him, do you imag- 
 ine ?" 
 
 "It doesn't seem quite possible. He has known 
 her but a few days; but Southern men are ardent 
 lovers and I saw he was dead in love with her. I 
 thought she fancied him." 
 
 "These tranquil Quaker people are skilful at hid- 
 ing their real feelings," said Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "Yes," answered Dolly, "and demure girls like 
 Abby are very deceiving. You can't tell what fire 
 they have down inside of them." 
 
 "She is just a darling girl," said Mrs. Ponder, 
 "whether she loves him or not." 
 
 "Perfectly lovely !" answered Dolly. 
 
 "Nothing would please Uncle or me more than 
 for Clayton to marry her. It would bring her right 
 into the church. I was so afraid she would marry 
 George Fotherly and stay with the Quakers." 
 
 Dolly laughed : "The idea, auntie ! of Clayton 
 bringing anybody into the church ! He wouldn't 
 have the least influence over her in that direction. 
 It wouldn't surprise me if he should go off and enlist 
 in the Confederate army." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder was turning the leaves of the great
 
 J44 The Quakeress. 
 
 Bible on the reading desk to find a lesson in Second 
 Samuel. Her mind for a moment was diverted from 
 the subject of her conversation with Dolly. 
 
 "Dolly," she said. 
 
 "What, auntie?" 
 
 "Do you suppose the Hebrews in the old time used 
 affectionate abbreviations of names just as we do?" 
 
 "To what do you refer?" 
 
 "It seems strange, doesn't it, dear, to think of 
 David's elder brothers calling him 'Dave/ and of old 
 Eli calling Samuel 'Sammy/ but quite likely they did 
 so." 
 
 "I believe Mr. Fotherly would be awfully cut up if 
 Abby should fancy Clayton," said Dolly, with 
 stronger interest in the men of the present time 
 than in those of the past. "I know he loves her." 
 
 "I have thought he might be a good match for 
 you," said Mrs. Ponder, withdrawing to the inner 
 chancel to arrange the table. 
 
 Dolly laughed : "I will never marry a preacher. 
 He is too cold for me, anyhow." 
 
 "I don't know," responded Mrs. Ponder. "There 
 are some advantages in having a preacher for a hus- 
 band. You can quote his sermons at him and com- 
 pel him to live up to them. But George is a farmer 
 more than a preacher, and he is not poor, like most 
 of the members of the apostolic ministry. Nobody 
 will ever steal our diamonds or rob our bank; but 
 these things are not to be despised, Dolly. George 
 Fotherly is rich." 
 
 "I shouldn't fancy a saint for a husband; not even 
 a rich saint."
 
 In the Church. 145 
 
 "Dolly! it is shocking to hear you speak in that 
 manner. But I fear you could never influence 
 George towards the church even if you should marry 
 him. You have too much levity and he is too much 
 set in his opinions. But Abby! I am perfectly sure 
 that if your uncle could once fairly get at her mind 
 he would bring her over. He is irresistible with 
 sane and reasonable Quakers. He converted seven 
 in his first parish." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder and Dolly withdrew to the vestry- 
 room for a moment for some purpose, and Abby, 
 darting from behind the pillar, her cheeks aflame 
 again and with a sense of shame upon her as if she 
 had been an eavesdropper, hurried down the aisle, 
 through the vestibule and out through the great 
 door, which she left open. 
 
 She went home and hid herself in her room; and 
 with her was one thought: Clayton had gone! She 
 felt half glad and half sorry. It was brave and right 
 for him to go away and yet she had a rebellious feel- 
 ing that he was deserting her in the bitterest hour 
 of her trouble. She was eager to receive the note 
 he had written her, and when it came she locked 
 the door of her room while she read it. It was as 
 follows : 
 
 "My Dear Abby, 
 
 It is better that I leave you for the present. I 
 cannot help loving you dearly wherever I am and 
 I do not fear you will cease to love me until I shall 
 be free and shall have a right to claim you for my 
 own. We shall wait; if not with patience, then with
 
 146 The Quakeress. 
 
 hopefulness. ' Every moment I shall have you in my 
 mind and sometimes I will write to you, if I may. 
 Will you give me permission to do so?" 
 
 Abby kissed the letter and thrust it into the 'bosom 
 of her dress. She said to herself that she would con- 
 sider the request that he might write to her, but 
 away down in her inner self she knew that she would 
 permit him to write and would find happiness in 
 reading his letters.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 George Fotherly Tries His Fate. 
 
 ABBY was not used to concealment, and the de- 
 jection which came to her as a result of Clayton's 
 revelation was so sharply contrasted with her usual 
 blithe and pleasant manner that her mother surely 
 would have questioned her respecting the cause of 
 it had not there been another plainly evident reason 
 for the girl's despondency. 
 
 The condition of Isaac Woolford's affairs became 
 worse instead of better as the certainty appeared 
 that the war would not be quickly ended; and Isaac 
 talked of his troubles freely to his wife and his 
 daughter. Thus Rachel, with her own spirits de- 
 pressed by the trials of her husband, had no reason 
 for suspecting that Abby's sorrowfulness was due 
 to any other cause. To the girl it would have been 
 grief enough that trouble had come to them through 
 the entanglements of her father's business, but that 
 she should carry the additional weight of misery 
 that must be completely hidden was almost beyond 
 her strength. It seemed to her horribly selfish that 
 she should have to think of her own suffering at a 
 time when her father needed all the sympathy his 
 loved ones could give him; but she felt indeed that 
 she had hardly any control over the circumstances 
 that had brought affliction to her heart. She had 
 not plotted to love Clayton; nor had she known that 
 
 d47)
 
 148 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 love for him was hopeless. She had a dull feeling 
 that some monstrous ill fate or evil destiny was 
 making her the victim of its malevolence. 
 
 Isaac Woolford was master of the art of smelting 
 iron-ore. At a time when that business was not 
 usually done upon a basis of exact science, Isaac had 
 learned enough of the inner mysteries of the art 
 to enable him to employ precision in his operations, 
 and precision meant economical production and 
 good iron. But a skilled manufacturer must sell 
 his wares, and unless he be wise in the ways of com- 
 merce he may not reach success. Isaac Woolford 
 had little of this wisdom. He was half of a pretty 
 large man, but to be half of a large man may not be 
 so profitable as to be wholly a small man unless a 
 partner can be found who has the qualities that are 
 lacking, and Isaac had no partner. 
 
 Thus his life had been spent in the conduct of a 
 business which sometimes made headway for a brief 
 period and then, because of his want of foresight or 
 of sound judgment or of accurate calculation, lost 
 all that it had gained. More than once the promise 
 was good that he would be made rich, but always 
 some unforeseen event appeared to overthrow his 
 hopes and to entangle him in deeper perplexity and 
 more distressing embarrassment. For many years 
 his office by the furnace had been the scene of a 
 strong effort to keep his business running and to 
 avert bankruptcy. He tried not to go into debt. 
 He was truly scrupulous to avoid buying when he 
 might not be able to pay. But circumstances some- 
 times were desperate. Money for wages must be
 
 George Tries His Fate. 
 
 149 
 
 had, coal must be purchased, ore and limestone must 
 be procured and a growing interest-account must 
 be cared for unless the furnace were to be blown out 
 and his career as an iron-maker ended. 
 
 The banks had long felt uncomfortable about his 
 notes; many of his friends were chilly when borrow- 
 ing was proposed; and now, when the price of iron 
 was booming upward and all his costs for labor and 
 material were increasing, he found himself barred 
 from the best favor of the market by the contract 
 which required him still to sell his iron at the low 
 prices of the peace period. He stood by his con- 
 tract manfully and without complaining, but he 
 could not help sometimes having a feeling of bitter- 
 ness when he figured that, but for it, the soaring 
 values would have permitted him, almost for the 
 first time in his life, to stand firmly upon his feet 
 again, nearly free from the hideous slavery of debt. 
 
 He felt at times like a beaten man. To him who 
 has for long years eagerly striven for success and 
 has always just missed it, there comes at last a sense 
 of bewilderment and fatigue. The struggle seems 
 useless and hopeless. He loses faith in himself. He 
 learns to fear that he has permitted his self-esteem 
 to overestimate his powers. When his conclusions 
 respecting business policy appear to be impregnably 
 sound, he still distrusts them. Where, in his earlier 
 life, he used to feel certain, he now has doubts. He 
 is half inclined to believe that for him the safe way 
 is to put judgment aside and to make bold reckless 
 dashes at the end he wishes to reach, with the possi- 
 bility that chance may help him.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 He is impressed more and more by the belief that 
 there is a mysterious element in the qualities that 
 produce victory, an element that he cannot clearly 
 perceive or get \vithin his grasp. Other men who 
 have swept past him to triumphant issues must know 
 a secret that has been withheld from him. He is 
 puzzled, baffled, faint-hearted, discouraged, tired. 
 If he has ignored religion he may find strong the 
 temptation to dishonesty, or he may at the worst 
 have an impulse to quit the fretful, wearisome, al- 
 most loathsome struggle by the horror of self-de- 
 struction. If he have hold of spiritual things, as 
 Isaac Woolford had, he may find solace in the belief 
 that Providence has kept him at school wherein the 
 mighty virtue of humility may best be learned; he 
 may perceive without the aid of the spoken word 
 that earthly things are indeed vanity; he may bow 
 his head amid his shattered hopes, his wasted for- 
 tunes, and his daily and hourly wrestlings with in- 
 vinpible difficulty, and worship the Power that has 
 made the discipline of sorrow the best preparation 
 for admission to the celestial places. 
 
 The necessity was upon Isaac to obtain some more 
 money. The banks would not lend to him. They 
 would have required the best endorsement upon his 
 paper if money-conditions had been ordinary; but 
 now, with the country entering upon a war of un- 
 known proportions; with gold going up; with cur- 
 rency of all kinds scarce; with apprehension in every 
 mind, and with half-panic fear in all the marts of 
 commerce, Isaac could hardly obtain an endorser, 
 and the banks would have been reluctant to discount
 
 George Tries His Fate. 151 
 
 his notes no matter by whom they should be guar- 
 anteed. 
 
 Isaac had borrowed upon mortgage until all the 
 property he owned was bonded. The grey house in 
 which he lived belonged to his wife. He had given 
 it to her when he married her that she might be 
 provided for against the day of disaster; and now 
 that disaster impended, he shrank from taking it from 
 her and tossing it into the ravenous maw that had 
 swallowed everything else. The proof however was 
 plain that the sacrifice must be made or else he 
 must abandon the struggle, surrender the furnace 
 and his business and turn to some other method of 
 earning bread. His wife was willing he should bond 
 the house, but her husband's incapacity had long 
 been so evident to her that she had no doubt of 
 the meaning of a new mortgage: when the furnace 
 and the ore-beds and the farm-tracts were gone the 
 home would go, and he and she at the beginning 
 of old age would be nearer to outright destitution 
 than when they began life together. She saw the 
 whole truth and she faced it bravely; she would not 
 give a single pang more to Isaac by seeming to 
 desire to withhold her property from him or by shut- 
 ting the only door through which he could catch a 
 gleam of hope. 
 
 -"The five thousand dollars I can get from mort- 
 gaging the house will permit me to complete the 
 contract for pig-iron that is crushing me, and leave 
 something over. I am almost sure, Rachel, that 
 then I can get a share of the profitable business." 
 
 "Thee is more than welcome to the house, Isaac,"
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 she said. "Thee knows about thy affairs. I must 
 trust thee, and trust God. I will not obstruct thy 
 plans. If we lose our home, we shall not lose our 
 love for each other or our trust in Him. Of whom 
 will thee borrow the money?" 
 
 Isaac did not at once answer. He was half- 
 ashamed to mention again the name of the man to 
 whom he had so often gone for help. Then he said : 
 
 "Of George." 
 
 "He is very kind to thee." 
 
 "Yes." said Isaac. "I owe him more than money. 
 Although, to be sure, he has ample security for all 
 that he has lent me." 
 
 "He has not always considered that, I am sure," 
 said Rachel. 
 
 "Perhaps not, but he must know he can lose noth- 
 ing; and then, I suppose " 
 
 "Thee supposes what, Isaac?" asked his wife, when 
 he left the sentence incomplete, and turned his head 
 to look through the open window of the living room. 
 
 "Well, dear, thee knows we have long expected 
 or, rather, we have long hoped, that that perhaps 
 George and Abby might " 
 
 "He is a sluggish wooer," said Rachel. 
 
 "Because he takes for granted Abby will accept 
 him. They have grown up together." 
 
 "I cannot tell whether she will or not," said 
 Rachel. "She seems to care for him." 
 
 "There is no doubt about it," said Isaac, confi- 
 dently, "and so, if the worst comes to the worst with 
 us, our son-in-law will have our property. I have 
 had no little comfort from that reflection. I wish he
 
 George Tries His Fate. 
 
 153 
 
 would settle the matter with Abby. Has thee ever 
 spoken to her about it?" 
 
 "No; I should very much dislike to do that." 
 
 "I think I shall do it," said Isaac, "and I will try 
 to see George at once about the mortgage." 
 
 That evening, Rachel being within, Isaac, sitting 
 upon the porch in the twilight with Abby, moved 
 his chair beside hers and put his arm about her. 
 
 "Thee has always been a great comfort to me, 
 Abigail," he said. "Thy conduct has been becoming 
 to thy membership with Friends, and thee has done 
 much to make the atmosphere of our home one of 
 peace and love." 
 
 "Thank thee, dear father." 
 
 "In all my troubles thee and thy dear mother have 
 made the home a refuge for me. Thee has blessed 
 me by thy sweet and modest behavior to others and 
 by thy loving obedience to and tender sympathy for 
 thy parents. I could wish for no improvement in thy 
 demeanor. Thee has fulfilled all my best hopes for 
 thee." 
 
 There was a little pang in Abby's heart as she 
 thought that these words could not have been 
 spoken had her father known of the relation into 
 which she had come with Clayton Harley; but she 
 answered : 
 
 "Thee and mother have put a debt of love and 
 devotion upon me that I can never repay." 
 
 "Thy happiness has always been our great con- 
 cern; and will always be. When thee shall find a 
 good husband, we shall rejoice with thee that thy 
 cup of happiness is full." 
 
 Abby did not respond.
 
 154 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Mother and I," continued Isaac, "have thought 
 for a long time that George cared for thee, and that 
 would give us great pleasure. He has been with 
 thee much and has seemed to prefer thee to others, 
 but" 
 
 "He is just my friend," said Abby, interrupting 
 him. She dreaded the question her father seemed 
 to intend. 
 
 "I thought perhaps he might have said a word to 
 thee or in some way indicated to thee what his feel- 
 ing for thee is." 
 
 "No, father, he has not." 
 
 It was upon Isaac's mind to tell her of his money- 
 obligations to George and of the proposal that he 
 should take a mortgage upon the grey house; but 
 upon reflection he shrank from applying a merce- 
 nary impulse to the girl's mind; so he ended the con- 
 versation thus: 
 
 "I would not pry into thy feelings, Abigail, dear, 
 but I am confident that thee will perceive, when he 
 shall speak to thee, that he is an exceptional man and 
 fit to be the husband even of so dear a girl as thee." 
 
 In response to a request from Isaac that George 
 would come to see him within a day or two. the 
 farmer drove over to Connock the next evening, 
 before darkness had fallen, and when he reached the 
 grey house, Abby sat alone upon the front-porch, 
 behind the clematis vine. Isaac and Rachel had 
 driven to Plymouth to make a call. 
 
 George believed himself fortunate that he found 
 Abby thus alone. He had been brooding over the
 
 George Tries His Fate. 155 
 
 thought that he saw in the woods on the picnic day 
 that which looked as if Clayton Harley were finding 
 favor with Abby. He had gone home blaming him- 
 self for his confidence in the belief, for which there 
 was no warrant in anything but Abby's friendly treat- 
 ment of him that she would consent to be his wife 
 whenever he should ask her. He had rested upon 
 that confidence, and put off again and again the obli- 
 gation he had to speak to her. No other suitor had 
 been in sight; their close relations had been continued 
 so many years without interruption; she seemed to 
 consent to his suit by favoring him with her com- 
 panionship; she was the kind of woman, he thought, 
 who could never marry any one but a Friend, and 
 he was the only available Friend that came near to 
 her; and so he had taken for granted that which 
 should have had demonstration, and now he thought 
 of himself as foolish in not having obtained the word 
 of consent which he believed would be given to him. 
 The fear of Clayton's rivalry was in his soul; but 
 it was not strong enough to overbear the assurance 
 he had carried with him for years that Abby's destiny 
 was to become his wife. And so, when he greeted 
 her upon the porch this night, with his mind made 
 up that the matter should be ended now, he permit- 
 ted himself to have no doubt of her answer to his 
 question. 
 
 When they had sat together for a little while, as 
 the ruddy glow in the western sky faded into dull 
 grey, he proposed that they should walk around into 
 the garden, and presently they sat again in the old 
 familiar place, upon the rustic-bench beneath the 
 apple tree.
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 Knowing that Abby's parents might at any mo- 
 ment return, George would lose no time in speaking 
 to her of that of which his heart was full. 
 
 She sat with her hands folded upon her lap and 
 with thoughts of Clayton coming now and then into 
 her mind. He half-turned towards her, and with one 
 arm resting upon the back of the bench, he said : 
 
 "Does thee remember, Abby, long, long ago, on a 
 First-day morning after meeting, when I was a big 
 boy and thee was just a dear little girl, how I went 
 and plucked a bunch of buttercups over by the South 
 wall of the meeting-house yard, and gave them to 
 thee? And does thee remember how thee blushed 
 all over thy sweet face and put up thy lips to kiss me ; 
 and how Friend Armbruster came to thee when thee 
 would pin the posy to thy frock and said thee must 
 not, and how I said thee must, and withstood her 
 and had thee pin it there? Does thee remember all 
 that, Abby?" 
 
 "Yes," said Abby, "I remember it very well indeed. 
 And I took the flowers home and pressed them in a 
 book, and, I am not sure, but I think I have them 
 yet." 
 
 "I have known thee many years, as a child, as a 
 lass and then as a woman, and thee has seemed some- 
 how to be very near to me and very important to 
 me; but now at times when I think of thee, big as 
 I am, I am half afraid of thee." 
 
 "O George! How strange for thee to say such a 
 thing!" 
 
 "For Abby the child and for Abby the lass, the 
 boy was an equal, a comrade, a playmate; but now
 
 George Tries His Fate. 157 
 
 there is something about thee the sacredness of thy 
 womanhood, I suppose that fills me with a kind of 
 awe as I consider thee.'' 
 
 "Perhaps I feel somewhat so of thee, George. Thee 
 is so big and strong and sure, beside my littleness and 
 feebleness ; and when I hear thee preach I am sure 
 thee has left me far behind in spiritual things. I have 
 not the Inner Light, George, as thee has it; perhaps 
 I am too much a sinner." 
 
 "It shines all about thee, Abby. Thee has but to 
 open the doors of thy soul and it will fill thee with 
 peace I do not think of thee when I am moved to 
 speak in meeting, but I do believe there is in my mind 
 a sense of thy presence and that it helps me." 
 
 "I hear thee with wonder sometimes; and I know 
 that thee speaks not with thine own power. But if 
 the Spirit speak through thee what am I, forlorn and 
 sinful that thee should gain anything from me?" 
 
 "I will tell thee how it is, Abby. The Divine Love 
 that implies me to preach urges me to cherish thee. 
 It has many forms, and one form is that which makes 
 thee seem precious to me above every other earthly 
 thing." 
 
 Abby had seen whither he led the talk, and now 
 she began to dread that he should continue it. 
 
 "Did thee say," asked George, "that thee had kept 
 the little bunch of flowers I gave thee long ago? The 
 memory must be pleasant to thee then." 
 
 "Yes, George." 
 
 "When I gave it to thee, though I was but a boy, 
 and thee a child, I loved thee, Abby." 
 
 "I knew it, George."
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "And did thee know I had loved thee every day 
 yea, truly every day, and every hour since that time ?" 
 
 "I thought so." 
 
 "I love thee now, dear Abby, far, far more than I 
 have ever done! Thee is with me in my thought al- 
 ways. When J wake in the morning I think first of 
 our Father and then that he has been very gracious 
 in teaching me to love thee. I carry thee with me 
 into my toil and my perplexities; into my reading 
 and my meditation. Thee goes with me into the 
 harvest-field and into the market-place. I sit alone 
 upon my porch and look out over the hills and the 
 river and thee is there. When the dusk comes about 
 me and I can see only the lights flashing in the valley 
 and the shining stars above me, I am not lonely if I 
 have the vision of thy dear face before me. I have 
 thee in my prayers, for always I pray for thee that 
 thee may forever have sweetness and holiness in thy 
 life and that thee may give thy love to me. Has God 
 answered that prayer, Abby? Does thee indeed love 
 me as I love thee?" 
 
 The tears were trickling upon her face. She 
 feared to speak. What should she say ? She could not 
 bear with a word to blast this man's hope and to rob 
 him of the desire of his whole life. He seemed so 
 high and beautiful to her, too; and for an instant 
 Clayton was mean beside him. 
 
 "Thee does not answer me," said George, when 
 she hesitated to reply. "Surely thee knows thy mind, 
 for thee says my love was not hidden from thee." 
 
 "It is hard for me to find just the right word to 
 say to thee," she said. "Thee has not spoken to me 
 before, and I did not look for thee to speak to me in
 
 George Tries His Fate. J 59 
 
 this way now, and thus I am unprepared. Indeed, 
 I am in sore difficulty and perplexity and I know not 
 what to do." 
 
 "Thee would have no difficulty, would thee, if thee 
 loved me truly and thy soul answered to mine? Thy 
 hesitation fills me with fear." 
 
 "It must not be so," she said, and then turning her 
 face to his she laid her hand upon his arm, and speak- 
 ing tenderly, she continued : "Thee is my old and 
 very, very dear friend. Thee seems somehow a part 
 of my life, and if thee should scorn me or turn from 
 me I should have bitter pain. I could not give up 
 thy friendship. But, dear George, when thee de- 
 mands my love thee asks something I cannot quite 
 control. I am not sure. Must it be settled now?" 
 
 "If thee is not sure, then I dread that thee does 
 not love me; and if thee does not love me now, how 
 can I hope that thee ever will? O my precious Abby! 
 I did not conceive that this was possible. I thought 
 thee safely mine always and there was no future for 
 me in my plan of life but thee was with me as my 
 darling wife." 
 
 "I am not worthy to be thy wife, George." 
 
 "Do not speak so of thyself, Abby. It angers me, 
 and thee must remember that truth is too sacred even 
 for humility to trespass upon it. Thee is more than 
 worthy, and if thee could love me and give thyself 
 to me, I would surrender all my life to thee and give 
 thee happiness. Thee cannot guess what I would be 
 willing to suffer for thy sake. When I think of thee 
 it seems as if I could not be content until I have 
 shown thee the greatness of my love by enduring
 
 160 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 some great pain for thee. How shall I do that? 
 Must it be that I can prove my love only by patience 
 under the fierce anguish of losing thee? The bitter- 
 ness of death would be in that, but I will do it for thee 
 dearest, if thee cannot find peace with me." 
 
 Again she put her hand upon his arm, and tried 
 to frame her white face into a smile. Her smile 
 faded instantly when she looked at his face clouded 
 with disappointment. 
 
 "Dear George," she said, "thee does high honor to 
 me by giving to me a love so noble. I believe thee 
 fully. Thee is capable of complete self-renunciation, 
 but I should have much sorrow if I caused thee pain. 
 I wish indeed, indeed I wish that I could love 
 thee as thee loves me, but George, I cannot. At 
 least I cannot now. Can we not wait ? Who can tell 
 what the future may have for thee and for me ?" 
 
 "And meanwhile? What shall I do if I cannot be 
 with thee in the old way? If I cannot have joy in 
 thy company? Could thee bear to go Avith me to 
 meeting and elsewhere, with matters as they are?" 
 
 "Yes, thee must not forsake me. I need thy help, 
 thy kind words, thy strong example. Stay by me 
 and let me find comfort in thy dear friendship, and 
 now that I know thy heart more fully, perhaps out 
 of all this perplexity there may come some vision of 
 the right way. Perhaps thee may find thy feelings 
 for me change." 
 
 "Never!" said George. 
 
 The fear grew upon him, as she gently thrust his 
 love away from her, that he had guessed truly when 
 he saw her walking with Clayton upon the forest-
 
 George Tries His Fate. ^i 
 
 road. Clayton's name came to his lips and almost to 
 his utterance now that he could find no other explan- 
 ation for Abby's repulsion of him than that the 
 stranger had won her heart. But he restrained him- 
 self. He could not find courage to demand that she 
 should surrender even to him a confidence so sacred. 
 He was oppressed, however, by the thought that if 
 indeed the girl loved Clayton Harley, all this talk 
 about friendship and fellowship between her and 
 George Fotherly was but an attempt to screen the 
 truth from him and to soothe him and allay his sus- 
 picions until secrecy should be no longer possible. 
 He would not tell his thought to Abby, but after a 
 moment's silence he said to her: 
 
 "Thee speaks of my friendship being a comfort to 
 thee; but what is to be the end of it? If thee should 
 not give thy heart to me, thee will give it to an- 
 other, and then thee will want no comfort from me, 
 and friendship will seem but a poor, cold thing. Thee 
 perceives, does thee not, that love is a matter for 
 two, not for three? If I am not thy husband I am 
 nothing to thee. If thee is a wife but not mine, 
 friendship will be but ceaseless pain to me. I can 
 bear to live with less than love from thee if thee re- 
 mains as thee is, but what shall life be if thee loves 
 another? The path is very dark for me even now." 
 
 "I think I shall never marry, George," said poor 
 Abby, feeling as if her secret were a sore burden as 
 this man spoke to her so earnestly. If she could 
 just tell him all, how great the relief would be ! But 
 this was impossible. 
 
 "That has been idly said, many, many times," was
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 George's answer. "It has no meaning usually. What 
 thee means I do not try to fathom. God made men 
 and women for marriage as their best destiny." 
 
 "I do not intend to speak lightly, or to deny that 
 thee speaks truly. Indeed it seems to me now, as I 
 consider everything, that I shall not marry; but, 
 George, would it comfort thee at all if I should say 
 to thee that I will never marry any one but thee?" 
 
 George hesitated. "It might be selfish," he said, 
 "and most unkind to thee if I should suffer thee to 
 bind thyself with such a promise. No, I will not 
 have thee do it, though I cannot hide from thee that 
 thee tempts me sorely when thee speaks of it." 
 
 "I will marry none but thee !" she said, again put- 
 ting her hand upon his arm, and looking with grave 
 eyes upon him. "I trust, dear George, thee will for- 
 give me that I can go no farther. I thank thee from 
 a full heart that thee has given me thy love and that 
 thee deals so generously with me." 
 
 He took her hand and both of them rose from the 
 bench on which they sat. 
 
 "If I might kiss thy hand as I thank thee ?" he 
 said, and he looked timidly at her while he moved 
 to lift her hand to his lips. 
 
 "Lean down on me," she said, "while I tell thee 
 something." 
 
 Then, still holding his hand, as he bent his head to 
 her, she put her other hand upon his shoulder and 
 gently kissed his lips. 
 
 "I owe thee that, my dearest friend, for all thy love 
 and thy goodness to me. How shall I ever repay 
 thee?" 
 
 She saw the tears glisten in his eyes as they drew
 
 George Tries His Fate 163 
 
 apart and turning into the garden path, slowly 
 walked to the house, and her heart was sore for him. 
 His thought went back to that other woman whose 
 hand he had kissed, and he saw with vision clearer 
 than it had ever been that hell or heaven may be in 
 one act. 
 
 That other woman, passing the south window in 
 the second story of the parsonage, saw Abby give 
 to the Quaker preacher the pure kiss of friendship. 
 She was both amused and angry. 
 
 "The sly little hussy!" she said. "She wants to 
 flirt with them both. Or has she indeed thrown Clay- 
 ton clear over? And that is the stern moralist who 
 prayed heaven for forgiveness because I let him kiss 
 my hand ! I am beginning to get light on these de- 
 mure Quakers!" 
 
 Hardly had Abby and George found their way to 
 the porch, when Isaac's carriage came to the front- 
 gate and he and Rachel greeted George. Rachel 
 knew the purpose of George's coming and summon- 
 ing Abby, the two women entered the house, leaving 
 the men together in the darkness that had begun to 
 gather behind the vine-wrapped pillars. 
 
 After some random talk Isaac explained to George 
 the condition of his finances a familiar story and 
 asked him to lend him five thousand dollars upon the 
 security of the house. George was grave. 
 
 "Thee should consider very seriously, Friend 
 Isaac," he said, "before thee mortgages thy home." 
 
 "George, I have considered. It is the only bit of 
 property I have unburdened. In truth, it is not mine, 
 but Rachel's; and she is willing to bond it so that my 
 present difficulties may be bridged over."
 
 164 The Quakeress. 
 
 "But, what reason has thee for thinking thee will 
 be in a stronger position when this new money is 
 gone?" 
 
 "It will carry me to the end of the losing contract 
 which has borne so heavily upon me, and leave me a 
 remainder which will enable me to stock up and run 
 the furnace with high prices for my product." 
 
 "Thee is right not to be despondent, but thee will 
 forgive me if I say I remember more than once be- 
 fore thee has been very sanguine only to encounter 
 further disappointment." 
 
 "Disappointment!" said Isaac, bitterly. "Yes! 
 that has become a familiar companion. But I must 
 risk it again, or fail and give up the furnace." 
 
 "Why does thee not take a partner who has some 
 money?" asked George. 
 
 "Find me a fit one and I will," answered Isaac. "I 
 will gladly take thee if thee will come with me." 
 
 George laughed gently. "No, no!" he said. "I 
 know nothing of iron manufacture. I should prove 
 another burden for thee to carry." 
 
 "I should have no fear of that. Thee has the gift 
 of good fortune. Everything thee touches seems to 
 turn to gold." 
 
 "Alas!" said George, "thee sadly misjudges me. 
 Each heart knoweth his own bitterness; and if thee 
 could know mine as I know it, Friend Isaac, thee 
 would perceive that I too have painful failures and 
 disappointments." 
 
 "But thy business enterprises always have suc- 
 cess !" 
 
 "Yes," George answered, "I suppose they do;"
 
 George Tries His Fate. 165 
 
 and then he thought how gladly he would exchange 
 success there, for the word of promise that he longed 
 for from the lips of this unhappy man's daughter. 
 Then he said : 
 
 "I cannot see thee suffer, and I will stand by thee, 
 Friend Isaac, but thee knows my means are not limit- 
 less, and I cannot safely go much further." 
 
 "It is the last time, George. The very last time." 
 
 "And then, of course," continued George, when 
 he had reflected for a moment, "thee fully recognizes 
 that the security given by this house is not for me 
 the best security." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Thee knows that I would not foreclose on thee, 
 Friend Isaac. Should I, for the sake of these dollars, 
 take thy roof from the heads of thy wife and daugh- 
 ter? I could never recover the money unless I 
 should survive all three of you, and I am not likely 
 to do that." 
 
 "But thee will let me have the money? There will 
 be no reason for foreclosure. I shall surely pay thee 
 the interest promptly." 
 
 "I am sure thee will try. Yes, make thy mind 
 easy; thee shall have it." 
 
 "I thank thee heartily for thy kindness." Isaac 
 stopped. Then he moved uneasily upon his chair; 
 he cleared his throat twice or three times. George 
 perceived that he had something more to say and 
 found the task not an easy one. 
 
 "I have thought, sometimes, George," he said at 
 last, "that the property might all go to thee at any 
 rate, when Rachel and I are gone."
 
 166 The Quakeress. 
 
 "How is that?" asked George, with a suspicion of 
 his meaning. 
 
 "I hardly know if I am right in expressing myself, 
 but we are old friends and thee has been most gen- 
 erous to me, so I may be pardoned if I say that 
 Rachel and I have thought thee had regard for Abby. 
 I do not know if thee has or what thy purpose is, but 
 I may tell thee plainly that, even if thee were a poor 
 man, that would give us joy." 
 
 "But Abby must control that, does thee not 
 think?" said George gently. 
 
 "I am sure she cares for thee," said Isaac.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The Other Woman. 
 
 WHEN George mounted his horse to return home, 
 Abby and her mother came from the house and stood 
 with Isaac at the gate to bid him farewell. He waved 
 his hand to them as he turned the horse into the 
 highway, and while the dusk began to deepen into 
 night slowly made his way downward toward the 
 river. When he had crossed the bridge and trav- 
 ersed the bit of road that wound about the roaring 
 blast-furnace, whose blazing torch covered all the 
 near landscape with ruddy light, he passed the cor- 
 ner of the rock at the mouth of the cleft in the hill 
 through which he must go to reach the summit. In 
 that canyon, deep between the hills and almost over- 
 arched by the great trees that bordered it, there was 
 darkness made blacker by the glare of the furnace- 
 flame that fell on rock and field and tree by the river- 
 edge. Only the grey floor of the roadway was visi- 
 ble and that, as it came to a turn in its winding move- 
 ment upward, disappeared abruptly now and then so 
 that there seemed to be a barrier to further progress. 
 If George had wheeled about he might have had 
 glimpses through the trees of the lights that marked 
 the line of the street upon the Connock hill.. But 
 he did not turn; he pushed onward in the sombre 
 depth of the pass that had in it the hush of the night, 
 save for the tramp of the horse-hoofs and the plash- 
 
 (167)
 
 168 TLe Quakeress. 
 
 ing of the rivulet that ran down by the thick bushes 
 close by the road among the boulders that obstructed 
 its course to the river. 
 
 Man and horse knew well the way, and the man, 
 with the rein lying loose upon the neck of the beast, 
 heeded neither the heavy gloom of the pathway nor 
 the soft music of the hurrying brook, for the shadow 
 upon his soul was deeper than that which involved 
 his road. 
 
 Until he had parted from the people at the grey 
 house and freed himself from the bustle of the village 
 street, he could not command his faculties to exam- 
 ine attentively the strange condition in which he had 
 been placed by his interview with Abby. Before he 
 saw her in the wood with Clayton on the picnic day 
 the thought that she might not be his wife had never 
 once come to him. Ever since as a youth marriage 
 had become a part of his plan of life, he had regarded 
 union with Abby Woolford as a certainty; and when, 
 after Clayton had appeared to him as a possible rival, 
 he had reflected upon his life-long friendship with 
 her, upon her indisputable liking for him, and the 
 improbability that she would be strongly attracted 
 to one who was not a Friend, he had still been con- 
 fident that Abby would accept him when he should 
 offer himself. 
 
 And now his mind was so bewildered by disap- 
 pointment and grief and the complete subversion of 
 all his plans that he found it hard to frame a reason- 
 able conjecture of the motive for Abby's strange con- 
 duct. That Clayton Harley had, in some manner, in- 
 volved himself with her, he believed; but, if she cared
 
 The Other Woman. 169 
 
 at all for Clayton, why should she voluntarily pledge 
 herself never to marry any one but George Fotherly? 
 There was, for George, a comforting element of 
 hopefulness in that pledge, and yet he was enough 
 master of his reason to perceive clearly that if she 
 loved him she would not have refused him, and if 
 she did not love him now what hope could there be 
 that she would ever love him? No woman could 
 have had a better chance to know her mind about a 
 man than Abby had had in her long and close fellow- 
 ship with him. She must have thought often of him 
 as a suitor, and considered if she would take him for 
 her husband. She had refused to take him when first 
 he came to her and entreated her; how then should 
 she incline to do so upon a future day? 
 
 Her preference for another man alone could ex- 
 plain her reluctance to commit herself to George, 
 and in whatever manner that fact could be explained, 
 George found growing in his heart fierce hatred of 
 Clayton. The more he brooded over the loss of the 
 affection that was rightfully his, and the tragic mis- 
 chance that had summoned a frivolous boy to snatch 
 his beloved one from him and to stab him to the 
 heart, the more his rage deepened. Of all the 
 wrongs he had known in this world of bitter injustice 
 it seemed to him the most atrocious that this stranger 
 should have come at such a time and should have 
 found favor with the woman who was precious to 
 him. For Clayton to be preferred would have been 
 humiliating had George not loved Abby, but to be 
 supplanted where he had given affection which was 
 almost exalted into worship was maddening.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 He regarded the usurper with malevolence that 
 became ferocious as he cherished it. Swelling within 
 his breast was deadly hatred which, as he pressed for- 
 ward among the shadows of the road, gained such 
 proportions that he found luxury in permitting his 
 imagination to think of himself as seizing the South- 
 erner and slaying him and trampling upon him and 
 tearing him asunder. The Quaker became a savage. 
 Hell swept in upon his soul as his passion rose into 
 fury. He became cruel with hate and pain. He held 
 his teeth hard together and breathed fiercely through 
 them, and struck his clenched hand upon his thigh. 
 To be rid of his rival and to hold Abby to himself, 
 he felt as if he could steep his hands in blood. And, 
 as he nursed his rage and found a kind of exultant 
 joy in it, the thought, which would press upon him, 
 of his religious profession and his preaching of the 
 Gospel, was repelled with angry disdain. They 
 seemed half contemptible. The fire within his brain 
 burned with such volcanic fury that he was almost 
 ready to sacrifice everything, his faith, his life and 
 his hopes and to plunge forward to perdition if he 
 might rend the heart of Clayton Harley. 
 
 Then, when the wave of wild passion reached its 
 topmost height and the darkness of the glen was sun- 
 shine in comparison with the black misery of his 
 spirit, the revulsion came. He shuddered to find 
 within him the murderous wish that, as he well knew, 
 carried with it almost the guilt of murder. In upon 
 him poured, as in a flood, the meaning of what he 
 had been; of the call that had come to him to follow 
 Christ; of his obedience to the summons; of the ra-
 
 The Other Woman. 
 
 diance with which the Spirit had filled the secret 
 chambers of his being; of his ministry of exhortation 
 in the meeting-house; of the sweet serenity and peace 
 that had been his when he had heeded the Voice 
 that spoke to him within; above all, of the hours he 
 had spent in wrestling prayer against temptation, 
 and of the mighty victories he had won as he came 
 forth from the chamber where he had met with God. 
 
 By nature fierce and passionate, the conflict with 
 evil often had been hard, but now he was sure that 
 all the other battles of his Christian warfare were 
 tnfling compared with that he must fight against this 
 new and frightful temptation to hate his rival. He 
 would try to make the fight by remembering the suf- 
 fering of Christ and the burden of obligation that lay 
 upon George Fotherly to endure even bitterest suf- 
 fering patiently for Christ's sake and to vanquish. 
 as the Saviour did, the Satanic force that assailed 
 him. He saw suddenly with horror that however 
 terrible the loss that had come to him from the sup- 
 planter, far more terrible was the wild-beast passion 
 that had almost mastered hfin and made him an as- 
 sassin. Then he turned his thought strongly to 
 Christ as his one hope and his salvation, and lifting 
 high his hand he cried piteously to Him as if to ask 
 Him for help. 
 
 The horse, startled by the cry and the gesture, 
 shied to the side of the road and thrust the rider's 
 leg harshly against the rock. George came back at 
 once it seemed to him from another world, and then 
 ashamed and penitent, but with a lighter heart, he 
 put his horse to the canter and soon came to his 
 gateway.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 It was open, and he hurried to the house. When 
 the man had taken away the horse, George entered 
 the hall, where the lights were burning, and flung his 
 hat and whip and gloves upon the table. 
 
 The house seemed lonely and still still but for 
 the slow click, click of the tall clock that stood in the 
 recess by the dining-room door. George had often 
 thought of the day when he should bring a beloved 
 wife into that hall and make her mistress of all the 
 house. He laughed bitterly now as, throwing him- 
 self into an arm-chair opposite the clock, he remem- 
 bered his happiness when he had dreamed of Abby 
 standing there and how fulfilment of that dream had 
 now become impossible. His house was empty and 
 forlorn. There would be no mistress now; bachelor- 
 hood was to be his doom, drear solitude with the 
 round of care and toil from which all joy was van- 
 ished. He counted over the farmer friends about 
 him who had wives and sweet domestic life. The 
 preciousness of these possessions had often been 
 borne in upon him, but never as it was now when the 
 door to the fair kingdom of Love was shut in his 
 face. The bachelor men of his years whom he knew, 
 what had they for compensation? Some were pro- 
 fane and of gross conduct; some were queer and un- 
 pleasant. He could not think of life as they lived it 
 without feeling of repulsion. The longer he dwelt 
 upon the two alternatives the deeper the woman- 
 hunger came upon him, and the more intolerable ex- 
 istence appeared to him without a partner into whose 
 life he could merge his own. 
 
 He glanced upward as the thoughts chased each
 
 "lie OtKer Woman. 
 
 173 
 
 other through his mind, and from the picture-frame 
 George Fox seemed to be looking at him with those 
 strange dark eyes that had something unearthly in 
 them, George Fotherly arose from his chair and 
 walked to the foot of the staircase. Turning, the eyes 
 were still upon him. With a slight laugh, he went 
 to the other end of the hall by the front door and the 
 eyes of the picture followed him. He came back, and 
 standing before the engraving he looked straight at 
 the face of the first Quaker and said in half-mocking 
 voice : 
 
 "What hast thou to say to me about this business, 
 thou leathern-breeched Friend? Can I learn any- 
 thing of thee? All through thy youth and until far 
 on toward the end of thy life thou didst not know 
 the love of woman; or didst thou fear it, George? 
 Was it true of thee, thou ancient Quaker, that thou 
 perceivedst a snare in the pressure of the soft hand 
 and the sweetness of the kiss of one who should love 
 thee; and so, while thou didst strive to climb the 
 heights of holiness thou didst shun it all as if it had 
 a taint of sin? Was it in recompense for this self- 
 mastery that thy vision was made so clear that thou 
 couldst read the very souls of men and even foresee 
 the shadow of death creeping upon them? Was it 
 revealed to thee, Friend George, as thou earnest 
 nearer and nearer to the Almighty, that it is better 
 for man to be alone, and that the price of sainthood 
 is the supremest sacrifice? No, for when thou hadst 
 learnt to breathe the very breath of Heaven thou 
 didst not any longer suffer Paul to be thy counselor, 
 but didst consider in what manner a far holier One
 
 The 
 
 174 ne uaeress. 
 
 made the marriage of the man with the woman the 
 type of his own mystical union with his Bride, the 
 Church. Didst thou not then find that it was alto- 
 gether well for thee, thou strange, clean-souled, 
 highly-gifted George, that God had given thee one 
 to love thee better than she loved herself, and to be 
 thy dear consort forever and forever in the Heaven 
 of Heavens? I would that thou couldst speak to me 
 now, instead of fixing thine eyes upon me and tell me 
 which is better. The high spiritual things were 
 reached by thee without a wife, but God has given 
 to me a love of woman with which it seems to me I 
 might, her sweet counsel helping me, go surely heav- 
 enward and uplift her with me, hand-in-hand. I 
 honor thee and fain would follow thee but not alone, 
 until I too shall be permitted to see His face." 
 
 "And thou, William," he said, wheeling about and 
 looking at the portrait of Penn which hung upon the 
 other wall. "I see in thine eyes no strange, wonder- 
 ful light from the spirit world. Thy face is bland and 
 smiling. Thou art well-fed and carnal. I see thy 
 courtier-practice in thy countenance. Shall I take 
 counsel of thee, thou smug and prosperous Quaker, 
 who knowest little of the discipline of adversity? If 
 George says 'marry not in youth/ and thou sayest 
 'I married twice,' where then lieth my path of wis- 
 dom and felicity ? Shall a man truly love two women 
 in perfect spiritual union, or is it possible that love 
 is but once and then forever? And if so, William, 
 which one was thy first love and last, and which one 
 hast thou claimed in Heaven? William, I like not 
 thy example, more than I like that smirk upon thy
 
 The Other Woman. 175 
 
 rotund face, which is an offence to me whilst my 
 heart is bitter. Thee and George have no comfort 
 for me in my sorrow. I leave thee to adjust thy dif- 
 ferences, and I take with me my own sacred passion 
 for my dearest. If God shall give her to me, I will 
 marry her in spite of George. If God shall then take 
 her away from me, I will marry no other, in despite 
 of William." 
 
 He turned away and flinging open the front door, 
 went out into the darkness and, sitting in his great 
 chair, he put his hands over his face, and held them 
 there while they were wet with tears. 
 
 When he had grown calmer he looked out through 
 the night over the valley below him and permitted 
 his thought to dwell upon Abby. She seemed love- 
 lier and more precious than ever, now that the 
 chance was become small that he would ever possess 
 her. His imagination and his passion glorified her. 
 
 The ideal woman in each man's mind never lives 
 physically. The real woman may be disappointing. 
 Now and then she is vulgar. The young lover who 
 has tasted spiritual love is always sure he has found 
 her; but her radiance is dimmed by the commonplace 
 of familiar daily life. It is the woman of the mind 
 that men love and long for; the woman who does not 
 and in the flesh cannot exist. They dream of her, 
 and always she has perfect loveliness; the sweet spirit 
 and physical beauty without flaw or wrinkle. Old 
 married lovers find their ideal coming nearer and 
 nearer as they both become less and less comely in 
 body. The pure in heart will have their dreams come 
 true in Heaven. The ideal woman is the possible
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 woman possible spiritually. We foretaste Heaven 
 as we yearn for her. There, in the union of two pure 
 natures in one being, the true woman will be forever 
 the spouse, the light, the life and the joy of the man 
 whom God has made her husband. 
 
 When marriage had appeared to George to be a 
 thing he could turn to at any time he had put it by 
 for a convenient season. Always he felt that he had 
 but to ask Abby and she would at once consent; why, 
 then, should he ask her until all things were ready? 
 Then he would permit his lips to speak the love that 
 was in his heart and hers, and then he would make 
 her his wife and bring her to the home he had pre- 
 pared for her upon the hill-top. But when all his 
 plans were roughly overset, and easy, tranquil, com- 
 placent movement towards wedlock was no longer 
 possible, then, suddenly, he found within himself an 
 imperious wish for speedy marriage. 
 
 As he sat there and considered his vanished hopes 
 and frustrated plans the sense of loneliness deepened 
 within him and to have a wife and mistress for his 
 home seemed so necessary to his peace that he felt 
 as if he could not longer wait for her. 
 
 Never before, whilst the love of a woman was 
 assured to him, had he known with what fierceness the 
 soul may hunger for its mate. Now, with his own 
 desire baffled and his heart craving the love that 
 was denied it, he thought of the myriads of women. 
 helpless and voiceless, who sit with folded hands hid- 
 ing deep their strong yearnings for wifehood and 
 motherhood; and of the sad mute tragedy of the 
 loveless lives whose longings are smothered, whose
 
 The Other Woman. 177 
 
 passion smoulders, and which wait famishing and 
 sorrowful for those who will never come. "He com- 
 eth not !" that, he now for the first time discerned, 
 is the wailing heart-cry of multitudes who dare not 
 speak the words, but who in silent anguish surrender 
 the secret passionate hope that gave to existence all 
 its brightness. 
 
 But for the man, he thought, the case is different. 
 He is the waited-for. He need not suffocate his na- 
 ture. If one woman shut him out, another may open 
 her heart to him; and the earth swarms with lovely 
 women. Is there none for George Fotherly? His 
 hand fell upon the table whereon Dolly Harley had 
 made venture into the mysteries of palmistry. Like 
 a flash of light the remembrance of her darted in 
 upon his mind. He drew a short breath, and his 
 heart-beat quickened. He arose, and thrusting his 
 hands deep into his pockets, he strode up and down 
 the length of the porch. He saw her face and her 
 form; he caught the sound of her voice; he heard her 
 bright gay laugh. She had favored him, surely. He 
 had thought her free and forward; but by what right, 
 indeed, should he judge her? What was his skill in 
 woman's ways? Was it not presumption for him to 
 believe that he could read her soul? Might he not 
 have mistaken the mere innocent lightness and gaiety 
 of this young creature for an offence, and was he not 
 guilty of uncharitableness? He felt disposed to re- 
 pent his harshness. The stern severity of the Quaker 
 preacher was not the right measure of the conduct 
 of one who had grown up among the world's people. 
 At any rate, she was fair, and alluring, and she was
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 a woman, and the longing for woman-help was 
 strong in his soul just now; so, why should he not 
 see her once more, and, while rinding pleasure in her 
 company, make another estimate of her? 
 
 The thought rushed in upon him that she had 
 asked him to ride with her. He would accept the 
 invitation. No harm could come from that. Abby 
 could not object to it. He was resolved not to move 
 one inch away from her in his deeper feeling, nor 
 would he permit the other woman to be more to him 
 than she had been. But ride with her he would; and 
 when he entered the house his mind had been made 
 up to see her or to write to her on the morrow. 
 
 On the morrow, still resolute to fulfil his purpose, 
 he drove over in the morning to the parsonage and 
 when he came back again he had with him in the car- 
 riage Dolly Harley, full of delight that she should 
 once more ride upon the horse with which she had 
 a brief frolic on the picnic day. 
 
 And when they reached George's house she 
 waited in her riding dress while the horses were made 
 ready, and then when George had placed her upon 
 Major and had mounted his own stout horse, together 
 she and her companion cantered down the curved 
 driveway to the gate and out upon the country-road 
 that ran along the summit of the plateau. 
 
 The horseman and his companion were notable 
 figures as they passed swiftly over the lonely high- 
 way. She gave to him her approval at once as she 
 saw the grace and mastery with which he controlled 
 the great beautiful bay horse that carried him. "No 
 Southern gentleman could ride more elegantly," she
 
 The Other Woman. 179 
 
 said to herself. Big and handsome he was when he 
 stood upon the ground, but astride the huge beast 
 he seemed to have gained in force until he looked 
 to the girl to be possessed of a giant's strength, while 
 his calm quiet face, with its deep-set eyes, spoke to 
 her of power of intellect and of character. 
 
 She could have gone away from him forever and 
 never felt a pang of regret, and yet as she rode be- 
 side him and looked at him, she exulted in him. And 
 he, glancing now and then at her as her form swayed 
 to the motion of the horse, with her dark hair flying 
 behind her, with her cheeks glowing with the exer- 
 cise, and with her black eyes radiant with pleasure, 
 felt glad to be with her. 
 
 It is but a rough classification of the sentiment that 
 lies between men and women to put spiritual love by 
 itself and to call every other thing love of the sex. 
 Spiritual love does indeed stand alone, high, holy, 
 heavenly, having eternity for its portion; it is love 
 outright and complete, absorbing, final; it is soul- 
 fusion; the return of the two half-natures to whole- 
 ness; the end of the cycle which began with that act 
 represented in the allegory as the removal of the rib 
 from the breast of the man. But everything else is 
 not tainted with brutality. The girl in this case had 
 irrepressible admiration for the physical man, and it 
 was a necessary part of her woman-nature that his 
 bodily force and beauty should attract her strongly; 
 but she would have found no charm in him had there 
 not been something much more admirable. His in- 
 tellectual superiority counted for much, but even 
 that was less alluring than the manly force which
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 showed itself in all he said and did as the result of 
 lofty character. 
 
 If she had been asked to marry him she would 
 have doubted. That he was rich was an agreeable 
 fact to consider, but she was not poor. His religious 
 faith and practice were upon the whole repulsive. 
 Spiritual things being spiritually discerned, she, who 
 had no spiritual experience, thought all the things 
 that she encountered in his religious conduct either 
 dreary or absurd. Even if she had loved him, the 
 fact that he was a preacher would have been a count 
 against him which would have impelled her to con- 
 sider before she accepted him. His attitude toward 
 religion was quite as incomprehensible to her as it 
 would have been to a pagan savage. Nor was her 
 curiosity about it excited by this strong man's de- 
 votion to it. She had no care to study the phenome- 
 non. She regarded the whole matter with feelings 
 of repugnance, particularly when George made her 
 the subject of his sermon. But she liked him and 
 liked him much because the conscious but uncon- 
 fessed weakness of her woman-nature discerned in 
 him the strength that it craved; but more, far more 
 than this, because she plainly saw that she attracted 
 him. Whether he might love her or not she did not 
 estimate; nor did she think what sacrifice she would 
 make for him or how far she would go with him if 
 he should beckon her. She found pleasure in his 
 companionship and in his admiration of her, and she 
 would taste that pleasure, without regarding the fu- 
 ture for him or for her. 
 
 As for the man, he could not help but that his eyes
 
 The Other Woman. lSi 
 
 should find feast for themselves in her beauty; that 
 they would have done at any time, while a restrained 
 spirit kept itself from evil. But now he had a great 
 longing for woman-help and woman-sympathy, and 
 this woman's presence was a kind of consolation for 
 him. She was graceful, and gentle, and considerate. 
 Her ways were pretty; she was free and joyous with 
 him, but chiefly there was a kind of subtle deference 
 in her manner which he felt and liked. No matter 
 what his spiritual exaltation or the measure of his 
 love for another woman, he was not exempt from the 
 tew that impels men to covet women's praise more 
 than any other thing and to shrink with dismay from 
 their disdain. And this woman plainly was ready to 
 give him the approval that he coveted. She pleased 
 him more and more as he remained with her. Clearly 
 he had misjudged her heretofore. She was not evil. 
 She might be flippant; but there was loveliness too, 
 and perhaps if right influences could be brought to 
 bear she might become wholly lovely. Her compan- 
 ionship made him joyful. He began to think whether 
 he might not be willing to consider her seriously. If 
 Abby were beyond his reach, why should he not 
 stifle his love for her and look about for another 
 woman who should speedily become his wife? He 
 did not like the thought at first; but, as he rode 
 along, he found his mind coming back to it, again 
 and again, while Dolly chatted and laughed and 
 turned her bright handsome face repeatedly to him. 
 Soon th'ey came into the Gulf road and moving 
 swiftly forward, they passed down into the valley 
 that ran upward from the river, then through the
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 great gap in the hills into which Washington's rag- 
 ged army thrust itself on its way to the dismal en- 
 campment at Valley Forge, and then up the hill again 
 to the border of the forest that stretches away to the 
 southward. 
 
 Into this they entered by a narrow road which 
 compelled them to keep close together, and deeper 
 and deeper they plunged in the woods, breathing the 
 scent of the evergreens, of the mosses and the dead 
 leaves and all the soft perfumes of the forest, until 
 at last they came to a place where the little brook 
 ran clear across the road beneath a frail wooden 
 bridge. 
 
 Here George stopped his horse. Helping Dolly 
 to dismount, he gave the beasts drink from the rivu- 
 let and then tied their heads to the crumbling rail 
 fence beside the bridge. Beyond the fence the brook 
 widened into a clear pool of sweet running water in 
 an open place wherein the tiny ferns grew thickly 
 and clumps of wild roses bloomed among the trees. 
 
 Dolly was in high spirits. She thought the place 
 strangely beautiful, and her companion delightful. 
 The sombreness of the preacher had vanished with 
 the strong exercise of the ride, and with a touch of 
 grace lent to him by his Quaker speech he talked to 
 her as gaily as if he had never known a serious 
 thought. 
 
 They lingered but for a few moments, and then, 
 when they would make ready to mount, he plucked 
 a wild rose from the bush and pinned it upon her 
 bosom. 
 
 "Flowers." he said, "are never so lovely as when 
 fair women wear them."
 
 H 
 
 it 
 
 I
 
 The Other Woman. 
 
 183 
 
 Upon horseback again they returned through the 
 shadows of the trees to the Gulf Road, and went 
 onward for miles and miles toward the region where 
 Valley Forge lies deep among the hills. 
 
 Then George, who had been forgetful of all else 
 but his interest in his companion, perceived that the 
 sky was darkened in the West, and that a great storm 
 was impending. 
 
 He spoke of it to Dolly and they stopped their 
 horses. 
 
 "We have not time enough," he said, when he had 
 reflected for a moment, "to reach home. I think it 
 would be better to press forward that we may find 
 shelter in the sheds of the Valley Meeting." 
 
 So they started again and beneath a black sky that 
 had made all the landscape dark, they came to the 
 yard of the meeting-house, and as they entered it the 
 first rain-drops fell. They hurried across the enclosure 
 and had but fairly reached the sheds when the storm 
 broke with fury. 
 
 Beneath the sheds they stood, upon horseback, 
 for a little while, and then George said : 
 
 "The storm will not soon be over, and it is damp 
 and dismal here. Would thee not rather wait within 
 the meeting-house?" 
 
 "If you think it better," answered Dolly. 
 
 George leaped from his horse and tried the door 
 of the house, close by the end of the sheds. It opened 
 to his thrust. He helped Dolly to descend, and they 
 went into the building, which was so dark that at 
 first they could hardly see it plainly. 
 
 "Sit there, Friend Harley," he said, leading her
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 to a seat. "We shall be safer and more comfortable 
 here. I am sorry I should have led thee so far from 
 home on so ill a day." 
 
 "I am not at all sorry," she answered. "We are 
 away from the rain and I think it delightful to be 
 here in so odd a place under such circumstances." 
 
 "It is the Valley Meeting-house. I know it well," 
 said George. "I feel quite at home under its roof." 
 
 "Can two people have a meeting?" she asked in 
 jest. 
 
 George instantly thought of a sweet and refresh- 
 ing meeting he once had with Abby in her garden. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "but we will not attempt it 
 here. Reverence is required." 
 
 "And you think me irreverent ! You may preach 
 to me. Why," she asked, suddenly turning the con- 
 versation, "did you care to have me ride with you 
 to-day? You scolded me when last you saw me." 
 
 "I had promised thee a ride, and then " 
 
 "And then! What then?" 
 
 "I was lonely. I wanted companionship." 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
 "Yes. There are times when a lonely man longs 
 for woman's help and sympathy." 
 
 "But you can have that whenever you want it." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "If a woman will kiss you she will come to you." 
 
 "I do not understand thee," he said, but in truth 
 he suspected she had seen Abby kiss him. Dolly 
 would make no explanation. 
 
 "Did you notice," she asked, "that Clayton and 
 Abby were very friendly? I thought she fancied 
 him.'"
 
 The Otker Woman. 185 
 
 George felt his heart beat fast. He was half 
 angry. Dolly continued : 
 
 "And I was pleased. She is a dear girl and would 
 make a lovely wife for Clayton. But I am beginning 
 to be doubtful of her, after all." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You are not engaged to her?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "The kiss of friendship," she said, "and the kiss 
 of love must be different." 
 
 "It is different," answered George gravely. 
 
 "Is there a third kind?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "You asked forgiveness of Heaven when you 
 kissed my hand the other day. Was that a greater 
 offence than kissing lip to lip?" 
 
 "It is a perilous topic for discussion," he said. 
 "But I must speak plainly to thee. I perceive thee 
 witnessed that which passed between Abby and me 
 in the garden yesterday. I owe it to her to tell thee 
 she had just brought great grief to her old play- 
 mate and friend whom, without shame, she might kiss 
 to express her sorrow. I pray thee think no harm 
 of it." 
 
 "I should not have jested about it," she said, be- 
 coming grave and dropping her eyes to the floor, 
 "Surely if I could help you in your trouble I would." 
 
 He looked at her eagerly and a strong impulse 
 urged him to give her his confidence and to take 
 comfort from her; but his better judgment restrained 
 him. 
 
 "Thee is very good and kind," he said, "but sorrow 
 is its own best counselor."
 
 The Quakeress 
 
 "I was foolish," she answered, "to suppose that 
 one so weak as I could be helpful to a strong man, 
 but indeed I am deeply sorry that you suffer." 
 
 "Thee has helped me already by thy bright and 
 happy companionship; and thee makes me grieve 
 that I was harsh with thee the other day." 
 
 "I have forgiven it," she said, looking up at him. 
 "You thought it your duty to preach to me, but I do 
 not like preaching, even if I am in sore need of it. 
 When you rise so far above me you frighten me; but 
 I should be but half a woman if I saw you sorrowful 
 and did not feel concern for you. It is but a little 
 thing indeed if I can bring you any comfort by riding 
 with you, for that for me is self- indulgence, not self- 
 sacrifice." 
 
 The room grew darker, the storm more violent. 
 
 "Thee is not afraid of the storm?" asked George. 
 
 "If I were alone surely I should be. But not while 
 you are with me. Strange, is it not, that everything 
 seems more terrible when one is alone? You cannot 
 protect me from the storm, but because you are here 
 I fear nothing. Were you not here I should imag- 
 ine I saw peril in every shadow in the room." 
 
 "It is my deep sense of loneliness in sunshine and 
 in storm, that makes me glad to have thee for my 
 companion, even for a little while." 
 
 "Men and women need each other for comrades 
 as well as consorts, don't they? Can we not just be 
 friends, sometimes?" asked Dolly. 
 
 "I wish it might be so, were there no peril in it. 
 But thee will have no peril if I might call thee my 
 friend."
 
 The Otker Woman. 187 
 
 "No peril that you will chide me?" 
 
 "I will not chide thee. I will cherish thee if thee 
 will be just my comrade as a man might be, to give 
 me solace and cheer. But thee will not consent to 
 take up that burden, will thee?" 
 
 "If I were worthy to be so near to you and to have 
 your favor; but you do not in your heart think that 
 of me." 
 
 "I think thee very sweet and gracious and that I 
 am but a poor creature with strong hunger in my 
 soul for blessing from such a hand as thine. Com- 
 rades ! It is a word of promise and encouragement ! 
 I call thee comrade now." 
 
 "I will answer to the name if you will have it so, 
 and I will give you a token of my comradeship." 
 
 She rose and came near to him. Loosening from 
 her bosom the flower he had put there, she leaned 
 over and fastened it upon his coat. It seemed to 
 him she kissed it while her head was drooping, and 
 he smelled the perfume of her splendid hair. She 
 put her hand upon the rose to keep it in its place, 
 while she looked up at him. 
 
 "Comrades !" he said, and his hands were upon her 
 arms. She was very still, and her eyes seemed. misty 
 as he gazed down into them and held her there. 
 Then beneath his steadfast look her eyelids fell, and 
 gently turning her face away she hid it upon the 
 sleeve of his coat. She felt the tremor that passed 
 through him. In the swirl of his mind he could think 
 of no other word he dared to say. 
 
 She withdrew suddenly from his grasp, and facing 
 the door she said :
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "We will go home!" 
 
 "Still it is raining," he said, as one suddenly awak- 
 ened from a dream. 
 
 "But we will go at once." 
 
 "I cannot permit thee to be drenched by the rain." 
 
 "It will not hurt me." 
 
 "If thee is in earnest to go, thee will put my coat 
 about thee." 
 
 "And have you suffer for me?" 
 
 "Yes, my comrade," he answered, "if suffering 
 were to be, but I shall suffer not at all. Here, let me 
 clothe thee with it." 
 
 He took off his coat and put it about her, fairly 
 covering her with it. Then he buttoned it from top 
 to bottom and turned up the sleeves for her. With 
 her hand in his he led her out and lifted her upon 
 the horse, where she sat with no smile upon her face. 
 Mounting his own horse, he came to her side, and 
 through the drizzle of rain they went upon the high- 
 way and sharply cantered toward home. 
 
 He glanced at her again and again as she rode be- 
 side him or for a moment plunged on ahead of him, 
 but she set her face forward, looking neither to right 
 nor to left and making no utterance. She puzzled 
 him; and his conscience was not at ease. He had a 
 dull feeling of guiltiness. Deep down in his soul he 
 knew that he should never be ready to offer marriage 
 to her; and that talk of comradeship was idle where 
 passion at any moment may burst into flame. Yet 
 her attractiveness for him remained and he could not 
 bring himself to regret that she seemed sweet to him 
 and that her touch upon him had been delicious. He
 
 The Other Woman. i8 9 
 
 would not now intrude himself upon her if she 
 wished to be silent. Speech from her lips was cer- 
 tain when they reached his home. And so on and 
 on they went, swiftly, side by side, through the rain- 
 pools of the roadway, with the yellow mud splash- 
 ing the horses and reaching up to the garments of 
 the riders; up-hill and downward through the val- 
 leys, past stretches of woodland, over bridges that 
 resounded to the clatter of the horses' hoofs, past the 
 great gap and the mill and up, up, until the level of 
 the plateau was reached where George's farm stretched 
 its fields to right and to left and then down the short 
 stretch of road that led to his gate. 
 
 George drew his rein as he saw the gate was 
 closed, but his companion quickened the pace of her 
 horse, urging him forward. George cried sharply to 
 her to stop. But before his voice could reach her she 
 put the horse at the low stone-wall that lay around 
 the wheat-field by the gate, and the beast rose to leap 
 it. His forefeet cleared the wall, but he was not a 
 practiced jumper, and one of the hind hoofs catching 
 in the coping of the wall, he fell, tumbling Dolly 
 Harley over to the side. 
 
 In a moment George dismounted and climbed the 
 wall to reach her. He lifted her to her feet and 
 looking at him wildly she laughed in a strange way 
 and fell fainting into his arms. He resolved at once 
 to carry her to the house, and, neglecting the horses, 
 he held her fast and strode forward. Whether she 
 were hurt or not he could not tell, but he feared for 
 her. He looked at her face, colorless, upturned from 
 his arm. It seemed very lovely. He stooped his
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 head and kissed her. Before he came to the house 
 she opened her eyes for a moment. He could not 
 tell if she knew what he had done. 
 
 When he stepped upon his porch and, despite his 
 burden, tried to open the door of his house, she had 
 recovered. 
 
 "Put me upon the chair, please," she said. 
 
 "No," he answered, as he thrust open the door 
 and went in; "thee must not try to sit up." 
 
 He placed her upon the sofa, and, rising, said : 
 
 "I will call one of my servants." 
 
 "You need not," she said. "I am not hurt, I 
 think. If I have a glass of water I shall be fully 
 restored. It was most foolish for me to act as I did." 
 
 George gave water to her. When she had drank 
 she said : 
 
 "And you will drive me to Connock now, won't 
 you?" 
 
 There was something in her manner that per- 
 suaded him she knew that he had kissed her. While 
 he looked at her the color surged upon her face and 
 he felt his own cheeks grow hot. 
 
 "I thought," he answered, "perhaps it would be 
 better if I should send for thy aunt Ponder, and have 
 her stay here with thee for the night, so that thee 
 should be fully restored." 
 
 "You are very, very kind, but I am quite strong 
 enough to go home, and I think it will be better, if 
 I shall not trouble you too much." 
 
 George went out and gave the order for the car- 
 riage to be made ready. When he returned Dolly 
 tried to rise from the sofa.
 
 "lie Other Woman. 
 
 191 
 
 "You see," she said, "that I am quite well and 
 strong." 
 
 "I am glad," he said while he took her hand to 
 lift her, "that thee was not severely hurt. I was 
 frightened when thee fell, and I mourned I had not 
 counseled thee not to leap the wall." 
 
 "I yielded to a sudden impulse," she answered, 
 "and I did not reflect that I might bring sorrow to 
 you after all your goodness to me." 
 
 She walked about the room, looking at the quaint 
 old-fashioned furniture and then, with him by her 
 side, they went into the hall. 
 
 "What strange eyes that man in the picture has," 
 she said, when she had glanced at the portrait of 
 George Fox. "He looks as if he had seen awful 
 things. He might have been in hell or heaven. I 
 could not bear to have him stare at me long." 
 George told her who it was: 
 "Fox was always as incomprehensible to me as if 
 he belonged to another world," she answered. 
 
 Then the carriage came and George put her into 
 it and took his place by her side. 
 
 As they drove slowly down the hillside in the 
 woods and then entered the canyon through which 
 George had come in the darkness the night before, 
 he could not help thinking of the kisses he had given 
 her and he was sure she thought of them. 
 
 "And what does she think?" he asked himself. 
 
 He could not guess, but he knew that he felt as 
 
 if he had in some way committed himself to her and 
 
 that she might fairly demand of him that he should 
 
 speak some words of explanation. She seemed more
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 attractive than ever; but the strong impulse he felt to 
 declare that he cared seriously for her, was restrained 
 by his judgment. 
 
 "Let us look at it when the spell is broken," he 
 said in his mind. 
 
 In truth, after what had passed, she half expected 
 that he would speak passionate words to her, and 
 she was in doubt what her answer would be; but the 
 sloping street of Connock was reached before he 
 made any utterance of importance. And so presently 
 they came near to the parsonage; and then she said, 
 with tenderness in her voice and very softly : 
 
 "How can I thank you for all the pleasure you 
 have given me to-day? And I may see you once 
 more before I go home, may I not?" 
 
 "When does thee return?" he asked. 
 
 "Day after to-morrow," she said, and as she spoke 
 both of them saw Abby coming from her front gate, 
 and George's answer was not made because both he 
 and Dolly must speak with her. 
 
 When George had helped Dolly to alight, he stood 
 with her for a moment talking with the Quakeress, 
 and then, re-entering the carriage, he turned to go 
 homeward. That moment in Abby's presence had been 
 for him a moment of awakening.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 
 
 WHEN Abby saw Dolly in George's company and 
 when she learned of the ride they had taken together, 
 it was almost inevitable that she should wonder if 
 George, disappointed by her refusal of his offer of 
 marriage, could have had thoughts of addressing 
 himself seriously to Dolly. She could hardly be- 
 lieve that so sane and sedate a man should have 
 turned to another woman so soon after his protesta- 
 tions of love for his old friend; but she confessed to 
 herself that she knew little of the nature of men; 
 and she was quite surprised to find that she could 
 consider, absolutely without jealousy, the possibility 
 that George would make the Southern girl his wife. 
 Abby did have a suspicion that George would find 
 Dolly a partner who would not readily adjust herself 
 to his theories of life, and she realized that it would 
 be quite as hard for Dolly to become a Friend as it 
 would be for George to forsake the Friends' Society; 
 and yet it was clear enough that he could not marry 
 her while she remained among the world's people 
 without being disowned by the Society. Looked at 
 in any way, such a love-affair seemed to be involved 
 in deep perplexity, and Abby put it by with a feel- 
 ing of relief that she should not have to solve the 
 problem. She found it much easier and more agree- 
 able to permit her mind, in all her spare moments, 
 
 (193)
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 to dwell upon her own love and upon the bewilder- 
 ing difficulties of her own situation. 
 
 For George the slow journey home was made in 
 company of thoughts very different from those that 
 had distracted him when he traversed the same road 
 on the preceding night. A complete revulsion of 
 feeling from that which had possessed him during 
 the day set in as he drew away from Dolly and the 
 parsonage. He felt himself covered by the stain of 
 sin. There came to him a phrase he had seen some- 
 where and had retained in his memory of "the wild- 
 flowing, bottomless sea of human passion, glorious 
 in auroral light, which, alas, may become infernal 
 lightning." He saw plainly that the auroral light 
 shone only about his love for Abby, and that the true 
 aspect of the passion that had swayed him that day 
 was far from celestial. 
 
 He tried to justify himself to his conscience by 
 insisting that his longing desire for companionship of 
 woman and for the kind of solace he could find in 
 her sweet sympathy was natural and the gratification 
 of it right; but he did not attempt to deceive himself 
 respecting the things that had happened while he 
 and Dolly had been together. If he had truly loved 
 her and purposed to marry her, he might without 
 offence have held her fast in the meeting-house and 
 perhaps kissed her passionately while he carried her, 
 insensible, to the house; but he did not propose to 
 marry her. He was angry with himself that he had 
 ever for a moment thought of such a thing. He 
 knew that he had not a particle of true love for her, 
 and that both their lives would be ruined if they
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 195 
 
 should permit themselves to wed. Under such con- 
 ditions his thought and his conduct with respect to 
 her had been completely evil, and for him recogni- 
 tion of his own fault meant deep repentance and 
 complete banishment of the matter from his mind 
 or else the overthrow of the spiritual life he had 
 struggled so hard to obtain. 
 
 He saw plainly that he could not preach next Sun- 
 day, nor probably the next. He could never preach 
 again until his soul was freed completely from all 
 the stain of this wickedness and from every impulse 
 to linger pleasantly with the memory of it. Even 
 now, with the sense of\his wrong-doing bearing heav- 
 ily upon him, and with disgust for himself oppressing 
 his mind, he found the temptation sometimes almost 
 irresistible to permit his imagination to dwell with 
 gratification upon the incidents of which he repented. 
 He was dismayed to discover again, as he had done 
 more than once before, that sin has the dreadful 
 power to repeat itself indefinitely and infinitely 
 through the mind; so that the final curse inflicted 
 by it is that it haunts the soul and shows itself in al- 
 luring forms even when the soul would cleave closest 
 to holy things. 
 
 By his conduct on that day he had slipped down- 
 ward far from heights that he had striven, with pain- 
 ful footsteps, to climb, and now he must begin over 
 again and push himself upward under harder condi- 
 tions and with his courage diminished by his fall. He 
 did not doubt for a moment that he should address 
 himself strenuously to the task; and for a beginning 
 he would resolve now not to see Dolly Harley again.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 He had not responded to her invitation to come to 
 the parsonage before she left it, and he would not 
 permit her again to exercise upon him the charm of 
 her presence. 
 
 "Bunyan was a wise man," he said to himself, "to 
 resolve that he would never even touch a woman's 
 hand in greeting or permit himself to be alone with 
 her." 
 
 After bidding farewell to George, Dolly Harley 
 went into the parsonage confident that he would re- 
 turn to her before she left Connock, and her mind 
 was actively engaged in an effort to determine in 
 what manner she should deal with him when she 
 should see him again. 
 
 Her meditations were interrupted by Aunty Pon- 
 der, who burned with eagerness to learn something 
 of Dolly's experiences with George during the day. 
 
 "You found him an agreeable companion, my 
 dear, didn't you?" said Mrs. Ponder sitting by the 
 window sewing, whilst Dolly lolled in an easy chair 
 in the middle of the room. 
 
 "Very agreeable," answered Dolly. 
 
 "He is quite an exceptional man, in many ways," 
 said her aunt, "and but for his erratic religious opin- 
 ions he would be a most desirable husband for any 
 good woman. He is handsome, to begin with, and 
 then he is rich. I don't want to be mercenary, nor 
 would I have you think too much of money, but 
 ministers' wives have good reason for knowing the 
 misery of not having enough. Say what we will 
 about wealth being dross, when rightly used it is a 
 beneficent instrument. There is no use of calling a
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 
 
 197 
 
 thing dross and pretending to scorn it, when you 
 want forty dollars for a dress and can't get it." 
 
 "You needn't fear I shall despise wealth, aunty," 
 said Dolly. 
 
 "No; you should neither despise it nor covet it. 
 Anybody who wants to be good can succeed better 
 with some money than without it. If you are har- 
 assed with anxiety about meeting your bills for the 
 necessaries of life you can't fight against temptation 
 to wickedness half so easily as if your mind were at 
 ease about your bread; and then people who have 
 money to spare can cultivate generosity and helpful- 
 ness for others in a manner that poor people find 
 quite impossible." 
 
 "I fully agree with you," said Dolly. 
 
 "And of course while true love is the first neces- 
 sity of marriage, possession of wealth by one of the 
 parties is an added joy. You know very well, my 
 dear, that you can have no very large expectations 
 from your father. If the Union cause succeeds in 
 this dreadful war, the value of his slaves will simply 
 disappear, and I doubt if the Sassafras plantation will 
 be worth much. There can be no harm, therefore, 
 for you to consider the worldly circumstances of any 
 man who may appear to find you attractive." 
 
 Mrs. Ponder paused, rather hoping Dolly might 
 supply some encouragement to her hopes respect- 
 ing George; but Dolly remained silent and looked 
 out of the window while she tapped the arm of her 
 chair with the ends of her fingers. 
 
 "I have always thought," continued Mrs. Ponder, 
 "that George would marry Abby; but maybe there
 
 198 The Quakeress. 
 
 is nothing between them but friendship. I wish he 
 would fancy you." 
 
 "That is very unlikely, aunty." 
 
 "The only possible objection to him would be that 
 his views are unsound, but no doubt you might in 
 time correct them and bring him over. He would 
 be a tower of strength to uncle if he should unite 
 himself with the church. We should make a ves- 
 tryman of him and nobody who knows him could 
 doubt that he would be a decided improvement of 
 the common breed of vestrymen." 
 
 "I imagine it would be a difficult matter to turn 
 him from the Society of Friends," said Dolly, "and 
 at any rate I am hardly qualified for the task and not 
 likely to undertake it." 
 
 "If uncle could only get hold of his mind!" said 
 Mrs. Ponder, whose own mind at that moment was 
 more engaged with George's conversion than with 
 Dolly's matrimonial prospects. "No man was ever 
 more happy than uncle in bringing swift conviction 
 to Quakers. The trouble with them is that they are 
 not properly instructed in religious truth. Most of 
 them know literally nothing of the fathers or the 
 great heresies. Did he talk with you about any 
 of these things? I should like very much to know 
 the ground of his rejection of the theory of Apos- 
 tolical Succession. I hope you put the facts at him 
 strongly." 
 
 Dolly smiled as her mind went back to the pas- 
 sage with George in the meeting-house and to his 
 treatment of her after her fall from the horse. 
 
 "The topic did not present itself for discussion," 
 she said.
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 199 
 
 "What on earth did you talk about all that time, 
 then?" asked Mrs. Ponder. "I really believe he 
 admires you." 
 
 "We were riding swiftly along the road most of 
 the time," answered Dolly, "and discussion of Apos- 
 tolical vSuccession would be difficult while a horse is 
 jolting you." 
 
 "Do you think, then, it would be tactful for me 
 to send him uncle's sermon on Churchmanship? 
 Sometimes the arrow of Truth pierces a man's soul 
 as the result of reading a single logical discourse." 
 
 Dolly discouraged such an assault upon George. 
 
 "The best thing to do, aunty," she said, "if you 
 really want uncle to proselyte him, would be to in- 
 vite him here and to have uncle talk with him; but 
 how would you feel if Mr. Fotherly should turn the 
 tables and succeed in proselyting uncle?" 
 
 "That would be surprising," said Mrs. Ponder, 
 good-naturedly; "and about as likely to happen as 
 that I should become a Mohammedan. But I think 
 perhaps, my child, you are right. It will be wiser 
 not to let Mr. Fotherly know that we have designs 
 upon him. There is an element of contrariness in 
 human nature which impels a person strongly to 
 resist that which he ought to do simply because some- 
 body strongly wishes him to do it. I have often 
 urged uncle to take this into account in dealing with 
 people, particularly with our Sunday School boys. 
 No mentally-sound boy, for example, cares particu- 
 larly to fish on Sunday. He would just as lief fish 
 on Saturday. But as soon as you tell him it is 
 wicked to fish on Sunday, his whole being is filled
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 with a burning desire to do it. I have had the same 
 feeling myself sometimes. You know I never had 
 the smallest wish to touch intoxicants, but I have 
 always refused to join our Band of Hope because I 
 am sure that the minute I sign a total abstinence 
 pledge I shall have a maddening thirst for drink." 
 
 Dolly said she fully understood the feeling. 
 
 "And so, sometimes, uncle and I have really con- 
 sidered whether perhaps it would not be something 
 of a gain for the cause of morality to command peo- 
 ple to do the things that are wrong. Of course in 
 actual practice we could not venture quite so far, but 
 I do half believe that if it were made a positive duty 
 for boys to fish on Sunday and it were wicked for 
 them to go to Church and Sunday School, all the 
 houses of worship would be crowded and the Sunday 
 Schools packed." 
 
 Dolly laughed as she said: 
 
 "And isn't it queer, aunty, that nearly all the nice 
 things one wants to do should be wrong?" 
 
 "Not all, my child, but a good many of them, and 
 they seem nice just because they are wrong. Now, 
 it has often occurred to me that if men could be put 
 under a solemn moral and legal obligation to do 
 wrong, why then wrong would appear repulsive and 
 you would find people coming over in droves to the 
 side of righteousness. But of course I know very 
 well we dare not try any such experiment with so 
 serious a matter. As for Mr. Fotherly, if I could 
 induce him to consider the Church favorably by hav- 
 ing some one attack it in a severe manner, I should 
 hardly like to employ such means. If you can obtain
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 201 
 
 any influence over him you will have to exert it in 
 your own way. Love can do much to sway a person's 
 opinions." 
 
 Dolly ended the interview with her aunt by going 
 to her room to pack her trunk, and Mrs. Ponder, 
 left alone, mourned that she had learned nothing of 
 the incidents of the ride or of Dolly's feeling for 
 George. 
 
 Upon the next day Dolly waited through the 
 morning, the afternoon and the evening for George 
 to come to take leave of her, and she would have 
 Leen interested to know that George through all the 
 hours had to struggle with himself to remain away 
 from her. 
 
 At last she retired for the night with a faint hope 
 that she might see him in the morning, but with no 
 little vexation and anger that he should have let the 
 day go by without responding to her invitation. 
 
 In the morning she went over to the grey house 
 to take leave of Abby and her mother. When Abby 
 met her at the door Abby had a half-read letter from 
 Clayton crushed in her pocket. She had kept the 
 secret from her mother and she had no purpose to 
 reveal it to Dolly, who wondered at the flush upon 
 the face of the Quaker girl. 
 
 "I want Abby to come to Sassafras to see us this 
 very Autumn, Mrs. Woolford," said Dolly. "You 
 will permit her to come, won't you?" and Dolly pro- 
 ceeded with enthusiasm to describe the attractions 
 that were to be found at the plantation. 
 
 Mrs. Woolford showed no eagerness to accept the 
 invitation, but Dolly was urgent and Abby said she
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 would like very, very much to go, and so there was 
 a promise that she should go if her father's permis- 
 sion could be gained. Then Dolly kissed them both 
 good-bye and went away. As her train swept to- 
 ward the city in the very shadow of the hills on top 
 of which was the Fotherly farm, she was bitter with 
 anger that George should have shunned her after all 
 that had passed between them. He had wounded her 
 self-love, and that is an affront the best of us some- 
 times find it hard to forgive. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder would have been lonely in the even- 
 ing of the day of parting from her niece, had not 
 Isaac and Rachel Woolford, with Abby, come over 
 to the parsonage to sit an hour with her while Dr. 
 Ponder attended a vestry-meeting in the church; 
 and Mrs. Ponder strongly improved the opportunity 
 to praise both Dolly and Clayton and to speak favor- 
 ably of Sassafras plantation and of the life there. 
 
 Dr. Ponder came upon the porch to greet his 
 guests a little while before they went away. He tried 
 to be cheerful, but Mrs. Ponder, with a loving wife's 
 quick perceptions, discerned that he was troubled. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Ponder affection- 
 ately when the visitors were gone and she and her 
 husband were alone in the darkness. "Something is 
 depressing you." 
 
 "It is the vestry-meeting," answered the doctor 
 despondently. 
 
 "Were they more disagreeable than usual ?" 
 
 "Don't let us speak harshly of them, wife. No 
 doubt they are really trying to do their duty as they 
 see it."
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 2 3 
 
 Mrs. Ponder emitted a sound significant of scorn- 
 ful impatience. 
 
 "As they see it! But what can you expect from 
 such perceptive powers as they have!" 
 
 "I sometimes think perhaps my days of useful- 
 ness are ended," said the doctor. "I know I have 
 tried to do my best, and I feel as if I had all my facul- 
 ties in good order, but I remember that men deceive 
 themselves about such things." 
 
 "Faculties !" exclaimed Mrs. Ponder. "You have 
 more than any hundred vestrymen I ever knew, and 
 they are more vigorous and useful than they ever 
 were. Did any of the vestry intimate that you were 
 failing?" 
 
 "Not exactly, but there were unkind insinuations. 
 I was asked to shorten my sermons." 
 
 "It is positively wicked !" said Mrs. Ponder. 
 "There is no better preaching anywhere, and besides 
 you are not only a rector, you are an oracle, and no 
 one can have any right to dictate to you about your 
 sermons." 
 
 "I know how hard it is rightly to divide the Word 
 of Truth, but surely an ordained minister, trained 
 in theology, ought not to be controlled in such a 
 matter by uninstructed laymen !" 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Mr. Duckett was kind enough to say that he ad- 
 vocated brevity because my discourses are so full of 
 matter that he can hardly digest them; but I fear he 
 was only trying to be kind and to comfort me." 
 
 "He was right about one thing," said Mrs. Pon- 
 der positively; "he indicated very accurately his own 
 intellectual limitations."
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 "And he said, besides, that as my friend he would 
 counsel me to preach less frequently about the Seed 
 of Abraham, and to dwell more on love and less on 
 such texts as that of last Sunday week, 'And Mount 
 Sinai was altogether on a smoke.' You remember 
 it?" 
 
 "It was a most impressive sermon; full of warning 
 for vestrymen; and I am sure you do preach about 
 love very often; what is wanted is that the members 
 of the vestry shall put your precepts into practice." 
 
 "What do you think Alfred Togg proposed, wife?" 
 
 Mr. Togg was the accounting warden and a stock- 
 broker, with a fondness for figures. 
 
 "What?" asked Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "He suggested that a sliding scale should be ap- 
 plied to my sermons. For every minute that I 
 preach over twenty minutes, not counting the text, 
 a cent should be taken off my salary. For every min- 
 ute less than twenty minutes, two cents should be added 
 to my salary." 
 
 "We will never submit to such a degrading propo- 
 sition," said Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "He also urged that every time I preached an old 
 sermon 'in the raw,' as he called it, ten cents addi- 
 tional should be taken off, and when there is an old 
 sermon partly rewritten, five cents should be de- 
 ducted. Did you ever hear of anything so prepos- 
 terous?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Then he went on to say that I had preached for 
 thirty minutes twice a Sunday fifty-two times a year 
 for twenty years, and that made 1,040 hours, I think
 
 Dolly Harley Goes Home. 2 s 
 
 it was forty-three and one-third days. He admitted 
 that the preaching had been faithful, but he asked, very 
 insolently, in my opinion, if I didn't think some con- 
 sideration was due to a congregation that had had a 
 month and a half of straight preaching. My self- 
 respect forbade me to argue with him." 
 
 "You couldn't do it." 
 
 "I told him however that when sermons were 
 longer the world was better, and then Mr. Latimer 
 said long sermons put people to sleep, and he often 
 saw them sleeping in our church, and I said the fault 
 was with the bad ventilation and not with the ser- 
 mons. Then I told them that even when St. Paul 
 preached persons had gone to sleep in church and 
 no doubt the facts about Eutychus had been re- 
 corded in the Book of Acts for the comfort of faithful 
 ministers and the confusion of ungenerous vestry- 
 men." 
 
 "Eutychus has always been such a comfort for 
 you," said Mrs. Ponder. 
 
 "And to all ministers. So I offered to prove that 
 I was right about the want of proper ventilation by 
 preaching in the open air on the lawn next Sunday 
 and if anybody went to sleep to offer my resignation ; 
 but they declined to accept. Mr. Togg then asked 
 me how it would do for me to trade sermons with 
 the Congregational minister, 'barrel-for-barrel' was 
 the way he put it, so that the congregation could 
 have some new views. Imagine, wife, a minister of 
 the Apostolic Church preaching sermons written for 
 one of the sects!" 
 
 Dr. Ponder sighed heavily. "Perhaps it were better
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 if I were dead," he said. "I can't resign, for we 
 should starve to death. There seems to be no place 
 for old ministers. I can only say that I have tried 
 always to be faithful." 
 
 "And you have been, birdie," said Mrs. Ponder, 
 putting her arm about her husband's neck. "You 
 have been more than faithful.- Don't you remember 
 that in your first parish Judge Watson said he never 
 heard a man whose call to preach was clearer?" 
 
 "And I never preached for less than forty min- 
 utes there." 
 
 "The trouble here is not with the sermons, but 
 with the vestrymen. If the church did its duty it 
 would start a movement for missions for the con- 
 version of vestrymen and particularly of accounting 
 wardens. Alfred Togg's religion is hardly rudimen- 
 tary." 
 
 "And that may be my fault, dear, when I have 
 preached to him for so long a time. Yet I have often 
 had him in my mind when preparing my sermons." 
 
 "That people who have ears do not hear is one of 
 the oldest of experiences. How can you force the 
 truth into Alfred Togg's so-called mind when he is 
 fast asleep?" 
 
 Mrs. Ponder had an impulse to speak to her hus- 
 band of Dolly and George Fotherly, but he was 
 fatigued and sad, and she resolved to put off the sub- 
 ject till another time, and so they went silently into 
 the house, which seemed cheerless because the two 
 young people had left it, and then up-stairs to bed 
 and .to sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 
 
 ON the next First-day morning George came to 
 the grey house in the old fashion that he had fol- 
 lowed before the Southerners appeared and brought 
 trouble to him and to Abby, and invited her to go 
 to meeting with him. She had wondered if he would 
 come, and in her heart wished he would not. But 
 she could not refuse to accompany him, and side by 
 side they drove along the familiar road, both feeling 
 troubled with memories of the youth and the girl 
 who had so strangely come into their lives and then 
 vanished. George, thinking of his love for Abby, 
 felt that he had not been faithful to her, and was sore 
 at heart with the reflection that his faithlessness to 
 his religious profession barred him that day from 
 the right to preach the gospel of purity and peace to 
 his brethren. Abby had some little pangs of pity for 
 the man whose love she had been compelled to 
 refuse ; but her mind was chiefly occupied by thoughts 
 of Clayton. She had received several letters from 
 him and had written to him clandestinely more than 
 once. She bore with her in her memory the passion- 
 ate phrases of his letters and in the silence of the 
 meeting-house she found sweetness in them rather, 
 than in the worship of her Maker. 
 
 All the way along the road she recalled the walks 
 she had had with Clayton. She remembered each 
 
 (307)
 
 208 The Quakeress. 
 
 place where they had stopped, and what he said, 
 and the very tones of his voice came back to her. 
 She talked with George and he with her, but with 
 both there was an undercurrent of thought of the 
 Marylanders, and when George had helped her from 
 his carriage at the gate, upon their return home, he 
 drove away across the river feeling that the episode 
 had been painful rather than pleasurable. He had 
 the heart-ache as he reflected upon what those First- 
 day morning drives had once been to him and to 
 Abby, and how it had come to pass that the joy had 
 gone from them. He doubted if he ought to ask 
 Abby to go with him to meeting again, and yet he 
 perceived that if he should change his practice in 
 that respect there would be unpleasant talk that 
 would grieve them both. He reached his home 
 heavy-laden with a feeling that all he had ever cared 
 for had slipped from his grasp; that his love was lost, 
 his religion was half gone, and that he was indeed 
 the very chief of sinners. 
 
 He did not go to meeting on the next First-day, 
 and he had warned Abby that he should not go, so 
 she too remained at home, rinding compensation in 
 reading and re-reading behind the locked door of 
 her chamber Clayton's letters old and new. Before 
 another week had passed, Abby, yielding to Dolly's 
 written entreaty, had gone away to Maryland. 
 
 The Harley plantation. Sassafras, lay upon the 
 Sanaquan River not far from Chesapeake Bay, on 
 that great peninsula, containing the finer half of 
 Maryland, which thrusts itself downward between 
 the mighty bay and the ocean and is known as The 
 Eastern Shore.
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 
 
 209 
 
 To Abby not less than to her mother the journey 
 thither was formidable. The young Quakeress must 
 go alone, making her first venture far from home 
 without company of father or mother. And then the 
 journey's ending was to be among people to whom 
 the theories and practices of Friends were unknown. 
 World's people they were, and therefore companions 
 of questionable value to an impressionable girl; 
 slave-holders, also, and therefore approvers of a 
 system against which Friends had borne strong and 
 faithful testimony. Rachel Woolford had forebod- 
 ings of the visit. To her it was like sending her girl 
 into peril, and she inclined to regret that she had 
 consented to Dolly's request. But Abby's joy at the 
 prospect of going was so great, and Dolly's letters 
 were pleading and insistent, and Mrs. Ponder was 
 reassuring, and so Rachel, looking into the innocent 
 face of her daughter and remembering the training 
 she had had, considered that there might be, after 
 all, small danger. George had doubts and fears of 
 which he said nothing, and he could not venture to 
 use his influence with the parents to cross Abby's 
 desire; so he wished her happiness for her visit, and 
 promised that he would help her to begin the jour- 
 ney. 
 
 He went with her one sunny afternoon to the lit- 
 tle steamer that lay by the wharf in the Delaware, at 
 Philadelphia, and found her cabin for her and cared 
 for her baggage. Then, when the vessel drew into 
 the stream she responded to his gestures of farewell 
 and to his pleasant smile, but indeed she had a pang 
 of sorrow for him as she perceived, while the distance 
 
 14
 
 210 TKe Quakeress. 
 
 between them was increased, that part of the joy that 
 thrilled her while she sped away was born of con- 
 sciousness that to-morrow she should meet another 
 man towards whom her soul even now went out in 
 longing. 
 
 It was of him she thought chiefly through the 
 hours of the ending day while the boat hastened 
 down the broad river, past Chester, then past New 
 Castle between the lowlands that bank the stream. 
 The voyage would have been dull but for these 
 thoughts and for the expectant curiosity with which 
 she awaited that vision of the Southern plantation 
 life of which she had heard so much. 
 
 Night had come when the boat floated into the 
 lockat Delaware City and Abby slept while the ves- 
 sel, without perceptible motion, made its way 
 through the canal. In the morning when she came 
 upon the deck, the steamer was in the Chesapeake 
 and Abby was filled with delight as she looked upon 
 the great expanse of water, at the brilliant eastern 
 sky and smelled the cool salt air that came up the 
 bay from the southward. 
 
 Then the boat neared a wooded shore and turned 
 a point into the mouth of a wide estuary, and some 
 one said to her that this was the Sanaquan; not a 
 river, though little streams pour into it from end to 
 end and when the tide has ebbed make the water 
 almost sweet; but rather an arm of the Chesapeake, 
 thrust far inland among the fertile fields and the 
 great trees. Here it turns into a little bay where the 
 tides make strong eddies, and there into a channel 
 which the tributary brooks and rivulets have cut
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 
 
 211 
 
 through the sandy soil in their striving to come with- 
 in the pulse-beat of the ocean. 
 
 For the sea, two hundred miles away, sends its 
 throb up the Sanaquan far among the plantations and 
 brings with it salt-water life where sea-breezes never 
 blow, so that the planter who may pluck from his 
 land the peaches and all the richest fruits, finds in 
 the water oysters and fish and other sea-things that 
 the dweller by the great fresh water rivers must go 
 far to get. It is a region where land and water are 
 filled with fatness for the eater and where the fierce- 
 ness of the summer sun, tempered by the nearness of 
 the bay, is atoned for by the softness of winters that 
 hardly know the bitter cold that is felt north of the 
 Maryland line. 
 
 As the boat sped up the stream the shores came 
 nearer, and one after another, at wide intervals, on 
 both sides of the river, Abby saw the great houses 
 of the planters, facing the water, with lawns sloping 
 downward to the shore and with the whitewashed 
 cabins of the slaves clustered about them. She won- 
 dered which of them was Mr. Harley's or if either of 
 them was his and then she looked about her at the 
 woods, the green fields, the curious little branches 
 of the stream that turned in here and there among 
 the trees and ran off into bends and curves that 
 seemed to hide their mysterious enchantments; at the 
 glorious blue of the sky and the white splendor of the 
 water about her, and she thought even the hills of 
 Connock not more beautiful. 
 
 But a little while and the boat drew into a queer, 
 old, dilapidated wooden pier, thrust out a few yards
 
 212 The Quakeress. 
 
 into the river and the mate called aloud the name of 
 the place where Abby must land. When she had 
 gathered her journey things she looked again. Upon 
 the wharf was a forlorn shed where freight was 
 stored; there were boxes and baskets and other pack- 
 ages waiting for the boat to take them; six or eight 
 white men stood by in expectation; black men and 
 black boys in tatters lay about in the sun half indif- 
 ferent to the coming of the boat; and there was a 
 great double carriage and a woman waving her hand- 
 kerchief and a man his hat. Her heart-beat quickened 
 at the sight of the figure of the man. She knew 
 that it was Clayton, and Dolly was with him and the 
 boat did not touch the corner of the wharf before 
 Clayton leaped aboard and welcomed her. 
 
 When she was in the carriage and Dolly and Clay- 
 ton, with beaming eyes and with tongues that gave 
 her small chance to say a word, showed their joy that 
 she had come to them, the few misgivings she had 
 had were gone. It seemed foolish to have been 
 doubting or distrustful and her own warm heart 
 could not help responding to the eager kindliness 
 with which these Southern people greeted her. It 
 was the common way in that region. The world has 
 not known a more generous, fervent, considerate, 
 full-souled hospitality; and when Abby thought of it 
 afterward, in her communions with herself in her 
 chamber in the Harley mansion, she believed it 
 might be no better, but it did seem almost more 
 charming than the colder kindliness of her own dear 
 people. 
 
 The road was rough and muddy and the jolting of
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 2I 3 
 
 the carriage was severe as the negro driver guided 
 the horses along the way that ran parallel with the 
 river upon the bank high above it, but all the jour- 
 ney was full of laughter and of bright talk. Soon 
 the carriage turned into a lane lined with Lombardy 
 poplars and then into a great wide grassy yard. 
 
 "That is our house," said Dolly. 
 
 It faced one of the broad inlets from the river, the 
 north gable being turned toward the main stream 
 whereon the boat had come. It was a long low build- 
 ing, white rough-cast, two stories high with a steep 
 roof, and having in front a portico with wooden cyl- 
 indrical columns rising to the eaves. The Southron 
 of those days always carried the Greek temple in his 
 mind when he fashioned his house. It was large, 
 roomy, speaking of comfort in every line of it; with 
 yellow roses growing about it in thickets as they 
 never will grow away from the Southern sun, with 
 all kinds of lovely flowers strewn here and there 
 among the thick untrimmed grass ; with the beauty 
 of profusion and of carelessness. 
 
 Of carelessness there was evidence enough. No 
 Northern man of good income would have had the 
 fences near his house half in wreck, or the subaltern 
 buildings about his dwelling so full of strong appeal 
 for repair. And no Northern men could have had 
 the swarms of negroes who appeared on every hand. 
 Negro men and boys sat upon the fence-tops and 
 hailed the carriage as it came by, waving their hands 
 and their head-coverings. Negro women with chil- 
 dren in their arms, negro women without children, 
 negro boys and girls from toddling infancy to vigorous
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 youth were there with clothing enough half to hide 
 their dark skins, with keen delight in the sunshine 
 and the grass and with strong curiosity to see the 
 visitor. 
 
 They flocked about the carriage to greet her, but, 
 when she was ready to descend, a stalwart turbaned 
 mulatto woman from the house swept them aside 
 with one thrust of her arm and then Penelope appeared 
 with the superior authority of an old acquaintance 
 of Abby's and welcomed her as soon as Walter had 
 helped her to alight. 
 
 Father and Mother Harley were standing bare- 
 headed under the portico with smiling faces, and 
 when Mother Harley had embraced and kissed her 
 and Father Harley with high gracious courtesy had 
 taken her hand, Dolly hurried Abby to her room and 
 to Penelope to prepare for breakfast. Then Clay- 
 ton, following father and mother into the house, 
 flung himself upon a chair, and his father, glancing 
 at him with an odd look said to the mother: 
 
 "She far surpasses my expectations." 
 
 The Sassafras house was spacious and comforta- 
 ble, but much wanting in those convenient arrange- 
 ments which make life easier in modern houses. 
 Upon one side of the hall there was a parlor, and 
 behind that another and a smaller room also for the 
 entertainment of guests. Across the hall was a living 
 room and beyond it a library where the master had 
 his office and his books. The back door of the 
 library opened into a large dining-room, rilled with 
 old mahogany and lighted by huge windows at either 
 end. The kitchen was dissevered from the house.
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 3i s 
 
 excepting that a covered way from one to the other 
 was provided for shelter in bad weather. 
 
 In all the rooms were finely-carved mantels cover- 
 ing wide fire-places; there were a few good pictures 
 upon the walls, and the furniture had been handsome. 
 But there was shabbiness upon it and slovenliness 
 upon everything. The wall-paper was dingy with 
 the shadows of twenty years; the carpets long ago 
 had lost the brightness from their colors; the stuffs 
 that were upon the chairs and the sofa were faded 
 and sometimes slit and torn; papers and magazines 
 were piled in the corners upon the floor; the grey 
 window blinds had many loose and dislocated slats, 
 and the paint upon the woodwork was faded, while 
 it had wholly disappeared from the places on the 
 doors where the hands of the members of the house- 
 hold touched the doors to shut them. 
 
 Mrs. Harley had a passion for cleanliness, but she 
 found herself reluctant to disturb the old familiar 
 order of the hangings and the furniture or to con- 
 tend against the careless habits of the family with 
 respect to the things that surrounded them. She 
 liked to have life slip along easily and smoothly and 
 to prefer comfort for the body and absence of fret- 
 ting from the soul, to niceness and fastidiousness for 
 the satisfaction of the eye. Really, she was a good 
 housekeeper, but she was overweighted by her ser- 
 vants. She had twenty black people in the dwell- 
 ing, big and little, to do her bidding and as many 
 more outside eager to come in to lend a hand. But 
 she found it harder to have a single task done so well 
 as it would have been done in Mrs. Ponder's house,
 
 216 The Quakeress. 
 
 or in Rachel Woolford's, with one servant for all 
 duties. 
 
 In truth, Mrs. Harley expended much the larger 
 part of her energy in promoting the interests of her 
 black dependents, for whom she did more than any 
 dozen of them ever did for her. Every garment for 
 the women and the children of the blacks in the 
 house and upon the plantation was cut and made 
 under her direction and there was always sickness 
 in the cabins calling for her help, and no call from 
 that quarter ever came to her without bringing a 
 quick and sympathetic response. 
 
 Slavery in the South, repulsive as it was as a total 
 fact and in most of its details, was not without some 
 beautiful features. In many cases the owners spent 
 their lives in sacrifice and devotion to the blacks. 
 
 Porter Harley, Clayton's father, was a planter and 
 an important man in his county. In his youth he had 
 studied law without any purpose to practice it. Soon 
 after his admission to the bar he had gone to Con- 
 gress as a member of the Whig party and as a fol- 
 lower and fond admirer of John M. Clayton, the Del- 
 aware statesman. He was a protectionist and an 
 ardent disciple of Henry Clay. Having served two 
 terms in the national House of Representatives, he 
 refused to accept any other public office, but, while 
 retaining a keen interest in politics, and always doing 
 a share of the campaign work in his State, he devoted 
 himself to the management of his plantation, to his 
 social duties and to desultory study. 
 
 When the secession movement began he regretted 
 it, but considered that the South had had great
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 217 
 
 provocation from the abolitionists of the North, and as 
 the owner of more than a hundred slaves he could 
 hardly help giving his sympathies completely to the 
 Southern slave-owners. He became a member of 
 the Democratic party; he spoke always of the South- 
 ern seceders as "my people;" he regarded President 
 Lincoln with scorn and anger, ashamed that a man 
 who he thought had no claim to be regarded as a 
 gentleman should hold the high office, and his w r rath 
 and his words were hot against Greeley and Garri- 
 son and Phillips and the other prominent men of the 
 North who denounced human slavery. 
 
 Harley was a man of some learning, of high bear- 
 ing and of forceful character. He knew everybody 
 of importance in Washington; he was influential in 
 his own county and he would have been rich if he 
 had been less lavish in his methods of living and 
 more careful in the management of his land. Balti- 
 more was his market. There he sent, by the bay 
 steamers, his tobacco and peaches and sweet pota- 
 toes and corn and wheat; there he bought his sup- 
 plies, and there he had hundreds of acquaintances 
 whom he visited, as they and their families visited 
 him. 
 
 The Harleys were Episcopalians and every Sunday 
 they went to worship in a rude brick building, two 
 hundred years old, standing miles away from any 
 town in a grove of mighty oaks older than the 
 church. Here, in an uncomfortable, unattractive 
 room, with rough, unpainted pews, in each of which 
 stood a spittoon, the planters were ministered to by 
 a clergyman whose salary was much too small for
 
 218 The Quakeress. 
 
 his maintenance; even if it had not been always in 
 arrears. He was kept alive, upon a pauper basis, by 
 gifts of salt meat and garden-stuff from his wealthy 
 parishioners, who had equipped him for the task of 
 visiting the widely-scattered members of his flock by 
 giving him a torpid horse and an ancient and bat- 
 tered carriage. 
 
 The glory of the parish was a weighty but unor- 
 namental communion service which had been given 
 to the church by Queen Anne. If we can believe 
 common report, that rather stupid but not unlovely 
 sovereign must have expended no small part of her 
 income in scattering silver communion vessels up 
 and down the Maryland and Delaware peninsula 
 among the churches. 
 
 The Harleys were almost as stiff church people 
 as Mrs. Harley's sister, Mrs. Ponder; but Abby, dis- 
 posed though she was to extreme charitableness, 
 could not avoid the reflection that intense enthusi- 
 asm for the church and its services appeared to be 
 consistent with complete absence of the spiritual uplift 
 which she was familiar with among the Quakers. 
 
 When Abby had made herself ready for the late 
 breakfast Dolly met her at the foot of the staircase 
 and together they went into the library, where the 
 white and black members of the household were 
 assembled for family prayer. At one end of the room 
 sat Mrs. Harley and Dolly, who were joined by Clay- 
 ton after Abby had appeared. At the other end of 
 the room stood twenty or more negroes, most of 
 them women and girls. They were huddled together 
 in the corners and by the doors and they whispered
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 219 
 
 and grinned while the master entered and took his 
 seat in the great arm-chair by the library table. 
 
 When he had found the places in the prayer book 
 he inserted his thumb and a finger among the leaves 
 and looked at the colored worshipers. 
 
 "Emeline!" he said, addressing one of them, "stop 
 grinning and look sober. This is not a merry-mak- 
 ing. Tilly! keep your hands and your toes still. 
 Letitia! how many times have I told you not to come 
 to prayers without a handkerchief about your head? 
 Joe! stand over there by the bookcase, where you 
 wiU be by yourself, and learn how to behave when 
 you come into this room." 
 
 Then, looking over the whole group again to see 
 that there was perfect order, Mr. Harley began to 
 read part of the psalter for the day in precisely the 
 same tone he had used in scolding his slaves. Then 
 the white people kneeled down, the blacks still stand- 
 ing, and without change of tone Mr. Harley read a 
 part of "the order for Morning Prayer to be used in 
 families." 
 
 The final Amen having been said, he arose and 
 turning to the black folks, he said, just as if he were 
 still presenting prayer: 
 
 "Penelope ! if you whisper again during worship 
 I will have you trounced !" 
 
 "You see, my dear," said Mrs. Harley, as the 
 white people moved toward the dining room, "that 
 we not only care for the bodies, but for the souls of 
 these black folks. I say souls, for they have souls, I 
 suppose; a kind of souls, we might perhaps call them; 
 rudimentary souls, it may be; or, if we accept, as I
 
 220 The Quakeress. 
 
 think we must, the theory of the descent from Ham, 
 and consequently from Noah, we might rather say 
 deteriorated souls souls that have shriveled and 
 shrunk until they are hardly souls at all. Have you 
 noticed the negro heel? Why, my dear, it is project- 
 ing, it protrudes, and the protruding heel is always 
 the sign and token of the presence of the lower 
 nature." 
 
 Mrs. Harley reminded Abby strongly of Mrs. Pon- 
 der. 
 
 When the family was seated at the table, and the 
 blessing had been asked by Mr. Harley, Mrs. Har- 
 ley, with her hand on the spigot of the coffee urn, 
 and while she dispensed the coffee, continued to give 
 Abby information about the black people. 
 
 "The truth is, my child, that the life of the African 
 upon one of our plantations is idyllic. There is no 
 real enslavement, as Northern people think. The 
 negroes are held in silken bonds to a happy pastoral 
 life nearly all of which is sunshine. When you con- 
 sider that, according to the testimony of the Scrip- 
 tures, they are under a curse, it is perhaps not 
 entirely right to treat them so well ; but we can hardly 
 be expected I suppose to suppress the better im- 
 pulses of our nature; and so, in spite of the guilt of 
 their unnatural ancestor, we, having culled them 
 from barbarism, plant them in the midst of our high 
 civilization and lavish kindness upon them. They 
 return it with affection. Offer to any of our negroes 
 freedom, and they would scorn it and all its obliga- 
 tions and hardships." 
 
 To Abby these were new aspects of the slavery
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 
 
 221 
 
 question and they interested her, even if Mrs. Har- 
 ley's theories could not have prompt acceptance from 
 her mind. 
 
 In the dining room the Quakeress was introduced 
 to another guest, Dr. Ramsey, concerning whose rela- 
 tions with the family she was long in doubt. They 
 called him "Cousin Tom," and Dolly hinted that he 
 was a distant cousin of her mother's. 
 
 Cousin Tom appeared to make a point of never 
 appearing at family prayers. 
 
 The table was supplied by a quantity and variety 
 ot food such as the Quaker girl had never before 
 known as material for a single meal. There were six 
 kinds of hot bread, including corn-pone and Mary- 
 land biscuits, and, besides ham and beef steaks and 
 eggs in several attractive forms, there were fried and 
 stewed oysters and white perch with four or five fresh 
 fruits, and for drinks, coffee, tea, cocoa and milk. 
 Abby guessed that her family at home could have 
 lived comfortably for a week upon the breakfast 
 spread before the Harleys. 
 
 There were three negro waitresses to care for the 
 guests and with these servants four negro girls, wear- 
 ing loose slips of blue denim and with bare feet, 
 walked about the table driving away flies with huge 
 fans made from peacock tails. 
 
 The meal had not begun when a negro man came 
 into the room and whispered to the master that the 
 "boys" in the harvest field (meaning the workmen) 
 had no whiskey; whereupon Mr. Harley, with the air 
 of a man who had been discovered in a fault, rose 
 quickly from his chair, unlocked the sideboard and
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 handed a demijohn to the black man. Abby had 
 indeed come into a strange country for a member of 
 Plymouth Meeting. 
 
 For her there were many questions about her 
 journey, and many more about Mrs. Ponder and the 
 doctor, and then the talk turned upon the pleasures 
 that were in store for her upon the Sassafras planta- 
 tion and in the region round about. It was hard to 
 keep slavery out of the conversation, but harder still 
 for the Harleys to restrain their talk about the war, 
 the one theme that engaged the attention of every- 
 body at that time. The Harleys were jubilant over 
 the Battle of Bull Run, fought in July, and they en- 
 tertained no doubt of victory for the Confederates in 
 every battle yet to come. They did not say so plainly 
 to the Quakeress, but no attempt was made to dis- 
 guise the fact that in the county in which Sassafras 
 stood bands of young men were riding about menac- 
 ing anti-slavery men with destruction of their prop- 
 erty unless they should move away. Tolerance was 
 not the practice in any part of the South before the 
 war began, and now, with passion highly inflamed by 
 the conflict, the pro-slavery people in the slave States 
 remaining in the Union would not suffer any man 
 to live in peace unless in his secret thought he gave 
 approval to human slavery. 
 
 The beliefs, the practices, the bitternesses, the sen- 
 timents of these Southern people were so different 
 from anything the Quakeress had ever encountered 
 that she felt as if the Harleys belonged to another 
 race than hers and breathed a strange atmosphere. 
 With her narrow experience of life, confined to
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 223 
 
 social conditions in which opinion was untrameled, 
 in which human liberty was sacred and precious, and 
 in which violence of speech and action were wholly 
 unknown to respectable people, the social order 
 that permitted a man's beliefs to become an excuse 
 for plundering his home, maiming his body and 
 forcing him into exile seemed shocking when she 
 considered it. 
 
 But she did not consider it very closely. The host 
 and the hostess tried to repress all that they guessed 
 would be unpleasant for her, and they treated her 
 with affectionate courtesy so persistent and gracious 
 that she could not help admiring and loving them. 
 
 The breakfast was prolonged far into the morning. 
 Nobody at Sassafras was ever in a hurry. Nobody 
 but Mrs. Harley and some of the black people had 
 anything to do, and even their tasks might be done 
 leisurely. It was nearly eleven o'clock before the 
 family left the dining room. Lunch was announced 
 for one o'clock, but Abby felt that she should not 
 wish for food again until very late in the day. She 
 went with the other folks into the library, whence, 
 presently, Clayton took her out to show her the 
 house, up stairs and down stairs, and to find an 
 opportunity to speak with her alone a word of welcome 
 and of delight. 
 
 Then with Dolly and Dr. Ramsey they walked 
 over the lovely lawn that sloped downward to the 
 water a hundred yards from the house until they 
 came to a boat-house and a pier that pushed itself 
 out upon the stream. A dozen tattered black boys 
 and girls followed them, and behind them walked
 
 224 The Quakeress. 
 
 Clayton's body servant, Joe, and another well-grown 
 colored boy. These proceeded to bring out the boat, 
 and to hoist the sail, and when the four white people 
 had placed themselves comfortably in the vessel, the 
 two negroes, one at the bow and the other at the 
 tiller, undertook to manage it. 
 
 The breeze was fair, the sky was unclouded, and 
 Abby was filled with delight as the little craft rushed 
 out from the inlet to the wider river and then, tak- 
 ing in reverse the route over which she had come 
 in the morning in the steamer, plunged forward 
 toward the great bay and out among the white caps 
 that foamed upon its surface. 
 
 It was the first experience of the Connock lass in 
 a sail boat, and with no qualms of sea sickness 
 affecting her, she found herself rejoicing as the boat 
 raised itself before the advancing waves, and then, 
 dipping its prow, forced itself merrily through them. 
 
 It was a large part of her pleasure that Clayton sat 
 beside her and talked with her about herself, and 
 about the scenery and the sailing and told her of the 
 fine times she should have with them while she tar- 
 ried at Sassafras. She was much absorbed by Clay- 
 ton and by the voyage, but not so completely as to 
 fail to observe that Dolly and Dr. Ramsey were find- 
 ing much satisfaction in each other's company. Before 
 Abby had been many days at Sassafras she had made 
 up her mind that the doctor intended to make Dolly 
 his wife. 
 
 When the boat had raced down the bay for an 
 hour Clayton ordered that it should be put about 
 and presently it neared the shore at a point where
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 22 s 
 
 a low promontory rose from the water, and here, at 
 Parker's Bluff, as it was called, the boat ran into a 
 cove where was a sandy beach, and Clayton and Abby 
 got out, Dolly and the doctor remaining in the craft, 
 which turned and began to tack upon the homeward 
 route. 
 
 Clayton and his companion climbed to the summit 
 of the bluff and watched the little vessel as it moved 
 to and fro upon the water. 
 
 The place to which they had come was beautiful, 
 and if Abby could not have remembered it because 
 of this visit in company with Clayton, she would still 
 have had an indelible impression of its features printed 
 upon her mind by an incident which should bring her 
 there again under tragic circumstances. 
 
 Now, when she looked about her, she saw a wide 
 expanse of greensward, with here and there a great 
 tree rising from it, while further inland a wood hav- 
 ing a nearly impossible tangle of undergrowth 
 stretched between the grassy plateau and the road 
 that led to Sassafras on the one hand and to the 
 county town on the other. 
 
 "This is a famous picnic ground," said Clayton, 
 as he turned away from the river with Abby, "and 
 we will have a picnic here some day while you are 
 with us. But now let us stroll homeward." 
 
 They walked together slowly upon the grass by 
 the edge of the bluff that pushed itself out into the 
 wind-swept water; and thence by a path through the 
 thicket in the wood, coming out upon a sandy road 
 traversing the flat country, and bordered by hedges 
 beneath which the grass was starred with wild flowers. 
 
 IS
 
 226 The Quakeress. 
 
 Here and there through the clumps of trees at intervals 
 were glimpses of the bay and then of the river and 
 the inlet that fronted Sassafras. 
 
 The talk of the man and the woman, from the 
 beginning of the walk, was of themselves. 
 
 "I longed for you to come to our home in response 
 to Dolly's invitation," said Clayton, "but I hardly 
 dared hope for it." 
 
 "Thee knows well how eager I was to visit thy 
 parents and thy sister and thee; but thee also knows 
 thee and I alone know that I had no right to 
 come here." 
 
 "I have no such knowledge!" said Clayton strongly. 
 "It is absolutely right for you to be with us." 
 
 "Then why," asked Abby, "did thee not dare to 
 hope that I would come?"" 
 
 "I feared you would think it wrong when it is not 
 wrong; that you would consider the unhappy condi- 
 tions of which I am the innocent victim a sufficient 
 reason for not seeing me. It would be cruel and 
 unjust to have it so. You have been most generous 
 and kind to me in disregarding them." 
 
 "But, Clayton, we cannot disregard them. That 
 thee has a wife is a fact that bars me from thee no 
 matter what we think about it." 
 
 "It will not do so always." 
 
 "Yes," said Abby, "it will." 
 
 "You love me dearly still, I know," said Clayton. 
 "It is the only joy of my life to be sure of that." 
 
 "I cannot help it," murmured Abby with her eyes 
 downcast, "but it is an offence against God." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Clayton. "It is God's own gift
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 22 7 
 
 to both of us. There can be no true marriage with- 
 out true love. I have none for that horrid woman; 
 I never had any; I was, as I told you, ensnared. You 
 are the first woman I ever loved, and that love you 
 completely return. It is divine and holy; you are 
 in the highest and best sense my wife now my celes- 
 tial wife." 
 
 Abby did not think, she could not even have 
 guessed, how many times that proposition, reeking 
 with evil, had been presented by reckless lovers; 
 but it brought no illusion to her. She answered 
 simply : 
 
 "I am not thy wife. I will never be thy wife." 
 
 "Why, Abby," said Clayton with a bit of fear in 
 his heart, and looking at her with open eyes. "You 
 must not say such things as that. If we live and you 
 love me always, our marriage is certain; and we are 
 both very young." 
 
 "I fear I shall love thee to the very end," said 
 Abby, "but" 
 
 "You don't fear it?" 
 
 "Yes, I fear it, and because I know that whether 
 life be long or short, there will be no peace for me, 
 because 'there is no peace, saith my God, for the 
 wicked,' and we are wicked when we talk of love 
 while thee owes to thy wife all that thee has." 
 
 "I owe her nothing but hatred and disgust! I am 
 compelled to acknowledge the bond, but it is slav- 
 ery. It will be broken some day, and then we shall 
 find peace." 
 
 "I say to thee, dear Clayton, that thee deceives 
 thyself. I will never marry thee."
 
 228 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Nonsense, Abby! Why do you speak in that 
 positive way? It is most unreasonable." 
 
 "Clayton, 'does thee remember ? I know it is fool- 
 ish to dwell upon a matter that seems so idle does 
 thee remember the gipsy woman who pretended to 
 tell thy fortune and mine one day at Spring Mill?" 
 
 "It is not possible, Abby dear, that you attach any 
 importance to what that vagabond creature said? 
 What did she say to you?" 
 
 Abby hesitated a moment. Then, as if it were 
 very hard to speak the words : 
 
 "That I should die from a broken heart." 
 
 Clayton laughed, but not with usual heartiness. 
 "How can you dwell upon that woman's words, my 
 dear girl? It is impossible that you can believe 
 Heaven has given to such a wretch the gift of proph- 
 ecy!" 
 
 "Yes, but Clayton, I have the prophecy in my own 
 soul. When she said it I felt that she was speaking 
 the truth, even while no one could have less faith 
 than I have in her power to read the future. I know 
 not how she could make such a guess, but I can per- 
 ceive plainly how the prediction may be fulfilled." 
 
 "You mean," said Clayton solemnly, for he recalled 
 the words the woman had said to him, "that such 
 anguish will come to you through me?" 
 
 "Alas, dear Clayton," she answered sadly, "Has 
 it not already come? What is strong love but bitter 
 pain when separation is the only possibility?" 
 
 "Come, dearest, let us look more cheerfully at the 
 matter," said Clayton, and he took her hand and 
 would have put his arm about her, to embrace and 
 kiss her. But she restrained him.
 
 The Sassafras Plantation. 329 
 
 "I think thee must not do that any more, dear 
 Clayton. Forgive me for saying that to thee. The 
 touch of thy hand is precious to me, but I will sin 
 more deeply if with the love I should not take from 
 thee I accept the caress thee cannot rightly give me." 
 
 "I will respect your wish," he said mournfully, 
 "but at least I may hold your hand while we walk 
 homeward and no one is near." 
 
 She did not resist him, and so, without many more 
 words, they came at last to the end of the lane that 
 ran from the high road to Mr. Harley's house.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 THE young people from the neighboring planta- 
 tions came in large numbers to call upon Dolly's 
 guest during the next few days. The girls and the 
 men were always on horseback and Abby, who had 
 never learned to ride, marveled at the grace and ease 
 with which the girls managed their spirited horses. 
 She thought all the girls charming and many of them 
 were beautiful. They were so warm and frank and 
 cheery in their manner toward her that she could not 
 help liking them very much, although they were so 
 different from any girls she had ever known; and for 
 their part, if they had not been impelled to look upon 
 her with favor because she was Dolly's friend, her 
 fair countenance, soft sweet voice and modest quiet 
 manner, not less than the quaintness of her grey 
 dress with the white handkerchief crossed upon her 
 breast, would have won them instantly. 
 
 The visitors talked so much and so rapidly that 
 Abby had little chance to try her power as an enter- 
 tainer and the talk was nearly always conducted with 
 skilful avoidance of dangerous topics. But chatter- 
 ing girls whose minds are tense with interest in a 
 single subject cannot always guide their tongues 
 away from it, and so Abby was not long in learning 
 that every one of the girl visitors was a Secessionist 
 whose enthusiasm for the Southern cause was only 
 
 (230)
 
 Days at Sassafras. 231 
 
 surpassed in intensity by the fury of her hatred of 
 the North and the abolitionists. The young men 
 were bitter in their feeling against "the invaders," 
 as the Northern armies were called, but the malig- 
 nancy and venom of the women much surpassed 
 those of the men. But the Quaker girl knew how to 
 maintain silence when there was likely to be strife 
 of tongues, and if she had a disposition to feel 
 uncomfortable among these people whose principles 
 were hostile to her own serious beliefs, it was com- 
 pletely smothered by the kindness poured out upon 
 her by the Harleys and their friends. And then, 
 Clayton was always near to her. That would fully 
 compensate for all that was distasteful to her, and 
 even while her conscience troubled her at the 
 thought of her love for him she exulted in that love 
 and found in his company an intensity of sweetness 
 which, for some strange reason, forbidden things 
 commonly have. 
 
 All sorts of invitations were given to her by the 
 visitors and many pleasures were devised for her by 
 her hosts, and she was not unwilling to taste the de- 
 lights thus presented to her so far as she could conve- 
 niently do so. 
 
 Before she went to see any of the near plantations 
 the Harleys wished that she should examine their 
 own. So one morning she went with Mrs. Harley 
 and Clayton and Dolly to the negro quarters, where 
 each cabin was visited. Mrs. Harley seemed particu- 
 larly anxious that Abby should believe the negroes 
 perfectly happy and contented and the owners of 
 them devoted to the promotion of their temporal and
 
 232 The Quakeress. 
 
 spiritual welfare; and Abby was forced to confess 
 that the little homes were fairly equal to the require- 
 ments of humble people, and that the blacks showed 
 no sign of discontent. 
 
 "Put yourself in the negro's place," said Mrs. Har- 
 ley to the Quaker girl, as they walked back to the 
 great house. "Which would you prefer : to be a 
 repulsive savage, with little or no clothing, bounding 
 about in your native forests like the beasts that per- 
 ish, and with depraved barbarians all around you 
 ready at any moment to catch you and eat you, or 
 one of our slaves, living in comfort and plenty under 
 a kind master? Is it any wonder these people are 
 satisfied ? Why, my dear, surely, when they remember 
 the horrors of the dark continent the sweet serenity 
 of Sassafras must seem like dream-land." 
 
 Abby admitted that this view of the matter was 
 not wholly unreasonable. 
 
 "The slave system," continued Mrs. Harley, "is 
 simply a return to patriarchal methods. The defence- 
 less black leans on the strong arm of the white. The 
 benighted savage is brought where the light may 
 shine upon him. The heathen in his blindness, bow- 
 ing down to wood and stone, comes under the benefi- 
 cent influence of religion and family-prayers. Rightly 
 considered, Mr. Harley is a patriarch. His very 
 presence among these poor creatures is a joy and a 
 benediction." 
 
 Still, Abby felt sure there was another side to the 
 picture, and it was revealed to her unexpectedly. On 
 the next morning early she happened to look from 
 her chamber window and out by the carriage house,
 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 233 
 
 a hundred yards away, she saw Mr. Harley with a 
 black-snake whip flogging a gigantic negro, who 
 clenched his hands and restrained his tongue while 
 the blows fell upon him. 
 
 Abby turned away half sick and covered her face 
 with her hands. She felt a wave of wrath sweep in 
 upon her and suddenly Sassafras and everything 
 about it became repulsive. Before she had fully 
 recovered from the shock of this spectacle Penelope 
 knocked upon her door and came in to wait upon 
 her while she dressed. Abby resolved to say noth- 
 ing to the girl about the flogging, but Penelope was 
 visibly agitated about something and guessing where 
 the sympathies of the Quakeress were, she said: 
 
 "Miss Abby, ef you'd 'a' looked outen yer window 
 jes now, you could a seen sumpin." 
 
 "I did see it, Penny," said Abby quietly. "Who 
 was the man?" 
 
 T was ole Uncle Billy, Missy, de bes' nigger 
 Mars Po'tah got." 
 
 "Why was he punished?" 
 
 "De laws knows, Miss Abby. Sassin' de overseer 
 or sumpin o' dat kind. But it doan mek no differ- 
 ence. Mars Po'tah been long mad agin Billy an' he 
 beat him, jes for nuffin, soon as not." 
 
 "The black people are not unhappy here, though, 
 Penelope?" 
 
 "Missy we's got to be mighty keerful what we say, 
 but I kin trus' you, for I knows dat all de Friends 
 favors de black folks. Mars Po'tah treats dem fair 
 enough most times and Miss Harley she jes ez kind 
 ez she kin be. But all de niggers knows about Mars
 
 2 34 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 Linkum an' de war agin' de slaveholders, and dey's 
 a hopin' to be free. Dat jes stands to reason, Missy, 
 doan it? Ef dey know how to do it, every grown 
 nigger on dis yer plantation would git away to- 
 night." 
 
 "Not you, Penny?" 
 
 "Yes'm. I want to go and I'm gwine de very fus 
 chance. You min' dat, Miss Abby, and I'd like to go 
 when you go; but you're not sayin' nothin? Billy'll 
 not be yer to-morrow ef I knows him. Mars Po'tah 
 done lash him once too often. He'd a quit long ago, 
 but for his wife an' chilluns." 
 
 Sure enough, when Abby on the next morning 
 came down to breakfast there was gloom upon the 
 faces of the white members of the household, and 
 Abby did not have to ask the reason why. In her 
 chamber Penny had told her that Billy, under cover 
 of the darkness, had left his wife and children and 
 fled northward to liberty. 
 
 When family prayer was said Mr. Harley seemed 
 feverish and hurried. Abby thought he might as 
 well have omitted that lovely petition that we may 
 be "quiet and peaceable, full of compassion and ready 
 to do good to all men;" but Mr. Harley's mind may 
 not have been upon the words. 
 
 At the table no reference was made to the disap- 
 pearance of Billy, but Mr. Harley found expression 
 for his feelings in the declaration, made with intense 
 earnestness while he dismembered the fried chicken : 
 
 "I wish from the bottom of my heart there was 
 not an infernal nigger, slave or free, upon this con- 
 tinent !"
 
 Days at Sassafras. 235 
 
 When all was well with his slaves and Mr. Harley 
 was in good humor, he spoke of them as "my faith- 
 ful blacks;" when they gave him trouble he alluded 
 to them as "those infernal niggers!" 
 
 Just now he was weary of the race and of the dif- 
 ficulties in which it involved him and the nation, and 
 multitudes of slave-owners felt as he did. 
 
 Will the Americans of the future understand the 
 situation in which these people were placed? The 
 Southern men of the last century did not create sla- 
 very. It came to them as an unwelcome inheritance. 
 Many of them gave it no sincere approval. But vast 
 capital was invested in slaves, capital not to be 
 recovered by any method of emancipation that was 
 really practicable. Perhaps it was too much to ask 
 that this investment should be simply annihilated. 
 The labor of the slaves was needed. To withdraw it 
 within any brief period would have been to paralyze 
 Southern industry and to destroy the productive 
 power of the South. The value of the plantations 
 would have been reduced to ruinous figures by quick 
 emancipation; and then the question, What is to 
 become of the blacks ? was not easy to answer. It has 
 not had, even yet, a satisfactory answer. 
 
 Pressure from the North, carrying with it an 
 assumption of superior virtue upon the part of the 
 Northern men, came upon Southerners whose con- 
 sciences were already troubled by slavery and who 
 were entangled in the economical and other difficul- 
 ties surrounding the matter, and it was resented. 
 Really, upon the whole, the wise and humane men 
 among the Southerners did their best with a situation
 
 236 The Quakeress. 
 
 of extraordinary perplexity for which they were not 
 responsible, and the fierce assaults of the abolitionists 
 not only exasperated them, but impelled them to 
 stand together for organized resistance. 
 
 Before Abby had been at Sassafras for many days, 
 Mrs. Harley arranged to have in her honor a garden- 
 party. The first intention was to provide a picnic 
 and to hold it at Parker's Bluff; but after much dis- 
 cussion the Harleys decided that the entertainment 
 could be more comfortably and conveniently offered 
 upon their own place and that the compliment to 
 their guest would be greater. 
 
 Provision was made for sailing upon the inlet, for 
 fishing for the white perch with which those waters 
 are filled; for croquet and other games and for danc- 
 ing upon the lawn. The music was to be supplied by 
 two of Mr. Harley's negroes, famous fiddlers, and a 
 banjo player of much repute from the Morris planta- 
 tion. 
 
 "The negro," said Mrs. Harley to Abby, "has a 
 remarkable gift for music. It is, I believe, a remin- 
 iscence of the lost glory of the race lost by the 
 unfilial and scandalous conduct of Ham. But even this 
 gift would have been undeveloped and unknown had 
 the blacks remained in Africa. They say the natives 
 of that continent simply screech and beat on tom- 
 toms whatever they are. Contact with the whites 
 revealed the latent musical power which had been 
 smothered for centuries." 
 
 In the early afternoon the visitors came in scores 
 on horseback and soon the wide lawn was thronged 
 by young men and young women in holiday dress,
 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 237 
 
 and the stream that flowed by the foot of the lawn 
 bore a dozen boats sailing and rowing to and fro. 
 
 All the games were going and the company was 
 scattered about among the trees and over the grass 
 before the musicians came and taking place beneath 
 a great chestnut tree began the twanging and thrum- 
 ming of their instruments in preparation for the 
 dance. About the skill of the players in producing 
 dance-music there could be no doubt at all, when 
 once they began their task, nor was it less evident 
 that they were in earnest and enthusiastic in the per- 
 formance. They played with vigor while their bodies 
 swayed to and fro, and the older fiddler seemed in a 
 sort of ecstasy as he called the figures of the cotil- 
 lions and the reels, while the dancers whirled about 
 upon the sward. 
 
 With Clayton near to her, Abby, sitting beneath 
 the shade of a chestnut tree, watched the dancers 
 with interest and perhaps not without a little feeling 
 of regret that she could not join them. More than 
 once she was invited by the young men to do so, but 
 always she was compelled to shake her head and with 
 a smile to say: 
 
 "I am very, very sorry, but indeed I do not know 
 how to dance." 
 
 "Dolly and I will teach you," said Clayton when 
 she first professed her ignorance, but Abby replied 
 that she could not venture to depart so far from the 
 approved practice and sound principles of Friends. 
 
 But indeed there was pleasure enough for her in 
 watching the movements of the visitors, in listening 
 to the bright talk, and happy laughter all about her,
 
 238 The Quakeress. 
 
 and in receiving the greetings of the folks whom she 
 already knew or who for the first time were intro- 
 duced to her. She could not doubt that she was 
 much liked for herself, as well as because she was a 
 stranger who had come to the house of popular peo- 
 ple, for there was the heartiness of sincerity in every 
 word spoken to her. Clayton could have told her, 
 if he had wished, that everybody present thought her 
 grace and beauty wonderful, and her simple pretty 
 costume the most becoming of all the dresses worn 
 at the party. 
 
 The young men were as attentive to her as they 
 could be, but with them she was shy. She could not 
 dance, nor would she go upon the river, and she puz- 
 zled them not a little with her very quiet manner and 
 her Quaker speech. 
 
 Carrol Thorn, the son of a planter over near to 
 Georgetown, found her fascinating and he had not 
 talked with her long before he determined that he 
 was more than half in love with her. 
 
 Thorn was a tall, thin young man, with reddish 
 hair, and with a hard face, not unhandsome, but sug- 
 gestive of fast living. His family was rich and he 
 was the heir; always he had had his own way; and 
 if he fancied a girl like Abby, it was impossible that 
 he should be balked either by her demure shy bear- 
 ing or by the manifest purpose of Clayton to admit 
 no rivals to the field, but to keep the girl closely to 
 himself. 
 
 Thus Thorn, who was a gentleman, a man of cul- 
 ture, and used to the best social things, addressed 
 himself earnestly to the task of making a good
 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 239 
 
 impression upon the Quakeress. She regarded him at 
 first with mild disfavor; but the graciousness of his 
 manner and his high speech enabled him largely to 
 overcome this feeling, and soon Abby accepted his 
 invitation to walk with him to the water's edge. 
 
 She was more willing to go with him because she 
 perceived the necessity that she should not appear 
 to permit Clayton to have any special claim upon 
 her. But that claim he thought he had, and he was 
 guilty of the folly, not unusual with lovers, of cher- 
 ishing feelings of anger towards her and towards 
 the man who bestowed upon her the courtesy of his 
 attention. He actually sulked and felt incapable of 
 playing his part as one of the givers of the feast, 
 while he watched Thorn and Abby strolling across 
 the lawn toward the river. 
 
 Thorn was eager and impetuous in his talk with 
 the girl, and there was a touch of roughness and 
 peremptoriness in his speech which was not in tune 
 with her gentle nature. But upon the whole she 
 liked him more than she thought she would have 
 done, and he, believing that he was gaining ground 
 with her, strove with all the power he had to com- 
 mend himself to her approval. 
 
 They sat upon the grass on the bank that dropped 
 off to the verge of the river and he talked to her 
 vivaciously about everything that he thought would 
 interest her. Particularly did he wish to know of 
 Friends and their ideas, beliefs and methods, and 
 so there was strong temptation for Abby to talk and 
 to tell him of things she loved. 
 
 They were in the midst of a conversation delightful
 
 240 
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 for him and not displeasing to her, when Thorn, 
 turning his head, saw Clayton near by, but just dis- 
 tant enough to avoid the reproach that he was seek- 
 ing Abby. 
 
 Thorn pretended not to see him, but, rising, he 
 gave his hand to Abby to lift her to her feet, and 
 slowly they walked back to the groups that were 
 gathered upon the upper lawn. When Thorn had 
 surrendered Abby to Mrs. Harley, he turned and 
 went again toward the river, meeting Clayton on 
 the way. Thorn stopped him and said to him 
 sharply : 
 
 "It was not worth while to follow me up, as if I 
 were going to run away with her." 
 
 "We shall not make her a subject of discussion, 
 please." 
 
 "No!" responded Thorn, "and yet it might be of 
 advantage to her if I should have some discussion 
 with her." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "Does she know you are already married?" 
 
 "What she knows or does not know is no concern 
 of yours, nor yet is it your privilege to meddle with 
 me." 
 
 "It may be a duty, rather than a privilege," said 
 Thorn, with a black look upon his face. 
 
 But Clayton, making no response, turned upon 
 his heel and crossed the sward to where Abby was. 
 
 Dr. Ramsey was a conspicuous figure among the 
 people on the lawn, but Abby noted that he was not 
 specially attentive to Dolly. He danced with her 
 once, but he was partner for half a dozen girls in
 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 succession, and he neither walked nor talked with 
 Dolly during the remainder of the day. Abby 
 began to believe that she had been mistaken in sup- 
 posing that the doctor and Dolly were interested in 
 each other. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, when she was somewhat 
 weary of the gaiety and excitement of the party, she 
 went alone over to the garden at the side of the lawn 
 and entered it, thinking she would rest for a little 
 while within the enclosure. 
 
 The garden had all about it a high hedge of mock- 
 orange and around each of the great flower-beds was 
 a border of box-wood, dense and grown higher than 
 Abby's head. She found in one of the graveled walks 
 a rustic seat upon which she placed herself, intending 
 to return speedily to the lawn and to the throng of 
 men and women whose voices came to her in a con- 
 fused babble across the hedge. 
 
 But no sooner had she taken her seat than she 
 became aware that other persons were near to her 
 upon the other side of the box-wood bushes, and 
 before she had time to think what she ought to do, she 
 recognized the voices of Dr. Ramsey and of Dolly. 
 He was speaking passionately to her and she, respond- 
 ing in broken sentences, seemed to be not at all reluc- 
 tant to accept his protestations. 
 
 Abby was ashamed to hear them, and quickly 
 arose and moved away as quietly as possible with a 
 purpose to conceal her presence. She could have no 
 doubt now, at any rate, of the doctor's sentiment for 
 Dolly; and despite her genuine regret that she had 
 unintentionally been a listener, she smiled as she 
 
 16
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 walked over to the garden-gate at the discovery she 
 had made. She knew little or nothing of Dr. Ram- 
 sey, but it seemed a pleasant thing that Dolly should 
 have had awakened in her soul that passion which 
 had brought such bliss to Abby, even if sorrow had 
 come with it. 
 
 Later in the day, when all the company had gone, 
 Abby walked with Clayton down to the pier that 
 jutted out upon the river by the boat-house, and 
 while the twilight began to fall and the shadows of 
 the evening lay upon the still grey water before them, 
 they talked of the party and the people and of the 
 promise of pleasure that was in store for them still, 
 before Abby should return to Connock. 
 
 "Mrs. Morris has asked us to an evening party 
 at her house for Thursday," said Clayton. 
 
 "Yes," responded the girl. "She invited me and 
 strongly urged me to come." 
 
 "And you will go?" 
 
 "It would be ungracious not to go, wouldn't it? 
 And yet I am not used to parties, and I know they 
 will dance all the time, and I cannot dance." 
 
 "But you will have to go," said Clayton, "and 
 Dolly and I will take care of the rest of it." 
 
 "I will consider it," said Abby, who knew she 
 should decide to attend the ball, although she shrank 
 a little from the thought of it, when she remembered 
 Connock a"nd her father and mother and the Meet- 
 ing and George. 
 
 She put aside the matter now, and, thinking of 
 what she had heard in the garden, she said : 
 
 "Clayton, I wish to ask thee something. Who is 
 Doctor Ramsey?"
 
 Days at Sassafras. 
 
 243 
 
 "Ramsey? He is a cousin of my mother's; a sec- 
 ond or third cousin, or something of that kind, I 
 believe. I never understood very well the relation- 
 ships of the family a generation or so back. Why 
 do you inquire about him?" 
 
 "Mere idle curiosity. I find him here with thy 
 family and I could not quite understand his position." 
 
 "His home is in Baltimore, where he has made 
 some sort of a pretense at practicing medicine, but he 
 is rich and need not do more than he likes in that 
 direction. He comes here to stay with us a good 
 deal, and we find him an agreeable addition to the 
 household." 
 
 "I thought " said Abby, and then stopped. 
 
 "What do you think, my dear?" 
 
 Abby laughed lightly and said: 
 
 "Well, I had an idea that he cared for thy sister. 
 Pardon me for saying that. I have no right to say it." 
 
 Clayton was amused. 
 
 "My dear," he answered, "your ideas have led you 
 far away from the fact. Why, Abby, Dr. Ramsey 
 has a wife and two children. I did not intend to tell 
 you that, for he has separated from them. I don't 
 know much about it. Some kind of a squabble, or 
 incompatibility, or a money-fuss. They couldn't agree, 
 anyhow, and so Ramsey turned over house and home 
 to her and cash for maintenance, while he roams 
 about, coming here occasionally and making jour- 
 neys to the North. He never had a thought of Dolly 
 nor she of him. Dolly! why, my dear, I wouldn't 
 stand that kind of a thing for a minute ! and do you 
 think she?"
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 Clayton had a vibration of anger in his voice as 
 he abruptly stopped speaking. Abby was looking up 
 at him. He turned his eyes to hers. She stayed 
 silent, but the crimson flushes mounted to her cheeks 
 and to her forehead and the hot blood poured upon 
 her brain until she thought she should swoon. 
 
 Clayton's face was red also, and he held his tongue; 
 but he clenched his hands until the nails almost 
 pierced the palms, and silently cursed himself that 
 he had not been more prudent in his speech. 
 
 For a few moments they looked out upon the 
 water now glimmering white in the dusk, and then 
 Abby arose and said : 
 
 "Let us go to the house." 
 
 She took her companion's arm as they walked from 
 the pier to the lawn, and then over the grass to the 
 house. 
 
 Clayton tried to turn her thoughts away from Dr. 
 Ramsey and Dolly by speaking of the Morris ball 
 and of the pleasures of the day that were just now 
 ended; but Abby had fallen silent; and almost as soon 
 as she reached the house she went to her room and 
 to bed,
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Witk tke World's People. 
 
 ABBY had half resolved not to go to Mrs. Morris's 
 ball. She was worried by the strange suspicion that 
 had been awakened in her mind about Dolly, and 
 then she shrank from proceeding much farther along 
 the way that led her far from the teachings and prac- 
 tices of Friends. 
 
 But Clayton reassured her concerning his sister, 
 and she began to believe that really she might have 
 misunderstood the talk she had overheard in the gar- 
 den. Dr. Ramsey had gone away for a time and 
 Dolly's demeanor surely gave no indication that she 
 had any serious thought for him or for any other 
 person. 
 
 And then the Quakeress could hardly escape the 
 influence of the excitement attending Dolly's prepa- 
 rations for the ball, whilst always in her mind was 
 the thought that if she went to the Morris plantation 
 on that night Clayton would be her close companion. 
 
 "There can be no possible harm in it, dear," urged 
 Dolly. "The best people in the neighborhood, lots 
 of them religious people, will be there, and Mrs. Mor- 
 ris is a model of a woman; a church-member, too. 
 You should have a chance to see a little of the world, 
 Abby. It is not very wicked. A ball like this is 
 merely a pleasant gathering of friends. Go just once 
 
 (245)
 
 246 The Quakeress. 
 
 and meet them, and never go again if you find the 
 meeting not to your fancy." 
 
 "But the dancing!" said Abby, "and my plain 
 clothing! I cannot dance, and I should be queer 
 among those gaily dressed people." 
 
 Dolly became more urgent as she saw Abby's reso- 
 lution weakening, and so she produced a beautiful 
 dress which Abby was persuaded to try on ; and then, 
 putting her arm about the Quaker girl, Dolly insisted 
 that she should learn the steps of the waltz whilst Dolly 
 hummed a tune. 
 
 Soon the two were whirling about the room, and 
 when they stopped Abby looked at herself in the 
 mirror and saw there a face and a figure made 
 strangely handsome by the bright attire. 
 
 Then Clayton came in and his words of praise of 
 her appearance were less to her than the admiration 
 plainly depicted on his face. 
 
 His repeated earnest entreaty that she should go 
 to the ball, and with him, removed the last remnant 
 of her reluctance and so, many times again that day 
 and the next, she practiced the steps of the dance 
 with Dolly, while Penelope's skilled fingers touched 
 here and there with bits of lace and ribbon the dress 
 that Abby was to wear. 
 
 Amid all these delightful preparations there was 
 no time for compunction, nor when, on the evening 
 of the ball, Clayton wrapped a cloak about her and 
 led her out to the wagon which he would drive with 
 his own hands to the Morris plantation. A negro on 
 horseback followed to care for the horse when the 
 plantation should be reached.
 
 With the World s People. 247 
 
 Then when Abby had placed herself in the carriage 
 with Clayton beside her, they drove slowly down the 
 graveled way among the shadows of the evergreens 
 that the early moonlight threw across the path, and 
 so came out upon the road that ran beneath the great 
 trees by the river-bank. 
 
 A strange joy was in the heart of the girl. The 
 joy to be alone with Clayton was stronger than ever 
 before, and with it was mingled the pleasure of high 
 expectation. For all this coming experience had the 
 thrill and the charm of novelty. She had found that 
 she loved to dance, and now she was to dance with 
 this man, and to hearken to rapturous music, to see 
 strange faces and to wear for the first time in public 
 garments that appealed to her senses almost as music 
 did. 
 
 The night was lovely, and the scene about them, 
 softened and made mystical by the uncertain light, 
 seemed more beautiful than ever. If she had found 
 in her mind an impulse to regret that she had 
 departed from the principles of her people, she could 
 have had no chance to cherish it, for Clayton was 
 in high spirits and he talked constantly to her with 
 mingled humor and tenderness and both of them 
 found frequent provocation to hearty laughter. When 
 the Morris house was reached Abby wondered at the 
 shortness of the journey. 
 
 Dolly, who had come with her father, met the 
 Quakeress at the very entrance of the broad hallway 
 and together they went to the great chamber over- 
 head where negro maids were ready to take their 
 wraps. Then Dolly turned to adjust her friend's
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 dress and to put a fresh flower in her hair, after 
 which she presented her to three or four women 
 whom Abby thought very beautiful. 
 
 Abby went down the stairs and into the wide draw- 
 ing-room, leaning upon Clayton's arm, and Clayton 
 did not even try to hide the exultation with which he 
 led this sweet stranger in among the throngs of his 
 friends. The girl could not but be conscious that she 
 had strong attention from the company, for all the 
 women came to greet her with warm Southern gra- 
 ciousness and the young men were eager to know 
 her. 
 
 "I will dance with none but thee," she whispered 
 to Clayton, when the music softly began. 
 
 "The others may think that ungenerous," said 
 Clayton, not displeased. 
 
 "They must not," she said. "I dance so poorly 
 that I should be ashamed, and then then I am 
 half afraid it is not right for me to dance at all." 
 
 "Come," he said, "you must put that by. Some 
 of these women who will dance are really angels of 
 goodness. There can be no harm. But you shall 
 do as you like, only you must dance with me, will 
 you not?" 
 
 "Yes, but once or twice, and thee will say to them, 
 will thee not, if they think me unkind, that I have 
 never danced before?" 
 
 "Yes, you shall not dance with them if you do not 
 wish. I will explain. And now, there is a waltz. Will 
 you come?" 
 
 She had ever been exquisitely sensitive to sweet 
 music, and now, with the arms of the man she loved
 
 With the World's People. 249 
 
 about her, with her face near to his, with the stronger 
 heart-beats compelled by the swift movement, with 
 the mirrored lights, the perfumed air, the gay colors, 
 the whirling forms about her, that music seemed to 
 her so rapturously beautiful that her eyes became 
 misty and her soul was lifted into perfect ecstasy. 
 This, then, is why people love to dance! No won- 
 der ! She felt in that moment as if never before had 
 she known pure bliss, and whether it were merely 
 sensuous or something loftier and better she could 
 not care or even think. She gave herself up to it 
 and forgot everything but herself and her partner; 
 and when the music stopped and with cheeks red- 
 dened into brilliancy of beauty the two walked into 
 the hallway, she found herself clinging to Clayton's 
 arm as if he were a part of her. She was almost 
 unable to articulate. 
 
 "I knew you would like the dance," he said, for 
 he did not need to ask her if she liked it. 
 
 She looked up at him with tenderness in her eyes 
 and said : 
 
 "I did not dream it was so lovely." 
 
 "And we will dance again," said Clayton, "but now 
 we will walk upon the porch for a while." 
 
 So he threw a wrap about her and out they went 
 upon the wide piazza upheld by great white columns. 
 Others were there in the cool air and the moonlight, 
 but these two walked far up to the end where the 
 river could be seen, with the -white light shining upon 
 it, and there they stood, and b.oth for a time were 
 silent. 
 
 Through the open windows came to them the
 
 250 The Quakeress. 
 
 sound of voices in lively conversation and now and 
 then of merriment, and presently the music began 
 again and, as the dancers thronged the floor, the clat- 
 ter of tongues was half-muffled. 
 
 "Once I cared for that revelry," said Clayton. "I 
 cared for it for itself; but now it would be nothing to 
 me if you were not here." 
 
 She clasped his arm more closely. 
 
 "It is pure joy for me to be here," said Abby, 
 softly. 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 "I cannot tell : the music, the people, the stir of the 
 dance all give me strange pleasure; but perhaps 
 perhaps it is because you are with me !" 
 
 Then he waved his hand toward the landscape half 
 revealed by the moonlight, and said : 
 
 "And that is better, with its sweetness and quiet 
 and solitude than the noise and the heat and the 
 crowd of the ball-room. It is better for lovers, at 
 any rate!" 
 
 "But we must not stay here," said Abby, "delight- 
 ful as it is." 
 
 "No, we will go in and dance again." 
 
 When Clayton had danced with her once more, 
 other young men claimed her as a partner and were 
 urgent for her acceptance, but she thought she must 
 refuse, and Mrs. Morris graciously came to her aid 
 in giving to the disappointed applicants some sort 
 of reason for her refusal. And Mrs. Morris; when 
 they were alone for a moment, said to her : 
 
 "I am sorry you feel you cannot take them for 
 partners; but I shall love the Quakers if they are all 
 like you, my dear!"
 
 With the World s People. 251 
 
 There was one young man who found, he thought, 
 matter for offence in Abby's gentle but firm refusal 
 to dance with him. Carrol Thorn was more insistent 
 than courtesy permitted, and when he found his efforts 
 unavailing he turned away with some bitterness of 
 feeling in his heart against the girl and against the 
 man who kept her for himself. 
 
 After a while Clayton took Abby to the supper- 
 room where a great table was filled with dainty food 
 and bore upon it at either end a huge bowl filled with 
 punch. Wine was taken by everybody and by some 
 of the young men not sparingly, so that Abby soon 
 began to see in the faces of the men about her a flush 
 that startled her. Clayton, too, she thought, had 
 not been indifferent to this enticement, and she 
 begged him to go with her to the porch again. As 
 they passed through the doorway from the hall to 
 the porch, both of them heard a man say to two or 
 three young men who stood with him: 
 
 "She is pretty, but she is a damned abolitionist." 
 
 They could not help hearing the words, nor could 
 they help seeing that the man who uttered them was 
 Carrol Thorn. 
 
 Thorn's companions quickly withdrew when Clay- 
 ton and Abby came suddenly upon them; but Thorn, 
 somewhat shamefaced, but too proud to run away, 
 remained by the doorway. 
 
 "Come back into the room," said Clayton to Abby, 
 turning about. Abby obeyed him, but once within, 
 she whispered to him : 
 
 "Give no heed to him, Clayton, I pray thee." 
 
 Clayton made no answer. He led her to where 
 Dolly was and said to his sister:
 
 252 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Care for her, Dolly, for a moment." 
 
 Abby dared make no demonstration; but the pallor 
 of her face showed the dread in her heart. 
 
 "I fear Clayton will have trouble," she said to 
 Dolly. 
 
 "About what?" asked Dolly. 
 
 "About me." 
 
 Dolly laughed, without understanding the matter, 
 and answered: 
 
 "Don't worry about him ! He can take care of 
 himself. 
 
 Clayton went straight to Thorn and said : 
 
 "Did you use those words of Miss Woolford?" 
 
 "Yes !" answered Thorn, lifting his head and look- 
 ing at him defiantly. 
 
 "In her hearing, too, like a brave man!" 
 
 "I did not know she was there." 
 
 "You will retract them and apologize to her, then." 
 
 "Not at your bidding !" 
 
 "But I am the one who will bid you do it. I am 
 her friend." 
 
 "I don't care what you are. You will lower your 
 tone and quit your insolence before you will get any- 
 thing from me." 
 
 "You are a liar and a coward !" said Clayton. 
 
 Thorn slapped his cheek sharply. 
 
 Clayton stood for a moment as if to think if he 
 should spring upon his antagonist and avenge him- 
 self then and there. But he controlled his rage and 
 said: 
 
 "I will kill you for this, man !" 
 
 Thorn laughed lightly, turned upon his heel and 
 walked away.
 
 With the World's People. 253 
 
 Then Clayton came again to Abby, who waited for 
 him, her soul rilled with fear. She no longer cared 
 for the music or the gay scene; hardly could she 
 maintain a semblance of composure whilst she 
 replied to those who talked to her. Abby was hot with 
 eagerness to hear from him a message of peace, but 
 the look upon his face discouraged her hope that the 
 quarrel had been arranged. Clayton tried to speak 
 to her softly and with reassuring words, but the pre- 
 tence did not deceive her. She saw that wine was 
 in his brain and that passion was there with it. 
 
 Then all the scene about her quickly became ter- 
 rible, and as she looked at the reddened cheeks of 
 many of the men and heard louder laughter and 
 louder talk than there had been two hours before, she 
 rose and putting her hand upon Clayton's arm, said 
 to him: 
 
 "Let us go home." 
 
 "Why, Abby " began Clayton, as if to dissuade 
 her. 
 
 "O ! take me home, take me home at once ! O ! 
 please do so, Clayton !" 
 
 When they were in the carriage Clayton began to 
 talk lightly of the ball and the dance and the people, 
 but her mind was clear; and she made no answer 
 until presently she said : 
 
 "Thee will not quarrel with Mr. Thorn, Clayton?" 
 
 Clayton hesitated before replying. Then he said: 
 
 "A Southern gentleman has but one answer for 
 the man who is insolent to a woman. I should be 
 unworthy of you if I did not resent an insult to you." 
 
 "Not an insult, Clayton. He did not know I was
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 near by. He was angry with me, and rightly, per- 
 haps, because I could not dance with him. And then 
 thee knows Friends are abolitionists." 
 
 "But you are not !" answered Clayton. 
 
 "I do not know. I never thought much about it. 
 I am just a poor ignorant girl, not used to talking 
 of such things." 
 
 "If you are an abolitionist, then I am one!" he 
 answered, doggedly. "You are right whatever you are, 
 and what you are I am, and I will stand by you." 
 
 "I am a Friend, and Friends do not quarrel. They 
 are always for peace." 
 
 "I know, I know," said Clayton, "and no doubt 
 much is to be said for their theories, but they are not 
 understood here. You are my guest. I should be 
 scorned if I did not protect and defend you. My 
 father would send me from his house." 
 
 "Forgive him, for my sake." 
 
 "No, I cannot. I would die to save you from 
 insult, but the society in which I live will not let me 
 forgive him, and besides I don't want to forgive him." 
 
 Abby withheld her speech for a moment, and then 
 she said : 
 
 "And yet, O, Clayton ! He was right, He only was 
 right, who, when He was reviled, reviled not again; 
 who, when He suffered, threatened not, but commit- 
 ted Himself to Him who judgeth righteously! That 
 is the only way! That is the Friends' way. Thee 
 will forgive Mr. Thorn?" 
 
 "No!" said Clayton, almost fiercely. 
 
 The tears came into Abby's eyes and dread was in 
 her heart; dread deepened by the clear evidence that 
 he was now much inflamed by the drink he had had.
 
 With the World's People. 255 
 
 "What will you do then?" she asked. 
 
 "He will apologize or I will punish him !" 
 
 Abby moaned and, speaking as to herself, said : 
 
 "I have wandered far from the way of peace in 
 which my people taught me to walk and now my God 
 will punish me by making me the cause of violence ! 
 Woe to me ! \Voe to me ! Woe to me that my sin 
 should make others sin !" 
 
 Then she began to sob. 
 
 Clayton took her hand in his and spoke tenderly 
 to her. 
 
 "You are an angel. You are responsible for noth- 
 ing." 
 
 Then they came to the homestead and as they entered 
 the door she said to him once more : 
 
 "Promise me, dear Clayton, that you will not quar- 
 rel for me. O, for my sake promise me that !" 
 
 But he kissed her hand and turned away when he 
 had said : 
 
 "May all your dreams be peace, my dearest ! You 
 shall not suffer for a moment. I will consider the 
 matter." 
 
 As the girl disappeared through the doorway Clay- 
 ton entered the carriage again and drove furiously 
 back to the Morris house. Thorn was still there, and 
 Clayton, summoning two of his friends to the seclu- 
 sion of one of the porches, asked them to challenge 
 Thorn to fight him to-morrow morning. He would 
 have the matter ended before the women should have 
 time to plead or protest. 
 
 The first hours of the morning had already come 
 when Clayton returned to Sassafras, having his second
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 and a surgeon with him. They entered the house 
 quietly and for a time sought rest, without removing 
 their garments, in Clayton's room. 
 
 When the dawn had begun the three men went 
 softly out, walking across the lawn to the river, and 
 entered a boat which, with Clayton and his second 
 at the oars, dropped quickly down the stream. 
 
 Downward it went for a mile or more until Par- 
 ker's Bluff was reached, and here the party landed 
 and climbed the path to the top of the bank. They 
 came out upon the famous picnic ground, where the 
 grass-covered plateau, verging upon the river and 
 with three sides shut-in by woods and dense thicket, 
 offered complete solitude and perfect silence. 
 
 The grey light of the dawn was being replaced by 
 the splendor which proclaimed the swift coming of 
 the sun, and the unperturbed surface of the river gave 
 a pale reflex of the lustre of the sky. 
 
 The quiet water looked cold, and indeed the air 
 was chill and the dew heavy in the thick grass. Thus 
 to the bravest of the young men, weary from the 
 revel of the night, the scene was cheerless. 
 
 But Clayton was resolute, and when Thorn had 
 come upon the ground by the path through the wood 
 and his second had conferred with Clayton's second, 
 the distance was measured and the stations fixed. 
 The surgeon opened his box. The pistols were load- 
 ed. The duellists took them and standing face-to- 
 face at measured distance, waited for the word. 
 Then, just as the sun flung its first blood-red beam 
 across the grass and upon the branches of the great 
 trees, a carriage was heard coming furiously along
 
 With the World's People. 257 
 
 the road beyond the thicket and then suddenly it 
 stopped. 
 
 The duellists heard it but gave no heed; and at 
 the signal the combatants fired. But, as the report 
 vibrated through the air, it was answered by a shrill 
 cry of terror from a woman's voice in the thicket, 
 and the combatants, turning their smoking weapons 
 downward, looked inquiringly toward the place 
 whence the cry came. 
 
 When Abby parted from Clayton and entered her 
 room a candle burned upon the table and beneath it 
 lay a letter that had come in the evening's mail from 
 George Fotherly. She knew the writing and as she 
 took the letter in her hand she caught the reflection 
 of her figure in the glass, her cheeks flushed, her hair 
 in some disorder and her gown of bright colors 
 tricked out with ribbons and with lace. She put the 
 letter down again, feeling that the kindest words 
 George should use in writing to her would seem to 
 rebuke her. But she was indeed eager to hear from 
 home, and so opening the letter she sat by the table 
 to read it. 
 
 Clearly the writer had not suspected that Abby 
 would be involved in the furious pleasures of the 
 world's people. He wrote quietly of the home things 
 and the home people, speaking of the little occur- 
 rences that had engaged the attention of the folks of 
 Connock; giving some unimportant news of the 
 Meeting and commending her to the Father's care 
 with an expression of his firm confidence that amid 
 
 17
 
 258 The Quakeress. 
 
 the temptations of her new life she would keep her- 
 self unspotted from the world and faithful to the 
 principles of Friends. 
 
 The flush upon Abby's face grew higher as she 
 read the letter. It breathed an atmosphere of purity 
 and tranquillity with which she was familiar and which 
 she loved, and it made the sensuous dance, the pas- 
 sionate music, the half drunken revelry of the even- 
 ing just past seem almost hideous. She could not 
 keep back the tears as she folded the letter and put 
 it down; and then swiftly she tore the gay dress from 
 her shoulders and flung it upon a chair as if some- 
 how it were guilty of misleading her. 
 
 The girl's mind dwelt upon the sweet serenity of 
 her life at home and then, turning sharply to the 
 scenes which she had witnessed and in which she had 
 figured at the Morris ball, she whispered to herself: 
 
 "The Meeting would disown me if it knew what I 
 have done, and George would turn from me, per- 
 haps!" 
 
 Then the sense of her deceitfulness lay heavily 
 upon her. That she should hold her membership 
 upon pretence of faithfulness while indeed she was 
 faithless! That she should transgress and then go 
 home to pretend there had been no transgression! 
 That she should wear the garb and claim fellowship 
 with Friends at Plymouth, when she had clothed 
 herself with finery and sanctioned the folly and wick- 
 edness of the world's people at Sassafras! She felt 
 debased and fallen; and she resolved but she felt 
 that the resolution was made with weakness that 
 she would no more permit herself to be defiled by
 
 With the World's People. 2 S9 
 
 these evil things. She would go home at once and 
 strive to regain the place she had lost. But she was 
 conscious that her experience at the ball could not 
 be displaced from her memory; and even while the 
 thought came to her, her mind slipped back to the 
 brilliant room and to the delicious music and she shut 
 her eyes as she fancied herself again in Clayton's 
 arms whirling about in a kind of ecstasy of happiness. 
 
 When she had undressed and had blown the candle 
 out, the time came to pray, and she tried but could 
 not; and so half in despair she sought sleep without 
 it. Sleep would not come. She was weary, but she 
 carried still upon her nerves, in her fast-beating 
 heart and hot head the excitement of the ball-room. 
 She lay wide awake, hearing the clock in the hallway 
 striking hour qfter hour, and trying to rid her mind 
 of the memory of the evening. But, strive as she 
 would to think of home, of the things in her life that 
 she used to love, of the events of her childhood, of 
 religion and all that it had had for her, her mind 
 always came back again to the ball-room, to the music, 
 to the dance, to the wine-flushed faces of the men. 
 As the hours went by her sense of guilt became 
 deeper, and more and more repulsive seemed the 
 pleasures into which she had suffered herself to be 
 lured. There was but one grain of sweetness in it 
 all and that was her love for Clayton, but even this 
 had a flavor also of bitterness, for she knew in the 
 secret recesses of her soul that it had been better for 
 her peace if she had never heard his name or seen his 
 face. 
 
 She sat by the window looking out over the lawn
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 as the eastern sky became whiter and more white, 
 when she was startled to see three men crossing the 
 lawn to the river. She recognized Clayton. She did 
 not at once guess what his errand might be, but he 
 had not gone far in the boat, the sound of whose oars 
 she plainly heard, when the truth thrust itself upon 
 her mind and she began to tremble. She could hardly 
 refrain from crying aloud, her pain and fear were so 
 great. But she restrained herself, and with the swift 
 resolution of a mind tense with strong emotion, she 
 put a frock about her, seized a cloak and ran down 
 the stairs and out to the stable-yard. 
 
 There with difficulty she roused one of the men 
 who slept in a loft over the stable. 
 
 "Quick, quick, Joseph ! Master Clayton is going 
 to be killed! Come quickly. Hitch the horse and 
 come with me. Hurry, Joseph! O please hurry or 
 we will be too late !" 
 
 The negro, hardly awake, and not at all compre- 
 hending the nature of the situation, soon had the 
 horse harnessed and hitched to the wagon. 
 
 "Now drive just as fast as thee can very, very 
 fast, Joseph, down the river-road to the picnic 
 ground." 
 
 Abby guessed where Clayton had gone. 
 
 The driver put the horse to his speed and then he 
 said: 
 
 "Missy, what's dat you say? What's dey a doin' 
 to Mars Clayt? What's dat you tell me?" 
 
 "I'm afraid, Joseph, he is going to fight a duel and 
 that he will be killed. Don't talk about it. Hurry, 
 hurry!"
 
 With the World's People. 26r 
 
 In a few moments the right place upon the road 
 was reached and the carriage stopped. Abby climbed 
 th| fence with reckless haste and plunged into the 
 thilket. Thrusting from her the tangled bushes that 
 torllher hands and rent her garments, Abby, her soul 
 filloBwith fear, made her way through the wood, and 
 whal she struggled pistol-shots were heard and her 
 wr(||ght feelings expressed themselves in a scream. 
 She fhought slie had come too late. 
 
 But she pushed forward through the brake and 
 presently she came out upon the grassy plateau drag- 
 gled and dishevelled, but triumphant; for a glance 
 told her she had reached the place in time. 
 
 She leaped into the space between the two antag- 
 onists, her face white and her eyes distended with 
 terror. For a moment she could not speak. She 
 stood and waved her hands as if to thrust the young 
 men apart. At last she found breath for utterance 
 and she stammered: 
 
 "No! No! No! Thee thee will kill no thee 
 must not no do not murder O, no ! no ! no ! O 
 stop them, stop them !" 
 
 Then she put her hands to her face and began to 
 weep passionately, standing still the while, until again 
 she forced herself to cry out, waving her hands as if 
 she would dispel some awful vision. 
 
 "Not murder, Clayton not murder, murder for 
 me ! O not that ! not that !" 
 
 A shudder ran along her body as she spoke ; she tried 
 to move towards Thorn, but she could not. Her force 
 was spent. Thrusting her arms outward as if to save 
 herself, she fell and lay unconscious upon the grass. 
 
 Clayton leaped to her side, while the surgeon
 
 262 
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 brought water to bathe her face; and Thorn and the 
 other men stood by pitiful and remorseful. 
 
 It was but a moment before the pale face had a 
 flush upon it and the eyes opened. Presently she 
 could be lifted and placed upon some cushions from 
 the boat. She looked upon the men about her as if 
 she wondered why they were here and why she was 
 here. Her memory returned, and she said to Clayton : 
 
 "Thee did not did not?" 
 
 "No, no !" answered Clayton tenderly. "No other 
 shot has been fired. We are all here, unhurt. Think 
 of it no more." 
 
 "I will go home. Help me, please." 
 
 They raised her from the ground with her gar- 
 ments wet w r ith the dew. But she would not move 
 forward. There was something yet for her to say. 
 
 She turned to Thorn : 
 
 "Thee did not mean to speak unkindly of me, did 
 thee?" 
 
 "Unkindly of you, Miss Woolford? How could " 
 
 "But if thee did I forgive thee wholly. I forgive 
 thee and ask complete forgiveness if I have wronged 
 thee in any way. I never did so wittingly." 
 
 "You never did !" said Thorn. 
 
 "And I need God's pardon more than thine. I will 
 pray for that and for thee. Thee will not fight again ?" 
 
 Thorn's eyes fell. Then looking at her he said : 
 
 "That does not rest with my decision." 
 
 "Clayton !" she said, turning to him. "There will 
 be no more?" 
 
 "I will obey your wish," he saic^f 
 
 "Nay, Clayton, but that is not enough. Thee must 
 forgive."
 
 " She Leaped into the Space Between the Antagonists"
 
 With the World's People. 263 
 
 Clayton made no answer. Abby's eyes filled afresh 
 with tears as she said: 
 
 '"But if indeed there be a quarrel is it not mine? 
 and I have forgiven as I hope to be forgiven. Will 
 thee have a grievance for me when I have none for 
 myself? Shall I not decide? Who gave thee power 
 to put my will aside for thine? There will be no 
 peace for me till thee has yielded. Take my hand, 
 Mr. Thorn," and she held it out to him. 
 
 Thorn clasped it and falling upon one knee he 
 reverently touched it with his lips. 
 
 "Now thine, Clayton !" 
 
 She stood between them, her strength and her 
 courage come back, holding a hand of each, and then 
 she said with her face uplifted : 
 
 "I thank my God that He permitted me to keep 
 these hands from stains of blood. It is of His great 
 mercy, to me, the chief of sinners; and I pray Him 
 that these two children of His, these honest gentle- 
 men, may cast themselves on His mercy for the past, 
 and know the power of His love for all the future. 
 This man is thy friend, Clayton," she said, putting 
 Clayton's hand in Thorn's. "Thee will cherish him 
 for my sake, will thee not?" 
 
 So then, she bade farewell to all that stood by and 
 with Clayton and his second walked slowly to the 
 carriage leaning upon Clayton's arm, and joy shining 
 through the tears upon her face. 
 
 Thorn looked after her and when she had gone a 
 little space, he turned to his companion and said : 
 
 "A man might die for a woman like that! God 
 forgive me. God bless her !"
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 
 
 Two days after the ball Abby brought her visit to 
 Sassafras to an end. She had intended to stay longer, 
 but now she was glad to turn her face homeward and 
 to escape from a life that had lost nearly all its charm 
 for her. The revelry at the ball, the murderous quar- 
 rel between Clayton and Thorn, the strange suspicion 
 that seemed to attend Dolly's relations with Dr. 
 Ramsey, the taint of slavery and of disloyalty that 
 was upon the community, and even the painfulness 
 of her situation with regard to Clayton combined to 
 fill her soul with longings for the home where every- 
 thing seemed different and infinitely better than the 
 conditions environing her at Sassafras. The Harleys 
 entreated her to remain; Dolly was eagerly solicitous 
 for prolongation of her visit, and Clayton was both 
 grieved and angry that she should be stubborn in her 
 resolution to depart; but when the hour came for 
 the movement toward the steamboat wharf she was 
 ready, and with reluctance Clayton ordered the car- 
 riage, while he and Dolly made ready to accompany 
 her to the river. 
 
 When all the farewells were said and she had, with 
 sincerity, thanked Mr. and Mrs. Harley for the kind- 
 ness of their hospitality, she drove away with the 
 young people, and while the boat lingered at the 
 wharf for the freight that was to be put upon it, 
 
 (264)
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 265 
 
 Clayton, alone on the deck with her, tried to extract 
 from her a promise that she would write to him 
 often. But she would make no promises, and afterward 
 when she had parted from him and his sister and the 
 vessel hurried down the river to the bay, past the 
 plantations and the clumps of woodland, she had her 
 mind resolutely set to break the ties that bound net- 
 to Clayton and to free herself from what she now felt 
 more than ever to be disgraceful bondage. 
 
 It was hard to form such a resolution, and while 
 she strove to do it she was conscious of weakness of 
 will that gave her distrust that she would be able to 
 repulse her lover even if she should give strong 
 promise to herself to do so. 
 
 At any rate, she would make no first advance to 
 him, and if he should address himself to her she 
 would consider carefully before she consented to 
 receive him. The feeling was upon her to fly to her 
 mother and to tell her the whole sorrowful story of 
 her troubles; but upon reflection she found that 
 shame for herself and pity for the mother whose bur- 
 den was heavy enough already would deter her from 
 doing that. 
 
 It was, however, she felt, a clear gain to have got 
 away from the atmosphere of Sassafras, and it was 
 with a sense of grateful relief that she walked upon 
 the upper-deck of the steamer in the cool air of the 
 evening with her thoughts turned to the grey house 
 far away upon the Connock hill. Excepting that she 
 still could not suppress her love for Clayton, Sassa- 
 fras and all things connected with it, began to seem 
 in some strange way hateful to her. Her purpose
 
 266 The Quakeress. 
 
 was fixed never to return there again if she could 
 help it. 
 
 When she came from her sleeping-room in the 
 morning the boat had passed Chester and was push- 
 ing swiftly up the river toward Philadelphia. She 
 wondered if George would be at the wharf to meet 
 her; she hoped so, for she was much drawn to him 
 now since her Southern friends had lost some of their 
 attractiveness; but she feared he would not have had 
 time to hear from the letter she had written to her 
 mother announcing her home-coming. But as the 
 boat drew in to the wharf the first person she saw 
 standing there was George Fotherly, and when the 
 gang-plank was set he came at once upon the vessel 
 and after greeting her obtained possession of her 
 baggage. 
 
 He saw in her bright eyes the pleasure she felt at 
 meeting him and it filled him with happiness. He led 
 her out among the casks and bags and baskets and 
 boxes across the pier to a carriage into which they 
 were about to get, when to Abby's amazement Pene- 
 lope presented herself. 
 
 At first Abby did not understand why she was 
 there. 
 
 "Why, Penelope," she exclaimed, "how did thee 
 get here? Thee was not on the boat ?" 
 "Yes'm," answered the girl. 
 "But, how did Miss Dolly tell thee to to ?" 
 "I runned away, Missy, jes's I said I would." 
 "And thee came on the boat? I did not see thee." 
 "No, missy, I was hidin' down among de boxes 
 and truck and pretty near dead for want o' bref an' 
 sleep."
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 267 
 
 Abby was perplexed. 
 
 "She is Dolly's servant," said Abby to George. 
 "What shall we do with her? It would seem dread- 
 ful to the Harleys if I should take her to our house." 
 
 "Really," answered George, "there seems to be 
 no help for it. Thee cannot have her stay hungry and 
 penniless in a strange city. Let her come with us 
 and we can then decide what had better be done." 
 
 In his heart George did not feel sorry for the Har- 
 leys and he had no purpose to try to do anything 
 with Penelope but to keep her in freedom. 
 
 He put her into the cab with himself and Abby and 
 soon all three of them were on the train for Connock 
 where Rachel was 'waiting with a warm and tearful 
 welcome, and where Penelope, with a smiling face, 
 was taken to the kitchen and to a hearty breakfast. 
 She had no notion to embarrass the Woolfords or 
 to take the risk that Mrs. Ponder would recognize 
 her and write to Sassafras about her. In a few hours 
 she had disappeared from the grey house and long 
 afterward, when slavery was no longer an institution 
 in Maryland, Abby heard of her as a servant in a 
 Quaker family in another county. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Ponder came over to the grey house 
 in the evening of the day of Abby's return and both 
 were glad to have her with them again. Mrs. Pon- 
 der asked her minutely about her visit, and about all 
 the members of her sister's family, and Abby told 
 her everything but those things she would have been 
 ashamed to tell and to have Mrs. Ponder hear. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder was very shrewd, and although Abby 
 spoke warmly of the pleasure that had attended her
 
 268 The Quakeress. 
 
 visit to Sassafras, the minister's wife was sure some- 
 thing had happened which had left a flavor of bitter- 
 ness in the girl's mind. 
 
 "They are most kind and lovable people," she said, 
 "and I was sure you would have a good time. But, 
 of course, my dear, they are very different in many 
 ways from the folks about here. Even sister has 
 changed greatly in her views and methods since she 
 married into a Southern family." 
 
 "Changed completely," said Dr. Ponder. "Don't 
 you remember, Isabel, the time she stayed with us 
 while I was in my first parish, she insisted upon 
 becoming a member of the woman's anti-slavery 
 society? and now she actually owns slaves and glories 
 in it." 
 
 "She was only a young and foolish girl then, birdie, 
 and it is hardly fair to hold her seriously respon- 
 sible for her actions. And very naturally, I think, 
 when she married she adopted her husband's views 
 and went to extremes in her opinions, as women 
 often do." 
 
 "Always do !" said Dr. Ponder, with emphasis. 
 
 "No, not always, birdie ! You can't reasonably say 
 that I am extreme about anything, unless it be my 
 church views. And then I think we ought to remem- 
 ber that, as a matter of fact, there is much to be said 
 for the theory so firmly held by sister that the curse 
 placed upon Ham as recorded in the Scriptures docs 
 seem to give some sort of warrant for human slavery." 
 
 "There is absolutely nothing in it! I have care- 
 fully examined the entire subject, and I positively 
 deny the whole Ham proposition."
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 269 
 
 "Still, birdie, I really do recall the sermon you 
 preached years ago in your first parish rather sustain- 
 ing the proposition, and I remember the earnestness 
 and heartiness with which Senator Wigger, who was 
 a Democrat, complimented you upon it" 
 
 "That was before I had studied the matter thor- 
 oughly; and I was very young and not wise; and at 
 any rate, my dear, my plan has always been to let 
 by-gones be by-gones. Tell me, Abby, something 
 about the dear old church near to Sassafras, planted 
 two hundred years ago by the missionary zeal of 
 the Mother Church in England." 
 
 But, alas! Abby had almost nothing to say about 
 the Sassafras church. She had been there once, and 
 thought the service very dull and the discolored spit- 
 toons in the pews very dreadful, and besides, her 
 interest had been centered during all the time of her 
 visit upon things at Sassafras that were wholly apart 
 from ecclesiastical influences. 
 
 The next morning Abby took up with new relish 
 the household duties she had been used to perform and 
 soon she had settled down once more to the routine 
 of common life which she had followed all her days 
 with tranquillity and satisfaction. The time went 
 quickly by, and before long her hope that Clayton 
 would not write to her was displaced by wonder that 
 he did not write, and the wonder did not have time 
 to grow before a long letter from him came to her. 
 
 She was disturbed by the eagerness with which she 
 read it and she hid it away with a resolution that she 
 would not answer it. Then she changed her mind 
 and determined to send an answer after a long delay.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 When she had read the letter for the tenth time, she 
 found herself pitying Clayton for the distress he 
 would suffer because of her silence and she resolved 
 to pen an answer to-morrow. That night another 
 letter, pleading and passionate, came from him, and 
 she wrote to him, with what she thought dignified 
 reserve, before she went to bed. 
 
 Abby's affected coldness had no chilling influence 
 upon Clayton; it gave him some uneasiness and there- 
 fore it intensified the fervor of the response that 
 speedily came to her. Thereafter there was no pre- 
 tence that she was not glad to hear from him and 
 letters went to and fro several times a week; but 
 Abby carefully hid from her mother the fact that she 
 was in correspondence with Clayton. 
 
 Epistolary love-making has its delights, but they 
 are inferior to the methods which permit eye-to-eye 
 and hand-to-hand, and before the autumn was far 
 advanced Clayton had striven to devise some plan which 
 would enable him to come to Connock and to remain 
 there. The call of his beloved Southland, of which 
 he often talked somewhat vain-gloriously, seemed to 
 have lost much of its imperiousness now that the 
 impulses of his affection urged him to travel northward. 
 
 Christmas was not far off when he wrote to Abby 
 that he had obtained a clerkship in the office of one 
 of the great iron-mills that lie along the levels of the 
 wide meadows by the river at the foot of the Con- 
 nock hill, and that he should come to the town to 
 take the place before the year was out. He explained 
 that it was necessarily repugnant to the feelings of a 
 Southern gentleman to accept a position so humble,
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 271 
 
 especially when honor awaited him upon the field of 
 glory in Virginia, but this, he urged, was a part of 
 the large sacrifice he was prepared to make that he 
 might be near to the woman he loved. 
 
 When Clayton came to the town and took lodg- 
 ings he had proposed to himself that he would 
 become a frequent visitor to the grey house; but Abby 
 was afraid to have it so, and when her parents 
 learned that he was to live in Connock and discov- 
 ered his fondness for Abby's society, they were dis- 
 turbed and warned the girl to act circumspectly 
 with him. Rachel did not like him as a man, and 
 she and Isaac were strongly unwilling that Abby 
 should become interested in a possible suitor who 
 was not a member of their own Society; but Clayton 
 was Mrs. Ponder's nephew, and must frequently 
 visit the parsonage and they were unwilling peremp- 
 torily to forbid his coming to see Abby lest they 
 might give offence to their next door neighbor, whose 
 kind offices to them were given often and with genuine 
 feelings of friendship. 
 
 So Clayton was advised by Abby that in her home 
 their intercourse could not be unrestrained, and 
 almost inevitably Abby, entreated to meet her lover 
 surreptitiously, at last consented. She took many 
 long walks in the wintry weather and found- him 
 waiting for her; he came to the parsonage often and 
 had uninterrupted opportunity for free talk with 
 her; she crept into the church sometimes when he 
 was drawn there upon the pretext that he would 
 practice upon the organ, and sometimes he con- 
 trived to discover when she had an errand to the
 
 272 
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 city and to find an excuse for riding beside her in 
 the train. 
 
 Two or three times Clayton hired a horse and 
 wagon and Abby would walk across the river-bridge 
 and there get into the vehicle with him and for an 
 hour or two drive about among the hills. 
 
 But in a community like Connock proceedings 
 of this kind cannot well escape publicity. Before 
 long the curious observers of their neighbors' move- 
 ments began to note the frequency of Abby's 
 appearances in Clayton's company, and there were 
 some members of the Meeting who were so disturbed 
 by it that they considered if they should not have a 
 committee call upon Isaac and Rachel Woolford to 
 counsel them against permitting this promising 
 young Friend, their daughter, to become too much 
 involved with an admirer who belonged, not only 
 with the world's people, but with the guilty owners 
 of African slaves. But with quite characteristic pru- 
 dence action upon the matter was postponed until 
 the reasons for such intermeddling with Isaac's fam- 
 ily affairs should seem to be more imperative. 
 
 One sunny afternoon in early February Clayton 
 took Abby for a drive up the hillside on the road 
 that led in a roundabout way to George Fotherly's 
 farm. It was not much traveled excepting in the 
 winter-time, for there was a better road with easier 
 grades through the Aramink glen; but when the 
 winter came it always happened that the snow lay 
 deep in the glen, or else, if the rain came heavily 
 upon it, it turned to ice which covered all the road- 
 way so that horsemen feared it and with roughened
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 2 73 
 
 shoes upon their beasts, went cautiously. In such a 
 time the brook that tumbled through the pass had 
 fierceness as it ran along the rocks, whirling itself 
 about the crookedness of the channel, flinging itself 
 here and there until the twigs of the bushes, the tops 
 of the great stones, and even the trunks of the trees 
 that stood near the brook were white with a coating 
 of ice. 
 
 Thus the hillside road, where the sun always beat, 
 was preferred by careful drivers at this season of the 
 year and, besides, the view of the valley and the 
 river and all the country around Connock was very 
 fine and the road ran right through the woods that 
 covered the hill from base to summit. 
 
 Often when George and Abby had looked across 
 from the garden of the grey house they had said they 
 were not sure if the hills were not loveliest in the 
 winter-time. For when the leaves were off and the 
 snow lay all over the surfaces beneath the trees there 
 were revelations that the leafy summer would not 
 permit. The white light developed every twist of 
 the trunks of the trees, every tangle of the branches, 
 every angle of their inclination. Seen from afar, all 
 the trees but those at the very top were in black out- 
 line against the snow and the hills seemed somehow 
 different in their frank nakedness under the flood of 
 light from what they had done with the summer foli- 
 age. One could see the outline of each summit 
 clearly as it rose from the West with a rounded crest 
 and dipped to the East with a feathery crown of 
 trees ; and the passes that lay between them were 
 robbed of all their mystery, but clothed with a novel 
 
 18
 
 274 
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 and wonderful beauty as the snow permitted their 
 farthest and deepest depths to be perceived by him 
 who looked from the Connock hills across the river. 
 
 The lovers found the drive delightful and they 
 went farther from home than was intended, so that 
 the shadows of the swift-falling night were about 
 them as they turned into the hillside road among the 
 trees on their way downward toward Connock. 
 
 There is a sharp turn in the road where it sets off 
 to the southward, and here the front-wheel of Clay- 
 ton's carriage caught in a rut and one of the springs 
 was broken. He stopped the horse and got out to 
 try to fix the spring, and Abby, sitting in the car- 
 riage, became impatient and alarmed at the increas- 
 ing darkness. How, she thought, should she account 
 to her father and mother for this strange absence from 
 home at a late hour ? 
 
 Clayton found the task of making repairs there in 
 the gloom not easy, and while he labored with it, Abby 
 said to him : 
 
 "Some one is coming up the road, and I am sure 
 he will help you." 
 
 The other carriage came near, and Clayton, step- 
 ping out towards it, said: 
 
 "I have broken something and I can't quite get it 
 right. Will you be so kind as to lend me a hand?" 
 
 "Surely!" responded the stranger, stopping his 
 horse, fastening the lines to the dash-board and leap- 
 ing to the ground. 
 
 Abby's heart stopped beating for a moment when 
 she heard the voice and then recognized the form of 
 George Fotherly. That was the one encounter she
 
 Abby Returns to Connock. 2 7s 
 
 had hoped to avoid in her rambles with Clayton. 
 George affected not to see her and the increasing 
 darkness gave him quite a sufficient excuse for his 
 neglect; but she was certain he knew her and certain 
 that he would be cruelly hurt because he had found 
 her in such a place in such company. 
 
 George spoke to Clayton as to an acquaintance 
 and then, taking some bits of rope from his own car- 
 riage, he fixed the broken spring in a few moments 
 in such fashion that Clayton could move slowly for- 
 ward. Mounting to his own wagon he said farewell 
 and drove away, leaving Abby, full of troubled 
 thoughts, to go with Clayton. 
 
 Since Clayton 'came to Connock to stay George 
 had never seen him at the grey house nor in Abby's 
 company, and though he still dreaded that Abby 
 cared for the Southerner, his fears had been in a 
 measure lulled and his hope for his own cause 
 strengthened. Now, however, as he drove up the 
 hill to the farm new light had come to him and he 
 entered his house with rage and despair in his 
 heart. 
 
 All through the night he thought of the girl he 
 loved so much and of the clear evidence he now had 
 of her strong favor for the stranger, and to the bit- 
 terness of his disappointment was added the sharp 
 pain of the conviction that the man was wholly 
 unworthy of her. 
 
 Waking from broken sleep in the morning, George 
 began to consider if something could not be done, 
 not for his sake, but for Abby's sake, to separate her 
 from Clayton. And it so happened that while he sat
 
 276 The Quakeress. 
 
 at the breakfast-table meditating upon the subject, 
 his man came in with the mail from the Connock 
 post office. Among the letters was one from a 
 Friend who lived in the country-town not many 
 miles away from the Sassafras plantation a Friend 
 known to George by name and a man of high char- 
 acter. It read thus: 
 
 "Dear Friend : I am moved to write to thee about 
 a matter which may concern some of thy neighbors 
 and friends, and I do so with reluctance because I 
 am not sure that there is any peril to thy friends or 
 that I have judged rightly in presuming to intrude 
 myself in other people's business. But I know I 
 may trust thy wise discretion and so I ask thee to 
 maintain silence and to destroy this letter if in thy 
 judgment I am mistaken. Late in the summer a 
 dear young Friend, daughter of Isaac Woolford, of 
 Connock, whom once I knew, visited the Sassafras 
 plantation near to us, and was much involved, I fear, 
 in the frivolous amusements of the world's people. 
 This may have concerned me, but I should have held 
 my peace had not rumor in our neighborhood cou- 
 pled her name with that of the son of the Sassafras 
 people as a possible suitor for her hand. This same 
 rumor, widely circulated here, declares that the 
 young man was married some time ago in Mexico 
 and that his wife is still living there. He has striven 
 to keep his marriage secret, and it is not known, I 
 learn, even to his father and mother; but I think 
 Isaac Woolford should hear of the report if it be 
 true that the youth has gone to Connock and persists
 
 Abby Returns to Connock 
 
 277 
 
 in courting his daughter; and I leave it to thee to 
 determine whether the conditions will warrant thee in 
 carrying it to him. With much esteem, 
 Thy friend, 
 
 To George Fotherly. 
 
 When George had read the letter he folded it and 
 put it in his pocket. Then he went out upon his 
 porch and thence to his duties among the farm build- 
 ings, meaning to consider what he should do with 
 this remarkable revelation.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 At Bay. 
 
 GEORGE'S first feeling, when he examined the let- 
 ter, was of exultation. If it were true that Clayton 
 already had a wife, then there was better promise 
 than he had dared to hope that Abby might be his 
 wife. And as he thought upon Clayton's pursuit of 
 the girl who was presumably ignorant of the mar- 
 riage, George's anger grew and he called Clayton a 
 villain whom to expose and denounce was an imper- 
 ative duty. 
 
 Then, as he meditated upon the matter, he per- 
 ceived that the time had not yet come for harsh 
 judgment or for hostile action. The Friend in 
 Maryland reported nothing but rumor, confessing 
 an obligation to proceed cautiously. Before he 
 could venture to come between Abby and the young 
 Southerner he must discover some means by which 
 the truth should be clearly made known and the serious 
 question at once presented itself how this was t$> be 
 done in a safe and inoffensive manner. 
 
 He found that he dare not speak to Abby about it 
 lest he should seem to her impelled by mean jealousy, 
 and he felt sure that, if report had wronged Clayton, 
 he, George, would appear contemptible to the girl 
 and finally ruin his own cause. He shrank also from 
 presenting the matter in any form to Isaac and 
 Rachel Woolford. No doubt they would be grateful 
 
 (278)
 
 At Bay. 279 
 
 to him for any kind of suggestion that would sepa- 
 rate Abby from a suitor who must be unwelcome to 
 them, but if he could not justify his interference by 
 incontrovertible evidence he might be discredited 
 by them also and made ashamed of such an attack 
 upon an innocent man. 
 
 The thought came to him that he might sound 
 Doctor and Mrs. Ponder respecting Clayton's antece- 
 dents; but probably they knew nothing of his mar- 
 riage if he were married, and in any case they would 
 think it strange that he should manifest curiosity about 
 Clayton's personal matters. 
 
 Finally it seemed to George that the manly thing 
 and the safe thing to do would be to seek for Clayton 
 and to talk with him in such a way as to induce him 
 to give some sign that the report about his marriage 
 had a basis of fact. This task would be neither easy 
 nor agreeable, but George resolved to undertake it 
 under conditions that he believed would not be 
 offensive to the Southerner if Clayton was an inno- 
 cent man. 
 
 It was now beyond doubt he thought, that Abby 
 really cared for Clayton. He had hoped it was not 
 so, and for a good while he had found little difficulty 
 in attributing to some other cause than love for Clay- 
 ton the girl's apparent fondness for his company. 
 But since her return from Maryland the proofs were 
 many that there had been love-passages between 
 them and George was convinced that the door of 
 hope had been finally closed to him while Abby's 
 sojourn in Sassafras had given to Clayton the enor- 
 mous advantage of propinquity. If, then, Abby
 
 280 The Quakeress. 
 
 really loved the man, and the man were unmarried 
 and of fine enough character to be fit for her, was it 
 not his duty to sacrifice himself for her sake, and, 
 neglecting the circumstance that Clayton was not a 
 Friend, to stand aside that Abby might have her 
 heart's desire? At first George could hardly bring 
 himself to accept this view of the matter; but from 
 the depths of his soul he did desire happiness for 
 Abby and he knew that it would not come to her if 
 she had strong affection for Clayton and were forced 
 to give him up. 
 
 After much wrestling with himself and with many 
 doubts and fears lest the course he proposed to take 
 should not after all be wise, he determined to talk 
 frankly with Clayton. To this end he wrote to the 
 youth and a meeting was arranged in the parlor of 
 Clayton's boarding-house. 
 
 George's manner was quiet as he began to speak 
 upon the subject that lay upon his mind, but he was 
 not at ease. He found the matter difficult for speech 
 and besides he had the heart-ache. 
 
 "Will thee forgive me, Friend Harley," he said, 
 "if I make bold to talk to thee of a matter of some 
 delicacy that seems to lie between thee and me?" 
 
 "What is it?" responded Clayton, setting his mind 
 to defiance, for he suspected that George would 
 speak to him of Abby. . 
 
 "Thee cannot think that I could help perceiving 
 thy partiality for Abigail Woolford, or that she 
 seems to feel something more than simple friendli- 
 ness for thee." 
 
 "How can I tell what you have perceived?"
 
 At Bay. 
 
 281 
 
 "I have known her," continued George, not notic- 
 ing the unpleasantness of this response, "since she 
 was a little child. For many years I have been much 
 in her company; often we have worshiped together, 
 and her father and mother have been my near friends 
 and have welcomed me to their house. If I cared 
 only for them I could not have looked with indiffer- 
 ence upon any friendship she should form; but I do 
 not care alone for them; I care much for her." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I had always thought that she regarded me with 
 favor, and I think she did until she met thee; but 
 now " 
 
 "Pardon me," said Clayton, "but in my country 
 gentlemen do not talk of such matters freely with 
 other men." 
 
 "It is not easier for me than for thee," said George, 
 "to talk openly of a thing so sacred, and if I compel 
 myself to do it now, it is because I owe something 
 to her as well as to myself. I tell thee plainly that I 
 had hoped to make her my wife." 
 
 Clayton felt a little pang of sorrow for this simple- 
 hearted man; and he answered: 
 
 "Still she has not promised you, and many a man 
 before you has deceived himself in such matters." 
 
 "I know it," responded George. "I have no 
 rights, perhaps I have no claim to consideration, in 
 the case. I do not make complaint, nor would I turn 
 her from her heart's desire if I could, unless unless 
 it were to protect her from hurt." 
 
 "You imagine that I would hurt her, do you?" 
 
 "I cannot say that. It seems to me that she
 
 282 The Quakeress. 
 
 might be happier if she should retain fellowship with 
 her own people; but I am not sure that I can trust 
 myself to form a fair impartial judgment. But when 
 I saw that she was drawn to thee in some degree, I 
 could not help considering if indeed thee was wholly 
 worthy of her. Thee will forgive me for saying 
 that?" 
 
 "Who is to be the judge of my worthiness or 
 unworthiness if she cares for me and I care for her? 
 We can hardly refer the matter to you." 
 
 George reflected for a moment, and then he 
 answered : 
 
 "I will not presume to judge thee, but thee will 
 not think harshly of me if I ask thee severely to judge 
 thyself." 
 
 "I will permit no meddling," answered Clayton 
 sharply. He felt that this quiet Quaker was reaching 
 very dexterously for the weak place in his armor. 
 
 "It is a strange case we are in," said George, "and 
 the way is not clear to me; but I am sure thee loves 
 the girl, and I am not ashamed to say to thee that I 
 love her." 
 
 "The choice then is with the woman, and that will 
 end it." 
 
 "Yes," answered George, "her decision will end 
 it, but may I say to thee with much courtesy that a 
 decision so important should be made with full 
 knowledge? Abigail knows my life to its very centre. 
 She has always known it. Is thy life clean or does 
 thee hide something from her?" 
 
 Clayton made an exclamation of impatience and 
 anger.
 
 At Bay. 283 
 
 "I will tell thee why I ask that. It is because I 
 am ready to make a sacrifice for her which I cannot 
 express in words. It is easy to say I would cut off 
 that hand for her," and the farmer thrust out his 
 huge brown right-hand, "or that I would give my 
 life for her peace if God should call me to that sur- 
 render. Such things have been said many times. 
 I do not speak idly, but from my soul, as in God's 
 presence, when I say that to give her up to thee 
 would be a more terrible sacrifice; and yet I will do 
 that and carry desolation in my soul to the end of 
 my life if she loves thee and thee is worthy of her. 
 But is it too much to require of thee, before I put 
 the knife to my heart, that thee tell the fair truth 
 about thyself? Is thee capable of such sacrifice for 
 her? Thee may be, but forgive me if I doubt it." 
 
 "Let us end this folly," exclaimed Clayton, rising. 
 George sat still, his face overclouded. 
 
 "Sit down !" he said fiercely, and Clayton obeyed, 
 surprising himself by obeying. 
 
 George looked steadfastly at him and Clayton 
 quailed beneath his eyes. 
 
 "I have spoken gently with thee," said George, his 
 voice having a new sternness, "but now I must be 
 less considerate. Thee is not an honest man !" 
 
 Clayton started as if to leap upon him; but he 
 restrained himself. Had George put forth his strength 
 he could have crushed the smaller man with those 
 great arms of his. But Clayton did not fear his phy- 
 sical strength. He cowered before the belief that 
 George knew his secret. 
 
 "Your peace principles protect you in your inso- 
 lence," said Clayton with a show of courage.
 
 284 The Quakeress. 
 
 "I can look right into thy soul and perceive that 
 thee is not an honest man," said George, calmly. 
 
 "Preachers and women," said Clayton, "are always 
 privileged to offer insult with impunity." 
 
 "Thy heart is not right in the sight of God," 
 answered George, "and thy hands are not clean. I 
 will make no sacrifice that will permit evil to triumph 
 with thee." 
 
 "See here!" exclaimed Clayton, desperately. "I 
 don't know what you know, or what you think you 
 know, and I don't care. I will have no more lectur- 
 ing or snivelling from you. Miss Woolford knows 
 the very worst about me that she can know and if 
 she is satisfied with me it is a matter of complete 
 indifference to me whether you are satisfied or not. A 
 rejected suitor never is satisfied. I can pity you, 
 but I can't stand your preaching or your imperti- 
 nence. We had better part." 
 
 "Is thee her suitor?" 
 
 "Never mind whether I am or not." 
 
 "Thee is already a married man. Thee is infa- 
 mous!" 
 
 "You're a fool!" said Clayton, turning and walk- 
 ing from the room. 
 
 There could be no longer any question concerning 
 the truth of the report of Clayton's marriage and 
 George left the house hot with anger against the 
 man who was dealing so basely with Abby. That 
 George should interpose in some peremptory fashion 
 to thrust the Southerner away from the girl finally 
 and forever was a sacred obligation to her and to her 
 parents; but he was not a little puzzled to know just 
 how the feat might be accomplished.
 
 At Bay. 285 
 
 That he would accomplish it, Clayton, for his part, 
 was confident. The secret was out, and Clayton 
 knew very well that even if George Fotherly had not 
 been in love with Abby his relations with her parents 
 and the Friends' Society, no less than his desire to 
 protect an innocent girl from evil, would impel him 
 to make the fact of Clayton's marriage known. 
 
 The young man was not happy at the prospect. 
 In truth, he was deeply ashamed to think that 
 George was capable of vast sacrifice while he was 
 wickedly selfish. He began to consider if he should 
 not surrender Abby and his place in the mill and all 
 his hopes, and go away from Connock. That 
 appeared to be beyond his power of resolution. Then 
 he reflected upon the possibility of divorce, but 
 there was little hope in that direction, because 
 Abby's parents, and possibly Abby herself, would 
 not consent to her marriage with a divorced man. 
 There were but two things to do: to run away and 
 to abandon forever the woman he loved so much 
 and who loved him, or to remain and to face boldly 
 the consequences of anything George Fotherly 
 should be able to do for his discomfiture. 
 
 George's method of dealing with the matter was 
 not at all what Clayton expected. Instead of warn- 
 ing Abby and her parents, the Quaker called upon 
 Dr. Ponder and in the privacy of his study read to 
 him the letter that had come from Maryland, omit- 
 ting the references to Abby's indulgence in worldly 
 practices. He explained to the minister why he had 
 not made the revelation to the Woolfords, choosing 
 rather to present it to Clayton's relative and to
 
 286 TJie Quakeress. 
 
 invite him to interpose for Abby's protection from her 
 lover. 
 
 Dr. Ponder was inclined at first to question the 
 truthfulness of the report of Clayton's marriage, but 
 when George told him of his own talk with the 
 young man, the doctor was shocked and indignant 
 and at once declared that he would compel Clayton 
 to separate himself from Abby. He proposed to accom- 
 plish that result by threatening to lay the whole matter 
 before Isaac Woolford unless Clayton should comply 
 with his wishes. 
 
 The doctor agreed with George that nothing 
 should be said to anybody on the subject, that Abby 
 might be more fully shielded from scandal. Not 
 even Mrs. Ponder was to be informed of the report 
 about Clayton until, at any rate, strong measures 
 should become necessary. 
 
 Dr. Ponder sent at once for Clayton and calling 
 him into the study locked the door upon him. 
 Usually the youth was not much in dread of his 
 uncle, of whom he was apt to speak lightly; but 
 now he sat in the chair facing the minister with a 
 grave countenance and a mind filled with fear of 
 trouble to come. 
 
 Without naming George, Dr. Ponder said to Clay- 
 ton that reports had come to him of the young man's 
 secret marriage, and with much solemnity of man- 
 ner the minister put the direct question to him : 
 
 "I ask you now if these reports are true?" 
 
 Clayton was disposed to be evasive. 
 
 "What is the source of the rumors?" he asked. 
 
 "We will have no dodging!" said the doctor
 
 At Bay. 287 
 
 sternly. "It is of no consequence at this juncture 
 where they came from. What I want to know is are 
 they true?" 
 
 "Fotherly has been maligning me to you/' said 
 Clayton, sullenly. 
 
 Dr. Ponder was resolved to keep close to the 
 question. 
 
 "Are the reports true?" he insisted. 
 
 "Suppose I do not choose to answer?" 
 
 "Then I shall have no doubt of your guilt." 
 
 "Guilt!" exclaimed Clayton. "Is it sinful for a 
 man to be married?" 
 
 "Are you married?" demanded the minister again. 
 
 "And if I am, what of it?" 
 
 "Let us have the fact established first, and then 
 we can take up consideration of consequences. I am 
 sure you are married because, if you were single, 
 your refusal to give a direct answer to my question 
 would be stupid and ridiculous." 
 
 "Very well," said Clayton, "let it go at that." 
 
 "Now," said Dr. Ponder, "so far as you are con- 
 cerned it is no business of mine if you are married or 
 unmarried, or if you were married secretly or openly, 
 or whether you married above you or below you, 
 excepting in the measure that my relationship with 
 you, through your aunt, may give to me, as it has 
 done, an interest in your affairs and your welfare. 
 I have wished you well for your mother's sake, and 
 as you have been brought up within the fold of the 
 Church, with all the privileges and under all the influ- 
 ences that she has for the benefit of her children, I 
 have hoped that you had before you a career of honor 
 and happiness."
 
 288 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Come to the point, uncle, please !" said Clayton, 
 not in the humor to listen to a long discourse. 
 
 "I come to it at once, sir," said Dr. Ponder, 
 angrily, "by saying that for a man with a wife, whether 
 he hides her or displays her, to pay attentions to a 
 pure and lovely and unsuspicious girl, and to try to 
 win her love and to wreck her life with his false pre- 
 tenses, is to stamp himself as a scoundrel who 
 deserves the scorn and contempt and the indignant 
 repudiation of every man who has a spark of honor in 
 his soul! There, sir! that is the way in which I come 
 to the point!" 
 
 Clayton was white with rage, but he remained 
 silent. 
 
 "And now, sir," continued the doctor, rising from 
 his chair and with his forefinger pointing to Clayton 
 and menacing him, "if I hear again of your associa- 
 tion with the young woman in question, I shall 
 expose you at once to her and to her father and mother 
 and to the community. Meantime, do not let me see 
 your face again until you have made up your mind 
 to act like an honest man instead of a contemptible 
 sneaking rascal." 
 
 Then Dr. Ponder unlocked the door, opened it, 
 went out, slammed it and retired to his chamber 
 upstairs, leaving Clayton to find his way to the street 
 a beaten, half insane man. 
 
 To Abby he managed to convey intelligence that 
 it would be no longer safe for them to meet, but he 
 did not tell her why, though when she remembered 
 the meeting with George upon the hillside road she 
 guessed that George had something to do with the 
 interruption of the meetings.
 
 At Bay. 289 
 
 Thus the winter passed and Abby for many weeks 
 did not once see Clayton, but was forced to content 
 herself with the letters he wrote to her frequently 
 letters she answered often with lavish use of terms 
 of endearment. 
 
 Late in March the weather in Connock and in the 
 upper valley became warm, and for four days there 
 were heavy and continuous rains. With the snow 
 lying deep on all the hills, the people who had lived 
 long in the valley were apprehensive of disaster; and 
 sure enough, before the fourth day of rain had 
 begun, each brook upon the sides of the hills was a 
 roaring torrent, the water in the river had risen to 
 the brim and then overflowed upon all the low places, 
 and from the base of the Connock hill to the foot of 
 the hills across the stream there was a wild, yellow, 
 rushing tide, full of black drifting things, sweeping 
 with frightful force down through the narrow gorge 
 at Spring Mill. 
 
 The water was over the meadows and over the 
 railroad that ran between the meadows and the 
 town. All the iron mills and their office buildings 
 were flooded deeper than the height of a man by the 
 swift-eddying tawny flood, and while the rain poured 
 steadily downward on the fourth day, the waters 
 swelled higher and higher, threatening destruction 
 to everything in their pathway. 
 
 In spite of the rain, half the people in Connock 
 gathered at points above the level of the flood to 
 watch the spectacle. But the mill-owners, fearing 
 further rising of the waters, began to strive to remove 
 the books and papers from their offices. Already 
 
 19
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 everything of value had been taken to the upper 
 floors of the buildings and now at the second-story 
 windows boats were moored while the men within 
 carried and put into them such things as it was desired 
 to save. 
 
 It was a perilous business, for the current had tre- 
 mendous power and the water was full of logs of 
 wood and other drifting things which added to the 
 danger that menaced the boats from the fury of the 
 waters. 
 
 George Fotherly stood with the crowd that 
 watched with eager interest the boat that swung to 
 the rope that was fastened to the window of the 
 mill-office opposite him across the wallow that cov- 
 ered the railroad. Into that boat presently he saw 
 Clayton Harley climb and take the oars. He was 
 compelled to confess that the man was not cowardly, 
 at any rate. The bravest might reasonably have 
 shrunk from encountering the perils of directing a 
 boat through that wild welter of waters. 
 
 When Clayton was ready the rope was loosened 
 and he tried to turn the bow of the boat toward the 
 shore. The little craft was whirled about among the 
 eddies, but it made some headway and for a moment 
 seemed likely to reach the land. Within twenty feet 
 of the place where George stood a great log came 
 booming down the stream and, striking Clayton's 
 boat fairly in the middle, overturned it and hurled 
 him and his books and papers into the water. 
 
 A murderous wish flashed through George Foth- 
 erly's mind. Here was one way, indeed, to settle the 
 trouble with the Southerner and to settle it forever!
 
 At Bay. 
 
 291 
 
 But before he could think of the wickedness of such 
 a thought, he flung off his coat and plunging into 
 the flood, he had his hand on Clayton's collar and 
 was pushing for the shore with the might of a strong 
 swimmer. A dozen men were there to drag them 
 both from the water, and when George had come 
 upon his feet and had perceived that Clayton's life 
 was safe, he fairly ran up the little hill behind the 
 crowd and made his way to Isaac Woolford's to have 
 his clothing dried. 
 
 He could not cross the river to his own home 
 until the flood was gone. 
 
 He did not say, nor did Abby and her parents, 
 until long after, know, that he had rescued Clayton. 
 What Abby knew before the day was over was that 
 Clayton had narrowly escaped drowning, and her 
 heart was glad that he was still alive. 
 
 Separation from him, and constant perusal of his 
 passionate letters, was strengthening her love for 
 him, and as she thought of him and brooded over her 
 troubles, all her good resolutions disappeared and 
 she found herself willing to consider desperate meas- 
 ures as not beyond her will if only she might see him 
 and commune with him again.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 THAT she might receive Clayton's letters without 
 her mother's knowledge, Abby went to the post- 
 office every morning and evening for the mail for 
 the house, secreting the letters until she could find 
 opportunity to read them alone. 
 
 One morning in September when she saw the 
 familiar handwriting on one of the envelopes given to 
 her by the postmaster, she thrust the letter into her 
 pocket and walked homeward quickly. Having 
 given the rest of the mail to her mother, and having 
 spoken to her a word or two of some commonplace 
 matter, Abby ran to her room and locked the door. 
 Drawing a chair near to the window she opened the 
 letter and read this: 
 
 "My precious Abby: Why should we longer 
 endure the torture of separation? I am almost certain 
 that horrid woman is dead and that I am free. Come 
 to me then, dearest, and let us go away somewhere 
 far into the West and as man and wife begin the life 
 to which every longing of our souls summons us. 
 To-morrow, at seven in the evening, I will have a 
 carriage waiting for you on the Gulf Road between 
 the old mill and the hanging-rock. Find your way 
 thither unobserved and we will drive swiftly to 
 Radnor station and catch the through-train for 
 
 (292)
 
 p
 
 Into the Gulf. 2 93 
 
 Pittsburgh. Make this sacrifice for me, my darling, 
 and I will give all my life for you." 
 
 Clayton." 
 
 Abby's cheeks were hot before she had half-read 
 the letter, and when she had read it to the end she 
 returned and read it again and again. 
 
 She had never dared to permit her thought to 
 dwell upon the dread adventure to which her lover 
 now invited her, but she had long known that it was 
 among the things the future might present to her; 
 and even when her mind had turned away from it 
 by violent effort and with a sort of horror, she had 
 perceived lurking deep in her consciousness the assur- 
 ance that the temptation would come to her to engage 
 in this terrible enterprise. 
 
 It had come now, and as she held in her hand the 
 letter she had learned by heart and looked through 
 the window at the trees and the grass, she said to her- 
 self that she could not do what Clayton asked of her; 
 and yet in the secret chambers of her soul she knew 
 that she would do it. 
 
 She was sure intellectually that Clayton's wife was 
 not dead, but her passion impelled her to override 
 her reason and to accept Clayton's conjecture as 
 fact. She could not estimate all the shame to her, 
 all the misery to father and mother, all the loss of 
 self-respect and all the surrender of religious hope 
 involved in flight with her lover; but she could per- 
 ceive a part of the awfulness of the consequences; and 
 yet she found herself setting over against them the 
 joy of complete union with Clayton and finding in
 
 294 The Quakeress. 
 
 their devotion to each other compensation even for 
 so mighty a sacrifice. 
 
 Before she left the room to answer her mother's 
 call to some household "duties she had resolved to 
 reconsider the whole matter at her leisure. She need 
 not act, she thought, until the evening of the next 
 day and by that time she would -have regained her 
 self-control and could make the right decision. She 
 pretended to herself, as she thrust the letter into 
 the depth of a bureau drawer, that she was still free 
 to do as she pleased; but there was no self-deception. 
 She was held fast by a power which urged her 
 towards Clayton with irresistible force. As she closed 
 the drawer her thought ran swiftly over the things, 
 few in number, that she should have to take with her 
 in her flight, and she went down stairs to look at her 
 mother and to think of the anguish she would soon 
 bring to that unsuspecting woman who loved her so 
 dearly. 
 
 The infernal power is always ready w r ith opportu- 
 nity when one is bent upon doing evil. Abby would 
 keep tryst with Clayton on Thursday evening, and 
 on that evening her father and mother went to the 
 city at five o'clock to take supper with some friends. 
 They would not return until nine or ten o'clock. 
 Thus Abby might leave home without having any 
 one to question her. She could hardly restrain her 
 tears as she saw her parents go through the front- 
 gate on their way to the station. She should never 
 see them again, she thought, and this seemed so 
 dreadful to consider when she was face to face with 
 the fact, that she tried to resolve not to go to meet
 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 Clayton. "I can spend the evening in praying," she 
 said; "or I can go in and stay and find comfort and 
 diversion with Mrs. Ponder; or I can walk in the 
 opposite direction, toward the meeting-house, and 
 so put distance between me and temptation." 
 
 Any of these things indeed she could have done, 
 but even while she persuaded herself she was consid- 
 ering them, she was busy closing the house, putting 
 into a little hand-bag some toilet articles and laying 
 out the dress she would wear as she went to meet 
 her lover. She took from the drawer his letter and 
 put it into the pocket of her dress. 
 
 She went to the supper table at six, eating almost 
 nothing, but trying to determine if she should leave 
 a note for her mother. She foresaw that the first 
 uncertainty of her parents respecting her absence 
 from home would be terrible for them, but she could 
 not find courage to put upon paper for them a state- 
 ment of the truth. 
 
 "I will write to them," she said, "as soon as we 
 shall be married, and ask their forgiveness." 
 
 Soon after six o'clock she put on her bonnet and 
 wrapped a light shawl about her, and taking in her 
 hand the bag, she left the house. Softly she closed 
 the door behind her, as if the smallest noise might 
 reveal her purpose. Quietly she swung open the front 
 gate, which she left unlatched as she descended the steps 
 to the sidewalk. 
 
 She started down the street with her mind in a 
 strange condition of exaltation in which dread was 
 mingled. She seemed to herself not herself; or as 
 if she were acting a part in a dream; but there was 

 
 296 The Quakeress. 
 
 no repentance, no thought of retreat, no further con- 
 sideration of consequences. She walked to her doom 
 as if choice were ended and sin had obtained com- 
 plete dominion over her. 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the pavement as with 
 hurried nervous steps she moved down the street. 
 She wished to meet no one she knew, for she felt as 
 if an acquaintance, looking into her eyes, might read 
 her soul. Quickly she passed the bridges over the 
 railroad, the canal and the river, and then the hills 
 were before her, and the road that went sharply to 
 the left to sweep upward into the gorge that led to 
 George Fotherly's farm. For the first time since she 
 read Clayton's letter she thought of George, and now 
 a wave of anguish passed over her spirit as she real- 
 ized, not only the suffering which her misconduct 
 would inflict upon that brave and pure soul, but the 
 shame in which in his thought she would be involved 
 because of her flight. Then suddenly she remem- 
 bered the promise she had made to George that she 
 would never marry any one but him. Falsehood, 
 base, wicked falsehood, was now added to her other 
 wickedness. When she made that promise she was 
 sure Clayton would never in her lifetime be free. She 
 could not then have believed that she would fall so 
 far as to fly with him while there was good reason 
 to believe his wife was still living. 
 
 She now saw with perfect clearness, as if a flash of 
 lightning had revealed it to her, the immeasurable 
 superiority of her old companion to this man who beck- 
 oned her to infamy, and her knees almost gave way 
 beneath her. Could she not even yet retreat? How
 
 Into the Gulf. 2 97 
 
 could she bear the certainty of George's pity or of 
 his scorn? "But no!" she said, "it is too late to go 
 back." She had chosen dishonor, at any rate, and 
 what matters the degree if one has become a shame- 
 less outcast? 
 
 So she did not pause. Her love was not for 
 George, but for that other man, however unworthy 
 he might be, who was even now waiting for her and 
 longing for her at the meeting-place. Her soul 
 leaped out to him. She could not give him up even 
 to have peace and to save herself and her dear ones 
 from dishonor. 
 
 She turned to the right as she left the end of the 
 river bridge and with more rapid step began the gen- 
 tle ascent of the Radnor road. Here the highway, 
 thick with white dust, runs upward for a while 
 between rows of houses, with gardens before and 
 behind them, while high on either hand the green hills 
 bound the narrow valley. The sun was down, but 
 there was light enough to see the crests of the hills, 
 crowned with foliage, and to observe how they 
 flanked the road to the eastward and the westward 
 so far as the eye could reach. 
 
 Up and on the girl climbed the road until the 
 houses became few in number; forward and upward, 
 always rising to higher lifts above the river until, 
 when two miles had been traversed, she saw straight 
 ahead of her the Gulf Church above the level of the 
 road. She came to it just where the highway reaches 
 the crest of the hill. Below and in front of her 
 stretched far away the Gulf Valley, through which 
 pours a turbulent rivulet. It comes downward
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 through the Gulf Valley until it encounters the ridge 
 upon which the church stands a ridge thrown by 
 Nature right across the end of the valley as a barrier 
 which the stream cannot cross until all the gulf 
 should be brimming with the imprisoned waters and 
 transformed into a lake. But Nature has another 
 way of escape for the stream, for in the high hills to 
 the right it has hewed out a gap through which the 
 water pours, finding beyond the hills a channel to 
 permit it to reach the distant river. 
 
 Abby turned the corner sharply~at the church and 
 walked upon the descending way leading to the Gap, 
 now but a quarter of a mile distant. The dusk was 
 gathering as she began the descent and the hundreds 
 of tombstones clustered upon the hillside behind the 
 church seemed strangely white as the light faded 
 from the sky. Abby glanced at them while she went 
 by, but her mind was now alert to discover the pres- 
 ence of Clayton. She should be with him in a few 
 moments and her eagerness to see him was sharpened 
 as the time for meeting came near. 
 
 It was gloomy in the Gap when she approached it, 
 but she could discern that no vehicle stood in the 
 road even beyond the hanging rock. 
 
 "I am early," she said. "It is not yet seven 
 o'clock." 
 
 She moved with slower footsteps close to the shadow 
 of the great hills that reared themselves above 
 the road, and when she had come as far as the old 
 mill she stopped. Nobody was there. She felt com- 
 pletely safe. She sat upon a stone just off the road 
 by the side of the brook and listened to the brawling 
 waters that hurried by through the cleft in the hills.
 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 299 
 
 She remembered for a moment that along this 
 road Washington's army had marched on its way to 
 Valley Forge, and had encamped for a night at this 
 lovely spot. Here also, but she did not know it, 
 George Fotherly and Dolly Harley had galloped on 
 that day when they rode together. 
 
 Several minutes passed after Abby had sat down 
 and her ears were open for the noise of carriage- 
 wheels. She listened and she looked, but there was 
 no sound excepting the ripple of the waters, and the 
 increasing darkness continually narrowed the range 
 of her vision. 
 
 The thought that Clayton might not come had 
 never entered her mind, and now when it presented 
 itself to her she put it away quickly and almost 
 angrily as something not to be contemplated. It dis- 
 honored him, she said to herself, to admit for a 
 moment that he should in such a manner deceive her. 
 So she sat still for a while with the fear of his 
 unfaithfulness thrusting itself upon her and growing 
 stronger, and with her thoughts turning more and 
 more to the real nature of this reckless adventure 
 upon which she had launched. 
 
 Somehow, there in the darkness and the loneliness 
 it did not seem quite so alluring as it had done while 
 she was at home. The thought of her mother and 
 her father and of George brought even a sharper pang 
 to her spirit as she reflected upon their feelings when 
 the truth should be made known. She began to have 
 half a hope that Clayton indeed would not keep tryst; 
 and while she thought this she heard a carriage coming. 
 Then the notion of repentance vanished from her mind
 
 300 The Quakeress. 
 
 and with flushed cheek and fast-beating heart she rose 
 to greet her lover. 
 
 It was not he. The carriage passed swiftly through 
 the gap and as it went by she heard a man and a 
 woman talking as they rode. 
 
 Many minirtes had been spent now in waiting. "It 
 must be much past seven," she said, and she had an 
 impulse to go home. But again she took a seat upon 
 the stone and listened. 
 
 Suddenly the thought came to her that she might 
 have misread Clayton's letter. This did not seem 
 possible, but she would examine the letter. From 
 the dust-grimed window of the grist-mill near by a 
 faint light shone; the light in the watchman's room. 
 Abby took the crumpled letter from her pocket and 
 came closer to the window. With difficulty she read 
 it and perceived that the letter was dated on Tuesday 
 and asked her to meet him "to-morrow," that is, on 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Her mind was in such confusion and tumult that 
 a strong effort of her will was required to permit 
 her fully to grasp the truth, which was that, care- 
 lessly, she had permitted herself to be controlled by 
 her first impression that "to-morrow" was Thursday, 
 the day after the letter had come to her. 
 
 She crushed the paper in her hands and slowly 
 walked back into the road. Clayton had been here 
 last night and had waited for her. She sat down 
 again to consider the situation. A faint hope lin- 
 gered with her that he would guess why she had not 
 met him and would return upon this night. She 
 would wait still for a little while. The thought that
 
 Into the Gulf. 301 
 
 oppressed her until it almost prostrated her was of 
 Clayton's disappointment. He must have suffered 
 much because of the loss of her companionship and 
 more because he surely believed her faithless to 
 him. 
 
 Then, when flight with him had become impossi- 
 ble she found herself longing for it. All the hideous- 
 ness of that proceeding had vanished and her love 
 discerned in it allurements and ecstacies that had not 
 before presented themselves to her fancy. It was 
 clear to her that if Clayton should come now she 
 would make for him without a pang, but joyfully, 
 the amazing sacrifice he had demanded of her. 
 
 But still there was not wanting to her soul the still 
 small voice that whispered to her in this hour of 
 desperation and bitterness that a loving Power had 
 lifted her out of the entanglement which had been 
 thrown around her feet and had put them once again 
 upon the way that might lead her back to honor 
 and self-respect. 
 
 The darkness fell deep upon field and forest and 
 rushing rivulet while she sat there, and still Clayton 
 did not come. 
 
 "He will not come," she said, rising and trying to 
 look about her. "I shall never see him again." 
 
 Then suddenly the blackness of the glen became 
 terrible, and the plashing of the stream, heard alone 
 amid the deep silence of the place, seemed like a con- 
 fusion of voices mocking her. Dread came upon her, 
 and turning she started with rapid steps upward 
 along the road that led to the church. 
 
 It was a sharp ascent, and soon she was almost
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 breathless. Now, as she came near to the hillside 
 burying-ground, the swarming grave-stones had a 
 new and ghastly whiteness. In the deep darkness 
 they alone could be seen. She would hurry by, and 
 despite her fatigue she quickened her pace. 
 
 She had not noticed that the stars were hidden and 
 that all the sky was covered by cloud, but before she 
 had come up to the level of the church and turned 
 the corner into the Radnor road, facing homeward, 
 rain began to fall. She had an impulse to find refuge 
 in the church-porch until the shower should pass; 
 but she remembered that the time was growing late 
 and that she must at any hazard reach Connock and 
 her house before her father and mother should 
 return. She resolved to press forward. 
 
 Then the rain fell more and more heavily and all the 
 thick dust of the highway turned to grey mud which 
 clung to her shoes and her skirts, while her bonnet and 
 her frock were soon saturated with water. 
 
 She was weary and faint and half-crying, but she 
 stumbled onward with a kind of fierce wild energy, 
 fearful that even yet her misconduct would be discov- 
 ered and wondering, with her brain in a whirl of excite- 
 ment and panic, in what manner she could account 
 to her mother for her condition and her strange 
 behavior. More than once she thought she would just 
 fling herself down by the roadside and perish there; 
 but then to perish is not so easy, and she knew that 
 to linger would be to destroy all hope of saving her 
 good name. 
 
 So she went forward still while the storm became 
 more violent. Presently she heard, close behind her,
 
 Into the Gulf. 303 
 
 the sound of carriage-wheels and the light from the 
 lamps upon the dashboard flared through the rain- 
 drops and upon the wet earth beside her. 
 
 The driver of the horse saw her and hailed her. 
 She drew herself aside and put her head down. She 
 would rather not be spoken to even by a stranger. 
 But the man in the carriage was persistent in his 
 kindness. He stopped beside her and, leaping out, 
 insisted that Abby should get in with him. 
 
 As soon as he touched the earth she knew that it 
 was Dr. Ponder, and when she looked about at him 
 he recognized her. 
 
 "Bless my soul, Abby, is it you !" he exclaimed. 
 "Why, my dear, get right in and let me drive you 
 home." 
 
 Then he lifted her into the carriage and seated him- 
 self by her side. '"Now," she thought, "exposure and 
 disgrace are sure." What should she say to Dr. Pon- 
 der? Nothing, it appeared. Dr. Ponder was more 
 than willing to do all the talking. 
 
 "Abby, my child, how did you contrive to get away 
 out here on the hills on such a night? It is really 
 terrible for you to be so far from home in the rain 
 and the darkness. You lost your way, of course. I 
 have so often protested against the practice you 
 young women have of taking long walks by your- 
 selves on these lonely roads, particularly in the late 
 afternoon. How fortunate for you that I happened to 
 overtake you and to see you ! Are you wet ? Why, 
 my dear, it is dreadful! Here, throw this lap-robe 
 about your shoulders." 
 
 Abby murmured thanks.
 
 34 The Quakeress. 
 
 "I think it is but a shower after all," continued Dr. 
 Ponder. "It will be over quickly; and, at any rate, 
 we shall soon be at home. Your father and mother 
 will be worried about you. I am really glad to have 
 a companion for the rest of this dreary drive. I 
 have been over to Radnor to attend service at St. 
 David's Church a church consecrated by the mem- 
 ories of a hundred and fifty years. Have you ever 
 been there, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes," said Abby, faintly. 
 
 "Isn't it a lovely place? And the church edifice 
 is so quaint ! Ah ! my beloved child, how I wish you 
 and your dear parents could see the light with respect 
 to church matters! You have never had an impulse 
 to look into them, have you ?" 
 
 "No!" whispered Abby, shivering. 
 
 "And that is the only reason why so many good 
 people who really in their hearts want to do right 
 miss the opportunity. To the candid mind the 
 argument is conclusive that there is really but one 
 true Church, with an apostolic priesthood of 
 unbroken descent and holding as a sacred trust the faith 
 once delivered to the Saints. That is our Church, 
 with a consecrated, divinely-inspired ministry, speak- 
 ing with authority, clothed with almost supernatural 
 powers, and alone warranted in interpreting the 
 Divine Will to the people. But people will not per- 
 mit candor to control their minds; that is the trouble. 
 Ears have they and hear not; eyes have they and see 
 not. They are in spiritual darkness and ignorance. 
 But your young mind, dear Abby surely it is not 
 closed to the truth?" 
 
 "No," said Abby faintly.
 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 "Take, for example, the sacraments," continued Dr. 
 Ponder, earnestly, as he touched his horse with the 
 whip. "The Friends look upon them wholly from 
 the spiritual side and so in fact reject them; but is it 
 not the truth, Abby, that ? Perhaps, however, you 
 do not care to have the truth explained here and now? 
 You are weary and uncomfortable. Shall I go on 
 with my talk upon the subject, or shall we wait 
 
 "Go on, please!" responded Abby, who was by no 
 means displeased that the doctor, instead of feeling 
 curious about her presence on that lonely road, in 
 the thick darkness and the storm, should have his 
 mind diverted wholly to one of his favorite subjects 
 for discussion. "Go on, if thee will. I am much in 
 need of instruction." 
 
 "In much need, in truth," said the doctor, who 
 thereupon with a kind .of joyousness began a sermon 
 that lasted until he had crossed the river and 
 mounted the Connock hill and halted at the parson- 
 age gate. 
 
 "But I should have stopped before your gate," 
 said the doctor. "I was so much engaged in this 
 interesting subject that really I forgot about you." 
 
 "I will get out here," said Abby; and seeing Mrs. 
 Ponder standing in the doorway, with a lighted hall 
 behind her, she added, "and stop a moment with 
 Friend Ponder." 
 
 "Do!" answered the doctor, "while I return the 
 horse to the livery stable. I found her lost in the 
 storm, my dear," called the doctor to Mrs. Ponder, 
 "and brought her safely home," 

 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 Abby would much rather have gone to the grey 
 house at once, but she could not avoid speaking with 
 Mrs. Ponder, who regarded with amazement her 
 bedraggled condition. Abby felt that she could not 
 withstand questioning from the minister's wife. Upon 
 the slightest pressure she was sure she would fall upon 
 her knees, bury her face in that good woman's dress 
 and make full confession of her fault. 
 
 But Mrs. Ponder, though surprised and curious, 
 did not inquire closely. Being very shrewd, and 
 knowing of Clayton's sudden disappearance, she may. 
 have guessed that Abby had been away somewhere 
 to meet him or to say farewell to him; and besides, 
 she had in her possession and now withdrew from 
 her pocket, a letter directed in Clayton's handwriting 
 to Abby. This she gave to Abby, saying : 
 
 "It reached me to-day, my dear, with a note asking 
 me to give it to you." 
 
 The color came sharply into Att^'s face as she 
 took the letter, and again the impulse was strong 
 upon her to tell the whole pitiful story to Mrs. Pon- 
 der. But that lady said to her : 
 
 "And now, my dear, while I should dearly love to 
 have you stay with me, I think it would be wise for 
 you to go into your own home and quickly put on 
 dry clothing. You can tell me all about it another 
 time; how you happened to lose your way and how 
 Dr. Ponder fortunately found you." 
 
 Then she kissed the girl good-night, and Abby, 
 clasping the letter tightly in her hand, hurried to her 
 home and went in at the front door. Her parents 
 had not yet returned, and she had, she thought, at
 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 307 
 
 least an hour in which to make ready for their 
 coming. 
 
 But before she would remove one of her wet gar- 
 ments, she would read Clayton's letter. Closing the 
 door of her bed-room and lighting a candle, she tore 
 open the envelope and standing by her bureau she 
 read : 
 
 "You are right, my precious Abby! I sinned 
 against you in asking you to leave your home and 
 your mother with a man who, after all, may not be 
 free. Good-bye, my love! I will harass you no 
 longer with my miserable life ! In three days I shall 
 be in the Confederate army. I hope to find death 
 there!" 
 
 Abby's eyes were brimming with tears before she 
 could read the letter through. She brushed them 
 away and read it over and over again. 
 
 "Poor Clayton !" she exclaimed, when she put the 
 letter down upon the bureau and began to undress. 
 "He thinks I have forsaken him ! I have driven him 
 to death. I know he will die in battle, and all because 
 of my carelessness !" 
 
 She was weeping all the while she put herself in 
 dry and warm garments and then she flung herself 
 upon the bed to reflect, to cry, and to pray to pray 
 for herself and for the lover who was now lost to her 
 forever. In her forlornness and weariness and deso- 
 lation she fell asleep; and after a while her mother 
 came softly in. The candle was almost burned out.
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 By it lay the open letter, which Rachel had read before 
 she had a thought that it was important. 
 
 Then putting out the light, the mother, with a new 
 and heavier sorrow upon her heart, withdrew from 
 the room, quietly closing the door so that Abby 
 should not know she had been there. 
 
 In the morning Abby awoke without having 
 changed her position upon the bed during all the 
 night. As soon as she had full consciousness she 
 leaped to the floor and hurried to the bureau. The 
 letter seemed to have been untouched. Had her 
 mother seen it? Abby guessed she had, but in any 
 case she could not doubt that her mother would see 
 and be worried about the pallid and haggard face 
 the girl must bring to the breakfast table. 
 
 When Rachel greeted her as she came down stairs 
 Abby was sure that her mother had seen the letter, 
 and sure also that she would not speak of it, no mat- 
 ter what was the measure of her sorrow. 
 
 Abby went about her household duties in the usual 
 way, but when the morning was nearly spent and 
 Rachel, her tasks completed, sat in the rocking chair 
 in the sitting room with sadness upon her face, Abby 
 came to her and kneeling by her, put her head upon 
 her mother's knee as she had been used to do in her 
 childhood, and began to sob. Still Rachel said noth- 
 ing, but she stroked the girl's hair with a gentle hand 
 and leaned over to kiss her forehead. 
 
 "Thee saw it, mother, I know," said Abby with 
 her face still hidden. 
 
 "The letter thee means? Yes, dear, I saw it and 
 I read it without thinking it was thine own." 
 
 "And thee forgives me, mother?" 

 
 Into tlie Gulf. 
 
 309 
 
 "I do not know what there is to forgive," she 
 answered. "Has thee loved this man?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "And he wished thee to marry him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is not worthy of thee, my dear. There is not 
 clear honesty in his face, I think. Father and I long 
 have hoped thee would love George." 
 
 "I know it, mother, but it seems as if I cannot." 
 
 "We cannot always control our feelings, I know, 
 dear Abby, and yet George is so good a man and he 
 is a Friend, and I am sure he loves thee dearly." 
 
 "I am not fit to be his wife." 
 
 "Did this other man invite thee to dishonor thy- 
 self and thy parents by running away with him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That is the proof that he is unworthy. And thee 
 would not go although thee had strong affection for 
 him. I am sure thee would not. It would have been 
 the very bitterness of death for thy father and for me. 
 God gave thee grace to resist that temptation." 
 
 Poor Abby could not tell the whole truth to her 
 mother. To do so, she felt, would be to wound her 
 almost as much as if she had indeed flown with Clay- 
 ton. 
 
 "What did the man mean, my child, by saying he 
 may not be free?" 
 
 Abby, her head lifted, but with her face turned 
 away from Rachel's, felt her cheeks crimson with 
 shame. She thought she could not answer that awful 
 question; and Rachel did not repeat it. But in the 
 silence that followed it seemed to Abby that not to
 
 310 The Quakeress. 
 
 answer it at all might be more dreadful than to tell 
 the truth. She turned quickly and hiding her face 
 again in her mother's lap, she said : 
 
 "He is already married." 
 
 It was a frightful avowal to make. She shuddered 
 as she uttered the words, and Rachel was as if a sword 
 had pierced her soul. But the mother was used to 
 mastering her spirit and she would not now probe 
 deep into Abby's confidence lest the girl should be 
 put to fresh confusion. Much she would have liked 
 to know when Abby first learned that Clayton was 
 not free, but she dreaded to ask that question. So 
 after silence for a moment she said : 
 
 "And now, my poor child, the man has gone, and 
 I hope forever. It was base for him to disturb thy 
 young and pure life with his wicked plotting; but 
 thee will see him no more." 
 
 Abby actually felt her soul protesting against her 
 mother's words for Clayton; but she only said: 
 
 "I suppose not, mother," and she began again to 
 weep. 
 
 "It may be," said Rachel, "that he will survive the 
 war and after a while come back to thee. Thee will 
 promise me not to receive him?" 
 
 "I promise I will not, mother." 
 
 "Even if he should be then free ? For, my dearest, 
 if he could lawfully marry thee, such a man surely 
 would wreck thy life." 
 
 "Mother," said Abby, "I will not marry him even 
 if I might do so. My life is already wrecked. I shall 
 have peace no more." 
 
 "Not so, my dear," said Rachel, taking Abby's
 
 Into the Gulf. 
 
 3 11 
 
 hand and lifting her up to sit upon the chair beside 
 her mother. "Thee will try to conquer thy feeling 
 for the man, and thee will conquer it; and that thee 
 may do so victoriously thee needs to ask for Divine 
 help and to pray that the Inner Light may shine 
 more brightly in thy soul. It is they that come .out 
 of great tribulation that are truly God's people, and 
 thy great tribulation has come to thee early in thy 
 life in this passion which brought thee into peril from 
 which God has given thee wonderful deliverance." 
 
 Then Abby went to her room more sure than ever 
 that her love for Clayton would never know abate- 
 ment and reproaching herself for concealment from 
 her mother of her wild adventure of yesterday. 
 
 The next day she was greeted by two painful reve- 
 lations. Her father came home with a sad face to 
 tell his wife and daughter that his furnace had chilled. 
 
 In the evening Mrs. Ponder sent for Abby to come 
 over to the parsonage. The girl found her weeping 
 and for some moments the minister's wife could 
 hardly utter the strange message she had for her. 
 When at last she could command her feelings, she 
 informed Abby that a letter had just come to her 
 from her heart-broken sister at Sassafras telling that 
 Dolly had fled with Dr. Ramsey and covered all her 
 family with shame. 
 
 Abby went away with white face to spend the night 
 in sleeplessness.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Isaac Woolford Goes into a Far 
 Country. 
 
 WHEN a blast-furnace "chills" all the molten and 
 half-molten mass of iron-ore, limestone and coal in 
 process of transmutation by chemical magic solidifies 
 and stands there, filling every crevice and cranny of 
 the stack, an inert, immovable lump of material which 
 can be rent asunder and dislodged only by the force 
 of violent explosives. The operation is costly of 
 removing in its hardened form the stuffs which in their 
 semi-fluid state are so easily changed by combustion 
 and gravitation. Many thousands of dollars must be 
 expended before the stack will be ready again for 
 reducing the oxides of iron to the metallic state. 
 
 The chilling of Isaac Woolford's furnace, therefore, 
 meant death to all his hopes that he would reach the 
 point where he could do successful business. With 
 the blasts in full operation and all the processes of 
 smelting moving along without let or hindrance, 
 Isaac barely kept himself from bankruptcy. Now, at 
 least ten thousand dollars would be required before 
 he could make another ton of iron, and it was clear to 
 him that he had reached the end of his career as an 
 iron-maker; clear indeed that unless miraculous good 
 fortune should come to him from some unsuspected 
 quarter, he ^pould never be able to pay his debts.
 
 Into a Far Country. 
 
 313 
 
 This, then, was the achievement of a life spent in 
 ceaseless industry, in patient striving, in persistent 
 hopefulness: he entered upon old age a poorer man 
 than when he began; he moved toward the time of 
 helplessness with no reserve fund for maintenance, 
 and his continuous purpose to engage in fair dealing 
 had issued in the imposition of a burden of debt he 
 could never pay. There was but one gleam of light 
 in the darkness: in permitting his mind to go over 
 his career he could perceive that he had blundered 
 often, but he could not remember that he had ever 
 wilfully \vronged any man of the value of a dollar. 
 Some comfort for his own soul there was in that 
 reflection, but not enough to overcome the heart-ache 
 which the humiliation of failure and the dread of pen- 
 niless old age for himself and suffering for his wife 
 and daughter brought to him. 
 
 He went to his office still, day after day, for there 
 were some things of small moment to be done, and 
 habit was strong upon him, but he framed no plans 
 for continuance. He would not ask George to ven- 
 ture any more money in the business. He felt indeed 
 that he could not consent if George should volunteer 
 to do so. The business was ended. The door was 
 shut. Hope had departed. 
 
 What he should do next he did not know nor 
 could he bring himself to consider. The springs of 
 action had lost all their force. He was like a man 
 benumbed. It was of no use to try again, for how 
 many times had he tried while still his soul was buoy- 
 ant with hope and all the power of his younger man- 
 hood was with him? and always he had -failed. In
 
 3 u The Quakeress. 
 
 his bitterness he felt almost like saying that a curse 
 had been set upon him; but he would not do that. 
 His soul was reverent even if it was sometimes 
 inclined to be rebellious. No doubt some wise pur- 
 pose was behind the causes that impelled him to 
 defeat; he was willing to confess that spiritual disci- 
 pline might be more likely to come from failure than 
 from success; but if this were fully admitted, in what 
 manner should the fact bring gratification to his cred- 
 itors, and how should it supply him and his beloved 
 ones with shelter and bread as the years go on and the 
 almond-tree begins to flourish ? 
 
 Isaac crept up the hill towards his home, evening 
 after evening, pondering these things in his heart 
 and finding the steep ascent of the Connock street 
 harder and harder as the days went by and the bur- 
 dened soul reacted on the worn body. Then one day 
 he felt as if he should like to stay at home and rest 
 himself for a few hours. He was very tired. Mind 
 and body alike were tired, and the little business that 
 remained to him could wait for another day. He 
 dawdled about the house and the garden, and though 
 the weight upon his heart was not lifted and the lov- 
 ing wife and sweet affectionate daughter had sorrow 
 for him written upon their faces, he did find some 
 sort of gentle pleasure in his idleness and in the com- 
 pany of his dear ones. 
 
 On the next day he was not well and he resolved 
 that he would do wisely to remain at home. When 
 the evening came his condition was so unusual that 
 Rachel would send Abby to bring the doctor, and 
 the doctor told him to stay in bed on the following
 
 Into a Far Country. 315 
 
 morning. Isaac went to bed that night for the last 
 time. Before the week was out he had failed so far 
 that the physician had secret fear of fatal results. The 
 patient found in his own soul presentiment that he 
 should not recover. The strain had been too great. 
 The silver cord was loosening. The heart of man 
 cannot forever resist the crushing blows of misfor- 
 tune. This man's spirit was broken. He could strive 
 no more ; he could endure no longer. 
 
 Except for the parting from his wife and his girl 
 he would have greeted with exultation the prospect 
 of release. As it was, he looked straight before him 
 into the Valley of Shadows with a kind of tranquil 
 sadness. Religious hope he had, and it brought to 
 his soul serenity. Just what lay beyond in that 
 strange Mystery-land of which we think so much 
 and know so little, he could not fully understand, but 
 he was well assured that it would have peace for him, 
 and peace he most passionately coveted. Sometimes, 
 lying alone in the sick chamber and thinking of all 
 the tumult and tragedy of the life that lay behind him, 
 he turned his thought toward that Far Country where 
 the weary are at rest and laughed quietly to himself 
 while he contemplated the joy that he believed was 
 awaiting him. "No more money-troubles; no more 
 trafficking; no more losing bargains; no more roar- 
 ing furnaces; no more wrangling with laborers; no 
 more harsh words from disappointed creditors; no 
 more sorrow or pain or crying; no more fatigue, no 
 more distress; just sweet, alluring, satisfying, ever- 
 lasting peace. A sharp pang came to him now and 
 then as he thought of the wife of his youth left
 
 316 The Quakeress. 
 
 behind and of Abby ; but he was helpless and to worry 
 were useless. He could not open his heart fully even to 
 his beloved Rachel. Always he had been an inarticu- 
 late man, unable to voice his deeper feeling; and so 
 now, when he spoke to Rachel of his departure, he 
 could but kiss her and stroke her hair and say to her : 
 
 "It will be hard for thee, dearest, but thee will not 
 suffer long, my Rachel. God will give thee to me 
 once more in that better country; and while thee 
 waits the summons thee will find a helper in George." 
 
 And to Abby he said : 
 
 "Thee has been a good child to me, dear Abigail. 
 God bless thee my daughter, and bring thee to me 
 again when thy call shall come." 
 
 So, when the weeks had sped away "and the frail 
 body became more frail, the farewells had all been 
 said, and one night while Rachel clasped his hand 
 and watched him, she felt the hand grow cold as the 
 heart-beat gently ceased and Isaac, like a child falling 
 into happy slumber, drifted out and away to the 
 spirit-land. 
 
 Rachel thought him beautiful as he lay there with 
 the sweet face, the small aquiline nose, the grey eye- 
 brows, the sensitive mouth and the thick and soft 
 white hair tossed about his head. She saw him in her 
 memory as he had been in the far past when his hair 
 was brown; always handsome and gentle; always with 
 refinement and high breeding in face and manner; 
 always since she knew him the gentleman, the true 
 lover, the faithful husband, the devout follower of 
 Christ; and as she looked and remembered and the 
 waves of desolation poured in upon her soul, now so
 
 Into a Far Country. 317 
 
 lonely and sorrowful, she found in her heart a long- 
 ing desire to make haste to follow him into 'that City 
 of God which hath foundations. 
 
 And Abby gazed into the white face and thanked 
 God again and again that He had not permitted her 
 in her madness and folly to put a still heavier burden 
 of suffering upon this father who had suffered so 
 much. "How dreadful it would be," she thought, "if 
 I were far away and mother were here alone with no 
 cne to comfort her;" and then Abby tried to resolve 
 more firmly than ever that she would keep her prom- 
 ise to sever the tie that bound her to Clayton. 
 
 George was the first to call when Isaac's death was 
 made known, and Mrs. Ponder was eager to give 
 consolation and friendly help in the things that must 
 be done even while grief is most poignant. 
 
 The arrangements for the burial were made by 
 George, and the day was set. 
 
 It was a grey clay, warm with the warmth of the 
 end of May, and with the trees putting out their leaf- 
 buds and the grass showing green in the gardens and 
 on both sides of the flagged foot-pavements. 
 
 The attendance was large. Many friends came up 
 in the train from the city, and from all the country- 
 side the members of Plymouth Meeting drove into 
 Connock to pay the last debt of courtesy to the man 
 who had been called away. The streets by the grey 
 house were thronged by carriages from which broad- 
 hatted men helped women in plain attire to alight; 
 and when the horses had been hitched to a tree or 
 left in the care of the hired men who drove them, 
 the Friends entered the house until at last it was
 
 318 The Quakeress. 
 
 crowded and overflowed upon the porch and into the 
 garden. 
 
 The body of the dead man lay in the coffin in the 
 long north parlor. The shutters were nearly closed 
 so that the room seemed dark even to those who 
 came from the light of the clouded day. There was 
 a heavy odor of flowers, and women in Friends' dress 
 clustered in the ends of the room where chairs had 
 been placed. Neighbors and visitors from afar came 
 continuously in long procession through the great 
 double-door of the parlor, then walked around the 
 coffin, gazed for a moment upon the tranquil face 
 upturned from the satin-cushion and moved slowly 
 from the room. 
 
 Outside, on the front porch, were half a dozen 
 groups of men, some of them Friends, most of them 
 townspeople who had known Isaac. Many were 
 standing; a few sat upon or leaned against the railing 
 of the porch; others had chairs. Their countenances 
 were set for gravity, but upon the whole cheerfulness 
 was not completely suppressed. The talk was low- 
 toned, but it was of politics and of the crops, and of 
 the drift of the war, and of the advancing price of 
 gold, and sometimes about Isaac Woolford. 
 
 "Does he leave anything?" asked Peter Ruddick 
 up at the end of the porch where he could spit com- 
 fortably over the railing. 
 
 "Not much, I am afraid," answered William Conly 
 from the arm-chair tilted back against the wall of the 
 house. "Things have gone hard with Isaac since the 
 furnace chilled." 
 
 "George has most of it, I reckon," said Thomas
 
 Into a Far Country. 319 
 
 Shorter. "He backed Isaac heavily, and a man always 
 has to pay for that." 
 
 "George never fails to take care of George," said 
 Peter. "But I must say he is a good fellow." 
 
 "If he marries the girl it will come out even," 
 observed Mr. Shorter. 
 
 "Yes," said Conly, "if. But it has looked for a 
 good while as if she wouldn't have him." 
 
 "A pity, too," said Shorter, "for his sake and for 
 hers, particularly if Isaac's estate has gone to pieces." 
 
 Two new men came into the group, and the dis- 
 cussion of Isaac's affairs began over again. Peter 
 Ruddick improved the chance, while his compaions' 
 backs were turned, to climb over the railing and to 
 go to his store by way of the side-gate. He had paid 
 the debt of neighborliness by showing himself at the 
 house and that was enough, he thought. Thomas 
 Shorter, under pretence of gauging the weather by a 
 glance at the sky, went out to the front grass-plot and 
 ran his eye over the house and the garden for the 
 hundredth time. He wanted such a place and he had 
 long hoped this one might be offered for sale. 
 
 All the groups upon the porch and upon the grass- 
 plots made guesses about the condition of Isaac's 
 estate, and the future of the widow and George's 
 chances with Abby. More than one of them thought 
 the widow might give up housekeeping and consid- 
 ered what, in that case, they would be willing to bid 
 on Isaac's buggy or Isaac's horses or upon his dou- 
 ble sleigh. 
 
 If a man could foresee and forehear the movements 
 and the talk at his funeral he would have a lovely
 
 3 2 The Quakeress. 
 
 lesson in humility. We think our fellows think so 
 much of us, and we take our own estimates of our- 
 selves as the representative of their estimate, and so 
 we swell our pride. Then, when they come to pay 
 their last tribute and to stand among the mourners, 
 curiosity and covetousness and a little smothered exul- 
 tation that death has spared them, fill their minds. 
 
 The neighbors do care that a good man has gone 
 away, but why should they be expected to care 
 much? The conclusion was foregone; the heavy 
 burdens of their own lives remain with them. Sorrow 
 has been in their homes and love has had tears that 
 no neighborly feeling can summon. Men are dying 
 all about them ; death is commonplace excepting when 
 it strikes into the home-circle, and the fountains of 
 feeling cannot be tapped continuously. Isaac is dead, 
 but the survivors must go on still, and going on 
 means trade and war and politics and work. Isaac's 
 house and horses and carriages remain. Somebody 
 must have them. If they are to be sold, may I not 
 have an eye to them and a thought for them, even 
 while I am sorry he has gone and breathe a sigh or 
 two for the widow and the orphan? The preacher 
 within the house is speaking of the shortness and 
 uncertainty of human life. I know about that already; 
 but there must be bread and butter and shelter even 
 if life have brevity; and besides, to Peter Ruddick, 
 for example, the death of Isaac Woolford seems the 
 most ordinary and usual of happenings. The thing 
 that seems extraordinary, unusual, startling, stupen- 
 dous and very, very far away is the death of Peter 
 Ruddick. He would rather not think about that
 
 Into a Far Country. 
 
 321 
 
 until he is older much older. The paternal Ruddick 
 died at eighty-seven and Peter is but sixty-two. 
 When the thought of the end will force itself upon 
 Peter's reluctant mind he always regards father as a 
 precedent, and, mentally subtracting sixty-two from 
 eighty-seven, counts that he still has twenty-five full 
 years to make ready in. Meantime, a horse-trade now 
 and then may be useful. 
 
 In the house the broad hallway is lined on both 
 sHes with people who are quiet, or who speak in 
 whispers. Men and women sit upon the stairs. The 
 dining-room and the sitting-room on the south side 
 of the hall are filled. Upstairs, in their own cham- 
 ber, sit Rachel and Abby, not in mourning dress, but 
 sad and weeping, with deep grief at the heart. About 
 them cluster their nearest kin. George is in the 
 adjoining room with the relatives not so near, and 
 other kinsfolk and dear friends are in the rooms on 
 the other side of the house. Here there is perfect 
 silence. Below there is no noise and no movement, 
 excepting that the undertaker, clad in sombre garb, 
 and having a queer mingling of gloom and business 
 eagerness in his face, goes hither and thither, half 
 upon tip-toe, giving whispered directions. It is sur- 
 prising how many persons he must speak to, and 
 equally surprising how. much satisfaction is found in 
 their momentary importance by two or three of 
 Isaac's friends who have agreed to help. 
 
 Some of the people feared there would be no 
 speaking, but after a while the shrill voice of a woman 
 was heard from the second-story hall. In a kind of 
 high recitative, without inflection, she prayed briefly
 
 3 22 The Quakeress. 
 
 and monotonously for grace for all the company 
 there gathered in the house of mourning. The end 
 of the petition came abruptly, as when water is cut 
 off without a dribble by the swift closing of a faucet. 
 
 The silence seemed deeper than it had done before 
 she spoke. Then another woman's voice was heard 
 from the landing upon the staircase. It was soft and 
 tender and lovely like the flute-stop of an organ. One 
 listened and in one's mind figured the woman's face 
 as of angelic beauty. She spoke with perfect grace 
 and perfect fluency and the message was of peace to 
 the souls of those that were desolate, and of gentle 
 warning to others not to neglect the pleadings of that 
 Spirit whose very nature is Love. 
 
 There was a glimpse of heaven while the music of 
 that voice was heard, and Abby felt that she would be 
 glad if no more were said ; but at once a man without 
 the room began to speak. His opening words were 
 those of prayer, but soon he seemed to forget that 
 prayer had been his purpose and he turned to remin- 
 iscences of his long acquaintance with Isaac. These 
 involved a number of interesting transactions, some 
 of them so far removed from sentiment as the bor- 
 rowing of a set of buggy harness and what "Isaac 
 said" and what "I said," before and after the event. 
 At last the speaker, still forgetful of his intention to 
 pray, diverged to a little sermon upon the awfulness 
 of death and upon the positive certainty that the 
 Friends' way of getting ready for it is the only way 
 deserving of attention from reasonable beings. 
 
 Silence fell again, and then the undertaker whis- 
 pered that the people had better go. Some of them
 
 Into a Far Country. 
 
 323 
 
 lingered to take another look at Isaac's face; but 
 soon all were gone and then Rachel and Abby came 
 down with the relatives and friends and the procession 
 moved slowly toward Plymouth. 
 
 There in the grassy burial-ground they gathered 
 about the grave, and there beneath the sycamore 
 trees, in silence, they gave the body to its mother 
 earth. No word was said, no bell was tolled, no hymn 
 was sung, but the wife and the daughter turned away 
 from the grave and crept into the carriage again to 
 return to the home which had become desolate. 
 
 Isaac left no will, and so at the request of Rachel 
 and equipped with authority by the county court, 
 George Fotherly undertook the ungrateful task of 
 disposing of the estate to the creditors. The furnace 
 was taken over by a group of men to whom Isaac 
 was indebted and there was good promise that, by an 
 investment of new money, it could be made profita- 
 ble. With it went the Ridge tract when George's 
 mortgage had been satisfied, and some other pieces 
 of property were disposed of until nothing was left 
 but the grey house which had been pledged to 
 George. He would have been glad to forego all 
 claim to it, but Rachel would not hear of that. She 
 insisted that she could pay interest on the debt, of 
 which it may be said Abby knew nothing. 
 
 After taking counsel with George and with certain 
 wise Friends who were anxious to help her, Rachel 
 resolved that she would maintain herself by taking 
 boarders. She had a charming home for the right 
 kind of people and there could be no trouble in filling 
 the house with members of her own religious society.
 
 324 The Quakeress. 
 
 Friends always stand by one another, and if she 
 had been willing many right hands (the left hands 
 not admitted to the secret) would have brought help 
 to her in generous measure. But there would be help 
 enough, she thought, in a throng of boarders who 
 should find comfort and delight in so good a lodging 
 place in so lovely a situation. 
 
 But, before all her plans were made, and before the 
 house had new inmates, an attractive offer came to 
 Abby and it must have serious consideration. 
 
 As soon as the war opened streams of runaway 
 slaves began to pour across the Potomac river into 
 Maryland, whence the currents swept upward into 
 Pennsylvania. But many of the negroes, usually the 
 most torpid and helpless, lingered in Maryland, and 
 among these were many children. 
 
 The Quaker, hating human slavery, had always 
 had a quick sense of obligation to its black victims 
 and had never failed to strive to meet the obligation 
 fully. And so, very early in the war-time, and while 
 yet there were no other benevolences provided for the 
 forlorn multitude of the fugitive negroes, the Friends 
 began the work of caring for them. 
 
 One little instrument for bringing help to 'the 
 blacks was a school for young negro children begun 
 in Sharpsburg, Maryland, not far from the Potomac. 
 It had backing from a Quaker family in that town and 
 it had approval and money-help from Friends in 
 Pennsylvania. The first teacher had not succeeded 
 very well, and when the friends of the school came to 
 cast about for her successor, some one suggested 
 Abby's name and the place was offered to her.
 
 Into a Far Country. 325 
 
 There was sorrowful talk about it in the grey house 
 when the letter came. The mother yearned over the 
 only loved one left to her and Abby's heart was heavy 
 as she thought of separation and of Rachel's loneli- 
 ness. But the promised salary was not of mean dimen- 
 sions and a nice home was provided in the house of the 
 Cleggs, who had started the school and were members 
 of the Society of Friends. 
 
 George Fotherley's advice was asked, and his wish 
 was that Abby should not go; but he could not be 
 urgent that his way should be approved, for he dared 
 not offer to Rachel the financial help he would have 
 given joyfully, and he knew that the burden upon the 
 mother would probably be lightened if the daughter 
 could provide for herself and have a small surplus at 
 the end of the year. But George could promise to go 
 with Abby to the Maryland town and to help her to 
 overcome her first feeling of loneliness, while he 
 should see the place and the people and the school 
 and bring back to the mother in Connock something 
 to comfort and assure her. 
 
 So, then, Abby accepted the offer that she should 
 become a teacher, and Rachel summoned to the grey 
 house for companionship and help her widowed sis- 
 ter, who had been living in lodgings and to whom 
 Connock was as attractive as the great city. 
 
 With warnings and good counsel from the mother, 
 and strong promises and many words of love from 
 the daughter, and abundant tears from both, the part- 
 ing was made, and with George by her side the long 
 journey was begun. It was for him a day of much 
 happiness, despite the fact that separation from the
 
 326 The Quakeress. 
 
 woman he loved was near. There was joy in the 
 spending of the whole day in her company, and he 
 was so kind, so thoughtful, so eager to dispel her 
 gloomy thoughts, and his love shone so brightly iri 
 his face and in his conduct, that Abby, long before the 
 journey was ended, had in her heart a little glow of 
 gratitude which once she would have thought meant 
 love. 
 
 There was no discontentment in the hearts of the 
 travelers when they had tarried for a while in the 
 Clegg homestead and had felt the warmth of the wel- 
 come from the sweet Quaker woman and the venera- 
 ble Quaker man who formed the household. George 
 was reassured. He should have a pleasant story to 
 take back to Rachel, and Abby felt that if she could 
 escape homesickness anywhere away from Connock 
 it would be in this place of peace.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 The School-House. 
 
 THE house in which the Cleggs lived was of stone, 
 with a portico upon the front, and with all the wood- 
 work shining with white paint so bright that it might 
 have been freshly laid. The windows in the two 
 stories had heavy wooden shutters upon the outside 
 and were screened within by grey-colored slatted 
 blinds. The roof was crowned by a railed platform 
 which was also white. The house was double, with 
 wide rooms on either side of a spacious hall. It 
 stood forty feet or more from the street. In front 
 of it there was a lawn dotted by flower-beds, and 
 groups of trees were gathered at the ends of the 
 building, so that when Abby and George opened the 
 gate and came up the graveled path to the front-door 
 the house seemed to be fairly framed in green. 
 Within as without there was beauty with simplicity. 
 The art of the cultivated Quaker is to attain loveli- 
 ness with as little help as may be possible irom orna- 
 ment. 
 
 The dwellers in this solid and charming home were 
 two Quakers ,for whom such a living-place seemed 
 exactly fit. Thomas Clegg and his wife Tacy were 
 Friends of a strict type in dress, speech and conduct. 
 The Light had shone in upon them long ago and 
 taught them that the higher things, with all they cost 
 in attainment, are the best things, but that the world 
 
 (327)
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 has among its perishable things many that need not 
 be despised. It had always been their plan to put 
 the spiritual life and its requirements first, and then 
 to find pleasure in all the physical life affords that 
 does not retard the movement towards spiritual 
 development. 
 
 They were quiet people with quiet pleasures, and 
 yet Abby thought she found cheerfulness, if not joy- 
 fulness, the characteristic of the family life. Friend 
 Tacy was a little woman with a bright merry face 
 looking out from the cap that came down about her 
 cheeks, and she was always fond of a jest and a smile. 
 Her husband was more grave, but he laughed with 
 her, and sometimes joked with her, and Abby saw at 
 once that Tacy's lightness and brightness and sweet 
 cheery talk were to him the most pleasant things in 
 life. 
 
 Evidently there was large prosperity for these two 
 good Friends. With it came contentment. In Abby's 
 home the business troubles of her father had always 
 weighed heavily upon him and made him incline to 
 sadness, and her mother's natural gravity had been 
 deepened by the share of trouble that must be borne 
 by her. Until Abby came into the household of the 
 Cleggs and found how well mirthfulness and joyous- 
 ness may be fitted to holiness of life and of behavior, 
 she had not realized in what degree the atmosphere 
 of the grey house had been made sombre by the dis- 
 positions as well as the misfortunes of its inmates. 
 
 Here, then, she found influences which tended to 
 make the weight of her sorrow less, and to tranquil- 
 ize her spirit. She felt, as soon as she entered the
 
 The School-House. 329 
 
 door and looked at the dear little Quakeress who 
 flung her arms about the girl's neck and gave her a 
 welcoming kiss, that she should love this house and 
 its inmates and find in their companionship sweet peace. 
 
 Before George should go home with comforting 
 news to the anxious mother in Connock, he would see 
 the school-house, and thither he went that very after- 
 noon with Friend Tacy and Abby. 
 
 "Now," said Tacy, as they walked briskly down the 
 street, "thee must not expect too much. Has thee thy 
 mind fixed upon some great building of marble and 
 with Corinthian columns and carved work? Thee 
 must unfix it then and do so quickly, or the shock 
 will be too severe when thee sees the edifice." 
 
 Abby laughed and said : 
 
 "Really I have no great expectations." 
 
 "No," continued Tacy, "for thee will have no schol- 
 ars but little bits of pickaninnies, all black as coal, and 
 a fine house would scare them. They could not keep 
 their minds on the spelling book and the Rule of 
 Three. Thee will teach the Rule of Three, won't 
 thee?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Abby. "I must find out how 
 much they know. We can't begin there, can we?" 
 
 "No, and I fear the last teacher did not bring them 
 anywhere near to it," said Tacy. 
 
 The school-house was a wooden cabin, shingled 
 and nicely painted, containing one room with desks 
 and chairs and, on a low platform, a chair and a table 
 for the teacher. It was clean and comfortable and 
 entirely suitable, and Abby was satisfied with it. She 
 was particularly pleased to find that it stood at the
 
 330 The Quakeress. 
 
 border of a wood just at the edge of the town and 
 that upon three sides of it was a grassy common 
 whereon the children could play. 
 
 George went homeward in the morning and Abby 
 was almost surprised to find herself already upon such 
 terms with Friend Tacy that she could part with 
 George without feeling that he was leaving her with 
 strangers. 
 
 She plunged at once into her work. The school 
 had a score of negro children, blowsy, ragged and 
 noisy, and without a ray of light in their minds. They 
 were ignorant, but not stupid. They wanted to learn, 
 they were obedient and tractable and it was plain 
 enough that they liked the new teacher at once. It 
 could not have been in the nature of any child, how- 
 ever ill-born and sullen, to fail to love that sweet face 
 turned from the little platform day after day upon 
 these outcast members of a forlorn and despised race. 
 
 Abby found the work delightful. She felt all her 
 woman-nature go out in pity for these poor little 
 creatures committed to her care, and she experienced 
 a kind of exhilaration as she found her knowledge 
 being imparted to their minds and gaining lodgment 
 there. It seemed almost as if she were giving up part 
 of herself to enrich them and to lift them up from 
 their low estate, and the sacrifice seemed joyful to 
 her. As the children made headway, her interest in 
 them deepened and more earnestly she tried to 
 impart to them not alone the little shreds of learning 
 in the books, but some notion of the divine things 
 and of the meaning of the words character and con- 
 duct. They were too young for her to go at all
 
 The School- House. 331 
 
 beyond the first things in religion, but the teacher 
 thought a way had been found for her to let a glim- 
 mer of light shine in upon their minds. 
 
 Thus Abby found for herself at last a good measure 
 of peace. Her thoughts were diverted from herself; 
 new sources of interest were opened, and in service 
 for those that were helpless and wretched, she found 
 a kind of happiness. She learned that the sure medi- 
 cine for the heart-ache is to try to alleviate the suffer- 
 ings of others, and that the ministry of helpfulness is 
 the open-door to blessedness. 
 
 Love for Clayton was still in Abby's heart, and 
 sometimes when she thought of him and of the 
 impassable barrier now erected between them, her sor- 
 row came to her again with dreadful force; but most 
 of the time she succeeded in mastering her spirit; 
 while she strove to concentrate her thought on her 
 work and to do it diligently, delighting meanwhile in 
 the companionship of the Cleggs. For the first time 
 since Clayton came into her life she had tranquillity. 
 
 Thus half the summer passed away and the end of 
 July was near with a promise, it seemed to Abby, 
 that her peace would be no more disturbed. 
 
 Late in July George Fotherly was summoned by 
 a concern of business to visit Hagerstown, in Mary- 
 land, at the upper end of the Cumberland Valley, and 
 when he had completed his errand he could not 
 refuse himself the pleasure of going over to Sharps- 
 burg, but a few miles distant, to visit Abby. He 
 reached that town in the afternoon and went at once 
 to the house of the Cleggs, thinking to meet Abby 
 there; but she had not yet returned from school.
 
 332 The Quakeress. 
 
 He resolved then to seek for her, and with Friend 
 Tacy Clegg accompanying him, he went toward the 
 school-house. 
 
 Less than an hour before his arrival at the village, 
 Abby, having completed all the lessons for the day, 
 had gathered her pupils about her and was speaking 
 to them a few words of admonition before dismissing 
 them. In the midst of her talk she looked up and 
 there, in the open doorway, directly across the room 
 from her, she saw Clayton Harley. He was in citi- 
 zen's dress, with a slouched hat the brim of which 
 was turned up from his face. He removed the hat 
 and bowed low to Abby, saying "Good afternoon !" 
 
 Abby was so startled by the apparition that she 
 felt as if she could not command her speech or her 
 movements. She thought she should swoon. But 
 making a strong effort, she told the children to go 
 home, and rising from her chair, she moved with 
 them toward the door. 
 
 Clayton entered the room and stood by one of the 
 desks, and it was in Abby's thought to pass him by, 
 with perhaps a word of greeting, and following the 
 scholars to the street, to speed homeward without 
 further conversation with Clayton. But he would 
 not have it so. 
 
 He came near to the door again and partly barr- 
 ing the way, put out his hand and said : 
 
 "Have you no welcome for me, Abby?" 
 
 The girl refused the hand and drawing back, 
 answered : 
 
 "I may not meet with thee any more." 
 
 She was so unnerved and distracted that she must
 
 School-House. 
 
 333 
 
 needs find a seat. She could no longer stand. She 
 retreated to the platform and sat in her teacher's 
 chair. Clayton shut the door and came nearer to 
 her, leaning upon one of the desks. He was sur- 
 prised and troubled by her treatment of him. 
 
 "I am sent upon a mission to this region," he 
 said. "I knew you were here and I could not endure 
 that I should not see you. May I not clasp your hand, 
 my Abby?" 
 
 "No, thee must not!" replied the girl. 
 
 "You love me no more?" 
 
 "I cannot answer thee." 
 
 "You hate me," said Clayton sadly, "because I 
 asked you to fly with me. I beg you to forgive that 
 act of folly. I am glad you did not come to me." 
 
 "No!" said Abby, "I do not hate thee, but I have 
 promised my mother I would receive thee no more. 
 Thee must go away from me. O ! please do not 
 compel me to break my promise." 
 
 "I will not," answered Clayton. "But how can I 
 conquer my great love for you, or forget how much 
 you have loved me in the past?" 
 
 "We must both forget it," said Abby. "It was a 
 great sin against God. Since my dear father's death 
 it has seemed to me more terrible than ever." 
 
 "Is your father dead, poor girl?" 
 
 "Yes, and that is why I am here, trying to make 
 my own living." 
 
 Clayton looked about the room rather scornfully: 
 
 "If your friends truly cared for you they might 
 have found something better for you to do than to 
 teach a lot of little niggers."
 
 334 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 Abby was angry. Her face flushed as she said: 
 "Thee will not talk to me in that way, please." 
 "I ask pardon," said Clayton, humbly. "I am 
 glad of anything that has enabled me once more 
 to see your face." 
 
 "Thee is in the Confederate army, is thee not? 
 Then what right has thee to be here?" 
 
 "I have been wounded, and I came home to 
 recover." 
 
 Abby's cheeks whitened and she shuddered. 
 "Wounded? And thee is well again?" 
 "It is but a small matter. I shall be in the army 
 again in a day or two." 
 
 "Thee is in peril while thee is here." 
 "I would take much greater risks to be with you." 
 "Thee disregards the risk to me," said Abby firmly. 
 "Does thee not perceive that I shall be involved in 
 scandal if thee is seen here? And if thee is known 
 as a Confederate soldier, shall I not be suspected of 
 disloyalty to my country? Even now thee is com- 
 pelling me to be false to my word. Thee must leave 
 me at once." 
 
 "It is all true, and if you will forgive me I will go 
 away from you. But O, my dearest Abby, may I 
 not hear you say again that you love me? May I 
 not kiss your hand in remembrance of the past?" 
 
 "Where is thy wife?" asked Abby, trying to appear 
 cold. 
 
 "Dead, I do truly believe !" said Clayton. 
 
 "But thee does not know it surely?" 
 
 "No; but I will try to learn the truth." 
 
 "Thee says that thee loves me, but thee cannot
 
 lie School- House. 
 
 335 
 
 even respect me if thee pursues me while thee is 
 pledged to another. Thy wife is not dead." 
 
 Her seeming coldness angered and inflamed Clay- 
 ton. He became more eager for her as she appeared 
 to draw away from him. He had come to the school- 
 house expecting kisses and embraces and all the fond- 
 nesses that he had known when first he told his love 
 to the girl. 
 
 "You are very harsh with me, Abby," he said, 
 "and you wrong me. I came to you, with my life in 
 my hand, in an enemy's country, because I love you 
 dearly. I will persecute you no longer, if it be per- 
 secution. Can I believe your love for me has grown 
 cold? I believe it not! You are tied up with an 
 accursed promise. Now, once more, before I turn 
 away from you, probably forever, I ask you to kiss 
 me as in the old time, that I may still carry hope in 
 my heart." 
 
 Abby covered her face in her hands, putting her 
 elbows upon her desk. She made no answer. 
 
 Clayton came nearer to her. He intended to be 
 persistent "You will kiss me once, Abby?" 
 
 She shook her head, her hands still on her face. 
 
 Clayton's almost irresistible impulse was to tear her 
 hands away and to kiss her cheek, in full confidence that 
 her wish was not indicated by her action. This he 
 might perhaps have done, but at that moment the door 
 swung open and George Fotherly came into the room 
 with Tacy Clegg. 
 
 When George saw with startled mind Clayton 
 standing there close by Abby a great wave of rage 
 and hatred swept in .upon him. He was compelled
 
 336 The Quakeress. 
 
 to exercise severe self-control to restrain himself from 
 flying at Clayton and rending him. 
 
 Abby, hearing the footsteps of the visitors, looked 
 up and was appalled to perceive George. Quickly 
 she covered her face again, and then, in a moment, all 
 white and trembling, she flung out her hands appeal- 
 ingly to the Quaker preacher and exclaimed : 
 
 "O, George! Take me away from here!" 
 
 Then dropping her head upon the desk, into her 
 palms, she began to weep passionately. 
 
 Disconcerted though he was, Clayton kept up a 
 brave appearance, and turning to George and Tacy 
 he said quietly: 
 
 "It is but just to Miss Woolford that I should say 
 I am here without her connivance. I came upon her 
 unexpectedly." 
 
 "I can readily believe it," responded George, com- 
 ing forward and placing himself between Abby and 
 Clayton. Tacy Clegg went over by the window at 
 the side of the room and sat down. 
 
 Clayton bridled up at George's remark, and said: 
 
 "But my right to be here is as good as yours." 
 
 "That may bear looking into," said George. "The 
 person upon whom thee has forced thyself does not 
 seem to think so." 
 
 "Whether she does or not is her concern and 
 mine; not yours." 
 
 "I make it mine!" responded George. "Thee is 
 in the rebel army, if I am well-informed." 
 
 Clayton flinched at that. 
 
 "And if I am in the Confederate army, what 
 then?"
 
 The School-House. 
 
 337 
 
 "Then thee is here unlawfully. Thee is a spy. I 
 know no man more fit for that base business !" 
 
 "You dare not talk to me in that way," said Clay- 
 ton hotly, "if these women were not here." 
 
 He advanced toward George and menaced him. 
 George did not move. 
 
 "I wish to have no war of words with thee," said 
 the Quaker, "but I say to thee again, and I will say 
 it to the authorities when I go from here, that thee 
 is a rebel spy. More than this, thee is a false hus- 
 band and a wicked persecutor of this fair and inno- 
 cent girl. Thee is not fit to live !" 
 
 George spoke these bitter words calmly, as 
 if there were no rage in his breast. Abby could 
 not look at either man. Shame for herself, pity 
 for Clayton, half-admiration, half-indignation for 
 George, were in her soul when she heard the men 
 speak. 
 
 Clayton feared when George threatened to denounce 
 him, but he could not ignominiously retreat. He must 
 still put on a bold front in the hope that some way 
 might be found out of his dilemma. 
 
 He was about to speak again when George, with 
 an imperious gesture, pointing to the door, and 
 w r ith his face set to hardness, said to him, in a voice 
 deepened by intense feeling: 
 
 "Be gone ! I give thee one chance for thy evil 
 life. Thee will make haste or thee will hang for it!" 
 
 It was too much for the Marylander. He was no 
 coward. He could endure no longer the well-deserved 
 punishment that had befallen him. 
 
 Springing at George like a tiger-cat, with a
 
 338 The Quakeress. 
 
 scream of rage, he tried to grasp the Quaker by the 
 throat. George was as quick as he. With one strong 
 arm he fended off his assailant, and then, with his 
 big right hand, seizing Clayton's collar, he lifted him 
 and dragged him over the desks to the door, where 
 he hurled the young man out, and closing the door, 
 locked it. 
 
 Abby did not see the combat, but she knew what 
 was happening and she could hardly forbear to rush 
 forward to shield Clayton from George's anger. 
 Friend Tacy saw the whole proceeding and at first 
 had some terror; but when the climax came and the 
 Confederate disappeared, she smiled, and coming 
 near to George, she said in a low voice : 
 
 "It was most unlike Friends for thee to do that, 
 but I thank thee ! I thank thee much, and I will not 
 report thy behavior to thy meeting." 
 
 Then she went upon the platform and stooping 
 over Abby, tried to comfort her. 
 
 Had George been alone, Clayton surely would 
 have returned to renew the conflict, but he was not 
 eager to fight in the presence of the women, and, in 
 truth, the ignominy that had befallen him was 
 enough, without risking more. Besides, he was a 
 spy and he knew well that the military authorities 
 would make quick work with him if George should 
 inform them. 
 
 So he sped away swiftly, mad with hate and 
 thwarted love, toward the crossing of the great river; 
 and while he made haste, George turned to Abby 
 and urged that she should go homeward with him. 
 
 Abby arose and went to the closet to find her
 
 In the School-House. 
 
 339 
 
 bonnet. Friend Clegg, not fully understanding the 
 relations between the two men and the girl, but pre- 
 suming that George and Clayton were merely rivals 
 for her affection, showed some disposition to be joc- 
 ular concerning the matter, but with a stern face and 
 a significant gesture George warned her that the 
 business was in truth most serious. 
 
 George shut the door of the school-house as the 
 three persons left it and together they moved home- 
 ward. Abby was persistent that Friend Clegg should 
 go between her and George, and for a time they 
 walked in silence. But Abby was deeply moved. 
 "He knows Clayton is married," thought she, and 
 the fact dismayed her. She was glad George had 
 come. She was pitiful for Clayton's wound and for 
 his humiliation. George's prowess was wonderful, 
 but she was sorry and ashamed for Clayton. There 
 was a strange whirl of passion, of grief and of rejoic- 
 ing under that little Quaker bonnet as Abby pressed 
 on with her companions. At last, her grief for Clay- 
 ton for the moment uppermost in her mind, she said : 
 
 "Thee was harsh with him. He was very wrong; 
 but he is one of the world's people, and thee has always 
 been a consistent Friend." 
 
 George could not bring himself to repent what 
 he had done. Abby's words indeed hardened his 
 heart. "Still," he thought, "she has fondness for 
 Clayton." 
 
 "It would be better," he said, "that we should all 
 try to forget the matter; but thee knows, Abby, I 
 did it for thee. It is most grave that he should seek 
 thee in such a manner. I know thee thinks so." 
 
 "Yes!" murmured Abby.
 
 340 The Quakeress. 
 
 "And thee was weeping because of it when we 
 came in. If he would not leave thee when he ought not 
 to stay, how should he be driven out but by force?" 
 
 "Thee was violent. Thee put shame on him." 
 
 For the first time in his life George was vexed 
 with her. 
 
 "Shame, Abby! Who can put fresh shame upon 
 a man who is a traitor to both his country and his 
 wife? He is not merely spotted with it; his very 
 inmost soul is infamous !" 
 
 George spoke vehemently. Friend Clegg inter- 
 posed and strove to turn from the subject, but Abby 
 came between her and George and placing her hand 
 upon his arm, she said : 
 
 "Forgive me if I seemed to reproach thee! It is 
 I who deserve reproach." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed George, warmly. 
 
 "But I did not summon him. I did not wish him 
 there. I was angry when he came and I was glad, 
 O, very, very glad, to see thee. Thee has always been 
 my friend and my helper." 
 
 "I think I would give my life for thee," said 
 George, solemnly. 
 
 "George," she said tearfully and clinging to his 
 arm, "let me go home with thee, I pray thee ! I 
 am weary here. I am afraid !" 
 
 "I will take thee gladly if it be right for thee to go. 
 But is not thy present duty here?" 
 
 "I do not know. I am too much bewildered to 
 form any judgment." 
 
 "Let us judge for thee, dear," said Mrs. Clegg. 
 "Thee must stay here for a while at any rate. It
 
 The School-House. 
 
 341 
 
 will be ruin for the school if thee should leave it. 
 Stay for the summer at least and Thomas and I will 
 be with thee, even at the school-house, to see that 
 thee is not molested." 
 
 "Thee need have no further fear of that man," 
 said George. "He will not return. He does not 
 covet death as a spy." 
 
 ''Thee will not publicly denounce him now?" said 
 Abby, anxiously. "Thee will give him time to escape?" 
 
 "Yes, but he must come here no more." 
 
 "I am sure he will not," said Mrs. Clegg; but 
 Abby in her heart was by no means sure of it. 
 
 Abby went early to bed that night, and George 
 sat late with the Cleggs speaking of her and of the 
 need, strongly urged by the Cleggs, that she should 
 remain for a time and continue her work in the school. 
 
 In the morning it was not difficult to persuade 
 Abby, who had regained her composure and parted 
 with much of her fear, that she ought not to abandon 
 summarily the work to which she had laid her hand 
 and in which her interest was deeply engaged. So it 
 was agreed that she should remain until the summer 
 was ended, if no longer, and when the Cleggs had 
 promised that they would see to it that unwelcome 
 visitors should not come to the school-house, George 
 took leave of them and of Abby. 
 
 With her eyes filled with tears she bade him fare- 
 well, and holding fast his hand, while she sent mes- 
 sages of love to her mother, she said at the last: 
 
 "And again I thank thee, dear George, for all thy 
 love and kindness and entreat thy forgiveness for 
 my many misdeeds !"
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 With Confused Noise and Gar- 
 ments Rolled in Blood." 
 
 WHEN George was gone Abby returned to her 
 tasks in the little school-house, endeavoring to fix 
 all her attention upon them and to find again the 
 quietness and peace so rudely disturbed by Clay- 
 ton's appearance. The Cleggs were faithful to their 
 promise to try to shield her from further intrusion, 
 and not infrequently Mrs. Clegg would spend a 
 large part of the day in or near the schoolhouse. 
 Each afternoon she or her husband walked out to 
 the place to accompany Abby homeward and both 
 husband and wife strove eagerly to dispel the gloom 
 that seemed at times to shroud the young girl's 
 spirit. 
 
 The fact is that Abby was far from contented with 
 her cold repulsion of Clayton and she continued to 
 grieve that George should have heaped indignity 
 upon him. It was not wholly unsatisfying to her 
 that she had striven to keep her promise to her 
 mother; but her mind persisted in looking at her 
 conduct from Clayton's side and then she saw with 
 painful clearness how he might have reason to believe 
 that the strong love she really had for him had com- 
 pletely vanished. 
 
 Thus when she reviewed her behavior at the inter- 
 
 (342)
 
 'With Confused Noise." 343 
 
 view she inclined to reproach herself and to believe 
 that if Clayton should come again, she would open 
 her heart to him no matter what the consequences 
 might be. She had a faint hope that he would 
 return; but he did not, and there were no tiding of 
 him, and so the whole of the month of August and 
 part of September slipped away, and hope of seeing 
 him almost died out from her mind. 
 
 But before September was old some strange and 
 alarming rumors came to Sharpsburg from the coun- 
 try to the south and the west of it. There were dis- 
 tinct indications that the Confederate army was mov- 
 ing up towards Maryland and that the Federal army 
 marched upon parallel lines in the same direction. 
 
 These indications became more and more clear 
 until one day the Confederate sympathizers in the 
 town went about with the exultant declaration that 
 Lee's army would be in Sharpsburg on the morrow. 
 In the morning all doubts of this movement had dis- 
 appeared and the people prepared for the coming 
 of the invader. 
 
 Abby went as usual to the school-house, but she 
 sent away the scholars before the morning was half 
 done, and then she tried to decide for herself if she 
 should go home or remain in the little building. She 
 had in her soul a hope which induced her to stay, 
 and so she sat by the front window, looking out over 
 the wide street, and waited for the Confederate host 
 to appear. 
 
 The street was strangely quiet. No one was seen 
 upon it. All the horses and wagons had vanished 
 and the stores were shut. Here and there a bold
 
 344 The Quakeress. 
 
 friend of the Southern cause fluttered the Confed- 
 erate flag from a window or a doorway; but most of 
 the people of the town showed neither love nor hatred ; 
 they remained in-doors, waiting for the great army 
 that they knew was near. 
 
 Soon horse-hoofs were heard upon the hard earth 
 of the street, and four men in grey came riding into 
 the village at a slow trot, with carbines cocked and 
 held upright resting upon their thighs, with eyes 
 glancing hither and thither in search of Federal 
 vedettes. Then some of the house-doors swung open 
 and women came out to wave their handkerchiefs 
 and to hurrah for the Confederacy. 
 
 A few moments after the four horsemen had gone 
 by a group of a hundred or more dashed into the 
 street and followed the four. Some of these responded 
 to the greetings of the women upon the door steps, 
 but most of them looked grim and tired and indifferent 
 even to a woman's welcome. 
 
 When they had gone by, there was silence for half 
 an hour, when a great body of cavalry came through 
 the town at a brisk trot with sabres jingling, accou- 
 trements rattling, and the faces of the men set hard 
 with weariness and with a consciousness of stern 
 work to be encountered, possibly before the day 
 was done. 
 
 The horsemen passed, and then again, as Abby 
 watched, there was no further sight or sound of sol- 
 diery, until presently she saw a column of infantry 
 coming up the street, so silently that she could not 
 hear them until they came near to the school-house. 
 The flags were flying and the officers on horseback'
 
 'With Confused Noise." 345 
 
 wheeled and turned and ran hither and thither; but 
 there was no music of brass or of drum. The col- 
 umn, loosely formed in fours and not trying to keep 
 step, came on swiftly. The men carried their guns 
 slanting at all angles over their shoulders, and they 
 walked at high speed as if in a hurry to overtake the 
 horsemen. 
 
 They were dressed in greyish brown, with hats 
 slouched over their eyes or turned up upon their 
 foreheads. Some were ragged, some wore clothing 
 that had shrunken until it scantily covered the legs 
 and the body; all were covered with grey dust and 
 burned brown by the sun. They were lean and 
 strong and resolute. They did not talk among them- 
 selves, they did not look with curiosity upon the 
 town or at the thronged windows; they were obedi- 
 ent to the force of a stern discipline which impelled 
 them headlong upon the way unknown to them. 
 They had marched far in that hot September sun, up 
 from the South, through mountain gaps and over 
 wide rivers and along dusty and muddy highways. 
 They were toughened warriors with fierce strife still 
 before them, with sudden death the sure fate of 
 many, with hardships still to be borne, with hunger 
 and thirst and fatigue still to be the lot of the survi- 
 vors. Few of them w-ere in the mood for laughter, 
 few cared for the smiles of the women who loved 
 their cause or the tears and the frowns of those who 
 wished for victory for their enemies. To go onward : 
 that was what they had to do, and they did it, not 
 with sullenness, not with regret that they had 
 become soldiers, not with pangs caused by memories
 
 346 The Quakeress. 
 
 of home, but with intense, unremitting, persistent 
 earnestness as men who had learned to suffer and to 
 be patient in the performance of their task. 
 
 Abby watched them with eager curiosity as they 
 hurried by, rank after rank, regiment after regiment, 
 division after division. These were the men whose 
 valorous deeds had made the whole world ring with 
 applause. These were the men who had won victory 
 in those mighty battles in the South of which she 
 had heard so much. It was these men and such as 
 these that had stood steadfast in the blazing fury of 
 the firing line, who had stormed and carried 
 entrenchments, who had thrust back the brave enemy 
 that charged upon them. She looked at them and 
 wondered. It was terrible to her that men should 
 be so eager to kill, so ready to be killed; but she 
 could not help feeling a glow of admiration that they 
 should be so brave; and then to her peaceful little 
 soul, so timid and so bred to quietness, there came 
 for the first time some comprehension of what men 
 mean when they talk of the glory of war. Horrible 
 the strife is, but was there not indeed something to 
 stir the blood and kindle the imagination in the sight 
 of such an instrument of war a human instrument 
 having a single purpose and wielded by a single 
 man for the achievement of that purpose? 
 
 Abby tried to look at the face of each man that 
 passed her, but she found she could not do that, the 
 troops went by so rapidly. Then she remembered 
 that Clayton was an officer and she began to watch 
 for the men who wore the tokens of rank. Hour 
 after hour she sat there, and hour after hour the
 
 ' With Confused Noise/' 347 
 
 troops rushed by, a multitude of almost inconceiv- 
 able greatness; and still she could not see the man 
 for whom she looked. She was growing weary of 
 watching. Perhaps he did not belong to this part 
 of the army. Perhaps he had fallen sick and had 
 been left behind. Possibly the soldiers with whom 
 he was had gone past the town by another road. 
 She could not have missed him, she thought, for he 
 knew where she would be, at the school-house, and 
 she was sure that if he should go by there would be 
 some greeting for her. She had almost resolved to 
 shut the school-house door and to go home when 
 the great guns began to roll past, each with its train 
 of horses, each followed by the caisson, with the sol- 
 diers sitting upon the boxes, with the mounted driv- 
 ers cracking their whips and the officers riding hard 
 by. She could not resist looking at the cannon. 
 They seemed terrible. How could men stand up 
 before them when the flames poured from the iron 
 mouths? Perhaps she should hear them roar if it 
 were true that the Federal army lay just beyond the 
 town waiting for its enemy. 
 
 Then, when the guns were gone, the foot soldiers 
 came again, and while she looked at them a man darted 
 from the ranks, dashed into the door of the school- 
 house, and before she could see his face, his arms 
 were about her. 
 
 "My darling," he said, "My dearest love, my Abby. 
 You will give me one kiss, my Abby, just one," and 
 he held her close and kissed her, and then, though 
 she had not had time or breath to say one word to 
 him, he leaped from the doorway and was gone.
 
 348 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 She went to the window to catch a glimpse of 
 him. She saw him run to his place in the moving 
 column and he turned and waved- his sword at her. 
 Then he vanished. 
 
 She closed the door and sat down upon a chair. 
 She cared no more for the soldiers who still swept 
 past. She felt the hot kisses upon her cheek and 
 her lips; upon her sleeve she saw some of the dust 
 that had been upon the arm of his blouse. She would 
 let it stay there. She wanted to think of him and 
 his caress before her heart stopped beating so fast 
 and the flush upon her face became cool again. 
 
 Until the noon hour came, Abby sat alone in the 
 school-room, with the door locked, thinking of Clay- 
 ton, of the peril in which he would be in the great 
 battle she feared was impending and of her hope for 
 him that mingled so strangely with her hope for the 
 success of his opponents. She dreamed of the hap- 
 piness that would come to her if the Confederate 
 army should be driven back after Clayton had been 
 made a prisoner, for then he would be in safety, 
 perhaps safe until the war was ended, and perchance 
 she might visit him in his captivity and in some fssh- 
 ion minister to him. Another dream she had; she 
 shuddered at it, but there was a gleam of joy in it: 
 if Clayton should be slightly wounded and they 
 should bear him to the village, then she might wait 
 on him and nurse him and day by day, as he should 
 grow stronger with tender care, he would love her 
 more and more dearly. She had read of such things 
 in books and newspapers and the experience might 
 be hers; but she could hardly bear tb think of his 
 being hurt.
 
 'With Confused Noise." 349 
 
 At last she rose up and left the school to thread 
 her way home among the Confederate stragglers 
 that thronged the street. She could not taste her 
 dinner. She could not listen to the talk she was sure 
 to hear against the invaders. She went to her room, 
 and after a while Mrs. Clegg came knocking at her 
 door and together they climbed the narrow ladder 
 to the platform on the roof of the house. There they 
 looked out to the North and East. Near to them, 
 on the rising ground to the westward of Antietam 
 Creek, they could easily see the thin grey line of the 
 Confederates stretching itself in front of the town. 
 Men moved hither and thither and horses galloped 
 to put the guns in position. With the glass they 
 could perceive, beyond the ravine in which ran the 
 stream, long lines of men in blue, a mighty host, and 
 here, too, there was the movement of preparation. 
 
 "There will be an awful battle, Abby dear," said 
 Mrs. Clegg. "That is McClellan's army and here 
 is Lee's. We shall be in the very thick of it." 
 
 And Abby, silent, looked and looked, not long at 
 the lines of blue, but at the grey line, and she won- 
 dered where in all that swarm of men was the man 
 who kissed her cheek in the morning. 
 
 Her companion went down in the house, but she 
 remained almost until dusk looking and hoping and 
 ofttime praying for the one being in the host whose 
 life was to her supremely precious. 
 
 It was a restless perturbed night for all the people 
 of the village, and when the morning broke the 
 streets were thronged with Confederate soldiers and 
 with all the back-lash of the army. Bodies of troops
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 marched through, orderlies galloped furiously from 
 point to point. Ammunition wagons, baggage wag- 
 ons, ambulances and all the necessary paraphernalia 
 for the sustenance and safety of an army thronged 
 the streets, and mingling with the visitors were citi- 
 zens of the town and farmers who had flocked into 
 the town, some impelled by curiosity, some seeking 
 for safety and some full of joy that the champions of 
 the Southern cause had come into Maryland. 
 
 It would have been impossible to have school, and 
 Abby spent the day trying to read, trying to sleep, 
 but always with her mind upon her soldier, who 
 stood just out of her reach upon the verge of the 
 stream that ran close by the town. 
 
 At supper time the news came that the great Con- 
 federate leader was at hand and had made his head- 
 quarters at the edge of the village. They knew then 
 that the battle would not be long delayed. 
 
 There was little rest on that night also, for the 
 street was full of movement and the air of cries; and 
 for each citizen there was the strain of waiting for 
 a great catastrophe which would surely swallow up 
 the lives of thousands of men and which might play 
 havoc with the homes of peaceful people. 
 
 Abby, sleeping for a little while, lay wide awake 
 in her room after midnight and the hours passed 
 slowly until three o'clock came. Then, with terror 
 in her soul she heard the roar of cannon, soon fol- 
 lowed by the rattle and crash of musketry, and she 
 knew that the struggle had begun. 
 
 She arose and without lighting her lamp, dressed 
 herself, while the boom of the cannon became more
 
 'With Confused Noise." 351 
 
 vehement. It was the most frightful sound she had 
 ever heard, and it constantly gained in fury. As she 
 listened, trembling, her mind involuntarily wandered 
 off to the old meeting-house in the shadow of the 
 trees at Plymouth and to the sweet peace of the 
 gatherings there for worship. She thought of 
 George and of her mother, and of the hours of silent 
 prayer. She thought of that quiet meeting for wor- 
 ship long ago with George in her garden in the calm 
 June morning amid the smell of the roses, and she 
 wished she were there now, at home, with Friends 
 and at peace. 
 
 The tears came upon her cheeks. She looked from 
 the window upon the black night and there, out by 
 the creek, the landscape was lighted by the flashes 
 from the roaring cannon and she even heard the yells 
 of the infuriated combatants as they met their ene- 
 mies.. The sight was too terrible. It was a glimpse 
 of hell, and so she turned and falling into a chair she 
 placed her hands over her eyes and sought God in 
 prayer. 
 
 She could not at such a time have that tranquillity 
 of spirit with which Friends were used to enter con- 
 sciously the Divine presence. Her heart was filled 
 with terror and with dread foreboding for the man 
 she loved; and indeed who could have maintained 
 spiritual calm while that wild tempest of war raged 
 within her hearing? Half hysterically, in ejaculatory 
 phrases, she prayed for Clayton; she prayed that the 
 battle-storm might quickly cease; that God might 
 bring solace to the hearts that would be wrung with 
 anguish because of the slaughter upon that field of
 
 352 
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 war; that He would save her country and bring to it 
 peace again. And then for herself she besought for- 
 giveness. She prayed that those whom she loved 
 might forgive her as God would forgive her; and then 
 she wept again; and still the thunder of the guns grew 
 louder and the rattle of the volleying muskets mingled 
 with the cries of the furious soldiery. 
 
 When she dropped her hands, exhausted of her 
 capacity for prayer, the dawn had come and she went 
 to the window. New bodies of soldiers poured along 
 the street that they might plunge into the combat 
 that lay beyond ; but there was a contrary current, for 
 now men thronged in from the battlefield carrying 
 wounded soldiers upon stretchers and in ambulances, 
 and other combatants, sorely hurt but not yet help- 
 less, marched beside them covered with blood and 
 staggering onward, sometimes to tumble upon the 
 pavements, sometimes to seek shelter where they 
 might dress their hurts. 
 
 And so the day began. So its long hours contin- 
 ued. She went out sometimes to help where a woman 
 could give help and blessing, and into the faces of 
 wounded men she looked all through the day fearing 
 that she might see the face of the one she knew; but 
 often the scene became too terrible to be borne, and 
 then she would fly for refuge and respite to her room 
 and to prayer. 
 
 Midday came and passed, the long afternoon lapsed 
 into evening and the shadows began to fall, but still, 
 almost without intermission, the thunder of the artil- 
 lery rolled back into the town and the sounds of the 
 conflict told of insatiable fury. Abby went early to
 
 'With Confused Noise. 353 
 
 her chamber and remained there, the window open 
 and the horror of the maimed and the dying still in 
 the street below her. Before long, weary of the 
 excitement and the misery, she fell asleep in her chair. 
 She awakened suddenly in the darkness, and found 
 that silence had come. A single shot was heard now 
 and then, far away, but all the mighty tumult of the 
 battle at last was stilled. 
 
 Making a light, she found that half-past nine was 
 the hour. After eighteen hours the conflict was 
 ended the most sanguinary day of all the dreadful 
 days of the civil war. 
 
 She did not know who had the victory. She was 
 so weary in soul and body that she could hardly rouse 
 herself to care or to inquire; and so she went to bed 
 and once more to sleep. 
 
 When the morning came she learned that the two 
 armies still lay along their lines outside the town, and 
 that at any moment the strife might be renewed. But 
 it was not. There was something like satiety upon 
 both sides, and exhaustion. Thus during the whole 
 day a kind of truce prevailed, while living soldiers 
 sought out and buried the dead ones or carried the 
 wounded away to places of safety. So night returned 
 once more and when Abby had fallen asleep she was 
 aroused by a great movement in the street. She arose 
 and went to the window, and there in the darkness 
 she could perceive a mighty shadowy host, men on 
 foot, men on horses, horses dragging cannon and 
 wagons following, rushing swiftly away from the bat- 
 tlefield and towards the Potomac river. 
 
 She knew at once what it meant; the Confederate
 
 354 The Quakeress. 
 
 army was retreating; the battle was ended completely; 
 there was some sort of victory for the cause that had 
 her devotion. She was glad for that, but she won- 
 dered where Clayton was. He might pass her win- 
 dow while she looked down upon the moving throng 
 and she would not know it ; he might be wounded and 
 helpless on that awful field of strife or he might be 
 dead. 
 
 She looked and looked in vain upon his comrades, 
 for there could be no sight of him in the gloom, and 
 then, long ere the soldiers had ceased to go by, she 
 went back to rest determined that she would try upon 
 the morrow to know his fate. 
 
 In the morning Abby put on her straight little grey 
 bonnet, and folded her grey silk handkerchief upon 
 her breast. Then summoning Mrs. Clegg's negro 
 servant Joseph to accompany her, for she had dread 
 to go alone on this errand, she went down the street 
 towards the battlefield. 
 
 Wounded men were still being carried into the 
 town and the Federal cavalry were moving forward 
 in small bodies to discover the track of the retreating 
 army. 
 
 Abby and her companion had not gone far along 
 the road before they came upon evidences of the bat- 
 tle. Twenty thousand men had been killed and 
 wounded in the contest, and the burial parties at 
 work in every part of the field had not had time 
 enough half to complete their work. The wounded 
 were lying here and there often in groups, and men 
 were busy among them, caring for them and prepar- 
 ing for their removal; but the number was so great
 
 'With Confused Noise/' 355 
 
 that some must wait and suffer and die before their 
 turn should come. 
 
 The fences were down, the cornfields were tram- 
 pled into black mud, the trees were torn and dismem- 
 bered by the artillery firing, and everywhere to right 
 and to left the slain and the hurt, in blue and grey, 
 were seen upon the ground. 
 
 The horror of it all came home to Abby's mind 
 with new force as she witnessed this misery and 
 destruction, and she felt strong thankfulness that she 
 belonged to a body of Christ's people who, through 
 all the wild strife of the centuries, had never faltered 
 in bearing their testimony against this wickedness. 
 She had to shut her heart against sympathy for indi- 
 viduals as she passed them by, for what could she do 
 to help them? and she felt that if for a moment she 
 should permit her feelings to get control of her she 
 should be unable to stand. 
 
 She and the negro looked sharply for the fallen 
 officers who should be dressed in Confederate uniforms. 
 Some they saw and glancing at their faces passed 
 them by. Over the fields they went until they came 
 to a w r ood bordering the creek. Here there had been 
 fierce fighting; here the trees were scarred and torn 
 and here the blue and the grey lay in heaps together. 
 But the girl saw no face that she knew. 
 
 Turning to the right, she and her companion clam- 
 bered over a low wall into the road, and then making 
 their way up a bank upon the other side of the high- 
 way they surmounted another wall, coming upon a 
 trampled wheat field where also there had been fright- 
 ful combat. Thence among the dying and the dead
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 they went on into another field close by a little wood 
 and here, under the shade of the trees, Abby stopped 
 and rested upon a great stone. The sun was hot and 
 she was tired of body and sick of soul; and she was 
 discouraged. She could not hope to look at all that 
 great host of the victims of the fray, and if she should 
 do so he might have been carried away or he might 
 be marching unhurt to the Southward. She was 
 almost inclined to go back and to give up the search; 
 but while she sat, Joseph went beyond and looked 
 in the wood and in the adjoining field. 
 
 Presently he stopped and summoned her. Her 
 heart almost ceased beating; but quickly she remem- 
 bered that the man had not known Clayton. He had 
 found another Confederate officer, that was all. She 
 arose and went to him. He stood beyond a stone 
 wall over which she climbed, and there, in a corner, 
 was a Confederate soldier, dead. 
 
 It was Clayton. He lay supine, with his left arm 
 bent above his head, his sword in his other hand, his 
 face of the color of ashes and a great wound over his 
 heart. 
 
 She knew him instantly. She did not cry. She 
 knelt quickly beside him saying : 
 
 "It is he, Joseph. It is Mr. Harley. Go and get 
 some water from the creek, Joseph." 
 
 The negro left her. She put her hand upon the 
 white cheek; it was cold. She took his hand in hers; 
 it felt like marble. She knelt beside him upon the 
 ground, and brushed the dark hair tenderly away from 
 his forehead. Then she looked around, and seeing 
 no one near, she kissed him again and again, speaking
 
 'With Confused Noise. 357 
 
 passionate words under her breath to him as if she 
 could not trust herself to open utterance. She was 
 holding his hand when Joseph returned with water in 
 the crown of his felt hat. 
 
 "It is too late, Joseph," she said gently, but she 
 dipped her handkerchief in the water and wiped away 
 the grime and the blood upon his face, and tried to 
 take it from the breast of his blouse where the shell 
 had struck him. 
 
 "Do not cry, Joseph," she said. "Go back to town 
 and find some one to help us bring him home. We 
 must bring him home again, Joseph. We must not 
 let the soldiers bury him here. His mother will want 
 to see him. Go now, and I will wait here for you." 
 
 The negro left her and went swiftly toward the 
 village. 
 
 She sat close beside the dead man, and lifted his 
 head upon her lap. They were beyond the reach or 
 knowledge of the soldiers that were searching the 
 field. They were under the screen of the wall, close 
 to the great trees that rustled in the autumn breeze. 
 Alone with him she looked at the face of her lover. 
 There were no tears. She wondered that she did not 
 weep. Her mind ran back over the years and while 
 she thought and thought minutely of each of the 
 times when she had been with him, of his words of 
 tenderness, of his kisses, of the clasping of his arms, 
 and of all his gaiety and loveliness, she talked to him 
 in half articulate cooings as a mother to a sleeping 
 babe, and kissed his hand and his face. 
 
 And then, suddenly, she thought of the night when, 
 upon the porch of the parsonage in Connock, she first
 
 as 8 The Quakeress. 
 
 heard him sing, and the tones of his voice became 
 audible to her memory. She leaned far over him, 
 taking both his hands in hers, and, almost touching 
 his face, she began to sing and she sang bravely to 
 the end the old song : 
 
 " O my lost love, and my own, own love, 
 
 And my love that loved me so! 
 Is there never a chink in the world above 
 
 Where they listen for words below? 
 Nay, I spoke once and grieved thee sore, 
 
 I remember all that I said. 
 And now thou wilt hear no more, no more 
 
 Till the sea gives up her dead." 
 
 Her voice quavered upon the last line and as she. 
 ended it the tension that held her relaxed, and she 
 fell into a passion of weeping, kissing him and mur- 
 muring to him amid her sobs, and so she sat until 
 she heard the step of Joseph, who had come back 
 again. 
 
 The man had a companion, and both looked at her 
 with pity in their faces, as she lifted herself from the 
 earth. Joseph, at her command, searched the dead 
 man's clothing, that she might retain for his mother 
 anything that would be worth retaining, and among 
 the articles the negro handed to her two letters and 
 a locket. 
 
 "It might be mine," she said, as she put it with the 
 letters into her pocket, with a button loosed from the 
 blouse that he wore. 
 
 Then the two men bore the body away across 
 the field to the road, where there was a wagon, 
 and in the wagon Abby and the slain soldier and
 
 'With Confused Noise." 359 
 
 Joseph and his companion went back slowly toward 
 Sharpsburg. As they climbed the little hill that ran 
 upward from the border of the creek, a train of for- 
 lorn gipsy wagons came downward to pass them, and 
 on the front seat of the first wagon Abby saw, and 
 knew at once, the woman who had read her palm 
 and pretended to tell her fortune by the great foun- 
 tain at Spring Mill long ago. Abby looked at her 
 with amazement and sad foreboding, but the woman 
 saw her not, or would not seem to see her. The eyes 
 of the gipsy turned neither to the right nor to the 
 left, as her vehicle went by toward the Federal lines. 
 
 "She said," murmured Abby to herself, "that I 
 should die of a broken heart. I wonder what she 
 said to Clayton!" 
 
 Friend Thomas Clegg sent to Mrs. Harley a tele- 
 gram telling her of Clayton's death, and then he 
 sent the body home to her. 
 
 When Abby came to the house, she went into her 
 chamber and locked the door. 
 
 She bethought her of the locket and the letters 
 and the button. She took them out and pressed her 
 lips upon them. The button should be hers, always. 
 The locket she did not know. She opened it and 
 went with it close to the window. There was the 
 face of a woman within it and the face smiled upon 
 Abby. She turned to the letters. She would not 
 open them. There was a chill in her heart and she 
 reeled across the room to fall upon the bed. "Was 
 ever sorrow like my sorrow?" she said, as she lay 
 there and thought of the dead man and her love for 
 him. That love was mighty enough, she found, to
 
 3 6o The Quakeress. 
 
 overbear all other feeling even now. She had never 
 hated anybody. She knew not how; and no matter 
 what Clayton had concealed from her she did believe 
 he truly loved her as she would always truly love 
 him; for how could she help it? Long ago all power 
 over her soul in that respect had vanished. Her pas- 
 sion mastered her. 
 
 When evening came she wrapped the letters and 
 the locket together, and Mrs. Clegg should address 
 them to his mother. 
 
 She felt so weary next day that she could not move 
 to gather her scholars, and indeed the fever of the 
 battle was still so strong upon the village that it 
 would have been hard to do so. As she thought of 
 it, the longing for home came upon her and she con- 
 sidered if she should not give up the school to 
 another person and go back to her mother and that 
 dear grey house upon the hill. She spoke of it at 
 supper, and just as the meal was ended George Foth- 
 erly came to the door and asked to see her. 
 
 "I came as soon as I could, Abby, after we heard 
 that the battle was ended. I was dread for thee when 
 I knew it was so near to thee." 
 
 "It was most kind of thee, George," she said, and 
 then he talked to her of Connock and of her dear 
 ones there. "Thee is sad, Abby," he said, looking 
 nearly at her. "The strain has been too great for 
 thee, my girl." 
 
 "I hear the roaring of the cannon always, George. 
 Take me home, take me home ! I cannot bear to 
 stay here any longer. Will they think I have left my 
 duty if I go ?"
 
 ' Witli Confused Noise. ' 3 61 
 
 "No," said George, "thee must come with me. 
 We will go in the morning. Thy mother is hungry 
 for thee, and I long for thee, too, Abby. Some one 
 will take thy place at the school." 
 
 That night Abby made ready for the journey, and 
 the next day in the early morning she left the house 
 and walked alone swiftly out to the place where the 
 corner of the stone wall lay in the shadow of the 
 wood and there, stooping, she kissed the ground 
 that bore still the impress of the slain soldier's form. 
 Hurrying back to the town, she found George wait- 
 ing for her; and with him she went upon the train to 
 the northward, up among the hills, and while the 
 night was early her mother's arms were about her. 
 
 "I cannot bear to see thee weeping," said George 
 to her as he bade farewell. "Thee is overwrought 
 and weary. I will come to-morrow to see thee, and 
 I am sure thee will have a smile for me, my dear." 
 
 But Abby felt that for her the joy of life was gone 
 forever.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 A New Master for trie Grey House. 
 
 THE first impression Abby had when she came 
 home was of her mother's declining health and 
 strength. The work of the summer, involving house- 
 keeping for several exacting boarders, had borne 
 heavily upon her, and as Abby clasped her thin hand 
 and looked into her pallid face, the girl was full of 
 regret that she had gone away instead of remaining to 
 share the burden with Rachel. The sum total of the 
 achievement of both women was the accumulation 
 of money enough to continue for a few months the 
 maintenance of the home to which they were fondly 
 attached. It was however clear to Abby that she 
 must hereafter stay with her mother and that upon 
 the younger woman would devolve the task of earn- 
 ing a livelihood for the two. But indeed Abby could 
 not conceal from herself the promise that unless a 
 great change for the better should speedily be made 
 in her mother's health, the time was not far distant 
 when the daughter would find herself alone in the 
 grey house and in the world, with no one to care for 
 but herself. 
 
 Abby had not been in Connock many hours when 
 she found herself impelled to visit Mrs. Ponder, and 
 so, before that good woman had time to come to her, 
 Abby slipped over to the parsonage and had from 
 the minister's wife greeting hardly less fervent than 
 that given her by Rachel Woolford. 
 
 (362)
 
 A New Master. 363 
 
 "It is so delightful, my dear, to have you at home 
 again," said 'Mrs. Ponder, when she had kissed and 
 hugged Abby and when both of them were seated in 
 the livmg room. "Your mother needs your help and 
 your affection a good deal more, in my opinion, than 
 the little darkies need your instruction. She is not 
 really strong and well since father died. You have 
 noticed that, Abby?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And while I make a point of never meddling with 
 other people's business, it is perfectly clear to me, if 
 you will let me say so because I love you both, that 
 your place is by her side, even if the -frowzy and frum- 
 pled and forlorn children of Ethiopia never learn a 
 letter of the alphabet or find out that two and two 
 make four." 
 
 "So I am right glad you will be here where you 
 can comfort that lonely mother and where I can see 
 you sometimes and you can be out of danger. It 
 must have been perfectly awful, my dear, wasn't it, 
 to find yourself in the very swirl of that fearful bat- 
 tle? Weren't you scared very nearly to death? I 
 am absolutely certain that I should be completely 
 unnerved by the sound of one cannon, because I could 
 never stand the explosion of a firecracker; and what 
 you endured with all that deafening crash of cannons 
 and muskets almost in your very ears can hardly be 
 conceived by me. I never expected to see you alive 
 and with us again." 
 
 "And how very, very strange it was, Abby dear," 
 continued Mrs. Ponder, becoming suddenly grave 
 and tearful, "that that poor dear boy of ours should
 
 364 The Quakeress. 
 
 have been in the very midst of the terrible conflict, 
 near to you, almost within the sound of your voice, 
 and you did not know it! Suppose he had suspected 
 you were in the town, do you think he would have 
 sought you out before the battle began? I am sure 
 of it. He always seemed to like you very, very much 
 when he was here, and at one time, indeed, Abby, I 
 had some hopes that " 
 
 Abby was weeping and Mrs. Ponder restrained her 
 tongue before the sentence was finished. 
 
 "I know," she continued, "that his mother's heart 
 is broken; bereft as she is of her children." 
 
 Then Mrs. Ponder joined her tears with Abby's. 
 
 "But I will say it of Clayton, even if he was fight- 
 ing on the wrong side, that he was conscientious 
 about it. He followed his deep convictions and I 
 have no doubt at all that, if the whole truth were 
 known, it would be found that he died the death of a 
 hero, facing the foe with undaunted courage and per- 
 haps compelling many a one upon the other side to bite 
 the dust." 
 
 "That is some consolation, of course, to his 
 mother, but not much, for to lose him is a frightful 
 affliction. Sometimes, when I have been inclined to 
 regret that Dr. Ponder and I have no children, I 
 have tried to find comfort in the reflection that 
 maybe if children had come to us they might have 
 turned out badly, or gone off from the Church and 
 joined some of the deuominations that are around us, 
 or at any rate have died and filled us with lamenta- 
 tion; and so I have persuaded myself that perhaps 
 all is for the best; excepting, O, my darling Abby!
 
 A New Master. 365 
 
 every now and then I dream that I have a lovely lit- 
 tle child of my own cuddling in my lap and looking 
 into my face and laughing with me, and he always 
 has curly golden hair and the sweetest blue eyes, and 
 when I see him and hug him and find his fat little 
 hand patting my cheek, I am so happy that to wake 
 up is to be miserable. Do you suppose I shall ever 
 see such a child in Heaven?" 
 
 Mrs. Ponder stopped for a good hard cry. Then, 
 regaining her composure and wiping her eyes, she 
 went on : 
 
 "For my part, dear Abby, I am tired of this horrid 
 war, which is destroying our bravest and best and 
 really getting more and more hopeless. Did you 
 ever hear of such amazing imbecility upon the part 
 of men who pretend to be generals? Most of them 
 are not fit to command a squad of the Connock 
 Home Guards, and goodness knows that does not call 
 for every eminent military gifts." 
 
 "I am firmly convinced that some kind of a new 
 experiment must be tried unless the Union is to be 
 permitted to go to pieces and all shall be lost and 
 our country reduced to a mere wreck of a once 
 mighty republic. Over and over again I have urged 
 Dr. Ponder to go to Washington to see the Presi- 
 dent, or to write in firm language to him, to insist 
 that the direction of the whole campaign against 
 the Southerners shall be placed finally in the control 
 of the clergy. You know what I mean : the clergy 
 of the Church; the Apostolic clergy. These men are 
 divinely inspired; they are clothed with more than 
 human authority, and they are to a man ready to 
 consecrate themselves to such a service as this."
 
 3 66 The Quakeress. 
 
 "If I had my way, I would proclaim an armistice, 
 or something of that kind; I think that is the right 
 name; anyhow, a truce, you might call it, so that 
 there should be no more firing guns and killing one 
 another for a specified time. Then I would send Dr. 
 Ponder down to Virginia and have him expostulate 
 with Jefferson Davis and General Lee, and explain 
 fully to them, so that they could no longer plead ina- 
 bility to see the truth clearly just in what particulars 
 their conduct is scandalous and indefensible and, 
 using his authority as a member of the Apostolic 
 ministry, have him command them to stop and to 
 lay down their arms and to let things alone." 
 
 "But Dr. Po'nder is afraid the government at 
 Washington will not listen to him if he should offer 
 to perform this patriotic service, and so he contents 
 himself by acting as chaplain to this ridiculous Con- 
 nock Home Guard which will never even snap a cap 
 at the enemy; though why the government at Wash- 
 ington should dare to refuse to heed the warnings 
 and remonstrances of a man who speaks with Apos- 
 tolical power is completely beyond my comprehension." 
 
 "And now, Abby dear, somehow or other you have 
 let me do all the talking, while in fact the one thing 
 I wanted to see you for was to hear about your expe- 
 rience as a school-teacher, and about the battle that 
 raged all around you on that dreadful day. So 
 George Fotherly brought you home, did he? He is 
 a fine man, and I know he thinks much of you. O ! 
 if only he would come under Dr. Ponder's influence 
 and would . But I must not trouble you with that. 
 Please tell me about your life in Sharpsburg."
 
 A New Master. 367 
 
 It was too long a story to be told in full upon this 
 visit, and so, when Abby had spoken briefly, she bade 
 Mrs. Ponder farewell, promising to come again and 
 to talk with both Mrs. Ponder and the doctor about 
 her Maryland experiences. 
 
 With Abby at home to direct the affairs of the 
 household, Rachel relaxed the strain that had been 
 upon her and at once the swift decline of her strength 
 showed that the demand upon her powers made by 
 the duties of the summer had been much too severe 
 for her. Rachel's sister remained in the house and 
 to her Abby turned over the management of affairs, 
 while the girl addressed herself almost wholly to the 
 task, daily growing more arduous, of ministering to 
 her mother. 
 
 Sometimes the thought came to Abby that Rachel 
 might not live, and it came like a blow. That catas- 
 trophe seemed to Abby so desperate and so bewilder- 
 ing that she could not bear to contemplate it, but her 
 clear good sense permitted her to make some fair 
 estimate of the probabilities, and she could not long 
 delude herself with any strong measure of hopeful- 
 ness. What would happen to her then what the 
 world would be like to her with both father and 
 mother gone, she could not bring herself to consider. 
 She could behold in that event simply thick darkness 
 and the final exclusion of hope and joy from her soul. 
 
 Rachel had no illusions about her own condition. 
 She believed, from the first hour of helplessness, that 
 she should die before the winter came, and it grieved 
 her to think of the fate of the girl, left to fight all by 
 herself the dreadful battle of life. Down deep in her
 
 368 The Quakeress. 
 
 heart Rachel tried to put her trust in the Divine 
 Helper who cannot forget the widow or the orphan, 
 and her longing desire and expectation were that 
 Omnipotence in this case would employ as his 
 instrument George Fotherly, making him the husband 
 and the protector of the motherless girl. But she 
 had misgivings, for clearly enough George's suit with 
 Abby had not prospered as she hoped it would. 
 
 Before October was past Rachel said plainly to 
 Abby that her end was near and she talked with her 
 about her future. 
 
 "I feel, dear child, as if I were unkind to thee to go 
 away from thee when father has gone. It seems 
 sometimes that I deserve reproach for deserting thee, 
 as if thee were a helpless little girl and I a cruel 
 mother. But I know, dear, that it is the common 
 way. We marry and have children; they grow to be 
 men and women and then father and mother, no 
 longer needed, are called, I hope to higher things." 
 
 "It is the usual way, dear mother," answered Abby, 
 weeping, "but it is not less hard for the one left behind 
 than if it were the first time in human experience." 
 
 "I would stay with thee if I could," said Rachel, 
 "but there is a Divine Hand that leads us and it is 
 guided by better wisdom than ours. I am sore to 
 leave thee, but I am willing to go if that be God's 
 way; and then I will not hide from thee that my soul 
 is filled with longing to be with father once again. I 
 believe he waits for me and wants me." 
 
 "And I will come some day to be with both of 
 you," said Abby. "Life will have nothing for me 
 when thee is gone."
 
 A New Master. 369 
 
 "I wish, dear child, it might have a loving husband 
 for thee. Then thee would be neither lonely nor 
 helpless, and if I knew thee would soon marry such 
 an one, I should have more peace while I wait for 
 the call." 
 
 "It seems to me, mother, I shall never marry," an- 
 swered Abby with downcast eyes. Rachel had heard 
 from Mrs. Ponder of Clayton's death. She would 
 not allude to it in speaking with Abby, but now she 
 said: 
 
 "Thee must have no constraint upon thee in such 
 a solemn business, but if George shall seek thy hand 
 I beg of thee to search thy heart deeply that thee 
 may find if thee cannot love him. No woman could 
 have a better husband than he would be to thee." 
 
 "I will try to do right, mother," responded the 
 girl; but she found in her soul no true response to 
 the appeal thus made to her. 
 
 When a few weeks had passed, the life of the sick 
 woman became more and more feeble until one nip-ht 
 
 o 
 
 in late November the last tiny spark lost its glow and 
 went out, without suffering for the sick woman or 
 warning to the watcher in the room. 
 
 Two days afterward the house was thronged again 
 by friends and neighbors who came to make the last 
 farewells, and then Rachel was laid beneath the syca- 
 more trees by Isaac's side, in the burial ground at 
 Plymouth. 
 
 All through the time of illness and of mourning 
 George Fotherly ministered to the Woolford house- 
 hold as he had opportunity, and not many days after 
 Rachel's death he went to the county-town and took
 
 Quak 
 
 370 e uaeress. 
 
 from the record the mortgage upon the grey house. 
 Abby had never known of it and she should not know. 
 
 He came often to see Abby and the aunt who 
 remained with her, and to him they looked for counsel 
 respecting the movements that should be made respect- 
 ing Abby's future. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder was a frequent visitor and her ardent 
 desire was to be a comforter. 
 
 "And now, my dear," she said one day, "you must 
 consider very thoughtfully what you had better do 
 with yourself. I am sure you will carry more easily 
 the weight of your sorrow if you can contrive to be 
 busy." 
 
 "I must earn my living," replied Abby, "and I am 
 willing to try very hard to do so, but I am not sure 
 just what I ought to undertake." 
 
 "Your friends must try to discover some kind of a 
 career for you, my child," said Mrs. Ponder, and "then 
 open it for you. You have proved in your experi- 
 ment with the little African estrays in Sharpsburg 
 that you have gifts as a teacher, and teaching is 
 almost as honorable a profession as the sacred minis- 
 try. A thought occurs to me: Why not let some of 
 our rich Episcopalians rent 3^our house for a hand- 
 some sum and try to build up a great Church school 
 for girls ? Dr. Ponder could be the nominal head of 
 the institution, to give it dignity and the advantage 
 of Apostolic authority, and you could take a place in 
 it as teacher of one of the preparatory departments. 
 If you are willing I will talk over the plan with Dr. 
 Ponder and have him see the bishop and some of our 
 wealthy people in the city; and by this means not
 
 A New Master. 371 
 
 only will you have a comfortable income, but you will 
 be brought directly under church-influence and no 
 doubt will be able before long to see clearly the dif- 
 ference between the Apostolic Church and the loose 
 miscellaneous denominations that are around us, not 
 one of which has any right to call itself a church, or 
 anything else than a persuasion, although goodness 
 knows how any well-balanced person can be per- 
 suaded to regard them as an approved means of get- 
 ting to heaven, completely passes my power of com- 
 prehension." 
 
 George had strong convictions of his own with 
 respect to Abby's destiny, but he shrank from 
 expressing them to her in the time of her greatest 
 distress lest he should seem to be taking an ungener- 
 ous advantage of her. But one day, a few weeks after 
 the funeral, Abby wrote to him asking him to come 
 to see her, and George slipped the note in his pocket 
 with his mind made up to speak his thought to Abby 
 upon his next visit if he could find opportunity. 
 
 Abby gave him a warm welcome when he came 
 and she led him into the library, where she put him 
 in her father's chair before the grate-fire, while she 
 sat near to him and facing him. 
 
 "George," she said, when they had spoken for a 
 little while of other things, "I wanted to see thee that 
 I might take counsel of thee about my future. Thee 
 is always so wise and kind that I know thee will not 
 think I trouble thee too much." 
 
 "No," he answered. "Thee can never trouble me 
 by asking me to help thee." 
 
 "Thee has told me, in effect, that poor father's estate 
 was all swallowed up by his creditors?"
 
 372 The Quakeress. 
 
 "Yes, but this house was thy mother's, and by her 
 death it falls to thee." 
 
 "Is there no encumbrance on it ?" 
 
 "No," answered George, "not that I know of," and 
 that was just the truth. 
 
 "Then," continued Abby, "I have shelter secured, 
 but I must try to earn something. I cannot bear to 
 take boarders." 
 
 "I should advise thee not to." 
 
 "Mrs. Ponder," said Abby, smiling, "wants me to 
 rent the dwelling to the Episcopalians for a church- 
 school for girls, and she thinks I might become a 
 teacher in such a school and gradually be brought 
 over to her views." 
 
 George laughed and said: 
 
 "Some of Friend Ponder's views are a little queer; 
 but she is a good woman and she loves thee." 
 
 "I had already thought I might rent the house to 
 somebody and then, with the rental to help me, begin 
 teaching. I think I could take a place in the primary 
 department of the Friends' School in Philadelphia 
 and board in the city. Or, had I better go back to 
 Sharpsburg and begin the work there again?" 
 
 "Thee does not feel drawn to that ?" 
 
 "No, for it will always be associated in my mind 
 with that dreadful battle. Does thee think I could 
 get a position in the Friends' School ?" 
 
 "I am not sure; but we might try to learn about it." 
 
 "I could sew, but it is dreary work, and ill-paid; 
 and then, George, I fear I am hardly strong enough 
 to sit and bend over such a task all day long." 
 
 "Thee must not do it."
 
 A New Master. 
 
 373 
 
 "I will be greatly obliged to thee, then, if thee will 
 take the trouble to see some of the Friends who 
 direct the school in the city and ask them if they can 
 find a place for another teacher. I fear I am not very 
 skilful, but I did seem to succeed fairly well with the 
 little black folk at Sharpsburg and I will try very 
 hard to do well if the Friends will open a way for me." 
 
 George remained silent for a while, and Abby, with 
 her mind wholly upon her plan of going into the 
 Friends' School, looked into the fire and said no 
 more. 
 
 "I wish," said George, abruptly, "that thee would 
 let me plan for thee instead of planning for thyself. 
 I do not much like any of thy projects." 
 
 "If thee would plan for me I should be very grate- 
 ful to thee. I am so little wise about such matters, 
 and things that women can do are so few in number. 
 Thee has some idea in thy mind?" 
 
 "Yes, but I am not sure how it will be regarded 
 by thee." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I do not find it easy," said George, with the color 
 coming into his face, "to explain the matter to thee; 
 and then I fear thee may think me unkind and selfish 
 in speaking of it in the time of thy great sorrow; but 
 I hope thee will not misjudge me. I am so anxious 
 to serve thee that indeed I would rather sacrifice my- 
 self completely than to seek to please myself." 
 
 Abby's cheeks were hot, too. She folded her hands 
 and looked downward. Could George believe that 
 she sent for him that she might artfully lead him on 
 to the confession she now knew was coming? Her
 
 374 The Quakeress. 
 
 conscience was clear; she had never had a thought 
 of such a thing. 
 
 "Thee has not forgotten," George continued, "that 
 I told thee once I loved thee dearly; and if I had not 
 told thee, still thee would know it. Thee knows with- 
 out any further words of mine that I love thee now 
 far more than I ever did. Is it displeasing to thee 
 that I should say so?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Thee said, out there in the garden, thee would 
 never marry any one but me. O ! if thee could bring 
 thyself now to go one step further and to say thee 
 will take me for thy husband ! Not that thee may 
 have a protector and not because sorrow has made 
 thee desolate, but because thee loves me and thee 
 knows that I love thee and will give my whole life 
 to bringing happiness to thee." 
 
 "Alas !" said Abby, looking at him with a wan 
 smile. "I fear there can be no more happiness for 
 me. But I do thank thee most heartily for all thy 
 kindness and thy affection." 
 
 "And thee will consent? I came here to-day 
 resolved to ask thee that." 
 
 Abby withheld her speech for a moment. Then 
 she said: 
 
 "But if I shall consent will it not seem that my 
 motive was not right? I fear that even thee might sus- 
 pect me; but I speak truly, dear George, when I say 
 that I did not think of this action of thine when I 
 asked thee to come to see me." 
 
 "I should have greater joy if thee had thought of 
 it and desired it. But I suspect thee of nothing. I
 
 A New Master. 375 
 
 am sure thee has always cared for me, and had we 
 been left to ourselves I believe thee would have 
 taken me for thy husband. If thee will take me now, 
 thee may take me absolutely, with all the love and 
 trust and honor and unquestioning faithfulness that 
 is in my soul. If thee inclines at all to it, O my dear- 
 est Abby, do not be turned away by any fear of thy- 
 self or me, or of what others may think. I could give 
 thee up to make thee happy, but not to have thee 
 lonely and miserable and defenceless." 
 
 "George," she said, turning her face to him. "I 
 am but a poor broken creature to whom life has 
 become all sorrowful. But since mother died I do care 
 more for thee than for any living creature. I owe 
 thee much indeed for all thy sweet, gentle kindness 
 to me and I have brought woe enough to thee. If 
 thee will take me with all my griefs and faults and 
 frailties and let me try to love thee dearly, I will give 
 myself to thee and pray always that I may be worthy 
 of thee." 
 
 She put out her hand to him. He grasped it and 
 lifting her to her feet, he put his arms about her ten- 
 derly and kissed her. 
 
 "How much I thank thee, my dearest!" he said 
 with rapture upon his face. 
 
 He kept his arm about her and she put her head 
 upon his breast. 
 
 "The gain is all for me, dear George," she said. 
 *'I am forlorn and weak and sinful and not deserving 
 to be a wife to such a man as thee. Thee will weary 
 of me, dear, and of my sorrowfulness." 
 
 He laughed joyously and embraced and kissed her 
 again.
 
 376 Tne Quakeress. 
 
 "I have loved thee since I was a child and loved 
 thee more and more as the years rolled by. I shall 
 love thee always, here and in eternity. This is the 
 crown of my life-long hopes and prayers, that thee 
 should be my wife and I should give up everything to 
 thee!" 
 
 It was with much satisfaction that all the members 
 of the meeting learned that these two choice Friends 
 were to be made man and wife; and when, next First- 
 day, George and Abby drove to Plymouth in the 
 pleasant old fashion, everybody had congratulations 
 to offer. The drive was not discomforting to Abby, 
 for it recalled all the delights that had come to her 
 from George's society before trouble enveloped her. 
 Sometimes she could not help thinking of the day 
 when she walked along this road with Clayton and 
 sat not far from him in the house of worship; but she 
 strove to put these memories away from her, and 
 to be faithful in the inmost recesses of her soul to 
 the man to whom she had at the last given herself. 
 After all the anguish she had endured, it was restful 
 just to lean on him, to look up to him and trust him, 
 and to try to transform into true affection the strong 
 feeling of regard she entertained for him. She had 
 found the way of unfaithfulness so hard that she 
 resolved with all her power to give to this brave and 
 generous man who loved her the best she could com- 
 mand for him. 
 
 And George never for a moment seemed to 
 doubt her loyalty. He was openly exultant that she 
 had given herself to him and he lavished upon her 
 kindness and caress. In his preaching now on First-
 
 A New Master. 
 
 377 
 
 days, there was a note of triumph and exaltation that 
 was new to his hearers. Earthly life had become more 
 joyful for him and at the same time his vision of the 
 heavenly things, of the holiness of the love which is, 
 as he believed, a part of the eternities, was made 
 clearer and more glorious. 
 
 The marriage had been arranged for the early 
 spring-time, and Abby would have it in the grey 
 house, as if in the presence of her father and mother, 
 and she would ask that only a few of their nearest 
 relatives and a dozen or more representatives of the 
 meeting should be present. 
 
 The brief and beautiful ceremony \vas performed 
 in the long north parlor, where the bridegroom and 
 the bride, standing together by the front windows and 
 facing the group of guests, repeated the words with 
 which the members of the Society join themselves in 
 the holy estate of matrimony. 
 
 George, taking Abby by the hand, declared: 
 
 "In the presence of the Lord and before this assem- 
 bly, I take thee, Abigail Woolford, to be my wife, 
 promising with Divine assistance to be unto thee a 
 loving and faithful husband until death shall separate 
 us." 
 
 Then Abby repeated the words for the woman's 
 part, and the knot was tied by the laws of God and 
 of man. 
 
 But Dr. Ponder, standing far back in the room, 
 grieved much that these two young people, blinded 
 by education and prejudice against the truth, should 
 not have sought, and thus might miss, the benediction 
 of the Church; and so, silently, without articulation,
 
 378 The Quakeress. 
 
 but with a purpose that there should be genu- 
 ine consecration, he repeated the whole of the mar- 
 riage service in the prayer-book, and then shutting 
 his eyes, he solemnly bestowed the Apostolic blessing 
 upon the pair and breathed freely to think that all 
 was now well. 
 
 On his way home Mrs. Ponder said to him : 
 
 "Really, birdie, if I were married in that rude, 
 unchurchly way, I could not convince myself that I 
 was not still single." 
 
 Then Dr. Ponder told her how he had conveyed 
 the sanction of the Church to the union of George 
 with Abby, and Mrs. Ponder was grateful for his 
 thoughtfulness. 
 
 "At the same time, birdie, while I think the Church 
 is practically always right, and her services too sacred 
 to be tampered with, I really do wish sometimes that 
 the marriage service might have omitted from it that 
 unfortunate reference to Isaac and Rebekah. Isaac 
 was weak and foolish enough, dear knows; but if I 
 were a man that artful old humbug of a Rebekah 
 would be the last kind of a woman I should choose 
 for a wife." 
 
 The honeymoon was spent in Boston and New 
 York, cities Abby had never seen before, and which 
 she looked on now with keen interest. In New York 
 one sunny afternoon, on their way homeward, they 
 sauntered into Central Park. They tried to hurry 
 across one of the wide drive-ways among the horses 
 and the vehicles that thronged it. The crowd was 
 so great that they were confused and they narrowly 
 escaped being run down by a richly-caparisoned team
 
 A New Master. 379 
 
 that dashed up to them. George seized Abby and 
 thrust her aside while he pushed against the door 
 of the low open carriage to which the horses were 
 attached. The horses were sharply halted by the 
 driver, and looking up, George and Abby saw, sitting 
 in the vehicle within arm's reach of them, a woman 
 covered with jewels, brilliantly dressed and with her 
 face painted. A vulgar-looking man sat by her side. 
 
 It was Dolly Harley, and when she recognized the 
 Fotherlys a deep shadow came upon her face, and 
 turning towards George she spat viciously at him and 
 then the carriage passed swiftly around the curve 
 behind the trees and she disappeared. 
 
 "Her feet go down to death, her steps take hold 
 on hell !" said George. 
 
 But Abby seemed to hear him not. She leaned 
 heavily upon him and tottered to a seat upon the 
 bench upon the grass, and hiding her face in her 
 handkerchief, she wept. 
 
 Neither ever spoke again to the other of what they 
 had seen, but Abby shuddered when, more than once 
 in the days that remained to her, she thought of her 
 own wild flight in obedience to Clayton's summons 
 and what was the doom that might have been hers.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 'Farewell, a Long Farewell!' 1 
 
 GEORGE and his wife came back to the grey house, 
 for he had yielded at once to her expressed wish that 
 it should be their home. The arrangement was made 
 that they should live there all the year until the hot 
 weather came and that they should go then for a 
 month or two to George's house upon the hill-top 
 where even in the warmest times there was always a 
 breeze blowing about the porches. 
 
 From Connock George would drive to the farm 
 every morning to direct operations there, and some- 
 times in the afternoon, when the sky was clear, he 
 would take Abby with him across the river and up 
 through the shadows of the Aramink gap to see his 
 fields and to tarry for a while in the summer-home, 
 overlooking the valley. 
 
 She was not willing that the furniture of the Con- 
 nock house should be added to, or changed, and 
 George was glad to humor her, treating as with rev- 
 erence the things and the arrangements prepared 
 long ago by Isaac and Rachel; but he filled the sta- 
 bles with fine horses and he made the garden lovelier 
 and more fertile, and he lingered about the place 
 persistently, rarely going into the city, and always 
 returning early from the farm, resolved that Abby 
 should have small reason to complain of loneliness. 
 
 She was glad to have him with her, he was so 
 (380)
 
 4 A Long Farewell!' 381 
 
 thoughtful and kind and affectionate, and in his pres- 
 ence she had diversion from the memories that 
 drifted into her mind. She leaned heavily upon him 
 and found consolation in his manly strength, his 
 cheerful courage and his complete devotion to her. 
 
 In July the second invasion of the North by the 
 Confederate army began, and all through Eastern 
 Pennsylvania there was dread that the Southern host 
 would pass the Susquehanna and force its way to the 
 city. Many times Abby thought she might live to 
 see that dusty grey army which had hurried by the 
 little school-house in the Maryland town, pouring 
 down the Schuylkill Valley past Connock and bring- 
 ing terror and devastation to that peaceful and lovely 
 region. But the contest at Gettysburg turned the 
 flood to the Southward again and by the time George 
 and his wife were ready to make their summer home 
 on the hill, all the peril was past and the valley heard 
 no noises but the rattle of the trains, the reverberat- 
 ing screams of the locomotive whistles and the sough- 
 ing of the mighty furnaces upon the river-bank. 
 
 "It was most fortunate," said Mrs. Ponder to 
 Abby, while they sat together upon the farm-house- 
 porch one sultry summer morning, "that Lee's army 
 did not come down the Valley. We hadn't a single 
 thing to offer resistance with but the Connock Home- 
 Guard, and the men in that body are only nominally 
 warriors. So far as I have been able to perceive, the 
 solitary manoeuvre they know anything about is fall- 
 ing back, and it is my firm belief that, if the rebels 
 had come along, every mother's son of them would 
 have backed from here to Canada."
 
 382 The Quakeress. 
 
 When the summer was ended and George brought 
 his wife back again to the grey house for which she 
 pined, he was grieved and distressed that she seemed 
 not to have gained in strength. She tried to appear 
 joyous and happy, for his sake, but it was not difficult 
 for him to perceive that her soul was sad and that 
 her cheek grew whiter and her hand thinner even 
 while her behavior was shaped to persuade him that 
 she had bade farewell to sorrow. 
 
 He would have been glad to have her seek, before 
 the winter came, the restoring power of a milder 
 climate and new scenery, but the South was closed 
 against them by the war; California was inaccessible 
 by railroad and the Southern islands or Europe could 
 be reached only by a sea-voyage, which Abby felt 
 would be beyond her strength. 
 
 Thus the autumn passed and the beginnings of 
 winter appeared with Abby slowly failing and with 
 George's heart heavy from the fear that she would 
 not be with him long. 
 
 She seemed to have increasing dread of everything 
 that reminded her of the battle that had raged about 
 her in the summer of 1862. The rumbling of the 
 quarry-blasts morning and evening near to Connock 
 sounded precisely like the roaring of the cannon at 
 Antietam, and sometimes in the quiet of the night the 
 crackling of the red-hot iron between the rolls in the 
 Connock iron-mills was brought up the hill by the 
 south-wind and it was hardly different from the rat- 
 tling of musketry. She shivered when these noises 
 came to her with more than usual distinctness and 
 she would clasp George's hand, if he were near, and 
 with wide-open, frightened eyes, say:
 
 "A Long Farewell!' 1 383 
 
 "It was like that, dear George, only a thousand 
 times worse, and all day long, all night long. I wish 
 I could not hear it now, in our quiet home !" 
 
 The winter was spent in quietness and it went by 
 swiftly for George, whose happiness would have been 
 absolute but for the tender health of his wife. There 
 were not many visitors, and George and Abby rarely 
 went anywhere but to meeting. The Ponders called 
 more frequently than any others of the neighbors, 
 and Abby had some pleasure from Mrs. Ponder's 
 lively talk and true sympathy. Dr. Ponder tried to 
 be sociable, but he was a little too much afraid of 
 George to try to argue with him, and life had no ele- 
 ment of joy in it for him unless he could be permitted 
 to employ his persuasive power in the work of bring- 
 ing into the fold schismatics, heretics and other wan- 
 derers from the path of rectitude. 
 
 By the time the buds began to swell upon the trees 
 in the garden about the grey house, Abby had failed 
 so far that she was hardly strong enough to walk 
 without assistance; and she became more feeble day 
 by day. 
 
 One First-day morning, late in May, Abby sat in 
 the deep arm-chair in the bow-window and looked 
 out upon the shining landscape above the town and 
 at the billowy white clouds that floated indolently 
 across the blue of the sky. George was by her and 
 held her hand, and now and then she would turn her 
 wan face toward him and smile at him; and he would 
 kiss her cheek and speak tenderly to her. She seemed 
 to herself to be hard and wicked that she could not 
 love him more, this man so good and true and filled
 
 The Quakeress. 
 
 with love for her. It was a kind of love for him she 
 had, she said, but there was a mightier passion within 
 her and she could not completely master it. Nor did 
 she really wish that it should be overcome and for- 
 gotten. But she did wish sometimes when George 
 held her to his breast and kissed her passionately 
 that the face of another man would not come between 
 her and her husband. 
 
 "It is very sweet to me," she said, looking up at 
 him and closing her hand on his, "to know that thee 
 loves me so dearly. I wish I were more worthy of 
 thee, dear George; I do not deserve thy love, but 
 thee forgives me my unworthiness, does thee not?" 
 
 "I do not acknowledge it," he answered. "Thee is 
 the dearest thing in all the earth to me. I cannot see 
 thy faults, if thee has any. Thee has none for me." 
 
 "They always said it was so with true lovers," she 
 answered, "but I did not fully understand it before. 
 How wonderful it is, George, that Gocl should make 
 it possible for thee to care so much for so forlorn a 
 woman as I, and to blind thy eyes to my frailties! I 
 thank Him for it, for there is nobody left for me now 
 but thee, my husband. Nobody left! God has called 
 them, one after another. I could not endure to be 
 alone; and I am grateful to God for thee." 
 
 "And I for thee, my dear. It is indeed wonderful 
 that the spirits of two separate beings should be 
 drawn together and amid sweetness that cannot be 
 spoken should be fused until they become one spirit. 
 Love is the end and the beginning. It is the primary, 
 infinite force. It is God; and we taste of God when 
 we love each other; we shall love in heaven."
 
 "A Long Farewell!" 3 8 s 
 
 A little pang came to her when he said that. Far 
 down in the hidden chambers of her heart she had 
 perceived a hope, faint but persistent, that the other 
 world would have a different reunion for her. But 
 she said: 
 
 "Thee will weary of me on earth, I fear." 
 
 "No, dearest; thee is my joy and my peace and I 
 will be glad in thee more and more every day. When 
 thee is well and strong again " 
 
 "Ah, George !" she said, smiling sadly upon him. 
 "I shall never be well and strong again." 
 
 "Yes thee will," he said cheerily. "Thee is very 
 young and thee has never had serious sickness before. 
 Thee will gain strength as the summer grows, and 
 when the autumn comes, the roses will all be upon 
 thy cheeks again, those dear cheeks!" and he put his 
 hand softly upon her face. 
 
 "I wish it could be so, for thy sake," she answered, 
 "for I should be glad to repay thee for all thy tender- 
 ness by making thee very happy; but I fear I shall 
 not stay with thee. It is for thee I fear; not for my- 
 self. Will thee go to meeting this morning?" 
 
 "I will stay with thee." 
 
 "Perhaps it may be thy duty to go. There is now 
 no one there to preach but thee. Love for me must 
 not blind thee to thy obligations." 
 
 "It does not," he said. "I am not called to go this 
 morning. It is clear to me that God would have me 
 stay by thee. I must not leave thee." 
 
 "We can have meeting here, George?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Does thee remember," she said, with her eyes 
 
 s
 
 386 The Quakeress. 
 
 fixed as if she were looking far away into the past, 
 "that meeting we had under the apple tree, the last 
 time I mean, on the First-day morning, and how I 
 heard the music and thee chided me?" 
 
 "Yes, but dearest I did not scold thee, did I?" 
 
 "Thee feared for me because I liked to hear it; thee 
 could not have scolded me. Thee loved me then." 
 
 "O yes, then and always !" 
 
 "I knew it, George," she said and smiled at him 
 again, "but I did not understand love then, as I do 
 now. How great have been the changes since that 
 morning! It was but two years ago, but to me it 
 seems a thousand years away. If God had called me 
 then, perhaps it would have been better." 
 
 "Shall we worship here?" asked George, with a 
 purpose to divert her from sad thoughts. 
 
 "As thee will, but it had come into my mind that I 
 should like once more to have with thee a meeting 
 for worship in the garden as we did on that day long 
 gone by." 
 
 "Thee is hardly strong enough to go there." 
 
 "I am if thee will put thy arm about me and let me 
 lean hard on thee, and I know thee will consent to 
 that." 
 
 He lifted her gently from the chair and upholding 
 her he passed with her through the door at the back 
 of the hall out upon the lawn and across it to the 
 wide-branched apple tree. Then he put a rest beneath 
 her feet and wrapped a shawl about her, before he sat 
 beside her. 
 
 "Thank thee, my husband," she said to him. 
 
 His arm was half around her form and she sat close
 
 A Long Farewell! 
 
 to him that she might lean upon him if her strength 
 failed. They closed their eyes that their souls might 
 have vision of the spiritual world. 
 
 Around them and above them the natural world 
 was full of the loveliness of the bright sunshine and 
 the verdure and the odor of flowers and the song of 
 birds. The perfumed wind, blowing over the bloom 
 of the gardens beyond, came in little puffs and ran in 
 shivers along the grass at the feet of the worshipers 
 and died away. From the open windows of the 
 church, as of old, came the faint elfland harmonies of 
 the organ and sometimes the sound of the singers who 
 were praising God. 
 
 George, shutting the door of his soul to all things 
 of sense, opened it wide to the Divine Influence. He 
 worshiped, and it was worship of prayer. Claiming 
 fellowship with Him through the privilege of the 
 Divine Mercy, he entreated Him as it were face to face 
 with Him to spare this wife to this husband if that 
 should be in accordance with the Divine will. Com- 
 ing closer and closer to this being whom he called 
 Father and Love, the Quaker wrestled with Him that 
 He should consent to prolong this precious life, to 
 put health again into that dear body and to avert 
 from George the agony of separation. As in the 
 silence the fervor of his desire increased, he became 
 almost daring in his claim for the fulfilment now and 
 here of the promise that the prayer of faith shall save 
 the sick; and then, a wave of humility sweeping 
 through his soul, he bowed his will to that of the 
 Being to whom he prayed and asked rather that God 
 should deal with her as should be best; entreating
 
 388 The Quakeress. 
 
 only that, whether she stayed with him or went away 
 her love for him might grow stronger and his love 
 for her might never know decrease. 
 
 He was long in the spirit, and when his prayer was 
 ended he found that Abby's head had drooped upon 
 his shoulder. She was quiet. He opened his eyes 
 and looked before him. "She is praying yet," he said 
 to himself and sat very still, that he should not trouble 
 her. Closing his eyes again, he made in few words 
 another prayer that God would bless her in her love 
 for Him and for her husband. 
 
 Her stillness seemed strange to him. A sharp 
 pang of fright went through his soul. He took her 
 hand, as if to break the meeting. It was cold. Then 
 he perceived she was not breathing. He clasped his 
 arms about her, and turned himself so that he could 
 see her face to face. Her heart had ceased to beat; 
 her eyes were fixed; her lips were smiling but fast set, 
 and the shadow of death was upon her brow and her 
 cheeks. 
 
 With George she had gone into the world of spirits ; 
 but he had come back alone. 
 
 He felt, as he held her there, that he should like to 
 send out to the heavens above him a great cry of 
 agony and of protest against this frightful tragedy 
 that had come to him so silently and swiftly. But he 
 restrained himself; and then, uncertain what to do, 
 bewildered and grief-stricken, he looked about as if 
 to find some human creature from whom he could 
 get help and sympathy. But no one was near. 
 
 Then stooping he took the body of his wife in his 
 arms and held it close to him and kissed the cold face
 
 "A Long FareweU!' 389 
 
 again and again, as if she were alive. Lifting her 
 from the bench and bearing the burden over his 
 heart, he turned toward the grey house, hardly know- 
 ing whither he went or what next he should do, hav- 
 ing indeed his faculties almost benumbed. 
 
 By this time the people were streaming from the 
 church and thronging the sidewalk, and some of them 
 laughed among themselves at the spectacle of the 
 big man thus publicly making manifestation of his 
 affection for his little wife. 
 
 Mrs. Ponder came in from the church and stood 
 upon her porch as George passed near to the hedge. 
 She perceived that something unusual had happened, 
 and after looking at him for a moment, she came to 
 the porch-railing and asked with an anxious voice : 
 
 "Is Abby ill, Mr. Fotherly?" 
 
 Half blinded by his tears, he recognized Mrs. Pon- 
 der, and without stopping on his way to the house, 
 he answered : 
 
 "Alas! she is dead!" 
 
 When on next Fourth-day Abby had been laid in 
 the burial ground close by Isaac and Rachel, George 
 came back alone to the grey house to take up again 
 the life from which hope and joy had gone forever. 
 Shutting the door against the friends whose pity had 
 in it no element of consolation for him, he wandered 
 about looking for and reverently considering the 
 places and the things which had been most closely 
 associated with Abby. 
 
 Everything she had touched, every room in which 
 he had often seen her, had acquired a kind of holiness. 
 The pin she wore in her silken shawl, the shawl itself
 
 390 The Quakeress. 
 
 that had encircled her neck, her shoes, the tiny brown 
 bonnet, were more than things; they had been made 
 sacred by her handling; something of her very self 
 had gone into them. 
 
 As George looked and looked at them, and pored 
 over them until the tears blurred his vision, she 
 seemed so real so much the most important part of 
 the constitution of human society a part of his own 
 intense existence, that he felt as if life could not be 
 real without her. He would hardly have been sur- 
 prised if he had heard her gentle footsteps upon the 
 stair outside the door, and sometimes he did imagine 
 that he heard her voice calling him. But in truth 
 there was silence all about him and the house was 
 empty and desolate; she had vanished, and whither? 
 Dead spiritually and finally in extinction, she could 
 not be. From the first moment of her departure her 
 immortal life in another world was to him a fact apart 
 from logic and evidence. The proofs were in his own 
 unaided convictions. 
 
 He walked amid the verdure of the garden; on the 
 soft, sweet grass, among the vines and the flowers. 
 He sat upon the rustic bench beneath the outspread 
 apple-tree, and hearkened to the birds. "They seem 
 to live forever," he whispered, half angrily. Away 
 to the purple hills he looked and then at the common 
 life that still poured along the village-street, vulgar 
 and dull, as if there were no love and no loss and no 
 heaven and no spiritual presence, and wondered for 
 her and was fiercely hungry for her. 
 
 "It is the common doom," said a voice within him. 
 "Yes, all men and women in the past have gone that
 
 Long Farewell! 
 
 391 
 
 way. There is no partiality; God is just; He is lov- 
 ing." Yes, yes, but no argument, no persuasiveness, 
 no imperious command to the spirit to stop its outcry, 
 availed anything. She was gone, and that was just all 
 in all to him. 
 
 The sunshine seemed darkness, and the world, 
 thrilling with brightness and joyous life, was void 
 and senseless without her presence. 
 
 It was something, perhaps, to say : "Here we sat 
 and worshiped and I touched her dear hand; here we 
 talked of the loveliness of the hills and of the eternal 
 hills of God where now she is; here we plucked the 
 roses and down these very steps we came hand in 
 hand, she as my bride, my darling wife." There was 
 something in these memories, now glorified; but how 
 little indeed when she is not here? Without her all 
 else to George was hollowness. 
 
 He looked much at her picture, taken before she 
 had met the Southerners. He saw the sweet lips with 
 the faint smile upon them; the dear brown eyes, the 
 lovely hair, the tender soul looking out upon him. 
 It was beautiful and full of grace; but after all, this is 
 only white paper and brown shadow and she has gone 
 forever and forever. 
 
 Forever? Has she not entered into the house of 
 many mansions where the Saviour is? Or, indeed, if 
 it be true that God's angels wait and watch for the 
 joy that comes to them when a human soul turns from 
 sin to righteousness, must they not be always in con- 
 scious relation with the spirits of those beloved by 
 them and who still await the summons? And is she 
 not now numbered with the angelic host and so sure
 
 392 
 
 Tke Quakeress. 
 
 to come near to him to him who loves her and longs 
 for her, that she may know the yearning of his heart ? 
 
 "But is she mine?" he thought, "or was there 
 another, already dead, to whom she cleaves as her right- 
 ful husband ?" That was too terrible to contemplate. 
 
 George lay by in a secret place her personal things 
 the gloves wrinkled by her fingers, the dainty gar- 
 ments, the golden buttons, the trifles of a woman's 
 dress, and sometimes, when he had looked long at 
 the picture of her dear face, he took these out and 
 kissed them and wept over them, without being 
 ashamed. Then he would pray for her (forbidden 
 though that may be) that her soul might be washed 
 from every stain; that she might be permitted to 
 come near to him, if that were possible; that some 
 sense of her presence might reach him through the 
 veil, and that some day he might be with her, and call 
 her wife forever and forever, 
 
 THE END.
 
 IN HAPPY HOLLOW 
 
 BY MAX ADELER 
 
 With Profuse Illustrations by Herman Rountree 
 and Clare Victor Dwiggins 
 
 Happy Hollow is a pretty village in which lived and moved 
 a group of people every one of whom has marked individuality 
 and is the actor in a little drama in which fun is mingled with 
 genuine pathos. The most conspicuous figure is Colonel Joseph 
 Bantam, a veteran of the Civil War, who is fond of boasting 
 of his valorous conduct upon the battlefield, and who is the 
 victim of an incurable impecuniosity which impels him to 
 make his friends repeatedly his creditors for five-dollar loans. 
 He will bring to the minds of many American men who have 
 become creditors under such circumstances, reminiscences tinc- 
 tured with mournfulness and mirthfulness. Other features of 
 this lively, interesting and, in a degree, tragic story, are the 
 descriptions of an old-fashioned school for boys (evidently 
 written from the author's personal experiences), the remarkable 
 strike which almost ruined Happy Hollow, the quarrel among 
 the church people over a vexed question of Scriptures, and 
 Colonel Bantam's wonderfully successful attempt to produce rain 
 by firing cannon. The humor of these narratives is fresh, bright, 
 original and pure; while the serious side of the history of the 
 Bantams and their friends is presented with charm that will 
 impress every reader. "In Happy Hollow," with its predomi- 
 nant humor, relieved by tragedy, is a half-way book between 
 the author's "Out of the Hurly-Burly," which is devoted almost 
 completely to amusement, and his "Quakeress," in which the 
 humor serves merely to lighten the sombreness of the picture 
 represented. 
 
 12mo. Price, $1.25 
 
 THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO., Publishers 
 
 PHILADELPHIA
 
 CAPTAIN BLUITT. 
 
 By MAX ADELER. 
 
 A book of genuine humor is not a mere "funny " book. Il 
 deals with both the serious and the amusing sides of human 
 life, and the humor is the natural, easy, unforced outcome of 
 the relation of the various characters to the various situations. 
 
 There is much grave matter in Max Adeler' s ' ' Captain 
 Bluitt" ; and sometimes seriousness deepens into tragedy, as 
 in the chapter ' ' Phoebe Tarsel Goes Home, ' ' of which a Lon- 
 don journal said, " You can't lay the book down to speak to a 
 friend without a lump in your throat, and you can't read that 
 chapter unmoved unless you are built on a different plan from 
 your fellows ' ' ; but there is also a lot of good fun, such as is 
 found in few modern stories. When the final verdict is given 
 upon the quality of American humor, we are sure a first place 
 will be allotted to the stories of Captain Bluitt' s experiment 
 with a catapult and of his venture into the mysteries of 
 " haruspication ". 
 
 The modern American school board did not rank high 
 among the sources of fun until Max Adeler described the 
 School Board of Turley, and so immortalized that body ; and 
 if the humor of an American election was ever better devel- 
 oped than in the narrative of Rufus Potter's political campaign, 
 we do not know it. 
 
 The truth is that the folks in this story are real people, who 
 lead real lives, and out of them and their movements to and fro 
 the author has contrived to extract plenty of good fun, some 
 lively adventures, a bit of tragedy, and many incidents highly 
 charged with feeling. 
 
 Max Adder's " Out of the Hurly- Burly" has retained its popu- 
 larity for more than thirty years. The prediction is ventured that 
 "Captain Bluitt" will have as long a life or longer. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, extra, illustrated . . $1.50. 
 THE JOHN C WINSTON CO., Publishers 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, PA.
 
 Out of the Hurly=BurIy. 
 
 By MAX ADELER, 
 
 Author of "Captain Bluitt, etc., etc. 
 
 WITH W ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. B. FROST AND OTHERS. 
 
 A BOOK WITH A RECORD. 
 
 Max Adder's " Out of the Hurly-Burly " has a notable history. It 
 wi s first published nearly thirty years ago, and every year since that time 
 there has been a large demand for it. The total sales for the American 
 and English editions probably much exceed one hundred and fifty 
 thousand. 
 
 The book contains nearly four hundred of the first drawings made by 
 the now eminent artist A. B. Frost, and is interesting upon that account. 
 
 It has had even larger popularity in Great Britain than in the United 
 States. It has been translated into several languages, and copies of it 
 have gone literally to the ends of the earth. A friend of the author's, 
 shipwrecked upon the coast of Norway a few years ago, got ashore and 
 found refuge in a fisherman's lonely hut. The first thing he saw upon 
 entering the building was a Swedish translation of " Out of the Hurly- 
 Burly " lying on a table, and it made him feel at home at once. Another 
 friend discovered the book in the cabin of a steamer a thousand miles up 
 a river in China. Cheering reports have floated in from India respecting 
 it, and innumerable tales have come to the author of the pleasure it has 
 afforded to invalids and to the sorrowing, and of the joy it has given to 
 young people all over the world. 
 
 The demand for " Out of the Hurly-Burly " continues. In fact, it is 
 beginning again to increase. Of how many books published in 1874 can 
 this be said? 
 
 The new generation is learning, as its predecessors did, that here is a 
 book of hearty fun and genuine sentiment, which contains no word that 
 can give offense, and which contributes liberally to society's stock of 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 For more than a quarter of a century it has supplied innocent mirth 
 to a world in which kindly humor is by no means an abundant commodity, 
 and the promise is that it will have undiminished benefaction for genera- 
 tions still to come. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, extra . . . . $1.25. 
 
 HENRY T. COATES & CO,, Publishers, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, PA.
 
 000127828 2