AT LOS ANGELES
 
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 THE QUEEN'S TWIN 
 
 AT ER STORIES 
 
 
 >RNE 
 
 JEWETT 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 .;N MIFFLIN COMPANY
 
 RIGHT, ,890 AND IS99( By SARAH 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
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 To 
 SUSAN BURLEY CABOT 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN 1 
 
 WHERE 's NORA 38 
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE ... .83 
 
 MARTHA'S LADY 100 
 
 THE COON DOG ....... 135 
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT 160 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING . . . 188 
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT 198
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 THE coast of Maine was in former years 
 brought so near to foreign shores by its 
 busy fleet of ships that among the older 
 men and women one still finds a surprising 
 proportion of travelers. Each seaward- 
 stretching headland with its high -set 
 houses, each island of a single farm, has 
 sent its spies to view many a Land of Esh- 
 col ; one may see plain, contented old faces 
 at the windows, whose eyes have looked at 
 far-away ports and known the splendors of 
 the Eastern world. They shame the easy 
 voyager of the North Atlantic and the Med 
 iterranean ; they have rounded the Cape of 
 Good Hope and braved the angry seas of 
 Cape Horn in small wooden ships ; they have 
 brought up their hardy boys and girls on 
 narrow decks ; they were among the last of 
 the Northmen's children to go adventuring 
 to unknown shores. More than this one
 
 2 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 cannot give to a young State for its enlight 
 enment ; the sea captains and the captains' 
 wives of Maine knew something of the wide 
 world, and never mistook their native par 
 ishes for the whole instead of a part thereof ; 
 they knew not only Thomaston and Castine 
 and Portland, but London and Bristol and 
 Bordeaux, and the strange-mannered har 
 bors of the China Sea. 
 
 One September day, when I was nearly at 
 the end of a summer spent in a village called 
 Dunnet Landing, on the Maine coast, my 
 friend Mrs. Todd, in whose house I lived, 
 came home from a long, solitary stroll in the 
 wild pastures, with an eager look as if she 
 were just starting on a hopeful quest instead 
 of returning. She brought a little basket 
 with blackberries enough for supper, and 
 held it towards me so that I could see that 
 there were also some late and surprising 
 raspberries sprinkled on top, but she made 
 no comment upon her wayfaring. I could 
 tell plainly that she had something very im 
 portant to say. 
 
 " You have n't brought home a leaf of 
 anything," I ventured to this practiced herb- 
 gatherer. " You were saying yesterday that 
 the witch hazel might be in bloom."
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 3 
 
 " I dare say, dear," she answered in a 
 lofty manner ; " I ain't goin' to say it was 
 n't; I ain't much concerned either way 
 'bout the facts o' witch hazel. Truth is, 
 I 've been off visitin' ; there 's an old In 
 dian footpath leadin' over towards the Back 
 Shore through the great heron swamp that 
 anybody can't travel over all summer. You 
 have to seize your time some day just now, 
 while the low ground 's summer-dried as it 
 is to-day, and before the fall rains set in. I 
 never thought of it till I was out o' sight o' 
 home, and I says to myself, * To-day 's the 
 day, certain ! ' and stepped along smart as I 
 could. Yes, I 've been visitin'. I did get 
 into one spot that was wet underfoot before 
 I noticed ; you wait till I get me a pair o' 
 dry woolen stockings, in case of cold, and 
 I '11 come an' tell ye." 
 
 Mrs. Todd disappeared. I could see that 
 something had deeply interested her. She 
 might have fallen in with either the sea-ser 
 pent or the lost tribes of Israel, such was her 
 air of mystery and satisfaction. She had been 
 away since just before mid-morning, and as 
 I sat waiting by my window I saw the last 
 red glow of autumn sunshine flare along the 
 gray rocks of the shore and leave them cold
 
 4 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 again, and touch the far sails of some coast 
 wise schooners so that they stood like golden 
 houses on the sea. 
 
 I was left to wonder longer than I liked. 
 Mrs. Todd was making an evening fire and 
 putting things in train for supper ; presently 
 she returned, still looking warm and cheerful 
 after her long walk. 
 
 " There 's a beautiful view from a hill 
 over where I 've been," she told me ; " yes, 
 there 's a beautiful prospect of land and sea. 
 You would n't discern the hill from any dis 
 tance, but 't is the pretty situation of it that 
 counts. I sat there a long spell, and I did 
 wish for you. No, I did n't know a word 
 about goin' when I set out this morning " (as 
 if I had openly reproached her !) ; "I only 
 felt one o' them travelin' fits comin' on, an' 
 I ketched up my little basket; I didn't 
 know but I might turn and come back time 
 for dinner. I thought it wise to set out your 
 luncheon for you in case I did n't. Hope 
 you had all you wanted ; yes, I hope you 
 had enough." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed," said I. My landlady 
 was always peculiarly bountiful in her sup 
 plies when she left me to fare for myself, as 
 if she made a sort of peace-offering or affec 
 tionate apology.
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 5 
 
 " You know that hill with the old house 
 right on top, over beyond the heron swamp ? 
 You '11 excuse me for explaining" Mrs. Todd 
 began, " but you ain't so apt to strike inland 
 as you be to go right along shore. You know 
 that hill ; there 's a path leadin' right over to 
 it that you have to look sharp to find nowa 
 days ; it belonged to the up-country Indians 
 when they had to make a carry to the land 
 ing here to get to the out' islands. I 've 
 heard the old folks say that there used to 
 be a place across a ledge where they 'd worn 
 a deep track with their moccasin feet, but 
 I never could find it. 'T is so overgrown 
 in some places that you keep losin' the path 
 in the bushes and findin' it as you can ; but 
 it runs pretty straight considerin' the lay o' 
 the land, and I keep my eye on the sun and 
 the moss that grows one side o' the tree 
 trunks. Some brook 's been choked up and 
 the swamp 's bigger than it used to be. Yes ; 
 I did get in deep enough, one place ! " 
 
 I showed the solicitude that I felt. Mrs. 
 Todd was no longer young, and in spite of 
 her strong, great frame and spirited be 
 havior, I knew that certain ills were apt to 
 seize upon her, and would end some day by 
 leaving her lame and ailing.
 
 6 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 " Don't you go to worryin' about me," 
 she insisted, " settin' still's the only way 
 the Evil One '11 ever get the upper hand o' 
 me. Keep me movin' enough, an' I 'm 
 twenty year old summer an' winter both. 
 I don't know why 't is, but I 've never hap 
 pened to mention the one I 've been to see. 
 I don't know why I never happened to speak 
 the name of Abby Martin, for I often give 
 her a thought, but 't is a dreadful out-o'-the- 
 way place where she lives, and I have n't 
 seen her myself for three or four years. 
 She's a real good interesting woman, and 
 we 're well acquainted ; she 's nigher mo 
 ther's age than mine, but she 's very young 
 feeling. She made me a nice cup o' tea, 
 and I don't know but I should have stopped 
 all night if I could have got word to you 
 not to worry." 
 
 Then there was a serious silence before 
 Mrs. Todd spoke again to make a formal 
 announcement. 
 
 "She is the Queen's Twin," and Mrs. 
 Todd looked steadily to see how I might 
 bear the great surprise. 
 
 "The Queen's Twin?" I repeated. 
 
 " Yes, she 's come to feel a real interest 
 in the Queen, and anybody can see how
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 7 
 
 natural 't is. They were born the very same 
 day, and you would be astonished to see what 
 a number o' other things have corresponded. 
 She was speaking o' some o' the facts to me 
 to-day, an' you 'd think she 'd never done no 
 thing but read history. I see how earnest 
 she was about it as I never did before. I 've 
 often and often heard her allude to the facts, 
 but now she 's got to be old and the hurry 's 
 over with her work, she 's come to live a 
 good deal in her thoughts, as folks often do, 
 and I tell you 't is a sight o' company for 
 her. If you want to hear about Queen Vic 
 toria, why Mis' Abby Martin '11 tell you 
 everything. And the prospect from that 
 hill I spoke of is as beautiful as anything in 
 this world ; 't is worth while your goin' over 
 to see her just for that." 
 
 " When can you go again ? " I demanded 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I should say to-morrow," answered Mrs. 
 Todd ; " yes, I should say to-morrow ; but I 
 expect 'twould be better to take one day 
 to rest, in between. I considered that ques 
 tion as I was comin' home, but I hurried so 
 that there wa'n't much time to think. It 's 
 a dreadful long way to go with a horse ; you 
 have to go 'most as far as the old Bowden
 
 8 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 place an' turn off to the left, a master long, 
 rough road, and then you have to turn right 
 round as soon as you get there if you mean 
 to get home before nine o'clock at night. 
 But to strike across country from here, 
 there 's plenty o' time in the shortest day, 
 and you can have a good hour or two's visit 
 beside ; 't ain't but a very few miles, and 
 it's pretty all the way along. There used 
 to be a few good families over there, but 
 they 've died and scattered, so now she 's 
 far from neighbors. There, she really cried, 
 she was so glad to see anybody comin'. 
 You '11 be amused to hear her talk about 
 the Queen, but I thought twice or three 
 times as I set there 't was about all the com 
 pany she 'd got." 
 
 " Could we go day after to-morrow ? " I 
 asked eagerly. 
 
 " 'T would suit me exactly," said Mrs. 
 Todd. 
 
 IL 
 
 One can never be so certain of good New 
 England weather as in the days when a long 
 easterly storm has blown away the warm 
 late-summer mists, and cooled the air so 
 that however bright the sunshine is by day,
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 9 
 
 the nights come nearer and nearer to frosti- 
 ness. There was a cold freshness in the 
 morning air when Mrs. Todd and I locked 
 the house-door behind us ; we took the key 
 of the fields into our own hands that day, 
 and put out across country as one puts out 
 to sea. When we reached the top of the 
 ridge behind the town it seemed as if we had 
 anxiously passed the harbor bar and were 
 comfortably in open sea at last. 
 
 " There, now ! " proclaimed Mrs. Todd, 
 taking a long breath, " now I do feel safe. 
 It 's just the weather that 's liable to bring 
 somebody to spend the day ; I 've had a 
 feeling of Mis' Elder Caplin from North 
 Point bein' close upon me ever since I 
 waked up this mornin', an' I did n't want 
 to be hampered with our present plans. 
 She 's a great hand to visit ; she '11 be 
 spendin' the day somewhere from now till 
 Thanksgivin', but there 's plenty o' places at 
 the Landin' where she goes, an' if I ain't 
 there she '11 just select another. I thought 
 mother might be in, too, 't is so pleasant ; 
 but I run up the road to look off this 
 mornin' before you was awake, and there 
 was no sign o' the boat. If they hadn't 
 started by that time they would n't start,
 
 10 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 just as the tide is now ; besides, I see a lot 
 o' mackerel-men headin' Green Island way, 
 and they '11 detain William. No, we 're safe 
 now, an' if mother should be comin' in to 
 morrow we '11 have all this to tell her. She 
 an' Mis' Abby Martin 's very old friends." 
 
 We were walking down the long pasture 
 slopes towards the dark woods and thickets 
 of the low ground. They stretched away 
 northward like an unbroken wilderness ; the 
 early mists still dulled much of the color 
 and made the uplands beyond look like a 
 very far-off country. 
 
 "It ain't so far as it looks from here," 
 said my companion reassuringly, " but we 've 
 got no time to spare either," and she hurried 
 on, leading the way with a fine sort of spirit 
 in her step ; and presently we struck into 
 the old Indian footpath, which could be 
 plainly seen across the long-unploughed turf 
 of the pastures, and followed it among the 
 thick, low -growing spruces. There the 
 ground was smooth and brown under foot, 
 and the thin-stemmed trees held a dark and 
 shadowy roof overhead. We walked a long 
 way without speaking ; sometimes we had to 
 push aside the branches, and sometimes we 
 walked in a broad aisle where the trees were
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 11 
 
 larger. It was a solitary wood, birdless and 
 beastless ; there was not even a rabbit to be 
 seen, or a . crow high in air to break the 
 silence. 
 
 " I don't believe the Queen ever saw such 
 a lonesome trail as this," said Mrs. Todd, as 
 if she followed the thoughts that were in 
 my mind. Our visit to Mrs. Abby Martin 
 seemed in some strange way to concern the 
 high affairs of royalty. I had just been 
 thinking of English landscapes, and of the 
 solemn hills of Scotland with their lonely 
 cottages and stone-walled sheepfolds, and 
 the wandering flocks on high cloudy pas 
 tures. I had often been struck by the quick 
 interest and familiar allusion to certain 
 members of the royal house which one 
 found in distant neighborhoods of New 
 England ; whether some old instincts of 
 personal loyalty have survived all changes 
 of time and national vicissitudes, or whether 
 it is only that the Queen's own character 
 and disposition have won friends for her so 
 far away, it is impossible to tell. But to 
 hear of a twin sister was the most surpris 
 ing proof of intimacy of all, and I must con 
 fess that there was something remarkably 
 exciting to the imagination in my morning
 
 12 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 walk. To think of being presented at Court 
 in the usual way was for the moment quite 
 commonplace. 
 
 III. 
 
 Mrs. Todd was swinging her basket to 
 and fro like a schoolgirl as she walked, and 
 at this moment it slipped from her hand and 
 rolled lightly along the ground as if there 
 were nothing in it. I picked it up and gave 
 it to her, whereupon she lifted the cover and 
 looked in with anxiety. 
 
 " 'T is only a few little things, but I don't 
 want to lose 'em," she explained humbly. 
 " 'T was lucky you took the other basket 
 if I was goin' to roll it round. Mis' Abby 
 Martin complained o' lacking some pretty 
 pink silk to finish one o' her little frames, 
 an' I thought I 'd carry her some, and I had 
 a bunch o' gold thread that had been in a 
 box o' mine this twenty year. I never was 
 one to do much fancy work, but we 're all 
 liable to be swept away by fashion. And 
 then there's a small packet o' very choice 
 herbs that I gave a good deal of attention 
 to ; they '11 smarten her up and give her 
 the best of appetites, come spring. She 
 was tellin' me that spring weather is very
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 13 
 
 wiltin' an' try in' to her, and she was begin- 
 nin' to dread it already. Mother 's just the 
 same way ; if I could prevail on mother to 
 take some o' these remedies in good season 
 'twould make a world o' difference, but she 
 gets all down hill before I have a chance to 
 hear of it, and then William comes in to tell 
 me, sighin' and bewailin', how feeble mother 
 is. ' Why can't you remember 'bout them 
 good herbs that I never let her be without ? ' 
 I say to him he does provoke me so ; and 
 then off he goes, sulky enough, down to his 
 boat. Next thing I know, she comes in to 
 go to meetin', wantin' to speak to everybody 
 and feelin' like a girl. Mis' Martin's case is 
 very much the same ; but she 's nobody to 
 watch her. William 's kind o' slow-moulded ; 
 but there, any William 's better than none 
 when you get to be Mis' Martin's age." 
 
 " Had n't she any children ? " I asked. 
 
 " Quite a number," replied Mrs. Todd 
 grandly, "but some are gone and the rest 
 are married and settled. She never was a 
 great hand to go about visitin'. I don't 
 know but Mis' Martin might be called a 
 little peculiar. Even her own folks has to 
 make company of her ; she never slips in 
 and lives right along with the rest as if
 
 14 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 't was at home, even in her own children's 
 houses. I heard one o' her sons' wives say 
 once she 'd much rather have the Queen to 
 spend the day if she could choose between 
 the two, but I never thought Abby was so 
 difficult as that. I used to love to have her 
 come ; she may have been sort o' ceremoni 
 ous, but very pleasant and sprightly if you 
 had sense enough to treat her her own way. 
 I always think she 'd know just how to live 
 with great folks, and feel easier 'long of 
 them an' their ways. Her son's wife 's a 
 great driver with farm-work, boards a great 
 tableful o' men in hayin' time, an' feels right 
 in her element. I don't say but she 's a 
 good woman an' smart, but sort o' rough. 
 Anybody that 's gentle-mannered an' precise 
 like Mis' Martin would be a sort o' restraint. 
 " There 's all sorts o' folks in the country, 
 same 's there is in the city," concluded Mrs. 
 Todd gravely, and I as gravely agreed. The 
 thick woods were behind us now, and the sun 
 was shining clear overhead, the morning 
 mists were gone, and a faint blue haze soft 
 ened the distance ; as we climbed the hill 
 where we were to see the view, it seemed 
 like a summer day. There was an old house 
 on the height, facing southward, a mere
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 15 
 
 forsaken shell of an old house, with empty 
 windows that looked like blind eyes. The 
 frost-bitten grass grew close about it like 
 brown fur, and there was a single crooked 
 bough of lilac holding its green leaves close 
 by the door. 
 
 " We '11 just have a good piece of bread- 
 an'-butter now," said the commander of the 
 expedition, " and then we '11 hang up the bas 
 ket on some peg inside the house out o' the 
 way o' the sheep, and have a han'some enter 
 tainment as we 're comin' back. She '11 be all 
 through her little dinner when we get there, 
 Mis' Martin will ; but she '11 want to make 
 us some tea, an' we must have our visit an' 
 be startin' back pretty soon after two. I 
 don't want to cross all that low ground 
 again after it 's begun to grow chilly. An' 
 it looks to me as if the clouds might begin 
 to gather late in the afternoon." 
 
 Before us lay a splendid world of sea and 
 shore. The autumn colors already bright 
 ened the landscape ; and here and there at 
 the edge of a dark tract of pointed firs stood 
 a row of bright swamp-maples like scarlet 
 flowers. The blue sea and the great tide 
 inlets were untroubled by the lightest 
 winds.
 
 16 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 " Poor land, this is ! " sighed Mrs. Todd 
 as we sat down to rest on the worn door 
 step. " I 've known three good hard-workin' 
 families that come here full o' hope an' pride 
 and tried to make something o' this farm, 
 but it beat 'em all. There 's one small field 
 that 's excellent for potatoes if you let half 
 of it rest every year ; but the land 's always 
 hungry. Now, you see them little peaked- 
 topped spruces an' fir balsams comin' up 
 over the hill all green an' hearty ; they 've 
 got it all their own way ! Seems sometimes 
 as if wild Natur' got jealous over a certain 
 spot, and wanted to do just as she 'd a mind 
 to. You '11 see here ; she '11 do her own 
 ploughin' an' harrowin' with frost an' wet, 
 an' plant just what she wants and wait for 
 her own crops. Man can't do nothin' with 
 it, try as he may. I tell you those little 
 trees means business ! " 
 
 I looked down the slope, and felt as if we 
 ourselves were likely to be surrounded and 
 overcome if we lingered too long. There 
 was a vigor of growth, a persistence and 
 savagery about the sturdy little trees that 
 put weak human nature at complete defi 
 ance. One felt a sudden pity for the men 
 and women who had been worsted after a
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 17 
 
 long fight in that lonely place ; one felt a 
 sudden fear of the unconquerable, immedi 
 ate forces of Nature, as in the irresistible 
 moment of a thunderstorm. 
 
 " I can recollect the time when folks were 
 shy o' these woods we just come through," 
 said Mrs. Todd seriously. " The men-folks 
 themselves never 'd venture into 'em alone ; 
 if their cattle got strayed they 'd collect 
 whoever they could get, and start off all 
 together. They said a person was liable to 
 get bewildered in there alone, and in old 
 times folks had been lost. I expect there 
 was considerable fear left over from the old 
 Indian times, and the poor days o' witch 
 craft ; anyway, I 've seen bold men act kind 
 o' timid. Some women o' the Asa Bowden 
 family went out one afternoon berryin' when 
 I was a girl, and got lost and was out all 
 night ; they found 'em middle o' the mornin' 
 next day, not half a mile from home, scared 
 most to death, an' sayin' they'd heard 
 wolves and other beasts sufficient for a car 
 avan. Poor creatur's ! they 'd strayed at 
 last into a kind of low place amongst some 
 alders, an' one of 'em was so overset she 
 never got over it, an' went off in a sort o' 
 slow decline. 'T was like them victims that
 
 18 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 drowns in a foot o' water ; but their minds 
 did suffer dreadful. Some folks is born 
 afraid of the woods and all wild places, but 
 I must say they 've always been like home 
 to me." 
 
 I glanced at the resolute, confident face 
 of my companion. Life was very strong in 
 her, as if some force of Nature were person 
 ified in this simple-hearted woman and gave 
 her cousinship to the ancient deities. She 
 might have walked the primeval fields of 
 Sicily; her strong gingham skirts might at 
 that very moment bend the slender stalks 
 of asphodel and be fragrant with trodden 
 thyme, instead of the brown wind-brushed 
 grass of New England and frost-bitten gold- 
 'enrod. She was a great soul, was Mrs. 
 Todd, and I her humble follower, as we 
 went our way to visit the Queen's Twin, 
 leaving the bright view of the sea behind 
 us, and descending to a lower country-side 
 through the dry pastures and fields. 
 
 The farms all wore a look of gathering 
 age, though the settlement was, after all, so 
 young. The fences were already fragile, and 
 it seemed as if the first impulse of agricul 
 ture had soon spent itself without hope of 
 renewal. The better houses were always
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 19 
 
 those that had some hold upon the riches 
 of the sea ; a house that could not harbor a 
 fishing-boat in some neighboring inlet was 
 far from being sure of every-day comforts. 
 The land alone was not enough to live upon 
 in that stony region ; it belonged by right to 
 the forest, and to the forest it fast returned. 
 From the top of the hill where we had been 
 sitting we had seen prosperity in the dim 
 distance, where the land was good and the 
 sun shone upon fat barns, and where warm- 
 looking houses with three or four chimneys 
 apiece stood high on their solid ridge above 
 the bay. 
 
 As we drew nearer to Mrs. Martin's it 
 was sad to see what poor bushy fields, what 
 thin and empty dwelling-places had been 
 left by those who had chosen this disap 
 pointing part of the northern country for 
 their home. We crossed the last field and 
 came into a narrow rain-washed road, and 
 Mrs. Todd looked eager and expectant and 
 said that we were almost at our journey's 
 end. " I do hope Mis' Martin '11 ask you 
 into her best room where she keeps all the 
 Queen's pictures. Yes, I think likely she 
 will ask you ; but 't ain't everybody she 
 deems worthy to visit 'em, I can tell you ! "
 
 20 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 said Mrs. Todd warningly. "She's been 
 collectin' 'em an' cuttin' 'em out o' news- 
 papers an' magazines time out o' mind, and 
 if she heard of anybody sailin' for an Eng 
 lish port she 'd contrive to get a little money 
 to 'em and ask to have the last likeness there 
 was. She 's most covered her best-room wall 
 now ; she keeps that room shut up sacred as 
 a meetin'-house ! ' I won't say but I have 
 my favorites amongst 'em,' she told me 
 t' other day, ' but they 're all beautiful to 
 me as they can be ! ' And she 's made some 
 kind o' pretty little frames for 'em all 
 you know there 's always a new fashion o' 
 frames comin' round ; first 't was shell-work, 
 and then 't was pine-cones, and bead-work 's 
 had its day, and now she 's much concerned 
 with perforated cardboard worked with silk. 
 I tell you that best room 's a sight to see ! 
 But you must n't look for anything elegant," 
 continued Mrs. Todd, after a moment's re 
 flection. "Mis' Martin's always been in 
 very poor, strugglin' circumstances. She 
 tad ambition for her children, though they 
 took right after their father an' had little 
 for themselves ; she wa'n't over an' above 
 well married, however kind she may see fit 
 to speak. She 's been patient an' hard-
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 21 
 
 workin' all her life, and always high above 
 makin' mean complaints of other folks. 1 
 expect all this business about the Queen has 
 buoyed her over many a shoal place in life. 
 Yes, you might say that Abby 'd been a 
 slave, but there ain't any slave but has some 
 freedom." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Presently I saw a low gray house stand 
 ing on a grassy bank close to the road. The 
 door was at the side, facing us, and a tangle 
 of suowberry bushes and cinnamon roses 
 grew to the level of the window-sills. On 
 the doorstep stood a bent-shouldered, little 
 old woman ; there was an air of welcome 
 and of unmistakable dignity about her. 
 
 " She sees us coming," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Todd in an excited whisper. " There, I 
 told her I might be over this way again if 
 the weather held good, and if I came I 'd 
 bring you. She said right off she 'd take 
 great pleasure in havin' a visit from you ; I 
 was surprised, she 's usually so retirin'." 
 
 Even this reassurance did not quell a 
 faint apprehension on our part ; there was 
 something distinctly formal in the occasion, 
 and one felt that consciousness of inade-
 
 22 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 quacy which is never easy for the humblest 
 pride to bear. On the way I had torn my 
 dress in an unexpected encounter with a 
 little thornbush, and I could now imagine 
 how it felt to be going to Court and forget 
 ting one's feathers or her Court train. 
 
 The Queen's Twin was oblivious of such 
 trifles ; she stood waiting with a calm look 
 until we came near enough to take her kind 
 hand. . She was a beautiful old woman, with 
 clear eyes and a lovely quietness and genu 
 ineness of manner ; there was not a trace of 
 anything pretentious about her, or high- 
 flown, as Mrs. Todd would say comprehen 
 sively. Beauty in age is rare enough in 
 women who have spent their lives in the 
 hard work of a farmhouse ; but autumn- 
 like and withered as this woman may have 
 looked, her features had kept, or rather 
 gained, a great refinement. She led us 
 into her old kitchen and gave us seats, and 
 took one of the little straight-backed chairs 
 herself and sat a short distance away, as if 
 she were giving audience to an ambassador. 
 It seemed as if we should all be standing ; 
 you could not help feeling that the habits of 
 her life were more ceremonious, but that for 
 the moment she assumed the simplicities of 
 the occasion.
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 23 
 
 Mrs. Todd was always Mrs. Todd, too 
 great and self-possessed a soul for any occa 
 sion to ruffle. I admired her calmness, and 
 presently the slow current of neighborhood 
 talk carried one easily along ; we spoke of 
 the weather and the small adventures of the 
 way, and then, as if I were after all not a 
 stranger, our hostess turned almost affec 
 tionately to speak to me. 
 
 " The weather will be growing dark in 
 London now. I expect that you 've been in 
 London, dear ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I answered. " Only last 
 year." 
 
 " It is a great many years since I was 
 there, along in the forties," said Mrs. Mar 
 tin. " 'T was the only voyage I ever made ; 
 most of my neighbors have been great trav 
 elers. My brother was master of a vessel, 
 and his wife usually sailed with him ; but 
 that year she had a young child more frail 
 than the others, and she dreaded the care of 
 it at sea. It happened that my brother got 
 a chance for my husband to go as super 
 cargo, being a good accountant, and came 
 one day to urge him to take it ; he was very 
 ill-disposed to the sea, but he had met with 
 losses, and I saw my own opportunity and
 
 24 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 persuaded them both to let me go too. In 
 those days they did n't object to a woman's 
 being aboard to wash and mend, the voy 
 ages were sometimes very long. And that 
 was the way I come to see the Queen." 
 
 Mrs. Martin was looking straight in my 
 eyes to see if I showed any genuine interest 
 in the most interesting person in the world. 
 
 " Oh, I am very glad you saw the Queen," 
 I hastened to say. " Mrs. Todd has told me 
 that you and she were born the very same 
 day." 
 
 " We were indeed, dear ! " said Mrs. Mar 
 tin, and she leaned back comfortably and 
 smiled as she had not smiled before. Mrs. 
 Todd gave a satisfied nod and glance, as if 
 to say that things were going on as well as 
 possible in this anxious moment. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Martin again, drawing 
 her chair a little nearer, " 't was a very 
 remarkable thing ; we were born the same 
 day, and at exactly the same hour, after 
 you allowed for all the difference in time. 
 My father figured it out sea-fashion. Her 
 Royal Majesty and I opened our eyes upon 
 this world together ; say what you may, 't is 
 a bond between us." 
 
 Mrs. Todd assented with an air of tri.
 
 THE Q KEEN'S TWIN. 25 
 
 umpli, and untied her hat-strings and threw 
 them back over her shoulders with a gallant 
 air. 
 
 " And I married a man by the name of 
 Albert, just the same as she did, and all by 
 chance, for I did n't get the news that she 
 had an Albert too till a fortnight afterward ; 
 news was slower coming then than it is now. 
 My first baby was a girl, and I called her 
 Victoria after my mate ; but the next one 
 was a boy, and my husband wanted the 
 right to name him, and took his own name 
 and his brother Edward's, and pretty soon 
 I saw in the paper that the little Prince o' 
 Wales had been christened just the same. 
 After that I made excuse to wait till I knew 
 what she 'd named her children. I did n't 
 want to break the chain, so I had an Alfred, 
 and my darling Alice that I lost long before 
 she lost hers, and there I stopped. If I 'd 
 only had a dear daughter to stay at home 
 with me, same 's her youngest one, I should 
 have been so thankful ! But if only one of 
 us could have a little Beatrice, I 'm glad 
 't was the Queen ; we 've both seen trouble, 
 but she 's had the most care." 
 
 I asked Mrs. Martin if she lived alone all 
 the year, and was told that she did except
 
 26 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 for a visit now and then from one of her 
 grandchildren, " the only one that really 
 likes to come an' stay quiet 'long o' 
 grandma. She always says quick as she 's 
 through her schoolin' she's goin' to live 
 with me all the time, but she 's very pretty 
 an' has taking ways," said Mrs. Martin, 
 looking both proud and wistful, " so I can 
 tell nothing at all about it ! Yes, I 've been 
 alone most o' the time since my Albert was 
 taken away, and that 's a great many years ; 
 he had a long time o' failing and sickness 
 first." (Mrs. Todd's foot gave an impatient 
 scuff on the floor.) " An' I 've always lived 
 right here. I ain't like the Queen's Ma 
 jesty, for this is the only palace I 've got," 
 said the dear old thing, smiling again. 
 " I 'm glad of it too, I don't like changing 
 about, an' our stations in life are set very 
 different. I don't require what the Queen 
 does, but sometimes I 've thought 't was left 
 to me to do the plain things she don't have 
 time for. I expect she 's a beautiful house 
 keeper, nobody could n't have done better in 
 her high place, and she 's been as good a 
 mother as she 's been a queen." 
 
 "I guess she has, Abby," agreed Mrs. 
 Todd instantly. " How was it you hap-
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 27 
 
 pened to get such a good look at her? I 
 meant to ask you again when I was here 
 t' other day." 
 
 " Our ship was layin' in the Thames, 
 right there above Wapping. We was dis- 
 chargin' cargo, and under orders to clear as 
 quick as we could for Bordeaux to take on 
 an excellent freight o' French goods," ex 
 plained Mrs. Martin eagerly. " I heard that 
 the Queen was goin' to a great review of her 
 army, and would drive out o' her Buckin'- 
 ham Palace about ten o'clock in the mornin', 
 and I run aft to Albert, my husband, and 
 brother Horace where they was standin' to 
 gether by the hatchway, and told 'em they 
 must one of 'em take me. They laughed, I 
 was in such a hurry, and said they could n't 
 go ; and I found they meant it and got sort 
 of impatient when I began to talk, and I 
 was 'most broken-hearted ; 't was all the 
 reason I had for makin' that hard voyage. 
 Albert could n't help often reproachin' me, 
 for he did so resent the sea, an' I 'd known 
 how 't would be before we sailed ; but I 'd 
 minded nothing all the way till then, and I 
 just crep' back to my cabin an' begun to 
 cry. They was disappointed about their 
 ship's cook, an' I 'd cooked for fo'c's'le an'
 
 28 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 cabin myself all the way over ; 't was dread- 
 f ul hard work, specially in rough weather ; 
 we 'd had head winds an' a six weeks' voy 
 age. They 'd acted sort of ashamed o' me 
 when I pled so to go ashore, an' that hurt 
 my feelin's most of all. But Albert come 
 below pretty soon ; I 'd never given way so 
 in my life, an' he begun to act frightened, 
 and treated me gentle just as he did when 
 we was goin' to be married, an' when I got 
 over Bobbin' he went on deck and saw Hor 
 ace an' talked it over what they could do; 
 they really had their duty to the vessel, and 
 couldn't be spared that day. Horace was 
 real good when he understood everything, 
 and he come an' told me I 'd more than 
 worked my passage an' was goin' to do just 
 as I liked now we was in port. He 'd en 
 gaged a cook, too, that was comin' aboard 
 that mornin', and he was goin' to send the 
 ship's carpenter with me a nice fellow 
 from up Thomaston way ; he 'd gone to 
 put on his ashore clothes as quick's he 
 could. So then I got ready, and we started 
 off in the small boat and rowed up river. I 
 was afraid we were too late, but the tide was 
 setting up very strong, and we landed an' 
 left the boat to a keeper, and I run all the
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 29 
 
 way up those great streets and across a 
 park. 'Twas a great day, with sights o' 
 folks everywhere, but 't was just as if they 
 was nothin' but wax images to me. I kep' 
 askin' my way an' runnin' on, with the car 
 penter comin' after as best he could, and 
 just as I worked to the front o' the crowd 
 by the palace, the gates was flung open and 
 out she came ; all prancin' horses and shinin' 
 gold, and in a beautiful carriage there she 
 sat ; 't was a moment o' heaven to me. I 
 saw her plain, and she looked right at me 
 so pleasant and happy, just as if she knew 
 there was somethin' different between us 
 from other folks." 
 
 There was a moment when the Queen's 
 Twin could not go on and neither of her lis 
 teners could ask a question. 
 
 "Prince Albert was sitting right beside 
 her in the carriage," she continued. " Oh, 
 he was a beautiful man ! Yes, dear, I saw 
 'em both together just as I see you now, and 
 then she was gone out o' sight in another 
 minute, and the common crowd was all 
 spread over the place pushin' an' cheerin'. 
 'T was some kind o' holiday, an' the carpen 
 ter and I got separated, an' then I found 
 him again after I did n't think I should, an'
 
 30 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 he was all for makin' a day of it, and goin' 
 to show me all the sights ; he 'd been in 
 London before, but I did n't want nothin' 
 else, an' we went back through the streets 
 down to the waterside an' took the boat. I 
 remember I mended an old coat o' my Al 
 bert's as good as I could, sittiu' on the 
 quarter-deck in the sun all that afternoon, 
 and 't was all as if I was livin' in a lovely 
 dream. I don't know how to explain it, 
 but there has n't been no friend I 've felt 
 so near to me ever since." 
 
 One could not say much only listen. 
 Mrs. Todd put in a discerning question now 
 and then, and Mrs. Martin's eyes shone 
 brighter and brighter as she talked. What 
 a lovely gift of imagination and true affec 
 tion was in this fond old heart ! I looked 
 about the plain New England kitchen, with 
 its wood-smoked walls and homely braided 
 rugs on the worn floor, and all its simple 
 furnishings. The loud-ticking clock seemed 
 to encourage us to speak ; at the other side 
 of the room was an early newspaper portrait 
 of Her Majesty the Queen of Great Britain 
 and Ireland. On a shelf below were some 
 flowers in a little glass dish, as if they were 
 put before a shrine.
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 31 
 
 " If I could have had more to read, I 
 should have known 'most everything about 
 her," said Mrs. Martin wistfully. " I 've 
 made the most of what I did have, and 
 thought it over and over till it came clear. 
 I sometimes seem to have her all my own, 
 as if we 'd lived right together. I 've often 
 walked out into the woods alone and told 
 her what my troubles was, and it always 
 seemed as if she told me 't was all right, an' 
 we must have patience. I 've got her beau 
 tiful book about the Highlands ; 't was dear 
 Mis' Todd here that found out about her 
 printing it and got a copy for me, and it 's 
 been a treasure to my heart, just as if 't was 
 written right to me. I always read it Sun 
 days now, for my Sunday treat. Before 
 that I used to have to imagine a good deal, 
 but when I come to read her book, I knew 
 what I expected was all true. We do think 
 alike about so many things," said the Queen's 
 Twin with affectionate certainty. " You see, 
 there is something between us, being born 
 just at the some time ; 't is what they call a 
 birthright. She 's had great tasks put upon 
 her, being the Queen, an' mine has been the 
 humble lot ; but she 's done the best she 
 could, nobody can say to the contrary, and
 
 32 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 there 's something between us ; she 's been 
 the great lesson I 've had to live by. She 's 
 been everything to me. An' when she had 
 her Jubilee, oh, how my heart was with 
 her ! " 
 
 " There, 't would n't play the part in her 
 life it has in mine," said Mrs. Martin gener 
 ously, in answer to something one of her 
 listeners had said. " Sometimes I think- 
 now she's older, she might like to know 
 about us. When I think how few old 
 friends anybody has left at our age, I sup 
 pose it may be just the same with her as it 
 is with me ; perhaps she would like to know 
 how we came into life together. But I 've 
 had a great advantage in seeing her, an' I 
 can always fancy her goin' on, while she 
 don't know nothin' yet about me, except 
 she may feel my love stayin' her heart some 
 times an' not know just where it comes from. 
 An' I dream about our being together out 
 in some pretty fields, young as ever we was, 
 and holdin' hands as we walk along. I 'd 
 like to know if she ever has that dream too. 
 I used to have days when I made believe 
 she did know, an' was comin' to see me," 
 confessed the speaker shyly, with a little 
 flush on her cheeks ; " and I 'd plan what
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 33 
 
 I could have nice for supper, and I was n't 
 goin' to let anybody know she was here 
 havin' a good rest, except I 'd wish you, 
 Almira Todd, or dear Mis' Blackett would 
 happen in, for you 'd know just how to talk 
 with her. You see, she likes to be up in 
 Scotland, right out in the wild country, bet 
 ter than she does anywhere else." 
 
 " I 'd really love to take her out to see 
 mother at Green Island," said Mrs. Todd 
 with a sudden impulse. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I should love to have you," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Martin, and then she began 
 to speak in a lower tone. " One day I got 
 thinkin' so about my dear Queen," she said, 
 " an' livin' so in my thoughts, that I went to 
 work an' got all ready for her, just as if she 
 was really comin'. I never told this to a 
 livin' soul before, but I feel you '11 under 
 stand. I put my best fine sheets and blan 
 kets I spun an' wove myself on the bed, and 
 I picked some pretty flowers and put 'em all 
 round the house, an' I worked as hard an' 
 happy as I could all day, and had as nice a 
 supper ready as I could get, sort of telling 
 myself a story all the time. She was comin' 
 an' I was goin' to see her again, an' I kep' 
 it up until nightfall ; an' when I see the
 
 34 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 dark an' it come to me I was all alone, the 
 dream left me, an' I sat down on the door 
 step an' felt all foolish an' tired. An', if 
 you '11 believe it, I heard steps comin', an' 
 an old cousin o' mine come wanderin' along, 
 one I was apt to be shy of. She was n't all 
 there, as folks used to say, but harmless 
 enough and a kind of poor old talking body. 
 And I went right to meet her when I first 
 heard her call, 'stead o' hidin' as I some 
 times did, an' she come in dreadful willin', 
 an' we sat down to supper together ; 't was 
 a supper I should have had no heart to eat 
 alone." 
 
 " I don't believe she ever had such a splen 
 did time in her life as she did then. I heard 
 her tell all about it afterwards," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Todd compassionately. " There, now 
 I hear all this it seems just as if the Queen 
 might have known and could n't come her 
 self, so she sent that poor old creatur' that 
 was always in need ! " 
 
 Mrs. Martin looked timidly at Mrs. Todd 
 and then at me. " 'T was childish o' me to 
 go an' get supper," she confessed. 
 
 " I guess you wa'n't the first one to do 
 that," said Mrs. Todd. "No, I guess you 
 wa'n't the first one who 's got supper that
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 35 
 
 way, Abby," and then for a moment she 
 could say no more. 
 
 Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Martin had moved 
 their chairs a little so that they faced each 
 other, and I, at one side, could see them 
 both. 
 
 " No, you never told me o' that before, 
 Abby," said Mrs. Todd gently. " Don't it 
 show that for folks that have any fancy in 
 'em, such beautiful dreams is the real part 
 o' life? But to most folks the common 
 things that happens outside 'em is all in all." 
 
 Mrs. Martin did not appear to understand 
 at first, strange to say, when the secret of 
 her heart was put into words ; then a glow 
 of pleasure and comprehension shone upon 
 her face. " Why, I believe you 're right, 
 Almira ! " she said, and turned to me. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to look at my pic 
 tures of the Queen?" she asked, and we 
 rose and went into the best room. 
 
 V. 
 
 The mid -day visit seemed very short. 
 September hours are brief to match the 
 shortening days. The great subject was 
 dismissed for a while after our visit to the
 
 36 TEE QUEEN'S TWIN. 
 
 Queen's pictures, and my companions spoke 
 much of lesser persons until we drank the 
 cup of tea which Mrs. Todd had foreseen. 
 I happily remembered that the Queen her 
 self is said to like a proper cup of tea, and 
 this at once seemed to make her Majesty 
 kindly join so remote and reverent a com 
 pany. Mrs. Martin's thin cheeks took on 
 a pretty color like a girl's. "Somehow I 
 always have thought of her when I made 
 it extra good," she said. " I 've got a real 
 china cup that belonged to my grandmother, 
 and I believe I shall call it hers now." 
 
 " Why don't you ? " responded Mrs. Todd 
 warmly, with a delightful smile. 
 
 Later they spoke of a promised visit 
 which was to be made in the Indian sum 
 mer' to the Landing and Green Island, but 
 I observed that Mrs. Todd presented the 
 little parcel of dried herbs, with full direc 
 tions, for a cure-all in the spring, as if there 
 were no real chance of their meeting again 
 first. As we looked back from the turn of 
 the road the Queen's Twin was still stand 
 ing on the doorstep watching us away, and 
 Mrs. Todd stopped, and stood still for a 
 moment before she waved her hand again. 
 
 "There's one thing certain, dear," she
 
 THE QUEEN'S TWIN. 37 
 
 said to me with great discernment ; " it 
 ain't as if we left her all alone ! " 
 
 Then we set out upon our long way home 
 over the hill, where we lingered in the after 
 noon sunshine, and through the dark woods 
 across the heron-swamp.
 
 WHERE'S NOEA? 
 
 "WHERE'S Nora?" 
 
 The speaker was a small, serious-looking 
 old Irishman, one of those Patricks who are 
 almost never called Pat. He was well- 
 dressed and formal, and wore an air of dig 
 nified authority. 
 
 " I don't know meself where 's Nora then, 
 so I don't," answered his companion. " The 
 shild would n't stop for a sup o' breakfast 
 before she 'd go out to see the town, an' no 
 body 's seen the 1'aste smitch of her since. I 
 might sweep the streets wit' a broom and I 
 could n't find her.'\ 
 
 " Maybe she 's strayed beyand and gone 
 losing in the strange place," suggested Mr. 
 Quin, with an anxious glance. " Did n't 
 none o' the folks go wit' her ? " 
 
 " How would annybody be goin' an' she 
 up an' away before there was a foot out o' 
 bed in the house ? " answered Mike Duffy 
 impatiently. '"T was herself that caught
 
 WHERE 'S NORA f 39 
 
 sight of Nora stealin' out o' the door like 
 a thief, an' meself getting me best sleep at 
 the time. Herself had to sit up an' laugh 
 in the bed and be plaguin' me wit' her 
 tarkin'. * Look at Nora ! ' says she. 
 * Where 's Nora ? ' says I, wit' a great start. 
 I thought something had happened the poor 
 shild. ' Oh, go to slape, you fool ! ' says 
 Mary Ann. ' 'T is only four o'clock,' says 
 she, ' an' that grasshopper greenhorn can't 
 wait for broad day till she go out an' see the 
 whole of Amer iky.' So I wint off to sleep 
 again ; the first bell was biginnin' on the 
 mill, and I had an hour an' a piece, good, to 
 meself after that before Mary Ann come 
 scoldin'. I don't be sleepin' so well as some 
 folks the first part of the night." 
 
 Mr. Patrick Quin ignored the interest of 
 this autobiographical statement, and with a 
 contemptuous shake of the head began to 
 feel in his pocket for a pipe. Every one 
 knew that Mike Duffy was a person much 
 too fond of his ease, and that all the credit 
 of their prosperity belonged to his hard- 
 worked wife. She had reared a family of 
 respectable sons and daughters, who were 
 all settled and doing well for themselves, 
 and now she was helping to bring out some
 
 40 WHERE '8 NORA ? 
 
 nephews and nieces from the old country. 
 She was proud to have been born a Quin ; 
 Patrick Quin was her brother and a man of 
 consequence. 
 
 " 'Deed, I 'd like well to see the poor 
 shild," said Patrick. "I'd no thought 
 they 'd land before the day or to-morrow 
 mornin', or I 'd have been over last night. 
 I suppose she brought all the news from 
 home ? " 
 
 " The folks is all weU, thanks be to God," 
 proclaimed Mr. Duffy solemnly. " 'T was 
 late when she come ; 't was on the quarter 
 to nine she got here. There 's been great 
 deaths after the winther among the old folks. 
 Old Peter Murphy 's gone, she says, an' his 
 brother that lived over by Ballycannon died 
 the same week with him, and Dan Donahoe 
 an' Corny Donahoe 's lost their old aunt on 
 the twelfth of March, that gave them her 
 farm to take care of her before I came out. 
 She was old then, too." 
 
 " Faix, it was time for the old lady, so it 
 was," said Patrick Quin, with affectionate 
 interest. " She 'd be the oldest in the parish 
 this tin years past." 
 
 " Nora said 't was a fine funeral ; they 'd 
 three priests to her, and everything of the
 
 WHERE 'S NORA f 41 
 
 best. Nora was there herself and all our 
 folks. The b'ys was very proud of her for 
 being so old and respicted." 
 
 " Sure, Mary was an old woman, and I 
 first coming out," repeated Patrick, with 
 feeling. " I went up to her that Monday 
 night, and I sailing on a Wednesday, an' she 
 gave me her blessing and a present of five 
 shillings. She said then she'd see me no 
 more ; 't was poor old Mary had the giving 
 hand, God bless her and save her ! I joked 
 her that she 'd soon be marrying and coming 
 out to Ameriky like meself. ' No,' says 
 she, ' I 'm too old. I '11 die here where I 
 was born ; this old farm is me one home o' 
 the world, and I '11 never be af ther 1'avin' it ; 
 't is right enough for you young folks to go,' 
 says she. I could n't get my mouth open to 
 answer her. 'T was meself that was very 
 homesick in me inside, coming away from 
 the old place, but I had great boldness be 
 fore every one. 'Twas old Mary saw the 
 tears in me eyes then. ' Don't mind, Patsy,' 
 says she ; ' if you don't do well there, come 
 back to it an' I '11 be glad to take your folks 
 in till you '11 be afther getting started again.' 
 She had n't the money then she got after 
 ward from her cousin in Dublin ; 't was the
 
 42 WHERE >S NORA f 
 
 kind heart of her spoke, an' meself being 
 but a boy that was young to maintain him 
 self, let alone a family. Thanks be to God, 
 I 've done well, afther all, but for me crooked 
 leg. I does be dr'amin' of going home 
 sometimes ; 't is often yet I wake up wit' the 
 smell o' the wet bushes in the mornin' when 
 a man does be goin' to his work at home." 
 
 Mike Duffy looked at his brother-in-law 
 with curiosity ; the two men were sitting 
 side by side before Mike's house on a bit of 
 green bank between the sidewalk and the 
 road. It was May, and the dandelions were 
 blooming all about them, thick in the grass. 
 Patrick Quin reached out and touched one 
 of them with his stick. He was a lame man, 
 and had worked as section hand for the rail 
 road for many years, until the bad accident 
 which forced him to retire on one of the 
 company's rarely given pensions. He had 
 prevented a great disaster on the road; 
 those who knew him well always said that 
 his position had never been equal to his 
 ability, but the men who stood above him 
 and the men who were below him held Pat 
 rick Quin at exactly the same estimate. He 
 had limped along the road from the clean- 
 looking little yellow house that he owned not
 
 WHERE >S NORA t . 43 
 
 far away on the river-bank, and his mind 
 was upon his errand. 
 
 " I come over early to ask the shild 
 would n't she come home wit' me an' ate her 
 dinner," said Patrick. "Herself sent me; 
 she's got a great wash the day, last week 
 being so rainy, an' we niver got word of 
 Nora being here till this morning, and then 
 everybody had it that passed by, wondering 
 what got us last night that we were n't 
 there." 
 
 " 'T was on the quarter to nine she come,'* 
 said Uncle Mike, taking up the narrative 
 with importance. " Herself an' me had 
 blown out the light, going to bed, when 
 there come a scuttlin' at the door and I 
 heard a bit of a laugh like the first bird in 
 the morning " 
 
 " ' Stop where you are, Bridget,' says I," 
 continued Mr. Quin, without taking any no 
 tice, " ' an' I '11 take me third leg and walk 
 over and bring Nora down to you.' Bridget 's 
 great for the news from home now, for all 
 she was so sharp to be 1'aving it." 
 
 " She brought me a fine present, and the 
 mate of it for yourself," said Mike Duffy. 
 " Two good thorn sticks for the two of us. 
 They 're inside in the house."
 
 44 WHERE 'S NORA 1 
 
 * A thorn stick, indeed ! Did she now ? " 
 exclaimed Patrick, with unusual delight. 
 " The poor shild, did she do that now ? I Ve 
 thought manny's the time since I got me 
 lameness how well I 'd like one o' those old- 
 fashioned thorn sticks. Me own is one o' 
 them sticks a man 'd carry tin years and toss 
 it into a brook at the ind an' not miss it." 
 
 " They 're good thorn sticks, the both of 
 them," said Mike complacently. " I don't 
 know 'ill I bring 'em out before she comes." 
 
 " Is she a pritty slip of a gerrl, I d' know ? " 
 asked Patrick, with increased interest. 
 
 " She ain't, then," answered his compan 
 ion frankly. " She does be thin as a young 
 grasshopper, and she 's red-headed, and she 's 
 freckled, too, from the sea, like all them 
 young things comin' over ; but she 's got a 
 pritty voice, like all her mother's folks, and 
 a quick eye like a bird's. The old-country 
 talk 's fresh in her mouth, too, so it is ; 
 you 'd think you were coming out o' mass 
 some spring morning at home and hearing 
 all the girls whin they'd be chatting and 
 funning at the boys. I do be thinking she 's 
 a smart little girl, annyway ; look at her off 
 to see the town so early and not back yet, 
 bad manners to her ! She '11 be wanting
 
 WHERE '8 NORA t 45 
 
 some clothes, I suppose ; she 's very old- 
 fashioned looking ; they does always be 
 wanting new clothes, coming out," and Mike 
 gave an ostentatious sigh and suggestive 
 glance at his brother-in-law. 
 
 " 'Deed, I 'm willing to help her get a 
 good start ; ain't she me own sister's shild ? " 
 agreed Patrick Quin cheerfully. " We 've 
 been young ourselves, too. Well, then, 
 'tis bad news of old Mary Donahoe bein' 
 gone at the farm. I always thought if I 'd 
 go home how I 'd go along the fields to get 
 the great welcome from her. She was one 
 that always liked to hear folks had done 
 well," and he looked down at his comforta 
 ble, clean old clothes as if they but reminded 
 him how poor a young fellow he had come 
 away. " I 'm very sorry afther Mary ; she 
 was a good 'oman, God save her ! " 
 
 " Faix, it was time for her," insisted 
 Mike, not without sympathy. " Were you 
 afther wanting her to live forever, the poor 
 soul? An' the shild said she'd the best 
 funeral was ever in the parish of Dunkenny 
 since she remimbered it. What could anny 
 one ask more than that, and she r'aching 
 such an age, the cr'atur' ! Stop here awhile 
 an' you '11 hear all the tark from Nora ; she
 
 46 WHERE >S NORA t 
 
 told over to me all the folks that was there. 
 Where has she gone wit' herself, I don't 
 know ? Mary Ann ! " he turned his head 
 toward the house and called in a loud, com 
 plaining tone ; " where 's Nora, annyway ? " 
 
 " Here 's Nora, then," a sweet girlish voice 
 made unexpected reply, and a light young 
 figure flitted from the sidewalk behind him 
 and stood lower down on the green bank. 
 
 " What 's wanting wit' Nora ? " and she 
 stooped quickly like a child to pick some of 
 the dandelions as if she had found gold. 
 She had a sprig of wild-cherry blossom in 
 her dress, which she must have found a good 
 way out in the country. 
 
 " Come now, and speak to Patrick Quin, 
 your mother's own brother, that's waiting 
 here for you all this time you 've been run 
 ning over the place," commanded Mr. Duffy, 
 with some severity. 
 
 " An' is it me own Uncle Patsy, dear ? " 
 exclaimed Nora, with the sweetest brogue 
 and most affectionate sincerity. " Oh, that 
 me mother could see him too ! " and she 
 dropped on her knees beside the lame little 
 man and kissed him, and knelt there looking 
 at him with delight, holding his willing hand 
 in both her own.
 
 WHERE 'S NORA f 47 
 
 "An' ain't you got me mother's own 
 looks, too ? Oh, Uncle Patsy, is it yourself, 
 dear? I often heard about you, and I 
 brought you me mother's heart's love, 'deed 
 I did then ! It 's many a lovely present of 
 a pound you 've sent us. An' I 've got a 
 thorn stick that grew in the hedge, goin' up 
 the little rise of ground above the Wishin' 
 Brook, sir ; mother said you 'd mind the place 
 well when I told you." 
 
 " I do then, me shild," said Patrick Quin, 
 with dignity ; " 't is manny the day we all 
 played there together, for all we 're so scat 
 tered now and some dead, too, God rest 
 them ! Sure, you 're a nice little gerrl, an' I 
 give you great welcome and the hope you '11 
 do well. Come along wit' me now. Your 
 Aunty Biddy 's jealous to put her two eyes 
 on you, an' we never getting the news you 'd 
 come till late this morning. ' I '11 go fetch 
 Nora for you,' says I, to contint her. 
 'They'll be tarked out at Duffy's by this 
 time,' says I." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm full o' tark yet ! " protested 
 Nora gayly. " Coom on, then, Uncle Pat 
 sy ! " and she gave him her strong young 
 hand as he rose. 
 
 "An' how do you be likin' Ameriky?"
 
 48 WHERE 'S NORA 1 
 
 asked the pleased old man, as they walked 
 along. 
 
 " I like Ameriky fine," answered the girl 
 gravely. She was taller than he, though 
 she looked so slender and so young. " I 
 was very downhearted, too, 1'avin' home and 
 me mother, but I '11 go back to it some day, 
 God willing, sir ; I could n't die wit'out see 
 ing me mother again. I 'm all over the 
 place here since daybreak. I think I 'd like 
 work best on the railway," and she turned 
 toward him with a resolved and serious look. 
 
 " Wisha ! there 's no work at all for a girl 
 like you on the Road," said Uncle Patsy 
 patiently. "You've a bit to learn yet, 
 sure ; 't is the mill you mane." 
 
 " There '11 be plinty work to do. I always 
 thought at home, when I heard the folks 
 tarking, that I 'd get work on the railway 
 when I'd come to Ameriky. Yis, indeed, 
 sir ! " continued Nora earnestly. " I was 
 looking at the mills just now, and I heard 
 the great n'ise from them. I'd never be 
 afther shutting meself up in anny mill out 
 of the good air. I 've no call to go to jail 
 yet in thim mill walls. Perhaps there 'd be 
 somebody working next me that I 'd never 
 get to like, sir."
 
 WHERE 'S NORA f 49 
 
 There was something so convinced and 
 decided about these arguments that Uncle 
 Patsy, usually the calm autocrat of his young 
 relatives, had nothing whatever to say. Nora 
 was gently keeping step with his slow gait. 
 She had won his heart once for all when 
 she called him by the old boyish name her 
 mother used forty years before, when they 
 played together by the Wishing Brook. 
 
 " I wonder do you know a b'y named 
 Johnny O'Callahan ? " inquired Nora pre 
 sently, in a somewhat confidential tone ; " a 
 pritty b'y that 's working on the railway ; I 
 seen him last night and I coming here ; he 
 ain't a guard at all, but a young fellow that 
 minds the brakes. We stopped a long while 
 out there ; somethin' got off the rails, and he 
 adwised wit' me, seeing I was a stranger. 
 He said he knew you, sir." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Johnny O'Callahan. I know 
 him well ; he 's a nice b'y, too," answered 
 Patrick Quin approvingly. 
 
 " Yis, sir, a pritty b'y," said Nora, and 
 her color brightened for an instant, but she 
 said no more.
 
 50 WHERE 'S NORA t 
 
 II. 
 
 Mike Duffy and his wife came into the 
 Quins' kitchen one week-day night, dressed 
 in their Sunday clothes ; they had been 
 making a visit to their well-married daugh 
 ter in Lawrence. Patrick Quin's chair was 
 comfortably tipped back against the wall, 
 and Bridget, who looked somewhat gloomy, 
 was putting away the white supper-dishes. 
 
 "Where's Nora?" demanded Mike 
 Duffy, after the first salutations. 
 
 " You may well say it ; I 'm afther mis 
 sing her every hour in the day," lamented 
 Bridget Quin. 
 
 " Nora 's gone into business on the Road 
 then, so she has," said Patrick, with an air 
 of fond pride. He was smoking, and in his 
 shirt-sleeves ; his coat lay on the wooden set 
 tee at the other side of the room. 
 
 " Hand me me old coat there before you 
 sit down; I want me pocket," he com 
 manded, and Mike obeyed. Mary Ann, 
 fresh from her journey, began at once to 
 give a spirited account of her daughters 
 best room and general equipment for house 
 keeping, but she suddenly became aware 
 that the tale was of secondary interest.
 
 WHERE '8 NORA f 51 
 
 When the narrator stopped for breath there 
 was a polite murmur of admiration, but 
 her husband boldly repeated his question. 
 " Where 's Nora ? " he insisted, and the 
 Quins looked at each other and laughed. 
 
 " Ourselves is old hins that 's hatched 
 ducks," confessed Patrick. " Ain't I afther 
 telling you she's gone into trade on the 
 Road ? " and he took his pipe from his 
 mouth, that after-supper pipe which 
 neither prosperity nor adversity was apt to 
 interrupt. " She 's set up for herself over- 
 right the long switch, down there at Birch 
 Plains. Nora '11 soon be rich, the cr'atur' ; 
 her mind was on it from the first start ; 
 't was from one o' them O'Callahan b'ys she 
 got the notion, the night she come here 
 first a greenhorn." 
 
 " Well, well, she 's lost no time ; ain't she 
 got the invintion ! " chuckled Mr. Michael 
 Duffy, who delighted in the activity of 
 others. " What excuse had she for Birch 
 Plains ? There 's no town to it." 
 
 " 'T was a chance on the Road she mint 
 to have from the first," explained the proud 
 uncle, forgetting his pipe altogether; 
 " 't was that she told me the first day she 
 came out, an' she walking along going home
 
 52 WHERE '8 NORA f 
 
 wit' me to her dinner ; 't was the first speech 
 I had wit' Nora. ''Tis the mills you 
 mane ? ' says I. ' No, no, Uncle Patsy ! ' 
 says she, ' it ain't the mills at all, at all ; 't is 
 on the Road I 'm going.' I t'ought she 'd 
 some wild notion she 'd soon be laughing at, 
 but she settled down very quiet-like with 
 Aunty Biddy here, knowing yourselves to 
 be going to Lawrence, and I told her stay 
 as long as she had a mind. Wisha, she 'd 
 an old apron on her in five minutes' time, 
 an' took hold wit' the wash, and wint sing 
 ing like a blackbird out in the yard at the 
 line. ' Sit down, Aunty ! ' says she ; ' you 're 
 not so light-stepping as me, an' I '11 tell you 
 all the news from home ; an' I '11 get the 
 dinner, too, when I 've done this,' says she. 
 Wisha, but she 's the good cook for such a 
 young thing ; 't is Bridget says it as well as 
 meself . She made a stew that day ; 't was 
 like the ones her mother made Sundays, 
 she said, if they'd be lucky in getting a 
 piece of meat ; 't was a fine-tasting stew, 
 too; she thinks we're all rich over here. 
 * So we are, me dear ! ' says I, * but every 
 one don't have the sinse to believe it.' " 
 
 " Spake for yourselves ! " exclaimed one 
 of the listeners. " You do be like Father
 
 WHERE >S NORA t 53 
 
 Ross, always pr'achin' that we 'd best want 
 less than want more. He takes honest 
 folks for fools, poor man," said Mary Ann 
 Duffy, who had no patience at any time 
 with new ideas. 
 
 " An' so she wint on the next two or free 
 days," said Patrick approvingly, without 
 noticing the interruption, "being as quiet 
 as you 'd ask, and being said by her aunt 
 in everything ; and she would n't let on she 
 was homesick, but she 'd no tark of anything 
 but the folks at Dunkinny. When there 'd 
 be nothing to do for an hour she 'd slip out 
 and be gone wit' herself for a little while, 
 and be very still com in' in. Last Thursday, 
 after supper, she ran out ; but by the time 
 I 'd done me pipe, back she came flying in 
 at the door. 
 
 " ' I 'm going off to a place called Birch 
 Plains to-morrow morning, on the nine, 
 Uncle Patsy,' says she ; ' do you know 
 where it is ? ' says she. ' I do,' says I ; 
 * 't was not far from it I broke me leg wit' 
 the dam' derrick. 'T was to Jerry Ryan's 
 house they took me first. There 's no town 
 there at all ; 't is the only house in it ; 
 Ryan 's the switchman.' 
 
 " ' Would they take me to lodge for a
 
 54 WHERE 'S NORA 1 
 
 while, I d' know ? ' says she, havin' great 
 business. ' What 'd ye be af ther in a place 
 like that? ' says I. ' Ryan 's got girls him 
 self, an' they 're all here in the mills, goin' 
 home Saturday nights, 'less there's some 
 show or some dance. There 's no money 
 out there.' She laughed then an' wint back 
 to the door, and in come Mickey Dunn 
 from McLoughlin's store, lugging the size 
 of himself of bundles. What 's all this ? ' 
 says I ; "t ain't here they belong ; I bought 
 nothing to-day.' ' Don't be scolding ! ' says 
 she, and Mickey got out of it laughing. 
 ' I 'm going to be cooking for meself in the 
 morning ! ' says she, with her head on one 
 side, like a cock-sparrow. ' You lind me 
 the price o' the fire and I '11 pay you in 
 cakes,' says she, and off she wint then to 
 bed. 'T was before day I heard her at the 
 stove, and I smelt a baking that made me 
 want to go find it, and when I come out 
 in the kitchen she 'd the table covered with 
 her cakeens, large and small. ' What 's all 
 this whillalu, me topknot-hm ? ' says I. ' Ate 
 that,' says she, and hopped back to the oven- 
 door. Her aunt come out then, scolding 
 fine, and whin she saw the great baking she 
 dropped down in a chair like she'd faint
 
 WHERE '8 NORA1 55 
 
 and her breath all gone. 'We 'ont ate 
 them in ten days,' says she ; * no, not till 
 the blue mould has struck them all, God 
 help us ! ' says she. ' Don't bother me,' 
 says Nora ; ' I 'm goin' off with them all on 
 the nine. Uncle Patsy '11 help me wit' me 
 basket.' 
 
 " ' Uncle Patsy 'ont now,' says Bridget. 
 Faix, I thought she was up with one o' 
 them t'ree days' scolds she 'd have when 
 she was young and the childre' all the one 
 size. You could hear the bawls of her a 
 mile away. 
 
 " ' Whishper, dear,' says Nora ; ' I don't 
 want to be livin' on anny of me folks, and 
 Johnny O'Callahan said all the b'ys was 
 wishing there was somebody would kape a 
 clane little place out there at Birch Plains, 
 with something to ate and the like of 
 a cup of tay. He says 'tis a good little 
 chance ; them big trains does all be wait 
 ing there tin minutes and fifteen minutes 
 at a time, and everybody 's hungry. " I '11 
 thry me luck for a couple o' days," says I ; 
 " 't is no harm, an' I 've tin shillings o' me 
 own that Father Daley gave me wit' a 
 grand blessing and I Faving home behind
 
 56 WHERE '5 NORA t 
 
 c c 
 
 What tark you have of Johnny 
 O'Callahan,' says I. 
 
 " Look at this now ! " continued the 
 proud uncle, while Aunt Biddy sat tri 
 umphantly watching the astonished audi 
 ence ; " 't is a letter I got from the shild 
 last Friday night," and he brought up a 
 small piece of paper from his coat-pocket. 
 " She writes a good hand, too. ' Dear 
 Uncle Patsy,' says she, 'this leaves me 
 well, thanks be to God. I 'm doing the roar 
 ing trade with me cakes ; all Ryan's little 
 boys is selling on the trains. I took one 
 pound three the first day : 't was a great ex 
 cursion train got stuck fast and they 'd a 
 hot box on a wheel keeping them an hour 
 and two more trains stopping for them; 
 't would be a very pleasant day in the old 
 country that anybody 'd take a pound and 
 three shillings. Dear Uncle Patsy, I want 
 a whole half-barrel of that same flour and 
 ten pounds of sugar, and I '11 pay it back 
 on Sunday. I sind respects and duty to 
 Aunty Bridget and all friends ; this 1'aves 
 me in great haste. I wrote me dear mother 
 last night and sint her me first pound, God 
 bless her.' " 
 
 " Look at that for you now ! " exclaimed
 
 WHERE >S NORA f 57 
 
 Mike Duffy. " Did n't I tell every one here 
 she was fine an' smart ? " 
 
 " She '11 be soon Prisident of the Road," 
 announced Aunt Mary Ann, who, having 
 been energetic herself, was pleased to recog 
 nize the same quality in others. 
 
 " She don't be so afraid of the worruk as 
 the worruk 's afraid of her," said Aunt 
 Bridget admiringly. " She '11 have her fling 
 for a while and be glad to go in and get a 
 good chance in the mill, and be kaping her 
 plants in the weave-room windows this winter 
 with the rest of the girls. Come, tell us all 
 about Elleneen and the baby. I ain't heard 
 a word about Lawrence yet," she added 
 politely. 
 
 " Ellen 's doing fine, an' it 's a pritty baby. 
 She 's got a good husband, too, that 1'aves 
 her her own way and the keep of his money 
 every Saturday night," said Mary Ann ; and 
 the little company proceeded to the discus 
 sion of a new and hardly less interesting 
 subject. But before they parted, they spoke 
 again of Nora. 
 
 " She 's a fine, crabbed little gerrl, that 
 little Nora," said Mr. Michael Duffy. 
 
 " Thank God, none o' me childre' is red 
 headed on me ; they 're no more to be let
 
 58 WHERE '8 NORA f 
 
 an' held than a flick o' fire," said Aunt 
 Mary Ann. " Who 'd ever take the notion 
 to be setting up business out there on the 
 Birchy Plains ? " 
 
 " Kyan's folks '11 look after her, sure, the 
 same as ourselves," insisted Uncle Patsy 
 hopefully, as he lighted his pipe again. It 
 was like a summer night ; the kitchen win 
 dows were all open, the month of May was 
 nearly at an end, and there was a sober 
 croaking of frogs in the low fields that lay 
 beyond the village. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Where 's Nora ? " Young Johnny O'Cal- 
 lahan was asking the question ; the express 
 had stopped for water, and he seemed to be 
 the only passenger ; this was his day off. 
 
 Mrs. Ryan was sitting on her doorstep 
 to rest in the early evening ; her husband 
 had been promoted from switch-tender to 
 boss of the great water-tank which was just 
 beginning to be used, and there was talk 
 of further improvements and promotions at 
 Birch Plains ; but the good-natured wife sen 
 sibly declared that the better off a woman 
 was, the harder she always had to work.
 
 WHERE >S NORA f 59 
 
 She took a long look at Johnny, who was 
 dressed even more carefully than if it were 
 a pleasant Sunday. 
 
 "This don't be your train, annyway," 
 she answered, in a meditative tone. " How 
 come you here now all so fine, I 'd like to 
 know, riding in the cars like a lord ; ain't 
 you brakeman yet on old twinty-four ? " 
 
 " 'Deed I am, Mrs. Ryan ; you would n't 
 be afther grudging a boy his day off? 
 Where 's Nora ? " 
 
 " She 's gone up the road a bitteen," said 
 Mrs. Ryan, as if she suddenly turned to 
 practical affairs. " She 's worked hard the 
 day, poor shild ! and she took the cool of 
 the evening, and the last bun she had left, 
 and wint away with herself. I kep' the 
 taypot on the stove for her, but she 'd have 
 none at all, at all ! " 
 
 The young man turned away, and Mrs. 
 Ryan looked after him with an indulgent 
 smile. " He 's a pritty b'y," she said. " I 'd 
 like well if he 'd give a look at one o' me 
 own gerrls ; Julia, now, would look well 
 walking with him, she 's so dark. He 's got 
 money saved. I saw the first day he come 
 after the cakeens 't was the one that baked 
 them was in his mind. She's lucky, is 
 Nora; well, I'm glad of it."
 
 60 WHERE >S NORA ? 
 
 It was fast growing dark, and Johnny's 
 eyes were still dazzled by the bright lights 
 of the train as he stepped briskly along the 
 narrow country road. The more he had 
 seen Nora and the better he liked her, the 
 less she would have to say to him, and to 
 night he meant to find her and have a talk. 
 He had only succeeded in getting half a 
 dozen words at a time since the night of 
 their first meeting on the slow train, when 
 she had gladly recognized the peculiar 
 brogue of her own country-side, as Johnny 
 called the names of the stations, and John 
 ny's quick eyes had seen the tired-looking, 
 uncertain, yet cheerful little greenhorn in 
 the corner of the car, and asked if she were 
 not the niece that was coming out to Mrs. 
 Duffy. He had watched the growth of her 
 business with delight, and heard praises of 
 the cakes and buns with willing ears ; was 
 it not his own suggestion that had laid the 
 foundation of Nora's prosperity ? Since 
 their first meeting they had always greeted 
 each other like old friends, but Nora grew 
 more and more willing to talk with any of 
 her breathless customers who hurried up 
 the steep bank from the trains than with 
 him. She would never take any pay for
 
 WHERE'S NORA? 61 
 
 her wares from him, and for a week he had 
 stopped coming himself and sent by a friend 
 his money for the cakes ; but one day poor 
 Johnny's heart could not resist the tempta 
 tion of going with the rest, and Nora had 
 given him a happy look, straightforward 
 and significant. There was no time for a 
 word, but she picked out a crusty bun, and 
 he took it and ran back without offering 
 to pay. It was the best bun that a man 
 ever ate. Nora was two months out now, 
 and he had never walked with her an even 
 ing yet. 
 
 The shadows were thick under a long row 
 of willows; there was a new moon, and a 
 faint glow in the west still lit the sky. 
 Johnny walked on the grassy roadside with 
 his ears keen to hear the noise of a betray 
 ing pebble under Nora's light foot. Pre 
 sently his heart beat loud and all out of time 
 as a young voice began to sing a little way 
 beyond. 
 
 Nora was walking slowly away, but 
 Johnny stopped still to listen. She was 
 singing " A Blacksmith Courted Me," one 
 of the quaintest and sweetest of the old- 
 country songs, as she strolled along in the 
 soft-aired summer night. By the time she
 
 62 WHERE'S NORA? 
 
 came to " My love 's gone along the fields," 
 Johnny hurried on to overtake her; he 
 could hear the other verses some other time, 
 the bird was even sweeter than the 
 voice. 
 
 Nora was startled for a moment, and 
 stopped singing, as if she were truly a bird 
 in a bush, but she did not flutter away. " Is 
 it yourself, Mister Johnny ? " she asked 
 soberly, as if the frank affection of the song 
 had not been assumed. 
 
 " It 's meself ," answered Johnny, with 
 equal discretion. " I come out for a mout'- 
 f ul of air ; it 's very hot inside in the town. 
 Days off are well enough in winter, but in 
 summer you get a fine air on the train. 
 'T was well we both took the same direction. 
 How is the business ? All the b'ys are say 
 ing they'd be lost without it; sure there 
 ain't a stomach of them but wants its bun, 
 and they cried the length of the Road that 
 day the thunder spoiled the baking." 
 
 " Take this," said Nora, as if she spoke 
 to a child ; " there 's a fine crust of sugar 
 on the top. 'T is one I brought out for me 
 little supper, but I 'm so pleased wit' bein' 
 rich that I 've no need at all for 'ating. An' 
 I 'm as tired as I 'm rich," she added, with
 
 WHERE'S NORA* 63 
 
 a sigh ; " 't is few can say the same in this 
 lazy land." 
 
 "Sure, let's ate it together; 'tis a big 
 little cakeen," urged Johnny, breaking the 
 bun and anxiously offering Nora the larger 
 piece. " I can like the taste of anything 
 better by halves, if I 've got company. You 
 ought to have a good supper of tay and 
 a piece of steak and some potaties rather 
 than this ! Don't be giving yourself nothing 
 but the saved cakes, an' you working so 
 hard ! " 
 
 " 'T is plenty days I 'd a poorer supper 
 when I was at home," said Nora sadly ; 
 *' me father dying so young, and all of us 
 begging at me mother's skirts. It 's all me 
 thought how will I get rich and give me 
 mother all the fine things that 's in the 
 world. I wish I 'd come over sooner, but it 
 broke my heart whinever I 'd think of being 
 out of sight of her face. She looks old now, 
 me mother does." 
 
 Nora may have been touched by Johnny's 
 affectionate interest in her supper ; she 
 forgot all her shyness and drew nearer to 
 him as they walked along, and he drew a 
 little closer to her. 
 
 " My mother is dead these two years," h&
 
 64 WHERE 'S NORA t 
 
 said simply. "It makes a man be very 
 lonesome when his mother 's dead. I board 
 with my sister that 's married ; I 'm not 
 much there at all. I do be thinking I 'd 
 like a house of my own. I 've plinty saved 
 for it." 
 
 " I said in the first of coming out that I 'd 
 go home again when I had fifty pounds," 
 said Nora hastily, and taking the other side 
 of the narrow road. "I've got a piece 
 of it already, and I 've sent back more be 
 side. I thought I 'd be gone two years, but 
 some days I think I won't be so long as 
 that." 
 
 " Why don't you be afther getting your 
 mother out ? 'T is so warm in the winter in 
 a good house, and no dampness like there 
 does be at home ; and her brother and her 
 sister both being here." There was deep 
 anxiety in Johnny's voice. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know indeed ! " said Nora. 
 " She 's very wake-hearted, is me mother ; 
 she 'd die coming away from the old place 
 and going to sea. No, I 'm going to work 
 meself and go home ; I '11 have presents, 
 too, for everybody along the road, and the 
 children '11 be running and skrieghing afther 
 me, and they'll all get sweeties from me.
 
 WHERE'S NORA? 65 
 
 'T is a very poor neighborhood where we 
 live, but a lovely sight of the say. It ain't 
 often annybody comes home to it, but 't will 
 be a great day then, and the poor old folks '11 
 all be calling afther me : ' Where 's Nora ? ' 
 4 Show me Nora ! ' ' Nora, sure, what have 
 you got for me ? ' I 'ont forget one of them 
 aither, God helping me ! " said Nora, in a 
 passion of tenderness and pity. " And oh, 
 Johnny, then afther that I '11 see me mother 
 in the door ! " 
 
 Johnny was so close at her side that she 
 slipped her hand into his, and neither of 
 them stopped to think about so sweet and 
 natural a pleasure. " I 'd like well to help 
 you, me darlin'," said Johnny. 
 
 " Sure, an' was n't it yourself gave me all 
 me good fortune ? " exclaimed Nora. " I 'd 
 be hard-hearted an' I forgot that so soon and 
 you a Kerry boy, and me mother often 
 spaking of your mother's folks before ever 
 I thought of coming out ! " 
 
 " Sure and would n't you spake the good 
 word to your mother about me sometime, 
 dear ? " pleaded Johnny, openly taking the 
 part of lover. Nora's hand was still in his ; 
 they were walking slowly in the summer 
 night. " I loved you the first word I heard
 
 66 WHERE >S NORA ? 
 
 out of your mouth, 't was like a thrush 
 from home singing to me there in the train. 
 I said when I got home that night, I 'd think 
 of no other girl till the day I died." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Nora, frightened with the 
 change of his voice. " Oh, Johnny, 't is 
 too soon. We never walked out this way 
 before ; you '11 have to wait for me ; perhaps 
 you 'd soon be tired of poor Nora, and the 
 likes of one that 's all for saving and going 
 home ! You '11 marry a prittier girl than 
 me some day," she faltered, and let go his 
 hand. 
 
 " Indeed, I won't, then," insisted Johnny 
 O'Callahan stoutly. 
 
 " Will you let me go home to see me 
 mother ? " said Nora soberly. " I 'm afther 
 being very homesick, 't is the truth for me. 
 I 'd lose all me courage if it wa'n't for the 
 hope of that." 
 
 " I will, indeed," said Johnny honestly. 
 
 Nora put out her hand again, of her own 
 accord. " I '11 not say no, then," she whis 
 pered in the dark. " I can't work long 
 unless I do be happy, and well, leave me 
 free till the month's end, and maybe then 
 I '11 say yes. Stop, stop ! " she let go John 
 ny's hand, and hurried along by herself in
 
 WHERE'S NORA? 67 
 
 the road, Johnny, in a transport of hap 
 piness, walking very fast to keep up. She 
 reached a knoll where he could see her 
 slender shape against the dim western sky. 
 " Wait till I tell you ; whisper I " said Nora 
 eagerly. "You know there were some of 
 the managers of the road, the superintend 
 ents and all those big ones, came to Birch 
 Plains yesterday ? " 
 
 " I did be hearing something," said John 
 ny, wondering. 
 
 " There was a quiet-spoken, nice old 
 gentleman came asking me at the door for 
 something to eat, and I being there baking ; 
 't is my time in the morning whin the early 
 trains does be gone, and I 've a fine stretch 
 till the expresses are beginnin' to screech, 
 the tin, and the tin-thirty-two, and the Flying 
 Aigle. I was in a great hurry with word 
 of an excursion coming in the afternoon and 
 me stock very low ; I 'd been baking since 
 four o'clock. He 'd no coat on him, 't was 
 very warm ; and I thought 't was some 
 tramp. Lucky for me I looked again and I 
 said, ' What are you wanting, sir ? ' and 
 then I saw he 'd a beautiful shirt on him, 
 and was very quiet and pleasant. 
 
 *' ' I came away wit'out me breakfast,'
 
 68 WHERE >S NORA t 
 
 says he. ' Can you give me something 
 without too much throuble ? ' says he. ' Do 
 you have anny of those buns there that I 
 hear the men talking about ? ' 
 
 " ' There 's buns there, sir,' says I, ' and 
 I '11 make you a cup of tay or a cup of coffee 
 as quick as I can,' says I, being pleased 
 at the b'ys giving me buns a good name to 
 the likes of him. He was very hungry, too, 
 poor man, an' I ran to Mrs. Ryan to see if 
 she 'd a piece of beefsteak, and my luck ran 
 before me. He sat down in me little place 
 and enjoyed himself well. 
 
 " ' I had no such breakfast in tin years, 
 me dear,' said he at the last, very quiet and 
 thankful ; and he 1'aned back in the chair to 
 rest him, and I cleared away, being in the 
 great hurry, and he asking me how I come 
 there, and I tolt him, and how long I 'd 
 been out, and I said it was two months and 
 a piece, and she being always in me heart, 
 I spoke of me mother, and all me great 
 hopes. 
 
 " Then he sat and thought as if his mind 
 wint to his own business, and I wint on wit' 
 me baking. Says he to me after a while, 
 * We 're going to build a branch road across 
 country to connect with the great moun-
 
 WHERE'S NORAf 69 
 
 tain-roads,' says he; 'the junction's going 
 to be right here ; 't will give you a big mar 
 ket for your buns. There '11 be a lunch- 
 counter in the new station ; do you think 
 you could run it?' says he, spaking very 
 sober. 
 
 " ' I 'd do my best, sir, annyway,' says I. 
 ' I 'd look out for the best of help. Do you 
 know Patrick Quin, sir, that was hurt on 
 the Road and gets a pinsion, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' I do,' says he. ' One of the best men 
 that ever worked for this company,' says he. 
 
 " ' He 's me mother's own brother, then, 
 an' he '11 stand by me,' says I ; and he asked 
 me me name and wrote it down in a book 
 he got out of the pocket of him. ' You 
 shall have the place if you want it,' says he ; 
 * I won't forget,' and off he wint as quiet as 
 he came." 
 
 " Tell me who was it ? " said Johnny 
 O'Callahan, listening eagerly. 
 
 " Mr. Ryan come tumbling in the next 
 minute, spattered with water from the tank. 
 ' Well, then,' says he, ' is your fine company 
 gone ? ' 
 
 " ' He is,' says I. ' I don't know is it 
 some superintendent ? He 's a nice man, 
 Mr. Ryan, whoiver he is,' says I.
 
 70 WHERE 'S NORA 
 
 " ' 'T is the Gineral Manager of the 
 Road,' says he ; ' that 's who he is, sure ! ' 
 
 "My apron was all flour, and I was in 
 a great rage wit' so much to do, but I did 
 the best I could for him. I 'd do the same 
 for anny one so hungry," concluded Nora 
 modestly. 
 
 " Ain't you got the Queen's luck ! " ex 
 claimed Johnny admiringly. " Your for 
 tune 's made, me dear. I '11 have to come 
 off the road to help you." 
 
 " Oh, two good trades '11 be better than 
 one ! " answered Nora gayly, " and the big 
 station nor the branch road are n't building 
 
 yet." 
 
 " What a fine little head you 've got," said 
 Johnny, as they reached the house where the 
 Ryans lived, and the train was whistling 
 that he meant to take back to town. " Good 
 night, annyway, Nora ; nobody 'd know from 
 the size of your head there could be so much 
 inside in it! " 
 
 "I'm lucky, too," announced Nora se 
 renely. " No, I won't give you me word till 
 the ind of the month. You may be seeing 
 another gerrl before that, and calling me the 
 red-headed sparrow. No, I '11 wait a good 
 while, and see if the two of us can't do
 
 WHERE >S NORA f 71 
 
 better. Come, run away, Johnny. I '11 
 drop asleep in the road ; I 'm up since four 
 o'clock making me cakes for plinty b'ys like 
 you." 
 
 The Ryans were all abed and asleep, but 
 there was a lamp burning in the kitchen. 
 Nora blew it out as she stole into her hot 
 little room. She had waited, talking eagerly 
 with Johnny, until they saw the headlight 
 of the express like a star, far down the long 
 line of double track. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The summer was not ended before all the 
 railroad men knew about Johnny O'Calla- 
 han's wedding and all his good fortune. 
 They boarded at the Ryans' at first, but late 
 in the evenings Johnny and his wife were at 
 work, building as if they were birds. First, 
 there was a shed with a broad counter for 
 the cakes, and a table or two, and the boys 
 did not fail to notice that Nora had a good 
 sisterly work-basket ready, and was quick to 
 see that a useful button was off or a stitch 
 needed. The next fortnight saw a room 
 added to this, where Nora had her own stove, 
 and cooking went on steadily. Then there
 
 72 WHERE'S NORA1 
 
 was another room with white muslin curtains 
 at the windows, and scarlet-runner beans 
 made haste to twine themselves to a line of 
 strings for shade. Johnny would unload a 
 few feet of clean pine boards from the freight 
 train, and within a day or two they seemed 
 to be turned into a wing of the small castle 
 by some easy magic. The boys used to lay 
 wagers and keep watch, and there was a 
 cheer out of the engine-cab and all along the 
 platforms one day when a tidy sty first ap 
 peared and a neat pig poked his nose through 
 the fence of it. The buns and biscuits grew 
 famous ; customers sent for them from the 
 towns up and down the long railroad line, 
 and the story of thrifty, kind-hearted little 
 Nora and her steady young husband was 
 known to a surprising number of persons. 
 When the branch road was begun, Nora and 
 Johnny took a few of their particular friends 
 to board, and business was further increased. 
 On Sunday they always went into town to 
 mass and visited their uncles and aunts and 
 Johnny's sister. Nora never said that she 
 was tired, and almost never was cross. She 
 counted her money every Saturday night, 
 and took it to Uncle Patsy to put into the 
 bank. She had long talks about her mother
 
 WHERE 'S NORA f 73 
 
 with Uncle Patsy, and he always wrote home 
 for her when she had no time. Many a 
 pound went across the sea in the letters, and 
 so another summer came ; and one morning 
 when Johnny's train stopped, Nora stood at 
 the door of the little house and held a baby 
 in her arms for all the boys to see. She was 
 white as a ghost and as happy as a queen. 
 " I '11 be making the buns again pretty soon," 
 she cried cheerfully. " Have courage, boys ; 
 't won't be long first ; this one '11 be selling 
 them for me on the Flying Aigle, don't you 
 forget it ! " And there was a great ringing 
 of the engine-bell a moment after, when the 
 train started. 
 
 V. 
 
 It was many and many a long month after 
 this that an old man and a young woman 
 and a baby were journeying in a side-car 
 along one of the smooth Irish roads into 
 County Kerry. They had left the railroad 
 an hour before ; they had landed early that 
 morning at the Cove of Cork. The side-car 
 was laden deep with bundles and boxes, but 
 the old horse trotted briskly along until the 
 gossoon who was driving turned into a cart- 
 track that led through a f urzy piece of wild
 
 74 WHERE >S NORA t 
 
 pasture-ground up toward the dark rain- 
 clouded hills. 
 
 "See, over there's Kinmare!" said the 
 old man, looking back. " Manny 's the day 
 I 've trudged it and home again. Oh, I 
 know all this country ; I knew it well whin 
 ayther of you wa'n't born ! " 
 
 " God be thanked, you did, sir ! " responded 
 the gossoon, with fervent admiration. He 
 was a pleasant-looking lad in a ragged old 
 coat and an absolutely roofless hat, through 
 which his bright hair waved in the summer 
 wind. " Och, but the folks '11 be looking out 
 of all the doors to see you come. I '11 be 
 afther saying I never drove anny party with 
 so rich a heart ; there ain't a poor soul that 
 asked a pinny of us since we left Bantry but 
 she's got the shillin'. Look a' the flock 
 coming now, sir, out of that house. There 's 
 the four-legged lady that pays the rint watch- 
 in' afther them from the door, too. They 
 think you 're a gintleman that 's shootin', I 
 suppose. 'T is Tom Flaherty's house, poor 
 crathur ; he died last winter, God rest him ; 
 't was very inconvanient for him an' every 
 one at the time, wit' snow on the ground and 
 a great dale of sickness and distress. Father 
 Daley, poor man, had to go to the hospital
 
 WHERE 'S NORA ? 75 
 
 in Dublin wit' himself to get a leg cut off, 
 and we 'd nothing but rain out of the sky 
 af ther that till all the stones in the road was 
 floatin' to the top." 
 
 " Son of old John Flaherty. I suppose ? " 
 asked the traveler, with a knowing air, after 
 he had given the eager children some pennies 
 and gingerbread, out of a great package. 
 One of the older girls knew Nora and climbed 
 to the spare seat at her side to join the 
 company. "Son of old John Flaherty, I 
 suppose, that was there before ? There was 
 Flahertys there and I Faving home more 
 than thirty-five years ago." 
 
 " Sure there 's plinty Flahertys in it now, 
 glory be to God ! " answered the charioteer, 
 with enthusiasm. " I 'd have no mother 
 meself but for the Flahertys." He leaped 
 down to lead the stumbling horse past a deep 
 rut and some loose stones, and beckoned 
 the little girl sternly from her proud seat. 
 " Run home, now ! " he said, as she obeyed : 
 " I '11 give you a fine drive an' I coming 
 down the hill ; " but she had joined the trav 
 elers with full intent, and trotted gayly 
 alongside like a little dog. 
 
 The old passenger whispered to his com 
 panion that they 'd best double the gossoon's
 
 76 WHERE'S NORA? 
 
 money, or warm it with two or three shil 
 lings extra, at least, and Nora nodded her 
 prompt approval. " The old folks are all 
 getting away ; we 'd best give a bitteen to 
 the young ones they 've left afther them," 
 said Uncle Patsy, by way of excuse. " Och, 
 there 's more beggars between here and 
 Queenstown than you 'd find in the whole of 
 Ameriky." 
 
 It seemed to Nora as if her purseful of 
 money were warm against her breast, like an 
 other heart ; the sixpences in her pocket all 
 felt warm to her fingers and hopped by them 
 selves into the pleading hands that were 
 stretched out all along the way. The sweet 
 clamor of the Irish voices, the ready bless 
 ings, the frank requests to those returning 
 from America with their fortunes made, 
 were all delightful to her ears. How she 
 had dreamed of this day, and how the sun 
 and shadows were chasing each other over 
 these upland fields at last ! How close the 
 blue sea looked to the dark hills ! It seemed 
 as if the return of one prosperous child gave 
 joy to the whole landscape. It was the old 
 country the same as ever, old Mother Ire 
 land in her green gown, and the warm heart 
 of her ready and unf orgetting. As for Nora,
 
 WHERE'S NOKA* 77 
 
 she could only leave a wake of silver six 
 pences behind her, and when these were 
 done, a duller trail of ha'pennies ; and the 
 air was full of blessings as she passed along 
 the road to Duukenny. 
 
 By this time Nora had stopped talking and 
 laughing. At first everybody on the road 
 seemed like her near relation, but the last 
 minutes seemed like hours, and now and then 
 a tear went shining down her cheek. The 
 old man's lips were moving, he was saying 
 a prayer without knowing it ; they were al 
 most within sight of home. The poor little 
 white houses, with their high gable-ends and 
 weather-beaten thatch, that stood about the 
 fields among the green hedges ; the light 
 shower that suddenly fell out of the clear 
 sky overhead, made an old man's heart trem 
 ble in his breast. Round the next slope of 
 the hill they should see the old place. 
 
 The wheel-track stopped where you turned 
 off to go to the Donahoe farm, but no old 
 Mary was there to give friendly welcome. The 
 old man got stiffly down from the side-car 
 and limped past the gate with a sigh ; but 
 Nora hurried ahead, carrying the big baby, 
 not because he could n't walk, but because he
 
 78 WHERE'S NORAt 
 
 could. The young son had inherited his 
 mother's active disposition, and would run 
 straight away like a spider the minute his 
 feet were set to the ground. Now and 
 then, at the sight of a bird or a flower in the 
 grass, he struggled to get down. " Whisht, 
 now ! " Nora would say ; " and are n't you 
 going to see Granny indeed ? Keep aisy 
 now, darlin' ! " 
 
 The old heart and the young heart were 
 beating alike as these exiles followed the nar 
 row footpath round the shoulder of the 
 great hill ; they could hear the lambs bleat 
 and the tinkling of the sheep-bells that 
 sweet May morning. From the lower hill 
 side came the sound of voices. The neigh 
 bors had seen them pass, and were calling 
 to each other across the fields. Oh, it was 
 home, home ! the sight of it, and the smell 
 of the salt air and the flowers in the bog, 
 the look of the early white mushrooms in the 
 sod, and the song of the larks overhead and 
 the blackbirds in the hedges ! Poor Ireland 
 was gay-hearted in the spring weather, and 
 Nora was there at last. " Oh, thank God, 
 we 're safe home ! " she said again. " Look, 
 here 's the Wishing Brook ; d' ye mind it ? " 
 she called back to the old man.
 
 WHERE'S NORAt 79 
 
 " I mind everything the day, no fear for 
 me," said Patrick Quin. 
 
 The great hillside before them sloped up 
 to meet the blue sky, the golden gorse spread 
 its splendid tapestry against the green pas 
 ture. There was the tiny house, the one 
 house in Ireland for Nora ; its very windows 
 watched her coming. A whiff of turf-smoke 
 flickered above the chimney, the white walls 
 were as white as the clouds above ; there was 
 a figure moving about inside the house, and 
 a bent little woman in her white frilled cap 
 and a small red shawl pinned about her 
 shoulders came and stood in the door. 
 
 " Oh, me mother, me mother ! " cried 
 Nora ; then she dropped the baby in the 
 soft grass, and flew like a pigeon up the hill 
 and into her mother's arms. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The gossoon was equal to emergencies ; 
 he put down his heavier burden of goods 
 and picked up the baby, lest it might run 
 back to America. " God be praised, what 's 
 this coming afther ye ? " exclaimed the 
 mother, while Nora, weeping for joy, ran 
 past her into the house. " Oh, God bless
 
 80 WHERE'S NORA? 
 
 the shild that I thought I 'd never see. 
 Oh ! " and she looked again at the stranger, 
 the breathless old man with the thorn stick, 
 whom everybody had left behind. " 'T is 
 me brother Patsy ! Oh, me heart 's broke 
 wit' joy ! " and she fell on her knees among 
 the daisies. 
 
 " It 's meself , then ! " said Mr. Patrick 
 Quin. " How are ye the day, Mary ? I al 
 ways t'ought I 'd see home again, but 't was 
 Nora enticed me now. Johnny O'Callahan's 
 a good son to ye ; he 'd liked well to come 
 with us, but he gets short 1'ave on the 
 Road, and he has a fine, steady job ; he '11 
 see after the business, too, while we 're 
 gone ; no, I could n't let the two childer 
 cross the say alone. Coom now, don't be 
 sayin' anny more prayers ; sure, we '11 be 
 sayin' them together in the old church coom 
 Sunday. 
 
 " There, don't cry, Mary, don't cry, now ! 
 Coom in in the house ! Sure, all the folks 
 sint their remimbrance, and hoped you 'd 
 come back with us and stay a long while. 
 That's our intintion, too, for you," con 
 tinued Patrick, none the less tearful himself 
 because he was so full of fine importance ; 
 but nobody could stop to listen after the
 
 WHERE >S NORA t 81 
 
 first moment, and the brother and sister 
 were both crying faster than they could 
 talk. A minute later the spirit of the 
 hostess rose to her great occasion. 
 
 " Go, chase those white hins," Nora's 
 mother commanded the gossoon, who had 
 started back to bring up more of the rich- 
 looking bundles from the side-car. " Run 
 them up-hill now, or they '11 fly down to 
 Kinmare. Go now, while I stir up me fire 
 and make a cup o' tay. 'T is the laste I can 
 do whin me folks is afther coming so far ! " 
 
 " God save all here ! " said Uncle Patsy 
 devoutly, as he stepped into the house. 
 There sat little Nora with the tired baby in 
 her arms ; to tell the truth, she was crying 
 now for lack of Johnny. She looked pale, 
 but her eyes were shining, and a ray of sun 
 light fell through the door and brightened 
 her red hair. She looked quite beautiful 
 and radiant as she sat there. 
 
 " Well, Nora, ye 're here, ain't you ? " 
 said the old man. 
 
 " Only this morning," said the mother, 
 " whin I opened me eyes I says to meself : 
 ' Where 's Nora ? ' says I ; ' she do be so 
 long wit'out writing home to kne ; ' look at 
 her now by me own fire! Wisha, but
 
 82 WHERE 'S NORA * 
 
 what 's all this whillalu and stramach down 
 by the brook ? Oh, see now ! the folks have 
 got word ; all the folks is here ! Coom out 
 to them, Nora ; give me the shild ; coom 
 out, Patsy boy ! " 
 
 " Where 's Nora ? Where 's Nora ? " they 
 could hear the loud cry coming, as all the 
 neighbors hurried up the hill.
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 I. 
 
 " ' WELL, now,' says I, ' Mrs. Con'ly,' 
 says I, ' how ever you may tark, 't is nobody's 
 business and I wanting to plant a few pump 
 kins for me cow in among me cabbages. 
 I 've got the right to plant whatever I may 
 choose, if it 's the divil of a crop of t'istles 
 in the middle of me ground.' ' No ma'ain, 
 you ain't,' says Biddy Con'ly ; * you ain't got 
 anny right to plant t'istles that 's not for the 
 public good,' says she ; and I being so hasty 
 wit' me timper, I shuk me fist in her face 
 then, and herself shuk her fist at me. Just 
 then Father Brady come by, as luck ardered, 
 an' recomminded us would we keep the 
 peace. He knew well I 'd had my provo 
 cation ; 't was to herself he spoke first. 
 You'd think she owned the whole corpora 
 tion. I wished I 'd t'rown her over into the 
 wather, so I did, before he come by at all. 
 'T was on the bridge the two of us were. 
 I was stepping home by meself very quiet
 
 84 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 in the afthernoon to put me tay-kittle on 
 for supper, and herself overtook me, ain't 
 she the bold thing ! 
 
 " ' How are you the day, Mrs. Dunl'avy ? ' 
 says she, so mincin' an' preenin', and I knew 
 well she 'd put her mind on having words 
 wit' me from that minute. I 'm one that 
 likes to have peace in the neighborhood, if 
 it wa'n't for the likes of her, that makes the 
 top of me head lift and clat' wit' rage like a 
 pot-lid!" 
 
 " What was the matter with the two of 
 you ? " asked a listener, with simple interest. 
 
 " Faix indeed, 't was herself had a thrifle 
 of melons planted the other side of the 
 fince," acknowledged Mrs. Dunleavy. " She 
 said the pumpkins would be the ruin of them 
 intirely. I says, and 'twas thrue for me, 
 that I 'd me pumpkins planted the week 
 before she 'd dropped anny old melon seed 
 into the ground, and the same bein' already 
 dwining from so manny bugs. Oh, but 
 she 's blackhearted to give me the lie about 
 it, and say those poor things was all up, 
 and she 'd thrown lime on 'em to keep away 
 their inemies when she first see me come 
 out betune me cabbage rows. How well she 
 knew what I might be doing ! Me cab-
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 85 
 
 bages grows far apart and I 'd plinty of 
 room, and if a pumpkin vine gets attention 
 you can entice it wherever you pl'ase and 
 it'll grow fine and long, while the poor 
 cabbages ates and grows fat and round, and 
 no harm to annybody, but she must pick a 
 quarrel with a quiet 'oman in the face of 
 every one. 
 
 " We were on the bridge, don't you see, 
 and plinty was passing by with their grins, 
 and loitering and stopping afther they were 
 behind her back to hear what was going on 
 betune us. Annybody does be liking to get 
 the sound of loud talk an' they having 
 nothing better to do. Biddy Con'ly, seeing 
 she was well watched, got the airs of a 
 pr'acher, and set down whatever she might 
 happen to be carrying and tried would she 
 get the better of me for the sake of their 
 admiration. Oh, but wa'n't she all drabbled 
 and wet from the roads, and the world 
 knows meself for a very tidy walker ! 
 
 " ' Clane the mud from your shoes if 
 you 're going to dance ; ' 't was all I said to 
 her, and she being that mad she did be step 
 ping up and down like an old turkey-hin, 
 and shaking her fist all the time at me. 
 4 Coom now, Biddy,' says I, ' what put you
 
 86 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 out so ? ' says I. * Sure, it creeps me skin 
 when I looks at you ! Is the pig dead,' says 
 I, ' or anny little thing happened to you, 
 ma'am ? Sure this is far beyond the rights 
 of a few pumpkin seeds that has just cleared 
 the ground ! ' and all the folks laughed. I 'd 
 no call to have tark with Biddy Con'ly be 
 fore them idle b'ys and gerrls, nor to let the 
 two of us become their laughing-stock. I 
 tuk up me basket, being ashamed then, and 
 I meant to go away, mad as I was. ' Coom, 
 Mrs. Con'ly ! ' says I, ' let bygones be by 
 gones ; what 's all this whillalu we 're af ther 
 having about nothing ? ' says I very pleasant. 
 " ' May the divil fly away with you, Mary 
 Dunl'avy ! ' says she then, ' spoiling me gar 
 den ground, as every one can see, and full of 
 your bold talk. I '11 let me hens out into it 
 this afternoon, so I will,' says she, and a 
 good deal more. * Hold off,' says I, ' and 
 remember what fell to your aunt one day 
 when she sint her hins in to pick a neigh 
 bor's piece, and while her own back was 
 turned they all come home and had every 
 sprouted bean and potatie heeled out in the 
 hot sun, and all her fine lettuces picked into 
 Irish lace. We 've lived neighbors,' says I, 
 * thirteen years,' says I ; ' and we 've often
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 87 
 
 had words together above the fince,' says I, 
 4 but we 're neighbors yet, and we Ve no call 
 to stand here in such spectacles and dis 
 gracing ourselves and each other. Coom, 
 Biddy,' says I, again, going away with me 
 basket and renumbering Father Brady's 
 caution whin it was too late. Some o' the 
 b'ys went off too, thinkin' 't was all done. 
 
 " * I don't want auny o' your Coom Biddy's,' 
 says she, stepping at me, with a black stripe 
 across her face, she was that destroyed with 
 rage, and I stepped back and held up me 
 basket between us, she being bigger than 
 I, and I getting no chance, and herself 
 slipped and fell, and her nose got a clout 
 with the hard edge of the basket, it would 
 trouble the saints to say how, and then I 
 picked her up and wint home with her to 
 thry and quinch the blood. Sure I was 
 sorry for the crathur an' she having such a 
 timper boiling in her heart. 
 
 " ' Look at you now, Mrs. Con'ly,' says I, 
 kind of soft, * you 'ont be fit for mass these 
 two Sundays with a black eye like this, and 
 your face arl scratched, and every bliguard 
 has gone the lingth of the town to tell tales 
 of us. I 'm a quiet 'oman,' says I, ' and I 
 don't thank you,' says I, whin the blood was
 
 88 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 stopped, ' no, I don't thank you for dis- 
 gracin' an old neighbor like me. 'T is of our 
 prayers and the grave we should be thinkin', 
 and not be having bold words on the bridge.' 
 Wisha ! but I fought I was after spaking 
 very quiet, and up she got and caught up 
 the basket, and I dodged it by good luck, 
 but after that I walked off and left her to 
 satisfy her foolishness with b'ating the wall 
 if it pl'ased her. I 'd no call for her com 
 pany anny more, and I took a vow I 'd never 
 spake a word to her again while the world 
 stood. So all is over since then betune 
 Biddy Con'ly and me. No, I don't look at 
 her at aU ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 Some time afterward, in late summer, 
 Mrs. Dunleavy stood, large and noisy, but 
 generous-hearted, addressing some remarks 
 from her front doorway to a goat on the 
 sidewalk. He was pulling some of her cher 
 ished foxgloves through the picket fence, and 
 eagerly devouring their flowery stalks. 
 
 " How well you rache through an honest 
 fince, you black pirate ! " she shouted ; but 
 finding that harsh words had no effect, she 
 took a convenient broom, and advanced to
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 89 
 
 strike a gallant blow upon the creature's 
 back. This had the simple effect of mak 
 ing him step a little to one side and modestly 
 begin to nibble at a tuft of grass. 
 
 " Well, if I ain't plagued ! " said Mrs. 
 Dunleavy sorrowfully ; " if I ain't throubled 
 with every wild baste, and me cow that was 
 some use gone dry very unexpected, and a 
 neighbor that 's worse than none at all. I 've 
 nobody to have an honest word with, and the 
 morning being so fine and pleasant. Faix, 
 I'd move away from it, if there was anny 
 place I 'd enjoy better. I 've no heart ex 
 cept for me garden, me poor little crops is 
 doing so well ; thanks be to God, me cab 
 bages is very fine. There does be those that 
 overlooked me pumpkins for the poor cow ; 
 they 're no size at all wit' so much rain." 
 
 The two small white houses stood close 
 together, with their little gardens behind 
 them. The road was just in front, and led 
 down to a stone bridge which crossed the 
 river to the busy manufacturing village be 
 yond. The air was fresh and cool at that 
 early hour, the wind had changed after a 
 season of dry, hot weather ; it was just the 
 morning for a good bit of gossip with a 
 neighbor, but summer was almost done, and
 
 90 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 the friends were not reconciled. Their re 
 spective acquaintances had grown tired of 
 hearing the story of the quarrel, and the 
 novelty of such a pleasing excitement had 
 long been over. Mrs. Connelly was thump 
 ing away at a handful of belated ironing, 
 and Mrs. Dunleavy, estranged and solitary, 
 sighed as she listened to the iron. She was 
 sociable by nature, and she had an impulse 
 to go in and sit down as she used at the end 
 of the ironing table. 
 
 " Wisha, the poor thing is mad at me yet, 
 I know that from the sounds of her iron ; 
 't was a shame for her to go picking a quar 
 rel with the likes of me," and Mrs. Dun 
 leavy sighed heavily and stepped down into 
 her flower-plot to pull the distressed foxgloves 
 back into their places inside the fence. The 
 seed had been sent her from the old country, 
 and this was the first year they had come 
 into full bloom. She had been hoping that 
 the sight of them would melt Mrs. Connelly's 
 heart into some expression of friendliness, 
 since they had come from adjoining parishes 
 in old County Kerry. The goat lifted his 
 head, and gazed at his enemy with mild in 
 terest ; he was pasturing now by the road 
 side, and the foxgloves had proved bitter in 
 his mouth.
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 91 
 
 Mrs. Dunleavy stood looking at him over 
 the fence, glad of even a goat's company. 
 
 " Go 'long there ; see that fine little tuft 
 ahead now," she advised him, forgetful of 
 his depredations. " Oh, to think I 've no 
 body to spake to, the day ! " 
 
 At that moment a woman came in sight 
 round the turn of the road. She was a 
 stranger, a fellow country-woman, and she 
 carried a large newspaper bundle and a 
 heavy handbag. Mrs. Dunleavy stepped 
 out of the flower-bed toward the gate, and 
 waited there until the stranger came up and 
 stopped to ask a question. 
 
 " Ann Bogan don't live here, do she ? " 
 
 " She don't," answered the mistress of the 
 house, with dignity. 
 
 " I fought she did n't ; you don't know 
 where she lives, do you ? " 
 
 " I don't," said Mrs. Dunleavy. 
 
 " I don't know ayther ; niver mind, I '11 
 find her ; 't is a fine day, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Dunleavy could hardly bear to let 
 the stranger go away. She watched her far 
 down the hill toward the bridge before she 
 turned to go into the house. She seated 
 herself by the side window next Mrs. Con 
 nelly's, and gave herself to her thoughts.
 
 92 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 The sound of the flatiron had stopped when 
 the traveler came to the gate, and it had 
 not begun again. Mrs. Connelly had gone 
 to her front door ; the hem of her calico 
 dress could be plainly seen, and the bulge 
 of her apron, and she was watching the 
 stranger quite out of sight. She even came 
 out to the doorstep, and for the first time 
 in many weeks looked with friendly intent 
 toward her neighbor's house. Then she 
 also came and sat down at her side window. 
 Mrs. Dunleavy's heart began to leap with 
 excitement. 
 
 " Bad cess to her foolishness, she does be 
 afther wanting to come round ; I '11 not 
 make it too aisy for her," said Mrs. Dun- 
 leavy, seizing a piece of sewing and for 
 bearing to look up. " I don't know who 
 Ann Bogan is, annyway ; perhaps herself 
 does, having lived in it five or six years 
 longer than me. Perhaps she knew this 
 woman by her looks, and the heart is out of 
 her with wanting to know what she asked 
 from me. She can sit there, then, and let 
 her irons grow cold ! 
 
 "There was Bogans living down by the 
 brick mill when I first come here, neighbors 
 to Flaherty's folks," continued Mrs. Dun-
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 93 
 
 leavy, more and more aggrieved. " Biddy 
 Con'ly ought to know the Flahertys, they 
 being her cousins. 'T was a fine loud-talk 
 ing 'oman ; sure Biddy might well enough 
 have heard her inquiring of me, and have 
 stepped out, and said if she knew Ann 
 Bogan, and satisfied a poor stranger that 
 was hunting the town over. No, I don't 
 know anny one in the name of Ann Bogan, 
 so I don't," said Mrs. Dunleavy aloud, 
 " and there 's nobody I can ask a civil ques 
 tion, with every one that ought to be me 
 neighbors stopping their mouths, and keep 
 ing black grudges whin 't was meself got all 
 the offince." 
 
 " Faix 't was meself got the whack on me 
 nose," responded Mrs. Connelly quite unex 
 pectedly. She was looking squarely at the 
 window where Mrs. Dunleavy sat behind 
 the screen of blue mosquito netting. They 
 were both conscious that Mrs. Connelly 
 made a definite overture of peace. 
 
 " That one was a very civil-spoken 'oman 
 that passed by just now," announced Mrs. 
 Dunleavy, handsomely waiving the subject 
 of the quarrel and coming frankly to the 
 subject of present interest. " Faix, 't is a 
 poor day for Ann Bogans ; she '11 find that 
 out before she gets far in the place."
 
 94 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 " Ann Bogans was plinty here once, then, 
 God rest them! There was two Ann 
 Bogans, mother and daughter, lived down 
 by Flaherty's when I first come here. They 
 died in the one year, too ; 't is most thirty 
 years ago," said Bridget Connelly, in her 
 most friendly tone. 
 
 " ' I '11 find her,' says the poor 'oman as 
 if she 'd only to look ; indeed, she 's got the 
 boldness," reported Mary Dunleavy, peace 
 being fully restored. 
 
 " 'T was to Flaherty's she 'd go first, and 
 they all moved to La'rence twelve years ago, 
 and all she '11 get from anny one would be 
 the address of the cimet'ry. There was 
 plenty here knowing to Ann Bogan once. 
 That 'oman is one I 've seen long ago, but I 
 can't name her yet. Did she say who she 
 was ? " asked the neighbor. 
 
 " She did n't ; I 'm sorry for the poor 
 'oman, too," continued Mrs. Dunleavy, in 
 the same spirit of friendliness. " She 'd the 
 expectin' look of one who came hoping to 
 make a nice visit and find friends, and her 
 self lugging a fine bundle. She 'd the looks 
 as if she 'd lately come out ; very decent, 
 but old-fashioned. Her bonnet was made at 
 home annyways, did ye mind ? I '11 lay it
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 95 
 
 was bought in Cork when it was new, or 
 maybe 'twas from a good shop in Bantry 
 or Kinmare, or some o' those old places. If 
 she 'd seemed satisfied to wait, I 'd made 
 her the offer of a cup of tay, but off she 
 wint with great courage." 
 
 " I don't know but I '11 slip on me bonnet 
 in the afthernoon and go find her," said 
 Biddy Connelly, with hospitable warmth. 
 " I 've seen her before, perhaps 't was long 
 whiles ago at home." 
 
 " Indeed I thought of it myself," said 
 Mrs. Dunleavy, with approval. " We 'd 
 best wait, perhaps, till she 'd be coming 
 back ; there 's no train now till three o'clock. 
 She might stop here till the five, and we '11 
 find out all about her. She '11 have a very 
 lonesome day, whoiver she is. Did you see 
 that old goat 'ating the best of me fairy- 
 fingers that all bloomed the day?" she asked 
 eagerly, afraid that the conversation might 
 come to an end at any moment ; but Mrs. 
 Connelly took no notice of so trivial a sub 
 ject. 
 
 " Me melons is all getting ripe," she 
 announced, with an air of satisfaction. 
 " There 's a big one must be ate now while 
 We can ; it 's down in the cellar cooling itself,
 
 96 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 an' I 'd like to be dropping it, getting down 
 the stairs. 'Twas afther picking it I was 
 before breakfast, itself having begun to 
 crack open. Himself was the b'y that loved 
 a melon, an' I ain't got the heart to look 
 at it alone. Coom over, will ye, Mary ? " 
 
 " 'Deed then an' I will," said Mrs. Dun- 
 leavy, whose face was close against the mos 
 quito netting. " Them old pumpkin vines 
 was no good anny way ; did you see how 
 one of them had the invintion, and wint 
 away up on the fince entirely wit' its great 
 flowers, an' there come a rain on 'em, and 
 so they all blighted ? I 'd no call to grow 
 such stramming great things in my piece 
 annyway, 'ating up all the goodness from 
 me beautiful cabbages." 
 
 III. 
 
 That afternoon the reunited friends sat 
 banqueting together and keeping an eye on 
 the road. They had so much to talk over 
 and found each other so agreeable that it 
 was impossible to dwell with much regret 
 upon the long estrangement. When the 
 melon was only half finished the stranger of 
 the morning, with her large unopened bun-
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 97 
 
 die and the heavy handbag, was seen mak. 
 ing her way up the hill. She wore such a 
 weary and disappointed look that she was 
 accosted and invited in by both the women, 
 and being proved by Mrs. Connelly to be an 
 old acquaintance, she joined them at their 
 feast. 
 
 " Yes, I was here seventeen years ago for 
 the last time," she explained. " I was work 
 ing in Lawrence, and I came over and spent 
 a fortnight with Honora Flaherty ; then I 
 wint home that year to mind me old mother, 
 and she lived to past ninety. I 'd nothing to 
 keep me then, and I was always homesick 
 afther America, so back I come to it, but all 
 me old frinds and neighbors is changed and 
 gone. Faix, this is the first welcome I 've 
 got yet from anny one. 'Tis a beautiful 
 welcome, too, I '11 get me apron out of me 
 bundle, by your 1'ave, Mrs. Con'ly. You 've 
 a strong resemblance to Flaherty's folks, 
 dear, being cousins. Well, 't is a fine thing 
 to have good neighbors. You an' Mrs. 
 Dunleavy is very pleasant here so close 
 together." 
 
 " Well, we does be having a hasty word 
 now and then, ma'am," confessed Mrs. Dun 
 leavy, " but ourselves is good neighbors this
 
 98 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 
 
 manny years. Whin a quarrel 's about no 
 thing betune friends, it don't count for 
 much, so it don't." 
 
 " Most quarrels is the same way," said the 
 stranger, who did not like melons, but ac 
 cepted a cup of hot tea. " Sure, it always 
 takes two to make a quarrel, and but one to 
 end it ; that 's what me mother always told 
 me, that never gave anny one a cross word 
 in her life." 
 
 "Tis a beautiful melon," repeated Mrs. 
 Dunleavy for the seventh time. " Sure, I '11 
 plant a few seed myself next year ; me 
 pumpkins is no good afther all me foolish 
 pride wit' 'em. Maybe the land don't suit 
 'em, but glory be to God, me cabbages is 
 the size of the house, an' you '11 git the pick 
 of the best, Mrs. Con'ly." 
 
 " What 's melons betune friends, or cab 
 bages ayther, that they should ever make 
 any trouble? " answered Mrs. Connelly 
 handsomely, and the great feud was forever 
 ended. 
 
 But the stranger, innocent that she was 
 the harbinger of peace, could hardly under 
 stand why Bridget Connelly insisted upon 
 her staying all night and talking over old 
 times, and why the two women put on their
 
 BOLD WORDS AT THE BRIDGE. 99 
 
 bonnets and walked, one on either hand, 
 to see the town with her that evening. As 
 they crossed the bridge they looked at each 
 other shyly, and then began to laugh. 
 
 " Well, I missed it the most on Sundays 
 going all alone to mass," confessed Mary 
 Dunleavy. " I 'm glad there 's no one here 
 seeing us go over, so I am." 
 
 " 'T was ourselves had bold words at the 
 bridge, once, that we 've got the laugh about 
 now," explained Mrs. Connelly politely to 
 the stranger.
 
 MAETHA'S LADY. 
 
 I. 
 
 ONE day, many years ago, the old Judge 
 Pyne house wore an unwonted look of gay- 
 ety and youthfulness. The high-fenced 
 green garden was bright with June flowers. 
 Under the elms in the large shady front 
 yard you might see some chairs placed near 
 together, as they often used to be when the 
 family were all at home and life was going 
 on gayly with eager talk and pleasure-mak 
 ing ; when the elder judge, the grandfather, 
 used to quote that great author, Dr. Johnson, 
 and say to his girls, " Be brisk, be splendid, 
 and be public." 
 
 One of the chairs had a crimson silk 
 shawl thrown carelessly over its straight back, 
 and a passer-by, who looked in through the 
 latticed gate between the tall gate-posts with 
 their white urns, might think that this piece 
 of shining East Indian color was a huge red 
 lily that had suddenly bloomed against the 
 syringa bush. There were certain windows
 
 MARTHAS LADY. 101 
 
 thrown wide open that were usually shut, 
 and their curtains were blowing free in the 
 light wind of a summer afternoon ; it looked 
 as if a large household had returned to the 
 old house to fill the prim best rooms and find 
 them full of cheer. 
 
 It was evident to every one in town that 
 Miss Harriet Pyne, to use the village phrase, 
 had company. She was the last of her fam 
 ily, and was by no means old ; but being the 
 last, and wonted to live with people much 
 older than herself, she had formed all the 
 habits of a serious elderly person. Ladies 
 of her age, something past thirty, often wore 
 discreet caps in those days, especially if they 
 were married, but being single, Miss Har 
 riet clung to youth in this respect, making 
 the one concession of keeping her waving 
 chestnut hair as smooth and stiffly arranged 
 as possible. She had been the dutiful com 
 panion of her father and mother in their 
 latest years, all her elder brothers and sisters 
 having married and gone, or died and gone, 
 out of the old house. Now that she was left 
 alone it seemed quite the best thing frankly 
 to accept the fact of age, and to turn more 
 resolutely than ever to the companionship of 
 duty and serious books. She was more seri-
 
 102 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 ous and given to routine than her elders 
 themselves, as sometimes happened when the 
 daughters of New England gentlefolks were 
 brought up wholly in the society of their 
 elders. At thirty-five she had more reluc 
 tance than her mother to face an unfore 
 seen occasion, certainly more than her grand 
 mother, who had preserved some cheerful 
 inheritance of gayety and worldliness from 
 colonial times. 
 
 There was something about the look of 
 the crimson silk shawl in the front yard to 
 make one suspect that the sober customs of 
 the best house in a quiet New England vil 
 lage were all being set at defiance, and once 
 when the mistress of the house came to stand 
 in her own doorway, she wore the pleased but 
 somewhat apprehensive look of a guest. In 
 these days New England life held the neces 
 sity of much dignity and discretion of behav 
 ior ; there was the truest hospitality and good 
 cheer in all occasional festivities, but it was 
 sometimes a self-conscious hospitality, fol 
 lowed by an inexorable return to asceticism 
 both of diet and of behavior. Miss Har 
 riet Pyne belonged to the very dullest days 
 of New England, those which perhaps held 
 the most priggishness for the learned pro-
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 103 
 
 fessions, the most limited interpretation of 
 the word " evangelical," and the pettiest in 
 difference to large things. The outbreak of 
 a desire for larger religious freedom caused 
 at first a most determined reaction toward 
 formalism, especially in small and quiet vil 
 lages like Ashford, intently busy with their 
 own concerns. It was high time for a little 
 leaven to begin its work, in this moment 
 when the great impulses of the war for lib 
 erty had died away and those of the coming 
 war for patriotism and a new freedom had 
 hardly yet begun. 
 
 The dull interior, the changed life of the 
 old house, whose former activities seemed to 
 have fallen sound asleep, really typified these 
 larger conditions, and a little leaven had 
 made its easily recognized appearance in the 
 shape of a light-hearted girl. She was Miss 
 Harriet's young Boston cousin, Helena Ver- 
 non, who, half-amused and half-impatient 
 at the unnecessary sober-mindedness of her 
 hostess and of Ashford in general, had set 
 herself to the difficult task of gayety. Cousin 
 Harriet looked on at a succession of ingen 
 ious and, on the whole, innocent attempts at 
 pleasure, as she might have looked on at the
 
 104 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 frolics of a kitten who easily substitutes a 
 ball of yarn for the uncertainties of a bird 
 or a wind-blown leaf, and who may at any 
 moment ravel the fringe of a sacred curtain- 
 tassel in preference to either. 
 
 Helena, with her mischievous appealing 
 eyes, with her enchanting old songs and her 
 guitar, seemed the more delightful and even 
 reasonable because she was so kind to every 
 body, and because she was a beauty. She 
 had the gift of most charming manners. 
 There was all the unconscious lovely ease 
 and grace that had come with the good breed 
 ing of her city home, where many pleasant 
 people came and went ; she had no fear, one 
 had almost said no respect, of the individual, 
 and she did not need to think of herself. 
 Cousin Harriet turned cold with apprehen 
 sion when she saw the minister coming in at 
 the front gate, and wondered in agony if 
 Martha were properly attired to go to the 
 door, and would by any chance hear the 
 knocker ; it was Helena who, delighted to 
 have anything happen, ran to the door to 
 welcome the Reverend Mr. Crofton as if he 
 were a congenial friend of her own age. 
 She could behave with more or less propriety 
 during the stately first visit, and even con-
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 105 
 
 trive to lighten it with modest mirth, and to 
 extort the confession that the guest had a 
 tenor voice, though sadly out of practice ; 
 but when the minister departed a little flat 
 tered, and hoping that he had not expressed 
 himself too strongly for a pastor upon the 
 poems of Emerson, and feeling the unusual 
 stir of gallantry in his proper heart, it was 
 Helena who caught the honored hat of the 
 late Judge Pyne from its last resting-place 
 in the hall, and holding it securely in both 
 hands, mimicked the minister's self-conscious 
 entrance. She copied his pompous and anx 
 ious expression in the dim parlor in such 
 delicious fashion that Miss Harriet, who 
 could not always extinguish a ready spark 
 of the original sin of humor, laughed aloud. 
 
 " My dear ! " she exclaimed severely the 
 next moment, " I am ashamed of your be 
 ing so disrespectful ! " and then laughed 
 again, and took the affecting old hat and 
 carried it back to its place. 
 
 " I would not have had any one else see 
 you for the world," she said sorrowfully as 
 she returned, feeling quite self-possessed 
 again, to the parlor doorway ; but Helena 
 still sat in the minister's chair, with her 
 small feet placed as his stiff boots had been,
 
 106 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 and a copy of his solemn expression before 
 they came to speaking of Emerson and of 
 the guitar. " I wish I had asked him if he 
 would be so kind as to climb the cherry- 
 tree," said Helena, unbending a little at the 
 discovery that her cousin would consent to 
 laugh no more. " There are all those ripe 
 cherries on the top branches. I can climb 
 as high as he, but I can't reach far enough 
 from the last branch that will bear me. 
 The minister is so long and thin " 
 
 "I don't know what Mr. Crofton would 
 have thought of you; he is a very serious 
 young man," said cousin Harriet, still 
 ashamed of her laughter. " Martha will get 
 the cherries for you, or one of the men. I 
 should not like to have Mr. Crofton think 
 you were frivolous, a young lady of your 
 opportunities " but Helena had escaped 
 through the hall and out at the garden door 
 at the mention of Martha's name. Miss 
 Harriet Pyne sighed anxiously, and then 
 smiled, in spite of her deep convictions, as 
 she shut the blinds and tried to make the 
 house look solemn again. 
 
 The front door might be shut, but the 
 garden door at the other end of the broad 
 hall was wide open upon the large sunshiny
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 107 
 
 garden, where the last of the red and white 
 peonies and the golden lilies, and the first 
 of the tall blue larkspurs lent their colors in 
 generous fashion. The straight box borders 
 were all in fresh and shining green of their 
 new leaves, and there was a fragrance of the 
 old garden's inmost life and soul blowing 
 from the honeysuckle blossoms on a long trel 
 lis. It was now late in the afternoon, and 
 the sun was low behind great apple-trees at 
 the garden's end, which threw their shadows 
 over the short turf of the bleaching-green. 
 The cherry-trees stood at one side in full sun 
 shine, and Miss Harriet, who presently came 
 to the garden steps to watch like a hen at 
 the water's edge, saw her cousin's pretty 
 figure in its white dress of India muslin hur 
 rying across the grass. She was accompa 
 nied by the tall, ungainly shape of Martha 
 the new maid, who, dull and indifferent to 
 every one else, showed a surprising willing 
 ness and allegiance to the young guest. 
 
 " Martha ought to be in the dining-room, 
 already, slow as she is ; it wants but half 
 an hour of tea-time," said Miss Harriet, as 
 she turned and went into the shaded house. 
 It was Martha's duty to wait at table, 
 and there had been many trying scenes
 
 108 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 and defeated efforts toward her education. 
 Martha was certainly very clumsy, and she 
 seemed the clumsier because she had replaced 
 her aunt, a most skillful person, who had 
 but lately married a thriving farm and its 
 prosperous owner. It must be confessed 
 that Miss Harriet was a most bewildering 
 instructor, and that her pupil's brain was 
 easily confused and prone to blunders. 
 The coming of Helena had been somewhat 
 dreaded by reason of this incompetent ser 
 vice, but the guest took no notice of frowns 
 or futile gestures at the first tea-table, ex 
 cept to establish friendly relations with 
 Martha on her own account by a reassuring 
 smile. They were about the same age, and 
 next morning, before cousin Harriet came 
 down, Helena showed by a word and a 
 quick touch the right way to do something 
 that had gone wrong and been impossible to 
 understand the night before. A moment 
 later the anxious mistress came in without 
 suspicion, but Martha's eyes were as affec 
 tionate as a dog's, and there was a new look 
 of hopefulness on her face ; this dreaded 
 guest was a friend after all, and not a foe 
 come from proud Boston to confound her 
 ignorance and patient efforts.
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 109 
 
 The two young creatures, mistress and 
 maid, were hurrying across the bleaching, 
 green. 
 
 " I can't reach the ripest cherries," ex 
 plained Helena politely, " and I think that 
 Miss Pyne ought to send some to the minis 
 ter. He has just made us a call. Why 
 Martha, you have n't been crying again ! " 
 
 " Yes 'm," said Martha sadly. " Miss 
 Pyne always loves to send something to the 
 minister," she acknowledged with interest, 
 as if she did not wish to be asked to explain 
 these latest tears. 
 
 " We '11 arrange some of the best cherries 
 in a pretty dish. I '11 show you how, and 
 you shall carry them over to the parsonage 
 after tea," said Helen'a cheerfully, and Mar 
 tha accepted the embassy with pleasure. 
 Life was beginning to hold moments of some 
 thing like delight in the last few days. 
 
 " You '11 spoil your pretty dress, Miss 
 Helena," Martha gave shy warning, and 
 Miss Helena stood back and held up her 
 skirts with unusual care while the country 
 girl, in her heavy blue checked gingham, 
 began to climb the cherry-tree like a boy. 
 
 Down came the scarlet fruit like bright 
 rain into the green grass.
 
 110 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 " Break some nice twigs with the cherries 
 and leaves together ; oh, you 're a duck, 
 Martha ! " and Martha, flushed with delight, 
 and looking far more like a thin and solemn 
 blue heron, came rustling down to earth 
 again, and gathered the spoils into her clean 
 apron. 
 
 That night at tea, during her hand 
 maiden's temporary absence, Miss Harriet 
 announced, as if by way of apology, that she 
 thought Martha was beginning to under 
 stand something about her work. " Her 
 aunt was a treasure, she never had to be told 
 anything twice ; but Martha has been as 
 clumsy as a calf," said the precise mistress 
 of the house. " I have been afraid some 
 times that I never could teach her anything. 
 I was quite ashamed to have you come just 
 now, and find me so unprepared to entertain 
 a visitor." 
 
 " Oh, Martha will learn fast enough be 
 cause she cares so much," said the visitor 
 eagerly. " I think she is a dear good girl. 
 I do hope that she will never go away. I 
 think she does things better every day, cou 
 sin Harriet," added Helena pleadingly, with 
 all her kind young heart. The china-closet 
 door was open a little way, and Martha heard
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. Ill 
 
 every word. From that moment, she not 
 only knew what love was like, but she knew 
 love's dear ambitions. To have come from 
 a stony hill-farm and a bare small wooden 
 house, was like a cave-dweller's coming to 
 make a permanent home in an art museum, 
 such had seemed the elaborateness and ele 
 gance of Miss Pyne's fashion of life; and 
 Martha's simple brain was slow enough in 
 its processes and recognitions. But with 
 this sympathetic ally and defender, this ex 
 quisite Miss Helena who believed in her, all 
 difficulties appeared to vanish. 
 
 Later that evening, no longer homesick 
 or hopeless, Martha returned from her po 
 lite errand to the minister, and stood with a 
 sort of triumph before the two ladies, who 
 were sitting in the front doorway, as if they 
 were waiting for visitors, Helena still in her 
 white muslin and red ribbons, and Miss 
 Harriet in a thin black silk. Being happily 
 self -forgetful in the greatness of the moment, 
 Martha's manners were perfect, and she 
 looked for once almost pretty and quite as 
 young as she was. 
 
 " The minister came to the door himself, 
 and returned his thanks. He said that cher 
 ries were always his favorite fruit, and he
 
 112 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 was much obliged to both Miss Pyne and 
 Miss Vernon. He kept ine waiting a few 
 minutes, while he got this book ready to 
 send to you, Miss Helena." 
 
 " What are you saying, Martha ? I have 
 sent him nothing!" exclaimed Miss Pyne, 
 much astonished. "What does she mean, 
 Helena?" 
 
 " Only a few cherries," explained Helena. 
 " I thought Mr. Crofton would like them 
 after his afternoon of parish calls. Martha 
 and I arranged them before tea, and I sent 
 them with our compliments." 
 
 " Oh, I am very glad you did," said Miss 
 Harriet, wondering, but much relieved. " I 
 was afraid " 
 
 " No, it was none of my mischief," an 
 swered Helena daringly. " I did not think 
 that Martha would be ready to go so soon. 
 I should have shown you how pretty they 
 looked among their green leaves. We put 
 them in one of your best white dishes with 
 the openwork edge. Martha shall show you 
 to-morrow; mamma always likes to have 
 them so." Helena's fingers were busy with 
 the hard knot of a parcel. 
 
 " See this, cousin Harriet ! " she an 
 nounced proudly, as Martha disappeared
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 113 
 
 round the corner of the house, beaming with 
 the pleasures of adventure and success. 
 " Look ! the minister has sent me a book : 
 Sermons on what ? Sermons it is so dark 
 that I can't quite see." 
 
 " It must be his ' Sermons on the Serious 
 ness of Life ; ' they are the only ones he has 
 printed, I believe," said Miss Harriet, with 
 much pleasure. " They are considered very 
 fine discourses. He pays you a great com 
 pliment, my dear. I feared that he noticed 
 your girlish levity." 
 
 " I behaved beautifully while he stayed," 
 insisted Helena. " Ministers are only men," 
 but she blushed with pleasure. It was cer 
 tainly something to receive a book from its 
 author, and such a tribute made her of more 
 value to the whole reverent household. The 
 minister was not only a man, but a bachelor, 
 and Helena was at the age that best loves 
 conquest ; it was at any rate comfortable to 
 be reinstated in cousin Harriet's good graces. 
 , " Do ask the kind gentleman to tea ! He 
 needs a little cheering up," begged the siren 
 in India muslin, as she laid the shiny black 
 volume of sermons on the stone doorstep 
 with an air of approval, but as if they had 
 quite finished their mission.
 
 114 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall, if Martha improves as 
 much as she has within the last day or two," 
 Miss Harriet promised hopefully. " It is 
 something I always dread a little when I 
 am all alone, but I think Mr. Crofton likes 
 to come. He converses so elegantly." 
 
 II. 
 
 These were the days of long visits, before 
 affectionate friends thought it quite worth 
 while to take a hundred miles' journey 
 merely to dine or to pass a night in one 
 another's houses. Helena lingered through 
 the pleasant weeks of early summer, and 
 departed unwillingly at last to join her 
 family at the White Hills, where they had 
 gone, like other households of high social 
 station, to pass the month of August out of 
 town. The happy-hearted young guest left 
 many lamenting friends behind her, and 
 promised each that she would come back 
 again next year. She left the minister a 
 rejected lover, as well as the preceptor of 
 the academy, but with their pride un- 
 wounded, and it may have been with wider 
 outlooks upon the world and a less narrow 
 sympathy both for their own work in life and
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 115 
 
 for their neighbors' work and hindrances. 
 Even Miss Harriet Pyne herself had lost 
 some of the unnecessary provincialism and 
 prejudice which had begun to harden a 
 naturally good and open mind and affec 
 tionate heart. She was conscious of feeling 
 younger and more free, and not so lonely. 
 Nobody had ever been so gay, so fascinat 
 ing, or so kind as Helena, so full of social 
 resource, so simple and undemanding in her 
 friendliness. The light of her young life 
 cast no shadow on either young or old com 
 panions, her pretty clothes never seemed to 
 make other girls look dull or out of fashion. 
 When she went away up the street in Miss 
 Harriet's carriage to take the slow train 
 toward Boston and the gayeties of the new 
 Profile House, where her mother waited im 
 patiently with a group of Southern friends, 
 it seemed as if there would never be any 
 more picnics or parties in Ashford, and as if 
 society had nothing left to do but to grow 
 old and get ready for winter. 
 
 Martha came into Miss Helena's bed 
 room that last morning, and it was easy to 
 see that she had been crying ; she looked 
 just as she did in that first sad week of
 
 116 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 homesickness and despair. All for love's 
 sake she had been learning to do many 
 things, and to do them exactly right ; her 
 eyes had grown quick to see the smallest 
 chance for personal service. Nobody could 
 be more humble and devoted ; she looked 
 years older than Helena, and wore already a 
 touching air of caretaking. 
 
 " You spoil me, you dear Martha ! " said 
 Helena from the bed. " I don't know what 
 they will say at home, I am so spoiled." 
 
 Martha went on opening the blinds to let 
 in the brightness of the summer morning, 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 "You are getting on splendidly, aren't 
 you ? " continued the little mistress. " You 
 have tried so hard that you make me 
 ashamed of myself. At first you crammed 
 all the flowers together, and now you make 
 them look beautiful. Last night cousin 
 Harriet was so pleased when the table was 
 so charming, and I told her that you did 
 everything yourself, every bit. Won't you 
 keep the flowers fresh and pretty in the 
 house until I come back ? It 's so much 
 pleasanter for Miss Pyne, and you '11 feed 
 my little sparrows, won't you? They're 
 growing so tame."
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 117 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss Helena ! " and Martha 
 looked almost angry for a moment, then she 
 burst into tears and covered her face with 
 her apron. " I could n't understand a single 
 thing when I first caine. I never had been 
 anywhere to see anything, and Miss Pyne 
 frightened me when she talked. It was you 
 made me think I could ever learn. I wanted 
 to keep the place, 'count of mother and the 
 little boys ; we 're dreadful hard pushed. 
 Hepsy has been good in the kitchen ; she said 
 she ought to have patience with me, for she 
 was awkward herself when she first came." 
 
 Helena laughed; she looked so pretty 
 under the tasseled white curtains. 
 
 " I dare say Hepsy tells the truth," she 
 said. " I wish you had told me about your 
 mother. When I come again, some day 
 we '11 drive up country, as you call it, to see 
 her. Martha ! I wish you would think of 
 me sometimes after I go away. Won't you 
 promise ? " and the bright young face sud 
 denly grew grave. " I have hard times my 
 self; I don't always learn things that I 
 ought to learn, I don't always put things 
 straight. I wish you would n't forget me 
 ever, and would just believe in me. I think 
 it does help more than anything."
 
 118 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 *'I won't forget," said Martha slowly. 
 "I shall think of you every day." She 
 spoke almost with indifference, as if she had 
 been asked to dust a room, but she turned 
 aside quickly and pulled the little mat under 
 the hot water jug quite out of its former 
 straightness ; then she hastened away down 
 the long white entry, weeping as she went. 
 
 III. 
 
 To lose out of sight the friend whom one 
 has loved and lived to please is to lose joy 
 out of life. But if love is true, there comes 
 presently a higher joy of pleasing the ideal, 
 that is to say, the perfect friend. The same 
 old happiness is lifted to a higher level. 
 As for Martha, the girl who stayed behind 
 in Ashford, nobody's life could seem duller 
 to those who could not understand ; she 
 was slow of step, and her eyes were almost 
 always downcast as if intent upon incessant 
 toil ; but they startled you when she looked 
 up, with their shining light. She was capa 
 ble of the happiness of holding fast to a 
 great sentiment, the ineffable satisfaction of 
 trying to please one whom she truly loved. 
 She never thought of trying to make other
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 119 
 
 people pleased with herself ; all she lived 
 for was to do the best she could for others, 
 and to conform to an ideal, which grew at 
 last to be like a saint's vision, a heavenly 
 figure painted upon the sky. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons in summer, Martha 
 sat by the window of her chamber, a low- 
 storied little room, which looked into the 
 side yard and the great branches of an elm- 
 tree. She never sat in the old wooden 
 rocking-chair except on Sundays like this ; 
 it belonged to the day of rest and to happy 
 meditation. She wore her plain black dress 
 and a clean white apron, and held in her lap 
 a little wooden box, with a brass ring on 
 top for a handle. She was past sixty years 
 of age and looked even older, but there was 
 the same look on her face that it had some 
 times worn in girlhood. She was the same 
 Martha; her hands were old-looking and 
 work-worn, but her face still shone. It 
 seemed like yesterday that Helena Vernon 
 had gone away, and it was more than forty 
 years. 
 
 War and peace had brought their changes 
 and great anxieties, the face of the earth 
 was furrowed by floods and fire, the faces of
 
 120 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 mistress and maid were furrowed by smiles 
 and tears, and in the sky the stars shone on 
 as if nothing had happened. The village of 
 Ashford added a few pages to its unexciting 
 history, the minister preached, the people 
 listened ; now and then a funeral crept along 
 the street, and now and then the bright face 
 of a little child rose above the horizon of a 
 family pew. Miss Harriet Pyne lived on in 
 the large white house, which gained more 
 and more distinction because it suffered no 
 changes, save successive repaintings and a 
 new railing about its stately roof. Miss 
 Harriet herself had moved far beyond the 
 uncertainties of an anxious youth. She had 
 long ago made all her decisions, and settled 
 all necessary questions ; her scheme of life 
 was as faultless as the miniature landscape 
 of a Japanese garden, and as easily kept 
 in order. The only important change she 
 would ever be capable of making was the 
 final change to another and a better world ; 
 and for that nature itself would gently pro 
 vide, and her own innocent life. 
 
 Hardly any great social event had ruffled 
 the easy current of life since Helena Ver- 
 non's marriage. To this Miss Pyne had 
 gone, stately in appearance and carrying
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 121 
 
 gifts of some old family silver which bore 
 the Vernon crest, but not without some pro 
 test in her heart against the uncertainties 
 of married life. Helena was so equal to a 
 happy independence and even to the assist 
 ance of other lives grown strangely depend 
 ent upon her quick sympathies and instinc 
 tive decisions, that it was hard to let her 
 sink her personality in the affairs of another. 
 Yet a brilliant English match was not with 
 out its attractions to an old-fashioned gentle 
 woman like Miss Pyne, and Helena herself 
 was amazingly happy ; one day there had 
 come a letter to Ashford, in which her 
 very heart seemed to beat with love and 
 self-forgetfulness, to tell cousin Harriet of 
 such new happiness and high hope. " Tell 
 Martha all that I say about my dear Jack," 
 wrote the eager girl ; " please show my 
 letter to Martha, and tell her that I shall 
 come home next summer and bring the 
 handsomest and best man in the world to 
 Ashford. I have told him all about the 
 dear house and the dear garden ; there 
 never was such a lad to reach for cherries 
 with his six-foot-two." Miss Pyne, wonder 
 ing a little, gave the letter to Martha, who 
 took it deliberately and as if she wondered
 
 122 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 too, and went away to read it slowly by 
 herself. Martha cried over it, and felt a 
 strange sense of loss and pain ; it hurt her 
 heart a little to read about the cherry-pick 
 ing. Her idol seemed to be less her own 
 since she had become the idol of a stranger. 
 She never had taken such a letter in her 
 hands before, but love at last prevailed, 
 since Miss Helena was happy, and she 
 kissed the last page where her name was 
 written, feeling overbold, and laid the envel 
 ope on Miss Pyne's secretary without a 
 word. 
 
 The most generous love cannot but long 
 for reassurance, and Martha had the joy of 
 being remembered. She was not forgotten 
 when the day of the wedding drew near, 
 but she never knew that Miss Helena had 
 asked if cousin Harriet would not bring 
 Martha to town ; she should like to have 
 Martha there to see her married. " She 
 would help about the flowers," wrote the 
 happy girl ; " I know she will like to come, 
 and I '11 ask mamma to plan to have some 
 one take her all about Boston and make her 
 have a pleasant time after the hurry of the 
 great day is over." 
 
 Cousin Harriet thought it was very kind
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 123 
 
 and exactly like Helena, but Martha would 
 be out of her element ; it was most im 
 prudent and girlish to have thought of such 
 a thing. Helena's mother would be far 
 from wishing for any unnecessary guest just 
 then, in the busiest part of her household, 
 and it was best not to speak of the invita 
 tion. Some day Martha should go to Bos 
 ton if she did well, but not now. Helena 
 did not forget to ask if Martha had come, 
 and was astonished by the indifference of 
 the answer. It was the first thing which 
 reminded her that she was not a fairy 
 princess having everything her own way in 
 that last day before the wedding. She 
 knew that Martha would have loved to be 
 near, for she could not help understanding 
 in that moment of her own happiness the 
 love that was hidden in another heart. 
 Next day this happy young princess, the 
 bride, cut a piece of a great cake and put 
 it into a pretty box that had held one of her 
 wedding presents. With eager voices call 
 ing her, and all her friends about her, and 
 her mother's face growing more and more 
 wistful at the thought of parting, she still 
 lingered and ran to take one or two trifles 
 from her dressing-table, a little mirror and
 
 124 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 some tiny scissors that Martha would re 
 member, and one of the pretty handker 
 chiefs marked with her maiden name. 
 These she put in the box too ; it was half 
 a girlish freak and fancy, but she could 
 not help trying to share her happiness, and 
 Martha's life was so plain and dull. She 
 whispered a message, and put the little 
 package into cousin Harriet's hand for 
 Martha as she said good-by. She was very 
 fond of cousin Harriet. She smiled with 
 a gleam of her old fun ; Martha's puzzled 
 look and tall awkward figure seemed to stand 
 suddenly before her eyes, as she promised 
 to come again to Ashford. Impatient voices 
 called to Helena, her lover was at the door, 
 and she hurried away, leaving her old home 
 and her girlhood gladly. If she had only 
 known it, as she kissed cousin Harriet good- 
 by, they were never going to see each other 
 again until they were old women. The first 
 step that she took out of her father's house 
 that day, married, and full of hope and joy, 
 was a step that led her away from the green 
 elms of Boston Common and away from her 
 own country and those she loved best, to 
 a brilliant, much-varied foreign life, and to 
 nearly all the sorrows and nearly all the
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 125 
 
 joys that the heart of one woman could hold 
 or know. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons Martha used to sit 
 by the window in Ashford and hold the 
 wooden box which a favorite young brother, 
 who afterward died at sea, had made for her, 
 and she used to take out of it the pretty little 
 box with a gilded cover that had held the 
 piece of wedding-cake, and the small scissors, 
 and the blurred bit of a mirror in its silver 
 case; as for the handkerchief with the 
 narrow lace edge, once in two or three years 
 she sprinkled it as if it were a flower, and 
 spread it out in the sun on the old bleach- 
 ing-green, and sat near by in the shrubbery 
 to watch lest some bold robin or cherry-bird 
 should seize it and fly away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Miss Harriet Pyne was often congrat 
 ulated upon the good fortune of having such 
 a helper and friend as Martha. As time 
 went on this tall, gaunt woman, always thin, 
 always slow, gained a dignity of behavior 
 and simple affectionateness of look which 
 suited the charm and dignity of the ancient 
 house. She was unconsciously beautiful
 
 126 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 like a saint, like the picturesqueness of a 
 lonely tree which lives to shelter unnum 
 bered lives and to stand quietly in its place. 
 There was such rustic homeliness and con 
 stancy belonging to her, such beautiful 
 powers of apprehension, such reticence, such 
 gentleness for those who were troubled or 
 sick ; all these gifts and graces Martha hid 
 in her heart. . She never joined the church 
 because she thought she was not good 
 enough, but life was such a passion and 
 happiness of service that it was impossible 
 not to be devout, and she was always in her 
 humble place on Sundays, in the back pew 
 next the door. She had been educated by a 
 remembrance ; Helena 's young eyes forever 
 looked at her reassuringly from a gay girlish 
 face. Helena's sweet patience in teaching 
 her own awkwardness could never be for 
 gotten. 
 
 " I owe everything to Miss Helena," said 
 Martha, half aloud, as she sat alone by the 
 window ; she had said it to herself a thou 
 sand times. When she looked in the little 
 keepsake mirror she always hoped to see 
 some faint reflection of Helena Vernon, but 
 there was only her own brown old New Eng 
 land face to look back at her wonderingly.
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 127 
 
 Miss Pyne went less and less often to pay 
 visits to her friends in Boston ; there were 
 very few friends left to come to Ashf ord and 
 make long visits in the summer, and life 
 grew more and more monotonous. Now and 
 then there came news from across the sea 
 and messages of remembrance, letters that 
 were closely written on thin sheets of paper, 
 and that spoke of lords and ladies, of great 
 journeys, of the death of little children and 
 the proud successes of boys at school, of the 
 wedding of Helena Dysart's only daughter ; 
 but even that had happened years ago. 
 These things seemed far away and vague, as 
 if they belonged to a story and not to life 
 itself ; the true links with the past were 
 quite different. There was the unvarying 
 flock of ground-sparrows that Helena had 
 begun to feed ; every morning Martha scat 
 tered crumbs for them from the side door 
 steps while Miss Pyne watched from the 
 dining-room window, and they were counted 
 and cherished year by year. 
 
 Miss Pyne herself had many fixed habits, 
 but little ideality or imagination, and so at 
 last it was Martha who took thought for her 
 mistress, and gave freedom to her own good 
 taste. After a while, without any one's
 
 128 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 observing the change, the every-day ways of 
 doing things in the house came to be the 
 stately ways that had once belonged only to 
 the entertainment of guests. Happily both 
 mistress and maid seized all possible chances 
 for hospitality, yet Miss Harriet nearly al 
 ways sat alone at her exquisitely served table 
 with its fresh flowers, and the beautiful old 
 china which Martha handled so lovingly that 
 there was no good excuse for keeping it hid 
 den on closet shelves. Every year when the 
 old cherry-trees were in fruit, Martha car 
 ried the round white old English dish with 
 a fretwork edge, full of pointed green leaves 
 and scarlet cherries, to the minister, and his 
 wife never quite understood why every year 
 he blushed and looked so conscious of the 
 pleasure, and thanked Martha as if he had 
 received a very particular attention. There 
 was no pretty suggestion toward the pursuit 
 of the fine art of housekeeping in Martha's 
 limited acquaintance with newspapers that 
 she did not adopt ; there was no refined old 
 custom of the Pyne housekeeping that she 
 consented to let go. And every day, as she 
 had promised, she thought of Miss Helena, 
 oh, many times in every day : whether 
 this thing would please her, or that be likely
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 129 
 
 to fall in with her fancy or ideas of fitness. 
 As far as was possible the rare news that 
 reached Ashford through an occasional let 
 ter or the talk of guests was made part of 
 Martha's own life, the history of her own 
 heart. A worn old geography often stood 
 open at the map of Europe on the light- 
 stand in her room, and a little old-fashioned 
 gilt button, set with a bit of glass like a 
 ruby, that had broken and fallen from the 
 trimming of one of Helena's dresses, was 
 used to mark the city of her dwelling-place. 
 In the changes of a diplomatic life Martha 
 followed her lady all about the map. Some 
 times the button was at Paris, and sometimes 
 at Madrid ; once, to her great anxiety, it 
 remained long at St. Petersburg. For such 
 a slow scholar Martha was not unlearned at 
 last, since everything about life in these for 
 eign towns was of interest to her faithful 
 heart. She satisfied her own mind as she 
 threw crumbs to the tame sparrows ; it was 
 all part of the same thing and for the same 
 affectionate reasons.
 
 130 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 V. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in early summer 
 Miss Harriet Pyne came hurrying along the 
 entry that led to Martha's room and called 
 two or three times before its inhabitant could 
 reach the door. Miss Harriet looked unusu 
 ally cheerful and excited, and she held some 
 thing in her hand. " Where are you, Mar 
 tha ? " she called again. " Come quick, I 
 have something to tell you ! " 
 
 " Here I am, Miss Pyne," said Martha, 
 who had only stopped to put her precious box 
 in the drawer, and to shut the geography. 
 
 " Who do you think is coming this very 
 night at half -past six? We must have every 
 thing as nice as we can ; I must see Han 
 nah at once. Do you remember my cousin 
 Helena who has lived abroad so long ? Miss 
 Helena Vernon, the Honorable Mrs. Dy- 
 sart, she is now." 
 
 "Yes, I remember her," answered Mar 
 tha, turning a little pale. 
 
 " I knew that she was in this country, and 
 I had written to ask her to come for a long 
 visit," continued Miss Harriet, who did not 
 often explain things, even to Martha, though 
 she was always conscientious about the kind
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 131 
 
 messages that were sent back by grateful 
 guests. " She telegraphs that she means to 
 anticipate her visit by a few days and come 
 to me at once. The heat is beginning in 
 town, I suppose. I daresay, having been a 
 foreigner so long, she does not mind travel 
 ing on Sunday. Do you think Hannah will 
 be prepared? We must have tea a little 
 later." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Harriet," said Martha. She 
 wondered that she could speak as usual, 
 there was such a ringing in her ears. " I shall 
 have time to pick some fresh strawberries ; 
 Miss Helena is so fond of our strawberries." 
 
 " Why, I had forgotten," said Miss Pyne, 
 a little puzzled by something quite unusual 
 in Martha's face. " We must expect to find 
 Mrs. Dysart a good deal changed, Martha ; it 
 is a great many years since she was here ; I 
 have not seen her since her wedding, and she 
 has had a great deal of trouble, poor girl. 
 You had better open the parlor chamber, 
 and make it ready before you go down." 
 
 " It is all ready," said Martha. " I can 
 carry some of those little sweet-brier roses 
 upstairs before she comes." 
 
 "Yes, you are always thoughtful," said 
 Miss Pyne, with unwonted feeling.
 
 132 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 Martha did not answer. She glanced at the 
 telegram wistfully. She had never really 
 suspected before that Miss Pyne knew no 
 thing of the love that had been in her heart 
 all these years ; it was half a pain and half 
 a golden joy to keep such a secret ; she 
 could hardly bear this moment of surprise. 
 
 Presently the news gave wings to her 
 willing feet. When Hannah, the cook, who 
 never had known Miss Helena, went to the 
 parlor an hour later on some errand to her 
 old mistress, she discovered that this stranger 
 guest must be a very important person. She 
 had never seen the tea-table look exactly as 
 it did that night, and in the parlor itself 
 there were fresh blossoming boughs in the 
 old East India jars, and lilies in the paneled 
 hall, and flowers everywhere, as if there 
 were some high festivity. 
 
 Miss Pyne sat by the window watching, 
 in her best dress, looking stately and calm ; 
 she seldom went out now, and it was almost 
 time for the carriage. Martha was just 
 coming in from the garden with the straw 
 berries, and with more flowers in her apron. 
 It was a bright cool evening in June, the 
 golden robins sang in the elms, and the sun 
 was going down behind the apple-trees at
 
 MARTHA'S LADY. 133 
 
 the foot of the garden. The beautiful old 
 house stood wide open to the long-expected 
 guest. 
 
 " I think that I shall go down to the gate," 
 said Miss Pyne, looking at Martha for ap 
 proval, and Martha nodded and they went 
 together slowly down the broad front walk. 
 
 There was a sound of horses and wheels 
 on the roadside turf : Martha could not see 
 at first ; she stood back inside the gate behind 
 the white lilac-bushes as the carriage came. 
 Miss Pyne was there ; she was holding out 
 both arms and taking a tired, bent little 
 figure in black to her heart. " Oh, my 
 Miss Helena is an old woman like me ! " 
 and Martha gave a pitiful sob ; she had 
 never dreamed it would be like this ; this 
 was the one thing she could not bear. 
 
 ."Where are you, Martha?" called Miss 
 Pyne. " Martha will bring these in ; you 
 have not forgotten my good Martha, Hel 
 ena ? " Then Mrs. Dysart looked up and 
 smiled just as she used to smile in the old 
 days. The young eyes were there still in 
 the changed face, and Miss Helena had come. 
 
 That night Martha waited in her lady's 
 room just as she used, humble and silent,
 
 134 MARTHA'S LADY. 
 
 and went through with the old unforgotten 
 loving services. The long years seemed like 
 days. At last she lingered a moment try 
 ing to think of something else that might 
 be done, then she was going silently away, 
 but Helena called her back. She suddenly 
 knew the whole story and could hardly speak. 
 " Oh, my dear Martha ! " she cried, " won't 
 you kiss me good-night ? Oh, Martha, have 
 you remembered like this, all these long 
 years I "
 
 THE COON DOG. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN the early dusk of a warm September 
 evening the bats were flitting to and fro, 
 as if it were still summer, under the great 
 elm that overshadowed Isaac Brown's house, 
 on the Dipford road. Isaac Brown himself, 
 and his old friend and neighbor John York, 
 were leaning against the fence. 
 
 " Frost keeps off late, don't it ? " said John 
 York. " I laughed when I first heard about 
 the circus comin' ; I thought 't was so un 
 usual late in the season. Turned out well, 
 however. Everybody I noticed was return- 
 in' with a palm-leaf fan. Guess they found 
 'em useful under the tent ; 't was a master 
 hot day. I saw old lady Price with her 
 hands full o' those free advertisin' fans, 
 as if she was layin' in a stock against next 
 summer. Well, I expect she '11 live to 
 enjoy 'em." 
 
 " I was right here where I 'm standin' 
 now, and I see her as she was goin' by this
 
 136 THE COON DOG. 
 
 mornin'," said Isaac Brown, laughing, and 
 settling himself comfortably against the 
 fence as if they had chanced upon a welcome 
 subject of conversation. " I hailed her, 
 same 's I gener'lly do. ' Where are you 
 bound to-day, ma'am ? ' says I. 
 
 " ' I 'm goin' over as fur as Dipf ord Cen 
 tre,' says she. ' I 'm goin' to see my poor 
 dear 'Liza Jane. I want to 'suage her 
 grief ; her husband, Mr. 'Bijah Topliff , has 
 passed away.' 
 
 " ' So much the better,' says I. 
 
 " ' No ; I never Farnt about it till yister- 
 day,' says she ; an' she looked up at me real 
 kind of pleasant, and begun to laugh. 
 
 "'I hear he's left property,' says she, 
 tryin' to pull her face down solemn. I give 
 her the fifty cents she wanted to borrow to 
 make up her car-fare and other expenses, 
 an' she stepped off like a girl down tow'ds 
 the depot. 
 
 " This afternoon, as you know, I 'd pro 
 mised the boys that I 'd take 'em over to see 
 the menagerie, and nothin' would n't do none 
 of us any good but we must see the circus 
 too ; an' when we 'd just got posted on one 
 o' the best high seats, mother she nudged 
 me, and I looked right down front two, three
 
 THE COON DOG. 137 
 
 rows, an' if there wa'n't Mis' Price, specta 
 cles an' all, with her head right up in the air, 
 havin' the best time you ever see. I laughed 
 right out. She had n't taken no time to see 
 'Liza Jane ; she wa'n't 'suagin' no grief for 
 nobody till she 'd seen the circus. ' There,' 
 says I, ' I do like to have anybody keep 
 their young feelin's ! ' : 
 
 " Mis' Price come over to see our folks 
 before breakfast," said John York. " "Wife 
 said she was inquirin' about the circus, but 
 she wanted to know first if they could n't 
 oblige her with a few trinkets o' mournin', 
 seein' as how she 'd got to pay a mournin' 
 visit. Wife thought 't was a bosom-pin, 
 or somethin' like that, but turned out she 
 wanted the skirt of a dress ; 'most anything 
 would do, she said." 
 
 " I thought she looked extra well startin' 
 off," said Isaac, with an indulgent smile. 
 " The Lord provides very handsome for such, 
 I do declare ! She ain't had no visible means 
 o' support these ten or fifteen years back, 
 but she don't freeze up in winter no more 
 than we do." 
 
 " Nor dry up in summer," interrupted his 
 friend ; " I never did see such an able hand 
 to talk."
 
 138 THE COON DOG. 
 
 " She 's good company, and she 's obli 
 ging an' useful when the women folks have 
 their extra work progressin'," continued 
 Isaac Brown kindly. " 'T ain't much for 
 a well-off neighborhood like this to support 
 that old chirpin' cricket. My mother used 
 to say she kind of helped the work along by 
 'livenin' of it. Here she comes now ; must 
 have taken the last train, after she had sup 
 per with 'Lizy Jane. You stay still ; we 're 
 goin' to hear all about it." 
 
 The small, thin figure of Mrs. Price had to 
 be hailed twice before she could be stopped. 
 
 " I wish you a good evenin', neighbors," 
 she said. " I have been to the house of 
 mournin'." 
 
 " Find 'Liza Jane in, after the circus ? " 
 asked Isaac Brown, with equal seriousness. 
 " Excellent show, was n't it, for so late in 
 the season ? " 
 
 " Oh, beautiful ; it was beautiful, I de 
 clare," answered the pleased spectator read 
 ily. " Why, I did n't see you, nor Mis' 
 Brown. Yes ; I felt it best to refresh my 
 mind an' wear a cheerful countenance. 
 When I see 'Liza Jane I was able to divert 
 her mind consid'able. She was glad I went. 
 I told her I 'd made an effort, knowin' 't was
 
 THE COON DOG. 139 
 
 so she had to lose the a'ternoon. 'Bijah left 
 property, if he did die away from home on 
 a foreign shore." 
 
 " You don't mean that 'Bijah Topliff 's left 
 anything ! " exclaimed John York with in 
 terest, while Isaac Brown put both hands 
 deep into his pockets, and leaned back in a 
 still more satisfactory position against the 
 gatepost. 
 
 "He enjoyed poor health," answered Mrs. 
 Price, after a moment of deliberation, as if 
 she must take time to think. " 'Bijah never 
 was one that scattereth, nor yet increaseth. 
 'Liza Jane 's got some memories o' the past 
 that 's a good deal better than others ; but 
 he died somewheres out in Connecticut, or 
 so she heard, and he 's left a very val'able 
 coon dog, one he set a great deal by. 
 'Liza Jane said, last time he was to home, he 
 priced that dog at fifty dollars. ' There, now, 
 'Liza Jane,' says I, right to her, when she 
 told me, ' if I could git fifty dollars for that 
 dog, I certain' would. Perhaps some o' the 
 circus folks would like to buy him ; they 've 
 taken in a stream o' money this day.' But 
 'Liza Jane ain't never inclined to listen to 
 advice. 'T is a dreadful poor-spirited-lookin' 
 creatur'. I don't want no right o' dower in 
 him, myself."
 
 140 THE COON DOG. 
 
 *' A good coon dog 's worth something cer 
 tain," said John York handsomely. 
 
 " If he is a good coon dog," added Isaac 
 Brown. " I would n't have parted with old 
 Hover, here, for a good deal of money when 
 he was right in his best days ; but a dog 
 like him 's like one of the family. Stop an' 
 have some supper, won't ye, Mis' Price ? " 
 as the thin old creature was flitting off 
 again. At that same moment this kind in 
 vitation was repeated from the door of the 
 house ; and Mrs. Price turned in, unprotest- 
 ing and always sociably inclined, at the open 
 gate. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was a month later, and a whole au 
 tumn's length colder, when the two men were 
 coming home from a long tramp through the 
 woods. They had been making a solemn 
 inspection of a wood-lot that they owned 
 together, and had now visited their land 
 marks and outer boundaries, and settled the 
 great question of cutting or not cutting some 
 large pines. When it was well decided that 
 a few years' growth would be no disadvan 
 tage to the timber, they had eaten an excel 
 lent cold luncheon and rested from their 
 labors.
 
 THE COON DOG. 141 
 
 " I don't feel a day older 'n ever I did when 
 I get out in the woods this way," announced 
 John York, who was a prim, dusty-looking 
 little man, a prudent person, who had been 
 selectman of the town at least a dozen times. 
 
 " No more do I," agreed his companion, 
 who was large and jovial and open-handed, 
 more like a lucky sea-captain than a farmer. 
 After pounding a slender walnut-tree with a 
 heavy stone, he had succeeded in getting 
 down a pocketful of late-hanging nuts which 
 had escaped the squirrels, and was now snap 
 ping them back, one by one, to a venture 
 some chipmunk among some little frost-bitten 
 beeches. Isaac Brown had a wonderfully 
 pleasant way of getting on with all sorts of 
 animals, even men. After a while they rose 
 and went their way, these two companions, 
 stopping here and there to look at a possible 
 woodchuck's hole, or to strike a few hopeful 
 blows at a hollow tree with the light axe which 
 Isaac had carried to blaze new marks on 
 some of the line-trees on the farther edge of 
 their possessions. Sometimes they stopped 
 to admire the size of an old hemlock, or to 
 talk about thinning out the young pines. At 
 last they were not very far from the entrance 
 to the great tract of woodland. The yellow
 
 142 THE COON DOG. 
 
 sunshine came slanting in much brighter 
 against the tall trunks, spotting them with 
 golden light high among the still branches. 
 
 Presently they came to a great ledge, frost- 
 split and cracked into mysterious crevices. 
 
 " Here 's where we used to get all the 
 coons," said John York. " I have n't seen a 
 coon this great while, spite o' your courage 
 knocking on the trees up back here. You 
 know that night we got the four fat ones ? 
 We started 'em somewheres near here, so the 
 dog could get after 'em when they come out 
 at night to go foragin'." 
 
 " Hold on, John ; " and Mr. Isaac Brown 
 got up from the log where he had just sat 
 down to rest, and went to the ledge, and 
 looked carefully all about. When he came 
 back he was much excited, and beckoned his 
 friend away, speaking in a stage whisper. 
 
 " I guess you '11 see a coon before you 're 
 much older," he proclaimed. " I 've thought 
 it looked lately as if there 'd been one about 
 my place, and there 's plenty o' signs here, 
 right in their old haunts. Couple o' hens' 
 heads an' a lot o' feathers " 
 
 " Might be a fox," interrupted John York. 
 
 "Might be a coon," answered Mr. Isaac 
 Brown. " I 'm goin' to have him, too. I 've
 
 THE COON DOG. 143 
 
 been lookin' at every old hollow tree I 
 passed, but I never thought o' this place. 
 We '11 come right off to-morrow night, I 
 guess, John, an' see if we can't get him. 
 'T is an extra handy place for 'em to den ; 
 in old times the folks always called it a good 
 place ; they 've been so sca'ce o' these late 
 years that I 've thought little about 'em. 
 Nothin' I ever liked so well as a coon-hunt. 
 Gorry ! he must be a big old fellow, by his 
 tracks ! See here, in this smooth dirt ; just 
 like a baby's footmark." 
 
 " Trouble is, we lack a good dog," said 
 John York anxiously, after he had made 
 an eager inspection. " I don't know where 
 in the world to get one, either. There ain't no 
 such a dog about as your Rover, but you 've 
 let him get spoilt ; these days I don't see 
 him leave the yard. You ought to keep the 
 women folks from overfeedin' of him so. 
 He ought to 've lasted a good spell longer. 
 He 's no use for huntin' now, that 's certain." 
 
 Isaac accepted the rebuke meekly. John 
 York was a calm man, but he now grew very 
 fierce under such a provocation. Nobody 
 likes to be hindered in a coon-hunt. 
 
 " Oh, Rover 's too old, anyway," explained 
 the affectionate master regretfully. "I've
 
 144 THE COON DOG. 
 
 been wishing all this afternoon I 'd brought 
 him ; but I did n't think anything about 
 him as we came away, I 've got so used to 
 seeing him layin' about the yard. 'T would 
 have been a real treat for old Rover, if he 
 could have kept up. Used to be at my heels 
 the whole time. He could n't follow us, 
 anyway, up here." 
 
 " I should n't wonder if he could," insisted 
 John, .with a humorous glance at his old 
 friend, who was much too heavy and huge of 
 girth for quick transit over rough ground. 
 John York himself had grown lighter as he 
 had grown older. 
 
 " I '11 tell you one thing we could do," he 
 hastened to suggest. " There 's that dog of 
 'Bijah Topliff's. Don't you know the old 
 lady told us, that day she went over to Dip- 
 ford, how high he was valued? Most o' 
 'Bijah's important business was done in the 
 fall, goin' out by night, gunning with fellows 
 from the mills. He was just the kind of a 
 worthless do-nothing that 's sure to have an 
 extra knowin' smart dog. I expect 'Liza 
 Jane 's got him now. Perhaps we could get 
 him by to-morrow night. Let one o' my 
 boys go over ! " 
 
 " Why, 'Liza Jane 's come, bag an' bag-
 
 TEE COON DOG. 145 
 
 gage, to spend the winter with her mother," 
 exclaimed Isaac Brown, springing to his feet 
 like a boy. " I 've had it in mind to tell you 
 two or three times this afternoon, and then 
 something else has flown it out of my head. 
 I let my John Henry take the long-tailed 
 wagon an' go down to the depot this morn- 
 in' to fetch her an' her goods up. The old 
 lady come in early, while we were to break 
 fast, and to hear her lofty talk you 'd 
 thought 't would taken a couple o' four-horse 
 teams to move her. I told John Henry he 
 might take that wagon and fetch -up what 
 light stuff he could, and see how much else 
 there was, an' then I 'd make further ar 
 rangements. She said 'Liza Jane 'd see me 
 well satisfied, an' rode off, pleased to death. 
 I see 'em returnin' about eight, after the 
 train was in. They 'd got 'Liza Jane with 
 'em, smaller 'n ever ; and there was a trunk 
 tied up with a rope, and a small roll o' 
 beddin' and braided mats, and a quilted 
 rockin'-chair. The old lady was holdin' on 
 tight to a bird-cage with nothin' in it. Yes ; 
 an' I see the dog, too, in behind. He ap 
 peared kind of timid. He 's a yaller dog, 
 but he ain't stump-tailed. They hauled up 
 out front o' the house, and mother an' I went
 
 146 THE COON DOG. 
 
 right out ; Mis' Price always expects to have 
 notice taken. She was in great sperits. Said 
 'Liza Jane concluded to sell off most of her 
 stuff rather 'n have the care of it. She 'd 
 told the folks that Mis' Topliff had a beau 
 tiful sofa and a lot o' nice chairs, and two 
 framed pictures that would fix up the house 
 complete, and invited us all to come over 
 and see 'em. There, she seemed just as 
 pleased returnin' with the bird-cage. Dis 
 appointments don't appear to trouble her no 
 more than a butterfly. I kind of like the 
 old creatur' ; I don't mean to see her want." 
 
 " They '11 let us have the dog," said John 
 York. " I don't know but I '11 give a quar 
 ter for him, and we '11 let 'em have a good 
 piece o' the coon." 
 
 " You really comin' 'way up here by night, 
 coon-huntin' ? " asked Isaac Brown, looking 
 reproachfully at his more agile comrade. 
 
 " I be," answered John York. 
 
 " I was dre'tful afraid you was only talk 
 ing, and might back out," returned the 
 cheerful heavy-weight, with a chuckle. " Now 
 we 've got things all fixed, I feel more like 
 it than ever. I tell you there 's just boy 
 enough left inside of me. I '11 clean up my 
 old gun to-morrow mornin', and you look
 
 THE COON DOG. 147 
 
 right after your'n. I dare say the boys have 
 took good care of 'em for us, but they don't 
 know what we do about huntin', and we '11 
 bring 'em all along and show 'em a little 
 fun." 
 
 " All right," said John York, as soberly 
 as if they were going to look after a piece 
 of business for the town ; and they gathered 
 up the axe and other light possessions, and 
 started toward home. 
 
 III. 
 
 The two friends, whether by accident or 
 design, came out of the woods some distance 
 from their own houses, but very near to the 
 low-storied little gray dwelling of Mrs. Price. 
 They crossed the pasture, and climbed over 
 the toppling fence at the foot of her small 
 sandy piece of land, and knocked at the 
 door. There was a light already in the 
 kitchen. Mrs. Price and Eliza Jane Top- 
 liff appeared at once, eagerly hospitable. 
 
 " Anybody sick ? " asked Mrs. Price, with 
 instant sympathy. " Nothin' happened, I 
 hope?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said both the men. 
 
 " We came to talk about hiring your dog
 
 148 THE COON DOG. 
 
 to-morrow night," explained Isaac Brown, 
 feeling for the moment amused at his eager 
 errand. " We got on track of a coon just 
 now, up in the woods, and we thought we 'd 
 give our boys a little treat. You shall have 
 fifty cents, an' welcome, and a good piece 
 o' the coon." 
 
 " Yes, Square Brown ; we can let you have 
 the dog as well as not," interrupted Mrs. 
 Price, delighted to grant a favor. " Poor 
 departed 'Bijah, he set everything by him as 
 a coon dog. He always said a dog's capital 
 was all in his reputation." 
 
 " You '11 have to be dreadful careful an' 
 not lose him," urged Mrs. Topliff. " Yes, 
 sir ; he 's a proper coon dog as ever walked 
 the earth, but he 's terrible weak-minded 
 about followin' 'most anybody. 'Bijah used 
 to travel off twelve or fourteen miles after 
 him to git him back, when he wa'n't able. 
 Somebody 'd speak to him decent, or fling 
 a whip-lash as they drove by, an' off he 'd 
 canter on three legs right after the wagon. 
 But 'Bijah said he would n't trade him for 
 no coon dog he ever was acquainted with. 
 Trouble is, coons is awful sca'ce." 
 
 " I guess he ain't out o' practice," said 
 John York amiably ; " I guess he '11 know
 
 THE COON DOG. 149 
 
 when he strikes the coon. Come, Isaac, we 
 must be gittin' along tow'ds home. I feel 
 like eathr a good supper. You tie him up 
 to-morrow afternoon, so we shall be sure to 
 have him," he turned to say to Mrs. Price, 
 who stood smiling at the door. 
 
 " Land sakes, dear, he won't git away ; 
 you '11 find him right there betwixt the 
 wood-box and the stove, where he is now. 
 Hold the light, 'Liza Jane ; they can't see 
 their way out to the road. I '11 fetch him 
 over to ye in good season," she called out, 
 by way of farewell ; " 't will save ye third 
 of a mile extra walk. No, 'Liza Jane ; 
 you '11 let me do it, if you please. I 've got 
 a mother's heart. The gentlemen will ex 
 cuse us for showin' feelin'. You 're all the 
 child I 've got, an' your prosperity is the 
 same as mine." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The great night of the coon-hunt was 
 frosty and still, with only a dim light from 
 the new moon. John York and his boys, 
 and Isaac Brown, whose excitement was 
 very great, set forth across the fields toward 
 the dark woods. The men seemed younger 
 and gayer than the boys. There was a
 
 150 THE COON DOG. 
 
 burst of laughter when John Henry Brown 
 and his little brother appeared with the 
 coon dog of the late Mr. Abijah Topliff, 
 which had promptly run away home again 
 after Mrs. Price had coaxed him over in the 
 afternoon. The captors had tied a string 
 round his neck, at which they pulled vigor 
 ously from time to time to urge him for 
 ward. Perhaps he found the night too cold ; 
 at any rate, he stopped short in the frozen 
 furrows every few minutes, lifting one foot 
 and whining a little. Half a dozen times 
 he came near to tripping up Mr. Isaac 
 Brown and making him fall at full length. 
 
 " Poor Tiger ! poor Tiger ! " said the 
 good-natured sportsman, when somebody 
 said that the dog did n't act as if he were 
 much used to being out by night. " He '11 
 be all right when he once gets track of the 
 coon." But when they were fairly in the 
 woods, Tiger's distress was perfectly genuine. 
 The long rays of light from the old-fashioned 
 lanterns of pierced tin went wheeling round 
 and round, making a tall ghost of every 
 tree, and strange shadows went darting in 
 and out behind the pines. The woods were 
 like an interminable pillared room where 
 the darkness made a high ceiling. The
 
 THE COON DOG. 151 
 
 clean frosty smell of the open fields was 
 changed for a warmer air, damp with the 
 heavy odor of moss and fallen leaves. There 
 was something wild and delicious in the 
 forest in that hour of night. The men and 
 boys tramped on silently in single file, as if 
 they followed the flickering light instead of 
 carrying it. The dog fell back by instinct, 
 as did his companions, into the easy famil 
 iarity of forest life. He ran beside them, 
 and watched eagerly as they chose a safe 
 place to leave a coat or two and a basket. 
 He seemed to be an affectionate dog, now 
 that he had made acquaintance with his 
 masters. 
 
 " Seems to me he don't exactly know 
 what he 's about," said one of the York 
 boys scornfully ; " we must have struck 
 that coon's track somewhere, comin' in." 
 
 " We '11 get through talkin', an' heap up 
 a little somethin' for a fire, if you '11 turn to 
 and help," said his father. " I 've always 
 noticed that nobody can give so much good 
 advice about a piece o' work as a new hand. 
 When you Ve treed as many coons as your 
 Uncle Brown an' me, you won't feel so cer 
 tain. Isaac, you be the one to take the dog 
 up round the ledge, there. He '11 scent the
 
 152 TEE COON DOG. 
 
 coon quick enough then. We '11 'tend to 
 this part o' the business." 
 
 " You may come too, John Henry," said 
 the indulgent father, and they set off to 
 gether silently with the coon dog. He fol 
 lowed well enough now; his tail and ears 
 were drooping even more than usual, but he 
 whimpered along as bravely as he could> 
 much excited, at John Henry's heels, like 
 one of those great soldiers who are all un 
 nerved until the battle is well begun. 
 
 A minute later the father and son came 
 hurrying back, breathless, and stumbling 
 over roots and bushes. The fire was already 
 lighted, and sending a great glow higher 
 and higher among the trees. 
 
 " He 's off ! He 's struck a track ! He 
 was off like a major ! " wheezed Mr. Isaac 
 Brown. 
 
 " Which way 'd he go ? " asked every 
 body. 
 
 " Right out toward the fields. Like 's 
 not the old fellow was just starting after 
 more of our fowls. I 'm glad we come 
 early, he can't have got far yet. We can't 
 do nothin' but wait now, boys. I '11 set 
 right down here." 
 
 " Soon as the coon trees, you '11 hear the
 
 THE COON DOG. 153 
 
 dog sing, now I tell you ! " said John York, 
 with great enthusiasm. " That night your 
 father an' me got those four busters we 've 
 told you about, they come right back here 
 to the ledge. I don't know but they will 
 now. 'T was a dreadful cold night, I know. 
 We did n't get home till past three o'clock 
 in the mornin', either. You remember, 
 don't you, Isaac ? " 
 
 " I do," said Isaac. " How old Eover 
 worked that night ! Could n't see out of 
 his eyes, nor hardly wag his clever old tail, 
 for two days ; thorns in both his fore paws, 
 and the last coon took a piece right out of 
 his off shoulder." 
 
 " Why did n't you let Rover come to 
 night, father ? " asked the younger boy. 
 " I think he knew somethin' was up. He 
 was jumpin' round at a great rate when I 
 come out of the yard." 
 
 " I did n't know but he might make 
 trouble for the other dog," answered Isaac, 
 after a moment's silence. Pie felt almost 
 disloyal to the faithful creature, and had 
 been missing him all the way. " 'Sh ! there 's 
 a bark ! " And they all stopped to listen. 
 
 The fire was leaping higher ; they all sat 
 near it, listening and talking by turns.
 
 154 THE COON DOG. 
 
 There is apt to be a good deal of waiting in 
 a coon-hunt. 
 
 " If Kover was young as he used to be, 
 I'd resk him to tree any coon that ever 
 run," said the regretful master. " This 
 smart creature o' Topliff's can't beat him, 
 I know. The poor old fellow's eyesight 
 seems to be going. Two three times he 's 
 run out at me right in broad day, an' barked 
 when I come up the yard toward the house, 
 and I did pity him dreadfully; he was so 
 'shamed when he found out what he 'd 
 done. Rover 's a dog that 's got an awful 
 lot o' pride. He went right off out behind 
 the long barn the last time, and would n't 
 come in for nobody when they called him 
 to supper till I went out myself and made it 
 up with him. No ; he can't see very well 
 now, Rover can't." 
 
 " He 's heavy, too ; he 's got too unwieldy 
 to tackle a smart coon, I expect, even if he 
 could do the tall runnin'," said John York, 
 with sympathy. " They have to get a mas 
 ter grip with their teeth through a coon's 
 thick pelt this time o' year. No ; the young 
 folks gets all the good chances after a 
 while ; " and he looked round indulgently 
 at the chubby faces of his boys, who fed
 
 THE COON DOG. 155 
 
 the fire, and rejoiced in being promoted to 
 the society of their elders on equal terms. 
 " Ain't it time we heard from the dog ? " 
 And they all listened, while the fire snapped 
 and the sap whistled in some green sticks. 
 
 " I hear him," said John Henry sud 
 denly ; and faint and far away there came 
 the sound of a desperate bark. There is a 
 bark that means attack, and there is a bark 
 that means only foolish excitement. 
 
 " They ain't far off ! " said Isaac. " My 
 gracious, he 's right after him ! I don't 
 know 's I expected that poor-looking dog to 
 be so smart. You can't tell by their looks. 
 Quick as he scented the game up here in 
 the rocks, off he put. Perhaps it ain't 
 any matter if they ain't stump-tailed, long 's 
 they 're yaller dogs. He did n't look heavy 
 enough to me. I tell you, he means busi 
 ness. Hear that bark ! " 
 
 " They all bark alike after a coon." John 
 York was as excited as anybody. " Git 
 the guns laid out to hand, boys ; I told you 
 we 'd ought to follow ! " he commanded. 
 " If it 's the old fellow that belongs here, he 
 may put in any minute." But there was 
 again a long silence and state of suspense ; 
 the chase had turned another way. There
 
 156 THE COON DOG. 
 
 were faint distant yaps. The fire burned 
 low and fell together with a shower of sparks. 
 The smaller boys began to grow chilly and 
 sleepy, when there was a thud and rustle and 
 snapping of twigs close at hand, then the 
 gasp of a breathless dog. Two dim shapes 
 rushed by ; a shower of bark fell, and a dog 
 began to sing at the foot of the great twisted 
 pine not fifty feet away. 
 
 " Hooray for Tiger ! " yelled the boys ; 
 but the dog's voice filled all the woods. It 
 might have echoed to the mountain-tops. 
 There was the old coon ; they could all 
 see him half-way up the tree, flat to the 
 great limb. They heaped the fire with dry 
 branches till it flared high. Now they lost 
 him in a shadow as he twisted about the 
 tree. John York fired, and Isaac Brown 
 fired, and the boys took a turn at the guns, 
 while John Henry started to climb a neigh 
 boring oak; but at last it was Isaac who 
 brought the coon to ground with a lucky 
 shot, and the dog stopped his deafening bark 
 and frantic leaping in the underbrush, and 
 after an astonishing moment of silence crept 
 out, a proud victor, to his prouder master's 
 feet. 
 
 " Goodness alive, who 's this ? Good for
 
 THE COON DOG. 157 
 
 you, old handsome ! Why, I '11 be hanged 
 if it ain't old Rover, boys ; it 's old Rover ! " 
 But Isaac could not speak another word. 
 They all crowded round the wistful, clumsy 
 old dog, whose eyes shone bright, though his 
 breath was all gone. Each man patted him, 
 and praised him, and said they ought to 
 have mistrusted all the time that it could be 
 nobody but he. It was some minutes before 
 Isaac Brown could trust himself to do any 
 thing but pat the sleek old head that was 
 always ready to his hand. 
 
 " He must have overheard us talkin' ; I 
 guess he 'd have come if he 'd dropped dead 
 half-way," proclaimed John Henry, like a 
 prince of the reigning house ; and Rover 
 wagged his tail as if in honest assent, as he 
 lay at his master's side. They sat together, 
 while the fire was brightened again to make 
 a good light for the coon-hunt supper ; and 
 Rover had a good half of everything that 
 found its way into his master's hand. It 
 was toward midnight when the triumphal 
 procession set forth toward home, with the 
 two lanterns, across the fields.
 
 158 THE COON DOG. 
 
 V. 
 
 The next morning was bright and warm 
 after the hard frost of the night before. 
 Old Rover was asleep on the doorstep in the 
 sun, and his master stood in the yard, and 
 saw neighbor Price come along the road in 
 her best array, with a gay holiday air. 
 
 " Well, now," she said eagerly, " you 
 wa'n't out very late last night, was you ? I 
 got up myself to let Tiger in. He come 
 home, all beat out, about a quarter past nine. 
 I expect you had n't no kind o' trouble git- 
 tin' the coon. The boys was tellin' me he 
 weighed 'most thirty pounds." 
 
 "Oh, no kind o' trouble," said Isaac, 
 keeping the great secret gallantly. "You 
 got the things I sent over this mornin' ? " 
 
 " Bless your heart, yes ! I 'd a sight 
 rather have all that good pork an' potatoes 
 than any o' your wild meat," said Mrs. 
 Price, smiling with prosperity. " You see, 
 now, 'Liza Jane she 's given in. She did n't 
 re'lly know but 't was all talk of 'Bijah 
 'bout that dog 's bein' wuth fifty dollars. 
 She says she can't cope with a huntin' dog 
 same 's he could, an' she 's given me the 
 money you an' John York sent over this
 
 THE COON DOG. 159 
 
 mornin' ; an' I did n't know but what you 'd 
 lend me another half a dollar, so I could 
 both go to Dipford Centre an' return, an' 
 see if I could n't make a sale o' Tiger right 
 over there where they all know about him. 
 It 's right in the coon season ; now 's my 
 time, ain't it ? " 
 
 " Well, gettin' a little late," said Isaac, 
 shaking with laughter as he took the desired 
 sum of money out of his pocket. " He 
 seems to be a clever dog round the house." 
 
 " I don't know 's I want to harbor him all 
 winter," answered the excursionist frankly, 
 striking into a good traveling gait as she 
 started off toward the railroad station.
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Hand, speaking wist 
 fully, " no, we never were in the habit of 
 keeping Christmas at our house. Mother 
 died when we were all young ; she would 
 have been the one to keep up with all new 
 ideas, but father and grandmother were old- 
 fashioned folks, and well, you know how 
 't was then, Miss Pendexter : nobody took 
 much notice of the day except to wish you a 
 Merry Christmas." 
 
 " They did n't do much to make it merry, 
 certain," answered Miss Pendexter. " Some 
 times nowadays I hear folks complainin' o' 
 bein' overtaxed with all the Christmas work 
 they have to do." 
 
 " Well, others think that it makes a lovely 
 chance for all that really enjoys givin' ; you 
 get an opportunity to speak your kind f eelin' 
 right out," answered Mrs. Hand, with a 
 bright smile. " But there ! I shall always 
 keep New Year's Day, too ; it won't do no
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 161 
 
 hurt to have an extra day kept an' made 
 pleasant. And there 's many of the real old 
 folks have got pretty things to remember 
 about New Year's Day." 
 
 " Aunt Cynthy Dallett 's just one of 'em," 
 said Miss Pendexter. " She 's always very 
 reproachful if I don't get up to see her. 
 .Last year I missed it, on account of a light 
 fall o' snow that seemed to make the walkin' 
 too bad, an' she sent a neighbor's boy 'way 
 down from the mount'in to see if I was 
 sick. Her lameness confines her to the house 
 altogether now, an' I have her on my mind 
 a good deal. How anybody does get thinkin' 
 of those that lives alone, as they get older ! 
 I waked up only last night with a start, 
 thinkin' if Aunt Cynthy's house should get 
 afire or anything, what she would do, 'way 
 up there all alone. I was half dreamin', I 
 s'pose, but I could n't seem to settle down 
 until I got up an' went upstairs to the north 
 garret window to see if I could see any light ; 
 but the mountains was all dark an' safe, 
 same 's usual. I remember noticin' last 
 time I was there that her chimney needed 
 pointin', and I spoke to her about it, the 
 bricks looked poor in some places." 
 
 " Can you see the house from your north
 
 162 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 gable window ? " asked Mrs. Hand, a little 
 absently. 
 
 " Yes 'm ; it 's a great comfort that I can," 
 answered her companion. " I have often 
 wished we were near enough to have her 
 make me some sort o' signal in case she 
 needed help. I used to plead with her to 
 come down and spend the winters with me, 
 but she told me one day I might as well try 
 to fetch down one o' the old hemlocks, an' I 
 believe 't was true." 
 
 " Your aunt Dallett is a very self-contained 
 person," observed Mrs. Hand. 
 
 " Oh, very ! " exclaimed the elderly niece, 
 with a pleased look. " Aunt Cynthy laughs, 
 an' says she expects the time will come when 
 age '11 compel her to have me move up an' 
 take care of her ; and last time I was there 
 she looked up real funny, an' says, ' I do' 
 know, Abby ; I 'm most af eard sometimes 
 that I feel myself beginnin' to look for'ard 
 to it ! ' 'T was a good deal, comin' from 
 Aunt Cynthy, an' I so esteemed it." 
 
 " She ought to have you there now," said 
 Mrs. Hand. " You 'd both make a savin' by 
 doin' it; but I don't expect she needs to 
 save as much as some. There ! I know just 
 how you both feel. I like to have my own
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 163 
 
 home an' do everything just my way too." 
 And the friends laughed, and looked at each 
 other affectionately. 
 
 " There was old Mr. Nathan Dunn, 
 left no debts an' no money when he died," 
 said Mrs. Hand. " 'T was over to his niece's 
 last summer. He had a little money in his 
 wallet, an' when the bill for funeral expenses 
 come in there was just exactly enough ; 
 some item or other made it come to so many 
 dollars an' eighty-four cents, and, lo an' be 
 hold ! there was eighty-four cents in a little 
 separate pocket beside the neat fold o' bills, 
 as if the old gentleman had known before 
 hand. His niece could n't help laughin', to 
 save her ; she said the old gentleman died as 
 methodical as he lived. She did n't expect 
 he had any money, an' was prepared to pay 
 for everything herself ; she 's very well off." 
 
 " 'T was funny, certain," said Miss Pen- 
 dexter. " I expect he felt comfortable, 
 knowin' he had that money by him. 'T is a 
 comfort, when all 's said and done, 'specially 
 to folks that 's gettin' old." 
 
 A sad look shadowed her face for an in 
 stant, and then she smiled and rose to take 
 leave, looking expectantly at her hostess to 
 see if there were anything more to be said.
 
 164 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 " I hope to come out square myself," she 
 said, by way of farewell pleasantry: "but 
 there are times when I feel doubtful." 
 
 Mrs. Hand was evidently considering 
 something, and waited a moment or two be 
 fore she spoke. " Suppose we both walk up 
 to see your aunt Dallett, New Year's Day, if 
 it ain't too windy and the snow keeps off ? " 
 she proposed. " I could n't rise the hill 
 if 't was a windy day. We could take a 
 hearty breakfast an' start in good season ; 
 I 'd rather walk than ride, the road 's so 
 rough this time o' year." 
 
 " Oh, what a person you are to think o' 
 things ! I did so dread goin' 'way up there 
 all alone," said Abby Pendexter. " I 'm no 
 hand to go off alone, an' I had it before me, 
 so I really got to dread it. I do so enjoy it 
 after I get there, seein' Aunt Cynthy, an' 
 she 's always so much better than I expect to 
 find her." 
 
 " Well, we '11 start early," said Mrs. 
 Hand cheerfully ; and so they parted. As 
 Miss Pendexter went down the foot-path to 
 the gate, she sent grateful thoughts back to 
 the little sitting-room she had just left. 
 
 " How doors are opened ! " she exclaimed 
 to herself. " Here I 've been so poor an'
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 165 
 
 distressed at beginnin' the year with nothin', 
 as it were, that I could n't think o' even goin' 
 to make poor old Aunt Cynthy a friendly 
 call. I '11 manage to make some kind of 
 a little pleasure too, an' somethin' for dear 
 Mis' Hand. * Use what you 've got,' mother 
 always used to say when every sort of an 
 emergency come up, an' I may only have 
 wishes to give, but I '11 make 'em good ones ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 The first day of the year was clear and 
 bright, as if it were a New Year's pattern 
 of what winter can be at its very best. The 
 two friends were prepared for changes of 
 weather, and met each other well wrapped 
 in their winter cloaks and shawls, with suffi 
 cient brown barege veils tied securely over 
 their bonnets. They ignored for some time 
 the plain truth that each carried something 
 under her arm ; the shawls were rounded 
 out suspiciously, especially Miss Pendexter's, 
 but each respected the other's air of secrecy. 
 The narrow road was frozen in deep ruts, 
 but a smooth-trodden little foot-path that 
 ran along its edge was very inviting to the 
 wayfarers. Mrs. Hand walked first and
 
 166 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 Miss Pendexter followed, and they were talk 
 ing busily nearly all the way, so that they 
 had to stop for breath now and then at the 
 tops of the little hills. It was not a hard 
 walk ; there were a good many almost level 
 stretches through the woods, in spite of the 
 fact that they should be a very great deal 
 higher when they reached Mrs. Dallett's 
 door. 
 
 " I do declare, what a nice day 't is, an' 
 such pretty footin' ! " said Mrs. Hand, with 
 satisfaction. "Seems to me as if my feet 
 went o' themselves ; gener'lly I have to toil 
 so when I walk that I can't enjoy nothin' 
 when I get to a place." 
 
 "It's partly this beautiful bracin' air," 
 said Abby Pendexter. " Sometimes such 
 nice air comes just before a fall of snow. 
 Don't it seem to make anybody feel young 
 again and to take all your troubles away ? " 
 
 Mrs. Hand was a comfortable, well-to-do 
 soul, who seldom worried about anything, 
 but something in her companion's tone 
 touched her heart, and she glanced sidewise 
 and saw a pained look in Abby Pendexter's 
 thin face. It was a moment for confidence. 
 
 " Why, you speak as if something dis 
 tressed your mind, Abby," said the elder 
 woman kindly.
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 167 
 
 "I ain't one that has myself on my mind 
 as a usual thing, but it does seem now as if 
 I was goin' to have it very hard," said Abby. 
 " Well, I 've been anxious before." 
 
 "Is it anything wrong about your pro 
 perty ? " Mrs. Hand ventured to ask. 
 
 " Only that I ain't got any," answered 
 Abby, trying to speak gayly. " 'T was all 
 I could do to pay my last quarter's rent, 
 twelve dollars. I sold my hens, all but this 
 one that had run away at the time, an' now 
 I 'm carryin' her up to Aunt Cynthy, roasted 
 just as nice as I know how." 
 
 " I thought you was carrying somethin'," 
 said Mrs. Hand, in her usual tone. " For 
 me, I 've got a couple o' my mince pies. I 
 thought the old lady might like 'em ; one 
 we can eat for our dinner, and one she shall 
 have to keep. But were n't you unwise to 
 sacrifice your poultry, Abby ? You always 
 need eggs, and hens don't cost much to keep." 
 
 " Why, yes, I shall miss 'em," said Abby ; 
 " but, you see, I had to do every way to get 
 my rent-money. Now the shop 's shut down 
 I have n't got any way of earnin' anything, 
 and I spent what little I 've saved through 
 the summer." 
 
 "Your aunt Cynthy ought to know it
 
 168 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 an' ought to help you," said Mrs. Hand. 
 " You 're a real foolish person, I must say. 
 I expect you do for her when she ought to 
 do for you." 
 
 " She 's old, an' she 's all the near relation 
 I Ve got," said the little woman. " I Ve 
 always felt the time would come when she 'd 
 need me, but it 's been her great pleasure to 
 live alone an' feel free. I shall get along 
 somehow, but I shall have it hard. Some 
 body may want help for a spell this winter, 
 but I 'm afraid I shall have to give up my 
 house. 'T ain't as if I owned it. I don't 
 know just what to do, but there'll be a way." 
 
 Mrs. Hand shifted her two pies to the 
 other arm, and stepped across to the other 
 side of the road where the ground looked a 
 little smoother. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't worry if I was you, 
 Abby," she said. "There, I suppose if 
 't was me I should worry a good deal more ! 
 I expect I should lay awake nights." But 
 Abby answered nothing, and they came to a 
 steep place in the road and found another 
 subject for conversation at the top. 
 
 " Your aunt don't know we 're coming ? " 
 asked the chief guest of the occasion. 
 
 "Oh, no, I never send her word," said
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 169 
 
 Miss Pendexter. " She 'd be so desirous to 
 get everything ready, just as she used to." 
 
 " She never seemed to make any trouble 
 o' havin' company ; she always appeared so 
 easy and pleasant, and let you set with her 
 while she made her preparations," said Mrs. 
 Hand, with great approval. "Some has 
 such a dreadful way of making you feel in 
 opportune, and you can't always send word 
 you 're comin'. I did have a visit once that 's 
 always been a lesson to me ; 't was years ago ; 
 I don't know 's I ever told you ? " 
 
 " I don't believe you ever did," responded 
 the listener to this somewhat indefinite pre 
 lude. 
 
 " Well, 't was one hot summer afternoon. 
 I set forth an' took a great long walk 'way 
 over to Mis' Eben Fulham's, on the cross 
 road between the cranberry ma'sh and Sta- 
 ples's Corner. The doctor was drivin' that 
 way, an' he give me a lift that shortened it 
 some at the last ; but I never should have 
 started, if I 'd known 't was so far. I had 
 been promisin' all summer to go, and every 
 time I saw Mis' Fulham, Sundays, she 'd say 
 somethin' about it. We wa'n't very well 
 acquainted, but always friendly. She moved 
 here from Bedford Hill."
 
 170 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I used to know her," said 
 Abby, with interest. 
 
 " Well, now, she did give me a beautiful 
 welcome when I got there," continued Mrs. 
 Hand. " 'T was about four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, an' I told her I 'd come to accept 
 her invitation if 't was convenient, an' the 
 doctor had been called several miles beyond 
 and expected to be detained, but he was goin' 
 to pick me up as he returned about seven ; 
 't was very kind of him. She took me right 
 in, and she did appear so pleased, an' I must 
 go right into the best room where 't was cool, 
 and then she said she 'd have tea early, and 
 I should have to excuse her a short time. 
 I asked her not to make any difference, and 
 if I could n't assist her ; but she said no, I 
 must just take her as I found her ; and she 
 give me a large fan, and off she went. 
 
 " There. I was glad to be still and rest 
 where 't was cool, an' I set there in the 
 rockin'-chair an' enjoyed it for a while, an' 
 I heard her clacking at the oven door out 
 beyond, an' gittin' out some dishes. She was 
 a brisk-actin' little woman, an' I thought I 'd 
 caution her when she come back not to make 
 up a great fire, only for a cup o' tea, perhaps. 
 I started to go right out in the kitchen, an*
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 171 
 
 then somethin' told me I 'd better not, we 
 never 'd been so free together as that ; I 
 did n't know how she 'd take it, an' there I 
 set an' set. 'T was sort of a greenish light 
 in the best room, an' it begun to feel a little 
 damp to me, the s'rubs outside grew close 
 up to the windows. Oh, it did seem dread 
 ful long ! I could hear her busy with the 
 dishes an' beatin' eggs an' stirrin', an' I 
 knew she was puttin' herself out to get up a 
 great supper, and I kind o' fidgeted about 
 a little an' even stepped to the door, but I 
 thought she 'd expect me to remain where I 
 was. I saw everything in that room forty 
 times over, an' I did divert myself killin' 
 off a brood o' moths that was in a worsted, 
 work mat on the table. It all fell to pieces. 
 I never saw such a sight o' moths to once. 
 But occupation failed after that, an' I begun 
 to feel sort o' tired an' numb. There was 
 one o' them late crickets got into the room 
 an' begun to chirp, an' it sounded kind o' 
 fallish. I could n't help sayin' to myself 
 that Mis' Fulham had forgot all about my 
 bein' there. I thought of all the beauties of 
 hospitality that ever I see ! " 
 
 " Did n't she ever come back at all, not 
 whilst things was in the oven, nor nothin' ? " 
 inquired Miss Pendexter, with awe.
 
 172 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 "I never see her again till she come 
 beamin' to the parlor door an' invited me to 
 walk out to tea," said Mrs. Hand. " 'T was 
 'most a quarter past six by the clock ; I 
 thought 't was seven. I 'd thought o' every 
 thing, an' I 'd counted, an' I 'd trotted my 
 foot, an' I 'd looked more 'n twenty times to 
 see if there was any more moth-millers." 
 
 " I s'pose you did have a very nice tea ? " 
 suggested Abby, with interest. 
 
 " Oh, a beautiful tea ! She could n't have 
 done more if I 'd been the Queen," said Mrs. 
 Hand. " I don't know how she could ever 
 have done it all in the time, I 'm sure. The 
 table was loaded down ; there was cup-cus 
 tards and custard pie, an' cream pie, an' 
 two kinds o' hot biscuits, an' black tea as well 
 as green, an' elegant cake, one kind she 'd 
 just made new, and called it quick cake ; I 've 
 often made it since an' she 'd opened her 
 best preserves, two kinds. We set down to 
 gether, an' I 'm sure I appreciated what she 'd 
 done ; but 't wa'n't no time for real conver 
 sation whilst we was to the table, and before 
 we got quite through the doctor come hurryin' 
 along, an' I had to leave. He asked us if 
 we 'd had a good talk, as we come out, an' 
 I could n't help laughing to myself ; but she
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 173 
 
 said quite hearty that she 'd had a nice visit 
 from me. She appeared well satisfied, Mis' 
 Fulham did ; but for me, I was disappointed ; 
 an' early that fall she died." 
 
 Abby Pendexter was laughing like a girl ; 
 the speaker's tone had grown more and more 
 complaining. " I do call that a funny ex 
 perience," she said. " ' Better a dinner o* 
 herbs.' I guess that text must ha' risen to 
 your mind in connection. You must tell 
 that to Aunt Cynthy, if conversation seems 
 to fail." And she laughed again, but Mrs. 
 Hand still looked solemn and reproachful. 
 
 " Here we are ; there 's Aunt Cynthy's lane 
 right ahead, there by the great yellow birch," 
 said Abby. " I must say, you 've made the 
 way seem very short, Mis' Hand." 
 
 III. 
 
 Old Aunt Cynthia Dallett sat in her high- 
 backed rocking-chair by the little north 
 window, which was her favorite dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 " New Year's Day again," she said, aloud, 
 "New Year's Day again!" And she 
 folded her old bent hands, and looked out 
 at the great woodland view and the hills
 
 174 AUNT C.YNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 without really seeing them, she was lost in 
 so deep a reverie. " I 'm gittin' to be very 
 old," she added, after a little while. 
 
 It was perfectly still in the small gray 
 house. Outside in the apple-trees there 
 were some blue-jays flitting about and call 
 ing noisily, like schoolboys fighting at their 
 games. The kitchen was full of pale winter 
 sunshine. It was more like late October 
 than the first of January, and the plain little 
 room seemed to smile back into the sun 's 
 face. The outer door was standing open 
 into the green dooryard, and a fat small 
 dog lay asleep on the step. A capacious 
 cupboard stood behind Mrs. Dallett's chair 
 and kept the wind away from her corner. 
 Its doors and drawers were painted a clean 
 lead-color, and there were places round the 
 knobs and buttons where the touch of hands 
 had worn deep into the wood. Every 
 braided rug was straight on the floor. The 
 square clock on its shelf between the front 
 windows looked as if it had just had its face 
 washed and been wound up for a whole year 
 to come. If Mrs. Dallett turned her head 
 she could look into the bedroom, where her 
 plump feather bed was covered with its dark 
 blue homespun winter quilt. It was all
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLE TT. 175 
 
 very peaceful and comfortable, but it was 
 very lonely. By her side, on a light-stand, 
 lay the religious newspaper of her denomi 
 nation, and a pair of spectacles whose jointed 
 silver bows looked like a funny two-legged 
 beetle cast helplessly upon its back. 
 
 " New Year's Day again," said old Cyn 
 thia Dallett. Time had left nobody in her 
 house to wish her a Happy New Year, she 
 was the last one left in the old nest. " I 'm 
 gittin' to be very old," she said for the 
 second time ; it seemed to be all there was 
 to say. 
 
 She was keeping a careful eye on her 
 friendly clock, but it was hardly past the 
 middle of the morning, and there was no 
 excuse for moving ; it was the long hour 
 between the end of her slow morning work 
 and the appointed time for beginning to get 
 dinner. She was so stiff and lame that this 
 hour's rest was usually most welcome, but 
 to-day she sat as if it were Sunday, and did 
 not take up her old shallow splint basket of 
 braiding-rags from the side of her footstool. 
 
 " I do hope Abby Pendexter '11 make out 
 to git up to see me this afternoon as usual," 
 she continued. " I know 't ain't so easy for 
 her to get up the hill as it used to be, but I
 
 176 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 do seem to want to see some o' my own 
 folks. I wish 't I 'd thought to send her 
 word I expected her when Jabez Hooper 
 went back after he came up here with the 
 flour. I 'd like to have had her come pre 
 pared to stop two or three days." 
 
 A little chickadee perched on the window- 
 sill outside and bobbed his head sideways to 
 look in, and then pecked impatiently at the 
 glass. The old woman laughed at him with 
 childish pleasure and felt companioned ; it 
 was pleasant at that moment to see the life 
 in even a bird's bright eye. 
 
 " Sign of a stranger," she said, as he 
 whisked his wings and flew away in a hurry. 
 " I must throw out some crumbs for 'em ; 
 it 's getting to be hard pickin' for the stay- 
 in'-birds." She looked past the trees of her 
 little orchard now with seeing eyes, and 
 followed the long forest slopes that led down 
 ward to the lowland country. She could 
 see the two white steeples of Fairfield Vil 
 lage, and the map of fields and pastures 
 along the valley beyond, and the great hills 
 across the valley to the westward. The 
 scattered houses looked like toys that had 
 been scattered by children. She knew their 
 lights by night, and watched the smoke of
 
 AUNT CTNTHY DALLETT. 177 
 
 their chimneys by day. Far to the north 
 ward were higher mountains, and these were 
 already white with snow. Winter was al 
 ready in sight, but to-day the wind was in 
 the south, and the snow seemed only part 
 of a great picture. 
 
 " I do hope the cold '11 keep off a while 
 longer," thought Mrs. Dallett. "I don't 
 know how I 'm going to get along after the 
 deep snow comes." 
 
 The little dog suddenly waked, as if he 
 had had a bad dream, and after giving a 
 few anxious whines he began to bark out 
 rageously. His mistress tried, as usual, to 
 appeal to his better feelings. 
 
 " 'T ain't nobody, Tiger," she said. " Can't 
 you have some patience ? Maybe it 's some 
 foolish boys that 's rangin' about with their 
 guns." But Tiger kept on, and even took 
 the trouble to waddle in on his short legs, 
 barking all the way. He looked warningly 
 at her, and then turned and ran out again. 
 Then she saw him go hurrying down to the 
 bars, as if it were an occasion of unusual 
 interest. 
 
 " I guess somebody is comin' ; he don't 
 act as if 't were a vagrant kind o' noise ; 
 must really be somebody in our lane." And
 
 178 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 Mrs. Dallett smoothed her apron and gave 
 an anxious housekeeper's glance round the 
 kitchen. None of her state visitors, the min 
 ister or the deacons, ever came in the morn 
 ing. Country people are usually too busy 
 to go visiting in the forenoons. 
 
 Presently two figures appeared where the 
 road came out of the woods, the two 
 women already known to the story, but very 
 surprising to Mrs. Dallett ; the short, thin 
 one was easily recognized as Abby Pendex- 
 ter, and the taller, stout one was soon dis 
 covered to be Mrs. Hand. Their old friend's 
 heart was in a glow. As the guests ap 
 proached they could see her pale face with 
 its thin white hair framed under the close 
 black silk handkerchief. 
 
 "There she is at her window smilin' 
 away ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hand ; but by the 
 time they reached the doorstep she stood 
 waiting to meet them. 
 
 " Why, you two dear creatur's ! " she 
 said, with a beaming smile. " I don't know 
 when I 've ever been so glad to see folks 
 comin'. I had a kind of left-all-alone feelin' 
 this mornin', an' I did n't even make bold 
 to be certain o' you, Abby, though it looked 
 so pleasant. Come right in an' set down.
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 179 
 
 You 're all out o' breath, ain't you, Mis' 
 Hand?" 
 
 Mrs. Dallett led the way with eager 
 hospitality. She was the tiniest little bent 
 old creature, her handkerchiefed head was 
 quick and alert, and her eyes were bright 
 with excitement and feeling, but the rest of 
 her was much the worse for age ; she could 
 hardly move, poor soul, as if she had only 
 a make-believe framework of a body under 
 a shoulder-shawl and thick petticoats. She 
 got back to her chair again, and the guests 
 took off their bonnets in the bedroom, and 
 returned discreet and sedate in their black 
 woolen dresses. The lonely kitchen was 
 blest with society at last, to its mistress's 
 heart's content. They talked as fast as 
 possible about the weather, and how warm 
 it had been walking up the mountain, and 
 how cold it had been a year ago, that day 
 when Abby Pendexter had been kept at 
 home by a snowstorm and missed her visit. 
 " And I ain't seen you now, aunt, since 
 the twenty-eighth of September, but I 've 
 thought of you a great deal, and looked for 
 ward to comin' more 'n usual," she ended, 
 with an affectionate glance at the pleased 
 old face by the window.
 
 180 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 " I 've been wantin' to see you, dear, and 
 wonderin' how you was gettin' on," said 
 Aunt Cynthy kindly. "And I take it as 
 a great attention to have you come to-day, 
 Mis' Hand," she added, turning again to 
 wards the more distinguished guest. " "We 
 have to put one thing against another. 
 I should hate dreadfully to live anywhere 
 except on a high hill farm, 'cordin' as I was 
 born an' raised. But there ain't the chance 
 to neighbor that townfolks has, an' I do 
 seem to have more lonely hours than I used 
 to when I was younger. I don't know but I 
 shall soon be gittin' too old to live alone." 
 And she turned to her niece with an ex 
 pectant, lovely look, and Abby smiled back. 
 
 " I often wish I could run in an' see you 
 every day, aunt," she answered. " I have 
 been sayin' so to Mrs. Hand." 
 
 " There, how anybody does relish com 
 pany when they don't have but a little of 
 it ! " exclaimed Aunt Cynthia. " I am all 
 alone to-day ; there is going to be a shootin'- 
 match somewhere the other side o' the moun 
 tain, an' Johnny Foss, that does my chores, 
 begged off to go when he brought the milk 
 unusual early this mornin'. Gener'lly he 's 
 about here all the fore part of the day ; but
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 181 
 
 he don't go off with the boys very often, and 
 I like to have him have a little sport ; 't was 
 New Year's Day, anyway ; he 's a good, 
 stiddy boy for my wants." 
 
 "Why, I wish you Happy New Year, 
 aunt ! " said Abby, springing up with un 
 usual spirit. "Why, that's just what we 
 come to say, and we like to have forgot all 
 about it ! " She kissed her aunt, and stood 
 a minute holding her hand with a soft, 
 affectionate touch. Mrs. Hand rose and 
 kissed Mrs. Dallett too, and it was a moment 
 of ceremony and deep feeling. 
 
 " I always like to keep the day," said the 
 old hostess, as they seated themselves and 
 drew their splint-bottomed chairs a little 
 nearer together than before. " You see, I 
 was brought up to it, and father made a 
 good deal of it ; he said he liked to make 
 it pleasant and give the year a fair start. I 
 can see him now, how he used to be stand 
 ing there by the fireplace when we came out 
 o' the two bedrooms early in the morning, 
 an' he always made out, poor 's he was, to 
 give us some little present, and he 'd heap 
 'em up on the corner o' the mantelpiece, 
 an' we 'd stand front of him in a row, and 
 mother be bustling about gettin' breakfast.
 
 182 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 One year he give me a beautiful copy o* 
 the ' Life o' General Lafayette,' in a green 
 cover, I 've got it now, but we child'n 
 'bout read it to pieces, an' one year a 
 nice piece o' blue ribbon, an' Abby that 
 was your mother, Abby had a pink one. 
 Father was real kind to his child'n. I 
 thought o' them early days when I first 
 waked up this mornin', and I could n't help 
 lookin' up then to the corner o' the shelf 
 just as I used to look." 
 
 " There 's nothin' so beautiful as to have 
 a bright childhood to look back to," said 
 Mrs. Hand. " Sometimes I think child'n 
 has too hard a time now, all the responsi 
 bility is put on to 'em, since they take the 
 lead o' what to do an' what they want, and 
 get to be so toppin' an' knowin'. 'Twas 
 happier in the old days, when the fathers 
 an' mothers done the rulin'." 
 
 "They say things have changed," said 
 Aunt Cynthy ; " but staying right here, I 
 don't know much of any world but my own 
 world." 
 
 Abby Pendexter did not join in this con 
 versation, but sat in her straight backed 
 chair with folded hands and the air of a 
 >ood child. The little old dog had followed
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 183 
 
 her in, and now lay sound asleep again at 
 her feet. The front breadth of her black 
 dress looked rusty and old in the sunshine 
 that slanted across it, and the aunt's sharp 
 eyes saw this and saw the careful darns. 
 Abby was as neat as wax, but she looked as 
 if the frost had struck her. " I declare, 
 she 's gittin' along in years," thought Aunt 
 Cynthia compassionately. " She begins to 
 look sort o' set and dried up, Abby does. 
 She ought n't to live all alone ; she 's one 
 that needs company." 
 
 At this moment Abby looked up with 
 new interest. " Now, aunt," she said, in her 
 pleasant voice, " I don't want you to forget 
 to tell me if there ain't some sewin' or 
 mendin' I can do whilst I 'm here. I know 
 your hands trouble you some, an' I may 's 
 well tell you we 're bent on stayin' all day 
 an' makin' a good visit, Mis' Hand an' me." 
 
 " Thank ye kindly," said the old woman ; 
 " I do want a little sewin' done before long, 
 but 't ain't no use to spile a good holiday." 
 Her face took a resolved expression. " I 'm 
 goin' to make other arrangements," she 
 said. " No, you need n't come up here to 
 pass New Year's Day an' be put right down 
 to sewin'. I make out to do what mendin'
 
 184 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 
 
 I need, an' to sew on my hooks an' eyes. I 
 get Johnny Ross to thread me up a good 
 lot o' needles every little while, an' that 
 helps me a good deal. Abby, why can't 
 you step into the best room an' bring out 
 the rockin'-chair ? I seem to want Mis' 
 Hand to have it." 
 
 " I opened the window to let the sun in 
 awhile," said the niece, as she returned. 
 " It felt cool in there an' shut up." 
 
 " I thought of doin' it not long before you 
 come," said Mrs. Dallett, looking gratified. 
 Once the taking of such a liberty would 
 have been very provoking to her. " Why, 
 it does seem good to have somebody think 
 o' things an' take right hold like that ! " 
 
 " I 'm sure you would, if you were down 
 at my house," said Abby, blushing. " Aunt 
 Cynthy, I don't suppose you could feel as 
 if 't would be best to come down an' pass 
 the winter with me, just durin' the cold 
 weather, I mean. You 'd see more folks 
 to amuse you, an' I do think of you so 
 anxious these long winter nights." 
 
 There was a terrible silence in the room, 
 and Miss Pendexter felt her heart begin to 
 beat very fast. She did not dare to look at 
 her aunt at first.
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 185 
 
 Presently the silence was broken. Aunt 
 Cynthia had been gazing out of the win 
 dow, and she turned towards them a little 
 paler and older than before, and smiling 
 sadly. 
 
 " Well, dear, I '11 do just as you say," she 
 answered. " I 'm beat by age at last, but 
 I Ve had my own way for eighty-five years, 
 come the month o' March, an' last winter I 
 did use to lay awake an' worry in the long 
 storms. I'm kind o' humble now about 
 livin' alone to what I was once." At this 
 moment a new light shone in her face. " I 
 don't expect you 'd be willin' to come up 
 here an' stay till spring, not if I had 
 Foss's folks stop for you to ride to meetin' 
 every pleasant Sunday, an' take you down to 
 the Corners plenty o' other times besides?" 
 she said beseechingly. " No, Abby, I 'm 
 too old to move now ; I should be homesick 
 down to the village. If you '11 come an' 
 stay with me, all I have shall be yours. 
 Mis' Hand hears me say it." 
 
 " Oh, don't you think o' that ; you 're all 
 I 've got near to me in the world, an' I '11 
 come an' welcome," said Abby, though the 
 thought of her own little home gave a hard 
 tug at her heart. " Yes, Aunt Cynthy, I '11
 
 186 AUNT CYNTHT DALLETT. 
 
 come, an' we '11 be real comfortable together. 
 I 've been lonesome sometimes " 
 
 "'Twill be best for both," said Mrs. 
 Hand judicially. And so the great ques 
 tion was settled, and suddenly, without too 
 much excitement, it became a thing of the 
 past. 
 
 " We must be thinkin' o' dinner," said 
 Aunt Cynthia gayly. " I wish I was better 
 prepared ; but there 's nice eggs an' pork 
 an' potatoes, an' you girls can take hold an' 
 help." At this moment the roast chicken 
 and the best mince pies were offered and 
 kindly accepted, and before another hour 
 had gone they were sitting at their New 
 Year feast, which Mrs. Dallett decided to 
 be quite proper for the Queen. 
 
 Before the guests departed, when the sun 
 was getting low, Aunt Cynthia called her 
 niece to her side and took hold of her hand. 
 
 " Don't you make it too long now, Abby," 
 said she. " I shall be wantin' ye every day 
 till you come ; but you must n't f orgit what 
 a set old thing I be." 
 
 Abby had the kindest of hearts, and was 
 always longing for somebody to love and 
 care for ; her aunt's very age and helpless 
 ness seemed to beg for pity.
 
 AUNT CYNTHY DALLETT. 187 
 
 " This is Saturday ; you may expect me the 
 early part of the week ; and thank you, too, 
 aunt," said Abby. 
 
 Mrs. Hand stood by with deep sympathy. 
 " It 's the proper thing," she announced 
 calmly. " You 'd both of you be a sight 
 happier ; and truth is, Abby 's wild an' 
 reckless, an' needs somebody to stand right 
 over her, Mis' Dallett. I guess she '11 try an' 
 behave, but there there 's no knowin' ! " 
 And they all laughed. Then the New Year 
 guests said farewell and started off down 
 the mountain road. They looked back more 
 than once to see Aunt Cynthia's face at the 
 window as she watched them out of sight. 
 Miss Abby Pendexter was full of excite 
 ment ; she looked as happy as a child. 
 
 " I feel as if we 'd gained the battle of 
 Waterloo," said Mrs. Hand. " I 've really 
 had a most beautiful time. You an' your 
 aunt must n't forgit to invite me up some 
 time again to spend another day."
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKS 
 GIVING. 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE was a sad heart in the low-storied, 
 dark little house that stood humbly by the 
 roadside under some tall elms. Small as her 
 house was, old Mrs. Robb found it too large 
 for herself alone ; she only needed the kitchen 
 and a tiny bedroom that led out of it, and 
 there still remained the best room and a 
 bedroom, with the low garret overhead. 
 
 There had been a time, after she was left 
 alone, when Mrs. Robb could help those 
 who were poorer than herself. She was 
 strong enough not only to do a woman's 
 work inside her house, but almost a man's 
 work outside in her piece of garden ground. 
 At last sickness and age had come hand in 
 hand, those two relentless enemies of the 
 poor, and together they had wasted her 
 strength and substance. She had always 
 been looked up to by her neighbors as being 
 independent, but now she was left, lame-
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 189 
 
 footed and lame-handed, with a debt to carry 
 and her bare land, and the house ill-provi 
 sioned to stand the siege of time. 
 
 For a while she managed to get on, but at 
 last it began to be whispered about that there 
 was no use for any one so proud ; it was 
 easier for the whole town to care for her than 
 for a few neighbors, and Mrs. Robb had bet 
 ter go to the poorhouse before winter, and 
 be done with it. At this terrible suggestion 
 her brave heart seemed to stand still. The 
 people whom she cared for most happened 
 to be poor, and she could no longer go into 
 their households to make herself of use. 
 The very elms overhead seemed to say, " Oh, 
 no ! " as they groaned in the late autumn 
 winds, and there was something appealing 
 even to the strange passer-by in the look of 
 the little gray house, with Mrs. Robb's pale, 
 worried face at the window. 
 
 . II. 
 
 Some one has said that anniversaries are 
 days to make other people happy in, but 
 sometimes when they come they seem to be 
 full of shadows, and the power of giving 
 joy to others, that inalienable right which
 
 190 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 
 
 ought to lighten the saddest heart, the most 
 indifferent sympathy, sometimes even this 
 seems to be withdrawn. 
 
 So poor old Mary Ann Robb sat at her 
 window on the afternoon before Thanks 
 giving and felt herself poor and sorrowful 
 indeed. Across the frozen road she looked 
 eastward over a great stretch of cold meadow 
 land, brown and wind-swept and crossed by 
 icy ditches. It seemed to her as if before 
 this, in all the troubles that she had known 
 and carried, there had always been some 
 hope to hold : as if she had never looked 
 poverty full in the face and seen its cold and 
 pitiless look before. She looked anxiously 
 down the road, with a horrible shrinking and 
 dread at the thought of being asked, out 
 of pity, to join in some Thanksgiving feast, 
 but there was nobody coming with gifts in 
 hand. Once she had been full of love for 
 such days, whether at home or abroad, but 
 something chilled her very heart now. 
 
 Her nearest neighbor had been foremost 
 of those who wished her to go to the town 
 farm, and he had said more than once that 
 it was the only sensible thing. But John 
 Mander was waiting impatiently to get her 
 tiny farm into his own hands ; he had ad-
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 191 
 
 vanced some money upon it in her extrem 
 ity, and pretended that there was still a debt, 
 after he cleared her wood lot to pay himself 
 back. He would plough over the graves in 
 the field corner and fell the great elms, and 
 waited now like a spider for his poor prey. 
 He often reproached her for being too 
 generous to worthless people in the past 
 and coming to be a charge to others now. 
 Oh, if she could only die in her own house 
 and not suffer the pain of homelessness and 
 dependence ! 
 
 It was just at sunset, and as she looked 
 out hopelessly across the gray fields, there 
 was a sudden gleam of light far away on 
 the low hills beyond ; the clouds opened in 
 the west and let the sunshine through. One 
 lovely gleam shot swift as an arrow and 
 brightened a far cold hillside where it fell, 
 and at the same moment a sudden gleam of 
 hope brightened the winter landscape of her 
 heart. 
 
 " There was Johnny Harris," said Mary 
 Ann Robb softly. " He was a soldier's son, 
 left an orphan and distressed. Old John 
 Mander scolded, but I could n't see the poor 
 boy in want. I kept him that year after 
 he got hurt, spite o' what anybody said, an*
 
 192 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 
 
 he helped me what little he could. He said 
 I was the only mother he 'd ever had. ' I 'm 
 goin' out West, Mother Robb,' says he. * I 
 sha'n't come back till I get rich,' an' then 
 he 'd look at me an' laugh, so pleasant and 
 boyish. He wa'n't one that liked to write. 
 I don't think he was doin' very well when 
 I heard, there, it 's most four years ago 
 now. I always thought if he got sick or 
 anything, I should have a good home for 
 him to come to. There 's poor Ezra Blake, 
 the deaf one, too, he won't have any place 
 to welcome him." 
 
 The light faded out of doors, and again 
 Mrs. Robb's troubles stood before her. Yet 
 it was not so dark as it had been in her sad 
 heart. She still sat by the window, hoping 
 now, in spite of herself, instead of fearing ; 
 and a curious feeling of nearness and ex 
 pectancy made her feel not so much light- 
 hearted as light-headed. 
 
 " I feel just as if somethin' was goin' to 
 happen," she said. " Poor Johnny Harris, 
 perhaps he 's thinkin' o' me, if he 's alive." 
 
 It was dark now out of doors, and there 
 were tiny clicks against the window. It 
 was beginning to snow, and the great elms 
 creaked in the rising wind overhead.
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 193 
 
 III. 
 
 A dead limb of one of the old trees had 
 fallen that autumn, and, poor firewood as it 
 might be, it was Mrs. Robb's own, and she 
 had burnt it most thankfully. There was 
 only a small armful left, but at least she 
 could have the luxury of a fire. She had a 
 feeling that it was her last night at home, 
 and with strange recklessness began to fill 
 the stove as she used to do in better days. 
 
 " It '11 get me good an' warm," she said, 
 still talking to herself, as lonely people do, 
 " an' I '11 go to bed early. It 's comin' on 
 to storm." 
 
 The snow clicked faster and faster against 
 the window, and she sat alone thinking in 
 the dark. 
 
 " There 's lots of folks I love," she said 
 once. " They 'd be sorry I ain't got no 
 body to come, an' no supper the night afore 
 Thanksgivin'. I 'm dreadful glad they don't 
 know." And she drew a little nearer to the 
 fire, and laid her head back drowsily in the 
 old rocking-chair. 
 
 It seemed only a moment before there was 
 a loud knocking, and somebody lifted the 
 latch of the door. The fire shone bright
 
 194 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 
 
 through the front of the stove and made a 
 little light in the room, but Mary Ann Robb 
 waked up frightened and bewildered. 
 
 " Who 's there ? " she called, as she found 
 her crutch and went to the door. She 
 was only conscious of her one great fear. 
 " They 've come to take me to the poor- 
 house!" she said, and burst into tears. 
 
 There was a tall man, not John Mander, 
 who seemed to fill the narrow doorway. 
 
 " Come, let me in ! " he said gayly. " It 's 
 a cold night. You did n't expect me, did 
 you, Mother Robb ? " 
 
 "Dear me, what is it?" she faltered, 
 stepping back as he came in, and drop 
 ping her crutch. " Be I dreamin' ? I was 
 a-dreamin' about Oh, there ! What 
 was I a-sayin' ? 'T ain't true ! No ! I 've 
 made some kind of a mistake." 
 
 Yes, and this was the man who kept the 
 poorhouse, and she would go without com 
 plaint ; they might have given her notice, but 
 she must not fret. 
 
 " Sit down, sir," she said, turning toward 
 him with touching patience. " You '11 have 
 to give me a little time. If I 'd been noti 
 fied I would n't have kept you waiting a 
 minute this stormy night."
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 195 
 
 It was not the keeper of the poorhouse. 
 The man by the door took one step forward 
 and put his arm round her and kissed her. 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " said John 
 Harris. " You ain't goin' to make me feel 
 like a stranger ? I 've come all the way 
 from Dakota to spend Thanksgivin'. There 's 
 all sorts o' things out here in the wagon, an' 
 a man to help get 'em in. Why, don't cry 
 so, Mother Robb. I thought you 'd have a 
 great laugh, if I come and surprised you. 
 Don't you remember I always said I should 
 come ? " 
 
 It was John Harris, indeed. The poor 
 soul could say nothing. She felt now as if 
 her heart was going to break with joy. He 
 left her in the rocking-chair and came and 
 went in his old boyish way, bringing in the 
 store of gifts and provisions. It was better 
 than any dream. He laughed and talked, 
 and went out to send away the man to bring 
 a wagonful of wood from John Mander's, 
 and came in himself laden with pieces of 
 the nearest fence to keep the fire going in 
 the mean time. They must cook the beef 
 steak for supper right away ; they must find 
 the pound of tea among all the other bun 
 dles; they must get good fires started i
 
 196 TEE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 
 
 both the cold bedrooms. Why, Mother Robb 
 did n't seem to be ready for company from 
 out West ! The great, cheerful fellow hur 
 ried about the tiny house, and the little old 
 woman limped after him, forgetting every 
 thing but hospitality. Had not she a house 
 for John to come to ? Were not her old 
 chairs and tables in their places still ? And 
 he remembered everything, and kissed her 
 as they stood before the fire, as if she were 
 a girl. 
 
 He had found plenty of hard times, but 
 luck had come at last. He had struck luck, 
 and this was the end of a great year. 
 
 " No, I could n't seem to write letters ; no 
 use to complain o' the worst, an' I wanted 
 to tell you the best when I came ; " and he 
 told it while she cooked the supper. " No, I 
 wa'n't goin' to write no foolish letters," John 
 repeated. He was afraid he should cry him 
 self when he found out how bad things had 
 been ; and they sat down to supper together, 
 just as they used to do when he was a home 
 less orphan boy, whom nobody else wanted 
 in winter weather while he was crippled and 
 could not work. She could not be kinder 
 now than she was then, but she looked so 
 poor and old ! He saw her taste her cup of
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING. 197 
 
 tea and set it down again with a trembling 
 hand and a look at him. " No, I wanted to 
 come myself," he blustered, wiping his eyes 
 and trying to laugh. " And you 're going 
 to have everything you need to make you 
 comfortable long 's you live, Mother Robb ! " 
 She looked at him again and nodded, but 
 she did not even try to speak. There was 
 a good hot supper ready, and a happy guest 
 had come ; it was the night before Thanks 
 giving.
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 ON the coast of Maine, where many green 
 islands and salt inlets fringe the deep-cut 
 shore line ; where balsam firs and bayberry 
 bushes send their fragrance far seaward, and 
 song-sparrows sing all day, and the tide runs 
 plashing in and out among the weedy ledges ; 
 where cowbells tinkle on the hills and her 
 ons stand in the shady coves, on the 
 lonely coast of Maine stood a small gray 
 house facing the morning light. All the 
 weather-beaten houses of that region face 
 the sea apprehensively, like the women who 
 live in them. 
 
 This home of four people was as bleached 
 and gray with wind and rain as one of the 
 pasture rocks close by. There were some 
 cinnamon rose bushes under the window at 
 one side of the door, and a stunted lilac at 
 the other side. It was so early in the cool 
 morning that nobody was astir but some shy 
 birds, that had come in the stillness of 
 dawn to pick and flutter in the short grass.
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 199 
 
 They flew away together as some one softly 
 opened the unlocked door and stepped out. 
 This was a bent old man, who shaded his 
 eyes with his hand, and looked at the west 
 and the east and overhead, and then took a 
 few lame and feeble steps farther out to see 
 a wooden vane on the barn. Then he sat 
 down on the doorstep, clasped his hands to 
 gether between his knees, and looked stead 
 ily out to sea, scanning the horizon where 
 some schooners had held on their course all 
 night, with a light westerly breeze. He 
 seemed to be satisfied at sight of the weather, 
 as if he had been anxious, as he lay unas 
 sured in his north bedroom, vexed with the 
 sleeplessness of age and excited by thoughts 
 of the coming day. The old seaman dozed 
 as he sat on the doorstep, while dawn came 
 up and the world grew bright ; and the little 
 birds returned, fearfully at first, to finish 
 their breakfast, and at last made bold to hop 
 close to his feet. 
 
 After a time some one else came and stood 
 in the open door behind him. 
 
 " Why, father ! seems to me you 've got 
 an early start ; 't ain't but four o'clock. I 
 thought I was foolish to get up so soon, but 
 't wa'n't so I could sleep."
 
 200 7 THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 " No, darter." The old man smiled as lie 
 turned to look at her, wide awake on the in 
 stant. " 'T ain't so soon as I git out some 
 o' these 'arly mornin's. The birds wake me 
 up singin', and it 's plenty light, you know. 
 I wanted to make sure 'Lisha would have a 
 fair day to go." 
 
 " I expect he 'd have to go if the weather 
 wa'n't good," said the woman. 
 
 " Yes, yes, but 't is useful to have fair 
 weather, an' a good sign some says it is. 
 This is a great event for the boy, ain't it ? " 
 
 " I can't face the thought o' losin' on him, 
 father." The woman came forward a step 
 or two and sat down on the doorstep. She 
 was a hard-worked, anxious creature, whose 
 face had lost all look of youth. She was 
 apt, in the general course of things, to hurry 
 the old man and to spare little time for talk 
 ing, and he was pleased by this acknow 
 ledged unity of their interests. He moved 
 aside a little to give her more room, and 
 glanced at her with a smile, as if to beg her 
 to speak freely. They were both undemon 
 strative, taciturn New Englanders ; their 
 hearts were warm with pent-up feeling, that 
 summer morning, yet it was easier to under 
 stand one another through silence than 
 through speech.
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 201 
 
 " No, I could n't git much sleep," repeated 
 the daughter at last. "Some things I 
 thought of that ain't come to mind before 
 for years, things I don't relish the f eelin' 
 of, all over again." 
 
 " 'T was just such a mornin' as this, pore 
 little 'Lisha's father went off on that last 
 v'y'ge o' his," answered the old sailor, with 
 instant comprehension. " Yes, you 've had 
 it master hard, pore gal, ain't you ? I ad 
 vised him against goin' off on that old ves 
 sel with a crew that wa'n't capable." 
 
 " Such a mornin' as this, when I come 
 out at sun-up, I always seem to see her top- 
 s'ils over there beyond the p'int, where she 
 was to anchor. Well, I thank Heaven 
 'Lisha was averse to goin' to sea," declared 
 the mother. 
 
 " There 's dangers ashore, Lucy Ann," 
 said the grandfather, solemnly ; but there 
 was no answer, and they sat there in silence 
 until the old man grew drowsy again. 
 
 " Yisterday was the first time it fell onto 
 my heart that 'Lisha was goin' off," the mo 
 ther began again, after a time had passed. 
 " P'r'aps folks was right about our needing 
 of him. I 've been workin' every way I 
 could to further him and git him a real good
 
 202 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 chance up to Boston, and now that we 've 
 got to part with him I don't see how to put 
 up with it." 
 
 " All nateral," insisted the old man. " My 
 mother wept the night through before I was 
 goin' to sail on my first v'y'ge ; she was kind 
 of satisfied, though, when I come home next 
 summer, grown a full man, with my savin's 
 in my pocket, an' I had a master pretty 
 little figured shawl I 'd bought for her to 
 Bristol." 
 
 " I don't want no shawls. Partin' is part- 
 in' to me," said the woman. 
 
 " 'T ain't everybody can stand in her fore- 
 door an' see the chimbleys o' three child'n's 
 houses without a glass," he tried eagerly to 
 console her. " All ready an' willin' to do 
 their part for you, so as you could let 'Lisha 
 go off and have his chance." 
 
 " I don't know how it is," she answered, 
 " but none on 'em never give me the rooted 
 home feelin' that 'Lisha has. They was 
 more varyin' and kind o' fast growin' and 
 scatterin' ; but 'Lisha was always 'Lisha 
 when he was a babe, and I settled on him 
 for the one to keep with me." 
 
 " Then he 's just the kind to send off, one 
 you ain't got to worry about. They 're all
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT: 203 
 
 good child'n," said the man. " "We Ve rea 
 son to be thankful none on 'em 's been like 
 some young sprigs, more grief 'n glory to 
 their folks. An' I ain't regrettin' 'Lisha's 
 goin' one mite ; I believe you 'd rather go 
 on doin' for him an' cossetin'. I think 't was 
 high time to shove him out o' the nest." 
 
 " You ain't his mother," said Lucy Ann. 
 
 " What be you goin' to give him for his 
 breakfast ? " asked the stern grandfather, in 
 a softened, less business-like voice. 
 
 " I don't know 's I 'd thought about it, 
 special, sir. I did lay aside that piece o' 
 apple pie we had left yisterday from dinner," 
 she confessed. 
 
 " Fry him out a nice little crisp piece o' 
 pork, Lucy Ann, an' 't will relish with his 
 baked potatoes. He '11 think o' his break 
 fast more times 'n you expect. I know a 
 lad's feelin's when home 's put behind him." 
 
 The sun was up clear and bright over the 
 broad sea inlet to the eastward, but the shin 
 ing water struck the eye by its look of va 
 cancy. It was broad daylight, and still so 
 early that no sails came stealing out from the 
 farmhouse landings, or even from the gray 
 groups of battered fish-houses that overhung, 
 here and there, a sheltered cove. Some
 
 204 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 crows and gulls were busy in the air ; it was 
 the time of day when the world belongs more 
 to birds than to men. 
 
 " Poor 'Lisha ! " the mother went on com 
 passionately. " I expect it has been a long 
 night to him. He seemed to take it in, as 
 he was goin' to bed, how 't was his last night 
 to home. I heard him thrashin' about kind 
 o' restless, sometimes." 
 
 " Come, Lucy Ann, the boy ought to be 
 stirrin' ! " exclaimed the old sailor, without 
 the least show of sympathy. " He 's got to 
 be ready when John Sykes comes, an' he 
 ain't so quick as some lads." 
 
 The mother rose with a sigh, and went 
 into the house. After her own sleepless 
 night, she dreaded to face the regretful, 
 sleepless eyes of her son ; but as she opened 
 the door of his little bedroom, there lay 
 Elisha sound asleep and comfortable to be 
 hold. She stood watching him with gloomy 
 tenderness until he stirred uneasily, his con 
 sciousness roused by the intentness of her 
 thought, and the mysterious current that 
 flowed from her wistful, eager eyes. 
 
 But when the lad waked, it was to a joy 
 ful sense of manliness and responsibility; 
 for him the change of surroundings was com-
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 205 
 
 ing through natural processes of growth, not 
 through the uprooting which gave his mo 
 ther such an aching heart. 
 
 A little later Elisha came out to the 
 breakfast-table, arrayed in his best sandy- 
 brown clothes set off with a bright blue satin 
 cravat, which had been the pride and delight 
 of pleasant Sundays and rare holidays. He 
 already felt unrelated to the familiar scene 
 of things, and was impatient to be gone. 
 For one thing, it was strange to sit down to 
 breakfast in Sunday splendor, while his mo 
 ther and grandfather and little sister Lydia 
 were in their humble every-day attire. They 
 ate in silence and haste, as they always did, 
 but with a new constraint and awkwardness 
 that forbade their looking at one another. 
 At last the head of the household broke the 
 silence with simple straightforwardness. 
 
 " You 've got an excellent good day, 
 'Lisha. I like to have a fair start myself. 
 'T ain't goin' to be too hot ; the wind 's 
 working into the north a little." 
 
 " Yes, sir," responded Elisha. 
 
 " The great p'int about gittin' on in life 
 is beiu' able to cope with your headwinds," 
 continued the old man earnestly, pushing 
 away his plate. " Any fool can run before
 
 206 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 a fair breeze, but I tell ye a good seaman is 
 one that gits the best out o' his disadvan 
 tages. You won't be treated so pretty as 
 you expect in the store, and you '11 git 
 plenty o' blows to your pride ; but you keep 
 right ahead, and if you can't run before the 
 wind you can always beat. I ain't no hand 
 to preach, but preachin' ain't goin' to sarve 
 ye now. We 've gone an' fetched ye up the 
 best we could, your mother an' me, an' you 
 can't never say but you 've started amongst 
 honest folks. If a vessel 's built out o' sound 
 timber an' has got good lines for sailin', why 
 then she 's seaworthy ; but if she ain't, she 
 ain't ; an' a mess o' preachin' ain't goin' to 
 alter her over. Now you 're standin' out to 
 sea, my boy, an' you can bear your home in 
 mind and work your way, same 's plenty of 
 others has done." 
 
 It was a solemn moment ; the speaker's 
 voice faltered, and little Lydia dried her 
 tearful blue eyes with her gingham apron. 
 Elisha hung his head, and patted the old 
 spotted cat which came to rub herself against 
 his trowsers-leg. The -mother rose hastily, 
 and hurried into the pantry close by. She 
 was always an appealing figure, with her 
 thin shoulders and faded calico gowns ; it
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 207 
 
 was difficult to believe that she had once 
 been the prettiest girl in that neighborhood. 
 But her son loved her in his sober, undemon 
 strative way, and was full of plans for com 
 ing home, rich and generous enough to make 
 her proud and happy. He was half pleased 
 and half annoyed because his leave-taking 
 was of such deep concern to the household. 
 
 " Come, Lyddy, don't you take on," he 
 said, with rough kindliness. " Let 's go out, 
 and I '11 show you how to feed the pig and 
 'tend to the chickens. You '11 have to be 
 chief clerk when I 'm gone." 
 
 They went out to the yard, hand in hand. 
 Elisha stopped to stroke the old cat again, 
 as she ran by his side and mewed. " I wish 
 I was off and done with it ; this morning 
 does seem awful long," said the boy. 
 
 " Ain't you afraid you '11 be homesick 
 an' want to come back ? " asked the little 
 sister timidly; but Elisha scorned so poor 
 a thought. 
 
 " You '11 have to see if grandpa has 'tended 
 to these things, the pig an' the chickens," he 
 advised her gravely. " He forgets 'em some 
 times when I 'm away, but he would be cast 
 down if you told him so, and you just keep 
 an eye open, Lyddy. Mother 's got enough
 
 208 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 to do inside the house. But grandsir '11 
 keep her in kindlin's ; he likes to set and 
 chop in the shed rainy days, an' he '11 do a 
 sight more if you '11 set with him, an' let 
 him get goin' on his old seafarin' times." 
 
 Lydia nodded discreetly. 
 
 " An', Lyddy, don't you loiter comin' 
 home from school, an' don't play out late, an' 
 get 'em fussy, when it comes cold weather. 
 And you tell Susy Draper," the boy's 
 voice sounded unconcerned, but Lydia 
 glanced at him quickly, " you tell Susy 
 Draper that I was awful sorry she was over 
 to her aunt's, so I could n't say good-by." 
 
 Lydia's heart was the heart of a wo 
 man, and she comprehended. Lydia nodded 
 again, more sagely than before. 
 
 " See here," said the boy suddenly. " I 'm 
 goin' to let my old woodchuck out." 
 
 Lydia's face was blank with surprise. " I 
 thought you promised to sell him to big Jim 
 Hooper." 
 
 " I did, but I don't care for big Jim 
 Hooper ; you just tell him I let my wood- 
 chuck go." 
 
 The brother and sister went to their fa 
 vorite playground between the ledges, not 
 far from the small old barn. Here was a
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 209 
 
 clumsy box with wire gratings, behind which 
 an untamed little wild beast sat up and chit- 
 tered at his harmless foes. " He 's a whop 
 ping old fellow," said Elisha admiringly. 
 " Big Jim Hooper sha'n't have him ! " and 
 as he opened the trap, Lydia had hardly time 
 to perch herself high on the ledge, before 
 the woodchuck tumbled and scuttled along 
 the short green turf, and was lost among the 
 clumps of juniper and bay berry just beyond. 
 
 " I feel just like him," said the. boy. " I 
 want to get up to Boston just as bad as that. 
 See here, now ! " and he flung a gallant cart 
 wheel of himself in the same direction, and 
 then stood on his head and waved his legs 
 furiously in the air. " I feel just like that." 
 
 Lydia, who had been tearful all the morn 
 ing, looked at him in vague dismay. Only a 
 short time ago she had never been made to 
 feel that her brother was so much older than 
 herself. They had been constant playmates ; 
 but now he was like a grown man, and cared 
 no longer for their old pleasures. There 
 was all possible difference between them 
 that there can be between fifteen years and 
 twelve, and Lydia was nothing but a child. 
 
 " Come, come, where be ye ? " shouted the 
 old grandfather, and they both started guilt-
 
 210 BY TEE MOANING BOAT. 
 
 ily. Elisha rubbed some dry grass out of 
 his short-cropped hair, and the little sister 
 came down from her ledge. At that mo 
 ment the real pang of parting shot through 
 her heart ; her brother belonged irrevocably 
 to a wider world. 
 
 " Ma'am Stover has sent for ye to come 
 over ; she wants to say good-by to ye ! " 
 shouted the grandfather, leaning on his two 
 canes at the end of the barn. " Come, step 
 lively, an' remember you ain't got none too 
 much time, an' the boat ain't goin' to wait a 
 minute for nobody." 
 
 " Ma'am Stover ? " repeated the boy, with 
 a frown. He and his sister knew only too 
 well the pasture path between the two houses. 
 Ma'am Stover was a bedridden woman-, who 
 had seen much trouble, a town charge in 
 her old age. Her neighbors gave to her 
 generously out of their own slender stores. 
 Yet with all this poverty and dependence, 
 she held firm sway over the customs and 
 opinions of her acquaintance, from the un 
 easy bed where she lay year in and year out, 
 watching the far sea line beyond a pasture 
 slope. 
 
 The young people walked fast, sometimes 
 running a little way, light-footed, the boy
 
 BY THE MORN-ING BOAT. 211 
 
 going ahead, and burst into their neighbor's 
 room out of breath. 
 
 She was calm and critical, and their ex 
 citement had a sudden chill. 
 
 " So the great day 's come at last, 'Li- 
 sha ? " she asked ; at which 'Lisha was con 
 scious of unnecessary aggravation. 
 
 " I don't know 's it 's much of a day to 
 anybody but me," he added, discovering a 
 twinkle in her black eyes that was more 
 sympathetic than usual. " I expected to 
 stop an' see you last night ; but I had to go 
 round and see all our folks, and when I got 
 back 't was late and the tide was down, an' 
 I knew that grandsir could n't git the boat 
 up all alone to our lower landin'." 
 
 " Well, I did n't forgit you, but I thought 
 p'r'aps you might forgit me, an' I 'm goin' 
 to give ye somethin'. 'T is for your folks' 
 sake ; I want ye to tell 'em so. I don't 
 want ye never to part with it, even if it fails 
 to work and you git proud an' want a new 
 one. It 's been a sight o' company to me." 
 She reached up, with a flush on her wrinkled 
 cheeks and tears in her eyes, and took a 
 worn old silver watch from its nail, and 
 handed it, with a last look at its white face 
 and large gold hands, to the startled boy.
 
 212 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 "Oh, I can't take it from ye, Ma'am 
 Stover. I 'm just as much obliged to you," 
 he faltered. 
 
 "There, go now, dear, go right along," 
 said the old woman, turning quickly away. 
 " Be a good boy for your folks' sake. If so 
 be that I 'm here when you come home, you 
 can let me see how well you 've kep' it." 
 
 The boy and girl went softly out, leaving 
 the door wide open, as Ma'am Stover liked 
 to have it in summer weather, her windows 
 being small and few. There were neighbors 
 near enough to come and shut it, if a heavy 
 shower blew up. Sometimes the song spar 
 rows and whippoorwills came hopping in 
 about the little bare room. 
 
 " I felt, kind of 'shamed to carry off her 
 watch," protested Elisha, with a radiant face 
 that belied his honest words. 
 
 " Put it on," said proud little Lydia, trot 
 ting alongside; and he hooked the bright 
 steel chain into his buttonhole, and looked 
 down to see how it shone across his waist 
 coat. None of his friends had so fine a 
 watch ; even his grandfather's was so poor 
 a timekeeper that it was rarely worn except 
 as a decoration on Sundays or at a funeral. 
 They hurried home. Ma'am Stover, lying
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 213 
 
 in her bed, could see the two slight figures 
 nearly all the way on the pasture path ; flit 
 ting along in their joyful haste. 
 
 It was disappointing that the mother and 
 grandfather had so little to say about the 
 watch. In fact, Elisha's grandfather only 
 said " Pore creatur' " once or twice, and 
 turned away, rubbing his eyes with the back 
 of his hand. If Ma'am Stover had chosen 
 to give so rich a gift, to know the joy of 
 such generosity, nobody had a right to pro 
 test. Yet nobody knew how much the poor 
 wakeful soul would miss the only one of 
 her meagre possessions that seemed alive 
 and companionable in lonely hours. Some 
 body had said once that there were chairs 
 that went about on wheels, made on purpose 
 for crippled persons like Ma'am Stover ; 
 and Elisha's heart was instantly filled with 
 delight at the remembrance. Perhaps be 
 fore long, if he could save some money and 
 get ahead, he would buy one of those chairs 
 and send it down from Boston ; and a new 
 sense of power filled his honest heart. He 
 had dreamed a great many dreams already 
 of what he meant to do with all his money, 
 when he came home rich and a person of 
 consequence, in summer vacations.
 
 214 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 The large leather valise was soon packed, 
 and its owner carried it out to the roadside, 
 and put his last winter's overcoat and a great 
 new umbrella beside it, so as to be ready 
 when John Sykes came with the wagon. He 
 was more and more anxious to be gone, and 
 felt no sense of his old identification with 
 the home interests. His mother said sadly 
 that he would be gone full soon enough, 
 when he joined his grandfather in accusing 
 Mr. Sykes of keeping them waiting forever 
 and making him miss the boat. There were 
 three rough roundabout miles to be traveled 
 to the steamer landing, and the Sykes horses 
 were known to be slow. But at last the 
 team came nodding in sight over a steep 
 hill in the road. 
 
 Then the moment of parting had come, 
 the moment toward which all the long late 
 winter and early summer had looked. The 
 boy was leaving his plain little home for the 
 great adventure of his life's fortunes. Until 
 then he had been the charge and anxiety of 
 his elders, and under their rule and advice. 
 Now he was free to choose; his was the 
 power of direction, his the responsibility; 
 for in the world one must be ranked by his 
 own character and ability, and doomed by
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 215 
 
 his own failures. The boy lifted his burden 
 lightly, and turned with an eager smile to 
 say farewell. But the old people and little 
 Lydia were speechless with grief ; they could 
 not bear to part with the pride and hope and 
 boyish strength, that were all their slender 
 joy. The worn-out old man, the anxious 
 woman who had been beaten and buffeted 
 by the waves of poverty and sorrow, the 
 little sister with her dreaming heart, stood 
 at the bars and hungrily watched him go 
 away. They feared success for him almost 
 as much as failure. The world was before 
 him now, with its treasures and pleasures, 
 but with those inevitable disappointments 
 and losses which old people know and fear ; 
 those sorrows of incapacity and lack of 
 judgment which young hearts go out to meet 
 without foreboding. It was a world of love 
 and favor to which little Lydia's brother had 
 gone ; but who would know her fairy prince, 
 in that disguise of a country boy's bashful- 
 ness and humble raiment from the cheap 
 counter of a country store ? The household 
 stood rapt and silent until the farm wagon 
 had made its last rise on the hilly road and 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Well, he 's left us now," said the sor-
 
 216 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 rowf ill, hopeful old grandfather. " I expect 
 I 've got to turn to an' be a boy again my 
 self. I feel to hope 'Lisha '11 do as well as 
 we covet for him. I seem to take it in, all 
 my father felt when he let me go off to sea. 
 He stood where I 'm standin' now, an' I was 
 ju-st as triflin' as pore 'Lisha, and felt full as 
 big as a man. But Lord ! how I give up 
 when it come night, an' I took it in I was 
 gone from home ! " 
 
 "There, don't ye, father," said the pale 
 mother gently. She was, after all, the 
 stronger of the two. " 'Lisha 's good an' 
 honest-hearted. You '11 feel real proud a 
 year from now, when he gits back. I 'm so 
 glad he 's got his watch to carry, he did 
 feel so grand. I expect them poor hens is 
 sufferin' ; nobody 's thought on 'em this 
 livin' mornin'. You 'd better step an' feed 
 'em right away, sir." She could hardly 
 speak for sorrow and excitement, but the 
 old man was diverted at once, and hobbled 
 away with cheerful importance on his two 
 canes. Then she looked round at the poor, 
 stony little farm almost angrily. " He 'd no 
 natural turn for the sea, 'Lisha had n't ; but 
 I might have kept him with me if the land 
 was good for anything."
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 217 
 
 Elisha felt as if he were in a dream, now 
 that his great adventure was begun. He 
 answered John Sykes's questions mechani 
 cally, and his head was a little dull and 
 dazed. Then he began to fear that the slow 
 plodding of the farm horses would make him 
 too late for the steamboat, and with sudden 
 satisfaction pulled out the great watch to see 
 if there were still time enough to get to the 
 landing. He was filled with remorse be 
 cause it was impossible to remember whether 
 he had thanked Ma'am Stover for her gift. 
 It seemed like a thing of life and conscious 
 ness as he pushed it back into his tight 
 pocket.' John Sykes looked at him curiously. 
 " Why, that 's old Ma'am Stover's timepiece, 
 ain't it ? Lend it to ye, did she ? " 
 
 " Gave it to me," answered Elisha proudly. 
 
 " You be careful of that watch," said the 
 driver soberly ; and Elisha nodded. 
 
 " Well, good-day to ye ; be a stiddy lad," 
 advised John Sykes, a few minutes afterward. 
 " Don't start in too smart an' scare 'm up to 
 Boston. Pride an' ambition was the down 
 fall o' old Cole's dog. There, sonny, the 
 bo't ain't nowheres in sight, for all your 
 fidgetin'!" 
 
 They both smiled broadly at the humor-
 
 218 ST TEE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 ous warning, and as the old wagon rattled 
 away, Elisha stood a moment looking after 
 it ; then he went down to the wharf by 
 winding ways among piles of decayed tim 
 ber and disused lobster-pots. A small group 
 of travelers and spectators had already as 
 sembled, and they stared at him in a way 
 that made him feel separated from his kind, 
 though some of them had come to see him de 
 part. One unenlightened acquaintance in 
 quired if Elisha were expecting friends by 
 that morning's boat ; and when he explained 
 that he was going away himself, asked 
 kindly whether it was to be as far as Bath. 
 Elisha mentioned the word " Boston " with 
 scorn and compassion, but he did not feel 
 like discussing his brilliant prospects now, 
 as he had been more than ready to do the 
 week before. Just then a deaf old woman 
 asked for the time of day. She sat next 
 him on the battered bench. 
 
 " Be you going up to Bath, dear ? " she 
 demanded suddenly ; and he said yes. 
 " Guess I '11 stick to you, then, fur 's you 
 go ; 't is kind o' blind in them big places." 
 Elisha faintly nodded a meek but grudging 
 assent ; then, after a few moments, he boldly 
 rose, tall umbrella in hand, and joined the
 
 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 219 
 
 talkative company of old and young men at 
 the other side of the wharf. They proceeded 
 to make very light of a person's going to 
 Boston to enter upon his business career ; 
 but, after all, their thoughts were those of 
 mingled respect and envy. Most of them 
 had seen Boston, but no one save Elisha 
 was going there that day to stay for a whole 
 year. It made him feel like a city man. 
 
 The steamer whistled loud and hoarse be 
 fore she came in sight, but presently the 
 gay flags showed close by above the pointed 
 spruces. Then she came jarring against the 
 wharf, and the instant bustle and hurry, the 
 strange faces of the passengers, and the loud 
 rattle of freight going on board, were as con 
 fusing and exciting as if a small piece of 
 Boston itself had been dropped into that 
 quiet cove. 
 
 The people on the wharf shouted cheerful 
 good-byes, to which the young traveler re 
 sponded ; then he seated himself well astern 
 to enjoy the views, and felt as if he had 
 made a thousand journeys. He bought a 
 newspaper, and began to read it with much 
 pride and a beating heart. The little old 
 woman came and sat beside him, and talked 
 straight on whether he listened or not, until
 
 220 BY THE MORNING BOAT. 
 
 he was afraid of what the other passengers 
 might think, but nobody looked that way, 
 and he could not find anything in the paper 
 that he cared to read. Alone, but unfettered 
 and aflame with courage ; to himself he was 
 not the boy who went away, but the proud 
 man who one day would be coming home. 
 
 " Goin' to Boston, be ye ? " asked the old 
 lady for the third time ; and it was still a 
 pleasure to say yes, when the boat swung 
 round, and there, far away on its gray and 
 green pasture slope, with the dark ever 
 greens standing back, were the low gray 
 house, and the little square barn, and the 
 lines of fence that shut in his home. He 
 strained his eyes to see if any one were 
 watching from the door. He had almost 
 forgotten that they could see him still. He 
 sprang to the boat's side : yes, his mother 
 remembered; there was something white 
 waving from the doorway. The whole land 
 scape faded from his eyes except that far 
 away gray house ; his heart leaped back 
 with love and longing ; he gazed and gazed, 
 until a height of green forest came between 
 and shut the picture out. Then the coun 
 try boy went on alone to make his way in 
 the wide world.
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 Form L-0 
 aom-1, '41(1122)
 
 3 1158 00611 9118 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL L BRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000033181 9 
 
 PS 
 2132 
 
 Q3 
 
 1899