313D
 
 THE MAKING OF THOMAS BARTON
 
 THE MAKING 
 OF THOMAS BARTON 
 
 B, 
 ANNA NICHOLAS 
 
 Author of 
 AN IDYL OF THE WABASH, ETC. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT 1913 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 PRESS or 
 
 BRAUNWORTH A CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I THE MAKING OF THOMAS BARTON . . . ; , : . 1 
 
 II A RACE DRAMA .. >. 21 
 
 III A HAWBURG SENSATION > . . 33 
 
 IV Miss LUCYANNA'S EVENTFUL DAY . . ... ... . 75 
 
 V OUT OF THE PAST 103 
 
 VI WHEN GRANDMOTHER RAN AWAY . . . > ; . 123 
 
 VII A BIT OF HUMAN INTEREST 141 
 
 VIII WHAT COULD HE Do? 167 
 
 IX A STORY WITHOUT A MORAL 184 
 
 X WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 209 
 
 XI THE ETERNAL FEMININE 226 
 
 XII AN EVER-PRESENT HELP 237 
 
 XIII THE POSTMISTRESS ..-. . 259 
 
 XIV KATHARINE CLARK'S STORY . . . > . * ; . 286 
 
 2137336
 
 Acknowledgment is hereby made to The Black Cat 
 Publishing Company for the right to include in 
 this volume Miss LUCYANNA'S EVENTFUL DAY
 
 THE MAKING OF THOMAS BARTON
 
 THE MAKING 
 OF THOMAS BARTON 
 
 THEY called him Tommy when he came 
 into the sales department of the woolen 
 mill at the age of fourteen. After sixteen 
 years had passed he was still known as Tommy 
 by everybody about the establishment. It was 
 the name his mother introduced him by when 
 she had come down to interview the senior part- 
 ner about getting her son a position. She was 
 a woman with a disappointed manner and a 
 melancholy voice. She talked a great deal in 
 telling what she wanted, and broke off at inter- 
 vals to weep copiously for no reason in partic- 
 ular. She said if Tommy's father had lived 
 she wouldn't have to be going out into the 
 world to attend to Tommy's welfare, but she 
 wanted to do her duty. (Assuming the fac- 
 tory to be the "world", she had need only to 
 take a mile ride in the street-car to get into it.) 
 
 1
 
 2 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 [Besides, she needed whatever he could earn. 
 She had come to the senior partner because she 
 had heard he was a real nice man and because 
 she had heard the factory was making lots of 
 money and could afford to hire extra hands 
 and pay good wages. She couldn't say truth- 
 fully that Tommy was an especially bright 
 boy. The fact was, he took too much after his 
 father's people and sometimes he seemed 
 dreadfully dull-witted; but he was a good 
 strong boy and if he was kept right at work 
 and firmness used he could be made real useful. 
 
 The senior partner couldn't get in a word 
 until she was out of breath, and Tommy, who 
 was present, did not try to speak but stood shy- 
 ly in the background with downcast eyes. The 
 junior partner said afterward that the "old 
 man" agreed to take the boy because it was the 
 only way he could stop the mother's flow of 
 talk. At any rate he took him on trial, and 
 whatever may have been his private sentiments 
 in regard to the boy's mother and her occasion- 
 al visits, he had never regretted the action so 
 far as Tommy was concerned. 
 
 Tommy began as errand boy and general 
 factotum, with everybody around the premises
 
 THOMAS BARTON 3 
 
 free to order him about. This habit became 
 fixed, for though as years went on he was 
 given other duties, fellow employees continued 
 to call him Tommy and to ask him to do odds 
 and ends of work that they did not like to do 
 or thought they had not time for. He had 
 served as shipping-clerk, as bill-clerk, as substi- 
 tute and aid at various other desks, and had 
 finally been given the position of assistant 
 bookkeeper, which seemed likely to be as high 
 as he would ever rise. Tommy himself never 
 asked for a promotion. Every now and then 
 his mother had called on the senior partner and 
 urged that Tommy be advanced. She said she 
 knew he was not overly smart and that if it 
 wasn't for her looking out for him he never 
 would amount to anything, but it was her duty 
 to push him forward all she could. While she 
 was in the private office on these occasions and 
 her droning voice rose and fell monotonously 
 when the door was opened and closed, Tom- 
 my's face was bent low over his books and he 
 was unusually silent for the rest of the day. 
 Naturally, when promotions did come she took 
 all the credit to herself. She told the firm's 
 oldest traveling man, whose acquaintance she
 
 4 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 had chanced to make, that for a boy who had 
 so little real ability as Tommy she felt that she 
 had accomplished wonders and that he had 
 much to thank her for. She told Tommy the 
 same thing often. 
 
 Curiously enough, his associates accepted 
 him somewhat at his mother's estimate. While 
 they did not give her credit for his progress, 
 such as it was, neither did they rate his ability 
 high. Nevertheless, in the course of time 
 Tommy had acquired a vast deal of informa- 
 tion about the business, and his knowledge and 
 sendees were in constant demand. It was 
 Tommy here and Tommy there all day long. 
 The various clerks in the office called on Tom- 
 my to help them out when there was a tangle 
 in their books or when they wanted to get off 
 to go to a ball game or to go fishing. The 
 traveling men were not required to report to 
 Tommy, but it came about that none ever came 
 in or went out without a talk with him about 
 the territory to be visited and its special needs. 
 The man next above Tommy, after the latter 
 had risen to be assistant bookkeeper, was 
 known as the office manager; he was also re- 
 garded by the firm as head bookkeeper, but.
 
 THOMAS BARTON 5 
 
 as a matter of fact, Tommy had performed all 
 the duties in this line in addition to his own for 
 the last two incumbents of the position, often 
 remaining after hours working over his led- 
 gers. Once when his mother heard that there 
 was to be a vacancy in the higher position she 
 came down and asked that Tommy be appoint- 
 ed to fill it. She said she would have to admit 
 honestly that she had her doubts about his be- 
 ing capable of holding a responsible place like 
 this, but she felt that she ought to do what she 
 could to advance him, and then, too, expenses 
 were heavy and she needed the increase of sal- 
 ary he would receive. But Tommy did not get 
 the appointment. The partners agreed that it 
 was not to be thought of. Tommy was simply 
 cut out for a subordinate place, they said to 
 each other; he had no initiative, no new ideas, 
 no executive ability. So a young college man, 
 son of a friend of the senior partner, was given 
 the place. If Tommy was disappointed he did 
 not show it, but with swift liking for the new- 
 comer, did everything in his power to acquaint 
 him with the business. 
 
 About this time Tommy's mother died, and 
 he mourned for her sincerely, as was natural in
 
 the case of one to whom he had devoted his life. 
 He was very melancholy for a time, and obser- 
 vant clerks in the office declared that he was 
 scarcely less so when one day he took one of 
 his rare leaves of absence and the evening 
 paper announced his marriage to Mrs. Emma 
 Jane Perkins. He was back at his desk next 
 day, and was so serious in manner that, free as 
 every one felt to tease him on ordinary occa- 
 sions, but little allusion was made to his matri- 
 monial venture. It was learned from outside 
 sources by his inquisitive associates, however, 
 that the former Mrs. Perkins kept a boarding- 
 house next door to Tommy's home and that she 
 had been a close friend of Tommy's mother. 
 She was a large lady of imposing appearance 
 and aggressive manner, several years older 
 than her husband, and frankly admitted that 
 she married Tommy in order to look after him. 
 "He's one of those men," she said, addressing 
 a roomful of boarders who were offering con- 
 gratulations, "he is one of those men who ab- 
 solutely can not get along in this world without 
 a woman to look after him. His mother made 
 him all he is and without some one in her place 
 I don't know what would become of him. I
 
 THOMAS BARTON 7 
 
 promised her that I would take care of him." 
 It became the general understanding, there- 
 fore, that Tommy was married because he 
 couldn't help it, and as he did not show signs 
 of being especially happy, his friends felt for 
 him a fresh sense of that commiseration which 
 is almost contempt and of which he had always 
 had a large share. 
 
 Life for him went on after this much as be- 
 fore. Following the example of his mother, 
 his wife made occasional visits to Tommy's em- 
 ployers in his behalf, urging them to be good 
 to him and assuring them of her belief that he 
 had more ability than people gave him credit 
 for, and only needed a chance to show it. As 
 Mrs. Tommy's voice was loud and penetrat- 
 ing, listening clerks in the office outside 
 grinned at one another, and Tommy's head 
 sank lower than ever over his ledger. 
 
 As if such a trial were not enough, a fresh 
 one was laid upon Tommy's shoulders about 
 this time by the presence in the office of a type- 
 writer girl or rather, a succession of girls, as 
 they came, failed to give satisfaction and de- 
 parted, or failed themselves to be pleased and 
 loftily went their way. They had been long in
 
 8 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 getting an introduction to the establishment, 
 because the senior partner was old-fashioned 
 and opposed to innovations. The junior part- 
 ner, however, urged the increase of business, 
 the saving of time and service and the desir- 
 ability of showing the house to be up-to-date, 
 and so won his way. Tommy was frankly in 
 awe of these operators. His tongue stumbled 
 when he tried to dictate letters to them, and he 
 forgot what he wanted to say. In consequence, 
 he resorted to various devices to evade this 
 duty. Whenever more than one copy of a doc- 
 ument was necessary he wrote out what he 
 wished and handed it to the young woman 
 to be reproduced on her machine. He fell into 
 the fashion, unheard of with him before, of 
 asking one clerk or another to write this letter 
 and that letter instead of doing their work 
 himself, as had so often been the case. As 
 much as he could, he adhered to the old fashion 
 of writing his letters with the pen, asserting, 
 when his employers protested, that it was less 
 work than to correct the mistakes in the type- 
 written epistles. The independent young 
 women paid no attention to his criticisms of 
 their work, however, but called him "Tommy"
 
 THOMAS BARTON 9 
 
 like every one else, and ordered him about be- 
 fore they had been in the place a week. 
 
 Life seemed to weigh on Tommy along at 
 this time. His usual cheeriness deserted him to 
 some extent ; he was often silent and cast down 
 where he had been wont to be ready of speech 
 and good-naturedly responsive to the conversa- 
 tional give-and-take of the office force. His 
 associates liked him and began to realize what 
 it would be to lose the inspiration of his sweet 
 temper and never-failing urgent loyalty to his 
 employers' interests. They wondered if do- 
 mestic infelicities had anything to do with his 
 depression, but of course Tommy said nothing. 
 Probably he did not know himself what was 
 the matter, but was simply overcome by the 
 dumb instinct that all was not as it might be 
 with his life. 
 
 Then events happened that changed the cur- 
 rent of his affairs. Before he had been mar- 
 ried two years his wife died. That buxom 
 energetic lady who had looked as if she had 
 enough vitality to equip half a dozen common 
 mortals was overcome by a passing epidemic 
 that left physically insignificant, frail-looking 
 persons like Tommy untouched. In her last
 
 10 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 moments she lamented that she must go and 
 leave Tommy, and wondered what would be- 
 come of him without her care. He was one of 
 those men, she said, who needed a woman to 
 take the lead for him. The irreverent office 
 boys wondered if she had thoughtfully provid- 
 ed another wife for him in advance, but appar- 
 ently she omitted to do this. 
 
 Tommy went about his work as usual, wear- 
 ing a gentle air of sadness for a few days, but 
 showing no signs of deep grief. Presently his 
 associates noticed a gradual return on his part 
 to his old-time cheerfulness, and the more ob- 
 servant ones were conscious of a subtle change 
 in him beyond the fact that he was exceeding 
 his old-time record for amiability and good 
 spirits. He was at times gay and even spright- 
 ly in manner, and there was a self-assertion oc- 
 casionally manifest that was quite new. "It's 
 the first time in his life," said the oldest travel- 
 ing man of the house, "that he has not been led 
 along by a woman and he's feeling his liberty 
 without realizing exactly what has happened 
 to him." With all this appearance of courage, 
 however, the typewriter young women still dis- 
 concerted him.
 
 THOMAS BARTON 11 
 
 About this time the office manager, the son 
 of the senior partner's friend, decided to resign 
 his position. He didn't like office work, he told 
 Tommy, and he was going out to see what he 
 could do with a farm his father owned. He 
 felt sure he would succeed with that. 
 
 "And now, Tommy," he said in a confiden- 
 tial talk before his departure, "now, Tommy, 
 I want to give you a piece of advice. You 
 ought to have had the position I hold; you 
 ought to have had it long ago, and I want you 
 to go to the boss and apply for it this time. 
 You've been doing the work of the place prac- 
 tically for years and other people have been 
 drawing the salary and getting the credit. 
 You know very well I couldn't have stayed 
 here unless you had helped me out all along 
 the line. And you don't do right by yourself. 
 Here you go all the time, giving a hint here 
 and a plan there for improving the business 
 and the other fellows take the hint and work 
 out the plans, and you get no benefit except as 
 virtue is its own reward. That new worsted 
 skirting with the fancy border, for instance, 
 was one of your ideas, but the loom foreman 
 got all the credit and a raise of salary on ac-
 
 12 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 count of it. Now, you make a strike for this 
 place. Stand up for yourself. I'll say what 
 I can, but I'm afraid my influence won't go 
 far. They don't think any too highly of my 
 judgment." And he laughed the careless laugh 
 of youth which has not yet taken itself seri- 
 ously. 
 
 Tommy did apply for promotion, but hesi- 
 tatingly as if he hardly hoped or expected to 
 receive what he asked. And he did not. The 
 partners, senior and junior, looked at each 
 other after he went out and shook their heads. 
 They liked Tommy, but he hadn't enough 
 push, the junior partner said. "He's picking 
 up though, lately," remarked the senior re- 
 flectively, "or he wouldn't have asked for the 
 place." They appointed to the position he 
 wanted a brisk young traveling man who had 
 somehow convinced the firm that he was the 
 one they needed. 
 
 Tommy, thereupon, quietly adopted tactics 
 never attempted before. He confined himself 
 strictly to his own work. He treated his new 
 associate with civility, but volunteered no aid 
 or instruction. Also, it became suddenly incon- 
 venient for him to "help out" on the work of
 
 THOMAS BARTON 18 
 
 any clerk who felt lazy or wanted an afternoon 
 off. And though he did not sulk, but even 
 hummed the latest popular song over his work 
 at times, the office force realized a certain dif- 
 ference in Tommy. 
 
 Then, suddenly, the sun shone into his life 
 as it had never shone before. This illumina- 
 tion came with the advent of a new typewriter 
 girl. She was a little, pale-faced, insignificant- 
 looking creature, Mamie Middleton by name, 
 with a timid manner and a frightened expres- 
 sion in her pale blue eyes that was in striking 
 contrast to the confident air of the haughty 
 young women who had been her predecessors. 
 A little experience showed that she could take 
 her notes fairly well and transcribe them with 
 reasonable accuracy and passable spelling 
 when nothing happened to terrify her. But 
 something was always happening. The junior 
 partner was rather short and sharp in manner, 
 the office manager dictated too rapidly, or the 
 bill-clerk rattled off technical terms she had 
 never heard before, whereupon the newcomer's 
 work got into a tangle and brought her into 
 deep distress. 
 
 Then it was that Tommy rose to the situa-
 
 14, THOMAS BARTON 
 
 tion and came to her relief Tommy who had 
 always been afraid of women and had never 
 before felt that one of them had needed him. 
 Need him this girl certainly did; he felt it in 
 her appealing look. He took it upon himself 
 to supervise the letters she wrote; he dictated 
 as many as possible himself and did it so gently 
 and with such cheery assurance that all was 
 right spelling out hard words as he went 
 along that her glance changed from timid 
 appeal to deepest gratitude and he felt 
 a sense of satisfaction with himself that 
 he would have found it hard to explain. 
 As far as possible he corrected her mis- 
 takes. When the junior partner grumbled 
 about the errors in his letters Tommy boldly 
 declared that it was no wonder there were mis- 
 takes ; there was entirely too much for any one 
 girl to do. He took authority upon himself 
 and sharply reproved a young clerk who, after 
 a week's acquaintance, addressed the young 
 woman familiarly as "Mayme". She called 
 Tommy "Mr. Barton", was extremely defer- 
 ential to him and speedily fell into the way of 
 going to him with all her little troubles. Tom-
 
 THOMAS BARTON 15 
 
 my began to feel glad he was alive. He held 
 his head high and took on a dignity unknown 
 to him before; he seemed suddenly to have 
 grown taller. Old customers coming in 
 glanced at him inquiringly and told him he 
 was looking mighty well these days. 
 
 The office force was awake to the situation, 
 and the frivolous youngsters who made a part 
 of it grinned across their desks and exchanged 
 many a sly wink as they saw the passing of 
 glances between the stenographer and Tommy 
 and noted the unconsciously tender cadences of 
 their voices when they spoke to each other. 
 For Paradise had dawned for these two in this 
 dingy old office. It was a glorified place to 
 them. They came to their work early, they lin- 
 gered over it late, secretly welcoming the tasks 
 that kept them in each other's company. Love's 
 witchery was over them and the world was new 
 in their eyes a world, it seemed, that surely 
 had never been so bright and glad to any be- 
 fore them. In this blessed glamour they basked 
 and bloomed and knew that life was worth the 
 living. It was an idyl as sweet and pure as if 
 the actors and their surroundings had been
 
 16 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 such as poets write of. The sordid atmosphere 
 of the counting house was not there for them; 
 they breathed a finer essence. 
 
 How long this might have gone on, each ab- 
 sorbed in the present, not awake to what the 
 future might have for them, none can say ; but 
 one day a crisis came. The junior partner, in 
 a moment of exasperation because an impor- 
 tant letter that should have gone in haste to 
 Chicago had been addressed to New York, de- 
 clared with impolite emphasis that this sort of 
 thing must stop ; that unless a speedy improve- 
 ment was made in Miss Middleton's work she 
 would have to go. He had not observed that a 
 love affair was in progress, and being a hard- 
 headed unsympathetic man, would doubtless 
 have declared, had he been aware of it, that it 
 was precisely this that made the young woman 
 careless of her duties and would probably 
 have been quite right. 
 
 But Tommy was startled. The thought of 
 coming days in which Mamie had no part 
 seemed an unendurable prospect. He sat at 
 his desk, his accounts for once neglected, idly 
 scribbling on a scrap of paper and thinking 
 hard. He thought out a plan one whose dar-
 
 THOMAS BARTON 17 
 
 ing made him catch his breath. For though he 
 knew what his own sentiments were he did not 
 know Mamie's, love being blind. His keen- 
 eyed associates could have informed him, but 
 them he did not consult. 
 
 That night, Mamie having stayed late to 
 finish some important mail, Tommy walked 
 home with her in the early dusk. They went 
 a roundabout way and their steps were slow, 
 but when at last they arrived at her door Tom- 
 my's plan had been put to a successful test and 
 the April stars looked down on no happier pair. 
 The future was solved for them, and life was 
 very sweet. 
 
 Next day Miss Mamie handed in her resig- 
 nation, and the same day, Tommy, to whom 
 vacations were rare events, asked for two 
 weeks' leave of absence. 
 
 "I don't see how we can spare you just now, 
 Tommy," said the senior partner. "Johnson, 
 the office manager, thinks he would like to go 
 back on the road, and I'm ready to have him 
 go, for he hasn't done so well in his present 
 position as I expected." 
 
 Then Tommy rose nobly to the occasion. "I 
 wish to apply once more for that position, sir,"
 
 18 
 
 he said respectfully, but with an air of firmness 
 and assurance formerly unknown to him. "I 
 have earned the place and am qualified to fill it. 
 I must decline to remain longer in my present 
 subordinate position. Unless I may have the 
 promotion I shall have to go elsewhere, and I 
 have reason to believe that my services are 
 rated as valuable by another house. I am 
 about to be married to Miss Mamie Middleton 
 and must do the best possible for myself in a 
 business way." 
 
 There was an air of finality about his man- 
 ner and his tone that was impressive. More- 
 over, the president of the opposition factory 
 this was before the day of trusts had been 
 seen to stop and talk to Tommy on the street 
 the day previous. The partners thought rap- 
 idly and did not even wait for private consulta- 
 tion, but communicated by affirmative nods. 
 
 "All right, Barton," said the senior member 
 of the firm. "All right, you shall have the 
 place. We had thought of offering it to you, 
 and I have no doubt you will do well. Take 
 your two weeks off and we shall get along 
 somehow. And allow me to congratulate you
 
 THOMAS BARTON 19 
 
 on your coming marriage to so estimable a 
 young lady and to wish you well." 
 
 Then both partners shook hands with Tom- 
 my, and he went out feeling as if the earth and 
 the fulness thereof were his. 
 
 A year later the senior partner was heard to 
 say to a visitor who was not a rival in busi- 
 ness: 
 
 "Our office manager, Mr. Thomas Barton, 
 is a most valuable man. Business is constantly 
 increasing under his direction ; he has a positive 
 genius for it." He paused a moment and went 
 on reflectively : "His development was rather 
 slow and I give his wife the credit for bringing 
 him out. She has been the making of him." 
 
 The oldest traveling man, who chanced to 
 overhear, said in sotto voce comment to the bill- 
 clerk : 
 
 "She has been the making of him, true 
 enough, but she'll never guess it or know why. 
 It was only because she was more timid and de- 
 pendent than he that his manliness was 
 aroused. Up to that time no woman had given 
 him a chance to think himself of any account,
 
 20 THOMAS BARTON 
 
 which was a great mistake. A woman ought to 
 have gumption enough to pretend to look up 
 to a man whether she really does or not. But 
 Barton, he's all right now."
 
 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 "There's a little thing lays in mah heaht 
 And he sets mah soul on fiah 
 
 Mah soul! 
 
 Mastah Jesus, mah soul, mah soul! 
 O-oh m-a-h so-oul!" 
 
 THE melancholy wail from the kitchen 
 indicated plainly that something was 
 weighing on Cah'line Brown's mind. Cah'line, 
 known in domestic parlance as "the girl", or 
 maid of all work, was in reality neither girl nor 
 maid, but a widow whose age was indicated by 
 the fact that she had been born a slave. For 
 three years she had reigned in my kitchen 
 much to the satisfaction of the small house- 
 hold, one cause of the esteem in which she was 
 held being her uniform cheerfulness. She was 
 given to singing, and if the songs sometimes 
 had a weird minor cadence peculiar to the mu- 
 sic of the negroes, the words were apt to be 
 joyous, and the melody to be broken by a gay 
 laugh whenever the smallest excuse for gaiety 
 
 21
 
 22 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 presented itself. A favorite "hymn", sung to 
 a spirited tune, had a refrain like this : 
 
 "I boun' for to go up to Aberham's fold, 
 
 An' I'll ride, 
 
 Yes, I will 
 An' I'll ride right on to glory!'* 
 
 But for several days a change in the charac- 
 ter of the songs had been noticeable. They 
 were lugubrious in sound and sentiment. They 
 dealt chiefly with the troubles of po' lost sin- 
 ners, and the devil, the devil's place of resi- 
 dence and death's dark door figured in them 
 prominently. One expressed an anxiety to go 
 to meet mother in the morning "before the 
 heaven door closed." Asked if she were ill, 
 Cah'line said she was "only just sort o' paini- 
 fied but not sick, oh, no'm," and continued to 
 go about wearing a look of deepest dejection. 
 Members of the household discussed the possi- 
 ble causes of her melancholy but could reach 
 no conclusion. She had no family anxieties 
 of which we knew. A daughter, still quite 
 young, was married to an industrious teamster
 
 A RACE DRAMA 23 
 
 and had a comfortable home a few blocks 
 away. With her was Cah'line's son, a very 
 black youngster of ten or twelve, who made 
 frequent visits to his mother and was admon- 
 ished by her on each occasion in terrifying lan- 
 guage, though it did not appear that he was 
 ever guilty of any serious misdemeanor. 
 
 ' 'Gustus Henery Brown, yo' triflin' no'- 
 count limb of Satan," she was wont to say to 
 him with stern and threatening aspect, "yo' 
 young limb, ef yo' doan' min' yo' teacher and 
 leahn them lessons like she say, I jes' nachully 
 gwine break every bone in yo' body. I gwine 
 whup yo' twell yo' ain't nevah f ergit who yo' 
 maw!" 
 
 'Gustus Henery received these warnings 
 with solemnly uprolled eyes, but as he was im- 
 mediately regaled by his mother with some 
 dainty from my pantry I suspected that he 
 was not greatly impressed. 
 
 Cah'line, as her colored friends called her, 
 regarded herself as financially prosperous ; she 
 put fifty cents each week into a building asso- 
 ciation, and belonged to the White Doves of 
 Protection, a benefit society into which she paid
 
 24 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 dues, and to whose funerals she rode in state, 
 bedecked with purple ribbons. Obviously it 
 could not be money matters that troubled 
 Cah'line. She was a leading sister in a Baptist 
 church and, of course, could not be suspected 
 of suffering from spiritual woes. 
 
 What could be the matter? Lately, a dapper 
 young mulatto had been visiting her, slipping 
 in and out in the summer twilight in rather a 
 furtive way, and engaging her in close conver- 
 sation on the back steps. Contrary to her cus- 
 tom when callers were concerned, she had not 
 seemed disposed to talk of him. Could he be 
 somehow the cause of her depressed spirits? 
 At all events, the matter was getting serious. 
 Cah'line was restless at night and was heard 
 moving softly about at unseemly hours. Then, 
 too, she was apt to withdraw to her room on the 
 upper floor when she was needed elsewhere. 
 But she remained silent as to the cause of her 
 unusual behavior. 
 
 One morning I returned unexpectedly from 
 an absence that had been meant to be for sev- 
 eral hours. Cah'line was invisible, but was not 
 out of hearing. From up the stairs came a 
 doleful strain :
 
 A RACE DRAMA 1 25 
 
 "Before another year I may be gone 
 In some lonesome graveyard. 
 
 Oh, Lord, how long? 
 When it was day I wished it night. 
 
 Oh, Lord, how long? 
 In some lonesome graveyard 
 Oh, Lord, how long?" 
 
 I went up the steps and paused at the top, 
 startled at the sight. Cah'line was coming 
 down from the attic, a place devoted to the 
 storing of old furniture and seldom visited. 
 She bore a tray full of empty dishes, and in 
 the doorway behind her stood the young mu- 
 latto whose visits had attracted notice. When 
 she saw me, Cah'line instantly set her tray on 
 the floor and leaned on a chair as if steadying 
 herself; the man in the doorway above looked 
 frightened. 
 
 "What does this mean, Caroline? Are you 
 hiding burglars?" 
 
 "Law, ma'am," she stammered, "doan' look 
 thataway at me, doan' you do it. This young 
 gen'leman hyeh, Mistah 'Lonzo Williams, he 
 ain' gwine hu't yo'. He jes', he jes' he ain' 
 mean no hahm. Lawzee, he ain' no buhglah." 
 
 "Tell me the truth, Caroline ; why is he in my 
 house and why are you feeding him?"
 
 26 A RACE DRAMA! 
 
 "Laws, I didn* reckon yo'd care ef I'd give 
 jes' a little o' this aigs an' ham to a po' hongry 
 man. Doan' look at me thataway. Yo' ain't 
 nevah looked at me cross thataway bef o'. Law, 
 law, I reckon I'll jes' have to tell yo' all how 
 come this boy hyeh." 
 
 She turned to the attic with a sudden change 
 in her voice and manner. 
 
 "Jes' step inside an' shet de do', 'Lonzo, 
 honey," she said with a tone of authority but 
 with the tenderest inflections. Then, with all 
 her dignity restored, but with trouble in her 
 eyes, she said quietly: "That my son." 
 
 "Your son!" 
 
 "That my son. I ain't nevah tole yo' 'bout 
 him fob reasons. It's thisaway: 'Lonzo, he 
 been livin' down in Louieville twell this sum- 
 mah, when he came up hyeh and took a job as 
 'sistant head waitah down at de Bates. Oh, he 
 mighty tony young man, 'Lonzo is; yo' kin 
 see that at jes' one look. The Bates closed fob 
 repaihs this week an' that give 'Lonzo mo' time 
 to 'joy hisself . He was strollin' home from his 
 sweetheaht's house Sunday evenin' an' fell in 
 with a gang o' colo'ed boys, real black niggahs, 
 (oh, the scornful emphasis on the last words!)
 
 A RACE DRAMA 27 
 
 an' one o' them niggahs got cut, an* the police 
 chased them, an' 'Lonzo he jes' nachully run 
 hyeh to he maw. Cou'se he didn' do no cuttin' 
 'cause he nevah carry no razah; I done train 
 him up bettah than that. He ben hyeh three 
 days. I lowed yo' ain't care f oh the few bites 
 he done eat, an' he ain' done no hu't sleepin' up 
 in the garret twell I kin fin* out ef the cuttin' 
 bad. 'Lonzo reckon the man daid, but cain't 
 fin' it in the papahs." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me at first? I have 
 always been kind to you." 
 
 "Yes'm, you jes' been mighty good, but I 
 'low yo' wouldn't want the police huntin' af tah 
 a man in yo' house, an' an', besides, I ain't 
 passin' as his maw since he ben livin' hyeh. 
 Yo' see, it's thisaway. His sweetheaht b'longs 
 to one o' the 'ristocratic colo'ed families. Her 
 paw's the preachah at the Lincoln Street 
 chu'ch where the light-colo'ed folks go, an' 
 she moves in the ve'y best s'ciety. Her paw's 
 light skinned an' she's mighty nigh white. Yo' 
 couldn't hahdly tell she was a lady of coloh." 
 
 Cah'line, who was black, spoke of the com- 
 plexion of her prospective daughter-in-law 
 with immense pride, and if her eyelids flickered
 
 28 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 when she told of her son's wish to hide his 
 mother in the background, she showed no other 
 sign of emotion. 
 
 "Now," she went on, " 'Lonzo, he 'low that it 
 won' do f oh Lily an' her paw to know that his 
 maw's black, an' that she ain' b'long to the mos' 
 selec' suhcles, kase it might break off the wed- 
 din'. So I been layin' low, an' he ben comin* 
 to see me now an' then, but ain't say nothin' to 
 no one 'bout bein' my kin. Yo' ain' gwine to 
 call the police, is you ?" 
 
 Hiding a possible criminal in my house with- 
 out my knowledge and feeding him from my 
 larder was a liberty, certainly, and it might 
 be supposed that I then and there dealt with 
 the offender sternly, but I did not. If the 
 man and his mother had been white, the pro- 
 ceeding would have seemed, somehow, much 
 more serious. Long acquaintance with the 
 negro character had made me regard members 
 of the race somewhat as children, to be treated 
 leniently, or, at least, to be judged by no such 
 rigid standard as that to which keen, self-re- 
 liant, unemotional white folk are expected to 
 conform. So it happened that instead of 
 proper indignation I began to feel curiosity
 
 A RACE DRAMA 29 
 
 and amusement after the first alarm had 
 passed. 
 
 " Yo' sho'ly ain' gwine to give him up, is yo' ?" 
 she persisted anxiously. "He cain't nevah get 
 mahied to Lily ef he go to jail, her paw so up- 
 pity. An' I cain't let him go. Lawd, I cain't; 
 he my son." 
 
 A very agony of love was in her voice. Lit- 
 tle black 'Gustus Henery had never aroused 
 such a feeling, I was sure. 
 
 "I never knew that you had been married 
 twice, Caroline," I said, not much heeding my 
 own words as I considered how I could find out 
 from official sources the exact character of 
 'Lonzo's offense without betraying him. Cah'- 
 line's expression arrested my attention. Her 
 eyes were cast down, and if she had not been 
 black, I should have said that she blushed. It 
 was undeniable embarrassment that affected 
 her. 
 
 ' 'Lonzo's paw a white man, ma'am," she 
 said hesitatingly, and twisting the corner of 
 her apron. "Ladies like you doan' understan*. 
 When the war done, I was a young gal an' 
 stayed right on with my ole maw on ole Gunnel 
 Williams's blue grass fahm where I bawn.
 
 30 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 Gunnel Williams, he one of these pow'f ul high- 
 toned Kentucky gen'lemen. His son, Mistah 
 Henery Clay Williams they use call him 
 'Mistah Clay' foh short, mighty nice young 
 man, too. I I jes' a foolish young gal in 
 them days; a foolish, giddy gal, an' an' 
 Mistah Clay, he 'Lonzo's paw." 
 
 Cah'line was black, but she had regular fea- 
 tures and was tall and erect, with the carriage 
 that comes from bearing burdens on the head 
 the carriage that in women of another class 
 is called queenly. As I looked at her standing 
 there, with her head held high and the look of 
 excitement on her face, I could see that she 
 must have been a comely maid. She went on 
 talking, seemingly glad of the opportunity, 
 now that she had begun to tell her story, and 
 half forgetful of her listener. 
 
 "Mistah Clay, he been daid long time, an' I 
 done try to raise that boy o' his'n right. He 
 ben to school an' leahn things like white folks. 
 I tole him that ef he mah'y a light-colo'ed gal, 
 their chillen'd jes nachully be whitah'n they 
 paw and maw and bimeby they wouldn't be no 
 black folks in the f am'ly. An' yo' know, ma'am, 
 the preachah say that all the black people '11 be
 
 31 
 
 white in heaven, an' when I get theah I reckon 
 mebbe Mistah Clay, he'll he'll fergit that I 
 jes' a po' niggah gal down hyah, an' he'll say, 
 'Cah'line, honey, I been awaitin' fob yoV ' 
 
 Overcome by emotion, Cah'line sat down 
 heavily upon the step, and throwing her apron 
 over her head, sobbed, and moaned, and rocked 
 to and fro. Looking on, I suddenly realized 
 that it was not anxiety for her son that so 
 moved this woman. It was a tender memory 
 of the man whose victim she had been in her 
 youth a faithful human love, forgetful of 
 wrongs and not marred by difference in the 
 color of their skin, nor by the incidental episode 
 of a marriage, later, to another man. And all 
 at once, with this betrayal of the yearning of 
 the negro to be white, and with the disclosure 
 that relations so repugnant to finer sensibilities 
 might be hallowed, on one side, at least, by a 
 pure affection, came a new revelation of the 
 tragedy of race. 
 
 Two years later, after a long absence from 
 the city, chance took me, one June morning, 
 to Military Park, beloved of the colored popu- 
 lation. There, on a bench, arrayed in her f av-
 
 32 A RACE DRAMA 
 
 orite finery a purple bonnet, black gown and 
 long white apron, sat Cah'line. After a 
 friendly greeting exuberant on her part she 
 turned with an air of proud proprietorship to 
 her charge, two round-eyed bronze babies. 
 
 "These hyeh twins," she explained, "b'long 
 to 'Lonzo an' Lily. Yas'm, he done mah'y the 
 preachah's gal, but the chillun they didn' come 
 white like we all's 'spected; they take aftah 
 theyun's gran'maw. Reckon the Lawd, He 
 know best 'bout such mattahs. But they paw 
 an' maw, they loves 'em jes' the same, an' they 
 both mighty glad to have ole black mammy 
 'tend the little blessed lambs. 'Lonzo he am' 
 gwine back on he maw no mo'." 
 
 Cah'line's mellow laugh spoke of deep con- 
 tent, ana as I passed on the old familiar re- 
 frain floated after 
 
 "An' I'll ride, 
 Yes, I will 
 An' I'll ride right on to glory.*'
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 MRS. MARIA ANN SMITH was oc- 
 cupying an advantageous position in 
 her sister's parlor at Hawburg ; advantageous, 
 because she could, by merely turning her head, 
 see who came and went on the two main streets 
 of the town. The house, which had been built 
 with this very possibility in mind, stood on a 
 corner and had a large bay window across the 
 angle. Mrs. Smith sat in a rocking-chair be- 
 hind the lace curtains and commented on the 
 passers-by. She had lived in Hawburg during 
 her girlhood, and though that interesting pe- 
 riod had long passed, she had since visited her 
 sister frequently and so had been able, as she 
 said, to keep tab on the old-timers and become 
 acquainted with many of the newcomers. 
 Therefore it was that she had a personal inter- 
 est in a majority of those who came in sight 
 and talked them and their affairs over with the 
 appalling freedom common between sisters 
 and close friends a freedom barred in polite 
 
 33
 
 34 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 society, but which, there is reason to suspect, is 
 enjoyed even by "advanced" women better- 
 yes, better even than writing and reading club 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. Smith's visit on this occasion was 
 one of mingled business and pleasure. She had 
 come up from her home at the capital in her 
 capacity of Great Minnehaha of the Great 
 Sun Council of the Order of Pocahontas to 
 officiate at the establishing of a branch of the 
 organization; to do the "secret work" incident 
 to the event, and so on. This undertaking had 
 been accomplished with much ceremony the 
 evening before, and now, free from responsi- 
 bility, she was ready to consider personal and 
 social matters. 
 
 "It seems to me, Jinny," was her first re- 
 mark after looking critically at the residence 
 opposite, "that Sam White is letting his house 
 get shabby. It needs painting, the fence needs 
 mending and the bricks are falling off the 
 chimney. What's the matter business run- 
 ning down?" 
 
 "N-o-o, I guess not, Maria; I reckon he has 
 to spend more than he can afford on them 
 children of his. Jim's trying to be a lawyer,
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 35 
 
 and Sadie she's down to the city, you know, 
 taking music lessons." 
 
 "Music huh!" sniffed Maria. "Of all the 
 fool ways of wasting money, spending it on 
 music lessons for girls who had better be learn- 
 ing how to cook a beefsteak or to make their 
 own clothes is the foolishest. I see Sadie once 
 in a while down home, and I'll give a guess she 
 spends more time prinking and gadding about 
 the streets than in practising her music. And 
 I doubt if Jim's got the gumption to make a 
 lawyer; he takes too much after his mother, 
 and you know, Jinny, she never would set the 
 river who's that woman with Ann Beasley?" 
 
 "That? I reckon that's Mrs. Mrs. here's 
 the name in the Weekly Banner: 'Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery Fortescue Willoughby', of Chicago. 
 Ann Beasley's president of the Searchlight 
 Literary Club and Mrs. Willoughby's a big 
 club woman. The Searchlight has some extra 
 doings to-morrow and Ann has invited Mrs. 
 Willoughby down to read her paper on the 
 the what does the Banner say? Oh 'her cel- 
 ebrated paper on the the Zeitgeist as Influ- 
 enced by Woman'. 'Mrs. Willoughby,' the 
 Banner goes on to say I reckon Mrs. Beasley
 
 36 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 got it put in 'ranks among the most brilliant 
 intellects of the country. She is a member of 
 nineteen clubs, president of two, vice-president 
 of the Federation and a leader of her sex.' 
 What is a Zeitgeist, Maria?" 
 
 "Hanged if I know, Jinny, and I'll bet a 
 eooky Ann Beasley never heard of it before 
 this week. She never had a brilliant intellect, 
 you know mighty well. 
 
 "Why don't I belong to literary clubs? Be- 
 cause I don't like 'em. There isn't enough 
 doing in them; they're too slow. You spend 
 your time digging into a lot of books and then 
 writing out what you've found; then it takes 
 you half an hour to read it and it's all over till 
 next year. It's too much work for what you 
 get out of it. Now, I like the societies that 
 there's some meaning to, some liveliness about. 
 I dropped into them sort of naturally, too, you 
 know. Hiram was an Odd Fellow and before 
 he died he insisted that I should be a Daughter 
 of Rebekah. I reckon he thought I wouldn't 
 so much mind his going to lodge if I belonged 
 to a secret society, too. That put me in mind 
 of joining the Pythian Sisters (they used to be 
 the Rathbones) which I could do, same as you
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 37 
 
 could if you only would, because poor dear Pa 
 was a K. of P. Then, when I married the cap- 
 tain, he being a member of the G. A. R. and a 
 Red Man, it came about that I went into the 
 Order of Pocahontas and the Woman's Relief 
 Corps so's to be in touch with him. Poor soul ! 
 He didn't last long afterward. 
 
 "But I've enjoyed those orders since, I may 
 say I really have. They take me about a good 
 deal and I meet a good many people men and 
 women both. I've generally held an office of 
 some sort, and if I do say it, I have a knack of 
 management and they depend on me to preside 
 when anything important is under way. Even 
 when the head officer is there, she is apt to be 
 scary and uncertain and is glad to have me take 
 her place." 
 
 It may be worth while to say at this point 
 that Mrs. Smith had the presiding manner. 
 Even in this hour of relaxation, as she rested 
 her ample person in the easy chair and rocked 
 placidly back and forth, it was plain to see that 
 she was capable of command. It was a matter 
 of common knowledge in the societies to which 
 she belonged that when in the chair she was 
 never confused by a multiplicity of motions,
 
 38 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 and that questions of privilege or points of 
 order had no terrors for her. 
 
 One thing about the Chicago visitor had im- 
 pressed her and she returned to it. "Mrs. 
 Montgomery Fortescue Willoughby," she 
 repeated meditatively. "That's a well-sound- 
 ing name." 
 
 "Rather long, seems to me, and sort of 
 well, highty-tighty," responded matter-of-fact 
 Mrs. Dawson. "I wouldn't never think of 
 spelling out Dan'l's middle name Barnabas; 
 and for that matter, he wouldn't put up with 
 it. Most folks around here, of course, call me 
 'Mrs. Squire Dawson', but when I sign my 
 name I jest put Mrs. Dan'l B. and feel glad 
 that it's as short as it is." 
 
 "Oh, well, it's different with you, Jinny. 
 You don't need any more name, but women 
 that you might call public characters, like Mrs. 
 Willoughby and me, ought to carry more sail 
 than just initials." 
 
 She went no further into the subject at this 
 time, perhaps because her sister already knew 
 her thoughts on the matter, but no confidence is 
 violated in saying that Mrs. Smith's name had 
 caused her much serious reflection, not to say
 
 worriment. She felt herself handicapped by 
 its insignificance. When she was considering 
 marriage with Captain James Smith, the one 
 thing that gave her pause was his name, for she 
 was even then of some prominence in certain 
 public circles. The title "Captain" helped, 
 however, and, together with the facts that he 
 was financially well-fixed and had no encum- 
 brances in the way of dependent relatives, car- 
 ried the day. But since his death the difficulty 
 had confronted her again. Her baptismal 
 name, unfortunately, was of no help, being 
 brief and commonplace. She would have liked 
 to use her maiden name in connection with 
 Smith, either hyphenated or not, her father's 
 family being an old one in the state and very 
 well-known but "Mrs. Maria Ann Black- 
 Smith" was not a satisfactory combination. 
 Her first husband's name, "McWilliams", was 
 better, but when Captain Smith was living and 
 she had suggested retaining it as a part of her 
 title, he had made violent objection. Now, she 
 hesitated to resume it, for although she had 
 been fond of McWilliams in his time, and he 
 had been a useful and estimable citizen, she 
 was aware that there was nothing distinguished
 
 40 'A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 about him or his calling to justify a return to 
 his name after so many years. He had wished 
 to be called a "mortician", but people would 
 persist in using- the old term, "undertaker," 
 and as such he was remembered. 
 
 "Susan Miller's as dowdy as ever, ain't she?" 
 she remarked, looking after a stout elderly 
 lady, wearing a plaid dress and a bonnet 
 slipped over to one side. "Wonder if John's 
 ever found out yet that she's a sight to behold. 
 She wasn't much more presentable when she 
 was twenty than she is now, and he was neat- 
 ness itself, but he thought she could set the pat- 
 tern for good looks to the whole county. Gra- 
 cious, what fools men are! 
 
 "There's Doctor Bob Elliott. Dear, dear, 
 how gray and old he looks. I know his age 
 exactly; he's just fifty-four too young to 
 have broken like that. But country practise is 
 hard on a man." 
 
 Mrs. Smith, it may be said in this connec- 
 tion, seldom brought up the matter of age, es- 
 pecially her own, when she was in Hawburg. 
 It wasn't necessary. She had been born there, 
 her old friends knew her age and that was 
 enough. Elsewhere she talked very frankly
 
 'A HAWBURG SENSATION 41 
 
 on the subject. She was accustomed to say 
 that she never could see why a woman should 
 wish to conceal her years; it was a very silly 
 thing to do ; age was no disgrace and she was 
 perfectly willing that anybody who cared 
 should know hers. And then she would men- 
 tion that she was forty-six last January. In 
 Hawburg at this time the old residents recalled 
 that she was fifty-three. 
 
 She leaned forward, pushed the curtain 
 slightly aside and looked intently at a slim, 
 plainly dressed, pale young woman walking 
 slowly by. 
 
 "Well, I do declare," she said, "if that isn't 
 Alice Rogers! I haven't seen her for it must 
 be a year or two and I hardly knew her. She's 
 got so old-looking. Doesn't look a day less 
 than thirty-five and she's let's see she's just 
 a year older than my Periwinkle and Perry's 
 twenty-seven and looks twenty. Been married 
 five years, too. What ails Alice been sick or 
 had a disappointment?" 
 
 "No, she hasn't been sick," replied Mrs. 
 Dawson, as she poised the needle above the 
 yawning hole in the heel of the sock pulled 
 over her hand, "and she couldn't have had a
 
 42 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 disappointment, for, to my certain knowledge, 
 she's never had a beau in her life. I guess she's 
 just tired out with teaching; she's been at it 
 steady for ten years, you know. Alice is a 
 very religious girl, too. Goes to church twice 
 every Sunday, and to Sunday-school, and to 
 prayer-meeting and Christian Endeavor and 
 missionary meetings. Don't you think, Maria, 
 that too much religion for young girls is 
 aging? Not," she added hastily, "that I have 
 anything against church-going, being a pro- 
 fessor myself." 
 
 "I reckon it ain't altogether teaching nor yet 
 religion that ails the girl," was the reply. "It 
 ain't so much what she's got or what she does, 
 as what she hasn't got and doesn't do. When 
 you come to think about it, Jinny, it's easy 
 enough to see why Alice is older than her years. 
 There she's lived nearly all her life, ever since 
 her mother died, with that family of old 
 women, her father's cousins and aunts two or 
 three of 'em nearly bedridden and the others 
 not more'n half alive and not a man in the 
 house. Now I hold that it ain't wholesome for 
 a woman to live where there ain't any men
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 43 
 
 about. She gets queer and cranky. If one o' 
 those cousins had been a man, or one o' the old 
 aunts an uncle, Alice'd be more like folks this 
 minute. I don't mean that every woman ought 
 to get married whether or no marrying's a 
 matter o' taste ; but she ought to have brothers 
 or male kin o' some kind to sort o' keep her in 
 balance. You've noticed that a girl with a lot 
 o' brothers isn't likely to marry so early as a 
 girl without any other things being equal 
 and she's likely to use a good deal better judg- 
 ment. She's got acquainted with the ways of 
 the creatures and knows how to size 'em up. 
 Anyway, I'm free to say that I like a man 
 about the house. It's a comfort to know he's 
 there in time o' thunder-storms, for one thing. 
 It seems safer. You've never known the feel- 
 ing of being without one, with the squire and 
 the four boys always about; and, for that mat- 
 ter, neither have I. Since the captain passed 
 on, Periwinkle's husband has always been un- 
 der the same roof with me, and then I meet a 
 good many men folks one way and another as 
 I go about; but Joe's talking of taking Perry 
 and going to Chicago where he's got a good
 
 44 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 opening, and then I shall be alone." She 
 sighed heavily, partly, no doubt, from lack of 
 breath. 
 
 "The old Rogers ladies," she resumed, after 
 a moment's pause, "have lived by themselves 
 so many years, so shut in and sort o' dismal, 
 that they don't rightly know what real living 
 is, and haven't an idea what an unnatural life 
 Alice is leading. If she had a beau, chances 
 are they wouldn't treat him right." 
 
 "But, Maria, I don't think it's the fault of 
 the old ladies," protested Mrs. Dawson mildly. 
 "Somehow, Alice never seemed to be one of the 
 girls who cared for boys' company. She was 
 always so stand-offish even as a young thing, 
 that no boy'd 'a' dared " 
 
 "Jane Dawson, you surprise me, the little 
 knowledge you show about women folks. 
 They're all alike. I'll dare to say that Alice 
 has built just as many castles with herself and 
 a lovely man in maybe no particular man, but 
 just a man as any other girl. She ain't so 
 unlike her mother as not to do it. Julia was 
 real flirtatious, you remember." 
 
 "Why hasn't she shown some signs, then?" 
 
 "Signs! h'm! It's likely there were signs
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION r 45 
 
 enough for men that had any gumption. 
 They've got so they expect a woman fairly to 
 invite them to come and marry her before 
 they'll take notice. I hold that a woman has to 
 do some of the courting if she expects to get 
 the man she wants ; but, as I said before, Alice 
 doesn't know how. There she's been shut up 
 with only women at home and with a lot of 
 children in the daytime, and maybe never see- 
 ing a man to speak to except the janitor, or old 
 Grandpa Sibley next door, or Uncle Eb Jones, 
 from week's end to week's end. And being so 
 shy and backward, the young folks, meaning 
 no harm, have just left her out, and she's had 
 nothing to liven her up, and she's fading be- 
 fore her time. Of course, there are girls, like 
 my Periwinkle, for instance, that such circum- 
 stances wouldn't have made so much difference 
 to. The beaux couldn't have been kept away; 
 but a girl like Alice would be influenced." 
 
 "But the children, Maria; don't you think 
 they make up for a good many things? It 
 seems to me that a woman who has children 
 with her all the time ought to be bright and 
 lively." 
 
 "Well, Jinny, you are a simpleton," said
 
 46 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 Mrs. Smith with the freedom of speech only 
 possible between members of a family. "Your 
 four boys when they were little kept you lively 
 enough maybe, but you were glad to have them 
 in school away from you five days in the week. 
 How do you s'pose you would have felt with 
 fifty to look after not all of 'em little dearies 
 either, by any manner o' means, but most of 
 'em brats?" (It is painful to have to record 
 such coarse language but what Mrs. Smith 
 really said was "brats".) "Your own young 
 ones you could spank when they needed it and 
 hug them the next minute if you wanted to, 
 and they'd think all the more of you, but the 
 teacher can't. She's got to treat 'em all alike, 
 good or bad, and the parents think she ought to 
 love 'em all and be glad of the privilege of 
 their company. Law, law! And most of the 
 little tykes spending half their time thinking o* 
 ways to be mean to her. And if she did love 
 'em all and they loved back, they'd go into an- 
 other grade next term and forget about her, 
 and she'd have to worry with a fresh batch. 
 But still folks wonder why teachers ain't gay 
 and skittish when they're out o' school! 
 
 "I sort o' feel guilty about Alice," she went
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 47 
 
 on. "I thought so much of her mother and 
 meant to look after the girl a little. I used to 
 think about inviting her down in vacations, but 
 Periwinkle had such a lot o' gay company 
 around always, and somehow the time never 
 seemed to come. Are you sure there isn't some 
 man she's taken a fancy to?" 
 
 It was obvious that on the same principle on 
 which the French say, "Seek the woman," when 
 a man is in trouble, Mrs. Smith's experience of 
 life led her to suspect a man as the chief cause 
 when a woman's spirits were downcast. 
 
 "I don't know who it could be, I'm sure," re- 
 turned Mrs. Dawson. "We were talking in 
 Sewing Society just the other day about how 
 few men of the marrying kind are in the burg 
 now. Just as soon as the boys get old enough, 
 off they go to the city or over to the gas towns 
 and" 
 
 "Who's that good-looking fellow in the gay 
 rig coming down Main Street, Jinny?" 
 
 "That? Oh, that's Tom Hood, old Billy 
 Hood's nephew, the one he left all his prop- 
 erty to, you know. He used to spend a good 
 deal of time here, off and on, before Billy 
 died, and he's lived here now for three years,
 
 48 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 but I reckon you've never happened to see him. 
 He spends a good deal of time out on the 
 farm. He's running the canning factory, too. 
 He has a big property and the men folks say 
 he looks after it well. When he has time he 
 goes with the girls first one and then another. 
 He's the catch of the county and all the girls 
 have been after him, but he doesn't seem in- 
 clined to settle down. I do hear lately that he's 
 going pretty steady with one of the Parker 
 girls up Possum Glory way. 
 
 " 'Alice Rogers?' My, no, Maria. She 
 can't have any notion of him. I don't suppose 
 they know each other to speak to. She isn't his 
 kind. He likes the gay dressy girls. Come to 
 think of it, maybe she's taken a notion to 
 Brother Considine since he was a widower. I 
 don't know why I didn't think of him before. 
 A number of women I could name, in and out 
 of his congregation, have eyes for him if she 
 hasn't." 
 
 "Brother Considine the Reverend Philan- 
 der? Why, when did his wife die?" inquired 
 Mrs. Smith with lively interest. 
 
 "Oh, five or six months ago; didn't I men- 
 tion it in a letter? Well, mebbe not, and I
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 49 
 
 guess you haven't been up since. Yes, she died 
 of pneumonia. He took on terrible, but that's 
 no sign he won't be looking around for a new 
 partner in good time." 
 
 "But he's too old for Alice Rogers, Jinny; 
 he must be all of fifty-five." 
 
 "Maria Ann Smith," exclaimed Mrs. Daw- 
 son, not sorry, perhaps, for a chance to do her 
 share of sisterly criticism, "I should think 
 you'd lived long enough to know that no man is 
 ever too old for a woman if she wants him, or 
 if he can get her. There's tastes and tastes, 
 though," she conceded, "and I shouldn't sup- 
 pose Alice would lose sleep and get peaked 
 over a man of that age. But then he's a 
 preacher and not bad-looking, if he isn't 
 young, and she's religious and there's no tell- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well, I don't think it would be a suitable 
 match at all," said Mrs. Smith with decision. 
 "Reverend Philander Considine," she mur- 
 mured after a pause, and half to herself. 
 "Phi-lan-der Considine; that's a good mouth- 
 filling name." 
 
 Mrs. Dawson glanced at her sister with 
 shrewd inquiry in her eyes, but said nothing.
 
 50 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 At that moment Squire Dawson himself came 
 noisily in, seeking his wife's services to bind up 
 a cut finger. He heard the familiar name. 
 
 "Considine, yes," he exclaimed with loud 
 facetiousness, and the brutal frankness of a 
 brother-in-law; "yes, he's a widower, Mari', 
 just beginning to take notice. You'd better 
 set your cap for him. He's got a good chunk 
 o' property for a preacher from his first wife, 
 I guess. The last one was his second, you 
 know. They say he's had a call to a church 
 down to the capital for next year. At your 
 age you can't expect to do better." 
 
 Mrs. Smith looked annoyed. 
 
 "I am not setting my cap for anybody, 
 Squire, I'd have you know," she said with a 
 cold dignity and a look which, if she had been 
 presiding over a meeting, would have made 
 any woman who dared to offer an obstructive 
 motion wish she had not been born. The 
 squire only "haw-hawed" loudly and uncon- 
 cernedly, so differing is the effect of woman's 
 most impressive manner on those whom she 
 desires to overawe. 
 
 At this moment Alice Rogers, on Her way 
 down the street, stopped directly before the
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 51 
 
 window to speak to a child and to point out to 
 it something in a book. "Can't get away from 
 school even when she's outside," said Mrs. 
 Smith, her eyes fixed critically upon the girl. 
 While she stood there talking, Tom Hood 
 drove slowly by again. He was alone and not 
 so absorbed in thought but that he saw and 
 greeted genially an old man who was passing, 
 yet he glanced at Alice with the indifference 
 one shows to a stranger who is in no way out 
 of the common. "He must know who she is," 
 commented the observer back of the curtains. 
 "Everybody knows everybody else in this little 
 town; he just hasn't any eyes for her, because 
 she doesn't know how to make him see." 
 
 Unconscious of being watched, the girl 
 turned from the child and looked after the man 
 in the gaily painted high cart, a deep flush 
 creeping over her face as she stood there. 
 
 "Hm-m, well!" said the shrewd watcher. 
 "What if she hasn't been so much as intro- 
 duced to him! A cat may look at a king, and 
 a girl in a village where there is such a hand- 
 some, likely young fellow can't be hindered 
 from having her thoughts about him. Poor 
 soul!"
 
 52 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 Mrs. Smith remarked in a careless manner 
 to her sister that evening when the squire was 
 not in hearing, that she believed she'd like to 
 go to prayer-meeting. Although she'd gone to 
 the Presbyterian church to please the captain, 
 she said, and hadn't had the heart to make any 
 change since, yet she had no desire to conceal 
 that she felt most at home in the Methodist 
 church where she was brought up. 
 
 On their way down the street when the hour 
 arrived, they were greeted by the irregular 
 tapping of a drum. As they approached, the 
 sounds grew more weird and resolved them- 
 selves into those of a fife and a banjo in addi- 
 tion to the drum and the voices of half a dozen 
 singers the music, in short, of the Salvation 
 Army. 
 
 "I should not suppose the Salvationers 
 would find any work for them in this little 
 town," commented Mrs. Smith. 
 
 "They've only been here a day or so, and I've 
 heard they're on a prospecting tour through 
 the state to find where they're needed most," 
 replied her sister. 
 
 The unique methods of the little detachment, 
 composed of two women and four men, were
 
 sufficiently new to Hawburgers to attract 
 something of a crowd, when they stopped at a 
 street corner for their regular services. As 
 Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Dawson reached the spot 
 they paused. The band had at once engaged 
 in song. 
 
 "We love Salvation warfare, to fight is our de- 
 light, 
 
 And when the battle's over here we'll wear a 
 crown so bright; 
 
 Till then, with shield and song, we're march- 
 ing bold and free, 
 
 And blow on blow we'll smite the foe, from 
 the General down to me. 
 
 We'll push the war, that's what we're for, 
 from the General down to me." 
 
 It was a lively tune, the voices of the singers 
 were rather cracked, and irreverent ones in the 
 surrounding group laughed. 
 
 Alice Rogers, who, like other women, had 
 halted on her way to prayer-meeting, did not 
 smile. Presently, when the familiar words, 
 Nearer, My God, to Thee, were announced, 
 and the uncertain voices were raised again, an- 
 other voice, clear, sweet, musical, joined in, 
 lifted and led the rest and soared triumphantly 
 on.
 
 54 
 
 "Then with my waking thoughts 
 
 Bright with Thy praise, 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 
 Altars I'll raise ; 
 So by my woes to be, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee." 
 
 Even the Salvationists turned in surprise. 
 Alice Rogers was the singer, and as she stood 
 there with cheeks flushed, eyes brilliant with ex- 
 citement and red lips parted, she was very 
 unlike the pale demure girl who had passed 
 down the street two hours before. To at least 
 two members of the group the changed face 
 was a revelation. Mrs. Smith, whose eyes few 
 things escaped, noted Pastor Considine's start 
 of surprise and the low whistle indulged in by 
 Tom Hood, both of these gentlemen having 
 been drawn accidentally into the unaccustomed 
 crowd like the rest. 
 
 "It's the first time either of 'em, I'll dare to 
 say, ever thought of her as a woman and not as 
 the school-teacher," said the discerning Mrs. 
 Smith to her sister. 
 
 Suddenly realizing that she was attracting 
 attention, the girl drew back, abashed, and 
 went on her way to the church. But next even-
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 55 
 
 ing she was with the Salvationists again. Some- 
 how, in the meantime, she had familiarized her- 
 self with their strange songs and when the 
 leader started them she joined in again with 
 confidence and with apparent disregard for the 
 wondering looks of the villagers standing 
 about. 
 
 It was evidently the purpose of the adjutant 
 in charge to have a "scare" service, and he 
 opened with the hymn: 
 
 "You'll see the Great White Throne, 
 And stand before it all alone 
 Waiting for the King to call, 
 When the stars begin to fall! 
 My Lord! What a mourning! 
 
 My Lord! What a mourning! 
 My Lord! What a mourning, 
 When the stars begin to fall!" 
 
 The exhortation which followed was in keep- 
 ing. The adjutant had a high rasping voice, 
 and the grammatical construction of his speech 
 would not bear criticism ; but he was fluent, he 
 was earnest, he plainly believed the theology he 
 advanced, and when he called on his hearers to 
 repent of their sins; when he pointed out to 
 them that though they might believe they were 
 safe because they were free from the vices and
 
 56 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 degradations known in cities, they were, by 
 reason of this very self-satisfaction, in danger 
 of hell-fire. When he assured them in plain 
 unvarnished terms that they were sinners and 
 in danger, that the wrath of God was everlast- 
 ing and the fires of the future hot when, with 
 tremendous seriousness, he said these things 
 even the flippant daredevils among the listen- 
 ers ceased to jeer and only smiled uneasily. 
 
 Alice Rogers stood near him, but a f ar-oif 
 uplifted expression in her eyes, a half -smile on 
 her lips, led observers to doubt if she heard 
 what was said. It was only with the singing 
 that she roused to attention. When the adju- 
 tant had warned and admonished vehemently, 
 and had then pointed out the way of escape, 
 the songs chosen began to be of a more inviting 
 sort, and in these the girl lifted up her voice 
 again with fervor. To the tune of Old Black 
 Joe they sang 
 
 "In sorrow He's my comfort, in trouble He's 
 
 my stay, 
 
 He tells me every care on him to roll. 
 He's the Lily of the Valley, 
 The Bright and Morning Star, 
 He's the Fairest of Ten Thousand to my 
 
 soul."
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 57 
 
 To the tune, 'She Was Bred in Old Kentucky, 
 rang out the words: 
 
 "I am neither rich nor lucky, but I know I'm 
 
 saved to-day; 
 
 My sins are all forgiven, I am bound for end- 
 less day; 
 
 When I cried, 'Lord Jesus, save me/ 
 Joy and peace and light He gave me, 
 And-He'11-do-the-very-same-for-you." 
 
 The next night and the next Alice Rogers 
 was with the Salvation band and sang with 
 them. The village people talked and won- 
 dered about it; most of them considered it a 
 highly improper proceeding and were quite 
 scandalized, some going so far as to say that as 
 a teacher in charge of innocent young children 
 she ought to be made to behave. Before this 
 suggestion had taken formal shape the little 
 town was electrified by the news that she had 
 resigned her school and, without consulting 
 any one so far as could be learned, not even 
 her pastor, had gone to Chicago, in company 
 with the little band of workers to join the Sal- 
 vation Army. The girl's relatives, being ques- 
 tioned, could only say that she had explained 
 to them that she felt it to be her duty, and that 
 as they did not need her services, financially or
 
 58 'A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 otherwise, considered herself at liberty to go. 
 It was the greatest sensation Hawburg had 
 enjoyed for many a day. Everybody talked 
 of it, surmised, criticized, expressed opin- 
 ions. All agreed that she had made a terrible 
 mistake in giving up a good paying position 
 and going off to live from hand to mouth as 
 the Salvation Army people did, maybe not 
 having enough to eat half the time. They be- 
 lieved she would be sorry for it right soon, but 
 by that time it would be too late to get her 
 school back. Not a few expressed the belief 
 that she must have had a touch of insanity. 
 One old lady alone ventured to suggest that 
 possibly she was called by the Lord as minis- 
 ters are said to be, but her idea was not received 
 with favor. The Reverend Mr. Considine, be- 
 ing asked what he thought, expressed himself 
 as sincerely grieved that Sister Rogers had 
 acted upon impulse and without advising with 
 him. He felt that she had been rash and that it 
 would have been better for her to remain and 
 labor in the home vineyard. He explained that 
 he did not mean that she should engage in home 
 missionary work, but that her occupation of 
 school-teaching, if conscientiously and prayer-
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 59 
 
 fully carried on, might be a means of grace 
 both to herself and her pupils. 
 
 The event was the subject of discussion at 
 the Dawson dinner-table a day or so after its 
 occurrence, Tom Hood, who was present, hav- 
 ing been invited in unceremoniously by the 
 hospitable squire, showing much interest. As 
 might have been expected, Mrs. Smith was not 
 slow to express her views. 
 
 "If you want to know why that girl did what 
 she did, I'll tell you," she declared with vigor, 
 holding her fork as if it were a gavel, and 
 rapping the table. "I'll tell you. The time 
 had come when she had to make a dash out of 
 the box or something would break. There she'd 
 been for ten of the best years of her life the 
 flower of her youth without any of the things 
 that rightly belong to youth, mewed up in a 
 schoolhouse all day with a lot of tiresome 
 children, and mewed up at home the rest of the 
 time with five dismal old women who only 
 talked about their ailments and the victuals 
 that didn't agree with 'em. Ten years without 
 a man in the house!" 
 
 "Horrible!" interpolated Tom Hood with a 
 laugh. She did not heed his interruption.
 
 60 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 "Of course," she went on, "Alice thought* it 
 was religion, the call of duty and all that, 
 when this opening came ; but what it really was 
 was the necessity of a change in her life 
 of a chance to draw a free breath. A man, 
 now, in her case, supposing a man would stay 
 patiently in a cage half that time, would have 
 broken the monotony most likely by filling 
 himself full of whisky, going off to some other 
 town and painting it red. And I've known 
 women with less strain on their nerves to try 
 the river." 
 
 "How you do go on, Maria Ann," protested 
 Mrs. Dawson. 
 
 It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Daw- 
 son was right ; also, that however sound Maria 
 Ann's ideas were, her language, when she was 
 not acting in an official capacity was not ele- 
 gant. 
 
 "But what I don't understand," said Tom 
 Hood, obviously ready to pursue the subject; 
 "what I don't understand is where that pretty 
 girl has hidden herself all these years. She's 
 a beauty, and beauties are scarce around here. 
 Why didn't I know her? I suppose I must have 
 seen her, but I positively could not recall that
 
 A HAWBURO SENSATION 61 
 
 I'd ever had a look at the girl before I saw her 
 in the Salvation crowd the other night." 
 
 "Some men," remarked Mrs. Smith oracu- 
 larly, "some men are afflicted one way and 
 some another. Some are color-blind and some 
 never discover a woman worth knowing until 
 a flag is waved in their faces. Plenty of women 
 are competent to do their own flag-waving but 
 some have to have it done for them, and Alice 
 is one of this kind. I wish I had taken her in 
 hand long ago as I meant to." 
 
 She said this with real regret in her tones. 
 At all events, whatever had been the case in the 
 past, Alice Rogers could no longer be ignored 
 by Hawburgers. From her position as nobody 
 in particular she had suddenly become an ob- 
 ject of deepest interest. All her characteristics 
 were discussed, and it was realized by all that 
 she was a person of many merits and virtues 
 and that she had hardly been appreciated at 
 her true worth. She had made an impression 
 at last, and one likely to remain. 
 
 While the sensation was still intense, the 
 Reverend Mr. Considine suddenly determined 
 to go to Chicago, making a long deferred visit 
 to his sister the excuse to the church officials.
 
 62 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 "It won't do him any good," said the astute 
 widow of Captain Smith to herself, when she 
 heard of the trip. "Alice Rogers will have 
 nothing to do with him. He's discovered her 
 too late." 
 
 Evidently he had, for he came back wearing 
 the chastened look that had distinguished him 
 after Mrs. Considine had been, as the Salva- 
 tion Army would have put it, promoted to 
 glory. The women of his congregation, lack- 
 ing the discerning powers of Mrs. Smith, whis- 
 pered admiringly to each other that he was still 
 a-grieving. 
 
 What had passed between him and Alice 
 Rogers was never made known. That he had 
 had an interview with her was certain, for one 
 of the young Dawsons on his first visit to the 
 city on the lake, wandering about in a remote 
 quarter, saw the minister draw the girl from 
 her place in a street band of Salvationists and 
 in a quiet spot talk with her long and earnestly. 
 Allusions to her in his presence after this 
 brought only a sigh and a gesture indicating 
 that he considered the subject unprofitable and 
 washed his hands of responsibility. 
 
 Soon after Mr. Considine's return from
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 63 
 
 Chicago, Mrs. Dawson invited him to supper. 
 This was of her own motion and not at the sug- 
 gestion of Mrs. Smith. Between sisters of 
 sympathetic nature there is not always need 
 for words. As Mrs. Dawson was noted for her 
 excellent cookery, and as the entertainment of 
 the visitor in the absence of the squire fell 
 mainly to Mrs. Smith, who made herself espe- 
 cially agreeable, the good man went home visi- 
 bly cheered. 
 
 A week or so after this, Mrs. Smith, as an 
 officer of the order of Pythian Sisters, had bus- 
 iness in Chicago. While there she resolved to 
 look up Alice Rogers and satisfy herself as to 
 her welfare. She had some trouble in finding 
 her. On her first call at the Army's general 
 headquarters she was directed to a substation 
 on Polk Street, near Clark; going there she 
 learned that Alice was at that time detailed to 
 wait upon a woman dying of tuberculosis in a 
 remote part of the city, but that she would 
 probably report at the station that evening. 
 Not to be thwarted, Mrs. Smith, after a leis- 
 urely dinner at the hotel, took her way down 
 Polk Street again and arrived there to find a 
 group of Salvation "soldiers" on the street
 
 64 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 ready to begin service. She drew closer, and 
 standing in the shadow, looked for Alice. She 
 was there in the army uniform, coal-scuttle 
 bonnet and all, but the plain garb did not hide 
 her new-born charm. There was no excitement 
 now, no feverish color ; she was rather pale, and 
 there was a shadow under her eyes as from loss 
 of sleep, but something was in her face that 
 had not been there when she went about her 
 daily routine in Hawburg. There was expres- 
 sion, a suggestion that if she spoke it would be 
 with animation, even enthusiasm a look, in 
 short, as if she were alive through and through. 
 It was a subtle change, but it had transformed 
 her from a woman of negative prettiness into 
 one beautiful and attractive. The human 
 driftwood that made up the changing crowd 
 drawn together by the music wrecks of 
 women, clods of men, thieves, tramps, many 
 of them all turned toward her. Some envied, 
 some sneered and leered, perhaps, but all ad- 
 mired and all wondered that she should be 
 there, yet were perhaps the better for knowing 
 that one like her was willing to come among 
 them. It was to her they listened when sing-
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 65 
 
 ing began, though this time hers was not the 
 only sweet voice. 
 
 "It was for me that Jesus died 
 On the Cross of Calvary, 
 Of Calvary of Calvary. 
 It was for me that Jesus died 
 On the Cross of Calvary." 
 
 For a moment, at least, perhaps the thieves and 
 thugs and waifs knew that the message was 
 for them. 
 
 From her point of vantage Mrs. Smith was 
 surprised, and yet not surprised, to discover on 
 the edge of the crowd no less a person than 
 Tom Hood, of Hawburg. 
 
 "And he pretended that he had been having 
 urgent business in Cincinnati, lately," she said 
 to herself. "The scamp! I might have guessed 
 what he was up to." 
 
 Presently when the Salvationists were on 
 their knees on the pavement, with their leader 
 engaged in vociferous prayer, Mrs. Smith 
 stepped quietly around and touched the young 
 man on the arm. 
 
 He looked startled, embarrassed, and at first
 
 66 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 greatly disconcerted, then put a bold face on 
 the matter and laughed. 
 
 "You caught me fair and square," he said, 
 "and I may as well own up. Come back here 
 with me." 
 
 Seated in a convenient doorway while the 
 praying and exhortation went on, he told his 
 story. 
 
 "I'm here because that girl's here, as I sup- 
 pose I hardly need to say. I want to get her 
 out of this. I want her to marry me. I want 
 to take her away from these horrible surround- 
 ings. Think of the girl, that refined, delicate, 
 shy girl, touching elbows with those damned 
 creatures over there scum of the earth ; going 
 into their abominable homes, nursing them 
 when they're sick and putting herself at their 
 beck and call! And that isn't the worst of it. 
 Of course I know that such people can't really 
 hurt her, but think of her, think of Alice Rog- 
 ers down-town selling War Crys in shops and 
 offices! She does it; they have to do it. They 
 know her now men down there as the pretty 
 Salvation lass, and buy her papers just to get 
 a chance to speak to her. Lord! It drives me 
 frantic." 
 
 "They're the Lord's creatures," observed
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION G7 
 
 Mrs. Smith piously, nodding her head toward 
 the crowd, "and they surely need saving. 
 Somebody has to undertake the work." 
 
 "I don't know whether the Lord wants such 
 specimens in the other world or not," the young 
 man returned recklessly. "Anyway, if I can 
 help it and I will she shan't waste her life 
 on them." 
 
 "Have you asked her to marry you?" 
 
 1 'Asked her to marry me?' Yes, the first 
 time I talked to her." 
 
 "Considering, my son, that you had never 
 spoken to her a month ago, don't you think you 
 were rather hasty?" 
 
 "Oh, I made a bluff. I pretended that we'd 
 always known each other; that I'd admired her 
 without daring to say so, don't you know? I'm 
 afraid she didn't believe me. Anyway, she 
 won't have a thing to do with me. Says she's 
 taken up her life's work and is happy with it. 
 Say, don't you think, honestly, that she'd 
 stand a better chance of being happy with me 
 than with the Salvation Army? I'm not a bad 
 sort of fellow and I'd take good care of her." 
 
 Mrs. Smith assured him that her sympathies 
 were all with him, but advised him that he 
 must give the girl time.
 
 68 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 "Did you really expect her to say yes the 
 first time you asked her?" she inquired. 
 
 "Well, no; I can hardly say that I did," he 
 acknowledged reluctantly, laughing a little. 
 "No, perhaps not; but I can't bear to wait 
 while she's mixed up with this sort of thing, or 
 to go home and leave her here." 
 
 They were singing something at this mo- 
 ment to the tune of Just Tell Them That You 
 Saw Me. 
 
 "Don't let her see you to-night," said Mrs. 
 Smith. "Go up the street a little and wait for 
 me. I will have a talk with her." Then she 
 went over, drew Alice out of the group, took 
 her to the quiet door-step and extended the 
 long-delayed invitation to come to her home 
 for an indefinite stay. The answer, as she had 
 expected, was a polite refusal, but it opened the 
 way for her to offer some motherly advice to 
 the girl in the effort to convince her that she 
 had taken an unwise step. 
 
 Alice was very frank. 
 
 "I don't know that I can make myself very 
 clear, Mrs. Smith," she said, "but at Hawburg 
 I felt smothered, helpless, lonely. Here,
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 69 
 
 though I do not think I am especially fitted for 
 this work and though it has unpleasant fea- 
 tures, I seem to be living in a new world. I 
 have energy, I have hope, I feel equal to what- 
 ever I undertake. I seem to be finding my- 
 self," she went on with rather a tremulous little 
 laugh, "and I discover you may think this 
 sounds conceited I discover there is more to 
 me than I ever guessed. I could really," she 
 added after a pause, "I could really, if it were 
 necessary which, fortunately, it is not go 
 back to Hawburg and to my school once more. 
 The roof would never shut down so close 
 again." 
 
 They bade each other good-by and went 
 their respective ways, the older woman feeling 
 sure that the girl had not yet fully found her- 
 self. 
 
 Alice had been yet more confidential with 
 Lieutenant Mary Hoxie, under whose special 
 supervision she had been placed and to whom 
 she had become deeply attached. The lieu- 
 tenant had questioned her gently as to the 
 handsome young man who was seen to linger 
 so frequently in her vicinity.
 
 70 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 "I never spoke to him until I came here," 
 she said calmly. "He will go away presently 
 and not return." 
 
 Then she had confessed that in joining the 
 army she now realized that she had been moved 
 rather by a selfish wish to escape from prison, 
 than by a desire to work for the benefit of the 
 sorrowful and suffering. Now, though she 
 had found how hard the task was, she was 
 learning that she could do her part if she 
 would. "If only," she whispered under her 
 breath, "if only I need not sell War Crysl" 
 
 Weeks went on into months. Rumors came 
 to Hawburg now and then that Alice Rogers 
 had been seen on the Chicago streets, either 
 making one of a grotesque procession, or alone 
 with a bundle of War Crys under her arm. 
 Tom Hood was away from home a good deal 
 and some of the young women were growing 
 anxious to know where he spent his time. Mrs. 
 Smith was back and forth between her own 
 home at the capital and her sister's in Haw- 
 burg. Days were dull and nothing happened. 
 
 One September night, on the same spot 
 where Mrs. Smith and Tom Hood had met,
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 71 
 
 another Salvation Army meeting was in prog- 
 ress. Tom Hood was there again. He could 
 not stay away, though he had had nothing but 
 discouragement. It was a somewhat larger 
 crowd than usual that had gathered about the 
 Salvationists that evening; there was more 
 pushing and shuffling about. Perhaps his jeal- 
 ous eyes imagined it, perhaps it was true, but, 
 at all events, watchful Tom Hood thought he 
 saw a burly ruffian jostling unduly the "pretty 
 Salvation lass," Alice. Instantly he caught at 
 the man and as instantly he himself was seized 
 by his elbows from behind, while at the same 
 moment some one, he never knew whom, struck 
 him a blow with brass knuckles that laid him 
 bleeding and senseless on the ground. There 
 was a commotion and a scattering of all who 
 might come under the suspicion of the police, 
 should those elusive officers arrive, and pres- 
 ently Hood was borne into the army quarters 
 and laid on a bench in the waiting-room back 
 of the little office. Lieutenant Mary Hoxie 
 was there, and Alice Rogers. Another member 
 of the army, Ensign Dale, had been a physi- 
 cian before he had elected to serve humanity 
 in this other way, and he examined the injured
 
 72 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 man. Then he left to get bandages and a sur- 
 geon's needle. 
 
 Alice took the older woman by the arms and 
 faced her about. 
 
 "I love him," she said simply and with the 
 self-control of the real soldier. "I have loved 
 him for years and he does not know. If he 
 dies " She turned and knelt at his side with 
 bowed head. His eyes opened. He reached 
 out his hand uncertainly as he whispered, 
 "That would raise me from the dead," and 
 lapsed into unconsciousness again. 
 
 It was not a place to be chosen for the cul- 
 mination of a love affair. It was a dingy room 
 with the odor of disinfectants strong in it, yet 
 not powerful enough to hide the smell of 
 musty woolen 'garments worn by the waifs 
 who had rested there, or that of the stack of 
 mustier books that no normal human being 
 would read, gifts from the benevolent who 
 wanted to get rid of them. But the young 
 people in the room now never remembered 
 these things to its discredit. Floating in at the 
 window came the familiar air, On the Banks 
 of the Wabash. It was another and more
 
 A HAWBURG SENSATION 73 
 
 sacred river that the singers meant, but Hood's 
 dulled brain roused again. "The Wabash 
 we'll go," he said, and smiled. 
 
 Even after this, when Hood slowly came to 
 himself, she did not surrender easily. 
 
 "I am pledged," she said, "and there is so 
 much to be done, and the helpers are so few." 
 
 "But they will release you," the lover urged, 
 "and you shall give them what gifts you 
 please." 
 
 "But it is my own consent I need," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 Lieutenant Mary Hoxie came to the man's 
 aid. Old; never, even in youth, other than 
 plain ; zealous in religion and good works ; tire- 
 less in unselfish laborious service ; the good of 
 the Army always at heart ; fanatic the heedless 
 called her she was yet a woman. 
 
 "I should be glad, my dear, if you had mar- 
 ried in the ranks ; we should like to have you re- 
 main with us. I shall miss you, indeed. But 
 go and be happy. I believe the Lord is pleased 
 with His creatures who are happy, and that 
 they serve Him so as well as those who do the 
 harder tasks. You will not be selfishly happy
 
 74 A HAWBURG SENSATION 
 
 now, for your eyes have been opened to the 
 world's suffering. Go; the Lord be with you." 
 
 As long as they live those two will remember 
 that plain face as the face of an angel, and al- 
 ways they will wonder, as over something sa- 
 cred, what was the story back of her life of 
 abnegation. 
 
 There was another sensation in Hawburg 
 when Tom Hood came back, bringing his wife. 
 The people found it difficult to adjust them- 
 selves to the situation, and felt it almost too 
 much for them. It really seemed that the 
 world was getting too big and its affairs too 
 complicated. 
 
 As if the one sensation were not enough, 
 another was precipitated upon them. The 
 Widow Smith achieved her desire of obtaining 
 a euphonious name, and while excitement over 
 the other event was still high, sent out wedding 
 announcements reading thus: "The Reverend 
 and Mrs. Philander Considine." 
 
 Inspired by this union, Mrs. Squire Dawson 
 perpetrated her first and only recorded joke. 
 
 "The thunder-storm season ain't over yet, 
 Maria, and Philander will be handy to have 
 around the house."
 
 MISS LUCYANNA'S EVENTFUL 
 DAY 
 
 ONE who knew her well would have seen 
 at once that Miss Lucyanna Prince 
 lacked something of her customary serenity as 
 she stood on her front steps that bright June 
 morning. It was Sunday, too, when a more 
 than common peacefulness was in order. Even 
 the little Murphy girl, who had come in to stay 
 during the hours of church service, and who 
 did not know Miss Lucyanna so very well, real- 
 ized that the lady was not following her usual 
 routine when she came back the third time and 
 told her in an absent-minded way just where 
 to find Grandmother's sunbonnet in case that 
 aged lady took a fancy to walk about in the 
 yard. 
 
 "As if I had not waited on Grandmother 
 every Sunday and some week-days for the last 
 year," said the little Murphy girl to herself. 
 "Miss Lucyanna's thinking about something 
 else," she reflected shrewdly. 
 
 75
 
 76 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 Whatever she was thinking of, it had not 
 prevented her from arraying herself in the 
 freshest and daintiest of summer attire. She 
 had "done up" that blue lawn frock and the 
 frilly white petticoat herself during the week, 
 and had considered that if she was to wear 
 them that season there could not be a more fa- 
 vorable opportunity than this very morning, 
 so far as weather was concerned. She knew 
 there were people in Raintown who thought 
 that she dressed rather gay for her years, and 
 who lifted their eyebrows at the pink roses on 
 her new straw hat, but she couldn't help it if 
 they did, she said, when she talked about it at 
 home ; she was going to wear clothes to please 
 herself. 
 
 In talking over her affairs at home she was 
 usually her only hearer. Ostensibly she ad- 
 dressed her remarks to Grandmother, but as 
 Grandmother was extremely deaf, and was 
 likely to be rambling in her replies when she 
 was with difficulty made to hear, she served 
 commonly as a sort of figurehead in conversa- 
 tions. Miss Lucyanna was not naturally a si- 
 lent person, and had fallen into the fashion of 
 thinking aloud in Grandmother's presence.
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 77 
 
 "It isn't quite so bad as talking to one's 
 self," she thought, "for I can kind of make be- 
 lieve she hears, like the children do with their 
 dolls. It looks more sociable, too, to be talking 
 along than going about mum." 
 
 Nor was Miss Lucyanna so preoccupied that 
 she could pass by her favorite rosebush without 
 a glance. 
 
 "If I had time to go around by old Mis' 
 Aikens's I'd take her a bunch, but I can't bear 
 to pick them off and let them wilt, poor things, 
 so I shan't take but one." 
 
 Having selected her flower, she shut the stem 
 in her hymn-book, for it was not customary in 
 Raintown to wear roses pinned to the gown or 
 thrust into the belt, and for Miss Lucyanna to 
 do so would have been held to show unseemly 
 coquettishness, or, as the neighbors would have 
 put it, that she wished to attract attention. 
 
 Having raised her parasol and gathered the 
 skirt of her blue gown so that it should not 
 brush against the dusty dog-fennel that bor- 
 dered the narrow sidewalk Raintown did not 
 yet boast a village improvement society Miss 
 Prince proceeded leisurely on her way. It was 
 a little early, but she wanted to go around by
 
 78 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 old Mr. Stevenson's and leave him her copy of 
 last week's Herald and Presbyter. 
 
 "I don't find much in it that's interesting," 
 she confessed, "but he sets store by it." 
 
 As she went along the absent-minded ex- 
 pression remained. So absorbed was she that 
 she did not see Mrs. Casterline and her daugh- 
 ter Minnie, from over on the South Pike, as 
 they came driving in, though she seemed to be 
 looking directly toward them, causing those 
 ladies to remark sniffily a little later that Lucy- 
 anna Prince was getting too stuck up to know 
 common folks, and creating a prolonged cool- 
 ness that afterward puzzled the innocent of- 
 fender. 
 
 Mr. Stevenson's cottage was down by the 
 railroad, and as she reached that neighborhood 
 she found her way blocked by a long freight 
 train, with three empty passenger coaches at- 
 tached to the rear. She waited for a little time, 
 but as it did not move she decided that 
 it would be necessary to walk to the end 
 and go around it. If she hadn't had on 
 her Sunday clothes, she reflected, as she passed 
 along, she would have been tempted to crawl 
 under one of those high freight cars. As it
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 79 
 
 was, she found when she came down toward 
 the end that she would have to climb over the 
 steps and platform of one of the passenger 
 coaches, for the end of the train was at the 
 other side of a little bridge which she could not 
 cross. 
 
 If her mind had not been intent on other 
 things she would have noticed signs up in the 
 other direction that the train was about to move. 
 The conductor waved his arm toward a brake- 
 man half-way along the string of cars, the lo- 
 comotive bell rang, and the steam began to 
 puff with increased energy. But Miss Lucy- 
 anna, heedless of these things, gathered her 
 skirts up carefully, furled her parasol, re- 
 moved her gray silk gloves, grasped the railing 
 and mounted the platform. 
 
 At that very instant the thrill of movement 
 went through the train, the cars bumped to- 
 gether, the wheels began to turn. It was a 
 slow movement. Miss Lucyanna was nimble, 
 and could have descended the opposite steps in 
 safety, but, unfortunately, there, on the other 
 side, was a ditch she had forgotten; to step 
 down would be to drop into it. While she hesi- 
 tated, and before the ditch was passed, the
 
 80 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 train had begun to move faster. Puff -puff, 
 puff -puff, went the engine laboriously, but 
 still with energy and as if equal to a swift 
 pace. Before she fairly realized the situation, 
 the train was going at good speed and the vil- 
 lage was left behind. 
 
 In the first bewildered moment Miss Lucy- 
 anna's impulse was to jump off, without re- 
 gard to risks ; the next thought was to scream. 
 She did neither of these things, being a self- 
 controlled sensible woman, and soon recovered 
 her presence of mind. 
 
 "Well, of all things!" she said aloud, as if 
 she had been addressing Grandmother. "I am 
 in a fix. This train won't stop like enough 
 before it gets to why, it's Sunday morning, 
 with no accommodation on and nothing but the 
 noon express down, and that never stops at 
 Raintown. I'll be twenty miles from home, 
 and how on earth I'll get back I don't know. 
 But I can't help it, and I'll just have to wait 
 and see what happens." 
 
 She turned to the car door behind her and 
 found it locked. Then she braced herself 
 against the end rail for what seemed a long 
 time, when it occurred to her that she might
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 81 
 
 spread the Herald and Presbyter on the step 
 and sit down upon that without injury to her 
 gown. At that moment a brakeman, running 
 along the top of the freight car in front, 
 caught sight of her, dropped easily down to 
 where she was and looked at her in mute as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 She explained her presence there, and after a 
 moment's polite hesitation, he broke into gay 
 tumultuous laughter, in which Miss Lucyanna 
 presently joined like a schoolgirl. 
 
 "But what am I to do?" she asked, after the 
 brakeman had quieted down a little, and both 
 had got their breath. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "I can get the train 
 stopped right here in Oak Valley, five miles 
 from anywhere, but I advise you to stay just 
 where you are till we get to Liberty, and then 
 take the noon train back." 
 
 "But I haven't any money to pay my fare, 
 except ten cents I was going to put in the mis- 
 sionary collection, and the noon express does 
 not stop at Raintown, anyway." 
 
 "That'll be all right," said the brakeman, 
 easily. "I'll explain to our conductor, and he'll 
 give you an order to be passed through free.
 
 82 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 Besides, I'll speak to the express conductor. 
 Tell him we carried you off by mistake and 
 the road owes it to you to get you back home. 
 But come inside or, what is better this fine 
 June day, come out on the back platform and 
 I'll get you a chair." 
 
 "What I am thankful for," remarked Miss 
 Lucyanna, as she seated herself in this place 
 of vantage, "is that, so far as I know, not a 
 person saw me carried off, the train was so far 
 out on the edge of the village when I got on, 
 and Jones's orchard was between me and the 
 nearest house." 
 
 Just then the train slowed up a little in cross- 
 ing a bridge. As she glanced up casually, 
 there, waiting in a buggy for the train to pass, 
 were the man and woman who had been the 
 cause of her preoccupation that morning 
 Cousin Libby Anderson and Mr. Amos Whit- 
 worth. At the instant she was engaged in an- 
 imated conversation with the brakeman, who 
 was a good-looking young man, "and not so 
 particularly young either when you come to 
 think of it," she had already reflected. He was 
 gallantly kneeling at her feet, arranging the 
 Herald and Presbyter as a protection for her
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 83 
 
 dainty skirts from the grime of the platform. 
 The couple in the vehicle were the last persons 
 Miss Lucyanna wished to see at that time. She 
 caught their look of surprise and what seemed 
 to her also an expression of embarrassment, but 
 there was no embarrassment on her face. She 
 was equal to the emergency, and waved her 
 hand to them gaily as she swept by and con- 
 tinued to wave it as long as she kept them in 
 sight from the back platform. 
 
 But when the brakeman left her to attend to 
 his duties she ceased to smile and a stern ex- 
 pression, not at all becoming, came to her face. 
 She had talked the matter over that morning 
 in Grandmother's presence before the little 
 Murphy girl's arrival. 
 
 Amos Whitworth had, in the phraseology of 
 the village, been "paying attention" to her for 
 two years with a regularity that in the eyes of 
 interested observers which meant the eyes of 
 nine-tenths of the people of the village could 
 only indicate the most serious matrimonial pur- 
 pose. To her his solicitous and deferential 
 manner and his concentration of gaze signified 
 even more than the regularity of his visits ; but 
 up to this time he had refrained from speaking
 
 84 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 plainly of his intentions. He had not asked 
 her to be Mrs. Whitworth. XJntil recently, 
 however, she had had no doubt but that he 
 would do so when the right time came, though 
 she was obliged to confess to herself that time, 
 according to his clock, moved slowly. 
 
 This summer an element of uncertainty had 
 entered into her dreams. Prosperity had 
 brought about much activity in building in 
 neighboring towns, particularly in Liberty, 
 and demand for the product of Mr. Whit- 
 worth's brickyard had been brisk, necessi- 
 tating his frequent absence from home. He 
 had been much at Liberty, and Cousin Libbie 
 lived there. Cousin Libbie was a widow. She 
 had known Amos Whitworth when they were 
 young, and she took pains to renew the ac- 
 quaintance and to make time pass pleasantly 
 for the gentleman in such hours of leisure as 
 he might find while in her town. Rumor had it 
 that he found many such hours, and that the 
 lady entertained him so well that he was in 
 danger of forgetting Miss Lucyanna. 
 
 The latter was not kept in the dark as to his 
 doings. He was, of course, silent on the occa- 
 sion of his calls upon her less frequent now
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 85 
 
 or mentioned Mrs. Libbie in a casual way 
 as one whom he had accidentally met; but there 
 were officious "friends" who kept her posted. 
 
 "I don't need to be told," said Miss Lucy- 
 anna to Grandmother or rather to herself 
 grimly. "Don't I know all of Lib's sly ways? 
 Didn't I see her twenty years ago when she 
 schemed and connived and palavered until she 
 took Sam Anderson away from Mary Clark 
 that he was actually engaged to? After he 
 got his wits again I believe he regretted what 
 he'd done all his days. Oh, I know her. I 
 wouldn't put anything apast her when she 
 wants to gain a point, but I'd never have 
 thought she'd go so far as to lie about my age. 
 The outrageousness of her saying that I'm 
 forty-seven instead of thirty-six, and that she 
 has the family Bible to show for it !" 
 
 Miss Lucyanna was not the first woman to 
 have a sensitiveness on the subject of her age, 
 but seldom is one so sorely tried as she had been 
 in regard to this delicate matter. 
 
 Left to herself she would probably have 
 been as reticent in regard to her years as other 
 women past their youth, but circumstances had 
 seemed to make entire frankness necessary.
 
 86 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 In the first place she had been given to under- 
 stand, not only by Amos Whitworth himself, 
 but by his sister and by friends who thought 
 they knew him well, that that upright person 
 could not abide man, woman or child who did 
 not speak the truth, who even skimped the 
 truth, who wilfully prevaricated in the smallest 
 degree when a question of fact was involved. 
 
 "I don't tell lies myself and I won't put up 
 with liars," said Amos, with an air of conscious 
 virtue. Moreover, he had said on more than 
 one occasion in Miss Lucyanna's presence that 
 he had no patience with any person who was 
 touchy on the matter of age. He was willing 
 to tell the truth and let everybody know he was 
 forty-one on the seventeenth of last Septem- 
 ber, and he couldn't see why any one should be 
 silly enough not to be as honest. Years were 
 no disgrace. 
 
 Even after this Lucyanna might have kept 
 silence on the subject had it not been for 
 Grandmother, who was really something of a 
 trial since her hearing had failed and her mind 
 had gone wandering into dim strange by- 
 paths, whence it never again could find its way 
 until a heavenly dawn should bring the light.
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 87 
 
 In Grandmother's earlier years she had been as 
 discreet as one could wish on the subject of 
 ages, but now it was quite the reverse. She was 
 much given to discoursing garrulously in re- 
 gard to the years of her descendants, but alas, 
 as poor Lucyanna found, her memory was not 
 trustworthy. 
 
 "Lucyanna, you know," she would say with 
 an alert and positive air to the interested neigh- 
 bor who might happen in, "Lucyanna will be 
 forty-seven in February. I remember that the 
 day she was born was the coldest one of the 
 winter seventeen degrees below zero," and 
 the old lady would ramble amiably on, while 
 poor Lucyanna would explain with a forced 
 laugh that Grandmother had got her mixed up 
 with Sister Sarah and made her out ten years 
 older than she was, not wholly convincing the 
 neighbor, however, as she knew very well. The 
 visitor would go away and say wherever she 
 happened to call next that Grandmother must 
 be right. Old folks remembered things away 
 back so accurately. And as Lucyanna had 
 been born in another state there was no one in 
 the village to speak in her behalf. 
 
 Thus it had come about that she had men-
 
 88 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 tioned her exact years to Amos. She did not 
 want him to get the idea that she was forty- 
 seven, and she thought he would certainly take 
 her word, for she had never deceived him in 
 any way. Of course, he ought to know by her 
 looks, she thought, that she was not so old as 
 Grandmother said, "but men are so stupid 
 about some things you never can tell," she 
 added. 
 
 Now another complication had come in, an- 
 other element working against her peace of 
 mind. Cousin Libby had been visiting old 
 friends in and about Raintown, among them 
 Amos' sister out on the Oak Hill Road. She 
 had spent a day with Lucyanna, for they were 
 outwardly on the friendliest of terms. Grand- 
 mother belonged to Lucyanna on her mother's 
 side of the house and was not related to Libbie, 
 so she had no memories of the latter's birth. 
 She did regale the visitor, however, with her 
 recollections of the cold day on which Lucy- 
 anna came into the world, forty-seven years be- 
 fore. 
 
 After this.visit word came back to Lucyanna 
 that Libbie had spoken of the accuracy of 
 Grandmother's memory, and had mentioned
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 89 
 
 that the Prince family Bible in her own pos- 
 session showed that the old lady recalled the 
 date of Lucyanna's birth perfectly. 
 
 The ownership of that Bible had been a sore 
 point with Lucyanna. "It belongs to me by 
 rights," she had said more than once to Libbie 
 herself. "My father was the oldest son and 
 I'm his only living child, so I ought to have it." 
 
 But Libbie would not give it up, saying that 
 Grandpa had given it to her personally, and 
 she meant to keep it. She kept it on the high- 
 est shelf of her sitting-room cupboard, behindl 
 locked glass doors, as Lucyanna had noticed on 
 her occasional visits to the home in Liberty. 
 
 It was this reprehensible conduct of Libbie 
 that had occasioned Miss Lucyanna's mental 
 disturbance that morning, and had indirectly 
 been the cause of her being carried off by the 
 train. It was this she was thinking over as she 
 went along, unmindful of the beautiful June 
 landscape spread out before her. 
 
 "Of course, if she's told that about me she's 
 made herself out younger than she is. She's 
 the one that's forty-seven, and, of course, she 
 knows Amos wouldn't want to marry a woman 
 older than himself; so I don't doubt she's told
 
 90 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 him she's thirty-six, and has the Bible to prove 
 it. She's capable of it. If lying will do it, I 
 suppose she'll get him, and if he hasn't any bet- 
 ter sense I'm sure she's welcome to him ; but I 
 should like to have him know that I told the 
 truth about my age. No, she isn't welcome to 
 him either," she hastily amended. "I want him 
 myself. He belongs to me. He likes me and 
 I ought to have him." 
 
 As she acknowledged afterward in telling 
 the story to Grandmother, who never heard a 
 word of it, she would have broken down crying 
 at that moment, if a sudden daring thought 
 had not electrified her and driven the tears 
 away. 
 
 The train was approaching Liberty. She 
 looked at her watch. It would be twenty min- 
 utes or more before the express arrived. Cousin 
 Libbie's house was only two squares from the 
 station. She would have plenty of time. Yes, 
 she would try it. The freight rolled lumber- 
 ingly on to a side-track and stopped. The po- 
 lite brakeman was on hand to assist her to 
 alight and to make her known to the conductor, 
 with whom she joined in a laugh over her un- 
 expected journey. Then she took her way up
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 91 
 
 the street. Liberty, like Raintown, was a 
 church-going community. Few persons were 
 to be seen, and houses had a deserted look. Ar- 
 rived at Cousin Libbie's residence she found 
 that also closed, as she expected. 
 
 "Nanny sings in the choir, and of course 
 she'll be gone," she had thought before she left 
 the train, "and little Emmy will be with her, 
 it's likely." 
 
 Evidently this was the case ; also it was what 
 she wished. Up on the porch she went, down 
 to the door-mat she stooped, and from under it 
 took the door-key. It was a matter of course 
 that the key should be there. It was the way of 
 all village women to put keys under door-mats. 
 
 She went in and, behold! also as she had 
 hoped the key of the glass cupboard was in 
 the door. She stood on a chair and took down 
 the precious family Bible, wrapped it care- 
 fully in the useful Herald and Presbyter, 
 which she had removed from the car platform 
 and preserved. Then she wrote a hasty note on 
 a scrap of paper, telling Nannie that she had 
 borrowed the Bible for a few days and would 
 return it. She regretted that she did not have 
 time to stay and see her, and left her love. Then
 
 92 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 she went out and locked the door, restored the 
 key to its place under the mat, and started 
 toward the station. At the gate she encoun- 
 tered a neighbor whom she had met on former 
 visits a woman moved, she suspected, by curi- 
 osity as to her errand. She was equal to the 
 occasion. 
 
 "I am here quite accidentally," she said civ- 
 illy, accounting for herself in a plausible way, 
 "but I thought I might as well attend to a 
 long-delayed duty and, while Cousin Libbie is 
 over at Raintown, take the Bible and make 
 some entries in it that have been neglected. 
 
 "There," she said as she went on, "I am. 
 afraid Amos wouldn't consider that truthful. 
 It gave the idea to Mrs. Jones that Libbie 
 wanted the Bible taken over." 
 
 There was no trouble on the return trip. 
 Miss Lucyanna's eyes were very bright and her 
 cheeks very pink with the excitement of her ad- 
 venture. Other passengers looked at her with 
 admiration, and the conductor, who proved to 
 be an old acquaintance, stopped at her seat and 
 indulged in some pleasantries concerning her 
 morning's trip "made talk," as Grandmother 
 would have said, because of her brightness of
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 93 
 
 face an'd freshness of attire, the blue lawn be- 
 ing yet scarcely crumpled, and the rose in her 
 hymn-book not withered. On her absorbed 
 way out on the freight train, Miss Lucyanna 
 had scarcely noted the charm of the June 
 morning. Now the beauty of the golden day 
 was suddenly borne in upon her. The fields 
 and forests in the height of their summer glory 
 were a delight to her eyes ; the fragrance of the 
 clover swept in at the open windows like a 
 balm. She was elate and triumphant in spite 
 of the heartache because of the defection of 
 Amos. And she had just committed a bur- 
 glary! It was nothing else, for she knew Libbie 
 would never have allowed her to take the book 
 out of the house. She had stolen the Bible 
 and she was glad of it! 
 
 She could not escape all observation when 
 she left the car. The unusual fact of the stop- 
 ping of this particular train itself excited at- 
 tention, and when she alighted with much un- 
 necessary assistance from the conductor, there 
 were stares of surprise from the villagers who 
 did not know she had been away and felt ag- 
 grieved that they had not been informed. 
 Among those who chanced to see her arrival
 
 94 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 was Amos Whitworth, from his window in the 
 little hotel across the street. 
 
 His Sunday evening visits, once a matter of 
 course, had been irregular of late; but some- 
 how, in spite of that morning drive with the 
 widow, Miss Lucyanna felt that he would be 
 around that night. She knew Amos well 
 enough to be sure that curiosity as to her trip 
 would bring him, if nothing else. She seldom 
 left home and he knew that she would not stay 
 long away from Grandmother. So when sup- 
 per was over, the Murphy girl gone home, 
 and Grandmother put to bed like the child that 
 she was, Miss Lucyanna seated herself expect- 
 antly in one of the two rocking-chairs on the 
 little porch. Before this she had lighted the 
 lamp on the center-table in the parlor, and un- 
 der it had opened the borrowed Bible at the 
 family record. While handling the book she 
 made an unexpected discovery. Out from its 
 pages fell a letter addressed to Mrs. Libbie 
 Anderson in the bold hand of Amos Whit- 
 worth. To say that the sight of it did not give 
 Miss Lucyanna a fresh pang would not be 
 true. And it would be useless to deny that her 
 first impulse was to take the missive from the
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 95 
 
 envelope and read it. But she resisted tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 "No; I am going to be able to say to him 
 truthfully, if the subject comes up this even- 
 ing, that I have not read it," and she laid it 
 down on the open pages of the family record. 
 
 "But I wonder," she said in the unheeding 
 ears of Grandmother, as she tucked her into 
 bed, "oh, I wonder what he could have said 
 that would make Libbie lay the letter away in 
 the Bible." 
 
 As twilight deepened she heard Mr. Whit- 
 worth's heavy tread while he was yet a good 
 way off. A woman's ears are keen to distin- 
 guish the footsteps of her chosen one, even 
 from among many. 
 
 If the caller expected to be chided for his 
 recent neglect or reproached for his attentions 
 to another woman, his apprehension was speed- 
 ily relieved. Miss Lucyanna greeted him with 
 her accustomed cordiality, began to chat in her 
 usual cheerful way, and was soon telling him 
 the story of her unpremeditated journey over 
 to Liberty. 
 
 "I was hoping," she said, laughing, "to get 
 back without any one seeing me or knowing
 
 90 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 about the ridiculous affair, and when I glanced 
 up and saw you and Cousin Libbie there, look- 
 ing so surprised, I was provoked that you had 
 to happen along just at that particular minute. 
 It was funny that you did, wasn't it?" 
 
 Mr. Whitworth drew a long breath of relief 
 at this point. He had felt that he should have 
 to say something about that drive and hardly 
 knew how to introduce the subject, but here she 
 had opened the way herself. He was not quite 
 sure that he liked her ignoring of his long ab- 
 sence it seemed to savor of indifference but 
 he was glad she did not cherish any "feeling" 
 in regard to Libbie. It made the process of 
 smoothing things over so much easier for him, 
 he thought; not knowing, foolish man, that it 
 is not the woman who indulges in loud re- 
 proaches and scoldings who carries the keenest 
 weapons of defense and offense. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "we did wonder how you 
 happened to be on that freight and where you 
 were going. Libbie," he went on with clumsy 
 elaboration, shifting his feet in the effort to 
 speak carelessly, "Libbie, who has been visit- 
 ing Sister Jane, you know, wanted to go to
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 97 
 
 Oak Hill Methodist meeting this morning, so, 
 to oblige Jane, I took her over." 
 
 "'To oblige Jane,' indeed!" thought Miss 
 Lucyanna scornfully, but she went on placid- 
 ly with her story. 
 
 "And in spite of the first scare and worry at 
 getting carried off by the train, I must say that 
 I really enjoyed the trip, going and coming 
 especially coming, for Tom Mason, the con- 
 ductor, was an old schoolmate that I hadn't 
 met for years and it was so nice to see him. 
 His wife, who is dead now, was a friend of 
 mine, too. He said he'd heard that I was liv- 
 ing here, and he'd been planning to drop off 
 and hunt me up, and would be sure to come 
 now that he'd seen me." 
 
 Miss Lucyanna in the dusk could not see 
 Amos Whitworth's face distinctly, but she 
 knew without looking that he frowned heavily 
 at this innocent remark. 
 
 "As long as I was over to Liberty," she went 
 on, "I thought it would be a good time to bor- 
 row the family Bible, which was up at Libbie's, 
 and bring it home to make the missing entries. 
 They've been neglected so long. Brother Wil-
 
 98 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 liam's and Sister Sarah's deaths have never 
 been set down there, nor the record of Wil- 
 liam's children. I have all the dates, and if 
 you'd just as soon, I'll get you to write them. 
 Your handwriting's so much better than mine, 
 and I never could manage parchment very 
 well. 
 
 "By the way," she added sweetly," "if you 
 should happen to be writing to Libbie soon, 
 just tell her, please, that I'll send the Bible 
 back next week. She may not find the note I 
 left on the table." 
 
 Amos looked around at her with a somewhat 
 startled expression. 
 
 "Me write to Libbie!" he exclaimed, after a 
 moment's hesitation. "What should I write to 
 her for? What should I write to any woman 
 for, except you?" adding gallantly, and with 
 returning self-confidence: "Why, I haven't 
 written a letter to any other lady for years." 
 
 "Oh," returned Miss Lucyanna, "is that so? 
 I just thought if you were writing it would 
 save me the trouble. But suppose we go in and 
 make those entries now." 
 
 "There isn't much room to spare in the 
 birth columns, so you may as well put the
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 99 
 
 names of William's children down under my 
 record, and she placed her finger on the spot 
 where, in her Grandfather's clear old-fash- 
 ioned hand, was the inscription, "Lucyanna, 
 daughter of, etc., born May 10, 1874." 
 
 Mr. Whitworth read it with interest, and 
 remarked, meditatively, "Just past thirty-six 
 h'm. Libbie said yes h'm ! Is her record 
 in here?" 
 
 He was about to turn back the pages, but 
 Lucyanna put her hand on them. 
 
 "Never mind looking there, Amos," she said 
 gently. "Of course, I don't mind telling my 
 age, but Libbie's particular about hers, and it 
 wouldn't be quite fair. This way is the record 
 of deaths," and she opened the book at a page 
 whereon lay the letter addressed to Libbie in 
 Amos's unmistakable hand. 
 
 It was the moment of Lucyanna's triumph. 
 She had proved to him that she had told the 
 truth about her own age; she had proved to 
 him that Libbie had not told the truth about it ; 
 and she had caught him the stickler for truth 
 in a "whopper". 
 
 It was also a moment of silence. Amos was
 
 100 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 too disconcerted to know what to say, and 
 Lucyanna had no occasion for speech. 
 
 Presently he rallied a little and looked at her 
 shamefacedly and helpless. 
 
 "A man can make a darned fool of himself 
 sometimes, Lucyanna," he stammered. "It 
 was the only time and, by George, the last time 
 and and you musn't mind anything in 
 that letter." 
 
 "Why, Amos Whitworth! you don't think 
 I'd read a letter that wasn't intended for me, 
 do you? I haven't read a word of it. 'Let you 
 have it?' Certainly not. It's Libbie's letter, 
 and must go back to her just as I found it." 
 
 She spoke in a tone of such earnestness and 
 firmness that Amos was forced to believe her. 
 In an endeavor to appear unconcerned he 
 smiled in a sickly and feeble way, realizing too 
 well that in addition to having lied he had be- 
 trayed guilt by an unnecessary display of anx- 
 iety about the letter. 
 
 He went on silently setting down the births 
 of William's children and the deaths of Wil- 
 liam and Sarah in the family record, but his 
 penmanship lacked something of its accus-
 
 MISS LUCYANNA 101 
 
 tomed firmness and regularity. He was plain- 
 ly nervous and embarrassed, but he was think- 
 ing hard, and presently he rallied again and 
 rose nobly superior to adverse conditions. 
 
 More than one thing had happened that day 
 to make him feel that he had not been valuing 
 Miss Lucyanna at her true worth, and that she 
 was a prize that might slip away. "She had 
 looked mighty young and pretty as she sat 
 there on the platform of the car, with that 
 young fresh cub of a brakeman monkeying 
 around waiting on her," he reflected. As for 
 Tom Mason stopping off and visiting her, 
 he'd see about that. 
 
 "Lucyanna," he said, without preliminaries, 
 "I think we've been keeping company long 
 enough to come to an understanding. Let's 
 get married and right away, too. Say yes!" 
 
 He spoke in a pleading voice and a humble 
 tone, which an hour before he would not have 
 used, but, manlike, he ignored unpleasantness 
 and made no allusion to his duplicity or the 
 possibility that another woman could have in- 
 tervened. 
 
 Being wise in her generation, Miss Lucy-
 
 102 MISS LUCYANNA 
 
 anna also ignored what had happened. She 
 could afford to do so. The inning was hers. 
 
 She was not immediately responsive, so she 
 told Grandmother next day, but that her ans- 
 wer was finally favorable was indicated by the 
 fact that Mr. Whitworth stayed so late that 
 evening that the wakeful and observant neigh- 
 bor across the street was quite scandalized. 
 Also, he went his way whistling a merry tune. 
 
 A few days later Lucyanna entrusted the 
 Bible to him to carry to Cousin Libbie, as he 
 happened to have business over at Liberty. 
 Whether or not he extracted the letter from its 
 protecting pages before delivery of the book 
 she never inquired. Neither did he ask her if 
 she had read it in the later period of possession. 
 He did not dare. If Miss Lucyanna did allow 
 curiosity as to what he had said to Libbie to 
 get the better of her she never confessed it to 
 any one but Grandmother, and Grandmother 
 never told.
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 THE Reverend John Graham was troub- 
 led. All the conditions had been favorable 
 when he accepted the call of the First Congre- 
 gational church, of Eastport, two years before. 
 It was his second charge, his first having been 
 a little mission church in a western town, and 
 the invitation to become pastor of this large 
 congregation in a thriving city was a distinct 
 compliment and an unusual promotion for a 
 man only now just past thirty-one years of 
 age. 
 
 He had come with a sense of satisfaction be- 
 cause of the opportunity offered for develop- 
 ing the best that was in him, and he believed, 
 and was not unduly egotistical, that he had 
 some special gifts for the life-work he had 
 chosen. 
 
 The congregation was without factional dif- 
 ficulties ; it was superior to the average body of 
 church people in intellectual, if not spiritual 
 quality, being largely made up of young or 
 
 103
 
 104 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 middle-aged folk, a considerable number of 
 whom, both men and women, were college bred, 
 while others were keen intelligent men of busi- 
 ness, hardly less awake to new ideas than the 
 more highly trained brethren. There were two 
 or three scholarly professors and scientists 
 whose repute went far beyond their own city, 
 and it was the opportunity for association with 
 such men that led him to accept the offer of the 
 pastorate with so much pleasure, for in his 
 three years of mission church work he had of- 
 ten hungered for intellectual companionship. 
 It was an atmosphere of culture into which he 
 had entered, and in it he was quite at home. 
 
 He gave satisfaction, too, to his flock. His 
 sermons were liked and his other pastoral du- 
 ties were well performed ; he promoted and as- 
 sisted in the varied church activities: its char- 
 ities, classes, uplift movements; he was pro- 
 gressive, earnest, and personally companion- 
 able and popular. 
 
 The situation was especially harmonious and 
 agreeable as far as any observer could judge. 
 And yet the Reverend Mr. Graham was un- 
 happy. His was a trouble that had begun very 
 soon after he came to the church, and had re-
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 105 
 
 mained with him and increased. At first, a 
 phenomenon that aroused his interest and curi- 
 osity, affecting his peace of mind scarcely at 
 all, it had become a weight that oppressed his 
 days. And it was all based, this trouble, upon 
 so airy and intangible a thing as dreams. 
 
 In his congregation, a regular attendant, 
 though not a member of the church, was a 
 woman whose acquaintance he had made soon 
 after his first coming, but who, at the time, had 
 created no marked impression on him. This 
 woman, Mrs. Emily Leonard, was a widow 
 thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, quiet, 
 well mannered, with no striking characteristics 
 and on the whole, as Mr. Graham put it to him- 
 self later, thoroughly commonplace. Her hus- 
 band, he learned, had been a well-to-do business 
 man, and after his death, having no children, 
 she had interested herself in good works of 
 various sorts and was held in general esteem. 
 She indicated no special interest in the new 
 pastor and he saw her only casually, yet it was 
 of this woman that he had, one night not long 
 after his arrival, a singular and most vivid 
 dream. 
 
 In this dream she was not quite the same
 
 106 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 Mrs. Leonard as the one he knew, yet there 
 was no mistaking her identity. Instead of the 
 courteous and even deferential manner which 
 he already associated with her, this woman of 
 his sleeping vision was arrogant and autocratic. 
 She made no requests, as one who would be fa- 
 vored; she commanded, and her orders related 
 to Mr. Graham's procedure as a minister. 
 Among these orders were instructions as to his 
 coming sermon. She gave his text, "I am thy 
 servant, and the son of thine handmaid.'* 
 "Preach from that next Sunday," she said in 
 a voice of command. 
 
 The dream remained with him the next day 
 and he wondered over it, but he did not base his 
 sermon on the text specified. When he was in 
 his pulpit on Sunday, however, and in the 
 midst of the services, he suddenly recalled that 
 dream and in spite of himself he wondered how 
 Mrs. Leonard would be pleased with what he 
 was saying, and watched her face for approv- 
 al; for he had put thought and heart into his 
 discourse and felt that it was good. But all he 
 could read in her placid countenance was po- 
 lite, though not absorbed, attention. 
 
 That night he dreamed of her again. This
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 107 
 
 time she showed cold displeasure, even anger. 
 "You disobeyed me," she said. "Do so again 
 and you will regret it. If you do not take that 
 text I gave you, you shall be punished." 
 Thoughts of the curious dream came to him 
 from time to time through the week and he felt 
 vaguely annoyed. The temptation came to 
 him to follow the injunction and use the text 
 dictated to him merely to see what would fol- 
 low, but he dismissed the idea and again chose 
 his own theme. Once more, after the delivery 
 of the second sermon, he dreamed of Mrs. 
 Leonard. This time her anger was uncon- 
 trolled. There was a gleam of fire in her eyes 
 as she ordered him to kneel before her. In his 
 dream he felt a wish to resist, but not the power, 
 and so knelt humbly at her feet, with head 
 bowed. Then, upon his bent back and shoulders 
 she rained blows with a whip she carried until 
 the keen pain he felt could be endured, it 
 seemed, no longer, and he awoke. 
 
 That week the matter bore upon his mind 
 heavily. He wondered what it meant; what 
 peculiar psychological element brought him 
 into association with this undistinguished mem- 
 ber of his congregation even in dreams. Was
 
 108 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 it a hypnotic influence? Was she consciously 
 exercising any power over him ? He could not 
 believe it, but his curiosity led him to a wish for 
 a closer acquaintance, so he made a pastoral 
 call the excuse for a study of her characteris- 
 tics. 
 
 She was courteous and even gracious, but 
 she was also very colorless, not a person of 
 positive convictions on any subject apparently, 
 and while fairly intelligent and able to discuss 
 with understanding the ordinary topics of the 
 day, was not of an intellectual type or possessed 
 of the culture that distinguished many of the 
 other women of his congregation. He made 
 rather a prolonged stay and opened up various 
 avenues of conversation, among other things 
 touching purposely, though with seeming care- 
 lessness, upon the occult dreams, subcon- 
 sciousness, hypnotism, telepathy, magic. She 
 looked at him rather blankly and indicated a 
 distaste for the subject. She said she did not 
 understand such things and thought discussion 
 of them unprofitable. Her idea seemed to be 
 that anything occult led somehow to spiritual- 
 ism, and spiritualism to her meant something
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 low, if not actually criminal. He went away 
 puzzled and baffled. 
 
 After that call he dreamed again. This time 
 it seemed to him that his visitor was sad rather 
 than angry, but again she ordered him to fol- 
 low the instructions she had given before. That 
 week he wrote a sermon based on the text, "I 
 am thy servant, and the son of thine hand- 
 maid," and delivered it from his pulpit the 
 next Sunday. In spite of himself he watched 
 the face of Mrs. Leonard to see if he could de- 
 tect a sign of consciousness, though he told 
 himself it was folly to suspect that she had 
 knowledge of the curious influence she was ex- 
 ercising over him. The sermon dealt with the 
 beauty of service from one human creature to 
 another and was forcible and at the same time 
 poetic, and even spiritual. In the dream she 
 had not indicated how he should treat the text 
 and he wondered if he should learn whether or 
 not his shadow visitor was pleased. He knew 
 it was an effective address ; a sensitive speaker 
 knows without being told when he is pleasing 
 his audience. Approval is somehow in the at- 
 mosphere. He received many compliments
 
 110 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 afterward, but none from Mrs. Leonard, and 
 he was conscious of a desire to know what the 
 real woman thought; for, try as he would, he 
 could not hold her apart from the person of 
 the dream. She had gained a hold upon him al- 
 ready that he resented, while at the same time 
 he unconsciously encouraged it. 
 
 The dream visitor did come, and he knew 
 when he awoke that she had indicated approval, 
 although he did not remember her words, if 
 any were spoken. 
 
 Then several weeks went by and there was 
 no repetition of his sleeping fantasies and he 
 had half forgotten them, when one night the 
 vision for the vividness of these experiences 
 made them more like reality than dreams 
 came to him again. This time the command 
 given did not relate to a sermon, but to a dif- 
 erent pastoral service. He was told to go the 
 next day and pray with a certain parishioner, 
 an old man, not ill so far as he knew, nor desir- 
 ous of his services. He did not wish to go when 
 the next day came; he said to himself that he 
 would not go; but he went, and felt that the 
 parishioner looked upon him as intrusive. 
 
 This was the beginning of an experience
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 111 
 
 that had continued intermittently for two 
 years. Sometimes dreams in which Mrs. 
 Leonard figured would come nightly for a 
 week at a time; sometimes several weeks would 
 elapse in which he was free from them. Some- 
 times she would dictate the character of his ser- 
 mons, her preference in themes, he noted, being 
 toward those relating to serving: "Like as ye 
 have forsaken me, and served strange gods in 
 your land, so shall ye serve strangers in a land 
 that is not yours"; "That servant, which knows 
 his Lord's will, and prepared not himself, 
 neither did according to his will, shall be beat- 
 en with many stripes." Sometimes she con- 
 tented herself with indicating certain minor 
 pastoral duties. Sometimes she merely came 
 and went, giving no other sign. 
 
 Not always did he obey her. Again and 
 again he ignored his dreams, refused to con- 
 sider them, put them away from him as foolish 
 or as manifestations of evil, but as often as he 
 did so came the visitant in a fury, bearing the 
 scourge. 
 
 They were only dreams, but they were op- 
 pressive and their shadow fell over his days. 
 Sometimes the dream visitor smiled, but
 
 112 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 whether approval or displeasure was indi- 
 cated, whether the dreams came frequently or 
 at long intervals, it came about that the Rev- 
 erend John Graham had Mrs. Leonard in mind 
 when he prepared his sermons and that against 
 his will he preached to her from the pulpit. 
 
 It is not to be thought that he did not fight 
 against what he regarded as a hateful expe- 
 rience, a hindrance to his peace. While he 
 could not say that his sermons showed any the 
 less thought or merit than before this influence 
 came upon him, yet he fretted under the 
 knowledge that he was being influenced 
 against his will. He was a sincerely religious 
 man, who believed the doctrines that he 
 preached, and he prayed earnestly and often 
 to be relieved from the strange burden. 
 
 He reflected a good deal on the psychology 
 of the matter. There was not the least senti- 
 ment connected with it. He had scarcely real- 
 ized the existence of Mrs. Leonard before the 
 dreams attracted his attention to her, and since 
 that time the annoyance caused by the dreams 
 had made her society and her personality 
 rather objectionable to him than otherwise. 
 Though unmarried, he was not a "ladies' man"
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 113 
 
 in the ordinary sense of that term, yet he was 
 at ease in the company of women. He was not 
 morbid in any respect, so far as he could dis- 
 cover in studying his own mental state. He 
 was fond of out-of-door athletics; he walked 
 and rode a great deal and was altogether in 
 good condition physically, and with no cob- 
 webs on his brain except those that were woven 
 by the dreams. 
 
 Concluding from his studies of mental oper- 
 ations as pursued in college that he had per- 
 haps formed a habit of dreaming in one line 
 the first dream in which Mrs. Leonard figured 
 having been a mere unaccountable vagary of 
 sleep, its peculiarity creating an impression 
 that led to further mental action of the same 
 sort, he saw that the obvious course in such case 
 was to change the condition of mind and so 
 break the subtle connection of his sleeping 
 with his waking thoughts. He hoped, there- 
 fore, that his summer vacation would effect a 
 cure, and went away hopefully on his first 
 one. It was a vacation spent among old col- 
 lege friends and among new scenes, and not 
 once during the weeks of absence did his sleep- 
 ing visions include Mrs. Leonard.
 
 114 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 He went home with his mind so full of new 
 thoughts he was young and life was rich 
 that he had practically forgotten the disagree- 
 able experience of the early months of his pas- 
 torate. The second night after his return the 
 vision of Mrs. Leonard appeared and wrote 
 upon the wall before him, "Preach from Levit- 
 icus, 25:45 and 46." That was all, but some- 
 how, though in his waking moments he could 
 not recall the chapter, he knew in his sleep that 
 it held the words, "They should be your bond- 
 men forever." Again the idea of subjection! 
 
 He did not preach from that text, and after- 
 ward in his sleep he was scourged. He began 
 to wonder if his mind was becoming unbal- 
 anced, but he dreaded to consult a physician, 
 for the situation was one that no doctor could 
 remedy. What could science do with dreams, 
 how control them? Then, on an excuse of 
 obliging a friend, an old classmate who needed 
 a change of climate, he exchanged pulpits with 
 him for three months. He would be relieved 
 from the obsession for a time at least, he 
 thought. But he was not. In that distant par- 
 ish he was visited by the same dreams. 
 
 When he returned he knew that something
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 115 
 
 had to be done, but what? Either he must be 
 free from the torment or he must leave the pul- 
 pit. He could not longer endure the bondage ; 
 that was the word, bondage ; and there was 
 another reason. Within the last six months he 
 had met the "only girl in the world," and but 
 for the haunting specter of his sleep life would 
 have been made new to him. Up to that time 
 he had fancied that he preferred a celibate 
 clergy and cherished rather lofty ideas of re- 
 maining unmarried. Now he was aware that 
 life would be very dark without the one girl 
 the sweet daughter of one of his parish- 
 ioners as his wife. But he had not asked her 
 to share his future. There were two reasons 
 for this hesitancy. If it were true that the ob- 
 session from which he suffered meant an in- 
 cipient malady he had been unable to find 
 trace of insanity in the remotest branch of his 
 family then it would be wrong for him to 
 marry. If he could not rid himself of the 
 maddening dreams he must abandon the pulpit 
 and seek another calling. 
 
 The visitations, too, were taking on a uni- 
 formly malicious phase. The dream visitor set 
 fantastic tasks for him to do; to call upon and
 
 116 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 pray with people who were not of his flock and 
 had indicated no wish to see him, much less to 
 be prayed with; to preach on absurd themes; to 
 make false statements. These things he did 
 not do, but he suffered through not doing 
 them, for the shadow of his dreams was on his 
 waking hours and his heart was oppressed. 
 
 At last he aroused his courage and consulted 
 a physician an alienist, a man of wide expe- 
 rience in mental diseases and one of the coun- 
 try's noted students of psychology. The wise 
 man listened, pondered and then reassured 
 him. "Your mind is normal," he said. "You 
 need have no fears about that. In sleep, the 
 mental action is a little irregular and the irreg- 
 ularity has become a habit, like the habits we 
 form of doing things mechanically at certain 
 times of day stopping work at a fixed hour, 
 winding a watch, smoking a cigar, and so on." 
 
 This was no new thought; the point was, how 
 to cure the irregularity, to break the habit. He 
 had already tried some experiments to that 
 end. 
 
 "Oh, as to that," said the doctor, "go abroad 
 for a year, marry, go to another church any-
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 117 
 
 thing that will completely break up your rou- 
 tine and the current of your thought. The 
 daily life is bound to affect your dreams." 
 
 Mr. Graham did not feel that he had learned 
 much in return for the very large fee, though 
 the assurance that his mental faculties were 
 sound was comforting. Before he married, 
 which was the part of the prescription he was 
 willing to take, he wished to be rid of the 
 dreams. 
 
 He had often felt an impulse to go to Mrs. 
 Leonard and tell her the story and get her 
 interpretation, but had been restrained by the 
 fear that she would misinterpret the experi- 
 ence. He had even had a curious belief that if 
 she would actually strike him a blow with 
 a whip, as her shadow had done many a time 
 in his sleep, it would break the spell. One 
 day not long after his visit to the doctor he 
 suddenly yielded to the inclination and went to 
 see the lady. Once in her presence he found 
 that he could not speak frankly of an affair 
 that had the flavor of the occult, and would at 
 least be an impenetrable mystery to this mat- 
 ter-of-fact, rather dull and entirely common-
 
 118 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 place woman. But not to be balked entirely 
 he remarked lightly, after a little preliminary 
 conversation on the events of the day: 
 
 "Mrs. Leonard, I dreamed the other night 
 that you gave me a text for a sermon and or- 
 dered me to preach upon it. The same thing 
 has happened before. Were you a minister in 
 some past stage of existence do you suppose? 
 I have wondered if you didn't like my sermons 
 and wished to improve on them." 
 
 This was said with a smile as if it were of no 
 consequence, but he looked intently at his host- 
 ess to see, if by a gleam of the eye or the 
 shadow of a thought she would betray an ear- 
 lier knowledge of the fact he had mentioned; 
 but not the most suspicious observer could de- 
 tect anything more than the most unaffected 
 surprise and possibly a slight displeasure as 
 if an undue liberty were being taken in merely 
 mentioning that she had been dreamed about. 
 
 "I am sure, Mr. Graham," she said rather 
 stiffly, "that I interest myself very little in ser- 
 mons of any sort, and I'm sure I should never 
 venture to improve on yours. Really, as a 
 matter of fact, if you won't be offended, I 
 don't care much for sermons, although every-
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 119 
 
 body says yours are especially fine. I'm the 
 last one to be making suggestions about them." 
 
 Certainly no light was thrown on the mys- 
 tery by this rather unflattering remark. Other 
 callers coming in at the moment, conversation 
 became general and the subject was not re- 
 ferred to again. But a little later, as Mrs. 
 Leonard turned away to usher some visitors 
 out, a strange thing happened. Instead of the 
 dull brick wall of the house opposite at which 
 he had been gazing through the open window, 
 he had a vision of a scene far distant in space, 
 and, as he somehow knew, in time. 
 
 A woman, wearing a purple robe, stood in a 
 paved court; back of her was a marble wall 
 and near by a fountain splashed. Beyond were 
 olive trees and a hillside up which a vineyard 
 crept. Before her knelt a youth scantily 
 clothed. With anger in her face she struck 
 him upon his bowed back and naked shoulders. 
 He was a slave, she the mistress, and she 
 scourged her bondman for some misdemeanor. 
 The man looking on from the little twentieth- 
 century room knew he could not tell how he 
 knew that he had once knelt there, that he 
 was the youth and that he hated the woman
 
 120 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 with a bitter and helpless hatred. Arid the 
 woman he could not see her face but he 
 knew her. 
 
 The vision faded. Where the fountain and 
 the olive trees had been was the dingy brick 
 wall again. It had lasted but a moment, this 
 picture, but he had seen. He rose to say fare- 
 well, and then came another surprise. Mrs. 
 Leonard detained him, showing a little em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 "I think I ought to tell you that I expect 
 not to be a member of your congregation much 
 longer. I am to be married soon and my home 
 will be in Calfornia. I lived there as a girl 
 and am marrying a man I knew there when he 
 was a boy." 
 
 Mr. Graham hoped afterward that he ex- 
 pressed the sentiments proper to the occasion, 
 but could not recall his words. As he walked 
 up the street he said to himself: "So that was 
 was it. So that was it." 
 
 He had never believed in reincarnation. He 
 had always classed such doctrine as nonsense. 
 Theories of the occult had interested him but 
 little. But he had only one thought now that 
 here was the explanation. So that was it a
 
 OUT OF THE PAST 121 
 
 strange haunting reminiscence of the time 
 when he was a slave, ages ago, brought down 
 from the far-off life and modified by the con- 
 ditions of the new. 
 
 Later, the vision seemed a dream like the 
 rest, but it was a vision of waking moments, 
 and he has not since been so sure as he was be- 
 fore that all the truths of existence are em- 
 bodied in the teachings of the faith to which he 
 was born and in the mathematically demon- 
 strated conclusions of modern science. 
 
 But that day, as he walked down the street 
 of Eastport he felt that the cloud over him 
 was passing. If that was the secret, that in 
 another life he had been a slave, he was not a 
 slave now and could defy the past and disre- 
 gard his dreams. Even while he thought this 
 his matter-of-fact, orthodox, twentieth-century 
 mind rebelled, but he went back to the reflec- 
 tion and found comfort. Besides the other 
 link with the past, she who had been the owner 
 of slaves, was going away. That would help 
 to break the bond. His heart grew light; the 
 world looked bright to him once more. 
 
 That was three years ago. The dearest girl
 
 122 OUT OF THE PAST 
 
 in the world has been his wife for the greater 
 part of that time and life has been very sweet 
 and peaceful. He is still a loved pastor of the 
 church at Eastport, and he has no more dreams 
 of scourgings, no more dream commands re- 
 lating to his work. Sometimes the thought of 
 the old obsession comes to him, but not often, 
 and he turns away from it quickly. It is a 
 hateful remembrance. The other day it was 
 recalled to him by a piece of news. Mrs. Leon- 
 ard, now Mrs. Hood and once more a widow, 
 was thinking of returning to Eastport for resi- 
 dence. His well-regulated nerves had a dis- 
 tinct shock; he shivered a little, and looking 
 ahead, he wondered, and mingled with the 
 wonder was dread.
 
 WHEN GRANDMOTHER RAN 
 AWAY 
 
 GRANDMOTHER JACKSON had 
 not spoken to Grandfather for four 
 days ; that is, she had indulged in only the re- 
 marks that were absolutely necessary, such as 
 concerned household affairs, asking him at the 
 table if he wished another cup of coffee or 
 more griddle cakes, and routine matters of that 
 sort. To confine herself to this limited com- 
 munication was equivalent with Grandmother 
 to no speech at all, for she was voluble by na- 
 ture and habit, what is known as a great talker. 
 She talked constantly when any one was pres- 
 ent to hear, and people had said that she talked 
 to herself when no one was within reach, but 
 that was probably a slander. And she liked to 
 have other people talk to a reasonable degree. 
 Her last conversation with Grandfather on 
 outside matters had been four days before 
 when she read in the weekly Banner of the ap- 
 plication for divorce of their old friends, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Abner Wilson, who had been married 
 
 123
 
 124 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 for forty years, Mrs. Wilson bringing the suit 
 on the ground of extreme cruelty. 
 
 "I'm not surprised, I'm not a bit surprised," 
 said Grandmother. "Abner Wilson always was 
 mean and overbearing and I've often won- 
 dered how Martha could stand his bossy ways. 
 She never could go anywhere without asking 
 him and explaining all about it, and more than 
 likely he'd that minute decide that he wanted 
 something done right off and would keep her 
 at home, mending his grain bags or the horse's 
 fly-nets, or making new overalls he never 
 would buy overalls ready made for himself or 
 the boys. It was anything to interfere with her 
 plans. And he wouldn't take her anywhere. 
 When she wanted to go to town to do some 
 trading, chances were that he'd make an ex- 
 cuse for not taking her, even though he was 
 going right there himself." 
 
 Here Grandmother looked meaningly at 
 Grandfather a look of which he seemed quite 
 unconscious. 
 
 "I don't suppose," she went on, "that Abner 
 was actually mean enough to beat her. I never 
 thought he was that kind. (But there's other 
 cruelty than beating, and paying no attention
 
 GRANDMOTHER 125 
 
 to what a woman wants is one of them. I re- 
 member once " 
 
 Here Grandfather seemed suddenly to be 
 aware of what Grandmother was saying, and 
 snorted. 
 
 "Cruelty? Rubbish! Martha Wilson's a fool. 
 If she's stood Abner for forty years she ought 
 to stick it out for the rest of her life." 
 
 This was an unusual outburst from Grand- 
 father, for he was by disposition and habit 
 a reticent man and was not given to saying 
 harsh things of people under any provocation. 
 
 Grandmother was a little surprised at his 
 emphasis, but went on with her discourse, for- 
 getting her reminiscent anecdote, however. 
 
 "I'm not so sure about that. When a woman 
 is abused and downtrodden and put upon with- 
 out reason, and when she's got to that point 
 where she just can't endure it another day, I 
 don't see any reason why she shouldn't have a 
 little peace at the end of her life. Now, Martha 
 could have real comfort if she'd go and live 
 with her daughter Maria. Maria's a widow, 
 you know, and well fixed, and she and her 
 mother always got along well, and I'm sure 
 they'd be glad to be together again. It would
 
 126 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 be nice for both. I expect that's where she'll 
 go. I saw Maria the last time I was in town. 
 We met in Lyon's store and had quite a talk. 
 She was buying material for new bedroom cur- 
 tains. Pretty stuff it was, too, an all-over 
 flowered pattern. She didn't speak of any 
 trouble between her father and mother, as she 
 might naturally have done, seeing as we're such 
 old family friends. Some folks are so close- 
 mouthed! To be sure, it is some time since I 
 saw her all of six weeks since I was in town 
 last. And that reminds me, I must go again. 
 I need a new dress for spring and some shoes, 
 and you need some shirts and I've got to get 
 my bonnet freshened up. And if you're going 
 to town to-day I'm going with you." 
 
 Before she was through with her mono- 
 logue Grandfather was leaving the house. She 
 hurried after him. It was nothing out of the 
 ordinary for him to walk out in the middle of 
 her remarks as if he had never heard them, and 
 she was used to that, but this time she wanted 
 an answer. 
 
 The reply she got was not favorable evi- 
 dently, for she came in with her cheeks flushed 
 and a look of displeasure on her usually smi-
 
 GRANDMOTHER 127 
 
 ling face and went about her work with a nerv- 
 ous activity that meant serious irritation or, 
 as her children used to say, that she was cross. 
 Presently she picked up the weekly Banner 
 and read the account of the Wilson divorce 
 suit again. She sat there a good while with the 
 paper in her hand. Grandmother was think- 
 ing. It was then that the period of silence be- 
 gan which was so remarkable a departure for 
 her. 
 
 For four days Grandmother had gone on 
 thinking. The Wilson affair had given her an 
 idea and she turned it over in her mind. Cru- 
 elty of course cruelty meant a good deal 
 more than beating any one with the fists. If 
 Grandfather hadn't been cruel to her, oh, for 
 weeks and weeks, then she'd like to know what 
 cruelty was. She didn't know whether she 
 would finally get a divorce or not, but she 
 meant to leave him for a while anyway, she 
 concluded. She'd show him! At first the 
 idea of going was a shock to her, but the 
 more she thought of what she had been 
 through the more she felt that he deserved 
 to be punished. And there was no better 
 time than right now, she finally decided.
 
 128 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 The house was in order. She wouldn't be 
 ashamed to have any one look into any corner 
 of it. She would go to her daughter Jane's, 
 over in Lawrence township. Jane had often 
 said she wished Father and Mother would 
 break up housekeeping and make their home 
 with her and her husband. Well, Father could 
 go somewhere else to John's or Sally's if he 
 liked, or he could get one of Sally's girls to 
 come and keep house for him. For her part 
 she was done with being ill-treated. Again 
 that morning he had hitched up and started off 
 on one of his mysterious trips to town without 
 a word of explanation, without asking her if 
 she wanted to go or if she needed anything or 
 acting as if he knew she was alive. 
 
 It was four miles to Jane's, but it was a 
 pretty April morning and Grandmother 
 thought she could walk the distance if she gave 
 herself time, and very likely she could get a 
 chance to ride part way in some farmer's 
 wagon. There was a good deal of traffic over 
 the Rock Creek Road. 
 
 So when Grandfather had fairly gone, 
 Grandmother wrote a brief note with fingers 
 that trembled a little from excitement and
 
 GRANDMOTHER 129 
 
 pinned it to the table-cloth at Grandfather's 
 place at the kitchen table where they ate their 
 meals when there was no company, and where 
 an appetizing cold lunch was spread under a 
 white cloth. 
 
 "There's plenty to eat in the cupboard for a 
 day or two and by that time he can make some 
 arrangement," she said to herself. 
 
 Then she put on her bonnet and wrap, took 
 a small satchel with a few of her belongings 
 she would send later for the rest of her things 
 and locked the doors, put the back door-key 
 under the mat on the kitchen step where 
 Grandfather would find it, and turned her 
 back on the house. 
 
 Her cheeks were red and her eyes bright. 
 She stepped briskly and neither looked about 
 nor lingered. Grandfather had taken care of 
 the cow and the chickens. The dog had fol- 
 lowed him to town, the cat was asleep on the 
 roof of the shed and there was no live creature 
 to note her going, the tenant farmer being at 
 work half a mile away. 
 
 It was very still that morning. Sounds went 
 far as they do when rain is not many hours 
 away, but Grandmother did not consciously
 
 130 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 note these things. No one seemed to be travel- 
 ing her way, though she met several vehicles. 
 She nodded to people she knew, and one or two 
 halted their horses, with obvious intent to chat 
 and doubtless, incidentally, to learn where she 
 was going. But she did not respond to their 
 overtures and went quickly on with head held 
 high, leading the neighbors to remark on the 
 strange manner of one usually so voluble and 
 to wonder at it. 
 
 When she had walked nearly two miles and 
 reached the top of Lookout Hill, she suddenly 
 felt weak and weary and sank down on a log 
 by the side of the road. From the summit of 
 Lookout one could see far in every direction. 
 A long stretch of the road that Grandfather 
 had taken to town was visible and the roof and 
 orchard of their home were plainly to be seen. 
 
 Grandmother turned her face that way. 
 Evidently she was thinking again, for tears 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 Suddenly she stood up to look and listen. 
 The town road was in the nearer distance; a 
 wagon was rattling over it at a great pace a 
 wagon to which was hitched a pair of white 
 horses. She could plainly detect the patch of
 
 white against the brown line of the thorough- 
 fare. Could it be that Grandfather was going 
 back home? It looked as if his team were run- 
 ning away. In the stillness she could hear the 
 rattle of the wagon. It sounded like their own 
 wagon. She had told Grandfather two weeks 
 before to have the bolts tightened, but he had 
 paid no attention to her. Something must 
 have happened. Grandfather might be hurt, 
 he might have fainted or he might be sick, or 
 the horses might have got the better of him 
 somehow. And he would get home and she 
 not there ! 
 
 She started down the hill on a run. Before 
 she reached its foot a carriage came up behind 
 her. She turned, intending to ask the occu- 
 pants to take her in, to tell them she was in 
 haste, and, behold, her two daughters, Jane and 
 Sally! They stopped in amazement and she 
 clambered in. 
 
 "Hurry, hurry," she cried, "something has 
 happened to your father. Get me home as 
 quick as you can. He'll expect me to be there, 
 and I'll not be there. Oh, hurry! Whip your 
 horse." 
 
 Grandmother was trembling with excite-
 
 132 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 ment and it was some time before Her daugh- 
 ters, comfortable middle-aged matrons, could 
 get any explanation from her. Finally she 
 quieted down a little and began to talk, evi- 
 dently relieved after her four days' silence, to 
 find willing listeners. 
 
 "Girls, I was leaving your father. I was 
 leaving his house for good. He has been cruel 
 to me, cruel, I tell you, for weeks and weeks. 
 Did you read about the Wilsons? Martha 
 Wilson had to get a divorce from Abner be- 
 cause he was cruel. She couldn't stand it any 
 longer. Well, I couldn't stand it any longer, 
 either. 
 
 "What did he do? Why, he didn't do any- 
 thing he ought to have done. He forgot that 
 I was alive. He didn't say good-by when he 
 went away. He used to pat me on the cheek 
 when he left the house and wave his hand to me 
 when he drove off and show that he had me in 
 mind, and he'd bring me things when he came 
 back from town. You know that. A box of 
 candy or something new that the storekeeper'd 
 show him a collar or a ribbon or a cute little 
 basket. He knew what I liked. 
 
 "And then this winter he changed so. He
 
 GRANDMOTHER 133 
 
 got to taking so many trips to town and he'd 
 never tell me what he went for and he'd never 
 let me go along. You know, girls, he never 
 was one to talk about his business, but he'd 
 always tell me where he'd been and what for, 
 kind of human-like, 'specially when I'd ask 
 him. 
 
 "But he got so close-mouthed that he 
 wouldn't talk about anything that I wanted to 
 talk about. He always was still as an oyster, 
 as you know, but this was worse. Just kept 
 mum and pretended not to hear when I said 
 anything. And after a trip to town just as 
 likely as not he'd chuckle to himself when there 
 was not a thing being said. And when I'd ask 
 what he was laughing at, he wouldn't answer. 
 
 "Ever so many times when I'd tell him I 
 wanted to go to town, he'd tell me that he had 
 to drive away round by Joe Mason's and stop a 
 while and he knew I didn't want to go there. 
 And I didn't, but I didn't see why I shouldn't 
 ride to town with him as well as that young chit 
 of a Flossy Mason, and I know she went with 
 him and rode back with him, too, time after 
 time. He'd speak of it himself, just casual. 
 Once he was uncommonly late and he said he'd
 
 134 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 had to come round by the Masons, and their 
 road was bad." 
 
 Jane and Sally looked at each other compre- 
 hendingly over their mother's head. They un- 
 derstood perfectly that she had no vulgar sus- 
 picion of any unlawful straying of their fa- 
 ther's affection. Such a thing was not in her 
 mind at all. It was impossible to her. She had 
 not the least objection to his taking Flossy 
 Mason to town every day of his life and bring- 
 ing her home again if it was in his way and 
 if he liked. The girl was of no consequence. 
 What disturbed their mother was that she her- 
 self did not get the attention she was accus- 
 tomed to from her husband of fifty years. 
 Like a petted child suddenly neglected, she 
 felt herself snubbed and injured. How deeply 
 injured was shown by the desperate resolve she 
 had come to. 
 
 "But, Mother," said Sally, "I met Father on 
 the street yesterday and he said he was afraid 
 you were not feeling quite well and thought 
 we'd better drive over, and that's where we 
 were going when we overtook you. That shows 
 he thinks of you." 
 
 Grandmother was not placated.
 
 GRANDMOTHER 135 
 
 "He did not take the trouble to inquire if I 
 were sick. For the last four days he's been to 
 town every day and he never so much as told 
 me he'd seen you, though he might have known 
 I'd like word, shut off to myself so." (It was 
 before the days of telephones in every farm- 
 house.) Here Grandmother's voice dropped 
 and she looked a little shamefaced, like a 
 naughty child. 
 
 "But, girls, I hadn't got two miles before I 
 found I couldn't go any farther from home. 
 Your father may be cruel and forget I'm alive, 
 but I've got to stand him and look after him 
 just the same. And, oh, girls, hurry! I am 
 afraid that that was his team that went down 
 the road so fast and if he should be hurt oh, 
 girls!" 
 
 Grandmother's slim little frame quivered 
 with nervous excitement and she leaned for- 
 ward in the carriage as if she could thereby 
 reach home the sooner. 
 
 "If he should find that note I left what 
 would he think? I told him maybe I'd never 
 come back and he might think I meant it. I 
 don't believe now I ever really did mean to 
 leave him. I don't see how I could. Even if he
 
 186 GRANDMOTHER; 
 
 doesn't treat me right, I needn't be mean to 
 him. I couldn't bear to have him depend on 
 other people's cooking. You know he's got a 
 bad liver. And he never takes the right kind of 
 care of himself ; forgets to take his cough med- 
 icine and to wear his overcoat when he ought to 
 and to change his clothes when he gets damp. 
 
 "Can you see anything about the house, 
 girls? Your eyes are better than mine. The 
 horses and wagon standing by the barn? Oh, 
 he never leaves them there. Something must 
 have happened! Do make that horse go." 
 
 As the horse turned in toward the gate, 
 Grandmother scrambled out over the wheel al- 
 most before the vehicle came to a halt and be- 
 fore her less active daughters could stop her. 
 She ran back to where the old white horses 
 stood not yet unharnessed, and Jane and 
 Sally, hurrying after, turned the corner of the 
 house in time to see their mother hurl herself 
 upon their father as he was approaching the 
 door, exclaiming: "Are you hurt, John? Are 
 you hurt? Did the horses run away? What 
 are you back so early for?" and to see her cry 
 like a child with her head against his arm. 
 
 Grandfather, looking a little bewildered,
 
 GRANDMOTHER 187 
 
 patted and hugged and soothed her as if she 
 had been ten years old. 
 
 "What's the matter, Mother? What's the 
 trouble? Nothing's the matter with me. I hur- 
 ried home to tell you a piece of news. I've sold 
 the south forty to Joe Mason clinched the 
 bargain this morning and I made him pay fif- 
 teen hundred dollars more than he ever expect- 
 ed to pay. You know he's always wanted the 
 land, and I've always meant him to have it if 
 he'd pay my price. I played another fellow 
 against him this time. Bill Minturn thought 
 maybe he'd like that forty, and after I'd fixed 
 my price it was only a question of time until 
 one of 'em came to it. Joe finally did. He 
 thought Bill was just about to bite and he 
 was and Joe was afraid to wait any longer. 
 I've been half the winter working up this trade. 
 Haven't had so much fun since I was a boy." 
 
 Grandfather laughed until his big voice 
 could have been heard by the neighbors half a 
 mile away. 
 
 "And now, Mother," he said, "we'll cele- 
 brate my bargain and one of these days take 
 that trip out to California on the visit to Wil- 
 liam that he's been talking of so long."
 
 138 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 Grandfather was the voluble one this time. 
 He wanted to talk. 
 
 "Come in, girls. Come, Mother, let me tell 
 you about it." 
 
 Grandmother darted ahead and by the time 
 the others had followed her into the kitchen 
 there was no note pinned to the cloth over 
 Grandfather's luncheon. 
 
 Her face was radiant but there was a queer 
 expression on it when she whispered to Sally 
 and Jane before they started home: "I might 
 have known he was up to some dickering or 
 other. He's always as mum as an image when 
 he's got a trade on hand. But he might have 
 given me a hint. It's no way to do to keep 
 things to himself so. Let me tell you, girls 
 you both take after your father about not talk- 
 ing let me tell you not to bottle yourselves 
 up like him. It isn't good for your folks. And, 
 girls, I'm mighty glad I got in in time to get 
 that note. He'll never, never know in the 
 world that I was thinking of acting like Mar- 
 tha Wilson." 
 
 As Sally and Jane jogged home leisurely 
 that afternoon they alternately laughed and
 
 GRANDMOTHER 139 
 
 cried over their mother's surprising perform- 
 ance. 
 
 "I wonder if it's because she's growing old?" 
 said Sally. "She's never seemed old to me, but 
 she's nearly seventy. I don't want to think of 
 her getting childish." Tears were in her eyes 
 as she spoke. 
 
 "Mother always was a child in two things, 
 and always will be," replied Jane. "She's al- 
 ways wanted to know what was going on. 
 When we were all young at home she wanted 
 to know as the boys say now, what was 'do- 
 ing' to the smallest detail. And we close- 
 mouthed silent ones hardly ever gratified her. 
 It wasn't our way, but it must have often hurt 
 her feelings. I've thought of it many times 
 since. And she wanted to be petted, but she 
 never got much petting from any of us. Pet- 
 ting wasn't our way either, but I'm sure chil- 
 dren never loved their mother more. Her 
 'break' to-day was perfectly natural for her. 
 She couldn't help it." 
 
 "But do you think she'll be able to keep her 
 secret from Father, Jane?" 
 
 "Mercy, no! She's told him by this time. 
 And he ought to feel a little sorry for her and
 
 140 GRANDMOTHER 
 
 ashamed of himself. She had a real griev- 
 ance." 
 
 "I suppose," sighed Sally, "that we close- 
 mouthed people are a real trial to folks who like 
 to hear things talked over." 
 
 "There's no doubt of it," said Jane,
 
 A BIT OF HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 I'M glad I'm not the one to spend two days 
 in this town, Emily," said John Barker, 
 as he turned his automobile into the main street 
 of Bellville, a town that is only found on the 
 largest maps of Indiana and is remote from 
 railroads. "Even your passionate hunt for an- 
 cestors won't save you from deadly dullness 
 until we come back." 
 
 "Don't you worry about Emily, John," re- 
 torted his wife, the second of the two young 
 women of the party. "If her pedigree pursuit 
 isn't enough to fill her time, she will find some 
 human interest to occupy her attention. You 
 know Emily can scent out human interest in 
 the middle of a forty-mile desert." 
 
 "Well, why not, if any one is there before 
 me? 'Wherever human beings are, there is 
 human interest," laughed Emily, as the car 
 drew up before the two-story house bearing on 
 its front a large and imposing sign, "Metro- 
 politan Hotel," and on whose narrow veranda 
 
 141
 
 142 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 abutting on the sidewalk and almost level with 
 it, was a scattering row of shirt-sleeved men 
 with their heels on the railing. 
 
 One of the number, who proved to be the 
 landlord, came down to greet the lady who was 
 alighting, and assured her in answer to inqui- 
 ries, that she could be accommodated in his es- 
 tablishment. 
 
 "Best room in the house at your service, 
 ma'am. Bridal chamber, elegant room just off 
 the parlor down-stairs. Every other room's 
 filled. (There must have been ten or twelve in 
 all) . More traveling men'n common this week 
 and there's the revival and all." 
 
 Upon this information Miss Emily Austin 
 said she would stay. John Barker handed her 
 satchel to the landlord and there was a gay 
 exchange of farewells as the two remaining 
 occupants of the car drove away, and a parting 
 injunction from John not to forget to look 
 for her human interest tale so that she might 
 tell it when they came back. 
 
 As the guest passed into the dingy office of 
 the inn, a solemn-faced man, wearing a black 
 alpaca coat and thereby setting himself apart 
 from the other men about as in some way more
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 143 
 
 distinguished and exclusive, stepped forward 
 with a bow and presented to her a little hand- 
 bill. Later when she had adjusted herself to 
 the elegancies of the bridal chamber, with its 
 white painted furniture decorated in green and 
 yellow, its garish red carpet, its framed "yard 
 of roses" and a portrait of William Jennings 
 Bryan hanging on the wall, and had removed 
 the dust of automobile travel, Miss Austin 
 picked up the handbill. It read: 
 
 THE KENTUCKY GIRL PREACHER 
 
 A MISS OF 14 SUMMERS 
 
 AT GRANGE HALL 
 
 During the Week at 8 p. m. 
 
 Sunday Meeting at 4 p. m. for Men Only 
 
 (PLENTY OF FANS AND ICE-WATER) 
 
 "Here must be the human interest I am to 
 find," thought the reader, smiling to herself. 
 
 But she had come to Bellville in search of 
 genealogical lore and soon forgot about the 
 girl preacher in the interest of finding old Mr. 
 Amos Campbell, whose mother had been her 
 own great-great-grandmother's sister and who 
 was supposed to have a family Bible and per- 
 haps documents that might enable her to find 
 the date and place of birth and something of 
 the history of Samuel Mount joy, her great-
 
 144 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 great-grandmother's son by her first husband 
 and her own ancestor, so that she might ascer- 
 tain whether or not he was the same Samuel 
 Mount joy who had been a captain in a New 
 Jersey regiment in the Revolutionary War 
 and on the strength of whose record she might 
 become a member of the Daughters of the 
 Revolution. 
 
 How she spent a good part of her first day's 
 stay in persuading old Mr. Campbell that she 
 had no ulterior and sinister motive in her 
 search, such as an intention of getting sole pos- 
 session of an estate that might lie in the back- 
 ground and in which he ought to share ; how, 
 on the second day, after examination of ancient 
 Bibles and musty papers, she ascertained that 
 neither old Mr. Campbell nor his documents 
 could throw light on the Mount joys of these 
 things she could have related an interesting 
 tale; but the account does not belong to this 
 story. 
 
 Miss Austin thought no more of the girl 
 preacher until evening came when, sitting at 
 the parlor front window, she saw people flock- 
 ing into Grange Hall opposite. Then she de- 
 cided to see for herself what a child evangelist
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 145 
 
 was like. An inquiry of the landlady, a volu- 
 ble person, brought the information that the 
 preaching had been going on for two weeks 
 with wonderful results. 
 
 "I never took no stock myself in women 
 preaching," the landlady declared. "Not but 
 that a woman might get as near to the throne 
 of grace as a man, and maybe nearer, if that 
 was all, and I ain't saying she mightn't have 
 just as much influence with the Lord in bring- 
 ing down a blessing, or a shower of 'em, as the 
 revivalists talk of; but for all that I cain't 
 never get used to petticoats in the pulpit. 
 Seems kind o' scandalous; pants seem more 
 suitable. We had a returned Baptist female 
 missionary here last winter who preached to us 
 twice in the church regular sermons. Real 
 interesting they were. She told us about Hin- 
 dus and how great our duty was to carry the 
 gospel to the heathen and I almost felt as if I 
 ought to be a missionary myself and help save 
 the poor things. But all the time I kept think- 
 ing how much more appropriate she'd seem, say 
 here in the hotel parlor or over in Grange Hall, 
 which ain't so sanctified as the church. She 
 didn't make the prayers though, nor offer the
 
 146 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 benediction. The regular ordained minister 
 did both and that took the edge off some. 
 
 "About this girl revivalist, I'm free to say 
 I cain't quite reconcile myself to her. She 
 seems nice enough, though not 'specially 
 fetching as a girl, and she is gathering in the 
 souls. In the two weeks she's been here there 
 have been twenty-five convictions of sin and 
 nineteen conversions. Six of 'em hav'n't seemed 
 to come through. 
 
 "It don't seem quite the thing to have a re- 
 vival in the summer so. We usually have 'em 
 in the winter you know, but I reckon it's just 
 as well. It's sort o' between crops just now 
 with the farmers and they find time to drive in. 
 The young folks are attracted because they are 
 young, I s'pose, and because the meetings are 
 a place to go. (It was before the day of mov- 
 ing pictures. ) It ain't for me to say but that 
 it's all right when the mourners' bench is so 
 full, but I cain't get used to its being out o' 
 season, and out o' the usual order." 
 
 Some one at this point called the landlady, 
 who was also the cook, housekeeper and general 
 factotum, and Miss Austin went across to the
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 147 
 
 hall. The room was full by this time and she 
 slipped into a seat near the door. 
 
 On the platform were two men and a girl. 
 One of the men was a local minister who "led 
 in prayer" and gave out the hymns, the other 
 the solemn- faced person of sanctimonious 
 manner who had put the circular in Miss Aus- 
 tin's hand and who proved to be the girl's fa- 
 ther. He sat beside his daughter, holding her 
 hand and seldom taking his watchful eyes 
 from her, though the observer could not clas- 
 sify his expression as one of pride. It was 
 rather the look of one who is conducting a per- 
 formance and is concerned that it shall be done 
 well. Her mother, the visitor afterward 
 learned, invariably occupied a front seat at 
 the meetings and stared fixedly at the girl 
 a sort of hypnotic gaze. 
 
 When the preliminary service, including 
 the taking up of a collection, was over and the 
 officiating minister finally said, "Our gifted 
 and inspired young sister will now address us," 
 the girl came forward. She was decidedly a 
 commonplace young person in appearance 
 rather stoutly built and with a dull heavy ex- 
 pression. Her drab hair hung loosely on her
 
 148 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 shoulders, a few frizzes overhanging Her fore- 
 head. Though she was not taller than a well- 
 grown girl of fourteen and the skirt of her 
 cheap white cotton frock stopped at her shoe- 
 tops, she did not give an impression of child- 
 hood. 
 
 With her pale blue eyes fixed in an unseeing 
 stare at some point above the heads of her au- 
 dience, she began her talk in a high-pitched 
 voice, at first hesitatingly and slowly, then 
 more rapidly in a monotonous singsong that, 
 as she worked herself more and more into the 
 revival spirit, or what was rather, perhaps, a 
 semi-hysterical state, was punctuated at fre- 
 quent intervals with a wail or prolonged groan 
 so dismal and uncanny that it must have had 
 much to do with making sinners in the audience 
 shiver over their iniquity. The voice with its 
 weird intonations perhaps had more effect than 
 the speaker's words in arousing responsive emo- 
 tions, but the words were not lacking in the 
 power to stir the fears of those not sure of 
 their heavenly anchorage. 
 
 Her discourse, if it could be called such, con- 
 sisted of disjointed exhortations to the sinners 
 before her to accept salvation before it was
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 149 
 
 everlastingly too late, of threats of a fiery fu- 
 ture if they refused to be saved at what might 
 be their last opportunity, of lurid pictures of 
 lost ones lifting up hopeless hands to heaven 
 after they had gone to another place. If they 
 would come to God's altar now those to whom 
 she talked might cast all their sins behind them 
 and be washed white as snow. 
 
 "Come," she wailed, "come, brothers, come, 
 sisters, come! Come now! Put the devil be- 
 hind you. Come and be saved ! Little children, 
 come! You must belong to God or the devil, 
 one. There cain't be no half-way. Come, 
 come, come and repent!" 
 
 Emotional ones in the audience were moved. 
 Shouts of "Amen!" "Bless the Lord," "Lord 
 save us," interrupted her. Here and there 
 arose groans as of acute agony. The hysterical 
 spirit was contagious, and as the exhorter made 
 her appeals for sinners to come to the mourn- 
 ers' bench, several persons arose and went 
 shambling up the aisle to the railing about the 
 platform where they sank upon their knees. 
 With a warning that they might be sinning 
 away their last chance of salvation by delay, 
 the girl preacher, the high color of excitement
 
 150 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 in her cheeks now, but her eyes still staring 
 into space, lifted her arms high, rose on her tip- 
 toes and in a piercing voice that had yet the 
 same weirdly monotonous cadence, cried: 
 "Come, Lord, come down, dear Lord, and save 
 these sinners from the fiery pit. I see the pit. 
 I see it. The devil reaches for them. Save 
 them right now 1" 
 
 Then she dropped her hands, there was an 
 effect of sudden wilting, and as her father 
 stepped forward to support her she sank into 
 a chair with a manner of utter exhaustion, 
 while, echoing her plea, the audience sang: 
 Save Us Just Now. 
 
 When this happened a young man who had 
 slipped into the end of the seat next to Miss 
 Austin toward the end of the girl's exhortation, 
 rose and went forward as a mourner. His head 
 was bowed and his hand half shielded his face. 
 Miss Austin was surprised because she had dis- 
 tinctly heard this youth, as he sat beside her, 
 say something under his breath about a 
 damned rascal, and she gathered the impression 
 from this and the curl of his lip that he re- 
 garded the proceedings with distaste. The 
 change from critic to penitent seemed unac-
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 151 
 
 countably sudden, and stirred by an impulse 
 of curiosity, Miss Austin moved forward to a 
 seat made vacant by a woman near the front 
 and watched him. 
 
 As he sank on his knees directly in front of 
 the girl preacher, now seated in a chair, Miss 
 Austin fancied that she saw in her face a sud- 
 den change of expression, a gleam of light and 
 life before that lacking in her eyes, and a start 
 of surprise. The air was electric with the con- 
 tagious excitement of the revival. Hymn 
 singing mingled with prayers and emotional 
 cries, and pious brethren and sisters already 
 safe in the fold, moved about, stooping down 
 to exhort and encourage the penitents. Then 
 the girl preacher stepped to the end of the line 
 of mourners, bent down and whispered some- 
 thing, presumably a word of hope, to the kneel- 
 ing young woman there. She spoke to others 
 in the same way until she reached the young 
 man who was the latest comer. She might have 
 been dull, but she had the feminine guile not 
 to betray herself by going to him first. By 
 him she knelt and their whispers were pro- 
 longed, the observer thought. Suddenly, al- 
 most at the same moment, the girl's father
 
 152 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 touched his daughter's arm and sought to draw 
 her away, and a stern-visaged woman, who 
 proved to be her mother, stepped forward and 
 spoke to her. The "mourner" raised his head 
 and those near hy heard words that were not 
 those of prayer. "He said 'damn'!" exclaimed 
 one. "Oh, worse than that," whispered an- 
 other. 
 
 Something had happened ; no one knew ex- 
 actly what. There was a little flurry made by 
 the departure through the door at the side of 
 the platform of the girl preacher, her mother 
 and father, and the unceremonious march down 
 the aisle of the young man, with his soul, judg- 
 ing from his black looks, still unsaved. Miss 
 Austin, weary of the meeting, also slipped 
 down the aisle and across to the hotel. 
 
 A little while later, lying on her bed and 
 thinking over the events of the day, she became 
 aware of violent weeping overhead. It seemed 
 very near and she discovered that the ceil- 
 ing above her head was broken by an old- 
 fashioned stovepipe hole, used in winter pre- 
 sumably for the economical purpose of heating 
 two rooms with one fire. Then voices were 
 heard both in complaint and reproof. She did
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 153 
 
 not wish to be a listener unawares to other peo- 
 ple's troubles, but though she arose, moved 
 about, rattled the furniture, coughed and made 
 her near presence audible, the sobs and the con- 
 versation continued. 
 
 "Maw, I never knowed Jim was to be there, 
 I never knowed it, and when I seen him I 
 thought maybe he was under conviction for 
 
 sure." 
 
 It was the voice of the girl preacher and it 
 appeared that her domestic vernacular fell 
 something short of her platform speech. 
 
 "Anyway, maw, I wanted to speak to him," 
 she went on. "And, maw, I don't want to go to 
 that Sunday meeting for men only. I wish't 
 you and paw hadn't thought of that. It makes 
 me feel awful." 
 
 "Hush up, Nancy Jane, and go to bed. 
 Your paw and me knows what's best for you. 
 He's written your speech for you and there's 
 nothing in it but good advice about being hon- 
 est and decent and good to their families, and 
 about going to church and keeping out of sa- 
 loons and places they wouldn't want to have 
 respectable people know about. There's noth- 
 ing you need be ashamed to say. Your paw
 
 154 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 knows the right thing. The meeting'll pay, 
 too. Men always give more when the plate's 
 passed than women do, and we may as well 
 have the money. And mind this, Nancy Jane, 
 there's to be no fooling with that Jim Adams. 
 No more of that. I won't have it." 
 
 The voices ceased, but, long after, the sound 
 of spasmodic sobs continued to reach the room 
 below. 
 
 Next day time hung rather heavy on Miss 
 Austin's hands. Her genealogical researches 
 having come to an end and the weather being 
 too warm for explorations about the village, 
 she wandered over the little hotel, hoping for 
 the early return of her friends. She had 
 glimpses of the girl preacher once or twice, 
 but her parents were watchful guardians and 
 never left her alone when she was out of her 
 room. Seen near by and without the softening 
 effect of the none too brilliant artificial light, 
 she was even less attractive than when on the 
 platform, her face showing heavy and sullen 
 and her manner awkward. Obviously, too, she 
 was not a child. Her eyes that were so fixed 
 and staring when she preached, were to-day, 
 however, normal enough. Her parents could
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 155 
 
 not control them and her glances went quickly 
 and inquiringly about. The beguiling Jim, 
 for whom they were presumably in search, was 
 not seen by Miss Austin until afternoon, when 
 he suddenly approached and seated himself 
 near her at the end of the long porch to which 
 she had restlessly wandered. He was a coun- 
 try boy, but not troubled with bashfulness, and 
 with entire indifference to ceremony and evi- 
 dently longing for some one to talk to, he 
 promptly addressed her. 
 
 "I seen you at the meeting last night, lady. 
 What do you think of the durned business?" 
 
 "Why do you speak of it in that way?" 
 smiled Miss Austin. "You went to the mourn- 
 ers' bench as if you believed it was all right." 
 
 "Me believe in it? Well, I reckon not! I 
 went up there so's I could speak to Nancy 
 Jane, the girl. She's my girl, that preacher as 
 they call her, and them two old buzzards that 
 are driving her into making a holy show of her- 
 self, they won't let me see her anywhere else. 
 They never let her out of the house alone and 
 when she's outside of her room they stick to her 
 like burrs. Oh, I've watched 'em. They're 
 afraid I'll coax her away with me and that
 
 156 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 would shut off their revenue. I will run away 
 with her, too. If I could have half a chance 
 to talk to her I'd soon persuade her to it. But 
 I'll get to her yet if I have to follow them all 
 over Indiana. She's mine ; I've known her all 
 her life, and I've wanted to marry her ever 
 since she was a kidlet." 
 
 "But she's only fourteen," objected Miss 
 Austin. 
 
 "Fourteen nothing! She was eighteen last 
 March. I'm twenty-two, and I've got a farm 
 and a place to take her to an' I'll take her 
 sure. She's willing enough but she's afraid of 
 that old dad of hers. They're both hard on her 
 and the old lady looks like the one to dodge 
 from, but it's the old man that trained her, and 
 that's after the dollars. He used to be a kind 
 of an exhorter himself, and one winter when 
 Nancy Jane got converted at a revival she 
 really was a little girl then she got excited 
 and a little off her base like they will, and got 
 up in meeting and gave a little song and dance 
 oh, you know what I mean. She waved her 
 arms and shouted and told everybody they 
 ought to be good and love the Lord like she did. 
 That gave the old rascal, her father, an idea,
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 157 
 
 and the first thing anybody knew he had Nancy 
 trained to get up and preach like she done last 
 night. And now he's got up the Sunday after- 
 noon talk to men only. Damn him!" 
 
 The set of the boy's square jaw and the glint 
 of his steel blue eyes looked as if he might be 
 an unpleasant person for the man so violently 
 condemned to encounter. 
 
 "But if they won't let you to speak to her, 
 why do you follow her around?" Miss Austin 
 asked. 
 
 "Because some day I will see her and get her 
 away from them, and it won't be long, either. 
 They cain't always be on the job of watching 
 her." 
 
 The girl preacher did not make her appear- 
 ance in the dining-room that day. Her mother 
 said she was meditating over the coming 
 night's sermon, and at noon carried her dinner 
 to her. It was a warm somnolent day and Miss 
 Austin, having nothing to do but await the ar- 
 rival of her friends with their car, alternately 
 dozed and read a dull novel, sitting at the win- 
 dow of her room that looked out upon a narrow 
 green yard, on the other side of which was the
 
 158 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 solid brick wall of a church. Almost filling the 
 end that was toward the street was a big clump 
 of syringa bushes long past bloom, but luxuri- 
 ant of foliage, their branches drooping to the 
 ground. It was a secluded spot and as she 
 breathed the sweet summer air Miss Austin 
 thought sleepily that she preferred her present 
 restful experience to racing over the country 
 in a touring car. 
 
 Then she was aroused by a movement outside 
 and a soft whispering. A glance through the 
 old-fashioned shutters set partly open, showed 
 the girl preacher and her Kentucky lover, hid- 
 den from the street by the syringas, he with his 
 arm around her, she with her head on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "You've got to come away from here before 
 Sunday, Nancy Jane," he was saying, his voice 
 unconsciously rising. "I've waited long 
 enough and your paw cain't head me off this 
 time. When I say before Sunday I mean it. 
 For you to preach at all is bad enough, but 
 talks to men by you ain't ever going to begin." 
 
 "Oh, Jim, if I only could ! But I cain't get 
 away. I'm scared every minute now for fear 
 maw'll miss me. She was asleep when I got
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 159 
 
 the key and slipped down-stairs. Paw's out on 
 the front porch." 
 
 Their low talk went on, but Miss Austin did 
 not wish to listen to their confidences and 
 moved away from the window. At that mo- 
 ment a sharp voice called Nancy Jane and 
 quick steps came down the stairs. Moved by 
 a sudden impulse of sympathy a touch of the 
 universal love for lovers Miss Austin pushed 
 open her window blinds and said to the girl, 
 startled and not knowing which way to turn to 
 escape discovery: 
 
 "You must excuse me, but I've heard what 
 you've been saying. Stay here and talk to me. 
 And you, young man, disappear through that 
 back gate, quick, if you don't want to get 
 caught." 
 
 "Go, go!" cried the girl. 
 
 "If I do, I'll be back again, Nancy Jane. 
 You'll hear from me again to-night, but it 
 won't be at the meeting." 
 
 With this, Jim vanished, not being as ready, 
 perhaps, to confront his future mother-in-law 
 as his bold talk indicated. By the time the 
 girl's mother bethought herself of the hidden 
 corner of the yard, Nancy Jane was talking
 
 160 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 with Miss Austin, who leaned from her win- 
 dow, about the heat of the summer day and of 
 the desirability of a cooling rain. 
 
 She was not so dull as she had looked, love 
 doing its part to brighten her wits and also to 
 work a transformation in her appearance. For 
 a new light was in her eyes, and a new courage 
 in her heart had brought color to her cheeks 
 and banished the sullen expression from her 
 face. When her mother appeared and looked 
 suspiciously around, Nancy Jane betrayed no 
 fear and no guilt, and went with her mother 
 quietly. 
 
 When evening came she crossed with her 
 parents as usual to the meeting. A little group 
 had gathered at the entrance and from her sta- 
 tion on the porch opposite Miss Austin fancied 
 that as admission was momentarily delayed, she 
 saw the girl, following in the rear of her elders, 
 reach out her hand to a shadowy form that 
 quickly disappeared in the darkness. She might 
 have received a note thought the watcher, 
 whose own days of romance were not yet 
 past. It was after nine o'clock when the 
 preacher and her guardians came back to the 
 hotel and soon Miss Austin heard footsteps in
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 161 
 
 the room above her, followed presently by the 
 sound of the click of a lock. A little later, still 
 sitting drowsily at her window and thinking 
 regretfully of the failure of her friends to ar- 
 rive on their return journey, there was a sound 
 of running outside, her door was flung uncere- 
 moniously open and the girl preacher darted 
 in. 
 
 "Oh, hide me, hide me. I got out of my 
 room I found another key but maw heard 
 me and as soon as she and paw can get dressed, 
 they'll be after me. Jim was to meet me by the 
 syringa bushes, but it's too early yet. I don't 
 want to go back. Oh, hide me !" 
 
 Before Miss Austin could get her wits to- 
 gether the girl had run to the open window, 
 crawled out and crouched down in the black 
 shadow outside, pushing the shutters together 
 softly behind her. She had donned a dark 
 dress and a hat and it would have been a sharp 
 eye that could detect her. It was not a mo- 
 ment too soon. As unceremoniously as her 
 daughter had come the mother pushed her 
 way in. 
 
 "Is Nancy Jane here? I thought I heard 
 her come this way."
 
 162 HUMAN INTEREST, 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, she opened 
 a wardrobe and looked in and then peered un- 
 der the bed, the only hiding-places in the room. 
 By this time Miss Austin had recovered her 
 presence of mind. 
 
 "Madam," she said, "this is a private room." 
 
 Without apology the mother rushed out and 
 as quickly the door was locked behind her and 
 the light of the dim oil lamp turned out. Then 
 Miss Austin, full of sympathy for the lovers, 
 softly opened the window and told the girl to 
 come in. 
 
 She heard a commotion outside as of people 
 hurrying about ; doors were slammed and there 
 were excited voices. Along the sidewalk quick 
 steps were heard. Evidently the girl's parents 
 had aroused the landlord and others for the 
 purpose of helping in their search. Meanwhile 
 the girl, breathless in her excitement, walked 
 up and down. 
 
 "I was to meet Jim at half past ten o'clock," 
 she cried. "He was to have a horse and buggy 
 from the livery stable around the corner and 
 we were to drive over to the junction and catch 
 a train to Louieville and send the rig back. 
 His home's only twenty miles from there and
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 163 
 
 we'd be there by morning and be married be- 
 fore they'd find where we'd gone. But they'll 
 go right to the stable and head him off. Oh, 
 what'll we do?" 
 
 To prove that she was right, at this moment 
 came a soft tap on the window behind the 
 syringas and Jim's head appeared in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "Is Nancy Jane here? [By George, I'm 
 glad I guessed right. They've got my horse 
 and I'll have trouble in getting another, but 
 I'll find one before morning. You're going 
 with me this time sure." 
 
 "Jim, I'd rather walk to the junction than 
 stay now. It's only six miles, anyway. We 
 could do it easy." 
 
 There was no shy hanging back on Nancy 
 Jane's part. Having been won, she needed no 
 more wooing. 
 
 Jim visibly brightened, as his voice showed. 
 "Would you, Nancy Jane? We could do it, at 
 the worst. But we cain't start now while they're 
 hunting you. May she wait here till the coast's 
 clear?" he asked of Miss Austin. 
 
 Before she could answer, the honk of an au- 
 tomobile horn was heard out in front and Miss
 
 164 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 Austin knew her friends had arrived. This 
 complicated matters, for she was sure they 
 would wish to go to Indianapolis and that 
 would mean that she could no longer shield 
 the lovers. 
 
 She ran out to the street and was greeted 
 cheerfully by the couple in the car and bidden 
 to get her traps and come on. 
 
 "I've got to be in Indianapolis early to-mor- 
 row and I'd rather make the run to-night," 
 said John. 
 
 Miss Austin hesitated a moment and then 
 whispered to them a brief outline of the situa- 
 tion and the lovers' predicament. 
 
 "Why, that's easy," shouted John, then 
 quickly lowered his voice. "We'll take them 
 in with us. We go right by the junction. It 
 will crowd us a little, maybe, but it isn't far. 
 Maybe, though, we'd better take 'em to the 
 next station beyond, because somebody is sure 
 to drive to the junction before train-time to 
 stop 'em. There isn't another machine in the 
 county and nobody'll follow them farther than 
 the junction." 
 
 And that was the solution. Miss Austin 
 hurriedly consulted with the lovers, directed
 
 HUMAN INTEREST 165 
 
 them to go through the back gate and wait in 
 the shadow of the church; then she, passing 
 through the office and settling her account, 
 joined her friends at the car. 
 
 As she crossed the porch, the girl's mother, 
 back from her fruitless search, came up and 
 dropped wearily into a chair. 
 
 "My girl is gone," she said, addressing no 
 one in particular, and wept, her stern features 
 softened with grief. 
 
 Everything was over so quickly that Miss 
 Austin, really the chief aid and promoter in 
 the elopement, had hardly time to think con- 
 nectedly until they were all well on their way 
 to the next town. 
 
 John Barker, with no sense of responsibility 
 on his soul, took the adventure gaily and 
 chaffed the lovers as the car flew along until, 
 when the station was reached, the pair were in 
 high spirits. There the two were left after 
 being showered with good advice and good 
 wishes, and the car sped on. 
 
 But Miss Austin wondered a little and her 
 heart misgave her as she remembered that 
 mother's face. "It was her daughter, not the 
 girl preacher for whom her tears were shed,"
 
 166 HUMAN INTEREST 
 
 she reflected. "What right had I to interfere ? 
 How do I know that that girl was not better 
 placed as a saver of souls than as the wife of 
 the country boy?" 
 
 It was a little late for such thoughts, and 
 when a few days after came a little Kentucky 
 paper containing an account of the marriage 
 of James Adams and Nancy Jane Shelby and 
 of the big volunteer party of congratulation 
 given by the neighbors, her slightly burdened 
 conscience was relieved. Anyway, as John 
 Barker declared, it was a human interest story 
 whose like she couldn't expect to run across 
 every day.
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 WILLIAM HARPER MILLER sat 
 on the veranda of the Franconia House 
 in the little town of Silverton, New Hamp- 
 shire, reading a Boston paper of the day be- 
 fore. He was trying to kill time until the af- 
 ternoon train arrived to take him out of what 
 he unkindly called a God-forsaken hole, but 
 which was really a quiet agreeable place of 
 abode for people in whom the spirit of rest- 
 lessness had never developed, or had been 
 stilled by the passing of monotonous years. 
 [He had come down in a stage from the sum- 
 mer home of the head of the western business 
 house to which he was attached, and owing to 
 a delay caused by a broken axle, had missed 
 the morning train. 
 
 The Boston paper was dull, but he read it 
 through, even to the advertisements, wonder- 
 ing, as he was about to throw it down, what he 
 should do to pass away the rest of the long 
 hours. Then he glanced idly through the tan- 
 
 167
 
 168 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 gle of honeysuckle and clematis that em- 
 bowered the porch of the old-fashioned inn 
 and the course of his peaceful commonplace 
 existence was changed. 
 
 Along the street a woman was passing, a 
 slight, black-robed, brown-haired woman. 
 
 "How much she looks like Elizabeth," he 
 thought, startled. 
 
 She spoke at the moment to the young girl 
 who accompanied her, and her voice thrilled 
 him, filled him with a strange terror. The girl, 
 with the frank curiosity of youth, looked up 
 toward the figure of the stranger behind the 
 vines, but the woman did not lift her eyes. Yet 
 he saw her plainly for a moment as she turned 
 with a graceful gesture to adjust a stray lock 
 of her companion's hair. 
 
 "It it is Elizabeth's voice. It is she looks 
 enough like Elizabeth to be her sister." 
 
 His impulse was to call to her, to run after 
 her, to demand her name. He started up with 
 this intent, then sank down, feeling suddenly 
 weak and foolish. 
 
 But he must know about this woman ; the re- 
 semblance was most remarkable. No doubt 
 she would pass the hotel again on her way
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 169 
 
 home all the better residences were in the dis- 
 trict from which she came and he would ask 
 about her. 
 
 She came in sight very soon on her return, 
 just as the landlord, a garrulous old man, had 
 seated himself for his morning smoke. Miller, 
 his paper raised as if to shield his eyes from 
 the sunlight sifting through the vines, re- 
 marked in what he tried to make a casual man- 
 ner, indicating the passers with a motion of his 
 hand: 
 
 "Summer boarders, I suppose. I hear the 
 town has a good many." 
 
 "That lady, sir, has lived here for the last six 
 or seven years," replied the landlord promptly. 
 "She's a widow, name of Miller. Was a pas- 
 senger on the Jane Allen that was wrecked off 
 North Point in the big equinoctial seven years 
 ago. Was bruised and battered and in the 
 water so long, hanging on to a board or some- 
 thing, that she was nearly dead and was sick 
 a long time. When she got well she found her 
 husband had died of typhoid fever in a hos- 
 pital in Chicago or some'rs out West. He 
 didn't have any property they were just be- 
 ginning so she drifted in here and has been
 
 170 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 teaching ever since. Nice little lady and every- 
 body likes her. Sort o' sad-looking, but I 
 guess that's owing to the trouble she's had, and 
 being alone, too. Widows are like that some- 
 times." 
 
 Miller had another look at her as she went 
 by. She was sad. Or perhaps not just that. 
 Weariness and wistf ulness would best describe 
 her look. It was not the gay animated face he 
 had known but it was the same face. There 
 was no doubt about that now. And she had 
 been his wife in those years when he had known 
 her. Had beenl 
 
 "God! She is my wife now," he thought, 
 and sat trembling, thinking of another woman 
 back in Chicago, the mother of his children 
 who believed herself to be his wife. 
 
 It was how long was it? Yes, seven years 
 since he had seen this woman last. Then she 
 had left him, their first separation in their 
 year of married life to go to her grand- 
 mother up in Maine, her only living relative, 
 who was ill and had sent for her. She had 
 written him a few weeks later that her grand- 
 mother had died, and that she would go to Bos- 
 ton by the Jane Allen the next day. The trip
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 171 
 
 by water cost less than by rail and they had no 
 money to spare in those days. He remembered 
 how long the time of her absence had seemed 
 and how glad he was to know that she would 
 soon be with him. He had not been well, had 
 felt queer and dull for days, and he had fan- 
 cied that when Elizabeth came she would 
 brighten him up and he would be all right 
 again. 
 
 Then, one morning just when he was count- 
 ing the hours till her return, he took up the 
 morning paper and read there, under staring 
 head-lines of the storm on the Atlantic coast, 
 of the destruction of many vessels, among 
 them the Jane Allen, which had sunk with all 
 on board, only a sailor or so escaping almost by 
 miracle to tell the tale. Frantic telegrams 
 brought confirmation of this report. A list of 
 the Jane Allen's passengers had been pub- 
 lished, and among them was his wife's name. 
 There was no mistake. 
 
 Under other circumstances the incipient 
 typhoid that had been creeping through his 
 veins might have been overcome, but the de- 
 spair and excitement gave the disease firmer 
 hold upon him until presently he lost control
 
 172 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 of his affairs and went wandering through a 
 phantom world. 
 
 Weeks later he came to himself in the hos- 
 pital to which he had been taken, and slowly 
 took up the burden of life again. His first act 
 when strength returned was to go East and in- 
 quire into the case of the Jane Allen, but there 
 was nothing new to learn. It had been one of 
 the nondescript vessels that ply along the New 
 England coast, engaged in miscellaneous traf- 
 fic, carrying occasional passengers and picking 
 up such freight as comes their way a craft 
 not overly seaworthy in fair weather and tak- 
 ing perilous risks in storms. It was the season 
 of gales, and it was a terrific equinoctial storm, 
 so-called, that had finally swept the Jane Allen 
 and other far more valuable vessels out of ex- 
 istence. None of the boat's half dozen passen- 
 gers had escaped, though two or three bodies, 
 identified as having been on board, had been 
 washed ashore, but Elizabeth's was not among 
 them. 
 
 At last he had rebelliously accepted his fate 
 and gone his way in the world again. 
 
 He recalled all these things, sitting there 
 with the slow terror settling upon him. He
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 173 
 
 knew how he came to believe Elizabeth dead, 
 but how did it happen that she thought the 
 same of him? 
 
 Then he remembered a confusion of names 
 which had caused him some annoyance while he 
 was at the hospital. In the room next to his, 
 by an odd coincidence, was another patient 
 named Miller William Henry by name, it 
 developed later when his obituary was pub- 
 lished; but the two were each entered on the 
 books as "Win. H.", and because of the iden- 
 tity of names the hospital attendants made 
 mistakes. Orders were confused, clothing was 
 mixed William Henry was a small man and 
 William Harper could not possibly wear his 
 garments; and when William Henry Miller 
 died, word was sent to the firm which employed 
 William Harper Miller that their William 
 H.'s life had ended, and the error was not im- 
 mediately discovered. The announcement 
 even got into one of the papers. 
 
 He knew nothing of this at the time, but 
 weeks later, as he now remembered, living that 
 far-off unhappy time over again, a clerk in 
 the office, a heedless youth, told him of a letter 
 coming to the firm from some place in Ver-
 
 174 [WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 mont He thought or was it Massachusetts? 
 written by a man evidently unused to handling 
 a pen, asking for his, William Harper Miller's 
 address; and he, the clerk, had informed the 
 correspondent that the man of whom he in- 
 quired had just died. The clerk could not re- 
 call the writer's name. 
 
 This incident, which made no impression at 
 the time, took on a new significance now as 
 it came dimly back out of the mists of memory. 
 The writer of the epistle was perhaps one in 
 whose home Elizabeth was being cared for 
 after her rescue a fisherman, not unlikely, 
 unused to the mysteries of correspondence and 
 following her probably confused instructions. 
 OBut undoubtedly that was the way she had 
 come to believe her husband dead. He could 
 imagine her despair, alone, desolate, with her 
 way to make in the world. 
 
 He recalled now, too, what had seemed an 
 inexcusable blunder at the hospital. A woman 
 vaguely designated to him weeks after the oc- 
 currence as from "down East somewhere" had 
 written asking about the personal effects of 
 William H. Miller, who had died on a certain 
 date, and directing that they be forwarded to
 
 iWHAT COULD HE DO 175 
 
 her, his widow ; also asking particulars as to his 
 illness and death. Naturally, the hospital 
 attendants had no reason to assume that 
 she was mistaken as to the dead man's 
 identity, but after giving her the desired 
 information and telling her that the most 
 of her husband's few possessions had been 
 taken away by the benefit order that had his 
 funeral in charge, had forwarded to her the 
 other Miller's, really her own husband's seal 
 ring, a pocket-knife and one or two other 
 trifles. It was a blundering hospital office, 
 and as it appeared now, it seemed to have con- 
 spired with fate to bring him to grief. Eliza- 
 beth had the trinkets which she knew to be his, 
 and, having them, needed no further confir- 
 mation of his death. 
 
 As he sat there staring into vacancy, more 
 old memories revived. He had loved Eliza- 
 beth. Their year of life together had been 
 ideally happy. They had been sufficient for 
 each other and had not sought or needed other 
 society. She was his first love and yes, he 
 would have to admit it, his dearest. 
 
 How much a man recalls of life with his first 
 wife when he has married a second is problem-
 
 176 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 atical, but when for any reason a comparison 
 is made he is doubtless truthful with himself. 
 
 As the situation forced itself on him in all its 
 complications, Miller found himself wonder- 
 ing if he were suffering from some hideous 
 nightmare. It did not seem possible that he, 
 a well-meaning honest man, could be caught 
 in such a plight. 
 
 He had loved Elizabeth, but when she had 
 been gone for nearly three years gone to 
 Heaven he had thought he had married again ; 
 and if he had not been as blissfully happy as 
 with his first love, he had at least been comfort- 
 able and content. Gertrude was a good 
 woman, and there were the children, his beau- 
 tiful three-year-old boy and his baby girl! He 
 loved those children with a passionate and jeal- 
 ous love. Not all men do care greatly for their 
 sons and daughters. With some, at least, af- 
 fection is a gradually acquired sentiment, 
 aroused largely by qualities in their offspring 
 that first excite paternal pride. But Miller 
 had something of the yearning compelling 
 love that a mother feels. The world had been 
 new to him since his son was born. All his in- 
 terests had centered in the child. He rejoiced
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 177 
 
 in his lusty babyhood and he planned for his 
 future, ready to make any sacrifice for his 
 sake. 
 
 And now the boy he faced the truth with a 
 groan and with horror the boy had not even 
 the legal right to his father's name. Miller 
 looked out with unseeing eyes toward the blue 
 rim of the distant hills. What could he do, 
 what should he do? 
 
 His first impulse was to run, manlike, to the 
 woman, to Elizabeth, and lay his burden upon 
 her ; to ask her what he should do. Moreover, 
 he felt a great longing to speak to her once 
 more. Now that the wonderful knowledge 
 had come to him that she was in the land of the 
 living, he yearned for the touch of her hand, 
 for a look into the blue eyes. His heart 
 throbbed faster as he thought of her. He had 
 loved Elizabeth he, he might love her still, 
 if 
 
 He caught himself with a start. He must 
 not see her. No one must know his secret. He 
 must get away from the village without her 
 knowing. He hoped he could escape without 
 the mischance of meeting her. He would go 
 to the station by a roundabout way.
 
 178 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 He could never tell Gertrude the truth. A 
 shudder ran over him at the thought. She 
 would leave him instantly and take the chil- 
 dren. The law gives the mother who has no 
 husband the sole right to her babies. She had 
 wealthy relatives who would provide for her, 
 and his children would be reared with no 
 knowledge of their father. 
 
 He sprang to his feet and paced restlessly 
 up and down. He could not bear the thought; 
 he could not, he would not, be parted from 
 them. 
 
 There was, of course, the possibility of di- 
 vorce ; he could get one, no doubt. Or he could 
 tell Elizabeth and she would sacrifice herself, 
 he felt sure, and procure a legal separation. 
 But a divorce could not be kept secret, and a 
 cloud would be upon his children's name. 
 Moreover, he was not sure as to Gertrude's 
 course even then. She was a proud woman and 
 from the beginning had been jealous even of 
 the memory of Elizabeth. She might, under 
 the circumstances, and for her children's sake, 
 be willing to waive her strict scruples against 
 divorce, or she might not; to remarry him, 
 knowing that Elizabeth, the wife of his youth
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 179 
 
 whom he had mourned so bitterly, was alive 
 would she do this for any cause whatever? He 
 could not feel sure. 
 
 The train came at last and he went his way, 
 feeling, in spite of his anxiety to escape un- 
 seen, a strong wish to linger until he could 
 catch another glimpse of his first love. 
 
 Time did not solve his problem. Weeks 
 went by, and months, and it was constantly 
 with him. His mind wandered back to that 
 little New Hampshire town, and the image of 
 the woman in whom his life had once centered 
 was more often before him than that of the 
 mother of his children. He felt a sense of re- 
 sponsibility for her. That she should be toil- 
 ing for her daily bread distressed him and he 
 tried to devise means by which he could supply 
 her with an income without her learning 
 its source, but could think of none. He was 
 himself, in these later years, prospering great- 
 ly, and could help her without depriving his 
 family of any comforts or rights. 
 
 His imagination, too, conjured up many 
 fears. Elizabeth had made but few acquaint- 
 ances during their short year of life together, 
 but some among those few might stumble upon
 
 180 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 her in that little town, as he had done, and she 
 would learn the truth. Or she might some day 
 take it into her head to revisit the place where v 
 they had been so happy. Women were senti- 
 mental and she might like to see his grave, and 
 he laughed grimly as the thought occurred to 
 him. 
 
 Sometimes the problem bore upon him with 
 such heaviness that he felt wearily that he 
 would gladly bid farewell to earth if he might 
 he rid of the burden, and suicide presented 
 itself as a possibility. Then he reflected 
 that his death would mend nothing, for 
 if the secret became known after he was 
 gone the law would give his estate to his 
 lawful wife and all the protection he now 
 sought to give his children would come to 
 naught. He longed intensely to confide in 
 some one, but dared not tell his story to his 
 nearest friend, for friends can not be trusted 
 with such secrets. Once, in desperation, he en- 
 tered a Catholic confessional, though he was 
 not of that faith, and laid his case before the 
 listening priest. What he was enjoined to do 
 he never told, but he came out shaking his 
 shoulders impatiently, muttering, "What does
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 181 
 
 a priest know, a priest who has neither wife nor 
 child?" 
 
 He became restless and irritable. His wife 
 advised with the doctor, urged him to take a 
 rest, showed herself solicitous for his welfare, 
 and the more manifest her affection grew the 
 more impatient he became. 
 
 Not in the least did he deceive himself. He 
 had come to long with a mighty longing for 
 Elizabeth. Not for a moment did he weaken 
 in his determination never to betray his secret 
 to Gertrude or to part from his children, but 
 the natural man in him yearned for the other 
 woman. He wanted to see her face brighten in 
 the old way at his presence. He wanted her 
 arms about his neck, her dear head on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 He caught himself reading with a strange 
 interest stories of men who had led double 
 lives, men with two families, neither of which 
 knew of the other's existence, and realized that 
 he had a sympathy for such men. Being an 
 honest man of decent instincts, he could not 
 bring himself deliberately to contemplate 
 such a life as that for his own, but he 
 asked himself why he might not at least
 
 182 WHAT COULD HE DO? 
 
 make himself known to Elizabeth and de- 
 lay telling her the truth until he learned her 
 sentiments. Perhaps she had ceased to care 
 for him, which would simplify matters and 
 make his course clearer; or perhaps she might 
 think of marrying some other man. The sud- 
 den pang at his heart when this thought first 
 occurred to him was its own proof that he could 
 not willingly give her the privilege he had in- 
 nocently taken for himself, and now deliber- 
 ately meant to retain. 
 
 He tried to give his mind to his business and 
 his home as he had done before that fatal day 
 in Silverton, but even while Gertrude talked to 
 him his thoughts were of the other one. He 
 saw the changing color of her fair face, the old 
 love light in her eyes the eyes through which 
 he had seen heaven for one beautiful year. In 
 the background of his thoughts she stood con- 
 tinually. She drew him like a magnet. Yet 
 forever between them, holding them apart, 
 were his children, Gertrude's children. He 
 could not give them up, yet with them while 
 that lonely woman beckoned him he could not 
 be at peace. His soul was torn with conflicting 
 affections and conflicting duties. He looked
 
 WHAT COULD HE DO? 183 
 
 down a dreary vista of years wondering how 
 long he could endure the strain. 
 
 One day he came to a swift determination 
 and packed his valise for a journey. 
 
 "I may at least have another chance glimpse 
 of her," he said, knowing in his heart that he 
 could not again see her and depart in silence. 
 
 Then came his hoy, with clinging arms. 
 "Take Bohby, Bobby go," he cried. "Bobby 
 love Papa a big world full." 
 
 The father clasped the baby tight, feeling 
 that to go on the journey suddenly planned 
 might mean a long and last farewell to this 
 home. 
 
 "I can't do it, little son, I can't leave you. 
 We'll stay together." He hid his face in the 
 child's soft hair, whispering with a sense of 
 relief, "It's settled for to-day, at least." And 
 he laughed forlornly, but the little son clapped 
 his hands.
 
 A STORY WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 EARLY May was in its glory. The 
 young leaves on tree and shrub were un- 
 folding in the warm sunshine with a haste that 
 made their growth almost visible to the eye that 
 watched them. The brilliant green of the new 
 grass was starred with dandelions. The girl 
 at the open window of a house on the broad 
 street noted, even in her preoccupation, the 
 picturesque effect of a redbud tree in bloom 
 against a gray wall. In a vista between the 
 two houses opposite she could see that blossoms 
 were beginning to open on cherry trees like 
 scattered flakes of snow. Spring was in the 
 air, and all nature should have responded, but 
 the heart of the girl at the window was out of 
 harmony. With the tide of youth full in her 
 veins, she looked out on her little world with 
 dull unhappy eyes. Their somber expression 
 deepened as a gay chattering party of young 
 men and girls, all of whom she knew, passed 
 up the street without so much as a glance her 
 
 way. 
 
 184
 
 Her mother, a placid lady never consciously 
 aware of nature's moods and the season's 
 changes save as her housekeeping was affected 
 thereby, sat near, embroidering pink carna- 
 tions on a linen lunch-cloth. 
 
 "If you are going down-town this morning, 
 Charlotte, I wish you would stop at Gibson's 
 and get me half a dozen skeins of this embroid- 
 ery silk. Here's a sample. I'm anxious to get 
 this cloth done before the missionary society 
 meets on Saturday. You know it is an extra 
 occasion because two returned missionaries are 
 to be with us, and I am to have the meeting 
 here. When you are down don't forget to buy 
 a new pair of white slippers, if you are going 
 to Julia's party. Your old ones are really too 
 shabby." 
 
 "I shall not go to Julia's party, mother. I 
 shall never go to any one's party again," the 
 girl went on vehemently. "What's the use? 
 I'm dull and unattractive. No one invites me 
 to dance except now and then Harry or Joe 
 Wilson, just because they are sorry for me. I 
 have to hang around with the chaperons, a 
 wallflower and an object of pity. Some- 
 thing's wrong with me. I can't have a good
 
 time like other people and I shan't try any 
 more." 
 
 Tears were in her eyes and a flush on her 
 cheeks, but if she hoped for sympathy from 
 her mother she was disappointed. 
 
 That lady looked a little surprised at her 
 daughter's outburst, but evidently regarded it 
 as indicating nothing more than a passing 
 mood of irritation, and studied her embroidery 
 pattern carefully, with her needle poised above 
 it. She was not a woman who penetrated be- 
 neath the surface of words. 
 
 "Well, you know, Charlotte," she said, as she 
 thrust the needle through the cloth, "I never 
 did quite approve of your going to dances. I 
 know young people do go, and their church 
 connection doesn't seem to make any differ- 
 ence, but I wasn't brought up that way and I 
 can't make it seem just right. If you don't 
 care to go any more I shan't worry. I'd rather 
 you'd entertain yourself some other way, but if 
 you do go I don't see why you shouldn't have 
 as much attention as other girls. I'm sure you 
 look as well as any of them. Your clothes are 
 better than a good many of the girls have and 
 you know your pa is always willing for you to
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 187 
 
 buy anything in reason. He wants you to 
 dress nicely." 
 
 "Oh, mother, the trouble isn't with my 
 clothes," the girl said wearily. "It's with me." 
 
 As she left the room her mother contrasted 
 this girl with her elder daughter, Susan, con- 
 siderably to the younger one's disadvantage. 
 Susan had been a girl after her own heart. 
 She had, as one might say, grown up in the 
 church and had never shown a taste for worldly 
 pleasures. She had belonged to the Christian 
 Endeavor Society, had taught in Sunday- 
 school, had sung in the choir, had assisted in all 
 the church suppers and other social functions; 
 and had, while still very young and before any 
 one had suspected such a possibility, quietly 
 announced to her parents her engagement to 
 the most eligible man in the church, a devout 
 youth in training to succeed his father as head 
 of the biggest department store in town. 
 
 Charlotte was so different, her mother 
 sighed. She had insisted on going away to 
 school, for one thing. She had wanted to go to 
 a coeducational college with some of her 
 friends. But her father did not approve of 
 such institutions, and sent her to a school for
 
 188 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 girls conducted on very strict principles by 
 two ladies of advanced years who disapproved 
 extremely of modern methods. When she re- 
 turned from this school she showed a distaste 
 for what her mother called church life, a thing 
 the parent could not understand in view of the 
 religious atmosphere with which she had been 
 surrounded in the school. On the contrary, she 
 had displayed a preference for the society of 
 young persons of the gayer, more frivolous 
 sort. Now, she as unaccountably manifested a 
 dislike for this same society. Mrs. Hobbs con- 
 fessed to herself that she did not understand 
 Charlotte, but she had nevertheless no manner 
 of misgiving about the girl. 
 
 "She is a little slow in coming to herself/' 
 the mother said, "but when she does she'll mar- 
 ry and settle down all right. All the girls do 
 in our family." And she went on placidly 
 with her needlework and turned her mind to 
 other matters. 
 
 Charlotte herself had some time ago reached 
 the conclusion that in all probability she would 
 never marry. It was not that she had an antip- 
 a,thy to matrimony; quite otherwise. Mar- 
 riage had figured among her dreams of the
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 189 
 
 future just as it does among those of other 
 normal girls, but in her case she felt that there 
 was little chance for the dreams to be realized. 
 Here she was twenty-two years old, and she 
 had never had a masculine admirer. She some- 
 how did not know how to get on with young 
 men. They did not "take" to her. It was not 
 that she was shy exactly, but she was stiff, she 
 knew that. She had no brothers and had never 
 known any boys very well except Harry and 
 Joe Wilson, who lived next door, and had been 
 her good friends before she went to school. But 
 even they were nice to her now because they 
 had to be. She knew the trouble was with her- 
 self, but she did not know exactly what it was. 
 Other girls who were no better-looking and no 
 more clever than she, some, indeed, who were 
 stupid and dull, were favorites with the men. 
 She didn't understand it, but, anyway, she 
 would not be humiliated any more by going 
 where she was passed by and ignored. 
 
 Mothers of some of the girls invited young 
 men to the house and made them so welcome 
 that they gladly came again, and such women's 
 daughters usually married well; but Char- 
 lotte's mother regarded such conduct as
 
 190 WITHOUT A MORAL; 
 
 quite shocking. She thanked heaven that she 
 was not a managing mama and was not of- 
 fering her daughter in marriage. She pre- 
 ferred to trust Providence to choose a hus- 
 band for her girls in the good old-fashioned 
 way. 
 
 As Charlotte went down the street, its long 
 vista reminded her of the lonely dusty road 
 that stretched before her through life, and 
 her throat ached as she wondered how she could 
 endure the weary way. She might live for 
 fifty years or more, and she was tired of life 
 already. She wished she had not been born. 
 
 Age may smile at the sorrows of youth, 
 knowing how brief they are, but youth, it 
 should be remembered, has not this consoling 
 knowledge, and its griefs are bitter indeed 
 while they last. On her way she met two 
 young women of her acquaintance, who, after 
 they passed, commented freely on Charlotte's 
 characteristics as it is the wont of friends to 
 do concerning each other. 
 
 "It's a pity Charlotte Hobbs isn't more at- 
 tractive. She's a social failure if there ever 
 was one, and she's a nice clever girl, too," 
 said one. "I can't understand it."
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 191 
 
 "It isn't her looks, surely," replied the other. 
 "Charlotte is really a pretty girl, an uncom- 
 monly pretty girl, or would be if she gave her- 
 self half a chance and showed a little anima- 
 tion. She has not an atom of style. Doesn't 
 hold her chin up, as father is always telling us 
 to do when he means that he wants us to have 
 pluck and determination. She's all right with 
 the girls, but when the boys are around she 
 stiffens up and freezes them. Doesn't mean it, 
 I know, but the boys take it that she's offish, 
 and keep away from her." 
 
 "What Charlotte lacks is a proper apprecia- 
 tion of herself," observed the other sagely. 
 "She needs more self-confidence. She doesn't 
 know how to make the most of her good points. 
 Doesn't really know what her good points are." 
 
 Charlotte, meanwhile, was still plunged in 
 gloomy meditation, the charm of the May 
 morning not being sufficient to bring good 
 cheer. 
 
 She visited the library and borrowed a new 
 novel, she bought her mother's embroidery silk, 
 and since she was down-town decided that, af- 
 ter all, she might as well buy the new white 
 slippers. "Even if I don't attend any more
 
 192 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 dances there are other uses for slippers," 
 she said to herself. While she was about it, 
 too, she took a look at the latest hats, and tried 
 on several, from which it will be perceived that 
 her melancholy views of life had not destroyed 
 her feminine interest in finery. 
 
 Then, on her way homeward, she turned the 
 corner of a building with her parasol tilted 
 well down before her eyes, and ran plump into 
 a man coming in the opposite direction. That 
 is, she struck him with the top of her parasol, 
 and with a wish to save his eye from being pen- 
 etrated by the ferrule he grasped this portion 
 of the sunshade with some force and broke it 
 sharply off in his hand. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, miss," he exclaimed. 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 The two stood there for a moment face to 
 face, she in some bewilderment, he smiling 
 cheerfully with an air of being equal to all oc- 
 casions. 
 
 He took the parasol from her hand and ex- 
 amined the extent of the damage. 
 
 "As I am guilty of breaking this useful ar- 
 ticle, I shall see that it is mended if you will 
 allow me."
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 193 
 
 "Certainly not," she returned, "I am the one 
 to blame. It was careless of me to turn a cor- 
 ner without looking before me." 
 
 He was walking at her side by this time, 
 with the parasol in his hand. "Don't apolo- 
 gize. Consider rather that you conferred a 
 favor on an unhappy man. Think, please, of 
 a man, a stranger to the town, with a long day 
 before him, wondering dismally how he is to 
 pass it and wishing for some charitable soul 
 to give him a kind word. Consider such a one 
 and then fancy his gratitude on suddenly, even 
 if forcibly, meeting a beautiful young woman 
 who looks kind." 
 
 He was gazing at her and Charlotte, glanc- 
 ing at him, noted an expression of frank ad- 
 miration in his eyes, a look which no woman 
 mistakes. She felt her heart beat unaccount- 
 ably. She was not used to being admired, and 
 she secretly found it very agreeable, but she 
 knew she ought not to be receiving such 
 glances from a stranger, even though they 
 were quite respectful, and that she ought not to 
 be walking with him. 
 
 "Let me have my parasol and I will go home 
 now," she said, dismissing him.
 
 194 
 
 The stranger showed no sign of turning 
 back. "It looks like a beautiful street ahead 
 of us," he said, "I should like to stroll through 
 it." 
 
 "You have that privilege; the streets are 
 open to residents and visitors alike," she said. 
 "Please give me my parasol." 
 
 "I throw myself on your mercy. I am sim- 
 ply perishing for some one to talk to who is 
 like my own people. Really, I suppose I'm 
 homesick. And you looked as if you would 
 understand." 
 
 "But I don't know you, sir," she said, a 
 statement which was not strictly true, for she 
 had recognized him as one of the actors in a 
 play which was booked for two or three weeks' 
 stay at the Globe Theater, a performance of 
 which she had attended one afternoon. 
 
 "That ignorance is easily remedied. On the 
 theater programs I am down as Vincent Syl- 
 vester, this to save the feelings of my family, 
 who feel that I am lowering the ancestral 
 name, which is the plain one of Robinson. I 
 am John Robinson, at your service. Oh, yes, 
 I know that we are defying Mrs. Grundy, but 
 don't you think there is something in this in-
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 1 195 
 
 i 
 
 spiring spring air that justifies independence 
 of her?" 
 
 Charlotte laughed, blushed and dimpled. 
 She was really shocked at her own conduct, but 
 she recklessly resolved to continue the acquaint- 
 ance so informally begun. She knew the man 
 at her side might be a scamp, that his name 
 might not be Robinson and that his compli- 
 ments might be hollow mockery, yet it was 
 something to have compliments on any basis. 
 He was good to look upon, she found his pres- 
 ence agreeable and she would see the adventure 
 further. 
 
 So they strolled slowly on up the street to- 
 gether and talked of all manner of things. 
 From some cause which she could not explain, 
 and there was an undercurrent of wonder in 
 her mind about it even while she talked, she 
 was entirely at ease with him. His attitude 
 toward her was as if she were a beauty and a 
 belle and as if he were distinctly honored by 
 being allowed to be in her company. She 
 glanced at him now and then with suspicion to 
 discover if there was any lack of sincerity in 
 his deferential manner and his delicate intima- 
 tions that she was a queen, whose word was
 
 196 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 law, but she could detect no smallest sign that 
 he was laughing at her, so her confidence was 
 strengthened. It seemed to her that he was ac- 
 cepting her as the typical American girl, that 
 wonderful being who, according to the ro- 
 mancers and the writers for the press, has the 
 world at her feet. But even so, and though she 
 was no such brilliant creature, and though he 
 might be regarding her with secret amusement, 
 the moment and the experience had their charm 
 and she was loath to end them. 
 
 So was her companion evidently, for when, 
 presently, they reached a little park, he pro- 
 posed that they go and sit on one of the 
 benches. She hesitated but a moment, then ac- 
 companied him with a smile that gave her the 
 air of conferring an undeserved favor. 
 
 "You are good to a poor beggar," he said, 
 settling himself with a sigh of content. 
 
 "There are people who would say I am very 
 wicked, sitting here with you, a man I had 
 never met an hour ago, and to whom I have 
 not been introduced. Those nursemaids would 
 be greatly shocked and those nice old people 
 sunning themselves on the benches would shake
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 197 
 
 their heads at me mournfully if they knew the 
 heinousness of my conduct." 
 
 "But surely you do not feel wicked. Your 
 consciousness of having done a benevolent 
 deed should save you from that." 
 
 "I regret to say that I do not. My con- 
 science acts slowly. To-morrow I shall suffer 
 deep remorse." 
 
 "Let us not think of to-morrow. Let us 
 think of to-day and of spring and be happy. 
 As for me, I feel that I am experiencing the 
 reward of virtue and am at peace with the 
 world." 
 
 They talked of the stage and he satisfied her 
 girlish curiosity as to its mysteries. He had 
 not been in the actor's profession very long 
 himself, but already, he admitted, his confident 
 expectations of becoming an Irving or a Booth 
 were fading and he thought it not impossible 
 that the theater would suffer no loss by his 
 withdrawal from it. Also they discussed 
 sports baseball, golf, polo and other strange 
 athletic amusements modern youth has an in- 
 terest in. Then they skirted around sentiment- 
 al topics, as man and maid will do even on
 
 198 WITHOUT A MORAL; 
 
 short acquaintance, and they looked in each 
 other's eyes also as man and maid will do, and 
 thought vague thoughts that they did not 
 speak, and were frankly glad to be alive. 
 
 He would have walked with her to her door, 
 but she said no. 
 
 "Let us say good-by now, Mr. Robinson." 
 
 "Good-by is a sad word. Let us postpone it. 
 Let us think of to-morrow. When you go 
 down-town at noon to the library to return this 
 book I am sure you will have finished it by 
 that time I shall be there and we shall have 
 luncheon together and you will again make a 
 lonely fellow happy." 
 
 She did not promise, but went home with 
 eyes bright and head held high, a very different 
 being from the gloomy girl who had gone out 
 two hours before. On her way she met Harry 
 Wilson and flashed so brilliant a smile at him 
 that he turned at his gate in wonder and looked 
 after her. Sudden admiration was in his eyes, 
 and glancing back as she entered her own door, 
 she felt it and smiled with a subtle knowledge 
 that had not been hers in the morning the be- 
 ginning of a knowledge of her own powers. 
 
 She went to the luncheon next day
 
 WITHOUT r A MORAIT 199 
 
 and lingered over it, thinking little of the food 
 she ate but enjoying to the utmost her new ac- 
 quaintance with herself. This time Mr. Rob- 
 inson accompanied her to her door, for she had 
 found that he was a cousin of one of her class- 
 mates in the young ladies' school and she 
 could, therefore, account for him to her mother 
 in case that lady should ask troublesome ques- 
 tions. Not that she anticipated anything of 
 the sort, for Mrs. Hobbs held firmly to the 
 simple American faith that a young girl is 
 competent to manage her own love affairs. 
 
 But this was not really a love affair. A rep- 
 rehensible flirtation it might be, and at first 
 there was a bewilderment and an unaccustomed 
 sensation about it that led Charlotte to wonder 
 if she had met her fate. But her balance was 
 speedily restored and she had a reason all her 
 own for knowing that nothing . serious could 
 come of the acquaintance with this pleasant 
 stranger. Besides, he gave her no impression 
 of being serious himself. All their intercourse 
 was of the touch-and-go character that may at 
 any moment take on significance or may be- 
 come a vague and fading memory of a passing 
 episode. Yet every day she met her new
 
 200 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 friend and every day she became more glad 
 that she had heen born. Her friends noticed a 
 difference in her so marked that they marveled. 
 She had the manner of being awake to what 
 went on about her in a way she had never shown 
 before ; she was gay and self-confident ; it was 
 transformation. The younger people of her 
 acquaintance commented upon it and won- 
 dered. Even her unobservant mother remarked 
 with satisfaction that Charlotte had got over 
 the blues, and her father told her that she was 
 growing to look like her Aunt Mary, who, 
 Charlotte was aware, had been a great beauty 
 of more than local fame. 
 
 Her friend and neighbor, Harry Wilson, 
 who had seen the stranger escort her to her 
 gate on more than one occasion, suddenly de- 
 veloped an interest in her proceedings and took 
 it upon himself to remonstrate with her. 
 
 "Charlotte, what do you mean by letting 
 that actor fellow trail around after you? What 
 do you know about him?" 
 
 "Highty-tighty, Master Harry! Do you 
 think I would allow an actor fellow to trail if 
 I didn't know all about him? You're not com- 
 plimentary to me." And she laughed in an
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 201 
 
 unconcerned way that Mr. Harry chose to re- 
 gard as very exasperating. 
 
 She was no longer the meek creature who 
 had been wont to receive his occasional and 
 somewhat perfunctory attentions with obvious 
 gratitude and to listen to his lordly criticisms in 
 humble silence. The young man spent consid- 
 erable time in cogitating over her conduct, a 
 thing he had never felt the need of doing be- 
 fore in all the years of their acquaintance. 
 
 Possibly as the outcome of these meditations 
 he offered himself as escort to Julia's dance, 
 her father usually serving in that capacity on 
 such occasions. 
 
 She graciously accepted his offer, having 
 changed her determination in regard to that 
 festivity so positively announced to her mother 
 a few days before. 
 
 At this dance she was not a wallflower. She 
 did not know why. She did know that she 
 felt quite sure she would be asked to dance, 
 and she was not disappointed. The young 
 men who asked her were the same ones who had 
 been passing her by, yet they now felt impelled 
 somehow to give attention to her. She was the 
 same girl, yet she was different. She was pret-
 
 202 WITHOUT A MORAL, 
 
 tier with the added beauty given by animation 
 and high spirits ; she had developed no new ac- 
 complishments and no miraculous gift had 
 been bestowed on her. She had simply emerged 
 from a state of doubt and self -depreciation 
 into one of self-confidence and self-poise, and 
 felt the sense of freedom that a newly fledged 
 bird, just trying her wings, might feel. 
 
 A shrewd matron, who from her corner had 
 studied the characteristics of all the girls dur- 
 ing a season of gaiety, and knew their faults 
 and virtues better than their own mothers did, 
 noted the transformation with interest. 
 
 "It is the awakening of a sleeping beauty," 
 she remarked. "Where is the fairy prince who 
 waved his magic wand?" 
 
 It was the wand of praise and admiration, 
 not of love, that had wrought the sudden 
 change, had the dame but known it. It is not 
 alone man's love that works magic in a 
 woman's soul. Such love is sometimes a thing 
 apart from the appreciative understanding the 
 feminine heart almost as deeply craves. 
 
 Unexpectedly at a late hour the fairy prince, 
 otherwise Vincent Sylvester, otherwise John 
 Robinson, made his appearance on the floor,
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 203 
 
 having been brought there in the easy Ameri- 
 can fashion, through permission of the hostess, 
 by a young man who had made his acquaint- 
 ance in the hotel lobby, and accepted him, as he 
 would have said, at his face value. The hand- 
 some young actor was at once an object of in- 
 terest. When he made his way to Charlotte he 
 found her the center of a lively group. Two 
 weeks before she would have met him with 
 awkward formality and self -consciousness. 
 Now she greeted him gaily as an old friend 
 and made him one of her little circle, feeling 
 a natural feminine sense of triumph in the def- 
 erence he paid to her. She made no protests 
 when he calmly claimed dances she had prom- 
 ised to others, and secretly hoped when she 
 smiled teasingly at the flouted ones, that they 
 recalled the occasions when they had forgotten 
 her. Harry Wilson, who was among those so 
 unceremoniously set aside, openly sulked. 
 Whatever else might happen hereafter, he 
 seemed unlikely to be able to forget this very 
 irritating young woman again. 
 
 On their way home he unwisely protested. 
 "I never would have thought you were the kind 
 of a girl to flirt with an actor, Charlotte H,obbs
 
 204 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 a fellow nobody knows anything about at 
 that." 
 
 "Since when did you become my guardian, 
 Harry, boy? I don't know what you call flirt- 
 ing. Don't you think some attention is due 
 to a strange guest in a friend's house?" 
 
 She laughed mockingly, but at her door she 
 gave him her hand and said such a soft good 
 night that he went home with his heart throb- 
 bing as he had never dreamed it would throb 
 because of Charlotte Hobbs, but as hers had 
 beaten for him many a time in the past unhap- 
 py months. 
 
 The next day was the last of Sylvester's 
 stay, and they had a farewell luncheon to- 
 gether. "If you don't mind," he said, "now 
 that we are to part, I should like to know why 
 you, a young woman, as I found last night, 
 with so many admirers that you could afford to 
 snub them, I should like, if I may, to know 
 why you condescended to notice me ? You did 
 not know but that I might be a villain." 
 
 "Do I know otherwise now?" she asked 
 sweetly. 
 
 "But surely you are convinced. You must
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 205 
 
 have an instinct that I am what I profess to be, 
 just as I was sure that you " 
 
 "That I of course you knew that I was all 
 right. That's different. You could not dare 
 to think the contrary," she retorted loftily. 
 "Why did I do the naughty things I have 
 been doing: making your acquaintance on the 
 street, and meeting you in the park? Shock- 
 ing conduct, wasn't it? But think of this: 
 Don't you suppose that the tamest of girls is 
 tempted to break out of the traces sometimes 
 and look for adventure? That's why, if you 
 must know." 
 
 From which it will be seen that Miss Char- 
 lotte was a disingenuous person who did not 
 tell all the truth. But she could not, of course, 
 have been expected to confess that she accepted 
 the stranger's attentions for lack of any from 
 other men. 
 
 "No," she went on, "I do not know that you 
 are not a villain, but I do not think you are, 
 and I want you to promise me when you go 
 with your company to Chicago, that you will 
 not make the acquaintance of any girl as you 
 made mine."
 
 206 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "But I shall he lonely." 
 
 "My faith in you is such," she said, "that I 
 will give you a letter to my dearest friend, a 
 nice girl who would be horrified beyond words 
 if she knew how I came to know you." 
 
 "And you shall you, do you think, care for 
 further adventure?" he asked. 
 
 "Be still! No, never in the world. Of 
 course not." 
 
 "But you are not sorry for this one?" 
 
 "No, I am not sorry," she said frankly; "I 
 am not sorry, I am glad," and she blushed and 
 sparkled, and a stranger at a table facing the 
 two decided that he had not seen a prettier girl 
 in many a long day. But she did not tell her 
 friend that she was glad because through the 
 adventure she had now another lover. 
 
 "As for me," he said, "these few weeks have 
 been red-letter days, and I hope they have 
 made me a friend." 
 
 And so the episode ended with no harm to 
 either, and some good. The conventional pro- 
 prieties demanded that the girl should suffer 
 shame and humiliation for her scandalous con- 
 duct, and that the man should have been dis-
 
 WITHOUT A MORAL 207 
 
 closed as a designing rascal, but nothing of 
 the sort happened. There were no ill conse- 
 quences and there is no moral to be drawn. 
 
 Later came a letter to Charlotte from the 
 Chicago friend. 
 
 "How could you bear to let so charming a 
 man go beyond your reach ? I warn you that I 
 shall not let him return, if I can help it." 
 
 Still later came word that the two were to be 
 married and that both were eternally grateful 
 to Charlotte for having brought them together. 
 
 All these things happened not this year or 
 the year before. Charlotte Hobbs is Mrs. 
 Harry Wilson now, and has two small daugh- 
 ters, concerning whose rearing she has ideas of 
 much strictness. As a young matron she holds 
 rigid views in regard to the behavior of unmar- 
 ried girls. She does not forget that she once 
 carried on a clandestine acquaintance with an 
 unintroduced stranger, but she holds, very 
 soundly no doubt, that what she did safely 
 would be highly improper and dangerous for 
 another girl! And she is firmly resolved that
 
 208 WITHOUT A MORAL 
 
 her daughters, when they come to young lady- 
 hood, shall be so well provided with masculine 
 companions of her own choosing, that they will 
 not need to go to the highways to seek them.
 
 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 CHARLOTTE ANDERSON, being 
 young and in good health and with few 
 troubles to weigh upon her mind, was what her 
 grandmother called a "master hand to sleep." 
 When her head once touched the pillow at 
 night, it was but a few minutes until her eyes 
 closed in slumber that was not easily disturbed 
 until after day had dawned. Consequent- 
 ly she dreamed but little, or at least was seldom 
 conscious when she awoke that dreams had vis- 
 ited her. 
 
 One night in September was an exception. 
 She had spent a delightful day in the country, 
 but the drive home had been rather wearying 
 and she had gone to bed early, dropping to 
 sleep at once, as usual. 
 
 In the middle of the night she awoke sud- 
 denly with a sense of having a problem to solve 
 and with a dream vividly in mind. In this 
 dream she seemed to have been holding a pleas- 
 ant and animated conversation, with Mr. 
 
 209
 
 210 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 Charles Wilbur, a well-known lawyer of her 
 town, who had died recently and with whom, 
 in life, she had had but the slightest acquaint- 
 ance, though she had admired and respected 
 him. There was no suggestion of ghostliness 
 in this person seated at ease on the veranda, 
 but all the time they talked she kept saying to 
 herself, "Why, this is since Mr. Wilbur died. 
 I wonder how I wonder why " and awoke 
 with a queer sense of being puzzled by the mys- 
 tery of his presence. 
 
 The odd sensation of bewilderment returned 
 to her now and then through the day, and she 
 felt herself starting nervously when a chance 
 caller mentioned his name, though the promi- 
 nence of the man and his recent death made 
 such a reference entirely natural and to be ex- 
 pected. 
 
 "Isn't it too bad," said the visitor, "that old 
 Mr. James Allen died without making a will? 
 Everybody supposed he would leave his prop- 
 erty to faithful Miss Mattie, his stepdaugh- 
 ter, who has looked after him so long; but 
 they can't find a line of writing to show his 
 intentions, and the estate, which is enough to 
 have provided for her comfortably all her life,
 
 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 211 
 
 will go to some cousins who are well-to-do, 
 while Miss Mattie won't have a dollar. She 
 says she thought Mr. Wilbur drew up a will 
 for her father, but he died first and no one 
 knows a thing about it. I don't know what she 
 will do. She's sort of broken down from wait- 
 ing on the old gentleman and isn't as young as 
 she once was." 
 
 The lady rambled on and Charlotte caught 
 herself thinking, grotesquely enough, "If I 
 had known this last night I might have asked 
 him." 
 
 Next day Charlotte, in a crowd on a corner 
 down-town, saw for a moment at a little dis- 
 tance ahead of her, a tall form so much like 
 that of the late Mr. Wilbur, that she caught 
 her breath while hoping for a turn of the gray 
 head that would disclose the face. But the 
 figure vanished, and though she hastened her 
 steps she had no further glimpse of him. 
 
 She shook her shoulders impatiently as she 
 realized what she was doing. "How silly of 
 me," she thought. "Am I losing my wits?" 
 
 A day or two after, walking up the street 
 near her home with a friend, she saw a man ap- 
 proaching who was surely the image of the one
 
 212 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 she had talked with in her dreams. In a tone of 
 surprise she said to her companion: "What a 
 remarkable resemblance to Mr. Wilbur!" 
 
 The other girl looked around inquiringly. 
 
 "What are you talking about?" she asked. 
 "I see no one." 
 
 Charlotte's eyes had not been consciously re- 
 moved from the approaching figure, but in a 
 moment she, too, saw no one and could not 
 have told where the man had gone. No one 
 was visible on the square but a lame negro car- 
 rying a basket of freshly ironed clothes. She 
 made a confused reply to her friend's question 
 and each took her own way at the corner. 
 
 Until this moment anything supernatural in 
 connection with Mr. Wilbur had not suggested 
 itself, and even now she rejected the thought. 
 
 Charlotte was not superstitious nor espe- 
 cially imaginative. Nor had she dallied with 
 the occult in any way except to read cas- 
 ual articles on psychical philosophy, the sub- 
 conscious mind and the like, matters in which 
 she took a keen intellectual interest, but only 
 half accepted as truth. 
 
 Even now she was ready with a scientific ex-
 
 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 213 
 
 planation of the apparition of the departed 
 gentleman. 
 
 "There was nothing there, of course. I 
 don't dream often, so when I have a dream it 
 makes an impression on me. That talk with 
 Mr. Wilbur in my sleep the other night and 
 then the talk about the will he may have writ- 
 ten, has kept him in my subconsciousness very 
 likely, and I suppose there is a picture of him 
 before my mind's eye that now and then pro- 
 jects itself before my actual sight and seems to 
 be the real thing. But I hope I shall have no 
 further experiences of the kind." 
 
 A week passed, and the thought of Mr. Wil- 
 bur had almost gone from her mind, when one 
 night she awoke suddenly, curiously agitated 
 and vividly conscious that again in a dream she 
 had talked with him. Again she had been seat- 
 ed with him on the same veranda one over- 
 looking a body of water, but which was like no 
 place she was familiar with. As before, they 
 had talked of trivial things that in her waking 
 moments she could not remember; but what 
 she did recall was that in this dream she was 
 aware that each wished to say something to the
 
 214 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 other which somehow, because of the strange 
 perversity of things common in dreams, was 
 not said. 
 
 "I suppose I wanted to ask him about old 
 Mr. Allen's will," she said to herself, with a 
 smile in the dark at the idea, "but what could 
 he have wanted of me? I don't like such 
 dreams." 
 
 The next night the dream was repeated and 
 followed again by the same vague and linger- 
 ing sense of dissatisfaction over some earnestly 
 desired end unachieved. 
 
 Charlotte began to be troubled, a feeling 
 that was deepened by another fleeting glimpse 
 of some one passing down the street who looked 
 like Mr. Wilbur. Others were with her, but 
 she had learned caution and dared not ask if 
 they, too, saw this person or noted the resem- 
 blance. A girl less given to emotional vagaries 
 could hardly be found, or one more self-con- 
 trolled, but these experiences were growing op- 
 pressive. 
 
 Out of a dread of ridicule she said nothing 
 about them, and out of her slight knowledge 
 of psychology she still continued to explain 
 them to herself as quite natural occurrences,
 
 WAS IT ALL; A DREAM? 215 
 
 but the explanations were not wholly convinc- 
 ing. 
 
 "Can I be haunted or am I growing daft?" 
 she wondered uneasily. 
 
 The next time the dream came she awoke re- 
 peating the name "JSTorris" and feeling that 
 the companion of her dream was much pleased, 
 as if he had been teaching her a lesson which 
 she had learned correctly. 
 
 "I knew some Norrises once," she thought 
 sleepily. "They lived in the big house at the 
 head of Elm Street before they moved to Bos- 
 ton." 
 
 One evening as she came across from a 
 neighbor's house in the dusk, something was 
 it real, was it a shadow, a mist? seemed to 
 flit by her side. Did she really hear a faint 
 whisper or was it the sigh of the breeze, an echo 
 of her dream, that seemed to her ears like 
 "Norris, Norris"? 
 
 She hurried into the house, shivering and 
 glad of the lights. 
 
 "Something is wrong with my nerves, I 
 wonder if I ought to see the doctor," she 
 thought wearily. 
 
 As the days went by, she grew pale and thin.
 
 216 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 Busy herself as she might by day, she could 
 not escape the frequent thought of Mr. Wil- 
 bur, a man with whom she had only the most 
 formal acquaintance when he lived, and who, 
 she reflected, perhaps never really did dis- 
 tinguish her identity from that of a dozen 
 other young women. She knew that the more 
 her mind dwelt on the mystery, the worse it 
 was for her nerves and the more difficult to 
 free herself from the obsession ; but get rid of 
 the restless wonder as to what it all meant she 
 could not. 
 
 The next time the dream came, its scene had 
 shifted. The veranda overlooking the water 
 had vanished and she and her companion were 
 seated in an office where were books in a case 
 and on tables, and a large iron safe. Again 
 she awoke with the name "Nbrris" on her 
 tongue and how she could not explain, but 
 somehow she seemed to associate the name 
 with the safe. 
 
 She began to wonder vaguely if there were a 
 method and purpose of some occult sort in this 
 series of dreams and visions. One day, sitting 
 quietly in her room and meditating on this, im- 
 patient with herself while doing so, remem-
 
 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 217 
 
 brance of the plight of poor impoverished 
 Miss Martha, whom she had half forgotten, 
 came to her anew, and following it like a flash, 
 was the accompaniment, "the will, the will, 
 Norris." She did not know what the words 
 meant in connection, but their vividness on her 
 mind was as if some unseen presence had spok- 
 en them or as if they were written on the wall 
 before her. 
 
 "I can't endure this," moaned the girl. "I 
 am getting afraid that my mind is going. I 
 have half a mind to go down to John Wilbur's 
 office and ask him what he knows about any as- 
 sociation of his father with somebody named 
 Norris. He will think I am a fool, but I can't 
 help it. I met him once long ago, but I'm sure 
 he doesn't know me from Adam ; he never looks 
 at a girl. He's more dignified than his father 
 was even, but he can't do more than look sur- 
 prised and scornful and I reckon I can stand 
 that. Anyway, I must do something." 
 
 Of the dream that night she could only re- 
 call a repetition of the words, "the will, the 
 will" and a vision of Mr. Wilbur at a desk 
 writing. 
 
 She read everything she could find on psy-
 
 218 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 chological phenomena, but without enlighten- 
 ment on her particular problem, and aware 
 while doing so that it would be better in her 
 condition of mind to let such literature alone. 
 Then she abandoned books and tried to aban- 
 don thought by devoting herself industriously 
 to golf. But though she went to her bed each 
 night weary with the wholesome weariness of 
 healthy active youth, the obsession remained, 
 "The will, the will, the will" was the burden of 
 her thought when she awoke. 
 
 At last one day the girl, with a shadow of 
 fear in her eyes, not of the man she was to visit 
 but of herself, took her life in her hands, as she 
 afterward expressed it, and went down to call 
 on Mr. John Wilbur, attorney at law, and 
 successor to his father, whose partner he had 
 been. 
 
 In the presence of two or three clerks, a 
 supercilious stenographer and an inattentive 
 office boy she almost lost courage, but on mak- 
 ing her wish known to see Mr. Wilbur, was 
 ushered into the inner office with disconcerting 
 haste, the gentleman being at that moment at 
 leisure.
 
 .WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 219 
 
 "When I sat down facing him," she said af- 
 terward to members of her family who were at 
 last taken into her confidence; "when I sat 
 down there and heard John Wilbur say, 'What 
 can I do for you, Miss Anderson?' (it seems he 
 had always remembered me and I, supposing 
 he hadn't, had passed him by without speak- 
 ing) I felt like a condemned criminal. With 
 his eyes looking right through me, I was sure 
 he expected nothing less than a statement that 
 I was preparing to bring a breach of promise 
 suit against some one, or that I was about to 
 confess to having robbed my grandmother. I 
 have always prided myself on my self-control 
 and presence of mind, but as I glanced around 
 the room every word of the little speech I had 
 so carefully prepared vanished from memory. 
 It was the office I had seen in my dream, with 
 the safe in the corner and the books opposite. 
 
 "I turned to Mr. Wilbur and gasped: *I 
 saw this room in my dream. Have you got 
 Mr. James Allen's will in that safe?* 
 
 "He must have thought I was crazy, for 
 after a look of surprise, he answered soothing- 
 ly, as he would to a child:
 
 220 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 " 'So far as I know, Mr. Allen left no will, 
 Miss Anderson.' 
 
 "I was so excited by this time that I forgot 
 to be afraid of him, and I told him the story as 
 fast as my tongue could tell it all about the 
 dreams, the times I had seen his father; that 
 is, somebody who looked just like his father; 
 all about the haunting sense that he wanted to 
 tell me something, possibly about the missing 
 Allen will. Oddly enough, the name Norris 
 had for a moment been forgotten and I did not 
 mention it. 
 
 "It was a relief to tell it all, I had kept it 
 to myself so long ; but somehow, in broad day- 
 light and in putting the thing into words it 
 seemed vague and foolish and far away, and I 
 wondered that such experiences could have 
 troubled me and what Mr. Wilbur thought of 
 me. He was exceedingly nice, I must say. I 
 wouldn't have dreamed he could be so pleas- 
 ant. 
 
 "He never smiled even in his eyes I should 
 have screamed if he had and when I got 
 through he said it was strange, very strange. 
 He said he had read a good deal on occult ques-
 
 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 221 
 
 tions and psychological mysteries, but had 
 never had an experience like mine. He was 
 inclined to think, though, that I had been nerv- 
 ous and overwrought, and having my sympa- 
 thies roused about the will and Miss Martha's 
 distress, I had drifted into a sort of morbid 
 condition, and he was glad I had decided to 
 come to him with the story, for now my mind 
 would probably be quieted and I would have 
 no more trouble. 
 
 "Then he said the office had been searched 
 high and low for a possible will of Mr. Allen's, 
 but none could be found; there was no record 
 on his father's books that he had written one 
 and he, John, believed that none had ever been 
 drawn. 
 
 "Then he opened the safe and showed me 
 how carefully everything was arranged and la- 
 beled and how unlikely it was that anything 
 could be lost or mislaid. They had gone 
 through the drawers and pigeonholes, though, 
 just the same, he said. His father was a very 
 methodical man, too, and was accustomed to 
 enter every item of business in a book, but 
 there was nowhere a mention of this will.
 
 222 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 "He pulled out this and that drawer as he 
 talked, just to show the systematic arrange- 
 ment, and there in one, lying right on top, was 
 a big envelope labeled in large printed letters 
 'Norris'. 
 
 "I fairly screamed, 'Oh, there it is,' and 
 snatched at the papers. He pushed my hand 
 away, almost rudely I have to confess, and said 
 with an offended, rather stiff air: 'Those are 
 private papers belonging to the old Norris es- 
 tate.' 
 
 " 'Let me look in that drawer one minute,' I 
 cried, and I fairly shoved him out of my way 
 while I pulled the drawer out and set it on the 
 table. 
 
 "He looked at me really horrified, but I did 
 not care. I opened one formidable-looking 
 document after another until I had seen them 
 all and among them was no Allen will! 
 
 "All at once, at that moment it came over me 
 in a most crushing way what a silly, silly crea- 
 ture I had been, and as I gathered the papers 
 up to replace them I could not lift my eyes to 
 Mr. Wilbur's face. 
 
 "Perhaps to relieve my embarrassment, he 
 said: 'Don't you remember the Norrises? They
 
 t WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 223 
 
 used to live here, but are now living in Boston. 
 I was there lately.' 
 
 " 'Have they a house with a veranda over- 
 looking the water?' I asked, hardly thinking of 
 what I was saying, I was so anxious to get 
 away with a little show of self-respect. 
 
 " 'Yes,' he said, looking surprised. 
 
 " "Then I saw it in my dream,' I said, still 
 fumbling with the documents and not helping 
 my self-respect by this further mention of my 
 experiences. 
 
 "There was a stiff brown paper in the bot- 
 tom of the drawer as a sort of lining, and as I 
 put my hand in mechanically to smooth down 
 a fold, I felt something under it. I lifted the 
 paper and there was a folded document marked 
 on the back, 'Last will and testament of James 
 Allen.' 
 
 "I handed it to Mr. John Wilbur and we 
 stood staring at each other without a word. 
 
 "Then I could not help it, I had never done 
 such a thing in my life in a public place, but I 
 could stand no more, and I put my head down 
 on the desk in that business office and cried and 
 cried and cried. 
 
 "What happened then? Oh, nothing, ex-
 
 224 WAS IT ALL A DREAM? 
 
 cept that Mr. John Wilbur telephoned for his 
 automobile and took me home. He said that I 
 was not in a state to go home in the street-cars. 
 I suppose I must have been a sight. We drove 
 a long way around. He said the country air 
 would be good for me. He is not at all such a 
 man as I thought he was, and is really quite 
 human. But now that it's all over I hope old 
 Mr. Wilbur will be at peace and let me be so.'* 
 
 A year later Charlotte and her husband were 
 talking the affair over a thing they seldom 
 did, the subject being one of which they were a 
 little afraid. 
 
 "No, John, I have never dreamed of your 
 father since the day the will was found. I 
 should really have liked to see him once after- 
 ward to know if he were pleased. But there's 
 one thing I never could understand, and that 
 is, why I should have been the one to have that 
 experience and find the will rather than you 
 or Miss Mattie or some one more closely inter- 
 ested than I." 
 
 "That's no mystery to me, my dear. If 
 father had anything to do with those dreams, 
 he had another purpose in addition to the find-
 
 WAS IT ALE A DREAM? 225 
 
 ing of the will. He used to say he meant to 
 find a wife for me, and I'm sure no one could 
 have used better judgment." 
 
 At which Charlotte laughed, for the shadow 
 of the dream had long passed.
 
 THE ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 MISS WHITE was having her hair 
 shampooed, and the woman who was 
 performing the service was indulging in a 
 monologue, after the manner of her kind. 
 
 "Your hair's coming out perfectly dread- 
 ful, honey. You'd better let me treat your 
 scalp. I have a splendid tonic; always carry 
 a bottle with me. Think you won't to-day? 
 No? All right, dear; some other time you'll 
 feel more like it. 
 
 "As I was saying, I had a perfectly awful 
 time last fall after I sprained my wrist. Busi- 
 ness hadn't been very good before that be- 
 cause so many of my customers I don't work 
 for none but high-toned ladies, you know 
 didn't come back from their summer trips till 
 so late that I'd hardly got to work when I 
 got that sprain. I had to go in debt at the 
 grocery and the rent got behind and every- 
 thing went wrong, and the world looked 
 
 226
 
 ETERNAL FEMININE 227 
 
 purty black. I tell you, Miss White, if I'd 
 had any decent clothes along then I'd a killed 
 myself; I would so." 
 
 Miss White, being feminine, comprehended 
 perfectly and needed no explanation of this 
 remarkable statement, but she received one. 
 
 "You know, I just couldn't bear the idea 
 of people coming in and finding me in my 
 rags; they were just actually rags. And 
 those Jones women down below me you 
 don't know them, though they would talk 
 so. And you'd hate, even if you were dead, 
 to have everybody know you didn't have a 
 dud fit to be laid out in. 
 
 "I've always believed in taking a little 
 thought about things o' that kind. It's always 
 seemed to me that if women who jump in 
 the river would think twice, they'd choose 
 some other way. If they'd just think how 
 they'll look when they're hauled out all drag- 
 gled and horrid! Every woman knows that 
 she's at her very worst with her hair wet and 
 stringy. You can see that for yourself there 
 in the glass. I hold that a woman ought always 
 to look as well as she can when she's in public, 
 and there ain't anything much more public
 
 228 ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 than being pulled out of the river or the canal, 
 dead or alive. 
 
 "Your hair's getting mighty thin on top, 
 honey. You'll have to be getting a transfor- 
 mation right soon; not a wig, you know, but 
 sort of a reinforcement to your own hair or 
 maybe you'd like this new swirled arrange- 
 ment. A couple o' long braids pinned on at 
 the back and brought around on the top, kind 
 o' turban-like, will cover them thin places just 
 lovely. Braids cost a lot if you get the real 
 fine hair, as, of course, you'd want. With fash- 
 ions in hair changing so, it's hard to keep up 
 unless youVe got a lot o' money. Me, I just 
 go to the department store and get their goods. 
 Of course department store hair isn't real hu- 
 man hair some of it they say's from China- 
 men but the general effect when it's on is 
 the same. And a woman these days who thinks 
 anything of herself just has to keep up with 
 the style in hair same as in hats. For the mat- 
 ter of that, you can't get hats unless you have 
 hair on to fit 'em. 
 
 "Ain't the hats be-utiful this spring per- 
 fect dreams? I seen one in a window down- 
 town this morning that just set my heart go-
 
 ETERNAL FEMININE 229 
 
 ing, but, law! it was miles out o' my reach. I 
 don't s'pose you've ever known what it was, 
 Miss White, to just wish and wish and wish 
 for clothes you couldn't get. I've known a lot 
 of it. Fact is, I never did have in all my life 
 all the clothes at one time that properly go to- 
 gether. If I had the dress, I didn't have the 
 hat, or if I had the hat my shoes were shabby 
 or I had no gloves or no coat. Oh, it's real 
 heart-rendering! Even when I was married 
 I had to borrow my sister's wedding dress; 
 she was married the year before. Afterwards 
 I never caught up. I s'posed that when a girl 
 was married clothes came as a matter of course, 
 but I was young and green. Jim meant well, 
 but he didn't really understand what it takes to 
 make a woman happy, and, anyway, you can't 
 make much of a splurge on twelve dollars a 
 week, with victuals to buy and rent to pay and 
 everything high as it was even then, ten years 
 ago. And when he died four years ago it 
 was sudden, he fell off a roof there was all 
 the expenses of the funeral and I've only just 
 lately got them paid off. When I finally had 
 them paid, I made up my mind I'd get me 
 some decent things to wear with the first money
 
 230 ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 I could save ; but then came that sprained wrist 
 and a long spell of doing nothing and getting 
 in debt, and no clothes in sight yet. It's hard 
 luck. Oh, deary, dearl 
 
 "You're getting pretty gray, honey. Hadn't 
 you better let me stain your hair? I have a 
 splendid stain. Can make any shade you 
 want dark brown like it used to be, or light- 
 er, if you like. And it will stay, oh, a long 
 time with just a little touching up. 
 
 "Think not? A great many ladies do. 
 You'd be surprised. Haven't you noticed how 
 many of your friends that are getting along 
 in years haven't a gray hair to be seen? Well, 
 that's because the gray hair's been doctored. 
 The head nurse over at St. Bones's Hospital 
 says to me one day, 'Emmy,' says she, 'three 
 women out of five that you meet on the street 
 are going around without their appendixes or 
 with a slice of their liver gone or some other 
 part of the works that the Lord gave them, 
 missing.' It's the same with hair. Mor'n half 
 the women you see are wearing hair that ain't 
 the color they were born to. 
 
 "And I'm for it, especially when it hides 
 gray hair. For my part, I can't see why it
 
 ETERNAL FEMININE 231 
 
 ain't just as lawful to have young-looking hair 
 as young-looking teeth. And there's this 
 about it, too, if you don't mind my saying so, 
 Miss White: single women oughtn't never to 
 let their hair get gray as long as they're hop- 
 ing. It's a great mistake. I've noticed that. 
 I don't know why it is unless it's because a man 
 always thinks an old ma that is, a single lady, 
 is older than she is. A widow, now, is just as 
 old as she chooses to be, and he don't go prying 
 into the family records with her. Of course I 
 don't suppose your mind's on such things, but 
 lots o' ladies never do give up, and it's an item 
 it's just as well to know. 
 
 "There 1 Your hair looks lovely, deary. 
 Now, shan't I put just the teentiest bit o' color 
 on your cheeks? You're pale, and the least 
 pink would brighten you up wonderful. 
 You'll find that most o' the ladies at the party 
 have been touched up. Not a smidgin no? 
 Nor a mite o' the red lip salve? I've got some 
 that nobody ever could tell it wasn't natural. 
 Not that, either? Well, some are set against 
 those things. I used to be, but I've changed. 
 Maybe you'll come around some day. So many 
 do. Good-by. Have a good time."
 
 232 ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 Miss White had known this woman but a 
 few months, but on the first interview had 
 been addressed by her as "honey" and "dear". 
 The terms were not meant as impertinence or 
 familiarity, but merely to show good feeling, 
 and it would have wounded the good soul's 
 sensibilities deeply to have resented them. 
 
 Some time later she called again on her 
 patron, but this time not to render profes- 
 sional service. She was a resplendent being on 
 this occasion. A suit of bright brown, verg- 
 ing on yellow, matched very well with the new 
 shade of her hair. Her short skirt showed new 
 shoes with the highest of heels and a consider- 
 able portion of her embroidered stockings. An 
 enormous hat loaded with flowers, an immense 
 bunch of artificial violets pinned to her gown, 
 white gloves, a lorgnette with a showy chain 
 and a silver mesh purse were features of her 
 apparel. Her face beamed joyously. 
 
 "I've called, Miss White, to tell you that 
 I'm going out of business and to recommend 
 another lady in my place that I think'll suit 
 you. The fact is, I'm going to be married. 
 Ain't you surprised? I can hardly believe it 
 myself. And it all come about on account of
 
 ETERNAL FEMININE 233 
 
 these clothes and some others I've got. You 
 see, Uncle George died and left some money 
 that had to be divided among his nephews and 
 nieces, and my share was five hundred dollars. 
 Maybe you'll say that the sensible thing was to 
 put it in the bank or buy a piece of ground 
 with it or something, but I didn't think so. I 
 made up my mind that for once in my life I'd 
 have some clothes, if I had to blow in the whole 
 bunch of money to get them, so I've been a- 
 blowing it. And they've paid. I knew they 
 would. To tell the truth, Miss White, I've 
 prayed for clothes lots of times, though I never 
 expected the Lord to pay any attention. But 
 I look upon this money of Uncle George's as 
 an answer to prayer. 
 
 "And now that it's all settled, I don't mind 
 telling you that I prayed that Tom Jackson 
 would ask me to marry him. When the money 
 came that would get clothes I knew that my 
 chance had come. It takes clothes to make 
 men take notice. While I was so shabby, he 
 didn't pay no special attention to me, though 
 I've known him a long time and he was always 
 polite. But when a man takes a woman out to 
 give her a good time he wants her to be a
 
 234 ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 credit to him, and I wouldn't have went with 
 him if he'd 'a' asked me when I had only my 
 old duds. The truth is, that time I was so 
 blue and thought of killing myself that I told 
 you about, the misery was partly because I 
 had no chance with Tom. 
 
 "But he came around right quick when I got 
 these things. Maybe you think they're pretty 
 gay, but there's no call for black or even half 
 mourning on account of Uncle George, for he 
 never intended us to have the money. He and 
 pa never got along, and he told pa not a cent 
 of his savings should ever go to chick or child 
 of his. He meant to make a will and leave it 
 to the church, but he put it off too long, and 
 I'm real thankful. 
 
 "And, oh, Miss White, I've got some of the 
 prettiest clothes! I'd never owned a silk petti- 
 coat in my life and now I've got two. And 
 I've always wanted a silk house gown with a 
 train and I've got that it'll be a part of my 
 trousseau. And I'm laying in a stock of the 
 loveliest lingerie embroidery and lace trim- 
 mings all run with ribbons; you ought to 
 see it ! 
 
 "Clothes are surely a great comfort, Miss
 
 ETERNAL FEMININE 235 
 
 White even more than I thought they'd be. 
 I'm happier than I ever expected to be in this 
 world. Partly on account of Tom, of course, 
 but I wouldn't have had Tom if it hadn't been 
 for the clothes, and so I set store by them. The 
 Lord is sure good sometimes, ain't He, Miss 
 White ? I ain't never been what you'd call re- 
 ligious, but with my prayers answered so it 
 doesn't seem as if I could ever be careless 
 about such things any more. Ain't it beautiful 
 weather? Seems like I never in my life saw 
 such blue skies and bright sunshine. Good- 
 by, Miss White, and good luck to you." 
 
 Miss White smiled, but not in ridicule, as 
 the radiant guest departed. She was glad of 
 the woman's happiness, and she wondered if 
 her own longings, so different from those of 
 the visitor, for whose fulfilment she also 
 prayed in secret, were really less childish in the 
 eyes of the Being above. She recalled the pic- 
 ture painted by Mrs. Browning of people 
 prostrate in a Florentine chapel, praying each 
 one, with all his soul, that his lottery ticket 
 would draw the grand prize. "Poor blind 
 souls, that writhe toward heaven along the 
 devil's trail." And yet, the poet writes: "We
 
 236 ETERNAL FEMININE 
 
 who make excuses for the rest, we do it in our 
 measure." 
 
 Then Miss White smiled again, remember- 
 ing the classic utterance of the discerning soul, 
 who declared that to be well dressed gives a 
 peace beyond the power of religion to convey. 
 This was the peace her hairdresser friend was 
 enjoying now. And she knew that if this 
 friend had been more articulate she mjght 
 have written and would at least devoutly sub- 
 scribe to the sentiment of these lines by a news- 
 paper versifier of course a woman: 
 
 "Thank God for clothes! 
 
 Not that they shield us from the winter rude, 
 
 Not that they foster social rectitude 
 
 And cloak deficiencies for none of those; 
 
 But for the warm uplift that furbelows 
 
 Can kindle in this sorry human clay 
 
 The glory and the strut of fine array; 
 
 Thank God for clothes!"
 
 AN EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 THE time had come for them to go. The 
 funeral was over; the poor bits of fur- 
 niture had been sold to the neighbors, who 
 would come presently and take them away; 
 the boy's own possessions, his clothing and a 
 few pitiful little remembrances of his mother 
 that he had gathered up, were packed in an old 
 shiny oilcloth satchel which had been his fa- 
 ther's. Uncle George was in haste to get back 
 to his home, and there was really no reason for 
 remaining longer. 
 
 Little John Spaulding stood in the door- 
 way of the three-room house that had been his 
 home all the ten years of his life, dimly realiz- 
 ing that the days of his care-free childhood 
 were ended, and feeling curiously old and help- 
 less. His eyes ached with the tears he had 
 shed, and his face was flushed and swollen 
 from weeping. His father, a tenant on the big 
 farm, had been killed six months before by a 
 fall from a barn roof. His mother, always 
 
 237
 
 238 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 fragile, had faded out of life after her hus- 
 band's death, and they had buried her to-day. 
 
 She had always taught her son to be "good", 
 and when she found that she must leave him 
 she had enjoined upon him to say his prayers 
 every day as he had done from boyhood. God 
 would be an ever-present help, she said. 
 
 He thought of this as he stood there and 
 suddenly he walked down among the corn 
 rows in the great forty-acre field, whose corner 
 came close to the house. The stalks reached 
 far above his head, and the rustling leaves 
 stretched out over him. The hot August sun- 
 shine sifted through the heavy foliage, making 
 a pale green light. He knelt down upon the 
 warm earth between two rows. 
 
 "Oh, God," he prayed, "won't you please 
 take care of me now? I have no one else, you 
 know." 
 
 There was no sound but the whispering 
 among the corn blades, but it seemed as if 
 Some One might be trying to speak to him, 
 and he felt strangely comforted. 
 
 Then Uncle George called impatiently, and 
 he went out from the old home to begin a new 
 life.
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP, 239 
 
 Uncle George considered himself a reli- 
 gious man. He was a member in good standing 
 of an evangelical church ; he attended services 
 every Sunday, and required the members of 
 his household to do the same. He asked a 
 blessing over every meal, and on Sunday morn- 
 ings he had family prayers. 
 
 But his young nephew, John, soon ceased 
 to follow his mother's last injunction. Indeed, 
 there is reason to believe that the prayer offered 
 under the shadow of the corn, in the stress of 
 grief, was his last youthful petition to Heaven. 
 
 Childish impressions fade early and doubt- 
 less he forgot his mother's words. Besides, 
 the prayers he heard now did not interest him 
 or encourage him in devout practises. They 
 seemed to be addressed to no one in particular, 
 and he had a fancy on Sundays that the 
 preacher's appeals wandered about under the 
 church roof without getting anywhere. More- 
 over, when he thought about it, he didn't see 
 any special need of asking for help from God 
 when he could take care of himself. And he 
 could, and did take care. 
 
 He learned early to rely upon himself. His 
 square chin, his firm lips and steady eyes were
 
 240 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 not for nothing. They meant possession of the 
 traits that cause boy and man to achieve what 
 they undertake. He worked his way through 
 the schools as far as he cared to go, then set 
 about making his fortune. 
 
 It was not an especial love for money that 
 made him so energetic in this pursuit. The 
 secret of his zeal was that which explains the 
 activity of most American men the joy of 
 striving and of succeeding, rather than eager- 
 ness for the prize. 
 
 He strove arduously. Circumstances made 
 him acquainted with mining business in the 
 West. He became an expert and was em- 
 ployed by a great corporation. He made in- 
 vestments for himself, and his "luck" became 
 proverbial among those who knew him; but, 
 like most luck in such cases, it was due to his 
 knowledge of his business and to his shrewd 
 judgment. 
 
 'By the time he was thirty-six years old he 
 had accumulated a fortune not a vast one, 
 but enough to satisfy any reasonable man. 
 And then he suddenly realized that all has 
 achievements were as nothing if he could not
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 241 
 
 win a greater prize, one more desperately de- 
 sired than money had ever been. 
 
 He had never given much heed to women. 
 They had not figured seriously in his plan of 
 life. His years of constant travel, his con- 
 tinual flitting from East to West, from moun- 
 tain to metropolis and back again, would have 
 cut him off from social enjoyments had he 
 been inclined to them ; but he was too busy to 
 care for such things, or to do more than treat 
 with civility the wives and daughters of his 
 associates on his casual meetings with them. 
 
 He fully intended to marry some day. In 
 the background of his mind was a vision of 
 domestic bliss such as all men cherish. He had 
 even a vague picture of the woman who was to 
 share his home life a gentle madonna-like 
 creature with no will but his. 
 
 Then, unexpectedly, before he had reached 
 the time when mere loneliness made him im- 
 patient of his bachelorhood, he met the one 
 woman for him of all the world. Rose Haynes 
 was the daughter of a business acquaintance, 
 and he fell in with her on a railway journey. 
 She was no meek madonna, but a blooming,
 
 242 EVER-PRESENT HELP, 
 
 high-spirited wilful maid, full of the zest of 
 life, fond of the gaieties of youth and not 
 ready to yield her liberty to any lover. 
 
 John Spaulding did not know why he 
 wanted this girl for his wife ; he simply knew 
 that only through her could life offer him hap- 
 piness, and that, having known her, all other 
 women were as shadows. 
 
 He had always had his own way and he 
 meant to have it now. His wooing was ardent 
 and his purpose unmistakable from the start. 
 Indeed, he made his intentions plain to her 
 father in the beginning. That gentleman re- 
 ceived the information with the air of detach- 
 ment common to American fathers. 
 
 "My daughter must please herself when 
 she marries," he said. "It's her affair. I have 
 no objection to you as a son-in-law, but she 
 may find your years an impediment she is 
 only twenty-three. And you know your money 
 will cut no figure with her. She doesn't need 
 to consider that." 
 
 Something about him, his air of masterful 
 purpose, his manly self-confidence, his earnest- 
 ness, his fervor perhaps, caught the girl's 
 fancy. She could not treat him lightly as she
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 243 
 
 did Her other admirers, or laugh at his preten- 
 sions; he would not he ignored or put aside. 
 She did not yield easily, but at the end of three 
 months he felt the barriers of girlish resistance 
 giving away, and at last he won half a promise. 
 
 "I think I might be happy with you forever 
 after, as the story books say," she told him, 
 "but I am not sure. You are too urgent, you 
 are too overwhelming. I must have a little 
 more time." 
 
 John Spaulding laughed to himself in tri- 
 umph. He did not mind her hesitation or re- 
 sistance. He was used to overcoming difficul- 
 ties and enjoyed the effort. Had he not always 
 succeeded? He would succeed in this. Noth- 
 ing should interfere. 
 
 Then an obstacle presented itself that he 
 had not counted on. A new lover whom he 
 could not drive away or ignore came to the 
 front. Other young men who had fluttered 
 about his Rose of the World he had driven 
 away one by one through his sheer air of confi- 
 dence and proprietorship; but this youth dis- 
 regarded him. 
 
 Clark Harden was strikingly handsome; 
 even Spaulding had to admit that. It was the
 
 244 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 beauty of athletic figure, regular features and 
 a dashing air the sort of comeliness that at- 
 tracts women, the older man grudgingly ad- 
 mitted. He was animated and lightly enter- 
 taining; he danced and sang and rode and was 
 ready for every gaiety; he had all the social 
 airs and graces that come from a life spent 
 among people with whom form and ceremony 
 count for much. Above all, he had the unri- 
 valed charm of youth. 
 
 Spaulding did not belittle his rival's attrac- 
 tions nor disguise from himself that he was a 
 rival, nor hide from himself the fact that Rose 
 Haynes was undeniably pleased with him. To 
 himself, as one accustomed through his busi- 
 ness training to study the characters of men, 
 was discernible in the handsome features a 
 weakness and sensuousness that did not prom- 
 ise well for the young man's future or for the 
 peace of the woman who should unite her fate 
 with his. He knew nothing to Marden's per- 
 sonal discredit, but he did know the breed, as 
 he scornfully expressed it, on both sides of the 
 family the Clarks and the Hardens and he 
 knew little good of them. They were crafty 
 and selfish and cold-blooded, and in business
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 245 
 
 the kind of men it was not safe to trust unre- 
 servedly. The boy's father had been a rich 
 man and still passed as such, but Spaulding 
 had reason to believe that much of his fortune 
 had recently been lost in speculation; in which 
 case, so went the jealous lover's suspicious 
 thought, the son's eager wooing of Miss 
 Haynes might have a motive other than that 
 of mere personal admiration. 
 
 For the first time in his life Spaulding was 
 utterly at a loss how to proceed. He was deep- 
 ly and passionately in love; how deeply and 
 desperately he had not guessed until the possi- 
 bility that he might lose the object of his 
 heart's desire seriously presented itself. He 
 felt the impulse of his far-off savage ancestors 
 and would have liked to snatch the girl up by 
 force and carry her beyond the reach of all 
 rivals ; but this was a conventional age and he 
 must speak her softly and put on the mask of 
 civility even to his rival. 
 
 But he was fiercely jealous and this feeling 
 he could not wholly conceal. 
 
 "Do you care for that fellow?" he demanded 
 of her one day, when he had her for a moment 
 to himself.
 
 246 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 "I like him, yes," she replied. 
 
 "I do not mean 'like' ; do you love him well 
 enough to marry him, or do you love me? I 
 have a right to know." 
 
 "You have no right to ask that question. 
 But I will tell you that I don't know I don't 
 know which I care for more. You may think 
 me foolish and light-minded, and perhaps I 
 am, but I tell you I don't know. I always 
 thought a girl must be sure beyond doubt, be- 
 yond everything, when she cared for a man, 
 but well, you had better go away and think 
 no more about me." 
 
 "I will wait for you, Rose," he said, humbled 
 before her frankness and simplicity. "I will 
 wait and hope." 
 
 He could not tell her that Clark Harden 
 was unworthy of her, would not make her 
 happy. That would not be manly, and besides 
 he had no proof to support his conviction. Nor 
 could he go to her father and tell him he be- 
 lieved Harden to be a fortune hunter. If he 
 knew, absolutely knew, anything in the young 
 man's record to prove him unfit he might, for 
 the girl's sake, and leaving himself out of the
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 247 
 
 question But no, he could not fight that 
 way. 
 
 He was a man of force, of action, a man 
 accustomed to direct and persistent effort, and 
 he had here reached a point where no action 
 was possible. He could only stand passive and 
 watch the course of fate, and doing this he 
 found to be the most terrible ordeal of his life. 
 He grew thin and hollow-eyed and felt an 
 agonized sense of helplessness. 
 
 All this uncertainty, this suspense and impa- 
 tience were of yesterday. To-day he faced a 
 different situation and he was trying to adjust 
 himself to it. In the morning Rose had gone 
 driving with young Marden. The young man 
 had a new horse whose paces he wished to show. 
 It was a spirited animal with a wicked expres- 
 sion in its eye and the stablemen shook their 
 heads over it doubtfully, one of them ventur- 
 ing a word of warning to the owner. But Mar- 
 den prided himself on his ability to handle 
 horses, and drove off with unconcern. On a 
 country road a barking dog displeased the 
 fiery creature; it took the bit in its teeth and 
 ran until the vehicle was dashed against a tree
 
 248 EVER-PRESENT HELP, 
 
 and the occupants thrown violently to tHe 
 ground. 
 
 Marden was slightly hurt, but Rose was car- 
 ried to her home unconscious from concussion 
 of the brain, and was lying there now between 
 life and death, the doctors being able to tell 
 little about the possibilities. 
 
 Spaulding had been to the house again and 
 again and had finally learned from one of the 
 physicians that probably nothing definite con- 
 cerning the patient would be known before 
 morning. 
 
 With the long night before him he had wan- 
 dered about the streets, until, nearing his club, 
 he entered, half through unconsciousness of his 
 movements, half because of physical weariness. 
 
 It was Sunday night, and at that hour, half 
 past ten, the place was almost deserted, only 
 the regular frequenters, men who had no 
 homes, or, having them, did not care to go to 
 them, being scattered here and there about the 
 big rooms. The lights were dim and an un- 
 accustomed quiet prevailed. 
 
 Spaulding sank down in an easy chair in a 
 corner of the library, choosing that place be- 
 cause the room was otherwise empty. In the
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 249 
 
 next room some one was playing softly on a 
 piano. 
 
 With the one terrible situation absorbing 
 his thoughts, he forgot his surroundings. He 
 had felt himself helpless during the last 
 weeks, but then there was always the possibil- 
 ity that he could do something to mend mat- 
 ters. Now he confronted a blank wall. The 
 girl might recover or she might die, and he 
 could neither help nor hinder. Beyond the 
 wall he could not see. If she recovered to marry 
 Marden well, perhaps it were better that 
 she should go out of the world than to do that. 
 But if she died, what would life mean hence- 
 forth to himself? No, no, she must get well; 
 for her own sake she must recover. She was 
 young; life has much for her yet, whoever 
 traveled the road with her. God would be 
 cruel to take her now. 
 
 God! He laughed aloud as the thought 
 came to his mind. As if God took any heed of 
 the tragedies and joys of the people of the 
 earth if there were any God! 
 
 At this point he became aware once more of 
 the piano in the next room. In the dim light 
 he could see the outline of the man's figure
 
 250 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 there some one he did not recognize. "A 
 lonely devil like myself," Spaulding thought 
 carelessly. 
 
 The man was playing old familiar melo- 
 dies, and as he touched the keys lightly he 
 sang softly in a sweet tenor voice, so softly 
 that it was like music echoing from afar. 
 
 They were the plaintive old songs that our 
 fathers and mothers knew and that are seldom 
 heard now. The singer knew them all: 
 Home, Sweet Home, Annie Laurie, Listen to 
 the Mocking Bird,, Nellie Was a Lady, Old 
 Folks at Home. 
 
 John Spaulding found himself listening. 
 
 "Home, home, sweet, sweet home, 
 Be it ev-er so humble, there's no place like 
 home." 
 
 Something tightened like a band about the 
 listener's heart, as the melody floated around 
 him. He had no home, and he might never 
 have one now. The pressure was not lifted 
 when a little later, came the touching refrain 
 of the old love song: 
 
 "And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me down and die."
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 251 
 
 He would gladly die for his own love if it 
 would save her, he thought. 
 
 The singer, not knowing that he had listen- 
 ers, that this man and that had crept within 
 hearing until all the club loiterers were in his 
 audience, went on with his music. 
 
 "Way down upon the Suwannee River, far, 
 
 far away, 
 
 There's where my heart is turning ever, 
 There's where the old folks stay." 
 
 Would the fellow never stop? He could not 
 stand much more of those harrowing old airs, 
 they clutched the throat so. There was old 
 Sam Johnson over in the corner, wiping his 
 eyes, and Joe Avery with his head in his hands. 
 There ought to be some limit to the free use 
 of the club piano. But again came the plain- 
 tive words: 
 
 "There's where the old folks stay." 
 
 A sudden picture came before Spaulding's 
 eyes. He saw the little house where his child- 
 hood had been spent. He saw his "old folks", 
 dead these many years; his father's kindly 
 face and his mother's gentle smile came be-
 
 252 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 fore him vividly out of the long ago. And into 
 his vision entered the little boy who had said 
 farewell to the old home. He saw him go 
 down among the corn rows under the green 
 shadows; almost he could hear the rustle of 
 the leaves and inhale the odor of the warm 
 earth. He saw the little boy kneel under the 
 sheltering corn and heard him pray: 
 
 "Oh, God, won't you please take care of me 
 now? I have no one else, you know !" 
 
 The man in the next room was still singing 
 and now he had begun on the old hymns. Into 
 his soft voice came a triumphant note. 
 
 "Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 
 That raiseth me, 
 Still all my song shall be, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee!" 
 
 It was a , favorite song with Spaulding's 
 mother. He could hear her sing it now. He 
 remembered wondering vaguely what it meant, 
 that being lifted by a cross to God. But he 
 couldn't endure any more, and hastily made 
 his way out, the words echoing after him :
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP. 253 
 
 "Still all my song shall be, 
 Nearer to Thee!" 
 
 Joe Avery followed him and they stood on 
 the steps a moment together in the summer 
 night. 
 
 "Queer what an effect those old songs will 
 have on a fellow. I haven't heard them for 
 years and they broke me all up. Say, Spauld- 
 ing, do you believe in God, and do you reckon 
 our mothers were right?" 
 
 To himself, half an hour before, he would 
 have said that he did not believe in God, but a 
 sudden sense of responsibility came over him 
 and he could not say this to frivolous Joe 
 Avery, unexpectedly groping after light. 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't believe as firmly as I 
 ought to, Joe," he said, "but I guess it's safe 
 to follow our mothers." 
 
 He could not go to his room until he knew 
 something more about Rose. He was too rest- 
 less to remain there. So he walked up and 
 down the quiet streets under the watching 
 stars, until finally, thoroughly weary, he 
 sought a bench in a little park. 
 
 His thoughts had somehow taken a new 
 turn. He was confronted by a situation where
 
 254 EVER-PRESENT HELP 
 
 he could do nothing himself, where perhaps 
 even science could do nothing, yet where some- 
 thing ought to be done, where a life should be 
 saved. 
 
 Though he knew that whether Rose Haynes 
 died or whether she lived to marry Harden his 
 own life would be darkened, its hope and in- 
 spiration gone, he found himself, curiously 
 enough, removing himself as a factor in the 
 case. 
 
 "Perhaps, after all, she would be happier 
 with Marden," he argued. "They are young 
 together; women of the right sort are often 
 the making of their husbands, and she might 
 be the one to make a real man of him. How do 
 I know the contrary? I could make her hap- 
 py, I think, but if she loves Marden why, 
 then then I am the loser, that's all. But 
 there ought to be some way to help. If I could 
 only do something." 
 
 Then, out of space somewhere came to his 
 consciousness the words spoken by his mother 
 when she lay dying: "Pray to God, my son; 
 He is an ever-present help in time of trouble." 
 He had not followed her injunction except
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP, 255 
 
 that one time in his childish stress and had 
 God answered and guarded or guided him? 
 Certainly not. He had cared for himself. 
 Such fortune and success as he had won had 
 been all due to his own efforts. 
 
 Had they, though? Now that he thought 
 of it, were those strange circumstances that 
 took him out of farming life and led him into 
 the mining business things of his own making? 
 Not at all. They were unaccountable, every- 
 thing considered. And was it the mere acci- 
 dent which he had always considered it that 
 brought him to the notice and into the employ 
 of the great capitalist and thereby to his pres- 
 ent state of financial prosperity? Was it by 
 chance that he had awakened from heavy sleep 
 that night in the big western hotel just in 
 time to save himself from a fiery death? Was 
 it any foresight of his that had restrained him 
 from going down into the Farson silver mine 
 out in Colorado, as he had intended, on the 
 very trip on which the machinery broke and let 
 the cage fall a thousand feet? No, it was not. 
 Perhaps, after all, God had "taken care". But, 
 bah! better men than he had suffered calami-
 
 256 EVER-PRESENT HELP. 
 
 ties and God had not interfered. It was not 
 likely that the Maker of Earth, had stretched 
 out a hand to him. 
 
 But how did he know what God had done 
 for these other men? Perhaps their afflictions 
 had been the cross that had lifted them to Him. 
 Must it always be a cross, he wondered, that 
 brings the helpless human creature nearer to 
 "whatever gods there be?" Was he to be dis- 
 ciplined through the death of Rose? No, no, 
 if there was a God, He could not be like that. 
 
 Persistently the words he had heard from 
 his mother came out of the past and repeated 
 themselves over and over in his mind: "An 
 ever-present help." "Ask, and it shall be given 
 you." 
 
 An unaccustomed humility and doubt over- 
 came him. How could he ask for what he 
 wanted most when he did not know what was 
 best for the girl; when he did not know but 
 that continued life might mean misery to her? 
 How could he dare? 
 
 Suddenly, and seemingly without his voli- 
 tion, he rose to his feet and stretched up his 
 hands. 
 
 "Oh, God," he cried, "give help, give help.
 
 EVER-PRESENT HELP 257 
 
 I have no one but Thee. Restore my beloved 
 if it be best for her." 
 
 A little bird in the tree above him chirped 
 sleepily. A soft breeze stirred the leaves. The 
 stars were beginning to fade before the com- 
 ing dawn. All at once the Power to whom he 
 had called seemed no longer afar off. Into 
 his mind came words he had heard somewhere 
 long ago without knowing their meaning: 
 "Closer is He than breathing, nearer than 
 hands or feet." Something, Some One, had 
 come to him out of the darkness. He had no 
 consciousness of belief more than he had had 
 in the early hours of the night. He only knew 
 that peace had fallen upon him like a garment 
 and that he was ready for what might come. 
 
 The dim world looked new to him and 
 strange as he walked up the street toward 
 Rose's home. It seemed to him that he had 
 never before seen the wonder of the sky, the 
 grace of the trees outlined against the blue. 
 
 He paused before the gate with bared head 
 and yearning wonder in his heart. A servant 
 opened the door softly and came down the 
 steps, starting at the sight of him waiting 
 there. The man's face was bright.
 
 258 EVER-PRESENT HELB 
 
 "Miss Rose has come to herself, sir," he 
 said. "She's going to be all right, the doctors 
 say, and she's asking for you. I was going 
 after you, sir. And she says to tell you she 
 knows, now." 
 
 It was not triumph but humility and awe 
 that looked out of the eyes of this man, only 
 yesterday so self-confident. 
 
 He paused on the steps before entering, with 
 his face turned to the rosy dawn. 
 
 "God is good," he whispered. "It is not 
 always a cross that raiseth us."
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 MISS Emeline A. Mason was postmis- 
 tress of Garden City, Indiana. She 
 preferred to be called "postmaster", as she 
 considered that the "master" added something 
 to the dignity of the position, and that, inas- 
 much as the government was not concerned 
 with the sex of the person in charge of its busi- 
 ness at any point, the masculine title was quite 
 properly hers. However sound this reasoning 
 was, she found few to accept it. The patrons 
 of the office all spoke of her as "postmistress", 
 and the most of them seemed to have a pride in 
 her incumbency and to feel a degree of respon- 
 sibility for it. For when her father, Colonel 
 John Mason, had died suddenly after being 
 appointed to the office, had they not signed a 
 petition to the Postmaster-General asking that 
 the daughter of the veteran soldier might be 
 given the place? She had held it now for two 
 years and had given entire satisfaction, being 
 a naturally amiable young woman who sought 
 
 259
 
 260 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 to please at all times, but especially now when 
 she considered herself "in politics". She had 
 not been born and reared in Indiana without 
 fully understanding that the part of one who 
 holds office and may want a second term is to 
 be agreeable to every man, woman or child who 
 comes in the way. 
 
 The town of Garden City is small, notwith- 
 standing the latter half of its name, and the 
 business not sufficiently large to bring much 
 income to the postmaster. Miss Emeline, how- 
 ever, was a girl of resources. She supple- 
 mented her official duties by giving piano les- 
 sons, for which she was considered well quali- 
 fied, having, as her friends said, had every 
 advantage. An Indianapolis teacher of whose 
 instruction she had the benefit, had had a class 
 in Garden City for one entire year, coming 
 down twice a week, and she had spent one win- 
 ter at the capital city with her uncle, taking 
 lessons while there. Odd half-hours scattered 
 among the sorting and delivering of the two 
 daily mails, the giving of the lessons, the doing 
 of the housework in their small cottage, and 
 the waiting upon her semi-invalid mother, she 
 spent in embroidering lunch-cloths and other
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 261 
 
 dainty linens which a cousin, who kept what he 
 called a dry-goods emporium in Cincinnati, 
 kindly sold for her on a liberal commission. 
 In addition to all these occupations Miss Erne- 
 line operated the cabinet organ in the Metho- 
 dist church on Sundays, attended the church 
 fairs and other select festivities of the little 
 town, and belonged to the Ladies' Literary 
 Club, on whose record her name was down in 
 full as Miss Emeline Aurelia Mason ; and for 
 which she wrote papers on "The Intellectual 
 Life," "Woman's Sphere," "The Power of 
 Thought," "George Meredith's Novels," and 
 other improving, if not exciting, topics. It 
 will thus be seen that the postmaster of Gar- 
 den City was a woman of energy. As old- 
 time New England dames would have ex- 
 pressed it, she had "faculty" not at all an un- 
 common attribute in these days, but, somehow, 
 one which it has come to be the fashion to 
 ascribe to women of the preceding generation 
 who did their own housework and made all 
 their own and their families' garments out of 
 cloth woven by their own hands. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that all her industry 
 and accomplishments went unnoticed. Erne-
 
 202 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 line, pretty as well as practical, had a lover, 
 and busy as she was, found time in which to 
 make life interesting- for him. She usually 
 had, in fact, more than one lover; if she were 
 to tell the whole truth about it she would have 
 admitted that in all her twenty-four years she 
 could not remember a time when she did not 
 have at least two ardent masculine admirers. 
 Some came and went, but Harvey Carter had 
 remained faithful from the time when, as a 
 barefooted urchin he had guided her baby 
 steps, until now, when she was postmistress of 
 Garden City and a woman of affairs. She 
 thought a great deal of Harvey, he had come 
 to be necessary to her peace and comfort of 
 mind ; but she had never told him so, although 
 for the last year something like a marriage 
 engagement had existed between them. Some- 
 thing like it, but not quite so definite an ar- 
 rangement. Harvey, manlike, had grown im- 
 patient and perhaps exasperated by her calm 
 acceptance of other men's attentions, and in- 
 sisted on an understanding. She had promised 
 with coquettish reluctance to think about mar- 
 rying him when her term of office was over;
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 263 
 
 but sHe had refused to be bound by a fixed 
 engagement, or to bind him. 
 
 "You may see some one you like better than 
 you do me before that time," she had said with 
 a mischievous look. 
 
 He had replied that he considered himself 
 engaged to her just the same, and had gone 
 away, not satisfied, but still feeling that he 
 had gained a point in making her acknowledge 
 a willingness to marry him som'etime, even 
 though the proviso were attached that she 
 might change her mind. Matters had gone 
 on since that time much as they did before. 
 Emeline accepted Harvey's escort to church 
 and to church socials, to "readings," amateur 
 concerts, picnics and other gaieties that made a 
 part of Garden City's social life; and went 
 buggy-riding with him after the rural fash- 
 ion, as she had always done. That is, she went 
 to some of these entertainments with him; 
 sometimes she chose to accept the attentions of 
 Ben Perry and other beaux of the village, also 
 as she had always done. 
 
 "You know I am not really engaged to you, 
 Harvey Carter, and I am not going to have
 
 264 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 people think I am," she would say in response 
 to his protests on such occasions. 
 
 Ben Perry was also one of her early admir- 
 ers. His attentions had been of a somewhat 
 intermittent character, and he was likely to 
 have sudden fancies for other girls, but he 
 always made Emeline the confidante of his love 
 affairs and she knew the beginning and end 
 of them. He had made love to Emeline at in- 
 tervals, though he had never gone so far as to 
 propose. Emeline flattered herself that it 
 was her judicious treatment of him, her tact 
 and power of wholesome repression, which 
 prevented this undesired climax. For it was 
 not desired. Although Ben Perry was consid- 
 ered by the worldly mamas of the town a 
 more eligible man in some respects than Har- 
 vey Carter, owning as he did a good farm in 
 addition to an interest in the "general store," 
 of which he was manager, while Carter had 
 only a farm in spite of these attractions, 
 added to the advantage of constantly wearing 
 good clothes, Emeline had never been able to 
 think of him seriously as a possible husband. 
 She preferred to keep him on the footing of a
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 265 
 
 good friend, and this she had succeeded in do- 
 ing, so far, with the occasional exceptions be- 
 fore noted, when he grew more demonstrative 
 than the role of friendship required. But in 
 spite of her attitude of being a sister to him 
 Emeline cherished the secret conviction that 
 she had only to give the slightest hint of a 
 warmer liking for him and he would instantly 
 respond. In short, she believed that he was 
 hers if she chose to take him, and the belief 
 pleased her. Although she did not want to 
 marry him herself, her regard for him was 
 such that she did not think favorably of 
 any of the other young women whom she 
 suspected of aspiring to his affections. This, 
 although selfish, is perhaps not entirely an 
 uncommon state of the feminine mind. At 
 all events, Emeline Mason looked upon these 
 two men as hers if she wanted them, and had 
 held this proprietary feeling for so long that 
 it seemed one of the settled things that would 
 go unchanged until she should do something 
 herself to end it. Later experience caused the 
 conviction to be borne in upon her that even 
 the most diffident man will not be restrained
 
 266 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 from asking a woman to marry him, once he 
 has made up his mind that he wants her and 
 Ben Perry was not diffident. 
 
 All this summer she had seen but little of 
 Harvey. His farm work had absorbed more 
 time than usual early in the season, and after 
 harvest it chanced that his father, living at 
 Greenbush, ten miles distant, fell ill and he 
 had been in attendance upon him for several 
 weeks. It was September now, and Harvey 
 had been home for more than two weeks, but 
 although his farm was only two miles from the 
 post-office, Emeline had had but one or two 
 brief glimpses of him. Being busy herself, 
 this would not have disturbed her or excited 
 more than a passing wonder had it not been 
 for two things. One was the fact that Mr. 
 Harvey Carter was conducting a very lively 
 correspondence with a young woman over in 
 Greenbush. Since his return from there at 
 least half a dozen missives addressed in the 
 hand she knew so well had gone to Miss Kitty 
 Frazer, of Greenbush, and more than that 
 number had come from that place inscribed 
 with his name, in a delicate wavering chirog- 
 raphy, with pale ink and a pen of the finest
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 267 
 
 point. Emeline, who handled all the mail of 
 the little office herself, except in case of emer- 
 gency, when her mother was delegated to the 
 duty, inspected the first of these letters with 
 much interest. She fancied that she under- 
 stood something of the significance of various 
 forms of handwriting, and promptly decided 
 that Miss Kitty Frazer was a girl of very 
 little force of character and of almost no will 
 power. When the epistles began to fly back 
 and forth rapidly the postmistress of Garden 
 City fell into frequent fits of meditation. Citi- 
 zens asking her for their mail found her so ab- 
 sent-minded that she frequently got their let- 
 ters and papers mixed. Indeed, she received 
 the first rebuke in her official experience when 
 Deacon Alonzo Jones returned a Christian 
 Adovcate which she had given him instead of 
 his Herald and Presbyter, which had gone into 
 the hands of Squire Albert Johnson, an ardent 
 Methodist brother. 
 
 One evening about this time, as she sat on 
 the front steps of her cottage in the dusk the 
 little building in the same yard which consti- 
 tuted the United States post-office being 
 closed Ben Perry joined her. She had been
 
 268 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 thinking of Harvey Carter's behavior and was 
 in a melancholy mood, but had no intention of 
 betraying her feelings or their cause. With 
 true feminine guile, therefore, she greeted Ben 
 with rather more than her ordinary cheerful- 
 ness, and chatted and chaffed as if in the 
 highest of spirits. After they had touched 
 upon all the topics of current interest in the 
 village and conversation began to lag, young 
 Perry asked with apparent carelessness, "Seen 
 Harvey since he came back from Greenbush?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Emeline. 
 
 "Didn't say anything, I reckon, did he, 
 about the flirtation he's been carrying on over 
 there?" 
 
 Emeline laughed easily as she replied: "If 
 Harvey has been flirting he must have been 
 taking a lesson from you, Ben." 
 
 "Now, Em, don't be hard on a fellow. I 
 can't help it, but Harvey, he's such a steady- 
 going old boy that it seems funny. Never 
 appeared to care for any other girl than you 
 before. Of course, I know you won't think 
 seriously of him or of me, or of any other chap 
 who has hung around, so far, or I wouldn't 
 have mentioned it ; but it seems so queer."
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 269 
 
 "That's right, don't keep still on my ac- 
 count. Who's the girl?" 
 
 "Kitty Frazer. You ought to know her; 
 you'd like her. She's a little blue-eyed doll of 
 a thing, just like a child, as innocent and un- 
 suspecting. A man oughtn't to lead her on to 
 like him unless he's in earnest on his own part. 
 [But Harvey, I guess, is hard hit. He was 
 over there half his time after his father got 
 better. I'll bet he writes to her every day, 
 though I'm not so sure about her answering. 
 [But, pshaw! I needn't be guessing about a 
 correspondence to the postmistress, who 
 handles everybody's letters." 
 
 Emeline stiffened instantly. 
 
 "Now, Ben Perry, you don't suppose I pay 
 any attention to the mail that passes through 
 my hands except to see where it is to be sent. 
 I am altogether too busy to be spending my 
 time in studying the addresses and speculat- 
 ing about the writers or what the letters con- 
 tain/* 
 
 !Ben apologized, and presently went his way, 
 having but partially accomplished the object 
 of his visit, and without the satisfaction of 
 knowing that he had scored even one point.
 
 270 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 But he had completed what the discovery of 
 the correspondence had begun. Emeline was 
 thoroughly aroused to the astonishing defec- 
 tion and misbehavior of Harvey Carter. That 
 night she was wakeful. While the long hours 
 ticked themselves away she thought of many 
 things, and she learned this, namely, that she 
 could no longer play with or disguise her feel- 
 ing for Harvey. Her old easy, placid feeling 
 of friendship, as she had called it, had sudden- 
 ly vanished, and in its place was an eager long- 
 ing for his presence, his touch, the assurance 
 that he thought only of her. She had not val- 
 ued such assurance heretofore; now she hun- 
 gered for it. To know that she would have it 
 no more, would, she acknowledged to herself, 
 be to darken her days, to take joy and hope 
 away. She loved him; she loved him. She 
 whispered it to herself over and over while 
 cheeks burned and heart throbbed with the 
 newly awakened emotion the dear old Har- 
 vey whom she had snubbed, and scolded, and 
 tantalized, faithful soul! But no; he was 
 not faithful. He was devoting himself to 
 another girl, and what right had she to object 
 when she had expressly provided for the pos-
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 271 
 
 sibility that he might change his mind ! It be- 
 wildered her, the very thought that he could 
 have eyes for another than herself; Harvey 
 Carter, the big, handsome, blundering man 
 who had professed to love her and seemed con- 
 stancy personified so constant, indeed, that 
 she had imposed upon him, and he had had to 
 turn for consolation to another. 
 
 Next morning she was pale, and her eyes 
 had a look new to her the look which comes 
 of many tears, and which so many women 
 know. 
 
 That day Harvey Carter rode up, dropped 
 some letters in the slide, peeped through the 
 little official window, and with a gay, "Good 
 morning, Emmy, busy as usual; see you lat- 
 er;" had gone in as great haste as he had 
 come. Before he was out of sight the curios- 
 ity of the woman overcame official deliberation 
 and she had examined the letters and found, 
 as she had expected, one for the girl at Green- 
 bush. Just then the mail from the East was 
 tossed from the train, and as the postmistress 
 distributed the contents of the bag she found 
 a letter for Harvey, addressed in the now 
 familiar hand of Miss Kitty Frazer.
 
 272 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 There in her own hands, she had them two 
 letters whose contents she felt would prove be- 
 yond doubt Harvey Carter's fickleness and 
 falseness information which ought to be hers 
 without delay. How earnest was her struggle 
 against temptation can not be known; but at 
 least the struggle was soon over, for, at the 
 first moment when she could secure privacy, 
 she opened and read both letters! It is sad 
 to tell; it would be far more edifying if it 
 could be related of this young woman of so 
 much intelligence and so many good qualities 
 that she spurned the first suggestion of tres- 
 passing on sacred private rights, and that with 
 stern personal and official integrity she sent 
 the letters to their respective destinations un- 
 tampered with. But even the "new woman", 
 the modern, progressive, self-reliant woman, 
 so much talked of, has her faults, and chroni- 
 cles must be accurate. Postmistress Mason 
 was honest and faithful to all general intents 
 and purposes. She would have died rather 
 than deliberately break the seal of mail con- 
 taining valuables. The wealth of a Gould or 
 the jewels of a prima donna passing through 
 her hands would not have aroused cupidity, or
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 273 
 
 had they done so, the mere wish for a share 
 would have gone no further. The business of 
 the public, the outside public in which she had 
 no close personal concern, was carefully and 
 honestly attended to in every detail. She was 
 straightforward in all her dealings and in her 
 tendencies, and was as truthful as is possible 
 for proper self -protection in an inquisitive im- 
 pertinent world. 
 
 But in spite of all this she succumbed to the 
 first impulse to wrong-doing that assailed her 
 in her official career. She opened letters 
 to find out what her recreant lover was 
 doing. She knew the full meaning of her 
 act; she knew it was not honorable, and 
 she also knew that it was an offense against 
 the law a felony, in truth. But neither of 
 these considerations restrained her. Just here, 
 it may be said, that while she was afterward 
 sorry for her act because of certain unexpected 
 results, and was ashamed of it when she con- 
 sidered it as an infraction of official duty, she 
 never had a twinge of conscience on account 
 of it. Although as an abstract proposition 
 she knew such a proceeding was wrong, as mere 
 wrong-doing, she did not regret it. Why a
 
 274 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 woman otherwise honest and scrupulous should 
 develop this moral defect, whether a woman is 
 naturally incapable of the highest integrity 
 when love and jealousy combine to affect her 
 serenity and self-control, are questions which 
 must be left to psychologists to answer. 
 
 She opened these letters and read them. At 
 the first reading she experienced a distinct 
 sense of disappointment. They were less ob- 
 jectionable than she had prepared herself to 
 find them. Miss Kitty's epistle was brief and 
 began primly: "Mr. Harvey Carter, Dear 
 Friend." It contained an item or two of neigh- 
 borhood news, expressed regret that he was no 
 longer there "it was so lonely without him," 
 and said that his friend, Mr. Ben Perry, had 
 taken her out buggy-riding the Sunday after- 
 noon before. "He said," she went on "but 
 you mustn't dare to tell him I told you he said 
 he was afraid you were a flirt. It made me feel 
 real badly, and I cried about it when I got 
 home. I told him I didn't believe you would do 
 so wicked a thing as to make love to a girl when 
 you didn't mean it. Now about Ben Mr. 
 Perry I am not so sure. Of course, I didn't 
 allow him to make love to me. Hasn't he a
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 275 
 
 sweetheart over in Garden City? Somebody 
 told me he owned a nice house in Garden City 
 and had a lot of money oh, as much as ten 
 thousand dollars. Is that so? Some girls care 
 so much for such things. I don't think it's nice 
 of them, do you?" 
 
 Harvey addressed his correspondent as 
 "Little Sweetheart," on seeing which Emeline 
 felt that she had had a blow. That had been 
 his pet name for her when he dared venture on 
 any endearments. An ache in her heart that 
 had never been there before came at the 
 thought that he could so far forget the asso- 
 ciation of this title with her as to give it to 
 another. But there was nothing to complain 
 of in the body of the letter. A statement that 
 he was slowly catching up with the work on the 
 farm, a remark that he was so tired when night 
 came that he could not stay awake, an assur- 
 ance, evidently a response to a question, that 
 he did not desire to live in town but much pre- 
 ferred the farm, and two or three bits of infor- 
 mation concerning Perry, whom she had ap- 
 parently asked some guileless questions about, 
 made up the document. 
 
 Emeline carefully resealed the letters so
 
 276 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 that her trespassing could not be detected let 
 those who know how tell the way and re- 
 turned them to the mail to go to their respect- 
 ive destinations. 
 
 Then she proceeded to think seriously. It 
 seemed very plain to her that Kitty Frazer 
 was in love with Harvey. It did not require 
 much skill at reading between the lines to dis- 
 cover that, she thought, when the lines them- 
 selves unconsciously betrayed it. As for him, 
 if he liked the girl better than herself, it was 
 all right; but "little sweetheart": she could 
 never forgive him for that. 
 
 A result of her reflections was a desire to see 
 the girl who wrote that letter, and she proceed- 
 ed to devise a way. She had a friend in Green- 
 bush, a young woman who had gone there to 
 live after her marriage, and whom she had 
 promised to visit. With Emeline, to plan was 
 to do, and the next Sunday found her at the 
 home of her friend, who, by happy chance, 
 lived next door to the Frazers. Miss Kitty 
 was invited to dinner by the unsuspecting host- 
 ess, and that young lady's attitude toward the 
 guest from Garden City was such as to disarm
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 277 
 
 all suspicion and animosity if any had existed. 
 She was a tiny creature, with limpid, confiding 
 blue eyes, which turned to those about her with 
 an irresistibly appealing expression. She at 
 once evinced a timid but decided fancy for 
 Emeline. After dinner she took the visitor for 
 a stroll in the orchard that lay back of the vil- 
 lage houses, and, once there, began to talk of 
 Harvey Carter, whose name Emeline would 
 not have dared to mention for fear of self -be- 
 trayal. So different are the ways and powers 
 of women. 
 
 But Miss Kitty prattled away, telling with 
 little blushes how nice he had been to her that 
 summer, how lonely it was since he had gone, 
 how much he had talked of her, Miss Mason, 
 and how much she, Kitty Frazer, had longed 
 to see her. 
 
 "But now that I have," she said, lifting her 
 blue eyes wistfully, "now that I have, I can't 
 think how he could ever care to talk to or to 
 look at me it could only have been because 
 you were not here." 
 
 "There is no question about it," thought 
 Emeline indignantly, "whether he was in earn-
 
 278 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 est or was only amusing himself, he has made 
 this innocent, transparent, trusting child care 
 for him." 
 
 Until time is no more, the woman in love will 
 refuse to be convinced that her lover is not cov- 
 eted by other women; but in this case it must 
 be acknowledged that there was some basis for 
 the supposition. Miss Kitty, it is true, did ask 
 some questions about other young men of Gar- 
 den City whom she had met, among them Ben 
 Perry. "Awfully rich, isn't he ?" she inquired. 
 But all that counted for nothing. It was per- 
 fectly plain to Emeline that the girl's heart 
 was in the keeping of Harvey Carter, and that 
 she was too childlike to conceal the fact. 
 
 Emeline went home and took up her varied 
 duties, but her mind was elsewhere. Over and 
 over she wished she had not opened those let- 
 ters. 
 
 "If I had never positively known what they 
 said to each other t " she thought, "I could do so 
 differently. But because I did open them I 
 have found out that whatever his feelings may 
 be, that innocent child is in love with him. I 
 can take him away from her if I set about it. 
 I can do it easily, I know. He isn't hers yet
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 279 
 
 though he did call her 'sweetheart' ; but can 
 I help break that little creature's heart? Can 
 I? No, I can't." 
 
 It was an unexpectedly self-sacrificing spirit 
 to be shown by a woman who had defied the 
 moral and the postal laws to gain a point, but 
 faults and virtues go side by side in frail hu- 
 manity, and the woman is rare who can account 
 for her own inconsistencies, to say nothing of 
 those of her fellow women. 
 
 It took two weeks for Emeline to determine 
 on her course, and then she lost no more time. 
 She wrote a note to Harvey Carter, and told 
 him she thought it best that there should no 
 longer be even a half-way engagement be- 
 tween them, that she was sure they could never 
 be happy together, and it was better for both 
 that there should be no lingering sense of obli- 
 gation; that she would always be his friend, 
 that she wished him well, etc. 
 
 "Now he can go to his 'little sweetheart'," 
 she said bitterly, as she went into the little post- 
 office, put an official stamp on the missive and 
 deposited it in Mr. Carter's private box. 
 
 Then, her heart being sore and her need 
 great, she went to her fragile mother's side in
 
 280 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 the twilight, and knelt there like a child and 
 wept; but the tears were not like those of a 
 child, they were bitter and burning. The moth- 
 er's silent sympathy brought comfort at least. 
 The touch of her soft hand, the murmur of the 
 gentle voice, uttering caressing words, soothed 
 her. A wise mother she was, who asked no 
 questions, knowing with the intuition of the 
 truest earthly love that the time for speech was 
 not yet ; a blessed mother, who, though know- 
 ing that all woes, even the love for a lover, will 
 pass away, yet yearned over her child in trouble 
 and sought only to heal her hurt. 
 
 In the morning came a letter from her 
 friend at Greenbush. 
 
 "Have you heard the news?" she wrote. 
 "We just know it here, and I hasten to tell 
 you. Ben Perry, of your town, drove over to 
 Emmettsville yesterday with Kitty Frazer, 
 and they were married. There was no reason 
 in the world why they should not have been 
 married at home, since nobody was opposed; 
 but I suppose she thought it best to make him 
 fast while he was in the humor, as he has a rep- 
 utation for fickleness. She has been angling
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 281 
 
 for him all summer. Before she even met him 
 she had made up her mind to capture him ; told 
 me so confidentially, with those deceitful blue 
 eyes innocently upturned. She is a mercenary 
 little wretch, and a sly one. If we had not had 
 so many more interesting things to talk of 
 when you were here, I could have told you so. 
 I thought for a while this summer that she had 
 determined to wear Harvey Carter's scalp at 
 her belt; but nothing, I guess, could win him 
 away from you. (Don't shake your head; we 
 all know which way the land lies with him.) 
 Very likely she only cultivated him as a part 
 of her scheme to reach Ben." 
 
 Emeline Mason was a clever woman, and 
 had flattered herself that she had more than 
 ordinary discernment, but she sat there with 
 this letter in her hand, convicted in her own 
 mind of dense and inexcusable stupidity. 
 
 "To think that I should be so taken in by 
 another woman; to think that I couldn't see 
 through her the minx!" 
 
 Fresh light broke upon her as she reflected. 
 
 "That letter to Harvey," she said with tardy 
 comprehension, "was only to find out about
 
 282 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 Ben, and when she talked to me and asked 
 questions, I thought it was Harvey that she 
 was interested in. And Ben tried to make me 
 help him out, too, by making me jealous of 
 Harvey; I wouldn't have thought it of Ben." 
 
 With one last sigh vanished forever her de- 
 lusion that Ben Perry had been her lover. She 
 had been the tool and the victim all around, 
 but if she had not opened those letters she 
 would have been spared so much that thought 
 would not leave her. 
 
 Just at that moment Harvey Carter stepped 
 into the little sitting-room where she was at 
 work, and seated himself at her side. 
 
 "Now, Emmy," he said, with satisfaction in 
 his voice, "I have got that postponed job of 
 threshing done, and all the other jobs that have 
 waited, and I am over to say that I've got to 
 see you of tener than I have for two months or 
 my constitution will give way. I have been 
 homesick for you." 
 
 He looked at her beamingly, with total un- 
 consciousness of past or present offense. Em- 
 eline was dazed for a moment, then recovered 
 herself and thought rapidly. Evidently he
 
 283 
 
 had not received, or at least had not read, her 
 note of dismissal. When he did read it he 
 would think she was mourning for Ben Perry, 
 and that her disappointment led her to write 
 the epistle. She excused herself on some pre- 
 text, entered the post-office and looked in Car- 
 ter's box. The letter was still there, and again 
 she took advantage of her official position to 
 trespass on private property ; she put it in her 
 pocket. This, she would say, however, was a 
 very different case from the first, and of 
 course it was. 
 
 "Now," she thought, "I can send it again 
 when I please. But I must know if he has 
 heard of Ben's marriage, and since Kitty is 
 gone, he is coming back to me as if nothing had 
 happened." 
 
 Harvey stared when she told him, looked 
 foolish for a moment, then slapped his knee 
 with a resounding thwack, and laughed up- 
 roariously two inelegant acts that proper 
 Miss Emeline would freely have reproved him 
 for under other circumstances. 
 
 "That was her little game, was it?" he 
 said. "I couldn't quite get on to it. For a 
 spell I thought she meant me, but I guess she
 
 284 THE POSTMISTRESS 
 
 only used me for a bait for higher game. 
 She's a deep one." 
 
 And he laughed again with a ring of gen- 
 uine mirth in his voice which showed that his 
 feelings were not deeply touched by the duplic- 
 ity of the Greenbush beauty. 
 
 "Yes, I heard that you were very devoted to 
 her this summer," said Emeline with a sarcastic 
 inflection. 
 
 "Well, you see, Em," he said quizzically, 
 "you had snubbed me to such a degree, and had 
 given me to understand that I might change 
 my mind if I wished, that maybe I was experi- 
 menting a little; but it was no go. I would 
 rather have you and the snubbing why why, 
 Emmy, what is it?" 
 
 Poor Emmy had lost her boasted self-con- 
 trol at last, and was crying with her head upon 
 the table. 
 
 "Emmy, little sweetheart!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She straightened up. 
 
 "Don't call me little sweetheart ever again," 
 she said sharply; "I can not endure it." 
 
 "I will call you anything you wish. There, 
 there ! Don't cry any more." 
 
 And unrebuked this time, he comforted her
 
 THE POSTMISTRESS 285 
 
 and dried her tears after the manner of lovers 
 the wide world over. 
 
 She had her lover back, hers now forever; 
 she had suffered no exposure or outward pen- 
 alty for her dishonorable opening of those let- 
 ters ; but even at this moment, when she feared 
 no rival and her heart throbbed with gladness 
 of love triumphant, a pang lingered. 
 
 "I can never tell him in this world why he 
 must not call me sweetheart, never. Oh! why 
 did I touch the letters? A man is so rigid 
 about such matters; he would never forgive me 
 he would not understand." 
 
 Looking down the vista of summer days she 
 saw a canker at the heart of the rose. For de- 
 spite her determination to keep silence, she 
 knew at the bottom of her heart, being truly 
 feminine, that sometime she must confess, and 
 she did not yet know man well enough to be 
 aware that he is ready grandly and graciously 
 to forgive sins committed for his sake and 
 through which he suffers no ill.
 
 KATHARINE CLARK'S STORY 
 
 KATHARINE CLARK had fully and 
 finally made up her mind to leave her 
 husband. The thought of such a proceeding 
 had come to her suddenly some months before, 
 creating a shock of disapproval as when some 
 other person offended her sense of propriety. 
 She put the idea out of her mind, but it re- 
 turned persistently and soon she found herself 
 opposing it no longer, but considering it seri- 
 ously. 
 
 She was very conventional and had been 
 reared in the strict school of behavior that re- 
 gards a breach of social regulations and deco- 
 rum as hardly less than a crime. Her world 
 was small but its rules were rigid, so that she 
 hesitated at the thought of going contrary to 
 its opinions and prejudices, even though her 
 conscience did not reprove her in the least. 
 
 But the suggestion tempted her; it offered 
 a solution of all her troubles; it opened the 
 way for her to live her own life and bring it to 
 
 286
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 287 
 
 its highest development, which she had thor- 
 oughly convinced herself she could never do 
 as the wife of Doctor John Clark. She was 
 twenty-four years old and she had been married 
 nearly three years. The marriage itself was an 
 event for which she had made no provision in 
 the plan of life that she had somewhat vaguely 
 outlined during her school years. Of course, 
 she had had her occasional romantic fancies, as 
 all girls do, but they were of a purely abstract 
 character and had never invested any particu- 
 lar individual with the charms which com- 
 mended him as a possible husband. She would 
 marry sometime, she supposed; most women 
 did but that time was a long and indefinite 
 way off, and meanwhile she had so much to 
 accomplish. 
 
 The truth was that she lived a purely intel- 
 lectual life, as far as such a thing is compati- 
 ble with the attention to physical being de- 
 manded by civilized existence. Her father, 
 Phineas Apthorpe, was a professor of ancient 
 languages in one of the minor New England 
 colleges; his father before him had been a 
 teacher; his grandfather and great-grand- 
 father Congregational ministers with reputa-
 
 288 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 tions for much learning. Her father had nev- 
 er ceased to regret that he had no son to sus- 
 tain the Apthorpe name in the educational 
 career, which he held to be the most honorable 
 and the most greatly to be desired of all that 
 could be named. Not having the son, he took 
 Katharine, his only daughter, in hand, and 
 early accustomed her to the idea that the best 
 the world contains is in books. She was reared 
 in an atmosphere of books, and under her 
 father's guidance became a much more earnest 
 and satisfactory student than were the college 
 boys who tried his soul with their frivolous 
 behavior. 
 
 Katharine might have given way to more of 
 the natural levity of youth had it not been for 
 her mother's influence. 
 
 Mrs. Apthorpe was one of those women of 
 frail physique and tremendous activity of 
 mind so often found in New England. She, 
 too, wished Katharine to be highly educated, 
 but not precisely for the same reason enter- 
 tained by the professor. She had herself en- 
 joyed but few educational advantages except 
 such as had come to her in later life through 
 reading and association with bookish people;
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 289 
 
 but she had longed for them exceedingly arid, 
 after the human custom with unattainable 
 things, had placed an exaggerated value upon 
 them. As she saw the opportunities opening 
 to women with the growth of a more liberal 
 and enlightened sentiment, she determined 
 that her daughter should have all that she had 
 missed. So she spurred the girl up to her stud- 
 ies and never encouraged her participation in 
 the gaieties of the young people of the town. 
 As a consequence Katharine led a rather iso- 
 lated lif e. 
 
 There was no purpose on the part of her par- 
 ents to deprive her of any necessary thing, but 
 their own lives were narrow; they did not real- 
 ize that a knowledge of literature and of his- 
 tory and of sciences is by itself but an incom- 
 plete equipment; or that a development of 
 social and moral qualities to be gained by con- 
 tact with people is equally essential to a round- 
 ed character. They had but little social diver- 
 sion themselves, taking part in the festivities 
 incident to college life only when unavoidable. 
 Katharine had no interest in college students, 
 her position as a professor's daughter prevent- 
 ing any possible illusions in regard to them,
 
 290 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 but on the contrary creating a mild scorn. She 
 had no intimates among other girls, her ac- 
 knowledged superiority of education raising a 
 slight barrier between them which she did noth- 
 ing to overcome. The so-called intellectually 
 superior girl, usually quite aware of her supe- 
 riority, is seldom a favorite, perhaps on ac- 
 count of that self-consciousness. 
 
 When she was eighteen, by a careful man- 
 ipulation of the family income and some paren- 
 tal sacrifices, Katharine was sent to Smith Col- 
 lege. Here she naturally gravitated to the 
 class, not often very large even in schools for 
 women's higher education, whose first and last 
 object is mental improvement. 
 
 As it happened, she fell under the direct 
 influence of a teacher of strong personality 
 who had a hobby. Miss Norris never ceased 
 to rejoice that this twentieth century is the 
 woman's century, and in season and out of sea- 
 son, early and late, she enjoined upon the girls 
 in her charge the duty of taking advantage of 
 their opportunities for mind development. 
 "It is your duty to yourself and the world," 
 she would say, "to grow. Feed your intellect 
 upon the finest food and the product will be in
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 291 
 
 kind. Prove to the world that woman's mind is 
 equal to the greatest. Give your individuality 
 free and full scope. Marriage sometimes, 
 nay, often, hinders woman's mental growth. I 
 would not advise against marriage, young 
 ladies, but have a care when you come to con- 
 sider the subject lest it prove a hindrance to 
 your progress." 
 
 Frivolous students spoke disrespectfully of 
 Miss Norris as "Old Mentality," and inquired 
 with affected solicitude as to the sproutings of 
 one another's intellects; but upon Katharine 
 Apthorpe the exhortations made due impres- 
 sion. 
 
 When she had been in college nearly three 
 years her father died, and she went home to 
 find her mother's health broken and her condi- 
 tion such as to demand the daughter's constant 
 attention. It was here, in her mother's sick 
 room, that she met Doctor Clark. He fell in 
 love with her without loss of time. With all the 
 important problems in human economy yet 
 awaiting solution it is never worth while to 
 spend time in speculating upon the reasons that 
 lead any given man to fall in love with and 
 marry any given woman, or vice versa. In this
 
 292 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 case Katharine's pretty face was explanation 
 enough for the curious, and doubtless the in- 
 sight of a lover discovered more charms and 
 virtues than were visible to the casual observer. 
 
 As for her feelings, she was pleased. Be- 
 sides her father, she had not known any man 
 well. Doctor Clark was handsome ; he was ten 
 years older than herself a clear recommenda- 
 tion to a girl not fond of boys; furthermore, 
 she was not so loftily* intellectual but that she 
 perceived, and was rather gratified by, the envy 
 excited in the breasts of other girls of her ac- 
 quaintance by her conquest. 
 
 Her mother, who had always ignored the 
 question of marriage and had encouraged her 
 to take up the teacher's calling as a life-work, 
 now changed her attitude and urged upon her 
 the advisability of matrimony. The mother 
 knew that no money was left to continue the 
 girl's education in foreign universities, or else- 
 where, to the point which would fit her for the 
 position of instructor in a higher institution of 
 learning for it was not as a teacher of a mere 
 grammar school that Professor Apthorpe's 
 daughter had been intended. Katharine was
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 293 
 
 flattered by Doctor Clark's preference; she 
 liked him, she thought she loved him, and when 
 he asked her to be his wife she accepted him. 
 They were married at her mother's bedside, 
 thereby adding greatly to that lady's peace of 
 mind in her last days, which came to an end 
 shortly after. 
 
 The wedded pair lived on for three years in 
 the same town and with but little variety in the 
 routine of their lives. It had not taken Kath- 
 arine that length of time to discover that she 
 was dissatisfied. She had omitted no feature 
 of what she conceived to be her wifely duty. 
 She looked after her husband's physical com- 
 fort as she had seen and helped her mother do 
 for her father. She kept his clothing in order, 
 saw that his meals were properly prepared, 
 and entertained his friends when he brought 
 them to the house. All her leisure hours were 
 taken up with study and reading. She be- 
 longed to a private class which studied German 
 literature and philosophy under the guidance 
 of a retired professor, to another which was 
 delving into that rather large topic, the his- 
 tory of civilization; now and then she dipped
 
 294 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 into Greek and Latin classics by way of prac- 
 tise, and for recreation read Renan in the 
 original. 
 
 The woman's club epidemic had struck the 
 quiet college town in all its fury, and she was 
 a shining light in several of these literary sym- 
 posiums. No one could present a more elab- 
 orate collection of facts than she; or a better 
 summary of some learned philosopher's views. 
 The facts, it is true, mostly belonged to a time 
 long past, and the philosophy was not practi- 
 cal, but she felt that she was gaining culture. 
 
 Doctor Clark all this time? He was busy 
 with his patients. He had a good many of them 
 altogether, though a large proportion were 
 not profitable from a financial standpoint. 
 
 Over in Newtown, the manufacturing vil- 
 lage just across the river, there was always 
 sickness, and Doctor Clark had, somehow, be- 
 come a favorite with the Irish and Canadian 
 factory-hands. There was a time when he used 
 to talk of his cases to Katharine, but she looked 
 at him with uncomprehending wonder over his 
 interest in people of that class. 
 
 "Katharine," he said one day after she had 
 received with her usual unresponsiveness a
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 295 
 
 pathetic story of an Irishwoman's hrave fight 
 with death for her children's sake; "Katha- 
 rine, I do not want you to become acquainted 
 with painful sights and subjects, but I do wish 
 you could visit some of the mill people over 
 there and see their lives. It would do you 
 good ; you know too little of the world." 
 
 She grew fairly rigid with astonishment. 
 
 "I could not visit them" she said with an 
 emphasis that showed firm conviction and utter 
 lack of sympathy. 
 
 The exclusiveness of the social class to which 
 she belonged, based as it is on pride of intellect, 
 pride of family and narrowness of outlook, is 
 of an intensity to which the aristocracy of mon- 
 ey bears no comparison. She had a feeling that 
 she was of another order of being from the 
 people over the river. 
 
 The doctor never talked to her of his pa- 
 tients now, but grew more absorbed in his work, 
 and the expression of his face had become 
 weary and sad. This absorption she com- 
 plained of to herself. She discovered in him 
 no sympathy with her intellectual pursuits. 
 When she talked of Hegelian philosophy he 
 was apt to fall asleep, and when she would like
 
 296 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 his opinion as to the proper translation of a 
 knotty Greek passage he was deep in his daily 
 paper, though he, too, had had a university 
 training and was presumably more or less fa- 
 miliar with dead languages. Katharine sel- 
 dom looked at the newspapers. She held them 
 to be frivolous and unworthy the attention of 
 serious-minded people, and their defective lit- 
 erary style pained her. Thoreau had said that 
 he did not read the times but the eternities, and 
 she considered that an admirable thought. 
 
 Gradually the conviction grew upon her 
 that she had made a mistake in marrying. The 
 time had come, as it must come to all earnest 
 natures, when it was not enough to absorb 
 knowledge; there arose the desire to create, to 
 do, to accomplish something definite and tan- 
 gible. This instinct first manifested itself in a 
 restlessness and a vague discontent, which final- 
 ly found expression in a suggestion to her hus- 
 band that they should remove to some larger 
 city. 
 
 "It takes a long time for a physician to be- 
 come established in a large city," he said to her 
 in reply, "and I am afraid you would not enjoy 
 yourself there as the wife of a poor man-. Here,
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 297 
 
 everybody is more on an equality. I ought to 
 make more money for you as it is," he went on 
 regretfully. "You would like having all the 
 luxuries and would adorn a rich man's home; 
 but, somehow, Katharine, I can't squeeze the 
 poor devils at the mills for the last cent of my 
 fees when it is taking the very bread out of the 
 babies' mouths." 
 
 She said no more, but her sense of having 
 been injured by fate grew rapidly. She would 
 like wealth, and thought a little contemptu- 
 ously of men who could not or did not care to 
 acquire it. 
 
 Deep in her mind lurked the belief that if 
 she but had opportunity she could at least earn 
 all the money she wanted, if not more. Just 
 how it was to be done she did not know; not by 
 teaching, that was certain. Her tastes, never 
 very favorable to the career chosen for her by 
 her parents, had turned strongly against it; 
 but surely, she thought, in calm self-confidence, 
 a woman of her qualifications need not seek 
 far to find her place. She would like to try 
 her fortune. She favored a literary career, and 
 considered it most easily followed. But she 
 must get away by herself in order to enter
 
 298 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 upon it. The constant association with one so 
 out of sympathy with her aspirations and un- 
 dertakings as her husband she felt to be de- 
 structive of high ideas; it dragged her down. 
 Her individuality did not have free play; she 
 wanted to develop. 
 
 Her mind dwelt upon this subject until it 
 became her one idea; but not a whisper of such 
 thoughts escaped her lips. Doctor Clark's little 
 personal peculiarities began to irritate her. He 
 twisted the ends of his mustache in his moments 
 of abstraction until she grew nearly frantic 
 with nervousness. His undignified habit of 
 wearing his soft felt hat pushed back on his 
 head annoyed her as it had never done before. 
 She came to have great compassion for herself 
 as a victim of unhappy circumstances. What 
 her husband might suffer should he love her 
 she did not consider. He had said he loved 
 her, and might, therefore, be expected to have 
 some regrets at separation; but she did not 
 comprehend love, and consequently did not 
 trouble herself with this phase of the matter. 
 A knowledge of love is not found in books. If 
 she had had a child it might have opened the
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 299 
 
 sealed fountains of her affection, but none had 
 been born to her. 
 
 At last the way unexpectedly opened for the 
 carrying out of her half -formed plans, and they 
 quickly became definite. Doctor Clark was 
 summoned to Indiana by the death of an uncle, 
 also a physician, who had bequeathed to him all 
 his property, consisting mainly of some build- 
 ings in the town of Kokomo and a farm in 
 another county. After a few days' absence he 
 wrote to her that he was so pleased with the pro- 
 fessional prospect that he had about decided to 
 go into practise there and only waited her con- 
 sent to the plan. Business would detain him a 
 few days, when he would return to Oldtown, 
 and if her decision was favorable, they would 
 thereafter make Indiana their home. He 
 wrote in a cheerful buoyant strain, with ap- 
 parently no doubt that from the advantages 
 and benefits he outlined she would be con- 
 vinced of the wisdom of the move. Here was 
 her opportunity. The provocation, she 
 thought, was sufficient. He had refused to go 
 to a city, but he was ready to drag her into 
 what was, of course, a crude, half-civilized
 
 300 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 western town. She had never seen or heard 
 of Kokomo before, but she was sure it could 
 have no possible attractions for her. She 
 would not see it. She would go away. 
 
 So there she sat that morning, writing a let- 
 ter whose information would come with a shock 
 to the unsuspecting husband. She had had 
 some doubts as to the best method of proced- 
 ure, but by a rare chance she had looked at the 
 newspaper that morning and had read two 
 stories that served as a warning of what not 
 to do. One told of a woman of high social 
 standing who had mysteriously left home, 
 leaving no word, and was supposed to have 
 been suddenly smitten with insanity, or to have 
 met with foul play; but the notoriety of a 
 search had developed hints of a scandalous 
 escapade. Another woman, with presumably 
 the happiest of domestic relations, who had un- 
 accountably disappeared, was found drowned. 
 
 "Nobody knows how unhappy those women 
 were," said Mrs. Clark to herself. "They 
 probably could endure their homes no longer. 
 But there shall be no scandalous notoriety and 
 no dragging of the river for me." So she
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 301 
 
 wrote a letter with deliberation and read it 
 over approvingly: 
 
 "DOCTOR CLARK: 
 
 "You must have realized long ago that our 
 marriage was a mistake and that we are en- 
 tirely unsuited to each other. I am so well 
 convinced of this that I think it useless to con- 
 tinue longer the attempt to adjust our inhar- 
 monious natures to each other. I do not be- 
 lieve it right that a woman should be bound 
 for life by fetters that prevent the free expan- 
 sion of her talents and of her best self. I must 
 be free and I am going away. I shall not tell 
 you where, though I think you will hardly care 
 to find me. You need have no anxiety about 
 my welfare. I have drawn from the bank the 
 money that was mother's, and before this is 
 gone I shall be able to provide for myself. I 
 have not mentioned my plans to any one, and 
 you will have no questions to answer when you 
 return to settle up your affairs. People will 
 suppose I have gone to join you. I hope you 
 will be happy in your new life in Kokomo. It 
 was impossible that I should go there. I thank 
 you for your good intentions and for your 
 kindness toward me in the three years since I 
 have known you. 
 
 "Good-by, 
 
 "KATHARINE." 
 
 It was a cold-blooded letter, a selfish cruel 
 letter; but Katharine was pleased with it and
 
 302 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 sent it on its way. Then she packed her trunks, 
 said good-by to a few friends, and departed 
 from Oldtown. After long reflection she had 
 determined to go to Chicago. To be sure it 
 was western and lacking in culture, and Ko- 
 komo was not far away (she looked the place 
 up on the map), but her husband would never 
 dream of her being there. If he searched for 
 her it would be in New York or Boston, and 
 she would prefer not to meet him. In the lat- 
 ter cities, too, there was always the chance 
 of encountering some Oldtown acquaintance. 
 After a while she would not care, she thought, 
 but just now the force of conventionalities was 
 strong and she wished to answer no questions. 
 
 The next chapter of Katharine's life opened 
 in a Chicago boarding-house, which proffered 
 all the comforts of a home for a good round 
 sum per week; and as the landlady assured 
 each newcomer, was very select as to the char- 
 acter of its inmates. Katharine's admission 
 had been obtained by means of a letter of intro- 
 duction obtained on a plausible pretext some- 
 time before from her old teacher, Miss Norris, 
 who had once stayed at the house when in the
 
 303 
 
 city as a delegate to a convention to elevate 
 Woman. 
 
 After the first confusion wrought in her un- 
 accustomed mind by the rush of a great city 
 had passed away, Katharine was fascinated 
 with Chicago. Its hurrying throngs, its push 
 and eagerness and energy, whose contagion 
 none can wholly escape, exhilarated her like 
 wine. The pulsating vigor was akin to youth 
 and roused her heart to responsive throbs. It 
 was life in its fullest fiercest flow; intoxicat- 
 ing life that drew into its current all who ven- 
 tured near and swept them irresistibly on. 
 Katharine exulted at finding herself even on 
 the eddying borders of this wonderful stream, 
 and longed for the time when she could plunge 
 in and become a part of it. 
 
 She was too reticent and too much of a 
 stranger to speak of her impressions to her new 
 boarding-house acquaintances, but she freely 
 confided her thoughts and her delight to paper. 
 The inspiration of the restless energy about 
 her soon spurred her to activity. Idleness and 
 aimlessness palled. She formulated her hith- 
 erto vague literary plans and proceeded to 
 carry them out. She had already on hand sev-
 
 304 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 eral manuscript essays and literary studies pro- 
 duced within the year, and these she now sent 
 out to various eastern periodicals. Having des- 
 patched her manuscripts, she devoted herself to 
 the work of preparing more. It began to be 
 whispered about the boarding-house that Mrs. 
 Clark was a literary woman a writer for the 
 magazines. It detracted nothing from her dis- 
 tinction that bulky envelopes frequently came 
 to her bearing publishers' trade-marks. Curi- 
 ous fellow boarders who happened to see her 
 mail on the hall table did not know what the 
 packages contained; or, if they did suspect 
 rejected contributions, were apt to assume that 
 others had been accepted. The mere fact of 
 correspondence with great publishers and 
 magazine editors was, to the mind of the un- 
 initiated, sufficient proof of authorship. 
 
 But the manuscripts came back, one after 
 another. The North American Review deeply 
 regretted that it did not find her paper on 
 "Intellectual Detachment" available for its 
 use; the Century Magazine repectfully de- 
 clined "Shakespeare's Women"; the Atlantic 
 Monthly had on hand such an abundance of 
 verse that it could not find use for her "Ode to
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 305 
 
 Pallas Athena"; the Harpers were unable, in 
 the press of matter, to find room for her essay 
 on "The Intellectual Future of Woman". 
 And so it went. She had thought that pub- 
 lishers would be glad to have contributions of 
 a serious and thoughtful character, but it be- 
 gan to look as if they were unappreciative of 
 such efforts. There was hardly an issue of a 
 magazine which did not contain matter that she 
 considered far inferior to hers that, in fact, 
 was positively trivial. The rejections were dis- 
 couraging. Still, she would not be utterly 
 cast down, but sent out a fresh instalment of 
 manuscripts to seek their fortune and hers. 
 Among them was one entitled "Notes on 
 Schopenhauer", addressed to the editor of the 
 Sunday Register, of Chicago. This venture 
 was due to the suggestion of a gushing young 
 lady of the house who asked her why she did 
 not write for the Register, which was a "per- 
 fectly lovely" paper, "so highly literary, you 
 know." Besides, the young lady had heard 
 that it paid its writers better than any other 
 
 paper. 
 
 Meanwhile, another little enterprise was in- 
 teresting her. Among the highly respectable
 
 30(5 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 inmates of the boarding-house was a dapper 
 and agreeable gentleman, by business a broker. 
 Between him and other gentlemen at the table 
 was a great deal of conversation sprinkled with 
 such expressions as "margins", "futures", 
 "puts and calls", "corners", "deals", etc. 
 terms that meant nothing to Katharine until 
 curiosity led her to seek information. There 
 were times when the interest in the broker's 
 remarks was quite intense and was shared by 
 several of the women. After a while Katha- 
 rine learned that this excitement was due to 
 the probability of a rise in wheat, or corn, or 
 pork, as the case might be, and the consequent 
 probability that the small sums which the 
 boarders had severally entrusted to the care of 
 broker Jackson for investment would be in- 
 creased tenfold, or thereabouts. As it chanced, 
 the broker's judgment was correct several 
 times in succession, and Katharine, once com- 
 prehending, caught the speculative fever 
 quickly. 
 
 Such was her ignorance of the ways of the 
 sinful contemporary world that she did not 
 know that dealing in margins was regarded 
 by many moral censors of the community
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 807 
 
 as 'gambling of a very reprehensible sort, 
 nor that it was periodically condemned from 
 the pulpit. If she had been warned of the 
 moral dangers she was incurring perhaps it 
 would not have stayed her movements. The 
 true heinousness of speculation is seldom real- 
 ized until one becomes a speculator and a 
 loser. Katharine felt sure that here was her 
 opportunity to become a money-maker. At 
 first she proceeded cautiously. She drew one 
 hundred dollars from her little fund and put 
 it into broker Jackson's hands. He had had 
 dealings with inexperienced women before, 
 and knowing their disposition to be trouble- 
 some if matters went wrong, warned her that 
 loss was a possibility. She assured him she 
 would accept loss philosophically and without 
 complaint. He invested her one hundred dol- 
 lars in wheat ; wheat went up ; he sold it at the 
 right moment, and she was two hundred dol- 
 lars richer. She reinvested, and was again on 
 the right side of the market. Mr. Jackson then 
 confidentially informed her that he had had a 
 "pointer" from one of the inside men in the 
 deal; that a "corner" was being worked up, 
 that wheat would take a big jump and there
 
 308 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 was a chance for her to make a pocketful of 
 money. 'She put the original one hundred and 
 all the new gains into the broker's hands. 
 There was a miscalculation somehow; the cor- 
 ner had a gap in it; wheat went down and 
 down, and Katharine was poorer than in the 
 beginning. About this time she went to church 
 one Sunday and heard a discourse on the ex- 
 ceeding wickedness and demoralizing influence 
 of margin gambling, and agreed with it all. 
 
 One of the boarders in the house was a Mrs. 
 Manton, a middle-aged widow, who was com- 
 monly understood to have a "great business 
 head". She had originally a small capital 
 which she was said to have increased greatly 
 by judicious investments in real estate. She 
 had warned Katharine of the risks of margin 
 speculation, telling her that real estate was 
 much safer. With all her professed belief in 
 the equality of woman's intellect with that of 
 man, Katharine had preferred the financial 
 opinions of the man, and now felt that she 
 had done woman an injustice. It was, there- 
 fore, the easier for Mrs. Manton to convince 
 her of the advantages of investment in a tract 
 of ground over in South Chicago. She had
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 309 
 
 private and positive information that the 
 Great North American Car Works, which 
 owned ground on both sides, was going to 
 build its shops there and, of course, must have 
 the intervening tract. She was anxious to help 
 women to make money and instead of selfishly 
 profiting alone by this opportunity she had 
 taken twenty-three women with her into the 
 enterprise. All that was needed for the first 
 payment was twenty-five hundred dollars. If 
 Mrs. Clark would become the twenty-fifth 
 woman in the syndicate each would put in 
 one hundred dollars and inside of a month, 
 probably within a week they would sell 
 at their own price and at least quadruple 
 their investment. It was a very plausible and 
 attractive scheme. Katharine, with some mis- 
 givings, gave up another hundred dollars, only 
 to discover in a few days not only that the car 
 works did not want the ground, but that a flaw 
 had developed in the title and that if she ever 
 got her money back it would not be that year. 
 She had one hundred dollars left, and the sit- 
 uation was growing critical. It had suddenly 
 become necessary for her to find some lucrative 
 occupation with as little delay as possible. The
 
 310 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 career of authorship had not opened with 
 promise, and though she by no means intended 
 to abandon it, it must give way for the present 
 while she engaged in something that afforded 
 more immediate returns. Her thoughts first 
 turned to teaching, but it was not the season 
 for engaging teachers, and she soon learned 
 that she could hope for nothing in this line 
 without proper credentials. These, as she came 
 to know later, meant the recommendation of 
 some councilman or other citizen with what 
 is technically known as a "pull". She could 
 bring no influence to bear. To be sure, there 
 were two or three elderly gentlemen in the city, 
 ministers and retired professors, who had 
 known her father; but she could not apply to 
 them because well, because she would have to 
 tell why she was there away from her husband. 
 Pride and an instinctive honesty had caused 
 her to retain her married name and would pre- 
 vent her from concealing the truth if she had 
 to speak. It had somehow become impressed 
 upon her of late that it would be difficult to 
 tell her story in a way to make people sym- 
 pathize with her and to agree that she was 
 right. If her husband had beaten her, or had
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 311 
 
 been 'dissipated, or if there were something 
 more definite to say than that he was unsym- 
 pathetic and unappreciative, it would be dif- 
 ferent. And it would be hard to make every 
 one understand how maddening the habit of 
 twisting his mustache and running his fingers 
 through his hair could be in a man. 
 
 The next month was a period to which Kath- 
 arine never liked to look back. She spent it 
 in searching for employment. She made the 
 rounds of bookstores, publishing houses, libra- 
 ries, offices and department stores, but without 
 success. She took to studying the advertise- 
 ments in the daily papers. Women seemed to 
 be "wanted" in a variety of occupations. Some 
 of these calls she answered. Invariably it 
 turned out that what the advertiser wanted 
 was, first experience, and last experience. 
 One employer, a dry goods man, upon her im- 
 pulsive inquiry as to how any one was ever to 
 gain experience, relented sufficiently to say 
 that though he was not in the habit of taking 
 untrained clerks into his establishment he 
 might make an exception in her case, as she 
 seemed intelligent and active. He was willing 
 to try her for two months at a salary of three
 
 812 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 dollars a week. This offer, which was really 
 made in kindness, was almost rudely refused 
 by the applicant, whose mind was not yet ac- 
 quainted with that intricate problem of supply 
 and demand in the business world and its bear- 
 ing upon wages. Everywhere she met with 
 civility, but no encouragement. The Amer- 
 ican man speedily becomes accustomed to the 
 irruption of woman into business pursuits and 
 treats her with respect, but does not permit any 
 sentiment attaching to her sex in the abstract 
 to interfere with considerations of profit and 
 loss. This is as it should be, doubtless, but 
 Katharine felt that women were somehow at a 
 disadvantage in the struggle for existence. 
 One man whom she encountered had an opin- 
 ion on this point. He had no vacancies in his 
 establishment a great dry goods house ex- 
 cept in the dress-making department. He 
 wanted a head dress-maker an expert. 
 
 "You are not one," he said, looking at her 
 shrewdly; "you are not an expert of any sort, 
 or you would not be hunting a situation; the 
 situation would be hunting you." Then, in a 
 moment of expansiveness, he added, "Women 
 jeally ought not to have to earn money, but if
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 313 
 
 they must, it stands them in hand to know how 
 to do at least one thing well. To tell the truth, 
 a woman who comes in competition with a man 
 ought to know that one thing better than the 
 man knows it to be on an equal footing with 
 him, as business goes." 
 
 With all of Katharine's theoretical interest 
 in women she did not look to them first in her 
 hour of need, but one day she called at the 
 office of an organization whose loudly heralded 
 purpose it was to assist women to take care of 
 themselves. A severe-looking person at a desk 
 listened to her application and promptly cate- 
 chized her, opening a formidable book in which 
 to record the answers. On learning that the 
 applicant was married, that her husband was 
 neither dissipated, nor immoral, nor a helpless 
 invalid, the severe person closed her book with 
 a bang. 
 
 "We can do nothing for you. I should ad- 
 vise you to return to your husband. The pur- 
 pose of our society is to provide for the really 
 needy and deserving." 
 
 Katharine's face burned with indignation as 
 she went away, wondering if men who asked for 
 work at employment agencies were compelled
 
 314 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 to give certificates of moral character and a 
 history of their domestic affairs. 
 
 Yet, after all, it was a woman who came to 
 her rescue. 
 
 The one member of the household with 
 whom she had formed an intimacy was a 
 woman a little older than herself who was a 
 physician. Her stately serene beauty first at- 
 tracted Katharine, and a nearer acquaintance 
 discovered a sweetness and strength of char- 
 acter that formed a winning personality. Doc- 
 tor Carter, or, as she was familiarly known to 
 her nearest friends, Doctor Laura, had shown 
 a kindly interest in Katharine from the first, 
 but she had asked no questions ; nor, as the ac- 
 quaintance progressed, had Katharine entered 
 into any confidences beyond a mention of her 
 wish for employment. 
 
 The women who tell to all the world their 
 innermost thoughts and family secrets are 
 many, but the other women who from pride, 
 timidity and other reasons keep silence when 
 speech would benefit them and clear the mists 
 away are not less numerous. 
 
 One evening Doctor Laura said to her: 
 "The managing editor of the Morning Regis-
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 315 
 
 ter, who chances to be a friend of mine, asked 
 me if I could recommend some one with the 
 patience and judgment to read and pass upon 
 the merits of a quantity of manuscript stories 
 which have come to the paper in response to an 
 offer of a prize. I suggested you. If you 
 would like the work I will take you down to- 
 morrow afternoon and introduce you." 
 
 The next day found Katharine at a dingy 
 desk in a more dingy little room in the office 
 of the Register, with a pile of manuscripts 
 before her. Mr. Fowler, the managing editor, 
 a keen-eyed person with a nervous incisive 
 manner of speech, had given her brief instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 "Not necessary to read more than a page or 
 so of two-thirds of the lot. Bad grammar and 
 idiocy give 'em away at the start. Out of the 
 rest save a dozen of the best best 'none too 
 good. Committee will pass on dozen and se- 
 lect three for prizes. I'm the committee; no 
 time to waste on this sort of foolishness. Old 
 man's scheme to encourage literary talent and 
 to increase circulation." 
 
 Subsequently Katharine learned that the 
 "old man" was the proprietor, and that each
 
 316 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 member of the staff, from the office boy up, 
 was sure he could give him valuable instruc- 
 tions on how to run a newspaper. 
 
 Before she had worked on those manuscripts 
 two days, finding only three in that time that 
 could be called meritorious, she was ready to 
 sympathize with "readers" for magazines 
 whose occupation she had often envied. But 
 she did not drop the crudest of the productions 
 into the basket of "unavailables" without a 
 sympathetic pang for the writer whose labor 
 and hopes had gone into it. The second after- 
 noon she heard a somewhat animated conversa- 
 tion in the managing editor's office, near whose 
 open door her desk stood, between that func- 
 tionary and a brisk young man who was ex- 
 plaining with irritation that the society re- 
 porter, instead of attending to the Mahoney- 
 Connelly wedding, had sent word that she was 
 ill. This wedding, it appeared, was ordered 
 by the "old man" to be written up with unusual 
 elaboration, owing to intimate business rela- 
 tions between himself and the father of the 
 bride. Then there was a lowering of voices, a 
 note of protest from the younger man, with a
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 317 
 
 whisper of "green hands", and the two ap- 
 proached Katharine. 
 
 "Mrs. Clark, this is our city editor, Mr. 
 Jones. He wants some one to report a wed- 
 ding, and I have suggested you. Such work is 
 not to he written in the style of your 'Notes 
 on Schopenhauer', but I think you can do it. 
 Mr. Jones will instruct you." And the manag- 
 ing editor turned away with a twinkle in his 
 eye. 
 
 This allusion to Schopenhauer was the first 
 intimation she had had that he recognized her 
 as the author of that contribution, which she 
 had never heard of after it was sent until now, 
 and she flushed with a mixture of embarrass- 
 ment and indignation. Her resentment over 
 his amusement at her literary offering led her 
 to a ready acceptance of this new undertaking. 
 If there was one thing more than another 
 which a few weeks ago she would have chosen 
 not to do, and that she would have thought en- 
 tirely beneath her dignity and abilities, it was 
 society reporting; but she would show Mr. 
 Fowler that she could do one thing as well as 
 another. Because she wrote philosophical es-
 
 318 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 says was no reason why she could not describe 
 a wedding trousseau acceptably. Besides, there 
 was the other consideration, that she could not 
 afford to let any opportunity for respectable 
 employment go by. So, before she had time 
 fairly to realize the situation, she was on a sub- 
 urban train bound for the residence of the Hon- 
 orable Patrick Mahoney. The Mahoneys were 
 newly rich; they were vulgar and pretentious; 
 but the veneering was not deep enough to hide 
 an honest kindliness of soul, and in spite of 
 her sense of superiority and her scorn of such 
 people in general, she felt her heart warm to 
 them, and when the bride came from her room 
 and whispered to her as she was being shown 
 the wedding gifts: "Do say something nice 
 about me; his folks in Peoria take the Regis- 
 ter'' it was a touch of nature that prevented 
 the use of any thread of satire that she was 
 disposed to weave in and that would, by the 
 way, have been promptly stricken out by the 
 editor. 
 
 By eight o'clock she was at her desk. Being 
 slow at this unaccustomed work, it was after 
 eleven before her report was finished. Even 
 then she did not have time to read the pages
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 319 
 
 over before they were taken by the editor and 
 passed on to the printer. 
 
 Then she slipped away and everybody was 
 too busy to notice when she went, or to think 
 that she might be timid about going through 
 the streets alone. Fortunately, owing to her 
 freedom and sense of security in the semi-rural 
 New England town, she had less fear than if 
 she had lived all her life in Chicago. She 
 found her way to the cars and went home to 
 sleep fitfully after this eventful day. 
 
 The wedding report appeared next morning 
 under a series of head-lines, and Katharine 
 read it with deep interest. She found that some 
 alteration had been made in the text ; some ad- 
 jectives had been stricken out and one entire 
 paragraph had been rewritten. There were 
 several typographical errors of a very exasper- 
 ating sort. Typographical errors never cease 
 to be exasperating to the victim, but time and 
 long experience deaden the sensibilities some- 
 what. There were some sentences of awkward 
 construction that made her shudder and which 
 were in marked contrast to the carefully 
 rounded periods of her magazine contribu- 
 tions. She knew it was because she had had no
 
 320 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 time to revise, but those who read the account 
 would not know this and what would any one 
 think who knew she wrote it? So began her 
 experience as a newspaper woman. Long 
 after, she learned that it was not mere accident, 
 nor the impression made by her own intelli- 
 gence, as she had sometimes flattered herself, 
 which had led her to employment, but the per- 
 sistence of Doctor Laura Carter in urging 
 editor Fowler to give her a trial. 
 
 After this she had no reason to complain of 
 idleness or monotony. A little reflection and a 
 careful study of the papers had given her a 
 new conception of the fitness of things and of 
 the requirements of a daily press ; and as a re- 
 sult she placed upon the editor's desk her rhap- 
 sody over Chicago written soon after her ar- 
 rival. Then she wrote a chapter of her experi- 
 ence in seeking employment. He printed them 
 both with plentiful head-lines and subheads 
 and spoke of them to her approvingly. 
 
 "That is the sort of thing we want," he said ; 
 "live things, the thoughts and doings of the 
 day we live in. What is vague German phi- 
 losophy, what are the Greeks or other ancients 
 to us? It is well enough to know of them and
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 321 
 
 to profit by their wisdom, but they lived their 
 lives and are done. We are living ours, mak- 
 ing our own history and the material for our 
 own epics that will one day be written and be 
 classics in their turn. The present alone is ours, 
 and it speaks through the newspapers." 
 
 The society reporter resumed her duties, but 
 other work was found for Katharine. Her ex- 
 periences in looking for work and some recent 
 philanthropic discussions over woman's wages, 
 "sweat shops", etc., suggested a scheme to the 
 editor. He would send a reporter among these 
 shops and factories in the guise of an employee 
 and have their workings described from the in- 
 side. Katharine was willing to take the as- 
 signment, though she hardly understood her 
 own readiness and even eagerness. Her very 
 correct and conventional life had not naturally 
 led up to an enterprise of this sort, but there 
 was something in its uncertain and unknown 
 possibilities that roused a spirit of adventure, 
 not unlike that felt by a city-bred man in a 
 frontier country for the first time. 
 
 She arrayed herself in her plainest attire an3 
 sought work in shops where cloaks were made, 
 in others where men's coats were the only article
 
 322 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 manufactured, in necktie factories, in a dozen 
 and one places where women were found and 
 where no especial skill was demanded. In each 
 of these shops, in turn, her services were en- 
 gaged. It was easy enough to get work when 
 she was not anxious as to its character or its 
 remuneration as in her former attempts. She 
 stayed in each place long enough to learn the 
 conditions under which the work was done and 
 skilfully to draw out the opinions of the 
 women who slaved early and late for the pit- 
 tance that just saved them from starvation and 
 kept them honest. She got new and unex- 
 pected views of human nature and of life there. 
 Six months before she would have felt that 
 there was little in common between herself and 
 these women who were ignorant of books, who 
 spent their days in hardest labor and in the 
 struggle for existence grew old before their 
 time. Then, like the poet, she had "thought it 
 living only to draw her breath"; now, looking 
 at these, she knew "life meant a striving, some- 
 times even to death". 
 
 Though they were ignorant, they were self- 
 respecting and unselfish. Few of them but 
 had others dependent upon them, and it was
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 323 
 
 presently borne in upon Katharine that their 
 industry and patience and endurance were be- 
 cause of the love they bore to parents, or chil- 
 dren, or husbands. Not one of them had sev- 
 ered her family bonds as Katharine had done. 
 They were toil-worn and ill-clad, and often 
 hungry, and to cut loose from all ties might 
 have benefited them in many ways, but they 
 shirked no obligations or duties. Katharine 
 wrote graphic accounts of their hard life and 
 deprivations and held up to public scorn the 
 contractors who took their hearts' blood for 
 pitiful wages; but some things she learned 
 were not consigned to paper. It was dawning 
 upon her that love moves the world and makes 
 life worth living, and that she had thrown love 
 away. She learned that with all the hardships 
 of these toiling women they were not wholly 
 despairing or unhappy, but often quite the re- 
 verse, because the share of love they had threw 
 a glamour over all about them and made them 
 careless of all ills. They did not need her sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Katharine attended the meetings of the Sal- 
 vation Army and set forth the proceedings of 
 those grotesque religionists for the Register's
 
 324 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 readers, but she cast no ridicule upon them, for 
 she discovered the earnestness of their purpose 
 and their honesty of conviction under all their 
 eccentricities. After this her occupation was 
 varied by a tour through the schools, and here 
 she was back in her original element. Her 
 comments and criticisms on the methods and 
 peculiarities of the educational system were 
 keen and sometimes severe, producing a sensa- 
 tion that caused a temporary increase in the cir- 
 culation of the Register. 
 
 She interviewed women of all social grades, 
 from popular actresses and professional re- 
 formers to police-matrons and the miserable 
 creatures in their care. She accompanied the 
 agents of public charities in their investiga- 
 tions among the poor and saw wretchedness 
 and suffering and squalor in all their stages. 
 Her work did not take her among women only, 
 for she was often given assignments that 
 brought her in contact with business and pro- 
 fessional and laboring men. A strike of street- 
 car employees afforded her an insight into cer- 
 tain phases of human nature such as she had 
 never even dreamed of. 
 
 The months went by until a year and a half
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 325 
 
 had gone since she had made her flight into the 
 world. In all that time she had heard nothing 
 from her husband. Once, shortly after she had 
 hegun her newspaper work, her friend, Doctor 
 Laura, startled her by speaking of a Doctor 
 Clark, who had lately been appointed as a con- 
 sulting physician for the Great Northern Hos- 
 pital, where Doctor Laura had been an interne 
 and was now on the visiting staff. 
 
 "Doctor Clark!" she exclaimed involunta- 
 rily, and then added with aifected carelessness: 
 "I wonder if he is a relative of mine. What 
 does he look like?" 
 
 "He is a tall man with gray hair and 
 smooth-shaven face," answered Doctor Laura. 
 "He has not been in Chicago long; came from 
 the East somewhere; New York, I think, or 
 perhaps Philadelphia. Is a skilled surgeon. 
 Has a wide reputation in the profession, grow- 
 ing out of an operation which no one but him 
 had ever successfully performed in this coun- 
 try, though it had been done in Europe. 
 
 This, she thought, could not be her husband 
 The smooth face and gray hair proved that, 
 
 sional ability or standing i 
 
 not
 
 326 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 thought, that an obscure doctor in a country 
 town would distinguish himself in that way. 
 So the momentary alarm was stilled, and 
 though Doctor Laura frequently spoke of 
 Doctor Clark and seemed to have him often 
 in her thoughts, Katharine listened with indif- 
 ference. But she could not keep her husband 
 from her mind. For a long while she did not 
 understand the cause. When she first arrived 
 it was not so. It came upon her one day that 
 she had changed. She remembered that she 
 had left home because she wanted a chance for 
 unhampered development. The development 
 had not come as she had planned, but a change 
 had come. She was not the same woman who 
 had dismissed her duties and responsibilities as 
 she would cast aside a garment, and gone away 
 thinking of herself only. The enormity of 
 that proceeding forced itself upon her at this 
 late day and filled her with shame and remorse. 
 She wondered what her husband thought, 
 and what he had done and was doing. Her hus- 
 band! Perhaps ah! perhaps she could not 
 call him hers any longer. She shivered at the 
 thought of divorce. Her conduct had given 
 him the legal right to ask one and he might be
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 827 
 
 anxious for his freedom. She would not hinder 
 him, but she would like him to understand that 
 she had sinned in ignorance. It could make no 
 difference now, except that it might modify 
 his contempt a little if he realized that when 
 she went away she had no proper comprehen- 
 sion of the nature of her offense. Then she 
 had no heart, and now it had grown. What 
 had made it grow? Why, she had seen life; 
 her sympathies and compassion had been 
 aroused; conscience had developed; she had 
 broadened in every way. And and why 
 deny it to herself? love had been born. It 
 must have been there, the little beginning of 
 that love for her husband, in that past time; 
 when she felt the need of it, it had burst its 
 bonds and had taken possession of her. But it 
 had come too late. 
 
 She had fancied in her blind selfishness that 
 nothing was so essential to her happiness as in- 
 tellectual improvement. She had gained that, 
 though not from books. She had fulfilled her 
 purpose to be self-supporting. She had tested 
 her capabilities as well as her limitations, and 
 knew that whatever may have been the original 
 reason for her employment she had made her-
 
 328 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 self useful and her services valuable. But this 
 success and sense of security were, after all, not 
 satisfactory. What was the use of it all? She 
 had chosen her own path and must continue in 
 it, but an independent life just for the sake of 
 independence was not the gratifying condition 
 it once had looked. 
 
 These thoughts pressed upon her more and 
 more of late, and at times an almost irresistible 
 desire came over her to go in search of Doctor 
 Clark not to speak to him, she said to herself, 
 but just to look at him and to know of his wel- 
 fare. 
 
 One afternoon she climbed the steps of the 
 Great Northern Hospital, partly to have a chat 
 with Doctor Laura, of whom in the busy lives 
 of both she saw but little, and partly to visit a 
 little waif from the slums whose broken body 
 first drew her notice, but whose cheery spirit 
 was an inspiration. The pathetic little crea- 
 tures in the children's ward appealed to her as 
 the petted darlings she saw outside had never 
 done, and she visited them often. 
 
 She went down the long ward quietly, and 
 finding her little friend asleep, passed on. Near 
 the end of the room was a screened alcove, and
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 329 
 
 just before reaching it she heard a voice that 
 sent the blood surging fiercely through her 
 veins. Mechanically she took a step forward. 
 There stood Doctor John Clark her John 
 Clark and near him Doctor Laura, looking 
 like a madonna, with a little child in her arms. 
 The man's hair was gray, nearly white it had 
 not been so when she saw him last and his 
 face was smooth-shaven, but he was her hus- 
 band. 
 
 They were talking about the child, but were 
 evidently on friendly and familiar terms and 
 in good spirits, for both laughed gaily over the 
 youngster's protest against bitter medicine. 
 
 Katharine turned and went away swiftly. 
 A white-capped nurse was soothing a fretful 
 babe with a soft lullaby. Years after, that 
 song, heard by chance, brought a sudden pang 
 to her heart with a memory of this day. She 
 went home and locked herself in her room. 
 
 She saw it all now, she said to herself. 
 
 Her husband and Doctor Laura had been 
 thrown together all these months with the re- 
 sult that might have been expected they had 
 grown fond of each other. It could not be 
 otherwise, and neither was to blame. Doctor
 
 830 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 Laura, of course, was unsuspecting and her 
 husband well, was he at fault? She herself 
 was the one who had wrought misery for not 
 only one but for three lives, for her husband 
 and her friend as well as for herself. But she 
 would do what she could to extricate them. He 
 might have his freedom. 
 
 After a time, while she sat there in tearful 
 wretchedness, came Doctor Laura to the door, 
 bearding the lion in its den. 
 
 "Why did you not come in to-day and meet 
 your husband? Yes, I saw you in the mirror. 
 Yes, I have known for a long time that Doctor 
 Clark of our hospital is your husband. Why 
 did I not tell you? Because he forbade me. 
 Why? That you must ask him. Have a care, 
 my dear, what you say. No, I am not in the 
 least in love with him, married men not being 
 in my line, but I am his friend and think him 
 too good to have been served as he has been." 
 
 Then out of a dainty handbag, not at all like 
 the regulation medicine case came a little vial. 
 "Here, let me give you this powder; you are 
 tired out and need rest. Come to my office to- 
 morrow at four o'clock and we will talk the
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 331 
 
 matter over. To-night I have not another 
 word to say." 
 
 Next day Doctor Laura met Editor Fowler 
 on the street. "I am at last about to lose my 
 protege," she said as he turned and walked 
 with her. "I have arranged for a meeting be- 
 tween Doctor Clark and his wife, and if they 
 do not kiss and make up I wash my hands of 
 them. There can be no doubt of his willing- 
 ness, but as she had never spoken I was not 
 sure of her until I found last night that she 
 was jealous. He has been jealous of you and 
 Katharine's association with you from the be- 
 ginning, and now Katharine is filled with the 
 idea that her husband is enamored of me. I 
 might have lightened her misery a little by re- 
 peating some of the things he has said about 
 her, but I was too wise to tell a wife that a hus- 
 band made her a subject of conversation with 
 another woman, even though all his remarks 
 were kind. It is a curious phase of human na- 
 ture which invariably leads the man and 
 woman in love to believe that the respective 
 objects of their affection are coveted by other 
 men and women. On the other hand, Mrs.
 
 332 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 Clark would probably not be pleased if I were 
 to tell her that Doctor Clark was really getting 
 to be something of a bore by his perpetual talk 
 of her his inquiries and solicitude ! I was his 
 only means of hearing from her, but it has 
 been a trifle wearing on the mutual friend. 
 The confidences of a man in love with another 
 woman cease to be wholly entertaining after a 
 time." 
 
 "Which reminds me to ask," said Editor 
 Fowler, "when you are going to give up that 
 doctor business and give a man who is not in 
 love with the other woman a chance." 
 
 Doctor Laura smiled. "Giving up that *doc- 
 tor business' a profession that I like just 
 to look after an editor-man, whose newspaper 
 work leaves him no time in which to live like 
 a civilized being, is no trifling matter, as I have 
 told you before. But in order to allay the sus- 
 picions and possible remorse of our friends, 
 the Clarks, perhaps it will be as well to tell 
 them that some day oh, some day when a few 
 of my sick people are well again I think of 
 marrying you. There, there! Remember we 
 are on State Street, and do not look to fool- 
 ish."
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 333 
 
 Katharine came to Doctor Laura's office at 
 the appointed time, not knowing what to ex- 
 pect. She had often rehearsed to herself the 
 little speech she would make to her hushand in 
 case they should ever meet. She would tell him 
 that she had not realized the gravity of her of- 
 fense at the time ; she would beg his forgive- 
 ness and would then advise that he obtain legal 
 release from his bonds. After which, she pic- 
 tured herself going away quietly to a sad and 
 lonely life. 
 
 "Just step into the inner room," said Doctor 
 'Laura cheerfully on her arrival, "and I shall 
 be at leisure presently." 
 
 Katharine opened the door and stood face to 
 face with her husband. They looked at each 
 other a moment, but the words she had pre- 
 pared for utterance in such an emergency re- 
 fused to come. He held out his arms and ex- 
 planations were postponed. 
 
 Afterward, when they reached coherent 
 speech and she had confessed her remorse for 
 her conduct and he had duly blamed himself 
 for the unhappiness that led her to it, she ac- 
 knowledged her fear lest he had found some 
 one who had taken her place in his heart.
 
 334 KATHARINE CLARK 
 
 "That was not possible," he said. "When a 
 man loves truly once he does not change." 
 
 He believed what he said. Every man cher- 
 ishes this conviction until he loves again. 
 
 "But you," he said, "you cared so little for 
 me once, another man might " 
 
 "There could be no other man," she an- 
 swered with serene assurance. "I cared for 
 you always, though at first I did not know it." 
 
 Then she asked, "How did you find me?" 
 
 He laughed. "It would not have been dif- 
 ficult to trace you from Oldtown, but as it 
 happened, that was unnecessary. On the day 
 I received your letter I went to the Kokomo 
 station to take the train east. The west-bound 
 train halted and I had a glimpse of you. I 
 boarded that train. I came with you to Chi- 
 cago. I followed you to your boarding-place 
 and I have followed you many a night since on 
 your way from the office. The temptation to 
 speak was great, but I could not bear a repulse, 
 so I waited. It brought these gray hairs, 
 though." 
 
 Presently she murmured, "And you shaved 
 your mustache?"
 
 KATHARINE CLARK 385 
 
 "Yes, as a sort of disguise in case you caught 
 sight of me." 
 
 "Let it grow again, please, John, it was 
 beautiful." 
 
 Then he went on in lighter tone: "You 
 will be glad to know that my Indiana farm 
 turned out to be oil territory and has made a 
 small fortune for us." 
 
 "Let us leave Chicago, then," she exclaimed 
 impulsively. "At first I loved it. Its tre- 
 mendous energy inspired me. But now it 
 seems different. It saps the very life. It is 
 like some cruel monster which absorbs the 
 strength and vitality of all who come within its 
 reach and leaves them nothing." 
 
 "Where do you wish to go?" he asked. 
 
 "Anywhere," she answered softly, "any- 
 where with you even to Kokomo." 
 
 THE END
 
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