AT LOS ANGELES
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 te Rfcerrfitie
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1890 AND 1895, BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 TS 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAW 
 THB LIFE OF NANCY ...... 1 
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAT ...... 43 
 
 A WAB DEBT ........ 60 
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY . . . . . 97 
 
 THE ONLY Rosa ....... 128 
 
 A SECOND SPRINO ...... 156 
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY ...... 203 
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS . . . .213 
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK ..... 244 
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS ..... 277 
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP .... . 323 
 
 36S03V
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE wooded hills and pastures of eastern 
 Massachusetts are so close to Boston that 
 from upper windows of the city, looking 
 westward, you can see the tops of pine-trees 
 and orchard-boughs on the high horizon. 
 There is a rustic environment on the land 
 ward side ; there are old farmhouses at the 
 back of Milton Hill and beyond Belmont 
 which look as unchanged by the besieging 
 suburbs of a great city as if they were forty 
 miles from even its borders. Now and then, 
 in Boston streets, you can see an old farmer 
 in his sleigh or farm wagon as if you saw 
 him in a Berkshire village. He seems neither 
 to look up at the towers nor down at any 
 fashionable citizens, but goes his way alike 
 unconscious of seeing or being seen. 
 
 On a certain day a man came driving 
 along Beacon Street, who looked bent in the
 
 2 THE LIFE OF NANCT. 
 
 shoulders, as if his worn fur cap were too 
 heavy for head and shoulders both. This 
 type of the ancient New England farmer in 
 winter twitched the reins occasionally, like 
 an old woman, to urge the steady white horse 
 that plodded along as unmindful of his 
 master's suggestions as of the silver-mounted 
 harnesses that passed them by. Both horse 
 and driver appeared to be conscious of suffi 
 cient wisdom, and even worth, for the duties 
 of life ; but all this placidity and self-assur 
 ance were in sharp contrast to the eager ex 
 citement of a pretty, red-cheeked girl who 
 sat at the driver's side. She was as sensi 
 tive to every new impression as they were 
 dull. Her face bloomed out of a round white 
 hood in such charming fashion that those who 
 began to smile at an out-of-date equipage 
 were interrupted by a second and stronger 
 instinct, and paid the homage that one must 
 always pay to beauty. 
 
 It was a bitter cold morning. The great 
 sleighbells on the horse's shaggy neck jangled 
 along the street, and seemed to still them 
 selves as they came among the group of 
 vehicles that were climbing the long hill by 
 the Common. 
 
 As the sleigh passed a clubhouse that
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCT. 3 
 
 stands high on the slope, a young man who 
 stood idly behind one of the large windows 
 made a hurried step forward, and his sober 
 face relaxed into a broad, delighted smile ; 
 then he turned quickly, and presently ap 
 pearing at the outer door, scurried down the 
 long flight of steps to the street, fastening 
 the top buttons of his overcoat by the way. 
 The old sleigh, with its worn buffalo skin 
 hanging unevenly over the back, was only a 
 short distance up the street, but its pursuer 
 found trouble in gaining much upon the 
 steady gait of the white horse. He ran two 
 or three steps now and then, and was almost 
 close enough to speak as he drew near to 
 the pavement by the State House. The 
 pretty girl was looking up with wonder and 
 delight, but in another moment they went 
 briskly on, and it was not until a long pause 
 had to be made at the blocked crossing of 
 Tremont Street that the chase was ended. 
 
 The wonders of a first visit to Boston were 
 happily continued to Miss Nancy Gale in 
 the sudden appearance at her side of a hand 
 some young gentleman. She put out a most 
 cordial and warm hand from her fitch muff, 
 and her acquaintance noticed with pleasure 
 the white knitted mitten that protected it
 
 4 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 from the weather. He had not yet found 
 time to miss the gloves left behind at the 
 club, but the warm little mitten was very 
 comfortable to his lingers. 
 
 " I was just thinking I hoped I should 
 see you, when I was starting to come in this 
 morning," she said, with an eager look of 
 pleasure ; then, growing shy after the un 
 conscious joy of the first moment, " Boston 
 is a pretty big place, is n't it ? " 
 
 " We all think so," said Tom Aldis with 
 fine candor. " It seems odd to see you 
 here." 
 
 " Uncle Ezra, this is Mr. Aldis that I have 
 been telling you about, who was down at our 
 place so long in the fall," explained Nancy, 
 turning to look appealingly at her stern 
 companion. " Mr. Aldis had to remain with 
 a friend who had sprained his ankle. Is Mr. 
 Carew quite well now ? " she turned again 
 to ask. 
 
 " Oh yes," answered Tom. " I saw him 
 last week ; he 's in New York this winter. 
 But where are you staying, Nancy ? " he 
 asked eagerly, with a hopeful glance at uncle 
 Ezra. "I should like to take you some 
 where this afternoon. This is your first 
 visit, is n't it ? Could n't you go to see Rip
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. O 
 
 Van Winkle to-morrow ? It 's the very best 
 thing there is just now. Jefferson 's playing 
 this week." 
 
 " Our folks ain't in the habit of attend 
 ing theatres, sir," said uncle Ezra, checking 
 this innocent plan as effectually as an un- 
 tracked horse-car was stopping traffic in the 
 narrow street. He looked over his shoulder 
 to see if there were any room to turn, but 
 was disappointed. 
 
 Tom Aldis gave a glance, also, and was 
 happily reassured ; the street was getting 
 fuller behind them every moment. " I beg 
 you to excuse me, sir," he said gallantly to 
 the old man. " Do you think of anything 
 else that Miss Gale ought to see ? There is 
 the Art Museum, if she has n't been there 
 already; all the pictures and statues and 
 Egyptian things, you know." 
 
 There was much deference and courtesy 
 in the young man's behavior to his senior. 
 Uncle Ezra responded by a less suspicious 
 look at him, but seemed to be considering 
 this new proposition before he spoke. Uncle 
 Ezra was evidently of the opinion that while 
 it might be a misfortune to be an old man, 
 it was a fault to be a young one and good 
 looking where girls were concerned.
 
 6 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 " Miss Gale's father and mother showed 
 me so much kindness," Tom explained, seiz 
 ing his moment of advantage, " I should like 
 to be of some use : it may not be convenient 
 for you to come into town again in this cold 
 weather." 
 
 "Our folks have plenty to do all the 
 time, that 's a fact," acknowledged uncle 
 Ezra less grimly, while Nancy managed to 
 show the light of a very knowing little smile. 
 " I don't know but she 'd like to have a city 
 man show her about, anyways. 'T ain't but 
 four miles an' a half out to our place, the way 
 we come, but while this weather holds I don't 
 calculate to get into Boston more 'n once a 
 week. I fetch all my stuff in to the Quincy 
 Market myself, an' I 've got to come in day 
 after to-morrow mornin', but not till late, 
 with a barrel o' nice winter pears I 've been 
 a-savin'. I can set the barrel right for'ard 
 in the sleigh here, and I do' know but I can 
 fetch Nancy as well as not. But how 'd ye 
 get home, Nancy ? Could ye walk over to 
 our place from the Milton depot, or could n't 
 
 ye?" 
 
 " Why, of course I could ! " answered his 
 niece, with a joy calmed by discretion. 
 " 'T ain't but a mile an' three quarters ;
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 7 
 
 't won't hurt a State 'o Maine girl," said the 
 old man, smiling under his great cap, so that 
 his cold, shrewd eyes suddenly grew blue 
 and boyish. " I know all about ye now, 
 Mr. A M is: I used to be well acquainted 
 with your grandfather. Much obliged' to 
 you. Yes, I '11 fetch Nancy. I '11 leave her 
 right up there to the Missionary Building, 
 corner o' Somerset Street. She can wait in 
 the bookstore ; it 's liable to be open early. 
 After I get through business to-day, I'm 
 goin' to leave the hoss, an' let her see Fan- 
 euil Hall, an' the market o' course, and I 
 don't know but we shall stop in to the Old 
 South Church; or you can show her that, 
 an' tell her about any other curiosities, if 
 we don't have time." 
 
 Nancy looked radiant, and Tom Aldis 
 accepted his trust with satisfaction. At 
 that moment the blockade was over and 
 teams began to move. 
 
 " Not if it rains ! " said uncle Ezra, speak 
 ing distinctly over his shoulder as they 
 started. " Otherwise expect her about eight 
 or a little " but the last of the sentence 
 was lost. 
 
 Nancy looked back and nodded from 
 the tangle to Tom, who stood on the curb-
 
 8 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 stone with his hands in his pockets. Her 
 white hood bobbed out of sight the next 
 moment in School Street behind a great 
 dray. 
 
 " Good gracious ! eight o'clock ! " said 
 Tom, a little daunted, as he walked quickly 
 up the street. As he passed the Missionary 
 Building and the bookstore, he laughed 
 aloud; but as he came near the clubhouse 
 again, in this victorious retreat, he looked 
 up at a window of one of the pleasant old 
 houses, and then obeyed the beckoning nod 
 of an elderly relative who seemed to have 
 been watching for his return. 
 
 " Tom," said she, as he entered the 
 library, "I insist upon it that I am not 
 curious by nature or by habit, but what 
 in the world made you chase that funny old 
 horse and sleigh?" 
 
 " A pretty girl," said Tom frankly. 
 
 II. 
 
 The second morning after this unex 
 pected interview was sunshiny enough, and 
 as cold as January could make it. Tom 
 Aldis, being young and gay, was apt to 
 keep late hours at this season, and the night
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 before had been the night of a Harvard 
 assembly. He was the kindest-hearted fellow 
 in the world, but it was impossible not to 
 feel a little glum and sleepy as he hur 
 ried toward the Missionary Building. The 
 sharp air had urged uncle Ezra's white horse 
 beyond his customary pace, so that the old 
 sleigh was already waiting, and uncle Ezra 
 himself was flapping his chilled arms and 
 tramping to and fro impatiently. 
 
 " Cold mornin' ! " he said. " She 's wait- 
 in' for you in there. I wanted to be sure 
 you'd come. Now I'll be off. I've got 
 them pears well covered, but I expect they 
 may be touched. Nancy counted on comin', 
 an' I 'd just as soon she 'd have a nice time. 
 Her cousin's folks '11 see her to the depot," 
 he added as he drove away, and Tom nodded 
 reassuringly from the bookstore door. 
 
 Nancy looked up eagerly from beside a 
 counter full of gayly bound books, and gave 
 him a speechless and grateful good-morn 
 ing. 
 
 " I 'm getting some presents for the little 
 boys," she informed him. " They 're great 
 hands to read. This one 's all about birds, 
 for Sam, and I don't know but this Life o' 
 Napoleon '11 please Asa as much as any-
 
 10 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 thing. When I waked up this morning I 
 felt homesick. I could n't see anything out 
 o' the window that I knew. I 'm a real 
 home body." 
 
 " I should like to send the boys a present, 
 myself," said Tom. " What do you think 
 about jack-knives ? " 
 
 " Asa 'd rather have readin' matter ; he 
 ain't got the use for a knife that some 
 boys have. Why, you're real good ! " said 
 Nancy. 
 
 "And your mother, can't I send her 
 something that she would like? " asked Tom 
 kindly. 
 
 " She liked all those things that you and 
 Mr. Carew sent at Christmas time. We 
 had the loveliest time opening the bundles. 
 You oughtn't to think o' doing anything 
 more. I wish you'd help me pick out a 
 nice large-print Bible for grandma ; she 's 
 always wishing for a large-print Bible, and 
 her eyes fail her a good deal." 
 
 Tom Aldis was not very fond of shop 
 ping, but this pious errand did not displease 
 him in Nancy's company. A few minutes 
 later, when they went out into the cold 
 street, he felt warm and cheerful, and car 
 ried under his arm the flat parcel wliich
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 11 
 
 held a large-print copy of the Scriptures 
 and the little boys' books. Seeing Nancy 
 again seemed to carry his thoughts back to 
 East Rodney, as if he had been born and 
 brought up there as well as she. The society 
 and scenery of the little coast town were so 
 simple and definite in their elements that 
 one easily acquired a feeling of citizenship ; 
 it was like becoming acquainted with a 
 friendly individual. Tom had an intimate 
 knowledge, gained from several weeks' resi 
 dence, with Nancy's whole world. 
 
 The long morning stretched before them 
 like a morning in far Cathay, and they 
 stepped off down the street toward the Old 
 South Church, which had been omitted 
 from uncle Ezra's scheme of entertainment 
 by reason of difficulty in leaving the horse. 
 The discovery that the door would not be 
 open for nearly another hour only involved 
 a longer walk among the city streets, and the 
 asking and answering of many questions 
 about the East Rodney neighbors, and the 
 late autumn hunting and fishing which, with 
 some land interests of his father's, had first 
 drawn Tom to that part of the country. 
 He had known enough of the rest of the 
 world to appreciate the little community
 
 12 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 of fishermen-farmers, and while his friend 
 Carew was but a complaining captive with 
 a sprained ankle, Tom Aldis entered into 
 the spirit of rural life with great zest ; in 
 fact he now remembered some boyish gal 
 lantries with a little uneasiness, and looked 
 to Nancy to befriend him. It was easy for 
 a man of twenty-two to arrive at an almost 
 brotherly affection for such a person as 
 Nancy ; she was so discreet and so sincerely 
 affectionate. 
 
 Nancy looked up at him once or twice as 
 they walked along, and her face glowed 
 with happy pride. " I 'd just like to have 
 Addie Porter see me now ! " she exclaimed, 
 and gave Tom a straightforward look to 
 which he promptly responded. 
 
 "Why? "he asked. 
 
 Nancy drew a long breath of relief, and 
 began to smile. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," she answered ; " only she 
 kept telling me that you would n't have 
 much of anything to say to me, if I should 
 happen to meet you anywhere up to Boston. 
 I knew better. I guess you 're all right, 
 are n't you, about that ? " She spoke with 
 sudden impulse, but there was something in 
 her tone that made Tom blush a little.
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 13 
 
 "Why, yes," he answered. "What do 
 you mean, Nancy ? " 
 
 " We won't talk about it now while we're 
 full of seeing things, but I 've got some 
 thing to say by and by," said the girl so 
 berly. 
 
 "You 're very mysterious," protested 
 Tom, taking the bundle under his other 
 arm, and piloting her carefully across the 
 street. 
 
 Nancy said no more. The town was 
 more interesting now that it seemed to have 
 waked up, and her eyes were too busy. 
 Everything proved delightful that day, 
 from the recognition of business signs fami 
 liar to her through newspaper advertise 
 ments, to the Great Organ, and the thrill 
 which her patriotic heart experienced in a 
 second visit to Faneuil Hall. They found 
 the weather so mild that they pushed on to 
 Charlestown, and went to the top of the 
 monument, which Tom had not done since 
 he was a very small boy. After this they 
 saw what else they could of historic Bos 
 ton, on the fleetest and lightest of feet, and 
 talked all the way, until they were sud 
 denly astonished to hear the bells in all the 
 steeples ring at noon.
 
 14 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 " Oh dear, my nice mornin' 's all gone," 
 said Nancy regretfully. " I never had such 
 a beautiful time in all my life ! " 
 
 She looked quite beautiful herself as she 
 spoke : her eyes shone with lovely light and 
 feeling, and her cheeks were bright with color 
 like a fresh-bloomed rose, but for the first 
 time that day she was wistful and sorry. 
 
 " Oh, you need n't go back yet ! " said 
 Tom. " 1 've nothing in the world to do." 
 
 " Uncle Ezra thought I 'd better go up to 
 cousin Snow's in Revere Street. I 'm afraid 
 she'll be all through dinner, but never 
 mind. They thought I 'd better go there on 
 mother's account; it's her cousin, but I 
 never saw her, at least not since I can re 
 member. They won't like it if I don't, you 
 know ; it would n't be very polite." 
 
 " All right," assented Tom with dignity. 
 " I '11 take you there at once : perhaps we 
 can catch a car or something." 
 
 " I 'm ashamed to ask for anything more 
 when you've been so kind," said Nancy, 
 after a few moments of anxious silence. 
 " I don't know that you can think of any 
 good chance, but I'd give a great deal if 
 I could only go somewhere and see some 
 pretty dancing. You know I 'm always
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 15 
 
 dreamin' and dreamin' about pretty dan 
 cing ! " and she looked eagerly at Tom to see 
 what he would say. " It must be goin' on 
 somewhere in Boston," she went on with 
 pleading eyes. " Could you ask somebody ? 
 They said at uncle Ezra's that if cousin 
 Abby Snow wanted me to remain until 
 to-morrow it might be just as well to stay ; 
 she used to be so well acquainted with 
 mother. And so I thought I might get 
 some nice chance to look on." 
 
 "To see some dancing," repeated Tom, 
 mindful of his own gay evening the night 
 before, and of others to come, and the gen 
 eral impossibility of Nancy's finding the 
 happiness she sought. He never had been 
 so confronted by social barriers. As for 
 Nancy's dancing at East Rodney, in the 
 schoolhouse hall or in Jacob Parker's new 
 barn, it had been one of the most ideal 
 things he had ever known in his life ; it 
 would be hard to find elsewhere such grace 
 as hers. In seaboard towns one often comes 
 upon strange foreign inheritances, and the 
 soul of a Spanish grandmother might still 
 survive in Nancy, as far as her light feet 
 were concerned. She danced like a flower 
 in the wind. She made you feel light of
 
 16 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 foot yourself, as if you were whirling 
 and blowing and waving through the air; 
 as if you could go out dancing and dancing 
 over the deep blue sea water of the bay, and 
 find floor enough to touch and whirl upon. 
 But Nancy had always seemed to take her 
 gifts for granted ; she had the simplicity of 
 genius. " I can't say now, but I am sure to 
 find out," said Tom Aldis definitely. " I '11 
 try to make some sort of plan for you. I 
 wish we could have another dance, our 
 selves." 
 
 " Oh, not now," answered Nancy sensibly. 
 "It's knowing 'most all the people that 
 makes a party pleasant." 
 
 " My aunt would have asked you to come 
 to luncheon to-day, but she had to go out of 
 town, and was afraid of not getting back in 
 season. She would like to see you very 
 much. You see, I 'm only a bachelor in lodg 
 ings, this winter," explained Tom bravely. 
 
 " You 've been just as good as you could 
 be. I know all about Boston now, almost as 
 if I lived here. I should like to see the 
 inside of one of those big houses," she 
 added softly ; " they all look so noble as 
 you go by. I think it was very polite of 
 your aunt ; you must thank her, Mr. Aldis."
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 17 
 
 It seemed to Tom as if his companion were 
 building most glorious pleasure out of very 
 commonplace materials. All the morning 
 she had been as gay and busy as a brook. 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon he 
 knocked again at cousin Snow's door in Re 
 vere Street, and delivered an invitation. 
 Mrs. Annesley, his aunt, and the kindest of 
 women, would take Nancy to an afternoon 
 class at Papanti's, and bring her back after 
 wards, if cousin Snow were willing to spare 
 her. Tom would wait and drive back with 
 her in the coupe ; then he must hurry to 
 Cambridge for a business meeting to which 
 he had been suddenly summoned. 
 
 Nancy was radiant when she first appeared, 
 but a few minutes later, as they drove away 
 together, she began to look grave and ab 
 sent. It was only because she was so sorry 
 to think of parting. 
 
 " I am so glad about the dancing class," 
 said Tom. " I never should have thought 
 of that. They are all children, you know ; 
 but it 's very pretty, and they have all the 
 new dances. I used to think it a horrid 
 penance when I was a small boy." 
 
 " I don't know why it is," said Nancy, 
 w but the mere thought of music and dancin'
 
 18 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 makes me feel happy. I never saw any real 
 good dancin', either, but I can always think 
 what it ought to be. There's nothing so 
 beautiful to me as manners," she added 
 softly, as if she whispered at the shrine of 
 confidence. 
 
 " My aunt thinks there are going to be 
 some pretty figure dances to-day," announced 
 Tom in a matter-of-fact way. There was 
 something else than the dancing upon his 
 mind. He thought that he ought to tell 
 Nancy of his engagement, not that it was 
 quite an engagement yet, but he could 
 not do it just now. " What was it you were 
 going to tell me this morning ? About Ad- 
 die Porter, was n't it ? " He laughed a little, 
 and then colored deeply. He had been 
 somewhat foolish in his attentions to thin 
 young person, the beguiling village belle of 
 East Rodney and the adjacent coasts. She 
 was a pretty creature and a sad flirt, with 
 none of the real beauty and quaint sisterly 
 ways of Nancy. " What was it all about ? " 
 he asked again. 
 
 Nancy turned away quickly. "That's 
 one thing I wanted to come to Boston for ; 
 that 's what I want to tell you. She don't 
 really care anything about you. She only
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY, 19 
 
 wanted to get you away from the other girls. 
 I know for certain that she likes Joe Brown 
 better than anybody, and now she's been 
 going with him almost all winter long. He 
 keeps telling round that they 're going to be 
 married in the spring ; but I thought if they 
 were, she 'd ask me to get some of her best 
 things while I was in Boston. I suppose 
 she 's intendin' to play with him a while 
 longer," said Nancy with honest scorn, 
 " just because he loves her well enough to 
 wait. But don't you worry about her, Mr. 
 Aldis ! " 
 
 " I won't indeed," answered Tom meekly, 
 but with an unexpected feeling of relief as 
 if the unconscious danger had been a real 
 one. Nancy was very serious. 
 
 " I 'm going home the first of the week," 
 she said as they parted ; but the small hand 
 felt colder than usual, and did not return 
 his warm grasp. The light in her eyes had 
 all gone, but Tom's beamed affectionately. 
 
 " I never thought of Addie Porter after 
 ward, I 'm afraid," he confessed. What 
 awfully good fun we all had ! I should like 
 to go down to East Rodney again some 
 time." 
 
 " Oh, shan't you ever come ? " cried Nancy,
 
 20 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 with a thrill in her voice which Tom did not 
 soon forget. He did not know that thd 
 young girl's heart was waked, he was so 
 busy with the affairs of his own affections ; 
 but true friendship does not grow on every 
 bush, in Boston or East Rodney, and 
 Nancy's voice and farewell look touched 
 something that lay very deep within his 
 heart. 
 
 There is a little more to be told of this 
 part of the story. Mrs. Annesley, Tom's 
 aunt, being a woman whose knowledge of 
 human nature and power of sympathy made 
 her a woman of the world rather than of 
 any smaller circle, Mrs. Annesley was 
 delighted with Nancy's unaffected pleasure 
 and self -forgetful dignity of behavior at the 
 dancing-school. She took her back to the 
 fine house, and they had half an hour to 
 gether there, and only parted because Nancy 
 was to spend the night with cousin Snow, 
 and another old friend of her mother's was 
 to be asked to tea. Mrs. Annesley asked her 
 to come to see her again, whenever she was 
 in Boston, and Nancy gratefully promised, 
 but she never came. " I 'm all through 
 with Boston for this time," she said, with an 
 amused smile, at parting. " I 'm what one
 
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 21 
 
 of our neighbors calls ' all flustered up,' " 
 and she looked eagerly in her new friend's 
 kind eyes for sympathy. " Now that I 've 
 seen this beautiful house, and you and Mr. 
 Aldis, and some pretty dancin', I want to 
 go right home where I belong." 
 
 Tom Aldis meant to write to Nancy when 
 his engagement came out, but he never did ; 
 and he meant to send a long letter to her and 
 her mother two years later, when he and his 
 wife were going abroad for a long time ; but 
 he had an inborn hatred of letter-writing, 
 and let that occasion pass also, though when 
 anything made him very sorry or very glad, 
 he had a curious habit of thinking of these 
 East Rodney friends. Before he went to 
 Europe he used to send them magazines now 
 and then, or a roll of illustrated papers ; 
 and one day, in a bookstore, he happened to 
 see a fine French book with colored portraits 
 of famous dancers, and sent it by express to 
 Nancy with his best remembrances. But 
 Tom was young and much occupied, the 
 stream of time floated him away from the 
 shore of Maine, not toward it, ten or fifteen 
 years passed by, his brown hair began to 
 grow gray, and he came back from Europe 
 after a while to a new Boston life in which
 
 22 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 reminiscences of East Rodney seemed very 
 remote indeed. 
 
 m. 
 
 One summer afternoon there were two 
 passengers, middle-aged men, on the small 
 steamer James Madison, which attended the 
 comings and goings of the great Boston 
 steamer, and ran hither and yon on errands 
 about Penobscot Bay. She was puffing up 
 a long inlet toward East Rodney Landing, 
 and the two strangers were observing the 
 green shores with great interest. Like 
 nearly the whole stretch of the Maine coast, 
 there was a house on almost every point and 
 headland ; but for all this, there were great 
 tracts of untenanted country, dark untouched 
 forests of spruces and firs, and shady coves 
 where there seemed to be deep water and 
 proper moorings. The two passengers were 
 on the watch for landings and lookouts ; in 
 short, this lovely, lonely country was being 
 frankly appraised at its probable value for 
 lumbering or for building-lots and its rela 
 tion to the real estate market. Just now 
 there appeared to be no citizens save crows 
 and herons, the sun was almost down behind 
 some high hills in the west, and the Land 
 ing was in sight not very far ahead.
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 23 
 
 " It is nearly twenty years since I came 
 down here before," said the younger of the 
 two men, suddenly giving the conversation 
 a personal turn. " Just after I was out of 
 college, at any rate. My father had bought 
 this point of land with the islands. I think 
 he meant to come and hunt in the autumn, 
 and was misled by false accounts of deer 
 and moose. He sent me down to oversee 
 something or other ; I believe he had some 
 surveyors at work, and thought they had 
 better be looked after ; so I got my chum 
 Carew to come along, and we found plenty 
 of trout, and had a great time until he gave 
 his ankle a bad sprain." 
 
 "What did you do then?" asked the 
 elder man politely, keeping his eyes on the 
 shore. 
 
 " I stayed by, of course ; I had nothing 
 to do in those days," answered Mr. A Id is. 
 " It was one of those nice old-fashioned 
 country neighborhoods where there was 
 plenty of fun among the younger people, 
 sailing on moonlight nights, and haycart 
 parties, and dances, and all sorts of things. 
 We used to go to prayer-meeting nine or 
 ten miles off, and sewing societies. I had 
 hard work to get away ! We made excuse
 
 24 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 of Carew's ankle joint as long as we could, 
 but he'd been all right and going every 
 where with the rest of us a fortnight before 
 we started. We waited until there was ice 
 alongshore, I remember." 
 
 " Daniel K. Carew, was it, of the New 
 York Stock Exchange ? " asked the listener. 
 " He strikes you as being a very grave sort 
 of person now ; does n't like it if he finds 
 anybody in his chair at the club, and all 
 that." 
 
 " I can stir him up," said Mr. Aldis con 
 fidently. " Poor old fellow, he has had a 
 good deal of trouble, one way and another. 
 How the Landing has grown up! Why, 
 it 's a good-sized little town ! " 
 
 " I 'm sorry it is so late," he added, after 
 a long look at a farm on the shore which 
 they were passing. " I meant to go to see 
 the people up there," and he pointed to the 
 old farmhouse, dark and low and firm- 
 rooted in the long slope of half -tamed, ledgy 
 fields. Warm thoughts of Nancy filled his 
 heart, as if they had said good-by to each 
 other that cold afternoon in Boston only the 
 winter before. He had not been so eager to 
 see any one for a long time. Such is the 
 triumph of friendship : even love itself with-
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 25 
 
 out friendship is the victim of chance and 
 time. 
 
 When supper was over in the Knox 
 House, the one centre of public entertain 
 ment in East Rodney, it was past eight 
 o'clock, and Mi\ Aldis felt like a dim copy 
 of Rip Van Winkle, or of the gay Tom 
 Aldis who used to know everybody, and be 
 known of all men as the planner of gayeties. 
 He lighted a cigar as he sat on the front 
 piazza of the hotel, and gave himself up to 
 reflection. There was a long line of lights 
 in the second story of a wooden building 
 opposite, and he was conscious of some 
 sort of public interest and excitement. 
 
 " There is going to be a time in the 
 hall," said the landlord, who came hospi 
 tably out to join him. "The folks are 
 going to have a dance. The proceeds will 
 be applied to buying a bell for the new 
 schoolhouse. They 'd be pleased if you felt 
 like stepping over ; there has been a consid 
 erable number glad to hear you thought of 
 coming down. I ain't an East Rodney man 
 myself, but I 've often heard of your residin' 
 here some years ago. Our folks is makin' 
 the ice cream for the occasion," he added
 
 26 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 significantly, and Mr. Aldis nodded and 
 smiled in acknowledgment. He had meant 
 to go out and see the Gales, if the boat had 
 only got in in season ; but boats are unpunc- 
 tual in their ways, and the James Madison 
 had been unexpectedly signaled by one 
 little landing and settlement after another. 
 He remembered that a great many young 
 people were on board when they arrived, 
 and now they appeared again, coming along 
 the street and disappearing at the steep 
 stairway opposite. The lighted windows 
 were full of heads already, and there were 
 now and then preliminary exercises upon a 
 violin. Mr. Aldis had grown old enough to 
 be obliged to sit and think it over about going 
 to a ball ; the day had passed when there 
 would have been no question ; but when he 
 had finished his cigar he crossed the street, 
 and only stopped before the lighted store 
 window to find a proper bank bill for the 
 doorkeeper. Then he ran up the stairs to 
 the hall, as if he were the Tom Aldis of old. 
 It was an embarrassing moment as he en 
 tered the low, hot room, and the young peo 
 ple stared at him suspiciously; but there 
 were also elderly people scattered about who 
 were meekly curious and interested, and one
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 27 
 
 of these got clumsily upon his feet and has 
 tened to grasp the handsome stranger by 
 the hand. 
 
 " Nancy heard you was coming," said Mr. 
 Gale delightedly. " She expected I should 
 see you here, if you was just the same kind 
 of a man you used to be. Come let's set 
 right down, folks is crowding in ; there 
 may bo more to set than there is to dance." 
 
 " How is Nancy, isn't she coming ? " asked 
 Tom, feeling the years tumble off his shoul 
 ders. 
 
 " Well as usual, poor creatur," replied the 
 old father, with a look of surprise. " No, 
 no ; she can't go nowhere." 
 
 At that moment the orchestra struck up 
 a military march with so much energy that 
 further conversation was impossible. Near 
 them was an awkward-looking young fellow, 
 with shoulders too broad for his height, and 
 a general look of chunkiness and dullness. 
 Presently he rose and crossed the room, and 
 made a bow to his chosen partner that most 
 courtiers might have envied. It was a bow 
 of grace and dignity. 
 
 "Pretty well done!" said Tom Aldis 
 aloud. 
 
 Mr. Gale was beaming with smiles, and
 
 28 THE LIFE OF NANCT. 
 
 keeping time to the music with his foot and 
 hand. "Nancy done it," he announced 
 proudly, speaking close to his companion's 
 ear. " That boy give her a sight o' diffi 
 culty ; he used to want to learn, but 'long at 
 the first he 'd turn red as fire if he much as 
 met a sheep in a pastur'. The last time I 
 see him on the floor I went home an' told 
 her he done as well as any. You can see 
 for yourself, now they 're all a-movin'." 
 
 The fresh southerly breeze came wafting 
 into the hall and making the lamps flare. 
 If Tom turned his head, he could see the 
 lights out in the bay, of vessels that had put 
 in for the night. Old Mr. Gale was not 
 disposed for conversation so long as the 
 march lasted, and when it was over a frisky- 
 looking middle-aged person accosted Mr. 
 Aldis with the undimmed friendliness of 
 their youth ; and he took her out, as behoved 
 him, for the Lancers quadrille. From her 
 he learned that Nancy had been for many 
 years a helpless invalid; and when their 
 dance was over he returned to sit out the 
 next one with Mr. Gale, who had recovered 
 a little by this time from the excitement of 
 the occasion, and was eager to talk about 
 Nancy's troubles, but still more about her
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 29 
 
 gifts and activities. After a while they ad 
 journed to the hotel piazza in company, and 
 the old man grew still more eloquent over 
 a cigar. lie had not changed much since 
 Tom's residence in the family ; in fact, the 
 flight of seventeen years had made but little 
 difference in his durable complexion or the 
 tough frame which had been early seasoned 
 by wind and weather. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he said, " Nancy has had it 
 very hard, but she 's the life o' the neighbor 
 hood yet. For excellent judgment I never 
 see her equal. Why, once the board o' se- 
 lec'men took trouble to meet right there in 
 her room off the kitchen, when they had to 
 make some responsible changes in layin' out 
 the school deestricts. She was the best 
 teacher they ever had, a master good teacher ; 
 fitted a boy for Bowdoin College all except 
 his Greek, that last season before she was 
 laid aside from sickness. She took right 
 holt to bear it the best she could, and begun 
 to study on what kind o' things she could do. 
 First she used to make out to knit, a-layin' 
 there, for the store, but her hands got crip 
 pled up with the rest of her ; 't is the wust 
 kind o' rheumatics there is. She had me 
 go round to the neighborin' schools and say
 
 30 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 that if any of the child'n was backward an 1 
 slow with their lessons to send 'em up to 
 her. Now an' then there 'd be one, an' at 
 last she 'd see to some class there was n't 
 time for : an' here year before last the town 
 voted her fifty dollars a year for her ser 
 vices. What do you think of that ? " 
 
 Aldis manifested his admiration, but he 
 could not help wishing that he had not 
 seemed to forget so pleasant an old acquaint 
 ance, and above all wished that he had not 
 seemed to take part in nature's great scheme 
 to defraud her. She had begun life with 
 such distinct rights and possibilities. 
 
 " I tell you she was the most cut up to 
 have to stop dancin'," said Mr. Gale gayly, 
 " but she held right on to that, same as to 
 other things. ' I can't dance myself,' she 
 says, 'so I'm goin' to make other folks.' 
 You see right before you how she 's kep' her 
 word, Mr. Aldis ? What always pleased her 
 the most, from a child, was dancin'. Folks 
 talked to her some about letting her mind 
 rove on them light things when she appeared 
 to be on a dyin' bed. ' David, he danced 
 afore the Lord,' she 'd tell 'em, an' her eyes 
 would snap so, they did n't like to say no 
 more. "
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 31 
 
 Aldis laughed, the old man himself was so 
 cheerful. 
 
 " Well, sir, she made 'em keep right on 
 with the old danoin'-school she always took 
 such part in (I guess 't was goin', wa'n't it, 
 that fall you stopped here ?) ; but she sent 
 out for all the child'n she could get and 
 learnt 'em their manners. She can see 
 right out into the kitchen from where she 
 is, an' she has 'em make their bows an' take 
 their steps till they get 'em right an' feel as 
 good as anybody. There's boys an' girls 
 comin' an' goin' two or three times a week 
 in the afternoon. It don't seem to be no 
 hardship : there ain't no such good company 
 for young or old as Nancy." 
 
 " She '11 be dreadful glad to see you," the 
 proud father ended his praises, " Oh, she 's 
 never forgot that good time she had up to 
 Boston. You an' all your folks couldn't 
 have treated her no better, an' you give her 
 her heart's desire, you did so ! She 's never 
 done talkin' about that pretty dancin'-school 
 with all them lovely little child'n, an' every 
 body so elegant and pretty behaved. She *d 
 always wanted to see such a lady as your 
 aunt was. I don't know but she 's right : 
 she always maintains that when folks has
 
 32 THE LIFE OF NANCY, 
 
 good manners an' good hearts the world is 
 their 'n, an' she was goin' to do everything 
 she could to keep young folks from feelin' 
 hoggish an' left out. " 
 
 Tom walked out toward the farm in the 
 bright moonlight with Mr. Gale, and prom 
 ised to call as early the next day as possible. 
 They followed the old shore path, with the 
 sea on one side and the pointed firs on the 
 other, and parted where Nancy's light could 
 be seen twinkling on the hill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was not very cheerful to look forward 
 to seeing a friend of one's youth crippled 
 and disabled ; beside, Tom Aldis always felt 
 a nervous dread in being where people were 
 ill and suffering. He thought once or twice 
 how little compassion for Nancy these coun 
 try neighbors expressed. Even her father 
 seemed inclined to boast of her, rather than 
 to pity the poor life that was so hindered. 
 Business affairs and conference were ap 
 pointed for that afternoon, so that by the 
 middle of the morning he found himself 
 walking up the yard to the Gales' side door.
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 33 
 
 There was nobody within call. Mr. Aldis 
 tapped once or twice, and then hearing a 
 voice he went through the narrow unpainted 
 entry into the old kitchen, a brown, comfort 
 able place which he well remembered. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm so glad to see you," Nancy was 
 calling from her little bedroom beyond. 
 " Come in, come in ! " 
 
 He passed the doorway, and stood with 
 his hand on hers, which lay helpless on the 
 blue-and- white coverlet. Nancy's young eyes, 
 untouched by years or pain or regret, looked 
 up at him as frankly as a child's from the 
 pillow. 
 
 " Mother 's gone down .into the field to 
 pick some peas for dinner," she said, looking 
 and looking at Tom and smiling ; but he 
 saw at last that tears were shining, too, and 
 making her smile all the brighter. " You 
 see now why I could n't write," she explained. 
 " I kept thinking I should. I did n't want 
 anybody else to thank you for the books. 
 Now sit right down," she begged her guest. 
 " Father told me all he could' about last 
 night. You danced with Addie Porter." 
 
 "I did," acknowledged Tom Aldis, and 
 they both laughed. " We talked about old 
 times between the figures, but it seemed to
 
 34 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 me that I remembered them better than she 
 did." 
 
 " Addie has been through with a good deal 
 of experience since then," explained Nancy, 
 with a twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 " I wish I could have t danced again with 
 you," said Tom bravely, " but I saw some 
 scholars that did you credit." 
 
 " I have to dance by proxy," said Nancy ; 
 and to this there was no reply. 
 
 Tom Aldis sat in the tiny bedroom with 
 an aching heart. Such activity and definite- 
 ness of mind, such power of loving and hun 
 ger for life, had been pent and prisoned there 
 so many years. Nancy had made what she 
 could of her small world of books. There 
 was something very uncommon in her look 
 and way of speaking ; he felt like a boy be 
 side her, he to whom the world had given 
 its best luxury and widest opportunity. As 
 he looked out of the small window, he saw 
 only a ledgy pasture where sheep were stray 
 ing along the slopes among the bayberry 
 and juniper ; beyond were some balsam firs 
 and a glimpse of the sea. It was a lovely 
 bit of landscape, but it lacked figures, and 
 Nancy was born to be a teacher and a lover 
 of her kind. She had only lacked opportu-
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 35 
 
 nity, but she was equal to meeting whatever 
 should come. One saw it in her face. 
 
 " You don't know how many times I have 
 thought of that cold day in Boston," said 
 Nancy from her pillows. " Your aunt was 
 beautiful. I never could tell you about the 
 rest of the day with her, could I ? Why, it 
 just gave me a measure to live by. I saw 
 right off how small some things were that 
 I thought were big. I told her about one 
 or two things down here in Rodney that 
 troubled me, and she understood all about 
 it. * If we mean to be happy and useful,' she 
 said, * the only way is to be self -forgetful. ' 
 I never forgot that ! " 
 
 " The seed fell upon good ground, did n't 
 it ? " said Mr. Aldis with a smile. He had 
 been happy enough himself, but Nancy's hap 
 piness appeared in that moment to have been 
 of another sort. He could not help thinking 
 what a wonderful perennial quality there is 
 in friendship. Because it had once flour 
 ished and bloomed, no winter snows of Maine 
 could bury it, no summer sunshine of for 
 eign life could wither this single flower of 
 a day long past. The years vanished like a 
 May snowdrift, and because they had known 
 each other once they found each other now.
 
 36 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 It was like a tough little sprig of gray ever 
 lasting ; the New England edelweiss that al 
 ways keeps a white flower ready to blossom 
 safe and warm in its heart. 
 
 They entertained each other delightfully 
 that late summer morning. Tom talked of 
 his wife and children as he had seldom talked 
 of them to any one before, and afterward ex 
 plained the land interests which had brought 
 him back at this late day to East Rodney. 
 
 " I came down meaning to sell my land to 
 a speculator," he said, "or to a real estate 
 agency which has great possessions along the 
 coast ; but I 'm very doubtful about doing 
 it, now that I have seen the bay again and 
 this lovely shore. I had no idea that it was 
 such a magnificent piece of country. I was 
 going on from here to Mount Desert, with a 
 half idea of buying land there. Why is n't 
 this good enough that I own already ? With 
 a yacht or a good steam launch we should n't 
 be so far away from places along the coast, 
 you know. What if I were to build a house 
 above Sunday Cove, on the headland, and if 
 we should be neighbors! I have a friend 
 who might build another house on the point 
 beyond; we came home from abroad at 
 about the same time, and he 's looking for a
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 37 
 
 place to build, this side of Bar Harbor." 
 Tom was half confiding in his old acquaint 
 ance, and half thinking aloud. " These real 
 estate brokers can't begin to give a man the 
 value of such land as mine," he added. 
 
 " It would be excellent business to come 
 and live here yourself, if you want to bring 
 up the value of the property," said Nancy 
 gravely. " I hear there are a good many 
 lots staked out between here and Portland, 
 but it takes more than that to start things. 
 There can't be any prettier place than East 
 Rodney," she declared, looking affectionately 
 out of her little north window. It would be 
 a great blessing to city people, if they could 
 come and have our good Rodney air." 
 
 The friends talked on a little longer, and 
 with great cheerfulness and wealth of remi 
 niscence. Tom began to understand why 
 nobody seemed to pity Nancy, though she did 
 at last speak sadly, and make confession that 
 she felt it to be very hard because she never 
 could get about the neighborhood to see any 
 of the old and sick people. Some of them 
 were lonesome, and lived in lonesome places. 
 " I try to send word to them sometimes, if 
 I can't do any more," said Nancy. " We 're 
 so apt to forget 'em, and let 'em feel they 
 
 36S037
 
 88 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 aren't useful. I can't bear to see an old 
 heart begging for a little love. I do some 
 times wish I could manage to go an' try to 
 make a little of their time pass pleasant." 
 
 " Do you always stay just here ? " asked 
 Tom with sudden compassion, after he had 
 stood for a moment looking out at the gray 
 sheep on the hillside. 
 
 " Oh, sometimes I get into the old rock 
 ing-chair, and father pulls me out into the 
 kitchen when I 'm extra well," said Nancy 
 proudly, as if she spoke of a yachting voy 
 age or a mountaineer's exploits. " Once a 
 doctor said if I was only up to Boston " > 
 her voice fell a little with a touch of wistful, 
 ness " perhaps I could have had more done, 
 and could have got about with some kind 
 of a chair. But that was a good while ago : 
 I never let myself worry about it. I am 
 so busy right here that I don't know what 
 would happen if I set out to travel." 
 
 v. 
 
 A year later the East Rodney shore 
 looked as green as ever, and the untouched 
 wall of firs and pines faithfully echoed the 
 steamer's whistle. In the twelve months
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 39 
 
 just past Mr. Aldis had worked wonders 
 upon his long-neglected estate, and now was 
 comfortably at housekeeping on the Sunday 
 Cove headland. Nancy could see the chim 
 neys and a gable of the fine establishment 
 from her own little north window, and the 
 sheep still fed undisturbed on the slopes that 
 lay between. More than this, there were 
 two other new houses, to be occupied by 
 Tom's friends, within the distance of a mile 
 or two. It would be difficult to give any 
 idea of the excitement and interest of East 
 Rodney, or the fine effect and impulse to 
 the local market. Tom's wife and children 
 were most affectionately befriended by their 
 neighbors the Gales, and with their coming 
 in midsummer many changes for the better 
 took place in Nancy's life, and made it 
 bright. She lost no time in starting a class, 
 where the two eldest for the first time found 
 study a pleasure, while little Tom was 
 promptly and tenderly taught his best bow, 
 and made to mind his steps with such in 
 terest and satisfaction that he who had once 
 roared aloud in public at the infant dan 
 cing-class, now knew both confidence and 
 ambition. There was already a well-worn 
 little footpath between the old Gale house
 
 40 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 and Sunday Cove; it wound in and out 
 among the ledges and thickets, and over the 
 short sheep-turf of the knolls; and there 
 was a scent of sweet-brier here, and of rasp 
 berries there, and of the salt water and the 
 pines, dnd the juniper and bay berry, all the 
 way. 
 
 Nancy herself had followed that path in a 
 carrying-chair, and joy was in her heart at 
 every step. She blessed Tom over and over 
 again, as he walked, broad-shouldered and 
 strong, between the forward handles, and 
 turned his head now and then to see if she 
 liked the journey. For many reasons, she 
 was much better now that she could get out 
 into the sun. The bedroom with the north 
 window was apt to be tenantless, and where- 
 ever Nancy went she made other people 
 wiser and happier, and more interested in 
 life. 
 
 On the day when she went in state to visit 
 the new house, with her two sober carriers, 
 and a gay little retinue of young people 
 frisking alongside, she felt happy enough 
 by the way ; but when she got to the house 
 itself, and had been carried quite round it, 
 and was at last set down in the wide hall to 
 look about, she gave her eyes a splendid
 
 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 41 
 
 liberty of enjoyment. Mrs. Aldis disap 
 peared for a moment to give directions in 
 her guest's behalf, and the host and Nancy 
 were left alone together. 
 
 "No, I don't feel a bit tired," said the 
 guest, looking pale and radiant. "I feel &t 
 if I did n't know how to be grateful enough. 
 I have everything in the world to make me 
 happy. What does make you and your dear 
 family do so much? " 
 
 "It means a great deal to have friends, 
 doesn't it?" answered Tom in a tone that 
 thanked her warmly. "I of ten wish" 
 
 He could not finish his sentence, for he 
 was thinking of Nancy's long years, and the 
 bond of friendship that absence and even 
 forgetfulness had failed to break; of the 
 curious insistence of fate which made him 
 responsible for something in the life of 
 Nancy and brought him back to her neigh 
 borhood. It was a moment of deep thought ; 
 he even forgot Nancy herself. He heard 
 the water plashing on the shore below, and 
 felt the cool sea wind that blew in at the 
 door. 
 
 Nancy reached out her bent and twisted 
 hand and began to speak; then she hesi-
 
 42 THE LIFE OF NANCY. 
 
 tated, and glanced at her hand again, and 
 looked straight at him with shining eyes. 
 
 "There never has been a day when I 
 haven't thought of you," she said.
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 i. 
 
 NOBODY ever knew, except himself, what 
 made a foolish young newspaper reporter, 
 who happened into a small old-fashioned 
 hotel in New York, observe Mr. Abel Pink- 
 ham with deep interest, listen to his talk, 
 ask a question or two of the clerk, and then 
 go away and make up an effective personal 
 paragraph for one of the morning papers. 
 He must have had a heart full of fun, this 
 young reporter, and something honestly rus 
 tic and pleasing must have struck him in the 
 guest's demeanor, for there was a flavor in 
 the few lines he wrote that made some of his 
 fellows seize upon the little paragraph, and 
 copy it, and add to it, and keep it moving. 
 Nobody knows what starts such a thing in 
 journalism, or keeps it alive after it is 
 started, but on a certain Thursday morning 
 the fact was made known to the world that 
 among the notabilities then in the city, Abel 
 Pinkham, Esquire, a distinguished citizen
 
 44 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 of Wetherford, Vermont, was visiting New 
 York on important affairs connected with 
 the maple-sugar industry of his native State. 
 Mr. Pinkham had expected to keep his visit 
 unannounced, but it was likely to occasion 
 much interest in business and civic circles. 
 This was something like the way that the 
 paragraph started ; but here and there a kin 
 dred spirit of the original journalist caught 
 it up and added discreet lines about Mr. 
 Pinkham' s probable stay in town, his occu 
 pation of an apartment on the fourth floor 
 of the Ethan Allen Hotel, and other cir 
 cumstances so uninteresting to the reading 
 public in general that presently in the next 
 evening edition, one city editor after an 
 other threw out the item, and the young jour 
 nalists, having had their day of pleasure, 
 passed on to other things. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham had set forth 
 from home with many forebodings, in spite 
 of having talked all winter about taking this 
 journey as soon as the spring opened. They 
 would have caught at any reasonable excuse 
 for giving it up altogether, because when 
 the time arrived it seemed so much easier 
 to stay at home. Mrs. Abel Pinkham had 
 never seen New York; her husband himself
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 45 
 
 had not been to the city for a great many 
 years ; in fact, his reminiscences of the for 
 mer visit were not altogether pleasant, since 
 he had foolishly fallen into many snares, and 
 been much gulled in his character of honest 
 young countryman. There was a tarnished 
 and worthless counterfeit of a large gold 
 watch still concealed between the outer 
 boarding and inner lath and plaster of the 
 lean-to bedroom which Mr. Abel Pinkham 
 had occupied as a bachelor ; it was not 
 the only witness of his being taken in by 
 city sharpers, and he had winced ever since 
 at the thought of their wiles. But he was 
 now a man of sixty, well-to-do, and of au 
 thority in town affairs; his children were all 
 well married and settled in homes of their 
 own, except a widowed daughter, who lived 
 at home with her young son, and was her 
 mother's lieutenant in household affairs. 
 
 The boy was almost grown, and at this 
 season, when the maple sugar was all made 
 and shipped, and it was still too early for 
 spring work on the land, Mr. Pinkham could 
 leave home as well as not, and here he was 
 in New York, feeling himself to be a 
 stranger and foreigner to city ways. If it 
 had not been for that desire to appear well
 
 46 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 in his wife's eyes, which had buoyed him 
 over the bar of many difficulties, he could 
 have found it in his heart to take the nert 
 train back to Wetherford, Vermont, to be 
 there rid of his best clothes and the stiff rim 
 of his heavy felt hat. He could not let his 
 wife discover that the noise and confusion of 
 Broadway had the least power to make him 
 flinch : he cared no more for it than for the 
 woods in snow-time. He was as good as 
 anybody, and she was better. They owed 
 nobody a cent; and they had come on pur 
 pose to see the city of New York. 
 
 They were sitting at the breakfast-table 
 in the Ethan Allen Hotel, having arrived 
 at nightfall the day before. Mrs. Pinkham 
 looked a little pale about the mouth. She 
 had been kept awake nearly all night by the 
 noise, and had enjoyed but little the even 
 ing she had spent in the stuffy parlor of the 
 hotel, looking down out of the window at 
 what seemed to her but garish scenes, and 
 keeping a reproachful and suspicious eye 
 upon some unpleasantly noisy young women 
 of forward behavior who were her only 
 companions. Abel himself was by no means 
 so poorly entertained in the hotel office and 
 smoking-room. He felt much more at home
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 47 
 
 than she did, being better used to meeting 
 strange men than she was to strange women, 
 and he found two or three companions who 
 had seen more than he of New York life. 
 It was there, indeed, that the young reporter 
 found him, hearty and country-fed, and 
 loved the appearance of his best clothes, and 
 the way Mr. Abel Pinkham brushed his hair, 
 and loved the way that he spoke in a loud 
 and manful voice the belief and experience 
 of his honest heart. 
 
 In the morning at breakfast-time the Pink- 
 hams were depressed. They missed their 
 good bed at home ; they were troubled by 
 the roar and noise of the streets that hardly 
 stopped over night before it began again 
 in the morning. The waiter did not put 
 what mind he may have had to the business 
 of serving them ; and Mrs. Abel Pinkham, 
 whose cooking was the triumph of parish 
 festivals at home, had her own opinion about 
 the beefsteak. She was a woman of imagi 
 nation, and now that she was fairly here, 
 spectacles and all, it really pained her to find 
 that the New York of her dreams, the me 
 tropolis of dignity and distinction, of wealth 
 and elegance, did not seem to exist. These 
 poor streets, these unlovely people, were the
 
 48 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 end of a great illusion. They did not like 
 to meet each other's eyes, this worthy pair. 
 The man began to put on an unbecoming air 
 of assertion, and Mrs. Pinkham's face was 
 full of lofty protest. 
 
 "My gracious me, Mary Ann! I am 
 glad I happened to get the * Tribune ' this 
 mornin'," said Mr. Pinkham, with sudden 
 excitement. "Just you look here! I 'd like 
 well to know how they found out about our 
 comin' ! " and he handed the paper to his 
 wife across the table. " There there 't is ; 
 right by my thumb," he insisted. "Can't 
 you see it? " and he smiled like a boy as she 
 finally brought her large spectacles to bear 
 upon the important paragraph. 
 
 "I guess they think somethin* of us, if 
 you don't think much o' them," continued 
 Mr. Pinkham, grandly. "Oh, they know 
 how to keep the run o' folks who are some 
 body to home ! Draper and Fitch knew we 
 was comin' this week : you know I sent word 
 I was comin' to settle with them myself. 
 I suppose they send folks round to the 
 hotels, these newspapers, but I should n't 
 thought there 'd been time. Anyway, they ' ve 
 thought 't was worth while to put us in ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pinkham did not take the trouble to
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 49 
 
 make a mystery out of the unexpected pleas 
 ure. " I want to cut it out an' send it right 
 up home to daughter Sarah," she said, beam 
 ing with pride, and looking at the printed 
 names as if they were flattering photo 
 graphs. "I think 'twas most too strong to 
 say we was among the notables. But there ' 
 'tis their business to dress up things, and 
 they have to print somethin' every day. I 
 guess I shall go up and put on my best 
 dress," she added, inconsequently ; "this 
 one's kind of dusty; it 's the same I rode 
 in." 
 
 "Le' me see that paper again," said Mr. 
 Pinkham jealously. " I did n't more 'n 
 half sense it, I was so taken aback. Well, 
 Mary Ann, you did n't expect you was goin' 
 to get into the papers when you came away. 
 ' Abel Pinkham, Esquire, of Wetherford, 
 Vermont.' It looks well, don't it? But 
 you might have knocked me down with a 
 feather when I first caught sight of them 
 words." 
 
 "I guess I shall put on my other dress," 
 said Mrs. Pinkham, rising, with quite a 
 different air from that with which she had 
 sat down to her morning meal. "This one 
 looks a little out o' style, as Sarah said, but
 
 50 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 when I got up this mornin' I was so home 
 sick it did n't seem to make any kind o' 
 difference. I expect that saucy girl last 
 night took us to be nobodies. I 'd like to 
 leave the paper round where she couldn't 
 help seein' it." 
 
 "Don't take any notice of her," said 
 Abel, in a dignified tone. "If she can't do 
 what you want an' be civil, we '11 go some- 
 wheres else. I wish I 'd done what we 
 talked of at first an' gone to the Astor 
 House, but that young man in the cars told 
 me 't was remote from the things we should 
 want to see. The Astor House was the top 
 o' everything when I was here last, but I 
 expected to find some changes. I want you 
 to have the best there is," he said, smiling 
 at his wife as if they were just making their 
 wedding journey. "Come, let's be stir- 
 rin'; 't is long past eight o'clock," and he 
 ushered her to the door, newspaper in hand. 
 
 n. 
 
 Later that day the guests walked up 
 Broadway, holding themselves erect, and 
 feeling as if every eye was upon them. 
 Abel Pinkham had settled with his corre-
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAT. 51 
 
 spondents for the spring consignments of 
 maple sugar, and a round sum in bank bills 
 was stowed away in his breast pocket. One 
 of the partners had been a Wetherf ord boy, 
 so when there came a renewal of interest 
 in maple sugar, and the best confectioners 
 were ready to do it honor, the finest qual 
 ity being at a large premium, this partner 
 remembered that there never was any sugar 
 made in Wetherford of such melting and 
 delicious flavor as from the trees on the 
 old Pinkham farm. He had now made a 
 good bit of money for himself on this pri 
 vate venture, and was ready that morning 
 to pay Mr. Abel Pinkham cash down, and 
 to give him a handsome order for the next 
 season for all he could make. Mr. Fitch 
 was also generous in the matter of such 
 details as freight and packing; he was im 
 mensely polite and kind to his old friends, 
 and begged them to come out and stay with 
 him and his wife, where they lived now, in 
 a not far distant New Jersey town. 
 
 "No, no, sir," said Mr. Pinkham 
 promptly. "My wife has come to see the 
 city, and our time is short. Your folks '11 
 be up this summer, won't they? We'll 
 wait an' visit then."
 
 52 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 "You must certainly take Mrs. Pinkham 
 up to the Park," said the commission mer 
 chant. "I wish I had time to show you 
 round myself. I suppose you 've been see 
 ing some things already, haven't you? I 
 noticed your arrival in the ' Herald. ' * 
 
 "The * Tribune ' it was," said Mr. Pink- 
 ham, blushing through a smile and looking 
 round at his wife. 
 
 " Oh no ; I never read the * Tribune, ' ' 
 said Mr. Fitch. "There was quite an ex 
 tended notice in my paper. They must 
 have put you and Mrs. Pinkham into the 
 ' Herald ' too." And so the friends parted, 
 laughing. " I am much pleased to have a 
 call from such distinguished parties," said 
 Mr. Fitch, by way of final farewell, and Mr. 
 Pinkham waved his hand grandly in reply. 
 
 "Let 's get the ' Herald,' then," he said, 
 as they started up the street. "We can go 
 an' sit over in that little square that we 
 passed as we came along, and rest an' talk 
 things over about what we 'd better do this 
 afternoon. I 'm tired out a-trampin' and 
 standin'. I'd rather have set still while 
 we were there, but he wanted us to see his 
 store. Done very well, Joe Fitch has, but 
 't ain't a business I should like."
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAT. 53 
 
 There was a lofty look and sense of be 
 havior about Mr. Pinkham of Wetherford. 
 You might have thought him a great politi 
 cian as he marched up Broadway, looking 
 neither to right hand nor left. He felt 
 himself to be a person of great responsi 
 bilities. 
 
 "I begin to feel sort of at home myself," 
 said his wife, who always had a certain touch 
 of simple dignity about her. "When we 
 was comin' yesterday New York seemed to 
 be all strange, and there was n't nobody ex- 
 pectin' us. I feel now just as if I 'd been 
 here before." 
 
 They were now on the edge of the better- 
 looking part of the town ; it was still noisy 
 and crowded, but noisy with fine carriages 
 instead of drays, and crowded with well- 
 dressed people. The hours for shopping 
 and visiting were beginning, and more than 
 one person looked with appreciative and 
 friendly eyes at the comfortable pleased- 
 looking elderly man and woman who went 
 their easily beguiled and loitering way. The 
 pavement peddlers detained them, but the 
 cabmen beckoned them in vain ; their eyes 
 were busy with the immediate foreground. 
 Mrs. Pinkham was embarrassed by the re-
 
 54 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 
 
 curring reflection of herself in the great 
 windows. 
 
 "I wish I had seen about a new bonnet 
 before we came," she lamented. "They 
 seem to be havin' on some o' their spring 
 things." 
 
 "Don't you worry, Mary Ann. I don't 
 see anybody that looks any better than you 
 do," said Abel, with boyish and reassuring 
 pride. 
 
 Mr. Pinkham had now bought the " Her 
 ald," and also the "Sun," well recommended 
 by an able newsboy, and presently they 
 crossed over from that corner by the Fifth 
 Avenue Hotel which seems like the very 
 heart of New York, and found a place to 
 sit down on the Square an empty bench, 
 where they could sit side by side and look 
 the papers through, reading over each other's 
 shoulder, and being impatient from page to 
 page. The paragraph was indeed repeated, 
 with trifling additions. Ederton of the 
 "Sun" had followed the "Tribune" man's 
 lead, and fabricated a brief interview, a 
 marvel of art and discretion, but so general 
 in its allusions that it could create no sus 
 picion; it almost deceived Mr. Pinkham 
 himself, so that he found unaffected pleasure
 
 FAME 1 8 LITTLE DAT. 55 
 
 in the fictitious occasion, and felt as if he 
 had easily covered himself with glory. Ex 
 cept for the bare fact of the interview's 
 being imaginary, there was no discredit to 
 be cast upon Mr. Abel Pinkham's having 
 said that he thought the country near Weth- 
 erford looked well for the time of year, and 
 promised a fair hay crop, and that his in 
 come was augmented one half to three fifths 
 by his belief in the future of maple sugar. 
 It was likely to be the great coming crop 
 of the Green Mountain State. Ederton 
 suggested that there was talk of Mr. Pink- 
 ham's presence in the matter of a great 
 maple -sugar trust, in which much of the 
 capital of Wall Street would be involved. 
 
 "How they do hatch up these things, 
 don't they? " said the worthy man at this 
 point. "Well, it all sounds well, Mary 
 Ann." 
 
 "It says here that you are a very person 
 able man," smiled his wife, "and have filled 
 some of the most responsible town offices " 
 (this was the turn taken by Goffey of the 
 "Herald"). "Oh, and that you are going 
 to attend the performance at Barnum's this 
 evening, and occupy reserved seats. Why, 
 I did n't know who have you told about
 
 66 FAME'S LITTLE DAT. 
 
 that? who was you talkin' to last night, 
 Abel?" 
 
 "I never spoke o' goin' to Barnum's to 
 any livin' soul," insisted Abel, flushing. "I 
 only thought of it two or three times to 
 myself that perhaps I might go an' take 
 you. Now that is singular; perhaps they 
 put that in just to advertise the show." 
 
 "Ain't it a kind of a low place for folks 
 like us to be seen in? " suggested Mrs. Pink- 
 ham timidly. "People seem to be payin' 
 us all this attention, an' I don't know 's 
 't would be dignified for us to go to one o' 
 them circus places." 
 
 "I don't care; we shan't live but once. 
 I ain't comin' to New York an' confine my 
 self to evenin' meetin's," answered Abel, 
 throwing away discretion and morality to 
 gether. "I tell you I'm goin' to spend 
 this sugar-money just as we 've a mind to. 
 You 've worked hard, an' counted a good 
 while on comin', and so'vel; an' I ain't 
 goin' to mince my steps an' pinch an' screw 
 for nobody. I 'm goin' to hire one o' them 
 hacks an' ride up to the Park." 
 
 "Joe Fitch said we could go right up in 
 one o' the elevated railroads for five cents, 
 an' return when we was ready," protested
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 57 
 
 Mary Ann, who had a thriftier inclination 
 than her husband; but Mr. Pinkham was 
 not to be let or hindered, and they presently 
 found themselves going up Fifth Avenue in 
 a somewhat battered open landau. The 
 spring sun shone upon them, and the spring 
 breeze fluttered the black ostrich tip on 
 Mrs. Pinkham' s durable winter bonnet, and 
 brought the pretty color to her faded cheeks. 
 
 "There! this is something like. Such 
 people as we are can't go meechin' round; 
 it ain't expected. Don't it pay for a lot o' 
 hard work?" said Abel; and his wife gave 
 him a pleased look for her only answer. 
 They were both thinking of their gray farm 
 house high on a long western slope, with the 
 afternoon sun full in its face, the old red 
 barn, the pasture, the shaggy woods that 
 stretched far up the mountain-side. 
 
 "I wish Sarah an' little Abel was here to 
 see us ride by," said Mary Ann Pinkham, 
 presently. "I can't seem to wait to have 
 'em get that newspaper. I 'm so glad we 
 sent it right off before we started this morn- 
 in'. If Abel goes to the post-office comin' 
 from school, as he always does, they '11 have 
 it to read to-morrow before supper-time."
 
 68 FAME'S LITTLE DAT. 
 
 m. 
 
 This happy day in two plain lives ended, 
 as might have been expected, with the great 
 Barnum show. Mr. and Mrs. Pinkham 
 found themselves in possession of countless 
 advertising cards and circulars next morn 
 ing, and these added somewhat to their sense 
 of responsibility. Mrs. Pinkham became 
 afraid that the hotel-keeper would charge 
 them double. " We 've got to pay for it 
 some way ; there. I don't know but I 'm 
 more 'n willin'," said the good soul. "I 
 never did have such a splendid time in all 
 my life. Findin' you so respected 'way off 
 here is the best of anything; an' then seein* 
 them dear little babies in their nice car 
 riages, all along the streets and up to the 
 Central Park! I never shall forget them 
 beautiful little creatur's. And then the 
 houses, an' the hosses, an' the store win 
 dows, an' all the rest of it! Well, I can't 
 make my country pitcher hold no more, an' 
 I want to get home an' think it over, goin' 
 about my housework." 
 
 They were just entering the door of the 
 Ethan Allen Hotel for the last time, when a 
 young man met them and bowed cordially.
 
 FAME'S LITTLE DAY. 59 
 
 He was the original reporter of their arrival, 
 but they did not know it, and the impulse 
 was strong within him to formally invite 
 Mr. Pinkham to make an address before the 
 members of the Produce Exchange on the 
 following morning ; but he had been a coun 
 try boy himself, and their look of serious 
 ness and self-consciousness appealed to him 
 unexpectedly. He wondered what effect 
 this great experience would have upon their 
 after-life. The best fun, after all, would 
 be to send marked copies of his paper and 
 Ederton's to all the weekly newspapers in 
 that part of Vermont. He saw before him 
 the evidence of their happy increase of self- 
 respect, and he would make all their neigh 
 borhood agree to do them honor. Such is 
 the dominion of the press. 
 
 " Who was that young man ? he kind of 
 bowed to you," asked the lady from Wether- 
 ford, after the journalist had meekly passed ; 
 but Abel Pinkham, Esquire, could only tell 
 her that he looked like a young fellow who 
 was sitting in the office the evening that 
 they came to the hotel. The reporter did 
 not seem to these distinguished persons to 
 be a young man of any consequence.
 
 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 THERE was a tinge of autumn color on 
 even the English elms as Tom Burton walked 
 slowly up Beacon Street. He was wonder 
 ing all the way what he had better do with 
 himself ; it was far too early to settle down 
 in Boston for the winter, but his grand 
 mother kept to her old date for moving up 
 to town, and here they were. As yet no 
 body thought of braving the country weather 
 long after October came in, and most coun 
 try houses were poorly equipped with fire 
 places, or even furnaces : this was some years 
 ago, and not the very last autumn that ever 
 was. 
 
 There was likely to be a long stretch of 
 good weather, a month at least, if one took 
 the trouble to go a little way to the south 
 ward. Tom Burton quickened his steps a 
 little, and began to think definitely of his 
 guns, while a sudden resolve took shape in 
 his mind. Just then he reached the door-
 
 A WAR DEBT. 61 
 
 steps of his grandmother's fine old-fashioned 
 house, being himself the fourth Thomas 
 Burton that the shining brass door-plate 
 had represented. His old grandmother was 
 the only near relative he had in the world ; 
 she was growing older and more dependent 
 upon him every day. That summer he had 
 returned from a long wandering absence of 
 three years, and the vigorous elderly woman 
 whom he had left, busy and self-reliant, had 
 sadly changed in the mean time; age had 
 begun to strike telling blows at her strength 
 and spirits. Tom had no idea of leaving her 
 again for the long journeys which had be 
 come the delightful habit of his life; but 
 there was no reason why he should not take 
 a fortnight's holiday now and then, particu 
 larly now. 
 
 "Has Mrs. Burton come down yet, Den 
 nis? Is there any one with her?" asked 
 Tom, as he entered. 
 
 "There is not, sir. Mrs. Burton is in the 
 drawing-room," answered Dennis precisely. 
 "The tea is just going up; I think she was 
 waiting for you." And Tom ran upstairs 
 like a schoolboy, and then walked discreetly 
 into the drawing-room. His grandmother 
 gave no sign of having expected him, but she
 
 62 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 always liked company at that hour of the 
 day : there had come to be too many ghosts 
 in the empty chairs. 
 
 "Can I have two cups?" demanded the 
 grandson, cheerfully. "I don't know when 
 I have had such a walk ! " and they began a 
 gay gossiping hour together, and parted for 
 a short season afterward, only to meet again 
 at dinner, with a warm sense of pleasure 
 in each other's company. The young man 
 always insisted that his grandmother was 
 the most charming woman in the world, and 
 it can be imagined what the grandmother 
 thought of Tom. She was only severe with 
 him because he had given no signs of wish 
 ing to marry, but she was tolerant of all de 
 lay, so long as she could now and then keep 
 the subject fresh in his mind. It was not a 
 moment to speak again of the great question 
 that afternoon, and she had sat and listened 
 to his talk of people and things, a little plain 
 tive and pale, but very handsome, behind the 
 tea-table. 
 
 n. 
 
 At dinner, after Dennis had given Tom 
 his cup of coffee and cigars, and disappeared 
 with an accustomed air of thoughtfully leav-
 
 A WAR DEBT. 63 
 
 ing the family alone for a private interview, 
 Mrs. Burton, who sometimes lingered if she 
 felt like talking, and sometimes went away 
 to the drawing-room to take a brief nap be 
 fore she began her evening book, and before 
 Tom joined her for a few minutes to say 
 good-night if he were going out, Mi's. 
 Burton left her chair more hurriedly than 
 usual. Tom meant to be at home that even 
 ing, and was all ready to speak of his plan 
 for some Southern shooting, and he felt a 
 sudden sense of disappointment. 
 
 "Don't go away," he said, looking up as 
 she passed. "Is this a bad cigar? " 
 
 "No, no, my dear," said the old lady, 
 hurrying across the room in an excited, un 
 usual sort of way. "I wish to show you 
 something while we are by ourselves." And 
 she stooped to unlock a little cupboard in the 
 great sideboard, and fumbled in the depths 
 there, upsetting and clanking among some 
 pieces of silver. Tom joined her with a 
 pair of candles, but it was some moments 
 before she could find what she wanted. 
 Mrs. Burton appeared to be in a hurry, 
 which almost never happened, and in try 
 ing to help her Tom dropped much wax 
 unheeded at her side.
 
 64 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 "Here it is at last," she said, and went 
 back to her seat at the table. "I ought to 
 tell you the stories of some old silver that 
 I keep in that cupboard ; if I were to die, 
 nobody would know anything about them." 
 
 " Do you mean the old French spoons, and 
 the prince's porringer, and those things?" 
 asked Tom, showing the most lively interest. 
 But his grandmother was busy unfastening 
 the strings of a little bag, and shook her 
 head absently in answer to his question. 
 She took out and handed to him a quaint 
 old silver cup with two handles, that he 
 could not remember ever to have seen. 
 
 "What a charming old bit!" said he, 
 turning it about. "Where in the world did 
 it come from? English, of course; and it 
 looks like a loving-cup. A copy of some 
 old Oxford thing, perhaps ; only they did n't 
 copy much then. I should think it had been 
 made for a child." Tom turned it round 
 and round and drew the candles toward 
 him. "Here 's an inscription, too, but 
 very much worn." 
 
 "Put it down a minute," said Mrs. Bur 
 ton impatiently. "Every time I have 
 thought of it I have been more and more 
 ashamed to have it in the house. People
 
 A WAR DEBT. 65 
 
 weren't so shocked by such things at first; 
 they would only be sentimental about the 
 ruined homes, and say that, 'after all, it was 
 the fortune of war.' That cup was stolen." 
 
 " But who stole it ? " inquired Tom, with 
 deep interest. 
 
 "Your father brought it here," said Mrs. 
 Burton, with great spirit, and even a tone 
 of reproach. "My son, Tom Burton, your 
 father, brought it home from the war. I 
 think his plan was to keep it safe to send 
 back to the owners. But he left it with 
 your mother when he was ordered suddenly 
 to the front ; he was only at home four days, 
 and the day after he got back to camp was 
 the day he was killed, poor boy " 
 
 "I remember something about it now," 
 Tom hastened to say. "I remember my 
 mother's talking about the breaking up of 
 Southern homes, and all that; she never 
 believed it until she saw the cup, and I 
 thought it was awfully silly. I was at the 
 age when I could have blown our own house 
 to pieces just for the sake of the racket." 
 
 "And that terrible year your grandfather's 
 and your mother's death followed, and I was 
 left alone with you two of us out of the 
 five that had made my home "
 
 66 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 "I should say one and a half," insisted 
 Tom, with some effort. "What a boy I 
 was for a grandson ! Thank Heaven, there 
 comes a time when we are all the same age ! 
 We are jolly together now, are n't we ? 
 Come, dear old lady, don't let 's think too 
 much of what 's gone by ; " and he went 
 round the table and gave her a kiss, and 
 stood there where she need not look him in 
 the face, holding her dear thin hand as long 
 as ever she liked. 
 
 " I want you to take that silver cup back. 
 Tom," she said presently, in her usual tone. 
 "Go back and finish your coffee." She 
 had seldom broken down like this. Mrs. 
 Burton had been self-possessed, even to ap 
 parent coldness, in earlier life. 
 
 " How in the world am I going to take it 
 back? " asked Tom, most businesslike and 
 calm. "Do you really know just where it 
 came from ? And then it was several years 
 ago." 
 
 "Your grandfather knew; they were Vir 
 ginia people, of course, and happened to be 
 old friends; one of the younger men was 
 his own classmate. He knew the crest and 
 motto at once, but there were two or three 
 branches of the family, none of them, so far
 
 A WAR DEBT. 67 
 
 as he knew, living anywhere near where 
 your father was in camp. Poor Tom said 
 that there was a beautiful old house sacked 
 and burnt, and everything scattered that 
 was saved. He happened to hear a soldier 
 from another regiment talking about it, and 
 saw him tossing this cup about, and bought 
 it from him with all the money he happened 
 to have in his pockets." 
 
 "Then he didn't really steal it himself! " 
 exclaimed Tom, laughing a little, and with 
 a sense of relief. 
 
 "No, no, Tom!" said Mrs. Burton im 
 patiently. "Only you see that it really is 
 a stolen thing, and I have had it all this time 
 under my roof. For a long time it was 
 packed away with your father's war relics, 
 those things that I couldn't bear to see. 
 And then I would think of it only at night 
 after I had once seen it, and forget to ask 
 any one else while you were away, or wait 
 for you to come. Oh, I have no excuse. 
 I have been very careless, but here it has 
 been all the time. I wish you would find 
 out about the people; there must be some 
 one belonging to them some friend, per 
 haps, to whom we could give it. This is 
 one of the things that I wish to have done,
 
 68 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 and to forget. Just take it back, or write 
 some letters first: you will know what to 
 do. I should like to have the people under 
 stand." 
 
 "I '11 see about it at once," said Tom, 
 with great zest. "I believe you couldn't 
 have spoken at a better time. I have been 
 thinking of going down to Virginia this 
 very week. I hear that they are in a hurry 
 with fitting out that new scientific expedi 
 tion in Washington that I declined to join, 
 and they want me to come on and talk over 
 things before they are off. One of the men 
 is a Virginian, an awfully good fellow ; and 
 then there 's Clendennin, my old. chum, 
 who 's in Washington, too, just now; they '11 
 give me my directions ; they know all Vir 
 ginia between them. I '11 take the cup 
 along, and run down from Washington for a 
 few days, and perhaps get some shooting." 
 
 Tom's face was shining with interest and 
 satisfaction ; he took the cup and again held 
 it under the candle-light. " How pretty this 
 old chasing is round the edge, and the set of 
 the little handles ! Oh, here 's the motto ! 
 What a dear old thing, and enormously old ! 
 See here, under the crest," and he held it 
 toward Mrs. Burton :
 
 A WAR DEBT. 69 
 
 " Je vous en prie 
 Bel-ami." 
 
 Mrs. Burton glanced at it with indiffer 
 ence. "Yes, it is charming, as you say. 
 But I only wish to return it to its owners, 
 Tom." 
 
 " Je vous en prie 
 Bel-ami." 
 
 Tom repeated the words under his breath, 
 and looked at the crest carefully. 
 
 "I remember that your grandfather said 
 it belonged to the Bellamys," said his grand 
 mother. "Of course: how could I forget 
 that? I have never looked at it properly 
 since the day I first saw it. It is a charm 
 ing motto they were very charming and 
 distinguished people. I suppose this is a 
 pretty way of saying that they could not live 
 without their friends. I beg of you, Bel- 
 ami ; it is a quaint fancy ; one might turn 
 it in two or three pretty ways." 
 
 " Or they may have meant that they only 
 looked to themselves for what they wanted, 
 Je vous en prie Bellamy I" said Tom gal 
 lantly. "All right; I think that I shall 
 start to-morrow or next day. If you have 
 no special plans," he added. 
 
 "Do go, my dear; you may get some 
 snooting, as you say," said Mrs. Burton, a
 
 70 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 little wistfully, but kindly personifying 
 Tom's inclination. 
 
 "You've started me off on a fine ro 
 mantic adventure," said the young man, 
 smiling. "Come; my cigar's gone out, 
 and it never was good for much; let's go 
 in and try the cards, and talk about things ; 
 perhaps you '11 think of something more 
 about the Bellamys. You said that my 
 grandfather had a classmate " 
 
 Mrs. Burton stopped to put the cup into 
 its chamois bag again, and handed it sol 
 emnly to Tom, then she took his arm, and 
 dismissing all unpleasant thoughts, they sat 
 down to the peaceful game of cribbage to 
 while away the time. The grandson lent 
 himself gayly to pleasure-making, and they 
 were just changing the cards for their books, 
 when one of the elder friends of the house 
 appeared, one of the two or three left who 
 called Mrs. Burton Margaret, and was 
 greeted affectionately as Henry in return. 
 This guest always made the dear lady feel 
 young; he himself was always to the front 
 of things, and had much to say. It was 
 quite forgotten that a last charge had been 
 given to Tom, or that the past had been 
 wept over. Presently, the late evening
 
 A WAR DEBT. 71 
 
 hours being always her best, she forgot in 
 eager talk that she had any grandson at all, 
 and Tom slipped away with his book to his 
 own sitting-room and his pipe. He took 
 the little cup out of its bag again, and set it 
 before him, and began to lay plans for a 
 Southern journey. 
 
 m. 
 
 The Virginia country was full of golden 
 autumn sunshine and blue haze. The long 
 hours spent on a slow-moving train were 
 full of shocks and surprises to a young trav 
 eler who knew almost every civilized country 
 better than his own. The lonely look of 
 the fields, the trees shattered by war, which 
 had not yet had time enough to muffle their 
 broken tops with green; the negroes, who 
 crowded on board the train, lawless, and 
 unequal to holding their liberty with steady 
 hands, looked poor and less respectable than 
 in the old plantation days it was as if 
 the long discipline of their former state had 
 counted for nothing. Tom Burton felt him 
 self for the first time to have something 
 of a statesman's thoughts and schemes as 
 he moralized along the way. Presently he
 
 72 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 noticed with deep sympathy a lady who 
 came down the crowded car, and took the 
 seat just in front of him. She carried a 
 magazine under her arm a copy of " Black- 
 wood," which was presently proved to bear 
 the date of 1851, and to be open at an arti 
 cle on the death of Wordsworth. She was 
 the first lady he had seen that day there 
 was little money left for journeying and 
 pleasure among the white Virginians; but 
 two or three stations beyond this a group of 
 young English men and women stood with 
 the gay negroes on the platform, and came 
 into the train with cheerful greetings to their 
 friends. It seemed as if England had be 
 gun to settle Virginia all over again, and 
 their clear, lively voices had no foreign 
 sound. There were going to be races at 
 some court-house town in the neighborhood. 
 Burton was a great lover of horses himself, 
 and the new scenes grew more and more in 
 teresting. In one of the gay groups was 
 a different figure from any of the fresh- 
 cheeked young wives of the English planters 
 a slender girl, pale and spirited, with a 
 look of care beyond her years. She was 
 the queen of her little company. It was to 
 her that every one looked for approval and
 
 A WAR DEBT. 73 
 
 sympathy as the laugh went to and fro. 
 There was something so high-bred and ele 
 gant in her bearing, something so exquisitely 
 sure and stately, that her companions were 
 made clumsy and rustic in their looks by 
 contrast. The eager talk of the coming 
 races, of the untried thoroughbreds, the win 
 ners and losers of the year before, made 
 more distinct this young Virginia lady's own 
 look of high-breeding, and emphasized her 
 advantage of race. She was the newer and 
 finer Norman among Saxons. She alone 
 seemed to have that inheritance of swiftness 
 of mind, of sureness of training. It was 
 the highest type of English civilization re 
 fined still further by long growth in favoring 
 soil. Tom Burton read her unconscious face 
 as if it were a romance ; he believed that one 
 of the great Virginia houses must still exist, 
 and that she was its young mistress. The 
 house's fortune was no doubt gone; the 
 long-worn and carefully mended black silk 
 gown that followed the lines of her lovely 
 figure told plainly enough that worldly pros 
 perity was a thing of the past. But what 
 nature could give of its best, and only age 
 and death could take away, were hers. He 
 watched her more and more ; at one moment
 
 74 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 she glanced up suddenly and held his eyes 
 with hers for one revealing moment. There 
 was no surprise in the look, but a confession 
 of pathos, a recognition of sympathy, which 
 made even a stranger feel that he had the 
 inmost secret of her heart. 
 
 The next day our hero, having hired a 
 capital saddle-horse, a little the worse for 
 age, was finding his way eastward along the 
 sandy roads. The country was full of color ; 
 the sassafras and gum trees and oaks were 
 all ablaze with red and yellow. Now and 
 then he caught a glimpse of a sail on one of 
 the wide reaches of the river which lay to 
 the northward; now and then he passed a 
 broken gateway or the ruins of a cabin. He 
 carried a light gun before him across the 
 saddle, and a game-bag hung slack and 
 empty at his shoulder except for a single 
 plump partridge in one corner, which had 
 whirred up at the right moment out of a 
 vine-covered thicket. Something small and 
 heavy in his coat pocket seemed to corre 
 spond to the bird, and once or twice he un 
 consciously lifted it in the hollow of his
 
 A WAR DEBT. 75 
 
 hand. The day itself, and a sense of being 
 on the road to fulfill his mission, a sense of 
 unending leisure and satisfaction under that 
 lovely hazy sky, seemed to leave no place 
 for impatience or thought of other things. 
 He rode slowly along, with his eye on the 
 roadside coverts, letting the horse take his 
 own gait, except when a ragged negro boy, 
 on an unwilling, heavy-footed mule, slyly ap 
 proached and struck the dallying steed from 
 behind. It was past the middle of the Octo 
 ber afternoon. 
 
 "'Mos' thar now, Cun'l," said the boy at 
 last, eagerly. " See them busted trees pas' 
 thar, an' chimblies? You tu'n down nax' 
 turn; ride smart piece yet, an' you come 
 right front of oF Mars Bell'my's house. 
 See, he comin' 'long de road now. Yas, 
 'tis Mars Bell'my shore, an' 's gun." 
 
 Tom had been looking across the neglected 
 fields with compassion, and wondering if 
 such a plantation could ever be brought back 
 to its days of prosperity. As the boy spoke 
 he saw the tall chimneys in the distance, and 
 then, a little way before him in the shadow 
 of some trees, a stately figure that slowly 
 approached. He hurriedly dismounted, 
 leading his horse until he met the tall old
 
 76 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 man, who answered his salutation with much 
 dignity. There was something royal and re 
 mote from ordinary men in his silence after 
 the first words of courteous speech. 
 
 "Yas, sir; that 's Mars Bell'my, sir," 
 whispered the boy on the mule, reassuringly, 
 and the moment of hesitation was happily 
 ended. 
 
 "I was on my way to call upon you, 
 Colonel Bellamy ; my name is Burton," said 
 the younger man. 
 
 "Will you come with me to the house?" 
 said the old gentleman, putting out his hand 
 cordially a second time ; and though he had 
 frowned slightly at first at the unmistakable 
 Northern accent, the light came quickly to 
 his eyes. Tom gave his horse's bridle to 
 the boy, who promptly transferred himself 
 to the better saddle, and began to lead the 
 mule instead. 
 
 "I have been charged with an errand of 
 friendship," said Tom. "I believe that you 
 and my grandfather were at Harvard to 
 gether." Tom looked boyish and eager and 
 responsive to hospitality at this moment. 
 He was straight and trim, like a Frenchman. 
 Colonel Bellamy was much the taller of the 
 two, even with his bent shoulders and re 
 laxed figure.
 
 A WAR DEBT. 77 
 
 "I see the resemblance to your grandfa 
 ther, sir. I bid you welcome to Fairford," 
 said the Colonel. "Your visit is a great 
 kindness." 
 
 They walked on together, speaking cere 
 moniously of the season and of the shooting 
 and Tom's journey, until they left the woods 
 and overgrown avenue at the edge of what 
 had once been a fine lawn, with clusters of 
 huge oaks ; but these were shattered by war 
 and more or less ruined. The lopped trunks 
 still showed the marks of fire and shot ; some 
 had put out a fresh bough or two, but most 
 of the ancient trees stood for their own mon 
 uments, rain-bleached and gaunt. At the 
 other side of the wide lawn, against young 
 woodland and a glimpse of the river, were 
 the four great chimneys which had been seen 
 from the highroad. There was no dwelling 
 .in sight at the moment, and Tom stole an ap 
 prehensive look at the grave face of his com 
 panion. It appeared as if he were being led 
 to the habitation of ghosts, as if he were pur 
 posely to be confronted with the desolation 
 left in the track of Northern troops. It was 
 not so long since the great war that these 
 things could be forgotten. 
 
 The Colonel, however, without noticing
 
 78 -A WAR DEBT. 
 
 the ruins in any way, turned toward the 
 right as he neared them, and passing a high 
 fragment of brick wall topped by a marble 
 ball or two which had been shot at for 
 marks and passing, just beyond, some 
 huge clumps of box, they came to a square 
 brick building with a rude wooden addition 
 at one side, and saw some tumble -down 
 sheds a short distance beyond this, with a 
 negro cabin. 
 
 They came to the open door. "This was 
 formerly the billiard-room. Your grand 
 father would have kept many memories of 
 it," said the host simply. "Will you go in, 
 Mr. Burton?" And Tom climbed two or 
 three perilous wooden steps and entered, to 
 find himself in a most homelike and charm 
 ing place- There was a huge fireplace oppo 
 site the door, with a thin whiff of blue smoke 
 going up, a few old books on the high 
 chimney-piece, a pair of fine portraits with 
 damaged frames, some old tables and chairs 
 of different patterns, with a couch by the 
 square window covered with a piece of fine 
 tapestry folded together and still showing 
 its beauty, however raveled and worn. By 
 the opposite window, curtained only by 
 vines, sat a lady with her head muffled in
 
 A WAR DEBT. 79 
 
 lace, who greeted the guest pleasantly, and 
 begged pardon for not rising from her chair. 
 Her face wore an unmistakable look of pain 
 and sorrow. As Tom Burton stood at her 
 side, he could find nothing to say in answer 
 to her apologies. He was not wont to be 
 abashed, and a real court could not affect 
 him like this ideal one. The poor surround 
 ings could only be seen through the glamour 
 of their owner's presence it seemed a most 
 elegant interior. 
 
 "I am sorry to have the inconvenience of 
 deafness," said Madam Bellamy, looking up 
 with an anxious little smile. " Will you tell 
 me again the name of our guest? " 
 
 "He is my old classmate Burton's grand 
 son, of Boston," said the Colonel, who now 
 stood close at her side ; he looked apprehen 
 sive as he spoke, and the same shadow flitted 
 over his face as when Tom had announced 
 himself by the oak at the roadside. 
 
 "I remember Mr. Burton, your grand 
 father, very well," said Madam Bellamy at 
 last, giving Tom her hand for the second 
 time, as her husband had done. "He was 
 your guest here the autumn before we were 
 married, my dear; a fine rider, I remem 
 ber, and a charming gentleman. He was
 
 80 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 much entertained by one of our hunts. I 
 saw that you also carried a gun. My 
 dear," and she turned to her husband anx 
 iously, "did you bring home any birds? " 
 
 Colonel Bellamy's face lengthened. "I 
 had scarcely time, or perhaps I had not my 
 usual good fortune," said he. "The birds 
 have followed the grain -fields away from 
 Virginia, we sometimes think." 
 
 "I can offer you a partridge," said Tom 
 eagerly. "I shot one as I rode along. I 
 am afraid that I stopped Colonel Bellamy 
 just as he was going out." 
 
 "I thank you very much," said Madam 
 Bellamy. "And you will take supper with 
 us, certainly. You will give us the pleasure 
 of a visit ? I regret very much my grand 
 daughter's absence, but it permits me to offer 
 you her room, which happens to be vacant." 
 But Tom attempted to make excuse. "No, 
 no," said Madam Bellamy, answering her 
 own thoughts rather than his words. "You 
 must certainly stay the night with us; we 
 shall make you most welcome. It will give 
 my husband great pleasure; he will have 
 many questions to ask you." 
 
 Tom went out to search for his attendant, 
 who presently clattered away on the mule
 
 A WAR DEBT. 81 
 
 at an excellent homeward pace. An old 
 negro man servant led away the horse, and 
 Colonel Bellamy disappeared also, leaving 
 the young guest to entertain himself and his 
 hostess for an hour, that flew by like light. 
 A woman who is charming in youth is still 
 more charming in age to a man of Tom Bur 
 ton's imagination, and he was touched to 
 find how quickly the first sense of receiving 
 an antagonist had given way before a desire 
 to show their feeling of kindly hospitality 
 toward a guest. The links of ancient friend 
 ship still held strong, and as Tom sat with 
 his hostess by the window they had much 
 pleasant talk of Northern families known 
 to them both, of whom, or of whose chil 
 dren and grandchildren, he could give much 
 news. It seemed as if he should have 
 known Madam Bellamy all his life. It 
 is impossible to say how she illumined 
 her- poor habitation, with what dignity and 
 sweetness she avoided, as far as possible, 
 any reference to the war or its effects. One 
 could hardly remember that she was poor, 
 or ill, or had suffered such piteous loss of 
 friends and fortune. 
 
 Later, when Tom was walking toward the 
 river through the woods and overgrown fields
 
 82 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 of the plantation, he came upon the ruins 
 of the old cabins of what must have been 
 a great family of slaves. The crumbling 
 heaps of the chimneys stood in long lines on 
 either side of a weed -grown lane; not far 
 beyond he found the sinking mounds of some 
 breastworks on a knoll which commanded 
 the river channel. The very trees and grass 
 looked harrowed and distressed by war; the 
 silence of the sunset was only broken by the 
 cry of a little owl that was begging mercy 
 of its fears far down the lonely shore. 
 
 v. 
 
 At supper that night Burton came from 
 his room to find Colonel Bellamy bringing 
 his wife in his arms to the table, while the 
 old bent-backed and gray-headed man ser 
 vant followed to place her chair. The mis 
 tress of Fairford was entirely lame and help 
 less, but she sat at the head of her table like 
 a queen. There was a bunch of damask- 
 roses at her plate. The Colonel himself was 
 in evening dress, antique in cut, and sadly 
 worn, and Tom heartily thanked his patron 
 saint that the boy had brought his portman 
 teau in good season. There was a glorious
 
 A WAR DEBT. 83 
 
 light in the room from the fire, and the 
 table was served with exquisite care, and 
 even more luxurious delay, the excellent fish 
 which the Colonel himself must have caught 
 in his unexplained absence, and Tom's own 
 partridge, which was carved as if it had been 
 the first wild turkey of the season, were fol 
 lowed by a few peaches touched with splen 
 did color as they lay on a handful of leaves 
 in a bent and dented pewter plate. There 
 seemed to be no use for the stray glasses, 
 until old Milton produced a single small 
 bottle of beer, and uncorked and poured it 
 for his master and his master's guest with a 
 grand air. The Colonel lifted his eyebrows 
 slightly, but accepted its appearance at the 
 proper moment. 
 
 They sat long at table. It was impossible 
 to let one's thought dwell upon any of the 
 meagre furnishings of the feast. The host 
 and hostess talked of the days when they 
 went often to France and England, and of 
 Tom's grandfather when he was young. At 
 last Madam Bellamy left the table, and 
 Tom stood waiting while she was carried to 
 her own room. He had kissed her hand like 
 a courtier as he said good-night. On the 
 Colonel's return the old butler ostentatiously
 
 84 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 placed the solitary bottle between them and 
 went away. The Colonel offered some 
 excellent tobacco, and Tom begged leave 
 to fetch his pipe. When he returned he 
 brought with it the chamois-skin bag that 
 held the silver cup, and laid it before him 
 on the table. It was like the dread of going 
 into battle, but the moment had arrived. 
 He laid his hand on the cup for a moment 
 as if to hide it, then he waited until his pipe 
 was fairly going. 
 
 "This is something which I have come to 
 restore to you, sir," said Tom presently, 
 taking the piece of silver from its wrappings. 
 "I believe that it is your property." 
 
 The old Colonel's face wore a strange, 
 alarmed look ; his thin cheeks grew crimson. 
 He reached eagerly for the cup, and held it 
 before his eyes. At last he bent his head 
 and kissed it. Tom Burton saw that his 
 tears began to fall, that he half rose, turn 
 ing toward the door of the next room, where 
 his wife was; then he sank back again, and 
 looked at his guest appealingly. 
 
 "I ask no questions," he faltered; "it 
 was the fortune of war. This cup was my 
 grandfather's, my father's, and mine; all 
 my own children drank from it in turn ; they
 
 A WAR DEBT. 85 
 
 are all gone before me. We always called 
 it our lucky cup. I fear that it has come 
 back too late " The old man's voice 
 broke, but he still held the shining piece of 
 silver before him, and turned it about in the 
 candle-light. 
 
 " Je vous en prie Bel-ami." 
 
 he whispered under his breath, and put the 
 cup before him on the scarred mahogany. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Shall we move our chairs before the 
 fire, Mr. Burton? My dear wife is but 
 frail," said the old man, after a long si 
 lence, and with touching pathos. " She sees 
 me companioned for the evening, and is 
 glad to seek her room early; if you were 
 not here she would insist upon our game of 
 cards. I do not allow myself to dwell upon 
 the past, and I have no wish for gay com 
 pany;" he added, in a lower voice, "My 
 daily dread in life is to be separated from 
 her." 
 
 As the evening wore on, the autumn air 
 grew chilly, and again and again the host 
 replenished his draughty fireplace, and 
 pushed the box of delicious tobacco toward
 
 86 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 his guest, and Burton in his turn ventured 
 to remember a flask in his portmanteau, and 
 begged the Colonel to taste it, because it had 
 been filled from an old cask in his grand 
 father's cellar. The butler's eyes shone 
 with satisfaction when he was unexpectedly 
 called upon to brew a little punch after the 
 old Fairford fashion, and the later talk 
 ranged along the youthful escapades of 
 Thomas Burton the elder to the beauties and 
 the style of Addison; from the latest im 
 provement in shot-guns to the statesman 
 ship of Thomas Jefferson, while the Colonel 
 spoke tolerantly, in passing, of some slight 
 misapprehensions of Virginia life made by 
 a delightful young writer, too early lost 
 Mr. Thackeray. 
 
 Tom Burton had never enjoyed an even 
 ing more ; the romance, the pathos of it, as 
 he found himself more and more taking his 
 grandfather's place in the mind of this 
 hereditary friend, waked all his sympathy. 
 The charming talk that never dwelt too long 
 or was hurried too fast, the exquisite faded 
 beauty of Madam Bellamy, the noble dig 
 nity and manliness of the old planter and 
 soldier, the perfect absence of reproach for 
 others or whining pity for themselves, made
 
 A WAR DEBT. 87 
 
 the knowledge of their regret and loss doubly 
 poignant. Their four sons had all laid down 
 their lives in what they believed from their 
 hearts to be their country's service; their 
 daughters had died early, one from sorrow 
 at her husband's death, and one from expos 
 ure in a forced flight across country ; their 
 ancestral home lay in ruins; their beloved 
 cause had been put to shame and defeat 
 yet they could bow their heads to every blast 
 of misfortune, and could make a man wel 
 come at their table whose every instinct and 
 tradition of loyalty made him their enemy. 
 The owls might shriek from the chimneys 
 of Fairford, and the timid wild hares course 
 up and down the weed-grown avenues on an 
 autumn night like this, but a welcome from 
 the Bellamys was a welcome still. It seemed 
 to the young imaginative guest that the old 
 motto of the house was never so full of sig 
 nificance as when he fancied it exchanged 
 between the Colonel and himself, Southerner 
 and Northerner, elder and younger man, con 
 quered and conqueror in an unhappy war. 
 The two old portraits, with their warped 
 frames and bullet-holes, faded and gleamed 
 again in the firelight; the portrait of an 
 elderly man was like the Colonel himself,
 
 88 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 but the woman, who was younger, and who 
 seemed to meet Tom's eye gayly enough, 
 bore a resemblance which he could only half 
 recall. It was very late when the two men 
 said good-night. They were each conscious 
 of the great delight of having found a friend. 
 The candles had flickered out long before, 
 but the fire still burned, and struck a ray of 
 light from the cup on the table. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The next morning Burton waked early in 
 his tiny sleeping-room. The fragrance of 
 ripe grapes and the autumn air blew in at 
 the window, and he hastened to dress, es 
 pecially as he could hear the footstep and 
 imperious voice of Colonel Bellamy, who 
 seemed to begin his new day with zest and 
 courage in the outer room. Milton, the old 
 gray -headed negro, was there too, and was 
 alternately upbraided and spoken with most 
 intimately and with friendly approval. It 
 sounded for a time as if some great excite 
 ment and project were on foot; but Milton 
 presently appeared, eager for morning offices, 
 and when Tom went out to join the Colonel 
 he was no longer there. There were no
 
 A WAR DEBT. 89 
 
 signs of breakfast. The birds were singing 
 in the trees outside, and the sun shone in 
 through the wide-opened door. It was a 
 poor place in the morning light. As he 
 crossed the room he saw an old-fashioned 
 gift-book lying on the couch, as if some one 
 had just laid it there face downward. He 
 carried it with him to the door ; a dull col 
 lection enough, from forgotten writers of 
 forgotten prose and verse, but the Colonel 
 had left it open at some lines which, with all 
 their faults, could not be read without sym 
 pathy. He was always thinking of his wife ; 
 he had marked the four verses because they 
 spoke of her. 
 
 Tom put the old book down just as 
 Colonel Bellamy passed outside, and has 
 tened to join him. They met with pleasure, 
 and stood together talking. The elder man 
 presently quoted a line or two of poetry 
 about the beauty of the autumn morning, 
 and his companion stood listening with re 
 spectful attention, but he observed by con 
 trast the hard, warriorlike lines of the Col 
 onel's face. He could well believe that, 
 until sorrow had softened him, a fiery impa 
 tient temper had ruled this Southern heart. 
 There was a sudden chatter and noise of
 
 90 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 voices, and they both turned to see a group 
 of negroes, small and great, coming across 
 the lawn with bags and baskets, and after a 
 few muttered words the old master set forth 
 hurriedly to meet them, Tom following. 
 
 "Be still, all of you!" said the Colonel 
 sternly. "Your mistress is still asleep. 
 Go round to Milton, and he will attend to 
 you. I '11 come presently." 
 
 They were almost all old people, many of 
 them were already infirm, and it was hard 
 to still their requests and complaints. One 
 of the smaller children clasped Colonel 
 Bellamy about the knees. There was some 
 thing patriarchal in the scene, and one could 
 not help being sure that some reason for the 
 present poverty of Fairford was the neces 
 sity for protecting these poor souls. The 
 merry, well-fed colored people, who were 
 indulging their late-won liberty of travel on 
 the trains, had evidently shirked any re 
 sponsibilities for such stray remnants of hu 
 manity. Slavery was its own provider for 
 old age. There had once been no necessity 
 for the slaves themselves to make provision 
 for winter, as even a squirrel must. They 
 were worse than children now, and far more 
 appealing in their helplessness.
 
 A WAR DEBT. 91 
 
 The group slowly departed, and Colonel 
 Bellamy led the way in the opposite direc 
 tion, toward the ruins oLthe great house. 
 They crossed the old garden, where some 
 ancient espaliers still clung to the broken 
 brick-work of the walls, and a little fruit 
 still clung to the knotted branches, while 
 great hedges of box, ragged and uncared 
 for, traced the old order of the walks. The 
 heavy dew and warm morning sun brought 
 out that antique fragrance, the faint pun 
 gent odor which wakes the utmost memories 
 of the past. Tom Burton thought with a 
 sudden thrill that the girl with the sweet 
 eyes yesterday had worn a bit of box in her 
 dress. Here and there, under the straying 
 boughs of the shrubbery, bloomed a late 
 scarlet poppy from some scattered seed of 
 which such old soil might well be full. It 
 was a barren, neglected garden enough, but 
 still full of charm and delight, being a gar 
 den. There was a fine fragrance of grapes 
 through the undergrowth, but the whole 
 place was completely ruined; a little snake 
 slid from the broken base of a sun-dial ; the 
 tall chimneys of the house were already be 
 ginning to crumble, and birds and squirrels 
 lived in their crevices and flitted about their
 
 92 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 lofty tops. At some distance an old negro 
 was singing, it must have been Milton 
 himself, still unbesought by his depend 
 ents, and the song was full of strange, 
 monotonous wails and plaintive cadences, 
 like a lament for war itself, and all the 
 misery that follows in its train. 
 
 Colonel Bellamy had not spoken for some 
 moments, but when they reached the terrace 
 which had been before the house there were 
 two flights of stone steps that led to empty 
 air, and these were still adorned by some 
 graceful railings and balusters, bent and 
 rusty and broken. 
 
 "You will observe this iron-work, sir," 
 said the Colonel, stopping to regard with 
 pride almost the only relic of the former 
 beauty and state of Fairford. "My grand 
 father had the pattern carefully planned in 
 Charleston, where such work was formerly 
 well done by Frenchmen." He stopped to 
 point out certain charming features of the 
 design with his walking-stick, and then went 
 on without a glance at the decaying chim 
 neys or the weed-grown cellars and heaps 
 of stones beneath. 
 
 The lovely October morning was more 
 than half gone when Milton brought the
 
 A WAR DEBT. 93 
 
 horse round to the door, and the moment 
 came to say farewell. The Colonel had 
 shown sincere eagerness that the visit should 
 be prolonged for at least another day, but 
 a reason for hurry which the young man 
 hardly confessed to himself was urging him 
 back along the way he had come. He was 
 ready to forget his plans for shooting and 
 wandering eastward on the river shore. He 
 had paid a parting visit to Madam Bellamy 
 in her own room, where she lay on a couch 
 in the sunshine, and had seen the silver cup 
 a lucky cup he devoutly hoped it might 
 indeed be on a light stand by her side. It 
 held a few small flowers, as if it had so been 
 brought in to her in the early morning. Her 
 eyes were dim with weeping. She had not 
 thought of its age and history, neither did 
 the sight of such pathetic loot wake bitter 
 feelings against her foes. It was only the 
 cup that her little children had used, one 
 after another, in their babyhood; the last 
 and dearest had kept it longest, and even he 
 was dead fallen in battle, like the rest. 
 
 She wore a hood and wrapping of black 
 lace, which brought out the delicacy of her 
 features like some quaint setting. Her 
 hand trembled as she bade her young guest
 
 94 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 farewell. As he looked back from the door 
 way she was like some exiled queen in a 
 peasant's lodging, such dignity and sweet 
 patience were in her look. "I think you 
 bring good fortune," she said. " Nothing 
 can make me so happy as to have my hus 
 band find a little pleasure." 
 
 As the young man crossed the outer room 
 the familiar eyes of the old portrait caught 
 his own with wistful insistency.- He sud 
 denly suspected the double reason : he had 
 been dreaming of other eyes, and knew 
 that his fellow-traveler had kept him com 
 pany. "Madam Bellamy," he said, turn 
 ing back, and blushing as he bent to speak 
 to her in a lower voice, "the portrait; is 
 it like any one ? is it like your granddaugh 
 ter? Could I have seen her on my way 
 here?" 
 
 Madam Bellamy looked up at his eager 
 face with a light of unwonted pleasure in 
 her eyes. "Yes," said she, "my grand 
 daughter would have been on her way to 
 Whitfields. She has always been thought 
 extremely like the picture : it is her great- 
 grandmother. Good-by ; pray let us see you 
 at Fairford again ; " and they said farewell 
 once more, while Tom Burton promised
 
 A WAR DEBT. 95 
 
 something, half to himself, about the Christ 
 mas hunt, 
 
 " Je vous en prie, 
 Belle amie," 
 
 he whispered, and a most lovely hope was in 
 his heart. 
 
 " You have been most welcome," said the 
 Colonel at parting. " I beg that you will be 
 so kind as to repeat this visit. I shall hope 
 that we may have some shooting together." 
 
 " I shall hope so too," answered Tom 
 Burton, warmly. Then, acting from sudden 
 impulse, he quickly unslung his gun, and 
 begged his old friend to keep it to use it, 
 at any rate, until he came again. 
 
 The old Virginian did not reply for a mo 
 ment. " Your grandfather would have done 
 this, sir. I loved him, and I take it from 
 you both. My own gun is too poor a thing 
 to offer in return." His voice shook ; it was 
 the only approach to a lament, to a com 
 plaint, that he had made. 
 
 This was the moment of farewell ; the 
 young man held the Colonel's hand in a boy 
 ish eager grasp. " I wish that I might be 
 like a son to you," he said. " May I write, 
 sometimes, and may I really come to Fair- 
 ford again ? "
 
 96 A WAR DEBT. 
 
 The old Colonel answered him most affec 
 tionately, "Oh yes; we must think of the 
 Christmas hunt," he said, and so they parted. 
 
 Tom Burton rode slowly away, and pres 
 ently the fireless chimneys of Fairford were 
 lost to sight behind the clustering trees. 
 The noonday light was shining on the distant 
 river; the road was untraveled and unten- 
 anted for miles together, except by the 
 Northern rider and his Southern steed.
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 I. 
 
 THERE was a bright, full moon in the 
 clear sky, and the sunset was still shining 
 faintly in the west. Dark woods stood all 
 about the old Hilton farmhouse, save down 
 the hill, westward, where lay the shadowy 
 fields which John Hilton, and his father be 
 fore him, had cleared and tilled with much 
 toil, the small fields to which they had 
 given the industry and even affection of 
 their honest lives. 
 
 John Hilton was sitting on the doorstep 
 of his house. As he moved his head in and 
 out of the shadows, turning now and then 
 to speak to his wife, who sat just within 
 the doorway, one could see his good face, 
 rough and somewhat unkempt, as if he were 
 indeed a creature of the shady woods and 
 brown earth, instead of the noisy town. It 
 was late in the long spring evening, and he 
 had just come from the lower field as cheer 
 ful as a boy, proud of having finished the 
 planting of his potatoes.
 
 98 THE niLTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 "I had to do my last row mostly by feel- 
 in'," he said to his wife. "I'm proper 
 glad I pushed through, an' went back an' 
 ended off after supper. 'T would have 
 taken me a good part o' to-morrow mornin', 
 an' broke my day." 
 
 "'T ain't no use for ye to work yourself 
 all to pieces, John," answered the woman 
 quickly. "I declare it does seem harder 
 than ever that we could n't have kep' our 
 boy; he'd been comin' fourteen years old 
 this fall, most a grown man, and he 'd work 
 right 'longside of ye now the whole time." 
 
 " 'T was hard to lose him ; I do seem to 
 miss little John," said the father sadly. 
 " I expect there was reasons why 't was best. 
 I feel able an' smart to work ; my father was 
 a girt strong man, an' a monstrous worker 
 afore me. 'T ain't that ; but I was thinkin' 
 by myself to-day what a sight o' company 
 the boy would ha' been. You know, small 's 
 he was, how I could trust to leave him any 
 wheres with the team, and how he 'd be 
 seech to go with me wherever I was goin' ; 
 always right in my tracks I used to tell 'em. 
 Poor little John, for all he was so young he 
 had a great deal o' judgment; he 'd ha' 
 made a likely man."
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 99 
 
 The mother sighed heavily as she sat 
 within the shadow. 
 
 "But then there 's the little girls, a sight 
 o' help an' company," urged the father 
 eagerly, as if it were wrong to dwell upon 
 sorrow and loss. "Katy, she's most as 
 good as a boy, except that she ain't very 
 rugged. She 's a real little farmer, she 's 
 helped me a sight this spring; an' you 've 
 got Susan Ellen, that makes a complete 
 little housekeeper for ye as far as she 's 
 learnt. I don't see but we 're better off 
 than most folks, each on us having a work 
 mate." 
 
 "That's so, John," acknowledged Mrs. 
 Hilton wistfully, beginning to rock steadily 
 in her straight, splint-bottomed chair. It 
 was always a good sign when she rocked. 
 
 "Where be the little girls so late? " asked 
 their father. " 'T is gettin' long past eight 
 o'clock. I don't know when we 've all set 
 up so late, but it 's so kind o' summer-like 
 an' pleasant. Why, where be they gone?" 
 
 "I've told ye; only over to Becker's 
 folks," answered the mother. "I don't see 
 myself what keeps 'em so late; they be- 
 seeched me after supper till I let 'em go. 
 They 're all in a dazzle with the new teacher;
 
 100 THE H1LTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 she asked 'em to come over. They say she 's 
 unusual smart with 'rethmetic, but she has 
 a kind of a gorpen look to me. She 's goin' 
 to give Katy some pieces for her doll, but I 
 told Katy she ought to be ashamed wantin' 
 dolls' pieces, big as she 's gettin' to be. I 
 don't know 's she ought, though ; she ain't 
 but nine this summer." 
 
 " Let her take her comfort," said the kind- 
 hearted man. "Them things draws her to 
 the teacher, an' makes them acquainted. 
 Katy 's shy with new folks, more so 'n Susan 
 Ellen, who 's of the business kind. Katy 's 
 shy-feelin' and wishful." 
 
 "I don't know but she is," agreed the 
 mother slowly. "Ain't it sing'lar how well 
 acquainted you be with that one, an' I with 
 Susan Ellen? 'Twas always so from the 
 first. I 'm doubtful sometimes our Katy 
 ain't one that'll be like to get married 
 anyways not about here. She lives right 
 with herself, but Susan Ellen ain't nothin' 
 when she 's alone, she 's always after com 
 pany ; all the boys is waitin' on her a'ready. 
 I ain't afraid but she '11 take her pick when 
 the time comes. I expect to see Susan Ellen 
 well settled, she feels grown up now, 
 but Katy don't care one mite 'bout none o'
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 101 
 
 them things. She wants to be rovin' out o' 
 doors. I do believe she 'd stand an' hark 
 to a bird the whole forenoon." 
 
 "Perhaps she '11 grow up to be a teacher," 
 suggested John Hilton. "She takes to her 
 book more 'n the other one. I should like 
 one on 'em to be a teacher same 's my mother 
 was. They 're good girls as anybody 's got." 
 
 "So they be," said the mother, with un 
 usual gentleness, and the creak of her rock 
 ing-chair was heard, regular as the ticking 
 of a clock. The night breeze stirred in the 
 great woods, and the sound of a brook that 
 went falling down the hillside grew louder 
 and louder. Now and then one could hear 
 the plaintive chirp of a bird. The moon 
 glittered with whiteness like a winter moon, 
 and shone upon the low-roofed house until 
 its small window-panes gleamed like silver, 
 and one could almost see the colors of a 
 blooming bush of lilac that grew in a shel 
 tered angle by the kitchen door. There was 
 an incessant sound of frogs hi the lowlands. 
 
 "Be you sound asleep, John?" asked the 
 wife presently. 
 
 "I don't know but what I was a'most," 
 said the tired man, starting a little. "I 
 should laugh if I was to fall sound asleep
 
 102 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 right here on the step; 't is the bright 
 night, I expect, makes my eyes feel heavy, 
 an' 't is so peaceful. I was up an' dressed 
 a little past four an' out to work. Well, 
 well! " and he laughed sleepily and rubbed 
 his eyes. "Where 's the little girls? I 'd 
 better step along an' meet 'em." 
 
 "I wouldn't just yet; they'll get home 
 all right, but 't is late for 'em certain. I 
 don't want 'em keepin' Mis' Becker's folks 
 up neither. There, le' 's wait a few min 
 utes," urged Mrs. Hilton. 
 
 "I've be'n a-thinkin' all day I'd like 
 to give the child'n some kind of a treat,'* 
 said the father, wide awake now. " I hur 
 ried up my work 'cause I had it so in mind. 
 They don't have the opportunities some do, 
 an' I want 'em to know the world, an' not 
 stay right here on the farm like a couple 
 o' bushes." 
 
 "They 're a sight better off not to be so 
 full o' notions as some is," protested the 
 mother suspiciously. 
 
 "Certain,", answered the farmer; "but 
 they 're good, bright child'n, an' commencin* 
 to take a sight o' notice. I want 'em to 
 have all we can give 'em. I want 'em to 
 see how other folks does things."
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 103 
 
 " Why, so do I," here the rocking-chair 
 stopped ominously, "but so long 's they're 
 contented " 
 
 "Contented ain't all in this world; hop 
 per-toads may have that quality an' spend 
 all their time a-blinkin'. I don't know 's 
 bein' contented is all there is to look for in 
 a child. Ambition 's somethin' to me." 
 
 "Now you 've got your mind on to some 
 plot or other." (The rocking-chair began 
 to move again.) "Why can't you talk right 
 out? " 
 
 "'T ain't nothin' special," answered the 
 good man, a little ruffled; he was never 
 prepared for his wife's mysterious powers of 
 divination. " Well there, you do find things 
 out the master! I only thought perhaps 
 I 'd take 'em to-morrow, an' go off some 
 where if 't was a good day. I 've been 
 promisin' for a good while I 'd take 'em to 
 Topham Corners ; they 've never been there 
 since they was very small." 
 
 " I believe you want a good time yourself. 
 You ain't never got over bein' a boy." 
 Mrs. Hilton seemed much amused. " There, 
 go if you want to an' take 'em ; they 've 
 got their summer hats an' new dresses. I 
 don't know o' nothin' that stands in the
 
 104 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 way. I should sense it better if there was 
 a circus or any thin' to go to. Why don't 
 you wait an' let the girls pick 'em some 
 strawberries or nice ros' berries, and then 
 they could take an' sell 'em to the stores? " 
 
 John Hilton reflected deeply. "I should 
 like to get me some good yellow-turnip seed 
 to plant late. I ain't more 'n satisfied with 
 what I 've been gettin' o' late years o' Ira 
 Speed. An' I 'm goin' to provide me with 
 a good hoe ; mine 's gettin' wore out an' all 
 shackly. I can't seem to fix it good." 
 
 "Them's excuses," observed Mrs. Hil 
 ton, with friendly tolerance. " You just 
 cover up the hoe with somethin', if you get 
 it I would. Ira Speed 's so jealous he '11 
 remember it of you this twenty year, your 
 goin' an' buy in' a new hoe o' anybody but 
 him." 
 
 "I 've always thought 't was a free coun 
 try," said John Hilton soberly. "I don't 
 want to vex Ira neither ; he favors us all he 
 can in trade. 'T is difficult for him to spare 
 a cent, but he 's as honest as daylight." 
 
 At this moment there was a sudden sound 
 of young voices, and a pair of young figures 
 came out from the shadow of the woods into 
 the moonlighted open space. An old cock
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 105 
 
 crowed loudly from his perch in the shed, 
 as if he were a herald of royalty. The little 
 girls were hand in hand, and a brisk young 
 dog capered about them as they came. 
 
 "Wa'n't it dark gittin' home through 
 the woods this time o' night? " asked the 
 mother hastily, and not without reproach. 
 
 "I don't love to have you gone so late; 
 mother an' me was timid about ye, and 
 you 've kep' Mis' Becker's folks up, I ex 
 pect," said their father regretfully. "I 
 don't want to have it said that my little 
 girls ain't got good manners." 
 
 "The teacher had a party," chirped Su 
 san Ellen, the elder of the two children. 
 "Goin' home from school she asked the 
 Grover boys, an' Mary an' Sarah Speed. 
 An' Mis' Becker was real pleasant to us: 
 she passed round some cake, an' handed us 
 sap sugar on one of her best plates, an' 
 we played games an' sung some pieces too. 
 Mis' Becker thought we did real well. I 
 can pick out most of a tune on the cabi 
 net organ; teacher says she '11 give me 
 lessons." 
 
 "I want to know, dear! " exclaimed John 
 Hilton. 
 
 "Yes, an' we played Copenhagen, an*
 
 106 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 took sides spellin', an' Katy beat everybody 
 spellin' there was there." 
 
 Katy had not spoken; she was not so 
 strong as her sister, and while Susan Ellen 
 stood a step or two away addressing her 
 eager little audience, Katy had seated her 
 self close to her father on the doorstep. He 
 put his arm around her shoulders, and drew 
 her close to his side, where she stayed. 
 
 "Ain't you got nothin* to tell, daugh 
 ter?" he asked, looking down fondly; and 
 Katy gave a pleased little sigh for answer. 
 
 "Tell 'em what 's goin' to be the last day 
 o' school, and about our trimmin' the school- 
 house," she said; and Susan Ellen gave the 
 programme in most spirited fashion. 
 
 "'Twill be a great time," said the mo 
 ther, when she had finished. "I don't see 
 why folks wants to go trapesin' off to strange 
 places when such things is happenin' right 
 about 'em." But the children did not ob 
 serve her mysterious air. " Come, you must 
 step yourselves right to bed! " 
 
 They all went into the dark, warm house ; 
 the bright moon shone upon it steadily all 
 night, and the lilac flowers were shaken by 
 no breath of wind until the early dawn.
 
 TUE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 107 
 
 n. 
 
 The Hiltons always waked early. So did 
 their neighbors, the crows and song-spar 
 rows and robins, the light-footed foxes and 
 squirrels in the woods. When John Hilton 
 waked, before five o'clock, an hour later 
 than usual because he had sat up so late, he 
 opened the house door and came out into 
 the yard, crossing the short green turf hur 
 riedly as if the day were too far spent for 
 any loitering. The magnitude of the plan 
 for taking a whole day of pleasure con 
 fronted him seriously, but the weather was 
 fair, and his wife, whose disapproval could 
 not have been set aside, had accepted and 
 even smiled upon the great project. It was 
 inevitable now, that he and the children 
 should go to Topham Corners. Mrs. Hil 
 ton had the pleasure of waking them, and 
 telling the news. 
 
 In a few minutes they came frisking out 
 to talk over the great plans. The cattle 
 were already fed, and their father was milk 
 ing. The only sign of high festivity was the 
 wagon pulled out into the yard, with both 
 seats put in as if it were Sunday ; but Mr. 
 Hilton still wore his every -day clothes, and
 
 108 THE IIILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 Susan Ellen suffered instantly from disap 
 pointment. 
 
 "Ain't we goin', father?" she asked com- 
 plainingly ; but he nodded and smiled at her, 
 even though the cow, impatient to get to 
 pasture, kept whisking her rough tail across 
 his face. He held his head down and spoke 
 cheerfully, in spite of this vexation. 
 
 "Yes, sister, we're goin' certain', an' 
 goin' to have a great time too." Susan 
 Ellen thought that he seemed like a boy at 
 that delightful moment, and felt new sympa 
 thy and pleasure at once. "You go an' help 
 mother about breakfast an' them things; we 
 want to get off quick 's we can. You coax 
 mother now, both on ye, an' see if she won't 
 go with us." 
 
 "She said she would n't be hired to," re 
 sponded Susan Ellen. "She says it 's goin' 
 to be hot, an' she 's laid out to go over an' 
 see how her aunt Tamsen Brooks is this 
 afternoon." 
 
 The father gave a little sigh ; then he took 
 heart again. The truth was that his wife 
 made light of the contemplated pleasure, 
 and, much as he usually valued her com 
 panionship and approval, he was sure that 
 they should have a better time without her.
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 109 
 
 It was impossible, however, not to feel guilty 
 of disloyalty at the thought. Even though 
 she might be completely unconscious of his 
 best ideals, he only loved her and the ideals 
 the more, and bent his energies to satisfy 
 ing her indefinite expectations. His wife 
 still kept much of that youthful beauty 
 which Susan Ellen seemed likely to repro 
 duce. 
 
 An hour later the best wagon was ready, 
 and the great expedition set forth. The 
 little dog sat apart, and barked as if it fell 
 entirely upon him to voice the general ex 
 citement. Both seats were in the wagon, but 
 the empty place testified to Mrs. Hilton's 
 unyielding disposition. She had wondered 
 why one broad seat would not do, but John 
 Hilton meekly suggested that the wagon 
 looked better with both. The little girls 
 sat on the back seat dressed alike in their 
 Sunday hats of straw with blue ribbons, and 
 their little plaid shawls pinned neatly about 
 their small shoulders. They wore gray 
 thread gloves, and sat very straight. Susan 
 Ellen was half a head the taller, but other 
 wise, from behind, they looked much alike. 
 As for their father, he was in his Sunday 
 best, a plain black coat, and a winter
 
 110 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 hat of felt, which was heavy and rusty -look 
 ing for that warm early summer day. He 
 had it in mind to buy a new straw hat at 
 Topham, so that this with the turnip seed 
 and the hoe made three important reasons 
 for going. 
 
 "Remember an* lay off your shawls when 
 you get there, an' carry them over your 
 arms," said the mother, clucking like an ex 
 cited hen to her chickens. "They '11 do to 
 keep the dust off your new dresses goin' an' 
 comin'. An' when you eat your dinners 
 don't get spots on you, an' don't point at 
 folks as you ride by, an' stare, or they '11 
 know you come from the country. An' 
 John, you call into Cousin Ad'line Marlow's 
 an' see how they all be, an' tell her I ex 
 pect her over certain to stop awhile before 
 hay in'. It always eases her phthisic to git 
 up here on the high land, an' I 've got a new 
 notion about doin' over her best-room car 
 pet sence I see her that '11 save rippin' one 
 breadth. An' don't come home all wore 
 out; an', John, don't you go an' buy me 
 no kickshaws to fetch home. I ain't a 
 child, an' you ain't got no money to waste. 
 I expect you '11 go, like 's not, an' buy you 
 some kind of a foolish boy's hat; do look
 
 THE HILTONS* HOLIDAY. Ill 
 
 an' see if it 's reasonable good straw, an' 
 won't splinter all off round the edge. An' 
 you mind, John " 
 
 "Yes, yes, hold on!" cried John impa 
 tiently ; then he cast a last affectionate, re 
 assuring look at her face, flushed with the 
 hurry and responsibility of starting them off 
 in proper shape. "I wish you was goin' 
 too," he said, smiling. "I do so!" Then 
 the old horse started, and they went out at 
 the bars, and began the careful long de 
 scent of the hill. The young dog, tethered 
 to the lilac-bush, was frantic with piteous 
 appeals; the little girls piped their eager 
 good-bys again and again, and their father 
 turned many times to look back and wave 
 his hand. As for their mother, she stood 
 alone and watched them out of sight. 
 
 There was one place far out on the high 
 road where she could catch a last glimpse of 
 the wagon, and she waited what seemed a 
 very long time until it appeared and then 
 was lost to sight again behind a low hill. 
 "They 're nothin' but a pack o' child 'n to 
 gether," she said aloud; and then felt lone 
 lier than she expected. She even stooped 
 and patted the unresigned little dog as she 
 passed him, going into the house.
 
 112 THE H1LTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 The occasion was so much more impor 
 tant than any one had foreseen that both 
 the little girls were speechless. It seemed 
 at first like going to church in new clothes, 
 or to a funeral; they hardly knew how to 
 behave at the beginning of a whole day of 
 pleasure. They made grave bows at such 
 persons of their acquaintance as happened 
 to be straying in the road. Once or twice 
 they stopped before a farmhouse, while their 
 father talked an inconsiderately long time 
 with some one about the crops and the 
 weather, and even dwelt upon town business 
 and the doings of the selectmen, which might 
 be talked of at any time. The explanations 
 that he gave of their excursion seemed quite 
 unnecessary. It was made entirely clear 
 that he had a little business to do at Top- 
 ham Corners, and thought he had better give 
 the little girls a ride; they had been very 
 steady at school, and he had finished plant 
 ing, and could take the day as well as not. 
 Soon, however, they all felt as if such an ex 
 cursion were an every -day affair, and Susan 
 Ellen began to ask eager questions, while 
 Katy silently sat apart enjoying herself as 
 she never had done before. She liked to 
 see the strange houses, and the children who
 
 THE HILTON S' HOLIDAY. 113 
 
 belonged to them ; it was delightful to find 
 flowers that she knew growing all along 
 the road, no matter how far she went from 
 home. Each small homestead looked its best 
 and pleasantest, and shared the exquisite 
 beauty that early summer made, shared 
 the luxury of greenness and floweriness that 
 decked the rural world. There was an 
 early peony or a late lilac in almost every 
 dooryard. 
 
 It was seventeen miles to Topham. After 
 a while they seemed very far from home, 
 having left the hills far behind, and de 
 scended to a great level country with fewer 
 tracts of woodland, and wider fields where 
 the crops were much more forward. The 
 houses were all painted, and the roads were 
 smoother and wider. It had been so plea 
 sant driving along that Katy dreaded going 
 into the strange town when she first caught 
 sight of it, though Susan Ellen kept asking 
 with bold fretfulness if they were not almost 
 there. They counted the steeples of four 
 churches, and their father presently showed 
 them the Topham Academy, where their 
 grandmother once went to school, and told 
 them that perhaps some day they would go 
 there too. Katy's heart gave a strange
 
 114 THE HILTONS* HOLIDAY. 
 
 leap; it was such a tremendous thing to 
 think of, but instantly the suggestion was 
 transformed for her into one of the certain 
 ties of life. She looked with solemn awe at 
 the tall belfry, and the long rows of windows 
 in the front of the academy, there where it 
 stood high and white among the clustering 
 trees. She hoped that they were going to 
 drive by, but something forbade her taking 
 the responsibility of saying so. 
 
 Soon the children found themselves among 
 the crowded village houses. Their father 
 turned to look at them with affectionate so 
 licitude. 
 
 "Now sit up straight and appear pretty," 
 he whispered to them. "We 're among the 
 best people now, an' I want folks to think 
 well of you." 
 
 "I guess we 're as good as they be," re 
 marked Susan Ellen, lookinjr at some inno- 
 
 O 
 
 cent passers-by with dark suspicion, but 
 Katy tried indeed to sit straight, and folded 
 her hands prettily in her lap, and wished 
 with all her heart to be pleasing for her 
 father's sake. Just then an elderly woman 
 saw the wagon and the sedate party it car 
 ried, and smiled so kindly that it seemed to 
 Katy as if Topham Corners had welcomed
 
 THE H1LTONS' HOLIDAY. 115 
 
 and received them. She smiled back again 
 as if this hospitable person were an old 
 friend, and entirely forgot that the eyes of 
 all Tophani had been upon her. 
 
 "There, now we 're coming to an elegant 
 house that I want you to see ; you '11 never 
 forget it," said John Hilton. "It's where 
 Judge Masterson lives, the great lawyer; 
 the handsomest house in the county, every 
 body says." 
 
 "Do you know him, father? " asked Susan 
 EUen. * 
 
 "I do," answered John Hilton proudly. 
 "Him and my mother went to school to 
 gether in their young days, and were always 
 called the two best scholars of their time. 
 The judge called to see her once; he 
 stopped to our house to see her when I was 
 a boy. An' then, some years ago you 've 
 heard me tell how I was on the jury, an' 
 when he heard my name spoken he looked at 
 me sharp, and asked if I wa'n't the son of 
 Catharine Winn, an' spoke most beautiful 
 of your grandmother, an' how well he re 
 membered their young days together." 
 
 "I like to hear about that," said Katy. 
 
 " She had it pretty hard, I 'm afraid, up 
 on the old farm. She was keepin' school
 
 116 THE IIILTOffS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 in our district when father married her 
 that 's the main reason I backed 'em down 
 when they wanted to tear the old schoolhouse 
 all to pieces," confided John Hilton, turning 
 eagerly. "They all say she lived longer up 
 here on the hill than she could anywhere, 
 but she never had her health. I wa'n't but 
 a boy when she died. Father an' me lived 
 alone afterward till the time your mother 
 come; 'twas a good while, too; I wa'n't 
 married so young as some. 'T was lone 
 some, I tell you ; father was plumb discour 
 aged losin' of his wife, an' her long sickness 
 an' all set him back, an' we 'd work all day 
 on the land an' never say a word. I s'pose 
 't is bein' ' so lonesome early in life that 
 makes me so pleased to have some nice girls 
 growin' up round me now." 
 
 There was a tone in her father's voice that 
 drew Katy's heart toward him with new 
 affection. She dimly understood, but Susan 
 Ellen was less interested. They had often 
 heard this story before, but to one child it 
 was always new and to the other old. Su 
 san Ellen was apt to think it tiresome to 
 hear about her grandmother, who, being 
 dead, was hardly worth talking about. 
 
 "There 's Judge Masterson's place," said
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 117 
 
 their father in an every-day manner, as they 
 turned a corner, and came into full view of 
 the beautiful old white house standing be 
 hind its green trees and terraces and lawns. 
 The children had never imagined anything 
 so stately and fine, and even Susan Ellen 
 exclaimed with pleasure. At that moment 
 they saw an old gentleman, who carried 
 himself with great dignity, coming slowly 
 down the wide box-bordered path toward the 
 gate. 
 
 "There he is now, there's the judge!" 
 whispered John Hilton excitedly, reining 
 his horse quickly to the green roadside. 
 "He's goin' down-town to his office; we 
 can wait right here an' see him. I can't 
 expect him to remember me ; it 's been a 
 good many years. Now you are goin' to 
 see the great Judge Masterson ! " 
 
 There was a quiver of expectation in their 
 hearts. The judge stopped at his gate, hesi 
 tating a moment before he lifted the latch, 
 and glanced up the street at the country 
 wagon with its two prim little girls on the 
 back seat, and the eager man who drove. 
 They seemed to be waiting for something; 
 the old horse was nibbling at the fresh 
 roadside grass. The judge was used to be-
 
 118 THE H1LTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 ing looked at with interest, and responded 
 now with a smile as he came out to the 
 sidewalk, and unexpectedly turned their 
 way. Then he suddenly lifted his hat with 
 grave politeness, and came directly toward 
 them. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Hilton," he said. 
 "I am very glad to see you, sir; " and Mr. 
 Hilton, the little girls' own father, took off 
 his hat with equal courtesy, and bent for 
 ward to shake hands. 
 
 Susan Ellen cowered and wished herself 
 away, but little Katy sat straighter than 
 ever, with joy in her father's pride and 
 pleasure shining in her pale, flower-like 
 little face. 
 
 "These are your daughters, I am sure," 
 said the old gentleman kindly, taking Susan 
 Ellen's limp and reluctant hand ; but when 
 he looked at Katy, his face brightened. 
 " How she recalls your mother I " he said 
 with great feeling. "I am glad to see this 
 dear child. You must come to see me with 
 your father, my dear," he added, still look 
 ing at her. "Bring both the little girls, 
 and let them run about the old garden ; the 
 cherries are just getting ripe," said Judge 
 Masterson hospitably. "Perhaps you will
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 119 
 
 have time to stop tliis afternoon as you go 
 home?" 
 
 "I should call it a great pleasure if you 
 would come and see us again some time. 
 You may be driving our way, sir," said 
 John Hilton. 
 
 "Not very often in these days," answered 
 the old judge. " I thank you for the kind 
 invitation. I should like to see the fine view 
 again from your hill westward. Can I serve 
 you in any way while you are in town? 
 Good-by, my little friends ! " 
 
 Then they parted, but not before Katy, 
 the shy Katy, whose hand the judge still 
 held unconsciously while he spoke, had 
 reached forward as he said good-by, and 
 lifted her face to kiss him. She could not 
 have told why, except that she felt drawn to 
 something in the serious, worn face. For 
 the first time in her life the child had felt 
 the charm of manners ; perhaps she owned 
 a kinship between that which made him what 
 he was, and the spark of nobleness and pur 
 ity in her own simple soul. She turned 
 again and again to look back at him as they 
 drove away. 
 
 "Now you have seen one of the first gen 
 tlemen in the country," said their father.
 
 120 THE fflLTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 "It was worth comin' twice as far" but 
 he did not say any more, nor turn as usual 
 to look in the children's faces. 
 
 In the chief business street of Topham a 
 great many country wagons like the Hil- 
 tons' were fastened to the posts, and there 
 seemed to our holiday-makers to be a great 
 deal of noise and excitement. 
 
 " Now I ' ve got to do my errands, and we 
 can let the horse rest and feed," said John 
 Hilton. "I'll slip his headstall right off, 
 an' put on his halter. I 'm goin' to buy 
 him a real good treat o' oats. First we '11 
 go an' buy me my straw hat; I feel as if 
 this one looked a little past to wear in Top- 
 ham. We '11 buy the things we want, an' 
 then we '11 walk all along the street, so you 
 can look in the windows an' see the han'- 
 some things, same 's your mother likes to. 
 What was it mother told you about your 
 shawls?" 
 
 "To take 'em off an' carry 'em over our 
 arms," piped Susan Ellen, without comment, 
 but in the interest of alighting and finding 
 themselves afoot upon the pavement the 
 shawls were forgotten. The children stood 
 at the doorway of a shop while their father
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 121 
 
 went inside, and they tried to see what the 
 Topham shapes of bonnets were like, as 
 their mother had advised them ; but every 
 thing was exciting and confusing, and they 
 could arrive at no decision. When Mr. 
 Hilton came out with a hat in his hand to 
 be seen in a better light, Katy whispered 
 that she wished he would buy a shiny one 
 like Judge Masterson's; but her father only 
 smiled and shook his head, and said that 
 they were plain folks, he and Katy. There 
 were dry-goods for sale in the same shop, 
 and a young clerk who was measuring linen 
 kindly pulled off some pretty labels with 
 gilded edges and gay pictures, and gave 
 them to the little girls, to their exceeding 
 joy. He may have had small sisters at 
 home, this friendly lad, for he took pains to 
 find two pretty blue boxes besides, and was 
 rewarded by their beaming gratitude. 
 
 It was a famous day; they even became 
 used to seeing so many people pass. The 
 village was full of its morning activity, and 
 Susan Ellen gained a new respect for her 
 father, and an increased sense of her own 
 consequence, because even in Topham several 
 persons knew him and called him familiarly 
 by name. The meeting with an old man
 
 122 THE HILTONS* HOLIDAY. 
 
 who had once been a neighbor seemed to give 
 Mr. Hilton the greatest pleasure. The old 
 man called to them from a house doorway 
 as they were passing, and they all went in. 
 The children seated themselves wearily on 
 the wooden step, but their father shook his 
 old friend eagerly by the hand, and declared 
 that he was delighted to see him so well and 
 enjoying the fine weather. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the old man, in a feeble, 
 quavering voice, "I'm astonishin' well for 
 my age. I don't complain, John, I don't 
 complain. ' 
 
 They talked long together of people whom 
 they had known in the past, and Katy, be 
 ing a little tired, was glad to rest, and sat 
 still with her hands folded, looking about 
 the front yard. There were some kinds of 
 flowers that she never had seen before. 
 
 "This is the one that looks like my mo 
 ther," her father said, and touched Katy's 
 shoulder to remind her to stand up and let 
 herself be seen. "Judge Masterson saw 
 the resemblance ; we met him 'at his gate this 
 morning." 
 
 "Yes, she certain does look like your mo 
 ther, John," said the old man, looking plea 
 santly at Katy, who found that she liked him
 
 THE ff/LTONS' HOLIDAY. 123 
 
 better than at first. "She does, certain; 
 the best of young folks is, they remind us 
 of the old ones. 'Tis nateral to cling to 
 life, folks say, but for me, I git impatient 
 at times. Most everybody 's gone now, an' 
 I want to be goin'. 'Tis somethin' before 
 lue, an' I want to have it over with. I want 
 to be there 'long o' the rest o' the folks. I 
 expect to last quite a while though ; I may 
 see ye couple o' times more, John." 
 
 John Hilton responded cheerfully, and 
 the children were urged to pick some flowers. 
 The old man awed them with his impatience 
 to be gone. There was such a townful of 
 people about him, and he seemed as lonely 
 as if he were the last survivor of a former 
 world. Until that moment they had felt as 
 if everything were just beginning. 
 
 "Now I want to buy somethin' pretty for 
 your mother," said Mr. Hilton, as they went 
 soberly away down the street, the children 
 keeping fast hold of his hands. " By now 
 the old horse will have eat his dinner and 
 had a good rest, so pretty soon we can jog 
 along home. I 'm goin' to take you round 
 by the academy, and the old North Meeting 
 house where Dr. Barstow used to preach. 
 Can't you think o' somethin' that your
 
 124 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 mother 'd want?" he asked suddenly, con 
 fronted by a man's difficulty of choice. 
 
 "She was talkin' about wantin' a new 
 pepper-box, one day ; the top o' the old one 
 won't stay on," suggested Susan Ellen, with 
 delightful readiness. "Can't we have some 
 candy, father?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said John Hilton, smiling 
 and swinging her hand to and fro as they 
 walked. "I feel as if some would be good 
 myself. What 's all this? " They were pass 
 ing a photographer's doorway with its en 
 ticing array of portraits. " I do declare ! " 
 he exclaimed excitedly, "I 'm goin' to have 
 our pictures taken ; 't will please your mo 
 ther more 'n a little." 
 
 This was, perhaps, the greatest triumph of 
 the day, except the delightful meeting with 
 the judge ; they sat in a row, with the father 
 in the middle, and there was no doubt as 
 to the excellence of the likeness. The best 
 hats had to be taken off because they cast a 
 shadow, but they were not missed, as their 
 owners had feared. Both Susan Ellen and 
 Katy looked their brightest and best; their 
 eager young faces would forever shine there ; 
 the joy of the holiday was mirrored in the 
 little picture. They did not know why their
 
 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 125 
 
 father was so pleased with it; they would 
 not know until age had dowered them with 
 the riches of association and remembrance. 
 
 Just at nightfall the Hiltons reached home 
 again, tired out and happy. Katy had 
 climbed over into the front seat beside her 
 father, because that was always her place 
 when they went to church on Sundays. It 
 was a cool evening, there was a fresh sea 
 wind that brought a light mist with it, and 
 the sky was fast growing cloudy. Somehow 
 the children looked different; it seemed to 
 their mother as if they had grown older and 
 taller since they went away in the morning, 
 and as if they belonged to the town now as 
 much as to the country. The greatness of 
 their day's experience had left her far be 
 hind; the day had been silent and lonely 
 without them, and she had had their supper 
 ready, and been watching anxiously, ever 
 since five o'clock. As for the children them 
 selves they had little to say at first they 
 had eaten their luncheon early on the way 
 to Topham. Susan Ellen was childishly 
 cross, but Katy was pathetic and wan. They 
 could hardly wait to show the picture, and 
 their mother was as much pleased as every 
 body had expected.
 
 126 THE HILTONS' HOLIDAY. 
 
 "There, what did make you wear your 
 shawls ? " she exclaimed a moment afterward, 
 reproachfully. "You ain't been an' wore 
 'em all day long? I wanted folks to see 
 how pretty your new dresses was, if I did 
 make 'em. Well, well ! I wish more 'n ever 
 now I 'd gone an' seen to ye! " 
 
 "An' here 's the pepper-box ! " said Katy, 
 in a pleased, unconscious tone. 
 
 "That really is what I call beautiful," 
 said Mrs. Hilton, after a long and doubt 
 ful look. "Our other one was only tin. I 
 never did look so high as a chiny one with 
 flowers, but I can get us another any time 
 for every day. That 's a proper hat, as 
 good as you could have got, John. Where 's 
 your new hoe ? " she asked as he came toward 
 her from the barn, smiling with satisfaction. 
 
 "I declare to Moses if I didn't forget all 
 about it," meekly acknowledged the leader 
 of the great excursion. "That an' my yel 
 low turnip seed, too; they went clean out o' 
 my head, there was so many other things to 
 think of. But 't ain't no sort o' matter; I 
 can get a hoe just as well to Ira Speed's." 
 
 His wife could not help laughing. "You 
 an' the little girls have had a great time. 
 They was full o' wonder to me about every-
 
 THE HfLTONS' HOLIDAY. 127 
 
 thing, and I expect they '11 talk about it for 
 a week. I guess we was right about havin' 
 'em see somethin' more o' the world." 
 
 "Yes," answered John Hilton, with hu 
 mility, "yes, we did have a beautiful day. 
 I didn't expect so much. They looked as 
 nice as anybody, and appeared so modest an' 
 pretty. The little girls will remember it 
 perhaps by an' by. I guess they won't 
 never forget this day they had 'long o' fa 
 ther." 
 
 It was evening again, the frogs were pip 
 ing in the lower meadows, and in the woods, 
 higher up the great hill, a little owl began 
 to hoot. The sea air, salt and heavy, was 
 blowing in over the country at the end of 
 the hot bright day. A lamp was lighted in 
 the house, the happy children were talking 
 together, and supper was waiting. The fa 
 ther and mother lingered for a moment out 
 side and looked down over the shadowy 
 fields ; then they went in, without speaking. 
 The great day was over, and they shut the 
 door.
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 i. 
 
 JUST where the village abruptly ended, 
 and the green mowing fields began, stood 
 Mrs. Bickford' s house, looking down the 
 road with all its windows, and topped by 
 two prim chimneys that stood up like ears. 
 It was placed with an end to the road, 
 and fronted southward ; you could follow a 
 straight path from the gate past the front 
 door and find Mrs. Bickford sitting by the 
 last window of all in the kitchen, unless she 
 were solemnly stepping about, prolonging the 
 stern duties of her solitary housekeeping. 
 
 One day in early summer, when almost 
 every one else in Fairfield had put her house 
 plants out of doors, there were still three 
 flower pots on a kitchen window sill. Mrs. 
 Bickford spent but little time over her rose 
 and geranium and Jerusalem cherry-tree, 
 although they had gained a kind of person 
 ality born of long association. They rarely 
 undertook to bloom, but had most coura-
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 129 
 
 geously maintained life in spite of their own 
 er's unsympathetic but conscientious care. 
 Later in the season she would carry them 
 out of doors, and leave them, until the time 
 of frosts, under the shade of a great apple- 
 tree, where they might make the best of 
 what the summer had to give. 
 
 The afternoon sun was pouring in, the 
 Jerusalem cherry-tree drooped its leaves in 
 the heat and looked pale, when a neighbor, 
 Miss Pendexter, came in from the next 
 house but one to make a friendly call. As 
 she passed the parlor with its shut blinds, 
 and the sitting-room, also shaded carefully 
 from the light, she wished, as she had done 
 many times before, that somebody beside the 
 owner might have the pleasure of living in 
 and using so good and pleasant a house. 
 Mrs. Bickford always complained of having 
 so much care, even while she valued herself 
 intelligently upon having the right to do as 
 she pleased with one of the best houses in 
 Fairfield. Miss Pendexter was a cheerful, 
 even gay little person, who always brought 
 a pleasant flurry of excitement, and usually 
 had a genuine though small piece of news to 
 tell, or some new aspect of already received 
 information.
 
 130 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 Mrs. Bickford smiled as she looked up to 
 see this sprightly neighbor coming. She 
 had no gift at entertaining herself, and was 
 always glad, as one might say, to be taken 
 off her own hands. 
 
 Miss Fendexter smiled back, as if she felt 
 herself to be equal to the occasion. 
 
 "How be you to-day?" the guest asked 
 kindly, as she entered the kitchen. " Why, 
 what a sight o' flowers, Mis' Bickford ! 
 What be you goin' to do with 'em all? " 
 
 Mrs. Bickford wore a grave expression as 
 she glanced over her spectacles. "My sis 
 ter's boy fetched 'em over," she answered. 
 "You know my sister Parsons's a great hand 
 to raise flowers, an' this boy takes after her. 
 He said his mother thought the gardin never 
 looked handsomer, and she picked me these 
 to send over. They was sendin' a team to 
 Westbury for some fertilizer to put on the 
 land, an' he come with the men, an' stopped 
 to eat his dinner 'long o' me. He 'a been 
 growin' fast, and looks peaked. I expect 
 sister 'Liza thought the ride, this pleasant 
 day, would do him good. 'Liza sent word 
 for me to come over and pass some days next 
 week, but it ain't so that I can." 
 
 " Why, it 's a pretty time of year to go
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 131 
 
 off and make a little visit," suggested the 
 neighbor encouragingly. 
 
 " I ain't got my sitting-room chamber 
 carpet taken up yet," sighed Mrs. Bickford. 
 "I do feel condemned. I might have done 
 it to-day, but 't was all at end when I saw 
 Tommy coming. There, he 's a likely boy, 
 an' so relished his dinner; I happened to be 
 well prepared. I don't know but he 's my 
 favorite o' that family. Only I 've been 
 sittin' here thinkin', since he went, an' I 
 can't remember that I ever was so belated 
 with my spring cleaning." 
 
 "'Twas owin' to the weather," explained 
 Miss Pendexter. "None of us could be so 
 smart as common this year, not even the lazy 
 ones that always get one room done the first 
 o' March, and brag of it to others' shame, 
 and then never let on when they do the rest." 
 
 The two women laughed together cheer 
 fully. Mrs. Bickford had put up the wide 
 leaf of her large table between the windows 
 and spread out the flowers. She was sort 
 ing them slowly into three heaps. 
 
 "Why, I do declare if you haven't got 
 a rose in bloom yourself! " exclaimed Miss 
 Pendexter abruptly, as if the bud had not 
 been announced weeks before, and its pro-
 
 132 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 gress regularly commented upon. "Ain't it 
 a lovely rose? Why, Mis' Bickford! " 
 
 "Yes 'm, it 's out to-day," said Mrs. Bick 
 ford, with a somewhat plaintive air. "I 'm 
 glad you come in so as to see it." 
 
 The bright flower was like a face. Some 
 how, the beauty and life of it were surpris 
 ing in the plain room, like a gay little child 
 who might suddenly appear in a doorway. 
 Miss Pendexter forgot herself and her host 
 ess and the tangled mass of garden flowers 
 in looking at the red rose. She even forgot 
 that it was incumbent upon her to carry for 
 ward the conversation. Mrs. Bickford was 
 subject to fits of untimely silence which 
 made her friends anxiously sweep the cor 
 ners of their minds in search of something to 
 say, but any one who looked at her now could 
 easily see that it was not poverty of thought 
 that made her speechless, but an overbur 
 dening sense of the inexpressible. 
 
 "Goin' to make up all your flowers into 
 bo'quets? I think the short-stemmed kinds 
 is often pretty in a dish," suggested Miss 
 Pendexter compassionately. 
 
 "I thought I should make them into three 
 bo'quets. I wish there wa'n't quite so many. 
 Sister Eliza 's very lavish with her flowers;
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 133 
 
 she 's always been a kind sister, too," said 
 Mrs. Bickford vaguely. She was not apt to 
 speak with so much sentiment, and as her 
 neighbor looked at her narrowly she detected 
 unusual signs of emotion. It suddenly be 
 came evident that the three nosegays were 
 connected in her mind with her bereave 
 ment of three husbands, and Miss Pendex- 
 ter's easily roused curiosity was quieted by 
 the discovery that her friend was bent upon 
 a visit to the burying-ground. It was the 
 time of year when she was pretty sure to 
 spend an afternoon there, and sometimes 
 they had taken the walk in company. Miss 
 Pendexter expected to receive the usual in 
 vitation, but there was nothing further said 
 at the moment, and she looked again at the 
 pretty rose. 
 
 Mrs. Bickford aimlessly handled the syrin- 
 gas and flowering almond sprays, choosing 
 them out of the fragrant heap only to lay 
 them down again. She glanced out of the 
 window; then gave Miss Pendexter a long 
 expressive look. 
 
 "I expect you 're going to carry 'em over 
 to the burying-ground? " inquired the guest, 
 in a sympathetic tone. 
 
 "Yes 'm," said the hostess, now well
 
 134 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 started in conversation and in quite her 
 every-day manner. "You see I was goin' 
 over to my brother's folks to-morrow in 
 South Fairneld, to pass the day; they said 
 they were goin' to send over to-morrow 
 to leave a wagon at the blacksmith's, and 
 they 'd hitch that to their best chaise, so 
 I could ride back very comfortable. You 
 know I have to avoid bein' out in the mornin' 
 sun?" 
 
 Miss Pendexter smiled to herself at this 
 moment ; she was obliged to move from her 
 chair at the window, the May sun was so 
 hot on her back, for Mrs. Bickford always 
 kept the curtains rolled high up, out of the 
 way, for fear of fading and dust. The 
 kitchen was a blaze of light. As for the 
 Sunday chaise being sent, it was well known 
 that Mrs. Bickford' s married brothers and 
 sisters comprehended the truth that she was 
 a woman of property, and had neither chick 
 nor child. 
 
 "So I thought 't was a good opportunity 
 to just stop an' see if the lot was in good 
 order, last spring Mr. Wallis's stone hove 
 with the frost; an' so I could take these 
 flowers." She gave a sigh. "I ain't one 
 that can bear flowers in a close room, they
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 135 
 
 bring on a headache; but I enjoy 'em as 
 much as anybody to look at, only you never 
 know what to put 'em in. If I could be out 
 in the mornin' sun, as some do, and keep 
 flowers in the house, I should have me a 
 gardin, certain," and she sighed again. 
 
 "A garden 's a sight o' care, but I don't 
 begrudge none o' the care I give to mine. I 
 have to scant on flowers so 's to make room 
 for pole beans," said Miss Pen dexter gayly. 
 She had only a tiny strip of land behind her 
 house, but she always had something to give 
 away, and made riches out of her narrow 
 poverty. "A few flowers gives me just as 
 much pleasure as more would," she added. 
 " You get acquainted with things when 
 you 've only got one or two roots. My 
 sweet-williams is just like folks." 
 
 "Mr. Bickford was partial to sweet-wil 
 liams," said Mrs. Bickford. "I never knew 
 him to take notice of no other sort of flow 
 ers. When we 'd be over to Eliza's, he 'd 
 walk down her gardin, an' he 'd never make 
 no comments until he come to them, and 
 then he 'd say, ' Those is sweet-williams. ' 
 How many times I 've heard him! " 
 
 "You ought to have a sprig of 'em for his 
 bo'quet," suggested Miss Pendexter.
 
 136 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 "Yes, I 've put a sprig in," said her com 
 panion. 
 
 At this moment Miss Pendexter took a 
 good look at the bouquets, and found that 
 they were as nearly alike as careful hands 
 could make them. Mrs. Bickford was evi 
 dently trying to reach absolute impartiality. 
 
 "I don't know but you think it 's foolish 
 to tie 'em up this afternoon," she said pres 
 ently, as she wound the first with a stout 
 string. "I thought I could put 'em in a 
 bucket o' water out in the shed, where there 's 
 a draught o' air, and then I should have all 
 my time in the morning. I shall have a 
 good deal to do before I go. I always sweep 
 the setting-room and front entry Wednes 
 days. I want to leave everything nice, goin' 
 away for all day so. So I meant to get the 
 flowers out o' the way this afternoon. Why, 
 it's most half past four, ain't it? But I 
 sha'n't pick the rose till mornin' ; 't will be 
 blowed out better then." 
 
 "The rose?" questioned Miss Pendexter. 
 "Why, are you goin' to pick that, too?" 
 
 "Yes, I be. I never like to let 'em fade 
 on the bush. There, that 's just what 's 
 a-troublin' me," and she turned to give a 
 long, imploring look at the friend who sat
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 137 
 
 beside her. Miss Pendexter had moved her 
 chair before the table in order to be out 
 of the way of the sun. "I don't seem to 
 know which of 'em ought to 'have it," said 
 Mrs. Bickford despondently. "I do so hate 
 to make a choice between 'em ; they all had 
 their good points, especially Mr. Bickford, 
 and I respected 'em all. I don't know but 
 what I think of one on 'em 'most as much 
 as I do of the other." 
 
 "Why, 'tis difficult for you, ain't it?" 
 responded Miss Pendexter. " I don't know 's 
 I can offer advice." 
 
 "No, I s'pose not," answered her friend 
 slowly, with a shadow of disappointment 
 coming over her calm face. " I feel sure you 
 would if you could, Abby." 
 
 Both of the women felt as if they were 
 powerless before a great emergency. 
 
 "There's one thing, they're all in a 
 better world now," said Miss Pendexter, in 
 a self-conscious and constrained voice ; "they 
 can't feel such little things or take note o' 
 slights same 's we can." 
 
 " No ; I suppose 't is myself that wants to 
 be just," answered Mrs. Bickford. "I feel 
 under obligations to my last husband when I 
 look about and see how comfortable he left
 
 138 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 me. Poor Mr. Wallis had his great pro 
 jects, an' perhaps if he 'd lived longer he 'd 
 have made a record ; but when he died he 'd 
 failed all up,' owing to that patent corn- 
 sheller he 'd put everything into, and, as you 
 know, I had to get along 'most any way I 
 could for the next few years. Life was very 
 disappointing with Mr. Wallis, but he meant 
 well, an' used to be an amiable person to 
 dwell with, until his temper got spoilt mak- 
 in' so many hopes an' havin' 'em turn out 
 failures. He had consider'ble of an air, 
 an' dressed very handsome when I was first 
 acquainted with him, Mr. Wallis did. I 
 don't know 's you ever knew Mr. Wallis in 
 his prime?" 
 
 "He died the year I moved over here from 
 North Denfield," said Miss Pendexter, in 
 a tone of sympathy. "I just knew him by 
 sight. I was to his funeral. You know you 
 lived in what we call the Wells house then, 
 and I felt it would n't be an intrusion, we 
 was such near neighbors. The first time I 
 ever was in your house was just before that, 
 when he was sick, an' Mary 'Becca Wade 
 an' I called to see if there was anything we 
 could do." 
 
 "They used to say about town that Mr.
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 139 
 
 Wallis went to an' fro like a mail-coach an* 
 brought nothin' to pass," announced Mrs. 
 Bickford without bitterness. " He ought to 
 have had a better chance than he did in this 
 little neighborhood. You see, he had ex 
 cellent ideas, but he never 'd learned the 
 machinist's trade, and there was somethin' 
 the matter with every model he contrived. 
 I used to be real narrow-minded when he 
 talked about moving 'way up to Lowell, or 
 some o' them places; I hated to think of 
 leaving my folks; and now I see that I 
 never done right by him. His ideas was 
 good. I know once he was on a jury, and 
 there was a man stopping to the tavern 
 where he was, near the court house, a man 
 that traveled for a firm to Lowell ; and they 
 engaged in talk, an' Mr. Wallis let out some 
 o' his notions an' contrivances, an' he said 
 that man would n't hardly stop to eat, he 
 was so interested, an' said he 'd look for a 
 chance for him up to Lowell. It all sounded 
 so well that I kind of begun to think about 
 goin' myself. Mr. Wallis said we 'd close 
 the house here, and go an' board through the 
 winter. But he never beard a word from 
 him, and the disappointment was one he 
 never got over. I think of it now different
 
 140 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 from what I did then. I often used to be 
 kind of disapproving to Mr. Wallis; but 
 there, he used to be always tellin' over his 
 great projects. Somebody told me once that 
 a man by the same name of the one he met 
 while he was to court had got some patents 
 for the very things Mr. Wallis used to be 
 workin' over; but 't was after he died, an' 
 I don't know 's 't was in him to ever really 
 set things up so other folks could ha' seen 
 their value. His machines always used to 
 work kind of rickety, but folks used to 
 come from all round to see 'em; they was 
 curiosities if they wa'n't nothin' else, an' 
 gave him a name." 
 
 Mrs. Bickford paused a moment, with 
 some geranium leaves in her hand, and 
 seemed to suppress with difficulty a desire to 
 speak even more freely. 
 
 "He was a dreadful notional man," she 
 said at last, regretfully, and as if this fact 
 were a poor substitute for what had just 
 been in her mind. "I recollect one time 
 he worked all through the early winter over 
 my churn, an' got it so it would go three 
 quarters of an hour all of itself if you 
 wound it up ; an' if you '11 believe it, he 
 went an' spent all that time for nothin'
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 141 
 
 when the cow was dry, an' we was with dif 
 ficulty borrowin' a pint o' milk a day some- 
 wheres in the neighborhood just to get along 
 with." Mrs. Bickford flushed with dis 
 pleasure, and turned to look at her visitor. 
 "Now what do you think of such a man as 
 that, Miss Pendexter?" she asked. 
 
 "Why, I don't know but 'twas just as 
 good for an invention," answered Miss Pen- 
 dexter timidly ; but her friend looked doubt 
 ful, and did not appear to understand. 
 
 " Then I asked him where it was, one day 
 that spring when I 'd got tired to death 
 churnin', an' the butter wouldn't come in a 
 churn I 'd had to borrow, and he 'd gone an' 
 took ours all to pieces to get the works to 
 make some other useless contrivance with. 
 He had no sort of a business turn, but he 
 was well meanin', Mr. Wallis was, an' full 
 o' divertin' talk; they used to call him very 
 good company. I see now that he never had 
 no proper chance. I 've always regretted 
 Mr. Wallis," said she who was now the 
 widow Bickford. 
 
 "I 'm sure you always speak well of him," 
 said Miss Pendexter. " 'T was a pity he 
 had n't got among good business men, who 
 could push his inventions an' do all the 
 business part."
 
 142 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 "I was left very poor an' needy for them 
 next few years," said Mrs. Bickford mourn 
 fully ; " but he never 'd give up but what he 
 should die worth his fifty thousand dollars. 
 I don't see now how I ever did get along 
 them next few years without him ; but there, 
 I always managed to keep a pig, an' sister 
 Eliza gave me my potatoes, and I made out 
 somehow. I could dig me a few greens, you 
 know, in spring, and then 't would come 
 strawberry-time, and other berries a-follow- 
 in' on. I was always decent to go to meet- 
 in' till within the last six months, an' then 
 I went in bad weather, when folks would n't 
 notice; but 'twas a rainy summer, an' I 
 managed to get considerable preachin' after 
 all. My clothes looked proper enough when 
 't was a wet Sabbath. I often think o' 
 them pinched days now, when I 'm left so 
 comfortable by Mr. Bickford." 
 
 "Yes 'm, you 've everything to be thank 
 ful for," said Miss Pendexter, who was as 
 poor herself at that moment as her friend 
 had ever been, and who could never dream 
 of venturing upon the support and compan 
 ionship of a pig. "Mr. Bickford was a very 
 personable man," she hastened to say, the 
 confidences were so intimate and interesting.
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 143 
 
 "Oh, very," replied Mrs. Bickford; 
 "there was something about him that was 
 very marked. Strangers would always ask 
 who he was as he come into meetin'. His 
 words counted; he never spoke except he 
 had to. 'T was a relief at first after Mr. 
 Wallis's being so fluent; but Mr. Wallis 
 was splendid company for winter evenings, 
 'twould be eight o'clock before you knew 
 it. I didn't use to listen to it all, but he 
 had a great deal of information. Mr. Bick 
 ford was dreadful dignified; I used to be 
 sort of meechin' with him along at the first, 
 for fear he 'd disapprove of me ; but I found 
 out 'twa'n't no need; he was always just 
 that way, an' done everything by rule an' 
 measure. He had n't the mind of my other 
 husbands, but he was a very dignified ap 
 pearing man ; he used 'most always to sleep 
 in the evenin's, Mr. Bickford did." 
 
 "Them is lovely bo'quets, certain!" ex 
 claimed Miss Pendexter. " Why, I could n't 
 tell 'em apart; the flowers are comin' out 
 just right, are n't they? " 
 
 Mrs. Bickford nodded assent, and then, 
 startled by sudden recollection, she cast a 
 quick glance at the rose in the window. 
 
 "I always seem to forget about your first
 
 144 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 husband, Mr. Fraley," Miss Pendexter sug 
 gested bravely. "I've often heard you 
 speak of him, too, but he 'd passed away 
 long before I ever knew you." 
 
 "He was but a boy," said Mrs. Bick- 
 ford. "I thought the world was done for 
 me when he died, but I 've often thought 
 since 't was a mercy for him. He come of a 
 very melancholy family, and all his bro 
 thers an' sisters enjoyed poor health; it 
 might have been his lot. Folks said we was 
 as pretty a couple as ever come into church ; 
 we was both dark, with black eyes an' a good 
 deal o' color, you wouldn't expect it to 
 see me now. Albert was one that held up 
 his head, and looked as if he meant to own 
 the town, an' he had a good word for every 
 body. I don't know what the years might 
 have brought." 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Bickford 
 leaned over to pick up a heavy-headed Guel 
 der-rose that had dropped on the floor. 
 
 "I expect 'twas what they call fallin' in 
 love," she added, in a different tone; "he 
 wa'n't nothin' but a boy, an' I wa'n't no- 
 thin' but a girl, but we was dreadful happy. 
 He did n't favor his folks, they all had 
 hay-colored hair and was faded-looking, ex-
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 145 
 
 cept his mother ; they was alike, and looked 
 alike, an' set everything by each other. He 
 was just the kind of strong, hearty young 
 man that goes right off if they get a fever. 
 We was just settled on a little farm, an' 
 he 'd have done well if he 'd had time ; as 
 it was, he left debts. He had a hasty tem 
 per, that was his great fault, but Albert had 
 a lovely voice to sing; they said there wa'n't 
 no such tenor voice in this part o' the State. 
 I could hear him singin' to himself right out 
 in the field a-ploughin' or hoein', an' he 
 did n't know it half o' the time, no more 'n 
 a common bird would. I don't know 's I 
 valued his gift as I ought to, but there was 
 nothin' ever sounded so sweet to me. I 
 ain't one that ever had much fancy, but I 
 knowed Albert had a pretty voice." 
 
 Mrs. Bickford's own voice trembled a 
 little, but she held up the last bouquet and 
 examined it critically. "I must hurry now 
 an' put these in water," she said, in a mat 
 ter of fact tone. Little Miss Pendexter was 
 so quiet and sympathetic that her hostess 
 felt no more embarrassed than if she had 
 been talking only to herself. 
 
 "Yes, they do seem to droop some; 'tis 
 a little warm for them here in the sun," said
 
 146 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 Miss Pendexter; "but you '11 find they '11 all 
 come up if you give them their fill o' water. 
 They '11 look very handsome to-morrow ; 
 folks '11 notice them from the road. You 've 
 arranged them very tasty, Mis' Bickford." 
 
 "They do look pretty, don't they?" 
 Mrs. Bickford regarded the three in turn. 
 "I want to have them all pretty. You may 
 deem it strange, Abby." 
 
 "Why, no, Mis' Bickford," said the guest 
 sincerely, although a little perplexed by the 
 solemnity of the occasion. "I know how 
 'tis with friends, that having one don't 
 keep you from wantin' another; 'tis just 
 like havin' somethin' to eat, and then want- 
 in' somethin' to drink just the same. I ex 
 pect all friends find their places." 
 
 But Mrs. Bickford was not interested 
 in this figure, and still looked vague and 
 anxious as she began to brush the broken 
 stems and wilted leaves into her wide calico 
 apron. "I done the best I could while they 
 was alive," she said, " and mourned 'em 
 when I lost 'em, an' I feel grateful to be 
 left so comfortable now when all is over. It 
 seems foolish, but I 'm still at a loss about 
 that rose." 
 
 "Perhaps you '11 feel sure when you first
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 147 
 
 wake up in the morning," answered Miss 
 Pendexter solicitously. "It 's a case where 
 I don't deem myself qualified to offer you 
 any advice. But I '11 say one thing, see 
 ing 's you 've been so friendly spoken and 
 confiding with me. I never was married 
 myself, Mis' Bickford, because it wa'n't so 
 that I could have the one I liked." 
 
 "I suppose he ain't livin', then? Why, 
 I wan't never aware you had met with 
 a disappointment, Abby," said Mrs. Bick 
 ford instantly. None of her neighbors had 
 ever suspected little Miss Pendexter of a 
 romance. 
 
 "Yes 'm, he 's livin'," replied Miss Pen 
 dexter humbly. "No 'm, I never have heard 
 that he died." 
 
 "I want to know! " exclaimed the woman 
 of experience. " Well, I '11 tell you this, 
 Abby : you may have regretted your lot, and 
 felt lonesome and hardshipped, but they all 
 have their faults, and a single woman 's got 
 her liberty, if she ain't got other blessin's." 
 
 " 'T would n't have been my choice to live 
 alone," said Abby, meeker than before. "I 
 feel very thankful for my blessin's, all the 
 same. You 've always been a kind neigh 
 bor, Mis' Bickford."
 
 148 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 "Why can't you stop to tea?" asked the 
 elder woman, with unusual cordiality; but 
 Miss Pendexter remembered that her host 
 ess often expressed a dislike for unexpected 
 company, and promptly took her departure 
 after she had risen to go, glancing up at the 
 bright flower as she passed outside the win 
 dow. It seemed to belong most to Albert, 
 but she had not liked to say so. The sun 
 was low; the green fields stretched away 
 southward into the misty distance. 
 
 n. 
 
 Mrs. Bickford's house appeared to watch 
 her out of sight down the road, the next 
 morning. She had lost all spirit for her 
 holiday. Perhaps it was the unusual ex 
 citement of the afternoon's reminiscences, 
 or it might have been simply the bright 
 moonlight night which had kept her broad 
 awake until dawn, thinking of the past, and 
 more and more concerned about the rose. 
 By this time it had ceased to be merely a 
 flower, and had become a definite symbol 
 and assertion of personal choice. She found 
 it very difficult to decide. So much of her 
 present comfort and well-being was due to 
 Mr. Bickford; still, it was Mr. Wallis who
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 149 
 
 had been most unfortunate, and to whom she 
 had done least justice. If she owed recog 
 nition to Mr. Bickford, she certainly owed 
 amends to Mr. Wallis. If she gave him the 
 rose, it would be for the sake of affectionate 
 apology. And then there was Albert, to 
 whom she had no thought of being either in 
 debted or forgiving. But she could not es 
 cape from the terrible feeling of indecision. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning for a drive, 
 but Mrs. Bickford was kept waiting some 
 time for the chaise. Her nephew, who was 
 to be her escort, had found much social ad 
 vantage at the blacksmith's shop, so that it 
 was after ten when she finally started with 
 the three large flat-backed bouquets, covered 
 with a newspaper to protect them from the 
 sun. The petals of the almond flowers were 
 beginning to scatter, and now and then little 
 streams of water leaked out of the newspaper 
 and trickled down the steep slope of her best 
 dress to the bottom of the chaise. Even yet 
 she had not made up her mind; she had 
 stopped trying to deal with such an evasive 
 thing as decision, and leaned back and rested 
 as best she could. 
 
 "What an old fool I be!" she rebuked 
 herself from time to time, in so loud a whis-
 
 150 THE ONLY ROBE. 
 
 per that her companion ventured a respectful 
 "What, ma'am?" and was astonished that 
 she made no reply. John was a handsome 
 young man, but Mrs. Bickford could never 
 cease thinking of him as a boy. He had 
 always been her favorite among the younger 
 members of the family, and now returned 
 this affectionate feeling, being possessed of 
 an instinctive confidence in the sincerities 
 of his prosaic aunt. 
 
 As they drove along, there had seemed 
 at first to be something unsympathetic and 
 garish about the beauty of the summer day. 
 After the shade and shelter of the house, 
 Mrs. Bickford suffered even more from a 
 contracted and assailed feeling out of doors. 
 The very trees by the roadside had a curi 
 ously fateful, trying way of standing back to 
 watch her, as she passed in the acute agony 
 of indecision, and she was annoyed and 
 startled by a bird that flew too near the 
 chaise in a moment of surprise. She was con 
 scious of a strange reluctance to the move 
 ment of the Sunday chaise, as if she were 
 being conveyed against her will; but the 
 companionship of her nephew John grew 
 every moment to be more and more a reli 
 ance. It was very comfortable to sit by his
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 151 
 
 side, even though he had nothing to say; he 
 was manly and cheerful, and she began to 
 feel protected. 
 
 "Aunt Bickford," he suddenly announced, 
 "I may 's well out with it! I've got a 
 piece o' news to tell you, if you won't let on 
 to nobody. I expect you '11 laugh, but you 
 know I 've set everything by Mary Lizzie 
 Gifford ever since I was a boy. Well, sir ! " 
 
 " Well, sir ! " exclaimed aunt Bickford 
 in her turn, quickly roused into most com 
 fortable self-forgetfulness. " I am really 
 pleased. She '11 make you a good, smart 
 wife, John. Ain't all the folks pleased, 
 both sides?" 
 
 "Yes, they be," answered John soberly, 
 with a happy, important look that became 
 him well. 
 
 "I guess I can make out to do something 
 for you to help along, when the right time 
 comes," said aunt Bickford impulsively, 
 after a moment's reflection. "I 've known 
 what it is to be starting out in life with 
 plenty o' hope. You ain't calculatin' on 
 gettin' married before fall, or be ye? " 
 
 "'Long in the fall," said John regret 
 fully. *' I ,vish t' we could set up for our 
 selves right away this summer. I ain't got
 
 152 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 much ahead, but I can work well as any 
 body, an' now I 'm out o' my time." 
 
 "She's a nice, modest, pretty girl. I 
 thought she liked you, John," said the old 
 aunt. "I saw her over to your mother's, 
 last day I was there. Well, I expect you '11 
 be happy." 
 
 "Certain," said John, turning to look at 
 her affectionately, surprised by this out 
 spokenness and lack of embarrassment be 
 tween them. "Thank you, aunt," he said 
 simply ; " you 're a real good friend to 
 me ; " and he looked away again hastily, and 
 blushed a fine scarlet over his sun -browned 
 face. "She 's coming over to spend the day 
 with the girls, ' ' he added . " Mother thought 
 of it. You don't get over to see us very 
 often." 
 
 Mrs. Bickford smiled approvingly. John's 
 mother looked for her good opinion, no 
 doubt, but it was very proper for John to 
 have told his prospects himself, and in such 
 a pretty way. There was no shilly-shallying 
 about the boy. 
 
 " My gracious ! " said John suddenly. 
 "I 'd like to have drove right by the bury- 
 ing-ground. I forgot we wanted to stop." 
 
 Strange as it may appear, Mrs. Bickford
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 153 
 
 herself had not noticed the bury ing-ground, 
 either, in her excitement and pleasure ; now 
 she felt distressed and responsible again, 
 and showed it in her face at once. The 
 young man leaped lightly to the ground, and 
 reached for the flowers. 
 
 "Here, you just let me run up with 'em," 
 he said kindly. " 'T is hot in the sun 
 to-day, an' you '11 mind it risin* the hill. 
 We '11 stop as I fetch you back to-night, 
 and you can go up comfortable an' walk the 
 yard after sundown when it 's cool, an' stay 
 as long as you 're a mind to. You seem 
 sort of tired, aunt." 
 
 "I don't know but what I will let you 
 carry 'em," said Mrs. Bickford slowly. 
 
 To leave the matter of the rose in the 
 hands of fate seemed weakness and coward 
 ice, but there was not a moment for consid 
 eration. John was a smiling fate, and his 
 proposition was a great relief. She watched 
 him go away with a terrible inward shaking, 
 and siaking of pride. She had held the 
 flowers with so firm a grasp that her hands 
 felt weak and numb, and as she leaned back 
 and shut her eyes she was afraid to open 
 them again at first for fear of knowing the 
 bouquets apart even at that distance, and
 
 154 THE ONLY ROSE. 
 
 giving instructions which she might regret. 
 With a sudden impulse she called John once 
 or twice eagerly ; but her voice had a thin 
 and piping sound, and the meditative early 
 crickets that chirped in the fresh summer 
 grass probably sounded louder in John's 
 ears. The bright light on the white stones 
 dazzled Mrs. Bickford's eyes; and then all 
 at once she felt light-hearted, and the sky 
 seemed to lift itself higher and wider from 
 the earth, and she gave a sigh of relief as 
 her messenger came back along the path. 
 "I know who I do hope 's got the right 
 one," she said to herself. "There, what a 
 touse I be in! I don't see what I had to 
 go and pick the old rose for, anyway." 
 
 "I declare, they did look real handsome, 
 aunt," said John's hearty voice as he ap 
 proached the chaise. "I set 'em up just as 
 you told me. This one fell out, an' I kept 
 it. I don't know 's you '11 care. I can give 
 it to Lizzie." 
 
 He faced her now with a bright, boyish 
 look. There was something gay in his but 
 tonhole, it was the red rose. 
 
 Aunt Bickf ord blushed like a girl. " Your 
 choice is easy made," she faltered mysteri-
 
 THE ONLY ROSE. 155 
 
 ously, and then burst out laughing, there in 
 front of the burying-ground. "Come, get 
 right in, dear," she said. "Well, well! I 
 guess the rose was made for you ; it looks 
 very pretty in your coat, John." 
 
 She thought of Albert, and the next mo 
 ment the tears came into her old eyes. John 
 was a lover, too. 
 
 "My first husband was just such a tall, 
 straight young man as you be," she said as 
 they drove along. "The flower he first give 
 me was a rose."
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE Haydon farm was only a few miles 
 from the sea, and the spring wind, which 
 had been blowing from the south all day, 
 had gone into the east. A chilly salt fog 
 had begun to come in, creeping along where 
 a brook wound among the lower fields, like 
 a ghostly serpent that was making its way 
 to shelter across the country. 
 
 The old Haydon house stood on high ris 
 ing land, with two great walnut-trees at one 
 side, and a tall, thin, black-looking spruce 
 in front that had lost its mate. A comfort 
 able row of round-headed old apple-trees led 
 all the way up a long lane from the main 
 road. This lane and the spacious side yard 
 were scarred by wheel ruts, and the fresh 
 turf was cut up by the stamping feet of 
 many horses. It was the evening of a sad 
 day, the evening after Israel Hay don's 
 wife's funeral. Many of the people who 
 were present had far to go, and so the 
 funeral feast had been served early.
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 157 
 
 The old place looked deserted. The dan 
 delions, which had shone so bright in the 
 grass that morning, were all shut up, and 
 the syringa bushes in the front yard seemed 
 to have taken back their rash buds, and to 
 have grown as gray as winter again. The 
 light was failing fast out of doors; there 
 was a lamp lighted in the kitchen, and a 
 figure kept passing between it and the win 
 dow. 
 
 Israel Haydon lingered as long as he could 
 over his barn-work. Somehow it seemed 
 lonely in the barn, and as long as he could 
 see or feel his way about, he kept himself 
 busy over the old horse and cow, accepting 
 their inexpressive companionship, and serv 
 ing their suppers with unusual generosity. 
 His sensations, even of grief, were not very 
 distinct to him; there was only a vague 
 sense of discomfort, of being disturbed in 
 his quiet course. He had said to many 
 of his friends that afternoon, "I do' know 
 why 't is, but I can't realize nothing about 
 it," and spoken sincerely; but his face was 
 marked with deep lines; he was suifering 
 deeply from the great loss that had befallen 
 him. 
 
 His wife had been a woman of uncom-
 
 158 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 mon social gifts and facilities, and he had 
 missed her leadership in the great occasion 
 that was just over. Everybody had come to 
 him for directions, and expected from him 
 the knowledge of practical arrangements 
 that she had always shown in the forty 
 years of their married life. He had for 
 gotten already that it was a worn-out and 
 suffering woman who had died ; the remem 
 brance of long weeks of illness faded from 
 his mind. It appeared to him as if, in her 
 most active and busy aspect, she had sud 
 denly vanished out of the emergencies and 
 close dependence of their every-day lives. 
 
 Mr. Haydon crossed the yard slowly, after 
 he had locked the barn door and tried the 
 fastening, and then gone back to try it 
 again. He was glad to see the cheerfulness 
 of the lighted kitchen, and to remember that 
 his own sister and the sister of his wife were 
 there in charge and ready to companion him. 
 He could not help a feeling of distress at 
 the thought of entering his lonely home; 
 suddenly the fact of their being there made 
 everything seem worse. Another man might 
 have loitered on the step until he was chilly 
 and miserable, but poor Mr. Haydon only 
 dropped his hand for a moment by his side,
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 159 
 
 and looked away down the lane; then, with 
 bent head, he lifted the latch as he always 
 did, and went in. It seemed as if he con 
 sciously shouldered the burden of his loneli 
 ness in that dreary moment, and never could 
 stand upright again. 
 
 The season of his solitary life began 
 with more cheer than could have been ex 
 pected. The two women were waiting for 
 him placidly, and did not seem to be curious 
 how he might be bearing this great disas 
 ter. They had cleared away all signs of the 
 great company, and the kitchen looked as it 
 always did ; it had not occurred to them to 
 occupy the more formal sitting-room. The 
 warmth of the fire was pleasant ; a table was 
 spread with supper. One of the women was 
 bringing the teapot from the stove, and the 
 other was placidly knitting a blue yarn stock 
 ing. It seemed as if Martha Haydon herself 
 might at any moment come out of the pan 
 try door or up the cellar stairs. 
 
 " We was just about ready for you, Isr'el," 
 said his sister-in-law Stevens, glancing at him 
 eagerly. "We did n't stop to take anything 
 ourselves this afternoon, and we did n't 
 suppose 'twas so you could; an' we thought 
 we 'd just make a quiet cup o' tea when we
 
 160 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 had everything put to rights, and could set 
 down an' enjoy it. Now you draw right up 
 to the table ; that 's clever ; 't will do us all 
 good." 
 
 The good woman bore some likeness to 
 her sister just departed; Israel had never 
 noticed it so much before. She had a com 
 fortable, motherly way, and his old face 
 twitched in spite of himself as he bent over 
 the brimming and smoking cup that she 
 handed across the square table. 
 
 " I declare I " said his own sister, Mrs. 
 Abby Martin. " We could reckon what a 
 sight o' folks there was here this afternoon 
 by the times we had to make new tea, if 
 there wa'n't no other way. I don't know 's 
 I ever see a larger gathering on such an 
 occasion. Mis' Stevens an' me was trying 
 to count 'em. There was twenty-six wagons 
 hitched in the yard an' lane, so William 
 said, besides all that come afoot ; an' a 
 few had driven away before they made the 
 count." 
 
 "I'd no idea of there bein' so many," 
 said Israel sadly. "Well, 'twas natural 
 for all who knew her to show respect. I felt 
 much obliged to the folks, and for Elder 
 Wall's excellent remarks."
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 161 
 
 " A number spoke their approval to him 
 in my hearing. He seemed pleased that 
 everything passed off well," said sister Mar 
 tin. " I expect he wanted to do the best he 
 could. Everybody knows she was always a 
 good friend to him. I never see anybody 
 that set so by her minister. William was 
 telling of me he 'd been very attentive all 
 through her sickness. Poor William ! He 
 does mourn, but he behaved very pretty, I 
 thought. He wanted us to tell you that 
 he 'd be over to-morrow soon 's he could. 
 He wanted dreadful to stop with ye over 
 night, but we all know what it is to run a 
 milk farm." 
 
 "I'd b'en glad if 'twas so he could be 
 here with us to-night, an' his wife with him," 
 said the old man, pushing away his cup. 
 The remnants of the afternoon feast, with 
 which the table was spread, failed to tempt 
 his appetite. He rose and took his old 
 wooden armchair by the stove, and clasped 
 his hands before him. The long brown fin 
 gers began to play mechanically upon each 
 other. It was strange how these trivial, 
 unconscious habits continued in spite of the 
 great change which had shaken his life to its 
 foundations.
 
 162 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 II. 
 
 At noon the next day Israel Haydon and 
 his son William came up across the field to 
 gether. They had on their every -day clothes, 
 and were talking about every-day matters 
 as they walked along. Mr. Haydon him 
 self had always looked somewhat unlike a 
 farmer, even though there had been no more 
 diligent and successful tiller of the soil in 
 the town of Atfield. He never had bought 
 himself a rougher suit of clothes or a coarse 
 hat for haying, but his discarded Sunday 
 best in various states of decadence served 
 him for barn and field. It was proverbial 
 that a silk hat lasted him five years for best 
 and ten for common ; but whatever he might 
 be doing, Israel Haydon always preserved 
 an air of unmistakable dignity. He was 
 even a little ministerial in his look; there 
 had been a minister in the family two or 
 three generations back. Mr. Haydon and 
 his wife had each inherited some money. 
 They were by nature thrifty, and now their 
 only son was well married, with a good farm 
 of his own, to which Israel had added many 
 acres of hay land and tillage, saying that he 
 was getting old, and was going to take the
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 163 
 
 rest of his life easily. In this way the old 
 people had thrown many of their worldly 
 cares upon their son's broad shoulders. 
 They had paid visits each summer to their 
 kindred in surrounding towns, starting off 
 in their Sunday chaise with sober pleasure, 
 serene in their prosperity, and free from any 
 dark anticipations, although they could not 
 bring themselves to consent to any long ab 
 sence, and the temptation of going to see 
 friends in the West was never dangerous to 
 their peace of mind. But the best of their 
 lives was apparently still before them, when 
 good Martha Hay don's strength mysteriously 
 failed ; and one dark day the doctor, whom 
 Israel Haydon had anxiously questioned be 
 hind the wood -pile, just out of sight from his 
 wife's window the doctor had said that she 
 never would be any better. The downfall 
 of his happiness had been swift and piteous. 
 William Haydon was a much larger and 
 rosier man than his father had ever been ; 
 the old man looked shrunken as they crossed 
 the field together. They had prolonged their 
 talk about letting the great south field lie 
 fallow, and about some new Hereford cattle 
 that the young farmer had just bought, 
 until nothing more was left to say on either
 
 164 A SECOND SPRINO. 
 
 side. Then there came a long pause, when 
 each waited for the other to speak. Wil 
 liam grew impatient at last. 
 
 "Have you got any notion what it 's best 
 to do, sir?" he began boldly; then, finding 
 that his father did not answer, he turned to 
 look at him, and found that the drawn face 
 was set in silent despair. 
 
 "I've always been forehanded; I never 
 was caught so unprepared before," he fal 
 tered. "'T has been my way, as you 
 know, to think out things beforehand, but it 
 come to the very last before I could give 
 it up 'bout your mother's gettin' better; 
 an' when I did give up, 't wa'n't so I could 
 think o' anything. An' here 's your aunts 
 got their families dependin' on 'em, and 
 wantin' to git away soon as may be. I don't 
 know which way to look." 
 
 " Mar ilia and I should be thankful if 
 you 'd come and stop 'long of us this win 
 ter " the younger man began, eagerly. 
 
 "No, no!" said his father sternly. "I 
 ain't goin' to live in the chimbly-corner of 
 another man's house. I ain't but a little 
 past sixty-seven. I 've got to stand in my 
 lot an' place. 'T would n't be neither your 
 house nor mine, William," he said, in a
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 165 
 
 softer tone. "You're a good son; your 
 mother always said you was a good son." 
 
 Israel Haydon's voice broke, and William 
 Haydon's eyes filled with tears, and they 
 plodded along together in the soft spring 
 grass. 
 
 " I ' ve gone over everything I wish I could 
 forget all the bothering tricks I played 
 her, 'way back when I was a boy," said the 
 young man, with great feeling. "I declare, 
 I don't know what to do, I miss her so." 
 
 "You was an only child," said the father 
 solemnly; "we done the best we could by 
 ye. She often said you was a good son, 
 and she wa'n't surprised to see ye prosper. 
 An' about Marilly, 'long at the first, when 
 you was courtin' her, 'twas only that poor 
 mother thought nobody wa'n't quite good 
 enough for her boy. She come to set every 
 thing by Marilly." 
 
 The only dark chapter in the family his 
 tory was referred to for the last time, to 
 be forgotten by father and son. The old 
 people had, after all, gloried in their son's 
 bravery in keeping to his own way and 
 choice. The two farms joined. Marilla 
 and her mother were their next neighbors; 
 the mother had since died.
 
 166 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 "Father," exclaimed William Haydon 
 suddenly, as they neared the barn, "I do' 
 know now but I've thought o' the very 
 one!" 
 
 "What d'ye mean?" said the old man, 
 startled a little by such vehemence. 
 
 "'T ain't nobody I feel sure of getting," 
 explained the son, his ardor suddenly cool 
 ing. "I had Maria Durrant in my mind 
 Manila's cousin. Don't you know, she 
 come and stopped with us six weeks that time 
 Manila was so dyin' sick and we hadn't 
 been able to get proper help; and what a 
 providence Maria Durrant was! Mother 
 said one day that she never saw so capable 
 a woman." 
 
 "I don't stand in need of nursin'," said 
 the old man, grumbling, and taking a de 
 fensive attitude of mind. " What's the use, 
 anyway, if you can't get her? I '11 contrive 
 to get along somehow. I always have." 
 
 William flushed quickly, but made no an 
 swer, out of regard to the old man's bereaved 
 and wounded state. He always felt like a 
 schoolboy in his father's presence, though 
 he had for many years been a leader in 
 neighborhood matters, and was at that mo 
 ment a selectman of the town of Atfield. If
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 167 
 
 he had answered back and entered upon a 
 lively argument it probably would have done 
 the old man good; anything would have 
 seemed better than the dull hunger in his 
 heart, the impossibility of forming new hab 
 its of life, which made a wall about his very 
 thoughts. 
 
 After a surly silence, when the son was 
 needlessly repentant and the father's face 
 grew cloudy with disapproval, the two men 
 parted. William had made arrangements to 
 stay all the afternoon, but he now found 
 an excuse for going to the village, and 
 drove away down the lane. He had not 
 turned into the highroad before he wished 
 himself back again, while Israel Haydon 
 looked after him reproachfully, more lonely 
 than ever, in the sense that something had 
 come between them, though he could not 
 tell exactly what. The spring fields lay 
 broad and green in the sunshine ; there was 
 a cheerful sound of frogs in the lower 
 meadow. 
 
 "Poor mother! how she did love early 
 weather like this ! " he said, half aloud. 
 "She 'd been getting out to the door twenty 
 times a day, just to have a look. An' how 
 she 'd laugh to hear the frogs again ! Oh,
 
 168 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 poor me! poor me! " For the first time he 
 found himself in tears. The grim old man 
 leaned on the fence, and tried to keep back 
 the sobs that shook his bent shoulders. He 
 was half afraid and half ashamed, but there 
 he stood and cried. At last he dried his 
 eyes, and went slowly into the house, as if 
 in hope of comfort as well as shelter. 
 
 The two sisters were busy in an upper 
 room. They had seen William Haydon 
 drive away, and their sympathy had been 
 much moved by the sight of his father's 
 grief. They stood at a window watching 
 him from behind the curtain. 
 
 "He feels it much as anybody could," said 
 Mrs. Stevens, not without a certain satisfac 
 tion in this tribute to her own dear sister. 
 "Somehow or 'nother your brother is so 
 methodical and contained, Mis' Martin, that 
 I shouldn't have looked to see him give 
 way like other men." 
 
 "He never was one that could show his 
 feelin's," answered Mrs. Martin. "I never 
 saw him shed tears before as I know of, but 
 many 's the time he has n't been able to con 
 trol his voice to speak. I wonder what made 
 William hurry off so? His back looked
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 169 
 
 kind o' provoked. They could n't have had 
 no words; whatever it was, they couldn't 
 had no words so soon as this ; an' William 'a 
 always respectful." 
 
 "'T ain't that either," she added, a mo 
 ment later. "I've seen sights o' folks in 
 trouble, and I don't know what nor why it 
 is, but they always have to get through 
 with a fractious spell before they can get 
 to work again. They '11 hold up an' 'pear 
 splendid, and then something seems to let 
 go, an' everything goes wrong, an' every 
 word plagues 'em. Now Isr'el 's my own 
 poor brother, an' you know how I set by 
 him, Mis' Stevens ; but I expect we '11 have 
 to walk soft to get along with him for a week 
 or two to come. Don't you go an' be too 
 gentle, neither. Treat him just 's you would 
 anyway, and he '11 fetch himself into line 
 the quicker. He always did have days when 
 he would n't say nothing to nobody. It does 
 seem 's if I ought to be the one to stop 
 longer with him, an' be the most help ; but 
 you know how I 'm situated. And then 
 't is your sister's things that 's to be looked 
 over, and you and Marilla is the proper 
 ones." 
 
 "I wish 'twas so you could stvp," Mrs.
 
 170 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 Stevens urged honestly. "I feel more 
 acquainted with you than I do with Marilly. 
 But I shall do my best, as I shall want those 
 who come to do for my things when I 'm 
 past an' gone. I shall get William to come 
 an' help us; he knows more about his mo 
 ther's possessions than anybody, I expect. 
 She made a kind of girl of him, for com 
 pany's sake, when he was little; and he 
 used to sew real pretty before his fingers got 
 too big. Don't you recall one winter when 
 he was house-bound after a run o' scarlet 
 fever? He used to work worsted, and knit 
 some, I believe he did ; but he took to grow- 
 in' that spring, and I chanced to ask him to 
 supply me with a couple o' good holders, but 
 I found I 'd touched dignity. He was dread 
 ful put out. I suppose he was mos' too 
 manly for me to refer to his needlework. 
 Poor Marthy! how she laughed! I only 
 said that about the holders for the sake 
 o' sayin' somethin', but he remembered it 
 against me more than a year." 
 
 The two aunts laughed together. "Boys 
 is boys, ain't they ? " observed Mrs. Stevens, 
 with great sagacity. 
 
 "Men is boys," retorted Mrs. Martin. 
 "The more you treat 'em like boys, the bet-
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 171 
 
 ter they think you use 'em. They always 
 want motherin', an* somebody to come to. 
 I always tell folks I 've got five child'n, 
 counting Mr. Martin the youngest. The 
 more bluster they have, the more boys they 
 be. Now Marthy knew that about brother 
 Isr'el, an' she always ruled him by love an' 
 easin' of him down from them high perches 
 he was always settin' upon. Everything 
 was always right with her an' all wrong 
 with him when they was young, but she 
 could always say the right word." 
 
 "She was a good-feelin' woman; she did 
 make him a good wife, if I say it that 
 shouldn't o' my own sister," sighed Mrs. 
 Stevens. " She was the best o' housekeep 
 ers, was Marthy. I never went over so neat 
 a house. I ain't got the gift myself. I can 
 clear up, Mis' Martin, but I can't remain 
 cleared up." 
 
 The two sisters turned to their pathetic 
 work of looking over the orderly closets 
 and making solemn researches into the sus 
 pected shelters of moths. Much talk of the 
 past was suggested by the folding of blan 
 kets ; and as they set back the chairs, and 
 brushed the floors that were made untidy 
 by the funeral guests of the day before,
 
 172 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 they wondered afresh what would become of 
 Israel Haydon, and what plan he would make 
 for himself ; for Mrs. Martin could only stay 
 with him for a few days, and Mrs. Stevens 
 was obliged to return as soon as possible to 
 her busy household and an invalid daughter. 
 As long as they could stay the house went 
 on as usual, and Israel Haydon showed no 
 apprehension of difficulties ahead. He took 
 up the routine of his simple fashion of life, 
 and when William asked if he should bring 
 his team to plough, he received the surprised 
 answer that all those things were settled 
 when they talked about them earlier in the 
 spring. Of course he should want potatoes, 
 and it was high time they were planted. A 
 boy arrived from the back country who had 
 lived at the farm the summer before, a 
 willing, thick-headed young person in pro 
 cess of growth, and Israel Haydon took 
 great exception to his laziness and inordi 
 nate appetite, and threatened so often to 
 send him back where he came from that only 
 William's insistence that they had entered 
 into an engagement with poor Thomas, and 
 the women's efforts toward reconciliation, 
 prevailed. 
 
 When sister Martin finally departed, bag
 
 A SECOND SPRING, 173 
 
 and baggage, she felt as if she were leav 
 ing her brother to be the prey of disaster. 
 He was sternly self-reliant, and watched 
 her drive away down the lane with some 
 thing like a sense of relief. The offending 
 Thomas was standing by, expecting rebuke 
 almost with an air of interest; but the old 
 man only said to him, in an apologetic and 
 friendly way, "There! we 've got to get 
 along a spell without any women folks, my 
 son. I haven't heard of any housekeeper 
 to suit me, but we '11 get along together till 
 I do." 
 
 " There 's a great sight o' things cooked 
 up, sir," said Thomas, with shining eyes. 
 
 "We '11 get along," repeated the old man. 
 "I won't have you take no liberties, but if 
 we save the time from other things, we can 
 manage just as well as the women. I want 
 you to sweep out good, night an' morning, 
 an' fetch me the wood an' water, an' I '11 
 see to the housework." There was no idea 
 of appointing Thomas as keeper of the pan 
 try keys, and a shadow of foreboding dark 
 ened the lad's hopeful countenance as the 
 master of the house walked away slowly up 
 the yard.
 
 174 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 m. 
 
 It was the month of June ; the trees were 
 in full foliage ; there was no longer any look 
 of spring in the landscape, and the air and 
 sky belonged to midsummer. Mrs. Israel 
 Haydon had been dead nearly two months. 
 
 On a Sunday afternoon the father and son 
 sat in two old splint-bottomed chairs just in 
 side the wood-house, in the shade. The wide 
 doors were always thrown back at that time 
 of the year, and there was a fine view across 
 the country. William Haydon could see his 
 own farm spread out like a green map ; he 
 was scanning the boundaries of the orderly 
 fences and fields and the stretches of wood 
 land and pasture. He looked away at them 
 from time to time, or else bent over and 
 poked among the wood-house dust and fine 
 chips with his walking-stick. " There 's an 
 old buckle that I lost one day ever so many 
 years ago," he exclaimed suddenly, and 
 reached down to pick it up. William was 
 beginning to look stout and middle-aged. 
 He held out the rusty buckle to his father, 
 but Israel Haydon sat stiffly upright, and 
 hardly gave a glance at the useless object. 
 
 "I thought Elder Wall preached an ex
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 175 
 
 cellent discourse this morning." William 
 made further attempt to engage his father's 
 interest and attention, but without avail. 
 
 "I wish you 'd tell me what 's the matter 
 with you, sir," said the troubled son, turning 
 squarely, and with honest kindness in his 
 look. "It hurts my feelings, father. If 
 I 've put you out, I want to make amends. 
 Mai-ilia 's worried to death for fear it 's on 
 her account. We both set everything by 
 you, but you hold us off ; and I feel, when I 
 try to be company for you, as if you thought 
 I belonged in jail, and hadn't no rights of 
 any kind. Can't you talk right out with me, 
 sir? Ain't you well? " 
 
 "There! don't run on, boy," said the old 
 man sadly. "I do the best I can; you've 
 got to give me time. I 'm dreadful hard 
 pushed losin' of your mother. I 've lost my 
 home; you ain't got the least idea what it 
 is, William." 
 
 His old face quivered, and William rose 
 hastily and went a step or two forward, 
 making believe that he was looking after his 
 horse. "Stand still, there! " he shouted to 
 the placid creature, and then came back and 
 reached out his hand to his father. 
 
 Israel took hold of it, but looked up, a
 
 176 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 little puzzled. "You ain't going yet? "he 
 asked. "Why, you 've only just come." 
 
 " I want you to ride over with me to sup 
 per to-night. I want you to see how well 
 that piece o' late corn looks, after all your 
 saying I might 's well lay it down to turnips. 
 Come, father ; the horse 's right here, and 
 't will make a change for you. Ain't you 
 about got through with them pies aunt 
 Martin left you when she went away? 
 Come; we 're goin' to have a hearty supper, 
 and I want ye." 
 
 "I don't know but I will," said Israel 
 Haydon slowly. "We've got on pretty 
 well no, we ain't, neither. I ain't com 
 fortable, and I can't make nothin' o' that 
 poor shout of a boy. I 'm buying o' the 
 baker an' frying a pan o' pork the whole 
 time, trying to fill him up. I never was 
 so near out o' pork this time o' year, not 
 since I went to housekeepin'." 
 
 "I heard he 'd been tellin' round the 
 neighborhood that he was about starved," 
 said William plainly. "Our folks always 
 had the name o' being good providers." 
 
 " How 'd your mother use to wash up the 
 cups an' things to make 'em look decent?" 
 asked Mr. Haydon suddenly; there was
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 177 
 
 the humility of broken pride in his tone. 
 "I can't seem to find nothin' to do with, 
 anywhere about the house. I s'posed I 
 knew where everything was. I expect I 've 
 got out all poor mother's best things, with 
 out knowin' the difference. Except there 
 ain't nothin' nowhere that looks right to 
 me," he added. 
 
 William stooped to pick something out of 
 the chips. "You'll have to ask Marilla," 
 he said. "It mortifies me to have you go on 
 in such a way. Now, father, you would n't 
 hear to anybody that was named to you, but 
 if you go on this way much longer you '11 
 find that any housekeeper 's better than 
 none." 
 
 "Why, I 've only been waiting to hear of 
 a proper person," said Israel Hay don, turn 
 ing an innocent and aggrieved countenance 
 upon his son. " My house is in a terrible 
 state, now I can tell you." 
 
 William looked away and tried to keep 
 his face steady. 
 
 "What do you find to laugh at?" asked 
 the poor father, in the tone of a school 
 master. 
 
 "Don't you know I spoke of somebody to 
 you? I believe 'twas the very day after
 
 178 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 the funeral," said WiDiam persuasively. 
 "Her name is Maria Durrant." 
 
 " I remember the person well ; an excel 
 lent, sensible woman, no flummery, and did 
 remarkable well in case of sickness at your 
 house," said Mr. Haydon, with enthusiasm, 
 stepping briskly toward the wagon after he 
 had shut and fastened the wood-house doors 
 and put the padlock key in his pocket. 
 "What of her? You said there was no 
 chance of getting her, didn't you? " 
 
 "I was afraid so; but she 's left her bro 
 ther's folks now, and come to stop a little 
 while with Manila . She 's at the house this 
 minute ; came last night. You know, Ma- 
 rilla 's very fond of having her cousins come 
 to stop with her," apologized the son, in fear 
 lest his simple plot should be discovered and 
 resented. "You can see if she 's such a per 
 son as you want. I have been thinking all 
 day that she might do for a time, anyway." 
 
 "Anybody '11 do," said Mr. Haydon sud 
 denly. "I tell ye, William, I'm drove to 
 the wall. I feel to covet a good supper; an' 
 I 'm ashamed to own it, a man o' my prop 
 erty ! I '11 observe this Miss Durrant, an' 
 speak with her after tea; perhaps she'd 
 have the sense to come right over to-mor-
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 179 
 
 row. You an' Marilla can tell her how 
 I 've been situated. I wa'n't going to 
 have no such persons in my house as were 
 recommended," he grumbled on cheerfully. 
 "I don't keep a town-farm for the incapa 
 ble, nor do I want an old grenadier set over 
 me like that old maid Smith. I ain't going 
 to be turned out of my own house." 
 
 They drove along the road slowly, and 
 presently the ever - interesting subject of 
 crops engaged their further attention. When 
 they turned into William Hay don's side 
 yard a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, 
 in a neat black dress and a big clean white 
 apron, sat on the piazza with Marilla and the 
 children. Israel Hay don's heart felt lighter 
 than it had for many a week. He went and 
 shook hands with Maria Durrant, with more 
 than interest and approval ; there was even 
 a touch of something like gallantry in his 
 manner. William Haydon glanced at his 
 wife and gave an unconscious sigh of relief. 
 
 The next morning Miss Durrant helped 
 with the early work, talking with William's 
 wife as she went to and fro busily in the 
 large kitchen, and listening to all that could 
 be said of the desperate state of affairs at
 
 180 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 the old farm. The two women so doubled 
 their diligence by working together that it 
 was still early in the day when Maria, 
 blushing noticeably, said that she thought 
 there was no use in waiting until afternoon, 
 as old Mr. Haydon had directed. There 
 must be plenty to do; and the sooner the 
 house was put to rights and some cooking 
 got under way the better. She had her old 
 calico dress all on, and she deemed it best 
 to go over and go right to work. 
 
 "There! I don't know what to say, 
 Maria," said Marilla Haydon doubtfully. 
 "Father Haydon 's such a set person." 
 
 "So be I," rejoined Maria. "And who 
 knows how bad those rooms need airing! 
 I 've thought of twenty things that ought to 
 be done right off, before night. Or I could 
 work a spell in the gardin if he don't seem 
 to want me in the house. Now, wa'n't it 
 affectin' to hear him let on that he 'd gone 
 an' made poor Mis' Haydon 's flower gardin 
 same 's he 'd always done? It showed real 
 feelin', did n't it? I am goin' to take holt 
 over there as if 't was for her as well as for 
 him. That time I was here so long, when 
 you was so sick, I did just admire Mis' Hay 
 don. She was a beautiful-looking woman,
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 181 
 
 and so pretty -behaved ; quiet, but observin'. 
 I never saw a man age as William's father 
 has; it made my heart ache when I first 
 caught sight of him driving into the yard 
 last night." 
 
 "He revived up conversin' with you an' 
 makin' such a good hearty tea," suggested 
 Manila, disappearing in the pantry. "I 
 ain't never felt free with father Hay don, 
 but I do respect him," she added presently. 
 "Well, now, go right over, Maria, if you 
 feel moved to. I don't know but what 
 you 're wise. P'r'aps William an' I '11 
 walk over, after supper 's put away. I 
 guess you 've got a busy day before you." 
 
 She stood at the open door and watched 
 Maria Durrant go away, a few minutes 
 later, with a plump bundle under one arm. 
 
 "I should think you were going to seek 
 your fortune," she called merrily, as the 
 good woman turned into the road ; but Ma 
 ria wagged her head with a cheerful nod, 
 and did not deign to look back. "I ought 
 to have given her some bread to tuck under 
 the other arm, like the picture of Benjamin 
 Franklin. I dare say they do need bread; 
 I ought to have thought of it," said Marilla 
 anxiously, as she returned to the pantry.
 
 182 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 "But there! Father Haydon 's got as far 
 along in housekeeping as stopping the baker ; 
 an' he was put out because I sent things 
 too soon, before aunt Martin's provisions 
 were gone. I '11 risk cousin Maria to get 
 along." 
 
 The new housekeeper trod the little foot 
 path at the road edge with a firm step. She 
 was as eager and delighted as if she were 
 bent on a day's pleasuring. A truly sym 
 pathetic, unselfish heart beat in her breast ; 
 she fairly longed to make the lonely, obsti 
 nate old man comfortable. Presently she 
 found herself going up the long Haydon lane 
 in the shade of the apple-trees. The great 
 walnut-trees at the other side of the house 
 were huge and heavy with leaves ; there was 
 a general floweriness and pleasantness over 
 all growing things ; but the tall thin spruce 
 that towered before the front door looked 
 black and solitary, and bore a likeness to old 
 Mr. Haydon himself. Such was the force of 
 this comparison that Miss Durrant stopped 
 and looked at it with compassion. 
 
 Then her eyes fell upon the poor flower 
 bed overgrown with weeds, through which 
 the bachelor's-buttons and London-pride 
 were pushing their way into bloom. "I
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 183 
 
 guess I '11 set a vine to grow up that tree ; 
 't would get sun enough, an' look real live 
 and pretty," she decided, surveying the sit 
 uation; then she moved on, with perhaps 
 less eagerness in her gait, and boldly en 
 tered the side door of the house. She could 
 hear the sound of an axe in the shed, as 
 if some one were chopping up kindlings. 
 When she caught sight of the empty kitchen 
 she dropped her bundle into the nearest 
 chair, and held up her hands in what was no 
 affectation of an appearance of despair. 
 
 rv. 
 
 One day in May, about a year from the 
 time that Martha Haydon died, Maria Dur- 
 rant was sitting by the western window of 
 the kitchen, mending Mr. Haydon 's second- 
 best black coat, when she looked down the 
 lane and saw old Polly Norris approaching 
 the house. Polly was an improvident mo 
 ther of improvident children, not always 
 quite sound in either wits or behavior, but 
 she had always been gently dealt with by 
 the Haydons, and, as it happened, was also 
 an old acquaintance of Maria Durrant's own. 
 Maria gave a little groan at the sight of her : 
 she did not feel just then like listening to
 
 184 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 long tales or responding to troublesome de 
 mands. She nodded kindly to the foolish 
 old creature, who presently came wheezing 
 and lamenting into the clean sunshiny 
 kitchen, and dropped herself like an armful 
 of old clothes into the nearest chair. 
 
 Maria rose and put by her work ; she was 
 half glad, after all, to have company; and 
 Polly Norris was not without certain powers 
 of good-fellowship and entertaining speech. 
 
 "I expect this may be the last time I 
 can get so fur," she announced. "'Tis just 
 'bout a year sence we was all to Mis' Hay- 
 don's funeral. I did n't know but that was 
 the last time. Well, I do' know but it 's so 
 I can accept that piece o' pie. I 've come 
 fur, an* my strength 's but small. How 's 
 William's folks?" 
 
 " They 're smart," answered Maria, seat 
 ing herself to her work again, after the ex 
 pedition to the pantry. 
 
 "I tell ye this is beautiful pie," said the 
 guest, looking up, after a brief and busy 
 silence; "a real comfortable help o' pie, 
 after such a walk, feeble as I be. I 've 
 failed a sight sence you see me before, now 
 ain't I?" 
 
 " I don't know 's I see any change to
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 185 
 
 speak of," said Maria, bending over the 
 coat. 
 
 "Lord bless you, an' Heaven too! I 
 ain't eat no such pie as this sence I was a 
 girl. Your rule, was it, or poor Mis' Hay- 
 don's?" 
 
 "I've always made my pies that same 
 way," said Maria soberly. "I 'm pleased 
 you should enjoy it." 
 
 " I expect my walk give me an extry ap 
 petite. I can walk like a bird, now, I tell 
 ye; last summer I went eleven miles, an' 
 ag'in nine miles. You just ought to see me 
 on the road, an' here I be, goin' on seventy- 
 seven year old. There ain't so many places 
 to go to as there used to be. I 've known a 
 sight o' nice kind folks that 's all gone. 
 It 's re'lly sad how folks is goin'. There 's 
 all Mis' Nash's folks passed away; the old 
 doctor, an' the little grandgirl, an' Mis' 
 Nash that was like a mother to me, an' al 
 ways had somethin' to give me; an' down 
 to Glover's Corner they 're all gone " 
 
 "Yes, anybody feels such changes," re 
 plied Maria compassionately. "You 've 
 seen trouble, ain't you?" 
 
 "I 've seen all kinds of trouble," said the 
 withered little creature, mournfully.
 
 186 A SECOND SPBfNG. 
 
 "How is your daughter to South Atfield 
 gettin' along?" asked the hostess kindly, 
 after a pause, while Polly worked away at 
 the pie. 
 
 "Lord bless you! this pie is so heart- 
 enin', somehow or 'nother, after such a 
 walk. Susan Louisa is doin' pretty well; 
 she 's a sight improved from what she was. 
 Folks is very considerate to Susan Louisa. 
 She goes to the Orthodox church, an* sence 
 she was sick there 's been a committee to 
 see to her. They met, fifteen in number. 
 One on 'em give her two quarts o' milk a 
 day. Mr. Dean, Susan Louisa's husband, 
 died the eighth day o' last March." 
 
 "Yes, I heard he was gone, rather sud 
 den," said Maria, showing more interest. 
 
 " Yes, but he was 'twixt eighty an' ninety 
 year old. Susan Louisa was but fifty-one 
 in February last." 
 
 "He'd have done better for you, would 
 n't he, Mis' Norris?" suggested Maria, by 
 way of pleasantry, but there was a long and 
 doubtful pause. 
 
 "I had rather be excused," said Polly at 
 last, with great emphasis. "Miss Maria 
 Durrant, ain't you got a calico dress you 
 could spare, or an apron, or a pair o' rub-
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 187 
 
 bers, anyways? I be extra needy, now, I 
 tell you ! There ; I ain't inquired for Wil 
 liam's folks; how be they?" 
 
 "All smart," said Maria, for the second 
 time; but she happened to look up just in 
 time to catch a strange gleam in her visi 
 tor's eyes. 
 
 "Mis' William don't come here, I ex 
 pect?" she asked mysteriously. 
 
 "She never was no great of a visitor. 
 Yes, she comes sometimes," answered Maria 
 Durrant. 
 
 "I understood William had forbid her 
 till you 'd got away, if she was your own 
 cousin." 
 
 "We're havin' no trouble together. 
 What do you mean? " Maria demanded. 
 
 "Well, my hearing ain't good." Polly 
 tried to get herself into safe shelter of gen 
 eralities. " Old folks kind o' dreams things ; 
 you must excuse me, Maria. But I certain 
 have heard a sight o' talk about your stop- 
 pin' here so long with Mr. Haydon, and 
 that William thought you was overdoin', 
 an' would have spoke, only you was his 
 wife's cousin. There 's plenty stands up 
 for you; I should always be one of 'em my 
 self ; you need n't think but I 'm a friend,
 
 188 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 Maria. I heard somebody a-remarking that 
 you was goin' to stay till you got him ; an' 
 others said Mr. Israel Haydon was one to 
 know his own mind, and he never would 
 want to put nobody in his wife's place, they 
 set so by one another. An' I spoke a good 
 word for ye. I says, * Now look here ! 
 't ain't 's if Mari' Durrant was a girl o' 
 twenty-five ; she 's a smart capable creatur',' 
 says I, 4 an""- 
 
 "I guess I 've got an old dress I can let 
 you have." 
 
 Maria Durrant, with crimson cheeks and 
 a beating heart, rose suddenly and escaped 
 to the back stairway. She left old Polly 
 sitting in the kitchen so long that she fell 
 into a comfortable drowse, from which she 
 was recalled by Maria's reappearance with 
 a bundle of discarded garments, but there 
 was something stern and inhospitable in 
 these last moments of the visit, and Polly 
 soon shuffled off down the lane, mumbling 
 and muttering and hugging the bundle with 
 great delight. She always enjoyed her visits 
 to the Haydon farm. But she had left Miss 
 Durrant crying by the western window; the 
 bitter tears were falling on Israel Haydon 's 
 old black coat. It seemed very hard that
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 189 
 
 a woman who had spent all her life working 
 for others should be treated as the enemy of 
 kindred and acquaintance ; this was almost 
 the first time in all her history that she had 
 managed to gather and hold a little peace 
 and happiness. There was nothing to do 
 now but to go back to her brother's noisy 
 shiftless house; to work against wind and 
 tide of laziness and improvidence. She must 
 slave for the three boarders, so that her 
 brother's wife could go to New York State 
 to waste her time with a sister just as worth 
 less, though not so penniless, as herself. 
 And there was young Johnny, her nephew, 
 working with Mr. Haydon on the farm, and 
 doing so well, he must go back too, and be 
 put into the factory. Maria looked out of 
 the window ; through the tears that stood in 
 her eyes the smooth green fields were mag 
 nified and transfigured. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Haydon en 
 tered with deliberate step and a pleasant 
 reassuring look. He almost never smiled, 
 but he happened to be smiling then. "I 
 observed you had company just now ; I saw 
 old Polly Norris going down the lane when 
 I was coming up from the field," he said, 
 and then stopped suddenly, and took a step
 
 190 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 nearer to Maria; he had never seen his 
 cheerful housemate in tears. He did not 
 ask the reason ; they both felt embarrassed, 
 and yet each was glad of the other's pres 
 ence. Mr. Hay don did not speak, but Ma 
 ria brushed her tears away, and tried to go 
 on sewing. She was mending the lining of 
 the second-best black coat with most touch 
 ing care. 
 
 " I expect I shall have to take that co't 
 for every day now, an' get me a new one 
 for best," he announced at last, because 
 somebody had to say something. "I've 
 about finished with this. Spring work is 
 hard on an old co't." 
 
 "Your best one is gettin' a little mite 
 threadbare in the back," said Maria, but it 
 was hard for her to control her voice. " I '11 
 put all your clothes in as good repair as I 
 can before I go, sir. I 've come to the con 
 clusion that I ought to go back to my bro 
 ther's folks, his wife wants to go off on a 
 visit " - 
 
 "Don't you, Maria," exclaimed the dis 
 tressed old man. "Don't talk that way; 
 it 's onreasonable. William has informed 
 me about your brother's folks; what else 
 may affect you I don't kriow, but I 've made
 
 A SECOND SPUING. 191 
 
 up my mind. I don't know why 'twas, 
 but I was just comin' to speak about it. I 
 may say 't was for your interest as well as 
 mine, an' with William's approval. I never 
 thought to change my situation till lately. 
 Such a loss as I 've met ain't to be for 
 gotten, an' it ain't forgotten. I 'm gettin' 
 along in years, an' I never was a great 
 talker. I expect you know what I want to 
 say, Miss Durrant. I '11 provide well for 
 you, an' make such a settlement as you an' 
 William approve. He 's well off, an' he 
 spoke to me about us ; that we was comfort 
 able together, an' he never wanted to see 
 me left alone, as I was last year. How do 
 you feel yourself? You feel that 'twould 
 be good judgment, now don't ye? " 
 
 Maria never had heard Mr. Israel Hay- 
 don say so much at any one time. There 
 he stood, a man of sixty-eight, without pre 
 tense of having fallen in love, but kind and 
 just, and almost ministerial in his respecta 
 bility. She had always followed a faint but 
 steady star of romance, which shone still 
 for her in the lowering sky of her life ; it 
 seemed to shine before her eyes now; it 
 dazzled her through fresh tears. Yet, after 
 all, she felt that this was really her home,
 
 192 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 and with a sudden great beat of her heart, 
 she knew that she should say "Yes " to Mr. 
 Haydon. The sharp sting in the thought 
 of going away had been that she must leave 
 him to the ignorant devotion or neglect of 
 somebody else some other woman was go 
 ing to have the dear delight of making him 
 comfortable. 
 
 So she looked up full in his face, unmind 
 ful of the bleakness of his love-making, and 
 was touched to see that he bore the aspect 
 of a truly anxious and even affectionate 
 man. Without further words they both 
 knew that the great question was settled. 
 The star of romance presently turned itself 
 into the bright kitchen lamp that stood be 
 tween them as Maria sewed her long winter 
 seam and looked up contentedly to see Mr. 
 Haydon sitting opposite with his weekly 
 newspaper. 
 
 v. 
 
 Mr. Haydon owned one of the last old- 
 fashioned two-wheeled chaises, a select few 
 of which still survived in the retired region 
 of Atfield. It would not have suited him 
 to go to church in a wagon like his neigh 
 bors, any more than he could have bought a
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 193 
 
 rough working-suit of new clothes for every 
 day. The chaise-top had always framed the 
 faces of Mr. Haydon and Martha, his first 
 wife, in a fitting manner not unlike a 
 Friend's plain bonnet on a larger scale ; it 
 had belonged to their placid appearance of 
 old-time respectability. Now that Maria, 
 the second wife, had taken the vacant seat 
 by the driver's side, her fresher color and 
 eager enjoyment of the comfort and dignity 
 of the situation were remarked with plea 
 sure. She had not been forward about 
 keeping Mr. Haydon company before their 
 marriage; for some reason she was not a 
 constant church-goer, and usually had some 
 excuse for staying at home, both on Sun 
 days and when there was any expedition on 
 business to one of the neighboring towns. 
 But after the wedding these invitations were 
 accepted as a matter of course. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon they were bobbing 
 home from meeting in their usual sedate and 
 placid fashion. There had been a very good 
 sermon, and two or three strangers in the 
 congregation, old acquaintances who had 
 left Atfield for the West, stopped to speak 
 with their friends after the service was over. 
 It was a lovely day, and there was the peace-
 
 194 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 fulness of Sunday over the landscape, the 
 wide untenanted fields, the woods near and 
 far, and the distant hills. The old pacing 
 horse jogged steadily along. 
 
 "I was thinking how your wife would 
 have enjoyed seeing the folks; wouldn't 
 she?" said Maria, with gentle sympathy. 
 
 "The thought was just dwelling in my 
 mind," said the old man, turning toward 
 her, a little surprised. 
 
 "I was sorry I was stand in' right there; 
 they did n't feel so free to speak, you know," 
 said Maria, who had accepted her place as 
 substitute with a touching self-forgetfulness 
 and devotion, following as best she could 
 the humblest by-paths of the first Mrs. 
 Hay don' s career. 
 
 "Marthyand Mis' Chellis that you saw 
 to-day was always the best of friends ; they 
 was girls together," said Mr. Haydon, sway 
 ing his whip-lash. "They was second cou 
 sins on the father's side." 
 
 "Don't you expect Mis' Chellis 'd like to 
 come an' take tea with you some afternoon? 
 I always feel as if 't would be sad for you, 
 such an occasion, but I '11 have everything 
 real nice. Folks seem to be paying her a 
 good deal of attention," suggested Maria.
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 195 
 
 "And when anybody has been away a good 
 while, they like to go all round and see all 
 the places that 's familiar, if they do feel 
 the changes." 
 
 "Yes, I guess we 'd better invite her to 
 spend the afternoon," said the old man, and 
 they jogged on together in silence. 
 
 "Have you got everything you want to 
 do with? " asked Mr. Haydon kindly. 
 
 "Certain," answered Maria, with satis 
 faction. "I never was acquainted with such 
 a good provider as you be in all the houses 
 I 've ever stopped in; I can say that. 
 You 've remembered a number o' things 
 this past week that I should have forgot 
 myself. I 've seen what other women folks 
 has to go through with, being obliged to 
 screw every way an' make up things out o' 
 nothing, afraid to say the flour 's gone or 
 the sugar 's out. Them very husbands is 
 the ones that '11 find most fault if their 
 tables ain't spread with what they want. I 
 know now what made your wife always look 
 so pleased an' contented." 
 
 "She was very saving an' judicious by 
 natur'," said Mr. Haydon, as if he did not 
 wish to take so much praise entirely to him 
 self. " I call you a very saving woman too,
 
 196 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 Maria," he added, looking away over the 
 fields, as if he had made some remark about 
 the grass. 
 
 The bright color rushed to Maria's face, 
 but she could not say anything. There was 
 something very pleasant in the air; the 
 fields appeared new to her and most beauti 
 ful ; it was a moment of great happiness. 
 
 "I tell you I felt it dreadfully when I 
 was alone all that time. I enjoy having 
 somebody to speak with now about poor 
 Martha," said the old man, with great feel 
 ing. 
 
 "It was dreadful lonely for you, wa'n't 
 it? " said Maria, in her sensible, pleasant, 
 compassionate tone. 
 
 "People meant well enough with their 
 advice, but I was set so cross-wise that it 
 all seemed like interference. I 'd got to 
 wait till the right thing came round an' 
 it come at last," announced Mr. Hay don 
 handsomely. "I feel to be very grateful. 
 Yes, I want to have Mis' Chellis come an* 
 take tea, just as she used to. We '11 look 
 over what 's left o' poor Marthy's little 
 things, an' select something to give her for 
 a remembrance. 'T ain't very likely she '11 
 come 'way East again at her time o' life.
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 197 
 
 She's havin' a grand time; it acts to me 
 just like a last visit." 
 
 "I '11 make some nice pound-cake to-mor 
 row, and we '11 ask her next day," said 
 Maria cheerfully, as they turned into the 
 lane. 
 
 Maria Haydon's life had been spent in 
 trying to make other people comfortable, 
 and so she succeeded, oftener than she knew, 
 in making them happy. Every day she 
 seemed to forget herself, and to think of 
 others more; and so, though old Mrs..Chel- 
 lis missed her friend when she came to tea 
 the next day but one, she soon forgot the 
 sadness of the first few minutes, and began 
 to enjoy the kind welcome of Mr. Haydon 
 and his present companion. 
 
 A little later Mr. Haydon was coming 
 back from one of his fields to look after 
 some men whom he and his son had set to 
 work at ditching. Most of the talk that 
 afternoon had naturally been connected with 
 his first wife, but now everything along his 
 path reminded him of Maria. Her prosper 
 ous flock of young turkeys were heading 
 northward at a little distance out across the 
 high grass land; and below, along the brook,
 
 198 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 went the geese and goslings in a sedate pro 
 cession. The young pear-trees which she 
 had urged him to set out looked thrifty and 
 strong as he passed, and there were some 
 lengths of linen bleaching on a knoll, that 
 she had found yellowing in one of the garret 
 chests. She took care of everything, and, 
 best of all, she took great care of him. He 
 had left the good creature devoting herself 
 to their guest as if she were an old friend in 
 stead of a stranger just for his sake and 
 his wife's sake. Maria always said "your 
 wife " when she spoke of her predecessor. 
 
 "Marthy always said that Maria Durrant 
 was as kind and capable a woman as she 
 ever set eyes on, an' poor Marthy was one 
 that knew," said Mr. Hay don to himself as 
 he went along, and his heart grew very ten 
 der. He was not exactly satisfied with him 
 self, but he could not have told why. As 
 he came near, the house looked cheerful and 
 pleasant ; the front door was wide open, and 
 the best-room blinds. The little garden was 
 in full bloom, and there was a sound of 
 friendly voices. Conversation was flowing 
 on with a deep and steady current. Some 
 how the old man felt young again in the 
 midst of his sober satisfaction and renewed
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 199 
 
 prosperity. He lingered near the door, and 
 looked back over his fields as if he were 
 facing life with a sense of great security ; but 
 presently his ears caught at something that 
 the two women were saying in the house. 
 
 Maria was speaking to Mrs. Chellis, who 
 was a little deaf. 
 
 "Yes'm, he does look well," she said. 
 "I think his health 's a good sight better 
 than it was a year ago. I don't know 's you 
 ever saw anybody so pitiful as he was for 
 a good while after he lost his wife. He 
 took it harder than some o' those do that 
 make more talk. Yes, she certain was a 
 lovely woman, and one that knew how to 
 take the lead for him just where a man 
 don't want to be bothered about house 
 matters and little things. He 's a dear, 
 good, kind man, Mr. Haydon is. I feel 
 very grateful for all his kindness. I 've 
 got a lovely home, Mis' Chellis," said Ma 
 ria impulsively; "an' I try to do every 
 thing I can, the way he an' Mis' Haydon 
 always had it." 
 
 "I guess you do," agreed the guest. "I 
 never see him look better since he was a 
 young man. I hope he knows how well off 
 he is!"
 
 200 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 They both laughed a little, and Mr. Hay- 
 don could not help smiling in sympathy. 
 
 "There, I do enjoy spending with him," 
 said the younger woman wistfully; "but I 
 can't help wishin' sometimes that I could 
 have been the one to help him save. I envy 
 Mis' Haydon all that part of it, and I can't 
 help it." 
 
 "Why, you must set a sight by him!" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Chellis, with mild surprise. 
 "I didn't know but what marryin' for love 
 had all gone out of fashion in Atfield." 
 
 "You can tell 'em it ain't," said Maria. 
 At that moment Israel Haydon turned and 
 walked away slowly up the yard. His thin 
 black figure straightened itself gallantly, 
 and he wore the look of a younger man. 
 
 Later that evening, when the guests were 
 gone, after a most cheerful and hospitable 
 occasion, and the company tea things were 
 all put away, Maria was sitting in the 
 kitchen for a few minutes to rest, and Mr. 
 Haydon had taken his own old chair near 
 the stove, and sat there tapping his finger- 
 ends together. They had congratulated each 
 other handsomely, because everything had 
 gone off so well; but suddenly they both 
 felt as if there were a third person present;
 
 A SECOND SPRING. 201 
 
 their feeling toward one another seemed to 
 change. Something seemed to prompt them 
 to new confidence and affection, to speak 
 the affectionate thoughts that were in their 
 hearts; it was no rebuking, injured pres 
 ence, for a sense of great contentment filled 
 their minds. Israel Haydon tapped his fin 
 gers less regularly than usual, and Maria 
 found herself unable to meet his eyes. 
 
 The silence between them grew more and 
 more embarrassing, and at last Mr. Haydon 
 remembered that he had not locked the 
 barn, and rose at once, crossing the kitchen 
 with quicker steps than usual. Maria looked 
 up at him as he passed. 
 
 "Yes, everything went off beautifully," 
 she repeated. "Mis' Chellis is real good 
 company. I enjoyed hearing her talk about 
 old times. She set everything by Mis' Hay 
 don, didn't she? You had a good wife, 
 Mr. Haydon, certain," said Maria, wist 
 fully, as he hesitated a moment at the door. 
 
 Israel Haydon did not answer a word, 
 but went his way and shut the door behind 
 him. It was a cool evening after the plea 
 sant day ; the air felt a little chilly. He did 
 not go beyond the doorsteps, for something 
 seemed to draw him back, so he lifted the
 
 202 A SECOND SPRING. 
 
 clinking latch and stepped bravely into the 
 kitchen again, and stood there a moment in 
 the bright light. 
 
 Maria Haydon turned toward him as she 
 stood at the cupboard with a little lamp in 
 her hand. " Why, Mr. Haydon ! what 's 
 the matter? " She looked startled at first, 
 but her face began to shine. "Now don't 
 you go and be foolish, Isr'el ! " she said. 
 
 "Maria," said he, "I want to say to you 
 that I feel to be very thankful. I 've got a 
 good wife now."
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 
 
 THE town of Dulham was not used to 
 seeing foreigners of any sort, or to hearing 
 their voices in its streets, so that it was in 
 some sense a matter of public interest when 
 a Canadian family was reported to have 
 come to the white house by the bridge. 
 This house, small and low-storied, with a 
 bushy little garden in front, had been stand 
 ing empty for several months. Usually 
 when a house was left tenantless in Dulham 
 it remained so and fell into decay, and, 
 after some years, the cinnamon rose bushes 
 straggled into the cellar, and the dutiful 
 grass grew over the mound that covered the 
 chimney bricks. Dulham was a quiet place, 
 where the population dwindled steadily, 
 though such citizens as remained had reason 
 to think it as pleasant as any country town 
 in the world. 
 
 Some of the old men who met every day 
 to talk over the town affairs were much in 
 terested in the newcomers. They approved
 
 204 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 
 
 the course of the strong-looking young Ca 
 nadian laborer who had been quick to seize 
 upon his opportunity; one or two of them 
 had already engaged him to make their gar 
 dens, and to do odd jobs, and were pleased 
 with his quickness and willingness. He had 
 come afoot one day from a neighboring town, 
 where he and his wife had been made ill by 
 bad drainage and factory work, and saw the 
 little house, and asked the postmaster if 
 there were any work to be had out of doors 
 that spring in Dulham. Being assured of 
 his prospects, he reappeared with his pale, 
 bright-eyed wife and little daughter the very 
 next day but one. This startling prompt 
 ness had given time for but few persons to 
 hear the news of a new neighbor, and as 
 one after another came over the bridge and 
 along the road there were many questions 
 asked. The house seemed to have new life 
 looking out of its small-paned windows; 
 there were clean white curtains, and china 
 dogs on the window-sills, and a blue smoke 
 in the chimney the spring sun was shin 
 ing in at the wide-open door. 
 
 There was a chilly east wind on an April 
 day, and the elderly men were gathered in 
 side the post-office, which was also the chief
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 205 
 
 grocery and dry-goods store. Each was in 
 his favorite armchair, and there was the ex 
 cuse of a morning fire in the box stove to 
 make them form again into the close group 
 that was usually broken up at the approach 
 of summer weather. Old Captain Weathers 
 was talking about Alexis, the newcomer 
 (they did not try to pronounce his last 
 name), and was saying for the third or 
 fourth time that the more work you set for 
 the Frenchman the better pleased he seemed 
 to be. "Helped 'em to lay a carpet yester 
 day at our house, neat as wax," said the 
 Captain, with approval. "Made the gar 
 den in the front yard so it has n't looked 
 so well for years. We 're all goin' to find 
 him very handy; he '11 have plenty to do 
 among us all summer. Seems to know what 
 you want the minute you p'int, for he can't 
 make out very well with his English. I 
 used to be able to talk considerable French 
 in my early days when I sailed from south 
 ern ports to Havre and Bordeaux, but I 
 don't seem to recall it now very well. He 'd 
 have made a smart sailor, Alexis would; 
 quick an' willing." 
 
 "They say Canada French ain't spoken 
 the same, anyway" began the Captain's
 
 206 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 
 
 devoted friend, Mr. Ezra Spooner, by way 
 of assurance, when the store door opened 
 and a bright little figure stood looking in. 
 All the gray -headed men turned that way, 
 and every one of them smiled. 
 
 "Come right in, dear," said the kind- 
 hearted old Captain. 
 
 They saw a charming little creature about 
 six years old, who smiled back again from 
 under her neat bit of a hat; she wore a 
 pink frock that made her look still more like 
 a flower, and she said " Bonjour" prettily 
 to the gentlemen as she passed. Henry 
 Staples, the storekeeper and postmaster, 
 rose behind the counter to serve this cus 
 tomer as if she had been a queen, and took 
 from her hand the letter she brought, with 
 the amount of its postage folded up in a 
 warm bit of newspaper. 
 
 The Captain and his friends looked on 
 with admiration. 
 
 " Give her a piece of candy no, give it 
 to me an' I '11 give it to her," said the Cap 
 tain eagerly, reaching for his cane and leav 
 ing his chair with more than usual agility; 
 and everybody looked on with intent while he 
 took a striped stick of peppermint from the 
 storekeeper and offered it gallantly. There
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 207 
 
 was something in the way this favor was ac 
 cepted that savored of the French court and 
 made every man in the store a lover. 
 
 The child made a quaint bow before she 
 reached out her hand with childish eagerness 
 for the unexpected delight ; then she stepped 
 forward and kissed the Captain. 
 
 There was a murmur of delight at this 
 charming courtesy; there was not a man 
 who would not have liked to find some ex 
 cuse for walking away with her, and there 
 was a general sigh as she shut the door be 
 hind her and looked back through the glass 
 with a parting smile. 
 
 "That 's little French Mary, Alexis's lit 
 tle girl," said the storekeeper, eager to pro 
 claim his advantage of previous acquain 
 tance. "She came here yesterday and did 
 an errand for her mother as nice as a grown 
 person could." 
 
 "I never saw a little creatur' with pret 
 tier ways," said the Captain, blushing and 
 tapping his cane on the floor. 
 
 This first appearance of the little for 
 eigner on an April day was like the coming 
 of a young queen to her kingdom. She 
 reigned all summer over every heart in Dul- 
 ham there was not a face but wore its
 
 208 LITTLE FRENCH MART. 
 
 smiles when French Mary came down the 
 street, not a mother who 'did not say to her 
 children that she wished they had such 
 pretty manners and kept their frocks as 
 neat. The child danced and sang like a 
 fairy, and condescended to all childish 
 games, and yet, best of all for her friends, 
 she seemed to see no difference between young 
 and old. She sometimes followed Captain 
 Weathers home, and discreetly dined or 
 took tea with him and his housekeeper, an 
 honored guest ; on rainy days she might be 
 found in the shoemaker's shop or the black 
 smith's, as still as a mouse, and with eyes 
 as bright and quick, watching them at their 
 work ; smiling much but speaking little, 
 and teaching as much French as she learned 
 English. To this day, in Dulham, people 
 laugh and repeat her strange foreign words 
 and phrases. Alexis, the father, was steady 
 at his work of gardening and haying ; Marie, 
 the elder, his wife, washed and ironed and 
 sewed and swept, and was a helper in many 
 households ; now and then on Sunday they 
 set off early in the morning and walked to 
 the manufacturing town whence they had 
 come, to go to mass ; at the end of the sum 
 mer, when they felt prosperous, they some-
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 209 
 
 times hired a horse and wagon, and drove 
 there with the child between them. Dulham 
 village was the brighter and better for their 
 presence, and the few old-fashioned houses 
 that knew them treasured them, and French 
 Mary reigned over her kingdom with no re 
 volt or disaffection to the summer's end. She 
 seemed to fulfill all the duties of her child 
 ish life by some exquisite instinct and infal 
 lible sense of fitness and propriety. 
 
 One September morning, after the first 
 frost, the Captain and his friends were sit 
 ting in the store with the door shut. The 
 Captain was the last comer. 
 
 "I've got bad news," he Said, and they 
 all turned toward him, apprehensive and 
 forewarned. 
 
 "Alexis says he 's going right away " 
 (regret was mingled with the joy of having 
 a piece of news to tell). "Yes, Alexis is 
 going away; he 's packing up now, and has 
 spoke for Foster's hay -cart to move his stuff 
 to the railroad." 
 
 "What makes him so foolish?" said Mr. 
 Spooner. 
 
 " He says his folks expect him in Canada ; 
 he 's got an aunt livin' there that owns a
 
 210 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 
 
 good house and farm, and she 's get tin' old 
 and wants to have him settled at home to 
 take care of her." 
 
 "I 've heard these French folks only de 
 sire to get forehanded a little, and then they 
 go right back where they come from," said 
 some one, with an air of disapproval. 
 
 "Hi- says he '11 send another man here; 
 he knows somebody that will be glad of the 
 chance, but I don't seem to like the idea so 
 well," said Captain Weathers doubtfully. 
 " We 've all got so used to Alexis and his 
 wife; they know now where we keep every 
 thing and have got to be so handy. Strange 
 they don't know when they 're well off. I 
 suppose it 's natural they should want to be 
 with their own folks. Then there 's the lit 
 tle girl." 
 
 At this moment the store door was opened 
 and French Mary came in. She was dressed 
 in her best and her eyes were shining. 
 
 "I go to Canada in ze cars!" she an 
 nounced joyfully, and came dancing down 
 between the two long counters toward her 
 regretful friends; they had never seen her 
 so charming. 
 
 Argument and regret were impossible 
 the forebodings of elderly men and their
 
 LITTLE FRENCH MARY. 211 
 
 experience of life were of no use at that 
 moment, a gleam of youth and hope was 
 theirs by sympathy instead. A child's plea 
 sure in a journey moves the dullest heart ; 
 the captain was the first to find some means 
 of expression. 
 
 "Give me some o' that best candy for 
 her, ".he commanded the storekeeper. "No, 
 take a bigger piece of paper, and tie it up 
 well." 
 
 "Ain't she dressed a little thin for trav- 
 elin' ? " asked gruff Mr. Spooner anxiously, 
 and for his part he pointed the storekeeper 
 to a small bright plaid shawl that hung over 
 head, and stooped to wrap it himself about 
 the little shoulders. 
 
 "I must get the little girl something, 
 too," said the minister, who was a grand 
 father, and had just come in for his mail. 
 "What do you like best, my dear?" and 
 French Mary pointed shyly, but with in 
 stant decision, at a blue silk parasol, with a 
 white handle, which was somewhat the worse 
 for having been openly displayed all sum 
 mer. The minister bought it with pleasure, 
 like a country boy at a fair, and put into 
 her hand. 
 
 French Mary kissed the minister with
 
 212 LITTLE FRENCH MART. 
 
 rapture, and gave him her hand to shake, 
 then she put down the parasol and ran and 
 climbed into the old captain's lap and 
 hugged him with both arms tight round his 
 neck. She considered for a moment whether 
 she should kiss Mr. Ezra Spooner or not, 
 but happily did not decide against it, and 
 said an affectionate good-by to him and all 
 the rest. Mr. Staples himself came out from 
 behind the counter to say farewell and bestow 
 a square package of raisins. They all fol 
 lowed her to the door, and stood watching 
 while she tucked her bundles under her arm 
 and raised the new parasol, and walked away 
 down the street in the chilly autumn morn 
 ing. She had taken all her French gayety 
 and charm, all her childish sweetness and 
 dignity away with her. Little French Mary 
 had gone. Fate had plucked her like a 
 flower out of their lives. 
 
 She did not turn back, but when she was 
 half-way home she began to run, and the 
 new shawl was given gayly to the breeze. 
 The captain sighed. 
 
 "I wish the little girl well," he said, and 
 turned away. " We shall miss her, but she 
 does n't know what parting is. I hope she '11 
 please 'em just as well in Canada. "
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 I. 
 
 MRS. PERSIB FLAGG stood in her front 
 doorway taking leave of Miss Cynthia Pick- 
 ett, who had been making a long call. They 
 were not intimate friends. Miss Pickett al 
 ways came formally to the front door and 
 rang when she paid her visits, but, the week 
 before, they had met at the county confer 
 ence, and happened to be sent to the same 
 house for entertainment, and so had deep 
 ened and renewed the pleasures of acquain 
 tance. 
 
 It was an afternoon in early June; the 
 syringa-bushes were tall and green on each 
 side of the stone doorsteps, and were cov 
 ered with their lovely white and golden 
 flowers. Miss Pickett broke off the nearest 
 twig, and held it before her prim face as 
 she talked. She had a pretty childlike 
 smile that came and went suddenly, but her 
 face was not one that bore the mark* of 
 many pleasures. Mrs. Flagg was a tall,
 
 214 THE GUESTS OF MRS. T1MMS. 
 
 commanding sort of person, with an air of 
 satisfaction and authority. 
 
 "Oh, yes, gather all you want," she said 
 stiffly, as Miss Pickett took the syringa 
 without having asked beforehand; but she 
 had an amiable expression, and just now her 
 large countenance was lighted up by plea 
 sant anticipation. 
 
 "We can tell early what sort of a day 
 it 's goin' to be," she said eagerly. "There 
 ain't a cloud in the sky now. I '11 stop for 
 you as I come along, or if there should be 
 anything unforeseen to detain me, I '11 send 
 you word. I don't expect you 'd want to 
 go if it wa'n't so that I could?" 
 
 "Oh my sakes, no! " answered Miss Pick 
 ett discreetly, with a timid flush. "You 
 feel certain that Mis' Timms won't be put 
 out? I shouldn't feel free to go unless I 
 went 'long o' you." 
 
 "Why, nothin' could be plainer than her 
 words," said Mrs. Flagg in a tone of re- 
 pro val. "You saw how she urged me, an* 
 had over all that talk about how we used to 
 see each other often when we both lived to 
 Longport, and told how she 'd been thinkin' 
 of writin', and askin' if it wa'n't so I should 
 be able to come over and stop three or four
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 215 
 
 days as soon as settled weather come, be 
 cause she could n't make no fire in her best 
 chamber on account of the chimbley smokin' 
 if the wind wa'n't just right. You see how 
 she felt toward me, kissin' of me comin' and 
 goin'? Why, she even asked me who I 
 employed to do over my bonnet, Miss Pick- 
 ett, just as interested as if she was a sister; 
 an' she remarked she should look for us any 
 pleasant day after we all got home, an' were 
 settled after the conference." 
 
 Miss Pickett smiled, but did not speak, 
 as if she expected more arguments still. 
 
 "An' she seemed just about as much 
 gratified to meet with you again. She 
 seemed to desire to meet you again very 
 particular," continued Mrs. Flagg. "She 
 really urged us to come together an' have a 
 real good day talkin' over old times there, 
 don't le' 's go all over it again ! I 've al 
 ways heard she 'd made that old house of 
 her aunt Bascoms' where she lives look real 
 handsome. I once heard her best parlor 
 carpet described as being an elegant carpet, 
 different from any there was round here. 
 Why, nobody couldn't be more cordial, 
 Miss Pickett; you ain't goin' to give out 
 just at the last?"
 
 216 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 "Oh, no!" answered the visitor hastily; 
 "no, 'm! I want to go full as much as you 
 do, Mis' Flagg, but you see I never was so 
 well acquainted with Mis' Cap'n Timms, 
 an' I always seem to dread putting myself 
 for'ard. She certain was very urgent, an' 
 she said plain enough to come any day next 
 week, an' here 'tis Wednesday, though of 
 course she would n't look for us either Mon 
 day or Tuesday. 'T will be a real pleasant 
 occasion, an' now we 've been to the confer 
 ence it don't seem near so much effort to 
 start." 
 
 "Why, I don't think nothin' of it," said 
 Mrs. Flagg proudly. "We shall have a 
 grand good time, goin' together an' all, I 
 feel sure." 
 
 Miss Pickett still played with her syringa 
 flower, tapping her thin cheek, and twirling 
 the stem with her fingers. She looked as if 
 she were going to say something more, but 
 after a moment's hesitation she turned away. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mis' Flagg," she said 
 formally, looking up with a quick little 
 smile; "I enjoyed my call; I hope I ain't 
 kep' you too late; I don't know but what 
 it 's 'most tea-tune. Well, I shall look for 
 you in the mornin'."
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 217 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Miss Pickett; I 'm glad 
 I was in when you came. Call again, won't 
 you?" said Mrs. Flagg. "Yes; you may 
 expect me in good season," and so they 
 parted. Miss Pickett went out at the neat 
 clicking gate in the white fence, and Mrs. 
 Flagg a moment later looked out of her sit 
 ting-room window to see if the gate were 
 latched, and felt the least bit disappointed 
 to find that it was. She sometimes went 
 out after the departure of a guest, and fas 
 tened the gate herself with a loud, rebuk 
 ing sound. Both of these Woodville women 
 lived alone, and were very precise in their 
 way of doing things. 
 
 n. 
 
 The next morning dawned clear and 
 bright, and Miss Pickett rose even earlier 
 than usual. She found it most difficult to 
 decide which of her dresses would be best to 
 wear. Summer was still so young that the 
 day had all the freshness of spring, but 
 when the two friends walked away together 
 along the shady street, with a chorus of 
 golden robins singing high overhead in the 
 elms, Miss Pickett decided that she had 
 made a wise choice of her second-best black
 
 218 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 silk gown, which she had just turned again 
 and freshened. It was neither too warm 
 for the season nor too cool, nor did it look 
 overdressed. She wore her large cameo pin, 
 and this, with a long watch-chain, gave an 
 air of proper mural decoration. She was a 
 straight, flat little person, as if, when not in 
 use, she kept herself, silk dress and all, be 
 tween the leaves of a book. She carried a 
 noticeable parasol with a fringe, and a small 
 shawl, with a pretty border, neatly folded 
 over her left arm. Mrs. Flagg always 
 dressed in black cashmere, and looked, to 
 hasty observers, much the same one day as 
 another ; but her companion recognized the 
 fact that this was the best black cashmere 
 of all, and for a moment quailed at the 
 thought that Mrs. Flagg was paying such 
 extreme deference to their prospective host 
 ess. The visit turned for a moment into 
 an unexpectedly solemn formality, and plea 
 sure seemed to wane before Cynthia Pick- 
 ett's eyes, yet with great courage she never 
 slackened a single step. Mrs. Flagg car 
 ried a somewhat worn black leather hand 
 bag, which Miss Pickett regretted; it did 
 not give the visit that casual and unpremedi 
 tated air which she felt to be more elegant.
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 219 
 
 "Sha'n't I carry your bag for you?" she 
 asked timidly. Mrs. Flagg was the older 
 and more important person. 
 
 "Oh, dear me, no," answered Mrs. Flagg. 
 "My pocket's so remote, in case I should 
 desire to sneeze or anything, that I thought 
 't would be convenient for carrying my hand 
 kerchief and pocket-book; an' then I just 
 tucked in a couple o' glasses o' my crab- 
 apple jelly for Mis' Timms. She used to 
 be a great hand for preserves of every sort, 
 an' I thought 'twould be a kind of an at 
 tention, an' give rise to conversation. I 
 know she used to make excellent drop-cakes 
 when we was both residin' to Longport; 
 folks used to say she never would give the 
 right receipt, but if I get a real good chance, 
 I mean to ask her. Or why can't you, if I 
 start talkin' about receipts why can't you 
 say, sort of innocent, that I have always 
 spoken frequently of her drop-cakes, an' 
 ask for the rule? She would be very sensi 
 ble to the compliment, and could pass it off 
 if she didn't feel to indulge us. There, I 
 do so wish you would ! " 
 
 "Yes, 'm," said Miss Pickett doubtfully; 
 "I'll try to make the opportunity. I'm 
 very partial to drop-cakes. Was they flour 
 or rye, Mis' Flagg? "
 
 220 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMM8. 
 
 "They was flour, dear," replied Mrs. 
 Flagg approvingly; "crisp an' light as any 
 you ever see." 
 
 "I wish I had thought to carry somethin' 
 to make it pleasant," said Miss Fickett, 
 after they had walked a little farther ; " but 
 there, I don't know 's 't would look just 
 right, this first visit, to offer anything to 
 such a person as Mis' Timms. In case I 
 ever go over to Baxter again I won't forget 
 to make her some little present, as nice as 
 I 've got. 'T was certain very polite of her 
 to urge me to come with you. I did feel 
 very doubtful at first. I did n't know but 
 she thought it behooved her, because I was 
 in your company at the conference, and she 
 wanted to save my feelin's, and yet expected 
 I would decline. I never was well ac 
 quainted with her ; our folks was n't well off 
 when I first knew her ; 't was before uncle 
 Cap'n Dyer passed away an' remembered 
 mother an' me in his will. We couldn't 
 make no han'some companies in them days, 
 so we didn't go to none, an' kep' to our 
 selves ; but in my grandmother's time, mo 
 ther always said, the families was very 
 friendly. I shouldn't feel like goin' over 
 to pass the day with Mis' Timms if I did n't
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 221 
 
 mean to ask her to return the visit. Some 
 don't think o' these things, but mother was 
 very set about not bein' done for when she 
 could n't make no return." 
 
 " ' When it rains porridge hold up your 
 dish,'" said Mrs. Flagg; but Miss Pickett 
 made no response beyond a feeble "Yes, 'm," 
 which somehow got caught in her pale-green 
 bonnet-strings. 
 
 "There, 't ain't no use to fuss too much 
 over all them things," proclaimed Mrs. 
 Flagg, walking along at a good pace with 
 a fine sway of her skirts, and carrying her 
 head high. "Folks walks right by an' for- 
 gits all about you; folks can't always be 
 going through with just so much. You 'd 
 had a good deal better time, you an' your 
 ma, if you 'd been freer in your ways ; now 
 don't you s'pose you would? 'T ain't what 
 you give folks to eat so much as 't is mak- 
 in' 'em feel welcome. Now, there 's Mis' 
 Timms ; when we was to Longport she was 
 dreadful methodical. She would n't let 
 Cap'n Timms fetch nobody home to dinner 
 without lettin' of her know, same's other 
 cap'ns' wives had to submit to. I was think- 
 in', when she was so cordial over to Danby, 
 how she 'd softened with time. Years do
 
 222 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS. 
 
 learn folks something She did seem very 
 pleasant an' desirous. There, I am so glad 
 we got started ; if she 'd gone an' got up a 
 real good dinner to-day, an' then not had us 
 come till to-morrow, 't would have been real 
 too bad. Where anybody lives alone such 
 a thing is very tryin'." 
 
 " Oh, so 't is I " said Miss Pickett. 
 "There, I 'd like to tell you what I went 
 through with year before last. They come 
 an' asked me one Saturday night to enter 
 tain the minister, that time we was having 
 candidates " 
 
 "I guess we'd better step along faster," 
 said Mrs. Flagg suddenly. "Why, Miss 
 Pickett, there 's the stage comin' now ! It 's 
 dreadful prompt, seems to me. Quick! 
 there's folks awaitin', an' I sha'n't get to 
 Baxter in no state to visit Mis' Cap'n Tiinms 
 if I have to ride all the way there back 
 ward!" 
 
 in. 
 
 The stage was not full inside. The group 
 before the store proved to be made up of 
 spectators, except one man, who climbed at 
 once to a vacant seat by the driver. Inside 
 there was only one person, after two passen 
 gers got out, and she preferred to sit with
 
 TEE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMM8. 223 
 
 her back to the horses, so that Mrs. Flagg 
 and Miss Pickett settled themselves comfort 
 ably in the coveted corners of the back 
 seat. At first they took no notice of their 
 companion, and spoke to each other in low 
 tones, but presently something attracted the 
 attention of all three and engaged them in 
 conversation. 
 
 "I never was over this road before," said 
 the stranger. "I s'pose you ladies are well 
 acquainted all along." 
 
 "We have often traveled it in past years. 
 We was over this part of it last week goin' 
 and comin' from the county conference," 
 said Mrs. Flagg in a dignified manner. 
 
 "What persuasion? " inquired the fellow- 
 traveler, with interest. 
 
 "Orthodox," said Miss Pickett quickly, 
 before Mrs. Flagg could speak. "It was a 
 very interestin' occasion ; this other lady an' 
 me stayed through all the meetin's." 
 
 "I ain't Orthodox," announced the 
 stranger, waiving any interest in personali 
 ties. " I was brought up amongst the Free 
 will Baptists." 
 
 "We 're well acquainted with several of 
 that denomination in our place," said Mrs. 
 Flagg, not without an air of patronage.
 
 224 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 "They've never built 'em no church; there 
 ain't but a scattered few." 
 
 "They prevail where I come from," said 
 the traveler. " I 'm goin' now to visit with 
 a Freewill lady. We was to a conference 
 together once, same 's you an' your friend, 
 but 't was a state conference. She asked 
 me to come some time an' make her a good 
 visit, and I 'm on. my way now. I did n't 
 seem to have nothin' to keep me to home." 
 
 "We're all goin' visitin' to-day, ain't 
 we?" said Mrs. Flagg sociably; but no one 
 carried on the conversation. 
 
 The day was growing very warm ; there 
 was dust in the sandy road, but the fields of 
 grass and young growing crops looked fresh 
 and fair. There was a light haze over the 
 hills, and birds were thick in the air. 
 When the stage-horses stopped to walk, you 
 could hear the crows caw, and the bobolinks 
 singing, in the meadows. All the farmers 
 were busy in their fields. 
 
 "It don't seem but little ways to Baxter, 
 does it?" said Miss Pickett, after a while. 
 " I felt we should pass a good deal o' time 
 on the road, but we must be pretty near 
 half-way there a'ready." 
 
 "Why, more'n half!" exclaimed Mr&
 
 THE GUESTS OF MBS. TIMMS. 225 
 
 Flagg. "Yes; there 's Beckett's Corner 
 right ahead, an the old Beckett house. I 
 have n't been on this part of the road for so 
 long that I feel kind of strange. I used to 
 visit over here when I was a girl. There 's 
 a nephew's widow owns the place now. Old 
 Miss Susan Beckett willed it to him, an' he 
 died; but she resides there an' carries on 
 the farm, an unusual smart woman, every 
 body says. Ain't it pleasant here, right out 
 among the farms ! " 
 
 " Mis' Beckett's place, did you observe ? " 
 said the stranger, leaning forward to listen 
 to what her companions said. "I expect 
 that 's where I 'm goin' Mis' Ezra Beck 
 ett's?" 
 
 "That's the one," said Miss Pickett and 
 Mrs. Flagg together, and they both looked 
 out eagerly as the coach drew up to the front 
 door of a large old yellow house that stood 
 close upon the green turf of the roadside. 
 
 The passenger looked pleased and eager, 
 and made haste to leave the stage with her 
 many bundles and bags. While she stood 
 impatiently tapping at the brass knocker, 
 the stage-driver landed a large trunk, and 
 dragged it toward the door across the grass. 
 Just then a busy-looking middle-aged wo-
 
 226 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 man made her appearance, with floury hands 
 and a look as if she were prepared to be 
 somewhat on the defensive. 
 
 "Why, how do you do, Mis' Beckett?'* 
 exclaimed the guest. "Well, here I be at 
 last. I did n't know 's you thought I was 
 ever comin'. Why, I do declare, I believe 
 you don't recognize me, Mis' Beckett." 
 
 "I believe I don't," said the self-possessed 
 hostess. "Ain't you made some mistake, 
 ma'am?" 
 
 "Why, don't you recollect we was to 
 gether that time to the state conference, an' 
 you said you should be pleased to have me 
 come an' make you a visit some time, an' I 
 said I would certain. There, I expect I 
 look more natural to you now." 
 
 Mrs. Beckett appeared to be making the 
 best possible effort, and gave a bewildered 
 glance, first at her unexpected visitor, and 
 then at the trunk. The stage-driver, who 
 watched this encounter with evident delight, 
 turned away with reluctance. "I can't wait 
 all day to see how they settle it," he said, 
 and mounted briskly to the box, and the 
 stage rolled on. 
 
 "He might have waited just a minute to 
 see," said Miss Pickett indignantly, but
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 227 
 
 Mrs. Flagg's head and shoulders were al 
 ready far out of the stage window the 
 house was on her side. "She ain't got in 
 yet," she told Miss Pickett triumphantly. 
 "I could see 'em quite a spell. With that 
 trunk, too! I do declare, how inconsider 
 ate some folks is ! " 
 
 " 'T was pushin' an acquaintance most 
 too far, wa'n't it?" agreed Miss Pickett. 
 "There, 't will be somethin' laughable to 
 tell Mis' Timms. I never see anything 
 more divertin'. I shall kind of pity that 
 woman if we have to stop an' git her as we 
 go back this afternoon." 
 
 "Oh, don't let's forgit to watch for her," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Flagg, beginning to brush 
 off the dust of travel. "There, I feel an 
 excellent appetite, don't you? And we ain't 
 got more 'n three or four miles to go, if we 
 have that. I wonder what Mis' Timms is 
 likely to give us for dinner ; she spoke of 
 makin' a good many chicken - pies, an' I 
 happened to remark how partial I was to 
 'em. She felt above most of the things we 
 had provided for us over to the conference. 
 I know she was always counted the best o' 
 cooks when I knew her so well to Longport. 
 Now, don't you forget, if there 's a suitable
 
 228 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS. 
 
 opportunity, to inquire about the drop- 
 cakes;" and Miss Pickett, a little less 
 doubtful than before, renewed her promise. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "My gracious, won't Mis' Timins be 
 pleased to see us ! It 's just exactly the day 
 to have company. And ain't Baxter a sweet 
 pretty place?" said Mrs. Flagg, as they 
 walked up the main street. "Cynthy Pick 
 ett, now ain't you proper glad you come? 
 I felt sort o' calm about it part o' the time 
 yesterday, but I ain't felt so like a girl for 
 a good while. I do believe I'm goin' to 
 have a splendid time." 
 
 Miss Pickett glowed with equal pleasure 
 as she paced along. She was less expansive 
 and enthusiastic than her companion, but 
 now that they were fairly in Baxter, she lent 
 herself generously to the occasion. The 
 social distinction of going away to spend a 
 day in company with Mrs. Flagg was by no 
 means small. She arranged the folds of her 
 shawl more carefully over her arm so as to 
 show the pretty palm -leaf border, and then 
 looked up with great approval to the row of 
 great maples that shaded the broad sidewalk. 
 " I wonder if we can't contrive to make time
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 229 
 
 to go an' see old Miss Nancy Fell?" she 
 ventured to ask Mrs. Flagg. "There ain't 
 a great deal o' time before the stage goes 
 at four o'clock; 'twill pass quickly, but I 
 should hate to have her feel hurt. If she 
 was one we had visited often at home, I 
 should n't care so much, but such folks feel 
 any little slight. She was a member of our 
 church; I think a good deal of that." 
 
 "Well, I hardly know what to say," fal 
 tered Mrs. Flagg coldly. "We might just 
 look in a minute ; I should n't want her to 
 feel hurt." 
 
 " She was one that always did her part, 
 too," said Miss Pickett, more boldly. "Mr. 
 Cronin used to say that she was more gen 
 erous with her little than many was with 
 their much. If she had n't lived in a poor 
 part of the town, and so been occupied with 
 a different kind of people from us, 't would 
 have made a difference. They say she 's got 
 a comfortable little home over here, an' 
 keeps house for a nephew. You know she 
 was to our meeting one Sunday last winter, 
 and 'peared dreadful glad to get back ; folks 
 seemed glad to see her, too. I don't know 
 as you were out." 
 
 "She always wore a friendly look," said
 
 230 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS. 
 
 Mrs. Flagg indulgently. "There, now, 
 there 's Mis' Timms's residence ; it 's hand* 
 some, ain't it, with them big spruce-trees! 
 I expect she may be at the window now, an j 
 see us as we come along. Is my bonnet OK 
 straight, an' everything? The blinds looks 
 open in the room this way ; I guess she 's to 
 home fast enough." 
 
 The friends quickened their steps, and 
 with shining eyes and beating hearts has 
 tened forward. The slightest mists of un 
 certainty were now cleared away ; they gazed 
 at the house with deepest pleasure ; the visit 
 was about to begin. 
 
 They opened the front gate and went up 
 the short walk, noticing the pretty herring 
 bone pattern of the bricks, and as they stood 
 on the high steps Cynthia Pickett wondered 
 whether she ought not to have worn her best 
 dress, even though there was lace at the neck 
 and sleeves, and she usually kept it for the 
 most formal of tea-parties and exceptional 
 parish festivals. In her heart she com 
 mended Mrs. Flagg for that familiarity with 
 the ways of a wider social world which had 
 led her to wear the very best among her 
 black cashmeres. 
 
 "She 's a good while coming to the door,"
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS. 231 
 
 whispered Mrs. Flagg presently. "Either 
 she did n't see us, or else she 's slipped up 
 stairs to make some change, an' is just goin' 
 to let us ring again. I 've done it myself 
 sometimes. I'm glad we come right over 
 after her urgin' us so ; it seems more cordial 
 than to keep her expectin' us. I expect 
 she '11 urge us terribly to remain with her 
 over-night." 
 
 "Oh, I ain't prepared, "began Miss Pick- 
 ett, but she looked pleased. At that mo 
 ment there was a slow withdrawal of the 
 bolt inside, and a key was turned, the front 
 door opened, and Mrs. Timms stood before 
 them with a smile. Nobody stopped to think 
 at that moment what kind of smile it was. 
 
 "Why, if it ain't Mis' Flagg," she ex 
 claimed politely, "an' Miss Pickett too! I 
 am surprised! " 
 
 The front entry behind her looked well 
 furnished, but not exactly hospitable; the 
 stairs with their brass rods looked so clean 
 and bright that it did not seem as if any 
 body had ever gone up or come down. A 
 cat came purring out, but Mrs. Timms 
 pushed her back with a determined foot, and 
 hastily closed the sitting-room door. Then 
 Miss Pickett let Mrs. Flagg precede her, as
 
 232 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMM8. 
 
 was becoming, and they went into a dark 
 ened parlor, and found their way to some 
 chairs, and seated themselves solemnly. 
 
 "'Tis a beautiful day, ain't it?" said 
 Mrs. Flagg, speaking first. " 1 don't know 's 
 I ever enjoyed the ride more. We 've been 
 having a good deal of rain since we saw you 
 at the conference, and the country looks 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Did you leave Woodville this morning? 
 I thought I had n't heard you was in town," 
 replied Mrs. Tiinms formally. She was 
 seated just a little too far away to make 
 things seem exactly pleasant. The darkness 
 of the best room seemed to retreat somewhat, 
 and Miss Pickett looked over by the door, 
 where there was a pale gleam from the side 
 lights in the hall, to try to see the pattern 
 of the carpet ; but her effort failed. 
 
 "Yes, 'm," replied Mrs. Flagg to the 
 question. "We left Woodville about half 
 past eight, but it is quite a ways from where 
 we live to where you take the stage. The 
 stage does come slow, but you don't seem to 
 mind it such a beautiful day." 
 
 "Why, you must have come right to see 
 me first ! " said Mrs. Timms, warming a 
 little as the visit went on. " I hope you 're
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIM MS. 233 
 
 going to make some stop in town. I 'm sure 
 it was very polite of you to come right an' 
 see me ; well, it 's very pleasant, I declare. 
 I wish you 'd been in Baxter last Sabbath ; 
 our minister did give us an elegant sermon 
 on faith an' works. He spoke of the con 
 ference, and gave his views on some o' the 
 questions that came up, at Friday evenin' 
 meetin' ; but I felt tired after getting home, 
 an' so I was n't out. We feel very much 
 favored to have such a man amon'st us. 
 He 's building up the parish very considera 
 ble. I understand the pew-rents come to 
 thirty - six dollars more this quarter than 
 they did last." 
 
 "We also feel grateful in Woodville for 
 our pastor's efforts," said Miss Pickett; but 
 Mrs. Timms turned her head away sharply, 
 as if the speech had been untimely, and 
 trembling Miss Pickett had interrupted. 
 
 "They're thinking here of raisin' Mr. 
 Barlow's salary another year," the hostess 
 added; "a good many of the old parishion 
 ers have died off, but every one feels to 
 do what they can. Is there much interest 
 among the young people in Woodville, Mis' 
 Flagg?" 
 
 "Considerable at this time, ma'am," an-
 
 234 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 swered Mrs. Flagg, without enthusiasm, and 
 she listened with unusual silence to the sub 
 sequent fluent remarks of Mrs. Timras. 
 
 The parlor seemed to be undergoing the 
 slow processes of a winter dawn. After a 
 while the three women could begin to see 
 one another's faces, which aided them some 
 what in carrying on a serious and impersonal 
 conversation. There were a good many sub 
 jects to be touched upon, and Mrs. Timms 
 said everything that she should have said, 
 except to invite her visitors to walk upstairs 
 and take off their bonnets. Mrs. Flagg sat 
 her parlor-chair as if it were a throne, and 
 carried her banner of self-possession as high 
 as she knew how, but toward the end of the 
 call even she began to feel hurried. 
 
 " Won't you ladies take a glass of wine an' 
 a piece of cake after your ride?" inquired 
 Mrs. Timms, with an air of hospitality that 
 almost concealed the fact that neither cake 
 nor wine was anywhere to be seen; but the 
 ladies bowed and declined with particular 
 elegance. Altogether it was a visit of ex 
 treme propriety on both sides, and Mrs. 
 Timms was very pressing in her invitation 
 that her guests should stay longer. 
 
 "Thank you, but we ought to be going,"
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. T 1 31 MS. 235 
 
 answered Mrs. Flagg, with a little show of 
 ostentation, and looking over her shoulder 
 to be sure that Miss Pickett had risen too. 
 "We've got some little ways to go," she 
 added with dignity. " We should be pleased 
 to have you call an' see us in case you have 
 occasion to come to Woodville," and Miss 
 Pickett faintly seconded the invitation. It 
 was in her heart to add, "Come any day 
 next week," but her courage did not rise so 
 high as to make the words audible. She 
 looked as if she were ready to cry ; her usual 
 smile had burnt itself out into gray ashes ; 
 there was a white, appealing look about her 
 mouth. As they emerged from the dim parlor 
 and stood at the open front door, the bright 
 June day, the golden - green trees, almost 
 blinded their eyes. Mrs. Timins was more 
 smiling and cordial than ever. 
 
 "There, I ought to have thought to offer 
 you fans ; I am afraid you was warm after 
 walking," she exclaimed, as if to leave no 
 stone of courtesy unturned. "I have so en 
 joyed meeting you again, I wish it was so 
 you could stop longer. Why, Mis' Flagg, 
 we have n't said one word about old times 
 when we lived to Longport. I 've had news 
 from there, too, since I saw you; my bro-
 
 236 THE GUESTS OF MRS. T1MMS. 
 
 ther's daughter-in-law was here to pass the 
 Sabbath after I returned." 
 
 Mrs. Flagg did not turn back to ask any 
 questions as she stepped stiffly away down 
 the brick walk. Miss Pickett followed her, 
 raising the fringed parasol; they both made 
 ceremonious little bows as they shut the high 
 white gate behind them. "Good-by," said 
 Mrs. Tim i us finally, as she stood in the door 
 with her set smile ; and as they departed she 
 came out and began to fasten up a rose 
 bush that climbed a narrow white ladder by 
 the steps. 
 
 "Oh, my goodness alive ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Flagg, after they had gone some distance in 
 aggrieved silence, " if I have n't gone and 
 forgotten my bag ! I ain't goin' back, what 
 ever happens. I expect she '11 trip over it 
 in that dark room and break her neck! " 
 
 " I brought it ; I noticed you 'd forgotten 
 it," said Miss Pickett timidly, as if she 
 hated to deprive her companion of even that 
 slight consolation. 
 
 "There, I '11 tell you what we 'd better do," 
 said Mrs. Flagg gallantly; "we '11 go right 
 over an' see poor old Miss Nancy Fell; 't will 
 please her about to death. We can say we 
 felt like goin' somewhere to-day, an' 't was
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 237 
 
 a good many years since either one of us had 
 seen Baxter, so we come just for the ride, 
 an' to make a few calls. She '11 like to hear 
 all about the conference; Miss Fell was 
 always one that took a real interest in reli 
 gious matters." 
 
 Miss Pickett brightened, and they quick 
 ened their step. It was nearly twelve o'clock, 
 they had breakfasted early, and now felt as 
 if they had eaten nothing since they were 
 grown up. An awful feeling of tiredness 
 and uncertainty settled down upon their once 
 buoyant spirits. 
 
 "I can forgive a person," said Mrs. Flagg, 
 once, as if she were speaking to herself; " I 
 can forgive a person, but when I 'm done 
 with 'em, I 'm done." 
 
 v. 
 
 "I do declare, 't was like a scene in 
 Scriptur' to see that poor good - hearted 
 Nancy Fell run down her walk to open the 
 gate for us!" said Mrs. Persis Flagg later 
 that afternoon, when she and Miss Pickett 
 were going home in the stage. Miss Pickett 
 nodded her head approvingly. 
 
 "I had a good sight better time with her 
 than I should have had at the other place,"
 
 238 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIJfXS. 
 
 she said with fearless honesty. "If I 'd 
 been Mis' Cap'n Timms, I 'd made some 
 apology or just passed us the compliment. 
 If it wa'n't convenient, why could n't she 
 just tell us so after all her urgin' and say in' 
 how she should expect us? " 
 
 "I thought then she 'd altered from what 
 she used to be," said Mrs. Flagg. "She 
 seemed real sincere an' open away from 
 home. If she wa'n't prepared to-day, 
 'twas easy enough to say so; we was rea 
 sonable folks, an' should have gone away 
 with none but friendly feelin's. We did 
 have a grand good time with Nancy. She 
 was as happy to see us as if we 'd been 
 queens." 
 
 "'Twas a real nice little dinner," said 
 Miss Pickett gratefully. " I thought I was 
 goin' to faint away just before we got to the 
 house, and I did n't know how I should hold 
 out if she undertook to do anything extra, 
 and keep us a-waitin'; but there, she just 
 made us welcome, simple-hearted, to what 
 she had. I never tasted such dandelion 
 greens; an' that nice little piece o' pork 
 and new biscuit, why, they was just splen 
 did. She must have an excellent good cel 
 lar, if 't is such a small house. Her pota-
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 239 
 
 toes was truly remarkable for this time o' 
 year. I myself don't deem it necessary to 
 cook potatoes when I 'm goin' to have dan 
 delion greens. Now, didn't it put you in 
 mind of that verse in the Bible that says, 
 'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is'? 
 An' how desirous she 'd been to see some 
 body that could tell her some particulars 
 about the conference ! " 
 
 " She '11 enjoy tellin' folks about our 
 comin' over to see her. Yes, I 'm glad we 
 went ; 't will be of advantage every way, 
 an' our bein' of the same church an' all, to 
 Woodville. If Mis' Timms hears of our 
 bein' there, she '11 see we had reason, an' 
 knew of a place to go. Well, I needn't 
 have brought this old bag ! " 
 
 Miss Pickett gave her companion a quick 
 resentful glance, which was followed by one 
 of triumph directed at the dust that was 
 collecting on the shoulders of the best black 
 cashmere ; then she looked at the bag on the 
 front seat, and suddenly felt illuminated 
 with the suspicion that Mrs. Flagg had 
 secretly made preparations to pass the night 
 in Baxter. The bag looked plump, as if it 
 held much more than the pocket-book and 
 the jelly.
 
 240 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 
 
 Mrs. Flagg looked up with unusual humil 
 ity. " I did think about that jelly," she said, 
 as if Miss Pickett had openly reproached 
 her. "I was afraid it might look as if I 
 was tryin' to pay Nancy for her kindness." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said Cynthia; "I 
 guess she 'd been pleased. She 'd thought 
 you just brought her over a little present: 
 but I do' know as 't would been any good to 
 her after all ; she 'd thought so much of it, 
 comin' from you, that she 'd kep' it till 't was 
 all candied." But Mrs. Flagg didn't look 
 exactly pleased by this unexpected compli 
 ment, and her fellow-traveler colored with 
 confusion and a sudden feeling that she had 
 shown undue forwardness. 
 
 Presently they remembered the Beckett 
 house, to their great relief, and, as they 
 approached, Mrs. Flagg reached over and 
 moved her hand-bag from the front seat 
 to make room for another passenger. But 
 nobody came out to stop the stage, and 
 they saw the unexpected guest sitting by 
 one of the front windows comfortably sway 
 ing a palm-leaf fan, and rocking to and fro 
 in calm content. They shrank back into 
 their corners, and tried not to be seen. 
 Mrs. Flagg's face grew very red.
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 241 
 
 "She got in, didn't she?" said Miss 
 Pickett, snipping her words angrily, as if 
 her lips were scissors. Then she heard a 
 call, and bent forward to see Mrs. Beckett 
 herself appear in the front doorway, very 
 smiling and eager to stop the stage. 
 
 The driver was only too ready to stop 
 his horses. "Got a passenger for me to 
 carry back, ain't ye?" said he facetiously. 
 " Them 's the kind I like ; carry both ways, 
 make somethin' on a double trip," and he 
 gave Mrs. Flagg and Miss Pickett a friendly 
 wink as he stepped down over the wheel. 
 Then he hurried toward the house, evidently 
 in a hurry to put the baggage on ; but the 
 expected passenger still sat rocking and 
 fanning at the window. 
 
 "No, sir; I ain't got any passengers," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Beckett, advancing a step 
 or two to meet him, and speaking very loud 
 in her pleasant excitement. "This lady 
 that come this morning wants her large 
 trunk with her summer things that she left 
 to the depot in Woodville. She 's very de 
 sirous to git into it, so don't you go an' for- 
 git; ain't you got a book or somethin', Mr. 
 Ma'sh ? Don't you f orgit to make a note of 
 it ; here 's her check, an' we 've kep' the
 
 242 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIXMS. 
 
 number in case you should mislay it or 
 anything. There 's things in the trunk she 
 needs ; you know how you overlooked stop- 
 pin* to the milliner's for my bunnit last 
 week." 
 
 "Other folks disremembers things as 
 well's me," grumbled Mr. Marsh. He 
 turned to give the passengers another wink 
 more familiar than the first, but they wore 
 an offended air, and were looking the other 
 way. The horses had backed a few steps, 
 and the guest at the front window had 
 ceased the steady motion of her fan to 
 make them a handsome bow, and been 
 puzzled at the lofty manner of their ac 
 knowledgment. 
 
 "Go 'long with your foolish jokes, John 
 Ma'sh ! " Mrs. Beckett said cheerfully, as 
 she turned away. She was a comfortable, 
 hearty person, whose appearance adjusted 
 the beauties of hospitality. The driver 
 climbed to his seat, chuckling, and drove 
 away with- the dust flying after the wheels. 
 
 "Now, she's a friendly sort of a woman, 
 that Mis' Beckett," said Mrs. Flagg unex 
 pectedly, after a few moments of silence, 
 when she and her friend had been unable to 
 look at each other. " I really ought to call
 
 THE GUESTS OF MRS. TIMMS. 243 
 
 over an' see her some o' these days, knowing 
 her husband's folks as well as I used to, an' 
 visitin' of 'era when I was a girl." But 
 Miss Pickett made no answer. 
 
 "I expect it was all for the best, that 
 woman's comin'," suggested Mrs. Flagg 
 again hopefully. "She looked like a will 
 ing person who would take right hold. I 
 guess Mis' Beckett knows what she 's about, 
 and must have had her reasons. Perhaps 
 she thought she 'd chance it for a couple o' 
 weeks anyway, after the lady 'd come so fur, 
 an' bein' one o' her own denomination. 
 Hay in '-time '11 be here before we know it. 
 I think myself, gen'rally speakin', 't is just 
 as well to let anybody know you 're comin'." 
 
 "Them seemed to be Mis' Cap'n Timms's 
 views," said Miss Pickett in a low tone; 
 but the stage rattled a good deal, and Mrs. 
 Flagg looked up inquiringly, as if she had 
 not heard.
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 THE timber-contractor took a long time 
 to fasten his horse to the ring in the corner 
 of the shed ; but at last he looked up as if 
 it were a matter of no importance to him 
 that John Packer was coming across the 
 yard. "Good -day," said he; "good -day, 
 John." And John responded by an inex 
 pressive nod. 
 
 " I was goin' right by, an' I thought I 'd 
 stop an' see if you want to do anything 
 about them old pines o' yourn." 
 
 "I don't know 's I do, Mr. Ferris," said 
 John stiffly. 
 
 "Well, that business is easy finished," 
 said the contractor, with a careless air and 
 a slight look of disappointment. "Just as 
 you say, sir. You was full of it a spell ago, 
 and I kind o' kep' the matter in mind. It 
 ain't no plot o' mine, 'cept to oblige you. 
 I don't want to move my riggin' nowhere 
 for the sake o' two trees one tree, you 
 might say ; there ain't much o' anything but
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 245 
 
 fire-wood in the sprangly one. I shall end 
 up over on the Foss lot next week, an' then 
 I 'm goiii' right up country quick 's I can, 
 before the snow begins to melt." 
 
 John Packer's hands were both plunged 
 deep into his side pockets, and the contrac 
 tor did not fail to see that he was moving 
 his fingers nervously. 
 
 "You don't want 'em blowin' down, break- 
 in' all to pieces right on to your grass-land. 
 They 'd spile pretty near an acre f allin' in 
 some o' them spring gales. Them old trees 
 is awful brittle. If you 're ever calc'latin' 
 to sell 'em, now 's your time ; the sprangly 
 one 's goin' back a'ready. They take the 
 goodness all out o' that part o' your field, 
 anyway," said Ferris, casting a sly glance 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " I don't know 's I care ; I can maintain 
 them two trees," answered Packer, with 
 spirit ; but he turned and looked away, not 
 at the contractor. 
 
 "Come, I mean business. I'll tell you 
 what I '11 do: if you want to trade, I '11 give 
 you seventy -five dollars for them two trees, 
 and it 's an awful price. Buyin' known 
 trees like them's like tradin' for a tame 
 calf ; you 'd let your forty-acre piece go
 
 246 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 without no fuss. Don't mind what folks 
 say. They 're yourn, John ; or ain't they ? " 
 
 "I'd just as soon be rid on 'em; they've 
 got to come down some time," said Packer, 
 stung by this bold taunt. " I ain't goin' to 
 give you a present o' half their value, for 
 all o' that." 
 
 "You can't handle 'em yourself, nor 
 nobody else about here ; there ain't nobody 
 got proper riggin' to handle them butts but 
 me. I Ve got to take 'em down for ye fur 's 
 I can see," said Ferris, looking sly, and 
 proceeding swiftly from persuasion to final 
 arrangements. " It 's some like gittin' a 
 tooth hauled; you kind o' dread it, but 
 when 'tis done you feel like a man. I ain't 
 said nothin' to nobody, but I hoped you 'd 
 do what you was a-mind to with your own 
 property. You can't afford to let all that 
 money rot away; folks won't thank ye." 
 
 " What you goin' to give for 'em?" asked 
 John Packer impatiently. "Come, I can't 
 talk all day." 
 
 " I 'm a-goin' to give you seventy-five 
 dollars in bank-bills," said the other man, 
 with an air of great spirit. 
 
 "I ain't a-goin' to take it, if you be," 
 said John, turning round, and taking a
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 247 
 
 hasty step or two toward the house. As he 
 turned he saw the anxious faces of two wo 
 men at one of the kitchen windows, and the 
 blood flew to his pinched face. 
 
 "Here, come back here and talk man- 
 fashion ! " shouted the timber-dealer. "You 
 couldn't make no more fuss if I come to 
 seize your farm. I'll make it eighty, an' 
 I '11 tell you jest one thing more : if you 're 
 holdin' out, thinkin' I '11 give you more, you 
 can hold out till doomsday." 
 
 "When '11 you be over?" said the farmer 
 abruptly; his hands were clenched now in 
 his pockets. The two men stood a little 
 way apart, facing eastward, and away from 
 the house. The long, wintry fields before 
 them sloped down to a wide stretch of 
 marshes covered with ice, and dotted here 
 and there with an abandoned haycock. Be 
 yond was the gray sea less than a mile away ; 
 the far horizon was like an edge of steel. 
 There was a small fishing-boat standing in 
 toward the shore, and far off were two or 
 three coasters. 
 
 "Looks cold, don't it? " said the contrac 
 tor. "I '11 be over middle o' the week some 
 time, Mr. Packer." He unfastened his 
 horse, while John Packer went to the tin-
 
 248 A NEIGHBORS LANDMARK. 
 
 sheltered wood-pile and began to chop hard 
 at some sour, heavy-looking pieces of red- 
 oak wood. He stole a look at the window, 
 but the two troubled faces had disappeared. 
 
 n. 
 
 Later that afternoon John Packer came 
 in from the barn; he had lingered out of 
 doors in the cold as long as there was any 
 excuse for so doing, and had fed the cattle 
 early, and cleared up and laid into a neat 
 pile some fencing materials and pieces of 
 old boards that had been lying in the shed 
 in great confusion since before the coming 
 of snow. It was a dusty, splintery heap, 
 half worthless, and he had thrown some of 
 the broken fence-boards out to the wood -pile, 
 and then had stopped to break them up for 
 kindlings and to bring them into the back 
 kitchen of the house, hoping, yet fearing at 
 every turn, to hear the sound of his wife's 
 voice. Sometimes the women had to bring 
 in fire-wood themselves, but to-night he 
 filled the great wood-box just outside the 
 kitchen door, piling it high with green beech 
 and maple, with plenty of dry birch and 
 pine, taking pains to select the best and 
 straightest sticks, even if he burrowed deep
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 249 
 
 into the wood-pile. He brought the bushel 
 basketful of kindlings last, and set it down 
 with a cheerful grunt, having worked him 
 self into good humor again; and as he 
 opened the kitchen door, and went to hang 
 his great blue mittens behind the stove, he 
 wore a self-satisfied and pacificatory smile. 
 
 "There, I don't want to hear no more 
 about the wood-box bein' empty. We're 
 goin' to have a cold night ; the air 's full of 
 snow, but 't won't fall, not till it moderates." 
 
 The women glanced at him with a sense 
 of relief. They had looked forward to his 
 entrance in a not unfamiliar mood of surly 
 silence. Every time he had thumped down 
 a great armful of wood, it had startled them 
 afresh, and their timid protest and sense of 
 apprehension had increased until they were 
 pale and miserable ; the younger woman had 
 been crying. 
 
 " Come, mother, what you goin' to get me 
 for supper?" said the master of the house. 
 "I 'm goin' over to the Centre to the selec'- 
 men's office to-night. They 're goin' to have 
 a hearin' about that new piece o' road over 
 in the Dexter neighborhood." 
 
 The mother and daughter looked at each 
 other with relief and shame; perhaps they
 
 260 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 had mistaken the timber-contractor's errand, 
 after all, though their imagination had fol 
 lowed truthfully every step of a bitter bar 
 gain, from the windows. 
 
 "Poor father! " said his wife, half uncon 
 sciously. "Yes; I'll get you your supper 
 quick's I can. I forgot about to-night. 
 You '11 want somethin' warm before you 
 ride 'way over to the Centre, certain; " and 
 she began to bustle about, and to bring 
 things out of the pantry. She and John 
 Packer had really loved each other when 
 they were young, and although he had done 
 everything he could since then that might 
 have made her forget, she always remem 
 bered instead; she was always ready to 
 blame herself, and to find excuse for him. 
 "Do put on your big fur coat, won't you, 
 John?" she begged eagerly. 
 
 "I ain't gone yet," said John, looking 
 again at his daughter, who did not look at 
 him. It was not quite dark, and she was 
 bending over her sewing, close to the win 
 dow. The momentary gleam of hope had 
 faded in her heart ; her father was too plea 
 sant : she hated him for the petty deceit. 
 
 "What are you about there, Lizzie?" he 
 asked gayly. "Why don't you wait till you
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 251 
 
 have a light? Get one for your mother: 
 she can't see over there by the table." 
 
 Lizzie Packer's ready ears caught a pro 
 voking tone in her father's voice, but she 
 dropped her sewing, and went to get the 
 hand-lamp from the high mantelpiece. 
 "Have you got a match in your pocket? 
 You know we 're all out ; I found the last 
 this mornin' in the best room." She stood 
 close beside him while he took a match from 
 his waistcoat pocket and gave it to her. 
 
 "I won't have you leavin' matches layin' 
 all about the house," he commanded; 
 "mice '11 get at 'em, and set us afire. You 
 can make up some lamplighters out of old 
 letters and things ; there 's a lot o' stuff that 
 might be used up. Seems to me lamplight 
 ers is gone out o' fashion; they come in 
 very handy." 
 
 Lizzie did not answer, which was a dis 
 appointment. 
 
 "Here, you take these I've got in my 
 pocket, and that '11 remind me to buy some 
 at the store," he ended. But Lizzie did 
 not come to take them, and when she had 
 waited a moment, and turned up the lamp 
 carefully, she put it on the table by her 
 mother, and went out of the room. The
 
 252 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 father and mother heard her going up 
 stairs. 
 
 "I do hope she won't stay up there in the 
 cold," said Mrs. Packer in an outburst of 
 anxiety. 
 
 "What's she sulkin' about now?" de 
 manded the father, tipping his chair down 
 emphatically on all four legs. The timid 
 woman mustered all her bravery. 
 
 " Why, when we saw Mr. Ferris out there 
 talkin' with you, we were frightened for 
 fear he was tryin' to persuade you about the 
 big pines. Poor Lizzie got all worked up ; 
 she took on and cried like a baby when we 
 saw him go off chucklin' and you stayed out 
 so long. She can't bear the thought o' 
 touchin' 'em. And then when you come in 
 and spoke about the selec'men, we guessed 
 we was all wrong. Perhaps Lizzie feels 
 bad about that now. I own I had hard 
 feelin's toward you myself, John." She 
 came toward him with her mixing-spoon in 
 her hand; her face was lovely and hopeful. 
 "You see, they've been such landmarks, 
 John," she said, "and our Lizzie 's got 
 more feelin' about 'em than anybody. She 
 was always playin' around 'em when she 
 was little; and now there's so much talk
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 253 
 
 about the fishin' folks countin' on 'em to 
 get in by the short channel in bad weather, 
 and she don't want you blamed." 
 
 "You'd ought to set her to work, and 
 learnt her head to save her heels," said 
 John Packer, grumbling ; and the pale little 
 woman gave a heavy sigh, and went back 
 to her work again. "That's why she ain't 
 no good now playin' out all the time 
 when other girls was made to work. Broke 
 you all down, savin' her," he ended in an 
 aggrieved tone. 
 
 "John, 't ain't true, is it?" She faced 
 him again in a way that made him quail; 
 his wife was never disrespectful, but she 
 sometimes faced every danger to save him 
 from his own foolishness. "Don't you go 
 and do a thing to make everybody hate you. 
 You know what it says in the Bible about 
 movin' a landmark. You '11 get your rights ; 
 't is just as much your right to let the trees 
 stand, and please folks." 
 
 "Come, come, Mary Hannah!" said 
 John, a little moved in spite of himself. 
 "Don't work yourself up so. I ain't told 
 you I was goin' to cut 'em, have I ? But if 
 I ever do, 't is because I 've been twitted 
 into it, an' told they were everybody's trees 
 but mine."
 
 254 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 He pleased himself at the moment by 
 thinking that he could take back his promise 
 to Ferris, even if it cost five dollars to do 
 it. Why could n't people leave a man alone ? 
 It was the women's faces at the window that 
 had decided his angry mind, but now they 
 thought it all his fault. Ferris would say, 
 "So your women folks persuaded you out of 
 it." It would be no harm to give Ferris a 
 lesson : he had used a man's being excited 
 and worked upon by interfering neighbors 
 to drive a smart bargain. The trees were 
 worth fifty dollars apiece, if they were worth 
 a cent. John Packer transferred his ag 
 grieved thoughts from his family to Ferris 
 himself. Ferris had driven a great many 
 sharp bargains; he had plenty of capital 
 behind him, and had taken advantage of 
 the hard times, and of more than one man's 
 distress, to buy woodland at far less than 
 its value. More than that, he always 
 stripped land to the bare skin; if the very 
 huckleberry bushes and ferns had been worth 
 anything to him, he would have taken those, 
 insisting upon all or nothing, and, regard 
 less of the rights of forestry, he left nothing 
 to grow ; no sapling-oak or pine stood where 
 his hand had been. The pieces of young
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 255 
 
 growing woodland that might have made 
 their owners rich at some later day were 
 sacrificed to his greed of gain. You had to 
 give him half your trees to make him give 
 half price for the rest. Some men yielded 
 to him out of ignorance, or avarice for im 
 mediate gains, and others out of bitter ne 
 cessity. Once or twice he had even brought 
 men to their knees and gained his point by 
 involving them in money difficulties, through 
 buying up their mortgages and notes. He 
 could sell all the wood and timber he could 
 buy, and buy so cheap, to larger dealers; 
 and a certain builder having given him an 
 order for some unusually wide and clear 
 pine at a large price, his withering eye had 
 been directed toward the landmark trees on 
 John Packer's farm. 
 
 On the road home from the Packer farm 
 that winter afternoon Mr. Ferris's sleigh- 
 bells sounded lonely, and nobody was met 
 or overtaken to whom he could brag of his 
 success. Now and then he looked back with 
 joy to the hill behind the Packer house, 
 where the assailed pine-trees still stood to 
 gether, superb survivors of an earlier growth. 
 The snow was white about them now, but
 
 256 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 in summer they stood near the road at the 
 top of a broad field which had been won 
 from wild land by generation after genera 
 tion of the Packers. Whatever man's hands 
 have handled, and his thoughts have cen 
 tred in, gives something back to man, and 
 becomes charged with his transferred life, 
 and brought into relationship. The great 
 pines could remember all the Packers, if 
 they could remember anything; they were 
 like some huge archaic creatures whose 
 thoughts were slow and dim. So many anx 
 ious eyes had sought these trees from the 
 sea, so many wanderers by land had gladly 
 welcomed the far sight of them in coming 
 back to the old town, it must have been that 
 the great live things felt their responsibility 
 as landmarks and sentinels. How could any 
 fisherman find the deep-sea fishing-grounds 
 for cod and haddock without bringing them 
 into range with a certain blue hill far in* 
 land, or with the steeple of the old church 
 on the Wilton road ? How could a hurry 
 ing boat find the short way into harbor be 
 fore a gale without sighting the big trees 
 from point to point among the rocky shal 
 lows? It was a dangerous bit of coast in 
 every way, and every fisherman and plea-
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 257 
 
 sure-boatman knew the pines on Packer's 
 Hill. As for the Packers themselves, the 
 first great adventure for a child was to climb 
 alone to the great pines, and to see an as 
 tonishing world from beneath their shadow ; 
 and as the men and women of the family 
 grew old, they sometimes made an effort to 
 climb the hill once more in summer weather, 
 to sit in the shelter of the trees, where the 
 breeze was cool, and to think of what had 
 passed, and to touch the rough bark with 
 affectionate hands. The boys went there 
 when they came home from voyages at sea ; 
 the girls went there with their lovers. The 
 trees were like friends, and whether you 
 looked seaward, being in an inland country, 
 or whether you looked shoreward, being on 
 the sea, there they stood and grew in their 
 places, while a worldful of people lived and 
 died, and again and again new worldfuls 
 were born and passed away, and still these 
 landmark pines lived their long lives, and 
 were green and vigorous yet. 
 
 m. 
 
 There was a fishing-boat coming into the 
 neighboring cove, as has already been said, 
 while Ferris and John Packer stood together
 
 258 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 talking in the yard. In this fishing-boat 
 were two other men, younger and lighter- 
 hearted, if it were only for the reason that 
 neither of them had such a store of petty ill 
 deeds and unkindnesses to remember in dark 
 moments. They were in an old dory, and 
 there was much ice clinging to her, inside 
 and out, as if the fishers had been out for 
 many hours. There were only a few cod 
 lying around in the bottom, already stiffened 
 in the icy air. The wind was light, and 
 one of the men was rowing with short, jerky 
 strokes, to help the sail, while the other held 
 the sheet and steered with a spare oar that 
 had lost most of its blade. The wind came 
 in flaws, chilling, and mischievous in its 
 freaks. "I ain't goin' out any more this 
 year," said the younger man, who rowed, 
 giving a great shudder. "I ain't goin' to 
 perish myself for a pinch o' fish like this " 
 pushing them with his heavy boot. 
 "Generally it's some warmer than we are 
 gittin' it now, 'way into January. I 've 
 got a good chance to go into Otis's shoe- 
 shop; Bill Otis was tellin' me he didn't 
 know but he should go out West to see his 
 uncle's folks, he done well this last sea 
 son, lobsterin', an' I can have his bench
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 259 
 
 if I want it. I do' know but I may make 
 up some lobster-pots myself, evenin's an' 
 odd times, and take to lobsterin' another 
 season. I know a few good places that Bill 
 Otis ain't struck ; and then the scarcer lob 
 sters git to be, the more you git for 'em, so 
 now a poor ketch 's 'most better 'n a good 
 one." 
 
 "Le' me take the oars," said Joe Banks, 
 without attempting a reply to such deep 
 economical wisdom. 
 
 "You hold that sheet light," grumbled 
 the other man, "or these gusts '11 have us 
 over. An' don't let that old oar o' yourn 
 range about so. I can't git no hold o' the 
 water." The boat lifted suddenly on a wave 
 and sank again in the trough, the sail 
 flapped, and a great cold splash of salt 
 water came aboard, floating the fish to the 
 stern, against Banks's feet. Chauncey, 
 grumbling heartily, began to bail with a 
 square-built wooden scoop for which he 
 reached far behind him in the bow. 
 
 "They say the sea holds its heat longer 
 than the land, but I guess summer 's about 
 over out here." He shivered again as he 
 spoke. "Come, le' 's say this is the last 
 trip, Joe."
 
 260 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 Joe looked up at the sky, quite uncon 
 cerned. "We may have it warmer after 
 we git more snow," he said. "I'd like to 
 keep on myself until after the first o' the 
 year, same's usual. I've got my reasons," 
 he added. " But don't you go out no more, 
 Chauncey." 
 
 "What you goin' to do about them trees 
 o' Packer's? " asked Chauncey suddenly, 
 and not without effort. The question had 
 been on his mind all the afternoon. "Old 
 Ferris has laid a bet that he '11 git 'em any 
 way. I signed the paper they 've got down 
 to Fox'l Berry's store to the Cove. A 
 number has signed it, but I should n't want 
 to be the one to carry it up to Packer. 
 They all want your name, but they 've got 
 some feelin' about how you 're situated. 
 Some o' the boys made me promise to speak 
 to you, bein' 's we 're keepin' together." 
 
 "You can tell 'em I'll sign it," said Joe 
 Banks, flushing a warm, bright color under 
 his sea-chilled skin. "I don't know what 
 set him out to be so poor -behaved. He 's a 
 quick-tempered man, Packer is, but quick 
 over. I never knew him to keep no such 
 a black temper as this." 
 
 "They always say that you can't drive
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 261 
 
 a Packer," said Chauncey, tugging against 
 the uneven waves. "His mother came o' 
 that old fightin' stock up to Bolton ; 't was 
 a different streak from his father's folks 
 they was different-hearted an' all pleasant. 
 Ferris has done the whole mean business. 
 John Packer 'd be madder 'n he is now if he 
 knowed how Ferris is makin' a tool of him. 
 He got a little too much aboard long ago 's 
 Thanksgivin' Day, and bragged to me an' 
 another fellow when he was balmy how he 'd 
 rile up Packer into sellin' them pines, and 
 then he 'd double his money on 'em up to 
 Boston ; he said there wa'n't no such a tim 
 ber pine as that big one left in the State 
 that he knows on. Why, 'tis 'most five 
 foot through high 's I can reach." 
 
 Chauncey stopped rowing a minute, and 
 held the oars with one hand while he looked 
 over his shoulder. "I should miss them old 
 trees," he said; "they always make me 
 think of a married couple. They ain't no 
 common growth, be they, Joe? Everybody 
 knows 'em. I bet you if anything happened 
 to one on 'em t' other would go an' die. 
 They say ellums has mates, an' all them 
 big trees." 
 
 Joe Banks had been looking at the pines
 
 262 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 all the way in ; he had steered by them from 
 point to point. Now he saw them just over 
 Fish Hock, where the surf was whitening, 
 and over the group of fish-houses, and began 
 to steer straight inshore. The sea was less 
 rough now, and after getting well into the 
 shelter of the land he drew in his oar. 
 Chauncey could pull the rest of the way 
 without it. A sudden change in the wind 
 filled the three-cornered sail, and they moved 
 faster. 
 
 "She'll make it now, herself, if you'll 
 just keep her straight, Chauncey; no, 
 't wa'n't nothin' but a flaw, was it ? Guess 
 I'd better help ye; " and he leaned on the 
 oar once more, and took a steady sight of 
 the familiar harbor marks. 
 
 " We 're right over one o' my best lobster 
 rocks," said Chauncey, looking warm 
 blooded and cheerful again. "I 'm satisfied 
 not to be no further out ; it 's beginnin' to 
 snow; see them big flakes a-comin'? I'll 
 tell the boys about your signin' the paper ; 
 I do' know 's you 'd better resk it, either." 
 
 "Why not?" said Joe Banks hastily. 
 "I suppose you refer to me an' Lizzie 
 Packer; but she wouldn't think no more o' 
 me for leavin' my name off a proper neigh-
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 263 
 
 borhood paper, nor her father, neither. 
 You git them two pines let alone, and I '11 
 take care o' Lizzie. I 've got all the other 
 boats and men to think of besides me, an' 
 I Ve got some pride anyway. I ain't goin' 
 to have Bolton folks an' all on 'em down to 
 the Centre twittin' us, nor twittin' Packer ; 
 he '11 turn sour toward everybody the minute 
 he does it. I know Packer ; he 's rough and 
 ugly, but he ain't the worst man in town by 
 a good sight. Anybody 'd be all worked 
 up to go through so much talk, and I 'm 
 kind o' 'fraid this minute his word 's passed 
 to Ferris to have them trees down. But 
 you show him the petition ; 't will be kind 
 of formal, and if that don't do no good, I 
 do' know what will. There you git the sail 
 in while I hold her stiddy, Chauncey." 
 
 rv. 
 
 After a day or two of snow that turned ' 
 to rain, and was followed by warmer wea 
 ther, there came one of the respites which 
 keep up New England hearts in December. 
 The short, dark days seemed shorter and 
 darker than usual that year, but one morn 
 ing the sky had a look of Indian summer, 
 the wind was in the south, and the cocks
 
 264 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 and hens of the Packer farm came boldly 
 out into the sunshine, to crow and cackle 
 before the barn. It was Friday morning, 
 and the next day was the day before Christ 
 mas. 
 
 John Packer was always good-tempered 
 when the wind was in the south. The milder 
 air, which relaxed too much the disposi 
 tions of less energetic men, and made them 
 depressed and worthless, only softened and 
 tempered him into reasonableness. As he 
 and his wife and daughter sat at breakfast, 
 after he had returned from feeding the cat 
 tle and horses, he wore a pleasant look, and 
 finally leaned back and said the warm wea 
 ther made him feel boyish, and he believed 
 that he would take the boat and go out fish 
 ing. 
 
 "I can haul her out and fix her up for 
 winter when I git ashore," he explained. 
 "I've been distressed to think it wa'n't 
 done before. I expect she 's got some little 
 ice in her now, there where she lays just 
 under the edge of Joe Banks's fish-house. 
 I spoke to Joe, but he said she 'd do till I 
 could git down. No ; I '11 turn her over, 
 and make her snug for winter, and git a 
 small boat o' Joe. I ain't goin' out a great
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 265 
 
 ways : just so 's I can git a cod or two. I 
 always begin to think of a piece o' new fish 
 quick 's these mild days come ; feels like the 
 Janooary thaw." 
 
 " 'T would be a good day for you to ride 
 over to Bolton, too," said Mrs. Packer. 
 " But I 'd like to go with you when you go 
 there, an' I've got business here to-day. 
 I 've put the kettle on some time ago to do 
 a little colorin'. We can go to Bolton 
 some day next week." 
 
 "I've got to be here next week," said 
 Packer ostentatiously; but at this moment 
 his heart for the first time completely failed 
 him about the agreement with Ferris. The 
 south wind had blown round the vane of his 
 determination. He forgot his wife and 
 daughter, laid down his knife and fork, and 
 quite unknown to himself began to hang his 
 head. The great trees were not so far from 
 the house that he had not noticed the sound 
 of the southerly breeze in their branches as 
 he came across the yard. He knew it as 
 well as he knew the rote of the beaches and 
 ledges on that stretch of shore. He was 
 meaning, at any rate, to think it over while 
 he was out fishing, where nobody could 
 bother him. He wasn't going to be hin-
 
 266 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 dered by a pack of folks from doing what 
 he liked with his own ; but neither was old 
 Ferris going to say what he had better do 
 with his own trees. 
 
 "You put me up a bite o' somethin' 
 hearty, mother," he made haste to say. "I 
 sha'n't git in till along in the afternoon." 
 
 "Ain't you feelin' all right, father?" 
 asked Lizzie, looking at him curiously. 
 
 "I be," said John Packer, growing stern 
 again for the moment. "I feel like a day 
 out fishin'. I hope Joe won't git the start 
 o' me. You seen his small boat go out?" 
 He looked up at his daughter, and smiled 
 in a friendly way, and went on with his 
 breakfast. It was evidently one of his plea 
 sant days ; he never had made such a frank 
 acknowledgment of the lovers' rights, but 
 he had always liked Joe Banks. Lizzie's 
 cheeks glowed ; she gave her mother a happy 
 glance of satisfaction, and looked as bright 
 as a rose. The hard- worked little woman 
 smiled back in sympathy. There was a 
 piece of her best loaf cake in the round 
 wooden luncheon-box that day, and every 
 thing else that she thought her man would 
 like and that his box would hold, but it 
 seemed meagre to her generous heart even
 
 A NEIGHBORS LANDMARK 267 
 
 then. The two women affectionately watched 
 him away down the field-path that led to 
 the cove where the fish-houses were. 
 
 All the Wilton farmers near the sea took 
 a turn now and then at fishing. They 
 owned boats together sometimes, but John 
 Packer had always kept a good boat of his 
 own. To-day he had no real desire to find 
 a companion or to call for help to launch 
 his craft, but finding that Joe Banks was 
 busy in his fish-house, he went in to bor 
 row the light dory and a pair of oars. Joe 
 seemed singularly unfriendly in his manner, 
 a little cold and strange, and went on with 
 his work without looking up. Mr. Packer 
 made a great effort to be pleasant ; the south 
 wind gave him even a sense of guilt. 
 
 "Don't you want to come, Joe?" he 
 said, according to 'longshore etiquette; but 
 Joe shook his head, and showed no interest 
 whatever. It seemed then as if it would 
 be such a good chance to talk over the tree 
 business with Joe, and to make him under 
 stand there had been some reason in it; but 
 John Packer could mind his own business 
 as well as any man, and so he picked his 
 way over the slippery stones, pushed off the 
 dory, stepped in, and was presently well
 
 268 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 outside on his way to Fish Rock. He had 
 forgotten to look for any bait until Joe had 
 pushed a measure of clams along the bench; 
 he remembered it now as he baited his cod- 
 lines, sitting in the swaying and lifting 
 boat, a mile or two out from shore. He 
 had but poor luck; the cold had driven the 
 fish into deeper water, and presently he 
 took the oars to go farther out, and looking 
 at the land for the first time with a con 
 sciousness of seeing it, he sighted his range, 
 and turned the boat's head. He was still 
 so near land that beyond the marshes, which 
 looked narrow from the sea, he could see 
 his own farm and his neighbors' farms on 
 the hill that sloped gently down ; the north 
 ern point of higher land that sheltered the 
 cove and the fish-houses also kept the fury 
 of the sea winds from these farms, which 
 faced the east and south. The main road 
 came along the high ridge at their upper 
 edge, and a lane turned off down to the 
 cove; you could see this road for three or 
 four miles when you were as far out at sea. 
 The whole piece of country most familiar to 
 John Packer lay there spread out before 
 him in the morning sunshine. The house 
 .and barn and corn-house looked like chil-
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 269 
 
 dren's playthings; he made a vow that he 
 would get out the lumber that winter for a 
 wood-shed ; he needed another building, and 
 his wood-pile ought to be under cover. His 
 wife had always begged him to build a 
 shed ; it was hard for a woman to manage 
 with wet wood in stormy weather; often he 
 was away, and they never kept a boy or 
 man to help with farm-work except in sum 
 mer. "Joe Banks was terribly surly about 
 something," said Mr. Packer to himself. 
 But Joe wanted Lizzie. When they were 
 married he meant to put an addition to the 
 farther side of the house, and to give Joe 
 a chance to come right there. Lizzie's mo 
 ther was liable to be ailing, and needed her 
 at hand. That eighty dollars would come 
 in handy these hard times. 
 
 John Packer liked to be cross and auto 
 cratic, and to oppose people ; but there was 
 hidden somewhere in his heart a warm spot 
 of affectionateness and desire for approval. 
 When he had quarreled for a certain time, 
 he turned square about on this instinct as 
 on a pivot. The self-love that made him 
 wish to rule ended in making him wish to 
 please; he could not very well bear being 
 disliked. The bully is always a coward,
 
 270 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 but there was a good sound spot of right- 
 mindedness, after all, in John Packer's 
 gnarly disposition. 
 
 As the thought of the price of his trees 
 flitted through John Packer's mind, it made 
 him ashamed instead of pleasing him. He 
 rowed harder for some distance, and then 
 stopped to loosen the comforter about his 
 neck. He looked back at the two pines 
 where they stood black and solemn on the 
 distant ridge against the sky. From this 
 point of view they seemed to have taken a 
 step nearer each other, as if each held the 
 other fast with its branches in a desperate 
 alliance. The bare, strong stem of one, the 
 drooping boughs of the other, were indis 
 tinguishable, but the trees had a look as 
 if they were in trouble. Something made 
 John Packer feel sick and dizzy, and blurred 
 his eyes so that he could not see them plain ; 
 the wind had weakened his eyes, and he 
 rubbed them with his rough sleeve. A 
 horror crept over him before he understood 
 the reason, but in another moment his brain 
 knew what his eyes had read. Along the 
 ridge road came something that trailed long 
 and black like a funeral, and he sprang to 
 his feet in the dory, and lost his footing,
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 271 
 
 then caught at the gunwale, and sat down 
 again in despair. It was like the panic of 
 a madman, and he cursed and swore at old 
 Ferris for his sins, with nothing to hear 
 him but the busy waves that glistened be 
 tween him and the shore. Ferris had stolen 
 his chance; he was coming along with his 
 rigging as fast as he could, with his quick 
 French wood-choppers, and their sharp saws 
 and stubborn wedges to cant the trunks; 
 already he was not far from the farm. Old 
 Ferris was going to set up his yellow saw 
 dust-mill there that was the plan ; the 
 great trunks were too heavy to handle or 
 haul any distance with any trucks or sleds 
 that were used nowadays. It would be all 
 over before anybody could get ashore to 
 stop them; he would risk old Ferris for 
 that. 
 
 Packer began to row with all his might ; 
 he had left the sail ashore. The oars grew 
 hot at the wooden thole-pins, and he pulled 
 and pulled. There would be three quarters 
 of a mile to run up-hill to the house, and 
 another bit to the trees themselves, after he 
 got in. By that time the two-man saw, and 
 the wedges, and the Frenchmen's shining 
 axes, might have spoiled the landmark pines.
 
 272 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 "Lizzie's there she'll hold 'em back till 
 I come," he gasped, as he passed Fish Rock. 
 "Oh, Lord! what a fool! I ain't goin' to 
 have them trees murdered; " and he set his 
 teeth hard, and rowed with all his might. 
 
 Joe Banks looked out of the little four- 
 paned fish-house window, and saw the dory 
 coming, and hurried to the door. "What 's 
 he puttin' in so for?" said he to himself, 
 and looked up the coast to see if anything 
 had happened; the house might be on fire. 
 But all the quiet farms looked untroubled. 
 " He 's pullin' at them oars as if the devil 
 was after him," said Joe to himself . "He 
 could n't ha' heard o' that petition they 're 
 gettin' up from none of the fish he 's hauled 
 in; 'twill 'bout set him crazy, but I was 
 bound I 'd sign it with the rest. The old 
 dory 's jumpin' right out of water every 
 stroke he pulls." 
 
 v. 
 
 The next night the Packer farmhouse 
 stood in the winter landscape under the full 
 moon, just as it had stood always, with a 
 light in the kitchen window, and a plume of 
 smoke above the great, square chimney. It 
 was about half past seven o'clock. A group
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 273 
 
 of men were lurking at the back of the 
 barn, like robbers, and speaking in low 
 tones. Now and then the horse stamped in 
 the barn, or a cow lowed; a dog was bark 
 ing, away over on the next farm, with an 
 anxious tone, as if something were happen 
 ing that he could not understand. The sea 
 boomed along the shore beyond the marshes ; 
 the men could hear the rote of a piece of 
 pebble beach a mile or two to the south 
 ward ; now and then there was a faint tinkle 
 of sleigh-bells. The fields looked wide and 
 empty ; the unusual warmth of the day be 
 fore had been followed by clear cold. Sud 
 denly a straggling company of women were 
 seen coming from the next house. The men 
 at the barn flapped their arms, and one of 
 them, the youngest, danced a little to keep 
 himself warm. 
 
 "Here they all come," said somebody, 
 and at that instant the sound of many sleigh- 
 bells grew loud and incessant, and far-away 
 shouts and laughter came along the wind, 
 fainter in the hollows and loud on the hills 
 of the uneven road. " Here they come ! I 
 guess you 'd better go in, Joe; they '11 want 
 to have lights ready." 
 
 "She '11 have a fire all laid for him in the
 
 274 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 fore room," said the young man; "that's 
 all we want. She '11 be expectin' you, Joe ; 
 go in now, and they '11 think nothin' of it, 
 bein' Saturday night. Just you hurry, so 
 they'll have time to light up." And Joe 
 went. 
 
 "Stop and have some talk with father," 
 whispered Lizzie affectionately to her lover, 
 as she came to meet him. " He 's all worked 
 up, thinking nobody '11 respect him, an' all 
 that. Tell him you 're glad he beat." And 
 they opened the kitchen door. 
 
 "What 's all that noise? " said John 
 Packer, dropping his weekly newspaper, 
 and springing out of his chair. He looked 
 paler and thinner than he had looked the 
 day before. "What 's all that noise, Joe ? " 
 
 There was a loud sound of bells now, and 
 of people cheering. Joe's throat had a 
 lump in it; he knew well enough what it 
 was, and could not find his voice to tell. 
 Everybody in the neighborhood was coming, 
 and they were all cheering as they passed 
 the landmark pines. 
 
 "I guess the neighbors mean to give you 
 a little party to-night, sir," said Joe. "I 
 see six or eight sleighs comin' along the 
 road. They 've all heard about it ; some o'
 
 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 275 
 
 the boys that was here with the riggin' went 
 down to the store last night, and they was 
 all tellin' how you stood right up to Ferris 
 like a king, an' drove him. You see, they 're 
 all gratified on account of having you put a 
 stop to Ferris's tricks about them pines," he 
 repeated. Joe did not dare to look at Lizzie 
 or her mother, and in two minutes more the 
 room began to fill with people, and John 
 Packer, who usually hated company, was 
 shaking hands hospitably with everybody 
 that came. 
 
 Half an hour afterward, Mr. Packer and 
 Joe Banks and Joe's friend Chauncey were 
 down cellar together, filling some pitchers 
 from the best barrel of cider. The guests 
 were tramping to and fro overhead in the 
 best room ; there was a great noise of buzz 
 ing talk and laughter. 
 
 " Come, sir, give us a taste before we go 
 up; it's master hot up there," said Chaun 
 cey, who was nothing if not convivial; and 
 the three men drank solemnly in turn from 
 the smallest of the four pitchers ; then Mr. 
 Packer stooped again to replenish it. 
 
 "Whatever become o' that petition?" 
 whispered Chauncey; but Joe Banks gave
 
 276 A NEIGHBOR'S LANDMARK. 
 
 him a warning push with his elbow. " Wish 
 ye merry Christmas!" said Chauncey un 
 expectedly to some one who called him from 
 the stairhead. 
 
 "Hold that light nearer," said Mr. 
 Packer. "Come, Joe, I ain't goin' to hear 
 no more o' that nonsense about me beatin' 
 off old Ferris." He had been king of his 
 Christmas company upstairs, but down here 
 he was a little ashamed. 
 
 "Land! there's the fiddle," said Chaun 
 cey. "Le' 's hurry up; " and the three cup 
 bearers hastened back up the cellar-stairs to 
 the scene of festivity. 
 
 The two Christmas trees, the landmark 
 pines, stood tall and strong on the hill look 
 ing down at the shining windows of the 
 house. There was a sound like a summer 
 wind in their tops ; the bright moon and the 
 stars were lighting them, and all the land 
 and sea, that Christmas night.
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS, 
 i. 
 
 MRS. PETER LUNN was a plump little 
 woman who bobbed her head like a pigeon 
 when she walked. Her best dress was a 
 handsome, if not new, black silk which Cap 
 tain Lunn, her lamented husband, had 
 bought many years before in the port of 
 Bristol. The decline of shipping interests 
 had cost this worthy shipmaster not only 
 the better part of his small fortune, but also 
 his health and spirits; and he had died a 
 poor man at last, after a long and trying 
 illness. Such a lingering disorder, with its 
 hopes and despairs, rarely affords the same 
 poor compensations to a man that it does to 
 a woman; the claims upon public interest 
 and consideration, the dignity of being as 
 sailed by any ailment out of the common 
 course all these things are to a man but 
 the details of his general ignominy and im 
 patience. 
 
 Captain Peter Lunn may have indulged
 
 278 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 in no sense of his own consequence and 
 uniqueness as an invalid ; but his wife bore 
 herself as a woman should who was the hero 
 ine in so sad a drama, and she went and 
 came across the provincial stage, knowing 
 that her audience was made up of nearly 
 the whole population of that little seaside 
 town. When the curtain had fallen at last, 
 and the old friends seafaring men and 
 others and their wives had come home 
 from Captain Lunn's funeral, and had 
 spoken their friendly thoughts, and reviewed 
 his symptoms for what seemed to them to 
 be the last time, everybody was conscious of 
 a real anxiety. The future of the captain's 
 widow was sadly uncertain, for every one 
 was aware that Mrs. Lunn could now de 
 pend upon only a scant provision. She 
 was much younger than her husband, hav 
 ing been a second wife, and she was thrifty 
 and ingenious ; but her outlook was acknow 
 ledged to be anything but cheerful. In 
 truth, the honest grief that she displayed in 
 the early days of her loss was sure to be 
 better understood with the ancient proverb 
 in mind, that a lean sorrow is hardest to 
 bear. 
 
 To everybody's surprise, however, this
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 279 
 
 able woman succeeded in keeping the old 
 Lunn house painted to the proper perfection 
 of whiteness; there never were any loose 
 bricks to be seen on the tops of her chim 
 neys. The relics of the days of her pros 
 perity kept an air of comfortable continu 
 ance in the days of her adversity. The best 
 black silk held its own nobly, and the shin 
 ing roundness of its handsome folds aided 
 her in looking prosperous and fit for all 
 social occasions. She lived alone, and was 
 a busy and unprocrastinating housekeeper. 
 She may have made less raspberry jam than 
 in her earlier days, but it was always pound 
 for pound ; while her sponge-cake was never 
 degraded in its ingredients from the royal 
 standard of twelve eggs. The honest Eng 
 lish and French stuffs that had been used in 
 the furnishing of the captain's house so 
 many years before faded a little as the years 
 passed by, but they never wore out. Yet 
 one cannot keep the same money in one's 
 purse, if one is never so thrifty, and so 
 Mrs. Lunn came at last to feel heavy at 
 heart and deeply troubled. To use the com 
 mon phrase of her neighbors, it was high 
 time for her to make a change. She had 
 now been living alone for four years, and
 
 280 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 it must be confessed that all those friends 
 who had admired her self-respect and self- 
 dependence began to take a keener interest 
 than ever in her plans and behavior. 
 
 The first indication of Mrs. Lunn's new 
 purpose in life was her mournful allusion to 
 those responsibilities which so severely tax 
 the incompetence of a lone woman. She 
 felt obliged to ask advice of a friend; in 
 fact, she asked the advice of three friends, 
 and each responded with a cordiality delight 
 ful to describe. It happened that there 
 were no less than three retired shipmasters 
 in the old seaport town of Longport who 
 felt the justice of our heroine's claims upon 
 society. She was not only an extremely 
 pleasing person, but she had the wisdom to 
 conceal from Captain Asa Shaw that she 
 had taken any one for an intimate counselor 
 but himself; and the same secrecy was ob 
 served out of deference to the feelings and 
 pride of Captain Crowe and Captain With- 
 erspoon. The deplored necessity of re-shing 
 ling her roof was the great case in which 
 she threw herself upon their advice and as 
 sistance. 
 
 Now, if it had been the new planking of 
 a deck, or the selection and stepping of a
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 281 
 
 mast, the counsel of two of these captains 
 would have been more likely to avail a help 
 less lady. They were elderly men, and had 
 spent so much of their lives at sea that they 
 were not very well informed about shingling 
 their own houses, having left this to their 
 wives, or agents, or some other land-fast 
 persons. They recognized the truth that it 
 would not do to let the project be publicly 
 known, for fear of undue advantage being 
 taken over an unprotected woman ; but each 
 found his opportunity to acquire informa 
 tion, and to impart it in secret to Mrs. 
 Lunn. It sometimes occurred to the good 
 woman that she had been unwise in setting 
 all her captains upon the same course, es 
 pecially as she really thought that the old 
 cedar shingles might last, with judicious 
 patching, for two or three years more. But, 
 in spite of this weakness of tactics, she was 
 equal to her small campaign. 
 
 It now becomes necessary that the reader 
 should have some closer acquaintance with 
 the captains themselves; and to that end 
 confession nrnst be made of the author's be 
 lief in a theory of psychological misfits, or 
 the occasional occupation of large-sized ma-
 
 282 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 terial bodies by small-sized spiritual tenants, 
 and the opposite of this, by which small 
 shapes of clay are sometimes animated in 
 the noblest way by lofty souls. This was 
 the case with Captain Witherspoon, who, 
 not being much above five feet in height, 
 bore himself like a giant, and carried a cane 
 that was far too tall for him. Not so Cap 
 tain Crowe, who, being considerably over 
 six feet, was small-voiced and easily embar 
 rassed, besides being so unconscious of the 
 strength and size of his great body that he 
 usually bore the mark of a blow on his 
 forehead, to show that he had lately at 
 tempted to go through a door that was too 
 low. He accounted for himself only as far 
 as his eyes, and in groping between decks, 
 or under garret or storehouse eaves, the 
 poor man was constantly exposing the su 
 perfluous portion of his frame to severe 
 usage. His hats were always more or less 
 damaged. He was altogether unaware of 
 the natural dignity of his appearance, and 
 bore himself with great honesty and simpli 
 city, as became a small and timid person. 
 But little Captain Witherspoon had a heart 
 of fire. He spoke in a loud and hearty 
 voice. He was called "The Captain" by
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 283 
 
 his townsfolk, while other shipmasters, ac 
 tive or retired, were given their full and 
 distinctive names of Captain Crowe, Cap 
 tain Eli Proudfit, or Captain Asa Shaw, as 
 the case might be. 
 
 Captain Asa Shaw was another aspirant 
 for the hand of Mrs. Maria Lunn. He had 
 a great deal more money than his rivals, 
 and was the owner of a tugboat, which 
 brought a good addition to his income, since 
 Longport was at the mouth of a river on 
 which there was still considerable traffic. 
 He lacked the dignity and elegance of lei 
 sure which belonged to Captains Crowe and 
 Witherspoon, but the fact was patent that 
 he was a younger man than they by half a 
 dozen years. He was not a member of one 
 of the old Longport families, and belonged 
 to a less eminent social level. His straight 
 forwardness of behavior and excellent busi 
 ness position were his chief claims, besides 
 the fact that he was not only rich, but grow 
 ing richer every day. His drawbacks were 
 the carping relatives of his late wife, and 
 his four unruly children. Captain Crowe 
 felt himself assured of success in his suit, 
 because he was by no means a poor man, 
 and because he owned the best house in
 
 284 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 town, over which any woman might be proud 
 to reign as mistress; but he had the defect 
 of owing a home to two maiden sisters who 
 were envious and uneasy at the very sug 
 gestion of his marrying again. They con 
 stantly deplored the loss of their sister-in- 
 law, and paid assiduous and open respect to 
 her memory in every possible way. It 
 seemed certain that as long as they could 
 continue the captain's habit of visiting her 
 grave, in their company, on pleasant Sun 
 days, he was in little danger of providing 
 a successor to reign over them. They had 
 been very critical and hard-hearted to the 
 meek little woman while she was alive, and 
 their later conduct may possibly have been 
 moved by repentance. 
 
 As for the third admirer of Mrs. Lunn, 
 Captain Witherspoon, he was an unencum 
 bered bachelor who had always dreamed of 
 marrying, but had never wished to marry 
 any one in particular until Maria Lunn had 
 engaged his late-blossoming affections. He 
 had only a slender estate, but was sure that 
 if they had been able to get along apart, 
 they could get on all the better together. 
 His lonely habitation was with a deaf, wid 
 owed cousin ; his hopes were great that he
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 285 
 
 was near to having that happy home of his 
 own of which he had dreamed on land and 
 sea ever since he was a boy. He was young 
 at heart, and an ardent lover, this red-faced 
 little old captain, who walked in the Long- 
 port streets as if he were another Lord Nel 
 son, afraid of nobody, and equal to his for 
 tunes. 
 
 To him, who had long admired her in 
 secret, Maria Lunn's confidence in regard 
 to the renewing of her cedar shingles had 
 been a golden joy. He could hardly help 
 singing as he walked, at this proof of her 
 confidence and esteem, and the mellowing 
 effect of an eleven o'clock glass of refresh 
 ment put his willing tongue in daily danger 
 of telling his hopes to a mixed but assuredly 
 interested company. As he walked by the 
 Lunn house, on his way to and from the 
 harbor side, he looked at it with a feeling 
 of relationship and love; he admired the 
 clean white curtains at the windows, he en 
 vied the plump tortoise-shell cat on the side 
 doorstep ; if he saw the composed and plea 
 sant face of Maria glancing up from her 
 sewing, he swept his hat through the air 
 with as gallant a bow as Longport had ever 
 seen, and blushed with joy and pride. Ma-
 
 286 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 ria Lmnn owned to herself that she liked him 
 best, as far as he himself was concerned; 
 while she invariably settled it with her judi 
 cious affections that she must never think of 
 encouraging the captain, who, like herself, 
 was too poor already. Put to the final test, 
 he was found wanting; he was no man of 
 business, and had lost both his own patri 
 mony and early savings in disastrous ship 
 ping enterprises, and still liked to throw 
 down his money to any one who was willing 
 to pick it up. But sometimes, when she 
 saw him pass with a little troop of children 
 at his heels, on their happy way to the 
 candy-shop at the corner, she could not for 
 bear a sigh, or to say to herself, with a 
 smile, that the little man was good-hearted, 
 or that there was nobody who made himself 
 better company; perhaps he would stop in 
 for a minute as he came up the street again 
 at noon. Her sewing was not making, but 
 mending, in these days; and the more she 
 had to mend, the more she sat by one of her 
 front windows, where the light was good. 
 
 n. 
 
 One evening toward the end of summer 
 there came a loud rap at the knocker of
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 287 
 
 Mrs. Lunn's front door. It was the sum 
 mons of Captain Asa Shaw, who sought a 
 quiet haven from the discomforts of the so 
 ciety of his sisters-in-law and his notoriously 
 ill-bred children. Captain Shaw was pros 
 perous, if not happy ; he had been figuring 
 up accounts that rainy afternoon, and found 
 himself in good case. He looked burly and 
 commonplace and insistent as he stood on 
 the front doorstep, and thought Mrs. Lunn 
 was long in coming. At the same moment 
 when she had just made her appearance with 
 a set smile, and a little extra color in her 
 cheeks, from having hastily taken off her 
 apron and tossed it into the sitting-room 
 closet, and smoothed her satin-like black 
 hair on the way, there was another loud rap 
 on the smaller side-door knocker. 
 
 "There must be somebody wanting to 
 speak with me on an errand," she prettily 
 apologized, as she offered Captain Shaw the 
 best rocking-chair. The side door opened 
 into a tiny entry-way at the other end of 
 the room, and she unfastened the bolt im 
 patiently. "Oh, walk right in, Cap'n 
 Crowe!" she was presently heard to ex 
 claim ; but there was a note of embarrass 
 ment in her tone, and a look of provocation
 
 288 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 on her face, as the big shipmaster lumbered 
 after her into the sitting-room. Captain 
 Shaw had taken the large chair, and the 
 newcomer was but poorly accommodated on 
 a smaller one with a cane seat. The walls 
 of the old Lunn house were low, and his 
 head seemed in danger of knocking itself; 
 he was clumsier and bigger than ever in this 
 moment of dismay. His sisters had worn 
 his patience past endurance, and he had it 
 in mind to come to a distinct understanding 
 with Mrs. Lunn that very night. 
 
 Captain Shaw was in his every-day 
 clothes, which lost him a point in Mrs. 
 Lunn's observant eyes; but Captain Crowe 
 had paid her the honor of putting on his 
 best coat for this evening visit. She thought 
 at first that he had even changed his shirt, 
 but upon reflection remembered that this 
 could not be taken as a special recognition 
 of her charms, it being Wednesday night. 
 On the wharves, or in a down-town office, 
 the two men were by way of being good 
 friends, but at this moment great Captain 
 Crowe openly despised his social inferior, 
 and after a formal recognition of his unwel 
 come presence ignored him with unusual 
 bravery, and addressed Mrs. Lunn with
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS 289 
 
 grave politeness. He was dimly conscious 
 of the younger and lesser man's being 
 for some unexplainable reason a formidable 
 rival, and tried blunderingly to show the 
 degree of intimacy which existed between 
 himself and the lady. 
 
 "I just looked in to report about our lit 
 tle matter of business. I 've got the esti- 
 mates with me, but 'twill do just as well 
 another time," said the big mariner in his 
 disapproving, soft voice. 
 
 Captain Shaw instinctively scuffed his 
 feet at the sound, and even felt for his ac 
 count-book in an inside pocket to reassure 
 himself of his financial standing. "I could 
 buy him an' sell him twice over," he mut 
 tered angrily, as loud as he dared. 
 
 Mrs. Lunn rose to a command of the oc 
 casion at once ; there was no sense in men 
 of their age behaving like schoolboys. "Oh, 
 my, yes!" she hastened to say, as she rose 
 with a simpering smile. " 'T ain't as if 
 'twas any kind o' consequence, you know; 
 not but what I 'm just as much obliged." 
 
 Captain Crowe scowled now; this was 
 still the affair of the shingles, and it had 
 been of enough consequence two days before 
 to protract a conversation through two long
 
 290 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 hours. He had wished ever since that he 
 had thought then to tell Mrs. Lunn that if 
 she would just say the word, she never need 
 think of those shingles again, nor of the cost 
 of them. It would have been a pretty way 
 to convey the state of his feelings toward 
 her; but he had lost the opportunity, it 
 might be forever. To use his own expres 
 sion, he now put about and steered a new 
 course. 
 
 "I come by your house just now," he said 
 to Captain Shaw, who still glowered from 
 the rocking-chair. "Your young folks 
 seemed to be havin' a great time. Well, I 
 like to see young folks happy. They gen 
 erally be," he chuckled maliciously; "'tis 
 we old ones have the worst of it, soon as 
 they begin to want to have everything their 
 way." 
 
 "I don't allow no trouble for'ard when 
 I'm on deck," said Shipmaster Shaw more 
 cheerfully ; he hardly recognized the covert 
 allusion to his drawbacks as a suitor. "I 
 like to give 'em their liberty. To-night 
 they were bound on some sort of a racket 
 they got some other young folks in ; but 
 gen'ally they do pretty well. I 'm goin' to 
 take my oldest boy right into the office, first
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 291 
 
 o' January put him right to business. I 
 need more help ; I 've got too much now for 
 me an' Decket to handle, though Decket 's 
 a good accountant." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad I'm out of it," said 
 Captain Crowe. " I don't want the bother 
 o' business. I don't need to slave." 
 
 "No; you shouldn't have too much to 
 carry at your time o' life," rejoined his 
 friend, in a tone that was anything but 
 soothing; and at this moment Maria Lunn 
 returned with her best lamp in full bril 
 liancy. She had listened eagerly to their 
 exchange of compliments, and thought it 
 would be wise to change the subject. 
 
 "What's been goin' on down street to 
 day? " she asked. "I haven't had occasion 
 to go out, and I don't have anybody to 
 bring me the news, as I used to." 
 
 " Here 's Cap'n Shaw makin' me out to 
 be old enough to be his grandfather," in 
 sisted Captain Crowe, laughing gently, as 
 if he had taken it as a joke. "Now, every 
 body knows I ain't but five years the oldest. 
 Shaw, you must n't be settin' up for a young 
 dandy. I 've had a good deal more sea ser 
 vice than you. I believe you never went 
 out on a long voyage round the Cape or the
 
 292 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 like o' that ; those long voyages count a man 
 two years to one, if they 're hard passages." 
 
 "No; I only made some few trips; the 
 rest you might call coastin'," said Captain 
 Shaw handsomely. The two men felt more 
 at ease and reasonable with this familiar 
 subject of experience and discussion. "I 
 come to the conclusion I 'd better stop 
 ashore. If I could ever have found me a 
 smart, dependable crew, I might have fol 
 lowed the sea longer than I did." 
 
 It was in the big captain's heart to say, 
 "Poor master, poor crew ; " but he refrained. 
 It had been well known that in spite of 
 Shaw's ability as a money-maker on shore, 
 he was no seaman, and never had been. 
 Mrs. Lunn was sure to have heard his de 
 fects commented on, but she sat by the 
 table, smiling, and gave no sign, though 
 Captain Crowe looked at her eagerly for a 
 glance of understanding and contempt. 
 
 There was a moment of silence, and no 
 body seemed to know what to say next. 
 Mrs. Maria Lunn was not a great talker in 
 company, although so delightful in confi 
 dence and consultation. She wished now, 
 from the bottom of her heart, that one of 
 her admirers would go away; but at this
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 293 
 
 instant there was a loud tapping at a back 
 door in the farther end of the house. 
 
 " I thought I heard somebody knocking a 
 few minutes ago." Captain Crowe rose like 
 a buoy against the ceiling. "Here, now, 
 I'm goin' to the door for you, Mis' Lunn; 
 there may be a tramp or somethin'." 
 
 "Oh, no," said the little woman, anx 
 iously bustling past him, and lifting the 
 hand-lamp as she went. " I guess it 's only 
 somebody to speak about the washing. Mrs. 
 Dimmett's been sick" The last words 
 were nearly lost in the distance, and in the 
 draught a door closed after her, and the two 
 captains were left alone. Some minutes 
 went by before they suddenly heard the 
 sound of a familiar voice. 
 
 "I don't know but what I will, after all, 
 step in an' set down for just a minute," said 
 the hearty voice of little Captain Wither- 
 spoon. "I'll just wash my hands here at 
 the sink, if you '11 let me, same 's I did the 
 other day. I should n't have bothered you 
 so late about a mere fish, but they was such 
 prime mackerel, an' I thought like's not 
 one of 'em would make you a breakfast." 
 
 "You're always very considerate," an 
 swered Mrs. Lunn, in spite of what she felt
 
 294 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 to be a real emergency. She was very fond 
 of mackerel, and these were the first of the 
 season. "Walk right in, Cap'n Wither- 
 spoon, when you get ready. You '11 find 
 some o' your friends. 'Tis 'The Cap'n,' 
 gentlemen," she added, in a pleased tone, 
 as she rejoined her earlier guests. 
 
 If Captain Witherspoon had also indulged 
 a hope of finding his love alone, he made no 
 sign; it would be beneath so valiant and 
 gallant a man to show defeat. He shook 
 hands with both his friends as if he had not 
 seen them for a fortnight, and then drew 
 one of the Windsor chairs forward, forcing 
 the two companions into something like a 
 social circle. 
 
 "What's the news?" he demanded. 
 "Anything heard from the new minister 
 yet, Crowe? I suppose, though, the ladies 
 are likely to hear of those matters first." 
 
 Mrs. Lunn was grateful to this promoter 
 of friendly intercourse. "Yes, sir," she 
 answered quickly; "I was told, just before 
 tea, that he had written to Deacon Torby 
 that he felt moved to accept the call." 
 
 Her eyes shone with pleasure at having 
 this piece of news. She had been thinking 
 a great deal about it just before the two
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 295 
 
 captains came in, but their mutual dismay 
 had been such an infliction that for once she 
 had been in danger of forgetting her best 
 resources. Now, with the interest of these 
 parishioners in their new minister, the pro 
 priety, not to say the enjoyment, of the rest 
 of the evening was secure. Captain With- 
 erspoon went away earliest, as cheerfully 
 as he had come; and Captain Shaw rose 
 and followed him for the sake of having 
 company along the street. Captain Crowe 
 lingered a few moments, so obtrusively 
 that he seemed to fill the whole sitting- 
 room, while he talked about unimportant 
 matters ; and at last Mrs. Lunn knocked a 
 large flat book off the end of the sofa for no 
 other reason than to tell him that it was 
 one of Captain Witherspoon's old log-books 
 which she had taken great pleasure in read 
 ing. She did not explain that it was asked 
 for because of other records ; her late hus 
 band had also been in command one voy 
 age of the ship Mary Susan. 
 
 Captain Crowe went grumbling away 
 down the street. "I've seen his plaguy 
 logs; and what she can find, I don't see. 
 There ain't nothin' to a page but his figures, 
 and what men were sick, and how the seas
 
 296 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 run, an' ' So ends the day.' ' It was a ter 
 rible indication of rivalry that the captain 
 felt at liberty to bring his confounded fish 
 to any door he chose ; and his very willing 
 ness to depart early and leave the field 
 might prove him to possess a happy cer 
 tainty, Captain Crowe was so jealous that 
 he almost forgot to play his role of lover. 
 
 As for Mrs. Lunn herself, she blew out 
 the best lamp at once, so that it would burn 
 another night, and sat and pondered over 
 her future. "'Twas real awkward to have 
 'em all call together; but I guess I passed 
 it off pretty well," she consoled herself, 
 casting an absent-minded glance at her little 
 blurred mirror with the gilded wheat-sheaf 
 at the top. 
 
 "Everybody 's after her; I 've got to look 
 sharp," said Captain Asa Shaw to himself 
 that night. " I guess I 'd better give her to 
 understand what I 'm worth." 
 
 "Both o' them old sea-dogs is steerin' for 
 the same port as I be. I '11 cut 'em out, if 
 only for the name of it see if I don't!" 
 Captain Crowe muttered, as he smoked his 
 evening pipe, puffing away with a great 
 draught that made the tobacco glow and 
 almost flare.
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 297 
 
 " I care a world more about poor Maria 
 than anybody else does," said warm-hearted 
 little Captain Witherspoon, making himself 
 as tall as he could as he walked his bedroom 
 deck to and fro. 
 
 in. 
 
 Down behind the old Witherspoon ware 
 house, built by the captain's father when 
 the shipping interests of Longport were at 
 their height of prosperity, there was a plea 
 sant spot where one might sometimes sit in 
 the cool of the afternoon. There were some 
 decaying sticks of huge oak timber, stout 
 and short, which served well for benches; 
 the gray, rain-gnawed wall of the old ware 
 house, with its overhanging second story, 
 was at the back ; and in front was the wharf, 
 still well graveled except where tenacious, 
 wiry weeds and thin grass had sprouted, and 
 been sunburned into sparse hay. There were 
 some places, alas! where the planking had 
 rotted away, and one could look down 
 through and see the clear, green water un 
 derneath, and the black, sea-worn piles with 
 their fringes of barnacles and seaweed. 
 Captain Crowe gave a deep sigh as he sat 
 heavily down on a stick of timber; then he
 
 298 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 heard a noise above, and looked up, to see 
 at first only the rusty windlass under the 
 high gable, with its end of frayed rope fly 
 ing loose; then one of the wooden shutters 
 was suddenly flung open, and swung to 
 again, and fastened. Captain Crowe was 
 sure now that he should gain a companion. 
 Captain Witherspoon was in the habit of 
 airing the empty warehouse once a week 
 Wednesdays, if pleasant; it was nearly all 
 the active business he had left; and this 
 was Thursday, but Wednesday had been 
 rainy. 
 
 Presently the Captain appeared at the 
 basement doorway, just behind where his 
 friend was sitting. The door was seldom 
 opened, but the owner of the property pro 
 fessed himself forgetful about letting in as 
 much fresh air there as he did above, and 
 announced that he should leave it open for 
 half an hour. The two men moved a little 
 way along the oak stick to be out of the cool 
 draught which blew from the cellar-like 
 place, empty save for the storage of some 
 old fragments of vessels or warehouse gear. 
 There was a musty odor of the innumerable 
 drops of molasses which must have leaked 
 into the hard earth there for half a century;
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 299 
 
 there was still a fragrance of damp Liver 
 pool salt, a reminder of even the dyestuffs 
 and pepper and rich spices that had been 
 stowed away. The two elderly men were 
 carried back to the past by these familiar, 
 ancient odors ; they turned and sniffed once 
 or twice with satisfaction, but neither spoke. 
 Before them the great, empty harbor spread 
 its lovely, shining levels in the low after 
 noon light. There were a few ephemeral 
 pleasure-boats, but no merchantmen riding 
 at anchor, no lines of masts along the 
 wharves, with great wrappings of furled 
 sails on the yards ; there were no sounds of 
 mallets on the ships' sides, or of the voices 
 of men, busy with unlading, or moving the 
 landed cargoes. The old warehouses were 
 all shuttered and padlocked, as far as the 
 two men could see. 
 
 "Looks lonesomer than ever, don't it?" 
 said Captain Crowe, pensively. "I vow 
 it 's a shame to see such a harbor as this, 
 an' think o' all the back country, an' how 
 things were goin' on here in our young 
 days." 
 
 '"Tis sad, sir, sad," growled brave little 
 Captain Witherspoon . " They ' ve taken the 
 wrong course for the country's good some
 
 300 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 o' those folks in Washington. When the 
 worst of 'em have stuffed their own pockets 
 as full as they can get, p'r'aps they '11 see 
 what else can be done, and all catch hold 
 together and shore up the shipping int'rists. 
 I see every night, when I go after my paper 
 the whole sidewalk full o' louts that ought 
 to be pushed off to sea with a good smart 
 master ; they 're going to the devil ashore, 
 sir. Every way you can look at it, ship- 
 pin' 's a loss to us." 
 
 At this moment the shrill whistle of a 
 locomotive sounded back of the town, but 
 the captains took no notice of it. Two idle 
 boys suddenly came scrambling up the 
 broken landing-steps from the water, one 
 of them clutching a distressed puppy. Then 
 another, who had stopped to fasten the in 
 visible boat underneath, joined them in 
 haste, and all three fled round the corner. 
 The elderly seamen had watched them se 
 verely. 
 
 " It used to cost but a ninepence to get a 
 bar'l from Boston by sea," said Captain 
 Crowe, in a melancholy tone; "and now it 
 costs twenty -five cents by the railroad, sir." 
 
 In reply Captain Witherspoou shook his 
 head gloomily.
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 301 
 
 "You an' I never expected to see Long- 
 port harbor look like this," resumed Captain 
 Crowe, giving the barren waters a long 
 gaze, and then leaning forward and pushing 
 the pebbles about with his cane. "I don't 
 know 's I ever saw things look so poor along 
 these wharves as they do to-day. I 've 
 seen six or seven large vessels at a time 
 waitin' out in the stream there until they 
 could get up to the wharves. You could 
 stand ashore an' hear their masters rippin' 
 an' swearin' aboard, an' fur 's you could see 
 from here, either way, the masts and riggin' 
 looked like the woods in winter-time. There 
 used to be somethin' doin' in this place when 
 we was young men, Cap'n Witherspoon." 
 
 "I feel it as much as anybody," acknow- 
 leged the captain. "Looks to me very 
 much as if there was a vessel comin' up, 
 down there over Dimmett's P'int; she may 
 only be runnin' in closer 'n usual on this 
 light sou'easterly breeze ; yes, I s'pose that 'a 
 all. What do you make her out to be, 
 sir?" 
 
 The old shipmasters bent their keen, far- 
 sighted gaze seaward for a moment. "She 
 ain't comin' in ; she 's only one o' them great 
 schooners runnin' west'ard. I 'd as soon
 
 302 ^41,1, MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 put to sea under a Monday's clothes-line, 
 for my part," said Captain Crowe. 
 
 "Yes; give me a brig, sir, a good able 
 brig," said Witherspoon eagerly. "I don't 
 care if she 's a little chunky, neither. I 'd 
 make more money out of her than out o' 
 any o' these gre't new-fangled things. I 'd 
 as soon try to sail a whole lumber-yard to 
 good advantage. Gi' me an old-fashioned 
 house an' an old-style vessel; there was 
 some plan an' reason to 'em. Now that new 
 house of Asa Shaw's he 's put so much 
 money in looks as if a nor' west wind took 
 an' hove it together. Shaw 's just the man 
 to call for one o' them schooners we just 
 spoke of." 
 
 The mention of this rival's name caused 
 deep feelings in their manly breasts. The 
 captains felt an instant resentment of Asa 
 Shaw's wealth and pretensions. Neither no 
 ticed that the subject was abruptly changed 
 without apparent reason, when Captain 
 Crowe asked if there was any truth in the 
 story that the new minister was going to 
 take board with the Widow Lunn. 
 
 "No, sir," exclaimed Captain Wither 
 spoon, growing red in the face, and speak 
 ing angrily ; " I don't put any confidence in 
 the story at all."
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 303 
 
 "It might be of mutual advantage," his 
 companion urged a little maliciously. Cap 
 tain Crowe had fancied that Mrs. Lunn 
 had shown him special favor that afternoon, 
 and ventured to think himself secure. 
 
 " The new minister 's a dozen years younger 
 than she; must be all o' that," said the 
 Captain, collecting himself. " I called him 
 quite a young-lookin' man when he preached 
 for us as a candidate. Sing'lar he should 
 n't be a married man. Generally they be." 
 
 "You ain't the right one to make reflec 
 tions," joked Captain Crowe, mindful that 
 Maria Lunn had gone so far that very day 
 as to compliment him upon owning the 
 handsomest old place in town. "I used 
 to think you was a great beau among the 
 ladies, Witherspoon." 
 
 "I never expected to die a single man," 
 said his companion, with dignity. 
 
 "You're gettin' along in years," urged 
 Captain Crowe. "You're gettin' to where 
 it 's dangerous ; a good-hearted elderly man 's 
 liable to be snapped up by somebody he 
 don't want. They say an old man ought to 
 be married, but he shouldn't get married. 
 I don't know but it 's so." 
 
 " I 've put away my thoughts o' youth
 
 304 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 long since," said the little captain nobly. 
 " Though I ain't so old, sir, but what I 've 
 got some years before me yet, unless I meet 
 with accident ; an' I 'm so situated that I 
 never yet had to take anybody that I did n't 
 want. But I do often feel that there 's 
 somethin' to be said for the affections, an' 
 I get to feelin' lonesome winter nights, 
 thinkin' that age is before me, an' if I 
 should get hove on to a sick an' dyin' 
 bed" 
 
 The captain's hearty voice failed for once ; 
 then the pleasant face and sprightly figure 
 of the lady of his choice seemed to inter 
 pose, and to comfort him. "Come, come! " 
 he said, "ain't we gettin' into the doldrums, 
 Crowe? I'll just step in an' close up the 
 warehouse; it must be time to make for 
 supper." 
 
 Captain Crowe walked slowly round by 
 the warehouse lane into the street, waiting 
 at the door while his friend went through 
 the old building, carefully putting up the 
 bars and locking the street door upon its 
 emptiness with a ponderous key; then the 
 two captains walked away together, the tall 
 one and the short one, clicking their canes 
 on the flagstones. They turned up Barba-
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 305 
 
 does Street, where Mrs. Lunn lived, and 
 bowed to her finely as they passed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One Sunday morning in September the 
 second bell was just beginning to toll, and 
 Mrs. Lunn locked her front door, tried the 
 great brass latch, put the heavy key into her 
 best silk dress pocket, and stepped forth dis 
 creetly on her way to church. She had been 
 away from Longport for several weeks, hav 
 ing been sent for to companion the last days 
 of a cousin much older than herself; and 
 her reappearance was now greeted with much 
 friendliness. The siege of her heart had 
 necessarily been in abeyance. She walked 
 to her seat in the broad aisle with great 
 dignity. It was a season of considerable 
 interest in Longport, for the new minister 
 had that week been installed, and that day 
 he was to preach his first sermon. All the 
 red East Indian scarfs and best raiment of 
 every sort suitable for early autumn wear 
 had been brought out of the camphor-chests, 
 and there was an air of solemn festival. 
 
 Mrs. Lunn's gravity of expression was 
 hardly borne out by her gayety of apparel, 
 yet there was something cheerfid about her
 
 306 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 look, in spite of her recent bereavement. 
 The cousin who had just died had in times 
 past visited Longport, so that Mrs. Lumi's 
 friends were the more ready to express their 
 regret. When one has passed the borders 
 of middle life, such. losses are sadly met-, 
 they break the long trusted bonds of old 
 association, and remove a part of one's 
 own life and belongings. Old friends grow 
 dearer as they grow fewer; those who re 
 member us as long as we remember our 
 selves become a part of ourselves at last, 
 and leave us much the poorer when they are 
 taken away. Everybody felt sorry for Mrs. 
 Lunn, especially as it was known that this 
 cousin had always been as generous as her 
 income would allow; but she was chiefly 
 dependent upon an annuity, and was thought 
 to have but little to leave behind her. 
 
 Mrs. Lunn had reached home only the 
 evening before, and, the day of her return 
 having been uncertain, she was welcomed 
 by no one, and had slipped in at her own 
 door unnoticed in the dusk. There was a 
 little stir in the congregation as she passed 
 to her pew, but, being in affliction, she 
 took no notice of friendly glances, and re 
 sponded with great gravity only to her
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 307 
 
 neighbor in the next pew, with whom she 
 usually exchanged confidential whispers as 
 late as the second sentence of the opening 
 prayer. 
 
 The new minister was better known to 
 her than to any other member of the parish ; 
 for he had been the pastor of the church to 
 which her lately deceased cousin belonged, 
 and Mrs. Lunn had seen him oftener and 
 more intimately than ever in this last sad 
 visit. He was a fine-looking man, no longer 
 young, in fact, he looked quite as old as 
 our heroine, and though at first the three 
 captains alone may have regarded him with 
 suspicion, by the time church was over and 
 the Rev. Mr. Farley had passed quickly by 
 some prominent parishioners who stood ex 
 pectant at the doors of their pews, in order 
 to speak to Mrs. Lunn, and lingered a few 
 moments holding her affectionately by the 
 hand by this time gossip was fairly kin 
 dled. Moreover, the minister had declined 
 Deacon Torby's invitation to dinner, and it 
 was supposed, though wrongly, that he had 
 accepted Mrs. Lunn's, as they walked away 
 together. 
 
 Now Mrs. Lunn was a great favorite 
 in the social circles of Longport none
 
 308 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 greater; but there were other single ladies 
 in the First Parish, and it was something to 
 be deeply considered whether she had the 
 right, with so little delay, to appropriate 
 the only marriageable minister who had 
 been settled over that church and society 
 during a hundred and eighteen years. There 
 was a loud buzzing of talk that Sunday af 
 ternoon. It was impossible to gainsay the 
 fact that if there was a prospective engage 
 ment, Mrs. Lunn had shown her usual dis 
 cretion. The new minister had a proper 
 income, but no house and home; while she 
 had a good house and home, but no income. 
 She was called hard names, which would 
 have deeply wounded her, by many of her 
 intimate friends ; but there were others who 
 more generously took her part, though they 
 vigorously stated their belief that a young 
 married pastor with a growing family had 
 his advantages. The worst thing seemed to 
 be that the Rev. Mr. Farley was beginning 
 his pastorate under a cloud. 
 
 While all this tempest blew, and all eyes 
 were turned her way, friends and foes alike 
 behaved as if not only themselves but the 
 world were concerned with Mrs. Maria 
 Lunn's behavior, and as if the fate of em-
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 309 
 
 pires hung upon her choice of a consort. 
 She was maligned by Captain Crowe's two 
 sisters for having extended encouragement 
 to their brother, while the near relatives of 
 Captain Shaw told tales of her open efforts 
 to secure his kind attention ; but in spite of 
 all these things, and the antagonism that 
 was in the very air, Mrs. Lunn went se 
 renely on her way. She even, after a few 
 days' seclusion, arrayed herself in her best, 
 and set forth to make some calls with a 
 pleasant, unmindful manner which puzzled 
 her neighbors a good deal. She had, or 
 professed to have, some excuse for visiting 
 each house : of one friend she asked instruc 
 tions about her duties as newly elected offi 
 cer of the sewing society, the first meeting 
 of which had been held in her absence ; and 
 another neighbor was kindly requested to 
 give the latest news from an invalid son at 
 a distance. Mrs. Lunn did not make such 
 a breach of good manners as to go out mak 
 ing calls with no reason so soon after her 
 cousin's death. She appeared rather in her 
 most friendly and neighborly character ; and 
 furthermore gave much interesting informa 
 tion in regard to the new minister, telling 
 many pleasant things about him and his re-
 
 310 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 lations to, and degree of success in, his late 
 charge. There may or may not have been 
 an air of proprietorship in her manner ; she 
 was frank and free of speech, at any rate ; 
 and so the flame of interest was fanned ever 
 to a brighter blaze. 
 
 The reader can hardly be expected to 
 sympathize with the great excitement in 
 Longport society when it was known that 
 the new minister had engaged board with 
 Mrs. Lunn for an indefinite time. There 
 was something very puzzling in this new 
 development. If there was an understand 
 ing between them, then the minister and 
 Mrs. Lunn were certainly somewhat indis 
 creet. Nobody could discredit the belief 
 that they had a warm interest in each other ; 
 yet those persons who felt themselves most 
 nearly concerned in the lady's behavior be 
 gan to indulge themselves in seeing a ray of 
 hope. 
 
 v. 
 
 Captain Asa Shaw had been absent for 
 some time in New York on business, and 
 Captain Crowe was confined to his hand 
 some house with a lame ankle ; but it hap 
 pened that they both reappeared on the 
 chief business street of Longport the very
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 311 
 
 same day. One might have fancied that 
 each wore an expression of anxiety; the 
 truth was, they had made vows to them 
 selves that another twenty -four hours should 
 not pass over their heads before they made 
 5 bold push for the coveted prize. They 
 vvere more afraid of the minister's rivalry 
 than they knew; but not the least of each 
 other's. There were angry lines down the 
 middle of Captain Asa Shaw's forehead as 
 he assured himself that he would soon put 
 an end to the minister business, and Captain 
 Crowe thumped his cane emphatically as he 
 walked along the street. Captain John With- 
 erspoon looked thin and eager, but a hopeful 
 light shone in his eyes: his choice was not 
 from his judgment, but from his heart. 
 
 It was strange that it should be so dif 
 ficult nay, impossible for anybody to 
 find an opportunity to speak with Mrs. 
 Lunn upon this most private and sacred 
 of personal affairs, and that day after day 
 went by while the poor captains fretted and 
 grew more and more impatient. They had 
 it in mind to speak at once when the time 
 came; neither Captain Crowe nor Captain 
 Shaw felt that he could do himself or his 
 feelings any justice in a letter.
 
 312 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 On a rainy autumn afternoon, Mrs. Lunn 
 sat down by her front window, and drew 
 her wicker work-basket into her lap from 
 the end of the narrow table before her. She 
 was tired, and glad to rest. She had been 
 busy all the morning, putting in order the 
 rooms that were to be set apart for the 
 minister's sleeping-room and study. Her 
 thoughts were evidently pleasant as she 
 looked out into the street for a few minutes, 
 and then crossed her plump hands over the 
 work-basket. Presently, as a large, famil 
 iar green umbrella passed her window, she 
 caught up a bit of sewing, and seemed to be 
 busy with it, as some one opened her front 
 door and came into the little square entry 
 without knocking. 
 
 "May I take the liberty? I saw you 
 settin' by the window this wet day," said 
 Captain Shaw. 
 
 "Walk right in, sir; do!" Mrs. Lunn 
 fluttered a little on her perch at the sight of 
 him, and then settled herself quietly, as trig 
 and demure as ever. 
 
 "I'm glad, ma'am, to find you alone. I 
 have long had it in mind to speak with you 
 on a matter of interest to us both." The 
 captain felt more embarrassed than he had
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 313 
 
 expected, but Mrs. Lunn remained tran 
 quil, and glanced up at him inquiringly. 
 
 "It relates to the future," explained Cap 
 tain Asa Shaw. "I make no doubt you 
 have seen what my feelin's have been this 
 good while. I can offer you a good home, 
 and I shall want you to have your liberty." 
 
 "I enjoy a good home and my liberty 
 now," said Mrs. Lunn stiffly, looking 
 straight before her. 
 
 " I mean liberty to use my means, and to 
 have plenty to do with, so as to make you 
 feel comfortable," explained the captain, 
 reddening. "Mis' Lunn, I 'm a straight 
 forward business man, and I intend busi 
 ness now. I don't know any of your flow 
 ery ways of sayin' things, but there ain't 
 anybody in Longport I 'd like better to see 
 at the head of my house. You and I ain't 
 young, but we " 
 
 "Don't say a word, sir," protested Mrs. 
 Lunn. "You can get you just as good 
 housekeepers as I am. I don't feel to 
 change my situation just at present, sir." 
 
 "Is that final? " said Captain Shaw, look 
 ing crestfallen. "Come now, Maria! I'm 
 a good-hearted man, I'm worth over forty 
 thousand dollars, and I '11 make you a good
 
 314 ALL MY SAD CAPTAIN'S. 
 
 husband, I promise. Here's the minister 
 on your hands, I know. I did feel all 
 ashore when I found you'd promised to 
 take him in. I tried to get a chance to 
 speak with you before you went off, but 
 when I come home from New York 'twas 
 the first news I heard. I don't deem it best 
 for you ; you can't make nothin' out o' one 
 boarder, anyway. I tried it once myself." 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Shaw," said Mrs. 
 Lunn coldly; "I know my own business 
 best. You have had my answer, sir." She 
 added in a more amiable tone, "Not but 
 what I feel obliged to you for payin' me the 
 compliment." 
 
 There was a sudden loud knocking at the 
 side door, which startled our friends ex 
 tremely. They looked at each other with 
 apprehension; then Mrs. Lunn slowly rose 
 and answered the summons. 
 
 The gentle voice of the giant was heard 
 without. "Oh, Mis' Lunn," said Captain 
 Crowe excitedly, " I saw some elegant mack 
 erel brought ashore, blown up from the 
 south'ard, I expect, though so late in the 
 season ; and I recalled that you once found 
 some acceptable. I thought 't would help 
 you out."
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 315 
 
 "I'm obliged to you, Captain Crowe," 
 said the mistress of the house; "and to 
 think of your bringin' 'em yourself this 
 drenchin' day ! I take it very neighborly, 
 sir." Her tone was entirely different from 
 that in which she had conducted so decisive 
 a conversation with the guest in the sitting- 
 room. They heard the front door bang just 
 as Captain Crowe entered with his fish. 
 
 "Was that the wind sprung up so quick? " 
 he inquired, alert to any change of weather. 
 
 "I expect it was Captain Shaw, just 
 leavin'," said Mrs. Lunn angrily. "He's 
 always full o' business, ain't he ? No won 
 der those children of his are without man 
 ners." There was no favor in her tone, and 
 the spirits of Captain Crowe were for once 
 equal to his height. 
 
 The daylight was fading fast. The mack 
 erel were deposited in their proper place, 
 and the donor was kindly bidden to come in 
 and sit down. Mrs. Lunn's old-fashioned 
 sitting-room was warm and pleasant, and 
 the big captain felt that his moment had 
 come; the very atmosphere was encourag 
 ing. He was sitting in the rocking-chair, 
 and she had taken her place by the window. 
 There was a pause ; the captain remembered
 
 316 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 how he had felt once in the China Seas just 
 before a typhoon struck the ship. 
 
 "Maria," he said huskily, his voice sound 
 ing as if it came from the next room, 
 " Maria, I s'pose you know what I 'm think- 
 in' of ?" 
 
 "I don't," said Mrs. Lunn, with cheerful 
 firmness. "Cap'n Crowe, I know it ain't 
 polite to talk about your goin' when you 've 
 just come in ; but when you do go, I 've got 
 something I want to send over to your sister 
 Eliza." 
 
 The captain gasped ; there was something 
 in her tone that he could not fathom. He 
 began to speak, but his voice failed him 
 altogether. There she sat, perfectly self- 
 possessed, just as she looked every day. 
 
 " What are you payin' now for potatoes, 
 sir?" continued Mrs. Lunn. 
 
 "Sixty cents a bushel for the last, 
 ma'am," faltered the captain. "I wish 
 you'd hear to me, Maria," he burst out. 
 "I wish" 
 
 "Now don't, cap'n," urged the pleasant 
 little woman. "I've made other arrange 
 ments. At any rate," she added, with her 
 voice growing more business-like than ever, 
 "at any rate, I deem it best to wait until
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 317 
 
 the late potatoes come into market; they 
 seem to keep better." 
 
 The typhoon had gone past, but the cap 
 tain waited a moment, still apprehensive. 
 Then he took his hat, and slowly and sadly 
 departed without any words of farewell. 
 In spite of his lame foot he walked some 
 distance beyond his own house, in a fit of 
 absent - mindedness that was born of deep 
 regret. It was impossible to help respect 
 ing Mrs. Lunn's character and ability more 
 than ever. "Oh! them ministers, them 
 ministers ! " he groaned, turning in at his 
 high white gate between the tall posts with 
 their funeral urns. 
 
 Mrs. Lunn heard the door close behind 
 Captain Crowe; then she smoothed down 
 her nice white apron abstractedly, and 
 glanced out of the window to see if he were 
 out of sight, but she could not catch a 
 glimpse of the captain's broad, expressive 
 back, to judge his feelings or the manner 
 in which he was taking his rebuff. She felt 
 unexpectedly sorry for him; it was lonely 
 in his handsome, large house, where his two 
 sisters made so poor a home for him and 
 such a good one for themselves. 
 
 It was almost dark now, and the shut
 
 318 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 windows of the room made the afternoon 
 seem more gloomy ; the days were fast grow 
 ing shorter. After her successful conduct 
 of the affair with her two lovers, she felt a 
 little lonely and uncertain. Although she 
 had learned to dislike Captain Shaw, and 
 had dismissed him with no small pleasure, 
 with Captain Crowe it was different; he 
 was a good, kind-hearted man, and she had 
 made a great effort to save his feelings. 
 
 Just then her quick ears caught the sound 
 of a footstep in the street. She listened in 
 tently for a moment, and then stood close 
 to the window, looking out. The rain was 
 falling steadily; it streaked the square panes 
 in long lines, so that Mrs. Lunn's heart 
 recognized the approach of a friend more 
 easily than her eyes. But the expected um 
 brella tipped away on the wind as it passed, 
 so that she could see the large ivory handle. 
 She lifted the sash in an instant. "I wish 
 you'd step in just one minute, sir, if it's 
 perfectly convenient," she said appealingly, 
 and then felt herself grow very red in the 
 face as she crossed the room and opened the 
 door. 
 
 "I 'm 'most too wet to come into a lady's 
 parlor," apologized Captain Witherspoon
 
 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 319 
 
 gallantly. "Command me, Mrs. Lunn, if 
 there 's any way I can serve you. I expect 
 to go down street again this evening." 
 
 "Do you think you 'd better, sir? " gently 
 inquired Mrs. Lunn. There was something 
 beautiful about the captain's rosy cheeks 
 and his curly gray hair. His kind blue 
 eyes beamed at her like a boy's. 
 
 "I have had some business fall to me, 
 you see, Cap'n," she continued, blushing 
 still more; "and I feel as if I'd better ask 
 your advice. My late cousin, Mrs. Hicks, 
 has left me all her property. The amount 
 is very unexpected ; I never looked for more 
 than a small remembrance. There will 
 have to be steps taken." 
 
 "Command me, madam," said the cap 
 tain again, to whom it never for one moment 
 occurred that Mrs. Lunn was better skilled 
 in business matters than himself. He in 
 stantly assumed the place of protector, which 
 she so unaffectedly offered. For a minute 
 he stood like an admiral ready to do the 
 honors of his ship ; then he put out his hon 
 est hand. 
 
 "Maria," he faltered, and the walls about 
 him seemed to flicker and grow unsteady, 
 " Maria, I dare say it 's no time to say the
 
 320 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 word just now, but if you could feel toward 
 me" 
 
 He never finished the sentence ; he never 
 needed to finish it. Maria Lunn said no 
 word in answer, but they each took a step 
 forward. They may not have been young, 
 but they knew all the better how to value 
 happiness. 
 
 About half an hour afterward, the cap 
 tain appeared again in the dark street, in 
 all the rain, without his umbrella. As he 
 paraded toward his lodgings, he chanced to 
 meet the Reverend Mr. Farley, whom he 
 saluted proudly. He had demurred a little 
 at the minister's making a third in their 
 household ; but in the brief, delightful space 
 of their engagement, Mrs. Lunn had laid 
 before him her sensible plans, and persuaded 
 Captain Witherspoon that the minister 
 dear, good man ! was one who always had 
 his head in a book when he was in the house, 
 and would never give a bit of trouble; and 
 that they might as well have the price of 
 his board and the pleasure of his company 
 as anybody. 
 
 Mrs. Lunn sat down to her belated and 
 solitary supper, and made an excellent meal. 
 " 'T will be pleasant for me to have company
 
 ALL MT SAD CAPTAINS. 321 
 
 again," she murmured. "I think 'tis better 
 for a person." She had a way, as many 
 lonely women have, of talking to herself, 
 just for the sake of hearing the sound of a 
 voice. "I guess Mr. Farley's situation is 
 goin' to please him, too," she added; "I 
 feel as if I 'd done it all for the best." Mrs. 
 Lunn rose, and crossed the room with a 
 youthful step, and stood before the little 
 looking-glass, holding her head this way 
 and that, like a girl; then she turned, still 
 blushing a little, and put away the tea- 
 things. " 'T is about time now for the Cap'n 
 to go down town after his newspaper," she 
 whispered ; and at that moment the Captain 
 opened the door. 
 
 One day, the next spring, Captain Crowe, 
 who had always honored the heroine of this 
 tale for saving his self-respect, and allowing 
 him to affirm with solemn asseverations that 
 though she was a prize for any man, he 
 never had really offered himself to Mrs. 
 Lunn Captain Crowe and Captain With- 
 erspoon were sitting at the head of Long 
 Wharf together in the sunshine. 
 
 "I've been a very fortunate man, sir," 
 said the little captain boldly. "My own
 
 322 ALL MY SAD CAPTAINS. 
 
 property has looked up a good deal since I 
 was married, what with that piece of land I 
 sold for the new hotel, and other things that 
 have come to bear this wharf property, 
 for instance. I shall have to lay out con 
 siderable for new plank, but I 'm able to do 
 it." 
 
 "Yes, sir; things have started up in 
 Longport a good deal this spring; but it 
 never is goin' to be what it was once," an 
 swered Captain Crowe, who had grown as 
 much older as his friend had grown younger 
 since the autumn, though he always looked 
 best out of doors. "Don't you think, Cap 
 tain Wither spoon," he said, changing his 
 tone, "that you ought to consider the mat 
 ter of re-shinglin' your house ? You '11 have 
 to engage men now, anyway, to do your 
 plankin'. I know of some extra cedar shin 
 gles that were landed yesterday from some- 
 wheres up river. Or was Mis' Witherspoon 
 a little over-anxious last season?" 
 
 "I think, with proper attention, sir," 
 said the Captain sedately, "that the present 
 shingles may last us a number of years yet."
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 THE passenger and mail transportation 
 between the towns of North Kilby and San 
 scrit Pond was carried on by Mr. Jefferson 
 Briley, whose two-seated covered wagon was 
 usually much too large for the demands of 
 business. Both the Sanscrit Pond and 
 North Kilby people were stayers-at-home, 
 and Mr. Briley often made his seven-mile 
 journey in entire solitude, except for the 
 limp leather mail-bag, which he held firmly 
 to the floor of the carriage with his heavily 
 shod left foot. The mail-bag had almost a 
 personality to him, born of long association. 
 Mr. Briley was a meek and timid-looking 
 body, but he held a warlike soul, and en 
 couraged his fancies by reading awful tales 
 of bloodshed and lawlessness in the far 
 West. Mindful of stage robberies and train
 
 324 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 thieves, and of express messengers who died 
 at their posts, he was prepared for anything ; 
 and although he had trusted to his own 
 strength and bravery these many years, he 
 carried a heavy pistol under his front-seat 
 cushion for better defense. This awful 
 weapon was familiar to all his regular pas 
 sengers, and was usually shown to strangers 
 by the time two of the seven miles of Mr. 
 Briley's route had been passed. The pistol 
 was not loaded. Nobody (at least not Mr. 
 Briley himself) doubted that the mere sight 
 of such a weapon would turn the boldest ad 
 venturer aside. 
 
 Protected by such a man and such a piece 
 of armament, one gray Friday morning in 
 the edge of winter, Mrs. Fanny Tobin was 
 traveling from Sanscrit Pond to North 
 Kilby. She was an elderly and feeble-look 
 ing woman, but with a shrewd twinkle in 
 her eyes, and she felt very anxious about her 
 numerous pieces of baggage and her own 
 personal safety. She was enveloped in 
 many shawls and smaller wrappings, but 
 they were not securely fastened, and kept 
 getting undone and flying loose, so that the 
 bitter December cold seemed to be picking 
 a lock now and then, and creeping in to steal
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 325 
 
 away the little warmth she had. Mr. Briley 
 was cold, too, and could only cheer himself 
 by remembering the valor of those pony- 
 express drivers of the pre-railroad days, who 
 had to cross the Rocky Mountains on the 
 great California route. He spoke at length 
 of their perils to the suffering passenger, 
 who felt none the warmer, and at last gave 
 a groan of weariness. 
 
 " How fur did you say 't was now ? " 
 
 " I do' know 's I said, Mis' Tobin," an 
 swered the driver, with a frosty laugh. 
 "You see them big pines, and the side of 
 a barn just this way, with them yellow circus 
 bills ? That 's my three-mile mark." 
 
 "Be we got four more to make? Oh, 
 my laws!" mourned Mrs. Tobin. "Urge 
 the beast, can't ye, Jeff'son ? I ain't used 
 to bein' out in such bleak weather. Seems 
 if I couldn't git my breath. I'm all 
 pinched up and wigglin' with shivers now. 
 'T ain't no use lettin' the hoss go step-a-ty- 
 step, this fashion." 
 
 " Landy me ! " exclaimed the affronted 
 driver. " I don't see why folks expects me 
 to race with the cars. Everybody that gits 
 in wants me to run the hoss to death on the 
 road. I make a good everage o' time, and
 
 326 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 that 's all I can do. Ef you was to go back 
 an' forth every day but Sabbath fur eigh 
 teen years, you 'd want to ease it all you 
 could, and let those thrash the spokes out o' 
 their wheels that wanted to. North Kilby, 
 Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays ; San 
 scrit Pond, Tuesdays, Thu'sdays, an' Satur 
 days. Me an' the beast 's done it eighteen 
 years together, and the creatur' warn't, so to 
 say, young when we begun it, nor I neither. 
 I re'lly did n't know 's she 'd hold out till 
 this time. There, git up, will ye, old mar' ! " 
 as the beast of burden stopped short in the 
 road. 
 
 There was a story that Jefferson gave this 
 faithful creature a rest three times a mile, 
 and took four hours for the journey by him 
 self, and longer whenever he had a passen 
 ger. But in pleasant weather the road was 
 delightful, and full of people who drove their 
 own conveyances, and liked to stop and talk. 
 There were not many farms, and the third 
 growth of white pines made a pleasant shade, 
 though Jefferson liked to say that when he 
 began to carry the mail his way lay through 
 an open country of stumps and sparse under 
 brush, where the white pines nowadays com 
 pletely arched the road.
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 327 
 
 They had passed the barn with circus 
 posters, and felt colder than ever when they 
 caught sight of the weather-beaten acrobats 
 in their tights. 
 
 " My gorry ! " exclaimed Widow Tobin, 
 "them pore creatur's looks as cheerless as 
 little birch-trees in snow-time. I hope they 
 dresses 'em warmer this time o' year. Now, 
 there ! look at that one jumpin' through the 
 little hoop, will ye ? " 
 
 " He could n't git himself through there 
 with two pair o' pants on," answered Mr. 
 Briley. " I expect they must have to keep 
 limber as eels. I used to think, when I was 
 a boy, that 't was the only thing I could ever 
 be reconciled to do for a livin'. I set out to 
 run away an' follow a rovin' showman once, 
 but mother needed me to home. There 
 
 
 
 warn't nobody but me an' the little gals." 
 
 " You ain't the only one that 's be'n dis- 
 app'inted o' their heart's desire," said Mrs. 
 Tobin sadly. " 'T warn't so that I could be 
 spared from home to learn the dressmaker's 
 trade." 
 
 " 'T would a come handy later on, I de 
 clare," answered the sympathetic driver, 
 " bein' 's you went an' had such a passel o' 
 gals to clothe an' feed. There, them that 's 
 
 O '
 
 328 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 livin' is all well off now, but it must ha' 
 been some inconvenient for ye when they 
 was small." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Briley, but then I 've had my 
 mercies, too," said the widow somewhat 
 grudgingly. " I take it master hard now, 
 though, havin' to give up my own home and 
 live round from place to place, if they be 
 my own child'en. There was Ad'line and 
 Susan Ellen f ussin' an' bickerin' yesterday 
 about who 'd got to have me next ; and, Lord 
 be thanked, they both wanted me right off 
 but I hated to hear 'em talkin' of it over. 
 I 'd rather live to home, and do for myself." 
 
 " I 've got consider'ble used to boardin'," 
 said Jefferson, " sence ma'am died, but it 
 made me ache 'long at the fust on 't, I tell 
 ye. Bein' on the road 's I be, I could n't do 
 no ways at keepin' house. I should want to 
 keep right there and see to things." 
 
 " Course you would," replied Mrs. Tobin, 
 with a sudden inspiration of opportunity 
 which sent a welcome glow all over her. 
 " Course you would, Jeff'son," she leaned 
 toward the front seat ; " that is to say, on- 
 less you had jest the right one to do it for 
 ye." 
 
 And Jefferson felt a strange glow also,
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 329 
 
 and a sense of unexpected interest and 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " See here, Sister Tobin," he exclaimed 
 with enthusiasm. " Why can't ye take the 
 trouble to shift seats, and come front here 
 long o' me ? We could put one buff 'lo top 
 o' the other, they 're both wearin' thin, 
 and set close, and I do' know but we sh'd be 
 more protected ag'inst the weather." 
 
 " Well, I could n't be no colder if I was 
 froze to death," answered the widow, with an 
 amiable simper. " Don't ye let me delay you, 
 nor put you out, Mr. Briley. I don't know 's 
 I 'd set forth to-day if I 'd known 't was so 
 cold ; but I had all my bundles done up, 
 and I ain't one that puts my hand to the 
 plough an' looks back, 'cordin' to Scriptur'." 
 
 " You would n't wanted me to ride all 
 them seven miles alone ? " asked the gallant 
 Briley sentimentally, as he lifted her down, 
 and helped her up again to the front seat. 
 She was a few years older than he, but they 
 had been schoolmates, and Mrs. Tobin's 
 youthful freshness was suddenly revived to 
 his mind's eye. She had a little farm ; there 
 was nobody left at home now but herself, 
 and so she had broken up housekeeping for 
 the winter. Jefferson himself h?d savings 
 of no mean amount.
 
 330 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 They tucked themselves in, and felt better 
 for the change, but there was a sudden awk 
 wardness between them ; they had not had 
 time to prepare for an unexpected crisis. 
 
 "They say Elder Bickers, over to East 
 Sanscrit, 's been and got married again to a 
 gal that 's four year younger than his oldest 
 daughter," proclaimed Mrs. Tobin presently. 
 " Seems to me 't was fool's business." 
 
 "I view it so," said the stage - driver. 
 " There 's goin' to be a mild open winter for 
 that fam'ly." 
 
 " What a joker you be for a man that 's 
 had so much responsibility ! " smiled Mrs. To 
 bin, after they had done laughing. " Ain't 
 you never 'fraid, carryin' mail matter and 
 such valuable stuff, that you '11 be set on an' 
 robbed, 'specially by night ? " 
 
 Jefferson braced his feet against the 
 dasher under the worn buffalo skin. " It is 
 kind o' scary, or would be for some folks, 
 but I 'd like to see anybody get the better 
 o' me. I go armed, and I don't care who 
 knows it. Some o' them drover men that 
 comes from Canady looks as if they did n't 
 care what they did, but I look 'em right in 
 the eye every time." 
 
 " Men folks is brave by natur'," said the
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 331 
 
 widow admiringly. " You know how Tobin 
 would let his fist right out at anybody that 
 ondertook to sass him. Town-meetin' days, 
 if he got disappointed about the way things 
 went, he 'd lay 'em out in win'rows ; and ef 
 he had n't been a church-member he 'd been 
 a real fightin' character. I was always 'f raid 
 to have him roused, for all he was so willin' 
 and meechin' to home, and set round clever 
 as anybody. My Susan Ellen used to boss 
 him same 's the kitten, when she was four 
 year old." 
 
 " I 've got a kind of a sideways cant to 
 my nose, that Tobin give me when we was 
 to school. I don't know 's you ever noticed 
 it," said Mr. Briley. " We was scufflin', as 
 lads will. I never bore him no kind of a 
 grudge. I pitied ye, when he was taken 
 away. I re'lly did, now, Fanny. I liked 
 Tobin first-rate, and I liked you. I used to 
 say you was the han'souiest girl to school." 
 
 " Lemme see your nose. 'T is all straight, 
 for what I know," said the widow gently, 
 as with a trace of coyness she gave a hasty 
 glance. " I don't know but what 't is 
 warped a little, but nothin' to speak of. 
 You 've got real nice features, like your 
 marm's folks."
 
 332 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 It was becoming a sentimental occasion, 
 and Jefferson Briley felt that he was in for 
 something more than he had bargained. 
 He hurried the faltering sorrel horse, and 
 began to talk of the weather. It certainly 
 did look like snow, and he was tired of 
 bumping over the frozen road. 
 
 " I should n't wonder if I hired a hand 
 here another year, and went off out West 
 myself to see the country." 
 
 " Why, how you talk ! " answered the 
 widow. 
 
 " Yes 'm," pursued Jefferson. " 'T is 
 tamer here than I like, and I was tellin' 'em 
 yesterday I 've got to know this road most 
 too well. I 'd like to go out an' ride in the 
 mountains with some o' them great clipper 
 coaches, where the driver don't know one 
 minute but he '11 be shot dead the next. 
 They carry an awful sight o' gold down 
 from the mines, I expect." 
 
 " I should be scairt to death," said Mrs. 
 Tobin. "What creatur's men folks be to 
 like such things ! Well, I do declare." 
 
 " Yes," explained the mild little man. 
 " There 's sights of desp'radoes makes a 
 han'some livin' out o' followin' them coaches, 
 an' stoppin' an' robbin' 'em clean to the
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 333 
 
 bone. Your money or your life ! " and he 
 flourished his stub of a whip over the sorrel 
 mare. 
 
 '" Landy me ! you make me run all of a 
 cold creep. Do tell somethin' heartenin', 
 this cold day. I shall dream bad dreams 
 all night." 
 
 "They put on black crape over their 
 heads," said the driver mysteriously. " No 
 body knows who most on 'em be, and like 
 as not some o' them fellows come o' good 
 families. They 've got so they stop the cars, 
 and go right through 'em bold as brass. I 
 could make your hair stand on end, Mis' 
 Tobin, I could so/" 
 
 " I hope none on 'em '11 git round our 
 way, I 'm sure," said Fanny Tobin. " I 
 don't want to see none on 'em in their crape 
 bunnits comin' after me." 
 
 " I ain't goin' to let nobody touch a hair 
 o' your head," and Mr. Briley moved a little 
 nearer, and tucked in the buffaloes again. 
 
 " I feel considerable warm to what I did," 
 observed the wido.w by way of reward. 
 
 "There, I used to have my fears," Mr. 
 Briley resumed, with an inward feeling that 
 he never would get to North Kilby depot a 
 single man. " But you see I had n't nobody
 
 334 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 but myself to think of. I 've got cousins, 
 as you know, but nothin' nearer, and what 
 I 've laid up would soon be parted out ; and 
 well, I suppose some folks would think o' 
 me if anything was to happen." 
 
 Mrs. Tobin was holding her cloud over 
 her face, the wind was sharp on that bit 
 of open road, but she gave an encouraging 
 sound, between a groan and a chirp. 
 
 " 'T would n't be like nothiu' to me not 
 to see you drivin' by," she said, after a 
 minute. " I should n't know the days o' 
 the week. I says to Susan Ellen last week 
 I was sure 't was Friday, and she said no, 
 't was Thursday ; but next minute you druv 
 by and headin' toward North Kilby, so we 
 found I was right." 
 
 " I Ve got to be a featur' of the land 
 scape," said Mr. Briley plaintively. " This 
 kind o' weather the old mare and me, we 
 wish we was done with it, and could settle 
 down kind o' comfortable. I 've been lookin' 
 this good while, as I drove the road, and 
 I 've picked me out a piece o' land two or 
 three times. But I can't abide the thought 
 o' buildin', 't would plague me to death ; 
 and both Sister Peak to North Kilby and 
 Mis' Deacon Ash to the Pond, they vie with
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 335 
 
 one another to do well by me, fear I '11 like 
 the other stoppiu'-place best." 
 
 " / should n't covet livin' long o' neither 
 one o' them women," responded the passen 
 ger with some spirit. " I see some o' Mis' 
 Peak's cookin' to a farmers' supper once, 
 when I was visitin' Susan Ellen's folks, an' 
 I says ' Deliver me from sech pale - com 
 plected baked beans as them ! ' and she give 
 a kind of a quack. She was settin' jest at 
 my left hand, and could n't help hearin' of 
 me. I would n't have spoken if I had known, 
 but she need n't have let on they was hers 
 an' make everything unpleasant. ' I guess 
 them beans taste just as well as other folks',' 
 says she, and she would n't never speak to 
 me afterward." 
 
 " Do' know 's I blame her," ventured Mr. 
 Briley. " Women folks is dreadful pudjicky 
 about their cookin'. I 've always heard you 
 was one o' the best o' cooks, Mis' Tobin. 
 I know them doughnuts an' things you 've 
 give me in times past, when I was drivin' 
 by. Wish I had some on 'em now. I never 
 let on, but Mis' Ash's cookin' 's the best by 
 a long chalk. Mis' Peak's handy about 
 some things, and looks after mendin' of me 
 up."
 
 336 A. WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 " It doos seem as if a man o' your years 
 and your quiet make ought to have a home 
 you could call your own," suggested the pas 
 senger. " I kind of hate to think o' your 
 bangein' here and boardin' there, and one 
 old woman mendin', and the other settin' ye 
 down to meals that like 's not don't agree 
 with ye." 
 
 " Lor', now, Mis' Tobin, le 's not fuss 
 round no longer," said Mr. Briley impa 
 tiently. " You know you covet me same 's 
 I do you." 
 
 "I don't nuther. Don't you go an' say 
 fo'lish things you can't stand to." 
 
 " I 've been tryin' to git a chance to put 
 in a word with you ever sence Well, I 
 expected you 'd want to get your feelin's 
 kind o' calloused after losin' Tobin." 
 
 " There 's nobody can fill his place," said 
 the widow. 
 
 " I do' know but I can fight for ye town- 
 meetin' days, on a pinch," urged Jefferson 
 boldly. 
 
 "I never see the beat o' you men fur 
 conceit," and Mrs. Tobin laughed. " I ain't 
 goin' to bother with ye, gone half the time 
 as you be, an' carryin' on with your Mis' 
 Peaks and Mis' Ashes. I dare say you 've
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 337 
 
 promised yourself to both on 'em twenty 
 times." 
 
 " I hope to gracious if I ever breathed a 
 word to none on 'em ! " protested the lover. 
 " 'T ain't for lack o' opportunities set afore 
 me, nuther ; " and then Mr. Briley craftily 
 kept silence, as if he had made a fair pro 
 posal, and expected a definite reply. 
 
 The lady of his choice was, as she might 
 have expressed it, much beat about. As she 
 soberly thought, she was getting along in 
 years, and must put up with Jefferson all 
 the rest of the time. It was not likely she 
 would ever have the chance of choosing 
 again, though she was one who liked variety. 
 
 Jefferson was n't much to look at, but 
 he was pleasant and appeared boyish and 
 young-feeling. " I do' know 's I should do 
 better," she said unconsciously and half 
 aloud. " Well, yes, Jefferson, seem' it 's you. 
 But we 're both on us kind of old to change 
 our situation." Fanny Tobin gave a gentle 
 sigh. 
 
 " Hooray ! " said Jefferson. " I was scairt 
 you meant to keep me sufferin' here a half 
 an hour. I declare, I 'm more pleased than 
 I calc'lated on. An' I expected till lately 
 to die a single man ! "
 
 338 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 
 
 " 'T would re'lly have been a shame ; 
 't ain't natur'," said Mrs. Tobin, with con 
 fidence. " I don't see how you held out so 
 long with bein' solitary." 
 
 " I '11 hire a hand to drive for me, and 
 we '11 have a good comfortable winter, me 
 an' you an' the old sorrel. I Ve been prom- 
 ism' of her a rest this good while." 
 
 "Better keep her a steppin'," urged 
 thrifty Mrs. Fanny. "She'll stiffen up 
 master, an' disapp'int ye, come spring." 
 
 " You '11 have me, now, won't ye, sartin ? " 
 pleaded Jefferson, to make sure. "You 
 ain't one o' them that plays with a man's 
 feelin's. Say right out you '11 have me." 
 
 " I s'pose I shall have to," said Mrs. 
 Tobin somewhat mournfully. " I feel for 
 Mis' Peak an' Mis' Ash, pore creatur's. I 
 expect they '11 be hardshipped. They 've 
 always been hard-worked, an' may have kind 
 o' looked forward to a little ease. But one 
 on 'em would be left lamentin', anyhow," 
 and she gave a girlish laugh. An air of 
 victory animated the frame of Mrs. Tobin. 
 She felt but twenty-five years of age. In 
 that moment she made plans for cutting her 
 Briley's hair, and making him look smart- 
 ened-up and ambitious. Then she wished
 
 A WINTER COURTSHIP. 339 
 
 that she knew for certain how much money 
 he had in the bank ; not that it would make 
 any difference now. " He need n't bluster 
 none before me," she thought gayly. " He 's 
 harmless as a fly." 
 
 " Who 'd have thought we 'd done such a 
 piece of engineering when we started out ? " 
 inquired the dear one of Mr. Briley's heart, 
 as he tenderly helped her to alight at Susan 
 Ellen's door. 
 
 "Both on us, jest the least grain," an 
 swered the lover. " Gimme a good smack, 
 now, you clever creatur' ; " and so they 
 parted. Mr. Briley had been taken on the 
 road in spite of his pistol.
 
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