THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 WINTER EVENING 
 TALES. 
 
 AMELIA E. BARR, 
 
 Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Jan Vedder's Wife," 
 " Friend Olivia," etc., etc. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 TTHE CHRISTIAN 
 
 LOUIS KLOPSCH, Proprietor, 
 BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK.
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 BY Louis KLOPSCH. 
 
 PRESS AND BINDERY OF 
 HISTORICAL PUBLISHING CO.. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA.
 
 IPS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In these ' ( Winter Evening Tales, ' ' Mrs. Barr 
 has spread before her readers a feast that will afford 
 the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. 
 There are few writers of the present day whose 
 genius has such a luminous quality, and the spell 
 of whose fancy carries us along so delightfully on 
 its magic current. In these "Tales " each a per- 
 fect gem of romance, in an artistic setting the 
 author has touched many phases of human nature. 
 Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with 
 the spirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the 
 sadder side of life. Throughout all, there are 
 found that broad sympathy and intense humanity 
 that characterize every page that comes from her 
 pen. Her men and women are creatures of real 
 flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; they 
 move, act and speak spontaneously, with the full 
 vigor of life and the strong purpose of persons who 
 are participating in a real drama, and not a make- 
 believe. 
 
 Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart 
 to heart. She unconsciously infuses into her 
 readers a liberal share of the enthusiasm that 
 moves the people of her creative imagination. 
 One cannot read any of her books without feeling 
 more than a spectator's interest; we are, for the 
 moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, 
 the misfortunes and the triumphs of the men and 
 women to whom she introduces us. Our sympathy, 
 our love, our admiration, are kindled by their 
 noble and attractive qualities; our mirth is excited 
 
 8J&566
 
 4 Preface. 
 
 by the absurd and incongruous aspects of some 
 characters, and our hearts are thrilled by the fre- 
 quent revelation of such goodness and true human 
 feeling as can only come from pure and noble 
 souls. 
 
 In these <c Tales," as in many of her other works, 
 humble life has held a strong attraction for Mrs. 
 Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turn in 
 this direction ; and although her wonderful talent, 
 within its wide range, deals with all stations and 
 conditions of life, she has but little relish for the 
 gilded artificialities of society, and a strong love 
 for those whose condition makes life for them 
 something real and earnest and definite of purpose. 
 For this reason, among many others, the Christian 
 people of America have a hearty admiration for 
 Mrs. Barr and her work, knowing it to be not only 
 of surpassing human interest, but spiritually help- 
 f.ul and inspiring, with an influence that makes for 
 morality and good living, in the highest sense in 
 which a Christain understands the term. 
 
 G. H. SANDISON. 
 New York, 1896.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MMb 
 
 "Cash;" a Problem of Profit and Loss, ... 7 
 
 Franz Miiller's Wife, 37 
 
 The Voice at Midnight, 54 
 
 Six and Half-a-Dozen, 64 
 
 The Story of David Morrison, 72 
 
 Tom Duff an 's Daughter, . 95 
 
 The Harvest of the Wind, 112 
 
 The Seven Wise Men of Preston, 156 
 
 Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money, ..... 164 
 
 Just What He Deserved, 198 
 
 An Only Offer, 222 
 
 Two Fair Deceivers, 235 
 
 The Two Mr. Smiths, 247 
 
 The Story of Mary Neil, 266 
 
 The Heiress of Kurston Chace, 2/1 
 
 Only This Once, 286 
 
 Petralto's Love Story, 301 
 
 (5)
 
 Winter Evening Tal?s. 
 
 CASH. 
 
 A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED 
 BY DAVID LOCKERBY. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 ' ' Gold may be dear bought. ' ' 
 
 A narrow street with dreadful ' ' wynds' ' 
 and "vennels" running back from it was 
 the High street of Glasgow at the time my 
 story opens. And yet, though dirty, noisy 
 and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a 
 flavor of old time royalty and romance 
 lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; and 
 midway of its squalid length a quaint 
 brown frontage kept behind it noble halls 
 of learning, and pleasant old courts full of 
 the ' ' air of still delightful studies. ' ' 
 
 From this building came out two young 
 men in academic costume. One of them 
 set his face dourly against the clammy fog 
 and drizzling rain, breathing it boldly, as if 
 it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, 
 shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around 
 (7)
 
 8 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 him and said, mournfully, "Ech, Davie, 
 the High street is an ill furlong on the 
 de'il's road! I never tread it, but I think 
 o' the weary, weary miles atween it and 
 Eden." 
 
 "There is no road without its bad league, 
 Willie, and the High street has its com- 
 pensations; its prison for ill-doers, its 
 learned college, and its holy High Kirk. 
 I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm 
 not above preaching for my saint." 
 
 ' ' And St. Mungo will be proud of your 
 birthday yet, Davie. With such a head 
 and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, 
 and wit to the fore, there is a broad road 
 and an open door for David Lockerby. 
 You may come even to be the Lord Rector 
 o' Glasgow College yet. ' ' 
 
 1 ' Wisdom is praised and starves ; I am 
 thinking it would set me better to be Lord 
 Provost of Glasgow city. ' ' 
 
 ' 'The man who buried his one talent did 
 not go scatheless, Davie ; and what now if 
 he had had ten?" 
 
 "You are aye preaching, Willie, and 
 whiles it is very untimeous. Are you 
 going to Mary Moir's to-night?" 
 
 ' ' Why should I ? The only victory over 
 love is through running away. ' ' 
 
 David looked sharply at his companion 
 but as they were at the Trongate there was 
 no time for further remark. Willie Caird
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 9 
 
 turned eastward toward Glasgow Green, 
 David hailed a passing omnibus and was 
 soon set down before a handsome house on 
 the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by the 
 back door, winning from old Janet, in spite 
 of herself, the grimmest shadow of a smile. 
 
 "Are my father and mother at home, 
 Janet?" 
 
 ' ' Deed are they, the mair by token that 
 they hae been quarreling anent you till 
 the peacefu' folks like myseP could hae 
 wished them mair sense, or further away. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Why should they quarrel about me?' ' 
 
 "Why, indeed, since they'll no win past 
 your ain makin' or marring? But the. 
 mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm 
 thinking, and she wad fain set you up in a 
 pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; 
 while maister is for haeing you it a bank 
 or twa in your pouch, and add Bllenmount 
 to Lockerby, and ' ' 
 
 ' ' And if I could, Janet ? ' ' 
 
 "Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if yow 
 might put auld Scotland in a bottle. ' ' 
 
 "But what was the upshot, Janet?" 
 
 "I canna tell. God alone understan's 
 quarreling folk. ' ' 
 
 Then David went upstairs to his own 
 room, and when he came down again his 
 face was set as dourly against the coming 
 interview as it had been against the mist 
 and rain. The point at issue was quite
 
 IO Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 familiar to him; his mother wished him to 
 continue his studies and prepare for the 
 ministry. In her opinion the greatest of 
 all men were the servants of the King, and 
 a part of the spiritual power and social in- 
 fluence which they enjoyed in St. Mungo's 
 ancient city she earnestly coveted for her 
 son. " Didn't the Bailies and the Lord 
 Provost wait for them ? And were not even 
 the landed gentry and nobles obligated to 
 walk behind a minister in his gown and 
 bands?" 
 
 Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor 
 good enough, but money was better. All 
 the twenty years that his wife had been 
 dreaming of David ruling his flock from 
 the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew 7 had 
 been dreaming of him becoming a great 
 merchant or banker, and winning back the 
 fair lands of Ellenmount, once the patri- 
 monial estate of the house of Lockerby. 
 During these twenty years both husband 
 and wife had clung tenaciously to their 
 several intentions. 
 
 Now David's teachers without any 
 knowledge of these diverse influences had 
 urged on him the duty of cultivating the 
 unusual talents confided to him, and of 
 consecrating them to some noble service of 
 God and humanity. But David was ruled 
 by many opposite feelings, and had with 
 all his book-learning the very smallest
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 1 1 
 
 intimate acquaintance with himself. He 
 knew neither his strong points nor his 
 weak ones, and had not even a suspicion of 
 the mighty potency of that mysterious love 
 for gold which really was the ruling passion 
 in his breast. 
 
 The argument so long pending he knew 
 was now to be finally settled, and he was 
 by no means unprepared for the discussion. 
 He came slowly down stairs, counting the 
 points he wished to make on his fingers, 
 and quite resolved neither to be coaxed nor 
 bullied out of his own individual opinion. 
 He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as 
 Scotchmen of two-and-twenty go, for it 
 takes about thirty -five years to fill up and 
 perfect the massive frames of ' ' the men of 
 old Gaul." About his thirty -fifth year 
 David would doubtless be a man of noble 
 presence; but even now there was a sense 
 of youth and power about him that was 
 very attractive, as with a grave smile he 
 lifted a book, and comfortably disposed 
 himself in an easy chair by the window. 
 For David knew better than begin the con- 
 versation; any advantages the defendant 
 might have he determined to retain. 
 
 After a few minutes' silence his father 
 said, ' ' What are you reading, Davie ? It 
 ought to be a guid book that puts guid 
 company in the background." 
 
 David leisurely turned to the title
 
 12 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 page. ' ' ' Selections from the Latin Poets, ' 
 father. ' ' 
 
 "A fool is never a great fool until he 
 kens Latin. Adam Smith or some book o' 
 commercial economics wad set ye better, 
 Davie." 
 
 ' ' Adam Smith is good company for them 
 that are going his way, father: but there is 
 no way a man may take and not find the 
 humanities good road-fellows. ' ' 
 
 "Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; 
 tell Davie at once that you want him to go 
 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough 
 whether he can serve him or no." 
 
 ' ' I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain 
 brither, guid wife it's nane o' my doing 
 if you ca' your ain kin ill names and, 
 Davie, your uncle maks you a fair offer, 
 an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse 
 it." 
 
 "What is it, father?" 
 
 "Twa years you are to serve him for 
 ^200 a year; and at the end, if both are 
 satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the 
 business as I can buy you and, Davie, 
 I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's 
 the auldest bank in Soho, an' there's nane 
 atween you and the head o' it. Dinna fling 
 awa' good fortune dinna do it, Davie, my 
 dear lad. I hae look it to you for twenty 
 years to finish what I hae begun for 
 twenty years I hae been telling mysel' 'my
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 13 
 
 Davie will win again the bonnie braes o* 
 Ellentnount. ' " 
 
 There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, 
 and David's heart thrilled and warmed to 
 the old man's words; in that one flash of 
 sympathy they came nearer to each other 
 than they had ever done before. 
 
 And then spoke his mother: ' ' Davie, 
 my son, you'll no listen to ony sich tempta- 
 tion. My brither is my brither, and there 
 are few folk o' the Gordon line a'thegither 
 wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour 
 man, and I trow weel you'll serve hard for 
 ony share in his money bags. You'll just 
 gang your ways back to college and tak' 
 up your Greek and Hebrew and serve in 
 the lyord's temple instead of Alexander 
 Gordon's Soho Bank; and, Davie, if you'll 
 do right in this matter you'll win my bless- 
 ing and every plack and bawbee o' my . 
 money." Then, seeing no change in 
 David's face, she made her last, great con- 
 cession ''And, Davie, you may marry 
 Mary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like 
 the lassie as weel as may be. ' ' 
 
 "Your mither, like a' women, has sought 
 you wi' a bribe in her hand, Davie. You 
 ken whether she has bid your price or not. 
 When you hae served your twa years I'se 
 buy you a ,20,000 share in the Gordon 
 Bank, and a man wi' ,20,000 can pick and 
 choose the wife he likes best. But i'm 
 aboon bribing you a fair offer isna a bribe. ' '
 
 14 Winter Evening 7^ales. 
 
 The concession as to Mary Moir was the 
 one which Davie had resolved to make his 
 turning point, and now both father and 
 mother had virtually granted it. He had 
 told himself that no lot in life would be 
 worth having without Mary, and that with 
 her any lot would be happy. Now that he 
 had been left free in this matter he knew 
 his own mind as little as ever. 
 
 "The first step binds to the next," he 
 answered, thoughtfully. "Mary may have 
 something to say. Night brings counsel. 
 I will e'en think over things until the 
 morn. ' ' 
 
 A little later he was talking both offers 
 over with Mary Moir, and though it took 
 four hours to discuss them they did not find 
 the subject tedious. It was very late when 
 he returned home, but he knew by the light 
 in the house-place that Janet was waiting 
 up for him. Coming out of the wet, dark 
 night, it was pleasant to see the blazing 
 ingle, the white-sanded floor, and the little 
 round table holding some cold moor-cock 
 and the pastry that he particularly liked. 
 
 "Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad," 
 said Janet, "an' the breast o' a bird an' a 
 raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the 
 way." David was of the same opinion. 
 He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good 
 things and the pleasant light and warmth. 
 Besides, Janet was his oldest confidant and
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 15 
 
 friend a friend that had never failed him 
 in any of his boyish troubles or youthful 
 scrapes. 
 
 It gave her pleasure enough for a while 
 to watch him eat, but when he pushed 
 aside the bird and stretched out his hand 
 for the raspberry dainties, she said, * ' Now 
 talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared 
 money on you, I hae wared love, an' I 
 want to ken whether you are going to col- 
 lege, or whether you are going to Lunnon 
 amang the proud, fause Englishers?" 
 
 "I am going to London, Janet." 
 
 "Whatna for?" 
 
 1 ' I am not sure that I have any call to be 
 a minister, Janet it is a solemn charge. ' ' 
 
 "Then why not ask for a sure call? 
 There is nae key to God's council chamber 
 that I ken of. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Mary wants me to go to London." 
 
 "Bch, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter 
 to send a lad a wrang road. I wouldna 
 hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could 
 hae swithered for a moment but it's the 
 auld, auld story ; where the deil canna go by 
 himsel' he sends a woman. And David 
 I/ockerby will tyne his inheritance for a 
 pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden 
 curls. Waly ! waly ! but the children o' 
 Ksau live for ever." 
 
 "Mary said," 
 
 ' ' I dinna want to hear what Mary said.
 
 1 6 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 It would hae been nae loss if she'd ne'er 
 spoken on the matter; but if you think 
 makin' money, an' hoarding* money is the 
 measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', 
 sir, dootless. Howsomever you'll go to 
 your ain room now; I'm no going to keep 
 my auld e'en waking just for a common 
 business body." 
 
 Thus in spite of his father's support, 
 David did not find his road to London as 
 fair and straight as he could have wished. 
 Janet was deeply offended at him, and she 
 made him feel it in a score of little ways 
 very annoying to a man fond of creature 
 comforts and human sympathy. His mother 
 went about the necessary preparations in a 
 tearful mood that was a constant reproach, 
 and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell 
 him that ''he was clean out o' the way o' 
 duty. ' ' 
 
 ' ' God has given you a measure o' St. 
 Paul's power o' argument, Davie, and the 
 verra tongue o' Apollos weapons where- 
 with to reason against all unrighteousness 
 and to win the souls o' men. ' ' 
 
 "Special pleading, Willie." 
 
 "Not at all. Every man's life bears its 
 inscription if he will take the trouble to 
 read it. There was James Grahame, born, 
 as you may say, wi' a sword in his hand, 
 and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew 
 Semple took to the balances and the
 
 Winter Evening Tales. IJL 
 
 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do 
 you not mind the day you spoke anent the 
 African missions to the young men in St. 
 Andrews' Ha' ? Your words flew like 
 arrows every ane o' them to its mark; 
 and your heart burned and your e'en 
 glowed, till we were a' on fire with you, 
 and there wasna a lad there that wouldna 
 hae followed you to the vera Equator. I 
 wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, 
 Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms 
 deep in gold." 
 
 From such interviews as these Davie 
 went home very miserable. If it had not 
 been for Mary Moir he would certainly 
 have gone back to his old seat by Willie 
 Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary 
 had such splendid dreams of their life in 
 L,ondon, and she looked in her hope and 
 beauty so bewitching, that he could not bear 
 to hint a disappointment to her. Besides, 
 he doubted whether she was really fit for a 
 minister's wife, even if he should take up 
 the cross laid down before him and as for 
 giving up Mary, he would not admit to 
 himself that there could be a possible duty 
 in such a contingency. 
 
 But that even his father had doubts and 
 hesitations was proven to David by the 
 contradictory nature of his advice and 
 charges. Thus on the morning he left 
 Glasgow, and as they were riding together.
 
 1 8 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 to the Caledonian station, the old man said, 
 ' ' Your uncle has given you a seat in his 
 bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for 
 yoursel' to lie down, I'se warrant. But 
 you'll no forget that when a guid man 
 thrives a' should thrive i' him; and giving 
 for God's sake never lessens the purse." 
 
 ' ' I am but one in a world full, father. I 
 hope I shall never forget to give according 
 to my prosperings." 
 
 "Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' 
 as it ought to be; and never forget that 
 money is money's brither an' you put two 
 pennies in a purse they'll creep thegither. 
 
 ' ' But then Davie, I am free to say gold 
 won't buy everything, and though rich 
 men hae long hands, they won't reach to 
 heaven. So, though you'll tak guid care 
 o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the 
 things that are God's." 
 
 * ' I have been brought up in the fear of 
 God and the love of mankind, father. It 
 would be an ill thing for me to slink out of 
 life and leave the world no better for my 
 living." 
 
 "God bless you, lad; and the ,20,000 
 will be to the fore when it is called for, and 
 you shall make it ,60,000, and I'll see 
 again Ellenmount in the Lockerby's keep- 
 ing. But you'll walk in the ways o' your 
 fathers, and gie without grudging of your 
 increase. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 19 
 
 David nodded rather impatiently. He 
 could hardly understand the struggle going 
 on in his father's heart the wish to say 
 something that might quiet his own con- 
 science, and yet not make David's unneces- 
 sarily tender. It is hard serving God and 
 Mammon, and Andrew Locker by was mis- 
 erable and ashamed that morning in the 
 service. 
 
 And yet he was not selfish in the matter 
 that much in his favor must be admitted. 
 He would rather have had the fine, hand- 
 some lad he loved so dearly going in and 
 out his own house. He could have taken 
 great interest in all his further studies, 
 and very great pride in seeing him a suc- 
 cessful ' 'placed minister ;" but there are few 
 Scotsmen in whom pride of lineage and 
 the good of the family does not strike deeper 
 than individual pleasure. Andrew really 
 believed that David's first duty was to the 
 house of Lockerby. 
 
 He had sacrificed a great deal toward this 
 end all his own life, nor were his sacrifices 
 complete with the resignation of his only 
 child to the same purpose. To a man of 
 more than sixty years of age it is a great 
 trial to have an unusual and unhappy at- 
 mosphere in his home; and though Mrs. 
 Lockerby was now tearful and patient under 
 her disappointment, everyone knows that 
 tears and patience may be a miserable kind
 
 20 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 of comfort. Then, though Janet had as yet 
 preserved a dour and angry silence, he 
 knew that sooner or later she would begin 
 a guerilla warfare of sharp words, w r hich he 
 feared he would have mainly to bear, for 
 Janet, though his housekeeper, was also 
 "a far-awa cousin," had been forty years 
 in his house, and was not accustomed to 
 withhold her opinions on any subject. 
 
 Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet 
 finally selected Mary Moir as the Eve 
 specially to blame in this transgression. 
 "A proud up-head lassie," she asserted, 
 "that cam o' a family wha would sell their 
 share o' the sunshine for pounds sterling!' 
 
 From such texts as this the two women 
 in the I^ockerby house preached little daily 
 sermons to each other, until comfort grew 
 out of the very stem of their sorrow, and 
 they began to congratulate each other that 
 "puir Davie was at ony rate outside the 
 glamour o' Mary Moir's temptations." 
 
 "For she just bewitched the laddie, " said 
 Janet, angrily; and, doubtless, if the old 
 laws regarding witches had been in Janet's 
 administration it would have gone hardly 
 with pretty Mary Moir.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 21 
 
 PART II. 
 
 "God's work is soon done. " 
 
 It is a weary day when the youth first 
 discovers that after all he will only become 
 a man; and this discovery came with a de- 
 pressing weight one morning to David, after 
 he had been counting bank notes for three 
 hours. It was noon, but the gas was lit, 
 and in the heavy air a dozen men sat silent 
 as statues, adding up figures and making 
 entries. He thought of the college courts, 
 and the college green, of the crowded halls, 
 and the symposia, where both mind and 
 body had equal refection. There had been 
 days when he had a part in these things, 
 and when to "strive with things impos- 
 sible, " or ' ' to pluck honor from the pale- 
 faced moon," had not been unreasonable or 
 rash ; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. 
 Buckle's dreary gospel was a reality, and 
 men were machines, and life was an affair 
 to be tabulated in averages. 
 
 He had just had a letter from Willie 
 Caird, too, and it had irritated him. The 
 wounds of a friend may be faithful, but 
 they are not always welcome. David deter- 
 mined to drop the correspondence. Willie 
 was going one way and he another. They 
 might never see each other again ; and
 
 22 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 If they should meet one day, 
 If both should not forget 
 They could clasp hands the accustomed way. 
 
 For by simply going with the current in 
 which in great measure, subject yet to early 
 influences, he found himself, David Lock- 
 erby had drifted in one twelve months far 
 enough away from the traditions and feel- 
 ings of his home and native land. Not 
 that he had broken loose into any flagrant 
 sin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the 
 perfect respectability of his name. The set 
 in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew 
 lived sanctioned nothing of the kind. They 
 belonged to the best society, and were of 
 those well-dressed, well-behaved people 
 whom Canon Kingsley described as "the 
 sitters in pews." 
 
 In their very proper company David had 
 gone to ball and party, to opera and theatre. 
 On wet Sundays they sat together in St. 
 George's Church; on fine Sundays they had 
 sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten 
 their dinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin 
 beyond all controversy, but there were none 
 of David's companions to whom these 
 things were sins in the same degree as they 
 were to David. 
 
 To none of them had the holy Sabbath 
 ever been the day it had been to him ; to 
 none of them was it so richly freighted with 
 memories of wonderful sermons and solemn
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 23 
 
 sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. 
 Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows 
 slowly rowing up the Thames and humming 
 some passionate recitative from an opera, 
 he alone could recall the charmful stillness 
 of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshiping crowds, 
 and the evening psalm ascending from so 
 many thousand hearthstones : 
 
 O God of Bethel, by whose hand 
 Thy people still are led. 
 
 He alone, as the oars kept time to 
 "'aria" or "chorus," heard above the 
 witching melody the solemn minor of "St. 
 Mary's," or the tearful tenderness of 
 4 ' Communion. ' ' 
 
 To most of his companions opera and 
 theatre had come as a matter of course, as 
 a part of their daily life and education. 
 David had been obliged to stifle con- 
 science, to disobey his father's counsels and 
 his mother's pleadings, before he could 
 enjoy them. He had had, in fact, to culti- 
 vate a taste for the sin before the sin was 
 pleasant to him ; and he frankly told him- 
 self that night, in thinking it all over, that 
 it was harder work getting to hell than to 
 heaven. 
 
 But then in another year he would be- 
 come a partner, marry Mary, and begin a 
 new life. Suddenly it struck him with a 
 new force that he had not heard from Mary
 
 24 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him 
 that while he had been dancing and mak- 
 ing merry Mary had been ill and suffering. 
 He was amazed at his own heartlessness, 
 for surely nothing but sickness would have 
 made Mary forget him. 
 
 The next morning as he went to the bank 
 he posted a long letter to her, full of affec- 
 tion and contrition and rose-colored pictures 
 of their future life. He had risen an hour 
 earlier to write it, and he did not fail to 
 notice what a healthy natural pleasure even 
 this small effort of self-denial gave him. 
 He determined that he would that very 
 night write long letters to his mother and 
 Janet, and even to his father. "There 
 was a good deal he wanted to say to him 
 about money matters, and his marriage, 
 and fore-talk always saved after-talk. Be- 
 sides it would keep the influence of the old 
 and better life around him to be in closer 
 communion with it." 
 
 Thus thinking, he opened the door of his 
 uncle's private room, and said cheerily, 
 ' ' Good morning, uncle. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Good morning, Davie. Your father is 
 here." 
 
 Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, 
 and his son met him with outstretched 
 hands and paling cheeks. ' ' What is it, 
 father? Mother? Mary? Is she dead?" 
 
 " 'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 25 
 
 wrang but will turn to right. Mary Moir 
 was married three days syne, and I thocht 
 you wad rather hear the news from ane that 
 loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed 
 it's a loss that's a great gain." 
 
 "Who did she marry?" 
 
 ' * Just a bit wizened body frae the East 
 Indies, a' most as yellow as his gold, an' as 
 auld as her father. But the Deacon is 
 greatly set up wi' the match or the settle- 
 ments and Mary comes o' a gripping 
 kind. There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell 
 the ears aff his head, an' they werena fast- 
 ened on. ' ' 
 
 Then David went away with his father, 
 and after half-an-hour's talk on the subject 
 together it was never mentioned more be- 
 tween them. But it was a blow that killed 
 effectually all David's eager yearnings for 
 a loftier and purer life. And it not only 
 did this, but it also caused to spring up 
 into active existence a passion which was 
 to rule him absolutely a passion for gold. 
 L,ove had failed him, friendship had proved 
 an annoyance, company, music, feasting, 
 amusements of all kinds were a weariness 
 now to think of. There seemed nothing 
 better for him than to become a rich man. 
 
 "I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland 
 and call them by the Lockerby's name; and 
 I'll have nobles and great men come bow- 
 ing and becking to David L,ockerby as they
 
 26 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, 
 and wisdom is scorned, but everybody is 
 glad to take money ; then money is best of 
 all things. ' ' 
 
 Thus David reasoned, and his father said 
 nothing against his arguments. Indeed, 
 they had never understood one another so 
 well. David, for the first time, asked all 
 about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledged 
 himself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill 
 his father's hope. Indeed, Andrew was 
 altogether so pleased with his son that he 
 told his brother-in-law that the ,20,000 
 would be forthcoming as soon as ever he 
 choose to advance David in the firm. 
 
 "I was only waiting, Lockerby, till 
 Davie got through wi' his playtime. The 
 lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll 
 ne'er be contented until he settles cannily 
 doon to his interest tables." 
 
 So before Andrew Lockerby went back 
 to Glasgow David was one of the firm of 
 Gordon & Co., sat in the directors' room, 
 and began to feel some of the pleasant 
 power of having money to lend. After 
 this he was rarely seen among men of his 
 own age women he never mingled with. 
 He removed to his uncle's stately house in 
 Baker street, and assimilated his life very 
 much to that of the older money maker. 
 Occasionally he took a run northward to 
 Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 27 
 
 Continent, but nearly all such journeys 
 were associated with some profitable loan 
 or investment. People began to speak of 
 him as a most admirable young man, and 
 indeed in some respects he merited the 
 praise. No son ever more affectionately 
 honored his father and mother, and Janet 
 > had been made an independent woman by 
 his grateful, consideration. 
 
 He was so admirable that he ceased to 
 interest people, and every time he visited 
 Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old ac- 
 quaintances came to see him. A little more 
 than ten years after his admission to the 
 firm of Gordon & Co. he came home at the 
 new year, and presented his father with the 
 title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. 
 The next day old Andrew was welcomed 
 on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of 
 Ellenmount, gentleman." "I hae lived 
 lang enough to hae seen this day," he said, 
 with happy tears; and David felt a joy in 
 his father's joy that he did not know again 
 for many years. For while a man works 
 for another there is an ennobling element 
 in his labor, but when he works simply for 
 himself he has become the greatest of all 
 slaves. This slavery David now willingly 
 assumed; the accumulation of money be- 
 came his business, his pleasure, the sum of 
 his daily life. 
 
 Ten years later both his uncle and father
 
 28 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 were dead, and both had left David every 
 shilling they possessed. Then he went on 
 working more eagerly than ever, turning his 
 tens of thousands into hundreds of thousands 
 and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, 
 until Lockerby was the richest estate in 
 Annandale. When he was forty-five years 
 of age fortune seemed to have given him 
 every good gift except wife and children, 
 and his mother, who had nothing else to 
 fret about, worried Janet continually on this 
 subject. 
 
 "Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; 
 " vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, an' vera 
 certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye 
 to be sure o' his bargains. ' ' 
 
 "Weel, Janet, it's a great cross tome 
 an' him sae honored, an' guid an' rich, wi l 
 no a shilling ill-saved to shame him." 
 
 "Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna 
 swell wi' clean water. Nae body's charged 
 him wi' wrangdoing that's enough. 
 There's nae need to set him up for a 
 saint. ' ' 
 
 "An' you wanted him to be a minister, 
 Janet." 
 
 1 ' I was that blind ance. ' ' 
 
 "We are blind creatures, Janet." 
 
 "Wi' excepts, ma'am; but they'll ne'er 
 be found amang mithers. ' : 
 
 This conversation took place one lovely 
 Sabbath evening, and just at the same time
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 29 
 
 David was standing thoughtfully on Princes 
 street, Edinburgh, wondering to which 
 church he had better turn his steps. For a 
 sudden crisis in the affairs of a bank in 
 that city had brought him hurriedly to 
 Scotland, and he was not only a prudent 
 man who considered public opinion, but 
 was also in a mood to conciliate that 
 opinion so long as the outward conditions 
 were favorable. Whatever he might do in 
 London, in Scotland he always went to 
 morning and evening service. 
 
 He was also one of those self-dependent 
 men who dislike to ask questions or advice 
 from anyone. Though a comparative 
 stranger he would not have allowed him- 
 self to think that anyone could direct him 
 better than he could choose for himself. 
 He looked up and down the street, and 
 finally followed a company which increased 
 continually until they entered an old church 
 in the Canongate. 
 
 Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned 
 elevated pulpit rather pleased than offended 
 David, and the air of antiquity about the 
 place consecrated it in his eyes. Men like 
 whatever reminds them of their purest and 
 best days, and David had been once in the 
 old Relief Church on the Doo Hill in Glas- 
 gow just such a large, bare, solemn-looking 
 house of worship. The still, earnest men 
 and women, the droning of the precentor,
 
 30 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 the antiquated singing pleased and soothed 
 him. He did not notice much the thin 
 little fair man who conducted the services; 
 for he was holding a session with his own 
 soul. 
 
 A peculiar movement among the con- 
 gregation announced that the sermon was 
 beginning, and David, looking up, saw that 
 the officiating minister had been changed. 
 This man was swarthy and tall, and looked 
 like some old Jewish prophet, as he lifted 
 his rapt face and cried, like one crying in 
 the wilderness, " Friends! I have a ques- 
 tion to ask you to-night: 'What shall it 
 profit a man if he gain the whole world and 
 lose his own soul?' " 
 
 For twenty-three years David had 
 silenced that voice, but it had found him 
 out again it was Willie Caird's. At first 
 interested and curious, David soon became 
 profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, 
 solemn, thrilling sentences, reasoned of life 
 and death and judgment to come. Not 
 that he followed his arguments, or w r as more 
 than dimly conscious of the moving elo- 
 quence that stirred the crowd as a mighty 
 wind stirs the trees in the forest : for that 
 dreadful question smote, and smote, and 
 smote upon his heart as if determined to 
 have an answer. 
 
 What shall it profit? What shall it 
 profit ? What shall it profit ? David was
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 31 
 
 quick enough at counting material loss and 
 profit, but here was a question beyond his 
 computation. He went silently out of the 
 church, and wandered away by Holyrood 
 Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel to the 
 pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. 
 There was no answer in nature for him. 
 The stars were silent above, the earth silent 
 beneath. Weariness brought him no rest; 
 if he slept, he woke with the start of a 
 hunted soul, and found him asking that 
 same dreadful question. When he looked 
 in the mirror his own face queried of him, 
 "What profit?" and he was compelled to 
 make a decided effort to prevent his tongue 
 uttering the ever present thought. 
 
 But at noon he would meet the defaulting 
 bank committee, "and doubtless his lawful 
 business would take its proper share of his 
 thought!" He told himself that it was the 
 voice and face of his old friend that had 
 affected him so vividly, and that if he went 
 and chatted over old times with Willie, he 
 would get rid of the disagreeable influence. 
 
 The influence, however, went with him 
 into the creditors' committee room. The 
 embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly 
 the interview. No one hoped for more 
 than bare justice from David L,ockerby. 
 "Clemency, help, sympathy! You'll get 
 blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen," said 
 the old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face.
 
 32 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 And yet that morning David Lockerby 
 amazed no one so much as himself. He 
 went to the meeting quite determined to 
 have his own only his own but some- 
 thing asked him, "What shall it profit '?" 
 and he gave up his lawful increase and 
 even offered help. He went determined to 
 speak his mind very plainly about mis- 
 management and the folly of having losses; 
 and something asked him, * ' What shall it 
 profit ?' ' and he gave such sympathy with 
 nis itelp that the money came with a bless- 
 ing in its hand. 
 
 The feeling of satisfaction was so new to 
 him that it embarrassed and almost made 
 him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously 
 away from the thanks that ought to have 
 been pleasant, and found himself, almost 
 unconsciously, looking up Willie's name in 
 the clerical directory, "Dr. William Caird, 
 22 Moray place." David knew enough of 
 Edinburgh to know that Moray place con- 
 tained the handsomest residences in the 
 city, and therefore he was not astonished 
 at the richness and splendor of Willie's 
 library ; but he was astonished to see him 
 surrounded by five beautiful boys and girls, 
 and evidently as much interested in their 
 lessons and sports as if he was one of them. 
 
 "Ech! Davieman! but I'm glad to see 
 you!" That was all of Willie's greeting, 
 but his eyes filled, and as the friends held
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 33 
 
 each other's hands Davie came very near 
 touching for a moment a David L,ockerby 
 no one had seen for many long years. But 
 he said nothing during his visit of Willie's 
 sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent 
 ones. Scotsmen are reticent on all matters, 
 and especially reticent about spiritual ex- 
 perience; and though Davie lingered in 
 Edinburgh a week, he was neither able to 
 speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all 
 their conversations get rid of that haunt- 
 ing, uncomfortable influence Willie had 
 raised. 
 
 But as they stood before the Queen's 
 Hotel at midnight bidding each other an 
 affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned 
 Willie round and opened up his whole 
 heart to him. And as he talked he found 
 himself able to define what had been only 
 hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. 
 
 ' ' I am the poorest rich man and the most 
 miserable failure, Willie Caird, that ever 
 you asked yon fearsome question of and I 
 know it. I have achieved millions, and I 
 am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. 
 I have wasted my youth, neglected my 
 talents and opportunities, and whatever the 
 world may call me I am a wretched break- 
 down. I have made money plenty of it 
 and it does not pay me. What am I to 
 do?" 
 
 "You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what
 
 34 Winter Evening J^ales. 
 
 advice the Lord Jesus gave to the rich man 
 'distribute unto the poor and come, fol- 
 low me!'" 
 
 Then up and down Princes street, and 
 away under the shadow of the Castle Hill, 
 Willie and David walked and talked, till 
 the first sunbeams touched St. Leonard's 
 Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work 
 was laid out in it. 
 
 "You shall be more blessed than your 
 namesake," said Willie, "for though 
 David gathered the gold, and the wood, 
 and the stone, Solomon builded therewith. 
 Now, an' it please God, you shall do your 
 ain work, and see the topstone brought on 
 with rejoicing." 
 
 Then at David's command, workmen 
 gathered in companies, and some of the 
 worst "vennels" in old Glasgow were 
 torn down; and the sunshine flooded 
 "wynds" it had scarcely touched for cen- 
 turies, and a noble building arose that was 
 to be a home for children that had no 
 home. And the farms of Kllenmount fed 
 them, and the fleeces of Locker by clothed 
 them, and into every young hand was put 
 a trade that would win it honest bread. 
 
 In a short time even this undertaking 
 began to be too small for David's energies 
 and resources, and he joined hands with 
 Willie in many other good works, and gave 
 not only freely of his gold, but also of his
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 35 
 
 time and labor. The old eloquence that 
 stirred his classmates in St. Andrew's Hall 
 "till they would have followed him to the 
 equator" began to stir the cautious Glas- 
 gow traders to the bottom of their hearts 
 and their pock etbooks; and men who didn't 
 want to help in a crusade against drunken- 
 ness, or in a crusade for the spread of the 
 Gospel, stopped away from Glasgow City 
 Hall when David L,ockerby filled the chair 
 at a public meeting and started a subscrip- 
 tion list with ^1000 down on the table. 
 
 But there were two old ladies that never 
 stopped away, though one of them always 
 declared "Master Davie had fleeched her 
 last bawbee out o' her pouch;" and the 
 other generally had her little whimper 
 about Davie "waring his substance upon 
 ither folks' bairns." 
 
 "There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; 
 an' he would marry her we might live to 
 see his ain sons and daughters in the old 
 house. ' ' 
 
 " 'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has 
 gotten him a name better than that o' sons 
 an' dochters; and though I am sair disap- 
 pointed in him " 
 
 "You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made 
 a gran' speech the day." 
 
 "A speech isna a sermon, ma'am; though 
 I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi' a ^1000 
 argument. ' '
 
 36 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, 
 who didna approve o' the scheme, and who 
 would therefore gie nothing at a'." 
 
 "The Deacon is sae godly that God 
 doesna get a chance to improve his condi- 
 tion, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's 
 disapproval I'se count on the good work 
 going on.'' 
 
 " 'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie 
 should ne'er marry at a' " 
 
 4 'There '11 be generations o' lads an' 
 lasses, ma'am, that will rise up in auld 
 Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the 
 warld a' ca' David I^ockerby * blessed.' "
 
 Winter Evening J^ales. 37 
 
 FRANZ MULLER'S WIFE. 
 
 ' ' Franz, good morning. Whose philoso- 
 phy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kant or 
 Dugald Stewart?" 
 
 "None of them. I am reading Faust. " 
 
 ' * Worse and worse. Better wrestle with 
 philosophies than lose yourself in the 
 clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to 
 send the philosophers to the right about, 
 stick to Shakespeare. ' ' 
 
 ' ' He is too material. He can't get rid of 
 men and women." 
 
 "They are a little better, I should thitiK, 
 than Mephisto. Come, Franz, condescend 
 to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and 
 see my cousin Christine Stromberg. ' ' 
 
 1 ' I do not know the young lady. ' ' 
 
 "Of course not. She has just returned 
 from a Munich school. Her brother Max 
 was at the L,yndons' great party, you re- 
 member?" 
 
 "I don't remember, Louis. In white 
 cravats and black coats all men look alike. ' ' 
 
 "But you will go?" 
 
 "If you wish it, yes. There are some 
 uncut reviews on the table : amuse yourself 
 while I dress."
 
 38 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will 
 take a smoke and think of Christine." 
 
 For some reason quite beyond analysis, 
 Franz did not like this speech. He had 
 never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he 
 half resented the careless use of her name. 
 It fell upon some soul consciousness like a 
 familiar and personal name, and yet he 
 vainly recalled every phase of his life for 
 any clew to this familiarity. 
 
 He was a handsome fellow, with large, 
 clearly-cut features and gray, thoughtful 
 eyes. In a conversation that interested 
 him his face lighted up with a singularly 
 beautiful animation, but usually it was as 
 still and passionless as if the soul was away 
 on a dream or a visit. Even the regulation 
 cravat and coat could not destroy his in- 
 dividuality, and Louis looked admiringly at 
 him, and said, "You are still Franz Miiller. 
 No one is just like 3'ou. I should think 
 Cousin Christine will fall in love with you. ' ' 
 
 Again Franz's heart resented this speech. 
 It had been waiting for love for many a 
 year, but he could not jest or speculate 
 about it. No one but the thoughtless, 
 favored Louis ever dared to do it before 
 Franz, and no one ever spoke lightly of 
 women before him, for the worst of men 
 are sensitive to the presence of a pure and 
 lofty nature, and are generally willing to 
 respect it.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 39 
 
 Franz dreamed of women, but only of 
 noble women, and even for those who fell 
 below his ideal he had a thousand apologies 
 and a world of pity. It was strange that 
 such a man should have lived thirty years, 
 and never have really loved any mortal 
 woman. But his hour had come at last. 
 As soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he 
 loved her. A strange exaltation possessed 
 him ; his face was radiant ; he talked and 
 sung with a brilliancy that amazed even 
 those most familiar with his rare exhibi- 
 tions of such moods. And Christine seemed 
 fascinated by his beauty and wit. The 
 hours passed like moments ; and when the 
 girl stood watching him down the moon-lit 
 avenue, she almost trembled to remember 
 what questions Franz's eyes had asked her 
 and how strangely familiar the clasp of his 
 hand and the sound of his voice had seemed 
 to her. 
 
 "I wonder where I have seen him be- 
 fore," she murmured "I wonder where it 
 was?'* and to this thought she slowly took 
 off one by one her jewels, and brushed out 
 her long black hair; nay, when she fell 
 asleep, it was only to take it up again in 
 dreams. 
 
 As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a 
 mood to think of sleep. "One has too few 
 of such godlike moments to steep them in 
 unconsciousness, ' ' he said to himself. And
 
 4<D Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 so he sat smoking and thinking and watch- 
 ing the waning moon sink lower and lower, 
 until it was no longer night, but dawning day. 
 
 "In a few hours now I can go and see 
 Christine." At this point in his love he 
 had no other thought. He was too happy 
 to speculate on any probability as yet. It 
 was sufficient at present to know that he 
 had found his love, that she lived at a de- 
 finite number on a definite avenue, and that 
 in six or seven hours more he might see 
 her again. 
 
 He chose the earlier number. It was 
 just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. 
 Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed 
 through the hall as he entered, and greeted 
 him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just 
 going to have breakfast," she said, in her 
 jolly, hearty way. ''Come in Mr. Miiller, 
 and have a cup of coffee with us. ' ' 
 
 Nothing could have delighted Franz so 
 much. Christine was pouring it out as he 
 entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How 
 beautiful she looked in her long loose 
 morning dress! How bewitching were its 
 numerous bows of pale ribbon ! He had a 
 sense of hunger immediately, and he knew 
 that he made an excellent breakfast: but 
 of what he ate or what he drank he had 
 not the slightest conception. 
 
 A cup of coffee passing through Chris- 
 tine's hands necessarily suffered some
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 41 
 
 wonderful change. It could not, and it did 
 not, taste like ordinary coffee. In the same 
 mysterious way chicken, eggs and rolls be- 
 came sublimated. So they ate and laughed 
 and chatted, and I am quite sure that Mil- 
 ton never imagined a meal in Eden half so 
 delightful as that breakfast on the avenue. 
 
 When it was over, it came into Franz's 
 heart to offer Christine a ride. They were 
 standing together among the flowers in the 
 bay window, and the trees outside were in 
 their first tender green, and the spring 
 skies and the spring airs were full of hap- 
 piness and hope. Christine was arranging 
 and watering her lilies and pansies, and 
 somehow in helping her Franz's hands and 
 hers had lingered happily together. So 
 now love gave to this mortal an immortal's 
 confidence. He never thought of sighing 
 and fearing and trembling. His soul had 
 claimed Christine, and he firmly believed 
 that sooner or later she would hear and 
 understand what he had to say to her. 
 
 "Shall we ride?" he said, just touching 
 her fingers, and looking at her with eyes 
 and face glowing with a wonderful happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Alas, Christine could think of mamma, 
 and of morning calls and of what people 
 would say. But Franz overruled every 
 scruple; he conquered mamma, and laughed 
 at society; and before Christine had
 
 42 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 decided which of her costumes was most 
 becoming, Franz was waiting at the door. 
 
 How they rattled up the avenue and 
 through the park! How the green 
 branches waved in triumph, and how the 
 birds sang and gossiped about them! By 
 the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent 
 they had forgotten they were mortal. Then 
 the rest in the shady gallery, and the sub- 
 sidence of love's exaltation into love's 
 silent tender melancholy, were just as bliss- 
 ful. 
 
 They came slowly home, speaking only 
 in glances and monosyllables, but just be- 
 fore they parted Franz said, ' ' I have been 
 waiting thirty years for you, Christine; 
 to-day my life has blossomed. ' ' 
 
 And though Christine did not make any 
 audible answer, he thought her blush suffi- 
 cient ; besides, she took the lilies from her 
 throat and gave them to him. 
 
 Such a dream of love is given only to the 
 few whom the gods favor. Franz must 
 have stood high in their grace, for it lasted 
 through many sweet weeks and months for 
 him. He followed the Strombergs to 
 Newport, and laid his whole life down at 
 Christine's feet. There was no definite 
 engagement between them, but every one 
 understood that would come as surely as 
 the end of the season. 
 
 Money matters and housekeeping must
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 43 
 
 eventually intrude themselves, but the 
 romance and charm of this one summer of 
 life should be untouched. And Franz was 
 not anxious at all on this score. His 
 father, a shrewd business man, had early 
 seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. 
 "It is not the boy's fault," he said to his 
 partner, "he gets it from his grandfather, 
 who was always more out of this world 
 than in it." 
 
 So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his 
 natural tastes, and contented himself with 
 carefully investing his fortune in such real 
 estate and securities as he believed would 
 insure a safe, if a slow increase. He had 
 bought wisely, and Franz's income was a 
 certain and handsome one, with a tendency 
 rather to increase than decrease, and quite 
 sufficient to maintain Christine in all the 
 luxury to which she had been accustomed. 
 
 So when he returned to the city he in- 
 tended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. All he 
 had should be Christine's and her father 
 should settle the matter just as he thought 
 best for his daughter. In a general way 
 this was understood by all parties, and 
 everyone seemed inclined to sympathize 
 with the happy feeling which led the lovers 
 to deprecate during these enchanted days 
 any allusion which tended to dispel the ex- 
 quisite charm of their young lives' idyl. 
 
 Perhaps it would have been better if they
 
 44 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 had remembered the ancient superstition 
 and themselves done something to mar their 
 perfect happiness. Poly crates offered his 
 ring to avert the calamity sure to follow 
 unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz 
 ought, perhaps, to have also made an effort 
 to propitiate his envious Fate. 
 
 But he did not, and toward the very end 
 of the season, when the October days had 
 thrown a kind of still melancholy over the 
 world that had been so green and gay, 
 Franz's dream was rudely broken broken 
 by a Mr. James Barker Clarke, a bluster- 
 ing, vulgar man of fifty, worth three mil- 
 lions. In some way or other he seemed to 
 have a great deal of influence over Mr. 
 Stromberg, who paid him unqualified re- 
 spect, and over Mrs. Stromberg, who seemed 
 to fear him. 
 
 Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone 
 knew the whole secret ; for of course money 
 was at the foundation. Indeed, in these 
 days, in all public and private troubles, it 
 is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but 
 "How much is it?" Franz Miiller and 
 James Barker Clarke hated each other on 
 sight. Still Franz had no idea at first that 
 this ugly, uncouth man could ever be a 
 rival to his own handsome person and pas- 
 sionate affection. 
 
 In a few days, however, he was com- 
 pelled to actually consider the possibility of
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 45 
 
 such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed 
 an attitude of such extreme politeness, and 
 Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, 
 and if not possible, was constrained and 
 unhappy in the familiar relations that she 
 had accepted so happily all summer. As 
 for Christine, she had constant headaches, 
 and her eyes were often swollen and red 
 with weeping. 
 
 At length, without notice, the family left 
 Newport, and went to stay a month with 
 some relative near Boston. A pitiful little 
 note from Christine informed him of this 
 fact ; but as he received no information as 
 to the locality of her relative's house, and 
 no invitation to call, he was compelled for 
 the present to do as Christine asked him 
 wait patiently for their return. 
 
 At first he got a few short tender notes, 
 but they were evidently written in such 
 sorrow that he was almost beside himself 
 with grief and anger. When these ceased 
 he went to Boston, and without difficulty 
 found the house where Christine was stay- 
 ing. He was received at first very shyly 
 by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured 
 out his love and misery, the poor old lady 
 wept bitterly, and moaned out that she 
 could not help it, and Christine could not 
 help it, and that they were all very miser- 
 able. 
 
 Finally she was persuaded to let him see
 
 46 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Christine, "just for five minutes." The 
 poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay 
 self, and, weeping in his arms, told him he 
 must bid her good-by forever. The five 
 minutes were lengthened into a long, ter- 
 rible hour, and Franz went back to New 
 York with the knowledge that in that hour 
 his life had been broken in two for this life. 
 
 One night toward the close of November 
 his friend Louis called. "Franz," he said, 
 "have you heard that Christine Stromberg 
 is to marry old Clarke ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No one can trust a woman. It is a 
 shame of Christine. ' ' 
 
 "Louis, speak of what you know. Chris- 
 tine is an angel. If a woman appears to 
 do wrong, there is probably some brute of 
 a man behind her forcing her to do it." 
 
 "I thought she was to be your wife." 
 
 "She is my wife in soul and feeling. No 
 one, thank God, can help that. If I was 
 Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse 
 as Christine Stromberg. Do not speak of 
 her again, Louis. The poor innocent child ! 
 God bless her!" And he burst into a pas- 
 sion of weeping that alarmed his friend for 
 his reason, but which was probably its sal- 
 vation. 
 
 In a week Franz had left for Europe, 
 and the next Christmas, Christine and 
 James Barker Clarke were married, and
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 47 
 
 began housekeeping in a style of extrav- 
 agant splendor. People wondered and 
 exclaimed at Christine's reckless expendi- 
 ture, her parents advised, her husband 
 scolded; but though she never disputed 
 them, she quietly ignored all their sugges- 
 tions. She went to Paris, and lived like a 
 princess; Rome, Vienna and London won- 
 dered over her beauty and her splendor; 
 and wherever she went Franz followed her 
 quietly, haunting her magnificent salons 
 like a wretched spectre. 
 
 They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a 
 grave inclination of the head, or a look 
 whose profound misery he only under- 
 stood, she gave him no recognition. The 
 world held her name above reproach, and 
 considered that she had done very well to 
 herself. 
 
 Ten years passed away, but the changes 
 they brought were such as the world re- 
 gards as natural and inevitable. Christine's 
 mother died and her father married again ; 
 and Christine had a son and a daughter. 
 Franz watched anxiously to see if this 
 new love would break up the icy coldness 
 of her manners. Sometimes he was con- 
 scious of feeling angrily jealous of the chil- 
 dren, but he always crushed down the 
 wretched passion. "If Christine loved a 
 flower, would I not love it also?" he asked 
 himself ; ' ' and these little ones, what have
 
 48 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 they done ? " So at last he got to separate 
 them entirely from every one but Christine, 
 and to regard them as part and portion of 
 his love. 
 
 But at the end of ten years a change 
 came, neither natural nor expected. Franz 
 was walking moodily about his library one 
 night, when Louis came to tell him of it. 
 Louis was no longer young, and was mar- 
 ried now, for he had found out that the 
 beaten track is the safest. 
 
 "Franz," he said, "have you heard 
 about Clarke? His affairs are frightfully 
 wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago." 
 
 "And Christine? Does she know? Who 
 has gone to her?" 
 
 "My wife is with her. Clarke shot him- 
 self in his own room. Christine was the 
 first to reach him. He left a letter saying 
 he was absolutely ruined. ' ' 
 
 "Where will Christine and the children 
 go?" 
 
 "I suppose to her father's. Not a pleas- 
 ant place for her now. Christine's step- 
 mother dislikes both her and the children. ' ' 
 
 Franz said no more, and Louis went away 
 with a feeling of disappointment. "I 
 thought he would have done something for 
 her," he said to his wife. "Poor Christine 
 will be very poor and dependent. ' ' 
 
 Ten days after he came home with a 
 different story. "There never was a
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 49 
 
 woman as lucky about money as Cousin 
 Christine," he said. "Hardy & Hall sent 
 her notice to-day that the property at Rye- 
 beach settled on her before her marriage 
 by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It 
 seems the old gentleman anticipated the 
 result of his wild speculations, and in order 
 to provide for his wife, quietly bought and 
 placed in Hardy's charge two beautifully 
 furnished cottages. There is something 
 like an accumulation of sixteen thousand 
 dollars of rentage; and as one is luckily 
 empty, Christine and the children are going 
 there at once. I always thought the prop- 
 erty was Hardy's own before. Very 
 thoughtful in Clarke." 
 
 "It is not Clarke one bit. I don't be- 
 lieve he ever did it. It is some arrange- 
 ment of Franz Muller's." 
 
 "For goodness' sake don't hint such a 
 thing, Lizzie! Christine would not go, 
 and we should have her here very soon. 
 Besides, I don't believe it. Franz took the 
 news very coolly, and he has kept out of 
 my way since. " 
 
 The next day Louis was more than ever 
 of his wife's opinion. "What do you 
 think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to 
 me to-day and asked if Clarke did not once 
 loan me two thousand dollars. I told him 
 Clarke gave me two thousand about the 
 time we were married. ' '
 
 50 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 " 'Say loaned, Louis, 'he answered, 'to 
 oblige me. Here is two thousand and the 
 interest for six years. Go and pay it to 
 Christine; she must need money.' So I 
 went. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Is she settled comfortably ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz 
 is sure to marry her, and he is growing 
 richer every day." 
 
 It seemed as if Louis's prediction would 
 come true. Franz began to drive out every 
 afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he con- 
 tented himself with just passing Christine's 
 gate. But he soon began to stop for the 
 children, and having taken them a drive, 
 to rest awhile on the lawn, or in the parlor, 
 while Christine made him a cup of tea. 
 
 For Franz tired very easily now, and 
 Christine saw what few others noticed : he 
 had become pale and emaciated, and the 
 least exertion left him weary and breath- 
 less. She knew in her heart that it was 
 the last summer he would be with her. 
 Alas ! what a pitiful shadow of their first 
 one! It was hard to contrast the ardent, 
 handsome lover of ten years ago with the 
 white, silently happy man who, when Octo- 
 ber came, had only strength to sit and hold 
 her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes 
 into her face. 
 
 One day his physician met Louis on 
 Broadway. ' * Mr. Curtin, ' ' he said, ' ' your
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 51 
 
 friend Miiller is very ill. I consider his 
 life measured by days, perhaps hours. He 
 has long had organic disease of the heart. 
 It is near the last. ' ' 
 
 "Does he know it?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, he has known it long. Better see 
 him at once." 
 
 So Louis went at once. He found Franz 
 calmly making his last preparations for the 
 great event. "I am glad you are come, 
 Louis, ' ' he said ; ' ' I was going to send for 
 you. See this cabinet full of letters. I 
 have not strength left to destroy them; 
 burn them for me when when I am gone. 
 
 "This small packet is Christine's dear 
 little notes : bury them with me : there are 
 ten of them, every one ten years old. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Is that all, dear Franz?" 
 
 " Yes; my will has long been made. Ex- 
 cept a legacy to yourself, all goes to Chris- 
 tine dear, dear Christine !' ' 
 
 "You love her yet, then, Franz?" 
 
 ' ' What do you mean ? I have loved her for 
 ages. I shall love her forever. She is the 
 other half of my soul. In some lives I have 
 missed her altogether let me be thankful 
 that she has come so near me in this one. ' ' 
 
 "Do you know what you are saying, 
 Franz ? ' * 
 
 ' ' Very clearly, Louis. I have always 
 believed with the oldest philosophers that 
 souls were created in pairs, and that it is
 
 52 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 permitted them in their toilsome journey 
 back to purity and heaven sometimes to 
 meet and comfort each other. Do you 
 think I saw Christine for the first time in 
 your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer 
 and grander memories of her than any 
 linked to this life. I must leave her now 
 for a little. God knows when and where 
 we meet again ; but He does know ; that is 
 my hope and consolation. ' ' 
 
 Whatever were Louis's private opinions 
 about Franz's theology it was impossible to 
 dissent at that hour, and he took his 
 friend's last instructions and farewell with 
 such gentle, solemn feelings as had long 
 been strange to his heart. 
 
 In the afternoon Franz was driven out to 
 Christine's. It was the last. physical eifort 
 he was capable of. No one saw the part- 
 ing of those two souls. He went with 
 Christine's arms around him, and her lips 
 whispering tender, hopeful farewells. It 
 was noticed however, that after Franz's 
 death a strange change came over Christine 
 - ~a beautiful nobility and calmness of char- 
 acter, and a gentle setting of her life to the 
 loftiest aims. 
 
 Louis said she had been wonderfully 
 moved by the papers Franz left. The ten 
 letters she had written during the spring- 
 time of their love went to the grave w r ith 
 him, but the rest were of such an
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 53 
 
 extraordinary nature that Louis could not 
 refrain from showing them to his cousin, 
 and then at her request leaving them for her 
 to dispose of. They were indeed letters 
 written to herself under every circumstance 
 of her life, and directed to every place in 
 which she had sojourned. In all of them 
 she was addressed as "Beloved Wife of my 
 Soul," and in this way the poor fellow had 
 consoled his breaking, longing heart. 
 
 To some of them he had written imagin - 
 ary answers, but as these all referred to a 
 financial secret known only to the parties 
 concerned in Christine's and his own sacri- 
 fice, it was proof positive that he had writ- 
 ten only for his own comfort. But it was 
 perhaps well they fell into Christine's 
 hands : she could not but be a better woman 
 for reading the simple records of a strife 
 which set perfect unselfishness and child- 
 like submission as the goal of its duties. 
 
 Seven years after Franz's death Christine 
 and her daughter died together of the Roman 
 fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was 
 left sole inheritor of Franz's wealth. 
 
 "A German dreamer!" 
 
 Ah, well, there are dreamers and dream- 
 ers. And perchance he that seeks fame, 
 and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks 
 power, may all alike, when this shadowy 
 existence is over, look back upon life "as a 
 dream when one awaketh."
 
 54 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 "It is the King's highway that we are 
 in; and know this, His messengers are on 
 it. They who have ears to hear will hear; 
 and He opens the eyes of some, and they 
 see things not to be lightly spoken of. ' ' 
 
 It was John Balmuto who said these 
 words to me. John was a Shetlander, and 
 for forty years he had gone to the Arctic 
 seas with the whale boats. Then there had 
 come to him a wonderful experience. He 
 had been four days and nights alone with 
 God upon the sea, among mountains of ice 
 reeling together in perilous madness, and 
 with little light but the angry flush of the 
 aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that 
 strong faith in the Unseen which made him 
 an active character in the facts I am going 
 to relate. 
 
 After his marvelous salvation, he devoted 
 his life to the service of God by entering 
 that remarkable body of lay evangelists 
 attached to the Presbyterian Church in 
 Highland parishes, called "The Men," and 
 he became noted throughout the Hebrides 
 for his labors, and for his knowledge of the 
 Scriptures. 
 
 Circumstances, that summer, had thrown
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 55 
 
 us together; I, a young woman, just enter- 
 ing an apparently fortunate life; he, an 
 aged saint, standing on the borderland of 
 eternity. And we were sitting together, in 
 the gray summer gloaming, when he said 
 to me, "Thou art silent to-night. What 
 hast thou, then, on thy mind?" 
 
 ' ' I had a strange dream. I cannot shake 
 off its influence. Of course it is folly, and 
 I don't believe in dreams at all. " And it 
 was then he said to me, "It is the King's 
 highway that we are in, and know this, 
 His messengers are on it. " 
 
 ' ' But it was only a dream. ' ' 
 
 "Well, God speaks to His children 'in 
 dreams, and by the oracles that come in 
 darkness.' ' 
 
 ' ' He used to do so. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Wilt thou then say that He has ceased 
 so to speak to men ? Now, I will tell thee 
 a thing that happened; I will tell thee just 
 the bare facts; I will put nothing to, nor 
 take anything away from them. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis five years ago the first day of last 
 June. I was in Stornoway in the Lews, 
 and I was going to the Gairloch Preach- 
 ings. It was rough, cheerless weather, and 
 all the fishing fleet were at anchor for the 
 night, with no prospect of a fishing. The 
 fishers were sitting together talking over 
 the bad weather, but, indeed, without that 
 bitterness that I have heard from landsmen
 
 56 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 when it would be the same trouble with 
 them. So I gathered them into Donald 
 Brae's cottage, and we had a very good 
 hour. I noticed a stranger in the corner 
 of the room, and some one told me he was 
 one of those men who paint pictures, and I 
 saw that he was busy with a pencil and 
 paper even while we were at the service. 
 But the next day I left for the Preachings, 
 and I thought no more of him, good or bad. 
 
 ' ' On the first of September I was in Oban. 
 I had walked far and was very tired, but I 
 went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after 
 I had eat my kippered herring and drank 
 my tea, I felt better. Then I talked with 
 John about the resurrection of the body, 
 for he was in a tribulation of thoughts and 
 doubts as to whether our Lord had a per- 
 manent humanity or not. 
 
 "And I said to him, John, Christ re- 
 deemed our whole nature, and it is this way : 
 the body being ransomed, as well as the 
 spirit, by no less a price than the body of 
 Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glori- 
 fied. Now, then, after I had gone to my 
 room, I was sitting thinking of these 
 things, and of no other things whatever. 
 There was not a sound but that of the 
 waves breaking among the rocks, and 
 drawing the tinkling pebbles down the 
 beach after them. Then the ears of my 
 spiritual body were opened, and I heard
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 57 
 
 these words, ' I will go with thee to Glasgow!' 
 Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 
 'I am ready!' I began to argue with myself 
 thus : ' Whatever for should I go to Glas- 
 gow ? I know not anyone there. No one 
 knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to 
 be left. I have no money for such a jour- 
 ney ' 
 
 ' ' I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then 
 I dreamed of or I saw a woman fair as 
 the daughters of God, and she said, ' 1 will 
 go with thee to Glasgow /' With a strange 
 feeling of being hurried and pressed I 
 awoke wide awake, and without any con- 
 scious will of my own, I answered, 'I am 
 ready. I am ready now. ' 
 
 "As I left the cottage it was striking 
 twelve, and I wondered what means of 
 reaching Glasgow I should find at mid- 
 night. But I walked straight to the pier, 
 and there was a small steamer with her 
 steam up. She was blowing her whistle 
 impatiently, and when the skipper saw me 
 coming, he called to me, in a passion, 
 'Well, then, is it all night I shall wait for 
 thee? 1 
 
 "I soon perceived that there was a mis- 
 take, and that it was not John Balmuto he 
 had been instructed to wait for. But I 
 heeded not that ; I was under orders I durst 
 not disobey. She was a trading steamer, 
 with a perishable cargo of game and lobsters,
 
 58 . Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 and so she touched at no place whatever till 
 we reached Glasgow. One of her passen- 
 gers was David MacPherson of Harris, a 
 very good man, who had known me in my 
 visitations. He was going to Glasgow as 
 a witness in a case to be tried between the 
 Harris fishers and their commission house 
 in Glasgow. 
 
 "As we walked together from the 
 steamer, he said to me, %et us go round 
 by the court house, John, and I'll find out 
 when I'll be required.' That was to my 
 mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, 
 whatever road was taken, and I turned 
 with him the way he desired to go. He 
 found the lawyer who needed him in the 
 court house, and while they talked together 
 I went forward and listened to the case that 
 was in hand. 
 
 "It was a trial for murder, and I could 
 not keep my eyes off the young man who 
 was charged with the crime. He seemed 
 to be quite broken down with shame and 
 sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the 
 court closed and the constables took him 
 away. As he passed me our eyes met, and 
 my heart dirled and burned, and I could not 
 make out whatever would be the matter 
 with me. All night his face haunted me. 
 I was sure I had seen it some place ; and 
 besides it would blend itself with the dream 
 which had brought me to Glasgow.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 59 
 
 ' ' In the morning I was early at the 
 court house and I saw the prisoner brought 
 in. There was the most marvelous change 
 in his looks. He walked like a man who 
 has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. 
 But now it troubled me more than ever. 
 Whatever had I to do with the young man ? 
 Yet I could not bear to leave him. 
 
 "I listened and found out that he was 
 accused of murdering his uncle. They had 
 been traveling together and were known to 
 have been at Ullapool on the thirtieth of 
 May. On the first of June the elder man 
 was found in a lonely place near Oban, 
 dead, and, without doubt, from violence. 
 The chain of circumstantial evidence 
 against his nephew was very strong. To 
 judge by it I would have said myself to 
 him, 'Thou art certainly guilty.' 
 
 "On the other side the young man de- 
 clared that he had quarreled with his uncle 
 at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He 
 had then taken passage in a Manx fishing 
 smack which was going to the Lews, but 
 he had forgotten the name of the smack. 
 He was not even certain if the boat was 
 Manx. The landlord of the inn, at which 
 he said he stayed when in the Lews, did not 
 remember him. 'A thing not to be ex- 
 pected,' he told the jury, 'for in the sum- 
 mer months, what with visitors, and what 
 with the fishers, a face in Stornoway was
 
 60 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 like a face on a crowded street. The young 
 man might have been there' 
 
 4 'The word Stornoway made the whole 
 thing clear to me. The prisoner was the 
 man I had noticed with a pencil and paper 
 among the fishers in Donald Brae's cottage. 
 Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I 
 had been sent to Glasgow. I walked 
 quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet 
 from my head, I said to the judge, 'My 
 lord, the prisoner was in Stornoway on the 
 first of June. I saw him there ! ' 
 
 " He gave a great cry of joy and turned 
 to me ; and in a moment he called out : 
 ' You are the man who read the Bible to the 
 fishers. I remember you. I have your 
 likeness among my drawings.' And I 
 said, ' I am the man.' 
 
 "Then my lord, the judge, made them 
 swear me, and he said they would hear my 
 evidence. For one moment I was a coward. 
 I thought I would hide God's share in the 
 deliverance, lest men should doubt my 
 whole testimony. The next, I was telling 
 the true story: how I had been called at 
 midnight twice called; how I had found 
 Evan Conochie's boat waiting for me; how 
 on the boat I had met David MacPherson, 
 and been brought to the court house by 
 him, having no intention or plan of my 
 own in the matter. 
 
 ' ' And there was a great awe in the room
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 61 
 
 as I spoke. Every one believed what I 
 said, and my lord asked for the names of the 
 fishers who were present in Donald Brae's 
 cottage on the night of the first of June. 
 Very well, then, I could give many of them, 
 and they were sent for, and the lad was 
 saved, thank God Almighty!" 
 
 ''How do you explain it, John?" 
 
 "No, I will not try to explain it; for it 
 is not to be hoped that anyone can explain 
 by human reason the things surpassing 
 human reason. ' ' 
 
 1 ' Do you know what became of the young 
 man ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I will tell thee about him . He is a 
 very rich young man, and the only child of 
 a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her 
 great goodness to the Lord's poor. But 
 when his mother died it did not go well and 
 peaceably between him and his uncle ; and 
 it is true that he left him at Ullapool with- 
 out a word. Well, then, he fell into this 
 sore strait, and it seemed as if all hope of 
 proving his innocence was over. 
 
 ' ' But that very night on which I saw him 
 first, he dreamed that his mother came to him 
 in his cell and she comforted him and told 
 him, 'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall 
 speak for thee.' He never doubted the 
 heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked 
 me. 'My mother never deceived me in 
 life; would she come to me, even in a 
 dream, to tell me a lie? Ah, no!' "
 
 62 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "Is he still alive?" 
 
 ' ' God preserve him for many a year yet ! 
 I'll only require to speak his name" 
 and when he had done so, I knew the secret 
 spring of thankfulness that fed the never- 
 ceasing charity of one great, good man. 
 
 "And yet, John," I urged, "how can 
 spirit speak with spirit?" 
 
 "'How?' I will tell thee, that word 
 'how' has no business in the mouth of a 
 child of God. When I was a boy, who had 
 dreamed 'how' men in London might speak 
 with men in Edinburgh through the air, 
 invisible and unheard? That is a matter 
 of trade now. Can thou imagine what 
 subtle secret lines there may be between 
 the spiritual world and this world?" 
 
 "But dreams, John?" 
 
 "Well, then, dreams. Take the dream 
 life out of thy Bible and, oh, how much 
 thou wilt lose ! All through it this side of 
 the spiritual world presses close on the 
 human side. I thank God for it. Yes, 
 indeed ! Many things I hear and see which 
 say to me that Christians now have a kind 
 of shame in what is mystical or super- 
 natural. But thou be sure of this the 
 supernaturalism of the Bible, and of every 
 Christian life is not one of the difficulties 
 of our faith, it is the foundation of our faith. 
 The Bible is a supernatural book, the law 
 of a supernatural religion ; and to part with
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 63 
 
 this element is to lose out of it the flavor of 
 heaven, and the hope of immortality. Yes, 
 indeed!" 
 
 This conversation occurred thirty years 
 ago. Two years since, I met the man who 
 had experienced such a deliverance, and 
 he told me again the wonderful story, and 
 showed me the pencil sketch which he had 
 made of John Balmuto in Donald Brae's 
 cottage. He had painted from it a grand 
 picture of his deliverer, wearing the long 
 black camlet cloak and head-kerchief of the 
 order of evangelists to which he belonged. 
 I stood reverently before the commanding 
 figure, with its inspired eyes and rapt ex- 
 pression; for, during those thirty years, I 
 also had learned that it was only those 
 
 Whone'erthe mournful midnight hours 
 
 Weeping upon their bed have sate, 
 
 Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers.
 
 64 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN. 
 
 Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and 
 fallen, trampled in the mire and mud of the 
 conflict, then the ranks closed again and 
 left no place for her. So she crawled aside 
 to die. With a past whose black despair 
 was as the shadow of a starless night, a 
 future which her early religious training 
 lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the 
 strong bands of a pitiless death dragging 
 her to the grave still she craved, as the 
 awful hour drew near, to see once more the 
 home of her innocent childhood. Not that 
 she thought to die in its shelter any one 
 who knew David Todd knew also that was 
 a hopeless dream; but if, IF her father 
 should say one pardoning word, then she 
 thought it would help her to understand 
 the love of God, and give her some strength 
 to trust in it. 
 
 Karly in the evening, just as the sun was 
 setting and the cows were coming lowing 
 up the little lane, scented with the bursting 
 lilac bushes, she stood humbly at the gate 
 her father must pass in order to go to the 
 hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. 
 Very soon she saw him coming, his Scotch 
 bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 65 
 
 steadied by his shepherd's staff. His lips 
 were firmly closed, and his eyes looked far 
 over the hills ; for David was a mystic in 
 his own way, and they were to him temples 
 not made with hands in which he had seen 
 and heard wonderful things. Here the 
 storehouses of hail and lightning had been 
 opened in his sight, and he had watched in 
 the sunshine the tempest bursting beneath 
 his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and 
 been waited upon by spectral mists. The 
 voices of winds and waters were in his 
 heart, and he passionately believed in God. 
 But it was the God of his own creed jeal- 
 ous, just and awful in that inconceivable 
 holiness which charges his angels with folly 
 and detects impurit} 7 " in the sinless heavens. 
 So, when he approached the gate he saw, 
 but would not see, the dying girl who 
 leaned against it. Whatever he felt he 
 made no sign. He closed it without hurry, 
 and then passed on the other side. 
 
 1 ' Father ! O, father ! speak one word to 
 me." 
 
 Then he turned and looked at her, 
 sternly and awfully. 
 
 "Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken 
 naught o' thee. ' ' 
 
 Without another glance at the white, 
 despairing face, he walked rapidly on ; for 
 the spring nights were chilly, and he must 
 gather his lambs into the fold, though this
 
 66 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 poor sheep of his own household was left 
 to perish. 
 
 But, if her father knew her no more, the 
 large sheep-dog at his side was not so cruel. 
 No theological dogmas measured Rover's 
 love; the stain on the spotless name of his 
 master's house, which hurt the old man 
 like a wound, had not shadowed his mem- 
 ory. He licked her hands and face, and 
 tried with a hospitality and pity which 
 made him so much nearer the angels than 
 his master to pull her toward her home. 
 But she shook her head and moaned piti- 
 fully; then throwing her arms round the 
 poor brute she kissed him with those pas- 
 sionate kisses of repentance and love which 
 should have fallen on her father's neck. 
 The dog (dumb to all but God) pleaded 
 with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic ges- 
 tures; but she turned wearily away toward 
 a great circle of immense rocks relics of a 
 religion scarcely more cruel than that which 
 had neither pity nor forgiveness at the 
 mouth of the grave. Within their shadow 
 she could die unseen; and there next morn- 
 ing a wagoner, attracted by the plaintive 
 howling of a dog, found her on the ground, 
 dead. 
 
 There are set awful hours between every 
 soul and heaven. Who knows what passed 
 between Lettice Todd and her God in that 
 dim forsaken temple of a buried faith?
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 67 
 
 Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of 
 tears, and her face was beautiful with a 
 strange peace, though its loveliness was 
 marred and its youth "seared with the 
 autumn of strange suffering. ' ' 
 
 At the inquest which followed, her stern 
 old father neither blamed nor excused him- 
 self. He accepted without apology the 
 verdict of society against him; only re- 
 marking that its reproof was "a guid ex- 
 ample o' Satan correcting sin. " 
 
 Scant pity and less ceremony was given 
 to her burial. Death, which draws under 
 the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty 
 and ambition of men, covering them with 
 those two narrow words Hie jacet ! gives 
 also to the woman who has been a sinner 
 all she asks oblivion. In no other way 
 can she obtain from man toleration. The 
 example of the whitest, purest soul that 
 ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is 
 ignored in the church He founded. The 
 tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely 
 woman stooped to folly," found no way of 
 escape for her but to "die;" and those 
 closet moralists, with filthy fancies and 
 soiled souls, who abound in every com- 
 munity, regard her with that sort of scorn 
 which a Turk expresses when he says 
 "Dog of a Christian." Poor lattice! She 
 had procured this doom first by sacrificing 
 herself to a blind and cruel love, and then
 
 68 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 to the importunate demands of hunger, 
 "oldest and strongest of passions." Ah! if 
 there was no pity in Heaven, no justice 
 beyond the grave, what a cruel irony this 
 life would be! For, while the sexton 
 shoveled hastily over the rude coffin the 
 obliterating earth, there passed the grave- 
 yard another woman equally fallen from all 
 the apostle calls "lovely and of good re- 
 port." One whose youth and hopes and 
 marvelous beauty had been sold for houses 
 and lands and a few thousand pounds a 
 year. But, though her life was a living 
 lie, the world praised her, because she "had 
 done well unto herself. ' ' Yet, at the last 
 end, the same seed brought forth the same 
 fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Hall 
 learned, with bitter rapidity, that riches 
 are too poor to buy love. Scarcely had she 
 taken possession of her splendid home be- 
 fore she longed for the placid happiness of 
 her mother's cottage, and those evening 
 walks under the beech-trees, whose very 
 memory was now a sin. Over her beauti- 
 ful face there crept a pathetic shadow, 
 which irritated the rude and noisy squire 
 like a reproach. He had always had what 
 he wanted. Not even the beauty of all the 
 border counties had been beyond his means 
 to buy but somehow he felt as if in this 
 bargain he had been overreached. Her 
 better part eluded his possession, and he
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 69 
 
 felt dissatisfied and angry. Expostulations 
 grew into cruel words; cruel words came 
 to crueler blows. Yes, blows. English 
 gentlemen thirty years ago knew their 
 privileges; and that was one of them. 
 She was as much and as lawfully his as the 
 horses in his stables or the hounds in his 
 kennels. He beat them, too, when they 
 did not obey him. Her beauty had be- 
 trayed her into the hands of misery. She 
 had wedded it, and there was no escape for 
 her. One day, when her despair and suf- 
 ering was very great, some tempting devil 
 brought her a glass of brandy, and she 
 drank it. It gave her back for a few hours 
 her departed sceptre; but at what a price! 
 Her slave soon became her master. Stimulus 
 and stupefaction, physical exhaustion and 
 mental horrors, the abandonment of friends 
 and the brutality of a coarse and cruel hus- 
 band, brought her at last to the day of 
 reckoning. She died, seven years after her 
 marriage, in the delirium of opium. There 
 were physicians and servants around her, 
 and an unloving husband waiting for the 
 news of his release. I think I would rather 
 have died where Lettice did under the 
 sky, with the solemn mountains lifting 
 their heads in a perpetual prayer around 
 me, and that faithful dog licking my hands 
 and mourning my wasted life. 
 
 Now, wherein did these two women
 
 70 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 differ ? One sinned through an intense and 
 self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the 
 strongest calls of want. Her sin, though 
 it was beyond the pale of the world's tole- 
 ration, was yet one according to Nature. 
 The other, in a cold spirit of barter, vol- 
 untarily and deliberately exchanged her 
 youth and beauty, the hopes of her own 
 and another's life, for carriages, jewels, 
 fine clothing and a luxurious table.' She 
 loathed the price she had to pay, and her 
 sin was an unnatural one. For this kind 
 of prostitution, which religion blesses and 
 society praises, there seems to be no re- 
 dress ; but for that which results as the 
 almost inevitable sequence of one lapse of 
 chastity we y the pious, the virtuous, the 
 irreproachable, are all to blame. Who or 
 what make it impossible for them to retrace 
 their steps? Do they ever have reason to 
 hope that the family hearth will be open to 
 them if they go back ? Prodigal sons may 
 return, and are welcomed with tears of joy 
 and clasped by helping hands; but alas! 
 how few parents would go to meet a sin- 
 ning daughter. Forgetting our Master's 
 precepts, forgetting our human frailty, 
 forgetting our own weakness, we turn 
 scornfully from the weeping Magdalen, 
 and leave her "alone with the irreparable. ' ' 
 Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. 
 We would deprecate any loosening of this
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 71 
 
 great house-band of society ; but we do say 
 that where it is the only distinction between 
 two women, one of whom is an honored ma- 
 tron, and the other a Pariah and an out- 
 cast, there is "something in the world 
 amiss" -something be}^ond the cure of law 
 or legislation, and that they can only be 
 reached by the authority of a Christian 
 press and the influence of Christian ex- 
 ample.
 
 72 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON. 
 
 I think it is very likely that many New 
 Yorkers were familiar with the face of 
 David Morrison. It was a peculiarly 
 guileless, kind face for a man of sixty 
 years of age ; a face that looked into the 
 world's face with something of the con- 
 fidence of a child. It had round it a little 
 fringe of soft, light hair, and above that a 
 big blue Scotch bonnet of the Rob Roryson 
 fashion. 
 
 The bonnet had come with him from the 
 little Highland clachan, where he and his 
 brother Sandy had scrambled through a 
 hard, happy boyhood together. It had 
 sometimes been laid aside for a more pre- 
 tentious headgear, but it had never been 
 lost; and in his old age and poverty had 
 been cheerfully almost affectionately re- 
 sumed. 
 
 "Sandy had one just like it," he would 
 say. ' ' We bought them thegither in Aber- 
 deen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm 
 wonderin' where poor Sandy is the day!" 
 
 So, if anybody remembers the little spare 
 man, with the child-like, candid face and the 
 big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. 
 It is his true history I am telling to-day.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 73 
 
 Davie had, as I said before, a hard boy- 
 hood. He knew what cold, hunger and 
 long hours meant as soon as he knew any- 
 thing; but it was glorified in his memory 
 by the two central figures in it a good 
 mother, for whom he toiled and suffered 
 cheerfully, and a big brother who helped 
 him bravely over all the bits of life that 
 were too hard for his young feet. 
 
 When the mother died, the lads sailed 
 together for America. They had a "far- 
 awa' cousin in New York, who, report 
 said, had done well in the plastering busi- 
 ness, and Sandy never doubted but that 
 one Morrison would help another Morrison 
 the wide world over. With this faith in 
 their hearts and a few shillings in their 
 pockets, the two lads landed. The Ameri- 
 can Morrison had not degenerated. He 
 took kindly to his kith and kin, and offered 
 to teach them his own craft. 
 
 For some time the brothers were well 
 content; but Sandy was of an ambitious, 
 adventurous temper, and was really only 
 waiting until he felt sure that wee Davie 
 could take care of himself. Nothing but 
 the Great West could satisfy Sandy's 
 hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing 
 his brother to its dangers and privations. 
 
 ''You're nothing stronger than a bit 
 lassie, Davie," he said, "and you're no to 
 fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going
 
 74 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 to make a big fortune, and when I have 
 gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to )'ou, 
 and we'll spend it thegither dollar for 
 dollar, my wee lad." 
 
 "Sure as death! You'll come back to 
 me?" 
 
 "Sure as death, I'll come back to you, 
 Davie!" and Sandy thought it no shame to 
 cry on his little brother's neck, and to look 
 back, with a .loving, hopeful smile at 
 Davie' s sad, wistful face, just as long as he 
 could see it. 
 
 It was Davie's nature to believe and to 
 trust. With a pitiful confidence and con- 
 stancy he looked for the redemption of his 
 brother's promise. After twenty years of 
 absolute silence, he used to sit in the even- 
 ings after his w T ork was over, and wonder 
 "how Sandy and he had lost each other." 
 For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him 
 never once entered his loyal heart. 
 
 He could find plenty of excuses for 
 Sandy's silence. In the long years of their 
 separation many changes had occurred even 
 in a life so humble as Davie's. First, his 
 cousin Morrison died, and the old business 
 was scattered and forgotten. Then Davie 
 had to move his residence very frequently ; 
 had even to follow lengthy jobs into various 
 country places, so that his old address soon 
 became a very blind clew to him. 
 
 Then seven years after Sandy's departure
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 75 
 
 the very house in which they had dwelt 
 was pulled down ; an iron factory was built 
 on its site, and probably a few months 
 afterward no one in the neighborhood 
 could have told anything at all about Davie 
 Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy should come 
 himself to find his brother, every year made 
 the probability of a letter reaching him less 
 and less likely. 
 
 Perhaps, as the years went by, the pros- 
 pect of a reunion became more of a dream 
 than an expectation. Davie had married 
 very happily, a simple little body, not un- 
 like himself, both in person and disposition. 
 They had one son, who, of course, had been 
 called Alexander, and in whom Davie 
 fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty 
 and merits were faithfully reproduced. 
 
 It is needless to say the boy was extrav- 
 agantly loved and spoiled. Whatever 
 Davie' s youth had missed, he strove to 
 procure for "Little Sandy." Many an 
 extra hour he worked for this unselfish 
 end. Life itself became to him only an 
 implement with which to toil for his boy's 
 pleasure and advantage. It was a common- 
 place existence enough, and yet through it 
 ran one golden thread of romance. 
 
 In the summer evenings, when they 
 walked together on the Battery, and in 
 winter nights, when they sat together by 
 the stove, Davie talked to his wife and
 
 76 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 child of that wonderful brother, who had 
 gone to look for fortune in the great West. 
 The simplicity of the elder two and the 
 enthusiasm of the youth equally accepted 
 the tale. 
 
 Somehow, through many a year, a belief 
 in his return invested life with a glorious 
 possibility. Any night they might come 
 home and find Uncle Sandy sitting by the 
 fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, 
 and no end of them in some safe bank, be- 
 sides. 
 
 But when the youth had finished his 
 schooldays, had learned a trade and began 
 to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes 
 and dreams agitated all their hearts; for 
 young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's 
 shop in his own name, and began to talk of 
 taking a wife and furnishing a home. 
 
 He did not take just the wife that pleased 
 his father and mother. There was nothing, 
 indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they 
 could complain. She was bright and cap- 
 able, but they felt a want they were not 
 able to analyze ; the want was that pure un- 
 selfishness which was the ruling spirit of 
 their own lives. 
 
 This want never could be supplied in 
 Sallie' s nature. She did right because it 
 was her duty to do right, not because it 
 gave her pleasure to do it. When they had 
 been married three years the war broke
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 77 
 
 out, and soon afterward Alexander Mor- 
 rison was drafted for the army. Sallie, 
 who was daily expecting her second child, 
 refused all consolation; and, indeed, their 
 case looked hard enough. 
 
 At first the possibility of a substitute 
 had suggested itself; but a family consulta- 
 tion soon showed that this was impossible 
 without hopelessly straitening both houses. 
 Everyone knows that dreary silence which 
 follows a long discussion, that has only 
 confirmed the fear of an irremediable mis- 
 fortune. Davie broke it in this case in a 
 very unexpected manner. 
 
 "Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd 
 like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'd find your 
 uncle. Who knows? What do you say, 
 old wife? We've had more than twenty 
 years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy 
 and Sallie, now, isn't it?" 
 
 He spoke with a bright face and in a cheer- 
 ful voice, as if he really was asking a favor 
 for himself; and, though he did not try to 
 put his offer into fine, heroic words, nothing 
 could have been finer or more heroic than 
 the perfect self-abnegation of his manner. 
 
 The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears ; 
 but she also had been practicing self-denial 
 for a lifetime, and the end of it was that 
 Davie went to weary marches and lonely 
 watches, and Sandy staid at home. 
 
 This was the break-up of Davie' s life.
 
 7 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 His wife went to live with Sandy and 
 Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold. 
 
 Few people could have taken these events 
 as Davie did. He even affected to be 
 rather smitten with the military fever, and, 
 when the parting came, left wife and son 
 and home with a cheerful bravery that was 
 sad enough to the one old heart who had 
 counted its cost. 
 
 In Davie' s loving, simple nature there 
 was doubtless a strong vein of romance. 
 He was really in hopes that he might come 
 across his long-lost brother. He had no 
 very clear idea as to localities and distances, 
 and he had read so many marvelous war 
 stories that all things seemed possible in 
 its atmosphere. But reality and romance 
 are w r ide enough apart. 
 
 Davie's military experience was a very 
 dull and weary one. He grew poorer and 
 poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only 
 find comfort for all his sacrifices in the 
 thought that "at least he had spared poor 
 Sandy." 
 
 Neither was his home-coming what he 
 had pictured it in many a reverie. There 
 was no wife to meet him she had been 
 three months in the grave when he got 
 back to New York and going to his 
 daughter-in-law's home was not well, it 
 was not like going to his own house. 
 
 Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 79 
 
 was grateful to Davie, but she did not love 
 the old man. 
 
 He soon found that the attempt to take 
 up again his trade was hopeless. He had 
 grown very old with three years' exposure 
 and hard duty. Other men could do twice 
 the work he could, and do it better. He 
 must step out from the ranks of skilled 
 mechanics and take such humble positions 
 as his failing strength permitted him to fill. 
 
 Sandy objected strongly to this at first. 
 "He could work for both," he said, "and 
 he thought father had deserved his rest. " 
 
 But Davie shook his head "he must 
 earn his own loaf, and he must earn it now, 
 just as he could. Any honest way was 
 honorabk enough. ' ' He was still cheerful 
 and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he 
 never spoke of his brother Sandy now ; he 
 had buried that golden expectation with 
 many others. Then began for Davie Mor- 
 rison the darkest period of his life. I am 
 not going to write its history. 
 
 It is not pleasant to tell of a family sink- 
 ing lower and lower in spite of its brave 
 and almost desperate efforts to keep its 
 place not pleasant to tell of the steps that 
 gradually brought it to that pass, when the 
 struggle was despairingly abandoned, and 
 the conflict narrowed down to a fight with 
 actual cold and hunger. 
 
 It is not pleasant, mainly, because in
 
 8o Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 such a struggle many a lonely claim is piti- 
 lessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare 
 life, the tender words that bring tender acts 
 are forgotten. Gaunt looks, threadbare 
 clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of 
 their children's wants, made Sandy and 
 Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to 
 whom they once were very tender. 
 
 David had noticed it for many months. 
 He could see that Sallie counted grudgingly 
 the few pennies he occasionally required. 
 His little newspaper business had been de- 
 clining for some years; people took fewer 
 papers, and some did not pay for those they 
 did take. He made little losses that were 
 great ones to him, and Sallie had long been 
 saying it would "be far better for father to 
 give up the business to Jamie ; he is now six- 
 teen and brightenough to look after hisown. ' ' 
 
 This alternative David could not bear to 
 think of ; and yet all through the summer 
 the fear had constantly been before him. 
 He knew how Sallie' s plans always ended; 
 Sandy was sure to give into them sooner 
 or later, and he wondered if into their 
 minds had ever come the terrible thought 
 which haunted his own would they commit 
 him, then, to the care of public charities? 
 
 ' ' We have no time to love each other, ' ' 
 he muttered, sadly, "and my bite and sup 
 is hard to spare when there is not enough 
 to go round. I'll speak to Sandy myself
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 81 
 
 about it poor lad ! It will come hard on 
 him to say the first word. ' ' 
 
 The thought once realized began to take 
 shape in his mind, and that night, contrary 
 to his usual custom, he could not go to 
 sleep. Sandy came in early, and the chil- 
 dren went wearily off to bed. Then Sallie 
 began to talk on the very subject which lay 
 so heavy on his own heart, and he could 
 tell from the tone of the conversation that 
 it was one that had been discussed many 
 times before. 
 
 ' ' He only made bare expenses last week 
 and there's a loss of seventy cents this 
 week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there 
 is no use putting off what is sure to come. 
 Little Davie had to do without a drink of 
 coffee to-night, and his bread, you know, 
 comes off theirs at every meal. It is very 
 hard on us all!" 
 
 "I don't think the children mind it, 
 Sallie. Every one of them loves the old 
 man God bless him ! He was a good 
 father to me. ' ' 
 
 "I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did 
 not see him eating my children's bread. 
 And neither he nor they get enough. 
 Sandy, do take him down to-morrow, and 
 tell him as you go the strait we are in. He 
 will be better off; he will get better food 
 and every other comfort. You must do it, 
 Sandy ; I can bear this no longer. ' '
 
 82 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. 
 Maybe he'll get New Year's presents enough 
 to put things straight. Iast year they were 
 nearly eighteen dollars, you know. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you see that Jamie could get that 
 just as well ? Jamie can take the business 
 and make something of it. Father is let- 
 ting it get worse and worse every week. 
 We should have one less to feed, and 
 Jamie's earnings besides. Sandy, it has 
 got to be / Do it while we can make some- 
 thing by the step. ' ' 
 
 "It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. 
 God will never forgive me if I take it, ' ' 
 and David could hear that his son's voice 
 trembled. 
 
 In fact, great tears were silently dropping 
 from Sandy's eyes, and his father knew it, 
 and pitied him, and thanked God that the 
 lad's heart was yet so tender. And after 
 this he felt strangely calm, and dropped 
 into a happy sleep. 
 
 In the morning he remembered all. He 
 had not heard the end of the argument, but 
 he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he 
 was neither astonished nor dismayed when 
 Sandy came home in the middle of the day 
 and asked him to "go down the avenue a 
 bit." 
 
 He had determined to speak first and 
 spare Sandy the shame and the sorrow of 
 it; but something would not let him do it.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 83 
 
 In the first place, a singular lightness of 
 heart came over him; he noticed all the 
 gay preparations for Christmas, and the 
 cries and bustle of the streets gave him a 
 new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell al- 
 most unconsciously into his humor. He had 
 a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenly 
 determined to go into a cheap restaurant 
 and have a good warm meal with his father. 
 
 Davie was delighted at the proposal and 
 gay as a child ; old memories of days long 
 past crowded into both men's minds, and 
 they ate and drank, and then wandered on 
 almost happily. Davie knew very well 
 where they were going, but he determined 
 now to put off saying a word until the last 
 moment. He had Sandy all to himself for 
 this hour; they might never have such an- 
 other; Davie was determined to take all 
 the sweetness of it. 
 
 As they got lower down the avenue, 
 Sandy became more and more silent ; his 
 eyes looked straight before him, but they 
 were brimful of tears, and the smile with 
 which he answered Davie' s pleasant prattle 
 was almost more pitiful than tears. 
 
 At length they came in sight of a certain 
 building, and Sandy gave a start and shook 
 himself like a man waking out of a sleep. 
 His words were sharp, his voice almost like 
 that of a man in mortal danger, as he 
 turned Davie quickly round, and said:
 
 -84 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "We must go back now, father. I will 
 not go another step this road no, by 
 heaven! though I die for it!" 
 
 "Just a little further, Sandy." 
 
 And Davie's thin, childlike face had an 
 inquiry in it that Sandy very well under- 
 stood. 
 
 "No, no, father, no further on this road, 
 please God!" 
 
 Then he hailed a passing car, and put 
 the old man tenderly in it, and resolutely 
 turned his back upon the hated point to 
 which he had been going. 
 
 Of course he thought of Sallie as they 
 rode home, and the children and the trouble 
 there was likely to be. But somehow 7 it 
 seemed a light thing to him. He could 
 not helping nodding cheerfully now and 
 then to the father whom he had so nearly 
 lost; and, perhaps, never in all their lives 
 had they been so precious to each other 
 -as when, hand-in-hand, they climbed the 
 dark tenement stair together. 
 
 Before they reached the door they heard 
 Sallie push a chair aside hastily, and come 
 to meet them. She had been crying, too, 
 and her very first words were, "Oh, father! 
 I am so glad ! so glad ! ' ' 
 
 She did not say what for, but Davie took 
 her words very gratefully, and he made no 
 remark, though he knew she went into debt 
 at the grocery for the little extras with
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 85 
 
 which she celebrated his return at supper. 
 He understood, however, that the danger 
 was passed, and he went to sleep that night 
 thanking God for the love that had stood 
 so hard a trial and come out conqueror. 
 
 The next day life took up its dreary 
 tasks again, but in Davie's heart there 
 was a strange presentiment of change, and 
 it almost angered the poor, troubled, taxed 
 wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing 
 with the children. But the memory of the 
 wrong she had nursed against him still 
 softened and humbled her, and when he 
 came home after carrying round his papers, 
 she made room for him at the stove, and 
 brought him a cup of coffee and a bit of 
 bread and bacon. 
 
 Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away 
 to avoid seeing them. So then he took out 
 a paper that he had left and began to read 
 it as he ate and drank. 
 
 In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry 
 escaped him. He put the paper in his 
 pocket, and, hastily resuming his old army 
 cloak and Scotch bonnet, went out without 
 a word to anyone. 
 
 The truth was that he had read a per- 
 sonal notice which greatly disturbed him. 
 It was to the effect that, ' ' If David Mor- 
 rison, who left Aberdeen in 18 , was still 
 alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan 
 & Black, Wall street, he would hear of 
 something to his advantage."
 
 86 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 His long-lost brother was the one thought 
 in his heart. He was going now to hear 
 something about Sandy. 
 
 "He said 'sure as death,' and he would 
 mind that promise at the last hour, if he 
 forgot it before ; so, if he could not come, 
 he'd doubtless send, and this will be his 
 message. Poor Sandy ! there was never a 
 lad like him!" 
 
 When he reached Messrs. Morgan & 
 Black's, he was allowed to stand unnoticed 
 by the stove a few minutes, and during 
 them his spirits sank to their usual placid 
 level. At length some one said : 
 
 "Well, old man, what ^Q you want?" 
 
 "I am David Morrison, and I just came 
 to see what you wanted. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! 
 Go forward I think you will find out, then, 
 what we want. ' ' 
 
 He was not frightened, but the man's 
 manner displeased him, and, without an- 
 swering, he walked toward the door indi- 
 cated, and quietly opened it. 
 
 An old gentleman was standing with his 
 back to the door, looking into the fire, and 
 one rather younger, was writing steadily 
 away at a desk. The former never moved; 
 the latter simply raised his head with an 
 annoyed look, and motioned to Davie to 
 close the door. 
 
 "I am David Morrison, sir."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 87 
 
 "Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue 
 bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, lad!" 
 
 As for Davie, he was quite overcome. 
 With a cry of joy so keen that it was like a 
 sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. 
 When he became conscious again he knew 
 that he had been very ill, for there were two 
 physicians by his side, and Sandy's face 
 was full of anguish and anxiety. 
 
 ' ' He will do now, sir. It was only the 
 effect of a severe shock on a system too 
 impoverished to bear it. Give him a good 
 meal and a glass of wine. ' ' 
 
 Sandy was not long in following out this 
 prescription, and during it what a confiding 
 session these two hearts held ! Davie told 
 his sad history in his own unselfish way, 
 making little of all his sacrifices, and say- 
 ing a great deal about his son Sandy, and 
 Sandy's girls and boys. 
 
 But the light in his brother's eyes, and 
 the tender glow of admiration with which 
 he regarded the unconscious hero, showed 
 that he understood pretty clearly the part 
 that Davie had always taken. 
 
 "However, I am o'erpaid for every 
 grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie, in 
 conclusion, "since I have seen your face 
 again, and you're just handsomer than 
 ever, and you eight years older than me, 
 too. ' ' 
 
 Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander
 
 88 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Morrison was still a very handsome, hale 
 old gentleman ; but yet there was many a 
 trace of labor and sorrow on his face; and 
 he had known both. 
 
 For many years after he had left Davie, 
 life had been a very hard battle to him. 
 During the first twenty years of their sepa- 
 ration, indeed, Davie had perhaps been the 
 better off, and the happier of the two. 
 
 When the war broke out, Sandy had en- 
 listed early, and, like Davie, carried 
 through all its chances and changes the 
 hope of finding his brother. Both of them 
 had returned to their homes after the 
 struggle equally hopeless and poor. 
 
 But during the last eleven years fortune 
 had smiled on Sandy. Some call of friend- 
 ship for a dead comrade led him to a little 
 Pennsylvania village, and while there he 
 made a small speculation in oil, which was 
 successful. He resolved to stay there, 
 rented his little Western farm, and went 
 into the oil business. 
 
 "And I have saved thirty thousand 
 dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it is 
 yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thou- 
 sand has been entered from time to time in 
 your name. I told you, Davie, that when 
 I came back we would share dollar for 
 dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your 
 share no more than I would rob the United 
 States Treasury. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 89 
 
 It was a part of Davie's simple nature 
 that he accepted it without any further 
 protestation. Instinctively he felt that it 
 was the highest compliment he could pay 
 his brother. It was as if he said : ' ' I firmly 
 believed the promise you made me more 
 than forty years ago, and I firmly believe 
 in the love and sincerity which this day re- 
 deems it. ' ' So Davie looked with a curious 
 joy fulness at the vouchers which testified 
 to fifteen thousand dollars lying in the 
 Chemical Bank, New York, to the credit 
 of David Morrison; and then he said, 
 with almost the delight of a schoolboy : 
 
 "And what will you do wi' yours, 
 Sandy?" 
 
 " I am going to buy a farm in New Jer- 
 sey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. Black 
 about it this morning. It will cost twelve 
 thousand dollars, but the gentleman says it 
 will be worth double that in a very few 
 years. I think that myself, Davie, for I 
 went yesterday to take a good look at it. 
 It is never well to trust to other folks' 
 eyes, you know." 
 
 "Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. 
 We'll buy the farm together and we'll 
 live together that is, if you would like 
 it." 
 
 "What would I like better?" 
 
 ' ' Maybe you have a wife, and then ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, I have no wife, Davie. She died
 
 90 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 nearly thirty years ago. I have no one but 
 you. ' ' 
 
 "And we will grow small fruits, and 
 raise chickens and have the finest dairy in 
 the State, Sandy." 
 
 "That is just niy idea, Davie. " 
 
 Thus they talked until the winter even- 
 ing began to close in upon them, and then 
 Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, 
 would be more than uneasy about him. 
 
 ' 'I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; 
 I want them all to myself to-night. 'Deed, 
 I've been selfish enough to keep this good 
 news from them so long. ' ' 
 
 So, with a hand-shake that said what no 
 words could say, the brothers parted, and 
 Davie made haste to catch the next up-town 
 car. He thought they never had traveled 
 so slow'ly; he was half inclined several 
 times to get out and run home. 
 
 When he arrived there the little kitchen 
 was dark, but there was a fire in the stove 
 and wee Davie his namesake was sit- 
 ting, half crying, before it. 
 
 The child lifted his little sorrowful face to 
 his grandfather's, and tried to smile as he 
 made room for him in the warmest place. 
 
 "What's the matter, Davie?" 
 
 ' ' I have had a bad day, grandfather. I 
 did not sell my papers, and Jack Dacey 
 gave me a beating besides; and and I 
 really do think my toes are frozen off. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 91 
 
 Then Davie pulled the lad on to his 
 knee, and whispered 
 
 ''Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no 
 more papers. You shall have braw new 
 clothes, and go to school every day of your 
 life. Whist ! yonder comes mammy. ' ' 
 
 Sallie came in with a worried look, which 
 changed to one of reproach when she saw 
 Davie. 
 
 ' 'Oh, father, how could you stay abroad 
 this way? Sandy is fair daft about you, 
 and is gone to the police stations, and I 
 don't know where " 
 
 Then she stopped, for Davie had come 
 toward her, and there was such a new, 
 strange look on his face that it terrified her, 
 and she could only say: "Father! father! 
 what is it?" 
 
 "It is good news, Sallie. My brother 
 Sandy is come, and he has just given me 
 fifteen thousand dollars ; and there is a ten- 
 dollar bill, dear lass, for we'll have a grand 
 supper to-night, please God." 
 
 By and by they heard poor Sandy's 
 weary footsteps on the stair, and Sallie said: 
 
 "Not a word, children. Let grandfather 
 tell your father. ' ' 
 
 Davie went to meet him, and, before he 
 spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie had seen, that 
 his father's countenance was changed, and 
 that something wonderful had happened. 
 
 "What is the matter, father?"
 
 92 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, 
 my boy ; and peace and comfort and plenty, 
 and decent clothes and school for the chil- 
 dren, and a happy home for us all in some 
 nice country place. ' ' 
 
 When Sandy heard this he kissed his 
 father, and then covering his face with his 
 hands, sobbed out: 
 
 "Thank God! thank God!" 
 
 It was late that night before either the 
 children or the elders could go to sleep. 
 Davie told them first of the farm that 
 Sandy and he were going to buy together, 
 and then he said to his son : 
 
 "Now, my dear lad, what think you is 
 best for Sallie and the children?" 
 
 "You say, father, that the village where 
 you are going is likely to grow fast. ' ' 
 
 "It is sure to grow. Two lines of rail- 
 road will pass through it in a month. ' ' 
 
 ' 'Then I would like to open a carpenter's 
 shop there. There will soon be work 
 enough; and we will rent some nice little 
 cottage, and the children can go to school, 
 and it will be a new life for us all. I have 
 often dreamed of such a chance, but I never 
 believed it would come true. ' ' 
 
 But the dream came more than true. In 
 a few weeks Davie and his brother were 
 settled in their new home, and in the ad- 
 joining village Alexander Morrison, junior, 
 had opened a good carpenter and builder's 
 shop, and had begun to do very well.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 93 
 
 Not far from it was the coziest of old 
 stone houses, and over it Sallie presided. 
 It stood among great trees, and was sur- 
 rounded by a fine fruit garden, and was 
 prettily furnished throughout; besides 
 which, and best of all, it was their own a 
 New Year's gift from the kindest of grand- 
 fathers and uncles. People now have got 
 well used to seeing the Brothers Morrison. 
 
 They are rarely met apart. They go to 
 market and to the city together. What 
 they buy they buy in unison, and every 
 bill of sale they give bears both their 
 names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but 
 Davie never suspects, for Sandy invariably 
 says to all propositions, "If my brother 
 David agrees, I do, ' ' or, ' ' If brother David 
 is satisfied, I have no more to say, ' ' etc. 
 
 Some of the villagers have tried to per- 
 suade them that they must be lonely, but 
 they know better than that. Old men love 
 a great deal of quiet and of gentle meander- 
 ing retrospection; and David and Sandy 
 have each of them forty years' history to- 
 tell the other. Then they are both very 
 fond of young Sandy and the children. 
 
 Sandy's projects and plans and building 
 contracts are always well talked over at the 
 farm before they are signed, and the chil- 
 dren's lessons and holidays, and even their 
 new clothes, interest the two old men al- 
 most as much as they do Sallie.
 
 94 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 As for Sallie, you would scarcely know 
 her. She is no longer cross with care and 
 quarrelsome with hunger. I always did 
 believe that prosperity was good for the 
 human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the 
 theory. She has grown sweet tempered in 
 its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing to 
 her children, loving and grateful to her 
 father-in-law, and her husband's heart 
 trusts in her. 
 
 Therefore let all those fortunate ones 
 who are in prosperity give cheerfully to 
 those who ask of them. It will bring a ten- 
 fold blessing on what remains, and the 
 piece of silver sent out on its pleasant 
 errand may happily touch the hand that 
 shall bring the giver good fortune through 
 all the years of life.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 95 
 
 TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Tom Duff an 's cabinet-pictures are charm- 
 ing bits of painting; but you would cease 
 to wonder how he caught such delicate 
 home touches if you saw the room he 
 painted in ; for Tom has a habit of turning 
 his wife's parlor into a studio, and both 
 parlor and pictures are the better for the 
 habit. 
 
 One bright morning in the winter of 
 1872 he had got his easel into a comfort- 
 able light between the blazing fire and the 
 window, and was busily painting. His 
 cheery little wife pretty enough in spite 
 of her thirty -seven years was reading the 
 interesting items in the morning papers to 
 him, and between them he sung softly to 
 himself the favorite tenor song of his 
 favorite opera. But the singing always 
 stopped when the reading began; and so 
 politics and personals, murders and music, 
 dramas and divorces kept continually inter- 
 rupting the musical despair of "Ah! che la 
 morte ognora." 
 
 But even a morning paper is not uni- 
 versally interesting, and in the very middle 
 of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and 
 Edwin Booth, the parlor door partially
 
 96 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 opened, and a lovelier picture than ever 
 Tom Duffan painted stood in the aperture 
 a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning 
 gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect 
 cloud of wavy black hair falling around her. 
 
 "Mamma, if anything on earth can in- 
 terest you that is not in a newspaper, I 
 should like to know whether crimps or curls 
 are most becoming with my new seal-skin 
 set." 
 
 "Ask papa." 
 
 "If I was a picture, of course papa would 
 know; but seeing I am only a poor live 
 girl, it does not interest him. ' ' 
 
 "Because, Kitty, you never will dress 
 artistically. ' ' 
 
 "Because, papa, I must dress fashion- 
 ably. It is not my fault if artists don't 
 know the fashions. Can't I have mamma 
 for about half an hour?" 
 
 "When she has finished this criticism of 
 Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it will do 
 you good to hear it. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you, no, papa; I am going to 
 Booth's myself to-night, and I prefer to do 
 my own criticism." Then Kitty disap- 
 peared, Mrs. Duffan skipped a good deal of 
 criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! 
 che la morte ognora" much quicker than 
 the column of printed matter warranted. 
 
 "Well, Kitty child, what do you want?" 
 
 "See here."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 97 
 
 " Tickets for Booth's?" 
 
 "Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know 
 them. Jack always does get just about the 
 same numbers. ' ' 
 
 ' 'Jack ? You don't mean to say that Jack 
 Warner sent them?" 
 
 Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that 
 implied half a dozen different things. 
 
 "But I thought that you had positively 
 refused him, Kitty?" 
 
 ' ' Of course I did mamma I told him in 
 the nicest kind of way that we must only 
 be dear friends, and so on. ' ' 
 
 "Then why did he send these tickets?" 
 
 ' ' Why do moths fly round a candle ? It 
 is my opinion both moths and men enjoy 
 burning. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to under- 
 stand this new-fashioned way of being ' off' 
 and 'on' with a lover at the same time. 
 Did you take me from papa simply to tell 
 me this?' ' 
 
 ' ' No ; I thought perhaps you might like to 
 devote a few moments to papa's daughter. 
 Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to 
 make. Here are all the hair-pins ready, 
 mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah 
 Cooper's engagement and the ridiculous 
 new dress she is getting. ' ' 
 
 It is to be supposed the bribe proved at- 
 tractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan took in 
 hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled 
 7
 
 98 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 away about wedding dresses and traveling 
 suits and bridal gifts with as much interest 
 as if they were the genuine news of life, 
 and newspaper intelligence a kind of 
 grown-up fairy lore. 
 
 But anyone who saw the hair taken out 
 of crimps would have said it was worth the 
 trouble of putting it in ; and the face was 
 worth the hair, and the hair was worth the 
 exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and 
 the tantalizing effects of glancing silk and 
 beautiful colors. Depend upon it, Kitty 
 Duff an was just as bright and bewitching a 
 life-sized picture as anyone could desire to 
 see; and Tom Duffan thought so, as she 
 tripped up to the great chair in which he 
 was smoking and planning subjects, for a 
 "good-by" kiss. 
 
 "I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will 
 you? Yes, I declare you are dressed in 
 excellent taste. All the effects are good. 
 I wouldn't have believed it." 
 
 ' ' Complimentary, papa. But ' I told you 
 so. ' You just quit the antique, and take 
 to studying fiarper'sfiazarforeftects; then 
 your women will look a little more natural. ' ' 
 
 "Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you 
 little fraud!" 
 
 "I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at 
 the women in that picture of papa's, with 
 the white sheets draped about them. What 
 do they look like?"
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 99 
 
 11 Frights, Miss Kitty." 
 
 ' ' Of course they do. Now, papa. ' ' 
 
 "You two j^oung barbarians!" shouted 
 Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack and 
 Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by 
 this time, with the fresh wind at their 
 backs, and their faces steadily set toward 
 the busy bustle and light of Broadway. 
 They had not gone far when Jack said, 
 anxiously, "You haven't thought any bet- 
 ter of your decision last Friday night, 
 Kitty, I am afraid." 
 
 "Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, 
 unless you could become an Indian Com- 
 missioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or 
 something of that kind. You know I 
 won't marry a literary man under any 
 possible circumstances. I'm clear on that 
 subject, Jack." 
 
 "I know all about farming, Kitty, if 
 that would do. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But I suppose if you were a farmer, we 
 should have to live in the country. I am 
 sure that would not do. ' ' 
 
 Jack did not see how the city and farm 
 could be brought to terms; so he sighed, 
 and was silent. 
 
 Kitty answered the sigh. ' ' No use in 
 bothering about me, Jack. You ought to 
 be very glad I have been so honest. Some 
 girls would have 'risked'you, and in a week 
 you'd have been just as miserable!"
 
 ioo Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "You don't dislike me, Kitty?" 
 
 4 ' Not at all. I think you are first-rate. ' ' 
 
 "It is my profession, then?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 ' ' Now, what has it ever done to offend 
 you?" 
 
 "Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever 
 shall. You see, I know Will Hutton's wife: 
 and what that woman endures! It's just 
 dreadful. ' ' 
 
 "Now, Kitty!" 
 
 "It is, Jack. Will reads all his fine 
 articles to her, wakes her up at nights to 
 listen to some new poem, rushes away from 
 the dinner table to jot down what he calls 
 'an idea,' is alwa} r s pointing out 'splendid 
 passages' to her, and keeps her working 
 just like a slave copying his manuscripts 
 and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it 
 is just dreadful!" 
 
 ' ' But she thoroughly enjoys it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, that is such a shame. Will has 
 quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be real 
 nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was 
 married she was splendid company; now, 
 you might just as well mope round with a 
 book." 
 
 ' ' Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor at 
 the altar, if you like never to bother you 
 with anything I write ; never to say a word 
 about my profession." 
 
 ' ' No, no, sir ! Then you would soon be
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 101 
 
 finding some one else to bother, perhaps 
 some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 
 'friend.' What is the use of turning a 
 good-natured little thing like me into a 
 hateful dog in the manger? I am not 
 naturally able to appreciate you, but if you 
 were mine, I should snarl and bark and 
 bite at any other woman who was. ' ' 
 
 Jack liked this unchristian sentiment 
 very much indeed. He squeezed Kitty's 
 hand and looked so gratefully into her 
 bright face that she was forced to pretend 
 he had ruined her glove. 
 
 "I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, 
 darling, I am not very poor; I am quite sure 
 I could make plenty of money for you. ' ' 
 
 "Jack, I did not want to speak about 
 money ; because, if a girl does not go into 
 raptures about being willing to live on 
 crusts and dress in calicos for love, people 
 say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am 
 mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent 
 dinners and matinees, and I'm fond of hav- 
 ing things regular; it's a habit of mine to 
 like them all the time. Now I know liter- 
 ary people have spasms of riches, and then 
 spasms of poverty. Artists are just the 
 same. I have tried poverty occasionally, 
 and found its uses less desirable than some 
 people tell us they are. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Have you decided yet whom and what 
 you will marry, Kitty?"
 
 IO2 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 1 ' No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the 
 first good honest fellow that loves me and 
 has a steady business, and who will not 
 take me every summer to see views. ' ' 
 
 ' 'To see views?" 
 
 ' ' Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery 
 and mountains, 'scarped and jagged and 
 rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so 
 many grand landscapes, I never want to 
 see another. I want to stay at the Branch 
 or the Springs, and have nice dresses and a 
 hop every night. And you know papa will 
 go to some lonely place, where all my 
 toilettes are thrown away, and where there 
 is not a soul to speak to but famous men of 
 one kind or another. ' ' 
 
 Jack couldn't help laughing; but they 
 were now among the little crush that gen- 
 erally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, 
 and whatever he meant to say was cut in 
 two by a downright hearty salutation from 
 some third party. 
 
 "Why, Max, when did you get home?" 
 
 " To-day's steamer." Then there were 
 introductions and a jingle of merry words 
 and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears 
 with the dreamy music, the rustle of 
 dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the 
 new-comer was gone. 
 
 But that three minutes' interview was a 
 wonderful event to Kitty DufTan, though she 
 did not yet realize it. The stranger had
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 103 
 
 touched her as she had never been touched 
 before. His magnetic voice called some- 
 thing into being that was altogether new to 
 her; his keen, searching gray eyes claimed 
 what she could neither understand nor 
 withhold. She became suddenly silent and 
 thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in 
 love lore, saw in a moment that Kitty had 
 fallen in love with his friend Max Raymond. 
 
 It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but 
 if Kitty was not for him, then he sincerely 
 hoped Max might win her. Yet he could 
 not have told whether he was most pleased 
 or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly 
 negotiate a change of seats with the gentle- 
 man on Kitty's right hand, and take pos- 
 session of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. 
 But there is a great deal of human nature 
 in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, 
 better than might have been expected. 
 
 For once Kitty did not do all the talking. 
 Max talked, and she listened; Max gave 
 opinions, and she indorsed them; Max de- 
 cided, and she submitted. It was not 
 Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved 
 when she turned round in her old piquant 
 way and snubbed him. 
 
 But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening 
 those grand old Romans walking on and 
 off the stage, the music playing, the people 
 applauding and the calm, stately man on 
 her right hand explaining this and that,
 
 IO4 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 and looking into her eyes in such a deli- 
 cious, perplexing way that past and present 
 were all mingled like the waving shadows 
 of a wonderful dream. 
 
 She was in love's land for about three 
 hours ; then she had to come back into the 
 cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and 
 the unmistakable stone houses. But it was 
 hardest of all to come back and be the old 
 radiant, careless Kitty. 
 
 "Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked 
 
 Tom Duffan; "you cut 's criticism 
 
 short this morning. Now, what is yours?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, papa. The play was 
 Shakespeare's, and Booth and Barrett 
 backed him up handsomely." 
 
 "Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I 
 wish Booth and Barrett could hear it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I wish they could ; but I am tired to 
 death now. Good night, papa ; good night, 
 mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the 
 morning." 
 
 ' ' What ' s the matter with Kitty, mother ? ' ' 
 
 "Jack Warner, I expect." 
 
 ' ' Hum ! I don ' t think so. " 
 
 "Men don't know everything, Tom." 
 
 "They don't know anything about 
 women ; their best efforts in that line are 
 only guesses at truth. ' ' 
 
 "Go to bed, Tom Duff an; you are get- 
 ting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will ex- 
 plain herself in the morning."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 105 
 
 But Kitty did not explain herself, and 
 she daily grew more and more inexplicable. 
 She began to read : Max brought the books, 
 and she read them. She began to practice: 
 Max liked music, and wanted to sing with 
 her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max 
 said it was unnatural and inartistic. She 
 went to scientific lectures and astronomical 
 lectures and literary societies: Max took 
 her. 
 
 Tom Duffan did not quite like the 
 change, for Tom was of that order of men 
 who love to put their hearts and necks 
 under a pretty woman's foot. He had been 
 so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty 
 sarcastic, to Kitty willful, to Kitty ab- 
 solute, that he could not understand the 
 new Kitty. 
 
 "I do not think our little girl is quite 
 well, mother," he said one day, after study- 
 ing his daughter reading the Endymion 
 without a yawn. 
 
 "Tom, if you can't 'think' to better pur- 
 pose, you had better go on painting. Kitty 
 is in love. ' ' 
 
 "First time I ever saw love make a 
 woman studious and sensible." 
 
 ' ' They are uncommon symptoms ; never- 
 theless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!" 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "Max Raymond;" and the mother 
 dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was
 
 io6 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom 
 Duffan accompanied the new-born thought 
 with his favorite melody. 
 
 Thus the winter passed quickly and hap- 
 pily away. Greatly to Kitty's delight, be- 
 fore its close Jack found the "blonde, 
 sentimental, intellectual friend, ' ' who could 
 appreciate both him and his writings; and 
 the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty 
 called "a large dry -goods box." The 
 merry little wedding was the last event of a 
 late spring, and when it was over the sum- 
 mer quarters were an imperative question. 
 
 "I really don't know what to do, 
 mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she 
 would not go to the Peak this year, and I 
 scarcely know how to get along without it. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has 
 quarters at the hotel lower down." 
 
 "Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss." 
 
 "You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, 
 unless you want to go to Cape May or the 
 Branch. They both imagine their motives 
 undiscovered; but you just let Kitty know 
 that you even suspect them, and she won't 
 stir a step in your direction. " 
 
 Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped 
 the conversation. She had a pretty lawn 
 suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. 
 "Lawn and fans, Kitty," said Tom: "time 
 to leave the city. Shall we go to the 
 Branch, or Saratoga?"
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 107 
 
 "Now, papa, you know you are joking; 
 you always go to the Peak." 
 
 1 'But I am going with you to the seaside 
 this summer, Kitty. I wish my little 
 daughter to have her whim for once. ' ' 
 
 "You are better than there is any occa- 
 sion for, papa. I don't want either the 
 Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah 
 Cooper is at the Branch with her snobby 
 little husband and her extravagant toilettes; 
 I'm not going to be patronized by her. 
 And Jack and his learned lady are at Sara- 
 toga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner 
 jealous, but I'm afraid I couldn't help it. I 
 think you had better keep me out of temp- 
 tation. ' ' 
 
 "Where must we go, then?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose we might as well go to 
 the Peak. I shall not want many new 
 dresses there; and then, papa, you are so 
 good to me all the time, you deserve your 
 own way about your holiday. ' ' 
 
 And Tom Duffan said, "Thank you, 
 Kitty " in such a peculiar way that Kitty 
 lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped 
 her fan, and finally left the room with the 
 lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan 
 said, "Tom, you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself ! If men know a thing past ordi- 
 nary, they must blab it, either with a look 
 or a word or a letter; I shouldn't wonder if 
 Kitty told you to-night she was going to
 
 io8 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 the Branch, and asked you for a $500 check 
 serve you right, too. ' ' 
 
 But if Kitty had any such intentions, 
 Max Raymond changed them. Kitty went 
 very sweetly to the Peak, and two days 
 afterward Max Raymond, straying up the 
 hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon 
 Tom Duffan, sketching. Max did a great 
 deal of fishing that summer, and at the end 
 of it Tom Duff an 's pretty daughter was in- 
 extricably caught. She had no will but 
 Max's will, and no way but his way. She 
 had promised him never to marry any one 
 but him; she had vowed she would love 
 him, and only him, to the end of her life. 
 
 All these obligations without a shadow 
 or a doubt from the prudent little body. 
 Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or 
 antecedents; she had taken his appearance 
 and manners, and her father's and mother's 
 respectful admission of his friendship, as 
 guarantee sufficient. She remembered that 
 Jack, that first night in the theatre, had 
 said something about studying law to- 
 gether; and with these items, and the satis- 
 factory fact that he always had plenty of 
 money, Kitty had given her whole heart, 
 without conditions and without hostages. 
 
 Nor would she mar the placid measure of 
 her content by questioning ; it was enough 
 that her father and mother were satisfied 
 with her choice. When they returned to
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 109 
 
 the city, congratulations, presents and pre- 
 parations filled every hour. Kitty's im- 
 portance gave her back a great deal of her 
 old dictatorial way. In the matter of 
 toilettes she would not suffer even Max to 
 interfere. ''Results were all men had to 
 do with," she said; "everything was in- 
 artistic to them but a few yards of linen 
 and a straight petticoat." 
 
 Max sighed over the flounces and flutings 
 and lace and ribbons, and talked about 
 ''unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty 
 exhibited results, went into rhapsodies of 
 wonder and admiration. Kitty was very 
 triumphant in those days, but a little drop 
 of mortification was in store for her. She 
 was exhibiting all her pretty things one 
 day to a friend, whose congratulations 
 found their climax in the following state- 
 ment: 
 
 "Really, Kitty, a most beautiful ward- 
 robe! and such an extraordinary piece of 
 luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! 
 Why, they do say that Mr. Raymond's last 
 book is just wonderful." 
 
 ' 'Mr. Raymond' s last book /" And Kitty 
 let the satin-lined morocco case, with all its 
 ruby treasures, fall from her hand. 
 
 "Why, haven't you read it, dear? So 
 clever, and all that, dear. ' ' 
 
 Kitty had tact enough to turn the con- 
 versation; but just as soon as her visitor
 
 no Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 had gone, she faced her mother, with blaz- 
 ing eyes and cheeks, and said, "What is 
 Max's business a lawyer?" 
 
 "Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? 
 He is a scientist, a professor, and a great ' ' 
 'Writer?" 
 'Yes." 
 
 ' Writes books and magazine articles and 
 th ngs?" 
 'Yes." 
 
 Kitty thought profoundly for a few mo- 
 ments, and then said, " I thought so. I wish 
 Jack Warner was at home. ' ' 
 
 "What for?' 
 
 "Only a little matter I should like to 
 have out with him; but it will keep." 
 
 Jack, however, went South without visit- 
 ing New York, and when he returned, 
 pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max 
 Raymond for two years. His first visit 
 was to Tom Duff an 's parlor- studio. He was 
 painting and singing and chatting to his 
 wife as usual. It was so like old times that 
 Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he 
 asked where and how was Mrs. Raymond. 
 
 "Oh, the professor had bought a beauti- 
 ful place eight miles from the city. Kitty 
 and he preferred the country. Would he 
 go and see them ? ' ' 
 
 Certainly Jack would go. To tell the 
 truth, he was curious to see what other 
 miracles matrimony had wrought upon
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 1 1 1 
 
 Kitty. So he went, and came back won- 
 dering. 
 
 "Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, 
 the next day, "how does the professor get 
 along with that foolish, ignorant little 
 wife of his?" 
 
 "Get along with her? Why, he couldn't 
 get along without her ! She sorts his papers, 
 makes his notes and quotations, answers 
 his letters, copies his manuscripts, swears 
 by all he thinks and says and does, through 
 thick and thin, by day and night. It's 
 wonderful, by Jove ! I felt spiteful enough 
 to remind her that she had once vowed that 
 nothing on earth should ever induce her to 
 marry a writer. ' ' 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "She turned round in her old saucy 
 manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, you 
 are as dark as ever. I did not marry the 
 writer, I married the man.' Then I said, 'I 
 suppose all this study and reading and 
 writing is your offering toward the advance- 
 ment of science and social regeneration?' " 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 ' 'She laughed in a very provoking way, 
 and said, 'Dark again, Jack; it is a labor 
 of love.' " 
 
 "Well I never!" 
 
 "Nor I either."
 
 112 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 THE HARVEST OF THE WIND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "As a city broken down and without walls, so is 
 he that hath no rule over his own spirit. ' ' 
 
 ' ' My soul ! Master Jesus, my soul ! 
 
 My soul ! 
 
 Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, 
 An' de more I dig him de better he spring: 
 
 My soul ! 
 
 Dar's a little thing lays in my heart 
 An' he sets my soul on fire: 
 
 My soul ! 
 Master Jesus, my soul ! my soul ! ' ' 
 
 The singer was a negro man, with a very 
 black but very kindly face; and he was 
 hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the 
 San Gabriel river as he chanted his joyful 
 little melody. It was early in the morning, 
 yet he rested on his hoe and looked anx- 
 iously toward the cypress swamp on his left 
 hand. 
 
 "I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; 
 he'll get himself into trouble ef he stay dar 
 much longer. Ole massa might be 'long 
 most any time now." He communed with 
 himself in this strain for about five min- 
 utes, and then threw his hoe across his
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 113 
 
 shoulder, and picked a road among the 
 hills of growing corn until he passed out of 
 the white dazzling light of the field into 
 the grey-green shadows of the swamp. 
 Threading his way among the still black 
 bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in 
 the cypress. 
 
 Here a young man was standing in an 
 attitude of expectancy a very handsome 
 man clothed in the picturesque costume of 
 a ranchero. He leaned upon his rifle, but be- 
 trayed both anger and impatience in the rapid 
 switching to and fro of his riding-whip. 
 ''Plato, she has not come!" He said it 
 reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame. 
 
 ' ' I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss 
 Lulu neber do noffing ob dat kind; ole 
 massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing 
 you at de present time. ' ' 
 
 "My father objects to every one I like." 
 
 "Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa 
 want ebery thing for his good. ' ' 
 
 "You oversize that statement consider- 
 ably, Plato. Tell my father, if he asks you, 
 that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give 
 Miss Lulu this letter. " 
 
 "I done promise ole massa neber to gib 
 Miss Lulu any letter or message from you, 
 Massa Davie." 
 
 In a moment the youth's handsome face 
 was flaming with ungovernable passion, and 
 he lifted his riding-whip to strike. 
 8
 
 H4 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, 
 Massa Davie ! Dese arms done carry you 
 when you was de littlest little chile. Don't 
 strike me!" 
 
 "I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but 
 the blow descended upon the trunk of the 
 tree against which he had been leaning, 
 with terrible force. Then David Lorimer 
 went striding through the swamp, his great 
 bell spurs chiming to his uneven, crashing 
 tread. 
 
 Plato looked sorrowfully after him. 
 "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de drefful 
 temper; got it each side ob de house 
 father and mother, bofe. I hope de good 
 Massa above will make 'lowances for de 
 young man got it bofe ways, he did." 
 And he went thoughtfully back to his work, 
 murmuring hopes and apologies for the man 
 he loved, with all the forgiving unselfish- 
 ness of a prayer in them. 
 
 In some respects Plato was right. David 
 Lorimer had inherited, both from father 
 and mother, an unruly temper. His father 
 was a vScot, dour and self-willed ; his mother 
 had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio 
 a daughter of the grandee family of 
 Yturris. Their marriage had not been a 
 happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern 
 woman had fretted her life away against 
 the rugged strength of the will which op- 
 posed hers. Dav:d remembered his mother
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 115 
 
 well, and idolized her memory; right or 
 wrong, he had always espoused her quarrel, 
 and when she died she left, between father 
 and son, a great gulf. 
 
 He had been hard to manage then, but 
 at twenty-two he was beyond all control, 
 excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, 
 exercised over him. But this love, the 
 most pure and powerful influence he ac- 
 knowledged, had been positively forbidden. 
 The elder Lorimer declared that there had 
 been too much Spanish blood in the family ; 
 and it is likely his motives commended 
 themselves to his own conscience. It was 
 certain that the mere exertion of his will in 
 the matter gave him a pleasure he would 
 not forego. Yet he was theoretically a 
 religious man, devoted to the special creed 
 he approved, and rigidly observing such 
 forms of worship as made any part of it. 
 But the law of love had never yet been re- 
 vealed to him; he had feared and trembled 
 at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not 
 yet drawn near to the tenderer influences 
 of Calvary. 
 
 He was a rich man also. Broad acres 
 waved with his corn and cotton, and he 
 counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of 
 thousand's ; but nothing in his mode of life 
 indicated wealth. The log-house, stretch- 
 ing itself out under gigantic trees, was of 
 the usual style of Texan architecture
 
 n6 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 broad passages between every room, sweep- 
 ing from front to rear; and low piazzas, 
 festooned with flowery vines, shading it on 
 every side. All around it, under the live 
 oaks, were scattered the negro cabins, their 
 staring whitewash looking picturesque 
 enough under the hanging moss and dark 
 green foliage. But, simple as the house 
 was, it was approached by lordly avenues, 
 shaded with black-jack and sweet gum and 
 chincapin, interwoven with superb mag- 
 nolias and gorgeous tulip trees. 
 
 The Scot in a foreign country, too, often 
 steadily cultivates his national peculiarities. 
 James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As 
 far as it was possible to do so in that sun- 
 shiny climate, he introduced the grey, 
 sombre influence of the land of mists and 
 east winds. His household was ruled with 
 stern gravity; his ranch was a model of 
 good management ; and though few affected 
 his society, he was generally relied upon 
 and esteemed; for, though opinionated, 
 egotistical, and austere, there was about 
 him a grand honesty and a sense of 
 strength that would rise to every occasion. 
 
 And so great is the influence of any 
 genuine nature, that David loved his father 
 in a certain fashion. The creed 'he held 
 was a hard one; but when he called his 
 family and servants together, and unflinch- 
 ingly taught it, David, even in his w T orst
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 117 
 
 moods, was impressed with his sincerity 
 and solemnity. There was between them 
 plenty of ground on which they could have 
 stood hand in hand, and learned to love one 
 another; but a passionate authority on the 
 one hand, and a passionate independence 
 on the other, kept them far apart. 
 
 Shortly before my story opens there had 
 been a more stubborn quarrel than usual, 
 and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to 
 enter his house until he chose to humble him- 
 self to his father's authority. Then David 
 joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, 
 and in a week they were on the road to New 
 Mexico with a herd of eight thousand. 
 
 This news greatly distressed James Lori- 
 mer. He loved his son better than he was 
 aware of. There was a thousand deaths 
 upon such a road ; there was a moral danger 
 in the companionship attending such a 
 business, which he regarded with positive 
 horror. The drove had left two days when 
 he heard of its departure ; but such droves 
 travel slowly, and he could overtake it if 
 he wished to do so. As he sat in the moon- 
 light that night, smoking, he thought the 
 thing over until he convinced himself that 
 he ought to overtake it. Even if Davie 
 would not return with him, he could tell 
 him of his danger, and urge him to his duty 
 and thus, at any rate, relieve his own con- 
 science of a burden.
 
 1 1 8 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Arriving at this conclusion, he looked 
 up and saw his niece Lulu leaning against 
 one of the white pilasters supporting the 
 piazza. He regarded her a moment curi- 
 ously, as one may look at a lovely picture. 
 The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, 
 graceful figure, the flowing white robe, the 
 roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed 
 by the bright moonlight, and nothing 
 beautiful in them escaped his notice. He 
 was just enough to admit that the tempta- 
 tion to love so fair a woman must have 
 been a great one to David. He had him- 
 self fallen into just such a bewitching 
 snare, and he believed it to be his duty to 
 prevent a recurrence of his own married 
 life at any sacrifice. 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 "Have you spoken with or written to 
 Davie lately?" 
 
 "Not since you forbid me." 
 
 He said no more. He began wondering 
 if, after all, the girl would not have been 
 better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it 
 struck him that people for ever interfering 
 with destiny do not always succeed in their 
 intentions. It was an unusual and un- 
 practical vein of thought for James Lori- 
 mer, and he put it uneasily away. Still 
 over and over came back the question, 
 "What if Lulu's influence would have been
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 119 
 
 sufficient to have kept David from the wild 
 reckless men with whom he was now con- 
 sorting?" For the first time in his life he 
 consciously admitted to himself that he 
 might have made a mistake. 
 
 The next morning he was early in the sad- 
 dle. The sky was blue and clear, the air full 
 of the fresh odor of earth and clover and 
 wild flowers. The swallows were making 
 a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the 
 edge of the prairie the glorious prairie, 
 which the giants of the unflooded world 
 had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling- 
 place of Liberty. In his own way he en- 
 joyed the scene; but he could not, as he 
 usually did, let the peace of it sink into his 
 heart. He had suddenly become aware 
 that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, 
 and to shirk a duty was a thing impossible 
 to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of 
 Conscience, all other voices would fail to 
 arrest his interest or attention. 
 
 He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the 
 track very easily, and thinking of Lulu in 
 a persistent way that was annoying to him. 
 Hitherto he had given her very little 
 thought. Half reluctantly he had taken 
 her into his household when she was four 
 years of age, and she had grown up there 
 with almost as little care as the vines which 
 year by }^ear clambered higher over the 
 piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought
 
 I2O Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 no more of it than he did of the beauty of 
 the magnolias which sheltered his door- 
 step. Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, 
 and he had not interfered with the affec- 
 tion. They were both Yturris; it was 
 natural that they should understand one 
 another. 
 
 But his son was of a different race, and 
 the inheritor of his own traditions and pre- 
 judices. A Scot from his own countryside 
 had recently settled in the neighborhood, 
 and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen 
 and approved his daughter. To marry his 
 son David to Jessie Kennedy appeared to 
 him a most desirable thing, and he had 
 considered its advantages until he could 
 not bear to relinquish the idea. But when 
 both fathers had settled the matter, David 
 had met the question squarely, and declared 
 he would marry no woman but his cousin 
 Lulu. It was on this subject father and 
 son had quarrelled and parted; but for all 
 that, James Lorimer could not see his only 
 son taking a high road to ruin, and not 
 make an effort to save him. 
 
 At sundown he rested a little, but the 
 trail was so fresh he determined to ride on. 
 He might reach David while they were 
 camping, and then he could talk matters 
 over with more ease and freedom. Near 
 midnight the great white Texas moon 
 flooded everything with a light wondrously
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 121 
 
 soft, but clear as day, and he easily found 
 Whaley's camp a ten-acre patch of grass 
 on the summit of some low hills. 
 
 The cattle had all settled for the night, 
 and the "watch" of eight men were slowly 
 riding in a circle around them. Lorimer 
 was immediately challenged; and he gave 
 his name and asked to see the captain. 
 Whaley rose at once, and confronted him 
 with a cool, civil movement of his hand to 
 his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man 
 as he had never done before. He was evi- 
 dently not a person to be trifled with. 
 There was a fixed look about him, and a 
 deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating 
 a determined character ; and a belt around 
 his waist supported a six-shooter and re- 
 vealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife. 
 
 "Captain, good night. I wish to speak 
 with my son, David Lorimer. " 
 
 "Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no 
 manner of means, just yet. David Lorimer 
 is on watch till midnight. ' ' 
 
 He was perfectly civil, but there was 
 something particularly irritating in the way 
 Whaley named David Lorimer. So the 
 two men sat almost silent before the camp 
 fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, 
 "Mr. Lorimer, your son is at liberty now. 
 You'll excuse me saying that the shorter 
 you make your palaver the better it will 
 suit me. ' '
 
 122 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was 
 walking carelessly away; and the retort 
 that rose to his lips was not one to be 
 shouted after a man of Whaley 's desperate 
 character with safety. As his son ap- 
 proached him he was conscious of a thrill 
 of pleasure in the young man's appearance. 
 
 Physically, he was all he could desire. 
 No Lorimer that ever galloped through 
 Eskdale had the national peculiarities more 
 distinctively. He was the tall, fair Scot, 
 and his father complacently compared his 
 yellow hair and blue eyes with the ''dark, 
 deil-like beauty" of Whaley. 
 
 "Davie, " and he held out his hand 
 frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to 
 your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, 
 and we'll start a new chapter o' life, my 
 lad. Ye '11 try to be a gude son, and I'll 
 aye be a gude father to ye. ' ' 
 
 It was a great deal for James Lorimer to 
 say ; and David quite appreciated the con- 
 cession, but he answered 
 
 ' 'Lulu, father ? I cannot give her up. * ' 
 
 "Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a 
 strange woman, ye must e'en do sae. It is 
 an auld sin, and there have aye been 
 daughters o' Heth to plague honest houses 
 wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk 
 wi' ye anent some decenter way of life than 
 this." 
 
 The talk was not altogether a pleasant
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 123 
 
 one; but both yielded something, and it 
 was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley 
 could pick up a man to fill Davie's place 
 Davie should return home. Lorimer did 
 not linger after this decision. Whaley 's 
 behavior had offended him and without the 
 ceremony of a ' ' good-bye, ' ' he turned his 
 horse's head eastward again. 
 
 Picking up a man was not easy; they 
 certainly had several offers from emigrants 
 going west, and from Mexicans on the 
 route, but Whaley seemed determined not 
 to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and 
 was deeply offended at him interfering with 
 his arrangements. Every day that he kept 
 David was a kind of triumph to him. "He 
 might as well have asked me how I'd like 
 my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to 
 be on the square, ' ' he grumbled. And he 
 said these and similar things so often, that 
 David began to feel it impossible to restrain 
 his temper. 
 
 Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks 
 and small injustices, grows rapidly; and as 
 they approached the Apache mountains, the 
 men began to notice a fixed tightening of 
 the lips, and a stern blaze in the young 
 Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to de- 
 light in intensifying. 
 
 "Thar'll be mischief atween them two 
 afore long," remarked an old drover; 
 ''Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with
 
 124 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 such a vim that he's no appetite for his 
 food left." 
 
 " It'll be a fair fight, and one or both '11 
 get upped; that's about it." 
 
 At length they met a party of returning 
 drovers, and half a dozen men among them 
 were willing to take David ' s place. Whaley 
 had no longer any pretence for detaining 
 him. They were at the time between two 
 long, low spurs of hills, enclosing a rich 
 narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, 
 gilded into flickering gold by the sun and 
 the dewless summer days. All the lower 
 ridges were savagely bald and hot a glen 
 paved with gold and walled with iron. Oh, 
 how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake 
 down into the breathless valley ! 
 
 The cattle were restless, and the men had 
 had a hard day. David was weary; his 
 heart was not in the work ; he was glad it 
 was his last watch. It began at ten o'clock, 
 and would end at midnight. The weather 
 was gloomy, and the few stars which shone 
 between the rifts of driving clouds just 
 served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle. 
 
 The air also was surcharged with elec- 
 tricity, though there had been no lightning. 
 
 "I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' 
 to-night," said one of the men. "I've seen 
 a good many stampedes, and they allays 
 happens on such nights as this one." 
 
 "Nonsense!" replied David. "If a
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 125 
 
 cayote frightens one in a drove the panic 
 spreads to all. Any night would do for a 
 'run.' " 
 
 " 'Taint so, L,orimer. Ef you've a drove 
 of one thousand or of ten thousand it's all 
 the same; the panic strikes every beast at 
 the same moment. It's somethin' in the 
 air; 'taint my business to know what. But 
 you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and 
 hot, and as ef somethin' was gitting 'the 
 inad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout 
 the same. I'd keep clear of him, ef I was 
 you. ' ' 
 
 "No, I won't. He owes me money, and 
 I'll make him pay me!" 
 
 "Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David 
 Lorimer, and that let's me out. Take your 
 own way now." 
 
 For half an hour David pondered this 
 caution, and something in his own heart 
 seconded it. But when the trial of his 
 temper came he turned a deaf ear to every 
 monition. Whaley went swaggering by 
 him, and as he passed issued an unneces- 
 sary order in a very insolent manner. 
 David asked pointedly, "Were you speak- 
 ing to me, Captain?" 
 
 "I was." 
 
 "Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; 
 never, as long as you live!" 
 
 Before the words were out of his mouth, 
 every one of the drove of eight thousand
 
 126 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 were on their feet like a flash of lightning; 
 every one of them exactly at the same in- 
 stant. With a rush like a whirlwind level- 
 ing a forest, they were off in the darkness. 
 
 The wild clatter, the crackling of a river 
 of horns, and the thundering of hoofs, was 
 deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thou- 
 sand dollars' worth of cattle running away 
 from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, 
 and gave David a passionate order "to ride 
 up to the leaders, ' ' and then he sprang for 
 his own mule. 
 
 David's time was now fully out, and he 
 drew his horse's rein tight and stood still. 
 
 ' ' Coward !' ' screamed Whaley ; ' 'try and 
 forget for an hour that you have Spanish 
 blood in you. ' ' 
 
 A pistol shot answered the taunt. 
 Whaley staggered a second, then fell with- 
 out a word. The whole scene had not oc- 
 cupied a minute ; but it was a minute that 
 branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. 
 He gazed one instant on the upturned face 
 of his slain enemy, and then gave himself 
 up to the wild passion of the pursuit. 
 
 By the spectral starlight he could see the 
 cattle outlined as a black, clattering, thun- 
 dering stream, rushing wildly on, and every 
 instant becoming wilder. But David's 
 horse had been trained in the business; he 
 knew w T hat the matter was, and scarce 
 needed any guiding. Dashing along by
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 127 
 
 the side of the stampede, they soon over- 
 took the leaders and joined the men, who 
 were gradually pushing against the foremost 
 cattle on the left so as to turn them to the 
 right. When once the leaders were turned 
 the rest blindly followed and thus, by con- 
 stantly turning them to the right, the 
 leaders were finally swung clear around, 
 and overtook the fag end of the line. 
 
 Then they rushed around in a circle, the 
 centre of "which soon closed up, and they 
 were "milling;" that is, they had formed 
 a solid wheel, and were going round and 
 round themselves in the same space of 
 ground. Men who had noticed how very 
 little David's heart had been in his work 
 were amazed to see the reckless courage he 
 displayed. Round and round the mill he 
 flew, keeping the outside stock from flying 
 off at a tangent, and soothing and quieting 
 the beasts nearest to him with his voice. 
 The "run" was over as suddenly as it com- 
 menced, and the men, breathless and ex- 
 hausted, stood around the circle of panting 
 cattle. 
 
 "Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he 
 gin 'rally soop'rintends a job like this him- 
 self." 
 
 "And likes to do it. Who's seen the 
 Captain ? Hev you, Lorimer ? ' ' 
 
 "He was in camp when I started. My 
 time was up just as the 'run' commenced."
 
 128 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 No more was said; indeed, there was 
 little opportunity for conversation. The 
 cattle were to watch ; it was still dark ; the 
 men were weary with the hard riding and 
 the unnatural pitch to which their voices 
 had been raised. David felt that he must 
 get away at once; any moment a messenger 
 from the camp might bring the news of 
 Whaley's murder; and he knew well that 
 suspicion would at once rest upon him. 
 
 He offered to return to camp and report 
 "all right," and the offer was accepted; 
 but, at the first turn, he rode away into the 
 darkness of a belt of timber. The cayotes 
 howled in the distance ; there was a rush 
 of unclean night birds above him, and the 
 growling of panther cats in the underwood. 
 But in his soul there was a terror and a 
 darkness that made all natural terrors of 
 small account. His own hands were hate- 
 ful to him. He moaned out loudly like a 
 man in an agony. He measured in every 
 moment's space the height from which he 
 had fallen ; the blessings from which he 
 must be an outcast, if by any means he 
 might escape the shameful punishment of 
 his deed. He remembered at that hour his 
 father's love, the love that had so finely 
 asserted itself when the occasion for it 
 came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the 
 hope of home and children, the respect of 
 his fellow- men, all sacrificed for a moment's
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 129 
 
 passionate revenge. He stood face to face 
 with himself, and, dropping the reins, 
 cowered down full of terror and grief at the 
 future which he had evoked. Within hope- 
 less sight of Hope and Love and Home, he 
 was silent for hours gazing despairingly 
 after the life which had sailed by him, and 
 not daring 
 
 ' ' to search through what sad maze, 
 
 Thenceforth his incommunicable ways 
 Follow the feet of death." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth 
 
 death. ' ' James i. 15. 
 
 Blessed are they who have seen Nature 
 in those rare, ineffable moments when she 
 appears to be asleep when the stars, large 
 and white, bend stilly over the dreaming 
 earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or 
 flower. On such a night James Lorimer 
 sat upon his south verandah smoking; and 
 his niece L,ulu, white and motionless as the 
 magnolia flowers above her, mused the hour 
 away beside him. There were little ebony 
 squads of negroes huddled together around 
 the doors of their quarters, but they also 
 were singularly quiet. An angel of silence 
 had passed bj r no one was inclined to
 
 130 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 disturb the tranquil calm of the dreaming 
 earth. 
 
 There is nothing good in this life which 
 Time does not improve. In ten days the 
 better feelings which had led James Lori- 
 mer to seek his son in the path of moral 
 and physical danger had grown as Divine 
 seed does grow. This very night, in the 
 scented breathless quiet, he was longing 
 for David's return, and forming plans 
 through which the future might atone for 
 the past. Gradually the weary negroes 
 went into the cabins, rolled themselves in 
 their blankets and fell into that sound, 
 dreamless sleep which is the compensation 
 of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and 
 thought with him. 
 
 Suddenly she stood up and listened. 
 There was a footstep in the avenue, and 
 she knew it. But why did it linger, and 
 what dreary echo of sorrow was there in it ? 
 
 ''That is David's step, uncle; but what 
 is the matter? Is he sick?' ' 
 
 Then they both saw the young man com- 
 ing slowly through the gloom, and the 
 shadow of some calamity came steadily on 
 before him. Lulu went to the top of the 
 long flight of white steps, and put out her 
 hands to greet him. He motioned her 
 away with a woeful and positive gesture, 
 and stood with hopeless yet half defiant 
 attitude before his father.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 131 
 
 In a moment all the new tenderness was 
 gone. 
 
 In a voice stern and scornful he asked, 
 4 'Well, sir, what is the matter? What 
 hae ye been doing now?" 
 
 ' 'I have shot Whaley!" 
 
 The words were rather breathed than 
 spoken, but they were distinctly audible. 
 The father rose and faced his wretched son. 
 
 Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a 
 shocked whisper, "Dead?" 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 "But you had a good reason, David; I 
 know you had. He would have shot you ? 
 it was in self-defence ? it was an acci- 
 dent? Speak, dear!" 
 
 "He called me a coward, and " 
 
 ' ' You shot him ! Then you are a coward, 
 sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and having 
 made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a 
 double coward to come here and force upon 
 me the duty of arresting you. Put down 
 your rifle, sir!" 
 
 Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, 
 David, my love! why did you come here? 
 Did you hope for pity or help in his heart ? 
 And what can I do Davie, but suffer with 
 you?" But she drew his face down and 
 kissed it with a solemn tenderness that 
 taught the wretched man, in one moment, 
 all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, 
 and all the misery that the indulgence
 
 132 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 of his ungovernable temper had caused 
 him. 
 
 "We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. 
 As a magistrate and a citizen it is my duty 
 to arrest a murderer on his ain confession. ' ' 
 
 "Your duty!" she answered, in a passion 
 of scorn. "Had you done your duty to 
 David in the past years, this duty would 
 not have been to do. Your duty or any- 
 thing belonging to yourself, has always 
 been your sole care. Wrong Davie, wrong 
 me, slay love outright, but do your duty, 
 and stand well with the world and yourself ! 
 Uncle, you are a dreadful Christian!" 
 
 "How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to 
 your own room at once ! ' ' 
 
 "David, dearest, farewell! Fly! you 
 will get no pity here. Fly !" 
 
 "Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to 
 move ! ' ' 
 
 "I am hungry, thirsty, weary and 
 wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do 
 as you will with me. ' ' And he laid his 
 rifle upon the table. 
 
 Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure 
 that almost fell into the chair beside him, 
 and his first feeling was one of mingled 
 scorn and pity. 
 
 ' ' How did it happen ? Tell me the truth. 
 I want neither excuses nor deceptions." 
 
 "I have no desire to make them. There 
 was a 'run,' just as my time was out.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 133 
 
 Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me 
 to help turn the leaders. I did not move. 
 He called me a coward, and taunted me 
 with my Spanish blood it was my dear 
 mother's." 
 
 "That is it," answered Lorimer, with 
 an anger all the more terrible for its re- 
 straint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its 
 gasconade and foolish pride." 
 
 ' ' Father ! You have a right to give me 
 up to the hangman ; but you have no right 
 to insult me. ' ' 
 
 The next moment he fell senseless at his 
 father's feet. It was the collapse of con- 
 sciousness under excessive physical exhaus- 
 tion and mental anguish; but Lorimer, 
 who had never seen a man in such ex- 
 tremity, believed it to be death. A tumult 
 of emotions rushed over him, but assistance 
 was evidently the first duty, and he 
 hastened for it. First he sent the house- 
 keeper Cassie to her young master, then he 
 went to the quarters to arouse Plato. 
 
 When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were 
 kneeling beside the unconscious youth. 
 "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bit- 
 terly ; and for a moment he felt something 
 of the remorseful agony which had driven 
 the criminal at his feet into a short oblivion. 
 But very soon there was a slight reaction, 
 and the father was the first to see it. "He 
 has only fainted; bring some wine here!"
 
 134 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Then he remembered the weakness of the 
 voice which had said, "I am hungry, and 
 thirsty, and weary and wretched. ' ' 
 
 When David opened his eyes again his 
 first glance was at his father. There was 
 something in that look that smote the angry 
 man to his heart of hearts. He turned 
 away, motioning Plato to follow him. But 
 even when he had reached his own room 
 and shut his door, he could not free himself 
 from the influence evoked by that look of 
 sorrowful reproach. 
 
 Plato stood just within the door, nerv- 
 ously dangling his straw hat. He was evi- 
 dently balancing some question in his own 
 mind, and the uncertainty gave a queer 
 restlessness to every part of his body. 
 
 ' ' Plato, you are to watch the young man 
 down-stairs; he is not to be allowed to leave 
 the house. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, sar." 
 
 "He has committed a great crime, and 
 lie must abide the consequences. ' ' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "You understand that, Plato?" 
 
 ' ' Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man 
 myself. Dunno bout de consequences. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Go, and do as I bid you ! ' ' 
 
 When he was alone he rose slowly and 
 locked his door. He wanted to do right, 
 but he was like a man in the fury and 
 darkness of a great tempest : he could not
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 135 
 
 see any road at all. There was a Bible on 
 his dressing-table, and he opened it; but 
 the verses mingled together, and the sense 
 of everything seemed to escape him. The 
 hand of the Great Father was stretched out 
 to him in the dark, but he could not find it. 
 He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay 
 a wish that David would escape from jus- 
 tice. He knew that a selfish shame about 
 his own fair character mingled with his 
 father's love; his motives and feelings were 
 so mixed that he did not dare to bring 
 them, in their pure truthfulness, to the feet 
 of God ; for as yet he did not understand 
 that "like as a father pitieth his children, 
 so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" 
 he thought of the Divine Being as one so 
 jealous for His own rights and honor that 
 He would have the human heart a void, 
 so that he might reign there supremely. 
 So all that terrible night he stood smitten 
 and astonished on a threshold he could not 
 pass. 
 
 In another room the question was being: 
 in a measure solved for him. Cassie 
 brought in meat and bread and wine, and 
 David ate, and felt refreshed. Then the 
 love of life returned, and the terror of a 
 shameful death ; and he laid his hand upon 
 his rifle and looked round to see what 
 chance of escape his father had left him. 
 Plato stood at the door, Lulu sat by his
 
 136 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 side, holding his hand. On her face there 
 was an expression of suffering, at once de- 
 fiant and despairing a barren suffering, 
 without hope. They had come to that turn 
 on their unhappy road when they had to 
 bid each other "Farewell!" It was done 
 very sadly, and with few words. 
 
 "You must go now, beloved. ' ' 
 
 He held her close to his heart and kissed 
 her solemnly and silently. The next mo- 
 ment she turned on him from the open door 
 a white, anguished face. Then he was 
 alone with Plato. 
 
 ' * Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle 
 the brown mare for me?" 
 
 ''She am waiting, Massa David. I tole 
 Cassie to get her ready, and some bread 
 and meat, and dis, Massa Davie, if you'll 
 'blige ole Plato." Then he laid down a 
 rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings 
 of his lifetime. 
 
 ' ' How much is there, Plato?' ' 
 
 "Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it 
 am so little. ' ' 
 
 "It was for your freedom, Plato." 
 
 "I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se 
 too ole now to git de rest. Ef you git free, 
 dat is all I want. ' ' 
 
 They went quietly out together. It was 
 not long after midnight. The brown mare 
 stood ready saddled in the shadow, and 
 Cassie stood beside her with a small bag
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 137 
 
 holding a change of linen and some cooked 
 food. The young man mounted quickly, 
 grasped the kind hands held out to him, 
 and then rode away into the darkness. He 
 went softly at first, but when he reached 
 the end of the avenue at a speed which in- 
 dicated his terror and his mental suffering. 
 
 Cassie and Plato watched him until he 
 became an indistinguishable black spot 
 upon the prairie; then they turned wearily 
 towards the cabins. They had seen and 
 shared the long sorrow and discontent of 
 the household; they hardly expected any- 
 thing but trouble in some form or other. 
 Both were also thinking of the punishment 
 they were likely to receive ; for James Lori- 
 mer never failed to make an example of 
 evil-doers ; he would hardly be disposed to 
 pass over their disobedience. 
 
 Early in the morning Plato was called by 
 his master. There was little trace of the 
 night of mental agony the latter had 
 passed. He was one of those complete 
 characters who join to perfect physical 
 health a mind whose fibres do not easily 
 show the severest strain. 
 
 "Tell Master David to come here." 
 
 "Massa David, sar! Massa David done 
 gone,sar!" The old man's lips were trem- 
 bling, but otherwise his nervous restless- 
 ness was over. He looked his master 
 calmly in the face.
 
 138 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "Did I not tell you to stop him?' ' 
 
 "Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, 
 Massa James, He'll send the messenger 
 Plato could not do it!" 
 
 "How did he go?" 
 
 "On de little brown mare his own horse 
 done broke all up. ' ' 
 
 "How much money did you give him?" 
 
 "Money, sar?" 
 
 ' ' How much ? Tell the truth. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Four hundred dollars. ' ' 
 
 "That will do. Tell Cassie I want my 
 breakfast. ' ' 
 
 At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty 
 chair, but said nothing. In the house all 
 was as if no great sin and sorrow had 
 darkened its threshold and left a stain upon 
 its hearthstone. The churning and clean- 
 ing was going on as usual. Only Cassie 
 was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and mo- 
 tionless, in the little vine-shaded room that 
 looked too cool and pretty for grief to enter. 
 The unhappy father sat still all day, pon- 
 dering many things that he had not before 
 thought of. Bvery footfall made his heart 
 turn sick, but the night came, and there 
 was no further bad news. 
 
 On the second day he went into Lulu's 
 room, hoping to say a word of comfort to 
 her. She listened apathetically, and 
 turned her face to the wall with a great 
 sob. He began to feel some irritation in
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 139 
 
 the atmosphere of misery which surrounded 
 him. It was very hard to be made so 
 wretched for another's sin. The thought 
 in an instant became a reproach. Was he 
 altogether innocent? The second and third 
 days passed ; he began to be sure then that 
 David must have reached a point beyond 
 the probability of pursuit. 
 
 On the fourth day he went to the cotton 
 field. He visited the overseer's house, he 
 spent the day in going over accounts and 
 making estimates. He tried to forget that 
 something had happened which made life 
 appear a different thing. In the grey, 
 chill, misty evening he returned home. 
 The negroes were filing down the long lane 
 before him, each bearing their last basket 
 of cotton all of them silent, depressed 
 with their weariness, and intensely sen- 
 sitive to the melancholy influence of the 
 autumn twilight. 
 
 Ivorimer did not care to pass them. He 
 saw them, one by one, leave their cotton at 
 the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to 
 their cabins. Then he rode slowly up to 
 his own door. A man sat on the verandah 
 smoking. At the sight of him his heart 
 fell fathoms deep. 
 
 "Good evening." He tried to give his 
 voice a cheerful welcoming sound, but he 
 could not do it; and the visitor's attitude 
 was not encouraging.
 
 140 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right 
 sorry to tell you that you will be wanted 
 on some unpleasant business very early to- 
 morrow morning. ' ' 
 
 He tried to answer, but utterly failed; 
 his tongue was as dumb as his soul was 
 heavy. He only drew a chair forward and 
 sat down. 
 
 "Fact is your son is in a tighter place 
 than any man would care for. I brought 
 him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this after- 
 noon. Perhaps he can make it out a case 
 of 'justifiable homicide' hope he can. 
 He's about as likely a young man as I ever 
 saw. ' ' 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 "Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. 
 Talking won't help things, and may make 
 them a sight worse. You'll be over to 
 Judge Lepperts' in the morning? say 
 about ten o'clock." 
 
 "Yes. Will you have some supper?" 
 
 "No; this is not hungry work. My pipe 
 is more satisfactory under the circum- 
 stances. I'll have to saddle up, too. 
 There's others to see yet. Is there any 
 one particular you'd like on the jury?" 
 
 ' 'No. You must do your duty, Sheriff." 
 
 He heard him gallop away, and stood 
 still, clasping and unclasping his hands in 
 a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gille- 
 lands' ! David to be tried for murder in
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 141 
 
 the morning! What could he do? If 
 David had not confessed to the shooting of 
 Whaley, would he be compelled to give his 
 evidence? Surely, conscience would not 
 require so hard a duty of him. 
 
 At length he determined to go and see 
 David before he decided upon the course 
 he ought to take. The sheriff's was only 
 about three miles distant. He rode over 
 there at once. His son, with travel-stained 
 clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked 
 up to see him enter. His heart was full of a 
 great love, but it was wronged, even at 
 that hour, by an irritation that would first 
 and foremost assert itself. Instead of say- 
 ing, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament 
 which was in his heart, he said, "So this 
 is the end of it, David?" 
 
 "Yes. It is the end." 
 
 "You ought not to have run away." 
 
 "No. I ought to have let you surrender 
 me to justice; that would have put you all 
 right. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying 
 from justice is condemned by the act." 
 
 ' ' It would have made no matter. There 
 is only one verdict and one end possible. ' ' 
 
 "Have you then confessed the murder?" 
 
 He awaited the answer in an agony. It 
 came with a terrible distinctness. ' ' Whaley 
 lived thirty hours. He told. His brother- 
 in-law has gone on with the cattle. Four
 
 142 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 of the drivers are come back as witnesses. 
 They are in the house. ' ' 
 
 "But you have not yourself confessed?" 
 
 "Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot 
 the man. If I had not done so you would ; 
 I knew that. I have at least spared you 
 the pain and shame of denouncing your 
 own son!" 
 
 "Oh, David, David! I would not. My 
 dear lad, I would not ! I would hae gane 
 to the end o' the world first. Why didna 
 you trust me?" 
 
 "How could I, father?" 
 
 He let the words drop wearily, and 
 covered his face with his hands. After a 
 pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell 
 her if you can help it, until all is over. 
 How glad I am this day that my mother is 
 dead!" 
 
 The wretched father could endure the 
 scene no longer. He went into the outer 
 room to find out what hope of escape re- 
 mained for his son. The sheriff was full 
 of pity, and entered readily into a discus- 
 sion of David's chances. But he was 
 obliged to point out that they were ex- 
 tremely small. The jury and the judge 
 were all alike cattle men ; their sympathies 
 were positively against everything likely 
 to weaken the discipline necessary in carry- 
 ing large herds of cattle safely across the 
 continent. In the moment of extremest
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 143 
 
 danger, David had not only refused assist- 
 ance, but had shot his employer. 
 
 "He called him a coward, and you'll 
 admit that's a vera aggravating name." 
 
 The sheriff readily admitted that under 
 any ordinary circumstances in Texas that 
 epithet would justify a murder; "but," he 
 added, "most any Texan would say he was 
 a coward to stand still and see eight thou- 
 sand head of cattle on the stampede. You'll 
 excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so myself." 
 
 He went home again and shut himself in 
 his room to think. But after many hours, 
 he was just as far as ever from any coherent 
 decision. Justice! Justice! Justice! The 
 whole current of his spiritual and mental 
 constitution ran that road. Blood for blood ; 
 a life for a life ; it was meet and right, and 
 he acknowledged it with bleeding heart 
 and streaming eyes. But, clear and dis- 
 tinct above the tumult of this current, he 
 heard something which made him cry out 
 with an equally unhappy father of old, 
 ' ' Oh, Absalom ! My son, my son Ab- 
 salom!" 
 
 Then came the accuser and boldly told 
 him that he had neglected his duty, and 
 driven his son into the way of sin and 
 death ; and that the seeds sown in domestic 
 bickering and unkindness had only brought 
 forth their natural fruit. The scales fell 
 from his eyes; all the past became clear to
 
 144 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 him. His own righteousness was dreadful 
 in his sight. He cried out with his whole 
 soul, ' ' God be merciful ! God be merciful ! ' ' 
 
 The darkest despairs are the most silent. 
 All the night long he was only able to utter 
 that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. 
 At the earliest daylight he was with his 
 son. He was amazed to find him calm, 
 almost cheerful. "The worst is over 
 father," he said. "I have done a great 
 wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the 
 punishment, and am willing to suffer it." 
 
 "But after death! Oh, David, David 
 afterward ! ' ' 
 
 "I shall dare to hope for Christ also 
 has died, the just for the unjust." 
 
 Then the father, with a solemn earnest- 
 ness, spoke to his son of that eternity whose 
 shores his feet were touching. At this 
 hour he would shirk no truth; he would 
 encourage no false hope. And David 
 listened; for this side of his father's char- 
 acter he had always had great respect, and 
 in those first hours of remorse following the 
 murder, not the least part of his suffering 
 had been the fearful looking forward to the 
 Divine vengeance which he could never fly 
 from. But there had been One with him 
 that night, One who is not very far from 
 us at any time ; and though David had but 
 tremblingly understood His voice, and al- 
 most feared to accept its comfort, he was
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 145 
 
 in those desperate circumstances when men 
 cannot reason and philosophize, when noth- 
 ing remains for them but to believe. 
 
 "Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; 
 you hae committed a great sin, there is nae 
 doubt o' that. ' ' 
 
 "But God's mercy, I trust, is greater." 
 
 ' ' And you hae nothing to bring him 
 from a' the years o' your life ! Oh, David, 
 David!" 
 
 "I know," he answered sadly. "But 
 neither had the dying thief. He only be- 
 lieved. Father, this is the sole hope and 
 comfort left me now. Don't take it from 
 me." 
 
 Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and 
 praying, too, as men must pray when they 
 stand powerless in the stress of terrible sor- 
 rows. At noon the twelve men summoned 
 dropped in one by one, and the informal 
 court was opened. David Lorimer admitted 
 the murder, and explained the long irrita- 
 tion and the final taunt which had produced 
 it. The testimony of the returned drovers 
 supplemented the tragedy. If there was 
 any excuse to be made, it lay in the dis- 
 graceful epithet applied to David and the 
 scornful mention of his mother's race. 
 
 There was, however, an unfavorable feel- 
 ing from the first. The elder Lorimer, 
 with his stern principles and severe man- 
 ners, was not a popular man. David's
 
 146 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 proud, passionate temper had made him 
 some active enemies ; and there was not a 
 man on the jury who did not feel as the 
 sheriff had honestly expressed himself re- 
 garding David's conduct at the moment of 
 the stampede. It touched all their pre- 
 judices and their interests very nearly; not 
 one of them was inclined to blame Whaley 
 for calling a man a coward who would not 
 answer the demand for help at such an im- 
 perative moment. 
 
 As to the Spanish element, it had always 
 been an offence to Texans. There were 
 men on the jury whose fathers had died 
 fighting it; beside, there was that unac- 
 knowledged but positive contempt which 
 ever attaches itself to a race that has been 
 subjugated. Long before the form of a 
 trial was over, David had felt the hopeless- 
 ness of hope, and had accepted his fate. 
 Not so his father. He pleaded with all his 
 soul for his son's life. But he touched no 
 heart there. The jury had decided on 
 the death-sentence before they left their 
 seats. 
 
 And in that locality, and at that time, 
 there was no delay in carrying it out. It 
 would be inconvenient to bring together 
 again a sufficient number of witnesses, and 
 equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner 
 for any length of time. David was to die 
 at sunset.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 147 
 
 Three hours yet remained to the miser- 
 able father. He threw aside all pride and 
 all restraint. Remorse and tenderness 
 wrung his heart. But these last hours had 
 a comfort no others in their life ever had. 
 What confessions of mutual faults were 
 made ! What kisses and forgivenesses were 
 exchanged! At last the two poor souls 
 who had dwelt in the chill of mistakes and 
 ignorance knew that they loved each other. 
 Sometimes the Lord grants such sudden 
 unfoldings to souls long closed. They are 
 of those royal compassions which astonish 
 even the angels. 
 
 When his time was nearly over, David 
 pushed a piece of paper toward his father. 
 "It is my last request, ' ' he said, looking 
 into his face with eyes whose entreaty was 
 pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard 
 as it is. ' ' 
 
 Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the 
 paper, but his face turned pale as ashes 
 when he read the contents. 
 
 "I canna, I canna do it," he whispered. 
 
 "Yes, you will, father. It is the last 
 favor I shall ask of you. ' ' 
 
 The request was indeed a bitter one; so 
 bitter that David had not dared to voice it. 
 It was this 
 
 ' ' Father, be my executioner. Do not let me 
 be hung. The rope is all I dread in death ; 
 ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life. ' *
 
 148 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 For a few moments Lorimer sat like a 
 man turned to stone. Then he rose and 
 went to the jury. They were sitting to- 
 gether under some mulberry trees, smok- 
 ing. Naturally silent, they had scarcely 
 spoken since their verdict. Grave, fierce 
 men, they were far from being cruel; they 
 had no pleasure in the act which they be- 
 lieved to be their duty. 
 
 Lorimer went from one to the other and 
 made known his son's request. He pleaded, 
 "That as David had shot Whaley, justice 
 would be fully satisfied in meting out the 
 same death to the murderer as the victim. ' ' 
 
 But one man, a ranchero of great influ- 
 ence and wealth, answered that he must 
 oppose such a request. It was the rope, he 
 thought, made the punishment. He hoped 
 no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honor- 
 able death like that was for a man who had 
 never wronged his manhood. Every ras- 
 cally horse thief or Mexican assassin would 
 demand a shot if they were given a pre- 
 cedent. And arguments that would have 
 been essentially false in some localities had 
 a compelling weight in that one. The men 
 gravely nodded their heads in assent, and 
 Lorimer knew that any further pleading 
 was in vain. Yet when he returned to his 
 son, he clasped his hand and looked into 
 his eyes, and David understood that his 
 request would be granted.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 149 
 
 Just as the sun dropped the sheriff en- 
 tered the room. He took the prisoner's 
 arm and walked quietly out with him. 
 There was a coil of rope on his other arm, 
 and David cast his eyes on it with horror 
 and abhorrence, and then looked at his 
 father; and the look was returned with one 
 of singular steadiness. When they reached 
 the little grove of mulberries, the men, one 
 by one, laid down their pipes and slowly 
 rose. There was a large live oak at the 
 end of the enclosure, and to it the party 
 walked. 
 
 Here David was asked "if he was 
 guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: 
 and when further asked "if he thought he 
 had been fairly dealt with, and deserved 
 death?" he answered, "that he was quite 
 satisfied, and was willing to pay the penalty 
 of his crime. ' ' 
 
 Oh, how handsome he looked at this mo- 
 ment to his heart-broken father ! His bare 
 head was just touched by the rays of the 
 setting sun behind him; his fine face, calm 
 and composed, wore even a faint air of ex- 
 ultation. At this hour the travel-stained 
 garments clothed him with a touching and 
 not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told 
 of the weary days and nights of despairing 
 flight, which after all had been useless. 
 
 I^orimer asked if he might pray, and 
 there was a siu ultaneous ' though silent
 
 150 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 motion of assent. Every man bared his 
 head, while the wretched father repeated 
 the few verses of entreaty and hope which 
 at that awful hour were his own strength 
 and comfort. This service occupied but a 
 few minutes; just as it ended out of the 
 dead stillness rose suddenly a clear, joyful 
 thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird 
 in the branches above. David looked up 
 with a wonderful light on his face; perhaps 
 it meant more to him than anyone else un- 
 derstood. 
 
 The next moment the sheriff was turning 
 back the flannel collar which covered the 
 strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment 
 David sought his father's eyes once more, 
 smiled faintly, and called " Father! Now /" 
 As the words reached the father's ears, the 
 bullet reached the son's heart. He fell 
 without a moan ere the rope had touched 
 him. It was the father's groan which 
 struck every heart like a blow; and there 
 was a grandeur of suffering about him 
 which no one thought of resisting. 
 
 He walked to his child's side, and kneel- 
 ing down closed the eyes, and wept and 
 prayed over him as a mother over her first- 
 born. They were all fathers around him; 
 not one of them but suffered with him. 
 Silently they untied their horses and rode 
 away ; no one had the heart to say a word 
 of dissent. If they had, Lorimer had
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 151 
 
 reached a point far beyond care of man's 
 approval or disapproval in the matter; for 
 a great sorrow is indifferent to all outside 
 itself. 
 
 When he lifted his head he was alone. 
 The sheriff was waiting at the house door, 
 Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. 
 He motioned to him to approach, and in a 
 few words understood that he had with him 
 a companion and a rude bier. They laid 
 the body upon it, and the sheriff having 
 satisfied himself that the last penalty had 
 been fully paid, L,orimer was permitted to 
 claim his dead. He took him up to his 
 own room and laid him on his own bed, and 
 passed the night by his side. The dead 
 opened the eyes of the living, and in that 
 solemn companionship he saw all that he 
 had been blind to for so many years. Then 
 he understood what it must be to sit in the 
 silent halls of eternal despair, and count 
 over and over the wasted blessings of love 
 and endure the agony of unavailing repent- 
 ance. 
 
 In the morning he knew he must tell 
 L,ulu all; and this duty he dreaded. But 
 in some way the girl already knew the full 
 misery of the tragedy. Part she had 
 divined, and part she had gathered from 
 the servants' faces and words. 8he was 
 quite aware what was in her uncle's lonely 
 room. Just as he was thinking of the hard
 
 152 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 necessity of going to her, she came to the 
 door. For the first time in his life he called 
 her "My daughter, ' ' and stooped and kissed 
 her. He had a letter for her David's 
 dying message of love. He put it in her 
 hand, and left her alone with the dead. 
 
 At sunrise a funeral took place. In that 
 climate the necessity was an urgent one. 
 Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the 
 little clearing in the cypress swamp. It 
 had been a favorite place of resort; there 
 Lulu had often brought her work or book, 
 and passed long happy hours with the slain 
 youth. She followed his corpse to the 
 grave in a tearless apathy, more pitiful 
 than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took 
 her on his arm, the servants in long single 
 file, silent and terrified, walked behind 
 them. The sun was shining, but the chilly 
 wind blew the withered leaves across the 
 still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the 
 ground, where last it had stood in all the 
 beauty and unreasoning passion of youth. 
 
 When the last rites were over the ser- 
 vants went wailing home again, their dole- 
 ful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the 
 whole spaces of air with lamentation. But 
 neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. 
 The girl was white and cold as marble, and 
 absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's un- 
 usual tenderness. Evidently she had not 
 forgiven him. And as the winter went
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 153 
 
 wearily on she gradually drew more and 
 more within her own consciousness. Lori- 
 mer seldom saw her. She was soon very 
 ill, and kept her room entirely. He sent 
 for eminent physicians, he surrounded her 
 with marks of thoughtful love and care ; but 
 quietly, as a flower fades, she died. 
 
 One night she sent for him. " Uncle," 
 she said, "I am going away very soon, 
 now. If I have been hard and unjust to 
 you, forgive me. And I want your promise 
 about my sister's children; will you give 
 me it?'' 
 
 He winced visibly, and remained silent. 
 
 " There are six boys and two girls they 
 are poor, ignorant and unhappy. They are 
 under very bad influences. For David's 
 sake and my sake you must see that they 
 are brought up right. There need be no 
 mistakes this time; for two wrecked lives 
 you may save eight. You will do it, uncle ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I will do my best, dear. ' ' 
 
 "I know you will. Send Plato to San 
 Antonio for them at once. You will need 
 company soon. ' ' 
 
 "Do you think you are dying, dear?" 
 
 "I know I am dying." 
 
 "And how is a' wi' you anent what is 
 beyond death?" 
 
 She pointed with a bright smile to the 
 New Testament by her side, and then 
 closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so
 
 154 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 exhausted that he could press the question 
 no further. And the next morning she had 
 "gone away" gone so silently and peace- 
 fully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting by 
 her side, knew not when she departed. He 
 went and looked at her. The fair young 
 face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if 
 life had been too sore a burden for her. 
 His anguish was great, but it was God's 
 doing. What was there for him to say ? 
 
 The charge that she had left him he 
 faithfully kept not very cheerfully at first, 
 perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very 
 heavy care; but he persevered, and the 
 reward came. The children grew and 
 prospered; they loved him, and he learned 
 to love them, so much, finally, that he gave 
 them his own name, and suffered them to 
 call him father. 
 
 As the country settled, and little towns 
 grew up around him, the tragedy of his 
 earlier life was forgotten by the world, but 
 it was ever present to his own heart ; for 
 though love and sorrow mellowed and 
 chastened the stern creed in which he be- 
 lieved with all his soul, he had many an 
 hour of spiritual agony concerning the be- 
 loved ones who had died and made no sign. 
 Not till he got almost within the heavenly 
 horizon did he understand that the Divine 
 love and mercy is without limitations; and 
 that He who could say, *%et there be
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 155 
 
 light," could also say, "Thy sins be for- 
 given thee;" and the pardoned child, or 
 ever he was aware, be come to the holy 
 land: for 
 
 4 ' Down in the valley of death 
 
 A cross is standing plain ; 
 Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, 
 
 And the ground has a deep red stain. 
 This cross uplifted there 
 
 Forbids, with voice Divine, 
 Our anguished hearts to break for the dead 
 
 Who have died and made no sign. 
 As they turned at length from us, 
 
 Dear eyes that were heavy and dim, 
 May have met his look, who was lifted there, 
 
 May be sleeping safe in Him."
 
 156 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRES- 
 TON. 
 
 Let me introduce to our readers seven of 
 the wisest men of the present century the 
 seven drafters and signers of the first tee- 
 total pledge. 
 
 The movement originated in the mind of 
 Joseph Livesey, and a short consideration 
 of the circumstances and surroundings of 
 his useful career will give us the best in- 
 sight into the necessities and influences 
 which gave it birth. He was born near 
 Preston, in Lancashire, in the year 1795; 
 the beginning of an era in English history 
 which scarcely has a parallel for national 
 suffering. The excitement of the French 
 Revolution still agitated all classes, and 
 commercial distress and political animosi- 
 ties made still more terrible the universal 
 scarcity of food and the prostration of the 
 manufacturing business. 
 
 His father and mother died early, and he 
 was left to the charge of his grandfather, 
 who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm 
 and became a cotton spinner. Lancashire 
 men had not then been whetted by daily 
 attrition with steam to their present keen 
 and shrewd character, and the elder Livesey
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 157 
 
 lost all he possessed. The records of cotton 
 printing and spinning mention with honor 
 the Messrs. L,ivesey, of Preston, as the first 
 who put into practice Bell's invention of 
 cylindrical printing of calicoes in 1785; but 
 whether the firms are identical or not I have 
 no certain knowledge. It shows, however, 
 that they were a race inclined to improve- 
 ments and ready to test an advance move- 
 ment. 
 
 That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard 
 and bitter one there is no doubt. The 
 price of flour continued for years fabulously 
 high ; so much so that wealthy people gen- 
 erally pledged themselves to reduce their 
 use of it one-third, and puddings or cakes 
 were considered on any table, a sinful 
 extravagance. When the government was 
 offering large premiums to farmers for 
 raising extra quantities and detailing 
 soldiers to assist in threshing it, poor bank- 
 rupt spinners must have had a hard struggle 
 for a bare existence. 
 
 Indeed, education was hardly thought 
 possible, and, though Joseph managed, "by 
 hook or crook," to learn how to read, write 
 and count a little, it was through difficulties 
 and discouragements that would have been 
 fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will. 
 
 Until he was twenty-one years of age he 
 worked patiently at his loom, which stood 
 in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp
 
 158 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 that its walls were constantly wet. But he 
 was hopeful, and even in those dark days 
 dared to fall in love. On attaining his 
 majority, he received a legacy of ^30. Then 
 lie married the poor girl who had made 
 brighter his hard apprenticeship, and lived 
 happily with her for fifty years. 
 
 But the troubles that had begun before 
 liis birth and which did not lighten until 
 after the passing of the Reform Bill, in 
 June, 1832 had then attained a proportion 
 which taxed the utmost energies of both 
 private charities and the national govern- 
 ment. 
 
 The year of Joseph L,ivesey's marriage 
 saw the passage of the Corn Laws, and 
 the first of those famous mass meetings 
 in Peter's Field, near Manchester, which 
 undoubtedly molded the future temper and 
 status of the English weavers and spinners. 
 From one of these meetings, the following 
 year, thousands of starving men started en 
 masse to London. They were followed by 
 the military and brought back for punish- 
 ment or died miserably on the road, though 
 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a 
 smaller number Derby. 
 
 But Livesey, though probably suffering 
 as keenly as others, joined no body of riot- 
 ers. He borrowed a sovereign and bought 
 two cheeses; then cutting them up into 
 small lots, he retailed them on the streets,
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 159 
 
 Saturday afternoons, when the men were 
 released from work. The profit from this 
 small investment exceeding what it was 
 possible for him to make at his loom, he 
 continued the trade, and from this small 
 beginning founded a business, and made a 
 fortune which enabled him to devote a 
 long life to public usefulness and benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 But his little craft must have needed 
 skillful piloting, for his family increased 
 rapidly during the disastrous years between 
 1816 and 1832; so disastrous that in 1825-26 
 the Bank of England was obliged to author- 
 ize the Chamber of Commerce to make 
 loans to individuals carrying on large works 
 of from ^500 to ; 1 0,000. Bankruptcies 
 were enormous, trade was everywhere stag- 
 nant, ^60,000 were subscribed for meal and 
 peas to feed the starving, and the govern- 
 ment issued 40,000 articles of clothing. 
 The quarrels between masters and spinners 
 were more and more bitter, mills were 
 everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one 
 day 30,000 " hands" turned out. 
 
 During these dreadful years every 
 thoughtful person had noticed how much 
 misery and ill-will was caused by the con- 
 stant thronging to public houses, and tem- 
 perance societies had been at work among 
 the angry men of the working classes. 
 Joseph L,ivesey had been actively engaged
 
 160 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 in this work. But these first efforts of the 
 temperance cause were directed entirely 
 against spirits. The use of wine and ale 
 was considered then a necessity of life. 
 Brewing was in most families as regular 
 and important a duty as baking; the 
 youngest children had their mug of ale; 
 and clergymen were spoken of without re- 
 proach as "one, " "two" or "three-bottle 
 men." 
 
 But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied 
 that these half measures were doing no 
 good at all, and in 1831 a little circum- 
 stance decided him to take a stronger posi- 
 tion. He had to go to Blackburn to see a 
 person on business; and, as a matter of 
 course, whiskey was put on the table. 
 Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was 
 very ill in consequence. He had then a 
 large family of boys, and both for their 
 sakes and that of others, he resolved to 
 halt no longer between two opinions. 
 
 He spoke at once in all the temperance 
 meetings of the folly of partial reforms, 
 pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and 
 urged upon the association the duty of ab- 
 solute abstinence. His zeal warmed with 
 his efforts and he insisted that in the mat- 
 ter of drinking "the golden mean" was the 
 very sin for which the Laodicean Church 
 had been cursed. 
 
 The disputes were very angry and bitter;
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 161 
 
 far more so than we at this day can believe 
 possible, unless we take into account the 
 universal national habits and its poetic and 
 domestic associations with every phase of 
 Knglish life. But he gradually gained 
 adherents to his views though it was not 
 until the following year he was able to take 
 another step forward. 
 
 It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, 
 that the first solemn pledge of total absti- 
 nence was taken. That afternoon Joseph 
 L,ivesey, pondering the matter in his mind, 
 saw John King pass his shop. He asked 
 him to come in and talk the subject over 
 with him. Before they parted Livesey 
 asked King if he would join him in a pledge 
 to abstain forever from all liquors; and 
 King said he would. Livesey then wrote 
 out a form and, laying it before King, said : 
 ''Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, 
 Ivivesey followed him, and the two men 
 clasped hands and stood pledged to one of 
 the greatest works humanity has ever un- 
 dertaken. 
 
 A special meeting was then called, and 
 after a stormy debate, the main part of the 
 audience left, a small number remaining to 
 continue the argument. But the end of it 
 was that seven men came forward and drew 
 up and signed the following document, 
 which is still preserved :
 
 1 62 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "We agree to abstain from all liquors of an 
 intoxicating quality, whether they be ale, porter, 
 wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine. 
 
 ' ' JOHN GRATREX, 
 EDWARD DICKINSON, 
 JOHN BROADBENT, 
 JNO. SMITH, 
 JOSEPH LrvssEY, 
 DAVID ANDERTON, 
 JNO. KING." 
 
 All these reformers were virtually working 
 men, though most of them rose to positions 
 of respect and affluence. Still the humility 
 of the origin of the movement was long a 
 source of contempt, and its members, within 
 my own recollection, had the stigma of 
 vulgarity almost in right of their con- 
 victions. 
 
 But God takes hands with good men's 
 efforts, and the cause prospered just where 
 it was most needed among the operatives 
 and "the common people." One of these 
 latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard 
 Turner, stood, in a very amusing and un- 
 expected way, sponsor for the society. 
 Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his 
 language was the broadest patois, it was, 
 nevertheless, of the most convincing char- 
 acter. He always spoke well, and, if author- 
 ized words failed him, readily coined what 
 he needed. One night while making a very 
 fervent speech, he said: "No half-way
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 163 
 
 measures here. Nothing but the te-te -total 
 will do." 
 
 Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, 
 and, rising, proposed it as the name of the 
 society. The proposition was received with 
 enthusiastic cheering, and these "root and 
 branch" temperance men were thencefor- 
 ward known as teetotalers. Richard re- 
 mained all his life a sturdy advocate of the 
 cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made 
 one of the hundreds and thousands that 
 crowded the streets of the beautiful town of 
 Preston and followed him to his grave. 
 The stone above it chronicles shortly his 
 name and death, and the fact that he was 
 the author of a w r ord known now wherever 
 Christianity and civilization are known.
 
 164 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT 
 MONEY. 
 
 "It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna 
 win by it." 
 
 "Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whis- 
 key that turned ma boat tapsalteerie, 
 Geordie Twatt." 
 
 "Thou had better blame Hacon; he 
 turned the boat Widder shins an' what fule 
 doesna ken that it is evil luck to go con- 
 trarie to the sun?" 
 
 "It is waur luck to have a drunken, 
 superstitious pilot. Twatt, that Norse 
 blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. 
 Fear God, an' mind thy wark, an' thou 
 needna speir o' the sun what 'gate to turn 
 the boat." 
 
 "My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot 
 stirring it up, Sinclair. I come o' a mighty 
 kind" 
 
 "Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full 
 about their ancestors having been horses. 
 It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be 
 laird o' theesel' before I'll trust thee again 
 with ony craft o' mine. ' ' Then Peter Sin- 
 clair lifted his papers, and, looking the 
 discharged sailor steadily in the face, bid
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 165 
 
 him "go on his penitentials an' think 
 things o'er a bit." 
 
 Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but 
 Peter was rather pleased with himself; he 
 believed that he had done his duty in a 
 satisfactory manner. And if a man was in 
 a good temper with himself, it was just the 
 kind of even to increase his satisfaction. 
 The gray old town of Kirkwall lay in super- 
 natural glory, the wondrous beauty of the 
 mellow gloaming blending with soft green 
 and rosy-red spears of light that shot from 
 east to west, or charged upward to the 
 zenith. The great herring fleet outside the 
 harbor was as motionless as "a paintedyfo?/ 
 upon a painted ocean" the men were 
 sleeping or smoking upon the piers not a 
 foot fell upon the flagged streets, and the 
 only murmur of sound was round the public 
 fountains, where a few women were perched 
 on the bowl's edge, knitting and gossip- 
 ing. 
 
 Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man 
 inclined to analyze such things, but they 
 had their influence over him; for, as he 
 drifted slowly home in his skiff, he began 
 to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, 
 and to wonder if he had been as patient 
 with him as he might have been. "An' 
 yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on 
 the goods, an' the loss o' time, and the 
 boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to
 
 1 66 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 life! Na, na, I'm no called upon to put 
 life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey." 
 
 Then he lifted his head, and there, on 
 the white sands, stood his daughter Mar- 
 garet. He was conscious of a great thrill 
 of pride as he looked at her, for Margaret 
 Sinclair, even among the beautiful women 
 of the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. 
 In a few minutes he had fastened his skiff 
 at a little jetty, and was walking with her 
 over the springy heath toward a very pretty 
 house of white stone. It was his own 
 house, and he was proud, of it also, but not 
 half so proud of the house as of its tiny 
 garden; for there, with great care and at 
 great cost, he had managed to rear a few 
 pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, and 
 other hardy English flowers. Margaret 
 and he stooped lovingly over them, and it 
 was wonderful to see how Peter's face soft- 
 ened, and how gently the great rough 
 hands, that had been all day handling 
 smoked geese and fish, touched these frail, 
 trembling blossoms. 
 
 "Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy 
 to see the bonnie bit things; when I can 
 get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh ; 
 I'd like weel to see such fields an' gardens 
 an' trees as I hear thee tell on." 
 
 Then Margaret began again to describe 
 the greenhouses, the meadows and wheat 
 fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 167 
 
 had seen during her school days in Edin- 
 burgh. Peter listened to her as if she was 
 telling a wonderful fairy story, but he liked 
 it, and, as he cut slice after slice from his 
 smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses 
 and apple-blossoms, and smacked his lips 
 for the thousandth time when she described 
 a peach, and said, "It tasted, father, as if 
 it had been grown in the Garden of Eden." 
 
 After such conversations Peter was al- 
 ways stern and strict. He felt an actual 
 anger at Adam and Eve; their transgres- 
 sion became a keenly personal affair, for 
 he had a very vivid sense of the loss they 
 had entailed upon him. The vague sense 
 of wrong made him try to fix it, and, after a 
 short reflection, he said in an injured tone: 
 
 "I wonder when Ronald's coming hame 
 again?" 
 
 "Ronald is all right, father." 
 
 "A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's 
 three vessels waiting to be loaded, an' the 
 books sae far ahint that I kenna whether 
 I'm losing or saving. Where is he?" 
 
 ' ' Not far away. He will be at the Stones 
 of Stennis this week some time with an 
 Englishman he fell in with at Perth. ' ' 
 
 "I wonder, now, was it for my sins or 
 his ain that the lad has sic auld world 
 notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 
 'tween John O' Groat's an' Lambaness he 
 doesna run after. I wish he were as
 
 1 68 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 anxious to serve in the Lord's temple I 
 would build him a kirk an' a manse for it." 
 
 "We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. 
 The Sinclairs have been fighting and mak- 
 ing money for centuries: it is a sign of 
 grace to have a scholar and a poet at last 
 among them. ' ' 
 
 Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry 
 were limited by the Scotch psalms, and, as 
 for scholarship, he asserted that the books 
 were better kept when he used his own 
 method of tallies and crosses. Then he 
 remembered Geordie Twatt's misfortune, 
 and had his little grumble out on this sub- 
 ject: "Boat and goods might hae been a 
 total loss, no to speak o' the lives o' 
 Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an* a' 
 for the sake o' liquor!" 
 
 Margaret looked at the brandy bottle 
 standing at her father's elbow, and, though 
 she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter. 
 
 1 ' You arna to even my glass wi ' his, lassie. 
 I ken when to stop Geordie never does." 
 
 "It is a common fault in more things than 
 drinking, father. When Magnus Hay has 
 struck the first blow he is quite ready to 
 draw his dirk and strike the last one; and 
 Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and 
 to spare, will just go on making gold until 
 death takes the balances out of his hands. 
 There are few folks that in all things 
 offend not."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 169 
 
 She looked so noble standing before him, 
 so fair and tall, her hair yellow as down, 
 her eyes cool and calm and blue as night ; 
 her whole attitude so serene, assured and 
 majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left his 
 glass unfinished, and went away with a 
 very confused "good night." 
 
 In the morning the first thing he did 
 when he reached his office, was to send 
 for the offending sailor. 
 
 ' ' Geordie, my Margaret says there are 
 plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, thou'lt 
 just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be 
 ready to sail her or upset her i' ten days 
 again." 
 
 "I'll keep her right side up for Margaret 
 Sinclair's sake tell her I said that, Mas- 
 ter. ' ' 
 
 "I'se do no promising for thee, Geordie. 
 Between wording an' working is a lang 
 road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee 
 for an honest lad, an' thou wilt mind this 
 things promised are things due, ' ' 
 
 Insensibly this act of forbearance light- 
 ened Peter's whole day; he was good- 
 tempered with the world, and the world 
 returned the compliment. When night 
 came, and he watched for Margaret on the 
 sands, he was delighted to see that Ronald 
 was with her. The lad had come home 
 and nothing was now remembered against 
 him. That night it was Ronald told him
 
 170 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 fairy-stories of great cities and universities, 
 of miles of books and pictures, of wonder- 
 ful machinery and steam engines, of deli- 
 cious things to eat and drink. Peter felt 
 as if he must start southward by the next 
 mail packet, but in the morning he thought 
 more unselfishly. 
 
 "There are forty families depending on 
 me sticking to the shop an' the boats, Ron- 
 ald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is 
 ane to step into my shoes. ' ' 
 
 Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately 
 beauty and noble presence of his sister, but 
 yet there was some lack about him easier 
 to feel than to define. Perhaps no one was 
 unconscious of this lack except Margaret; 
 but women have a grand invention where 
 their idols are concerned, and create readily 
 for them every excellency that they lack. 
 Her own two years' study in an Edinburgh 
 boarding-school had been very superficial, 
 and she knew it; but this wonderful Ronald 
 could read Homer and Horace, could play 
 and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and 
 write poetry. If he could have done none 
 of these things, if he had been dull and 
 ugly, and content to trade in fish and wool, 
 she would still have loved him tenderly ; how 
 much more then, this handsome Antinous, 
 whom she credited with all the accomplish- 
 ments of Apollo. 
 
 Ronald needed all her enthusiastic
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 171 
 
 support. He had left heavy college bills, and 
 he had quite made up his mind that he 
 would not be a minister and that he would 
 be a lawyer. He could scarcely have de- 
 cided on two things more offensive to his 
 father. Only for the hope of having a 
 minister in the family had Peter submitted 
 to his son's continued demands for money. 
 For this end he had bought books, and 
 paid for all kinds of teachers and tours, 
 and sighed over the cost of Ronald's 
 different hobbies. And now he was not 
 only to have a grievous disappointment, 
 but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair 
 shared fully in the Arcadean dislike and 
 distrust of lawyers, and would have been 
 deeply offended at any one requiring their 
 aid in any business transaction with him. 
 
 His son's proposal to be a "writer" he 
 took almost as a personal insult. He had 
 formed his own opinion of the profession 
 and the opinion of any other person who 
 would say a word in favor of a lawyer he 
 considered of no value. Margaret had a 
 hard task before her, that she succeeded at 
 all was due to her womanly tact. Ronald 
 and his father simply clashed against each 
 other and exchanged pointed truths which 
 hurt worse than wounds. At length, when 
 the short Arcadean summer was almost over, 
 Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent. 
 
 "The lad is fit for naething better, I
 
 172 Winter Evening J^ales. 
 
 suppose" and the old man turned away to 
 shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. 
 They shocked Margaret; she was terrified 
 at her success, and, falling humbly at his 
 feet, she besought him to forget and for- 
 give her importunities, and to take back a 
 gift baptized with such ominous tears. 
 
 But Peter Sinclair, having been com- 
 pelled to take such a step, was not the man 
 to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, 
 hopeless way: "He couldna say 'yes' an' 
 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en 
 drink as he brewed. ' ' 
 
 These struggles, so real and sorrowful to 
 his father and sister, Ronald had no sym- 
 pathy with not that he was heartless, but 
 that he had taught himself to believe they 
 were the result of ignorance of the world 
 and old-fashioned prejudices. He certainly 
 intended to become a great man perhaps 
 a judge and, when he was one of "the 
 Lords," he had no doubt his father would 
 respect his disobedience. He knew his 
 father as little as he knew himself. Peter 
 Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair's opinions 
 incorporate; and he could no more have 
 changed them than he could have changed 
 the color of his eyes or the shape of his 
 nose; and the difference between a common 
 lawyer and a "lord," in his eyes, would 
 only have been the difference between a 
 little oppressor and a great one.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 173 
 
 For the first time in all her life Margaret 
 suspected a flaw in this perfect crystal of a 
 brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt 
 her. Even if her father's objections were 
 ignorant prejudices, they were positive 
 convictions to him, and she did not like to 
 see them smiled at, entertained by the cast 
 of the eye, and the put-by of the turning 
 hand. But loving women are the greatest 
 of philistines: knock their idol down daily, 
 rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and 
 head, and they will still ''set it up in its 
 place, ' ' and fall down and worship it. 
 
 Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the 
 blindest of these characters, but the world 
 may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. 
 It is faith of this sublime integrity which, 
 brought down to personal experience, be- 
 lieves, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves 
 on to the end, winning finally what never 
 would have been given to a more prudent 
 and reasonable devotion. So, if Margaret 
 had her doubts, she put them arbitrarily 
 down, and sent her brother away with 
 manifold tokens of her love among them, 
 with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for 
 sixty pounds, the whole of her personal 
 savings. 
 
 To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed 
 a large sum, but she hoped b}' the sacrifice 
 to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus 
 enable him to start his new race unweighted.
 
 174 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 It was but a mouthful to each creditor, but 
 it put them off for a time, and Ronald was 
 not a youth inclined to "take thought" for 
 their "to-morrow." 
 
 He had been entered for four years' study 
 with the firm of Wilkes & Brechen, writers 
 and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. 
 Her father had paid the whole fee down, 
 and placed in the Western Bank to his 
 credit four hundred pounds for his four 
 years' support. Whatever Ronald thought 
 of the provision, Peter considered it a mag- 
 nificent income, and it had cost him a 
 great struggle to give up at once, and for 
 no evident return, so much of his hard- 
 earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing 
 of this reluctance; he simply put vouchers 
 for both transactions in his hand, and asked 
 him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as 
 it had been earned. ' ' 
 
 But to Margaret he fretted not a little. 
 (< Fourteen hun'red pounds a* thegither, 
 dawtie," he said in a tearful voice. "I 
 warked early an' late through mony a year 
 for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I 
 hae naught but words an' promises for it. 
 I ken, Margaret, that I am an auld farrant 
 trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well 
 into which ane must put water." 
 
 When Ronald went, the summer went 
 too. It became necessary to remove at 
 once to their rock- built house in one of the
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 175 
 
 narrow streets of Kirkwall. Margaret was 
 glad of the change ; her father could come 
 into the little parlor behind the shop any 
 time in the day and smoke his pipe beside 
 her. He needed this consolation sorely; 
 his son's conduct had grieved him far more 
 deeply than he would allow, and Margaret 
 often saw him gazing southward over the 
 stormy Pentland Frith with a very mourn- 
 ful face. 
 
 But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune 
 and Peter had a good heart, sound and 
 sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and 
 full of faith in God. It is true that his 
 creed was of the very strictest and sternest ; 
 but men are always better than their 
 theology* and Margaret knew from the 
 Scriptures chosen for their household wor- 
 ship that in the depth and stillness of his 
 soul his human fatherhood had anchored 
 fast to the fatherhood of God. 
 
 Arcadean winters are long and dreary, 
 but no one need much pity the Arcadeans ; 
 they have learned how to make them the 
 very festival of social life. And, in spite 
 of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaret 
 thoroughly enjoyed this one perhaps the 
 more because Captain Olave Thorkald 
 spent two months of it with them in Kirk- 
 wall. There had been a long attachment 
 between the young soldier and Margaret; 
 and having obtained his commission, he
 
 1 76 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 had come to ask also for the public recog- 
 nition of their engagement. Margaret was 
 rarely beautiful and rarely happy, and she 
 carried with a charming and kindly grace 
 the full cup of her felicity. The Arcadeans 
 love to date from a good year, and all her 
 life afterward Margaret reckoned events 
 from this pleasant winter. 
 
 Peter Sinclair's house being one of the 
 largest in Kirkwall, was a favorite gather- 
 ing place, and Peter took his full share in 
 all the home-like, innocent amusements 
 which beguiled the long, dreary nights. 
 No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite 
 Ossian with more passion and tenderness, 
 and he enjoyed his little triumph over the 
 youngsters who emulated him. No one could 
 sing a Scotch song with more humor, and 
 few of the lads and lassies could match 
 Peter in a blithe foursome reel or a rattling 
 strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that 
 good Dr. Ogilvie had a more graceful 
 spring and a longer breath, but Peter al- 
 ways insisted that his inferiority to the 
 minister was a voluntary concession to the 
 Dominie's superior dignity. It w r as, how- 
 ever, a rivalry that always ended in a 
 firmer grip at parting. These little fes- 
 tivals, in which young and old freely 
 mingled, cultivated to perfection the best 
 and kindest feelings of both classes. Age 
 mellowed to perfect sweetness in the
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 177 
 
 sunshine of youthful gayety, and youth 
 learned from age how at once to be merry 
 and wise. 
 
 At length June arrived; and though 
 winter lingered in spates, the song of the 
 skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. 
 When the dream-like voice of the cuckoo 
 should be heard once more, Peter and Mar- 
 garet had determined to take a long summer 
 trip. They were to go first to Perth, where 
 Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then 
 to Glasgow and see Ronald. But God had 
 planned another journey for Peter, even 
 one to a "land very far off ." A disease, 
 to which he had been subject at intervals 
 for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal 
 character and Peter needed no one to tell 
 him that his days were numbered. 
 
 He set his house in order, and then, 
 going with Margaret to his summer dwell- 
 ing, waited quietly. He said little on the 
 subject, and as long as he was able, gave 
 himself up with the delight of a child to- 
 watching the few flowers in his garden; 
 but still one solemn, waylaying thought 
 made these few last weeks of life peculiarly 
 hushed and sacred. Ronald had been sent 
 for, and the old man, with the clear pre- 
 science that sometimes comes before death, 
 divined much and foresaw much he did not 
 care to speak about only that in some 
 subtle way he made Margaret perceive that
 
 178 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Ronald was to be cared for and watched 
 over, and that to her this charge was com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Before the summer was quite over Peter 
 Sinclair went away. In his tarrying by 
 the eternal shore he became, as it were, 
 purified of the body, and one lovely night, 
 when gloaming and dawning mingled, 
 and the lark was thrilling the midnight 
 skies, he heard the Master call him, and 
 promptly answered, "Here am I." Then 
 ' ' Death, with sweet enlargement, did dis- 
 miss him hence. ' ' 
 
 He had been considered a rich man in 
 Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald who had 
 become accustomed to a Glasgow standard 
 of wealth was much disappointed. His 
 whole estate was not worth over six thou- 
 sand pounds ; about two thousand pounds of 
 this was in gold, the rest was invested in 
 his houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cot- 
 tage in Stromness, where Peter's wife had 
 been born. He gave to Ronald ^1800, and 
 to Margaret ^200 and the life rent of the 
 real property. Ronald had already received 
 ^1400, and, therefore, had no cause of 
 complaint, but somehow he felt as if he had 
 been wronged. He was older than his sis- 
 ter, and the son of the house, and use and 
 custom were not in favor of recognizing 
 daughters as having equal rights. But he 
 kept such thoughts to himself, and when he
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 1/9 
 
 went back to Glasgow took with him solid 
 proof of his sister's devotion. 
 
 It was necessary, now, for Margaret tc 
 make a great change in her life. She de- 
 termined to remove to Stromness and 
 occupy the little four-roomed cottage that 
 had been her mother's. It stood close to 
 that of Geordie Twatt, and she felt that in 
 any emergency she was thus sure of one 
 faithful friend. "A lone woman" in Mar- 
 garet's position has in these days number- 
 less objects of interest of which Margaret 
 never dreamed. She would have thought 
 it a kind of impiety to advise her 
 minister, or meddle in church affairs. 
 These simple parents attended themselves 
 to the spiritual training of their children 
 there was no necessity for Sunday Schools, 
 and they did not exist. She was not one of 
 those women whom their friends call 
 "beings," and who have deep and mys- 
 terious feelings that interpret themselves in 
 poems and thrilling stories. She had no 
 taste for philosophy or history or social 
 science, and had been taught to regard 
 novels as dangerously sinful books. 
 
 But no one need imagine that she was 
 either wretched or idle. In the first place, 
 she took life much more calmly and slowly 
 than we do; a very little pleasure or em- 
 ployment went a long way. She read her 
 Bible and helped her old servant Helga to
 
 180 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 keep the house in order. She had her flowers 
 to care for, and her brother and lover to 
 write to. She looked after Geordie Twatt's 
 little motherless lads, went to church and 
 to see her friends, and very often had her 
 triends to see her. It happened to be a 
 very stormy winter, and the mails were 
 often delayed for weeks together. This 
 was her only trouble. Ronald's letters 
 were more and more unsatisfactory ; he was 
 evidently unhappy and dissatisfied and 
 heartily tired of his new study. Posts were 
 so irregular that often their letters seemed 
 to be playing at cross purposes. She deter- 
 mined as soon as spring opened to go and 
 have a straightforward talk with him. 
 
 So the following June Geordie Twatt 
 took her in his boat to Thurso, where Cap- 
 tain Thorkald was waiting for her. They 
 had not met since Peter Sinclair's death, 
 and that event had materially affected their 
 prospects. Before it their marriage had 
 been a possible joy in some far future; now 
 there was no greater claim on her care and 
 love than the captain's, and he urged their 
 early marriage. 
 
 Margaret had her two hundred pounds 
 with her, and she promised to buy her 
 ''plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. 
 In those days girls made their own trous- 
 seau, sewing into every garment solemn and 
 tender hopes and joys. Margaret thought
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 181 
 
 that proper attention to this dear stitching 
 as well as proper respect for her father's 
 memory, asked of her yet at least another 
 year's delay; and for the present Captain 
 Thorkald thought it best not to urge her 
 further. 
 
 Ronald received his sister very joyfully. 
 He had provided lodgings for her with their 
 father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a 
 tea merchant in the Cowcaddens. The 
 Cowcaddens was then a very respectable 
 street, and Margaret was quite pleased with 
 her quarters. She was not pleased with 
 Ronald, however. He avowed himself 
 thoroughly disgusted with the law, and 
 declared his intention of forfeiting his fee 
 and joining his friend Walter Cashell in a 
 manufacturing scheme. 
 
 Margaret could feel that he was all wrong, 
 but she could not reason about a business 
 of which she knew nothing, and Ronald 
 took his own way. But changing and bet- 
 tering are two different things, and, though 
 he was always talking of his "good luck" 
 and his "good bargains," Margaret was 
 very uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was 
 partly to blame for this; his pawky face 
 and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents 
 to all such boasts; nor did he scruple to 
 say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, 
 Ronald, an' it is at fas. guid bargains I aye 
 pause an' ponder. ' '
 
 82 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 The following winter was a restless, un- 
 happy one; Ronald was either painfully 
 elated or very dull; and, soon after the 
 New Year, Walter Cashell fell into bad 
 health, went to the West Indies, and left 
 Ronald with the whole business to manage. 
 He soon now began to come to his sister, 
 not only for advice, but for money. Mar- 
 garet believed at first that she was only 
 supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when 
 her cash was all gone, and Ronald urged 
 her to mortgage her rents she resolutely 
 shut her ears to all his plausible promises, 
 and refused to ' ' throw more good money 
 after bad. ' ' 
 
 It was the first ill-blood between them,, 
 and it hurt Margaret sorely. She was glad 
 when the fine weather came, and she could 
 escape to her island home, for Ronald was 
 cool to her, and said cruel things of Captain 
 Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his 
 sister had refused to help him. 
 
 One day, at the end of the following 
 August, when most of the towns-people 
 men and women had gone to the moss to 
 cut the winter's peat, she saw Geordie 
 Twatt coming toward the house. Some- 
 thing about his appearance troubled her, 
 and she went to the open door and stood 
 waiting for him. 
 
 "What is it, Geordie?" 
 
 "I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 183 
 
 Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o' Stennis 
 to-night at eleven o'clock." 
 
 ' ' Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such 
 an hour?" 
 
 "Thy brother; but thou'lt come yes, 
 thou wilt. ' ' 
 
 Margaret's very lips turned white as she 
 answered: "Il'l be there see thou art, 
 too." 
 
 ' ' Sure as death ! If naebody spiers after 
 me, thou needna say I was here at a', thou 
 needna. ' ' 
 
 Margaret understood the caution, and 
 nodded her head. She could not speak, 
 and all day long she wandered about like a 
 soul in a restless dream. 
 
 Fortunately, every one was weary at 
 night, and went early to rest, and she found 
 little difficulty in getting outside the town 
 without notice ; and one of the ponies on the 
 common took her speedily across the moor. 
 
 Late as it was, twilight lingered over the 
 silent moor, with its old Pictish mounds 
 and burial places, giving them an inde- 
 scribable aspect of something weird and 
 eerie. No one could have been insensible 
 to the mournful, brooding light and the 
 unearthly stillness, and Margaret was trem- 
 bling with a supernatural terror as she stood 
 amid the solemn circle of gray stones and 
 looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, 
 brown hills of Harray.
 
 1 84 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 From behind one of these gigantic pillars 
 Ronald came toward her Ronald, and yet 
 not Ronald. He was dressed as a common 
 sailor, and otherwise shamefully disguised. 
 There was no time to soften things he told 
 his miserable story in a few plain words: 
 
 His business had become so entangled 
 that he knew not which way to turn, and, 
 sick of the whole affair, he had taken a 
 passage for Australia, and then forged a 
 note on the Western Bank for ^900. He 
 had hoped to be far at sea with his ill- 
 gotten money before the fraud was dis- 
 covered, but suspicion had gathered around 
 him so quickly, that he had not even dared 
 to claim his passage. Then he fled north, 
 and, fortunately, discovering Geordie's 
 boat at Wick, had easily prevailed on him 
 to put off at once with him. 
 
 What cowards sin makes of us! Mar- 
 garet had seen this very lad face death 
 often, among the sunken rocks and cruel 
 surfs, that he might save the life of a ship- 
 wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet 
 the creditors whom he had wronged, he had 
 committed a robbery and was flying from 
 the gallows. 
 
 She was shocked and stunned, and stood 
 speechless, wringing her hands and moan- 
 ing pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. 
 Often the first result of a bitter sense of sin 
 is to make the sinner peevish and irritable.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 185 
 
 "Margaret," he said, almost angrily, "I 
 came to bid you farewell, and to promise 
 you, by my father 3 s name! to retrieve all 
 this wrong. If you can speak a kind word 
 speak it, for God's sake if not, I must go 
 without it!" 
 
 Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid 
 sobs and kisses, said all that love so sorely 
 and suddenly tried could say. He could 
 not even soothe her anguish by any promise 
 to write, but he did promise to come back 
 to her sooner or later with restitution in his 
 hand. All she could do now for this dear 
 brother was to call Geordie to her side and 
 put him in his care; taking what consola- 
 tion she could from his assurance that "he 
 would keep him out at sea until the search 
 was cold, and if followed carry him into 
 some of the dangerous 'races' between the 
 islands. ' ' If any sailor could keep his boat 
 above water in them, she knew Geordie 
 could; and if not she durst follow that 
 thought no further, but, putting her hands 
 before her face, stood praying, while the 
 two men pulled silently away in the little 
 skiff that had brought them up the outlet 
 connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. 
 Margaret would have turned away from 
 Ronald's open grave less heart-broken. 
 
 It was midnight now, but her real terror 
 absorbed all imaginary ones; she did not 
 even call a pony, but with swift, even steps
 
 1 86 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 walked back to Stromness. Ere she had 
 reached it, she had decided what was to be 
 done, and next day she left Kirkwall in the 
 mail packet for the mainland. Thence by 
 night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and 
 a week after her interview with Ronald she 
 was standing before the directors of the de- 
 frauded bank and offering them the entire 
 proceeds of her Kirkwall property until the 
 debt was paid. 
 
 The bank had thoroughly respected Peter 
 Sinclair, and his daughter's earnest, decided 
 offer won their ready sympathy. It was 
 accepted without any question of interest, 
 though she could not hope to clear off the 
 obligation in less than nine years. She did 
 not go near any of her old acquaintances; 
 she had no heart to bear their questions and 
 condolences, and she had no money to stay 
 in Glasgow at charges. Winter was com- 
 ing on rapidly, but before it broke over the 
 lonely islands she had reached her cottage 
 in Stromness again. 
 
 There had been, of course, much talk 
 concerning her hasty journey, but no one 
 had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pur- 
 suit after Ronald had been entirely the 
 bank's affair, had been committed to private 
 detectives and had not been nearly so hot 
 as the frightened criminal believed. His 
 failure and flight had indeed been noticed 
 in the Glasgow newspapers, but this
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 187 
 
 information did not reach Kirkwall until 
 the following spring, and then in a very 
 indefinite form. 
 
 About a week after her return, Geordie 
 Twatt came into port. Margaret frequently 
 went to his cottage with food or clothing 
 for the children, and she contrived to meet 
 .him there. 
 
 "Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he," he 
 said, with an assumption of indifference. 
 
 "Oh, Geordie! where?" 
 
 "A ship going westward took him off the 
 boat. ' ' 
 
 "Thank God! You will say naught at 
 all, Geordie?" 
 
 "I ken naught at a' save that his father's 
 son was i' trouble, an' trying to gie thae 
 weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was 
 fain eneuch mesel' to balk them." 
 
 But Margaret's real trials were all yet to 
 come. The mere fact of doing a noble 
 deed does not absolve one often from very 
 mean and petty consequences. Before the 
 winter was half over she had found out 
 how rapid is the descent from good report. 
 The neighbors were deeply offended at her 
 for giving up the social tea parties and 
 evening gatherings that had made the 
 house of Sinclair popular for more than one 
 generation. She gave still greater offence 
 by becoming a workingwoman, and spend- 
 ing her days in braiding straw into the
 
 1 88 Winter Evening TaJes. 
 
 (once) famous Orkney Tuscans, and her 
 long evenings in the manufacture of those 
 delicate knitted goods peculiar to the 
 country. 
 
 It was not alone that they grudged her the 
 money for these labors, as so much out of 
 their own pockets they grudged her also 
 the time; for they had been long accus- 
 tomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for their 
 children's garments, for nursing the sick 
 and for help in weddings, funerals and all the 
 other extraordinary occasions of sympathy 
 among a primitively social people. 
 
 Little by little, all winter, the sentiment 
 of disapproval and dislike gathered. Some 
 one soon found out that Margaret's tenants 
 "just sent every bawbee o' the rent-siller 
 to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was a 
 double offence, as it implied a distrust of 
 her own townsfolk and institutions. If 
 from her humble earnings she made a little 
 gift to any common object its small amount 
 was a fresh source of anger and contempt ; 
 for none knew how much she had to deny 
 herself even for such curtailed gratuities. 
 
 In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden 
 stinginess and indifference to her towns- 
 folk was the common wonder and talk of 
 every little gathering. Old friends began 
 to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly 
 ignore her ; and at last even old Helga took 
 the popular tone and saia, "Margaret
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 189 
 
 Sinclair had got too scrimping for an auld 
 wife like her to bide wi' langer." 
 
 Through all this Margaret suffered 
 keenly. At first she tried earnestly to 
 make her old friends understand that she 
 had good reasons for her conduct ; but as 
 she would not explain these good reasons, 
 she failed in her endeavor. She had 
 imagined that her good conscience would 
 support her, and that she could live very 
 well without love and sympathy ; she soon 
 found out that it is a kind of negative 
 punishment worse than many stripes. 
 
 At the end of the winter Captain Thor- 
 kald again earnestly pressed their marriage, 
 saying that, "his regiment was ordered to 
 Chelsea, and any longer delay might be a 
 final one." He proposed also, that his 
 father, the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, 
 should have charge of her Orkney prop- 
 erty, as he understood its value and 
 changes. Margaret wrote and frankly told 
 him that her property was not hers for at 
 least seven years, but that it was under 
 good care, and he must accept her word 
 without explanation. Out of this only 
 grew a very unsatisfactory correspondence. 
 Captain Thorkald went south without Mar- 
 garet, and a very decided coolness separated 
 them farther than any number of miles. 
 
 Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, 
 and his remarks about Margaret Sinclair's
 
 190 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid 
 hands as her own" increased very much 
 the bitter feeling against the poor girl. At 
 the end of three years the trial became too 
 great for her; she began to think of run- 
 ning away from it. 
 
 Throughout these dark days she had pur- 
 posely and pointedly kept apart from her 
 old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his in- 
 fluence over her might tempt her to con- 
 fidence. Latterly the doctor had humored 
 her evident desire, but he had never ceased 
 to watch over and, in a great measure, to 
 believe in her; and, when he heard of this 
 determination to quit Orkney forever, he 
 <:ame to Stromness with a resolution to 
 -Spare no efforts to win her confidence. 
 
 He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to 
 her, reminded her of her father's generosity 
 -and good gifts to the church and the poor, 
 .and said: "O, Margaret, dear lass! what 
 good at a' will thy silent money do thee in 
 that Day ? It ought to speak for thee out o' 
 the mouths o' the sorrowfu' an' the needy, 
 the widows an' the fatherless indeed it 
 ought. And thou hast gien naught for thy 
 Master's sake these three years! I'm fair 
 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a 
 name as thy father's." 
 
 What could Margaret do ? She broke into 
 passionate sobbing, and, when the good 
 old man left ti.e cottage an hour afterward
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 191 
 
 there was a strange light on his face, 
 and he walked and looked as if he had 
 come from some interview that had set him 
 for a little space still nearer to the angels. 
 Margaret had now one true friend, and 
 in a few days after this she rented her 
 cottage and went to live with the dominie. 
 Nothing could have so effectually re- 
 instated her in public opinion; wherever 
 the dominie went on a message of help or 
 kindness Margaret went with him. She 
 fell gradually into a quieter but still more 
 affectionate regard the aged, the sick and 
 the little children clung to her hands, and 
 she was comforted. 
 
 Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonder- 
 fully narrowed, but when the tide is fairly 
 out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year 
 of her poverty there was from various causes, 
 such an increase in the value of real estate, 
 that her rents were nearly doubled, and by 
 the end of the seventh year she had paid 
 the last shilling of her assumed debt, and 
 was again an independent woman. 
 
 It might be two years after this that she 
 one day received a letter that filled her 
 with joy and amazement. It contained a 
 check for her whole nine hundred pounds 
 back again. "The bank had just received 
 from Ronald Sinclair, of San Francisco, the 
 whole amount due it, with the most satis- 
 factory acknowledgment and interest.""
 
 192 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 It was a few minutes before Margaret could 
 take in all the joy this news promised her; 
 but when she did, the calm, well-regulated 
 girl had never been so near committing ex- 
 travagances. 
 
 She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, 
 and, throwing herself at his knees, cried 
 out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! 
 father ! Here is your money ! Here is the 
 poor's money and the church's money! 
 God has sent it back to me ! Sent it back 
 with such glad tidings!" and surely if 
 angels rejoice with repenting sinners, they 
 must have felt that day a far deeper joy 
 with the happy, justified girl. 
 
 She knew now that she also would soon 
 hear from Ronald, and she was not disap- 
 pointed. The very next day the dominie 
 brought home the letter. Margaret took it 
 upstairs to read it upon her knees, while 
 the good old man walked softly up and 
 down his study praying for her. Presently 
 she came to him with a radiant face. 
 
 "Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?" 
 
 "Yes, father; it is very well." Then 
 she read him the letter. 
 
 Ronald had been in New Orleans and 
 had the fever; he had been in Texas, and 
 spent four years in fighting Indians and 
 Mexicans and in herding cattle. He had 
 suffered many things, but had worked 
 night and day, and always managed to
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 193 
 
 grow a little richer every year. Then, 
 suddenly, the word "California!" rung 
 through the world, and he caught the echo 
 even on the lonely southwestern prairies. 
 Through incredible hardships he had made 
 his way thither, and a sudden and wonder- 
 ful fortune had crowned his labors, first in 
 mining and afterward in speculation and 
 merchandising. He said that he was in- 
 deed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest 
 to her Arcadean views the sum might ap- 
 pear incredible. 
 
 Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and 
 clasped her hands above it. Her face was 
 beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister 
 she must have looked just as Margaret 
 looked when they brought in her lost 
 brother, in the best robe and the gold ring. 
 
 The dominie was not so satisfied. A 
 good many things in the letter displeased 
 him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and 
 went away from her. " It is a' / did this, 
 an' / did that, an' / suffered you; there is 
 nae word o' God's help, or o' what ither 
 folk had to thole. I'll no be doing ma duty 
 if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en." 
 
 The old man was little used to writing, 
 and the effort was a great one, but he 
 bravely made it, and without delay. In a 
 few curt, idiomatic sentences he told Ronald 
 Margaret's story of suffering and wrong and 
 poverty; her hard work for daily bread; 
 13
 
 194 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 her loss of friends, of her good name and 
 her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, 
 ma lad, that ye dinna acknowledge God in ; 
 an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'er 
 late for thy credit. I wad hae thought 
 better o' it had thou made it when it took 
 the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy 
 great wealth, a few him 'red pounds is nae 
 matter to speak aboot. ' ' 
 
 But people did speak of it. In spite of 
 our chronic abuse of human nature it is, 
 after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in 
 good more than in evil. The story of 
 Ronald's restitution is considered honorable 
 to it, and it was much made of in the daily 
 papers. Margaret's friends flocked round 
 her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" 
 as simply and honestly as little children, 
 and the dominie did not fail to give them 
 the lecture on charity that Margaret ne- 
 glected. 
 
 Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to 
 his son anent these transactions, or whether 
 the captain read in the papers enough to 
 satisfy him, he never explained; but one 
 day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's 
 and asked for Margaret. He had probably 
 good excuses for his conduct to offer; if 
 not, Margaret was quite ready to invent 
 for him as she had done for Ronald all 
 the noble qualities he lacked. The captain 
 was tired of military life, and anxious to
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 195 
 
 return to Orkney; and, as his own and 
 Margaret's property was yearly increasing 
 in value, he foresaw profitable employment 
 for his talents. He had plans for intro- 
 ducing many southern improvements for 
 building a fine modern house, growing 
 some of the hardier fruits and for the con- 
 struction of a grand conservatory for Mar- 
 garet's flowers. 
 
 It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald 
 was a very ordinary lord for a woman like 
 Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and 
 obey;" but few men would have been 
 worthy of her, and the usual rule which 
 shows us the noblest women marrying men 
 manifestly their inferiors is doubtless a 
 wise one. 
 
 A lofty soul can have no higher mission 
 than to help upward one upon a lower 
 plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, 
 as the dominie said, "no that bad," had the 
 fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret's 
 stature in Margaret's atmosphere. 
 
 While these things were occurring, Ronald 
 got Margaret's letter. It was full of love 
 and praise, and had no word of blame or 
 complaint in it. He noticed, indeed, that 
 she still signed her name "Sinclair," and 
 that she never alluded to Captain Thorkald, 
 and the supposition that the stain on his 
 character had caused a rupture did, for a 
 moment, force itself upon his notice; but
 
 196 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 he put it instantly away with the reflection 
 that ' 'Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after 
 all, and quite unworthy of his sister. ' ' 
 
 The very next mail-day he received the 
 dominie's letter. He read it once, and 
 could hardly take it in ; read it again and 
 again, until his lips blanched, and his 
 whole countenance changed. In that mo- 
 ment he saw Ronald Sinclair for the first 
 time in his life. Without a word, he left 
 his business, went to his house and locked 
 himself in his own room. 
 
 Then Margaret's silent money began to 
 speak. In low upbraidings it showed him 
 the lonely girl in that desolate land trying 
 to make her own bread, deserted of lover 
 and friends, robbed of her property and 
 good name, silently suffering every ex- 
 tremity, never reproaching him once, not 
 even thinking it necessary to tell him of 
 her sufferings, or to count their cost unto 
 him. 
 
 What is this bitterness we call remorse? 
 This agony of the soul in all its senses? 
 This sudden flood of intolerable light in the 
 dark places of our hearts? This truth- 
 telling voice which leaves us without a 
 particle of our self-complacency? For 
 many days Ronald could find no words to 
 speak but these, ' ' O, wretched man that I 
 am!" 
 
 But at length the Comforter came as
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 197 
 
 swiftly and surely and mysteriously as the 
 accuser had come, and once more that 
 miracle of grace was renewed ' ' that day 
 Jesus was guest in the house of one who 
 was a sinner. ' ' 
 
 Margaret's " silent money" now found a 
 thousand tongues. It spoke in many a 
 little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair 
 held in his arms until it was strong enough 
 to stand alone. It spoke in schools and 
 colleges and hospitals, in many a sorrowful 
 home and to many a lonely, struggling 
 heart and at this very day it has echoes 
 that reach from the far West to the lonely 
 islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, 
 and the sea-shattering precipices of Dun- 
 cansbay Head. 
 
 It is not improbable that some of my 
 readers may take a summer's trip to the 
 Orkney Islands ; let me ask them to wait 
 at Thurso the old town of Thor for a 
 handsome little steamer that leaves there 
 three times a week for Kirkwall. It is the 
 sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, 
 was a gift from an old friend in California, 
 and is called ' ' The Margaret Sinclair. ' '
 
 198 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 JUST WHAT HE DESERVED. 
 
 There is not in its own way a more dis- 
 tinctive and interesting bit of Scotland than 
 the bleak Lothian country, with its wide 
 views, its brown ploughed fields, and its 
 dense swaying plantations of fir. The 
 Lammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and 
 the veils of smoke that lie about Edinburgh 
 are on its horizon, and within that circle 
 all the large quietude of open grain fields, 
 wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, and 
 far-stretching pastures where the red and 
 white cows ruminate. The patient pro- 
 cesses of nature breed patient minds; the 
 gray cold climate can be read in the faces 
 of the people, and in their hearts the 
 seasons take root and grow; so that they 
 have a grave character, passive, )'et endur- 
 ing; strong to feel and strong to act when 
 the time is full ready for action. 
 
 Of these natural peculiarities Jean An- 
 derson had her share. She was a Lothian 
 lassie of many generations, usually un- 
 demonstrative, but with large possibilities 
 of storm beneath her placid face and gentle 
 manner. Her father was the minister of 
 Lambrig and the manse stood in a very 
 sequestered corner of the big parish, facing
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 199 
 
 the bleak east winds, and the salt showers 
 of the German ocean. It was sheltered by 
 dark fir woods on three sides, and in front 
 a little walled-in garden separated it from 
 the long, dreary, straight line of turnpike 
 road. But Jean had no knowledge of any 
 fairer land ; she had read of flowery pastures 
 and rose gardens and vineyards, but these 
 places were to her only in books, while the 
 fields and fells that filled her eyes were her 
 home, and she loved them. 
 
 She loved them all the more because the 
 man she loved was going to leave them, and 
 if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful 
 to her, then it was like to be that she also 
 would go far away from the blue Lammer- 
 muirs, and the wide still spaces of the 
 L,othians. She stood at the open door of 
 the manse with her lover thinking of these 
 things, but with no real sense of what pain 
 or deprivation the thought included. She 
 was tall and finely formed, a blooming girl, 
 with warmly -colored cheeks, a mouth rather 
 large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. 
 But the best of all her beauty was the soul 
 in her face; its vitality, its vivacity and 
 immediate response. 
 
 However, the time of love had come to 
 her, and though her love had grown as 
 naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could 
 tell what changes it would make? For 
 Gavin Burns had been educated in the
 
 2oo Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 minister's house and Jean and he had 
 studied and fished and rambled together 
 all through the years in which Jean had 
 grown from childhood into womanhood. 
 Now Gavin was going to New York to 
 make his fortune. They stepped through 
 the garden and into the long dim road, 
 walking slowly in the calm night, with 
 thoughtful faces and clasped hands. 
 There was at this last hour little left 
 to say. Kvery promise known to Love 
 had been given ; they had exchanged Bibles 
 and broken a piece of silver and vowed an 
 eternal fidelity. So, in the cold sunset they 
 \valked silently by the river that was run- 
 ning in flood like their own hearts. At the 
 little stone bridge they stopped, and lean- 
 ing over the parapet watched the drumly 
 water rushing below ; and there Jean reit- 
 erated her promise to be Gavin's wife as 
 soon as he was able to make a home for her. 
 
 "And I am not proud, Gavin," she said; 
 * ' a little house, if it is filled with love, will 
 make me happy beyond all. ' ' 
 
 They were both too hopeful and trustful 
 and too habitually calm to weep or make 
 much visible lament over their parting; and 
 yet when Gavin vanished into the dark of 
 the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy house 
 door very slowly. She felt as if she was 
 shutting part of herself out of the old home 
 forever, and she was shocked by this first
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 201 
 
 breaking of the continuity of life; this 
 sharp cutting of regular events asunder. 
 Gavin's letters were at first frequent and 
 encouraging, but as the months went by 
 he wrote more and more seldom. He said 
 "he was kept so busy; he was making 
 himself indispensable, and could not afford 
 to be less busy. He was weary to death on 
 the Saturday nights, and he could not bring 
 his conscience to write anent his own per- 
 sonal and earthly happiness on the Sabbath 
 day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, 
 whether he wrote or not; and they were 
 past being bairns, always telling each other 
 the love they were both so sure of. ' ' 
 
 Late in the autumn the minister died of 
 typhoid fever, and Jean, heartbroken and 
 physically worn out, was compelled to face 
 for her mother and herself, a complete 
 change of life. It had never seemed to 
 these two women that anything could 
 happen to the father and head of the 
 family ; in their loving hearts he had been 
 immortal, and though the disease had run 
 its tedious course before their eyes, his 
 death at the last was a shock that shook 
 their lives and their home to the very 
 centre. A new minister was the first in- 
 evitable change, and then a removal from 
 the comfortable manse to a little cottage in 
 the village of Lambrig. 
 
 While this sad removal was in progress
 
 202 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 they had felt the sorrow of it, all that they 
 could bear; and neither had dared to look 
 into the future or to speculate as to its 
 necessities. Jean in her heart expected 
 Gavin would at once send for them to come 
 to America. He had a fair salary, and 
 the sale of their furniture would defray 
 their traveling expenses. 
 
 She was indeed so sure of this journey, 
 that she did not regard the cottage as more 
 than a temporary shelter during the ap- 
 proaching winter. In the spring, no doubt, 
 Gavin would have a little home ready, and 
 they would cross the ocean to it. The 
 mother had the same thought. As they sat 
 on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, 
 they talked of this event, and if any doubts 
 lurked unconsciously below their love and 
 trust they talked them away, while they 
 waited for Gavin's answer to the sorrowful 
 letter Jean had sent him on the night of her 
 father's burial. 
 
 It was longer in coming than they ex- 
 pected. For a week they saw the postman 
 pass their door with an indifference that 
 seemed cruel ; for a week Jean made new 
 excuses and tried to hold up her mother's 
 heart, while her own was sinking lower 
 and lower. Then one morning the looked- 
 for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart 
 to read it alone ; Mrs. Anderson sat down 
 and waited, with dropped eyes and hands
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 203 
 
 tightly clasped. She knew, before Jean 
 said a word, that the letter had disappointed 
 her. She had remained alone too long. If 
 all had been as they hoped the mother was 
 certain Jean would not have deferred the 
 good tidings a moment. But a quarter of 
 an hour had passed before Jean came to her 
 side, and then when she lifted her eyes she 
 saw that her daughter had been weeping. 
 
 "It is a disappointment, Jean, I see, '* 
 she said sadly. ' ' Never mind, dearie. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, mother ; Gavin has failed us. ' ' 
 
 "We have been two foolish women, Jean. 
 Oh, my dear lassie, we should have lippened 
 to God, and He would not have disappointed 
 us ! What does Gavin Burns say ?' ' 
 
 "It is what he does not say, that hurts 
 me, mother. I may as well tell you the 
 whole truth. When he heard how ill father 
 was, he wrote to me, as if he had foreseen 
 what was to happen. He said, 'there will 
 be a new minister and a break-up of the old 
 home, and you must come at once to your 
 new home here. I am the one to care for 
 you when your father is gone away; and 
 what does it matter under what sun or sky 
 if we are but together?' So, then, mother, 
 when the worst had come to us I wrote 
 with a free heart to Gavin. I said, ' I will 
 come to you gladly, Gavin, but you know 
 well that my mother is very dear to me, 
 and where I am there she also must be. r
 
 204 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 And he says, in this letter, that it is me he 
 is wanting, and that you have a brother in 
 Glasgow that is unmarried and who will be 
 willing, no doubt, to have you keep his 
 house for him. There is a wale of fine 
 words about it, mother, but they come to 
 just this, and no more Gavin is willing 
 to care for me but not for 3^ou, and I will 
 not trust myself with a man that cannot 
 love you for my sake. We will stay to- 
 gether, mammy darling! Whatever comes 
 or goes we will stay together. The man 
 isna born that can part us two!" 
 
 "He is your lover, Jean. A girl must 
 stick to her lover. ' ' 
 
 "You are my mother. I am bone of 
 your bone, and flesh of j^our flesh and love 
 of your love. May God forsake me when I 
 forsake you ! ' ' 
 
 She had thrown herself at her mother's 
 knees and was clasping and kissing the sad 
 face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered 
 the last words. And the mother was pro- 
 foundly touched by her child's devotion. 
 She drew her close to her heart, and said 
 firmly : 
 
 "No! No, my dearie! What could we 
 two do for ourselves? And I'm loth to part 
 you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the 
 sacrifice you so lovingly offer me. I will 
 write to my brother David. Gavin isna 
 far wrong there; David is a very close
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 205 
 
 man, but he willna see his sister suffer, 
 there is no fear of that. ' ' 
 
 "It is Jean that will not see you suffer." 
 
 ' ' But the bite and the sup, Jean ? How 
 are we to get them?" 
 
 "I can make my own dresses and cloaks, 
 so then I can make dresses and cloaks for 
 other people. I shall send out a card to 
 the ladies near-by and put an advertisement 
 in the Haddington newspaper, and God can 
 make my needle sharp enough for the 
 battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, 
 don't cry! We have God and each other, 
 and none can call us desolate. ' ' 
 
 "But you will break your heart, Jean. 
 You canna help it. And I canna take your 
 love and happiness to brighten my old age. 
 It isna right. I'll not do it. You must go 
 to Gavin. I will go to my brother 
 David." 
 
 "I will not break my heart, mother. I 
 will not shed a tear for the false, mean lad, 
 that you were so kind to for fourteen years, 
 when there was no one else to love him. 
 Aye, I know he paid for his board and 
 schooling, but he never could pay for the 
 mother-love you gave him, just because he 
 was motherless. And who has more right 
 to have their life brightened by my love 
 than you have? Beside, it is my happiness 
 to brighten it, and so, what will you say 
 against it? And I will not go to Gavin.
 
 206 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Not one step. If he wants me now, he will 
 come for me, and for you, too. This is 
 sure as death ! Oh, mammy ! Mammy, dar- 
 ling, a false lad shall not part us ! Never I 
 Never! Never!" 
 
 "Jean ! Jean ! What will I say at all? " 
 "What would my father say, if he was 
 here this minute? He would say, 'you 
 are right, Jean ! And God bless you, Jean ! 
 And you may be sure that it is all for the 
 best, Jean ! So take the right road with a 
 glad heart, Jean!' That is what father 
 would say. And I will never do anything 
 to prevent me looking him straight in the 
 face when we meet again. Kven in heaven 
 I shall want him to smile into my eyes and 
 say, 'Well done, Jean!' " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Jean's plans for the future were humble 
 and reasonable enough to insure them some 
 measure of success, and the dreaded winter 
 passed not uncomfortably away. Then in 
 the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to 
 Lambrig and boarded with his sister, pay- 
 ing a pound a week, and giving her, on his 
 departure, a five-pound note to help the next 
 winter's expenses. This order of things 
 went on without change or intermission for 
 five years, and the little cottage gradually
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 207 
 
 gathered in its clean, sweet rooms, many 
 articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. 
 Anderson took entire charge of the house- 
 keeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from 
 morning to night, and though the girl had 
 her share of the humiliations and annoy- 
 ances incident to her position, these did not 
 interfere with the cheerful affection and mu- 
 tual help which brightened their lonely life. 
 
 She heard nothing from Gavin. After 
 some painful correspondence, in which 
 neither would retract a step from the stand 
 they had taken, Gavin ceased writing, and 
 Jean ceased expecting, though before this 
 calm was reached she had many a bitter 
 hour the mother never suspected. But 
 such hours were to Jean's soul what the 
 farmers call "growing weather;" in them 
 much rich thought and feeling sprang up 
 insensibly; her nature ripened and mel- 
 lowed and she became a far lovelier woman 
 than her twentieth year had promised. 
 
 One gray February afternoon, when the 
 rain was falling steadily, Jean felt unus- 
 ually depressed and weary. An apprehen- 
 sion of some unhappiness made her sad, 
 and she could not sew for the tears that 
 would dim her eyes. Suddenly the door 
 opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. 
 Jean did not know her very well, and she 
 did not like her at all, and she wondered 
 what she had come to tell her.
 
 208 Winter Evening 7a/es. 
 
 "I am going to New York on Saturday, 
 Jean," she said, "and I thought Gavin 
 would like to know how you looked and 
 felt these days. ' ' 
 
 Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see 
 how I look easy enough, Mary Burns," she 
 answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a 
 thing I keep to myself these days. ' ' 
 
 "Gavin has furnished a pretty house at 
 the long last, and I am to be the mistress 
 of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that 
 the school where I taught so long has been 
 broken up, and so I was on the world, as 
 one may say, and Gavin could not bear 
 that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and 
 I'm thinking I shall have a happy time 
 with him in America." 
 
 "I hope you will, Mary. Give him a 
 kind wish from me; and I will bid you 
 'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that 
 I have more sewing to do to-night than I 
 can well manage. ' ' 
 
 This event wounded Jean sorely. She 
 felt sure Mary had only called for an un- 
 kind purpose, and that she would cruelly 
 misrepresent her appearance and condition 
 to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost 
 lover to think scornfully of her. But she 
 brought her sewing beside her mother and 
 talked the affair over with her, and so, at 
 the end of the evening, went to bed re- 
 signed, and even cheerful. Never had they
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 209 
 
 spent a more confidential, loving night to- 
 gether, and this fact was destined to be a 
 comfort to Jean during all the rest of her 
 life. For in the morning she noticed a 
 singular look on her mother's face and at 
 noon she found her in her chair fast in that 
 sleep which knows no wakening in this 
 world. 
 
 It was a blow which put all other con- 
 siderations far out of Jean's mind. She 
 mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, 
 and though Uncle David came at once to 
 assist her in the necessary arrangements, 
 she suffered no hand but her own to do the 
 last kind offices for her dear dead. And 
 oh ! how empty and lonely was now the 
 little cottage, while the swift return to all 
 the ordinary duties of life seemed such a 
 cruel effacement. Uncle David watched 
 her silently, but on the evening of the 
 third day after the funeral he said, kindly : 
 
 "Dry your eyes, Jean. There is nae- 
 thing to weep for. Your mother is far 
 beyond tears. ' ' 
 
 "I cannot bear to forget her a minute, 
 uncle, yet folks go and come and never 
 name her; and it is not a week since she 
 had a word and a smile for everybody." 
 
 ' 'Death is forgetfulness, Jean ; 
 
 'one lonely way 
 We go: and is she gone? 
 
 Is all our best friends say. ' ' '
 
 2io Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 You must come home with me now, Jean. 
 I canna be what your mother has been to 
 you, but I'll do the best I can for you, 
 lassie. Sell these bit sticks o' furniture 
 and shut the door on the empty house and 
 begin a new life. You've had sorrow about 
 a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth 
 your keeping you can save in your mem- 
 ory." 
 
 ' 'I will be glad to go with } T OU, uncle. 
 I shall be no charge on you. I can find my 
 own bread if you will just love me a little." 
 
 "I'm no that poor, Jean. You are wel- 
 come to share my loaf. Put that weary 
 thimble and needle awa' ; I'll no see you 
 take another stitch. ' ' 
 
 So Jean followed her uncle's advice and 
 went back with him to Glasgow. He had 
 never said a word about his home, and 
 Jean knew not what she expected cer- 
 tainly nothing more than a small floor in 
 some of the least expensive streets of the 
 great city. It was dark when they reached 
 Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great 
 change in her uncle's manner as soon as 
 they left the railway. He made an im- 
 perative motion and a carriage instantly 
 answered it ; and they were swiftly driven 
 to a large dwelling in one of the finest 
 crescents of the West end. He led her into 
 a handsome parlor and called a servant, 
 and bid her "show Miss Anderson her
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 211 
 
 rooms;" and thus, without a word of prepar- 
 ation, Jean found herself surrounded by 
 undreamed of luxury. 
 
 Nothing was ever definitely explained to 
 her, but she gradually learned to under- 
 stand the strange old man who assumed the 
 guardianship of her life. His great wealth 
 was evident, and it was not long ere she 
 discovered that it was largely spent in two 
 directions scientific discovery and the 
 Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives 
 were devoted to chemistry or to electrical 
 investigations, or passionate apostles of 
 total abstinence from intoxicants were daily 
 at his table; and Jean could not help be- 
 coming an enthusiastic partisan on such 
 matters. One of the savants, a certain 
 Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with 
 her ; and she felt it difficult to escape the 
 influence of his wooing, which had all the 
 persistent patience of a man accustomed 
 4 'to seek till he found, and so not lose his 
 labor. ' ' 
 
 Her life was now very happy. Cautious 
 in giving his love, David Nicoll gave it 
 freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt 
 his niece. Nor did he ever regret the gift. 
 "Jean entered my house and she made it a 
 home, ' ' he said to his friends. No words 
 could have better explained the position. 
 In the winter they entertained with a noble 
 hospitality ; in the summer they sailed far
 
 212 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 north to the mystical isles of the Western 
 seas ; to Orkney and Zetland and once even 
 as far as the North Cape by the light of the 
 midnight sun. So the time passed wonder- 
 fully away, until Jean was thirty-two years 
 old. The simple, unlettered girl had then 
 become a woman of great culture and of 
 perfect physical charm. Wise in many 
 ways, she yet kept her loving heart, and her 
 uncle delighted in her. ' ' You have made 
 my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he 
 said to her on the last solemn night of his 
 life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your 
 honest love ! Now that I am going the way 
 of all flesh, I have gi'en you every bawbee 
 I have. I have put no restrictions on you, 
 and I have left nae dead wishes behind me. 
 You will do as you like wi' the land and 
 the siller, and you will do right in a' 
 things, I ken that, Jean. If it should come 
 into your heart to tak' the love Professor 
 Sharp offers you, I'll be pleased, for he'll 
 never spend a shilling that willna be weel 
 spent ; and he is a clever man, and a good 
 man and he loves you. But it is a' in your 
 ain will; do as you like, anent either this 
 or that. ' ' 
 
 This was the fourth great change in 
 Jean's life. Gavin's going away had opened 
 the doors of her destiny; her father's death 
 had sent her to the school of self-reliant 
 poverty; her mother's death given her a
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 213 
 
 home of love and luxury, and now her uncle 
 put her in a position of vast, untrammeled 
 responsibility. But if love is the joy of 
 life, this was not the end; the crowning 
 change was yet to come; and now, with 
 both her hands full, her heart involuntarily 
 turned to her first lover. 
 
 About this time, also, Gavin was led to 
 remember Jean. His sister Mary was going 
 to marry, and the circumstance annoyed 
 him. "I'll have to store my furniture and 
 pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it 
 at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, 
 and be robbed on the right hand and the 
 left, ' ' he said fretfully. ' ' It was not in the 
 bargain that you should marry, and it is 
 very bad behavior in you, Mary." 
 
 "Well, Gavin, get married j^ourself, and 
 the furnishing will not be wasted," an- 
 swered Mary. <( There is Annie Riley, just 
 dying for the love of you, and no brighter, 
 smarter girl in New York city. ' ' 
 
 "She isn't in love with me; she is tired 
 of the Remington all day ; and if I wanted 
 a wife, there is some one better than Annie 
 Riley." 
 
 "Jean Anderson?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "Send for her picture, and you will see 
 what a plain, dowdy old maid she is. She 
 is not for the like of you, Gavin a bit 
 country dressmaker, poor, and past liking. ' '
 
 214 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Gavin said no more, but that night he 
 wrote Jean Anderson the following letter : 
 "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a 
 picture of yourself. If you will not write 
 me a word, you might let me have your 
 face to look at. Mary is getting herself 
 married, and I will be alone in a few days. ' ' 
 That is enough, he thought; "she w 7 ill un- 
 derstand that there is a chance for her yet, 
 if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary 
 is not to be trusted. She never liked Jean. 
 I'll see for myself." 
 
 Jean got this letter one warm day in 
 spring, and she "understood" it as clearly 
 as Gavin intended her to. For a long time 
 she sat thinking it over, then she went to a 
 drawer for a photo, taken just before her 
 mother's death. It showed her face with- 
 out any favor, without even justice, and the 
 plain merino gown, which was then her 
 best. And with this picture she wrote 
 "Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken 
 five years since, and there have been changes 
 since." 
 
 She did not say what the changes were, 
 but Gavin was sure they were unfavorable. 
 He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the 
 poor plain dress, and he was disappointed. 
 A girl like that would do his house no 
 honor; he would not care to introduce her 
 to his fellow clerks ; they would not envy 
 him a bit. Annie Riley was far better
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 215 
 
 looking, and far more stylish. He decided 
 in favor of Annie Riley. 
 
 Jean was not astonished when no answer 
 came. She had anticipated her failure to 
 please her old lover; but she smiled a little 
 sadly at his failure. Then there came into 
 her mind a suspicion of Mary, an uncer- 
 tainty, a lingering hope that some circum- 
 stance, not to be guessed at from a distance, 
 was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter 
 want of response. It was midsummer, she 
 wanted a breath of the ocean ; why should 
 she not go to New York and quietly see 
 how things were for herself? The idea 
 took possession of her, and she carried it 
 out. 
 
 She knew the name of the large dry 
 goods firm that Gavin served, and the 
 morning after her arrival in New York she 
 strolled into it for a pair of gloves. As 
 they were being fitted on she heard Gavin 
 speak, and moving her position slightly, 
 she saw him leaning against a pile of sum- 
 mer blankets. He was talking to one of 
 his fellows, and evidently telling a funny 
 story, at which both giggled and snickered, 
 ere they walked their separate ways. Being 
 midsummer the store was nearly empty, and 
 Jean, by varying her purchases, easily kept 
 Gavin in sight. She never for one moment 
 found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had 
 deteriorated in every way. He was no longer
 
 2i6 Winter Evening 7^ales. 
 
 handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from 
 him, and his face, his hands, his figure, 
 his slouching walk, his querulous authorita- 
 tive voice, all revealed a man whom Jean 
 repelled at every point. Years had not re- 
 fined, they had vulgarized him. His cloth- 
 ing careless and not quite fresh, offended 
 her taste; in fact, his whole appearance 
 was of that shabby genteel character, which 
 is far more mean and plebeian than can be 
 given by undisguised working apparel. As 
 Jean was taking note of these things a girl, 
 with a flushed, angry face, spoke to him. 
 She was evidently making a complaint, and 
 Gavin answered her in a manner which 
 made Jean burn from head to feet. The 
 disillusion was complete; she never looked 
 at him again, and he never knew she had 
 looked at him at all. 
 
 But after Mary's marriage he heard news 
 which startled him. Mary, under her new 
 name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lam- 
 brig, and this acquaintance in reply said, 
 ' ' You will have heard that Jean Anderson 
 was left a great fortune by her uncle, David 
 Nicoll. She is building a home near Lam- 
 brig that is finer than Maxwell Castle ; and 
 Lord Maxwell has rented the castle to her 
 until her new home is finished. You 
 wouldn't ken the looks of her now, she is 
 that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers 
 aye make fine birds!"
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 217 
 
 Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this 
 news, and as he had been with the firm 
 eleven years and never asked a favor, he 
 resolved to tell them he had important busi- 
 ness in Scotland, and ask for a month's 
 holiday to attend to it. If he was on the 
 ground he never doubted his personal in- 
 fluence. ' ' Jean was aye wax in my fingers, ' ' 
 he said to Mary. 
 
 "There is Annie Riley, " answered 
 Mary. 
 
 "She will have to give me up. I'll not 
 marry her. I am going to marry Jean, and 
 settle myself in Scotland. ' ' 
 
 "Annie is not the girl to be thrown off 
 that kind of way, Gavin. You have pro- 
 mised to marry her. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then 
 what will Annie do about it, I would like 
 to know?" 
 
 "I think you will find out." 
 
 In the fall he obtained permission to go 
 to Scotland for a month, and he hastened 
 to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry 
 him. He intended no secret visit ; he had 
 made every preparation to fill his old 
 townsmen with admiration and envy. But 
 things had changed, even in Lambrig. 
 There was a new innkeeper, who could 
 answer none of his questions, and who did 
 not remember Minister Anderson and his 
 daughter, Jean. He began to fear he had
 
 218 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 come on a fool's errand, and after a leis- 
 urely, late breakfast, he strolled out to make 
 his own investigations. 
 
 There was certainly a building on a mag- 
 nificent scale going up on a neighboring 
 hill, and he walked toward it. When half 
 way there a finely-appointed carriage passed 
 him swiftly, but not too swiftly for him to 
 see that Jean and a very handsome man 
 were its occupants. ' ' It will be her lawyer 
 or architect, ' ' he thought ; and he walked 
 rapidly onward, pleased with himself for 
 having put on his very best walking suit. 
 There were many workmen on the build- 
 ing, and he fell into conversation with a 
 man who was mixing mortar; but all the 
 time he was watching Jean and her escort 
 stepping about the great uncovered spaces 
 of the new dwelling-house with such an air 
 of mutual trust and happiness that it 
 angered him. 
 
 "Who is the lady?" he asked at length; 
 "she seems to have business here." 
 
 "What for no? The house is her ain. 
 She is Mistress Sharp, and that is the pro- 
 fessor with her. He is a great gun in the 
 Glasgow University." 
 
 "They are married, then?" 
 
 "Ay, they are married. What are you 
 saying at all ? They were married a month 
 syne, and they are as happy as robins in 
 spring, I'm thinking. I'll drink their
 
 Winter Rvening Tales. 219 
 
 health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' 
 siller. ' ' 
 
 Gavin gave the silver and turned away 
 dazed and sick at heart. His business in 
 Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian 
 country sickened him; he turned his face 
 to London, and very soon went back to 
 New York. He had lost Jean, and he had 
 lost Jean's fortune; and there were no 
 words to express his chagrin and disap- 
 pointment. His sister felt the first weight 
 of it. He blamed her entirely. She had 
 lied to him about Jean's beauty. He be- 
 lieved he would have liked the photo but 
 for Mary. And all for Annie Riley! He 
 hated Annie Riley ! He was resolved never 
 to marry her, and he let the girl feel his 
 dislike in no equivocal manner. 
 
 For a time Annie was tearful and con- 
 ciliating. Then she wrote him a touching 
 letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if 
 he had ceased to love her, and was resolved 
 to break their marriage off. And Gavin 
 did tell her, with almost brutal frankness, 
 that he no longer loved her, and that he 
 had firmly made up his mind not to marry 
 her. He said something about his heart 
 being in Scotland, but that was only a bit 
 of sentiment that he thought gave a better 
 air to his unfaithfulness. 
 
 Annie did not answer his letter, but 
 Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and Gavin
 
 22O Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 soon found himself the centre of a breach 
 of promise trial, with damages laid at fifty 
 thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love 
 letters were in the newspapers; he was 
 ashamed to look men and women in the 
 face; he suffered a constant pillory for 
 weeks; through his vanity, his self -con- 
 sciousness, his egotism he was perpetually 
 wounded. But pretty Annie Riley was the 
 object of public pity and interest, and she 
 really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The 
 verdict was righteously enough in her favor. 
 The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, 
 and all expenses, and Gavin Burns was a 
 ruined man. His eleven years savings 
 only amounted to nine thousand dollars, 
 and for the balance he was compelled to sell 
 his furniture and give notes payable out of 
 his next year's salary. He wept like a 
 child as he signed these miserable vouchers 
 for his folly, and for some days was com- 
 pletely prostrated by the evil he had called 
 unto himself. Then the necessities of his 
 position compelled him to go to work again, 
 though it was with a completely broken 
 spirit. 
 
 "I'm getting on to forty," he said to his 
 sister, "and I am beginning the world over 
 again ! One woman has given me a disap- 
 pointment that I will carry to the grave ; 
 and another woman is laughing at me, for 
 she has got all my saved siller, and more
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 221 
 
 too ; forbye, she is like to marry Bob Severs 
 and share it with him. Then I have them 
 weary notes to meet beyond all. There 
 never was a man so badly used as I have 
 been!" 
 
 No one pitied him much. Whatever his 
 acquaintances said to his face he knew 
 right well their private opinion was that he 
 had received just what he deserved.
 
 222 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 AN ONLY OFFER. 
 
 "Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?" 
 
 ' ' When I was sixteen I was considered 
 so. I was very like you then, Julia. I am 
 forty-three now, remember. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Did you ever have an offer an offer of 
 marriage, I mean, aunt?" 
 
 ' ' No. Well, that is not true ; I did have 
 one offer. ' ' 
 
 ''And you refused it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 * 'Then he died, or went away?' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 ' ' Or deserted you ? ' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you deceived him, I suppose?" 
 
 "I did not." 
 
 "What ever happened, then? Was he 
 poor, or crippled or something dreadful? " 
 
 ' ' He was rich and handsome. ' ' 
 
 "Suppose you tell me about him." 
 
 ' ' I never talk about him to any one. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Did it happen at the old place?" 
 
 ' 'Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until 
 I was thirty. This happened when I was 
 sixteen. ' ' 
 
 "Was he a farmer's son in the neighbor- 
 hood?"
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 223 
 
 "He was a fine city gentleman." 
 
 "Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down 
 your embroidery and tell me about it ; you 
 cannot see to work longer. ' ' 
 
 Perhaps after so many years of silence a 
 sudden longing for sympathy and confidence 
 seized the elder lady, for she let her work 
 fall from her hands, and smiling sadly, 
 said: 
 
 "Twenty- seven years ago I was standing 
 one afternoon by the gate at Ryelands. All 
 the work had been finished early, and my 
 mother and two elder sisters had gone to 
 the village to see a friend. I had watched 
 them a little way down the hillside, and 
 was turning to go into the house, when I 
 saw a stranger on horseback coming up the 
 road. He stopped and spoke to mother, 
 and this aroused my curiosity ; so I lingered 
 at the gate. He stopped when he reached 
 it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is Mr. 
 Wakefiddin?' 
 
 "I said, 'father was in the barn, and I 
 could fetch him,' which I immediately 
 did. 
 
 "He was a dark, unpleasant-looking 
 man, and had a masterful way with him, 
 even to father, that I disliked; but after a 
 short, business-like talk, apparently satis- 
 factory to both, he went away without en- 
 tering the house. Father put his hands in 
 his pockets and watched him out of sight :
 
 224 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare 
 rooms in order, Phoebe. ' 
 
 " 'They are in order, father; but is that 
 man to occupy them?' 
 
 " 'Yes, he and his patient, a young 
 gentleman of fine family, who is in bad 
 health.' 
 
 " 'Do you know the young gentleman, 
 father?' 
 
 " ' I know it is young Alfred Compton 
 that is enough for me. ' 
 
 " 'And the dark man who has just left? 
 I don't like his looks, father.' 
 
 ' 'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. 
 He is Mr. Alfred's physician a Dr. 
 Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are 
 any of thy business, so ask no more ques- 
 tions;' and with that he went back to the 
 barn. 
 
 "Mother was not at all astonished. She 
 said there had been letters on the subject 
 already, and that she had been rather ex- 
 pecting the company. 'But,' she added, 
 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be 
 married at Christmas, ready money will be 
 very needful. ' 
 
 "About dark a carriage arrived. It con- 
 tained two gentlemen and several large 
 trunks. I had been watching for it behind 
 the lilac trees and I saw that our afternoon 
 visitor was now accompanied by a slight, 
 very fair-man, dressed with extreme care in
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 225 
 
 the very highest fashion. I saw also that 
 he was handsome, and I was quite sure he 
 must be rich, or no doctor would wait upon 
 him so subserviently. 
 
 "This doctor I had disliked at first sight, 
 and I soon began to imagine that I had 
 good cause to hate him. His conduct to 
 his patient I believed to be tyrannical and 
 unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. 
 Compton was too ill to go out, though the 
 poor gentleman begged for a walk; and 
 again, mother said, he would take from him 
 all his books, though he pleaded urgently 
 for them. 
 
 "One afternoon the postman brought Dr. 
 Orman a letter, which seemed to be impor- 
 tant, for he asked father to drive him to 
 the next town, and requested mother to see 
 that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. 
 I suppose it was not a right thing to do, 
 but this handsome sick stranger, so hardly 
 used, and so surrounded with mystery, had 
 roused in me a sincere sympathy for his 
 loneliness and suffering, and I walked 
 through that part of the garden into which 
 his windows looked. We had been politely 
 requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of 
 strangers increased Mr. Compton 's nervous 
 condition. ' I did not believe this, and I 
 determined to try the experiment. 
 
 "He was leaning out of the window, and 
 a sadder face I never saw. I smiled and 
 15
 
 226 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 courtesied, and he immediately leaped the 
 low sill, and came toward me. I stooped 
 and began to tie up some fallen carnations; 
 he stooped and helped me, saying all the 
 while I know not what, only that it seemed 
 to me the most beautiful language I ever 
 heard. Then we walked up and down the 
 long peach walk until I heard the rattle of 
 father's wagon. 
 
 After this we became quietly, almost 
 secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was con- 
 cerned, very great friends. Mother so 
 thoroughly pitied Alfred, that she not only 
 pretended oblivion of our friendship, but 
 even promoted it in many ways; and in the 
 course of time Dr. Orman began to recog- 
 nize its value. I was requested to walk 
 past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good 
 morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe 
 peaches, and finally to accompany the 
 gentlemen in their short rambles in the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 "I need not tell you how all this restricted 
 intercourse ended. We were soon deeply 
 in love with each other, and love ever finds 
 out the way to make himself understood. 
 We had many a five minutes' meeting no 
 one knew of, and when these were impossi- 
 ble, a rose bush near his window hid for 
 me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, 
 Julia, I found him irresistible; he was so 
 handsome and gentle, and though he must
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 227 
 
 hare been thirty-five years old, yet, to my 
 thinking, he looked handsomer than any 
 younger man could have done. 
 
 "As the weeks passed on, the doctor 
 seemed to have more confidence in us, or 
 else his patient was more completely under 
 control. They had much fewer quarrels, 
 and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and 
 even a little way up the hill without opposi- 
 tion or remark. I do not know how I re- 
 ceived the idea, but I certainly did believe 
 that Dr. Orman was keeping Alfred sick 
 for some purpose of his own, and I deter- 
 mined to take the first opportunity of arous- 
 ing Alfred's suspicions. So one evening, 
 when we were walking alone, I asked him 
 if he did not wish to see his relatives. 
 
 "He trembled violently, and seemed in 
 the greatest distress, and only by the ten- 
 derest words could I soothe him, as, half 
 sobbing, he declared that they were his 
 bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was 
 the only friend he had in the world. Any 
 further efforts I made to get at the secret of 
 his life were equally fruitless, and only 
 threw him into paroxysms of distress. 
 During the month of August he was very 
 ill, or at least Dr. Orman said so. I 
 scarcely saw him, there were no letters in 
 the rose bush, and frequently the disputes 
 between the two men rose to a pitch which 
 father seriously disliked.
 
 228 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 1 ' One hot day in September everyone was 
 in the fields or orchard; only the doctor and 
 Alfred and I were in the house. Early in 
 the afternoon a boy came from the village 
 with a letter to Dr. Oman, and he seemed 
 very much perplexed, and at a loss how to- 
 act. At length he said, 'Miss Phoebe, I 
 must go to the village for a couple of hours; 
 I think Mr. Alfred will sleep until my 
 return, but if not, will you try and amuse 
 him?' 
 
 "I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went 
 back to the village with the messenger. No 
 sooner was he out of sight than Alfred ap- 
 peared, and we rambled about the garden, 
 as happy as two lovers could be. But the 
 day was extremely hot, and as the after- 
 noon advanced, the heat increased. I pro- 
 posed then that we should walk up the hill, 
 where there was generally a breeze, and 
 Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom 
 it promised us. 
 
 "But in another hour the sky grew dark 
 and lurid, and I noticed that Alfred grew 
 strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his 
 eyes had a wild look of terror in them, 
 he trembled and started, and in spite of all 
 my efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and 
 gloomy. Yet he had just asked me to 
 marry him, and I had promised I would. 
 He had called me 'his wife,' and I had told 
 him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman,
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 229 
 
 and vowed to nurse him myself back to per- 
 fect health. We had talked, too, of going to 
 Europe, and in the eagerness and delight 
 of our new plans, had wandered quite up 
 to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. 
 
 ''Then I noticed Alfred's excited condi- 
 tion, and saw also that we were going to 
 have a thunder storm. There was an 
 empty log hut not far away, and I urged 
 Alfred to try and reach it before the storm 
 broke. But he became suddenly like a 
 child in his terror, and it was only with 
 the greatest difficulty I got him within its 
 shelter. 
 
 "As peal after peal of thunder crashed 
 above us, Alfred seemed to lose all control 
 of himself, and, seriously offended, I left 
 him, nearly sobbing, in a corner, and went 
 and stood by myself in the open door. In 
 the very height of the storm I saw my 
 father, Dr. Orman and three of our work- 
 men coming through the wood. They evi- 
 dently suspected our sheltering-place, for 
 they came directly toward it. 
 
 "'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the 
 tone of an angry master, 'where are you, 
 sir? Come here instantly.' 
 
 "My pettedness instantly vanished, and 
 I said: 'Doctor, you have no right to speak 
 to Alfred in that way. He is going to be 
 my husband, and I shall not permit it any 
 more. '
 
 230 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 " 'Miss Wakefield, ' he answered, 'this is 
 sheer folly. Look here!' 
 
 ' ' I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in 
 a corner, completely paralyzed with terror; 
 and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he 
 rose mechanically as a dog might follow his 
 master's call. 
 
 " 'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy 
 your fine . romance. Mr. Alfred Compton 
 is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any 
 lady. In fact, I am his keeper.' ' 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not 
 a lunatic!" 
 
 "So they said, Julia. His frantic terror 
 was the only sign I saw of it; but Dr. 
 Orman told my father that he was at times 
 really dangerous, and that he was annually 
 paid a large sum to take charge of him, as 
 he became uncontrollable in an aslyum. ' ' 
 
 "Did you see him again?" 
 
 "No. I found a little note in the rose 
 bush, saying that he was not mad ; that he 
 remembered my promise to be his wife, and 
 would surely come some day and claim me. 
 But they left in three days, and Melissa, 
 whose wedding outfit was curtailed in con- 
 sequence, twitted me very unkindly about 
 my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on 
 me, for he was the only lover I ever had. 
 Melissa and Jane both married, and went 
 west with their husbands; I lived on at 
 Ryelands, a faded little old maid, until my
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 231 
 
 uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New 
 York and keep his fine house for him. You 
 know that he left me all he had when he 
 died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent 
 for you. I remembered my own lonely 
 youth, and thought I would give you a fair 
 chance, dear." 
 
 "Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?" 
 
 "Of him, never. His elder brother died 
 more than a year ago. I suppose Alfred 
 died many years since; he was very frail 
 and delicate. I thought it was refinement 
 and beauty then; I know now it was ill 
 health. ' ' 
 
 "Poor aunt!" 
 
 ' ' Nay, child ; I was very happy while my 
 dream lasted; and I never will believe but 
 that Alfred in his love for me was quite 
 sane, and perhaps more sincere than many 
 wiser men." 
 
 After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed 
 to take a great pleasure in speaking of the 
 little romance of her youth. Often the old 
 and the young maidens sat in the twilight 
 discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred 
 Compton's life and death, and every dis- 
 cussion left them more and more positive 
 that he had been the victim of some cruel 
 plot. The subject never tired Miss Phoebe, 
 and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her 
 own, found in it a charm quite in keeping 
 with her own youthful dreams.
 
 232 Winter Evening Talcs. 
 
 One cold night in the middle of January 
 they had talked over the old subject until 
 both felt it to be exhausted at least for 
 that night. Julia drew aside the heavy 
 satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is 
 snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can 
 have a sleigh ride. Why, there is a sleigh 
 at our door ! Who can it be ? A gentle- 
 man, aunt, and he is coming here." 
 
 "Close the curtains, child. It is my 
 lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to call 
 to-night." 
 
 ' ' Oh, dear ! I was hoping it was some 
 nice strange person. ' ' 
 
 Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts 
 were far away. In fact, she had talked 
 about her old lover until there had sprung 
 up anew in her heart a very strong senti- 
 mental affection for his memory ; and when 
 the servant announced a visitor on busi- 
 ness, she rose with a sigh from her reflec- 
 tions, and went into the reception-room. 
 
 In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, 
 in rapid, excited tones, and ere she could 
 decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt 
 Phoebe entered the room, holding by the 
 hand a gentleman whom she announced as 
 Mr. Alfred Compton. Julia was disap- 
 pointed, to say the least, but she met him 
 with enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe 
 had quite unconsciously magnified the 
 beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 233 
 
 this one was not handsome. He was sixty, 
 at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, 
 and his fine figure was slightly bent. But 
 the clear, sensitive face remained, and he 
 was still dressed with scrupulous care. 
 
 The two women made much of him. In 
 half an hour Delmonico had furnished a de- 
 licious little banquet, and Alfred had pro- 
 posed, with old-fashioned grace, the health 
 of ' ( his promised wife, Miss Phoebe Wake- 
 field, best and loveliest of women." 
 
 Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly 
 liked it; and hand in hand the two old 
 lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little 
 story of life-long wrong and suffering; of 
 an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, 
 driven to extremity by cruel usage and 
 many wrongs. At the mention of Dr. 
 Oman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a 
 little bitterly. 
 
 ''Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever 
 he was when my brother put me in his care, 
 he became my true friend. To his skill 
 and patience I owe my restoration to per- 
 fect health ; and to his firm advocacy of my 
 right and ability to manage my own estate 
 I owe the position I now hold, and my 
 ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem 
 her never-forgotten promise. ' ' 
 
 Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these 
 old-fashioned lovers,* but they never tired of 
 each other. Miss Phoebe was not the
 
 234 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 least abashed by any contrast between her 
 ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was 
 never weary of assuring her that he found 
 her infinitely more delightful and womanly 
 than in the days of their first courtship. 
 
 She cannot even call them a "silly" or 
 * ' foolish ' ' couple, or use any other relieving 
 phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe or 
 rather Mrs. Compton resents any word as 
 applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would 
 imply less than supernatural wisdom and 
 intelligence. "No one but those who have 
 known him as long as I have," she con- 
 tinually avers, "can possibly estimate the 
 superior information and infallible judg- 
 ment of my husband. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 235 
 
 TWO FAIR DECEIVERS. 
 
 What do young men talk about when 
 they sit at the open windows chatting on 
 summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of 
 love? Indeed, I suspect it is of money; or, 
 if not of money, then, at least, of something 
 that either makes money or spends it. 
 
 Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for 
 four years in Europe, and he has just been 
 telling his friend John Selden how he spent 
 it. John has spent his in New York he 
 is inclined to think just as profitably. Both 
 stories conclude in the same way. 
 
 1 ' I have not a thousand dollars left, 
 John. ' ' 
 
 "Nor I, Cleve." 
 
 "I thought your cousin died two years 
 ago; surely you have not spent all the old 
 gentleman's money already?" 
 
 "I only got $20,000; I owed half of it." 
 
 ' ' Only $20,000 ! What did he do with it ? " 
 
 "Gave it to his wife. He married a 
 beauty about a year after you went away, 
 died in a few months afterward, and left 
 her his whole fortune. I had no claim on 
 him. He educated me, gave me a profes- 
 sion, and $20,000. That was very well : he 
 was only my mother's cousin."
 
 236 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "And the widow where is she?" 
 
 "Living at his country-seat. I have 
 never seen her. She was one of the St. 
 Maurs, of Maryland. ' ' 
 
 "Good family, and all beauties. Why 
 don't you marry the widow?" 
 
 ' ' Why, I never thought of such a thing. ' ' 
 
 "You can't think of anything better. 
 Write her a little note at once; say that 
 you and I will soon be in her neighbor- 
 hood, and that gratitude to your cousin, 
 and all that kind of thing then beg leave 
 to call and pay respects, ' ' etc. , etc. 
 
 John demurred a good deal to the plan, 
 but Cleve was masterful, and the note was 
 written, Cleve himself putting it in the 
 post-office. 
 
 That was on Monday night. On Wed- 
 nesday morning the widow Clare found it 
 with a dozen others upon her breakfast 
 table. She was a dainty, high-bred little 
 lady, with 
 
 ' 'Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, 
 Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, 
 Lips like fragrant posy," 
 
 and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well 
 inclined to be happy in the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 But this letter could not be answered 
 with the usual polite formula. She was 
 quite aware that John Selden had regarded
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 237 
 
 himself for many years as his cousin's heir, 
 and that her marriage with the late Thomas 
 Clare had seriously altered his prospects. 
 Women easily see through the best laid 
 plans of men, and this plan was transparent 
 enough to the shrewd little widow. John 
 would scarcely have liked the half-con- 
 temptuous shrug and smile which termi- 
 nated her private thoughts on the matter. 
 
 "Clementine, if you could spare a mo- 
 ment from your fashion paper, I want to 
 consult you, dear, about a visitor." 
 
 Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped 
 her paper, and said, "Who is it, Fan? " 
 
 "It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had 
 not married me, he would have inherited 
 the Clare estate. I think he is coming 
 now in order to see if it is worth while 
 asking for, encumbered by his cousin's 
 widow. ' ' 
 
 "What selfishness! Write and tell him 
 that you are just leaving for the Suez 
 Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any 
 other inconvenient place. ' ' 
 
 "No; I have a better plan than that 
 Clementine, do stop reading a few minutes. 
 I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank 
 for the summer, and Mr. Selden and his 
 friend shall visit us there. No one knows 
 us in the place, and I will take none of the 
 servants with me." 
 
 "Well?"
 
 238 Winter Rvening Tales. 
 
 "Then, Clementine, you are to be the 
 widow Clare, and I your poor friend and 
 companion." 
 
 1 ' Good ! very good ! 'The Fair Deceivers' 
 an excellent comedy. How I shall snub 
 you, Fan ! And for once I shall have the 
 pleasure of outdressing you. But has not 
 Mr. Selden seen you?" 
 
 ' ' No ; I was married in Maryland, and went 
 immediately to Europe. I came back a widow 
 two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never re- 
 membered me until now. I wonder who 
 this friend is that he proposes to bring 
 with him?" 
 
 "Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. 
 They never decide on anything until their 
 particular friend approves. I dare say they 
 wrote the letter together. What is the 
 gentleman's name?" 
 
 The widow examined the note. " 'My 
 friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan. ' Do you know 
 him, Clementine?" 
 
 ' ' No ; I am quite sure that I never saw 
 Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall in love 
 with the name do you ? But pray accept 
 the offer for both gentlemen, Fan, and write 
 this morning, dear." Then Clementine 
 returned to the consideration of the lace in 
 coquilles for her new evening dress. 
 
 The plan so hastily sketched was subse- 
 quently thoroughly discussed and carried 
 out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken,
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 239 
 
 and one evening at the end of June the two 
 ladies took possession of it. The new 
 widow Clare had engaged a maid in New 
 York, and fell into her part with charming 
 ease and a very pretty assumption of 
 authority ; and the real widow, in her plain 
 dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized 
 effectively the idea of a cultivated but de- 
 pendent companion. They had two days 
 in which to rehearse their parts and get all 
 the household machinery in order, and then 
 the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank. 
 
 Fan and Clementine were quite ready for 
 their first call ; the latter in a rich and ex- 
 quisite morning costume, the former in a 
 simple dress of spotted lawn. Clementine 
 went through the introductions with con- 
 summate ease of manner, and in half an 
 hour they were a very pleasant party. 
 John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent 
 basis for informal companionship, and'* 
 Clementine gave it full prominence. In- 
 deed, in a few days John began to find the 
 relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin 
 John, do this," and "Cousin John, come 
 here," continually; and one night when 
 Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final 
 cigar, he was irritable enough to give his 
 objections the form of speech. 
 
 ' ' Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do 
 not like Mrs. Clare. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I think she is a very lovely woman, John. ' '
 
 240 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "I say nothing against her beauty, 
 Cleve; I don't like her, and I have no 
 mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill- 
 used Miss Marat fills. The way Cousin 
 Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom 
 she is every way inferior makes me angry 
 enough, I assure you. ' ' 
 
 "Don't fall in love with the wrong 
 woman, John." 
 
 ' ' Your advice is too late, Cleve ; I am in 
 love. There is no use in us deceiving our- 
 selves or each other. You seem to like the 
 widow why not marry her? I am quite 
 willing you should. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you, John; I have already made 
 some advances that way. They have been 
 favorably received, I think." 
 
 "You are so handsome, a fellow has no 
 chance against you. But we shall hardly 
 quarrel, if you do not interfere between 
 lovely little Clement and myself. ' ' 
 
 "I could not afford to smile on her, John ; 
 she is too poor. And what on earth are 
 you going to do with a poor wife ? Nothing 
 added to nothing will not make a decent 
 living. ' ' 
 
 "I am going to ask her to be my wife, 
 and if she does me the honor to say 'Yes,' 
 I will make a decent living out of my pro- 
 fession." 
 
 From this time forth John devoted him- 
 self with some ostentation to his supposed
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 241 
 
 cousin's companion. He was determined 
 to let the widow perceive that he had made 
 his choice, and that he could not be bought 
 with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss 
 Marat were always together, and the widow 
 did not interfere between her companion 
 and her cousin. Perhaps she was rather 
 glad of their close friendship, for the hand- 
 some Cleve made a much more delightful 
 attendant. Thus the party fell quite nat- 
 urally into couples, and the two weeks that 
 the gentlemen had first fixed as the limit of 
 their stay lengthened into two months. 
 
 It was noticeable that as the ladies be- 
 came more confidential with their lovers, 
 they had less to say to each other; and it 
 began at last to be quite evident to the real 
 widow that the play must end for the pres- 
 ent, or the denouement would come pre- 
 maturely. Circumstances favored her 
 determination. One night Clementine, with 
 a radiant- face, came into her friend's 
 room, and said, "Fan, I have something 
 to tell you. Cleve has asked me to marry 
 him." 
 
 "Now, Clement, you have told him all; 
 I know you have. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Not a word, Fan. He still believes me 
 the widow Clare. ' ' 
 
 "Did you accept him?" 
 
 ' ' Conditionally. I am to give him a final 
 answer when we go to the city in October. 
 16
 
 242 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 You are going to New York this winter, are 
 you not?" 
 
 ' ' Yes. Our little play progresses finely. 
 John Selden asked me to be his wife to- 
 night." 
 
 ' ' I told you men think and act in pairs. ' ' 
 
 "John is a noble fellow. I pretended to 
 think that his cousin had ill-used him, and 
 he defended him until I was ashamed of 
 myself; absolutely said, Clement, that you 
 were a sufficient excuse for Mr. Clare's will. 
 Then he blamed his own past idleness so 
 much, and promised if I would only try and 
 endure 'the slings and arrows' of your out- 
 rageous temper, Clement, for two years 
 longer, he would have made a home for me 
 in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, 
 I should marry John Selden if we had not a 
 five-dollar bill between us. ' ' 
 
 "I wish Cleve had been a little more ex- 
 plicit about his money affairs. However, 
 there is time enough yet. When they leave 
 to-morrow 7 , what shall we do?" 
 
 "We will remain here another month; 
 Levine will have the house ready for me 
 by that time. I have written to him about 
 refurnishing the parlors. ' ' 
 
 So next day the lovers parted, with many 
 promises of constant letters and future 
 happy days together. The interval was 
 long and dull enough; but it passed, and 
 one morning both gentlemen received notes
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 243. 
 
 of invitation to a small dinner party at the 
 
 widow Clare's mansion in street. 
 
 There was a good deal of dressing for this 
 party. Cleve wished to make his entrance 
 into his future home as became the pros- 
 pective master of a million and a half of 
 money, and John was desirous of not suffer- 
 ing in Clement's eyes by any comparison 
 with the other gentlemen who would prob- 
 ably be there. 
 
 Scarcely had they entered the drawing- 
 room when the ladies appeared, the true 
 widow Clare no longer in the unassuming 
 toilet she had hitherto worn, but magnifi- 
 cent in white crepe lisse and satin, her arms 
 and throat and pretty head flashing with 
 sapphires and diamonds. Her companion 
 had assumed now the role of simplicity, and 
 Cleve was disappointed with the first glance 
 at her plain white Chambery gauze dress. 
 
 John had seen nothing but the bright 
 face of the girl he loved and the love-light 
 in her eyes. Before she could speak he 
 had taken both her hands and whispered, 
 "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement." 
 
 Her smile answered him first. Then she 
 said: " Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but we 
 have been in masquerade all summer, and 
 now we must unmask before real life be- 
 gins. My name is not Clementine Marat, 
 but Fanny Clare. Cousin John, I hope you 
 are not disappointed. ' ' Then she put her
 
 244 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 hand into John's, and they wandered off 
 into the conservatory to finish their ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that 
 moment in the most trying circumstance of 
 his life. The real Clementine Marat stood 
 looking down at a flower on the carpet, and 
 evidently expecting him to resume the ten- 
 der attitude he had been accustomed to bear 
 toward her. He was a man of quick deci- 
 sions where his own interests were con- 
 cerned, and it did not take him half a 
 minute to review his position and determine 
 what to do. This plain blonde girl without 
 fortune was not the girl he could marry; 
 she had deceived him, too he had a sudden 
 and severe spasm of morality; his con- 
 fidence was broken ; he thought it was very 
 poor sport to play with a man's most sacred 
 feelings; he had been deeply disappointed 
 and grieved, etc., etc. 
 
 Clementine stood perfectly still, with her 
 eyes fixed on the carpet and her cheeks 
 graduall)' flushing, as Cleve made his awk- 
 ward accusations. She gave him no help 
 and she made no defence, and it soon be- 
 comes embarrassing for a man to stand in 
 the middle of a large drawing-room and talk 
 to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so. 
 
 ' 'Have you done, sir?" at length she 
 asked, lifting to his face a pair of blue eyes, 
 scintillating with scorn and anger. "I
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 245 
 
 promised you my final answer to your suit 
 when we met in New York. You have 
 spared me that trouble. Good evening, 
 sir." 
 
 Clementine showed to no one her disap- 
 pointment, and she probably soon recovered 
 from it. Her life was full of many other 
 pleasant plans and hopes, and she could 
 well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. 
 She remained with her friend until after 
 the marriage between her and John Selden 
 had been consummated; and then Cleve 
 saw her name among the list of passengers 
 sailing on one particular day for Europe. 
 As John and his bride left on the same 
 steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had 
 gone in their company. 
 
 "Nice thing it would have been for Cleve 
 Sullivan to marry John Selden 's wife's 
 maid, or something or other? John always 
 was a lucky fellow. Some fellows are al- 
 ways unlucky in love affairs I always am. ' ' 
 
 Half a year afterward he reiterated this 
 statement with a great deal of unnecessary 
 emphasis. He was just buttoning his 
 gloves preparatory to starting for his after- 
 noon drive, when an old acquaintance 
 hailed him. 
 
 1 'Oh, it's that fool Belmar, ' ' he muttered ; 
 ' ' I shall have to offer him a ride. I thought 
 he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did 
 you get back? Have a ride?' '
 
 246 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "No, thank you. I have promised my 
 wife to ride with her this afternoon. " 
 
 1 ' Your wife ! When were you married ? ' ' 
 
 "Last month, in Paris." 
 
 "And the happy lady was ' ' 
 
 "Why, I thought you knew; everyone is 
 talking about my good fortune. Mrs. Bel- 
 mar is old Paul Marat's only child. ' ' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Miss Clementine Marat. She brings 
 me nearly $3,000,000 in money and real 
 estate, and a heart beyond all price. ' ' 
 
 "How on earth did you meet her?" 
 
 "She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Selden you know John Selden. She has 
 lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left 
 school; they were friends when they were 
 girls together. ' ' 
 
 Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding 
 to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a finable 
 rate up the avenue and through the park. 
 He could not trust himself to speak to any 
 one, and when he did, the remark which he 
 made to himself in strict confidence was 
 not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve Sullivan 
 told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been 
 badly punished, and that he well deserved it.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 247 
 
 THE TWO MR. SMITHS. 
 
 "It is not either her money or her posi- 
 tion that dashes me, Carrol ; it is my own 
 name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune 
 to become Mrs. William Smith! If it had 
 been Alexander Smith " 
 
 "Or Hyacinth Smith." 
 
 "Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; 
 but plain William Smith!" 
 
 ' ' Well, as far as I can see, you are not to 
 blame. Apologize to the lady for the 
 blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. 
 Stupid old parties! They ought to have 
 thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol forth- 
 with began to buckle on his spurs. 
 
 ' ' Come with me, Carrol. " 
 
 "No, thank you. It is against my prin- 
 ciples to like anyone better than myself, and 
 Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so." 
 
 "/don't like Alice's style at all." 
 
 ' ' Of course not. Alice's beauty, as com- 
 pared with Mrs. Bethune's settled income, 
 is skin-deep. ' ' 
 
 If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not 
 perceive it. He took the criticism at its 
 face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's 
 income is satisfactory ; and besides that, she
 
 248 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 has all kinds of good qualities, and several 
 accomplishments. If I only could offer 
 her, with myself, a suitable name for 
 them!" 
 
 ' ' Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune 
 and her money, take her name also?" 
 
 "N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all 
 his individuality in his wife's, Carrol." 
 
 "Well, then, I have no other suggestion, 
 and I am going to ride." 
 
 So Carrol went to the park, and Smith 
 went to his mirror. The occupation gave 
 him the courage he wanted. He was un- 
 doubtedly a very handsome man, and he 
 had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he 
 would have been a very great man if the 
 world had only been a drawing-room, for, 
 polished and fastidious, he dreaded nothing 
 so much as an indecorum, and had the air 
 of being uncomfortable unless his hands 
 were in kid gloves. 
 
 Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. 
 Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and he was al- 
 ways considered an acquisition. He was 
 also very fond of going to them ; for under 
 no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so 
 charming. To see her in this hour of per- 
 fect relaxation was to understand how great 
 and beautiful is the art of idleness. Her 
 ease and grace, her charming aimlessness, 
 her indescribable air of inaction, were all so 
 many proofs of her having been born in the
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 249 
 
 purple of wealth and fashion ; no parvenu 
 could ever hope to imitate them. 
 
 Alice Fontaine never tried. She had 
 been taken from a life of polite shifts and 
 struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two 
 years before; and the circumstances that 
 were to the one the mere accidents of her 
 position were to the other a real holiday- 
 making. 
 
 Alice met Mr. Smith with empressement, 
 fluttered about the tea-tray like a butterfly, 
 wasted her bonmots and the sugar reck- 
 lessly, and was as full of pretty animation 
 as her cousin Bethune was of elegant 
 repose. 
 
 ' ' I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith, ' ' said 
 Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been trying to 
 spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw 
 a lance in. Now you can be my substitute. ' ' 
 
 "Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, 
 "don't you think that women ought to 
 have the same rights as men?" 
 
 "Really, Miss Alice, I I don't know. 
 When women have got what they call their 
 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they 
 call their 'privileges' also?" 
 
 "Certainly they do. When they have 
 driven the men to emigrate, to scrub floors, 
 and to jump into the East River, they will 
 still expect "the corner seat, the clean side 
 of the road, the front place, and the pick of 
 everything."
 
 250 Winter Evening 
 
 "Ah, indeed! And when all the public 
 and private business of the country is in 
 their hands, will they still expect to find 
 time for five-o'clock teas?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs 
 of this regenerated country, and not neglect 
 either their music or their pets, their dress 
 or their drawing-room. They will be per- 
 fectly able to do the one, and not leave the 
 other undone. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Glorious creatures ! Then they will ac- 
 complish what men have been trying to do 
 ever since the world began. They will get 
 two days' work out of one day." 
 
 "Of course they will." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 "Oh, machines and management. It will 
 be done. ' ' 
 
 "But your answer is illogical, Miss 
 Alice." 
 
 "Of course. Men always take refuge in 
 their logic; and yet, with all their boasted 
 skill, they have never mastered the useful 
 and elementary proposition, 'It will be, be- 
 cause it will be. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the 
 tone Alice was giving to the conversation. 
 She was treating him as a joke, and he felt 
 how impossible it was going to be to get 
 Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. In- 
 deed, before he could restore the usual 
 placid, tender tone of their tete-a-tete tea,
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 251 
 
 two or three ladies joined the party, and 
 the hour was up,, and the opportunity 
 lost. 
 
 However, he was not without consola- 
 tion: Eleanor's hand had rested a moment 
 very tenderly in his ; he had seen her white 
 cheek flush and her eyelids droop, and he 
 felt almost sure that he was beloved. And 
 as he had determined that night to test his 
 fortune, he was not inclined to let himself 
 be disappointed. Consequently he decided 
 on writing to her, for he was rather proud 
 of his letters ; and, indeed, it must be con- 
 fessed that he had an elegant and eloquent 
 way of putting any case in which he was 
 personally interested. 
 
 Eleanor Bethune thought so. She re- 
 ceived his proposal on her return from a 
 very stupid party, and as soon as she saw 
 his writing she began to consider how much 
 more delightful the evening would have 
 been if Mr. Smith had been present, His 
 glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his 
 passionate descriptions of his own affection, 
 his hopes and his despairs, chimed in with 
 her mood exactly. Already his fine person 
 and manners had made a great impression 
 on her; she had been very near loving 
 him ; nothing, indeed, had been needed but 
 that touch of electricity conveyed in the 
 knowledge that she was beloved. 
 
 Such proposals seldom or never take
 
 252 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 women unawares. Eleanor had been ex- 
 pecting it, and had already decided on her 
 answer. So, after a short, happy reflection, 
 she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith 
 a few lines which she believed would make 
 him supremely happy. 
 
 Then she went to Alice's room and woke 
 her out of her first sleep. "Oh, you lazy 
 girl; why did you not crimp your hair? 
 Get up again, Alice dear; I have a secret 
 to tell you. I am going to marry Mr. 
 Smith." 
 
 "I knew some catastrophe was impend- 
 ing, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. Poor 
 Eleanor ! ' ' 
 
 "Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do 
 you think of him honestly, you know?" 
 
 "The man has excellent qualities; for 
 instance, a perfect taste in cravats and an 
 irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever 
 saw him in any position out of the proper 
 centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, 
 always sitting round on tables or easels, or 
 if on a chair, on the back or arms, or any 
 way but as other Christians sit. . Then Mr. 
 Smith is handsome ; very much so. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, you do admit that?" 
 
 " Yes; but I don't myself like men of the 
 hairdresser style of beauty. ' ' 
 
 "Alice, what makes you dislike him so 
 much?" 
 
 "Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 253 
 
 is very 'nice,' and very respectable. Every 
 one will say, 'What a suitable match !' and 
 I dare say you will be very happy. He 
 will do everything you tell him to do, 
 Eleanor; and oh dear me! how I should 
 hate a husband of that kind!" 
 
 "You little hypocrite! with your talk 
 of woman's 'rights' and woman's 'su- 
 premacy.' ' 
 
 "No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypo- 
 crisy, please; say many-sidedness it is a 
 more womanly definition. But if it is 
 really to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. 
 And what are you going to wear?" 
 
 This subject proved sufficiently attractive 
 to keep Alice awake a couple of hours. 
 She even crimped her hair in honor of the 
 bridal shopping; and before matters had 
 been satisfactorily arranged she was so full 
 of anticipated pleasures that she felt really 
 grateful to the author of them, and per- 
 mitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of 
 the bridegroom. 
 
 "He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his 
 marriage day. There won't be a hand- 
 somer man, nor a better dressed man, in 
 America, and his clothes will all come from 
 Paris, I dare say. ' ' 
 
 "I think we will go to Paris first." 
 Then Eleanor went into a graphic descrip- 
 tion of the glories and pleasures of Paris, 
 as she had experienced them during her
 
 254 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 first bridal tour. "It is the most fasci- 
 nating city in the world, Alice. ' ' 
 
 *'I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame 
 having it in such an out-of-the-way place. 
 What is the use of having a Paris, when 
 -one has to sail three thousand miles to get 
 at it ? Eleanor, I feel that I shall have to go. ' ' 
 
 "So you shall, dear; I won't go without 
 you. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: 
 I really could not. I shall have to try and 
 manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall 
 quarrel all the way across, of course, but 
 then 
 
 "Why don't you adopt his opinions, 
 Alice?" 
 
 "I intend to for a little while; but it is 
 impossible to go on with the same set of 
 opinions forever. Just think how dull con- 
 versation would become ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, 
 for mind, I shall w r ant you down to break- 
 fast before eleven. I have given 'Some- 
 body' permission to call at five o'clock to- 
 morrow or rather to-da} 7 and we shall 
 have a tete-a-tete tea. ' ' 
 
 Alice determined that it should be strictly 
 tete-a-tete. She w r ent to spend the after- 
 noon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until 
 she thought the lovers had had ample time 
 to make their vows and arrange their wed- 
 ding.
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 255 
 
 There was a little pout on her lips as she 
 left Carrol outside the door, and slowly 
 bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. 
 She was trying to make up her mind to be 
 civil to her cousin's new husband-elect, and 
 the temptation to be anything else was very 
 strong. 
 
 "I shall be dreadfully in the way his 
 way, I mean and he will want to send me 
 out of the room, and I shall not go no, 
 not if I fall asleep on a chair looking at 
 him." 
 
 With this decision, the most amiable she 
 could reach, Alice entered the parlor. Blea- 
 nor was alone, and there was a pale, angry 
 look on her face Alice could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 "Shut the door, dear." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "I have been so all evening." 
 
 "Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?" 
 
 "Mr. Smith did not call." 
 
 "Not come!" 
 
 "Nor yet sent any apology." 
 
 The two women sat looking into each 
 other's faces a few moments, both white 
 and silent. 
 
 "What will you do, Eleanor?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "But he may be sick, or he may not 
 have got your letter. Such queer mistakes 
 do happen."
 
 256 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 1 ' Parker took it to his hotel ; the clerk 
 said he was still in his room; it was sent to 
 him in Parker's sight and hearing. There 
 is not any doubt but that he received it. ' ' 
 
 "Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he 
 really cares for you, he is hardly likely to 
 take j'our supposed silence for an absolute 
 refusal. I have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen 
 times, and he won't stay 'noed. ' Mr. 
 Smith will be sure to ask for a personal in- 
 terview. ' ' 
 
 Eleanor answered drearily: ""I suppose 
 he will pay me that respect;" but through 
 this little effort at assertion it was easy to 
 detect the white feather of mistrust. She 
 half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. 
 Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a 
 breach of good manners toward him, she 
 knew that he would deeply resent it ; how, 
 then, when she had however innocently 
 given him the keenest personal slight? 
 
 Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful 
 view of the affair, and what is heartily 
 wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell 
 asleep she had quite decided that her lover 
 would call the following day, and her 
 thoughts were busy with the pleasant 
 amends she would make him for any anxiety 
 he might have suffered. 
 
 But Mr. Smith did not call the following 
 day, nor on many following ones, and a 
 casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 257 
 
 hope that he would ever call again, for, 
 after a little desultory gossip, she said, 
 "You will miss Mr. Smith very much at 
 your receptions, and brother Sam says he is 
 to be away two years. ' ' 
 
 "So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect 
 calmness. 
 
 "I believe so. I thought the move very 
 sudden, but Sam says he has been talking 
 about the trip for six months. ' ' 
 
 "Really! Alice, dear, won't you bring 
 that piece of Burslem pottery for Mrs. 
 Hollis to look at?" 
 
 So the wonderful cup and saucer were 
 brought, and they caused a diversion so 
 complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric 
 move were not named again during the 
 visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What 
 is the use of discussing a hopelessly dis- 
 agreeable subject?" said Eleanor to Alice's 
 first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, 
 the mere mention of the subject made her 
 cross, for young women of the finest for- 
 tunes do not necessarily possess the finest 
 tempers. 
 
 Carrol's next visit was looked for with a 
 good deal of interest. Naturally it was 
 thought that he would know all about his 
 friend ' s singular conduct. But he prof essed 
 to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He supposed 
 it was something about Mrs. Bethune ; he had 
 always told Smith not to take a pretty, rich
 
 258 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 woman like her into his calculations. For 
 his part, if he had been desirous of marry- 
 ing an heiress, and felt that he had a gift 
 that way, he should have looked out a rich 
 German girl ; they had less nonsense about 
 them," etc. 
 
 That was how the affair ended as far as 
 Eleanor was concerned. Of course she 
 suffered, but she was not of that generation 
 of women who parade their suffering. 
 Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, 
 above all, endowed with physical self-con- 
 trol. Even Alice was spared the hysterical 
 sobbings and faintings and other signs of 
 pathological distress common to weak 
 women. 
 
 Perhaps she was more silent and more 
 irritable than usual, but Eleanor Bethune's 
 heartache for love never led her to the 
 smallest social impropriety. Whatever she 
 suffered, she did not refuse the proper 
 mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her 
 tithe of the mint, anise and cummin due to 
 her position. 
 
 Eleanor's reticence, however, had this 
 good effect it compelled Alice to talk 
 Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol ; 
 and somehow, in discussing Smith, they 
 got to understand each other ; so that, after 
 all, it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal 
 shopping that was to do. And there is 
 something very assuaging to grief in this
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 259 
 
 occupation. Before it was completed, 
 Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, 
 sunshiny temper. 
 
 "Consolation, thy name is satin and 
 lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to herself, 
 as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy 
 about the wedding finery. 
 
 At first Alice had been quite sure that 
 she would go to Paris, and nowhere else; 
 but Eleanor noticed that in less than a 
 week Carrol's influence was paramount. 
 "We have got a better idea, Eleanor quite 
 a novel one, ' ' she said, one morning. ' ' We 
 are going to make our bridal trip in Car- 
 rol's yacht!" 
 
 "Whose idea is that?" 
 
 "Carrol's and mine too, of course. 
 Carrol says it is the j oiliest life. You 
 leave all your cares and bills on shore be- 
 hind you. You issue your own sailing 
 orders, and sail away into space with an 
 easy conscience." 
 
 ' ' But I thought you were bent on a 
 European trip?" 
 
 "The yacht will be ever so much nicer. 
 Think of the nuisance of ticket-offices and 
 waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and 
 troublesome letters waiting for you at your 
 banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in 
 the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is 
 splendid. ' ' 
 
 So the marriage took place at the end of
 
 260 Winter Evening J^ales. 
 
 the season, and Alice and Carrol sailed 
 happily away into the unknown. Eleanor 
 was at a loss what to do with herself. She 
 wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had 
 gone there, and she felt sure that some un- 
 lucky accident would throw them together. 
 It was not her nature to court embarrass- 
 ments; so Europe was out of the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 While she was hesitating she called one 
 day on Celeste Reid a beautiful girl who 
 had been a great belle, but was now a con- 
 firmed invalid. "I am going to try the air 
 of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. 
 ' ' Papa has heard wonderful stories about 
 it. Come with our party. We shall have 
 a special car, and the trip will at least have 
 the charm of novelty. ' ' 
 
 "And I love the mountains, Celeste. I 
 will join you with pleasure. I was dread- 
 ing the old routine in the old places; but 
 this will be delightful." 
 
 Thus it happened that one evening in the 
 following August Mrs. Bethune found her- 
 self slowly strolling down the principal 
 street in Denver. It was a splendid sunset, 
 and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose 
 like Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold 
 and silver. Suddenly the look of intense 
 pleasure on her face was changed for one of 
 wonder and annoyance. It had become her 
 duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 261 
 
 thing; but duty was a kind of religion to 
 Eleanor Bethune; she never thought of 
 shirking it. 
 
 So she immediately inquired her way to 
 the telegraph office, and even quickened 
 her steps into as fast a walk as she ever 
 permitted herself. The message she had 
 to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant 
 one. At first she thought it would hardly 
 be possible for her to frame it in such 
 words as she would care to dictate to 
 strangers ; but she firmly settled on the fol- 
 lowing form : 
 "Messrs. Locke & Lord: 
 
 ''Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in 
 Denver. No delay. The matter is of the 
 greatest importance. ' ' 
 
 When she had dictated the message, the 
 clerk said, "Two dollars, madam." But 
 greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse 
 was not in her pocket, and she could not 
 remember whether she had put it there or 
 not. The man stood looking at her in an 
 expectant way; she felt that any delay 
 about the message might be fatal to its 
 worth; perplexity and uncertainty ruled 
 her absolutely. She was about to explain 
 her dilemma, and return to her hotel for 
 money, when a gentleman, who had heard 
 and watched the whole proceeding, said : 
 
 "Madam, I perceive that time is of great 
 importance to you, and that you have lost
 
 262 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 your ptfrjse; allow me to pay for the 
 message. You can return the money if you 
 wish. My name is William Smith. I am 
 staying at the 'American.' " 
 
 "Thank you, sir. The message is of the 
 gravest importance to my brother. I grate- 
 fully accept your offer. ' ' 
 
 Further knowledge proved Mr. William 
 Smith to be a New York capitalist who 
 was slightly known to three of the gentle- 
 men in Eleanor's party; so that the ac- 
 quaintance began so informally was very 
 speedily afterward inaugurated with all the 
 forms and ceremonies good society demands. 
 It was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to 
 explain the circumstances which, even in 
 her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's 
 offer of money for the hour a thing to be 
 gratefully accepted. She had seen in the 
 door of the post-office a runaway cashier of 
 her brother's, and his speedy arrest in- 
 volved a matter of at least forty thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 This Mr. William Smith was a totally 
 different man to Eleanor's last lover a 
 bright, energetic, alert business man, 
 decidedly handsome and gentlemanly. 
 Though his name was greatly against him 
 in Eleanor's prejudices, she found herself 
 quite unable to resist the cheery, pleasant 
 influence he carried with him. And it was 
 evident from the very first day of their
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 263 
 
 acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had 
 but one thought the winning df Eleanor 
 Bethune. 
 
 When she returned to New York in the 
 autumn she ventured to cast up her accounts 
 with life, and she was rather amazed at the 
 result. For she was quite aware that she 
 was in love with this William Smith in a 
 way that she had never been with the other. 
 The first had been a sentimental ideal; the 
 second was a genuine case of sincere and 
 passionate affection. She felt that the de- 
 sertion of this lover would be a grief far 
 beyond the power of satin and lace to cure. 
 
 But her new lover had never a disloyal 
 thought to his mistress, and his love trans- 
 planted to the pleasant places of New York 
 life, seemed to find its native air. It en- 
 veloped Eleanor now like a glad and 
 heavenly atmosphere; she was so happy 
 that she dreaded any change; it seemed to 
 her that no change could make her happier. 
 
 But if good is good, still better carries 
 the day, and Mr. Smith thought marriage 
 would be a great deal better than love- 
 making. Eleanor and he were sitting in 
 the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, 
 when he whispered this opinion to her. 
 
 ' ' It is only four months since we met, 
 dear. ' ' 
 
 "Only four months, darling; but I had 
 been dreaming about you four months
 
 264 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, 
 while I tell you. On the 2oth of last April 
 I was on the point of leaving for Colorado 
 to look after the Silver Cliff Mine. My 
 carriage was ordered, and I was waiting at 
 my hotel for it. A servant brought me a 
 letter the dearest, sweetest little letter 
 see, here it is!" and this William Smith 
 absolutely laid before Eleanor her own 
 pretty, loving reply to the first William 
 Smith's offer. 
 
 Eleanor looked queerlyat it, and smiled. 
 
 "What did you think, dear?" 
 
 "That it was just the pleasantest thing 
 that had ever happened to me. It was 
 directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been 
 given into my hands. I was not going to 
 seek up any other W. Smith." 
 
 "But you must have been sure that it 
 was not intended for you, and you did not 
 know 'Eleanor Bethune. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it 
 was intended for me. I can imagine des- 
 tiny standing sarcastically by your side, 
 and watching you send the letter to one W. 
 Smith when she intended it for another W. 
 Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know 
 just as soon as possible. I was coming back 
 to New York to look for you. ' ' 
 
 "And, instead, she went to you in Colo- 
 rado. ' ' 
 
 "Only think of that! Why, love, when
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 265 
 
 that blessed telegraph clerk said, 'Who- 
 sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. 
 Eleanor Bethune, ' I wanted to fling my hat 
 to the sky. I did not lose my head as 
 badly when they found that new lead in 
 the Silver Cliff." 
 
 "Won't you give me that letter, and let 
 me destroy it, William? It was written to 
 the wrong Smith." 
 
 ' ' It was written to the wrong Smith, but 
 it was given to the right Smith. Still, 
 Eleanor, if you will say one little word to 
 me, you may do what you like with the 
 letter." 
 
 Then Eleanor whispered the word, and 
 the blaze of the burning letter made a little 
 illumination in honor of their betrothal 
 kiss.
 
 266 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 THE STORY OF MARY NEIL. 
 
 Poverty has not only many learned dis- 
 ciples, but also many hidden saints and 
 martyrs. There are humble tenements that 
 are tabernacles, and desolate, wretched 
 rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty 
 where with toil and weariness and suffer- 
 ing the souls He loves are being prepared 
 for the heavenly temple. 
 
 This is the light that relieves the deep 
 shadow of that awful cloud of poverty which 
 ever hangs over this rich and prosperous 
 city. I have been within that cloud, wet 
 with its rain of tears, chilled with its 
 gloomy darkness, "made free" of its inner- 
 most recesses; therefore I speak with au- 
 thority when I say that even here a little 
 child may walk and not stumble, if Jesus 
 lead the way or hold the hand. 
 
 Nay, but children walk where strong men 
 fall down, and young maidens enter the 
 kingdom while yet their parents are stum- 
 bling where no light from the Golden City 
 and "the Land very far off" reaches them. 
 Last winter I became very much interested 
 in such a case. I was going to write 
 "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have 
 been the strangest misnomer. Happy Mary
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 267 
 
 Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to 
 contradict my pen. 
 
 And yet when I first became acquainted 
 with her condition, she was "poor" in 
 every bitter sense of the word. 
 
 A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child 
 of misery baptized with tears," what had 
 her seventeen years been but sad and evil 
 ones? Cold and hunger, cares and labors 
 far beyond her strength sowed the seeds of 
 early death. For two years she struggled 
 amid such suffering as dying lungs entail 
 to help her mother and younger brothers 
 and sisters, but at last she was compelled 
 to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering 
 which she could no longer assuage by her 
 helpful hands and gentle words. 
 
 Her religious education had not been 
 quite neglected, and she dimly compre- 
 hended that through the narrow valley 
 which lay between Time and Eternity she 
 would need a surer and more infallible 
 guide than her own sadly precocious intel- 
 lect. Then God sent her just the help she 
 needed a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman 
 full of the love of Jesus. 
 
 Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of 
 the Border Land, and very soon Mary had 
 learned how to walk without fearing any 
 evil. Certain passages of Scripture burned 
 with a supernatural glory, and made the 
 darkness light; and there were also a few
 
 268 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 hymns which struck the finest chords in 
 her heart, and 
 
 " 'Mid days of keenest anguish 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 
 Filled all her soul with music 
 Of wondrous melodies. ' ' 
 
 As she neared the deeper darkness of 
 death, this was especially remarkable of 
 that extraordinary hymn called "The L,ight 
 of Death," by Dr. Faber. From the first 
 it had fascinated her. ' ' Has he been here 
 that he knows just how it feels?" she 
 asked, wonderingly, and then solemnly re- 
 peated : 
 
 "Saviour, what means this breadth of death, 
 
 This space before me lying ; 
 These deeps where life so lingereth, 
 
 This difficulty of dying? 
 So many turns abrupt and rude, 
 
 Such ever-shifting grounds, 
 Such strangely peopled solitudes, 
 
 Such strangely silent sounds?" 
 
 Her sufferings were very great, and 
 sometimes the physical depression exerted 
 a definable influence on her spiritual state. 
 Still she never lost her consciousness of the 
 presence of her Guide and Saviour, and 
 once, in the exhaustion of a severe par- 
 oxysm, she murmured two lines from the 
 same grand hymn : 
 
 1 ' Deeper ! dark, dark, but yet I follow : 
 Tighten, dear Ix>rd, thy clasp."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 269 
 
 Ah! there was something touching and 
 noble beyond all words, in this complete 
 reliance and perfect trust ; and it never again 
 wavered. 
 
 "Is it very dark, Mary dear?" her friend 
 said one morning, the last for her on earth. 
 
 ' ' Too dark to see, ' ' she whispered, ' ' but 
 I can go on if Christ will hold my hand. ' ' 
 
 After this a great solemnity shaded her 
 face; she lost all consciousness of this 
 world. The frail, shadowy little body lay 
 gray and passive, while that greatest of all 
 struggles was going on the struggle of the 
 Eternal out of Time ; but her lips moved 
 incessantly, and occasionally some speech 
 of earth told the anxious watchers how hard 
 the conflict was. For instance, toward sun- 
 down she said in a voice strangely solemn 
 and anxious: 
 
 " Whom are we trying to avoid? 
 
 From whom, Lord, must we hide? 
 Oh ! can the dying be decoyed, 
 
 With the Saviour by his side?" 
 
 "L,oose sands and all things sinking!" 
 * ' Are we near eternity ?" * ' Can I fall from 
 Thee even now ?' ' and ejaculations of similar 
 kind, showed that the spiritual struggle 
 was a very palpable one to her ; but it ended 
 in a great calm. For two hours she lay in 
 a peace that passeth understanding, and 
 you would have said that she was dead but
 
 270 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 for a vague look of expectancy in the 
 happy, restful face. Then suddenly there 
 was a lightening of the whole countenance ; 
 she stretched out her arms to meet the 
 messenger of the King, and entered heaven 
 with this prayer on her lips: 
 
 "Both hands, dear Lord, both hands." 
 
 Don't doubt but she got them; their 
 mighty strength lifted her over the dark 
 river almost dry shod. 
 
 4 ' Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon 
 Lie in her tent for on the golden street 
 
 She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn 
 With her unsandalled feet? "
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 271 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE. 
 
 Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace 
 a strange bustle and excitement had come 
 the master was returning with a young 
 bride, whom report spoke of as ' ' bewitch- 
 ingly beautiful." It was easy to believe 
 report in this case, for there must have been 
 some strong inducement to make Frederick 
 Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman 
 barely twenty. It was not money; Mr. 
 Kurston had plenty of money, and he was 
 neither ambitious nor avaricious; besides, 
 the woman he had chosen was both poor 
 and extravagant. 
 
 For once report was correct. Clementina 
 Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, had been a 
 great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in 
 silks and diamonds, was a woman dedicated 
 by Nature for conquest. 
 
 It was Clementina's beauty that had pre- 
 vailed over the love-hardened heart of the 
 gay old gallant, who had escaped the dan- 
 gers of forty seasons of flirtation. He was 
 entangled in the meshes of her golden hair, 
 fascinated by the spell of her love-languid 
 eyes, her mouth like a sad, heavy rose, her 
 faultless form and her superb manners. 
 He was blind to all her faults; deaf to all
 
 272 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 his friends in the glamour of her enchant- 
 ments he submitted to her implicitly, even 
 while both his reason and his sense of other 
 obligations pleaded for recognition. 
 
 Clementina had not won him very easily ; 
 the summer was quite over, nearly all the 
 visitors at the stylish little watering-place 
 had departed, the mornings and evenings 
 were chilly, every day Mr. Kurston spoke 
 of his departure, and she herself was watch- 
 ing her maid pack her trunks, and in no 
 very amiable temper contemplating defeat, 
 when the reward of her seductive attentions 
 came. 
 
 "Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an 
 interview. ' ' 
 
 She gladly accorded it ; she robed herself 
 with subtle skill; she made herself mar- 
 velous. 
 
 " Mother," she said, as she left her dress- 
 ing-room, "you will have a headache. I 
 shall excuse you. I can manage this busi- 
 ness best alone. ' ' 
 
 In an hour she came back triumphant. 
 She put her feet on the fender, and sat 
 down before the cheerful blaze to ' ' talk it 
 over. ' ' 
 
 "It is ail right, mother. Good-by to our 
 miserable shifts and shabby-genteel lodg- 
 ings and turned dresses. He will settle 
 Kurston Chace and all he has upon me, and 
 we are to be married next month. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 273 
 
 "Impossible, Tina! No modiste in the 
 world could get the things that are abso- 
 lutely necessary ready in that time. ' ' 
 
 ''Everything is possible in New York 
 if you have money and Uncle Gray- 
 will be ready enough to buy my marriage 
 clothes. Besides, I am going to run no 
 risks. If he should die, nothing on earth 
 could console me for the trouble I have had 
 with him, but the fact of being his widow. 
 There is no sentiment in the affair, and 
 the sooner one gets to ordering dinners and 
 running up bills, the better. ' ' 
 
 "Poor Philip Lee!'' 
 
 "Mother, why did you mention him? 
 Of course he will be angry, and call me all 
 kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a 
 particle of common sense he must see that 
 it was impossible for me to marry a poor 
 lawyer especially when I had such a much 
 better offer. I suppose he will be here to- 
 night. You must see him, mother, and 
 explain things as pleasantly as possible. 
 It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. 
 Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the 
 ravings and protestations he is sure to in- 
 dulge in. " 
 
 In this supposition Clementina was mis- 
 taken. Philip I^ee took the news of her 
 engagement to his wealthy rival with 
 blank calmness and a civil wish for her 
 happiness. He made a stay of conrentional 
 i*
 
 274 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 propriety, and said all the usual polite 
 platitudes, and then went away without 
 any evidence of the deep suffering and 
 mortification he felt. 
 
 This was Clementina's first drop of bit- 
 terness in her cup of success. She ques- 
 tioned her mother closely as to how he 
 looked, and what he said. It did not please 
 her that, instead of bemoaning his own 
 loss, he should be feeling a contempt for 
 her duplicity that he should use her to 
 cure his passion, when she meant to wound 
 him still deeper. She felt at moments as if 
 she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth 
 and position she had so hardly won, only 
 she knew him well enough to understand 
 that henceforward she could not easily de- 
 ceive him again. 
 
 It was pleasant to return to New York 
 this fall; the news of the engagement 
 opened everyone's heart and home. Con- 
 gratulations came from every quarter; even 
 Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done 
 so well for herself, and signified his ap- 
 proval by a handsome check. 
 
 The course of this love ran smooth 
 enough, and one fine morning in October, 
 Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. 
 Henceforward Clementina Kurston was a 
 woman to be courted instead of patronized, 
 and many a woman who had spoken lightly 
 of her beauty and qualities, was made to
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 275 
 
 acknowledge with an envious pang that she 
 had distanced them. 
 
 This was her first reward, and she did 
 not stint herself in extorting it. To tell 
 the truth, Clementina had many a bitter 
 score of this kind to pay off; for, as she 
 said in extenuation, it was impossible for 
 her to allow herself to be in debt to her 
 self-respect. 
 
 Well, the wedding was over. She had 
 abundantly gratified her taste for splendor ; 
 she had smiled on those on whom she willed 
 to smile; she had treated herself extrav- 
 agantly to the dangerous pleasure of social 
 revenge; she was now anxious to go and 
 take possession of her home, which had the 
 reputation of being one of the oldest and 
 handsomest in the country. 
 
 Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxi- 
 cated with love, and not a little flattered by 
 the brilliant position which his wife had at 
 once claimed. Now that she was his wife, 
 it amused him to see her order and patron- 
 ize and dispense with all that royal pre- 
 rogative which belongs to beauty, supported 
 by wealth and position. 
 
 Into his great happiness he had suffered 
 no doubt, no fear of the future, to come; 
 but, as the day approached for their de- 
 parture for Kurston Chace, he grew singu- 
 larly restless and uneasy. 
 
 For, much as he loved and obeyed the
 
 276 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 woman whom he called "wife," there was 
 another woman at Kurston whom he called 
 4< daughter," that he loved quite as dearly, 
 in a different way. In fact, of his daugh- 
 ter, Athel Kurston, he stood just a little bit 
 in fear, and she had ruled the household at 
 the Chace for many years as absolute mis- 
 tress. 
 
 No one knew anything of her mother; 
 he had brought her to her present home 
 when only five years old, after a long stay 
 on the Continent. A strange woman, wear- 
 ing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came 
 with the child as nurse ; but she had never 
 learnt to speak English, and had now been 
 many years dead. 
 
 Athel knew nothing of her mother, and 
 her early attempts to question her father 
 concerning her had been so peremptorily 
 rebuffed that she had long ago ceased to 
 indulge in any curiosity regarding her. 
 However though she knew it not no one 
 regarded her as Mr. Kurston 's heir; indeed, 
 nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned 
 such a conclusion. True, he loved her 
 dearly, and had spared no pains in her edu- 
 cation ; but he never took her with him 
 into the world, and, except in the neighbor- 
 hood of the Chace, her very existence was 
 not known of. 
 
 She was as old as his new wife, willful, 
 proud, accustomed to rule, not likely to
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 277 
 
 obey. He had said nothing to Clementina 
 of her existence; he had said nothing to 
 his daughter of his marriage ; and now both 
 facts could no longer be concealed. 
 
 But Frederick Kurston had all his life 
 trusted to circumstances, and he was rather 
 disposed, in this matter, to let the women 
 settle affairs between them without trou- 
 bling himself to enter into explanations 
 with either of them. So, to Athel he wrote 
 a tender little note, assuming that she 
 would be delighted to hear of his marriage, 
 as it promised her a pleasant companion, 
 and directing her to have all possible ar- 
 rangements made to add to the beauty and 
 comfort of the house. 
 
 To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The 
 elegantly dressed young lady who met her 
 with a curious and rather constrained wel- 
 come was to her a genuine surprise. Her 
 air of authority and rich dress precluded 
 the idea of a dependent ; Mr. Kurston had 
 kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyed 
 her. But she was far too prudent to make 
 inquiries on unknown ground; she dis- 
 appeared, with her maid, on the plea of 
 weariness, and from the vantage-ground of 
 her retirement sent Felicite to take observa- 
 tions. 
 
 The little French maid found no diffi- 
 culty in arriving at the truth, and Mrs. 
 Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the
 
 278 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 drawing-room fully prepared to defend her 
 rights. 
 
 "Who was that young person, Frederick, 
 dear, that I saw when we arrived?" 
 
 This question in the very sweetest tone, 
 and with that caressing manner she had 
 always found omnipotent. 
 
 ' ' That young person is Miss Athel Kurs- 
 ton, Clementina." 
 
 This answer in the very decided, and yet 
 nervous, manner people on the defensive 
 generally assume. 
 
 1 ' Miss Kurston ? Your sister, Frederick ?' 
 
 ' ' No ; my daughter, Clementina. ' ' 
 
 "But you were never married before?" 
 
 ' ' So people say. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Then, do you really expect me to live 
 in the same house with a person of ' ' 
 
 "I see no reason why you should not 
 that is, if you live in the same house with 
 me." 
 
 A passionate burst of tears, an utter 
 abandonment of distress, and the infatuated 
 husband was willing to promise anything 
 everything that his charmer demanded 
 that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston 's 
 influence was really stronger than her step- 
 mother's, and the promises extorted from 
 his lower passions were indefinitely post- 
 poned by his nobler feelings. 
 
 A divided household is always a miser- 
 able one; but the chief sufferer here was
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 279 
 
 Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him 
 with a sincere and profound affection, de- 
 termined to submit to circumstances for his 
 sake. 
 
 One morning, he found on his table a 
 letter from her stating that, to procure him 
 peace, she had left a home that would be 
 ever dear to her, assuring him that she had 
 secured a comfortable and respectable 
 asylum; but earnestly entreating that he 
 would make no inquiries about her, as she 
 had changed her name, and would not be 
 discovered without causing a degree of 
 gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both 
 himself and her. 
 
 This letter completely broke the power 
 of Clementina over her husband. He as- 
 serted at once his authority, and insisted - 
 on returning immediately to New York, 
 where he thought it likely Athel had gone, 
 and where, at any rate, he could find suit- 
 able persons to aid him in his search for 
 her a search which was henceforth the 
 chief object of his life. 
 
 A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. 
 Kurston at once assumed the position of a 
 leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to 
 her satisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in 
 the exclusive circle in which she moved, and 
 she speedily began the pretty, penitent, de- 
 jected r61e which she judged would be most 
 effective with him. But, though she would
 
 280 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 not see it, Philip I^ee was proof against all 
 her blandishments. He was not the man to be 
 deluded twice by the same false woman ; he 
 was a man of honor, and detested the social 
 ethics which scoffed at humanity's holiest 
 tie; and he was deeply in love with a 
 woman who was the very antipodes of the 
 married siren. 
 
 Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston 
 mansion, and became a great favorite, and 
 finally the friend and confidant of its mas- 
 ter. Gradually, as month after month 
 passed, the business of the Kurston estate 
 came into his hands, and he could have 
 told, to the fraction of a dollar, the exact 
 sum for which Clementina Gray sold her- 
 self. 
 
 Two years passed away. There was no 
 longer on Clementina's part, any pretence 
 of affection for her husband ; she went her 
 own way, and devoted herself to her own 
 Interests and amusements. He wearied 
 with a hopeless search and anxiety that 
 found no relief, aged very rapidly, and be- 
 came subject to serious attacks of illness, 
 any one of which might deprive him of life. 
 
 His wife now regretted that she had 
 married so hastily ; the settlements promised 
 liad been delayed ; she had trusted to her 
 influence to obtain more as his wife than 
 as his betrothed. She had not known of 
 a counter -influence, and she had not
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 281 
 
 calculated that the effort of a life-long decep- 
 tion might be too much for her. Quarrels 
 had arisen in the very beginning of their life 
 at Kurston, the disappearance of Athel had 
 never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston 
 became violently angry if the settlement 
 and disposing of his property was named. 
 
 One night, in the middle of the third 
 winter after Athel's disappearance, Philip 
 lyee called with an important lease for Mr. 
 Kurston to sign. He found him alone, and 
 strangely moved and sorrowful. He signed 
 the papers as Philip directed him, and then 
 requested him to lock the door and sit 
 down. 
 
 "I am going," he said, "to confide to 
 you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. I do not 
 think I shall live long, and I leave a duty 
 unfulfilled that makes to me the bitterness 
 of death. I have a daughter the lawful 
 heiress of the Kurston lands whom my 
 wife drove, by subtle and persistent 
 cruelty, from her home. By no means 
 have I been able to discover her; but you 
 must continue the search, and see her put 
 in possession of her rights. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But what proofs, sir, can you give me 
 in order to establish them?" 
 
 "They are all in this box everything 
 that is necessary. Take it with you to 
 your office to-night. Her mother ah, me, 
 how I loved her v, 7 as a Polish lady of good
 
 282 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 family; but I have neither time nor in- 
 clination now to explain to you, or to ex- 
 cuse myself for the paltry vanities which 
 induced me to conceal my marriage. In 
 those days I cared so much for what society 
 said that I never listened to the voice of 
 my heart or my conscience. I hope, I 
 trust, I may still right both the dead and 
 the living!" 
 
 Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was 
 no delusive one; he sank graduall} 7 during 
 the following week, and died his last 
 word, "Remember!" being addressed, with 
 all the strong beseeching of a dying injunc- 
 tion, to Philip Lee. 
 
 A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurs- 
 ton turned with all the ardor of a senti- 
 mental woman to her first and as she chose 
 to consider it her only true affection. She 
 was now in a position to woo the poor 
 lawyer, dependent in a great measure on 
 her continuing to him the management of 
 the Kurston property. 
 
 Business brought them continually to- 
 gether, and it was neither possible nor 
 prudent for him to always reject the atten- 
 tions she offered. The world began to 
 freely connect their names, and it was with 
 much difficulty that he could convince even 
 his most intimate friends of his indifference 
 to the rich and beautiful widow. 
 
 He found himself, indeed, becoming
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 283 
 
 gradually entangled in a net of circum- 
 stances it would soon be difficult to get 
 honorably out of. 
 
 The widow received him at every visit 
 more like a lover, and less like a lawyer; 
 men congratulated or envied him, women 
 tacitly assumed his engagement. There 
 was but one way to free himself from the 
 toils the artful widow was encompassing 
 him with he must marry some one else. 
 
 But whom? The only girl he loved was 
 poor, and had already refused him; yet he 
 was sure she loved him, and something bid 
 him try again. He had half a mind to do 
 so, and "half a mind" in love is quite 
 enough to begin with. 
 
 So he put on his hat and went to his sis- 
 ter's house. He knew she was out driv- 
 ing had seen her pass five minutes before 
 on her way to the park. Then what did he 
 go there for? Because he judged from ex- 
 perience, that at this hour lovely Pauline 
 Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, 
 was at home and alone. 
 
 He was not wrong; she came into the 
 parlor by one door as he entered it by the 
 other. The coincidence was auspicious, 
 and he warmly pressed his suit, pouring 
 into Pauline's ears such a confused account 
 of his feelings and his affairs as only love 
 could disentangle and understand. 
 
 "But, Philip," said Pauline, "do you
 
 284 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 mean to say that this Mrs. Kurston makes 
 love to you ? Is she not a married woman, 
 and her husband your best friend and 
 patron?" 
 
 "Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead !" 
 
 "Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my 
 father! my father!" And the poor girl 
 threw herself, with passionate sobbings, 
 among the cushions of the sofa. 
 
 This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline 
 Alexes, the girl he had fondly loved for 
 nearly three years, Philip found the long- 
 sought heiress of Kurston Chace ! 
 
 Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she 
 learned how sorrowfully her father had 
 sought her; but she was scarcely to be 
 blamed for not knowing of, and responding 
 to, his late repentance of the life-long 
 wrong he had done her. For Philip's sister 
 moved far outside the narrow and supreme 
 circle of the Kurstons. 
 
 She had hidden her identity in her 
 mother's maiden name the only thing she 
 knew of her mother. She had never seen 
 her father since her flight from her home 
 but in public, accompanied by his wife; 
 she had no reason to suppose the influence 
 of that wife any weaker; she had been 
 made, by cruel innuendoes, to doubt both 
 the right and the inclination of her father 
 to protect her. 
 
 It now became Philip's duty to acquaint
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 285 
 
 the second Mrs. Kurston with her true 
 position, and to take the necessary steps to- 
 reinstate Athel Kurston in her rights. 
 
 Of course, he had to bear many unkind 
 suspicions even his friends believed him 
 to have been cognizant all the time of the 
 identity of Pauline Alexes with Athel 
 Kurston and he was complimented on his 
 cleverness in securing the property, with 
 the daughter, instead of the widow, for an 
 incumbrance. But those may laugh who 
 win, and these things scarcely touched the 
 happiness of Philip and Athel. 
 
 As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still 
 more brilliant marriage, and gave up the 
 Kurston estate with an ostentatious indif- 
 ference. ' ' She was glad to get rid of it ; it 
 had brought her nothing but sorrow and 
 disappointment," etc. 
 
 But from the heights of her social auto- 
 cracy, clothed in Worth's greatest inspira- 
 tions, wearing priceless lace and jewels, 
 dwelling in unrivalled splendor, she looked 
 with regret on the man whom she had re- 
 jected for his poverty. 
 
 She saw him grow to be the pride of his 
 State and the honor of his country. Love- 
 less and childless, she saw his boys and 
 girls cling to the woman she hated as their 
 " mother," and knew that they filled with 
 light and love the grand old home for which 
 she had first of all sacrificed her affection 
 and her womanhood.
 
 286 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "ONLY THIS ONCE." 
 
 Over the solemn mountains and the misty 
 moorlands the chill spring night was fall- 
 ing. David Scott, master shepherd for 
 MacAllister, of Allister, thought of his 
 ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet 
 over his brows, and taking his staff in his 
 hand, turned his face to the hills. 
 
 David Scott was a mystic in his own 
 way; the mountains were to him "temples 
 not made with hands, ' ' and in them he had 
 seen and heard wonderful things. Years 
 of silent communion with nature had made 
 him love her in all her moods, and he pas- 
 sionately believed in God. 
 
 The fold was far up the mountains, but 
 the sheep knew the shepherd's voice, and 
 the peculiar bark of his dog ; they answered 
 them gladly, and were soon safely and 
 warmly housed. Then David and Keeper 
 slowly took their way homeward, for the 
 steep, rocky hills were not easy walking 
 for an old man in the late gloaming. 
 
 Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, 
 Keeper suddenly began to bark furiously, 
 and a tall, slight figure leaped from their 
 shelter, raised a stick, and would have 
 struck the dog if David had not called out,
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 287 
 
 ' ' Never strie a sheep-dog, mon ! The bestie 
 willna harm ye." 
 
 The stranger then came forward ; asked 
 David if there was any cottage near where 
 he could rest all night, said that he had 
 come out for a day's fishing, had got sepa- 
 rated from his companions, lost his way and 
 was hungry and worn out. 
 
 David looked him steadily in the face 
 and read aright the nervous manner and 
 assumed indifference. However, hospi- 
 tality is a sacred tradition among Scotch 
 mountaineers; whoever, or whatever the 
 young man was, David acknowledged his 
 weariness and hunger as sufficient claim 
 upon his oaten cake and his embers. 
 
 It was evident in a few moments that 
 Mr. Semple was not used to the hills. 
 David's long, firm walk was beyond the 
 young man's efforts; he stumbled frequently 
 in the descent, the springy step necessary 
 when they came to the heather distressed 
 him ; he was almost afraid of the gullies 
 David took without a thought. These 
 things the old man noted, and they 
 weighed far more with him than all the 
 boastful tongue could say. 
 
 The cottage was soon reached a very 
 humble one only "a but and a ben," with 
 small windows, and a thatched roof; but 
 Scotland has reared great men in such cot- 
 tages, and no one could say that it was not
 
 288 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 clean and cheerful. The fire burnt brightly 
 upon the white hearthstone, and a little 
 round deal table stood before it. Upon this 
 table were oaten cakes and Ayreshire cheese 
 and new milk, and by its side sat a young 
 man reading. 
 
 "Archie, here is a strange gentleman I 
 found up at Donald's cairn." 
 
 The two youths exchanged looks and 
 disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott 
 rose, laid aside his book, and courteously 
 offered his seat by the fire. The stranger 
 took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, 
 joined decently in their solemn worship, 
 and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. 
 Then the old man and his son sat down and 
 curtly exchanged their opinions. 
 
 "I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more 
 than distrust his being aught o' a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 David smoked steadily a few minutes ere 
 lie replied : 
 
 "He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, 
 Archie, and it's nane o' our duty to judge 
 him." 
 
 When Archie spoke again it was of other 
 matters. 
 
 "Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' Mac- 
 Allister's accounts; what wi' the sheep 
 bills and the timber and the kelp, things 
 look in a mess like. There is a right way 
 and a wrong way to keep tally of them and 
 I can't find it out."
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 289 
 
 ' ' The right way is to keep the facts all 
 correct and honest to a straw's worth then 
 the figures are bound to come right, I 
 should say. ' ' 
 
 It was an old trouble that Archie com- 
 plained about. He was MacAllister's 
 steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling 
 character and known worth ; but struggling 
 constantly with ignorance of the methods 
 by which even the most honest business 
 can alone satisfactorily prove its honest 
 condition. 
 
 When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, 
 Archie had disappeared, and David was 
 standing in the door, alone. David liked 
 his guest less in the morning than he had 
 done at night. 
 
 "Ye dinna seem to relish your parritck, 
 sir, ' ' said David rather grimly. 
 
 Mr. Semple said he really had never been 
 accustomed to anything but strong tea and 
 hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or 
 marmalade; he had never tasted porridge 
 before. 
 
 "More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if 
 you had been brought up on decent oatmeal 
 you would hae thankit God for your food;" 
 for Mr. Semple' s omission of grace, either 
 before or after his meat, greatly displeased 
 the old man. 
 
 The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, 
 and looked out. There was a fresh wind, 
 19
 
 290 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 bringing with it flying showers and damp, 
 chilling mists wet heather under foot, and 
 no sunshine above. David saw sometning 
 in the anxious, wretched face that aroused 
 keen suspicion. He looked steadily into 
 Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said: 
 
 "Wha are you rinnin awa from, my 
 lad?" 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 There was a moment's angry silence. 
 Suddenly David raised his hand, shaded his 
 eyes and peered keenly down the hills. 
 Mr. Semple followed this movement with 
 great interest. 
 
 "What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? 
 Oh ! I see. Two men coming up this way. 
 Do you know who they are?" 
 
 "They may be gangers or they may be 
 strangers, or they may be policemen I 
 dinna ken them myselV 
 
 "Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! 
 Don't give me up, and I will tell you the 
 whole truth. ' ' 
 
 "I thought so!" said David, sternly. 
 "Well, come up the hills wi' me; yon men 
 will be here in ten minutes, whoever they 
 are. ' ' 
 
 There were numerous places of partial 
 shelter known to the shepherd, and he soon 
 led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well 
 concealed by overhanging rocks and trail- 
 ing, briery stems
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 291 
 
 The two sat down on a rude granite 
 oowlder, and the elder having waited until 
 his companion had regained his breath, 
 said: 
 
 "You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell 
 the truth in as few words as may be; I 
 dinna like fine speeches." 
 
 ''Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's book- 
 keeper and cashier. He's a tea dealer in 
 the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in 
 my cash, and he's a hard man, so I run 
 away. ' ' 
 
 "Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang 
 wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed to 
 steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. 
 Begin at the beginning. ' ' 
 
 The young man told his shameful story. 
 He had got into gay, dissipated ways, and 
 to meet a sudden demand had taken three 
 pounds from his employer for just once. 
 But the three pounds had swollen into six- 
 teen, and finding it impossible to replace 
 it, he had taken ten more and fled, hoping 
 to hide in the hills till he could get rowed 
 off to some passing ship and escape to 
 America. He had no friends, and neither 
 father nor mother. At mention of this 
 fact, David's face relaxed. 
 
 "Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, 
 and nae mother, 'specially; that's a awfu' 
 drawback. ' ' 
 
 ' ' You may give me up if you like, Mr.
 
 292 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Scott. I don't care much; I've been a 
 wretched fellow for many a week; I am 
 most broken-hearted to-day." 
 
 "It's not David Scott that will make 
 himself hard to a broken heart, when God 
 in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll 
 tell you what I will do. You sail gie me 
 all the money you have, every shilling; it's 
 nane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll 
 take it to your master, and get him to pass 
 by the ither till you can earn it. I've got 
 a son, a decent, hard-working lad, who's 
 daft to learn your trade bookkeeping. Ye 
 sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and 
 outs o' it, then I'll gie ye twenty pounds. 
 I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will 
 make a big hole in my little book at the 
 Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up. 
 
 "Then when ye have earned it, ye can 
 pay back all you have stolen, forbye having 
 four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again 
 wi'. I dinna often treat mysel' to such a 
 bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, if I get 
 na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem 
 like to get fra you, there 'ud be meikle use 
 in it, ' ' for Alexander Semple had heard 
 the proposal with a dour and thankless 
 face, far from encouraging to the good man 
 who made it. It did not suit that youth to 
 work all summer in order to pay back what 
 he had come to regard as "off his mind;" 
 to denude himself of every shilling, and be
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 293 
 
 entirely dependent on the sternly just man 
 before him. Yet what could he do? He 
 was fully in David's power; so he sig- 
 nified his assent, and sullenly enough gave 
 up the 9 143. 2d. in his possession. 
 
 "I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott," he 
 said; "the bargain is fair enough for you." 
 
 "I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Cample- 
 town man, and I ken you wouldna hae 
 keepit his books if you hadna had your 
 business at your finger-ends. ' ' 
 
 The next day David went to Glasgow, 
 and saw Mr. Semple's master. The 9 odd 
 was lost money found, and predisposed him 
 to the arrangement proposed. David got 
 little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, how- 
 ever; he acknowledged the clerk's skill in 
 accounts, but he was conceited of his ap- 
 pearance, ambitious of being a fashionable 
 man, had weak principles and was intensely 
 selfish. David almost repented him of his 
 kindness, and counted grudgingly the shil- 
 lings that the journey and the carriage of 
 Mr. Semple's trunks cost him. 
 
 Indeed it was a week or two before 
 things settled pleasantly in the hill cottage; 
 the plain living, pious habits and early 
 hours of the shepherd and his son did not 
 at all suit the city youth. But Archie, 
 though ignorant of the reasons which kept 
 such a dandy in their humble home, soon 
 perceived clearly the benefit he could derive
 
 294 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 from him. And once Archie got an ink- 
 ling of the meaning of "double entry" he 
 was never weary of applying it to his own 
 particular business; so that in a few weeks 
 Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar 
 with MacAllister's affairs. 
 
 Still, Archie cordially disliked his 
 teacher, and about the middle of summer it 
 became evident that a very serious cause of 
 quarrel was complicating the offence. 
 Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely 
 summer gloaming Archie met Semple with 
 Katie Morrison, the little girl whom he had 
 loved and courted since ever he carried her 
 dinner and slate to school for her. How 
 they had come to know each other he could 
 not tell ; he had exercised all his tact and 
 prudence to prevent it, evidently without 
 avail. He passed the couple with ill-con- 
 cealed anger; Katie looked down, Semple 
 nodded in what Archie believed to be an 
 insolent manner. 
 
 That night David Scott heard from his 
 son such an outburst of anger as the lad 
 had never before exhibited. In a few days 
 Mr. Semple went to Greenock for a day or 
 two. Soon it was discovered that Katie 
 had been in Greenock two days at her mar- 
 ried sister's. Then they heard that the 
 couple had married and were to sail for 
 America. They then discovered that 
 Archie's desk had been opened and ^46 in
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 295 
 
 notes and gold taken. Neither of the men 
 had any doubt as to the thief; and there- 
 fore Archie was angry and astonished to 
 find his father doubt and waver and seem 
 averse to pursue him. At last he acknowl- 
 edged all, told Archie that if he made 
 known his loss, he also must confess that 
 he had knowingly harbored an acknowl- 
 edged thief, and tacitly given him the op- 
 portunity of wronging his employer. He 
 doubted very much whether anyone would 
 give him credit for the better feelings which 
 had led him to this course of conduct. 
 
 Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw 
 the dilemma; to these simple people a 
 good name was better than gold. It took 
 nearly half the savings of a long life, but 
 the old man went to Ayr and drew suffi- 
 cient to replace the stolen money. He 
 needed to make no inquiries about Semple. 
 On Tuesday it was known by everyone in 
 the village that Katie Morrison and Alex- 
 ander Semple had been married the pre- 
 vious Friday, and sailed for America the 
 next day. After this certainty father and 
 son never named the subject but once more. 
 It was on one calm, spring evening, some 
 ten years after, and David lay within an 
 hour of the grave. 
 
 <( Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't 
 regret to-night what I did ten years ago. 
 Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous
 
 296 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 lives never! Perhaps I had a thought o' 
 self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. 
 If thou hast ever a chance, do better than 
 I did." 
 
 ' ' I will, father. ' ' 
 
 During these ten years there had been 
 occasional news from the exiles. Mrs. 
 Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he 
 passed her door, and said there had been a 
 letter from Katie. At first they came fre- 
 quently, and were tinged with brightest 
 hopes. Alexander had a fine place, and 
 their baby was the most beautiful in the 
 world. The next news w r as that Alexander 
 was in business for himself and making 
 money rapidly. Handsome presents, that 
 were the wonder of the village, then came 
 occasionally, and also remittances of money 
 that made the poor mother hold her head 
 proudly about "our Katie" and her 
 ' 'splendid house and carriage." 
 
 But suddenly all letters stopped, and the 
 mother thought for long they must be com- 
 ing to see her, but this hope and many 
 another faded, and the fair morning of 
 Katie's marriage was shrouded in impene- 
 trable gloom and mystery. 
 
 Archie got bravely over his trouble, and 
 a while after his father's death married a 
 good little woman, not quite without "the 
 bit of siller. ' ' Soon after he took his sav- 
 ings to Edinburgh and joined his wife's
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 297 
 
 brother in business there. Things pros- 
 pered with him, slowly but surely, and he 
 became known for a steady, prosperous 
 merchant, and a douce pious householder, 
 the father of a fine lot of sons and 
 daughters. 
 
 One night, twenty years after the begin- 
 ning of my story, he was passing through 
 the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild 
 cry of "Fire! Fire! Fire!" arose on every 
 side of him. 
 
 "Where?" he asked of the shrieking 
 women pouring from all the filthy, narrow 
 wynds around. 
 
 "In Gordon's Wynd." 
 
 He was there almost the first of any 
 efficient aid, striving to make his way up 
 the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impos- 
 sible. The house was one of those ancient 
 ones, piled story upon story ; so old that it 
 was almost tinder. But those on the op- 
 posite side were so close that not unfre- 
 quently a plank or two flung across from 
 opposite windows made a bridge for the 
 benefit of those seeking to elude justice. 
 
 By means of such a bridge all the in- 
 habitants of the burning house were re- 
 moved, and no one was more energetic in 
 carrying the women and children across the 
 dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for 
 his mountain training had made such a feat 
 one of no extraordinary danger to him.
 
 298 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Satisfied at length that all life was out of 
 risk, he was turning to go home, when a 
 white, terrible face looked out of the top- 
 most floor, showing itself amid the gusts of 
 smoke like the dream of a corpse, and 
 screaming for help in agonizing tones. 
 Archie knew that face only too well. But 
 he remembered, in the same instant, what 
 his father had said in dying, and, swift as 
 a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top 
 floor of the opposite house again. 
 
 In a few moments the planks bridged the 
 distance between death and safety ; but no 
 entreaties could make the man risk the 
 dangerous passage. Setting tight his lips, 
 Archie went for the shrieking coward, and 
 carried him into the opposite house. Then 
 the saved man recognized his preserver. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's 
 sake, my wife and my child ! The last of 
 seven!" 
 
 "You scoundrel! Do you mean to say 
 you saved yourself before Katie and your 
 child!" 
 
 Archie did not wait for the answer ; again 
 he was at the window of the burning room. 
 Too late ! The flames were already devour- 
 ing what the smoke had smothered; their 
 wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He 
 had hardly time to save his own life. 
 
 "They are dead, Semple!" 
 
 Then the poor creature burst into a
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 299 
 
 paroxysm of grief, moaned and cried, and 
 begged a few shillings, and vowed he was 
 the most miserable creature on earth. 
 
 After this Archie Scott strove for two 
 years to do without taint of selfishness what 
 his father had begun twenty years before. 
 But there was not much now left to work 
 upon health, honor, self-respect were all 
 gone. Poor Semple was content to eat the 
 bread of dependence, and then make boast- 
 ful speeches of his former wealth and posi- 
 tion. To tell of his wonderful schemes, 
 and to abuse his luck and his false friends, 
 and everything and everybody, but the 
 real cause of his misfortune. 
 
 Archie gave him some trifling post, with 
 a salary sufficient for every decent want, 
 and never heeded, though he knew Semple 
 constantly spoke ill of him behind his back. 
 
 However the trial of Archie's patience 
 and promise did not last very long. It was 
 a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that 
 Archie was called upon to exercise for the 
 last time his charity and forbearance toward 
 him; and the parting scene paid for all. 
 For, in the shadow of the grave, the poor, 
 struggling soul dropped all pretences, ac- 
 knowledged all its shortcomings, thanked 
 the forbearance and charity which had been 
 extended so many years, and humbly re- 
 pented of its lost and wasted opportunities. 
 
 "Draw close to me, Archie Scott," he
 
 300 Winter Evening J^ales 
 
 said, ' ' and tell your four brave boys what my 
 dying words to them were : Never to yield 
 to temptation for only this once. To be 
 quite sure that all the gear and gold that 
 comes with sin will go with sorrow. And 
 never to doubt that to every evil doer will 
 certainly come his evil day. ' '
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 301 
 
 PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY. 
 
 I am addicted to making strange friend- 
 ships, to liking people whom I have no 
 conventional authority to like people out 
 of "my set/' and not always of my own 
 nationality. I do not say that I have al- 
 ways been fortunate in these ventures; but 
 I have had sufficient splendid exceptions to 
 excuse the social aberration, and make me 
 think that all of us might oftener trust our 
 own instincts, oftener accept the friends 
 that circumstance and opportunity offer us, 
 with advantage. At any rate, the per- 
 adventure in chance associations has always 
 been very attractive to me. 
 
 In some irregular way I became ac- 
 quainted with Petralto Garcia. I believe I 
 owed the introduction to my beautiful 
 hound, Lutha; but, at any rate, our first 
 conversation was quite as sensible as if we 
 had gone through the legitimate initiation. 
 I know it was in the mountains, and that 
 within an hour our tastes and sympathies 
 had touched each other at twenty different 
 points. 
 
 Lutha walked beside us, showing in his 
 mien something of the proud satisfaction 
 which follows a conviction of having done
 
 302 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 a good thing. He looked first at me and 
 then at Petralto, elevating and depressing 
 his ears at our argument, as if he under- 
 stood all about it. Perhaps he did; human 
 beings don't know everything. 
 
 People have so much time in the country 
 that it is little wonder that our acquaint- 
 ance ripened into friendship during the 
 holidays, and that one of my first visits 
 when I had got settled for the winter was 
 to Petralto' s rooms. Their locality might 
 have cooled some people, but not me. It 
 does not take much of an education in New 
 York life to find out that the pleasantest, 
 loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found 
 in the streets not very far "up town;" 
 comfortably contiguous to the best hotels, 
 stores, libraries, picture galleries, and all 
 the other necessaries of a pleasant exist- 
 ence. 
 
 He was just leaving the door for a ride 
 in the park, and we went together. I had 
 refused the park twice within an hour, and 
 had told myself that nothing should induce 
 me to follow that treadmill procession 
 again, yet when he said, in his quiet way, 
 ''You had better take half an hour's ride, 
 Jack," I felt like going, and I went. 
 
 Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue 
 entrance, a singular thing happened. Pe- 
 tralto' s pale olive face flushed a bright 
 crimson, his eyes flashed and dropped; he
 
 iVinter Evening Tales. 303 
 
 whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as 
 if he would escape something ; then became 
 preter naturally calm, drew suddenly up, 
 and stood waiting for a handsome equipage 
 which was approaching. Its occupants 
 were bending forward to speak to him. I 
 had no eyes for the gentleman, the girl at 
 his side was so radiantly beautiful. 
 
 I heard Petralto promise to call on them, 
 and we passed on ; but there was a look on 
 his face which bespoke both sympathy and 
 silence. He soon complained of the cold, 
 said the park pace irritated him, but still 
 passed and repassed the couple who had 
 caused him such evident suffering, as if he 
 was determined to inure himself to the pain 
 of meeting them. During this interval I 
 had time to notice the caressing, lover-like 
 attitude of the beauty's companion, and I 
 said, as they entered a stately house to- 
 gether, "Are they married?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ' ' He seems devotedly in love with her. ' ' 
 
 "He loved her two years before he saw 
 her." 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 ' ' Not at all. I have a mind to tell you 
 the story. ' ' 
 
 "Do. Come home with me, and we will 
 have a quiet dinner together. ' ' 
 
 "No. I need to be alone an hour or 
 two. Call on me about nine o'clock."
 
 304 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 Petralto's rooms were a little astonish- 
 ment to me. They were luxurious in the 
 extreme, with just that excess of ornament 
 which suggests under-civilization ; and yet 
 I found him smoking in a studio destitute 
 of everything but a sleepy -looking sofa, 
 two or three capacious lounging chairs, and 
 the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. 
 There was a bright fire in the grate, a flood 
 of light from the numerous gas jets, and an 
 atmosphere heavy with the seductive, frag- 
 rant vapor of Havana. 
 
 I lit my own cigar, made myself comfort- 
 able, and waited until it was Petralto's 
 pleasure to begin. After a while he said, 
 ' 'Jack, turn that easel so that you can see 
 the picture on it." 
 
 I did so. 
 
 "Now, look at it well, and tell me 
 what you see; first, the locality describe 
 it." 
 
 " A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting 
 through thick foliage, and long streamers 
 of weird grey moss. The ground is cov- 
 ered with soft short grass of an intense 
 green, and there are wonderful flowers of 
 wonderful colors. " 
 
 ' ' Right. It is an opening in the forest 
 of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, what else 
 do you see ? ' ' 
 
 "A small pony, saddled and bridled, 
 feeding quietly, and a young girl standing
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 305 
 
 on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with 
 golden -colored flowers." 
 
 ' ' Describe the girl to me. ' ' 
 
 I turned and looked at my querist. He 
 was smoking, with shut eyes, and waiting 
 calmly for my answer. * ' Well, she has 
 Petralto, what makes you ask me? You 
 might paint, but it is impossible to describe 
 light ; and the girl is nothing else. If I 
 had met her in such a wood, I should have 
 thought she was an angel, and been afraid 
 of her. ' ' 
 
 "No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, 
 perfect flower of maidenhood. When I first 
 saw her, she stood just so, with her open 
 palms full of yellow jasmine. I laid my 
 heart into them, too, my whole heart, my 
 whole life, and every joy and hope it con- 
 tained. ' ' 
 
 "What were you doing in Texas?" 
 
 ' ' What are you doing in New York ? I 
 was born in Texas. My family, an old 
 Spanish one, have been settled there since 
 they helped to build San Antonio in 1730. 
 I grew up pretty much as Texan youths 
 do half my time in the saddle, familiar 
 with the worst side of life and the best side 
 of nature. I should have been a thorough 
 Ishmaelite if I had not been an artist ; but 
 the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic 
 and in my twentieth year I went to Rome 
 to study.
 
 306 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 "I can pass the next five } r ears. I do not 
 pretend to regret them, though, perhaps, 
 you would say I simply wasted time and 
 opportunity. I enjoyed them, and it seems 
 to me I was the person most concerned in 
 the matter. I had a fresh, full capacity 
 then for enjoyment of every kind. I loved 
 nature and I loved art. I warmed both 
 hands at the glowing fire of life. Time 
 may do his worst. I have been happy, and 
 I can throw those five careless, jovial years 
 in his face to my last hour. 
 
 ' ' But one must awake out of every pleas- 
 ant dream, and one day I got a letter 
 urging my immediate return home. My 
 father had got himself involved in a law- 
 suit, and was failing rapidly in health. 
 My younger brother was away with a 
 ranger company, and the affairs of the 
 ranch needed authoritative overlooking. I 
 was never so fond of art as to be indifferent 
 to our family prosperity, and I lost no time 
 in hurrying West. 
 
 "Still, when I arrived at home, there was 
 no one to welcome me ! The noble, gracious 
 Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old 
 Alamo Church ; somewhere on the llano my 
 brother was ranging, still with his wild 
 company; and the house, in spite of the 
 family servants and Mexican peons, was 
 sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished 
 to find how easily I went back to my old
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 307 
 
 life, and spent whole days in the saddle in- 
 vestigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch. 
 
 "I had been riding one day for ten 
 hours, and was so fatigued that I deter- 
 mined to spend the night with one of my 
 herdsmen. He had a little shelter under 
 some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, 
 and after a cup of coffee and a meal of 
 dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down 
 the river bank. Then the cool, dusky shad- 
 ows of the wood tempted me. I entered 
 it. It was an enchanted wood, for there 
 stood Jessy Lorimer, just as I had painted 
 her. 
 
 "I did not move nor speak. I watched 
 her, spell-bound. I had not even the power, 
 when she had mounted her pony and was 
 coming toward me, to assume another at- 
 titude. She saw that I had been watching 
 her, and a look, half reproachful and half 
 angry, came for a moment into her face. 
 But she inclined her head to me as she 
 passed, and then went off at a rapid gallop 
 before I could collect my senses. 
 
 "Some people, Jack, walk into love with 
 their eyes open, calculating every step. I 
 tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my 
 senses, narrowed in one moment the whole 
 world down to one bewitching woman. I 
 did not know her, of course; but I soon 
 should. I was well aware she could not 
 live very far away, and that niy herd must
 
 308 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 be able to give me some information. I 
 was so deeply in love that this poor igno- 
 rant fellow, knowing something about this 
 girl, seemed to me to be a person to be 
 respected, and even envied. 
 
 ' ' I gave him immediately a plentiful 
 supply of cigars, and sitting down beside 
 him opened the conversation with horses, 
 but drifted speedily into the subject of new 
 settlers. 
 
 * ' 'Were there any since I had left?' 
 
 " 'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one 
 likely family.' 
 
 " 'Much of a family?' 
 
 " 'You may bet on that, sir.' 
 ' 'Any pleasant young men?' 
 
 " 'Reckon so. Mighty likely young 
 gal.' 
 
 "So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lori- 
 mer, my beauty's father, was a Scotchman, 
 who had bought the ranch which had for- 
 merly belonged to the old Spanish family 
 of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty 
 Inez and Dolores Yturri, with their black 
 eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy embonpoint ; 
 and thought of golden-haired Jessy Larimer 
 in their dark, latticed rooms. 
 
 "Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful 
 Jessy! How I loved her in those happy 
 days that followed. How I humored her 
 grave, stern father and courted her brothers 
 for her sake ! I was a slave to the whole
 
 Winter Evening Tates. 309 
 
 family, so that I might gain an hour with 
 or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret it now? 
 Not one moment. Such delicious hours as 
 we had together were worth any price. I 
 would throw all my future to old Time, 
 Jack, only to live them over again." 
 
 "That is a great deal to say, Petralto. " 
 
 * ' Perhaps ; and yet I will not recall it. 
 In those few months everything that was 
 good in me prospered and grew. Jessy 
 brought out nothing but the best part of my 
 character. I was always at my best with 
 her. No thought of selfish pleasure mingled 
 in my love for her. If it delighted me to 
 touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against 
 my cheek, to meet her earnest, subduing 
 gaze, it also made me careful by no word 
 or look to soil the dainty purity of my white 
 lily. 
 
 "I feared to tell her that I loved her. 
 But I did do it, I scarcely know how. The 
 softest whisper seemed too loud against her 
 glowing cheek. She trembled from head 
 to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture 
 when she first put her little hand in mine, 
 and suffered me to draw her to my heart. 
 Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think 
 of it. I I first, I alone, woke that sweet 
 young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, 
 but no one else can ever be to her what I 
 have been. ' ' 
 
 And here Petralto, giving full sway to his
 
 310 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 impassioned Southern nature, covered his 
 face with his hands and wept hot, regretful 
 tears. 
 
 Tears come like blood from men of cold, 
 strong temperaments, but they were the 
 natural relief of Petralto's. I let him 
 weep. In a few minutes he leaped up, 
 and began pacing the room rapidly as he 
 went on : 
 
 ' * Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with 
 a dour, stiff refusal that left me no hope of 
 any relenting. ' He had reasons, more 
 than one,' he said; 'he was not saying 
 anything against either my Spanish blood or 
 my religion ; but it was no fault in a Scots- 
 man to mate his daughter with people of her 
 own kith. ' 
 
 "There was no quarrel, and no dis- 
 courtesy; but I saw I could bend an iron 
 bar with my pleadings just as soon as his 
 determination. Jessy received orders not 
 to meet me or speak to me alone; and the 
 possibility of disobeying her father's com- 
 mand never suggested itself to her. Even 
 I struggled long with my misery before I 
 dared to ask her to practice her first deceit. 
 
 ' ' She would not meet me alone, but she 
 persuaded her mother to come once with 
 her to our usual tr} T st in the wood. Mrs. 
 Lorimer spoke kindly but hopelessly, and 
 covered her own face to weep while Jessy 
 and I took of each other a passionate
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 311 
 
 farewell. I promised her then never to 
 marry anyone else; and she! I thought her 
 heart would break as I laid her almost faint- 
 ing in her mother's arms. 
 
 ' ' Yet I did not know how much Jessy 
 really was to me until I suddenly found out 
 that her father had sent her back to Scot- 
 land, under the pretence of finishing her 
 education. I had been so honorably con- 
 siderate of Jessy's Puritan principles that I 
 felt this hasty, secret movement exceedingly 
 unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became 
 hateful to me, the duties of the ranch dis- 
 tracting; and my brother Felix returning 
 about this time, we made a division of the 
 estate. He remained at the Garcia man- 
 sion, I rented out my possessions, and went, 
 first to New Orleans, and afterward to 
 New York. 
 
 ' ' In New York I opened a studio, and 
 one day a young gentleman called and 
 asked me to draw a picture from some 
 crude, imperfect sketch which a friend had 
 made. During the progress of the picture 
 he frequently called in. For some reason 
 or other probably because we were each 
 other's antipodes in tastes and tempera- 
 ment he became my enthusiastic admirer, 
 and interested himself greatly to secure me 
 a lucrative patronage. 
 
 ' ' Yet some subtle instinct, which I can- 
 not pretend to divine or explain, constantly
 
 312 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 warned me to beware of this man. But I 
 was ashamed and angry at myself for link- 
 ing even imaginary evil with so frank and 
 generous a nature. I defied destiny, turned 
 a deaf ear to the whisperings of my good 
 genius, and continued the one-sided friend- 
 ship for I never even pretended to myself 
 that I had any genuine liking for the man. 
 "One day, when we had become very famil- 
 iar, he ran up to see me about something, 
 I forget what, and not finding me in the 
 outer apartments, penetrated to my private 
 room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox 
 first saw the woman you saw with him to- 
 night the picture which you are now look- 
 ing at and he fell as desperately in love 
 with it, in his way, as I had done in the 
 Guadalupe woods with the reality. I can- 
 not tell you how much it cost me to restrain 
 my anger. He, however, never noticed I 
 was angry. He had but one object now 
 to gain from me the name and residence of 
 the original. 
 
 ' ' It was no use to tell him it was a fancy- 
 picture, that he was sighing for an imagi- 
 nation. He never believed it for a moment. 
 I would not sell it, I would not copy it, I 
 would not say where I had painted it; I 
 kept it to my most sacred privacy. He was 
 sure that the girl existed, and that I knew 
 where she lived. He was very rich, with- 
 out an occupation or an object, and Jessy's
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 313 
 
 pure, lovely face haunted him day and 
 night, and supplied him with a purpose. 
 
 ' ' He came to me one day and offering 
 me a large sum of money, asked me finally 
 to reveal at least the locality of which 
 I had painted the picture. His free, 
 frank unembarrassed manner compels me 
 to believe that he had no idea of the in- 
 tolerable insult he was perpetrating. He 
 had always been accustomed to consider 
 more or less money an equivalent for all 
 things under the sun. But you, Jack, will 
 easily understand that the offer was fol- 
 lowed by some very angry words, and that 
 his threat to hunt the world over to find my 
 beauty was not without fear to me. 
 
 "I heard soon after that Will Lennox 
 had gone to the South. I had neither 
 hidden nor talked about my former life and 
 I was ignorant of how much he knew or did 
 not know of it. He could trace me easily 
 to New Orleans ; how much further would 
 depend upon his tact and perseverance. 
 Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am 
 uncertain, but my heart fell with a strange 
 presentiment of sorrow when I saw his 
 name, a few weeks afterward, among the 
 European departures. 
 
 ' 'The next thing I knew of Will Lennox 
 was his marriage to some famous Scotch 
 beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? 
 The Scotch beauty was Jessy L,orimer. I
 
 314 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 feared it at the first. I knew it this after- 
 noon." 
 
 "Will you call there?" 
 
 ' ' I have no power to resist it. Did you 
 not notice how eagerly she pressed the in- 
 vitation?" 
 
 ' ' Do not accept it, Petralto. ' ' 
 
 He shook his head, and remained silent. 
 The next afternoon I was astonished on 
 going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox 
 sitting there. He was talking in that loud, 
 happy, demonstrative way so natural to 
 men accustomed to have the whole world 
 minister unto them. 
 
 He did not see how nervous and angry 
 Petralto was under his easy, boastful con- 
 versation. He did not notice the ashy face, 
 the blazing eyes, the set lips, the trembling 
 hands, of the passionate Spanish nature, 
 until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of 
 unreasonable words and taunts, and ordered 
 Lennox out of his presence. 
 
 Even then the stupid, good-natured, 
 purse-proud man could not see his danger. 
 He began to apologize to me for Petralto 's 
 rudeness, and excuse "anything in a fellow 
 whom he had cut out so badly. ' ' 
 
 "Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved 
 me first; you can never have her whole 
 heart. Begone! If I had you on the 
 Guadalupe, where Jessy and I lived and 
 loved, I would "
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 315 
 
 The sentence was not finished. Lennox 
 struck Petralto to the ground, and before I 
 raised him, I persuaded the angry bride- 
 groom to retire. I stayed with Petralto 
 that night, although I was not altogether 
 pleased with him. He was sulky and 
 silent at first, but after a quiet rest and a 
 few consoling Havanas he was willing to 
 talk the affair over. 
 
 "Lennox tortured me," he said, pas- 
 sionately. "How could he be so unfeeling, 
 so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn 
 what chain of circumstances led him to find 
 out my love and then steal her ? Everything 
 he said tortured me but one fact Jessy was 
 alone and thoroughly miserable. Poor little 
 pet ! She thought I had forgotten her, and 
 so she married him not for love; I won't 
 believe it. ' ' 
 
 "But," I said, "Petralto, you have no 
 right to hug such a delusion ; and seeing 
 that you had made no attempt to follow 
 Jessy and marry her, she had every right 
 to suppose you really had forgotten her. 
 Besides, I think it very likely that she 
 should love a young, rich, good-looking 
 fellow like Will Lennox. ' ' 
 
 "In not pursuing her I was following 
 Jessy's own request and obeying my own 
 plighted promise. It was understood be- 
 tween us that I should wait patiently until 
 Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs
 
 316 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 would then have regarded her as her own 
 mistress and acknowledged her right to 
 marry as she desired; and if I did not 
 write, she has not wanted constant tokens 
 of my remembrance. I have trusted her, ' ' 
 he said, mournfully, " without a sign from 
 her." 
 
 That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox 
 and the devotion of her hubsand were on 
 every tongue. But married is not mated, 
 and the best part of Jessy Lorimer's beauty 
 had never touched Will Lennox. Her 
 pure, simple, poetic temperament he had 
 never understood, and he felt in a dim, 
 uncertain way that the noblest part of his 
 wife escaped him. 
 
 He could not enter into her feelings, and 
 her spiritual superiority unconsciously ir- 
 ritated him. Jessy had set her love's first 
 music to the broad, artistic heart of Pe- 
 tralto; she could not, without wronging 
 herself, decline to a lower range of feelings 
 and a narrower heart. This reserve of her- 
 self was not a conscious one. She was not 
 one of those self -involved women always 
 studying their own emotions; she was 
 simply true to the light within her. But 
 her way was not Will Lennox's way, her 
 finer fancies and lighter thoughts were 
 mysteries to his grosser nature. 
 
 So the thing happened which always has 
 and always will happen in such cases; when
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 317 
 
 the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's 
 great personal beauty had lost their first 
 novelty and power, she gradually became 
 to her husband "Something better than 
 his dog, a little dearer than his horse. ' ' 
 
 I did not much blame Will L,ennox. It 
 is very hard to love what we do not com- 
 prehend. A wife who could have sym- 
 pathized in his pursuits, talked over the 
 chances of his " Favorite, " or gone to sea 
 with him in his yacht, would always have 
 found Will an indulgent and attentive hus- 
 band. But fast horses did not interest 
 Jessy, and going to sea made her ill; so 
 gradually these two fell much further apart 
 than they ought to have done. 
 
 Now, if Petralto had been wicked and 
 Jessy weak, he might have revenged him- 
 self on the man and woman who had 
 wrought him so much suffering. But he 
 had set his love far too high to sully her 
 white name; and Jessy, in that serenity 
 which comes of lofty and assured principles, 
 had no idea of the possibility of her injur- 
 ing her husband by a wrong thought. Yet 
 instinctively they both sought to keep apart ; 
 and if by chance they met, the grave cour- 
 tesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the 
 other left nothing for evil hopes or thoughts 
 to feed upon. One morning, two years 
 after Jessy's marriage, I received a note 
 from Petralto, asking me to call upon him
 
 318 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 immediately. To my amazement, his rooms 
 were dismantled, his effects packed up, and 
 he was on the point of leaving New York. 
 
 "Whither bound?" I asked. "To 
 Rome?" 
 
 "No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try 
 what nature can do for me. Art, society, 
 even friendship, fail at times to comfort me 
 for my lost love. I will go back to nature, 
 the great, sweet mother and lover of men. " 
 
 So Petralto went out of New York ; and 
 the world that had known him forgot him 
 forgot even to wonder about, much less to 
 regret, him. 
 
 I was no more faithful than others. I 
 fell in with a wonderful German philoso- 
 pher, and got into the "entities" and "non- 
 entities," forgot Petralto in Hegel, and felt 
 rather ashamed of the days when I lounged 
 and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. 
 I was " enamored of divine philosophy," 
 took no more interest in polite gossip, and 
 did not waste my time reading newspapers. 
 In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I 
 did not feel that I had the time lawfully to 
 spare. 
 
 Therefore, anyone may imagine my as- 
 tonishment when, about three years after 
 Petralto 's departure from New York, he 
 one morning suddenly entered my study, 
 handsome as Apollo and happy as a 
 bridegroom. I have used the word
 
 Winter Evening Tales. 319 
 
 ' ' groom' ' very happily, for I found out in a 
 few minutes that Petralto's radiant condi- 
 tion was, in fact, the condition of a bride- 
 groom. 
 
 Of course, under the circumstances, I 
 could not avoid feeling congratulatory ; and 
 my affection for the handsome, loving fellow 
 came back so strongly that I resolved to 
 break my late habits of seclusion, and go 
 to the Brevoort House and see his bride. 
 
 I acknowledge that in this decision there 
 was some curiosity. I wondered what rare 
 woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lori- 
 mer's place; and I rather enjoyed the pros- 
 pect of twitting him with his protestations 
 of eternal fidelity to his first love. 
 
 I did not do it. I had no opportunity. 
 Madame Petralto Garcia was, in fact, Jessy 
 Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood 
 at once that Will must be dead ; but I did 
 not learn the particulars until the next day, 
 when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke 
 and chat. Not unwillingly I shut my book 
 and lit my cigar. 
 
 " 'All's well that ends well,' my dear 
 fellow, ' ' I said, when we had both smoked 
 silently for a few moments; "but I never 
 heard of Will Lennox's death. I hope he 
 did not come to the Guadalupeand get shot. ' ' 
 
 Petralto shook his head and replied: "I 
 was always sorry for that threat. Will 
 never meant to injure me. No. He was
 
 320 Winter Evening Tales. 
 
 drowned at sea two years ago. His yacht 
 was caught in a storm, he ventured too 
 near the shore, and all on board perished." 
 "I did not hear of it at the time." 
 "Nor I either. I will tell you how I 
 heard. About a year ago I went, as was 
 my frequent custom, to the little open glade 
 in the forest where I had first seen Jessy. 
 As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I 
 saw a beautiful woman, clothed in black, 
 walk slowly toward the very same jasmine 
 vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull 
 down a loaded branch. Can you guess how 
 my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet and 
 cried out before I knew what I was doing, 
 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' She stood quite 
 still, looking toward me. Oh, how beauti- 
 ful she was! And when at length we 
 clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I 
 knew without a word that my love had 
 come to me. ' ' 
 
 "She had waited a whole year?" 
 "True; I liked her the better for that. 
 After Will's death she went to Scotland 
 put both herself and me out of temptation. 
 She owed this much to the memory of a 
 man who had loved her as well as he was 
 capable of doing. But I know how happy 
 were the steps that brought her back to the 
 Guadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon 
 under the jasmine vine paid for all. I am 
 the happiest man in all the wide world. ' '
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 B 000012951 
 
 PS 
 1072