3 1822 01286 0094 
 
 PAUL-LAURENCE-DUNBAR
 
 J
 
 3 1822 01286 0094 
 
 PS 
 
 A
 
 THE UNCALLED
 
 The Uncalled 
 
 Jiotoel 
 
 3* 
 
 By PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 
 
 Author of (f Lyrics of Lowly Life " 
 
 New York 
 
 International Association of Newspapers and Authors 
 1901
 
 Copyright, 1898 
 BY PAUL LAURENCE DCNBAR 
 
 Copyright, 1898 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 ^BECKTOLD 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOK AlFG. CO. 
 ST. LOUIS, MO,
 
 Dedicated 
 TO MY WIFE
 
 THE UNCALLED 
 
 9' 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was about six o'clock of a winter's 
 morning. In the eastern sky faint 
 streaks of grey had come and were succeeded 
 by flashes of red, crimson-cloaked heralds of 
 the coming day. It had snowed the day 
 before, but a warm wind had sprung up dur 
 ing the night, and the snow had partially 
 melted, leaving the earth showing through 
 in ugly patches of yellow clay and sooty 
 mud. Half despoiled of their white mantle, 
 though with enough of it left to stand out 
 in bold contrast to the bare places, the 
 houses loomed up, black, dripping, and 
 hideous. Every once in a while the wind 
 caught the water as it trickled from the 
 eaves, and sent it flying abroad in a chill 
 unsparkling spray. The morning came in, 
 cold, damp, and dismal. 
 
 At the end of a short, dirty street in the
 
 2 The Uncalled 
 
 meanest part of the small Ohio town of 
 Dexter stood a house more sagging and 
 dilapidated in appearance than its disrepu 
 table fellows. From the foundation the 
 walls converged to the roof, which seemed 
 to hold its place less by virtue of nails and 
 rafters than by faith. The whole aspect of 
 the dwelling, if dwelling it could be called, 
 was as if, conscious of its own meanness, it 
 was shrinking away from its neighbours and 
 into itself. A sickly light gleamed from one 
 of the windows. As the dawn came into 
 the sky, a woman came to the door and 
 looked out. She was a slim woman, and 
 her straggling, dusty-coloured hair hung about 
 an unpleasant sallow face. She shaded her 
 eyes with her hand, as if the faint light could 
 hurt those cold, steel-grey orbs. " It 's 
 mornin'," she said to those within. " I '11 
 have to be goin' along to git my man's 
 breakfast : he goes to work at six o'clock, 
 and I 'ain't got a thing cooked in the house 
 fur him. Some o' the rest o' you '11 have 
 to stay an' lay her out." She went back in 
 and closed the door behind her. 
 
 " La, Mis' Warren, you ain't a-goin* 
 a' ready ? Why, there 's everything to be 
 done here yit : Margar't 's to be laid out, an*
 
 The Uncalled 3 
 
 this house has to be put into some kind of 
 order before the undertaker comes." 
 
 " I should like to know what else I 'm a- 
 goin' to do, Mis' Austin. Charity begins 
 at home. My man 's got to go to work, an' 
 he 's got to have his breakfast : there 's cares 
 fur the livin' as well as fur the dead, I say, 
 an' I don't believe in tryin' to be so good to 
 them that 's gone that you furgit them that 's 
 with you." 
 
 Mrs. Austin pinched up her shrivelled 
 face a bit more as she replied, " Well, some 
 body ought to stay. I know I can't, fur 
 I 've got a ter'ble big washin' waitin' fur me 
 at home, an' it 's been two nights sence I 've 
 had any sleep to speak of, watchin* here. 
 I'm purty near broke down." 
 
 " That 's jest what I 've been a-sayin'," 
 repeated Mrs. Warren. " There 's cares 
 fur the livin' as well as fur the dead ; you 'd 
 ought to take care o' yoreself : first thing 
 you know you '11 be flat o' yore own back." 
 
 A few other women joined their voices in 
 the general protest against staying. It was 
 for all the world as if they had been anxious 
 to see the poor woman out of the world, 
 and, now that they knew her to be gone, had 
 no further concern for her. All had some-
 
 4 The Uncalled 
 
 thing to do, either husbands to get off to 
 work or labours of their own to perform. 
 
 A little woman with a weak voice finally 
 changed the current of talk by saying, 
 " Well, I guess I kin stay : there 's some 
 cold things at home that my man kin git, 
 an' the childern '11 git off to school by them 
 selves. They '11 all understand." 
 
 "That's right, Melissy Davis," said a 
 hard-faced woman who had gone on about 
 some work she was doing, without taking 
 any notice of the clamorous deserters, " an' 
 I '11 stay with you. I guess I Ve got about 
 as much work to do as any of you," she 
 added, casting a cold glance at the women 
 who were now wrapped up and ready to de 
 part, " an' I was n't so much of a friend of 
 Margar't's as some of you, neither, but on 
 an occasion like this I know what dooty is." 
 And Miss Hester Prime closed her lips in a 
 very decided fashion. 
 
 " Oh, well, some folks is so well off in 
 money an' time that they kin afford to be 
 liberal with a pore creature like Margar't, 
 even ef they did n't have nothin' to do with 
 her before she died." 
 
 Miss Prime's face grew sterner as she 
 replied, " Margar't Brent was n't my kind
 
 The Uncalled 5 
 
 durin' life, an' that I make no bones o' sayin' 
 here an' now ; but when she got down on 
 the bed of affliction I done what I could fur 
 her along with the best of you ; an' you, 
 Mandy Warren, that 's seen me here day in 
 an' day out, ought to be the last one to 
 deny that. Furthermore, I did n't advise 
 her to leave her husband, as some people 
 did, but I did put in a word an' help her to 
 work so 's to try to keep her straight after 
 wards, though it ain't fur me to be a-braggin' 
 about what I done, even to offset them that 
 did n't do nothin'." 
 
 This parting shot told, and Mrs. Warren 
 flared up like a wax light. " It 's a wonder 
 yore old tracts an' the help you give her 
 did n't keep her sober sometimes." 
 
 " Ef I could n't keep her sober, I was n't 
 one o* them that set an* took part with her 
 when she was gittin' drunk." 
 
 " 'Sh ! 'sh ! " broke in Mrs. Davis : " ef I 
 was you two I would n't go on that way. 
 Margar't's dead an' gone now, an' what 's 
 past is past. Pore soul, she had a hard 
 enough time almost to drive her to destruc 
 tion ; but it 's all over now, an' we ought to 
 put her away as peaceful as possible." 
 
 The women who had all been in such a
 
 6 The Uncalled 
 
 hurry had waited at the prospect of an alter 
 cation, but, seeing it about to blow over, they 
 bethought themselves of their neglected 
 homes and husbands, and passed out behind 
 the still irate Mrs. Warren, who paused long 
 enough in earshot to say, " I hope that spite 
 ful old maid '11 have her hands full." 
 
 The scene within the room which the 
 women had just left was anything but an in 
 viting one. The place was miserably dirty. 
 Margaret had never been a particularly neat 
 housewife, even in her well days. The old 
 rag carpet which disfigured the floor was 
 worn into shreds and blotched with grease, for 
 the chamber was cooking- and dining- as well 
 as sleeping-room. A stove, red with rust, 
 struggled to send forth some heat. The 
 oily black kerosene lamp showed a sickly 
 yellow flame through the grimy chimney. 
 
 On a pallet in one corner lay a child 
 sleeping. On the bed, covered with a dingy 
 sheet, lay the stark form out of which the 
 miserable life had so lately passed. 
 
 The women opened the blinds, blew out 
 the light, and began performing the neces 
 sary duties for the dead. 
 
 " Anyhow, let her body go clean before her 
 Maker," said Miss Hester Prime, severely.
 
 The Uncalled 7 
 
 " Don't be too hard on the pore ?oul, 
 Miss Hester," returned Mrs. Davis. " >he 
 had a hard time of it. I knowed Marg-r't 
 when she was n't so low down as in her last 
 days." 
 
 " She ought n't never to 'a' left her hus 
 band." 
 
 " Oh, ef you 'd Y knowed him as I did, 
 Miss Hester, you would n't never say that. 
 He was a brute : sich beatin's as he used to 
 give her when he was in liquor you never 
 heerd tell of." 
 
 " That was hard, but as long as he was a 
 husband he was a protection to her name." 
 
 " True enough. Protection is a good 
 dish, but a beatin's a purty bitter sauce to 
 take with it." 
 
 "I wonder what's ever become of Brent." 
 
 " Lord knows. No one 'ain't heerd hide 
 ner hair o' him sence he went away from 
 town. People thought that he was a-hangin* 
 around try in' to git a chance to kill Mag 
 after she got her divorce from him, but all 
 at once he packed off without sayin' a word 
 to anybody. I guess he 's drunk himself to 
 death by this time." 
 
 When they had finished with Margaret, 
 the women set to work to clean up the house.
 
 8 The Uncalled 
 
 The city physician who had attended the 
 dead woman in her last hours had reported 
 the case for county burial, and the under 
 taker was momentarily expected. 
 
 " We '11 have to git the child up an' git 
 his pallet out of the way, so the floor kin be 
 swept." 
 
 " A body hates to wake the pore little 
 motherless dear." 
 
 " Perhaps, after all, the child is better off 
 without her example." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Hester, perhaps ; but a 
 mother, after all, is a mother." 
 
 " Even sich a one as this ? " 
 
 " Even sich a one as this." 
 
 Mrs. Davis bent over the child, and was 
 about to lift- him, when he stirred, opened 
 his eyes, and sat up of his own accord. He 
 appeared about five years of age. He might 
 have been a handsome child, but hardship 
 and poor feeding had taken away his infantile 
 plumpness, and he looked old and haggard, 
 even beneath the grime on his face. The 
 kindly woman lifted him up and began to 
 dress him. 
 
 " I want my mamma," said the child. 
 
 Neither of the women answered : there 
 was something tugging at their heart-strings 
 that killed speech.
 
 The Uncalled 9 
 
 Finally the little woman said, " I don't 
 know ef we did right to let him sleep through 
 it all, but then it was sich a horrible death." 
 
 When she had finished dressing the child, 
 she led him to the bed and showed him his 
 mother's face. He touched it with his little 
 grimy finger, and then, as if, young as he 
 was, the realization of his bereavement had 
 fully come to him, he burst into tears. 
 
 Miss Hester turned her face away, but 
 Mrs. Davis did not try to conceal her tears. 
 She took the boy up in her arms and com 
 forted him the best she could. 
 
 "Don't cry, Freddie," she said; "don't 
 cry ; mamma 's restin'. Ef you don't care, 
 Miss Prime, I '11 take him over home an* 
 give him some breakfast, an' leave him with 
 my oldest girl, Sophy. She kin stay out o* 
 school to-day. I '11 bring you back a cup o' 
 tea, too ; that is, ef you ain't afeared " 
 
 " Afeared o' what ? " exclaimed Miss 
 Prime, turning on her. 
 
 " Well, you know, Miss Hester, bein* 
 left alone ah some people air funny 
 about " 
 
 " I 'm no fool, Melissy Davis. Take the 
 child an' go on." 
 
 Miss Hester was glad of the chance to be
 
 io The Uncalled 
 
 sharp. It covered the weakness to which 
 she had almost given way at sight of the 
 child's grief. She bustled on about her work 
 when Mrs. Davis was gone, but her brow 
 was knit into a wrinkle of deep thought. 
 " A mother is a mother, after all," she 
 mused aloud, " even sich a one."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 FOR haste, for unadulterated despatch, 
 commend me to the county burying. 
 The body politic is busy and has no time to 
 waste on an inert human body. It does its 
 duty to its own interest and to the pauper 
 dead when the body is dropped with all 
 celerity into the ground. The county is 
 philosophical : it says, " Poor devil, the world 
 was unkind to him : he '11 be glad to get out 
 of it: we'll be doing him a favour to put 
 him at the earliest moment out of sight and 
 sound and feeling of the things that wounded 
 him. Then, too, the quicker the cheaper, 
 and that will make it easier on the tax 
 payers." This latter is so comforting ! So 
 the order is written, the funeral is rushed 
 through, and the county goes home to its 
 dinner, feeling well satisfied with itself, so 
 potent are the consolations of philosophy at 
 so many hundreds per year. 
 
 To this general order poor Margaret's 
 funeral proved no exception. The morning 
 after her decease she was shrouded and laid
 
 12, The Uncalled 
 
 in her cheap pine coffin to await those last 
 services which, in a provincial town, are the 
 meed of saint and sinner alike. The room 
 in which she lay was very clean, unnatur 
 ally so, from the attention of Miss Prime. 
 Clean muslin curtains had been put up at 
 the windows, and the one cracked mirror 
 which the house possessed had been covered 
 with white cloth. The lace-like carpet had 
 been taken off the floor, and the boards had 
 been scrubbed white. The little stove in the 
 corner, now cold, was no longer red with 
 rust. In a tumbler on a little table at Mar 
 garet's head stood the only floral offering 
 that gave a touch of tenderness to the grim 
 scene, a bunch of home-grown scarlet and 
 white geraniums. Some woman had robbed 
 her wintered room of this bit of brightness 
 for the memory of the dead. The perfume 
 of the flowers mingled heavily with the faint 
 odour which pervades the chamber of death, 
 an odour that is like the reminiscence of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Like a spirit of order, with solemn face 
 and quiet tread, Miss Hester moved about 
 the room, placing one thing here, another 
 there, but ever doing or changing something, 
 all with maidenly neatness. What a childish
 
 fancy this is of humanity's, tiptoeing and 
 whispering in the presence of death, as if one 
 by an incautious word or a hasty step might 
 wake the sleeper from such deep repose ! 
 
 The service had been set for two o'clock 
 in the afternoon. One or two women had 
 already come in to " sit," but by half-past one 
 the general congregation began to arrive and 
 to take their places. They were mostly wo 
 men. The hour of the day was partially 
 responsible for this ; but then men do not go 
 to funerals anyway, if they can help it. They 
 do not revel, like their sisters, in the exquis 
 ite pleasure of sorrow. Most of the women 
 had known pain and loss themselves, and 
 came with ready sympathy, willing, nay, 
 anxious to be moved to tears. Some of them 
 came dragging by one hand children, dressed 
 stiffly, uncomfortably, and ludicrously, a 
 medley of soiled ribbons, big collars, wide 
 bows, and very short knickerbockers. The 
 youngsters were mostly curious and ill- 
 mannered, and ever and anon one had to be 
 slapped by its mother into snivelling decorum. 
 Mrs. Davis came in with one of her own 
 children and leading the dead woman's boy 
 by the hand. At this a buzz of whispered 
 conversation began.
 
 14 The Uncalled 
 
 " Pore little dear," said one, as she settled 
 the bow more securely under her own boy's 
 sailor collar, " pore little dear, he 's all 
 alone in the world." 
 
 " I never did see in all my life sich a 
 young child look so sad," said another. 
 
 " H'm ! " put in a third ; " in this world 
 pore motherless childern has plenty o' reason 
 to look sad, I tell you." 
 
 She brushed the tears off the cheek of her 
 little son whom she had slapped a moment 
 before. She was tender now. 
 
 One woman bent down and whispered into 
 her child's ear as she pointed with one cotton- 
 gloved finger, " See, Johnny, see little Fred 
 die, there ; he 'ain't got no mother no more. 
 Pore little Freddie ! ain't you sorry fur him ? " 
 The child nodded, and gazed with open-eyed 
 wonder at " little Freddie " as if he were of 
 a new species. 
 
 The curtains, stirred by the blast through 
 the loose windows, flapped dismally, and the 
 people drew their wraps about them, for the 
 fireless room was cold. Steadily, insistently, 
 the hive-like drone of conversation mur 
 mured on. 
 
 " I wonder who 's a-goin' to preach the 
 funeral," asked one.
 
 The Uncalled 15 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Simpson, of the Methodist 
 Church, of course : she used to go to that 
 church years ago, you know, before she 
 backslid." 
 
 " That 's jest what I 've allus said about 
 people that falls from grace. You know the 
 last state o' that man is worse than the first." 
 
 "Ah, that's true enough." 
 
 " It 's a-puttin' yore hand to the plough 
 share an' then turnin' back." 
 
 "I wonder what the preacher '11 have to 
 say fur her. It's a mighty hard case to 
 preach about." 
 
 " I 'm wonderin' too what he '11 say, an* 
 where he '11 preach her." 
 
 " Well, it 's hard to tell. You know the 
 Methodists believe that there 's ( salvation 
 to be found between the stirrup an* the 
 ground.' ' 
 
 " It 's a mighty comfortin* doctern, too." 
 
 " An' then they do say that she left some 
 dyin' testimony ; though I 'ain't never heerd 
 tell the straight of it." 
 
 " He can't preach her into heaven, o' 
 course, after her life. Leastways, it don't 
 hardly seem like it would be right an* 
 proper." 
 
 " Well, I don't think he kin preach her
 
 1 6 The Uncalled 
 
 into hell, neither. After a woman has gone 
 through all that pore Margar't has, it seems 
 to me that the Lord ought to give her some 
 consideration, even if men don't." 
 
 " I do declare, Seely Matthews, with yore 
 free thinkin' an' free speakin ', you 're put' 
 nigh a infidel." 
 
 " No, I ain't no infidel, neither, but I ain't 
 one o' them that sings, ' When all thy mer 
 cies, O my God,' and thinks o' the Lord as 
 if He was a great big cruel man." 
 
 "Well, I don't neither; but " 
 
 " 'Sh ! 'sh ! " 
 
 The woman's declaration of principle was 
 cut short by the entrance of the minister, the 
 Rev. Mr. Simpson. He was a tall, gaunt 
 man, in a coat of rusty black. His hair, of 
 an indeterminate colour, was slightly mixed 
 with grey. A pair of bright grey eyes 
 looked out from underneath bushy eyebrows. 
 His lips were close set. His bony hands 
 were large and ungainly. The Rev. Mr. 
 Simpson had been a carpenter before he was 
 "called." He went immediately to the 
 stand where lay the Bible and hymn-book. 
 He was followed by a man who had entered 
 with him, a man with soft eyes and a 
 kindly face. He was as tall as the pastor,
 
 The Uncalled 17 
 
 and slender, but without the other's gaunt- 
 ness. He was evidently a church official of 
 some standing. 
 
 With strange inappropriateness,the preach 
 er selected and gave out the hymn : 
 
 Sister, them wast mild and lovely, 
 Gentle as the summer's breeze. 
 
 With some misgivings, it was carried 
 through in the wavering treble of the women 
 and the straggling bass of the few men : then 
 the kindly-faced man, whom the preacher 
 addressed as " Brother Hodges," knelt and 
 offered prayer. The supplication was very 
 tender and childlike. Even by the light of 
 faith he did not seek to penetrate the veil of 
 divine intention, nor did he throw his javelin 
 of prayer straight against the Deity's armour 
 of eternal reserve. He left all to God, as a 
 child lays its burden at its father's feet, and 
 many eyes were moist as the people rose 
 from their knees. 
 
 The sermon was a noisy and rather incon 
 sequential effort. The preacher had little 
 to say, but he roared that little out in 
 a harsh, unmusical voice accompanied by 
 much slapping of his hands and pounding of 
 the table. Towards the end he lowered his
 
 1 8 The Uncalled 
 
 voice and began to play upon the feelings of 
 his willing hearers, and when he had won 
 his meed of sobs and tears, when he had 
 sufficiently probed old wounds and made 
 them bleed afresh, when he had conjured up 
 dead sorrows from the grave, when he had 
 obscured the sun of heavenly hope with the 
 vapours of earthly grief, he sat down, 
 satisfied. 
 
 The people went forward, some curiously, 
 some with sympathy, to look their last on 
 the miserable dead. Mrs. Davis led the 
 weeping child forward and held him up for 
 a last gaze on his mother's face. The poor 
 geraniums were wiped and laid by the dead 
 hands, and then the undertaker glided in 
 like a stealthy, black-garmented ghost. He 
 screwed the pine-top down, and the coffin 
 was borne out to the hearse. He clucked 
 to his horses, and, with Brother Hodges and 
 the preacher in front, and Mrs. Davis, Miss 
 Prime, and the motherless boy behind, the 
 little funeral train moved down the street 
 towards the graveyard, a common but pa 
 thetic spectacle. 
 
 Mrs. Warren had remained behind to 
 attend to the house. She watched the short 
 procession out of sight. " I guess Margar't
 
 The Uncalled 19 
 
 did n't have no linen worth havin'," she said 
 to herself, " but I '11 jest look." And look 
 she did, but without success. In 'disappoint 
 ment and disgust she went out and took the 
 streamer of dusty black and dingy white 
 crape from the door where it had fluttered, 
 and, bringing it in, laid it on the empty 
 trestles, that the undertaker might find it 
 when he came for them. She took the 
 cloth off the mirror, and then, with one 
 searching look around to see that she had 
 missed nothing worth taking, she went out, 
 closing and locking the door behind her. 
 
 " I guess I 'm as much entitled to any 
 thing Mag had as any one else," said Mrs. 
 Warren.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BY common consent, and without the 
 formality of publication or proclama 
 tion, the women had agreed to meet on the 
 day after the funeral for the purpose of dis 
 cussing what was best to be done with the boy 
 Fred. From the moment that Mrs. Davis 
 had taken charge of him, he had shown a iove 
 for her and confidence in her care that had 
 thoroughly touched that good woman's 
 heart. She would have liked nothing better 
 than to keep him herself. But there were 
 already five hungry little Davises, and any 
 avoidable addition to the family was out of 
 the question. To be sure, in the course of 
 time there were two more added to the 
 number, but that was unavoidable, and is 
 neither here nor there. The good woman 
 sat looking at the boy the night after his 
 mother had been laid away. He sat upon 
 the floor among her own children, playing 
 in the happy forgetfulness of extreme youth, 
 But to the mother's keen eye there was stilJ
 
 The Uncalled zi 
 
 a vague sadness in his bearing. Involunta 
 rily, the scene and conditions were changed, 
 and, instead of poor Margaret, she herself 
 had passed away and was lying out there in 
 a new-made grave in bleak and dreary 
 Woodland. She thought how her own 
 bairns would be as motherless and forlorn as 
 the child before her, and yet not quite, 
 either, for they had a father who loved them 
 in his own quiet undemonstrative way. 
 This should have consoled her in the sorrows 
 she had conjured up, but, like a woman, she 
 thought of the father helpless and lonely 
 when she had gone, with the children hud 
 dled cheerlessly about him, and a veil of 
 tears came between her and the youngsters 
 on the floor. With a great rush of tender 
 ness, she went and picked the motherless 
 boy up and laid his head on her breast. 
 
 " Pore Freddie," she said, " I wish you 
 could stay here all the time and play with 
 the other little ones." 
 
 The child looked up at her with wonder 
 ing eyes. " I kin stay till mamma comes 
 back," he answered. 
 
 " But, Freddie dear, mamma won't come 
 back any more. She 's " the woman hes 
 itated " she's in heaven."
 
 22, The Uncalled 
 
 " I want my mamma to come back," 
 moaned the child. " I don't want her to 
 stay in heaven." 
 
 " But you must n't cry, Freddie ; an', some 
 day, you kin go an' see mamma." 
 
 The child's curiosity got the better of his 
 grief. He asked, " Is heaven far, Mis' 
 Davis ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear, awful far," she answered. 
 But she was wrong. Heaven is not far from 
 the warm heart and tender hands of a good 
 woman. 
 
 The child's head drooped, and he drowsed 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Put him to bed, Melissy, pore little 
 fellow," said her husband in husky tones. 
 He had been listening and watching them 
 around the edge of his paper. The child 
 slept on, while the woman undressed him 
 and laid him in the bed. 
 
 On the morrow the women dropped in 
 one by one, until a half-dozen or more were 
 there, to plan the boy's future. They were 
 all poor, and most of them had families of 
 their own. But all hoped that there might 
 be some plan devised whereby Margaret's 
 boy might find a refuge without going to the 
 orphans' asylum, an institution which is the
 
 The Uncalled 23 
 
 detestation of women. Mrs. Davis, in ex 
 pressing her feelings, expressed those of all 
 the others : " I hate so to think of the pore 
 little feller goin' to one o' them childern's 
 homes. The boys goin' around in them there 
 drab clothes o' theirs allus look like pris'ners 
 to me, an' they ain't much better off." 
 
 "An' then childern do learn so much 
 weekedness in them places from the older 
 ones," put in another. 
 
 " Oh, as fur that matter, he '11 learn devil 
 ment soon enough anywhere," snapped Mrs. 
 Warren, " with that owdacious father o' his 
 before him. I would n't take the child by 
 no means, though his mother an' me was 
 friends, fur blood's bound to tell, an' with 
 sich blood as he 's got in him I don't know 
 what he '11 come to, an' I 'm shore I don't 
 want to be a-raisin' no gallus-birds." 
 
 The women felt rather relieved that Mrs. 
 Warren so signally washed her hands of 
 Freddie. That was one danger he had es 
 caped. The woman in question had, as she 
 said, been a close friend of Margaret's, and, 
 as such, an aider in her habits of intemper 
 ance. It had been apprehended that her 
 association with the mother might lead her 
 to take the child.
 
 24 The Uncalled 
 
 " I 'd like to take Freddie myself/' Mrs. 
 Davis began again, " but with my five, an* 
 John out o* work half the time, another 
 mouth to fee \ an' another pair o' feet to 
 cover would mean a whole lot. Though I 
 do think that ef I was dead an' my childern 
 was sent to that miserable orphans' home, 
 I 'd turn over in my grave." 
 
 " It 's a pity we don't know some good 
 family that 'ain't got no childern that 'ud 
 take him an' bring him up as their own son," 
 said a little woman who took The Hearth- 
 side. 
 
 " Sich people ain't growin' on trees no 
 place about Dexter," Mrs. Warren sniffed. 
 
 " Well, I 'm sure I 've read of sich things. 
 Ef the child was in a book it 'ud happen to 
 him, but he ain't. He 's a flesh and blood 
 youngster an a-livin' in Dexter." 
 
 " You could n't give us no idee what to 
 do, could you, Mis' Austin ? " 
 
 " Lord love you, Mis' Davis, I 've jest 
 been a-settin' here purty nigh a-thinkin' my 
 head off, but I 'ain't seen a gleam of light 
 yit. You know how I feel an' jest how glad 
 I 'd be to do something, but then my man 
 growls about the three we 've got." 
 
 " That 's jest the way with my man," said
 
 The Uncalled 2,5 
 
 the little woman who took her ideas of life 
 from the literature in The Hearthside. "He 
 allus says that pore folks ought n't to have 
 so many childern." 
 
 " Well, it 's a blessin' that Margar't did n't 
 have no more, fur goodness knows it 's hard 
 enough disposin' o' this one." 
 
 Just then a tap came at Mrs. Davis's door, 
 and she opened it to admit Miss Hester 
 Prime. 
 
 " I 'm ruther late gittin' here," said the 
 new-comer, " but I Ve been a-neglectin' my 
 v/ork so in the last couple o' days that I Ve 
 had a power of it to do to-day to ketch up." 
 
 " Oh, we 're so glad you 've come ! " said 
 one of the women. " Mebbe you kin help 
 us out of our fix. We 're in sich a fix about 
 little Freddie." 
 
 " We don't want to send the pore little 
 dear to the childern's home," broke in 
 another. 
 
 " It 's sich an awful place fur young 
 childern " 
 
 " An' they do look so pitiful " 
 
 " An' learn so much wcekedness." 
 
 And, as is the manner of women in coun 
 cil, they all began talking at once, pouring 
 into the new-come/s ears all the suggestions
 
 26 The Uncalled 
 
 and objections, hopes and fears, that had 
 been made or urged during their conference. 
 
 To it all Miss Hester listened, and there 
 was a soft glow on her face the while ; but 
 then she had been walking, which may 
 account for the flush. The child, all uncon 
 scious that his destiny was being settled, was 
 playing with two of the little Davises at the 
 other end of the room. The three days of 
 good food, good treatment, and pleasant sur 
 roundings had told on him, and he looked 
 less forlorn and more like the child that he 
 was. He was clean. His brown eyes were 
 sparkling with amusement, and his brown 
 hair was brushed up into the damp " roach " 
 so dear to a woman's heart. He was, thus, 
 a far less forbidding sight than on the morn 
 ing of his mother's death, when, dingy and 
 haggard, he rose from his dirty pallet. As 
 she listened to the varied remarks of her 
 associates, Miss Hester allowed her eyes to 
 wander to the child's face, and for a moment 
 a tenderer expression grew about her lips, 
 but in an instant it was gone, and, as if she 
 had been near committing herself to folly, 
 she made amends by drawing her countenance 
 into more than its usually severe lines. 
 
 Mrs, Warren, who was always ready with
 
 The Uncalled 27 
 
 a stao, and who had not forgotten her en 
 counter of two days ago, spoke up with a 
 little malicious laugh. " Miss Hester 'ain't 
 got no family : mebbe she might take the 
 child. 'Pears like she ought to be fond o' 
 childern." 
 
 Mrs. Davis immediately came to the 
 rescue. " We don't expect no sich thing of 
 Miss Hester. She's never been around 
 childern, an' don't know nothin' about takin' 
 keer o' them ; an' boys air hard to manage, 
 anyhow." 
 
 " Ok, I should think Miss Hester could 
 manage 'most anything," was the sneering 
 rejoinder. 
 
 The women were aghast at such insolence. 
 They did n't know what the effect might be 
 on Miss Prime. They looked at her in 
 alarm. Her cold grey eye impaled Mrs. 
 Warren for an instant only, and then, pay 
 ing no more attention to her, she said 
 quietly, " I was thinkin' this whole matter 
 over while I was finishin' up my work to 
 come here, an', says I to myself, e Now there 's 
 Melissy Davis, she's the very one that 
 'ud be a mother to that child,' says 1, * an' 
 she 'd bring him up right as a child should 
 be brought up.' I don't know no more
 
 The Uncalled 
 
 mannerly, nicc-appearin' childern in this 
 neighbourhood, or the whole town, fur that 
 matter, than Melissy's '' 
 
 " Oh, Miss Hester ! " faltered Mrs. Davis. 
 
 But Miss Prime went on, unheeding the 
 interruption. "Thinks I, ' Melissy's got a 
 houseful already, an' she can't take another/ 
 Then you comes into my mind, Mis' Austin, 
 an' says I, ' La me ! she's got three herself, 
 an' is young yit ; she '11 have her hands full 
 to look after her own family.' Well, I 
 thought of you all, an' some of you had 
 families, an' some of you had to go out fur 
 day's work ; an' then there 's some people's 
 hands I would n't want to see the child fall 
 into." (This with an annihilating glance 
 in Mrs. Warren's direction.) " You know 
 what the Bible says about the sins of the 
 father ; well, that child needs proper raisin' : 
 so in this way the Lord showed it to me 
 that it was my dooty to take up the burden 
 myself." 
 
 First there was an absolute silence of 
 utter astonishment, and then, " Oh, Miss 
 Hester ! " broke from a full chorus of 
 voices. 
 
 " You don't reelly mean it, Miss Hester ? " 
 said Mrs. Davis.
 
 The Uncalled 29 
 
 " I do that ; but I want you all to under 
 stand that it ain't a matter of pleasure or 
 desire with me ; it 's dooty. Ef I see a 
 chance to save a soul from perdition an* 
 don't take it, I am responsible, myself, to 
 the Lord for that soul." 
 
 The women were almost too astounded 
 to speak, Mrs. Warren not less than the 
 rest of them. She had made her suggestion 
 in derision, and here it was being acted upon 
 in sober earnest. She was entirely routed. 
 
 u Now, Melissy, ef there ain't no one that 
 disagrees with me, you might as well pack 
 up what few things the child has, an' I '11 
 take him along." 
 
 No one objected, and the few things were 
 packed up. " Come, Freddie," said Mrs. 
 Davis tremulously, " get on yore hat." 
 The child obeyed. " You 're a-goin' to be 
 Miss Hester's little boy now. You must 
 be good." 
 
 Miss Prime held out her hand to him, 
 but the child drew back and held to his pro 
 tectress's skirt. A hurt expression came 
 into the spinster's face. It was as if the 
 great sacrifice she was making was being 
 belittled and rejected by a child. Mrs. 
 Warren laughed openly.
 
 30 The Uncalled 
 
 " Come, Freddie, be nice now, dear ; go 
 with Miss Hester." 
 
 " I want to stay with you," cried the child. 
 
 " Pore little dear ! " chorussed the women. 
 
 " But Mis' Davis can't keep the little 
 boy ; now he must go with Miss Prime, an' 
 sometimes he kin come an' see Mis' Davis 
 an' play with John an' Harriet. Won't 
 that be nice ? " 
 
 " I want to stay with you." 
 
 " Come, Frederick," said Miss Prime. 
 
 " Go now, like a good boy," repeated 
 Mrs. Davis. " Here 's a copper fur you ; 
 take it in yore little hand, that 's a man. 
 Now kiss me good-bye. Kiss John an' 
 Harriet." 
 
 The child, seeing that he must go, had 
 given up resistance, and, doing as he was 
 bidden, took Miss Prime's hand, sobbingly. 
 Some of us do not learn so soon to bow to 
 the inevitable. 
 
 " Good-bye, ladies. I must git back to 
 my work," said Miss Hester. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye, Miss Hester," came 
 the echo. 
 
 The moment the door closed behind her 
 and her charge, there was a volley of 
 remarks :
 
 The Uncalled 31 
 
 <c Oh, I do hope she '11 be good to him." 
 " I wonder how she '11 manage him." 
 " Pore child, he did n't want to go at all." 
 "Who'd have thought it of Miss Hester? " 
 " I wish I could have kept him myself," 
 said Mrs. Davis, tearfully. " It hurt my 
 heart to see him cling to me so." 
 
 " Never you mind, Melissy Davis ; you Ve 
 done yore whole dooty as well as you could." 
 Mrs. Warren rose and put her shawl over 
 her head preparatory to going. " As fur 
 my part," she said, " I 'd 'a' ruther seen 
 that child in the childern's home, devilment 
 or no devilment, than where he is. He 
 won't dare to breathe from this hour on." 
 The women were silent for a moment, and 
 then Mrs. Davis said, " Well, Miss Hester 's 
 well-meanin'."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AT the top of the mean street on which 
 Margaret's house was situated, and 
 looking down upon its meaner neighbours in 
 much the same way that its mistress looked 
 upon the denizens of the street, stood Miss 
 Prime's cottage. It was not on the mean 
 street, it would have disdained to be, 
 but sat exactly facing it in prim watchfulness 
 over the unsavoury thoroughfare which ran 
 at right angles. The cottage was one and a 
 half stories in height, and the upper half- 
 story had two windows in front that looked 
 out like a pair of accusing eyes. It was 
 painted a dull lead colour. In summer the 
 front yard was rilled with flowers, holly 
 hocks, bachelor's-buttons, sweet-william, and 
 a dozen other varieties of blooms. But 
 they were planted with such exactness and 
 straightness that the poor flowers looked 
 cramped and artificial and stiff as a party of 
 angular ladies dressed in bombazine. Here 
 was no riot nor abandon in growth. Every-
 
 The Uncalled 33 
 
 thing had its place, and stayed therein or 
 was plucked up. 
 
 " I jest can't abide to see flowers growin' 
 every which way," Miss Prime used to 
 remark, " fur all the world like a neighbour 
 hood with different people's children traipsin' 
 through everybody else's house. Every 
 thing in order, is my motto." 
 
 Miss Hester had nearly arrived at her 
 fortieth mile-stone ; and she effected the 
 paradox of looking both younger and older 
 than her age. Younger, because she had 
 always taken excellent care of herself. Her 
 form had still much of the roundness of 
 youth, and her step was sprightly and firm. 
 She looked older than her age, because of 
 the strong lines in ker face, the determined 
 set of her lips, and the general air of knowl 
 edge and self-sufficiency which pervaded her 
 whole being. Throughout her life she had 
 sacrificed everything to duty, whether it was 
 the yearning of her own heart or the feelings 
 of those who loved her. In thv world 
 about her she saw so much of froth and 
 frivolity that she tried to balance matters by 
 being especially staid and stern herself. 
 She did not consider that in the seesaw of 
 life it takes more than one person to toss up
 
 34 The Uncalled 
 
 the weight of the world's wickedness. Her 
 existence was governed by rigid rules, from 
 which she never departed. 
 
 It is hard to explain just what Miss 
 Hester's position was among the denizens 
 of the poorer quarter. She was liked and 
 disliked, admired and feared. She would 
 descend upon her victims with unasked 
 counsel and undesired tracts. Her voice 
 was a trumpet of scathing invective against 
 their shiftlessness, their untidiness, and their 
 immorality, but her hand was as a horn of 
 plenty in straitened times, and her presence 
 in sickness was a comfort. She made no 
 pretence to being good-hearted ; in fact, she 
 resented the term as applied to herself. It 
 was all duty with her. 
 
 Up through the now dismantled garden 
 to the prim cottage she led the boy Fred. 
 The child had not spoken a word since he 
 had left the house of his friend. His iittle 
 heart seemed to be suddenly chilled within 
 him. Miss Hester had bee,n equally silent. 
 Her manner was constrained and embarrassed. 
 She had, indeed, tried to find some words of 
 soothing and encouragement to say to the 
 child, such as she had heard Melissa Davis 
 use; but she could not. They were not a
 
 The Uncalled 35 
 
 part of her life's vocabulary. Several times 
 she had essayed to speak, but the sentences 
 that formed in her mind seemed so absurd 
 and awkward that she felt them better 
 unsaid. 
 
 It is true that every natural woman has 
 the maternal instinct, but unless she has felt 
 the soft face of a babe at her breast and 
 looked down into its eyes as it drew its life 
 from her life, she can know nothing of that 
 freemasonry of womanhood which, by some 
 secret means too deep and subtle for the 
 knowledge of outsiders, wins the love of 
 childhood. It is not so with men, because 
 the childish mind does not demand so much 
 of them, even though they be fathers. To 
 be convinced, look about you and see how 
 many more bachelors than maids are favour 
 ites with children. 
 
 Once within the house, Miss Hester was 
 at an entire loss as to what to do with her 
 charge. She placed him in a chair, where 
 he sat disconsolately. She went to the book 
 shelves and laid her hand upon " Pilgrim's 
 Progress ; " then she reflected that Freddie 
 was just five years old, and she allowed a 
 smile to pass over her face. But her per 
 plexity instantly chased the expression away.
 
 36 The Uncalled 
 
 " How on airth am I a-goin' to do any 
 work ? " she asked herself. " I 'm shore I 
 can't set down an' tell that child stories all 
 the time, as I 've heerd tell o' folks doin'. 
 What shall I do with him ? " She had had 
 a vague idea that the time of children was 
 taken up in some way. She knew, of course, 
 that they had to be washed and dressed, that 
 they had to eat three times a day, and after 
 all to sleep ; but what was to be done with 
 them in the mean time ? 
 
 " Oh," sighed the poor woman, " if he was 
 only old enough to go to school ! " The 
 wish was not entirely unmotherly, as mother 
 hood goes in these days, for it is not an un 
 usual thing for mothers to send their babes 
 orf to kindergarten as soon as they begin to 
 babble, in order to be relieved of the respon 
 sibility of their care. But neither wishes nor 
 hopes availed. It was a living, present sit 
 uation with which Miss Hester had to grap 
 ple. Suddenly she bethought herself that 
 children like pictures, and she secured from 
 the shelf a copy of the " Bible Looking- 
 Glass." This she opened and spread out 
 on the child's knees. He glanced at it a 
 moment or two, and then began to turn the 
 leaves, his eyes riveted on the engravings.
 
 The Uncalled 37 
 
 Miss Hester congratulated herself, and 
 slipped out to work. The thought came to 
 her, of course, that the novelty of " Bible 
 Locking-Glasses " could n't remain for ever, 
 but she put the idea by in scorn. " Sufficient 
 unto the day is the evil thereof." The book 
 was good while it lasted. It entertained the 
 child and gave him valuable moral lessons. 
 This was the woman's point of view. To 
 Fred there was no suggestion of moral les 
 sons. It was merely a lot of very fine pic 
 tures, and when Miss Prime had gone he 
 relaxed some of his disconsolate stiffness and 
 entered into the contemplation of them with 
 childish zest. His guardian, however, did 
 not abandon her vigilance, and in *a few min 
 utes she peeped through the door from the 
 kitchen, where she was working, to see how 
 her charge got on. The sight which met 
 her eyes made her nearly drop the cup which 
 she held in her hand and with which she had 
 been measuring out flour for a cup-cake. 
 With the book spread out before him, Freddie 
 was lying flat on his stomach on the floor, 
 with his little heels contentedly kicking the 
 air. His attitude was the expression of the 
 acme of childish satisfaction. 
 
 Miss Prime's idea of floors was that they
 
 were to be walked on, scrubbed, measured, 
 and carpeted ; she did not remember in all 
 the extent of her experience to have seen one 
 used as a reading-desk before. But she with 
 drew without a word : the child was quiet, 
 and that was much. 
 
 About this time, any one observing the 
 cottage would have seen an old-fashioned 
 phaeton, to which a plump old nag was 
 hitched, driven up to the door and halted, 
 and a man alight and enter at the gate. If 
 the observer had been at Margaret's funeral, 
 he would instantly have recognised the man 
 as the Rev. Mr. Simpson's assistant, Mr. 
 Hodges. The man walked deliberately 
 around to 'the kitchen, and, tapping at the 
 door, opened it without ceremony and went 
 in, calling out, " Miss Hester, Miss Hester, 
 I 'm a-runnin' right in on you." 
 
 " I do declare, 'Liphalet Hodges, you do 
 beat all fur droppin' in on a body at unex 
 pected times." 
 
 "Well, I guess you 're right. My corn- 
 in' 's a good deal like the second comin' 
 o' the Son o' man '11 be. I guess you 're 
 right." 
 
 To Miss Prime, Eliphalet Hodges was 
 always unexpected, although he had been
 
 The Uncalled 39 
 
 dropping in this way before her mother and 
 father died, twenty years gone. 
 
 "Well, I 'low, 'Liphalet, that you've 
 heerd the news." 
 
 " There ain't no grass grows under the 
 feet of the talkers in this town, I tell you." 
 
 ** Dear me ! a body can't turn aroun' with 
 out settin' a whole forest of tongues a-wag- 
 gin' every which way." 
 
 " Oh, well, Miss Hester, we got to 'low 
 that to yore sex. The women folks must 
 talk." 
 
 " My sex ! It ain't my sex only : I know 
 plenty o* men in this town who air bigger 
 gossips 'n the women. I 'il warrant you 
 did n't git this piece o' news from no 
 woman." 
 
 "Well, mebbe I didn't, but I ca'c'late 
 there wa'n't no men there to git it fust 
 hand." 
 
 " Oh, I '11 be bound some o' the women 
 had to go an' tell a man the fust thing : some 
 women can't git along without the men." 
 
 " An' then, ag'in, some of 'em kin, Miss 
 Hester ; some of 'em kin." 
 
 " You 'd jest as well start out an* say what 
 you want to say without a-beatin' about the 
 bush. 1 know, jest as well as I know I 'm
 
 40 The Uncalled 
 
 a-livin', that you Ve come to tell me that I 
 was a fool fur takin' that child. 'Liphalet, 
 don't pertend : I know it." 
 
 "Oh, no, Miss Hester; I wouldn't dast 
 do nothin' like that ; you know, * He that 
 calleth his brother a fool is in danger o' 
 hell fire,' an' I 'low the Lord don't make 
 it no easier when it happens to be a sister. 
 No, Miss PI ester, you know yore own 
 business best, an' you Ve got along this fur 
 without bein' guided by people. I guess 
 you '11 git through ; but a child, Miss 
 Hester, don't you think that it 's a leetle 
 bit resky ? " 
 
 " Resky ? I don't see why. The child 
 ain't a-goin' to eat me or burn the house 
 down*." 
 
 " No, no, none o' that, I don't mean 
 that at all ; but then, you see, you 'ain't 
 never had no that is you 'ain't had 
 much experunce in the bringin' up o' chil- 
 dern, specially boys." 
 
 " Much ! I 'ain't had none. But I've 
 been brought up." 
 
 " That 's true, that 's true, an' a mighty 
 good job yore mother made of it, too. I 
 don't know of no spryer or stirrin'er woman 
 around here at yore age."
 
 The Uncalled 41 
 
 "At my age ! .'Liphalet, you do talk as 
 ef I was about fifty." 
 
 " Well, ef I do, I ain't a . c ayin* what I 
 want to say, so I 'd better hush. Where is 
 the little fellow ? " 
 
 For answer, Miss Prime pushed the door 
 open and bade him peep. Freddie was still 
 upon the floor, absorbed in his book. The 
 man's face lighted up : he pulled the door to 
 long enough to say, " I tell you, Miss Hes 
 ter, that boy's a-goin' to make a great reader 
 or a speaker or somethin'. Jest look how 
 wrapped up he is in that book." 
 
 " Well, I do hope an' pray to goodness 
 that he '11 make somethin' better than his 
 father ever made." 
 
 " Ef he don't under yore trainin', it '11 be 
 because there ain't nothin' in him. Come 
 here, Freddie," called Hodges, pushing the 
 door open, and holding out his hand with a 
 smile. The child got up from the floor and 
 came and put his hand in the outstretched one. 
 
 " Well, I declare ! " exclaimed Miss Hes 
 ter. " I tried my level best to git that child 
 to make up with me, an' he would n't." 
 
 " It's jest like I say, Miss Hester : you 
 'ain't never had no experunce in raisin* chj|- 
 ckrn."
 
 42 The Uncalled 
 
 " An' how many have you ever raised, 
 'Liphalet?" 
 
 The bachelor acknowledged defeat by a 
 sheepish smile, and turned again to the child. 
 " You want to go a-ridin' in my buggy, 
 Freddie ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the child, unhesitatingly. 
 
 "All right; Uncle 'Liph'll take him out 
 fur a while. Git his hat an' wrap him up, 
 Miss Hester, so Jack Frost can't ketch him." 
 
 The man stood smiling down into the 
 child's face : the boy, smiling back, tight 
 ened his grasp on the big hand. They were 
 friends from that moment, Eliphalet Hodges 
 and Fred. 
 
 They went out to the old phaeton, with 
 Miss Prime's parting injunction ringing after 
 them, " Don't keep that child out in the 
 cold too long, 'Liphalet, an' bring him back 
 here croupy." 
 
 " Oh, now, don't you trouble yoreself, 
 Miss Hester : me an' Freddie air a-goin' to 
 git along all right. We ain't a-goin' to 
 freeze, air we, Freddie, boy ? Ah, not by 
 a long sight; not ef Uncle 'Liph knows 
 hisself." 
 
 All the time the genial man was talking, 
 he was tucking the lap-robe snugly about
 
 The Uncalled 43 
 
 the child and making him comfortable. 
 Then he clucked to the old mare, and they 
 rattled away. 
 
 There was a far-away look in Miss Prime's 
 eyes as she watched them till they turned 
 the corner and were out of sight. " I never 
 did see sich a man as 'Liphalet Hodges. 
 Why, a body 'd think that he 'd been married 
 an' raised a whole houseful o' childern. He's 
 worse 'n a old hen. An' it 's marvellous the 
 way Frederick took to him. Everybody calls 
 the child Freddie. I must learn to call him 
 that : it will make him feel more- home-like, 
 though it does sound foolish." 
 
 She went on with her work, but it was 
 interrupted every now and then by strange 
 fits of abstraction and revery, an unusual 
 thing for this bustling and practical spinster. 
 But then there are few of us but have had 
 our hopes and dreams, and it would be un 
 fair to think that Miss Hester was an excep 
 tion. For once she had broken through her 
 own discipline, and in her own kitchen was 
 spending precious moments in dreams, and 
 all because a man and a child had rattled 
 away in a rickety buggy.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 OODNESS gracious, Mis' Smith," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Martin, rushing ex 
 citedly into the house of her next-door 
 neighbour, "you'd ought to seen what I seen 
 jest now." 
 
 " Do tell, Mis' Martin ! What on airth 
 was it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I 'm shore you 'd never guess in the 
 wide, wide world." 
 
 " An' I 'm jest as shore that I ain't a-goin' 
 to pester my head tryin' to : so go on an* 
 tell me what it was." 
 
 " Lawsy me ! what next '11 happen, an* 
 what does things mean, anyhow ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you. Fur my part, I 'ain't 
 heerd what ' things ' air yit." Mrs, Smith 
 was getting angry. 
 
 " My ! Mis' Smith, don't git so impatient. 
 Give me time to git my breath : it '11 be 
 enough, when I do tell you, to take away 
 yore breath, jest like it did mine." 
 
 " Sallie Martin, you do beat all fur keepin' 
 a body on the hooks."
 
 The Uncalled 45 
 
 " T ain't my fault, Mis' Smith. I declare 
 I 'm too astonished to speak. You know I 
 was a-standin' in my window, not a-thinkin* 
 nor expectin' nothin', jest like any person 
 would, you know " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; go on." 
 
 " I was jest a-lookin' down the street, care 
 less, when who should I see drive up to Miss 
 Prime's door, an' hitch his hoss an' go in, 
 but Brother 'Liphalet Hodges ! " 
 
 " Well, sakes alive, Sallie Martin, I hope 
 you ain't a-considerin' that strange. Why, 
 you could 'a' seen that very same sight any 
 time these fifteen years." 
 
 " But wait a minute till I tell you. I 
 ain't done yit, by no means. The strange 
 part 'ain't come. I thought I 'd jest wait at 
 the window and see how long Brother 
 Hodges would stay : not that it was any o' 
 my bus'ness, of course, or that I wanted to 
 be a spyin' on anybody, but sorter fur fur 
 cur'osity, you know." 
 
 " Cert'n'y," said Mrs. Smith, feelingly. 
 She could sympathise with such a sentiment. 
 
 " Well, after a while he come out a- 
 smilin' as pleasant as a basket o' chips ; an' 
 I like to fell through the winder, fur he was a- 
 leadin* by the hand who do you suppose ? "
 
 46 The Uncalled 
 
 " I 'ain't got a mortal idea who," said 
 Mrs. Smith, " unless it was Miss Hester, 
 an' they 're married at last." 
 
 "No, indeed, 'twa'n't her. It was that 
 little Brent boy that his mother, died the 
 other day." 
 
 " Sallie Martin, what air you a-tellin* 
 me?" 
 
 " It 's the gospel truth, Melviny Smith, 
 as shore as I 'm a-settin' here. Now what 
 does it mean ? " 
 
 "The good Lord only knows. Leadin' 
 that little Brent boy ? Ef it was n't you 
 a-settin' there tellin' me this, Mis' Martin, 
 I would n't believe it. You don't suppose 
 Hodges has took him to raise, do you ? " 
 
 " How in the name of mercy is he goin' 
 to raise any child, when there ain't no 
 women folks about his htfuse 'ceptin' old 
 Marier, an' she so blind an' rheumaticky 
 that she kin sca'cely git about ? " 
 
 " Well, what 's he a-doin' with the child, 
 then?" 
 
 " That 's jest what I 'm a-goin' to find 
 out. I 'm a-goin' down to Miss Prime's. 
 Len' me yore shawl, Melviny." 
 
 "You ain't never goin' to dare to ask 
 her, air you ? "
 
 The Uncalled 47 
 
 "You jest trust me to find things out 
 without givin' myself away. I won't never 
 let her know what I want right out, but 
 I '11 talk it out o' her." 
 
 " What a woman you air, Sallie Martin ! " 
 said Mrs. Smith, admiringly. " But do hurry 
 back an' tell me what she says : I 'm jest 
 dyin' to know." 
 
 " I '11 be back in little or no time, because 
 I can't stay, nohow." 
 
 Mrs. Martin threw the borrowed shawl 
 over her head and set off down the street. 
 She and her friend were not dwellers on the 
 mean street, and so they could pretend to so 
 nearly an equal social footing with Miss Prime 
 as to admit of an occasional neighbourly call. 
 
 Through the window Miss Prime saw her 
 visitor approaching, and a grim smile curved 
 the corners of her mouth. " Comin' fur 
 news," muttered the spinster. " She '11 git 
 all she wants before she goes." But there 
 was no trace of suspicion in her manner as 
 she opened the door at Mrs. Martin's rap. 
 
 " Hey oh, Miss Hester, busy as usual, 
 I see." 
 
 "Yes, indeed. People that try to do 
 their dooty 'ain't got much time fur rest in 
 this world."
 
 48 The Uncalled 
 
 " No, indeed ; it 's dig, dig, dig, and 
 work, work, work." 
 
 " Take off yore shawl an' set down, Sallie. 
 It's a wonder you don't take yore death o' 
 cold or git plum full o' neuralgy, a-runnin' 
 around in this weather with nothin' but a 
 shawl over yore head." 
 
 " La, Miss Hester, they say that worth 
 less people 's hard to kill. It ain't allus 
 true, though, fur there was poor Margar't 
 Brent, she was n't Worth much, but my ! she 
 went out like a match." 
 
 " Yes, but matches don't go out until 
 their time ef they're held down right; an' 
 it's jest so with people." 
 
 "That's true enough, Miss Hester. Was 
 you to Margar't's funeral ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I went." 
 
 " Did you go out to the cimetery ? " 
 
 " Oomph huh." 
 
 " Did she look natural ? " 
 
 "Jest as natural as one could expect after 
 a hard life an' a hard death." 
 
 "Pore Margar't!" Mrs. Martin sighed. 
 There was a long and embarrassed silence. 
 Miss Prime's lips were compressed, and she 
 seemed more aggressively busy than usual. 
 She bustled about as if every minute were
 
 The Uncalled 49 
 
 her last one. She brushed off tables, set 
 chairs to rights, and tried the golden-brown 
 cup-cake with a straw to see if it were done. 
 Her visitor positively writhed with curiosity 
 and discomfiture. Finally she began again. 
 " Margar't only had one child, did n't she ? " 
 
 "Yes, that was all." 
 
 " Pore little lamb. Motherless childern 
 has a hard time of it." 
 
 " Indeed, most of 'em do." 
 
 " Do you know what 's become of the 
 child, Miss Hester ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do, Sallie Martin, an' you do too, 
 or you would n't be a-settin' there beatin' 
 about the bush,askin' me all these questions." 
 
 This sudden outburst gave Mrs. Martin 
 quite a turn, but she exclaimed, " I declare 
 to goodness, Miss Hester, I 'ain't heerd a 
 livin' thing about it, only " 
 
 She checked herself, but her relentless 
 hostess caught at the word and demanded, 
 " Only what, Mis' Martin ? " 
 
 "Well, I seen Brother 'Liphalet Hodges 
 takin' him away from here in his buggy " 
 
 " An' so you come down to see what was 
 what, eh, so 's you could be the first to tell 
 the neighbourhood ? " 
 
 " Now, Miss Hester, you know that I 
 
 4
 
 50 The Uncalled 
 
 ain't one o' them that talks, but I do feel 
 sich an interest in the pore motherless child, 
 an' when I seen Brother Hodges a-takin' 
 him away, I thought perhaps he was a-goin' 
 to take him to raise." 
 
 " Well, Brother Hodges ain't a-goin' to 
 take him to raise." 
 
 " Mercy sakes ! Miss Hester, don't git 
 mad, but who is ? " 
 
 " I am, that's who." 
 
 " Miss Prime, what air you a-sayin' ? 
 You shorely don't mean it. What kin you 
 do with a child ? " 
 
 " I kin train him up in the way he ought 
 to go, an' keep him out o' other people's 
 houses an' the street." 
 
 " Well, o' course, that's somethin'," said 
 Mrs. Martin, weakly. 
 
 " Somethin' ? Why, it 's everything." 
 
 The visitor had now gotten the informa 
 tion for which she was looking, and was 
 anxious to be gone. She was absolutely 
 bursting with her news. 
 
 " Well, I must be goin'," she said, replac 
 ing her shawl and standing in embarrassed 
 indecision. " I only run in fur a minute. 
 I hope you 'ain't got no hard feelin's at my 
 inquisitiveness."
 
 The Uncalled 51 
 
 " Not a bit of it. You wanted to know, 
 an' you come and asked, that 's all." 
 
 " I hope you '11 git along all right with 
 the child." 
 
 " I sha' n't stop at hopin'. I shall take the 
 matter to the Lord in prayer." 
 
 "Yes, He knows best. Good-bye, Miss 
 Hester." 
 
 " Good-bye, Sallie ; come in ag'in." The 
 invitation sounded a little bit sarcastic, and 
 once more the grim smile played about Miss 
 Prime's mouth. 
 
 " 1 'low," she observed to herself, as she 
 took the cake from the oven for the last time, 
 tried it, and set it on the table, "I 'low 
 that I did give Sallie Martin one turn. I 
 never did see sich a woman fur pryin' into 
 other folks' business." 
 
 Swift are the wings of gossip, and swift 
 were the feet of Mrs. Sallie Martin as she 
 hurried back to tell the news to her impatient 
 friend, who listened speechless with enjoy 
 ment and astonishment. 
 
 " Who would 'a' thought you could 'a* 
 talked it out o' her so?" she gasped. 
 
 " Oh, I led her right along tell she told 
 me everything," said Mrs. Martin, with a 
 complacency which, remembering her recep 
 tion, she was far from feeling.
 
 52 The Uncalled 
 
 Shortly after her departure, and while, no 
 doubt, reinforced by Mrs. Smith, she was 
 still watching at the window, 'Liphalet 
 Hodges drove leisurely up to the door again. 
 
 "Well, Freddie," he said, as he helped 
 the child to alight, " we Ve had a great 
 time together, we have, an' we ain't frozen, 
 neither : I told Miss Prime that she need n't 
 be afeared. Don't drop yore jumpin'-jack, 
 now, an' be keerful an' don't git yore hands 
 on yore apron, 'cause they 're kind o' sticky. 
 Miss Hester 'u'd take our heads offef we 
 come back dirty." 
 
 The child's arms were full of toys, a 
 jumping-jack, a climbing monkey, a popgun, 
 and the etceteras of childish amusement, 
 and his pockets and cheeks bulged with 
 candy. 
 
 " La, 'Liphalet," exclaimed Miss Prime, 
 when she saw them, " what on airth have 
 you been a-buyin' that child jumpin'-jacks 
 an' sich things ? They ain't a bit o' good, 
 'ceptin' to litter up a house an' put lightness 
 in childern's minds. Freddie, what 's that 
 on yore apron ? Goodness me ! an' look at 
 them hands candy ! 'Liphalet Hodges, I 
 did give you credit fur better jedgment than 
 this* Candy is the cause o' wore aches an'
 
 The Uncalled 53 
 
 pains than poison ; an' some of it 's reelly 
 colored with ars'nic. How do you expect a 
 child to grow up healthy an' with sound 
 teeth when you feed him on candy ? " 
 
 " Now, Miss Hester, now, now, now. I 
 don't want to be a-interferin' with yore bus'- 
 ness ; but it 's jest like I said before, an' I 
 will stick to it, you 'ain't never had no expe- 
 runce in raisin' children. They can't git 
 along jest on meat an' bread an' jam : they 
 need candy an' ah candy an' sich 
 things." Mr. Hodges ended lamely, looking 
 rather guiltily at the boy's bulging pockets. 
 " A little bit ain't a-goin' to hurt no child." 
 
 "'Liphalet, I've got a dooty to perform 
 towards this motherless child, an' I ain't 
 a-goin' to let no foolish notions keep me 
 from performin' it." 
 
 " Miss Hester, I *m a-tryin' to follow Him 
 that was a father to the fatherless an' a hus 
 band to the widow, strange, that was made 
 only to the widow, an' I 've got somethin' 
 of a idee o' dooty myself. You may think 
 I 'm purty presumptuous, but I 've took a 
 notion into my head to kind o' help along 
 a-raisin' Freddie. I ain't a-goin' to question 
 yore authority, or nothin', but I thought 
 mebbe you 'd len' me the child once in a
 
 54 The Uncalled 
 
 while to kind o' lighten up that old lonesome 
 place o' mine : I know that Freddie won't 
 object." 
 
 "Oh, 'Liphalet, do go 'long: I scarcely 
 know whether you air a man or a child, 
 sometimes." 
 
 " There 's One that says, * Except you be 
 come as a little child ' " 
 
 " 'Liphalet, will you go 'long home ? " 
 
 " I 'spect I 'd better be gittin' along. 
 Good-bye, Freddie ; be a good boy, an' some 
 day I '11 take you up to my house an' let you 
 ride old Bess around. Good-bye, Miss 
 Hester." And as he passed out to his buggy 
 he whistled tenderly something that was 
 whistled when he was a boy.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE life of one boy is much like that of 
 another. They all have their joys 
 and their griefs, their triumphs and their 
 failures, their loves and their hates, their 
 friends and their foes, much as men have 
 them in that maturer life of which the days 
 of youth are an epitome. It would be rather 
 an uninteresting task, and an entirely thank 
 less one, to follow in detail the career of 
 Frederick Brent as he grew from childhood 
 to youth. But in order to understand cer 
 tain traits that developed in his character, it 
 will be necessary to note some, at least, of the 
 circumstances that influenced his early life. 
 
 While Miss Prime grew to care for him 
 in her own unemotional way, she had her 
 own notions of how a boy should be trained, 
 and those notions seemed to embody the re 
 pression of every natural impulse. She 
 reasoned thus : " Human beings are by 
 nature evil : evil must be crushed : ergo^ 
 everything natural must be crushed." In
 
 56 The Uncalled 
 
 pursuance of this principle, she followed out 
 a deliberate course of restriction, which, had 
 it not been for the combating influence of 
 Eliphalet Hodges, would have dwarfed the 
 mental powers of the boy and cramped his 
 soul beyond endurance. When he came of 
 an age to play marbles, he was forbidden to 
 play, because it was, to Miss Hester's mind, 
 a species of gambling. Swimming was too 
 dangerous to be for a moment considered. 
 Fishing, without necessity, was wanton 
 cruelty. Flying kites was foolishness and a 
 waste of time. 
 
 The boy had shown an aptitude at his les 
 sons that had created in his guardian's mind 
 some ambition for him, and she held him 
 down to his books with rigid assiduity. He 
 was naturally studious, but the feeling that 
 he was being driven made his tasks repellent, 
 although he performed them without out 
 ward sign of rebellion, while he fumed 
 within. 
 
 His greatest relaxations were his trips to 
 and from his old friend Hodges. If Miss 
 Prime crushed him, this gentle soul comforted 
 him and smoothed out his ruffled feelings. 
 It was this influence that kept him from des 
 pair. Away from his guardian, he was as
 
 The Uncalled 57 
 
 if a chain that galled his flesh had been re 
 moved. And yet he could not hate Miss 
 Hester, for it was constantly impressed upon 
 him that all was being done for his good, and 
 the word " duty " was burned like a fiery 
 cross upon his heart and brain. 
 
 There is a bit of the pagan in every nat 
 ural boy, and to give him too much to rev 
 erence taxes his powers until they are worn 
 and impotent by the time he reaches man 
 hood. Under Miss Hester's tutelage too 
 many things became sacred to Fred Brent. 
 It was wicked to cough in church, as it was 
 a sacrilege to play with a hymn-book. His 
 training was the apotheosis of the non-essen 
 tial. But, after all, there is no rebel like 
 Nature. She is an iconoclast. 
 
 When he was less than ten years old, an 
 incident occurred that will in a measure in 
 dicate the manner of his treatment. Miss 
 Prime's prescription for making a good boy 
 was two parts punishment, two parts admo 
 nition, and six parts prayer. Accordingly, as 
 the watchful and sympathetic neighbours said, 
 " she an' that pore child fairly lived in 
 church." 
 
 It was one class-meeting night, and, as 
 usual, the boy and his guardian were sitting
 
 5 8 The Uncalled 
 
 side by side at church. It was the habit of 
 some of the congregation to bring their out 
 side controversies into the class-room under 
 the guise of testimonies or exhortations, and 
 there to air their views where their opponents 
 could not answer them. One such was 
 Daniel Hastings. The trait had so de 
 veloped in him that whenever he rose to 
 speak, the question ran around, " I wonder 
 who Dan'l 's a-goin' to rake over the coal* 
 now." On this day he had been having a 
 tilt with his old-time enemy, Thomas Don 
 aldson, over the advent into Dexter of a 
 young homoeopathic doctor. With charac 
 teristic stubbornness, Dan'l had held that 
 there was no good in any but the old-school 
 medical men, and he sneered at the idea of 
 anybody's being cured with sugar, as he con 
 temptuously termed the pellets and powders 
 affected by the new school. Thomas, who 
 was considered something of a wit and who 
 sustained his reputation by the perpetration 
 of certain time-worn puns, had replied that 
 , other hogs were sugar-cured, and why not 
 Dan'l ? This had turned the laugh on Hast 
 ings, and he went home from the corner gro 
 cery, where the men were congregated, in 
 high dudgeon.
 
 The Uncalled 59 
 
 Still smarting with the memory of his de 
 feat, when he rose to speak that evening, he 
 cast a glance full of unfriendly significance 
 at his opponent and launched into a fiery 
 exhortation on true religion. " Some folks' 
 religion," he said, " is like sugar, all sweet 
 ness and no power ; but I want my religion 
 like I want my medicine : I want it strong, 
 an' I want it bitter, so 's I '11 know I 've got 
 it." In Fred Brent the sense of humour had 
 not been entirely crushed, and the expression 
 was too much for his gravity. He bowed 
 his head and covered his mouth with his 
 hand. He made no sound, but there were 
 three pairs of eyes that saw the movement, = 
 Miss Prime's, Eliphalet Hodges', and the 
 Rev. Mr. Simpson's. Miss Prime's gaze 
 was horrified, Mr. Simpson's stern ; but in 
 the eye of Mr. Hodges there was a most 
 ungodly twinkle. 
 
 When Dan'l Hastings had finished his ex 
 hortation which was in reality an arraign 
 ment of Thomas Donaldson's medical heresies 
 and sat down, the Rev. Mr. Simpson 
 arose, and, bending an accusing glance upon 
 the shrinking boy, began : " I perceive on 
 the part of some of the younger members 
 of the congregation a disposition towards
 
 levity. The house of God is not the place 
 to find amusement. I never see young peo 
 ple deriding their elders without thinking of 
 the awful lesson taught by the Lord's judg 
 ment upon those wicked youths whom the 
 she-bears devoured. I never see a child 
 laughing in church without trembling in 
 spirit for his future. Some of the men whom 
 I have seen in prison, condemned to death 
 or a life of confinement, have begun their 
 careers just in this way, showing disrespect 
 for their elders and for the church. Beware, 
 young people, who think you are smart and 
 laugh and titter in the sanctuary ; there is a 
 prison waiting for you, there is a hell yawn 
 ing for you. Behold, there is death* in the 
 pot ! " 
 
 With a terrible look at the boy, Mr. 
 Simpson sat down. There was much cran 
 ing of necks and gazing about, but few in the 
 church would have known to whom the pas 
 tor's remarks were addressed had not Miss 
 Prime, at their conclusion, sighed in an in 
 jured way, and, rising with set lips, led the 
 culprit out, as a criminal is led to the scaf 
 fold. How the boy suffered as, with flaming 
 face, he walked down the aisle to the door, 
 the cynosure of all eyes ! He saw in the
 
 The Uncalled 61 
 
 faces about him the accusation of having 
 done a terrible thing, something unheard of 
 and more wicked than he could understand. 
 He felt revolted, child as he was, at the re 
 ligion that made so much of his fault. In 
 wardly, he vowed that he would never " get 
 religion " or go into a church when he was 
 big enough to have his own way. 
 
 They had not gone far when a step ap 
 proached them from behind, and Eliphalet 
 Hodges joined them. Miss Prime turned 
 tragically at his greeting, and broke out, 
 "Don't reproach me 'Liphalet; it ain't no 
 trainin' o' mine that 's perduced a child that 
 laughs at old foks in the Lord's house." 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to reproach you, Miss 
 Hester, never you fear ; I ain't a-goin' to 
 say a word ag'in' yore trainin' ; but I jest 
 thought I 'd ask you not to be too hard on 
 Freddie. You know that Dan'l is kind o' 
 tryin' sometimes even to the gravity of older 
 people ; an' childern will be childern ; they 
 'ain't got the sense, nor nor the deceit 
 to keep a smooth face when they 're a- 
 laughin* all in their innards." 
 
 Miss Prime turned upon him in righteous 
 wrath. " 'Liphalet," she exclaimed, " I 
 think it 's enough fur 'this child to struggle
 
 6a The Uncalled 
 
 ag'inst natural sin, without encouragin* him 
 by makin' excuses fur him." 
 
 " It ain't my intention nor my desire to 
 set a bad example before nobody, especially 
 the young lambs of the flock, but I ain't a- 
 goin' to blame Freddie fur doin' what many 
 another of us wanted to do." 
 
 " 'Deed an' double, that is fine talk fur 
 you, 'Liphalet Hodges ! you a trustee of 
 the church, an' been a class-leader, a-holdin' 
 up fur sich onregenerate carryin's-on." 
 
 " I ain't a-holdin' up fur nothin', Miss 
 H ester,' cep tin' nature an' the very could n't- 
 help-it-ness o' the thing altogether. I ain't 
 a boy no more, by a good many years, but 
 there 's times when I Ve set under Dan'l 
 Hastings's testimonies jest mortally cramped 
 to laugh ; an' ef it 's so with a man, how 
 will it be with a pore i'nnercent child ? I 
 ain't a-excusin' natural sin in nobody. It 
 wa'n't so much Freddie's natural sin as it 
 was Dan'l's natural funniness." And there 
 was something very like a chuckle in 'Liph- 
 alet's throat. 
 
 " 'Liphalet, the devil 's been puttin' fleas 
 into yore ear, but I ain't a-goin' to let you 
 argy me out o' none o* my settled convic 
 tions, although the Old Man 's put plenty
 
 The Uncalled 63 
 
 of argyment into yore head. That's his 
 way o' capturin' a soul. Walk on' ahead, 
 Frederick, an' don't be list'mn'. I '11 'tend 
 to yore case later on." 
 
 " It 's funny to me, Miss Hester, how it 
 is that Christians know so much more about 
 the devil's ways than they do about the 
 Lord's. They 're allus a-sayin', c the Lord 
 moves in a mysterious way,' but they kin 
 allus put their finger on the devil." 
 
 " 'Liphalet Hodges, that 's a slur ! " 
 
 " I ain't a-meanin' it as no slur, Miss 
 Hester ; but most Christians do seem to 
 have a powerful fondness for the devil. I 
 notice that they 're allus admirin' his work 
 an' praisin' up his sharpness, an' they 'd be 
 monstrous disappointed ef he did n't git as 
 many souls as they expect." 
 
 " Well, after all the years that I 've been 
 a-workin' in the church an' a-tryin' to let 
 my light so shine before the world, I did n't 
 think that you 'd be the one to throw out 
 hints about my Christianity. But we all 
 have our burdens to bear, an' I 'm a-goin' to 
 bear mine the best I kin, an* do my dooty, 
 whatever comes of it." And Miss Hester 
 gave another sigh of injured rectitude. 
 
 " I see, Miss Hester, that you 're jest
 
 64 The Uncalled 
 
 bent an' bound not to see what I mean, so 
 I might as well go home." 
 
 " I think my mind ain't givin' way yit, 
 an' I believe that I do understand plain 
 words ; but I ain't a-bearin' you no grudge. 
 You Ve spoke yore mind, an' it 's all right." 
 
 " But I hope there ain't no hard feelin's, 
 after all these years." 
 
 "Oh, 'Liphalet, it ain't a part of even 
 my pore weak religion to bear hard feelin's 
 towards no one, no matter how they treat 
 me. I 'm jest tryin' to bear my cross an' 
 suffer fur the Lord's sake." 
 
 " But I hope I ain't a-givin' you no cross 
 to bear. I 'ain't never doubted yore good 
 ness or yore Christianity : I only thought 
 that mebbe yore methods, yore methods " 
 
 Miss Prime's lips were drawn into a line. 
 She divided that line to say, " I know what 
 the Scriptures say : * If thy right hand of 
 fend thee' " 
 
 " Hester, Hester ! he cried, stretching 
 out his hands to her. 
 
 " Good-night, Brother Hodges* I must 
 go in." She turned and left him standing 
 at the gate with a hurt look in his face. 
 
 On going into the house, Miss Hester 
 did not immediately 'tend to Fred, as she
 
 The Uncalled 65 
 
 had promised. Instead, she left him and 
 went into her own room where she remained 
 awhile. When she came out, her lips were 
 no less set, but her eyes were red. It is 
 hardly to be supposed that she had been 
 indulging in that solace of woman's woes, a 
 good cry. 
 
 " Take off yore jacket, Freddie," she said, 
 calmly, taking down a switch from over the 
 clothes-press. " I 'm a-goin' to whip you ; 
 but, remember, I ain't a-punishin' you be 
 cause I 'm mad. It 's fur the purpose of 
 instruction. It's fur yore own good." 
 
 Fred received his dressing-down without 
 a whimper. He was too angry to cry. 
 This Miss Prime took as a mark of especial 
 depravity. In fact, the boy had been un 
 able to discover any difference between an 
 instructive and a vindictive whipping. It 
 was perfectly clear in his guardian's mind, 
 no doubt, but a cherry switch knows no 
 such distinctions. 
 
 This incident only prepared Fred Brent 
 for a further infraction of his guardian's 
 rules the next day. One of Miss Prime's 
 strictest orders had to do with fighting. 
 Whatever the boys did to Fred, he was 
 never to resent it. He must come to her, 

 
 66 The Uncalled 
 
 and she would go to the boy's mother. 
 What an order to give a boy with muscles 
 and fists and Nature strong within him ! 
 But, save for the telling, it had been obeyed, 
 although it is hard to feel one's self an un 
 willing coward, a prig, and the laughing 
 stock of one's fellows. But when, on the 
 day after his unjust punishment, and while 
 still stung by the sense of wrong, one of 
 the petty schoolboy tyrants began to taunt 
 him, he turned upon the young scamp and 
 thrashed him soundly. His tormentor was 
 not more hurt than surprised. Like most 
 of his class, he was a tattler. The matter 
 got to the teacher's ears, and that night 
 Fred carried home an ominous-looking 
 note. In his heart he believed that it 
 meant another application of cherry switch, 
 either instructive or vindictive, but he did 
 not care. He had done the natural thing, 
 and Nature rewards us for obeying her laws 
 by making us happy or stoical. He had 
 gone up in the estimation of his school 
 fellows, even the thrashed one, and he felt a 
 reckless joy. He would welcome a whip 
 ping. It would bring him back memories 
 of what he had given Billy Tompkins. 
 " Would n't Miss Hester be surprised,"
 
 The Uncalled 67 
 
 he thought, " if I should laugh out while 
 she is whipping me?" And he laughed at 
 the very thought. He was full of pleasure 
 at himself. He had satisfied the impulse 
 within him for once, and it made him 
 happy. 
 
 Miss Prime read the ominous note, and 
 looked at her charge thoughtfully. Fred 
 glanced expectantly in the direction of the 
 top of the clothes-press. But she only 
 said, " Go out an' git in yore kindlin', 
 Freddie ; git yore chores done, an' then 
 come in to supper." Her voice was men 
 acingly quiet. The boy had learned to 
 read the signs of her face too well to think 
 that he was to get off so easily as this. 
 Evidently, he would " get it " after supper, 
 or Miss Prime had some new, refined mode 
 of punishment in store for him. But what 
 was it ? He cudgelled his brain in vain, as 
 he finished his chores^ and at table he could 
 hardly eat for wondering. But he might 
 have spared himself his pains, for he learned 
 all too soon. 
 
 Immediately after supper he was bidden 
 to put on his cap and come along. Miss 
 Prime took him by the hand. " I 'm a- 
 goin' to take you," she said, " to beg Willie
 
 68 The Uncalled 
 
 Tompkins's pardon fur the way you did 
 him." 
 
 Did the woman Know what it meant to 
 the boy ? She could not, or her heart would 
 have turned against the cruelty. Fred was 
 aghast. Beg his pardon ! A whipping was 
 a thousand times better : indeed, it would be 
 a mercy. He began to protest, but was 
 speedily silenced. The enforced silence, 
 however, did not cool his anger. He had 
 done what other boys did. He had acted 
 in the only way that it seemed a boy could 
 act under the circumstances, and he had ex 
 pected to be punished as his fellows were ; 
 but this this was awful. He clinched his 
 hands until the nails dug into the palms. 
 His face was as pale as death. He sweated 
 with the consuming fire of impotent rage. 
 He wished that he might run away some 
 where where he could hide and tear things 
 and swear. For a moment only he enter 
 tained the thought, and then a look into the 
 determined face of the woman at his side 
 drove the thought away. To his childish 
 eyes, distorted by resentment, she was an 
 implacable and relentless monster who would 
 follow him with punishment anywhere he 
 might go.
 
 The Uncalled 69 
 
 And now they were at Billy Tompkins's 
 door. They had passed through, and he 
 found himself saying mechanically the words 
 which Miss Prime put into his mouth, 
 while his tormentor grinned from beside his 
 mother's chair. Then, after a few words 
 between the women, in which he heard from 
 Mrs. Tompkins the mysterious words, " Oh, 
 I don't blame you, Miss Hester; I know 
 that blood will tell," they passed out, and 
 the grinning face of Billy Tompkins was the 
 last thing that Fred saw. It followed him 
 home. The hot tears fell from his eyes, 
 but they did not quench the flames that 
 were consuming him. There is nothing so 
 terrible as the just anger of a child, 
 terrible in its very powerlessness. Poly 
 phemus is a giant, though the mountain 
 hold him down. 
 
 Next morning, when Fred went to school, 
 Billy Tompkins with a crowd of boys about 
 was waiting to deride him ; but at sight of 
 his face they stopped. He walked straight 
 up to his enemy and began striking him 
 with all his might. 
 
 " She made me beg your pardon, did 
 she ? " he gasped between the blows ; " well, 
 you take that for it, and that." The boys
 
 70 The Uncalled 
 
 had fallen back, and Billy was attempting to 
 defend himself. 
 
 " Mebbe she '11 make me do it again to 
 night. If she does, I '11 give you some 
 more o' this to-morrow, and every time I 
 have to beg your pardon. Do you hear ? " 
 
 The boys cheered lustily, and Billy Tomp- 
 kins, completely whipped and ashamed, 
 slunk away. 
 
 That night no report of the fight went 
 home. Fred Brent held the master hand. 
 
 In life it is sometimes God and sometimes 
 the devil that comes to the aid of oppressed 
 humanity. From the means, it is often hard 
 to tell whose handiwork are the results.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CYNICS and fools laugh at calf-love. 
 Youth, which is wiser, treats it more 
 seriously. When the boy begins to think 
 of a girl, instead of girls, he displays the first 
 budding signs of a real growing manhood. 
 The first passion may be but the enthusiasm 
 of discovery. Sometimes it is not. At 
 times it dies, as fleeting enthusiasms do. 
 Again it lives, and becomes a blessing, a 
 curse, or a memory. Who shall say that 
 the first half-sweet pang that strikes a boy's 
 heart in the presence of the dear first girl is 
 any less strong, intoxicating, and real to him 
 than th?t which prompts him to take the 
 full-grown woman to wife ? With factitious 
 sincerity we quote, " The boy is father to 
 the man," and then refuse to believe that 
 the qualities, emotions, and passions of the 
 man are inherited from this same boy, are 
 just the growth, the development, of what 
 was embryonic in him. 
 
 Nothing is more serious, more pleasant, 
 and more diverting withal, than a boy's
 
 72, The Uncalled 
 
 brooding or exultation one is the comple 
 ment of the other over his first girl. As, 
 to a great extent, a man is moulded by the 
 woman he marries, so to no less a degree is 
 a boy's character turned and shaped by the 
 girl he adores. Either he descends to her 
 level, or she draws him up, unconsciously, 
 perhaps, to her own plane. Girls are mis 
 sionaries who convert boys. Boys are mostly 
 heathens. When a boy has a girl, he re 
 members to put on his cuffs and collars, and 
 he does n't put his necktie into his pocket 
 on the way to school. 
 
 In a boy's life, the having of a girl is the 
 setting up of an ideal. It is the new -ele 
 ment, the higher something which abashes 
 the unabashed, and makes John, who caused 
 Henry's nose to bleed, tremble when little 
 Mary stamps her foot. It is like an atheist's 
 finding God, the sudden recognition of a 
 higher and purer force against which all that 
 he knows is powerless. Why does n't John 
 bully Mary ? It would be infinitely easier 
 than his former exploit with Henry. But 
 he does n't. He blushes in her presence, 
 brings her the best apples, out of which 
 heretofore he has enjoined the boys not to 
 " take a hog-bite," and, even though the
 
 The Uncalled 73 
 
 parental garden grow none, comes by flowers 
 for her in some way, queer boyish bouquets 
 where dandelions press shoulders with spring- 
 beauties, daffodils, and roses, strange de 
 mocracy of flovverdom. He feels older and 
 stronger. 
 
 In Fred's case the object of adoration was 
 no less a person than Elizabeth Simpson, 
 the minister's daughter. From early child 
 hood they had seen and known each other 
 At school, and between them had sprung 
 up a warm childish friendship, apparently 
 because their ways home lay along the same 
 route. In such companionship the years 
 sped ; but Fred was a diffident boy, and he 
 was seventeen and Elizabeth near the same 
 before he began to feel those promptings 
 which made him blushingly offer to carry 
 her book for her as far as he went. She 
 had hesitated, refused, and then assented, as 
 is the manner of her sex and years. It had 
 become a settled thing for them to walk 
 home together, he bearing her burdens, and 
 doing for her any other little service that 
 pccurred to his boyish sense of gallantry. 
 
 Without will of his own, and without 
 returning the favour, he had grown in the 
 Hev. Mr, Simpson's esteem. This was due
 
 74 The Uncalled 
 
 mostly to his guardian's excellent work. In 
 spite of his rebellion, training and environ 
 ment had brought him greatly under her 
 control, and when she began to admonish 
 him about his lost condition spiritually she 
 had been able to awaken a sort of supersti 
 tious anxiety in the boy's breast. When 
 Miss Prime perceived that this had been 
 accomplished, she went forthwith to her 
 pastor and unburdened her heart. 
 
 " Brother Simpson," said she, " I feel that 
 the Lord has appointed me an instrument in 
 His hands for bringin' a soul into the king 
 dom." The minister put the tips of his 
 fingers together and sighed piously and en 
 couragingly. " I have been labourin' with 
 Freddie in the sperrit of Christian industry, 
 an* I believe that I have finally brought him 
 to a realisin' sense of his sinfulness." 
 
 " H'm-m," said the minister. " Bless the 
 Lord for this evidence of the activity of His 
 people. Go on, sister." 
 
 " Freddie has at last come to the conclu 
 sion that hell is his lot unless he flees unto 
 the mountain and seeks salvation." 
 
 " Bless the Lord for this." 
 
 " Now, Brother Simpson, I have done my 
 part as fur as the Lord has showed me, ex-
 
 The Uncalled 75 
 
 cept to ask you to come and wrastle with 
 that boy." 
 
 " Let not thy heart be troubled, Sister 
 Prime, for I will come as you ask me, and 
 I will wrastle with that boy as Jacob did of 
 old with the angel." 
 
 " Oh, Brother Simpson, I knowed you 'd 
 come. I know jest how you feel about pore 
 wanderin' souls, an' I 'm so glad to have 
 yore strong arm and yore wisdom a-helpin' 
 me." 
 
 " I hope, my sister, that the Lord may 
 smile upon my poor labours, and permit us 
 to snatch this boy as a brand from eternal 
 burning." 
 
 "We shall have to labour in the sperrit, 
 Brother Simpson." 
 
 " Yes, and with the understanding of the 
 truth in our hearts and minds." 
 
 " I 'm shore I feel mighty uplifted by 
 comin* here to-day. Do come up to din 
 ner Sunday, dear Brother Simpson, after 
 preachin'." 
 
 " I will come, Sister Prime, I will come. 
 I know by experience the worth of the table 
 which the Lord provides for you, and then 
 at the same season I may be able to sound 
 this sinful boy as to his spiritual state and to
 
 j6 The Uncalled 
 
 drop some seed into the ground which the 
 Lord has mercifully prepared for our harvest. 
 Good-bye, sister, good-bye. I shall not for 
 get, Sunday after preaching." 
 
 In accordance with his promise, the Rev. 
 Mr. Simpson began to labour with Fred, with 
 the result of driving him into a condition of 
 dogged revolt, which only Miss Prime's per 
 sistence finally overcame. When revival 
 time came round, as, sure as death it must 
 come, Fred regularly went to the mourners' 
 bench, mourned his few days until he had 
 worked himself into the proper state, and 
 then, somewhat too coldly, it is true, for his 
 anxious guardian, "got religion." 
 
 On the visit next after this which Mr. 
 Simpson paid to Miss Prime, he took occa 
 sion to say, " Ah, my sister, I am so glad 
 that you pointed me to that lost lamb of the 
 house of Israel, and I am thanking the Maker 
 every day that He blessed my efforts to bring 
 the straying one into the fold. Ah, there 
 is more joy over the one lamb that is found 
 than over the ninety and nine that went not 
 astray ! " 
 
 Mr. Simpson's parishioner acquiesced, but 
 she had some doubts in her mind as to whose 
 efforts the Lor4 had blessed, She felt a
 
 little bit selfish. She wanted to be the author 
 of everything good that came to Fred. But 
 she did not argue with Mr. Simpson. There 
 are some concessions which one must make 
 to one's pastor. 
 
 From this time on the preacher was Fred's 
 friend, and plied him with good advice in the 
 usual friendly way ; but the boy bore it well, 
 for Elizabeth smiled on him, and what boy 
 would not bear a father's tongue for a girl's 
 eyes ? 
 
 The girl was like her mother, dark and 
 slender and gentle. She had none of her 
 father's bigness or bumptiousness. Her 
 eyes were large and of a shade that was 
 neither black nor brown. Her hair was very 
 decidedly black. Her face was small, and 
 round with the plumpness of youth, but one 
 instinctively felt, in looking at it, that its 
 lines might easily fall into thinness, even 
 pitifulness, at the first touch of woman's 
 sorrow. She was not, nor did she look to 
 be, a strong girl. But her very weakness 
 was the source of secret delight to the boy, 
 for it made him feel her dependence on him. 
 When they were together and some girlish 
 fear made her cling to his arm, his heart 
 swelled with pride and a something else that
 
 78 The Uncalled 
 
 he could not understand and could not have 
 described. Had any one told him that he 
 was going through the half-sweet, half-pain 
 ful, timid, but gallant first stages of love, he 
 would have resented the imputation with 
 blushes. His whole training would have 
 made him think of such a thing with terror. 
 He had learned never to speak of girls at 
 home, for any reference to them by him was 
 sure to bring forth from Miss Prime an 
 instant and strong rebuke. 
 
 " Freddie," was the exclamation that gave 
 his first unsuspecting remarks pause, " you 're 
 a-gittin' too fresh : you 'd better be a-mindin' 
 of yore studies, instead o' thinkin' about 
 girls. Girls ain't a-goin' to make you pass 
 yore examination, an', besides, you're a-gettin* 
 mannish ; fur boys o' yore age to be a-talkin 1 
 about girls is mannish, do you hear, sir?- 
 You 're a-beginnin' to feel yore keepin' too 
 strong. Don't let me hear no more sich 
 talk out o' you." 
 
 There never was a manly boy in the 
 world whom the word " mannish," when 
 applied to him, did not crush. It is a horrid 
 word, nasty and full of ugly import. Fred 
 was subdued by it, and so kept silence about 
 his female friends. Happy is the boy who
 
 The Uncalled 79 
 
 dares at home to pour out his heart about 
 the girls he knows and likes, and thrice un 
 happy he who through mistaken zeal on the 
 part of misguided parents is compelled to 
 keep his thoughts in his heart and brood 
 upon his little aproned companions as upon 
 a secret sin. Two things are thereby en 
 gendered, stealth and unhealth. If Fred 
 escaped certain youthful pitfalls, it was be 
 cause he was so repressed that he had learned 
 to hide himself from himself, his thoughts 
 from the mind that produced them. 
 
 He was a boy strong and full of blood. 
 The very discipline that had given a gloomy 
 cast to his mind had given strength and for 
 titude to his body. He was austere, because 
 austerity was all that he had ever known or 
 had a chance of knowing ; but too often 
 austerity is but the dam that holds back the 
 flood of potential passion. Not to know 
 the power which rages behind the barricade 
 is to leave the structure weak for a hapless 
 day when, carrying all before it, the flood 
 shall break its bonds and in its fury ruin fair 
 field and smiling mead. It was well for 
 Fred Brent that the awakening came when 
 it did. 
 
 In the first days of June, when examina-
 
 8o The Uncalled 
 
 tions are over, the annual exhibition done, 
 and the graduating class has marched away 
 proud in the possession of its diplomas, the 
 minds of all concerned turn naturally towards 
 the old institution, the school picnic. On 
 this occasion parents join the teachers and 
 pupils for a summer day's outing in the 
 woods. Great are the preparations for the 
 festal day, and great the rejoicings thereon. 
 For these few brief hours old men and 
 women lay aside their cares and their dig 
 nity and become boys and girls again. Those 
 who have known sorrow and who has 
 not ? take to themselves a day of forget 
 ful ness. Great baskets are loaded to over 
 flowing with the viands dear to the picnicker's 
 palate, sandwiches whose corpulence would 
 make 1 their sickly brothers of the railway 
 restaurant wither with envy, pies and pickles, 
 cheese and crackers, cakes and jams galore. 
 Old horses that, save for this day, know 
 only the market-cart or the Sunday chaise, 
 are hitched up to bear out the merry loads. 
 Old waggons, whose wheels have known no 
 other decoration than the mud and clay of 
 rutty roads, are festooned gaily with cedar 
 wreaths, oak leaves, or the gaudy tissue- 
 paper rosettes, and creak joyfully on their
 
 The Uncalled 81 
 
 mission of lightness and mirth. On foot, 
 by horse, in waggon or cart, the crowds seek 
 some neighbouring grove, and there the day 
 is given over to laughter, mirth, and song. 
 The children roll and tumble on the sward 
 in the intoxication of " swing-turn " and 
 " ring-around-a-rosy." The young women, 
 with many blushes and shy glances, steal off 
 to quiet nooks with their imploring swains. 
 Some of the elders, anxious to prove that 
 they have not yet lost all their youth and 
 agility, indulge, rather awkwardly perhaps, 
 in the exhausting amusement of the jump 
 ing-rope. A few of the more staid walk 
 apart in conversation with some favourite 
 pastor who does not decline to take part in 
 the innocent pleasures and crack ponderous 
 jokes for the edification of his followers. 
 Perhaps some of the more daring are en 
 gaged in one of the numerous singing plays, 
 such as " Oh, la, Miss Brown," or " Swing 
 Candy, Two and Two," but these are gen 
 erally frowned upon : they are too much 
 like dancing, and time has been when some 
 too adventurous church-member has been 
 " churched " for engaging in one. 
 
 In such a merrymaking was the commu 
 nity which surrounded the high school at
 
 8i The Uncalled 
 
 Dexter engaged when the incident occurred 
 which opened Fred's eyes to his own state. 
 Both he and Elizabeth had been in the prize 
 ranks that year, and their friends had turned 
 out in full and made much of them. Even 
 Eliphalet Hodges was there, with old Bess 
 festooned as gaily as the other horses, and 
 both Miss Prime and Mr. Simpson were in 
 evidence. The afternoon of the day was 
 somewhat advanced, the dinner had been 
 long over, and the weariness of the people 
 had cast something of a quietus over the 
 hilarity of their sports. They were sitting 
 about in groups, chatting and laughing, while 
 the tireless children were scurrying about in 
 games of " tag," " catcher," and " hide-and- 
 seek." 
 
 The grove where the festivities were being 
 held was on a hill-side which sloped gently 
 to the bank of a small, narrow stream, usu 
 ally dry in summer ; but now, still feeling 
 the force of the spring freshets, and swollen 
 by the rain of the day before, it was rushing 
 along at a rapid rate. A fence divided the 
 picnic-ground proper from the sharper slope 
 of the rivulet's bank. This fence the 
 young people had been warned not to pass, 
 and so no danger was apprehended on ac-
 
 The Uncalled 83 
 
 count of the stream's overflowing condition. 
 But the youngsters at Dexter were no more 
 obedient than others of their age elsewhere. 
 So when a scream arose from several child 
 ish voices at the lower part of the hill, every 
 body knew that some child had been 
 disobeying, and, pell-mell, the picnickers 
 rushed in the direction of the branch. 
 
 When they reached the nearest point 
 from which they could see the stream, a ter 
 rifying sight met their eyes. A girl was 
 struggling in the shallow but swift water. 
 She had evidently stepped on the sloping 
 bank and fallen in. Her young companions 
 were running alongside the rivulet, stretch 
 ing out their hands helplessly to her, but 
 the current was too strong, and, try a she 
 would, she could not keep her feet. A cry 
 of grief and despair went up from the girls 
 on the bank, as she made one final effort 
 and then fell and was carried down by the 
 current. 
 
 Men were leaping the fence now, but a 
 boy who had seen the whole thing from a 
 neighbouring hillock was before them. Fred 
 
 o o 
 
 Brent came leaping down the hill like a 
 young gazelle. He had seen who the un 
 fortunate girl was, Elizabeth, and he
 
 84 The Uncalled 
 
 had but one desire in his heart, to save her. 
 He reached the bank twenty yards ahead of 
 any one else, and plunged into the water just 
 in front of her, for she was catching and 
 slipping, clinging and losing hold, but floating 
 surely to her death. He struggled up stream, 
 reached and caught her by the dress. The 
 water tugged at him and tried to throw him 
 over, but he stemmed it, and, lifting her up 
 in his arms, fought his way manfully to the 
 bank. Up this he faltered, slipping and 
 sliding in the wet clay, and weak with his 
 struggle against the strong current. But his 
 face was burning and his blood tingling as 
 he held the girl close to him till he gave her 
 unconscious form into her father's arms. 
 
 For the moment all was confusion, as was 
 natural when a preacher's daughter was so 
 nearly drowned. The crowd clustered around 
 and gave much advice and some restoratives. 
 Some unregenerate, with many apologies and 
 explanations concerning his possession, pro 
 duced a flask, and part of the whisky was 
 forced down the girl's throat, while her 
 hands and face and feet were chafed. She 
 opened her eyes at last, and a fervent 
 " Thank God ! " burst from her father's lips 
 called forth a shower of Amen,
 
 The Uncalled 85 
 
 " I allus carry a little somethin' along, in 
 case of emergencies," explained the owner 
 of the flask as he returned it to his pocket, 
 with a not altogether happy look at its 
 depleted contents. 
 
 As soon as Fred saw that Elizabeth was 
 safe, he struck away for home, unobserved, 
 and without waiting to hear what the crowd 
 were saying. He heard people calling his name 
 kindly and admiringly, but it only gave wings 
 to the feet that took him away from them. 
 If he had thrown the girl in instead of bring 
 ing her out, he could not have fled more 
 swiftly or determinedly away from the eyes 
 of people. Tired and footsore, drenched 
 to the skin and chilled through, he finally 
 reached home. He was trembling, he was 
 crying, but he did not know it, and had he 
 known, he could not have told why. He 
 did not change his clothes, but crouched 
 down in a corner and hid his face in his 
 hands. He dreaded seeing any on , or hear 
 ing any person speak his name. He felt 
 painfully conscious of a new self, which he 
 thought must be apparent to other eyes. 
 
 The accident of the afternoon had cast 
 a gloom over the merrymakings, and, the 
 picnic breaking up abruptly, sent the people
 
 86 The Uncalled 
 
 scurrying home, so that Miss Prime was at 
 the house not far behind her charge. 
 
 " Freddie," she called to him as she en 
 tered the house, " Freddie, where air you ? " 
 And then she found him. She led him out 
 of the corner and looked him over with a 
 scrutinising eye. " Freddie Brent," she 
 said solemnly, " you Ve jest ruined yore 
 suit." He was glad. He wanted to be 
 scolded. " But," she went on, " I don't 
 care ef you have." And here she broke 
 down. " You 're a-goin' to have another 
 one, fur you 're a right smart boy, that 's all 
 I 've got to say." For a moment he wanted 
 to lay his head on her breast and give vent 
 to the sob which was choking him. But he 
 had been taught neither tenderness nor con 
 fidence, so he choked back the sob, though 
 his throat felt dry and hot and strained. 
 He stood silent and embarrassed until Miss 
 Prime recovered herself and continued: 
 " But la, child, you '11 take yore death o' cold. 
 Git out o' them wet things an' git into bed, 
 while I make you some hot tea. Fur the 
 life o' me, I never did see sich carryin's-on." 
 
 The boy was not sorry to obey. He 
 was glad to be alone. He drank the warm 
 tea and tried to go to sleep, but he could
 
 The Uncalled 87 
 
 not. His mind was on fire. His heart 
 seemed as if it would burst from his bosom. 
 Something new had come to him. He 
 began to understand, and blushed because 
 he did understand. It was less discovery 
 than revelation. His forehead was hot. 
 His temples were throbbing. It was well 
 that Miss Prime did not discover it : she 
 would have given him horehound to cure 
 
 thought ! 
 
 From the moment that the boy held the 
 form of the girl to his heart he was changed, 
 and she was changed to him. They could 
 never be the same to each other again. 
 Manhood had come to him in a single in 
 stant, and he saw in her womanhood. He 
 began for the first time to really know him 
 self, and it frightened him and made him 
 ashamed. 
 
 He drew the covers over his head and 
 lay awake, startled, surprised at what he 
 knew himself and mankind to be. 
 
 To Fred Brent the awakening had come, 
 
 early, if we would be prudish ; not too 
 early, if we would be truthful.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IF Fred Brent had needed anything to 
 increase his consciousness of the new 
 feeling that had come to him, he could not 
 have done better to get it than by going to 
 see Eliphalet Hodges next day. His war 
 of thought had gone on all night, and when 
 he rose in the morning he thought that he 
 looked guilty, and he was afraid that Miss 
 Prime would notice it and read his secret. 
 He wanted rest. He wanted to be secure 
 from any one who would even suspect wRat 
 was in his heart. But he wanted to see and 
 to talk to some one. Who better, then, 
 than his old friend ? 
 
 So he finished his morning's chores and 
 slipped away. He would not pass by 
 Elizabeth's house, but went by alleys and 
 lanes until he reached his destination. The 
 house looked rather silent and deserted, 
 and Mr. Hodges' old assistant did not 
 seem to be working in the garden as usual. 
 But after some search the boy found his 
 old friend smoking upon the back porch.
 
 The Uncalled 89 
 
 There was a cloud upon the usually bright 
 features, and the old man took his pipe 
 from his mouth with a disconsolate sigh as 
 the boy came in sight. 
 
 " I 'm mighty glad you 've come, Fred 
 die," said he, in a sad voice. " I Ve been 
 a-wantin' to talk to you all the mornin'. 
 Set down on the side o' the porch, or git 
 a chair out o' the house, ef you 'd ruther." 
 
 The boy sat down, wondering what could 
 be the matter with his friend, and what he 
 could have to say to him. Surely it must 
 be something serious, .for the whole tone 
 and manner of his companion indicated 
 something of import. The next remark 
 startled him into sudden suspicion. 
 
 " There 's lots o' things made me think o' 
 lots of other things in the last couple o' days. 
 You 've grown up kind o' quick like, Freddie, 
 so that a body 'ain't hardly noticed it, but 
 that ain't no matter. You 're up or purty 
 nigh it, an' you can understand and appreciate 
 lots o' the things that you used to could n't." 
 
 Fred sat still, with mystery and embar 
 rassment written on his face. He wanted 
 to hear more, but he was almost afraid to 
 listen further. 
 
 " I 'ain't watched you so close, mebbe, as
 
 90 The Uncalled 
 
 I *d ought to V done, but when I seen you 
 yistiddy evenin' holdin* that little girl in 
 yore arms I said to myself, I said, ' 'Liphalet 
 Hodges, Freddie ain't a child no more ; 
 he 's growed up.' ' The boy's face was 
 scarlet. Now he was sure that the thoughts 
 of his heart had been surprised, and that 
 this best of friends thought of him as 
 "fresh," "mannish," or even wicked. He 
 could not bear the thought of it; again the 
 tears rose in his eyes, usually so free from 
 such evidences of weakness. But the old 
 man went on slowly in a low, half-reminis 
 cent tone, without looking at his auditor 
 to see what effect his words had had. 
 "Well, that was one of the things that 
 set me thinkin' ; an' then there was an 
 other.'* He cleared his throat and pulled 
 hard at his pipe ; something made him 
 blink, dust, or smoke, or tears, perhaps. 
 " Freddie," he half sobbed out, " old Bess 
 is dead. Pore old Bess died last night o' 
 colic. I 'm afeared the drive to the picnic 
 was too much fur her." 
 
 " Old Bess dead ! " cried the boy, grieved 
 and at the same time relieved. " Who would 
 have thought it ? Poor old girl ! It seems 
 like losing one of the family."
 
 The Uncalled 91 
 
 " She was one of the family," said the old 
 man brokenly. " She was more faithful 
 than most human beings." The two stood 
 sadly musing, the boy as sad as the man. 
 "Old Bess" was the horse that had taken 
 him for his first ride, that winter morning 
 years before, when the heart of the child was 
 as cold as the day. Eliphalet Hodges had 
 warmed the little heart, and, in the years 
 that followed, man, child, and horse had 
 grown nearer to each other in a queer but 
 sympathetic companionship. 
 
 Then, as if recalling his mind from pain 
 ful reflections, the elder man spoke again. 
 " But it ain't no use a-worryin' over what 
 can't be helped. We was both fond o* old 
 Bess, an' I know you feel as bad about losin' 
 her as I do. But I 'm a-goin' to give her a 
 decent burial, sich as a Christian ought to 
 have ; fur, while the old mare was n't no per- 
 fessor, she lived the life, an' that 's more 'n 
 most perfessors do. Yes, sir, I 'm a-goin' to 
 have her buried : no glue-man fur me. I 
 reckon you 're a-wantin' to know how old 
 Bess dyin' an' yore a-savin' 'Lizabeth could 
 run into each other in my mind ; but they 
 did. Fur, as I see you standin* there a- 
 holdin' the little girl, it come to me sudden
 
 92, The Uncalled 
 
 like, f Freddie's grown now, an' he '11 be 
 havin' a girl of his own purty soon, ef he 
 'ain't got one now. Mebbe it '11 be 'Liza- 
 beth.' ' The old man paused for a moment ; 
 his eyes rested on the boy's fiery face. "Tut, 
 tut," he resumed, " you ain't ashamed, air 
 you ? Well, what air you a-gittin' so red 
 fur ? Havin' a girl ain't nothin' to be 
 ashamed of, or skeered about neither. Most 
 people have girls one time or another, an' I 
 don't know of nothin' that '11 make a boy or 
 a young man go straighter than to know 
 that his girl's eyes air upon him. Don't be 
 ashamed at all." 
 
 Fred still blushed, but he felt better, and 
 his face lightened over the kindly words. 
 
 " I did n't finish tellin' you, though, what 
 I started on. I got to thinkin' yesterday 
 about my young days, when I had a girl, an' 
 how I used to ride back an' forth on the 
 pore old horse right into this town to see 
 her ; an' as I drove home from the picnic I 
 talked to the old nag about it, an' she whisked 
 her tail an' laid back her ears, jest like she 
 remembered it all. It was on old Bess that 
 I rod'i away from my girl's house after her 
 first c no' to me, an' it seemed then that the 
 animal sympathised with me, fur she drooped
 
 The Uncalled 93 
 
 along an' held down her head jest like I was 
 a-doin'. Many a time after that we rode off 
 that way together, fur the girl was set in her 
 ways, an* though she confessed to a hankerin' 
 fur me, she wanted to be independent. I 
 think her father put the idee into her head, 
 fur he was a hard man, an* she was his all, 
 his wife bein' dead. After a while we stopped 
 talkin' about the matter, an' I jest went an' 
 come as a friend. I only popped the ques 
 tion once more, an' that was when her father 
 died an' she was left all alone. 
 
 " It was a summer day, warm an' cheerful 
 like this, only it was evenin', an' we was a- 
 settin' out on her front garden walk. She 
 was a-knittin', an' I was a-whippin' the groun' 
 with a switch that I had brought along to 
 touch Bess up with now an* then. I had 
 hitched her out front, an' she kep' a-turnin' 
 her eyes over the fence as ef she was as anx 
 ious as I was, an' that was mighty anxious. 
 Fin'ly I got the question out, an' the girl 
 went all red in a minute : she had been jest 
 a purty pink before. Her knittin' fell in her 
 lap. Fust she started to answer, then she 
 stopped an* her eyes filled up. I seen she 
 was a-weak'nin', so I thought I 'd push the 
 matter. * Come,' says I, gentle like, >'
 
 94 The Uncalled 
 
 edgin* near up to her, { give me my answer. 
 I been waitin' a long time fur a yes.' With 
 that she grabbed knittin', apron, an' all, an' 
 put 'em to her eyes an' rushed into the 
 house. I knowed she 'd gone in to have a 
 good cry an' settle her nerves, fur that's the 
 way all women-folks does : so I knowed it 
 was no use to bother her until it was done. 
 So I walks out to the fence, an', throwin' an 
 arm over old Bess's back, I told her all 
 about it, jest as I 'm a-tellin' you, she a- 
 lookin* at me with her big meltin' eyes an' 
 whinnyin' soft like. 
 
 "After a little while the girl come out. 
 She was herself ag'in, but there was a look 
 in her face that turned my heart stone-cold. 
 Her voice sounded kind o' sharp as she said, 
 1 'Liphalet, I Ve been a-thinkin' over what 
 you said. I 'm only a woman, an' I come 
 purty near bein' a weak one ; but I 'm all 
 right now. I don't mind tellin' you that ef 
 I was ever goin' to marry, you 'd be my 
 choice, but I ain't a-goin' to have my father's 
 sperrit a-thinkin' that I took advantage of 
 his death to marry you. Good-bye, 'Lipha 
 let.' She held out her hand to me, an* I 
 took it. ( Come an' see me sometimes,' she 
 said. I could n't answer, so I went out and
 
 The Uncalled 95 
 
 got on old Bess an* we jogged away. It was 
 an awful disappointment;^ but I thought I 
 would wait an' let my girl come aroun', fur 
 sometimes they do, in fact mostly ; but 
 she has never give me a sign to make me 
 think that she has. That was twenty years 
 ago, an* I Ve been waitin' faithful ever sence. 
 But it seems like she was different from most 
 women, an* 'specially good on holdin' out. 
 People that was babies then have growed 
 up an* married. An' now the old com 
 panion that has been with me through all 
 this waitin' has left me. I know what it 
 means. It means that I 'm old, that years 
 have been wasted, that chances have been 
 lost. But you have taught me my lesson, 
 Bess. Dear old Bess, even in yore last hours 
 you did me a service, an' you, Freddie, you 
 have given me the stren'th that I had twenty 
 years ago, an' I 'm a-goin' to try to save what 
 remains of my life. I never felt how alone 
 I was until now." He was greatly agitated. 
 He rose and grasped the boy's arm. " Come, 
 Freddie," he said ; " come on. I 'm a-goin' 
 ag'in to ask Miss Prime to be my wife." 
 
 " Miss Prime ! " exclaimed Fred, aghast. 
 
 " Miss Prime was my sweetheart, Freddie, 
 thirty years ago, jest like 'Lizabeth is yor'n 
 now. Come along." 4
 
 96 The Uncalled 
 
 The two set out, Hodges stepping w'th 
 impatient alacrity, and the boy too astounded 
 to speak. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning at the end of 
 June. The sense of spring's reviving influ 
 ence had not yet given way to the full languor 
 and sensuousness of summer. The wind 
 was soft and warm and fragrant. The air 
 was full of the song of birds and the low 
 droning of early bees. The river that flowed 
 between the green hills and down through 
 
 O O 
 
 Dexter was like a pane of wrinkled glass, 
 letting light and joy even into the regions 
 below. Over the streets and meadows and 
 hills lay a half haze, like a veil over the too 
 dazzling beauty of an Eastern princess. The 
 hum of business for in the passing years 
 Dexter had grown busy the roar of traffic 
 in the streets, all melted into a confused 
 and intoxicating murmur as the pedestrians 
 passed into the residence portion of the town 
 to the cottage where Miss Prime still lived. 
 The garden was as prim as ever, the walks 
 as straight and well kept. The inevitable 
 white curtains were fluttering freshly from 
 the window, over which a huge matrimony 
 vine drooped lazily and rung its pink and 
 white bells to invite the passing bees.
 
 The Uncalled 97 
 
 Eliphalet paused at the gate and heaved a 
 deep sigh. So much depended upon the 
 issue of his present visit. The stream of 
 his life had been flowing so smoothly before. 
 Now if its tranquillity were disturbed it 
 never could be stilled again. Did he dare 
 to risk so much upon so hazardous a 
 chance ? Were it not better to go back 
 home, back to his old habits and his old 
 ease, without knowing his fate? That 
 would at least leave him the pleasure of 
 speculating. He might delude himself with 
 the hope that some day He faltered. 
 His hand was on the gate, but his face was 
 turned back towards the way he had come. 
 Should he enter, or should he go back ? 
 Fate decided for him, for at this juncture 
 the door opened, and Miss Hester appeared 
 in the doorway and called out, " Do come 
 in, 'Liphalet. What air you a-standin' out 
 there so long a-studyin' about, fur all the 
 world like a bashful boy ? " 
 
 The shot told. He was a bashful boy 
 again, going fearfully, tremblingly, lovingly, 
 to see the girl of his heart ; but there was 
 no old Bess to whinny encouragement to 
 him from over the little fence. If he 
 blushed, even the scrutinising eyes of Miss 
 1
 
 9 8 The Uncalled 
 
 Prime did not see it, for the bronze laid on 
 his face by summers and winters of expos 
 ure ; but he felt the hot blood rush up to 
 his face and neck, and the perspiration 
 breaking out on his brow. He paused long 
 enough to mop his face, and then, saying to 
 Fred, in a low tone, " You stay in the gar 
 den, my boy, until it 's all over," he opened 
 the gate and entered in the manner of one 
 who leads a forlorn hope through forest 
 aisles where an ambush is suspected. The 
 door closed behind him. Interested, ex 
 cited, wondering and fearing, doubting and 
 hoping, Fred remained in the garden. 
 There were but two thoughts in his head, 
 and they were so new and large that his 
 poor boy's cranium had room for no more. 
 They ran in this wise: "Miss Prime is 
 Uncle 'Liphalet's girl, and Elizabeth is 
 mine." 
 
 Within, Miss Prime was talking on in 
 her usual decided fashion, while the man sat 
 upon the edge of his chair and wondered 
 how he could break in upon the stream of 
 her talk and say what was in his heart. At 
 last the lady exclaimed, " I do declare, 'Liph- 
 alet, what kin be the matter with you? 
 You 'ain't said ten words sence you 've been
 
 The Uncalled 99 
 
 a-settin' there. I hope you 'ain't talked 
 yoreself entirely out with Fred. It does 
 beat all how you an' that boy seem to grow 
 thicker an' thicker every day. One 'ud 
 think fur all the world that you told him 
 all yore secrets, an' was afeared he 'd tell 
 'em, by the way you stick by him ; an' he 's 
 jest as bad about you. It 's amazin'." 
 
 " Freddie 's a wonderful good boy, an' 
 he 's smart, too. They ain't none of 'em 
 a-goin' to throw dust in his eyes in the race 
 of life." 
 
 " I 'm shore I 've tried to do my dooty 
 by him the very best I could, an' ef he does 
 amount to anything in this world it '11 be , 
 through hard labour an' mighty careful 
 watchin'." Miss Hester gave a sigh that 
 was meant to be full of solemnity, but that 
 positively reeked with self-satisfaction. 
 
 "But as you say, 'Liphalet," she went 
 on, " Fred ain't the worst boy in the world, 
 nor the dumbest neither, ef I do say it my 
 self. I ain't a-sayin', mind you, that he 's 
 anything so great or wonderful ; but I 've 
 got to thinkin' that there 's somethin' in 
 him besides original sin, an' I should feel 
 that the Lord had been mighty favourin' to 
 me ef I could manage to draw it out. The
 
 loo The Uncalled 
 
 fact of it is, 'Liphalet, I 've took a notion in 
 my head about Fred, an' I 'm a-goin' to tell 
 you what it is. I 've decided to make a 
 preacher out o' him*" 
 
 " H'm ah well, Miss Hester, don't 
 you think you 'd better let the Lord do 
 that ? " 
 
 " Nonsense, 'Liphalet ! you 'ain't got no 
 insight at all. I believe in people a-doin' 
 their part an' not a-shovin' everything off 
 on the Lord. The shiftless don't want 
 nothin' better than to say that they will 
 leave the Lord to take care o' things, an' 
 then fold their arms an' set down an' let. 
 things go to the devil. Remember, Brother 
 Hodges, I don't mean that in a perfane 
 way. But then, because God made the sun 
 light an' the rain, it ain't no sign that we 
 should n't prune the vine." 
 
 Miss Hester's face had flushed up with 
 the animation of her talk, and her eyes were 
 sparkling with excitement. 
 
 Eliphalet looked at her, and his heart 
 leaped. He felt that the time had come to 
 speak. 
 
 " Miss Hester," he began, and the hat in 
 his hand went round and round nervously. 
 
 "'Liphalet, fur goodness' sake do lay
 
 The Uncalled 101 
 
 yore hat on the table. You '11 ruin the 
 band of it, an' you make me as nervous as 
 a cat." 
 
 He felt a little dampened after this, but 
 he laid down the offending hat and began 
 again. " I 've been thinkin' some myself, 
 Miss Hester, an' it 's been about you." 
 
 "About me? La, 'Liphalet, what have 
 you been a-thinkin' now ? " The " now " 
 sounded as if his thoughts were usually 
 rather irresponsible. 
 
 " It was about you an' an' old Bess." 
 
 "About me an' old Bess! Bless my 
 soul, man, will you stop beatin' about the 
 bush an' tell me what on airth I 've got to 
 do with yore horse ? " 
 
 " Old Bess is dead, Miss Hester; cued 
 last night o' colic." 
 
 " Well, I thought there was somethin' 
 the' matter with you. I 'm mighty sorry to 
 hear about the poor old creatur ; but she 'd 
 served you a long while." 
 
 " That 's jest what set me a-thinkin' : she 
 has served me a long while, an' now she 's 
 dead. Do you know what that means, 
 Miss Hester ? It means that we 're a-gittin' 
 old, you an' me. Do you know when I 
 got old Bess ? It was nigh thirty years
 
 The Uncalled 
 
 ago: I used to ride her up to this door an* 
 tie her to that tree out there : it was a 
 saplin' then. An' now she 's dead." 
 
 The man's voice trembled, and his listener 
 was strangely silent. 
 
 " You know on what errands the old horse 
 used to bring me," he went on, " but it 
 wasn't to be, then. Hester," he rose, 
 went over to her, and looked down into her 
 half-averted face, which went red and pale by 
 turns, " Hester, 'ain't we wasted time 
 enough ? " 
 
 There was a iong pause before she lifted 
 her face : he stood watching her with the 
 light of a great eagerness in his eyes. At 
 last she spoke. There was a catch in her 
 voice ; it was softer than usual. 
 
 "'Liphalet," she began, " I 'm right glad 
 you remember those days. I 'ain't never 
 furgot 'em myself. It 's true you 've been a 
 good, loyal friend to me, an' I thank you fur 
 it, but, after all these years " 
 
 He broke in upon her with something kite 
 youthful impetuosity. "After all these 
 years," he exclaimed, " an endurin' love 
 ought to be rewarded. Hester, I ain't 
 a-goin' to take c no ' fur an answer. I Ve got 
 lots o' years o' life in me yet, we both
 
 The Uncalled 103 
 
 have, an' I ain't a-goin' on with an empty 
 home an' an empty heart no longer." 
 
 "'Liphalet, you ain't a young man no 
 more, an' I ain't a young woman, an* the 
 Lord " 
 
 " I don't care ef I ain't ; an' I don't believe 
 in shovin' everything off on the Lord." 
 
 " 'Liphalet ! " It was a reproach. 
 
 " Hester ! " This was love. He put his 
 arm around her and kissed her. " You 're 
 a-goin' to say- yes, ain't you ? You ain't 
 a-goin' to send me away miserable ? You 're 
 a-dyin' to say yes, but you 're a-tryin to 
 force yoreself not to. Don't." He lifted 
 her face as a young lover might, and looked 
 down into her eyes. " Is it yes ? " 
 
 " Well, 'Liphalet it 'pears like you 're 
 jest so pesterin' that I 've got to say yes. 
 Yes, then." And she returned the quiet but 
 jubilant kiss that he laid upon her lips. 
 
 " After all these years," he said. " Sor 
 row may last fur a night, but joy cometh in 
 the mornin'. It was a long night, but, thank 
 the Lord, mornin' 's broke." Then, rising, 
 he went to the door and called joyously, 
 " Freddie, come on in : it 's all over." 
 
 "'Liphalet, did that boy know what you 
 was a-goin' to say ? "
 
 104 The Uncalled 
 
 " Yes, o' course he did." 
 
 " Oh, my ! oh, my ! Well, I Ve got a 
 good mind to take it all back. Oh, my ! " 
 And when Fred came in, for the first time 
 in her life Miss Prime was abashed and con 
 fused in his presence. 
 
 But Eliphalet had no thought of shame. 
 He took her by the hand and said, " Fred 
 die, Miss Hester 's consented at last : after 
 thirty years, she 's a-goin' to marry me." 
 
 But Miss Hester broke in, "'Liphalet, 
 don't be a-puttin' notions in that boy's head. 
 You go 'way, Fred, right away." 
 
 Fred went out, but he felt bolder. He 
 went past Elizabeth's house whistling. He 
 did n't care. He wondered if he would have 
 to wait thirty years for her. He hoped not.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 SO great has been our absorption in the 
 careers of Fred Brent, Miss Prime, 
 and Eliphalet Hodges that we have sadly 
 neglected some of the characters whose ac 
 quaintance we made at the beginning of our 
 story. But nature and Time have been 
 kinder, or more cruel, if you will. They 
 have neither passed over nor neglected them. 
 They have combined with trouble and hard 
 work to kill one of Fred's earliest friends. 
 Melissa Davis is no more, and the oldest 
 girl, Sophy, supplements her day's work of 
 saleswoman in a dry-goods store by getting 
 supper in the evening and making the 
 younger Davises step around. Mrs. War 
 ren, the sometime friend of Margaret Brent 
 and enemy of Miss Prime, has moved farther 
 out, into the suburbs, for Dexter has suburbs 
 now, and boasts electric cars and amusement 
 parks. Time has done much for the town. 
 Its streets are paved, and the mean street 
 that bore the tumble-down Brent cottage
 
 106 The Uncalled 
 
 and its fellows has been built up and grown 
 respectable. It and the street where Miss 
 Prime's cottage frowned down have settled 
 away into a quiet residential portion of the 
 town, while around to the east, south, and 
 west, and on both sides of the little river 
 that divides the 'city, roars and surges the 
 traffic of a characteristic middle- West town. 
 Half-way up the hill, where the few aristo 
 crats of the place formerly lived in almost 
 royal luxuriance and seclusion, a busy sewing- 
 machine factory has forced its way, and with 
 its numerous chimneys and stacks literally 
 smoked the occupants out ; at their very 
 gates it sits like the commander of a besieg 
 ing army, and about it cluster the cottages of 
 the workmen, in military regularity. Little 
 and neat and trim, they flock there like the 
 commander's obedient host, and such they 
 are, for the sight of them offends the eyes of 
 wealth. So, what with the smoke, and what 
 with the proximity of the poorer classes, 
 wealth capitulates, evacuates, and, with robes 
 discreetly held aside, passes by to another 
 quarter, and a new district is born where 
 poverty dare not penetrate. Seated on a hill, 
 where, as is their inclination, they may look 
 down, literally and figuratively, upon the
 
 hurrying town, they are complacent again, 
 and the new-comers to the town, the new-rich 
 magnates and the half-rich strugglers who 
 would be counted on the higher level, move 
 up and swell their numbers at Dexter View. 
 
 Amid all this change, two alone of those 
 we know remain unaltered and unalterable, 
 true to their traditions. Mrs. Smith and 
 Mrs. Martin, the two ancient gossips, still 
 live side by side, spying and commenting on 
 all that falls within their ken, much as they 
 did on that day when 'Liphalet Hodges took 
 Fred Brent for his first drive behind old 
 Bess. Their windows still open out in the 
 same old way, whence they can watch the 
 happenings of the street. If there has been 
 any change in them at all, it is that they have 
 grown more absorbed and more keen in fol 
 lowing and dissecting their neighbours' affairs. 
 
 It is to these two worthies, then, that we 
 wish to reintroduce the reader on an early 
 autumn evening some three months after the 
 events narrated in the last chapter. 
 
 Mrs. Martin went to her back fence, 
 which was the nearest point of communica 
 tion between her and her neighbour. " Mis' 
 Smith," she called, and her confederate came 
 hurrying to the door, thimble on and a bit
 
 io8 The Uncalled 
 
 i 
 
 of sewing clutched precariously in her apron, 
 just as she had caught it up when the signifi 
 cant call brought her to the back door. 
 
 " Oh, you 're busy as usual, I see," said 
 Mrs. Martin. 
 
 " It ain't nothin' partic'ler, only a bit o' 
 bastin' that I was doin'." 
 
 " You ain't a-workin' on the machine, 
 then, so you might bring your sewin' over 
 and take a cup o' tea with me." 
 
 " La ! now that 's so kind o' you, Mis' 
 Martin. I was jest thinkin' how good a 
 cup o' tea would taste, but I did n't want to 
 stop to make it. I '11 be over in a minute, 
 jest as soon as I see if my front door is 
 locked." And she disappeared within the 
 house, while Mrs. Martin returned to her 
 own sitting-room. 
 
 The invited knew very well what the in 
 vitation to tea meant. She knew that some 
 fresh piece of news was to be related and 
 discussed. The beverage of which she was 
 invited to partake was but a pretext, but 
 neither the one nor the other admitted as 
 much. Each understood perfectly, as by a 
 tacit agreement, and each tried to deceive 
 herself and the other as to motives and 
 objects.
 
 The Uncalled 109 
 
 There is some subtle tie between tea- 
 drinking and gossip. It is over their dainty 
 cups that women dissect us men and damn 
 their sisters. Some of the quality of the 
 lemon they take in their tea gets into their 
 tongues. Tea is to talk what dew is to a 
 plant, a gentle nourishing influence, which 
 gives to its product much of its own quality. 
 There are two acids in the tea which cul 
 tured women take. There is only one in 
 the beverage brewed by commonplace peo 
 ple. But that is enough. 
 
 Mrs. Martin had taken her tray into the 
 sitting-room, where a slight fire was burning 
 in the prim " parlour cook," on which the 
 hot water was striving to keep its quality 
 when Mrs. Smith came in. 
 
 " La, Mis' Martin, you do manage to 
 have everything so cosy. I 'm shore a little 
 fire in a settin'-room don't feel bad these 
 days." 
 
 " I jest thought I 'd have to have a fire," 
 replied Mrs. Martin, " fur I was feelin' right 
 down chilly, though goodness knows a per 
 son does burn enough coal in winter, without 
 throwin' it away in these early fall days." 
 
 "Well, the Lord's put it here fur our 
 comfort, an' I think we 're a-doin' His will
 
 no The Uncalled 
 
 when we make use o' the good things He 
 gives us." 
 
 "Ah, but Mis' Smith, there's too many 
 people that goes about the world thinkin' 
 that they know jest what the Lord's will is ; 
 but I have my doubts about 'em, though, 
 mind you, I ain't a-mentionin' no names : 
 4 no name, no blame.' " Mrs. Martin pressed 
 her lips and shook her head, a combination 
 of gestures that was eloquent with meaning. 
 It was too much for her companion. Her 
 curiosity got the better of her caution. 
 
 " Dear me ! " she exclaimed. " What is 
 it now ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothin' of any consequence at all. 
 It ain't fur me to be a-judgin' my neighbours 
 or a-talkin' about 'em. I jest thought I 'd 
 have you over to tea, you 're sich good 
 company." 
 
 Mrs. Smith was so impatient that she 
 had forgotten her sewing and it lay neglected 
 in her lap, but in no other way did she again 
 betray her anxiety. She knew that there 
 was something new to be told and that it 
 would be told all in good time. But when 
 gossip has become a fine art it must be con 
 ducted with dignity and precision. 
 
 " Let me see, I believe you take two
 
 The Uncalled 1 1 1 
 
 lumps o' sugar an' no milk." Mrs. Martin 
 knew perfectly what her friend took. " I 
 don't know how this tea is. I got it from 
 the new grocery over at the corner." She 
 tasted it deliberately. "It might 'a' drawed 
 a little more." Slowly she stirred it round 
 and round, and then, as if she had drawn 
 the truth from the depths of her cup, she 
 observed, " This is a queer world, Mis' 
 Smith." 
 
 Mrs. Smitn sighed a sigh that was appre 
 ciative and questioning at once. " It is 
 indeed," she echoed ; " I 'm always a-sayin' 
 to myself what a mighty cur'us world 
 this is." 
 
 " Have you ever got any tea from that 
 new grocery-man ? " asked her companion, 
 with tantalising irrelevance. 
 
 " No : I hain't never even been in there." 
 
 " Well, this here 's middlin* good ; don't 
 you think so ? " 
 
 " Oh, it's more than middlin', it's down 
 right good. I think I must go into that 
 grocery some time, myself." 
 
 " I was in there to-day, and met Mis' 
 Murphy : she says there 's great goin'-ons 
 up at Miss Prime's I never shall be able 
 to call her Mis' Hodges."
 
 112 The Uncalled 
 
 " You don't tell me ! She and Brother 
 'Liphalet 'ain't had a fallin' out already, 
 have they ? Though what more could yota 
 expect ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed. It ain't no fallin' out, 
 nothin' o' the kind." 
 
 " Well, what then ? What has Miss 
 Hester I mean Mis' Hodges been doin' 
 now ? Where will that woman stop ? What 's 
 she done ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, QO nave another cup 
 of tea, an' help yoreself to that bread an' 
 butter, you see, Freddie Brent has finished 
 at the high school, an' they 've been won- 
 derin' what to make him." 
 
 "Well, what air they a-goin' to make 
 him ? His father was a good stone-mason, 
 when he was anything." 
 
 " Humph ! you don't suppose Miss Hes 
 ter 's been sendin' a boy to school to learn 
 Latin and Greek an' algebry an' sich, to be 
 a stone-mason, do you ? Huh uh ! Said I 
 to myself, as soon as I see her sendin' him 
 from the common school to high school, 
 says I, ' She 's got big notions in her head.' 
 Oh, no; the father's trade was not good 
 enough fur herbov : so thinks Mis' 'Lipha 
 let Hodges."
 
 The Uncalled 113 
 
 " Well, what on airth is she goin* to make 
 out of him, then? " 
 
 " Please pass me that sugar : thank you. 
 You know Mr. Daniels offered him a place 
 as clerk in the same store where Sophy 
 Davis is. It was mighty kind o' Mr, 
 Daniels, I think, to offer him the job." 
 
 " Well, did n't he take it ? " 
 
 " Well, partly he did an' partly he did n't, 
 ef you can understand that." 
 
 " Sally Martin, what do you mean ? A 
 body has to fairly pick a thing out o' you." 
 
 " I mean that she told Mr. Daniels he 
 might work fur him half of every day." 
 
 " Half a day ! An' what's he goin' to 
 do the other half? " 
 
 " He 's a-goin' to the Bible Seminary the 
 other half-day. She 's a-goin to . make a 
 preacher out o' him." 
 
 Mrs. Martin had slowly and tortuously 
 worked up to her climax, and she shot forth 
 the last sentence with a jubilant ring. She 
 had well calculated its effects. Sitting back 
 in her chair, she supped her tea complacently 
 as she contemplated her companion's aston 
 ishment. Mrs. Smith had completely col 
 lapsed into her seat, folded her arms, and 
 closed her eyes. " Laws a massy ! " she
 
 H4 The Uncalled 
 
 exclaimed. "What next? Old Tom, 
 drunken Torn, swearin' an' ravin' Tom 
 Brent's boy a preacher ! " Then suddenly 
 she opened her eyes and sat up very erect 
 and alert as she broke forth, " Sally Martin, 
 what air you a-tellin' me? It ain't pos 
 sible. It's ag'in' nature. A panther's cub 
 ain't a-goin* to be a lamb. It 's downright 
 wicked, that 's what I say." 
 
 "An' so says I to Mis' Murphy, them 
 same identical words ; says I, ' Mis' Murphy, 
 it's downright wicked. It's a-shamin' of 
 the Lord's holy callin' o' the ministry.' ' 
 
 " An' does the young scamp pertend to 
 V had a call ? " 
 
 " No, indeed : he was mighty opposed to 
 it, and so was her husband ; but that woman 
 was so set she would n't agree to nothin' else. 
 He don't pertend to 'a' heerd no call, 
 'ceptin' Miss. Hester's, an' that was a com 
 mand. I know it 's all true, fur Mis' 
 Murphy, while she was n't jest a-listenin', 
 lives next door and heerd it all." 
 
 And so the two women fell to discussing 
 the question, as they had heard it, pro and 
 con. It was all true, as these gossips had it, 
 that Miss Hester had put into execution her 
 half-expressed determination to make a
 
 The Uncalled 115 
 
 preacher of Fred. He had heard nothing of 
 it until the day when he rushed in elated over 
 the kindly offer of a place in Mr. Daniels's 
 store. Then his guardian had firmly told 
 him of her plan, and there was a scene. 
 
 "You kin jest tell Mr. Daniels that you 
 kin work for him half a day every day, an' 
 that you 're a-goin' to put in the rest of 
 your time at the Bible Seminary. I 've made 
 all the arrangements." 
 
 " But I don't want to be a preacher," the 
 boy had retorted, with some heat. " I 'd a 
 good deal rather learn business, and some 
 day start out for myself." 
 
 " It ain't what some of us wants to do in 
 this life ; it 's what the Lord appoints us to ; 
 an' it 's wicked fur you to rebel." 
 
 " I don't know how you can know so 
 much what the Lord means for me to do. 
 I should think He would give His messages 
 to those who are to do the work." 
 
 " That 's right, Freddie Brent, sass me, 
 sass me. That 's what I 've struggled all the 
 best days of my life to raise you fur." 
 
 " I 'm not sassing you, but " 
 
 " Don't you think, Hester," broke in her 
 husband, " that mebbe there 's some truth 
 in what Freddie says ? Don't you think the
 
 n6 The Uncalled 
 
 Lord kind o' whispers what He wants people 
 to do in their own ears ? Mebbe it was n't 
 never intended fur Freddie to be a preacher : 
 there's other ways o' doin' good besides 
 a-talkin' from the pulpit." 
 
 " I 'd be bound fur you, 'Liphalet : it 's a 
 shame, you a-goin' ag'in' me, after all I Ve 
 done to make Freddie material fit for the 
 Lord's use. Jest think what you '11 have to 
 answer fur, a-helpin' this unruly boy to shirk 
 his dooty." 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' ag'in' you, Hester. 
 You're my wife, an' I 'low 'at your jedg- 
 ment's purty sound on most things. I ain't 
 a-goin' ag'in' you at all, but but I was 
 jest a-wonderin'." 
 
 The old man brought out the last words 
 slowly, meditatively. He was "jest a-won 
 derin'." His wife, though, never wondered. 
 
 " Mind you," she went on, " I say to 
 you, Freddie, and to yore uncle 'Liphalet 
 too, ef he upholds you, that it ain't me 
 you 're a-rebellin' against. It 's yore dooty 
 an* the will o' God that you 're a-fightin'. 
 It 's easy enough to rebel against man ; but 
 do you know what you 're a-doin' when you 
 set yourself up against the Almighty ? Do 
 Vou want to do that ? "
 
 The Uncalled 117 
 
 " Yes," came the boy's answer like a flash. 
 He was stung and irritated into revolt, and 
 a torrent of words poured from his lips un 
 restrained. " I 'm tired of doing right. I 'm 
 tired of being good. I 'm tired of obeying 
 God " 
 
 " Freddie ! " But over the dam the water 
 was flowing with irresistible force. The horror 
 of his guardian's face and the terrible reproach 
 in her voice could not check the boy. 
 
 " Everything," he continued, " that I have 
 ever wanted to do since I can remember has 
 been bad, or against my duty, or displeasing 
 to God. Why does He frown on everything 
 I want to do ? Why do we always have to 
 be killing our wishes on account of duty ? 
 I don't believe it. I hate duty. I hate 
 obedience. I hate everything, and I won't 
 obey " 
 
 " Freddie, be keerful : don't say anything 
 that '11 hurt after yore mad spell 's over. 
 Don't blaspheme the Lord A'mighty." 
 
 'Liphalet Hodges' voice was cool and 
 tender and persuasive. He laid his hand on 
 the boy's shoulder, while his wife sat there 
 motionless, white and rigid with horror. 
 
 The old man's words and his gentle touch 
 had a wonderful effect on the boy ; they
 
 n8 The Uncalled 
 
 checked his impassioned outburst ; but his 
 pent-up heart was too full. He burst into 
 tears and rushed headlong from the house. 
 
 For a time he walked aimlessly on, his 
 mind in a tumult of rage. Then he 
 began to come to himself. He saw the 
 people as they passed him. He had eyes 
 again for the street, and he wondered where 
 he was going. He felt an overwhelming 
 desire to talk to some one and to get sym 
 pathy, consolation, and perhaps support. 
 But whither should he turn ? If 'Liphalet 
 Hodges had been at the old house, his steps 
 would naturally have bent in that direction ; 
 but this refuge was no longer his. Then his 
 mind began going over the people whom he 
 knew, and no name so stuck in his fancy as 
 that of Elizabeth. It was a hard struggle. 
 He was bashful. Any other time he would 
 not have done it, but now his great need 
 created in him an intense desperation that 
 made him bold. He turned and retraced his 
 steps toward the Simpson house. 
 
 Elizabeth was leaning over the gate. The 
 autumn evening was cool : she had a thin 
 shawl about her shoulders. She was hum 
 ming a song as Fred came up. His own 
 agitation made her* seem irritatingly calm.
 
 The Uncalled 119 
 
 She opened the gate and made room for him 
 at her side. 
 
 "You seem dreadfully warm," she said, 
 " and here I was getting ready to go in be 
 cause it is so cool." 
 
 " I 've been walking very fast," he answer 
 ed, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Don't you think you 'd better go in, so 
 as not to take cold ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't care if I do take cold." 
 The speech sounded rude. Elizabeth looked 
 
 at him in surprise. 
 
 " What 's the matter with you ?" she asked. 
 
 " I 'm mad ; that 's what 's the matter.'* 
 
 " Oh, Fred, you should n't get mad : you 
 know it 's wrong." 
 
 He put up his hand as if she had struck 
 him. " Wrong ! wrong ! It seems I can*t 
 hear anything else but that word. Every 
 thing is wrong. Don't say any more about 
 it. I don't want to hear the word again." 
 
 Elizabeth did not know what to make of 
 his words, so she said nothing, and for a 
 while they stood in strained silence. After 
 a while he said, " Aunt Hester wants me to 
 be a preacher." 
 
 " I am so glad to hear that," she returned 
 " I think you '11 make a good one."
 
 120 The Uncalled 
 
 " You too ! " he exclaimed, resentfully. 
 " Why should I make a good one ? Why 
 need I be one at all ? " 
 
 <c Oh, because you 're smart, and then 
 you 've always been good." 
 
 The young man was suddenly filled with 
 disdain. His anger returned. He felt how 
 utterly out of accord he was with every one 
 else. " Don't you think there is anything 
 else required besides being f smart ' and 
 ' good ' ? " He himself would have blushed 
 at the tone in which he said this, could he 
 have recognised it. " I 'm smart because I 
 happened to pass all my examinations. I 
 got through the high school at eighteen : 
 nearly everyone does the same. I'm good 
 because I have never had a chance to be 
 bad : I have never been out of Aunt Hes 
 ter's sight long enough. Anvbody could 
 be good that way." 
 
 " But then older people know what is 
 best for us, Fred." 
 
 " Why should they ? They don't know 
 what's beating inside of us away down here." 
 The boy struck his breast fiercely. " I 
 don't believe they do know half the time 
 what is best, and I don't believe that 
 intends them to know,"
 
 The Uncalled 121 
 
 " I would n't talk about it, if I were you. 
 I must go in. Won't you come in with 
 me?" 
 
 " Not to-night," he replied. " I must be 
 off." 
 
 " But papa might give you some advice." 
 
 " I Ve had too much of it now. What I 
 want is room to breathe in once." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 " I know you don't ; nobody does, or tries 
 to. Go in, Lizzie," he said more calmly. 
 " I don't want you to catch cold, even if I 
 do. Good-night." And he turned away. 
 
 The girl stood for a moment looking after 
 him ; her eye was moist. Then she pouted, 
 " Fred's real cross to-night," and went in. 
 
 It is one of the glaring sarcasms of life to 
 see with what complacency a shallow woman 
 skims the surface of tragedy and thinks that 
 she has sounded the depths. 
 
 Fred continued his walk towards home. 
 He was thinking. It ran in him that Eliza 
 beth was a good deal of a fool ; and then he 
 felt horrified with himself for thinking it. 
 It did not occur to him that the hard con 
 ditions through which he had come had 
 made him mentally and spiritually older than 
 the girl. He was thinking of his position,
 
 122 The Uncalled 
 
 how perfectly alone he stood. Most of the 
 people whom he knew would see only blind 
 obstinacy in his refusal to be a minister. 
 But were one's inclinations nothing ? Was 
 there really nothing in the " call " to preach ? 
 So he pondered as he walked, and more and 
 more the hopelessness of his predicament 
 became revealed to him. All his life had 
 been moulded by this one woman's hands. 
 Would not revolt now say to the world, 
 " I am grown now ; I do not need this 
 woman who has toiled. I can disobey her 
 with impunity ; I will do so." 
 
 He went home, and before going in leaned 
 his head long upon the gate and thought. 
 A listless calm had succeeded his storm of 
 passion. He went in and to bed. 
 
 At breakfast he seemed almost cheerful, 
 while Mr. Hodges was subdued. His wife 
 had taken refuge in an attitude of injured 
 silence. 
 
 "Aunt Hester," said the young man, 
 apparently without effort, " I was wrong yes 
 terday ; I am sorry. I will do whatever you 
 say, even to being a preacher." Something 
 came up in his throat and choked Him as 
 he saw a brightness come into the face and 
 eyes of his beloved " Uncle 'Liph," but it
 
 The Uncalled 123 
 
 grew hard and bitter there as Mrs. Hodges 
 replied, " Well, I 'm glad the Lord has 
 showed you the errors of your way an' 
 brought you around to a sense o' yourdooty 
 to Him an' to me." 
 
 Poor, blind, conceited humanity ! Inter 
 preters of God, indeed ! We reduce the 
 Deity to vulgar fractions. We place our 
 own little ambitions and inclinations before 
 a shrine, and label them " divine messages." 
 We set up our Delphian tripod, and we are 
 the priest and oracles. We despise the plans 
 of Nature's Ruler and substitute our own. 
 With our short sight we affect to take a 
 comprehensive view of eternity. Our hori 
 zon is the universe. We spy on the Divine 
 and try to surprise His secrets, or to sneak 
 into His confidence by stealth. We make 
 God the eternal a puppet. We measure in 
 finity with a foot-rule.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WHEN Fate is fighting with all her 
 might against a human soul, the 
 greatest victory that the soul can win is to 
 reconcile itself to the unpleasant, which is 
 never quite so unpleasant afterwards. Upon 
 this principle Frederick Brent acted instinc 
 tively. What with work and study and con 
 tact with his fellow-students, he found the 
 seminary not so bad a place, after all. In 
 deed, he began to take a sort of pleasure in 
 his pursuits. The spirit of healthy compe 
 tition in the school whetted his mind and made 
 him forgetful of many annoyances from with 
 out. When some fellow-salesman at the store 
 gibed at him for being a parson, it hurt 
 him ; but the wound was healed and he was 
 compensated when in debate he triumphed 
 over the crack speaker of his class. It was 
 a part of his training to do earnestly and 
 thoroughly what he had to do, even though 
 it was distasteful, and it was not long before 
 he was spoken of as one of the most promis 
 ing members of the school.
 
 Notwithstanding its steady growth toward 
 citydom, Dexter retained many of the tradi 
 tions of its earlier and smaller days. Among 
 them was that of making the church the 
 centre of its social and public life. For this 
 reason the young student came in for much 
 attention on account of his standing in the 
 religious college. Another cause which 
 elicited the praise and congratulations of 
 his friends was his extreme youth. That 
 community which could send out a "boy 
 preacher " always deemed itself particularly 
 favoured by Providence. Dexter was no 
 exception, and it had already begun to be 
 stow the appellation upon young Brent, 
 much to his disgust. He knew the species 
 and detested it. It was mostly composed 
 of ignorant and hypocritical young prigs, 
 in whom their friends had seemed to see 
 some especial merit and had forthwith 
 hoisted them into a position that was as 
 foolish as it was distasteful. They were 
 hailed as youthful prodigies and exploited 
 around the country like a patent medicine 
 or a side-show. What is remarkable at 
 eighteen is not so striking at twenty-eight. 
 So when their extreme youth was no longer 
 a cause for surprise, the boy preachers
 
 12,6 The Uncalled 
 
 settled down into every-day dulness, with 
 nothing except the memory of a flimsy 
 fame to compensate the congregations they 
 bored. 
 
 Against this Frederick Brent fought with 
 all his strength. He refused invitation after 
 invitation to "talk" or "exhort," on the 
 plea that he wished to be fully prepared 
 for his work before entering upon it. 
 
 But his success at school militated against 
 him, for the fame of his oratorical powers 
 was gradually but surely leaking out. The 
 faculty recognised and commended it, so 
 he could not hope long to hide behind his 
 plea, although he dreaded the day when it 
 would no longer serve his purpose. 
 
 Some of the " older heads " accused him 
 of an unwarranted fear, of cowardice even, 
 and an attempt to shirk his evident duty. 
 The truth of it was that these same people 
 wanted to hear him and then attack his 
 manner or his doctrine. They could not, 
 would not forget that he was the son of 
 old Tom Brent, the drunkard, and of the 
 terrible, the unspeakable Margaret, his wife. 
 They could not forget that he was born 
 and lived the first years of his life on the 
 "mean" street, when it was a mean street ;
 
 The Uncalled 127 
 
 and when any obstinate old fossil was told 
 of the youth's promise, he would shake his 
 head, as who should say, " What good can 
 come out of that Nazareth ? " 
 
 But the young man went' his way and 
 heeded them not. He knew what they 
 were saying. He knew what they were 
 thinking, even when they held his hand 
 and smiled upon him, and it filled him with 
 a spirit of distrust and resentment, though 
 it put him bravely on his mettle. While 
 he was a man, and in the main manly, some 
 times he was roused to an anger almost 
 childish ; then, although he did not want 
 to be a preacher at all, he wished and even 
 prayed to become a great one, just to con 
 vince the old fools who shook their heads 
 over him. To his ears had crept, as such 
 tales will creep, some of the stories of his 
 parents' lives, and, while he pitied his 
 mother, there was a great fierceness in 
 his heart against his father. 
 
 But as in the old days when Miss Prime's 
 discipline would have turned all within him 
 to hardness and bitterness Eliphalet Hodges 
 stood between him and despair, so now in 
 this crucial time Elizabeth was a softening 
 influence in his life.
 
 128 The Uncalled 
 
 As the days came and went, he had con 
 tinued to go to see her ever since the night 
 when he had stood with her at the gate and 
 felt the bitterness of her lack of sympathy ; 
 but all that had passed now, and uncon 
 sciously they had grown nearer to each 
 other. There had been a tacit understand 
 ing between them until just a few weeks be 
 fore. It was on a warm spring evening : 
 he had just passed through her gate and 
 started towards the house, when the open 
 ing chords of the piano struck on his ear 
 through the opened window and arrested 
 him. Elizabeth had a pleasant little voice, 
 with a good deal of natural pathos in it. 
 As the minister's daughter, the scope of her 
 songs was properly, according to Dexter, 
 rather limited, but that evening she was 
 singing softly to herself a love-song. The 
 words were these : 
 
 If Death should claim me for her own to-day, 
 
 And softly I should falter from your side, 
 Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay, 
 
 And would my image in your heart abide ? 
 Or should I be as some forgotten dream, 
 
 That lives its little space, then fades entire ? 
 Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream 
 
 To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire ? 
 \
 
 The Uncalled 129 
 
 I would not for the world, love, give you pain, 
 
 Or ever compass what would cause you grief; 
 And oh, how well I know that tears are vain ! 
 
 But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief; 
 So, if some day before you I should go 
 
 Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea, 
 'T would give my spirit stronger wings to know 
 
 That you remembered still and wept for me. 
 
 She was alone in the room. The song 
 was hardly finished when Brent stepped 
 through the window and laid his hand over 
 hers where they rested on the keys. 
 
 " Why do you sing like that, Elizabeth ? " 
 he said, tremulously. 
 
 She blushed and lowered her eyes be 
 neath his gaze, as if she already knew the 
 words that were on his lips, or feared that 
 her soul lay too bare before him. 
 
 " Why do you think of death ? " he asked 
 again, imprisoning her hands. 
 
 " It was only my mood," she faltered. 
 " I was thinking, and I thought of the song t 
 and I just sang it." 
 
 " Were you thinking of any one in par 
 ticular, Lizzie ? " 
 
 Her head drooped lower until her face 
 
 was hidden, but she did not answer. A 
 
 strange boldness had come to him. He 
 
 went on : "I listened as you were singing, 
 
 9
 
 130 The Uncalled 
 
 and it seemed as if every word was meant 
 for me, Lizzie. It may sound foolish, but 
 I I love you. Won't you look at me 
 and tell me that I am right in thinking 
 you love me ? " She half raised her face 
 to his and murmured one word. In it 
 were volumes ; he bent down and kissed 
 her. It was the first time he had ever 
 kissed a girl. He did it almost fearfully. 
 It was a kiss in which reverence struggled 
 with passion. 
 
 "You are to be my little sweetheart now, 
 and I am to be in your thoughts hereafter 
 when you sing; only we don't want any 
 more such songs as this one. I don't want 
 to c remember still and weep for you,' I want 
 to have you always by me and work for you. 
 Won't you let me ? " 
 
 Elizabeth found her tongue for a moment 
 only, but that was enough for her lover. 
 A happy light gleamed in his eyes : his face 
 glowed. He was transfigured. Love does 
 so much for a man. 
 
 From that time forward, when he was 
 harassed by cares and trouble, he sought out 
 Elizabeth, and, even though he could seldom 
 tell her all that was in his heart, he found 
 relief in her presence. He did not often
 
 The Uncalled 131 
 
 speak of his trials to her, for, in spite of his 
 love for her, he felt that she could not 
 understand ; but the pleasure he found in 
 her company put sweetness into his life and 
 made his burdens easier to bear. 
 
 Only once had a little shadow come be 
 tween them, and the fact that so little a thing 
 could have made a shadow shows in what 
 a narrow, constrained atmosphere the two 
 young people lived. Young Brent still had 
 his half-day position in the store, and when 
 the employees of a rival establishment chal 
 lenged Daniels's clerks to a game of base 
 ball, he was duly chosen as one of the men 
 to uphold the honour of their house upon the 
 diamond. 
 
 The young man was not fossilised. He 
 had strength and the capacity for enjoyment, 
 so he accepted without a thought of wrong. 
 The Saturday came, the game was played. 
 Fred Brent took part, and thereby brought 
 a hornets' nest about his ears. It would 
 scarcely have been so bad, but the young 
 man entered the game with all the zest and 
 earnestness of his intense nature, and several 
 times by brilliant playing saved his side from 
 defeat. In consequence, his name was in 
 the mouth of every one who had seen or
 
 132, The Uncalled 
 
 heard of the contest. He was going home 
 that evening, feeling pleased and satisfied 
 with himself, when he thought he would 
 drop in a moment on the way and see Eliz 
 abeth. He had hardly got into the house 
 before he saw from her manner that some 
 thing was wrong, and he wondered what it 
 could be. He soon learned. It is only 
 praise that is slow. 
 
 " Oh, Fred," said the girl, reproachfully, 
 " is it true that you have been playing base 
 ball ? " 
 
 " Baseball, yes ; what of it ? What are 
 you looking so horrified about ? " 
 
 " Did you think it was right for you, in 
 your position, to play ? " 
 
 " If I had thought it was wrong I assur 
 edly should not have played," the young 
 man returned. 
 
 " Everybody is talking about it, and father 
 says he thinks you have disgraced your 
 calling." 
 
 " Disgraced my calling by playing an inno 
 cent game ? " 
 
 " But father thinks it is a shame for a man 
 who is preparing to do such work as yours 
 to have people talking about him as a mere 
 ball-player."
 
 The Uncalled 133 
 
 The blood mounted in hot surges to the 
 young man's face. He felt like saying, " Your 
 father be hanged," but he controlled his 
 anger, and said, quietly, " Elizabeth, don't 
 you ever think for yourself? " 
 
 " I suppose I do, Fred, but I have been 
 brought up to respect what my elders think 
 and say." 
 
 "Don't you think that they, as well as we, 
 can be narrow and mistaken ? " 
 
 " It is not for me to judge them. My 
 part is to obey." 
 
 " You have learned an excellent lesson," 
 he returned, bitterly. " That is just the 
 thing : c obey, obey.' Well, I will. I will 
 be a stick, a dolt. I will be as unlike what 
 God intended me to be as possible. I will 
 be just what your father and Aunt Hester 
 and you want me to be. I will let them 
 think for me and save my soul. I am too 
 much an imbecile to attempt to work out 
 my own salvation. No, Elizabeth, I will 
 not play ball any more. I can imagine the 
 horrified commotion it caused among the 
 angels when they looked down and saw me 
 pitching. When I get back to school I 
 shall look up the four Gospels' views on 
 ball-playing."
 
 134 The Uncalled 
 
 " Fred, I don't like you when you talk 
 that way." 
 
 " I won't do that any more, either." He 
 rose abruptly. " Good-bye, Elizabeth. I 
 am off." He was afraid to stay, lest more 
 bitter words should come to his lips. 
 
 " Good-bye, Fred," she said. " I hope 
 you understand." 
 
 The young man wondered as he walked 
 homeward if the girl he had chosen was not 
 a little bit prim. Then he thought of her 
 father, and said to himself, even as people 
 would have said of himself, " How can she 
 help it, with such a father ? " 
 
 All his brightness had been dashed. He 
 was irritated because the thing was so small, 
 so utterly absurd. It was like the sting of 
 a miserable little insect, just enough to 
 smart, and not enough to need a strong 
 remedy. The news of the game had also 
 preceded him home, and his guardian's opin 
 ion of the propriety of his action did not 
 tend to soothe his mind. Mrs. Hodges 
 forcibly expressed herself as follows : " I put 
 baseball-playin' right down with dancin' and 
 sich like. It ain't no fittin' occupation for 
 any one that's a-goin' into the ministry. 
 It 's idleness, to begin with ; it 's a-wastin'
 
 The Uncalled 135 
 
 the precious time that 's been given us for a 
 better use. A young man that 's goin' to 
 minister to people's souls ought to be conse 
 crated to the work before he begins it. Who 
 ever heerd tell of Jesus playin' base-ball? " 
 
 Among a certain class of debaters such an 
 argument is always supposed to be clinching, 
 unanswerable, final. But Mr. Hodges raised 
 his voice in protest. " I ain't a-goin' to keep 
 still no longer. I don't believe the boy 's 
 done a bit o' harm. There 's lots of things 
 the Lord did n't do that He did n't forbid 
 human bein's to do. We ain't none of us 
 divine, but you mark my words, Freddie, 
 an' I say it right here so 's yore aunt Hester 
 can hear me too, you mark my words : ef 
 you never do nothin' worse than what 
 you 've been a-doin' to-day, it '11 be mighty 
 easy for you to read yore title clear to man 
 sions in the skies." 
 
 " Omph huh, 'Liphalet, there ain't nothin' 
 so easy as talkin' when Satin 's a-prdmptin' 
 you." 
 
 "There you go, Hester, there you go 
 ag'in, a-pattin' the devil on the back. I 
 'low the Old Boy must be tickled to death 
 with all the compliments Christian people 
 give him."
 
 136 The Uncalled 
 
 " A body 'd about as well be complimentin' 
 the devil as to be a-countenancin' his works, 
 as you air." 
 
 The old man stopped with a piece half 
 way to his mouth. " Nowjest listen at that ! 
 Hester Prime, ain't you ashamed of yoreself ? 
 Me a-countenancin' wrong ! Sayin' that 
 to me, an' me ol' enough to be to be 
 well, I 'm your husband, anywayl" 
 
 In times of excitement he was apt to for 
 get this fact for the instant and give his wife 
 her maiden name, as if all that was sharp in 
 her belonged to that prenuptial period. But 
 this storm relieved the atmosphere of its ten 
 sion. Mrs. Hodges felt better for having 
 spoken her mind, and Mr. Hodges for hav 
 ing answered, while the young man was 
 relieved by the championship of his elder, 
 ?:id so the storm blew over. It was several 
 days before Brent saw Elizabeth again ; but, 
 thanks to favouring winds, the sky had also 
 cleared in that direction. 
 
 It was through such petty calms and 
 storms that Fred passed the days and weeks 
 of his first year at the seminary. Some of 
 them were small annoyances, to be sure, but 
 he felt them deeply, and the sting of them 
 rankled. It is not to be supposed, because
 
 The Uncalled 137 
 
 there was no specific outburst, that he was 
 entirely at rest. Vesuvius had slumbered 
 long before Pompeii's direful day. His mind 
 was often in revolt, but he kept it to himself 
 or confided it to only one friend. This 
 friend was a fellow-student at the seminary, 
 a man older than Fred by some years. He 
 had first begun a literary career, but had re 
 nounced it for the ministry. Even to him 
 Fred would not commit himself until, near 
 the end of the year, Taylor declared his in 
 tention of now renouncing the study of the 
 ology for his old pursuits. Then Brent's 
 longing to be free likewise drew his story 
 from his lips. 
 
 Taylor listened to him with the air of one 
 who had been through it all and could sym 
 pathise. Then he surprised his friend by 
 saying, "Don't be a fool, Brent. It's all 
 very nice and easy to talk about striking out 
 for one's self, and all that. I 've been 
 through it all myself. My advice to you is, 
 stay here, go through the academic discipline, 
 and be a parson. Get into a rut if you will, 
 for some ruts are safe. When we are buried 
 deep, they keep us from toppling over. 
 This may be a sort of weak philosophy I am 
 trying to teach you, but it is the happiest
 
 138 The Uncalled 
 
 If I can save any man from self-delusion, I 
 want to do it. I '11 tell you why. When I 
 was at school some fool put it into my head 
 that I could write. I hardly know how it 
 came about. I began scribbling of my own 
 accord and for my own amusement. Some 
 times I showed the things to my friend, who 
 was a fool : he bade me keep on, saying that 
 I had talent. I did n't believe it at first. 
 But when a fellow keeps dinging at another 
 with one remark, after a while he grows to 
 believe it, especially when it is pleasant. It 
 is vastly easy to believe what we want to be 
 lieve. So I came to think that I could 
 write, and my soul was fired with the ambi 
 tion to make a name for myself in literature. 
 When I should have been turning Virgil 
 into English for class-room, I was turning 
 out more or less deformed verse of my own, 
 or rapt in the contemplation of some plot for 
 story or play. But somehow I got through 
 school without a decided flunk. In the mean 
 time some of my lines had found their way 
 into print, and the little cheques I received 
 for them had set my head buzzing with 
 dreams of wealth to be made by my pen. 
 If we could only pass the pitfalls of that 
 dreaming age of youth, most of us would get
 
 The Uncalled 139 
 
 along fairly well in this matter-of-fact old 
 world. But we are likely to follow blindly 
 the leadings of our dreams until we run our 
 heads smack into a corner-post of reality. 
 Then we awaken, but in most cases too late. 
 
 " I am glad to say that my father had the 
 good sense to discourage my aspirations. He 
 wanted me to take a profession. But, elated 
 by the applause of my friends, I scorned the 
 idea. What, mew my talents up in a court 
 room or a hospital ? Never ! It makes me 
 sick when I look back upon it and see what 
 a fool I was. I settled down at home and 
 began writing. Lots of things came back 
 from periodicals to which I sent them ; but 
 I had been told that this was the common lot 
 of all writers, and I plodded on. A few 
 things sold, just enough to keep my hopes in 
 a state of unstable equilibrium. 
 
 " Well, it 's no use to tell you how I went 
 on in that way for four years, clinging and 
 losing hold, standing and slipping, seeing the 
 prize recede just as I seemed to grasp it. 
 Then came the awakening. I saw that it 
 would have been better just to go on and do 
 the conventional thing. I found this out 
 too late, and I came here to try to remedy 
 it, but I can't, No one can. You get your
 
 140 The Uncalled 
 
 mind into a condition where the ordinary 
 routine of study is an impossibility, and you 
 cannot go back and take up the train you 
 have laid, so you keep struggling on wasting 
 your energy, hoping against hope. Then 
 suddenly you find out that you are and can 
 be only third- or at best second-rate. God, 
 what a discovery it is ! How you try to 
 fight it off until the last moment ! But it 
 comes upon you surely and crushingly, and, 
 cut, bruised, wounded, you slip away from 
 the face of the world. If you are a brave 
 man, you say boldly to yourself, * I will eke 
 out an existence in some humble way,' and 
 you go away to a life of longing and regret. 
 If you are a coward, you either leap over the 
 parapets of life to hell, or go creeping back 
 and fall at the feet of the thing that has 
 damned you, willing to be third-rate, any 
 thing; for you are stung with the poison 
 that never leaves your blood. So it has 
 been with me : even when I found that I 
 must choose a calling, I chose the one that 
 gave me most time to nurse the serpent that 
 had stung me." 
 
 Taylor ceased speaking, and looked a 
 little ashamed of his vehemence. 
 
 " This is your story," said Brent ; " but
 
 The Uncalled 141 
 
 men differ and conditions differ. I will 
 accept all the misery, all the pain and defeat 
 you have suffered, to be free to choose my 
 own course." 
 
 Taylor threw up his hands with a depre 
 catory gesture. " There," he said ; " it is 
 always so. I might as well have talked to 
 the wind." 
 
 So the fitful calms and Elizabeth's love 
 had not cured Frederick Brent's heart of its 
 one eating disease, the desire for freedom.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IT was not until early in Brent's second 
 year at the Bible Seminary that he was 
 compelled to go through the ordeal he so 
 much dreaded, that of filling a city pulpit. 
 The Dexterites had been wont to complain 
 that since the advent among them of the 
 theological school their churches had been 
 turned into recitation-rooms for the raw 
 students ; but of " old Tom Brent 's boy," 
 as they still called him, they could never 
 make this complaint. So, as humanity 
 loves to grumble, the congregations began 
 to find fault because he did not do as his 
 fellows did. 
 
 The rumours of his prowess in the class 
 room and his eloquence in the society hall 
 had not abated, and the curiosity of his 
 fellow-townsmen had been whetted to a 
 point where endurance was no longer 
 possible. Indeed, it is open to question 
 whether it was not by connivance of the 
 minister himself, backed by his trustees on
 
 The Uncalled 143 
 
 one side and the college authorities on the 
 other, that Brent was finally deputed to 
 supply the place of the Rev. Mr. Simpson, 
 who was affected by an indisposition, fan 
 cied, pretended, or otherwise. 
 
 The news struck the young man like a 
 thunderbolt, albeit he had been expecting it. 
 He attempted to make his usual excuse, but 
 the kindly old professor who had notified 
 him smiled into his face, and, patting his 
 shoulder, said, " It 's no use, Brent. I 'd 
 go and make the best of it ; they 're bound 
 to have you. I understand your diffidence in 
 the matter, and, knowing how well you stand 
 in class, it does credit to your modesty." 
 
 The old man passed on. He said he 
 understood, but in his heart the young stu 
 dent standing there helpless, hopeless, knew 
 that he did not understand, that he could 
 not. Only he himself could perceive it in 
 all the trying horror of its details. Only he 
 himself knew fully or could know what the 
 event involved, that when he arose to 
 preach, to nine-tenths of the congregation 
 he would not be Frederick Brent, student, 
 but " old Tom Brent's boy." He recoiled 
 from the thought. 
 
 Many a fireside saint has said, " Why did
 
 144 The Uncalled 
 
 not Savonarola tempt the hot ploughshares ? 
 God would not have let them burn him." 
 Faith is a beautiful thing. But Savonarola 
 had the ploughshares at his feet. The chil 
 dren of Israel stepped into the Red Sea 
 before the waters parted, but then Moses 
 was with them, and, what was more, Pharaoh 
 was behind them. 
 
 At home, the intelligence of what Brent 
 was to do was received in different manner 
 by Mrs. Hodges and her husband. The 
 good lady launched immediately into a lec 
 ture on the duty that was placed in his 
 hands ; but Eliphalet was silent as they sat 
 at the table. He said nothing until after 
 supper was over, and then he whispered to 
 his young friend as he started to his room, 
 " I know jest how you feel, Freddie. It 
 seems that I oughtn't to call you that now; 
 but I 'low you '11 allus be ' Freddie ' to me." 
 
 " Don't ever call me anything else, if you 
 please, Uncle 'Liph," said the young man, 
 pressing Eliphalet's hand. 
 
 " I think I kin understand you better 
 than most people," Mr. Hodges went on ; 
 " an' I know it ain't no easy task that 
 you Ve got before you." 
 
 " You Ve always understood me better
 
 The Uncalled 145 
 
 than any one, and and I wish you knew 
 what it has meant to me, and that I could 
 thank you somehow." 
 
 u 'Sh, my boy. It's thanks enough to 
 hear them words from you. Now you jest 
 calm yoreself, an' when Sunday comes I 
 don't know as I 'd ought to say it this way, 
 but I mean it all in a Christian sperrit 
 when Sunday comes, Freddie, my boy, you 
 jest go in an' give 'em fits." 
 
 The two parted with another pressure of 
 the hand, and it must be confessed that the 
 old man looked a little bit sheepish when 
 his wife hoped he had been giving Fred 
 good advice. 
 
 " You don't reckon, Hester, that I 'd give 
 him any other kind, do you ? " 
 
 "Not intentionally, 'Liphalet; but when 
 it comes to advice, there 's p'ints o' view." 
 Mrs. Hodges seemed suspicious of her hus 
 band's capabilities as an adviser. 
 
 " There 's some times when people 'd a 
 good deal ruther have sympathy than 
 advice." 
 
 "An* I reckon, 'cordin' to yore way o* 
 thinkin' this is one o' them. Well, I in 
 tend to try to do my dooty in this matter, 
 as I 've tried to do it all along."
 
 146 The Uncalled 
 
 " Hester, yore dooty '11 kill you yit. It 's 
 a wonder you don't git tired a-lookin' it in 
 the face." 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to skirk it, jest to live in 
 pleasure an' ease." 
 
 " No need o' shirkin', Hester, no need o' 
 shirkin' ; but they 's some people that 
 would n't be content without rowin' down 
 stream." 
 
 "An' then, mind you, 'Liphalet, I ain't 
 a-exchangin' words with you, fur that 's idle 
 ness, but there 's others, that would n't row 
 up stream, but 'ud wait an' hope fur a wind 
 to push 'em." These impersonalities were 
 as near " spatting " as Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hodges ever got. 
 
 Through all the community that clustered 
 about Mr. Simpson's church and drew its 
 thoughts, ideas, and subjects of gossip there 
 from, ran like wildfire the news that at last 
 they were to have a chance to judge of 
 young Brent's merits for themselves. It 
 caused a stir among old and young, and in 
 the days preceding the memorable Sunday 
 little else was talked of. 
 
 When it reached the ears of old Dan'l 
 Hastings, who limped around now upon 
 two canes, but was as acrimonious as ever,
 
 The Uncalled 147 
 
 he exclaimed, tapping the ground with one 
 of his sticks for emphasis, " What ! that 
 young Brent preachin' in our church, in our 
 minister's pulpit! It's a shame, an* he 
 the born son of old Tom Brent, that all the 
 town knows was the worst sinner here 
 abouts. I ain't a-goin' to go ; I ain't a--goin' 
 to go." 
 
 " Don't you be afeared to go, Dan'l : 
 there ain't no danger that his docterns air a- 
 goin' to be as strong as his father's whisky," 
 said his old enemy. 
 
 " Oh, it 's fur the likes o' you, Thomas 
 Donaldson, to be a-talkin' o' docterns an' 
 whisky in the same breath. You never 
 did have no reverence," said the old man, 
 testily. 
 
 " An' yet, Dan'l, I 've found docterns an 
 whisky give out by the same breath." 
 
 Mr. Hastings did not think it necessary 
 to notice this remark. He went on with his 
 tirade against the prospective " supply : " 
 " Why can't Elder Simpson preach hisself, 
 I 'd like to know, instead o' puttin' up that 
 young upstart to talk to his betters ? Why, 
 I mind the time that that boy had to be took 
 out o' church by the hand fur laffin' at me, 
 at me, mind you," the old man repeated,
 
 148 The Uncalled 
 
 shaking his stick ; " laffin' at me when I was 
 expoundin' the word." 
 
 "That's ter'ble, Dan'l ; fur, as fur as I 
 kin ricollec', when you 're a-expoundin' the 
 word it ain't no laffin' matter." 
 
 " I tell you, Thomas Donaldson, the 
 world's a-goin' down hill fast: but I ain't 
 a-goin' to help it along. I ain't a-goin' to 
 hear that Brent boy preach." 
 
 This declaration, however, did not prevent 
 the venerable Dan'l from being early in his 
 seat on the following Sunday morning, 
 sternly, uncompromisingly critical. 
 
 As might have been expected, the church 
 was crowded. Friends, enemies, and the 
 merely curious filled the seats and blocked 
 the aisles. The chapel had been greatly en 
 larged to accommodate its growing congrega 
 tion, but on this day it was totally inadequate 
 to hold the people who flocked to its doors. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Simpson was so far re 
 covered from his indisposition as to be able 
 to be present and assist at the service. Eliz 
 abeth was there, looking proud and happy 
 and anxious. Mrs. Hodges was in her ac 
 customed place on the ladies' side of the pul 
 pit. She had put new strings to her bonnet 
 in honour of the occasion, Her face wore a
 
 The Uncalled i 
 
 look of great severity. An unregenerate 
 wag in the back part of the church pointed 
 her out to his companions and remarked that 
 she looked as if she 'd spank the preacher if 
 he did n't do well. " Poor fellow, if he sees 
 that face he '11 break down, sure." Oppo 
 site, in the " amen corner," the countenance 
 of the good Eliphalet was a study in chang 
 ing expressions. It was alternately possessed 
 by fear, doubt, anxiety, and exultation. 
 
 Sophy Davis sat in a front seat, spick and 
 span in a new dress, which might have been 
 made for the occasion. People said that she 
 was making eyes at her young fellow-sales 
 man, though she was older than he. Mrs. 
 Martin and her friend whispered together a 
 little farther back. 
 
 A short time before the service began, 
 Brent entered by a side door near the pulpit 
 and ascended to his place. His entrance 
 caused a marked sensation. His appearance 
 was impressive. The youthful face was white 
 and almost rigid in its lines. " Scared to 
 death," was the mental note of a good many 
 who saw him. But his step was firm. As 
 Elizabeth looked at him, she felt proud that 
 such a man loved her. He was not hand 
 some. His features were irregular, but his
 
 150 The Uncalled 
 
 eyes were clear and fearless. If a certain 
 cowardice had held him back from this ordeal, 
 it was surely not because he trembled for 
 himself. The life he had lived and the 
 battles he had fought had given a compres 
 sion to his lips that corrected a natural ten 
 dency to weakness in his mouth. His head 
 was set squarely on his broad shoulders. He 
 was above medium height, but not loosely 
 framed. He looked the embodiment of 
 strength. 
 
 "He ain't a bit like his father," said some 
 one. 
 
 " He 's like his father was in his best 
 days," replied another. 
 
 " He don't look like he 's over-pleased 
 with the business. They say he did n't want 
 to come." 
 
 " Well, I guess it 's purty resky work 
 gittin' up to speak before all these people 
 that's knowed him all his life, an' know 
 where an' what he come from." 
 
 "They say, too, that he 's some pumpkins 
 out at the college." 
 
 " I 'ain't much faith in these school made 
 preachers ; but we '11 soon see what he kin 
 do in the pulpit. We 've heerd preachers, 
 an' we kin compare."
 
 The Uncalled 151 
 
 " That 's so : we 've heerd some preachers 
 in our day. He must toe the mark. He 
 may be all right at college, but he 's in a 
 pulpit now that has held preachers fur shore. 
 A pebble's all right among pebbles, but it 
 looks mighty small 'longside o' boulders. 
 He 's preachin' before people now. Why, 
 Brother Simpson himself never would 'a' got 
 a special dispensation to hold the church all 
 these years, ef it had n't been fur the people 
 backin' him up an' Conference was afraid 
 they 'd leave the connection." 
 
 " Well, ef this boy is anything, Lord 
 only knows where he gets it, fur everybody 
 knows " 
 
 " 'Sh ! " 
 
 The buzz which had attended the young 
 speaker's entrance subsided as Mr. Simpson 
 rose and gave out the hymn. That finished, 
 he ran his eyes over the front seats of the 
 assembly and then said, " Brother Hastings, 
 lead us in prayer." 
 
 The old man paused for an instant as if 
 surprised, and then got slowly to his knees. 
 It was a strange selection, but we have seen 
 that this particular parson was capable of 
 doing strange things. In the course of a 
 supplication of some fifteen minutes' dura-
 
 152, The Uncalled 
 
 tion, Brother Hastings managed to vent his 
 spleen upon the people and to pay the Lord 
 a few clumsy compliments. During the 
 usual special blessing which is asked upon 
 the preacher of the hour, he prayed, " O 
 Lord, let not the rarin' horses of his youth 
 run away with Thy chariot of eternal truth. 
 Lord, cool his head and warm his heart and 
 settle him firm. Grant that he may fully 
 realise where he's a-standin' at, an' who he 's 
 a-speakin' to. Do Thou not let him speak, 
 but speak through him, that Thy gospel 
 may be preached to-day as Thy prophets of 
 old preached it." 
 
 Throughout the prayer, but one thought 
 was running through Frederick Brent's 
 mind, and his heart was crying in its an 
 guish, " Oh, my God. my God, why do 
 they hound me so ? " 
 
 It is a terrible thing, this first effort before 
 the home people, especially when home has 
 not been kind. 
 
 When he arose to meet the people's eyes, 
 his face was haggard and he felt weak. 
 But unflinchingly he swept his eyes over 
 the crowd, and that instant's glance brought 
 before him all the panorama of the past 
 years. There before him was the sneaking
 
 The Uncalled 153 
 
 Billy Tompkins, now grown to the matu 
 rity of being called " Bill." Then there 
 was Dan'l Hastings. Oh, that night, years 
 ago, when he had been marched up the aisle 
 with crimson face! In one brief second he 
 lived it all over again, the shame, the dis 
 grace, the misery of it. There, severe, 
 critical, expectant, sat his guardian, the mas 
 ter-hand who had manipulated all the ma 
 chinery of his life. All this passed through 
 his mind in a flash, as he stood there facing 
 the people. His face changed. The hag 
 gard look passed away. His eyes kindled, 
 his cheeks mantled. Even in the pulpit, 
 even in the house of God, about to speak 
 His word, the blood sped hotly through his 
 veins, and anger burned at his heart. But 
 he crushed down his feelings for the mo 
 ment, and began in a clear ringing voice, 
 " Judge not, that ye be not judged. For 
 with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be 
 judged, and v/ith what measure ye mete, it 
 shall be measured to you again." The 
 lesson he drew from the words was God's 
 recognition of the fallibility of human judg 
 ment, and the self-condemnation brought 
 about by ignoring the prohibition in the 
 text. By an effort, he spoke deliberately
 
 154 The Uncalled 
 
 at first, but the fire in his heart came out 
 more and more in his words as he progressed. 
 " Blinded by our own prejudices," he said, 
 " circumscribed by our own ignorance, we 
 dare to set ourselves up as censors of our 
 fellow-men. Unable to see the whole chain 
 of life which God has forged, we take a 
 single link and say that it is faulty. Too 
 narrow to see His broad plan, we take a 
 patch of it and say, c This is not good.' 
 There is One who works even through evil 
 that good may come, but we take the sin 
 of our brother, and, without seeing or know 
 ing what went before it or shall come after, 
 condemn him. What false, blind, petty 
 judges we are ! You women who are con 
 demning your fallen sisters, you men who 
 are execrating your sinful brothers, if Christ 
 to-day were to command, * Let him who is 
 without sin cast the first stone/ look into 
 your own hearts and answer me, how many 
 of you would dare to lift a hand ? How 
 many of you have taken the beam out of 
 your own eye before attempting to pluck 
 the mote out of your brother's ? O ye 
 pharisaical ones, who stand in the public 
 places and thank God that you are not as 
 other men, beware, beware, The condemna-
 
 The Uncalled 155 
 
 tion that surely and inevitably shall fall upon 
 you is not the judgment of Jesus Christ. 
 It is not the sentence of the Father. It is 
 your own self-condemnation, without charity, 
 without forbearance, without love ; ' for with 
 what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged.' 
 a Stand by the wayside if you will. Draw 
 aside your skirts in the vainglory of self- 
 righteousness from the passing multitude. 
 Say to each other, if you will, ' This woman 
 is a sinner: this man is a criminal.' Close 
 your eyes against their acts of repentance, 
 harden your hearts against their pleas for 
 forgiveness, withhold mercy and pardon and 
 charity ; but I tell you of One who has ex 
 alted charity into the highest and best of 
 virtues. I bring you the message of One 
 whose judgment is tempered by divine love. 
 He is seeing you. He is hearing you. 
 Over the parapets of high heaven the gentle 
 Father leans waiting to take into His soul 
 any breath of human love or charity which 
 floats up to Him from this sin-parched 
 world. What have you done to merit His 
 approval ? Have you been kind, or have 
 you been hard ? Have you been gentle, or 
 have you been harsh ? Have you been 
 charitable, or have you hunted out all the
 
 156 The Uncalled 
 
 evil and closed your eyes to all the good ? 
 You have forgotten, O ye of little faith, you 
 have forgotten, you without charity in your 
 hearts, and you who claim to follow Christ 
 and yet have no love for your fellows, 
 you have forgotten that God is a God of 
 wrath as well as of love ; that Christ hath 
 anger as well as pity ; that He who holds 
 the hyssop of divine mercy holds also the 
 scourge of divine- indignation. You have 
 forgotten that the lash you so love to wield 
 over your brother's back shall be laid upon 
 your own by Him who whipped the money 
 changers from His temple. Listen ! The 
 day shall come when the condemnation you 
 are accumulating against yourselves shall 
 overwhelm you. Stop trying to steal the 
 prerogative of heaven. Judge not. God 
 only is just! " 
 
 The silence throughout the sermon was 
 intense. During the closing words which 
 have been quoted, it was like a presence in 
 the chapel. The voice of the preacher rang 
 out like a clarion. His eyes looked before 
 him as if he saw into the future. His hand 
 was uplifted as if he would call down upon 
 them the very judgment which he predicted. 
 
 Without more words he sat down. No
 
 The Uncalled 157 
 
 one moved or spoke for an instant. Dan'l 
 Hastings let his cane fall upon the floor. 
 It echoed through the silent place with a 
 crash. Some of the women started and half 
 cried out ; but the spell was now partly 
 broken. Mr. Simpson suddenly remem 
 bered to pray, and the gossips forgot to 
 whisper when their heads were bowed. There 
 were some pale faces in the crowd, and some 
 which the galling of tears had made red. 
 There was in the atmosphere something of 
 the same tense silence that follows a terrific 
 thunder-clap. And so the service ended, 
 and the people filed out of church silent 
 still. Some few remained behind to^ shake 
 the preacher's hand, but as soon as the bene 
 diction was over he hurried out the side 
 door, and, before any one could intercept 
 him, was on his way home. But he left a 
 willing substitute. Mrs. Hodges accepted 
 all his congratulations with complacent 
 condescension. 
 
 " Dan'l," said Thomas Donaldson, as he 
 helped the old man down the church steps, 
 " I was mistaken about the docterns an' the 
 whisky. It was stronger an' better, be 
 cause it was the pure stuff." 
 
 "I 'ain't got a word to say," said Dan'l,
 
 158 The Uncalled 
 
 "'ceptin' that a good deal of it was jest sass." 
 But he kept mumbling to himself as he 
 hobbled along, " Jedge not, fur you 're 
 a-pilin' up sentences on yoreself. I never 
 thought of it that way before ; no, I never." 
 
 Brent did not come out of his room to 
 dinner that afternoon. Mrs. Hodges was 
 for calling him, but the old man objected. 
 " No, Hester," he said, " Freddie jest wants 
 to be let alone. He 's a-feelin' now." 
 
 " But, 'Liphalet, he ought to know how 
 nice people talked about his sermon. I 
 tell you that was my kind o' doctern. It 's 
 wonderful how a child v/ill learn." 
 
 Notwithstanding his belief that his young 
 friend wanted to be left alone, the old man 
 slipped into his room later on with a cup 
 of tea. The young man sat before the 
 table, his head buried in his hands. Eli- 
 phalet set the cup and saucer down and 
 turned to go, but he paused at the door and 
 said, " Thank the Lord fur the way you 
 give it to 'em, Freddie. It was worth a 
 dollar." He would have hurried out, but 
 the young man sprang up and seized his 
 hand, exclaiming, " It was wrong, Uncle 
 'Liph, it was wrong of me. I saw them 
 sitting about me like jackals waiting for
 
 The Uncalled 159 
 
 their prey ; I remembered all that I had 
 been and all that I was ; I knew what they 
 were thinking, and I was angry, angry. 
 God forgive me ! That sermon was preached 
 from as hot a heart as ever did murder." 
 
 The old man stroked the young one's 
 hair as he would a child's. " Never mind," 
 he said. " It don't matter what you felt. 
 That's between you an' Him. I only 
 know what you said, an' that's all I care 
 about. Didn't you speak about the Lord 
 a-whippin' the money-changers from the 
 temple ? Ain't lots o' them worse than 
 the money-changers ? Was n't Christ di 
 vine ? Ain't you human ? Would a body 
 expect you to feel less 'n He did ? Huh ! 
 jest don't you worry ; remember that you 
 did n't hit a head that was n't in striking dis 
 tance." And the old man pressed the boy 
 back into his chair and slipped out.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 BESIDE an absolute refusal again to 
 supply, Brent made no sign of the 
 rebellion which was in him, and his second 
 year slipped quickly and uneventfully away. 
 He went to and from his duties silent and 
 self-contained. He did not confide in Mr. 
 Hodges, because his guardian seemed to 
 grow more and more jealous of their friend 
 ship. He could not confide in Elizabeth, 
 on account of a growing conviction that 
 she did not fully sympathise with him. 
 But his real feelings may be gathered from 
 a letter which he wrote to his friend Taylor 
 some two months after the events recorded 
 in the last chapter. 
 
 " MY DEAR TAYLOR," it ran, " time and again 
 I have told myself that I would write you a line, 
 keeping you in touch, as I promised, with my 
 progress. Many times have I thought of our 
 last talk together, and still I think as I thought 
 then that, in spite of all your disadvantages 
 and your defeats, you have the best of it. When 
 you fail, it is your own failure, and you bear down
 
 The Uncalled 161 
 
 with you only your own hopes and struggles and 
 ideals. If I fail, there falls with me all the frame 
 work of pride and anxiety that has so long pushed 
 me forward and held me up. For my own fail 
 ure I should not sorrow : my concern would be 
 for the one who has so carefully shaped me after 
 a pattern of her own. However else one may 
 feel, one must be fair to the ambitions of others, 
 even though one is the mere material that is 
 heated and beaten into form on the anvil of an 
 other's will. But I am ripe for revolt. The 
 devil is in me, a restrained, quiet, well-appear 
 ing devil, but all the more terrible for that. 
 
 " I have at last supplied one of the pulpits here, 
 that of my own church. The Rev. Mr. Simpson 
 was afflicted with a convenient and adaptable in 
 disposition which would not allow him to preach, 
 and I was deputed to fill his place. I knew what 
 a trial it would be, and had carefully written out 
 my sermon, but I am afraid I did not adhere very 
 strictly to the manuscript. I think I lost my head. 
 I know I lost my temper. But the sermon was 
 a nine days' wonder, at\d I have had to refuse a 
 dozen subsequent offers to supply. It is all very 
 sordid and sickening and theatrical. The good 
 old Lowry tried to show me that it was my duty 
 and for my good, but I have set my foot down not 
 to supply again, and so they let me alone now. 
 
 " It seems to me that that one sermon forged 
 a. chain which holds me in a position that I hate. 
 
 II
 
 1 62, The Uncalled 
 
 It is a public declaration that I am or mean to be 
 a preacher, and I must either adhere to it or break 
 desperately away. Do you know, I feel myself to 
 be an arrant coward. If I had half the strength that 
 you have, I should have been out of it long ago ; 
 but the habit of obedience grows strong upon a 
 man. 
 
 "There is but one crowning act to be added 
 to this drama of deceit and infamy, my ordina 
 tion. I know how all the other fellows are look 
 ing forward to it, and how, according to all the 
 prescribed canons, I should view the momentous 
 day ; but I am I. Have you ever had one of 
 those dreams where a huge octopus approaches 
 you slowly but certainly, enfolding you in his 
 arms and twining his horrid tentacles about your 
 helpless form ? What an agony of dread you 
 feel ! You try to move or cry out, but you can 
 not, and the arms begin to embrace you and draw 
 you towards the great body. Just so I feel about 
 the day of the ceremony that shall take me into 
 the body of which I was never destined to be a 
 member. 
 
 " Are you living in a garret ? Are you subsist 
 ing on a crust ? Happy, happy fellow ! But, 
 thank God, the ordination does not takf place 
 until next year, and perhaps in that time T may 
 find some means of escape. . If I do not, I know 
 that I shall have your sympathy ; but don't express 
 it. Ever sincerely yours, BRENT."
 
 The Uncalled 163 
 
 But the year was passing, and nothing 
 happened to release him. He found him 
 self being pushed forward at the next term 
 with unusual rapidity, but he did not mind 
 it; the work rather gave him relief from 
 more unpleasant thoughts. He went at 
 it with eagerness and mastered it with ease. 
 His fellow-students looked on him with 
 envy, but he went on his way unheeding 
 and worked for the very love of being 
 active, until one day he understood. 
 
 It was nearing the end of the term when 
 a fellow-student remarked to him, " Well, 
 Brent, it is n't every man that could have 
 done it, but you '11 get your reward in a 
 month or so now." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Brent. 
 " Done what ? " 
 
 " Now don't be modest," rejoined the 
 other; "I ?m really glad to see you do it. 
 I have no envy." 
 
 " Really, Barker, I don't understand you." 
 
 " Why, I mean you are finishing two years 
 in one." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! it will hardly amount to 
 that" 
 
 " Oh, well, you will get in with the senior 
 class men."
 
 164 The Uncalled 
 
 " Get in with the senior class ! " 
 
 "It will be kind of nice, a year before your 
 time, to be standing in the way of any ap 
 pointive plums that may happen to fall ; and 
 then you don't have to go miles away from 
 home before you can be made a full-fledged 
 shepherd. Well, here is my hand on it 
 anyway." 
 
 Brent took the proffered hand in an almost 
 dazed condition. It had all suddenly flashed 
 across his mind, the reason for his haste and 
 his added work. What a blind fool he had 
 been ! 
 
 The Church Conference met at Dexter 
 that year, and they had hurried him through 
 in order that he might be ready for ordina 
 tion thereat. 
 
 Alleging illness as an excuse, he did not 
 appear at recitation that day. The shock 
 had come too suddenly for him. Was he 
 thus to be entrapped ? Could he do nothing ? 
 He felt that ordination would bind him for 
 ever to the distasteful work. He had only 
 a month in which to prevent it. He would 
 do it. From that day he tried to fall grad 
 ually back in his work ; but it was too late ; 
 the good record which he had unwittingly 
 piled up carried him through, nolens volens.
 
 The Uncalled 165 
 
 The week before Conference met, Fred 
 erick Brent, residing it Dexter, by special 
 request of the faculty, was presented as a can 
 didate for ordination. Even his enemies in 
 the community said, " Surely there is some 
 thing in that boy." 
 
 Mrs. Hester Hodges was delighted. She 
 presented him with his ordination suit, and 
 altogether displayed a pride and pleasure that 
 almost reconciled the young man to his fate. 
 In the days immediately preceding the event 
 she was almost tender with him, and if he 
 had been strong enough to make a resolve 
 inimical to her hopes, the disappointment 
 which he knew failure would bring to her 
 would have greatly weakened it. 
 
 Now, Conference is a great event in the 
 circles of that sect of which Cory Chapel was 
 a star congregation, and the town where it 
 convenes, or " sets," as the popular phrase 
 goes, is an honoured place. It takes upon 
 itself an air of unusual bustle. There is a 
 great deal of house-cleaning, hanging of cur 
 tains, and laying of carpets, just prior to the 
 time. People from the rural parts about 
 come into town and settle for the week. 
 Ministers and lay delegates from all the 
 churches in the district, comprising perhaps
 
 1 66 The Uncalled 
 
 half of a large State or parts of two, come 
 and are quartered upon the local members of 
 the connection. For two weeks beforehand 
 the general question that passes from one 
 housewife to another is, " How many and 
 whom are you going to take?" Many are 
 the heartburnings and jealousies aroused by 
 the disposition of some popular preacher 
 whom a dozen members of the flock desire to 
 entertain, while the less distinguished visitors 
 must bide their time and be stuck in when 
 and where they may. The " big guns " of 
 the Church are all present, and all the " little 
 guns " are scattered about them, popping and 
 snapping every time a " big gun " booms. 
 
 But of all the days of commotion and ex 
 citement, the climax is ordination day, when 
 candidates for the ministry, college students, 
 and local preachers are examined and either 
 rejected or admitted to the company of the 
 elect. It is common on that day for some 
 old dignitary of the church, seldom a less 
 person than the president of the Con 
 ference himself, to preach the sermon. Then, 
 if the fatted calf is not killed, at least the 
 fatted fowls are, and feasting and rejoicing 
 rule the occasion. 
 
 This ordination day was no exception. A
 
 The Uncalled 167 
 
 class of ten stood up before the examining 
 committee and answered the questions put to 
 them. Among them stood Frederick Brent. 
 He wished, he tried, to fail in his answers 
 and be rejected, even though it meant dis 
 grace ; but, try as he would, he could not. 
 Force of habit was too strong for him ; or 
 was it that some unseen and relentless power 
 was carrying him on and on against his will ? 
 He clinched his hands ; the beads of per 
 spiration broke out on his brow ; but ever 
 as the essential questions came to him his 
 tongue seemed to move of its own volition, 
 without command from the brain, and the 
 murmurs of approval told him that he was 
 answering aright. Never did man struggle 
 harder for brilliant success than this one for 
 ignominious failure. Then some whisper in 
 his consciousness told him that it was over. 
 He felt the laying of hands upon his head. 
 He heard the old minister saying, " Behold, 
 even from the lowliest God taketh His 
 workers," and he felt a flash of resentment, 
 but it was only momentary. He was be 
 numbed. Something seemed to be saying in 
 his mind, "Will the old fool never have 
 done ? " But it did not appear to be him 
 self. It was afar off and apart from him.
 
 1 68 The Uncalled 
 
 The next he knew, a wet cheek was laid 
 against his own. It was Aunt Hester. She 
 was crying and holding his hand. Afterwards 
 people were shaking hands with him and 
 offering their congratulations ; but he 
 answered them in a helpless, mechanical way, 
 as he had answered the questions. 
 
 He sat through the sermon and heard it 
 not. But some interest revived in him as 
 the appointments were being read. He 
 heard the president say, " It gives me pain to 
 announce the resignation of one who has so 
 long served in the Master's vineyard, but 
 our dear brother Simpson has decided that 
 he is too old for active work, and has asked 
 to be retired. While we do this with pain 
 and sorrow for the loss though we do not 
 wholly lose him of so able a man, we feel 
 that we cannot do better than appoint as his 
 successor in this charge the young man whom 
 you have all seen so brilliantly enter into the 
 ranks of consecrated workers, the Rev. 
 Frederick Brent." 
 
 A murmur of approval went round the 
 assembly, and a few open " amens " broke 
 forth as the unctuous old ecclesiastic sat 
 down. It sounded to the ears of the young 
 preacher like the breaking of waves on a far-
 
 The Uncalled 169 
 
 off shore ; and then the meaning of all that 
 had happened sifted through his benumbed 
 intellect, and he strove to rise. He would 
 refuse to act. He would protest. He 
 would tell them that he did not want to 
 preach. But something held him down. 
 He could not rise. The light went blue 
 and green and purple before him. The 
 church, with its sea of faces, spun round and 
 round ; his head fell forward. 
 
 " He has fainted," said some one. 
 
 " The excitement has been too much foi 
 him." 
 
 " Poor young man, he has been studying 
 too hard, working for this." 
 
 They carried him out and took him home, 
 and one of the elders offered a special prayer 
 for his speedy recovery, and that, being re 
 covered, he might bear his new responsibili 
 ties with becoming meekness. 
 
 When the young minister came to him 
 self, he was lying on the bed in his own 
 room, and Mrs. Hodges, Eliphalet, and a 
 doctor were bending over him. 
 
 " He 's coming round all right . now," 
 said the medical man. " You won't need 
 me any longer." And he departed.
 
 1 70 The Uncalled 
 
 " How are you now, Fred ? " asked Mrs. 
 Hodges. 
 
 The young man closed his eyes again and 
 did not answer. He had awakened to a full 
 realisation of his position, and a dull misery 
 lay at his heart. He wished that he could 
 die then and there, for death seemed the 
 only escape from his bondage. He was 
 bound, irrevocably bound. 
 
 " Poor child," Mrs. Hodges went on, " it 
 was awful tryin' on his nerves. Joy is 
 worse 'n sorrow, sometimes ; an' then he 'd 
 been workin' so hard. I 'd never 'a' believed 
 he could do it, ef Brother Simpson had n't 
 stuck up fur it." 
 
 " She knew it, then," thought Fred. " It 
 was all planned." 
 
 " I don't think you 'd better talk, Hester," 
 said her husband, in a low voice. He had 
 seen a spasm pass over the face of the pros 
 trate youth. 
 
 " Well, I '11 go out an' see about the din 
 ner. Some o* the folks I 've invited will 
 be comin' in purty soon, an' others '11 be 
 droppin' in to inquire how he is. I do hope 
 he '11 be well enough to come to the table : 
 it won't seem hardly like an ordination din 
 ner without the principal person. Jes' set
 
 The Uncalled 171 
 
 * ' 
 
 by him, 'Liphalet, an* give him them drops 
 the doctor left." 
 
 As soon as he heard the door close behind 
 her, Brent opened his eyes and suddenly 
 laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. 
 " You won't let anybody see me, Uncle 
 'Liph ? you won't let them come in here ? " 
 
 " No, no, my boy, not ef you don't want 
 'em," said the old man. 
 
 " I shall have to think it all over before I 
 see any one. I am not quite clear yet." 
 
 " I 'low it was unexpected." 
 
 " Did you know, Uncle 'Liph ? " he asked, 
 fixing his eyes upon his old friend's face. 
 
 "I know'd they was a-plannin' somethin', 
 but I never could find out what, or I would 
 have told you." 
 
 A look of relief passed over Brent's face. 
 Just then Mrs. Hodges opened the door. 
 " Here 's Elizabeth to see him," she said. 
 
 " 'Sh," said the old man with great osten 
 tation ; and tiptoeing over to the door he 
 partly drew it to, putting his head outside to 
 whisper, "He is too weak ; it ain't best fur 
 him to see nobody now." 
 
 He closed the door and returned to his 
 seat. "It was 'Lizabeth," he said. "Was 
 I right?"
 
 172. The Uncalled 
 
 For answer the patient arose from the bed 
 and walked weakly over to his side. 
 
 " Tut, tut, tut, Freddie," said Eliphalet, 
 hesitating over the name. " You'd better 
 lay down now ; you ain't any too strong yet." 
 
 The young man leaned heavily on his 
 chair, and looked into his friend's eyes: 
 " If God had given me such a man as you 
 as a father, or even as a guardian, I would 
 not have been damned," he said. 
 
 "'Sh, 'sh, my boy. Don't say that. 
 You 're goin' to be all right ; you 're 
 you're " Eliphalet's eyes were moist, 
 and his voice choked here. Rising, he sud 
 denly threw his arms around Fred's neck, cry 
 ing, " You are my son. God has give you 
 to me to nurse in the time of your trial." 
 
 The young man returned the embrace ; 
 and so Mrs. Hodges found them when she 
 opened the door softly and peered in. She 
 closed it noiselessly and withdrew. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " she said. There was 
 a questioning wonder in her face. 
 
 " I don't know what to make of them 
 two," she added ; " they could n't have been 
 lovin'er ef they had been father and son." 
 
 After a while the guests began to arrive 
 for the dinner. Many were the inquiries
 
 The Uncalled 173 
 
 and calls for the new minister, but to them 
 all Eliphalet made the same answer : " He 
 ain't well enough to see folks." 
 
 Mrs. Hodges herself did her best to bring 
 him out, or to get him to let some of the 
 guests in, but he would not. Finally 
 her patience gave way, and she exclaimed, 
 " Well, now, Frederick Brent, you must 
 know that you air the pastor of a church, 
 an' you 've got to make some sacrifices for 
 people's sake. Ef you kin possibly git up, 
 an' I know you kin, you ought to 
 come out an' show yoreself for a little while, 
 anyhow. You Ve got some responsibilities 
 now." 
 
 " I did n't ask for them," he answered, 
 coldly. There was a set look about his lips. 
 " Neither will I come out or see any one. 
 If I am old enough to be the pastor of a 
 church, I am old enough to know my will 
 and have it." 
 
 Mrs. Hodges was startled at the speech. 
 She felt vaguely that there was a new element 
 in the boy's character since morning. He 
 was on the instant a man. It was as if clay 
 had suddenly hardened in the potter's hands. 
 She could no longer mould or ply him. In 
 that moment she recognised the fact.
 
 174 The Uncalled 
 
 The dinner was all that could be expected, 
 and her visitors enjoyed it, in spite of the 
 absence of the guest of honour, but for the 
 hostess it was a dismal failure. After wield 
 ing the sceptre for years, it had been sud 
 denly snatched from her hand ; and she felt 
 lost and helpless, deprived of her power.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AS Brent thought of the long struggle 
 before him, he began to wish that 
 there might be something organically wrong 
 with him which the shock would irritate 
 into fatal illness. But even while he thought 
 this he sneered at himself for the weakness. 
 A weakness self-confessed holds the possi 
 bility of strength. So in a few days he 
 rallied and took up the burden of his life 
 again. As before he had found relief in 
 study, now he stilled his pains and misgiv 
 ings by a strict attention to the work which 
 his place involved. 
 
 His was not an easy po.'::on for a young 
 man. He had to go through the ordeal of 
 pastoral visits. He had to condole with 
 old ladies who thought a preacher had noth 
 ing else to do than to listen to the recital of 
 their ailments. He had to pray with poor 
 and stricken families whose conditions re 
 minded him strongly of what his own must 
 have been. He had to speak words of
 
 176 The Uncalled 
 
 serious admonition to girls nearly his own 
 age, who thought it great fun and giggled 
 in his face. All this must he do, nor must 
 he slight a single convention. No rules of 
 conduct are so rigid as are those of a pro 
 vincial town. He who ministers to the 
 people must learn their prejudices and be 
 adroit enough not to offend them or strong 
 enough to break them down. It was a 
 great load to lay on the shoulders of so 
 young a man. But habit is everything, and 
 he soon fell into the ways of his office. 
 Writing to Taylor, he said, " I am fairly 
 harnessed now, and at work, and, although 
 the pulling is somewhat hard, I know my 
 way. It is wonderful how soon a man falls 
 into the cant of his position and learns to 
 dole out the cut-and-dried phrases of minis 
 terial talk like a sort of spiritual phonograph. 
 I must confess, though, that I am rather 
 good friends with the children who come to 
 my Sunday-school. My own experiences 
 as a child are so fresh in my memory that I 
 rather sympathise with the little fellows, and 
 do all I can to relieve the half-scared stiff 
 ness with which they conduct themselves in 
 church and the Sunday-school room. 
 
 " I wonder why it is we make church
 
 The Uncalled 177 
 
 such a place of terror to the young ones. 
 No wonder they quit coming as soon as 
 they can choose. 
 
 "I shock Miss Simpson, who teaches a 
 mixed class, terribly, by my freedom with 
 the pupils. She says that she can't do any 
 thing with her charges any more ; but I 
 notice that her class and the school are 
 growing. I Ve been at it for several weeks 
 now, and, like a promising baby, I am be 
 ginning to take an interest in things. 
 
 " If I got on with the old children of my 
 flock as well as I do with the young ones, I 
 should have nothing to complain of; but I 
 don't. They know as little as the young 
 sters, and are a deal more unruly. They 
 are continually comparing me with their old 
 pastor, and it is needless to say that I suffer 
 by the comparison. The ex-pastor himself 
 burdens me with advice. I shall tell him 
 some day that he has resigned. But I am 
 growing diplomatic, and have several reasons 
 for not wishing to offend him. For all 
 which * shop ' pray forgive me." 
 
 One of the reasons for not wishing to 
 offend the Rev. Mr. Simpson of which 
 Brent wrote was, as may be readily inferred, 
 his engagement to Elizabeth. It had not
 
 178 The Uncalled 
 
 yet officially become public property, but 
 few of Dexter's observant and forecasting 
 people who saw them together doubted for 
 a moment that it would be a match. In 
 deed, some spiteful people in the com 
 munity, who looked on from the outside, 
 said that " Mr. Simpson never thought of 
 resigning until he saw that he could keep 
 the place in the family." But of course 
 they were Baptists who said this, or Episco 
 palians, or Presbyterians, some such un- 
 regenerate lot. 
 
 Contrary to the adage, the course of love 
 between the young people did run smooth. 
 The young minister had not disagreed with 
 the older one, so Elizabeth had not disa 
 greed with him, because she did not have to 
 take sides. She was active in the Sunday- 
 school and among the young people's soci 
 eties, and Bren<- thought that she would 
 make an ideal minister's wife. Every Sun 
 day, after church, they walked home to 
 gether, and sometimes he would stop at the 
 house for a meal. They had agreed that at 
 the end of his first pastoral year they would 
 be married ; and both parent and guardian 
 smiled on the prospective union. 
 
 As his beloved young friend seemed to
 
 The Uncalled 179 
 
 grow more settled and contented, Eliphalet 
 Hodges waxed more buoyant in the joy of 
 his hale old age, and his wife, alt her ambi 
 tions satisfied, grew more primly genial every 
 day. 
 
 Brent found his congregation increasing, 
 and heard himself spoken of as a popular 
 preacher. Under these circumstances, it 
 would seem that there was nothing to be 
 desired to make him happy. But he was 
 not so, though he kept an unruffled coun 
 tenance. He felt the repression that his 
 position put upon him. He prayed that 
 with time it might pass off, but this prayer 
 was not answered. There were times when, 
 within his secret closet, the contemplation of 
 the dead level of his life, as it spread out 
 before him, drove him almost to madness. 
 
 The bitterness in his heart against his 
 father had not abated one jot, and whenever 
 these spasms of discontent would seize him 
 he was wont to tell himself, " I am fighting 
 old Tom Brent now, and I must conquer 
 him." 
 
 Thus nearly a year passed away, and he 
 was beginning to think of asking Elizabeth 
 to name the day. He had his eye upon a 
 pretty little nest of a house, sufficiently
 
 180 The Uncalled 
 
 9 
 
 remote from her father's, and he was look 
 ing forward to settling quietly down in a 
 home of his own. 
 
 It was about this time that, as he sat alone 
 one evenino- in the little chamber which was 
 
 O 
 
 his study and bedroom in one, Mr. Simpson 
 entered and opened conversation with him. 
 
 For some time a rumour which did vio 
 lence to the good name of Sophy Davis had 
 been filtering thfough the community. But 
 it had only filtered, until the girl's disap 
 pearance a day or two before had allowed 
 the gossips to talk openly, and great was 
 the talk. The young minister had looked 
 on and listened in silence. He had always 
 known and liked Sophy, and if what the 
 gossips said of her was true, he pitied the girl. 
 
 On this particular evening it was plain 
 that Mr. Simpson had come to talk about 
 the affair. After some preliminary remarks, 
 he said, "You have a great chance, dear 
 Brother Brent, for giving the devil in this 
 particular part of the moral vineyard a hard 
 blow." 
 
 " I don't clearly see why now, more than 
 before,' 1 returned Brent. 
 
 " Because you are furnished with a living 
 example of the fruits of evil ; don't you see f "
 
 The Uncalled 181 
 
 w If there is such an example furnished, 
 the people will see it for themselves, and I 
 should be doing a thankless task to point 
 it out to them. I would rather show 
 people the beauty of good than the ugliness 
 of evil." 
 
 " Yes, that 's the milk-and-water new style 
 of preaching." 
 
 " Well, we all have our opinions, to be 
 sure, but I think it rather a good style." 
 Brent was provokingly nonchalant, and his 
 attitude irritated the elder man. 
 
 " We won't discuss that : we will be practi 
 cal. I came to advise you to hold Sophy 
 Davis up in church next Sunday as a fearful 
 example of evil-doing. You need n't men 
 tion any names, but you can make it strong 
 and plain enough." 
 
 Brent flushed angrily. "Are there not 
 enough texts in here," he asked, laying his 
 hand upon the Bible, " that I can cite and 
 apply, without holding up a poor weak mor 
 tal to the curiosity, scorn, and derision of 
 her equally weak fellows ? " 
 
 " But it is your duty as a Christian and a 
 preacher of the gospel to use this warning." 
 
 " I do not need to kick a falling girl to 
 find examples to warn people from sin ; and
 
 182 The Uncalled 
 
 as for duty, I think that each man best 
 knows his own." 
 
 " Then you are n't going to do it ? " 
 
 " No," the young man burst forth. " I 
 am a preacher of the gospel, not a clerical 
 gossip ? " 
 
 " Do you mean that I am a gossip ? " 
 
 " I was not thinking of you." 
 
 " Let me preach for you, Sunday." 
 
 " I will not do that either. I will not let 
 my pulpit be debased by anything which I 
 consider so low as this business." 
 
 "You will not take advice, then? " 
 
 " Not such as that." 
 
 " Be careful, Frederick Brent. I gave you 
 that pulpit, and I can take it away, I that 
 know who you are and what you come from." 
 
 " The whole town knows what you know, 
 so I do not care for that. As for taking 
 my pulpit from me, you may do that when 
 you please. You put it upon me by force, 
 and by force you may take it ;- but while I am 
 pastor there I shall use my discretion in all 
 matters of this kind." 
 
 " Sophy 's been mighty quiet in her devil 
 ment. She does n't accuse anybody. Maybe 
 you 've got more than one reason for shield 
 ing her."
 
 The Uncalled 183 
 
 Brent looked into the man's eyes and read 
 his meaning; then he arose abruptly and 
 opened the door. 
 
 " I *m not accusing " 
 
 " Go," said the young man hoarsely. His 
 face was white, and his teeth were hard set. 
 
 " You '11 learn some respect for your elders 
 
 yet, if-" 
 
 " Go ! " Brent repeated, and he took a 
 step towards his visitor. Mr. Simpson 
 looked startled for a moment, but he glanced 
 back into the young man's face and then 
 passed hurriedly out of the room. 
 
 Brent let two words slip between his 
 clenched teeth : " The hound !" 
 
 No one knew what had passed between 
 the young pastor and Mr. Simpson, but 
 many mutterings and head-shakings of the 
 latter indicated that all was not right. No 
 one knew ? Perhaps that is hardly correct, 
 for on Sunday, the sermon over, when Brent 
 looked to find Elizabeth in her usual place 
 whence they walked home together, she was 
 gone. He bit his lip and passed on alone, 
 but it rankled within him that she had so 
 easily believed ill of him. 
 
 But he had not seen the last of the Rev. 
 Mr. Simpson's work. It was the right of five
 
 184 The Uncalled 
 
 members of the congregation to call a church- 
 meeting, and when he returned for service 
 in the evening he found upon the pulpit the 
 written request for such an assembly to be 
 held on Tuesday night. Heading the list 
 of members was the name of the former pas 
 tor, although this was not needed to tell the 
 young man that it was his work. In anger 
 he gave out the notice and went on with his 
 duties. 
 
 "Somethin' must 'a' riled you to-night, 
 Fred," said Eliphalet when church was out. 
 "You give 'em a mighty stirrin' touch o' 
 fire. It 'minded me o' that old supply ser 
 mon." Brent smiled mirthlessly. He knew 
 that the same feelings had inspired both 
 efforts. 
 
 On Tuesday evening he was early at 
 church, and in the chair, as was the pastor's 
 place. Early as he was, he did not much 
 precede Mr. Simpson, who came in, followed 
 by a coterie of his choicest spirits. 
 
 When the assembly had been duly called 
 to order, Brent asked, " Will some one now 
 please state the object of this meeting ? " 
 
 Mr. Simpson arose. 
 
 " Brothers and sisters," he said, " the ob 
 ject of this meeting is a very simple one.
 
 The Uncalled 185 
 
 From the time that I began to preach in this 
 church, twenty-five years ago, we had purity 
 and cleanness in the pulpit and in the pew." 
 
 Brent's eyes were flashing. Eliphalet 
 Hodges, who had thought that the extra 
 session was for some routine business, 
 pricked up his ears. 
 
 Simpson proceeded : " One in this flock 
 has lately gone astray : she has fallen into 
 evil ways " 
 
 " Brother Simpson," interrupted Brent, 
 his face drawn and hard with anger, " will 
 you state the object of this meeting? " 
 
 " If the pastor is not afraid to wait, he will 
 see that that is what I am doing." 
 
 " Then you are bringing into the church 
 matters that have no business here." 
 
 " We shall see about that. We intend to 
 investigate and see why you refused to hold 
 up as a warning one of the sinners of this 
 connection. We propose to ask whom you 
 were shielding a sinner in the pew, or a 
 sinner in the pulpit as well. We propose " 
 
 " Stop ! " The young man's voice broke 
 out like the report of a rifle. " Stop , I say, 
 or, as God sees me, here in His temple, at 
 His very altar, I will do you violence. I 
 speak to you not as your pastor, but as a
 
 1 86 The Uncalled 
 
 man : not as an accused man, for you dare 
 not accuse me." 
 
 The church was in a commotion. In all 
 its long history, such a scene had never be 
 fore been enacted within the sacred walls. 
 The men sat speechless ; the women shrank 
 far down into their seats. Only those two 
 men, the young and the old, stood glaring 
 into each other's faces. 
 
 " Remember, brethren," said someone, 
 recovering himself, " that this is the house 
 of God, and that you are preachers of the 
 gospel." 
 
 " I do remember that it is God's house, 
 and for that reason I will not let it be dis 
 graced by scandal that would stain the low 
 est abode of vice. I do remember that I am 
 a preacher, and for that reason I will not see 
 the gospel made vindictive, a scourge to 
 whip down a poor girl, who may have sinned, 
 I know not, but who, if she did, has an 
 advocate with God. Once before in this 
 place have I told you my opinion of your 
 charity and your love. Once before have I 
 branded you as mockeries of the idea of 
 Christianity. Now I say to you, you are 
 hypocrites. You are like carrion birds who 
 soar high up in the ether for a while and then
 
 The Uncalled 187 
 
 swoop down to revel in filth and rottenness. 
 The stench of death is sweet to you. Pu 
 tridity is dear to you. As for you who have 
 done this work, you need pity. Your own 
 soul must be reeking with secret foulness 
 to be so basely suspicious. Your own eyes 
 must have cast unholy glances to so soon 
 accuse the eyes of others. As for the thing 
 which you, mine enemy, have intimated here 
 to-night, as pastor of this church I scorn to 
 make defence. But as a man I say, give 
 such words as those breath again, and I will 
 forget your age and only remember your in 
 famy. I see the heads of some about me 
 here wagging, some that knew my father. I 
 hear their muffled whispers, and I know what 
 they are saying. I know what is in their 
 hearts. You are saying that it is the old Tom 
 Brent in me showing itself at last. Yes, 
 it has smouldered in me long, and I am glad. 
 I think better of that spirit because it was 
 waked into life to resent meanness. I would 
 rather be the most roistering drunkard that 
 ever reeled down these streets than call my 
 self a Christian and carouse over the dead 
 characters of my fellows. 
 
 " To-night I feel for the first time that I 
 am myself. I give you back gladly what you
 
 1 88 The Uncalled 
 
 have given me. I am no longer your pastor. 
 We are well quit. Even while I have 
 preached to you, I have seen in your hearts 
 your scorn and your distrust, and J have 
 hated you in secret. But I throw off the 
 cloak. I remove the disguise. Here J stand 
 stripped of everything save the fact that I am 
 a man ; and I despise you openly. Yes, old 
 Tom, drunken Tom Brent's son despises 
 you. Go home. GO home. There may 
 be work for your stench-loving nostrils 
 there." 
 
 He stood like an avenging spirit, pointing 
 towards the door, and the people who had sat 
 there breathless through it all rose quietly 
 and slipped out. Simpson joined them and 
 melted into the crowd. They were awed 
 and hushed. 
 
 Only Mrs. Hodges, white as death, and 
 her husband, bowed with grief, remained. 
 A silent party, they walked home together. 
 Not until they were in the house did the 
 woman break down, and then she burst into 
 a storm of passionate weeping as if the pent- 
 ijp tears of all her stoical life were flowing at 
 once. 
 
 " Oh, Fred, Fred," she cried between her 
 sobs, " I see it all now. I was wrong. I
 
 The Uncalled 189 
 
 was wrong. But I did it all fur the best. 
 The Lord knows I did it fur the best." 
 
 " I know you did, Aunt Hester, but I 
 wish you could have seen sooner, before the 
 bitterness of death had come into my life." 
 He felt strangely hard and cold. Her grief 
 did not affect him then. 
 
 " Don't take on so, Hester," said the old 
 man, but the woman continued to rock her 
 self to and fro and moan, " I did it fur the 
 best, I did it fur the best." The old man 
 took her in his arms, and after a while she 
 grew more calm, only her sobs breaking the 
 silence. 
 
 " I shall go away to-morrow," said Brent. 
 " I am going out into the world for myself. 
 I 've been a disgrace to every one connected 
 with me." 
 
 " Don't say that about yoreself, Fred ; I 
 ain't a-goin' to hear it," said Eliphalet. 
 " You 've jest acted as any right-thinkin' 
 man would 'a' acted. It would n't 'a' been 
 right fur you to 'a' struck Brother Simpson, 
 but I 'm nearer his age, an' my hands itched 
 to git a hold o' him." The old man looked 
 menacing, and his fist involuntarily clenched. 
 
 "'Liphalet," said his wife, " I 've been a- 
 meddlin' with the business o' Providence,
 
 190 The Uncalled 
 
 an' I 've got my jest deserts. I thought I 
 knowed jest what He wanted me to do, an 1 
 I was more ignorant than a child. Furgive 
 me ef you kin, Fred, my boy. I was tryin' 
 to make a good man o' you." 
 
 " There 's nothing for me to forgive. 
 Aunt Hester. I 'm sorry I 've spoiled your 
 plans." 
 
 " I 'm glad, fur mebbe God '11 have a 
 chance now to work His own plans. But 
 pore little 'Lizabeth!" 
 
 Brent's heart hurt him as he heard the 
 familiar name, and he turned abruptly and 
 went to his room. Once there, he had it 
 out with himself. " But," he told himself, 
 " if I had the emergency to meet again, I 
 should do the same thing." 
 
 The next morning's mail brought him a 
 little packet in which lay the ring he had 
 given Elizabeth to plight their troth. 
 
 " I thank you for this," he said. " It 
 makes my way easier."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE story of the altercation between the 
 young minister and a part of his con 
 gregation was well bruited about the town, and 
 
 D D 
 
 all united in placing the fault heavily on the 
 young man's shoulders. As for him, he did 
 not care. He was wild with the enjoyment 
 of his new-found freedom. Only now and 
 again, as he sat at the table the morning 
 after, and looked into the sad faces of Eliph- 
 alet and his guardian, did he feel any sorrow 
 at the turn matters had taken. 
 
 In regard to Elizabeth, he felt only relief. 
 It was as if a half-defined idea in his mind 
 had been suddenly realised. For some time 
 he had believed her unable either to under 
 stand him or to sympathise with his motives. 
 He had begun to doubt the depth of his own 
 feeling for her. Then had come her treat 
 ment of him last Sunday, and somehow, 
 while he knew it was at her father's behest, 
 he could not help despising her weakness.
 
 He had spent much of the night before in 
 packing his few effects, and all was now 
 ready for his departure as they sat at break 
 fast. Mrs. Hodges was unusually silent, and 
 her haggard face and swollen eyes told how 
 she had passed the night. All in a single 
 hour she had seen the work of the best part 
 of her life made as naught, and she was 
 bowed with grief and defeat. Frederick 
 Brent's career had really been her dream. 
 She had scarcely admitted, even to herself, 
 how deeply his success affected her own 
 happiness. She cared for him in much 
 the same way that a sculptor loves his 
 statue. Her attitude was that of one who 
 says, " Look upon this work ; is it not 
 fair? I made it myself." It was as much 
 her pride as it was her love that was hurt, 
 because her love had been created by her 
 pride. She had been prepared to say, 
 exultingly, " Look where he came from, and 
 look where he is ; " and now his defections 
 deprived her forever of that sweet privilege. 
 People had questioned her ability to train up 
 a boy rightly, and she had wished to refute 
 their imputations, by making that boy the 
 wonder of the community and their spiritual 
 leader; and just as she had deemed her
 
 The Uncalled 193 
 
 work safely done, lo, it had come toppling 
 about her ears. Even if the fall had come 
 sooner, she would have felt it less. It was 
 the more terrible because so unexpected, for 
 she had laid aside all her fears and misgivings 
 and felt secure in her achievement. 
 
 " You ain't a-eatin' nothing Hester," said 
 her husband, anxiously. " I hope you ain't 
 a-feelin' bad this mornin'." He had heard 
 her sobbing all night long, and the strength 
 and endurance of her grief frightened him 
 and made him uneasy, for she had always 
 been so stoical. " Had n't you better try 
 an' eat one o' them buckwheat cakes? Put 
 lots o' butter an' molasses on it; they're 
 mighty good." 
 
 " Ef they 're so good, why don't you eat 
 yoreself ? You been foolin' with a half a 
 one for the last ten minutes." Indeed, the 
 old man's food did seem to stick in his throat, 
 and once in a while a mist would come up 
 before his eyes. He too had had his dreams, 
 and one of them was of many a happy 
 evening spent with his beloved boy, who 
 should be near him, a joy and comfort in 
 the evening of his life ; and now he was 
 going away. 
 
 The old man took a deep gulp at his coffee
 
 194 The Uncalled 
 
 to hide his emotion. It burned his mouth 
 and gave reason for the moisture in his eye 
 when he looked up at Fred. 
 
 " What train air you goin' to take, Fred ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " I think I '11 catch that eight-fifty flier. 
 It's the best I can get, you know, and vesti- 
 buled through, too." 
 
 " You have jest finally made up yore mind 
 to go, have you ? " 
 
 " Nothing could turn me from it now, 
 Uncie 'Liph." 
 
 " It seems like a shame. You 'ain't got 
 nothin' to do down in Cincinnaty." 
 
 " I '11 find something before long. I am 
 going to spend the first few days just in 
 getting used to being free." The next mo 
 ment he was sorry that he had said it, for he 
 saw his guardian's eyes fill. 
 
 " I am sorry, Frederick," she said, with 
 some return to her old asperity, " I am sorry 
 that I 've made your life so hard that you 
 think that you have been a slave. I am 
 sorry that my home has been so onpleasant 
 that you 're so powerful glad to git away 
 from it, even to go into a strange city full 
 of wickedness an' sin." 
 
 *' J did n't mean it that way, Aunt Hester,
 
 The Uncalled 195 
 
 You Ve been as good as you could be to me. 
 You have done your duty by me, if any one 
 ever could." 
 
 "Well, I am mighty glad you realise 
 that, so 's ef you go away an* fall into sinful 
 
 ways you can't lay none of it to my bringin'- 
 
 
 up. 
 
 " I feel somehow as if I would like to have 
 a go with sin some time, to see what it is 
 like." 
 
 " Well, I lay you '11 be satisfied before 
 you Ve been in Cincinraty long, for ef there 
 ever was livin* hells on airth, it's them big 
 cities." 
 
 " Oh, I have got faith to believe that Fred 
 ain't a-goin* to do nothin' wrong," said 
 Eliphalet. 
 
 " Nobody don't know what nobody 's 
 a-goin' to do under temptation sich as is layin* 
 in wait fur young men in the city, but I 'm 
 shore I Ve done my best to train you right, 
 even ef I have made some mistakes in my 
 poor weak way an' manner." 
 
 " If I do fall into sinful ways, Aunt 
 Hester, I shall never blame you or your 
 training for it." 
 
 " But you ain't a-goin' to do it, Fred ; 
 you ain't a-goin' to fall into no evil wavs."
 
 196 The Uncalled 
 
 " I don't know, Uncle 'Liph. I never 
 felt my weakness more than I do now." 
 
 "Then that very feelin' will be yore 
 stren'th, my boy. Keep on feelin' that 
 way." 
 
 " It '11 not be a stren'th in Cincinnaty, not 
 by no means. There is too many snares an* 
 pitfalls there to entrap the weak," Mrs. 
 Hodges insisted. 
 
 It is one of the defects of the provincial 
 mind that it can never see any good in a great 
 city. It concludes that, as many people are 
 wicked, where large numbers of human 
 beings are gathered together there must be 
 a much greater amount of evil than in a 
 smaller place. It overlooks the equally ob 
 vious reasoning that, as some people are 
 good, in the larger mass there must be also 
 a larger amount of goodness. It seems a 
 source of complacent satisfaction to many 
 to sit in contemplation of the fact of the 
 extreme wickedness of the world. They are 
 like children who delight in a "bluggy" 
 story, who gloat over murder and rapine. 
 
 Brent, however, was in no wise daunted 
 by the picture of evil which his guardian 
 painted for him, and as soon as breakfast 
 was over he got his things in hand ready to
 
 The Uncalled 197 
 
 start. Buoyant as he was with his new free 
 dom, this was a hard moment for him. 
 Despite the severity of his youthful treat 
 ment in Dexter, the place held all the tender 
 recollections he had, and the room where he 
 stood was the scene of some memories that 
 now flooded his mind and choked his utter 
 ance when he strove to say good-bye. He 
 had thought that he should do it with such 
 a fine grace. He would prove such a strong 
 man. But he found his eyes suffused with 
 tears, as he held his old guardian's hand, for, 
 in spite of all, she had done the best for 
 him that she knew, and she had taken a hard, 
 uncompromising pride in him. 
 
 " I hope you '11 git along all right, Fred 
 erick," she > faltered forth tearfully. " Keep 
 out of bad company, an' let us hear from 
 you whenever you can. The Lord knows 
 I Ve tried to do my dooty by you." 
 
 Poor Eliphalet tried to say something as 
 he shook the young man's hand, but he 
 broke down and wept like a child. The 
 boy could not realise what a deal of sun 
 shine he wac taking out of the old man's 
 life. 
 
 " I '11 write to you as soon as I am set 
 tled," he told them, and with a husky fare-
 
 198 The Uncalled 
 
 well hurried away from the painful scene. 
 At the gate the old couple stood and watched 
 him go swinging down the street towards 
 the station. Then they went into the house, 
 and sat long in silence in the room he had 
 so lately left. The breakfast-table, with all 
 that was on it, was left standing unnoticed 
 and neglected, a thing unprecedented in 
 Mrs. Hodges' orderly household. 
 
 Finally her husband broke the silence. 
 " It 'pears as if we had jest buried some 
 one and come home from the funeral." 
 
 "An' that's jest what we have done, ef 
 we only knowed it, 'Liphalet. We've 
 buried the last of the Fred Brent we knowed 
 an' raised. Eyen ef we ever see him ag'in, 
 he '11 never be the same to us. He '11 have 
 new friends to think of an' new notions in 
 his head." 
 
 " Don't say that, Hester ; don't say that. 
 I can't stand it. He is never goin' to furgit 
 you an' me, an' it hurts me to hear you talk 
 like that." 
 
 " It don't soun* none too pleasant fur me, 
 'Liphalet, but I 've learned to face the truth, 
 an* that 's the truth ef it ever was told." 
 
 "Well, mebbe it's fur the best, then. 
 It'll draw us closer together and make us
 
 The Uncalled 199 
 
 more to each other as we journey down to 
 the end. It 's our evenin', Hester, an* we 
 must expect some chilly winds 'long towards 
 night, but I guess He knows best." He 
 reached over and took his wife's hand ten 
 derly in his, and so they sat on sadly, but 
 gathering peace in the silence and the sym 
 pathy, until far into the morning. 
 
 Meanwhile the eight-fifty " flier " was 
 speeding through the beautiful Ohio Valley, 
 bearing the young minister away from the 
 town of his birth. Out of sight of the grief 
 of his friends, he had regained all his usual 
 stolid self-possession, though his mind often 
 went back to the little cottage, at Dexter 
 where the two old people sat, and he may be 
 forgiven if his memory lingered longer over 
 the image of the man than of the woman. He 
 remembered with a thrill at his heart what 
 Eliphalet Hodges had been to him in the 
 dark days of his youth, and he confessed to 
 himself with a half shame that his greatest 
 regret was in leaving him. 
 
 The feeling with which he had bidden his 
 guardian good-bye was one not of regret at 
 his own loss, but of pity for her distress. 
 To Elizabeth his mind only turned for a 
 moment to dismiss her with a mild con-
 
 aoo The Uncalled 
 
 tempt. Something hard that had always 
 been in his nature seemed to have suddenly 
 manifested itself. 
 
 " It is so much better this way," he said, 
 " for if the awakening had come later we 
 should have been miserable together." And 
 then his thoughts went forward to the new 
 scenes towards which he was speeding. 
 
 He had never been to Cincinnati. In 
 deed, except on picnic days, he had scarcely 
 ever been outside of Dexter. But Cincin 
 nati was the great city of his State, the one 
 towards which adventurous youth turned its 
 steps when real life was to be begun. He 
 dreaded and yet longed to be there, and his 
 heart was in a turmoil of conflicting emotion 
 as he watched the landscape flit by. 
 
 It was a clear August day. Nature was 
 trembling and fainting in the ecstasies of sen 
 suous heat. Beside the railway the trenches 
 which in spring were gurgling brooks were 
 now dry and brown, and the reeds which 
 had bent forward to kiss the water now 
 leaned over from very weakness, dusty and 
 sickly. The fields were ripening to the har 
 vest. There was in the air die smell of 
 fresh-cut hay. The corn-stalks stood like 
 a host armed with brazen swords to resist
 
 The Uncalled 201 
 
 * 
 
 the onslaught of that other force whose 
 Weapon was the corn-knife. Farther on, 
 between the trees, the much depleted river 
 sparkled in the sun and wound its way, now 
 near, now away from the road, a glittering, 
 dragon in an enchanted wood. 
 
 Such scenes as these occupied the young 
 man's mind, until, amid the shouts of brake- 
 men the vociferous solicitations df the bag 
 gage-man, and a general air of bustle and 
 preparation, the train thundered into the 
 Grand Central Station. Something seized 
 Brent's heart like a great compressing hand. 
 He was frightened for an instant, and then 
 he was whirled out with the rest of the 
 crowd, up the platform, through the thronged 
 waiting-room, into the street. 
 
 Then the cries of the eager men outside 
 of " Cab, sir ? cab, sir ? " " Let me take 
 your baggage," and " Which way, sir ? " 
 bewildered him. He did the thing which 
 every provincial does : he went to a police 
 man and inquired of him where he might 
 find a respectable boarding-house. The 
 policeman did not know, but informed him 
 that there were plenty of hotels farther up. 
 With something like disgust, Brent won 
 dered if all the hotels were like those he
 
 2O2, The Uncalled 
 
 saw at the station, where the guests had to 
 go through the bar-room to reach their 
 chambers. He shuddered at it ; so strong is 
 the influence of habit. But he did not wish 
 to go to a hotel : so, carrying his two valises, 
 he trudged on, though the hot sun of the 
 mid-afternoon beat mercilessly down upon 
 him. He kept looking into the faces of 
 people who passed him, in the hope that he 
 might see in one encouragement to ask for 
 the information he so much wanted ; but 
 one and all they hurried by without even so 
 much as a glance at the dusty traveller. 
 Had one of them looked at him, he would 
 merely have said, mentally, " Some country 
 bumpkin come in to see the sights of town 
 and be buncoed." 
 
 There is no loneliness like the loneliness 
 of the unknown man in a crowd. A feeling 
 of desolation took hold upon Brent, so *he 
 turned down a side-street in order to be 
 more out of the main line of business. It 
 was a fairly respectable quarter ; children were 
 playing about the pavements and in the 
 gutters, while others with pails and pitchers 
 were going to and from the corner saloon, 
 where their vessels were filled with foaming 
 beer. Brent wondered at the cruelty of
 
 The Uncalled 2,03 
 
 parents who thus put their children ih the 
 way of temptation, and looked to see if the 
 little ones were not bowed with shame ; but 
 they all strode stolidly on, with what he 
 deemed an unaccountable indifference to 
 their own degradation. He passed one 
 place where the people were drinking in the 
 front yard, and saw a mother holding a 
 glass of beer to her little one's lips. He 
 could now understand the attitude of the 
 children, but the fact, nevertheless, surprised 
 and sickened him. 
 
 Finally, the sign " Boarding Here " 
 caught his eye. He went into the yard and 
 knocked at the door. A plump German 
 girl opened it, and, to his question as to ac 
 commodation, replied that she would see her 
 mistress. He was ushered into a little par 
 lour that boasted some shabby attempts at 
 finery, and was soon joined by a woman 
 whom he took to be the " lady of the 
 house." 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Jones took boarders. Would 
 he want room and board ? Terms five dol 
 lars per week. Had he work in the city ? 
 No ? Well, from gentlemen who were out 
 of work she always had her money in ad 
 vance. But would he see his room first?
 
 204 The Uncalled 
 
 Wondering much at Mrs. Jones's strange 
 business arrangement, Brertt allowed her to 
 conduct him to a room on the second floor, 
 which looked out on the noisy street. It 
 was not a palatial place by any means, but 
 was not uncomfortable save for the heat, 
 which might be expected anywhere on such 
 a day. He was tired and wanted rest, so he 
 engaged the place and paid the woman then 
 and there. 
 
 " You just come off the train, I see. Will 
 you have luncheon at once, Mr. ? " 
 
 "Brent," said he. "Yes, I will have 
 some luncheon, if you please." 
 
 " Do you take beer with your luncheon ? " 
 
 " No-o," he said, hesitating ; and yet why 
 should he not take beer ? Everybody else 
 did, even the children. Then he blushed 
 as he thought of what his aunt Hester would 
 think of his even hesitating over the ques 
 tion. She would have shot out a " no " as 
 if it were an insult to be asked. So without 
 beer he ate his luncheon and lay down to 
 rest for the afternoon. When one has trav 
 elled little, even a short journey is fatiguing. 
 
 In the evening Brent met some of the 
 other boarders at supper; there were not 
 many. They were principally clerks in shops
 
 The Uncalled 205 
 
 or under-bookkeepers. One genial young 
 fellow struck up a conversation with Fred, 
 and became quite friendly during the evening. 
 
 " I guess you will go out to the c Zoo ' to 
 morrow, won't you ? That is about the first 
 place that visitors usually strike for when 
 they come here." 
 
 " I thought of getting a general idea of the 
 city first, so that I could go round better 
 before going farther out." 
 
 " Oh, you won't have any trouble in get 
 ting around. Just ask folks, and they will 
 direct you anywhere." 
 
 " But everybody seems to be in a hurry ; 
 and by the time I open my mouth to ask 
 them, they have passed me." 
 
 The young clerk, Mr. Perkins by name, 
 thought this was a great joke and laughed 
 long and loudly at it. 
 
 " I wish to gracious I could go around 
 with you. I have been so busy ever since I 
 have been here that I have never seen any of 
 the show sights myself. But I tell you what 
 I will do : I can steer you around some on 
 Thursday night. That is my night off, and 
 then I will show you some sights that are 
 sights." The young man chuckled as he 
 got his hat and prepared to return to the
 
 shop. Brent thanked him in a way that 
 sounded heavy and stilted even to his own 
 ears after the other's light pleasantry. 
 
 "And another thing," said Perkins, "we 
 will go to see the baseball game on Sunday, 
 Clevelands and the Reds, great game, you 
 know." It was well that Mr. Perkins was 
 half-way out of the door before he finished 
 his sentence, for there was no telling what 
 effect upon him the flush which mounted to 
 Brent's face and the horror in his eyes would 
 have had. 
 
 Go to a baseball game on Sunday ! What 
 would his people think of such a thing? 
 How would he himself feel there, he, not 
 withstanding his renunciation of office, a 
 minister of the gospel ? He hastened to his 
 room, where he could be alone and think. 
 The city indeed was full of temptations to 
 the young ! And yet he knew he would be 
 ashamed to tell his convictions to Perkins, 
 or to explain his horror at the proposition. 
 Again there came to him, as there had come 
 many times before, the realisation that he 
 was out of accord with his fellows. He was 
 not in step with the procession. He had 
 been warped away from the parallel of every 
 day, ordinary humanity. In order to still
 
 The Uncalled 2,07 
 
 the tumult in his breast, he took his hat and 
 wandered out upon the street. He wanted 
 to see people, to come into contact with them 
 and so rub off some of the strangeness in 
 which their characters appeared to him. 
 
 The streets were all alight and alive with 
 bustle. Here a fakir with loud voice and 
 market-place eloquence was vending his 
 shoddy wares ; there a drunkard reeled or 
 was kicked from the door of a saloon, whose 
 noiselessly swinging portals closed for an in 
 stant only to be reopened to admit another 
 victim, who ere long would be treated like 
 wise. A quartet of young negroes were 
 singing on the pavement in front of a house 
 as he passed and catching the few pennies 
 and nickels that were flung to them from the 
 door. A young girl smiled and beckoned to 
 him from a window, and another who passed 
 laughed saucily up into his face and cried, 
 " Ah, there ! " Everywhere was the inevi 
 table pail flashing to and fro. Sickened, dis 
 gusted, thrown back upon himself, Brent 
 turned his steps homeward again. Was this 
 the humanity he wanted to know? Was 
 this the evil which he wanted to have a go 
 with ? Was Aunt Hester, after all, in the 
 right, and was her way the best ? His heart
 
 2o8 The Uncalled 
 
 was torn by a multitude of conflicting emo 
 tions. He had wondered, in one of his re 
 bellious moods, if, when he was perfectly 
 untrammelled, he would ever pray ; but on 
 this night of nights, before he went wearily 
 to bed, he remained long upon his knees.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 BRENT found himself in a most pecu 
 liar situation. He had hated the 
 severe discipline of his youth, and had finally 
 rebelled against it and renounced its results 
 as far as they went materially. This he had 
 thought to mean his emancipation. But 
 when the hour to assert his freedom had 
 come, he found that the long years of rigid 
 training had bound his volition with iron 
 bands. He was wrapped in a mantle of 
 habit which he was ashamed to display and 
 yet could not shake off. The pendulum 
 never stops its swing in the middle of the 
 arc. So he would have gone to the other 
 extreme and revelled in the pleasures whose 
 very breath had been forbidden to his 
 youth ; but he found his sensibilities re 
 volting from everything that did not accord 
 with the old Puritan code by which they 
 had been trained. He knew himself to be 
 full of capabilities for evil, but it seemed as 
 if some power greater than his held him 
 
 14
 
 aio The Uncalled 
 
 back. It was Frederick Brent who looked 
 on sin abstractly, but its presence in the 
 concrete was seen through the eyes of Mrs. 
 Hester Hodges. It could hardly be called 
 the decree of conscience, because so instan 
 taneous was the rejection of evil that there 
 was really no time for reference to the in 
 ternal monitor. The very restriction which 
 he had complained of he was now putting 
 upon himself. The very yoke whose bur 
 den he hated he was placing about his own 
 neck. He had run away from the sound 
 of "right" and "duty," but had not es 
 caped their power. He felt gabled, humili 
 ated, and angry with himself, because he 
 had long seen the futility of blind indigna 
 tion against the unseen force which impelled 
 him forward in a hated path. 
 
 One thing that distressed him was a 
 haunting fear of the sights which Perkins 
 would show him on the morrow's night. 
 He had seen enough for himself to conjec 
 ture of what nature they would be. He 
 did not want to see more, and yet how 
 could he avoid it ? He might plead illness, 
 but that would be a lie ; and then there 
 would be other nights to follow, so it would 
 only be a postponement of what must ulti-
 
 The Uncalled 211 
 
 mately take place or be boldly rejected. 
 Once he decided to explain his feelings on 
 the subject, but in his mind's eye he saw 
 the half-pitying sneer on the face of the 
 worldly young cityite, and he quailed be 
 fore it. 
 
 Why not go ? Could what he saw hurt 
 him ? Was he so great a coward that he 
 dared not come into the way of temptation ? 
 We do not know the strength of a shield 
 until it has been tried in battle. Metal 
 does not ring true or false until it is struck. 
 He would go. He would see with his own 
 eyes for the purpose of information. He 
 would have his boasted bout with sin. Af 
 ter this highly valorous conclusion he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The next morning found him wavering 
 again, but he put all his troubled thoughts 
 away and spent the day in sight-seeing. 
 He came in at night tired and feeling strange 
 and lonesome. " Whom the gods wish to 
 destroy, they first make mad," we nsed to 
 say ; but all that is changed now, and whom 
 the devil wishes to get, he first makes lone 
 some. Then the victim is up to anything. 
 
 Brent had finished his supper when Per 
 kins came in, but he brightened at the
 
 2iz The Uncalled 
 
 young clerk's cheery salute, " Hello there ! 
 ready to go, are you ? " 
 
 " Been ready all day," he replied, with a 
 laugh. " It 's been pretty slow." 
 
 " 'Ain't made much out, then, seeing the 
 sights of this little village of ours ? Well, 
 we '11 do better to-night, if the people don't 
 see that black tie of yours and take you for 
 a preacher getting facts for a crusade." 
 
 Brent blushed and bit his lip, but he only 
 said, "I '11 go up and change it while you 're 
 finishing your supper.'* 
 
 " Guess you 'd better, or some one will be 
 asking you for a sermon." Perkins laughed 
 good-naturedly, but he did not know how his 
 words went home to his companion's sen 
 sitive feelings. He thought that his haste 
 in leaving the room and his evident confu- 
 
 o 
 
 sion were only the evidence of a greenhorn's 
 embarrassment under raillery. He really 
 had no idea that his comrade's tie was the 
 badge of his despised calling. 
 
 Brent was down again in a few minutes, 
 a grey cravat having superseded the offend 
 ing black. But even now, as he compared 
 himself with his guide, he appeared sombre 
 and ascetic. His black Prince Albert coat 
 showed up gloomy and oppressive
 
 The Uncalled 213 
 
 young Perkins's natty drab cutaway relieved 
 by a dashing red tie. From head to foot 
 the little clerk was light and dapper; and 
 as they moved along the crowded streets 
 the preacher felt much as a conscious omni 
 bus would feel beside a pneumatic-tired 
 sulky. 
 
 "You can talk all you want to about 
 your Chicago," Perkins was rattling on, 
 " but you can bet your life Cincinnati 's 
 the greatest town in the West. Chicago 's 
 nothing but a big overgrown country town. 
 Everything looks new and flimsy there to 
 a fellow, but here you get something that 's 
 solid. Chicago 's pretty swift, too, but there 
 ain't no flies on us, either, when it comes to 
 the go." 
 
 Brent thought with dismay how much his 
 companion knew, and felt a passing bitter 
 ness that he, though older, had seen none 
 of these things. 
 
 " Ever been in Chicago ? " asked Perkins ; 
 " but of course you have n't." This was 
 uttered in such a tone of conviction that the 
 minister thought his greenness must be very 
 apparent. 
 
 " I 've never been around much of any 
 where," he said. " I've been hard at work 
 all my life."
 
 a 1 4 The Uncalled 
 
 "Eh, that so? You don't look like 
 you 'd done much hard work. What do 
 you do ? " 
 
 "I I ah write," was the confused 
 answer. 
 
 Perkins, fortunately, did not notice the 
 confusion. " Oh, ho ! " he said : " do you 
 go in for newspaper work ? " 
 
 " No, not for newspapers." 
 
 " Oh, you 're an author, a regular out- 
 and-outer. Well, don't you know, I thought 
 you were somehow different from most fel 
 lows I 've met. I never could see how you 
 authors could stay away in small towns, where 
 you hardly ever see any one, and write 
 about people as you do ; but I suppose 
 you get your people from books." 
 
 " No', not entirely," replied Brent, letting 
 the mistake go. " There are plenty of in 
 teresting characters in a small town. Its life 
 is just what the life of a larger city is, only 
 the scale is smaller." 
 
 " Well, if you 're on a search for char 
 acters, you '11 see some to-night that '11 be 
 worth putting in your note-book. We'll 
 stop here first." 
 
 The place before which they had stopped 
 was surrounded by a high vine-covered lat-
 
 The Uncalled 215 
 
 tice fence : over the entrance flamed forth 
 in letters set with gas-lights the words 
 " Meyer's Beer-Garden and Variety Hall. 
 Welcome." He could hear the sound of 
 music within, a miserable orchestra, and 
 a woman singing in a high strident voice. 
 People were passing in and out of the place. 
 He hesitated, and then, shaking himself, as 
 if to shake off his scruples, turned towards 
 the entrance. As he reached the door, a 
 man who was standing beside it thrust a 
 paper into his hand. He saw others refuse 
 to take it as they passed. It was only the 
 announcement of a temperance meeting at 
 a neighbouring hall. He raised his eyes 
 to find the gaze of the man riveted upon 
 him. 
 
 " Don't you go in there, young man," he 
 said. "You don't look like you was used 
 to this life. Come away. Remember, it's 
 the first step " 
 
 "Chuck him," said Perkins's voice at his 
 elbow. But something in the man's face 
 held him. A happy thought struck him. 
 He turned to his companion and said, in a 
 low voice, " I think I 've found a character 
 here already. Will you excuse me for a 
 while ? "
 
 2, 1 6 The Uncalled 
 
 " Certainly. Business before pleasure. 
 Pump him all you can, and then come in. 
 You '11 find me at one of the tables on the 
 farther side." Perkins passed on. 
 
 " You won't go in, my young friend ? " 
 said the temperance man. 
 
 "What is it to you whether I go in or 
 stay out ? " asked Brent, in a tone of as 
 sumed carelessness. 
 
 " I want to keep every man I kin from 
 walkin* the path that I walked and sufferin' 
 as I suffer." He was seized with a fit of 
 coughing. His face was old and very thin, 
 and his hands, even in that hot air, were 
 blue as with cold. u I wisht you 'd go to 
 our meetin' to-night. We Ve got a power 
 ful speaker there, that '11 show you the evils 
 of drink better 'n I kin." 
 
 " Where is this great meeting ? " Brent 
 tried to put a sneer into his voice, but an 
 unaccountable tremor ruined its effect. 
 
 He was duly directed to the hall. " I 
 may come around," he said, carelessly, and 
 sauntered off, leaving the man coughing 
 beside the door of the beer-garden. " Given 
 all of his life to the devil," he mused, " drunk 
 himself to death, and now seeking to steal 
 into heaven by giving away a few tracts in
 
 The Uncalled 2,17 
 
 his last worthless moments." He had for 
 gotten all about Perkins. 
 
 He strolled about for a while, and then, 
 actuated by curiosity, sought out the hall 
 where the meeting was being held. It was 
 a rude place, in a poor neighbourhood. 
 The meeting-room was up two flights of 
 dingy, rickety stairs. Hither Brent found 
 his way. His acquaintance of the street 
 was there before him and sitting far to the 
 front among those whom, by their position, 
 the young man took to be the speakers of 
 the evening. The room was half full of 
 the motleyest crew that it had ever been his 
 ill fortune to set eyes on. The flaring light 
 of two lard-oil torches brought out the 
 peculiarities of the queer crowd in fantastic 
 prominence. There was everywhere an 
 odour of work, but it did not hang chiefly 
 about the men. The women were mostly 
 little weazen-faced creatures, whom labour 
 and ill treatment had rendered inexpressibly 
 hideous. The men were chiefly of the re 
 formed. The bleared eyes and bloated faces 
 of some showed that their reformation must 
 have been of very recent occurrence, while a 
 certain unsteadiness in the conduct of others, 
 showed that with them the process had not 
 taken place at all.
 
 218 The Uncalled 
 
 It was late, and a stuffy little man with a 
 wheezy voice and a very red nose was hold 
 ing forth on the evils of intemperance, very 
 much to his own satisfaction evidently, and 
 unmistakably to the weariness of his aud 
 ience. Brent was glad when he sat down. 
 Then there followed experiences from women 
 whose husbands had been drunkards and 
 from husbands whose wives had been simi 
 larly afflicted. It was all thoroughly unin 
 teresting and commonplace. 
 
 The young man had closed his eyes, and, 
 suppressing a yawn, had just determined to 
 go home, when he was roused by a new stir 
 in the meeting, and the voice of the wheezy 
 man saying " And now, brothers, we are to 
 have a great treat : we are to hear the story 
 of the California Pilgrim, told by himself. 
 Bless the Lord for his testimony ! Go on, 
 my brother." Brent opened his eyes and 
 took in the scene. Beside the chairman 
 stood the emaciated form of his chance 
 acquaintance. It was the man's face, now 
 seen in the clearer light, that struck him. 
 It was thin, very thin, and of a deathly 
 pallor. The long grey hair fell in a tumbled 
 mass above the large hollow eyes. The 
 cheek-bones stood up prominently, and
 
 The Uncalled 219 
 
 seemed almost bursting through the skin. 
 His whole countenance was full of the terri 
 ble, hopeless tragedy of a ruined life. He 
 began to speak. 
 
 " I '11 have to be very brief, brothers and 
 sisters, as I have n't much breath to spare. 
 But I will tell you my life simply, in order 
 to warn any that may be in the same way to 
 change their course. Twenty years ago I 
 was a hard-workin' man in this State. I got 
 along fairly, an' had enough to live on an' 
 keep my wife an' baby decent. Of course I 
 took my dram like the other workmen, an' 
 it never hurt me. But some men can't 
 stand what others kin, an* the habit com 
 menced to grow on me. I took a spree, 
 now an' then, an' then went back to work, 
 fur I was a good hand, an' could always git 
 somethin' to do. After a while I got so 
 unsteady that nobody would have me. 
 From then on it was the old story. I got 
 discouraged, an' drunk all the more. Three 
 years after I begun, my home was a wreck, 
 an' I had ill-treated my wife until she was 
 no better than I was ; then she got a divorce 
 from me, an' I left the town. I wandered 
 from place to place, sometimes workin', 
 always drinkin' ; sometimes ridin' on trains,
 
 22,0 The Uncalled 
 
 sometimes tram pin' by the roadside. Fin'lly 
 I drifted out to Californy, an* there I spent 
 most o' my time until, a year ago, I come 
 to see myself what a miserable bein' I was. 
 It was through one of your Bands of Hope. 
 From then I pulled myself up; but it was 
 too late. I had ruined my health. I 
 started for my old home, talkin' and tellin' 
 my story by the way. I want to get back there 
 an' jest let the people know that I 've 
 repented, an' then I can die in peace. I 
 want to see ef my wife an' child " Here 
 a great fit of coughing seized him again, and 
 he was forced to sit down. 
 
 Brent had listened breathlessly to every 
 word : a terrible fear was clutching at his 
 heart. When the man sat down, he heard 
 the voice of the chairman saying, " Now let 
 us all contribute what we can to help the 
 brother on his journey ; he has n't far to go. 
 Come forward and lay your contributions on 
 the table here, now. Some one sing. Now 
 who 's going to help Brother Brent ? " 
 
 The young man heard the name. He 
 grasped the seat in front of him for support. 
 He seized his hat, staggered to his feet, and 
 stumbled blindly out of the room and down 
 the stairs.
 
 The Uncalled 221 
 
 " Drunk " said some one as he passed. 
 
 He rushed into the street, crying within 
 himself, " My God ! my God ! " He hur 
 ried through the crowds, thrusting the people 
 right and left and unheeding the curses that 
 followed him. He reached home and groped 
 up to his room. 
 
 " Awful ! " murmured Mrs. Jones. " He 
 seemed such a good young man ; but he 's 
 been out with Mr. Perkins, and men will be 
 men." 
 
 Once in his room, it seemed that he would 
 go mad. Back and forth he paced the floor, 
 clenching his hands and smiting his head. 
 He wanted to cry out. He felt the impulse 
 to beat his head against the wall. " My 
 God ! my God ! It was my father," he 
 cried, " going back home. What shall I 
 do ? " There was yet no pity in his heart 
 for the man whom he now knew to be his 
 parent. His only thought was of the bitter 
 ness that parent's folly had caused. " Oh, 
 why could he not have died away from home, 
 without going back there to revive all the 
 old memories ? Why must he go back 
 there just at this troublous time to distress 
 those who have loved me and help those 
 who hate me to drag my name in the dust ?
 
 222 The Uncalled 
 
 He has chosen his own way, and it has ever 
 been apart from me. He has neglected and 
 forgotten me.. Now why does he seek me 
 out, after a life spent among strangers ? I 
 do not want him. I will not see him again. 
 I shall never go home. I have seen him, I 
 have heard him talk. I have stood near 
 him and talked with him, and just when I 
 am leaving it all behind me, all my past of 
 sorrow and degradation, he comes and lays 
 a hand upon me, and I am more the son of 
 Tom Brent to-night than ever before. Is it 
 Fate, God, or the devil that pursues me 
 so?" 
 
 His passion was spending itself. When 
 he was more calm he thought, " He will go 
 home with a religious testimony on his lips, 
 he will die happy, and the man who has spent 
 all his days in drunkenness, killed his wife, 
 and damned his son will be preached through 
 the gates of glory on the strength of a few 
 words of familiar cant." There came into 
 his mind a great contempt for the system 
 which taught or preached so absurd and un 
 fair a doctrine. " I wish I could go to the 
 other side of the world," he said, " and live 
 among heathens who know no such dreams. 
 I, Frederick Brent, son of Tom Brent, tern-
 
 The Uncalled 2,23 
 
 perance advocate, sometime drunkard and 
 wife-beater." There was terrible, scorching 
 irony in the thought. There was a pitiless 
 hatred in his heart for his father's very 
 name. 
 
 " I suppose," he went on, " that Uncle 
 'Liph " he said the name tenderly 
 " has my letter now and will be writing to 
 me to come home and hear my father's dying 
 words, and receive perhaps his dying bless 
 ing, his dying blessing ! But I will not 
 go ; I will not go back." Anger, mingled 
 with shame at his origin and a greater shame 
 at himself, flamed within him. " He did 
 not care for the helpless son sixteen years 
 ago : let him die without the sight of the 
 son now. His life has cursed my life, his 
 name has blasted my name, his blood has 
 polluted my blood. Let him die as he lived 
 without me." 
 
 He dropped into a chair and struck the 
 table with his clenched fists. 
 
 Mrs. Jones came to the door to ask him 
 not to make so much noise. He buried his 
 face in his hands, and sat there thinking, 
 thinking, until morning.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 NEXT morning when Brent went down 
 to breakfast he was as a man who had 
 passed through an illness. His eyes were 
 bloodshot, his face was pale, his step was 
 nervous and weak. 
 
 "Just what I expected," muttered Mrs. 
 Jones. "He was in a beastly condition last 
 night. I shall speak to Mr. Perkins about 
 it. He had no right to take and get him in 
 such a state." 
 
 She was more incensed than ever when 
 the gay young clerk came in looking per 
 fectly fresh. " He 's used to it," she told 
 herself, " and it does n't tell on him, but it 's 
 nearly killed that poor young man." 
 
 " Hullo there, Brent," said Perkins. 
 " You chucked me for good last night. 
 Did you lose your way, or was your < char 
 acter* too interesting?" 
 
 " Character too interesting," was the la 
 conic reply. 
 
 " And I '11 bet you Ve been awake all 
 night studying it out."
 
 The Uncalled 2,25 
 
 "You are entirely right there," said Brent, 
 smiling bitterly. " I have n't slept a wink all 
 night : I Ve been studying out that character." 
 
 " I thought you looked like it. You 
 ought to take some rest to-day." 
 
 " I can't. I Ve got to put in my time on 
 the same subject." 
 
 Mrs. Jones pursed her lips and bustled 
 among the teacups. The idea of their 
 laughing over their escapades right before 
 her face and thinking that she did not un 
 derstand ! She made the mental observation 
 that all men were natural born liars, and 
 most guilty when they appeared to be most 
 innocent. " Character," indeed ! Did they 
 think to blind her to the true situation of 
 things ? Oh, astute woman ! 
 
 " Strange fellow," said Perkins to his 
 spoon, when, after a slight breakfast, Brent 
 had left the table. 
 
 " There 's others that are just as strange, 
 only they think they 're sharper," quoth 
 Mrs. Jones, with a knowing look. 
 
 " I don't understand you," returned her 
 boarder, turning his attention from his spoon 
 to the lady's face. 
 
 " There 's none so blind as those who 
 don't want to see." 
 
 '5
 
 226 The Uncalled 
 
 "Again I say, I don't understand you, 
 Mrs. Jones." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Perkins, it 's no use trying to 
 fool me. I know men. In my younger 
 days I was married to a man." 
 
 " Strange contingency ! But still it casts 
 no light on your previous remarks." 
 
 " You Ve got very innocent eyes, I must 
 say, Mr. Perkins." 
 
 " The eyes, madam, are the windows of 
 the soul," Perkins quoted, with mock 
 gravity. 
 
 " Well, if the eyes are the soul's windows, 
 there are some people who always keep their 
 windows curtained." 
 
 " But I must deny any such questionable 
 performance on my part. I have not the 
 shrewdness to veil my soul from the scrutiny 
 of so keen an observer as yourself." 
 
 "Oh, flattery isn't going to do your 
 cause one mite of good, Mr. Perkins. I 'm 
 not going to scold, but next time you get 
 him in such a state I wish you 'd bring him 
 home yourself, and not let him come tearing 
 in here like a madman, scaring a body half 
 to death." 
 
 " Will you kindly explain yourself? Whaf 
 condition ? And who is * him ' ? "
 
 The Uncalled 227 
 
 w Oh, of course you don't know." 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you 
 weren't out with Mr. Brent last night be 
 fore he came home ? " 
 
 " I assuredly was not with him after the 
 first quarter of an hour." 
 
 " Well, it *s hard to believe that he got 
 that way by himself." 
 
 " That way ! Why, he left me at the door 
 of Meyer's beer-garden to talk to a temper 
 ance crank who he thought was a character." 
 
 " Well, no temperance character sent him 
 rushing and stumbling in here as he did last 
 night. ( Character/ indeed ! It was at the 
 bottom of a pail of beer or something 
 worse." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think he was ' loaded/ 
 He 's an author, and I guess his eye got to 
 rolling in a fine frenzy, and he had t;o hurry 
 home to keep it from rolling out of his head 
 into the street." 
 
 " Mr. Perkins, this is no subject for fun. 
 I have seen what I have seen, and it was a 
 -nost disgraceful spectacle. I take your 
 word for it that you were not with Mr. 
 Brent, but you need not try to go further 
 and defend him."
 
 228 The Uncalled 
 
 " I 'm not trying to defend him at all ; 
 it 's really none of my business." And 
 Perkins went off to work, a little bit angry 
 and a good deal more bewildered. " I 
 thought he was a ( jay/ " he remarked. 
 
 To Brent the day was a miserable one. 
 He did not leave his room, but spent the 
 slow hours pacing back and forth in ab 
 sorbed thought, interrupted now and then 
 by vain attempts to read. His mind was in 
 a state of despairing apprehension. It 
 needed no prophetic sense to tell him what 
 would happen. It was only a question of 
 how long a time would elapse before he 
 might expect to receive word from Dexter 
 summoning him home. It all depended 
 upon whether or not the " California Pil 
 grim " got money enough last night for 
 exploiting his disgraceful history to finish 
 the last stage of the journey. 
 
 What disgusted the young man so in 
 tensely was that his father, after having led 
 the life he had, should make capital out of 
 relating it. Would not a quiet repentance, 
 if it were real, have been quite sufficient ? 
 He very much distrusted the sincerity of 
 motive that made a man hold himself up as 
 an example of reformed depravity, when the
 
 The Uncalled 229 
 
 hope of gain was behind it all. The very 
 charity which he had preached so fiercely to 
 his congregation he could not extend to his 
 own father. Indeed, it appeared to him 
 (although this may have been a trick of his 
 distorted imagination) that the " Pilgrim " 
 had seemed to take a sort of pleasure in the 
 record of his past, as though it were excel 
 lent to be bad, in order to have the pleasure 
 of conversion. His lip involuntarily curled 
 when he thought of conversion. He was 
 disgusted with all men and principles. One 
 man offends, and a whole system suffers. 
 He felt a peculiar self-consciousness, a self- 
 glorification in his own misery. Placing the 
 accumulated morality of his own life against 
 the full-grown evil of his father's, it angered 
 him to think that by the intervention of a 
 seemingly slight quantity the results were 
 made equal. 
 
 " What is the use of it all," he asked 
 himself, " my struggle, involuntary though 
 it was, my self-abnegation, my rigidity, when 
 what little character I have built up is over 
 shadowed by my father's past ? Why 
 should I have worked so hard and long for 
 those rewards, real or fancied, the favour of 
 God and the respect of men, when he, after
 
 230 The Uncalled 
 
 a career of outrageous dissipation, by a 
 simple act or claim of repentance wins the 
 Deity's smile and is received into the arms 
 of people with gushing favour, while I am 
 looked upon as the natural recipient of all 
 his evil ? Of course they tell us that there 
 is more joy over the one lamb that is found 
 than over the ninety and nine that went not 
 astray ; it puts rather a high premium on 
 straying." He laughed bitterly. " With 
 what I have behind me, is it worth being 
 decent for the sake of decency? After all, 
 is the game worth the candle ? " 
 
 He took up a little book which many 
 times that morning he had been attempting 
 to read. It was an edition of Matthew 
 Arnold's poems, and one of the stanzas was 
 marked. It was in " Mycerinus." 
 
 Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be, 
 Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream, 
 
 Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, 
 Blind divinations of a will supreme ? 
 
 Lost labour ! when the circumambient gloom 
 
 But holds, if gods, gods careless of our doom ! 
 
 He laid the book down with a sigh. It 
 seemed to fit his case. 
 
 It was not until the next morning, how 
 ever, that his anticipations were realised,
 
 The Uncalled 231 
 
 and the telegraph messenger stopped at his 
 door. The telegram was signed Eliphalet 
 Hodges, and merely said, " Come at once. 
 You are needed." 
 
 " Needed " ! What could they " need " 
 of him ? " Wanted " would have been a 
 better word, " wanted " by the man who 
 for sixteen years had forgotten that he had a 
 son. He had already decided that he would 
 not go, and was for the moment sorry that 
 he had stayed where the telegram could reach 
 him and stir his mind again into turmoil ; 
 but the struggle had already recommenced. 
 Maybe his father was burdening his good 
 old friends, and it was they who " needed " 
 him. Then it was his duty to go, but not 
 for his father's sake. He would not even 
 see his father. No, not that ! He could 
 not see him. 
 
 It ended by his getting his things together 
 and taking the next train. He was going, 
 he told himself, to the relief of his guardian 
 and his friend, and not because his father 
 his father! wanted him. Did he deceive 
 himself? Were there not, at the bottom of 
 it all, the natural promptings of so close a 
 relationship which not even cruelty, neglect, 
 and degradation could wholly stifle ?
 
 He saw none of the scenes that had 
 charmed his heart on the outward journey a 
 few days before ; for now his sight was either 
 far ahead or entirely inward. When he 
 reached Dexter, it was as if years had passed 
 since he left its smoky little station. Things 
 did not look familiar to him as he went up the 
 old street, because he saw them with new eyes. 
 
 Mr. Hodges must have been watching for 
 him, for he opened the door before he 
 reached it. 
 
 " Come in, Freddie," he said in a low 
 voice, tiptoeing back to his chair. " I 've 
 got great news fur you." 
 
 "You needn't tell me v/hat it is," said 
 Brent. " I know that my father is here. " 
 
 Eliphalet started up. " Who told you ? " 
 he said ; " some blockhead, I '11 be bound, 
 who did n't break it to you gently as I would 
 'a' done. Actu'lly the people in this here 
 town " 
 
 " Don't blame the people, Uncle 'Liph," 
 said the young man, smiling in spite of him 
 self. " I found it out for myself before I 
 arrived ; and, I assure you, it was n't gently 
 broken to me either." To the old man's 
 look of bewildered amazement, Brent replied 
 with the story of his meeting with his father.
 
 The Uncalled 233 
 
 " It 's the good Lord's doin's," said Eliph- 
 alet, reverently. 
 
 " I don't know just whose doing it is, but 
 it is an awful accusation to put on the Lord. 
 I 've still got enough respect for Him not to 
 believe that." 
 
 " Freddie," exclaimed the old man, hor 
 ror-stricken, "you ain't a-gettin' irreverent, 
 you ain't a-beginnin' to doubt, air you ? 
 Don't do it. I know jest what you 've had 
 to bear all along, an' I know what you 're 
 a-bearin' now, but you ain't the only one 
 that has their crosses. I 'm a-bearin' my 
 own, an' it ain't light neither. You don't 
 know what it is, my boy, when you feel that 
 somethin' precious is all your own, to have a 
 real owner come in an' snatch it away from 
 you. While I thought yore father was dead, 
 you seemed like my own son ; but now it 
 'pears like I 'ain't got no kind o' right to 
 you an' it 's kind o' hard, Freddie, it 's kind 
 o' hard, after all these years. I know how 
 a mother feels when she loses her baby, but 
 when it 's a grown son that 's lost, one that 
 she 's jest been pilin' up love fur, it 's it 's 
 The old man paused, overcome by 
 his emotions. 
 
 " I am as much no, more than ever
 
 234 T^ e Uncalled 
 
 your son, Uncle 'Liph. No one shall ever 
 come between us ; no, not even the man I 
 should call father." 
 
 "He is yore father, Freddie. It's jest 
 like I told Hester. She was fur sendin' him 
 along." In spite of himself, a pang shot 
 through Brent's heart at this. " But I said, 
 * No, no, Hester, he 's Fred's father an' we 
 must take him in, fur our boy's sake.' ' 
 
 " Not for my sake, not for my sake ! " 
 broke out the young man. 
 
 " Well, then, fur our Master's sake. We 
 took him in. He was mighty low down. 
 It seemed like the Lord had jest spared him 
 to git here. Hester's with him now, an' 
 an' kin you stand to hear it ? the doctor 
 says he 's only got a little while to live." 
 
 " Oh, I can stand it," Brent replied, with 
 unconscious irony. The devotion and the 
 goodness of the old man had softened him as 
 thought, struggle, and prayer had failed to do. 
 
 "Will you go in now ? " asked Eliphalet. 
 cc He wants to see you : he can't die in peace 
 without." 
 
 The breath came hard between his teeth 
 as Brent replied, " I said I would n't see him. 
 I came because I thought you needed me." 
 
 " He 's yore father, Freddie, an' he 's peni-
 
 The Uncalled 235 
 
 tent. All of us pore mortals need a good deal 
 o' furgivin', an' it does n't matter ef one of us 
 needs a little more or a little less than another : 
 it puts us all on the same level. Remember 
 yore sermon about charity, an' an' jedge 
 not. You 'ain't seen all o' His plan. Come 
 on." And, taking the young man by the 
 hand, he led him into the room that had 
 been his own. Hester rose as he entered, 
 and shook hands with him, and then she and 
 her husband silently passed out. 
 
 The sufferer lay upon the bed, his eyes 
 closed and his face as white as the pillows on 
 which he reclined. Disease had fattened on 
 the hollow cheeks and wasted chest. One 
 weak hand picked aimlessly at the coverlet, 
 and the laboured breath caught and faltered as 
 if already the hand of Death was at his throat. 
 
 The young man stood by the bed, trem 
 bling in every limb, his lips now as white 
 as the ashen face before him. He was 
 cold, but the perspiration stood in beads on 
 his brow as he stood gazing upon the face 
 of his father. Something like pity stirred 
 him for a moment, but a vision of his 
 own life came up before him, and his heart 
 grew hard again. Here was the man who 
 had wronged him irremediably.
 
 236 The Uncalled 
 
 Finally the dying man stirred uneasily, 
 muttering, " I dreamed that he had come." 
 
 " I am here." Brent's voice sounded 
 strange to him. 
 
 The eyes opened, and the sufferer gazed 
 at him. " Are you " 
 
 " I am your son." 
 
 " You why, I saw you " 
 
 " You saw me in Cincinnati at the door of 
 a beer-garden." He felt as if he had struck 
 the man before him with a lash. 
 
 " Did you go in ? " 
 
 " No : I went to your temperance meeting." 
 
 The elder Brent did not hear the ill-con 
 cealed bitterness in his son's voice. " Thank 
 God," he said. "You heard my story, 
 an' it leaves me less to tell. Some 
 thing made me speak to you that 
 night. Come nearer. Will you shake 
 hands with me ? " 
 
 Fred reached over and took the clammy 
 hand in his own. 
 
 " I have had a pore life," the now 
 fast weakening man went on ; u an' I have 
 done wrong by you, but I have 
 repented. Will you forgive me ? " 
 
 Something came up into Brent's heart 
 and burned there like a flame.
 
 The Uncalled 237 
 
 " You have ruined my life," he answered, 
 " and left me a heritage of shame and evil." 
 
 " I know it God help me I know it; 
 but won't you forgive me, my son ? 
 I* want to call you that just once." 
 He pressed his hand closer. 
 
 Could he forgive him? Could he forget 
 all that he had suffered and would yet suf 
 fer on this man's account ? Then the words 
 and the manner of old Eliphalet came to 
 him, and he said, in a softened voice, " I 
 forgive you, father." He hesitated long 
 over the name. 
 
 " Thank God for for the name 
 an' forgiveness." He carried his son's 
 hand to his lips, " I sha' n't be alive 
 long now, an* my death will set 
 people to talkin'. They will bring ' 
 up the past. I don't want you to 
 stay an' have to bear it. I don't want 
 to bring any more on you than I have 
 already. Go away, as soon as I am 
 dead." 
 
 " I cannot leave my friends to bear my 
 burdens." 
 
 " They will not speak of them as 
 they will speak of you, my poor 
 boy. You are old Tom Brent's
 
 238 The Uncalled 
 
 son. I wish I could take my name 
 
 an' all it means along with me. 
 But promise me you will go. 
 Promise " 
 
 " I will go if you so wish it.'* 
 " Thank you. An' now good-bye. 
 I can't talk -*- any more. I don't dare 
 
 to advise you after all you 
 know of me ; but do right do right." 
 
 The hand relaxed and the eyelids closed. 
 Brent thought that he was dead, and prompted 
 by some impulse, bent down and kissed his 
 father's brow, his father, after all. A 
 smile flitted over the pale face, but the eyes 
 did not open. But he did not die then. 
 Fred called Mrs. Hodges and left her with 
 his father while he sat with Eliphalet. It 
 was not until the next morning, when the 
 air was full of sunlight, the song of birds, 
 and the chime of church bells, that old Tom 
 Brent's weary spirit passed out on its search 
 for God. He had not spoken after his talk 
 with his son. 
 
 There were heavy hearts about his bed, 
 but there were no tears, no sorrow for his 
 death, only regret for the manner of his 
 life. 
 
 Mrs. Hodges and Eliphalet agreed that
 
 The Uncalled 239 
 
 the dead man had been right in wishing his 
 son to go away, and, after doing what he 
 could to lighten their load, he again stood on 
 the threshold, leaving his old sad home. 
 Mrs. Hodges bade him good-bye at the door, 
 and went back. She was too bowed to seem 
 hard any more, or even to pretend it. But 
 Eliphalet followed him to the gate. The 
 two stood holding each other's hands and 
 gazing into each other's eyes. 
 
 " I know you 're a-goin' to do right with 
 out me a-tellin' you to," eaid the old man, 
 chokingly. " That 's all I want of you. 
 Even ef you don't preach, you kin live an' 
 work fur Him." 
 
 " I shall do all the good I can, Uncle 
 'Liph, but I shall do it in the name of poor 
 humanity until I come nearer to Him. I 
 am dazed and confused now, and want the 
 truth." 
 
 " Go on, my boy ; you 're safe. You Ve 
 got the truth now, only you don't know it; 
 fur they's One that says, ( Inasmuch as ye 
 have done it unto one of the least of these, 
 ye have done it unto me.' ' 
 
 Another hearty hand-shake, and the young 
 man was gone. 
 
 As Fred went down the street, some one
 
 24 The Uncalled 
 
 accosted him and said, " I hear yore father 's 
 home." 
 
 " Yes, he 's home," said Fred. 
 
 Tom Brent was buried on Tuesday morn 
 ing. The Rev. Mr. Simpson, who, in spite 
 of his age, had been prevailed upon to re 
 sume charge of his church, preached the 
 sermon. He spoke feelingly of the " dear 
 departed brother, who, though late, had 
 found acceptance with the Lord," and he 
 ended with a prayer which was a shot 
 for tfre " departed's misguided son, who had 
 rejected his Master's call and was now wan 
 dering over the earth in rebellion and sin." 
 It was well that he did not see the face of 
 Eliphalet Hodges then. 
 
 Dan'l Hastings nodded over the sermon. 
 In the back part of the church, Mrs. Mar 
 tin and Mrs. Smith whispered together and 
 gaped at the two old mourners, and won 
 dered where the boy was. They had " heerd 
 he was in town." 
 
 Bill Tompkins brought Elizabeth to the 
 funeral.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IN another town than Dexter the events 
 narrated in the last chapter would have 
 proved a nine days' wonder, gained their 
 meed of golden gossip, and then given way 
 to some newer sensation. But not so here. 
 This little town was not so prolific in start 
 ling episodes that she could afford to let such 
 a one pass with anything less than the fullest 
 comment. The sudden return of Tom 
 Brent, his changed life, and his death were 
 talked of for many a day. The narrative of 
 his life was yet to be a stock camp-meeting 
 sermon story, and the next generation of 
 Dexterites was destined to hear of him. 
 He became a part of the town's municipal 
 history. 
 
 Fred's disappearance elicited no less re 
 mark. Speculations as to his whereabouts 
 and his movements were rife. The storm 
 of gossip which was going on around them 
 was not lost on Eliphalet Hodges and his 
 16
 
 wife. But, save when some too adventu 
 rous inquirer called down upon himself Mrs. 
 Hodges' crushing rebuke or the old man's 
 mild resentment, they went their ways silent 
 and uncommunicative. 
 
 They had heard from the young man first 
 about two weeks after his departure. He 
 had simply told them that he had got a 
 place in the office of a packing establishment. 
 Furthermore, he had begged that they let 
 his former fellow-townsmen know nothing 
 of his doings or of his whereabouts, and the 
 two old people had religiously respected his 
 wishes. Perhaps there was some reluctance 
 on the part of Mrs. Hodges, for after the 
 first letter she said, " It does seem like a sin 
 an' a shame, 'Liphalet, that we can't tell 
 these here people how nice Fred's a-doin', 
 so's to let 'em know that he don't need 
 none o' their help. It jest makes my tongue 
 fairly itch when I see Mis' Smith an' that 
 bosom crony o' her'n, Sallie Martin, a- 
 nosin' around tryin* to see what they kin 
 find out." 
 
 " It is amazin* pesterin', Hester. I 'm 
 su'prised at how I feel about it myself, fur 
 I never was no hand to want to gossip ; but 
 when I hear old Dan'l Hastings, that can't
 
 The Uncalled 243 
 
 move out o' his cheer fur the rheumatiz, 
 
 when I hear him a-sayin' that he reck 
 oned that Fred was a-goin' to the dogs, I felt 
 jest like up an' tellin* him how things was." 
 
 " Why on airth did n't you ? Ef I 'd 'a' 
 been there, I 'd " 
 
 u But you know what Freddie's letter 
 said. I kept still on that account ; but I 
 tell you I looked at Dan'l." From his 
 pocket the old man took the missive worn 
 with many readings, and gazed at it fondly, 
 " Yes," he repeated, " I looked at Dan'l hard. 
 I felt jest like up an' tellin' him." 
 
 " Well, no wonder. I 'm afeard I 'd ' a' 
 clean furgot Freddie's wishes an' told him 
 everything. To think of old Dan'l Hast 
 ings, as old he is, a-gossipin' about other 
 people's business ! Sakes alive ! he needs 
 every breath he 's got now fur his prayers, 
 
 as all of us pore mortals do now," added 
 Mrs. Hodges, as she let her eyes fall upon 
 her own wrinkled hands. 
 
 " Yes, we 're old, Hester, you an' I ; but 
 I 'm mighty glad o' the faith I 've been 
 a-storin' up, fur it 's purty considerable of a 
 help now." 
 
 " Of course, 'Liphalet, faith is a great 
 comfort, but it 's a greater one to know that
 
 244 The Uncalled 
 
 you Ve allus tried to do yore dooty the very 
 best you could ; not a-sayin' that you 'ain't 
 tried." 
 
 " Most of us tries, Hester, even Dan'l." 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' to talk about Dan'l Hast 
 ings. He 's jest naturally spiteful an' crab 
 bed. I declare, I don't see how he 's a-goin' 
 to squeeze into the kingdom." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, Hester. God ain't 
 a-goin' to ask you to find a way." 
 
 Mrs. Hodges did not reply. She and her 
 husband seldom disagreed now, because he 
 seldom contradicted or found fault with her. 
 But if this dictum of his went unchallenged, 
 it was not so with some later conclusions at 
 which he arrived on the basis of another of 
 Fred's letters. 
 
 It was received several months after the 
 settlement of the young man in Cincinnati, 
 and succeeded a long silence. " You will 
 think," it ran, " that I have forgotten you ; 
 but it is not so. My life has been very full 
 here of late, it is true, but not so full as to 
 exclude you and good Aunt Hester. I feel 
 that I am growing. I can take good full 
 breaths here. I could n't in Dexter: the air 
 was too rarefied by religion." 
 
 Mrs. Hodges gasped as her husband read
 
 The Uncalled 245 
 
 this aloud, but there was the suspicion of 
 a smile about the corners of Eliphalet's 
 mouth. 
 
 " You ask me if I attend any church," the 
 letter went on. " Yes, I do. When I first 
 left, I thought that I never wanted to see 
 the inside of a meeting-house again. But 
 there is a young lady in our office who is 
 very much interested in church work, and 
 somehow she has got me interested too, and 
 I go to her church every Sunday. It is 
 Congregational." 
 
 " Congregational ! " exclaimed Mrs. Hod 
 ges. " Congregational ! an' he borned an' 
 raised up in the Methodist faith. It's the 
 first step." 
 
 " He was n't borned nothin' but jest a 
 pore little outcast sinner, an' as fur as the 
 denomination goes, I guess -.that church is 
 about as good as any other." 
 
 "'Liphalet Hodges, air you a-backslidin* 
 too ? " 
 
 " No : I 'm like Freddie; I'm a-growin'." 
 
 " It 's a purty time of life fur you to be 
 a-talkin' about growin'. You 're jest like 
 an old tree that has fell in a damp place an' 
 sen's out a few shoots on the trunk. It 
 thinks it 's a-growin' too, but them shoots
 
 246 The Uncalled 
 
 soon wither, an' the tree rots ; that's what it 
 does." 
 
 " But before it rotted, it growed all that 
 was in it to grow, didn't it. Well, that's 
 all anybody kin do, tree or human bein'." 
 He paused for a moment. " I 'ain't got all 
 my growth yit." 
 
 " You kin git the rest in the garden of 
 the Lord." 
 
 " It ain't good to change soil on some 
 plants too soon. I ain't ready to be set out." 
 He went on reading : 
 
 " { I 'm not so narrow as I was at home. 
 I don't think so many things are wrong as I 
 used to. It is good to be like other people 
 sometimes, and not to feel yoreself apart 
 from all the rest of humanity. I am grow 
 ing to act more like the people I meet, and 
 so I am "<* the old man's hand trembled, 
 and he moved the paper nearer to his eyes 
 " < 1 ' What 's this he says ? * I am 
 learning to dance.' ' 
 
 "There!" his wife shot forth triumph 
 antly. " What did I tell you ? Going to a 
 Congregational church an' learnin' to dance, 
 an' he not a year ago a preacher of the 
 gospel." 
 
 Eliphalet was silent for some time: his
 
 The Uncalled 247 
 
 eyes looked far out into space. Then he 
 picked up the paper that had fluttered 
 from his hand, and a smile flitted over his 
 face. 
 
 " Well, I don't know," he said. " Freddie 's 
 young, an' they 's worse things in the world 
 than dancin'. " 
 
 " You ain't a-upholdin' him in that too, 
 air you ? Well, I never ! You 'd uphold that 
 sinful boy ef he committed murder." 
 
 " I ain't a-upholdin' nothin' but what I 
 think is right." 
 
 "Right ! 'Liphalet Hodges, what air you 
 a-sayin' ? " 
 
 " Not that I mean to say that dancin' is 
 right, but " 
 
 "There ain't no 'buts' in the Christian 
 religion, 'Liphalet, an' there ain't no use in 
 yore tryin' to cover up Freddie's faults." 
 
 "I ain't a-tryin* to cover nothin' up from 
 God. But sometimes I git to thinkin' that 
 mebbe we put a good many more bonds on 
 ourselves than the Lord ever meant us to 
 carry." 
 
 " Oh, some of us don't struggle under 
 none too heavy burdens. Some of us have 
 a way of jest slippin' 'em off of our shoulders 
 like a bag of flour."
 
 248 The Uncalled 
 
 " Meanin' me. Well, mebbe I have tried 
 to make things jest as easy fur myself as pos 
 sible, but I 'ain't never tried to make 'em no 
 harder fur other people. I like to think of 
 the Master as a good gentle friend, an' mebbe 
 I 'ain't shifted so many o' the burdens He 
 put on me that He won't let me in at last." 
 
 " 'Liphalet, I didn't say what I said fur no 
 slur ag'in' you. You 're as good a Christian 
 man as well, as most." 
 
 " I know you did n't mean no slur, Hes 
 ter. It was jest yore dooty to say it. I Ve 
 come to realise how strong yore feelin' 
 about dooty is, in the years we've been 
 together, an' I would n't want you to be any 
 different." 
 
 The calm of old age had come to these 
 two. Life's turbulent waters toss us and 
 threaten to rend our frail bark in pieces. 
 But the swelling of the tempest only lifts us 
 higher, and finally we reach and rest upon 
 the Ararat of age, with the swirling floods 
 below us. 
 
 Eliphalet went on with the letter. " He 
 says some more about that little girl. f Alice 
 is a very nice and sensible girl. I like her 
 very much. She helps me to get out of myself 
 and to be happy. I have never known be-
 
 The Uncalled 249 
 
 fore what a good thing it was to be happy, 
 perhaps because I have tried so hard to 
 be so. I believe that I have been selfish 
 and egotistical/ Freddie don't furgit his 
 words," the old man paused to say. " c I 
 have always thought too much of myself, 
 and not enough of others. That was the 
 reason that I was not strong enough to live 
 down the opposition in Dexter. It seems 
 that, after all your kindness to me, I might 
 have stayed and made you and Aunt Hes 
 ter happy for the rest of your days.' Bless 
 that boy ! * But the air stifled me. I could 
 not breathe in it. Now that I am away, I 
 can look back and see it all my mistakes 
 and my shortcomings ; for my horizon is broad 
 er and I can see clearer. I have learned to 
 know what pleasure is, and it has been like 
 a stimulant to me. I have been given a 
 greater chance to love, and it has been like 
 the breath of life to me. I have come face 
 to face with Christianity without cant, and I 
 respect it for what it is. Alice understands 
 me and brings out the best that is in me. I 
 have always thought that it was good for a 
 young man to have a girl friend. ' 
 
 For an instant, Mrs. Hodges resumed her 
 old manner. A slight wave from the old
 
 250 The Uncalled 
 
 flood had reached the bark and rocked it. 
 She pursed her lips and shook her head. 
 "He furgot Elizabeth in a mighty short 
 time." 
 
 " Ef he had n't he 'd ought to be spanked 
 like a child. Elizabeth never was the kind 
 of a mate fur Freddie, an' there ain't nobody 
 that knows it better than you yoreself, Hes 
 ter, an' you know it." 
 
 Mrs. Hodges did not reply. The wave 
 let had subsided again. 
 
 "Now jest listen how he ends up. f l 
 want you and Aunt Hester to come down 
 and see me when you can. I will send for you 
 in a week or two, if you will promise to come. 
 Write to me, both of you. Won't you ? 
 Your changed boy, Fred.' Changed, an' 
 I 'm glad of it. He 's more like a natural 
 boy of his age now than he ever was before. 
 Pie 's jest like a young oak saplin'. Before 
 he allus put me in mind o' one o' them 
 oleander slips that you used to cut off 
 an' hang ag'in' the house in a bottle o' 
 water so 's they 'd root. We '11 go down, 
 won't we, Hester? We'll go down, an' 
 see him." 
 
 " Not me, 'Liphalet. You kin go ; but 
 I ain't a-goin' nowhere to be run over by
 
 The Uncalled 251 
 
 the cars or wrecked or somethin'. Not that 
 I 'm so powerful afeared of anything like 
 that, fur I do hope I 'm prepared to go when 
 ever the Master calls ; but it ain't fur me 
 to begin a-runnin' around at my age, after 
 livin' all these years at home. No, in 
 deed. Why, I could n't sleep in no other 
 bed but my own now. I don't take to no 
 sich new things." 
 
 And go Mrs. Hodges would not. So 
 Eliphalet was forced to write and refuse the 
 offered treat. But on a day there came 
 another letter, and he could no longer refuse 
 to grant the wish of his beloved boy. The 
 missive was very brief. It said only, " Alice 
 has promised to marry me. Won't you and 
 Aunt Hester come and see me joined to the 
 dearest girl in the world ? " There was a 
 postscript to it : " I did not love Elizabeth. 
 I know it now." 
 
 " Hester, I 'm agoin'." said Eliphalet. 
 
 " Go on, 'Liphalet, go on. I want you 
 to go, but I 'm set in my ways now. I do 
 hope that girl kin do something besides work 
 in an office. She ought to be a good house 
 keeper, an' a good cook, so 's not to kill that 
 pore child with dyspepsy. I do hope she 
 won't put saleratus in her biscuits."
 
 252 The Uncalled 
 
 " I think it 's Freddie's soul that needi 
 feedin.' " 
 
 " His soul '11 go where it don't need feedin', 
 ef his stomach ain't 'tended to right. Ef I 
 went down there, I could give the girl some 
 points." 
 
 " I don't reckon you 'd better go, Hester. 
 As you say, you 're set in yore ways, an' 
 mebbe her ways 'ud be diff'rent ; an' then 
 then you'd both feel it." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose she thinks she knows it 
 all, like most young people do." 
 
 " I hope she don't ; but I 'm a-goin' down 
 to see her anyhow, an' I '11 carry yore blessin' 
 along with mine." 
 
 For the next week, great were the prepa 
 rations for the old man's departure, and when 
 finally he left the old gate and turned his 
 back on the little cottage it was as if he were 
 going on a great journey rather than a trip 
 of less than a hundred miles. It had been 
 a long time since he had been on a train, 
 and at first he felt a little dubious. But he 
 was soon at home, for his kindly face drew 
 his fellow-passengers to him, and he had 
 no lack of pleasant companions on the way. 
 
 Like Fred, the noises of the great station 
 would have bewildered him, but as he alighted
 
 The Uncalled 253 
 
 and passed through the gate a strong hand 
 was laid on his shoulder, and his palm was 
 pressing the palm of his beloved son. The 
 old carpet-bag fell from his hands. 
 
 " Freddie Brent, it ain't you ? " 
 
 "It's I, Uncle 'Liph, and no one else. 
 And I 'm so glad to see you that I don't 
 know what to do. Give me that bag." 
 
 They started away, the old man chatter 
 ing like a happy child. He could not keep 
 from feasting his eyes on the young man's 
 face and form. 
 
 " Well, Freddie, you jest don't look like 
 yoreself. You 're you 're " 
 
 " I 'm a man, Uncle 'Liph." 
 
 " I allus knowed you 'd be, my boy. I 
 allus knowed you 'd be. But yore aunt 
 Hester told me to ask you ef ef you 'd 
 dropped all yore religion. She's mighty 
 disturbed about yore dancin'." 
 
 Brent laughed aloud in pure joy. 
 
 " I knowed you had n't," the old man 
 chuckled. 
 
 " Lost it all ? Uncle 'Liph, why, I Ve 
 just come to know what religion is. It 's to 
 get bigger and broader and kinder, and to 
 live and to love and be happy, so that peo 
 ple around you will be happy."
 
 254 The Uncalled 
 
 " You 're still a first-rate preacher, 
 Freddie." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Uncle 'Liph; I 've been to a 
 better school than the Bible Seminary. I 
 have n't got many religious rules and form 
 ulas, but I 'm trying to live straight and do 
 what is right.'* 
 
 The old man had paused with tears in 
 his eyes. " I been a-prayin' fur you," he 
 said. 
 
 "So has Alice," replied the young man, 
 " though I don't see why she needs to pray. 
 She 's a prayer in herself. She has made 
 me better by letting me love her. Come 
 up, Uncle 'Liph. I want you to see her 
 before we go on to my little place." 
 
 They stopped before a quiet cottage, and 
 Fred knocked. In the little parlour a girl 
 came to them. She was little, not quite up 
 to Fred's shoulder. His eyes shone as he 
 looked down upon her brown head. There 
 were lines about her mouth, as if she had 
 known sorrow that had blossomed into sweet 
 ness. The young man took her hand. 
 "Uncle 'Liph," he said, "this is Alice." 
 
 She came forward with winning frankness, 
 and took the old man's hand in hers. The 
 tears stood in his eyes again.
 
 The Uncalled 255 
 
 "This is Alice," he said; "this is Alice." 
 Then his gaze travelled to Fred's glowing 
 face, and, with a sob in his voice that was all 
 for joy, he added, " Alice, I 'm glad you 're 
 a-livin'." 
 
 THE END
 
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