THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES
 
 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVE E DANA 
 
 "It seems as if the heroes have done almost all for the 
 world that they can do, and not much more can come till 
 common men awake and take their common tasks." 
 
 .Broofcs. 
 
 "The healing of the world 
 Is in its nameless saints. Each separate star 
 Seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars 
 Break up the night and make it beautiful." 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 AUGUSTA, MAINE 
 
 UUKLEIGH & FLYNT, PKIXTEKS 
 
 1894
 
 Copyright, 1894 
 BY OLIVE E. DANA 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Miss Esther 9 
 
 His Last Battle 26 
 
 A Thanksgiving Distribution 38 
 
 An Old Song 51 
 
 Deacon Lane's Strawberry Bed 65 
 
 A Tardy Valentine 80 
 
 A Fast-Day Sermon 94 
 
 Simon deal's Charity 104 
 
 Free and Equal 118 
 
 A Christmas Message 129 
 
 One Easter Day 140 
 
 In Saint Valentine's Tongue 155 
 
 A Flower Mission 1G8 
 
 A Belated Thanksgiving 178 
 
 Luther's Inheritance 198 
 
 Aimer's Way 217 
 
 ll.-r Gifts 2-2!) 
 
 Why Not? . 243 
 
 Deacon Farewell's Thanksgiving 252 
 
 Grandmother McLean's Vacation 264 
 
 Miss Hannah's Harvesting 279 
 
 The Sermon David Train Heard on Memorial Day 291 
 
 1702087
 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 Just as they earne to me, I write them here, 
 
 These homely tales of simple, friendly folk 
 Whose hidden hearth-fires breathe the wreathed smoke 
 
 That tells of home, warmth, love, when skies are drear: 
 Whose tranquil faith and unstrained virtue calm 
 
 Life's fevered pulse like some familiar psalm : 
 Who make us feel how royal goodness is, 
 
 How worthless all men gather, lacking this; 
 Who keep for us, despite Time's swift mischance, 
 
 Our dear New England's best inheritance. 
 
 o. E. r>. 
 
 An;rsTA, October 16, 1S94.
 
 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 MISS ESTHER. 
 
 Close beside a range of low, lovely moun 
 tains that seem to impart to the place some 
 thing of their own permanence and serenity, 
 even when the whirr of the mill-wheels is 
 loudest, the crowd of employes at the factory 
 gates and along dingy Broad Street thickest 
 and noisiest, Ashland lifts its spires and chim 
 neys, breathing the hot air of its activities 
 into the cool, calm air of the hills. 
 
 It is a quaint little city, with Swift River 
 dashing through its midst, heaping masses of 
 foam upon its rocky shores, and turning the 
 wheels of a score of manufactories, lesser and 
 greater. Shoddy tenements, showy stores, 
 and shops of all grades have sprung up inevit 
 ably around them, now and then a finer block 
 or statelier residence, or the square tower of 
 a schoolhouse, giving promise of better things. 
 
 2
 
 10 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 The older portion of the town is on the 
 other side of the river, and farther away, 
 opposite the hills, upon which it gains thereby 
 the larger outlook. Its streets, too, are higher 
 and wider, and the old-fashioned houses stand 
 far apart along elm-shaded roads that in a 
 more aspiring place would lie called "ave 
 nues," and are even now taking that name in 
 the speech of the younger generation. 
 
 In this part, however, is the railroad sta 
 tion, for Ashland is the terminus of a well 
 known road, and this arrangement, while it 
 brings a daily stir and renewal of life to Old 
 Ashland, as the older part of the town is 
 called, gives the visitor or traveller a far 
 pleasanter impression of the little city than he 
 would at first receive if it were otherwise. 
 For on his right, just far enough removed to 
 render their less pleasing features less con 
 spicuous, are the blocks and stores, the storied 
 mills, the clustered houses, and the back 
 ground of blue hills, and on the left, and 
 nearer, the wide home-like streets and com 
 fortable mansions that New Englanders made 
 sure of a century ago. 
 
 It was in this guise that Ashland showed 
 itself to the passengers of the late afternoon 
 train one day in early winter, its rows of glow 
 ing windows on the one hand, and the scat-
 
 MISS ESTHER. 11 
 
 tered home-lights so near by on the other, 
 making cheerful welcome, signals as the long 
 train rumbled slowly into the open station. 
 
 To one pair of eyes, looking out steadily 
 yet absently upon town, and hills, and glow 
 ing sunset skies, the scene was familiar enough. 
 Sixty years had been spent in this environ 
 ment, which seemed still to compass the m'ost 
 and best of life's duties, opportunities, joys. 
 Just why, even Miss Esther Mortimer herself 
 could hardly have told you. 
 
 She watched, to-night, with eyes that had 
 an unanswered question in them, the lights 
 flash out, one after another, and the streets 
 open below, till, as the train jerked itself to a 
 standstill, the whole village showed itself with 
 unexpected distinctness. 
 
 There is a connection, slenderer and subtler 
 than causation, between the outer and the 
 inner vision, as if the gates of sight swinging 
 wider, set open some psychical avenue, and 
 let in an unlocked for perception or aspira 
 tion. Some such message might have come 
 to Miss Esther, for a new satisfaction and a 
 new eagerness came together into her gray 
 eyes, and she sat quite still though her fellow 
 travellers were jostling each other in the car 
 aisles. Was it that bit of purple sky chang-
 
 12 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ing to softest gray above the darkening hills, 
 the amber of the clouds, dispersing now and 
 fading slowly, that detained her? Or the fine 
 lines of that piece of hemlock woods, her 
 own left standing at the right of the largest 
 factory, with the slenderer birches beside 
 them, and the sunset light shining through? 
 Or it may have been just the effective grouping 
 of the village lights, near and far, and the fine 
 effect of the factory windows, there were two 
 or three of the larger buildings unlighted, but 
 these were not noticeable, at dusk, and it 
 was, indeed, upon this portion of the town 
 that her eyes lingered longest. 
 
 But Miss Mortimer's gray horses, that had 
 been stamping on the other side of the plat 
 form since the train had just whistled, "be 
 trayed a livelier impatience, and James Stack- 
 pole, himself, their staid driver, was as restive 
 as they, Miss Mortimer could see. 
 
 "And Martha Storlett will think I have 
 given out on the journey, or else stayed over. 
 I don't know but James thinks I'm not able to 
 get out, for he's coming to look for me. I 
 must go, though I've found just what I was 
 looking for, all mapped out and planned. 
 Well, it will keep, now I've got it." 
 
 With w T hich enigmatical words Miss Esther 
 left the car, and, a moment later, alert, self-
 
 MISS ESTHER. 13 
 
 possessed and kindly, was entering her car 
 riage, and giving her checks to the vigilant 
 James, while ten minutes afterwards she stood 
 in her own hall, shaking hands with Martha 
 Storlett and hoping her supper had not been 
 kept waiting. 
 
 "The train was rather late, and I didn't 
 hurry." 
 
 "And how are you, Miss Esther? Any bet 
 ter? asked Martha, a note of anxiety in her 
 brisk voice. 
 
 "No worse, certainly," said Miss Mortimer, 
 with a smile singularly sweet for a face so 
 reserved. "I'll tell you all about it after sup 
 per, Martha. Just now I do believe I'm hun 
 gry." 
 
 And Martha, reassured more by her mis 
 tress's voice and manner than by her words or 
 her pale and really w r eary face, returned to her 
 own realm, content. 
 
 An hour later the two women sat together 
 in a room whose quaint, well-kept furniture, 
 softened into ease by luxurious accessories of 
 a later date, and by a cheerfully tranquil atmos 
 phere intensified by the open fire, the rows of 
 books, the orderly litter of periodicals, the 
 pungent fragrance of crimson pinks, seemed 
 in keeping with each, and harmonized their
 
 14 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 unlikenesses, as long-wonted things and the 
 atmosphere they make, will often do. 
 
 "You want to know all about it, Martha, I 
 suppose?" queried Miss Mortimer from her 
 easy-chair. 
 
 And Martha , plying her knitting-needles vig 
 orously in a straight-backed rocker, nodded 
 assent, adding, in a disapproving interrogation : 
 
 "You went to the hotel ?" 
 
 "Xo, not to stay. I had lunch there, the 
 train gets in at noon, you know, and I left my 
 things there at first. But, Martha, do you 
 remember Mary Duncan ?" 
 
 "Mary Henderson that was? Yes, indeed." 
 
 "Well," went on Miss Mortimer, clasping 
 her hands and gazing into the grate, "You 
 see, I had to have a veil, my last one gave 
 out last week and Miss Slocum never has any 
 thing of that sort one would wear, so I went 
 into Record's to get it and to leave an order. 
 That was on my way to Dr. Prescott. I saw 
 Madame first, and she called a young girl to 
 pin the veil, it was unmanageable, they al 
 ways are. I did not notice her at first, save 
 that she had a soft voice that somehow seemed 
 familiar, and a nice manner. But when I 
 turned to look at her I stood shock-still. 'Mary 
 Henderson !' I said, and put out both hands.
 
 MISS ESTHER. 15 
 
 I hadn't had my lunch then, nor seen the doc 
 tor, and I think I was a little weak and con 
 fused. 
 
 " 'Mary Henderson Duncan,' she said. That 
 was my mother's name.' She looked pleased, 
 but she wouldn't take the least advantage of 
 my Rip Van Winkle blunder. 'Mary Hender 
 son,' I said, 'was my dear friend, my dear 
 est friend. And I haven't seen or heard from 
 her in years. Does she live in town, and will 
 you give me her address? I should like to call 
 on her.' So she told me where they lived, and 
 said, she is as proud as she is pretty, 'She 
 will be very glad to see Miss Mortimer.' And 
 I came away and went to the doctor's I'll tell 
 you about that next, and the first person I 
 saw in his reception room was Mary herself. 
 She had her youngest child there, his eyes are 
 bad. And she knew me, and found out that I 
 was at the St. James, and guessed what my 
 errand was, and made me telephone for my 
 things and go home with her. I had the best 
 visit, Martha, with just her and the children, 
 their father died, you know, years ago. Yes, 
 they are poor, that is they maintain themselves, 
 with her little income. And Mary herself 
 helps ; she is secretary and half-manager, I 
 should think, of one of the charitable societies.
 
 16 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 It just suits her, and brings her in the way of 
 helping a great many people, all sorts, in all 
 soils of ways. And I don't suppose they can 
 afford to despise the small salary she gets, 
 either, though she doesn't work for that." 
 
 "But about the doctor, what did he say?" 
 said Martha, smoothing her black silk apron 
 and waiting for what was to her, relatively of 
 much more importance. 
 
 "Oh ! he said it wasn't a settled disease, he 
 thought, though it might easily become so, at 
 my age, and with my heredity and habits. 
 And he said I must avoid exposure, of course, 
 I always do, and fatigue. And that I must 
 have diversion and companionship, interesting 
 occupation, cheerful society and all that. Oh, 
 and that I must take nourishment frequently. 
 He proposed Florida, or California, this win 
 ter, and Europe next summer. Wanted to 
 know if I hadn't relatives or friends in the 
 South. Suggested a sanitarium, in Colorado, 
 I believe, but admitted afterwards that a change 
 was in no wise necessary, if the other condi 
 tions were met." 
 
 "And what will you do?" asked Martha, 
 eagerly. "There's your cousin John in San 
 Francisco, and Harry in Carolina. They'd be 
 delighted if you'd visit them."
 
 MISS ESTHER. 17 
 
 "But I am not going to, now !" said Miss 
 Mortimer, with vigorous emphasis. "Home is 
 best, sick or well, forme, especially when I'm 
 half-sick. Why, Martha Storlett, do you know 
 what tiresome, inane, nerve-wearing work it is 
 to visit, visit, visit, a season through? And 
 do you know that any number of maids, and 
 preparatory telegrams, and fees, and 'tips,' and 
 what not, wouldn't make me so comfortable as 
 I am this blessed minute ?" 
 
 "I know it," said Martha, in doubtful agree 
 ment, "but the society, and the amusement, 
 and all the rest of it, you can't get those in 
 Ashland?" 
 
 "Depends on what you mean by 'em," said 
 Miss Mortimer, laconically. 
 
 "Martha," she said presently, after a pause, 
 a perplexed silence to Martha, a thoughtful 
 one to her, "Martha, do you know a pretty, 
 dark-eyed girl, slender and rather sober, that 
 goes to our own church? She wears, I remem 
 ber, a blue suit, dark blue and very plain, and 
 sits in a side-pew." 
 
 Then as Martha shook her head, she went 
 on, 
 
 "She was on the train to-day. I think she 
 gives music lessons somewhere not far away. 
 I was thinking that if I knew her well enongh,
 
 18 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 I'd ask her to pour chocolate at some of my 
 teas this winter. She'd be just the one, I 
 fancy. But Frances Butler will do." 
 
 " Your teas ! " ejaculated Martha . "I thought 
 you had got to keep quiet and take care of 
 yourself, and have a good time, if you could 
 this winter." 
 
 "That's just what I'm going to do," said 
 Miss Esther, calmly," and the 'afternoons' are 
 a part of it." 
 
 "Martha," she went on, after a moment, in a 
 changed tone, "do you know they say it's 
 going to be a very hard winter, even here in 
 Ashland? That three of the largest mills 
 have stopped running, that trade is very dull, 
 and that help is being constantly turned away 
 from the stores and offices? Martha, I cannot 
 bear to estimate how many people there must 
 be in Ashland, our old Ashland, who literally 
 will not be able to afford three meals a day, 
 or two, this winter ! And Martha, how much 
 idle capital, yes, capital, that is accumulating 
 at a comfortable rate, do you suppose is rep 
 resented on this street ? No, I shall not tell 
 you ; you wouldn't believe it. I am ashamed 
 of it, myself. And you might multiply it by 
 three, and not count all Ashland's unused 
 property."
 
 MISS ESTHER. 19 
 
 "But, dear Miss Esther," Martha interjected, 
 anxiously, as Miss Mortimer paused for breath. 
 "You cannot help it ! You are willing to 
 do your part. It may not be so bad as you 
 think. And you are not to blame. What 
 can you do ?" 
 
 "I can do my part," Miss Mortimer an 
 swered. "I ani not sure yet what that is all 
 of it. But I will have my teas, I think, 
 somehow, they will help us to find out." 
 
 "Indeed, Martha," she said, eagerly, as the 
 other was about to protest, "I must have my 
 way. I do not think Dr. Prescott would like 
 to have me crossed. And didn't he say I 
 must have interesting occupation and society ?" 
 
 "I do not see," she exclaimed, in a moment, 
 "how people, rich people, can bear to econo 
 mize this year of all years ! I know we are 
 talked to as if it were a cardinal virtue. But 
 if we economize in expenditures that are 
 everyday matters, for us, somebody, a good 
 many somebodies, must starve ! Why, Martha, 
 I fancy what 1 should spend this winter, if it 
 were no more than usual, and just for my 
 ordinary luxuries, 1 didn't put the two words 
 together, first, would make a difference, so 
 far as it goes. And if I choose to make it a 
 little more than usual, in certain quarters, I
 
 20 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 shall take care whom it goes to, you may be 
 sure, and do my best not to have it a dull 
 winter in Ashland, socially speaking, why it 
 may even make the other dullness a little less 
 terrible, don't you think? At any rate, I 
 sha'n't draw on my banker for twice what I 
 usually use in a season and go off to California 
 or Carolina with it !" 
 
 So it came about that the winter in Ashland 
 society did not promise to be so very dull 
 after all. It was the old story of the ball once 
 set rolling; there were a score of hands easrer 
 
 o O 
 
 to keep it in motion, whose owners, most of 
 them, did not guess on what a beneficent mis 
 sion it had been started, or how near the game 
 came to being "in earnest." 
 
 People did notice that Miss Mortimer was 
 going into company more than usual, she 
 was giving a series of delightful "At Homes." 
 One couldn't afford to miss them, and every 
 one, really, was there. They were so charm 
 ing ! Something new or unusual every week ; 
 you never could tell what she would have 
 next. Some of the things were odd, and some 
 times very "common" people took part, but 
 Miss Mortimer could afford to do those things. 
 
 Some of this comment, indeed, most of it, 
 at one time or another, came to Miss Morti-
 
 MISS ESTHER. 21 
 
 mer's own ears, but she only smiled and went 
 on her way serenely, and went all the more 
 confidently to invite May Burton, the janitor's 
 pretty, gifted daughter, to sing the next week, 
 stopping meanwhile to ask the earnest little 
 artist, Jenny Fay, to spend a few days at 
 "The Oaks" a little later. 
 
 "I must see your work," she said, graciously. 
 "I used to draw myself. And my friends will 
 enjoy it." 
 
 Of course there were those among Miss 
 Mortimer's guests who recognized these young 
 people as her protegees, and divined her kindly 
 purposes, and made both them and herself 
 conscious of their knowledge of these facts. 
 But Miss Mortimer's tact and her spirited 
 repartee never failed to be equal to the occa 
 sion, and, for the most part, her intent was 
 too brave and genuine, and the spirit of good 
 will and brotherhood it evoked too potent to 
 allow of other than the friendliest comment. 
 
 "They think I don't know they say I have 
 all sorts," she said one day to Martha. "That's 
 just what I mean to have. Ashland people 
 had pretty nearly forgotten they were of one 
 flesh, or that there could be anything in com 
 mon between some folks and other folks." 
 
 "And they find, now and then, there aint 
 such a great difference between 'em, after all,"
 
 22 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 added Martha, smiling grimly. "But where's 
 that girl you were speaking of? Did you 
 ever find out her name, Miss Mortimer? Or 
 anything more about her." 
 
 "Her name," said Miss Esther, briefly, is 
 Henderson, Ruth Henderson." 
 
 And Martha asked no more. Her ready 
 and still sensitive perception supplied what 
 had not been told, and she awaited further 
 developments with a half-resentful interest. 
 
 The Hendersons were an old Ashland fam 
 ily, of whom Mary Duncan and her family, 
 
 and their young cousin Ruth were now the only 
 representatives. John Henderson had been, 
 as everyone believed, Miss Esther's lover ; 
 but so tacit had been the relation, and so 
 reticent and, apparently, heart-whole, was she 
 when he left Ashland, and her, and soon after 
 ward married, that no one had questioned, or, 
 openly, pitied her. And even loyal Martha 
 could hardly be sure with what feeling John 
 Henderson's daughter would be regarded, or 
 whether the tenderness Miss Mortimer had 
 always for young, aspiring souls, struggling 
 in adverse conditions, would be less or greater 
 than its wont, now that she knew her young 
 neighbor's lineage. 
 
 "We shall see what we shall see," she said 
 to herself, soberly, and gave herself with even
 
 MISS ESTHER. 23 
 
 more than usual ardor to the tasks that fell to 
 her share. In truth, these tasks were not few 
 nor slight. She had never heard Mr. Hale's 
 fine phrase, "the magic of together," but she 
 knew, as she said to herself, that ''when 
 people got together, and especially when they 
 were in the habit of it, in the right sort of 
 way, something was pretty sure to be done, 
 and commonly, several somethings." And 
 indeed so it proved. There were many pro 
 jects on foot, some of them really charities, 
 many of them only organized, yet unobtru 
 sive, helpfulness. The full hands on the one 
 side were often' ng themselves to the empty 
 ones on the other. And not, as I said, in 
 charity alone, save in its spirit. One or two 
 things Miss Mortimer had hardly dared to 
 hope for, certainly not to suggest, were ac 
 complished ere the Candlemas sun had set. 
 The directors of the Ascot mills, at their mid 
 winter meeting, voted themselves to advance 
 the capita] necessary to resume operations 
 therein, and to hold themselves responsible 
 for their continuance. That was the turning- 
 point in the battle for Ashland, even had not 
 several lesser corporations followed suit, as 
 they did, immediately. 
 
 And the societies, and boards, and guilds, 
 which] had organized for the relief of "the
 
 24 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 unemployed," must needs turn their energies 
 into other channels, or rather, seek new and 
 wiser methods of helpfulness, which was, on 
 the whole, a far better thing for them all. It 
 is doubtless more prosaic to teach in an even 
 ing school, to help sustain a working-girls' 
 club, or a home-culture society, or a class in 
 sewing or wood-carving, than actually to re 
 lieve the suffering and destitute, but who can 
 doubt that the former is the more fruitful 
 work, deeper and farther-reaching in its ef 
 fects ? 
 
 And it was when effort had reached this 
 stage in its evolution from the germ of "wil 
 lingness" nurtured by Miss Mortimer, that an 
 acquaintance with Ruth Henderson really be 
 gun. Ruth was a teacher in one of the guild 
 rl:i-sos, and an officer of the girls' club, which 
 met at Miss Mortimer's home. Martha watched 
 the growing intimacy doubtfully. 
 
 "If she's satisfied, I s'pose I ought to be," 
 she said to herself. "And truly, I do believe 
 that one girl's done her more good, somehow, 
 than all the rest. She was picking up pretty 
 well, though, before. I wonder what that 
 doctor thinks, now? People generally know 
 what they need, themselves, especially when 
 they've an eye out for other folks' needs, too.
 
 MISS ESTHER. 25 
 
 But I don't see what that trouble between her 
 and John Henderson was. I don't suppose I 
 ever shall know." 
 
 And she never did, though she lived to hear 
 John Henderson's name spoken many times, 
 and with warm and affectionate remembrance, 
 by both the younger and the older woman. 
 Nor did she ever know of the little package of 
 time-stained letters, or the worn diary, bear 
 ing date of years long ended, that Ruth, after 
 she had come to be half-daughter, half-sister 
 in the house, gave one day into Miss Esther's 
 hands. 
 
 "Tor," Ruth said, "I think they belong to 
 you now."
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 
 
 The dusky air was sweet with the breath of 
 syringas, just opening their snowy blooms in 
 the front yards, and now and then was blown 
 the heavier fragrance of lilacs, or the finer 
 scent of the honeysuckle, from some fence 
 corner where such rank growths still flour 
 ished. But the shrubs themselves, and even 
 the paling behind which they stood, were hid 
 den in the gathering mist which, growing 
 denser as the twilight deepened, obscured even 
 the dwellings set far. apart, as in dignified 
 reserve, on either side the long, wide street. 
 
 The village lights shone dimly through the 
 vapors, and even in the nickering glare of the 
 street-lamps, dotting infrequently the long 
 highway, the forms and faces of the passers-by 
 were blurred and indistinct. Pedestrians 
 peered inquisitively into their neighbors' faces, 
 as they met on the pavement, thankful for
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 27 
 
 any obvious peculiarity of form or gait that 
 made recognition easy. 
 
 With a step which had something of uncer 
 tainty in it, too eager to be listless, too feeble 
 to be quite expectant, yet which had a certain 
 precision and rhythmic regularity, a man, tall 
 and gaunt, came down the sidewalk and made 
 his way through the little knot of loungers 
 that the evening mail had attracted, and up 
 the steps of the postoffice. His face looked 
 pale and careworn when the light fell on it as 
 he entered the building, and the little group 
 about the delivery window parted to let him 
 m-ike his inquiry out of turn. He waited with 
 an anxious unexpectancy, banished in a mo 
 ment as the postmaster reached him an official 
 looking letter. He grasped it in his right 
 hand his left sleeve was pinned, empty, 
 across his breast and turned hurriedly away. 
 
 Through the misty street he retraced his 
 steps, clutching the letter closely. By and 
 by he turned into a vacant entrance, before 
 which a light burned brightly, stopped, looked 
 nervously about him, and tore open the envel 
 ope, thrusting it under his empty sleeve while 
 he drew forth the letter it contained. He read 
 it hastily, then slowly, then re-read it again 
 as if unable to comprehend its import. Pres-
 
 28 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ently, with a face more haggard than before, 
 he returned the sheet to its envelope, thrust 
 it into his pocket, stepped out of the doorway, 
 and went on. Hurriedly at first, until he was 
 out of the village, then, despite the fog that 
 was almost rain, laggingly and aimlessly. 
 
 A crowd of confused, bitter, bewildered 
 thoughts was in his brain, w r hich yet seemed 
 almost vacant, too. As well it might. Had 
 not a hope gone out of it? A hope that had 
 sustained mind and heart, and even the feeble 
 body itself, for many a day ? 
 
 Why had he let himself hope, he ques 
 tioned. He was aware that there was a flaw 
 
 t 
 
 in his papers, that his proofs of honorable ser 
 vice and discharge were not technically com 
 plete. There was a discrepancy in the dates, 
 probably the error of a copying clerk, possibl}" 
 a mistake in the entry or its transmission. 
 
 "A technical error," the pension agent had 
 called it, which might or might not be a legal 
 one, and most likely was not ; corroborating 
 the opinion of Squire Burns, the village law 
 yer. The authorities, only, could decide it, 
 and it was best, by all means, to submit it to 
 them. All had agreed in this. And he had 
 done so. 
 
 But if they had only told him at once, or 
 sooner. He did not build on the hope of a
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 29 
 
 pension so much at first. Not until he had 
 grown older and feebler, and could do and 
 bear less, and his wife had been ill ; not till 
 they began to fall behind, and Phemie had 
 had to give up her school to take care of her 
 mother, and one of the horses died and Sam 
 had begun to question whether they had not 
 better give up farming altogether, and leave 
 him free to earn in some other way. He had 
 been away through the late winter and early 
 spring, and had come home only a few weeks 
 before, for another season's effort. And this 
 might have tided them over the shallows. 
 
 It meant so much to them. Independence, 
 home, comfort, hope for the future, and maybe, 
 with and by means of these, for the older ones, 
 health, and life itself. Youth could hold its 
 own, at least, though Phemie was hardly fit to 
 face the world ; but age has a sore fight, sin 
 gle-handed. And he smiled grimly at the lit 
 eral ness of his metaphor. 
 
 So he wandered on, hurt and hopeless, and 
 bewildered, thinking his bitter, dreary thoughts. 
 He did not think of the time, even when the 
 nine o'clock bell rang, though he knew, if he 
 had recollected, that they would be looking 
 for him at home long before that hour. It did 
 occur to him by and by, but he neither turned
 
 30 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 nor hastened* How could he go home and 
 tell them? They would have to know when ho 
 went if he went. But he could not go homo 
 to tell Martha and Phemie and Sam that. 
 
 The road turned abruptly just there, met 
 by a stream, not wide, but deep and turbu 
 lent. Outside of New England it would per 
 haps he called a river, but here it was only 
 Stony Brook. A bridge spanned it here, in 
 continuance of the highway a toll-bridge, 
 and Jonas Rand put his hand into his pocket 
 instinctively, but his fingers met that letter, 
 and he withdrew them empty. He must not 
 spend pennies needlessly, now. 
 
 He looked back toward the village ; but its 
 lights had for him no beckoning radiance. East 
 ward he turned his eyes, where among the 
 scattered home-lights, one by one disappear 
 ing, was one familiar and dear, that had been 
 his lode-star through toilsome years. But he 
 shook his head mechanically. Not there yet. 
 Was there no place for him then? For earth 
 seemed suddenly cold and uninviting. Hark ! 
 Below him Stony Brook, hurrying on in its 
 reckless haste, swollen by the spring rains, 
 shouted, "Come, come, come !" Why should 
 he not obev? 
 
 v 
 
 How long he stood there he never knew. 
 Not long, doubtless, measuring the time by
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 31 
 
 hours. But he had been in battles whose 
 smoke had not lifted from sun to sun, and from 
 sunset to dawn, and to dark again, that were 
 not so long, so dark, so fateful. But it was 
 over at last, and he turned, no longer bewil 
 dered nor uncertain, but saying in his heart : 
 
 "No ! As I am a man, and God made me 
 one, aye, and by His own providence this man, 
 baffled and helpless as I am a man I will be ! 
 And in this world of His I will stay till He 
 calls me out of it. The rest He will take care 
 of." 
 
 Between Stony Brook and the Rand farm 
 lay a lonely stretch of road, but it was neither 
 lon' nor lonesome to Jonas Rand that night. 
 
 O O 
 
 A- solemn peace, that left no room for forebod 
 ings, a thankfulness so warm and deep that it 
 was almost gladness, filled his heart. The mist, 
 unobserved by him, had thinned and lifted. 
 As he turned homeward, a star shone out of 
 the parting clouds, joined, as he went on, by 
 another and another, till the blue sky was 
 studded with them. The west wind stirred 
 softly the roses by his porch, and sent a shower 
 of fragrant drops into his face as he went up 
 the steps. 
 
 Though it was late, and, as he had expected, 
 the family had waited for him, it somehow did
 
 32 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 not seera to be wholly on his account. Nor 
 were they so anxious as he had anticipated, to 
 hear the news he might have brought. He had 
 seen them often far more disturbed and expec 
 tant. Something else had excited them it 
 could not be his mood reflected in their faces 
 and not unpleasantly. 
 
 "You are late, father, and you must be well 
 tired out. Take his coat, Phemie, then run 
 out and see if the tea is like to be hot. He 
 must have something warm right away," said 
 Mrs. Rand, leaving her own rocking-chair to 
 bring his worn dressing-gown and slippers. 
 
 "And we've had callers,'' said Sam. "They 
 wanted to see you, but couldn't wait any longer. 
 At least one of 'em did." 
 
 "Ah !" said the father, thinking how warm 
 and bright the fire and lamplight were, how 
 pretty Phemie was growing, how strong Sam 
 looked, and how manly that home was sweet 
 and life good, and even mother looked better 
 than a day or two ago. What if well, what 
 if any great sorrow had come to any of them 
 that night! God forbid! And had He not? 
 How good He was ! 
 
 "Ah? I met some one at the foot of the 
 lane, but it was so dark there in the orchard 
 I couldn't tell who it was," he went on.
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 33 
 
 Phemie had turned away, and no one spoke 
 for a moment, then Sam said : 
 
 "Yes, we've had two visitors. You haven't 
 seen John Freeman lately, have you? Well, 
 he's been over to-night. And I never 
 thought much about it before it always 
 seemed such a worthless piece of land to us, 
 for all the wood-lot but he wants to buy that 
 heater-piece, between our south meadow and 
 his pasture land. You know it's really a size 
 able piece of land, and got some pretty good 
 timber on it. And it just evens up his land, 
 and ours, finally, t'other way. So he's will 
 ing to pay a good fair price for it, out and 
 out. I don't know exactly how much, but 
 about what it's worth, and enough to give us 
 a good lift. Enough to set us square with 
 the world, and give us something to help our 
 selves with, besides. That is, if you're will 
 ing to let it go. It's as you say, of course." 
 
 For the father had raised himself for a mo 
 ment, as if in dismay, had lifted his hand as 
 if to stay him, and even Sam could but be 
 startled by the pallor of his face. But it 
 passed in a moment, and he answered, throw 
 ing all his strength into the words : 
 
 "Willing? Well, I should think so. I've 
 often looked at that heater-piece, and thought 
 
 3
 
 34 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 what a queer survey it was that divided the 
 land so. But I never supposed John cared 
 enough about it to buy it. It'll be a great help 
 to us, and not hurt the farm any to speak of, 
 either. I'd a' been willing to let a good bit of 
 land go, to square us round this spring. I 
 wish I'd seen John. Probably I met him 
 there in the orchard lane." 
 
 "No," answered Sam, relieved, but wishing 
 his father were less thin and white, "he went 
 two hours ago. They go to bed with the 
 chickens, over to Freemans'. I guess that 
 was Loring Burns. He's been here, too." 
 
 "Loring ? Wanted to see me , didn't he ?" 
 
 He spoke eagerly and less gladly. Burns 
 & Son were the village lawyers, whom he had 
 consulted. Probably they had heard, too. 
 Their homestead adjoined the Rand place, and 
 both the elder and the younger man some 
 times dropped in of an evening in a neigh 
 borly way, or to talk over his claim. 
 
 But Sam what was the boy smiling at ? 
 answered slowly : 
 
 "Well, no. He didn't speak of having any 
 errand, at least, not to me, when I went to 
 the door. Fact, his business seemed .to be 
 with Phemie." 
 
 A perception of the young lawyer's "errand" 
 came at last to the father's mind. To this
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 35 
 
 new state of affairs he must adjust himself 
 slowly, and he expressed his surprise only in 
 a slow, involuntary "Oh !" while Sam smiled 
 again, and Phemie retreated to look after "that 
 
 o ' 
 
 tea/' 
 
 But even its medicinal quality could not 
 avert the consequence of the evening's expo 
 sure and the shock of his disappointment, 
 resolutely put by though as it had been at 
 last, and now well might be, in the brighten 
 ing family fortunes. Morning found him 
 weak, stiff and feverish, and with a painful 
 cough, which assumed so suddenly a serious, 
 character that physician and family alike, 
 ignorant of his vigil, found it hard to account 
 for it. It was when a week had passed, and 
 he had begun to mend, that Phemie found in 
 his pocket the letter, whose existence had been 
 unknown by them hitherto, and read it forth 
 with, first to herself, and then to her mother 
 and brother. 
 
 "Just as I expected," said Sam. 
 
 "I never felt as though 'twould come," said 
 Mrs. Rand. 
 
 "And I'm sure I didn't," said Phemie. "I 
 thought he , looked all given out that night. 
 We won't say anything about it till he does. 
 And I believe we'd better not say anything
 
 36 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 about its being Memorial Day, unless he does. 
 It may make him feel badly after this. Dear 
 me, there comes Gracie Barrows, to rehearse 
 her piece to me, now. I'm afraid he'll hear 
 us." 
 
 She took the girl into the parlor, and 
 closed the door ; but Gracie asked in a mo 
 ment or two for a drink of water, and the 
 door was left unlatched when they returned to 
 their task, so that the sweet, girlish voice, 
 clear and distinct, floated into the sick man's 
 room. He turned his head to listen. "What's 
 that?" 
 
 "One of Phemie's scholars rehearsing a 
 piece to her for the exercises this afternoon." 
 
 "Decoration Day, aint it? Have the chil 
 dren carried over any flowers?" 
 
 "What we had," replied Mrs. Rand, uneas- 
 
 iiy- 
 
 "Those wild plum blossoms would go in 
 
 X"well with the rest, and I know where there's a 
 
 lot of honeysuckles, over in the meadow, by 
 
 the east woods, there. You'd better tell Sam 
 
 to go get some and carry." 
 
 And left alone, he listened again to the lines 
 the girl was repeating, words that 'fell on his 
 ears like balm, and lingering in his hearing, 
 lulled him to sleep :
 
 HIS LAST BATTLE. 37 
 
 "He serves his country best 
 Who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed, 
 - And walks straight paths, however others stray, 
 And leaves his sons, as uttermost bequest, 
 A stainless record which all men may read. 
 This is the better way." 
 
 Stony Brook had lost its spring-tide turbu 
 lence, and went singing softly over the peb 
 bles, where from his windows Jason Rand saw 
 it, hastening seaward, again. Sam wondered 
 why, in the hay field, his father should stop 
 and look and listen, when their work took 
 them near its banks. 
 
 Phemie, when she had gone, at harvest 
 time, to her new home, wondered that, when 
 her father came in to see her there, and was 
 shown through her pretty rooms, he should 
 look from each window at the same familiar 
 hills and meadows with the same slender stream 
 threading its way between them. 
 
 And when, by and by, childish hands led 
 him along the well-worn paths between the 
 homes, the little guide would go slowly, 
 puzzled that grandpa should always stop, mid 
 way, to look at the brook at the foot of the 
 old orchards and to listen to its song. 
 
 They laid him to rest, one day, in God's 
 Acre, overlooking its shores. A fluttering flag 
 shows that it is a soldier's grave, and Stony 
 Brook conscious of its secret sings for him 
 a tender requiem.
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 
 
 The November sun, half an hour high, shone 
 through breaking clouds on the long, wind 
 swept' height long known as Meeting-house 
 Hill. It was reflected from the eastern win 
 dows of the bare, ancient, white-painted struc 
 ture, that gave the hill its name, and it gleamed 
 very brightly into the cheerful sitting-room at 
 the old Fields farm, where Miss Lois and Miss 
 Lucretia sat, after their cosy breakfast, read 
 ing their morning chapter. "The Fields girls," 
 they were still called, though Miss Lois, the 
 younger of the two, was nearing sixty. The 
 old farmhouse, and the many-acred, if some 
 what sterile farm, had, in Nathan Fields' time, 
 sheltered and supported a family of twelve, 
 how, only those who know how far toilsome 
 thrift, and proud, independent effort, and sim 
 ple, contented living can make scanty resources 
 go, can best tell you. Seven of the ten chil-
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 39 
 
 dren, with father and mother, slept now in the 
 little graveyard that lay in the valley between 
 the meeting-house and the broad, blue river. 
 Only Lois and Lucretia, with a sister who 
 years before had married David Romney, a 
 farmer-neighbor, were left. They were, small, 
 brown-haired, pleasant-faced women, so much 
 alike that strangers ventured on no more dis 
 tinctive title, in addressing them, than the im 
 personal Miss Fields. But others, better ac 
 quainted, knew that Miss Lois was the smaller, 
 livelier, sharper-tongued of the trim, alert, 
 kindly old-fashioned little ladies, who were so 
 capable, who "managed" the big farm so suc 
 cessfully, and always seemed so independent 
 and comfortable, driving to church in town, 
 four miles away, every pleasant Sunday, and 
 to the same busy little city two or three times 
 in the week, with butter, eggs, or fruit, and to 
 buy groceries ; and occasionally making ready 
 for an afternoon, making calls, or going to 
 spend the day with friends in town or on a not 
 too distant farm. Busy, kindly, cheery peo 
 ple they were, with faces so true, so quiet 
 and gentle, so serene and trustful, that you 
 would hardly guess how sorely wrung with 
 grief, how deeply plowed with sorrow, had 
 been the hearts and the years behind them,
 
 40 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 though the blue eyes were deep-set, dimmed, 
 and faded with tears shed long ago. 
 
 One of their "ways" was this morning read 
 ing, always a chapter, nearly always read 
 in course. To-day it was the last chapter of 
 First Timothy, and Miss Lucretia, whose turn 
 it was to read, went back, after she had finished, 
 to read again the seventeenth and eighteenth 
 verses : "Charge them . . . that they do good, 
 that they be rich in good works, ready to dis 
 tribute, willing to communicate." 
 
 "Ready to distribute," she repeated. "I al 
 ways liked the sound of that verse, though I 
 never knew as I rightly understood what it 
 means." 
 
 "Why, what it says, of course !" 
 
 "But how is anybody going to do it ; and is 
 it, ain't it meant for us ?" 
 
 "We aren't rich, by any means," rejoined 
 Miss Lois, briskly ; "and 'twas them that are 
 rich he was talking about. But I suppose he 
 meant every one, accordingly. And we do it, 
 some." 
 
 "Yes, but we don't distribute but little, for 
 folks that has so much all to themselves." 
 
 "We don't have a great sight, only the 
 butter and eggs, and the hay and apples to 
 sell, the farm is so run out, unless David
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 41 
 
 cuts some of the wood from the back lot, or 
 we take summer boarders, from which may 
 we be delivered hereafter, if they're all like 
 Liab Thorn's folks, veritable thorns, and 
 aggravating ones, they was. Though we do 
 earn some spending-money tailoring." 
 
 "But we've done pretty well this year, what 
 with the orchard doing so well, bearing an 
 off-year, when apples are high ; and the poul 
 try and the butter ; and Mis' Thorn paid pretty 
 well, after all. And it's Thanksgiving time, 
 and we've got fixed up so comfortable for 
 winter, it don't seem right to just sit down 
 and enjoy it all ourselves, and not give 
 around any of it, when there's so many poor 
 and discouraged and sorrowful and lonesome 
 folks." 
 
 "Who are they, and what shall we give 
 'em?" inquired Miss Lois, attacking with her 
 skimmer the yellow cream on the pans, they 
 were in the kitchen now, while her sister 
 cleared away the breakfast-table. "I'm will 
 ing. Only we'd better be about it ; it's Tues 
 day now." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Lucretia, "there's Mrs. 
 Leigh and Alice*. They probably can't buy 
 much for Thanksgiving, and wouldn't have 
 time to cook it if they could. I'll carry them
 
 42 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 a couple of my pies, a mince and a pumpkin, 
 I think." 
 
 "And we'll take 'em a chicken and some 
 greenings. Glad you thought of it. And 
 wouldn't it be a good plan to send a chicken 
 to Hannah Ham? We can spare two, I 
 guess." 
 
 "Yes, and a pie ; and Uncle Day must have 
 a pie and a loaf of bread and some doughnuts. 
 And, Lois, we shan't go anywhere to dinner, 
 they'll ask us over to David's, David and 
 Ruth, but I know David's brothers are com 
 ing, and we don't want to go. And we could 
 invite one or two in just as well as not, 
 couldn't we ?" 
 
 "Why, Lucretia Ann Fields, who do you 
 want to ask? The governor, or old Aunt 
 Sally Ha wkes?" 
 
 "Why," answered Miss Lucretia, meekly 
 and hesitatingly, "I only thought there was 
 room enough, and everything so nice and 
 cheerful, with the rooms new-papered and 
 whitewashed this fall, and there's Mary 
 Elliott, Mrs. Emery, 1 mean, with her girl 
 and boy alone in that big house, feelin' so 
 proud and sad and lonesome .since their father 
 disgraced all and then died and left 'em" 
 
 "They wouldn't come here ! I asked you 
 why you don't ask in the governor !"
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 43 
 
 "They would come, I b'lieve ; and 'twould 
 do Mary good, and the children, too, to get' 
 out here and look over to where she used to 
 live when she was young, where she grew 
 up." 
 
 "We can't fix things nice enough for them." 
 
 "Yes, we can ; they'll like the change." 
 
 "Well," replied Miss Lois emphatically, "if 
 that's the plan, I'll hurry and get my hands 
 out of the churning, and help you with the 
 pies and doughnuts. I'll 'tend to the punkin. 
 When did you think of inviting them?" 
 
 "We've got to carry in the butter to-mor 
 row ; that'll be time enough. When I carried 
 the apples she ordered last week, I heard her 
 say they was to be at home ; she looked all 
 overcome when the man who brings her things 
 was asking if she wanted a turkey for Thanks 
 giving. She didn't seem to want to do any 
 thing the way she used to, but I surmised she 
 thought she'd best make things as cheerful as 
 she could for Anna and Allan. And we can 
 take the things to Mrs. Leigh as we go along." 
 
 "How'll the Erne rys get out here? They 
 haven't got any horse, have they? And there's 
 three of 'em, Anna and Allan, besides their 
 mother." 
 
 "I thought," Miss Lucretia made answer, 
 somewhat loth now to tell the plans she had
 
 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 been revolving, and lead the campaign she 
 had so courageously begun, "that Allan 
 could ride out on the milk wagon with Davy, 
 Thursday morning early, and take our team 
 and go in and bring his mother and Anna 
 out." 
 
 "And one of us can carry them home. Allan 
 can get a ride, maybe, some way. I wonder, 
 Lucretia, if one of our punkins, and maybe, 
 a few vegetables wouldn't come handy at the 
 Lou'den's for Thanksgiving? We use sech a 
 few, ourselves, and thinkin' of them pies made 
 me think of it. There, the butter's done, and 
 now I'll carry it down cellar, and come right 
 off and help fill the pies." 
 
 So Lucretia mixed and rolled and flaked 
 and baked, and Miss Lois sifted and stirred 
 and sweetened and spiced, and at the early 
 sunset the speckless pantry shelves held rows 
 of tempting, toothsome Thanksgiving pies, 
 pumpkin and squash, mince and apple, 
 cranberry and custard. A half dozen loaves 
 of bread, browned to perfection, were tilted 
 up to cool on the broad shelf by the window ; 
 beside them stood a pan of doughnuts, spicy 
 and substantial ; and "Miss Lucretia was hand 
 ling with care the cake, sponge and marble 
 and fruit cake, guiltless of frosting or icing or
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 45 
 
 meringue, yet wholesome and flavorous, as 
 well as fragrant. 
 
 "Now, Lucretia, you're just clean tired out !" 
 exclaimed Lois, as she took down her milk 
 pails. "You just go lie down while I do the 
 chores. I'll put the teakettle on, and when I 
 come in I'll make the tea, and put on the sup 
 per. You're all beat out." 
 
 But bright and early next morning, their 
 capacious wagon filled, back and front, with 
 bags and baskets and two or three enormous 
 yellow pumpkins, the sisters started town- 
 ward. Their load grew rapidly less as they 
 entered and rode along the streets of the city, 
 though the unusual celerity with which their 
 neighborly errands were done, a haste re 
 markable in the usually sociable Lois, cut 
 short or averted altogether the thanks of the 
 half-dozen women, each of whom was in her 
 own way surprised, touched, gratified, grate 
 ful for the unlocked for kindness, and the 
 unexpected accession to her store. Mrs. 
 Leigh regretfully rose from her sewing, 
 moments were precious with her, and her 
 day's work hard to be accomplished, as they 
 stopped at her door. But her thankfulness 
 and wonderment were evident, though only 
 half-uttered. And, if the donors could have
 
 46 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 heard her thoughts and known that their cur 
 rent was turned from despondent anxiety to a 
 happier mood by their benefaction, they 
 would have felt themselves richly repaid. 
 
 "We can keep Thanksgiving, after all. I 
 couldn't spare the money to buy anything, nor 
 take any time to-day even to cook. But now 
 I can finish this job to-day, and that will make 
 out money enough to pay for a ton of coal. 
 Mollie has the day to-morrow out of the store, 
 and we can get that chicken into the oven, 
 and the vegetables ready, and we can go to 
 church. And I will take two or three of 
 those big apples Miss Fields brought, for a 
 bit of sauce, and cut a couple of pieces out of 
 the pumpkin pie, for our supper. That'll 
 leave more than enough for to-morrow, with 
 the mince. And the best of it is, it makes a 
 body feel that God doesjcare. We might be 
 so much worse off! Yes, we've a good deal 
 to be thankful for, every way. We've got 
 friends, and we've got (Jod, and they make 
 one feel surer of him." 
 
 Jt was with more trepidation that Lucretia 
 entered Mrs. Emery's sitting-room. She had 
 had butter and eggs to bring, which, being 
 old acquaintances, the sisters had furnished 
 before and since their friend's sorrows, and
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 47 
 
 this gave her an errand. But her embassy 
 was soon accomplished. 
 
 "AYell," said Lois, "will they come? I 'spose 
 they will, you look like it. And what's that 
 you've got in your hand, Lucretia?" 
 
 "Yes , indeed ; Mary seemed real pleased to 
 think we thought of it, and I think she was 
 glad to get out on the Hill again, in sight of 
 the old place. She said they wasn't going any 
 where else, and wasn't going to do much at 
 home, and she went up and asked Anna, and 
 Anna came down, too. And they both said 
 it would be a real delight to 'em, and they was 
 very grateful for our remembrance of 'em. 
 And this book I was a-looking at while Mary 
 was out of the room, Lucy Larcom's poems ; 
 you know I've cut her pieces out of the Tran 
 script a good many times. And Anna Emery, 
 she would have me take it home to read ; and 
 she's got other books she said we might have ; 
 Mrs. Whitney's, and somebody she called Miss 
 Jewett, and the woman that wrote The Gates 
 Ajar.' And books of poetry, and sermons, 
 too. She showed me some of 'em, and she 
 said she should bring, out some Thursday. 
 'Twill be a real God-send this winter. And 
 they both seemed as pleased and friendly as 
 could be. They said Allan would be tickled
 
 48 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 to come. And I shouldn't wonder, Lois, if we 
 should get considerable well acquainted and 
 sociable with 'em, if things go well. Some 
 how there's quite a number of folks seem a 
 sight nearer than they did last week." 
 
 "Maybe so, maybe so. Hurry up. Jack ! 
 Tom Harriman'll be round after them chickens 
 before we get home, I'm afeard. Don't know 
 what he'll say at our keeping out so many, 
 after they was all dressed for the store, too. 
 Catch him a-givin' away one ! for all he's worth 
 his clear ten thousand, and the farm." 
 
 Tom Harriman, drover and butcher, as well 
 as farmer, tight-fisted, as he must needs have 
 been, to lay up a competency on those bleak 
 Maine hills, drove up to their door just as Lois 
 and Lucretia, the one having unharnessed, 
 while the other unlocked the house and 'stirred 
 up the fire, were laying away their wraps 
 and the now empty baskets. A little surprised 
 at the lessened store of poultry awaiting him, 
 he soon surmised, though he said no word, the 
 cause of its depletion, and, unknown to the 
 sisters, was moved to two or three generous 
 donations to less prosperous neighbors, in 
 honor of the season, and to a liberality in 
 "bartering," weighing, and making change, that 
 was quite unusual to him. And as he went
 
 A THANKSGIVING DISTRIBUTION. 49 
 
 on his way over the rocky roads, past the fields 
 where the after-math was brown, and the bloom 
 of the golden-rod, lately so bonny, clung, frost- 
 burnt and faded, to its withering stalk, while 
 his maiden neighbors were taking down their 
 quaint, precious china, straining their cran 
 berry jelly, dusting and garnishing their low, 
 pleasant, old-fashioned rooms, he was some 
 how reminded how soon the busiest, most pros 
 perous, longest life is done ; how little of his 
 hardly-gotten gains could be carried into that 
 low house where the western sun gleamed 
 bright on the old, white, slanting stones, how 
 little, alas ! he had so spent that he could well 
 carry the investment on into the lofty mansions 
 be} r ond, the Father's house ; how many oppor 
 tunities there were, even now, of doing and 
 giving ; and what a warm feeling was somehow 
 at one's heart when one had reached out a gen 
 erous, helping hand. 
 
 Once more the November sunshine this 
 time from a tender, cloudless sky, such as the 
 vanishing Autumn sometimes gives us as she 
 passes looked in on the busy, expectant 
 sisters in the old farmhouse, making their 
 final preparations for the Thanksgiving feast, 
 to grace which a huge, plump turkey was. 
 already steaming in the oven.
 
 50 UNDER FRIEXDLY EAVES. 
 
 Very swiftly this Thanksgiving sun seemed 
 to climb the stainless blue, smiling, at ten 
 o'clock, on the arriving guests ; beaming on 
 the quiet, yet heartily enjoyed "visiting" that 
 filled the remaining forenoon ; and resting, 
 with a benignity that was a benediction, on 
 the little group around the great, square table, 
 decked with glass and china, fruit and flowers, 
 and burdened with its Thanksgiving cheer; 
 on the guests, not beguiled into forgetfulness 
 of their sorrows, but reminded of the Father, 
 who "ordereth all things after the counsel of 
 his will ;" whose "tender mercies are over all 
 his works ;" whose love, both his giving and 
 withholding shall prove and unfold ; on whose 
 errands, in paths of service, and in ministries 
 to other lives, the weakest and poorest may 
 be going ; and on the silvering hair of our 
 friends, the sisters, Lois and Lucretia, 
 thankful in their joys, trustful in their silent 
 griefs, and loneliness, and glad, with a new 
 gladness, in "distributing" the Lord's bounty.
 
 AN OLD SONG. 
 
 The mellow October sunshine lay warm on 
 stony hill and dusty intervale, as, between the 
 bordering maples, scarlet and golden in their 
 early autumn glory, Mrs. Ada Shirley rode in 
 her easy carriage, her thoughts busy with cer 
 tain secret, well-premeditated ' unmalevolent 
 designs. "This sunlight is lovely, but moon 
 light is irresistible," she soliloquized. "No 
 man in his right mind, and in love, can stand 
 that. And the moon fulls to-morrow, and 
 next day's Thursday my day." But her 
 musings were interrupted here, for turning the 
 lane to the Ray farm, she overtook the object 
 of her quest, and indirectly of her meditations, 
 sauntering leisurely up the grassy road, her 
 hands full of gay autumn leaves, and fading 
 golden-rod, and over-ripe and plumy grasses. 
 
 "Why, it's you, is it Ada, and you're com 
 ing to see me ? How delightful !"
 
 52 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "Yes, it's I," 'responded Mrs. Ada. "Jump 
 in, Helen. It's you I wanted to see, and I 
 can't stay long. You see," she resumed, a 
 moment later, "I'm going to have a tea-party 
 to improve this lovel} weather. You must be 
 there, of course, and I want you to come out 
 in the morning and stay over night. You 
 will, won't you? Thursday night it's going 
 to be -just a little company the minister and 
 his wife, and Ned and Grace Waylin, and 
 Nettie Robson and Joe, and two or three 
 others." 
 
 "Why, yes, 1 suppose I can come. That is, 
 if mother has no objections. I don't know of 
 any reason why I can't be spared." 
 
 "Spared ! Of course you can be spared ! 
 You're not half so necessary as you think 
 yourself," was her companion's rejoinder, as 
 she tied her gray horse to the farmer's gate 
 post. 
 
 Whether her assertions were true or not, it 
 transpired that Miss Helen could very well be 
 spared on this occasion, and the mother, 
 whose steadfast, brown eyes might have 
 passed for Helen's own, so alike they were, 
 promised that she should be at the village 
 bright and early Thursday morning. 
 
 "Did you know John Loring was at home ?" 
 asked Mrs. Shirley, as, her errand done, they
 
 AX OLD SONG. 53 
 
 lingered on the little piazza overhung with 
 scarlet creepers, to chat of neighborhood news. 
 "But of course you did, you'd have seen him 
 at church." 
 
 The gray horse was impatient, and his mis 
 tress was even then in the carriage, and a 
 moment afterward off. An hour later she was 
 saying to her husband, "She's coming, and 
 she knew John was here, though I didn't give 
 her a chance to ask if he was coming, too. 
 Thursday night she saw him at church, she 
 said. I can't make out whether it was any 
 thing more than a friendly meteting, but I 
 guess that was all. And I don't know as there 
 is anything; and I don't know but there is. 
 Anyway, I'm going to give 'em a chance to 
 find out. I know John Loring and Helen 
 Ray thought they belonged to each other 
 once, for good and all. And I know some 
 thing's come between 'em, but I don't know 
 what." 
 
 Something had come between. Mrs. Shir 
 ley had stated the case correctly, both as 
 regarded the past and present status of the 
 two persons she was interested in. Ten years 
 before, John Loring, fresh from college and 
 after-training, had returned to his native town, 
 ready to put out his sign with the "M. D." he
 
 54 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 had been earning, affixed to his name, and to 
 settle among his kindred and townsmen in the 
 prosecution of his calling. And he had hoped, 
 too, that about the time he should hang out 
 the aforesaid sign with its fresh lettering, a 
 
 CJ O " 
 
 certain little brown house on a sunny corner 
 might receive the village doctor and his bride 
 as tenants. He and Helen Ray had belonged 
 to each other, by mutual, tacit understand 
 ing; and it was full of inexplicable pain and 
 mystery to our young physician that in reso 
 lute disregard of this unwritten bond, Helen 
 should, at this time have withdrawn herself so 
 completely, with such unmistakable intention 
 of avoidance and refusal, fron} engagement, 
 intimacy, friendship. He could not even gain 
 opportunity to beg for explanation, though, 
 indeed, it was doubtful if she would have 
 unfolded her reasons. All the hope, and 
 promise, and even the sheltering, her girlhood 
 had known seemed to fail Helen Ray. The 
 farm was mortgaged, and, unless something 
 were done, would soon pass out of their hands 
 altogether. Her father was despondent and 
 discouraged, her mother was ill, her brother 
 and sister young and dependent. There was 
 only Helen to summon and concentrate the few 
 and scattering energies of the household ; only
 
 AN OLD SONG. 55 
 
 she to care for the mother and cheer and ad 
 vise the father, and keep the house, and strive 
 to make the payments, and insist on oppor 
 tunity of renewals ; only she, either to earn a 
 dollar aside from the products of the farm ; 
 only she to maintain that the younger daughter 
 and the son should have something like suit 
 able preparation for the tug their hands must 
 lay hold on by and by. And all these things, 
 and more than these, she had done. She had 
 upheld her father's courage and incited him to 
 close and profitable cultivation of their incum- 
 bered acres. By unremitting care and insist 
 ence on every benefit of treatment and com 
 fort, she had won her mother back to health. 
 She had looked after and sent to the best mar 
 ket every product that came within her pro 
 vince. She had done fine sewing between 
 whiles, for old friends in town, not to speak of 
 the other interminable stitches she had set in 
 garments that were not "fine," for the home- 
 folks. For it was she who cut and turned and 
 sponged and pressed, and altered and fitted 
 and draped, in that not unimportant part of the 
 struggle that lay in the region of "keeping up 
 appearances." . And, after a little, she had 
 gathered a music class, and w T ith the help of 
 her beloved piano, secured in more prosperous
 
 56 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 years, had added not a little to the family in 
 come. And she had not laid down her oars 
 till the tide had fairly turned. And when it 
 had turned it came in with a rush, and bore the 
 little craft of the family fortune steadily towards 
 prosperity. The farm began to yield a reve 
 nue, and now was sure of giving them a com 
 fortable living. The "children" were well estab 
 lished, May as teacher in a neighboring acad 
 emy, Fred as foreman in a large manufactory 
 not far distant. And when there remained but 
 one small payment to make the farm theirs, a 
 legacy, that seemed to them now quite a little 
 fortune, came to them, and filled the measure 
 of their content and competence. 
 
 Helen had felt that she could not hint to 
 John Loring the reason of her reserve. She 
 could not have asked him even to "bide a wee" 
 for her sake, for it was likely to be a long 
 struggle. "It might be for years, and it might 
 be forever." And whether he had ever known 
 or heard of their adversities, she did not know. 
 He had changed his mind about settling in his 
 native Clayton. She had meant him to keep 
 at a distance, and he straightway put well-nigh 
 the breadth of the continent between them ; 
 and, having won standing and the beginnings 
 of success in his profession, he had come back
 
 AN OLD^SONG. 57 
 
 to Clayton for an October's vacation ; if for 
 any other object, not even the gossips knew 
 nor could surmise it. 
 
 "Perhaps Helen Ray could tell," suggested 
 one of them, tentatively to another. 
 
 "Nell Ray !" returned Jennie Austin, in fine 
 scorn. "Why, she doesn't even correspond 
 with him, and hasn't, at all ! She's as ignorant 
 as the rest, you may rest assured." 
 
 And, of course, the advent of this young 
 physician, with the possibility, real or conjec 
 tured, that he might settle in Clayton, made 
 some stir socially in the town. 
 
 "All the girls are after him," observed Mrs. 
 Shirley, to her husband. 
 
 "And some one of them will be pretty sure 
 to get him, unless he's otherwise engaged," 
 returned he. 
 
 "I'm afraid so," sighed the wife. "Men have 
 so little discernment ! The idea of a man 
 looking the second time at that shallow little 
 Anna Arden, or Marie Nelson, or Eva Man- 
 ton, when there's my splendid Helen Ray ! 
 Only she isn't in the market, and never will 
 be. Well, I'll try my tea-party and the har 
 vest-moon." 
 
 At which her husband only smiled, but not 
 so slightingly as if h^had not had previous 
 4
 
 58 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 experience of his wife's insight, and her ability 
 to make the simplest means further her pur 
 poses . 
 
 And so the looked for Thursday came, arched 
 by skies as serene as ever shed October sun 
 light. .The two friends, matron and maid, 
 had been together all day, making the pretty 
 little home gay with autumn spoils, ajid as 
 sisted by the admiring Shirley twins, Jack 
 and Alice. A pleasant day they had had. 
 "The best part of your party, I know, Ada," 
 said Helen, half laughing, half in earnest. "1 
 wish you'd let me go home now !" 
 
 " Go home now, indeed! No, ma'am! And 
 how do you know what's the best of it, I won 
 der? 'The best is yet to be, the last of life 
 for which the first was made,' as the husband 
 of your favorite, Mrs. Browning, sings," 
 replied blithe, little Mrs. Shirley, as she sur 
 veyed with complacency her festive tea table. 
 
 And, indeed, it was a very charming little 
 tea. The bouillon was perfect, the sandwiches 
 irreproachable, the rolls were like feathers for 
 lightness and like snow for whiteness ; the 
 jellies and preserves had the ripe, new flavor 
 such confections, newly made, ought to have, 
 and the coffee was golden and fragrant, and 
 the cake was a marvellous compound of sweet-
 
 AN OLD SONG. 59 
 
 ness and light. And it was a pleasant and 
 congenial company, also. They had all been 
 schoolmates, and some of them classmates, in 
 their not far distant youth, clergymen and all. 
 And the harvest moon was shining in all its 
 serenity and glory, when they rose from the 
 table. There was only one drawback, if 
 drawback it was. 
 
 "Miss Harris has sent me a note," whis 
 pered Helen to their hostess as they went to 
 the parlors. "She wants me to stay with her 
 to-night. I'm sorry, bat I'll just slip out early, 
 and 't won't make any difference. Jack can 
 go over with me, can't he?" 
 
 "Miss Harris? O, Helen, what a pity! 
 Of course, Jack can go, but you can't go very 
 early. Why I depended on your music, you 
 know." 
 
 But the quiet little lady in golden brown, 
 careless of the magic that slept in voice and 
 fingers, was even quieter than usual that even 
 ing, and for an hour or two engaged herself 
 with the clergyman's wife, in a nook equally 
 remote from the piano and from Dr. Loring, 
 who had not failed to be there, and who, it 
 should be said, had been pressed into service 
 as the messenger of Miss Harris, an invalid 
 friend in the village.
 
 60 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 But his blue eyes were keener than of old. 
 He had not been watching signs and symptoms 
 for ten years for nothing ; and he knew how 
 to put this and that together, too, if he was a 
 man. He had found out already, that the evident 
 prosperity the Rays were now enjoying had 
 succeeded a period of trial and privation ; that 
 Helen had had her share in the family stress 
 and strain, and had lavished her young 
 strength and her first youth in redeeming the 
 family fortunes. Of the long illness that 
 succeeded when her tense hold of the oars be 
 gan to slacken, he knew, too, and her music, 
 and herself, as woman, daughter, sister, friend. 
 And he could see, under the disguises of the 
 evening's excitement, the dainty dress, and the 
 quiet dignity and cheerfulness, that shadows 
 were around the brown eyes, and that the eyes 
 themselves were deeper and stiller ; that the 
 hands were thin, not only, but roughened and 
 marred ; that the slight form was bent a trifle, 
 and the w r rists had been distended with some 
 thing beside piano-practice. And how very 
 still she was, yet how bright and thoughtful 
 when she did speak ! These had not been idle 
 years for her, nor unfruitful ones. 
 
 The little group at the piano >vas dissolving, 
 and Alice Shirley, admitted for the first time
 
 AN OLD SONG. 61 
 
 to a "grown-up party," came to beg Helen to 
 sing. 
 
 "Not to-night, Allie," she answered ; then as 
 there arose a pleading murmur from other lips, 
 she could no longer refuse. Two or three 
 brilliant pieces she played, and sang one or 
 two simple songs, and was about to rise, when 
 Alice placed before her another sheet, begging 
 her to "sing just this, Miss Helen, that you 
 sang for me the other day, and I won't ask for 
 another." 
 
 Any other selection from Ada's music rack 
 or her own overflowing stores would have 
 been easier. She hesitated a moment, then 
 divining that she could only escape by yield 
 ing, sang, with exquisite simplicity, yet with 
 feeling and pathos she could not conceal, the 
 old, familiar song : 
 
 "The puir auld folk at home, ye mind, 
 
 Are frail and failing sair, 
 And -well I ken they'd miss me, lad, 
 
 Gin I came hame nae mair; 
 
 The grist is out, the times are hard, the kine are only three; 
 I canna leave the auld folk now, 
 
 We'd better bide a wee ; 
 I eanna leave the auld folk now, 
 
 We'd better bide a wee." 
 
 The three verses of the song she sang, straight 
 through, with slight and softly-mingled pre 
 lude and accompanying chords, constrained, 
 in part, at least, by the hush that fell on the
 
 62 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 little company, and the rapt attention they 
 gave. And it was easy, in the little stir 
 of freer movement and appreciative praise, to 
 slip out then, don wraps and beckon to Ada. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I really must go now. Miss 
 Harris will be looking for me. Where's Jack? 
 Or, never mind about the boy, I'm not a bit 
 afraid, such moonlight as it is !" 
 
 But a deeper voice answered her, "Here is an 
 older Jack at your service, if he will do, or if 
 you will let him try. I promised Miss Harris 
 I would see you safely there." 
 
 And so, amazed, but thrilling with a pro 
 phetic sense of triumph exceeding her wildest 
 schemes for the evening, the little hostess saw 
 them go out into the moonlight, and went back 
 to her guests with satisfied heart. 
 
 "What a marvellous moon !" the lady ven 
 tured to remark, when a few steps had been 
 taken in silence. But as the only reply she 
 got was an absent, "Yes, very," she resigned 
 herself to silence the remainder of their walk. 
 It was, indeed, a marvellous moon, ft 
 flooded the familiar street with its serene 
 brightness, and photographed on dusty street 
 and pavement each leaf and twig of the over 
 arching trees. There was a warmth in it, as 
 of sunlight twice refined, and fragrance, too,
 
 AN OLD SONG. 63 
 
 akin to that distilled in the dews of summer 
 twilight ; only, where that is of flowers, this 
 was of fruits. And though the hoar-frost was 
 beginning to show its silvery rime here and 
 there, and the flower-beds on either hand had 
 their nocturnal coverings of cast-off wraps and 
 ghostly newspapers, and sable waterproofs, 
 to protect from its blackening touches, it was 
 not chilly. 
 
 All these things Helen had had time to 
 observe, when her companion broke out in 
 earnest, impetuous speech, 
 
 "I've been a fool, Helen. It's been grow 
 ing upon me this long while, that I'd behaved 
 like an idiot ; but now I am sure of it. And 
 since you sang that song to-night, I can't help 
 asking you if that was the reason you turned 
 so cold all at once ten years ago ? I was so 
 hurt and dazed at first, I didn't think of any 
 thing like that ; and I went off, and 'twas too 
 late. But that was it, wasn't it? And we 
 will set it right, now, sha'n't we?" 
 
 And to this ambiguous and chaotic declara 
 tion, Helen could only answer faintly, 
 
 "Oh ! John !" 
 
 But John seemed satisfied, and it was well 
 the moonlight could not photograph sound, 
 for earnest talk went on all the way to the
 
 64 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Harris gate, and under the elms at the gate 
 way, till the sound of voices in the distance 
 warned them that Mrs. Shirley's tea-party was 
 over. And when in ecstatic satisfaction, she 
 heard of its result, and knew that the young 
 doctor had entered into partnership with old 
 Dr. Small, well on in years, and ready to 
 relinquish all save office work ; and that the 
 young physician would install his bride as mis 
 tress of the cozy brown house opposite her 
 own home, she only said to her husband, as 
 rejoiced as she, 
 
 "It was that moonlight, and I knew it would 
 do it !" 
 
 But she did not know, though either of the 
 two' interested parties could have told her, 
 for they hold the fact in tender remembrance, 
 that the chief hastening cause was only an 
 old
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 
 
 It was his by purchase only, and there were 
 certain conditions attaching thereto. It had 
 been prepared and tended by his neighbor, 
 Deacon Johnson. They lived on a high hill 
 just out of Edgarly, difficult of access, yet 
 commanding a wide and inspiring view. The 
 fertile, closely-tilled acres of Deacon Johnson's 
 little farm adjoined Deacon Lane's broad fields 
 and valuable woodlands, stretching away from 
 either side of the long, travelled road. Here, 
 Jerome Johnson had passed two decades of his 
 tranquil life. His cheery, little wife had shared 
 his affectionate tendance of shrub and tree and 
 vine and flower, and made the one-storied cot 
 tage a radiant centre of peace, hospitality, and 
 a thousand beneficent ministries, for years. 
 But she had faded out of life, like one of her 
 own blossoms. Since then the lonely husband 
 had found his best comfort, next to the conso-
 
 66 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 lations of the Divine Comforter, which his 
 friends well knew, were staff and strength and 
 stay, in the places where something of her 
 presence seemed still to linger. He loved to 
 walk in the garden she had planned, the grow 
 ing orchard they had planted together, and 
 especially to maintain her modest, though 
 abundant, accustomed charities. 
 
 But perhaps the good man missed her care 
 more than her roses and raspberries did, for 
 one winter, when the snow had lain on the 
 windy Long Hill for months, his always deli 
 cate health gave way. He must leave the North 
 at once, the physician said. Only a Southern 
 home could hold him on earth, if indeed he 
 might linger longer in any human habitation. 
 Only his out-door life through the summer 
 months of years, and his diligent, generous 
 tranquil ity, had prolonged his life thus tar. 
 
 So the gentle, lonely man, still serene and 
 untroubled for himself, made his preparations 
 for a journey to Florida. It was hard parting 
 with his home, but he could never live again 
 in the North, so his few, fruitful acres passed 
 into his neighbor's hands. It was late in Feb 
 ruary when the deed was made out. And on 
 the day of his departure, Deacon Lane brought 
 the transfer-papers for him to sign, though the 
 bargain had not yet been concluded.
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 67 
 
 'There is one thing, Brother Lane," began 
 the invalid, as he slowly unfolded the papers 
 awaiting his sanction and signature, "that I 
 meant to have spoken to you about ; my largest 
 plat of strawberries, you know, is just com 
 ing into full bearing this year. There's a full 
 acre of it. I've given it the best of care, and 
 it will doubtless yield, with very little atten 
 tion, a very profitable crop." 
 
 His listener's eyes brightened at the gainful 
 prospect. 
 
 "Of course, Brother Johnson, I'm willing to 
 pay you what's right. We can't count on crops 
 that are under eight feet of solid snow, but I'm 
 willing to make fair allowance." 
 
 The contrast between the friends, for friends 
 they were, and equally staunch, was striking. 
 Deacon Lane was short, wiry, and muscular, 
 with a sharp, sallow face, and restless, despond 
 ent gray eyes. He sat leaning forward in his 
 chair, his fingers moving nervously. Real sor 
 row and anxious pity seemed queerly blended, 
 in his countenance and attitude, with the keen 
 calculation and satisfied complacency attendant 
 on the bargain about to be consummated. 
 
 Deacon Jerome was a tall man, of massive 
 frame, ere sickness had wasted it. His face 
 was as white as his snowy hair ; he leaned
 
 68 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 back in his arm-chair, his deep blue eyes bent 
 in benignant reflection alternately on his neigh 
 bor and on the unfolded deeds his own thin 
 hands held. 
 
 "I don't think I shall add anything to the 
 sum we talked of," he said, at last, slowly ; 
 "but there are one or two conditions " 
 
 "You'd ought to have told me, Deacon," 
 put in Mr. Lane, quickly, "before the papers 
 were all drawn up/' 
 
 But the other lifted his hand deprecatingly. 
 "No, I don't care to have them in the bond, 
 Brother," he said, smilingly. "Your word is 
 enough. It is only this : there are a few sick 
 folk to whom I should carry some of my ber 
 ries. I don't want them to lose their share. 
 So, if you will promise to carry them their 
 portion, I will call myself paid." 
 
 So, with visible surprise and secret reluc 
 tance, Deacon Lane promised. The deeds were 
 signed, and the money paid. And that night 
 he saw his great-hearted neighbor on board the 
 train, looked after his comfort with clumsy 
 kindness, and wrung his hand at parting with 
 sincere sorrow. 
 
 And then other interests crowded out the 
 thought of the snow-bound and not unincum- 
 
 O 
 
 bered strawberry -bed. But ere long the snows
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 69 
 
 wasted, and when the protecting "brush" was 
 removed, the fresh, vigorous growth of vine 
 appeared right queenly. The blossom's opened, 
 faded, and fell, and the new, green berries 
 began to form or "set." Day by day he 
 watched his strawberries slowly swelling and 
 reddening in the sweet fierce sun and shower, 
 and he began to remember his promise. It had 
 dawned upon his recollection, that February 
 night, ere the southern-bound train had gone 
 
 O 7 O 
 
 a hundred inches, that he had promised (Oh, 
 Deacon Johnson, benignantly crafty !) to go 
 in person, carrying his gifts. 
 
 The Lane household was a severely still and 
 solemn one. Practically, it was a childless 
 home. The gentleness and self-devotion of 
 the mother had so far failed to counteract or 
 compensate for the father's sternness that the 
 children had early escaped its doubtful com 
 forts. The eldest and staidest had entered a 
 village store, and soon had a business and a 
 home of his own. The second, Theodore, 
 "took to books." But he got scant aid, oppor 
 tunity, or encouragement, and left home in 
 boyhood to work his way through academy 
 and college. Though still young, he had now 
 a professorship in a neighboring city. The 
 only daughter, Annie, died in girlhood.
 
 70 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 June had waxed and was waning when the 
 berries ripened, maturing slowly. The clus 
 ters hung, however, full and . heavy on the 
 rank, vigorous vines, which had missed the 
 training and pruning of their former owner. 
 But Deacon Lane watched vine and runner 
 complacently, picking his way among the 
 straying off-shoots, turning the bunches, hid 
 ing here and there, to the sun. He had two 
 or three times picked a bowlful for tea ; and 
 he discovered that nothing that had ever graced 
 his little breakfast-table had had so rare, 
 wholesome, delicious a flavor, and so inviting 
 a semblance, as a dish of those same, dewy 
 strawberries. He began to wonder why he 
 had never had any before. 
 
 "They help my liver, I do believe !" mur 
 mured the querulous, dyspeptic man, in whose 
 dietary the three P's Pork, Potatoes, Pie, 
 had been the principal features. 
 
 It was almost time to market the berries ; 
 and he began to think it w r ould be, as it were, 
 placating fortune to carry first some of his 
 strawberries to the sick ones. From the list 
 his friend had given him, he chose the name 
 of Eben Clark ; and one bright morning, a 
 little basket of berries in his hand, he started 
 out.
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 71 
 
 Eben Clark was ninety, and bed-ridden. 
 He and his feeble wife lived with their son, 
 Jonathan, halfway down Long Hill. It was 
 years since the Deacon had entered their dwell 
 ing, or, indeed, as Brother Johnson well knew, 
 any of the homes these names represented. 
 Yet they were those of friends, neighbors, 
 brethren. But he often looked longingly 
 toward this one. Jonathan Clark owed him a 
 long-standing debt. It was not a large one, 
 but enough to make his creditor sigh for its 
 payment, and notice grudgingly anything like 
 prosperity or self-indulgence on the part of 
 the debtor. 
 
 It was a small, weather-beaten house, on the 
 edge of sloping, sterile acres. Everything 
 about it proclaimed neatness and economy. 
 Mrs. Clark, the younger, answered his knock. 
 
 "Oh ! it is Deacon Lane, I declare, with 
 some berries for Gran'ther. Come in and see 
 him while I empty the basket. Indeed, you 
 must," as he hesitated ; "he's so childish he'd 
 never get over it if you didn't. Jonathan's 
 a-workin' at the querry, but Grandma'am, she's 
 here." 
 
 So the Deacon followed her into a low-ceiled 
 room, with whitewashed walls and rag-carpeted 
 floor. A frail old lady sat knitting by the
 
 72 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 window ; and propped up by pillows on the 
 great, high-posted bed was Gran'ther Clark. 
 His gnarled, brown hands, tortured and twisted 
 with rheumatism, were folded on the coarse, 
 white, knitted coverlet. The Deacon shook 
 hands and sat down, and the old man began to 
 talk feebly, of his pains, his pleasures, "his 
 folks :" 
 
 "I have suffered consider'ble this winter ; 
 and I can't help myself yet, much. An' Mary 
 here, is 'most too frail to move me. But Jona 
 than, now, can lift me like a baby. Dretful 
 good to me, Jonathan is, an' always has been. 
 We've been a heavy load for him to lug ; but 
 he says, says he, 'Father, I don't. want you 
 ever to say that agin. You've toted me when 
 I couldn't help myself, and never begredged 
 it.' An' Jonathan's never begredged ws any 
 thing ; an' I'm in hopes 'twon't be much longer, 
 now rnot much longer ! Well Deacon ," he 
 resumed, not noticing the other's silence, "it 
 seems good to hev you come in. We miss 
 ]Mr. Johnson a sight. An' you must pray 
 with us afore ye go. I used to hear ye to 
 prayer-meetin' years ago." 
 
 Isaac Lane had not come there to pray, but 
 he could not refuse; but, somehow, as he 
 knelt, his reserve and his grudging thoughts
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 73 
 
 melted away. And when he finished, the old 
 man added his hearty, tremulous "Amen !" 
 and Grandma Clark wiped her eyes and 
 thanked him. He took himself away very 
 hastily then ; and he tried to forget all about 
 it straightway, but somehow he was not con 
 tent till he had dropped into the Post Office, 
 enclosed in an envelope addressed to "J. Clark, 
 Esq.," that old bill receipted. 
 
 The next name was Mrs. Nathan True. She 
 was the invalid wife of a former "hand" of the 
 Deacon's. He had left the mill to the lasting 
 inconvenience and annoyance of his employer, 
 because he wanted, needed, must have, he 
 said, higher wages. A large tin pail, heaping 
 full, the owner of the strawberry-bed carried 
 this time, as he approached Nathan True's 
 open door. It was Nathan himself, just home 
 from work, and preparing for supper, who 
 welcomed him. 
 
 "How are you, Deacon ! Glad to see you. 
 Come in, come in !" and he led the way into 
 the middle room, where the eldest daughter 
 had already his supper ready. Coarse and 
 simple the food was, yet neat and inviting. 
 The visitor found himself counting the chil 
 dren already around the table. One, two, 
 three, four, five, six, yes, and that youngest
 
 74 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 in the high chair made seven, besides the 
 young housekeeper. All those mouths Nathan 
 True must feed ! No wonder things showed 
 that every dollar and cent must yield its full 
 value. 
 
 "Mr. Lane's brought mother some straw 
 berries," said the father. "Lucy, you put 
 them away, or p'raps she'd like to see 'em. 
 And, Fred, run and ask her if she feels able 
 to see an old friend a minute." 
 
 And once more our friend found himself in 
 a sick room. A pale, wan woman, apparently 
 suffering with incurable disease, sat in a pil 
 lowed chair. Her eyes were bright, and her 
 smile sweet. A workbasket, heaped with chil 
 dren's worn clothing, stood near her, and a 
 thimble was on one thin finger. Mrs. True 
 was a sister in the church, and it required no 
 effort on the Deacon's part to be genial and 
 kindly, hiding as well as he could his shocked 
 surprise at the ravages of sickness. 
 
 He did not stay long. Once more he had 
 something to think of. And the thought would 
 not be laid, though he tried to content himself 
 with urging Mrs. Lane to carry comforts and 
 delicacies to "Nate True's sick wife," himself 
 driving her over in an easy carriage. It did 
 not satisfy him either, though it surprised
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 75 
 
 Mrs. Lane, to insist on less work, more leis 
 ure, more abundant comfort everyway for his 
 own meek wife. A week or two later, he 
 offered Nathan True his old place in the mill, 
 and higher pay than the employe had asked. 
 And he was ready, too, to pay more generous 
 wages to other men. He had seen for himself 
 how one workman lived ; and he knew that in 
 one instance, at least, it was neither laziness 
 nor extravagance that gauged the measure of 
 "living wages." 
 
 In the meantime, the Deacon had been 
 checking oft', one by one, the names on his 
 list. He had made a half dozen unwilling, 
 though not unenjoyable, calls. None of them 
 had produced any striking results, yet none 
 had been wholly unproductive of gracious 
 influences. 
 
 Now only one name remained Elizabeth 
 Allen. It was not the name of an aged per 
 son, a widow, or a bed-ridden woman. She 
 did not even call herself an invalid. A fall, 
 eight years before, had made it impossible for 
 her to walk or stand. She was not a typical 
 submissive sufferer. It was, indeed, hope, 
 rather than resignation, that sustained her, 
 though it was still hope deterred. There was 
 the very confident assurance of an able physi-
 
 76 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 cian that treatment at a certain distant and 
 famous hospital would cure her. But the 
 money was not forthcoming, though they were 
 by no means poor. Twice, what her fingers 
 had earned and hoarded, had been given to 
 meet some emergency of sickness or family 
 trouble, and now her little earnings were 
 growing slowly again. Deacon Lane dreaded 
 this call most of all. His reluctance would 
 have been difficult to explain, for Jonathan 
 Allen had been an old friend ; the families 
 once were intimate, and Elizabeth had been 
 the dear friend of his own Annie. But little 
 misunderstandings and jealousies had grown 
 into positive estrangement. And it did not 
 soften the Deacon's resentful obduracy to 
 know that Theodore, during his infrequent 
 visits home, always went there ; nay, had even 
 been known to drive over to the Aliens of an 
 evening or holiday when he did not stop at 
 his father's. 
 
 It was ten o'clock in the forenoon, and the 
 men were in the field, when Deacon Lane rode 
 over. Mrs. Allen was baking in the kitchen, 
 and with a brief, though cordial, greeting 
 her bread was burning ushered him with his 
 basket into the cool sitting-room where Eliza 
 beth sat, busied with her needle-work. Always
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 77 
 
 dignified and at ease of yore, he wondered why 
 the young lady should flush and start as he 
 entered. Nor was it quite easy to maintain a 
 conversation. But she soon recovered herself 
 and talked as brightly as of old. 
 
 As he went nearer to examine the dainty, 
 beautifully-shaded work she wished him to see, 
 he saw, lying in her work-basket, a letter, 
 directed to herself, its seal just broken. It 
 was a thick letter, and the Deacon was con 
 fident that it was addressed in his son Theo 
 dore's peculiar hand. Like a stream of light 
 the circumstance illumined a thousand unheeded 
 happenings, unnoticed in his own hard, self 
 ish reserve. The embroidery on which she 
 was working, the prospect of cure of which 
 she spoke so hopefully, the letter there, the 
 remembered visits, yes, and the long, long 
 years of waiting ! 
 
 Ah ! did he know less of his boy's heart and 
 hope, of his love and pains, than strangers 
 did ? Had he been so busy heaping up that 
 he had forgotten to use? Were real estate, 
 and bank stock, and moneyed capital, so much 
 more precious than love and life? He had 
 been blind! But it "was not too late, even 
 now, and he saw ! 
 
 Again that day, at sunset, while Farmer 
 Allen stood in his wide barn-door, Deacon
 
 78 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Lane drove over the cross-road and up the 
 grassy lane. He did not go to the house ; his 
 business, he thought, was better done with the 
 father, and it was more easily accomplished 
 than he had feared. 
 
 "I won't deny it has been hard, Deacon," 
 said the farmer ; "hard for us, and harder for 
 Elizabeth, but she never complains nor loses 
 heart. Doctor Bell is certain she can be made 
 to walk as well as anybody if she can go to the 
 hospital. I may as well tell you, she won't, 
 that she's had half enough, or more, twice. 
 The first time, her mother was sick, and she 
 used it for that. Then a note I'd signed came 
 back on me, and she helped me out with that. 
 And, perhaps you don't know it, but since 
 Theodore has had his professorship, he wanted 
 to pay for her to go and be treated, but she 
 wouldn't let him. I haven't told her, but I've 
 been in hopes, when my crops come in, I 
 could give her enough, with what she's got. 
 I'm a-planning for it." 
 
 But Deacon Lane had a plan of his own. 
 He had a will of his own, too, and it did not 
 take long to convince the father and mother 
 of the wisdom of his "way. Elizabeth was 
 harder to persuade, but she, too, was finally 
 won over. Theodore was left in the dark for 
 the' present.
 
 DEACON LANE'S STRAWBERRY BED. 79 
 
 Before the last berry had shrunken on the 
 strawberry vines, or the Deacon had had time 
 to count his receipts, Elizabeth was on her 
 way to the hospital. It was almost Thanks 
 giving time when she came back, her own 
 active self. It was a happy party a family 
 party, the Deacon called it slyly, with a glance 
 at Elizabeth, though all the Aliens were there, 
 as well as the Lanes that gathered at the 
 Deacon's on Thanksgiving day. 
 
 And before the strawberries had ripened 
 again, in early June, there was a wedding at 
 Fanner Allen's, and Professor Theodore and 
 his wife Elizabeth were domiciled for the 
 summer in the vine-hung Johnson cottage. 
 
 Deacon Lane still cultivates a strawberry- 
 bed. He has had to re-set the old one, and 
 has enlarged it. He thinks he has improved 
 upon it in some respects. The berries are 
 larger and seem of better flavor. Be that as 
 it may, the fruits of his own Christian charac 
 ter are certainly more abundant and genial and 
 mellow as the years go by.
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 
 
 It was the mildest day of the season, and 
 the fairest. So lovely, indeed, that it had 
 already been named "a weather-breeder" sev 
 eral times in Pomfret, for the typical New 
 Englander is always suspicious of unusual 
 serenity, whether of foitune, manners, or the 
 weather. 
 
 But the tender blue of the sky, now fast 
 turning to amber in the light of the near sun 
 set, was still almost cloudless. Against it the 
 leafless oaks, the sturdy hemlocks and the 
 darker evergreens on the wooded hills, stood 
 out distinctly, while a group of white birches, 
 very near the horizon, crossed the azure with 
 strands of silver in a bit of dainty color that 
 an artist would have coveted for his canvass. 
 
 But Mrs. Wills, who had sought her west 
 attic room, to search through its well-assorted 
 piece-bags, standing in a row, like so many very
 
 A TAEDY VALENTINE. 81 
 
 rotund and headless ghosts, hardly stopped to 
 glance from the window that framed this Feb 
 ruary picture. The log-cabin quilt she was 
 piecing lacked in one color. 
 
 "Too much grey for the scarlet, by -half," 
 she said, half aloud. "And I do believe I 
 shall have to dye, unless I did save those red 
 flannel petticoats. I'm sure I can't remember." 
 
 The bags yielded their various stores, but to 
 little purpose. 
 
 "One skill h'm why, I gave the others to 
 Jane Gunnison. I aint sorry, either, but I 
 could feel to wish for a little more myself just 
 now. Let me see ! Why, there is that rem 
 nant of red flannel I bought so long ago. Twas 
 a sizable piece, and I remember putting it in 
 new camphor only last spring. And I'd just 
 as lief use it." 
 
 The bags were tidily repacked, and Mrs. 
 Wills crossed the room and opened a drawer 
 in the antique mahogany bureau beside the win 
 dow. The roll of flannel chanced to be at the 
 back 'of the drawer, and two boxes, one of 
 paste-board, time-stained and fragile, the other 
 of oak, filled the nearer space. The deep 
 drawer was full of shadows, and Mrs. Wills 
 moved the lighter box injudiciously, so that it 
 was presently aslant the drawer and wedged in. 
 
 5
 
 82 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 A vigorous pull released it, and parted at 
 the same time, lid from box and side from bot 
 tom, scattering its contents as she lifted it out, 
 over all the adjacent floor. These consisted 
 chiefly of old letters, very yellow as to paper 
 and envelope where they possessed the latter 
 and very much faded as to the ink, defining 
 the precise, carefully formed words and letters. 
 A few old-fashioned visiting cards were among 
 them, and a photograph or two ; also, a thin, 
 small, oblong package, neatly wrapped in tis 
 sue paper, now gray with years. She had 
 placed all the rest in the oaken box, discarding 
 the other, when she picked up this. 
 
 She held it in her hand a minute, a shadow 
 in her pleasant eyes, and a drooping, sorrow 
 ful curve taking its place among the finer lines 
 around her firm, placid mouth, where the cares 
 and trials of sixty years seemed to have been 
 folded away snugly, that they might take to 
 themselves just as little space and attention as 
 possible, and then she sat down and opened 
 the paper. 
 
 An ancient valentine, of the fashion of forty 
 years before, fell out. It revealed now its 
 original delicacy of coloring, and the paper 
 outside the quaint, filagreed design was tine 
 and glossy. A pink anchor sheltered a verse
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 83 
 
 at once fond and tender, evidently the expres 
 sion of friendship rather than love. On the 
 inner leaf, in ruled spaces left for them, names 
 had been written : 
 
 To 
 Lucinda Sinclair 
 
 from 
 
 Frances Bushfield, 
 and the date, February the fourteenth, 184 . 
 
 The envelope was unaddressed, and Mrs. 
 Wills regarded both it and the valentine a long 
 time intently. 
 
 "I ought to have sent it," she said, at last, 
 regretfully, "and not minded what folks said. 
 Maybe she didn't ever say what they said she 
 did say. And, anyway, who knows what they 
 said first to make her say it ? She was having 
 a good deal to try her, with Joe Barrett's going 
 off that way, and her brother dying as he did, 
 and I s'pose she hardly knew how she did feel 
 for a while. And she must have needed a 
 friend them days. I've always been disap 
 pointed in myself that I didn't stand by her, 
 whether or no, through that ; that was none of 
 it her fault. She was the patientiest girl, and 
 the nicest ! I wished I'd sent it ! 
 
 "And I don't wonder she was some distant 
 to me afterwards. I'd a' been so myself, not
 
 84 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 knowing what reason I'd had to feel put out. 
 She's been through a good deal since then, too, 
 more than I have, though I've had my share. 
 I wonder if she ever thinks of them old days, 
 and our good times together? Why, then 1 was 
 nobody, scarcely, I set such store by as I did 
 by her. And I used to think, 'Well, Lucy 
 and I'll always be friends till we get to be old 
 women.' 
 
 "And that was forty years ago, and we 
 haven't crossed each other's threshold, except 
 to funerals, and once or twice to a prayer- 
 meeting that we could't stay away from on 
 account of Christian feeling and example, in 
 all that time. 
 
 "A will in',- true-hearted woman she's showed 
 herself, and I guess very loving to them that 
 was kin, though they're all gone now, husband 
 and all, same as mine. 
 
 "But here I am talking about her as if she 
 were dead and buried, and I saw her in her 
 pew across the meeting-house only last Sab 
 bath with a bonnet on that becomes her extra 
 well. 
 
 "And my kitchen fire'll be out, and, land 
 sakes, I forgot I'd just put on new coal to the 
 other room grate !" 
 
 The carpeted stairs creaked as she some 
 what stifflv descended them, and the warm air
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 85 
 
 of the living rooms, fragrant with scents oi 
 geranium and heliotrope, was grateful after the 
 chilly atmosphere of the chambers. The coal 
 was ablaze, and the dampers had even to be 
 closed by degrees. Then the kitchen fire was 
 low and the cat was mewing on the window 
 sill outside, begging to be taken in and petted. 
 From that side of the house was plainly visi 
 ble the home of her girlhood friend, the brown 
 house under the elms, with sloping, red roofs, 
 in which long-paned windows were set, and the 
 great barns "to windward," making a promi 
 nent feature in the winter scene. The field 
 between lay white and untrodden. It was 
 only a little distance that way, though much 
 farther if you followed the road. But the 
 open door made the house chilly. 
 
 Pussy rubbed sociably against her mistress' 
 foot, purring-loudly, and was consoled with a 
 saucer of milk, "if it was between meals." 
 
 Then the sitting-room fire needed more atten 
 tion, and as she turned to the window again, 
 she saw a woman coming up the path. 
 
 "Lucretia Payne," said Mrs. Wills, putting 
 up her hands to smooth her tumbled hair be 
 fore the glass. 
 
 As she did so, she caught sight of the tissue- 
 wrapped valentine which she had kept in her
 
 86 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 hand when she came down from the attic. 
 
 She looked about her for a convenient recep 
 tacle for it, and just as Miss Payne's foot 
 touched the door stone, she succeeded in in 
 serting it in her own square work-bag, hang 
 ing near. 
 
 "Good afternoon, 'Cretia ! You are a 
 stranger. Come right in and set by the fire. 
 What a pretty day we've had, but ain't it 
 sloppy ?" 
 
 "Yes," 'Cretia assented. "It is dreadful 
 sloppy, though it's been a nice day." 
 
 She went to the fire and sat down, replying 
 briefly and absently to Mrs. Wills' cheerful 
 talk. 
 
 And the latter said by-and-bye : 
 "You look beat out, 'Cretia. Ain't you 
 well ? You'd better take oft* your things and 
 stay the evening, or over night. Do." 
 Her visitor roused herself. 
 "Oh, yes. I'm well middlin'. But I was 
 up most of the night. I've been over to Mrs. 
 Gruer's. I suppose you didn't know she was 
 taken yesterday, very sick and sudden?" 
 Mrs. Wills turned pale. 
 "Taken?" she asked, breathlessly. "How? 
 When ? I didn't know" 
 
 "Taken down sick all at once pretty near 
 pnewmony, so the doctor said. And he's
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 87 
 
 afraid of a fever, anyway, though he's doing 
 his best to break it up. Lute Garvin he 
 does the chores and stays there nights, you 
 know came over after me, and I went right 
 over and stayed till now. I'd have stayed 
 to-night, too, but Harrett, she's all tired out 
 and about sick herself, on account of the chil 
 dren. Measles, you know, and all at once, 
 but they came out nice and they're doing well 
 now, and I felt as if I'd got to get back. And 
 that's what I came in for, to see if you wouldn't 
 go over to Mrs. Gruer's and watch to-night ; 
 she's all soul alone, but Luther or," she 
 added, hastily, "if it wasn't so'st you could 
 go, if you didn't know of somebody that could ? 
 And maybe get word to her. I would, my 
 self, only it's so late, and I'm a good two 
 miles from home/' she explained. 
 
 "Why, I'll go, myself, of course, 'Cretia," 
 Mrs. AVills hastened to say. "And I'm sure 
 I'm much obliged to you for letting me know. 
 Roger's doing the chores now, and I'll let him 
 get his own supper on, for once, and I'll put 
 my things on and go right over. You'd ought 
 to have sent word to me before," said she, 
 reproachfully, but flushing as she said it. 
 "Did the doctor leave any word about the 
 medicine or anything ? And isn't there some-
 
 88 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 thing I could carry over? The store is some 
 ways off." 
 
 "Not a thing, Mrs. Wills, everything is there 
 and handy. She even happened to have done 
 a baking that day, and there's victuals a-plenty. 
 And the directions the doctor wrote out on a 
 slip of paper that lies beside the glasses. The 
 drafts on her feet will want to be changed, and 
 maybe, if she can stand it, there'd better be 
 another mustard-plaster put over her chest. 
 That's all. Oh, I forgot, he did say she must 
 have all the nourishment she would take. Hot 
 milk, or tea and toast, or gruel with cream, or 
 anything like that. He wants to keep her 
 strength up." 
 
 Ten minutes later, Mrs. AVills was walking 
 swiftly across the crusted fields toward the 
 brown cottage. There had been a little foot 
 path, well-trodden, always, between the two 
 houses in the old days for it chanced that 
 neither of them had left, at her marriage, her 
 childhood's home and Mrs. Wills thought of 
 it now with a sigh. 
 
 As she approached the house, she saw, 
 through an open barn-door, Luther, lantern in 
 hand, and his arm strung with milk pails, go- 
 to do his "chores."
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 89 
 
 She let herself in noiselessly. The house 
 was very still, but warm and inviting, even in 
 the twilight. 
 
 She laid down her work-bag her knitting 
 would be company in the night-watches and 
 she had thrust into it, besides a clean apron or 
 two, her glasses and an unopened box of mus 
 tard, lest the supply might run low when it 
 was most needed. And she took oft' her shawl 
 and hood, and hung them in the side entry, 
 noting as she did, through the open door, the 
 extreme neatness and the refined and cheerful 
 homelikeness the vista of long, low rooms 
 revealed. 
 
 "Lucinda was always just so handy! 'Twas 
 born in her, a real god-mother gift, I used to 
 tell her. And it looks as if she'd somehow 
 took a good deal of quiet comfort here right 
 along." 
 
 She still spoke of her neighbor in the past- 
 tense, and when she entered her bed-room, the 
 sight was not re-assuring. The sick woman 
 was drowsing, a feverish spot on either cheek, 
 while one thin hand, hot to the touch, lay on 
 the coverlet, twitching nervously. 
 
 The bed-clothes were pulled to one side, 
 and the pillow crumpled and aslant. Mrs. 
 Wills straightened the blankets and deftly
 
 90 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 turned and smoothed the heated pillow, in 
 serted a smaller one beneath it to rest the tired 
 shoulders, and all without disturbing the 
 sleeper. Then she stood looking at her a mo 
 ment, while a great tear welled slowly from 
 either kindly eye. She patted the quilt beside 
 the restless hand, less uneasy now, and went 
 softly out. 
 
 In the kitchen she became herself again. 
 
 "What next I wonder? Lights after fires, 
 and these are all right. I believe 'Cretia trim 
 med 'em all to-day, they're so full and shiny." 
 She lighted two or three, and set one, well- 
 shaded, in the farther room. Stove and furni 
 ture shone in the lamp-light, and the tea-kettle 
 was singing. 
 
 Stands filled with thrifty plants, well-tended 
 and blooming, occupied three windows. Their 
 leaves were green and glossy, and the air was 
 almost heavy with their fragrance. The scents 
 oppressed her vaguely, and a tall calla lifted 
 its great snowy cone so ostentatiously that she 
 was glad to look away from it. By this time 
 Luther had come in, and she questioned him 
 closely. Hope returned as she did so, for the 
 doctor, it seemed, had spoken for the most 
 part most encouragingly. 
 
 Supper was eaten, and Mrs. Wills was wash 
 ing the dishes in the well-ordered pantry,
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 91 
 
 when a sound came from the sick-ioom. She 
 had looked in before, but had found her charge 
 still sleeping. Now Mrs. Gruer had raised her 
 head, and leaning on her elbow, looked con 
 fusedly around her. 
 
 But she sank back again, wearily, submit 
 ting to be tucked in warmly again, and receiv 
 ing meekly both medicine and gruel from her 
 nurse's hands. 
 
 She gave an earnestly curious look at last 
 into Mrs. Will's face, smiling back trustfully 
 as the other smiled at her. Then she lay down 
 again and soon was sleeping quietly. 
 
 "She don't rattle a mite, and her cough ain't 
 so bad," said Mrs. Wills, running back to 
 where Luther sat, struggling with cube root. 
 
 "I do feel to be encouraged." 
 
 And all night long, while she sat watching, 
 with Luther breathing heavily in the chamber 
 above and her charge sleeping softly beside 
 her, her courage waxed. 
 
 The east was rosy with the near, late dawn, 
 when for the twentieth time she felt her 
 patient's pulse, and touched her cheek, and 
 listened to her breathing. Each time her 
 heart had grown lighter, and now she said : 
 
 "She's going to get well ! I never saw any 
 one come out of it better !"
 
 92 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 She slipped away into the kitchen where the 
 fire was already crackling. 
 
 Presently, when Mrs. Gruer had wakened, 
 a tiny round table stood beside the bed, with 
 a white cloth laid over it, and dishes for two 
 persons upon it. There was besides, a plate 
 of delicately browned toast, a tumbler of 
 crimson jelly, a tiny block of riven, dripping 
 honey comb, on a glass plate, and a dish of 
 wheat, with a tiny flagon of cream. And the 
 steaming tea-pot came in in Mrs. Wills' hand. 
 Their eyes met and lingered in the look they 
 gave each other. 
 
 "How do you feel? And will you let me 
 bathe your face and hands and give you a cup 
 of tea ? You must be faint." 
 
 "I believe I am hungry," said the invalid, 
 submitting to the application of the hot, wet 
 towel. "That is refreshing ! Your breakfast 
 looks so tempting, and the tea smells so nice ! 
 Plow good you are, Frances ! But," wfstfully, 
 as the other waited, "you're going to eat with 
 me?" 
 
 "Well, I guess so," sitting down beside her. 
 "You see I've got to get home by sun-up. 
 Roger's so helpless ! But I'll be right back, 
 and stay all day. Js T ow do eat. You must !" 
 
 "You're so good," the other said again. "I 
 shall be up and dressed by-and-bye."
 
 A TARDY VALENTINE. 93 
 
 "Not to-day ! Perhaps, if you gain a lot, 
 to-morrow. I want you to be careful," she 
 went on, half bashfully, "and get on the faster. 
 You know the sewing circle meets with me 
 next week, and I've been wondering since I 
 see you was coming out of it so well, if you 
 couldn't come over, being well \vrapped up, 
 and stay over night with me ! I'd love to have 
 you !" " 
 
 "Why, of course I can," Mrs. Gruer replied, 
 "and I thank you !" 
 
 The little meal was ended. It seemed almost 
 like a sacrament, strengthening both heart 
 and body. Mrs. Wills removed the table, 
 arranged the invalid comfortably, donned her 
 things, and came back to the bedroom, her 
 workbag in her hand. 
 
 o . 
 
 "I bought this for you forty years ago," she 
 said, huskily. "And I wrote your name and 
 mine on it. Will you take it now? I never 
 saw anyone else," she went on, laughing trem 
 ulously, "that those verses would fit/' 
 
 She laid the faded valentine on the bed, and 
 her friend's hand clasped her own and / it 
 together.
 
 A FAST DAY SERMON. 
 
 Pastor Allan did not preach it, nor hear of 
 it, though he rejoiced in the events which were 
 its results. And it was not preached in the 
 church at all, but in Mary West's kitchen, 
 where there were only two people present, 
 and those two were alternately preacher and 
 hearer. An odd discourse, was it not, even 
 for Fast Day? But then, it wasn't preached 
 on Fast Day, all of it. 
 
 It happened on this wise. Captain Simon 
 Eastman, on an April morning, dropped in at 
 his neighbor, John West's, to see what he had 
 concluded to do about seed-potatoes. John 
 had gone to town, but his sister Mary, who 
 lived with him, was stepping briskly about her 
 sunny kitchen, where spicy odors of the morn 
 ing's baking mingled with the scents of the 
 oleander and heliotrope and geraniums in the 
 south windows. "John has gone to the store,"
 
 A FAST DAY SERMON. 95 
 
 she said, "but I expect him back right away 
 now. It's been most two hours since he went, 
 and if he didn't have to go to the corner, he'll 
 be here soon. Sit down, Squire, and wait for 
 him, if you aren't in a hurry. There's yester 
 day's Journal on the stand, and won't you try 
 my caraways while you wait?" And she placed 
 a blue china plate piled with crisp, sugary 
 cookies before the caller. 
 
 "Thank you, Mary, I will stop a bit, and 
 see if he don't come." And the Squire seated 
 himself in the old-fashioned, calico-covered 
 rocker by the window, and unbuttoned his 
 overcoat, helping himself to the cookies, but 
 not unfolding the paper beside them. 
 
 "These are first-rate jumbles," he said pres 
 ently, "and good-looking pies these are, too. 
 My mother can't beat either of 'em, I declare. 
 But," he added, with a quizzical twinkle in his 
 keen gray eyes, "seems to me it ain't quite 
 seemly in you to be doing all that baking the 
 day before Fast Day. Always thought you 
 was right strict about such things. But times 
 have changed, and maybe you've altered in 
 your views," with another mirthful gleam in his 
 eyes. "No blame to you if you have, I'm sure, 
 I don't believe there's many of your church 
 members but have."
 
 96 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 The color began to burn in Miss Mary's 
 cheeks, and her eyes had an ominous sparkle. 
 She put the last pie away carefully in the 
 pantry, and came back to the now empty oven 
 to put a roast of veal therein. 
 
 "No, Squire Eastman, 1 hain't changed my 
 views at all, and no more my customs. I keep 
 Fast Day as faithful as I ever did. But you 
 know John ain't of my way of thinking. Sun 
 days he keeps like a Christian, if he don't 
 belong to the church, as I wish he did ; but, 
 like you, he don't want to go without his 
 victuals any day in the year. And he'll work 
 to-morrow, if nothing happens, the same as he 
 does to-day, and expect his meals the same, 
 and so with his help. And though I'd rather 
 have it different, still I can't help seeing what 
 my duty is, both ways." 
 
 "And very good and accommodating of you, 
 I'm sure," interpolated her listener. 
 
 "But," Miss West went on, while her eyes 
 grew brighter, and the flush on her cheeks 
 deepened to a livelier red, "I think, -as I 
 always did, that it's a pretty slimpsy kind of 
 religion that can't or won't take one day in 
 the year to take its bearings, and throw off 
 ballast, as you'd say, being a sailor once. 
 We're all poor creatures, perishing ourselves,
 
 A FAST DAY SERMON. 97 
 
 and using the things that perish in the using. 
 And we're that short-sighted, we mistake, a 
 thousand times, that that's passing away for 
 that that's going to last through all eternity, 
 and put the fleeting things first, and get to 
 loving 'em the best. And we're all prone to 
 evil, and we get into evil ways of one kind 
 and another without realizing it. It's Jude, 
 ain't it, that says, 'Keep yourselves in the love 
 of God ;' but I think it's our duty to take our 
 selves in hand sometimes, and consider our 
 ways, and maybe get some of that humility 
 and contriteness that never fails of the Lord's 
 forgiveness and help and blessing." 
 
 The Squire had risen, and was pacing back 
 and forth in the sunny room, now and then 
 parting his lips to speak but refraining till she 
 paused. 
 
 "All that is true, Miss Mary, and I don't 
 doubt you live up to it. But I s'pose you know 
 there's lots of your folks that make that kind 
 of thing an excuse for the other things they 
 don't do, and don't mean to do, a kind of 'cloak 
 of covetousness.' There's the Widow Emery, 
 that keeps boarders down cm the plain, and 
 skimps every meal she sets out, they say, 
 being the only one handy there, and putting 
 money away every month, regularly. She
 
 98 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 keeps Fast Day, and her household, they 
 have to ; and she believes in it. And our 
 neighbor, Deacon French, he won't run his 
 manufactory to-day, and his help must all lose 
 it ; for of course he tak^s it out of their pay, 
 though he knows how terribly they need every 
 cent they can get, with the hard times, and 
 cut-doAvns and shut-downs this winter. And 
 French is able to do differently, or I wouldn't 
 blame him. And there's a dozen others will 
 keep Fast Day, and maybe save a dollar by 
 doing it, when they wouldn't think of giving 
 a day or a dollar to help them that's suffering 
 and needy. They leave most of that for us 
 sinning outsiders to do. Oh ! you know I 
 don't mean you, Mary, so you needn't feel 
 hurt. Now, there's poor Jim Carver, laid up 
 with rheumatism half the time, with six puny 
 children and a sick wife. And Carver's as 
 good and true a Christian as ever lived in 
 Clayton, and so is she. I declare, I can't 
 believe Christians have a right to sit down and 
 fast and pray even one day, when they should 
 be using time and money to do something for 
 Jim, and the like of him. John, you know, 
 who ought to have known Christ better than 
 Jude, humanly speaking, says, 'He that loveth 
 not his brother whom he hath seen, how can
 
 A FAST DAI 1 SERMON. 99 
 
 he love God whom he hath not seen ?' 'And 
 whoso hath this world's good and seeth his 
 brother's need,' and doesn't have compassion, 
 you know John asks again, how can God's 
 love be in such a one? And, 'If God so loved 
 us, we ought also to love one another.' I've 
 never said much about it, Mary, but for a good 
 while I've called Him Master, and tried to 
 follow him. And I think he accepts me and 
 my love, though I don't feel to profess any 
 thing yet. And I can't think I could serve 
 and honor him better than by going round 
 bit and helping poor folks, or sick folks, or 
 anybody that's in any trouble, a little like he 
 did ! But there's John, and I think I'll go out 
 to the barn and talk with him while he unhar 
 nesses. I'm in something of a hurry." 
 
 And the Squire took his hat and was gone, 
 leaving his auditor in wondering silence. She 
 sat still for some time, oblivious, for once, to 
 the fact that the fire was low, and the meat 
 needed basting, and, as she would have phrased 
 it, "the forenoon was going." And she said 
 only, as at length she went about her tasks 
 again : 
 
 "Well, I do wish he'd stayed long enough 
 for me to ask something more about the Car 
 vers. I hain't been in there for a few days,
 
 100 UNDER FR'IENDLY EAVES. 
 
 and don't really know whether either of them 
 is able to stand company, or anything." With 
 which apparently irrelevant remark she ad 
 dressed herself to her tasks with renewed dil 
 igence. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon, when coming 
 home from a round of calls, every one of which 
 had compassed an errand, and nearly every 
 one been on some brother or sister in the church, 
 that Miss West found herself face to face again 
 with her caller of the morning. 
 
 "I've been looking for you, Squire Eastman. 
 I wanted to see you first thing, but you'd gone. 
 You see," she went on, "I that is, we 
 thought we couldn't do better than take to 
 morrow, or a part of it to help the Carver 
 family. (Perhaps you don't know, but the 
 church has helped them regular, since last 
 November. But that's neither here nor there.) 
 Mr. Allan thinks it an excellent idea, and even 
 offered to change the meeting-hour, if 'twould 
 do any good. But we thought, all taking hold 
 so, there'd be time enough after service. I 
 should have waited to get your opinion about 
 it, but there was no time to lose. But I was 
 pretty sure you'd approve of it. You know 
 there's those front rooms Jim's been trying so 
 long to finish and get into. Those rooms
 
 A FAST DAY SERMON. 101 
 
 would be ever so much more comfortable now 
 that it's growing warmer and the spring rains 
 are coming on. Well, the men are going over 
 first, with their tools and such, to put things 
 in shape (we're going to get the family off for 
 the day) ; and then we women are going to 
 take hold and fix up the rooms as nice as ever 
 we can. We shall do some papering, the 
 rooms are all plastered, and quite a lot of 
 people have promised furniture, or bedding, or 
 dishes, for they're out of everything, most. 
 And then everybody's going to bring some 
 thing, so to stock up the pantry, you know. 
 'Twill be a good thing for the family, don't you 
 think so?" 
 
 "Splendid!" exclaimed the Squire. "Why, 
 whatever made you think of it, Mary ? 'Twill 
 be a great lift for 'em, sick and discouraged as 
 they are. And if everybody takes hold, it 
 can't help getting done up in good shape. Oh ! 
 I'll be on hand. Nobody could have planned 
 it any better. I'll be in maybe, this evening ; 
 and anyway, if you want anything I've got or 
 can do, just let me know." 
 
 April never brought a lovelier day than the 
 holy-day that followed, consecrated by formal 
 proclamation and by consenting hearts by 
 the former to penitence and prayer and praise,
 
 102 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 by the latter to loving deeds of earnest Chris 
 tian helpfulness. The morning 1 was quiet. The 
 prayer-meeting, larger, and richer and fuller 
 of blessing than usual, with its warmer prayers, 
 earnest confession, and deepened faith and 
 feeling. But the afternoon was b~y indeed. 
 Too busy, one or two thought, for Fast Day, 
 but only one or two. And the Carvers made 
 amends, when it was discovered to them in all 
 the comeliness and comfort of the rejuvenated 
 home, by turning it into Thanksgiving Day, 
 instead. 
 
 "Mary," said Squire Eastman, as the day 
 was waning, and the workers were separating 
 in the fast-gathering dusk, "I don't want you 
 to think I don't appreciate all this the folks 
 have done here. They've done well, and they 
 mean right, all of 'em, I don't doubt. And 
 we've all faults enough of our own. And I 
 didn't think, really, they would turn out and 
 work like this. I'm afraid I wronged 'em in 
 my heart, judging them so." 
 
 But she answered, "I don't mind your 
 wronging us a little so much. But I can't 
 help thinking, though, that you are wronging 
 the Lord. If you're his, doing all these things 
 for him and out of love to him, don't you 
 think folks ought to know it? Wouldn't it
 
 A FAST DAY SERMON. 103 
 
 come nearer to honoring him, so? And if 
 you belong to him, don't you want to belong 
 to his church, and be known for one of his 
 household ?" 
 
 And she was the only one, save perhaps Mr. 
 Allan, who was not surprised when, a few 
 weeks later, Squire Eastman made confession 
 of his faith by baptism, and was received into 
 the fellowship of the Clayton church.
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 
 
 He was riding leisurely homeward one June 
 afternoon, when the idea first came to him. 
 He had his Thursday's mail in his pocket, and 
 as he slackened his rein for the ascent of one 
 of the steep, rocky hills between Stanford 
 Village and Hillside Farm, he drew out his 
 Journal. He had read little when, as he 
 unfolded the sheet, he chanced upon a notice 
 to the effect that the Fresh Air Association 
 was about to begin its summer's work ; that 
 funds were already in hand and other contri 
 butions would be gratefully received ; and that 
 any persons willing to receive one or more of 
 the needy city children into their homes for a 
 short time, might address the manager of the 
 association at 1850 Blank street. He read the 
 item twice, then folded the paper and put it 
 away. And for the remaining three miles 
 before they reached the Farm, Sol, the hand-
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 105 
 
 some, intelligent bay, felt that his master was 
 pre-occupied. But this pre-occupation shall 
 give us opportunity to observe more closely 
 this man with the bronzed cheek and the 
 kindly smile, and to read, as story-tellers may, 
 his history and his environment. His hair is 
 white, though he is but fifty ; the eyes are 
 grey, wistful and gentle. A kindly smile 
 plays sometimes about the set lips. A look 
 as of loneliness is in the steady eyes ; and he 
 has an air of self-mastery that distinguishes 
 him from most men. 
 
 Twenty years ago, he, then not yet thirty, 
 had brought to the pleasant farm which was 
 his inheritance, his young wife, Hannah. A 
 gentle woman, with a sweet voice, a willing 
 hand, a true and trustful heart. Life had 
 gone well with them for a few years, and its 
 best gifts had been showered upon them 
 Then, without a warning, sickness came, 
 diphtheria, malignant, fatal, and in three 
 short weeks Simon Neal sat in his desolate 
 house, bereft of wife and children. He had 
 neither brother nor sister to soothe his mad 
 dening anguish, or help lift the burden of his 
 lonely sorrow. How he lived for months 
 afterward he neither knew nor cared, nor 
 could he afterward bear to remember. The 
 6
 
 106 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 faces of neighbors irritated him. Their well- 
 meant consolations seemed maddening mock 
 eries. His work, his farm, his business, went 
 whither they would. 
 
 But at length light dawned on this chaos. 
 A friend of his boyhood, Julian Kirle, came to 
 Stanford to preach in the little church. And 
 the minister, finding among the souls he fain 
 would shepherd, this school-mate, Simon Neal, 
 so sorrowfully changed, spared neither sym 
 pathy, effort, entreaty, prayer, nor anything 
 that Christian brotherliness could devise, to 
 win the sorrowing man to the light that could 
 alone illuminate his dark way, "the Light 
 that lighteth every man that cometh into the 
 world." And at last the pastor's efforts 
 availed. Slowly, hesitatingly, Simon Neal 
 opened the doors of his desolated life, 
 opened them Heavenward that God's love 
 might come in, opened them earthward and 
 outward that living help might go to those in 
 any need. And so at last peace came. 
 
 He still lived alone. Near kindred he had 
 none. A cousin, Martha Spear, whose hus 
 band's farm adjoined the Xeal homestead, kept 
 the few rooms he used in order, and washed 
 and churned and mended for him. She cooked 
 his simple food, such as he did not himself
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 107 
 
 prepare, for he was "handy as a woman and as 
 neat as wax, himself," the neighbors said. 
 
 But by this time Sol has climbed the last 
 hill, has entered the wide-open gate, and 
 paused at the door. And as the master of the 
 house roused himself from his reverie and 
 sprang out he ejaculated, "I'll do it." 
 
 And Sol pricked up his long ears, turned 
 his great brown eyes to look, and whinnied a 
 satisfied assent. 
 
 The horse was groomed and stalled and fed. 
 Barn and shed and stable were locked after 
 the cows had come up the lane and been milked. 
 The tea-kettle he had put on over a freshly 
 kindled fire was singing cheerily when at last 
 he was ready for his solitary supper. Solitary, 
 yet neither untidy nor uninviting. His deft 
 and accustomed hands soon made ready the 
 meal, and the tired man ate and drank. It 
 was a quaint and cheerful room, neither kitchen 
 nor parlor nor dining-room, but serving for 
 all three, a "living-room." 
 
 The bright yellow floor shone with varnish 
 and cleanliness. On the painted walls hung 
 various relics of by-gone days. A brass-framed 
 mirror hung over the low mantel, and gay ever 
 lastings stood in tall vases below it. An old- 
 fashioned, many-shelved dresser revealed stores
 
 108 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 of dainty and curious china, and other pieces, 
 fragile and quaint were on the crimson covered 
 tea-table. Opposite the dresser was a tall sec 
 retary, its deep shelves overrunning with books 
 new and old. A stand beside it held yet other 
 books, and piles of papers and magazines. A 
 slender vase, with June roses in it had Martha 
 Spear placed it there, or the master's hand? 
 stood there, and the sweet, subtle odor mingled 
 with the scents of summer-time that stole 
 through the half-open window. 
 
 Simon Neal finished his supper and put away 
 the remnants thereof. He fed the great yellow 
 cat that followed him about, and laugh not, 
 O more masculine, less "handy" reader he 
 washed and wiped and put away his few dishes 
 and the strainer and milk-pails. Then he 
 seated himself at his desk in the secretary, and 
 wrote a letter. It was addressed to 1850 
 Blank street, and was such a letter as the 
 manager of the charity whose office was at 
 that number did not often receive. In the 
 letter he offered to receive into his home for 
 the month of July some needy child, a little 
 boy it must be, and he told also, as in honor 
 bound, something of his circumstances, prom 
 ising good food and care, and referring to the 
 village clergyman. He enclosed, also, a check
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 109 
 
 large enough to send 'two or three poor waifs 
 many miles into the country. He was on his 
 way to town with it next day when it occurred 
 to him that he ought to consult his good cousin 
 Martha. So he stopped there. 
 
 "Martha," said he, "I don't know as I ought 
 to have done it without asking you, but the let 
 ter isn't mailed yet I've written to tell 'em I'd 
 take one of their starving gamins a few weeks, 
 fresh air charity, you know, I could take care 
 of some youngster as well as not. Should 
 rather like it if he's the right kind." 
 
 "Take a boy?" echoed Mrs. Spear, thinking 
 it would be much more to the purpose if he 
 would take a woman and a wife. "Oh ! I un 
 derstand now. A visitor, you mean. Well, I 
 don't know, Simon, it might be a good thing 
 for you, and then again it mightn't. But it 
 wouldn't make any odds to me, 'twon't be any 
 more work hardly." 
 
 And Simon mailed his letter. The manager 
 at 1850 read it with some surprise and more 
 than once. Then she read it aloud to two or 
 three lady members of the board who chanced 
 to be in the office at the time. 
 
 "Do you know of any child that ought to 
 go?" she asked. "You see he wants one boy, 
 a month. A week apiece for four boys would 
 do more good."
 
 110 TINDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Harrington, one of the most 
 active of the advisory committee, "I know of 
 a child to whom and to whose mother it will be 
 a providence. Mrs. Hart, on Pleasant street ; 
 she is ill ; must go to the hospital for a while 
 for treatment. She has only this one, a boy of 
 six, and her means are small. They're not at 
 all common poor people, and I'm sure this Mr. 
 Neal, or whoever he is, would like Bennie. I 
 will see the mother myself to-night." 
 
 So Mary Hart, a widow who supported her 
 self and her child by middle class dressmaking 
 found her burden of anxiety a little lightened 
 by our friend's offer. She had hardly known 
 which way to turn, as her health gave way, and 
 she felt every day taking something from her 
 little savings, and from her strength. She 
 could go to the hospital that had been ar 
 ranged and there seemed a hopeful certainty 
 that a few weeks' sojourn there would restore 
 in great measure her accustomed health. But 
 in the meantime, what would become of Ben 
 nie, her earthly all ? This question had haunted 
 her by day and by night. A thousand plans 
 had presented themselves, to be rejected. 
 
 "Where will Bennie go while mother goes to 
 the hospital to be made well?" she asked him, 
 at last, one day, in despair.
 
 SIMON NEAI/S CHARITY. Ill 
 
 The child's eyes deepened and then bright 
 ened. 
 
 "I'll go off into the green country," he said, 
 "where the little birds and the chickens and 
 the lammies are." And he clapped his hands. 
 
 And now, behold ! that was where he was 
 going. Mrs. Harrington had brought the letter 
 and left it with her, and the mother read it 
 many times between the lines and carefully. 
 Something about it reassured her. It could 
 not seem otherwise than the one thing, and a 
 safe, good thing for Bennie to do. 
 
 Yet it was with a very heavy heart, bur 
 dened more for him than for herself that she 
 bade him good-bye, and *v r ent to bear the pain 
 that awaited her. 
 
 Mr. jN'eal was waiting his little guest at Stan 
 ford Station. It was five o'clock in the after 
 noon, and the countryside was very fair to look - 
 upon as they rode along. Mr. Xeal scanned 
 the little face with its great brown eyes, intently. 
 He saw with satisfaction the look of pleasure 
 deepen and grow more radiant as vista after 
 vista of green fields and scattered farms, and 
 tiny villages, and sparkling, emerald-fringed 
 lakes and azure hills opened before them as 
 they rode onward. And he noticed, too, the 
 exquisite neatness that marked the child, his
 
 112 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 evident refinement and the stump of worthy 
 lineage he bore. % 
 
 "I guess he'll do ! And I think he'll like 
 pretty well, too," he said to himself. And so 
 it proved. Unalloyed joy, but for the absence 
 of his mother, filled the long summer days for 
 Bennie Hart. The old-fashioned farm house, 
 with its quaint belongings, was beautiful to him. 
 The fields about were full of ''unexplored re 
 mainders" in the shape of flower and tree and 
 berry, bird and grasshopper, and butterfly. 
 The half-neglected garden and the shady 
 orchard were a dream of delight. While 
 barn and shed and work-shop never lost their 
 fascinations. He was a frank and truthful 
 little fellow, with only the natural roguishness 
 of childhood, and a boy's inquisitiveness. And 
 there was a certain happy winsomeness about 
 him that made him liked at once. 
 
 They were happy weeks io Mr. Xeal too. 
 It was pleasant to see that little china bowl 
 and plate opposite his own place, and to make 
 ready 'the child's bread and milk before he 
 drank his own coffee in the sunny, cheerful 
 mornings. And it was right good to see that 
 bright face tete-a-tete, where he had been soli 
 tary so long. This child-guest too, failed so 
 far of filling the place of his own loved ones,
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 113 
 
 that it was hardly a painful reminder of his 
 losses. 
 
 "I declare," said Mrs. Spoor, one day, to 
 her husband, as she returned from her cousins, 
 ''I have not seen Simon in such good courage 
 for a long time. That child perks him right 
 up. Seems if 'twas just what he wanted." 
 
 Mary Hart wrote frequent letters to her 
 boy, letters which his host must read to their 
 pleased recipient. And he volunteered to be 
 amanuensis to Bennie, for he knew the mother's 
 heart must crave news of her darling. And he 
 sometimes enclosed a few lines on his own be 
 half to assure her of her boy's well-being. 
 And indeed the child throve wonderfully at 
 Hillside Farm. A more boyish beauty began 
 to take the place of the child's delicate win- 
 someness. And when it seemed probable that 
 Mrs. Hart would not be able to leave the hos 
 pital so soon as she had hoped, Bennie's friend 
 was only too glad to write and offer to keep 
 the child through August also, or even longer. 
 
 So it was that in the golden sunset of a Sep 
 tember day a slender dark-clad woman walked 
 hesitatingly up the yard after the East Stan 
 ford stage had rumbled by, and knocked at 
 Simon Neal's door. He sat at his tea table, 
 though the meal was done, and Bennie had
 
 114 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 slipped from his stool and was deep in some 
 illustrated books on the table in the farther 
 corner of the room . 
 
 "Excuse me, sir, but does Mr. Simon Neal 
 live in the neighborhood ?" 
 
 He had not time to answer, for Bennie had 
 caught his mother's voice and was in her arms 
 almost before the question had passed her 
 lips. But when she had satisfied her longing 
 eyes with the sight of the boy's now round 
 and rosy face, his sturdier limbs, and his own 
 brown, answering eyes, Mr. Neal came for 
 ward to beg that she would sit and rest and, 
 before she could refuse, had poured for her a 
 cup of tea, hot, fragrant, stimulating, with 
 real cream, moreover. Faint from her journey 
 and its excitements, she could but partake, 
 wondering much at the house and its owner, 
 yet wondering not at all that Bennie loved 
 him and that she had instinctively trusted his 
 letter. But she soon recollected herself, the 
 time, the place, the host. 
 
 "A bit of unlocked for good future in the 
 payment of an old debt, made it possible for 
 me to do what the doctor advised so strongly, 
 take a trip into the country. So of course as 
 soon as I could travel, I came to find Bennie," 
 she explained. "And I never can tell you how
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 115 
 
 much I thank you for all your great kindness 
 to him." 
 
 "Not at all, madam ; I am the debtor for the 
 boy's companionship. Right good comrades, we 
 are, eh, Bennie ? But, Madam, you must not go 
 back to the hotel ; here is my cousin, Mrs. 
 Spear ; her summer boarders went last week, 
 and she has plenty of room, and would make 
 you welcome." So, with Bennie to pilot her, 
 Mrs. Hart went back to the house she had 
 passed a little before, and Mrs. Spear, as her 
 cousin had promised, gave her hospitable wel 
 come. Mrs. Hart stayed there a month, first as 
 boarder, then half-guest, half-seamstress, put 
 ting in repair her hostess' simple wardrobe, 
 while Bennie vibrated between the farms. 
 Then, loath to leave Stanford, with its pure 
 air, its lovely hills, its honest friends, its atmos 
 phere of kindliness, she rented rooms in the 
 town, and put out her sign, "Dressmaking." 
 And she was soon earning enough to make her 
 comfortable, contented, hopeful. 
 
 It was hard for Mr. Nealto part from Bennie. 
 
 "Didn't know how much I should miss the 
 little chap," he mused over his solitary break 
 fast, the day after Bennie's departure. But he 
 had the boy out for little visits every now and 
 then, anight, or a day, or over Sunday, when-
 
 116 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ever he could get his mother to spare him. And 
 always, when the farmer went to town, he car 
 ried something for Bonnie, Tallman sweets, 
 Nodheads, or Blue Pearmains ; winter pears, 
 or nuts, or pop-corn ; yellow crook-necked 
 squashes, some of the butter and cheese Bennie 
 like so much. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Neal," said Mrs. Hart one day, 
 as he came in, burdered as usual, "I think you 
 are 'most too kind to Bennie." 
 
 "Oh, them apples came off Bennie's tree, 
 you know." 
 
 "But the butter, and the vegetables, and the 
 potatoes." 
 
 "Well, Bennie helped hoe, didn't you, lad? 
 And we took care of the things together, 
 didn't we?" 
 
 "But at this rate," said the mother laugh 
 ingly, "he would have an interest in half the 
 farm !" 
 
 "It rather looks," said Mrs. Spear, one day, 
 "as though Hillside might some time have a 
 mistress as well as a master. And I'm sure I 
 hope so. But, then, you never can tell. If 
 only the gossips don't spoil it all !" 
 
 The gossip's tongues were busy so busy 
 that Mr. Xeal began to go less frequently, and 
 Mrs. Hart to invent excuses for denying
 
 SIMON NEAL'S CHARITY. 117 
 
 Bennie some of his frequent visits to the farm. 
 But the boy had a severe illness in April, and 
 nothing could keep his good friend away. 
 And when the child was convalescent, of 
 course Mr. Neal must come often to see him 
 and to take him to ride. And one May day, 
 when Stanford and Hillside were every day 
 taking on their old, familiar summer beauty 
 he came in, the boy being outside with his 
 playmates. 
 
 "Nearly as well as ever, he is now," said his 
 mother, "and gaining every day." 
 
 "Yes, he's picked up a good deal, I can see* 
 Now if he only could come out to the farm for 
 the summer, 'twould just set him up again." 
 
 "He don't seem to want to go away from his 
 mother much yet," said Mrs. Hart, a little 
 nervously. 
 
 "No," said Simon Neal, "he don't want to 
 go without his mother. And I don't want him 
 to. Can't you come Mary to stay?" And 
 Mary went.
 
 FREE AND EQUAL 
 
 The great barn doors were wide open, one 
 east and one west, and the fragrant June wind 
 drew in and out. The sun, nearing the hori 
 zon, shone in the west door on the littered 
 floor and yawning mows. A row of patient 
 cows, the sweet breath of the shady pastures 
 in their nostrils, stood in the "tie-up," waiting 
 the milker, who, milking stool in one hand, 
 and milk pail in the other, advanced leisurely 
 to his task. The slender, milky stream, flow 
 ing under his hand, beat a musical tattoo in the 
 bottom of his tin pail for a minute or two, and 
 as the pail filled up, the sound grew softer. 
 
 In the interval, the man became aware that 
 someone was speaking, or reading, or declaim 
 ing, close by. Some sentences, enunciated 
 with deliberate distinctness, reached his ears : 
 
 "We hold these truths to be self-evident : 
 that all men are created equal ; that they are
 
 FREE AND EQUAL. 119 
 
 endowed by their Creator with certain unalien- 
 able rights ; that among these are life, liberty, 
 and the pursuit of happiness." 
 
 Here the reader, or speaker, stopped. 
 
 "Freem ! Freem ! Can you hear that ?" 
 
 "Land alive, yes !" 
 
 "Every word, plain, you sure?" 
 
 "Every word an' letter." 
 
 "All right ! You know I've got to read the 
 Declaration of Independence at the exhibition 
 the night before the Fourth, and I thought I'd 
 come out here and practice," and the boy 
 returned to his retreat, in a high, far corner 
 of the almost empty haymow, and to his ora 
 torical practice, well content. 
 
 "Thought likely 'twas Roy, up to something 
 or other," murmured the man. The pail was 
 full, and a little snowy stream tinkled again 
 in the bottom of another. It had died away 
 into a softer flow, when Roy, beginning anew, 
 pronounced again the words his one listener 
 had caught before. They arrested his attention, 
 and called into definite shape certain thoughts 
 vaguely dawning within him. Some liberty-lov 
 ing revolutionary spirit in the words took hold 
 of him as there was need it should. Freem 
 Burt had never declared his independence yet, 
 though he was past twenty-two. Freem Burt,
 
 120 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 they called him, and he and they wrote it 
 "Freeman," on the rare occasions when it was 
 written anywhere. But he knew, if no one 
 else did, that once it had been something else. 
 "Free and Equal Burt" was the unusual 
 name his half-drunken father had given the 
 baby boy, long ago. The young man felt 
 dimly its ridiculousness and its incongruity. 
 And he felt, in a dumb, half-conscious fashion, 
 its pathos. Little of boyhood's freedom, or 
 manhood's liberty and equality, he had known. 
 lie had been bound out when a boy to a cer 
 tain Barzilla Sparks. He had had, on the 
 farm, food, shelter, clothing, work: of the 
 first three, a comfortable sufficiency ; of the 
 latter, an uncomfortable abundance, and all of 
 the coarsest kind. But it had been home to 
 him, or all the home he had ever known. 
 And even after his twenty-first birthday had 
 come and gone, and his twenty-second, he had 
 stayed on. Squire Sparks was glad enough 
 to have him, though he turned deaf ears to the 
 hints the man dropped regarding the wages 
 that ought now to be his. 
 
 "You have what you need, don't ye, Freem ?" 
 he would say. "You don't go hungry ever, 
 nor suffer for nothing, do ye? 'A man's 
 wages' that you're harping about, a man's
 
 FREE AND EQUAL. 121 
 
 wages, is mighty uncertain. If you git your 
 keep, you've got it about all. That's all I git ;" 
 and the master of the farm would go off to his 
 desk in the "sittin'-room," to reckon the inter 
 est due on certain mortgages, or consider the 
 disposal of the quarter's gains from farm and 
 store and mill. And the next time he went to 
 town, he would bring home a new pair of stout 
 shoes, or a pair of coarse pants, or a straw 
 hat, or, if it were winter, a gay "comforter," 
 for the man. 
 
 If he had known what was working in 
 Freem's mind, he would doubtless have dealt 
 more liberally with him. The "man's wages" 
 Freem coveted, as manhood's due, the Squire 
 would have paid, and more than that, rather 
 than part with him. But Freem's thoughts 
 were his own, and he shared them with no one. 
 And it was as well that he should not be 
 made content, even for a time, at the Sparks' 
 homestead. Freem felt this, dimly, himself. 
 From the door of the "tie-up" he could see the 
 spreading boughs of the trees in the great 
 orchard. He knew how much of the small, 
 puckery fruit went 'into the cider-mill ; he 
 knew his own work in connection therewith, 
 work that he despised and dreaded, though it 
 had its pleasures.
 
 122 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 But Freern had signed Roy's temperance 
 pledge a little while ago, and he meant to keep 
 it. This much of manliness he wanted to hold 
 to. Perhaps, by-and-by, it would lead to 
 something more. But he could not keep that 
 pledge where he was, he knew well. And he 
 had begun to feel, too, even before he signed 
 it, that it was going to be harder for him to 
 hold to clean, sober, manly habits, every year 
 he lived there. Yet the place was dear to him ; 
 all the best years of his poor life had been 
 spent there. He had never known anything 
 like comfort, or the certainty of hardly the 
 next poor meal, or a clean, warm bed, before. 
 And, though he hardly owned it to him 
 self, I think he rather distrusted his power 
 of making his way among men in the 
 world, even in a poor, toilsome fashion. 
 Of tramp-life he had an instinctive abhorrence 
 and dread. He had no trade, and "dull times" 
 were so sure to recur ! If he had been certain 
 of the poorest living, he would have gone forth 
 long ago. 
 
 The closing sentence of the Declaration of 
 '70, uttered and reiterated with varying inflec 
 tions, and with all the sonorous emphasis Roy's 
 boyish voice could give them, sounded in his 
 ears as he finished milking. Freem went and
 
 FREE AND EQUAL. 123 
 
 stood in the door that opened toward the sun 
 set. He was thinking hard, so intently that 
 he did not notice the hushed, cool world, so 
 green and beautiful, nor the crimsoned skies, 
 though he had always had a dumb delight in 
 them and the twilight. Across the w r ay was 
 a little white hou.se, where one of the Squire's 
 employees lived, John Mayne by name. 
 There was a little garden at the side, and a tiny 
 flower-bed in front. And John Mayne's wife 
 was singing softly an old hymn, to the child 
 going to sleep in her arms. 
 
 What might it be to have a home of one's 
 own, such a home as that ! How hard and 
 steadily a man could work, and take comfort 
 in it, if it were for others, his own ! Would 
 the years ever lead him to such depths of joy 
 as this ? He hardly framed the question ; it 
 was a dumb yearning, rather than a wonder, 
 in his heart. 
 
 But something whispered in him : "Homes 
 are for men, not for cowards !" 
 
 "I ain't a coward, an' I won't be !" said 
 Freem Burt, resolutely, answering his own 
 accusing thought. And with that he straight 
 ened up, took his brimming milk-pails, and 
 went along the narrow little path through the 
 grassy yard to the house. And that very
 
 124 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 night he told Barzilla Sparks, busy with his 
 never-ending calculations at the old secretary, 
 that he was about to look for work elsewhere. 
 
 To say that Squire Sparks was aston 
 ished, would be to state the fact very 
 mildly. He regarded Freem as much a 
 fixture as the beams in the old barn. So 
 much astonished was he, he had at first no 
 words at all. Then, recovering himself, and 
 of course setting himself to the task of winning 
 back his trusty help, he hardly knew whether 
 to be indignant or facetious, and so was both 
 alternately, at Freem's expense. But Freem 
 was not to be moved. Slowly as he had come 
 to his resolution of independence and its 
 declaration, once made, every hour only con 
 firmed him in it. 
 
 "Who is the knave," growled the Squire, 
 "who has had the despicable meanness to come 
 sneakin' 'round hirin' my man right out from 
 under my nose ?" 
 
 "Tain't any one," returned Freem. 
 
 "Why, where ye goin'? Don't ye know 
 what you're goin' to do ?" 
 
 "I'm goin' to work and earn my own livin' 
 a man's honest, independent livin'," an 
 swered Freem, with some fire in his gray 
 eyes. "I don't know where, yet, nor what."
 
 FREE AND EQUAL. 125 
 
 Then was the Squire once more astonished. 
 The idea that his man was leaving him for any 
 other reason than the inducement of a good 
 situation with some of the farmers around, or 
 perhaps some simple assured employment in 
 the village, had not occurred to him. But the 
 facts re-assured him somewhat. Freem might 
 look around a little, or even hire out some 
 where through haying, but he would be glad 
 to come back soon. A temporary absence, 
 even at this busy season, might perhaps be put 
 up with, for the sake of what might be later. 
 He concluded it was best to play the part of 
 friend and patron, and even conceal his ire. 
 
 "Well, Freem," he said, at last, "I hope 
 ye'll prosper, I'm sure. An' don't be in a 
 hurry about takin' your things away. Stay 
 with us a few days while you're looking fer 
 another job ; you're welcome to. An' Mis' 
 Sparks most likely'll have somethin' fer ye, 
 some socks or mittens, or a shirt or two, 
 mebbe. An' come back an' see us when you 
 get out of work, or have a chance." 
 
 Freem thanked him, and went out, thankful 
 for a chance to stay a few days, till he should 
 find his work, if it were near by, yet deter 
 mined none the less to find it soon. 
 
 Nevertheless , the search proved not an easy 
 one, nor soon successful. He started out with
 
 126 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 good courage, but every day lost a little of his 
 hopefulness, as every place seemed closed to 
 him. Where was the chance for him to be 
 honest and independent, a man among men? 
 Every avenue to manhood, as he understood 
 it, seemed closed and barred to him. It was 
 close upon haying time, and the farmers 
 seemed all to have hired their hands for the 
 season. Many of them knew him to be "good 
 help," and would have been glad to hire him, 
 had he appeared a little earlier. The Squire, 
 meanwhile, Avas complacent and friendly. 
 Things were turning out even better than he 
 had hoped. Freem could not prosecute this 
 hopeless search much longer ; he would be 
 glad to turn to with the rest next week in the 
 haying field. And Freem was both discour 
 aged and perplexed. He would have been 
 even more despondent, but for John Mayne. 
 This man was proving himself a friend in need' 
 and in deed. The little white house opened 
 its doors to him of an evening or on Sunday, 
 and Sunday was a pleasant day there. They 
 made it holy-day and holiday, in homely coun 
 try fashion. And every glimpse of this simple 
 Christian home-life made Freem long for man 
 hood's vantage, to win manhood's guerdons. 
 
 He had another friend, too, Roy Allen, the 
 child of Squire Sparks' only sister, now in
 
 FREE AND EQUAL. 127 
 
 California with her husband. Roy sympathized 
 right heartily with Freem's efforts, and aided 
 and abetted as far as lay in his power. His 
 influence, though, seemed very little, and his 
 help, also, for a time. 
 
 But it w r as through Roy, at last, that Freem's 
 ''chance" came. Roy Jiad a friend, Hugh 
 
 / ' O 
 
 Clyde, of his own age, to whom, of course, he 
 confided Freem's story. Hugh's father, Colo 
 nel Clyde, was the owner of a foundry in the 
 town. And it transpired that there was need 
 of another man, to do certain heavy work, for 
 which no apprenticeship was necessary ; and, 
 hearing of Freem, and his struggle for inde 
 pendence, Colonel Clyde resolved to give him 
 the place. Now, a foundry, of all -workshops, 
 was to Freem most fascinating. It had a 
 stronger attraction than field or orchard, and 
 the hot breath from the forge was sweeter to 
 him than the wind from June meadows. The 
 hammering, the forging, the riveting, and all 
 the mysterious processes the metal went 
 through, were to him full of charms. He 
 longed, oh, how much ! to be master of them 
 all. And, lo, here was a chance to begin ! 
 It was on the Fourth that the good news came. 
 John Mayne would take him for a boarder, 
 and that very night Freem moved his belong 
 ings across the road.
 
 128 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 And at twilight, as he stood in the door of 
 the little cottage, and looked out into the free, 
 wide world, so full of opportunities, it seemed 
 as if indeed God's hand had set before him an 
 open door.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 
 
 The evening express was late that night. 
 There had been a broken wheel at starting, 
 and then, when fairly under way, the train 
 had been switched oft' at Waybury to let the 
 night freight pass. 
 
 "The last ^witch, they say, between this 
 and Waterton, and the freight train is due 
 here in three-quarters of an hour. So, of 
 course, it's our wait," said a gentleman who 
 had been out to reconnoitre. "But we shall 
 soon be under way again, and they'll put on 
 steam enough to make up for this." 
 
 The passengers had begun to grow uneasy, 
 there had been so long a delay already, and 
 they knew that there was no station, not even 
 a junction, at Waybury, in whose neighbor 
 hood they must be. 
 
 13ut this reassuring word quieted their appre 
 hensions, and they settled themselves more con- 
 7
 
 130 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 tentedly. They were for the most pail a 
 cheerful company, or in a cheerful mood. It 
 was Christmas Eve, and "home for Christmas" 
 seemed written in almost every face. 
 
 Among the few who were not homeward 
 bound was the Rev. Arthur Avery, going to 
 preach on the morrow the day fell on the 
 Sabbath at Waterton. He had been supply 
 ing there some weeks past, not as a candidate, 
 they said, nor on trial, exactly; yet it was 
 understood that "a call" would probably be 
 accepted. And the church, on the other hand, 
 though it waxed critical over gesture, expres 
 sion, manner, doubtless expressed itself through 
 the senior deacon, who "didn't know as they 
 could do better." 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Avery came up each Satur 
 day night from Kingsford, the college town 
 where he had been born and bred, where his 
 parents still lived, where, for a year or two, 
 pending a settlement, he had been serving in 
 place of an absent professor, now returned, 
 whither also, he had lately brought his young 
 wife. 
 
 There was a sprinkling of scholarly men in 
 the congregation at Waterton, as Mr. Avery 
 was perhaps too well aware. Judge Pitman, 
 Doctor Andrews, Squire Holt, Lawyer Sim-
 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 131 
 
 mons, Mr. Burton, who edited "The Waterton 
 News," and one or two others. And the pru 
 dential board had its share, the young minister 
 knew. So he had not only been bringing his 
 best sermons, from week to week, but exerting 
 himself to prepare even better ones than the 
 ministerial portfolio yet contained. It was 
 this that began the trouble to-night. He did 
 not use full notes or manuscript sermons, and 
 the morrow's message was now maturing in his 
 mind. The train of his discourse had suffered 
 as many hindrances as the train that was bear 
 ing him on to preach it. Of course all the 
 historical facts, and recondite allusions, and 
 pertinent quotations he meant to introduce, he 
 had carefully verified in his study. But the 
 sequence of his topics was not quite clear, and 
 the peroration refused to take shape at all. 
 The talk and laughter around him irked and 
 disturbed him. 
 
 "How long have we to wait, do you know?" 
 he asked of his neighbor in front. 
 
 "Oh, a matter of an hour or an hour and a 
 half, I should judge. I believe there are two 
 freights to come down between this and mid 
 night, and we're so lata now we shall have to 
 get clear of both of them." 
 
 The air in the car was hot and close ; from 
 a window opposite, open a trifle, came a breath
 
 132 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 of wind deliciously cool, and through the 
 shadows outside he caught the gleam of a star. 
 
 "An hour yet and probably longer." Mr. 
 Avery's head was aching, and he was tired. 
 A brisk walk, he reflected, would quicken the 
 vital currents of both body and mind. So a 
 moment later he was pacing up and down the 
 trodden snow between the tracks. The en 
 gine was panting beside him, and brakemen 
 and switch-tender went to and fro, answering 
 the enquiries of the others who, like himself, 
 had sought the air. It was better than the 
 stifling car, certainly. His head felt better 
 already. But he could not think to advantage 
 in the bustle, small as it was. 
 
 A little, beaten foot-path led up through the 
 snow that clothed the fields, and betrayed the 
 direction of the switch-tender's home. And 
 in the near distance the minister saw the 
 twinkle of scattered lights, put out one by one 
 as the evening waned. 
 
 An hour yet ! and Mr. A very climbed the 
 gentle slope lifting his eyes to the stars, and 
 baring his head for a moment with the invol 
 untary feeling that he had stepped into a 
 church the night was so still, so serene, so 
 solemn, the snow so pure, the starry canopy 
 above him so vast yet so near. It seemed to
 
 A CHKISTMAS MESSAGE. 133 
 
 him somehow like the first Christmas, when 
 the world waited in such unconscious readiness 
 and want for Christ's coming such a great, 
 mute expectancy was in earth and skies. So 
 musing, he went on, till the whistle of an ap 
 proaching train sounded below. 
 
 "Time enough yet," he thought, "for another 
 train comes down by-and-by." 
 
 Turning leisurely, he retraced his steps 
 he had gone some distance through the fields 
 still without haste, for that application was 
 taking point and polish very rapidly now. 
 But he had not gone half-way down the hill 
 when another whistle smote his ear. 
 
 The first freight had already passed ; this 
 must be the second, and two minutes later, this 
 also, groaned by. Immediately the waiting 
 train, all ready, evidently, for a new start, 
 shifted to the other track, took breath in great, 
 fiery gasps, and sped on its way. 
 
 The minister, meanwhile, had put on speed 
 also, and reached the track as the train van 
 ished round the nearest curve. 
 
 "Got left, didn't ye?" asked the switch- 
 tender. "Well, now, that's too bad. They 
 started up quite sudden at last ; they always 
 do. But if y ou aint going further'n Waterton, 
 there's a special runs up there about daylight 
 to-morrow morning switches off here, too."
 
 134 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "That's just where I am going, if I have to 
 walk." 
 
 "Oh, you're all right. If you'll only be on 
 hand about day-break, or a little afore, I'll put 
 you on as slick as can be. An' them specials go 
 like the wind, you know you'll be there in 
 no time but you must be here, and you 
 needn't stay out doors all night, either." 
 
 "Oh, I shall do very well, I'm a good 
 walker." 
 
 But the man shook his head. 
 
 "No need on't ! Here's the Widder Kerle 
 over here, her father's bad with asthma, he's 
 had a terrible phthisicky spell ; so she has to 
 be up with him all times o' night. She'll take 
 ye in, an' I'll go along with ye. 'Twon't 
 trouble her any, she ain't that kind ; wouldn't 
 let a dumb critter lay out." 
 
 A few minutes later the man was knocking 
 at the door of a wide house on the right of the 
 widening path, and explaining his errand to 
 the rather weary yet sweet-faced woman who 
 answered the summons. She, too, insisted 
 that our wayfarer was welcome, and, since he 
 very positively declined supper and bed, left 
 him in a comfortable, home-like sitting-room, 
 where a great coal-stove gave out a delicious 
 warmth, and a broad lounge, which she pres-
 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 135 
 
 ently supplied with comfortables, promised 
 rest. 
 
 "And you needn't worry about waking. I 
 shall be up, I'm not going to bed anyway, I 
 shall be up and down. And I always hear 
 that train. And don't mind, please, if you 
 hear us stirring. My brother is ill and suffer 
 ing and my sister came home yesterday from 
 the West with her little children one very 
 small. Good night, sir ; I hope you will rest." 
 
 She closed the door behind her, but another, 
 partly open, led into the kitchen, whither, a 
 little later, the minister, unable to sleep, saw 
 his hostess go, followed by another woman, 
 who was very like her only younger, smaller, 
 slighter, and whose pale face, sad eyes, and 
 mourning dress told of recent bereavement. 
 A row of little stockings of graduated sizes 
 betrayed their errand. They filled them 
 together with presents, various and usually 
 simple, from the long stockings dangling their 
 brown legs in the corner beside the chimney 
 to the wee pink sock by the stove. Before 
 they were done a little wailing cry came from 
 another room, and the mother answered it 
 appearing presently with her baby in her 
 arms, and sat watching her sister. 
 
 "Last year," she began, "their father helped 
 me. I wasn't well, and he went out and got
 
 136 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 all the things. Such a good time as he made 
 for them ! This one wasn't here then my 
 poor, little fatherless child !" and the sobs 
 came, and tears fell. 
 
 The other let her weep for a little, then she 
 said : 
 
 " 'A God of the fatherless' He is, and our 
 brother." 
 
 "I know, I know ! And I'm selfish to add 
 a bit to your burdens you, that know all 
 about it, that have been through it all before 
 me, long ago, and more. Lydia, how did you, 
 how could you bear it so, and live on?" 
 
 The other did not answer for a little, and 
 when she did, it was in words not her own 
 "The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom 
 shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my 
 life, of whom shall I be afraid?' f l know' that 
 my Redeemer liveth.' 'Lo, I am with you 
 always, even unto the end of the world.' " 
 
 She had taken the child now, and the flicker 
 of the fire made a radiance about its head, and 
 reflected the light of her own steadfast eyes. 
 She looked as Mary might have looked with 
 the child Jesus in her arms. 
 
 But she was talking now in an undertone : 
 ''I didn't know as I'd be able to get Rob's 
 skates ; and the magazine Jamie wanted so, I
 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 137 
 
 couldn't afford. The boys saved their pennies 
 to get May that book, I knitted the purse, and 
 the apron you brought is lovely. It takes 
 such a little to please them. It isn't the worth 
 of the gifts, nor even having the things, that 
 they enjoy most I think. It's the Christmas 
 cheer, I believe. I try to be happy with 
 them, and it isn't hard, either. What a day 
 Christmas is ! The Day for everyone. It 
 takes in all blessings, doesn't it. And we feel 
 it, like light or warmth, whether we realize 
 all about it or not. I saw a picture once of 
 Christ the Consoler, Christ our Comforter. I 
 always think of it at Christmas time. Even 
 when my sorrows were hardest to bear I was 
 always glad of Christmas time. Lena, you 
 must go straight to bed : I want you to let 
 Rob get out the sleigh and take you to church 
 in the morning. Elder Petus will be sure 
 to have some good helpful Gospel word for 
 Christmas Day. Seems as if every sermon 
 was a special message of Christ." 
 
 The house grew still again, but Mr. A very 
 could not sleep. Not even after he had crept 
 into the kitchen and slipped a shining silver 
 coin into each stocking. What sort of a 
 Christmas message would his elaborate dis 
 course be to those in his congregation who
 
 138 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVE8. 
 
 were burdened with grief, or loneliness, or 
 want, or temptation, or care ? Was it really the 
 good tidings of the living, loving, present 
 Christ? Ah, what would the world be without 
 Him? How truly he abode in this woman's 
 heart, and in her home ! And while he mused, 
 there came a vision, infinitely precious, of 
 how near God came when Jesus was born in 
 Bethlehem ; how, having entered into our 
 human life how deeply and really, and at 
 what cost of suffering, only He can know 
 our Lord is still sharing it. How God sent, 
 out of His love, His Son to declare Him and 
 His love. 
 
 The clock in the corner chimed again, and a 
 little later Mrs. Kerle appeared. But her 
 visitor was all ready to go, thanking her 
 heartily for her hospitality, but refusing to 
 allow her to extend it further, even to include 
 a cup of coffee, which she begged to make him. 
 Half an hour later he had boarded the special, 
 and was speeding towards AVaterton, reach 
 ing the town just as the earliest sunbeams 
 touched the spires, and ere the rose of dawn 
 had faded from the Christmas skies. 
 
 It was noticed that Mr. Avery used fewer 
 notes even than usual in the pulpit that day. 
 Perhaps, his hearers thought, that was one 

 
 A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 139 
 
 reason why his message seenred so warm, so 
 rich, so comforting. Ah ! it could not fail to 
 be it was all about our Christ. 
 
 It would have done you good to hear the 
 comments as the people went out. 
 
 "A real Gospel sermon," said Judge Pitman. 
 
 "It came right home," said the woman be 
 hind him, while her neighbor added, in a quav 
 ering voice she was old and feeble : 
 
 "It done me a world of good." 
 
 Dr. Andrews pronounced it "a most excel 
 lent and timely discourse," while the editor 
 declared in his turn , that "it brought the real 
 Christmas glow." 
 
 Mr. Avery did not hear all the}^ said, but 
 he did hear the call they unanimously extended 
 at the very next church meeting, and he 
 accepted it.
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 
 
 In the heart of a lovely bit of country, .set 
 in the shelter of clustering hills, Alan Brain- 
 erd's farm stretched east and west its fertile, 
 well tilled acres. Silvery streams crossed its 
 pastures, and here and there shone gem-like 
 pond* sapphire under the clear skies of May 
 or November, emerald when June's greenness 
 fringed their sloping banks, and changing to 
 ruby and garnet when the October woods 
 leaned over them, and dropped their burned- 
 out leaves into the mirroring depths. 
 
 Close to old Blueridge itself grew the oaks 
 and the birches of his woodlands, while 
 down to the shores of Little River spread his 
 well watered meadows and mellow wheat- 
 fields. And 'severe indeed was the weather, 
 when some of his numerous hands were not 
 swinging the axes and driving the sleds in the 
 former, or guiding the plow, the mower or 
 the reaper in the latter.
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 141 
 
 The nucleus of it had been his father's and 
 grandfather's homestead. Other lands adjoin 
 ing, or so near that it was easy to secure the 
 intervening acres, had become his by later 
 inheritance. And by well-timed purchase, 
 and in payment of long-standing debts, more 
 had been added, until, looking from his piazza 
 north, east or west, he could see only his own 
 possessions. South of him run the highway, 
 and opposite, on the other side of the road, 
 were farms with narrower frontage, stretching 
 far back toward the lesser hills which faced 
 Blueridge. 
 
 The house, in its outward appearance, at 
 least, accorded well with its master. It was a 
 grim, time-defying structure of stone. Its 
 wide front and southern exposure, its terraced 
 lawn and massive porch, its broad, little-used 
 front door, and the quaint windows above the 
 entrance that held the sunset light till they 
 glowed like opals, all suggested gracious pos 
 sibilities, but joyless actualities. 
 
 One thought, as one passed it for the first 
 time, into what rich beauty the place might 
 flower, if a glad household life were within it ; 
 and felt, even though a stranger, that its gray 
 walls had not sheltered such an one for many 
 a year.
 
 142 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 And the man himself reminded you of some 
 thing he was not, and seemed likely never to 
 be. Tall, gaunt, muscular, with firmly set 
 lips and keen, stern eyes, and a reserve neither 
 audacity nor friendliness could penetrate, his 
 neighbors would have found it easier to give 
 him their sympathy and affection, even if 
 unspoken, had he not so successfully guarded 
 every avenue of approach. 
 
 Years before, so long ago that it was to his 
 younger townsmen hardly more than a tradi 
 tion, life had promised him very different 
 things, and there had been in him, plainly 
 seen, an answering potency that seemed likely 
 to yield to his fellowmen rich revenues of 
 helpfulness, a really noble fruitage of useful 
 ness and influence. But long ere the vintage 
 time, even in the ripening cluster, the wine 
 had turned bitter and acid. 
 
 Old women talked of it sadly over their knit 
 ting or their teacups when they visited together, 
 or were coaxed to tell it to their grandchildren 
 in long summer afternoons or lonely evenings. 
 
 Mrs. Price, grandma to half the neighbor 
 hood, and young at eighty, sat one wild March 
 day in the chimney-corner of the house opposite 
 "the 'Squire's," as Alan Brainerd was always 
 called when he had passed his youth. The
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 143 
 
 smoke curled upward from his tall chimneys, 
 plain even in the whirling snow, and, reminded 
 thereby of the lonely master of the house, Bar 
 bara Price, a favorite granddaughter, began 
 to beg for the stoiy of his life, which no one 
 could tell as grandma could, she said. "Tell 
 about what changed him so," she added, "and 
 makes him different from other people. Was 
 it just his trouble ?" 
 
 " Must his trouble,' Barbara ? Ah, you don't 
 know what that was, I guess. Though I don't 
 mean to s&y anyone has any right to let any 
 sorrow the Lord sends spoil his life or make 
 his heart bitter or cold. But I'll tell you 
 about it. 
 
 "Alan was just twenty-two when he was 
 married, and his wife was Mary Dunning. 
 They had lived side and side all their lives, and 
 set everything by each other. He brought 
 her Mayflowers, and made her flower garden, 
 for she hadn't any brothers ; and he took her 
 to school on his sled in winter-time, and filled 
 up a corner of their attic for her, with nuts, 
 and acorns, and traces of popcorn, in the fall. 
 She never had a word for anybody else, and 
 he never seemed to know there was any other 
 girl round where she was. 
 
 "Well 's I said, they was married, and he 
 took her home, and both their folks was well
 
 144 UNDER FRIEN.DLY EAVES. 
 
 pleased. And they had two children, only a 
 year or two apart, as bright and handsome as 
 need be. 
 
 "Then, pretty soon, they hadn't been mar 
 ried more than five or six years ; I guess the 
 boy, he was the oldest, wasn't quite four, and 
 the girl maybe a year old, trouble began to 
 come, and it kept coming, and steady. 
 
 "First, his folks died, father and mother, 
 and brother and sister. Then hers went, all 
 but one sister, that she took home finally, to 
 live with her. Then, as though 'twas coming 
 nearer and nearer, they lost their little boy. 
 That was a great stroke to 'em, I expect, but 
 they bore up under it well. 
 
 "But it wasn't but a little while before she 
 went, too, quite sudden, with quick consump 
 tion. And he's never been the same since, 
 though he did have his little girl, for a while, 
 and her siste-r to take care of her. Till by and 
 by, diphthery came into the neighborhood 
 it was a dreadful time tor all of us, I can tell 
 you : and the little girl took it and died in 
 three days, and then Nora Dunning, she took 
 it, and come out of it, but never got her 
 strength back, and died in three months in a 
 decline. And that was all there was to go," 
 the narrator added, soberly, wiping her eyes.
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 145 
 
 "Folks thought he would, and I guess he'd 
 have been right willing, but the Bruinerd con 
 stitution is beyond almost anything. He's had 
 typhus fever since, and just pulled through. 
 That was, let me see, fifteen, yes, twenty, 
 years ago, more, for aught I know. He's been 
 alone ever since. One of the solitary that aint 
 set in families, here, I tell 'em. But I can't 
 feel reconciled, not to see him reconciled, 
 myself; and now I don't know as he ever will 
 be. And still, I tell 'em, it may be only his 
 way of taking it. We can't tell about such 
 things." 
 
 "No, he hardly ever goes to a neighbor's or 
 to see anyone. And, of course, bein* that's 
 the case, hardly anyone goes there. But it 
 isn't true what they say about his being stingy 
 and snappish. I've lived by him fifty years, 
 and I know better." 
 
 "He is very rich," said another listener. 
 
 "I suppose so. Yes, he must be, even for 
 these days. But," with a flash of resentful 
 indignation, "he isn't a miser ! He just hasn't 
 anything to do with his money. He can't use 
 it, and hasn't any of his own kin to spend it 
 on, and he don't see any other worth-while 
 way to use it. I tell 'em Alan Brainerd got 
 his death blow twenty-five years back, and has
 
 146 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 only half lived ever since. I do sometimes 
 think his spirit went when Mary's did, and 
 just as truly. Anyway, I haint seen anything 
 that's looked like it since. It ain't no more 
 like him to settle down and scrimp and save, 
 than nothing ! He just does it because there 
 aint anything else for him to do. He aint 
 living, he's just staying, and has been. I'm 
 right glad he's going to Boston next week, if 
 he is. I think he ought to go off and stay 
 quite a while, quite often." 
 
 Easter came betimes that year, early in 
 April ; and the month had already begun 
 when Alan Brainerd set out on his journey. 
 Up among the hills, and in Hilton itself, there 
 were few signs of Spring. Only the pussy 
 willows in the pastures, and the cawing crow r s 
 in the woods, and perhaps an early bluebird, 
 told that she was on her way. The w r inds still 
 sw r ept across the fields and moaned among the 
 pines, in whose shelter the arbutus still sheathed 
 its buds. Even the wind-flowers, frail and 
 venturesome, had hardly looked out into the 
 slowly softening air. Meadow andbrookside, 
 and forest path, and pasture-knoll alike, were 
 covered deeply with snow. 
 
 But here, whither he went, a little farther 
 southward, and beside the sea, spring had al-
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 147 
 
 ready come. Crocus-beds made bits of glow 
 ing color in the yards as he passed through the 
 suburbs, and the daffodils held up their sun- 
 filled cups in sheltered places. In the florists' 
 windows were banks of purple violets, golden- 
 hearted pansies, white and crimson carnations, 
 and, outnumbering and outshining all the rest, 
 the stainless Easter lilies, for it was Passion 
 w r eek. 
 
 Our friend saw the open church doors, and 
 read the announcements of the daily services, 
 but found no time to attend them. Indeed, 
 the business he had planned to transact while 
 in the city might have filled a much longer 
 time than the few days he had planned to spend 
 there. It kept him busy from morning till 
 night, and he found, when Saturday evening 
 came, that he should be obliged to remain some 
 days longer to complete it. Besides, there were 
 on his list memoranda of calls to be made and 
 of purchases that could not be put off, while 
 he had meant to give a day or two to the 
 book-stores, and to take as long a time to go 
 about leisurely. So he wrote to Burns, his 
 trusted man at Hilton, not to expect him until 
 that day week. 
 
 Easter Sunday was clear and bright. The 
 sunshine came in at his window, and the
 
 148 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 chimes played softly, gladly, tenderly, in the 
 hour before church-time when he sat in his 
 room, reading a little, thinking much, and re 
 membering, I am afraid, even on Easter Day, 
 only, or chiefly, his griefs and loneliness. 
 
 But even the long-worn mail of his sorrows 
 was not proof against all the sweet influences 
 of the dear holy-day, whose hope sounded in 
 the church bells, nodded in the flowers people 
 carried in their hands, and shone in their faces. 
 When the bells were ringing their last, swift 
 peals, he joined the throng. 
 
 He had determined beforehand where he 
 would go, partly out of a desire to see the 
 building itself, for new Trinity was really new 
 then, partly because of the fame of the 
 preacher, and partly because of a genuine love 
 for the ritual of the church. Of another com 
 munion himself, the "prayers of the ages" 
 seemed to him to voice, as others rarely did, 
 the heart's deep need. A prayer-book, worn 
 with daily use, lay on his own study-table. 
 
 Following a beckoning hand as he entered 
 the vestibule, he was led to a seat in the mid 
 dle of the church, beside a great pillar which 
 threatened to shut quite from his view the 
 face and form of the preacher. It did obscure 
 it for some time, then, when the sermon was
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 149 
 
 well begun, a movement of the other occu 
 pants of the pew caused our friend to change 
 his position, softly, to lose no word of the 
 eager message pouring torrent-like, from lips 
 and heart of one who felt himself and proved 
 himself a messenger of God ; and he found 
 himself facing the speaker, whose noble, 
 benignant face, and glowing, steadfast, loving- 
 eyes interpreted as even his voice could not 
 the words he uttered. 
 
 The years had brought to Alan Brainerd 
 their own interpretations of his losses. He 
 had, of late, especially, been ready to receive 
 them, to see, if it had such, the nobler aspect 
 of his grief. But such a message as this had 
 never come before. 
 
 The sermon has carried, since that long ago 
 Easter Day when it was first uttered, its great 
 burden of hope and comfort to unnumbered 
 hearts. It has been read in homes without 
 number. There is hardly a discourse in all 
 the matchless series that is lingered over more 
 thoughtfully and thankfully. And upon this 
 hearer the sentences fell 'like long- waited show 
 ers on thirsty fields that are withering in 
 drought. 
 
 "It is the thought of an eternal God that 
 really gives consistency to the fragmentary
 
 150 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 lives of men, the fragmentary history of the 
 world. A Christ that liveth, redeems and 
 rescues into his eternity the broken, tempo 
 rary lives and works of His disciples. * * * 
 So long as there are men living and dying, so 
 long above them and around them there shall 
 be the Christ, the God-man, Avho liveth and 
 was dead, and is alive forevermore. 
 
 "Let me show you the way into, the way 
 through and the way out of this sorrow which 
 you cannot escape. Into it by perfect submis 
 sion, through it with implicit obedience, out 
 of it with purified passions and entire love. * * 
 
 "To-day we can see that duty is worth 
 while. Duty is the one thing on earth that is 
 so vital that it can go through death and come 
 to glory. Duty is the one seed that has such 
 life in it that it can lie as long as God wills in 
 the mummy hand of death, and yet be ready 
 at any moment to start into new growth in the 
 new soil where He shall set it. So let us all 
 consecrate our Easter Day by resolutely tak 
 ing up some new duty which we know we 
 ought to do. We bind ourselves so by a new 
 chain to eternity, to the eternity of Him who 
 for the joy that was set before Him endured 
 the cross, despising the shame, and is set 
 down at God's right hand. *****
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 151 
 
 "In those moments when Christ is most real 
 to me, when He lives in the centre of my desire 
 and I am resting most heavily upon His help, 
 in those moments I am surest that the dead 
 are not lost> that those whom this Christ in 
 whom I trust has taken, He is keeping. The 
 more He lives to me the more they live. * * * 
 
 r 'I want to make you feel the force of the 
 living Christ today. * * * If the city of our 
 heart is holy with the presence of a living 
 Christ, then our dear dead will come to us, 
 and we shall know that they are not dead, but 
 living, and bless Him who has been their 
 Redeemer, and rejoice in the work they are 
 doing in His perfect world, and pass on joy 
 ously to our own redemption, not fearing even 
 the grave, since by its side stands He whom 
 we know and love. ******* 
 
 ''He is alive! Do you believe it? What 
 are you dreary for, O mourner? What are 
 you hesitating for, O worker? What are you 
 fearing death for, O man? Oh, if we could 
 only life up our heads and live with Him ; live 
 new lives, high lives, lives of hope^ and love 
 and holiness, to which death should be noth 
 ing but the breaking away of the last cloud, 
 and the letting of the life out to its completion !" 
 
 There was only the Recording Angel to reg-
 
 152 UNDER FRIENDLY E.AVES. 
 
 ister the vow, but, as the preacher ended, Alan 
 Brainerd's heart made answer, silently, solemnly, 
 fervently, "I will." 
 
 Then, like one of old, he ''conferred not with 
 flesh and blood," nor did he at first speak to 
 any one of the message that had come to him 
 that Easter Day, though the day had doubly 
 fulfilled itself to him. 
 
 But Burns, when he met him some days 
 afterward at Hilton station, ventured to say, 
 discerning dimly something in his face that had 
 not been there before : 
 
 "You're looking better, sir ! Your trip has 
 done you good, I guess." 
 
 "It has," said his master shaking hands 
 heartily. 
 
 As was characteristic of the man, the change 
 in him was made evident to his neighbors and 
 townsmen slowly, and in unostentatious ways. 
 Gradually they realized that if any one in the 
 village needed a helping hand, "the Squire" 
 was usually the first to offer it, and that no 
 one was so swift to discern any want or 
 trouble, or so skilful in alleviating it as he. 
 
 Little by little, the stone house relaxed its 
 sternness. Roses grew again around the pil 
 lars and flower-beds around the terraces. The 
 windows stood open all the June days through,
 
 ONE EASTER DAY. 153 
 
 and rustic chairs stood at hospitable angles on 
 the piazzas. Flowers and fruit went from the 
 gardens to the sick and poor, not to mention 
 the more substantial gifts that orchard and 
 granary furnished. The treasures of the 
 library were again and again offered to ambi 
 tious and appreciative youth. The daughter 
 of a far-away cousin, with her little crippled 
 brother, found a home under the wide roof, 
 and a life-long shelter under "the 'Squire's" 
 generous care. Once or twice a season, too, 
 the house was thrown open for a long delight 
 ful evening, and all the townsfolk were bidden 
 in to greet its owner, share its good cheer, 
 feast their eyes on its gathered treasures, and 
 lose both prejudice and anxiety in its genial 
 atmosphere. 
 
 The church was repaifed, the minister's sal 
 ary advanced, the academy endowed, a library 
 established, and a variety of beneficent forces 
 set in operation in the social life of the vil 
 lage changes the older generation never ceased 
 to wonder at, and the newer one accepted as a 
 somewhat uncommon heritage ; one to be 
 prized and guarded, and which was enhanced, 
 for a little, by the giver's presence among them. 
 
 But only for a little. Half a decade, al 
 ready, has slipped away since ; glad to go, he 
 8
 
 154 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 passed on as has now gone the noble preacher 
 to whom he owed so much and, all unknon, 
 loved and reverenced so deeply to the City 
 that has in it no temple ; "for the Lord God, 
 the Almighty, and the Lamb are the temple 
 thereof."
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 
 
 The blackberry vines, whose ebon fruit there 
 were so many little fingers to seize upon, were 
 all invisible ; and the February snows had 
 draped the low", leafless sumachs, dwarfed by 
 the drifts beneath, with clinging, frosty fleeces. 
 The little, clumsily-framed building faced the 
 north, so that no "ragged beggar" would seek 
 the shelter of its rude porch. Otherwise, it 
 was very like the schoolhouse that lived so 
 long in Whittier's memory, and has been made 
 imperishable in his tender lyric. 
 
 Stoutly built in the first place, time and the 
 elements have touched it but lightly ; and the 
 "s'lectmen" of the town have felt themselves at 
 liberty to let it alone, also. And so it stands 
 with its "worn door-sill," its grimy, pencil- 
 marked walls, and its rudely-shapen seats, 
 whereon many a schoolboy has left his "carved 
 initial" perhaps the most enduring inscription
 
 156 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 more than one of them has made a model, 
 such as the Exposition, with all its relics, did 
 not hold, of the old-time district school. 
 
 Less than a score of years ago, at half-past 
 four on a mid-winter afternoon, more than a 
 score and a half of scholars poured out of it, 
 clutching their dinner-pails and seizins: their 
 sleds, and carrying, too, with some care, cloth- 
 rimmed slates and cajico-covered geographies, 
 for lessons were assigned to the older ones, at 
 least, on "the presumption of brains, "and with 
 a thought of what might be done in the long 
 winter evenings. 
 
 o 
 
 Within were a half-dozen more, (it was a 
 large district and they had a popular teacher) 
 all save one of whom were scowling over a 
 mis-said lesson. That one, having replaced 
 the nails over one of the windows through 
 which the teacher had renewed the exhausted 
 air, hasped the cellar-door, and heaped up the 
 woodbox, stood by the stove in the chilling 
 room, waiting, yet not impatiently. The dingy 
 place was dear to him, dearer, maybe than to 
 any other. Shy, and awkward, even to un- 
 couthness, he stood twirling his faded cap and 
 scanning the algebra problems which the 
 teacher had just placed upon the blackboard, 
 and to some purpose, for before the dilatory
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 157 
 
 pupils had finished their tasks he had framed 
 the last equation, pinning it down with a 
 dogged mental repetition, absorbing, mean 
 while, enough of the history questions that 
 were being written beside them to put him a 
 day in advance of his class, and leave to-mor 
 row for its own recitations and the preparation 
 which must immediately precede them. For 
 the longest, darkest evening brought little 
 leisure to him. 
 
 It was later than usual when teachers and 
 scholars had at last turned from the door 
 stone, and he might lock the heavy door, 
 pocket the cumbrous key, and go his way. He 
 remembered as he did so that "the Squire" had 
 gone to the county seat to attend court that 
 da}', and would not be home till late at night, 
 and that he had been charged to bring home 
 the mail. There were many chores, too, to 
 be done before supper time. 
 
 So he stepped off briskly, losing some of his 
 awkwardness when he was by himself in the 
 open air, with the glowing skies and snow- 
 wrapped hills looking down upon him, and 
 quickening into consciousness within him a 
 sense of their peace and beauty. 
 
 But this serenity was banished when, a few 
 minutes later, waiting at the post office for his
 
 158 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 turn at the delivery window, he heard voices 
 behind the thin partition, familiar and girlish 
 ones, and by-and-by his own name. 
 
 "Wherever did you get it, Dorothy, and 
 whom are you going to send it to? It's lovely, 
 and just barely in season." 
 
 It was Freda Colton's voice, shrill and eager, 
 and a softer one answered, hesitating and 
 reluctant, as if giving up some secret she would 
 have kept, but could not : 
 
 "Uncle Ezra gave it to me. The wrapper 
 to it was lost in the mail-bag, or else it was 
 put in without any. Anyway, there was no 
 address, and nothing with it to tell who sent 
 it or where it came from, so it belonged to 
 him, you know." 
 
 Ezra Given was postmaster at Oldberg, and 
 Dorothy Carver was his niece. But the other's 
 harsher tones broke in again : 
 
 "Well, it's a beauty, the handsomest one I 
 ever saw, about. And that verse is lovely, 
 too. Let me look at it again, will you? H'm ! 
 that wouldn't fit everyone, would it? Let me 
 think, I should send it to Will Gushom." 
 
 Through the glass of some empty mail-boxes 
 the listener could see the curl of the other's lip 
 as she drew away, refolding carefully the 
 valentine.
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 159 
 
 "They don't describe him," she said, simply, 
 with a quick emphasis on the final pronoun. 
 
 "Fred Curtis, then?" 
 
 She shook her head again, and as decidedly 
 at each name that followed. 
 
 "Ned Armstrong? Arthur Ellis? Frank 
 Willman? Well, I give it up. You'll have 
 to give it to John Bradley." 
 
 The honest sarcasm of the last words stung 
 gentle, reserved Dorothy into unusual warmtk 
 and frankness. 
 
 "He is the only one they would fit, as you 
 say," she replied, and holding the package 
 tightly, she hurried away, glad to cool her hot 
 cheeks in the frosty darkness. 
 
 And John Bradley, pocketing the Squire's 
 mail mechanically, was glad of the shelter 
 of the same cool shadows, and for once, 
 of the long, lonely walk, albeit he was late 
 already. Here 'was something to think of 
 more absorbing, aye, and more satisfying than 
 any problem that book-keeping or algebra or 
 the fascinating geometry could furnish, or 
 history suggest, though they had solaced many 
 a lonely hour. 
 
 The Squire brought the mail himself the 
 next night, throwing it on the table a little 
 contemptuously as he entered.
 
 160 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "Nothing to speak of," he said, "but a letter 
 for you, Mary, from Lois, I guess. The rest 
 are circulars and papers. One of them is for 
 you, John." 
 
 And, though his second glance at the brown 
 envelope was a little keen, and was followed 
 by a look at the youth himself, as with clumsy 
 fingers he took it, he made no other comment, 
 and John, thankful that Mrs. Patten had a few 
 moments before complained of a whistling draft 
 down the stairway, murmured something about 
 his window's being open, and withdrew, mail 
 in hand, ostensibly to shut it. 
 
 Once within the walls of his own room he 
 drew a long breath that was almost a sigh, 
 and opened the envelope with hands that trem 
 bled. He knew the handwriting in which it 
 
 o 
 
 was addressed, and which there had been no 
 attempt to disguise, and he knew by sight 
 the folded missive that Dorothy had held so 
 tightly twenty-four hours before. 
 
 There it was, in all its pristine daintiness, 
 not a mark upon the glittering frost-work of its 
 delicate decoration. And the verses that she 
 had said fitted him. He bent his head to read 
 them, and there is no honor that valor or noble 
 ness can earn, or fellowman bestow, signifi 
 cant enough to make him so glad and proud as 
 did that quaint verse from an old poet.
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 161 
 
 He sat quite still a long time after he had 
 read it. 
 
 "Maybe it does, some of it," he said to him 
 self, at length. 
 
 "It shall, anyway, sometime, the whole 
 of it." 
 
 Never was knightly vow made with fuller 
 and more joyful consecration than this unwit 
 nessed one. But of the endeavors that went 
 to its fulfilment, homely, pathetic, persistent, 
 self-forgetful, few knew, though all within the 
 radius of his efforts were enriched, gladdened, 
 or bettered thereby. 
 
 Oldbergians knew that Squire Patten hired 
 him that spring and summer, but that he "kept 
 himself awful close of an evenin', except it was 
 conference or lecture, or something special at 
 the town hall ;" that he did the work of two 
 with his young strength and tireless zeal. 
 They knew he entered college in the fall, with 
 out conditions, and the Squire's nephew said 
 the Squire had lent him, or offered to lend him, 
 money enough to go through with. They 
 knew he worked summers and taught winters, 
 twice at Oldberg, where his success, measured 
 by the solid acquirements of his pupils, and 
 the inspiration and direction they somehow had 
 from him, was something wonderful.
 
 162 UNDER FRIEXDLY EAVES. 
 
 They knew that when Arthur Ellis was ex 
 pelled in disgrace John was the only one who 
 stood by him or seemed to know how to win 
 his confidence, prevailing on the Squire him 
 self to employ him as accountant in the office 
 at his own mill, and that it was doubtless 
 John's intervention he had been three years 
 in college then that saved two others of the 
 Oldberg boys from sharing Ellis's disgrace. 
 They knew he graduated with honor, took a 
 year at the Polytechnic, obtained at once a 
 position in some Western city, and, after the 
 briefest visit to his native town, during which 
 he took a decrepit great-aunt from the poor- 
 house, where she had been placed by some dis 
 tant cousins whose unpaid servant she had been 
 through most of her active years, and placed 
 her in the family of widow Carleton, who would 
 care for her faithfully, and who was glad to 
 have the weekly addition to her income which 
 John pledged himself to make in payment. 
 
 There was, indeed, one person, yes, there 
 were two in the village who could have told 
 much more than this. One was Squire Patten, 
 whose classmate, Judge Otis, was one of the 
 trustees of the college where John graduated, 
 and a resident of the college-town, who had 
 two cousins and more than one old friend
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 163 
 
 among the faculty, and was, though John 
 never found it out, an uncle of the wife of the 
 young president of the Polytechnic, and who, 
 he was aware, though he seldom thought of it, 
 had a somewhat abnormal faculty of eliciting 
 information, which the informant was quite 
 unaware of giving. But the Squire did not 
 share his knowledge with his neighbors to any 
 extent. They knew he had a good opinion of 
 the young man, and declared he was "bound 
 to win if only he didn't try to do too much for 
 the other fellow," adding, though, with an 
 inscrutable twinkle, that "John's judgment was 
 pretty good for a young man, and he had made 
 some splendid investments already," which 
 remark set his neighbors to wondering if John 
 could have accumulated anything so quickly, or 
 if possibly the Squire had let him look after 
 any of his stocks or bonds. They did not 
 think of any other realm where money or 
 strength or love might be funded. "Treasure 
 in heaven," was a familiar phrase, indeed, but 
 heaven as an actual place of deposit neither 
 sermon, text nor life itself had ever suggested 
 to them. 
 
 The other person to whom had come, more 
 by intuition than by discovery, some real, con 
 tinuous knowledge of John Bradley's life and
 
 164 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 what he was making out of it, and doing with 
 it, was Dorothy Carver. But she was more 
 reticent than the Squire. He wondered, 
 indeed, whether she really knew more than he 
 did, of what John was doing, or so much, 
 sometimes ; and took pains to spend an evening 
 occasionally at the Carvers', taking his wife 
 and her knitting- work with him, that Mrs. 
 Carver and she might chat together, and leave 
 Dorothy free to listen, while he talked to her 
 father, taking care to speak, meanwhile, in the 
 course of the evening, of what was happening 
 to Oldberg's sons and daughters at a distance, 
 and telling most of the young men, and, 
 whether he named him or not, of John. 
 
 And he was sure that whether the name was 
 spoken or not, one hearer knew which story 
 was of his quondam choreboy, which deed of 
 modest heroism her old schoolmate had done, 
 and which enconium, whether from his lips or 
 only repeated by him, was bestowed on the 
 man she and St. Valentine, all unconsciously, 
 had knighted. 
 
 Dear, benignant, wise St. Valentine ! Does 
 he make record of those who help keep his 
 memory green, to return their offerings with 
 interest? 
 
 Every year on the 14th of February, a 
 package came to Dorothy, always addressed
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 165 
 
 in the same hand, changing a little, but still 
 firm, familiar and dear. Once it had been a 
 box of exquisite violets ; once royal-hearted 
 pansies. Once it was a volume of noble poems, 
 new then, iarniliar now. Once the latest thought 
 of a gracious thinker, and once a lovely bit of 
 landscape, that reminded both giver and recip 
 ient of the Oldberg woods. 
 
 So each year brought a tenderer thought, a 
 more insistent suggestion. All that inanimate 
 or growing things could tell, was told. Yet 
 how little way their speech went after all ! 
 
 Oldberg had by this time settled John Brad- 
 ley's destiny to its own satisfaction. He was 
 steadily advancing in his profession, wasliegin- 
 ning to be called indeed "eminent" in it. His 
 influence was felt too, along other lines. This 
 Squire Patten corroborated. 
 
 Also he was to be married very soon to the 
 daughter of one of his old teachers, now resi 
 dent in the city where John was as one of the 
 faculty of a new university. This the Squire 
 corrected, not vehemently, but with sufficient 
 decision, telling enough of John's habits, man 
 ner of life and plans, in Dorothy's hearing to 
 assure her of its falsity. But the rumor lived, 
 Protean-like, in Oldberg gossip still. Not even 
 the Squire's denial could arrest it, nor did he
 
 166 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 seem to think it worth pursuing, as likely 
 to be always foundationless. 
 
 The great aunt had died, and John had 
 neither kith nor kin in Oldberg. He had not 
 come for the summer visit the Squire and his 
 wife hoped for, nor had he accepted their 
 almost beseeching invitation to Thanksgiving. 
 And so the old year grew late and faded away 
 out of life, nay, left its life beyond it, out of 
 which the new year would make what God 
 willed. 
 
 In a box of peerless roses her friend had 
 sent for it was so she oftenest thought of him 
 had been a cutting which Dorothy had rooted 
 and cared for till it became a thrifty rose tree. 
 It lifted a creamy, half opened bud to her as 
 she entered the sitting room one morning, and 
 soothed her with its fine fragrance as she bent 
 over it. 
 
 "I suppose I have my friend still," she said 
 to herself, while a tear glistened on a green- 
 veined leaf. "And after all, 'life holdeth no 
 joy like a friend.' ' 
 
 Her gladness warmed with the sunlight. It 
 did not seem strange that no token appeared 
 though the day grew late. 
 
 And when, at nightfall, after the last West 
 ern train had rumbled in, someone came up
 
 IN SAINT VALENTINE'S TONGUE. 167 
 
 the path and in at the door, it hardly surprised 
 her, nor was the voice strange to her. 
 
 "I have told all I could," it said. "You will 
 have to say the rest the answer to it."
 
 A FLOWER MISSION. 
 
 The thought of it came while the March 
 winds were sweeping through the Crofton 
 hills. On Brier Hill was the little brown cot 
 tage where the flower missionary lived. So 
 small and so high was it, and in summer so 
 hung with vines, that when the leaves were 
 grown you did not descry it till you were close 
 upon it. And when the trees were bare, and 
 the vines faded, the wee brown thing had the 
 semblance of a gigantic bird's-nest. But it 
 was not far, after all, from the little town ; for 
 Brier Hill rose abruptly from the village street. 
 Crofton was far among the hills of a hilly New 
 England region. Round about it were encirc 
 ling hills, each a little higher than the one 
 below it, till the outer circle pierced with its 
 jagged cliffs the stainless azure, or seemed all 
 the grander for the cloud and mist that half- 
 veiled their majesty.
 
 A FLO WEE MISSION. 169 
 
 Delightful summers they had in Crofton, 
 but all too short, set between the long, bleak, 
 ever-threatening winters. The season had 
 been, this year of which I write, unusually 
 severe even for Crofton. Sick people suffered 
 and died, and well ones fell ill, and were long 
 in recovering. 'ihe Randalls, in the little, 
 brown, Brier Hill farm-house, had had their 
 turn. Ruth, the last to succumb, was slowest 
 to recover. Indeed, they knew that health, 
 if it came at all to her who had been last year 
 so full of abounding vitality, could come only 
 after months or years. Everyone's sunshine 
 was dimmed with the knowledge. And she 
 herself bemoaned the inaction that must fol 
 low, more than the suffering that went before. 
 But one cheerless day, while they were yet 
 snow-bound, her inspiration came. 
 
 The table was strewn with seedsmen's cata 
 logues, and with old and new Rurals and 
 Agriculturists, with the aid of which Father 
 Randall was making up his seed order for the 
 spring planting. Ruthie looked on listlessly, 
 roused into interest only by the words of her 
 mother, absorbed in papers of a different sort : 
 
 "Here is work for you, Ruthie ! 1 wonder 
 we haven't thought about it before. It's the 
 Flower Mission. There's a piece about it here,
 
 170 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 and it reminded me of what your Cousin May 
 told us last summer. Don't you know how 
 sorry we were we hadn't anything to send, so 
 to have a hand in the good work ? You know 
 she said they could make good use of many 
 more than they had. Now you just try your 
 hand at it ; 'twill take you out doors and give 
 you something to think about, and maybe do 
 somebody else a good turn or two, as well." 
 
 "What's that, mother?" said the farmer, 
 looking up. 
 
 "Oh ! the Flower Mission, father, don't you 
 know ? They get together all the flowers they 
 can, and carry them to poor people, and sick 
 folks, and 'shut-ins,' and the poor little city 
 children. 
 
 "We didn't begin in season last year, but 
 this spring we can and will." 
 
 r 'Twill be the best medicine for you, childie," 
 said the father, sighing as his eyes rested on 
 the fragile form, the pale face, and the weak, 
 thin hands, "and I'll help you." 
 
 "I'll have nice, old-fashioned flowers for 
 part," she went on, eagerly, "pinks, and sweet 
 william, and phlox, and marigolds, and such. 
 Old people like them, and men and women 
 knew and loved them as children, so they seem 
 like old friends. And I'll send some wild flow-
 
 A FLOWER MISSION. 171 
 
 ers, too, if I can afford freight on so many. 
 My pansies will do well this year, I guess; 
 and the bulbs I planted last year will be in 
 bloom. Arid I must make out a list of seeds 
 and things for new ones too." 
 
 So the planning of this mission flower gar 
 den beguiled many weary hours. It was pleas 
 ant to send away an order, and receive the 
 dozen or more little brown and blue packets, 
 and pleasanter still to sow some in window- 
 boxes, and watch their germination and growth. 
 And when April slowly passed, and May came 
 in, what joy to see the yellow "daffis" nodding 
 in the wind, and the delicate wind-flowers bud 
 ding in the breeze, and the crimson-vestured 
 polyanthus standing prim and straight in the 
 corner, and the pansies lifting their sweet faces 
 in their tiny bed ; and best of all, to cut and 
 send away one small basket ere June had come ! 
 And following them, the lilacs and syringas, 
 and tulips and jonquils and lilies-of-the-valley, 
 all coming right along, as if eager to greet her, 
 and help on her kindly plans. 
 
 This was while she could do no more than 
 cut and arrange them ; but as the days grew 
 brighter, and strength began to return, she 
 spent a part of every pleasant day among them, 
 receiving infinite soothing and satisfaction,
 
 172 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 drinking in deep draughts of cheer and courage 
 as she toiled among them. And -like Shakes 
 peare's "little candle," this "good deed," shin 
 ing, sent its beams afar. Some unknown friend 
 in the city hearing of her circumstances and 
 efforts, sent a kind letter and generous check 
 to further her schemes. The village paper 
 found out what she was doing, and bethought 
 itself to help in the work. They found 
 out that, remote as they were, with modest in 
 comes, and, of necessity, busy people, all, 
 there yet were many things they could do to 
 help and cheer their distant brethren and sisters 
 toiling and suffering in circumstances more 
 adverse. It paved the way for more substan 
 tial charities ; the Fresh Air cause, the hospital 
 charities, and others began to have supporters 
 there among the hills ; and the snv^pathies of 
 Crofton people grew and strengthened as the 
 summer waxed and waned. 
 
 The Minister (they spell it with a capital in 
 Crofton) came one day to Brier Hill, finding 
 Ruth in her garden. 
 
 "We didn't know what benevolent plans were 
 developing in your brain when we were miss 
 ing and pitying you last winter," he said, as he 
 sat down in the shade. "Crofton begins to be 
 proud of our philanthropist."
 
 A FLOWER MISSION. 173 
 
 "Oh ! Mr. Noble, don't laugh at me ! I'm 
 ashamed when people speak so ! But it's all I 
 can do just now, you know." 
 
 "My child, I am not laughing at you. You 
 are doing real, gracious, blessed work, and I 
 rejoice in it. It reaches farther than you 
 dream of. And I know it is good for you, and 
 helps you in many ways, does it not?" 
 
 "Oh, so much !" 
 
 "When your mother asked me last Sabbath 
 for a copy of the sermon for you, which I 
 have brought to-day, I told her you had 
 sermons of your own every day, better than 
 any of us can preach." 
 
 "The Voiceless lips' do say a good many 
 things that I never seemed to hear before." 
 
 "We are not always ready to hear," said the 
 Minister, musingly. 
 
 "I wish," said Ruthie, "I could be sure that 
 they say as much to those they are sent to. 
 It would be better than the blossoms." 
 
 "Why don't you send the thoughts with 
 them, at least sometimes?" 
 
 "Oh ! it would be presumptuous, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "Then perhaps I could, occasionally, I'll 
 think about it. It's queer, isn't it ! Every 
 now and then they make me think of some
 
 174 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Bible verse that perhaps I never thought much 
 about before, and they make it all new and 
 plain and very real to me. I should like to 
 send those to some one that needs them." 
 
 "I would try it, if I were you," said the 
 Minister, rising to join Mr. Randall in the 
 strawberry bed, stopping to speak to the house 
 mother as he went. 
 
 And so Ruthie had another "idea," one she 
 was not long in carrying out. After this, with 
 every tiny basket, or carefully tied cluster of 
 flowers, she laid a dainty card, bearing, some 
 times with a blossoming spray painted upon it, 
 sometimes in graceful Old English lettering, 
 sometimes in plainest script, a Scripture text, 
 one that had unfolded its meaning as she toiled 
 over her flowers, or been suggested by some 
 thing around them. Rarely, too, she put in 
 another verse, full of significance or promise. 
 
 Those whose work it was to distribute them 
 exercised rare tact in their work. Never 
 preacher spoke to more attentive hearers, nor 
 with finer discernment and fitness. To a poor 
 old woman, looking back on disappointments 
 and blighted hopes, feeling worn and broken, 
 came a handful of dewy lilies with the promise, 
 "I will be as the dew unto Israel." And into 
 her sad soul stole a new, restful sense of God's
 
 A FLOWER MISSION. 175 
 
 own care and his fullness of tenderness, that 
 effaced some overlaying dust of anxieties, and 
 gave new life and freshness to the Christianity 
 that was really hers. To a young girl, shut in 
 a narrow room, whose only cheering outlook 
 was one slender strip of sky, to whom came 
 few ministers of consolation, so few, indeed, 
 that she hardly pined or looked for any, was 
 sent, with cool, delicious fruits and an illus 
 trated book, a great cluster of rich verbenas 
 with fresh, green leaves. And while she drank 
 in beauty and perfume, and wondered at the 
 unlooked-for joy that had come to her there 
 fell out a card, declaring, ''God is able to give 
 thee much more than this." 
 
 A young man lay wasting with consumption 
 in the wards of a great hospital, a believer, 
 yet not freed from all the fear and dread of 
 death. To his bedside was brought a great 
 cluster of Ruthie's mission flowers, sprung 
 from the seeds her hands had planted. And 
 with these she had laid a card, bearing the 
 thought they had illustrated for her. 
 
 "See" said the nurse, as she laid them in his 
 hands, "flowers for you. And there's a card 
 with some writing." 
 
 For some minutes the sick man lay caressing 
 the blossoms. Many of them were like old
 
 176 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 friends. He had loved them long ago. By 
 and by, as he turned, the card fell out with 
 the text uppermost. Like the voice of an 
 angel, like an echo of the divine comforting, 
 seemed the words, "Not unclothed, but clothed 
 upon." 
 
 In the next ward lay an older man, also 
 sick with incurable disease, and slowly failing. 
 With his boquet was the passage, "The flower 
 fadeth, but the word of our God shall stand 
 forever." To how many despondent hearts 
 they brought home the truth of God's love and 
 care, I know not. Only He keeps such 
 records. But there must be many such. Now 
 and then some cheering report of the good 
 they did came back to the giver of the blos 
 soms, these I have mentioned and one other, 
 a cripple, misshapen and mained, and not yet 
 led to serene acceptance of his life-burden by 
 seeing God in it. With the blossoms, of many 
 sorts and rare beauty, that were given him, 
 were the words, "God giveth it a body as it 
 hath pleased him." "I could believe it of 
 them," he said, "an' as I sat a thinkin', it came 
 to me that it is true for me too. And I can't 
 begin to tell you how different it makes things. 
 Tell them as sent 'em, I thank them heartily, 
 an' always shall."
 
 A FLOWER MISSION. 177 
 
 "And that," said Ktithie, "more than paid 
 for all the trouble and caie I'd taken, and 
 would, if it had been a dozen times as much to 
 do. Only" she added to herself, "it wasn't so 
 much the flowers, as 'twas the 'wonderful 
 words of life' that went with them. I am so 
 glad I did it !"
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 
 
 The November day, which had opened like 
 June or September, serene and sunny, and 
 sweet with lingering harvest scents, had become 
 swiftly as dim and dreary as the grim month 
 it belonged to had right to be. It was hardly 
 later than mid-afternoon, by the village clocks 
 though to country-folk at this season, that is 
 already "almost night" yet the houses and 
 hills in the distance began to look vague and 
 indistinct, and the shadows were dark and 
 heavy all around, as if it wore really twilight. 
 
 "How fallish it seems ?" said Mrs. Ellis. "I'm 
 real glad I wore my woolen long-shawl instead 
 of my Paisley, as I was a'most minded to. 
 Twas so warm and pleasant when we started !" 
 
 "Yes, I don't know when we've had a pret 
 tier mornin'," rejoined Miss Cleaves. 
 
 "Seems' if 'twas going to snow right away," 
 said Mrs. Gridley. The fourth occupant of 
 the double-seated farm-wagon, jogging and
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 179 
 
 jerking along, in accordance with the unrhyth- 
 mic progress of a clumsy, not-to-be-hurried 
 gray horse, had no rejoinder ready to complete 
 this measure of the conversational quartet 
 which had gone on since they left the Corner. 
 She only looked, in a silence that seemed to 
 cover an anxiety, at the cold-looking fields, 
 bare now even of the stubble, at the gray sky, 
 and at the little puddles over which the horse 
 stepped gingerly, and which were already 
 glossing over with a thin, brittle coat of 
 fragile ice, for the wind had grown very chilly. 
 
 "Seems real raw, don't it?" questioned Mrs. 
 Ellis. "Aint you cold, Mis' King? Here, 
 pull this buffalo robe over. to your side. 
 There's plenty of it, only we've had inore'n 
 our share. It's 'most Thanksgiving, aint it? 
 Comes early this year. I've just got my lard 
 tried out, and my head-cheese made. Henry, 
 he smoked the hams, good big cuts of 'em, 
 too. I told him I couldn't make sausage this 
 year, anyhow. Why, I aint got my mince 
 meat done yet. I 'most generally have it out 
 of the way a good fortnight before Thanksgiv 
 ing. And I expect his folks will be there, 
 too." 
 
 "Well, I've got to make a Thanksgiving this 
 year, whether I want to or not," said Mrs.
 
 180 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES.. 
 
 Gridley. "Sister Susan, she wrote that she 
 was coming from Pennsylvania along the last 
 o' the fall. She should get here by Thanks 
 giving, anyway. You know she aint eat a 
 Thanksgiving dinner at the old home place in 
 years and years ! An' Jabez, her husband, 
 you know, and probably one of my nieces, 
 and maybe the two of 'em, will come with her. 
 Martha Thome's promised to help me some. 
 Of course the boys will be at home, and Cora 
 and her family. Her husband's just got home 
 from Nebraska. They're terrible pleased !" 
 
 "Well, you have got a stent," said Miss 
 Hannah Cleaves, "to do for so many ! I don't 
 hardly see how you will manage." 
 
 "There's a good deal in plannin'," remarked 
 Mrs. Gridley. "I always do mean to be a 
 little beforehand with my work, especially 
 when there's company to do fer, or anything 
 extry. I've got my mince all chopped, an' 
 my sausage made, an' five loaves of pound 
 cake baked, besides my cleaning done up 
 thorough," she added complacently, tucking 
 the "buffalo" corner more closely around her. 
 
 "Well, I guess I shall jest shet up my 
 house and go up to Alameda's Thanksgiving 
 week," said Miss Cleaves. "She wants me to, 
 an' I think likely 'twill be some help to her.
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 181 
 
 She aint real strong and the children can't 
 help much. They are all in school and Fanny's 
 only in her fourteenth year." 
 
 "My Mary's only a year older than that," 
 said the woman who had been silent for a time, 
 "and she's a good deal of help now. Your 
 sister'll find her daughter will be by that time. 
 I declare, I shouldn't know how to keep house 
 without her." 
 
 "Your bein' alone makes a difference, I 
 s'pose," put in Mrs. Gridley, not heeding the 
 flush that spread, as she spoke, over Avis 
 King's usually pale face. 
 
 But Mrs. Ellis saw it, and hurried to salve 
 the wound by the first question that came to 
 mind. Perhaps she had even hoped to turn 
 the weapon, in that clumsy fashion we all have 
 of trying to arrest a sentence whose edge has 
 already gone to the quick with another glanc 
 ing point of words. Perhaps the second, 
 coming where the hurt has been made already, 
 pains more than the first. It did in this case, 
 though she did not see it till it was too late. 
 
 "Are you goin' to make Thanksgiving this 
 year, Mis' King?" 
 
 "Why, I suppose I shall do something for 
 the children, you know. They always count 
 on it so much," Mrs. King stammered, flush 
 ing more deeply.
 
 182 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 And Hannah Cleaves hastened to say : 
 "Of course they do, an' grown folks, too! 
 I remember one year, I wasn't very well, an' 
 I thought I wouldn't do anything, nor go any 
 wheres, either, though Alameda and Ellen, 
 they both wanted me to. But my neuralgia 
 was bad, an' I hadn't any appetite, either, for 
 Thanksgiving, nor any other dinner. So I 
 told 'em I couldn't come, an' I sold my chick 
 ens, all of 'em alive, and got Job Rollins to 
 put in my squashes an' apples, an' things. 
 An' I thought what a nice time I'd have to get 
 rested, all by myself, an' so quiet there. I 
 could set 'round all day. Well, I did set 
 'round, and it was real quiet, only 'twas the 
 lonesomest kind of quiet, you ever saw. I 
 fairly got the blues, an' that's something I 
 don't often have ! An' I said to myself, 'Han 
 nah Cleaves, it serves you right, grumpin' off 
 by yourself the best day o' the year but one ! 
 Stands to reason that thankfulness, the genu 
 ine sort, comes better where there's things go 
 ing on, and folks to do for, if 'taint but little 
 and to do fer you. The promise to two or 
 three is good for other times besides Sundays 
 and prayer-meetings. An' there's more'n one 
 or two you could have invited in, if you didn't 
 have all kinds an' a big dinner. T would have
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 183 
 
 cheered 'em some, maybe. Another time 
 you'll do different.' Oh, I just give it to my 
 self. An' the more, because I had made half- 
 a-dozen pies and sent 'em to one and another 
 that was old and feeble, or hadn't much to do 
 with. It made me think my actions did, of 
 something I read once in a piece of poetry ; it 
 was about it's not being what we give to folks, 
 but w r hat we share with 'em, that does 'em 
 good. And the gift, without us, is bare 
 enough. Doesn't sound very smooth, the way 
 I tell it, but 'twas real poetry there." 
 
 "Mary's got the whole of that poem, you're 
 thinking of, in a book her cousin Nora sent 
 her; and it is beautiful," said Mrs. King. 
 "You can take it sometime, if you want to," 
 she added timidly. "I think you'd like to read 
 the whole of it." 
 
 She had recovered her self-possession by 
 this time, and except that her voice was not 
 quite clear, and her eyes brighter as if tears 
 had been held back stoutly, she did not betray 
 the fact that a very sensitive spot had been 
 ruthlessly and carelessly touched. And her 
 companions were as willing as she to pass over 
 the inadvertence. 
 
 "There comes Zekle Nicholas with his ever 
 lasting peddle-cart," exclaimed Mrs. Ellis sud-
 
 184 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 denly, as a forlorn looking team came in sight. 
 "There, I can't help it," she added, slapping 
 the horse with the reins, in a vain endeavor to 
 hurry him. "Zekle is so slow an' putterin', 
 an' so dreadful inquisitive ! I get all out of 
 patience with him. Now he'll stop an' quiz 
 us half an hour, try in' to find out where we've 
 been. I guess the best way's to tell him now." 
 So she accosted him at once : 
 
 "Chilly afternoon, ain't it, Mr. Nicholas? 
 We've been over to the Forks to a Missionary 
 circle, and to do some shoppin', too, and we're 
 kind of late gettin' home. Folks all well, I 
 s'pose? Ours is." By this time she had suc 
 ceeded in persuading her horse to take three 
 steps where he had taken only two before, and 
 had urged him past the expectant Zekle. "2 
 wa'n't goin' to have you all set there in the 
 road a-shaking while he asked his forty-nine 
 questions," she said triumphantly. "I tell you 
 I've learnt to head him off when I can." 
 
 "They say his wife has got him into that 
 way of doing," Miss Hannah said, apologeti 
 cally. "Folks that know say she always asks 
 him every time he comes home, who he's met, 
 an' where they was goin', and what the folks 
 where he'd called was doing, an' if the houses 
 looked neat every time, and even what they
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 185 
 
 had for dinner or supper, if the table was set, 
 or what the women-folks was cookin', if 'twas 
 forenoon or a bakin' day. I s'pose she gets 
 lonesome, and I have heard wa'n't real bright." 
 
 "I've heard she was a real tattler, an' I guess 
 it's so," rejoined Mrs. Gridley with energy. 
 "An' I've known of a good many stories started 
 from that wa'n't no ways so. Well, here I am 
 at home again, an' ever an' ever so much 
 obliged to you. Mis' Ellis," she added, as the 
 driver drew rein before a white farmhouse. 
 "I'll have our horse some day when he ain't 
 quite so busy, to go somewhere. One good 
 turn deserves another, you know ! Good-night, 
 an' good-night again, Hannah ; an' Mis' King, 
 I'm comin' up to see you, an' bring my work, 
 just as soon as Thanksgiving's well over. I 
 know you're lonesome !" 
 
 Mrs. Ellis had already driven on, but her 
 voice, shrill and penetrant, carried her words 
 to them distinctly. No one seemed to have 
 anything to say, and they resumed the long 
 hill in silence. At its top, and a little way from 
 the road, stood a yello\v house, at one of 
 whose windows a light shone feebly. 
 
 "I'd rather get out here. I've had a nice 
 ride, and a pleasant afternoon, and I thank 
 you. Come over and see me, won't you, and 
 you, too, Hannah."
 
 186 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "Just as soon as my company's come an' 
 gone, an' I get righted round a little," said 
 Mrs. Ellis, briskly. "I calculate on being 
 pretty busy for two or three weeks, now. 
 Can't you run in and see us while the folks 
 are here ? They'll want to see you." 
 
 "If I can, I will. Bring them over," said 
 Mrs. King, raising her voice slightly, for the 
 horse, impatient for his supper, was moving 
 on. As she went up the little lane she could 
 hear them talking still for the wind had 
 veered and bore their voices to her Mrs. 
 Ellis's quick, shrill tones contrasting oddly 
 with the gentler, softer speech of her com 
 panion. 
 
 It was twilight now, and very shadowy 
 under t}ie eaves which sheltered the side door. 
 She paused an instant, to look in. Mary had 
 lighted a lamp in the kitchen and the little 
 ones were gathered there. 
 
 Bennie, the studious, was perched at the 
 table with a book before him. His blue eyes 
 dilated as he turned eagerly the pages. Evi 
 dently it was some book new to him by his 
 absorption, though one reading by no means 
 exhausted the resources of any volume for 
 him, and all the books and periodicals the 
 house held were laid under tribute to his
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 187 
 
 pleasure. Sober and earnest for his ten years, 
 thoughtful, and with a mind seemingly athirst 
 for truth, his mother oftened wondered how 
 his growing longings and the ambitions already 
 manifest, could be either satisfied or soothed. 
 She sighed now as she watched him. 
 
 Nellie, his twin, her roguish eyes just now 
 dreamy and still, sat on her cricket by the fire 
 watching at a window opposite that into which 
 her mother w 7 as looking, the reflection of the 
 dancing flames outside the pane. 
 
 "Is it really the witches, I wonder, making 
 their tea?" she asked. "Then I shall ask 
 mother to have a very nice fire just at this 
 time, one that will shine ever so bright out 
 there. And one day I will watch and see 
 them, and ask " 
 
 "Ask what?" questioned Bennie. 
 
 "Ask them to do lots of things for us ; to 
 send father home, first of all, with a pocketful 
 of gold." 
 
 But the other children interrupted her in 
 almost scornful reproof. 
 
 "They couldn't do that if they was witches 
 twice over," said Bennie. "Never !" 
 
 "Never, not any time, if they was witches 
 really and truty," echoed little Sue, dancing 
 back and forth between them.
 
 188 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "Nellie's forgotten what mother was telling 
 her the other day, and she doesn't remember 
 what we say 'Our Father' for," said May more 
 gently. 
 
 "Didn't forget a single thing, so there ! 
 Ma \ be God would let the witches do it, and 
 send 'em. Anyway, he made 'em, if there is 
 any !" 
 
 "If!" saidBennie. 
 
 But they had no time to argue longer, for a 
 door in the rear of the kitchen was opened, 
 and a boy of thirteen came in with a pail of 
 foaming milk. And at the same time their 
 mother entered. 
 
 "Your milking all done, Fred? You're 
 early to-night. And your supper smells good, 
 May, after a ride in the cold. Did you change 
 your shoes, Bennie? You know they leak. 
 And what has mother's baby done to-day?" 
 
 "School was out early 7 , and we came home 
 around by Marcia's, and we went in there a 
 minute. She had to go right home to help 
 her mother. You didn't care?" said May. 
 "She showed me a new lace she's doing, and 
 lent me the pattern." 
 
 "I don't like to have you do so much of 
 that," said her mother. "There's a book I 
 borrowed for you in my satchel. Yes, I'll
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 189 
 
 come to supper right away, just as soon as I 
 can change my dress." 
 
 "Let mother warm her a little, can't you, 
 and get rested," Fred said rebukingly . "There's 
 no big hurry to-night." 
 
 "You're the very one that hurried." 
 
 "Well, I can wait," he answered. 
 
 "I was going over to Luther's," he said, 
 when a few minutes later they were seated at 
 the supper table. "The chores are all done, 
 and I'll be back early. And, mother, wouldn't 
 you be willing for me to ask him over to din 
 ner with us Thanksgiving day? He's awfully 
 lonesome." 
 
 "I'd be very willing, my boy, if we were 
 going to have a Thanksgiving dinner." 
 
 "Aren't we?" Fred asked. 
 
 "Can't we manage and contrive somehow 
 some other way," May asked regretfully, while 
 the little ones stopped eating and looked up, 
 round-eyed and sober. 
 
 "I don't see how we can," their mother an 
 swered, with a brave attempt at cheerfulness, 
 "unless something very good should happen to 
 us. I don't mean that we aint going to have 
 anything to eat that day, but I'm afraid I can't 
 afford to get a turkey, or even have a pair of 
 our chickens. I want to get some coal within
 
 190 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 a few days for our sitting-room fire. We 
 shouldn't want to do without that in these long 
 evenings, when we're going to have such good 
 times reading and studying and playing games." 
 The children took it up. 
 
 "And popping corn," Sue said. 
 
 "And writing letters to father," added Nellie. 
 
 "And telling stories, and hearing 'em," put 
 in Bennie. 
 
 But it was evident that they all were disap 
 pointed, and not even her recital of the after 
 noon's experiences could make them forget it. 
 
 Fred went out, but came back early. Bennie 
 read till he was sent away with a good-night 
 kiss, Sue crept into her mother's arms and fell 
 asleep there, while Nellie dozed on the lounge, 
 tired with the day's play. 
 
 They were all in bed at last, and Mrs. King 
 locked her doors, drew her curtains closer, and 
 drew up to the stove with her knitting, to face 
 the thoughts that she knew must come sooner 
 or later. The house grew still, so still that a 
 cricket, which had been chirping by the chim 
 ney, hushed his song, as if oppressed by the 
 lonesome quiet. Bruno, the dog, allowed to 
 have his bed in the kitchen in the long nights 
 for the protection his nearness gave, crouched 
 soberly at her side, as if he understood that
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 191 
 
 she was far from glad. Indeed, her thoughts 
 were sad ones, and though her needles clicked 
 briskly, they were swifter yet. Back and 
 forth, round and round, with never a stitch 
 dropped in the stocking, and never a thread 
 broken or awry in the web memory was weav 
 ing for her. 
 
 Five years before, Avhen Sue was a baby 
 and Nellie and Bennie had hardly left baby 
 hood behind them, her husband, discouraged 
 by the slow gains from the farm, anxious to 
 win a speedier and ampler competence than it 
 at best could yield him ; above all, desirous of 
 providing for his children better opportunities 
 than he had had, or than he could by any pos 
 sibility reach for them there, had joined the 
 company of fortune seekers always turning 
 westward. He had made all needed arrange 
 ments for their comfort, had gone with good 
 courage, a confident hope of success, and had 
 promised to come home, whether successful or 
 not, within two or three years at longest. At 
 first, though the farm was lonely and her cares 
 many, it had not seemed hard. He had got 
 work at once, had written often, and had sent 
 money, which made the lessened income from 
 the farm of less consequence. But the remit 
 tances had grown fewer, and for a long time
 
 192 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ceased altogether. He was ill, and unable to 
 work for months afterward. Then he had sent 
 a letter, telling of small investments he wanted 
 to make with his earnings, and asking if she 
 couldn't "manage," thrifty, pathetic, New 
 England word, what unheralded heroism it 
 covers ! And now for some time he had sent 
 small, infrequent sums, which barely sufficed 
 to keep them all in comfort. For the family 
 needs had grown and multiplied in inverse 
 ratio to the contents of the family treasury. 
 Her best foresight could secure only scanty 
 revenues from the acres neither she nor her 
 children could till. Mltan while, their wants 
 grew daily, and needs unfelt at first, or held 
 in hopeful abeyance, grew urgent and clamor 
 ous. Fred and May were old enough, too, to 
 use the privileges their father had meant to 
 secure them. A little longer, and it would be 
 too late to give them the fullest benefits. Nor 
 was she certain that such comforts as they had 
 would long be theirs, unless some help came. 
 
 Her purse held a trifle more than would buy 
 a ton of coal. That she must have at once, 
 and other dollars might come in before it was 
 gone. The other things, the coat Fred 
 needed so, the dress she had meant May to 
 have, Sue's cloak, and worst of all, Bennie's
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 193 
 
 shoes, they must wait for. And they would 
 have to do without their Thanksgiving dinner. 
 "And every one round will know it, children 
 will tell things, and other children will inquire, 
 if grown people don't, as very likely they will. 
 And it gives them another thing to talk about, 
 and makes them more certain that John has 
 deserted us. And that is the worst and hard 
 est of all ! I can bear being poor, and having 
 to scrimp and do without, but I am afraid I 
 cannot bear having them say things. And 
 they are beginning to say worse things, too," 
 said this lonely woman to herself, dropping 
 her knitting and sitting quite still. "I never 
 would believe people thought such things, 
 much less that they would hint them ! Didn't 
 I know what she meant when Maria Fitzgerald 
 told all that stuff this afternoon ? She didn't 
 know whether I did or not, I didn't let her. 
 I don't see why they let her run on so some 
 one could have stopped her unless they really 
 wanted me to hear it all. What if some men 
 have gone out there and drifted away from 
 their families, and maybe forgotten they had 
 any at all, all men don't ! There's a differ 
 ence, I'd have them know ! And very likely 
 it wasn't the same to begin with with them as 
 with us. They needn't imply a comparison, 

 
 194 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 much less talk about desertions and divorce!" 
 The last word came with a shudder, and in a 
 moment more she was sobbing bitterly. It 
 was for only a minute or two, though. She 
 quickly recovered herself, with only a little 
 longing cry of "Oh, John, John !" as if he 
 could hear and help. 
 
 Thanksgiving came that year in a dreary 
 week. It had been wet for days, and Thurs 
 day itself was drizzly and bleak. The King 
 children had accepted their disappointment, 
 and were trying to see what fun they could 
 have by themselves to make up for it. They 
 were not a little consoled when their mother 
 told them they might have a bit of candy-pull 
 at night or the next evening. And taken into 
 her confidence they were quite willing to help 
 her plan and economize, and make "the best of 
 things," a cheerful best. 
 
 "If only somebody don't come in that morn 
 ing, or even at dinner time !" sighed May, who 
 loved to keep up appearances, "They do some 
 times. On purpose to see, I do believe." 
 
 "Oh, no, they won't, unless it's Zekle, ped 
 dling, and you don't care for him," said Fred 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "But I do," May protested, "and so does 
 mother. We'll set the table nice, and eat just 
 at noon. Most folks get home at that time."
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 195 
 
 But "Zekle" did not. They had just sat 
 down when he carae, and his small eyes saw in 
 a moment all that was on their snowy tablecloth, 
 as they knew. And they were aware that by 
 to-morrow all their neighbors would have heard 
 about it, with additions, inferences and varia 
 tions. And the mother, at least, knew that it 
 would furnish one more link to the chain of 
 circumstantial evidence that supported their 
 theory of the father's absence. 
 
 Perhaps it was for that reason, perhaps for 
 others, that she stayed in quite closely for 
 some days thereafter. Even the Indian sum 
 mer weather could not tempt her farther than 
 the end of the lane. 
 
 Fred and May went one still, mild afternoon 
 to the village for the mail and to do other 
 errands. They took Sue with them, and Bennie 
 and Nell were spending the day with Miss 
 Hannah. She loved children, and often had 
 some little friend with her. 
 
 Left to herself, for she could not be per 
 suaded to accompany the older children, and 
 growing restless within the silent house, Mrs. 
 King stepped out into the yard. Bruno was 
 on the porch, and as she went by, he got up 
 and sniffed uneasily, as if some one were 
 about. And presently, in the lane, a man 
 appeared.
 
 196 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "A tramp, very likely. But I'm not afraid, 
 with Bruno," she said to herself. "I'm glad I 
 fastened the door." 
 
 The stranger, if stranger it were, was walk 
 ing very fast. Tramps do not often hurry. 
 Perhaps it was 
 
 "Why, John, John !" 
 
 He had indeed come, successful in a meas 
 ure, and to stay. 
 
 "I only waited to get so I could stay," he 
 said, as they sat together that 'night after the 
 delighted children had at last been sent away. 
 "And I should have come before, anyhow, if 
 I'd realized about things. You ought to have 
 told me." 
 
 "Why, there wasn't anything to tell," Avis 
 said. Her eyes were very happy, and her 
 hands lay folded idly in her lap. The house 
 was warm and still. The fragrance of her 
 plants came from the stand by the window, 
 where the moonlight, almost as bright as the 
 lamplight, came between their leaves and lay 
 in little odd patches of shadow on the floor in 
 the corner. A cricket was it the same one? 
 was chirping happily beside the chimney. 
 
 So they had their Thankskiging for the 
 children remembered the feast denied them 
 a day of good cheer, of merriment, of deep,
 
 A BELATED THANKSGIVING. 197 
 
 grateful content. And once more "Zekle" 
 opened the door as they sat at table. He had 
 not heard the news. 
 
 "Oh, got company, have ye?" he said, con 
 fusedly, but still cunningly, noting the holiday- 
 dainties. "Why, it's Mr. King, I declare. 
 Well, well ! And I guess your folks is glad ! 
 Looks like Thanksgiving day here now, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 "It is," said Avis quietly. No curious com 
 ment could pain her now. "Ours was belated."
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 
 
 The Hathorn homestead was the barest and 
 dreariest of all the farmhouses in the region. 
 Its plainness, too, was made more striking by 
 the absolute neatness that characterized the 
 premises. Its wide door-yard was swept 
 clean, its wood-pile, on the left, was primly 
 square, and not a chip or broken shingle dared 
 to stray from -the neighborhood of the weather- 
 beaten, battered chopping-block. 
 
 There was never a flower-bed underneath 
 the windows, nor even a rose-bush whose blos 
 soms could scatter their petals on the gravel- 
 less walk. The mistress of the house did not 
 love such things. There was only a tall clus 
 ter of lilac-bushes half- way down to the road, 
 and two or three ancient apple-trees near the 
 well. 
 
 The unshaded house had never been painted. 
 It stood on a tiny elevation surrounded by
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 199 
 
 fields that looked as if they had little to yield 
 their owner, save a scanty hay-crop, or some 
 bushels of corn, though in one corner a garden 
 showed its carefully kept rows, and a bit of a 
 strawberry-bed displayed thrifty runners. 
 
 The barn, a long, low, dingy structure, was 
 opposite the house. Behind it a wide pasture 
 stretched, green and inviting despite its rocki- 
 ness. Through the lane that led to it there 
 filed, night and morning, a little herd of cows, 
 well-fed, sleek, and gentle. They were the 
 dependence of the family, and Mrs. Hathorn's 
 butter was famous for its excellence. It was 
 the thing she prided herself on ; one of the few 
 things she could do. Therefore, with much 
 firmness, she refused to consent to merging 
 the little dairy into a milk-route. A venture, 
 at best ; besides, they couldn't start out in it 
 without running in debt, and that she would 
 not do. 
 
 This had been, as it were, the key-note of 
 her hard, toilsome life. By dint of continuous 
 industry, of the most careful economy, and 
 with deprivation of much that makes life sweet, 
 they could win a maintenance from their rocky 
 acres ; could have food, and shelter, and lights, 
 and such plain clothing as was necessary, and 
 for it all owe nothing. So they had kept on
 
 200 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 in the old routine, mother and son, these many 
 years. There had been other children in the 
 family, but they had died of a neighborhood 
 epidemic in their childhood, and the father had 
 shortly followed them. Luther, the youngest, 
 and in many respects the least promising, was 
 the only one left. A stolid, shy, spare young 
 man, who submitted for the most part to his 
 mother's plans and followed the guidance of her 
 management in all the work of the farm, yet 
 who had ambitions of his own, and periodical 
 discontents with the standing order of things. 
 
 He had wanted to try market-gardening, 
 but she dreaded the possible failure in it. He 
 had longed for a milk-wagon and the belong 
 ings, that he might relieve her of her heaviest 
 tasks. He had talked of opening a small quarry 
 that showed its stony head in the farther pas 
 ture ; but all of these meant risk, and Mrs. 
 Hathorn would not agree to them. 
 
 "We've always lived honest, and paid our 
 debts as we made 'em, and had a comfortable 
 living, so's we could ask a stranger to a meal 
 any time, or have our relations come. I think 
 'twould kill me if we owed anybody and couldn't 
 pay 'em, or if the place had to be mortgaged 
 or anything. I think we'd better keep right 
 along, Luther."
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 201 
 
 And Luther would yield a silent unsmiling 
 submission, and would not harness his gray 
 horse to drive over on the west road of an 
 evening for a week thereafter. It was on the 
 west road that Mary Donaldson lived. They 
 had been nearer neighbors once, and he had 
 used to draw her on his clumsy sled to and 
 from the schoolhouse in the winter weather, 
 when both were little children. She taught 
 the district school herself now. 
 
 On this June day, when my story com 
 mences, Luther, going into dinner, could see 
 across lots and discern with his strong young 
 eyes, a slim, brown figure surmounted by a 
 white shade hat, and followed closely by 
 smaller figures in pink and blue and grey, get 
 ting, all of them, as near as they could to "the 
 teacher," hurrying along the roadside, eager 
 to make the most of the brief morning. 
 
 It was not of this that he spoke, however, 
 as they ate. 
 
 "Simms' folks are having a piazza put on, I 
 guess. And I do believe Miss Trotter's hav 
 ing her house painted. How much knitting 
 would it take, do you suppose? 'Taint bigger 
 than a bandbox." 
 
 "Jotham Simms is in debt for the lumber his 
 barn is built of, now, that new one," rejoined 
 10
 
 202 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn, quickly. "And his own cousin, 
 that's sick with consumption, came there last 
 week, thinkin' to stop a spell and visit, and 
 he was shown so plain that he wa'n't welcome 
 that he took the stage the next day for the 
 Corners, where there's an aunt of his lives. 
 And he and Jotham was brought up together, 
 like own brothers, too. I tell you, Luther, 
 things aint always just as they seem to be." 
 
 "I could paint this house," volunteered 
 Luther, now the ice was broken, "and the 
 paint couldn't cost much." 
 
 "'T would be something. And when we'd 
 begun, we'd want to do something, and a good 
 many somethings, inside," and she glanced 
 around the room wistfully. "I don't like the 
 look of things any better than you do, but I 
 guess we'd better wait. Cyrus Lane may take 
 the corner wood-lot. That would put us in as 
 good shape as anybody round." 
 
 But Luther shook his head dubiously. That 
 bit of purchase had been discussed too long for 
 him to have any hope of its speedy consumma 
 tion. 
 
 "I'm going over in the further pasture mend 
 ing fence. If you want me you can ring the 
 big bell. 1 sha'n't probably be back till sup 
 per-time," he said, having finished his dinner,
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 203 
 
 stroked the black cat, and filled the wood-box. 
 
 "I sha'n't want you, I don't imagine. But 
 if I was you I'd come home early, and do the 
 chores in middlin' season. It's meeting-night 
 at the school-house, you know, and I thought 
 we'd go, if I don't get too tired." 
 
 She watched him as he strode off down the 
 lane, noticing that he was not whistling as 
 usual, and that Bowser, the dog, trotting along 
 by his side, did not get even a word of recog 
 nition, and she sighed over her dishes, glanc 
 ing around, as she put them in their places in 
 the tall corner cupboard, to see again how 
 plain and homely the rooms were. 
 
 "If there was any way I could do anything ! 
 But I truly don't see as there is. The butter- 
 money just keeps us along. I don't doubt 
 maybe Luther would make more some other 
 way, but it's the getting into it that costs. I 
 didn't tell him, but I had three-quarters enough 
 to buy a milk-wagon saved out of the fleece- 
 money and the pop-corn he laughed at, and 
 half of it went to old Aunt Nancy when she 
 broke her leg, and it took the other half to 
 make us whole when Cynthia and her children 
 came last summer. Poor, little peaked things, 
 I declare I don't know which looked most 
 helpless, she or the young ones. And he said
 
 204 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 as well as ine, that we couldn't let 'em go back 
 under a month. And four extra in your fam 
 ily does make a difference, if they are own 
 folks and you don't have to make much change 
 for 'em. If I'd had a little to do with, then, 
 Cythy'd have taken hold and helped me fix 
 up here ; but 'twa'n't no use then. I couldn't 
 spare a cent. And I believe it looks worse 
 than it did then." 
 
 She tapped disconsolately, with the toe of 
 her coarse, worn shoe, the unpainted floor, 
 white as frequent scrubbings could make it, 
 but worn and slivered by years of wear. 
 There were green paper curtains at the win 
 dows, made necessary by the absence of blinds. 
 An oilcloth cover was on one table, and the 
 snowy table-cloth was still on the other. The 
 stove was clean and shining, and there was no 
 dust nor litter anywhere, but the utter absence 
 of ornament and even of all attempts at beauty 
 was the more striking in contrast with the 
 loveliness outside. 
 
 On the other side of the narrow entry, a half 
 open door revealed a room, only less bare. 
 Here, the floor was painted, and there was a 
 crimson table-cover on a square stand, and a 
 patch-work cushion in the rocking-chair. It 
 had a tidy on it, too, this chair, which Mary
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 205 
 
 Donaldson had given one Christmas. Mrs. 
 Hathorn noticed as she passed the door on an 
 errand into the entry that the tidy was side 
 ways, and that there was a thin layer of dust 
 on the album that lay on the table. Going in 
 to right these matters, she stopped a moment 
 by the west window to adjust the curtains, and 
 looked out in the same direction that her son's 
 eyes had wandered. 
 
 ' Tis hard for Luther !" she said all to her 
 self. "He'd have brought a wife here five 
 years ago, if 'twas a home to bring her to. And 
 Mary's a good, faithful girl. 1 haint got a 
 mite o' fault to find w T ith her. And I don't 
 doubt, with the knack she has, and the things 
 she's got ready, and what she's got saved, she'd 
 make a very different place of it in a very 
 little while. It's her way, and her mother's 
 way. Their sittin'- room's as homelike and 
 pleasant as can be, without very much in it 
 either. If one of my girls had lived, p'raps 
 I'd have had more faculty as well's more cour 
 age about things," and a tear or two rose in 
 the grey eyes and rolled down the wrinkled 
 cheek. She wiped them hastily away, however, 
 with one corner of her gingham apron, and 
 went on with her soliloquy . "And I don't 
 know, sometimes, but 'twould pay, if it was a
 
 206 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 venture. Maybe a man has better courage with 
 a cheerful, homelike place to come to when 
 his day's work's done. Luther's trusty and 
 steady at his task, but there is folks gets on 
 faster. Though, poor boy, if he had what be 
 longs to him there wouldn't be any need of 
 his slavin' nor stintin'. That was the queerest 
 mess ! I think likely a law-suit would have won 
 it, but I wouldn't favor it, against his own 
 father's brothers, too. Let 'em keep it if they've 
 a mind to. We can get along without it. And 
 I wouldn't swap my conscience for Silas 
 Hathorn's, for he's at the head and foot of it, 
 being the oldest, and a good deal stronger 
 willed than Ephraim. I haint seen either on 
 'em for twenty years, not since Enoch was 
 buried. And I sha'n't ever be likely to. If 
 they wouldn't take notice when Luther was lit 
 tle, and me a-having a hard time to face things, 
 w r hy of course they won't now. But just a 
 little money, a few hundreds where they've 
 got thousands, would make this world such a 
 different place to Luther. He'd have a home, 
 then ! I don't care so much for myself. I'm 
 hardened to it, I guess," and the honest lips, 
 which never could be unkindly, no matter how 
 much sorrow or anxiety or disappointment 
 they had shut into her patient heart, refusing
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 207 
 
 to complain, parted now in a broad, pitying 
 smile. "But I don't see," she added, "how it 
 can be helped, not just now !" 
 
 It was not ten minutes later that wheels 
 sounded in the yard, and Mrs. Hathorn, open 
 ing the door, saw an old-fashioned, dusty 
 wagon, with a robe laid on the back of the 
 seat, country fashion. In it sat a withered 
 looking old man, thin and brown, but with 
 piercing dark eyes under his gray, shaggy 
 lashes. The hands that held the reins looked 
 weak and tremulous, too feeble, Mrs. Hathorn 
 thought, to guide the strong, young horse. 
 
 "What can I do for you, sir? she asked, 
 stepping out on the door-stone. 
 
 "Xothino; nothing; unless you give me a 
 
 O ' O */ O 
 
 drink of water here. My colt is restless, and 
 I don't like to leave him. I had my lunch 
 down beside the spring here, and not being 
 able to get out to get a drink with it, I'm 
 rather thirsty." 
 
 "My son should hold him, and let you get 
 out and rest," she said, "if he was round home 
 this afternoon. You look beat out." 
 
 "A little tired, that's all, he answered, as he 
 drank the milk she brought out with the asked 
 for \vater. "I've ridden quite a good bit to 
 day, more than I'm used to. And I'd forgotten 
 these roads were so ledgy."
 
 208 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "Somebody that knows the place," thought 
 Mrs. Hathorn, as she took back her glasses. 
 "But I can't place him anywheres. May have 
 been before I came here ; he looks old enough. 
 But if 'twas my folks, I wouldn't let him ride 
 'round alone with that colt prancing and skit 
 tish, and them thin, tremblin' hands ! It aint 
 safe. And how sharp he does look at any 
 body. I'd be almost afraid if he didn't seem 
 so old and feeble." 
 
 "Won't you sit and rest awhile," she asked, 
 coming to the door again "It's shady, this 
 side of the house, after dinner. May be your 
 horse will stand." 
 
 "No, I thank ye," he answered, and she 
 noticed that his quavering voice had a familiar 
 ring to it. "No, thank ye, I guess I must go on. 
 Good day, ma'am !" and he bowed courteously 
 as he drove off. 
 
 Half an hour later she sat at her window 
 with some mending in her lap, and started at 
 the sound of voices and of hurrying feet at her 
 door. Some one had been hurt, they were 
 bringing him in. Of course it was Luther. 
 
 "No, it isn't Luther, Mrs. Hathorn. It's an 
 old man got thrown out down the road here, 
 and got hurt a little. I think he's broken his 
 ankle, but he sticks to it it's only a sprain. A
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 209 
 
 stranger, ain't he? Anyway, he is to us, but 
 he wouldn't let us carry him into Grafton's it 
 happened just a little way below there but 
 made us bring him up here. And where'll we 
 put him ?" 
 
 Of course Mrs. Hathorn's spare bed-room 
 was opened, the curtains tied up hurriedly, 
 and the blue and white spread turned down 
 from the comfortable-looking bed. 
 
 "I don't know him from Adam," she was 
 explaining, excitedly. "He came along here a 
 little while ago and wanted a drink. I thought 
 that horse was too smart for him. And does 
 anybody know who his folks are?" 
 
 This inquiry was made, of course, out of 
 hearing of the injured stranger ; nobody could 
 answer it, nor was it answered for a long time 
 thereafter. The injury proved rather a serious 
 one, especially to be sustained by so old a man. 
 
 "For," said Mrs. Ilathorn, "I don't believe 
 he's a day under seventy, and I'd be willing to 
 put five or ten years on to that. It'll make 
 your work harder, Luther, this time 'o year, 
 too, but there's no help for it. He don't look 
 to me like a poor man, and he'll most likely 
 be able to pay for staying here, if not for the 
 care. And if he was poor," she declared with 
 vehement and generous energy, "and couldn't
 
 210 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 pay a cent, why, I'd keep him all the quicker. 
 I do feel a little worried, though," she added, 
 "about the doctor's bill. That lesf w r ill have to 
 
 o 
 
 be attended to, right along, for some time 
 no"w, and I s'pose I will be responsible." 
 
 But her anxiety was lessened that very 
 evening by seeing their visitor himself pay the 
 physician for his services when the latter left 
 him, a practice which he followed at every sub 
 sequent visit. The old leathern wallet from 
 which he took the money was singularly gaunt 
 in its appearance. And, though payment was 
 always forthcoming for the few medicines he 
 needed, and for whatever his condition ren 
 dered necessary, he never indulged in any lux 
 uries, nor seemed to crave anything beyond 
 the simple fare that Mrs. Hathorn provided 
 for him. 
 
 He lay quite patiently on his bed while the 
 bone was knitting, yet seemed as pleased as a 
 child when he could be lifted to the lounge, 
 and, a little later, occupy the great rocking- 
 chair in the family room. Here, by the east 
 window, that looked out over pleasant fields 
 and pasture lands to the low hills of the sun 
 rising, he would sit, strangely content, day 
 after day. 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn used to beg him to sit in the 
 other room.
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 211 
 
 "It's cooler there, and fixed up to be a little 
 more seemly," she would say. "You must be 
 tired of this homely place. Now do let me 
 move your chair in there." 
 
 "Xo, no," he would answer, "1 like this 
 best." 
 
 "I've meant this dozen years to have things 
 different," she went on. "And maybe I shall 
 get to it sometime. I like the place because 
 iny husband brought me here when we were 
 married. And some of his folks had lived 
 here for I don't know how long before that. 
 They moved away about that time, over east 
 here, somewhere near where you came from, I 
 shouldn't wonder. Hathorn, the name is, and 
 they all descended from Jabez Hathorn ; that 
 was my husband's father's name, too." 
 
 But the old man did not seem inclined to 
 talk about his neighbors, if, indeed, any of the 
 Hathorns were among them, nor did he ask 
 many questions, though he noticed curiously 
 every detail of the family life. He was de 
 lighted when one afternoon Mary Donaldson 
 came over and brought him a cluster of small, 
 spicy pinks tied up with a bit of southern 
 wood. 
 
 "There was a root of that here, once," said 
 Mrs. Hathorn, "yes, and of the southernwood,
 
 212 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 too. But you know I'm no hand with flowers, 
 and I believe they both died, long ago. Twas 
 just in that corner by the front door that the 
 pink root was," pointing out where, indeed, 
 the man's eyes seemed to have been turned 
 before. "I'd like to go out a little while," she 
 went on, "so if you don't mind, I'll get Alary 
 to sit with you, Mr. Tullock." 
 
 ''What did you say? Oh, certainly, cer- 
 tainlv. I shouldn't mind being alone here," 
 
 / o 
 
 he answered. 
 
 And though he enjoyed the afternoon with 
 his young guest, he seemed either anxious lest 
 Mrs. Hathorn should stay in too closely, or a 
 little disturbed by their careful surveillance, 
 and both he and they were glad as the injured 
 limb grew daily stronger, and the days of his 
 confinement fewer. He was evidently not a 
 demonstrative person, and Mrs. Hathorn was 
 not surprised or disturbed because, when he 
 left them, his thanks, though warm and hearty, 
 were few and somewhat constrained. 
 
 "Poor old man," she said, "I should like to 
 know what sort of a home he's got, to like 
 this place so well. For he did like it, and 
 hate to leave someway. I found him crying 
 at that east window this morning. Of course 
 I didn't let him know I saw. I'm going to
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 213 
 
 inquire of Cynthy. Tullock I believe that 
 was the name of your father's grandmother, 
 Luther." 
 
 "That valise that had the name on it might 
 have belonged to her," said Luther, irreverently. 
 It was in this way that they had learned their 
 visitor's name. "T was old enough, I'm sure." 
 
 It w r as in the evening of the day on which 
 the old man had gone, and the young man was 
 in excellent spirits. Mr. Tullock had paid 
 well for board and care for himself and his 
 horse. And indeed it was not often they had 
 had a sum so large as this modest amount. 
 
 "It's as good as summer boarders, "said Mrs. 
 Hathorn, "and I never could take them on ac 
 count of the house." 
 
 One of the first things planned was the 
 painting of the house. And before the first 
 coat was fairly dry, a letter came to Luther, 
 which contained important news. His share 
 of the property of his grandfather, it stated, 
 having awaited certain formalities of law, was 
 now at his disposal. It was necessary only 
 for him to prove his identity at Hayford bank, 
 where the amount was now deposited. 
 
 Of course changes carne fast and thick there 
 after, and the Hathorn farmhouse suffered 
 transformation at once.
 
 214 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "I hate to have the old place changed, after 
 all," said Mrs. Hathorn. ' 'T won't ever seem 
 the same, of course. But there, I've had my 
 home in it as it was, and my life. And if 
 Luther and Mary's going to have theirs 
 together, I think it's time they begun." 
 
 This was to cousin Cynthia, who was mak 
 ing a little visit in early September, helping 
 Mrs. Hathorn move and make and plan, as the 
 bare old house was made to take on a new 
 aspect. She was coming again by and by, for 
 the wedding. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, "Cousin Silas will be 
 here. Though you haven't told me you liked 
 him." 
 
 "Silas who?" 
 
 "Why, Silas Hathorn, of course." 
 
 "I haven't seen the man for over twenty 
 years," said Mrs. Hathorn. 
 
 Cynthia laughed merrily. 
 
 "Except when you took care of him, when 
 he was thrown out and hurt here, at your 
 door." 
 
 Mrs. Hathorn stood bewildered. "1 do be 
 lieve it was, and I might have known," she 
 said. "But I truly never knew it, Cynthy." 
 
 "He said you didn't, and he liked it all the 
 better. He was so pleased to think you should
 
 LUTHER'S INHERITANCE. 215 
 
 pick up that name off the old valise and tack 
 it on him ! But, don't you know, that's where 
 Luther's property comes from." 
 
 "When we was married," put in Mrs. 
 Hathorn, "my husband's father moved off this 
 home place and give it to us. And he took 
 his two other boys and moved over east here, 
 where he had another farm, ever so much bet 
 ter, and some mill property, and I guess some 
 land besides. He said we should have our 
 share, just the same. And he did well over 
 there. But he died sudden, and things was 
 mixed up, and a good deal of the property in 
 Silas's name, and nothing ever came to us at 
 all. And I wouldn't fight for it, nor even 
 ask. Here we was, and they knew it. But 
 what started Silas out?" 
 
 "Why" replied Cynthia, "I don't hardly 
 know what 'twas at first. He took a notion 
 he'd ride over this way and see how you was 
 situated. You know he wanted Ephraim's 
 children to have it, he thinks so much of 'em. 
 But I suppose his mind wasn't quite easy. 
 And then coming here, and being sick, and 
 sitting there by that east window in his 
 mother's chair oh, he told me all about it 
 when I was over that way this summer it 
 made him think maybe that Luther's as near
 
 216 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 of kin as anybody. For you know he put on 
 quite a slice out of his own share, to make 
 things even, he said." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Hathorn, "I didn't know 
 that. I thought 'twas just in the straight line 
 of inheritance. But I ain't sorry, I think 
 Luther and Mary will make a good use of it." 
 
 "That's just what he thought," said Cousin 
 Cynthia.
 
 
 ABNER'S WAY, 
 
 "I don't care ! It is mean for Uncle to be 
 so stingy ! There, I've said it if I didn't mean 
 to. And what else is it? We haven't had a 
 regular Thanksgiving since I can remember. 
 Never had anybody, more than Aunt Nancy or 
 Grandma Carr, in all these years ; and I did 
 think maybe we could this year. But, of 
 course, they won't think of such a thing, and 
 wouldn't do it if they did !" 
 
 She sat on the cellar stairs, this tearful, 
 indignant maiden Nannie Holcomb, one 
 Monday morning in November. It was a 
 bright, bracing day, and some small rays of 
 sunshine penetrated even the cellar's semi- 
 darkness. One particularly lively sunbeam 
 its capricious course determined by the flutter 
 ing clothes on the dryer outside, went dancing 
 up and down among the bins and barrels' as if 
 to inspect their contents, or, more likely, in a
 
 218 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 kind of sunny ecstasy over the harvest wealth 
 therein displayed. And, in truth, there was 
 good reason for exultation, or as grieving 
 Nanny thought, thanksgiving. There were long 
 bins of potatoes, sound, shapely, sizable ; bar 
 rels of apples, red and gold and russet ; boxes of 
 beets, showing their ruddy skins through cling 
 ing soil, and big, dull-colored turnips. There 
 were great heaps of golden pumpkins shining 
 in the gloom like globes of solidified sunshine, 
 and smaller piles of winter squashes of paler 
 tints and lesser size. There were baskets of 
 late pears in the warmest corner, and boxes 
 with suspicious coverings whence came a fra 
 grance as of grapes. Through the gauzy doors 
 of a swinging cupboard might be seen the 
 golden balls of the last churning, and by their 
 side, on a long tray, were combs dripping with 
 translucent honey. 
 
 "Enough here, anybody would think, to 
 keep Thanksgiving with," went on the girl, 
 "only 'twould be like the play of Hamlet with 
 Hamlet left out, for I don't believe Uncle Enos 
 has saved out any turkey ; and I should think 
 he might !" 
 
 And the girl lost herself in regretful reverie 
 once more. She was a pretty girl, this little 
 Nannie, though the small hands were a trifle
 
 ABNER'S WAY. 219 
 
 red with much housework, the soft brown hair 
 blown into tangled waves by the wind as she 
 had gone in and out, the fair cheeks tear- 
 stained now, and the brown eyes red with 
 crying. Enos Carr had taken her into his 
 heart and home in her desolate, orphaned 
 babyhood. Very comfortable she had found 
 the latter, all these twenty years, despite its 
 sober quietness. Very pleasant it had been to 
 grow up in it, to assume one by one little 
 housewifely cares, as a daughter might, and 
 finally to find herself mistress, with undisputed 
 sway over all things in-doors, and not a little 
 influence in out-door affairs. Yes, the home 
 was certainly a dear and pleasant one. She 
 loved it well. And Uncle Enos's heart well, 
 it seemed to her a good one in its way. He 
 cared for her, of course, in his own staid 
 fashion. She did not think it was in Uncle 
 Enos to love anyone very enthusiastically, 
 perhaps. And Abner was as like him in most 
 ways as son could be like father. Abner was 
 younger and quicker to comprehend, of course. 
 He had his own ways, quite unlike those of 
 any other whom Nannie had ever seen. He 
 was very thoughtful of her comfort ; very care 
 ful that she should not overwork. He studied 
 with her, history and literature and botany
 
 220 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 and mineralogy and music. He read the 
 papers to her, and talked over their contents. 
 He helped her care for her plants, and got her 
 new, rare ones. He brought her dainty trifles, 
 new music and late books, whenever he went 
 to town. Nannie did not like to think what 
 life might be without Abner he was so good 
 and kind and cousinly, though he wasn't really 
 her cousin, nor a relative at all. He was 
 Uncle Enos's son by his first wife ; she, the 
 niece of the second Mrs. Carr. 
 
 It was funny, Nannie mused, that Abner 
 didn't think they ought to keep Thanksgiving 
 by having their relatives with them. There 
 were just three or four families who would 
 make such a nice little company. Aunt Nancy 
 and Uncle and Aunt Guyson, with Nell and 
 Frank, and Aunt Kate and Ned. Ned was 
 home this year, which didn't happen always, 
 and he would come of course. Nannie knew 
 he would be glad to, for he had walked home 
 from church with her only the night before, 
 and he had said that the country was lonely, 
 or that their farm was. He hoped it might 
 not always be. 
 
 Nannie had not cared to consider what he 
 meant, but she would have liked him to come 
 to their house for Thanksgiving. That would 
 make things a little less lonesome for him.
 
 ABNER'S WAY. 221 
 
 There were steps and voices outside, and 
 Nannie remembered in a panic that the roll- 
 way was open. She would have fled upstairs, 
 but she caught the mention of her name. It 
 was Abner's voice first : 
 
 "Good weather for Thanksgiving, isn't it, if 
 it only holds. Father, I don't know but we 
 ought to invite the folks over, and make Thanks 
 giving ourselves this year, Uncle Joe had us 
 all last year, and it's our turn, and I think 
 Nannie would like it." 
 
 "She hasn't said anything about it to me. I 
 thought maybe 'twould make too many chores 
 for her," returned the elder man. 
 
 "No, nor to me, but I think she'd like it, and 
 I don't believe she'd mind the extra work." 
 
 "Might ask her, anyway," said Uncle Enos. 
 "Well, I'd like to see our folks together again, 
 I believe, what's left, after all, and at my own 
 table, too. And maybe it is dull for Nannie 
 sometimes, though you seem to do what you 
 can for her, Abner." 
 
 AY hat Abner said Nannie never knew. She 
 took advantage of the clock's striking to run 
 away upstairs. She was not surprised when 
 Uncle Enoa proposed, at noon, a Thanksgiving 
 family party, and she assented very readily, 
 declaring, as Abner had foreseen, that she
 
 222 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 shouldn't mind the work, especially with Ann 
 Chantry to help during the days that inter 
 vened. 
 
 She was surprised, however, at Abner's 
 thoughtful kindness for her, used as she was 
 to it. She wondered anew at the ways he found 
 to help her. She set it down once more to 
 "Abner's way." For that "way" included, she 
 had found, a marvellous, protecting tenderness, 
 as unobtrusive as sunshine. It was very good 
 in a busy time, too. And on the strength of 
 it she allowed herself to be persuaded to go 
 with Uncle Enos next morning to invite their 
 guests. It was a delightful drive, and Uncle 
 Enos was the best of company. If she had 
 ever thought him cold or distant she forgot it 
 that day. Once only he pained her. 
 
 "I suppose it is lonely for young folks here 
 at the farm," he said, "and especially women 
 folk. We're so contented always, Nannie, 
 we haven't thought, or I haven't, that you might 
 be getting lonely. You could go to the city 
 for a good long visit this winter. Your Aunt 
 Letty would delight to have you with her ; and 
 you could go to school then, if you like, or 
 anywhere else." 
 
 But Nannie cried out against it. Kind as 
 the words were, they somehow hurt her cruelly.
 
 ABNER'S WAY. 223 
 
 Didn't she belong at the iarm? Leaving it or 
 them had not entered her mind. Was not her 
 place there with them? She did not say this, 
 of course, but her heart was sore at the thought. 
 
 Their friends were easily persuaded to come 
 for Thanksgiving dinner with them at the farm. 
 Ned and his mother lived on another road, and 
 were last to be visited. It was ten o'clock as 
 they drove up the, lane. 
 
 "I'm terrible thirsty," said Uncle Enos, as 
 he returned his massive silver watch to his 
 pocket. "If you don't mind sitting in the 
 wagon a few minutes, there's a cold spring 
 over here in the meadow that I'd like to get a 
 drink from, as I used to when I was a boy. 
 We're so near the house you won't be afraid, 
 and you can go in without me if you will." 
 
 But Nannie would rather stay in the wagon. 
 They had come by a way that was little trav 
 elled, and had stopped on a side of the house 
 that was little used, save that an outer kitchen, 
 which Aunt Kate seemed not yet to have aban 
 doned for warmer winter quarters, was on that 
 side. It had no windows looking in that direc 
 tion, however. It was unfinished, and the 
 loosely fitted boards of its rough walls it was 
 a "lean-to" let out the odors of the morning's 
 cooking, and the sound of voices as well. They
 
 224 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 were distant and indistinguishable at first, but 
 soon a voice that he knew, questioned with 
 masculine impatience : 
 
 "Breakfast ready ?" 
 
 "As soon as I get the butter and cream. 
 I've kept things hot for you, and'll have 'em 
 on in a minute. I didn't know just when you'd 
 be down. I knew you'd be tired after yester 
 day's hunting." 
 
 The last words were almost lost in a vanish 
 ing diminuendo as the speaker evidently hur 
 ried away to milk-room and pantry for the 
 missing articles. 
 
 "No steak, of course !" grumbled the mascu 
 line voice again. Was this Ned's way ? "You 
 might try to have something decent, seems to 
 me. I aint here every day." 
 
 "There's cold meat and an omelette. I didn't 
 know you'd care." Then even more timidly, 
 "You're not going out to-day, are you?" 
 
 "I'm off for town at noon. Shan't be back 
 till the last train comes to-night. What's up 
 now?" 
 
 "Nothing, only I wanted you to see Lawyer 
 Pratt about those notes, and we've got to have 
 another deed made out, of the south meadow, 
 that your father bought of Jones, you know. 
 They've straightened the road and made
 
 ABNER'S WAY. 225 
 
 changes around. And I thought maybe we 
 could go over to the graveyard." 
 
 "Bother ! I shan't go there, anyway. The 
 other things can wait. Or maybe you can 
 attend to 'em. I don't see why not." 
 
 Nannie did not catch the whole of the 
 mother's complaining protest of rheumatic 
 pains, of work at home, of inability to com 
 prehend and arrange those business matters, 
 and dislike to attempt it, for Uncle Enos came 
 back just then, and they went around to the 
 side-door and went in. Nannie more than sus 
 pected that Ned had not finished his breakfast, 
 but his manner betrayed no embarrassment of 
 interruption. He was as attentive and genial 
 as ever. If she could have but forgotten that 
 just-heard conversation, it would have been a 
 pleasant call. As it was Ned found it hard 
 to account for her sudden coldness, and won 
 dered why, if she cared so little, she took the 
 trouble to invite them at all, or even to 
 accompany Uncle Enos. But they accepted 
 the invitation notwithstanding. 
 
 What a pleasure after that to go back to the 
 farm ! to find Abner waiting to welcome them 
 with cheery words, which were no pretence, 
 since with them, Nannie well knew, both thought 
 and deed accorded ; to find Ann Chantry, on 
 11
 
 226 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 whom the neighborhood relied for help in emer 
 gencies, there at work already, and the day's 
 work well under way. Just enough had been 
 done to materially lighten Nannie's burdens, 
 yet not enough to seem to encroach upon her 
 authority as mistress of affairs. It was always 
 so. That, too, was one of Abner's ways. And 
 there came a sudden consciousness of his good 
 ness of his instinctive divination of her thought 
 and mood and liking, and provision for them 
 all and of all the silent tenderness which had 
 wrapped her like an atmosphere these many 
 years, of which, because of its very natural 
 ness, she had been unmindful. Whether it was 
 his way toward .all womankind, or whether 
 there was in it something kept for her only, 
 Nannie did not try to determine. 
 
 The next two days were very happy ones ; 
 so cheery, somehow, that Nannie wondered if 
 Thanksgiving itself would be any brighter ; 
 and she questioned if, after all, the day would 
 not have been pleasanter spent just by them 
 selves though perhaps they ought to have 
 their relatives and said as much to Abner, 
 who answered a little surprised : 
 
 "I did think so at first, for Father's sake. It 
 reminds him so of Mother, you know," he said, 
 gently. "It was their wedding day, and she
 
 ABNER'S WAY. 227 
 
 died, too, at Thanksgiving time. But I think 
 he was willing to have the folks this year," he 
 concluded more cheerfully. 
 "Oh, Abner ! I never knew it !" 
 
 It was all she could say, and he bade her 
 not to mind. But she was hurt and pained 
 and sorry and ashamed all at once. That was 
 the reason, then, why they never kept Thanks 
 giving with very noisy gladness. And she had 
 thought them hard and close and unfeeling. 
 Could she ever make up for it? She would 
 try, and all her life, if they would let her. 
 Of course she could not say this to Abner 
 then. There came a time when she could and 
 did, for he asked her something very like it. 
 It was weeks afterward, to be sure, but this 
 Thanksgiving time helped to hasten it ; for it 
 was a very cheery Thanksgiving party. All 
 the guests enjoyed it, none more, however, 
 than the three who were not guests, but hosts 
 and hostess. Perhaps it needed just the pres 
 ence of strangers to show them how much they 
 were to each other. For it was but a little 
 later, as I said, that it was decided that noth 
 ing but death should part them these three. 
 Of course the vows to that effect were to be 
 given and taken by only two of the household, 
 but the father seemed, somehow, a party to
 
 228 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 the compact. It was his gain and joy, too, he 
 said. Perhaps it was because the younger 
 man, despite his proud consciousness of owner 
 ship, was so generous in his love. For this, 
 too, was Abner's Way.
 
 HER GIFTS. 
 
 The late March sunshine, reflected from 
 acres of glittering crust, lay in warm lines 
 along the yellow floor of a long many-win 
 dowed kitchen. The air within was spicy with 
 scents of the Saturday baking, sweet with the 
 odor from a kettle of bubbling sap fast chang 
 ing to maple syrup, and made fresh and woodsy 
 by a little breeze that came in through the 
 open pantry window looking out into the 
 wood-yard . 
 
 The mistress of the kitchen and of the farm 
 house itself, though her authority was so mild 
 and unobtrusive that you would hardly think 
 of giving her the title, stood at her plant- 
 stand, watering-pot in hand. 
 
 She performed her task with loving faithful 
 ness, but there was an absent look in her eyes 
 as she wiped the ivy leaves, blew some imag 
 inary dust from the opening calla, and pinched
 
 230 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 the yellowing leaves from the sturdy lemon 
 geranium. And it was almost mechanically 
 that she bent to examine the tiny shoots of 
 the early tomatoes and cucumbers in the long 
 window boxes. 
 
 "Doing well, all of them," she said, in the 
 tone of one used to having herself for sole lis 
 tener. "Let me see, 'twas the first day of the 
 month I planted 'em. Yes, they have grown 
 amazingly. To-day's only why," with a 
 glance at the calendar "it's the eighteenth. 
 Just a week more !" 
 
 The preoccupied look was gone now. 
 
 "I believe," she went on, "I'll sweep them 
 two back chambers to-day, and be that much 
 beforehand. I shall have just about time 
 enough before dinner. There's two pies in 
 the oven I shall have to take out, though, 
 before I go up chamber. Well, then !" 
 
 She gave a peep at the slowly browning 
 pies, then turned to a tall cupboard in the 
 corner and took down a great china bowl 
 quaintly flowered. This she set carefully down 
 upon the table, which was partially spread for 
 dinner, and seated herself before it, drawing 
 towards her, as she did so, the sugar-bowl. 
 She then measured out carefully twenty-one 
 teaspoonfuls of sugar, which she put into the
 
 HER GIFTS. 231 
 
 flowered bowl, looking into it with satisfaction 
 as she did so. 
 
 "I might have taken a tea-cup and saved 
 time," she said, "but it seems a little honester 
 to take it out with the teaspoon just as if I 
 wanted it for my tea. And I needn't have 
 stinted myself to get it, either, I don't s'pose. 
 Likely enough Asa w r ould ha' been willing as 
 willing. But I don't w^ant to make an offering 
 of other folks's things, especially when its 
 unbeknownst to 'em ; and it hain't hurt me, a 
 woman of sixty-five, to drink my tea without 
 sweetening for a spell. I won't pretend I like 
 it better so, but I'm glad I done it. There, 
 that makes eight cupfuls, sure, and the butter's 
 mine without reckonin'. Now if my biddies 
 only do well by me this next week ! I shall 
 want quite a lot of eggs beside w T hat I put into 
 cake. 
 
 "I guess one two three's the most reliable 
 rule for me, and it divides up well too. I shall 
 want a plenty of hearts and rounds for the 
 children. Poor things! What would Abby 
 Richardson ha' said to see her own grandchil 
 dren made as little of as they have been this 
 last three years ? And their stepmother's as 
 touchy as can be about things, too. 
 
 "I wish I could do something before Satur 
 day ; but I can't, only fix the baskets and get
 
 232 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 the other little presents ready. I hope Grand 
 ma Baker will like the pattern of that print I've 
 got for her, and that Marm Norcross, up at the 
 Farm, won't think black and white's too sober 
 for a shoulder shawl. Twas all they had, but 
 sometimes those poor-house folks is the most 
 particular of all . Poor things ! I suppose it's 
 all they can do. 
 
 "I know Auntie Stetson will be real well 
 pleased with that big-print Bible. It's the best 
 one I could find that I could anyways seem to 
 afford, and I hope she'll live to take lots of 
 comfort with it. And I've got a little more 
 shopping to do yet, if I can manage it. 
 
 "There, them pies are done, and it's eleven 
 o'clock, though I guess this clock is a half-hour 
 ahead. Lucy Hurlburt, you must step around 
 if you mean to get red up afore dinner !" 
 
 She replaced the bowl carefully, put away 
 the results of her baking, took her broom and 
 dustpan, and went briskly up the winding 
 stairs, looking in her scant gingham dress, wide 
 apron, and frilled sweeping-cap, under which 
 a pair of bright, dark eyes peered, like the 
 traditional old woman who "swept the cobwebs 
 out of the sky." 
 
 She worked with an energy you would hardly 
 have given her credit for, singing meanwhile
 
 HER GIFTS. 233 
 
 snatches of sweet old hymns, some of them 
 long ago fallen into disuse, some as dear to this 
 generation as to those in whose ears they were 
 first sung. Her task was not a long one, and 
 the last firm strokes of her broom made a not 
 unseemly accompaniment to the low, fervent 
 strains of 
 
 "Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear." 
 
 It was evidently a favorite, and she sang all 
 the verses through, though the sweeping was 
 finished before the singing was. But it was 
 not yet twelve, even by the kitchen clock 
 forced against its will to "take time by the 
 forelock," when she emptied the contents of 
 her dustpan into the kitchen stove, and after a 
 reassuring glance into the steaming stew-kettle 
 which betokened dinner, sat down for a few 
 minutes' rest before completing her prepara 
 tions for the savory meal. 
 
 "Almost everybody keeps Christmas after a 
 fashion," she soliloquized ; "and sometimes in 
 a good sort of fashion, too. But Easter, that 
 makes sure all that Christmas brings, and 
 brings so much comfort of its own besides, es 
 pecially to folks that are old, or sick, or lone 
 some, missin' the ones that ain't with us; and 
 there's a good many of that kind of us in the 
 world. Easter somehow gets passed over with
 
 234 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 extra flowers and music in churches, and maybe 
 a sermon that the folks that needs it most can't 
 get there to hear. I can't think the Lord is 
 real pleased to have it so. 
 
 "And then," she resumed, "for all that Eas 
 ter calls to mind so much that's precious, and 
 the real comfort and strength of it ain't to be 
 told by most of us, I rather imagine that a 
 good many folks that's troubled and sorrowful, 
 even with actual griefs, have to work out their 
 own peace and consolation, if they ever have 
 any, same as they do their salvation. 
 
 "I should ache the worst way if I couldn't do 
 something on Easter day that I think maybe 
 my dear ones would ha' done or like to have 
 me do for somebody they set store by when 
 they was here." 
 
 A voice interrupted her soliloquy here, that 
 of Asa bringing a last load of "light birch" 
 from the wood-lot. She saw him bring his 
 sled into position for unloading, and drop the 
 thills as he freed old Jerry from the traces, 
 an act which was always to her, accustomed 
 to estimate almost to a minute the time 
 required for each item of the "chores" indoors 
 and out, a signal to place the dinner on the 
 table ; and she rose now, a strain of one of 
 the hymns she had been singing coming invol 
 untarily to her lips.
 
 HER GIFTS. 235 
 
 Six days later at the same hour she sat in 
 the same chair, lingering to watch an inter 
 view in the yard at the side of the house. A 
 sleigh with a single occupant, who had reined 
 in his steaming horse at the Hurlburt home 
 stead on some important errand, evidently, 
 now seemed waiting for Asa's answer. 
 
 "He's coming into the house. I'm doubtful 
 if it ain't bad news of some sort,*' she mur 
 mured, rising to meet her brother at the door. 
 
 "It's Jabez Pearson over from the Forks," 
 he said. "Mother Purdy's been havin' conges 
 tion, and she's got a relapse just as they 
 thought she was out of danger. The woman 
 that was takin' care of her was called home by 
 sickness, and they hain't got nobody to look 
 to. Most everybody round there's been sick 
 and kind o' pindlin' now, he says. So they 
 thought they'd see if you wouldn't come over 
 and spell 'em a day or two." 
 
 Miss Lucy's face fell and Asa went on : 
 
 "I don't s'pose you need go unless you feel 
 to. An' I don't think you be very well able. 
 He's on his way to the lower village to get Dr. 
 Stearns. They thought 'twould be best for 
 him to see her. And he says, if you don't feel 
 like goin', he'll try to get Jane Martin to go 
 over. Or he'll call for you when he goes back 
 along."
 
 236 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 By this time our friend's mind was made up. 
 "Tell him I'll be ready," she said. "And, Asa, 
 you'd better come in to your dinner now. I 
 shall want to get well red up to leave things." 
 
 The next two hours were busy ones, yet not 
 too full to leave room for real and grievous dis 
 appointment. The day following she had 
 planned to take almost entire for the carrying 
 out of her cherished plans, which she had hoped 
 also to have set forward that very afternoon. 
 
 "And these two days are all there is. If I'd 
 ha' known I could ha' had things ready, most 
 all of 'em ; and what I couldn't get Jabez to 
 carry round I could send afterwards. It doesn't 
 seem hardly right after all I've done. And I 
 s'pose Jane would have gone, and done w r ell 
 enough ; leastwise, they'd never know the differ 
 ence. But I know Jane's apt to be careless, 
 and she ain't used to sickness either, of that 
 kind. I don't see but it seems to be for me to 
 do. Maybe," with a little smile, "my Easter 
 work ain't just what I thought it was, after all. 
 And," while the smile gave place to. a sweet 
 seriousness, "it is ourselves that we are to give 
 first and chief, r by the will of the Lord.' It's 
 something to have Him willing to show us how." 
 
 She had hardly heard of Good Friday, and 
 had indeed not remembered that that day was
 
 HER GIFTS. 237 
 
 the anniversary of the sacrifice in which she 
 believed so devoutly. But I am sure the spirit 
 of the day was in her heart as she went about 
 her hasty preparations. 
 
 So "beforehand" was she with her house 
 keeping this week even more so than usual 
 and in such spotless order was the house kept 
 from day to day, that there was really time at 
 last to tie and mark the parcels whose contents 
 were ready to fill two baskets for two or three 
 sick and aged women whom she could not bear 
 to slight, and after some hesitation to cut some 
 of her choicest flowers to carry with a box of 
 honey and a jar of her best peach-preserves to 
 Cousin Martha. "I guess they'll be needed 
 there as much as anywhere," she reflected, 
 "Martha never does have the best o' luck with 
 her canned things, and she's no hand with 
 plants, either. And it seems to be her I'm set 
 to do for just now." 
 
 A belief which was much strengthened by 
 the condition of things at the Purdy homestead 
 when she arrived there late in the afternoon. 
 Mrs. Martha Purdy was a far-away cousin of 
 the Hurlburts, and not a favorite with either of 
 them , though they seldom expressed the feel 
 ing, even to each other. 
 
 It w r as no surprise to Miss Hurlbut to find 
 the house in a mild state of chaos, the children
 
 238 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 untidy, the pantry ill supplied though James 
 Purdy was in truth "a good provider," in the 
 homely speech of the countryside and the 
 sick woman herself in her cheerless north bed 
 room with its far from dainty appointments, 
 forlorn and unhopeful as well as seriously ill. 
 
 The verdict of Dr. Stearns, who followed 
 close upon their own arrival, was, however, 
 really encouraging. Perhaps the more so be 
 cause he knew the "good care" he insisted on 
 was sure to be given during Miss Hurlburf s 
 stay, and that the better order of things she 
 would surely bring about would be likely to 
 last until his patient was convalescent, and 
 when the momentum of the disease was spent 
 it would not so much matter. And, indeed, 
 he was not out of sight before Miss Lucy had 
 begun the mild revolution that must precede 
 her own benignant reign, making Mrs. Purdy 
 comfortable with soothing remedies and well 
 arranged pillows and reassuring words and per 
 fectly made gruel ; then while she slept steal 
 ing away into the kitchen to bake a tin of soda 
 biscuit and another of gingerbread, and pre 
 pare a "raising of white bread" for the family 
 table, leaving affairs there so that hffie, a girl 
 of fifteen, and, as Miss Hurlburt mentally con 
 cluded, "real willin', if anyone could take hold
 
 HER GIFTS. 239 
 
 with her or even show her about things a little," 
 could carry them forward easily toward an in 
 viting meal. "For I don't want 'em all sick," 
 Miss Lucy said to herself. 
 
 She did not find much opportunity for solilo 
 quy here, however, except such reflection as 
 Avould suffice to shape her plans for immediate 
 services. But there was time to wonder in the 
 night watches if Asa "would carry those things 
 right away after dinner, or towards night. I 
 told him, in the afternoon, if I didn't come. 
 And there's no prospect of my getting back 
 to-morrow. And I guess it's just as well. I 
 might be mean enough to go if there was a 
 good chance, and Martha was doing well, and 
 the nurse came back ; and, however things go, 
 there's one day's work for me here. I'm sure 
 o' that." 
 
 The Saturday was a busy day, though she 
 got little sleep the preceding night to prepare 
 her for its endeavors. It was such a satisfac 
 tion, however, at nightfall to see the family 
 rooms clean and tidy, the pantry well replen 
 ished, Mrs. Purdy comfortably settled in a 
 clean spare bed in a snug south bedroom off 
 the well warmed sitting-room instead of open 
 ing into the often noisy kitchen, and so far 
 lifted out of her despondency that she could
 
 240 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 say gratefully, "I shall get well fast here, I 
 know," while the newly developed energy of 
 the daughters and the contentment of the hus 
 band were hardly less promising, that Miss 
 Hurlburt well nigh forgot her own unusual 
 exertions and even her aching head and limbs 
 as she looked around her. 
 
 In the early evening the nurse returned, and 
 Miss Lucy realized with a sigh of relief that 
 her own "stent" was done, though it was not 
 till late noon of the next day that she entered 
 her own door. It was too late then for the 
 Easter service she had been anticipating so 
 long, too late to send her flowers for the pul 
 pit, or even to brighten one or two sick rooms 
 she had remembered. Indeed, she could only 
 look around the familiar rooms, stroke her 
 cat, caress her plants, look into the closet 
 where her parcels had been empty now, they 
 had been delivered and greet Asa just come 
 from meeting, before she had to surrender to 
 the blinding headache which had been gather 
 ing, and lie for some hours in her own room, 
 dumb with the pain. And yet not unhappy, 
 for the day's peace seemed to infold her even 
 then. And at sunset the pain grew stiller and 
 she came feebly out to her own chair. 
 
 "Better, are ye?" said Asa, coming in. 
 "That's good ! It's ben pretty lonesome here
 
 HER GIFTS. 241 
 
 
 
 lately for me and the cat. What time I was 
 here I went round with your things, and every 
 body was mighty pleased. What made you 
 think o' so much? Then I went over to see 
 Squire Perkins, I had some business with him. 
 Fact is, Lucy, I've changed my will. I thought 
 it over, and I concluded I could afford to give 
 up a little, so I left the Stebbins place to Josiah. 
 And then, seein' as it might never do him any 
 good so, I went around and talked things over 
 with him, and we made a little bargain, not a 
 bad one for him anyhow, and he's going to live 
 on't till we can be better suited, one or both 
 of us," and the old man smiled with a grim 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "O Asa," said his sister, "I can't believe it !" 
 "It's true, though," he answered. "I thought 
 maybe ye'd like it," he went on shyly. "Fact 
 I don't know's I should a' done it, leastways 
 just now, if you hadn't set me thinkin'. Though 
 'twould a' ben as well, like enough, if it had 
 come about quite a spell ago. But bygones 
 is bygones, we've both agreed," Asa said in 
 unusual confidence, then backed sl^ly out of 
 the room on a pretext of belated chores. 
 
 Miss Lucy sat quite still and almost raptur 
 ously happy. The transaction of which her 
 brother had just told her implied not only the
 
 242 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 adjustment of an old dispute begun long ago 
 in a difference that had almost amounted to a 
 quarrel between their half-brother Josiah and 
 himself; it involved a generosity on Asa's part 
 that gave far more than the other had, perhaps 
 with justice, asked for vainly many years be 
 fore, and, failing to obtain, had been as a 
 stranger in the old home ever since. It had 
 been the skeleton in Miss Luc) r "s closet all this 
 time, and had often made her kindest deeds 
 seem to herself but a pretense and mockery. 
 Now how different all would be ! 
 
 "And Josiah's wife's brother 'tis that's those 
 children's father. She's their own aunt, with 
 not a chick or child of her own, and she thinks 
 a sight of 'em. Well now, they'll be at the 
 farm a good share of their time, and not want 
 for anything, I'm pretty sure. That's more 
 than the cakes I fretted over, sure. We never 
 know what the Lord of Easter is going to do 
 with the gifts we try to bring him. To think 
 of what we put in and what comes up out of it 
 makes anyone think it's a little bit of the Resur 
 rection come already !"
 
 WHY NOT? 
 
 Penn Gorman's work basket was empty. 
 It stood beside her in one of the sunny win 
 dows of their dainty sitting-room, with not so 
 much as a torn handkerchief or frayed-out 
 collar .visible within it. And she, an earnest- 
 looking, bright-eyed woman somewhere be 
 tween youth and middle-age just where, some 
 of her dearest friends did not know or care 
 twirled the last pair of neatly darned stock 
 ings into a comely roll, and tossed it across 
 the room to keep company with a little pile of 
 clothing, freshly aired and waiting transferal 
 to bureau and closet. 
 
 "Two o'clock of a Tuesday afternoon, and 
 the very last stitch of mending done," she said 
 impatiently. "And I've no earthly thing to 
 make or mend, or alter. Is it any wonder I 
 feel wickedly idle ? Of course there are things 
 we need if one had money to shop shirts for
 
 244 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Prescott, and some winter sheets, and a table 
 cloth or two." 
 
 "But we are in no special need," said the 
 other occupant of the room, a sweet-faced, 
 fragile woman, in an invalid's chair. A crutch 
 leaned against the chair's arm, and the hands 
 were warped and twisted with rheumatism. 
 They let fall, now, for a moment, the gray 
 sock she was knitting. "And why can't you 
 read, or paint, or rest? It's lawful leisure, 
 Penn, and that never hurt anybody. People 
 don't generally have enough of it." 
 
 "Some people, and sometimes. But it's like 
 a good many other delightful things to be 
 appreciated only at intervals, with plenty of 
 the other thing between. Really, with Pres- 
 cott's busy time over, and the fall work so well 
 done, with the long evenings and stormy days 
 before us, I feel as though I were going to be 
 lawlessly, inanely, drearily idle, unless I can 
 find some hitherto neglected duty under my 
 nose, so to speak. If there were a Woman's 
 Exchange within a hundred miles, or any de 
 mand anywhere for such things, I'd go to doing 
 fancy-work, though it isn't in my line, and I 
 don't half like it. Or if I could get copying ! 
 'Twould be so nice to make these unoccupied 
 hours yield me a few dollars of even dimes !
 
 WHY NOT? 245 
 
 You see mother dear, it would be so good to 
 have just a little more money to use and give 
 especially the latter there are so many ways !" 
 
 "You miss your salary," and the mother 
 sighed. She felt sometimes her helplessness 
 this "prisoner of the Lord." These years of 
 weakness and pain followed close on years that 
 had been crowded with activities. 
 
 "Ah, yes," returned the other lightly, "and 
 a good many other things that I had away from 
 home and teaching. The cold mornings and 
 going but in all weathers, and working at 
 night ; and being among strangers ; and eat 
 ing boarding-house fare, and the dyspepsia it 
 created ! You know I'd rather be here, with 
 you. But, as I said, though we've all we need, 
 I should like to have a little more money to 
 spend and give. I'd like to do more in the 
 church, for instance. There's so much needed, 
 and I'm afraid Mr. Oaks's salary runs behind 
 too often. And the collections aren't what they 
 ought to be, for missions and other things, nor 
 maybe the interest, either. I suppose the 
 people 'do and give all they can, just as we do. 
 Though, indeed, some of the ladies that could 
 perhaps do a little more, are seldom out save 
 Sundays, not always then. They are so busy 
 with their housekeeping and their babies, and
 
 246 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 the children in school. They have enough to 
 do, you see. But some of us have so much 
 more time than money, I wish it were like 
 Bible times, when the 'women that were wise 
 hearted did spin with their hands' for the furn 
 ishings of the tabernacle. Our little church is 
 getting so shabby inside ! And I don't wonder 
 women are driven to having fairs and festivals 
 and the like, to raise church-funds ; though I 
 am glad they've given up such follies here. In 
 my present state of mind, an affair of that kind 
 would be a great temptation." 
 
 "Mother," she added, a moment later, peer 
 ing out of the window, "I'm quite sure I see 
 Auntie Graham coming down the hill, and I 
 think she has her big work bag on her arm, 
 which means, that she's got her patchwork and 
 will sit an hour or two with you. So if you 
 don't mind, after I give you your glass of milk 
 I'll run over to Nina's for a little while. And 
 I'll take my thimble. Her work-basket won't 
 be empty, it never is ; and maybe I can lay 
 hold on some of the wee stockings, or one of 
 Johnnie's jackets or Madge's aprons, while I 
 stay. You don't know how those children go 
 through their clothes. One would think they 
 walked with their elbows and danced on their 
 knees."
 
 WHY NOT? 247 
 
 Ten minutes later, Penn sat in Mrs. Nina 
 Storer's dining-room, where that busy little 
 matron was vibrating between sewing machine 
 and cradle, with occasional detours to the 
 kitchen. The mending basket, as Penn had 
 predicted, was not empty. It stood even then 
 on the table, crammed with torn trousers, out- 
 at-elbow jackets, rent aprons, buttonless waists, 
 and frayed-out skirts, for the week's wash had 
 just come home and been sorted, and the cloth 
 ing of eight, including five restless, romping 
 children, was represented therein. The stock 
 ing bag lay near, also full to repletion, while 
 the mistress of the house was, as she said, 
 putting new binding on the children's winter 
 skirts, which they must have at once. 
 
 "I'll clear away that rubbish in a moment, 
 Penn," she said. "Mrs. McManus brought the 
 wash early this week." 
 
 But Penn laid detaining hands on bag and 
 basket. 
 
 "Not yet, please ! Why, Nina, I'm suffer 
 ing for work, and I like to mend. These 
 stockings are enticing ! And if you don't let 
 me, I'll go off and spend the afternoon at the 
 parsonage. Maybe Mrs. Oaks will let me 
 mend her baby's stockings. I can do them 
 beautifully," she added, whimsically.
 
 248 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "I know you can, and I hate to see you 
 waste your time over such a bad lot as this. 
 The children do wear out things so, and I've 
 been so busy with house-cleaning and other 
 work that had to be done, I've had to leave it, 
 sometimes, or some of it. You see," she went 
 on, "I just like to do my housework, and get 
 on nicely with what Mrs. McManus does off 
 and on. But when that's done, I do need my 
 time to rest and be companion to the children 
 and talk a bit with Loring when he comes 
 home, or chat with a friend if one comes in." 
 
 "Indeed you do !" 
 
 "And, instead of that, I have to toil on over 
 the mending and plain sewing, maybe till 
 eleven o'clock or later. Evening is my best 
 time, you know, with the little ones safe in 
 bed. And I don't look at a paper, though 
 Loring does read me bits. And as for going 
 out to prayer-meeting, or a social, or the 
 ladies' society, or the mission circle, or to 
 make a call, why, it's out of the question !" 
 
 The conversation w^andered then to other 
 things, but a daring idea was growing in Penn's 
 brain. It came forth at last. 
 
 "Nina," she said, "why don't you get a 
 mender?"
 
 WHY NOT? 249 
 
 "A mender ! I never heard of one. How 
 much are they ? I don't believe we could afford 
 it?" 
 
 "You might hire one," said Penn soberly. 
 
 "Hire one?" echoed Mrs. Storer again, and 
 Penn's laugh rang out merrily. 
 
 "O Nina, Nina, you don't take a bit ! I mean, 
 get somebody, get me, to do your mending 
 every week. I'd be delighted to." 
 
 "Really, dear," she went on, as her friend sat 
 staring at her in astonishment, "I mean it, and 
 it would help us both. I've been wishing for 
 something to do that would bring me a little 
 mone}', and I feel so idle, our work is so light, 
 and I do enjoy mending and plain sewing." 
 
 Mrs. Storer considered : 
 
 "Why, if you aren't in fun and would be will 
 ing, and if it isn't imposing on you, I'd be en 
 raptured ! The boys shall bring it to you reg 
 ularly as soon as the clothes come home. I'm 
 a month behind now, if you want to do the 
 extra." 
 
 "Indeed I do." 
 
 "And then there's about so much every week." 
 
 And then they settled to the consideration 
 of quantity and compensation, which details 
 were most admirably arranged. 
 
 12
 
 250 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "It's a beginning, mother," Penn said, an 
 hour later, as she recounted her plan in the 
 quiet room flooded now with sunset light. "Not 
 such a very small one either. For I plucked 
 up courage after that to call at Mrs. Adams's 
 and suggest a similar arrangement in her behalf. 
 I knew she was equally busy, and she proved 
 to be equally glad of the help. These two will 
 be about all I can look out for. But Susie 
 Stone was in there I wasn't sorry, I believe 
 1 rather gloried in letting her know I didn't 
 feel it to be beneath anyone to do and I know 
 she got an idea or two, also. She remarked 
 that some of the ladies on their side of the 
 village were complaining of being unusually 
 busy this season. I shouldn't wonder if Sue 
 found out that she could help them and not 
 lower herself any either. She has more time 
 than I. And example, even that of such a one 
 as your humble daughter, goes a long way 
 sometimes." 
 
 And so it proved. A bit of wholesome leaven 
 had been introduced into the life of the little 
 town. It worked in more than one mind, and 
 stirred to activity, economic and benevolent, 
 more than one pair of hitherto listless hands. 
 Some over-tired mothers rejoiced in lightened 
 tasks and lessened burdens and larger leislire,
 
 WHY NOT? 251 
 
 and church and society were gainers thereby. 
 Unwonted faces filled empty spaces in the 
 prayer meetings, and voices grown unfamiliar 
 in long absence, were heard once more in 
 woman's meeting and mission circle, while 
 many a little, helpful gift, earned in these 
 humble ways, came into the Lord's treasury, 
 or went to aid His poor. 
 
 Penn smiled contentedly as she saw it all, 
 and if she did not say aloud, "I began it," I 
 am quite sure she thought it, and was thankful.
 
 DEACON FAREWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 The east was all aglow with the approaching 
 sunrise. Far around to the north and south 
 the heralding color ran ; and up into the azure 
 sky, arching its dusky canopy over Smallridge, 
 the waves of crimson went. The wind-clouds 
 in the west, touched with the hastening bright 
 ness, rolled themselves together and disap 
 peared. On the distant and leafless woods, on 
 the scattered spires, and on the windows of the 
 farthest houses, the radiance fell ; while the 
 nearer farms, and the village between the hills, 
 lay in shadow. But in a moment more the 
 sunlight reached them, also ; and every pane 
 twinkled, and every leaping brook smiled back 
 to its smile. One by one the morning lights 
 were put out, and here and there the smoke of 
 some belated fire began to curl lazily upward, 
 though most of the chimneys in the region had 
 been breathing an hour and more.
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 253 
 
 Just as the first level rays of the sun reached 
 the panes of a yellow house looking southward 
 from the eastern slant of the ridge, a little 
 woman within pulled up the curtain, and 
 looked out with a face as bright as the sun 
 shine itself. 
 
 "Sun's up, and I'll put away that lamp," she 
 said briskly ; "and I do believe" turning again 
 to the window and then back to the table 
 where her husband sat "that we're goin' to 
 have beautiful weather for Thanksgiving and 
 maybe all the week. Now, ^Nathan, just let 
 me give you some more coffee, and you hurry 
 up with the chores, or leave 'em for Abner ; 
 and you get around early to invite the folks. 
 And send up those spices you forgot, and some 
 more raisins and citron from the store as you 
 go along, will you, Deacon?" 
 
 The Deacon looked blank. 
 
 "I'll send up the spices, certain, 'Mandy. But 
 I thought we was going to eat our Thanksgiving 
 by ourselves this year, not havin' any own 
 folks near by, either of us. Though if you 
 want to ask your third cousins over in Say- 
 nood" 
 
 "ButI don't," interrupted his wife, impatient 
 ly. "Though I've no sort o' notion of sittin' 
 down to eat the dinner you've raised, and I'm
 
 254 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 a cooking, and everything in plenty, and all 
 so nice, just our two selves ! An' as for bavin' 
 folks, why, we haven't any nearer than Michi 
 gan, and yet again we hev." 
 
 The Deacon looked more mystified than ever. 
 
 "There was my half-brother over to Katurik, 
 but he died four years ago. There's his 
 widow"- 
 
 But his wife interrupted him again : 
 
 "Only night before last, in prayer-meetin', 
 Deacon Farewell, you prayed for our afflicted 
 brother, meanin' Jotham Swift that lost his 
 daughter six months ago, and our brother 
 sorely tried, which was Silas Wiggin whose 
 barn burnt down with his hay, and so on ; an' 
 for our bereaved sisters, the widow an' father 
 less, meanin' Mis Carr an' Susie. An' every 
 night you pray for all our brethren and sisters 
 in the church an' in the Lord. An' you talk 
 about the fathers an' mothers in Israel, and 
 you say some of them converts that you've 
 pleaded with, and prayed for, and watched 
 over, seem like your own children" 
 
 "Spiritually, yes, they do, spiritually," inter 
 polated the Deacon. "But they've got homes 
 and family circles of their own." 
 
 "Not all of 'em. Why, Deacon, you know 
 there's nigh a dozen you could think of, that it
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 255 
 
 would be a real Christian, brotherly kindness 
 to ask here." 
 
 "They'd be welcome, and they know it, 
 'Mandy ; but Thanksgiving's different." 
 
 "How do they know it ? Not by your tellin' 
 'em ; an' I know Thanksgiving's different ! 
 Why, Deacon Farewell, can't ye think how 
 much good 'twould do Mis Carr herself, and 
 Susie, especially, poor crippled thing, to have 
 a good, hearty, cheery visit, and eat Thanks 
 giving away from home, and get up, maybe, a 
 little heart and courage again ? An' you pass 
 'em the bread and wine at the Lord's table 
 every month. And there's Moses Freeman." 
 
 "But I'd have to ask Eben too." 
 
 "And what's to hinder, but your own pride 
 and contrariness ? An' you two coming together 
 every communion Sunday, and between whiles 
 holdin' on to that old, worn-out grudge, or 
 pretendin' to. For I don't believe either of 
 you holds hardness now. And there's Ned 
 Kirke, come here to work in your mill, an' in 
 your Sunday-school class too. An' I'm going 
 to have two of my class, Lena Snell and 
 Maidie Burns, anyway. For they've only their 
 boarding place to stay in, holidays an' all 
 days, an' the woman ain't over pleasant or 
 particular. I've asked them."
 
 256 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "And quite right of you, I'm sure," rejoined 
 the Deacon, pulling on his mittens. "Well," 
 he went on, "if that's all, I don't see why we 
 shouldn't have 'em, an' I'll try to see 'em this 
 mornin'. I s'pose it's time." 
 
 "It's high time," answered his wife. "But 
 that ain't all. If I was you, Nathan, I'd make 
 up my mind to ask over Hiram Stirling and 
 Mrs. Stirling. They're all alone, same as we 
 are, only their sons are dead instead of off do 
 ing for themselves out West, as ours are. And 
 the daughter, she's been in Californy these fif 
 teen years, and has got to live there, if any 
 where. You must ask them, Deacon !" 
 
 A pleading wistfulness had crept into her 
 brisk voice, and she lifted her eyes beseech 
 ingly. But his eyes were turned away, and at 
 that moment came Mrs. Mullens to help with 
 days' works in the Thanksgiving preparations. 
 And the Deacon, still and astonished, went 
 about his chores, while the sharer of his joys 
 and griefs and blunders and regrets looked 
 after him anxiously. 
 
 For the daring little woman had set her hus 
 band a hard task, and she knew it ; but she 
 had long ago come to the conclusion that it 
 must be done, and she knew very well that all 
 that made it hard lay in the Deacon's own
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 257 
 
 heart. The Stirlings, also, were fellow-mem 
 bers with themselves in the little church at 
 Smallridge. They had been life-long neigh 
 bors and friends till there had been an unfor 
 tunate disagreement about church-matters, 
 which had ended in a long and sullen estrange 
 ment. Mr. Stirling was hasty, but generous 
 and easily placated. But Mr. Farewell was 
 slow, self-reliant, and determined, even, his 
 opponent said, to self-righteousness and obsti 
 nacy, though he was a believer and a Deacon, 
 yes, and an honest, earnest disciple. And 
 after the first heat of the discussion had cooled, 
 the Deacon had let fall certain cutting words 
 which he would have given much to recall, and 
 which Mr. Stirling had felt then that he could 
 never forgive. It had happened long ago, but 
 the scar remained, and the wound still smarted. 
 
 So the little woman turned to her work with 
 a prayer in her heart. And all day long amid 
 the chopping of mince meat, the grinding of 
 spices, the stoning of raisins, the stirring of 
 pumpkin, and sifting of squash, the grating 
 and pounding and beating, the flaking and 
 baking and frosting, that filled the old house 
 with unwonted noises and savory smells, she 
 was thinking, ''If it only could be." 
 
 The Deacon's face at dinner was inscrutable. 
 He had been kept at home all the forenoon,
 
 258 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 first by a brother deacon, come to discuss ways 
 and means and the church debt ; then by a 
 fellow selectman and member of the school- 
 committee. The spices had been sent for and 
 brought by the hired man at ten o'clock. So 
 his wile could not tell yet what he meant to do, 
 though she was quite certain that, at least, all 
 save the last-named of the guests she was fain 
 to welcome, would be asked and would come. 
 Beyond that was uncertain. 
 
 And, in truth, the Deacon's intentions were 
 hardly clearer to himself. He set out after 
 dinner, driving slowly, and turning his horse, 
 at length, in the direction of "Freeman's Lane," 
 where the brothers Freeman lived together 
 and, save for an old housekeeper, alone. Eben 
 was in the yard as the Deacon drove up, and 
 his round, ruddy, genial face invited an over 
 ture of friendship. Indeed, his hand was 
 stretched out in greeting and in amity as soon 
 as Deacon Farewell's own, and all lingering 
 "hardness" was crushed once for all in that 
 strong pressure. And when Moses joined 
 them, a little later, it seemed but natural to 
 proffer and second his wife's invitation, and as 
 easy for them to accept it. 
 
 An hour later, so fast time flies when one 
 gets to talking ! our friend drove more swiftly
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 259 
 
 out of the lane, shaded by leafless maples, and 
 bordered with sere and withered grasses, and 
 turned downward. Old Dobbin felt the brighter 
 spirit behind him, betraying itself in the firmer 
 grasp of rein, and cheerier "get up" of the 
 familiar voice, and trotted on briskly. And, 
 indeed, his master's heart was far lighter, and 
 his sympathies far warmer already. 
 
 And then he stopped at Mrs. Carr's gate, 
 giving, with much more than his usual hearti 
 ness, his wife's message to her. And he was 
 both pleased and touched at the glad surprise 
 that lighted their faces. Thence he drove 
 around by the mill to see Ned Kirke ; and 
 when his errand there was done, the afternoon 
 was spent. So, telling himself that he must 
 be at home to see about the chores, for Abner 
 might not have gotten home with the young 
 cattle from the hill pasture, and putting by, as 
 well as he could, the thought of another call 
 he was to make, he turned homeward. Mrs. 
 Farewell was watching for him, and Abner 
 came to take the horse so he could go in imme 
 diately. 
 
 "Are they coming, Nathan?" she asked, as 
 she took his overcoat, and brought his slippers. 
 
 "Yes, that is, Mose and Eben are. They 
 wanted me to thank you kindly for the invita-
 
 260 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 tion. And the Widow Carr said she and Susie 
 would be greatly pleased to. And Ned Kirke 
 will be here, I expect." Here the Deacon 
 stopped, and began to look around for his 
 newspaper. 
 
 "And Hiram Stirling?" 
 "I I didn't go up there ; I hadn't time." 
 He had found his newspaper now and 
 entrenched himself behind it. Mrs. Farewell 
 was a wise woman, and she said no more, 
 either then or next morning, when he drove 
 away again, this time to Amesboro, on business, 
 he said. He had been more than usually silent, 
 and she knew not whether his mind was yet 
 made up. "Maybe it's a-making," she said to 
 herself, "an' I won't disturb it, for like enough 
 it's the Lord's own dealing." A kindred 
 thought was -stirring in the Deacon's heart, 
 and he hardly knew whether to be glad or 
 sorry that he could no longer be content with 
 the old oft'ense between himself and his fellow- 
 Christian. And his Bible had its word for 
 him. This very Tuesday evening, as he read, 
 a verse had almost stopped his utterance, "By 
 this shall all men know that ye are my dis 
 ciples, if ye have love one to another." As 
 the Lord had questioned the repentant Peter, 
 so he seemed saying to this other faltering fol-
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 261 
 
 lower, "Lovest thou Me?" And when his 
 very soul cried out in the answer, "Yes, Lord, 
 thou knowest that I love thee !" there came 
 back the words of the other disciple whom 
 Jesus loved ; "He that loveth not his brother 
 whom he hath seen, how can he love God 
 whom he hath not seen ?" 
 
 All through the wakeful night these words, 
 and such as these, were repeating themselves 
 to him, till the morning found him with a very 
 humble and determined heart, yearning after 
 reconciliation with God and man, and for that 
 light of God's face which, to the earnest, deep- 
 hearted man, was more than life and all life's 
 
 joys- 
 Hiram Stirling was in his barn door when 
 
 the Deacon drove up. He knew how much 
 those few broken words of confession cost the 
 speaker, and he answered them with words as 
 genuinely humble. A few minutes later, Mrs. 
 Stirling, rolling out pie-crust in her kitchen, 
 was interrupted by the entrance of the two 
 men, very plainly friends once more ; and still 
 more surprised to hear her husband say, "You 
 needn't hurry about your pies, Susan, here's 
 the Deacon to say that his wife wants us to 
 take Thanksgiving dinner with them. We 
 can, can't we?" On to Amesboro, now the
 
 262 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Deacon went, and did his errand, and drove 
 home while the stars were shining, for the 
 town was many miles away, and his business 
 had taken time. But the way did not seem 
 long, and the home-lights beamed out cheerily 
 as he drove up the yard. And the little 
 woman who stood all day long, in the 
 midst of her sweeping and dusting, her clean 
 ing and garnishing, had been praying and 
 hoping and fearing, stood again in the door 
 way, and knew that all was right before she 
 looked into his eyes or heard his glad "All's 
 well !" 
 
 Ah ! home was very bright and its peace 
 very sweet that night. The evening lesson 
 had no rebuke, as they read their chapter, but 
 only words of benediction. And on the mor 
 row, when a glorious morning spread again its 
 radiant light over Smallridge, there was a 
 delightful stir of anticipation all through the 
 homely house, reaching even to the stable and 
 carriage shed. For sonic of their guests must 
 be gone after, and, while -they were about it, 
 they might as well be carried to church in 
 comfort, the Deacon said, bidding Abner get 
 out horses and wagons, harnesses and lap 
 robes, and sending him off in one team while 
 himself and wife set out in the other.
 
 DEACON FARWELL'S THANKSGIVING. 263 
 
 No Thanksgiving service was ever quite so 
 sweet to Deacon Farewell. In none had he 
 ever joined so heartily, though his life had had 
 its deliverances, like all of ours. Prayer and 
 sermon and hymn were full of benediction, a 
 blessing with which was mingled no regret. 
 And there came back to him, with a new mean 
 ing, certain words of Scripture, about "the 
 sacrifices of thanksgiving." 
 
 His guests found him the most genial of 
 hosts, and the saddest among them brightened 
 in the good cheer of the homely feast. All 
 differences were forgotten, with all incon 
 gruity ; and as Mrs. Farewell watched her 
 husband drive away at night with the last load 
 of their visitors, she said to herself, "The Dea 
 con seems as pleased as if he'd found a whole 
 family of brothers and sisters, an' I guess he 
 has !"
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 
 
 Grandmother McLean was one of the silent 
 ones; a small, quiet woman with gentle eyes 
 and soft brown hair, in which each year the 
 silver strands were a little more thickly thread 
 ed. So quiet was she that few dreamed of the 
 strength and depth of her nature, her endur 
 ance, her tenderness, her self-sacrifice, her 
 faith. The unceasing ministries and unfailing 
 hopes of her long life told them all ; yet many 
 shared the willing services who did not stop to 
 read or respond to the love that prompted 
 them, or to consider if there were no needs or 
 yearnings of hers they might help to satisfy. 
 Seventy years ago and more, our Grandfather 
 McLean had found her in a little village on the 
 Massachusetts coast whither he had gone on 
 some errand connected with his business of 
 lumbering, and had straightway wooed and won 
 her, a pretty, dainty, pink-cheeked maiden just
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 265 
 
 seventeen. There was only her mother and 
 herself, for her father was dead, and she the 
 only child living, so when after two or three 
 years of married life Amos McLean wanted 
 to take his little family to his Maine home, 
 a farm on a river flowing seaward among the 
 inland hills, her mother, Grandmother Burritt, 
 our great-grandmother, sold her little home 
 stead and came with them. 
 
 It must have been "all for love," that hasty 
 marriage which was such a happy one, for the 
 husband was his young wife's senior by twenty 
 years, and a stern man, and a silent one also. 
 Almost as old as Grandmother Burritt, he out 
 lived her only a few helpless years. Mrs. 
 Burritt never revisited her old home, in 
 those days travel was slow and tedious. They 
 had journeyed, when they came to Maine, in 
 a covered wagon, emigrant-fashion, with their 
 two gentle cows tied behind. If she ever 
 
 o 
 
 longed for the old home-scenes, none knew. 
 She was not one to complain either. They 
 laid her to rest in the old burying-ground by 
 the river, as she had known they must, though 
 there was a vacant place for her beside a lonely 
 grave far away in a little cemetery by the sea. 
 But I think, perhaps, she did not long so 
 for the sight and sound and scent of the sea,
 
 266 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 as did our own grandmother. She had heard 
 its murmur in her cradle, had played beside it 
 and with it, had listened to it in her musing 
 maidenhood. There, to the sound of its waves, 
 she had heard lover's pledges and taken 
 marriage-vows. Its lullabies had mingled 
 with her own as she had sung her first-born to 
 sleep, and they sounded still beside him in her 
 fancy, for she had left a little grave in that 
 seaside cemetery. 
 
 Once or twice, long ago, she had gone with 
 her husband on business to a" seaport town, 
 and satisfied, in some slight measure, her long 
 ing for the sea. But that was long ago. There 
 were many children and many cares of many 
 kinds. They were all men and women, with 
 children of their own ; some of them living on 
 farms, around, some coming home, or sending 
 their sons and daughters to grandmother's for 
 vacation, this summer of which I write. 
 
 The old farmhouse, a low, wide yellow 
 house, nestled down among great white lilacs, 
 and leafy maples, and drooping elms, its 
 green-blinded windows looking out at you as 
 you drove up the yard, like half-opened eyes, 
 was always full and over-running in vaca 
 tion-time. Perhaps grandmother herself was 
 to blame for that, she made them all so heartily
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 267 
 
 welcome, and took such infinite and smiling 
 pains to make them happy. Back and forth, 
 from cellar to cheese-room, from clothes-press 
 to chamber, from pantry to kitchen, you could 
 hear the steady "trot" of her tired but willing 
 feet. And she gave just as cordial greeting to 
 Joel's widow, with her three children, who 
 could make no return for her hospitality, as to 
 the household of John, the successful man of 
 the family. Lois, now a woman of forty-five, 
 was the only one who remained unmarried. It 
 had seemed probable, once, that she would be 
 mistress of a fine farm in the neighborhood. 
 Its owner and occupant, Ansel Fletcher, had 
 confidently hoped it would be so, but some 
 thing, no one ever quite knew what, had 
 estranged them. She went out sometimes as 
 nurse, commanding high wages, by her skill 
 and experience, but this summer she did not 
 mean to leave her mother with the care of farm 
 and house. 
 
 Early in June John had brought his frail 
 little daughter, Jean, wasted with a winter's 
 illness, to try the tonic of the air of the hills. 
 And as soon as school was out, Jean's elder 
 sister, May, and her brother Will, and the 
 mother, had come. And Joel's fatherless 
 children and their mother were there. And
 
 268 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Mahala, Mrs. Olney, with a daughter of eigh 
 teen, and a son a little older to follow by and 
 
 by. 
 
 And of course the families of Mary and 
 Martha, matrons who lived in the neighbor 
 hood, and had long borne the names of Grey 
 and Brownlee, were often with their cousins 
 "at grandmother's." 
 
 The young people were all together in her 
 cool sitting-room one afternoon late in July. 
 Harry Brownlee had come over bringing the 
 mail ; the most of it was for Uncle John, who 
 sat down with it just outside the window, 
 under the great oak tree in the yard, out of 
 sight, but within hearing. There were also, 
 letters for the young folks, and there was a 
 lull in their merry talk while they opened 
 them. 
 
 "Brother Charlie is coming Saturday," said 
 Marian Olney, folding the letter she had read, 
 and carrying it to her mother in the next room. 
 
 "And then we must have our excursion to 
 the Point, and our picnic to the Oaks," said 
 Harry. 
 
 "Right away, too," added his sister Nell, "for 
 father and mother are going to take a little 
 vacation week after next, and then we can't 
 leave the house all day."
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 269 
 
 "Aunt Martha and Uncle Enoch going to 
 take a vacation?" asked May McLean, with 
 surprise in her voice. ''Wonders will never 
 cease. I thought they never had a day off." 
 
 "They're going to this year," rejoined Nell. 
 
 "Everybody takes a vacation but Grand 
 mother," said little Jean. 
 
 "Where is Grandma, anyway," asked some 
 one. 
 
 "In the cheese-room, no, in the pantry 
 making pies. Yes she is, Aunt Lois, you know 
 had to go to Mrs. Horn's, who they say is 
 dying, and Grandma has to do 'most every 
 thing alone." 
 
 "Grandmother wouldn't take a vacation, any 
 way," said Harry. 
 
 "Much you know about it," retorted Nell. 
 
 "Yes she would," said May thoughtfully. 
 "Not a common vacation like ours, maybe, but 
 there's somewhere she wants to go, or did," 
 
 "I know," said Jean, "back to where she 
 used to live. She has told me so much about 
 it! It must be beautiful there. It was lovely, 
 long ago, and now ever so many folks spend 
 their summers there." 
 
 "When I was a little girl, I remember," said 
 Anna Grey, she was fifteen now, "one 
 summer Grandma planned to go. She had
 
 270 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 sold a cow, and had money enough to do it, 
 and Aunt Lois was to go with her, and Aunt 
 Margaret was coming to keep house. But 
 mother, and Aunt Martha, and Aunt Mahala, 
 all thought Grandma was too old, and it was 
 a great undertaking, and a long journey, off 
 among strangers, and she gave it up." 
 
 "What a pity !" 
 
 "It was a shame !" 
 
 "So I always thought, but they said so much 
 against it she didn't of course feel like going." 
 
 "She ought to go now." 
 
 "Perhaps she hasn't the money," said Minnie 
 McLean. 
 
 "But we could raise it, among the children 
 and grand-children, and she could go this 
 summer, or September would be the pleasant- 
 est time." 
 
 The plan was noisily approved by the other 
 young people, and Harry was appointed as 
 collector, and Jean as treasurer of the fund, 
 while May, Marian, Nell, Minnie, "Will and 
 Charlie were an advisory committee. 
 
 "How nice it would be for her to go and find 
 out old friends and relatives. Maybe there'd 
 be some nice cousins among them," said Nell. 
 
 "Grandmother was an only child." 
 
 "Second or third cousins, of course I mean, 
 and much the better," answered she saucily,
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 271 
 
 with a glance that silenced quiet Will. "And 
 then they'd be coming back to visit us." 
 
 It was resolved to begin at once, but Uncle 
 John had heard it all, though they had for 
 gotten his proximity, and with a remorseful 
 remembrance of his mother's long desire, so 
 many years forgotten and unsatisfied, had 
 resolved, ere they were done talking, to him 
 self take her back to that old town by the sea, 
 under his own protection, and of course, at his 
 expense, that very year. And he found oppor 
 tunity to tell her about it that very night. He 
 had seldom seen his mother so moved, as by 
 the prospect of seeing again, so soon, her child 
 hood haunts. Her tremulous smile, and brim 
 ming eyes, when she could believe he really 
 meant it, touched him painfully. And he was 
 the more resolved to make this holida}^ of a 
 lifetime a happy one. 
 
 The cousins looked blank when Harry had 
 found it out and came back to declare his occu 
 pation gone. But Nell said : "How delight 
 ful ! Go ahead and get the money just the 
 same, Harry, for she's got to have something 
 to wear, you know. Do you suppose we'd let 
 her go among strangers in that faded old black 
 cashmere she'd worn this six years?" 
 
 "And the black silk that's as old as my 
 mother," said Jean.
 
 272 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 "And that big, old bonnet? Now we can 
 get her something nice, and every one can 
 help, if it's ever so little." 
 
 It was a pretty sight to see, these maidens 
 so anxiously intent on preparing grandmother's 
 wardrobe, as interested as over their own 
 dresses and hats. And it was pleasant, too, 
 to watch grandmother, pleased, yet demurr 
 ing, submit, with her serenity a trifle ruffled 
 by the vexing vanities of basque or round waist, 
 plain skirt or ruffled, watered silk or plain 
 satin trimmings, to the innumerable discus 
 sions, councils, fittings and try ings on, that 
 attended the making of the fabrics the children 
 had bought, and the mothers selected or 
 approved. 
 
 Mrs. Joel, who was a dressmaker, had vol 
 unteered to cut and make, as her part, and her 
 taste proved excellent. 
 
 "Grandmother's going to look ever so nice," 
 said Marian one day, over the ruffling she had 
 offered to hem. 
 
 "Of course she is," said Jean. 
 
 "But I never knew before," said Nell, "that 
 she liked pretty things so well. She goes 
 along and smooths and pats that black silk 
 (and it is a beauty ! ) and watches Aunt Grace 
 at her sewing, as pleased as a child. The cash-
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 273 
 
 mere's ever so nice for travelling, and the 
 wrap Uncle Enoch and Aunt Martha sent for 
 and gave her, is just as pretty and lady-like as 
 it can he." 
 
 "Grandmother really cried over that," said 
 May, "she was so pleased and surprised." 
 
 "But I think she was just as pleased, a little 
 childish, may be, over the lovely laces and 
 the collars, and the fine hem-stitched handker 
 chiefs you and your mother got." 
 
 "I don't know, but have you seen the hand 
 bag the boys got her !" 
 
 "Yes, and that's fine, too." 
 
 From which bit of talk will be seen that the 
 McLeans, having once made up their minds to 
 do a thing, would spare no pains to do it well. 
 And they made Grandmother ready with a 
 thoughtful generosity that was a continued 
 surprise, and a joy that was half a pain to 
 her. She "wasn't used to having so much done 
 for her," she said, and some of her children 
 realized remorsefully how true it was. 
 
 It was the middle of September when they 
 went. Aunt Lois was at home, and Grand 
 mother could trust with her the house and the 
 hens, the cows and the cheeses. Harry could 
 stay nights. And had not Ansel Fletcher 
 called one day to offer his sei vices if in any 
 13
 
 274 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 way they should be needed ? He was brother 
 to Mrs. Harris, whom Aunt Lois had nursed 
 back to health, and it is possible Lois may 
 have met him there more than once of late. 
 Certainly there was that in the face or demeanor 
 of each that made Grandmother look at them 
 a little more keenly when she saw them 
 together that day for the first time in years, 
 and remember it while she journe}ed. So 
 delightful a journey it was to Grandmother. 
 Jean and her mother accompanied them part of 
 the way, en route for the mountains. All the 
 other aunts and cousins had flitted homeward 
 ere that time. Every comfort and attention 
 that love could prompt or money furnish, Uncle 
 John lavished on her during that two days' 
 journey. He had insisted it should be broken 
 by a night's rest. And never bride or maiden 
 had a tenderer or more chivalrous escort. I 
 think, too, he was proud of his silvery-haired 
 mother, with her saintly face, her pure and 
 gentle speech, her ladylike dress and manners. 
 Strangers gave her admiring looks, and friends 
 all had courteous introductions in the crowded 
 cars or in the great hotels. 
 
 Arriving at the town which was their desti 
 nation, he took her at once to the best hotel, 
 and installed her in a room which seemed to
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 275 
 
 her extravagantly luxurious. Every day he 
 took her to see the places she had known so 
 well, in an easy carriage, himself driving. 
 
 The town had become a populous little city, 
 well-known also as a summer resort. But in 
 that part where her home had been it was little 
 changed. She found the old homestead sadly 
 changed, it is true, but it was a satisfaction 
 even to cross its threshold or sit in the yard. 
 Indeed it was a joy to her, as she said, just to 
 tread the old rocky soil. 
 
 They went to the little graveyard and she 
 walked without hesitation to the old lot where 
 her father and her child lay. Neglected it 
 was, but, as Uncle John saw, a little care 
 would restore it. He thought somewhat self- 
 reproachfully of certain antiquarian researches 
 and expenditures of his own, while those graves 
 of his kindred had been unknown and neglected 
 by him. And before they left town, the lot 
 was in seemly and even beautiful order. 
 
 They had long drives around the rocky 
 coast. The sea was the same ; and the irregu 
 lar cliff w r hose every turn and precipice was 
 familiar to her. And it was an inexpressible 
 delight to look out over the sea, and feel the 
 saltness of the breeze. 
 
 They did not long remain strangers in 
 the place. Making inquiries about families
 
 276 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Grandmother had known, some of them her 
 cousins, he discovered that one gentleman 
 whom he had well known, Mr. Allan, was 
 quite a near relative, and he introduced them 
 to others. There were only a very few old peo 
 ple whom Grandma remembered as young 
 ones, but she found several delightful homes 
 belonging to their children or grandchildren. 
 They would not hear of her staying on at the 
 hotel, after they found her out, and so Uncle 
 John left her as thetr guest for a little while. 
 The week she had planned to spend slipped 
 away, and others with it, so it was nearly the 
 middle of October when she came home. She 
 was richer by memories and pleasures unnum 
 bered, but she found herself somewhat poorer 
 on her return. Mr. Fletcher, it seems, had 
 renewed his suit, and, finding it successful, 
 would wait no longer, and the quiet wedding 
 was to be at once. It was odd that it should 
 have happened in Grandmother's absence, so 
 much of it, as if he and sober Aunt Lois had 
 been young and bashful lovers. But the home 
 less aunt who was invited to take her place as 
 Grandmother's stay, was only too glad to come 
 immediately. No tongue could tell, and cer 
 tainly not Grandmother's, unused to loquacity, 
 all she had seen and heard and enjoyed during
 
 GRANDMOTHER MCLEAN'S VACATION. 277 
 
 that trip ; yet she did talk more than she had 
 ever done before, there was so much to tell 
 about it. And nothing delighted either her 
 or the children more than for her to be en 
 treated to tell them about her vacation visit. 
 
 There were cousins, and "nice ones," as Nell 
 had hoped, who found their way soon to Maine, 
 and came again and again. And some of the 
 older friends came too. But Grandmother 
 never went again, nor seemed to care to. The 
 hived sweetness of her recollections of that 
 month lasted all the remaining years. Noth 
 ing about it seemed to disappoint her. Per 
 haps the sweetness and serenity of her heart 
 sweetened it all. 
 
 She began to fail slowly, . yet perceptibly, 
 not long afterward, and it was not many years 
 longer that she w r as in the old home, for her 
 gentle spirit had winged its way to the heavenly 
 abiding places. And when her peaceful life 
 ended, and she was laid in the graveyard where 
 sounded only the IOW T murmur of the river or 
 the music of the pines, there was not one 
 among her loved ones who mourned her so 
 sincerely, who was not glad to remember 
 Grandmother's one vacation, not one who did 
 not wish the pleasure they gave her then had 
 been many times repeated and multiplied.
 
 278 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 The cousins, two or three degrees removed, 
 who dwell on the Massachusetts coast, are not 
 strangers now. Some of them, strange to 
 say, are now more nearly connected with the 
 McLeans. Other names have been given and 
 taken. And only last year a young and lively 
 lady went, not in an emigrant-wagon, (we 
 knew her as Nell Brownlee, but she is Nell 
 Allen now), to make good to Massachusetts 
 the loss of that demurer maiden who came to 
 Maine seventy years ago.
 
 MISS HANNAH'S HARVESTING. 
 
 Miss Hannah Hoitt lived alone in a wide old 
 house that had sheltered the families of her 
 father and her grandfather before her. Its 
 square, low-ceiled rooms were peopled, for her, 
 with precious memories and tender associations. 
 She would not shut the sunlight quite out of 
 any of them, so that they all retained some 
 pleasant look as of occupancy. And the rooms 
 she really lived in were bright, restful, sun 
 shiny, w T ith enough of the old-time quaintness 
 to give them a peculiar charm, and sufficient 
 subserviency to newer fashions and fancies of 
 adornment to assure you that the owner lived 
 in to-day, rather than yesterday. 
 
 Miss Hoitt was much esteemed in the little 
 community of Millton as a woman of means, 
 of sense, of character, of generous purposes 
 and practices. The farm had dwindled from 
 its once broad area of tillage and meadow and
 
 .280 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 pasture and woodland, to less than sixty acres. 
 Yet it was large enough for her to manage, for 
 she carried it on herself, with as careful and 
 capable an oversight as was exercised by any 
 of her neighbors on their domains. It was the 
 standing wonder of the neighborhood and of 
 the little town, "how Miss Hannah could 'man 
 age' so well." Every spring the boldness and 
 magnitude of her ventures astonished them. 
 Every fall the quantity and quality of the crops 
 she produced therefrom amazed them still 
 more. Her beans and corn, her cabbages 
 and cucumbers and onions, her beets and her 
 asparagus, nodded to one another from their 
 weedless rows in triumphant luxuriance. Her 
 berries blushed in exultation. Her little 
 orchard dropped its rosy and golden fruit 
 gleefully. In truth, it was the garnering of 
 her harvests that perplexed her. She revelled 
 in the long days when she could dig and tend 
 and water, and "see the things grow." But 
 when the days grew short, and the first frosts 
 came, and the pumpkin-vines grew black, and 
 the potato-tops died, and she began to fear for 
 her tenderer fruit, then despair and dismay 
 began to fill her soul. For then her house 
 keeping tasks were more onerous, her neigh 
 bors could seldom be hired to help, and "help,"
 
 MISS HANNAH'S HARVESTING. 281 
 
 proper, was "scarce." And, though Miss Hoitt 
 was no scold, and didn't know how to whine, 
 her voice was apt to grow plaintive as she 
 sometimes related her anxieties. 
 
 Hers was a bright and busy life, in all its 
 loneliness ; and many a weaker or less hopeful 
 heart shared its sunshine. She had not always 
 expected to live thus alone. Once she had 
 looked forward to a far different life. Perhaps 
 it had been all the harder that her own hand 
 had put aside her joys. But she couldn't have 
 done otherwise, she would remind herself. 
 There was only she to take care of the ageing 
 father, the querulous grandmother, the invalid 
 sister, all gone from her long ago. And he, 
 Allen Maynard, had his own brave life to live. 
 She would not let him waste any of it waiting. 
 She had sent him away, and perhaps she had 
 not told him very clearly the reason why. 
 But she had never ceased to think of him and 
 pray for him. When she read that pathetic 
 story of Miss Jewett's, "A Lost Lover," it 
 came to her suddenly that her lover might have 
 been "lost," to her, and the world, to goodness 
 and God, as that man was. But she always 
 said to herself that that could never have been. 
 Wherever Allen Maynard was, she was very 
 sure that he was still good and useful and 
 brave and genuine.
 
 282 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 Over her low threshold, above which hop- 
 vines grew, and morning glories hung, from 
 dawn till noon, their dewy chalices of purple 
 and crimson and white, came one late Septem 
 ber afternoon, her nearest neighbor, and one 
 of her dearest friends, Mrs. Sterne. She was 
 younger by a few years than Miss Hoitt, but 
 loved, trusted, petted, even sometimes confided 
 in, by the older woman. 
 
 "Come in, Lucy ? What's the matter, child ? 
 Something worries you ; and you're tired out, 
 too. Now just go into the sitting-room and 
 take the easy chair, and I'll be in in a minute, 
 just as soon as I slip on my other dress. 
 
 "You see," she resumed, a little later, coming 
 back freshly attired, "I've been trying to get 
 in my grapes and pears, and some of my apples. 
 I had to begin in season, and keep at it, a little 
 to a time, and I'm wofully behindhand now; 
 and help I can't seem to get, for everybody else 
 is busy too. Now, Lucy, what troubles you, 
 and what can I do?" 
 
 George Eliot remarks on the widely different 
 meanings that may be given to those last four 
 words by the tone and inflection with which 
 they are uttered ; expressing no\v heartiest 
 sympathy and helpfulness, now the coldest of 
 indifferent courtesy. But the words as Miss
 
 MISS HANNAH'S HARVESTING. 283 
 
 Hannah said them, were full of the wish to 
 help, and to know how to help. 
 
 "I don't like to tell you, Hannah ; you have 
 cares enough, without our rolling any of ours 
 on to you. But Jotham's sister Emily, she 
 that married a Swift, is sick with typhoid 
 fever, the real, raging typhoid. They live 
 over to Easton, you know, and there's nobody, 
 hardly, to go, but me ; and it seems as if I 
 muxt go right off and stay till she's better. 
 And there's only Mary Nelson, and she so 
 young and heedless, for all I've had her a year 
 and done my be&t with her, to learn her, to 
 keep house. She could do well enough for 
 Jotham and John, but Jotham's got men a 
 coming right away, the threshers, and car 
 penters to do his barn. That can't be put off. 
 And the new superintendent in the mills, he 
 promised certainly he'd board, because he used 
 to know him, and it would be handy and 
 homelike." 
 
 "And you want me to take "em?" queried 
 Miss Hannah. 
 
 "O Miss Hannah ! we do hate to ask or let 
 you. But what can we do? And Jotham says 
 he'll get all your apples and potatoes and 
 things in, in good season, and be glad to, and 
 you shall have good pay for the men, if you
 
 284 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 only think you could do it. And you don't 
 know what a relief it would be. You see, 
 we've got to take Emily's children home, till 
 she's better." 
 
 "\Yell, I'll try it, and, if nothing happens, 
 I guess I can carry it through." 
 
 "How is it, Hannah," went on the other, 
 "that most lone folks have enough to do to 
 take care of themselves? They think people 
 ought to do for them, and lookout for 'em, and 
 especially when they get to middle age. But 
 it's always just the other way with you." 
 
 "I don't know," returned Miss Hannah, hesi 
 tating. "Yes, I do try to help other folks what 
 I can. And 1 don't see that I've ever been 
 any worse off for it. Truly, I think it's just 
 that keeps me up and gives me courage to 
 work. It's something to think of and plan for, 
 you know. Now, if I could only do for my 
 self, I shouldn't feel as though 'twas hardly 
 worth while always, though that's something. 
 But when I can do something for someone else, 
 why, it makes me as strong again, and a sight 
 hopefuller." 
 
 "I don't doubt it. But now, Hannah, do 
 take care of yourself, and get somebody to 
 come in and help you. We can't let you get 
 worn out yet."
 
 MISS HANNAH'S HARVESTING. 285 
 
 She did not look worn out as she flitted 
 about after her visitor had gone, getting her 
 cozy tea and putting things in order for the 
 night. Energy was in every movement of her 
 trim, spare figure, and a kind of hopeful con 
 tent and courage blended with the kindliness 
 and humor that illumined the brown eyes. 
 She was adjusting herself mentally to the new 
 turn aflairs had taken ; with that ready willing 
 ness characteristic of her. "I couldn't do dif 
 ferently/' she was saying to herself . "There 
 wasn't but me to do it anyhow ; and the money 
 will be a real help this fall. The house needs 
 something laid out on it, and I want to send 
 Martha's girls something by and by,; and now 
 I shall have a little more for missions, home 
 and foreign, too ; and I can get some of those 
 books I've been wanting." And she paused in 
 her flitting to and fro, to look lovingly at the 
 already well-stocked shelves of the massive sec 
 retary, and thoughtfully at the empty space in 
 the newer bookcase beside it. "Yes, I am not 
 so sorry as I might be. Twill be quite a piece 
 of work, though, before it's through. How 
 ever, I guess I can manage." 
 
 "Quite a piece of work" it proved indeed, to 
 be. The threshers came, staid a week, and 
 departed. Close upon them came the carpen-
 
 286 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ter's crew ; and just as they were well settled, 
 came the most dreaded of all, Mr. Sterne's 
 friend, the superintendent at the new mills. 
 Miss Hannah had word that he was coming, 
 and Mr. Sterne drove over with him at supper- 
 time. He was in haste, and stopped only to 
 say that his sister was no better ; the fever was 
 having a long run. Lucy was about worn out, 
 too. "And this is the gentleman we spoke of, 
 Hannah, that you said might stop here a spell. 
 I think he's an old acquaintance of yours." 
 
 And Mr. Sterne had driven oft* before she 
 had had one good look at the man before her. 
 He lifted his hat then and held out his hand 
 with a smile. 
 
 "You used to know me, Miss Hoitt. You 
 can't have forgotten how many times we've 
 trudged up the hill to school together, and 
 how many times you did my sums and helped 
 me out with my parsing, in the little red school- 
 house over yonder. Or, if you've forgotten, 
 I haven't." 
 
 "Allen Maynard ? I had no idea it was you 
 that was coming ! I didn't really know who it. 
 was, come to think, but I didn't dream it was 
 you !" 
 
 "But you'll take me just the same ?"
 
 MISS HANNAHS HARVESTING. 287 
 
 For answer she led the way into the house, 
 with pink cheeks, shaking off her confusion as 
 best she could. 
 
 The little home was very cheery. The slant 
 rays of the setting sun streamed in between the 
 plants in the bay-window and gilded the bind 
 ings of her books and made great reflections 
 from the polished andirons. And in the next 
 room was spread the dainty tea-table, with its 
 crimson cloth, its glittering glass, its tempting 
 array, and its vase of flowers in the center. 
 For Miss Hannah was persuaded that even 
 "those men" noticed and appreciated her flow 
 ers. And the fragrance of freshly-made tea, 
 and inviting odors of browning biscuit, of baked 
 apples, and other appetizing dishes, were in 
 the air. And it was with pleasure not all con 
 cealed that the new boarder took the seat she 
 assigned him. It chanced to be opposite her 
 own. It was natural that the days should seem 
 to go by faster than ever, now. They were 
 very short, anyway, and Miss Hannah was very 
 busy. If any other element gave a new, satis 
 fying zest to day time task and evening talk, 
 she did not own it. 
 
 Allen Maynard was still, "good and brave 
 and generous," though his hair was turning 
 gray, and he had been many times across
 
 288 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 the continent, twice across the sea, once, even 
 around the world. He had many things to tell of 
 people and countries and customs known to 
 her only through books. And he liked books 
 as much as she did, too, and brought some of 
 his own for her to read, and sometimes new 
 ones that they read together. 
 
 The work on the new barn dragged wearily, 
 though Miss Hannah hardly noticed that Octo 
 ber was gone and November was going, till 
 one night she heard the men say that they 
 should just about get done when the ground 
 closed up ; in time maybe, to get home before 
 Thanksgiving. And Mrs. Sterne came home ; 
 her sister was convalescent, but she was well 
 nigh worn out herself, with watching. 
 
 And now the carpenters would go in a week 
 or two, at most, and Miss Hannah began to 
 realize that the old life would soon begin again 
 for her, and that it would be lonely. For Mr. 
 Maynard must go, too. How should she let 
 him know it? Her hints fell unheeded, and 
 though the men spoke of going home, and she, 
 of being alone once more, she did not see that 
 he noticed. 
 
 But it was her turn to be surprised a little 
 later, when he spoke of his plans for the win 
 ter, and of business in Easton.
 
 MISS HANNAH'S HARVESTING. 289 
 
 He would not be near, then, even to drop 
 in of an evening ! She began to be a little 
 lonely already. He had had a better position 
 offered him, maybe. And then she heard the 
 men say that Mr. Maynard was owner in the 
 mills, both at Millton and Easton. He had 
 acted as overseer here because he was needed. 
 Some one less capable would do now, for 
 affairs were running smoothly again, and the 
 Easton mills needed his attention. And they 
 said he had much other property there, besides. 
 
 One mild, sunny day, an Indian summer 
 afternoon he came with a carriage to take Miss 
 Hannah over to Easton for a ride. They drove 
 to the mills and around them ; then about town. 
 He drove slowly past a large, stately house, 
 suggestive of gracious uses and generous hos 
 pitalities. 
 
 "I bought the place two or three years ago/' 
 he said. "I have never rented it. It would 
 make a pleasant home, would it not? Might 
 it not be our home, Hannah? I have kept it 
 for you. I have waited for you. Shall we 
 not have our Indian summer at last ?" 
 
 So the question was asked and answered, 
 and a new life began, with brighter and warmer 
 /and richer joys, and larger opportunities. 
 
 The neighbors had "always known that Miss 
 Hannah was smart ; she had done better than
 
 290 "^-- UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 ever this year, too ; but they hadn't expected, 
 with all the rest, at her time of life, too, she 
 would be harvestin' a husband."
 
 THE SERMON DAVID TRAIN HEARD. ON 
 MEMORIAL DAY. 
 
 He didn't hear it at the Town Hall, for he 
 didn't go there. None, save himself, heard it 
 at all, and he was not listening for it. 
 
 David Train was not accustomed to keep 
 Memorial Day in any way. And while his 
 neighbors got out their carriages and washed 
 their mud-bespattered wagons, and brushed and 
 renovated their old clothes, or got themselves 
 ones, to go to "Decoration," he always 
 planned to stay at home. He would have a 
 bit of carpenter work about his barn or sheds, 
 that must be done ; or a piece of fence to put 
 up ; or a little late planting that he could leave 
 no longer ; and the feint roll of distant drums, 
 the sounds of martial music coming through 
 the pleasant air, and the rattle of hurrying 
 teams as the country folks drove by, did not 
 at all disturb him.
 
 292 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 So you may infer, and rightly, that David 
 Train was not a "public-spirited" man ; nor 
 had he quite the impulses or principles of an 
 ardently patriotic person. He asked no favor, 
 of place or patronage, of his country. Such 
 little offices as had been entrusted to him in 
 the town or county, he had not sought ; and 
 the duties thereof he had discharged with an 
 honest fidelity that was above suspicion of 
 greed or selfishness. Indeed, he was not a 
 stingy, hardly a selfish, man. Or perhaps I 
 should say his selfishness was rather a negative 
 than a positive quality. He simply "minded 
 his own affairs," and kept on in his own little 
 round of his own duties and interests. Only, 
 every year, as he grew older, that round of 
 recognized duties grew narrower, and year by 
 year the claims upon him, outside his own 
 small household, had less hold upon him. 
 When a neighbor would tell him of something 
 in village affairs that ought to be righted ; of 
 town improvements that might be made ; of a 
 need, or a want, or an abuse, that earnest and 
 honest men might do away with, the sug 
 gestion was dismissed with the satisfied re 
 mark that he David Train "had no call 
 to meddle." He had "no call" or he heard 
 none to help improve and re-grade the
 
 THE SERMOX DAVID TRAIN HEARD. 293 
 
 schools, to secure a town library, to raise 
 funds for a soldiers' monument. And, of 
 course, he had no call, either, to join in the 
 Memorial Day observances. His wife had 
 always a great basketful of flowers and vines 
 to send by some neighbor, for the ladies in the 
 village to arrange. She saved jealously her 
 geranium blossoms, her petunias, the blooms 
 of her oleander, the early sown nasturtiums in 
 her window boxes, and her roses. And she 
 had the bloom of the early things that lived 
 over in her little front yard, snowballs and 
 flowering almond, white lilacs, polyanthus, 
 tulips and jonquils, and the lilies of the valley. 
 She always sighed because Decoration Day 
 came so early. A month or two later, her 
 carefully tended flower-beds a half-dozen 
 they were, sown with all the simple, easily 
 started seeds that thrive in dear, old-fashioned 
 gardens would be masses of bloom. Yet her 
 contribution to the Memorial garlands was by 
 no means to be despised. Her flowers were 
 her one indulgence, and her husband always 
 humored her in it, helping her in his clumsy 
 fashion, and paying little heed, apparently, to 
 the disposal or distribution of the flowers. 
 
 She, perhaps, would have liked to go to the 
 Decoration Day services. Once in a while
 
 294 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 she did go, with one of her married daughters, 
 or an obliging nephew. To-day she had no 
 such opportunity, and after her housework was 
 done, busied herself in her garden, around her 
 shrubs and her herb-bed. 
 
 "I wonder," mused she, presently, "where 
 David is? I thought he was a hamnierin' out 
 to the barn or somewheres, but I don't hear 
 him. Mebbe he's gone over to the pasture, to 
 build a fence or something." 
 
 He had gone across the fields, with hammer 
 in hand and nails in his pocket, but it was not 
 in the direction of the pasture. A few minutes 
 later he might have been seen entering the 
 little grave-yard, down among;: the meadows, 
 beyond the railroad track. This little ceme 
 tery, he knew, had been visited by a delega 
 tion from the G. A. R. Post in the forenoon, 
 and would doubtless be left to its usual solitary 
 quiet the remainder of the day. It was not 
 very much used, only by a certain section. It 
 was quite large, however, and well kept, for 
 a country grave-yard. 
 
 The week before, Mr. Train, who was a 
 carpenter, as well as a farmer, had had a let 
 ter from Squire Rollins, whose boyhood home 
 was near his own. Squire Rollins's business, 
 and his home during the winter, were in
 
 THE SERMON DAVID TRAIN HEARD. 295 
 
 another state and city. But he still came, 
 with his family, to the old homestead to pass 
 the summers. He was later than usual this 
 year, but was coming soon ; and friends who 
 wanted to explore the region quite thoroughly, 
 one of whom was, he said, "a bit of an anti 
 quarian," were coming with him. He had 
 wanted some things done about the home 
 place, and had also asked his neighbor to go 
 over to the grave-yard and rnend the fence a 
 
 O v 
 
 little, and especially put in seemly order the 
 Rollins family lot. The fence was not badly 
 broken. A half-hour's work made it neat and 
 strong. Nor was there very much to do on 
 the Squire's lot. There were a few boughs, 
 that had protected the ivies and the rose 
 bushes, to take away, and leaves and dead 
 grass to be removed ; fortunately he had 
 brought a small rake with the hammer. 
 
 The place where his departed friends, neigh 
 bors, and kindred slept, had no terrors nor 
 awful, depressing associations for David Train. 
 He was a Christian, with a Christian's faith. 
 It may be his belief was rather deep and high 
 than broad and generous, yet it was a vital, 
 sustaining, really consoling one. He did not 
 follow it out to its full, grand, sacrificial, 
 beneficent, reasonable development in all rela 
 tions of this life. He did not realize and ful-
 
 296 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 fill who of us does? the length and breadth 
 and depth and hight of love and service, which 
 should answer to "the breadth and length and 
 hight and depth" of "the love of Christ, which 
 passeth knowledge." But his faith was very 
 real. 
 
 The sunshine, the birds, the summer winds, 
 and "the green things growing," were all doing 
 their best to brighten the lonely quiet of the 
 spot. The grass was green upon the graves, 
 the sunshine flecked the sward. The winds 
 were breathing softly over the bending wil 
 lows, and the willows themselves were very 
 tenderly green. Here and there a wild 
 flower peeped out, and a ground-sparrow 
 had hidden her home in a corner. The robins 
 had their nests in the elms all builded, and 
 some of them had leisure to sing right tune 
 fully. "To-give-is-to-live to-give-is-to-live !" 
 sang the merry-hearted bobolinks. "To-gtve- 
 is-to-live to-give-is-to-live ! For-givmg-is- 
 living-you-know-ow !" 
 
 And everything around was giving some 
 thing to the rest and to the world. Even the 
 solemn old pines, half-a-mile away, sent down 
 their healing fragrance lr> willing messengers, 
 the winds. 
 
 David Train went to and fro about his work. 
 He had raked up the litter of leaves, and was
 
 THE SERMON DAVID TRAIN HEARD. 297 
 
 carrying it away. Here and there, in many 
 lots, were fresh wreaths and bouquets, and the 
 most of them were on those long mounds which 
 were marked, with tiny flags, as soldiers' 
 graves. He stopped sometimes, as he passed, 
 to read the inscriptions on the head-stones. 
 "He heard his Country's call," or "He gave his 
 life for his Country," was frequently carved on 
 the marble above such resting-places. 
 
 The names were nearly all of them familiar 
 to Mr. Train. Some of them were of men 
 who had died within a few years, veterans of 
 the war. Some of them had been there twenty 
 years or more. David Train had not been a 
 soldier. He did not volunteer, and he had 
 not been drafted. Yet he had given, rather 
 should I say there had been wrenched from 
 him in that time of strife and peril, some 
 thing more precious than his own service, or 
 even his life. A younger brother, inexpress 
 ibly dear to the quiet, self-contained man, 
 for such he was even in youth, had enlisted, 
 in all the ardor of patriotic self-devotion. He 
 had not lived to serve his country long. And 
 that grim, flower-covered mound, with the 
 gleaming marble at its head, held all that had 
 come back from the Southern battle-field where 
 he was wounded. 
 14
 
 298 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 This had been the one deep, uncured sorrow 
 of David Train's life. To only one other had 
 the loss caused such anguish. Mary Neal, his 
 brother's betrothed, saw the dearest hopes of 
 her life go out, when the sad newsqame. But 
 sorrow had, ere long, unlocked, enriched, fer 
 tilized her life. She was abundant in good 
 works, many of them hidden, all of them 
 unobtrusive, yet none the less real and benefi 
 cent. 
 
 After his work was done, David Train went 
 to the corner of the burying-ground where 
 slept his father and mother, long dead, and 
 the sister who had died in infancy, beside that 
 blossom-laden grave, whose stone bore the 
 name of "Edward Train." It was yet early ; 
 he was tired, and the place was very still, so 
 he sat down to rest. He fell to musing, as he 
 not infrequently did, over what Edward would 
 have been and done if he had lived. Some 
 times he fancied him a minister in the pulpit ; 
 sometimes he saw him going to India, the 
 Gospel in his hands ; sometimes he appeared 
 a heroic Christian pioneer in the far West. 
 Oftener the elder brother imagined the younger 
 one engaged in some form of missionary work 
 at home ; perhaps in a great city, perhaps in 
 a scattered, struggling rural parish. "He'd
 
 THE SERMON DAVID TRAIN HEARD. 299 
 
 have given himself away somehow, if he hadn't 
 gone to war," sighed the musing man. 
 
 "To-give-is-is-^s-to-live," sans; that wise bob- 
 
 O D 
 
 olink again ; but his one hearer did not under 
 stand, so he flew away, and the man went on 
 wondering. Wondering if, had circumstances 
 so seemed to determine it that his brother had 
 been, say, in his own environments, been a 
 busy, hard-working, prosperous farmer, as he 
 was, Edward would still have differed so 
 from most of the world. What would he have 
 to give then ? Or, would he have been still 
 giving? Yes, probably he would. There was 
 Mary Neal, with much less ; but she had some 
 thing to give always. And when her purse 
 grew lighter, too light to spare a copper, why, 
 she gave her strength, her sympathy, her 
 prayers, her time, what she had, in short, 
 herself, the more abundantly. David Train 
 was not rich. Why should he give? But 
 he could not help thinking, himself, what 
 a hard, cold place to live in the world 
 would probably be, if no man cared more or 
 did more, for his fellowmen, than he was 
 doing. Where would be Nation and State but 
 for these, and thousands of others, who had 
 given their lives for other men's liberties? 
 Where or whence came eternal life for us, but 
 through -One who gave himself for us ? "Hereby
 
 300 UNDER FRIENDLY EAVES. 
 
 know we love, because he laid down His life 
 for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for 
 the brethren." The remembered words came 
 of themselves : "Beloved., if God so loved us, 
 we also ought to love one another." 
 
 The bobolink came back again, and was sing 
 ing his happy carol over and over in the elm. 
 But that wasn't the refrain that was running 
 in David Train's mind. It was a line or two 
 of some homely, familiar verses his wife had 
 read aloud one evening. There was something 
 like this in them : 
 
 "If your life ain't \vorth nothing to other folks, 
 Why, what's the use of living?" 
 
 It was almost six o'clock when he left the 
 quiet grave-yard. The country teams were 
 coming back along the winding road, hurry 
 ing home, for it was late, and supper was to 
 sret, and the chores to do, when he wont 
 
 O 
 
 homeward across the fields. His neighbors 
 had been thrilled by eloquent words, and had 
 felt loyal and generous impulses stirred and 
 strengthened within them. Grand orations 
 
 O 
 
 had been pronounced in many places all around 
 him, but David Train had heard none of them. 
 Yet his Memorial Day lesson had found him, 
 just the same. And from that day he began 
 to find "the blessedness there is in loving and 
 giving and helping."