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 A WOMAN WHO FAILED 
 AND OTHERS
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED 
 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 1893
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 SSntbcrsttg 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED 7 
 
 A SILENT SOUL 44 
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE 86 
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE 106 
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE ,141 
 
 THE MIDDLE Miss TALLMAN 183 
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING ........ 234 
 
 Miss POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL 260 
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET 285 
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM 3 X 9
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 WHEN Molly Graham married Irving 
 Tracy, they lived for a time in pic- 
 turesque poverty. Now picturesque poverty 
 is not a bad thing to live in; it is not un- 
 comfortable, and is very apt to be jolly. 
 It is as different from true poverty, as that 
 in its turn is from squalor. They are all 
 steps in the stairway which leads from absolute 
 starvation to millionnairedom. The trouble 
 with picturesque poverty is that it rarely 
 lasts: it is apt to make progress into the 
 next step of being well-to-do, or to sink 
 slowly into the region of real want. The 
 latter direction threatened the Tracys at the 
 end of the second year after their marriage. 
 
 Irving Tracy was a doctor, who had appar- 
 ently every requisite for a successful career.
 
 8 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 He was young and strong, devoted to his 
 profession, and more than ordinarily clever. 
 He was full of enthusiasm and energy, and 
 looked " upon the world as his oyster," which 
 he was determined to open as speedily as 
 possible. 
 
 He was called " a very promising young 
 man," by the elder citizens of Greenville, 
 whither he had come about three years be- 
 fore his marriage. During that time he had 
 succeeded in gaining a considerable practice. 
 He had a frank, pleasant way, which soon 
 made him popular, and the older doctors 
 had been very cordial to him, even while 
 they laughed a little at his very progressive 
 ways and modern sanitary notions. 
 
 Every one in 'Greenville was glad when he 
 married Molly Graham, for she was as pop- 
 ular in her way as he was in his. 
 
 . She did not live in Greenville, but had 
 come there for several summers, to visit her 
 old school-mate, Anna Carter. She was an 
 orphan, with a little sum of money, which 
 had been enough to clothe and educate her, 
 and she had stayed at her boarding-school 
 after she was graduated, teaching the younger 
 classes. She was very pretty, though with 
 a delicate, undecided sort of prettiness, that
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. Q 
 
 might possibly develop as she grew older 
 into real beauty, or might on the contrary 
 disappear entirely. She was a great favorite, 
 and had many friends and at least two lovers 
 in Greenville ; but though John Carter was 
 financially a much better match than Dr. 
 Tracy, Molly had not hesitated a minute 
 between love and money. Her marriage 
 was for her as full of sentiment as any ro- 
 mance that the poets sing about. She told 
 Anna Carter that she would rather marry 
 Irving Tracy and live in a hut on the prairie, 
 than marry any other man she knew ; and 
 Anna was not unkind enough to remind her 
 that she knew few men anyway, and had 
 never been in, much less lived in, a hut, or 
 on a prairie. 
 
 Irving loved her in the intense, whole- 
 hearted, devoted way, that is just at present 
 a little out of fashion. She was for him " the 
 world's one woman." He could no more 
 have analyzed his emotions concerning her 
 than he could have criticised Molly herself. 
 That she should love him, seemed to him as 
 surprising as it was beatific ; but that loving 
 him she should marry him, not only will- 
 ingly, but gladly, in spite of his poverty, did 
 not seem to him strange at all.
 
 IO A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 " I 'm afraid we '11 be poor, Molly, for a 
 few years," said he, " but if I only have you, 
 I have everything in the world I want ; " and 
 he meant every word he said. 
 
 In fact, Molly and he were so much in love 
 with each other, and seemed to care so little 
 about their slim purses, that some older 
 people, who had tried the experiment of liv- 
 ing on bread and cheese and kisses, watched 
 them with pity and envy. 
 
 Irving rented a small picturesque cottage, 
 painted red, with olive-green blinds, and 
 drew upon his slender store to furnish it. 
 Molly took a part of her money, too, and 
 together they made the little home very 
 bright and cosey. 
 
 She gave pretty little dinners and jolly 
 little luncheons. At her first dinner she for- 
 got to have the legs of her turkey tied down, 
 and it kicked wildly into Judge Carter's digni- 
 fied face, but the spray of golden-rod beside 
 his plate ought to have made up to him for 
 that. The macaroni was badly burnt too ; 
 but it was served in the scooped-out half of 
 a cheese, and the guests eyed it suspiciously 
 and ate it warily. When guests act like that, 
 a hostess always feels that she has at least 
 furnished a novelty, and Molly regarded the
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. II 
 
 macaroni as a success, in spite of its burnt 
 flavor. So the law of compensation pre- 
 vailed in Molly's household, and the young 
 people of Greenville found it charming. A 
 few of the older ones thought it would be 
 just as well if it were not quite so free and 
 easy, and Mrs. Scofield, the wife of the Pres- 
 byterian minister, plainly said it would be 
 better if Molly knew " more about cooking 
 and less about decorating." She said this 
 spitefully, in nasal tones, for she had taken 
 an awful cold at Molly's last dinner, from 
 sitting near the pantry door. There was a 
 small Japanese screen in front of it^ which 
 did not keep out the draught, and Mr. 
 Scofield at the same time contracted bron- 
 chitis, from being backed up against the 
 grate, where his back was nearly broiled. 
 Molly's dining-room was small ; but she did 
 the best that she could with her guests, and 
 seldom injured two members of a family at 
 one time. 
 
 Irving was very proud of her, and thought 
 her a wonderful housekeeper and manager. 
 He was as much in love as when he married 
 her, though, to be sure, he had detected a 
 few weak spots in her character ; but he 
 treated them as a good skater does thin ice,
 
 12 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 glided over them as soon as possible, and 
 tried in each instance not to go near that 
 place again. 
 
 At the end of the second year things began 
 to wear out in the Tracys' home. Many of 
 the wedding-presents, which had done so 
 much toward beautifying it, were broken, 
 and others had lost their freshness. 
 
 The pretty cretonne, which Molly had used 
 so lavishly for curtains and upholstery, had 
 faded, and the colored Canton flannel, which 
 had supplemented cretonne, looked even 
 more forlorn. It had faded and fuzzed up 
 too. T,he carpets were beginning to be a 
 little shabby, and the cheap furniture, which 
 had been so pretty when new, looked rather 
 banged and marred. A good deal of the 
 damage was due to the baby, who was of a 
 particularly destructive variety. He loved 
 to try to pull himself up by the small tables, 
 which he only succeeded in tipping over on 
 top of him with all that they held. He was 
 large and active, and kicked things a good 
 deal, and for a child who was kept reasonably 
 clean, it seemed as if he left the most extra- 
 ordinary number of dirty finger-marks around. 
 He was always under-foot, for they could not 
 afford a nurse, and Molly had attempted to 
 take care of him herself.
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 13 
 
 They were still poor, and seemed to grow 
 poorer. Irving Tracy had not succeeded as 
 well as he hoped. It was not his fault; he 
 had worked early and late, but two new 
 physicians had come to Greenville, and there 
 were so many there now, that practice was 
 very much divided. Then, too, he worked 
 a great deal among the poor, where he got 
 little or no pay ; and although many a time 
 he resolved that he would not give away his 
 services again, that he owed it to himself 
 not to do thus, yet he found, when some 
 poor Irishwoman sent for him in her hour 
 of trial, or some day-laborer on the railroad 
 broke his leg, that he forgot his resolutions, 
 and took as good care of the sufferers as if 
 they were the best-paying patients on his 
 books. 
 
 He had a brother in Missouri, a farmer, 
 whose farm was mortgaged. This brother 
 was sick for a long time and could not pay 
 his interest, and his farm was threatened with 
 foreclosure. He wrote to Irving about it, 
 and he and Molly agreed that they must 
 help. It was a hard pull for them ; but if 
 they did not do it, the brother would lose 
 everything. 
 
 Then, spite of Molly's managing, all the
 
 14 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 household expenses had been larger than 
 they had expected. All these causes had 
 kept them poor, and at the end of two years 
 Irving Tracy felt like a strong swimmer who 
 is getting a little tired struggling against the 
 tide, or like a soldier who has fought for 
 hours and finds the combat as thick around 
 him as though just begun. 
 
 Molly had grown very quiet. The gloss 
 was wearing off more things than the furni- 
 ture. She was disappointed, and in her heart 
 she blamed her husband. She still loved him, 
 but it was not as she herself had found 
 out with the love that " beareth all things, 
 believeth all things, and hopeth all things." 
 
 It had been rather pleasant to manage her 
 little home at first and contrive pretty effects 
 on a small outlay, with her girl friends as an 
 admiring audience and Irving as a humble, 
 adoring subject. But the pinch of poverty 
 seemed to have tightened into a steady 
 grip. The baby was a great disturber, for 
 Molly was not fond of children. She had 
 not the knack of systematizing and order- 
 ing her household so that things fitted in. 
 The baby did not fit in anywhere, or with 
 anything else. Molly, as she said, "just had 
 to let things go and take care of him." This
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 15 
 
 " letting go " was not a very satisfactory pro- 
 cess. Molly gave fewer dinners now, and 
 those she did give were apt to be rather jerky 
 and spasmodic. The baby once woke up 
 during one, and screamed so that he had to 
 come to the table in his night-gown. 
 
 Molly cried after this dinner, and said she 
 would never give another. She said there 
 was " no use in trying to do anything or be 
 anybody ; " and then she thumped the baby 
 rather hard, and immediately repented and 
 kissed him, while Irving watched her, feeling 
 like a guilty thing, and as if he were person- 
 ally responsible for it all. 
 
 She sat waiting for her husband one night. 
 She was ripping up an old dress, and doing it 
 with as little noise as possible, for the baby 
 was asleep in his carriage in front of her. 
 She had a long string tied to the handle 
 of the carriage, and if he moved or cried 
 she shoved the carriage to the other side 
 of the room and drew it back again by the 
 string. 
 
 Irving's supper was keeping hot and drying 
 up, on a plate in the heater, and his place 
 was set on the dining-room table. He had 
 gone to a medical convention, but she ex- 
 pected him home to-night.
 
 1 6 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 Presently she heard his step, and the front 
 door opened with a bang. 
 
 " Well, Molly," he began, as he came in ; 
 but she said " hush," and held up a warning 
 hand, and sent the baby on a flying trip 
 across the room. 
 
 When one comes in out of the cold, pre- 
 pared to give or receive a cordial greeting, 
 there is something very subduing and de- 
 pressing in a hushed voice. One cannot be 
 hearty in a whisper. 
 
 He came around the table and kissed Molly 
 quietly. 
 
 " You have n't had your supper, have 
 you?" she asked softly. "I will get it for 
 you." 
 
 She left the room, and soon motioned for 
 him to come. She sat down beside him while 
 he ate. 
 
 " Well," she asked, " how did the conven- 
 tion go? " 
 
 " Oh, well enough," he tried to answer 
 carelessly, but she instantly detected the 
 effort. 
 
 " Did anything happen? "she asked quickly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered doggedly, "I had a 
 row with Dr. Porter." 
 
 " Oh, Irving ! " she gasped, " what about? "
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. lj 
 
 " Well, it was the old feud between the old 
 and new code. The discussion broke out 
 fiercely. I cannot believe as they do ; I will 
 not be bound by their prejudices. Dr. Porter 
 called me a name and spoke to me in a tone 
 he had no business to use, and I answered 
 him. I cannot help it if he is the oldest, most 
 influential doctor in the State; I cannot let 
 anybody scold me as if I were a schoolboy." 
 
 " Oh, Irving! " she said again. 
 
 " Yes, I know it was injudicious and all 
 that; but, Molly, you want me to speak the 
 truth, don't you? If I cannot believe a thing, 
 you don't want me to sit still and pretend I 
 do, just for the sake of my practice? " 
 
 " No, Irving," she said sadly, " I want you 
 to do always what you think is right." But 
 there were tears in her eyes and a quaver in 
 her voice when she spoke. 
 
 " Poor little Molly! " he said gently; "you 
 have had a hard time, little girl, and I 'm 
 sorry for you." He put his arm around her 
 and smoothed her hair. She began to cry 
 softly, for she was one of those women who 
 cry easily. He had thought it very touching 
 and pathetic at first, but it tired him a little 
 now. 
 
 They went back into the room where the
 
 1 8 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 baby was, and sat down. Molly took up her 
 ripping again. Her husband looked at her 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Molly," he said, " I wish you did n't feel 
 so blue over this. It won't hurt me much 
 if I am not on speaking terms with Dr. 
 Porter." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Come," he said cheerfully, " we 've had 
 an awfully tough time, Molly, I know; but 
 we 've got each other and the little fellow 
 there, and if we only keep close together, 
 I 'm sure we '11 pull through yet." 
 
 Molly had found a thread that ripped, and 
 was pulling it out intently. She did not 
 answer, but her lip quivered. 
 
 " If you would only have a little faith, 
 Molly, you don't know how it would help 
 me." 
 
 " Have faith in what ? " she asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Why, in everything, in our life, in our 
 love, in me. I 'm not going to grub along 
 like this always. I 'm sure to succeed some 
 time, any man. who tries as hard and as 
 faithfully as I do, will. I shall be able to 
 make a place in the world for myself and 
 for you too, Molly. Sometime I shall give
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 19 
 
 you all the things you want, money, posi- 
 tion, and a beautiful home." 
 
 Her sad face brightened a little. " Oh, 
 you really think you will ? " she asked. 
 
 "Think? I know it," he said with deci- 
 sion ; " but you must help me, Molly." 
 
 " How can I help you ? " 
 
 " Why, by loving me, and being always 
 sweet and cheerful. If I could see your 
 face as bright as it was when I married you, 
 it would be worth everything to me." 
 
 He was silent a minute, and then added : 
 
 " I don't know ; perhaps I 'm a weak sort 
 of man, after all ; but you can do anything 
 with me, Molly. When I feel that you are 
 happy and have faith in me, I am strong and 
 full of courage, I can slay my thousands, 
 like David ; but when you get blue and sad 
 and hopeless, I feel as if life wasn't worth 
 living. I love you too much, little girl; 
 that's the trouble." 
 
 Molly smiled ; she liked to be adored. 
 " I will try, Irving," she said, " to have more 
 faith and hope." 
 
 She meant to try, and for a while she did ; 
 but she was one of those women who see 
 plainly what is right, and yet have not the 
 strength to do it. Her theories and ideals
 
 2O A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 were the highest and purest, but she seldom 
 was able to translate them into everyday 
 action. 
 
 In a moment of enthusiasm Molly Tracy 
 might have gone to the stake as a martyr ; 
 but she could not master and control herself 
 enough to be always a pleasant person to 
 live with. She looked back upon her girl- 
 hood, and wondered if it were possible that 
 she was the same woman ; she was so differ- 
 ent from what she had thought she would be. 
 She was disappointed in herself, and the con- 
 sciousness that she had not succeeded was 
 a constant source of depression. She had 
 meant to be an ideal wife, but the character 
 was more difficult than she thought ; she 
 had meant to be an ideal mother, but she 
 had not counted on the hundred little daily 
 acts of patience and unselfishness that it 
 implied. The poor little baby was some- 
 times jerked and twitched, not that Molly 
 did not love it, or that she meant to be 
 unkind, but she was nervous, impatient, and 
 often very tired. She gave Irving a curt, 
 sharp word now and then, but oftener she 
 was stonily silent with him. 
 
 Molly believed that no character stands 
 still, that every success strengthens, as every
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 21 
 
 defeat weakens it ; and it was with shame and 
 despair that she saw quite clearly that she 
 had not only fallen short of all her aspira- 
 tions, but that she was daily growing to be 
 a poorer sort of woman, less and less capable 
 of ever reaching them. 
 
 She and her husband had had many such 
 talks, and they always ended as this had 
 done, in his trying to help and encourage 
 her. He felt vaguely that his married life 
 was not all that he had hoped ; but he com- 
 forted himself with the thought that when 
 they had once passed beyond these troubled 
 waters and had come to smoother sailing, all 
 would go well. 
 
 But in spite of his most earnest efforts 
 he did not get on. His quarrel with Dr. 
 Porter affected his practice ; conservative 
 people were a little shy of trusting the care 
 of their health to a young man who had 
 openly placed himself in opposition to the 
 oldest practitioners in that part of the State. 
 Then, Irving's manner, which had formerly 
 been so pleasant, was now sometimes objec- 
 tionable. There is no profession that de- 
 pends so much upon a man's personality as 
 that of a physician. He must be always 
 attentive and sympathetic, always encour-
 
 22 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 aging and cheerful ; he must never seem to 
 think of himself, or to have any interests out- 
 side of his patients' symptoms. 
 
 Irving, while he was brave before Molly 
 for her sake, had many an hour of discour- 
 agement and gloom, and was apt when des- 
 pondent to turn off uninteresting cases with 
 the few curt words which were all that 
 seemed absolutely necessary. 
 
 His patients complained, not that he did 
 not cure them, but that he seemed to take 
 no interest in them. 
 
 It was about three years after their mar- 
 riage, and when the second baby was only 
 a few weeks old, that the bank in New York 
 in which Molly's little fortune was, suddenly 
 failed. Irving did not let her know at first ; 
 but when she was stronger he told her as 
 gently as he could. 
 
 It was a great blow for poor Molly, and 
 she cried until the soft head of the little baby 
 in her arms was quite wet. 
 
 " Molly," said her husband, " suppose we 
 move away from Greenville ; we Ve had bad 
 luck ever since we Ve lived here. Suppose we 
 leave it behind, and try again in a new place." 
 
 He said this partly because he really 
 thought that they might better their fortunes
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 2$ 
 
 by moving, and partly because he fancied 
 that since they had grown so poor, Molly 
 shrunk from meeting her old friends, and 
 that old associations gave her more pain 
 than pleasure. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" asked Molly, hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Suppose we try Pittsburgh ; it is a larger, 
 busier place, and I have friends there. Molly, 
 I think you would like it better." 
 
 " It is all the same to me," said Molly. " I 
 only wish I could go to my grave and be 
 done with it." 
 
 " Oh, Molly, how can you talk like that ! " 
 he said ; " you don't know how you hurt me." 
 
 " I don't mean to hurt you," she said 
 wearily ; " but I am tired out. It is struggle, 
 struggle, struggle, and I don't see any light 
 ahead. It seems as if there was a curse 
 resting on us. I am sick and tired of it all, 
 and I wish it were ended." 
 
 He turned very white. When a woman 
 says such things as these to the man who 
 loves her, she kills not only his happiness, 
 but his love. 
 
 " Don't talk like that, Molly," he said hus- 
 kily ; " it is the same as saying that you wish 
 you had never married me."
 
 24 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 " Well, I do," said Molly, desperately. 
 
 He looked at her sadly. " Poor Molly ! " 
 he said, and then, after standing silent for 
 a few moments, he left her. He did not 
 kiss her when he went, and she did not 
 miss it. 
 
 They moved to Pittsburgh, and rented a 
 little house there. It was not as pretty as 
 the one in Greenville, and their furniture did 
 not look as well in it. The walls were shabby, 
 and in one room discolored ; but the land- 
 lord would not fix them, and Irving could 
 not afford to. Their carpets did not fit, and 
 were eked out here and there with strips of 
 oil-cloth. They did not have curtains at all 
 the windows, and Molly did not take very 
 much pride in arranging things. She was, 
 as she had said, " tired out." She econo- 
 mized, but it was the uncompromising econ- 
 omy that simply goes without things, not 
 the cheerful kind, that takes second and third 
 best, and so manipulates and disguises that it 
 seems to make the best out of them. 
 
 Molly moved in a very gray atmosphere. 
 She woke with a heavy sense of depression, 
 that hung over and clung around her all day. 
 She felt that Fate had somehow played her 
 a malicious trick, and she had moments of
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 1$ 
 
 blind rage, in which she hated life and every- 
 thing in it. Nothing was as she wanted, but 
 the bitterness of it lay in her own conviction 
 that, after all, the defeat was in her own char- 
 acter. She had always thought that in any 
 crisis she would be a brave woman. She 
 believed, even now, that she could have en- 
 dured a sharp, keen sorrow, like death, with 
 heroism. The trouble was that her crisis 
 was a prolongation. 
 
 She was young and well; her children 
 were lovable and attractive ; her husband 
 loved her, and if the flame of his love burned 
 faintly, she knew it was she herself who had 
 dimmed it, and she knew, too, that she had 
 the power to fan it into brightness again. 
 She felt that a stronger, truer woman would 
 have taken the despised material of her life 
 and woven it into a fabric bright and beau- 
 tiful. She knew that many another woman 
 who had all for which she yearned would 
 have envied her. 
 
 " Yes, I have all the essentials of happi- 
 ness," she said wearily to herself; but yet 
 she was very miserable. She indulged in 
 vague day-dreams of what her life might 
 have been if she had married some one else, 
 and then she would rouse herself with a
 
 26 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 shock and realize that in thought she was 
 untrue to her husband. 
 
 Meanwhile the success which Molly had 
 given up expecting did not come to them in 
 Pittsburgh. Irving grew thin and haggard. 
 He worked hard, but it was with the energy 
 of a desperate man, and no longer with the 
 zeal of a hopeful one. 
 
 He and Molly never quarrelled, but they 
 rarely talked to each other at all. She went 
 her way and he his, each silent, gloomy, de- 
 pressed. Now and then he tried to break 
 through the ice floes which seemed to have 
 drifted close around and frozen up his soul ; 
 but Molly never responded to these efforts, 
 and they grew less and less frequent. 
 
 He had ceased to expect help or encour- 
 agement in his home. The very thought of 
 his wife dragged on him sometimes like a 
 ball and chain ; and yet he had not acknow- 
 ledged to himself that he no longer loved 
 Molly. He was very sorry for her, and bit- 
 terly self-accusing when he thought of all 
 that she had suffered. 
 
 He did not drink, as some men would have 
 done; but once or twice when his mental 
 distress was aggravated by physical pain, he 
 took opium. " I sha'n't have that young
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 2/ 
 
 Dr. Tracy again," said one young mother to 
 another. " He came yesterday to see Ethel's 
 sore throat, and gave her some medicine in 
 a glass ; and after he 'd got away out to the 
 gate, he came all the way back to see if it 
 was right. Now, a man that's as absent- 
 minded as that isn't fit to be trusted with 
 children." 
 
 " No, indeed," said her hearer ; " and he 
 asked me yesterday how my little girl was. 
 I should think if any one ought to know 
 that the baby is a boy, he ought." 
 
 " I don't believe he treats his wife well, 
 either ; she 's the glummest-looking thing ! " 
 
 There were many such talks as these, and 
 though they were but idle breath, they blew 
 Irving Tracy no good. 
 
 He came home one night, tired and pre- 
 occupied. He had a very sick patient, a 
 young girl, who was the only daughter of 
 the most prominent merchant in Pittsburgh. 
 
 Molly was unusually quiet, but she said to 
 him after supper, 
 
 " Irving, I want to talk to you. Can you 
 stay a little while ? " 
 
 " Yes," he said listlessly, and sat down. 
 
 She came beside him.
 
 28 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 "Irving," she said, " John Carter was here 
 to-day." 
 
 " Well, what did he want? " 
 
 " He came to see me." She paused, and 
 twisted her fingers nervously. " I am telling 
 you this, Irving, because it is right that you 
 should know. He was in love with me 
 before we were married, you know, and he 
 said things to me to-day I let him say 
 them that no man has a right to say to 
 another man's wife." 
 
 Irving looked at her fixedly. " What are 
 you talking about? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, Irving, do not look at me like that," 
 she cried. " I have been a weak woman and 
 a poor, unworthy wife, but I am not wicked." 
 She looked at him pleadingly ; but he took 
 no notice of her, and after a few seconds she 
 went on, nervously : 
 
 " He told me to-day that if I had let him 
 shape my life, he would have made it very 
 happy, and that all my poverty and hardship 
 had made him suffer whenever he thought of 
 it, because I was not fitted or made for it. 
 I let him say it; I did not answer him, but 
 afterward, when it was too late, I knew that 
 I had done wrong, knew that he had no 
 right to speak to me like that, and I thought
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 2g 
 
 at least I could be true enough to tell you, 
 and let you know just how bad I am." She 
 stopped tearfully. 
 
 She could come to her husband with such 
 a confession as this, for she was not afraid of 
 him, and it required but the one effort of 
 self-abasement; but she had not been able 
 to keep out of her mind the daily vision of 
 what life might have been if she had married 
 another man. 
 
 Irving had listened as if he scarcely heard 
 her. He was surprised that he did not seem 
 to care. It only showed how far apart he and 
 Molly had drifted that he did not mind more. 
 
 " Well, Molly," he said with a sigh, " I 
 guess he was right. It 's all been a wretched 
 bungling business ; but we must try to make 
 the best of it for the children's sake." 
 
 He started to leave the room. 
 
 " Oh, Irving," she sobbed, " don't go. Tell 
 me that you forgive me tell me that you 
 despise me ! " 
 
 He laughed a hard little laugh. 
 
 " Which do you prefer? I can't do both." 
 
 But Molly did not answer. She had thrown 
 herself upon the sofa and was crying bitterly. 
 
 He looked at her gloomily, and a little 
 contemptuously; then, without speaking, went
 
 3O A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 out in the hall and put on his overcoat. ' At 
 the hall door he hesitated, turned, and came 
 back. 
 
 " Come, Molly," he said, touching her 
 shoulder, " don't despair. I Ve had a faint 
 ray of light to-day. The " Medical Gazette " is 
 going to take my article on diphtheria and 
 pay me for it. I think luck is going to turn, 
 and we '11 be happy yet." 
 
 His voice was hard and hopeless, and she 
 knew there was no heart in what he said. So 
 he left her. She lay still and cried miserably 
 for a long time. It was late when he came 
 home, but she had not gone to bed. He 
 seemed nervous and excited. 
 
 " Miss Simpson is dead," he said. 
 
 " When did she die? " asked Molly. 
 
 " She was dead when I got there to-night ; 
 they had just sent for me ; it was very 
 sudden," and he walked about the room 
 restlessly. 
 
 The next morning, as Molly sat at the 
 sewing-machine, Irving came home. It was 
 an unusual thing for him to do in the morning, 
 and she was surprised when she heard his 
 step. He came straight to the room where 
 she was, and stood before her. He held a 
 newspaper in his hand.
 
 A WOMAN WHO 2- A I LED. 31 
 
 " Molly," he said, and his voice was husky 
 " Molly, they say that I killed Ida Simpson." 
 
 She looked up at him with heavy doubting 
 eyes. If she could, even then, at that late 
 day, have gone to him and thrown her arms 
 around him ; if she could have shown him by 
 look or word that her love would never 
 believe anything against him, whatever the 
 rest of the world might say, she might have 
 saved him. But she could not ; she waited 
 stolidly. 
 
 There were beads of perspiration on his 
 forehead, and his hands shook as he tried to 
 find the place in the paper. 
 
 " See, there it is. They say I gave her too 
 much morphine," and he looked at Molly, 
 beseechingly. 
 
 She took the paper mechanically. Here 
 then had come the last cruel blow of fate. 
 She glanced over the paragraph. It was an 
 inflammatory article denouncing Irving Tracy, 
 and accusing him of having heedlessly caused 
 the death of his young patient. It was evi- 
 dently written by a physician, and was very 
 bitter and scathing in tone. 
 
 Molly read it hastily. " Oh, Irving ! " she 
 cried and the paper fell to the floor " why 
 did you do it?"
 
 32 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 He staggered as if he had received a blow. 
 " My God ! " he gasped, and put both hands 
 to his eyes. He took them down and looked 
 at her once, and opened his mouth as if he 
 were going to speak. Then he left the room 
 and went heavily down the stairs. 
 
 He had come to her in this, the most 
 terrible moment of his life, forgetting all that 
 lay between them, and only feeling in a blind 
 way that it is to his home and to his wife that 
 a man goes at such a time; and she had 
 failed him. She had sided with his accusers ; 
 she had believed them; she had not even 
 asked if what they said was false. 
 
 He walked down to his office as if he were 
 drunk. He sat down by the window and 
 gazed stupidly out for some time. Then he 
 took a little key from his pocket and went to 
 his desk. He opened a lower drawer and 
 took out a small, bright object, as pretty as a 
 toy. It was a revolver. He bowed his head 
 on his arms over the desk, and sat there with 
 the cold handle of the revolver gradually 
 growing warm in his palm. 
 
 He did not think of Molly, or of his chil- 
 dren, with their heritage of shame. His mind 
 was full of shuddering dread and horror of 
 what he was about to do. He was a brave
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 33 
 
 man, but this death was terrible. He turned 
 in the shadow of it, and looked at his life. It 
 lay before him, darker and more hopeless 
 than the grave. His grasp on his revolver 
 tightened. He was nerved and ready. There 
 came a knock at the door. The daily habit 
 of welcoming eagerly the few patients who 
 came to him was so strong, that he put down 
 his revolver, and hastily replacing it in the 
 drawer, opened the door. A woman stood 
 there, who spoke quickly as soon as she saw 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, Dr. Tracy," she said, " I have come 
 across from father's office to offer you our 
 sympathy in this cruel, unjust attack that has 
 been made upon you, and to tell you that if 
 you are going to take counsel, father would 
 be glad to give you his services as a friend." 
 
 Irving looked at her wildly. He could not 
 understand. He tried to speak, but his lips 
 were dry and parched. He knew her, but it 
 seemed as if he had met her in another world. 
 She was Miss Spalding, and her father was 
 considered the best lawyer in Pittsburgh; 
 but why had she come to him now with this 
 voice of pity? What was she talking about, 
 sympathy? For him? 
 
 He tried to find a voice. 
 3
 
 34 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said hoarsely, " I 
 did not understand." Then, in the same 
 dazed way, he added : " Will you come in?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then entered. 
 There was a little confusion in her manner 
 now, and the color came in her cheeks. 
 
 " My father, Mr. Spalding," she began, " is 
 very sorry such an attack has been made 
 upon you, and he will act for you if you want 
 to bring suit. He wanted me to tell you that 
 he, that we " her voice faltered " that we 
 respect Oh, it is too bad, I am so sorry, 
 sorry !" 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes, and she looked 
 at him appealingly. It seemed to her as if 
 he were made of stone. He watched her 
 without moving. 
 
 "Are you crying for me?" he asked, 
 curiously. 
 
 She looked up indignantly, but in his hag- 
 gard face and dull, sad eyes, she read the 
 man's utter desperation. She saw the gleam 
 of the revolver in the drawer, which was not 
 entirely shut. She took in each detail of the 
 poorly furnished office, and the tragedy of his 
 life lay bare before her. 
 
 " Yes," she said gently, " I am crying for 
 you." Then she smiled a little through her
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 35 
 
 tears. " It is silly of me, is n't it, but I feel 
 as if I knew you very well, better than you 
 know me. I know how hard and faithfully 
 you have worked, how good you have been 
 to the poor and helpless. It is almost enough 
 to make a man lose faith, is n't it, when after 
 working as hard as you have done, he gets 
 such a reward as this? " 
 
 She stopped a moment, and then said 
 simply, 
 
 " I have a brother in New York who is a 
 doctor. I love him very dearly, and I know 
 how it would hurt him if this had happened 
 to him. I should tell him. just as I tell you, 
 not to be discouraged. It may seem very 
 dark and gloomy, but it will surely come out 
 right. God never forsakes us, you know. 
 Just trust Him a little longer, and hold His 
 hand tight, and everything will be well." 
 
 He watched her intently, but his face was 
 as expressionless as if he had not compre- 
 hended a word. He had, though, and he had 
 a wild desire to fling himself on his knees 
 before her, and bury his face in her lap and 
 cry. Hers was the first voice of sympathy 
 that he had heard in years. She had spoken 
 mere platitudes, but even a hopeful word was 
 sweet to him. She might be feeding him on
 
 36 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 husks, but he liked the taste. She looked at 
 him a moment, and said lightly, 
 
 " Why, I believe this has made you very 
 down-hearted ! " 
 
 He nodded his head he could not speak. 
 
 " That is a pity," she said in the same 
 cheerful tone, as if she were coaxing a child 
 to forget its bumped head. " Why, I 'm not 
 sure but it will be a good thing for you after 
 all. Father wants you to bring suit for libel ; 
 he is sure that he can recover for you, and 
 think how much free advertising you will 
 get ! " she ended with a smile. 
 
 Then she rose and held out her hand. 
 
 " Don't go," he said, " I want you." 
 
 He still looked dazed ; but it was the bewil- 
 derment of one who is waking, and who should 
 recognize the things about him. 
 
 " I must go," she said gently ; " but you 
 will come and see father; he is a good friend 
 of yours, and you have many others, more 
 I think than you know, who will all fight 
 for you if you will not fight for yourself." 
 
 Then she left him, and he closed the door 
 after her. When he came down from his of- 
 fice an hour afterward, he looked tired and 
 old. He had picked up the burden of life 
 and bound it on his shoulders. It might
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 37 
 
 crush him, but, God helping him, he would 
 never try to throw it off again. 
 
 Later in the day he saw Mr. Spalding, and 
 soon afterward began his suit for libel, not in 
 a spirit of rage or anger, but with a sort of 
 patient dignity. His good name had been 
 blackened; he had determined to have it 
 clean again. 
 
 Molly and he lived outwardly just as before. 
 He never spoke to her unkindly ; he even tried 
 to cheer and encourage her. They never 
 talked about his suit, nor the many cruel 
 things that were said of him ; but he knew 
 that Molly did not believe that he would ever 
 clear his name or win his case. He felt that 
 she looked upon it all as a waste of time. 
 
 In due course it was conclusively proved 
 that Miss Simpson had died of heart disease, 
 and not of the small dose of morphine which 
 the doctor had given her ; and the newspaper 
 that had been so violent in its attack upon him 
 was forced to pay him five thousand dollars. 
 
 Nothing succeeds like success. He thought 
 a little bitterly that if one-tenth of the men 
 who came up and shook his hand warmly, 
 and congratulated him when the verdict was 
 declared, had offered him even the scantiest 
 sympathy when so many tongues wagged
 
 38 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 against him, he would have been far more 
 grateful. Before his innocence was proved 
 they had all eyed him coldly and with 
 suspicion. 
 
 Molly was glad in a subdued sort of way. 
 She treated this little gleam of success like a 
 bubble which might burst at any moment. 
 She had distrusted happiness and her hus- 
 band for so long that she seemed to have lost 
 the power of belief in either. 
 
 Irving was asked to write again for the 
 " Medical Gazette," and his articles received a 
 good deal of attention. He had a number of 
 encouraging letters from prominent physi- 
 cians. These he showed to Molly. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " luck is turning. We are 
 going to float off from our sand-bank yet." 
 
 Molly smiled sadly, and shook her head 
 " You will, Irving, but I shall not" 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " don't you see? ' To him 
 that overcometh, will I give a crown of life/ 
 and it 's true of all things. It is those who over- 
 come who are rewarded. I never overcame 
 anything ; misfortunes always overcame me. 
 If I had been steadfast and true, and had stood 
 shoulder to shoulder with you in all our 
 trouble, then I might hope for something
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 39 
 
 better; but my love has never helped you 
 in sorrow, why should it share with you in 
 happiness?" 
 
 " Molly," he said kindly, " you are mor- 
 bid ; " and yet he knew that she spoke the 
 truth. The love that has been helpless in an 
 hour of need, can never be much of a com- 
 fort to a man when life is pleasant. 
 
 " No," she said quietly, " you know it is 
 true. I don't know whether I could have 
 helped it or not. Sometimes I think I 
 couldn't Things seemed to crush me and 
 take the life out of me. Then again, I think 
 if I had only tried a little harder, if I had only 
 struggled a little longer, I might have suc- 
 ceeded. What is it they say about an ac- 
 tress, ' She was over-weighted with her part ' ? 
 That 's it, Irving ; I have been ' over-weighted ' 
 with my part." 
 
 " Molly," he said, not impatiently, but with 
 decision, " there is no use in talking like that. 
 We have both made mistakes. I have never 
 blamed you, but we must let the dead past 
 bury its dead." 
 
 " It will bury me with it," she said, under 
 her breath. 
 
 They were idle words, and Molly uttered 
 them in no spirit of prophecy ; but they came
 
 4O A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 true, for not long after this talk she became 
 ill. It was only a bad cold they thought at 
 first, but it speedily developed into acute 
 pneumonia. She was not sick many days, 
 and was unconscious most of the time. 
 
 Irving took care of her, tenderly and 
 anxiously. His early love came back in a 
 great tidal wave. He forgot everything else, 
 and only remembered how much he had 
 loved her, and how much she had suffered. 
 
 Something happened then that at any 
 other time would have filled his heart with 
 joy and thankfulness. Now he hardly had 
 room to think about it. He received a call 
 to come to Philadelphia and take the chair 
 of surgery in the Medical College there. It 
 was a fine position, with a good salary, and 
 was an honor seldom offered to so young a 
 man. 
 
 He told Molly of it in one of her few con- 
 scious moments. 
 
 " Darling," he said, " when you get well 
 we are going to be so happy." 
 
 She smiled fondly and pressed his hand. 
 But the success that she had never believed 
 in came too late for Molly; and when he 
 stood by her bedside after she died, and 
 closed the eyes that had cried so much, it
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 41 
 
 seemed to Irving Tracy as if it had come too 
 late for him too. 
 
 He moved to Philadelphia and took the 
 position in the Medical College there. He 
 became well known after a while, and For- 
 tune, that had frowned so long, grew to be 
 a very smiling goddess. He wondered at it 
 sometimes, wondered why it was that when 
 he struggled so desperately, and would have 
 bought success with his heart's blood, he 
 could not win it, and now, when he did not 
 try, or even care much, everything prospered 
 with him. 
 
 He was devoted to his children, and they 
 were a great source of comfort and diversion, 
 while they grew up with the deepest love and 
 admiration for their father. 
 
 Sometimes the thought of marrying again 
 entered his mind, but it seemed to him a sort 
 of disloyalty to Molly. She had borne the 
 burden and heat of the day, unwillingly, 
 complainingly, rebelliously, perhaps, but still 
 she had borne it. It did not seem fair that 
 another should share the reward. He looked 
 around his comfortable home, and longed for 
 her to enjoy it with him. He thought they 
 would have been so happy if she had lived. 
 
 As for the little woman who had come to
 
 42 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 
 
 him that terrible morning, and by her words 
 of sympathy and good cheer saved his life, 
 he sometimes thought of her wonderingly. 
 But everything that had happened then 
 looked strange and distorted in retrospect. 
 He was not even sure that he remembered 
 the facts aright. 
 
 It was long before he saw her again, and 
 when he finally met her it was with the start 
 of surprise that we meet one whom we have 
 thought dead. He had not thought her 
 dead, but as unreal, belonging only to that 
 one time when she had come into his life. 
 She had never had any living personality for 
 him. 
 
 After a while he said, 
 
 " I have never thanked you for the help 
 you gave me once. I do not believe you 
 know how much you did for me." 
 
 She smiled brightly. "Did I? I am very 
 glad," she said. 
 
 He looked at her and thought what his life 
 might have been if he had had all through it 
 the warm, true love of a brave woman. He 
 did not need it so much now. And yet he 
 was young, he was lonely ; perhaps if she 
 and then his thoughts went back to 
 Molly, and the dismal ending of his life's
 
 A WOMAN WHO FAILED. 43 
 
 young dream. No, he could not dream 
 again. 
 
 The woman who had failed stretched her 
 hand from the grave and robbed him of this 
 possibility of happiness also. He never mar- 
 ried again.
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 1 
 
 WE were spending the autumn in the 
 country, at our cousin Carroll 
 Fisher's. That is, he was my cousin, but no 
 relation at all to Alice, for we were only half- 
 sisters. Half-sisters ! It seems strange to 
 write it, and it is always strange to hear it, 
 when I remember what Alice has been to 
 me, and how I have loved her ever since 
 she came into my saddened life, and has 
 been, from that day to this, the brightest 
 thing in it. Yes, indeed, " her name has 
 lent it glory and her love its thread of gold," 
 if " glory " and golden threads are not too 
 strong terms to use about anything connected 
 with a quiet old maid. 
 
 Carroll Fisher's mother and mine were 
 sisters, and I suppose Aunt Katharine and 
 all the rest of the family thought that Mother 
 had married very much beneath her when 
 she chose John Langdon, for he was only a 
 poor young doctor; but I know she was a 
 happy woman. I was only nine when she 
 died, and then father and I lived alone for 
 
 1 Reprinted from " Demorest's Magazine."
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 45 
 
 nearly nine years more; and when he mar- 
 ried again, I had only the warmest welcome 
 for my young step-mother. She was very 
 pretty, and full of child-like, attractive ways ; 
 and she made the old home so bright, and 
 my dear father so happy, that I could not 
 have helped loving her, even if I had tried. 
 
 I think I was almost as glad as she, when 
 Alice came, the dearest, sweetest baby that 
 ever flourished a rattle and ruled a house- 
 hold ! I had just passed through the darkest 
 days I have ever known. It was the year of 
 Winchester and Fisher's Hill and Cedar 
 Creek, and Harold Winslow was killed at 
 Cedar Creek. I little thought, once, that I 
 could ever write it as calmly as that! I 
 notice that people say often, in the midst of 
 great trouble, " Oh, I shall die ! it will kill 
 me ! " If it only would ! But the bitter part 
 of sorrow is that it does n't kill. One has to 
 live, to gather up the poor fragments, and 
 go on. 
 
 Still I think a part of me died with Harold 
 Winslow. It was never my world, made just 
 for me to be happy in, after he was killed. 
 When Alice was born, she was the greatest 
 comfort and distraction. She gave me some- 
 thing to do, in the first place, and then
 
 46 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 she did n't know. I used to look in her 
 great blue eyes sometimes, and think, " You 
 are the only human being around me that 
 knows nothing of my trouble ; " and her 
 innocence was very soothing and restful. A 
 soul may be so bruised and sore that any 
 sympathy, even the gentlest, hurts more than 
 it helps. So Alice comforted me in those 
 awful days, because I could work for her, 
 and because, after a little, she loved me. 
 She was never " sorry for me ; " she never 
 " went softly " for my sake. No ; she or- 
 dered me about and tyrannized over me, and 
 made no allowances whatever, and I liked 
 it. 
 
 Her mother was not very strong, and she 
 died when Alice was still but a baby. She 
 left the child to me ; and in the midst of all 
 the sorrow that I felt, it was in those days 
 that I gathered the scattered forces of my life 
 together for Alice's sake. It has always 
 seemed to me as if I lived again in Alice, 
 as if her coming as she did, just when my life 
 had in a way ended, made it possible for me 
 to begin all over. 
 
 I always wanted that Alice should have all 
 the good things that my own life had held, 
 and all the better ones that I had wished for.
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 47 
 
 We had not a very large fortune from father ; 
 but mother had left me a nice little sum, and 
 I was able with it to do so much for Alice. 
 We stayed at the old home while father lived, 
 and then we travelled about a good deal. 
 Alice went to school in> many places in Eu- 
 rope. I was always with her. If she was at 
 boarding-school, I was near enough so that 
 she could come to me at least once a week 
 and tell me all the little story of her school 
 life. She never knew, I think, how I counted 
 the hours until she came. I tried not to spoil 
 her, tried not to let my devotion hamper her 
 in any little way. I even tried, at times, to 
 be very stern with the child; but that was 
 hard indeed, for I loved her as few mothers, I 
 think, love their children. She was more than 
 my flesh and blood, she was my other life ! 
 I was so glad when I was sure that she 
 would be beautiful ! She had always seemed 
 lovely to me, but I am afraid I should have 
 thought so, no matter how she looked. She 
 grew very like her mother ; but the features 
 that were pretty in her mother were beauti- 
 ful in Alice. As she grew to womanhood, I 
 trembled often for the future. If Alice 
 should love unhappily, if she should pass 
 through any such ordeal as had come to me,
 
 48 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 I felt that I simply could not endure it. 
 I was like some poor person who, having 
 passed through a terrible surgical operation, 
 maimed and bleeding, struggles back to life, 
 and when he has grown older and feebler, 
 with the memory of all his suffering strong 
 upon him, is filled with a great fear that it 
 may have to be repeated. 
 
 But no unhappy love came to Alice. In- 
 stead, the very thing that I most longed for 
 happened. We had always visited Aunt 
 Katharine Fisher, and Carroll had watched 
 my Alice grow up almost as lovingly as I. 
 I knew how truly and for how long the dear 
 fellow had loved her, but I was afraid that 
 what I so much wanted and hoped for would 
 never be. Alice treated him as frankly as a 
 brother ; and he, fearing to lose what he had, 
 hesitated to venture to gain all. I could not 
 help either of them. At such a time, each 
 woman must be as utterly alone as if she were 
 the only living being in the world. I hovered 
 around Alice, and prayed for her, and loved 
 her I think more than ever. 
 
 I shall never forget the day she came to 
 tell me that she and Carroll were engaged. 
 She went to my room, but I had gone down 
 into the rose-garden, where I met Carroll, so
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 49 
 
 that he told me first. He did not need to tell 
 me, I saw it all in his face. It shone " as it 
 had been the face of an angel." 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! " he said, and came right to 
 me, holding out both hands. " She is mine 
 she loves me she has told me so ! " and 
 then he put both arms around me, and kissed 
 me; and when I looked at him again, we 
 were both crying like little children. 
 
 I left him and ran into the house, to see 
 my darling. She was in my room, waiting 
 for me, her sweet face all aflame. She could 
 not look at me, but hid her face on my 
 shoulder, and I felt her dear heart beat, beat, 
 beat, so hard and fast I was afraid it would 
 never be calm again. 
 
 Aunt Katharine was happy, too. She loved 
 Alice, and she loved me because I was her 
 sister's child; and I think she had a vague 
 idea that Carroll was going to marry me too, 
 and that I would keep house in the same 
 old-fashioned way that she had always done. 
 
 Poor Aunt Katharine ! She had been such 
 a magnificent woman in her day ! Now, 
 nearly helpless, she was wheeled about the 
 familiar rooms and beautiful grounds of her 
 old home. Her mind, too, had failed, and 
 only the perfect breeding of her rare lady-
 
 50 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 hood remained. She could not think or say 
 an ungracious or discourteous thing. Feeble 
 in mind and body, no one ever looked at her 
 without giving her a tribute of honor and 
 respect. Carroll always treated her as if she 
 were a queen; he gave her just the chival- 
 rous devotion that was the complement to 
 her sweet graciousness. 
 
 Sometimes you will find a family, like a 
 picture, in exactly the frame that best suits 
 it; and it always seemed right and fitting 
 to me that the old Fisher place should be- 
 long to Carroll and his mother. The house 
 was a large, old-fashioned manor, with a 
 certain dignity and character of its own. It 
 was painted white, a clear, dazzling white, 
 and the wood-work inside was white too, 
 a glossy white, like enamel. The white stair- 
 case reached from the square hall to the 
 attic, and had many turns and landings. I 
 used to love to watch my Alice as she came 
 slowly down the broad white steps, and think 
 how well all the old-fashioned stateliness of 
 the house suited her. 
 
 She and Carroll were going to be married 
 in the winter, but I do not think we were any 
 of us in a great hurry. We were all very 
 happy as we were. " That new world, which
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 5 I 
 
 is the old," was very beautiful to Alice, and 
 she wandered through it like one in a happy 
 dream ; while Carroll, having so much more 
 than he had ever hoped for, was contented 
 too, and did not worry her with impatience. 
 As for me, I think I should have been satis- 
 fied simply to watch them forever. Of course 
 I knew she would be very happy as his wife ; 
 but has n't every one agreed that this is the 
 rare poetry of life whose melody softens for 
 a time all harsher strains? 
 
 We used to drive to the village for the 
 mail every morning, generally Carroll and 
 Alice in front, and I on the back seat, which 
 I was quite contented now to take. Carroll 
 had usually the most letters, and Alice would 
 drive while he read them. He had read 
 nearly all one morning, when he looked up 
 with a troubled air, and reaching back handed 
 a letter to me. 
 
 " Read it, and advise," he said. 
 
 It was in a small, neat, inexpressive hand. 
 I read : 
 
 DEAR COUSIN, I am on waiting orders for an 
 indefinite length of time. It is a long time since 
 I have seen you, and, if perfectly convenient, 
 I would like to run down for a few days and see
 
 52 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 the old place. My last cruise was a short one, 
 to Madeira. Will you write me if you had rather 
 I would not come ? Believe me, 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 HENRY CLIFFORD. 
 
 It seemed to me curt and short, and in 
 some way disagreeable. I handed it back 
 in silence. 
 
 "Well?" said Carroll. 
 
 "Who is he?" I asked. 
 
 " My cousin, a lieutenant in the navy. I 
 have n't seen him since we were boys, and a 
 mighty shy, quiet, awkward fellow he was 
 then. Perhaps cruising around the world 
 has changed all that." 
 
 "What is it?" said Alice, rousing herself 
 from a revery, and holding out her hand for 
 the letter. 
 
 Carroll gave it to her. " I don't think we 
 want him here now," he said ; " I will write 
 and tell him I have other guests." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Alice, who had finished 
 reading the brief lines ; " don't let us begin 
 by being selfish. Has he any home?" 
 
 " No," answered Carroll, gloomily, "an only 
 child, and an orphan. His father was in the 
 navy before him. But, Alice," he broke off
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 53 
 
 abruptly, " it will spoil everything to have a 
 third person around." 
 
 " You mean a fourth," I chirped in, from 
 the back seat, and they both laughed. 
 
 " Mary," said Carroll, turning around, " if 
 I tell him to come, will you ' call off the 
 dog' early and often? " 
 
 " I will be so devoted," I answered promptly, 
 " that there will be gossip about us in the 
 village." 
 
 " You dear old thing ! " said Alice, smiling 
 at me ; "I wonder what you would n't do for 
 me ! " Then she added, " You ought to have 
 him come, Carroll. I feel sorry for him. 
 Let us all try to make him have a pleasant 
 time." 
 
 " Well," said Carroll, " I suppose you are 
 right, dear, but I do wish it had been any 
 other time." 
 
 I did n't like the prospect at all. This 
 stranger, I felt sure, was going to spoil the 
 pleasantness of our little party. I knew I 
 should dislike him. 
 
 Lieutenant Clifford came late one after- 
 noon, and only Aunt Katharine and I were 
 at home. Carroll and Alice had gone on a 
 long horseback ride across the hills, which 
 were all aglow with autumn colors. He was
 
 54 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 a tall, well-made man, with a quiet, rather 
 grave face. In some way he gave me the 
 impression that he would have been crooked 
 but for his military training. As it was, he 
 was quite straight; but he did not carry 
 his head well, it drooped a little. He 
 had deep gray eyes, with that peculiar, sad 
 look in them that one sometimes sees in 
 human eyes when the rest of the face is 
 quite cheerful, and that one often notices in 
 animals. 
 
 I introduced myself, and then I took him 
 to Aunt Katharine, who smiled a cordial 
 welcome, asked him a few questions, and 
 promptly forgot who he was and all about 
 him. I found him very hard to talk to. 
 He seemed painfully diffident or exceedingly 
 unsociable. I had almost given up the at- 
 tempt, when there was a clatter in the hall, 
 a ring of laughter, and Alice and Carroll 
 came in. She looked beautiful ; her cheeks 
 were full of color, and her hair all blown 
 around her face. They both shook hands 
 with the lieutenant, and we all talked at 
 once. Then we separated to dress for 
 dinner. I think I was the only one who 
 noticed him closely when they met. He 
 never took his eyes from Alice's face.
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 55 
 
 Dinner passed off better than I had ex- 
 pected. Carroll and Alice were in high 
 spirits, and I was glad to see my darling so 
 happy. But after dinner we felt the stranger's 
 presence as a restraint, for the first time. 
 Generally I had taken my books and papers, 
 and read by one of the tables, while Carroll 
 and Alice strolled off somewhere together. 
 Now, however, we tried to form one party. 
 But the lieutenant was as unwieldy with 
 three as he had been with one, and presently 
 Carroll asked Alice to sing. 
 
 She did not have a strong voice, but it 
 was sweet and sympathetic, and I was never 
 tired of listening to it. She went to the 
 piano, and the lieutenant sat down beside 
 her. He had taken Carroll's place uncon- 
 sciously, and it left Carroll the other side of 
 the room with me. We looked up at the 
 same time, caught each other's eyes, and 
 laughed. 
 
 Alice sang three or four songs, and then 
 I turned to ask her to sing a favorite of mine, 
 but stopped, struck by the tableau. She 
 was playing a few chords carelessly, evi- 
 dently thinking of something else; but the 
 man at her side had taken exactly the atti- 
 tude of the youth in Frank Dicksee's pic-
 
 56 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 ture. I mean the picture of the girl at the 
 organ, with the man behind her watching 
 her with such an intense, passionate look. 
 I have always hated that picture anyway ! 
 I suppose I am not educated enough to 
 appreciate it; but the youth seems so un- 
 necessarily frowsy, and the girl is so thin, 
 and then he is looking at her with such 
 a Wolf-at-Red-Riding-Hood expression. I 
 hated to see my Alice look like her, even 
 for a minute. 
 
 Carroll turned too, and I know he saw 
 the likeness just as I did. He half rose 
 from his chair, and then sat down again and 
 began to poke the fire. Altogether, it seemed 
 like a long evening, although it was earlier 
 than usual when I proposed to Alice that 
 we should go to bed. 
 
 We all stood in the hall at the foot of the 
 white staircase, saying good-night. Alice 
 held out her hand to Lieutenant Clifford. 
 "Good-night," she said quietly; and then 
 she looked at him for a moment and gave 
 a little cry, and before he could catch her, 
 she had fainted dead away, and fallen upon 
 the stairs. I had never known her to faint 
 before, and I was much frightened, and poor 
 Carroll was nearly distracted ; but it was
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 57 
 
 only a few seconds before she was her 
 natural, smiling self again. 
 
 She told me, up in her room, that she was 
 very tired, and was afraid she had ridden too 
 far ; and I had to be content with this as a 
 reason : but I did not sleep well that night. 
 Carroll had not kissed Alice good-night. I 
 had always left them for a minute in the hall, 
 but to-night Alice's fainting had prevented. 
 It was a little thing, but it seemed to me a 
 bad omen. 
 
 I was so relieved when Lieutenant Clifford 
 said, after breakfast the next day, that he 
 had letters to write. He went to his room 
 soon after, and it was funny to see the boy- 
 ish, eager way in which Carroll asked Alice 
 to drive with him. I watched them start, 
 and ran up to my room with a lighter heart 
 than I had carried for many hours. It was 
 a glorious day, and I meant to enjoy it. 
 
 Carroll turned to the lieutenant at luncheon 
 and said : " What would you like to do this 
 afternoon, ride, walk, drive, or loaf? This 
 is Sans Souci, or, as it was once translated, 
 ' No Bother House,' so you may do as you 
 please." 
 
 " I think I should like to walk. Will you 
 go with me, Miss Langdon?"
 
 58 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 He looked at Alice, and the color came to 
 her face. She glanced at Carroll, who said 
 quickly, " Do go, Alice. You have not 
 walked to-day, and you know all the prettiest 
 views." He spoke heartily, but I noticed 
 that he ate nothing more after Lieutenant 
 Clifford's invitation. 
 
 They started soon after luncheon. I was 
 in the library, writing, when Carroll came in 
 and threw himself on the sofa. " Why, 
 Carroll ! " I said, " you in the house this 
 lovely day? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " I 'm tired." 
 
 I think we stayed there together in silence 
 for nearly an hour. Then I began to watch 
 the clock nervously. I hoped Carroll did 
 not notice how the time was passing. 
 
 " They ought to be home," I said finally. 
 I had not meant to say it, but I had thought 
 it so many times that at last it thought itself 
 aloud. 
 
 " No," said Carroll, in a low voice, " they 
 will not be back yet." 
 
 " Why," I said, trying to speak care- 
 lessly, " did they tell you where they were 
 going?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 He got up from the sofa, walked across
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 59 
 
 the room once or twice, and came and stood 
 before me. 
 
 " Mary," he said, " Mary dear, let us look 
 at it squarely." 
 
 "Look at what?" I exclaimed, with faint 
 gayety. " Carroll, what is the matter with 
 you? You 're not well." 
 
 " Mary," he went on, not noticing my 
 little attempt to divert him, " I want to talk 
 to you. I have thought a great deal about 
 it in the night. I 'm afraid I have been very 
 unfair with Alice." 
 
 I simply looked at him. 
 
 " You see, Mary, she has never seen any 
 one, never really had a chance. She trav- 
 elled, to be sure, with you ; but that is not 
 like being in society and having attention 
 and admirers, like other girls. No, she has 
 never seen any one but me, and we all 
 conspired to make her take me. It is n't 
 fair." 
 
 "Carroll Fisher 1 " I exclaimed, in genuine 
 surprise this time, " what do you mean? " 
 
 " I mean," he said slowly, " that if at any 
 time in the future, she, Alice, my little girl, 
 finds that she has made a mistake, and does 
 not care for me as I had hoped, if she 
 Well, whatever she does, no one must blame
 
 60 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 her. Do you hear, Mary? Even you are 
 not to blame her. You must remember that 
 she never had a chance to pick and choose, 
 like other girls; that she was hurried right 
 i'nto my arms, that were waiting for her; 
 that she has a right " He stopped, and 
 walked down the room again. 
 
 " Carroll," I said, when he came back, 
 " you must not talk like that. Alice loves 
 you with all her heart." 
 
 " I know it, I believe it, Mary. I have 
 been so happy in her love ! but why 
 should we disguise the fact? We both see 
 that Harry Clifford will love her as wildly, 
 as desperately, I will not say as truly, as I. 
 And if she should " 
 
 " She won't ! " I interrupted. " She never 
 will ! I don't understand it, Carroll, it all 
 seems strange and dreadful ; but I know my 
 Alice, and I know she loves you." 
 
 He gave me a grateful look. " I only spoke 
 of it, Mary, that we might both act, whatever 
 happens, so that no blame shall fall on her. 
 Leave her perfectly free ; do not question her 
 or reprove her. Let us both act naturally, 
 and wait. My darling will do nothing wrong. 
 If she finds she has made a mistake, we must 
 remember it is I who injured her, in taking
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 6 1 
 
 advantage of her inexperience ; not she who 
 will injure me." 
 
 I looked at him, his dear face fairly aglow 
 with his honest love, and wondered how any 
 woman could help loving him, wondered if 
 any woman could prefer that awkward, silent 
 man with the sad eyes. 
 
 We waited nearly three hours before Alice 
 and Lieutenant Clifford came in. She went 
 to the fire, pulled off her gloves, and began to 
 warm her hands. 
 
 " It has been a beautiful afternoon," she 
 said. " Carroll, were n't you out?" 
 
 " No," he tried to answer lightly. " Mary 
 and I like to get rid of you once in a while, 
 and have an old-fashioned talk. Did you 
 show Clifford the views? " 
 
 "Yes no." She hesitated. "Did you 
 see them?" turning to the lieutenant. 
 
 " I saw all I wanted to see," he answered, as 
 shortly as ever. 
 
 When we were dressing for dinner I could 
 not help a few questions, although I had 
 promised Carroll not to scold or worry her. 
 
 "What is Lieutenant Clifford like? " I asked. 
 " I can't get a word out of him." 
 
 " He doesn't talk much," she said thought- 
 fully.
 
 62 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 " I think he is an insufferable, stupid bore, 
 either with nothing in his head, or a crime on 
 his conscience," I said, and could not have 
 helped saying it to save my life. 
 
 " Mary," she said, and her voice trembled, 
 " you have no right to say such a thing. You 
 are unkind and cruel. You make me hate 
 you all, when you speak like that ; " and she 
 threw herself upon the bed and began to 
 cry. 
 
 I ran to her, thoroughly frightened. 
 
 " Oh, Mary, dear Mary, forgive me ! I did 
 not mean to speak so." She put her arms 
 around my neck and cried more softly. 
 
 "What is it, Alice? Can you tell me, 
 dear?" 
 
 She shook her head. " I can tell you 
 nothing, dear Mary. I wish I could." 
 
 After a long pause she said, "You will 
 never say such unjust things of him 
 again?" 
 
 " No, dear," I whispered ; but in my heart 
 I fairly hated him. 
 
 So the days went on, always Alice and 
 Lieutenant Clifford together, always poor 
 Carroll left with me. They were wretched, 
 uncomfortable days. It seemed to me as if 
 I were watching some dreadful thing in a
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 63 
 
 nightmare; I longed to cry out and break 
 the spell. 
 
 It was an ordeal to Carroll, such as few 
 men are called upon to endure, and through 
 which fewer still could go with the strength 
 and courage that he showed. He was very 
 patient and gentle. He omitted no little 
 loving attention that he had been used to 
 show Alice. Instead, it seemed as if he tried 
 to think of every small thing that would give 
 her pleasure. He never seemed angry or 
 depressed, after the first. Instead, he was 
 cheerful, with a pathetic sort of cheerfulness 
 that sometimes sent me to my room with tears 
 in my eyes. Day by day the look of utter 
 hopelessness deepened and settled on his 
 face. 
 
 I wondered if Alice saw it. She never 
 spoke of it, and she was very sweet and tender 
 when she was with him. It seemed to me, 
 sometimes, as if she loved him more than 
 ever ; and yet how could that be, when she 
 spent nearly all of her time with this wretched 
 Lieutenant Clifford? 
 
 I used to watch her when she was getting 
 ready to walk or drive with him, and it 
 seemed to me as if she went a little wearily, 
 with the same tired air that I have noticed
 
 64 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 in mothers when they minister to a wakeful, 
 restless child. Yet she was always very 
 gentle to him ; but it was not the loving, 
 happy gentleness that she showed to Carroll. 
 No one could look in her sweet, pure face 
 and think for a moment that she thought she 
 was doing wrong. No : whatever wreck she 
 might be making of her own and others' lives, 
 I was sure, always sure, that my darling's 
 heart was good and true. 
 
 I used to watch Lieutenant Clifford, too ; 
 but I could not understand him any better 
 than I had done at first. Always painfully 
 shy, with a diffidence which it was impossible, 
 even with the kindest efforts, to dispel, he 
 would have aroused my pity, if I had not held 
 him responsible for all our trouble. His 
 admiration adoration, rather of Alice 
 was unconcealed. His gray eyes would 
 fasten themselves upon her face a dozen times 
 a day, and remain there as if spellbound. Yet 
 I never saw him talk much with her. He 
 seemed to watch her with a sort of suppressed 
 eagerness. I saw once, in a hospital, a 
 Spanish mute, dumb, but not deaf. The 
 nurse asked me if I could speak to her in her 
 native tongue; and I shall never forget the 
 look on that girl's face when the familiar
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 65 
 
 sounds fell upon her ear ! Something such a 
 look Henry Clifford's face wore when he was 
 with Alice. 
 
 He used to spend a good deal of time in 
 his own room ; and then Alice was her old 
 self, with the added gladness of one whose 
 untrammelled moments are far apart. I do 
 not know that he ever said so, but the general 
 impression was, that at such times he was 
 writing; but I never saw him post a letter, 
 and I watched. 
 
 We could not have gone on living long in 
 this way ; but the end came suddenly and 
 terribly. There had been many small bur- 
 glaries in the village, and one night Carroll 
 called me aside and said : 
 
 " Mary, look well to your windows and to 
 Alice's to-night. There seems to be a regular 
 gang of these thieves, and I 'm afraid they will 
 try to pay us a visit. I am not afraid of 
 them," he added, " and everything is well 
 locked up ; but I would n't like to have Alice 
 or you frightened by them." 
 
 So I tucked my darling in bed that night, 
 as I had done ever since she was a baby, and 
 locked all the windows that opened on roofs 
 or balconies or any such vantage-ground for 
 thieves. My room opened from Alice's, and 
 5
 
 66 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 I asked her if I should sleep with her, as she 
 sometimes wanted me to. But she said no, 
 she was sleepy and would drop off in a 
 moment; and she kissed me good-night, and I 
 left her. 
 
 My poor darling! In the middle of the 
 night her voice rang out in a scream so wild 
 and unearthly I could not believe it was she. 
 
 "Alice, Alice!" I cried, " I am coming! 
 I am coming ! " and almost before I had spoken 
 I was in her room. The door into the hall 
 was open. Alice sat up in bed, her face white 
 and rigid, uttering shrill calls for help. At her 
 dressing-table stood a man, her little jewel- 
 casket open before him, and her watch in his 
 hand. He wore a piece of black cloth over his 
 face ; but he turned and looked at me, and 
 through the holes I saw the white gleam of his 
 eyes. 
 
 I went directly to the bed. " He shall not 
 hurt you, darling, he shall not hurt you ! " I 
 cried, and put both arms around her ; and 
 then I, too, sent through the silent house a 
 loud scream for help. 
 
 The man turned, and made a step toward 
 the bed ; then, still with the watch in his 
 hand, he fled through the open door, and I 
 heard him running down the stairs. At the
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 67 
 
 same time I heard another man run through 
 
 o 
 
 the hall and down the stairs. There was a shot 
 fired, then another, then there was a moment 
 of silence ; and then, through all the house, 
 the hurrying steps of the aroused inmates, 
 the slamming of doors, and clamor of many 
 voices. 
 
 "Are you hurt? Is Alice safe?" cried 
 Carroll, breathlessly, at our door. 
 
 " No, we are not hurt," I answered with 
 chattering teeth. " Where is he ? " 
 
 Alice lay back, faint and speechless, in my 
 arms. 
 
 " I will be back in an instant," he said, and 
 went down the hall, followed by a procession 
 of servants in motley array and with strange 
 weapons. Then we heard a great deal of 
 talking, and loud shrieks from some of the 
 frightened servants; and soon Carroll came 
 back to the door. 
 
 " Clifford has been shot," he said, " I am 
 afraid badly. He followed the man and fired. 
 I have sent for a doctor. The man must 
 have got away, but he was wounded." 
 
 I threw on a wrapper and hurried into the 
 hall. There, on the landing, was a huddled 
 group of servants, and in their midst lay Lieu- 
 tenant Clifford, breathing heavily. There was
 
 68 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 a great pool of blood on the white step where 
 he lay, and dark red spatters all up and down 
 the stairs. 
 
 He said in a whisper when he saw me, 
 " She is not hurt? He did not harm her?" 
 
 " Alice is unhurt, thank God ! " I said, and 
 he repeated after me, " Thank God ! " and 
 then he closed his eyes, and I thought 
 that he had died, he looked so white and 
 ghastly. 
 
 We got him up and in his own room, and the 
 doctor came soon and examined him. He 
 was shot through the lung, the doctor said, 
 and wounded fatally. How long he might 
 live, he could not tell. The doctor did all 
 that he could to make him comfortable, and 
 left, promising to return soon. 
 
 We were all in Clifford's room at daybreak, 
 and he seemed a little stronger. He was 
 propped up in bed, and looked at us all 
 squarely and tenderly, as he had never done 
 before. 
 
 " I am going to die," he said, " and I am 
 so glad, so glad ! " 
 
 Then, after a little, he spoke again : " I 
 want to talk to you all. Can you listen 
 now? " 
 
 His whole manner was changed ; there was
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 69 
 
 no hesitation, no shrinking from us. He 
 seemed as frank and honest as a child. 
 
 " I want Alice by me," he said ; and Alice 
 went to the head of his bed and sat beside 
 him, reaching over and taking his hand in 
 hers. Carroll leaned over the foot-board, and 
 I was close to Alice. 
 
 He looked at us all again, and said, " You 
 have been very good to me ; and now I must 
 hurry and tell you what I have to tell, for 
 there is not much time." 
 
 His voice was low and husky, and he must 
 have been in great pain ; but his face looked 
 happier than I had ever seen it. 
 
 " I have sometimes thought," he began, 
 " that I might have been a very different man 
 if my mother had lived ; but she died when I 
 was born. Perhaps it would not have made 
 any difference, but I think she would have 
 understood me. My father was in the navy, 
 and so much away that I scarcely remem- 
 bered him from one brief visit to another. 
 I grew up a silent, neglected child. 
 
 " I never had a playmate or a comrade. I 
 was sent early to boarding-school, and spent 
 many miserable years there. I was called 
 ' shy' and ' diffident' and, sometimes, ' ugly.' 
 I never played with the other boys ; I never
 
 7O A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 had a ' chum.' At first the teachers tried to 
 be kind and considerate to me, to draw me 
 out and make me feel at home; and even 
 some of the boys, the better, more courteous 
 ones, tried to make friends with me : but it 
 was of no use ; I could not speak I could 
 not respond to their boyish advances. My 
 poor, starved, hungry heart ached then, as it 
 has ached all my life, for a little companion- 
 ship ; but I could not show it in any way ; it 
 seemed absolutely impossible. Time after 
 time I tried in vain. I used to watch the boys 
 on the playground, from the schoolroom win- 
 dow, with such a longing to be one of them 
 that sometimes I would say, ' I will try, 
 they shall like me ! ' and then I would rush 
 down to the playground, where my valor 
 melted away, and I would stand, a great, 
 silent, hulking boy, whose very presence was 
 a restraint upon the others, so that they could 
 not play as they had played before. Then I 
 would creep back and up into my own room, 
 and wish that I were dead. 
 
 "The boys were merciless; and after liv- 
 ing a while under their keen fire of taunts 
 and nicknames, it would have been a brave 
 soul indeed that could ever have asserted it- 
 self. With the masters I did not get on much
 
 A SILENT SOUL. J\ 
 
 better, although I was a good scholar, and 
 stood well in my classes ; but they could not 
 understand so unboyish a boy. They thought 
 I was sulky, morose, or, at the best, unnatural. 
 My shell only hardened in school, and when 
 I left it for the Naval Academy, I, the real I, 
 was as absolutely shut in within myself, as 
 ever poor Constance de Beverley was walled 
 in in the dungeon of her convent. It would 
 have been a mercy if I could have died like 
 her ; but I lived and suffered ! " 
 
 The coughing which had interrupted him 
 several times while he spoke, now became 
 violent; but he seemed eager to continue. 
 
 " At the Academy," he said, " I was the 
 only boy in my class who was not hazed." 
 A faint smile crept over his face as he looked 
 up at Carroll. " Can you appreciate the ter- 
 rible isolation of that? 
 
 " The boys said, I remember, that it was 
 ' like hazing a corpse.' They let me alone 
 after the first trial. I think I am the only 
 man who ever went through Annapolis who 
 yearned and longed to be hazed. There is a 
 certain comradeship even in the midst of a 
 boy's rude jokes, and from that I was always 
 cut off. Still it was not so hard there. The 
 study is severe, and the time so filled with
 
 ?2 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 military discipline that I had few unoccupied 
 moments. By the majority of the boys, after 
 their first failure to ' get on' with me, I was 
 left severely alone, almost as much alone, in 
 fact, as the young colored cadet who hap- 
 pened to be there at the same time. Yet I used 
 to think even his case was happier than mine. 
 He was steadily ignored, to be sure ; but the 
 very ignoring was a recognition of his person- 
 ality. My ignoring, on the contrary, was un- 
 premeditated and careless. They simply ' had 
 no use for me.' 
 
 " There was a small minority of young 
 fellows who evidently felt it their duty to 
 notice me occasionally. They would come 
 to my room and try to be friendly, always 
 showing plainly the effort that they made in 
 coming, and their relief when the visit was 
 over. I think I disliked them, for all their 
 well-meant courtesy, more than the other, 
 ruder boys. 
 
 " My first cruise after I left the Academy 
 was to Samoa. It had often seemed the 
 cruel irony of fate to me that I, of all men, 
 should have adopted a profession which for 
 long periods shuts a man out of the world 
 with a little handful of his fellow-men, all 
 mutually dependent upon each other's com-
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 73 
 
 panionship. Nowhere in the world is the 
 quality of geniality, of ' good company,' so 
 needed, as on shipboard. My first cruise 
 was one of eighteen months; and I think, 
 at the end of it, every officer on board cor- 
 dially disliked me. Not only had I been 
 nothing, a mere cipher, a negative, but 
 I had taken the place of a man who 
 might have been much. I had defrauded 
 them. 
 
 " By this time I had learned to accept my 
 fate. I seldom made an effort to find a voice 
 for the pent-up thoughts and feelings within 
 me. Tt seemed, whenever I tried to express 
 the slightest feeling, to say anything, in fact, 
 beyond the merest commonplaces, as if 
 something paralyzed my very tongue. I 
 could not even look the things I felt ; my 
 face was as wooden as my tongue was 
 dumb. 
 
 " I found good friends in books. In them my 
 imprisoned mind could escape from its dun- 
 geon. I read and studied much. I did my 
 duty on shipboard as conscientiously as pos- 
 sible, but I know I was never ordered to a 
 vessel that the officers did not groan over 
 their hard luck in having me aboard. 
 
 " It was on board the ' Kentucky,' three
 
 74 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 years ago, that I saved a midshipman's life. 
 He was a jolly little fellow, fresh from 
 Annapolis. I think every one on board 
 liked him, he was so good-natured, so bright 
 and entertaining. He had even tried to 
 make friends with me, much to the older 
 officers' amusement, and he was the only 
 person I ever knew who did not seem re- 
 pelled by the lack of all response which I 
 gave him. 
 
 " He was on the forecastle in an ugly gale, 
 and was washed overboard by a head sea. 
 I was near him when it happened. I jumped 
 after him, waited for him to rise, and swam 
 toward him. He was nearly insensible, but 
 I kept him afloat until the ship hove to and 
 sent the wh.ale-boat back for us. He was 
 so grateful to me ! I remember how he 
 thanked me with a quivering lip, and told 
 me how his mother would bless me. I think 
 I had a chance after that to have made 
 friends. I mean, there was a kinder, more 
 hopeful feeling for me ; but I could not re- 
 spond. I was as cold and rigid and silent 
 as ever, and the little blaze of warmth soon 
 died away. I overheard the paymaster speak 
 of me one day as ' our life-saving machine,' 
 and I knew by the roar of laughter that fol-
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 75 
 
 lowed, that my chance, if I had ever had 
 one, was past. 
 
 " But the little midshipman from that hour 
 was my friend, the only friend I ever had. 
 He used to talk to me of his home, his 
 mother, his life, what he wanted to do and 
 to be ; and I listened thirstily and eagerly, 
 as a maiden must listen to her lover's words. 
 I could not answer, I could not even let 
 him know how I loved to hear him talk; 
 but he never seemed to mind. He trusted 
 me perfectly ; and if now and then my cold 
 silence pained him and he left me a little 
 subdued, he would soon return full of gener- 
 ous confidence again. 
 
 " I loved him as I had never loved any 
 one. I tried God ! how I tried ! to tell 
 or show him that I did. But it was useless ; 
 my bonds held me closely, and I could 
 not break them. 
 
 " My young friend was poor, and we never 
 put into port but I bought him something, 
 the best and handsomest that I could find. 
 But I never gave him these presents ; an 
 iron hand seemed to hold me fast : and yet 
 I think I was never so happy as when I 
 bought them for him. Each time I hoped 
 against hope that I should give them to him.
 
 76 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 Many a time he has been in my room, and 
 I have gone to the locker where I kept his 
 things, and have paused, my hand on the 
 key of the door. I could not open it ; and 
 I have turned and sat down beside him, cold, 
 stern, and silent as ever. 
 
 "One day at Genoa it was my little 
 midshipman was ordered home. I think 
 every one on board, from the captain in the 
 cabin to the cook in the galley, was sorry. 
 As for me, I felt that a thick darkness had 
 shut in and closed around my life. 
 
 " He was sorry to leave us, and he said 
 good-by to all the other officers first, leaving 
 me till the last. I was in my room, with a 
 great ache in my heart when he came in. 
 His eyes were full of tears as he came toward 
 me. ' I have come to say good-by,' he 
 said, and his voice broke. He choked back 
 the sob and looked at me, and I see now, as 
 I have seen night and day since that awful 
 hour, his honest young face, and his tear- 
 filled eyes shining with the great love he 
 had for me. I tried to reach out my arms 
 and take him ; I tried to speak, to let him 
 know what I felt ; and then, oh, then I 
 said good-by as calmly, as quietly and heart- 
 lessly, as if I were speaking to an utter
 
 A SILENT SOUL. JJ 
 
 stranger. I did not even hold out my hand. 
 He looked at me a moment, and in that 
 moment I felt that I had stabbed him to the 
 heart. 
 
 " His surprised expression changed to a 
 hurt, wounded one ; and then the color came 
 to his cheeks, he shut his lips proudly, and 
 turned and left me, carrying his head very 
 high, and holding himself very straight. I 
 found out afterward that the launch which 
 was to take him ashore was not ready for 
 half an hour, and I know he meant to spend 
 that time with me. Where he went to, I do 
 not know; but / spent that half-hour in 
 hell. 
 
 " That night, after the lights were all out, 
 I went to the locker where I had put the 
 things that I had bought for him. I took 
 them out, recognizing each one by touch, 
 and I think I felt as a woman feels when she 
 looks at the little garments made for the 
 child that died when it was born. I took 
 them one by one, and going to the port-hole 
 I dropped them out into the darkness and 
 the waiting sea. 
 
 " I sat there through the whole night, think- 
 ing ; and I decided then, and have believed 
 ever since, that I was a dumb spirit, a silent
 
 /8 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 soul. There are people who, from different 
 causes, cannot speak, who go through life 
 shut out from the world of language. We 
 call them mutes ; and I was, I think, spirit- 
 ually such a one. But mine was far the 
 greater affliction; an imprisoned soul is worse 
 than a silent tongue. I could ask for bread 
 if I were hungry; for warmth, if I were cold. 
 It was only when I tried to express a feeling 
 of my heart, an emotion, that I was dumb. 
 I do not know if there have been other men 
 like me. God pity them, if there have been ! 
 but this I know : that for some reason known 
 only to my Maker, I have lived a silent soul, 
 a soul as utterly voiceless as any mute in an 
 asylum." 
 
 He paused and looked at us all a moment, 
 smiling as if relieved. He had spoken with 
 great difficulty, his voice sinking at times to 
 a whisper, and yet eagerly, as if a force 
 stronger than he compelled him to speak. 
 
 Alice had watched him, never taking her 
 eyes from his face. She had a curious 
 expression of expectancy mingled with her 
 tender, compassionate look. She leaned 
 over and took his other hand as he ceased, 
 and holding them both, said softly, " Thank 
 God that you can tell them ! "
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 79 
 
 His eyes rested upon her face a moment. 
 " There is not much more to tell," he said ; 
 and then, looking at Carroll, he added, " but 
 you must hear this, it is your right. After 
 that night when I faced and acknowledged 
 my fate, I do not think I ever made another 
 attempt to let myself be known. I simply 
 lived my life within myself, bearing my bur- 
 den as well as I could, and gaining at least 
 this much, that I had no more fearful, useless 
 struggles to express what I felt. 
 
 " Then I came here ; and Carroll, oh, 
 how can I tell it to you ! when I saw her, 
 your Alice, I knew that for the first time in 
 my life I could speak. You will not believe 
 it. It is all strange and mysterious ; but to 
 her and with her the terrible bonds which 
 had held me all my life were broken. I 
 could tell my thought, make known my feel- 
 ing: my soul could find a voice. What light 
 is to the blind, and the first sound of voices 
 to the deaf, that was this knowledge to me ; 
 and then, with the knowledge that it was pos- 
 sible to let another human heart know mine, 
 came the consciousness that this other heart 
 was a woman's, and belonged to you. 
 
 " She was the one person in this world who 
 could ever have known me, and I had a right
 
 8O A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 to her, as the dying have the right to the one 
 thing that may save them ; but you had a 
 right to her, because she loved you. I 
 thought at^first that I would go away ; but I 
 was not strong enough for that. Life is sweet 
 to the dead, and I was one risen from the 
 dead. 
 
 " I could not go away from her. I would 
 have stayed in her presence always, if it had 
 been possible. It was so heavenly sweet to 
 feel my soul stir within me, and know that I 
 could tell her what I felt, could think my 
 thought and speak it ! Then, Carroll, I have 
 watched your face and known that I was 
 taking your heart's blood, drop by drop, and 
 I have come up to this very room, and fought 
 such battles with myself that my soul will 
 carry the scars with it to another world. I 
 could not go. Do you suppose a prisoner 
 who has tasted freedom, who has breathed 
 the fresh air and felt the sunshine, will go 
 voluntarily back to his dungeon for another 
 man's sake? 
 
 " As for her Alice I do not know how 
 much of all this she has known. I have 
 never told her what she was to me. Indeed, I 
 never talked much to her ; for the exquisite 
 pleasure of being able to, was almost enough
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 8 1 
 
 for a poor wretch like me. I think her pure, 
 white soul recognized mine in all its silent 
 misery, and knew in some strange way that 
 she could help me. I think she gave me 
 that unselfish devotion which the woman soul 
 gives, the world over, to the wretched. I 
 need not tell you, Carroll, that her every word 
 and thought has been most loyally yours. I 
 was simply to her a poor creature in distress, 
 whom by some unknown means her presence 
 helped and comforted." 
 
 He stopped again and looked at Alice. 
 " Alice," he said, " you understand it all now, 
 dear. I could not help it I should have 
 gone away, but it was so sweet, so sweet ! I 
 do not think I should ever have been strong 
 enough to leave you. Oh, how much better 
 it is that it should end like this ! " 
 
 Alice passed her hand over his forehead 
 and down his cheek. " There," she said 
 gently, " the trouble is all over now ; do not 
 think about it any more." She spoke sooth- 
 ingly, as one would to a little child. 
 
 I was crying hard, and my whole heart was 
 filled with pity for this poor man whom I had 
 so misjudged. 
 
 Carroll turned and walked across the room, 
 then came back and stood by Alice's side. 
 6
 
 82 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 " Clifford," he began brokenly, " don't talk 
 like that. You will get well, if just to 
 let us show you how much we care for 
 you. Clifford, I am so sorry I have been 
 so unjust. I Oh, Clifford, you must get 
 well ! " 
 
 Alice looked up at Carroll quickly. " Oh, 
 hush ! " she said, her quicker instincts seeing 
 that it was no comfort he was giving the 
 dying man. 
 
 A ghastly expression came over Clifford's 
 face. " I live ! " he murmured. " O God ! " 
 Then as the look faded he said : " No, Carroll, 
 no. God is not so cruel as that. Do you 
 suppose I could talk as I have, and live, ? Ah, 
 no ; it is death, merciful, pitying death, that 
 has loosed my bonds and given me power, in 
 this the last hour of my life, to speak. I am 
 so thankful ! You will not remember me 
 now as harsh and treacherous. Oh, what if 
 I had never spoken, if I had had to die 
 silently, as I have lived ! I have cared so 
 much for you both, Mary and Carroll, I have 
 so longed to tell you ! You have never 
 spoken one kind word to me but I have loved 
 and blessed you for it." 
 
 There was silence in the room for a few 
 minutes, and then there was a little commo-
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 83 
 
 tion in the hall, and the doctor came in. He 
 looked at Clifford sharply, and beckoned to 
 me to follow him into the hall. 
 
 " I am surprised to find him alive," he said 
 quietly ; " has he talked much? " 
 
 " Incessantly, " I answered, and added, " Is 
 there no hope for him? " 
 
 " None," said the doctor, sadly. " I should 
 say he was dying now, but he must have 
 greater vitality than I thought" 
 
 We went back into the room, and were all 
 with Clifford when he died. He hardly spoke 
 again. It was as if his soul was charged with 
 a message it had to deliver, and having done 
 that, was glad to go. 
 
 We found among his papers a sealed packet, 
 directed to the midshipman whose life he 
 had saved, and in the few lines of his short 
 will he left him all he had. 
 
 A few days after the funeral, Alice and 
 Carroll and I were in the garden. They were 
 walking up and down together, while I sat 
 sewing on one of the garden-seats. I could 
 hear quite plainly what they said, when they 
 were near me, but they did not mind. Carroll 
 was talking of their wedding. 
 
 "Shall we wait until spring, Alice?" he 
 said. " You have gone through so much
 
 84 A SILENT SOUL. 
 
 lately, poor little girl ! It has all been so 
 terrible for you. You will want to rest a 
 little, won't you? " 
 
 " No, Carroll," said my darling, slipping 
 her hand in his arm, while her face grew as 
 rosy as the flower in her hand. " No, Carroll, 
 I think it will be better soon. You see this 
 has all been so unnatural, so strange, I cannot 
 tell half the time if I am dreaming. I want 
 to get away from it. I want to get back to 
 simple, natural ways of thinking. I don't 
 think this has been quite wholesome." 
 
 He took her hand. "You think " he 
 began eagerly. 
 
 " I think," she went on bravely, " that I need 
 your love now more than ever in my life, to 
 strengthen and steady me ; and I will marry 
 you whenever you want me to." 
 
 They walked on down to the end of the 
 garden, and when they came back they were 
 talking of poor Clifford. 
 
 " Carroll," said Alice, " that first night, 
 when I fainted, I looked him straight in the 
 eyes for the first time, and it seemed to me 
 as if I saw his very soul. It was all misery. 
 I never saw anything so dreadful. He was 
 like a hunted, wounded animal to me, or like 
 a little child who has been cruelly injured. I
 
 A SILENT SOUL. 85 
 
 /tad to help him, he needed me. I could 
 not bear to have him misunderstood, /could 
 not understand him, but I knew he was not 
 what you and Mary thought. I had to go to 
 him when he looked at me ; it was like re- 
 fusing bread to a starving man, not to. But 
 I was not happy, and I could not tell you. I 
 could not explain it; I knew you would 
 laugh at me and call it all fancy. I should 
 never have known about it, if he had not told 
 us himself." 
 
 They were married that autumn, and are 
 as happy as even I could wish. 
 
 Henry Clifford is buried in the little family 
 burying-lot, and it was Alice who had en- 
 graved on his head-stone, under his name 
 and age, " Then shall we know, even as we 
 are known."
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 ESTHER GODWIN stood at her side door 
 counting her geese. They had just 
 been fed, and were on their way to the goose 
 pond, waddling along with that peculiar air of 
 bumptiousness and importance which always 
 makes their name seem so appropriate. 
 
 "There's seventeen of 'em," said Miss 
 Esther ; " seventeen at eight pounds a piece, 
 and a shilling a pound, that's let me see 
 eight shillings is a dollar, that 's why, that 's 
 seventeen dollars ! " 
 
 She seemed surprised at the simplicity with 
 which her problem worked itself out. 
 
 " I don't suppose I '11 really get more than 
 fourteen or fifteen dollars for the lot," she 
 went on ; " but that '11 get a splendid Thanks- 
 giving dinner, and have some to spare. Fifteen 
 dollars is a lot of money." 
 
 She was a plump little woman, with rosy 
 cheeks and black hair, which was just beginning 
 to turn gray. She would have been pretty
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 87 
 
 but for the look of anxiety and apprehension 
 which had become habitual. It gave one the 
 impression that she had had many troubles, 
 and was waiting nervously for the next, which 
 she felt sure was on the way. 
 
 Her little farm, which stretched away toward 
 the creek, behind the low, white farmhouse, 
 had the tired, discouraged look which farms 
 sometimes wear. The barns were shabby 
 and wanted painting ; the fences were poor ; 
 and any farmer could have told you at a 
 glance that the whole place needed ditching 
 and draining. Around the house itself every- 
 thing was neat and clean. Marigolds and 
 China-asters were blooming in the little 
 garden, and some late sweet-peas, having 
 climbed far above their supporting brush, 
 were nodding triumphantly at every breeze. 
 The milk-pans that were sunning themselves 
 on a little bench were dazzlingly bright, and 
 there were no chips or litter of any kind 
 around the kitchen door. 
 
 As far as one pair of hands could do it, the 
 work had been well done ; but it is hard for a 
 woman to run a farm alone, especially if it is 
 encumbered with a mortgage to start with. 
 Besides the farm Miss Esther had an invalid 
 mother to take care of when Richard Godwin
 
 88 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 died and left her at the head of his somewhat 
 involved affairs. 
 
 She had nursed her mother patiently and 
 tenderly until she died, and since then she 
 had done the best she could with her poor 
 little farm ; but the mortgage had hung over 
 it like a heavy thunder-cloud, and life had 
 been more of a struggle than a frolic to Esther 
 Godwin. 
 
 However, this was to be her last year in the 
 old home. She was going to sell everything, 
 pay all the old debts, and then, with a snug 
 little balance in her favor, she hoped to go to 
 live with her brother in the city. 
 
 She was too sensible a woman to mourn 
 deeply over the impending change in her 
 affairs. She, regretted it, but she accepted it 
 cheerfully. She said to herself in a practical 
 sort of way, 
 
 " I can't keep the farm, and it 's no use 
 pretending I can. I aint a-going to stay in 
 one room and shut up the rest of the house, 
 and half starve, living on a flake or two of 
 mackerel and a little dab of quince jell ! 
 That 's the way old Mis' Pierson does. She 
 may call it being independent if she chooses ; 
 but I say it 's just indecent, and she with a son 
 that 's ready to take her and do for her, out
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 89 
 
 in Colorady ! Of course, if things was differ- 
 ent " and here Miss Esther's eyes were apt 
 to grow a little sad as they wandered over her 
 pasture lot to the rail fence that separated her 
 little farm from Simon Bushnell's well-tilled 
 acres. 
 
 The apple-trees in his orchard hung over 
 her rail fence, and many an apple in the 
 autumn dropped over on her side. But 
 Miss Esther never picked them up now. 
 There was a time when they might all have 
 been her apples, but that was long ago. 
 Miss Esther never spoke of her old-time lover, 
 in fact she had never spoken but once of 
 her unhappy love-affair. 
 
 That was when her mother died and her 
 brother James had exercised his right, as 
 head of the family, to question her. 
 
 " Whatever was the trouble 'tween you and 
 Simon Bushnell, Esther? " he asked. 
 
 Miss Esther bit her lip and turned very 
 white. 
 
 " There was n't no trouble, James," she 
 answered ; "he you see you see he 's a 
 sort of quick-tempered man, and terrible sot 
 in his ways. We 'd been engaged about two 
 months when his mother died, and he came 
 a-prancin' over one evening and wanted I
 
 90 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 should marry him right away. He said he 
 was awful lonely and getting terrible tired of 
 Mis' Sanders' cooking. I found out afterward 
 she had n't given him nothing but batter cakes 
 for dinner that day, and Simon never could 
 abide batter cakes. I think myself they set 
 like lead in your stomach. Well, I told him 
 it was n't no time to be marryin' with my 
 mother flat on her back, and his mother just 
 laid in her grave. The truth was I was n't 
 ready. I had n't made a thing but two flannel 
 petticoats, and hemmed some towels, and I 
 was n't going to marry no man without a 
 decent setting out." 
 
 She stopped a little and sighed. 
 
 "What did he say, Esther?" asked her 
 brother. 
 
 " He said he guessed that was as good a 
 time as any, but I would n't hear to it. Then 
 he flared up and said, ' Well, it 's now or 
 never,' and then I flared up too, and said, 
 ' Well, Simon, it may be never for all o' 
 me.' Then he walked off, holding his head 
 high and toppin', and I kept thinking 
 he 'd turn 'round and come back ; but he 
 did n't, and, James, he 's never so much as 
 spoke to me since, nor even looked this 
 way."
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 91 
 
 "Well," said her brother, thoughtfully, 
 " he must have been awful mad." 
 
 " He was, James, he was ; but that aint no 
 reason why he should drive by every day, 
 a-looking straight ahead as if he was afraid 
 my lilac bushes and apple-trees would sort 
 of poison him if he happened to get a sight 
 of 'em. I don't want to marry him, good- 
 ness knows I Ve had trouble enough as 
 't is ; but I do like to live friendly-like with 
 all my neighbors." 
 
 " P'r'aps he '11 come 'round yet," suggested 
 James. 
 
 " Oh, no, he won't," said Miss Esther, with 
 earnestness. " I know Simon Bushnell through 
 and through. If there should be an earth- 
 quake, or some such thing, and I should be 
 shot up into the air and land in his front 
 yard, then mebbe he 'd speak, 'cos he 'd 
 be so astonished he 'd forget he was mad. 
 But nothin' that happened just ordinary like 
 would make him budge an inch. I believe 
 he 'd drive right by a-looking between his 
 horse's ears, if it was my own funeral, and 
 I was being carried out the door." 
 
 " You have n't ever spoke to him, Esther? " 
 
 Miss Esther's lip curled. 
 
 " Speak to him ! Well, I should say not,
 
 92 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 and never will till the crack o' doom. I told 
 him it might be ' never for all o' me,' and 
 so it may. Not but what 't would have been 
 convenient, with the farms joining the way 
 they do and all ; but it will never happen 
 now, never." 
 
 " Well," said her brother, kindly, " I Ve got 
 a home for you, Esther, whenever you're a 
 mind to come. If you want to stay here a 
 while longer in the old place, why you can ; 
 but don't never get to feeling that you are 
 homeless or friendless, 'cos you aint." 
 
 Miss Esther was silent, but she looked at 
 him gratefully. 
 
 That was four years ago, and she had 
 struggled on alone; but the time had come 
 now when she must accept her brother's 
 offer. She did not rebel against her fate; 
 but she had one aspiration, one keen desire, 
 which it seemed to her that she must gratify. 
 She wanted once, just once, before the prop- 
 erty passed out of her hands forever, to have 
 a family party at the old home, to end 
 her solitary life, as it were, in a blaze of 
 glory. 
 
 She decided to have it a Thanksgiving 
 party, and she invited her brother and his 
 wife and their four children, her Uncle Josiah
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 93 
 
 and his wife, and her father's cousin, who 
 taught school in the neighboring village. 
 
 "There '11 be ten of us," she said over and 
 over, "and it's lucky there 's just ten left of 
 them blue chiny plates." 
 
 Her unconscious geese were to provide the 
 feast, not in propria persona, but fatted and 
 sold and converted into turkey, cranberry 
 sauce, mince pie, and all other kinds of good 
 Thanksgiving fare. 
 
 Miss Esther took a great deal of pride in 
 this her last appearance as a landholder and 
 a hostess. 
 
 " I want to let 'em see," she said, " that I 
 aint coming to them 'cos I 'm driv to it, and 
 clean at the end of my rope. I want 'em all 
 to come here once, and see the pianner and 
 the Brussels carpet in the parlor and the new 
 tidies and all, and I '11 give 'em such a dinner 
 as they can't get no, not in New York, for 
 all its style." 
 
 So for weeks the thought of her Thanks- 
 giving dinner was uppermost in Miss Esther's 
 mind. She planned for it by day and dreamed 
 of it by night. Every inch of the little farm- 
 house was thoroughly cleaned. She mended 
 whatever a woman's hands could mend, and 
 painted the worn wood-work with careful
 
 94 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 touch. She had a crock of June butter 
 packed down in the cellar and an extra fine 
 ham hanging in the coolest corner. Mean- 
 time the seventeen geese, which represented 
 the biggest part of the Thanksgiving dinner, 
 grew daily fatter and fatter. 
 
 It was about the first week in November 
 when Miss Esther determined one bright 
 sunny morning to go down into her cellar 
 and look over her preserve closet. It was 
 a light, cheerful cellar, kept in spotless order. 
 Miss Esther lifted down all the jars and 
 tumblers, while she wiped off the shelves. 
 Then she wiped off each jar, and as she put 
 it back in its place she commented upon its 
 contents and state of preservation. 
 
 " Them strawberries are as lovely as the 
 day they was put up," she said admiringly; 
 " and I never did see such color to raspberry 
 jam, and I declare if here aint a jar of them 
 old brandy cherries. I did n't know there 
 was any of 'em left ; it 's why it 's three 
 years ago since that old ox-heart tree bore 
 so unexpected. My ! They 're all mouldy 
 on top ! I wonder what 's the matter." 
 
 She unscrewed the top and smelt of the 
 contents critically. 
 
 " Land sakes ! " she ejaculated ; " if they aint
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 95 
 
 worked ! Well ! I never knew my brandy 
 cherries act like that before no matter how 
 long they was kept. Well, I should think as 
 much ! If here aint a great hole in the 
 cover. Now how did that come? I don't 
 believe there 's any use scalding 'em over, 
 they 're too far gone for that. I '11 just have 
 to throw 'em away." 
 
 So she put the jar upon the cellar stairs to 
 be carried up when she went, and resumed 
 her work. 
 
 " I '11 have some peaches for tea Thanks- 
 giving night," she said, " with whipped cream 
 and sponge cake. They won't want any- 
 thing very hearty after all that dinner." 
 
 It was quite late before she finished, and 
 leaving everything in immaculate order went 
 up stairs to cook her solitary dinner. 
 
 She used to lie down for a little while each 
 day after dinner, and then take her work and 
 sit in the west window of her little sitting- 
 room, where the afternoon sun was coming 
 in. 
 
 To-day she was finishing a pillow sham, 
 which was designed as a last crushing piece 
 of elegance for her Thanksgiving guests. 
 But she had hardly threaded her needle when 
 glancing out across the yard she saw a sight
 
 96 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 that startled her. There were her geese 
 her seventeen Thanksgiving geese acting 
 in the strangest manner. Some of them 
 were dead, others were dying, and a few 
 were staggering around helplessly as if it were 
 only a question of seconds when their end 
 should come too. 
 
 She threw a shawl over her head and hur- 
 ried out to them, full of anxiety and alarm. 
 
 Some of them rose to their feet at her 
 approach and took a few tottering steps, only 
 to fall again in white unconscious heaps. 
 Others stretched out their necks and squawked 
 dismally, and they all looked at her with 
 keen reproach. 
 
 Miss Esther almost cried. 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped, "what ails you, you 
 poor feeble-minded creatures ? What 's come 
 to you ; have you been poisoned, or what? " 
 
 But the geese made no answer, though one 
 old gander squawked incoherently as he 
 tried to walk away in his usual stately 
 manner. The effort was too much for him ; 
 he sank down helpless and expiring. 
 
 Miss Esther could hardly suppress a scream. 
 Her Thanksgiving dinner seemed to be van- 
 ishing before her eyes. 
 
 "What shall I do?" she cried, "oh, what
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 97 
 
 shall I do? They've all been poisoned. 
 Oh, what shall I do?" 
 
 Just then a bright thought shot across the 
 dark despair that filled her mind. Her geese 
 were dying ; it was too late to help them 
 now. But the feathers she might yet save 
 the feathers, and so prevent them from being 
 a total loss. But if they were to be live 
 geese feathers, and that was the only kind 
 Miss Esther considered of any value, they 
 must be secured at once. 
 
 She did not hesitate. She seized two of 
 the dying geese and bore them into her 
 little kitchen. 
 
 Hastily spreading down a clean sheet upon 
 her spotless floor, she began to pluck them 
 hurriedly. 
 
 The first goose gave no sign of life ; but 
 the second squawked resentfully all through 
 the operation. 
 
 The tears stood in Miss Esther's eyes. 
 
 " Oh, it seems dreadful," she said, " to 
 pluck them in their dying moments ! not 
 even to let them die in peace ! Poor things, 
 poor things ! But it 's got to be done, 
 it's got to be done." 
 
 She worked away with nervous, despairing 
 energy, until the entire seventeen denuded 
 7
 
 98 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 corpses were stretched upon the kitchen- 
 floor. The sheet was piled with a great 
 snowy mound of fluffy feathers. She gath- 
 ered it up by the four corners, and took it 
 up into the wood-house chamber, where she 
 spread the feathers to dry. 
 
 Then she came down and looked at the 
 seventeen prostrate geese, wondering what 
 disposition she had better make of them. 
 
 Suddenly one of them rose to its feet, 
 gazed at her mournfully, and then staggered 
 with weak unsteady legs toward the closed 
 door. 
 
 Miss Esther watched the supposed corpse 
 with horror. Its breast was quite bare, and 
 it presented the singular appearance that a 
 man would make, whose toilet was complete 
 but for the absence of his shirt. 
 
 Miss Esther rushed to the door and opened 
 it, and gazed after the goose, as it slipped 
 weakly forth. 
 
 " Land's sake ! " she said hoarsely, " aint 
 you dead ? " 
 
 The goose did n't answer. It walked on, 
 as if it were shaking the dust of her inhospi- 
 table house forever from its feet. 
 
 Miss Esther turned around, weary and per- 
 plexed, only to find that two more of the
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 99 
 
 stricken creatures had arisen, and were feebly 
 moving about. 
 
 " O dear ! oh dear ! " she cried, "what is the 
 matter with you? It's worse having you 
 come to life than it was having you die. 
 What shall I do with you now?" 
 
 But these geese, too, walked out in dignified 
 silence. One of them stopped at the door, 
 and putting his head on one side, looked at 
 Miss Esther in a peculiarly silly manner, at 
 the same time uttering a most unseemly 
 squawk. 
 
 She threw her apron over her head. 
 
 " Oh, my," she cried, " the creature winked 
 at me ! I never saw such goings on in all 
 my born days ! " 
 
 All the flock but two finally recovered their 
 power of motion, and went out into the yard. 
 These two stretched their necks now and then 
 in a comfortable, rustling sort of way, and 
 then settled back into repose. They seemed 
 to say, " Do not wake me, let me dream 
 again ; " and so Miss Esther left them and 
 followed the other fifteen out, anxious to see 
 what new antics they were performing. They 
 eagerly began to eat, and Miss Esther, draw- 
 ing a little closer, understood it all. 
 
 " It 's those brandy cherries ! " she ex-
 
 100 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 claimed. " Whoever would have thought 
 you 'd go to gobbling them up ! Well, well, 
 so that 's what 's been the matter with you ! 
 Well, I am ashamed of you, I truly am ! " 
 
 She looked at them severely ; but the geese 
 seemed to show no repentance for their re- 
 cent spree, and continued to eat eagerly all 
 that were left of the cherries. 
 
 " Shoo," said Miss Esther, waving her 
 hands, " shoo, shoo ! You sha'n't have 
 another single one, you wicked, guzzlin' 
 creatures ! " 
 
 She carefully picked up all the remaining 
 cherries. 
 
 " Now what am I going to do with you, 
 with your breasts all raw and bleeding? A 
 pretty looking set you are ! " 
 
 The geese looked mournful. They had 
 never faced a November night with such 
 exposed chests before. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Esther, resignedly, "I 
 suppose you '11 have to come into the wood- 
 shed and sleep to-night. It 's a most mons- 
 tropolous performance, the whole thing." 
 
 " Monstropolous" was a word she rarely 
 used, and only to express some unprecedented 
 and really dreadful affair. 
 
 She had an uncomfortable feeling of re-
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. IOI 
 
 sponsibility for their condition. She had 
 plucked them herself, in what she believed 
 were their death-agonies. She could not let 
 them suffer now, for her act of cruelty. She 
 thought about them all night, and in the 
 morning a brilliant idea came to her. 
 
 " What they need is chest protectors," she 
 said to herself, " and I don't see why I 
 should n't make 'em some. There 's all that 
 battin' left from the quilts, and that ball of 
 green string I got for the morning-glories to 
 run on. I '11 just make 'em some comfortable 
 little pads, and tie 'em on." 
 
 And so she did ; she cut, and fitted seven- 
 teen chest-protectors, and tied them on to her 
 denuded geese. Then she opened her kitchen 
 door, and her little flock stalked forth. She 
 was quite excited with the success of her 
 experiment, and stood in the doorway watch- 
 ing them, a bright spot of color glowing on 
 'either cheek. 
 
 At just that moment Simon Bushnell drove 
 by, but Miss Esther did not see him. If she 
 had she would have noticed how the expres- 
 sion of his face changed from indifference to 
 surprise, and then amazement and consterna- 
 tion. He had driven by for many years, his 
 eyes apparently fixed upon the headstall ;
 
 IO2 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 he had passed her coldly by in her little 
 pleasures and greater sorrows. But now the 
 unexpected had happened. The sight of 
 seventeen geese in cotton-batting chest-pro- 
 tectors, tied on with green strings, broke 
 down the reserve of years. 
 
 He stopped his horse, and looked and 
 looked again. 
 
 " Esther," he cried, " why, Esther, what is 
 the matter,? " 
 
 She saw him there. " It 's nothing, Simon," 
 she answered ; " you need n't stop." 
 
 Then she went into the house, without 
 giving him another glance ; but she left the 
 door open behind her. 
 
 He hesitated a moment; then he drove up 
 to the old hitching-post, which so many horses 
 had chewed that it seemed to be all frayed 
 out. He tied his horse, and passing by the 
 strange-looking geese, he followed Miss Esther 
 into her little kitchen. 
 
 She stood in the middle of the room, as if 
 she were waiting for him. Her heart was 
 fluttering wildly, but her face was firm and 
 fixed. 
 
 " Why, Esther," he said again, " what is 
 the matter? What have you got on those 
 geese?"
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 103 
 
 " Chest-protectors," she answered shortly. 
 
 " Ch-chest-protectors ! " he stammered after 
 her. Then he looked at her keenly. Was 
 she going insane? 
 
 " I plucked them yesterday," she ex- 
 plained, " 'cos I thought they was dying. 
 They acted so queer and flopped over on 
 their sides so. But they 'd eaten some brandy 
 cherries that I threw out, and they were just 
 intoxicated. And I felt so bad when they 
 came to life, with their chests all exposed, 
 that I just made those little coats and tied 
 them on." 
 
 Simon Bushnell looked at her, and then he 
 glanced out of the window at the flock of 
 erring geese. Then he began to laugh, 
 great haw-haws of honest laughter, that 
 convulsed his face and shook his frame. 
 
 Miss Esther watched him silently ; then a 
 lump came in her throat, and the tears rose 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " I guess you would n't have laughed," she 
 said indignantly, " if those geese was all you 
 had for your Thanksgiving party, and you 
 thought they 'd gone and died ! " 
 
 He stopped laughing quickly. 
 
 " Your Thanksgiving party?" he said in- 
 quiringly.
 
 IO4 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. She was still in- 
 dignant, and the tears in her eyes were 
 beginning to glisten upon her cheeks. 
 
 "They was all I had to buy my party 
 fixin's with. I 've asked John, and his wife 
 and children, and Uncle Josiah and Aunt 
 Ruth, and Ellen Martin to dinner, and I 
 calculated to get about fifteen dollars from 
 these geese to buy things with. You see it 's 
 my last Thanksgiving here ; I 'm going to sell 
 the farm, and then I 'm going away." 
 
 Simon Bushnell was silent for a moment. 
 "You're going away?" he finally repeated. 
 
 " Yes," she answered doggedly. " I 
 am." 
 
 He drew a little nearer. 
 
 " Esther," he said slowly, " have you felt 
 real bad and lonely and miserable all these 
 years?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered honestly, " I have." 
 
 " Well, so have I," he confessed. " I Ve 
 been a pig-headed fool; but it isn't too late. 
 S'pose you keep your farm, Esther, and 
 mine, too. S'pose you let me have the folks 
 to dinner, and let it be my Thanksgiving party. 
 S'pose you marry me now, Esther?" 
 
 She was silent, crying softly. 
 
 " Esther," he said gravely, " don't take on
 
 ESTHER GODWIN'S GEESE. 105 
 
 so. It's now or never, Esther, for sure this 
 time." 
 
 " Oh, Simon," she said, holding out her 
 hands, " let it be now, let it be now ! " 
 
 He put his arms around her, and kissed her 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " I just bless these geese of yours, Esther," 
 he said, " 'cos I 'd vowed I 'd never speak to 
 you again, no matter what happened ; but they 
 kinder surprised me into it 'fore I thought." 
 
 " Poor things ! " sobbed forth Miss Esther, 
 " I 'd kind of hate to kill 'em now ! " 
 
 But she did, and they helped to furnish 
 part of her Thanksgiving dinner as well as 
 her wedding feast.
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 TT was late fall in Meshaunee, and the 
 -* leaves rustled under Margaret Mclntyre's 
 feet as she walked home. A young man of fine 
 and, in the eyes of the Meshauneeites, distin- 
 guished bearing was talking earnestly to her. 
 He was a handsome man, with that air which 
 is apt to be called in country places " citified." 
 
 Meshaunee is a small town in the northern 
 peninsula of Michigan, and Margaret Mcln- 
 tyre had the distinction of living in the finest 
 house in town. This was not, however, an 
 evidence of social rank. The house was not 
 her own; it was the public-school building, 
 and her father was the janitor. He, with 
 Margaret and her mother, lived in the base- 
 ment, in what would have been " a suite of 
 apartments " farther east, but was simply " a 
 set of rooms " in Meshaunee. 
 
 It had never seemed at all strange to Mar- 
 garet that she should live in the basement of 
 a schoolhouse. We are not apt in youth to 
 be astonished at our environment. Every-
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. IO/ 
 
 thing but unhappiness seems natural until a 
 healthy person is at least twenty years old. 
 
 John Mclntyre was an old Scotchman, who 
 had drifted into the pine-woods of Michigan, 
 he could scarcely have told how. He had 
 drifted out again, however, and become one 
 of the first settlers in Meshaunee. He had 
 lived there ten years, and was regarded as 
 one of the oldest inhabitants. 
 
 The first thing the early settlers had done 
 was to build their schoolhouse, and they con- 
 structed it, as thrifty mothers make their 
 children's clothes, " to grow to." It looked 
 very handsome, this fall afternoon, as Mar- 
 garet approached. The setting sun was 
 reflected from all the many windows, and 
 the grounds were pretty and well kept. 
 
 Margaret paused at the gate as if to finish 
 her conversation before going in, and, turning 
 to the young man, said, 
 
 " It all seems so very sudden." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it," he an- 
 swered ; " the question is, do you care enough 
 for me to do it ? " 
 
 The girl leaned against the tall gatepost, 
 and looked down the street. She did not 
 answer, but seemed to be thinking, and the 
 tears glistened in her eyes. She was a very
 
 108 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 beautiful girl. Beauty makes its appearance 
 in some women's lives like an island on the 
 water. The current sweeps them up to it, 
 past it, and beyond. It opens upon them not 
 like a flower of slow growth, but suddenly, 
 intensely, and then fades forever. Margaret 
 had been a homely child, with large irregular 
 features. A good observer might see that 
 she would not be a permanently beautiful 
 woman ; " fine-looking," even " handsome, " 
 would, perhaps, however, apply for some years. 
 But now she was abreast of her beauty, 
 as it were. It rested upon her with as pal- 
 pable a glory as the late afternoon sunshine 
 in which she stood. 
 
 " Margaret," said the young man, impa- 
 tiently, " you do not answer." 
 
 The color came to her cheeks. " You 
 know I think more of you than of any one 
 in the world, unless it is mother," and she 
 laughed nervously. 
 
 He took her hands. " I am willing to have 
 your mother for a rival," he said lightly, and 
 they walked toward the schoolhouse together. 
 
 The room they entered was homelike and 
 cheery. A bright fire glowed in the base- 
 burner, and the windows were full of plants. 
 Margaret's mother lay upon the sofa. She
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 109 
 
 was a gray-haired woman, whose coarse face 
 had been softened and refined by years of 
 bodily suffering. Crippled with rheumatism, 
 she rarely moved from her couch or easy- 
 chair. Her eyes were alert and eager, and 
 they brightened as her daughter came in. 
 Margaret went to her and kissed her. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " Len has something 
 he wants to say to you; " and then she left 
 the room, and the old woman looked at the 
 young man expectantly. 
 
 He brought a chair and sat down beside 
 her. 
 
 " I guess I need n't tell you, Mrs. Mclntyre," 
 he began, " that it 's about Margaret. I want 
 her to marry me now, while I am here. 
 What's the use of waiting? I want to take 
 her back to New York with me when I 
 
 go-" 
 
 "Well, Len," said the old woman, kindly, 
 " that 's as Margaret says." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret is willing, only she hates 
 to leave you and her father. Of course you '11 
 miss her, but all girls marry and leave 'their 
 homes sometime. I don't feel as if I could 
 wait till my next trip. I want her now. I 'm 
 going to give her a splendid home, and do 
 everything for her, and I guess she '11 find life
 
 IIO MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 different in New York from what 't is in a 
 little hole like this." 
 
 Mrs. Mclntyre did not resent the remark 
 about her home. Her eyes sparkled with 
 excitement. 
 
 " I Ve always hoped," she said, " that I 
 should live to see Margaret well married and 
 settled, and it does seem real splendid that 
 she should have such a chance. Still, Len 
 Crocker," she added impressively, " I would n't 
 have urged her, not one mite, to have took 
 you, if she had n't a-wanted to herself." 
 
 " Shall I speak to Mr. Mclntyre?" asked 
 the young man. 
 
 " No," she said, " 'taint hardly worth while ; 
 him and me '11 talk it over.. He's sure to 
 agree if I do.. I Ve had the running of Mar- 
 garet always, sick in bed and flat on my back 
 as I Ve been since she growed up. I guess if 
 her and me agree on a man we like, he aint 
 going to object none ; " and the old woman 
 laughed uproariously, as if Mr. Mclntyre's 
 possible disapproval were a very good joke 
 indeed. 
 
 Leonard Crocker was a commercial travel- 
 ler. He came to Michigan as the agent of a 
 large firm in New York, and sold saws and 
 axes and other woodmen's tools. He had
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. ill 
 
 been unusually successful, and was valued and 
 paid accordingly by his employers. This was 
 his third visit to Meshaunee, and each time 
 he had stayed a little longer and been a little 
 more devoted to Margaret Mclntyre. 
 
 To the simple Meshauneeites he had always 
 appeared as a type of true elegance, with his 
 city clothes and airs. Especially were they 
 awed by his reckless extravagance. He 
 stopped at the best hotel, spent money freely 
 for liquor and cigars, always had two horses 
 when he took Margaret to drive, and quite 
 boomed business at the one small florist's. 
 Particularly was it remarked that he was con- 
 stantly hiring people to do him little services, 
 run errands, etc., such as the Meshauneeite 
 had always been in the habit of doing for 
 himself. His boots were blacked, and he 
 was shaved every day ; this in itself was an 
 eccentricity. 
 
 Mrs. Mclntyre was right in her prophecy 
 about her husband ; he made no objection. 
 Margaret's marriage took place that fall, and 
 she left immediately for the East with her 
 handsome husband. 
 
 There were few social distinctions in Mesh- 
 aunee, and not many people who ever thought 
 about them. Still there was a widespread
 
 112 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 feeling that Margaret had married above her, 
 and had done uncommonly well. Mrs. Mat- 
 thews, the wife of the wealthiest man and the 
 largest liquor-dealer in town, was quite indig- 
 nant over it. She had come from the East, 
 where she had never had any social position ; 
 but she had always insisted upon having a 
 great deal in Meshaunee. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews said boldly, that she re- 
 garded Margaret Mclntyre's marriage as a 
 great piece of presumption, and she was 
 very sorry for the poor young man, who had 
 been entrapped into it. She further remarked 
 that she was glad her son Harry, a young 
 fellow of twenty-five, was out of town when it 
 happened, such things were so demoralizing. 
 She was much disgusted at the interest he 
 showed in it on his return, and surprised and 
 indignant when she found he had gone to 
 see old Mrs. Mclntyre, to ask her all the 
 particulars. 
 
 But the truth was that Harry Matthews' 
 interest in Margaret dated back to the days 
 when they had gone to school together. He 
 had always liked her, and lately, as she had 
 seemed more beautiful each time he met her, 
 a half-formed wish was shaping itself in his 
 mind that their school friendship might ripen
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 113 
 
 into something dearer and sweeter. A very 
 tender bud of romance was nipped by Mar- 
 garet's marriage, but he tried to be a true 
 enough friend to rejoice heartily in her 
 happiness. 
 
 Letters from Margaret soon began to come 
 to her old home, telling of her new life, and 
 of all the strange, delightful things that were 
 crowded into it. She was keeping house 
 in a flat; she had two servants, she went 
 often to the theatre, she had driven to the 
 Park. 
 
 To the lonely old woman these letters came 
 like a breath of heaven itself. The brick 
 walls of her basement-rooms stretched away, 
 and she roamed through the greenest pas- 
 tures of fancy. Margaret, her Margaret, her 
 beautiful only child, seemed to have bitten 
 into the rosy side of life's peach, and there 
 was no bitter flavor. The first two months 
 after Margaret was married were the happi- 
 est this poor sick woman had ever known. 
 She would not have changed places with a 
 queen. Then a great blow came, for old John 
 Mclntyre died suddenly, and she was left 
 alone. 
 
 Margaret was sent for, and came home to 
 her father's funeral. She was much shocked,
 
 114 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 but very quiet and composed. She attended 
 .to all the last duties herself, paying liberally 
 for everything; and poor Mrs. Mclntyre was 
 half comforted with the shiny rosewood cas- 
 ket and its plated trimmings, and the long 
 line of hired carriages that were supposed to 
 do honor to her husband's memory. Mar- 
 garet herself was dressed in deep mourning, 
 and her mother noticed with strange pleasure 
 that the material was very fine and the crape 
 of the best quality. It was more " elegant 
 mourning " than any one in Meshaunee had 
 ever worn, and Mrs. Mclntyre felt a thrill of 
 pride in the midst of her grief. 
 
 Harry Matthews went to the old janitor's 
 funeral, and afterward came to see Margaret. 
 It would be hard to tell how he formed his 
 opinion, but he went away with the conviction 
 that Margaret was not a happy woman. Per- 
 haps he was a little influenced by his own 
 fondness for her. There is a sad pleasure in 
 thinking that the girl who marries some one 
 else is not altogether happy. " At all events," 
 Harry thought to himself, " she has made a 
 good match, though I know she is a disap- 
 pointed woman, and I can read it in her 
 eyes." 
 
 However, the rest of Meshaunee read noth-
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 115 
 
 ing of the kind, and Margaret was regarded 
 as a very fortunate girl. She was anxious 
 that her mother should return to New York 
 with her, but the old woman could not be 
 persuaded. 
 
 " No, Margaret, no," she said, " I aint 
 a-going to be a drag on you. I don't think 
 that I 'd a-come to you, even if I was well and 
 spry. I aint fit to go live in New York with 
 you, and seeing I am as I am, I would n't 
 come anyways." 
 
 Margaret kissed her thoughtfully. " Do 
 you think you 'd be happier here? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes," answered her mother ; " there 's lots 
 of people that will take me in, and be glad to. 
 You '11 write to me real often, just as you 
 have done, and I shall be thinking about you 
 all the time, how fine you are, how grand 
 you live, and what a handsome husband you 
 got, and all the rest." 
 
 Margaret smiled a little sadly. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " I believe it would 
 hurt you more than it would me if I were 
 to be poor now." 
 
 The old woman's face fell. " Margaret, 
 you aint Nothing's happened to you, 
 has it? " she asked feverishly. 
 
 " No," said Margaret, quietly. " Leonard
 
 Il6 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 is worth just as much as when I married 
 him. Nothing is likely to happen to me 
 now." 
 
 She was silent a few moments. " Per- 
 haps," she said, " you would be happier here 
 for the present, mother. After a little while 
 we can change, if it seems best, and you can 
 come to me. We will find a good home with 
 some one of the old neighbors, where you 
 will be taken care of, and I shall come and 
 see you as often as I can." 
 
 So it was decided, and, Margaret left in a 
 few days for New York. She sent money 
 regularly every week for her mother's board, 
 and wrote her weekly long letters, in which 
 she described minutely all the daily happi- 
 ness of her life. 
 
 She wrote that she was not going far away 
 for the summer, but should spend a few 
 weeks at some of the sea-side places near 
 New York, so accessible that Leonard could 
 come to her at least for Sundays. She went 
 to Coney Island, and to a little place on Long 
 Island, and she never failed to send in every 
 Monday morning, by Leonard, a thick packet, 
 to be mailed in the city, telling her mother 
 of all she had seen and done. 
 
 To say that Mrs. Mclntyre enjoyed these
 
 MARGARETS ROMANCE. 117 
 
 letters but faintly expresses it. She seemed 
 actually to live upon them. She read them 
 hungrily again and again. If they were late 
 in coming, as sometimes happened, she was 
 miserable, lost her appetite, and could not 
 sleep. 
 
 So the second winter after Margaret's mar- 
 riage passed, and in the early spring a great 
 happiness came to the poor old woman, for 
 there was a little grandchild to hear about then, 
 and Margaret's letters were more welcome 
 than ever. It was a little girl, named for her 
 mother, Margaret wrote. After a few months, 
 she sent a small wisp of its fine, silky hair, 
 and then its picture. She even sent samples 
 of its fine white dresses, and their delicate 
 embroidered trimming. The old woman 
 would sit for hours fingering these filmy 
 little pieces, and trying to realize that it was 
 her child's child that was thus clothed and 
 cared for. 
 
 Margaret moved soon after this into an- 
 other house, but she wrote to her mother, 
 describing so particularly each room and 
 every object in it, and sending samples of 
 everything possible, that her mother dwelt 
 far more in Margaret's house than in the 
 one where her poor, crippled body stayed.
 
 Il8 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 She could have gone through Margaret's 
 without a guide ; she knew every window 
 and closet in it. She knew where the pre- 
 serves were kept, and where the baby's crib 
 stood, and the position of every object, from 
 the stained-glass panel over the front door 
 to the roller towel in the kitchen. 
 
 One day, about two years and a half after 
 Margaret had left Meshaunee, Harry Mat- 
 thews came to see Mrs. Mclntyre. 
 
 " I am going to New York," he said, " and 
 if you will give me Margaret's address, I 
 would like to go and see her." 
 
 The old woman fumbled in her pocket 
 and brought out a little crumpled piece of 
 paper. She handed it to him. " The first," 
 she said, " is. her house, and the other Len's 
 store, where I send my letters." 
 
 He copied the addresses, Mrs. Mclntyre 
 watching him anxiously. 
 
 " Give Margaret my love," she said, " and 
 kiss the baby for granny. Tell Margaret her 
 letters just keep me alive. Here I sit day 
 after day, but I keep living right along with 
 Margaret, only I aint no drag nor trouble to 
 her. Tell her I 'm well and happy ; tell 
 her that last box was just splendid. Why ! 
 don't you want a banana? Margaret sent
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 1 19 
 
 me a great box of fruit last week ; " and she 
 pointed with pride to a plate where two 
 bananas reposed side by side on top of a 
 little red worsted doyly. 
 
 The young man declined the proffered 
 delicacy, and left, promising to take all her 
 messages to her daughter. 
 
 He started out one afternoon soon after he 
 arrived in New York, to see Margaret. Her 
 house was rather far uptown, in a handsome, 
 fashionable street. He walked along it, think- 
 ing what a changed life hers was from the 
 days when she had lived in the basement of 
 the schoolhouse, and he wondered if he 
 should find Margaret herself as changed as 
 her surroundings. 
 
 He soon found the number he had written 
 down. He rang the bell and waited. A 
 neat-looking maid came to the door. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Crocker in?" he asked. 
 
 "Crocker, sir?" said the girl; " Mrs. Wil- 
 liams lives here." 
 
 "Why, this is No. 114, isn't it?" said he, 
 pulling out his memorandum book. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " but no Crocker 
 lives here, nor next door either." 
 
 A bright thought came to Harry: "Has 
 Mrs. Williams lived here long?" he asked.
 
 120 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 " Well," said the girl, " four years any way, 
 'cause I 've been here that long." 
 
 He thanked her and went slowly down the 
 steps. It was very strange, and he could 
 not understand it. All sorts of suspicions 
 and misgivings flitted through his brain. 
 He went directly to the other address, and 
 found it to be a wholesale boot and shoe 
 store. 
 
 " Is there any person of the name of Crocker 
 connected with this firm?" he asked of the 
 nearest clerk. 
 
 ''No, sir," was the prompt reply; "no 
 such man." 
 
 Completely baffled, Harry Matthews walked 
 out. Where was Margaret? What had be- 
 come of her? What was this mystery, and 
 how should he find her? She was alive, she 
 must be in the city. Wild thoughts of ad- 
 vertising, or of putting the case in a detec- 
 tive's hands, flashed through his mind ; but 
 it had all happened so suddenly, and he was 
 in such a tumult, that he could not think 
 clearly. 
 
 He retraced his steps, finding that in his 
 excitement he was going in the wrong direc- 
 tion ; but his car overtook him, and he got in. 
 
 When he passed the shoe-store he looked
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 121 
 
 out at it as if it could in some way help him 
 solve this puzzle. A woman stood on the 
 curb, waiting to hail the car. He did not 
 notice her until she got in and sat down 
 beside him, so occupied was he in gazing out 
 of the window. Then, after they had started, 
 he turned for a second ; . he could not believe 
 his own senses. 
 
 " Margaret ! " he exclaimed ; " Margaret 
 Mclntyre, is this you ! " 
 
 The woman shrank away from him, then 
 looked at him quietly and said : " I do not 
 know you, sir." 
 
 He did not speak again, for he saw that a 
 big man on the other side of the car, who had 
 heard his question and Margaret's answer, 
 was scowling at him ominously, but he looked 
 at her with astonishment and sorrow. Her 
 clothes were plain and well-worn. Her hair 
 was streaked with gray, and she was thin 
 and white. Her face was still a strong, good 
 face, but it had lost every trace of its beauty. 
 The more he looked at her, the more it 
 seemed to him wonderful that he had known 
 her at all. 
 
 He got out soon after she did, and quickly 
 overtook her. 
 
 " Margaret," he said, " Margaret, for God's
 
 122 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 sake, speak to me. Tell me what has hap- 
 pened to you." 
 
 " I shall tell you nothing," she said sharply. 
 " You have no right to hunt me down like 
 that." 
 
 . He touched her arm gently. "Margaret, 
 cannot you trust me? I have messages for 
 you from your poor old mother. Think of 
 her. I know that something terrible has 
 happened to you. Oh, Margaret, you must 
 tell me. I will keep it sacred." 
 
 She did not answer, but walked rapidly on. 
 Presently she ran up the steps of a house, 
 and turning around on the top step, said 
 shortly, " Come." He followed her in. It 
 was by sight and smell unmistakably a board- 
 ing-house. 
 
 Margaret went into the front parlor, which 
 had the usual bare look of a boarding-house 
 reception-room. It had grown quite dark, 
 and two gas-jets, without shades or globes, 
 were lighted, but had been frugally turned 
 down to a mere glimmer of light. Margaret 
 turned one of them up ; then, without taking 
 off her hat or wrap, she faced him. 
 
 "What is it you want? " she asked wearily. 
 All the anger and defiance seemed to have 
 faded from her voice.
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 123 
 
 It struck the young man with a sense of 
 shame that he should have persisted so in 
 finding her. 
 
 " Margaret," he said timidly, " perhaps it 
 was wrong to follow you and question you. 
 I will go away if you want me to, and never 
 tell a living soul that I have seen you." 
 
 " Oh, no," she said sadly, " it had got to 
 come. I knew it; I have been expecting it 
 for months. It is better you than any one 
 else." She waited a minute, and then said 
 quietly, 
 
 " I suppose you wonder where my husband 
 is. Well, I have n't any, I have never had 
 one." 
 
 " Margaret," he cried " why, Margaret ! " 
 
 She walked to the window, and stood as if 
 looking out for a few minutes. But she did 
 not see anything; she was struggling with all 
 her might to control herself. Presently she 
 turned. 
 
 " Sit down," she said, " and I will tell you 
 all. Do not question me, do not speak ; 
 do not even look at me till I am through." 
 
 She pulled at her bonnet-strings and tore 
 open her wrap, as if they choked her. Her 
 voice was steady, but low and hoarse. 
 
 " You know about my marriage," she said,
 
 124 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 " and what a splendid match they thought I 
 made ! Well, he came here, and for over 
 two months everything went well. Then I 
 found out no matter how that he had 
 been married before, that his wife was living, 
 that I had never been his wife. I left him 
 that night. He tried to keep me ; he begged 
 and implored ; he promised everything. I 
 think he loved me as much as such a man 
 can love. She had not been a good woman ; 
 she had left him ; he never expected to see 
 her again. I do not think he meant to do 
 this terrible thing to me. But it was of no 
 use for him to talk. I was mad beside 
 myself a wild, crazy woman. I slept in the 
 station-house that night. Then I got a little 
 work to do ; I hardly know how I got it, or 
 what it was, it all seems such a long, long 
 time ago. You wonder that I did not come 
 home. I cottld not then. I thought I would, 
 after the first horror of it was past. 
 
 " I had written to mother only a few days 
 before, and I knew she would not be worried 
 about me for a week at least, and I tried to 
 get a little calmer and to fix in my mind how 
 I had better tell her. And then came the 
 telegram that father was dead. 
 
 " He brought it to me ; he came to me and
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 125 
 
 tried to get me to forgive him. He offered 
 everything, and I took his money then. I 
 said, ' I will take it, and go and bury the old 
 man, that you have wronged more than any 
 man on earth; but you shall have it again, 
 every cent of it.' I sold all my clothes and 
 all my wedding presents. I hired my mourn- 
 ing one can do that in New York and 
 so I went home and buried my father, and 
 kept my ghastly secret. 
 
 " Why did I do it? Partly it was the ter- 
 rible pride of an injured woman, and partly 
 for my poor old mother's sake. ' I will tell 
 her when she is better able to bear it,' I 
 thought, ' and not now, when she has turned 
 to me for all her strength and comfort.' And 
 then I came back. I did not care if I lived 
 or died ; and so I lived. I did not care 
 whether I succeeded or starved to death ; 
 and so I succeeded. That is always the way 
 with Fate : it denies life and success to those 
 who crave them, and then gives them to 
 those, like me, who do not care. I got a 
 good place. I lived, myself, on next to noth- 
 ing, and sent everything to mother. I wrote 
 to her, too, and made her believe that every- 
 thing in my life was just as she wanted it to 
 be. I only meant to deceive her until she
 
 126 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 had rallied a little from father's death, and 
 then, if I still got on well, I meant to tell her 
 all, and have her come and live with me. 
 But more and more I saw how she was liv- 
 ing in my life, how it would kill her if she 
 ever knew the truth. So I resolved that just 
 as long as I could I would keep her ignorant. 
 Perhaps it is easy to believe in what you 
 most desire; at all events, she has never 
 suspected or doubted for a moment." 
 
 She was silent for a second, then she said : 
 " I began it all for mother's sake, but now 
 can you see? do you understand? / be- 
 lieve in it, too. It is more real a thousand 
 times to me than the daily life I lead. Some- 
 times I feel as if I, the real Margaret Mcln- 
 tyre, died .that night, when I found out and 
 left him ; and it has all been a dream ever 
 since. Mother and I were living in a beau- 
 tiful world of our own. You ought not to 
 have come and disturbed us." 
 
 She looked at him strangely, and her eyes 
 had the peculiar look of a sleep-walker. He 
 watched her anxiously. 
 
 " Ah, my poor Margaret," he said, " what 
 can I do, what can I say ! Do you live here, 
 Margaret?" 
 
 "Here? Oh, no." She looked up in a
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. I2/ 
 
 startled way. "What was I saying? Yes, 
 I have lived here of late." 
 
 " And your " he began slowly. 
 " My child? " she said. " I have no child. 
 I never had one. I bought the pictures that 
 I sent to mother. Ah, my God ! " she said 
 with a sob, " you have robbed me of every- 
 thing. You make me say I have no home 
 no child nothing; and I was so happy 
 with them. My little girl was so pretty ! " 
 
 Again she looked at him, with the confused 
 look of one who had taken ether, and who 
 suddenly returns to consciousness. Then 
 she seemed to control herself. " I have in- 
 vented it all," she cried. " My house, oh, 
 how I have loved that house ! I picked out 
 everything myself, every carpet, every 
 piece of wall-paper, every bit of furniture. 
 You will not take it from me ? " she asked 
 pleadingly. 
 
 " Dear Margaret," he said gently, " I will 
 not take anything away from you. Will you 
 come home with me to your mother now?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no, I cannot." She put up both 
 hands as if to ward off a blow. 
 
 "But, Margaret, sometime you will have to 
 tell her. You cannot live this -way .much 
 longer. It will not hurt her as you think,
 
 128 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 she will be so glad to have you with her 
 again." 
 
 The girl shuddered : " No, no," she cried, 
 " I shall never tell her ! Sometime, if she 
 has to know, if I cannot keep it from her, 
 I may, but not now. It would kill her, it 
 would kill me." 
 
 He talked with her a long time. His heart 
 was full of compassion. It was terrible to 
 see her and to know how she had suffered. 
 She was the mere ghost of what she had 
 been. Her very eyes were changed. He 
 thought he saw in them the flickering light 
 of insanity. She told him how she had 
 worked and risen ; she was now a book- 
 keeper with a good salary. She never saw 
 the man whom she had married ; she had 
 paid him back the sum that she had taken 
 for her father's funeral, and made him take 
 beside every cent of money that he had 
 ever spent on her. 
 
 He could not change her fixed purpose to 
 remain where she was, and he gave her his 
 word of honor not to betray her secret. He 
 left her sadly, and reassured himself with the 
 thought that now he should make it his busi- 
 ness to see her often, and to keep track of 
 her.
 
 MARGARETS ROMANCE. I2Q 
 
 When he returned to Meshaunee, he 
 found he had a very uncomfortable dread 
 about old Mrs. Mclntyre. He did not dare 
 to see her, although he knew that she 
 expected him ; but one day he rode by, and 
 she saw him from the window and sent a 
 little girl out, who ran after him, calling. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 " Old Mrs. Mclntyre wants to see you the 
 worst way," said the girl ; " she 's sick, and 
 she 's been asking for you every day." 
 
 He dismounted slowly and went in. 
 
 The poor old woman was evidently quite 
 ill. She looked very feeble, but her eyes 
 brightened when she saw him. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Matthews," she said, " and did 
 you see my Margaret? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " and she sent her 
 love to you." 
 
 " And Annie, the little girl, my grandchild, 
 did you see her too? " 
 
 He felt at his wit's end. " No," he managed 
 to say, " I did n't see the little girl. She was 
 out, I think." 
 
 " Out with her nurse, I suppose," said the 
 old woman, with an air of importance ; " Mar- 
 garet has her take an airing every day. And 
 how was Margaret looking herself ? " 
 9
 
 130 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 " I did n't think she looked very well ; but, 
 then, Mrs. Mclntyre, it is some time since I 
 have seen her." 
 
 The sick woman did not become anxious. 
 She smiled contentedly. " I heard from her 
 day before yesterday," she said, " and to-day- 
 is little Annie's birthday. She 's going to 
 have a party, a real elegant one. Margaret 
 had been getting the things when she wrote. 
 She's going to have a ring in a cake, and 
 every little child 's going to have one of them" 
 She pointed to a German motto on the table 
 beside her. 
 
 " Margaret said if I 'd pull it something 
 would crack, and there 'd be a cap or an apron, 
 or some such thing in it, all made of paper. 
 I don't see'how there's room in just that little 
 wad. But I thought I would n't break it, it 
 looks so sort of pretty just as it is." 
 
 She spoke in a quick, feverish way, and the 
 young man noticed that her hand trembled, 
 and that in spite of her eagerness she seemed 
 very weak. 
 
 " Why don't you send for Margaret?" he 
 said; "you need her, Mrs. Mclntyre." 
 
 " Oh, no," said the old woman, shaking her 
 head ; " Margaret 's got her hands full with- 
 out me. There's little Annie and her big
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 131 
 
 house to 'tend to ; and now summer 's coming 
 on, and she 's got all her winter things to put 
 away from the moths, and I suppose she '11 be 
 going to some watering-place or another. Oh, 
 no, she must n't come to me. I '11 be well in a 
 day or two. It 's done me a lot of good to 
 see you." 
 
 The woman who owned the house slipped 
 into the hall as Matthews was going out. 
 
 " Poor Mis' Mclntyre ! " she said ; " I guess 
 she aint a-going to get over this attack." 
 
 " Why, she seemed very bright to me," he 
 answered. 
 
 " Well, I guess she must have talked about 
 Margaret, then. She '11 lay for hours without 
 speaking or taking notice ; but if you just say 
 ' Margaret ' to her once, it seems to sort of 
 start her up all over. I think Margaret 
 ought to be sent for, but Mis' Mclntyre, she 
 won't hear to it." 
 
 Harry Matthews rode directly to the tele- 
 graph office. It seemed to him right that 
 Margaret should know. 
 
 " Your mother is very sick," he telegraphed ; 
 " she does n't know that I have sent, but you 
 had better come." 
 
 He felt sure that Margaret would come. 
 Nor was he mistaken. Few people had a
 
 132 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 chance to comment on her changed looks, 
 for she went straight to her mother's bedside, 
 and stayed there. 
 
 " Margaret, O Margaret," said the old 
 woman, " you ought not to have come. Did 
 you bring little Annie?" 
 
 " No, mother dear," she answered ; " she is 
 safe and well where she is, and I thought she 
 might disturb you. But I have a new picture 
 of her, and I 'm going to tell you all about her. 
 She 's beginning to walk now." And then she 
 talked to her mother by the hour of her child, 
 her home, and husband ; and the dying woman 
 listened, with a rapt expression on her face. 
 No angelic chorus would be sweeter to her 
 ears than these tales that Margaret told. 
 
 Harry Matthews came nearly every day, 
 and always went away amazed that Margaret 
 could act her part so well. She never 
 betrayed, even to him, by look or sign, how 
 false it all was. He could not realize that it 
 had become easy and natural to Margaret to 
 believe it all herself. 
 
 When Mrs. Mclntyre died, Margaret's hand 
 was in hers. 
 
 " Margaret," she said, " I hate to leave you, 
 but I am a-thinking perhaps that I shall be 
 with you more than ever. Perhaps the Lord
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 133 
 
 will let me come to your house, Margaret, 
 after I die. I should n't be no trouble then, 
 and I should love to see you so, and little 
 Annie ! If I could just touch her once, and 
 see her all dressed up in them pretty things, 
 it 's about all the heaven I want." 
 
 Margaret shivered, but her voice was steady 
 when she answered, 
 
 " I hope you will be near us always, mother 
 dear." 
 
 The flame of life flickered up brightly in 
 the dying eyes. 
 
 " You mean it, don't you, Margaret? You 
 would n't be afraid of me, if I was a ghost? 
 Well, then, if the Lord will let me, I '11 come 
 and stay a while with you", Margaret, before 
 I go to see those ' heavenly mansions.' Some- 
 how, your house would seem more like home." 
 
 She spoke only once more, and then to 
 say, " God bless little Annie ! " 
 
 Margaret fell down on her knees beside 
 the bed, and buried her face. She did not 
 cry ; but there was a wild, terrified look in her 
 eyes, as if she were pursued by something 
 horrible. 
 
 She did not see Harry Matthews the first 
 time he called after her mother's funeral ; and 
 when he came again, the woman who owned
 
 134 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 the house told him that she had gone back 
 to New York. 
 
 " She said she could n't stay away any 
 longer from her little girl. She 's awful 
 changed, aint she? She used to be so good- 
 looking. Well, I suppose a body can't have 
 everything, and she 's got money enough to 
 do without good looks. She paid up every 
 little thing, and then she gave me five dollars, 
 just because I 'd been good to her mother. 
 I told her I had n't done anything to earn 
 it, but she just made me take it." 
 
 Harry Matthews was terribly disappointed 
 not to see Margaret again. He felt that he 
 could not have her leave him like this and 
 drop back into her old hard life. He must 
 see her arid have a little talk with her, even 
 if he should have no influence over her; and 
 so he followed her to New York. 
 
 She met him quietly and without surprise, 
 and they talked at first of her mother. 
 
 " You made her very happy, both in her 
 life and death, Margaret," he said. 
 
 " I am so glad I never told her," said Mar- 
 garet. " I used to think that something might 
 happen, so that she need never know ; but it 
 was not this I thought of, not her dying. I 
 used to think it would all be true sometime,
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 135 
 
 and then she need never know there was a 
 time when it was false." 
 
 He looked at her questioningly. Did she 
 mean that she might marry again ; or could it 
 be that her belief in her own creations was so 
 strong she fancied they might become facts? 
 
 She did not speak, but seemed to be think- 
 ing intently. After a while she said, 
 
 " I shall not put any mourning on Annie ; 
 she is too young." 
 
 He looked up surprised that she should 
 make such a jest; but Margaret's face was 
 quite serious, and then he knew that the fic- 
 tion she had woven so long and patiently for 
 her mother had indeed become to her the 
 true life, and the actual one was now the 
 dream. 
 
 " Margaret," he said, and he spoke to her 
 loudly, as we rouse a person from sleep, 
 " Margaret, what are you talking about? What 
 are you going to do? Are you going to stay 
 here, or will you come home? " 
 
 "Home?" 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, to my home. I loved you 
 before, oh, long ago. I have loved you 
 always, I think ; and if you will let me, I will 
 try to make you so happy, that you can for- 
 get all the misery you have passed through."
 
 136 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 She looked at him a moment, and then 
 buried her face in her hands and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " she moaned, and rocked 
 to and fro. " How dare you ! how dare 
 you! how can you! Ah, I must not talk 
 like that ! You are good and true, I think 
 you are the only good man in the world ; but 
 you hurt me so, you hurt me so ! " 
 
 " Listen, Margaret," he said gently, " and 
 try to follow what I say. I hurt you, because 
 you have dreamed that which would make 
 the offer of my love an insult, if it were true. 
 But you must not live in these dreams any 
 longer. They are false, they do not exist. 
 Try to put them out of your mind. You are 
 Margaret Mclntyre. You have no other 
 home but this boarding-house. I love you 
 truly and honestly. To me you are just as 
 dear and pure as the Margaret that I loved 
 when we went to school together. I want 
 you to marry me, and to let me make you 
 happy. You will get rested, and strong and 
 well, after a little ; you will forget all these 
 fancies and delusions. We will not live in, 
 Meshaunee ; we will go wherever you choose. 
 Try to think of it." 
 
 She cried as if her heart would break.
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 137 
 
 "And do you think I would do it?" she 
 asked between her sobs. " Do you think I 
 would join my ruined, wrecked life to yours? 
 You tell me to look at things as they are. I 
 do, and I see myself, a wretched outcast, who 
 would never marry you, never! Do you not 
 see? if I must look at life as it is, at myself 
 as I am, I shall die no, I do not mean that 
 I Jiave died, I am dead ! Oh, why do they 
 not bury me ! " and she sobbed wildly. 
 
 He did not answer. He began to see that 
 her dream-world, which had seemed to him a 
 slight form of insanity, had in reality saved 
 her life. She had been happier in her ima- 
 ginary surroundings than he could ever make 
 her.' 
 
 " Dear Margaret," he said, " let it all pass. 
 Forgive me if I have hurt you. You will let 
 me be your friend and help you all I can, and 
 you shall live just as you choose." 
 
 She was still crying bitterly, though she 
 grew quieter before he left her ; but her face 
 haunted him. He thought of her all night, 
 and it seemed to him as if he could still hear 
 her sobbing. He dreaded to meet her the 
 next day. In the morning he walked slowly 
 to the house, arid was shown into the parlor by 
 the girl, who left him without a word. Soon
 
 138 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 a stout, middle-aged woman entered, whom he 
 knew instinctively to be the landlady. 
 
 " This is very sad,'" she said. " I believe 
 you were a friend of Miss Mclntyre." 
 
 He felt his heart turn to ice within him. 
 
 " What has happened? " he faltered. 
 
 " You do not know ? Miss Mclntyre died 
 last night. She did not come down to break- 
 fast, and we could not make her answer; so 
 we broke open the door, and there she lay, 
 just as natural. But we could not rouse her, 
 so we sent for the doctor, and he said she had 
 been dead some hours. He thinks it was 
 heart disease. She said last night she had a 
 headache, and I know she had some kind of 
 pills she took for headache, and maybe she 
 took too much; I can't tell. She seemed 
 well last night, all but her head. She was 
 such a nice lady, too ! She'd been here over 
 a year now, and she never made any trouble. 
 She had n't had any bad news, had she? " she 
 asked him curiously; and he saw that the 
 same dark suspicion had risen in her mind as 
 in his. 
 
 He hesitated a moment; then prompted 
 by loyalty to Margaret, answered, 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of; it is 
 impossible. I have known her always, and I
 
 MARGARET'S ROMANCE. .139 
 
 will tell you that only yesterday I asked her 
 to be my wife. I came to see her to-day, and 
 she is dead." 
 
 The woman's face instantly assumed an 
 expression of the liveliest interest. 
 
 " She was engaged to you then ? Ah, well ! 
 she never took her own life the day after that, 
 that's certain." 
 
 A letter came to the young man that day, 
 written and mailed to him by Margaret the 
 night before. It began, 
 
 DEAR HARRY, I cannot find my beautiful 
 world. My home, my child, and everything are 
 gone. They grew dim after mother died, and 
 to-day, when you told me I must look at things as 
 they are, they vanished altogether, and I cannot 
 find them. 
 
 I have tried in vain to dream again, but I hear 
 your voice saying, " It is not true ; you are Margaret 
 Mclntyre." Did I not tell you that Margaret Mc- 
 Intyre died one horrible night over two years ago, 
 and that only a dream has lived since ? The dream 
 is dead now, too, and I think God is going to give 
 rest to the poor body that held first a soul, and then 
 a lovely vision. 
 
 You have been good and true, and I thank you. 
 Good-night. 
 
 MARGARET.
 
 I4O MARGARET'S ROMANCE. 
 
 He read it over and over. Were they the 
 words of one whose reason totters beneath 
 the burdens it has had to bear; or were they 
 written by a woman with her hand upon the 
 door of death, which she herself intends to 
 open ; or had Margaret died because her 
 dreams had grown to be so much the truest, 
 largest part of her, that when they ended 
 there was nothing left to live with? 
 
 He could not answer, and he never knew.
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 THE town-clock struck six as Augusta 
 Miller hurried home. It was already 
 dark, for it was winter, and the air was full of 
 snow. She opened the big front door, with 
 its heavy brass knocker, as quickly as pos- 
 sible, and ran up stairs to take off her wraps. 
 She was rosy and out of breath when she 
 came down ; but in spite of all her haste, she 
 had a guilty consciousness that she was late. 
 
 Her mother did not look up, as she would 
 have done ii her daughter had been on time. 
 She took no notice of her whatever, and the 
 girl went to the grate and began to warm 
 her hands. 
 
 There is always something irritating in the 
 sight of a delinquent person making himself 
 comfortable. It seemed to Mrs. Miller rather 
 presuming in Augusta to warm herself when 
 she was so late. " Go and tell Lottie we are 
 ready for tea," she said sternly. 
 
 Augusta meekly obeyed. She was a tall, 
 slim girl of about twenty-five, though she
 
 142 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 looked much younger. She had pale yellow 
 hair and light blue eyes, and her complexion 
 was a very delicate pink and white. She 
 wore her hair straight back from her low 
 forehead, and there was something very 
 sweet and refined about her face. She was 
 pretty, but it was in a faint, unsatisfactory 
 way. With such good material, she ought 
 to have been much prettier. She was the 
 youngest of eight children, and the only one 
 left at home, in the large, old-fashioned house 
 with her mother. She was a timid, sensitive 
 girl, who had always remained undeveloped. 
 
 Some women are like seckel pears, it 
 takes a good, sharp frost to ripen them and 
 bring out all their latent sweetness and rich 
 coloring ; others develop slowly under trouble 
 and care, as the Duchess pear ripens in a 
 dark closet. Then there are yet other women 
 who need a great deal of warmth and sun- 
 shine to ripen and perfect them, as a peach 
 clings to the bough and seems to drink in 
 the essence of the whole summer. 
 
 Augusta Miller was of this last class. Much 
 love and tenderness would have made of her 
 a character as sweet as it was sensitive, as 
 loving as it was pure. But love and tender- 
 ness she never had. Her mother's strong,
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 143 
 
 dominating will had held her in complete 
 subjugation. It had overshadowed and 
 absorbed her, and at twenty-five she was as 
 flavorless and undeveloped as immature fruit. 
 
 Mrs. Miller was a very dignified and impos- 
 ing old lady. She had massive gray hair, 
 and wore massive white caps on top of it 
 She was always dressed in black silk, which 
 never looked as if it had been turned or 
 made over. She was a born autocrat in her 
 family, her household, and the community at 
 large. If she had been cast away on a can- 
 nibal island, she would have been much more 
 likely to rule the natives than to have been 
 eaten by them. On this particular evening 
 she sat down opposite her daughter at the 
 uncovered, polished table, and began to pour 
 tea with an offended and injured air. 
 
 " I walked as far as Mrs. Kaufmann's," said 
 Augusta, cheerfully, " and that big, white 
 rose of hers is all in bloom. I told her you 
 would want some flowers before long, but 
 would come and order them yourself." She 
 looked anxiously at her mother for some 
 sign of interest or approval, but it did not 
 come. Mrs. Miller's eyelids quivered a very 
 little, but she did not raise them or give the 
 least sign that she had heard.
 
 144 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 " Pass the butter," she said to the neat 
 little maid, who was standing behind her, in 
 a very large white apron and holding an 
 unnecessarily big silver tray. 
 
 Augusta sighed. It seemed to her as if 
 she had spent most of her life batting her 
 head against the stone wall of her mother's 
 disapproval. She tasted her tea and found 
 there was no sugar in it. She half suspected 
 her mother had forgotten it on purpose, and 
 was immediately ashamed of the suspicion. 
 Still she did not deem it quite safe to ask 
 for any yet; so she let her cup stand, and 
 began the attack again. 
 
 " Stone and Storm have moved into their 
 new store. They had an opening to-day. 
 I stopped and looked in as I came by, and 
 really it looked very pretty." 
 
 Mrs. Miller made a sound that in a less 
 elegant person would have been a grunt. 
 She had just read all about Stone and Storm's 
 opening in the small daily newspaper, and 
 she felt that she was being offered stale 
 news. 
 
 There was a little silence, which was broken 
 by Augusta's saying, " Richard Emmet is 
 home." She had not meant to say this, for 
 it had not seemed to her a propitiatory
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 145 
 
 remark, but Mrs. Miller deigned to notice 
 it. 
 
 " What for? " she asked shortly. 
 
 Now Augusta did not really know ; but as 
 this had been the first subject that roused 
 any interest, she felt that she had better not 
 abandon it. 
 
 " Why, to see his mother, I suppose," she 
 answered. 
 
 " You may depend upon it, he has come 
 back to marry that Ryan girl," said Mrs. 
 Miller, with derision. " He always was atten- 
 tive to her, and she has looked wonderfully 
 important all winter." 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Augusta, doubtfully; 
 then, emboldened by her mother's long sen- 
 tence, she sent back her cup and said, 
 
 "Will you give me a little more sugar, 
 please?" 
 
 Mrs. Miller looked at her in an aggrieved 
 way, and picked up a lump with a vicious 
 snip of the tongs. 
 
 " He has grown so nice looking, and was so 
 well dressed," said Augusta, with injudicious 
 haste, regretting that she had not gone sugar- 
 less a little longer. 
 
 "Why, where did you see him?" asked 
 Mrs. Miller, in cold surprise. 
 
 10
 
 146 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 " I met him to-day when I was out." 
 
 "And do you know him?" 
 
 Augusta answered patiently, " Of course I 
 know him. When he is home he is asked 
 everywhere. I met him at the Tremaines 
 last winter." 
 
 " / don't know him," said Mrs. Miller, 
 complacently. " His mother made all my 
 carpets when I went to housekeeping. She 
 sewed carpets beautifully, and only charged 
 three shillings a day. I remember your 
 father said it was too little, and he paid her 
 five, and I guess after that she always asked 
 five." 
 
 Augusta had heard of those carpets many 
 times. They had metaphorically been flung 
 at Richard Emmet's head often before. She 
 was sorry that the only subject which had 
 awakened any interest in her mother, seemed 
 to be such an unfortunate one. 
 
 " I would like another piece of toast," she 
 ventured to say. 
 
 " It is as cold as a stone," said Mrs. Miller, 
 severely; and Augusta took two pieces, with 
 a vague feeling that she was to blame for its 
 low temperature, and she had better hide as 
 much of it as possible in her own long- 
 suffering stomach. Mrs. Miller ordered a
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 147 
 
 hot slice made for herself, and ate it with 
 the air of a martyr, while the conversation 
 died away entirely. 
 
 Richard Emmet was the only son of Ger- 
 man parents, respectable, hard-working 
 people. He had gone bare-footed to the 
 district-school, a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed 
 little fellow, who had always been " smart " 
 in the country sense. As he grew older and 
 the family finances improved, he had insisted 
 upon going away to school and then to one 
 of the smaller colleges. To be sure it was 
 not much of a college, and Richard's course 
 was only a short, scientific one ; but old 
 Mr. and Mrs. Emmet were as astonished at 
 owning a son who was a collegian, as any 
 wren would be who might hatch out a 
 nightingale. 
 
 He stayed at home for a few years after 
 leaving college ; and his career, though actu- 
 ally a very quiet one, was full of the most 
 electric surprises to his poor old mother, 
 who looked at him with mingled admiration 
 and distress. He became a book-keeper in 
 a furniture factory at a good salary. He 
 began to go to the Episcopal Church, and 
 when remonstrated with by the Lutheran 
 minister, for forsaking the faith of his fathers,
 
 148 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 he replied that he liked the girls who 
 attended that church better than those 
 who went to his own. 
 
 Such an argument was unanswerable. 
 
 He commenced to mount the social ladder ; 
 and if it was only a .step-ladder in the little 
 town of Milton, it was quite as full of rounds 
 as a longer ladder in a larger place. He 
 was handsome, clever, and fairly educated. 
 There were very few available young men 
 in Milton ; and so it came about that in many 
 a house the front door opened to Richard 
 Emmet, where his father and mother had 
 sought admittance at the back. Many a 
 time he had danced in patent-leather shoes 
 over the very carpets that his mother had 
 made and helped put down, half a genera- 
 tion ago. But Milton was too contracted an 
 arena for such an aspiring spirit; so when 
 his father died, he took the few thousand 
 dollars which were left to him and went 
 West with his little capital. He invested in 
 mines in Nevada, and so far his adventures 
 had nearly all been successful. He was 
 growing rich, and in the western town where 
 he made his home, he was a respected and 
 prosperous citizen. It was only when he 
 came back to Milton that he became con-
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 149 
 
 scious of " those twin jailers of the daring 
 soul, low birth and iron fortune." 
 
 In all old towns and villages there is a cer- 
 tain conservative element, which steadfastly 
 resents anything new, particularly people. 
 This element may be, and often is, much 
 poorer than the class which it refuses to 
 know ; it is always numerically weaker : but 
 it never wavers in its principles. Like the 
 Old Guard, it dies (after a time) but it never 
 surrenders. 
 
 Mrs. Miller had never " worked her way 
 up," nor could she remember when any of 
 her family had dope such a thing. Conse- 
 quently she had no sympathy with those 
 who were going through the painful process. 
 She was remarkably agile in climbing family 
 trees, and woe be to the man who had just 
 planted his. Though he spoke with tongue 
 of men and of angels, and had no grand- 
 fathers, he was only a very sounding piece of 
 brass to Mrs. Miller. 
 
 The circle of her friends had narrowed to 
 a mere handful, and her life narrowed with 
 it, as lives do. And yet she would not have 
 had it any different. She was like the man 
 in that horrible story, whose torture-chamber 
 closes slowly around him until it crushes
 
 1 50 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 him. Only Mrs. Miller would cheerfully 
 have preferred to be crushed, if there had 
 been a door wide open all the time that led 
 to unaccustomed fields among unknown 
 people. Her ideas were ridiculous, false, 
 and unchristian-like, perhaps ; but they were 
 pathetic in their sincerity. She could no 
 more have recognized Richard Emmet as a 
 social equal, than she could, in her old age, 
 have performed on a trapeze. Both required 
 previous training. 
 
 " No, my dear," she would say, if remon- 
 strated with, " I am too old a woman to 
 change my ways now." It was quite true. 
 Her mind, her habits of thought, her ideas, 
 had all stiffened with her muscles. 
 
 What there was about Augusta Miller to 
 attract Richard Emmet, it would be difficult 
 to say ; yet coming back from the rude civili- 
 zation of Buckskin City, Nevada, she seemed 
 to him very sweet and lovely. 
 
 When he first met and spoke to her on the 
 street, and she answered in her low, culti- 
 vated voice, while the clear pink crept into 
 her face, he thought her the most exquisite 
 woman that he had ever known. Perhaps it 
 was by contrast with the women of Buckskin 
 City, whose voices were not low and the pink 
 in whose cheeks was permanent.
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 1 5 I 
 
 When he came back to Milton, it had been, 
 as wise old Mrs. Miller had divined, with the 
 thought of Rosie Ryan. She was a seam- 
 stress who went out by the day, sewing. 
 She lived with her consumptive mother, 
 whom she supported. She was a pretty 
 girl, with a small, plump figure, black eyes, 
 black curly hair, and very red cheeks. 
 There was no engagement between her and 
 Richard, but Sir Launcelot was never more 
 of a hero to Elaine than he was to her. She 
 had loved and worshipped him ever since they 
 had gone to school together. She had 
 fought his battles for him then, as she 
 longed to fight them with him now. 
 
 Richard had always liked her, indeed, 
 when he thought of her way out in Buck- 
 skin City, he was sure he loved her. It was 
 a pity he met Augusta Miller first, for he 
 carried her image with him when he went 
 to see Rosie. 
 
 Rosie lived in a very small house, with 
 little rooms and low ceilings and an air-tight 
 stove. She and her mother generally sat in 
 the neat little kitchen in the evening; but 
 since Richard had come home, Rosie had 
 lighted the glass kerosene lamp in the parlor 
 every night, and had carefully put on her
 
 152 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 best dress. She opened the door when he 
 knocked, and her red cheeks turned a little 
 redder at the sight of him. It seemed 
 oppressively warm to Richard in the little 
 parlor. Rosie's old mother sat by the stove. 
 She had rather a " cleaned-up look " about 
 her; and Rosie watched her anxiously, lest 
 she should say or do something not strictly 
 proper, as many another daughter in a more 
 luxurious room has watched, nervously, for 
 maternal inelegancies. 
 
 The old woman greeted Richard so warmly 
 that it brought on a paroxysmal fit of cough- 
 ing, and she was some time in composing 
 herself. 
 
 " Take a cheer, take a cheer," she gasped 
 hospitably; so Richard sat down near the 
 base-burner and looked around the room. 
 
 There was a crazy-work table-spread on 
 the table and a worsted mat under the lamp, 
 with a crochet border around it of Calla 
 lilies. They were not a very successful imi- 
 tation, and Richard found himself absently 
 regarding the yellow worsted centres and 
 thinking how much they looked like cater- 
 pillars. Rosie looked at him with a world of 
 love and admiration in her eyes. She was 
 very pretty with her fresh, young coloring;
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 153 
 
 but somehow it looked just then like a 
 coarse sort of beauty to Richard. He 
 resented the blackness of her hair and the 
 redness of her cheeks. It seemed to him 
 hardly delicate in a woman to be so strongly 
 italicized. 
 
 "Won't you take off your coat, Dick? " she 
 said, after a minute's pause ; so he rose and 
 commenced tugging at the heavy garment. 
 She took hold of it and helped him. 
 
 " It is very warm here," he said. 
 
 " Yes," said the old woman, whose unpleas- 
 ant cough was slowly subsiding, " so it be. 
 I sez to Rosie, what 's the use of livin* if 
 you aint hot? Now there 's that big house 
 of Miss Tremaine's where Rosie 's been a- 
 sewing, jest as cold, most of it, es a barn. 
 What 's the use of having all that money 
 and not keeping hot, I sez." 
 
 It struck Richard with a sense of half con- 
 temptuous pity, that luxury represented to this 
 poor old body only so much animal warmth. 
 
 He turned to Rosie : " How have you 
 been, Rosie, all this time? " he asked. 
 
 "Nicely, thank you," she answered. "Will 
 you be home long?" 
 
 " Only a week or so," he said, and avoided 
 looking at her.
 
 154 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 It was absurd that he should feel guilty 
 and mean before her. He had never bound 
 himself to her in. any way. He was almost 
 angry with her for the uncomfortable feeling 
 which crept over him. 
 
 "A high-bred woman," he said to himself, 
 " would n't show a man so plainly that she 
 cared for him. fie would have to work for 
 her love and win it ; " and so he metaphori- 
 cally kicked the pearl at his feet, and poor 
 little Rosie felt the kick quite as distinctly 
 as if it were a physical one. 
 
 " I want you to write in my new autograph- 
 album before you go back," she said. 
 
 " I '11 write in it now," said Richard, 
 promptly. Rosie got up and brought it. 
 It had a crimson plush cover and a gilt clasp. 
 He turned the leaves idly, and noticed the 
 fine, inky ornithological specimens, holding 
 scrolls in their mouths. 
 
 " Could you do a bird ? " asked Rosie. 
 
 " I don't believe I could," he answered, 
 looking distrustfully at a large eagle with a 
 dislocated spine, who had imbedded its beak 
 in the motto, " Ever thine." 
 
 "Well, you '11 write a sentiment then, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " I '11 try."
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 155 
 
 He drew his chair to the table, and Rosie 
 brought a small bottle of ink and a pen. He 
 turned the pages slowly. 
 
 " Will about here do ? " 
 
 "Anywhere," said Rosie, obligingly. 
 
 He thought a few minutes. 
 
 " I don't believe I could write a sentiment, 
 Rosie ; I can't seem to think of any." 
 
 " Well, just your name then," she said 
 patiently. 
 
 He wrote with a bold hand, having made 
 several preparatory circles with his pen above 
 the paper, 
 
 RICHARD EMMET, 
 
 Buckskin City, 
 
 Nevada. 
 
 It looked almost insulting in its brevity, 
 after he had finished it. 
 
 " I guess I '11 put ' remember me ' here," he 
 said, writing it diagonally across the upper 
 left-hand corner, " and ' when this you see ' 
 here," and he inscribed that going down hill, 
 in the opposite direction. 
 
 " Thank you," said Rosie, taking the book 
 away. She had longed for all that the words 
 meant, when she asked for a sentiment, but 
 she concealed her disappointment bravely.
 
 156 A WC TIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Her old mother left the room and went 
 into the adjoining kitchen, where they heard 
 her coughing. She did not come back until 
 just before Richard left. He was looking at 
 Rosie's photograph-album. 
 
 " Have ye 's seen Rosie's pictur' ? " she 
 asked. "Oh, but it's the fine one." 
 
 Richard had passed it by ; but he turned 
 back to it again and looked at it attentively. 
 It was a badly taken photograph, in which 
 the young, blooming girl looked like a gaunt, 
 awkward invalid. 
 
 " It is n't much like her," he said slowly ; 
 " it looks sort of sick." 
 
 Poor Rosie's heart sank. She had these 
 taken expressly, hoping that he would ask for 
 one. 
 
 " Oh, well," said the old woman, illogically, 
 " Rosie 's the good girl ; the man that gets 
 her gets a wife worth having." 
 
 Rosie colored furiously and looked appeal- 
 ingly at Richard. He felt sorry for her. 
 " That 's so," he said soothingly, and there 
 was a second's pause. 
 
 " Well, I must be going," said he, rising 
 and looking around for his coat. 
 
 " You '11 come and see me again, won't 
 you ? " asked Rosie, imploringly.
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 157 
 
 " Yes," he answered, and shook her hand 
 awkwardly. He felt his way with stumbling 
 feet across the little porch, and disappeared in 
 the darkness. 
 
 Rosie spent that night in such an agony of 
 grief and weeping as only a young, strong 
 nature can experience. 
 
 " I cannot give him up ! " she sobbed, with 
 her head buried in the pillow, " I cannot give 
 him up ! " She clinched her hands and lay 
 there rigid in her misery. " Oh, my love, 
 my love," she cried again and again, " I love 
 you so, you must come back to me ! I cannot 
 live without you. I love you so, you must 
 love me yet, I cannot give you up ! " The 
 poor girl had never heard of Browning ; but 
 she reached out, across the gulf of her own 
 wretchedness, and " claimed him still for her 
 own love's sake." 
 
 Augusta Miller had not dared tell her 
 mother at that unfortunate tea when she was 
 so late, that not only had she met and bowed 
 to Richard Emmet, but that she had actually 
 spoken to him, that he had answered that he 
 was coming to see her, and worst of all, but 
 this she scarcely acknowledged even to her- 
 self, that he had looked at her as no one yet 
 had ever looked, in all her quiet, uneventful 
 life.
 
 158 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Poor Augusta ! She had never been 
 admired. It was a little pitiful that at twenty- 
 five her heart should give its first flutter 
 before an admiring glance, and her eyes fall 
 because other eyes looked at them too closely. 
 
 She looked forward to Richard Emmet's 
 visit with expectation and dread. What 
 would her mother say? She listened every 
 evening for the bell ; and when it did not ring, 
 and she knew she need not expect him that 
 night, she had a curious feeling of relief and 
 disappointment. 
 
 Finally, one evening the bell rang, and it 
 seemed to Augusta as if it communicated in 
 some way with her own heart, so distinctly 
 did she feel its vibrations. 
 
 " It is Mr. Emmet," said Lottie, appearing 
 at the library door. 
 
 Mrs. Miller laid down her paper. 
 
 "What does he want?" she asked. It 
 never occurred to her to say, " Who." 
 
 " He asked for Miss Augusta." 
 
 " For you, Augusta ? " said her mother, turn- 
 ing and looking at her in surprise. Augusta 
 rose ; her knees trembled, and her hands were 
 like ice. She did not answer her mother, but 
 walked across the hall and gave her thin, cold 
 hand to Richard Emmet.
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 159 
 
 It was a large drawing-room, furnished 
 handsomely in the style of forty years ago. 
 There were old family portraits on the wall, 
 and two or three tall, broad mirrors, with wide, 
 gilt frames. There were marble-topped pier- 
 tables under the mirrors, of carved mahogany 
 with claw feet. Here end there were a few 
 modern touches in the shape of bric-a-brac 
 and an occasional picture, and some decorated 
 screens, which screened nothing, and were 
 manifestly in the way. It was all a little prim 
 perhaps, and had the conscious look of a room 
 that had been the best parlor for nearly half 
 a century. 
 
 It seemed to Augusta as if all the chairs 
 had adopted insolent and hostile attitudes 
 toward Richard Emmet. She hastily pulled 
 out a few into friendly positions, and sat down 
 near him. She could hardly have told what 
 she said at first, or indeed whether she spoke 
 at all ; but before she knew it, they were talk- 
 ing like old friends, and he was telling her of 
 Buckskin City and the strange life in a west- 
 ern mining town. He was not a boaster, but 
 he talked well of what he had done himself. 
 
 To the timid Augusta, who had never 
 taken one step outside the beaten path in all 
 her life, it was marvellous to hear him.
 
 160 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Here was a man who had dared almost 
 everything ! 
 
 " I do not think he would even be afraid of 
 mamma," she thought to herself, and looked 
 at him with admiration. 
 
 He saw that he interested her. 
 
 "So you think you* would like it West?" 
 he asked suddenly. 
 
 It seemed to her almost an improper ques- 
 tion. She could not pass it off in any light 
 way. She colored deeply, and did not answer. 
 
 " It is very different from the East," he 
 said quickly, " as unlike Milton, as one world 
 can be unlike another." 
 
 Presently he asked her to play for him. 
 Augusta looked her best at the piano. Her 
 profile was clear and fine, her figure slender 
 and girlish, and her hands were the typical 
 lady's hands, very white and slim, with beau- 
 tiful pink nails. There were roses in the 
 room, the kind of roses that give out a heavy 
 perfume in a furnace-heated house and die 
 quickly. 
 
 Richard Emmet noticed everything, the 
 soft light, the quiet, rich colors, the stately 
 old furniture, and the girl with her fair, 
 delicate face, whose white fingers flew over 
 the keys. He thought of old Mrs. Ryan,
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. l6l 
 
 and wondered if she were " hot " to-night. He 
 thought of Rosie with a mournful sort of 
 pity. He looked at Augusta, looked at her 
 from her small, arched foot to her high-bred 
 head, with its pale gold hair. She seemed to 
 him perfect. He made up his mind then and 
 there to marry her. He was fond of -music, 
 and she played for quite a long time. When 
 she stopped he thanked her, and when he 
 left he thanked her again. 
 
 " You have given me a great, deal of pleas- 
 ure," he said, " more than you know ; " and 
 Augusta went back to the library, where her 
 mother was waiting for her, with a feeling 
 that she had passed a most delightful, excit- 
 ing, but almost wicked evening. 
 
 " Well, Augusta," said Mrs. Miller, " what 
 did he want? " 
 
 " He did n't want anything ; he only came 
 to call." 
 
 " How extraordinary ! Where did you say 
 you met him? " 
 
 " Why, mamma," answered Augusta, slowly, 
 " I told you that I had always known him ; 
 when he is home, he goes everywhere." 
 
 " I don't understand it," said Mrs. Miller. 
 " How did he get into society? Who let him 
 in?" 
 
 , ii
 
 1 62 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 She looked at her daughter sternly, as if she 
 suspected her of being the culprit. 
 
 " I don't know," said Augusta, wearily, and 
 added apologetically, " He is very nice." 
 
 " Nice ! " cried Mrs. Miller, " nice! Augusta, 
 are you crazy? Why, his father's sister had 
 a son who was a brakeman, a common 
 brakeman ! Did you say he went to the 
 Tremaines?" she added abruptly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, Elizabeth Tremaine always was a 
 little queer. I don't see what she 's thinking 
 of. I hope he won't come here again." 
 
 But he did ; his two weeks at home length- 
 ened to four, and he came often to the 
 Millers. 
 
 Augusta lived in a dream. No one had 
 ever been so kind to her as he. It was so 
 delightful to be talked to as if she were an 
 intelligent, sympathetic being, and listened 
 to as if she had something valuable and im- 
 portant to say. 
 
 She found herself bringing out her little 
 bits of thought with an odd pleasure at find- 
 ing she had them. It was so delicious to 
 have some one think she was nice and pretty, 
 and even entertaining. She was a little afraid 
 of him, afraid of the very strength and confi-
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 163 
 
 dence which she admired ; but she had never 
 been so happy. 
 
 If he had been the least coarse or boorish, 
 even his fondness for her would not have 
 blinded her to it; but he was not. He was 
 honest and manly, with a sort of frank, 
 unconventional manner, which went well 
 with his large physique. 
 
 She did not think of being engaged, or of 
 marrying him ; such crumbs as fell from love's 
 table more than satisfied her. 
 
 She played for him nearly every time he 
 came ; and once Mrs. Miller walked with 
 stately tread across the hall and was intro- 
 duced to him. She came to criticise, and was 
 provoked to find so little food for criticism. 
 
 " He certainly appeared very well," she 
 said, afterward, " not like a gentleman, of 
 course, but not nearly as clownish as I 
 expected." 
 
 One crisp, frosty day Richard Emmet came 
 about four in the afternoon and asked Au- 
 gusta to drive with him. Mrs. Miller was out 
 in the old family sleigh, half buried under 
 thick robes. Augusta put on her wraps very 
 quickly, with nervous, fluttering fingers, fear- 
 ing that her mother might return ; and then,
 
 1 64 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 with as guilty a feeling as if she had committed 
 a felony, she was tucked into the little cutter 
 and whirled off. Rosie Ryan was sewing at 
 a front window at the Tremaines, and saw 
 them as they drove by. Some big, bright 
 tears fell on her work, and she had to hold 
 her needle in her hand and wait for a few 
 minutes before she was able to go on with 
 her work. 
 
 Richard did not talk much to Augusta; 
 he looked at her intently from time to time, 
 and her heart beat quickly at each look. 
 He stopped at the greenhouse beyond the 
 village. 
 
 " I am going to get you a few flowers, 
 may I ? " he asked. " Perhaps you would 
 like to go in too." 
 
 They went in together and walked around, 
 admiring and selecting, while the old German 
 woman cut her roses. There was a queer, 
 printed sign in the place, "Let the hands 
 off." Richard discovered it first and showed 
 it to Augusta, and they both laughed. They 
 were in that mood when a very little thing 
 amuses. The roses were finally all cut and 
 packed in a box, a great fragrant mass of 
 crimson and cream color and white ; and 
 they started for home. Augusta had taken
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 165 
 
 off her glove in the greenhouse, and as they 
 drove off, she raised her white hand to fix 
 her veil. When she put it down again under 
 the robe, Richard seized it and held it fast. 
 
 " Augusta," he said, he had never called 
 her that before, " those flowers, you know, 
 they are not half good enough, but they 
 are for you. I want you to take them 
 and wear them for me. I would like to see 
 you wear a flower that I had given you ; will 
 you?" 
 
 61 Yes," she answered faintly. 
 
 He did not speak again, but he held her 
 hand firmly until they came to the village. 
 It seemed to her as if her heart beat, and 
 her life were centred, in that imprisoned 
 hand. She went in the house, still wrapped 
 in a beautiful rosy mist. 
 
 " Augusta," her mother called out, " is that 
 you? Hurry down, for tea is ready." 
 
 She did not stop to unpack her flowers, 
 so anxious was she to propitiate her mother 
 with her haste. 
 
 Mrs. Miller made no allusions to her drive 
 during tea, and Augusta took heart, and 
 began to feel quite brave. But when they 
 were alone in the library, and her mother 
 said, " I want to have a little talk with you,
 
 1 66 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Augusta," she experienced a peculiar, sick, 
 dizzy feeling. 
 
 " I think you had better go to New York 
 for a little visit," continued her mother, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "Why? " asked Augusta, in a low tone. 
 
 " I have written to your sister Carrie about 
 it, and she quite agreed with me." 
 
 "Agreed with you? About what?" 
 
 "About you," said Mrs. Miller, with 
 emphasis. 
 
 There was a little silence ; then the old 
 lady added, not unkindly : 
 
 " I cannot have Richard Emmet coming 
 here as he has done. Of course, I know he 
 would not presume to mean anything by it, 
 but still I 'don't like it. I have let it go on, 
 thinking he was going away; but he doesn't 
 go, and it must stop. So I think you had 
 better go and visit Carrie for a little while." 
 
 " Have you written Carrie about him ? " 
 asked Augusta, quietly. 
 
 It seemed to her as if a strong grasp had 
 been laid on her heart that stopped its 
 beating. 
 
 " Yes," said her mother, " I told her all 
 there was to tell, and she was very nice about 
 it. She offered to come here, and said if the
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 167 
 
 fellow grew impertinent, or annoyed us in 
 any way, that George would come too." 
 
 Augusta had an image of George, of all 
 her brothers-in-law coming on in a body, 
 to sit in judgment on her poor little love- 
 affair. 
 
 She shivered. 
 
 " It has surprised me," said her mother, 
 "that you have not seemed to mind his com- 
 ing here more. Perhaps you could not help 
 it ; such people never have any tact, to feel 
 when they are not wanted." 
 
 Augusta was silent. Her beautiful world 
 of an hour ago had crumbled at her feet. 
 
 "Where were you this afternoon?" her 
 mother asked. 
 
 " I was driving with him," she said faintly. 
 
 "Driving! With Richard Emmet! Oh, 
 Augusta, this is really too bad ! Tell me, 
 tell me truthfully," she said sternly, "has 
 that common, low-bred man dared to say a 
 word of love to you?" 
 
 Augusta looked at her hand. She almost 
 expected to see it shining with a phosphor- 
 escent glow. 
 
 " No," she almost whispered. 
 
 "Well, I am thankful to hear it. Why, 
 Augusta, do you realize what kind of people
 
 1 68 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 they are? Common day laborers ! Of course, 
 he is a little different, but it 's all the same 
 blood. I see now where my mistake was. I 
 should never have let him come here in the 
 first place. One cannot be too reserved with 
 that class of people." 
 
 Augusta did not answer. 
 
 " Of course, my dear," continued her 
 mother, more gently, " I will not do you the 
 injustice to think you care for him. It is a 
 lonely life here, and his was a fresh face ; and 
 I think myself he- was rather entertaining. 
 But you must see yourself, my child, that it 
 is better you should go away for a little 
 time. I think I will write to Carrie to come 
 and get you." 
 
 Augusta was dumb before her. Life-long 
 habits of submission and self-effacement 
 prevented her saying a word. She loved 
 Richard truly and sincerely but how could 
 she own that to her mother when she would 
 have to confess at the same time that he had 
 never told her in so many words that he 
 loved her? All her dreams, her half- formed 
 purposes and desires, were crushed before 
 this onslaught of her vigorous, decided 
 mother. But she was very miserable, so 
 miserable that she lay awake a great part of
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 169 
 
 the night with dull, stony eyes fixed on the 
 ceiling. 
 
 If her mother had combated her affection 
 for Richard, it would perhaps have been easier 
 to resist her. But she had not. She had 
 simply set it aside as too monstrous a thing 
 to be even thought of, too ridiculous to be 
 believed in. She wondered what would hap- 
 pen if Richard should ask her to marry him, 
 and she should say yes. She could not think 
 of it now with any shy half-glances, any 
 sweet, tremulous hopes. It stood before her 
 with all the covering of romance rudely 
 snatched away. She thought of her sisters, 
 and the fine, polite scorn with which they 
 would treat Richard. She thought of her 
 brothers-in-law, and their surprise at " this 
 freak of Augusta's." Why, they would be 
 ashamed that their wives' sister should do 
 such a thing. And her own brothers, oh ! 
 they would kill Richard, or else they would 
 treat him in such a way that he would kill 
 them. 
 
 They would never let her be married at 
 home. She would have to run away with 
 him, without any wedding clothes, and be 
 married by a justice of the peace, and it 
 would be in all the papers. And then
 
 I/O A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Richard would take her to Buckskin City. 
 Somehow it did not have a very friendly 
 sound. She was feverishly hot ; but she 
 shivered and shuddered as she tortured 
 herself, imagining all these things. She 
 thought of all the trouble she would bring 
 on Richard, for it never occurred to her but 
 that he would suffer as keenly as she. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot do it," she cried ; " it will 
 kill me ! " 
 
 Once she thought wildly of defying them 
 all and just trusting to Richard ; but she had 
 not the comfort of his assured love, and she 
 could not face such a situation. She dis- 
 covered her roses in the morning all withered 
 in the box. She had been so wretched the 
 night before' that she had forgotten all about 
 them, and they lay there like a mute reproach. 
 
 It was a long, dreary day for Augusta; and 
 late in the afternoon she started for a walk, 
 although it was snowing a little, and the 
 wind was blowing. She walked through the 
 village, and on, nearly to Mrs. Kaufmann's. 
 Suddenly she saw Richard Emmet coming 
 from the greenhouse with a large box under 
 his arm. She recognized him with a dull 
 pain at her heart, and knew in the same 
 instant that he had been getting more roses
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. lj\ 
 
 for her. She would have turned and fled, 
 but he saw her and hastened toward her. 
 
 " How glad I am to see you ! " he cried; 
 then looking at her face he added quickly, 
 " Is anything the matter?" 
 
 " No," she said, and tried to smile. 
 
 But he knew that there was. The subtle, 
 magnetic understanding which had existed 
 between them yesterday was broken. He felt 
 it instantly, and his whole manner changed. 
 
 She turned, and they walked back toward 
 the village together. 
 
 " What is it, Augusta ? " he asked gravely. 
 
 " Nothing," she answered desperately. 
 " Mamma that is I am going away." 
 
 His face darkened. 
 
 " Has your mother been talking to you 
 about me? Is that it?" 
 
 Augusta nodded ; she could not speak. 
 
 " What has she been saying? " 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Does she think I have been too attentive 
 to you ? Is she afraid I may be more so ? " 
 
 She nodded again. She would have been 
 grateful at that moment if the fate which 
 overtook Korah in the Bible had been hers, 
 and the earth had opened and swallowed 
 her up..
 
 1/2 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 Richard Emmet went on with sparkling 
 eyes. "I see how it is. Your mother is 
 afraid I might so far forget myself and my 
 position as to ask you to be my wife. Well, 
 I do will you, Augusta ? " 
 
 He looked at her squarely and earnestly; 
 but there was less of tenderness in his face 
 for her than defiance for her mother. 
 
 Augusta looked at him piteously. " Ah, 
 Richard," she gasped, "don't, don't!" 
 
 " Don't ! " he repeated. " You are afraid of 
 her, then ? What did she say to you ? " 
 
 " She said oh, it is all too dreadful ! " 
 cried the poor girl. 
 
 " She talked about my father, perhaps. 
 Well, nobody wants you to marry him, 
 though he was a good man, much better, I 
 dare say, than one she would select. Had 
 she anything to say against me ? Have you 
 anything against me ? " He looked at her 
 proudly and indignantly. 
 
 Augusta shook her head ; her face quivered. 
 It was all very terrible to her. 
 
 " Yesterday," he continued, speaking very 
 slowly and looking at her very attentively, 
 " I believed you cared for me. Did you, 
 Augusta ? " 
 
 She turned her head away and was silent.
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 173 
 
 " And yet to-day," he went on, " you dare 
 not tell me so. You are afraid What is 
 there to be afraid of? If you will marry 
 me, I will take you away from all these 
 people who frighten you. Nobody shall 
 hurt you, nobody shall dare say a word to 
 you. Will you go with me ? " 
 
 If he had called her " darling ; " if he 
 could have put his arm around her and made 
 her feel that he loved her, poor, shrinking 
 Augusta might have placed her fate in his 
 hands. But he was a different Richard from 
 the one she knew. She was almost as much 
 afraid of this defiant, peremptory man, as 
 she was of her mother. 
 
 "Oh, Richard," she cried, "I can't I- 
 oh, have pity on me I can't ! " 
 
 " Is it only that you are afraid ; or," and 
 a quick suspicion crossed his face, " per- 
 haps you think I am too low and common 
 to dream of such a thing, too. Perhaps you 
 have deceived me all the time. Is that it ? 
 Are you ashamed of me ? " 
 
 " Oh, Richard, you know it is not that. I 
 love you dearly; but, but they would never 
 let me, I " and she stopped with a half 
 sob. 
 
 He looked at her curiously. His was a
 
 1/4 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 rough nature after all. When the woman 
 who had seemed so much above him in her 
 fineness and purity, showed herself a coward, 
 and more bound by the traditions of her class 
 than by love, which she confessed when she 
 gave him up, his primitive nature revolted. 
 He despised in an instant the class to which 
 she belonged ; he almost despised her. He 
 did not realize that he was unjust to her for 
 not defending the love which he had only 
 just now offered her. 
 
 " And yet you would let them talk of me 
 as if I were an outcast, the very scum of the 
 earth," he said bitterly. " You would not have 
 the courage to own to a living soul that you 
 love me. You would not dare to marry me. 
 I am only an honest man I would have 
 given you the best of my heart and my life ; 
 but that counts for nothing." 
 
 All his manhood and self-respect rose up 
 against the insult which he thought she 
 offered him. 
 
 Augusta wished she were dead. She had 
 no word of excuse or defence. He might 
 have reviled her a hundredfold more and 
 she could not have spoken. 
 
 "It is a disappointment," he said quietly, 
 after a little ; " I thought you were finer and
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 175 
 
 better than I. I thought all these little dif- 
 ferences that your mother thinks so much of, 
 in education and surroundings, made people 
 higher and nobler. I 'm not a gentleman, 
 and I never had a nice thing in my life that 
 I did n't work for and win it myself; but if I 
 loved a woman, no matter who or what she 
 was, if I took her off from the street, I would 
 honor her and be true to her. And you 
 why, I don't see what it all means. What are 
 your breeding and your culture and your 
 refinement for? You aren't brave, you 
 are n't true, you don't know how to love, 
 and even a lady is n't worth much without 
 that" 
 
 He was terribly cruel and unjust; but 
 Augusta felt no resentment, only a heavy 
 sense of misery. 
 
 Even then, if she could have said, simply, 
 " Richard, I do love you, and I will marry 
 you to-morrow and go anywhere with you," 
 she might have checked the tide in his heart 
 that was running all away from her, and 
 turned it back a warm, passionate flood 
 upon herself. 
 
 He would have loved her with an added 
 love that recognized her bravery and appre- 
 ciated her sacrifice. But she could no more
 
 \J6 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 have said this to the indignant, resentful 
 man beside her than she could have flown. 
 
 They walked on in silence ; his vanity was 
 hurt, his pride humbled, his ideals shattered. 
 He felt sore and wretched. Suddenly a 
 thought flashed through his mind, the 
 thought of Rosie. The memory of her came 
 with a feeling of warmth and comfort and 
 delight. His heart leaped up at the image 
 of her. 
 
 He stopped. " I am going down this 
 street," he said. " Good-by, Augusta," and 
 he held out his hand. 
 
 Her face looked pinched and blue. She 
 gave him her hand, but it was as lifeless as 
 an empty glove. 
 
 He looked at her, half pityingly. 
 
 " I am sorry," he began, and then stopped 
 abruptly and turned away. In a second he 
 had turned back. " Here," he said, " I got 
 these roses for you ; take them." 
 
 " Oh, I would rather not," she cried. " I 
 don't want them." 
 
 " They are yours," he insisted, still holding 
 out the box. 
 
 " I don't want them ; I " 
 
 "Take them," he said sternly, and poor 
 Augusta meekly took them. She thought
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 177 
 
 of those other withered roses at home, and 
 walked up the village street with an odd 
 feeling that she was carrying flowers to her 
 own funeral. 
 
 Richard Emmet went straight to Rosie's 
 home after he left Augusta. It was dark in 
 the little parlor, for Rosie had given up light- 
 ing the parlor lamp every evening, now. 
 She came to the door, as she had done 
 before. He stepped inside and looked at 
 her eagerly. 
 
 " Rosie," he said, without any other greet- 
 ing, " I 've come to see if you will marry me 
 and go back to Nevada with me." 
 
 She gave a little cry. 
 
 " I'll be fair with you, Rosie, and tell you 
 the whole truth. I ought to have come to 
 you when I first came home, I meant to ; 
 and then I saw Augusta Miller, and, Rosie, she 
 seemed to me better than any woman I had 
 ever seen. I don't know if I loved her, but 
 I wanted her. She seemed to me more like 
 an angel than a woman. I wanted her, as I 
 never wanted anything; but I was too low, 
 too common, to touch such fine clay as that. 
 Oh, it was all a mistake ! She is n't an angel, 
 she is n't even a live woman. I have cried 
 for the moon, Rosie, and that's all the good 
 
 12
 
 1/8 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 it 's done me ! But if you '11 take me, know- 
 ing all about it, and just how silly I am, if 
 you '11 take me, I '11 try and make you a 
 good husband. I know I don't deserve you. 
 I I Why, Rosie, what 's the matter ? " 
 for Rosie had turned very pale ; then she had 
 put both arms around his neck and was 
 sobbing as if her heart would break. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, I love you so, I love you so ! " 
 she said. 
 
 He put his arms around her and drew her 
 close to him. 
 
 " I would n't take you, Dick," she said, 
 brokenly, " if I were n't sure that I love you 
 more than she could. Oh, Dick, if she could 
 go with you and do for you better than I 
 could ; if she would work for you and take 
 care of you, and love you, as you ought to 
 be loved, why, I would n't say a word. I 'd 
 just stand aside and die, may be, but I 
 would n't complain. But, oh, Dick, she 
 couldn't! She isn't our kind. I thought 
 more of that, of what you would suffer if you 
 did it, than I did of myself. I 'm not like 
 her, I know, Dick, dear, but oh, I love you 
 so!" 
 
 He leaned over and kissed her full, red 
 lips. Her head lay on his shoulder, and the
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 179 
 
 light, powdery snow which he had brought 
 in on his coat melted beneath her warm, red 
 cheek ; so, as he kissed her the image of 
 Augusta Miller, with all that she had repre- 
 sented, melted forever from his life. 
 
 Augusta went up to her own room. She 
 walked to the window and looked out over 
 the level stretch of lawn, where a few gnarled 
 apple-trees stood sentinel. It was almost 
 dark, and the trees looked gray and shadowy 
 in the dim light. It came across her sud- 
 denly, that life would be very full of dark, 
 gray days, and that she would stand a great 
 many times at this window and look out on 
 the lawn. She twisted her slim, white hands 
 together; her face was very sad. She won- 
 dered if she would live a long time; she 
 thought of herself growing old, old as her 
 mother was now, and treading always in the 
 same narrow path. Never again, she knew, 
 would a gate be opened to her leading into 
 another life. It was over, and only the long, 
 level days of the future stretched endlessly 
 before her. She leaned her hand against the 
 cold window-pane, and its coldness felt good 
 to her. Finally, with the burden of all the 
 coming years resting heavily upon her, she 
 went down and met her mother. She looked
 
 l8O A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 old and haggard, and her mother noticed it, 
 and something like pity stirred at her heart. 
 
 " Are n't you well, Augusta ? " she asked ; 
 " you look pale." 
 
 Augusta smiled faintly. " Yes," she 
 answered, " I am quite well ; " and then they 
 talked of the little happenings of the day in 
 the village, and of household matters, and 
 presently they went out to tea. 
 
 The old silver shone and the old-fashioned 
 cut-glass glistened above the polished table. 
 Lottie waited upon them with painful alacrity. 
 Everything was refined, dainty, and deli- 
 cious; and yet to Augusta it was but a mess 
 of pottage, for which she had sold her birth- 
 right. She did not speak of Richard Emmet ; 
 indeed, from that day his name was never 
 mentioned between mother and daughter. 
 They lived their lives out together, and yet 
 as much apart as if a solid wall of masonry 
 were built between them. 
 
 Mrs. Miller was sorry for Augusta ; but 
 what could you expect? If she threw herself 
 right in the way of her mother's invincible, 
 cast-iron prejudices, something must give 
 way, and it could not be the prejudices. 
 And yet sometimes a sad conviction forced 
 itself upon Augusta, that if she had resisted,
 
 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. l8l 
 
 if she had defied her mother, and boldly 
 brought down the storm upon her head, 
 withstanding its fury as best she could, she 
 and her mother would have come nearer 
 together after all. There would have been 
 respect and understanding between them 
 such as never before existed. She might 
 have remained an enemy; but it would have 
 been an enemy on an equal footing ; she 
 would never have been a bond-slave. 
 
 As it was, Augusta had nothing. There 
 is a great sweetness in the giving up of hap- 
 piness for another's sake ; but there is no 
 satisfaction and only a miserable regret to 
 that man who lets his happiness escape from 
 him, because he is not strong enough to hold 
 it. So it was with Augusta Miller ; she 
 blamed no one, but the pity and the sadness 
 of it all never left her. 
 
 Once only in all the years did she show 
 how deep the affection was, which had been 
 at the same time so timid. It was when 
 Rosie, now Mrs. Richard Emmet, was home 
 on one of her periodic visits. She was a 
 grand lady now, clad in velvet and diamonds. 
 Augusta did not envy her these ; but once on 
 the street she met her baby, Richard's child. 
 It was in a beautiful little carriage, and a neat,
 
 1 82 A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE. 
 
 respectable woman was with it. Augusta 
 spoke to the child ; then she looked up and 
 down the street. No one was in sight. She 
 leaned over and kissed the baby. "It is the 
 kiss," she thought to herself, " that I never 
 gave to its father ; I send it to him now." 
 
 Then she put down her veil and walked 
 rapidly up the street, a tall, pale, uninterest- 
 ing woman, whose misery and heartache no 
 one ever knew.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 1 
 
 ' I "HE sexton came into the church and 
 J- turned up the gas. It was a large old 
 church, without columns or arches, and, 
 though a dignified old building, there was a 
 certain bareness and rigidity about it, which 
 even the evergreen arches and flowering plants, 
 with which it was at present filled, failed to 
 relieve. The girls of Weston had always said 
 it was a hard church to trim. They could do 
 nothing with it at Christmas, except hang 
 great ropes of green from the corners to the 
 centre chandelier; and they were always 
 afraid these would break from their moorings 
 and annihilate a portion of the congregation. 
 It was even worse at a wedding ; there seemed 
 no point of attack, no prominent place to 
 lavish one's efforts upon. 
 
 It was a church that lent itself unwillingly 
 to decoration, and looked as if it privately 
 disapproved of it. The young men and 
 maidens of Weston had done their best with 
 it to-day, and half of the trouble and material 
 
 1 Reprinted from " The Home Maker."
 
 1 84 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 that they had taken, would have made a more 
 beautiful building blossom like the rose. 
 
 " It swallows up all our decorations," Lil- 
 ian Tallman had said, " until they have no 
 more effect than a buttonhole bouquet laid 
 in each pew." 
 
 But the sexton did n't think so. He stood 
 a moment after turning up the gas, and gazed 
 admiringly around. 
 
 Then there was a noise in the vestibule, a 
 sound of laughing voices, and a gay party of 
 young people came in. 
 
 It was easy to pick out the bride-elect. 
 Not only was she the prettiest of all the girls, 
 but she had a certain air of importance and 
 authority. She was excited, but not so 
 much so but that she knew perfectly what she 
 wanted. 
 
 " We 'd better begin right away," she said, 
 " for we may have to do it over four or five 
 times. Here, Alec, you come with me and 
 be papa. I could n't get papa to come out 
 to-night. Now, mamma, you go and sit in 
 the front pew, and criticise. Sam, you and 
 Mr. Hickok come in from the vestry door 
 and meet me at the chancel. Now, you ushers, 
 you go first, about four pews apart, I think." 
 
 " I always did hate this sneaking in from
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 185 
 
 the vestry," said the groom, a tall, slim young 
 man, with an expressionless face and very 
 handsome clothes. 
 
 " You want to ' sit on the fence and throw 
 stones at the procession/ if you can't be in 
 it," said the bride, laughing. " Now, don't be 
 peering out of the vestry door, that looks so 
 ridiculous. You can tell by the organ when 
 we start, and you need n't come out until the 
 ushers are half way up the aisle." 
 
 " That 's right," murmured the groom ; 
 " keep me out of sight just as long as possible! 
 A man 's awfully in the way at his own wedding. 
 I wish you could be married without me, 
 Kittie." 
 
 " I could," she said quickly, and laughed. 
 " Now, boys," she said, turning to the ushers, 
 " don't forget that one of you must have Mr. 
 Ellsworth's and Mr. Hickok's hats here in 
 the vestibule. You remember, Will Corning, 
 when Grace Patten was married, the ushers 
 forgot about Mr. Humphrey's hat, and he 
 had to leave her on the church steps, subject 
 to pneumonia and the jeers of the populace, 
 while he went back to hunt for it, and he 
 could n't find it, after all, and had to borrow 
 the sexton's. He looked too absurd, and he 's 
 been queer ever since."
 
 1 86 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 The little procession was formed. The or- 
 ganist, who had come in, played a wedding 
 march, and they moved slowly up the aisle. 
 
 " Dear me," said Kittie, " I wish papa had 
 come. I 'm sure he '11 make a mistake. I 
 wish I dared chalk the place for his feet here 
 on the carpet" 
 
 " Kittie," said one of the girls, " when will 
 you give me your bouquet to hold, before we 
 all kneel or afterward ? " 
 
 " Afterward, I think," said Kittie, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " I knew a girl," said the young man who 
 had been called Will Corning, " who had her 
 bridesmaids all kneel and count ten, so they 'd 
 be sure and get up together." 
 
 " How abs,urd ! " said Kittie. 
 
 " Well, it was much prettier than to have 
 them struggling on to their feet one at a 
 time." 
 
 " Of course, but I don't see the necessity. 
 The girls can just watch me and get up when 
 I do." 
 
 " I see," laughed the young man, " don't 
 count ten, but keep an eye open." 
 
 There were the usual complications and 
 mistakes, and the little rehearsal was repeated 
 three or four times.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 187 
 
 " Shall you say ' obey,' Kittie?" asked one 
 of the bridesmaids. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered ; " it 's easier to 
 say it and not do it, than it is not to say it. 
 Mr. Hickok," she continued, " you '11 have 
 the ring all ready for Sam, won't you ? Pro- 
 longed searchings at such a time are so 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Now, Kittie," said her mother from the 
 front pew, " do answer distinctly and audibly." 
 
 " Yes," chimed in Lilian, " don't speak as 
 if you were confiding a secret to the minister." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm all right," said Kittie, " you 'd 
 better talk to Sam. Bessie Seymour's hus- 
 band said, ' and thereto I plute thee my 
 trite,' instead of ' plight thee my troth,' and 
 then made the frivolous excuse that ' his 
 throat got dry.' I 'm sure I don't know what 
 a plain ' trite ' is, to say nothing of a ' pluted ' 
 one ! " 
 
 There was more light talk and laughter, 
 much taking of positions and arranging of 
 groups. 
 
 Then they decided where to put the white 
 satin ribbon, which was to divide the unin- 
 vited goats from the invited and full-dressed 
 sheep. 
 
 Then, still laughing and chattering, they
 
 1 88 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 drifted out, and left the old church, which 
 seemed to look after them with a solemn and 
 disapproving air. 
 
 At the door, one of the young men, a 
 stranger in the place, turned to a pretty 
 girl who was standing near him, and who 
 had been rather more silent than the others 
 in the church. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said, " you are Miss Tall- 
 man's sister?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered quietly, " I am Kittie's 
 sister, the middle Miss Tallman." 
 
 He looked at her a second. " The middle 
 of the sandwich is always the best," he said, 
 and added, " even when the bread is very 
 good, too." 
 
 She laughed, but did not answer. 
 
 " But you will be promoted to-morrow," 
 he continued, " and inherit your sister's 
 card-plate." 
 
 " Yes," she said ; and added softly, as if to 
 herself, " I wonder if it will make any 
 difference? " 
 
 Some of the others came up then, and she 
 left him and joined her sister. 
 
 She had a sweet face, though not as pretty 
 as the bride's. Kittie was rather too pretty, 
 too bright, too full of delightful animal spirits.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 189 
 
 There was no sense of restfulness about 
 her. 
 
 Her laugh was musical and contagious, 
 but one wanted to feel well himself when he 
 heard it or saw her. An invalid once said 
 she was the most depressing person he had 
 ever seen. Her youth and health and jollity 
 seemed to overpower him like a great flood, 
 and entirely extinguish his feeble spark of 
 vitality. 
 
 There are some people whom, without hav- 
 ing to " die young," " the gods love." They are 
 darlings of Fortune, who denies them noth- 
 ing, though they never seem to thank her, 
 and hold her gifts lightly. 
 
 Kittie Tallman was one of these. She had 
 danced through life in silk stockings and 
 French slippers. Others might make the 
 same journey, not dancing, but walking, creep- 
 ing, even stumbling along; coarsely, clum- 
 sily shod, or with bare, bleeding feet. But of 
 these she knew nothing. Life had shown her 
 " only the flaunting of its tulip flower." 
 
 No one was surprised when Kittie married 
 Sam Ellsworth, the only son of a very rich 
 father, and a pleasant, manly fellow besides. 
 They would have been surprised if she had 
 done anything else, for the habit of being
 
 190 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 happy seems as hard as its opposite to 
 break. 
 
 But soon after she was married, a sorrow 
 just brushed her with its wing in passing, 
 while at the same time it emptied more good 
 fortune into her lap. 
 
 Her husband's father died, and Sam came 
 into his inheritance. 
 
 Kittie wrote home of all the changes in 
 their plans that this would make. 
 
 " We are going abroad," she wrote to her 
 mother, " as, of course, we cannot go out 
 here this winter ; and I have decided to get 
 my mourning in Paris, they make such 
 cheerful, stylish mourning there. And it 
 seemed absurd to keep all my pretty wed- 
 ding clothes, when it will be so long before 
 I can wear them again; so I have sent 
 three trunks full of things home to the girls. 
 My dresses just fit Nellie, and I have sent 
 the most of them to her. Lilian is so much 
 taller and slighter, everything would have to 
 be altered for her ; but there are some wraps 
 and hats she can wear, and I think my pink 
 brocade might fit her it was horribly tight 
 for me. The slippers and parasols and fans 
 they must divide. I should feel awfully to 
 part with all these pretty things, for most of
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 191 
 
 them I have never had on ; but I shall wear 
 black for a year, and perhaps longer, as Sam 
 was the only son. Then before we come 
 home I shall get new supplies of everything 
 in London and Paris, and I want the girls to 
 enjoy these things while they are new and 
 fresh." 
 
 So the dainty wedding finery came back to 
 the old home, and the two girls divided it. 
 
 " Isn't it fun?" said Lilian, "just as good 
 as being married, and without any of the 
 trouble." 
 
 " I don't know," said Nellie ; " it seems to 
 me, somehow, as if Kittie were dead, and we 
 were taking her things." 
 
 " Oh, how horrible ! What makes you say 
 such a disagreeable thing?" 
 
 " I don't mean that exactly," Nellie hastily 
 explained ; " but don't you see? These things 
 are so like her, they seem part of her per- 
 sonality, and yet she is n't here." 
 
 " Yes, they are like her," said the younger 
 sister, " and she had such good taste ! " 
 
 She was trying on a little white-lace bonnet 
 as she spoke, and stood with her back to the 
 mirror, holding up a hand-glass. 
 
 " Nellie," she said, " do you mind if I take 
 this?"
 
 192 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " Oh, no, Lilian, take anything that you 
 can use. I feel guilty that I am just her 
 size. I wish that you could have them all. 
 Somehow they make me sad dear Kittie, 
 they are so like her ! " and she laid her 
 cheek lovingly against a soft brown embroi- 
 dered wrap. 
 
 " Put that on," said Lilian. Nellie threw 
 it around her shoulders. 
 
 " That 's very becoming, Nellie. You look 
 quite like Kittie in it." 
 
 Nellie threw it off hastily. " That 's just 
 what I mean," she cried. " It is n't only the 
 things, it 's a part of Kittie that goes with 
 them. It seems like stealing some one else's 
 character to wear them." 
 
 Lilian laughed. " I don't understand you, 
 and I don't care," she said. " I think it was 
 very considerate of Sam's father to die. 
 Now Kittie has all the money, and we have 
 all these; and the more I look like Kittie, 
 the better I shall like it." 
 , But Nellie folded all her new possessions, 
 and put them back in the trunks. The 
 middle Miss Tallman had never been like 
 the other two. She was quieter and more 
 reserved. She had been a very good back- 
 ground for her handsome, brilliant sister. If
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 193 
 
 she had been a little' overshadowed, a little 
 slighted on account of this same sister, who 
 was to blame ? 
 
 Every one notices the prettiest face first, 
 and it is the quickest tongue that makes it- 
 self heard the oftenest. Then Kittie was the 
 oldest; it had seemed right that everything 
 should be hers. 
 
 Nellie, herself, had never questioned it; 
 she was too unselfish, and loved her sister 
 too dearly. She had thought sometimes 
 how wonderful it must be to be like Kittie, 
 and have every one look at you and admire 
 you, how wonderful to have friends and 
 lovers by the score ! One lover seemed a 
 very marvellous thing to Nellie Tallman, a 
 thing to be thought of with awe and rever- 
 ence ; but Kittie had successfully managed 
 two or three at a time. 
 
 Nellie had never envied her, but she had 
 longed sometimes to wield her sceptre also 
 in the kingdom of hearts. Power is very 
 sweet, not less to the young girl when 
 she discovers that she holds it, than to the 
 man who has snatched a crown and put 
 it on. 
 
 Her sister's marriage made very little 
 change in Nellie's affairs. Her family had
 
 194 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 never expected her to be a very active 
 member, and so she never was, for we live 
 mostly just as those around us expect us to 
 live. Nothing is so hard to batter down, as 
 that wall which other people's opinion of us 
 builds up. Nellie was thought to be shy 
 and reserved, and the very consciousness 
 that this was thought of her, made her so. 
 
 She was as surprised as the rest of the 
 family, therefore, when in the spring after 
 Kittie's marriage an invitation came from 
 an Aunt Susan for her to spend the summer 
 with her by the sea. 
 
 Aunt Susan was rich, childish, and peculiar. 
 She was spasmodically devoted to her nieces, 
 whom she often embarrassed by presenting 
 them with, gifts, coupled with the condition 
 that they should wear them just as they 
 were. She had been very fond of Kittie, 
 but their friendship foundered on this rock: 
 Kittie absolutely refused to accept a cinna- 
 mon-brown silk, made in a by-gone fashion. 
 
 " I wore her blue flannel bathing-dress," 
 said Kittie, " though it went three times 
 around me and trailed behind ; I made a 
 fool of myself in her cameo ear-rings, which 
 were quite large enough for ash-receivers ; 
 and I pranced around in her old seal-skin
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALL At AN. 195 
 
 jacket, when it had grown just the color of 
 a yellow dog in the back ; but I drew the line 
 at that cinnamon silk. It would really have 
 been a crime to wear that ! " 
 
 So Aunt Susan had packed her trunks in 
 high dudgeon and departed, and had never 
 taken any notice of her nieces since. 
 
 She did not come to the wedding, although 
 Kittie wrote her a very sweet little note, to 
 which she merely returned the following 
 lines : 
 
 " MARCH i . 
 
 If within four days I should happen to hear that 
 you would like that excellent and desirable brown 
 silk dress in your trousseau, it will give me much 
 pleasure to bring it to your wedding. 
 
 "March 4. P. S. I am not coming." 
 
 "Well, that's an end of Aunt Susan," 
 laughed Kittie. " How I should like to have 
 seen her watching the post for my cinnamon 
 recantation ! " 
 
 Nothing had been heard from her since ; 
 but now she voluntarily broke the silence 
 and wrote to Nellie. She was going to Sea 
 Cliff for the summer, and would like Nellie 
 to go with her. 
 
 "Sea Cliff is a very nice place, Nellie,"
 
 196 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 said her mother ; " not very large or gay, 
 but some of the nicest people go there, old 
 families who have gone there for years. You 
 will have all Kittie's things to wear, and 
 Aunt Susan is good and kind in spite of her 
 peculiarities. I don't see why you should n't 
 have a very pleasant summer." 
 
 Nellie went up to her own room, a sudden 
 startling thought shining in her face. 
 
 Why shouldn't she go, as Kittie would 
 have gone? 
 
 Why not leave her old self with her old 
 dresses at home? Why not see for once if 
 she could n't be bright and charming and 
 lovable too? 
 
 We all of us have sometimes a wild desire 
 to get away from every one who has ever 
 known us, and begin all over again. It 
 seems as if then we could strike out on a 
 new line, could do and say the thing that 
 now we cannot do or say, because we are 
 hampered by our own personal traditions. 
 
 This was the desire that filled Nellie Tall- 
 man's heart, to get away from herself and 
 play at being some one else. 
 
 "I will be like Kittie," she thought; and 
 her heart beat more quickly at the idea. 
 " Nobody knows me ; nobody will be sur-
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 197 
 
 prised. I know all Kittie's ways; I have 
 all her dresses. Why, it will be exactly like 
 private theatricals ! " She grew more and 
 more excited as she dwelt upon her plan. 
 
 She went around the house the week 
 before her departure in a state of dazed 
 expectancy. 
 
 " I think I feel just like a chrysalis before 
 it turns into a butterfly," she thought. She 
 packed Kittie's pretty things, with an entirely 
 different feeling from that she had had about 
 them at first Now, they seemed merely so 
 many stage properties in the little drama 
 she was going to act. 
 
 She had on a blue travelling-dress of her 
 sister's, when she said good-by. Her mother 
 kissed her. " My dear," she said, " how like 
 Kittie you look in that dress ! " 
 
 The girl laughed nervously as she got into 
 the carriage. 
 
 " The play has begun," she thought; " the 
 play has begun." 
 
 Aunt Susan eyed her sharply when she 
 arrived. 
 
 " You are more like Kittie than I ex- 
 pected," she said indignantly. 
 
 " Yes," answered Nellie ; " I am like her, 
 and I hope to be more so."
 
 198 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 They looked at each other steadily for a 
 few seconds. Aunt Susan measured her 
 strength against this new niece and found it 
 but weakness ; but she was a woman who 
 could retreat in good order, when she did 
 retreat. 
 
 "Well, Kittie was a nice girl," she said 
 placidly, and Nellie was so astonished that 
 she was silent. 
 
 There were not many people at Sea Cliff 
 when they arrived, but the hotel rapidly 
 filled. Nellie had very little trouble in her 
 self-imposed role. Either she was helped by 
 that "moral support" of which we are all 
 conscious when particularly well dressed ; or 
 the difference between herself and her sister 
 was less than she imagined ; or it was as she 
 had at first fancied, a part of Kittie's per- 
 sonality went with her clothes; but, at all 
 events, she knew she was like her, knew 
 that in a hundred little tricks of speech and 
 manners she was more like Kittie than like 
 her old self. She began to be popular, 
 and the knowledge that people liked her 
 carried her forward with fresh enthusiasm, 
 and made her in reality more charming than 
 she had ever been. 
 
 She knew, however, that all her successes
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 199 
 
 so far had been small ones, and she looked 
 forward to the first large dance which was 
 given at the hotel as a sort of trial-trip for 
 her new wings. 
 
 Would she really be a belle like Kittie? 
 
 She was in a perfect tremble of excitement 
 as she dressed, and her spirits rose, as she 
 pictured to herself the delights of dancing 
 with many partners, of being surrounded by 
 admirers, of having, in a word, that " good 
 time " so dear to every girl ; and then her 
 spirits sank as she thought of herself, alone, 
 unnoticed in a corner, with no one to speak 
 to, or care about her. 
 
 Oh, is it a good or a sad thing, that noth- 
 ing, neither deep sorrows nor great joys, 
 can ever make a woman's heart beat again 
 as a young girl's does on the eve of a 
 ball? 
 
 She went into Aunt Susan's room, after she 
 was all ready. That amiable person looked 
 at her critically. 
 
 " You are charming, my dear," she said. 
 " Here, I want you to wear these." 
 
 Nellie turned cold. It might be a pair of 
 arctics or a Shaker bonnet. She felt it was 
 cruel of Aunt Susan to spring one of her 
 surprises upon her at just this crisis. But
 
 200 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 when the old lady turned and clasped around 
 her neck a beautiful string of pearls, the 
 tears came to Nellie's eyes, and she did what 
 no one had done to Aunt Susan in many a 
 long year, she threw her arms around her 
 neck and kissed her. 
 
 " How good you are ! " she said ; " how 
 dear and good ! " 
 
 When she went into the ball-room, her 
 heart was still full of Aunt Susan's kindness ; 
 and she was so busy finding a seat for her 
 near people that she liked, that she quite 
 forgot about herself, and not until she was 
 half through with her first dance did she 
 realize that this was the first ball she had 
 ever been to in Kittie's character. 
 
 Well, it was certainly very pleasant to be 
 Kittie. 
 
 It seemed easy, too, to look bright and 
 pleased as Kittie used, and to say the little 
 frothy silly things that Kittie used to say. 
 
 She was surprised that it was so easy, and 
 astonished at her own success. 
 
 "What would they say at home, if they 
 could see me ? " she thought. " They would 
 not believe it possible that it is I ! I feel 
 just like Cinderella. If everything should 
 change, and I should drop my slipper and
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 2OI 
 
 go running out of the room, I should n't be 
 a bit surprised ! " 
 
 She had plenty of partners, for she danced 
 well, not with the air of conferring a favor, 
 nor yet of receiving one; but as if 'it 
 were a mutual pleasure which she heartily 
 enjoyed. 
 
 Before the ball was half over she realized 
 that she had been a great success ; not even 
 Kittie had ever had a more triumphant 
 
 evening ! 
 
 She could scarcely believe it; it seemed 
 so incredible, so like a miracle. 
 
 But it was a simple miracle, after all. We 
 have all met people who, for some inexpli- 
 cable reason, appear at their worst when 
 surrounded by their families. Once get 
 them away, and they are entirely different 
 people. 
 
 Nellie had developed more slowly than her 
 older sister. Before she had entirely emerged 
 from the schoolroom, Kittie had command, 
 as it were, of the entire social field. She 
 might have won her share of recognition and 
 appreciation even then, if it had not been 
 for Lilian. 
 
 But Lilian was tall and graceful, with a 
 really beautiful face. She was strongly pic-
 
 202 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 turesque and individual, a girl who instantly 
 challenged attention, no matter among how 
 many she appeared. 
 
 What wonder that the current of popular 
 approval ran swiftly from Kittie to Lilian, 
 and could not stop half-way for inferior 
 attractions? 
 
 . Now, for the first time, all this was changed. 
 The environment was favorable to her. She 
 felt like a different person, simply because 
 she was breathing a different atmosphere. 
 Everything around her aided her in the con- 
 scious effort she was making to appear as 
 she had never done before. 
 
 She was walking with her partner after a 
 waltz. 
 
 " Tom Romeyn came to-day," he said ; 
 " I just saw him come into the room." 
 
 "And who is Tom Romeyn ?" she asked. 
 " Is it better never to have been born than 
 not to know him? " 
 
 " I hope not," he answered, " for I was 
 only introduced myself to-day; but he is 
 that awfully rich Mr. Romeyn of New York, 
 the one who owns the yacht, and drives the 
 brake. There he goes now." 
 
 Nellie looked after him calmly. 
 
 " He ought to be labelled, if he is all that,"
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 203 
 
 she said ; " I should never have suspected 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, well, it will be known fast enough 
 without a label. That sort of light is never 
 hid under a bushel. It blazes like an elec- 
 tric light, and quite puts out our little 
 candles. I 'd better dance with you, Miss 
 Tallman, while I can ; " and so they started 
 again. 
 
 Quite late in the evening the same young 
 man came to Nellie, as she stood for a minute 
 near her aunt. 
 
 " Mr. Romeyn has asked to meet you," he 
 said. " May I bring him up?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Nellie, flushed with the 
 triumph of her evening; what did one mil- 
 lionnaire more or less matter? 
 
 He returned in a moment, with a tall, 
 rather English-looking man, who was duly 
 introduced, and who asked, 
 
 " Can you give me a waltz, Miss Tallman? " 
 
 " I 'm afraid not," said Nellie, showing him 
 her card, which was all filled, with the excep- 
 tion of the few last dances. 
 
 " Here are two waltzes at the end," he 
 persisted : " may n't I have one or both of 
 those ? " 
 
 Nellie looked at Aunt Susan.
 
 204 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " It will make it later than you want to 
 stay, I *m afraid ; " and then before Aunt 
 Susan could speak, she said, 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr. Romeyn. They say the 
 good things of this life always come too late, 
 and so have you."' 
 
 " But only for this evening," he answered. 
 " There will be other evenings and other 
 waltzes." 
 
 " I don't know," laughed Nellie. " ' Who 
 knows but the world may end to-night ? ' ' 
 
 Just then the music struck up afresh, and 
 some one came to claim her. Mr. Romeyn 
 looked after her. She was very pretty in 
 her fresh white tulle. Her cheeks were as 
 red as the roses on her dress, and her eyes 
 danced with the enjoyment she was having. 
 
 In a world where people so soon learn to 
 be faded and to " take their pleasures sadly," 
 there is always something refreshing in the 
 spontaneous delight of a young girl. Her 
 healthy, natural capacity for gayety gives 
 almost as much pleasure to others as to 
 herself. 
 
 One great secret of Nellie's success, not 
 only at her first ball but all through her 
 summer, was her own hearty enjoyment of 
 it.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 2O$ 
 
 She was not indifferent or bored, neither 
 was she eager or anxious to command atten- 
 tion. She was simply very glad that she 
 was liked, and she showed her pleasure in a 
 natural, delightful way. 
 
 She enjoyed the sea; she liked to go sail- 
 ing and blue-fishing ; she was fond of row- 
 ing and tennis. In a word, she was a jolly 
 companion, with the rare quality of cama- 
 raderie, and always ready. 
 
 As the summer wore on, she had more 
 than one admirer, who warmed into a lover. 
 She managed them all as she thought Kittie 
 would have done. She was frank and friendly 
 with them, and laughed at them a little, not 
 enough to hurt their feelings, but just enough 
 to scare away their sentiment ; but if they 
 positively refused to have their feelings 
 spared, she told them the truth honestly and 
 simply. 
 
 These little affairs were very sweet to her, 
 not that she was vain or heartless, but she 
 had always had a very low opinion of her- 
 self, and it had never seemed to her that any 
 man would want to marry her. When, there- 
 fore, she found not one, but two or three who 
 paid her that high compliment, her surprise 
 deepened into a glow of warm pleasure.
 
 206 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " Perhaps, after all," she thought, " there 
 is something about me that will be worth the 
 giving to the man I love." 
 
 She questioned herself closely, as to whether 
 she had been perfectly true with her lovers, 
 whether she had ever led them on by look or 
 word ; and, while her memory acquitted her, 
 her conscience accused her, because she 
 knew that she had made herself just as at- 
 tractive as possible, all the time. 
 
 " I have only been like Kittie," she pleaded. 
 
 " You have never had a love-affair before," 
 answered Conscience, grimly. 
 
 She saw a good deal of Mr. Romeyn, who 
 seemed to have the invaluable faculty of 
 always appearing when he was wanted, and 
 never when .he was n't. 
 
 He was much courted and flattered by 
 many of the people in the hotel, so much 
 so, in fact, that Nellie, with a sort of healthy 
 reaction, had been rather indifferent and dis- 
 tant to him ; but he met all her little re- 
 buffs in such a pleasant, manly way, and 
 laughed so frankly at her sharp speeches, 
 that he rather robbed her wit of its stings. 
 There is no fun in chaffing a person who 
 enjoys being chaffed. He was never espe- 
 cially devoted; and yet, if she had watched
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 2O/ 
 
 and counted closely, she would have found 
 that she was very often with him, and that 
 those were the best of all the times she had. 
 
 Nellie was going crabbing one morn- 
 ing, with the three little Watson boys. The 
 boys had their bait ready, and were sit- 
 ting on the piazza waiting for her, when she 
 came out Mr. Romeyn sat there, too, 
 smoking a cigar and reading a paper. He 
 threw away the one and put down the other 
 as Nellie appeared. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Tallman," he cried, " where are 
 you going? Mayn't I go too ?" 
 
 " No," said Nellie, " you 're not invited. 
 This is a crabbing party to Spring Beach, 
 and we have only two nets and two lines. 
 Archie and I are going to crab, and Willie 
 and Rob are going to grab. You see plainly 
 that you 'd be 
 
 " A fifth wheel," he suggested. 
 
 " That 's what I meant," said Nellie, laugh- 
 ing; " but I 'm glad you said it." 
 
 " Well, I am going," said Mr. Romeyn, 
 with decision. " Fifth wheels are very useful 
 if anything happens to one of the original 
 four ; and in the mean time they need n't 
 work, you know."
 
 208 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " Boys, shall we let him go ? " appealed 
 Nellie. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Archie Watson, " he won't 
 be much in the way." 
 
 " Besides, he says he 's going anyway," 
 put in Willie. 
 
 " Well, then," said Nellie, " let the proces- 
 sion start; " but she went ahead with Archie, 
 and left Mr. Romeyn to follow through the 
 pine woods with the younger boys. 
 
 The water at Spring Beach was so very 
 shallow that the little boys took off their 
 shoes and stockings and waded in. Nellie 
 and Archie took their positions on the bank 
 with their rods and lines. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " asked 
 Nellie over her shoulder of Mr. Romeyn. 
 
 " I 'm going up into Crows' Nest to watch 
 you and smoke another cigar," he said. 
 
 Crows' Nest was a big platform, built in 
 the spreading branches of a large tree. The 
 tree was so near the lake that the balcony it 
 held hung almost over the water. It was a 
 very comfortable, shady place to sit in. 
 Nellie thought of it with a little sigh, for it 
 was quite hot down by the water, and if 
 crabs don't bite, crabbing is rather tiresome. 
 But they bit this morning.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 2OQ 
 
 " There ! " cried Willie, in a suppressed 
 voice, "you got one, Miss Nellie ! Draw him 
 in gently. I can see him ; he 's a big fellow, 
 too. Now ! " and with a sudden splash he 
 brought his net down under the luckless 
 crab, and landed him, kicking in every leg, 
 and deeply regretting his own greediness. 
 Willie missed the next ; but they continued 
 to bite, and Nellie grew quite excited. 
 
 She had forgotten all about her hidden 
 spectator when a voice from the tree said : 
 
 "There, Miss Tallman, that's your tenth. 
 It will be simply inhuman to catch any more. 
 Besides, you are tired; come up here and 
 rest yourself." 
 
 Nellie hesitated ; and just then there was a 
 scream from Rob, who had moved farther up 
 the beach with Archie. A crab had nipped 
 his toe. He hobbled ashore, and Nellie ran 
 to see if she could help him. 
 
 " I guess I '11 go home," said Rob, who 
 was only nine. " It hurts terribly ; it really 
 does." 
 
 His eyes were full of tears, which he was 
 trying to keep back. 
 
 " Can't he carry the crabs home ? " sug- 
 gested Nellie, feeling that it would be some 
 balm for the wounded sportsman to return 
 H
 
 210 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 with plenty of game. So the crabs were 
 strung together, and Rob set off, limping up 
 the road. 
 
 " Come," said the voice from the tree, 
 " three wheels are as bad as five ; you 'd 
 better turn the affair into a two-wheeled gig, 
 and come up here." 
 
 " I am rather warm," she said ; and she 
 slowly walked to Crows' Nest. 
 
 Mr. Romeyn looked at her with undis- 
 guised admiration as she came up. 
 
 " How warm and forgive me how 
 pretty you look ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 She took off her hat, and leaned against a 
 big limb of the tree. 
 
 " I cannot open the conversation with a 
 repartee,". she said; "I really am too tired. 
 I think that crabbing carried too far may 
 become a vice." 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," he said, after a 
 little pause. " I have wanted to have a talk 
 with you ever so many days, but you are 
 never alone. I have a confession to make, 
 a terrible one. Did you ever have a lord come 
 to you and own up that he was a barber ? " 
 
 " No," she answered ; " I never did. I 
 have known very few lords, or barbers 
 either."
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 211 
 
 " Well, figuratively speaking," he continued, 
 " I am both. But seriously, Miss Tallman, I 
 want to tell you something. You will be 
 surprised, and perhaps indignant I 'm an 
 impostor, a fraud, and a delusion. I Ve been 
 posing all summer as Tom Romeyn, the mil- 
 lionnaire. Well, I 'm not, I 'm only his 
 cousin. We have the same name, but there 's 
 a difference of nobody knows how many 
 hundred thousand dollars in our income. He 
 has gone to Norway this summer, andj I had 
 no idea of stepping into his place here. In 
 fact, when I first came, I did n't know that I 
 had ; I only thought that people were won- 
 derfully kind and polite; but pretty soon it 
 dawned on me that it was all deference 
 to my supposed millions. You've no idea 
 how delightful every one finds me ; my very 
 faults look so well gilded. Of course I 
 did n't intend to keep up the delusion, but 
 people won't believe anything else. Nothing 
 is so hard to stamp out as a popular impres- 
 sion. I have said over and over again that 
 I thought I was being taken for my cousin ; 
 but it was no use. One hates to be forever 
 intruding his own affairs and the number of 
 his dollars on other people's attention, and 
 after a while I grew tired of contradicting
 
 212 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 them. If they would believe I was my 
 cousin, why, let them. I never affirmed it ; 
 but I gave up trying to deny it to every 
 fresh batch of people whom I met. 
 
 " There ! that is my confession, Miss 
 Tallman. What are you going to do with 
 me?" 
 
 The flush had faded from Nellie's face 
 She looked pale and frightened. For the 
 first time it rushed across her that perhaps 
 she had done a wrong thing in trying to be 
 like Kittie. This man felt guilty because he 
 had unconsciously been taken for another, 
 and treated as if he were that other. She had 
 consciously and deliberately done her best to 
 clothe herself in another's character. She 
 had tried to steal every charm and grace of 
 manner from Kittie, and wear them as she 
 had worn her dresses. 
 
 It seemed to her suddenly that she had 
 done a monstrous thing. 
 
 Mr. Romeyn watched her startled face. 
 
 " Do you care so much ? " he asked, in a 
 hard voice. " I am not a pauper ; I have 
 enough for all the comforts and most of the 
 luxuries of life ; only I am not Tom Ro- 
 meyn the millionnaire." 
 
 " Care ! " she exclaimed, turning suddenly.
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 21$ 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, I was not thinking. I am 
 sorry for you ; I wish you were your cou- 
 sin, if it would make you any happier, 
 but to me what can it matter ? " 
 
 She spoke brokenly. She had a sense of 
 trouble in the air. She wished she had gone 
 home, or stayed on the beach with the little 
 boys. 
 
 " There is something else I want to say," 
 he went on, looking at her steadily. " Do 
 you know why I have told you this ? " 
 
 She shook her head. The sense of her 
 deceit, the feeling that her very friendship 
 with this man was formed on a sham, a' 
 cheat, made her miserable. She could 
 scarcely listen to him. 
 
 " I told you," he said, " because I did not 
 want you to be deceived about me in any 
 way ; ^because I hoped I did not mean to 
 say this now but I had hoped that some 
 time you would love me." 
 
 Nellie turned her head away; her cheeks 
 grew very red. She did not answer, but the 
 terrified look came over her face again, a 
 look as if she were brought face to face with 
 an unexpected and terrible thing. 
 
 Tom Romeyn watched her, feeling as if he 
 had received a blow full in the face. It was
 
 214 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 not that she did not love him, he had 
 hardly expected that now but that his 
 confession had so plainly been a great dis- 
 appointment and surprise to her. 
 
 He was not a very young man, and she had 
 seemed to him a very true, honest woman. 
 He looked at her, and wondered if her heart 
 could be as shallow and sordid as it seemed, 
 and if it were, why God had joined it to so 
 sweet a face. 
 
 The voices of the children floated down to 
 them from up the beach; but for that it was 
 very still. 
 
 Nellie looked out between the leaves at 
 the shining water, the tears were shining 
 as brightly in her eyes. 
 
 " He has fallen in love with Kittie," she 
 thought; "and I oh, how can I ever tell 
 him? How can I make him understand?" 
 
 " Miss Tallman," he said at last, in a hard, 
 formal way, " I cannot say that I am sorry 
 we have had this talk. It is best that we 
 should understand each other. If I were a 
 richer man " 
 
 " Stop ! " cried Nellie, turning her tear- 
 ful, flashing eyes upon him. " What do I 
 care how much you are worth? It is not 
 that ! "
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 21$ 
 
 The clouds fell from his face. 
 
 " It makes no difference to you, then?" he 
 cried ; " I may still " 
 
 " Oh," she interrupted him, " it is an 
 insult to ask such a question ! " 
 
 His heart leaped within him. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, " I thought so. 
 You see it is n't as if I had really deceived 
 you. I am just what I have seemed, and 
 you have been kind to me, and have at 
 least I thought so liked me. If you have 
 liked me, well, a little, I was sure this 
 mistake about the money would make no 
 difference." 
 
 Nellie shook her head mournfully. Every 
 word he spoke showed her, only too plainly, 
 the wrong she had done. 
 
 " And yet," he continued, " it seemed right 
 to tell you. And now," he added cheerfully f 
 though there was a suspicion of a break in 
 his voice, " now, you like me, a little, 
 don't you?" 
 
 Nellie looked at him bravely, though 
 sadly. 
 
 " I like you very, very much," she said. 
 
 "Enough, so that oh, Nellie, could you 
 learn to like me to love me enough to 
 marry me? "
 
 2l6 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " Miss Nellie," cried a young voice, at the 
 foot of the steps that led up to Crows' Nest, 
 " are you ready to go home? " 
 
 Mr. Romeyn stepped to the top of the 
 stairs. " Archie," he said, " Miss Tallman 
 is n't rested yet. I will bring her home with 
 me. Don't wait." 
 
 " All right," cried the boyish voice, " we 
 got twenty-nine in all." 
 
 They heard him whistling, as he walked up 
 the road. 
 
 It was very still in Crows' Nest 
 
 Suddenly Nellie laughed hysterically. 
 " Did he say twenty-nine crabs ? " she asked. 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! it is all so dreadful ! " 
 
 Mr. Romeyn laughed a little, too. He 
 took her hand. "What is so dreadful?" he 
 asked, " the crabs, or the interruption, or 
 the being asked questions, or what ? " 
 
 "It isn't that those," she said incoher- 
 ently, while the fingers of the hand he held 
 closed convulsively ; 4< it 's Oh, I don't 
 know what to say. It's /, who have 
 deceived you ; it's / who am not what I 
 pretend to be ! I am Oh, I don't 
 know what I am ! " 
 
 He looked at her in amazement; then he 
 laughed. " Have you been masquerading in
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 21 7 
 
 some one else's character, too?" he asked. 
 " This is too ridiculous ; it 's like the last 
 act of one of Gilbert's operas. Who are 
 you, any way ? " 
 
 " Oh, don't laugh ! " she cried ; " it does n't 
 seem funny to me at all. Perhaps if it had 
 happened to any one else, it might; but 
 things are n't so funny when you 're in them 
 yourself." 
 
 "I won't laugh," he said gravely; and he 
 stroked softly the nervous little hand that he 
 still held. " I won't laugh at all. Now, tell 
 me the whole of the little story." 
 
 " I 'm afraid I can never make you under- 
 stand," she said ; " but I must tell you. It 
 is n't right not to. You see there were three 
 of us at home, Kittie, oh, I wish you could 
 see Kittie ! No, I don't I don't wish it 
 at all," she added hastily. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 " Because Kittie is so pretty and bright 
 and sweet. Every one loves Kittie. She is 
 all I have tried to be, and so much more! 
 She 's the original, and I 'm only the copy." 
 
 He gazed at her blankly. 
 
 " You don't understand," she cried ; " I 
 knew you would n't ! Then there was Lilian," 
 she went on hastily; " and Lilian is so beau-
 
 21 8 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 tiful. It is good just to look at her. I was 
 between these ; I was n't charming, I was n't 
 beautiful, I was n't anything. I was just the 
 middle Miss Tallman." 
 
 "The middle Miss Tallman," he repeated 
 slowly. 
 
 "What makes you say that?" she asked 
 him sharply. 
 
 " I am trying to follow you," he said; " it 
 forgive me it is just a little hard." 
 
 He looked at her a minute. 
 
 "Must you tell it all to me?" he asked. 
 " It pains you so, and I I don't care who 
 you are, or what you have done. I love 
 you, I want to hear you say that you will 
 love me. That is the first thing. After 
 that we can explain all these other things, 
 and these terrible deceptions." 
 
 She drew herself away from him. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " that is not the first 
 thing at all ! How can I tell you that I love 
 you, when it is not I that you love ; when 
 you would never have cared for me for the 
 real me at all ; whe# you have fallen in 
 love with Kittie's ways and dresses?" 
 
 " Kittie's dresses ? " he said faintly. 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " Kittie's dresses. I have 
 worn them all summer. This is one now."
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 219 
 
 She pulled out a fold of her overskirt, and 
 shook it at him in a tragic manner. 
 
 He bent his head and examined it criti- 
 cally; but he did not speak. He had decided 
 it was better she should tell her story without 
 interruptions. 
 
 "I wanted to be like Kittie, this summer," 
 she said, after a moment's pause. " I wanted 
 to see if people would like me and admire 
 me, as they did her. I came away with Aunt 
 Susan, where no one knew me, where no 
 one would notice that I was different. I had 
 all Kittie's things, she sent them to me 
 when she went into mourning; and it seemed 
 almost as if I put on her manner with her 
 dresses. I have been like another girl. I 
 think people have liked me ; I know I have 
 had more attention and been more of a belle 
 than ever in my life before. Other men have 
 told me that they loved me, and have called 
 me charming and attractive. It has been so 
 nice to be liked, and the more I have been 
 like Kittie, the more they have liked me. 
 
 " But I feel now thajt it has all been a part 
 I have played. When I leave Sea Cliff and 
 go home, I shall be just what I was before. 
 I shall be quiet and reserved and self-con- 
 scious ; and even if I wear Kittie's clothes,
 
 22O THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 they will get to look like me by that time, 
 and not like Kittie. I shall be the middle 
 Miss Tallman again, and you would never 
 have cared for her, I am sure." 
 
 She spoke quickly, with a little tremor in 
 her voice. Her hand rested limply and 
 unresistingly in his. 
 
 " Did no one ever care for her ? " he asked 
 gently. 
 
 " Oh, people always meant to be kind, I 
 think, but don't you see? they had n't time. 
 It always seemed to me as if I were shut in. 
 People can't go around with knives opening 
 social oysters ; society is in too great a hurry 
 for that. I have only been out two winters, 
 and perhaps I did n't get a good start. I 
 don't know what was the matter, not," she 
 added with dignity, " that I ever behaved like 
 an idiot or a dumb person. I have n't been 
 anything so very dreadful ; only I am sure, 
 quite sure, you would never have loved me 
 in my own character." 
 
 "There is one tiling I want to ask you," 
 he said quietly. "You say that you have 
 had other lovers this summer ; did you tell 
 them all this that you have told me?" 
 
 " No," she answered ; " I did n't have to. 
 I just told them I did n't care for them."
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 221 
 
 " But you have to tell me because you do 
 care for me? Is that it, my darling?" 
 
 The color leaped to her cheeks. 
 
 "You do love me," he persisted eagerly; 
 " and you have told me this because you 
 would not deceive me?" 
 
 She avoided looking at him. 
 
 " If I were sure that you knew me, and 
 loved me as I really am, I " she began, 
 and then stopped. " But that has nothing to 
 do with it. You can't love me. I feel as if 
 you had never really seen me. It would be 
 wrong to take advantage of the love I have 
 gained by deceit. It would be wicked to 
 marry you." 
 
 " My dear little girl," he said, putting his 
 arms around her, " I will never ask you to 
 do anything you think is wrong; but if I 
 can prove to you that I love you, no matter 
 whether you have called yourself Kittie or 
 Nellie, no matter what you have tried 
 to be or really are, if I can make you 
 feel very sure of that, then will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes," she said faintly; " but " 
 
 " There are no ' buts ' about it," he 
 exclaimed triumphantly; and bent his head 
 to kiss her.
 
 222 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 11 Oh, no," she cried, " you must n't not 
 yet you must n't ! " 
 
 But even while she resisted he had kissed 
 her twice. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said ; " I could not help 
 it." 
 
 She tried to move away from him. " Oh," 
 she said, " I don't know what I am doing ! 
 It is all wrong, all wrong ! " Then she 
 suddenly started. " We ought to go back ; 
 it must be very late, and they will miss 
 us." 
 
 He glanced at his watch. 
 
 "We have certainly lost our dinner," he 
 said ; " do you care ? " 
 
 "For the dinner? No; but there is Aunt 
 Susan." 
 
 " I could face a whole battalion of Aunt 
 Susans, you have made me so happy," he 
 said. 
 
 " Oh, you must n't be happy," she ex- 
 claimed ; " please don't. I have promised 
 you nothing, nothing ! " 
 
 She really believed that she had not ; for 
 though the woman " who hesitates is lost," 
 she never believes that she is. 
 
 "Yes, you have," he said softly; "you 
 have promised me everything."
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 22$ 
 
 They climbed down from Crows' Nest, and 
 walked along silently. 
 
 " Shall I see you again to-night ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No," she answered ; " I am going for a 
 moonlight sail. Besides, I do not want to 
 see you ; I want to think. I am all confused. 
 You make so little of what seems so much to 
 me, that I cannot tell what is right." 
 
 "Will you be on the beach to-morrow 
 morning, then ? " he asked. 
 
 She thought a minute. " Yes," she said ; 
 " you may meet me there. I shall go to my 
 favorite place, quite a way up the beach, in 
 the shadow of an old boat." 
 
 " Would you rather go alone, or may I 
 walk down with you ? " 
 
 " I would rather go alone." 
 
 They were both busy with their own 
 thoughts, and walked on in silence. 
 
 W T hen they reached the hotel, Nellie went 
 at once to her own room ; she felt tired and 
 confused. She tried to think ; but her mental 
 vision was cloudy and obscure, and at last 
 she gave it up and knocked at Aunt Susan's 
 door. 
 
 Aunt Susan looked at her keenly and 
 coldly.
 
 224 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLA1AN. 
 
 "Where have you been ?" she asked. 
 
 " I have been in the Crows' Nest, over by 
 Spring Beach, with Mr. Romeyn." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Aunt Susan. " Swinging 
 in a tree like two orchids, and living on air ! 
 Are n't you hungry ? " 
 
 " No," said Nellie, truthfully. 
 
 " Well, I warrant he is, then. A man may 
 postpone his dinner for his emotions, but he 
 does n't go without it. He only eats more 
 and later." 
 
 Nellie did not answer. 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Susan, "there's a 
 present for you on the bed, Nellie." 
 
 Nellie turned. A brown linen duster lay 
 on the bed. She took it up and examined 
 it. It was the most pronounced kind of a 
 duster, with a cape and collar, a belt and 
 several pockets. It was a large, roomy gar- 
 ment, and somewhat wrinkled. 
 
 Aunt Susan watched her closely. " I 
 want you to wear it, Nellie," she said, "just 
 as it is." 
 
 A sudden look like an illumination flashed 
 over the girl's face. She turned to her 
 aunt. 
 
 " Thank you," she said ; " it is just what I 
 most want, and I will wear it to-morrow."
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 22$ 
 
 Aunt Susan started. 
 
 "It is," continued Nellie, earnestly. "I 
 really need it, and I thank you for giving it 
 to me." 
 
 She left the room, carrying the homely 
 garment, and with the same look of high 
 resolve upon her face. 
 
 Nellie thought long and earnestly that 
 night. She tried to remember distinctly just 
 what she had done, and to view every motive 
 sternly and critically. She turned the matter 
 over and over in her mind, and came again 
 and again to the same conclusion. She had 
 won this man's love under false appearances. 
 It could only be a disappointment to him, 
 and a mortification to her, when he saw her 
 in her true colors. 
 
 " No," she said drearily ; " I have acted 
 the little play I wanted to, and had my 
 pleasant time, and now I must bear the pun- 
 ishment all the rest of my life. I did not 
 mean to do wrong, I only made a mistake ; 
 but the punishment comes all the same. Oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear ! there is no way out!." 
 
 But even while she thought, her heart 
 beat wildly ; was there a way out after all? 
 
 Aunt Susan was much surprised when 
 Nellie appeared on the piazza the next
 
 226 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 morning, her book under her arm, and 
 the unsightly duster hiding every trace of 
 her pretty dress and graceful figure. 
 
 " I am going down to the beach," she said, 
 and walked quietly away, wearing her ungainly 
 garment, with a certain proud humility. 
 
 " Well, what an idea ! " said Aunt Susan. 
 " Nellie, come back ! " But Nellie walked 
 on, apparently unconscious of criticism. 
 
 When Aunt Susan had given her the duster, 
 she felt that her pride and self-respect were 
 shattered, and she accepted it as if it had 
 been a penitential robe, a sort of hair-cloth 
 shirt, mortifying the vanity that had been so 
 fostered all summer. She wished that it 
 were even uglier than it was. She took a 
 certain grim pleasure in its ugliness. 
 
 As the Florentines in Savonarola's time 
 gave up their fine garments and jewels, and 
 had them burned in the open street, so this 
 girl felt as if she wanted to make a public 
 sacrifice of all the little frivolities which she 
 had enjoyed so, and which had cost her so 
 dear. 
 
 She sat down in the shadow of the boat 
 and watched the sea. But she was not long 
 alone, for very soon she saw Mr. Romeyn 
 coming toward her. He saw her, too, and
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 22/ 
 
 noticed instantly the change in her dress. 
 In a second he fancied that he understood it. 
 
 " Dear little girl ! " he thought ; " she has 
 determined not to wear any more of Kittie's 
 clothes, and has put on some of her own. 
 She will not appear in borrowed plurnage any 
 longer." 
 
 His heart warmed toward her as he recog- 
 nized this brave little effort to be honest. 
 
 " Good-morning, my darling," he said, as 
 he stood in front of her. 
 
 "Oh," she said quickly, "you must not 
 call me that. I have been thinking " 
 
 " So have I," he interrupted cheerfully, 
 " and I want you to hear my thoughts 
 first." 
 
 He sat down beside her. She half turned 
 away from him. The duster fitted horribly 
 over the shoulders, and she knew it. She 
 did not want to spare him or herself one 
 obtrusive wrinkle ; but he took no notice of 
 it whatever. 
 
 " I have thought of you constantly," he 
 began ; " and of all you told me yesterday. 
 As far as I understand it, it is like this. You 
 were a young girl who had passed two win- 
 ters in society, and had not been a great 
 social success. Let us even say you were
 
 228 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 unattractive, repellent, unmagnetic. You had 
 two beautiful and charming sisters, who, 
 between them, monopolized every one's 
 attention. You were shy and reserved, and 
 nobody knew how your heart cried out for 
 recognition too ; how you longed and thirsted 
 for a little sympathy and love. You were 
 shut in, and instead of breaking your shell, it 
 grew harder and harder. Suddenly a chance 
 came to you to begin all over, to start 
 among new people in an entirely different 
 way. You seized the opportunity ; you 
 wore your sister's dresses, and copied her 
 manners; you acted a part, and acted it 
 so well that you deceived every one, even 
 myself. You were an entirely changed being, 
 another creature, with nothing in common 
 with the girl that you had been. Then, I 
 met this lovely, fascinating woman, who was 
 not you at all. I fell in love with her, and 
 asked her to marry me. Then suddenly you 
 realized how base and deceitful you had 
 been, realized that you could not tell me 
 you loved me, nor let me love you, because 
 you had deceived me, had been untrue to 
 yourself and cruel to me ; and that if I mar- 
 ried you it would be as great a surprise to 
 me as if I should fall in love with Galatea
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 22Q 
 
 and marry Mary Anderson. Is n't this all 
 so?" 
 
 He stopped and looked at her attentively. 
 She was crying softly; she nodded her 
 head. 
 
 " Well," he said coolly, " I don't believe a 
 word of it. It is an impossibility. You are 
 tormenting yourself for nothing. People 
 can't leave their characters behind them, as 
 a snake does its last year's skin, and appear 
 in something else. What you have seemed, 
 you are. If you have appeared charming 
 and attractive and lovable, it is because you 
 are charming and attractive and lovable. 
 You could n't appear the lovely woman that 
 you have seemed this summer without really 
 being lovely, any more than you could 
 change the color of your eyes." 
 
 " But I never was lovely before," she said 
 faintly. 
 
 " You never were just the same age that 
 you are this minute before," he answered 
 promptly. " People change daily, hourly. 
 Development is not untruthfulness. If you 
 were never lovely before (which I don't 
 believe), your character was forming itself, 
 quietly and silently, to be lovely. You were 
 ripe for loveliness, and it needed just this
 
 230 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 change of scene and people to bring it out. 
 You might as well accuse a rose-bush of 
 deceit and falsehood, because it blossoms, 
 instead of being always just leaves and 
 stalks." 
 
 She watched the sea with a wistful look in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " I remember something about a fairy story 
 that I read once," she said in a low voice, 
 " and in it the beautiful prince married the 
 beautiful princess, and she turns into a hid- 
 eous woman with a black face. I should n't 
 like to disappoint you, to change back " 
 
 " You don't remember the story aright," 
 he said quickly. " The prince married the 
 hideous black woman, and then she turned 
 into the beautiful princess. It was his love 
 that made her, just as my love will keep you 
 always the dear, sweet woman that you are." 
 
 " But when I go back, I know I shall be 
 the ' middle Miss Tallman ' again." 
 
 He laughed a little. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " he said, " she has ' burst her 
 bonds with sweet surprise ; ' you will never 
 be able to find her again." 
 
 He put his arm around her, and drew her 
 to him. They were very quiet for a little 
 while, and then she said, -
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 " If different people draw out such different 
 sides of you, what is the real you ? It seems 
 as if a person must have such a shifting, 
 vacillating character to change so." 
 
 " I do not think so," he answered. " The 
 fewer sides a character has, the more angular 
 and rigid it will be, just as a triangle is the 
 sharpest, most pointed of any geometrical 
 figure. It is a positive gain to a man when 
 he develops a new side. But I understand 
 you, dear. You mistrust yourself; you are 
 afraid there may be other influences in your 
 life that will freeze you up and repress you, 
 and I shall lose what I love about you. But 
 that can never happen. Of course, there are 
 certain times when every one appears better 
 than at others, and there are certain people 
 who make us act out the best that is in us ; 
 but the best must be there, dear, to act. Oh, 
 my darling, it is you I love, you, the sweet, 
 pure, true woman ! What do I care how 
 many disguises you have worn or may wear? 
 It is the real you, underneath all outside 
 change, that I care for. I shall hold you 
 fast, no matter how you change ; yes, even if 
 you hurt me, I shall just hold you, and wait, 
 and by and by my darling will come back to 
 me again."
 
 232 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 
 
 He clasped her closely, as if the " holding " 
 he spoke of had a literal, as well as a spiritual 
 meaning. 
 
 " I don't know how it has happened," she 
 murmured ; " I never meant to accept you." 
 
 " But you did, for the very best reason in 
 the world, you could n't help it. Will you 
 give me the kiss now that I had to steal 
 yesterday? " 
 
 She gave it timidly, and with it her last 
 doubt and scruple vanished. 
 
 Just then a little breeze lifted a corner of 
 the duster, and wafted it conspicuously before 
 their faces. 
 
 He touched it tenderly. " Nellie, dear," he 
 said, " I know why you wore this this thing 
 to-day." 
 
 " Do you ? " she whispered. " Why? " 
 
 " Because you had made up your mind not 
 to deck yourself in Kittie's things any more ; 
 you wanted to appear just as you were, and 
 in your own garments." 
 
 " My own garments ! " she gasped. " Did 
 you for one moment think that this night- 
 mare belonged to me?" 
 
 " Why, yes," he said, " I thought so." 
 
 " Oh, how absurd ! Why, it is Aunt 
 Susan's. My clothes never had quite the air
 
 THE MIDDLE MISS TALLMAN. 233 
 
 that Kittie's had ; but they certainly did n't 
 look like Aunt Susan's dusters ! " 
 
 " Don't you ever wear anything that 
 belongs to you ? " he asked meekly. 
 
 She looked at him for a second indignantly, 
 and then they both laughed. 
 
 " But why did you wear it to-day, if it is 
 your aunt's?" he asked. 
 
 Nellie colored. The sacrificial spirit in 
 which she had donned the duster, seemed 
 rather silly to her, as she looked back upon 
 it. 
 
 " I will tell you some other time," she 
 said. Then she added : " I think I shall 
 always love this old duster, first because it 
 was such a test of your courage. A man 
 must be brave indeed to propose to a girl in 
 Aunt Susan's duster ! And then " she 
 looked at him shyly "you see it has been 
 my coronation robe ! "
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 1 
 
 MISS SUSAN DAVIS stood by the 
 table, with an open letter in her hand. 
 She was blushing painfully. It was not a 
 pretty blush, but a sort of brick-dust color 
 that seemed to suffuse her whole anatomy. 
 
 "It's come sort o' sudden at last," she 
 gasped, " sort o' sudden. Hiram says he 's 
 a-coming on 'bout the last o' the month, and 
 he wants to be married on Thanksgiving 
 Day, and take me back with him. It kind 
 o' gives me a turn." 
 
 "Well," said her sister, as she gave the 
 last parting thump to a towel she was 
 ironing, " you 've had time enough to look 
 forward to it in." 
 
 This was true, for Miss Susan had been 
 engaged twelve years. She was not a young 
 woman at the beginning of her romance, and 
 she looked older to-day than her thirty-nine 
 years warranted, as she stood clutching her 
 letter, while the uncompromising morning sun 
 lighted her sallow face. Her lips were moving 
 
 1 Reprinted from " Harper's Bazar."
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 tremulously. Her sandy hair was streaked 
 with gray, and it had grown thin around her 
 temples and in the part. Her features were 
 sharp, though good and honest. She was 
 tall and thin, with that- peculiar spareness 
 and rigidity of outline by which certain old 
 maids seem to announce their estate to 
 society at large. 
 
 She had not been quite so plain and 
 scrawny when Hiram Brown asked her to 
 marry him twelve years ago, although she 
 had never been pretty. She could not marry 
 him then; her plain duty seemed to forbid 
 it, and she was one of those conscientious 
 souls to whom violation of duty was more 
 painful than the sacrifice of happiness. 
 
 Her wedding had always shone before her 
 a future possibility. To-day it suddenly 
 took shape as a present reality. She sighed 
 a little heavily, and looked appealingly at 
 her sister. 
 
 " I 'm all ready," she said falteringly. 
 " There won't be much to do." 
 
 Her sister went to the stove and put down 
 her iron without answering; then, without 
 getting another, she came back to the table 
 and looked at Miss Susan. 
 
 She was the older woman of the two, and
 
 236 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 she had been the prettier. Faint traces of 
 attractiveness still lingered in her eyes and 
 in the corners of her mouth. She was a 
 widow, and she had had a great deal of 
 trouble. Poverty, a worthless husband, and 
 the death of several children had been among 
 her trials. They had left her with a shrill 
 tone in her voice and a pessimistic way of 
 looking at life generally. 
 
 " There '11 be enough to do," she said to 
 her sister, sharply. " There always is when 
 weddings is going on. There 's the raisins 
 to seed, and the citron to cut, and the cur- 
 rants to wash, and the spices to grind, 
 and the ham to boil, and the hull house to 
 clean, and all to be got through with by 
 Thanksgiving.". 
 
 Miss Susan looked at her humbly. She 
 felt ashamed to be the cause of so much 
 unusual work. "We can have Sarah Ann 
 Tyler in to help," she suggested meekly. 
 
 "And I'll help too," cried a young girl, 
 springing up from her seat near the window. 
 It was she who had been down-town and 
 brought home the mail. Her arms were full 
 of bundles, and she had been reading some 
 letters of her own. She was Miss Susan's 
 niece, her sister's only child. She was
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 237 
 
 very pretty, and she looked particularly sweet 
 as she stood before her aunt with her eager 
 offer of help. 
 
 " I think it will be lovely," she said. " I '11 
 fill the house with golden-rod and autumn 
 leaves." 
 
 Then she laughed a little and looked mis- 
 chievously at her aunt; but it never occurred 
 to Miss Susan that the " sere and yellow 
 leaf" would be rather too appropriate a 
 decoration at her delayed nuptials. She was 
 very thankful for a little sympathy. 
 
 " You 're real good, Alice," she said grate- 
 fully. " I guess we '11 get through with it 
 somehow." 
 
 She sighed heavily as she left the kitchen 
 and went upstairs to her own little chamber. 
 The ceiling sloped on one side nearly to the 
 floor ; but the sun came in brightly through 
 the one window, which was an eastern one, 
 and the whitewashed walls were very clean. 
 It was a hot little room in summer, and a 
 cold one in winter, and never convenient at 
 any time ; but Miss Susan loved it very 
 dearly/ She had lived the better part of her 
 life in it. She looked all around it with a 
 tender, mournful glance. 
 
 " Seems like I could n't never feel to home
 
 238 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 in any other room," she murmured ; and the 
 tears started in her faded blue eyes. 
 
 She went to the window and looked out. 
 " Westconsin 's awful far away," she said to 
 herself as she gazed at a big white cloud 
 which was sailing westward, with a troubled 
 look. It was in Wisconsin that her lover 
 lived, but Miss Susan always spoke of it as 
 Westcons'm. She seemed to feel vaguely 
 that the State of Consin was divided into 
 two parts, East and West, like North and 
 South Dakota. 
 
 She turned back and surveyed her little 
 room again. There was a rag carpet on the 
 floor, and a big old-fashioned cherry bureau 
 stood in one corner. She went to this, and 
 from its enormous upper drawer began to 
 take out little piles of underclothing. These 
 she arranged in an orderly manner upon the 
 patchwork quilt which covered her bed. 
 
 " Some of 'em '11 have to be done up over 
 again," she said, as she examined the gar- 
 ments critically ; " but they won't none of 
 'em have to be bleached." 
 
 She had made them at different times dur- 
 ing her long years of waiting. When the 
 prospect of her marriage had seemed nearer, 
 as it had occasionally, she had plied her
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 239 
 
 needle. They represented months of patient 
 labor. She touched them almost reverently. 
 They had been washed and bleached occa- 
 sionally, as time laid a yellowing touch upon 
 them, but never worn. They were infinitely 
 more pathetic in their uselessness than the 
 treasured clothes of some dead darling, 
 for they, at least, have served, a human life. 
 Miss Susan's never had. They had been 
 kept while she waited for the life that never 
 came. It seemed hardly possible to her that 
 she should wear them now. She heard her 
 niece in the next room singing to herself as 
 she opened and shut her bureau drawers, 
 putting away her things and changing her 
 dress. 
 
 " Alice," she called huskily, " come here." 
 
 The girl appeared at the door half dressed. 
 Her white neck and arms were bare, and her 
 pretty feet and ankles showed beneath her 
 short skirt. 
 
 " I '11 come in a minute, Aunt Sue," she 
 said ; " soon as I get a dress on." 
 
 Miss Susan watched her wistfully. She 
 was not envious, she was not unhappy; only 
 in a dull sort of way she saw the girl's beauty, 
 and realized that it was a fitter dower for a 
 happy bride than her own faded looks. She
 
 240 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 went to her little glass, hung high over a 
 shelf, which had never reflected anything 
 below her shoulders. The rest of her person 
 she had always dressed by faith. She was 
 still looking at herself when her niece entered. 
 
 " Alice," she said, in a shamefaced way, 
 " do you think you could bang my hair like 
 yours ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered the girl. " Sit 
 down and let's see." 
 
 She drew out the hair-pins from the thin 
 grayish hair, and pulled a. portion of it 
 forward. 
 
 " I '11 have to cut it pretty far back to make 
 it thick enough," she said. 
 
 " I don't care," responded her aunt, 
 meekly. " Of course I want to look as good 
 as I can," she added, by way of apology. 
 
 " You Ve been engaged a long time, haven't 
 you, Aunt Sue ? " asked the girl, as she plied 
 the brush and comb. 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Susan ; " over twelve 
 years. You see, I could n't leave ma there 
 at first. That was before your father died, 
 and sister Alviry and you came home to 
 live, and I was the only one ma had. Then 
 Hiram's father died, and he had to help his 
 ma a spell, while the little children was
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 241 
 
 young. Then when sister Alviry came home, 
 she was that sickly I did n't dare leave her. 
 But she's perked up wonderfully this last 
 year. I don't see as any one needs me now. 
 I guess I can go jest as well as not. Land's 
 sakes, child ! you aint a-cutting all the hair 
 off my head, are you ? " 
 
 Some long locks had fallen in her lap. 
 She looked up alarmed. 
 
 " It 's all right," said Alice, reassuringly. 
 " It isn't exactly like mine, but I hope you '11 
 like it." 
 
 Miss Susan rose and looked in the glass. 
 The stiff, straight, half gray bang which con- 
 fronted her certainly was unlike the soft 
 yellow curls that rested over her niece's 
 white forehead 
 
 " What do you think of it, Alice ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 "I think it will look better if you'll curl it 
 a little," answered Alice, diplomatically. 
 
 Miss Susan looked back at her reflected 
 image in grim silence. " Well, / think it 's 
 awful," she said solemnly. " I look as 
 much homelier than I did before as nothing; 
 and I sha' n't curl it neither. I Ve made 
 a fool enough of myself. I 'm enough to 
 scare a dog, and I deserve it. Serves me 
 16
 
 242 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 right, a-trying to prune my feathers at my 
 age." 
 
 Miss Susan often made a mistake in a 
 simple word, and frequently hit upon a 
 better substitute. In the present instance she 
 meant " preen," but " prune " was certainly 
 more effective. She had undoubtedly been 
 " pruned." 
 
 " I 'm sorry," said Alice, regretfully. 
 " Why, I don't think it looks so bad at all." 
 
 " 'T aint your fault, child ; I asked you to 
 do it. There ! I aint a-going to think about 
 it any more. P'r'aps they wear bangs more 
 out in Westconsin. Maybe it won't look so 
 bad to Hiram." 
 
 She put away her brush and comb with 
 the decision of one who leaves his folly 
 behind him. 
 
 " Alice," she said suddenly, " I want to 
 show you my stun-colored silk." 
 
 The girl watched her with much interest as 
 she unlocked a large trunk that stood in her 
 room, and took from the bottom of it a care- 
 fully done-up package. It was her unmade 
 wedding dress, purchased years ago, and 
 cared for ever since, so that it should n't 
 crack in the creases. It was a sort of slaty 
 gray; but Miss Susan, with a lofty con-
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 243 
 
 tempt for all geological differences, always 
 spoke of it as " stun-colored." 
 
 " My black silk was made up seven years 
 ago," she said cheerfully ; " but I hain't never 
 worn it, and a good black silk don't get out 
 of style. Would you have this skirt made 
 plain, Alice ? " she asked, a few moments 
 later ; " or does it require a flounce ? " She 
 stroked the shining breadths of the well-kept 
 silk as she spoke. 
 
 " Are you going to trim it with anything? " 
 asked Alice. 
 
 "Well, I don't know. 'Lizabeth Mallory, 
 she had her wedding dress trimmed with 
 gathered ruffles o' lace, the thinnest stuff, 
 just as thin as a rail. But I have n't got 
 anything 'cept ruffles of the same, and the 
 marks of the stitches never will come out, 
 when I want to make it over. I was think- 
 ing, Alice," she added bashfully, " that I 'd 
 wear a little white tulle, and a few white 
 chrysanthemums, and my cameo pin, that 
 was ma's. I Ve thought of it for years, 
 narcissuses if it happened in the spring, 
 white roses in the summer, and chrysanthe- 
 mums in the fall. Don't you think they '11 
 last till then? That pot in the west window's 
 only begun to bloom."
 
 244 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 " Yes," said Alice, while some unaccus- 
 tomed feeling stirred at her heart, "yes, 
 dear Aunt Sue, I 'm sure they '11 last." 
 
 They planned the making of the important 
 " stun-color" still further ; and when Miss 
 Susan went down-stairs her heart was lighter 
 than it had been at any time since the arri- 
 val of her lover's letter. She had forgotten 
 all about the unfortunate cut of her bang ; 
 tut her sister gave her a comprehensive 
 glance as she came in, and exclaimed, with 
 much earnestness, 
 
 " How you do look ! " 
 
 " I know,"" answered Miss Susan, quite 
 impersonally. "Aint it awful? I look as 
 old as Methuselum ! " 
 
 Those were busy days that followed in the 
 little brown house at the head of the street. 
 Two lilac bushes stood sentinel by the door, 
 and they rustled their rusty leaves as if they 
 were comparing notes over the strange pro- 
 ceedings. More people passed between them 
 on their way to and from the little gate than 
 had ever passed before. 
 
 The very hens seemed to feel that some- 
 thing was going on which affected, perhaps 
 even threatened, their very lives. They 
 seemed to scratch in a more subdued way.
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 245 
 
 Miss Susan fed them carefully, as she had 
 done every morning for years. She was 
 very fond of her hens, though she had never 
 seen any particular use in roosters. 
 
 " They just strut round and crow, and seem 
 to distract the hens," she said ; and she had 
 innocently tried to get along without them, 
 but had finally yielded to custom enough to 
 harbor one quiet, rather depressed-looking 
 cock, who was n 't, as she expressed it, " for- 
 ever a-cock-a-doodle-ling." 
 
 " Poor creeturs ! " Miss Susan would say, 
 as she fed her chickens. " Poor creeturs ! 
 Seems kind o' heartless to go off and leave 
 you ; and Speckley there, she aint half so 
 peart as common. I always kind o' depended 
 on her." 
 
 She tried, poor soul, to extend her watch- 
 ful care into the future. " Alviry," she said 
 suddenly, one day, "them little peach-trees 
 down by the pump ought to be drafted next 
 spring." 
 
 Her sister had no vision of them marching 
 off to war, as the words implied ; she simply 
 understood what Miss Susan meant. 
 
 " I '11 see to that," she exclaimed, so sharply 
 that Miss Susan, who had several more sug- 
 gestions to make, was silent, and went on
 
 246 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 stoning her raisins, simply remarking, after 
 the lapse of some moments, that if there was 
 one thing she did hate, it was " gritty cake." 
 
 The " stun-colored " silk had been made 
 up, the minister notified, and the guests 
 invited. 
 
 " It 's the last Monday ! " gasped Miss 
 Susan, " the last Monday. It don't seem 
 right not to have washing going on." 
 
 She had not seemed to thrive under the 
 various preparations. She looked thinner 
 and more anxious than ever, and there was a 
 hunted, appealing expression in her eyes, as 
 if she were more in dread of the future than 
 rejoicing over it. 
 
 " I declare to goodness," said her sister one 
 morning, "you put me all out of patience, 
 Susan. You go round as if you was waiting 
 for your funeral 'stead of your wedding. 
 Can't you chirk up a little?" 
 
 Miss Susan stood by the kitchen table, her 
 pan of chicken-feed in her hand. " Of 
 course I 'm goin' to be very happy," she said 
 tremulously; " but I never was married 
 before, and it came so sudden at the last. 
 I mistrust I aint used to the idee yet." 
 
 " And marriage is an awful lottery anyway, 
 isn't it, Aunt Sue?" chimed in Alice, who
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 247 
 
 had just come in. She had gone out early 
 to do some errands. There was a tall young 
 man with her, and she looked up at him 
 saucily as she spoke. He had been with her 
 a great deal lately, and had helped them all 
 in many little ways to prepare for Miss 
 Susan's wedding. 
 
 " Alice," he said meaningly, " you stop 
 your fooling while I speak to your mother. 
 Mrs. Putnam, I I ' he began, with a 
 visible effort ; then he stopped and cleared his 
 throat. 
 
 Alice laughed at him. " Oh, you great 
 silly ! " she said. " Mother, he thinks you 're 
 so fond of weddings that you 'd like to have 
 another in the family. Aunt Sue, he wants 
 to make you a wedding present of a nephew. 
 There now, see if you can't do the rest your- 
 self," and she ran off laughing, but with her 
 face aflame. 
 
 " I want to know ! " gasped poor Miss 
 Susan. 
 
 " Well, this beats me ! " said Mrs. Putnam. 
 
 The two old ladies dropped their arms by 
 their sides as if by a common impulse, and 
 turned and stared fixedly at the young man. 
 
 He fumbled the brim of his hat nervously. 
 " You see, Mrs. Putnam," he began, " I Ve
 
 248 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 wanted Alice to marry me for a long time ; 
 but first she 'd say yes, and then she 'd say 
 no, and it was n't until last evening that I 
 got her to say she would as if she really 
 meant it, and to say I might tell you. So I 
 came up the first thing to have the matter 
 settled before she changed her mind again. 
 Alice is the sweetest girl I ever saw, but she 
 does seem so slippery." 
 
 A low derisive laugh floated down the 
 stairs. 
 
 " Why, Henry Morgan," said Mrs. Putnam, 
 " you just take my breath away. Alice aint 
 no more fit to be married than a baby. She 
 can't make bread ; she don't know a thing 
 about housekeeping." 
 
 "Yes I do too," cried a voice from the 
 head of the stairs. " I can boil eggs and 
 make sponge-cake, and Henry says he 's will- 
 ing to live on those awhile." 
 
 " I don't care, Mrs. Putnam," said the 
 young man, earnestly. " We can board, if 
 Alice would rather. I Ve got plenty to take 
 care of her with. You know father left me 
 the place and five thousand dollars besides, 
 and they raised my salary last spring. If I 
 can only have Alice, I '11 do my best to make 
 her happy."
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 249 
 
 " Why, Henry," said Mrs. Putnam, kindly, 
 " I haint no objection that I know of. You've 
 always been reported well-behaved and 
 steady. I 'm sure I 'm glad enough to have 
 you marry Alice, for I know you '11 do well 
 by her, only I am so took by surprise." 
 
 Miss Susan had not spoken during this 
 conversation. Her eyes filled slowly under 
 her rampant bang. " I guess I '11 go out 
 and feed the chickens," she murmured softly. 
 " Poor creeturs ! poor creeturs ! " she said, as 
 they came clucking around her ; " that's the 
 way they ought to feel, I suppose. Shoo, 
 there ! Now, Speckley, don't you go and fail 
 me; I just need all the help I can get. So 
 lovin' and eager ! Yes, that 's the way to feel. 
 Poor creeturs ! " 
 
 Whether the chickens understood her 
 rather incoherent remarks or not, she certainly 
 was comforted and strengthened herself; 
 and she went back through the shed and 
 into the kitchen of the little brown house, 
 strong to bear whatever ordeal was before 
 her. But the ordeal took an unexpected 
 shape. It came in the guise of a letter on 
 Wednesday morning, the day before the wed- 
 ding day. It was a letter from Hiram. Miss 
 Susan had been expecting him, and she said
 
 250 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 as she took the letter, " This is to tell 
 when he '11 come, most likely ; but he '11 get 
 here now 'bout as soon as his letter." 
 
 Alice was pinning up golden-rod on the 
 curtains. " It's such an obliging flower," she 
 said to Henry Morgan, who was helping her ; 
 " it stays just where you put it, and it does n't 
 fade." 
 
 Miss Susan opened her letter and read it 
 eagerly. Then she turned very white. She 
 sank down by the side of a little table, threw 
 her arms across it, and buried her face in 
 them. " Oh, my good Lord ! " she cried, 
 " my good Lord ! " 
 
 There was a moment of startled silence. 
 Then Mrs. Putnam ran to her. " Susan, 
 Susan, whatever is the matter?" She put 
 her hands on her sister's bowed shoulders and 
 gave her a little shake. 
 
 Miss Susan roused herself with a start, and 
 sat up very straight. Her face was red, and 
 her unfortunate bang stuck out in a fierce 
 defiant sort of way. There were no tears 
 in her eyes. "Hiram aint a-coming," 
 she gasped ; " he 's a-going to marry some 
 other woman. There aint going to be any 
 wedding here at all. Alice, you stop pinning 
 up that golden-rod ! Alviry, don't you bake
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 2$l 
 
 all that bread we Ve got in sponge ; we won't 
 need no sandwiches." Then she rose. There 
 was a certain terrible dignity about her. 
 " You can read his letter," she said, " and 
 don't you, one o' you, ever speak his name 
 to me again ! " 
 
 She went up the narrow stairs, and they 
 heard her go into her own little room and 
 shut the door. Then in awe-struck silence 
 they came together and picked up the fatal 
 letter, which Alice read aloud. 
 
 It was the despairing letter of a weak but 
 not a wicked man. There had been another 
 woman it seemed, who had a claim upon him. 
 Mrs. Putnam and Alice, in their simplicity 
 and ignorance, could no more understand the 
 nature of this claim than poor Miss Susan 
 had done. But Henry Morgan guessed the 
 truth. 
 
 " He 's a scoundrel, a villain ! " he said 
 passionately. " I would like to horsewhip 
 him ! " 
 
 The writer spoke of this woman as 
 " another lady," and said, with a sort of 
 pathos, that she was " cutting up awful," 
 when she heard he was going to be married. 
 He went on :
 
 252 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 She says she '11 have the law on me ; and I don't 
 feel that she '11 ever let me be in peace, even if I 
 was married to you. I wish I was dead. There 
 aint anything I can say. I 'm so 'shamed of what 
 I done, I don't feel as if I could look any one in 
 the face again. We had to wait too long, Susan, 
 that was the trouble. If I could have married you 
 ten years ago, it would all have been right. But I 
 never meant to treat you like this. I meant to be 
 honest and keep my word. I wish I was dead and 
 the grass growing over me. She says she '11 shoot 
 me, and you too, if I marry you. I aint good 
 enough for you, I never was. Don't take it too 
 much to heart, and if I can ever do anything for 
 you, let me know. 
 
 Respectfully yours, 
 
 HIRAM. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " said Mrs. Putnam ; " if 
 that aint too mean ! And the cake all made, 
 and Susan all ready! What '11 folks say? 
 Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! " And she put her 
 apron over her face and began to cry. 
 
 " I 'm glad of it ! " said Alice, with a sort 
 of divination. " It 's better so." 
 
 Her mother put down her apron in aston- 
 ishment. " Why, Alice Putnam, how you 
 talk ! I guess you would n't like any one to 
 be saying such things about you and Henry."
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 253 
 
 The girl colored, and glanced at her lover 
 timidly. " It is different," she said softly. 
 Then she added: "Henry, we mustn't be 
 together much before Aunt Susan now. It 
 seems sort of insulting, prancing 'round, show- 
 ing how happy we are, when she 's had such 
 a blow. Let 's take down all the golden-rod, 
 and get everything out of sight, and make 
 the rooms look natural before she comes 
 down." 
 
 So they went to work, removing all traces 
 of the wedding preparations. No sound 
 came from that closed chamber overhead. 
 At dinner-time Alice went up softly and 
 knocked on the door. 
 
 " Won't you have a cup of tea, Aunt Sue ? " 
 she said gently. " I Ve brought you one, 
 and a piece of pie." 
 
 " Put 'em down on the floor, Alice," 
 answered Miss Susan, in a clear, composed 
 voice. " I 'm a-ripping up my stun-colored 
 silk." 
 
 Alice went down and told her mother. 
 She held up both hands in amazement. 
 
 " Ripping up her stun-colored silk ! " she 
 screamed. " I call that real sinful. She 's 
 just paid Sarah Ann Tyler four dollars for 
 making it up, and never so much as had it
 
 254 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 on her back. Seems as if I ought to go up 
 and reason with her." 
 
 " I 'd rip it up and cut it into inch pieces 
 too, if I was her," said Alice, defiantly. 
 
 " Then you 'd be sillier than usual," said 
 her mother, with cool contempt. 
 
 It was after tea before Miss Susan finally 
 emerged. She had put back her bang ; that 
 is, she had tried to, but several rebellious 
 locks stood out at right angles to her fore- 
 head, as straight and curlless as pine needles. 
 
 She walked down through the sitting-room 
 and out into the kitchen, her empty plate 
 and cup and saucer in her hand. " I guess 
 I '11 let them stand till morning," she 
 remarked casually, as she put them down on 
 the table ; " 't aint worth while getting out 
 the dish-pan for so few." She passed through 
 the shed and out into the yard. 
 
 " I believe she 's gone to the hen-coop," 
 said Mrs. Putnam, in an excited whisper. 
 " She always did seem to get more comfort 
 out of them hens than anything else." 
 
 " Don't speak to her," said Alice, " until 
 she speaks, and then just answer her as if 
 nothing had happened." 
 
 When Miss Susan returned, Henry and 
 Alice were conspicuously seated on opposite
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 255 
 
 sides of the table, Alice engaged in looking 
 at a sea-shell which had been a parlor orna- 
 ment ever since she was born, while Henry 
 was poring intently over the family photo- 
 graph-album. 
 
 Mrs. Putnam sat on the sofa, .hemming 
 a dish-cloth, with an elaborate air of 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 Miss Susan stood in the doorway a moment 
 and surveyed them. " I never thought I 'd 
 say what I 'm going to," she said at last ; " it 
 seems indecent; but I can't have you sitting 
 around this way, acting as if I was a piece of 
 cracked chiny that you 'd got to handle 
 mighty gingerly or it would drop all to 
 pieces. I aint so breakly. I want to tell 
 you that / 'm glad of it. There ! do you 
 hear? I'm glad of it ; and I aint a-saying 
 this either just to put on airs, and pretend I 
 don't care. Of course I feel as if I 'd been 
 hit right in the face, and that aint pleasant ; 
 but if there was n't no other way out of it 
 but just this, I would rather it had come so 
 than not at all. I Ve felt awful 'bout getting 
 married. No one knows how bad unless it 's 
 Speckley ; and I declare it seems to me some- 
 times as if that creetur understood. You 
 see," she said, eying the young people before
 
 256 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 her rather wistfully, " I guess marriage is 
 something like the measles and the whooping- 
 cough, you Ve got to take it young if you 
 want to have it easy. Now 'twould have 
 gone terrible hard with me. Seems as 
 if I could n't leave the old house and my 
 room and the back yard and the chickens 
 noway, and Westconsin was so far to go ! " 
 She choked for a second, and 'sniffed a little. 
 Then she recovered herself and went on : 
 " Of course I 'm just as ashamed as a goat 
 'bout it all. I don't know what to say to 
 folks, and there 's them five casters and all 
 my other presents to go back. I think I '11 
 just say, good and plain, that Hiram jilted 
 me. I could n't stand it at all if I was hurt 
 inside and ashamed outside both ; but, you 
 see, I aint. I 'm just as glad in my heart, 
 just as glad as anything. It 's a pity 'bout 
 the cake, though,, it got such a good bake. 
 I suppose I could sell it down at that new 
 store, the Women's Estranged they call 
 it ; but I made that cake for myself, and it 
 kind of makes me wreathe to think of strange 
 jaws chewing it." She looked at them a 
 minute in silence, then a sudden twinkle 
 gleamed in her blue faded eyes. " You two 
 could n't make it convenient to get mar-
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 ried to-morrow, could you, and use that 
 cake?" 
 
 The color swept over Alice's face as if she 
 had suddenly stood in the glare of a red 
 light. " Oh, Aunt Sue ! " she cried ; " how 
 could you ? How could you? " 
 
 But Henry rose excitedly. " Aunt Sue," 
 he exclaimed, " you 're a brick ! We will ! 
 Alice, we must ! we will ! It 's the very 
 thing! What's the use of waiting? It 
 will help Aunt Sue more than anything we 
 could do? Don't you see? Say you will, 
 Alice, say you will." 
 
 He had his arm around her, urging her 
 with great earnestness ; but Alice put both 
 hands before her face and gasped, " Why, 
 it 's perfectly dreadful ! I would n't for any- 
 thing ! I can't, I can't ! " 
 
 Miss Susan watched them wearily. " Alice," 
 she said simply, " put down your hands and 
 look at poor Henry. He 's bitin' his nails 
 clear to the wick, he 's so excited. Listen to 
 what he says. 'T aint best to wait too long. 
 If you could make it convenient, why, there 's 
 the ham all boiled and everything ready. 
 We need n't nullify the minister, nor any- 
 thing; just let things go on as they was 
 a-going. And Alice, if there 's anything o' 
 17
 
 258 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 
 
 mine you want, you 're welcome to it, though 
 judging by my bang, I don't think your 
 things become me, and 'taint likely mine 
 would you. I did n't rip up my black silk, 
 and I 'd like real well to wear it at your 
 wedding." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then left them, 
 Alice obstinate and unyielding, Henry eager 
 and determined. Alice declared again and 
 again that she never could think of it ; but to 
 Henry it seemed a rare and unique chance 
 to obtain possession of the girl whom he had 
 loved for so long, but whom he had aptly 
 called " slippery." Her coquetry had hurt 
 him, and almost driven him away in the past, 
 and he was afraid of it in the future. It 
 seemed a case of now or never with him, and 
 he pressed his suit with all the ardor that he 
 possessed. He conquered finally, Alice pro- 
 testing to the last minute that she never 
 would. 
 
 And so the Thanksgiving wedding came 
 off as expected in the little brown house, 
 only with a slight change in the dramatis 
 persona. 
 
 When it was over, and the bride and groom 
 were starting, Miss Susan ran down to the 
 carriage for a last good -by.
 
 A THANKSGIVING WEDDING. 259 
 
 " Don't you worry 'bout me, Alice," she 
 said. " I 'm so glad it 's you instead of me, 
 I could just shout for joy! It's been a real 
 Thanksgiving to me, I can tell you. I never 
 was so thankful for all my mercies before. 
 I shall feel just like myself by the time 
 my bang grows out, only contenteder. 
 Good-by now, and mind that you owe Henry 
 all your allurements in everything." 
 
 With which enigmatical remark she retired 
 to the porch, from which she threw a well- 
 worn prunello slipper after the retreating 
 carriage. 
 
 Then she re-entered her home with a glad 
 and thankful heart.
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 1 
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON had had a 
 legacy left her. All Mortonville was 
 talking about it, and no one was more sur- 
 prised than Miss Polly herself. 
 
 It came from an uncle of hers, who had 
 made a large fortune out of patent pills. 
 With delightful irony, he endowed a medical 
 college at his death with the bulk of his for- 
 tune; and then, nobody could tell how or 
 why, he seemed to have remembered Miss 
 Polly, and as if in partial atonement for a 
 life of neglect, he had left a certain sum to 
 his " dear niece, for her use and behoof for- 
 ever." It was not a large sum, but to Miss 
 Polly it seemed enormous. She felt all at 
 once the responsibility of being an heiress. 
 
 She had never seen this uncle but twice, 
 once when, as a very little child, she had 
 gone to his house in the city, and he had 
 sharply rebuked her for handling a glass 
 paper-weight made in imitation of a very 
 red and yellow apple. That glass apple had 
 
 1 Reprinted from " Harper's Bazar."
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 26 1 
 
 hung like forbidden fruit all through Miss 
 Polly's childhood. She remembered how 
 very red and shiny it was, and how beetling 
 her uncle's shaggy eyebrows were, and how 
 gruff his voice when he told her not to touch 
 it Sometimes, quite late in life, Miss Polly 
 could scarcely bring herself to bite certain 
 real apples which looked particularly red 
 and glasslike, so strong was the remembrance 
 of her early rebuke. 
 
 Then, when her mother died, she had sent 
 her uncle word; and to her great surprise 
 he had come to Mortonville to the funeral. 
 He left immediately after it was over; but 
 not before he had called Miss Polly into his 
 presence, and had looked at her sharply, 
 remarking critically, and with the freedom 
 of a near relative, that she " looked sallow." 
 Then he had given her a check for fifty dol- 
 lars, and departed. Miss Polly was indignant, 
 and it was some time before she could bring 
 herself to use the money. A gift coupled 
 with such a personal reflection seemed to 
 lose all its value and become an insult. 
 
 Still, although these two somewhat un- 
 pleasant occasions were the only ones Miss 
 Polly could remember when she had met her 
 uncle, she felt it her duty (in view of the
 
 262 MISS POLLY A THE 'R TON'S BELL. 
 
 legacy) to put on mourning for him. So 
 she resurrected from the garret the family 
 veil of rusty crape that had done duty at 
 all the Atherton funerals in the past. She 
 pinned her little black shawl tight around 
 her, and walked with a dignified gait, quite 
 unlike her usual brisk, nipping walk. She 
 deemed this more suitable for a mourner. 
 Her friends all came and called on her, 
 bringing sympathy and congratulations, but 
 it must be confessed being more liberal with 
 the latter. 
 
 Miss Polly suddenly found herself a person 
 of much importance in a social way; yet 
 when the minister called on a cold October 
 day, she did not allow her altered circum- 
 stances to interfere with her good common- 
 sense. She looked at him a minute as he 
 stood in the doorway, rather pinched and 
 blue with the cold, and then she said heart- 
 ily, " I aint a-going to make you set in 
 the parlor without a fire; you come right 
 out to the kitchen where I was a-setting. 
 You know what parlors looks like anyway," 
 which he did to his sorrow, poor young man, 
 having shivered in them too often ever to 
 forget their appearance. 
 
 So she went before him into the clean,
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S SELL. 263 
 
 sunny kitchen, drew a chair up before the 
 stove, and hospitably opened the oven door. 
 
 " There," she said, " jist put your feet 
 inside and git 'em het up a bit." 
 
 She walked around to the other side of the 
 stove, where the door was already open, and 
 seated herself. The minister smiled above 
 the stove lids at her. He had never occupied 
 the same oven, so to speak, with Miss Polly 
 before ; but he was not surprised. She was 
 the oddest sheep in his somewhat hetero- 
 geneous flock. He was rather a young 
 shepherd to have a flock at all, a fair-faced, 
 slim collegian, who had come to Mortonville 
 about a year before, greatly impressed with a 
 sense of his own responsibility and the 
 dignity of his office. 
 
 He was "an Episcopal," at least Miss Polly 
 and the majority of his congregation called 
 him that. Miss Polly was scarcely to blame 
 for the inaccuracy, for she had been brought 
 up within the Presbyterian fold, and had only 
 strayed from it recently. There had been 
 some little church quarrel, very petty, very 
 wordy, and very bitter ; and Miss Polly, with 
 half a dozen others, had left the church, 
 shaking the dust from her feet, and feeling 
 relentlessly antagonistic toward her old asso-
 
 264 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 ciates. The Episcopal graft flowered strangely 
 upon the Presbyterian stock, and among all 
 his congregation no one was more interesting 
 to the Rev. William Gray than Miss Polly 
 Atherton. 
 
 He looked across the stove at her now, and 
 said, smiling, " Miss Atherton, I hear you 
 have become an heiress. I want to congratu- 
 late you." 
 
 Miss Polly sniffed. " I was n't expecting 
 it," she said slowly. "It's come upon me 
 awful sudden." 
 
 " It will be a delightful thing for you in a 
 great many ways," said the clergyman. " It 
 will enable you to do for others ; and that I 
 know has always been one of your greatest 
 pleasures." 
 
 Miss Polly gave a deprecatory cough, and 
 seemed to be tracing an intricate pattern 
 with her forefinger on the copper reservoir. 
 
 "Was your uncle a Churchman?" asked 
 the Rev. Mr. Gray. 
 
 "A what?" asked Miss Polly, doubtfully. 
 She had never quite grasped the full meaning 
 of that word. 
 
 " A Churchman," he repeated, " an 
 Episcopalian." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered ; " Uncle Seth
 
 MISS POLLY A THE R TON'S BELL. 26$ 
 
 was the What do you call it? It's got 
 something to do with clothes ; 't aint pants 
 nor coats, though. Oh, I know, the vestory. 
 He was that." 
 
 It was Mr. Gray's turn to cough now. 
 " Was he indeed ? " he said, after a minute. 
 " Miss Atherton, I have been thinking that 
 you might like to put some memorial of your 
 uncle into the church. If you should, I 
 should be most happy to assist you in any 
 way." 
 
 Miss Polly stared at him blankly. " Some- 
 thing to remember him by, do you mean?" 
 she said. 
 
 " Yes, partly. Something commemorating 
 his life and good works ; something emblem- 
 atic and appropriate, you know." 
 
 Her brain whirled. If she had been asked 
 at that moment to furnish an appropriate 
 emblem for her uncle, she could have thought 
 of nothing but a red-glass paper-weight In 
 the shape of an apple ; and even to her 
 bewildered mind that appeared an unusual 
 as well as an unchurchly decoration. 
 
 "What was the character of your uncle, 
 Miss Atherton ? Was he more conspicuous 
 for faith or works ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she answered vaguely ;
 
 266 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 " he made pills." Then a troubled, embar- 
 rassed look came over her face* She seemed 
 to be struggling with a confession, and 
 finally, with much diffidence, she said : " I 
 don't know as I ought to mention it, but it 
 don't seem right for you not to know. Them 
 was liver pills that my uncle made, and twice, 
 when I was a-feeling a little bilious, I bought 
 some and took 'em, and they never did me 
 the least mite of good. I Ve heard other 
 folks say the same thing, and my opinion is 
 that they was a humbug." 
 
 She brought out the words strongly. It is 
 a serious thing to blacken a man's character 
 after he is dead, and this is what it seemed 
 to her that she was doing. She was depriv- 
 ing him of h'is memorial, for, of course, Mr. 
 Gray would n't want anything " to remember 
 him by," if his pills were fraudulent. 
 
 Mr. Gray hesitated a minute. " I don't 
 think," he said, " I would allow that to influ- 
 ence me, Miss Atherton. It hardly seems 
 personal enough. If you should decide to 
 present something to our little church in 
 memory of your uncle, I shall be very glad 
 to help you select it. We need new win- 
 dows, a new lectern, in fact, everything; and, 
 above all, a bell."
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON' S BELL. 267 
 
 "Well, I don't know. I'd like to, real 
 well. Seems to me a bell would be the 
 best ; it 's shaped kinder like a pill, you 
 know." 
 
 Mr. Gray rose hastily. " Think it over, 
 Miss Atherton," he said ; " and I will see you 
 again." 
 
 So he left her, and Miss Polly sat alone in 
 her little kitchen in the gathering twilight. 
 She slipped one of the covers of the stove 
 off a little, and the red coals glowed in a 
 fiery semicircle below, giving out a bright 
 light. 
 
 She was fascinated with Mr. Gray's idea. 
 She was by nature a very generous woman, 
 one who would have been a Lady Bountiful 
 but for the stern grip of poverty. Now, all 
 at once, she could know the luxury of giving, 
 and of giving to the church, too. That 
 seemed to her the very summit of benefac- 
 tion. She, Polly Atherton, poor, lonely, and 
 of low estate, could give a bell, bearing her 
 family name, to the church, and the whole 
 congregation would thank her, and all Mor- 
 tonville would hear it ring. It was a very 
 attractive picture. 
 
 " I guess those Presbyterians will wish I 'd 
 stayed in their church," she murmured to her-
 
 268 MISS POLLY A THE R TON'S BELL. 
 
 self, and she sat up very straight and scorn- 
 ful at the thought of them. 
 
 It was an unworthy but a very human 
 thought. She could quite picture her whilom 
 brothers and sisters of the Presbyterian faith 
 in their bell-less meeting-house listening to 
 the Episcopal bell her bell as it floated 
 out in silvery tones upon the Sunday morn- 
 ing air. Yes, she would give one ; she was 
 quite decided and sure about it now. 
 
 Of course, when her intentions became 
 known, she became very interesting and pop- 
 ular. Many people came to see her who had 
 never come before. She was invited to join 
 societies and classes that she had never even 
 heard of, and the congregation of St. John's 
 Church, Mortonville, took her by the hand, 
 as it were, and placed her upon a social pin- 
 nacle. Only one person, old Judge Bryon, 
 expostulated with her. 
 
 " Do you know, Miss Atherton," he said 
 sternly, "that this bell business is going to 
 take about a quarter of the money your 
 uncle left you?" 
 
 "I don't know quite how much it's going 
 to take, judge," she answered ; " but I don't 
 care. Folks spends money differently ; some 
 cares for fine horses and carriages and sich-
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 269 
 
 like, and others puts it all on their backs. 
 Now I expect to live and die in this house. 
 I aint a-goin' to make any change in my manner 
 of living, 'cept I did think I 'd take a quart o' 
 milk a day instead of a pint, and have the 
 front fence painted. And I can't think of 
 anything that '11 please me more than to hear 
 that bell a-ringing and a-pealing out, and to 
 know that I put it there." 
 
 So the judge left her, silenced if not 
 convinced. 
 
 In November Miss Atherton made the 
 most exciting journey of her life, she went 
 to Troy with the Rev. Mr. Gray to select the 
 bell. Their expenses were paid by the con- 
 gregation, and the trip seemed to her to 
 combine all the romance of an elopement 
 with the sanctity of a religious pilgrimage. 
 TQ be sure, Mrs. Howard, the wife of the 
 senior warden, went too ; but that rather 
 added to than lessened Miss Polly's excite- 
 ment. They all lunched together before they 
 went to the factory, where they were 
 expected, and received with every honor. 
 
 Miss Polly was introduced to every one, 
 all questions were referred to her, and it was 
 made plain to everybody that it was through 
 her liberality the bell was to be purchased ;
 
 2/0 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 and she was treated accordingly. There was 
 much to decide upon, - size, shape, and tone, 
 besides the equally important matter to Miss 
 Polly of decoration and inscription. She 
 passed by a bell engraved with I. H. S., 
 innocently remarking that she did n't care 
 for " His " on it. The Rev. Mr. Gray turned 
 almost purple at this; but her thought was 
 reverent enough. She had always supposed 
 so many things in the church were marked 
 His because they belonged to Him, and per- 
 haps this arrangement of the letters was more 
 intelligent and sweet to her than their true 
 significance would have been. 
 
 She finally selected a very beautiful bell, 
 much larger and heavier than she had at first 
 intended to give. There was a little orna- 
 mental beading around the rim of it, but Mr. 
 Gray did not allude to this. He felt sure 
 Miss Polly had picked it out because of this 
 very beading and its unmistakable likeness to 
 pills, and he was only afraid she might men- 
 tion it. 
 
 The inscription, the texts of Scripture, etc., 
 were all arranged, and the little party left, 
 Miss Polly in a perfect ecstasy of happiness. 
 She had thought of it so much that her bell 
 now seemed to her the most important thing 
 in the world.
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 2/1 
 
 It was unfortunate that John Gleason 
 should come to see her just after this trip to 
 Troy. He had been a Mortonville boy years 
 ago, and a great many people thought he 
 would marry Miss Polly. But he didn't; he 
 had married Kate Wygant, and taken her 
 away with him to another State. She had 
 died recently, and John and his children 
 often came back to his old home, where 
 his mother and his wife's mother still 
 lived. Miss Polly was generally glad to 
 see him, but this time his visit seemed like 
 an interruption. 
 
 She told him all about her bell, but he lis- 
 tened indifferently, almost impatiently. She 
 was feeling a little hurt at his lack of sym- 
 pathy, when he suddenly said, 
 
 " Polly, do you remember that sleigh-ride 
 and dancing-party out to Steven's Tavern, 
 just seventeen years ago ? You and me was 
 in a cutter." 
 
 " Yes," she answered ; " I remember." 
 
 "And George Hinckley and his load got 
 upset along there by the Dawson farm, and 
 his sleigh was all knocked into kindling 
 wood, and him and the rest of his party got 
 in wherever they could with the other 
 loads?"
 
 2/2 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 " Yes," she answered again ; " how it all 
 comes back ! " 
 
 " Well, do you remember how Dave 
 Hinckley came and got in with us, set 
 right down between us, and chinned you all 
 the rest of the way home, so I could n't git 
 in a word ? " 
 
 Miss Polly smiled, and nodded. 
 
 " Well," he continued slowly, " I don't 
 know as I ever was so mad at any one as I 
 was at him. You see, Polly, I 'd calculated 
 to say something to you on the way home, 
 got it all planned and fixed, and then that 
 great lummux must needs come piling down 
 on top of us ! And the worst of it was, you 
 seemed to care a great deal more about what 
 he said than, you did about me. I was mad 
 that night, Polly, mad clean through. I just 
 shut my teeth kinder tight, and I says to 
 myself, ' Well, if she wants her Dave Hinck- 
 leys so bad, let her have 'em ; ' and the next 
 day I went off and asked Kate Wygant if 
 she 'd marry me, and she said ' Yes.' " 
 
 He made quite a long pause, and then 
 went on, with a sigh, " 'T aint right to say 
 nothing agin the dead, and Kate made me 
 a good faithful wife ; but, Polly, 't was you I 
 wanted all the time."
 
 MISS POLLY A THE R TON'S BELL. 
 
 He looked at her in silence. Her face 
 grew very red. 
 
 " Polly," he began awkwardly, " is it any 
 use? Is it too late now? I never saw a 
 woman I liked so much as I do you. I know 
 I aint any great shakes, but I 've got a pretty 
 good home ; and if you '11 only come and live 
 in it, and take care of my children, and stay 
 there with me, I think I 'd be the happiest 
 man in all creation." 
 
 Miss Polly covered her face with her hands. 
 " Oh, I can't, I can't ! " she gasped. There 
 was an embarrassed silence. 
 
 "Well," he said resignedly, "I didn't 
 much suppose you would; but why can't 
 you, Polly ? Is it that you don't want to 
 get married anyway, or just that you can't 
 bear me ? " 
 
 Miss Polly shook her head at him mourn- 
 fully. " 'T aint that," she said brokenly ; 
 " but I just can't. I was n't expecting it, and 
 I can't seem to bring my mind to it." 
 
 She spoke more truly than she knew. She 
 was essentially a one-idea person, able to 
 pursue and hold on to that idea with great 
 energy, but not capable of a broad grasp of 
 other subjects at the same time. Of late her 
 relations with the church had completely 
 18
 
 2/4 M7SS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 absorbed her; she could not suddenly turn 
 away from the friends she had made, the 
 honor she was receiving, and from the church 
 whose benefactress she had become. 
 
 She liked John, yes; but her mind 
 moved steadily on in its accustomed track. 
 She could not force it all at once to compre- 
 hend a different life in another place. 
 
 "Well, Polly," said her suitor, patiently, 
 " I aint a-going to give you up jist yet. I 
 need a wife, and my little children want a 
 mother ; but I sha'n't be in a hurry yet 
 awhile. If any time say for six or eight 
 months you should think better of it, you 
 let me know." 
 
 Miss Polly saw nothing ridiculous in his 
 keeping the situation open for her, so to 
 speak. It only struck her that he was very 
 good. 
 
 " Yes," she said slowly, " I '11 let you 
 know." 
 
 "You promise? " 
 
 " Yes, I '11 promise." 
 
 He rose to go, but stood for a few seconds, 
 looking at her. 
 
 "Polly," he said suddenly, "will you kiss 
 me ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear, no ! " she almost screamed, and
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 2/5 
 
 got behind the rocking-chair, while her 
 cheeks burned. 
 
 " Well," he said placidly, " never mind ; I 
 did n't think you would." He held out his 
 hand, and she took it over the back of the 
 chair. " Good-by," he said ; " remember, 
 you've promised." 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " Good-by." He 
 went out into the little hallway, while she 
 stood watching him. When his hand was on 
 the door-knob, she called sharply, " John ! " 
 
 He came back, and she met him at the 
 door of her little parlor. She did not speak, 
 but she was tremulous with excitement. She 
 lifted her face suddenly, and kissed him on 
 the cheek, then fled precipitately down the 
 hall. It was the merest dab of a kiss, badly 
 aimed, imperfectly executed, and abandoned 
 before its completion; but John Gleason 
 went down the street with a queer smile on 
 his face. As for Miss Polly, she sat alone 
 in the twilight for a long time, and cried a 
 little. 
 
 The bell arrived, and was hung in position. 
 It was decided to consecrate it and have it 
 rung for the first time on Christmas Day; but 
 the little parish was honored the last week 
 in Advent by a visit from the Bishop, and
 
 2/6 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 the Rev. Mr. Gray suddenly arranged to have 
 the consecration then. He had frequent and 
 earnest conversations with Miss Polly. He 
 consulted her about the hymns, and several 
 minor points in the service. It was agreed 
 that after the prayer of consecration the bell 
 should be rung, and Mr. Gray thought it 
 would be exceedingly appropriate if Miss 
 Polly should ring it herself. 
 
 She had pledged herself heart and soul to 
 her minister, her church, and her bell, and 
 would have meekly done anything that the 
 first had suggested. She was a little nervous 
 when the day finally came. The Bishop 
 frightened her. His voice was rich and 
 sonorous, and she was not accustomed to 
 that kind of voice ; and then his sleeves 
 seemed to be unnecessarily big. Several 
 clergymen from neighboring parishes had 
 been invited and had come to the service, 
 and there was quite an imposing little pro- 
 cession of white-robed priests. 
 
 Most of the service was held in the 
 church; but at a certain time the Bishop and 
 clergymen, followed by Miss Polly and sev- 
 eral of the congregation, adjourned to the 
 bottom of the tower, where the bell-rope 
 hung, and certain prayers were offered there.
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 277 
 
 Finally the time arrived for her to ring the 
 bell. Mr. Gray touched her gently upon the 
 arm; and she stepped forward, quite rigid 
 with excitement, her mouth compressed, and 
 a pink spot shining on each cheek. It was 
 the supreme moment of her life. She seized 
 the bell-rope well up, and pulled with all 
 her force ; and then, to the astonishment of 
 every one, she slowly left the floor and 
 mounted into the air. The bell was so heavy 
 that in its rebound it lifted her with it. In a 
 few seconds she was back again ; but she 
 never released her grip or relaxed her rigid- 
 ity, so up she went again. Every one was 
 so surprised at this unlooked-for variation to 
 the ceremony that no one did anything. 
 
 " Catch her, Gray, can't you ? " said one of 
 the visiting clergy, who stood behind the 
 rector. 
 
 " Ca-ca-catch what ? " stammered Mr. Gray, 
 who was almost knocked into a state of 
 imbecility by the unexpectedness of the 
 occurrence. 
 
 But just here the good Bishop took a sense 
 of the situation, and stepping forward, seized 
 Miss Polly as she descended for the third 
 time, and forcibly pulled her away from the 
 rope.
 
 2/8 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 The service went on as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. Miss Polly never knew how she got 
 back into the church, nor did she hear when 
 the Bishop referred to her in his address as 
 " that noble-hearted woman." The world was 
 a blank to her. She was conscious of but 
 one thing, and that the most poignant of 
 human emotions, disgrace, intense and 
 acute. All her pride and pleasure, her little 
 harmless vanity, had vanished. She only 
 wanted to get home and cry. At the very 
 proudest moment of her life her happiness 
 had turned to dust and ashes. She went 
 home with a heart-broken, miserable sense 
 of failure. 
 
 Along in the afternoon one of her neigh- 
 bors called, a garrulous, tactless woman, 
 with a high voice, and an inadequate number 
 of front teeth. Miss Polly let her in herself. 
 She was quite pale, and she looked much 
 older than she had done the day before. 
 
 "Well, Miss Atherton," said her visitor, 
 cheerfully, " I jist run in to see how you 
 was. My Mary was down to the church 
 this morning, and she was a-telling me how 
 you went up with the bell. It must have 
 been awful mortifying, before all them 
 people, too. I tried to git Mary to tell me
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 2/9 
 
 all about it, but she could n't see very well, 
 being in the crowd, and so I just thought 
 I 'd come in and ask you yourself." She 
 smiled expansively, exhibiting her one front 
 tooth ; but Miss Polly did not answer. 
 " 'Bout how high did you go up ? " continued 
 the inquisitor, " 'bout so high ? " and she 
 measured off a goodly space on the casing 
 of the door. 
 
 Miss Polly's eyes flashed. It was a little 
 too cruel to expect her to measure off in her 
 own kitchen, on her own door, the exact 
 extent of her calamity. 
 
 " Sarah Louise Taylor," she said solemnly, 
 " I aint a-going to say one word about it ; and 
 if that 's all you come in to see me about, I 
 guess you 'd better be going." 
 
 " Land sakes ! " ejaculated Mrs. Taylor. 
 " How touchy you be ! I did n't mean no 
 harm ; I did n't think you 'd mind." 
 
 " Mind, Sarah Taylor ! " ejaculated Miss 
 
 Polly, " mind ! I guess you 'd mind if you 
 
 went a-galloping up in the air before the 
 
 Bishop and all the folks like a a like a 
 
 -vulture!" 
 
 She brought out the last word with cumu- 
 lative energy, and seemed to like the sound 
 of it. Nevertheless she refused to discuss
 
 280 MISS POLLY A THE R TON'S BELL. 
 
 her accident any further, and after a short 
 call her visitor left. 
 
 When she had gone, a great loneliness fell 
 upon Miss Polly, for the Valley of Humilia- 
 tion is a lonely place, and she was walking 
 through it now. Her sense of mortification 
 and disgrace became so strong that it did 
 not seem as if she could endure it. Her 
 soul cried out for a little love and sympathy, 
 if only to restore her self-respect. It is the 
 " stricken deer," forsaken by the herd, that 
 needs a protecting bosom to rest in, and in 
 her wounded pride and loneliness she thought 
 of John Gleason. 
 
 Something seemed to revive in her heart 
 at the thought of him. The wilted, shame- 
 faced look which she had worn ever since 
 her unlucky experience entirely departed. 
 She sat upright, and presently she smiled. 
 Finally she got out a small box of paper, 
 and, after much reflection, she wrote a little 
 note. It was a very reserved and dignified 
 document, in which she simply told him that 
 if he cared to take the trouble to come to 
 Mortonville again, she would be very glad to 
 see him. She went out and posted this note, 
 her crape veil closely covering her face ; and 
 when she came home she deliberately locked
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 28 1 
 
 her front door behind her, and then walked 
 straight to the kitchen, where she proceeded 
 to muffle the bell. It was an old-fashioned 
 door-bell, attached to a spring of wire. She 
 bound a cloth around the clapper, and then 
 surveyed it complacently. 
 
 " There," she said, " I 've had enough of 
 bells for one while. Let 'em get in now if 
 they can ; " and for the next two days when 
 her bell-wire moved and jerked, and the bell 
 quivered soundlessly in the air, she would 
 gaze at it composedly, never making the 
 least effort to admit her caller. Sometimes, 
 indeed, when some particularly energetic 
 person rang repeatedly, she would look up at 
 the vibrating noiseless bell and say, with 
 sarcasm, " Mighty anxious to git in, aint 
 you ? Well, you can't ! " 
 
 But on the third day she changed her 
 tactics. She watched the bell nervously, and 
 at its faintest tremor she betook herself to 
 her parlor, from which vantage-ground she 
 commanded a view of her front steps, remain- 
 ing herself unseen. 
 
 It was about noon that the figure she had 
 been looking for appeared. She distinctly 
 saw John Gleason standing on her front 
 steps. She waited for one dreadful moment,
 
 282 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 undecided whether to let him in or to turn 
 and ignominiously flee by the back door. 
 Then, with a pale face and a quick-beating 
 heart, she turned the key, and he stood 
 before her. She had prepared several little 
 speeches with which to meet him ; but she 
 did n't manage to make any of them, for in 
 an instant almost she found his arms around 
 her, and she was sobbing upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, John ! Oh, John ! " she cried ; 
 and " Polly, dear Polly ! " he answered, as 
 incoherently. 
 
 He did n't seem to require any explana- 
 tion ; but she felt that honesty compelled her 
 to give him one, and so, still with his arms 
 around her, she told her pitiful little story. 
 
 "Oh, John, I have been a wicked woman! 
 I was so took up with my money, and giving 
 to the church, and the bell, and all that, that 
 I did n't treat you as I ought to ; but I 've 
 been punished, terribly punished, for my 
 sins. When they took that bell, they wanted 
 me to ring it, and I thought of course I 
 could, I was that bumptious, and, John, 
 I went up, a-swinging in the air like a 
 monkey, right before the Bishop and all the 
 people, and I did n't have sense enough to 
 let go, and I went up twice, John ; and I
 
 MISS POLLY ATHERJVN'S BELL. 283 
 
 might have been a-teetering up and down 
 there to this minute if the Bishop had n't 
 a-grabbed me. Oh, John, it was awful ! " 
 
 She covered her face with her handker- 
 chief and sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Did n't any of 'em know enough to take 
 care of you," he said indignantly, - " a little 
 woman like you?" 
 
 " It served me right," she said solemnly ; 
 "you know pride goes before a fall, and I 
 was so proud and puffed up, and I had my 
 fall, John, I had my fall." 
 
 " I should n't call it that exactly," he said, 
 while a twinkle gleamed for a minute in his 
 eyes. Then he drew her closer to him. " No 
 matter, Polly," he said, " no matter. If you '11 
 only have me now, we '11 forget all about 
 it." 
 
 " I should n't think you 'd want me," she 
 said, with fine tragic scorn, "a fool that 
 goes around the country swinging on the 
 ends of ropes." Then, as the memory of her 
 involuntary ascension overpowered her again, 
 she gasped, " Oh, John, take me away ! Take 
 me away ! I don't feel as if I could ever bear 
 to hear that bell again. The very sound of 
 it makes me weak and sick and trembly." 
 
 " Polly," he said gently, " don't you think
 
 284 MISS POLLY ATHERTON'S BELL. 
 
 you could bear to listen to it just once more, 
 if it was ringing for our wedding, dear? " 
 
 She hung her head, and said she thought 
 she could. 
 
 So Miss Polly Atherton's bell made her 
 the only atonement in its power when it rang 
 out gayly on her wedding-day.
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 1 
 
 " "QUT, Tom, can we afford it? " 
 
 *-* " Annie Thomas Randall," said her 
 husband, solemnly, " I believe you were born 
 asking that question. Can we afford it? 
 Certainly ; we must, we shall ! " 
 
 " Dear Tom," she answered meekly, " I 
 have always admired you when you speak in 
 that masterful way. It used to carry convic- 
 tion to my soul. I still admire you, but I 
 .am no longer convinced." 
 
 He laughed, and put his arm around her. 
 " This is not an extravagance, my dear ; it is 
 an economy. Grandmother has left me the 
 farm. John Bushnell is carrying it on, as he 
 has done for years. He lives, with his large 
 and interesting family, in the tenant house. 
 The farmhouse proper is vacant. We will 
 go there, spend the summer, have a good 
 time and a new experience, sell the farm by 
 fall, if possible, and come home richer and 
 wiser for our summer outing." 
 
 1 Reprinted from " Harper's Bazar."
 
 286 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 " But, Tom, the children. They seem to 
 have ' accoomerlated ' like Sararann's." 
 
 " Bring 'em along. Let them see some- 
 thing for once that there 's enough of, as the 
 old woman said of the sea. Why, they '11 
 remember it all their lives. And, Annie, you 
 never lived in the country, did you? You '11 
 enjoy it, too." 
 
 " I should like to get away," she said, 
 thoughtfully. " I think I'm a little tired of 
 conventionalities and stereotyped ideas. It 's 
 pleasant enough here, and I 'm sure we 're 
 very happy ; but I think we 're all more or 
 less manufactured articles. Seems to me 
 country people must be simpler, more spon- 
 taneous and individual. I 'd like to meet a 
 few pure primal impulses." 
 
 Tom looked doubtful. " I don't remember," 
 he said, " that the people of Selden ever 
 impressed me as being particularly high 
 types of humanity or glaringly simple, but I 
 think you '11 like them. Dear me, how glad 
 I '11 be to see the old place again ! " 
 
 His face beamed with anticipation, for 
 Tom Randall was subject to enthusiasm. He 
 and his wife had both outlived the fever, of 
 youth, but had frequent relapses into it, 
 which warmed their hearts and shone in their
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 287 
 
 faces. He was a professor in one of the 
 Eastern colleges, a scholarly, refined sort of 
 man, who had written a book or two, and 
 was, in a quiet sort of way, well known. 
 
 His wife had been a school-teacher, a 
 pretty intellectual girl, who had spent most 
 of her life in Boston. They were poor, not 
 so much actually, as because they belonged to 
 that great class wittily described as possessing 
 " a champagne appetite on a beer income." 
 The good things which they craved and 
 could have appreciated sparkled just beyond 
 their reach, and made the good things near 
 at hand seem flat and stale. 
 
 They were both a little tired of their 
 surroundings, and the prospect of a sum- 
 mer spent on a farm of their own in New 
 England seemed very alluring. It was full 
 of possibilities. 
 
 It was a warm night in May when they 
 arrived. The apple-trees were in blossom, 
 and though it was too dark to see them, one 
 was conscious of their presence. They went 
 at once to their house, which had been 
 opened and made ready for them. Annie 
 was -enthusiastic about everything. 
 
 " Why, Tom, it actually smells different ! " 
 she exclaimed. She was eating her supper
 
 288 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 when she spoke, and had just taken a bite of 
 bread and butter. It was hopelessly sour. 
 " It tastes different too," she said quietly, 
 and laid the bread aside. 
 
 Tom laughed a little. " I don't know how 
 you 're going to manage, Annie," he said. 
 " There is n't a servant in Selden, and we 're 
 three miles from the village." 
 
 " I 'm not afraid," she answered confidently. 
 
 Tom made up a face himself just then at 
 a rather large mouthful of the bread. " I '11 
 bet a dollar," he gasped, "that's Mrs. Dob 
 Saunders's bread. It was always sour when 
 I was a boy, and the years don't seem to 
 have sweetened it." 
 
 " Mrs. Dob Saunders ! What a singular 
 name ! " 
 
 " So it is," he said slowly, as if noticing it 
 for the first time ; " but I never heard her 
 called anything else. She lives across the 
 way; old Uncle Nathan is next to her, and 
 the Tenneys are on our right." 
 
 "Old Uncle who?" 
 
 " He is n't a relation, dear, but everybody 
 called him Uncle Nathan when I was a boy, 
 and I don't believe they Ve changed. He 
 lives with his widowed daughter, Mrs. 
 Kiddell,"
 
 UNCL E NA THA N 'S EA K- TR UMPE T. 289 
 
 " Will they all call on me ? " 
 
 "Certainly, and you must go and return 
 all the calls ; they '11 expect it." 
 
 But Annie Randall met her new neighbors 
 without formalities. By noon the next day- 
 she had seen them all. 
 
 Mrs. Dob Saunders labored hospitably 
 over with a fresh loaf of sour bread under 
 her arm. She was the most enormous 
 woman that Annie had ever seen outside of 
 a circus tent. She hastened to present her 
 stout visitor with a chair, devoutly hoping 
 that its underpinnings were strong. 
 
 " Do sit down," she said ; " it is so good 
 of you to come." 
 
 Mrs. Dob Saunders seated herself with a 
 " sickening thud." She breathed heavily, 
 and her good-natured kindly face was red ' 
 and shiny. " I 'm real glad to see you," she 
 said heartily. " The house has seemed kind 
 o' lonesome since old Mis' Randall died." 
 
 " I am very glad to be here," answered 
 Annie, " and very glad to see you. I wanted 
 to ask the advice of some of my neighbors. 
 I need everything, groceries, and meat, and 
 a painter, and a carpenter, and, most of all, 
 a servant." 
 
 Mrs. Dob Saunders stiffened slightly. It 
 19
 
 290 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 was as if a quiver should run through a form 
 of jelly. " Help 's very scarce around here," 
 she said with dignity ; " most folks prefer to 
 do their own work." 
 
 Annie was conscious that she had made a 
 mistake. " Servant" was a word not used in 
 this locality. 
 
 " Aint your back strong?" continued Mrs. 
 Saunders, before she could speak. " Dob 
 had a bad spell with his 'long 'bout in March ; 
 but I rubbed it well with opidildoc, and made 
 him set before the fire while it was a-striking 
 in, and it fetched him round in no time. 
 Opidildoc 's splendid, if you 've got a lame 
 back." 
 
 " I don't know that I have," said Annie ; 
 and then changed the subject hastily by ask- 
 ing: "Can I buy some eggs around here? 
 I find Mr. Bushnell sold all his yesterday." 
 
 " Mis' Kiddell might let you have some ; 
 but " she hesitated a moment "I feel it 
 my duty to tell you she's dreadful near." 
 
 " Near? " asked Annie, vaguely. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mrs. Dob Saunders ; 
 " she 's the nearest woman I ever see. Why, 
 last year one of her squash vines crawled 
 under the fence, and come along in our 
 garden. Our squashes did n't 'mount to
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 2QI 
 
 much last year, they was sowed too early, 
 and sort o' frost-killed ; and this vine had 
 one good middlin'-sized squash on it, and 
 what does Mis' Kiddell do, soon as that 
 squash is ripe, but come a-traipsing over and 
 cut it? and she with a hull patch full of 'em ! 
 I 've called her ' old Mis' Squash ' ever 
 since." 
 
 Annie laughed. " Has she any children ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Yes ; she 's got one daughter, Emme- 
 line. She 's a nice girl too, but Mis' Kiddell 's 
 dreadful mean to her. She don't get her 
 any nice clothes nor anything. Why, my 
 Gertie she had two ginghams and a sateen 
 and a bunting last year, and just last week 
 I got her a new sun umbrell ! " 
 
 She spoke not boastfully, but as if her 
 neighbor's niggardliness were all the blacker 
 beside such liberality as this. 
 
 After a few more remarks she took her 
 leave, and Annie watched her as she ploughed 
 her way toward the gate, like a heavily-laden 
 brig beating against a head wind. 
 
 When Tom came home at night, Annie 
 met him with a laugh. 
 
 " Well," said she, " I am launched on 
 Selden society. I have had a call from Mrs.
 
 292 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 Dob Saunders, Burt Tenney is going to paint 
 the dining-room, Emmeline Kiddell will help 
 me with the children's sewing, and Mrs. 
 Kiddell has sold me a dozen eggs." 
 
 " Go on," said her husband, who saw that 
 she had not finished. 
 
 "Tom," she said solemnly, "you won't 
 believe me, but that woman said eggs ' was 
 fifteen cents a dozen, but she guessed she 'd 
 have to charge me sixteen, 'cause she was 
 almost sure one of 'em had a double yolk ' ! " 
 
 " And had it ? " he asked calmly. 
 
 " I don't know. Bobby dropped the 
 basket bringing it home, and every egg might 
 have been twins or triplets for all that I could 
 tell. But, Tom, just think of it! I thought 
 I 'd squeezed a cent till the Indian yelled, 
 but I never dreamed of such thrift as this. 
 Why, Tom, it's worth coming here just to 
 learn how rich we are. I haven't felt so 
 affluent in years. It is going to make me 
 very unpopular if I keep a servant; but I 
 really must. We will drive over to the 
 village to-morrow, and see what we can 
 find." 
 
 She finally secured an ill-favored looking 
 girl, who at first insisted upon eating with 
 the family. She relinquished this right after
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 293 
 
 a little debate, provided she might eat in the 
 dining-room after the family had finished. 
 This glorious privilege Mrs. Randall granted, 
 and Martha was installed. She was a very 
 haughty person, who did her work in a dis- 
 dainful, contemptuous fashion, which laid 
 Mrs. Randall under perpetual obligations. 
 She subsequently discovered that the girl 
 was subject to fits, which had much lessened 
 her commercial value in the village, and it 
 was only on this account that she had secured 
 her at all. 
 
 The first Sunday after they arrived in 
 Selden, Tom and Annie took a walk across 
 the fields. It was a beautiful spring day, and 
 he showed her with keen pleasure the old 
 covered bridge where he used to play when 
 a boy, and from whose crumbling piers he 
 had often fished. He showed her the swim- 
 ming-hole where he and the other boys went 
 swimming twenty odd years ago, and the 
 chestnut-trees that he and these same boys 
 had robbed. 
 
 There is nothing more delightful to a man 
 than revisiting the scenes of his childhood, or 
 recalling anecdotes of that far-off Arcadia; 
 and when his companion is sympathetic, 
 above all, when she is the woman he loves,
 
 2Q4 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 his delight is most satisfying and expan- 
 sive. There is something subtly flattering in 
 her interest in the little boy that he was. 
 
 Tom Randall thoroughly enjoyed this Sun- 
 day-morning stroll, and felt that he had read 
 to Annie one of the earliest chapters of his 
 life. They were coming home across lots, 
 and he had just helped her over a fence, 
 when they noticed an odd-looking figure sit- 
 ting motionless in a corner of the field. 
 
 " I believe that 's old Uncle Nathan," said 
 Tom. " Annie, we must go across and speak 
 to him." 
 
 So they walked over to where the old man 
 sat upon an overturned harrow, solitary and 
 apparently forlorn. He wore a queer old- 
 fashioned coat that suggested the rhyme of 
 " Old Grimes is dead " to Annie ; and as they 
 came nearer they observed a few little patches 
 of lather upon his face. 
 
 " Jerushy 's just shaved him," said Tom ; 
 " that 's his daughter, Mrs. Kiddell. She 
 always does it on Sundays. Poor old man, 
 no wonder he looks melancholy ! " 
 
 Then, as they went up to him, Tom shouted, 
 with such energy that Annie fairly jumped, 
 
 " Well, Uncle Nathan, how are you ? " 
 
 The old man's hand went up to his ear.
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 295 
 
 " Haouw? " he said meekly, and Tom re- 
 peated his remark with even greater vigor. 
 
 " He 's deaf as a post, Annie," he explained ; 
 "you'll have to crack your throat." Then 
 he shouted : " This is my wife, Uncle Nathan. 
 What do you think of her ? " 
 
 The old man eyed Annie doubtfully. " I 
 thought she would be fatter," he said in a 
 feeble treble, shaking his head slowly, but 
 whether with disapprobation or palsy, Annie 
 could not determine. 
 
 " What does he take me for, Tom," she 
 asked, "a prize sheep at a fair? " 
 
 " Haouw?" said Uncle Nathan again, see- 
 ing her lips move. 
 
 " You must come over and see us," 
 screamed Tom, hospitably. " We '11 be very 
 glad to see you." 
 
 " No one likes to see me round no more," 
 he said sadly. " I 've got so old, no one 
 likes to talk to me. Jerushy she don't seem 
 to like to talk to me no more. She cut my 
 ear this morning, and never seemed to think 
 I felt it. I guess I Ve got feelin's if I be 
 old." 
 
 There was an embarrassed silence. 
 
 " Say something to him quick, Tom," 
 murmured Annie.
 
 296 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 "Oh, well, you know, Uncle Nathan," 
 floundered Tom, helplessly "confound it! 
 we 're all getting old, you know." 
 
 " Yes, but not so old as I be." 
 
 Tom could not but feel the truth of this. 
 " You Ve got your children and your grand- 
 children to comfort you," he said, and gazed 
 reproachfully at Annie. A platitude never 
 sounds so badly as when you scream it; but 
 she had just nudged him, and he dared not 
 be silent. 
 
 " Yes, Jerushy means well," said the old 
 man, in his quavering voice ; " she 's a power- 
 ful smart woman, but it seems as if she 
 would n't let me have nothing that I want. 
 I wanted a new hat this spring; but Jerushy 
 said no, the .old one would do, and she went 
 and patched it in the crown where there was 
 a hole, and there aint no style to it at all." 
 He took it off mournfully as he spoke, and 
 they all gazed at it in silence. He put it on 
 again with a sigh, and continued queru- 
 lously : " I used to have some money, but I 
 don't know what's become of it. Jerushy 
 says what's the use of my having money 
 when I 'm so old. She seems to think I 'd 
 be reckless with it, but I know better. Then 
 there 's Em'line. She 's a nice girl, a very
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 297 
 
 nice girl. I wanted to get her a new dress 
 last Christmas, but Jerushy said no, the ones 
 she 'd got would do. She said she 'd get me 
 something to give to Em'line, but she did n't 
 get nothing but a pair of gums, and they 
 was so big Jerushy wore 'em most of the 
 time herself; so Em'line didn't get nothing, 
 after all. I felt real bad, 'cause Em'line 's 
 a nice girl, and I wanted her to have a new 
 dress." 
 
 He paused in his complainings, and Tom 
 said quickly, 
 
 " Emmeline's coming over to see my wife. 
 You must come with her. Good-morning;" 
 and then they left the old man, and walked 
 across the field in silence. 
 
 Tom looked up suddenly, and saw tears 
 glistening in Annie's eyes. 
 
 " Why, Annie," he exclaimed, " what is it? " 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " it is hideous ! That 
 poor old man sitting alone on that harrow, 
 with those dabs of lather on his face ! And 
 nobody wanting to talk to him any more, 
 and his ridiculous cap, and those ' gums.' 
 Why, Tom, it hurts me. I want to do 
 something." 
 
 Tom pulled her hand within his arm, and 
 held it there. " Dear heart," he said, " they
 
 298 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 don't suffer as you think they do. You see 
 it all from your own point of view. To-day, 
 I grant you, was a sort of blue Sunday for 
 Uncle Nathan ; but ordinarily he 's as happy 
 as any old gentleman on Beacon Street." 
 
 Annie shook her head. She was not yet 
 adjusted to her surroundings. The people 
 appealed so strongly to her that it was as 
 she said, it really " hurt" her. 
 
 Shortly after this Burt Tenney came over 
 to do a little painting. He was a young 
 man, tall and straight, with a handsome face. 
 He was awkward and heavy in his move- 
 ments, and very clumsy in his speech. He 
 seemed to hack out each sentence as if he 
 were cutting wood ; but Annie found him 
 intelligent enough in his business, and under 
 her directions he painted her pantry and 
 closet shelves, and touched up things a little 
 here and there. 
 
 She had opened an old fireplace in her 
 parlor, and had him paint the wood-work 
 around it a dark Venetian red. On this she 
 put, in rustic letters which she had fashioned 
 herself out of bark, the legend, " While I was 
 musing, the fire burned." 
 
 Tenney, who was painting in another part 
 of the room, watched her as she fastened
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 299 
 
 each letter in place, and when she had fin- 
 ished, he rose and read it slowly : " ' While 
 I was mussing, the fire burned.' I declare ! 
 Aint that pretty?" 
 
 Annie was so overcome by his unexpected 
 rendering of her motto that she hastily left 
 the room, and ran into Emmeline Kiddell, 
 who had just come in with a little bundle of 
 work in her hands. She was helping Annie 
 with the children's summer sewing, for which 
 there had been no time before the Randalls 
 left home. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Randall," she said, " will you 
 look at these little petticoats, and see if the 
 tucks are right ? " 
 
 Annie, Burt Tenney's " mussing " still ring- 
 ing in her ears, answered, with an uncalled-for 
 giggle : " Oh, I Ve no doubt they are very 
 nice. Burt Tenney has just painted the 
 parlor mantel-piece. Won't you come in and 
 see it?" 
 
 Emmeline suddenly became very straight 
 and stiff. Her face blazed. "No," she 
 exclaimed ; " I don't want to see him ! " 
 
 There was something in her sudden emo- 
 tion so genuine that Annie respected it. 
 " Come in here," she said gently, and led 
 the way into her own bedroom, where she
 
 300 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 began to untie the bundle so that Emmeline 
 might have a few minutes to recover herself. 
 
 But the heightened color remained in the 
 girl's cheeks, and pretty soon she laid her 
 face in her hands and began to cry. 
 
 " Emmeline," said Annie, hesitatingly, 
 " what is the matter ? Can I help you ? I 
 will if I can." 
 
 The girl still cried ; but when Annie touched 
 her gently, murmuring words of sympathy, 
 she lifted her tearful eyes, and said, in a 
 burst of confidence: "Oh, no one can help 
 me ! It 's Burt Tenney. He used to keep 
 company with me. He came every Sunday 
 night And now he does n't care any more ! 
 He 's going with Mary Merrit, up to the 
 corners. Sometimes I almost hate her ! " 
 
 Annie looked at her curiously. " Do you 
 love him so much ? " she asked. Then it 
 seemed to her a very brutal question, and she 
 grew hot with shame that she had asked it. 
 
 But Emmeline didn't mind. Still she 
 did n't answer, but only looked at Annie 
 mutely and appealingly, and then hid her 
 face again. 
 
 " Emmeline," said Annie at last, " I will 
 help you if I can. Be brave and patient. 
 Even if he never cares, it is better that this
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 301 
 
 should come to you. Your life is deeper ; 
 you are better for it. Believe me, for I know 
 that it is so." 
 
 The girl looked at her sadly, but trust- 
 ingly ; and Annie took one of her hands and 
 held it with a gentle pressure. 
 
 When she had left, and Annie went back 
 in the parlor, Burt Tenney was still at work. 
 Annie had a distinct feeling of dislike to him. 
 The careful, monotonous way in which he 
 handled his brush maddened her. 
 
 She began to arrange some photographs 
 upon a little rack. Suddenly she turned to 
 him with a bright look, and said smilingly, 
 " They tell me you are going to be married, 
 Burt, before long. I hope we will be here at 
 your wedding." 
 
 He did not answer; but a sort of shy, 
 ashamed look crept over his handsome 
 features. 
 
 " Is Miss Merrit pretty ? " she went on; 
 recklessly. " Of course you would think so ; 
 but is she really as pretty, say, as Emmeline 
 Kiddell ? " 
 
 " No," he answered grimly, " she aint ; 
 but she 's going to have a splendid farm up 
 to the corners one of these days." 
 
 " Oh ! " continued Annie, lightly, still pre-
 
 3O2 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 tending to be busy with her photographs, 
 " so it 's her farm you are in love with, eh? " 
 
 " I like her well enough," he answered 
 gloomily. 
 
 "But you like Emmeline Kiddell better," 
 said Annie, airily. She was frightened at 
 her own audacity, and a little exhilarated. 
 There are no edged tools so fascinating to 
 play with as another person's feelings. 
 
 He glanced at her for a second, surprised ; 
 then he seemed to accept her remark with- 
 out anger. " Emmeline's grandfather 's so 
 deaf," he said calmly; "and she says who- 
 ever takes her has got to take him too. She 
 won't leave him ever." 
 
 Annie looked at him a minute with flash- 
 ing eyes. " Do you mean to say," she asked 
 quickly, " that she puts her duty to that poor 
 old man above her happiness? Why, she is 
 a heroine, a noble, beautiful soul ! " 
 
 " He 's awful deaf," said Tenney, phleg- 
 matically. 
 
 Annie looked at him contemptuously. 
 Then she felt a strong desire to laugh. " I 
 don't see what his deafness has to do with 
 it," she said coldly. 
 
 Burt Tenney stopped painting and held 
 his brush in his hand. " P'r'aps I would n't
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 303 
 
 have felt so," he said solemnly, " if ma's 
 father had n't been just the same way. He 
 lived with us ten years, and we had to holler 
 at him all the time ; and after a while, pa 
 used to go out to the barn and get drunk. 
 Seems as if he could n't find a quiet spot in 
 the house. I just made up my mind I 
 could n't start out in life with no such deaf 
 person fastened onto me." 
 
 Annie felt a quick acute sympathy for him. 
 She disliked deaf persons herself. Then she 
 remembered Mary Merrit's acres, and her 
 sympathy grew chilly. 
 
 " Besides a deaf grandfather whom she 
 insists upon taking care of, Emmeline Kid- 
 dell has no fortune, and it seems Miss 
 Merrit has." 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " I Ve thought of 
 that. A man ought to do the best he can 
 for himself." 
 
 He had resumed his painting, and spoke 
 as placidly as if he were announcing the 
 most noble sentiments. 
 
 Mrs. Randall looked at him with keen 
 reproach. These were the feelings that she 
 had come " near to Nature's heart " to find ! 
 " Did it ever occur to you," she said hotly, 
 " that there have been men in the world who
 
 304 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 have loved a woman so dearly that they would 
 have been glad to die for her? They didn't 
 stop to think if they were making a good 
 bargain, and it would n't have mattered if all 
 her relatives were deaf, or 'blind, or crippled, 
 or anything. They loved her, her for 
 her own sake alone, because she was the one 
 woman in all the world for them. They 
 would no more have thought of leaving her 
 for some one with more money than they 
 would have thought of leaving heaven for 
 hell. They were glad to care for her, to work 
 for her, to suffer for her. They asked nothing 
 of her but her love ; and if she gave them that, 
 they counted their lives blessed, no matter 
 how much pain and sorrow were in them. 
 Such a love is glorious. It changes a man 
 from an animal to a spirit ; it is the most 
 godlike thing on earth. But I don't suppose 
 you ever heard of anything of the kind in 
 all your life, or could understand it if you 
 should." 
 
 The man started to his feet, as if lashed 
 into action by the cool contempt of her last 
 words. " Yes, I can," he exclaimed excit- 
 edly ; " and, by the Lord, that 's the kind I 'm 
 going to have ! " 
 
 He looked at her with a pale, fixed face.
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 305 
 
 She was thoroughly frightened. It seemed 
 to her as if she had done more than call, " O 
 spirits from the vasty deep," she had roused 
 a human soul ; and she trembled at her work. 
 It was only for a moment. Then he turned 
 around leisurely, and began to gather up his 
 paints and brushes. 
 
 " Mis' Randall," he said, in his ordinary 
 tone, " I '11 come over to-morrow and finish 
 this job. I aint got paint enough mixed to 
 go on with it." 
 
 " Very well," she said quietly. 
 
 " What have I done ? What have I done ? " 
 she asked herself after he had left ; and her 
 mind was disquieted within her till Tom came 
 home, and she could pour the whole story 
 into his sympathetic ear. 
 
 He laughed a good deal. " Annie, has it 
 ever occurred to you," he said, " that human 
 hearts are about as dangerous pies for you to 
 put your finger in as any that exist? You 
 may make the blackbirds sing, and you may 
 pull out a big plum ; but the probabilities are 
 you will only make an indigestible mess." 
 
 " Yes," she answered meekly. 
 
 " It 's curious," he added, after a pause, 
 " how old Uncle Nathan's affairs seem to run 
 across ours. I was in the County Clerk's 
 
 20
 
 306 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 office to-day, looking up the title to this farm, 
 and I saw three or four mortgages recorded 
 in his name. Why, Annie, he 's rich ! that 
 is, for Selden. But they say Jerushy always 
 collects the interest, and I don't suppose he 
 ever sees a cent of it. Probably he forgets 
 all about it." 
 
 "Then," said Annie, suddenly, "if Burt 
 Tenney should marry Emmeline, Uncle 
 Nathan wouldn't be such a burden upon 
 them, after all." 
 
 " There you go again," said Tom, laughing, 
 " with your finger in the pie. You 'd "better 
 try to cure his deafness now, or else kill him 
 entirely, so as to say, ' Bless you, my children, 
 bless you ! ' more effectively." 
 
 " I will," she exclaimed, with energy, "I 
 will!" 
 
 The next day, when her husband, who 
 generally drove to town each morning for the 
 marketing and the mail, returned, she met 
 him with the look of one who has adventures 
 to relate. 
 
 " Tom," she said, as soon as she had looked 
 over her letters, " Uncle Nathan has been 
 here all the morning." 
 
 "Has he, indeed? No wonder you're a 
 little hoarse."
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 307 
 
 " I have been experimenting with that one 
 front tooth of his." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " You asked me why I did n't cure his 
 deafness, and so I thought I 'd try. I was 
 wondering if that lonely tooth could stand 
 the responsibility of an audiphone, and I Ve 
 been tying strings and rubbers around it, and 
 vibrating them." 
 
 " Annie, I wonder at your hardihood ! " 
 
 " Oh, 7 did n't really. He did the adjust- 
 ing himself; and, Tom, I think you would 
 have died to see old Uncle Nathan, with a 
 string around his one front tooth, and me 
 riddling on the other end ! ' Can you hear 
 anything?' said I. 'Yes,' he answered; 
 'seems as if I heard something a-jumping.' 
 But I don't think an audiphone will do, Tom. 
 It needs a firmer foundation to rest upon 
 than that veteran incisor. But I Ve written to 
 New York for all the newest phones and 
 trumpets and performances, and I 'm going 
 to make that old man hear, if it takes my 
 bottom dollar." She was silent a minute, 
 and then continued : "Just think of it ! If he 
 could only hear, I believe Burt Tenney would 
 marry Emmeline. It seems so absurd, an 
 ear-trumpet in the path of true love ! "
 
 3 08 UNCLE NA THAN'S EA R- TR UMPE T. 
 
 Tom looked at her smilingly. He put 
 his arm around her, and drew her toward 
 him. 
 
 " Annie," he said tenderly, " you are tak- 
 ing a great deal of trouble for these young 
 people. Suppose Burt marries the other girl, 
 what difference will it make? If he marries 
 Emmeline, their romance will be over in less 
 than a year. Is love's young dream worth 
 all your trouble, dear?" 
 
 Annie was over thirty. There were some 
 gray hairs in the fluffy curls over her fore- 
 head, and in a strong light one could see a 
 few fine wrinkles on her soft skin ; but a happy 
 light shone in her eyes at her husband's 
 question. She rested her head on his shoul- 
 der, and said softly, 
 
 " It is worth everything in the world, dear, 
 worth everything." 
 
 The ear-trumpets came before long, and 
 were unpacked with much enthusiasm by the 
 young Randalls, who seemed to regard them 
 as a new kind of mechanical toy. 
 
 Uncle Nathan sat patiently in the middle 
 of the circle, submitting silently to having 
 each one adjusted, and shaking his head sol- 
 emnly as it was removed. 
 
 " He tried them all on," said Annie to Tom
 
 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 309 
 
 afterward, " as if they were spring bonnets, 
 and he could n't find a becoming one." 
 
 They were all failures, all but one gor- 
 geous affair, brilliant with nickel plate, and 
 having an unusual number of adjustments 
 and attachments. With this appended to his 
 long-suffering ear, he gazed in astonishment 
 at the little Randalls as they stood in a row 
 before him, all ready to speak their pieces and 
 prove the success of the instrument. 
 
 " Half a league, half a league, half a league 
 onward," yelled Bobby, with much earnestness; 
 but he was interrupted by Ned, who said : 
 
 " Shut up, Bobby ! He would n't know 
 what a league was anyway, even if he could 
 hear. Talk sense, like me. ' Up from the 
 South at break of day ' - - Do you hear me, 
 Uncle Nathan? 'bringing to Winchester 
 fresh dismay ' - Do you know what I 'm say- 
 ing? ' the affrighted air with a shudder 
 
 " Oh, Ned," interrupted Mary, " don't talk 
 poetry to him." Then she elevated her own 
 voice, and said, with a clear emphasis, and 
 the air of reciting a French exercise, " Uncle 
 Nathan, it's a pleasant day, is n't it? I hope 
 you are feeling well ! " 
 
 The poor old man looked more and more 
 bewildered. " Seems as if I could hear," he
 
 3IO UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 said, with a frightened look ; " but, Lord, how 
 queer they talk ! " 
 
 " Children," said Annie, severely, " he can't 
 tell whether he 's deaf or you 're crazy. Go 
 out now, every single one of you, and let me 
 attend to this." 
 
 So the little Randalls departed, tumbling 
 over each other's heels as they went. 
 
 "Can you hear me?" said Annie, in an 
 ordinary tone of voice, after they were alone. 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, tremulously, " I 
 ken. How much is this machine?" 
 
 Annie colored. It was the most expensive 
 of all. " Thirty dollars," she said quietly. 
 
 " Thirty dollars ! Oh my ! oh my ! That 's 
 a lot of money ! Thirty dollars ! " 
 
 " Uncle 'Nathan," said Annie, kindly, " I 
 want to give it to you. You take it now and 
 go home, and see if you really can hear any 
 better with it, and if you can, I think it will 
 be a great comfort to you." 
 
 He did not thank her; he seemed too 
 dazed. He put his restored sense under his 
 arm, and went feebly down the driveway. 
 
 Annie began to gather up the other instru- 
 ments, and replace them in their boxes. She 
 sighed a little. " I can't afford it," she said 
 to herself, " I know I can't ; but then I
 
 UNCLE NA THAN'S EAR- TR UMPE T. 311 
 
 must." Before she had finished collecting the 
 things and repacking them, she looked up in 
 astonishment, for Uncle Nathan stood before 
 her. He seemed tired and discouraged. 
 
 " Jerushy says," he began, without any 
 preface, " that 't aint proper for me to take 
 no machine from you that costs as much as 
 thirty dollars." 
 
 " Would she rather you paid for it your- 
 self?" asked Annie. 
 
 " No," he answered wearily. " Jerushy 
 says T don't hear thirty dollars' worth better 
 anyway." 
 
 Annie was surprised. Was it worth while, 
 after all, to make a sacrifice for people who 
 received it in so ungracious a spirit? Sud- 
 denly she said : " Uncle Nathan, I can take 
 that nickel-plated handle off. That makes a 
 difference of five dollars in the price, and it 
 does n't affect the hearing part at all. I wish 
 you would let me give it to you just as it is ; 
 but if you won't, perhaps you will feel like 
 buying it yourself if it is a little cheaper." 
 
 " I '11 go back and tell Jerushy," he said 
 gloomily, and again he departed. 
 
 Annie watched him out of sight, feeling a 
 little discouraged herself. There is no gas so 
 volatile as enthusiasm. She felt as if hers
 
 312 UNCLE NATHANS EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 had been left uncorked and had all evaporated. 
 She was not surprised when the old man 
 returned. " Well? " she asked languidly. 
 
 " Jerushy says I don't hear twenty-five 
 dollars' worth better," he quavered sadly. 
 " She says there aint no use in my trying to 
 hear at all." 
 
 Annie took the instrument from him, and 
 examined it carefully. " There is one other 
 thing I can unscrew," she said, after consult- 
 ing her letter of directions. " You won't 
 hear quite so well, but it will make it five 
 dollars cheaper." 
 
 She had no idea that the old man would 
 buy the instrument at any price, or that he 
 would let her give it to him ; but a sense of 
 the ridiculousness of the whole situation 
 was beginning to steal over her, and her 
 spirits rose. She was no longer benevolently 
 enthusiastic ; she was amused. " I feel like 
 Abraham," she said to herself, "when he 
 argued with the Lord, and ' beat him down 
 considerable.' I would like to dissect that 
 thing to its last bone ; but I fear it 's reduced 
 to its simplest expression now." 
 
 She could hardly keep from laughing when 
 the old man came back on his third trip. 
 
 " 'T aint no use," he said abjectly. " Jeru-
 
 UNCLE NA THAN'S EAR- TR UMPE T. 313 
 
 shy says I don't hear even twenty dollars' 
 worth better." 
 
 " Well," said Annie, " give it to me. I '11 
 send it back with the others." 
 
 The old man looked at it wistfully. " Seems 
 like I could hear as good as ever that first 
 time," he murmured plaintively. " Of course 
 folks would be more willing to talk to me if I 
 could hear some." 
 
 " Uncle Nathan," said Annie, with decision, 
 " I want to give it to you. It is n't Jerushy's 
 affair at all ; it 's yours and mine. Now if I 
 choose to offer it, and you choose to take it, 
 it 's no one's else business." 
 
 Uncle Nathan looked frightened. " Oh, 
 no ! " he said " oh, no ! Jerushy said 
 'twould n't be proper. Besides, she said I 
 did n't hear thirty dollars' worth better. 
 Seems to me I did, but Jerushy she said 
 no." 
 
 " Very well," said Annie; " give it to 
 me." 
 
 The next morning Tom took the box of 
 instruments to the express office, all but 
 one; he did not know it, but the thirty- 
 dollar article was reposing on the top shelf 
 of Annie's closet. 
 
 " I shall make Uncle Nathan take it yet,"
 
 3 1 4 UNCLE NA THA N'S EAR- TRUMPE T. 
 
 she thought. " I know I can't afford it, but 
 I must." 
 
 It was fully a month after this when 
 Emmeline Kiddell came over one morning. 
 Annie watched her as she came up the curv- 
 ing driveway. 
 
 " How pretty she is ! " she thought, " pret- 
 tier even than when we first came." 
 
 But there was a reason for the added pret- 
 tiness this morning. Annie was conscious 
 of it at once, and was not surprised when 
 Emmeline said: 
 
 " Mrs. Randall, I don't know how to tell 
 you, but it 's all right between Burt Tenney 
 and me. He is n't going to marry Mary 
 Merrit, and he wants to marry me. He 
 wants it should be soon, too ; next month, if 
 I can get ready." 
 
 " You can, can't you ? " cried Annie. " Oh, 
 do ; before we go. I '11 help you all I can. 
 I would love to go to your wedding before 
 we leave Selden." 
 
 The girl flushed and bit her lip, while the 
 tears gathered in her eyes. " Oh, Mrs. Ran- 
 dall," she said, "you don't know how good 
 he is ! He wants grandpa to live with us. 
 He 's going to try and rent half of your farm, 
 if Mr. Bushnell '11 take the other half. I
 
 UNCLE NA THAN'S EAR- TRUMPE T. 315 
 
 don't know why I 'm crying when I 'm so 
 happy." 
 
 Annie kissed her almost solemnly. " God 
 bless you, dear," she said, " and keep you 
 happy always ! " 
 
 She was a little awed, now that the things 
 she had so much desired had really come to 
 pass. Then she thought of poor old Uncle 
 Nathan ; and in a twinkling her mind had 
 flown to the top shelf in her closet, and upon 
 the ear-trumpet. She knew now why she 
 had kept it, it would be Emmeline Kid- 
 dell's wedding present. 
 
 They were married in September; a 
 strange sort of wedding it seemed to Annie, 
 who was not used to country festivities. The 
 cambric covers were removed for this one 
 occasion from the piano legs, and it was 
 allowed to display its chaste members 
 unblushingly. Some scarlet geraniums were 
 compactly pressed into a tall vase ; but these 
 were the only evidences of decoration. 
 
 Annie wore a white gown, and felt out of 
 place among the black alpacas and cashmeres 
 which appeared. Mrs. Dob Saunders alone 
 kept her company, in a gray camel's-hair, 
 trimmed with six dozen bright steel buttons. 
 She was, Tom said, " immense."
 
 3 1 6 UNCLE NA THA N'S EAR- TR UMPE T. 
 
 All of the guests seemed preternaturally 
 solemn ; and after the simple ceremony they 
 formed in line, and filing past the bride, they 
 kissed her heartily. Annie felt sorry for her ; 
 her pretty face grew so flushed and shiny 
 under these repeated salutes. 
 
 Annie tried to promenade among the fur- 
 niture, and engage in light conversation ; but 
 it was evidently not the custom. 
 
 It seemed that Uncle Nathan had a son 
 who was a sailor, and there were various little 
 souvenirs of his different voyages about the 
 house. On the mantel-piece were some 
 branches of white coral, a few shells, and 
 some carved ivory images. Annie examined 
 them attentively, and Uncle Nathan said of 
 each, in his melancholy quaver : 
 
 " I don't just remember what that is. If 
 my boy John was here, he'd tell you; but 
 John aint here." 
 
 Finally, quite at the end of the shelf, Annie 
 noticed a whale's tooth curiously carved. 
 The old man's face brightened as he saw 
 it in her hand. 
 
 " That," he said, with tremulous eagerness, 
 " I do know. John told me. That there 's a 
 pee-lican's tooth ! " 
 
 Annie was overcome at this information, 
 and barely retained her composure.
 
 UNCLE NA THAN'S EAR- TRUMPE T. 317 
 
 " It was so ridiculous," she said to Tom 
 afterward. " that after all the toothy time I 
 have had with that poor old man, his last 
 words to me should be about that pee-lican. 
 Can't you just see the bird plucking its breast 
 for its young with this large carved tooth 
 projecting from its lower bill ! " 
 
 Tom had wrested all the old man's property 
 from his daughter's clutches, and arranged it 
 so that he should have the whole benefit of it 
 during his lifetime. After that it was to go 
 to Emmeline. 
 
 Annie had given her, with many laughs 
 and jokes, the nickel-plated ear-trumpet, 
 which was to restore her grandfather's hear- 
 ing ; and so, relieved of his poverty and his 
 deafness, he would not be an incubus upon 
 the new household. 
 
 Emmeline's happiness was almost pitiful. 
 Burt had rented the Randall farm for three 
 years, and Mrs. Dob Saunders remarked, with 
 much good-humor, that at the end of that 
 time, " like as not, it would be his *n," a 
 prophecy which came true. 
 
 " I think we Ve just been guardian angels, 
 Tom," said Annie, " and we 'd better flap our 
 wings and fly away before we kick the pail 
 over."
 
 3l8 UNCLE NATHAN'S EAR-TRUMPET. 
 
 "The what?" said Tom. "Aren't you 
 mixing up angels and cows a little ? " 
 
 " Never mind," said Annie, " if I am. It 's 
 been a lovely summer, and I 'm sorry enough 
 it 's over." 
 
 It was many years before they came to 
 Selden again, and Emmeline's children were 
 running over the old place. Annie realized 
 that their father had been a prophet years 
 before, for there was more " mussing " than 
 " musing" going on before the old fireplace 
 now. 
 
 Uncle Nathan was dead, and Jerushy the 
 redoubtable Jerushy had grown deaf in her 
 turn now, and was wearing his ear-trumpet. 
 She flushed, and looked ashamed and con- 
 scious, when she saw Annie, and tried to hide 
 the ear-trumpet under her apron ; but it was 
 too big. 
 
 " I wonder," thought Annie, with fine scorn, 
 " if she hears thirty dollars' worth better."
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 1 
 
 TOHN ROGERS looked impatiently at the 
 *^ clock. He had waited now exactly half 
 an hour, and was beginning to get a little 
 restless. " Half past eleven is a pretty hour 
 to go to a party ! " he muttered to himself. 
 He began to walk up and down the floor, and 
 then stopped suddenly as he heard a light 
 step on the stairs. He moved toward the 
 door ; but the light faded from his face as a 
 trim maid entered, bearing a great bunch of 
 yellow roses in her hand. 
 
 " Pardon, monsieur," she said, " but mam'- 
 selle say it is impossible that she should carry 
 the yellow rose." 
 
 He looked at her blankly. 
 
 " She want that you should them change 
 make pink; it is the pink rose that mam'- 
 selle prefer to-night." 
 
 "Oh, she wants pink roses, does she? 
 Well, I 'd like to know where I can get any 
 at twelve o'clock at night." 
 
 1 Reprinted from " Harper's Bazar."
 
 32O THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 " The shop of the flower-man is two cor- 
 ners off, if monsieur will go ; and it is 
 La France roses that mam'selle must have 
 to-night, and she will be quite ready on the 
 return of monsieur." 
 
 So John Rogers took his yellow roses and 
 bundled into his carriage, not in the most 
 amiable frame of mind. All his annoyance 
 disappeared, however, when he came back 
 and found that Miss Cora Fenton was indeed 
 ready. She stood in the drawing-room pull- 
 ing on her long gloves, a vision of rosy 
 loveliness. Her white neck and arms rose 
 out of a pink fleecy cloud, and fairly dazzled 
 him. 
 
 " Such a shame to keep you waiting ! " she 
 cried ; " but I never had such a miserable 
 time getting into my clothes before. Every- 
 thing seemed bewitched, and my hair looks 
 like a fiend's now. I was so sorry about the 
 roses ; but you see yourself it would have 
 been enough to give one a headache with 
 yellow roses and this dress." 
 
 Her maid threw her long cloak around her, 
 and in a few minutes they were seated side 
 by side on their way to Mrs. Dillingham's 
 cotillon. 
 
 It was not the first time that John Rogers
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 321 
 
 had been her escort ; but he was just begin- 
 ning to realize how bitter-sweet a pleasure it 
 was. He was an old friend, so old and trusted 
 that often he went with her, as to-night, with- 
 out a chaperon. 
 
 She was "poor Cora Fenton " in this, that 
 although young, beautiful, and an heiress, she 
 was an orphan, and in a certain sense without 
 a home. To be sure, her brother with whom 
 she lived was devoted to her ; but he cared 
 very little for the society that she loved, and 
 his wife was entirely engrossed with the four 
 little children, who all seemed to be babies at 
 once. 
 
 Cora felt dimly that it would be a relief to 
 them both if she were married and estab- 
 lished in a home of her own ; and perhaps it 
 was this very feeling that made her so wilful 
 and hard to please. No girl likes to be 
 driven along the matrimonial path. She 
 prefers to be guided, and by nothing less 
 masterful than fate itself. She knew per- 
 fectly well how satisfied every one would be 
 if she should marry John Rogers, and the 
 thought of their satisfaction irritated her. 
 She wanted to be her ownjColumbus, and cross 
 an unknown sea, not travel over a well- 
 worn road, with a sign-post at every corner, 
 
 21
 
 322 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 and dozens of friendly eyes watching her as 
 she went. 
 
 The immediate effect of all this was that 
 she was sometimes quite rude and chilling to 
 poor John Rogers. She was dissatisfied with 
 things in general, and, in the slang phrase, 
 she " took it out" of him. On this particular 
 evening at Mrs. Dillingham's she seemed 
 more illusive and distant than ever. 
 
 John Rogers watched her dancing with 
 other men nearly all the evening, and it was 
 with a feeling of relief that he helped her 
 into the carriage at last, and slammed the 
 door behind him. 
 
 " I hope you have enjoyed yourself," he 
 said grimly. 
 
 " Indeed I have," she answered airily. " I 
 think it was quite the prettiest cotillon this 
 winter. The Dillinghams always do things 
 so well, don't you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, feeling that they had not 
 done particularly well for him. 
 
 " It was such a pretty idea," she went on, 
 " having those snowball favors of swan's- 
 down. But, do you know, they were heavier 
 than lead. I threw one at Will Lawrence, 
 and it nearly knocked off his ear." 
 
 " Did it? " he answered, so wearily that she 
 hastened to say,
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 323 
 
 " Do you know, I believe you were bored 
 to death the whole time." 
 
 " You know I love to go anywhere with 
 you, Cora, but this is somehow so unsatisfac- 
 tory." There was a moment's silence, and 
 then he added impetuously : " I want you 
 all to myself, not shared with all those chat- 
 tering idiots. I said I would n't worry you, 
 and I don't mean to ; but if you knew how 
 hard this waiting was. Sometimes I almost 
 wish you 'd say ' no,' and have done with 
 it." 
 
 " I can say that now," she answered 
 cheerfully. 
 
 " No, don't," he said hastily. " Of course 
 I don't mean that. I '11 wait forever, as 
 long as there 's the ghost of a chance. But 
 why can't you decide now, Cora? Why can't 
 you tell me to-night? I love you so 
 
 Her clear laugh interrupted him. " I never 
 heard anything so ridiculous, proposing in 
 a carriage at two o'clock at night ! Why, 
 there is n't room to answer in." 
 
 " There 's room enough to say ' yes.' " 
 
 " There, don't be silly ! You know I like 
 you better than any one ; but I don't want to 
 marry anybody for a long, long time." 
 
 They were silent until the carriage stopped,
 
 324 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 when she sprang quickly out, as if eager to 
 escape. At the door she paused. 
 
 " You 're going to take me to the Barclays' 
 Tuesday, are n't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I expected to. Is your sister going? " 
 
 " Yes, she and Charlie too; and we all dine 
 together at the Burdens'. You won't forget? " 
 
 So, with the cheerful prospect before him 
 of repeating his evening's experiences, he 
 drove home alone. He remarked to himself 
 several times that he was a fool, and he felt 
 quite sure of it the night at the Barclays' 
 dance. He had been " flocking by himself" 
 for some time, and wondering why on earth 
 he allowed Cora to drag him to these ghastly 
 entertainments. He was standing by a screen 
 of palms, when he suddenly became conscious 
 of voices on the other side of it. 
 
 "There is no chance that you would ever 
 think differently? " a man's voice was saying. 
 
 " I think not," answered the girl, gently 
 and softly. 
 
 John Rogers's heart leaped within him, for 
 it was Cora's voice. He knew he ought not 
 to listen, knew that he ought to walk 
 promptly in an opposite direction ; but but 
 here was another man proposing to his 
 Cora.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 325 
 
 " Of course," the man's voice said humbly, 
 " if there is some one else " He hesitated, 
 and there was a little silence. 
 
 " There is some one else," said Cora, in a 
 very low voice that trembled slightly. " I 
 have always thought the least a girl could do 
 was to be perfectly frank and honest, and so 
 I will trust you I will tell you. We are 
 not engaged, and I have treated him very 
 badly, but it is John Rogers. I think I 
 have always cared more for him than for 
 any one. Oh, I am so sorry ! " she added 
 impulsively. 
 
 Just then there was the hum of other 
 voices, and they moved away, or were silent, 
 for John Rogers could not hear them any 
 more. 
 
 He stood for a moment, dazed and blinded 
 by his happiness. Cora's low broken words 
 were ringing in his ears. He came out of 
 his corner with such a beaming face, and his 
 spirits were so high for the rest of the even- 
 ing, that several of his partners had doubts 
 as to his sobriety. It seemed as if he could 
 not wait to see Cora alone. Her brother and 
 sister were in the carriage driving home, but 
 he contrived to find Cora's hand, and to press 
 it hard. To his surprise she drew it quickly 
 away.
 
 326 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 " May I come to see you in the morning? " 
 he asked at the door. 
 
 " In the morning ? " she questioned, with a 
 puzzled look. 
 
 " Yes. I must see you ; I cannot possibly 
 wait." 
 
 " Well, come, if you want to, but I sha'n't 
 promise to be down. I never was one of 
 these early birds," she said lightly. 
 
 It seemed to John Rogers as if the next 
 morning was the longest he ever knew. He 
 held himself in check until about ten o'clock, 
 when he could wait no longer, and then went 
 with all speed to see Cora. 
 
 She kept him waiting a long time; and 
 when she finally appeared, looking very 
 lovely in her trailing morning-dress, she 
 seemed entirely oblivious of her confession 
 and his happiness. But John Rogers was 
 intensely in earnest. He could not trifle, 
 and so as soon as possible after her laughing 
 greeting he said : 
 
 " I was in the hall back of the palms, Cora, 
 last night. I don't know who he was, I don't 
 want to know ; but I heard you tell him 
 oh, Cora I heard you tell him that you 
 cared for me." His voice sank almost to a 
 whisper, and his face was quivering with the 
 intensity of his feeling.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 327 
 
 A deep wave of color rushed over the 
 girl's face; then she grew very pale, and it 
 seemed as if her whole attitude toward him 
 stiffened and hardened. " May I ask," she 
 said coldly, " if it is your habit to go around 
 listening to conversation that is intended for 
 other people? " 
 
 " I know it was wrong," he answered, in a 
 troubled, humbled way ; " but, Cora, I heard 
 him speak before I had a chance to get away, 
 and then, oh, Cora, it was so sweet to hear 
 your answer ! " 
 
 He looked at her imploringly ; but there 
 was no relenting in her face or manner. 
 
 " I think it was, to say the least, a most 
 ungentlemanly thing to do. However, since 
 you did see fit to listen, I cannot possibly 
 understand how you could twist the conver- 
 sation into any reference to you whatever." 
 
 He seemed bewildered. " Why, you 
 said " he began. 
 
 " I said," she interrupted calmly, " that I 
 cared for some one else. If you in your 
 vanity and complacency think I meant you, 
 I cannot help it." 
 
 " But you said me, you mentioned my 
 name, I heard you," he said, looking at 
 her in a dazed way.
 
 328 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 She bit her lip and looked a little embar- 
 rassed. " Did I ? " she said carelessly. " I 
 don't remember it. But can't you see that 
 it is necessary sometimes to say something, 
 to have a definite excuse, to settle 
 things once for all? I am very sorry if I 
 used your name, and particularly sorry that 
 I should have used your name, and particu- 
 larly sorry that you should have overheard it." 
 Her eyes flashed indignantly at him ; but he 
 was too miserable to notice her disdain. 
 
 "And you meant nothing? Oh, Cora, I 
 can't believe it! I have been so happy. I 
 thought that at last you knew your heart ; 
 and now it is a thousand times worse than 
 ever ! " 
 
 " I am very sorry for your misunder- 
 standing," she said ; " but really if people 
 will listen " She stopped abruptly, struck 
 by the dumb despair in his face. " Don't 
 let 's talk about it any more," she said, in a 
 kinder tone. " You dine with us to-morrow. 
 You know Thanksgiving day." 
 
 " I shall never dine here again," he 
 answered grimly ; " and as for Thanksgiving, 
 it is a cheerful Thanksgiving that you have 
 given me ! I am a worm of the dust before 
 you. You are as cold and heartless as a
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 329 
 
 stone image. At times I hate you. If you 
 were only honest, if you would only tell me 
 frankly that you cared nothing for me, why, 
 I 'd crawl away and try to get over it some- 
 how. But you are n't fair, you are n't true. 
 You give me a little hope, and then grow 
 more distant than ever. You are a thorough 
 coquette, a woman without a soul ! " 
 
 Cora Fenton trembled a little at this 
 arraignment ; but her voice was steady as she 
 answered : " If this be so, I advise you to 
 have nothing more to do with me. It is easy 
 to leave me, and I shall not follow you." 
 
 They eyed each other fixedly, measuring 
 their strength. Then the man quailed. " It 's 
 no use," he said miserably. " What do you 
 want me to do? " 
 
 " Behave like a sane person, in general, 
 and come to dinner to-morrow in particular." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Oh, John, how can I tell? " She looked 
 at him appealingly, and put a little white 
 hand on his arm. She had conquered, she 
 could afford to be generous. " You know 
 you are the dearest friend I have," she 
 continued, in a soft, caressing voice. " It 
 nearly kills me when you talk to me like 
 that. I do care for you, truly, honestly,
 
 330 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 only I cannot tell yet. How is a girl to 
 know? I am not a flirt. I like to have a 
 good time, and to have attention What 
 girl does n't ? But I hate to have you feel so. 
 Cheer up. Perhaps it will all come out right 
 yet." And she looked at him shyly and 
 sweetly. 
 
 "Well," he said gloomily, "perhaps it 
 will." 
 
 " And you will come to dinner to-morrow? " 
 
 " I suppose so ; although it seems such a 
 farce." 
 
 " Well, that won't affect the turkey or 
 the plum-pudding; and we all want you, 
 John ! " 
 
 And so the worm, having been well 
 trodden upon, crawled off to prepare for his 
 Thanksgiving. But he was very unhappy. 
 
 He remained in his own room that evening, 
 restless and uneasy. He lighted a number 
 of cigars, which he allowed to go out, and 
 tried to read. Finally, he found a volume 
 that interested him, slightly at first, and then 
 more deeply, till, pushing all the other books 
 and papers aside, he read on into the night. 
 He did not know that the book was one of 
 Balzac's masterpieces, it struck him simply 
 as the truthful story of a woman's heart.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 331 
 
 " By George ! " he exclaimed, throwing 
 the book from him, and walking up and down 
 the room, " So he was going to brand her ! 
 Well, that 's the way to treat such a woman ! " 
 
 Then he thought of Cora, and the little 
 coal of resentment that had burned hot in 
 his heart ever since parting from her sud- 
 denly glowed afresh. He thought a long 
 time ; and when he finally put out his light, 
 and went to sleep, he was a different John 
 Rogers from the disheartened fellow he had 
 been all day. Determination had taken the 
 place of endurance ; long-suffering had ended 
 in resolution. It would have disturbed Miss 
 Cora Fenton's dreams had she known that 
 the worm had made up its mind to turn. 
 
 Next day was Thanksgiving, a clear cold 
 day, with the gleam of sunshine on the icicles 
 and a hint of snow in the air. 
 
 It was just the day for a sleigh-ride, and 
 Cora Fenton, although a little surprised, was 
 delighted when John Rogers came for her 
 in the afternoon. His pretty sleigh stood 
 waiting at the door, while his horse pawed 
 the snow, and shook his head as if impatient 
 to be off. 
 
 "I shall be glad to go," said Cora, gra- 
 ciously. " All houses seem stuffy such a 
 day as this. You 're not going far? "
 
 332 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 "That depends," he answered smilingly. 
 " We '11 come home whenever you say the 
 word." 
 
 She looked at him, and was suddenly 
 struck by the fact that he was a very hand- 
 some man, tall and straight, with broad 
 shoulders, and such a kind good face. But 
 to-day it seemed to Cora that his honest 
 eyes were a deeper blue than usual, and she 
 had never noticed before how firm and 
 strong the lines of his mouth were, half- 
 hidden under his brown beard. She was 
 unusually light-hearted, and chatted gayly as 
 they drove along to a merry accompaniment 
 of sleigh-bells and jingling harness. 
 
 Everybody they met seemed smiling and 
 happy, and the drive was so pleasant that it 
 was with a feeling of regret Cora finally 
 said, 
 
 " Ought n't we to turn around now? I've 
 lost all track of time ; but it seems to me 
 everybody else is headed for home." 
 
 " I don't think we 'd better turn," he 
 
 answered steadily, " until I have asked you a 
 
 few questions, and you have answered them." 
 
 Something in his voice surprised her. 
 
 She looked at him in amazement. 
 
 " I want to know," he continued, in a low
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 333 
 
 tone, " if you have made up your mind to 
 marry me." 
 
 " Why, John," she said uneasily, " how 
 queer you are ! Everything has been so 
 nice and pleasant, and now you must needs 
 go and rake up that old subject." 
 
 There was a cold gleam in his eye that she 
 did n't like. She watched him for a moment 
 in troubled silence. Then she added, 
 
 " I 've told you over and over that I did n't 
 know how much I cared." 
 
 " Well," he said quietly, " I propose to 
 drive until you find out." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Just that. You will have to know your 
 own mind to-day. You can take all the 
 time you want, and I won't interrupt you 
 while you think." 
 
 " Why, John Rogers ! " she exclaimed. 
 " You 're perfectly crazy ! Take me home 
 at once ! I never heard of such a thing. 
 Take me home or I '11 I '11 jump 
 out." 
 
 He put his hand on her arm, and held her 
 firmly. " See here, Cora," he said gently, 
 "you can't jump out. Of course you can 
 scream, if you want to, and attract attention ; 
 but you know well enough that that means
 
 334 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 publicity, and perhaps notoriety. You know 
 that you can trust me, Cora. I would n't 
 hurt a hair of your head, but to-day you Ve 
 got to answer me." 
 
 " How long are you going to drive?" she 
 asked indignantly. 
 
 " Until you answer." 
 
 "But if I don't?" 
 
 " Oh, you will before to-morrow morning." 
 
 " To-morrow morning ! " she gasped. 
 
 "Yes," he said calmly; " it's going to be 
 a beautiful moonlight night. I Ve got plenty 
 of wraps and robes. I see no reason why 
 we should n't drive all night." 
 
 "I don't believe you," she cried ; " you're 
 not in earnest." 
 
 He turned to look at her squarely. 
 "You're very much mistaken if you think 
 this is a joke," he said soberly. " I never 
 was more serious in my life." 
 
 " And do you think this is a manly, honor- 
 able way to act? Do you think a gentleman 
 would steal a helpless girl like this, and run 
 off with her? I call it a mean, contemptible 
 trick ! " and her eyes blazed at him. 
 
 "You are mistaken, Cora," he said, in the 
 same even tone. " I am not running away 
 with you. It is in your power to have me
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 335 
 
 turn around this minute. I want you to say, 
 'John Rogers, I love you, and will marry 
 you ; ' or, if you cannot say that, look me 
 in the face and say, ' I do not love you, and 
 never want to see you again ; ' and in either 
 case I will turn instantly and take you home. 
 One or the other you shall say before you 
 leave this sleigh." 
 
 She began to cry. " Very well," she said, 
 between her sobs, " if you 're so anxious to 
 hear it, I '11 say it. ' John Rogers, I cannot 
 bear the sight of you.' There ! " 
 
 " I did n't tell you to say that ; and 
 besides, you never looked me in the face." 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Very well, do." 
 
 She raised her tearful eyes to his, and 
 began, bravely enough, " John Rogers, I 
 do notl " and then she faltered, and turned 
 her head away. 
 
 " You do not dare to say it ! " he cried 
 triumphantly. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "Oh, Cora," he pleaded, "why won't you 
 yield? I know you love me. I have felt 
 sure of it ever since that night at the Bar- 
 clays. Nothing you said has really shaken 
 my faith in it. Why, I heard you say so,
 
 336 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 dear. Say it again, darling, and make me 
 happy forever." 
 
 But she did not answer, and they drove on 
 in silence. 
 
 "Are we far from home?" she asked, in 
 a choked voice. 
 
 " About fifteen miles I should say." 
 
 " They will wonder what has become of 
 us." 
 
 " Yes," he assented, " they will." 
 
 " Don't you think this is very unfair, 
 very ungenerous? " 
 
 " No, not when I consider the woman I am 
 dealing with." 
 
 There was another long pause. 
 
 " Are you very sure you care for me, 
 John?" 
 
 " Sure ! Good heavens ! Why, Cora, I 
 have n't had a thought of anything but you 
 for years. I have n't been able to work, to 
 think, or do anything. You 've just filled 
 the world for me, Cora." 
 
 "Well," she said hesitatingly, "I don't 
 like this trick of yours at all ; I think it is 
 horrid ; but I I will, John There ! are 
 you satisfied?" 
 
 He dropped the reins and put his arms 
 around her.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 337 
 
 " My darling " he began; but she strug- 
 gled away from him and cried, 
 
 " You said you 'd turn around ! " 
 
 A little chilled in his rapture, he turned 
 his horse around. Then he looked at her. 
 She was very pretty in the dim light. Her 
 eyes were shining, and in the gathering twi- 
 light he could still see the clear bright color 
 in her cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, Cora," he exclaimed, " I think I am 
 the happiest man on earth ! " 
 
 She looked at him archly. 
 
 " I have said I would marry you, John, 
 because you made me ; but I did n't say 
 when. It won't be for a long time yet ! " 
 
 He felt faint and sick. Was all this 
 struggle for nothing then? She was play- 
 ing with him again, like a cat with a 
 mouse. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he said hoarsely. 
 " Won't you marry me now soon? I have 
 waited so long." 
 
 She smiled and shook her head. "Not 
 for years and years," she said cheerfully. 
 
 He drew the horse up so suddenly that it 
 reared and nearly fell over backward; then 
 he turned it sharply in the opposite direction. 
 He muttered something under his breath, 
 
 23
 
 338 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 gave the horse a quick cut with the whip, 
 and off they drove again. 
 
 This time there was a long silence. The 
 stars began to come out. They were well out 
 in the country, and could see the lights in 
 the few houses that they passed. They were 
 almost alone upon the road. Now and then 
 a solitary figure passed them, but the merry- 
 makers had all gone home. 
 
 Cora looked at him furtively, but he never 
 looked at her. His face was fixed and stern, 
 and there were some ugly lines between his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 Presently she said softly, "John." 
 
 At first he paid no attention ; but when she 
 repeated his name he answered sharply, 
 "What?" . 
 
 " John," she said timidly, " is n't it very 
 late? What time is it?" 
 
 He pulled out his watch and tried to look 
 at it, but the moon was not yet bright 
 enough. Then he lighted a match, which 
 went out. The second was more successful. 
 " It's a quarter past eight," he said at last. 
 
 " Oh, what will Charlie and Nettie think ! " 
 she said, with a little sob. " It 's long past 
 dinner-time." 
 
 He made no answer.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 339 
 
 "And it's Thanksgiving, too," she added 
 tremulously. 
 
 " Yes," he said, with horrible sarcasm in 
 his voice, " Thanksgiving ! " 
 
 Presently she spoke again. " John, don't 
 look like that ! Don't, don't ! I cannot bear 
 it ! I will promise you anything; John, 
 any tiling /" 
 
 " I could n't trust you if you did." 
 
 She cried softly to herself for a few min- 
 utes. Then she said, in a low voice, leaning 
 toward him a little as she spoke, " John, I 
 will marry you whenever you want me to." 
 
 " I am not sure that I ever want you to," 
 he answered grimly. 
 
 She gave a little cry, and turned away 
 from him, and for a long time he heard her 
 stifled sobs. 
 
 By-and-by she turned toward him again, 
 and leaned her head against his shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, John," she said despairingly, " don't 
 act so ! " 
 
 She had taken off her glove, and now she 
 slid her hand through his arm, and then 
 down his sleeve until it rested upon his wrist. 
 She waited a moment, and then pushed it 
 gently inside the heavy driving-gloves which 
 he was wearing, until it lay within his palm.
 
 340 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 He felt the soft warm touch, and it made his 
 pulses tingle ; but he would not close his own 
 fingers around the little hand that nestled in 
 them. 
 
 " Is n't there anything that I can do to make 
 you forgive me ? " she asked coaxingly. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," he said coldly; "I 
 could n't trust you." Just then he had an 
 inspiration. " Maybe I might believe you," 
 he added doubtfully, "if you if you kissed 
 me!" 
 
 She drew away from him a little. 
 
 " Oh, I could n't do that," she cried ; " it 
 would be so so unpleasant ! " 
 
 " I don't doubt it," he said severely. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " I don't mean that ! I 
 mean you ought that I Oh ! I could n't 
 do it." 
 
 " I know what you mean ; an accepted 
 lover should kiss his sweetheart, and not she 
 him ; but in our case I would have more 
 faith in the kiss as a sign of affection, if you 
 gave it." 
 
 " Oh," she said hopelessly, " you are so 
 hard, so cold ! " 
 
 " I have been learning from a finished 
 teacher," he said, with an ironical tone in his 
 voice.
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 341 
 
 She turned toward him impulsively, hesi- 
 tated a second, and then her lips just grazed 
 his cheek. 
 
 " Do you call that a kiss, that little flavor- 
 less dab !" he said calmly. " Why, it is a mere 
 accidental contact ! Kiss me on my lips ! " 
 
 " Oh, John, I can't, I can't ! " She shrank 
 away again, and buried her face in her muff. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "you need n't unless 
 you want to." 
 
 Again the silence and the continual driving 
 on. Neither of them knew now what time it 
 was, or where they were. In the life-and- 
 death struggle in which their two natures 
 were clinched everything else was forgotten. 
 
 Finally Cora gave a little cry. " You are 
 killing me ! " she said, and she gave one last 
 look at his stern set face. He looked at her 
 in return, unmoved and unrelenting. Then, 
 with a little quivering sob, she put both arms 
 around his neck and kissed him full upon his 
 lips. " Oh, John," she said, " I do love you, 
 love you, love you, with all my heart ! Won't 
 you trust me? Won't you love me ? I have 
 been cruel and wicked, but I I 've loved 
 you always, John ; and I '11 marry you to- 
 morrow." She sobbed out the words half 
 brokenly.
 
 342 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 
 
 He believed her then, and gathered her 
 closely to him, and she was calmed and com- 
 forted. He was not elated because he had 
 conquered, only joyfully happy because at 
 last he had secured her ; but she knew that 
 she had been vanquished by something 
 stronger than anything within her, and in 
 her heart she rejoiced over her defeat. 
 
 It was very late when they got back. 
 Cora's brother and his wife were waiting with 
 anxious faces in the drawing-room. Dinner 
 was long since over, and wonderment at their 
 absence had given place to apprehension and 
 alarm. 
 
 "We 're all right, Charlie," called out John 
 Rogers, heartily, as they entered. " Nothing 
 has happened, but we were delayed on the 
 road. I '11 tell you all about it later. Cora 
 is tired to death. Give her some supper, and 
 send her to bed, and don't question the poor 
 child to-night." 
 
 Cora laughed a little hysterically. " Charlie 
 
 - Nettie ! " she cried, " I 'm going to tell 
 
 you! He he has been proposing to me 
 
 and I Ve been accepting him, and I think it 
 
 took a hundred and fifty miles to do it in ! " 
 
 They gathered around her with exclama- 
 tions and kisses. They nearly shook John
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WORM. 343 
 
 Rogers's hand off. They were so heartily 
 glad that they quite forgot all their former 
 anxiety and worry. 
 
 " But," said Nettie, after a little, " you 
 have n't had any Thanksgiving dinner ! " 
 
 " I know," answered John Rogers.; "but we 
 concluded on the way home it was a great 
 deal better to have a Thanksgiving without a 
 dinner, than it was to have a dinner without 
 any Thanksgiving ! " 
 
 THE END.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A QUESTION OF LOVE. 
 
 of 
 
 Translated by ANNIE R. RAMSEY, from the French of 
 
 T. COMBE. 
 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 The scene is laid in Switzerland, and the narrative has to do with a delight- 
 fully original family, consisting of two old men (one of them almost a centenarian); 
 a spinster housekeeper of quaint, undemonstrative manners ; an elderly servant, 
 always ready to speak her mind on the slightest provocation ; and last, but by no 
 means least, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whose loneliness amid these surroundings, 
 cut off from all companionship with persons of her own age, is forcibly depicted. 
 Pretty little Zoe, with her shy ways and her tender heart, is a most attractive 
 character, and the reader will not wonder that Samuel, the honest son of the 
 neighboring former, falls head over heels in love with her. But Samuel's hopes are 
 doomed to disappointment. All the characters are well drawn, and among them 
 old Brutus Romanel is not the least delightful. His one ambition is that he may 
 live to be a hundred, and he comments on the obituary list in the newspaper with 
 a glee that would be disgusting if it were not so artless. Miss Ramsey's transla- 
 tion deserves the highest praise for its freedom from Gallic idioms. Here, evi- 
 dently, is one translator who believes that a translation into English ought to be 
 written in the English language, and not in that droll Anglo-French patois which 
 so often does duty for English at the hands of the ignorant and incompetent. 
 The Beacon. 
 
 It is a clean, sweet-smelling story, a great relief after the quantities of realistic 
 stuff produced by the modem French school. The characterization is excellent, 
 and the style and treatment deserve special commendation. It is a pretty and 
 wholesome love story that recommends itself specially to the attention of the 
 maidens. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, mailed on receipt of price by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts BrotJiers* Publications. 
 
 A VIOLIN OBLIGATO 
 
 BY MARGARET CROSBY. 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 A noteworthy dramatic purpose, acute insight into the recesses of individual 
 character, ready command of the motives that govern the relations of allied or 
 contradictory natures, a persistent recognition of the essential pathos of life to 
 those who look beneath its surface, and a versatility of style that easily ranges 
 from grave to gay, these, with an underlying sense of humor that now and then 
 blossoms out into ample radiance, are the traits and qualifications displayed by 
 Margaret Crosby in " A Violin Obligato and Other Stories." The strength and 
 scope of the tales brought together in this volume are indeed remarkable ; they 
 touch on many phases of human existence, and they appeal to something more 
 than a mere desire for mental distraction. Most of the productions included in 
 this book have a clear ethical purport ; one cannot read them without getting new 
 light upon personal duty and realizing the force of the decree that renders every 
 man and every woman responsible for the influence he or she brings to bear on 
 others. The first story, "A Violin Obligato," deals with the fate of a poor 
 musician in whom the artistic impulse overbalanced artistic capability. " On the 
 South Shore" and "An Islander" have their scenes laid in Nantucket, a region 
 where Miss Crosby is apparently very much at home. The woman whose face is 
 her fortune is the central figure in " A Complete Misunderstanding," and the 
 way in which she wrecks the happiness of two men is related with no attempt at 
 melodramatic exaggeration, but witk a straightforward vigor that is always effec- 
 tive. "The Copeland Collection" has a delightful savor of romance; "Last 
 Chance Gulch " unfolds exciting episodes in the life of a Western mining camp ; 
 a liaison between a high-born youth and a beautiful gypsy is the theme of " A 
 Mad Englishman " ; it is a humble fisherman in a New England village who 
 turns out to be " A Child of Light ; " and in the " Passages from the Journal of 
 a Social Wreck" there is a comedy of the first order. It is seldom that one 
 encounters a collection of short stories from the pen of a single writer where the 
 interest is so diversified and yet so well sustained as in this volume by Miss 
 Crosby. The talent displayed in every one of these essays in fiction is incontest- 
 able. They will take rank at once with the representative work of the foremost 
 American authors in this important field of contemporary literature. Tlie 
 Beacon. 
 
 Sold everywhere, mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the price by the 
 publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A BOOK O' NINE TALES 
 
 itf) ^Interludes* 
 
 BY ARLO BATES, 
 
 >/ " A Lad's Love," " Albrecht," 
 of the Brier," etc. 
 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 Author of "A Lad's Love" " Albreckt" "Berries 
 of the Brier," etc. 
 
 Certainly had he done nothing else the present volume should go far toward 
 making him a permanent reputation. 
 
 " His stories are bright and clever, but they have higher qualities than wit and 
 cleverness. They have the enchantments of the magician, the pathos and passion 
 of the poet. The plan of the volume is ingenious. There are the ' Nine Tales,' 
 and they are separated by eight ' Interludes.' These ' Interludes ' are, practi- 
 cally, bright little social comedies," says Mrs. Moulton in the Boston Herald. 
 
 Mr. Bates writes smoothly and pleasantly. His stories and sketches make 
 very entertaining reading. 
 
 " A Book o' Nine Tales," by Arlo Bates, whose writing has been familiar in 
 magazines and newspapers for several years, is a readable volume of short stories 
 suited to the light leisure of summer days in the country. There are really seven- 
 teen stories, although to make the title appropriate Mr. Bales makes every second 
 one an interlude. They are simple, gracefully written, unambitious tales, not 
 calculated to move the emotions more than will be comfortable in holiday hours. 
 They are short and interesting, with all kinds of motives, dealing with love in 
 every-day, pretty, tasteful fashion. A weird tale is " The Tuberose," which 
 startles one a little and leaves a great deal to the imagination. The book will be 
 a popular seaside and country volume. San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " A Book o' Nine Tales," by Arlo Bates, who has become very popular as a 
 writer of love stories, will attract much attention this season from the great army 
 of readers who wish for "vacation boots." These nine stories are capitally told, 
 and are arranged in a novel manner with interludes between. These interludes 
 take the shape of short scenes, arranged as if in a play, the dialogue sustained by 
 two persons, a lady and gentleman, which give an opportunity to portray and 
 satirize in a very effective manner many queer society customs, superstitions, and 
 characters familiar to every one who mingles with the world. They make a most 
 amusing array of characters, that seem to live, so true they are to human nature. 
 " Mere Marchette " is a gem in this unusually good collection of literary jewels. 
 Hartford Times. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price by the 
 publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 ALBRECHT. 
 
 By ARLO BATES, author of "A Lad's Love," "Berries of 
 the Brier," etc. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 Arlo Bates has given us a genuine old-time romance in " Albrecht," in 
 which the hero, a kobold, is endowed with a soul through his marriage with 
 a saintly Christian maiden. It takes us back to the time of Charlemagne, 
 and the action occurs in the forests of Schwarzwold, which are peopled by 
 supernatural beings, including the kobolds, whose striking resemblance to 
 human kind places the men and women who may fall in their way in constant 
 danger of being deceived. The heroine loves one of these strange creatures 
 in the guise of a handsome knight, and after she has become a wife is sub- 
 ject to longings and temptations to which she had been a stranger in her 
 days of happy, innocent girlhood. A good father confessor is the guardian 
 angel of the strangely wedded pair, and through his intervention their 
 earthly and eternal happiness is finally assured. The romance is a welcome 
 change from the eternal round of commonplace realism with which we are 
 now afflicted, and without intending to be didactic, conveys many lessons 
 which he who runs may read. It reveals a poetic and refined imagination 
 at every step ; and though it may recall " Undine" to many readers, it is 
 not in any sense an' imitation of that immortal work. There are a number 
 of graceful lyrics introduced in " Albrecht," which are artistically in harmony 
 with the atmosphere of this fascinating tale. Those who wish to get away 
 from this work-a-day world for a brief period should read it by all means. 
 Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 Mr. Arlo Bates has written a kind of counterpart to "Undine" in 
 " Albrecht." It is pure romance, avowedly non-didactic, but dealing, in its 
 own peculiar, suggestive way, with one of those psychical problems which 
 have always interested and perplexed thinkers. The story is cast in the 
 form of a Teutonic romance of the time of Charlemagne. . . . Throughout 
 the tale an atmosphere of glamor surrounds everything, and the reader is 
 put and kept in the proper milieu with an art deserving high praise. 
 There is much poetry and picturesqueness in the description ; and while 
 the tissue of the romance is distinctly light, the colors are appropriate, they 
 are laid on skilfully and harmoniously, and the general effect is pleasing and 
 gratifying. New York Tribune. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs, Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 THE TRUTH 
 ABOUT CLEMENT KER. 
 
 BY GEORGE FLEMING, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "KISMET," "MIRAGE," "ANDROMEDA," "THE HEAD or 
 MEDUSA," AND "VESTIGIA." 
 
 One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, 75 cents. 
 
 George Fleming, the author of " Kismet " and " Mirage," never disappoints 
 us in her literary work. Although she has not yet written a great novel, all her 
 stories are bright, clever, and readable. " The Truth about Clement Ker " is an 
 artistic ghost story. It is interesting from beginning to end ; it is a delightful 
 mixture of the natural and the supernatural, of fiction and of fact. It is full of a 
 weird mysterious suggestiveness which keeps the reader's imagination on the alert, 
 and yet never develops into the sensational or absurd. There is a harmony about 
 all the incidents in the story before us, which is a strong evidence of the writer's 
 literary taste. No one part is treated with any more realism than another. But 
 characters and incidents find their places in a shadowy atmosphere whose very 
 indistinctness is a part of its charm. In these days of realism, psychology and 
 hypnotism must have their part in our ghost stories ; the occult forces of the uni- 
 verse must at least seem to be in sympathy with any attempt to portray the super- 
 natural. Nor has the present writer been ignorant of this truth. The book 
 before us is one of the best short stories of the day ; a brilliant sketch, admirably 
 conceived and executed. Transcript. 
 
 Miss Fletcher introduces into her new story psychological and supernatural 
 elements. It is especially notable for the atmosphere of mystery which envelops 
 it, and for the skill with which startling incidents are dealt. "The characters 
 are strongly drawn, and the whole book bears witness to the closeness of Miss 
 Fletcher's observation and her insight into the real natures of men and women," 
 says MRS. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 To their excellent little " Handy Library," which, in spite of its extreme youth, 
 already promises to attain a good and honored old age, Messrs. Roberts Brothers 
 have just added " The Truth about Clement Ker." A novel by George Fleming 
 stands in little need of newspaper comment to insure its popularity, and certainly 
 this already widely known story is no exception. The straightforward unfolding 
 of its rather unusual plot, its capital character sketching, and above all, the fresh- 
 ness and vigor with which the old and ever new subject is treated, recommend to 
 the most jaded novel reader. Washington Capitol. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the 
 fublishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A WEEK AWAY FROM TIME. 
 
 I2mo, Cloth, Price, $1.25 ; Paper Covers, 50 cents. 
 
 The scene of this novel is Fair Harbor, which, by the way, is a little nook on 
 the Buzzard's Bay shore of Cape Cod, in the town of Falmouth. The book 
 deals not so much with Cape Cod life as with life on Cape Cod, the life, how- 
 ever, of the summer visitor, of the seeker after pleasure, not the life of us " to the 
 manner born." Of the scenery on Cape Cod, of the drives to Barnstable Great 
 Marshes, of cranberry picking, of the sea, the author writes delicately and affec- 
 tionately. We, who are so used to the ordinary sights of the Cape, will read with 
 pleasure of the beauties that our too accustomed eyes have failed to perceive in 
 our surroundings. Provincetown Advocate. 
 
 A week spent by a happy party at " Fair Harbor," a place located somewhere 
 between Falmouth and Woods Holl, " at the very tip end of the heel of Cape 
 Cod." Margaret Temple, a young widow, with a "supremely fortunate nature," 
 finds this place, which is a " fairy inlet where the voices of sirens singing to your 
 soul would bid you stay and be at rest." She purchases "The White House," a 
 quaint old mansion, for a summer home, and here it is that the principal action of 
 the story is laid. A half-dozen or more of congenial friends gather for a week's 
 rest, and employ the time in quiet diversions, devoting the evenings to the read- 
 ing of original stories prepared by members of the party in turn. The party is 
 admirably adapted to the development of romance ; and although in one case an 
 athletic young Apollo sails away with a broken heart, the sum total is so much 
 happiness that the conclusion is very satisfactory. New Bedford Mercury. 
 
 Anonymous though it be, there are too many marks and crosses, tracks and 
 trails, in this little volume for an observant reader to remain long in doubt as to 
 birthplace and parentage. The conversations alone betray Boston, and the sto- 
 ries the highest circle of literary society there. Imitating the refined tone of the 
 company writing, invidious selections and comparisons are avoided ; and if especial 
 mention is made of the exquisite prelude, it is only in indorsement of the taste 
 that placed it conspicuously, where it should be, to arrest the eye of the reader and 
 give the key-note of the charming motif to follow. Hartford Courant. 
 
 The charm of the book and it has a charm lies in the hospitable way in 
 which the reader is allowed to share the confidences of this clever little group. 
 " A Week Away from Time " enlarges agreeably our list of friends, and we find 
 ourselves half wishing that the week were lengthened into a fortnight. Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Robens Brothers Publications. 
 
 QURSELVES 
 
 AND OUR NEIGHBORS: 
 
 SHORT CHATS ON SOCIAL TOPICS. 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 i6mo, cloth, price, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 A book of social studies, ranging over such topics as " Rosebuds in Society," 
 "Young Beaux and Old Bachelors," " Engagements," " After Marriage," and 
 other similar vital experiences, which are discussed with exquisite refinement, 
 good sense, and unfailing charm. . . . Mrs. Moulton never loses sight of ideals 
 of conduct which are noble and beautiful, and which are worthy to hang as fixed 
 stars over our lives, to quote the words of a great German philosopher. She 
 brings to bear, also, that wide range of experience in the most brilliant and culti- 
 vated social circles that holds all standards amenable to outward realization, and 
 her gentle counsel thus becomes as suggestive as it is ideally fine. Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 If we had our way, this delightful little manual of social ethics should have a 
 place among the text-books of all our school-girls' senior year. Mrs. Moulton's 
 philosophy of the pleasure and the mental and spiritual profit of social intercourse 
 is based on the sure foundation of the education of the heart. From right feeling 
 right action proceeds, as the rays from the flame. There is sound sense, wit, 
 geniality, tenderness, and the delicate fragrance of exquisite refinement pervading 
 all ; but not a cynical nor a sarcastic line in the book. There is that wholesome 
 reality about it possible only where the author lives what she writes. Boston 
 Pilot. 
 
 Here is a book of courtesy, of rightful living, and of persuasive wisdom, which 
 will find its audience. It is a poet's work, gracefully humorous and serious, and 
 on its own topics quite oracular. Its purpose is to emphasize the ideals of 
 guiet home living, and of our inter-relationships outside of home, as acquaint- 
 ances, friends, and lovers. Pervading every chapter, through the medium of a 
 mellow and very beautiful style, is, too, the unconscious personal influence, which, 
 being on the side first of kindness, and, after, of the noble meanings of etiquette 
 and propriety, must make itself felt ; a spirit unaided, tolerant, and sanguine of all 
 best things. New York Home Journal. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON
 
 Messrs. Roberts BrotJiers 1 Publications. 
 
 Miss EYRE FROM BOSTON. 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 
 
 Author of " Some Wometfs Hearts,'''' " Random Rambles? "/ tht 
 Garden of Dreams" " Bed-Time Stories" etc. 
 
 One Vol., I6mo, cloth. Price, $1.25. Paper covers, 60 cts. 
 
 THESE stories are marked with an exquisite touch throughout, and while 
 they belong to the region of sentiment, they escape happily the bogs of sen- 
 timentality. There are several which touch upon the supernatural, and it is 
 pleasing to see with what taste and cleverness Mrs. Moulton has handled 
 these difficult themes. They have just the right touch to hold them be- 
 tween the credible and the impossible, and they are all in some way 
 suggestive of unexplored regions lying almost palpably behind them. The 
 book is one to have at hand for hours when one wishes to be soothed and 
 cheered, and to be inspired with new life, for it is full of good inspirations. 
 It is a^ok one would be glad to see young girls read, and one, too, which 
 there is no doubt that young girls will be glad to read. Sunday Courier. 
 
 THOSE who are fond of Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton's writings will 
 find this delightful collection of fourteen short stories no less enjoyable 
 than that charming companion volume of last year, entitled " Ourselves and 
 Our Neighbors," or the still more exquisite collection of novelettes, 
 "Some Women's Hearts." There is in this latest volume a very strong 
 flavor of the finest and most attractive features of New England city and 
 country life, but there are also bits of foreign experiences and even two 
 ghost, or " spirits," stories which give a spice of variety to the contents. 
 Mrs. Moulton's sympathies are only with that which is lovable and uplift- 
 ing in human nature, and she has the rare faculty of discovering fine 
 qualities even in the commonest souls. She has a rare insight into the 
 depths of human passion and emotion, and in her stories we never find other 
 than noble and beautiful ideals of love. The same sympathetic instincts, 
 delicacy of perception, refinement of thought, and beauty of expression, 
 which characterized so distinctively the works of the gifted H. H., are found 
 also in Mrs. Moulton's stories, and upon her has fallen the mantle of a 
 story-teller, which her late sister wore so exquisitely. This little book of 
 stories, which is dedicated to five talented girls of Boston, is good not only 
 for summer reading, but for all the year round. Public Opinion. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the Pub- 
 hikers. ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 
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