A NEW ENGLAND NUN 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A HUMBLE ROMANCE" ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 

 A NEW ENGLAND NUN 
 
 Copyright, 1891, 1920, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 Copyright, 1919, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
H2O 
 
 AA 
 
 LIST OF STORIES. 
 
 PACK 
 
 A NEW ENGLAND NUN ........... I 
 
 v<A VILLAGE SINGER ............. l8 
 
 DRESS ........... 37 
 
 THE TWELFTH GUEST ............ 54 
 
 VASTER LIDDY .............. 8l 
 
 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH .......... 99 
 
 A WAYFARING COUPLE ........... 121 
 
 *A POETESS ................ I 4 
 
 vCHRISTMAS JENNY ............. l6 
 
 . A POT OF GOLD ........... J 7 8 
 
 /THE SCENT OF THE ROSES .......... J 9 S 
 
 ^A SOLITARY ............... 2I 5 
 
 /A GENTLE GHOST ............. 2 34 
 
 ^K DISCOVERED PEARL ........... 2 53 
 
 VILLAGE LEAR ............. 268 
 
 AMANDA AND LOVE ............ 288 
 
 PRIMROSE HILL ............ 35 
 
 STOLEN CHRISTMAS ............ 3 21 
 
 /LIFE EVERLASTIN ....... ...... 33 8 
 
LIST OF STORIES. 
 
 FAGB 
 
 "AN INNOCENT GAMESTER 363 
 
 LOUISA . ,.. 9 . . . 384 
 
 A CHURCH MOUSE 407 
 
 UlA KITCHEN COLONEL 427 
 
 - THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER" . . . 448 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 IT was late in the afternoon, and the light was waning. 
 There was a difference in the look of the tree shadows out 
 in the yard. Somewhere in the distance cows were lowing 
 and a little bell was tinkling; now and then a farm-wagon 
 tilted by, and the dust flew; some blue-shirted laborers with 
 shovels over their shoulders plodded past; little swarms of 
 flies were dancing up and down before the peoples faces 
 in the soft air. There seemed to be a gentle stir arising 
 over everything for the mere sake of subsidence a verj 
 premonition of rest and hush and night. 
 
 This soft diurnal commotion was over Louisa Ellis also. 
 She had been peacefully sewing at her sitting-room window 
 all the afternoon. Now she quilted her needle carefully 
 into her work, which she folded precise!) , and laid in a 
 basket with her thimble and thread and scissors. Louisa 
 Ellis could not remember that ever in her life she had mis 
 laid one of these little feminine appurtenances, which had 
 become, from long use and constant association, a very part 
 of her personality. 
 
 Louisa tied a green apron round her waist, and got out a 
 flat straw hat with a green ribbon. Then she went into the 
 garden with a little blue crockery bowl, to pick some cur 
 rants for her tea. After the currants were picked she sat 
 i 
 
2 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 on the back door-step and stemmed them, collecting the 
 stems carefully in her apron, and afterwards throwing them 
 into the hen-coop, She looked sharply at the grass beside 
 
 the step to see yf any had fallen there. 
 
 .X Louisa was slow. and still in her movements; it took her 
 
 - l * .lopg time, .to/ .prepare her tea; but when ready it was 
 set forth with as much grace as if she had been a veritable 
 guest to her own self. The little square table stood exactly 
 in the centre of the kitchen, and was covered with a starched 
 linen cloth whose border pattern of flowers glistened. 
 Louisa had a damask napkin on *ier tea-tray, where were 
 arranged a cut-gla a s tumbler full of teaspoons, a silver 
 cream-pitcher, a china sugar-bowl, and one pink china cup 
 and saucer. Louisa used china every day something 
 which none of her neighbors did. They whispered about 
 
 I it among themselves. Their daily tables were laid with 
 common crockery, their sets of best china stayed in the par 
 lor closet, and Louisa Ellis was no richer nor better bred 
 than they. Still she would use the china. She had for 
 her supper a glass dish full of sugared currants, a plate of 
 little cakes, and one of light white biscuits. Also a leaf or 
 two of lettuce, which she cut up daintily. Louisa was very 
 fond of lettuce, which she raised to perfection in her little 
 garden. She ate quite heartily, though in a delicate, peck 
 ing way; it seemed almost surprising that any considerable 
 bulk of the food should vanish. 
 
 After tea she filled a plate with nicely baked thin corn- 
 cakes, and carried them out into the back-yard. 
 " Caesar !" she called. " Cesar ! Caesar !" 
 There was a little rush, and the clank of a chain, and a large 
 yellow-and-white dog appeared at the door of his tiny hut, 
 which was half hidden among the tall grasses and flowers. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 3 
 
 Louisa patted him and gave him the corn-cakes. Then 
 she returned to the house and washed the tea-things, pol 
 ishing the china carefully. The twilight had deepened ; the 
 chorus of the frogs floated in at the open window wonder 
 fully loud and shrill, and once in a while a long sharp drone 
 from a tree-toad pierced it. Louisa took off her green 
 gingham apron, disclosing a shorter one of pink and white 
 print. She lighted her lamp, and sat down again with her 
 sewing. 
 
 In about half an bour Joe Dagget came. She heard his 
 heavy step on the walk, and rose and took off her pink-and- 
 white apron. Under that was still another white linen 
 with a little cambric edging on the bottom ; that was Louisa s 
 company apron. She never wore it without her calico sew 
 ing apron over it unless she had a guest. She had barely 
 folded the pink and white one with methodical haste and 
 laid it in a table-drawer when the door opened and Joe 
 Dagget entered. 
 
 He seemed to fill up the whole room. A little yellow 
 canary that had been asleep in his green cage at the south 
 window woke up and fluttered wildly, beating his little yel 
 low wings against the wires. He always did so when Joe 
 Dagget came into the room. 
 
 "Good-evening," said Louisa. She extended her hand 
 with a kind of solemn cordiality. 
 
 " Good - evening, Louisa," returned the man, in a loud 
 voice. 
 
 She placed a chair for him, and they sat facing each other, 
 with the table between them. He sat bolt-upright, toeing 
 out his heavy feet squarely, glancing with a good-humored 
 uneasiness around the room. She sat gently erect, folding 
 her slender hands in her white-linen lap. 
 
4 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 " Been a pleasant day," remarked Dagget. 
 
 "Real pleasant," Louisa assented, softly. "Have you 
 been haying?" she asked, after a little while. 
 
 " Yes, I ve been haying all day, down in the ten-acre lot. 
 Pretty hot work." 
 
 "It must be." 
 
 " Yes, it s pretty hot work in the sun." 
 
 " Is your mother well to-day ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother s pretty well." 
 
 " I suppose Lily Dyer s with her now ?" 
 
 Dagget colored. "Yes, she s with her," he answered, 
 slowly. 
 
 He was not very young, but there was a boyish look about 
 his large face. Louisa was not quite as old as he, her face 
 was fairer and smoother, but she gave people the impression 
 of being older. 
 
 " I suppose she s a good deal of help to your mother," 
 she said, further. 
 
 " I guess she is ; I don t know how mother d get along 
 without her," said Dagget, with a sort of embarrassed warmth. 
 
 " She looks like a real capable girl. She s pretty-looking 
 too," remarked Louisa. 
 
 "Yes, she is pretty fair looking." 
 
 Presently Dagget began fingering the books on the table. 
 There was a square red autograph alburn, and a Young 
 Lady s Gift-Book which had belonged to Louisa s mother. 
 He took them up one after the other and opened them ; 
 then laid them down again, the album on the Gift- Book. 
 
 Louisa kept eying them with mild uneasiness. Finally 
 she rose and changed the position of the books, putting the 
 album underneath. That was the way they had been ar 
 ranged in the first place. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 5 
 
 Dagget gave an awkward little laugh. " Now what dif 
 ference did it make which book was on top ?" said he. 
 
 Louisa looked at him with a deprecating smile. " I al 
 ways keep them that way," murmured she. 
 
 "You do beat everything," said Dagget, trying to laugh 
 again. His large face was flushed. 
 
 He remained about an hour longer, then rose to take 
 leave. Going out, he stumbled over a rug, and trying to 
 recover himself, hit Louisa s work-basket on the table, and 
 knocked it on the floor. 
 
 He looked at Louisa, then at the rolling spools; he 
 ducked himself awkwardly toward them, but she stopped 
 him. " Never mind," said she ; " I ll pick them up after 
 you re gone." 
 
 She spoke with a mild stiffness. Either she was a little 
 disturbed, or his nervousness affected her, and made her 
 seem constrained in her effort to reassure him. 
 
 When Joe Dagget was outside he drew in the sweet evening 
 air with a sigh, and felt much as an innocent and perfectly 
 well-intentioned bear might after his exit from a china shop. 
 
 Louisa, on her part, felt much as the kind-heartecTj long- 
 suffering owner of the china shop might have done after 
 the exit of the bear. 
 
 She tied on the pink, then the green apron, picked up all 
 the scattered treasures and replaced them in her work- 
 basket, and straightened the rug. Then she set the lamp 
 on the floor, and began sharply examining the carpet. She 
 even rubbed her fingers over it, and looked at them. 
 
 " He s tracked in a good deal of dust," she murmured. 
 " I thought he must have." 
 
 Louisa got a dust-pan and brush, and swept Joe Dagget s 
 track carefully. 
 
6 A NEW ENGLAND NUtf. 
 
 If he could have known it, it would have increased his 
 perplexity and uneasiness, although it would not have dis 
 turbed his loyalty in the least. He came twice a week to 
 see Louisa Ellis, and every time, sitting there in her deli- 
 cately sweet room, he felt as if surrounded by a hedge of 
 lace. He was afraid to stir lest he should put a clumsy 
 foot or hand through the /airy web, and he had always the 
 consciousness that Louisa ./as watching fearfully lest he 
 should. 
 
 Still the lace and Louisa commanded perforce his per 
 fect respect and patience and loyalty. They were to be 
 married in a month, after a singular courtship which had 
 lasted for a matter of fifteen years. For fourteen out of 
 the fifteen years the two had not once seen each other, and 
 they had seldom exchanged letters. Joe had been all those 
 years in Australia, where he had gone to make his fortune, 
 and where he had stayed until he made it. He would have 
 stayed fifty years if it had taken so long, and come home 
 feeble and tottering, op^eyer come home at all, to marry 
 Louisa. 
 
 But the fortune had been made in the fourteen years, 
 and he had come home now to marry the woman who had 
 been patiently and unquestioningly waiting for him all that 
 time. 
 
 Shortly after they were engaged he had announced to 
 Louisa his determination to strike out into new fields, and 
 secure a competency before they should be married. She 
 had listened and assented with the sweet serenity which 
 never failed her, not even when her lover set forth on that 
 long and uncertain journey. Joe, buoyed up as he was by 
 his sturdy determination, broke down a little at the last, 
 but Louisa kissed him with a mild blush, and said good-by. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 7 
 
 " It won t be for long," poor Joe had said, huskily ; but 
 it was for fourteen years. 
 
 In that length of time much had happened. Louisa s 
 mother and brother had died, and she was all alone in the 
 world. But greatest happening of all a subtle happening 
 which both were too simple to understand Louisa s feet 
 had turned ihto a path, smooth maybe under a calm, serene 
 sky, but so straight and unswerving that it coald only meet 
 a check at her grave, and so narrow that there was no room 
 for any one at her side. 
 
 Louisa s first emotion when Joe Dagget came home (he 
 had not apprised her of his coming) was consternation, al 
 though she would not admit it to herself, and he never 
 dreamed of it. Fifteen years ago she had been in love 
 with him at least she considered herself to be. Just at 
 that time, gently acquiescing with and falling into the nat 
 ural drift of girlhood, she had seen marriage ahead as a 
 reasonable feature and a probable desirability of life. She 
 had listened with calm docility to her mother s views upon 
 the subject. Her mother was remarkable for her cool 
 sense and sweet, even temperament. She talked wisely to 
 her daughter when Joe Dagget presented himself, and 
 Louisa accepted him with no hesitation. He was the first 
 lover she had ever had. 
 
 She had been faithful to him all these years. She had 
 never dreamed of the possibility of marrying any one else. 
 Her life, especially for the last seven years, had been full 
 of a pleasant peace, she had never felt discontented nor 
 impatient over her lover s absence ; still she had always 
 looked forward to his return and their marriage as the in 
 evitable conclusion of things. However, she had fallen 
 into a way of placing it so far in the future that it was al- 
 
8 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 most equal to placing it over the boundaries of another 
 life. 
 
 When Joe came she had been expecting him, and ex 
 pecting to be married for fourteen years, but she was as 
 much surprised and taken aback as if she had never 
 thought of it. 
 
 Joe s consternation came later. He eyed Louisa with 
 an instant confirmation of his old admiration. She had 
 changed but little. She still kept her pretty manner and 
 soft grace, and was, he considered, every whit as attractive 
 as ever. As for himself, his stent was done ; he had turned 
 his face away from fortune-seeking, and the old winds of 
 romance whistled as loud and sweet as ever through his 
 ears. All the song which he had been wont to hear in 
 them was Louisa ; he had for a long time a loyal be 
 lief that he heard it still, but finally it seemed to him that 
 although the winds sang always that one song, it had an 
 other name. But for Louisa the wind had never more than 
 murmured ; now it had gone down, and everything was still. 
 She listened for a little while with half-wistful attention ; 
 then she turned quietly away and went to work on her 
 wedding clothes. 
 
 Joe had made some extensive and quite magnificent 
 alterations in his house. It was the old homestead ; the 
 newly-married couple would live there, for Joe could not 
 desert his mother, who refused to leave her old home. 
 So Louisa must leave hers. Every morning, rising and 
 going about among her neat maidenly possessions, she felt 
 as one looking her last upon the faces of dear friends. It 
 was true that in a measure she could take them with her, but, 
 robbed of their old environments, they would appear in such 
 new guises that they would almost cease to be themselves. 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 9 
 
 Then there were some peculiar features of her happy soli 
 tary life which she would probably be obliged to relinquish 
 altogether. Sterner tasks than these graceful but half- 
 needless ones would probably devolve upon her. There 
 would be a large house to care for ; there would be com 
 pany to entertain ; there would be Joe s rigorous and feeble 
 old mother to wait upon ; and it would be contrary to all 
 thrifty village traditions for her to keep more than one ser 
 vant. Louisa had a little still, and she used to occupy her 
 self pleasantly in summer weather with distilling the sweet 
 and aromatic essences from roses and peppermint and spear 
 mint. By-and-by her still must be laid away. Her store of 
 essences was already considerable, and there would be no 
 time for her to distil for the mere pleasure of it. Then 
 Joe s mother would think it foolishness ; she had already 
 hinted her opinion in the matter. Louisa dearly loved to 
 sew a linen seam, not always for use, but for the simple, 
 mild pleasure which she took in it. She would have been 
 loath to confess how more than once she had ripped a seam 
 for the mere delight of sewing it together agairv Sitting 
 at her window during long sweet afternoons, drawing her 
 needle gently through the dainty fabric, she was peace itself. 
 But there was small chance of such foolish comfort in the 
 future. Joe s mother, domineering, shrewd old matron that 
 she was even in her old age, and very likely even Joe him^ 
 self, with his honest masculine rudeness, would laugh and 
 frown down all these pretty but senseless old maiden ways. 
 Louisa had almost the enthusiasm of an artist over the 
 mere order and cleanliness of her solitary home. She had 
 throbs of genuine triumph at the sight of the window-panes 
 which she had polished until they shone like jewels. She 
 gloated gently over her orderly bureau-drawers, with their 
 
10 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 exquisitely folded contents redolent with lavender and 
 sweet clover and very purity. Could she be sure of the 
 endurance of even this ? She had visions, so startling that 
 she half repudiated them as indelicate, of coarse masculine 
 belongings strewn about in endless litter ; of dust and dis 
 order arising necessarily from a coarse masculine presence 
 in the midst of all this delicate harmony. 
 
 Among her forebodings of disturbance, not the least was 
 with regard to Caesar. Caesar was a veritable hermit of a 
 dog. For the greater part of his life he had dwelt in his 
 secluded hut, shut out from the society of his kind and all 
 innocent canine joys. Never had Caesar since his early 
 youth watched at a woodchuck s hole ; never had he known 
 the delights of a stray bone at a neighbor s kitchen door. 
 And it was all on account of a sin committed when hardly 
 out of his puppyhood. No one knew the possible depth 
 of remorse of which this mild-visaged, altogether innocent 
 booking old dog might be capable ; but whether or not he 
 had encountered remorse, he had encountered a full meas 
 ure of righteous retribution. Old Caesar seldom lifted up 
 his voice in a growl or a bark ; he was fat and sleepy ; 
 there were yellow rings which looked like spectacles around 
 his dim old eyes ; but there was a neighbor who bore on 
 his hand the imprint of several of Caesar s sharp white 
 youthful teeth, and for that he had lived at the end of a 
 chain, all alone in a little hut, for fourteen years. The 
 neighbor, who was choleric and smarting with the pain of 
 his wound, had demanded either Caesar s death or complete 
 ostracism. So Louisa s brother, to whom the dog had be 
 longed, had built him his little kennel and tied him up. 
 It was now fourteen years since, in a flood of youthful 
 spirits, he had inflicted that memorable bite, and with the 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. II 
 
 exception of short excursions, always at the end of the 
 chain, under the strict guardianship of his master or Louisa, 
 the old dog had remained a close prisoner. It is doubtful 
 if, with his limited ambition, he took much pride in the fact, 
 but it is certain that he was possessed of considerable 
 cheap fame. He was regarded by all the children in the 
 village and by many adults as a very monster of ferocity. 
 St. George s dragon could hardly have surpassed in evil 
 repute Louisa Ellis s old yellow dog. Mothers charged 
 their children with solemn emphasis not to go too near to 
 him, and the children listened and believed greedily, with a 
 fascinated appetite for terror, and ran by Louisa s house 
 stealthily, with many sidelong and backward glances at the 
 terrible dog. If perchance he sounded a hoarse bark, 
 there was a panic. Wayfarers chancing into Louisa s yard 
 eyed him with respect, and inquired if the chain were stout. 
 Caesar at large might have seemed a very ordinary dog, 
 and excited no comment whatever ; chained, his reputation 
 overshadowed him, so that he lost his own proper outlines 
 and looked darkly vague and enormous. Joe Dagget, 
 however, with his good-humored sense and shrewdness, saw 
 him as he was. He strode valiantly up to him and patted 
 him on the head, in spite of Louisa s soft clamor of warn 
 ing, and even attempted to set him loose. Louisa grew so 
 alarmed that he desisted, but kept announcing his opinion 
 in the matter quite forcibly at intervals. " There ain t a 
 better-natured dog in town," he would say, " and it s down 
 right cruel to keep him tied up there. Some day I m going 
 to take him out." 
 
 Louisa had very little hope that he would not, one of 
 these days, when their interests and possessions should be 
 more completely fused in one. She pictured to herself 
 
I2 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 Caesar on the rampage through the quiet and unguarded 
 village. She saw innocent children bleeding in his path. 
 She was herself very fond of the old dog, because he had 
 belonged to her dead brother,. and he was always very gentle 
 with her ; still she had great faith in his ferocity. She al 
 ways warned people not to go too near him. She fed him 
 on ascetic fare of corn-mush and cakes, and never fired his 
 dangerous temper with heating and sanguinary diet of flesh 
 and bones. Louisa looked at the old dog munching his 
 simple fare, and thought of her approaching marriage and 
 trembled. Still no anticipation of disorder and confusion 
 in lieu of sweet peace and harmony, no forebodings of 
 Caesar on the rampage, no wild fluttering of her little yellow 
 canary, were sufficient to turn her a hair s-breadth. Joe 
 Dagget had been fond of her and working for her all these 
 years. It was not for her, whatever came to pass, to prove 
 untrue and break his heart. She put the exquisite little 
 stitches into her wedding-garments, and the time went on 
 until it was only a week before her wedding-day. It was a 
 Tuesday evening, and the wedding was to be a week from 
 Wednesday. 
 
 There was a full moon that night. About nine o clock 
 Louisa strolled down the road a little way. There were 
 harvest-fields on either hand, bordered by low stone walls. 
 Luxuriant clumps of bushes grew beside the wall, and trees 
 wild cherry and old apple-trees at intervals. Presently 
 Louisa sat down on the wall and looked about her with 
 mildly sorrowful reflectiveness. Tall shrubs of blueberry 
 and meadow-sweet, all woven together and tangled with 
 blackberry vines and horsebriers, shut her in on either 
 side. She had a little clear space between them. Oppo 
 site her, on the other side of the road, was a spreading tree ; 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. ! 5 
 
 the moon shone between its boughs, and the leaves twinkled 
 like silver. The road was bespread with a beautiful shift 
 ing dapple of silver and shadow ; the air was full of a mys 
 terious sweetness. " I wonder if it s wild grapes ?" mur 
 mured Louisa. She sat there some time. She was just 
 thinking of rising, when she heard footsteps and low voices, 
 and remained quiet. It was a lonely place, and she felt a 
 little timid. She thought she would keep still in the shadow 
 and let the persons, whoever they might be, pass her. 
 
 But just before they reached her the voices ceased, and 
 the footsteps. She understood that their owners had also 
 found seats upon the stone wall. She was wondering if 
 she could not steal away unobserved, when the voice broke 
 the stillness. It was Joe Dagget s. She sat still and 
 listened. 
 
 The voice was announced by a loud sigh, which was as 
 familiar as itself. "Well," said Dagger, " you ve made up 
 your mind, then, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes," returned another voice ; " I m going day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "That s Lily Dyer," thought Louisa to herself. The 
 voice embodied itself in her mind. She saw a girl tall and 
 full-figured, with a firm, fair face, looking fairer and firmer 
 in the moonlight, her strong yellow hair braided in a close 
 knot. A girl full of a calm rustic strength and bloom, with 
 a masterful way which might have beseemed a princess. 
 Lily Dyer was a favorite with the village folk ; she had just 
 the qualities to arouse the admiration. She was good and 
 handsome and smart. Louisa had often heard her praises 
 sounded. 
 
 "Well," said Joe Dagget, " I ain t got a word to say." 
 
 " I don t know what you could say," returned Lily Dyer. 
 
!4 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 " Not a word to say," repeated Joe, drawing out the 
 words heavily. Then there was a silence. " I ain t sorry," 
 he began at last, " that that happened yesterday that we 
 kind of let on how we felt to each other. I guess it s just as 
 well we knew. Of course I can t do anything any different. 
 I m going right on an get married next week. I ain t going 
 back on a woman that s waited for me fourteen years, an 
 break her heart." 
 
 " If you should jilt her to-morrow, I wouldn t have you," 
 spoke up the girl, with sudden vehemence. 
 
 " Well, I ain t going to give you the chance," said he ; 
 " but I don t believe you would, either." 
 
 " You d see I wouldn t. Honor s honor, an right s right. 
 An I d never think anything of any man that went against 
 em for me or any other girl ; you d find that out, Joe Dagget." 
 
 "Well, you ll find out fast enough that I ain t going 
 against em for you or any other girl," returned he. Theil 
 voices sounded almost as if they were angry with eact 
 other. Louisa was listening eagerly. 
 
 " I m sorry you feel as if you must go away," said Joe, 
 "but I don t know but it s best." 
 
 " Of course it s best. I hope you and I have got com 
 mon-sense." 
 
 "Well, I suppose you re right." Suddenly Joe s voice 
 got an undertone of tenderness. " Say, Lily," said he, " I ll 
 get along well enough myself, but I can t bear to think 
 You don t suppose you re going to fret much over it ?" 
 
 " I guess you ll find out I sha n t fret much over a mar 
 ried man." 
 
 " Well, I hope you won t I hope you won t, Lily. God 
 knows I do. And I hope one of these days you ll 
 come across somebody else " 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 15 
 
 "I don t see any reason why I shouldn t." Suddenly 
 her tone changed. She spoke in a sweet, clear voice, so 
 loud that she could have been heard across the street. 
 " No, Joe Dagget," said she, " I ll never marry any other 
 man as long as I live. I ve got good sense, an* I ain t 
 going to break my heart nor make a fool of myself; but I m 
 never going to be married, you can be sure of that. I ain t 
 that sort of a girl to feel this way twice." 
 
 Louisa heard an exclamation and a soft commotion be 
 hind the bushes ; then Lily spoke again the voice sounded 
 as if she had risen. "This must be put a stop to," said 
 she. " We ve stayed here long enough. I m going home." 
 
 Louisa sat there in a daze, listening to their retreating 
 steps. After a while she got up and slunk softly home 
 herself. The next day she did her housework methodically ; 
 that was as much a matter of course as breathing ; but she 
 did not sew on her wedding-clothes. She sat at her win 
 dow and meditated. In the evening Joe came. Louisa 
 Ellis had never known that she had any diplomacy in her, 
 but when she came to look for it that night she found it, 
 although meek of its kind, among her little feminine weap 
 ons. Even now she could hardly believe that she had 
 heard aright, and that she would not do Joe a terrible in 
 jury should she break her troth-plight. She wanted to 
 sound him without betraying too soon her own inclinations 
 in the matter. She did it successfully, and they finally 
 came to an understanding ; but it was a difficult thing, for 
 he was as afraid of betraying himself as she. 
 
 She never mentioned Lily Dyer. She simply said that 
 while she had no cause of complaint against him, she had 
 lived so long in one way that she shrank from making a 
 change. 
 
!6 A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 
 
 "Well, I never shrank, Louisa," said Dagget. "I m 
 going to be honest enough to say that I think maybe it s 
 better this way ; but if you d wanted to keep on, I d have 
 stuck to you till my dying day. I hope you know that." 
 
 " Yes, I do," said she. 
 
 That night she and Joe parted more tenderly than they 
 had done for a long time. Standing in the door, holding 
 each other s hands, a last great wave of regretful memory 
 swept over them. 
 
 " Well, this ain t the way we ve thought it was all going 
 to end, is it, Louisa ?" said Joe. 
 
 She shook her head. There was a little quiver on her 
 placid face. 
 
 " You let me know if there s ever anything I can do for 
 you," said he. " I ain t ever going to forget you, Louisa." 
 Then he kissed her, and went down the path. 
 
 Louisa, all alone by herself that night, wept a little, she 
 hardly knew why ; but the next morning, on waking, she 
 felt like a queen who, after fearing lest her domain be 
 wrested away from her, sees it firmly insured in her pos 
 session. 
 
 Now the tall weeds and grasses might cluster around 
 Caesar s little hermit hut, the snow might fall on its roof 
 year in and year out, but he never would go on a rampage 
 through the unguarded village. Now the little canary might 
 turn itself into a peaceful yellow ball night after night, and 
 have no need to wake and flutter with wild terror against 
 its bars. Louisa could sew linen seams, and distil roses, 
 and dust and polish and fold away in lavender, as long as 
 she listed. That afternoon she sat with her needle-work at 
 the window, and felt fairly steeped in peace. Lily Dyer, 
 tall and erect and blooming, went past ; but she felt no 
 
A NEW ENGLAND NUN. 17 
 
 qualm. If Louisa Ellis had sold her birthright she did not 
 know it. the taste of the pottage was so delicious, and had 
 been her sole satisfaction for so long. Serenity and placid 
 narrowness had become to her as the birthright itself. She 
 gazed ahead through a long reach of future days strung to 
 gether like pearls in a rosary, every one like the others, 
 and all smooth and flawless and innocent, and her heart 
 went up in thankfulness. Outside was the fervid summer 
 afternoon ; the air was filled with the sounds of the busy 
 harvest of men and birds and bees ; there were halloos, 
 metallic clatterings, sweet calls, and long hummings. 
 Louisa sat, prayerfully numbering her days, like an un- 
 cloistered nun. 
 2 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 THE trees were in full leaf, a heavy south wind was blow 
 ing, and there was a loud murmur among the new leaves. 
 The people noticed it, for it was the first time that year that 
 the trees had so murmured in the wind. The spring had 
 come with a rush during the last few days. 
 
 The murmur of the trees sounded loud in the village 
 .church, where the people sat waiting for the service to be 
 gin. The windows were open ; it was a very warm Sunday 
 for May. 
 
 The church was already filled with this soft sylvan music 
 the tender harmony of the leaves and the south wind, and 
 the sweet, desultory whistles of birds when the choir arose 
 and began to sing. 
 
 In the centre of the row of women singers stood Alma 
 Way. All the people stared at her, and turned their ears 
 critically. She was the new leading soprano. Candace 
 Whitcomb, the old one, who had sung in the choir for forty 
 years, had lately been given her dismissal. The audience 
 considerec that her voice had grown too cracked and un 
 certain on the upper notes. There had been much com 
 plaint, and after long deliberation the church-officers had 
 made known their decision as mildly as possible to the old 
 singer. She had sung for the last time the Sunday before^ 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 19 
 
 and Alma Way had been engaged to take her place. With 
 the exception of the organist, the leading soprano was the 
 only paid musician in the large choir. The salary was very 
 modest, still the village people considered it large for a 
 young woman. Alma was from the adjoining village of East 
 Derby ; she had quite a local reputation as a singer. 
 
 Now she fixed her large solemn blue eyes; her long, deli 
 cate face, which had been pretty, turned paler; the blue 
 flowers on her bonnet trembled ; her little thin gloved 
 hands, clutching the singing-book, shook perceptibly ; but 
 she sang out bravely. That most formidable mountain- 
 height of the world, self-distrust and timidity, arose before 
 her, but her nerves were braced for its ascent. In the midst 
 of the hymn she had a solo ; her voice rang out piercingly 
 sweet ; the people nodded admiringly at each other ; but 
 suddenly there was a stir ; all the faces turned toward the 
 windows on the south side of the church. Above the din 
 of the wind and the birds, above Alma Way s sweetly strain 
 ing tones, arose another female voice, singing another hymn 
 to another tune. 
 
 " It s her," the women whispered to each other; they were 
 half aghast, half smiling. 
 
 Candace W-hitcomb s cottage stood close to the south side 
 of the church. She was playing on her parlor organ, and 
 singing, to drown out the voice of her rival. 
 
 Alma caught her breath ; she almost stopped ; the hymn- 
 book waved like a fan ; then she went on. But the long 
 husky drone of the parlor organ and the shrill clamor of the 
 other voice seemed louder than anything else. 
 
 When the hymn was finished, Alma sat down. She felt 
 faint; the woman next her slipped a peppermint into her 
 hand. " It ain t worth minding," she whispered, vigorously. 
 
20 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 Alma tried to smile down in the audience a young man 
 was watching her with a kind of fierce pity. 
 
 In the last hymn Alma had another solo. Again the par 
 lor organ droned above the carefully delicate accompani 
 ment of the church organ, and again Candace Whitcomb s 
 voice clamored forth in another tune. 
 
 After the benediction, the other singers pressed around 
 Alma. She did not say much in return for their expressions 
 of indignation and sympathy. She wiped her eyes furtively 
 once or twice, and tried to smile. William Emmons, the 
 choir leader, elderly, stout, and smooth-faced, stood over 
 her, and raised his voice. He was the old musical digni 
 tary of the village, the leader of the choral club and the 
 singing-schools. " A most outrageous proceeding," he said. 
 People had coupled his name with Candace Whitcomb s. 
 The old bachelor tenor and old maiden soprano had been 
 wont to walk together to her home next door after the Sat 
 urday night rehearsals, and they had sung duets to the par 
 lor organ. People had watched sharply her old face, on 
 which the blushes of youth sat pitifully, when William Em 
 mons entered the singing- seats. They wondered if he 
 would ever ask her to marry him. 
 
 And now he said further to Alma Way that Candace 
 Whitcomb s voice had failed utterly of late, that she sang 
 shockingly, and ought to have had sense enough to know it. 
 
 When Alma went down into the audience -room, in the 
 midst of the chattering singers, who seemed to have de 
 scended, like birds, from song flights to chirps, the minister 
 approached her. He had been waiting to speak to her. 
 He was a steady-faced, fleshy old man, who had preached 
 from that one pulpit over forty years. He told Alma, in his 
 slow way, how much he regretted the annoyance to which she 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. ax 
 
 had been subjected, and intimated that he would endeavor 
 to prevent a recurrence of it. " Miss Whitcomb must be 
 reasoned with," said he ; he had a slight hesitation of speech, 
 not an impediment. It was as if his thoughts did not slide 
 readily into his words, although both were present. He 
 walked clown the aisle with Alma, and bade her good-morn 
 ing when he saw Wilson Ford waiting for her in the door 
 way. Everybody knew that Wilson Ford and Alma were 
 lovers ; they had been for the last ten years. 
 
 Alma colored softly, and made a little imperceptible mo 
 tion with her head ; her silk dress and the lace on her man 
 tle fluttered, but she did not speak. Neither did Wilson, 
 although they had not met before that day c They did not 
 look at each other s faces they seemed to see each other 
 without that and they walked along side by side. 
 
 They reached the gate before Candace Whitcomb s little 
 house. Wilson looked past the front yard, full of pink and 
 white spikes on flowering bushes, at the lace-curtained win 
 dows ; a thin white profile, stiffly inclined, apparently over a 
 book, was visible at one of them. Wilson gave his head a 
 shake. He was a stout man, with features so strong that 
 they overcame his flesh. " I m going up home with you, 
 Alma," said he ; " and then I m just coming back, to give 
 Aunt Candace one blowing up." 
 
 "Oh, don t, Wilson." 
 
 " Yes, I shall. If you want to stand this kind of a thing 
 you may ; I sha n t." 
 
 " There s no need of your talking to her. Mr. Pollard s 
 going to." 
 
 " Did he say he was ?" 
 
 "Yes. I think he s going in before the afternoon meet 
 ing, from what he said." 
 
t2 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 " Well, there s one thing about it, if she does that thing 
 again this afternoon, I ll go in there and break that old or 
 gan up into kindling-wood." Wilson set his mouth hard, 
 and shook his head again. 
 
 Alma gave little side glances up at him, her tone was 
 deprecatory, but her face was full of soft smiles. " I sup 
 pose she does feel dreadfully about it," said she. " I can t 
 help feeling kind of guilty, taking her place." 
 
 * I don t see how you re to blame. It s outrageous, her 
 acting so." 
 
 "The choir gave her a photograph album last week, 
 didn t they?" 
 
 " Yes. They went there last Thursday night, and gave her 
 an album and a surprise-party. She ought to behave herself." 
 
 " Well, she s sung there so long, I suppose it must be 
 dreadful hard for her to give it up." 
 
 Other people going home from church were very near 
 Wilson and Alma. She spoke softly that they might not 
 hear ; he did not lower his voice in the least. Presently 
 Alma stopped before a gate. 
 
 " What are you stopping here for ?" asked Wilson. 
 
 " Minnie Lansing wanted me to come and stay with her 
 this noon." 
 
 " You re going home with me." 
 
 " I m afraid I ll put your mother out." 
 
 " Put mother out ! I told her you were coming, this 
 morning. She s got all ready for you. Come along ; don t 
 stand here." 
 
 He did not tell Alma of the pugnacious spirit with which 
 his mother had received the announcement of her coming, 
 find how she had stayed at home to prepare the dinner, and 
 make a parade of her hard work and her injury. 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. , 3 
 
 Wilson s mother was the reason why he did not marry 
 Alma. He would not take his wife home to live with her, 
 and was unable to support separate establishments. Alma 
 was willing enough to be married and put up with Wilson s 
 mother, but she did not complain of his decision. Her deli 
 cate blond features grew sharper, and her blue eyes more 
 hollow. She had had a certain fine prettiness, but now she 
 was losing it, and beginning to look old, and there was 
 a prim, angular, old maiden carriage about her narrow 
 shoulders. 
 
 Wilson never noticed it, and never thought of Alma as 
 not possessed of eternal youth, or capable of losing or re 
 gretting it. 
 
 " Come along, Alma," said he ; and she followed meekly 
 after him down the street. 
 
 Soon after they passed Candace Whitcomb s house, the 
 minister went up the front walk and rang the bell. The 
 pale profile at the window had never stirred as he opened 
 the gate and came up the walk. However, the door was 
 promptly opened, in response to his ring. " Good-morning, 
 Miss Whitcomb," said the minister. 
 
 " <900*/-morning." Candace gave a sweeping toss of her 
 head as she spoke. There was a fierce upward curl to her 
 thin nostrils and her lips, as if she scented an adversary. 
 Her black eyes had two tiny cold sparks of fury in them, 
 like an enraged bird s. She did not ask the minister to 
 enter, but he stepped lumberingly into the entry, and she 
 retreated rather than led the way into her little parlor. He 
 settled into the great rocking-chair and wiped his face. 
 Candace sat down again in her old place by the window. 
 She was a tall woman, but very slender and full of pliable 
 motions, like a blade of grass. 
 
24 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 " It s a very pleasant day," said the minister. 
 
 Candace made no reply. She sat still, with her head 
 drooping. The wind stirred the looped lace-curtains ; a 
 tall rose-tree outside the window waved ; soft shadows 
 floated through the room. Candace s parlor organ stood in 
 front of an open window that faced the church ; on the 
 corner was a pitcher with a bunch of white lilacs. The whole 
 room was scented with them. Presently the minister looked 
 over at them and sniffed pleasantly. 
 
 " You have some beautiful lilacs there." 
 
 Candace did not speak. Every line of her slender figure 
 looked flexible, but it was a flexibility more resistant than 
 rigor. 
 
 The minister looked at her. He filled up the great rock 
 ing-chair ; his arms in his shiny black coat-sleeves rested 
 squarely and comfortably upon the hair-cloth arms of the 
 chair. 
 
 " Well, Miss Whitcomb, I suppose I may as well come 
 to the point. There was a little matter I wished to 
 speak to you about. I don t suppose you were at least I 
 can t suppose you were aware of it, but this morning, 
 during the singing by the choir, you played and sung a lit 
 tie too loud. That is, with the windows open. It dis 
 turbed us a little. I hope you won t feel hurt my dear 
 Miss Candace, but I knew you would rather I would speak 
 of it, for I knew you would be more disturbed than any 
 body else at the idea of such a thing." 
 
 Candace did not raise her eyes ; she looked as if his 
 words might sway her through the window. " I ain t dis 
 turbed at it," said she. " I did it on purpose ; I meant to." 
 
 The minister looked at her. 
 
 " You needn t look at me. I know jest what I m about. 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 25 
 
 I sung the way I did on purpose, an I m goin to do it again, 
 an I d like to see you stop me. I guess I ve got a right to 
 set down to my own organ, an sing a psalm tune on a Sab 
 bath day, f I want to; an there ain t no amount of talkin 
 an palaverin a-goin to stop me. See there !" Candace 
 swung aside her skirts a little. " Look at that !" 
 
 The minister looked. Candace s feet were resting on a 
 large red-plush photograph album. 
 
 " Makes a nice footstool, don t it ?" said she. 
 
 The minister looked at the album, then at her ; there was 
 a slowly gathering alarm in his face ; he began to think she 
 was losing her reason. 
 
 Candace had her eyes full upon him now, and her head 
 up. She laughed, and her laugh was almost a snarl. " Yes ; 
 I thought it would make a beautiful footstool," said she. 
 "I ve been wantin one for some time." Her tone was full 
 of vicious irony. 
 
 " Why, miss " began the minister ; but she interrupted 
 him: 
 
 " I know what you re a-goin to say, Mr. Pollard, an now 
 I m goin to have my say ; I m a-goin to speak. I want to 
 know what you think of folks that pretend to be Christians 
 treatin anybody the way they ve treated me ? Kere I ve 
 sung in those singin -seats forty year. I ain t never missed 
 a Sunday, except when I ve been sick, an I ve gone an sung 
 a good many times when I d better been in bed, an now I m 
 turned out without a word of warnin . My voice is jest as 
 good as ever twas ; there can t anybody say it ain t. It 
 wa n t ever quite so high-pitched as that Way girl s, mebbe ; 
 but she flats the whole durin time. My voice is as good an 
 high to-day as it was twenty year ago ; an if it wa n t, I d 
 like to know where the Christianity comes in. I d like to 
 
16 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 know if it wouldn t be more to the credit of folks in a church 
 to keep an old singer an an old minister, if they didn t sing 
 an hold forth quite so smart as they used to, ruther than 
 turn em off an hurt their feelin s. I guess it would be full 
 as much to the glory of God. S pose the singin an the 
 preachin wa n t quite so good, what difference would it make ? 
 Salvation don t hang on anybody s hittin a high note, that 
 I ever heard of. Folks are gettin as high-steppin an 
 fussy in a meetin -house as they are in a tavern, nowadays. 
 S pose they should turn you off, Mr. Pollard, come an give 
 you a photograph album, an tell you to clear out, how d you 
 like it ? I ain t findin any fault with your preachin ; it was 
 always good enough to suit me ; but it don t stand to reason 
 folks 11 be as took up with your sermons as when you was a 
 young man. You can t expect it. S pose they should turn 
 you out in your old age, an call in some young bob squirt, 
 how d you feel ? There s William Emmons, too ; he s three 
 years older n I am, if he does lead the choir an run all the 
 singin in town. If my voice has gi en out, it Stan s to rea 
 son his has. It ain t, though. William Emmons sings jest 
 as well as he ever did. Why don t they turn him out the 
 way they have me, an give him a photograph album ? I 
 dun know but it would be a good idea to send everybody, 
 as soon as they get a little old an gone by, an young folks 
 begin to push, onto some desert island, an give em each a 
 photograph album. Then they can sit down an look at 
 pictures the rest of their days. Mebbe government 11 take 
 it up. 
 
 " There they come here last week Thursday, all the choir, 
 jest about eight o clock in the evenin , an pretended they d 
 come to give me a nice little surprise. Surprise ! h m ! 
 Brought cake an oranges, an was jest as nice as they could 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 27 
 
 be, an I was real tickled. I never had a surprise-party be 
 fore in my life. Jenny Carr she played, an they wanted me 
 to sing alone, an I never suspected a thing. I ve been mad 
 ever since to think what a fool I was, an how they must 
 have laughed in their sleeves. 
 
 " When they d gone I found this photograph album on the 
 table, all done up as nice as you please, an directed to Miss 
 Candace Whitcomb from her many friends, an I opened it, 
 an there was the letter inside givin me notice to quit 
 
 " If they d gone about it any decent way, told me right 
 out honest that they d got tired of me, an wanted Alma 
 Way to sing instead of me, I wouldn t minded so much ; I 
 should have been hurt nough, for I d felt as if some that 
 had pretended to be my friends wa n t ; but it wouldn t have 
 been as bad as this. They said in the letter that they d al 
 ways set great value on my services, an it wa n t from any 
 lack of appreciation that they turned me off, but they thought 
 the duty was gettin a little too arduous for me. H m ! I 
 hadn t complained. If they d turned me right out fair an 
 square, showed me the door, an said, * Here, you get out, 
 but to go an spill molasses, as it were, all over the thresh 
 old, tryin to make me think it s all nice an sweet 
 
 " I d sent that photograph album back quick s I could 
 pack it, but I didn t know who started it, so I ve used it 
 for a footstool. It s all it s good for, cordin to my way 
 of thinkin . An I ain t been particular to get the dust off 
 my shoes before I used it neither." 
 
 Mr. Pollard, the minister, sat staring. He did not look 
 at Candace ; his eyes were fastened upon a point straight 
 ahead. He had a look of helpless solidity, like a block of 
 granite. This country minister, with his steady, even tem 
 perament, treading with heavy precision his one track for 
 
28 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 over forty years, having nothing new in his life except the 
 new sameness of the seasons, and desiring nothing new, was 
 incapable of understanding a woman like this, who had lived 
 as quietly as he, and all the time held within herself the ele 
 ments of revolution. He could not account for such vio 
 lence, such extremes, except in a loss of reason. He had a 
 conviction that Candace was getting beyond herself. He 
 himself was not a typical New-Englander ; the national ele 
 ments of character were not pronounced in him. He was 
 aghast and bewildered at this outbreak, which was tropical, 
 and more than tropical, for a New England nature has a 
 floodgate, and the power which it releases is an accumula 
 tion. Candace Whitcomb had been a quiet woman, so deli 
 cately resolute that the quality had been scarcely noticed in 
 her, and her ambition had been unsuspected. Now the reso 
 lution and the ambition appeared raging over her whole 
 self. 
 
 She began to talk again. " I ve made up my mind that 
 I m goin to sing Sundays the way I did this mornin , an I 
 don t care what folks say," said she. "I ve made up my 
 mind that I m goin to take matters into my own hands. 
 I m goin to let folks see that I ain t trod down quite flat, 
 that there s a little rise left in me. I ain t goin to give up 
 beat yet a while ; an I d like to see anybody stop me. If 
 I ain t got a right to play a psalm tune on my organ an 
 sing, I d like to know. If you don t like it, you can move 
 the meetinghouse." 
 
 Candace had had an inborn reverence for clergymen. She 
 had always treated Mr. Pollard with the utmost deference. 
 Indeed, her manner toward all men had been marked by a 
 certain delicate stiffness and dignity. Now she was talking 
 to the old minister with the homely freedom with which she 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 29 
 
 might have addressed a female gossip over the back fence. 
 He could not say much in return. He did not feel compe 
 tent to make headway against any such tide of passion ; all 
 he could do was to let it beat against him. He made a few 
 expostulations, which increased Candace s vehemence ; he 
 expressed his regret over the whole affair, and suggested 
 that they should kneel and ask the guidance of the Lord in 
 the matter, that she might be led to see it all in a different 
 light. 
 
 Candace refused flatly. " I don t see any use prayin 
 about it," said she. " I don t think the Lord s got much to 
 do with it, anyhow." 
 
 It was almost time for the afternoon service when the 
 minister left. He had missed his comfortable noontide rest, 
 through this encounter with his revolutionary parishioner. 
 After the minister had gone, Candace sat by the window 
 and waited. The bell rang, and she watched the people 
 file past. When her nephew Wilson Ford with Alma ap 
 peared, she grunted to herself. " She s thin as a rail," said 
 she ; " guess there won t be much left of her by the time 
 Wilson gets her. Little soft-spoken nippin thing, she 
 wouldn t make him no kind of a wife, anyway. Guess it s 
 jest as well." 
 
 When the bell had stopped tolling, and all the people en 
 tered the church, Candace went over to her organ and 
 seated herself. She arranged a singing-book before her, 
 and sat still, waiting. Her thin, colorless neck and temples 
 were full of beating pulses ; her black eyes were bright and 
 eager ; she leaned stiffly over toward the music-rack, to hear 
 better. When the church organ sounded out she straight 
 ened herself; her long skinny fingers pressed her own organ- 
 keys with nervous energy. She worked the pedals with all 
 
30 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 her strength ; all her slender body was in motion. When 
 the first notes of Alma s solo began, Candace sang. She 
 had really possessed a fine voice, and it was wonderful how 
 little she had lost it. Straining her throat with jealous fury, 
 her notes were still for the main part true. Her voice filled 
 the whole room ; she sang with wonderful fire and expres 
 sion. That, at least, mild little Alma Way could never emu 
 late. She was full of steadfastness and unquestioning 
 constancy, but there were in her no smouldering fires of am 
 bition and resolution. Music was not to her what it had 
 been to her older rival. To this obscure woman, kept re 
 lentlessly by circumstances in a narrow track, singing in the 
 village choir had been as much as Italy was to Napoleon 
 and now on her island of exile she was still showing 
 fight. 
 
 After the church service was done, Candace left the or 
 gan and went over to her old chair by the window. Her 
 knees felt weak, and shook under her. She sat down, and 
 leaned back her head. There were red spots on her cheeks. 
 Pretty soon she heard a quick slam of her gate, and an im 
 petuous tread on the gravel-walk. She looked up, and there 
 was her nephew Wilson Ford hurrying up to the door. She 
 cringed a little, then she settled herself more firmly in her 
 chair. 
 
 Wilson came into the room with a rush. He left the door 
 open, and the wind slammed it to after him. 
 
 " Aunt Candace, where are you ?" he called out, in a loud 
 voice. 
 
 She made no reply. He looked around fiercely, and his 
 eyes seemed to pounce upon her. 
 
 " Look here, Aunt Candace," said he, " are you crazy ?" 
 Candace said nothing. " Aunt Candace !" She did not 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 31 
 
 seem to see him. " If you don t answer me," said Wilson, 
 " I ll just go over there and pitch that old organ out of the 
 window !" 
 
 " Wilson Ford !" said Candace, in a voice that was almost 
 a scream. 
 
 " Well, what say ! What have you got to say for your 
 self, acting the way you have ? I tell you what tis, Aunt 
 Candace, I won t stand it." 
 
 "I d like to see you help yourself." 
 
 " I will help myself. I ll pitch that old organ out of the 
 window, and then I ll board up the window on that side of 
 your house. Then we ll see." 
 
 " It ain t your house, and it won t never be." 
 
 " Who said it was my house ? You re my aunt, and I ve 
 got a little lookout for the credit of the family. Aunt Can- 
 dace, what are you doing this way for ?" 
 
 " It don t make no odds what I m doin so for. I ain t 
 bound to give my reasons to a young fellar like you, if you 
 do act so mighty toppin . But I ll tell you one thing, Wilson 
 Ford, after the way you ve spoke to-day, you sha n t never 
 have one cent of my money, an you can t never marry that 
 Way girl if you don t have it. You can t never take her 
 home to live with your mother, an this house would have 
 been mighty nice an convenient for you some day. Now 
 you won t get it. I m goin to make another will. I d made 
 one, if you did but know it. Now you won t get a cent of 
 my money, you nor your mother neither. An I ain t goin 
 to live a dreadful while longer, neither. Now I wish you d 
 go home ; I want to lay down. I m bout sick." 
 
 Wilson could not get another word from his aunt. His 
 indignation had not in the least cooled. Her threat of dis 
 inheriting him did not cow him at all ; he had too much 
 
32 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 rough independence, and indeed his aunt Candace s house 
 had always been too much of an air-castle for him to con 
 template seriously. Wilson, with his burly frame and his 
 headlong common-sense, could have little to do with air- 
 castles, had he been hard enough to build them over graves. 
 Still, he had not admitted that he never could marry Alma. 
 All his hopes were based upon a rise in his own fortunes, 
 not by some sudden convulsion, but by his own long and 
 steady labor. Some time, he thought, he should have saved 
 enough for the two homes. 
 
 He went out of his aunt s house still storming. She 
 arose after the door had shut behind him, and got out into 
 the kitchen. She thought that she would start a fire and 
 make a cup of tea. She had not eaten anything all day. 
 She put some kindling-wood into the stove and touched a 
 match to it ; then she went back to the sitting-room, and settled 
 down again into the chair by the window. The fire in the 
 kitchen-stove roared, and the light wood was soon burned 
 out. She thought no more about it. She had not put on 
 the teakettle. Her head ached, and once in a while she 
 shivered. She sat at the window while the afternoon waned 
 and the dusk came on. At seven o clock the meeting bell 
 rang again, and the people flocked by. This time she did 
 not stir. She had shut her parlor organ. She did not need 
 to out-sing her rival this evening ; there was only congrega 
 tional singing at the Sunday-night prayer-meeting. 
 
 She sat still until it was nearly time for meeting to be 
 done ; her head ached harder and harder, and she shivered 
 more. Finally she arose. " Guess I ll go to bed," she mut 
 tered. She went about the house, bent over and shaking, to 
 lock the doors. She stood a minute in the back door, look 
 ing over the fields to the woods. There was a red light over 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 33 
 
 there. " The woods are on fire," said Candace. She watched 
 with a dull interest the flames roll up, withering and destroy 
 ing the tender green spring foliage. The air was full of 
 smoke, although the fire was half a mile away. 
 
 Candace locked the door and went in. The trees with 
 their delicate garlands of new leaves, with the new nests of 
 song birds, might fall, she was in the roar of an intenser 
 fire ; the growths of all her springs and the delicate wonted- 
 ness of her whole life were going down in it. Candace went 
 to bed in her little room off the parlor, but she could not 
 sleep. She lay awake all night. In the morning she crawled 
 to the door and hailed a little boy who was passing. She bade 
 him go for the doctor as quickly as he could, then to Mrs. 
 Ford s, and ask her to come over. She held on to the door 
 while she was talking. The boy stood staring wonderingly 
 at her. The spring wind fanned her face. She had drawn 
 on a dress skirt and put her shawl over her shoulders, and 
 her gray hair was blowing over her red cheeks. 
 
 She shut the door and went back to her bed. She never 
 arose from it again. The doctor and Mrs. Ford came and 
 looked after her, and she lived a week. Nobody but herself 
 thought until the very last that she would die ; the doctor 
 called her illness merely a light run of fever ; she had her 
 senses fully. 
 
 But Candace gave up at the first. " It s my last sickness," 
 she said to Mrs. Ford that morning when she first entered ; 
 and Mrs. Ford had laughed at the notion ; but the sick 
 woman held to it. She did not seem to suffer much physi 
 cal pain ; she only grew weaker and weaker, but she was 
 distressed mentally. She did not talk much, but her eyes 
 followed everybody with an agonized expression. 
 
 On Wednesday William Emmons came to inquire for her. 
 
 3 
 
3 4 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 Candace heard him out in the parlor. She tried to raise 
 herself on one elbow that she might listen better to his 
 voice. 
 
 " William Emmons come in to ask how you was," Mrs. 
 Ford said, after he was gone. 
 
 " I heard him," replied Candace. Presently she spoke 
 again. " Nancy," said she, " where s that photograph 
 album ?" 
 
 " On the table," replied her sister, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Mebbe you d better brush it up a little." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 Sunday morning Candace wished that the minister should 
 be asked to come in at the noon intermission. She had 
 refused to see him before. He came and prayed with her, 
 and she asked his forgiveness for the way she had spoken 
 the Sunday before. " I hadn t ought to spoke so," said 
 she. " I was dreadful wrought up." 
 
 " Perhaps it was your sickness coming on," said the min 
 ister, soothingly. 
 
 Candace shook her head. " No it wa n t. I hope the 
 Lord will forgive me." 
 
 After the minister had gone, Candace still appeared un 
 happy. Her pitiful eyes followed her sister everywhere with 
 the mechanical persistency of a portrait. 
 
 " "What is it you want, Candance ?" Mrs. Ford said at last. 
 She had nursed her sister faithfully, but once in a while her 
 impatience showed itself. 
 
 " Nancy !" 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 " I wish you d go out when meetin s done, an 7 head 
 off Alma an Wilson, an 7 ask em to come in. I feel as if 
 I d like to hear her sing." 
 
A VILLAGE SINGER. 35 
 
 Mrs. Ford stared. " Well," said she. 
 
 The meeting was now in session. The windows were all 
 open, for it was another warm Sunday. Candace lay listen 
 ing to the music when it began, and a look of peace came 
 over her face. Her sister had smoothed her hair back, and 
 put on a clean cap. The white curtain in the bedroom 
 window waved in the wind like a white sail. Candace al 
 most felt as if she were better, but the thought of death 
 seemed easy. 
 
 Mrs. Ford at the parlor window watched for the meeting 
 to be out. When the people appeared, she ran down the 
 walk and waited for Alma and Wilson. When they came 
 sh s told them what Candace wanted, and they all went in 
 together. 
 
 "Here s Alma an Wilson, Candace," said Mrs. Ford, 
 leading them to the bedroom door. 
 
 Candace smiled. "Come in," she said, feebly. And 
 Alma and Wilson entered and stood beside the bed. Can- 
 dace continued to look at them, the smile straining her 
 lips. 
 
 " Wilson !" 
 
 " What is it, Aunt Candace ?" 
 
 "I ain t altered that will. You an Alma can come 
 here an live when I m gone. Your mother won t mind 
 livin alone. Alma can have all my things." 
 
 " Don t, Aunt Candace." Tears were running over Wil 
 son s cheeks, and Alma s delicate face was all of a quiver. 
 
 " I thought maybe Alma d be willin to sing for me," 
 said Candace. 
 
 " What do you want me to sing ?" Alma asked, in a trem 
 bling voice. 
 
 " Jesus, lover of my soul. " 
 
36 A VILLAGE SINGER. 
 
 Alma, standing there beside Wilson, began to sing. At 
 first she could hardly control her voice, then she sang 
 sweetly and clearly. 
 
 Candace lay and listened. Her face had a holy and ra 
 diant expression. When Alma stopped singing it did not 
 disappear, but she looked up and spoke, and it was like a 
 secondary glimpse of the old shape of a forest tree through 
 the smoke and flame of the transfiguring fire the instant 
 before it falls. " You flatted a little on soul," said Can- 
 dace. 
 
A GALA DRESS. 
 
 "I DON T care anything about goin to that Fourth ot 
 July picnic, Liz beth." 
 
 " I wouldn t say anything more about it, if I was you, 
 Em ly. I d get ready an go." 
 
 " I don t really feel able to go, Liz beth." 
 
 " I d like to know why you ain t able." 
 
 " It seems to me as if the fire-crackers an the tootin on 
 those horns would drive me crazy ; an Matilda Jennings 
 says they re goin to have a cannon down there, an fire it 
 off every half-hour. I don t feel as if I could stan it. You 
 know my nerves ain t very strong, Liz beth." 
 
 Elizabeth Babcock uplifted her long, delicate nose with 
 its transparent nostrils, and sniffed. Apparently her sister s 
 perverseness had an unacceptable odor to her. " I wouldn t 
 talk so if I was you, Em ly. Of course you re goin . It s 
 your turn to, an you know it. I went to meetin last Sab 
 bath, You just put on that dress an go." 
 
 Emily eyed her sister. She tried not to look pleased. 
 " I know you went to meetin last," said she, hesitatingly ; 
 " but a Fourth of July picnic is a little more of a rarity.* 
 She fairly jumped, her sister confronted her with such sud 
 den vigor. 
 
 " Rarity ! Well, I hope a Fourth of July picnic ain t 
 
3 8 A GALA DRESS. 
 
 quite such a treat to me that I d ruther go to it than meet- 
 in ! I should think you d be ashamed of yourself speakin 
 so, Em ly Babcock." 
 
 Emily, a moment before delicately alert and nervous like 
 her sister, shrank limply in her limp black muslin. " I 
 didn t think how it sounded, Liz beth." 
 
 " Well, I should say you d better think. It don t sound 
 very becomin for a woman of your age, an professin what 
 you do. Now you d better go an get out that dress, an rip 
 the velvet off, an sew the lace on. There won t be any too 
 much time. They ll start early in the mornin . I ll stir up 
 a cake for you to carry, when I get tea." 
 
 " Don t you s pose I could get along without a cake ?" 
 Emily ventured, tremulously. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn t think you d want to go, an be be 
 holden to other folks for your eatin ; I shouldn t." 
 
 " I shouldn t want anything to eat." 
 
 " I guess if you go, you re goin like other folks. I ain t 
 goin to have Matilda Jennings peekin an pryin an tellin 
 things, if I know it. You d better get out that dress." 
 
 " Well," said Emily, with a long sigh of remorseful satis 
 faction. She arose, showing a height that would have ap 
 proached the majestic had it not been so wavering. The 
 sisters were about the same height, but Elizabeth usually 
 impressed people as being the taller. She carried herself 
 with so much decision that she seemed to keep every inch 
 of her stature firm and taut, old woman although she was. 
 
 " Let s see that dress a minute," she said, when Emily 
 returned. She wiped her spectacles, set them firmly, and 
 began examining the hem of the dress, holding it close to 
 her eyes. "You re gettin of it all tagged out," she de 
 clared, presently, " I thought you was. I thought I see 
 
A GALA DRESS, 39 
 
 some ravellin s hangin the other day when I had it on. 
 It s jest because you don t stan up straight. It ain t any 
 longer for you than it is for me, if you didn t go ail bent 
 over so. There ain t any need of it." 
 
 Emily oscillated wearily over her sister and the dress. 
 " I ain t very strong in my back, an you know I ve got a 
 weakness in my stomach that henders me from standin up 
 as straight as you do," she rejoined, rallying herself for a 
 feeble defence. 
 
 "You can stan up jest as well as I can, if you re a 
 mind to." 
 
 " I ll rip that velvet off now, if you ll let me have the 
 dress, Liz beth." 
 
 Elizabeth passed over the dress, handling it gingerly. 
 " Mind you don t cut it rippin of it off," said she. 
 
 Emily sat down, and the dress lay in shiny black billows 
 over her lap. The dress was black silk, and had been in 
 its day very soft and heavy ; even now there was consider 
 able wear left in it. The waist and over-skirt were trimmed 
 with black velvet ribbon. Emily ripped off the velvet ; then 
 she sewed on some old-fashioned, straight-edged black lace 
 full of little embroidered sprigs. The sisters sat in their 
 parlor at the right of the front door. The room was very 
 warm, for there were two west windows, and a hot after 
 noon sun was beating upon them. Out in front of the 
 house was a piazza, with a cool uneven brick floor, and a 
 thick lilac growth across the western end. The sisters 
 might have sat there and been comfortable, but they would 
 not. 
 
 " Set right out in the face an eyes of all the neighbors !" 
 they would have exclaimed with dismay had the idea been 
 suggested. There was about these old women and all their 
 
40 A GALA DRESS. 
 
 belongings a certain gentle and deprecatory reticence. One 
 felt it immediately upon entering their house, or indeed 
 upon coming in sight of it. There were never any heads 
 at the windows ; the blinds were usually closed. Once in 
 a while a passer-by might see an old woman, well shielded 
 by shawl and scooping sun-bonnet, start up like a timid 
 spirit in the yard, and softly disappear through a crack in 
 the front door. Out in the front yard Emily had a little 
 bed of flowers of balsams and nasturtiums and portu- 
 lacas ; she tended them with furtive glances toward the 
 road. Elizabeth came out in the early morning to sweep 
 the brick floor of the piazza, and the front door was left 
 ajar for a hurried flitting should any one appear. 
 
 This excessive shyness and secrecy had almost the as 
 pect of guilt, but no more guileless and upright persons 
 could have been imagined than these two old women. 
 They had over their parlor windows full, softly-falling, old 
 muslin curtains, and they looped them back to leave bare 
 the smallest possible space of glass. The parlor chairs re 
 treated close to the walls, the polish of the parlor table lit 
 up a dim corner. There were very few ornaments in sight ; 
 the walls were full of closets and little cupboards, and in 
 them all superfluities were tucked away to protect them 
 from dust and prying eyes. Never a door in the house 
 stood open, every bureau drawer was squarely shut. A 
 whole family of skeletons might have been well hidden in 
 these guarded recesses ; but skeletons there were none, ex 
 cept, perhaps, a little innocent bone or two of old-womanly 
 pride and sensitiveness. 
 
 The Babcock sisters guarded nothing more jealously 
 than the privacy of their meals. The neighbors considered 
 that there was a decided reason for this. "The Babcock 
 
A GALA DRESS. 4! 
 
 girls have so little to eat that they re ashamed to let folks 
 see it," people said. It was certain that the old women 
 regarded intrusion at their meals as an insult, but it was 
 doubtful if they would not have done so had their table 
 been set out with all the luxuries of the season instead of 
 scanty bread and butter and no sauce. No sauce for tea 
 was regarded as very poor living by the village women. 
 
 To-night the Babcocks had tea very soon after the lace 
 was sewed on the dress. They always had tea early. 
 They were in the midst of it when the front-door opened, 
 and a voice was heard calling out in the hall. 
 
 The sisters cast a dismayed and indignant look at each 
 other ; they both arose ; but the door flew open, and their 
 little square tea-table, with its green-and-white china pot of 
 weak tea, its plate of bread and little glass dish of butter, 
 its two china cups, and thin silver teaspoons, was displayed 
 to view. 
 
 "My!" cried the visitor, with a little backward shuffle. 
 " I do hope you ll sense me ! I didn t know you was eatin* 
 supper. I wouldn t ha come in for the world if I d known. 
 I ll go right out; it wa n t anything pertickler, anyhow." 
 All the time her sharp and comprehensive gaze was on the 
 tea-table. She counted the slices of bread, she measured 
 the butter, as she talked. The sisters stepped forward with 
 dignity. 
 
 " Come into the other room," said Elizabeth ; and the 
 visitor, still protesting, with her backward eyes upon the 
 tea-table, gave way before her. 
 
 But her eyes lighted upon something in the parlor more 
 eagerly than they had upon that frugal and exclusive table. 
 The sisters glanced at each other in dismay. The black 
 silk dress lay over a chair. The caller, who was their 
 
^2 A GALA DRESS. 
 
 neighbor Matilda Jennings, edged toward it as she talked. 
 " I thought I d jest run over an see if you wa n t goin to 
 the picnic to-morrow," she was saying. Then she clutched 
 the dress and diverged. " Oh, you ve been fixin your 
 dress !" she said to Emily, with innocent insinuation. In 
 sinuation did not sit well upon Matilda Jennings, none of 
 her bodily lines were adapted to it, and the pretence was 
 quite evident. She was short and stout, with a hard, sal 
 low rotundity of cheek, her small black eyes were bright- 
 pointed under fleshy brows. 
 
 " Yes, I have," replied Emily, with a scared glance at 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Yes," said Elizabeth, stepping firmly into the subject, 
 and confronting Matilda with prim and resolute blue eyes. 
 " She has been fixin of it. The lace was ripped off, an* 
 she had to mend it." 
 
 " It s pretty lace, ain t it ? I had some of the same kind 
 on a mantilla once when I was a girl. This makes me 
 think of it. The sprigs in mine was set a little closer. Let 
 me see, Liz beth, your black silk dress is trimmed with vel 
 vet, ain t it ?" 
 
 Elizabeth surveyed her calmly. " Yes ; I ve always worn 
 black velvet on it," said she. 
 
 Emily sighed faintly. She had feared that Elizabeth 
 could not answer desirably and be truthful. 
 
 "Let me see," continued Matilda, "how was that velvet 
 put on your waist ?" 
 
 " It was put on peaked." 
 
 " In one peak or two ?" 
 
 "One." 
 
 " Now I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you 
 jest to let me see it a minute. I ve been thinkin of fixin 
 
A GALA DRESS. 43 
 
 over my old alpaca a little, an I ve got a piece of black 
 velvet ribbon I ve steamed over, an it looks pretty good. 
 I thought mebbe I could put it on like yours." 
 
 Matilda Jennings, in her chocolate calico, stood as re 
 lentlessly as any executioner before the Babcock sisters. 
 They, slim and delicate and pale in their flabby black mus 
 lins, leaned toward each other, then Elizabeth straightened 
 herself. " Some time when it s convenient I d jest as soon 
 show it as not," said she. 
 
 " Well, I d be much obleeged to you if you would," re 
 turned Matilda. Her manner was a trifle overawed, but 
 there was a sharper gleam in her eyes. Pretty soon she 
 went home, and ate her solitary and substantial supper of 
 bread and butter, cold potatoes, and pork and beans. Ma 
 tilda Jennings was as poor as the Babcocks. She had never, 
 like them, known better days. She had never possessed 
 any fine old muslins nor black silks in her life, but she had 
 always eaten more. 
 
 The Babcocks had always delicately and unobtrusively 
 felt themselves above her. There had been in their lives a 
 faint savor of gentility and aristocracy. Their father had 
 been college-educated and a doctor. Matilda s antecedents 
 had been humble, even in this humble community. She 
 had come of wood-sawyers and garden-laborers. In their 
 youth, when they had gone to school and played together, 
 they had always realized their height above Matilda, and 
 even old age and poverty and a certain friendliness could 
 not do away with it. 
 
 The Babcocks owned their house and a tiny sum in the 
 bank, upon the interest of which they lived. Nobody knew 
 how much it was, nobody would ever know while they lived. 
 They might have had more if they would have sold or mort- 
 
44 ^ GALA DRESS. 
 
 gaged their house, but they would have died first They 
 starved daintily and patiently on their little income. They 
 mended their old muslins and Thibets, and wore one dress 
 between them for best, taking turns in going out. 
 
 It seemed inconsistent, but the sisters were very fond of 
 society, and their reserve did dot interfere with their pleas 
 ure in the simple village outings. They were more at ease 
 abroad than at home, perhaps because there were not pres 
 ent so many doors which could be opened into their secrecy. 
 But they had an arbitrary conviction that their claims to 
 respect and consideration would be forever forfeited should 
 they appear on state occasions in anything but black silk. 
 To their notions of etiquette, black silk was as sacrzd a 
 necessity as feathers at the English court They could not 
 go abroad and feel any self-respect in those flimsy muslins 
 and rusty woollens, which were very flimsy and rusty. The 
 old persons in the village could hardly remember when the 
 Babcocks had a new dress. The dainty care with which 
 they had made those tender old fabrics endure so long was 
 wonderful. They held up their skirts primly when they 
 walked ; they kept their pointed elbows clear of chairs and 
 tables. The black silk in particular was taken off the min 
 ute its wearer entered her own house. It was shaken soft 
 ly, folded, and laid away in a linen sheet 
 
 Emily was dressed in it on the Fourth of July morning 
 when Matilda Jennings called for her. Matilda came in 
 her voluminous old alpac-i, with her tin lunch-pail on her 
 arm. She looked at Emily in the black silk, and her coun 
 tenance changed. " My ! you ain t goin to wear that black 
 silk trailin round in the woods, are you ?" said she. 
 
 " I guess she won t trail around much," spoke up Eliza 
 beth, " She s got to 20 lookin decent." 
 
A GALA DRESS. 45 
 
 Matilda s poor old alpaca had many a threadbare streak 
 and mended slit in its rusty folds, the elbows were patched, 
 it was hardly respectable. But she gave the skirt a defiant 
 switch, and jerked the patched elbows. " Well, I allers be 
 lieved in goin dressed suitable for the occasion," said she, 
 sturdily, and as if that was her especial picnic costume out 
 of a large wardrobe. However, her bravado was not deep 
 ly seated, all day long she manoeuvred to keep her patches 
 and darns out of sight, she arranged the skirt nervously 
 every time she changed her position, she held her elbows 
 close to her sides, and she made many little flings at Emily s 
 black silk. 
 
 The festivities were nearly over, the dinner had been 
 eaten, Matilda had devoured with relish her brown-bread 
 and cheese and cold pork, and Emily had nibbled daintily 
 at her sweet-cake, and glanced with inward loathing at her 
 neighbor s grosser fare. The speeches by the local celebri 
 ties were delivered, the cannon had been fired every half- 
 hour, the sun was getting low in the west, and a golden 
 mist was rising among the ferny undergrowth in the grove. 
 "It s gettin damp; I can see it risin ," said Emily, who 
 was rheumatic ; " I guess we d better walk round a little, 
 an then go home." 
 
 " Well," replied Matilda, " I d jest as soon. You d bet 
 ter hold up your dress." 
 
 The two old women adjusted themselves stiffly upon their 
 feet, and began ranging the grove, stepping warily over the 
 slippery pine-needles. The woods were full of merry calls \ 
 the green distances fluttered with light draperies. Every 
 little while came the sharp bang of a fire-cracker, the crash 
 of cannon, or the melancholy hoot of a fish-horn. Now 
 and then blue gunpowder smoke curled up with the golden 
 
46 A GALA DR&SS. 
 
 steam from the dewy ground. Emily was near-sighted ; 
 she moved on with innocently peering eyes, her long neck 
 craned forward. Matilda had been taking the lead, but 
 she suddenly stepped aside. Emily walked on unsuspect 
 ingly, holding up her precious black silk. There was a 
 quick puff of smoke, a leap of flame, a volley of vicious lit 
 tle reports, and poor Emily Babcock danced as a martyr at 
 her fiery trial might have done ; her gentle dignity com 
 pletely deserted her. " Oh, oh, oh !" she shrieked. 
 
 Matilda Jennings pushed forward ; by that time Emily 
 was standing, pale and quivering, on a little heap of ashes. 
 " You stepped into a nest of fire-crackers," said Matilda ; 
 " a boy jest run ; I saw him. What made you stan there 
 in em ? Why didn t you get out ?" 
 
 "I couldn t," gasped Emily; she could hardly speak. 
 
 " Well, I guess it ain t done much harm ; them boys 
 ought to be prosecuted. You don t feel as if you was burned 
 anywhere, do you, Em ly ?" 
 
 " No I guess not." 
 
 " Seems to me your dress Jest let me look at your 
 dress, Em ly. My ! ain t that a wicked shame ! Jest look 
 at all them holes, right in the flouncin , where it 11 show !" 
 
 It was too true. The flounce that garnished the bottom 
 of the black silk was scorched in a number of places. Emily 
 looked at it and felt faint. " I must go right home," she 
 moaned. " Oh, dear !" 
 
 " Mebbe you can darn it, if you re real pertickler about 
 it," said Matilda, with an uneasy air. 
 
 Emily said nothing ; she went home. Her dress switched 
 the dust off the wayside weeds, but she paid no attention to 
 it ; she walked so fast that Matilda could hardly keep up 
 with her. When she reached her own gate she swung it 
 
A GALA DRESS. 47 
 
 swiftly to before Matilda s face, then she fled into the 
 house. 
 
 Elizabeth came to the parlor door with a letter in her 
 hand. She cried out, when she saw her sister s face, 
 " What is the matter, Em ly, for pity sakes ?" 
 
 "You can t never go out again, Liz beth ; you can t! 
 you can t !" 
 
 "Why can t I go out, I d like to know? What do you 
 mean, Em ly Babcock ?" 
 
 " You can t, you never can again. I stepped into some 
 fire-crackers, an I ve burned some great holes right in the 
 flouncin . You can t never wear it without folks knowin . 
 Matilda Jennings will tell. Oh, Liz beth, what will you 
 do?" 
 
 "Do?" said Elizabeth. "Well, I hope I ain t so set on 
 goin out at my time of life as all that comes to. Let s see 
 it. H m, I can mend that." 
 
 " No, you can t. Matilda would see it if you did. Oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear !" Emily dropped into a corner and put 
 her slim hands over her face. 
 
 " Do stop actin so," said her sister. " I ve jest had a 
 letter, an Aunt Liz beth is dead." 
 
 After a little Emily looked up. "When did she die?* 
 she asked, in a despairing voice. 
 
 "Last week." 
 
 " Did they ask us to the funeral ?" 
 
 " Of course they did ; it was last Friday, at two o clock 
 in the afternoon. They knew the letter couldn t get to us 
 till after the funeral ; but of course they d ask us." 
 
 " What did they say the matter was ?" 
 
 " Old age, I guess, as much as anything. Aunt Liz beth 
 was a good deal over eighty." 
 
48 * GALA DRESS. 
 
 Emily sat reflectively ; she seemed to be listening while 
 her sister related more at length the contents of the letter. 
 Suddenly she interrupted. " Liz beth." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " I was thinkin , Liz beth you know those crape veils 
 we wore when mother died?" 
 
 "Well, what of em?" 
 
 "I don t see why you couldn t make a flounce of 
 those veils, an put on this dress when you wore it ; then 
 she wouldn t know." 
 
 " I d like to know what I d wear a crape flounce for?" 
 
 " Why, mournin for Aunt Liz beth." 
 
 " Em ly Babcock, what sense would there be in my wear- 
 in mournin when you didn t?" 
 
 " You was named for her, an it s a very diffrent thing. 
 You can jest tell folks that you was named for your aunt 
 that jest died, an you felt as if you ought to wear a little 
 crape on your best dress." 
 
 " It 11 be an awful job to put on a different flounce every 
 time we wear it." 
 
 " I ll do it ; I m perfectly willin to do it. Oh, Liz beth, 
 I shall die if you ever go out again an wear that dress." 
 
 " For pity sakes, don t, Em ly ! I ll get out those veils 
 after supper an look at em." 
 
 The next Sunday Elizabeth wore the black silk garnished 
 with a crape flounce to church. Matilda Jennings walked 
 home with her, and eyed the new trimming sharply. " Got 
 a new flounce, ain t you?" said she, finally. 
 
 " I had word last week that my aunt Liz beth Taylor 
 was dead, an I thought it wa n t anything more n fittin 
 that I should put on a little crape," replied Elizabeth, with 
 dignity. 
 
A GALA DRESS. 49 
 
 " Has Em ly put on mournin too?" 
 
 " Em ly ain t any call to. She wa n t named after her, 
 as I was, an she never saw her but once, when she was a 
 little girl. It ain t more n ten year since I saw her. She 
 lived out West. I didn t feel as if Em ly had any call to 
 wear crape." 
 
 Matilda said no more, but there was unquelled suspicion 
 in her eye as they parted at the Babcock gate. 
 
 The next week a trunk full of Aunt Elizabeth Taylor s 
 clothes arrived from the West. Her daughter had sent 
 them. There was in the trunk a goodly store of old wom 
 an s finery, two black silks among the other gowns. Aunt 
 Elizabeth had been a dressy old lady, although she died in 
 her eighties. It was a great surprise to the sisters. They 
 had never dreamed of such a thing. They palpitated with 
 awe and delight as they took out the treasures. Emily 
 clutched Elizabeth, the thin hand closing around the thin 
 arm. 
 
 " Liz beth !" 
 
 "What is it?* 
 
 " W T e won t say anything about this to anybody. We ll 
 jest go together to meetin next Sabbath, an wear these 
 black silks, an let Matilda Jennings see." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at Emily. A gleam came into her dim 
 blue eyes ; she tightened her thin lips. " Well, we will" 
 said she. 
 
 The following Sunday the sisters wore the black silks to 
 church. During the week they appeared together at a sew 
 ing meeting, then at church again. The wonder and curios 
 ity were certainly not confined to Matilda Jennings. The 
 eccentricity which the Babcock sisters displayed in not go 
 ing into society together had long been a favorite topic in 
 4 
 
50 A GALA DRESS. 
 
 the town. There had been a great deal of speculation over 
 it. Now that they had appeared together three consecutive 
 times, there was much talk. 
 
 On the Monday following the second Sunday Matilda 
 Jennings went down to the Babcock house. Her cape- 
 bonnet was on one-sided, but it was firmly tied. She 
 opened the door softly, when her old muscles were strain 
 ing forward to jerk the latch. She sat gently down in the 
 proffered chair, and displayed quite openly a worn place 
 over the knees in her calico gown. 
 
 " We had a pleasant Sabbath yesterday, didn t we ?" said 
 she. 
 
 "Real pleasant," assented the sisters. 
 
 " I thought we had a good discourse/ 
 
 The Babcocks assented again. 
 
 " I heerd a good many say they thought it was a good 
 discourse," repeated Matilda, like an emphatic chorus. 
 Then she suddenly leaned forward, and her face, in the 
 depths of her awry bonnet, twisted into a benevolent smile. 
 " I was real glad to see you out together," she whispered, 
 with meaning emphasis. 
 
 The sisters smiled stiffly. 
 
 Matilda paused for a moment ; she drew herself back, as 
 if to gather strength for a thrust ; she stopped smiling. " I 
 was glad to see you out together, for I thought it was too 
 bad the way folks was talkin ," she said. 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her. " How were they talkin ?" 
 
 "Well, I don know as there s any harm in my tellin 
 you. I ve been thinkin mebbe I ought to for some time. 
 It s been round consider ble lately that you an Em ly 
 didn t get along well, an that was the reason you didn t go 
 out more together. I told em I hadn t no idea twas so, 
 
A GALA DRESS. 51 
 
 though, of course, I couldn t really tell. I was real glad to 
 see you out together, cause there s never any knowin how 
 folks do get along, an I was real glad to see you d settled 
 it if there had been any trouble." 
 
 " There ain t been any trouble." 
 
 " Well, I m glad if there ain t been any, an if there has, 
 I m glad to see it settled, an I know other folks will be 
 too." 
 
 Elizabeth stood up. " If you want to know the reason 
 why we haven t been out together, I ll tell you," said she. 
 " You ve been tryin to find out things every way you could, 
 an now I ll tell you. You ve drove me to it. We had just 
 one decent dress between us, an Em ly an me took turns 
 wearin it, an Em ly used to wear lace on it, an I used to 
 rip off the lace an sew on black velvet when I wore it, so 
 folks shouldn t know it was the same dress. Em ly an me 
 never had a word in our lives, an it s a wicked lie for folks 
 to say we have." 
 
 Emily was softly weeping in her handkerchief; there was 
 not a tear in Elizabeth s eyes ; there were bright spots on 
 her cheeks, and her slim height overhung Matilda Jennings 
 imposingly. 
 
 " My aunt Liz beth, that I was named for, died two or 
 three weeks ago," she continued, " an they sent us a trunk 
 full of her clothes, an there was two decent dresses among 
 em, an that s the reason why Em ly an me have been out 
 together sence. Now, Matilda Jennings, you have found 
 out the whole story, an I hope you re satisfied." 
 
 Now that the detective instinct and the craving inquisi- 
 tiveness which were so strong in this old woman were satis 
 fied, she should have been more jubilant than she was. She 
 had suspected what nobody else in town had suspected ; 
 
5 2 A GALA DRESS. 
 
 she had verified her suspicion, and discovered what the 
 secrecy and pride of the sisters had concealed from the 
 whole village, still she looked uneasy and subdued. "I 
 sha n t tell anybody," said she. 
 
 "You can tell nobody you re a mind to." 
 
 "I sha n t tell nobody." Matilda Jennings arose; she 
 had passed the parlor door, when she faced about. " I 
 s pose I kinder begretched you that black silk," said she, 
 "or I shouldn t have cared so much about findin out. I 
 never had a black silk myself, nor any of my folks that I 
 ever heard of. I ain t got nothin decent to wear any 
 way." 
 
 There was a moment s silence. "We sha n t lay up any 
 thing," said Elizabeth then, and Emily sobbed responsively. 
 Matilda passed on, and opened the outer door. Elizabeth 
 whispered to her sister, and Emily nodded, eagerly. " You 
 tell her," said she. 
 
 " Matilda," called Elizabeth. Matilda looked back. I 
 was jest goin to say that, if you wouldn t resent it, it got 
 burned some, but we mended it nice, that you was perfectly 
 welcome to that black silk. Em ly an me don t really 
 need it, and we d be glad to have you have it." 
 
 There were tears in Matilda Jennings s black eyes, but 
 she held them unwinkingly. "Thank ye," she said, in a 
 gruff voice, and stepped along over the piazza, down the 
 steps. She reached Emily s flower garden. The peppery 
 sweetness of the nasturtiums came up in her face ; it was 
 quite early in the day, and the portulacas were still out in 
 a splendid field of crimson and yellow. Matilda turned 
 about, her broad foot just cleared a yellow portulaca which 
 had straggled into the path, but she did not notice it. The 
 homely old figure pushed past the flowers and into the house 
 
A GALA DRESS. 
 
 53 
 
 again. She stood before Elizabeth and Emily. "Look 
 here," said she, with a fine light struggling out of her coarse 
 old face, " I want to tell you I see them fire-crackers a-siz- 
 before Enily stepped in em." 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 " I DON T see how it happened, for my part," Mrs. Childs 
 said. " Paulina, you set the table." 
 
 " You counted up yesterday how many there d be, and 
 you said twelve ; don t you know you did, mother ? So I 
 didn t count to-day. I just put on the plates," said Paulina, 
 smilingly defensive. 
 
 Paulina had something of a helpless and gentle look when 
 she smiled. Her mouth was rather large, and the upper 
 jaw full, so the smile seemed hardly under her control. 
 She was quite pretty ; her complexion was so delicate and 
 her eyes so pleasant. 
 
 "Well, I don t see how I made such a blunder," her 
 mother remarked further, as she went on pouring the tea. 
 
 On the opposite side of the table were a plate, a knife 
 and fork, and a little dish of cranberry sauce, with an empty 
 chair before them. There was no guest to fill it. 
 
 " It s a sign somebody s comin that s hungry," Mrs. 
 Childs brother s wife said, with soft effusiveness which was 
 out of proportion to the words. 
 
 The brother was carving the turkey. Caleb Childs, the 
 host, was an old man, and his hands trembled. Moreover, 
 no one, he himself least of all, ever had any confidence in 
 his ability in such directions. Whenever he helped him- 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 55 
 
 self to gravy, his wife watched anxiously lest he should spill 
 it, and he always did. He spilled some to-day. There 
 was a great spot on the beautiful clean table-cloth. Caleb 
 set his cup and saucer over it quickly, with a little clatter 
 because of his unsteady hand. Then he looked at his wife. 
 He hoped she had not seen, but she had. 
 
 " You d better have let John give you the gravy," she 
 said, in a stern aside. 
 
 John, rigidly solicitous, bent over the turkey. He carved 
 slowly and laboriously, but everybody had faith in him. 
 The shoulders to which a burden is shifted have the credit 
 of being strong. His wife, in her best black dress, sat 
 smilingly, with her head canted a little to one side. It was 
 a way she had when visiting. Ordinarily she did not as 
 sume it at her sister-in-law s house, but this was an extra 
 occasion. Her fine manners spread their wings involun 
 tarily. When she spoke about the sign, the young woman 
 next her sniffed. 
 
 " I don t take any stock in signs," said she, with a blunt- 
 ness which seemed to crash through the other s airiness 
 with such force as to almost hurt itself. She was a distant 
 cousin of Mr. Childs. Her husband and three children 
 were with her. 
 
 Mrs. Childs unmarried sister, Maria Stone, made up the 
 eleven at the table. Maria s gaunt face was unhealthily 
 red about the pointed nose and the high cheek-bones ; 
 her eyes looked with a steady sharpness through her spec 
 tacles. 
 
 "Well, it will be time enough to believe the sign when 
 the twelfth one comes," said she, with a summary air. She 
 had a judicial way of speaking. She had taught school 
 ever since she was sixteen, and now she was sixty. She 
 
56 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 had just given up teaching. It was to celebrate that, and 
 her final home-coming, that her sister was giving a Christ 
 mas dinner instead of a Thanksgiving one this year. The 
 school had been in session during Thanksgiving week. 
 
 Maria Stone had scarcely spoken when there was a knock 
 on the outer door, which led directly into the room. They 
 all started. They were a plain, unimaginative company, 
 but for some reason a thrill of superstitious and fantastic 
 expectation ran through them. No one arose. They were 
 all silent for a moment, listening and looking at the empty 
 chair in their midst. Then the knock came again. 
 
 " Go to the door, Paulina," said her mother. 
 
 The young girl looked at her half fearfully, but she rose 
 at once, and went and opened the door. Everybody 
 stretched around to see. A girl stood on the stone step 
 looking into the room. There she stood, and never said a 
 word. Paulina looked around at her mother, with her in 
 nocent, half-involuntary smile. 
 
 " Ask her what she wants," said Mrs. Childs. 
 
 " What do you want ?" repeated Paulina, like a sweet echo. 
 
 Still the girl said nothing. A gust of north wind swept 
 into the room. John s wife shivered, then looked around 
 to see if any one had noticed it. 
 
 " You must speak up quick an tell what you want, so we 
 can shut the door; it s cold," said Mrs. Childs. 
 
 The girl s small sharp face was sheathed in an old wors 
 ted hood ; her eyes glared out of it like a frightened cat s. 
 Suddenly she turned to go. She was evidently abashed by 
 the company. 
 
 " Don t you want somethin to eat ?" Mrs. Childs asked, 
 speaking up louder. 
 
 " It ain t no matter." She just mumbled it. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 57 
 
 "What?" 
 
 She would not repeat it. She was quite off the step by 
 this time. 
 
 "You make her come in, Paulina," said Maria Stone, 
 suddenly. " She wants something to eat, but she s half 
 scared to death. You talk to her." 
 
 " Hadn t you better come in, and have something to eat ?" 
 said Paulina, shyly persuasive. 
 
 "Tell her she can sit right down here by the stove, where 
 it s warm, and have a good plate of dinner," said Maria. 
 
 Paulina fluttered softly down to the stone step. The 
 chilly snow-wind came right in her sweet, rosy face. " You 
 can have a chair by the stove, where it s warm, and a good 
 plate of dinner," said she. 
 
 The girl looked at her. 
 
 " Won t you come in ?" said Paulina, of her own accord, 
 and always smiling. 
 
 The stranger made a little hesitating movement forward. 
 
 " Bring her in, quick ! and shut the door," Maria called 
 out then. And Paulina entered with the girl stealing tim 
 idly in her wake. 
 
 " Take off your hood an shawl," Mrs. Childs said, " an 
 sit down here by the stove, an I ll give you some dinner." 
 She spoke kindly. She was a warm-hearted woman, but 
 she was rigidly built, and did not relax too quickly into 
 action. 
 
 But the cousin, who had been observing, with head alertly 
 raised, interrupted. She cast a mischievous glance at 
 John s wife the empty chair was between them. " For 
 pity s sake !" cried she ; " you ain t goin to shove her off in 
 the corner? Why, here s this chair. She s the twelfth 
 one. Here s where she ought to sit" There was a mix- 
 
58 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 ture of heartiness and sport in the young woman s manner. 
 She pulled the chair back from the table. " Come right 
 over here," said she. 
 
 There was a slight flutter of consternation among the 
 guests. They were all narrow-lived country people. Their 
 customs had made deeper grooves in their roads ; they were 
 more fastidious and jealous of their social rights than many 
 in higher positions. They eyed this forlorn girl, in her 
 faded and dingy woollens which fluttered airily and showed 
 their pitiful thinness. 
 
 Mrs. Childs stood staring at the cousin. She did not 
 think she could be in earnest. 
 
 But she was. " Come," said she ; " put some turkey in 
 this plate, John." 
 
 " Why, it s jest as the rest of you say," Mrs. Childs said, 
 finally, with hesitation. She looked embarrassed and doubt 
 ful. 
 
 " Say ! Why, they say just as I do," the cousin went on. 
 "Why shouldn t they? Come right around here." She 
 tapped the chair impatiently. 
 
 The girl looked at Mrs. Childs. "You can go an sit 
 down there where she says," she said, slowly, in a con 
 strained tone. 
 
 " Come," called the cousin again. And the girl took the 
 empty chair, with the guests all smiling stiffly. 
 
 Mrs. Childs began filling a plate for the new-comer. 
 
 Now that her hood was removed, one could see her face 
 more plainly. It was thin, and of that pale brown tint 
 which exposure gives to some blond skins. Still there was 
 a tangible beauty which showed through all that. Her fair 
 hair stood up softly, with a kind of airy roughness which 
 caught the light. She was apparently about sixteen. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 59 
 
 " What s your name ?" inquired the school-mistress sister, 
 suddenly. 
 
 The girl started. " Christine," she said, after a second. 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Christine." 
 
 A little thrill ran around the table. The company looked 
 at each other. They were none of them conversant with 
 the Christmas legends, but at that moment the universal 
 sentiment of them seemed to seize upon their fancies. The 
 day, the mysterious appearance of the girl, the name, which 
 was strange to their ears all startled them, and gave them 
 a vague sense of the supernatural. They, however, strug 
 gled against it with their matter-of-fact pride, and threw it 
 off directly. 
 
 "Christine what?" Maria asked further. 
 
 The girl kept her scared eyes on Maria s face, but she 
 made no reply. 
 
 " What s your other name ? Why don t you speak ?" 
 
 Suddenly she rose. 
 
 " What are you goin to do ?" 
 
 " I d ruther go, I guess." 
 
 "What are you goin for? You ain t had your din 
 ner." 
 
 " I can t tell it," whispered the girl. 
 
 "Can t tell your name?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Sit dowr;, and eat your dinner," said Maria. 
 
 There was a strong sentiment of disapprobation among 
 the company. But when Christine s food was actually be 
 fore her, and she seemed to settle down upon it, like a bird, 
 they viewed her with more toleration. She was evidently 
 half starved. Their discovery of that fact gave them at 
 
6o THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 once a fellow-feeling toward her on this feast-day, and a 
 complacent sense of their own benevolence. 
 
 As the dinner progressed the spirits of the party ap 
 peared to rise, and a certain jollity which was almost hilar 
 ity prevailed. Beyond providing the strange guest plen 
 tifully with food, they seemed to ignore her entirely. Still 
 nothing was more certain than the fact that they did not. 
 Every outburst of merriment was yielded to with the most 
 thorough sense of her presence, which appeared in some 
 subtle way to excite it. It was as if this forlorn twelfth 
 guest were the foreign element needed to produce a state 
 of nervous effervescence in those staid, decorous people who 
 surrounded her. This taste of mystery and unusualness, 
 once fairly admitted, although reluctantly, to their unaccus 
 tomed palates, served them as wine with their Christmas 
 dinner. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when they arose from the 
 table. Christine went directly for her hood and shawl, and 
 put them on. The others, talking among themselves, were 
 stealthily observant of her. Christine began opening the 
 door. 
 
 " Are you goin home now ?" asked Mrs. Childs. 
 
 "No,marm." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I ain t got any." 
 
 " Where did you come from ?" 
 
 The girl looked at her. Then she unlatched the door. 
 
 "Stop!" Mrs. Childs cried, sharply. "What are you 
 goin for? Why don t you answer?" 
 
 She stood still, but did not speak. 
 
 " Well, shut the door up, an wait a minute," said Mrs. 
 Childs. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 61 
 
 She stood close to a window, and she stared out scruti- 
 nizingly. There was no house in sight. First came a great 
 yard, then wide stretches of fields ; a desolate gray road 
 curved around them on the left. The sky was covered with 
 still, low clouds; the sun had not shone out that day. The 
 ground was all bare and rigid. Out in the yard some gray 
 hens were huddled together in little groups for warmth ; 
 their red combs showed out. Two crows flew up, away 
 over on the edge of the field. 
 
 " It s goin to snow," said Mrs. Childs. 
 
 " I m afeard it is," said Caleb, looking at the girl. He 
 gave a sort of silent sob, and brushed some tears out of his 
 old eyes with the back of his hands. 
 
 " See here a minute, Maria," said Mrs. Childs. 
 
 The two women whispered together ; then Maria stepped 
 in front of the girl, and stood, tall and stiff and impres 
 sive. 
 
 " Now, see here," said she ; " we want you to speak up 
 and tell us your other name, and where you came from, and 
 not keep us waiting any longer." 
 
 " I can t," They guessed what she said from the motion 
 of her head. She opened the door entirely then and step 
 ped out. 
 
 Suddenly Maria made one stride forward and seized her 
 by her shoulders, which felt like knife-blades through the 
 thin clothes. " Well," said she, " we ve been fussing long 
 enough ; we ve got all these dishes to clear away. It s bit 
 ter cold, and it s going to snow, and you ain t going out of 
 this house one step to-night, no matter what you are. You d 
 ought to tell us who you are, and it ain t many folks that 
 would keep you if you wouldn t ; but we ain t goin to have 
 you found dead in the road, for our own credit. It ain t on 
 
6i THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 your account. Now you just take those things off again, 
 and go and sit down in that chair." 
 
 Christine sat in the chair. Her pointed chin dipped 
 down on her neck, whose poor little muscles showed above 
 her dress, which sagged away from it. She never looked 
 up. The women cleared off the table, and cast curious 
 glances at her. 
 
 After the dishes were washed and put away, the company 
 were all assembled in the sitting-room for an hour or so ; 
 then they went home. The cousin, passing through the 
 kitchen to join her husband, who was waiting with his team 
 at the door, ran hastily up to Christine. 
 
 " You stop at my house when you go to-morrow morn 
 ing," said she. " Mrs. Childs will tell you where tis half 
 a mile below here." 
 
 When the company were all gone, Mrs. Childs called 
 Christine into the sitting-room. "You d better come in 
 here and sit now," said she. " I m goin to let the kitchen 
 fire go down; I ain t goin to get another regular meal; 
 I m jest goin to make a cup of tea on the sittin -room stove 
 by-an -by." 
 
 The sitting-room was warm, and restrainedly comfortable 
 with its ordinary village furnishings its ingrain carpet, its 
 little peaked clock on a corner of the high black shelf, its 
 red-covered card-table, which had stood in the same spot 
 for forty years. There was a little newspaper-covered 
 stand, with some plants on it, before a window. There was 
 one red geranium in blossom. 
 
 Paulina was going out that evening. Soon after the com 
 pany went she commenced to get ready, and her mother 
 znd aunt seemed to be helping her. Christine was alone 
 in the sitting-room for the greater part of an hour. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 63 
 
 Finally the three women came in, and Paulina stood be 
 fore the sitting-room glass for a last look at herself. She 
 had on her best red cashmere, with some white lace around 
 her throat. She had a red geranium flower with some 
 leaves in her hair. Paulina s brown hair, which was rather 
 thin, was very silky. It was apt to part into little soft 
 strands on her forehead. She wore it brushed smoothly 
 back. Her mother would not allow her to curl it. 
 
 The two older women stood looking at her. " Don t you 
 think she looks nice, Christine ?" Mrs. Childs asked, in a 
 sudden overflow of love and pride, which led her to ask 
 sympathy from even this forlorn source. 
 
 " Yes, marm." Christine regarded Paulina, in her red 
 cashmere and geranium flower, with sharp, solemn eyes. 
 When she really looked at any one, her gaze was as un 
 flinching as that of a child. 
 
 There was a sudden roll of wheels in the yard. 
 
 " Willard s come !" said Mrs. Childs. " Run to the door 
 an tell him you ll be right out, Paulina, an I ll get your 
 things ready." 
 
 After Paulina had been helped into her coat and hood, 
 and the wheels had bowled out of the yard with a quick 
 dash, the mother turned to Christine. 
 
 " My daughter s gone to a Christmas tree over to the 
 church," said she. " That was Willard Morris that came 
 for her. He s a real nice young man that lives about a 
 mile from here." 
 
 Mrs. Childs tone was at once gently patronizing and 
 elated. 
 
 When Christine was shown to a little back bedroom that 
 night, nobody dreamed how many times she was to occupy 
 it. Maria and Mrs. Childs, who after the door was closed 
 
64 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 set a table against it softly and erected a tiltlish pyramid 
 of milkpans, to serve as an alarm signal in case the strange 
 guest should try to leave her room with evil intentions, were 
 fully convinced that she would depart early on the follow 
 ing morning. 
 
 " I dun know but I ve run an awful risk keeping her," 
 Mrs. Childs said. " I don t like her not tellin where she 
 come from. Nobody knows but she belongs to a gang of 
 burglars, an they ve kind of sent her on ahead to spy out 
 things an unlock the doors for em." 
 
 " I know it," said Maria. " I wouldn t have had her stay 
 for a thousand dollars if it hadn t looked so much like snow. 
 Well, I ll get up an start her off early in the morning." 
 
 But Maria Stone could not carry out this resolution. The 
 next morning she was ill with a sudden and severe attack 
 of erysipelas. Moreover, there was a hard snow-storm, the 
 worst of the season ; it would have been barbarous to have 
 turned the girl out-of-doors on such a morning. Moreover, 
 she developed an unexpected capacity for usefulness. She 
 assisted Pauline about the housework with timid alacrity, 
 and Mrs. Childs could devote all her time to her sister. 
 
 " She takes right hold as if she was used to it," she told 
 Maria. " I d rather keep her a while than not, if I only 
 knew a little more about her." 
 
 " I don t believe but what I could get it out of her after 
 a while if I tried," said Maria, with her magisterial air, which 
 illness could not subdue. 
 
 However, even Maria, with all her well-fostered imperi- 
 ousness, had no effect on the girl s resolution ; she contin 
 ued as much of a mystery as ever. Still the days went on, 
 then the weeks and months, and she remained in the Childs 
 family. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 65 
 
 None of them could tell exactly how it had been brought 
 about. The most definite course seemed to be that her ar 
 rival had apparently been the signal for a general decline 
 of health in the family. Maria had hardly recovered when 
 Caleb Childs was laid up with the rheumatism ; then Mrs. 
 Childs had a long spell of exhaustion from overwork in 
 nursing. Christine proved exceedingly useful in these 
 emergencies. Their need of her appeared to be the dom 
 inant, and only outwardly evident, reason for her stay ; still 
 there was a deeper one which they themselves only faintly 
 realized this poor young girl, who was rendered almost 
 repulsive to these honest downright folk by her persistent 
 cloak of mystery, had somehow, in a very short time, melted 
 herself, as it were, into their own lives. Christine asleep 
 of a night in her little back bedroom, Christine of a day 
 stepping about the house in one of Paulina s old gowns, 
 became a part of their existence, and a part which was not 
 far from the nature of a sweetness to their senses. 
 
 She still retained her mild shyness of manner, and rarely 
 spoke unless spoken to. Now that she was warmly shel 
 tered and well fed, her beauty became evident. She grew 
 prettier every day. Her cheeks became softly dimpled ; 
 her hair turned golden. Her language was rude and illit 
 erate, but its very uncouthness had about it something of a 
 soft grace. 
 
 She was really prettier than Paulina. 
 
 The two young girls were much together, but could hardly 
 be said to be intimate. There were few confidences between 
 them, and confidences are essential for the intimacy of young 
 girls. 
 
 Willard Morris came regularly twice a week to see Pau 
 lina, and everybody spoke of them as engaged to each other. 
 5 
 
66 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 Along in August Mrs. Childs drove over to town one af 
 ternoon and bought a piece of cotton cloth and a little em 
 broidery and lace. Then some fine sewing went on, but 
 with no comment in the household. Mrs. Childs had sim 
 ply said, " I guess we may as well get a few things made up 
 for you, Paulina, you re getting rather short." And Pauli 
 na had sewed all day long, with a gentle industry, when 
 the work was ready. 
 
 There was a report that the marriage was to take place 
 on Thanksgiving Day. But about the first of October Wil- 
 lard Morris stopped going to the Childs house. There was 
 no explanation. He simply did not come as usual on Sun 
 day night, nor the following Wednesday, nor the next Sun 
 day. Paulina kindled her little parlor fire, whose sticks 
 she had laid with maiden preciseness ; she arrayed herself 
 in her best gown and ribbons. When at nine o clock Wil- 
 lard had not come, she blew out the parlor lamp, shut up 
 the parlor stove, and went to bed. Nothing was said be 
 fore her, but there was much talk and surmise between 
 Mrs. Childs and Maria, and a good deal of it went on be 
 fore Christine. 
 
 It was a little while after the affair of Cyrus Morris s 
 note, and they wondered if it could have anything to do 
 with that. Cyrus Morris was Willard s uncle, and the note 
 affair had occasioned much distress in the Childs family 
 for a month back. The note was for twenty-five hundred 
 dollars, and Cyrus Morris had given it to Caleb Childs. 
 The time, which was two years, had expired on the first of 
 September, and then Caleb could not find the note. 
 
 He had kept it in his old-fashioned desk, which stood in 
 one corner of the kitchen. He searched there a day and 
 half a night, pulling all the soiled, creasy old papers out 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 67 
 
 of the drawers and pigeon-holes before he would answer 
 his wife s inquiries as to what he had lost. 
 
 Finally he broke down and told. " I ve lost that note 
 of Morris s," said he. " I dun know what I m goin to do." 
 
 He stood looking gloomily at the desk with its piles of 
 papers. His rough old chin dropped down on his breast. 
 
 The women were all in the kitchen, and they stopped 
 and stared. 
 
 "Why, father," said his wife, "where have you put it?" 
 
 " I put it here in this top drawer, and it ain t there." 
 
 " Let me look," said Maria, in a confident tone. But 
 even Maria s energetic and self-assured researches failed. 
 " Well, it ain t here," said she. " I don t know what you ve 
 done with it." 
 
 " I don t believe you put it in that drawer, father," said 
 his wife. 
 
 " It was in there two weeks ago. I see it." 
 
 " Then you took it out afterwards." 
 
 " I ain t laid hands on t." 
 
 " You must have ; it couldn t have gone off without hands. 
 You know you re kind of forgetful, father." 
 
 " I guess I know when I ve took a paper out of a drawer. 
 I know a leetle somethin yit." 
 
 " Well, I don t suppose there ll be any trouble about it, will 
 there ?" said Mrs. Childs. " Of course he knows he give 
 the note, an had the money." 
 
 " I dun know as there ll be any trouble, but I d ruther 
 give a hundred dollar than had it happen." 
 
 After dinner Caleb shaved, put on his other coat and hat, 
 and trudged soberly up the road to Cyrus Morris s. Cyrus 
 Morris was an elderly man, who had quite a local reputa* 
 tion for wealth and business shrewdness. Caleb, who was 
 
68 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 lowly-natured and easily impressed by another s importance, 
 always made a call upon him quite a formal affair, and 
 shaved and dressed up. 
 
 He was absent about an hour to-day. When he returned 
 he went into the sitting-room, where the women sat with 
 their sewing. He dropped into a chair, and looked straight 
 ahead, with his forehead knitted. 
 
 The women dropped their work and looked at him, and 
 then at each other. 
 
 " What did he say, father ?" Mrs. Childs asked at length. 
 
 " Say ! He s a rascal, that s what he is, an I ll tell him 
 so, too." 
 
 "Ain t he goin to pay it?" 
 
 " No, he ain t." 
 
 " Why, father, I don t believe it ! You didn t get hold 
 of it straight," said his wife. 
 
 "You ll see." 
 
 " Why, what did he say ?" 
 
 " He didn t say anything." 
 
 " Doesn t he remember he had the money and gave the 
 note, and has been paying interest on it ?" queried Maria. 
 
 " He jest laughed, an said twa n t accordin to law to 
 pay unless I showed the note an give it up to him. He 
 said he couldn t be sure but I d want him to pay it over 
 ag in. I know where that note is /" 
 
 Caleb s voice had deep meaning in it. The women 
 stared at him. 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " Ifs in Cyrus Morris s desk thafs where it is" 
 
 " Why, father, you re crazy !" 
 
 "No, I ain t crazy, nuther. I know what I m talkiri 
 about. I" 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 69 
 
 "It s just where you put it," interrupted Maria, taking 
 up her sewing with a switch ; " and I wouldn t lay the blame 
 onto anybody else." 
 
 " You d ought to ha looked out for a paper like that," 
 said his wife. " I guess I should if it had been me. If 
 you ve gone an lost all that money through your careless 
 ness, you ve done it, that s all I ve got to say. I don t see 
 what we re goin to do." 
 
 Caleb bent forward and fixed his eyes upon the women. 
 He held up his shaking hand impressively, "^you ll stop 
 talkin just a minute," said he, "I ll tell you what I was 
 goin to. Now I d like to know just one thing : Wdrit 
 Cyrus Morris alone in that kitchen as much as fifteen minutes 
 a week ago to-day ? Didrit you leave him there while you 
 went to look arter me ? Wa*nt the key in the desk ? Answer 
 me thatT 
 
 His wife looked at him with cold surprise and severity. 
 "I wouldn t talk in any such way as that if I was you, fa 
 ther," said she. " It don t show a Christian spirit. It s 
 jest layin the blame of your own carelessness onto some 
 body else. You re all the one that s to blame. An when 
 it comes to it, you d never ought to let Cyrus Morris have 
 the money anyhow. I could have told you better. I knew 
 what kind of a man he was." 
 
 " He s a rascal," said Caleb, catching eagerly at the first 
 note of foreign condemnation in his wife s words. " He d 
 ought to be put in state s-prison. I don t think much of his 
 relations nuther. I don t want nothin to do with em, an 
 I don t want none of my folks to." 
 
 Paulina s soft cheeks flushed. Then she suddenly spoke 
 out as she had never spoken in her life. 
 
 " It doesn t make it out because he s a bad man that his 
 
70 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 relations are," said she. " You haven t any right to speak 
 so, father. And I guess you won t stop me having any 
 thing to do with them, if you want to." 
 
 She was all pink and trembling. Suddenly she burst out 
 crying, and ran out of the room. 
 
 "You d ought to be ashamed of yourself, father," ex 
 claimed Mrs. Childs. 
 
 " I didn t think of her takin on it so," muttered Caleb, 
 humbly. " I didn t mean nothin. " 
 
 Caleb did not seem like himself through the following 
 days. His simple old face took on an expression of strained 
 thought, which made it look strange. He was tottering on 
 a height of mental effort and worry which was almost above 
 the breathing capacity of his innocent and placid nature. 
 Many a night he rose, lighted a candle, and tremulously 
 fumbled over his desk until morning, in the vain hope of 
 finding the missing note. 
 
 One night, while he was so searching, some one touched 
 him softly on the arm. 
 
 He jumped and turned. It was Christine. She had 
 stolen in silently. 
 
 "Oh, it s you!" said he. 
 
 " Ain t you found it ?" 
 
 " Found it ? No ; an I sha n t, nuther." He turned away 
 from her and pulled out another drawer. The girl stood 
 watching him wistfully. "It was a big yellow paper," the 
 old man went on "a big yellow paper, an I d wrote on 
 the back on t, Cyrus Morris s note. An the interest he d 
 paid was set down on the back on t, too." 
 
 " It s too bad you can t find it," said she. 
 
 " It ain t no use lookin ; it ain t here, an that s the hull 
 on t. It s in his desk. I ain t got no more doubt on t 
 than nothin at all." 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 71 
 
 "Where does he keep his desk?" 
 
 " In his kitchen ; it s jest like this one." 
 
 "Would this key open it?" 
 
 " I dun know but twould. But it ain t no use. I s pose 
 I ll have to lose it." Caleb sobbed silently and wiped his 
 eyes. 
 
 A few days later he came, all breathless, into the sitting- 
 room. He could hardly speak ; but he held out a folded 
 yellow paper, which fluttered and blew in his unsteady hand 
 like a yellow maple-leaf in an autumn gale. 
 
 " Look-a-here !" he gasped" look-a-here !" 
 
 " Why, for goodness sake, what s the matter ?" cried Ma 
 ria. She and Mrs. Childs and Paulina were there, sewing 
 peacefully. 
 
 "Jest look-a-/for<f/" 
 
 " Why, for mercy s sake, what is it, father ? Are you 
 crazy ?" 
 
 "It s the noteT 
 
 " What note ? Don t get so excited, father." 
 
 " Cyrus Morris s note. That s what note tis. Look-a- 
 here !" 
 
 The women all arose and pressed around him, to look at it. 
 
 " Where did you find it, father ?" asked his wife, who was 
 quite pale. 
 
 " I suppose it was just where you put it," broke in Ma 
 ria, with sarcastic emphasis. 
 
 " No, it wa n t. No, it wa n t, nuther. Don t you go 
 to crowin too quick, Maria. That paper was just where 
 I told you twas. What do you think of that, hey ?" 
 
 " Oh, father, you didn t !" 
 
 " It was layin right there in his desk. That s where 
 twas. Jest where I knew " 
 
72 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 "Father, you didn t go over there an take it!" 
 
 The three women stared at him with dilated eyes. 
 
 " No, I didn t." 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 The old man jerked his head towards the kitchen door. 
 " She." 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 " Christiny." 
 
 " How did she get it ?" asked Maria, in her magisterial 
 manner, which no astonishment could agitate. 
 
 " She saw Cyrus and Mis Morris ride past, an then 
 she run over there, an she got in through the window 
 an got it; that s how." Caleb braced himself like 
 a stubborn child, in case any exception were taken to it 
 all. 
 
 "It beats everything I ever heard," said Mrs. Childs, 
 faintly. 
 
 " Next time you ll believe what I tell you !" said Caleb. 
 
 The whole family were in a state of delight over the re> 
 covery of the note ; still Christine got rather hesitating 
 gratitude. She was sharply questioned, and rather re 
 proved than otherwise. 
 
 This theft, which could hardly be called a theft, aroused 
 the old distrust of her. 
 
 " It served him just right, and it wasn t stealing, because 
 it didn t belong to him ; and I don t know what you would 
 have done if she hadn t taken it," said Maria ; " but, for all 
 that, it went all over me." 
 
 " So it did over me," said her sister. " I felt just as you 
 did, an* I felt as if it was real ungrateful too, when the 
 poor child did it just for us." 
 
 But there were no such misgivings for poor Caleb, with 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 73 
 
 his money, and his triumph over iniquitous Cyrus Morris. 
 He was wholly and unquestkmingly grateful. 
 
 " It was a blessed day when we took that little girl in," 
 he told his wife. 
 
 " I hope it 11 prove so," said she. 
 
 Paulina took her lover s desertion quietly. She had just 
 as many soft smiles for every one ; there was no alteration 
 in her gentle, obliging ways. Still her mother used to listen 
 at her door, and she knew that she cried instead of sleep 
 ing many a night. She was not able to eat much, either, 
 although she tried to with pleasant willingness when her 
 mother urged her. 
 
 After a while she was plainly grown thin, and her pretty 
 color had faded. Her mother could not keep her eyes 
 from her. 
 
 " Sometimes I think I ll go an ask Willard myself what 
 this kind of work means," she broke out with an abashed 
 abruptness one afternoon. She and Paulina happened to 
 be alone in the sitting-room. 
 
 " You ll kill me if you do, mother," said Paulina. Then 
 she began to cry. 
 
 "Well, I won t do anything you don t want me to, of 
 course," said her mother. She pretended not to see that 
 Paulina was crying. 
 
 Willard had stopped coming about the first of Oc 
 tober ; the time wore on until it was the first of December, 
 and he had not once been to the house, and Paulina 
 had not exchanged a word with him in the mean 
 time. 
 
 One night she had a fainting -spell. She fell heavily 
 while crossing the sitting-room floor. They got her on to 
 the lounge, and she soon revived ; but her mother had lost 
 
74 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 all control of herself. She came out into the kitchen and 
 paced the floor. 
 
 "Oh, my darlinM" she wailed. "She s goin to die. 
 What shall I do? All the child I ve got in the world. 
 An he s killed her! That scamp ! I wish I could get my 
 hands on him. Oh, Paulina, Paulina, to think it should 
 come to this !" 
 
 Christine was in the room, and she listened with eyes 
 dilated and lips parted. She was afraid that shrill wail 
 would reach Paulina in the next room. 
 
 " She ll hear you," she said, finally. 
 
 Mrs. Childs grew quieter at that, and presently Maria 
 called her into the sitting-room. 
 
 Christine stood thinking for a moment. Then she got 
 her hood and shawl, put on her rubbers, and went out. 
 She shut the door softly, so nobody should hear. When 
 she stepped forth she plunged knee-deep into snow. It 
 was snowing hard, as it had been all day. It was a cold 
 storm, too ; the wind was bitter. Christine waded out of 
 the yard and down the street. She was so small and light 
 that she staggered when she tried to step firmly in some 
 tracks ahead of her. There was a full moon behind the 
 clouds, and there was a soft white light in spite of the storm. 
 Christine kept on down the street, in the direction of Wil- 
 lard Morris s house. It was a mile distant. Once in a 
 while she stopped and turned herself about, that the terri 
 ble wind might smite her back instead of her face. When 
 she reached the house she waded painfully through the 
 yard to the side-door and knocked. Pretty soon it opened, 
 and Willard stood there in the entry, with a lamp in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Good-evening," said he, doubtfully, peering out. 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 75 
 
 " Good-eveninV The light shone on Christine s face. 
 The snow clung to her soft hair, so it was quite white. 
 Her cheeks had a deep, soft color, like roses ; her blue 
 eyes blinked a little in the lamp-light, but seemed rather to 
 flicker like jewels or stars. She panted softly through her 
 parted lips. She stood there, with the snow-flakes driving 
 in light past her, and " She looks like an angel," came 
 swiftly into Willard Morris s head before he spoke. 
 
 " Oh, it s you," said he. 
 
 Christine nodded. 
 
 Then they stood waiting. " Why, won t you come in ?" 
 said Willard, finally, with an awkward blush. " I declare 
 I never thought. I ain t very polite." 
 
 She shook her head. " No, thank you," said she. 
 
 " Did you want to see mother ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 The young man stared at her in increasing perplexity. 
 His own fair, handsome young face got more and more 
 flushed. His forehead wrinkled. " Was there anything 
 you wanted ?" 
 
 " No, I guess not," Christine replied, with a slow soft 
 ness. 
 
 Willard shifted the lamp into his other hand and sighed. 
 " It s a pretty hard storm," he remarked, with an air of 
 forced patience. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Didn t you find it terrible hard walking ?" 
 
 "Some." 
 
 Willard was silent again. " See here, they re all well 
 down at your house, ain t they?" said he, finally. A look 
 of anxious interest had sprung into his eyes. He had be 
 gun to take alarm. 
 
7 6 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 "I guess so." 
 
 Suddenly he spoke out impetuously. " Say, Christine, 
 I don t know what you came here for ; you can tell me af 
 terwards. I don t know what you ll think of me, but 
 Well, I want to know something. Say well, I haven t 
 been round for quite a while. You don t suppose 
 they ve cared much, any of them ?" 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 "Well, I don t suppose you do, but you might have 
 noticed. Say, Christine, you don t think she you know 
 whom I mean cared anything about my coming, do you?" 
 
 " I don t know," she said again, softly, with her eyes 
 fixed warily on his face. 
 
 " Well, I guess she didn t ; she wouldn t have said what 
 she did if she had." 
 
 Christine s eyes gave a sudden gleam. "What did she 
 say?" 
 
 " Said she wouldn t have anything more to do with me," 
 said the young man, bitterly. " She was afraid I would be 
 up to just such tricks as my uncle was, trying to cheat her 
 father. That was too much for me. I wasn t going to 
 stand that from any girl." He shook his head angrily. 
 
 " She didn t say it." 
 
 " Yes, she did ; her own father told my uncle so. Mother 
 was in the next room and heard it." 
 
 " No, she didn t say it," the girl repeated. 
 
 " How do you know?" 
 
 " I heard her say something different." Christine told 
 him. 
 
 " I m going right up there," cried he, when he heard that. 
 " Wait a minute, and I ll go along with you." 
 
 " I dun know as you d better to-night," Christine said, 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST. 77 
 
 looking out towards the road, evasively. " She ain t been 
 very well to-night." 
 
 " Who ? Paulina ? What s the matter ?" 
 
 " She had a faintin -spell jest before I came out," an 
 swered Christine, with stiff gravity. 
 
 " Oh ! Is she real sick ?" 
 
 " She was some better." 
 
 " Don t you suppose I could see her just a few minutes ? 
 I wouldn t stay to tire her," said the young man, eagerly. 
 
 "I dun know." 
 
 " I must, anyhow." 
 
 Christine fixed her eyes on his with a solemn sharpness. 
 " What makes you want to?" 
 
 "What makes me want to? Why, I d give ten years to 
 see her five minutes." 
 
 " Well, mebbe you could come over a few minutes." 
 
 "Wait a minute," cried \Villard. " I ll get my hat." 
 
 " I d better go first, I guess. The parlor fire 11 be to 
 light." 
 
 " Then had I better wait ?" 
 
 " I guess so." 
 
 "Then I ll be along in about an hour. Say, you haven t 
 said what you wanted." 
 
 Christine was off the step. " It ain t any matter," mur 
 mured she. 
 
 " Say she didn t send you?" 
 
 " No, she didn t." 
 
 " I didn t mean that. I didn t suppose she did," said 
 Willard, with an abashed air. " What did you want, Chris 
 tine?" 
 
 "There s somethin 1 I want you to promise," said she, 
 suddenly. 
 
78 THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 "What s that?" 
 
 " Don t you say anything about Mr. Childs." 
 
 " Why, how can I help it ?" 
 
 * He s an old man, an he was so worked up he didn t 
 know what he was sayin . They ll all scold him. Don t 
 say anything." 
 
 " Well, I won t say anything. I don t know what I m 
 going to tell her, though." 
 
 Christine turned to go. 
 
 " You didn t say what twas you wanted," called Willard 
 again. 
 
 But she made no reply. She was pushing through the 
 deep snow out of the yard. 
 
 It was quite early yet, only a few minutes after seven. 
 It was eight when she reached home. She entered the 
 house without any one seeing her. She pulled off her 
 snowy things, and went into the sitting-room. 
 
 Paulina was alone there. She was lying on the lounge. 
 She was very pale, but she looked up and smiled when 
 Christine entered. 
 
 Christine brought the fresh out-door air with her. Pau 
 lina noticed it. " Where have you been ?" whispered she. 
 
 Then Christine bent over her, and talked fast in a low 
 tone. 
 
 Presently Paulina raised herself and sat up. " To-night ?" 
 cried she, in an eager whisper. Her cheeks grew red. 
 
 " Yes ; I ll go make the parlor fire." 
 
 " It s all ready to light." Suddenly Paulina threw her 
 arms around Christine and kissed her. Both girls blushed. 
 
 " I don t think I said one thing to him that you wouldn t 
 have wanted me to," said Christine. 
 
 " You didn t ask him to come ?" 
 
THE TWELFTH GUEST, 79 
 
 " No, I didn t, honest." 
 
 When Mrs. Childs entered, a few minutes later, she found 
 her daughter standing before the glass. 
 
 " Why, Paulina !" cried she. 
 
 " I feel a good deal better, mother," said Paulina. 
 
 " Ain t you goin to bed ?" 
 
 " I guess I won t quite yet." 
 
 " I ve got it all ready for you. I thought you wouldn t 
 feel like sittin up." 
 
 " I guess I will ; a little while." 
 
 Soon the door-bell rang with a sharp peal. Everybody 
 jumped Paulina rose and went to the door. 
 
 Mrs. Childs and Maria, listening, heard Willard s familiar 
 voice, then the opening of the parlor door. 
 
 " It s him !" gasped Mrs. Childs. She and Maria looked 
 at each other. 
 
 It was about two hours before the soft murmur of voices 
 in the parlor ceased, the outer door closed with a thud, and 
 Paulina came into the room. She was blushing and smil 
 ing, but she could not look in any one s face at first. 
 
 " Well," said her mother, "who was it?" 
 
 "Willard. It s all right." 
 
 It was not long before the fine sewing was brought out 
 again, and presently two silk dresses were bought for Pauli 
 na. It was known about that she was to be married on 
 Christmas Day. Christine assisted in the preparation. All 
 the family called to mind afterwards the obedience so ready 
 as to be loving which she yielded to their biddings during 
 those few hurried weeks. She sewed, she made cake, she 
 ran of errands, she weaned herself joyfully for the happiness 
 of this other young girl. 
 
 About a week before the wedding, Christine, saying good- 
 
go THE TWELFTH GUEST. 
 
 night when about to retire one evening, behaved strangely. 
 They remembered it afterwards. She went up to Paulina 
 and kissed her when saying good-night. It was something 
 which she had never before done. Then she stood in the 
 door, looking at them all. There was a sad, almost a sol 
 emn, expression on her fair girlish face. 
 
 " Why, what s the matter ?" said Maria. 
 
 " NothirT," said Christine. " Good-night." 
 
 That was the last time they ever saw her. The next 
 morning Mrs. Childs, going to call her, found her room va 
 cant. There was a great alarm. When they did not find 
 her in the house nor the neighborhood, people were aroused, 
 and there was a search instigated. It was prosecuted 
 eagerly, but to no purpose. Paulina s wedding evening 
 came, and Christine was still missing. 
 
 Paulina had been married, and was standing beside her 
 husband, in the midst of the chattering guests, when Caleb 
 stole out of the room. He opened the north door, and 
 stood looking out over the dusky fields. " Christiny !" he 
 called, "Christiny!" 
 
 Presently he looked up at the deep sky, full of stars, and 
 called again " Christiny ! Christiny !" But there was no 
 answer save in light. When Christine stood in the sitting- 
 room door and said good-night, her friends had their last 
 sight and sound of her. Their Twelfth Guest had departed 
 from their hospitality forever. 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 THERE were no trees near the almshouse ; it stood in its 
 bare, sandy lot, and there were no leaves or branches to 
 cast shadows on its walls. It seemed like the folks whom 
 it sheltered, out in the full glare of day, without any little 
 kindly shade between itself and the dull, unfeeling stare of 
 curiosity. The almshouse stood upon rising ground, so 
 one could see it for a long distance. It was a new build 
 ing, Mansard-roofed and well painted. The village took 
 pride in it : no town far or near had such a house for the 
 poor. It was so fine and costly that the village did not feel 
 able to give its insane paupers separate support in a regu 
 lar asylum ; so they lived in the almshouse with the sane 
 paupers, and there was a padded cell in case they waxed 
 too violent. 
 
 Around the almshouse lay the town fields. In summer 
 they were green with corn and potatoes, now they showed 
 ugly plough ridges sloping over the uneven ground, and 
 yellow corn stubble. Beyond the field at the west of the 
 almshouse was a little wood of elms and oaks and wild 
 apple-trees. The yellow leaves had all fallen from the 
 elms and the apple-trees, but most of the brown ones stayed 
 on the oaks. 
 
 Polly Moss stood at the west window in the women s 
 6 
 
82 SISTEK LIDDY. 
 
 sitting-room and gazed over at the trees. " It s cur us how 
 them oak leaves hang on arter the others have all fell off," 
 she remarked. 
 
 A tall old woman sitting beside the stove looked around 
 suddenly. She had singular bright eyes, and a sardonic 
 smile around her mouth. "It s a way they allers have," 
 she returned, scornfully. "Guess there ain t nothin very 
 cur us about it. When the oak leaves fall off an the others 
 hang on, then you can be lookin for the end of the world ; 
 that s goin to be one of the signs." 
 
 " Allers a-harpin on the end of the world," growled an 
 other old woman, in a deep bass voice. "I ve got jest 
 about sick on t. Seems as if I should go crazy myself, 
 hearin on t the whole time." She was sewing a seam in 
 coarse cloth, and she sat on a stool on the other side of 
 the stove. She was short and stout, and she sat with a 
 heavy settle as if she were stuffed with lead. 
 
 The tall old woman took no further notice. She sat 
 rigidly straight, and fixed her bright eyes upon the top of 
 the door, and her sardonic smile deepened. 
 
 The stout old woman gave an ugly look at her ; then she 
 sewed with more impetus. Now and then she muttered 
 something in her deep voice. 
 
 There were, besides herself, three old women in the room 
 Polly Moss, the tall one, and a pretty one in a white cap 
 and black dress. There was also a young woman ; she sat 
 in a rocking-chair and leaned her head back. She was 
 handsome, but she kept her mouth parted miserably, and 
 there were ghastly white streaks around it and her nostrils. 
 She never spoke. Her pretty black hair was rough, and 
 her dress sagged at the neck. She had been living out at 
 a large farm, and had overworked. She had no friends or 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 83 
 
 relatives to take her in ; so she had come to the almshouse 
 to rest and try to recover. She had no refuge but the alms- 
 house or the hospital, and she had a terrible horror of a 
 hospital. Dreadful visions arose in her ignorant childish 
 mind whenever she thought of one. She had a lover, but 
 he had not been to see her since she came to the alms- 
 house, six weeks before ; she wept most of the time over 
 that and her physical misery. 
 
 Polly Moss stood at the window until a little boy trudged 
 into the room, bringing his small feet down with a clapping 
 noise. He went up to Polly and twitched her dress. She 
 looked around at him. " Well, now, Tommy, what do ye 
 want ?" 
 
 " Come out-doors an play hide an coot wis me, Polly." 
 
 Tommy was a stout little boy. He wore a calico tier 
 that sagged to his heels in the back, and showed in front 
 his little calico trousers. His round face was pleasant and 
 innocent and charming. 
 
 Polly put her arms around the boy and hugged him. 
 " Tommy s a darlin ," she said ; " can t he give poor Polly 
 a kiss ?" 
 
 Tommy put up his lips. " Come out-doors an play hide, 
 an coot wis me," he said again, breathing the words ouv 
 with the kiss. 
 
 " Now, Tommy, jest look out of the winder. Don t he 
 see that it s rainin , hey ?" 
 
 The child shook his head stubbornly, although he was 
 looking straight at the window, which revealed plainly 
 enough that long sheets of rain were driving over the fields. 
 " Come out-doors and play hide an coot wis me, Polly." 
 
 " Now, Tommy, jest listen to Polly. Don t he know he 
 can t go out-doors when it s rainin this way ? He d get all 
 
84 SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 wet, an Polly too. But I ll tell you what Polly an Tom 
 my can do. We ll jest go out in the hall an we ll roll the 
 ball. Tommy go run quick an get his ball." 
 
 Tommy raised a shout, and clapped out of the room ; 
 his sweet nature was easily diverted. Polly followed him. 
 She had a twisting limp, and was so bent that she was not 
 much taller than Tommy, her little pale triangular face 
 seemed to look from the middle of her flat chest. 
 
 "The wust-lookin objeck," growled the stout old woman 
 when Polly was out of the room : " looks more like an old 
 cat that s had to airn it s own livin than a human bein . 
 It bout makes me sick to look at her." Her deep tones 
 travelled far ; Polly, out in the corridor waiting for Tommy, 
 heard every word. 
 
 " She is a dretful-lookin cretur," assented the pretty old 
 woman. As she spoke she puckered her little red mouth 
 daintily, and drew herself up with a genteel air. 
 
 The stout old woman surveyed her contemptuously. 
 " Well, good looks don t amount to much, nohow," said 
 she, " if folks ain t got common-sense to balance em. I d 
 enough sight ruther know a leetle somethin than have a 
 dolly-face myself." 
 
 " Seems to me she is about the dretfulest-lookin cretur 
 that I ever did see," repeated the pretty old woman, quite 
 unmoved. Aspersions on her intellect never aroused her 
 in the least. 
 
 The stout old woman looked baffled. "Jest turn your 
 head a leetle that way, will you, Mis Handy?" she said, 
 presently. 
 
 The pretty old woman turned her head obediently. 
 " What is it ?" she inquired, with a conscious simper. 
 
 "Jest turn your head a leetle more. Yes, it s funny I 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 85 
 
 ain t never noticed it afore. Your nose is a leetle grain 
 crooked ain t it, Mis Handy ?" 
 
 Mrs. Handy s face turned a deep pink even her little 
 ears and her delicate old neck were suffused ; her blue 
 eyes looked like an enraged bird s. " Crooked ! H m ! I 
 shouldn t think that folks that s got a nose like some folks 
 had better say much about other folks noses. There can t 
 nobody tell me nothin about my nose ; I know all about 
 it. Folks that wouldn t wipe their feet on some folks, nor 
 look twice at em, has praised it. My nose ain t crooked 
 an never was, an if anybody says so it s cause they re so 
 spity, cause they re so mortal homely themselves. Guess 
 I know." She drew breath, and paused for a return shot, 
 but she got none. The stout old woman sewed and chuckled 
 to herself, the tall one still fixed her eyes upon the top of 
 the door, and the young woman leaned back with her lips 
 parted, and her black eyes rolled. 
 
 The pretty old woman began again in defence of her 
 nose ; she talked fiercely, and kept feeling of it. Finally 
 she arose and went out of the room with a flirt. 
 
 Then the stout old woman laughed. " She s gone to 
 look at her nose in the lookin -glass, an make sure it ain t 
 crooked : if it ain t a good joke !" she exclaimed, delight 
 edly. 
 
 But she got no response. The young woman never 
 stirred, and the tall old one only lowered her gaze from 
 the door to the stove, which she regarded disapprovingly. 
 " I call it the devil s stove," she remarked, after a while. 
 
 The stout old woman gave a grunt and sewed her seam ; 
 she was done with talking to such an audience. The shouts 
 of children out in the corridor could be heard. "Pesky 
 young ones !" she muttered. 
 
86 SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 In the corridor Polly Moss played ball with the children. 
 She never caught the ball, and she threw it with weak, 
 aimless jerks; her back ached, but she was patient, and 
 her face was full of simple childish smiles. There were 
 two children besides Tommy his sister and a little boy. 
 
 The corridor was long ; doors in both sides led into the 
 paupers bedrooms. Suddenly one of the doors flew open, 
 and a little figure shot out. She went down the corridor 
 with a swift trot like a child. She had on nothing but a 
 woollen petticoat and a calico waist ; she held her head 
 down, and her narrow shoulders worked as she ran ; her 
 mop of soft white hair flew out. The children looked 
 around at her ; she was a horrible caricature of themselves. 
 
 The stout old woman came pressing out of the sitting- 
 room. She went directly to the room that the running 
 figure had left, and peered in ; then she looked around sig 
 nificantly. " I knowed it," she said ; " it s tore all to pieces 
 agin. I d jest been thinkin to myself that Sally was dret- 
 ful still, an I d bet she was pullin her bed to pieces. 
 There tis, an made up jest as nice a few minutes ago ! 
 I m goin to see Mis Arms." 
 
 Mrs. Arms was the matron. The old woman went off 
 with an important air, and presently she returned with her. 
 The matron was a large woman with a calm, benignant, and 
 weary face. 
 
 Polly Moss continued to play ball, but several other old 
 women had assembled, and they all talked volubly. They 
 demonstrated that Sally had torn her bed to pieces, that it 
 had been very nicely made, and that she should be pun 
 ished. 
 
 The matron listened ; she did not say much. Then she 
 returned to the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner. 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 87 
 
 Some of the paupers assisted her. An old man, with his 
 baggy trousers hitched high, chopped something in a tray, 
 an old woman peeled potatoes, and a young one washed 
 pans at the sink. The young woman, as she washed, kept 
 looking over her shoulder and rolling her dark eyes at the 
 other people in the room. She was mindful of every mo 
 tion behind her back. 
 
 Mrs. Arms herself worked and directed the others. When 
 dinner was ready the old man clanged a bell in the corridor, 
 and everybody flocked to the dining-room except the young 
 woman at the kitchen sink; she still stood there washing 
 dishes. The dinner was coarse and abundant. The pau 
 pers, with the exception of the sick young woman, ate with 
 gusto. The children were all hearty, and although the 
 world had lost all its savor for the hearts and minds of the 
 old ones, it was still somewhat salt to their palates. Now 
 that their thoughts had ceased reaching and grasping, they 
 could still put out their tongues, for that primitive instinct 
 of life with which they had been born still survived and 
 gave them pleasure. In this world it is the child only that 
 is immortal. 
 
 The old people and the children ate after the same man 
 ner. There was a loud smacking of lips and gurgling 
 noises. The rain drove against the windows of the dining- 
 room, with its bare floor, its board tables and benches, and 
 rows of feeding paupers. The smooth yellow heads of the 
 children seemed to catch all the light in the room. Once 
 in a while they raised imperious clamors. The overseer 
 sat at one end of the table and served the beef. He was 
 stout, and had a handsome, heavy face. 
 
 The meal was nearly finished when there was a crash of 
 breaking crockery, a door slammed, and there was a wild 
 
88 SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 shriek out in the corridor. The overseer and one of the old 
 men who was quite able-bodied sprang and rushed out of 
 the room. The matron followed, and the children tagged 
 at her heels. The others continued feeding as if nothing 
 had happened. " That Agnes is wuss agin," remarked the 
 stout old woman. " I ve seed it a-comin on fer a couple 
 of days. They d orter have put her in the cell yesterday ; 
 I told Mis Arms so, but they re allers puttin off, an put- 
 tin off." 
 
 " They air a-takin on her up to the cell now," said the 
 pretty old woman ; and she brought around her knifeful of 
 cabbage with a sidewise motion, and stretched her little 
 red mouth to receive it. 
 
 Out in the corridor shriek followed shriek ; there were 
 loud voices and scuffling. The children were huddled in 
 the doorway, peeping, but the old paupers continued to eat. 
 The sick young woman laid down her knife and fork and 
 wept. 
 
 Presently the shrieks and the scuffling grew faint in the 
 distance ; the children had followed on. Then, after a 
 little, they all returned and the dinner was finished. 
 
 After dinner, when the women paupers had done their 
 share of the clearing away, they were again assembled in 
 their sitting-room. The windows were cloudy with fine 
 mist ; the rain continued to drive past them from over the 
 yellow stubbly fields. There was a good fire in the stove, 
 and the room was hot and close. The stout old woman 
 sewed again on her coarse seam, the others were idle. 
 There were now six old women present ; one of them was 
 the little creature whom they called Sally. She sat close 
 to the stove, bent over and motionless. Her clothing hardly 
 covered her. The sick young woman WAS absent ; she was 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 89 
 
 lying down on the lounge in the matron s room, and the 
 children too were in there. 
 
 Polly Moss sat by the window. The old women began 
 talking among themselves. The pretty old one had taken 
 off her cap and had it in her lap, perking up the lace and 
 straightening it. It was a flimsy rag, like a soiled cobweb. 
 The stout old woman cast a contemptuous glance at it. 
 She raised her nose and her upper lip scornfully. " I don t 
 see how you can wear that nasty thing nohow, Mis Handy," 
 said she. 
 
 Mrs. Handy flushed pink again. She bridled and began 
 to speak, then she looked at the little soft soiled mass in 
 her lap, and paused. She had not the force of character 
 to proclaim black white while she was looking at it. Had 
 the old cap been in the bureau drawer, or even on her head, 
 she might have defended it to the death, but here before 
 her eyes it silenced her. 
 
 But after her momentary subsidence she aroused herself; 
 her blue eyes gleamed dimly at the stout old woman. " It 
 was a handsome cap when it was new, anyhow !" said she ; 
 "better n some folks ever had, I ll warrant. Folks that 
 ain t got no caps at all can t afford to be flingin at them 
 that has, if they ain t quite so nice as they was. You d 
 orter have seen the cap I had when my daughter was mar 
 ried ! All white wrought lace, an bows of pink ribbon, an 
 long streamers, an some artificial roses on t. I don t s pose 
 you ever see anythin like it, Mis Paine." 
 
 The stout woman was Mrs. Paine. "Mebbe I ain t," 
 said she, sarcastically. 
 
 The tall old woman chimed in suddenly; her thin, ner 
 vous voice clanged after the others like a sharply struck 
 bell. " I ain t never had any caps to speak of," she pro- 
 
9 SISTER LWDY. 
 
 claimed ; " never thought much of em, anyhow ; heatirf 
 things ; an I never heard that folks in heaven wore caps. 
 But I have had some good clothes. I ve got a piece of 
 silk in my bureau drawer. That silk would stand alone. 
 An I had a good thibet ; there was rows an rows of velvet 
 ribbon on it. I always had good clothes ; my husband, he 
 wanted I should, an he got em fer me. I aimed some 
 myself, too. I ain t got any now, an I dunno as I care if 
 I ain t, fer the signs are increasin ." 
 
 " Allers a-harpin on that," muttered the stout old woman. 
 
 " I had a handsome blue silk when I was marri d," 
 vouchsafed Mrs. Handy. 
 
 " I ve seen the piece of it," returned the tall one ; " it 
 ain t near so thick as mine is." 
 
 The old woman who had not been present in the morn 
 ing now spoke. She had been listening with a superior air. 
 She was the only one in the company who had possessed 
 considerable property, and had fallen from a widely differ 
 ing estate. She was tall and dark and gaunt ; she towered 
 up next the pretty old woman like a scraggy old pine be 
 side a faded lily. She was a single woman, and she had 
 lost all her property through an injudicious male relative. 
 "Well," she proclaimed, "everybody knows I ve had things 
 if I ain t got em now. There I had a whole house, with 
 Brussels carpets on all the rooms except the kitchen, an 1 
 stuffed furniture, an beddin packed away in chists, an* 
 bureau drawers full of things. An I ruther think I ve had 
 silk dresses an bunnits an caps." 
 
 " I remember you had a real handsome blue bunnit once, 
 but it warn t so becomin as some you d had, you was so 
 dark-complected," remarked the pretty old woman, in a 
 soft, spiteful voice. "I had a white one, drawn silk, an r 
 
SISTER LIDDY. gi 
 
 white feathers on t, when I was married, and they all said it 
 was real becomin . I was allers real white myself. I had 
 a white muslin dress with a flounce on it, once, too, an a 
 black silk spencer cape." 
 
 " I had a fitch tippet an muff that cost twenty-five dol 
 lars," remarked the stout old woman, emphatically, "an? a 
 cashmire shawl." 
 
 " I had two cashmire shawls, an my tippet cost fifty dol 
 lars," retorted the dark old woman, with dignity. 
 
 " My fust baby had an elegant blue cashmire cloak, all 
 worked with silk as deep as that," said Mrs. Handy. She 
 now had the old cap on her head, and looked more as 
 sertive. 
 
 " Mine had a little wagon with a velvet cushion to ride 
 in; an I had a tea-set, real chiny, with a green sprig on t," 
 said the stout old woman. 
 
 " I had a Brittany teapot," returned Mrs. Handy. 
 
 " I had gilt vases as tall as that on my parlor mantel 
 shelf," said the dark old woman. 
 
 " I had a chiny figger, a girl with a basket of flowers on 
 her arm, once," rejoined the tall one ; " it used to set side 
 of the clock. An when I was fust married I used to live 
 in a white house, with a flower-garden to one side. I can 
 smell them pinks an roses now, an I s pose I allers shall, 
 jest as far as I go." 
 
 " I had a pump in my kitchen sink, an things real 
 handy," said the stout old one ; " an I used to look as 
 well as anybody, an my husband too, when we went to 
 meetin . I remember one winter I had a new brown alpaca 
 with velvet buttons, an he had a new great-coat with a 
 velvet collar." 
 
 Suddenly the little cowering Sally raised herself and gave 
 
92 SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 testimony to her own little crumb of past comfort. Her 
 wits were few and scattering, and had been all her days, 
 but the conversation of the other women seemed to set 
 some vibrating into momentary concord. She laughed, and 
 her bleared blue eyes twinkled. " I had a pink caliker 
 gownd once," she quavered out. " Mis Thompson, she gin 
 it me when I lived there." 
 
 " Do hear the poor cretur," said the pretty old woman, 
 with an indulgent air. 
 
 Now everybody had spoken but Polly Moss. She sat 
 by the misty window, and her little pale triangular face 
 looked from her sunken chest at the others. This conver 
 sation was a usual one. Many and many an afternoon the 
 almshouse old women sat together and bore witness to their 
 past glories. Now they had nothing, but at one time or 
 another they had had something over which to plume them 
 selves and feel that precious pride of possession. Their 
 present was to them a state of simple existence, they 
 regarded their future with a vague resignation ; they were 
 none of them thinkers, and there was no case of rapturous 
 piety among them. In their pasts alone they took real 
 comfort, and they kept, as it were, feeling of them to see 
 if they were not still warm with life. 
 
 The old women delighted in these inventories and com 
 paring of notes. Polly Moss alone had never spoken. She 
 alone had never had anything in which to take pride. She 
 had been always deformed and poor and friendless. She 
 had worked for scanty pay as long as she was able, and had 
 then drifted and struck on the almshouse, where she had 
 grown old. She had not even a right to the charity of this 
 particular village : this was merely the place where her 
 working powers had failed her; but no one could trace 
 
SISTER LWDY. 93 
 
 her back to her birthplace, or the town which was respon 
 sible for her support. Polly Moss herself did not know 
 she went humbly where she was told. All her life the world 
 had seemed to her simply standing-ground ; she had gotten 
 little more out of it. 
 
 Every day, when the others talked, she listened admiring 
 ly, and searched her memory for some little past treasure of 
 her own, but she could not remember any. The dim image 
 of a certain delaine dress, with bright flowers scattered over 
 it, which she had once owned, away back in her girlhood, 
 sometimes floated before her eyes when they were talking, 
 and she had a half- mind to mention that, but her heart 
 would fail her. She feared that it was not worthy to be com 
 pared with the others fine departed gowns ; it paled before 
 even Sally s pink calico. Polly s poor clothes, covering her 
 pitiful crookedness, had never given her any firm stimulus 
 to gratulation. So she was always silent, and the other old 
 women had come to talk at her. Their conversation ac 
 quired a gusto from this listener who could not join in. 
 When a new item of past property was given, there was 
 always a side-glance in Polly s direction. 
 
 None of the old women expected to ever hear a word from 
 Polly, but this afternoon, when they had all, down to Sally, 
 testified, she spoke up : 
 
 "You d orter have seen my sister Liddy," said she } her 
 voice was very small, it sounded like the piping of a feeble 
 bird in a bush. 
 
 There was a dead silence. The other old women looked 
 at each other. " Didn t know you ever had a sister Liddy," 
 the stout old woman blurted out, finally, with an amazed air. 
 
 " My sister Liddy was jest as handsome as a pictur ," 
 Polly returned. 
 
94 SISTER LIDDY. 
 
 The pretty old woman flushed jealously. " Was she fair- 
 complected ?" she inquired. 
 
 "She was jest as fair as a lily a good deal fairer than 
 you ever was, Mis Handy, an she had long yaller curls 
 a-hangin clean down to her waist, an her cheeks were jest 
 as pink, an she had the biggest blue eyes I ever see, an 
 the beautifulest leetle red mouth." 
 
 "Lor !" ejaculated the stout old woman, and the pretty 
 old woman sniffed. 
 
 But Polly went on ; she was not to be daunted ; she had 
 been silent all this time ; and now her category poured forth, 
 not piecemeal, but in a flood, upon her astonished hearers. 
 
 " Liddy, she could sing the best of anybody anywheres 
 around," she continued ; " nobody ever heerd sech singin . 
 It was so dretful loud an sweet that you could hear it way 
 down the road when the winders was shut. She used to 
 sing in the meetin -house, she did, an all the folks used to 
 sit up an look at her when she begun. She used to wear a 
 black silk dress to meetin , an a white cashmire shawl, an a 
 bunnit with a pink wreath around the face, an she had white 
 kid gloves. Folks used to go to that meetin -house jest to 
 hear Liddy sing an see her. They thought nough sight 
 more of that than they did of the preachin . 
 
 " Liddy had a feather fan, an she used to sit an fan her 
 when she wa n t singin , an she allers had scent on her hand- 
 kercher. An when meetin was done in the evenin all the 
 young fellars used to be crowdin round, an pushin and 
 bowin an scrapin , a-tryin to get a chance to see her home. 
 But Liddy she wouldn t look at none of them ; she married 
 a real rich fellar from Bostown. He was jest as straight as 
 an arrer, an he had black eyes an hair, an he wore a beauti 
 ful coat an a satin vest, an he spoke jest as perlite. 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 95 
 
 " When Liddy was married she had a whole chistful of 
 clothes, real fine cotton cloth, all tucks an laid-work, an she 
 had a pair of silk stockin s, an some white shoes. An her 
 weddin dress was white satin, with a great long trail to it, 
 an she had a lace veil, an she wore great long ear-drops 
 that shone like everythin . An she come out bride in a 
 blue silk dress, an a black lace mantilly, an a white bunnit 
 trimmed with lutestring ribbon." 
 
 " Where did your sister Liddy live arter she was married ?" 
 inquired the pretty old woman, with a subdued air. 
 
 " She lived in Bostown, an she had a great big house with 
 a parlor an settin -room, an a room to eat in besides the 
 kitchen. An she had real velvet carpets on all the floors 
 down to the kitchen, an great pictur s in gilt frames a-hangin 
 on all the walls. An her furnitur was all stuffed, an kiv- 
 ered with red velvet, an she had a pianner, an great big 
 marble images a-settin on her mantel-shelf. An she had a 
 coach with lamps on the sides, an blue satin cushings, to 
 ride in, an four horses to draw it, an a man to drive. An she 
 allers had a hired girl in the kitchen. I never knowed Liddy 
 to be without a hired girl. 
 
 " Liddy s husband, he thought everythin of her ; he never 
 used to come home from his work without he brought her 
 somethin , an she used to run out to meet him. She was 
 allers dretful lovin , an had a good disposition. Liddy, she 
 had the beautifulest baby you ever see, an she had a cradle 
 lined with blue silk to rock him in, an he had a white silk 
 cloak, an a leetle lace cap " 
 
 " I shouldn t think your beautiful sister Liddy an her hus 
 band would let you come to the poor-house," interrupted the 
 dark old woman. 
 
 "Liddv s dead, or she wouldn t." 
 
96 SIS TEX LIDDY. 
 
 " Are her husband an the baby dead, too ?" 
 
 " They re all dead," responded Polly Moss. She looked 
 out of the window again, her face was a burning red, and 
 there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 There was silence among the other old women. They 
 were at once overawed and incredulous. Polly left the room 
 before long, then they began to discuss the matter. " I 
 dun know whether to believe it or not," said the dark old 
 woman. 
 
 "Well, I dun know, neither; I never knowed her to tell 
 anythin that wa n t so," responded the stout old one, doubt 
 fully. 
 
 The old women could not make up their minds whether 
 to believe or disbelieve. The pretty one was the most in 
 credulous of any. She said openly that she did not believe 
 it possible that such a " homely cretur" as Polly Moss could 
 have had such a handsome sister. 
 
 But, credulous or not, their interest and curiosity were 
 lively. Every day Polly Moss was questioned and cross- 
 examined concerning her sister Liddy. She rose to the oc 
 casion ; she did not often contradict herself, and the glories 
 of her sister were increased daily. Old Polly Moss, her 
 little withered face gleaming with reckless enthusiasm, sang 
 the praises of her sister Liddy as wildly and faithfully as any 
 minnesinger his angel mistress, and the old women listened 
 with ever-increasing bewilderment and awe. 
 
 It was two weeks before Polly Moss died with pneumo 
 nia that she first mentioned her sister Liddy, and there was 
 not one afternoon until the day when she was taken ill that 
 she did not relate the story, with new and startling additions, 
 to the old women. 
 
 Polly was not ill long, she settled meekly down under the 
 
SISTER LIDDY. 97 
 
 disease : her little distorted frame had no resistance in it. 
 She died at three o clock in the morning. The afternoon 
 before, she seemed better j she was quite rational, and she 
 told the matron that she wanted to see her comrades, the 
 old women. " I ve got somethin to tell em, Mis Arms," 
 Polly whispered, and her eyes were piteous. 
 
 So the other old women came into the room. They stood 
 around Polly s little iron bed and looked at her. "1 want 
 to tell you somethin , she began. But there was a soft 
 rush, and the sick young woman entered. She pressed 
 straight to the matron ; she disregarded the others. Her 
 wan face seemed a very lamp of life to throw a light over 
 and above all present darkness, even of the grave. She 
 moved nimbly; she was so full of joy that her sickly body 
 seemed permeated by it, and almost a spiritual one. She 
 did not appear in the least feeble. She caught the matron s 
 arm. ** Charley has come, Mis Arms !" she cried out. 
 " Charley has come ! He s got a house ready. He s goin 
 to marry me, an take me home, an take care of me till I 
 get well. Fm goin right away !" 
 
 The old women all turned away from Polly and stared at 
 the radiant girl. The matron sent her away, with a promise 
 to see her in a few minutes. " Polly s dyin ," she whispered, 
 and the girl stole out with a hushed air, but the light in her 
 face was not dimmed. What was death to her, when she 
 had just stepped on a height of life where one can see be 
 yond it? 
 
 Tell them what you wanted to, now, Polly," said the 
 matron. 
 
 "I want to tell you somethin ," Polly repeated. "I 
 s pose I ve been dretful wicked, but I ain t never had 
 nothin in my whole life. I s pose the Lord orter have 
 7 
 
9 8 SISTER LWDY. 
 
 been enough, but it s dretful hard sometimes to keep holt of 
 him, an not look anywheres else, when you see other folks 
 a-clawin an gettin other things, an actin as if they was 
 wuth havin . I ain t never had nothin as fur as them other 
 things go ; I don t want nothin else now. I ve got past 
 em. I see I don t want nothin but the Lord. But I used 
 to feel dretful bad an wicked when I heerd you all talkin 
 bout things you d had, an I hadn t never had nothin , so " 
 Polly Moss stopped talking, and coughed. The matron sup 
 ported her. The old women nudged each other ; their 
 awed, sympathetic, yet sharply inquiring eyes never left her 
 face. The children were peeping in at the open door \ old 
 Sally trotted past she had just torn her bed to pieces. As 
 soon as she got breath enough, Polly Moss finished what 
 she had to say. "I s pose I was dretful wicked," she 
 whispered ; " but I never had any sister Liddy." 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " Mis NEWHALL !" 
 
 The tall, thin figure on the other side of the street pushed 
 vigorously past. It held it s black- bonneted head baclf 
 stiffly, and strained its green- and-black woollen shawl tightei 
 across its slim shoulders. 
 
 "Mis JV&whall!" 
 
 The figure stopped with a jerk. "Oh, it s you, Marthy. 
 Pleasant afternoon, ain t it ?" 
 
 " Ain t you comin in ?" 
 
 "Well, I don t jest see how I can this afternoon. I was 
 goin up to Ellen s." 
 
 " Can t you jest come over a minute and see my calla- 
 lilies ?" 
 
 "Well, I don t see how I can. I can see em up to the 
 window. Beautiful, ain t they?" 
 
 " You can t see nuthin of em out there. Why can t you 
 come in jest a minute ? There ain t a soul been in to see 
 em this week, and tain t often they blow out this way." 
 
 " Who s in there ? anybody ?" 
 
 "No; there ain t a soul but me to home. Hannah s 
 gone over to Wayne. Can t you come in ?" 
 
 " Well, I dunno but I ll come over jest a minute ; but I 
 can t stay. I hadn t ought to stop at all." 
 
I0 o CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 Martha Wing waited for her in the door ; she was quiv 
 ering with impatience to show her the lilies. " Come 
 right in," she cried, when the visitor came up the walk. 
 
 When she turned to follow her in she limped painfully; 
 one whole side seemed to succumb so nearly that it was 
 barely rescued by a quick spring from the other. 
 
 " How s your lameness ?" asked Mrs. Newhall. 
 
 "Martha s soft withered face flushed. "Here air the 
 lilies," she said, shortly. 
 
 " My ! ain t they beautiful !" 
 
 " Tain t often you see seven lilies and two buds to 
 gether." 
 
 " Well, tain t, that s a fact. Ellen thought hers was pret 
 ty handsome, but it can t shake a stick at this. Hers ain t 
 got but three on it. I d like to know what you do to it, 
 Marthy ?" 
 
 " I don t do nuthin . Flowers 11 grow for some folks, 
 and that s all there is about it. I allers had jest sech luck." 
 Martha stood staring at the lilies. A self-gratulation that 
 had something noble about it was in her smiling old face. 
 
 "I tell Hannah," she went on, " if I be miser ble in 
 health, an poor, flowers 11 blow for me, and that s more 
 than they ll do for some folks, no matter how hard they 
 try. Look at Mis Walker over there. I can t help think- 
 in of it sometimes when I see her go nippin past with her 
 ruffles and gimcracks. She s young an good-lookin , but 
 she s had her calla-lily five year, an she ain t had but one 
 bud, and that blasted." 
 
 "Well, flowers is a good deal of company." 
 
 " I guess they air. They re most as good as folks. Mis 
 Newhall, why don t Jennie come in an see Hannah some 
 times?" 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. IO i 
 
 All the lines in Mrs. Newhall s face lengthened. She 
 looked harder at the callas. " Well, I dunno, Marthy ; 
 Jenny don t go much of anywhere. Those lilies are beau 
 tiful. You d ought to have em carried into the meetin - 
 house next Sunday, an set in front of the pulpit." 
 
 Martha turned white. Her voice quavered up shrilly. 
 There s one lily I could mention s been took out of that 
 meetin -house, Maria Newhall, an there ain t no fno; r e of 
 mine goin to be took in, not if I know it." 
 
 " Now, Marthy, you know I didn t mean a thing. 1 no 
 more dreamed of hurtin your feelin s than the dead." 
 
 " No, I don t s pose you did ; an I don t s pose your 
 Jenny an the other girls mean anything by stayin away 
 an never comin near Hannah. They act as if they was 
 afraid of her ; but I guess she wouldn t hurt em none. She s 
 as good as any of em, an they ll find it out some day." 
 
 " Now, Marthy" 
 
 " You needn t talk. I know all about it. I ve heerd a 
 good deal of palaver, but I kin see through it. I " 
 
 "Well, I guess I ll have to be goin , Marthy. Good- 
 afternoon." 
 
 Martha suddenly recovered her dignity. "Good-after 
 noon, Mis Newhall," said she, and relapsed into silence. 
 
 After the door had closed behind her guest, she sat 
 down at the window with her knitting. She had an old 
 shawl over her shoulders ; the room was very chilly. She 
 pursed up her lips and knitted very fast, a lean, homely 
 figure in the clean, bare room, with its bulging old satin- 
 papered walls. A square of pale sunlight lay on the thin, 
 dull carpet, and the pot of calla-lilies stood in the window. 
 
 Before long Hannah came. She entered without a 
 word, and stood silently taking off her wraps. 
 
I0 2 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " Did you git your pay, Hannah ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 When Hannah laid aside her thick, faded shawl, she 
 showed a tall young figure in a clinging old woollen gown 
 of a drab color. She stooped a little, although the stoop 
 did not seem anything but the natural result of her tallness, 
 and was thus graceful rather than awkward. It was as if 
 her -whole slender body bent from her feet, lily fashion. 
 She got a brush out of a little chimney cupboard and be 
 gan Smoothing her light hair, which her hood had rumpled 
 a little. She had a full, small face ; there was a lovely 
 delicate pink on her cheeks. People said of Hannah, 
 "She is delicate-looking." They said " delicate " in the 
 place of pretty ; it suited her better. 
 
 " Why don t you say somethin 5 ?" Martha asked, queru 
 lously. 
 
 " What do you want me to say ?" 
 
 "Where s your bundle of boots?" 
 
 " I haven t got any." 
 
 " Ain t got no boots ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Didn t Mr. Allen give you any ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Ain t he going to ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 Hannah went on brushing her hair, and made no answer. 
 
 " Has he heard of that ?" 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " Said he couldn t trust me to take any more boots 
 home." One soft flush spread over Hannah s face as she 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. IO 3 
 
 said that, then it receded. She knelt down by the air-tight 
 stove and began poking the fire. 
 
 " Course he d heerd, then. What air you goin to do, 
 Hannah ?" 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 " You take it easy nough, I hope. Ef you don t hev 
 work, I don t see what s goin to keep a roof over us." 
 
 Hannah, going out into the kitchen, half turned in 
 the doorway. " Don t worry, I ll get some work some 
 where, I guess," she said. 
 
 But Martha kept on calling out her complaint in a shriller 
 voice, so Hannah could hear as she stepped about in the 
 other room. " I don t see what you re goin to do ; I m 
 bout discouraged. Mis Newhall, she s been in here, pre 
 tended she wanted to see my caller, but she give me no end 
 of digs, the way she allers does. This kind of work is killin* 
 me. Here s this calla-lily s been blowed out the way it has 
 lately, an not a soul comin in to see it. Hannah Redman, 
 I don t see what possessed you to do such a thing." 
 
 No answering voice came from the kitchen. 
 
 " You did do it, didn t you, Hannah ? You wouldn t let 
 folks go on in this way if you hadn t." 
 
 Hannah said nothing. Martha broke into a fit of loud 
 weeping. She held her hands over her face, and rocked 
 herself back and forth in her chair. " Oh me ! Oh me !" 
 she wailed, shrilly. 
 
 Hannah paid no attention. She went about getting tea 
 ready. It was a frugal meal, bread and butter and weak 
 tea, but she fried a bit of ham and put it on Martha s plate. 
 The old woman liked something hearty for supper. 
 
 "Come," she said at length "come, Martha, tea s 
 ready." 
 
I04 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " I don t want nothin ," wailed the old woman. But she 
 sat sniffing down at the table, and ate heartily. 
 
 After tea Hannah got her hood and shawl and went out 
 again. It was a chilly March night ; the clouds were flying 
 wildly, there was an uncertain moon, the ground was cov 
 ered with melting snow. Hannah held up her skirts and 
 stepped along through the slush. The snow-water pene 
 trated her old shoes ; she had no rubbers. 
 
 Presently she stopped and rang a door-bell. The wom 
 an who answered it stood eying her amazedly a minute 
 before she spoke. " Good-evenin , Hannah," she said, 
 stiffly, at length. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mrs. Ward. Are your boarders in ?" 
 
 " Y-e-s." 
 
 " Can I see them ?" 
 
 " Well I guess so. Mis Mellen, she s been pretty busy 
 all day. Come in, won t you ?" 
 
 Hannah followed her into the lighted sitting-room. A 
 young, smooth-faced man and a woman who looked older 
 and stronger were in there. Mrs. Ward introduced them 
 in an embarrassed way to Hannah. " Mis Mellen, this is 
 Miss Redman," said she, " an Mr. Mellen." 
 
 Hannah opened at once upon the subject of her errand. 
 She had heard that the Mellens wished to begin house 
 keeping, and were anxious to hire a tenement. She pro 
 posed that they should hire her house; she and Martha 
 would reserve only two rooms for themselves. The rent 
 which she suggested was very low. The husband arid wife 
 looked at each other. 
 
 " We might go and look at it to-morrow," he said, 
 hesitatingly, with his eyes on his wife. 
 
 " We ll come in some time to-morrow and see how it 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 105 
 
 suits," said she, in a crisp voice. "Perhaps " She 
 stopped suddenly. Mrs. Ward had given her a violent 
 nudge. But she looked wonderingly at her and kept on. 
 " We should want " said she. 
 
 " It ain t anything you want, Mis 1 Mellen," spoke up Mrs, 
 Ward. 
 
 " Why, what s the trouble ?" 
 
 " You don t want it ; twon t suit you." Mrs. Ward 
 nodded significantly. 
 
 Hannah looked at one and the other. The delicate color 
 in her cheeks deepened a little, but she spoke softly. 
 " There are locks and keys on the doors," said she. 
 
 Mrs. Ward colored furiously. " I didn t mean " she 
 began. Then she stopped. 
 
 Hannah arose. " If you want to come and look at the 
 rooms, I ll be glad to show them," said she. She stood 
 waiting with a dignity which had something appealing 
 about it. 
 
 " Well, I ll see," said Mrs. Mellen. 
 
 After Hannah had gone she turned eagerly to Mrs. 
 Ward. " What is the matter ?" said she. 
 
 " Tain t safe for you to go there, unless you want all 
 your things stole" 
 
 " Why, does she" 
 
 " She stole some money from John Arnold up here a 
 year ago. That s a fact." 
 
 " You don t mean it !" 
 
 " Yes. She was sewin up there. He left it on the sit 
 tin -room table a minute, an when he came back it was 
 gone. There hadn t been anybody but her in the room, so 
 of course she took it." 
 
 * Did he get the money back ?" 
 
10 6 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " That was the queer part of it. Nobody could ever find 
 out what she did with the money." 
 
 " Didn t they take her up ?" 
 
 " No ; they made a good deal of fuss about it at first, but 
 Mr. Arnold didn t prosecute her. I s pose he thought they 
 couldn t really prove anything, not findin the money. And 
 then he s a deacon of the church ; he d hate to do such a 
 thing, anyway. But everybody in town thinks she took it, 
 fast enough. Nobody has anything to do with her. She used 
 to go out sewin for folks, but they say she stole lots of pieces. 
 I heard she took enough black silk here and there to make 
 a dress. Nobody has her now, that I know of. You don t 
 want anybody in your house that you can t trust." 
 
 " Of course you don t. 
 
 " She was a church member, an it came up before the 
 church, an they dismissed her. They asked her if it was 
 so, an she wouldn t answer one word, yes or no. They 
 couldn t get a thing out of her." 
 
 " Well, of course if she hadn t taken it she d said so." 
 
 " It s likely she would." 
 
 " I m real glad you told me. I d hated awfully to have 
 gone in there with anybody like that." 
 
 " I thought you would. I felt as if I ought to tell you, 
 seein as you was strangers here. I kind of pity her. I 
 s pose she thought she could raise a littte money that way. 
 I guess she s havin a pretty hard time. She can^t get no 
 work anywhere. She s been sewin boots for Allen over in 
 Wayne, but I heard the other day he was goin to shut 
 down on her. She s gettin some of her punishment in 
 this world. Folks said Arnold s son George had a notion 
 of goin with her once, but I guess it put a stop to that 
 pretty quick. He s down East somewhere." 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 107 
 
 Hannah, plodding along out in the windy, moonlit night, 
 knew as well what they were saying as if she had been at 
 their elbows. The wind sung in her ears, the light clouds 
 drove overhead ; those nearest the moon had yellow edges. 
 Hannah kept looking up at them. 
 
 She had five dollars and fifty cents in her pocket, and 
 no prospect of more. She had herself and a helpless old 
 relative to support. All the village, every friend and ac 
 quaintance she had ever had, were crying out against her. 
 That was the case of Hannah Redman when she entered 
 her silent house that night ; but she followed her old rela 
 tive to bed, and went to sleep like a child. 
 
 The next morning she got out an old blue cashmere of 
 hers and began ripping it. 
 
 "What are you goin to do?" asked Martha, who had 
 been eying her furtively all the morning. 
 
 " Tm going to make over this dress. I haven t got a 
 thing fit to wear." 
 
 "I shouldn t think you d feel much like fixin over 
 dresses. I don t see what s goin to become of us. I don t 
 s pose a soul will be in to see my calla-lily to-day. It s kill- 
 in me." 
 
 Hannah said nothing, but she worked steadily on the 
 dress all day. She turned it, and it looked like new. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Hannah, going to church in 
 her remodelled dress, heard distinctly some one behind her 
 say, " See, Hannah Redman s got a new dress, I do believe. 
 I shouldn t think she d feel much like it, should you?" 
 
 Hannah sat alone in the pew, where her father and 
 mother had sat before her. They had all been church- 
 going people. Hannah herself had been a member ever 
 since her childhood. Not one Sunday had she missed of 
 
I08 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 stepping modestly up the aisle in her humble Sunday best, 
 and seating herself with gentle gravity. The pew was a 
 conspicuous one beside the pulpit, at right angles with the 
 others. Hannah was in full view of the whole congrega 
 tion. She sat erect and composed in her pretty dress. 
 The delicate color in her cheeks was the same as ever ; 
 her soft eyes were as steady. She found the hymns and 
 sang ; she listened to the preaching. 
 
 Women looked at her, then at one another. Hannah 
 knew it. Still it had never been as bad since that first 
 Sunday after her dismissal from the church. 
 
 There had been a tangible breeze then that had whistled 
 in her ears. Nobody had dreamed that she would come to 
 meeting, but she came. 
 
 There was no question but that Hannah s unshaken de 
 meanor brought somewhat harder judgment upon herself. 
 A smile in an object of pity is a grievance. The one claim 
 which Hannah now had upon her friends she did not extort, 
 consequently she got nothing. She showed no need of pity, 
 and was, if anything, more condemned for that than for her 
 actual fault. 
 
 " If she wasn t so dreadful bold," they said. " If she 
 acted as if she felt bad about it." 
 
 In one of the foremost body-pews sat John Arnold, a 
 large, fair-faced old man, who wore his white hair like a ton 
 sure. He never looked at Hannah. He had a gold-headed 
 cane. He clasped both hands around it, and leaned 
 heavily forward upon it as he listened. It was a habit of 
 his. He settled himself solemnly into this attitude at his 
 entrance. People watched him respectfully. John Arnold 
 was the one wealthy man in this poor country church. 
 Over across the aisle a shattered, threadbare old grandfa- 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 109 
 
 ther leaned impressively upon his poor pine stick in the 
 same way that John Arnold did. He stole frequent, studious 
 glances at him. He was an artist who made himself into a 
 caricature. 
 
 There was a communion-service to-day. After the ser 
 mon Hannah arose quietly and went down the aisle with the 
 non-communicants. She felt people looking at her, but 
 when she turned, their eyes were somewhere else. No one 
 spoke to her. 
 
 " Did anybody speak to you ?" old Martha asked whew 
 she got home. 
 
 "No," said Hannah. 
 
 "I don t see how you stand it. I should think it would 
 kill you, an you don t look as if it wore on you a bit. Han 
 nah, what made you do sech a thing?" 
 
 Hannah said nothing. 
 
 " I should think, after the way your father an mother 
 brought you up Well, it s killin me. I ve been most 
 crazy the whole forenoon thinkin on t. What air you goin 
 to do if you can t git no work, Hannah ?" 
 
 " I guess I can get some, perhaps." 
 
 " I don t see where." 
 
 The next morning Hannah went over to East Wayne, a 
 town about four miles away. There was a new boot-and^ 
 shoe manufactory there, and she thought she might get 
 some employment. The overseer was a pleasant young 
 fellow, who treated her courteously. They had no work 
 just then, but trade was improving. He told her to come 
 again in a month. 
 
 " I rather guess I can get some work over at the new 
 shop in East Wayne," she said to Martha when she got 
 home. 
 
HO CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 "They ll hear on t, an then you ll lose it, jest the way 
 you ve done before," was Martha s reply. 
 
 But Hannah lived on the hope of it for a month. She 
 literally lived on little else. They had some potatoes and 
 a few apples in the cellar. Hannah ate them. With her 
 little stock of money she bought food for Martha. 
 
 At the end of the month she walked over to East Wayne 
 again. The overseer remembered her. He greeted her 
 very pleasantly, but his honest young face flushed. 
 
 "I m real sorry," he stammered, "but I m afraid we 
 can t give you any work." 
 
 Hannah turned white. He had heard. 
 
 " As far as I am concerned," he went on, " I would ; but 
 it don t depend on me, you know." He stood staring irres 
 olutely at Hannah. 
 
 " See here, wait a minute," said he, " I ll speak to the 
 boss." 
 
 Pretty soon he returned with a troubled look. " It s no 
 use," said he ; " he says he hasn t got any work." 
 
 "Will he have any by-and-by ?" asked Hannah, feebly. 
 
 " I m afraid not," replied the young man, pitifully. He 
 opened the door for her. " Good-by," he said ; " don t get 
 down-hearted." 
 
 Hannah looked at him, then the tears sprang to her eyes. 
 " Thank you," she said. 
 
 When she got past the shop she sat down on a stone be 
 side the road and cried. " I wish he hadn t spoken kind to 
 me," she whispered, sobbingly, to herself "I wish he 
 hadn t." 
 
 The road was bordered with willow bushes ; they were 
 just beginning to bud. The new grass was springing, and 
 there was a smell of it in the air. Presently Hannah rose 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. HI 
 
 and walked on. She had ten cents in her pocket. She 
 stopped at a store on her way home and bought with it a 
 herring and a couple of fresh biscuit for Martha s supper. 
 She ate nothing herself. She said she was not hungry. 
 
 " I knew they d hear on t," Martha said, when she told 
 her of her disappointment. 
 
 The next day Hannah tried to raise some money on her 
 house. It was a large cottage, somewhat out of repair ; it 
 was worth some twenty-five hundred dollars. 
 
 Hannah could not obtain a loan of a cent upon it. 
 There was no bank in the village, and only one wealthy 
 man, John Arnold. She would not apply to him, and the 
 others, close-fisted, narrow-minded farmers, were afraid of 
 some trap, they knew not what, in the transaction. 
 
 "How do I know you ll pay me the interest regular?" 
 asked one man. 
 
 " If I don t, you can take the house," said Hannah. 
 
 " How do I know I can ?" The man looked after her 
 with an air of dull triumph as she went away, drooping 
 more than ever. She was faint from want of food. Still, 
 the look of delicate resolution had not gone from her face. 
 She went home, got out a heavy gold watch-chain which 
 had belonged to her father, took it over to Wayne, and 
 offered it to a jeweller. He looked at her and it curiously. 
 The chain was an old one, but heavy and solid. 
 
 " What s your name !" asked the jeweller. 
 
 " Hannah Redman." 
 
 He pushed it towards her. " No, I guess I can t take it. 
 We have to be pretty careful about these things, you know. 
 If any question should come up " 
 
 Hannah put the chain in her pocket and went home. 
 Old Martha greeted her fretfully. 
 
112 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " I ve been dretful lonesome," said she. " There s an 
 other lily blowed out, an there ain t a soul been in to see it." 
 
 Hannah sat looking at her moodily. If it were not for 
 this old woman she would lock her house and leave the 
 village this very night. It must be that she would find 
 toleration somewhere in the great world. Some of her 
 kind would be willing to let her live. But here was Martha, 
 whom she would not leave ; Martha and her calla-lily, 
 which to a fanciful mind might well seem a very part of 
 her ; maybe the grace and beauty which her querulous old 
 age lacked came to her in this form. At all events it recom 
 pensed her for them in a measure. Martha plus her calla- 
 lily might equal something almost beautiful who knew? 
 
 Looking at this helpless old creature, something stronger 
 than love took possession of Hannah a spirit of fierce 
 protection and faithfulness. 
 
 "Why don t you take your things off?" Martha groaned. 
 
 " I m going out again." 
 
 When Hannah gathered herself up and went out she had 
 a fixed purpose ; she was going to get some supper for 
 Martha. There was not a morsel in the house. Martha 
 must have something to eat. There was nothing desperate 
 in her mind, only that fixed intention the food she would 
 have, she did not know how, but she would have it. 
 
 She was so weak from fasting that she could scarcely 
 step herself, but she did not think of that. " It s awful for 
 an old woman to go hungry," she muttered, going down the 
 street. 
 
 There was some kindly women in the village ; they would 
 give her food if they knew of her terrible need, she was sure 
 of it ; she had only to ask. She paused at several gates ; 
 once she laid her hand on a latch, then she moved on. 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. i t $ 
 
 She could not beg with this stigma upon her. Suddenly 
 in her weakness a half delirious fancy took possession of 
 her. She seemed to be thinking other people s thoughts 
 of herself instead of her own. " There s that Hannah Red 
 man," she thought ; " the girl that stole. Now she s gone 
 to begging. Who wants to give to a girl like that ? What s 
 the sense of her begging ? She s down as low as she can 
 be ; if she wants anything, why doesn t she steal ? It s all 
 over with her. People can t think any worse of her than 
 they do now." 
 
 Hannah came to the post-office, and entered mechani 
 cally. The post-office merely occupied a corner of the 
 large country store. The postmaster dealt out postage- 
 stamps or cheeses to demand. When Hannah entered 
 there was no one in the great rank room. The proprietor 
 had gone to tea ; the two clerks were out in the back yard 
 unloading a team. It was not the hour for customers. 
 
 Hannah glanced about. A great heap of fresh loaves 
 was on the counter near the door. She leaned over and 
 smelled of them hungrily, then she snatched one, hid it 
 under her shawl, and went out. 
 
 " Hannah Redman has been stealing again," she thought, 
 with those thoughts of others, as she went down the street. 
 
 She made the bread into some toast for Martha, and the 
 old woman ate it complainingly. " I d ha relished a leetle 
 bit of bacon," she muttered. 
 
 " Hannah Redman might just as well have stolen some 
 bacon while she was about it," she thought. She could not 
 touch the bread herself. She looked badly to-night ; her 
 soft eyes glittered, the delicate fineness of her color had 
 deepened. Even Martha noticed it. 
 
 "What makes you look so queer, Hannah?" she asked. 
 8 
 
U 4 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Don t you feel well ? You ain t eatin a thing. I guess 
 you d relished a leetle bit of meat." 
 
 "I m all right," said Hannah. 
 
 After the supper was cleared away, and old Martha had 
 gone to bed, Hannah sat down by one of the front windows. 
 It was dusk ; she could just discern the dark figures pass 
 ing in the street, but could not identify them. Presently 
 one paused at her gate, unfastened it, and entered. Han 
 nah heard steps on the gravel walk. Then there was a 
 knock on the door. 
 
 " They ve missed it," Hannah thought. She wondered 
 that she did not care more. " Martha s had her supper, 
 anyhow," she chuckled, fiercely. 
 
 She opened the door. " Hannah," said a man s voice. 
 
 " Oh !" she gasped. " George Arnold ! Go away ! go 
 away !" 
 
 " Hannah, what s the matter ? Oh, you poor girl, have I 
 frightened you to death, after all the rest? Hannah 
 there ; lean against me, dear. You feel better now, don t 
 you ? Don t shake so. Come, let s go in and light a lamp, 
 and I ll get you some water." 
 
 " Oh, go away !" 
 
 " I guess I sha n t go away till O Lord ! Hannah, I 
 never knew what you d been through till five minutes ago. 
 I ve just heard. Hannah, I d lie down and die at your feet 
 if it would do any good. Oh, you poor girl !" 
 
 The man s voice was all rough and husky. Hannah 
 leaned against the door, gasping faintly, while he struck a 
 match and lit a lamp. She never offered to help him. He 
 went out in the kitchen and brought her a glass of water. 
 
 Slifc pushed it JiwaJ. 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 115 
 
 "No," she motioned with silent lips. 
 
 " Do take it, dear ; you look dreadfully. You frighten 
 me. Take it just to please me." 
 
 She took it then, and drank. 
 
 " There, that s a good girl. Now sit down here while I 
 talk to you." 
 
 She sat down in the chair he placed for her, and he 
 drew another beside her. He sat for a minute looking at 
 her, then suddenly he reached forward and seized her 
 hands. He held them tightly while he talked. " Han 
 nah, look here ; you knew I took that money, didn t you ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " And you let everybody think you did it ; you never said 
 a word to clear yourself. Hannah Redman, there never 
 was a woman like you in the whole world ! To think of 
 everybody s being down on you, and your being turned out 
 of the church ! Oh, Lord ! Hannah, I can t bear it." 
 
 The poor fellow fairly sobbed for a minute. Hannah sat 
 still, looking straight ahead. 
 
 " See here," he went on, " I want to tell you the whole 
 story, how I came to do it. It wasn t quite so bad as it 
 looked. It was my money, really ; it came from the sale of 
 some woodland that one of my uncles gave me when I was 
 a child, before my mother died. Father sold the land when 
 I was about ten, and put the money in the bank. I knew 
 about it, and I d ask father a good many times to let me 
 have it, but he never would. You know what father is 
 about money matters. He d put it in under his name. 
 Well, I wanted a little money dreadfully. There was a 
 good chance I ve made it pay since, too but father 
 wouldn t give me any. Hannah, father never gave me a 
 dollar to help me in business, and he s a rich man too. 
 
n6 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 Well, I don t know what possessed him, but the day I was 
 going away he drew that money out of the bank ; he wanted 
 to invest it somewhere. I saw it ; he was counting it over, 
 and he had the bank-book. I asked him for it again, but 
 he wouldn t let me have a dollar of it. Then I never 
 knew him to be so careless before ; I don t see how it hap 
 pened but he laid that money in a roll on the sitting-room 
 table. I saw it when I came in to say good-by to you, and 
 I took it, and crammed it into my pocket. All of a sudden 
 I thought to myself, It s my own money, and I ll have it. 
 You were looking right at me when I took it, but I knew 
 you d think it was mine, I was so cool about it. You did, 
 didn t you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I went down to the depot, expecting every minute I d 
 hear father behind me, but I got off. I wrote to father 
 after a while and owned up, though I thought he d know I 
 took it anyway. I never dreamed of his making any fuss 
 about it. I didn t think he d mention it to a soul ; and as 
 for suspecting you 
 
 " Father wrote me an awful letter, but he didn t say a 
 word about that. He told me I needn t come home again. 
 I ain t stopping there now. He must have known after 
 they accused you, but he never said a word. He knew I 
 liked you, too. Well, I ll clear you, I ll clear you, dear. 
 Every soul in town shall know just what you are, and just 
 what you ve done, and then I m going to take you away 
 from the whole of them, out of the reach of their tongues. 
 I ll do all I can to make it up to you, Hannah." 
 
 " Oh, go away, George, please go !" 
 
 " Hannah, what do you mean ?" 
 
 "It s all over." 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 117 
 
 " Hannah !" 
 
 "I wish you d go away ; I can t bear any more." 
 
 His face turned pale and rigid as he sat watching her. 
 " Look here," he said, slowly, " I ought to have thought 
 Of course I ll go right away and never come near you 
 again. I might have known you wouldn t want a fellow 
 that stole. I ll go, Hannah, and I won t say another word." 
 
 He rose, and was half-way to the door when he turned. 
 " Good-by," he said. 
 
 "Don t, don t! oh, don t ! George, you don t know ! It s 
 dreadful ! I ve got to tell you !" 
 
 Hannah was beside him, clinging to his arm. All her 
 composure was gone. Her voice rose into a shrill clamor. 
 
 " George, George ! Oh, what shall I do ! what shall I 
 do!" 
 
 " Hannah, you ll kill yourself! You mustn t !" 
 
 " I can t help it ! It isn t you ! it isn t you ! It was right 
 for you to take it. But it s me ! it s me ! Oh, what shall I 
 do T 
 
 " Hannah, are you crazy?" 
 
 " No ; but it s all over. It wasn t true before, but it is 
 now." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I stole. I did, George, I did !" 
 
 " When ? You didn t either. You ve been dwelling on 
 this till you don t know what you have done." 
 
 " Yes, I do. I stole. I did !" 
 
 " What did you steal ?" 
 
 "A loaf of bread." 
 
 " Hannah !" 
 
 " Martha didn t have anything for supper. Oh, what shall 
 I do ?" 
 
n8 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 " Hannah Redman, you don t mean it s come to this ?" 
 
 " They wouldn t give me any work ; they couldn t trust 
 me, you know, because I d stole. I never have given up, 
 but now I ve got to." 
 
 " When did you have anything to eat ?" 
 
 " Yesterday. I didn t eat any of that bread." 
 
 The young man looked at her a moment, then he led 
 her back to her seat. 
 
 " See here, Hannah, you sit here a minute till I come 
 back. I won t be gone long." 
 
 She sat down weakly. She suddenly felt too exhausted to 
 speak, and leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She 
 hardly knew when George returned. 
 
 Presently he came to her with a glass of milk. " Here, 
 drink this, dear," he said. 
 
 He held the glass while she drank. In the midst of it 
 she stopped and looked at him piteously. 
 
 " What is it, dear ?" 
 
 " Have you been down to the store ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do they know ? Have they found it out yet ?" 
 
 His tender face grew stern. " No, they hadn t. Don t 
 you think of that again. I ve paid them for the bread." 
 
 "But they ought to know I stole it." 
 
 " No, you didn t. Hannah, never think of this again. 
 They re paid." 
 
 " Did you tell them I took it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I told them all that was necessary. Hannah, 
 dear, don t ever speak of this again, or think of it. Finish 
 your milk now ; then I want you to eat some cakes I ve got 
 for you. Oh, you poor girl ; it seems to me I can t live 
 through this myself. Here I ve had plenty to eat, and you " 
 
CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. n 9 
 
 A week from the next Sunday Hannah wore a white dress 
 to the meeting. It was an old muslin, but she had washed 
 and ironed it nicely, and sewed some lace in the neck and 
 sleeves. She had trimmed her straw bonnet with white rib 
 bons. Everybody stared when she came up the aisle. 
 George Arnold entered at the same time and seated him 
 self beside her in her pew. The women rustled and whis 
 pered. John Arnold was not present to-day. The old 
 grandfather looked across at his empty pew uneasily. 
 
 After the service, the minister, an itinerant one this 
 poor parish had no settled preacher in a solemn voice re 
 quested the congregation to be seated. Then he added 
 he was an old man, with a certain dull impressiveness of 
 manner " You are requested to remain a moment. One 
 of your number, a young man whom I this morning joined 
 in the bands of holy wedlock, has something which he 
 wishes to communicate to you." 
 
 There was a deathly calm. George Arnold arose. He 
 was a tall, fair man, like his father. His yellow, curled 
 head towered up bravely ; the light from the pulpit window 
 settled on it. He was very pale. " I wish to make a state 
 ment in the presence of this congregation," he said, in a 
 loud, clear voice. " The lady beside me, who is now my 
 wife, has been accused of theft from my father. The accu 
 sation was a false one. I stole the money myself. She 
 has borne what she has had to bear from you all to shield 
 me." 
 
 Before he had quite finished Hannah rose ; she caught 
 hold of his arm and leaned her cheek against it before them 
 all. They sat down side by side, and waited while the con 
 gregation went out. A carriage stood before the church. 
 The bridal couple were to leave town that day. A few 
 
120 CALLA-LILIES AND HANNAH. 
 
 stood staring at a distance as George Arnold assisted his 
 bride into the carriage after the crowd had dispersed. 
 
 They drove straight to Hannah s house. There was an 
 old figure waiting at the gate. Beside her stood a great 
 pot of calla-lilies. 
 
 " You jest lift in them lilies first, afore I git in," said she, 
 " an be real keerful you don t break em. The stalks is ten 
 der." 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 A LONG row of little cheap houses stretched on each side 
 of the narrow, dusty street. There was not a tree in the 
 whole length of it except in front of David May s house. 
 A slim young maple, carefully boxed in around the trunk, 
 stood close to his gate. 
 
 These poor little houses were all alike ; they had been 
 built expressly for the operatives in the Saunders Cotton 
 Mills. There was a little squa re of ground fenced in before 
 each cottage. Some were miniature vegetable gardens. 
 Araminta May, David s wife, had hers all planted with 
 flowers. They were coarse and gaudy, rather than delicate ; 
 her taste ran that way. The flower garden was divided into 
 little fantastic beds edged with cobble-stones, and the nar 
 row footpath leading through the midst of it to the door 
 had on each side a fence of bent willow boughs. 
 
 Some morning-glory vines were climbing up on strings 
 towards the two front windows ; Araminta s great ambition 
 was to have them thickly screened. 
 
 " Folks can t look in an see us eat then," she said. 
 
 They could now. Passers-by might look directly in on 
 the little table set between the windows for tea. The six- 
 o clock whistle had blown, and the men and girls were com 
 ing home from the shops. They straggled along, the men 
 
122 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 in their calico shirt-sleeves, the girls in their soiled dresses, 
 turning into this yard and that with an air of content. 
 
 Araminta had worked in the shop, too, before she was 
 married. Afterwards, David would not let her. " His wife 
 might do his washing and ironing and cooking," he said, 
 " but she should not work for other people as long as he 
 had his two hands." 
 
 Every cent that he could spare went to "rig Minty up," 
 as he put it. He could not bear to see her in a poor gown ; 
 she dressed as punctiliously as if she had been a fine lady 
 " against Davy comes home." 
 
 She had not a fine taste, and admired the cheaply gor 
 geous. To-night she had on a flimsy blue muslin with a 
 good many flowers, and a deal of wide cotton lace. She 
 was a handsome young woman. She had a long face, with 
 full red lips and an exquisite florid complexion. She flushed 
 pink easily from forehead to throat, but the pink was as fine 
 as a rose s. She had flaxen hair, which she parted and 
 combed straight back. 
 
 Araminta s father had been a country minister on a piti 
 ful salary. Her mother had died first, and then her father 
 in his little parish, when she was but a child. Since then 
 she had shifted as best she could. She had lived around 
 in various families, partly dependent, partly working her 
 way, until she was eighteen. Then she came to Saunders- 
 ville to work in the mills, and there she met David May, 
 and was married to him. 
 
 Araminta had not wholly escaped the suspicions liable 
 to attach themselves to a handsome unprotected girl in 
 a humble position. People had said she was a pretty 
 wild kind of a girl, with a meaning look, before she was 
 married. 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 123 
 
 She had watched for David anxiously to-night. She had 
 a little extra tea a pie and some hot biscuits. 
 
 " I m awful glad you ve come," she said, when the stout, 
 curly-headed young fellow loomed up in the doorway. 
 " The biscuits are all gettin cold. What made you so late ; 
 it ain t pay-night ?" 
 
 " No," said David, " it s turnin -off night." 
 
 " Now, David May, what do you mean ?" 
 
 "Just what I say. It s turnin -off night. I ve got turned 
 off." 
 
 He dropped down on a chair with that and rested his 
 elbows on his knees and held his head in his two hands 
 the attitude most indicative of a person s sympathy with his 
 own tired soul. 
 
 " Now, Davy, honest an true, ain t you jokin ?" 
 
 " No, I ain t jokin . Wish to the Lord I was, for your 
 sake !" 
 
 " But what have you got turned off fur, Davy ? I declare, 
 I m all upset. They ain t out of work, are they ?" 
 
 " No ; there s work enough. It s some of that Lem 
 Wheelock s doin s. If any feller but him had been fore 
 man, I d ha kept my place. He s always had a spite 
 again me, and I ll be hanged if I know why." 
 
 " What did they say was the reason they turned you 
 off?" 
 
 " Didn t give me no reason. The boss jest called me 
 into his office, an told me they wouldn t need my services no 
 more, an paid me what was owin me, an that was jest ten 
 dollars. I tried to talk, but he kep on writin in a book an 
 didn t seem to hear me, an I quit when I found out I might 
 jest as well be talkin to a stone wall. I dunno what Whee 
 lock s been tellhi him, and I don t care. Ef he wants me 
 
124 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 to go, I ll go. I ain t goin to whine, and tease him fur work. 
 I ve got a little feelin , ef I ain t one of the upper crust !" 
 
 "That s so, Davy. I d see him Down East first." 
 
 "The worst of it is, Minty, I dunno how we re going to 
 live, or where I ll get work. It s mighty dull times now. 
 It s a mean kind of a box I ve got you into." 
 
 " Now, don t you go to talkin like that, David May! I 
 don t want to hear it. Git up an wash you now, and eat 
 your supper ; the biscuits are all gettin cold." 
 
 The poor fellow got up, threw his arms around his wife s 
 waist, and leaned his head on his wife s shoulder. She was 
 as tall as he. 
 
 "Oh, Minty, I didn t know but you d be fur goin back 
 on me, an blamin me, cause I d hed such bad luck. Some 
 women do." 
 
 " I ain t some women then ; but I will be, if you go to 
 suspectin me of such a thing again, an if you don t hurry 
 and wash, an eat them biscuits before they git cold " 
 
 " Well, mebbe we can weather it. I guess I can find 
 some work pretty soon, an you ll have enough to eat and 
 wear. I guess we shall git along." 
 
 "I d laugh if we couldn t." 
 
 A little later people passing by could look in and see the 
 two at supper just as usual, David s calico shirt-sleeves at 
 one end of the little white-covered table plying vigorously, 
 and Minty s blue-draped arms at the other. 
 
 After tea they were standing out in the yard, when Minty 
 caught a glimpse of Lemuel Wheelock, the foreman, coming. 
 She was standing close to her husband, clinging to his arm, 
 when he got up in front of the house ; just when he had 
 his eyes fixed full on her she even leaned her head against 
 David s shoulder. She knew why she did, though her hus- 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 12 $ 
 
 band did not ; she knew also why this foreman nad turned 
 him off, and this was her method of stabbing him for it. 
 
 It was effectual, too. Lemuel Wheelock, who was a hand 
 some young man, with a thin black beard, who threw his 
 shoulders well back when he walked, turned pale, gave a 
 stiff nod, and went by quickly. 
 
 " Confound him !" growled David. Minty said nothing 
 for a minute then she went on with the talk which he had 
 interrupted. 
 
 They formed a plan for the future which they set at once 
 to carrying out. 
 
 Three days later, early in the morning, before any of the 
 neighbors were up, Minty and David started forth on a 
 hundred-mile tramp. 
 
 Coming through her little dewy garden, Minty stopped 
 and picked an enormous bouquet of zinnias and marigolds 
 and balsams. Then she swiftly pulled up the finest of the 
 others by their roots. 
 
 " There," she said, " the new folks sha n t have my flow 
 ers! They sha n t!" 
 
 " Why, Minty !" cried David, aghast. 
 
 " I don t care. I d pull up that maple-tree if I could, 
 and you d carry it." 
 
 "I d look kinder queer startin out on a hundred-mile 
 tramp with a maple-tree over my shoulder," said David with 
 a chuckle. 
 
 Minty could not help laughing. Besides her basket of 
 flowers she carried a basket with some eatables in it. In 
 the pocket of her blue dress were her chief treasures her 
 little stock of cheap jewelry and her two keepsakes which 
 she had for remembrances of her father and mother. These 
 last were a Greek Testament and a tiny pincushion made 
 
I 2 6 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 of a bit of her mother s wedding-dress. Of course she could 
 not read a word of the Greek Testament, but she kept it 
 
 lovingly. She called it "father s book." 
 
 David carried the few clothes which they could not do with 
 out in a carpet-bag. He had about ten dollars in money. 
 He had tried to persuade Minty to use it to defray her ex 
 penses by rail, while he made the journey on foot, alone, but 
 she would not hear to it. White River, the town where they 
 hoped to find work, was a hundred miles distant ; if not 
 successful there, they would go fifty miles farther to Water- 
 bury, and they must save their little stock of money for 
 food. She laughed at the idea of the journey s hurting her; 
 it would be fun, she said. 
 
 They got out of the village into the woody road before 
 any one was astir. Saundersville was a tiny rural manu 
 facturing town, skirted very closely by forests. It was a 
 cool morning, though it was midsummer ; they went along 
 the dark, dewy road gayly enough. They were not half as 
 sad as they had thought they would be. Now they were 
 fairly on the mountain of their affliction, they found out 
 there were flowers on it. 
 
 They were young and strong, and walking was a pleas 
 ure. It was enough sight better than being cooped up in 
 the shop, David said, looking ahead between the green, 
 dewy boughs. And Minty said she was glad not to be in 
 the house washing dishes such a splendid morning. 
 
 She even began to sing as they went along, a Sunday- 
 school tune. The Saundersville folk sang that kind of 
 music principally. Mr. Saunclers kept a little church and 
 Sunday-school running vigorously in his domain. David 
 would not sing, but he listened to his wife sympathizingly. 
 She had a strong soprano voice, and was not afraid to let it out. 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. ^7 
 
 They walked about twenty miles that day. They ate 
 their dinner and supper from their basket by the roadside, 
 and slept that night in an isolated barn, on a pile of fresh hay. 
 
 The next morning they were a little tired and stiff, but 
 they were too young and healthy to mind it much, and they 
 rose and went on. 
 
 That day they stopped in a village on their way and 
 spent, cautiously, a portion of their ten dollars for food 
 bread and crackers. They could pick plenty of black 
 berries to eat with them along the road. 
 
 So they kept on. When they reached White River David 
 could find no work there ; the shops were full. There was 
 nothing to do but go farther, to Waterbury. So far their 
 courage had not failed them, but when they reached Water- 
 bury and found no work there, they did not dare to look 
 each other in the face. 
 
 They sat down disconsolately to rest on a stone wall on 
 the edge of a pasture, a little out of the village. It was 
 getting late in the afternoon. 
 
 " We ve got to find some place or other to stay to-night," 
 said David, moodily. 
 
 Minty said nothing. She sat staring straight ahead. 
 There were dark hollows under her eyes. 
 
 They rose wearily after a little while, and kept on. They 
 hoped to find a barn somewhere which would shelter them 
 for the night. But they walked some miles farther along 
 the country road without finding any kind of a building by 
 the way. 
 
 At last, about sunset, they reached a cleared space and a 
 house on the east side of the road. No one lived in it; 
 there was no mistaking that. Its desolateness looked out 
 of its windows as plainly as faces. Where the glass in the 
 
I 2 8 A WAYFARING COUPL& 
 
 front windows was not broken out, it reflected the sunset in 
 blotches of red and gold. 
 
 It was a large square building; it had never been painted, 
 and the walls as well as the roof were shingled. The shin 
 gles were scaling off now, and a great many of them had a 
 green film of moss on them. The front door stood open 
 with a dreary show of hospitality. 
 
 Minty looked in wistfully, when she and David stood on 
 the old door-stone. 
 
 " S pose we had some folks in there waitin for us, an 
 supper was ready," said she. 
 
 " Be pretty nice, wouldn t it, darlin ?" 
 
 " S pose there were curtains to the windows, an there was 
 a bed made up white and clean but there ain t no use 
 talkin this way. It kinder come over me, that s all." 
 
 Minty went in then, laughing. She and David explored 
 the old house, going through all the dingy, echoing rooms. 
 There was not much in them but old rubbish. There 
 was a great barn, which had once sheltered many head of 
 cattle, adjoining the house. Minty and David found a few 
 old rusty tools in there, a heap of hay on one of the dusty 
 scaffolds, and the very phantom of an old sulky. There it 
 stood, tottering on its two half-spokeless wheels, which had 
 borne it over so many of the steep New England hill-roads 
 in its day. Its seat was gone ; its covering hung in ribbons ; it 
 looked as if it would crumble to dust in a moment, if drawn 
 out of its stall, like an old skeleton if lifted out of its coffin. 
 
 " My, what an awful lookin old carriage," said Minty, peer 
 ing at it. 
 
 " Guess I d better hitch up, an we ll go to ride," said 
 David, and they both laughed merrily at the poor joke. 
 
 Back of the house had stretched the vegetable garden 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 129 
 
 and apple orchards. A great sweet apple-tree stood close 
 to the kitchen door ; some of its branches brushed the roof. 
 The tree had deteriorated like the house; some of its limbs 
 were dead, and its apples were not the fair, large things 
 that they had been. They were small and knotty. Still 
 they were eatable, and they were just ripe now. The short 
 grass back of the house was covered with them. The for 
 lorn young couple gathered up some, and carried them into 
 one of the front rooms. They sat down on a heap of hay, 
 which David had brought in from the barn, and supped off 
 sweet apples and crackers. 
 
 Before Minty began to eat she pulled her father s book 
 and her mother s pincushion out of her pocket and laid 
 them down beside her. She looked at David and laughed, 
 and flushed pink as she did so. 
 
 "What on earth are you doin that fur, Minty?" 
 
 She flushed pinker. "Oh, dear, I don t know; I jest 
 took a notion I felt kinder lonesome. I declare, Davy, I 
 wish to gracious that I had some folks or you had. They d 
 be mighty handy jest now." 
 
 " That s so," said David slowly. He stopped eating, and 
 his face took on a pitiful expression. " Oh, Minty, I did an 
 awful mean thing marryin you ; an you a minister s daugh 
 ter, and so good-lookin . You d never been where you are 
 if it hadn t been for me." 
 
 " David May, you jest quit. " 
 
 " I wasn t half good enough for you " 
 
 Minty faced him passionately; she was very white. 
 " Now, David May, you were good enough for me, once fur 
 all, don t you forget. You were good enough fur me ! You 
 were good enough, I m tellin you the truth, you were! 
 Don t you dare to say you waVt again !" 
 Q 
 
I 3 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 " Why, Minty, don t look at me so, darlin , cause I won t 
 if you feel like that; but I can t help thinkin " 
 
 " Don t you think it ! I ll leave you if you think it !" 
 
 " Well, I won t think it. Why, Minty !" She fairly fright 
 ened him ; he did not know what to think of her. But she 
 began to eat, and was talking of something else with her old 
 manner in a minute, and he thought no more about it. 
 
 There never was the least danger of David May s know 
 ing anything which other people did not want him to know. 
 There was nothing of the detective element in him. The 
 motives underlying people s actions were to him as the geo 
 logical strata beneath the surface of the earth. He simply 
 went along through life looking at the snow or the flowers 
 which happened to be in sight, and thinking nothing about 
 the fire or the gold underneath them. 
 
 That night they used their heap of hay for a bed ; they 
 slept soundly on it, too. The next morning they ate more 
 sweet apples and crackers ; then David started for Bassets, 
 a little town three miles distant, in search of work. A man 
 in Waterbury had told him that there was a tub factory in 
 Bassets, and he thought of it now as a forlorn hope. 
 
 Minty did not go with him. He came back about noon, 
 bringing some eggs and a pound or so of salt pork, bought 
 with his scanty remaining store of money, but his full, young 
 face looked leaden. 
 
 No work in Bassets. 
 
 Minty tried to cheer him. She kindled a fire in the wide 
 old fireplace in the kitchen ; she scoured an old frying-pan 
 which she had found in the attic, and fried pork and eggs 
 for dinner. 
 
 But David could not eat much. His simple heart had 
 taken to desparing more entirely from its very simplicity. 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 131 
 
 He had very little imagination, and consequently little hope, 
 to which he could resort. He sat with his head in his hands 
 the rest of the day. Minty scolded and vexed, but she 
 could not rouse him. 
 
 Discouragement had developed an obstinacy in him of 
 which he had never before seemed capable. 
 
 The next morning he was sick chilly and feverish and 
 could not get up. His pitiful, helpless look at Minty was 
 hard to be seen. 
 
 " Oh, Minty, I m sick ; I can t get up. What will you 
 do?" 
 
 " I ll do well enough ; just you lay still and not worry. 
 You ll be better by noon." 
 
 But he was not. Minty brewed for him a tea of green 
 peppermint leaves which she found near the house ; covered 
 him up warm to induce perspiration, and did everything 
 that she could, yet without much effect. 
 
 As the day passed he grew no better. He did not seem 
 violently or alarmingly ill, but the fever did not leave him, 
 and he steadily lost strength and flesh. Their pitiable 
 destitution pressed them harder and harder. They would 
 have been reduced to a choice between beggary and starva 
 tion if Minty had not found a way out of the difficulty. She 
 took it, right or wrong. She felt at the time very few scru 
 ples about the matter ; she did later, but she would have 
 done the same thing again, probably, under the same cir 
 cumstances. 
 
 Two or three broad meadows away from the old house 
 there were several cows pastured. They belonged to some 
 farmer. Minty went there every night before the cows went 
 home, and milked them one and another. She used an old 
 earthen jar of a graceful shape, which she had found, for a 
 
I3 2 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 milking-pail. She strode home with it like a guilty thing, 
 across the fields. She brushed through the sweet fern, 
 knee deep, with the tall jar half-poised on her right hip, 
 carrying her strong, beautiful figure like an Eastern woman. 
 
 Minty kept thinking every day that the next day she 
 must call on some one for assistance, have a doctor. But 
 when the next day came David would think that he felt a 
 little better, perhaps, and she would put it off. She had a 
 fierce dislike of asking for charity. She thought it would 
 be equivalent to knocking at an almshouse door, as it 
 probably would have been. She kept all signs of the habi 
 tation of the old home resolutely from the few passers-by. 
 
 She never looked out of a window without due caution. 
 Her greatest terror was that she should be caught stealing 
 the milk. She used so much art in milking from one cow 
 and another, that she hardly thought the diminution in 
 quantity would betray her, for a while anyway. But she 
 started at every sound on her way to and from the pasture. 
 
 She did not tell David how she got the milk. She 
 laughed when he asked her, and said it was all right, it was 
 a secret; when he got well he should know. He was easily 
 enough put off; he did not trouble himself much over that 
 or anything else before long. He grew weaker and weaker. 
 Finally one day he lay most of the time muttering in a half- 
 delirium. He would not move himself much unless Minty 
 left him for a moment. Then he would call after her, 
 " Minty, Minty, Minty," every second until she came back. 
 
 Returning from her milking expedition, she could hear 
 him before she reached the house. His greatest fear seemed 
 to be that she would leave him. 
 
 " You won t go off and leave me, will you, Minty ?" he 
 would say. 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 133 
 
 "Leave you? Oh, Davy, I guess I won t." 
 
 He asked her that question over and over. Her assur 
 ances only satisfied him for the moment. The delirious 
 fear kept springing up again in his weak brain. 
 
 The next morning Minty watched the pale light coming 
 in at the windows with a new resolution. " Somethin has 
 got to be done to-day," she whispered to herself. " Some- 
 thin shall be done." 
 
 After the sun was up she tried to talk with David, and he 
 seemed to rouse. She sat down on the floor beside him, 
 and took his head in her lap, bending down and leaning 
 her cheek against it. 
 
 " Davy, dear, I ve got somethin to tell you, an I want 
 you to listen jest a minute 
 
 <k Oh, Minty, don t you leave me ! Don t you go an leave 
 me!" 
 
 41 No; I won t I ain t goin to, Davy. Leastways not fur 
 more n two or three minutes. See here, Davy, darlin , I ve got 
 to go and git a doctor to come and see you. I ve got to go jest up 
 here to Bassets, you know, and I needn t have to be gone " 
 
 " Oh, Minty ! Don t leave me ; don t, don t, don t !" 
 
 " Oh, jest for two or three minutes ; won t you let me, 
 dear ? I want to get the doctor, so he can give you some 
 medicine to get you well. Don t you know, Davy ? 
 
 " Oh, Minty, don t leave me ! Oh, Minty, darlin , don t 
 leave me; don t, don t, don t !" 
 
 She reasoned with him, and coaxed him for a long time, 
 but it was of no use. All she could get in return was that 
 one despairing cry, " Don t leave me !" 
 
 Finally she gave it up, and sat looking straight ahead, her 
 beautiful face held rigid with thought. " There s somethin 
 got to be done," she muttered. 
 
I3 4 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 After a little she rose. He clutched at her dress and set 
 up his pitiful cry again. 
 
 "There, there, dear, I ain t goin . I ain t goin to Bas 
 sets. I m jest goin to step out of the room a second. I ll 
 leave the door open." 
 
 She ran out of the house to the barn ; his cry followed 
 her. There stood the old sulky which she and David had 
 laughed at on the night of their arrival. She took hold of 
 the shafts and pulled it out through the wide doors into the 
 green yard. It was light, and she did it easily enough. 
 She was very strong. 
 
 " I can do it," she said, with a nod of her head. 
 
 She dragged the sulky along into the road and stopped 
 close to the front door. 
 
 Then she ran in, laughing. " Come, Davy, darlin , you re 
 goin to ride ! The carriage is ready." 
 
 " Oh, Minty, don t leave me." 
 
 "Course I ain t goin to leave you. I m goin with you. 
 Don t you worry a bit, darlin . Jest let me get your clothes 
 on, an you ll have a beautiful ride." 
 
 She got the poor fellow into his clothes, talking merrily 
 to him all the time. Then she helped him out of the house 
 and into the sulky. She had fixed up a bed of hay in it, 
 and she covered him with her shawl. 
 
 He was so exhausted, and near fainting, that at first he 
 hardly noticed anything. When she placed herself between 
 the shafts, and began dragging him slowly out of the yard, 
 however, he set up, from behind, a pitiful, sobbing cry : 
 
 " Oh, Minty, you ain t a draggin me ! Let me git out. 
 I won t have it ! Oh, Minty, I ain t come to this ! Minty, 
 stop you must stop. Don t you hear me ?" 
 
 She turned around and looked at him. " David May, 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 135 
 
 you jest keep still. You don t weigh no more n a feather ; 
 it ain t nothin . I m only goin to take you up to Bassets to 
 see the doctor." 
 
 " Minty, stop !" 
 
 " Look here, Davy if you don t lay back an keep still, 
 I ll leave you." 
 
 He did lie back at that and said no more. Indeed, he 
 was too weak to prolong the struggle. The momentary 
 strength which the sight of Minty in the shafts had given 
 him died away. Minty pressed along. Her pretty face 
 was a deep pink all over ; the perspiration rolled down her 
 cheeks ; her fair hair clung to her temples. It was a warm 
 day. The flowering bushes which bordered the road were 
 swarming with bees, and the air was full of those rasping and 
 humming sounds which seem to be the very voices of the heat. 
 
 It was three miles to Bassets. There was not one house 
 all the way, and the road was not much travelled. Minty 
 did not meet any one. 
 
 After a little David seemed asleep, or in a stupor. He 
 lay very still, at any rate, and never spoke. Every little 
 while Minty looked around at him to see if he was safe. 
 When she did so her face was wonderful with the love and 
 strong patience shining through it. Those days of watch 
 ing over this honest, distressed soul, whose love for her was 
 so unquestioning, had caused all the good elements in her 
 nature to work out a change in it. This was Minty s true 
 flower time. Everything worthy in her was awake and astir 
 and glowing. She, dragging her sick husband over the 
 rough country road, like a beast of burden, was as perfect a 
 woman as she ever would be in this world. She seemed to 
 rise triumphant by this noble abasement from any lower 
 level where she might have been. 
 
I3 6 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 She hastened along as fast as she was able. She was 
 not conscious of any great fatigue, though occasionally she 
 stopped to rest a moment. 
 
 She reached Bassets about noon. She drew the sulky 
 into the yard of a large white house, the first which she 
 came to, and knocked on the door. 
 
 " Can you tell me where the doctor lives ?" she asked 
 the man who opened it. 
 
 She was leaning against the house, panting ; her face was 
 almost purple. 
 
 The man stood staring. He was old and large, with a 
 sunburnt face and white hair. 
 
 "What in creation," said he at last, "does this mean? 
 Who air ye, anyway ? What ails him ?" pointing at David 
 lying back with deathly face, in the sulky. 
 
 Minty told him their pitiful little story in a few panting 
 words. Then she asked again where the doctor lived. 
 She felt almost as if her strength were failing her, now that 
 the struggle was so far over. 
 
 " You don t mean to say," said the man, " that you dragged 
 that sulky all the way here? It s a good three miles." 
 
 "Yes; it wa n t much." 
 
 " Good Lord ! Mother, come here !" 
 
 His wife and daughter, who had been peeping, came then 
 to the door with wondering faces. 
 
 "Just look here, mother! This young woman s come all 
 the way from the old Shaw house down below here. Dragged 
 her sick husband in that ere sulky to see the doctor, she says." 
 
 " Won t you please tell me where the doctor lives ?" asked 
 poor Minty. 
 
 "What s your name?" questioned the old woman. 
 
 "May." 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. 137 
 
 " They ve come over a hundred mile, lookin arter work, 
 she says," the man went on, " an he got sick, and they ve 
 been livin down there, in the old Shaw house ; an she 
 wanted to get the doctor, and he wouldn t let her leave him, 
 so she s dragged him all the way here in the sulky." 
 
 " Does the doctor live fur from here ?" asked Minty, 
 piteously. 
 
 " He s asleep, ain t he?" said the woman. 
 
 " I guess so I want to git to the doctor s." 
 
 "An you dragged him all the way yourself?" 
 
 " Yes" 
 
 All of a sudden the woman stepped forward towards 
 Minty, and away, as it were, from her New England suspi 
 cion and curiosity. 
 
 " You poor thing," said she, with the tears streaming 
 down her sallow cheeks, and her wide, thin mouth working, 
 " I never heerd anythin like it in my life !" 
 
 " You come right in, an we ll get him in, an then Cyrus 
 shall go fur the doctor. Mary, you go an git the bed in the 
 spare room ready." 
 
 The daughter went in, wiping her eyes. She was thin 
 and sallow, like her mother, and wore a black calico gown. 
 Her own husband was dead, and she had come here to live 
 with her father and mother. While she was making up the 
 bed in the best bedroom, her tears dropped down on the 
 white sheets. 
 
 " I would ha done as much for him if I d had any need 
 to whilst he was alive," she sobbed to herself. 
 
 In a little while poor David May was lying comfortable 
 in that clean, cool bed. Minty was resting ; and they had 
 sent for the doctor. He was a skilful man for a country 
 town, and he did his best for David for his wife s sake. 
 
!38 A WAYFARING COUPLE. 
 
 The story of the journey in the sulky spread fast through 
 Bassets. Whatever there was of sweet romance, what 
 ever there was of sweet human pity in those simple, some 
 what contracted country folks, was awakened. Poor, pretty, 
 faulty Minty dragging the sulky with her sick husband in it, 
 three miles to Bassets in the heat and dust, was to figure 
 henceforth as the heroine of one of the unwritten folk-lore 
 songs which are handed down from mother to daughter. 
 
 Everybody was kind to the poor young couple. When 
 David began to mend, and there was more opportunity for 
 them, there was no end to the kindly services which were 
 proffered. 
 
 One day, when they had been there about five weeks, and 
 David was decidedly convalescent, Mrs. Marsh, the woman 
 who had taken them in, was standing at her door, talking 
 to a neighbor, who had just brought over some custard for 
 the sick man. 
 
 " Yes," said she, " he s got through the worst on t now, ef 
 he s careful." 
 
 " You are goin to keep em a while longer ?" 
 
 * Keep em ? I guess I am \ I m goin to keep m till 
 he gits real strong. She s the gratefulest thing you ever 
 see, an dretful afraid of makin trouble. She keeps sayin 
 she guesses he s most well enough for em to be startin 1 . 
 But I tell her, no ; you re goin to stay jest where you are 
 till he s able to git out." 
 
 " I heard Sampson was goin to let him have work in the 
 tub factory soon s he gets well." 
 
 "Yes; he came over bout it. If they wa n t tickled. 
 They re goin to live up-stairs in Mis Eaton s house. 
 They ve got some things they left in the place they used to 
 live in, an they re goin to send for em. He keeps frettin 
 
A WAYFARING COUPLE. ! 39 
 
 cause she ain t got any more clothes here. He seems to 
 think a sight on her ; wants her to have everythin and be 
 dressed up. They seem jest as happy as the day is long, 
 now. Hark, there she is, singin ." 
 
 Minty s voice rang out from the best bedroom, clear and 
 sweet, in a joyful psalm tune. The women stood, listening. 
 
 " I declare," said the neighbor, finally, " she s got a pretty 
 voice, ain t she ? All I kin think of is a bluebird singin , 
 when he first comes back in the spring." 
 
A POETESS. 
 
 THE garden-patch at the right of the house was all a 
 gay spangle with sweet-peas and red-flowering beans, and 
 flanked with feathery asparagus. A woman in blue was 
 moving about there. Another woman, in a black bonnet, 
 stood at the front door of the house. She knocked and 
 waited. She could not see from where she stood the blue- 
 clad woman in the garden. The house was very close to 
 the road, from which a tall evergreen hedge separated it, 
 and the view to the side was in a measure cut off. 
 
 The front door was open ; the woman had to reach to 
 knock on it, as it swung into the entry. She was a small 
 woman and quite young, with a bright alertness about her 
 which had almost the effect of prettiness. It was to her 
 what greenness and crispness are to a plant. She poked 
 her little face forward, and her sharp pretty eyes took in the 
 entry and a room at the left, of which the door stood open. 
 The entry was small and square and unfurnished, except 
 for a well-rubbed old card-table against the back wall. The 
 room was full of green light from the tall hedge, and brist 
 ling with grasses and flowers and asparagus stalks. 
 
 " Betsey, you there ?" called the woman. When she 
 spoke, a yellow canary, whose cage hung beside the front 
 door, began to chirp and twitter. 
 
A POETESS. 141 
 
 "Betsey, you there?" the woman called again. The 
 bird s chirps came in a quick volley ; then he began to trill 
 and sing. 
 
 " She ain t there," said the woman. She turned and went 
 out of the yard through the gap in the hedge ; then she 
 looked around. She caught sight of the blue figure in the 
 garden. " There she is," said she. 
 
 She went around the house to the garden. She wore a 
 gay cashmere-patterned calico dress with her mourning bon 
 net, and she held it carefully away from the dewy grass and 
 vines. 
 
 The other woman did not notice her until she was close 
 to her and said, " Good-mornin , Betsey." Then she start 
 ed and turned around. 
 
 " Why, Mis Caxton ! That you ?" said she. 
 
 " Yes. I ve been standin at your door for the last half- 
 hour. I was jest goin away when I caught sight of you 
 out here." 
 
 In spite of her brisk speech her manner was subdued. 
 She drew down the corners of her mouth sadly. 
 
 " I declare I m dreadful sorry you had to stan there so 
 long !" said the other woman. 
 
 She set a pan partly filled with beans on the ground, 
 wiped her hands, which were damp and green from the wet 
 vines, on her apron, then extended her right one with a 
 solemn and sympathetic air. 
 
 " It don t make much odds, Betsey," replied Mrs. Caxton. 
 " I ain t got much to take up my time nowadays." She 
 sighed heavily as she shook hands, and the other echoed her. 
 
 "We ll go right in now. I m dreadful sorry you stood 
 there so long," said Betsey. 
 
 " You d better finish pickin your beans." 
 
14 2 A POETESS. 
 
 " No ; I wa n t goin to pick any more. I was jest goirf 
 in." 
 
 "I declare, Betsey Dole, I shouldn t think you d got 
 enough for a cat !" said Mrs. Caxton, eying the pan. 
 
 " I ve got pretty near all there is. I guess I ve got more 
 flowerin beans than eatin ones, anyway." 
 
 " I should think you had," said Mrs. Caxton, surveying 
 the row of bean-poles topped with swarms of delicate red 
 flowers. " I should think they were pretty near all flowerin 
 ones. Had any peas ?" 
 
 " I didn t have more n three or four messes. I guess I 
 planted sweet-peas mostly. I don t know hardly how I 
 happened to." 
 
 " Had any summer squash ?" 
 
 " Two or three. There s some more set, if they ever get 
 ripe. I planted some gourds. I think they look real pret 
 ty on the kitchen shelf in the winter." 
 
 " I should think you d got a sage bed big enough for the 
 whole town." 
 
 " Well, I have got a pretty good-sized one. I always 
 liked them blue sage-blows. You d better hold up your 
 dress real careful goin through here, Mis Caxton, or youTi 
 get it wet." 
 
 The two women picked their way through the dewy grass, 
 around a corner of the hedge, and Betsey ushered her vis 
 itor into the house. 
 
 " Set right down in the rockin-chair," said she. " I ll 
 jest carry these beans out into the kitchen." 
 
 " I should think you d better get another pan and string 
 "em, or you won t get em done for dinner." 
 
 " Well, mebbe I will, if you ll excuse it, Mis Caxton. 
 The beans had ought to boil quite a while ; they re pretty old." 
 
A POETESS. 143 
 
 Betsey went into the kitchen and returned with a pan 
 and an old knife. She seated herself opposite Mrs. Caxton, 
 and began to string and cut the beans. 
 
 " If I was in your place I shouldn t feel as if I d got 
 enough to boil a kettle for," said Mrs. Caxton, eying the 
 beans. " I should most have thought when you didn t 
 have any more room for a garden than you ve got that 
 you d planted more real beans and peas instead of so 
 many flowerin 1 ones. I d rather have a good mess of 
 green peas boiled with a piece of salt pork than all 
 the sweet-peas you could give me. I like flowers well 
 enough, but I never set up for a butterfly, an I want some 
 thing else to live on." She looked at Betsey with pensive 
 superiority. 
 
 Betsey was near-sighted ; she had to bend low over the 
 beans in order to string them. She was fifty years old, but 
 she wore her streaky light hair in curls like a young girl. 
 The curls hung over her faded cheeks and almost concealed 
 them. Once in a while she flung them back with a child 
 ish gesture which sat strangely upon her. 
 
 " I dare say you re in the right of it," she said, meekly. 
 
 " I know I am. You folks that write poetry wouldn t 
 have a single thing to eat growin if they were left alone. 
 And that brings to mind what I come for. I ve been 
 thinkin about it ever since our little Willie left us." 
 Mrs. Caxton s manner was suddenly full of shamefaced dra 
 matic fervor, her eyes reddened with tears. 
 
 Betsey looked up inquiringly, throwing back her curls. 
 Her face took on unconsciously lines of grief so like the 
 other woman s that she looked like her for the minute. 
 
 " I thought maybe," Mrs. Caxton went on, tremulously, 
 " you d be willin to write a few lines." 
 
144 A POETESS. 
 
 " Of course I will, Mis Caxton. I ll be glad to, if I can 
 do em to suit you," Betsey said, tearfully. 
 
 " I thought jest a few lines. You could mention how 
 handsome he was, and good, and I never had to punish 
 him but once in his life, and how pleased he was with his 
 little new suit, and what a sufferer he was, and how we 
 hope he is at rest in a better land." 
 
 " I ll try, Mis Caxton, I ll try," sobbed Betsey. The two 
 women wept together for a few minutes. 
 
 "It seems as if I couldn t have it so sometimes," Mrs. 
 Caxton said, brokenly. " I keep thinkin he s in the other 
 room. Every time I go back home when I ve been away 
 it s like losin him again. Oh, it don t seem as if I could 
 go home and not find him there it don t, it don t ! Oh, 
 you don t know anything about it, Betsey. You never had 
 any children !" 
 
 " I don t s pose I do, Mis Caxton ; I don t s pose I do." 
 
 Presently Mrs. Caxton wiped her eyes. " I ve been 
 thinkin ," said she, keeping her mouth steady with an ef 
 fort, " that it would be real pretty to have some lines 
 printed on some sheets of white paper with a neat black 
 border. I d like to send some to my folks, and one to the 
 Perkinses in Brigham, and there s a good many others I 
 thought would value em." 
 
 " I ll do jest the best I can, Mis Caxton, an be glad to. 
 It s little enough anybody can do at such times." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton broke out weeping again. " Oh, it s true, 
 it s true, Betsey !" she sobbed. " Nobody can do anything, 
 and nothin* amounts to anything poetry or anything else 
 when he s gone. Nothin can bring him back. Oh, what 
 shall I do, what shall I do ?" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton dried her tears again, and arose to take 
 
A POETESS. I45 
 
 leave. "Well, I must be goin , or Wilson won t have any 
 dinner," she said, with an effort at self-control. 
 
 " Well, I ll do jest the best I can with the poetry," said 
 Betsey. " I ll write it this afternoon." She had set down 
 her pan of beans and was standing beside Mrs. Caxton. 
 She reached up and straightened her black bonnet, which 
 had slipped backward. 
 
 " I ve got to get a pin," said Mrs. Caxton, tearfully. " I 
 can t keep it anywheres. It drags right off my head, the 
 veil is so heavy." 
 
 Betsey went to the door with her visitor. " It s dreadful 
 dusty, ain t it?" she remarked, in that sad, contemptuous 
 tone with which one speaks of discomforts in the presence 
 of affliction. 
 
 "Terrible," replied Mrs. Caxton. " I wouldn t wear my 
 black dress in it nohow; a black bonnet is bad enough. 
 This dress is most too good. It s enough to spoil every 
 thing. Well, I m much obliged to you, Betsey, for bein 
 willin to do that." 
 
 " I ll do jest the best I can, Mis Caxton." 
 
 After Betsey had watched her visitor out of the yard she 
 returned to the sitting-room and took up the pan of beans. 
 She looked doubtfully at the handful of beans all nicely 
 strung and cut up. " I declare I don t know what to do," 
 said she. " Seems as if I should kind of relish these, but 
 it s goin to take some time to cook em, tendin the fire an 
 everything, an I d ought to go to work on that poetry. 
 Then, there s another thing, if I have em to-day, I can t 
 to-morrow. Mebbe I shall take more comfort thinkin 
 about em. I guess I ll leave em over till to-morrow." 
 
 Betsey carried the pan of beans out into the kitchen and 
 set them away in the pantry. She stood scrutinizing the 
 10 
 
146 A POETESS. 
 
 shelves like a veritable Mother Hubbard. There was a 
 plate containing three or four potatoes and a slice of cold 
 boiled pork, and a spoonful of red jelly in a tumbler; that 
 was all the food in sight. Betsey stooped and lifted the 
 lid from an earthen jar on the floor. She took out two 
 slices of bread. "There !" said she. " I ll have this bread 
 and that jelly this noon, an to-night I ll have a kind of din 
 ner-supper with them potatoes warmed up with the pork. 
 An then I can sit right down an go to work on that poetry." 
 
 It was scarcely eleven o clock, and not time for dinner. 
 Betsey returned to the sitting-room, got an old black port 
 folio and pen and ink out of the chimney cupboard, and 
 seated herself to work. She meditated, and wrote one line, 
 then another. Now and then she read aloud what she had 
 written with a solemn intonation. She sat there thinking 
 and writing, and the time went on. The twelve-o clock bell 
 rang, but she never noticed it ; she had quite forgotten the 
 bread and jelly. The long curls drooped over her cheeks ; 
 her thin yellow hand, cramped around the pen, moved 
 slowly and fitfully over the paper. The light in the room 
 was dim and green, like the light in an arbor, from the tall 
 hedge before the windows. Great plumy bunches of aspar 
 agus waved over the tops of the looking-glass ; a framed 
 sampler, a steel engraving of a female head taken from 
 some old magazine, and sheaves of dried grasses hung on 
 or were fastened to the walls ; vases and tumblers of flow 
 ers stood on the shelf and table. The air was heavy and 
 sweet. 
 
 Betsey in this room, bending over her portfolio, looked 
 like the very genius of gentle, old-fashioned, sentimental 
 poetry. It seemed as if one, given the premises of herself 
 and the room, could easily deduce what she would write, 
 
A POETESS. 147 
 
 and read without seeing those lines wherein flowers rhymed 
 sweetly with vernal bowers, home with beyond the tomb, 
 and heaven with even. 
 
 The summer afternoon wore on. It grew warmer and 
 closer ; the air was full of the rasping babble of insects, 
 with the cicadas shrilling over them; now and then a team 
 passed, and a dust cloud floated over the top of the hedge ; 
 the canary at the door chirped and trilled, and Betsey wrote 
 poor little Willie Caxton s obituary poetry. 
 
 Tears stood in her pale blue eyes ; occasionally they 
 rolled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away. She 
 kept her handkerchief in her lap with her portfolio. When 
 she looked away from the paper she seemed to see two 
 childish forms in the room one purely human, a boy clad 
 in his little girl petticoats, with a fair chubby face ; the 
 other in a little straight white night-gown, with long, shin 
 ing wings, and the same face. Betsey had not enough im 
 agination to change the face. Little Willie Caxton s ange^ 
 was still himself to her, although decked in the parapher 
 nalia of the resurrection. 
 
 "I s pose I can t feel about it nor write about it anything 
 the way I could if I d had any children of my own an lost 
 em. I s pose it would have come home to me different," 
 Betsey murmured once, sniffing. A soft color flamed up 
 under her curls at the thought. For a second the room 
 seemed all aslant with white wings, and smiling with the 
 faces of children that had never been. Betsey straightened 
 herself as if she were trying to be dignified to her inner 
 consciousness. " That s one trouble I ve been clear of, any 
 how," said she ; " an I guess I can enter into her feelin s 
 considerable." 
 
 She glanced at a jrreat Dink shell on the shelf, and re- 
 
148 A POETESS. 
 
 membered how she had often given it to the dead child to 
 play with when he had been in with his mother, and how tie 
 had put it to his ear to hear the sea. 
 
 * Dear little fellow !" she sobbed, and sat awhile with her 
 handkerchief at her face. 
 
 Betsey wrote her poem upon backs of old letters and odd 
 scraps of paper. She found it difficult to procure enough 
 paper for fair copies of her poems when composed ; she was 
 forced to be very economical with the first draft. Her 
 portfolio was piled with a loose litter of written papers when 
 she at length arose and stretched her stiff limbs. It was 
 near sunset; men with dinner-pails were tramping past the 
 gate, going home from their work. 
 
 Betsey laid the portfolio on the table. " There ! I ve 
 wrote sixteen verses," said she, " an I guess I ve got every 
 thing in. I guess she ll think that s enough. I can copy 
 it off nice to-morrow. I can t see to-night to do it, any 
 how." 
 
 There were red spots on Betsey s cheeks ; her knees 
 were unsteady when she walked. She went into the kitchen 
 and made a fire, and set on the tea-kettle. " I guess I won t 
 warm up them potatoes to-night," said she ; " I ll have the 
 bread an jelly, an save em for breakfast. Somehow I 
 don t seem to feel so much like em as I did, an fried po 
 tatoes is apt to lay heavy at night." 
 
 When the kettle boiled, Betsey drank her cup of tea and 
 soaked her slice of bread in it ; then she put away her cup 
 and saucer and plate, and went out to water her garden. 
 The weather was so dry and hot it had to be watered every 
 night. Betsey had to carry the water from a neighbor s 
 well ; her own was dry. Back and forth she went in the 
 deepening twilight, her slender body strained to one side 
 
A POETESS. 149 
 
 with the heavy water-pail, until the garden-mould looked 
 dark and wet. Then she took in the canary-bird, locked 
 up her house, and soon her light went out. Often on these 
 summer nights Betsey went to bed without lighting a lamp 
 at all. There was no moon, but it was a beautiful starlight 
 night. She lay awake nearly all night, thinking of her poem. 
 She altered several lines in her mind. 
 
 She arose early, made herself a cup of tea, and warmed 
 over the potatoes, then sat down to copy the poem. She 
 wrote it out on both sides of note-paper, in a neat, cramped 
 hand. It was the middle of the afternoon before it was 
 finished. She had been obliged to stop work and cook the 
 beans for dinner, although she begrudged the time. When 
 the poem was fairly copied, she rolled it neatly and tied it 
 with a bit of black ribbon ; then she made herself ready to 
 carry it to Mrs. Caxton s. 
 
 It was a hot afternoon. Betsey went down the street in 
 her thinnest dress an old delaine, with delicate bunches 
 of faded flowers on a faded green ground. There was a 
 narrow green belt ribbon around her long waist. She wore 
 a green barege bonnet, stiffened with rattans, scooping over 
 her face, with her curls pushed forward over her thin cheeks 
 in two bunches, and she carried a small green parasol with 
 a jointed handle. Her costume was obsolete, even in the 
 little country village where she lived. She had worn it 
 every summer for the last twenty years. She made no 
 more change in her attire than the old perennials in her 
 garden. She had no money with which to buy new clothes, 
 and the old satisfied her. She had come to regard them as 
 being as unalterably a part of herself as her body. 
 
 Betsey went on, setting her slim, cloth-gaitered feet daint 
 ily in the hot sand of the road. She carried her roll of 
 
150 A POETESS. 
 
 poetry in a black-mitted hand. She walked rather slowly. 
 She was not very strong ; there was a limp feeling in her 
 knees ; her face, under the green shade of her bonnet, was 
 pale and moist with the heat. 
 
 She was glad to reach Mrs. Caxton s and sit down in her 
 parlor, damp and cool and dark as twilight, for the blinds 
 and curtains had been drawn all day. Not a breath of the 
 fervid out-door air had penetrated it. 
 
 " Come right in this way ; it s cooler than the sittin - 
 room," Mrs. Caxton said ; and Betsey sank into the hair 
 cloth rocker and waved a palm-leaf fan. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton sat close to the window in the dim light, and 
 read the poem. She took out her handkerchief and wiped 
 her eyes as she read. " It s beautiful, beautiful," she said, 
 tearfully, when she had finished. " It s jest as comfortin 
 as it can be, and you worked that in about his new suit so 
 nice. I feel real obliged to you, Betsey, and you shall have 
 one of the printed ones when they re done. I m goin to 
 see to it right off." 
 
 Betsey flushed and smiled. It was to her as if her poem 
 had been approved and accepted by one of the great maga 
 zines. She had the pride and self-wonderment of recog 
 nized genius. She went home buoyantly, under the wilting 
 sun, after her call was done. When she reached home 
 there was no one to whom she could tell her triumph, but 
 the hot spicy breath of the evergreen hedge and the fervent 
 sweetness of the sweet-peas seemed to greet her like the 
 voices of friends. 
 
 She could scarcely wait for the printed poem. Mrs. Cax 
 ton brought it, and she inspected it, neatly printed in its 
 black border. She was quite overcome with innocent 
 pride. 
 
A POETESS. 151 
 
 " Well, I don t know but it does read pretty well," said 
 she. 
 
 " It s beautiful," said Mrs. Caxton, fervently. " Mr. White 
 said he never read anything any more touchin , when I car 
 ried it to him to print. I think folks are goin to think a 
 good deal of havin it. I ve had two dozen printed." 
 
 It was to Betsey like a large edition of a book. She had 
 written obituary poems before, but never one had been 
 printed in this sumptuous fashion. " I declare I think it 
 would look pretty framed !" said she. 
 
 "Well, I don t know but it would," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 " Anybody might have a neat little black frame, and it 
 would look real appropriate." 
 
 "I wonder how much it would cost?" said Betsey. 
 
 After Mrs. Caxton had gone, she sat long, staring admir 
 ingly at the poem, and speculating as to the cost of a frame. 
 " There ain t no use ; I can t have it nohow, not if it don t 
 cost more n a quarter of a dollar," said she. 
 
 Then she put the poem away and got her supper. No 
 body knew how frugal Betsey Dole s suppers and break 
 fasts and dinners were. Nearly all her food in the summer 
 came from the scanty vegetables which flourished between 
 the flowers in her garden. She ate scarcely more than her 
 canary-bird, and sang as assiduously. Her income was al 
 most infinitesimal : the interest at a low per cent, of a tiny 
 sum in the village savings-bank, the remnant of her father s 
 little hoard after his funeral expenses had been paid. Betsey 
 had lived upon it for twenty years, and considered herself 
 well-to-do. She had never received a cent for her poems ; 
 she had not thought of such a thing as possible. The ap 
 pearance of this last in such shape was worth more to her 
 than its words represented in as many dollars. 
 
! 5 2 * POETESS. 
 
 Betsey kept the poem pinned on the wall under the look 
 ing-glass ; if any one came in, she tried with delicate hints 
 to call attention to it. It was two weeks after she received 
 it that the downfall of her innocent pride came. 
 
 One afternoon Mrs. Caxton called. It was raining hard. 
 Betsey could scarcely believe it was she when she went to 
 the door and found her standing there. 
 
 " Why, Mis Caxton !" said she. " Ain t you wet to your 
 skin?" 
 
 " Yes, I guess I be, pretty near. I s pose I hadn t ought 
 to come way down here in such a soak ; but I went into 
 Sarah Rogers s a minute after dinner, and something she 
 said made me so mad, I made up my mind I d come down 
 here and tell you about it if I got drowned." Mrs. Caxton 
 was out of breath ; rain-drops trickled from her hair over 
 her face ; she stood in the door and shut her umbrella 
 with a vicious shake to scatter the water from it. " I don t 
 know what you re goin to do with this," said she ; " it s 
 drippin ." 
 
 " I ll take it out an put it in the kitchen sink." 
 
 " Well, I ll take off my shawl here too, and you can hang 
 it out in the kitchen. I spread this shawl out. I thought 
 it would keep the rain off me some. I know one thing, I m 
 goin to have a waterproof if I live." 
 
 When the two women were seated in the sitting-room, 
 Mrs. Caxton was quiet for a moment. There was a hesi 
 tating look on her face, fresh with the moist wind, with 
 strands of wet hair clinging to the temples. 
 
 "I don t know as I had ought to tell you," she said, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " Why hadn t you ought to ?" 
 
 " Well, I don t care ; I m goin to, anyhow. I think you d 
 
A POETESS. 153 
 
 ought to know, an it ain t so bad for you as it is for me. 
 It don t begin to be. I put considerable money into em. 
 I think Mr. White was pretty high, myself." 
 
 Betsey looked scared. " What is it ?" she asked, in a 
 weak voice. 
 
 " Sarah Rogers says that the minister told her Ida that that 
 poetry you wrote was jest as poor as it could be, an it was iu 
 dreadful bad taste to have it printed an 1 sent round that way. 
 What do you think of that ?" 
 
 Betsey did not reply. She sat looking at Mrs. Caxton 
 as a victim whom the first blow had not killed might look 
 at her executioner. Her face was like a pale wedge of ice 
 between her curls. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton went on. " Yes, she said that right to my 
 face, word for word. An there was something else. She 
 said the minister said that you had never wrote anything 
 that could be called poetry, an it was a dreadful waste of 
 time. I don t s pose he thought twas comin back to you. 
 You know he goes with Ida Rogers, an I s pose he said it 
 to her kind of confidential when she showed him the poetry. 
 There ! I gave Sarah Rogers one of them nice printed 
 ones, an she acted glad enough to have it. Bad taste ! 
 H m ! If anybody wants to say anything against that 
 beautiful poetry, printed with that nice black border, they 
 can. I don t care if it s the minister, or who it is. I don t 
 care if he does write poetry himself, an has had some 
 printed in a magazine. Maybe his ain t quite so fine as he 
 thinks tis. Maybe them magazine folks jest took his for 
 lack of something better. I d like to have you send that 
 poetry there. Bad taste ! I jest got right up. * Sarah 
 Rogers, says I, * I hope you won t never do anything your 
 self in any worse taste. I trembled so I could hardly 
 
I 5 4 A POETESS. 
 
 speak, and I made up my mind I d come right straight 
 over here." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton went on and on. Betsey sat listening, and 
 saying nothing. She looked ghastly. Just before Mrs. 
 Caxton went home she noticed it. " Why, Betsey Dole," 
 she cried, "you look as white as a sheet You ain t takin 
 it to heart as much as all that comes to, I hope. Good 
 ness, I wish I hadn t told you !" 
 
 " I d a good deal ruther you told me," replied Betsey, 
 with a certain dignity. She looked at Mrs. Caxton. Her 
 back was as stiff as if she were bound to a stake. 
 
 "Well, I thought you would," said Mrs. Caxton, uneasily ; 
 " and you re dreadful silly if you take it to heart, Betsey, 
 that s all I ve got to say. Goodness, I guess I don t, and 
 it s full as hard on me as tis on you !" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton arose to go. Betsey brought her shawl and 
 umbrella from the kitchen, and helped her off. Mrs. Cax 
 ton turned on the door-step and looked back at Betsey s 
 white face. " Now don t go to thinkin about it any more," 
 said she. " I ain t goin to. It ain t worth mindin . Every 
 body knows what Sarah Rogers is. Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by, Mis Caxton," said Betsey. She went back 
 into the sitting-room. It was a cold rain, and the room 
 was gloomy and chilly. She stood looking out of the win 
 dow, watching the rain pelt on the hedge. The bird-cage 
 hung at the other window. The bird watched her with his 
 head on one side ; then he begun to chirp. 
 
 Suddenly Betsey faced about and began talking. It was 
 not as if she were talking to herself; it seemed as if she 
 recognized some other presence in the room. " I d like to 
 know if it s fair," said she. " I d like to know if you think 
 it s fair. Had I ought to have been born with the wantin 
 
A POETESS. 155 
 
 to write poetry if I couldn t write it had I ? Had I ought 
 to have been let to write all my life, an not know before 
 there wa n t any use in it ? Would it be fair if that canary- 
 bird there, that ain t never done anything but sing, should 
 turn out not to be singin ? Would it, I d like to know ? 
 S pose them sweet-peas shouldn t be smellin the right 
 way ? I ain t been dealt with as fair as they have, I d like 
 to know if I have." 
 
 The bird trilled and trilled. It was as if the golden 
 down on his throat bubbled. Betsey went across the room 
 to a cupboard beside the chimney. On the shelves were 
 neatly stacked newspapers and little white rolls of writing- 
 paper. Betsey began clearing the shelves. She took out 
 the newspapers first, got the scissors, and cut a poem neat 
 ly out of the corner of each. Then she took up the clipped 
 poems and the white rolls in her apron, and carried them 
 into the kitchen. She cleaned out the stove carefully, re 
 moving every trace of ashes ; then she put in the papers, 
 and set them on fire. She stood watching them as their 
 edges curled and blackened, then leaped into flame. Her 
 face twisted as if the fire were curling over it also. Other 
 women might have burned their lovers letters in agony of 
 heart. Betsey had never had any lover, but she was burn 
 ing all the love-letters that had passed between her and 
 life. When the flames died out she got a blue china sugar- 
 bowl from the pantry and dipped the ashes into it with one 
 of her thin silver teaspoons; then she put on the cover and 
 set it away in the sitting-room cupboard. 
 
 The bird, who had been silent while she was out, began 
 chirping again. Betsey went back to the pantry and got a 
 lump of sugar, which she stuck between the cage wires. 
 She looked at the clock on the kitchen shelf as she went 
 
156 A POETESS. 
 
 by. It was after six. " I guess I don t want any supper 
 to-night," she muttered. 
 
 She sat down by the window again. The bird pecked 
 at his sugar. Betsey shivered and coughed. She had 
 coughed more or less for years. People said she had the 
 old-fashioned consumption. She sat at the window until it 
 was quite dark ; then she went to bed in her little bedroom 
 out of the sitting-room. She shivered so she could not hold 
 herself upright crossing the room. She coughed a great 
 deal in the night. 
 
 Betsey was always an early riser. She was up at five the 
 next morning. The sun shone, but it was very cold for the 
 season. The leaves showed white in a north wind, and the 
 flowers looked brighter than usual, though they were bent 
 with the rain of the day before. Betsey went out in the 
 garden to straighten her sweet-peas. 
 
 Coming back, a neighbor passing in the street eyed her 
 curiously. " Why, Betsey, you sick ?" said she. 
 
 " No ; I m kinder chilly, that s all," replied Betsey. 
 
 But the woman went home and reported that Betsey Dole 
 looked dreadfully, and she didn t believe she d ever see an 
 other summer. 
 
 It was now late August. Before October it was quite 
 generally recognized that Betsey Dole s life was nearly 
 over. She had no relatives, and hired nurses were rare in 
 this little village. Mrs. Caxton came voluntarily and took 
 care of her, only going home to prepare her husband s meals. 
 Betsey s bed was moved into the sitting-room, and the neigh 
 bors came every day to see her, and brought little delica 
 cies. Betsey had talked very little all her life ; she talked 
 less now, and there was a reticence about her which some 
 what intimidated the other women. They would look pity- 
 
A POETESS. I57 
 
 ingly and solemnly at her, and whisper in the entry when 
 they went out. 
 
 Betsey never complained ; but she kept asking if the 
 minister had got home. He had been called away by his 
 mother s illness, and returned only a week before Betsey died. 
 
 He came over at once to see her. Mrs. Caxton ushered 
 him in one afternoon. 
 
 " Here s Mr. Lang come to see you, Betsey," said she, in 
 the tone she would have used towards a little child. She 
 placed the rocking-chair for the minister, and was about to 
 seat herself, when Betsey spoke : 
 
 "Would you mind goin out in the kitchen jest a few 
 minutes, Mis Caxton ?" said she. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton arose, and went out with an embarrassed 
 trot. Then there was silence. The minister was a young 
 man a country boy who had worked his way through a 
 country college. He was gaunt and awkward, but sturdy in 
 his loose clothes. He had a homely, impetuous face, with 
 a good forehead. 
 
 He looked at Betsey s gentle, wasted face, sunken in the 
 pillow, framed by its clusters of curls ; finally he began to 
 speak in the stilted fashion, yet with a certain force by 
 reason of his unpolished honesty, about her spiritual wel 
 fare. Betsey listened quietly ; now and then she assented. 
 She had been a church member for years. It seemed now 
 to the young man that this elderly maiden, drawing near the 
 end of her simple, innocent life, had indeed her lamp, which 
 no strong winds of temptation had ever met, well trimmed 
 and burning. 
 
 When he paused, Betsey spoke. " Will you go to the 
 cupboard side of the chimney and bring me the blue sugar- 
 bowl on the top shelf?" said she, feebly. 
 
I5 8 A POETESS. 
 
 The young man stared at her a minute ; then he went to 
 the cupboard, and brought the sugar-bowl to her. He held 
 it, and Betsey took off the lid with her weak hand. "Do 
 you see what s in there ?" said she. 
 
 " It looks like ashes." 
 
 " It s the ashes of all the poetry I ever wrote." 
 
 "Why, what made you burn it, Miss Dole ?" 
 
 "I found out it wa n t worth nothinV 
 
 The minister looked at her in a bewildered way. He be 
 gan to question if she were not wandering in her mind. He 
 did not once suspect his own connection with the matter. 
 
 Betsey fastened her eager, sunken eyes upon his face. 
 " What I want to know is if you ll tend to havin this 
 buried with me." 
 
 The minister recoiled. He thought to himself that she 
 certainly was wandering. 
 
 " No, I ain t out of my head," said Betsey. " I know 
 what I m sayin\ Maybe it s queer soundin , but it s a no 
 tion I ve took. If you ll tend to it, I shall be much 
 obliged. I don t know anybody else I can ask." 
 
 "Well, I ll attend to it, if you wish me to, Miss Dole," 
 said the minister, in a serious, perplexed manner. She re 
 placed the lid on the sugar-bowl, and left it in his hands. 
 
 "Well, I shall be much obliged if you will tend to it; 
 an now there s something else," said she. 
 
 " What is it, Miss Dole ?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment. " You write poetry, don t 
 you ?" 
 
 The minister colored. " Why, yes ; a little sometimes." 
 
 " It s good poetry, ain t it ? They printed some in a 
 magazine." 
 
 The minister laughed confusedly. "Well, Miss Dole,, I 
 
A POETESS. 159 
 
 don t know how good poetry it may be, but they did print 
 some in a magazine." 
 
 Betsey lay looking at him. " I never wrote none that 
 was good," she whispered, presently ; " but I ve been 
 thinkin if you would jest write a few lines about me 
 afterward I ve been thinkin that mebbe my dyin 
 was goin to make me a good subject for poetry, if I 
 never wrote none. If you would jest write a few lines." 
 
 The minister stood holding the sugar-bowl ; he was quite 
 pale with bewilderment and sympathy. " I ll do the best 
 I can, Miss Dole," he stammered. 
 
 " I ll be much obliged," said Betsey, as if the sense of 
 grateful obligation was immortal like herself. She smiled, 
 and the sweetness of the smile was as evident through the 
 drawn lines of her mouth as the old red in the leaves of a 
 withered rose. The sun was setting ; a red beam flashed 
 softly over the top of the hedge and lay along the opposite 
 wall ; then the bird in his cage began to chirp. He chimed 
 faster and faster until he trilled into a triumphant song. 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 THE day before there had been a rain and a thaw, then 
 in the night the wind had suddenly blown from the north, 
 and it had grown cold. In the morning it was very clear 
 and cold, and there was the hard glitter of ice over every 
 thing. The snow-crust had a thin coat of ice, and all the 
 open fields shone and flashed. The tree boughs and 
 trunks, and all the little twigs, were enamelled with ice. 
 The roads were glare and slippery with it, and so were the 
 door-yards. In old Jonas Carey s yard the path that sloped 
 from the door to the well was like a frozen brook. 
 
 Quite early in the morning old Jonas Carey came oui. 
 with a pail, and went down the path to the well. He went 
 slowly and laboriously, shuffling his feet, so he should not 
 fall. He was tall and gaunt, and one side of his body 
 seemed to slant towards the other, he settled so much more 
 heavily upon one foot. He was somewhat stiff and lame 
 from rheumatism. 
 
 He reached the well in safety, hung the pail, and began 
 pumping. He pumped with extreme slowness and steadi 
 ness ; a certain expression of stolid solemnity, which his face 
 wore, never changed. 
 
 When he had filled his pail he took it carefully from the 
 pump spout, and started back to the house, shuffling as be- 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 361 
 
 fore. He was two thirds of the way to the door, when he 
 came to an extremely slippery place. Just there some roots 
 from a little cherry-tree crossed the path, and the ice made 
 a dangerous little pitch over them. 
 
 Old Jonas lost his footing, and sat down suddenly; the 
 water was all spilled. The house door flew open, and an 
 old woman appeared. 
 
 " Oh, Jonas, air you hurt ?" she cried, blinking wildly and 
 terrifiedly in the brilliant light. 
 
 The old man never said a word. He sat still and looked 
 straight before him, solemnly. 
 
 " Oh, Jonas, you ain t broke any bones, hev you ?" The 
 old woman gathered up her skirts and began to edge off 
 the door-step, with trembling knees. 
 
 Then the old man raised his voice. " Stay where you 
 be," he said, imperatively. " Go back into the house 1" 
 
 He began to raise himself, one joint at a time, and the 
 old woman went back into the house, and looked out of the 
 window at him. 
 
 When old Jonas finally stood upon his feet it seemed as 
 if he had actually constructed himself, so piecemeal his ris 
 ing had been. He went back to the pump, hung the pail 
 under the spout, and filled it. Then he started on the re 
 turn with more caution than before. When he reached the 
 dangerous place his feet flew up again, he sat down, and the 
 water was spilled. 
 
 The old woman appeared in the door; her dim blue 
 eyes were quite round, her delicate chin was dropped. 
 "Oh, Jonas!" 
 
 " Go back !" cried the old man, with an imperative jerk of 
 his head towards her, and she retreated. This time he arose 
 more quickly, and made quite a lively shuffle back to the pump, 
 ii 
 
1 62 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 But when his pail was filled and he again started on the 
 return, his caution was redoubled. He seemed to scarcely 
 move at all. When he approached the dangerous spot his 
 progress was hardly more perceptible than a scaly leaf- 
 slug s. Repose almost lapped over motion. The old 
 woman in the window watched breathlessly. 
 
 The slippery place was almost passed, the shuffle quick 
 ened a little the old man sat down again, and the tin pail 
 struck the ice with a clatter. 
 
 The old woman appeared. " Oh, Jonas !" 
 
 Jonas did not look at her; he sat perfectly motionless. 
 
 "Jonas, air you hurt? Do speak to me for massy sake !" 
 Jonas did not stir. 
 
 Then the old woman let herself carefully off the step. 
 She squatted down upon the icy path, and hitched along to 
 Jonas. She caught hold of his arm "Jonas, you don t 
 feel as if any of your bones were broke, do you ?" Her 
 voice was almost sobbing, her small frame was all of a trem 
 ble. 
 
 " Go back !" said Jonas. That was all he would say. 
 The old woman s tearful entreaties did not move him in the 
 least. Finally she hitched herself back to the house, and 
 took up her station in the window. Once in a while she 
 rapped on the pane, and beckoned piteously. 
 
 But old Jonas Carey sat still. His solemn face was in 
 scrutable. Over his head stretched the icy cherry-branches, 
 full of the flicker and dazzle of diamonds. A woodpecker 
 flew into the tree and began tapping at the trunk, but the 
 ice-enamel was so hard that he could not get any food. 
 Old Jonas sat so still that he did not mind him. A jay 
 flew on the fence within a few feet of him ; a sparrow pecked 
 at some weeds piercing the snow-crust beside the door. 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 163 
 
 Over in the east arose the mountain, covered with frosty 
 foliage full of silver and blue and diamond lights. The air 
 was stinging. Old Jonas paid no attention to anything. 
 He sat there. 
 
 The old woman ran to the door again. " Oh, Jonas, 
 you ll freeze, settin there !" she pleaded. " Can t you git 
 up ? Your bones ain t broke, air they ?" Jonas was silent. 
 
 "Oh, Jonas, there s Christmas Jenny comin down the 
 road what do you s pose she ll think ?" 
 
 Old Jonas Carey was unmoved, but his old wife eagerly 
 watched the woman coming down the road. The woman 
 looked oddly at a distance : like a broad green moving 
 bush ; she was dragging something green after her, too. 
 When she came nearer one could see that she was laden 
 with evergreen wreaths her arms were strung with them ; 
 long sprays of ground-pine were wound around her shoul 
 ders, she carried a basket trailing with them, and holding 
 also many little bouquets of bright-colored everlasting flow 
 ers. She dragged a sled, with a small hemlock-tree bound 
 upon it. She came along sturdily over the slippery road. 
 When she reached the Carey gate she stopped and looked 
 over at Jonas. " Is he hurt ?" she sang out to the old 
 woman. 
 
 " I dunno he s fell down three times." 
 
 Jenny came through the gate, and proceeded straight to 
 Jonas. She left her sled in the road. She stooped, brought 
 her basket on a level with Jonas s head, and gave him a 
 little push with it. "What s the matter with ye?" Jonas 
 did not wink. " Your bones ain t broke, are they ?" 
 
 Jenny stood looking at him for a moment. She wore 
 a black hood, her large face was weather-beaten, deeply 
 tanned, and reddened. Her features were strong, but 
 
1 64 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 heavily cut. She made one think of those sylvan faces 
 with features composed of bark-wrinkles and knot-holes, 
 that one can fancy looking out of the trunks of trees. She 
 was not an aged woman, but her hair was iron-gray, and 
 crinkled as closely as gray moss. 
 
 Finally she turned towards the house. I m comin in a 
 minute," she said to Jonas s wife, and trod confidently up 
 the icy steps. 
 
 " Don t you slip," said the old woman, tremulously. 
 
 " I ain t afraid of slippin ." When they were in the house 
 she turned around on Mrs. Carey, " Don t you fuss, he ain t 
 hurt." 
 
 " No, I don t s pose he is. It s jest one of his tantrums. 
 But I dunno what I am goin to do. Oh, dear me suz, I 
 dunno what I am goin to do with him sometimes !" 
 
 " Leave him alone let him set there." 
 
 "Oh, he s tipped all that water over, an I m afeard he ll 
 freeze down. Oh, dear !" 
 
 "Let him freeze ! Don t you fuss, Betsey." 
 
 " I was jest goin to git breakfast. Mis Gill she sent us 
 in two sassage-cakes. I was goin to fry em, an I jest 
 asked him to go out an draw a pail of water, so s to fill up 
 the tea-kittle. Oh, dear !" 
 
 Jenny sat her basket in a chair, strode peremptorily out 
 of the house, picked up the tin pail which lay on its side 
 near Jonas, filled it at the well, and returned. She wholly 
 ignored the old man. When she entered the door his eyes 
 relaxed their solemn stare at vacancy, and darted a swift 
 glance after her. 
 
 " Now fill up the kittle, an fry the sassages," she said to 
 Mrs. Carey. 
 
 " Oh, I m afeard he won t git up, an they ll be cold ! 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. Z 6g 
 
 Sometimes his tantrums last a consider ble while. You see 
 he sot down three times, an he s awful mad." 
 
 " I don t see who he thinks he s spitin ." 
 
 " I dunno, less it s Providence." 
 
 " I reckon Providence don t care much where he sets." 
 
 "Oh, Jenny, I m dreadful afeard he ll freeze down." 
 
 " No, he won t. Put on the sassages." 
 
 Jonas s wife went about getting out the frying-pan, croon 
 ing over her complaint all the time. " He s dreadful fond 
 of sassages," she said, when the odor of the frying sausages 
 became apparent in the room. 
 
 " He ll smell em an come in," remarked Jenny, dryly. 
 "He knows there ain t but two cakes, an he ll be afeard 
 you ll give me one of em." 
 
 She was right. Before long the two women, taking sly 
 peeps from the window, saw old Jonas lumberingly getting 
 up. " Don t say nothin to him about it when he comes in," 
 whispered Jenny. 
 
 When the old man clumped into the kitchen, neither of the 
 women paid any attention to him. His wife turned the 
 sausages, and Jenny was gathering up her wreaths. Jonas 
 let himself down into a chair, and looked at them uneasily. 
 Jenny laid down her wreaths. " Goin to stay to breakfast?" 
 said the old man. 
 
 "Well, I dunno," replied Jenny. "Them sassages do 
 smell temptin ." 
 
 All Jonas s solemnity had vanished, he looked foolish 
 and distressed. 
 
 " Do take off your hood, Jenny," urged Betsey. " I ain t 
 very fond of sassages myself, an I d jest as liv s you d have 
 my cake as not." 
 
 Jenny laughed broadly and good-naturedly, and began 
 
1 66 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 gathering up her wreaths again. " Lor , I don t want your 
 sassage-cake," said she. " I ve had my breakfast I m 
 goin down to the village to sell my wreaths." 
 
 Jonas s face lit up. " Pleasant day, ain t it ?" he re 
 marked, affably. 
 
 Jenny grew sober. " I don t think it s a very pleasant 
 day; guess you wouldn t if you was a woodpecker or a 
 blue-jay," she replied. 
 
 Jonas looked at her with stupid inquiry. 
 
 " They can t git no breakfast," said Jenny. " They can t 
 git through the ice on the trees. They ll starve if there 
 ain t a thaw pretty soon. I ve got to buy em somethin 
 down to the store. I m goin to feed a few of em. I ain t 
 goin to see em dyin in my door-yard if I can help it. 
 I ve given em all I could spare from my own birds this 
 mornin ." 
 
 " It s too bad, ain t it ?" 
 
 "I think it s too bad. I was goin to buy me a new 
 caliker dress if this freeze hadn t come, but I can t now. 
 What it would cost will save a good many lives. Well, I ve 
 got to hurry along if I m goin to git back to-day." 
 
 Jenny, surrounded with her trailing masses of green, had 
 to edge herself through the narrow doorway. She went 
 straight to the village and peddled her wares from house to 
 house. She had her regular customers. Every year, the 
 week before Christmas, she came down from the mountain 
 with her evergreens. She was popularly supposed to earn 
 quite a sum of money in that way. In the summer she 
 sold vegetables, but the green Christmas traffic was re 
 garded as her legitimate business it had given her her 
 name among the villagers. However, the fantastic name 
 may have arisen from the popular conception of Jenny s 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. ^7 
 
 character. She also was considered somewhat fantastic, al 
 though there was no doubt of her sanity. In her early 
 youth she had had an unfortunate love affair, that was sup 
 posed to have tinctured her whole life with an alien ele 
 ment. " Love-cracked," people called her. 
 
 " Christmas Jenny s kind of love-cracked," they said. 
 She was Christmas Jenny in midsummer, when she came 
 down the mountain laden with green peas and string-beans 
 and summer squashes. 
 
 She owned a little house and a few acres of cleared land 
 on the mountain, and in one way or another she picked up 
 a living from it. 
 
 It was noon to-day before she had sold all her evergreens 
 and started up the mountain road for home. She had laid 
 in a small stock of provisions, and she carried them in the 
 basket which had held the little bunches of life-everlasting 
 and amaranth flowers and dried grasses. 
 
 The road wound along the base of the mountain. She 
 had to follow it about a mile ; then she struck into a cart- 
 path which led up to the clearing where her house was. 
 
 After she passed Jonas Carey s there were no houses and 
 no people, but she met many living things that she knew. 
 A little field-mouse, scratching warily from cover to cover, 
 lest his enemies should spy him, had appreciative notice 
 from Jenny Wrayne. She turned her head at the call of a 
 jay, and she caught a glimmer of blue through the dazzling 
 white boughs. She saw with sympathetic eyes a wood 
 pecker drumming on the ice-bound trunk of a tree. Now 
 and then she scattered, with regretful sparseness, some 
 seeds and crumbs from her parcels. 
 
 At the point where she left the road for the cart-path 
 ehere was a gap in the woods* and a clear view of the vil- 
 
!68 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 lage below. She stopped and looked back at it. It was 
 quite a large village ; over it hung a spraying net-work of 
 frosty branches ; the smoke arose straight up from the 
 chimneys. Down in the village street a girl and a young 
 man were walking, talking about her, but she did not know 
 that. 
 
 The girl was the minister s daughter. She had just be 
 come engaged to the young man, and was walking with him 
 in broad daylight with a kind of shamefaced pride. When 
 ever they met anybody she blushed, and at the same time 
 held up her head proudly, and swung one arm with an airy 
 motion. She chattered glibly and quite loudly, to cover her 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "Yes," she said, in a sweet, crisp voice, "Christmas 
 Jenny has just been to the house, and we ve bought some 
 wreaths. We re going to hang them in all the front win 
 dows. Mother didn t know as we ought to buy them of her, 
 there s so much talk, but I don t believe a word of it, for my 
 part." 
 
 " What talk ?" asked the young man. He held himself 
 very stiff and straight, and never turned his head when he 
 shot swift, smiling glances at the girl s pink face. 
 
 " Why, don t you know ? It s town-talk. They say she s 
 got a lot of birds and rabbits and things shut up in cages, 
 and half starves them ; and then that little deaf-and-dumb 
 boy, you know they say she treats him dreadfully. They re 
 going to look into it. Father and Deacon Little are going 
 up there this week." 
 
 "Are they?" said the young man. He was listening to 
 the girl s voice with a sort of rapturous attention, but he had 
 little idea as to what she was saying. As they walked, they 
 faced the mountain. 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. rfg 
 
 It was only the next day when the minister and Deacon 
 Little made the visit. They started up a flock of sparrows 
 that were feeding by Jenny s door; but the birds did not 
 fly very far they settled into a tree and watched. Jenny s 
 house was hardly more than a weather-beaten hut, but there 
 was a grape-vine trained over one end, and the front yard 
 was tidy. Just before the house stood a tall pine-tree. 
 At the rear, and on the right, stretched the remains of 
 Jenny s last summer s garden, full of plough -ridges and 
 glistening corn-stubble. 
 
 Jenny was not at home. The minister knocked and got 
 no response. Finally he lifted the latch, and the two men 
 walked in. The room seemed gloomy after the brilliant 
 light outside ; they could not see anything at first, but they 
 could hear a loud and demonstrative squeaking and chirp 
 ing and twittering that their entrance appeared to excite. 
 
 At length a small pink-and-white face cleared out of the 
 gloom in the chimney-corner. It surveyed the visitors with 
 no fear nor surprise, but seemingly with an innocent amia 
 bility. 
 
 " That s the little deaf-and-dumb boy," said the minister, 
 in a subdued voice. The minister was an old man, narrow- 
 shouldered, and clad in long-waisted and wrinkly black. 
 Deacon Little reared himself in his sinewy leanness until his 
 head nearly touched the low ceiling. His face was sallow 
 and severely corrugated, but the features were handsome. 
 
 Both stood staring remorselessly at the little deaf-and- 
 dumb boy, who looked up in their faces with an expression 
 of delicate wonder and amusement. The little boy was 
 dressed like a girl, in a long blue gingham pinafore. He 
 sat in the midst of a heap of evergreens, which he had been 
 twining into wreaths ; his pretty, soft, fair hair was damp, 
 
17 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 and lay in a very flat and smooth scallop over his full white 
 forehead. 
 
 " He looks as if he was well cared for," said Deacon 
 Little. Both men spoke in hushed tones it was hard for 
 them to realize that the boy could not hear, the more so be 
 cause every time their lips moved his smile deepened. He 
 was not in the least afraid. 
 
 They moved around the room half guiltily, and surveyed 
 everything. It was unlike any apartment that they had ever 
 entered. It had a curious sylvan air ; there were heaps 
 of evergreens here and there, and some small green trees 
 leaned in one corner. All around the room hung on the 
 walls, standing on rude shelves were little rough cages and 
 hutches, from which the twittering and chirping sounded. 
 They contained forlorn little birds and rabbits and field- 
 mice. The birds had rough feathers and small, dejected 
 heads, one rabbit had an injured leg, one field-mouse seemed 
 nearly dead. The men eyed them sharply. The minister 
 drew a sigh ; the deacon s handsome face looked harder. 
 But they did not say what they thought, on account of the 
 little deaf-and-dumb boy, whose pleasant blue eyes never 
 left their faces. When they had made the circuit of the 
 room, and stood again by the fireplace, he suddenly set up 
 a cry. It was wild and inarticulate, still not wholly dis 
 sonant, and it seemed to have a meaning of its own. It 
 united with the cries of the little caged wild creatures, and 
 it was all like a soft clamor of eloquent appeal to the two 
 visitors, but they could not understand it. 
 
 They stood solemn and perplexed by the fireplace. 
 " Had we better wait till she comes ?" asked the minister. 
 
 " I don t know," said Deacon Little. 
 
 Back of them arose the tall mantel-shelf. On it were a 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. ! 7 ! 
 
 clock and a candlestick, and regularly laid bunches of brill 
 iant dried flowers, all ready for Jenny to put in her basket 
 and sell. 
 
 Suddenly there was a quick scrape on the crusty snow 
 outside, the door flew open, and Jonas Carey s wife came in. 
 She had her shawl over her head, and she was panting for 
 breath. 
 
 She stood before the two men, and a sudden crust of shy 
 formality seemed to form over her. " Good-arternoon," 
 she said, in response to their salutations. 
 
 She looked at them for a moment, and tightened her 
 shawl-pin ; then the restraint left her. " I knowed you 
 was here," she cried, in her weak, vehement voice ; " I 
 knowed it. I ve heerd the talk. I knowed somebody was 
 goin to come up here an spy her out. I was in Mis 
 Gregg s the other day, an her husband came home ; he d 
 been down to the store, an he said they were talkin bout 
 Jenny, an sayin she didn t treat Willy and the birds well, 
 an the town was goin to look into it. I knowed you was 
 comin up here when I seed you go by. I told Jonas so. 
 An I knowed she wa n t to home, an there wa n t nothin 
 here that could speak, an I told Jonas I was comin . I 
 couldn t stan it nohow. It s dreadful slippery. I had 
 to go on my hands an knees in some places, an I ve sot 
 down twice, but I don t care. I ain t goin to have you 
 comin up here to spy on Jenny, an nobody to home that s 
 got any tongue to speak for her." 
 
 Mrs. Carey stood before them like a ruffled and defiant 
 bird that was frighting herself as well as them with her 
 temerity. She palpitated all over, but there was a fierce 
 look in her dim blue eyes. 
 
 The minister began a deprecating rour/nur, which the 
 
iy 2 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 deacon drowned. "You can speak for her all you want 
 to, Mrs. Carey," said he. " We ain t got any objections to 
 hearin it. An we didn t know but what she was home. 
 Do you know what she does with these birds and things?" 
 
 " Does with em ? Well, I ll tell you what she does with 
 ? em. She picks em up in the woods when they re starvin* 
 an freezin an half dead, an she brings em in here, an 
 takes care of em an feeds em till they git well, an then 
 she lets em go again. That s what she does. You see 
 that rabbit there ? Well, he s been in a trap. Somebody 
 wanted to kill the poor little cretur. You see that robin ? 
 Somebody fired a gun at him an broke his wing. 
 
 " That s what she does. I dunno but it mounts to jest 
 about as much as sendin money to missionaries. I dunno 
 but what bein a missionary to robins an starvin chippies 
 an little deaf-an -dumb children is jest as good as some other 
 kinds, an that s what she is. 
 
 " I ain t afeard to speak ; I m goin to tell the whole story. 
 I dunno what folks mean by talkin about her the way they 
 do. There, she took that little dumbie out of the poor- 
 house. Nobody else wanted him. He don t look as if he 
 was abused very bad, far s I can see. She keeps him jest as 
 nice an neat as she can, an he an the birds has enough to 
 eat, if she don t herself. 
 
 " I guess I know bout it. Here she is goin without a 
 new caliker dress, so s to git somethin for them birds that 
 can t git at the trees, cause there s so much ice on em. 
 
 "You can t tell me nothin . When Jonas has one of his 
 tantrums she can git him out of it quicker n anybody I 
 ever see. She ain t goin to be talked about and spied upon 
 if I can help it. They tell about her bein love-cracked. 
 H m. I dunno what they call love-cracked. I know that An- 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 173 
 
 derson fellar went off an married another girl, when Jenny 
 jest as much expected to have him as could be. He 
 ought to ha been strung up. But I know one thing if she 
 did git kind of twisted out of the reg lar road of lovin , she s 
 in another one, that s full of little dumbies an starvin chip 
 pies an lame rabbits, an she ain t love-cracked no more n 
 other folks." 
 
 Mrs. Carey, carried away by affection and indignation, al 
 most spoke in poetry. Her small face glowed pink, her blue 
 eyes were full of fire, she waved her arms under her shawl. 
 The little meek old woman was a veritable enthusiast. 
 
 The two men looked at each other. The deacon s hand 
 some face was as severe and grave as ever, but he waited 
 for the minister to speak. When the minister did speak 
 it was apologetically. He was a gentle old man, and the 
 deacon was his mouthpiece in matters of parish discipline. 
 If he failed him he betrayed how feeble and kindly a pipe 
 was his own. He told Mrs. Carey that he did not doubt 
 everything was as it should be ; he apologized for their 
 presence ; he praised Christmas Jenny. Then he and the 
 deacon retreated. They were thankful to leave that small, 
 vociferous old woman, who seemed to be pulling herself up 
 by her enthusiasm until she reached the air over their 
 heads, and became so abnormal that she was frightful. In 
 deed, everything out of the broad, common track was a 
 horror to these men and to many of their village fellows. 
 Strange shadows, that their eyes could not pierce, lay upon 
 such, and they were suspicious. The popular sentiment 
 against Jenny Wrayne was originally the outcome of this 
 characteristic, which was a remnant of the old New Eng 
 land witchcraft superstition. More than anything else, 
 Jenny s eccentricity, her possibly uncanny deviation from 
 
174 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 the ordinary ways of life, had brought this inquiry upon 
 her. In actual meaning, although not even in self-acknowl 
 edgment, it was a witch-hunt that went up the mountain road 
 that December afternoon. 
 
 They hardly spoke on the way. Once the minister 
 turned to the deacon. " I rather think there s no occasion 
 for interference," he said, hesitatingly. 
 
 " I guess there ain t any need of it," answered the deacon. 
 
 The deacon spoke again when they had nearly reached 
 his own house. " I guess I ll send her up a little somethin 
 Christmas," said he. Deacon Little was a rich man. 
 
 " Maybe it would be a good idea," returned the minister. 
 " I ll see what I can do." 
 
 Christmas was one week from that day. On Christmas 
 morning old Jonas Carey and his wife, dressed in their 
 best clothes, started up the mountain road to Jenny 
 Wrayne s. Old Jonas wore his great-coat, and had his 
 wife s cashmere scarf wound twice around his neck. Mrs. 
 Carey wore her long shawl and her best bonnet. They 
 walked along quite easily. The ice was all gone now ; 
 there had been a light fall of snow the day before, but it 
 was not shoe-deep. The snow was covered with the little 
 tracks of Jenny s friends, the birds and the field-mice and 
 the rabbits, in pretty zigzag lines. 
 
 Jonas Carey and his wife walked along comfortably until 
 they reached the cart-path, then the old man s shoestring 
 became loose, and he tripped over it. He stooped and 
 tied it laboriously; then he went on. Pretty soon he 
 stopped again. His wife looked back. " What s the mat 
 ter?" said she. 
 
 " Shoestring untied," replied old Jonas, in a half inarticu 
 late grunt. 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 175 
 
 " Don t you want me to tie it, Jonas?" 
 
 Jonas said nothing more ; he tied viciously. 
 
 They were in sight of Jenny s house when he stopped 
 again, and sat down on the stone wall beside the path. 
 "Oh, Jonas, what is the matter?" 
 
 Jonas made no reply. His wife went up to him, and saw 
 that the shoestring was loose again. " Oh, Jonas, do let 
 me tie it ; I d just as soon as not. Sha n t I, Jonas?" 
 
 Jonas sat there in the midst of the snowy blackberry 
 vines, and looked straight ahead with a stony stare. 
 
 His wife began to cry. " Oh, Jonas," she pleaded, " don t 
 you have a tantrum to-day. Sha n t I tie it ? I ll tie it real 
 strong. Oh, Jonas !" 
 
 The old woman fluttered around the old man in his great 
 coat on the wall, like a distressed bird around her mate. 
 Jenny Wrayne opened her door and looked out ; then she 
 came down the path. " What s the matter ?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, Jenny, I dunno what to do. He s got another 
 tantrum !" 
 
 " Has he fell down ?" 
 
 " No ; that ain t it. His shoestring s come untied three 
 times, an he don t like it, an he s sot down on the wall. I 
 dunno but he ll set there all day. Oh, dear me suz, when 
 we d got most to your house, an I was jest thinkin we d 
 come long real comfort ble ! I want to tie it for him, but 
 he won t let me, an I don t darse to when he sets there 
 like that. Oh, Jonas, jest let me tie it, won t you? I ll tie 
 it real nice an strong, so it won t undo again." 
 
 Jenny caught hold of her arm. "Come right into the 
 house," said she, in a hearty voice. She quite turned her 
 back upon the figure on the wall. 
 
 " Oh. Jenny, I can t go in an leave him a-settin there. 
 
I? 6 CHRISTMAS JENNY. 
 
 I shouldn t wonder if he sot there all day. You don t 
 know nothin about it. Sometimes i have to stan an 
 argue with him for hours afore he ll stir." 
 
 " Come right in. The turkey s most done, an we ll set 
 right down as soon as tis. It s bout the fattest turkey I 
 ever see. I dunno where Deacon Little could ha got it. 
 The plum-puddin s all done, an the vegetables is most 
 ready to take up. Come right in, an we ll have dinner in 
 less than half an hour." 
 
 After the two women had entered the house the figure 
 on the wall cast an uneasy glance at it without turning 
 his head. He sniffed a little. 
 
 It was quite true that he could smell the roasting turkey, 
 and the turnip and onions, out there. 
 
 In the house, Mrs. Carey laid aside her bonnet and 
 shawl, and put them on the bed in Jenny s little bedroom. 
 A Christmas present, a new calico dress, which Jenny had 
 received the night before, lay on the bed also. Jenny showed 
 it with pride. "It s that chocolate color I ve always liked," 
 said she. " I don t see what put it into their heads." 
 
 " It s real handsome," said Mrs. Carey. She had not 
 told Jenny about her visitors ; but she was not used to 
 keeping a secret, and her possession of one gave a curious 
 expression to her face. However, Jenny did not notice it. 
 She hurried about preparing dinner. The stove was cov 
 ered with steaming pots ; the turkey in the oven could 
 be heard sizzling. The little deaf-and-dumb boy sat in 
 his chimney-corner, and took long sniffs. He watched 
 Jenny, and regarded the stove in a rapture, or he exam 
 ined some treasures that he held in his lap. There were 
 picture-books and cards, and boxes of candy, and oranges. 
 He held them all tightly gathered into his pinafore. The 
 
CHRISTMAS JENNY. 177 
 
 little caged wild things twittered sweetly and pecked at 
 their food. Jenny laid the table with the best table 
 cloth and her mother s flowered china. The mountain 
 farmers, of whom Jenny sprang, had had their little de 
 cencies and comforts, and there were china and a linen 
 table-cloth for a Christmas dinner, poor as the house was. 
 
 Mrs. Carey kept peering uneasily out of the window at 
 her husband on the stone wall. 
 
 ** If you want him to come in you ll keep away from 
 the window," said Jenny ; and the old woman settled into a 
 chair near the stove. 
 
 Very soon the door opened, and Jonas came in. Jenny 
 was bending over the potato kettle, and she did not look 
 around. "You can put his great-coat on the bed, if you ve 
 a mind to, Mrs. Carey," said she. 
 
 Jonas got out of his coat, and sat down with sober 
 dignity ; he had tied his shoestring very neatly and firmly. 
 After a while he looked over at the little deaf-and-dumb 
 boy, who was smiling at him, and he smiled back again. 
 
 The Careys stayed until evening. Jenny set her candle 
 in the window to light them down the cart-path. Down 
 in the village the minister s daughter and her betrothed 
 were out walking to the church, where there was a Christ 
 mas-tree. It was quite dark. She clung closely to his 
 arm, and once in a while her pink cheek brushed his 
 sleeve. The stars were out, many of them, and more 
 were coming. One seemed suddenly to flash out on the 
 dark side of the mountain. 
 
 "There s Christmas Jenny s candle," said the girl. And 
 it was Christmas Jenny s candle, but it was also something 
 more. Like all common things, it had, and was, its own 
 poem, and that was a Christmas star. 
 
 12 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 THE moon came up over the mountain, and suddenly the 
 shadows of the trees grew darker and more distinct. There 
 were four great elm-trees in the Amesbury yard. Over 
 across the road was a cemetery ; back of that flowed the 
 river ; on the opposite bank of the river arose the mountain. 
 The mountain was wooded to its summit. There were 
 patches of silver on it, where some of the tree-tops waved 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 Jonas Amesbury and his mother sat on the door-step ; 
 neither of them noticed the beautiful moonlight night much. 
 Once the old woman remarked that the moon made it as 
 bright as day, and Jonas did not even trouble himself to as 
 sent. 
 
 Jonas looked hardly more than a boy ; his curly head 
 had the blond lightness of a baby s ; his round face was 
 smooth and delicate. He sat on the lower door-stone, rest 
 ing his elbows on his knees ; his mother, a dark, sallow 
 figure, sat on the upper one. She held herself rigidly, and 
 did not lean against the door-casing. She was very tired, 
 but her will would not let her old bones and muscles relax. 
 Jane Amesbury never " lopped," as she termed it. She was, 
 in her way, a student of human nature and a philosopher. 
 She divided women into two classes : those who " lopped M 
 
A POT OF GOLD. ^9 
 
 and those who did not. " I wa n t never one of the kind 
 that lop," she used to say, with a backward lift of her head 
 so forcible that it seemed as if her neck muscles were made 
 of steel, and one listened for the click, " an I ain t never 
 thought much of them women that do lop." 
 
 One looking at her easily realized the truth of the state 
 ment. Old as she was now, it was quite evident that Jane 
 Amesbury had no more leaning necessity than a hardy 
 tree over on the mountain. She required for her growth 
 and support only a rude, stanch soil and a sky. 
 
 Her son Jonas seemed different ; still, he had something 
 of his mother s character. It was evident in a certain dig 
 nity and self-restraint with which he bore himself to-night. 
 He was very unhappy. His mother was looking down 
 upon him with tenderness and a kind of indignation. They 
 had been silent for quite a while ; when the moon arose it 
 seemed a signal to them. It was with Jonas as if the 
 shadows in his own soul deepened out, and it seemed as if 
 his mother also saw them, for she began at once : " There 
 ain t no use talkin bout it," said she; "there ain t no 
 sense in a fellar s settin right down an givin up, cause he 
 can t git one particular girl. Marryin ain t everything there 
 is in the world nohow, if folks do act as if twas. Folks 
 act like poor fools sometimes. I guess I know." 
 
 The old woman gave her head a shake of rage and wis 
 dom. Jonas said nothing. His face, in the moonlight, looked 
 as fair and pretty as a girl s. 
 
 Presently his mother began again ; she seemed to have 
 a subtle ear for her son s thoughts, and to answer them like 
 spoken arguments. 
 
 " I know she s a good-lookin girl nough," said she, " an 
 she s smart nough. I dun know as there is anybody round 
 
!8o A POT OF COLD. 
 
 here that quite comes up to her ; but that don t make no 
 difference. Looks ain t everything, an smartness ain t 
 everything. There s plenty of girls that s good nough, if 
 they can t tear the airth up or set the river on fire. These 
 dretful smart, handsome folks are just the ones that flax out 
 sometimes. They ain t nothin more n Fourth of July fire 
 works ; there s more sputter an fizzle than anything else 
 when you come to find out. I don t think I should give up 
 eatin an sleepin , an go round lookin as if I d lost my last 
 friend, on account of one girl, when there s plenty more that 
 would have me. There s Emma Jane Monk " 
 
 Then the young man aroused himself. " I guess," said he, 
 " when you see me going with Emma Jane Monk you ll 
 know it." 
 
 " Well, you can turn up your nose at Emma Jane Monk 
 all you want to ; she s as good as Rose Tenney any day." 
 
 " Mother !" 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " You can talk all you want to, but it ain t going to do 
 any good. I suppose I ain t showing much spunk about it, 
 and I know it ain t any worse for me than for other folks, 
 and I ain t the first one that couldn t get the one he wanted. 
 But I can t bear it, and I ain t going to ; that s all there is 
 about it." 
 
 " What you goin to do ?" asked his mother, in a stern voice 
 that had in it a frightened inflection. 
 
 " I don t know any more than a tree in the wind. I 
 ain t doing anything ; I m being done with." 
 
 " Jonas Amesbury, you make me mad talkin such stuff. 
 I don t see where you got such notions ; for my part I know 
 you didn t git em from me. Rose Tenney h m ! S pose 
 she does curl her hair over her forehead, an wear her dresses 
 
A POT OF GOLD. jgi 
 
 all girt in round her waist, an act so dreadful soft an sweet ! 
 her folks ain t much, an everybody knows it ; everybody 
 knows what old Joe Tenney is stole all that land that be 
 longed to his brother ; everybody knowed he did it, if they 
 couldn t prove it. I don t think Rose Tenney s got so very 
 much to brag of nohow." 
 
 " I d like to know what good you think it does talking 
 that way, mother ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don t s pose it does any good. I s pose if all Rose 
 Tenney s relations were strung up on the gallows in a row, 
 you d want her just the same." 
 
 " Yes, I would," said Jonas, in a fervent tone, tossing back 
 his head like his mother, with a defiant air. He could fancy 
 himself wedding Rose under the shadow of her swinging 
 relatives, and see nothing ridiculous ; he was in such an in 
 tense mood that humor was entirely barred out 
 
 "Yes, I s pose you would ; it would be just like you," re 
 turned his mother, sarcastically. Then she arose. " Well, 
 I m goin in to set the bread a-risin ," said she. " I s pose 
 the bread might jest as well be riz, if you can t git Rose 
 Tenney." 
 
 Jonas did not reply ; he got up and went strolling off 
 across the yard. His mother entered the house the door 
 opened directly into the kitchen. It was dark except for the 
 moonlight. Jane spoke as she stepped over the threshold. 
 
 " You there ?" said she. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Where be yer? 1 
 
 " Over here by the winder." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see yer." 
 
 Jane stepped over to the window, where another woman 
 was sitting, and peered out into the yard. 
 
j82 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 " He s gone out of the yard," said the sitting woman. 
 
 " You don t s pose he s goin down there, do ye ?" 
 
 "No ; he headed up the other way. I see him." 
 
 Jane then sat down in a chair near the other woman, 
 who was her unmarried sister. Her name was Elvira Slaw- 
 son. Elvira was ten years younger than her sister ; her 
 blond hair was scarcely gray ; she wore it in twisted loops 
 over her ears ; she was tall and thin, and her clothes were 
 so loose that all her outlines seemed wavering ; one shoul 
 der was a little higher than the other; she had a slow, high- 
 pitched voice. 
 
 Jane looked at her; she was in the shadow herself. "I 
 s pose you heard me talkin to him, didn t ye ?" she re 
 marked. 
 
 " I heard a little on t ; I couldn t help it. I was settin 
 right here." 
 
 "Well, I dun know what he s goin to do. I think it s a 
 pretty piece of work, for my part." 
 
 "You don t s pose he ll do anything desprit, do ye?" 
 
 "Desprit? no. If he does, I ll shake him. Desprit! I 
 ain t got no patience with sech kind of work. Ready to 
 pull the house down, bout a girl. I s pose it s what they 
 call love! H m ! it s nough to make anybody sick! 
 Love !" Jane s voice as she said " love " had a contempt 
 uous drawl. 
 
 Elvira, with her head gently inclined to one side, looked 
 doubtfully at her sister. Being supposed to have no ac 
 quaintance with love, she had more respect for him. "Well, 
 I s pose men do pretty desprit things sometimes on account 
 of love," she said, in a shamefaced way. She was exceed 
 ingly timid about alluding to such matters before her sister. 
 
 " Desprit things ! Well, I s pose some that s poor fooli 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 183 
 
 do, an I guess it s good riddance to em. Folks that can t 
 see nothin in this world but the one sugar-plum they ain t 
 able to git had better git out of it. Love? 
 
 Jane arose ; she went to the shelf and struck a match. 
 " Goin to mix up bread ?" asked her sister. 
 
 "Yes, I s pose so. I thought I d have some riz biscuit 
 in the mornin , Jonas thinks so much of em ; but I don t 
 s pose he ll tech em even if I make em. He ain t eat 
 enough to-day to feed a fly." 
 
 The light flared out ; Jane bent her brows over it to see 
 if it were trimmed squarely. Then she went into the pantry 
 for her mixing-bowl and flour. There was now and then a 
 click as her heels struck the floor ; the floor was worn into 
 little hillocks, and the nails frequently protruded ; one could 
 see here and there one sparkle in the lamp-light. This was 
 an old house ; the underpinning sagged in places, and the 
 rooms were full of crooked lines; not a door or window was 
 straight. 
 
 Elvira watched her sister mix the bread. Jane did not 
 lose a grain of flour in the process ; her knotty fingers were 
 deft and delicate from faithful practice. She left the mix 
 ing-bowl polished quite clean when she finally deposited 
 the dough in the pans. There was little treasure in the 
 Amesbury house, but none would be left clinging to the 
 sides of it. Jane had made an appendix to the decalogue 
 to suit her own exigencies ; one of the new sins was waste 
 fulness. She did all the housework ; she privately be 
 lieved Elvira to be nothing of a housekeeper. Elvira 
 knitted a great deal of lace edging, and she sold yards 
 of it to people in the village. She also furnished a store 
 with some. She had quite a local reputation for her knitted 
 lace, and was looked upon somewhat in the line of an 
 
1 84 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 artist. It was even rumored that she devised new patterns 
 out of her own head. Her sister gave her her board f 
 and all the money she spent was the proceeds of her lace- 
 making. She knitted incessantly, and always had her lace 
 with her in a little bag. Pretty soon she drew her chair up 
 to the table where her sister was making the bread, and 
 drew out her knitting. 
 
 " You ain t goin to knittin to-night ?" remarked Jane, dis 
 approvingly. 
 
 " I m jest goin to make one scallop." 
 
 This lace was considered Elvira s masterpiece, being very 
 broad and intricate. She bent over it, and knitted with a 
 frowning forehead. The light was not very good. She wore 
 spectacles. 
 
 " You countin ?" said Jane presently. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I d like to know the hull truth of it bout Rose Tenney." 
 
 Elvira kept her eyes on her lace. " Do you s pose she 
 wouldn t have him ?" she queried, timidly. 
 
 " I dun know ; but I do know one thing : it wa n t her 
 fault if she wouldn t. I know a thing or two. I ve had my 
 eyes open. If that girl don t think nough of Jonas I ll miss 
 my guess. I ve seen her when he was round. A girl don t 
 light up like a rainbow when she sees a fellar comin if 
 there ain t somethin in the wind. She thinks nough of him. 
 Old Joe Tenney s at the bottom of it. He don t think 
 tkere s quite nough money here. I know him. Since he s 
 got a little money himself, everybody else that ain t got it 
 ain t any more than the dirt under his feet. Joe Tenney 
 always thought more of money than anything else in the 
 world. Cheated his own brother for the sake of it. I 
 shouldn t think he d want to say much." 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 185 
 
 Elvira still kept her eyes upon her lace ; a red flush 
 mounted on her soft, flabby cheeks. " There didn t nobody 
 really know he cheated him," said she. 
 
 " Yes, they did know, too, well s they wanted to. Where 
 did the deeds for that land go to, I d like to know ? They 
 couldn t prove nothin , cause they wa n t registered, but 
 there wa n t no doubt bout it." 
 
 " I s pose he thought that land belonged to him anyhow. 
 You know they said he d lent Henry consider ble money. 
 I guess some thought Henry d agreed to give him them 
 deeds, an then backed out." 
 
 " Elvira Slawson, if you want to stan up for old Joe 
 Tenney, you can. I should think you was bout old nough 
 to be off the notion of that by this time." 
 
 "I dun know what you mean, Jane." 
 
 " I know what I mean. Well, I s pose it s love" 
 
 Elvira said no more. She kept her meek suffused face 
 close to her lace. It was quite true that years ago there 
 had been a love affair between herself and Joseph Tenney, 
 and it had come to naught. Her sister had never done 
 twitting her with it : all the prickles in her nature seemed 
 turned against sentiment, perhaps because of its fancied 
 softness, which made her indignant. She had nursed 
 Elvira faithfully through the severe illness which her disap 
 pointment had brought upon her, and then had tried a 
 system of mental cauterization to cure the wound. Any 
 symptoms that led her to believe the cure was not com 
 plete caused her to apply the iron anew. Now she kept 
 glancing sharply at Elvira over her lace ; her lips were 
 compressed, her nose was elevated sarcastically. But soon 
 her anxiety over her son drew her thoughts away from her 
 sister. 
 
!86 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 " I don t see where he is," she said, standing in the door, 
 after the bread was set away. 
 
 " Mebbe he s gone up to Jake Manson V 
 
 " I don t think he has, this time of night. Oh, there he 
 is!" 
 
 Neither of the women said anything to Jonas when he 
 entered the kitchen, but they watched him furtively. He 
 went across the room to the mantel-shelf and lighted a 
 candle. " Coin to bed ?" asked his mother then. 
 
 Jonas gave an affirmative grunt. He looked as if he 
 had been walking fast, his face was flushed, and his fair hair 
 lay damp and flat on the temples. 
 
 Pretty soon the women heard his steps on the stairs. 
 " It s the greatest work I ever see," said Jane. She went 
 about and slammed to the doors and locked them ; Elvira 
 put up her lace-work. Then they went to bed in the little 
 bedroom that opened out of the kitchen they slept to 
 gether. 
 
 A little after midnight Elvira awoke her sister "Jane, 
 Jane, wake up !" she whispered, fearfully. The dark seemed 
 to loom over her and make her voice echo like a mountain. 
 Jane did not awaken very easily, she had to speak again 
 and shake her a little. When Jane finally aroused it was 
 with a jerk. She sat straight up in bed. "What s the 
 matter?" asked she, in a loud, determined voice. 
 
 " Oh, Jane, lay down again ; don t be scart. I ve jest had 
 the queerest dream." 
 
 " Elvira Slawson, you don t mean to say you made all 
 this row an waked me up out of a sound sleep for a 
 dream !" 
 
 "You jest wait till you hear it. You lay down an I ll 
 tell you what twas." 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 187 
 
 " I don t want to hear it, an I ain t goin to. I ain t 
 goin to listen to any such tomfoolery wakin me up out 
 of a sound sleep! I thought the house was afire, or some 
 body was gittin in." 
 
 " I won t take but jest a minute, Jane." 
 
 "I ain t goin to hear it, an that s all there is about it." 
 Jane lay down with a thud that made the feather-bed arise 
 in billows. 
 
 Elvira begged hard, but she would not let her tell the 
 dream. " If you don t stop carryin on so I ll go in the 
 spare bedroom an leave you alone," said she ; " I ain t 
 goin to be broke of my rest this way." 
 
 That threat silenced Elvira. All her life she had been 
 afraid of the dark if she were alone in it. 
 
 With daylight she began again, but Jane was obdurate. 
 She would not hear the dream at all. She did not believe 
 in dreams. She had always had a contempt for them, and 
 she held the opinion that repeating them caused one to 
 dream more. 
 
 So Elvira carried about her dream all day, like a poet his 
 unsung song. She would have told it to Jonas, but he was 
 away all day haying in a distant field. The Amesburys 
 owned this small farm, but their own haying was so meagre 
 that it was done long ago. Now Jonas was hiring out to 
 one of the neighbors. It was a relief to his mother to have 
 him away all day ; his miserable face stirred her to keenest 
 agony and wrath. She was utterly distressed and despair 
 ing over his misery, and furious with him that he yielded 
 to it. 
 
 " I don t see as he looked a mite different when he came 
 home to supper," she told Elvira that night, " and he hadn t 
 eat half what I give him for dinner." 
 
!88 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 "I wish you d let me tell you that dream," returned 
 Elvira, eagerly and mysteriously. 
 
 "Elvira Slawson, if you don t quit talkin bout that 
 dream I shall go ravin crazy. I ve got enough to stan up 
 under without that." 
 
 The two women were preparing for bed again, and Jane 
 took the hair-pins out of her knot of hair with a conclusive 
 air. Her hair hanging about her face gave her a fierce, 
 haggard look. 
 
 " Well, of course I ain t a-goin to tell it to you if you don t 
 want to hear it," returned Elvira, with some trace of dignity. 
 
 " Well, I don t want to hear it, an I hope you ll remem 
 ber it." 
 
 But again Jane was awakened. This time Elvira clutched 
 her desperately. "Jane," she called, "wake up, for massy 
 sake! J ve dreamed it again" 
 
 Jane sat up, took hold of her sister, and laid her down 
 peremptorily. Elvira in her excitement had raised herself, 
 and was bending over her. "Now," said she, "you jest 
 listen. I m a-goin to lay down again, an if you speak an 
 other word I m a-goin into the spare bedroom. As for 
 bein broke of my rest again to-night, I won t." 
 
 Elvira gave a little gasp, but she said nothing more. 
 Soon Jane began to breathe regularly. It was three o clock 
 in the morning when Elvira aroused her again. This time 
 Elvira had a firm clutch on her arm ; her voice was quite 
 loud and decisive. 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 "What do you mean actin so?" Jane asked, feebly. 
 She was now quite alarmed. 
 
 " I m a-goin to tell you my dream. JTvt dreamc* it 
 
A POT OF GOLD. X 8 9 
 
 " Well, do tell it, for massy sakes. I never see sech work." 
 
 "Jane, I ve dreamed three times that I found a pot of gold 
 in our field that joins Joe Tenney s oat field. It was under 
 an apple-tree. I dug under it, and I found it." 
 
 " H m !" 
 
 " It was an iron pot with a cover, like the one you boil 
 beans in, an it was chock-full of gold dollars." 
 
 " That all ?" 
 
 "Jane, where you dream about the same thing three 
 times, it comes true. I ve always heard it did." 
 
 " I s pose you believe it." 
 
 " I dun know as I really believe, but I ve heard lots of 
 folks say there was somethin in it. Don t you remember 
 how mother dreamed three times runnin how father was 
 goin en a journey, before he died ?" 
 
 "Well, if you want to believe sech stuff you can. I wish 
 you d stop talkin . I ve been broke of my rest bout all I 
 want to be. I dun know but I ll go into the spare bedroom 
 anyhow. I s pose jest as I git fairly to sleep again you ll 
 dream it over again an grab me." 
 
 "Jane, don t you think it means somethin ?" 
 
 "It means I m goin into the spare bedroom, an I ain t 
 goin to lay here talkin bout it." 
 
 " Don t, Jane ; I won t speak another word." 
 
 "You mind you don t, then." 
 
 Elvira kept her word. She said no more that night, nor did 
 she the next morning. She never alluded to the dream. She 
 assisted about the dish-washing after breakfast ; then she sat 
 down with her lace. After a while Jane went out to feed the 
 hens. When she returned she caught a glimpse of Elvira 
 stealing around the corner of the house. " Where you goin ?" 
 she called. 
 
I9 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 " I ain t goin far," answered Elvira, in a trembling voice. 
 Jane strode after her, the hens dough-dish in her hand. 
 Elvira hustled along, but she soon caught up with her, and 
 saw that she was carrying the shovel. 
 
 - Where are you going with that shovel ?" asked Jane. 
 
 Suddenly Elvira faced her ; she held the shovel like a 
 staff. "7V0 a-goirf to dig" 
 
 " Elvira Slawson, I never thought you was quite sech a 
 perfect fool." 
 
 " I don t care what you say, Jane, I m goin to be sure 
 that pot of gold ain t there." 
 
 " Well, you ain t goin to dull up that new shovel diggin , 
 nohow." 
 
 " I jest as soon take the old one." 
 
 Elvira went back and got the old shovel. Her sis 
 ter sneered and argued all the way, but she paid no 
 heed. There was on her mild face a kind of rapt ex 
 pression, like a higher determination. She had gotten 
 her revelation, however petty by comparison, Joan of Arc 
 fashion, and was not to be turned back by banners and 
 spears. Her mission was not to fight, but to dig, and she 
 would dig. 
 
 She went forth with her shovel, and left Jane still talk 
 ing. She did not return until noon ; then her face was all 
 flushed with the heat ; she tried not to pant. There was a 
 cup of tea and some bread and butter for dinner ; they did 
 not have a regular dinner when Jonas was not at home, and 
 Jonas was still haying for the neighbor. 
 
 After dinner Elvira put on her sun-bonnet again. 
 
 " Then you ain t found the pot of gold yet ?" remarked 
 her sister, in a sweet, stinging voice. She had not spoken 
 before except concerning food at the table. 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 191 
 
 " No," said Elvira, " I ain t found it yet." 
 
 " I should think you d want to finish that lace you was 
 workin on some time. I should think you d lose more 
 money than you ll find in the wonderful pot." 
 
 " I can finish the lace to-morrow," replied Elvira, going 
 out the door. She had left her shovel in the field. The 
 afternoon passed, and she did not return. Jane got sup 
 per ready, and she had not come. Jane did not expect 
 Jonas until late, and there was no one but herself at home 
 for supper. She kept going to the road and looking. 
 Finally she put on her sun-bonnet, and went down the 
 road. It was not far to the field of Elvira s dream. On 
 the farther side a stone wall divided it from Joseph Ten- 
 ney s land; in the distance she could see the Tenney house 
 white-painted and piazzaed, a village mansion. The bars 
 at the entrance of the field were let down ; she passed 
 through. There were five old apple-trees in the field. 
 Around four of them were heaps of loose earth where El 
 vira had been digging. The fifth tree stood close to the 
 wall that marked the Tenney land; its branches reached 
 over it. Under this tree crouched Elvira, examining some 
 thing. Her shovel lay beside her on the ground. Jane 
 approached stealthily. Just as she reached the tree she 
 heard a quick rustle on the other side of the wall ; she 
 looked, and saw Joseph Tenney s face through branches 
 of pink dog-bane and over masses of poison-ivy. It was a 
 handsome old face, clean-shaven and blue-eyed, but it was 
 deathly pale. Elvira saw him too. She and Jane looked 
 at him, and he looked at them ; then he turned about 
 and went homeward across the wet field, with a step like a 
 slow march. If it was a retreat, it was a dignified one. 
 
 The minute Joseph Tenney went away, Elvira sprang up 
 
192 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 and grasped the shovel. Jane peered around her. "What 
 you got there ?" she asked. Then she repeated the question 
 in an excited tone : " Why, what is it ? what have you 
 found ?" She had seen a small iron-bound chest, with 
 loam clinging to it ; it was open, and overflowing with un 
 folded papers. She stepped forward, but Elvira was be 
 fore her in the path. She held the shovel uplifted. " Don t 
 you go near it T 
 
 " Course I m goin near it. I d like to know what you 
 mean ; I guess I ve got jest as good a right to know what 
 tis as you have. I should laugh." 
 
 " If you come one step nearer / // kill you /" Elvira s eyes 
 were gleaming ; there seemed to be sharp lights like steel 
 in them ; her face was white and resolute. 
 
 Jane started back: she was frightened. "Well, you can 
 keep your old box if you want to," said she. Then she 
 went off across the field. Her sun-bonnet was tilted until it 
 looked of itself aggressive and rampant ; she never turned 
 around. 
 
 She had not been home long when Elvira returned, lean 
 ing upon the shovel. She could scarcely walk, she was so 
 exhausted. When she sat down at the supper-table she 
 turned faint ; she laid her head down on the table with a 
 low groan. Jane sprang and brought some water. "It s 
 the greatest piece of work I ever did see," she said, bathing 
 her sister s forehead. 
 
 Elvira began to weep. " Oh, Jane, I didn t mean to say 
 such a dreadful thing to you !" she sobbed, weakly. " But I 
 couldn t show it to you, nohow ; I couldn t." 
 
 " We won t say nothin more bout it," said Jane, shortly. 
 "You ll be sick next. I don t care nothin bout the old 
 box." 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 193 
 
 After Elvira had had her tea, Jane made her go to bed. 
 She said nothing about the matter to Jonas when he re 
 turned. She thought he seemed more depressed than ever. 
 
 The next day, in the afternoon, Jane went down to the 
 store for a little shopping. She had a plan to buy some 
 gray flannel and make a nice shirt for Jonas to do haying 
 in. She thought that might perhaps please him and cheer 
 him a little. She was gone an hour. When she returned 
 she found Elvira sitting on the door-step knitting her lace. 
 There was a grape-vine around the door, and some of the 
 light green sprays hung down over Elvira s head. Her 
 face, bent over her lace-work, looked fair and peaceful. 
 Her old muslin dress fell around her in soft folds. She 
 was sixty years old, but she looked maidenly. When Jane 
 stood before her she smiled up at her. Jane sank down on 
 the door-step. " It s a dreadful hot day," she sighed. She 
 eyed Elvira sharply. She felt irascible, and as if she must 
 let go her tongue. Her face was glossy with perspiration, 
 her hands were black from her cotton gloves. She sus 
 pected that the flannel was a poor bargain. She eyed 
 Elvira a minute, then she spoke. "There wa n t no need 
 of your bein so mighty private bout that box. I knowed 
 well nough what twas all the time." 
 
 Elvira dropped the lace and looked at her. 
 
 " Mebbe you don t b lieve it. Well, I ll tell you what 
 twas: it was them deeds" 
 
 Elvira was trembling violently. " Well, there ain t no 
 harm in it if it was." 
 
 " Mebbe there ain t ; but that s what was in that box 
 them deeds." 
 
 " His brother s dead now, an they re his anyway. You 
 can t do nothinV 
 
194 
 
 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 " Oh, I ain t goin to do nothin . I wouldn t stir a step 
 to tell it to a livin soul. You needn t worry bout that. 
 I ain t afeared but he ll git punishment nough some way. 
 I sha n t do nothin to bring it on him." 
 
 Elvira looked fixedly at her sister ; her soft, drawling 
 voice became quite firm. "Jane, he didn t do nothin 
 wrong bout that. He s told me all bout it." 
 
 " Told you bout it ? When ?" 
 
 " Just now this afternoon." 
 
 " Has Joe Tenney been here ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Come over cause he was scart, I s pose." 
 
 "No, he didn t. He was goin by, and I called him in. 
 I wanted to tell him where I put it." 
 
 "Where did you put it?" 
 
 "Under the stone wall, on his side. He told me all 
 bout it ; jest how it was." 
 
 " I d like to know how he counted for hidin the deeds." 
 
 "I can t tell you; I said I wouldn t; but he wa n t one 
 mite to blame." 
 
 " Well, mebbe you believe it." 
 
 " Course I believe it." 
 
 Jane surveyed her blackened hands. Her right knee 
 ached ; she was rheumatic. " P rhaps he ll have you yet, 
 if you stick up for him so," said she. 
 
 Elvira quivered and shrank ; her eyes suddenly looked 
 red and weak. "Jane, you know I m past all that. There 
 ain t no call for you to say sech things as that. Sech a 
 thing ain t never entered into his head. He s been married 
 to a real nice woman, an he ain t thought of me once a 
 year. Twa n t ever much to him anyway ; he wa n t noth 
 in* but a boy* He don t want me, an I wouldn t have 
 
A POT OF GOLD. 195 
 
 him if he did. I ain t no fit person for him. He can git 
 somebody that s younger an smarter if he wants anybody. 
 I ain t nothin to be married, an I know it well nough." 
 
 " You can talk that way all you want to ; you d have 
 him fast enough if you had the chance." 
 
 Elvira looked quite solemnly at her sister. "Look 
 a-here, Jane," said she, " mebbe you dun know jest what I 
 mean ; but it seems to me as if bein sure that anybody was 
 all right an honest was the completest kind of bein mar 
 ried that anybody could have." 
 
 Jane stared at her for a moment ; then she looked away ; 
 she did not say any more. 
 
 Elvira knitted for a few minutes ; then she looked up. 
 ** I ruther guess," said she, " that it will come out all right 
 bout Jonas an Rose." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 "We talked it over some. I guess he thought Jonas 
 hadn t got much, an there waVt much sense in it, in the 
 first place, an he told Rose she s got to give him up ; but 
 I shouldn t wonder if he was kinder thinkin better of 
 it." 
 
 "S pose he s afraid we ll tell if he don t." 
 
 " No, that ain t it. If you knew what I know you wouldn t 
 say so." 
 
 " Well, I dun know what you know, but you ve got more 
 faith in him than I have." 
 
 Elvira s face was lifted ; she looked past her sister with 
 an expression as if she were looking at a shrine. " I know 
 Joe Tenney is a good man," said she. 
 
 The next day Jonas was at home working in the garden. 
 In the afternoon a neighbor drove into the yard and called 
 to him. He had brought a letter to him from the post-office. 
 
196 A POT OF GOLD. 
 
 Jane was peeping curiously from the window. "What is 
 it ?" she called out, after the neighbor had driven away. 
 
 Jonas stood out in the yard staring at the letter. " Oh, 
 nothing much," he answered. But smiles were playing all 
 over his face. He went back to the garden, and whistled 
 as he worked. 
 
 After tea he went up-stairs, and was gone quite a while. 
 " I believe he s goin somewhere," Jane said to Elvira. " He 
 vrashed him real particular, an he s shaved him. I don t 
 believe but he s goin down there." 
 
 When Jonas came down-stairs he had on his best suit j 
 his curly hair was damp and trained in careful locks over 
 his smooth young forehead ; his cheeks were fresh and rosy; 
 he held his neck stiffly in his clean collar and white necktie. 
 
 He stood in the kitchen and brushed his hat carefully. 
 His mother and aunt were in the sitting-room, and he 
 stepped softly, hoping they would not come out ; but his 
 mother looked out into the kitchen. " Where you goin ?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 Jonas blushed beautifully like a girl. Then he laughed. 
 " Oh, I ain t goin far," he replied, putting on his hat and 
 passing out under the grape-vine. 
 
 Jane and Elvira sat up until he returned, although it was 
 quite late. They heard his step out in the yard, and were 
 alert when he came in. He was radiant. He stood in the 
 door looking at them and smiling " Well," said his mother. 
 
 "I guess it s all right," said Jonas. " I shouldn t wonder 
 if one of these days you had a daughter." His face was 
 all pink and glowing, his yellow hair was dry, and the 
 fluffy curls stood out around his forehead and caught the 
 light. Elvira began to cry. His mother laughed and 
 frowned together. 
 
A POT OF GOLD. ! 97 
 
 " Well, I hope you ll behave yourself an eat somethin 
 now," said she. 
 
 After he had gone up-stairs she went out into the kitchen 
 to mix bread. " I guess I ll have some riz biscuit for break 
 fast," she said to Elvira. " He didn t eat none of them 
 others, but I s pose he ll eat these fast nough. It beats me, 
 but I s pose it s love." She tried to say "love" as if it 
 were a clod of mud, but in spite of herself she said it as if it 
 were a jewet 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSKS, 
 
 CLARISSA MAY S kitchen table was heaped with rose 
 leaves. She was filling a large brown far with layers of 
 rose leaves and salt. She sprinkled in various spices too, 
 then sniffed at the mixture daintily. 
 
 " Needs a little more cinnamon," she murmured. 
 
 " I wish you d let the cinnamon alone," said a quick, 
 sweet voice u the cinnamon, and the rose leaves, and the 
 salt, and the whole of it. I d like to fling it into the fire." 
 
 "Don t talk so, Anne." 
 
 Anne stood in the door. She had just come down from 
 her chamber. She was all ready to go to the picnic. She 
 wore a broad-brimmed white straw hat, trimmed with fine 
 pink flowers. Her ruffled, pink-flowered muslin gown flut 
 tered crisply. She had pinned some pink rose-buds at her 
 throat. 
 
 Anne and Clarissa were wonderfully alike, but the com 
 parison would have been less derogatory for Clarissa had 
 they been different. The resemblance brought the regret 
 and humiliation of loss to her. Anne showed what Clarissa 
 had been. She was the rose of this spring, her sister was 
 one of last. If both of them had not been roses, the last 
 year s flower would not have seemed so forlorn. 
 
 Clarissa s dull blond hair was brushed smoothly around 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. , 99 
 
 her ears ; Anne s was crinkled, and there were gold lights 
 in it. Clarissa s skin was tintless and faintly lined; her sis 
 ter s was warm and rosy and smooth. Clarissa s lips were 
 thin ; Anne s, full and red. One s figure showed angles ; the 
 other s, curves. 
 
 Clarissa, replying with her mild, deprecating voice, gazed 
 admiringly at her sister. " You look real nice," she added. 
 
 " Sometimes I don t care whether I look nice or not. 
 You do make me so out of patience !" 
 
 " Why, Anne, how you talk !" 
 
 " I don t care you do. The idea of you shutting your 
 self up here, packing a mess of rose leaves into a jar! 
 There isn t any sense in it." 
 
 " You know I d rather stay at home." 
 
 "I don t care if you had. It s real nice for me going 
 alone !" 
 
 " Ellen Pierson s going, isn t she ?" 
 
 " I don t care if she is. Sometimes anybody d like their 
 own sister." 
 
 " I feel as if I was so much older." 
 
 " Older ! You re not any older than dozens of girls that 
 go all the time. You re not any older than Addie Leach 
 or Abby Button; and I guess they d be mad enough if any 
 body was to tell them they were too old to go." 
 
 " There s a lock of hair loose. Come round here and let 
 me fix it." 
 
 " I don t care if it is," said Anne. But she stepped over 
 to her sister, nevertheless, and Clarissa tucked up the golden 
 lock carefully. 
 
 " P rhaps I ll go next time," said she, appeasingly. "All 
 is, I don t feel much like it, you know. People don t, I sup 
 pose, as they grow older." 
 
2 00 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 " If they get up a party to go on West Mountain next week, 
 will you go ?" 
 
 " I ll see about it." 
 
 " I ll crimp your hair, and we ll fix over your blue dress." 
 
 " You ll be late, if you don t run along." 
 
 " Do I look all right ?" 
 
 "Yes. I guess your hair ll stay up now." 
 
 After Anne had danced out with a crisp swish of muslin 
 skirts, Clarissa went on with her work. She gathered up the 
 soft rose leaves with her little thin veiny hands, and laid 
 them in the jar with the greatest care. 
 
 She was soon interrupted again, however. " Oh, here 
 you are !" said another voice. There was a contemptuous 
 inflection in it. A tall, pale woman stood in the door. She 
 held out a package of letters and a little white box stiffly 
 in one hand. 
 
 " Oh, is it you, Aunt Joanna ?" 
 
 " Yes, it s me. Why ain t you gone to the picnic ?" 
 
 " I didn t feel like it." 
 
 "Didn t feel like it ! I s pose you felt more like putter- 
 in over rose leaves. Clarissa May, I b lieve you re jest 
 about a fool." 
 
 " I don t know what you mean." Clarissa glanced at the 
 letters, and her hands trembled. 
 
 " Yes, you do know what I mean. I came in the front 
 way, an went up-stairs. I wanted a piece of brown cam 
 bric to line my sleeves, an I thought I d see if you hadn t 
 got any. An I found these things in your bottom bureau 
 drawer, tucked away in the corner out of sight. I d like to 
 know why you ve kept these old letters of Gilman Lane s so 
 dreadful choice for all this time. They were wrote much as 
 ten year ago, some of em." 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. aO I 
 
 " Aunt Joanna, give me those letters, please." 
 
 Clarissa trembled so she could scarcely speak. She felt 
 as if all the light in the world was shining on her heart and 
 showing it forth pitilessly, dispelling all its innocent shadows, 
 which had seemed like guilty ones to her. 
 
 "I never see such a mess of nonsense in my life: all 
 darling an dear. It s enough to make anybody sick." 
 
 "Aunt Joanna, you haven t read them?" 
 
 " I guess I have read em, every line. I rather think I 
 had a right to, as long as you re my sister s daughter. I 
 s pose he give you this breast-pin too, eh ?" 
 
 "Aunt Joanna!" 
 
 " You needn t look so toppin . When you ve been doin 
 the way you have late years, never stirrin out of the house 
 except to meetin , an actin as if you d give up the world, 
 it s about time you was looked out after. Now I jest want 
 to know if Gilman Lane give you the mitten, an if that s what 
 ails you ?" 
 
 " Aunt Joanna, if you ll give me those letters " 
 
 " If he has, he s a mean scamp, an you re an awful fool, 
 that s all I ve got to say. Before I d spend my whole life 
 frettin over one feller !" 
 
 " Aunt Joanna, you haven t any right to come here talking 
 to me so." 
 
 " I guess I ve got as good a right as anybody. I guess 
 you won t find anybody that thinks much more of you, or is 
 more interested in you, than me. Clarissa May, what I 
 want to know is this was you engaged to Gilman Lane ?" 
 
 " No," said Clarissa, shortly. Then she turned her face 
 obstinately away, and went to work on her rose leaves again, 
 and would not speak another word. Her aunt questioned 
 and reproved a while longer ; then finding that she could 
 
202 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 get no further response, threw the letters and box down on 
 the table, and left. 
 
 " If I had such soft letters lying around I d burn em. I 
 wouldn t leave em where folks could get em," said she. 
 She turned around as she went out of the door. " I took 
 that piece of brown cambric you had in your blue box, but 
 I don know as it s enough." 
 
 Clarissa had been intending to use the cambric herself, 
 but she said not a word. After her aunt had gone she car 
 ried the letters up-stairs, and put them in their old place ; 
 then returned to her work. 
 
 She filled the jar quite full, then tidied up her kitchen. 
 When the noon bells were ringing, her Aunt Joanna ap 
 peared again. She had a covered plate in her hand. She 
 had brought over some warm dinner. Clarissa thanked her, 
 and took it. Neither of the women alluded to the letters. 
 But the niece looked after her aunt as she went out of the 
 yard, and if she could have smitten her with a total loss of 
 memory, she would have done it in her shame and distress. 
 
 Clarissa May knew every line of those old letters by 
 heart. She knew whereabouts the lines stood on the pages, 
 and the words in the lines. The few fond adjectives shone 
 out like jewels among them. Now she thought them all 
 over, she recounted one after another, and she said to her 
 self, "Aunt Joanna has seen this, and this." 
 
 She set away the dinner untasted, put on her afternoon 
 dress, and sat down with her sewing at the sitting-room 
 window. 
 
 Anne found her there when she returned from the picnic. 
 Anne had lost a little of her crisp daintiness of the morn 
 ing. Her yellow hair was tumbled, her cheeks were hot, and 
 her rruslin dress was crumpled. 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 203 
 
 She sat down in the first chair with a sigh. " Oh," said she, 
 " I m glad to get in where it s cool ! It s terrible out in the sun." 
 
 She looked around the room and at her sister approv 
 ingly. There were a certain patience and tranquillity about 
 Clarissa, as she sat there sewing, which were cool and re 
 freshing of themselves. 
 
 " You look real cool and comfortable," said Anne. 
 
 Clarissa had on an old-fashioned cotton gown of a mixed 
 green-and-white pattern, which suited her soft faded face. 
 This cool old summer-gown had served her mother before 
 her. The daughter wore it with very little alteration in the 
 straight full skirt and long prim body. It came out of its 
 winter seclusion every June and seemed as if it would 
 never be worn out. Clarissa regarded it with gratitude 
 and thankfulness. She wanted Anne to have all the new 
 summer dresses. 
 
 The sisters had their small income of one hundred and 
 fifty dollars besides their house. This one hundred and 
 fifty, eked out with a little sewing which Clarissa did, bought 
 their food and clothes. Clarissa was a good manager, she 
 made a little go so far, and she was very careful. There 
 was a good deal of fine darning on the sitting-room carpet, 
 but it took close scrutiny to see it among those faded, 
 whitish-drab scrolls. The room was sweet with roses 
 living ones, which grew close to the open windows, and dead 
 ones, which lay conserved with salt and spices in Clarissa s 
 jars. She had converted every unused dish in the house 
 into a receptacle for her rose leaves. Old china teapots 
 stood about, and sugar bowls, and earthen jars, all exhaling 
 spicy sweetness. They were in every room in the house. 
 The amusements which life held for Clarissa seemed to be 
 concentrated into this one gentle, erratic one of conserving 
 
204 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 rose leaves. And the amusement was of such long stand 
 ing that it was almost like a duty to her. It is doubtful if she 
 did not unconsciously think it wrong to let a rose leaf en 
 tirely perish, with all its sweetness, while she could save it. 
 
 Years ago Oilman Lane had taught her how to make her 
 first pot-pourri. " You ought to save all those roses," he 
 had said one far-off summer day. " My Aunt Celia packs 
 em in a jar with salt. I ll show you how." 
 
 The two had packed a little blue ginger jar with those old 
 rose leaves. It stood on the shelf in the best parlor now, 
 with the same ones in it. 
 
 Something stronger than any rose fragrance floated from 
 it to Clarissa every time she entered the room. It was the 
 fragrance of the old memory, which was better conserved 
 than the rose leaves, and formed the lasting element of that 
 first pot-pourri. 
 
 " I should think you d fill up that jar new," Anne said 
 often. She had no sense for that wonderful sweetness 
 which her elder sister got from it. 
 
 Anne sat still for quite a while to-day = She did not talk 
 as she usually did on a return from a merrymaking. She 
 leaned her head back in her chair and stared at the oppo 
 site wall. There was a thoughtful look in her eyes, but her 
 mouth was half smiling. 
 
 " Did you have a good time ?" Clarissa asked, finally. 
 
 " Real good," Anne said. Then she hesitated. Her 
 conscious smile grew more distinct ; the red on her cheeks 
 deepened. "You used to know Gilman Lane, didn t you, 
 Clarissa ?" she went on. " Why, what is the matter ?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Yes there is, too ; you re awful white. Oh, Clarissa, don t 
 you feel well?" 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 205 
 
 "Just as well as I ever did. Go on. What were you 
 Baying? Oh, about Oilman Lane." 
 
 " He was there, you know. He s got back from Cali 
 fornia, where he s been ten years. I didn t remember him. 
 I was nothing but a little girl when he went away, anyhow. 
 You used to know him, didn t you ?" 
 
 " Yes, some." 
 
 " He s real handsome. Ellen introduced him to me ; 
 he s a sort of a cousin of hers, you know. She says he s 
 splendid. He s older than I am. Why, didn t he go to 
 school with you, Clarissa ?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe he did." 
 
 " Why, it seems to me I remember his coming here some 
 times, now I think of it. Didn t he used to?" 
 
 " Yes, he used to run in once in a while, I guess. 
 
 " I declare, I do remember it ; but I never would have 
 known him. He s splendid-looking." 
 
 Anne rose and took off her bonnet slowly. " How soon 
 are you going to have tea, Clarissa ?" 
 
 "We ll have it now, if you want it." 
 
 " Well, I don t know but we d better, and get it out of the 
 way." Anne stood laughing and fingering her bonnet 
 strings. "To tell you the truth, I shouldn t wonder a bit 
 if he was up here to-night. What is the matter ? I know 
 you re sick, Clarissa." 
 
 "No, I ain t. I guess I d better go and get tea right 
 away, then." 
 
 " It was a great joke on the other girls, you know. They 
 were all teasing Ellen to introduce them, but he never looked 
 at one of them. P rhaps he won t come ; but I shouldn t be 
 a bit surprised." 
 
 Oilman Lane did come. His tall, muscular figure passed 
 
2 o6 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 at dusk that nightbetween the descendants of those old roses, 
 up to the front-door porch, which was overgrown with them. 
 
 Anne answered his knock. She was aglow with modest 
 delight. She looked up in his face with innocent admira 
 tion, which he was foolish not to see. No wonder that this 
 man outshone the gentle village boys in her eyes ! Gilman 
 Lane had always been handsome. He was roughened and 
 browned now by his California life, but that only accentuated 
 his beauty to a country girl like Anne, who thought natu 
 rally of men as antipodes of flowers and women. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Lane," said she, primly, her cheeks 
 pink, her eyes shyly radiant. " Won t you walk in ?" 
 
 Clarissa, up in her room, heard the knock, the opening 
 door in response, and the firm, manly tread across the entry 
 floor. Then she heard the murmur of voices in the best 
 parlor. She sat on the edge of her little bed, listening. 
 She was rigid ; her hands were cold as ice. 
 
 In a half-hour or so she heard Anne s step on the stairs, 
 and rose hurriedly. She was lighting a candle when her 
 sister entered. 
 
 " Come down-stairs," Anne whispered , " he wants to see 
 you." 
 
 " I can t. I was just going over to Aunt Joanna s." 
 
 " Come along." 
 
 " He doesn t want to see me." 
 
 " Yes, he does. He asked if you were at home. He 
 said he used to know you, and he would like to see you. 
 Come along down. If you don t, he ll think you don t want 
 him to come here, or something." 
 
 Clarissa, following her imperious young sister down-stairs, 
 went weakly, like an old woman ; but Anne, in her joyful in- 
 petuosity, never noticed it. 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 207 
 
 Lane rose as the two entered the parlor, and came across the 
 room. He stumbled over a mat in his progress, and colored. 
 He always managed his great frame a little clumsily. 
 
 " Well, how do you do, Clarissa ?" said he. His voice 
 was loud and hearty, with a little hesitation in it. 
 
 " How do you do, Gilman ?" It was that freedom of old 
 days lapsed into formality which is the most chilling of all. 
 
 They shook hands ; then seated themselves. Clarissa 
 was mute. She felt herself trembling, and wondered if he 
 saw it. He did not ; he was thinking to himself how very 
 cool and stiff she was. 
 
 He tried to make some conversation. " You re changed 
 some, Clarissa, like all the rest of us," he said, laughing 
 awkwardly. There was a real flush on his brown face. 
 
 " I suppose I have," said Clarissa, delicate and pale and 
 outwardly composed. She smiled faintly in his direction. 
 
 " I guess you re a little thinner than you used to be, and 
 you haven t got quite so much color. You re well, aren t 
 you ?" 
 
 There was an odd tone in his voice then that made Anne 
 stare wonderingly at him. 
 
 " Very well, thank you," Clarissa said. 
 
 " It was a good deal of a joke on me, but I declare when 
 I first saw your sister to-day I thought it was you. She 
 looks just the wav you used to, doesn t she ?" 
 
 " Everybody says she does." 
 
 " She does, sure enough. Why didn t you go to the pic 
 nic to-day, Clarissa?" 
 
 " I don t go out a great deal." 
 
 " She d rather stay in the house and fill old sugar bowls 
 and jars with rose leaves," Anne interrupted, with laughing 
 pcttishness. " I ve been telling him about it" 
 
208 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 " I noticed it the minute I came into the house," said 
 Lane. " I wondered what it was that smelt so sweet" 
 
 " Good reason why," laughed Anne ; " there are four things 
 full of rose leaves in here, besides that blue ginger-jar on the 
 shelf. They re old in that, and don t smell much. Why 
 don t you fill that one new, Clarissa?" 
 
 Lane looked at it gravely. " You ought to," said he ; 
 "that s a real pretty jar." 
 
 He had forgotten all about it. Whatever consciousness 
 his heart held of those old days did not include that. His 
 man s memory could not keep such small precious things. 
 
 " I thought I had about enough," said Clarissa, trying to 
 speak easily. She looked over at the jar. For a moment 
 it seemed more valuable to her than the man who had for 
 gotten it and its storied sweetness. " It s all I ve got left 
 of anything," flashed through her mind. She wanted to 
 seize it and cry over it. The forgetting and slighting this 
 poor little jar made it harder for her to control herself. 
 She could scarcely keep the tears back. But no one would 
 have guessed it as she sat there pale and slender and prim. 
 
 She excused herself before long. She had to go over to 
 her aunt Joanna s, she said, and pleaded some housewifely 
 errand. 
 
 Joanna Emmons was a widow. She kept house with her 
 daughter, also a widow, and two unmarried sons. 
 
 The family were all in bed, but the doors were never 
 locked. Clarissa went straight in, and groped her way across 
 the dusky kitchen to her aunt s bedroom door. 
 
 " Aunt Joanna !" she called, softly. 
 
 " Who is it ?" said her aunt, sitting up in bed suddenly. 
 She had not yet fallen asleep. 
 
 " It s Clarissa. Say, Aunt Joanna " 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 209 
 
 " What are you over here for this time of night ? Anne 
 ain t sick, is she ?" 
 
 " No. I wanted to see you a minute. Aunt Joanna, I 
 wanted to tell you something, and I mean it. It s about 
 those letters. If you ever tell Anne or anybody else any 
 thing about them, I ll go away somewhere where you ll never 
 see me again, nor any one else either." 
 
 " Clarissa May, what do you mean ?" 
 
 "What I say. You ve got to promise me you won t " 
 
 " Tain t very likely I m goin all round town tellin what 
 a fool my sister s daughter made of herself." 
 
 " Aunt Joanna, you ve got to promise me." 
 
 " Clarissa May, let go of my hands ! You re crazy. 
 You scare me most to death !" 
 
 " Promise." 
 
 "Well, I ll promise. I won t speak of em to a soul- 
 There !" 
 
 " Then I ll go home. Don t you forget." 
 
 " Clarissa, come back here !" her aunt called after her, as 
 she sped across the kitchen ; but she was gone. 
 
 Anne was in the sitting-room when she reached home. 
 " He went right after you did," said she, smiling consciously. 
 " I don t think you treated him very well, Clarissa." 
 
 * I don t see why," said Clarissa, in a timid way. 
 
 " You acted as stiff as a poker. He thought it was awful 
 funny that you didn t go out any more. You ve got to go up 
 West Mountain next week, anyhow." 
 
 Poor Clarissa went. She dragged herself wearily up 
 those steep inclines, trying all the time to smile with the 
 rest of the merry party. When they reached the summit 
 her face was damp and pale with the heat ; her lustreless 
 hair clung close to her forehead. Anne was all rosy and 
 
210 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 glowing. Oilman Lane was at her side all day. Several 
 times he tried to talk with Clarissa, but she avoided him, 
 keeping close to some of the older young women, her mates. 
 
 "Gilman Lane is dead in love with Anne May," she 
 overheard one say, with a furtive glance at her. Some of 
 them remembered that years ago there had been a similar 
 report in connection with the older sister. 
 
 " He s perfectly splendid," Anne said that night. " Why 
 don t you say more to him, Clarissa? I m afraid he ll think 
 you don t want him to come." 
 
 So the next time that Gilman called, Clarissa made an 
 effort to be cordial and talkative. She also remained in the 
 room a little longer. 
 
 The summer passed, the autumn, and the winter ; then the 
 spring came again. Gilman Lane still called nearly every 
 week at the May s. 
 
 People said, " Gilman Lane is going with Anne." Still he 
 hardly fulfilled, in their opinions, all the conditions of court 
 ship. He did not come regularly on Sunday evenings, 
 neither did he remain iate. Clarissa always saw him during 
 a few minutes of every call. Anne insisted upon it. 
 
 " He acts just as if he thought you didn t want him to 
 come and see me, if you don t," said she. " He said once 
 he guessed my sister didn t like to have him calling so 
 often." 
 
 Clarissa did not have a doubt as to how it would all end. 
 She was certain that Gilman was fond of Anne. She thought 
 also that her sister liked him, although she had her pretty, 
 smart way about it, as she did about everything else, and 
 laughed rather than sighed. 
 
 So Clarissa in her patient certainty overlooked it all. 
 There was one thing which she dreaded : that was any al- 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 2II 
 
 lusion to the past. She had a constant fear lest she should 
 chance to see Oilman when her sister was not there. Several 
 times she did not answer his knock when Anne was away. 
 
 Finally the roses were in blossom again. Clarissa s bushes 
 were wonderful this year. The front yard was full of them. 
 The vegetable garden behind the house had a broad walk 
 edged with them. too. 
 
 Clarissa went at her old work again. She moved among 
 the rose-trees, a prim, delicate figure, in her old green-and- 
 white gown, and cut every loose rose carefully. She was 
 bent, in her graceful parsimoniousness, on saving all that 
 she could of the sweetness of the world ; no matter how 
 poorly she might live herself, her delight in this would not 
 forsake her. She had lost love and youth and beauty, but 
 she still got a little comfort out of her unselfishness and her 
 roses. One is not entirely desolate while one can follow his 
 instincts. 
 
 Anne laughed at her. " She s gone to filling jars for the 
 neighbors this year," said Anne. " She filled one for Mrs. 
 Lamson yesterday." She and Oilman were in the parlor 
 that afternoon. Gilman laughed. Then he looked out of 
 the window soberly. Clarissa was in the front yard tending 
 her roses. 
 
 " It s real good of her," said he. 
 
 "Of course it is. Clarissa never does anything that 
 isn t good, but she is so funny." 
 
 The next day Gilman came over with a great bunch of 
 roses from his brother s garden. They were a different 
 variety from any of Clarissa s, and very sweet. 
 
 The two sisters were in the garden behind the house. 
 He hunted about until he found them. He held out the 
 roses awkwardly to Clarissa. 
 
21 2 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 " I thought maybe you d like em," said he. " I guess 
 they re different from yours." 
 
 "You haven t got any like them, have you, Clarissa?" 
 said Anne, eagerly. " My ! I never saw any so sweet." 
 
 Clarissa thanked him. " I haven t got any like them," 
 said she. Her voice was a little unsteady. 
 
 Presently she carried the roses into the house. Gilman 
 turned to Anne. " Look here," said he, " I want to ask you 
 something." 
 
 Anne glanced at him. Then she turned her head so 
 that he could barely see the pink curve of one cheek. 
 She began pulling some roses busily. " I guess I ll pick 
 some to put in the parlor vases," said she. " What is it you 
 wanted to ask ?" 
 
 " I want to know I ve been coming here pretty near a 
 whole year, and I don t seem to be a bit nearer finding out 
 anything than I was when I started. Now I m going to ask 
 you point-blank." 
 
 " Oh, Gilman !" Anne murmured. She moved a little 
 farther from him, then she came back. She dropped some 
 of her roses. 
 
 " I don t see as I can ask anybody but you. I can t see 
 her alone a minute, no matter how hard I try. Oh, Anne, 
 doesn t she ever tell you anything ? Don t you know if she 
 cares anything at all about me ?" 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 "Why, Clarissa. Doesn t she ever tell you anything, 
 Anne?" 
 
 Anne turned her face farther away. She was very white. 
 Her round young limbs were trembling. " Why don t you 
 go into the house and ask her?" she said, with sweet, shrill 
 incisiveness. " I should say that was the quickest way." 
 
THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 2I j 
 
 " She ll run if she sees me coming. She doesn t act as 
 if she wanted me to. Oh, Anne, don t you know anything 
 about it ?" 
 
 " No, I don t know a thing." 
 
 " You knew we used to go together some, years ago ?" 
 
 " No, I didn t." 
 
 " We weren t engaged, but it was sort of understood, I d 
 always thought. It was before I went to California. Father d 
 lost his money, and mother was sick, and I thought I d got 
 to stir around and do something before I said much about 
 getting married. 
 
 " We wrote to each other quite a while. Then I got kind of 
 discouraged. I wasn t doing very well, and I didn t see as I 
 was ever coming home. I had to send every dollar I could 
 save to father, and I began to think I couldn t get married 
 till I was an old man, and I didn t know but it was sort of 
 silly to say anything about it. 
 
 " I dare say my letters showed how I felt. Anyhow, she 
 didn t write quite so often, and then I heard she d got a 
 beau. That settled me. I should have been home three 
 years ago if I hadn t supposed she was married. I didn t 
 have the courage to ask. I did make up my mind to write 
 and ask mother, though, finally. I thought I could bear it, 
 and might as well know. 
 
 "When I found out she wasn t, I came straight here. 
 But she acted so cold and offish the first time I saw her 
 that I thought sure she d got over thinking anything of me. 
 But once in a while she d seem a little different, and I 
 couldn t tell. Anne, didn t you ever hear her say anything 
 about me ? Sometimes I think I m a fool to expect she d 
 remember anything so long ago. I wish I could see her just 
 a minute. I d like to tell her why I stopped writing, any- 
 
214 
 
 THE SCENT OF THE ROSES. 
 
 how, though I never supposed she cared much. Her let 
 ters had begun to sound rather cool." 
 
 " I ll go in and tell Clarissa that you want to speak to 
 her," said Anne. " I don t see any need of so much fuss." 
 Her voice sounded sweet and crisp. She swung her blue 
 muslin skirts between the rose-bushes with an air. Her 
 yellow head was proudly erect. 
 
 " She looks just the way Clarissa used to," Oilman thought, 
 as he stared after her. 
 
 Presently she reappeared at the entrance of the garden 
 walk. " Go right in," she called out. Then she went around 
 to the front of the house. " They ll see I ain t shut up in 
 my room, crying," she thought to herself. 
 
 She sauntered about among the bushes, pulling roses here 
 and there. She heard voices behind the parlor blinds. 
 Her face was still pale, but her mouth began to tremble a 
 little at the corners. Anne had a sweet nature. " It s a 
 great joke on me," she whispered to herself. Then she 
 laughed, with the most unselfish amusement, in the midst 
 of her girlish chagrin and sorrow. 
 
 There was a bush of beautiful pink roses down by the gate. 
 Anne stood there picking them when her friend, Ellen Pier- 
 son, came down the road, and stopped, leaning her slender 
 elbows on the gate. " What are you picking so many roses 
 for?" asked she. 
 
 "I don t know but I shall go to filling up jars with them, 
 like Clarissa," said Anne. 
 
A SOLITARY. 
 
 IT was snowing hard, as it had been for twenty-four hours. 
 The evergreen-trees hung low with the snow. Nicholas 
 Gunn s little house was almost hidden beneath it. The 
 snow shelved out over the eaves, and clung in damp masses 
 to the walls. Nicholas sat on his door-step, and the snow 
 fell upon him. His old cap had become a tall white crown ; 
 there was a ridge of snow upon his bent shoulders. He 
 sat perfectly still ; his eyes were fixed upon the weighted 
 evergreens across the road, but he did not seem to see 
 them. He looked as calmly passive beneath the storm as 
 a Buddhist monk. 
 
 There were no birds stirring, and there was no wind. All 
 the sound came from the muffled rustle of the snow on the 
 trees, and that was so slight as to seem scarcely more than 
 a thought of sound. The road stretched to the north and 
 south through the forest of pine and cedar and hemlock. 
 Nicholas Gunn s was the only house in sight. 
 
 Stephen Forster came up the road from the southward. 
 He bent his head and struggled along ; the snow was above 
 his knees, and at every step he lifted his feet painfully, as 
 from a quicksand. He advanced quite noiselessly until he 
 began to cough. The cough was deep and rattling, and 
 he had to stand still in the snow while it was upon him. 
 
2I 6 A SOLITARY. 
 
 Nicholas Gunn never looked up. Stephen bent himself 
 almost double, the cough became a strangle, but Nicholas 
 kept his calm eyes fixed upon the evergreens. 
 
 At last Stephen righted himself and kept on. He was 
 Very small ; his clothes were quite covered with snow, and 
 patches of it clung to his face. He looked like some little 
 winter-starved, white-furred animal, creeping painfully to 
 cover. When he came opposite the house he half halted, 
 but Nicholas never stirred nor looked his way, and he kept 
 on. It was all that he could do to move, the cough had 
 exhausted him ; he carried a heavy basket, too. 
 
 He had proceeded only a few paces beyond the house 
 when his knees bent under him, he fairly sank down into 
 the snow. He groaned a little, but Nicholas did not turn 
 his head. 
 
 After a little, Stephen raised himself, lifted his basket, 
 and went staggering back. " Mr. Gunn," said he. 
 
 Nicholas turned his eyes slowly and looked at him, but 
 he did not speak. 
 
 " Can t I go into your house an set down an rest a fev 
 minutes ? I m most beat out." 
 
 " No, you can t," replied Nicholas Gunn. 
 
 " I dun know as I can git home." 
 
 Nicholas made no rejoinder. He turned his eyes away. 
 Stephen stood looking piteously at him. His sharply cut 
 delicate face gleamed white through the white fall of the 
 snow. 
 
 " If you d jest let me set there a few minutes," he said. 
 
 Nicholas sat immovable. 
 
 Stephen tried to walk on, but suddenly another coughing- 
 fit seized him. He stumbled across the road, and propped 
 himself against a pine-tree, setting the basket down in the 
 
A SOLITARY. 217 
 
 snow. He twisted himself about the snowy tree trunk, and 
 the coughs came in a rattling volley. 
 
 Nicholas Gunn looked across at him, and waited until 
 Stephen got his breath. Then he spoke. " Look a-here !" 
 said he. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 " If you want to set in the house a few minutes, you can. 
 There ain t no fire there." 
 
 " Thank ye." 
 
 It was some time before Stephen Forster gathered 
 strength enough to return across the road to the house. 
 He leaned against the tree, panting, the tears running down 
 his cheeks. Nicholas did not offer to help him. When at 
 last Stephen got across the road, he arose to let him pass 
 through the door ; then he sat down again on the door-step. 
 
 Stephen Forster set his basket on the floor, and staggered 
 across the room to a chair. He leaned his head back 
 against the wall and panted. The room was bitterly cold ; 
 the snow drifted in through the open door where Nicholas 
 sat. There was no furniture except a cooking-stove, a cot 
 bed, one chair, and a table ; but there were ornaments. 
 Upon the walls hung various little worsted and cardboard 
 decorations. There was a lamp-mat on the table, and in 
 one corner was a rude bracket holding a bouquet of wax 
 flowers under a tall glass shade. There was also a shelf 
 full of books beside the window. 
 
 Stephen Forster did not notice anything. He sat with 
 his eyes closed. Once or twice he tried feebly to brush the 
 snow off his clothes, that was all. Nicholas never turned 
 his head. He looked like a stone image there in the door 
 way. In about twenty minutes Stephen arose, took his 
 basket up, and went timidly to the door. 
 
ai8 A SOLITARY. 
 
 " I m much obleeged to ye, Mr. Gunn," said he. " I guess 
 I can git along now." 
 
 Nicholas got up, and the snow fell from his shoulders in 
 great cakes. He stood aside to let Stephen pass. Stephen, 
 outside the door, paused, and looked up at him. 
 
 " I m much obleeged to ye," he said again. " I guess I 
 can git home now. I had them three coughin -spells after 
 I left the store, and I got most beat out." 
 
 Nicholas grunted, and sat down again. Stephen looked 
 at him a minute, then he smiled abashedly and went away, 
 urging his feeble little body through the storm. Nicholas 
 watched him, then he turned his head with a stiff jerk. 
 
 "If he wants to go out in such weather, he can. I don t 
 care," he muttered. 
 
 It was nearly four o clock in the afternoon, the snow was 
 gradually ceasing. Presently a yellow light could be seen 
 through the woods in the west. Some birds flew into one 
 of the snowy trees, a wood-sled creaked down the road, the 
 driver stared at Nicholas in the doorway, he turned his head 
 and stared again. It was evident that he was not one of the 
 village people. They had witnessed the peculiarities of 
 Nicholas Gunn for the last six years. They still stared, but 
 not as assiduously. 
 
 The driver of the wood-sled, as soon as he went down 
 the slope in the road, and could no longer see Nicholas, be 
 gan to whistle. The whistle floated back like a wake of 
 merry sound. 
 
 Presently Nicholas arose, took off his cap, and beat it 
 against the door-post to rid it of its dome of snow ; then 
 he shook himself like a dog, and stamped ; then he went 
 into the house, and stood looking irresolutely at the cold 
 stove. 
 
A SOLITARY. 219 
 
 " Should like a fire to heat up my hasty-puddin mighty 
 well, so I won t have it," said he. 
 
 He took a wooden bucket, and went with it out of doors, 
 around the house, over a snow-covered path, to a spring. 
 The water trickled into its little basin from under a hood 
 of snow. Nicholas plunged in his bucket, withdrew it 
 filled with water, and carried it back to the house. The 
 path led through the woods ; all the trees and bushes were 
 white arcs. Some of the low branches bowed over the path, 
 and Nicholas, passing under them, had to stoop. 
 
 Nicholas, back in his house, got a bowl out of a rude 
 closet ; it was nearly full of cold hasty-pudding. He stood 
 there and swallowed it in great gulps. 
 
 The light was waning fast, although it lasted longer than 
 usual on account of the snow, which, now the clouds wera 
 gone, was almost like a sheet of white light. 
 
 Nicholas, when he had finished his supper, plunged 
 out again into this pale dusk. He tramped, knee-deep, 
 down the road for a long way. He reached the little 
 village centre, left it behind, and went on between white 
 meadow-lands and stretches of woods. Once in a while he 
 met a man plodding down to the store, but there were few 
 people abroad, the road would not be cleared until morn 
 ing. 
 
 Finally Nicholas turned about, and went back until he 
 reached the village store. Its windows and glass door were 
 full of yellow light, in which one could see many heads 
 moving. When Nicholas opened the clanging door and 
 went in, all the heads turned towards him. There was 
 hardly a man there as tall as he. He went across the store 
 with a kind of muscular shamble ; his head, with its wild 
 light beard, had a lofty lift to it. The lounging men watched 
 
220 A SOLITARY. 
 
 him furtively as he bought some Indian meal and matches 
 at the counter. When he had gone out with his purchases 
 there was a burst of laughter. The store-keeper thrust a 
 small sharp face over the counter. 
 
 " If a man is such a darned fool as to live on meal and 
 matches, I ain t got nothin to say, so long as he pays me 
 the money down," said he. He had a hoarse cold, and his 
 voice was a facetious whisper. 
 
 There was another shout of laughter; Nicholas could 
 hear it as he went down the street. The stranger who had 
 driven the wood-sled past Nicholas s house was among the 
 men. He was snow-bound overnight in the village. He 
 was a young fellow, with innocent eyes and a hanging jaw. 
 He nudged the man next him. 
 
 " What in creation ails the fellar, anyhow?" said he. " I 
 seed him a-settin on his door-step this afternoon, and the 
 snow a-drivin* right on him." 
 
 " He ain t right in his upper story," replied the man. 
 " Somethin went again him ; his wife run off with another 
 fellar, or something an he s cracked." 
 
 " Why don t they shet him up ?" 
 
 " He ain t dangerous. Reckon he won t hurt nobody 
 but himself. If he wants to set out in a drivin snow-storm, 
 and tramp till he s tuckered out, it ain t nothin to nobody 
 else but himself. There ain t no use bringin that kind of 
 crazy on the town." 
 
 " Twouldn t cost the town much," chimed in another 
 man. " He s worth property. Shouldn t be surprised if he 
 was worth three thousand dollars. And there he is a-livin 
 on corn meal and water." 
 
 An old man, in a leather-cushioned arm-chair beside the 
 stove, turned his grizzly quizzical face toward the others, and 
 
A SOLITARY. 22 i 
 
 cleared his throat. They all bent forward attentively. He 
 had a reputation for wit. 
 
 "Makes me think of old Eph Huntly, and the story 
 Squire Morse used to tell about him," said he. He paused 
 impressively, and they waited. Then he went on. " Seems 
 old Eph got terrible hard up one time. One thing after an 
 other went again him. He d been laid up with the rheu- 
 matiz all winter ; then his wife she d been sick, an they was 
 most eat up with medicine an doctors bills. Then his hay 
 crop had failed, an his pertaters had rotted, an finally, to 
 cap the climax, his best cow died, an the interest money 
 was due on the mortgage, an he didn t have a cent to 
 pay it with. Well, he couldn t raise the money nohow, 
 an the day come when he s posed the farm would have to 
 go. Lawyer Holmes he held the mortgage, an he expected 
 to see him drive into the yard any time. Well, old Eph he 
 jest goes out in the yard, an he ketches a nice fat crower, 
 an he kills him, an picks him. Then he takes him in to his 
 wife. She was takin on terrible cause she thought the 
 farm had got to go, an sez he, Sukey Ann, I want you to 
 go an cook this crower jest as good as you know how. 
 Oh, Lor ! sez she, *I don t want no crower, an she boo- 
 hooed right out. But old Eph he made her go an stuff 
 that crower, an cook him, an bile onions, turnips, an 
 squash, an all the fixin s. He said he never felt so bad in 
 his life, an he never got to sech a desprit pitch, an he was 
 goin to have a good dinner anyhow. Well, it so happened 
 that Lawyer Holmes he driv into the yard jest as old Eph 
 an his wife were settin down to dinner, an he see that 
 nice baked crower an the fixin s all set out, an he didn t 
 know what to make on t. It seemed to him Eph couldn t 
 be so dreadful bad off, or he wouldn t have any heart for 
 
222 A SOLITARY. 
 
 extra dinners, an mebbe he had some way of raisin the 
 money in prospect. Then Lawyer Holmes he was mighty 
 fond of his victuals himself, an the upshot of it was, he sot 
 down to the table, an eat a good meal of the crower an 
 fixin s, an there wa n t no mortgage foreclosed that day, 
 an before long Eph he managed to raise the money some 
 how. Now if Nicholas Gunn jest had a leetle grain of old 
 Eph s sense, he d jest git better victuals the wuss he felt, an 
 let one kinder make up for t other, instead of livin on Injun 
 meal an matches. I ruther guess I wouldn t take to no 
 meal an matches if my Ann Lizy left me. I d live jest as 
 high as I could to keep my spirits up." 
 
 There was a burst of applause. The old man sat wink 
 ing and grinning complacently. 
 
 " Nicholas Gunn is a darned fool, or else he s cracked," 
 said the storekeeper in his hoarse whisper. 
 
 Meanwhile Nicholas Gunn went home. He put his 
 meal away in the closet ; he lighted a candle with one of 
 his matches; he read awhile in the Bible; then he went to 
 bed. He did not sleep in the cot bed ; that was too luxurious 
 for him. He slept, rolled in a blanket, on the bare floor. 
 
 Nicholas Gunn, whether his eccentricities arose from 
 mystical religious fervor or from his own personal sorrows, 
 would have been revered and worshipped as a saintly as 
 cetic among some nations ; among New-Englanders he met 
 with the coarse ridicule of the loafers in a country store. 
 Idle meditation and mortification of the flesh, except for 
 gain, were among them irreconcilable with sanity. Nicholas 
 would have had more prestige had he fled to the Himalayas 
 and built himself a cell in some wild pass ; however, prestige 
 was not what he sought. 
 
 The next morning a wind had arisen ; it blew stiff and 
 
A SOLITARY. 
 
 cold from the north. The snow was drifted into long 
 waves, and looked like a frozen sea. A flock of sparrows 
 had collected before Nicholas Gunn s door, and he stood 
 watching them. They were searching for crumbs ; this 
 deep snow had shortened their resources wofully ; all their 
 larders were buried. There were no crumbs before this 
 door ; but they searched assiduously, with their feathers 
 ruffled in the wind. Stephen Forster came up the road 
 with his market-basket ; it was all he could do to face the 
 wind. His thin coat was buttoned tight across his narrow 
 shoulders; his old tippet blew out. He advanced with a 
 kind of sidewise motion, presenting his body like a wedge 
 to the wind ; he could not walk fairly against it. 
 
 When he was opposite Nicholas, the sparrows flew up 
 at his feet ; he paused, and shifted his basket. " Good- 
 mornin , Mr. Gunn," said he, in a weak voice. 
 
 Nicholas nodded. Stephen s face was mottled with pur 
 ple ; his nose and mouth looked shrunken ; his shoes were 
 heavy with snow. 
 
 "If you want to go in an set down a few minutes, you 
 can," said Nicholas. 
 
 Stephen moved forward eagerly. " Thank ye, Mr. Gunn, I 
 am kinder beat out, an I d like to set a few minutes," he said. 
 
 He went in and sat down. The wind rushed in great 
 gusts past the open door. Stephen began to cough. 
 Nicholas hesitated, his face was surly, then he shut the 
 door with a bang. 
 
 While Stephen rested himself in the house, Nicholas 
 marched up and down before it like a sentinel. He did 
 not seem to see Stephen when he came out, but he stood 
 before him in his track. 
 
 " I m much obleeged, Mr. Gunn," said he. 
 
224 
 
 A SOLITARY. 
 
 Nicholas nodded. Stephen hesitated a minute, then he 
 went on up the road. The snow blew up around him in a 
 dazzling cloud, and almost hid him from sight. 
 
 " It s the last time I do it," muttered Nicholas. 
 
 But it was not. Every morning, storm or shine, Stephen 
 Forster toiled painfully over the road with his market- 
 basket, and every morning Nicholas Gunn invited him into 
 his fireless hermitage to rest A freezing hospitality, but 
 he offered it, and Stephen accepted it with a fervent grati 
 tude. 
 
 It grew apparently more and more necessary. Stephen 
 crept more and more feebly over the road ; he had to keep 
 setting his basket down. Nicholas never asked him if he 
 were ill, he never questioned him at all, although he knew 
 nothing about him but his name. Nicholas did not know 
 the names even of many of the village people ; he had never 
 offered nor invited confidences. Stephen also did not 
 volunteer any information as to his circumstances during 
 his morning calls upon Nicholas ; indeed, he was too ex 
 hausted ; he merely gave his gentle and timid thanks for the 
 hospitality. 
 
 There came a night in January when the cold reached 
 the greatest intensity of the season. The snow creaked 
 underfoot, the air was full of sparkles, there were noises 
 like guns in the woods, for the trees were almost freezing 
 The moon was full, and seemed like a very fire of death, 
 radiating cold instead of heat. 
 
 Nicholas Gunn, stern anchorite that he was, could not 
 sleep for the cold. He got up and paced his room. He 
 would not kindle a fire in the stove. He swung his arms 
 and stamped. Suddenly he heard a voice outside. It 
 sounded almost like a child s. " Mr. Gunn 1" it cried. 
 
A SOLITARY. 22$ 
 
 Nicholas stopped and listened. It came agairi " Mr, 
 Gunn !" 
 
 " Who s there ?" Nicholas sung out, gruffly. 
 
 " It s me." 
 
 Then Nicholas knew it was Stephen Forster. He opened 
 the door, and Stephen stood there in the moonlight. 
 
 " What are ye out for this time of night ?" asked Nicho 
 las. 
 
 Stephen chattered so that he could hardly speak. He 
 cowered before Nicholas ; the moonlight seemed to strike 
 his little, shivering form like a broadside of icy spears. 
 "I m fraid I m freezin ," he gasped. "Can t ye take me 
 in ?" 
 
 " What are ye out for this time of night ? repeated Nicho 
 las, in a rough, loud tone. 
 
 " I had to. I ll tell you when I git a leetle warmer. I 
 dun know but I m freezin ." 
 
 Stephen s voice, indeed, sounded as if ice were forming 1 
 over it, muffling it. Nicholas suddenly grasped him by one 
 arm. 
 
 "Come in, then, if ye ve got to," he growled. 
 
 He pulled so suddenly and strongly that Stephen made 
 a run into the house, and his heels flew up weakly. Nicho 
 las whirled him about and seated him on his cot bed. 
 
 " Now lay down here," he ordered, " and I ll cover ye up." 
 
 Stephen obeyed. Nicholas pulled off his boots, gave his 
 feet a fierce rub, and fixed the coverings over him with 
 rough energy. Then he began pacing the room again. 
 
 Presently he went up to the bed. " Warmer ?" 
 
 " I guess so." Stephen s shivering seemed to shake the 
 room. 
 
 Nicholas hustled a coat off of a peg, and put it over Ste- 
 15 
 
22 6 A SOLITARY. 
 
 phen. Then he paced again. Stephen began to cough. 
 Nicholas made an exclamation, and stamped angrily out of 
 the house. There was a little lean-to at the back, and there 
 was some fuel stored in it. Nicholas came back quickly 
 with his arms full of wood. He piled it into the stove, set 
 a match to it, and put on a kettle of water. Then he 
 dragged the cot bed, with Stephen on it, close to the stove, 
 and began to rub him under the bedclothes. His face was 
 knit savagely, but he rubbed with a tender strength. 
 
 "Warmer?" said he. 
 
 " Yes, I be," returned Stephen, gratefully. 
 
 The fire burned briskly the sharp air began to soften. 
 Soon the kettle steamed. Nicholas got a measure of meal 
 out of his cupboard, and prepared some porridge in a little 
 stewpan. When it began to boil, he bent over the stove 
 and stirred carefully, lest it should lump. When it was 
 thick enough, he dished it, salted it, and carried it to Ste 
 phen. 
 
 "There, eat it," said he. "It s the best I ve got ; it 11 
 warm ye some. I ain t got no spirits ; never keep any in 
 the house." 
 
 " I guess I ain t very hungry, Mr. Gunn," said Stephen, 
 feebly. 
 
 " Eat it." 
 
 Stephen raised himself, and drained the bowl with con 
 vulsive gulps. Tears stood in his eyes, and he gasped 
 when he lay back again. However, the warm porridge 
 revived him. Presently he looked at Nicholas, who was 
 putting more wood on the fire. 
 
 " I s pose you think it s terrible queer that I come here 
 this way," said he; "but there wa n t no other way. I 
 dun know whether you know how I ve been livin or not." 
 
A SOLITARY. 227 
 
 " No, I don t." 
 
 " Well, I ve been livin with my half-sister, Mis Morri 
 son. Mebbe you ve heard of her?" 
 
 " No, I ain t." 
 
 " She keeps boarders. We ain t lived in this town 
 more n three years ; we moved here from Jackson. Mis 
 Morrison s husband s dead, so she keeps boarders. She s 
 consider ble older n me. I ain t never been very stout, but 
 I used to tend in a store till I got worse. I coughed so, it 
 used to plague the customers. Then I had to give it up, 
 and when Mis Morrison s husband died, and she come 
 here, I come with her ; she thought there d be some chores 
 1 could do for my board. An I ve worked jest as hard as 
 I could, an I ain t complained. I ve been down to the 
 store to get meat for the boarders dinner when I couldn t 
 scarcely get along over the ground. But I cough so bad 
 nights that the boarders they complain, an Mis Morrison 
 says I must go to the poor-house. I heard her talkin with 
 the hired girl about it. She s goin to get the selectmen to 
 the house to-morrow mornin . An I ain t a-goin to the 
 poor-house ! None of my folks have ever been there, an I 
 ain t goin ! I ll risk it but what I can get some work to 
 do. I ain t quite so fur gone yet. I waited till the house 
 was still, an then I cut. I thought if you d take me in till 
 mornin , I could git down to the depot, an go to Jackson 
 before the selectmen come. I ve got a little money 
 enough to take me to Jackson I ve been savin of it up 
 these three years, in case anything happened. It s some I 
 earned tendin store. I m willin to pay you for my night s 
 lodgin ." 
 
 Nicholas nodded grimly. He had stood still, listening to 
 the weak, high-pitched voice from the bed. 
 
22 8 ^ SOLITARY, 
 
 " It s in my vest pocket, in my pocketbook," said Ste 
 phen. " If you ll come here, I ll give it to you, and you 
 can take what you think it s worth. I pinned the pocket 
 up, so s to be sure I didn t lose it." 
 
 Stephen began fumbling at his vest. Nicholas lifted a 
 cover from the stove. 
 
 " I don t want none of your money," said he. " Keep 
 your money." 
 
 " I ve got enough to pay you, an take me to Jackson." 
 
 " I tell ye, stop talkin about your money." 
 
 Stephen said no more ; he looked terrified. The air 
 grew warmer. Everything was quiet, except for the de 
 tonations of the frost in the forest outside, and its sharp 
 cracks in the house walls. Soon Stephen fell asleep, 
 and lay breathing short and hard. Nicholas sat beside 
 him. 
 
 It was broad daylight when Stephen aroused himself. 
 He awoke suddenly and completely, and began to get out 
 of bed. "I guess it s time I was goin ," said he. "I m 
 much obleeged to you, Mr. Gunn." 
 
 "You lay still." 
 
 Stephen looked at him. 
 
 "You lay still," repeated Nicholas. 
 
 Stephen sank back irresolutely ; his timid, bewildered 
 eyes followed Nicholas, who was smoothing his hair and 
 beard before a little looking-glass near the window. There 
 was a good fire in the cooking-stove, and the room was 
 quite warm, although it was evidently a very cold day. 
 The two windows were thickly coated with frost, and the 
 room was full of dim white light. One of the windows 
 faced towards the east, but the sun was still hidden by the 
 trees across the road. 
 
A SOLITARY. 
 
 229 
 
 Nicholas smoothed his hair and his wild beard slowly and 
 punctiliously. 
 
 Stephen watched him. " Mr. Gunn," he said, at length. 
 
 " What say ? 
 
 " I m afraid I sha n t get to the depot before the train 
 goes if I don t start pretty soon." 
 
 Nicholas went on smoothing his beard. At length he 
 laid his comb down and turned around. " Look a-here !" 
 said he ; "you might jest as well understand it. You ain t 
 a-goin ? to any depot to-day, an you ain t a-goin to any 
 train, an you ain t a-goin to any depot to-morrow nor any 
 train, an you ain t a-goin the next day, nor the next, nor 
 the next, nor the next after that." 
 
 " What be I a-goin to do ?" 
 
 " You are a-goin to stay jest where you are. I ve fought 
 against your comin as long as I could, an now you ve 
 come, an I ve turned the corner, you are a-goin to stay. 
 When I ve been walkin in the teeth of my own will on one 
 road, an havin all I could do to breast it, I ain t a-goin 
 to do it on another. I ve give up, an I m a-goin to stay 
 give up. You lay still." 
 
 Stephen s small anxious face on the pillow looked almost 
 childish. His helplessness of illness seemed to produce 
 the same expression as the helplessness of infancy. His 
 hollow, innocent blue eyes were fixed upon Nicholas with 
 blank inquiry. " Won t Mis Morrison be after me ?" he 
 asked, finally. 
 
 "No, she won t. Don t you worry. I m a-goin over to 
 see her. You lay still." Nicholas shook his coat before 
 he put it on ; he beat his cap against the wall, then ad 
 justed it carefully. " Now," said he, " I m a-goin . I ve 
 left enough wood in the stove, an I guess it 11 keep warm 
 
230 A SOLITARY. 
 
 till I get back. I shaVt be gone any longer than I can 
 help." 
 
 " Mr. Gunn !" 
 
 " What say ?" 
 
 "I ruther guess I d better be a-goinV 
 
 Nicholas looked sternly at Stephen. "You lay still," he 
 repeated. " Don t you try to get up whilst I m gone j you 
 ain t fit to. Don t you worry. I m goin to fix it all right. 
 I m goin to bring you something nice for breakfast. You 
 lay still." 
 
 Stephen stared at him, his thin shoulders hitched un 
 easily under the coverlid. 
 
 "You re goin to lay still, ain t you?" repeated Nicholas. 
 
 "Yes; I will, if you say so," replied Stephen. He 
 sighed and smiled feebly. 
 
 The truth was that this poor cot in the warm room 
 seemed to him like a couch under the balsam-dropping 
 cedars of Lebanon, and all at once he felt that divine rest 
 which comes from leaning upon the will of another. 
 
 "Well, I do say so," returned Nicholas. He looked at 
 the fire again, then he went out. He turned in the door 
 way, and nodded admonishingly at Stephen. "Mind you 
 don t try to get up," he said again. 
 
 Nicholas went out of sight down the road, taking long 
 strides over the creaking snow. He was gone about a 
 half-hour. When he returned, his arms were full of pack 
 ages. He opened the door, and looked anxiously at the 
 bed. Stephen twisted his face towards him and smiled. 
 Nicholas piled the packages up on the table, and lifted a 
 stove-cover. 
 
 " I ve seen Mis Morrison, and it s all right," said he. 
 
 "What did she say ?" asked Stephen, in an awed voice. 
 
A SOLITARY. 231 
 
 "Well, she didn t say much of anything. She was fryin 
 griddle-cakes for the boarders breakfasts. She said she 
 felt real bad about lettin you go, but she didn t see no 
 other way, an she d be glad to have you visit me jest as 
 long as you wanted to. 3he s goin to pack up your clothes." 
 
 "I ain t got many clothes. There s my old coat an 
 vest an my other pants, but they re most worn out. I 
 ain t got but one real good shirt besides this one I ve got 
 on. That was in the wash, or I d brought it." 
 
 41 Clothes enough," said Nicholas. 
 
 He crammed the stove with wood, and began undoing 
 the packages. There were coffee, bread, and butter, some 
 little delicate sugar cookies, some slices of ham, and eggs. 
 There were also a pail of milk and a new tin coffee-pot. 
 
 Nicholas worked busily. He made coffee, fried the ham 
 and eggs, and toasted slices of bread. When everything 
 was ready, he carried a bowl of water to Stephen for him to 
 wash his hands and face before breakfast. He even got his 
 comb, and smoothed his hair. 
 
 Then he set the breakfast out on the table, and brought 
 it up to the bedside. He had placed a chair for himself, 
 and was just sitting down, when he stopped suddenly. "I 
 don t know as it s just fair for me not to tell you a little 
 something about myself before we really begin livin to 
 gether," said he. " It won t take but a minute. I don t 
 know but you ve heard stories about me that I wa n t quite 
 right. Well, I am ; that is, I s pose I am. All is, I ve had 
 lots of trouble, an it come mainly through folks I set by ; 
 an I figured out a way to get the better of it. I figured 
 out that if I didn t care anything for anybody, I shouldn t 
 have no trouble from em ; an if I didn t care anything for 
 myself, I shouldn t have any from myself. I bout made 
 
232 ^ SOLITARY. 
 
 up my mind that all the trouble an wickedness in this 
 world come from carin about yourself or somebody else, 
 so I thought I d quit it. I let folks alone, an I wouldn t 
 do anything for em ; an I let myself alone as near as I 
 could, an didn t do anything for myself. I kept cold when 
 I wanted to be warm, an warm when I wanted to be cold. 
 I didn t eat anything I liked, an I left things around that, 
 hurt me to see. My wife she made them wax flowers an ; 
 them gimcracks. Then I used to read the Bible, cause I 
 used to believe in it an didn t now, an it made me feel 
 worse. I did about everything I could to spite myself, an 
 get all the feelin out of me, so I could be a little easier in 
 my mind." 
 
 Nicholas paused a moment. Stephen was looking at 
 him with bewildered intensity. 
 
 " Well, I was all wrong," Nicholas went on. " I ve give 
 it all up. I ve got to go through with the whole of it like 
 other folks, an I guess I ve got grit enough. I ve made up 
 my mind that men s tracks cover the whole world, and 
 there ain t standin -room outside of em. I ve got to go 
 with the rest. Now we ll have breakfast." 
 
 Nicholas ate heartily ; it was long since he had tasted such 
 food ; even Stephen had quite an appetite. Nicholas pressed 
 the food upon him ; his face was radiant with kindness and 
 delight. Stephen Forster, innocent, honest, and simple^ 
 hearted, did not in the least understand him, but that did not 
 matter. There is a higher congeniality than that of mutual 
 understanding; there is that of need and supply. 
 
 After breakfast Nicholas cleared away the dishes and 
 washed them. The sun was so high then that it struck 
 the windows, and the frost-work sparkled like diamonds. 
 
 Nicholas opened the door; he was going down to the spring 
 
A SOLITARY. 
 
 233 
 
 for more water ; he saw a flock of sparrows in the bushes 
 across the road, and stopped ; then he set his pail down 
 noiselessly and went back for a piece of bread. He broke 
 it and scattered the crumbs before the door, then went off a 
 little way and stood watching. When the sparrows settled 
 down upon the crumbs he laughed softly, and went on to 
 wards the spring over the shininer crust of snow. 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 OUT in front of the cemetery stood a white horse and a 
 covered wagon. The horse was not tied, but she stood 
 quite still, her four feet widely and ponderously planted, 
 her meek white head hanging. Shadows of leaves danced 
 on her back. There were many trees about the cemetery, 
 and the foliage was unusually luxuriant for May. The four 
 women who had come in the covered wagon remarked it. 
 " I never saw the trees so forward as they are this year, 
 seems to me," said one, gazing up at some magnificent 
 gold-green branches over her head. 
 
 " I was sayin so to Mary this morning" rejoined another. 
 " They re uncommon forward, I think." 
 
 They loitered along the narrow lanes between the lots 
 four homely, middle-aged women, with decorous and sub 
 dued enjoyment in their worn faces. They read with peace 
 ful curiosity and interest the inscriptions on the stones ; 
 they turned aside to look at the tender, newly blossomed 
 spring bushes the flowering almonds and the bridal 
 wreaths. Once in a while they came to a new stone, 
 which they immediately surrounded with eager criticism. 
 There was a solemn hush when they reached a lot where 
 some relatives of one of the party were buried. She put a 
 bunch of flowers on a grave, then she stood looking at it 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 235 
 
 with red eyes. The others grouped themselves deferentially 
 aloof. 
 
 They did not meet any one in the cemetery until just be 
 fore they left. When they had reached the rear and oldest 
 portion of the yard, and were thinking of retracing their 
 steps, they became suddenly aware of a child sitting in a 
 lot at their right. The lot held seven old, leaning stones, 
 dark and mossy, their inscriptions dimly traceable. The 
 child sat close to one, and she looked up at the staring 
 knot of women with a kind of innocent keenness, like a 
 baby. He r face was small and fair and pinched. The 
 women stood eying her. 
 
 " What s your name, little girl ?" asked one. She had a 
 bright flower in her bonnet and a smart lift to her chin, 
 and seemed the natural spokeswoman of the party. Her 
 name was Holmes. The child turned her head sideways 
 and murmured something. 
 
 "What? We can t hear. Speak up; don t be afraid! 
 What s your name ?" The woman nodded the bright flower 
 over her, and spoke with sharp pleasantness. 
 
 " Nancy Wren," said the child, with a timid catch of her 
 breath. 
 
 " Wren ?" 
 
 The child nodded. She kept her little pink, curving 
 mouth parted. 
 
 " It s nobody I know," remarked the questioner, reflec 
 tively. " I guess she comes from over there." She made 
 a significant motion of her head towards the right. " Where 
 do you live, Nancy ?" she asked. 
 
 The child also motioned towards the right. 
 
 " I thought so," said the woman. " How old are you ?" 
 
 "Ten." 
 
236 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 The women exchanged glances. " Are you sure you re 
 tellin the truth ?" 
 
 The child nodded. 
 
 " I never saw a girl so small for her age if she is," said 
 one woman to another. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Holmes, looking at her critically ; "she 
 is dreadful small. She s considerable smaller than my 
 Mary was. Is there any of your folks buried in this lot?" 
 said she, fairly hovering with affability and determined gra- 
 ciousness. 
 
 The child s upturned face suddenly kindled. She began 
 speaking with a soft volubility that was an odd contrast to 
 her previous hesitation. 
 
 "That s mother," said she, pointing to one of the stones, 
 "an that s father, an there s John, an Marg ret, an Mary, 
 an Susan, an the baby, and here s Jane." 
 
 The women stared at her in amazement. " Was it your " 
 began Mrs. Holmes ; but another woman stepped forward, 
 stoutly impetuous 
 
 " Land ! it s the Blake lot !" said she. "This child can t 
 be any relation to em. You hadn t ought to talk so, 
 Nancy." 
 
 " It s so," said the child, shyly persistent. She evidently 
 hardly grasped the force of the woman s remark. 
 
 They eyed her with increased bewilderment. " It can t 
 be," said the woman to the others. " Every one of them 
 Blakes died years ago." 
 
 " I ve seen Jane," volunteered the child, with a candid 
 smile in their faces. 
 
 Then the stout woman sank down on her knees beside 
 \ane s stone, and peered hard at it. 
 
 " She died forty year ago this May," said she, with a gasp. 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 237 
 
 " I used to know her when I was a child. She was ten 
 years old when she died. You ain t ever seen her. You 
 hadn t ought to tell such stories." 
 
 " I ain t seen her for a long time," said the little girl. 
 
 "What made you say you d seen her at all?" said Mrs. 
 Holmes, sharply, thinking this was capitulation. 
 
 "I did use to see her a long time ago, an she used to 
 wear a white dress, an a wreath on her head. She used to 
 come here an play with me." 
 
 The women looked at each other with pale, shocked 
 faces ; one nervous ; one shivered. " She ain t quite right," 
 she whispered. " Let s go." The women began filing 
 away. Mrs. Holmes, who came last, stood about for a part 
 ing word to the child. 
 
 " You can t have seen her," said she, severely, " an you 
 are a wicked girl to tell such stories. You mustn t do it 
 again, remember." 
 
 Nancy stood with her hand on Jane s stone, looking at 
 her. " She did," she repeated, with mild obstinacy. 
 
 " There s somethin wrong about her, I guess," whispered 
 Mrs. Holmes, rustling on after the others. 
 
 " I see she looked kind of queer the minute I set eyes on 
 her," said the nervous woman. 
 
 When the four reached the front of the cemetery they sat 
 down to rest for a few minutes. It was warm, and they had 
 still quite a walk, nearly the whole width of the yard, to the 
 other front corner where the horse and wagon were. 
 
 They sat down in a row on a bank ; the stout woman 
 wiped her face ; Mrs. Holmes straightened her bonnet. 
 Directly opposite across the street stood two houses, so 
 close to each other that their walls almost touched. One 
 was a large square building, glossily white, with green 
 
238 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 blinds ; the other was low, with a facing of whitewashed 
 stone-work reaching to its lower windows, which somehow 
 gave it a disgraced and menial air ; there were, moreover, 
 no blinds. 
 
 At the side of the low building stretched a wide ploughed 
 field, where several halting old figures were moving about 
 planting. There was none of the brave hope of the sower 
 about them. Even across the road one could see the fee 
 ble stiffness of their attitudes, the half-palsied fling of their 
 arms. 
 
 "I declare I shouldn t think them old men over there 
 would ever get that field planted," said Mrs. Holmes, en 
 ergetically watchful. In the front door of the square white 
 house sat a girl with bright hair. The yard was full of 
 green light from two tall maple-trees, and the girl s hair 
 made a brilliant spot of color in the midst of it. 
 
 "That s Flora Dunn over there on the door-step, ain t 
 it ?" said the stout woman. 
 
 " Yes. I should think you could tell her by her red hair. 1 
 
 " I knew it. I should have thought Mr. Dunn would 
 have hated to have had their house so near the poor-house. 
 I declare I should !" 
 
 " Oh, he wouldn t mind," said Mrs. Holmes ; " he s as 
 easy as old Tilly. It wouldn t have troubled him any if 
 they d set it right in his front yard. But I guess she minded 
 some. I heard she did. John said there wa n t any need 
 of it. The town wouldn t have set it so near, if Mr. Dunri 
 had set his foot down he wouldn t have it there. I s pose 
 they wanted to keep that big field on the side clear; out 
 they would have moved it along a little if he d made a fuss. 
 I tell you what tis, I ve bout made up^ny mind I dun 
 know as it s Scripture, but I can t help it if folks don t 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 239 
 
 make a fuss they won t get their rights in this world. If 
 you jest lay still an don t rise up, you re goin to get stepped 
 on. If people like to be, they can ; I don t." 
 
 " I should have thought he d have hated to have the 
 poor-house quite so close," murmured the stout woman. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Holmes leaned forward and poked her 
 head among the other three. She sat on the end of the 
 row. " Say," said she, in a mysterious whisper, " I want 
 to know if you ve heard the stories bout the Dunn house?" 
 
 " No ; what ?" chorussed the other women, eagerly. They 
 bent over towards her till the four faces were in a knot. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Holmes, cautiously, with a glance at 
 the bright-headed girl across the way " I heard it pretty 
 straight they say the house is haunted." 
 
 The stout woman sniffed and straightened herself. 
 " Haunted !" repeated she. 
 
 "They say that ever since Jenny died there s been queer 
 noises round the house that they can t account for. You 
 see that front chamber over there, the one next to the poor- 
 house ; well, that s the room, they say." 
 
 The women all turned and looked at the chamber win 
 dows, where some ruffled white curtains were fluttering. 
 
 "That s the chamber where Jenny used to sleep, you 
 know," Mrs. Holmes went on ; " an she died there. Well, 
 they said that before Jenny died, Flora had always slept 
 there with her, but she felt kind of bad about goin back 
 there, so she thought she d take another room. Well, there 
 was the awfulest moanin an takin on up in Jenny s room, 
 when she did, that Flora went back there to sleep." 
 
 " I shouldn t thought she could," whispered the nervous 
 woman, who was quite pale. 
 
 "The moanin stopped jest as soon as she got in there 
 
2 4 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 with a light. You see Jenny was always terrible timid an s 
 afraid to sleep alone, an had a lamp burnin all night, an 
 it seemed to them jest as if it really was her, I s pose." 
 
 " I don t believe one word of it," said the stout woman, 
 getting up. " It makes me all out of patience to hear peo 
 ple talk such stuff, jest because the Dunns happen to live 
 opposite a graveyard." 
 
 "I told it jest as I heard it," said Mrs. Holmes, stiffly. 
 
 " Oh, I ain t blamin you ; it s the folks that start such 
 stories that I ain t got any patience with. Think of that 
 dear, pretty little sixteen-year-old girl hauntin a house !" 
 
 " Well, I ve told it jest as I heard it," repeated Mrs. 
 Holmes, still in a tone of slight umbrage. " I don t ever 
 take much stock in such things myself." 
 
 The four women strolled along to the covered wagon 
 and climbed in. " I declare," said the stout woman, con- 
 ciliatingly, " I dun know when I ve had such an outin . I 
 feel as if it had done me good. I ve been wan tin to come 
 down to the cemetery for a long time, but it s most more n 
 I want to walk. I feel real obliged to you, Mis Holmes." 
 
 The others climbed in. Mrs. Holmes disclaimed all ob 
 ligations gracefully, established herself on the front seat, 
 and shook the reins over the white horse. Then the party 
 jogged along the road to the village, past outlying farm 
 houses and rich green meadows, all freckled gold with dan 
 delions. Dandelions were in their height ; the buttercups 
 had not yet come. 
 
 Flora Dunn, the girl on the door-step, glanced up when 
 they started down the street ; then she turned her eyes on 
 her work ; she was sewing with nervous haste. 
 
 " Who were those folks, did you see, Flora ?" called hr 
 mother, out of the sitting-room. 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 241 
 
 " I didn t notice," replied Flora, absently. 
 
 Just then the girl whom the women had met came lin- 
 geringly out of the cemetery and crossed the street. 
 
 " There s that poor little Wren girl," remarked the voice 
 in the sitting-room. 
 
 "Yes," assented Flora. After a while she got up and 
 entered the house. Her mother looked anxiously at her 
 when she came into the room. 
 
 " I m all out of patience with you, Flora," said she. 
 "You re jest as white as a sheet. You ll make yourself 
 sick. You re actin dreadful foolish." 
 
 Flora sank into a chair and sat staring straight ahead 
 with a strained, pitiful gaze. " I can t help it ; I can t do 
 any different," said she. " I shouldn t think you d scold me, 
 mother." 
 
 " Scold you ; I ain t scoldin you, child ; but there ain t 
 any sense in your doin so. You ll make yourself sick, an 
 you re all I ve got left. I can t have anything happen to 
 you, Flora." Suddenly Mrs. Dunn burst out in a low wail, 
 hiding her face in her hands. 
 
 " I don t see as you re much better yourself, mother," 
 said Flora, heavily. 
 
 " I don t know as I am," sobbed her mother ; " but I ve 
 got you to worry about besides everything else. Oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear, dear !" 
 
 " I don t see any need of your worrying about me." 
 Flora did not cry, but her face seemed to darken visibly 
 with a gathering melancholy like a cloud. Her hair was 
 beautiful, and she had a charming delicacy of complexion ; 
 but she was not handsome, her features were too sharp, her 
 expression too intense and nervous. Her mother looked 
 like her as to the expression ; the features were widely dif 
 
2 4 2 ^ GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 V ^ 
 , ferent. It was as if both had passed through one corrod- 
 
 " ing element which had given them the similarity of scars. 
 Certainly a stranger would at once have noticed the strong 
 resemblance between Mrs. Dunn s large, heavy-featured face 
 and her daughter s thin, delicately outlined one a resem 
 blance which three months ago had not been perceptible. 
 
 " I see, if you don t," returned the mother. " I ain t blind." 
 
 "I don t see what you are blaming me for." 
 
 " I ain t blamin you, but it seems to me that you might 
 jest as well let me go up there an sleep as you." 
 
 Suddenly the girl also broke out into a wild cry. " I 
 ain t going to leave her. Poor little Jenny ! poor little 
 Jenny ! You needn t try to make me, mother j I won t !" 
 
 " Flora, don t !" 
 
 "I won t! I won t! I won t! Poor little Jenny! Oh, 
 dear ! oh, dear !" 
 
 " What if it is so ? What if it is her ? Ain t she got 
 me as well as you ? Can t her mother go to her ?" 
 
 " I won t leave her. I won t ! I won t !" 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Dunn s calmness seemed to come upper 
 most, raised in the scale by the weighty impetus of the 
 other s distress. " Flora," said she, with mournful solemnity, 
 "you mustn t do so; it s wrong. You mustn t wear your 
 self all out over something that maybe you ll find out wasn t 
 so some time or other." 
 
 " Mother, don t you think it is don t you ?" 
 
 "I don t know what to think, Flora." Just then a door 
 shut somewhere in the back part of the house. " There s 
 father," said Mrs. Dunn, getting up; "an the fire ain t 
 made." 
 
 Flora rose also, and went about helping her mother to 
 get supper. Both suddenly settled into a rigidity of com* 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 243 
 
 posure ; their eyes were red, but their lips were steady. 
 There was a resolute vein in their characters ; they man 
 aged themselves with wrenches, and could be hard even 
 with their grief. They got tea ready for Mr. Dunn and his 
 two hired men ; then cleared it away, and sat down in the 
 front room with their needlework. Mr. Dunn, a kindly, 
 dull old man, was in there too, over his newspaper. Mrs. 
 Dunn and Flora sewed intently, never taking their eyes 
 from their work. Out in the next room stood a tall clock, 
 which ticked loudly; just before it struck the hours it made 
 always a curious grating noise. When it announced in this 
 way the striking of nine, Mrs. Dunn and Flora exchanged 
 glances ; the girl was pale, and her eyes looked larger. 
 She began folding up her work. Suddenly a low moaning 
 cry sounded through the house, seemingly from the room 
 overhead. " There it is !" shrieked Flora. She caught up 
 a lamp and ran. Mrs. Dunn was following, when her hus 
 band, sitting near the door, caught hold of her dress with a 
 bewildered air ; he had been dozing. "What s the matter?" 
 said he, vaguely. 
 
 " Don t you hear it ? Didn t you hear it, father?" 
 
 The old man let go of her dress suddenly. " I didn t 
 hear nothin ,"said he. 
 
 " Hark !" 
 
 But the cry, in fact, had ceased. Flora could be heard 
 moving about in the room overhead, and that was all. In 
 a moment Mrs. Dunn ran up-stairs after her. The old man 
 sat staring. "It s all dum foolishness," he muttered, under 
 his breath. Presently he fell to dozing again, and his va 
 cantly smiling face lopped forward. Mr. Dunn, slow- 
 brained, patient, and unimaginative, had had his evening 
 naps interrupted after this manner for the last three months, 
 
244 
 
 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 J 
 
 and there was as yet no cessation of his bewilderment. He 
 dealt with the simple, broad lights of life ; the shadows 
 v were beyond his speculation. For his consciousness his 
 daughter Jenny had died and gone to heaven ; he was not 
 capable of listening for her ghostly moans in her little 
 chamber overhead, much less of hearing them with any 
 credulity. 
 
 When his wife came down-stairs finally she looked at 
 him, sleeping there, with a bitter feeling. She felt as if set 
 about by an icy wind of loneliness. Her daughter, who was 
 after her own kind, was all the one to whom she could 
 look for sympathy and understanding in this subtle per- 
 plexity which had come upon her. And she would rathei 
 have dispensed with that sympathy, and heard alone those 
 piteous, uncanny cries, for she was wild with anxiety about 
 Flora. The girl had never been very strong. She looked 
 at her distressfully when she came down the next morning. 
 
 " Did you sleep any last night ?" said she. 
 
 " Some," answered Flora. 
 
 Soon after breakfast they noticed the little Wren girl 
 stealing across the road to the cemetery again. " She goes 
 over there all the time," remarked Mrs. Dunn. "I b lieve 
 she runs away. See her look behind her." 
 
 " Yes," said Flora, apathetically. 
 
 It was nearly noon when they heard a voice from the 
 next house calling, " Nancy ! Nancy ! Nancy Wren !" The 
 voice was loud and imperious, but slow and evenly modu 
 lated. It indicated well its owner. A woman who could 
 regulate her own angry voice could regulate other people. 
 Mrs. Dunn and Flora heard it understandingly. 
 
 " That poor little thing will catch it when she gets home," 
 said Mrs. Dunn. 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 245 
 
 "Nancy! Nancy! Nancy Wren !" called the voice again. 
 
 "I pity the child if Mrs. Gregg has to go after her. 
 Mebbe she s fell asleep over there. Flora, why don t you 
 run over there an get her ?" 
 
 The voice rang out again. Flora got her hat and stole 
 across the street a little below the house, so the calling wom 
 an should not see her. When she got into the cemetery 
 she called in her turn, letting out her thin sweet voice cau 
 tiously. Finally she came directly upon the child. She 
 was in the Blake lot, her little slender body, in its dingy 
 cotton dress, curled up on the ground close to one of the 
 graves. No one but Nature tended those old graves now, 
 and she seemed to be lapsing them gently back to her own 
 lines, at her own will. Of the garden shrubs which had 
 been planted about them not one was left but an old low- 
 spraying white rose-bush, which had just gotten its new 
 leaves. The Blake lot was at the very rear of the yard, 
 where it verged upon a light wood, which was silently steal 
 ing its way over its own proper boundaries. At the back 
 of the lot stood a thicket of little thin trees, with silvery 
 twinkling leaves. The ground was quite blue with hous- 
 tonias. 
 
 The child raised her little fair head and stared at Flora, 
 as if just awakened from sleep. She held her little pink 
 mouth open, her innocent blue eyes had a surprised look, 
 as if she were suddenly gazing upon a new scene. 
 
 "Where s she gone?" asked she, in her sweet, feeble pipe. 
 
 "Where s who gone?" 
 
 "Jane." 
 
 " I don t know what you mean. Come, Nancy, you must 
 go home now." 
 
 "Didn t you see her?" 
 
246 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 " I didn t see anybody," answered Flora, impatiently. 
 "Come!" 
 
 "She was right here." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Jane was standin right here. An she had her white 
 dress on, an her wreath." 
 
 Flora shivered, and looked around her fearfully. The 
 fancy of the child was overlapping her own nature. 
 "There wasn t a soul here. YouVe been dreaming, child. 
 Come !" 
 
 " No, I wasn t. I ve seen them blue flowers an the 
 leaves wi.nkin all the time. Jane stood right there." The 
 .child pointed with her tiny ringer to a spot at her side. 
 ." She hadn t come for a long time before," she added. 
 " She s stayed down there." She pointed at the grave near 
 est her. 
 
 " You mustn t talk so," said Flora, with tremulous severity. 
 "You must get right up and come home. Mrs. Gregg has 
 been calling you and calling you. She won t like it." 
 
 Nancy turned quite pale around her little mouth, and 
 sprang to her feet. " Is Mis Gregg comin ?" 
 
 " She will come if you don t hurry." 
 
 The child said not another word. She flew along ahead 
 through the narrow paths, and was in the almshouse door 
 before Flora crossed the street. 
 
 " She s terrible afraid of Mrs. Gregg," she told her mother 
 when she got home. Nancy had disturbed her own brood 
 ing a little, and she spoke more like herself. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! I pity her," said Mrs. Dunn. Mrs. 
 Dunn did not like Mrs. Gregg. 
 
 Flora rarely told a story until she had ruminated awhile 
 over it herself. It was afternoon, and the two were in the 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 247 
 
 front room at their sewing, before she told her mother about 
 "Jane." 
 
 " Of course she must have been dreaming," Flora said. 
 
 " She must have been," rejoined her mother. 
 
 But the two looked at each other, and their eyes said 
 more than their tongues. Here was a new marvel, new 
 evidence of a kind which they had heretofore scented at, 
 these two rigidly walking New England souls ; yet walking, 
 after all, upon narrow paths through dark meadows of mys 
 ticism. If they never lost their footing, the steaming damp 
 of the meadows might come in their faces. 
 
 This fancy, delusion, superstition, whichever one might 
 name it, of theirs had lasted now three months ever since 
 young Jenny Dunn had died. There was apparently no 
 reason why it should not last much longer, if delusion it 
 were ; the temperaments of these two women, naturally 
 nervous and imaginative, overwrought now by long care and 
 sorrow, would perpetuate it. 
 
 If it were not delusion, pray what exorcism, what spell 
 of book and bell, could lay the ghost of a little timid child 
 who was afraid alone in the dark? 
 
 The days went on, and Flora still hurried up to her 
 chamber at the stroke of nine. If she were a moment late, 
 sometimes if she were not, that pitiful low wail sounded 
 through the house. 
 
 The strange story spread gradually through the village. 
 Mrs. Dunn and Flora were silent about it, but Gossip is her 
 self of a ghostly nature, and minds not keys nor bars.,/ 
 
 There was quite an excitement over it. People affected 
 with morbid curiosity and sympathy came to the house. 
 One afternoon the minister came and offered a prayer. Mrs. 
 Dunn and Flora received them all with a certain reticence ; 
 
248 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 they did not concur in their wishes to remain and hear 
 the mysterious noises for themselves. People called them 
 " dreadful close." They got more satisfaction out of Mr. 
 Dunn, who was perfectly ready to impart all the information 
 in his power and his own theories in the matter. 
 
 " I never heard a thing but once," said he, " an then it 
 sounded more like a cat to me than anything. I guess 
 mother and Flora air kinder nervous." 
 
 The spring was waxing late when Flora went up-stairs 
 one night with the oil low in her lamp. She had neglected 
 filling it that day. She did not notice it until she was un 
 dressed ; then she thought to herself that she must blow it 
 out. She always kept a lamp burning all night, as she had 
 in timid little Jenny s day. Flora herself was timid now. 
 
 So she blew the light out. She had barely laid her head 
 upon the pillow when the low moaning wail sounded through 
 the room. Flora sat up in bed and listened, her hands 
 clinched. The moan gathered strength and volume ; little 
 broken words and sentences, the piteous ejaculations of ter 
 ror and distress, began to shape themselves out of it. 
 
 Flora sprang out of bed, and stumbled towards her west 
 window the one on the almshouse side. She leaned her 
 head out, listening a moment. Then she called her mother 
 with wild vehemence. But her mother was already at the 
 door with a lamp. When she entered, the moans ceased. 
 
 " Mother," shrieked Flora, " it ain t Jenny. It s some 
 body over there at the poor-house. Put the lamp out in 
 the entry, and come back here and listen." 
 
 Mrs. Dunn set out the lamp and came back, closing the 
 door. It was a few minutes first, but presently the cries 
 recommenced. 
 
 "I m goin right over there," said Mrs. Dunn. "I m 
 
A GENTLE GHOST. 2 49 
 
 goin to dress myself an go over there. I m goin to have 
 this affair sifted now." 
 
 " I m going too," said Flora. 
 
 It was only half-past nine when the two stole into the 
 almshouse yard. The light was not out in the room on the 
 ground-floor, which the overseer s family used for a sitting- 
 room. When they entered, the overseer was there asleep 
 in his chair, his wife sewing at the table, and an old woman 
 in a pink cotton dress, apparently doing nothing. They 
 all started, and stared at the -intruders. 
 
 "Good-evenin ," said Mrs. Dunn, trying to speak com 
 posedly. " We thought we d come in ; we got kind of 
 started. Oh, there tis now ! What is it, Mis Gregg ?" 
 
 In fact, at that moment, the wail, louder and more dis 
 tinct, was heard. 
 
 "Why, it s Nancy," replied Mrs. Gregg, with dignified 
 surprise. She was a large woman, with a masterly placid 
 ity about her. " I heard her a few minutes ago," she went 
 on ; " an I was goin up there to see to her if she hadn t 
 stopped." 
 
 Mr. Gregg, a heavy, saturnine old man, with a broad 
 bristling face, sat staring stupidly. The old woman in pink 
 calico surveyed them all with an impersonal grin. 
 
 "Nancy!" repeated Mrs. Dunn, looking at Mrs. Gregg. 
 She had not fancied this woman very much, and the two 
 had not fraternized, although they were such near neigh 
 bors. Indeed, Mrs. Gregg was not of a sociable nature, 
 and associated very little with anything but her own duties. 
 
 "Yes; Nancy Wren," she said, with gathering amaze 
 ment. " She cries out this way most every night. She s 
 ten years old, but she s as afraid of the dark as a baby. She s 
 a queer child. I guess mebbe she s nervous. I don t know 
 
250 
 
 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 but she s got notions into her head, stayin over in the 
 graveyard so much. She runs away over there every chance 
 she can get, an she goes over a queer rigmarole about 
 playin with Jane, and her bein dressed in white an a 
 wreath. I found out she meant Jane Blake, that s buried 
 in the Blake lot. I knew there wa n t any children round 
 here, an* I thought I d look into it. You know it says 
 Our Father, an Our Mother, on the old folks stones. 
 An there she was, callin them father an mother. You d 
 thought they was right there. I ve got most out o patience 
 with the child. I don t know nothin about such kind of 
 folks." The wail continued. " I ll go right up there," 
 said Mrs. Gregg, determinately, taking a lamp. 
 
 Mrs. Dunn and Flora followed. When they entered the 
 chamber to which she led them they saw little Nancy sit 
 ting up in bed, her face pale and convulsed, her blue eyes 
 streaming with tears, her little pink mouth quivering. 
 
 "Nancy " began Mrs. Gregg, in a weighty tone. But 
 Mrs. Dunn sprang forward and threw her arms around the 
 child. 
 
 " You got frightened, didn t you ?" whispered she ; and 
 Nancy clung to her as if for life. 
 
 A great wave of joyful tenderness rolled up in the heart 
 of the bereaved woman. It was not, after all, the lonely 
 and fearfully wandering little spirit of her dear Jenny ; she 
 was peaceful and blessed, beyond all her girlish tumults 
 and terrors; but it was this little living girl. She saw it all 
 plainly now. Afterwards it seemed to her that any one but 
 a woman with her nerves strained, and her imagination 
 unhealthily keen through watching and sorrow, would have 
 seen it before. 
 
 She held Nancy tight, and soothed her. She felt almost 
 
A GEXTLE GHOST. 251 
 
 as if she held her own Jenny. " I guess I ll take her home 
 with me, if you don t care," she said to Mrs. Gregg. 
 
 "Why, I don t know as I ve got any objections, if 
 you want to," answered Mrs. Gregg, with cold stateliness. 
 " Nancy Wren has had everything done for her that I was 
 able to do," she added, when Mrs. Dunn had wrapped up 
 the child, and they were all on the stairs. " I ain t coaxed 
 an cuddled her, because it ain t my way. I never did with 
 my own children." 
 
 "Oh, I know you ve done all you could," said Mrs. Dunn, 
 with abstracted apology. " I jest thought I d like to take 
 her home to-night. Don t you think I m blamin you, Mis 
 Gregg." She bent down and kissed the little tearful face 
 on her shoulder : she was carrying Nancy like a baby. 
 Flora had hold of one of her little dangling hands. 
 
 "You shall go right up -stairs an sleep with Flora," 
 Mrs. Dunn whispered in the child s ear, when they were go 
 ing across the yard ; " an you shall have the lamp burnin 
 all night, an I ll give you a piece of cake before you go." 
 
 It was the custom of the Dunns to visit the cemetery and 
 carry flowers to Jenny s grave every Sunday afternoon. 
 Next Sunday little Nancy went with them. She followed 
 happily along, and did not seem to think of the Blake lot. 
 That pitiful fancy, if fancy it were, which had peopled her 
 empty childish world with ghostly kindred, which had led 
 into it an angel playmate in white robe and crown, might 
 lie at rest now. There was no more need for it. She had \ 
 found her place in a nest of living hearts, and she was get-/ 
 ting her natural food of human love. 
 
 They had dressed Nancy in one of the little white frocks 
 which Jenny had worn in her childhood, and her hat was 
 
252 A GENTLE GHOST. 
 
 trimmed with some ribbon and rose-buds which had adorned 
 one of the dead young girl s years before. 
 
 It was a beautiful Sunday. After they left the cemetery 
 they strolled a little way down the road. The road lay be 
 tween deep green meadows and cottage yards. It was not 
 quite time for the roses, and the lilacs were turning gray. 
 The buttercups in the meadows had blossomed out, but the 
 dandelions had lost their yellow crowns, and their filmy 
 skulls appeared. They stood like ghosts among crowds of 
 golden buttercups ; but none of the family thought of that; 
 their ghosts were laid in peace. 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 "WONDER what s goin on in the church?" 
 
 Gilman Marlow stopped and stared slowly over at the 
 church. It was a little white building with five poin 
 windows on each side. The windows were all streaming 
 withJigfeX. now, and the bright ligh Showed from the door 
 too, for it was open, and people were going in. 
 
 Opposite the church, where Marlow stood, the road was 
 lined with thickly set hemlock and pine trees. Behind 
 them was the graveyard : one peering between the branches 
 could see the white stones. The gap for the entrance was 
 a little beyond. There had been a heavy snowfall the day 
 before, and all the trees were loaded with snow now ; the 
 boughs bent down heavily ; the lowest ones touched the 
 ground. 
 
 Marlow stood among the white branches awhile, and 
 looked over at the church with a sort of dull curiosity ; 
 then he kept on up the street. He met many little hurry 
 ing groups, and he turned out for them readily, plunging 
 into the deep snow at the side of the cleared path. 
 
 Some of the people turned and stared after him. " Who 
 was that ?" he heard some one say. " I don t know, ; said 
 another. 
 
 " I guess you don t," muttered Marlow, with a faint chuckle. 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 When he came in front of a lighted window anywhere, he 
 showed up large and burly, an old rough great-coat shrugged 
 tightly around him, an old fur cap pulled down to his ears. 
 He limped badly. 
 
 About a quarter of a mile from the church there was a 
 large white farm-house. The great square front yard was 
 full of smooth snow. Some old rose-bushes under the house 
 walls pricked softly through it, but there was not a foot-track 
 anywhere. All the windows in the house were dark. Mar- 
 low stood looking up at the house. A great clod of damp 
 snow struck on his shoulders. It had fallen from a maple- 
 tree which reached out over his head. He shook it off. 
 
 " Guess I ll go round to the back door an see if I can 
 raise anybody," said he, out loud. 
 
 "There ain t anybody livin in that house now," said a 
 voice. 
 
 Marlow looked around. A small woman stood beside 
 him ; her little upturned face stood out of the dark with its 
 soft paleness, but he could not distinguish the features. 
 
 " Is that so ?" said he. 
 
 "Yes; there ain t anybody been livin there for some 
 time." The woman caught her breath as she talked. 
 
 "Then the old man s dead." 
 
 " He died more n three years ago The place has been 
 shut up ever since." 
 
 " I wonder if I could get in there ? I s pose somebody s 
 got the key. You don t happen to know who, do you ? I m 
 Marlow s son. I don t know who you are, but I don t s pose 
 it s likely you re anybody that knows me." 
 
 " Gil man, is that you ?" 
 
 " I s pose it is." 
 
 " I knew you the minute you spoke." 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 255 
 
 " You did ? Well, I m glad of it. I didn t count on any 
 body in the whole town rememberin the sound of my voice. 
 But I ll own I can t say as much for myself." 
 
 " Don t you know I live in the next house." 
 
 The man hesitated. " It ain t Lucy well I don t know 
 as it is Lucy Glynn, now." He ended with a little uncertain 
 laugh. 
 
 "Yes, it is." 
 
 Marlow saw, to his great amazement, that the woman was 
 crying. She was shaken all over with her sobs. She 
 leaned up against the snowy fence. He looked at the 
 house, then at her. He did not know what to do. He had 
 no idea what she was crying about. " I m real glad to see 
 you, Lucy," said he, finally, in a nervous, apologetic tone. 
 She made no reply. " Is your father livin ?" 
 
 " Yes, father s livin*." 
 
 Marlow shuffled his feet in the snow. He looked at 
 Lucy, then at the house. " Anything I can do for you ?" 
 he said at last, in an embarrassed, solemn way. His face 
 felt hot. 
 
 "No." Suddenly the woman straightened herself. "I ve 
 got the key to the house/ said she, in a tremulous voice, 
 which caught at every word to recover itself. 
 
 " Oh, you have !" 
 
 "Yes ; it s been left at our house ever since he died. If 
 you ll go back with me " 
 
 " All right." 
 
 The woman went on ahead, her dark skirts dabbled in 
 the snow. Marlow followed, his eyes on her little narrow 
 shoulders, which had somehow a meek air about them. 
 She gathered her gray shawl up primly on her two arms, 
 and kept it tightly pulled around her. She walked with a 
 
256 A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 little nervous scud. Marlow tramped heavily after hei 
 They had but a little way to go. 
 
 " What s goin on in the church to-night ?" said he. " I 
 saw it was all lighted up when I came by." 
 
 "They re havin a Christmas tree there." 
 
 " I declare, it is the night before Christmas, ain t it ?" 
 
 " Didn t you know it ?" 
 
 "Well, I guess I d kind of lost my reckonin . I haven t 
 thought much about Christmas lately. Folks make a greaf, 
 deal more account of it than they used to, anyhow." 
 
 " Yes, they do." 
 
 The two front windows of the small house in the next lof 
 were golden with light. Some green plants showed in them \ 
 the white curtains were drawn only over the upper sashes. 
 
 Lucy turned into the gate. As she did so she glanced 
 around at Marlow, and noticed for the first time how he 
 limped. " Why, you re lame," she said. 
 
 " Yes. I hurt my knee awhile ago, and then the rheu 
 matism got into it. I ve been in the hospital a spell." 
 
 The woman gave a little cry. " The hospital !" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Let me help you up the steps." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " I m real strong." 
 
 " Oh, I can get up the steps well enough. It ain t very 
 bad now ; I ve got kind of used to it. I d feel lonesome 
 without it, you know. Well, it s better to have an ache 
 stick to you than nothin , I s pose." Marlow chuckled 
 feebly. 
 
 Lucy opened the outer door, then an inner one. The 
 entry was so small that she had to step out of it into the 
 room before her guest could enter at all. There came a 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 257 
 
 rush of warm air, sweet with heliotrope and oleander, and 
 pungent with geraniums. 
 
 Marlow snuffed it in, and blinked in the light. " I ll wait 
 here," said he. " You d better shut your door or you ll cold 
 your house all off." 
 
 " Why, you re comin in ?" 
 
 " No, thank ye ; it wouldn t pay. I ll just stand here 
 till you get the key." 
 
 44 Ain t you comin in, just to get warm a minute ?" 
 
 " No, thank ye ; I guess I won t. I ll come some other 
 time. I ll take the key now and go well, I don t know as 
 I ll say home over there." He waved his hand towards 
 the dark mass of buildings at the left. Lucy stood looking 
 at him a minute. 
 
 "Why don t you shet the door? you re coldin the house 
 all off," called a voice out of the light and warmth. " Hey !" 
 called the voice again, " why don t you shet the door ? Is 
 that you ?" 
 
 Then Lucy swung to the inner door and stepped up to 
 Marlow. "You must come in. I don t see what you re 
 thinkin of. Here s that house all cold and dark. It ain t 
 fit to go into ; it s been shut up. You ll catch your death 
 of cold ; and you re lame ; and there ain t anybody there." 
 Her voice sounded weakly sharp ; at the end it broke into a 
 sob again. 
 
 * Great heavens! she can t want me to come in as bad as 
 that," he said to himself. "I ll get along well enough," he 
 said, ardently, after a minute ; " I m used to most every 
 thing. T wouldn t be worth while for me to come in." 
 
 " I was goin to get you some supper/ 
 
 " Oh, thank ye ; but it don t make any difference to me 
 whether i have any supper or not." 
 
258 A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 " It ain t any trouble," Lucy said, faintly. 
 
 Marlow stood looking irresolutely at her. He could not 
 believe that she was in earnest about wanting him to enter. 
 " I ll track the snow all over your clean house," he said, 
 finally. 
 
 That signified that he was coming in. "That ain t any 
 matter," said Lucy, and again threw open the sitting-room 
 door. 
 
 Marlow stamped heavily on the door-step, and shook his 
 shoulders ; then he went in clumsily. The room was small. 
 Out of his very humility and meekness he saw himself 
 larger than he was ; there was a swift multiplication, in his 
 own estimation, of his rough clothes and his rough figure. 
 He held his cap in his hand, and did not dare to stir for a 
 moment. In the corner near him was a great pot with an 
 oleander-tree, its spraying top all pink with blossoms. 
 There was a little yellow stand with pots of geranium and 
 heliotrope on it. Take a step forward, and there was an 
 old man warming his feet at an air-tight stove. 
 
 " Here s somebody come to see us, father," said Lucy. 
 
 The old man shrank back. He ignored Marlow, who 
 held out his hand, and mumbled something. " I dun know 
 who tis," he said, turning to his daughter. 
 
 "Why, it s Mr. Marlow, father Oilman Marlow. He 
 used to live next door don t you know ?" 
 
 " Tain t, nuther ; he s dead." The old man set his lips 
 together like a child. 
 
 " Yes, father, old Mr. Marlow s dead ; he died three 
 years ago. But this ain t him ; this is his son Oilman. 
 Don t you remember him ?" 
 
 " The one that sort of slumped through ?" 
 
 Lucy started pitifully. Marlow colored j then he grinned. 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 259 
 
 "Yes, I reckon that just fits my case," said he, with a sort 
 of embarrassed and shamefaced mirthfulness. " I m the 
 one. I ve slumped through ever since I come into the world/V 
 
 " Father, can t you shake hands with Gilman?" 
 
 The old man reached out his hand. His thin mouth 
 curved up at the corners, the wrinkles around his eyes 
 deepened. He would have looked quizzical had he not 
 looked so feeble. Marlow grasped the old hand ; then he 
 gave Lucy his cap and coat, and seated himself in the 
 chair which she had proffered him. It was a calico-covered 
 rocker. He sat in it stiffly. It seemed to him that it 
 would be indecorous to relax himself into comfort. 
 
 Something brushed his head. He looked up, and it was 
 a soft spray of the oleander blossoms. He moved his chair 
 quickly. Lucy had gone out ; he could hear her stepping 
 about in the next room. He wondered vaguely what she 
 was doing. He had no longer any feeling of resistance to 
 her plans. He was nearly exhausted. He was just out of 
 the hospital, and he had walked five miles through the snow 
 that day. His knee began to pain him now. His large, 
 rough-complexioned face was pale. 
 
 The old man eyed him intently. He had something 
 which looked like a brown cashmere dress across his knees, 
 and another part of it lay on a chair beside him. "What s 
 she a-doin on ?" he asked Marlow. 
 
 " I don t know." 
 
 " Lucy !" called her father ; " Lucy !" 
 
 " What is it, father ?" called Lucy back from the other 
 room. 
 
 "What air you a-doin of?" 
 
 " Makin a little tea for Mr. Marlow." 
 
 "What air you a-makin tea for him for?" There was 
 
260 A "DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 no reply. " What is she a-makin tea for you for ?" asked 
 the old man of Marlow. 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 "She never makes any for me this time o night. 
 Twouldn t do me no harm, nuther, a cup on t warm afore I 
 went to bed." Suddenly the old man caught up the brown 
 cashmere on his lap and threw it over to Marlow. " There," 
 said he, " you kin pick the bastin s out o that while you re 
 settin . I ve got to pick em out of the waist on t" 
 
 Marlow looked at the brown cashmere in bewilderment. 
 "What?" 
 
 " Pick the bastin s out them long white stitches in the 
 seams. Lucy dress-makes, an I hev to pick out all the 
 bastin s. It s ruther more n I want to do some days. You 
 might jest as well take holt while you air a-settinV 
 
 Marlow began awkwardly pulling at the white thread. 
 
 Presently Lucy opened the door. " I ve got some tea 
 made," said she, with gentle stiffness. There was a delicate 
 meagreness about the little figure in the best black silk 
 gown. She wore a full white ruche around her slender 
 neck ; she held her thin chin erect above it, but her whole 
 head seemed to droop a little. There were bright spots on 
 her cheeks, which were thin, but still softly curved. 
 
 Marlow eyed her with admiration, which was the only 
 distinct sentiment which shaped itself out of his bewilder 
 ment and fatigue. Lucy had been very pretty, and was 
 now ; still she was not as pretty nor as young as she 
 looked to him. He viewed her in the same glass in which 
 he saw himself reflected. Her face beside his own, which 
 thrilled him with humility, got a wonderful beauty of con 
 trast. He eyed his poor clothes, then her nice black silk ; 
 the black gloss of it on her shoulders, the cunning loopings, 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 26 1 
 
 a flutter of black lace on the over-skirt, filled him with re 
 spect and awe. 
 
 " Wa n t you goin out somewhere ?" he asked, with feeble 
 politeness. He got up clumsily, and let the brown cashmere 
 slide to the floor. 
 
 "No; I was just goin to look in at the Christmas tree 
 a minute. I wa n t goin to stay. Father, what have you 
 done?" 
 
 She picked up the dress, and looked at him and Marlow. 
 
 " I ain t done nothin but set him pickin out a few 
 bastin s," said the old man, defiantly. " He might jest as 
 well be workin as me." 
 
 " Oh, father, you hadn t ought to !" 
 
 " I didn t mind," said Marlow, stupidly. 
 
 "Father s real feeble and childish," Lucy whispered, 
 when she and her guest were in the other room. " I set 
 him pickin out bastin s to keep him contented. He frets 
 about doin it, but he likes it. He s just as uneasy as he 
 can be if he gets out of work." 
 
 " It s a great deal better for him, I should think," Marlow 
 assented. 
 
 The fragrance of the tea stole into his nostrils. The 
 nicely piled white bread gave out a sweet odor of its own. 
 
 Lucy had set out her mother s china cups and saucers 
 white, with a little green vine on the rims. She offered him 
 her best damson sauce and her fruit cake. Marlow ate 
 without tasting. He was trying to remember something. 
 He remembered it better and better ; it was quite clear in 
 his mind by the time he was left to himself in the little 
 sleeping-room up-stairs. It was Lucy s, which she had 
 given up to him. She would sleep on the sitting-room 
 lounge. A little picture hung over the bed. It caught his 
 
262 A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 attention ; it had a familiar look : then he recollected. He 
 had given it to Lucy Glynn twenty years ago ; they had 
 thought they were in love with each other, though little had 
 been said about it. It was just before he went away. 
 Gradually he recalled some words, a kiss or two. He had 
 almost forgotten. Now the memory came, it was sweet. 
 He felt as if he were thrusting back his head, old and 
 weary and grizzled, out of this wintry misery into some 
 sweet old spring which he had passed. He looked back at 
 it with pitiful regret. 
 
 "Why didn t I marry Lucy," he said to himself, "and 
 stay at home, and settle down, and behave myself?" 
 
 The next day was Christmas. It snowed again heavily. 
 Marlow got his key and tramped over to his old home 
 through the snow-drifts. So far as he knew, the place was 
 all his. It was quite a little fortune to him, this substan 
 tial house, with its environment of sixty acres of meadow 
 and woodland. He could not believe in the reality of it ; a 
 whimsical doubt as to the rightfulness of his claim pos 
 sessed him. He felt as if he were extending his hand for 
 a gift which was begrudged. It was natural enough that 
 he should feel so ; he could not remember his father as 
 ever giving him anything willingly. If Gilman Marlow had 
 led a hard life, there had been no parental love and soft 
 ness to point at as the cause of it. Marlow had a few 
 cents in his pocket. These seemed to him a much more 
 tangible property than this solid estate which he was ex 
 amining. He walked through the bitter cold rooms with a 
 feeling as if he intruded. His father, dead, became to him 
 a more certain possessor than if living. He saw his father s 
 coat and hat hanging on a peg in the kitchen, and he turn 
 ed away like a culprit. 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. / 263 
 
 After a little he went out in the storm again. He thought 
 he might as well see the man who Lucy had told him had 
 charge of the estate. His name was Nelson ; he was one 
 of the selectmen. Marlow had to pass the church and 
 the graveyard to reach his house. The evergreen branches 
 hung lower than ever ; the new snow-flakes softly bent down 
 the long slim sprays of the graveyard bushes until they lay 
 on the ground ; the mildewed fronts of the slanting old 
 gravestones were hung with irregular, shifting snow-garlands. 
 
 Marlow stopped and looked in the solemn white en 
 closure. The snow settled softly upon him. There was 
 no wind ; everything was very still. Somewhere over there 
 was his father s grave. He brushed away some tears with 
 the back of his hand. " Good Lord," he muttered, " I ain t 
 got much, an that s a fact." Then he went on. It was a 
 quarter of a mile farther to the selectman s house. 
 
 It was noon when he returned along the same road. 
 The snow had gathered a good deal, but he seemed to 
 walk with greater ease at any rate, he walked faster. 
 
 He passed his father s house, and went straight to the 
 Glynns . He knocked, and the old man shuffled to the 
 door. " Lucy s gone," he said, querulouslv. " She s been 
 gone all the forenoon, an I dun know whar she is. It s 
 dinner-time now, an thar ain t a pertater on, nor nothin 
 an I ve been a-pickin out bastin s ever since daylight. I 
 wish you d find out whar she s gone, an send her home." 
 
 " Well, I ll see," said Marlow. Then he plodded around 
 to the side door of his own house. It opened directly into 
 the kitchen. There was a good fire in the stove, and Lucy 
 stood beside it cooking some eggs. A pot with potatoes 
 was steaming and bubbling over. The table was set out, 
 with a white cloth on it. 
 
264 A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 "Why, you here?" said Marlow. 
 
 Lucy bent over her frying eggs. " I thought I d get you 
 a little somethin to eat, seein you wa n t willin to come 
 to our house again. There s a couple of pies in the oven, 
 an " 
 
 " Lucy," said Marlow, suddenly, " what made you pay up 
 the interest on that mortgage ?" 
 
 Lucy suddenly turned white. " What do you mean ?" she 
 stammered. 
 
 " Nelson told me all about it. What made you do it?" 
 
 " Mr. Nelson said he wouldn t tell." 
 
 " He didn t mean to. I guessed it from somethin he 
 said, an then I made him tell me. I think I ought to 
 know it. Lucy, he said you d put a mortgage on your 
 house to pay up that back interest-money, so it shouldn t 
 be foreclosed. Did you ?" 
 
 " It ain t worth talkin about." 
 
 "An then you ve paid the interest an taxes ever since, 
 so I shouldn t lose the place. I don t see how you did it." 
 
 " I ve had all the dress-makin I could do." Lucy lifted 
 the frying-pan off the stove. Her hands trembled. 
 
 " Stop workin a minute, an let s talk," said Marlow. 
 
 Lucy set the pan on the hearth, and stood waiting. She 
 cast her eyes down ; her face twitched nervously. 
 
 " Look here, Lucy, what made you do it?" 
 
 " You was away, an you didn t know about it." 
 
 " How did you know it was worth while that I d ever 
 come back ?" 
 
 " I thought you might." 
 
 "You didn t know." 
 
 " Mr. Nelson said you would. He got news that you was 
 livin once ; somebody d seen you ; then he lost track of you." 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. fO$ 
 
 "What made you do it?" 
 
 "I thought you hadn t ought to lose the place." 
 
 " Well, you shall have the money part of it made up to 
 you." Marlow was silent for a moment. "Lucy," said he, 
 finally, " I never was so beat in my life as I was when Nelson 
 told me that this mornin. I ve been thinkin Look here, 
 didn t we go together a little once, years and years ago?" 
 
 Lucy turned paler. "There ain t any use in bringin 
 that up," she said, with a certain dignity. 
 
 " I want to know about it. Lucy, did I treat you mean ? 
 We wa n t much more n children, were we? We didn t talk 
 about gettin married, did we ? We just thought we liked 
 each other, an kept round together a little while before I 
 went away. That was all, wa n t it?" 
 
 "Yes," whispered Lucy, faintly. Suddenly she put her 
 hands up to her face. 
 
 Marlow took a step towards her ; then he went back. 
 " Don t cry," said he. " Lucy, see here, I m goin to ask you 
 somethin . Didn t you forget, all this time ? Lucy, tell me." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 Marlow shut his mouth tight. He partly turned his head 
 away. Then he spoke again. " Look here, Lucy, I m goin 
 to tell you the truth : I hadn t remembered as well as you 
 had." 
 
 " I didn t suppose you had." She turned with a little 
 state, and tried to move towards the door. 
 
 " Don t go ; I ve got somethin I want to say." He hesi 
 tated a moment ; then he went on. His face was hot. He 
 had an honest, embarrassed air, like a boy. " I wanted to 
 say that Well, I thank you more n I ever thanked any 
 human bein in my life. I d lay down an* die, if it could 
 do you any good, to show you that I did. An if I d come 
 
266 A DISCOVERED PEARL. 
 
 home different, if I d got rich, or if I d even come home de 
 cent if I d behaved myself, and if I looked fit and was fit 
 to be seen beside you I d ask you to marry me. an do all 
 I could to pay you for thinkin of me all this time ; but as 
 tis, there ain t any use speakin of that. All I can say is. 
 I wish the last twenty years was to live over." 
 
 Lucy gathered a shawl about her, and turned to go. 
 "I ve got to go home and get father s dinner," she said, 
 brokenly. lt There ain t any use in bringin all this up." 
 
 " I don t s pose there is much, but I kind of wanted to 
 speak of it," said Marlow, blushing deeper. " Thank you 
 for gettin my dinner." 
 
 " That s nothin ." 
 
 He watched her going with a sinking heart. 
 
 " She wouldn t think of havin me now," he said to himself. 
 
 Lucy was half out of the yard, when she turned and came 
 back. Marlow opened the door quickly. There she stood, 
 her knees trembling. She gasped for breath between her 
 words. 
 
 "There s one thing I didn t mean you to think I 
 didn t want you to think that it would make any dif 
 ference to me because you wa n t rich or " 
 
 " Lucy, you don t mean to say that you d have me as I 
 am now ?" Marlow took hold of one of her thin arms and 
 pulled her in softly. He led her back to the stove ; then 
 he stood looking at her again. " Good Lord, Lucy !" he 
 said, "you can t think anything of me, the way I am now !" 
 
 " I don t see why you ain t just as well as you ever was." 
 
 "I ain t worth this," said Marlow. He put his arm 
 around Lucy and kissed her forehead. 
 
 She stood stiffly ; then she released herself, and went ovei 
 and looked out of a window. 
 
A DISCOVERED PEARL. 267 
 
 "I m afraid you don t think enough of me," she said, 
 presently, without looking around. 
 
 " I guess you needn t worry about that. I know I ain t 
 been thinkin about you all these years, as much as you 
 have, accordin to what you say about me. But I ll put it 
 this way." He colored and half laughed. These little 
 flights of fancy were natural to him ; he took them in his 
 most honest moments; but he was always a little shame 
 faced about it. " Well, s pose some day you know I ve 
 been round foreign countries an on sea-shores a good deal 
 s pose some day I d come across a pearl caught into 
 some sea-weeds, where I hadn t no idea of findin it. Well, 
 I guess it wouldn t have made much difference to me 
 whether or no I d been thinkin about that pearl for twenty 
 years, or whether I d ever seen it an forgotten it. There d 
 been the pearl, an I d been the man that had it I ll think 
 enough of you you needn t bother about that. I don t 
 know what I d be made of if I didn t. Good Lord ! to think 
 of me havin you f" 
 
 After Lucy had been home and attended to her father s 
 wants, she returned and spent all the afternoon making the 
 house comfortable for Marlow. 
 
 It was sunset when she went home the lasjxtime. It had 
 stopped snowing, and there was a clear, y ellow sky in the 
 west. A flock of sparrows flew whistling around one of the 
 maples. A sled loaded with Christmas greens was creak 
 ing down the road. One could hear children s voices in 
 the distance. Lucy Glynn sped along. Whether wisely or^J 
 not, she was full of all Christmas joy. She had given af* 
 last her Christmas gift, which she had been treasuring foi 
 twenty year, 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 "JEST wait a minute, Sary." The old man made a sly 
 backward motion of his hand ; his voice was a cautious 
 whisper. 
 
 Sarah Arnold stood back and waited. She was a large, 
 fair young woman in a brown calico dress. She held a 
 plate of tapioca pudding that she had brought for the old 
 man s dinner, and she was impatient to give it to him and 
 be off; but she said nothing. The old man stood in the 
 shop door ; he had in one hand a stick of red-and-white 
 peppermint candy, and he held it out enticingly towards a 
 little boy in a white frock. The little boy had a sweet, rosy 
 face, and his glossy, fair hair was carefully curled. He stood 
 out in the green yard, and there were dandelions blooming 
 around his feet. It was May, and the air was sweet and 
 warm ; over on one side of the yard there was some linen 
 laid out to bleach in the sun. 
 
 The little boy looked at the old man and frowned, yet he 
 seemed fascinated. 
 
 The old man held out the stick of candy, and coaxed, in 
 his soft, cracked voice. " Jest look a-here, Willy !" said he ; 
 "jest look a-here! See what gran pa s got: a whole stick 
 of candy ! He bought it down to the store on purpose for 
 Willy, an* he can have it if he ll jest come here an give 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 269 
 
 gran pa a kiss. Does Willy want it, hey? Willy want it? 
 The old man took a step forward. 
 
 But the child drew back, and shook his head violently, 
 while the frown deepened. " No, no," said he, with baby 
 vehemence. 
 
 The old man stepped back and began again. It was as 
 if he were enticing a bird. "Now, Willy," said he, "jest 
 look a-here ! Don t Willy like candy ?" 
 
 The child did not nod, but his blue, solemn eyes were 
 riveted on the candy. 
 
 " Well," the grandfather went on, " here s a whole stick 
 of candy come from the store, real nice pep mint candy, 
 an Willy shall have it if he ll jest come here an give gran 
 pa a kiss." 
 
 The child reached out a desperate hand. "Gimme !" he 
 cried, imperatively. 
 
 " Yes, Willy shall have it jest as soon as he gives gran pa 
 a kiss." The old man waved the stick of candy ; his sunken 
 mouth was curved in a sly smile. "Jest look at it ! Willy, 
 see it ! Red-an -white candy, real sweet an nice, with pep 
 mint in it. An it s all twisted ! Willy want it ?" 
 
 The child began to take almost imperceptible steps for 
 ward, his eyes still fixed on the candy. His grandfather 
 stood motionless, while his smile deepened. Once he rolled 
 his eyes delightedly around at Sarah. The child advanced 
 with frequent halts. 
 
 Suddenly the old man made a spring forward. " Now 
 I ve got ye !" he cried. He threw his arms around the boy 
 and hugged him tight. 
 
 The child struggled. " Lemme go ! lemme go !" he half 
 sobbed. 
 
 "Yes, Willy shall go jest as soon as he gives gran pa the 
 
270 * VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 kiss," said the old man. " Give gran pa the kiss, and then 
 he shall have the candy an go." 
 
 The child put up his pretty rosy face and pursed his lips 
 sulkily. The grandfather bent down and gave him an 
 ecstatic kiss. 
 
 " There ! Now Willy shall have the candy, cause he s 
 kissed gran pa. He s a good boy, an gran pa 11 let him 
 have the candy right off. He sha n t wait no longer." 
 
 The child snatched the candy and fled across the yard. 
 
 The old man laughed, and his laugh was a shrill, rapt 
 urous cackle, like the high notes of an old parrot. He 
 turned to the young woman. "I knowed I could toll him 
 in," he said ; " I knowed I could. The little fellar likes 
 candy, I tell ye." 
 
 Sarah smiled sympathetically and extended the plate of 
 pudding. " I brought you over a little of our pudding," 
 said she. " Mother thought you might relish it." 
 
 The old man took it quite eagerly. " Brought a spoon 
 in t, didn t ye ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I thought maybe you d like to eat it out here." 
 
 "Well, I guess I may jest as well eat it out here, an not 
 carry it into the house. Viny might kinder git the notion 
 that it would clutter up some. I ll jest set down here an 
 eat this, an then I won t want no dinner in the house. I 
 guess they re goin to have beef, an I don t relish beef 
 much lately. I d ruther have soft victuals ; but Viny she 
 don t cook much soft victuals ; the folks in the house don t 
 care much about em." 
 
 The old man held the plate of pudding, but did not at 
 once begin to eat ; his eyes still followed the little boy, 
 who stood aloof under a blooming apple-tree and sucked 
 his candy. 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 271 
 
 "Jest look at him," he said, admiringly. " I tell ye what 
 tis, Sary, that little fellar does like candy. I can allers toll 
 him in with a stick of candy. He s dreadful kind o bash 
 ful. I s pose Ellen she don t jest like to have him round 
 in the shop here much. She dresses him up real nice an 
 clean in them little white frocks, an she s afeard he ll get 
 somethin on em ; so I guess she tells him he must keep 
 away, an it makes him kind of afeard. I s pose she thinks 
 I ain t none too clean nuther to be a-handlin of him, an I 
 dun know as I be, but I allers wash my hands real pertick- 
 ler afore I tech him. I ve got my tin wash-dish there on 
 the bench, an I m real pertickler bout it." 
 
 The old man waved his hand towards a rusty tin wash 
 basin on the old shoemaker s bench under the window. 
 There was a smoky curtain over the window ; the plastered 
 walls and the ceiling were dark with smoke; the place was 
 full of brown lights. Sarah, in her brown dress, with her 
 fair rosy face, stood waiting until the old man should finish 
 talking. 
 
 " Well, I must go now," said she. " I haven t been to 
 dinner myself." 
 
 "You jest wait a minute," whispered the old man, with 
 a mysterious air. In the little shop, beside the old shoe 
 maker s bench, was a table that was brown and dark with 
 age and dirt, and it was heaped with litter. There was a 
 drawer in it, and this the old man opened with an effort ; 
 it stuck a little. " Look a-here," he whispered " look 
 a-here, Sary." 
 
 Sarah came close, and peered around his elbow. 
 
 The old man took a little parcel from the midst of the 
 leather chips and waxed threads and pegs that half filled 
 the drawer. He unrolled it carefully. " Look a-here," he 
 
272 
 
 A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 said again, with a chuckle. He held up a stick of pink 
 candy. "There," he went on, winking an old blue eye at 
 Sarah, " I ain t goin to give that to him till to-morrer. To- 
 morrer I ll jest toll him in with that, don t ye see ? Hey ?" 
 
 " That s checkerberry, ain t it ?" 
 
 "Yes, that s checkerberry, an the tother was pep mint. 
 I got two sticks of candy down to the store this mornin , 
 one checkerberry an the tother pep mint. Ye see, I put a 
 patch on a shoe for the Briggs boy last week, an he give 
 me ten cents for t. I d kinder calkilated to lay it out in 
 terbacker I ain t had none lately but the more I thought 
 bout it the more I thought I d git a leetle candy. Ye never 
 see sech a chap fer candy as he is ; he ll hang off, an hang 
 off, but he can t stan it to lose the candy nohow. I dun 
 know but the Old Nick could toll him in with a stick of 
 candy, he s in such a takin for t ; never see sech a fellar 
 fer candy." The old man raised his cackling laugh again, 
 and Sarah laughed too, going out the back door of the 
 shop. " I m real obleeged to your mother, Sary ; you tell 
 her," he called after her. 
 
 He replaced the candy in the drawer, still chuckling to 
 himself; then he sat down to his pudding. He sat on his 
 shoemaker s bench, well back from the door, and ate. He 
 smacked his lips loudly ; he liked this soft, sweet food. 
 
 Barney Swan was a small, frail old man ; he stooped 
 weakly, and did not look much larger than a child, sitting 
 there on his bench. His face, too, was like a child s ; his 
 sunken mouth had an innocent, infantile expression, and his 
 eyes had that blank, fixed gaze, with an occasional twinkle 
 of shrewdness, that babies eyes have. His thin white hair 
 hung to his shoulders, and he had no beard. He owned 
 only one decent coat, and that he kept for Sundays : he 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 273 
 
 always went to meeting. On week-days he wore his brown 
 calico shirt sleeves and his old sagging vest. His bag 
 ging, brownish black trousers were hauled high around his 
 waist, and his ankles showed like a little boy s. 
 
 Old Barney Swan had sat upon that shoemaker s bench 
 the greater part of his time for sixty years. His father be 
 fore him had been a shoemaker and cobbler ; he had learned 
 the trade when a child, and been faithful to it all his life. 
 Now not only his own powers had failed, but hand shoe- 
 making and cobbling were at a discount. There were two 
 thriving boot and shoe factories in the town, and the new 
 boots and shoes were finer to see than the old coarsely cob 
 bled ones. Old Barney was too old to go to work in the 
 shoe factory, but it is doubtful if he would have done so in 
 any case. He had always had a vein of childish obstinacy 
 in spite of his mildness, and it had not decreased with age. 
 " If folks want to wear them manufactured shoes, they can," 
 he would say, with a sudden stiffening of his bent back ; " old 
 shackly things ! You d orter seen them shoes the Briggs 
 boy brought in here t other day ; they wa n t wuth treein 
 up, an they never had been." 
 
 Although now old Barney s revenue was derived from 
 the Briggs boy and sundry other sturdy, stubbed urchins, 
 whose shoe-leather demanded the cheapest and most thor 
 ough repairs to be had, he had accumulated quite a little 
 property through his faithful toil on that leathern seat on 
 the end of that old bench. But it had seemed easier for 
 him to accumulate property than to care for it. His great 
 est talent was for patient, unremitting labor and economy ; 
 his financial conceptions were limited to them. Ten years 
 before, he had made a misadventure and lost a few hun 
 dred dollars, and was so humbled and dejected over it that 
 
274 A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 he had made his property over to his daughters on consid 
 eration of a life support. They had long been urging him 
 to make such an arrangement. He had two daughters, 
 Malvina and Ellen. His wife had died when they were 
 about twenty. The wife had been a delicate, feeble woman, 
 yet with a certain spirit of her own. In her day the daugh 
 ters had struggled hard for the mastery of the little house 
 hold, but with only partial success ; after her death they 
 were entirely victorious. Barney had always thought his 
 daughters perfect ; they had their own way in everything, 
 with the exception of the money. He clung to that for a 
 while. He was childishly fond of the few dollars he had 
 earned all by himself and stowed away in his house and 
 acres of green meadow-land and the village savings-bank. 
 He was fond of the dollars for themselves ; the sense of 
 treasure pleased him. He did not care to spend for him 
 self; there were few things that he wished for except a 
 decent meeting-coat and a little tobacco. The tobacco 
 was one point upon which he displayed his obstinacy ; his 
 daughters had never been able entirely to do away with 
 that, although they waged constant war upon it. He would 
 still occasionally have his little comforting pipe, and chew 
 in spite of all berating and disgust. But the tobacco was 
 sadly curtailed since the property had changed hands; he 
 had only his little earnings with which to purchase it. The 
 daughters gave him no money to spend. They argued that 
 " father ain t fit to spend money." So his most urgent ne 
 cessities were doled out to him. 
 
 When the property was divided, Malvina, the elder 
 daughter, had for her share the homestead and a part of 
 the money in the bank ; Ellen, the younger, had the larger 
 portion of the bank money and some wooded property. 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 275 
 
 Malvina stipulated to furnish a home and care for the old 
 man as long as he lived, and Ellen was to pay her sister a 
 certain sum towards his support. Both daughters were mar 
 ried at the time ; Malvina had one daughter of her own. 
 Malvina had remained at her old home after her marriage, 
 but Ellen had removed to a town some twenty miles away. 
 Her father had visited there several times, but he never liked 
 to remain long. He would never have gone had not Malvina 
 insisted upon it. She considered that her sister ought to 
 share her burden, and sometimes give her a relief. So Bar 
 ney would go, although with reluctance ; in fact, his little shoe- 
 shop was to him his beloved home, his small solitary nest, 
 where he could fold his old wings in peace. Nobody knew 
 how regretfully he thought of it during his visits at Ellen s. 
 While there he sat mostly in her kitchen, by the cooking- 
 stove, and miserably pored over the almanac or the relig 
 ious paper. Occasionally he would steal out behind the 
 barn and smoke a pipe, but there was always a hard reck 
 oning with Ellen afterwards, and it was a dearly purchased 
 pleasure. Ellen was a small, fair woman ; she was deli 
 cate, much as her mother had been, and her weakness and 
 nervousness made her imperious will less evident but more 
 potent. Old Barney stood more in awe of her than of Mal 
 vina. He was anxiously respectful towards her husband, 
 who was a stout, silent man, covering his own projects and 
 his own defeats with taciturnity. He was a steady grubber 
 on a farm, and very close with old Barney s money, of 
 which, however, his wife understood that she had full con 
 trol. She had had out of it a set of red plush parlor furni 
 ture and a new silk dress. Once in a while old Barney, 
 while on a visit, would stand on the parlor threshold and 
 gaze admiringly in at the furniture; but did he venture to 
 
276 A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 step over, his daughter would check him. " Now don t go 
 in there, father," she would cry out ; " you ll track in some- 
 thin ." 
 
 " No, I ain t a-goin in, Ellen," Barney would reply, and 
 meekly shuffle back. 
 
 Old Barney was intensely loyal towards both of his daugh 
 ters ; not even to himself would he admit anything to their dis 
 advantage. He always spoke admiringly of them, and would 
 acknowledge no preference for one above the other. Still 
 he undoubtedly preferred Malvina. She was a large, stout 
 woman, but some people thought that she looked like her 
 father. When the property was divided, Malvina had had 
 every room in the house newly painted and papered ; then 
 she stood before them like a vigilant watch-dog. She had 
 been neat before, but with her new paint and paper and a 
 few new carpets her neatness became almost a monomania. 
 She was fairly fierce, and her voice sounded like a bark 
 sometimes when old Barney, with shoes heavy with loam 
 and clothes stained with tobacco juice, shuffled into her 
 spotless house. However, in a certain harsh way she did 
 her duty by her simple old father. She saw to it that his 
 clothes were comfortably warm and mended, and he had 
 enough to eat, although his own individual tastes were never 
 consulted. Still, he was scrupulously bidden to meals, and 
 his plate was well filled. She did npt like to have him in 
 the house, and showed that she did not, but she had no 
 compunctions upon that point, for he preferred the shop. 
 She never gave him spending-money, for she did not con 
 sider that he was capable of spending money judiciously. 
 She bought all that he had herself. She was a good finan 
 cier, and made a little go a long way. 
 
 Malvina s husband was dead, and her daughter was now 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 277 
 
 eighteen years old. Her name was Annie. She was a 
 pretty girl, and had a lover. She was to be married soon. 
 They had not told old Barney about it, but he found it out 
 two weeks before the wedding. He stood in his shop door 
 one morning and called cautiously to Sarah Arnold. (The 
 Arnolds lived in the next house, and Sarah was out in the 
 yard picking some roses.) " Sary, come here a minute," 
 he called. And Sarah came, with her roses in her hand. 
 The old man beckoned her mysteriously into the shop. 
 He drew well back from the door, after having peered 
 sharply at the house windows. Then he began : " Ye 
 heard on t, Sary," whispered he "what s goin on in 
 there ? Hey ?" He gave his hand a backward jerk tow 
 ards the house. 
 
 Sarah laughed. "I suppose so," said she. 
 
 " How long ye known it ? Hey ?" 
 
 "Well, I ve heard twas coming off before long." 
 
 "The weddin s goin to be in two weeks. Did ye know 
 that ? Hey ?" 
 
 "I heard so." 
 
 " Well, it s the first I ve heard on t. I knew that young 
 fellar d been shinin round there consider ble, an I spos d 
 twas comin 1 off some time or other, but I didn t have.no idee 
 twas goin to be so soon. Look a-here, Sary " Sarah, 
 placid and fair and pleasant, holding her roses, gazed atten- 
 tively at him "/ ; a-goin j to give her something f 
 
 "What are you going to give her? 1 
 
 " Ye ll see. I ve got some money laid up, an I know a 
 way to raise a leetle more. Ye ll see when the time comes 
 ye ll see." The old man raised his pleasant cackle, then 
 he hushed it suddenly, with a wary glance towards the house. 
 "You mind you don t say nothin about it, Sary," said he. 
 
278 A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 " No, I won t say a word about it," returned Sarah. Then 
 she went home with her roses and her own thoughts. She 
 herself was to be married soon, but there would be no such 
 commotion over her wedding as over Annie s. The Arnolds 
 were very humble folk, according to the social status of the 
 village, and were not on very intimate terms with their 
 neighbors. Old Mr. Arnold took care of people s gardens 
 and sawed wood for a living, and Mrs. Arnold and Sarah 
 sewed, and even went out for extra work when some of the 
 more prosperous village people had company. However, 
 Sarah was going to marry a young man who had saved 
 quite a sum of money. He was building a new house on 
 a cross street at the foot of a meadow that lay behind Bar 
 ney Swan s shop. Sarah had told Barney all about it, and 
 he often strolled down the meadow and watched the work 
 men on the new house with a wise and interested air. He 
 was very fond of Sarah. Sarah had her own opinion about 
 Annie and the old man s daughters, but she was calm about 
 expressing it even to her mother. She was a womanly 
 young girl. However, once in a while her indignation grew 
 warm. 
 
 " I think it s a shame," she told her mother, when she 
 carried her roses into the house, "that they haven t told 
 Grandpa Swan about Annie s going to be married, and the 
 poor old man s planning to give her a present." The tears 
 stood in Sarah s blue eyes. She crowded the roses into a 
 tumbler. 
 
 It was only the next day that old Barney called her into 
 the shop to display the present. He had been so eager 
 about it that he was not able to wait. However, the idea 
 that the gift must not be presented to his granddaughter 
 until her wedding-day was firmly fixed in his mind. He 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 279 
 
 had obtained in some way this notion of etiquette, and he 
 was resolved to abide by it, no matter how impatient he 
 might be. " I ve got it here all ready, but I ain t a-goin 
 to give it to her till the day she s married, ye know," he told 
 Sarah while he was fumbling in the table-drawer (that was 
 his poor little treasure-box). There he kept his surrepti 
 tious quids of tobacco and his pipe and his small hoards 
 of pennies. His hands trembled as he drew out a little 
 square parcel. He undid it with slow pains. " Look 
 a-here !" In a little jeweller s box, on a bed of pink cotton, 
 lay a gold-plated brooch with a red stone in the centre. 
 The old man stood holding it, and looking at Sarah with a 
 speechless appeal for admiration. 
 
 " Why, ain t it handsome !" said she ; " it s just as pretty 
 as it can be ! 
 
 Old Barney still did not speak ; he stood holding the 
 box, as silent as a statue whose sole purpose is to pose for 
 admiration. 
 
 " Where did you get it ?" asked Sarah. 
 
 The old man ushered in his words with an exultant 
 chuckle. " Down to Bixby s ; an twas jest about the 
 pertiest thing he had in his hull store. It cost con- 
 sider ble ; I ain t a-goin to tell ye how much, but I didn t 
 pay no ninepence for t, I can tell ye. But I had a leetle 
 somethin laid up, an there was some truck I traded off. I 
 was bound I d git somethin wuth somethin whilst I was 
 about it." 
 
 As Barney spoke, Sarah noticed that his old silver watch- 
 chain was gone, and a suspicion as to the " truck " seized 
 her, but she did not speak of it. She admired the brooch 
 to Barney s full content, and he stowed it away in the drawer 
 with pride and triumph. He was true to his resolution not 
 
2 8o A VILLAGE LEAK. 
 
 to mention the present to his granddaughter, but he could 
 not help throwing out sundry sly hints to the effect that one 
 was forthcoming. However, no one paid any attention to 
 them ; they knew too well the state of Barney s exchequer 
 to have any great expectations, and all the family were in 
 the habit of disregarding the old man s chatter. He always 
 talked a great deal, and asked many questions ; and they 
 seemed to look upon him much in the light of a venerable 
 cricket, constantly chirping upon their hearth, which for 
 some obscure religious reasons they were bound to harbor. 
 
 The question of old Barney s appearance at the marriage 
 was quite a serious one. The wedding was to be a brilliant 
 affair for the village, and the old man was not to be consid 
 ered in the light of an ornament. Still the idea of not al 
 lowing him to be present could not decently be entertained, 
 and Malvina began training him to make the best appear 
 ance possible. She instructed him as to his deportment, 
 and had even made a new black silk stock for him to wear 
 at the wedding. He was so delighted that he wanted to 
 take possession at once, and hide it away in his table-drawer, 
 but she would not allow it. She had planned how he should 
 be well shaven and thoroughly brushed, and his pockets 
 searched for tobacco, on the wedding morning. " I should 
 feel like goin through the floor if your grandfather should 
 come in lookin the way he does sometimes/ she told her 
 daughter Annie. 
 
 Annie concerned herself very little about it. She was a 
 young girl of a sweet, docile temperament. She was some 
 what delicate physically, and was indolent, partly from that, 
 partly from her nature. Now her mother was making her 
 work so hard over her wedding clothes that she was half ill ; 
 her little forefinger was all covered with needle-pricks, and 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 2 Sl 
 
 there were hollows under her eyes. Malvina had always 
 been a veritable queen mother to Annie. 
 
 Ellen and her little boy visited Malvina for several weeks 
 before the wedding. Ellen assisted about the sewing ; she 
 was a fine sewer. 
 
 Old Barney did not dare stay much in the house, but he 
 wandered about the yard, and absurdly peeped in at the 
 doors and windows. Back in his second childhood, he had 
 all the delighted excitement of a child over a great occasion. 
 It was perhaps a poor and pitiful happiness, but he was as 
 happy in his own way as Annie was over her coming mar 
 riage, and, after all, happiness is only one s own heartful. 
 
 But three days before the wedding old Barney was at 
 tacked with a severe cold, and all his anticipations came to 
 naught. The cold grew worse, and his daughters promptly 
 decided that he could not be present at the wedding. 
 "There ain t no use talkin bout it, father," said Malvina; 
 "you can t go. You d jest cough an sneeze right through 
 it, an we can t have such work." 
 
 The old man pleaded, even with tears, but with no avail ; 
 on the wedding day he was almost forcibly exiled to his lit 
 tle shop in the yard. The excitement in the house reached 
 a wild height, and he was not allowed to enter after break 
 fast ; his dinner of bread and butter and tea was brought 
 down to the shop. He sat in the door and watched the 
 house and the hurrying people. He called Sarah Arnold 
 over many times ; he was in a panic over his present. 
 " How am I goin to give her that breastpin, if they don t 
 let me go to the weddin ?" he queried, with sharp anxiety. 
 "There sha n t nobody else give her that pin nohow." 
 
 " I guess you ll have a chance," Sarah said, comfortingly. 
 
 When it was time for the people to come to the wedding, 
 
282 A VILLAGE LEAK. 
 
 Ellen, in her silk dress, with her hair finely crimped, came 
 rustling out to the shop, and ordered old Barney away from 
 the door. 
 
 "Do keep away from the door, father/ said she, "for 
 mercy sakes. Such a spectacle as you are, an the folks 
 beginnin to come ! I should think you d know better." 
 Ellen s forehead was all corrugated with anxious lines ; she 
 was nervous and fretful. She even pushed her father away 
 from the door with one long, veiny hand ; then she shut the 
 door with a clash. 
 
 Then Barney stood at the window and watched. He held 
 the little jewelry-box tightly clutched in his hand. The 
 window-panes were all clouded and cobwebbed ; it was hard 
 for his dim old eyes to see through them, but he held back 
 the stained curtain and peered as sharply as he could. 
 
 He saw the neighbors come to the wedding. Several 
 covered wagons were hitched out in the yard. When the 
 ministry came into the yard he could scarcely keep himself 
 from rushing to the door. 
 
 " There he is !" he said out loud to himself. " There he 
 is ! He s come to marry em !" 
 
 The hubbub of voices in the house reached old Barney s 
 ears. A little after the minister arrived there was a hush. 
 " He s marryin of em !" ejaculated Barney. He danced 
 up and down before the window. 
 
 After the hush the voices swelled out louder than before. 
 Barney kept his eyes riveted upon the house. It was some 
 two hours before people began to issue from the doors. 
 
 " The weddin s over !" shouted Barney. He looked quite 
 wild ; he gave himself a little shake, and opened the shop 
 door and took up his stand there. Everybody could see 
 him in his brown calico shirt-sleeves, and his slouching, un- 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 283 
 
 tidy vest and trousers. His white locks straggled over his 
 shoulders ; his face was not very clean. Suddenly Ellen, 
 standing and smirking in the house door, spied him. 
 Presently she came across the yard, swaying her rattling 
 skirts with a genteel air. She smiled all the way, and old 
 Barney innocently smiled back at her when she reached 
 him. But he jumped, her voice was so fierce. 
 
 " You go right in there this minute, father, an keep that 
 door shut" she said between her smiling lips. 
 
 She shut the door upon Barney, but she had no sooner 
 reached the house than he opened it again and stood there. 
 He still held the box. 
 
 The bridal pair wece to set up housekeeping in a village 
 ten miles away. They were to drive over that night. When 
 at last the bridegroom and the bride appeared in the door, 
 old Barney leaned forward, breathless. The bridegroom s 
 glossy buggy and bay horse stood in the yard ; the horse 
 was restive, and a young man was holding him by the bridle. 
 
 Old Barney did not venture to step outside his shop door. 
 Malvina and Ellen were both in the yard, but it was as if 
 his soul were feeling for ways to approach the young couple. 
 He leaned forward, his eyes were intent and prominent, the 
 hand that held the jewelry-box shook with long, rigid motions. 
 
 The bride, at her husband s side, stepped across the green 
 yard to the buggy. This was a simple country wedding, 
 and Annie rode in her wedding dress to her new home. 
 The wedding dress was white muslin, full of delicate frills 
 and loops of ribbons that the wind caught. Annie, coming 
 across the yard, was blown to one side like a white flower. 
 Her slender neck and arms showed pink through the mus 
 lin, and she wore her wedding bonnet, which was all white, 
 with bows of ribbon and plumes. Her cheeks were very red. 
 
284 A ULLAGE LEAR. 
 
 Old Barney opened his mouth wide. " Good Lord !" said 
 he, with one great gasp of admiration. He laughed in a 
 kind of rapture ; he forgot for a minute his wedding present. 
 " Look at em ! jest look at em !" he repeated. Suddenly 
 he called out, " Annie ! Annie ! jest look a-here ! See what 
 gran pa s got for ye." 
 
 Annie stopped and looked. She hesitated, and seemed 
 about to approach Barney, when the horse started ; the 
 young man had hard work to hold him. The bridegroom 
 lifted the bride into the carriage as soon as the horse was 
 quiet enough, sprang in after her, and they flew out of the 
 yard, with everybody shouting merrily after them. Old 
 Barney s piteous cry of " Annie ! Annrie ! jest come here a 
 minute !" was quite lost. 
 
 The old man went into the shop and closed the door of 
 his own accord. Then he replaced the little box in the 
 table-drawer. Then he settled down on his old shoe-bench, 
 and dropped his head on his hands. Soon he had a severe 
 coughing-spell. Nobody came near him until it was quite 
 dark ; then Malvina came and asked him, in a hard, absent 
 way, if he were not coming into the house to have any sup 
 per that night. 
 
 Old Barney arose and shuffled after her into the house ; 
 he ate the supper that she gave him ; then he went to bed. 
 He never took Annie s gold brooch out of the drawer again. 
 He never spoke of it to Sarah Arnold nor any one else. 
 He had the gneved dignity that pertains to the donor of a 
 scorned gift. As the weeks went on, his cold grew no bet 
 ter ; he coughed harder and harder. Once Malvina bought 
 some cough medicine for him, but it did no good. The old 
 man grew thinner and weaker, but she did not realize that ; 
 the cough arrested her attention ; it tired her to hear it so 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 2 S$ 
 
 constantly. She told him that there was no need of his 
 coughing so much. 
 
 Sarah Arnold was married in August. She and her hus 
 band went to live in their new house across the meadow 
 from old Barney s shop. 
 
 Sarah had been married a few weeks when one night old 
 Barney came toddling down the meadow to her house. He 
 was so weak that he tottered, but he almost ran. The short 
 growth of golden-rod brushing his ankles seemed enough to 
 throw him over. He waded through it as through a golden 
 sea that would soon throw him from his footing and roll 
 over him, but he never slackened his pace until he reached 
 Sarah s door. She had seen him coming, and ran to meet 
 him. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter?" she cried. Old Barney s 
 face was pale and wild. He looked at her and gasped. 
 She caught him by the arm and dragged him into the house, 
 and set him in a chair. "What is the matter?" she asked 
 again. She looked white and frightened herself. 
 
 Old Barney did not reply for a minute ; he seemed to be 
 collecting breath. Then he burst out in a great sobbing 
 cry : " My shop ! my shop ! She s goin to have my shop 
 tore down ! They re goin to begin to-morrer. They re 
 movin my bench. Oh ! oh !" 
 
 Sarah stood close to him and patted his head. "Who s 
 goin to have it torn down ?" 
 
 " Mai viny." 
 
 "When did she say so?" 
 
 "Jest now come out an told me. Says the old 
 thing looks dreadful bad out in the yard, an she wants it 
 i tore down. She s goin to have me go to Ellen s an* 
 /tay all winter. Puttin my bench up in the garret I 
 
286 A VILLAGE LEAR. 
 
 ain t a-goin to have the bench to set on no longer, I 
 ain t. Oh, hum !" 
 
 Sarah s pleasant mouth was set hard. She made old 
 Barney lie down on her sitting-room lounge, and got him a 
 cup of tea. It was evident that the old man was completely 
 exhausted ; he could not have walked home had he tried. 
 Sarah sat down beside him and heard his complaint, and 
 tried to comfort him. When her husband came home to 
 tea she told him the story, and he went up across the 
 meadow to the shop before he took off his coat. 
 
 " It s so," he growled, when he returned. " They re lug 
 ging the things out. It s a blasted shame. Poor old man !" 
 
 Sarah s husband had a brown boyish face and a set chin ; 
 he took off his coat and began washing his hands at the 
 kitchen sink with such energy that the leather stains might 
 have been the ingratitude of the world. 
 
 "Did you say anything about his being down here?" 
 asked Sarah. 
 
 " No, I didn t. Let em hunt." 
 
 About nine o clock that evening Malvina, holding her 
 skirts up well, came striding over the meadow. She had 
 missed her father, and traced him to Sarah s. Sarah and 
 her husband had put him to bed in their pretty little spare 
 chamber when Malvina came in. It was evident that the 
 old man was very ill ; he was wandering a little, and he had 
 terrible paroxysms of coughing ; his breath was labored. 
 Malvina stood looking at him ; Sarah s husband kept open 
 ing his mouth to speak, and his wife kept nudging him to be 
 silent. Finally he spoke 
 
 " He s all upset because his shop s going to be torn down,* 
 said he ; but his voice was not as bold as his intentions. 
 
 " Tain t that," replied Malvina. " He s dretful careless ; 
 
A VILLAGE LEAR. 287 
 
 he s been goin round in his stockin -feet, an he s got more 
 cold. I dun know what s goin to be done. I don t see 
 how -I can get him home to-night." 
 
 " He can stay here just as well as not," said Sarah, nudg 
 ing her husband again. 
 
 " Well, I ll come over an git him home in the mornin ," 
 Malvina said. 
 
 But she could not get him home when she came over in 
 the morning. Old Barney never went home again. He 
 died the second day after he came to Sarah s. Both of his 
 daughters came to see him, and did what they could, but he 
 did not seem to notice them much. An hour before he died 
 he called Sarah. She ran into the room. Just then there 
 was nobody else in the house. Old Barney sat up in bed, 
 and he was pointing out of the window over the meadow. 
 His pointing forefinger shook, his face was ghastly, but there 
 was a strange, childish delight in it. 
 
 " Look a-there, Sary jest look a-there," said old Barney. 
 " Over in the meader look. There s Ellen a-comin , an 
 Viny, an they look jest as they did when they was young; 
 an Ellen she s a-bringin me some tea, an Viny she s 
 a-bringin me some custard puddin . An there s Willy 
 a-dancin along. Jest see the leetle fellar a-comin to see 
 gran pa all of his own accord. An there s Annie all in her 
 white dress, jest as pretty as a pictur , a-comin arter her 
 breastpin. Jest see em, Sary." The old man laughed. 
 Out of his ghastly, death-stricken features shone the ex 
 pression of a happy child. "Jest look at em, Sary," he 
 repeated. 
 
 Sarah looked, and she saw only the meadow covered with 
 a short waving crop of golden-rod, and over it the Septem 
 ber sky. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 AMANDA sewed with a diligence which seemed almost 
 fierce. She jerked out her right elbow at sharp angles, and 
 the stout thread made a rasping sound. She was making 
 a braided rug, which lay stiff and heavy over her knees. 
 Love sat at the other front window. She held some white 
 crotchet-work, but she kept looking away from it out of the 
 window. The cherry-tree and the rose-bushes in the yard 
 were bowing in a light wind. There were no leaves on 
 them, but it was near spring, and the twigs had a red glis 
 ten as they moved in the wind. 
 
 Now and then Amanda s pale eyes shot a swift, steady 
 glance at Love. " You won t get that tidy done to-night if 
 you keep lookin out of the window," she remarked presently. 
 
 Love started, and colored softly. " I m goin to work 
 on it," said she. Then she crocheted steadily, and did 
 not look away from her work for a long time. Love would 
 have been pretty had not her features been too thin and 
 sharply accentuated. She was like a too boldly traced 
 pencil sketch ; the beauty of design could not show through 
 such force of outline. Her hair was too heavy for her deli 
 cate little head. It was not very tidy ; when she bent her 
 head over her crochet-work the great slipping knot showed 
 more plainly. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 289 
 
 " It does seem as if you might twist up your hair a little 
 tighter : it don t look neat," said Amanda. 
 
 " I can t make it stay up anyhow," returned Love, with 
 meek apology. 
 
 " I guess I could make it stay up." 
 
 Amanda s light hair was parted and brushed so smoothly 
 that there were lines of pale gloss on the sides of her head ; 
 the small knot at the back of it was compact and immova 
 ble as one on a statue. 
 
 After a while Amanda arose. " I m goin out to take in 
 the clothes," said she. " I guess they must be dry by this 
 time. I ain t goin to have em beatin in this wind any 
 longer, anyhow." 
 
 " I ll go," said Love. 
 
 " No ; you stay jest where you- are, an do your tidy. 
 You ve got some cold, an I ain t goin to have you out in 
 the wind handlin damp clothes." 
 
 When Amanda s tall, slim figure erected itself and moved 
 across the room, it had a kind of stiff majesty about it. Her 
 back and. neck were absolutely unbending, there was one 
 unbroken line from her head to her heels, even her dress 
 skirt did not swing, but hung rigidly. 
 
 As soon as Amanda had gone, Love let her work fall in 
 her lap, leaned her head back, and looked out of the win 
 dow again. There was the little front yard, with its green- 
 gray mat of grass and glistening tree and bushes ; before 
 it stretched the road ; once in a while a team passed, or a 
 woman pushed by with her garments flying back in the wind. 
 Love, looking directly at it all, saw nothing. She had come 
 to a place in her life where the future closed around her so 
 plainly that, whether she would or not, she could see noth 
 ing else. Possibilities seemed near enough to sing in her 
 19 
 
29 
 
 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 ears, and all her dreams were turned to giants. No one 
 but herself could see them ; she was innocently ashamed 
 and terrified to look ; but no work and no play could di 
 vert her eyes. 
 
 When Love heard her sister coming back, she took up 
 her work hurriedly, and began to crochet. Her little thin 
 face looked quite sober and intent ; she did not even glance 
 at her sister when she entered. Amanda s face was red 
 dened by the wind, but her hair was not roughened. She 
 held her chilly fingers over the stove, and looked at Love. 
 
 " Got the tidy most done ?" she asked. 
 
 " Pretty near." 
 
 " Goin to get it done to-night ?" 
 
 " I don t know as I can get it quite done. The last rows 
 take longer, you know." 
 
 Amanda went suddenly across to Love. " Let me see 
 it," said she. 
 
 Love extended the tidy nervously. Amanda scruti 
 nized it. 
 
 " Now I want to know jest how much you ve worked on 
 this since I went out." 
 
 " I don t know as I can tell, Mandy." 
 
 " You can tell pretty near. Have you done half a row?" 
 
 " I don t know as I have." 
 
 " Have you done quarter of one ?" 
 
 " I guess not quite." 
 
 " Have you done anything at all ?" 
 
 " Yes, I ve done a little." 
 
 " I don t believe you ve made more n three shells. Have 
 you?" 
 
 Love looked shamefacedly at the tidy, and made no reply. 
 
 "You d ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amanda. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 291 
 
 It s much as ever you do anything at all lately. I don t 
 see what you think you re comin to, sittin all day doin 
 nothin at all, starin out of the window. You act as if you 
 was in a brown study. I d like to know what ails you." 
 
 Love murmured something, and twisted herself away tow 
 ards the window. Amanda surveyed her imperturbably ; 
 her words had been impatient, but her manner of delivery 
 calm. She stood over her sister implacably benignant, like 
 an embodied duty. 
 
 " Now, Love, I want to know an I think you d ought 
 to tell me what are you thinkin about when you set doin 
 nothin so ?" 
 
 Love quivered. Secret thoughts have more sensitive 
 surfaces than burns, and it seemed to Love that hers were 
 laid bare. " Don t, Mandy. I don t know," she faltered. 
 
 " If you are thinkin about what I think you are," Aman 
 da went on, inexorably, " it s about time you stopped. If 
 you ve got any proper pride that a girl ought to have, you 
 won t waste time thinkin about anybody till you re pretty 
 sure they want you to." 
 
 Love turned on her sister with a look as if she were feel 
 ing for the claws which nature had denied her. " I never 
 said I was thinkin about anybody," said she. Then she 
 suddenly put her hands up to her face and began to cry. 
 
 " There s nothin for you to cry about," said Amanda, 
 " nor to get mad about. I m older than you, an I know 
 more about the world, an I m goin to look out for you as 
 faithful as I know how, an that s all there is about it. Now 
 you d better work on that tidy if you ever want to get it 
 done, while I get supper ready." 
 
 Amanda, as she went out of the room, had a look of de 
 fiant embarrassment, and her face was flushed. She had 
 
292 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 not flinched, but she was a New England woman, and she 
 discussed all topics except purely material ones shame 
 facedly with her sister. She felt as if she had injured her 
 own delicacy as well as her sister s. 
 
 Amanda, out in the kitchen, got supper, and Love, in the 
 sitting-room, wiped her eyes and worked on her tidy. It 
 was really necessary it should be finished ; she was going 
 to sell it, and she needed the money. The proceeds of 
 Love s little mats and tidies and pincushions all went for 
 her own clothes, while Amanda s heavier and homelier 
 work bought the food, fuel, and her own scanty wardrobe. 
 Love had many a dainty little feature in her attire which 
 Amanda had not, and never fairly knew that she had not. 
 Love s little beribboned gowns and flower-wreathed hats 
 were to Amanda as her own. She never thought of herself 
 as being without them. Love on a Sunday, in her pretty, 
 best attire, was, in a sweet and subtle fashion, Amanda s 
 looking-glass. The elder sister, in her sober shawl and 
 staid bonnet, walking beside her to meeting, saw all the 
 time herself in this younger and fairer guise. 
 
 Amanda was old enough to be Love s mother ; the two 
 had been left alone in the world when Love was a baby. 
 They had only their little house and an acre or two of land, 
 but Amanda had the head of a financier. She had man 
 aged her pennies as firmly and carefully as dollars. She 
 made every inch of their land pay. She sold hay and vege 
 tables. She did heavy tasks in needlework for the neigh 
 bors quilts and braided rugs and rag carpets. She had 
 a little sum at interest in the savings-bank. 
 
 While adhering to the letter of her principles in bringing 
 up Love, Amanda had spared her in every possible way. 
 No rough tasks had been imposed upon this little, slender- 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 293 
 
 armed sister. Amanda bought pretty silks and wools and 
 fine threads, and had her taught to do dainty fancy-work, 
 for which she found quite a market among the village women 
 and the storekeepers in a neighboring large town. There 
 were always finished articles on exhibition in the sisters 
 little front room, which was a studio on an exceedingly 
 small and humble scale. Love s delicately wrought tidies 
 and scarfs decorated the walls on all sides ; the table was 
 covered with mats and pin-cushions. Nothing could ex 
 ceed Amanda s pride in the display. Love had lately fin 
 ished a silk patchwork bedquilt, which was draped over the 
 mantelshelf like a triumphal banner. Amanda invited peo 
 ple in to see it. She believed it a work of genius. 
 
 Love crocheted fast when she kept herself to it. There 
 was quite a piece done on the tidy when Amanda called 
 her out to supper. Amanda had made some milk toast. 
 Love was very fond of it. The two ate their suppers peace 
 fully in the little kitchen. Amanda gave Love the lower 
 most and best-soaked slices of toast, and Love, whose eyes 
 were still red, ate them meekly. 
 
 After supper, when the dishes were cleared away, it was 
 quite dark. Love lighted a lamp, and started to go up-stairs 
 to her chamber. 
 
 " Where you goin ?" asked Amanda. 
 " Up stairs." 
 "What for?" 
 
 " I thought maybe I d better change my dress." 
 " What are you goin to change your dress for?" 
 " I didn t know but somebody might come in." 
 " I d like to know who s goin to come that that brown 
 dress you ve got on ain t good enough for ? Who do you 
 expect?" 
 
294 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 " I don t know as I expect anybody." 
 
 " I s pose you think maybe hj\\ be in." 
 
 " I don t know as anybody ll come. I just thought I d 
 change my dress." Love, slight and flat-chested, her shoul 
 der-blades showing through the back of her brown dress, 
 stood before Amanda. She held the lamp unsteadily in 
 both her little bony hands. 
 
 " That dress is plenty good enough whoever comes. I 
 don t care if it s the President," said Amanda. "An I 
 can tell you one thing if you ve got any pride, an any 
 sense of what s proper, you won t go to dressin up in that 
 blue dress with all that velvet trimmin on it, if you think 
 anybody s comin . If you really want to show anybody you 
 like them before you know whether he likes you or not, you 
 can go an dress up for them. If anybody s got common- 
 sense, they can read it just like ABC. You d better go 
 an set down an finish that tidy." 
 
 Love obeyed. She seated herself at the parlor table with 
 her crochet-work. Once, when her sister was out of the 
 room for a moment, she got up stealthily and looked at her 
 self in the glass behind the table. She smoothed back her 
 hair as well as she could, and adjusted the little brooch at 
 her throat. Then she darted swiftly and noiselessly across 
 the room to the chimney cupboard. A little bottle of co 
 logne stood on the middle shelf. Love sprinkled some on 
 her handkerchief; then she flew back to her chair. She 
 hardly gained it before Amanda entered, and almost at the 
 same moment there was a knock on the front door. Love 
 gave a great start, and half arose. Amanda looked at 
 her. 
 
 " I ll go," said she, sternly. Love sat down. 
 
 Amanda had reached the sitting room door, when she 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 295 
 
 turned around and sniffed sharply. " What s that I smell ?" 
 said she. 
 
 Love said nothing. 
 
 " Have you been puttin some of that cologne on your 
 handkerchief?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " You re a silly girl." 
 
 Love crocheted with her heart beating loudly, while her 
 sister opened the front door and let in the visitor. She 
 could hear Amanda s voice and a subdued masculine one. 
 Amanda was asking the visitor to lay aside his hat and coat 
 in very much the same way that she might have asked an 
 enemy to lay down his arms. 
 
 Amanda preceded a young man into the sitting-room. 
 She set the lamp on the shelf and blew it out. Love half 
 arose. She and the young man looked at each other ; they 
 extended their hands, then drew them back. Love sank 
 into her chair with a soft, bashful titter, and the young man 
 sat gravely and stiffly down on the sofa. Amanda seated 
 herself at the table with her braided rug. She got it in 
 place, and began sewing. 
 
 " How s your mother?" she asked the young man, in a 
 dry, constrained voice. 
 
 " She s pretty well, thank you," he replied. 
 
 He was young and very tall. His feet, in their well- 
 blacked shoes, sprawled far out from the sofa. His hand 
 some face was red with embarrassment, but his blue eyes 
 looked at Amanda quite sturdily and steadily. 
 
 " Has she begun on her cleanin yet ?" said Amanda. 
 
 " No, ma am ; I guess not." 
 
 " I s pose you can help her some about the carpets." 
 
 " Yes, ma am." 
 
296 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 Amanda sewed, and Love crocheted on her tidy. The 
 young man drew his feet farther in. 
 
 " It s a pleasant evening out," he remarked, after a while. 
 
 Amanda nodded, with cold acquiescence. 
 
 " Yes, I s pose tis," said she. Love smiled softly, with 
 out looking up. 
 
 There was a long silence. The sisters worked steadily. 
 The visitor sat on the sofa, with his unoccupied masculine 
 hands on his knees. Now and then he glanced at Love s 
 bowed head. There was a calla-lily in a big pot behind 
 her, and the broad leaves threw shadows over her. Love 
 herself looked like a flower which for some reason was nof 
 giving out its natural fragrance. It seemed as if she needed 
 to be stirred and shaken. 
 
 The time went on. Once in a while Amanda, vouchsafed 
 an abrupt question, and the young man replied. Love never 
 spoke until he arose to take leave. Then she started and 
 looked up. 
 
 " It ain t late," said she, and the blushes flamed over her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I guess I must be goin ," said he. There was some 
 thing pitiful about the young fellow, in his Sunday suit and 
 light necktie, with his shiny shoes and curly hair dampened 
 and brushed as smoothly as possible. All these little hum 
 ble masculine furbishings had gone for naught, and he was 
 going home disappointed and hurt after a painfully dull 
 evening. However, he held up his head like a man, and 
 there was a stiffness in his way of taking leave which be 
 tokened resentment as well as dejection. 
 
 Amanda went to the door with him, and watched him put 
 on his coat and hat. " Remember me to your mother," 
 said she, when he went out. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 297 
 
 When Amanda returned to the sitting-room, Love had 
 her head bent very low over her work. 
 
 "You hadn t ought to have said it waVt late when he 
 got up to go," said Amanda. " It looked dreadful forward, 
 as if you wanted him to stay whether or no. I was sur 
 prised at you." 
 
 Love put her hands over her face, and her shoulders 
 twitched. 
 
 " What is the matter?" asked Amanda. 
 
 " I don t believe he ll ever come again as long as he 
 lives." 
 
 "I d like to know why he won t come?" 
 
 Love made no reply. She sobbed convulsively. 
 
 " Come, you d better go to bed," said Amanda. " You re 
 actin dreadful silly. Ain t you got any pride at all? I 
 guess before I d sit and cry because I was afraid a fellow 
 wouldn t come to see me An he ll come again fast 
 enough. I ll go an heat a flat-iron to put to your feet. 
 It ll be kind of chilly up-stairs to-night." 
 
 Amanda got Love into bed with the hot flat-iron at her 
 feet, and herself lay half the night listening to hear if she 
 were awake crying. The sisters slept in the two cottage 
 chambers ; Love had the large sunny front one. There 
 were muslin curtains at Love s windows ; she had a clean, 
 faded woollen carpet, a large looking-glass over her bureau, 
 and the best feather-bed. Amanda s little room was as 
 bare and poor as could well be, her tiny looking-glass was 
 blurred, and her bed was hard and lumpy. 
 
 If Love lay awake weeping, she wept so softly that her 
 sister did not hear her. This was a Wednesday night. 
 Love s admirer had been calling upon her occasionally on 
 Wednesday evenings for some time. The next Wednesday 
 
298 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 evening he did not come, nor the next, nor the next. The 
 sisters said nothing to each other about it. Love did not 
 attempt to change her dress and make herself smart for 
 him again. Her fancy-work dragged more than ever, but 
 she always tried to be industrious when Amanda was in the 
 room. One afternoon a neighbor called and asked Aman 
 da out in the entry, when she was taking leave, if her sis 
 ter was well. 
 
 " She always did look dreadful delicate," said she, " but 
 now she looks to me as if you could see the light through 
 her if you held her the right way. I should think you d 
 better get her something strength nin to take, Amanda. 
 You know her mother died of the consumption." 
 
 " I guess she s well enough," returned Amanda, shortly. 
 " She s always thin as a rail." 
 
 But when she went back into the sitting-room she saw 
 Love with the neighbor s eyes ; before, she had seen her 
 with her own, to which her desires had been like soft-hued 
 spectacles. That night she tried to get something for sup 
 per that Love would relish, but the girl scarcely tasted it. 
 She only pecked at it like a little thin bird. Amanda made 
 up her mind to get some medicine for her, as the neighbor 
 had advised, and the next day she did, and Love took it, 
 with no perceptible effect. 
 
 Five weeks from the Wednesday on which the young man 
 had called, Amanda heard that he had procured some work 
 in another village, and left town. She hesitated whether 
 or not to tell Love. Finally she decided to. Love had 
 just lighted her lamp to go to bed one night when she told 
 her. 
 
 " They say he s left town an gone to Sharon," said she, 
 in a harsh, constrained voice. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 299 
 
 Love did not make a sound, but her face moved as if she 
 screamed. She went weakly up-stairs with her lamp, and 
 Amanda sat down in the parlor and thought. It was mid 
 night before she went up-stairs. 
 
 She listened a minute at Love s door, then she tiptoed in 
 and bent over her. Love was asleep ; her little face had a 
 peaceful look, but her skin was dank and pale with perspi 
 ration ; great beads stood on her forehead. 
 
 "That s the way mother used to look when she was 
 asleep," Amanda said to herself. 
 
 Suddenly Love opened her eyes. She did not seem 
 startled, but she turned away from Amanda and the light. 
 
 " Now, Love, I want to know what all this means," said 
 Amanda. "Are you frettin yourself sick because that fel 
 low don t come?" 
 
 Love did not reply ; her face was hidden, but her slender 
 shoulders heaved convulsively. 
 
 " Well," said Amanda, slowly, " it beats all. I ve heard 
 of such things, but I never knew they were true." She 
 smoothed out the bedclothes over Love and straightened 
 her pillow. " Now you d better stop cryin , an go to sleep," 
 said she. " He ll come again fast enough, don t you worry." 
 
 Amanda went out with the light. She did not sleep at 
 all that night. She lay in her little chamber and wrestled 
 for another with a problem of nature which she had never 
 had to face for herself. 
 
 The next day was Saturday. In the afternoon Amanda 
 dressed herself to go out. " I m goin out a little ways, it s 
 so pleasant," she told Love, when she went into the sitting- 
 room with her bonnet and shawl on. 
 
 Love smiled listlessly. She was at the window with her 
 fancy-work as usual. Amanda glanced back as she went 
 
300 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 down the path to the front gate, but Love did not look after 
 her ; her head was bent over her work. 
 
 Amanda went down the road until she reached a large 
 white cottage set in a deep yard. There were four front 
 windows. Amanda saw a head at one of them, but it dis 
 appeared when she turned in at the gate. She drew her 
 old cashmere shawl tightly over her shoulders, and went, 
 slim and stately, up the front walk. There was a strong 
 sweet odor of pine-apple in the air; it came from an odd 
 brown flowering bush near the gate. It might have been 
 gunpowder, and Amanda might have been marching up to 
 hostile guns, from her feelings. She felt a pair of inimical 
 female eyes upon her behind a closed blind, but she set her 
 face steadily ahead, went up to the door, and knocked. 
 
 She waited a long time, but no one came. She knocked 
 again and again. Finally she compressed her lips and 
 tried the door. It was not locked. She went into the en 
 try, and knocked on the sitting-room door. No one came. 
 She opened the door and walked in. Directly the opposite 
 door closed with a bang. Amanda walked across to that 
 door and opened it. There stood an elderly woman in a 
 little entry between the sitting-room and kitchen. She 
 looked at Amanda with a kind of defiant embarrassment. 
 Her handsome fleshy face was quite red. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mis Dale," said Amanda. 
 
 "Good-afternoon." 
 
 There was a pause. " I want to speak to you a minute," 
 said Amanda. 
 
 " Well, come into the sitting-room." 
 
 Amanda began at once when she and Mrs. Dale were 
 seated opposite each other. " I wanted to ask you," said 
 she, " how your son was." 
 
AMANDA A*\ D LOVE. 301 
 
 "He s well as common." 
 
 "I heard he d left town." 
 
 "Yes, he has." 
 
 "Does he ever come home?" 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 "Well, some time when he does come, I should be hap 
 py to have him call at our house." 
 
 Mrs. Dale s face grew redder, her round eyes gave out a 
 blue glare. " Well, I ll tell you one thing right to your face, 
 Amandy Perry, an I ain t afraid to neither. My son ain t 
 comin over to your house again to be snubbed, not if I can 
 help it. I guess he s full as good as your sister full as 
 good." 
 
 "It wa n t that, Mis Dale." 
 
 "I d like to know what it was, then." 
 
 " I rather guess I talked to Love, an said some things 
 that made her act kind of bashful. I ain t never had a 
 thing against your son. I ve always thought he was one 
 of the likeliest young men in town." 
 
 " I ruther guess my son is full as good as anybody that 
 little meachin thing is likely to get full as good. I don t 
 know what you think you are, nor where you come from : 
 folks that have had to live from hand to mouth the way 
 you have, an never have had any parlor. My folks have 
 always had parlors an sittin -rooms, an I guess some of em 
 would have thought my son was stoopin if they d known." 
 
 The channel in which Mrs. Dale s ideas ran was so nar 
 row that it had to rJe well cleared of one set before others 
 could enter. She was a kindly enough woman, but just 
 now she was possessed of maternal resentment to the ex 
 clusion of everything else. Mrs. Dale was like an enraged 
 mother bird with one note, she screamed it over and over in 
 
302 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 Amanda s ears in spite of all she could say. Finally Aman 
 da arose to go, and Mrs. Dale followed her to the door, still 
 talking. Amanda noticed a hat on the entry table. " He s 
 come home to spend Sunday," she thought, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Dale closed the door after her with a bang, and 
 Amanda went slowly down the path, looking on either hand. 
 Over in the field south of the house there was a low red fire 
 leaping in the dry grass, and a man s figure moving about, 
 knee-deep in curling smoke. Amanda went straight across 
 to the field and up to the man. She held her skirts close 
 around her, and stepped unflinchingly over the blackened 
 ground. 
 
 " Good- afternoon, Willis," said she. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," the young man returned, stiffly. 
 
 " Come to spend Sunday ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma am." 
 
 " Why don t you come over and see us ? You ain t been 
 for a long time." 
 
 Willis stood straight and tall before Amanda ; his eyes 
 looked like his mother s. " Because I ain t goin anywhere 
 where I m shown so plain I ain t wanted," said he. 
 
 "You re wanted enough. We should be real glad to see 
 you any time. I s pose I m kind of stiff sometimes, but I 
 don t mean to be ; an Love is a little quiet an bashful, but 
 you mustn t think we mean to act offish. If you ain t goin 
 anywheres to-morrow night, we d be glad to see you. Love, 
 she ain t very well." 
 
 Willis moved around and beat a little at the burning grass. 
 
 "Love, she ain t very well, an I guess she s kind of fret- 
 tin because she thinks you re put out," said Amanda, in a 
 pitiful voice. 
 
AMANDA AND LOVE. 303 
 
 "Well, maybe I ll come if you d like to have me," said 
 Willis, hesitatingly. 
 
 "We ll be happy to have you." Amanda started off; 
 then she turned. " What are you going to do to-night?" 
 she asked, timidly. 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Nothing particular that I know off." 
 
 " Can t you come to-night ?" 
 
 " I don t know but I can," Willis said, in a bewildered 
 way. 
 
 Amanda went home in the early spring afternoon. Her 
 limbs trembled ; her face had a shocked, desperate expres 
 sion. She was full of a solemn shame and terror at what 
 she had done. People when they overstep their bounds of 
 conduct are apt to step high and wide; poor Amanda had 
 cleared hers well. The frogs were singing in a stretch of 
 low meadow-land that she passed. They would have seemed 
 to her like the chorus of a Greek tragedy had she ever 
 heard of one. 
 
 When she got home she sat down with Love and sewed 
 until supper-time. She said nothing about Willis Dale. 
 She got supper early, and cleared it away. Then she got 
 a brush and comb and basin of water, and called Love 
 out into the kitchen. " Come here a minute, Love," said 
 she. 
 
 Love crept out obediently. 
 
 " I m goin to see if I can t make your hair look neat for 
 once," said Amanda, in a resolute tone. 
 
 She dampened Love s pretty wild hair, brushed it ener 
 getically, and twisted it tight and hard on the top of her 
 head. Love s thin childish face looked strange and severe 
 
304 AMANDA AND LOVE. 
 
 with her hair in flat dark curves around her temples. Aman 
 da surveyed her approvingly. 
 
 " There," said she. " Now you d better go an put on 
 your other dress ; I want to fix that place that s ripped in 
 this one." 
 
 " I thought I d go to bed pretty soon," said Love. 
 
 " No, you ain t goin to bed, neither. Now go an put on 
 your dress. You look nice an neat for once in your life." 
 
 Willis came at eight o clock. Amanda let him in, and 
 left him with Love in the sitting-room. She herself sat 
 down at the kitchen window in the deepening dusk, and 
 stared out over the shadowy fields. She could hear the 
 voices of her sister and her lover, now fairly started upon 
 that path of love which was as strange to this rigid-lived 
 single woman as that of death, and whither she was far less 
 able to follow. Amanda sat there, and wept patiently, lean 
 ing her head against the window-casing. 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 " WE can, Mis Rowe ; this winder ain t fastened. I can 
 slide it up easy nough." 
 
 " Where does it go to ?" 
 
 " Into the kitchen. I declare, there s the tea-kittle on the 
 stove ; an I should think the door was open into the butt ry. 
 Yes, tis. Mis Rowe, the dishes are settin on the shelves 
 jest the way they were left." 
 
 " Can you see em ?" 
 
 " Yes, I can. I don t b lieve there s one speck of harm 
 in our gettin in an lookin round a little." 
 
 " Oh, Mis Daggett, do you think we d ought to ?" 
 
 " I d like to know what harm twould do." 
 
 " S pose they should find it out ?" 
 
 " I don t see who they is. There ain t one of the Prim 
 roses left but Maria, an it ain t likely she ll be round here 
 to find it out very soon." 
 
 " It s awful bout her, ain t it ?" 
 
 " I dun know as I think it s very awful ; it ain t any 
 more than she deserves for treatin Abel Rice the way she 
 did." 
 
 " I ve heard her husband had spent most all her money." 
 
 " Guess it s true nough. They said once she was goin* 
 to leave him." 
 20 
 
306 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 " I never really believed he struck her the way they said 
 he did ; did you ?" 
 
 "Guess it s true nough. I tell you what it is, Mis Rowe, 
 I b lieve folks get their desarts in this world sometimes. 
 We can get in here jest as easy as not, if we are a mind to." 
 
 " Oh, Mis Daggett, I dun know bout it." 
 
 "There ain t a bit of harm in t," said Mrs. Daggett, who 
 was long and vigorous and sinewy. Then with no more ado 
 she pushed up the grating old window. 
 
 Mrs. Rowe, who was a delicate little body, stood timor 
 ously aloof in a bed of mint that had grown up around the 
 kitchen door of the old Primrose house. There was a small 
 wilderness of mint and sweetbrier and low pink-flowering 
 mallow around the door. All the old foot-tracks were con 
 cealed by them. 
 
 The window was not very high ; Mrs. Daggett put one 
 knee on the sill and climbed in easily enough. Mrs. Rowe 
 watched her with dilated eyes ; occasionally she peered be 
 hind her; she had a sideway poise like a deer. It was 
 perfectly evident that if she were to see any one approach 
 ing she would fly and leave her companion to her fate. 
 
 " Come, you get in now," said Mrs. Daggett. Her harsh, 
 yellow old face peered out of the window ; back of it was a 
 dark green gloom. All the windows but that were closed 
 and blinded. 
 
 " Oh, Mis Daggett, I dun know as I darse to !" 
 
 " Come along !" 
 
 " I don t b lieve I can get in." 
 
 "Yes, you can ; it ain t high." 
 
 Mrs. Rowe approached slowly ; she lifted one feeble knee. 
 " It s no use, I can t noway," said she. 
 
 Mrs. Daggett caught hold of her arms and pulled. " Now 
 you climb while I pull !" she cried. 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 3 O 7 
 
 " Oh, I can t noway, Mis Daggett ! You ll pull my arms 
 out by the roots. I guess you d better stop." 
 
 " I ll get out an boost you in," Mrs. Daggett said, briskly, 
 and strode over the window-sill. 
 
 But the " boosting" was not successful ; finally little Mrs. 
 Rowe recoiled in terror. " I m afraid you ll make me go 
 in there head-first," said she. " I guess you d better stop, 
 Mis Daggett. You go in an look round, an I ll wait here 
 for you." 
 
 "I ll tell you what we can do: I ll set out a chair; you 
 can climb in jest as easy as not, then." 
 
 Mrs. Daggett again climbed in, set out one of the dusty 
 kitchen chairs, and Mrs. Rowe with many quavers made 
 her entry. For a moment the two women stood close to 
 gether, looking about them ; Mrs. Rowe was quite pale, 
 Mrs. Daggett shrewdly observant. "I m goin to open 
 them other blinds an have a little more light," she declared 
 at length. 
 
 " Oh, do you s pose you d better ?" 
 
 " I d like to know what harm it can do." Mrs. Daggett 
 forced up the old windows, and defiantly threw open the 
 blinds. 
 
 The kitchen was a large one, with an old billowy floor 
 and the usual furnishings. Mrs. Daggett lifted the tea 
 kettle and examined it. " It s all one bed of rust," said she ; 
 " set up with water in t, most likely ; that Mis Loomis that 
 was here when old Mr. Primrose died wa n t no kind of a 
 housekeeper. I m a-goin into the butt ry." 
 
 " Oh, do you think we d better ?" 
 
 "I d like to know what harm it can do." 
 
 Mrs. Daggett advanced with virtuous steadfastness, and 
 the other woman, casting fearful backward glances, followed 
 
308 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 hesitatingly in her wake. They entered the pantry, which 
 was as large as a small room, and stood with their chins 
 tipped, scanning the shelves. " There s a whole set of white 
 ware," said Mrs. Daggett, " an there s some blue packed 
 away on the top shelf. I s pose there s a chiny closet in 
 the parlor, where the chiny is : they must have had some 
 chiny dishes. Ain t that a nice platter? That s jest what 
 I want, a platter that size. What s in here ?" 
 
 " Oh, don t, Mis Daggett ; seems to me I wouldn t !" 
 
 " What s the harm, I d like to know ?" 
 
 Mrs. Daggett lifted the cover from a small jar. "It s 
 quince sauce, sure s you live," said she, sniffing cautiously. 
 " It don t look to me as if it was hurt one mite. I m goin 
 to taste of it." 
 
 " Oh, Mis Daggett !" 
 
 " I am." Mrs. Daggett found a knife, and plunged it de 
 fiantly into the quince sauce. " It s jest as good as ever 
 twas ; it ain t worked one mite. You taste of it, Mis Rowe." 
 
 "Oh, I don t b lieve I d better, Mis Daggett." Mrs. 
 Rowe looked with tremulous longing at the sauce which 
 her friend held towards her on the tip of the knife. 
 
 " Land sakes ! take it ! What harm can it do ?" Mrs. 
 Daggett gave the knife a shove nearer, and Mrs. Rowe 
 opened her mouth. 
 
 " It is good, ain t it ?" she said, after tasting reflectively. 
 
 " I don t see why it ain t. Have some more." 
 
 " I guess I hadn t better." 
 
 " I m goin to. Might just as well ; it s only spoilin here/ 
 Mrs. Daggett helped herself to some generous dips of the 
 sauce, and Mrs. Rowe also took sundry tastes between her 
 remonstrances. They found nothing else that was edible, 
 exceDt some spices. Mrs. Daggett took a pinch of the 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 309 
 
 cinnamon. "Ain t lost its strength one mite," she re 
 marked ; "thought I d like to see if it had." 
 
 The Primrose house was a large, old-fashioned edifice. 
 It had been the mansion-house of this tiny village, and its 
 owners had been the grandees. The town was named for 
 them ; they had been almost like feudal lords of the little 
 settlement. Now they all were dead with the exception of 
 one daughter, and she had not been near her old home fo* 
 twenty years. The house had been shut up since her 
 father s death, five years ago. The great square rooms 
 were damp and musty, and even the furniture seemed to 
 nave acquired an air of distance and reserve. 
 
 When the two curious women penetrated the statelier 
 and more withdrawn recesses of the house, Mrs. Rowe eyed 
 every chair as if it were alive and drawing up itself haught 
 ily before interlopers. But Mrs. Daggett had no such feel 
 ings. She investigated everything unsparingly. She be 
 gan opening a bureau drawer in one of the front chambers. 
 Mrs. Rowe, watching her, fairly danced with weak and fas 
 cinated terror. "Oh, don t, Mis Daggett don t you open 
 them drawers ! You scare me dreadfully 1" she cried. 
 
 " I d like to know what harm it can do." Mrs. Daggett 
 pulled out the drawer with a jerk. " Oh, my !" she ex 
 claimed ; "ain t this elegant!" 
 
 Mrs. Rowe tremblingly slid towards her and peeped around 
 her shoulder, and just then came a loud peal of the door 
 bell. Mrs. Rowe clutched Mrs. Daggett : " Oh, Mis Dag 
 gett, come come quick, for mercy sake ! That s the door 
 bell ! Oh, Mis Daggett, they ll ketch us here they will ! 
 they will !" 
 
 " Keep still !" returned Mrs. Daggett. " No, they won t 
 ketch us, neither. I dun know as we re doin any harm if 
 
3 io 
 
 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 they did." She gave the bureau drawer a shove to, and led 
 the retreat. " Come on down the back stairs," she said. 
 " Don t break your neck ; there s time nough." 
 
 When they were half-way down the stairs the bell rang 
 again. "Oh!" gasped Mrs. Rowe "oh, Mis Daggett, 
 they ll ketch us !" 
 
 " No, they won t, neither ; come along." Mrs. Daggett 
 climbed first out of the kitchen window. She thought that 
 she could assist her friend better in that way. "I ll stand 
 outside here and lift you down," she said. " Don t hurry 
 so ; you ll fall an break your bones." 
 
 Mrs. Rowe mounted a chair with frantic haste, and got 
 into the window. Mrs. Daggett extended both arms, and 
 she jumped. " Mercy sakes ! I m ketched onto somethin !" 
 she screamed. " Oh, Mis Daggett !" In fact, Mrs. Rowe s 
 skirt had caught on something inside, and she pitched 
 helplessly against her friend. " I hear em a-comin ," she 
 groaned. " Oh, what shall I do ! what shall I do !" 
 
 " Can t you hang here a minute, till I reach in an un 
 hitch it ?" 
 
 " Oh, I can t ! I can t ! Don t you let go of me, Mis 
 Daggett don t you ! I shall fall and break my bones if 
 you do. Oh, I hear em a-comin ! Oh, Mis Daggett, you 
 pull as hard as you can ! It s my alpacky dress. I ain t 
 had it but three years, but I don t care nothin bout that. 
 Oh, Mis Daggett!" 
 
 Mrs. Rowe struggled wildly, and Mrs. Daggett pulled ; 
 finally the alpaca skirt gave way. Mrs. Rowe as she turned 
 and fled cast one despairing glance at it. " It s spoilt !" 
 she groaned ; " a great three-cornered piece gouged out of 
 it. Oh, Mis Daggett, do hurry !" 
 
 Mrs. Daggett paused to shut the window ; then she over- 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 311 
 
 took her friend with long, vigorous strides. " I wa n t goin 
 to leave that window up," she remarked, " not if I knew it." 
 
 The women skirted the house well to the right, and 
 passed into the road. 
 
 " Now I m goin to walk by an see who tis," said Mrs. 
 Daggett. 
 
 " Oh, don t, Mis Daggett ; let s go right home." 
 
 " I m jest goin to walk up by the path where I can see 
 in. Come along ; they won t know we ve been in the 
 house." 
 
 Mrs. Daggett fairly pushed her timid friend in the direc 
 tion that she wished. 
 
 The Primrose house was thickly surrounded by trees, and 
 stood far back from the road ; one could only get an unin 
 terrupted view of the front door by looking directly up the 
 walk. 
 
 Mrs. Daggett took a cautious glance as she passed the 
 gate ; then she stopped short. " Good land !" she ex 
 claimed, " it ain t anybody but Abel Rice. If we ain t a 
 passel of fools !" She could see between the trees a tall 
 man with a yellow beard leaning against the front door of 
 the Primrose house. 
 
 " Are you sure it s him ?" quavered Mrs. Rowe. 
 
 " Course I m sure. Don t you s pose I know Abel Rice ? 
 If it ain t the greatest piece of work ! There, I knew all 
 about his goin there an ringin the bell." 
 
 " I never knew as he did really." 
 
 " Well, I knew he did. Mrs. Adoniram White said she d 
 seen him time an time again. To think of our runnin 
 away for a luny like Abel Rice !" 
 
 " It s awful bout his goin there, ain t it ?" 
 
 "Yes, tis awful. They say they ve talked an talked to 
 
3 i2 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 him, but they can t make him b lieve Maria Primrose don t 
 live there; an every once in a while, no matter what he s 
 doin , hoein potatoes or what, he ll steal off an go up there 
 an ring the door-bell. I wish Maria could see him some 
 times, an realize what she did when she jilted him for that 
 rich feller she married." 
 
 " It would serve her jest right ; don t you think twould ?" 
 
 "Yes, I do think it would serve her jest right." 
 
 The two were now walking along the sidewalk, leaving 
 the Primrose house out of sight. Presently they came to 
 the house where Mrs. Rowe lived, and she turned in at the 
 gate. " Good-afternoon, Mis Daggett," said she. 
 
 "Good-afternoon. Say, Mis Rowe, look here a minute." 
 
 Mrs. Rowe stepped back obediently. Mrs. Daggett ap 
 proached her lips to her ear and dropped her voice to a 
 whisper : " If I was you, I wouldn t say nothin about our 
 goin in there to Marthy." 
 
 "I ain t goin to," rejoined Mrs. Rowe, with a wise air; 
 "you needn t be afraid of that, Mis Daggett." 
 
 " I ain t done nothin I m ashamed of, but it s jest as well 
 not to tell everything you know. I m dreadful sorry you 
 tore your dress so, Mis Rowe." 
 
 The rent in Mrs. Rowe s black alpaca dress attracted 
 immediate attention when she entered the house ; she turned 
 herself cautiously, but her sister, Mrs. Joy, noticed it at 
 once. " Why, Hannah, how did you tear your dress so?" 
 said she. 
 
 " I ketched it," replied Mrs. Rowe, with a meek sigh, 
 turning her head to look at the three-cornered rent. 
 
 " Why, I should think you did ! I guess you ll have one 
 job mendin it. What did you ketch it onto ?" 
 
 " On a nail. I see Abel Rice a-standin ringin the front- 
 
UP PRIMKOSE HILL. 313 
 
 door bell at the Primrose house when I come by." Mrs. 
 Rowe had very little diplomacy in her nature, but she could 
 fly as skittishly as any other woman from a distasteful sub 
 ject. 
 
 " I want to know !" said Mrs. Joy, with ready interest 
 " I never really knew whether to b lieve them stories about 
 his ringin that bell or not." 
 
 " I see him with my own eyes." Mrs. Rowe was laying 
 aside her bonnet and shawl, uncovering her small gray head 
 and her narrow alpaca shoulders, which had a deprecating 
 slope to them. One could judge more correctly of her 
 character from her shoulders than from her face, which was 
 shifty, reflecting lights and shadows from others; her shoul 
 ders were the immovable sign of herself. 
 
 Mrs. Joy did not resemble her in the least; she was 
 larger and stouter, with a rosy face whose lines were all 
 drawn with decision. When she was talking she surveyed 
 one steadily with her full bright eyes that seldom winked. 
 People called her a handsome woman. Her daughter An 
 nie, who sat at the window with her crochet-work, resem 
 bled her, only she was young and girlishly slim, her bright, 
 clear eyes were blue instead of black, and her hair was 
 light. There was a brilliant color on her rather thin 
 cheeks. She crocheted some scarlet worsted very rapidly, 
 making her slender fingers fly. Her mother had a signifi 
 cant side tone for her in her voice when she spoke again. 
 
 " Well, there s no use talkin , Abel Rice couldn t have had 
 any brains to speak o or he wouldn t have lost em so 
 easy," said she. " This goin crazy for love is something I 
 don t put much stock in, for my part. Folks must have a 
 weak spot somewhere, or it would take something more 
 than love to tip em over. I guess none of the Rices are 
 
314 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 any too smart, when it comes right down to it. It ain t * 
 family I should want to get into." 
 
 Annie never said a word ; she crocheted faster. 
 
 Mrs. Rowe had dropped her shawl-pin, and had been 
 hunting for it. Just then she found it, and rose up. " I 
 should be kind of afraid if Frank Rice had any such kind 
 of trouble, it might affect him the same way. Shouldn t 
 you ?" said she. 
 
 She fairly jumped when her sister replied: "Afraid of 
 it? No, I guess I shouldn t be afraid of it. I guess there 
 don t many folks get crazy for love." Mrs. Joy pro 
 nounced " love " with an affectedly sweet drawl. 
 
 Mrs. Rowe colored shamefacedly. " I s pose Abel did ; 
 don t you ?" 
 
 " No, I don t, neither. Most likely he d got crazy any 
 way ; it was in him." 
 
 " Well, I dun know." Mrs. Rowe always departed from 
 an argument with a mild profession of ignorance. She 
 stood in awe of her sister. 
 
 When she left the room to put away her bonnet, Mrs. Joy 
 turned to Annie : " Ain t you goin to see him to-night ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " I haven t made up my mind." 
 
 "I should think it was about time you did. There s the 
 picnic comin off to-morrow." 
 
 " No, it isn t, either." 
 
 "When is it, I d like to know?" 
 
 " The day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, you ain t got any too much time ; you d ought to 
 let him know a little beforehand, so he can get somebody 
 else. I should think you d better see him when he goes 
 home to-night ; it will do jest as well as any way." 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 315 
 
 Annie kept her eyes upon her crocheting ; her cheeks 
 grew redder. " I ve about made up my mind that I shall 
 go with him, anyway," she muttered. 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " I ve about made up my mind to go with Frank the way 
 I said I would." 
 
 Mrs. Joy s eyes snapped. "Well, if you do, you ll have 
 to give up all thoughts of Henry Simpson, that s all," said 
 she. " If he sees you at that picnic with Frank Rice, he ll 
 think it s all decided, an* he ll let you alone." 
 
 " Sometimes I think I d rather wish he would." 
 
 " I d like to know what you mean." 
 
 " I ve made up my mind that I don t want him, anyway." 
 
 " H m ! I d like to know why." 
 
 Annie crocheted silently for a minute. " Well, I suppose 
 that I like Frank the best," she murmured, with a shame 
 faced air. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, I s pose that s all that s necessary, then. I 
 s pose if you love him, there ain t anything more to be 
 said." 
 
 The manner with which her mother s voice lingered upon 
 love made it seem at once shameful and ridiculous to the 
 girl ; but she raised a plea in her own defence. 
 
 " I don t care," said she ; " I don t think it s right to get 
 married unless you do love the one you marry." 
 
 " I guess you ll find out that there s something besides 
 love if you do get married to Frank Rice, or I ll miss my 
 guess. When you get settled down there in that little 
 cooped-up house with his father and mother and crazy 
 uncle, an don t have enough money to buy you a calico 
 dress, you ll find out it ain t all lave" 
 
 " He d build a piece on to the house." 
 
3 i6 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 " An run in debt for it ; you know he ain t got a cent 
 Well, Annie Joy, I ve said all I m goin to. You know how 
 things are jest as well as I can tell you. You know how 
 I ve dug an scrimped all my life, an you know how we re 
 situated now ; it s jest all we can do to get along, an your 
 father s an old man. If you marry Frank Rice you ll have 
 to live jest as I ve done, only you won t be so well off, if 
 anything ; your father had a good house, all paid for, when 
 we started. You ll have to work an slave, an never go 
 anywhere nor have anything; you ll have to make up your 
 mind to it. An if you have Henry Simpson, you ll live 
 over in Lennox, an have everything nice, an people will 
 look up to you. You ll have to take your choice, that s all 
 I ve got to say." 
 
 Mrs. Joy got up and went out of the room with a heavy 
 flourish. On the threshold she turned: "Ain t it most 
 time for him to go by ?" 
 
 Annie nodded. Soon after her mother left the room she 
 saw at a swift glance the young man of whom they had been 
 speaking coming down the sidewalk. She looked quickly 
 away, and never raised her eyes from her crocheting when 
 he went by. 
 
 " Has he been past ?" asked her mother when she came 
 in. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Joy compressed her lips. "Well, you can do jest 
 as you are a mind to," said she. 
 
 Yet she continued to talk and advance arguments. If 
 Annie did not go to the picnic with Frank, she had little 
 doubt that matters would be brought to a favorable climax 
 with regard to the other young man, who had lately paid 
 her much attention. She was making a new dress for 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 317 
 
 Annie to wear, and she sewed and reasoned with her all 
 that evening and during the next day. 
 
 In the afternoon a young girl, an acquaintance of Annie s, 
 came in. She had just returned from Lennox, where she 
 had been shopping. Lennox was a large village the city 
 for this little hamlet of Primrose Hill. 
 
 " I saw somebody there," said the girl, with a significant 
 smile at Annie, "and he looked real handsome. He was 
 driving a beautiful horse, and he s got one of those new- 
 style carriages. If I was some folks I should feel pretty 
 fine." 
 
 " Alice would give all her old shoes to get a chance like 
 you," remarked Mrs. Joy after the visitor had gone. 
 
 " I don t believe she d treat another fellow mean to get 
 it," said Annie. She had looked doubtfully pleased at the 
 girl s joking. 
 
 " I don t see as your treatin him mean if you let him 
 know beforehand. I guess you ain t the only girl that 
 changes her mind. Mebbe he ll take up with Alice. I 
 should think she d make him a real good wife." 
 
 " He won t : I can tell you that much. He can t bear 
 her." 
 
 " Well, he ll find somebody. It s most time for him to 
 go by, ain t it?" 
 
 "I suppose so," replied Annie, coldly. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. An hour ago Mrs. Daggett 
 had called for Mrs. Rowe, and the two old women had 
 sauntered up the street together. " I didn t tell you what I 
 see in that bureau drawer," Mrs. Daggett had whispered 
 when they started forth ; " it was the handsomest black 
 satin I ever laid ray eyes on. I mean to see it again" 
 
 " Oh, Mis Daggett !" 
 
318 UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 "I d like to know what harm it can do." 
 
 The two, in their homely black gowns, had moved on 
 towards the Primrose house. Frank Rice would have to 
 pass it on his way home from his work : he lived a half- 
 mile beyond. 
 
 Mrs. Joy, as she talked to Annie, kept her face turned 
 towards the road, watching for him. " There he is," she 
 said, presently. Annie bent over her work. " Do you 
 hear?" her mother repeated, sharply. 
 
 "Yes, I hear." Suddenly Annie sat up straight and 
 looked in her mother s eyes. " I can t do it," said she. 
 
 "I d like to know why not. Hurry, or he ll be gone by." 
 
 Annie sat quite still for a minute ; her eyes were staring 
 and her mouth set hard. Then she arose and went out of 
 the front door and down the walk. The man reached the 
 gate just as she did. She started, and turned a white face 
 back towards the window ; it was Frank Rice s uncle Abel, 
 who, people said, had lost his wits because Maria Primrose 
 had jilted him. He passed, and Annie clung to the gate. 
 An awful voice of prophetic denunciation seemed to cry 
 through all her weakness and ignoble ambition. Her 
 mother appeared in the door, and drew back hastily ; she 
 had seen Frank Rice coming, following in the track of his 
 uncle. She remarked for the first time a strong resem 
 blance between the two men, and it thrilled her with a 
 strange horror. She went back into the sitting-room, and 
 peered around a corner of a window. When Frank reached 
 the gate, she saw Annie step forward. She saw them stand 
 and talk for a few minutes ; then they walked slowly up the 
 street together. 
 
 "What s she doin that for?" muttered her mother with 
 a bewildered air ; she felt singularly shocked and subdued. 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 319 
 
 Annie and Frank went out of sight in the direction of the 
 Primrose house. 
 
 It might have been an hour later when a woman came 
 slowly up the hill which gave its name to the little settle 
 ment. She had walked from Lennox ; she had not money 
 enough to pay her fare in the coach which ran between the 
 two villages. It rattled past her on the road ; the passen 
 gers thrust out their heads and stared at her. " I declare, 
 I believe that s Maria Primrose," said one woman to an 
 other. Maria Primrose, to call her as her old neighbors did 
 by her maiden name, toiled slowly up Primrose Hill. She 
 was a middle-aged woman, with a slender figure like a girl s ; 
 but her face, which had been handsome, had not kept its 
 youth so well ; one on passing her saw it with a certain dis 
 appointment. Her black clothes had an elegant and al 
 most foreign air ; some of the rich silk pleatings were frayed, 
 but that did not hurt the general effect. 
 
 When she had come within half a mile of the Primrose 
 house she saw a man at work in a potato field on the left 
 of the road. She stopped and looked at him. Everything 
 was very dusty, and the wind blew ; great clouds of dust 
 rolled up from the road, and passed like smoke over the 
 fields ; now the setting sun shone through it and gave it a 
 gold color. Maria saw the man through a cloud of golden 
 dust. 
 
 He threw down his hoe and came towards her, and she 
 stood waiting. When he was near enough, on the other 
 side of the stone wall, she looked in his face. His large 
 blue eyes looked straight at her with a gentle and indiffer 
 ent stare, his yellow-bearded mouth smiled pleasantly and 
 vacantly. 
 
 Maria went on. Presently she heard a quick shuffle be- 
 
UP PRIMROSE HILL. 
 
 hind her, and Abel Rice passed, never turning his head ; 
 he was soon out of sight. When Maria Primrose went up 
 the path to her old home, he stood straight and gaunt be 
 fore the door ; he had pulled the bell, and he was listening. 
 When he saw Maria he shuffled off the end of the piazza, 
 and disappeared among the trees. She looked after him 
 for a second, then she unlocked the door. 
 
 There was a scream and a patter of feet up in the second 
 story, then a scramble over the back stairs ; Mrs. Daggett 
 and Mrs. Rowe were making their escape from the house. 
 Annie Joy and Frank Rice were also fleeing from the pre 
 cincts of the Primrose house. Its front piazza had looked 
 quiet and isolated, and they had strolled up there and 
 seated themselves. They arose and went away when Abel 
 Rice came and rang the bell to summon his lost sweet 
 heart ; they held each other s hands, and sped along be 
 tween the trees. They saw Maria, and quickened their 
 pace ; but before they had passed out into the road, Frank 
 cast a hasty glance around, and the two kissed each other. 
 
 Maria Primrose entered her old home to pass the re 
 mainder of her life in lonely and unavailing regret and a 
 dulness which was not peace ; the two curious old women 
 hustled guiltily out of the kitchen window ; Abel Rice went 
 his solemn and miserable way ; and the young lovers passed 
 happily forth, starting up before her like doves. There had 
 been a wreck, and the sight of it had prevented another. 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 "I DON T s pose you air goin to do much Christmas 
 over to your house." 
 
 Mrs. Luther Ely stood looking over her gate. There 
 was a sweet, hypocritical smile on her little thin red mouth. 
 Her old china-blue eyes stared as innocently as a baby s, 
 although there was a certain hardness in them. Her soft 
 wrinkled cheeks were pink and white with the true blond 
 tints of her youth, which she had never lost. She was now 
 an old woman, but people still looked at her with admiring 
 eyes, and probably would until she died. All her life long 
 her morsel of the world had had in it a sweet savor of ad 
 miration, and she had smacked her little feminine lips over 
 it greedily. She expected every one to contribute tow 
 ards it, even this squat, shabby, defiant old body standing 
 squarely out in the middle of the road. Marg ret Poole 
 had stopped unwillingly to exchange courtesies with Mrs, 
 Luther Ely. She looked aggressive. She eyed with a side- 
 wise glance the other woman s pink, smirking face. 
 
 " Tain t likely we be," she said, in a voice which age 
 had made gruff instead of piping. Then she took a step 
 forward. 
 
 " Well, we ain t goin to do much," continued Mrs. Ely, 
 with an air of subdued loftiness. " We air jest goin to hev 
 
 21 
 
322 A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 a little Christmas tree for the children. Flora s goin to 
 git a few things. She says there s a very nice sortment up 
 to White s." 
 
 Marg ret gave a kind of affirmative grunt ; then she tried 
 to move on, but Mrs. Ely would not let her. 
 
 " I dun know as you have noticed our new curtains," said 
 she. 
 
 Had she not ! Poor Marg ret Poole, who had only green 
 paper shades in her own windows, had peeped slyly around 
 the corner of one, and watched mournfully, though not 
 enviously, her opposite neighbor tacking up those elegant 
 Nottingham-lace draperies, and finally tying them back 
 with bows of red ribbon. 
 
 Marg ret would have given much to have scouted scorn 
 fully the idea, but she was an honest old woman, if not a 
 sweet one. 
 
 " Yes, I see em," said she, shortly. 
 
 " Don t you think they re pretty ?" 
 
 "Well nough," replied Marg ret, with another honest rigor. 
 
 "They cost consider ble. I told Flora I thought she 
 was kind of extravagant; but then Sam s airnin pretty 
 good wages. I dun know but they may jest as well have 
 things. Them white cotton curtains looked dreadful kind 
 of gone by." 
 
 Marg ret thought of her green paper ones. She did not 
 hate this other old woman ; she at once admired and de 
 spised her ; and this admiration of one whom she despised 
 made her angry with herself and ashamed. She was never 
 at her ease with Mrs. Luther Ely. 
 
 Mrs. Ely had run out of her house on purpose to inter 
 cept her and impress her with her latest grandeur the 
 curtains and the Christmas tree. She was sure of it. Stilt 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 323 
 
 she looked with fine appreciation at the other s delicate 
 pinky face, her lace cap adorned with purple ribbons, her 
 black gown with a flounce around the bottom. The gown 
 was rusty, but Marg ret did not notice that ; her own was 
 only a chocolate calico. Black wool of an afternoon was 
 sumptuous to her. She thought how genteel she looked in 
 it. Mrs. Ely still retained her slim, long-waisted effect. 
 Marg ret had lost every sign of youthful grace ; she was 
 solidly square and stout. 
 
 Mrs. Ely had run out, in her haste, without a shawl ; 
 indeed, the weather was almost warm enough to go without 
 one. It was only a week before Christmas, but there was 
 no snow, and the grass was quite bright in places. There 
 were green lights over in the field, and also in the house 
 yards. There was a soft dampness in the air, which brought 
 spring to mind. It almost seemed as if one, by listening 
 intently, might hear frogs or bluebirds. 
 
 Now Marg ret stepped resolutely across the street to her 
 little house, which was shingled, but not painted, except 
 on the front. Some one had painted that red many years 
 before. 
 
 Mrs. Ely, standing before her glossy white cottage, which 
 had even a neat little hood over its front door, cried, patron 
 izingly, after her once again : 
 
 " I m comin over to see you as soon as I can," said she, 
 " arter Christmas. We air dretful busy now." 
 
 " Well, come when ye can," Marg ret responded, shortly. 
 Then she entered between the dry lilac bushes, and shut 
 the door with a bang. 
 
 Even out in the yard she had heard a shrill clamor of 
 children s voices from the house; when she stood in the 
 little entry it was deafening. 
 
324 ^ STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 "Them children is raisin Cain," muttered she. Then 
 she threw open the door of the room where they where. 
 There were three of them in a little group near the window. 
 Their round yellow heads bobbed, their fat little legs and 
 arms swung wildly. " Granny ! granny !" shouted they. 
 
 " For the land sake, don t make such a racket ! Mis 
 Ely can hear you over to her house," said Marg ret. 
 
 " Untie us. Ain t ye goin to untie us now ? Say, 
 Granny." 
 
 " I ll untie ye jest as soon as I can get my things off. 
 Stop hollerin ." 
 
 In the ceiling were fixed three stout hooks. A strong 
 rope was tied around each child s waist, and the two ends 
 fastened securely around a hook. The ropes were long 
 enough to allow the children free range of the room, but 
 they kept them just short of one dangerous point the 
 stove. The stove was the fiery dragon which haunted 
 Marg ret s life. Many a night did she dream that one of 
 those little cotton petticoats had whisked too near it, and 
 the flames were roaring up around a little yellow head. 
 Many a day, when away from home, the same dreadful 
 pictures had loomed out before her eyes ; her lively fancy 
 had untied these stout knots, and she had hurried home in 
 a panic. 
 
 Marg ret took off her hood and shawl, hung them care 
 fully in the entry, and dragged a wooden chair under a 
 hook. * She was a short woman, and she had to stretch up 
 on her tiptoes to untie those hard knots. Her face turned 
 a purplish red. 
 
 This method of restriction was the result of long thought 
 and study on her part. She had tried many others, which 
 had proved ineffectual. Willy, the eldest, could master 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS, 325 
 
 knots like a sailor. Many a time the grandmother had 
 returned to find the house empty. Willy had unfastened 
 his own knot and liberated his little sisters, and then all 
 three had made the most of their freedom. But even Willy, 
 with his sharp five-year-old brain and his nimble little fin 
 gers, could not untie a knot whose two ends brushed the 
 ceiling. Now Marg ret was sure to find them all where 
 she left them. 
 
 After the children were set at liberty she got their sup 
 per, arranging it neatly on the table between the windows. 
 There was a nice white table cover, and the six silver tea 
 spoons shone. The teaspoons were the mark of a flood- 
 tide of Marg ret s aspirations, and she had had aspirations 
 all her life. She had given them to her daughter, the chil 
 dren s mother, on her marriage. She herself had never 
 owned a bit of silver, but she determined to present her 
 daughter with some. 
 
 " I m goin to have you have things like other folks," 
 she had said. 
 
 Now the daughter was dead, and she had the spoons. 
 She regarded the daily use of them as an almost sinful 
 luxury, but she brought them out in their heavy glass tum 
 bler every meal. 
 
 " I m goin to have them children learn to eat off silver 
 spoons," she said, defiantly, to their father ; " they ll think 
 more of themselves." 
 
 The father, Joseph Snow, was trying to earn a living in 
 the city, a hundred miles distant. He was himself very 
 young, and had not hitherto displayed much business ca 
 pacity, although he was good and willing. They had been 
 very poor before his wife died ; ever since he had not been 
 able to do much more than feed and clothe himself. He 
 
3 26 A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 had sent a few dollars to Marg ret from time to time dol 
 lars which he had saved and scrimped pitifully to accumu 
 late but the burden of their support had come upon her. 
 
 She had sewed carpets and assisted in spring cleanings 
 everything to which she could turn a hand. Marg ret 
 was a tailoress, but she could now get no employment at 
 her trade. The boys all wore "store clothes" in these 
 days. She could only pick up a few cents at a time ; still 
 she managed to keep the children in comfort, with a roof 
 over their heads and something to eat. Their cheeks were 
 fat and pink ; they were noisy and happy, and also pretty. 
 
 After the children were in bed that night she stood in 
 her kitchen window and gazed across at Mrs. Luther Ely s 
 house. She had left the candle in the children s room 
 the little things were afraid without it and she had not 
 yet lighted one for herself; so she could see out quite 
 plainly, although the night was dark. There was a light 
 in the parlor of the opposite house ; the Nottingham-lace 
 curtains showed finely their pattern of leaves and flow 
 ers. Marg ret eyed them. " Tain t no use my tryin to 
 git up a notch," she muttered. " Tain t no use for some 
 folks. They ain t worked no harder than I have ; Louisa 
 Ely ain t never begun to work so hard ; but they can have 
 lace curtains an Christmas trees." 
 
 The words sounded envious. Still she was hardly that ; 
 subsequent events proved it. Her " tryin to git up a notch " 
 explained everything. Mrs. Luther Ely, the lace-curtains, 
 and the Christmas tree were as three stars set on that higher 
 " notch " which she wished to gain. If the other woman 
 had dressed in silk instead of rusty wool, if the lace dra 
 peries had been real, Marg ret would hardly have wasted 
 one wistful glance on them. But Mrs. Luther Ely had 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 327 
 
 been all her life the one notch higher, which had seemed 
 almost attainable. In that opposite house there was only 
 one carpet ; Marg ret might have hoped for one carpet. 
 Mrs. Ely s son-in-law earned only a comfortable living for 
 his family ; Marg ret s might have done that. Worst of all, 
 each woman had one daughter, and Marg ret s had died. 
 
 Marg ret had been ambitious all her life. She had made 
 struggle after struggle. The tailoress trade was one of 
 them. She made up her mind that she would have things 
 like other people. Then she married, and her husband 
 spent her money. One failure came after another. She 
 slipped back again and again on the step to that higher 
 notch. And here she was to-night, old and poor, with 
 these three helpless children dependent upon her. 
 
 But she felt something besides disappointed ambition as 
 she stood gazing out to-night. 
 
 " There s the children," she went on ; " can t have nuthin 
 for Christmas. I ain t got a cent I can spare. If I git em 
 enough to eat, I m lucky." 
 
 Presentl^ she turned away and lighted a lamp. She had 
 some sewing to do for the children, and was just sitting 
 down with it, when she paused suddenly and stood reflect 
 ing. 
 
 " I ve got a good mind to go down to White s an see 
 what he s got in for Christmas," said she. " Mebbe Jo 
 seph 11 send some money long next week, an if he does, 
 mebbe I can git em some little thing. It would be a good 
 plan for me to kind of price em." 
 
 Marg ret laid her work down, got her hood and shawl, 
 and went out, fastening the house securely, and also the 
 door of the room where the stove was. 
 
 To her eyes the village store which she presently entered 
 
328 A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 was a very emporium of beauty and richness. She stared 
 at the festoons of evergreens, the dangling trumpets and 
 drums, the counters heaped with cheap toys, with awe and 
 longing. She asked respectfully the price of this and that, 
 some things less pretentious than the others. But it was 
 all beyond her. She might as well have priced diamonds 
 and bronzes. As she stood looking, sniffing in the odor 
 of evergreen and new varnish, which was to her a very 
 perfume of Christmas, arising from its fulness of peace and 
 merriment, Flora Trask, Mrs. Ely s daughter, entered. Mar 
 g ret went out quickly. " She ll see I ain t buyin any 
 thing," she thought to herself. 
 
 But Marg ret Poole came again the next day, and the 
 next, and the next morning, afternoon, and evening. "I 
 dun know but I may want to buy some things by-an -by," 
 she told the proprietor, apologetically, "an I thought I d 
 kind of like to price em." 
 
 She stood about, eying, questioning, and fingering ten 
 derly. No money-letter came from Joseph. She inquired 
 anxiously at the post-office many times a day. She tried 
 to get work to raise a little extra money, but she could get 
 none at this time of the year. She visited Mrs. White, the 
 storekeeper s wife, and asked with forlorn hope if she had 
 no tailor-work for her. There were four boys in that fam 
 ily. But Mrs. White shook her head. She was a good 
 woman. " I m sorry," said she, " but I haven t got a mite. 
 The boys wouldn t wear home-made clothes." 
 
 She looked pitifully at Marg ret s set, disappointed face 
 when she went out. 
 
 Finally those animals of sugar and wood, those pink-faced, 
 straight-bodied dolls, those tin trumpets and express wag 
 ons, were to Marg ret as the fair apples hanging over the 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS 329 
 
 garden wall were to Christiana s sons in the Pilgrim s Prog 
 ress. She gazed and gazed, until at last the sight and 
 the smell of them were too much for her. 
 
 The evening before Christmas she went up to the post- 
 office. The last mail was in, and there was no letter for 
 her. Then she kept on to the store. It was rather early, 
 and there were not as yet many customers. Marg ret began 
 looking about as usual. She might have been in the store 
 ten minutes when she suddenly noticed a parcel on the 
 corner of a counter. It was nicely tied. It belonged 
 evidently to one of the persons who were then trading in 
 the store or was to be delivered outside later. Mr. White 
 was not in ; two of his sons and a boy clerk were waiting 
 upon the customers. 
 
 Marg ret, once attracted by this parcel, could not take 
 her eyes from it long. She pored over the other wares 
 with many sidelong glances at it. Her thoughts centred 
 upon it, and her imagination. What could be in it? To 
 whom could it belong ? 
 
 Marg ret Poole had always been an honest woman. She 
 had never taken a thing which did not belong to her in her 
 whole life. She suddenly experienced a complete moral 
 revulsion. It was as if her principles, whose weights were 
 made shifty by her long watching and longing, had suddenly 
 gyrated in a wild somersault. While they were reversed, 
 Marg ret, warily glancing around, slipped that parcel under 
 her arm, opened the door, and sped home. 
 
 It was better Christmas weather than it had been a week 
 ago. There was now a fine level of snow, and the air was 
 clear and cold. Marg ret panted as she walked. The 
 snow creaked under her feet. She met many people hurry 
 ing along in chattering groups. She wondered if they 
 
330 A STOLEAT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 could see the parcel under her shawl. It was quite a large 
 one. 
 
 When she got into her own house she hastened to strike 
 a light. Then she untied the parcel. There were in it some 
 pink sugar cats and birds, two tin horses and a little wagon, 
 a cheap doll, and some bright picture-books, besides a 
 paper of candy. 
 
 " My land !" said Marg ret, " won t they be tickled !" 
 
 There was a violent nervous shivering all over her stout 
 frame. " Why can t I keep still ?" said she. 
 
 She got out three of the children s stockings, filled them, 
 and hung them up beside the chimney. Then she drew a 
 chair before the stove, and went over to the bureau to get 
 her Bible : she always read a chapter before she went to bed. 
 Marg ret was not a church member, she never said anything 
 about it, but she had a persistent, reticent sort of religion. 
 She took up the Bible ; then laid it down ; then she took it 
 up again with a clutch. 
 
 "I don t care," said she, " I ain t done nothin so terrible 
 out of the way. What can t be aimed, when anybody s 
 willin to work, ought to be took. I m goin to wait till 
 arter Christmas ; then I m jest goin up to Mis White s 
 some arternoon, an I m goin to say, * Mis White, says I, 
 the day before Christmas I went into your husband s store, 
 an I see a bundle a-layin on the counter, an I took it, an 
 said nothin to nobody. I shouldn t ha done such a thing 
 if you d give me work, the way I asked you to, instead of 
 goin outside an buyin things for your boys, an robbin* 
 honest folks of the chance to aim. Now, Mis White, I ll 
 tell you jest what I m willin to do : you give me somethin 
 to do, an I ll work out twice the price of them things 1 
 took, an we ll call it even. If you don t, all is, your hus- 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS, 33! 
 
 band will have to lose it. I wonder what she ll say to 
 that." 
 
 Marg ret said all this with her head thrown back, in a 
 tone of indescribable defiance. Then she sat down with 
 her Bible and read a chapter. 
 
 The next day she watched the children s delight over 
 their presents with a sort of grim pleasure. 
 
 She charged them to say nothing about them, although 
 there was little need of it. Marg ret had few visitors, and 
 the children were never allowed to run into the neighbors . 
 
 Two days after Christmas the postmaster stopped at Mar- 
 g ret s house : his own was just beyond. 
 
 He handed a letter to her. " This came Christmas morn 
 ing," said he. " I thought I d bring it along on my way 
 home. I knew you hadn t been in for two or three days, 
 and I thought you were expecting a letter." 
 
 " Thank ye," said Marg ret. She pulled the letter open, 
 and saw there was some money in it. She turned very 
 white. 
 
 " Hope you ain t got any bad news," said the postmaster. 
 
 " No, I ain t." After he had gone she sat down and read 
 her letter with her knees shaking. 
 
 Joseph Snow had at last got a good situation. He was 
 earning fifty dollars a month. There were twenty dollars 
 in the letter. He promised to send her that sum every 
 month. 
 
 " Five dollars a week !" gasped Marg ret. " My land ! 
 An I ve stole /" 
 
 She sat there looking at the money in her lap. It was 
 quite late ; the children had been in bed a long time. 
 Finally she put away the money, and went herself. She did 
 not read in her Bible that night. 
 
332 * STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 She could not go to sleep. It was bitterly cold. The 
 old timbers of the house cracked. Now and then there 
 was a sharp report like a pistol. There was a pond near 
 by, and great crashes came from that. Marg ret might 
 have been, from the noise, in the midst of a cannonade, to 
 which her own guilt had exposed her. 
 
 " Tain t nothin but the frost," she kept saying to herself. 
 
 About three o clock she saw a red glow on the wall 
 opposite the window. 
 
 " I m maginin it," muttered she. She would not turn 
 over to look at the window. Finally she did. Then she 
 sprang, and rushed towards it. The house where Mrs. Lu 
 ther Ely lived was on fire. 
 
 Marg ret threw a quilt over her head, unbolted her front 
 door, and flew. " Fire ! fire !" she yelled. " Fire ! fire ! 
 Oh, Mis Ely, where be you ? Fire ! fire ! Sam Sam 
 Trask, you re all burnin up ! Flora ! Oh ! fire ! fire !" 
 
 By the time she got out in the road she saw black groups 
 moving in the distance. Hoarse shouts followed her cries. 
 Then the church bell clanged out. 
 
 Flora was standing in the road, holding on to her chil 
 dren. They were all crying. " Oh, Mis Poole 1" sobbed 
 she, " ain t it dreadful ? ain t it awful ?" 
 
 " Have you got the children all out ?" asked Marg ret. 
 
 " Yes ; Sam told me to stand here with em." 
 
 "Where s your mother?" 
 
 " I don t know. She s safe. She waked up first." The 
 young woman rolled her wild eyes towards the burning 
 house. " There she is !" cried she. 
 
 Mrs. Ely was running out of the front door with a box in 
 her hand. Her son-in-law staggered after her with a table 
 on his shoulder* 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 333 
 
 " Don t you go in again, mother," said he. 
 
 There were other men helping to carry out the goods, 
 and they chimed in. " No," cried they ; " tain t safe. 
 Don t you go in again, Mis Ely !" 
 
 Marg ret ran up to her. " Them curtains," gasped she, 
 " an the parlor carpet, have they got them out ?" 
 
 "Oh, I dun know I dun know! I m afraid they ain t. 
 Oh, they ain t got nothin out ! Everything all burnin up ! 
 Oh, dear me ! oh, dear ! Where be you goin ?" 
 
 Marg ret had rushed past her into the house. She was 
 going into the parlor, when a man caught hold of her. 
 " Where are you going ?" he shouted. " Clear out of this." 
 
 "I m a-goin to git out them lace curtains an the carpet." 
 
 " It ain t any use. We stayed in there just as long as we 
 could, trying to get the carpet up ; but we couldn t stand 
 it any longer ; it s chock full of smoke." The man shouted 
 it out, and pulled her along with him at the same time. 
 "There!" said he, when they were out in the road; "look 
 at that." There was a flicker of golden fire in one of 
 the parlor windows. Then those lace curtains blazed. 
 " There !" said the man again : " I told you it wasn t any 
 use." 
 
 Marg ret turned on him. There were many other men 
 within hearing. " Well, I wouldn t tell of it," said she, in 
 a loud voice. " If I was a pack of stout, able-bodied men, 
 and couldn t ha got out them curtains an that carpet afore 
 they burnt up, I wouldn t tell of it." 
 
 Flora and the children had been taken into one of the 
 neighboring houses. Mrs. Ely still stood out in the freez 
 ing air, clutching her box and wailing. Her son-in-law 
 was trying hard to persuade her to go into the house where 
 her daughter was. 
 
334 A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Marg ret joined them. " I would go if I was you, Mis? 
 Ely," said she. 
 
 " No, I ain t goin . I don t care where I be. I ll stay 
 right here in the road. Oh, dear me !" 
 
 "Don t take on so." 
 
 " I ain t got a thing left but jest my best cap here. I 
 did git that out. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! everything s burnt up 
 but jest this cap. It s all I ve got left. I ll jest put it on 
 an set right down here in the road an freeze to death. 
 Nobody 11 care. Oh, dear! dear! dear!" 
 
 " Oh, don t, Mis Ely." Marg ret, almost rigid herself 
 with the cold, put her hand on the other woman s arm. 
 Just then the roof of the burning house fell in. There was 
 a shrill wail from the spectators. 
 
 " Do come, mother," Sam begged when they stood staring 
 for a moment. 
 
 " Yes, do go, Mis Ely," said Marg ret. " You mustn t 
 feel so." 
 
 " It s easy nough to talk," said Mrs. Ely. " Tain t your 
 house ; an if twas, you wouldn t had much to lose nothin* 
 but a passel of old wooden cheers an tables." 
 
 " I know it," said Marg ret. 
 
 Finally Mrs. Ely was started, and Marg ret hurried home. 
 She thought suddenly of the children and the money. But 
 the children had not waked in all the tumult, and the 
 money was where she had left it. She did not go to bed 
 again, but sat over the kitchen stove thinking, with her 
 elbows on her knees, until morning. When morning came 
 she had laid out one plan of action. 
 
 That afiernoon she took some of her money, went up to 
 Mr. White s store, and bought some Nottingham-lace cur 
 tains like the ones her neighbors had lost. They Were off 
 the same piece. 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 335 
 
 That evening she went to call on Mrs. Ely, and presented 
 them. She had tried to think that she might send the par 
 cel anonymously leave it on the door-step ; but she could 
 not. 
 
 " Twon t mortify me so much as twill the other way," 
 said she, " an I d ought to be mortified." 
 
 So she carried the curtains, and met with a semblance 
 of gratitude and a reality of amazement and incredulity 
 which shamed her beyond measure. 
 
 After she got home that night she took up the Bible, then 
 laid it down. " Here I ve been talkin and worryin about 
 gettin up a higher notch," said she, " an kind of despisin 
 Mis Ely when I see her on one. Mis Ely wouldn t have 
 stole. I ain t nothin side of her now, an I never can be." 
 
 The scheme which Marg ret had laid to confront Mrs. 
 White was never carried out. Her defiant spirit had failed 
 her. 
 
 One day she was there and begged for work again. 
 " I m willin to do most anything," said she. " I ll come 
 an do your washin , or anything, an I don t want no pay." 
 
 Mrs. White was going away the next day, and she had no 
 work to give the old woman ; but she offered her some fuel 
 and some money. 
 
 Marg ret looked at her scornfully. "I ve got money 
 enough, thank ye," said she. " My son sends me five dol 
 lars a week." 
 
 The other woman stared at her with amazement. She 
 told her husband that night that she believed Marg ret 
 Poole was getting a little unsettled. She did not know 
 what to make of her. 
 
 Not long after that Marg ret went into Mr. White s store, 
 and slyly laid some money on the counter. She knew it 
 
336 A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 
 
 to be enough to cover the cost of the articles she had stolen. 
 Then she went away and left it there. 
 
 That night she went after her Bible. " I declare I will 
 read it to-night," muttered she. "I ve paid for em." She 
 stood eying it. Suddenly she began to cry. " Oh, dear !" 
 she groaned ; " I can t There don t anything do any 
 good the lace curtains, nor payin for em, nor nothin . I 
 dun know what I shall do." 
 
 She looked at the clock. It was about nine. "He 
 won t be gone yet," said she. She stood motionless, think 
 ing. " If I m goin to-night, I ve got to," she muttered. 
 Still she did not start for a while longer. When she did, 
 there was no more hesitation. No argument could have 
 stopped Marg ret Poole, in her old hood and shawl, pushing 
 up the road, fairly started on her line of duty. When she 
 got to the store she went in directly. The heavy door 
 slammed to, and the glass panels clattered. Mr. White was 
 alone in the store. He was packing up some goods pre 
 paratory to closing. Marg ret went straight up to him, and 
 laid a package before him on the counter. 
 
 " I brought these things back," said she ; " they belong 
 to you." 
 
 " Why, what is it ?" said Mr. White, wonderingly. 
 
 " Some things I stole last Christmas for the children." 
 
 " What !" 
 
 "I stole em." 
 
 She untied the parcel, and began taking out the things 
 one by one. " They re all here but the candy," said she ; 
 " the children ate that up ; an Aggie bit the head off this 
 pink cat the other day. Then they ve jammed this little 
 horse consider ble. But I brought em all back." 
 
 Mr. White was an elderly, kind-faced man. He seemed 
 
A STOLEN CHRISTMAS. 337 
 
 slowly paling with amazement as he stared at her and the 
 articles she was displaying. 
 
 " You say you stole them ?" said he. 
 
 " Yes ; I stole em." 
 
 " When ?" 
 
 " The night afore Christmas." 
 
 " Didn t Henry give em to you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why, I told him to," said Mr. White, slowly. "I did 
 the things up for you myself that afternoon. I d seen you 
 looking kind of wishful, you know, and I thought I d make 
 you a present of them. I left the bundle on the counter 
 when I went to supper, and told Henry to tell you to take 
 it, and I supposed he did." 
 
 Marg ret stood staring. Her mouth was open, her hands 
 were clinched. " I dun know what you mean," she gasped 
 out at length. 
 
 " I mean you ain t been stealing as much as you thought 
 you had," said Mr. White. " You just took your own bun 
 dle." 
 22 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN . 
 
 "AIN T that your sister goin long the other side of the 
 street, Mis Ansel ?" 
 
 Mrs. Ansel peered, scowling the sun was in her face. 
 "Yes, that s her." 
 
 " She s got a basket. I guess she s been somewheres." 
 
 " She s been somewheres after life-everlastin blossoms. 
 They keep forever, you know. She s goin to make a pil 
 low for old Oliver Weed s asthma ; he s real bad off." 
 
 " So I ve heard. I declare it makes me all out of pa 
 tience, folks that have got as much money as them Weeds 
 have, not havin a doctor an* havin something done. I 
 don t believe his wife amounts to much in sickness either." 
 
 " I guess she don t either. I could tell a few things if it 
 wa n t for talkin against my neighbors. I tell Luella if 
 she s mind to be such a fool as to slave for folks that s got 
 plenty to do for themselves with, she can. I want to know, 
 now, Mis Slate, if you think this bonnet is big enough for 
 me. Does it set fur enough onto my head ?" 
 
 " It sets jest as fur on as the fashion, Mis Ansel, an a 
 good deal further on than some. I wish you could see 
 some of em." 
 
 " Well, I s pose this ain t a circumstance to some, but it 
 looks dreadful odd to me." 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIW. 339 
 
 " Of course it looks a little odd at first, you ve wore your 
 bonnets so much further forward. You might twist up 
 your hair a little higher if you was a mind to ; that would 
 tip it forward a little ; but it ain t a mite too fur back for 
 the fashion." 
 
 " Land ! I can t do my hair any different from what I 
 always do it, bonnet or no bonnet." 
 
 "You might friz your hair a little more in front; the 
 hair ought to be real fluffy an careless with this kind of a 
 bonnet. Let me fix it a little." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel stood still before the glass while Mrs. Slate 
 fixed her hair. She smiled a faint, foolish smile, and her 
 homely face had the same expression as a pretty one on 
 seeing itself in a new bonnet. Mrs. Ansel had never 
 known that her face was homely. She was always pleased 
 and satisfied with anything that was her own, and posses 
 sion was to her the law of beatfty. 
 
 Mrs. Slate, the milliner, was shorter than she. She 
 stretched up, cocked her head, and twisted her mouth to 
 one side with a superior air while she arranged her cus 
 tomer s thin front locks. Finally they lay tossed loose 
 ly over her flat, shiny forehead. "There," said the milli 
 ner ; " that looks a good deal better. You see what you 
 think." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel surveyed herself in the glass ; her smile deep 
 ened. "Yes, it does look better, I guess." 
 
 " It s what I call a real stylish bonnet. You wouldn t 
 be ashamed to wear it to meetin anywhere, I don t care if 
 it was in Boston or New York. I tell you what tis, Mis 
 Ansel, your sister would look nice in this kind of a bon 
 net." The milliner s prominent nose sloped her profile out 
 sharply in the centre, like the beak of a bird ; her little 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 hands were skinny as claws, and restless ; she always 
 smiled, and her voice was subdued. 
 
 Mrs. Ansel still looked fondly at herself, but her tone 
 changed ; she sighed. " Yes, Luella would look good in 
 it," said she. " I don t know as it would be quite so be- 
 comin to her as it is to me ; she never looked so well with 
 anything that set back ; but I guess she d look pretty good 
 in it. But I don t know when Luella s had a new bonnet, 
 Mis Slate. Of course she don t need any, not goin to 
 meetin or anything." 
 
 " She don t ever go to meetin , does she ?" 
 
 " No ; she ain t been for twenty-five years. I feel bad 
 nough about it. It seems to me sometimes if Luella 
 would jest have a pretty new bonnet, an go to meetin 
 Sabbath-days like other folks, I wouldn t ask for anything 
 else." 
 
 " It must be a dreadful trial to you, Mis Ansel." 
 
 "You don t know anything about it, Mis Slate. You 
 think there s bows enough on it, don t you ?" 
 
 "Oh, plenty. I was speakin to Jennie the other day 
 about your sister " 
 
 " An the strings ain t too long ?" 
 
 "Not a mite. You ain t never had a bonnet that be 
 come you any better than this does, Mis Ansel. To tell 
 the truth, I think you look a little better in it than you did 
 in your summer one." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel began taking off the new bonnet, untying the 
 crisp ribbon strings tenderly. " Well, I don t know but it s 
 all right," said she. 
 
 "I ll get some paper an do it up," said the milliner. 
 " I ain t fraid but what you ll like it when you get used to 
 it. You ve always got to get used to anything new." 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIW. 34 X 
 
 When Mrs. Ansel had gone down the street, delicately 
 holding the new bonnet in its soft tissue wrapper, the mil 
 liner went into her little back room. There was one win 
 dow in the room, and a grape-vine hung over it. A girl 
 with fair hair and a delicately severe profile sat sewing by 
 the window, with the grape-vine for a background. 
 
 "Well, I m thankful that woman has gone," said the 
 milliner. " I never saw such a fuss." 
 
 The girl said nothing. She nodded a little coldly, that 
 was all. 
 
 " Are you puttin in that linin full enough ?" 
 
 " It s all she brought." 
 
 "Oh, well, you can t do any better, then, of course. 
 P rhaps I hadn t ought to speak so about Mis Ansel ; she s 
 a real nice woman ; all is, she s kind of tryin sometimes 
 when anybody feels nervous. It s as hard work to get a 
 bonnet onto her head that suits her as it would be if she 
 was a queen ; but after she once gets it she s settled on 
 it, that s one comfort. She s a real nice woman, an$/I 
 shouldn t want you to repeat what I said, Clara." 
 
 "I sha n t say anything." There was a kind of mild 
 hauteur about the girl that made the milliner color and 
 twitch embarrassingly. She took a bonnet off the table 
 and fell to work ; but soon some one entered the shop, and 
 she arose again. 
 
 Presently she was whispering over the counter to the 
 customer that she had Clara Vinton working for her now; 
 that she was a nice girl, but she d acted dreadful kind of 
 stiff somehow ever since the minister had been going with 
 her, and she wasn t much company for her ; but she didn t 
 want her to say anything about it, for she was a real nice 
 girl. 
 
342 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 " I see Mis Ansel goin home with her new bonnet,* 1 
 remarked the customer. 
 
 "Yes; she jest went out with it." 
 
 When she reached home she found her sister, Luella 
 Norcross, sitting on the door-step. 
 
 Luella followed her sister into the house. It was quite 
 a smart house. Mrs. Ansel loved to furbish it, and she 
 had a little income of her own. There were no dull colors 
 anywhere ; the walls gleamed with gold paper, and the car 
 pets were brilliant. 
 
 Luella sat in the sitting-room and waited, while her sis 
 ter went for a sheet which she had promised her. The 
 mantel-shelf was marble, and there were some tali gilded 
 glass vases on it. The stove shone like a mirror ; there 
 was a bright rug before it, and over on the table stood a 
 lamp, whose shade was decorated with roses. 
 
 Luella plunged her hand down into the mass of everlast 
 ing flowers in her basket ; the soft, healing fragrance came 
 up in her face. " They re packed pretty solid," she mut 
 tered. "I guess there s enough." 
 
 When Mrs. Ansel returned with the sheet she was frown 
 ing. "There," said she, "I can t hunt no more to-night. 
 I ve had every identical thing out of that red chist, an 1 
 that s all I can seem to see. I don t know whether there s 
 any more or not ; if there is, you ll have to wait till I ain t 
 jest home from down street, and can hunt better n I can 
 to-night. " 
 
 Luella unfolded the sheet and examined it. " Oh, well, 
 this is pretty good ; it 11 make three, I guess. I ll wait, 
 and maybe you ll come across the others some time." 
 
 " You ll have to wait if you have em. Did you see the 
 new lamp ?" 
 
L1FL-E VERLASTIN\ 
 
 "Well, no, I didn t notice it, as I know of. That it? " 
 
 "You ain t been sittin right here an* never seen that 
 new lamp?" 
 
 " I guess I must have been lookin at somethin else." 
 
 "I never see such a woman ! Anything like that sittin 
 right there before your face an eyes, an you never pay any 
 attention to it! I s pose if I had Bunker Hill Monument 
 posted up here in the middle of the sittin -room, you d set 
 right down under it an think, an never notice there was 
 anything uncommon." 
 
 "It s a pretty lamp ain t it?" 
 
 " It s real handsome." Luella arose and gathered her 
 shawl about her ; she had laid the folded sheet over the 
 top of her basket. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Mrs. Ansel; "you ain t seen my 
 new bonnet." 
 
 Luella rested her basket on the chair, and stood pa 
 tiently while her sister took the bonnet out of the wrapper 
 and adjusted it before the looking-glass. 
 
 "There!" said she, turning around, "what do you think 
 of it?" 
 
 " I should think it was real pretty." 
 
 "You don t think it sets too far back, do you?" 
 
 "I shouldn t think it did." 
 
 " Shouldn t you rather have this changeable ribbon than 
 plain ?" 
 
 " Seems to me I should." Luella s voice had unmis 
 takably an abstracted drawl. 
 
 Her sister turned on her. "You don t act no more as 
 if you cared anything about my new bonnet than you would 
 if I was the pump with a new tin dipper on the top of it," 
 said she. " If I was you I d act a little more like other , 
 
344 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 WL folks, or I d give up. It s bad enough for you to go round 
 lookin like a scarecrow yourself; you might take a little 
 interest in what your own sister has to wear." 
 - Luella said nothing ; she gathered up her basket of ever 
 lasting blossoms again. 
 
 Her sister paused and eyed her fiercely for a second ; 
 then she continued : " For my part, I m ashamed," said 
 she " mortified to death. It was only this afternoon that 
 I heard somebody speakin about it. Here you ve been 
 wearin that old black bonnet, that you had when father 
 died, all these years, an never goin to meetin . If you d 
 only have a decent new bonnet I don t know as you d 
 want one that sets quite so far back as .this one an 
 go to meetin like other folks, there d be some sense 
 in it." 
 
 Luella, her basket on her arm, started for the door. Al 
 though her shoulders were round, she carried her hand 
 some head in a stately fashion. "We ve talked this over 
 times enough," said she. 
 
 " Here you are roamin the woods an pastures Sabbath- 
 days in that old bonnet, an jest as likely as not to meet all 
 the folks goin to meetin . What do you s pose I care about 
 havin a new bonnet if I meet you gettin along in that old 
 thing my own sister ?" 
 
 Luella marched out of the house. When she was nearly 
 out of the yard her sister ran to the door and called after 
 her. " Luella," said she. 
 
 The stately figure paused, but did not turn around. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Look here a minute," said Mrs. Ansel, mysteriously ; 
 u I want to tell you something." 
 
 Luella stepped back, her sister bent forward she still 
 
LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 345 
 
 had on the new bonnet" I went into Mis 7 Plum s on my 
 way down street," said she, "an she said the minister 
 wanted to marry the Vinton girl, but she won t have him, 
 cause there ain t no parsonage, an she don t think there s 
 nough to live on. Mis Plum says she thinks she shows 
 her sense; he don t have but four hundred a year, an 
 there d be a lot of children, the way there always is in 
 poor ministers families, an nothin to keep em on. Mis 
 Plum says she heard he applied to the church to see if they 
 wouldn t give him a parsonage ; he didn t know but they d 
 hire that house of yours that s next to the meetin -house ; 
 but they wouldn t ; they say they can t afford it." 
 
 " I shouldn t think four hundred dollars was much if 
 preachin was worth anything," remarked Luella. 
 
 " Oh, well, it does very well for you to talk when you 
 don t give anything for preachin ." 
 
 Luella again went out of the yard. She was in the 
 street when her sister called her again. 
 
 "Look round here a minute." 
 
 Luella looked. 
 
 " Do you think it sets too far back ?" 
 
 " No, I don t think it does," Luella answered, loudly, 
 then she kept on down the road. She had not far to go. 
 The house where she lived stood at the turn of the road, 
 on a gentle rise of ground ; next to it was the large un 
 occupied cottage which she owned ; next to tnat was the 
 church. Luella lived in the old Norcross homestead ; her 
 grandfather had built it. It was one of those old build 
 ings which aped the New England mansion-houses without 
 once approaching their solid stale. It settled unevenly 
 down into its place. Its sparse front yard was full of ever 
 greens, lilac bushes, and phlox : its windows, gleaming with 
 
34 j6 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 green lights, were awry, and all its white clapboards were 
 out of plumb. 
 
 Luella went around to the side door : the front one was 
 never used indeed, it was swollen and would not open 
 and the front walk was green. The side door opened into 
 a little square entry. On one side was the sitting-room, on 
 the other the kitchen. Luella went into the kitchen, and 
 an old woman rose up from a chair by the stove. She was 
 small as a child, but her muscles were large, her flaxen hair 
 was braided lightly, her round blue eyes were filmy, and 
 she grinned constantly without speaking. 
 
 " Got the cleanin done, Liza ?" asked Luella. The old 
 woman nodded, and her grin widened. She was called 
 foolish ; her humble capabilities could not diffuse them 
 selves, but were strong in only one direction : she could 
 wash and scrub, and in that she took delight. Luella har 
 bored her, fed and clothed her, and let her practise her one 
 little note of work. 
 
 After Luella had taken off her bonnet and shawl, she 
 went to work preparing supper. The old woman was not 
 smart enough to do that. She sat watching her. When 
 Luella set the tea-pot on the stove and cut the bread, she 
 fairly crowed like a baby. 
 
 " Maria offered me a piece of her new apple-pie an a 
 piece of sage-cheese," remarked Luella, "but I wouldn t 
 take it. If I m a mind to stint myself and pay up Joe 
 Perry s rent it s nobody s business, but I ain t goin to be 
 mean enough to live on other folks to do it." 
 
 The old woman grinned as she ate. Luella had fallen 
 into the habit of talking quite confidentially to her, unre- 
 ciprocative as she was. 
 
 After supper Luella put away the tea-things--* -that was 
 
LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 
 
 347 
 
 too fine work for the old woman then she lighted her sit 
 ting-room lamp, ad sat down there to make the case for 
 the life-everlasting pillow. The old woman crept in after 
 her, and sat by the stove in a little chair, holding her sod 
 den hands in her lap. 
 
 " I hope to goodness this pillow will help him some," 
 said Luella. " They re real good for asthma. Mother 
 used to use em." She sewed with strong jerks. The old 
 man for whom she was making the pillow was rich in the 
 village sense, and miserly. Ill as he sometimes was, he 
 and his wife would not call in a doctor on account of the 
 expense ; they scarcely kept warm and fed themselves. 
 Public opinion was strong against them ; very little pity 
 was given to the feeble old man ; but Luella viewed it all 
 with a broad chanty which was quite past the daily horizon 
 ojf the village .people. "I don t care if they are rich an 1 
 able to buy things themselves, we hadn t ought to let em"] 
 suffer," she argued. " Mebbe they can t help bein close 
 any more n we can help somethin we ve got. It s a faiiin , rtf 
 and folks ought to help folks with failin s, I don t care what-* 
 they are." So Luella Norcross made broth and gruel, and 
 carried them in to old Oliver Weed, and even gave him 
 some of her dry cedar-wood ; and people said she was as 
 foolish as old Eliza. All the burly whining tramps, and 
 beseeching pedlars of unsalable wares, who came to the 
 village, flocked to her door, sure of a welcome. 
 
 On a summer s day the tramps sat on her door-step, and 
 ate their free lunches, in winter they ate them comfortably 
 by the kitchen fire. Many a time her barn and warm hay 
 mow harbored them over a cold stormy night. 
 
 " Might jest as well stick out a sign, Tramps Tavern, 1 
 on the barn, an done with it," Mrs. Ansel said. " If you 
 
34 8 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 don t get set on fire some night by them miserable sneakin 
 tramps, I miss my guess." 
 
 But she never did, and the tramp slouched peaceably 
 out of her yard, late in the frosty morning, after she had 
 given him a good breakfast in the warm kitchen. 
 
 There was an old pedlar of essences who came regularly, 
 and she always bought of him, although his essences were 
 poor, and her cake scantily flavored in consequence. Him 
 she often lodged in her nice spare chamber, although she 
 distrusted his cleanliness, and she and old Eliza had much 
 scrubbing to do thereafter. 
 
 Luella even traded faithfully with a sly- eyed Italian 
 woman, who went about, bent to one side by a great basket 
 of vases and plaster images. " You d ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself encouragin such folks," Mrs. Ansel remon 
 strated, " she s jest as miserable an low as she can be." 
 
 "I don t care how low she is," said Luella. "She s 
 keepin one commandment sellin plaster images to get 
 her livin , an I m a-goin to help her." 
 
 And Luella crowded the little plaster flower girls and 
 fruit boys together on the sitting-room shelf, to make room 
 for the new little shepherdess. 
 
 This very day she had been visited by an old broken- 
 down minister, who often stood at her door, tall and trem 
 ulous in his shiny black broadcloth, with a heavy bag of 
 undesirable books. There were some hanging shelves in 
 Luella s sitting-room which were filled with these books, 
 but to-day she had bought another. 
 
 " There ain t room on the shelves for another one, but I 
 s pose I can stow it away somewhere," she told Eliza, after 
 he had gone. " I ve give away all I can seem to. The 
 book ain t very interestin ." 
 
LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 349 
 
 Luella usually lodged the book agent over night, when 
 he came to the village, although he also had his failings. 
 Many a night she was awakened by the creaking of the 
 cellar-stairs, when the old minister crept down stealthily, 
 a lamp balanced unsteadily in his shaking hand, to the 
 cider-barrel. She would listen anxiously until she heard 
 him return to his room, then get up and look about and 
 sniff for fire. 
 
 There was not a woman in the village who had so many 
 blessings, worth whatever they might be, offered to her. If 
 she was not in full orthodox flavor among the respectable 
 part of the town, her fame was bright among the poor 
 and maybe lawless element, whom she befriended. They 
 showed it by their shuffling footprints thick in her yard, 
 and the frequency of their petitions at her door. It was 
 the only way in which they could show it. The poor can 
 show their love and gratitude only by the continual out- 
 reaching of their hands. 
 
 This evening, while Luella sewed on her life-everlasting 
 pillow, and the old woman sat grinning in the corner, there 
 was a step in the yard. Luella laid down her work, and 
 looked at Eliza, and listened. The step came steadily up the 
 drive ; the shoes squeaked. Luella took up her work again. 
 
 " I know who tis," said she. " It s the book man ; his 
 shoes squeak just that way, an I told him he d better come 
 back here to-night an stay over. It saves him payin for 
 lodgin ." 
 
 There came a sharp knock on the side door. 
 
 " You go let him in, Liza," said Luella. 
 
 The old woman patted out of the room. Presently she 
 looked in again, and her grin was a broad laugh. " It s 
 the minister," she chuckled. 
 
350 LIFE EVERLASTI^r. 
 
 Luella arose and went herself. There in the entry stood 
 a young man, short and square-shouldered, with a pleasant 
 boyish face. He looked bravely at Luella, and tried to 
 speak with suave fluency, but his big hands twitched at the 
 ends of his short coat sleeves. 
 
 " Good-evening, Miss Norcross, good-evening," said he. 
 
 " Oh, it s you, Mr. Sands !" said Luella. " Good-evenin . 
 Walk in an be seated." 
 
 Luella herself was a little stiff. She pushed forward the 
 big black-covered rocking-chair for the minister, then she 
 sat down herself, and took up her sewing. 
 
 "It is a charming evening," remarked the minister. 
 
 " I thought it seemed real pleasant when I looked out 
 after supper," said Luella. 
 
 She and the minister spoke about the conditions of 
 several of the parish invalids, they spoke about a fire 
 and a funeral which had taken place that week, and all 
 the time there was a constraint in their manners. Finally 
 there was a pause ; then the minister burst out. A blush 
 flamed out to the roots of his curly hair. He tried to make 
 his voice casual, but it slipped into his benediction ca 
 dences. 
 
 " I don t see you at church very often, Miss Norcross," 
 said he. 
 
 " You don t see me at all," returned Luella. 
 
 The minister tried to smile. "Well, maybe that is a lit 
 tle nearer the truth, Miss Norcross." 
 
 Luella sewed a few stitches on her life-everlasting pillow ; 
 then she laid it down in her lap, straightened herself, and 
 looked at the minister. Her deep-set blue eyes seemed to 
 see every atom of him ; her noble forehead even, from 
 which the gray hair was pulled well back, and which was 
 
LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 35! 
 
 scarcely lined, seemed to front him with a kind of visual 
 power of its own. 
 
 "I may just as well tell you the truth, Mr. Sands," said 
 she, "an we may just as well come to the point at once. 
 I know what you ve come for ; my sister told me you was 
 comin to see about my not going to meetin . Well, I ll 
 tell you once for all, I m just as much obliged to you, but 
 it won t do any good. I ve made up my mind I ain t goin 
 to meetin , an I ve got good reasons." 
 
 "Would you mind giving them, Miss Norcross?" 
 
 "I ain t going to argue." 
 
 " But just giving me a few of your reasons wouldn t be ar 
 guing." The young man had now acquired the tone which 
 he wished. He smiled on Luella with an innocent patronage, 
 and crossed his legs. Luella thought he looked very young. 
 
 " The fact is," said she, " I m not a believer, an I won t J 
 be a hypocrite. That s all there is about it." 
 
 The minister looked at her. It was the first time he had 
 encountered an outspoken doubter, and it was for a minute 
 to him as. if he faced one of the veritable mediaeval dragons / 
 of the church. This simple and untutored village agnostic^ 
 filled him with amazement and terror. When he spoke it 
 was not to take up the argument for the doctrine, but to 
 turn its gold side, as it were, towards his opponent, in 
 order to persuade belief. " Your soul s salvation do you 
 never think of that?" he queried, solemnly. "You know 
 heaven and your soul s salvation depend upon it." 
 
 " I ain t never worried much about my soul s salvation," 
 said Luella. "I ve had too many other souls to think/ 
 about. An it seems to me I d be dreadful piggish to make 
 goin to heaven any reason for believin a thing that ain t 
 reasonable." 
 
352 LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 
 
 The minister made a rally ; he remembered one of the 
 things he had planned to say. " But you ve read the New 
 Testament, Miss Norcross," said he, " and you must admit 
 that * never man spake like this man. When you read the 
 words of Christ you must see that there was never any man 
 like him." 
 
 "I know there wa n t," said Luella, "that s jest the rea 
 son why the whole story don t seem sensible." 
 
 The minister gave a kind of a gasp. " But you believe 
 in God, don t you, Miss Norcross ?" said he. 
 
 " I ain t a fool," replied Luella. She arose with a de 
 cided air. " Do you like apples, Mr. Sands ?" said she. 
 
 The minister gasped again, and assented. 
 
 " I ve got some real nice sweet ones and some Porters," 
 said Luella, in a cheerful tone, " an I m goin to get you a 
 plate of em, Mr. Sands." 
 
 Luella went out and got the plate of apples, and the 
 minister began eating them. He felt uneasily that it 
 was his duty to reopen the argument. " If you believe in 
 God " he began. 
 
 But Luella shook her head at him as if she were his 
 mother. " I d rather not argue any more," said she. " Try 
 that big Porter ; I guess it s meller." And the minister ate 
 his apples with enjoyment. Luella filled his pockets with 
 some when he went home. " He seems like a real good 
 young man," she said to old Eliza after the minister had 
 gone; " an that Vinton girl would make him jest the kind 
 of a wife he d ought to have. She s real up an comin , an 
 she d prop him up firm on his feet. I s pose if I let him 
 have that house he d be tickled most to death. I d kind 
 of lotted on the rent of it, but I s pose I could get along." 
 
 The old woman grinned feebly. She had been asleep in 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN*. 353 
 
 her corner, and her blue eyes looked dimmer than ever. 
 She comprehended not a word ; but that did not matter to 
 Luella, who had fallen into the habit of utilizing her as 
 a sort of spirituakfay-figure upon which to drape her own 
 ideas. 
 
 The next morning, about nine o clock, she carried the 
 pillow, which she had finished and stuffed with the life 
 everlasting blossoms, to old Oliver Weed s. The house 
 stood in a wide field, and there were no other houses very 
 near. The grass was wet with dew, and all the field was 
 sweet in the morning freshness. Luella, carrying her life- 
 everlasting pillow before her, went over the fragrant path 
 to the back door. She noticed as she went that the great 
 barn doors were closed. 
 
 " Queer the barn ain t open," she thought to herself. " I 
 wonder what John Gleason s about, late as this in the 
 mornin ?" 
 
 John Gleason was old Oliver Weed s hired man. He had 
 been a tramp. Luella herself had fed him, and let him sleep 
 off a drunken debauch in her barn once. People had won 
 dered at Oliver Weed s hiring him, but he had to pay him 
 much less than the regular price for farm hands. 
 
 Luella heard the cows low in the barn as she opened the 
 kitchen door. "Where did all that blood come from?" 
 said she. 
 
 She began to breathe in quick gasps ; she stood clutching 
 her pillow, and looking. Then she called : " Mr. Weed ! 
 Mr. Weed ! Where be you ? Mis Weed ! Is anything the 
 matter? Mis Weed !" The silence seemed to beat against 
 her ears. She went across the kitchen to the bedroom. 
 Here and there she held back her dress. She reached the 
 bedroom door, and looked in. 
 23 
 
354 LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 
 
 Luella pressed back across the kitchen into the yard. She 
 went out into the road, and turned towards the village. She 
 still carried the life-everlasting pillow, but she carried it as 
 if her arms and that were all stone. She met a woman 
 whom she knew, and the woman spoke ; but Luella did not 
 notice her ; she kept on. The woman stopped and looked 
 after her. 
 
 Luella went to the house where the sheriff lived, and 
 knocked. The sheriff himself opened the door. He was 
 a large, pleasant man. He began saying something facetious 
 about her being out calling early, but Luella stopped him. 
 
 " You d better go up to the Weed house," said she, in 
 a dry voice. " There s some trouble." 
 
 The sheriff started. " Why, what do you mean, Luella ?" 
 
 " The old man an his wife are both killed. I went in 
 there to carry this, an I saw them." 
 
 " My God !" said the sheriff. He caught up his hat, and 
 started on a run to the barn for his horse. 
 
 The sheriff s wife and daughter pressed forward and plied 
 Luella with horrified questions ; they urged her to come in 
 and rest, she looked so pale ; but she said little, and turned 
 towards home. Flying teams passed her on the road ; men 
 rushed up behind her and questioned her. When she 
 reached the Weed house the field seemed black with people. 
 When she got to her own house she went into the sitting- 
 room and sat down. She felt faint. She did not think of 
 lying down ; she never did in the daytime. She leaned her 
 head back in her chair and turned her face towards the yard, 
 Everything out there, the trees, the grass, the crowding ranks 
 of daisies, the next house, looked strange, as if another light 
 than that of the sun was on them. But she somehow no 
 ticed even then how a blind on the second floor of the house 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 355 
 
 was shut that had been open. " I wonder how that come 
 shut?" she muttered, feebly. 
 
 Pretty soon her sister, Mrs. Ansel, came hurrying in. She 
 was wringing her hands. " Oh, ain t it awful ? ain t it aw 
 ful ?" she cried. " Good land, Luella, how you look ! You ll 
 faint away. I m goin to mix you up some peppermint be 
 fore I do another thing." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel made a cup of hot peppermint tea for her, and 
 she drank it. 
 
 " Now tell me all about it," said Mrs. Ansel. " What did 
 you see first ? What was you goin in there for ?" 
 
 " To carry the pillow," said Luella, pointing to it. " I 
 can t talk about it, Maria." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel went over to the lounge and took up the pil 
 low. " Mercy sakes ! what s that on it ?" she cried, in 
 horror. 
 
 " I s pose I hit it against the wall somehow," replied 
 Luella. "I can t talk about it, Maria." 
 
 Mrs. Ansel could not learn much from her sister. Pres 
 ently she left, and lingered slowly past the Weed house, to 
 which her curiosity attracted her, but which her terror and 
 horror would not let her approach closely. 
 
 The peppermint revived Luella a little. After a while 
 she got up and put on the potatoes for dinner. Old Eliza 
 was scrubbing the floor. When dinner was ready she ate 
 all the potatoes, and Luella sat back and looked at her. 
 
 All the afternoon people kept coming to the house and 
 questioning her, and exclaiming with horror. It seemed to 
 Luella that her own horror was beyond exclamations. There 
 was no doubt in the public mind that the murderer was the 
 hired man, John Gleason. He was nowhere to be found j 
 the constables and detectives were searching fiercely for him. 
 
356 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 That night when Luella went to bed she stood at bed 
 chamber window a minute, looking out. It was bright 
 moonlight. Her window faced the unoccupied house, and 
 she noticed again how the blind was shut. 
 
 " It s queer," she thought, " for that blind wouldn t stay- 
 shut ; the fastenin wa n t good." As she looked, the blind 
 swung slowly open. " The wind is jest swingin it back and 
 forth," she thought. Then she saw distinctly the chamber 
 window open, a dark arm thrust out, and the blind closed 
 again. 
 
 "He s in there" said Luella. She had put out her lamp. 
 She went down-stairs in the dark, and made sure that all the 
 doors and windows were securely fastened. She even put 
 chairs and tables against them. Then she went back to her 
 chamber, dressed herself, and watched the next house. She 
 did not stir until morning. The next day there was a cold 
 rain. The search for John Gleason continued, the whole 
 village was out, and strange officials were driving through 
 the streets. Everybody thought that the murderer had es 
 caped to Canada, taking with him the money which he had 
 stolen from the poor old man s strong-box under his bed. 
 
 All the day long Luella watched the next house through 
 the gray drive of the rain. About sunset she packed a 
 basket with food, stole across to the house, and set it in the 
 corner of the door. She got back before a soul passed on 
 the road. She had set Eliza at a task away from the 
 windows. 
 
 The moon rose early. After supper Luella sat again in 
 her chamber without any lamp and watched. About nine 
 o clock she saw the door of the next house swing open a lit 
 tle, and the basket was drawn in. 
 
 there" said Luella. She went down and fastened 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 357 
 
 up the house as she had done the night before. Old Eliza 
 went peacefully to bed, and she watched again. She put a 
 coverlid over her shoulders, and sat, all huddled up, peer 
 ing out. The rain had stopped ; the wall of the next house 
 shone like silver in the moonlight. She watched until the 
 moon went down and until daylight came ; then she went to 
 bed, and slept an hour. 
 
 After breakfast that morning she set old Eliza at a task, 
 and went up to her chamber again. She sank down on her \ 
 knees beside the bed. " O God," said she, " have I got to 
 give him up have I ? Have I got to give him up to be 
 hung ? What s goin to become of him then ? Where ll he 
 go to when he s been so awful wicked ? Oh, what shall I 
 do ? Here he is a-takin my vittles, an comin to my house, 
 an a-trustin me !" Luella lifted her arms ; her face was all 
 distorted. She seemed to see the whole crew of her pitiful 
 dependents crowding around her, and pleading for the poor 
 man who had thrown himself upon her mercy. She saw the 
 old drunken essence man, the miserable china women, all 
 the wretched and vicious tramps and drunkards whom she 
 had befriended, pressing up to her, and pleading her to keep 
 faith with their poor brother. 
 
 The thought that John Gleason had trusted her, had taken 
 that food when he knew that she might in consequence be- , 
 tray him to the gallows, filled her with a pity that was alvV 
 most tenderness, and appealed strongly to her loyalty and 
 honor. 
 
 On the other hand, she remembered what she had seen in 
 the Weed house. The poor old man and woman seemed 
 calling to her for help. She reflected upon what she had 
 heard the day before : that the detectives were after John 
 Gleason for another murder ; this was not the first. She 
 
358 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 called to mind the danger that other helpless people would 
 be in if this murderer were at large. Would not their blood 
 be upon her hands? She called to mind the horrible de 
 tails of what she had seen, the useless cruelty, and the hor 
 ror of it. 
 
 Once she arose with a jerk, and got her bonnet out of the 
 closet. Then she put it back, and threw herself down by 
 the bed again. "Oh!" she groaned, "I don t know what 
 to do !" 
 
 Luella shut herself in her own room nearly all day. She 
 went down and got the meals, then returned. The sodden 
 old woman did not notice anything unusual. At dusk she 
 watched her chance, and carried over more food, and she 
 watched and saw it taken in again. 
 
 This night she did not lock the house. All she fastened 
 was old Eliza s bedroom door ; that she locked securely, and 
 hid the key. All the other doors and windows were unfast 
 ened, and when she went up-stairs she set the side door 
 partly open. She set her lamp on the bureau, and looked 
 at her face in the glass. It was white and drawn, and there 
 was a desperate look in her deep-set eyes. " Mebbe it s the 
 last time I shall ever see my face," said she. " I don t 
 know but I m awful wicked to give him the chanck to do 
 another murder, but I can t give him up. If he comes in 
 an kills me, I sha n t have to, an maybe he ll jest take the 
 money an go, an then I sha n t have to." 
 
 Luella had two or three hundred dollars in an old wallet 
 between her feather-bed and the mattress. She took it out 
 and opened it, spreading the bills. Then she laid it on the 
 bureau. She took a gold ring off her finger, and unfastened 
 her ear-rings and laid them beside it, and a silver watch that 
 had belonged to her father. Down-stairs she had arranged 
 
LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 359 
 
 the teaspoons and a little silver cream-jug in full sight on 
 the kitchen table. 
 
 After the preparations were all made she blew out her 
 lamp, folded back the bed-spread, lay down in her clothes, 
 and pulled it over her smoothly. She folded her hands and 
 lay there. There was not a bolt or a bar between her and 
 the murderer next door. She closed her eyes and lay still. 
 Every now and then she thought she heard him down-stairs ; 
 but the night wore on, and he did not come. At daylight 
 Luella arose. She was so numb and weak that she could 
 scarcely stand. She put away the money and the jewelry, 
 then she went down-stairs and kindled the kitchen fire and 
 got breakfast. The silver was on the table just as she had 
 left it, the door half open, and the cold morning wind com 
 ing in. Luella gave one great sob when she shut the door. 
 " He must have seen it," she said, " but he wouldn t do 
 nothin to hurt me, an I ve got to give him up." 
 
 She said no more after that ; she was quite calm getting 
 breakfast. After the meal was finished and the dishes 
 cleared away she told old Eliza to put on her other dress 
 and her bonnet and shawl. She had made up her mind to 
 take the old creature with her ; she was afraid to leave her 
 alone in the house, with the murderer next door to spy out 
 her own departure. 
 
 When the two women were ready they went out of the 
 yard, and Luella felt the eyes of John Gleason upon her. 
 They went down the road to the village, old Eliza keeping 
 a little behind her mistress. Luella aimed straight for the 
 sheriff s house. He drove into the yard as she entered ; he 
 had been out all night on a false scent. He stopped when 
 he saw Luella, and she came up to him. "John Gleason is 
 in that vacant house of mine," said she. He caught at the 
 
360 LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 
 
 reins, but she stopped him. "You ve got to wait long 
 enough to give me time to get home, so I sha n t be right in 
 the midst of it, if you ve got any mercy," said she, in a loud, 
 strained voice. Then she turned and ran. She stopped 
 only long enough to tell old Eliza to follow her straight 
 home and go at once into the house. She ran through the 
 village street like a girl. People came to the windows and 
 stared after her. Every minute she fancied she heard 
 wheels behind her ; but the sheriff did not come until after 
 she had been in the house fifteen minutes, and old Eliza 
 also was at home. 
 
 Luella was crouching at her chamber window, peering 
 around the curtain, when the sheriff and six men came into 
 the yard and surrounded the next house. She had a wild 
 hope that John Gleason might not be there, that he might 
 have escaped during the night. She watched. The men 
 entered, there was the sound of a scuffle and loud voices, 
 and then she saw John Gleason dragged out. 
 
 Presently Luella went down-stairs ; she had to keep hold 
 of the banister. Old Eliza was gaping at the kitchen win 
 dow. " Come away from that window, Liza," said Luella, 
 " and wash up the floor right away." Then Luella began 
 cleaning potatoes and beets for dinner. 
 
 The next Sunday Luella went to church for the first time 
 Hn twenty-five years. Old Eliza also went shuffling smil 
 ingly up the aisle behind her mistress. Everybody stared. 
 Luella paused at her sister s pew, and her brother-in-law 
 sat a little while looking at her before he arose to let her in. 
 
 Mrs. Ansel was quite flushed. She pulled her new bon 
 net farther on her head ; she glanced with agitated hauteur 
 across her sister at old Eliza ; then her eyes rolled towards 
 her sister s bonnet. 
 
LIFE-E VERLASTIN\ 36 1 
 
 Presently she touched Luella. " What possessed you to 
 bring her, an come out lookin so ?" she whispered. " Why 
 didn t you get a new bonnet before you came to meetin ?" 
 
 Luella looked at her in a bewildered fashion for a minute, 
 then she set her face towards the pulpit. She listened to 
 the sermon ; it had in it some innocent youthful conceits, 
 and also considerable honest belief and ardent feeling. 
 The minister saw Luella, and thought with a flush of pride 
 that his arguments had convinced her. The night before, 
 he had received a note from her tendering him the use of 
 her vacant house. After the service he pressed forward to 
 speak to her. He thanked her for her note, said that he 
 was glad to see her out to meeting, and shook her hand 
 vehemently. Then he joined Clara Vinton quite openly, 
 and the two walked on together. There was quite a little 
 procession passing up the street. The way led between 
 pleasant cottages with the front yards full of autumn flowers 
 asters and pansies and prince s-feathers. Presently they 
 passed a wide stretch of pasture-land where life-everlasting 
 flowers grew. Luella walked with an old woman with a^ 
 long, saintly face ; old Eliza followed after. 
 
 Luella s face looked haggard and composed under her 
 flimsy black crape frillings. She kept her eyes, with a 
 satisfied expression, upon the young minister and the tall 
 girl who walked beside him with a grave, stately air. 
 
 " I hear they re goin to be married," whispered the old 
 woman. 
 
 " I guess they are," replied Luella. 
 
 Just then Clara turned her face, and her fine, scern profile 
 showed. 
 
 " She ll make him a good wife, I guess," said the old 
 woman. She turned to Luella, and her voice had an in- 
 
362 LIFE-EVERLASTIN\ 
 
 describably shy and caressing tone. " I was real glad to 
 see you to meetin to-day," she whispered. " I knew you d 
 feel like comin some time; I always said you would." 
 She flushed all over her soft old face as she spoke. 
 
 Luella also flushed a little, but her voice was resolute. 
 " I ain t got much to say about it, Mis Alden," said she, 
 "but I m goin to say this much it ain t no more n right I 
 should, though I don t believe in a lot of palaver about 
 things like this I ve made up my mind that I m goin to 
 believe in Jesus Christ. I ain t never, but I m goin to now, 
 for" Luella s voice turned shrill with passion " I don t 
 see any other way out of it J or John Gleason /" 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 " DON T stan 1 there lookin at me that way, Charlotte." 
 
 "Why, Aunt Lucinda !" 
 
 Lucinda Moss put her slender red fingers over her face. 
 "I didn t think it was anything out of the way," she 
 sniffed, weakly. 
 
 Charlotte stood before her as relentless and handsome as 
 an accusing angel. Her full, strong young figure seemed to 
 tower over her aunt ; her firm, rosy face and clear blue eyes 
 seemed to spy out her inmost weaknesses like sunlight. " I 
 must say I am surprised," said Charlotte. Her voice was 
 loud and even and sweet. Charlotte, no matter how indig 
 nant she might be, never altered her voice. 
 
 " I didn t think it was anything so much out of the way, 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " Well, I must say, Aunt Lucinda, I never thought, from 
 all I ve known of you, that you d do such a thing as to sit 
 down and play cards." 
 
 Lucinda s eyes, all pink and watery, rested appealingly on 
 Charlotte, then on the table before her. Charlotte had on 
 a light cambric gown that displayed a rigor of starch and 
 cleanliness. She had worn her white apron in school all 
 day, but it still flared as stiffly as when she had put it on in 
 the morning. Her brown hair was brushed until it shone , 
 
364 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 there was not a stray lock anywhere. All this perfect order 
 and nicety made her seem more pitiless to her aunt. Lucinda 
 shrank weakly down in her chair. She was lean and deli 
 cate, in flimsy old black muslin and a shiny old black silk 
 apron. She wore a tumbled muslin kerchief around her 
 neck, and had lax, faded curls behind her ears. She looked 
 from Charlotte to the table. There was a printed red cloth 
 on it, and a row of books piled up against the wall under 
 the gilt-framed glass. There was an old-fashioned work-box 
 with a gilt ball on each corner, and a little china vase with 
 some violets in it. But Lucinda eyed ruefully the objects 
 directly before her on the corner of the table. There lay a 
 pack of little old-fashioned cards and a large green-covered 
 Bible. The cards were scattered about, and some of them 
 were tucked under the Bible. 
 
 " And for you to try to hide the cards under the Bible !" 
 continued Charlotte. " I shouldn t have thought you could 
 have done that, Aunt Lucinda." 
 
 "It was layin right there. I d jest been readin some in 
 it." Luanda s voice took on a sharper tone. There is a 
 wall of limitation for all human patience, and she was being 
 crowded against hers. She stood against it, and displayed 
 what small defensive powers she had, although her defence 
 was principally appeal and excuse. " I didn t have anything 
 to do," she proceeded "not anything. I d been knittin 
 till I got cramps, an I read a chapter, an then I thought 
 I d jest get out the cards. It s dreadful dull sometimes, 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " I should think you could find some amusement in your 
 own mind," replied Charlotte, with no abatement of se 
 verity. 
 
 Lucinda eyed her in a bewildered way, as if called upon 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 365 
 
 to consider an argument based upon some unknown equa 
 tion. 
 
 "I know perfectly well," continued Charlotte, "that it 
 isn t my place to dictate to you, for you are my aunt, and a 
 good deal older than I am. But I must say it surprised me 
 a good deal to come in and find you playing cards, for I 
 wasn t brought up to see them in the house." 
 
 Lucinda sat bolt-upright ; there were hot red spots on her 
 cheeks ; one near enough could have seen pulses beating 
 here and there through the delicate skin on her neck and 
 forehead. " I wa n t playin cards," said she. 
 
 " Why, what were you doing, then ? I don t know what 
 you mean, Aunt Lucinda." 
 
 "Well, I was I s pose you ll think I m dreadful silly, 
 Charlotte, but I ain t had much to muse me, an I ve kinder 
 got in the way of it." 
 
 " For pity s sake, Aunt Lucinda, what are you coming at ?" 
 Charlotte stared at her, and wrinkled her fair high forehead 
 in a way she had when perplexed. 
 
 " I didn t mean to do anything out of the way, but I s pose 
 you ll think it was dreadful silly, Charlotte. I was jest tell- 
 in my fortune." 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 The tears stood in the old woman s eyes. She shook visi 
 bly. In her simple life her little foolishnesses had come to 
 take the place of sins, and she was shamefaced over them 
 as such. " I was jest tellin my fortune." 
 
 " I don t believe I know what you mean, Aunt Lucinda." 
 Charlotte s blue eyes were raised, her round rosy face was 
 all furrowed with those lines of perplexity. 
 
 " Why, don t you know, Charlotte ? You can tell your 
 fortune with cards. There s a way of doin it. I learnt it 
 
INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 when I was a girl. Didn t you know it ?" asked Lucinda, 
 with tremulous eagerness. 
 
 " I ve heard of it." 
 
 " I s pose it is kind of silly; but it s kind of musin some 
 times, when I m feelin dull, you know." Lucinda trembled, 
 and still kept her eyes fastened upon her niece s face, which 
 expressed a calm contempt. 
 
 Presently Lucinda began again, with more stress of ap 
 peal : " I was jest tellin my fortune, Charlotte ; I didn t 
 s pose there was any harm in it. Once in a while I take a 
 notion to tell it, jest for the fun of it, you know." 
 
 " I shouldn t think it would be much fun." 
 
 " Well, I dun know as tis, Charlotte ; but it s kind of 
 musin sometimes." 
 
 Charlotte still gazed at her aunt with that look of con 
 temptuous perplexity, and the old woman could not take her 
 eyes from her face. 
 
 " It s jest because it s kind of musin ," she pleaded again. 
 " An when anybody ain t had any more change than I ve 
 had most all their life, it s kind of comfortin to spread out 
 the cards an try to calculate if there ain t somethin differ 
 ent comin . It don t never come, an I don t s pose it s ever 
 goin to ; course I don t put any faith in it, but it s kind of 
 musin ." 
 
 Charlotte turned away, and put her face down to the little 
 bunch of violets on the table : one of her scholars had 
 brought them to her. " Well, I can t stop to talk any more 
 about it," said she. " I must go out and get supper." 
 
 Charlotte righted herself and went out of the room with 
 a firm step, and proceeded to get supper ready. She had 
 her own ideas about supper, and indeed about all the other 
 meals. Lucinda Moss s household plan had been revolu- 
 
AX INNOCENT GAMESTER. 367 
 
 lionized since her niece had come to live with her. She had 
 no longer any voice in anything, and she had come almost 
 to forget what her own original note had been. She was 
 growing deprecatory and shamefaced about herself, and she 
 no longer openly confessed in many cases her preferences. 
 It took some new emergency, like this of the cards, to arouse 
 her at all. 
 
 Lucinda had always liked a bit of cold pork, some left 
 over dinner vegetables, some little savory relish, for supper, 
 but now she ate a slice of bread-and-butter and a spoonful 
 of sauce, and drank a glass of milk. Charlotte had de 
 creed that that was better for her. Lucinda had not even 
 her cup of tea since Charlotte reigned. 
 
 Lucinda had been fond of a rich cup-cake, which she had 
 also enjoyed stirring up once a week for herself. She had 
 taken an innocent pride in its excellence, and she had 
 treated her few callers to it. She had liked a slice of it be 
 tween meals. But that was now all done away with ; there 
 was no cake baked in the house. " That rich cake is not 
 fit for you to eat, Aunt Lucinda," Charlotte had said. "I 
 think we had better not have any more of it." And poor 
 Lucinda came gently down to her niece s views on diet, and 
 put cup-cake and cold pork and vegetables away from her 
 like devices of Satan. She concealed from herself her long 
 ing for them ; and she felt the most sincere love and grati 
 tude to Charlotte for her interest in her welfar6. Indeed, 
 Charlotte did everything from the purest motives. She had 
 meant to do her very best by her old aunt Lucinda when 
 she had come to live with her, after her father s death, from 
 a sense of duty. She had given up her school in her native 
 village, and taken another, that she did not like nearly as 
 well, here in Foster. She had found Lucinda old and fee- 
 
368 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 ble, and at once set to work about taking care of her and 
 relieving her from all her household labors. 
 
 Charlotte had not much time out of school, but she kept 
 the house, and would have only a modicum of assistance 
 from her aunt. Lucinda soon did not venture to prepare a 
 meal nor set away a dish, she met with such kind and de 
 termined remonstrances from her niece. Charlotte was so 
 determined, when she set about being good and doing her 
 whole duty, that she was quite capable of tyrannizing over 
 goodness itself. And then it was undeniably better that an 
 old and feeble woman like her aunt Lucinda should not 
 eat rich cup-cake between meals, nor wear herself out at 
 house-work, although Lucinda had never worn herself out 
 at house-work. There was considerable scandal of a mod 
 est kind about her in the village. There was a rumor that 
 Lucinda Moss had not taken up her sitting-room carpet for 
 ten years, nor her parlor carpet within the memory of man, 
 and that she deliberately shut up one or two chambers, and 
 let them stay so, with no application of broom or duster, 
 year after year. But Charlotte had every carpet in the house 
 taken up spring and fall. She hung all the feather-beds out 
 of the windows, and dusted in all the dark corners. Poor old 
 Lucinda sometimes felt as if there was so much cleanliness 
 that she was almost chilly. But she never remonstrated 
 about anything, unless it was for a moment, when she hap 
 pened to be taken by surprise, as in the matter of the cards. 
 She seemed quite to fall in with Charlotte s views that her 
 own tastes were not to be considered when they interfered 
 with her own good, and that most of them did so interfere. 
 
 When she came out to supper that night she looked 
 meekly and unquestioningly at the cold milk, the bread- 
 and-bw*ter, and sauce. Her very soul thirsted for a CUD of 
 
Ati INNOCENT GAMESTER. 369 
 
 tea, and she felt as guilty as any wine-bibber that it should 
 be so. Charlotte had said that it was as bad to drink tea 
 as to drink strong liquor, and that it was very unhealthy 
 for her. 
 
 It did not take long for them to eat supper ; they never 
 dallied over their meals. Charlotte did not dally over any 
 thing ; indeed, she could not, with so much on her hands. 
 She sent Lucinda into the sitting-room while she put away 
 the supper dishes. When that was done she went into the 
 sitting-room herself, and sat down with some needle-work 
 at the window opposite her aunt. There was still an hour 
 of daylight left. 
 
 There was a cunning look in Lucinda s face ; she was 
 smiling and quite talkative. She spoke about the weather, 
 and the neighbors, and Charlotte s school ; then she gave a 
 sudden sharp glance at her niece. " Charlotte ?" 
 
 " What say, Aunt Lucinda ?" 
 
 " Charlotte." The old woman was smiling hard, and her 
 voice was soft and tremulously sweet. " Did you ever have 
 your fortune told ?" 
 
 " No, I never did." 
 
 " Well, now, Charlotte, don t you want me to tell it ?" 
 Lucinda twisted her face up towards her niece, and her smile 
 was as bland and cunning as a witch s. 
 
 " No, thank you, Aunt Lucinda," Charlotte replied, stiffly. 
 
 " It s real remarkable how they do turn out sometimes, 
 Charlotte. I might tell you somethin bout who you was 
 goin to marry, you know." 
 
 " I haven t any wish to try it, and I am never going to 
 marry anybody." Charlotte blushed, but she looked with 
 dignified scorn at her aunt s delicate old face, that still 
 smirked up at her. " To say just what I think, Aunt Lu 
 
 24. 
 
370 AM INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 cinda," she continued, "it seems to me very silly, and I 
 should think the cards would be better in the fire than 
 anywhere else." 
 
 " I d kind of hate to burn em, Charlotte. I ve had em 
 ever since I was a girl." 
 
 Charlotte made no reply. Lucinda watched her pitifully. 
 The cunning smile had faded entirely from her face. She 
 seemed to sit lower in her chair. 
 
 " Well, mebbe I had ought to burn em," she remarked, 
 finally^ with a hard breath. Pretty soon she arose. "I 
 guess I ll go to bed," said she. 
 
 " Why, it isn t dark yet," responded Charlotte. 
 
 11 1 know it ain t, but I m kind of tired somehow." Lu 
 cinda went across the room with a weak shuffle. Charlotte 
 looked after her, and thought to herself that she aged rap 
 idly. She did not think any more about the cards and the 
 fortune-telling. She could not treat any subject lightly, and 
 had to bring her mind down with a heavy step upon all mat 
 ters, however trivial, that it stopped to consider. She knew 
 quite well that her gentle, weak old aunt s whim for fortune- 
 telling was not a subject for very serious controversy. She 
 expressed her opinion strongly, as was her wont ; then let 
 the matter slip away entirely from her thoughts. 
 
 The days went on, and nothing more was said about the 
 cards. Charlotte did not know whether they were burned, 
 as she had advised, or not. She thought no more about 
 them. She noticed that her aunt ate even less than usual, 
 and seemed more spiritless. She thought also that she 
 grew thin. 
 
 "What s the matter, Aunt Lucinda ; don t you feel well ?" 
 she asked one night when the old woman announced her 
 intention of going to bed immediately after supper. 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 3 7 1 
 
 Lucinda paused in her onward shuffle. "Well, I dun 
 know," said she; "I guess I m well nough, but I feel kind 
 of poorly. I ve been thinkin if I had some of that root- 
 beer I used to make, it might kind of set me up." 
 
 " Milk is a good deal better for you," said Charlotte, 
 promptly. "You don t drink enough milk." 
 
 " Well, I dun know ; I drink considerable, Charlotte." 
 
 " How much did you drink to-night?" 
 
 " Well, I dun know ; most a cupful, I guess." 
 
 Charlotte went to the table and poured out a cup quite 
 full of milk. " Now, Aunt Lucinda, you just drink this down 
 before you go to bed," said she. 
 
 " Oh, Charlotte, I dun know as I can." 
 
 " Yes, you can, too ; it s good for you." 
 
 Lucinda put out her hand for the milk ; then she drew it 
 back. " Oh, Charlotte, I can t, noways in the world." 
 
 Charlotte held the milk quite under her nose, and her 
 face contracted with disgust when she looked down at it. 
 " Drink it right down," said Charlotte. 
 
 The old woman took the cup, and drank down the milk 
 with desperate gulps. When she had finished she gave the 
 cup to Charlotte and clapped her hand over her mouth. 
 
 "That s right," said Charlotte, in a commendatory tone. 
 " It ll do you good. You don t drink half enough milk." 
 
 Lucinda gave her head an unmeaning shake. She was 
 quite speechless. She kept her hand pressed tightly to her 
 mouth all the way out of the room. 
 
 The next morning Charlotte made her drink two cups of 
 milk for breakfast, and she did so more easily. Lucinda 
 looked quite alert that morning, and Charlotte thought to 
 herself that she was improving. 
 
 " You feel better, don t you, Aunt Lucinda ?" she said. 
 
372 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 " Well, I dun know ; I ruther guess I do feel a little rest 
 ed," answered Lucinda. 
 
 She had an odd expression that morning. Charlotte kept 
 regarding her ; she could not think what made her look so 
 strange. Finally she decided that it was because her aunt 
 had her hair pushed back a little farther than usual from 
 her temples. It took away from her expression of gentle 
 weakness, and gave her something of a wild air. Charlotte 
 was not nervous; after she had decided as to the cause of 
 it, her aunt s strange look no longer dwelt in her mind. She 
 taught school placidly all the forenoon. But when she came 
 home at noon, and could find Lucinda nowhere in the house, 
 that odd look of hers started up afresh in her memory. After 
 she had hunted through the house and garden, and inquired 
 at the neighbors , she stood in the middle of the sitting- 
 room, and that strange face swam before her eyes. " It 
 meant something," she said to herself j "she meant to do 
 something." 
 
 Some of the neighbors came running in. There were 
 three men (two old ones and one young one), two middle- 
 aged women, and two girls. They had just risen from their 
 dinner-tables ; the women were in calico gowns and aprons, 
 and the men in their shirt sleeves all except the young 
 man ; he had stopped to put on his coat. 
 
 "Oh, have you found her?" two or three of the women 
 gasped out as they entered ; the others stared in breathless 
 inquiry. Charlotte shook her head. The neighbors circled 
 around her and asked questions. Nobody knew what to do 
 first. "The trouble is, there don t seem to be anywhere 
 that there s any sense in to look for her," said one of the 
 women, with a sage air. And it was quite true. There was 
 no reasonable place outside of her own house in which to 
 
AN- INNOCENT GAMESTER. 373 
 
 look for her. Lucinda might almost have been regarded 
 as a gentle and timid crustacean, and that house in which 
 she had been born and lived her whole life as her shell. 
 She never stirred out of it, except into her little garden, 
 from one week s end to the other. She never went into a 
 neighbor s. It had seemed a mere farce to inquire of one. 
 It was almost impossible to imagine Lucinda outside of her 
 own house ; the very windows seemed full of her to people 
 on the street, and the neighbors were bewildered, standing 
 there in the sitting-room and trying to think of her as away. 
 
 The young man in the company surveyed Charlotte with 
 anxious, honest eyes. He was tall, and his fair curly head 
 overtopped all the others. He was the brother of one of 
 the girls. Charlotte never looked at him. The talk and 
 speculation went on ; then finally the young man made a start. 
 " I ll go and put my horse in the buggy," he said, in a de 
 termined tone, " and I ll go a piece on all the roads, and see 
 if anybody has seen anything of her." 
 
 " I ll go an help you harness," returned one of the old 
 men, promptly. 
 
 Then Charlotte and the others searched the house again 
 from garret to cellar. Charlotte was not easily timorous 
 nor imaginative, but fearful imaginations could come to her, 
 as to all human beings, and when they did come they had 
 weighty presences. Charlotte probably would never see a 
 ghost, but if she ever did it would come with a mighty march 
 upon her. After the second fruitless search through the 
 house was finished, she turned upon the people with her. 
 " Something dreadful has happened," said she, in a quick, 
 strained tone. 
 
 " Oh, mebbe there ain t," one of the women said, sooth 
 ingly ; but her eyes were wild and scared. 
 
3 74 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 "Yes, there has." 
 
 They all stood in the side entry, where they had coffin 
 from the second story. Charlotte looked from one to the 
 other; then she set her mouth hard, and went out into the 
 yard. In the middle of the yard there was a well with an 
 old-fashioned sweep. Charlotte went with rigid strides 
 straight to the well, and the people followed her, the young 
 girls hanging back a little. Charlotte stretched herself up, 
 leaned over the curb, and looked down ; the others crowded 
 close to her, and did the same. They could see nothing 
 but their own faces in the far-away dark water. They gazed 
 down at the young rosy faces and the old ones, with the 
 flecks of sunlight around them, but they could see nothing 
 beyond. It was that reflection of life which is all that one 
 sees upon the farthest point of investigation. 
 
 " We can t see nothin but ourselves," said one of the 
 women. " Father, you d better get a pole somewhere, an 
 poke down there." 
 
 " Where can I git a pole ?" asked the old man, who was 
 the woman s husband. He had an important, solemn 
 voice ; his wife, no matter how great her awe, was always 
 sharply vociferous. 
 
 One of the young girls clutched the other by the arm 
 when the pole was mentioned. Charlotte and the old man 
 went into the garden, where there was a pile of last year s 
 bean-poles, and he spliced some together with clumsy pains. 
 They all stood back when he stepped up and began prob 
 ing the well. He had bent a nail in the end of the pole, 
 and he poked about warily. Finally he turned about on 
 his spectators. He had a large face, and he carried himself 
 pompously. 
 
 " There ain t nothin there," said he. There was a slight 
 
A.N INNOCENT GAMESTER. 375 
 
 savor of disappointment in his tone. He had a natural 
 scent for glory, but he was like an animal reared at a dis 
 tance from his native prey, and had little opportunity to 
 exercise it. He wished no harm to have befallen poor Lu- 
 cinda ; but if there had, he would have liked that distinc 
 tion which belonged to the discoverer of it. 
 
 " Are you sure ?" asked his wife. 
 
 " Course I m sure. There ain t no use standin pokin* 
 any longer." The old man stepped down and stood in a 
 stately attitude, with a pole at his side like a spear. "There 
 ain t any other well, is there ?" he inquired of Charlotte. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " No cistern nor nothin ? There waVt nothin covered 
 up that she could have stepped into ?" 
 
 " No, there wasn t," said Charlotte. She struck out of 
 the yard as she spoke. 
 
 " Where you goin ?" one of the women asked. 
 
 " Down to the salt-meadow." 
 
 Charlotte kept on down the street, and they all straggled 
 after her. Others joined them, with eager questions, as 
 they progressed. It was quite a crowd that reached the 
 marsh that the Foster people called the salt-meadow. High 
 tides flooded it. The rest of the time it lay a bare level, 
 burned by the sun and swept by the salt wind. Here and 
 there were pools of sea-water quite deep. Charlotte had 
 thought of them. 
 
 Away over to the eastward there was a blue line between 
 the marsh and a white cloudy sky ; that was the sea. The 
 people ran about here and there over the marsh; they 
 looked taller than they were. There were now many 
 boys in the company, and when they got into the distance, 
 and showed up against the sky, they looked like men on 
 
INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 the level meadow. They whooped and hallooed. Char 
 lotte never spoke a word. She went from pool to pool, 
 and the old man with the pole went with her. Here and 
 there lay great mats of long and sunburnt marsh-grass. 
 They looked like fleeces of wild animals. Charlotte eyed 
 one with a desire to lift it up and see if her aunt were not 
 lying hidden beneath it. Charlotte, neither knowing why, 
 nor fully understanding that she was, began to be tortured 
 by remorse. Lucinda had never spoken to blame her, but 
 there was no need, for silence and absence will grind with 
 accusing voices. Charlotte s ears were full of the voices, 
 although she could not yet understand what they said. 
 
 She did not until that evening. When she returned from 
 her fruitless search on the marsh she found the house and 
 yard quite full of people. Some of the kindly women had 
 been getting supper. They had brought in of their own 
 stores. The hygienic food in the house looked rather poor 
 to them. They agreed that Lucinda must have been pretty 
 well pinched. The table was loaded with hot biscuits, cake, 
 and cold meats, and there was a pot of strong tea. Char 
 lotte would not eat anything, although the women urged 
 her. Finally they sat down and drank the tea themselves. 
 After supper, the house cleared gradually. Two of the 
 women volunteered to stay with Charlotte all night, and 
 the young girl, sister of the fair-haired young man, was to 
 sleep with her. The two older women went home for a 
 fittle while to mix some bread and fold clothes, and the 
 young girl and Charlotte were alone in the sitting-room. 
 
 Now and then they could hear voices out in the street. 
 Charlotte kept going to the door to listen. Once, as she 
 returned, she hit Lucinda s little old work-box that stood 
 on the corner of the table, and knocked it to the floor. All 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 377 
 
 the things fell out ; Charlotte groaned. It seemed as if she 
 hurt her lost aunt. The girl came to her aid, and they be 
 gan picking up the things and replacing them. Suddenly 
 Charlotte gave a cry, and took something to the light and 
 examined it closely. Then she sank into a chair, and 
 rocked herself to and fro, and cried. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! poor Aunt Lucinda ! poor Aunt 
 Lucinda ! What shall I do ? what shall I do ?" she wailed. 
 
 The girl arose, and stood regarding her in a frightened 
 way. She had a sweet, homely face, and was very small, 
 much smaller than Charlotte. She had always been rather 
 afraid of Charlotte, she was so large and handsome and 
 peremptory. Finally she went up to her timidly, " Why, 
 what is it?" she asked ; "what is the matter, Charlotte?" 
 
 Charlotte held out something. " Look at that," she said, 
 convulsively. 
 
 The girl took it and looked at it curiously. It was a play 
 ing-card, the jack of hearts, and one corner was scorched 
 and shrivelled by fire. " Why, it s a card," said she, vague 
 ly ; " and it s been burnt. 1 
 
 Charlotte uncovered her face, and showed it wet and 
 swollen and distorted. "Yes," said she, "it s a card. And 
 I ll tell you what I did. I ll tell you all about it. I ve 
 been wicked ; I ve been dreadful wicked and cruel. I found 
 her trying to tell her fortune with those cards one day, and 
 I scolded her for it, and I told her she ought to burn them 
 up. She was telling her fortune, and trying to get a little 
 bit of comfort and amusement out of it, and she s never 
 had much in her life. She was cooped up here in this house 
 all the best part of her life with her mother, that was ner 
 vous and half crazy, and had to be taken care of like i 
 baby. She never went anywhere nor had anything, and 
 
37 8 AM INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 she got a little bit of comfort out of the cards telling her 
 fortune, and I told her to burn them. And she tried to. 
 Oh, she tried to ! she tried to ! Poor Aunt Lucinda ! I 
 can see it, just how it was. She put them into the fire, and 
 she felt dreadfully to see them burn. She d had them ever 
 since she was a girl, and she d taken so much comfort with 
 them ! It was just like burning up all the little hope she 
 had left. And she just pulled out this card, when it was 
 all afire, and saved it. I remember she had burned her 
 fingers, and she wouldn t tell me how. That was how she 
 did it. Oh, poor Aunt Lucinda ! poor Aunt Lucinda !" 
 
 The other girl looked from her to the card with a puz 
 zled and distressed air. " Don t feel so bad," she ventured, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh, I ve got to feel bad ! I ve got to ! I ve got to all 
 my life ! The cards ain t all. Oh, I can tell you things- 
 things that I never knew before. They all come up now. 
 I haven t let her have tea when she wanted it, nor cake, 
 nor cold pork and potatoes for supper, nor anything be 
 tween meals. And she wanted some root-beer last night, 
 and I said she couldn t have it. I ve been setting myself 
 up, because I thought I knew more ; and I knew the things 
 weren t good for her perhaps, but they were all her little 
 comforts, all she had, and nobody ought to have taken them 
 away but God. Oh, I ve been doing a dreadful thing ! I ve 
 been stealing from her. And I ve done more than that. 
 Oh, I have! I have! I ve been stealing her. I ve been 
 taking the self out of her. Oh, poor Aunt Lucinda ! poor 
 Aunt Lucinda ! What shall I do ? what shall I do ?" 
 
 The girl was quite pale ; she held her lips parted. She 
 did not comprehend it at all, nor know what to say. Sud 
 denly there was a touch on her shoulder, and she looked 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 379 
 
 around. It was her brother ; he had been standing in the 
 room a minute or two, but they had not noticed him. 
 
 " What s the matter with her ?" he asked his sister in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Charlotte went on wailing. Both of them had an odd 
 feeling that she was not fairly there, and that they could 
 speak of her. 
 
 " She feels awfully. She thinks she hasn t treated her 
 well." 
 
 "What stuff!" The young man hesitated a moment; 
 his face flushed ; he looked at his sister. Finally he went 
 up to Charlotte, knelt down on the floor beside her, and 
 slid his arm around her waist. " Don t take on so don t ; 
 you mustn t," he whispered. " I ll find her. I m going 
 now to give my horse his supper, and then I m going to 
 get a fresh one at Joe Grayson s, and I m going to start 
 out again. I ll find her before morning, and bring her back 
 safe and sound. Don t take on so." 
 
 But Charlotte never hushed her wail. She did not seem 
 to notice that his arm was around her. 
 
 The young man arose; he did not meet his sister s eye 
 when he spoke to her. " I m going home, and will send 
 mother over right away," said he. 
 
 "She s coming as soon as she s folded the clothes," 
 replied the sister. 
 
 " She s got to come now." 
 
 His steps sounded heavy and quick on the front walk. 
 In spite of his pity he had an odd feeling of elation. He 
 also had been rather afraid of Charlotte ; she had seemed 
 like a goddess in armor. He had now a feeling that he 
 had caught her outside of her panoply. 
 
 He lived only three houses away, and his mother came 
 
380 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 running over in a few minutes. She was a woman with as 
 weighty a will as Charlotte s, although her softness and 
 slowness of manner disguised it. Her will to Charlotte s 
 was as feathers to steel, but the weight was there. She 
 made Charlotte drink a bowl of sage tea and go to bed. 
 She and the other woman sat up all night in the sitting- 
 room, and listened and watched. They felt as if dreadful 
 tidings might arrive at any moment, but none did. When 
 Charlotte came down-stairs in the morning nothing more 
 was known about her aunt than when she had gone to bed. 
 Charlotte had not slept any, but she was quite calm. All 
 her old repose of manner had returned, but there was no 
 longer any strength in it. She did not stand as erect, with 
 her shoulders back, as formerly. She looked ten years 
 younger. Charlotte was quite a young girl, but everybody 
 had considered her older. 
 
 The search for Lucinda continued : the roads were 
 scoured for miles around, every well and pool was dragged, 
 a close watch was kept upon the sea-shore ; but nothing 
 was seen of her until five o clock in the afternoon. Then 
 she came walking into the house. She entered at the side 
 door, and went straight into the sitting-room. There were 
 some women there with Charlotte. They all sat about 
 the room like mourners. When they saw Lucinda they 
 screamed with shrill voices, and more women came in from 
 the kitchen. Charlotte did not speak nor scream. She 
 went over to her aunt and clutched her arm hard. 
 
 Lucinda looked about with a bewildered air. Her cheeks 
 were quite pink, her eyes shone, her curls were all untwisted 
 and lay on her shoulders. Her bonnet, which was flat and 
 old-fashioned, had slipped far back, her cashmere shawl 
 with a green centre was pinned on one side, and the point 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 381 
 
 trailed. But with all her disorder and bewilderment she 
 was full of gentle but triumphant assertion. 
 
 "What are they all in here for this way?" she asked 
 Charlotte, quite openly. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Lucinda, where have you been ?" 
 
 Lucinda looked about on them all with a sort of mild 
 dignity. She stood quite straight. " I ve been a-visitinV 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " I ve been a-visitinV 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Lucinda, where ?" 
 
 " I ve been to Denham." 
 
 " Denham ?" 
 
 " Yes ; it s forty mile away, an I ve been on the cars. 
 I ve been a-visitin my cousin on my mother s side that 
 lives there Mary Ellen Taylor. She s livin with her old 
 est son, an she s situated real pleasant. I hadn t seen her 
 for twenty-five year." 
 
 " Oh ! how did you get there ?" 
 
 " I went on the steam-cars," replied Lucinda, with a lofty 
 air. 
 
 " But how ? Nobody saw you. How did you get started. 
 Aunt Lucinda ?" 
 
 Lucinda surveyed her niece with a look of pleasant cun 
 ning. " I jest went down cross-lots an got on. I didn t 
 see nobody," said she. 
 
 It was quite true, and had been quite feasible, as every 
 body saw. There was no regular depot at Foster, nothing 
 but a little rude shed with a bench, where passengers, if there 
 were any, waited. That day there had been none, and the 
 road was lonely. Lucinda had been quite unseen and 
 unmolested in her journey across-lots and her waiting at 
 the station. Now that she had appeared, it seemed strange 
 
3 g 2 AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 
 
 that no one had thought of such a solution of her dis 
 appearance. But people would have dreamed as soon of a 
 marsh-flower taking to the railroad as of Lucinda Moss. 
 She had been so long in one place that it seemed that it 
 must be with her as with the flower, and that nothing bu.* 
 the wind of death could take her away. 
 
 The women had stood about, astonished and panic- 
 stricken. Finally one spoke up. " Well," said she, " I 
 know one thing : if I was to say what I thought, it would 
 be somethin pretty plain. All this go-round " 
 
 Charlotte interposed. She stepped before her aunt, who 
 had begun to shrink. "Don t you say a word to blame 
 her ; I won t have it," said she. 
 
 " Well, if you want to excuse it, after all the trouble and 
 worry we ve had and you ve had " 
 
 " I won t hear a word," repeated Charlotte. 
 
 After a while the neighbors had one by one departed, 
 and Charlotte and Lucinda were alone together. Charlotte 
 went directly about getting supper. When she called out 
 Lucinda there was a fine array on the table : plenty of cake 
 and pie, and some cold meat and vegetables. The room 
 was full of the fragrance of tea. Charlotte poured out a 
 cup, and passed it to Lucinda. " I thought we d have tea 
 to-night," said she. "And I ve been thinking this cake 
 is some the neighbors brought in, but I don t think it is 
 nearly as good as that cup-cake you used to make, and I 
 wish you d make some to-morrow, Aunt Lucinda, if you feel 
 like it." 
 
 " I d jest as lief as not." Lucinda s face was all trem 
 bling with smiles. 
 
 The next night, when Charlotte came home from school, 
 she had a little parcel that she handed to Lucinda. " Here s 
 
AN INNOCENT GAMESTER. 383 
 
 something I bought for you, Aunt Lucinda," said she. Lu- 
 cinda opened the parcel. It was a pack of cards. " I don t 
 know but I ll let you tell my fortune, after all, if you d like 
 to," observed Charlotte, after a while. 
 
 After supper that evening Lucinda moved the things on 
 the table back, and spread out the cards. She bent over 
 them, and her face took on a wise and important expression. 
 "Well," said she, finally, in a meditative voice, "there s a 
 light-complected man right close to you, Charlotte, an a 
 weddin -nng, for the first thing " 
 
LOUISA. 
 
 " I DON T see what kind of ideas you ve got in your head 4 
 for my part." Mrs. Britton looked sharply at her daughter 
 Louisa, but she got no response. 
 
 Louisa sat in one of the kitchen chairs close to the 
 door. She had dropped into it when she first entered. 
 Her hands were all brown and grimy with garden-mould ; 
 it clung to the bottom of her old dress and her coarse 
 shoes. 
 
 Mrs. Britton, sitting opposite by the window, waited, 
 looking at her. Suddenly Louisa s silence seemed to strike 
 her mother s will with an electric shock ; she recoiled, with 
 an angry jerk of her head. " You don t know nothin about 
 it. You d like him well enough after you was married to 
 him," said she, as if in answer to an argument. 
 
 Louisa s face looked fairly dull ; her obstinacy seemed 
 to cast a film over it. Her eyelids were cast down ; she 
 leaned her head back against the wall. 
 
 " Sit there like a stick if you want to !" cried her mother, 
 
 Louisa got up. As she stirred, a faint earthy odor dif 
 fused itself through the room. It was like a breath from 
 a ploughed field. 
 
 Mrs. Britton s little sallow face contracted more forcibly. 
 " I s pose now you re goin back to your potater patch," 
 
LOUISA. 385 
 
 said she. " Plantin potaters out there jest like a man, for 
 all the neighbors to see. Pretty sight, I call it." 
 
 " If they don t like it, they needn t look," returned Louisa. 
 She spoke quite evenly. Her young back was stiff with 
 bending over the potatoes, but she straightened it rigor 
 ously. She pulled her old hat farther over her eyes. 
 
 There was a shuffling sound outside the door and a fum 
 ble at the latch. It opened, and an old man came in, scrap 
 ing his feet heavily over the threshold. He carried an 
 old basket. 
 
 " What you got in that basket, father ?" asked Mrs. 
 Britton. 
 
 The old man looked at her. His old face had the round 
 outlines and naive grin of a child. 
 
 " Father, what you got in that basket ?" 
 
 Louisa peered apprehensively into the basket. "Where 
 did you get those potatoes, grandfather ?" said she. 
 
 " Digged em." The old man s grin deepened. He 
 chuckled hoarsely. 
 
 " Well, I ll give up if he ain t been an dug up all them 
 potaters you ve been plantin !" said Mrs. Britton. 
 
 " Yes, he has," said Louisa. " Oh, grandfather, didn t 
 you know I d jest planted those potatoes ?" 
 
 The old man fastened his bleared blue eyes on her face, 
 and still grinned. 
 
 " Didn t you know better, grandfather?" she asked again. 
 
 But the old man only chuckled. He was so old that he 
 had come back into the mystery of childhood. His motives 
 were hidden and inscrutable ; his amalgamation with the 
 human race was so much weaker. 
 
 " Land sakes ! don t waste no more time talkin to him," 
 said Mrs. Britton. ** You can t make out whether he knows 
 25 
 
3 86 LOUISA. 
 
 what he s doin or not. I ve give it up. Father, you jest set 
 them pertaters down, an you come over here an set down 
 in the rockin -chair ; you ve done about nough work to-day." 
 
 The old man shook his head with slow mutiny. 
 
 " Come right over here." 
 
 Louisa pulled at the basket of potatoes. " Let me have 
 em, grandfather," said she. " I ve got to have em." 
 
 The old man resisted. His grin disappeared, and he 
 set his mouth. Mrs. Britton got up, with a determined air, 
 and went over to him. She was a sickly, frail-looking wom 
 an, but the voice came firm, with deep bass tones, from 
 her little lean throat. 
 
 " Now, father," said she, "you jest give her that basket, 
 an you walk across the room, and you set down in that 
 rockin -chair." 
 
 The old man looked down into her little, pale, wedge-shaped 
 face. His grasp on the basket weakened. Louisa pulled 
 it away, and pushed past out of the door, and the old man 
 followed his daughter sullenly across the room to the rock 
 ing-chair. 
 
 The Brittons did not have a large potato field ; they had 
 only an acre of land in all. Louisa had planted two thirds 
 of her potatoes; now she had to plant them all over again. 
 She had gone to the house for a drink of water ; her mother 
 had detained her, and in the meantime the old man had 
 undone her work. She began putting the cut potatoes 
 back in the ground. She was careful and laborious about 
 it. A strong wind, full of moisture, was blowing from the 
 east. The smell of the sea was in it, although this was 
 some miles inland. Louisa s brown calico skirt blew out 
 in it like a sail. It beat her in the face when she raised 
 her head. 
 
LOUISA. 387 
 
 " I ve got to get these in to-day somehow," she muttered. 
 u It 11 rain to-morrow." 
 
 She worked as fast as she could, and the afternoon wore 
 on. About five o clock she happened to glance at the 
 road the potato field lay beside it and she saw Jonathan 
 Nye driving past with his gray horse and buggy. She 
 turned her back to the road quickly, and listened until the 
 rattle of the wheels died away. At six o clock her mother 
 looked out of the kitchen window and called her to supper. 
 
 " I m comin in a minute," Louisa shouted back. Then 
 she worked faster than ever. At half-past six she went 
 into the house, and the potatoes were all in the ground. 
 
 " Why didn t you come when I called you ?" asked her 
 mother. 
 
 " I had to get the potatoes in." 
 
 " I guess you wa n t bound to get em all in to-night. It s 
 kind of discouragin when you work, an get supper all ready, 
 to have it stan an hour, I call it. An you ve worked bout 
 long enough for one day out in this damp wind, I should 
 say." 
 
 Louisa washed her hands and face at the kitchen sink, 
 and smoothed her hair at the little glass over it. She had 
 wet her hair too, and made it look darker : it was quite a 
 light brown. She brushed it in smooth straight lines back 
 from her temples. Her whole face had a clear bright look 
 from being exposed to the moist wind. She noticed it her 
 self, and gave her head a little conscious turn. 
 
 When she sat down to the table her mother looked at 
 her with admiration, which she veiled with disapproval. 
 
 " Jest look at your face," said she ; " red as a beet. 
 You ll be a pretty-lookin sight before the summer s oat, 
 at this rate." 
 
388 LOUISA. 
 
 Louisa thought to herself that the light was not very 
 strong, and the glass must have flattered her. She could 
 not look as well as she had imagined. She spread some 
 butter on her bread very sparsely. There was nothing for 
 supper but some bread and butter and weak tea, though 
 the old man had his dish of Indian-meal porridge. He 
 could not eat much solid food. The porridge was covered 
 with milk and molasses. He bent low over it, and ate 
 large spoonfuls with loud noises. His daughter had tied 
 a towel around his neck as she would have tied a pinafore 
 on a child. She had also spread a towel over the table 
 cloth in front of him, and she watched him sharply lest he 
 should spill his food. 
 
 " I wish I could have somethin to eat that I could relish 
 the way he does that porridge and molasses," said she. 
 She had scarcely tasted anything. She sipped her weak 
 tea laboriously. 
 
 Louisa looked across at her mother s meagre little figure 
 in its neat old dress, at her poor small head bending over 
 the tea-cup, showing the wide parting in the thin hair. 
 
 " Why don t you toast your bread, mother ?" said she. 
 " I ll toast it for you." 
 
 " No, I don t want it. I d jest as soon have it this way 
 as any. I don t want no bread, nohow. I want somethin 
 to relish a herrin , or a little mite of cold meat, or some- 
 thin . I s pose I could eat as well as anybody if I had as 
 much as some folks have. Mis Mitchell was sayin the 
 other day that she didn t believe but what they had butch 
 er s meat up to Mis Nye s every day in the week. She 
 said Jonathan he went to Wolfsborough and brought home 
 great pieces in a market-basket every week. I guess they 
 have everything." 
 
LOUISA. 389 
 
 Louisa was not eating much herself, but now she took 
 another slice of bread with a resolute air. " I guess some 
 folks would be thankful to get this," said she. 
 
 " Yes, I s pose we d ought to be thankful for enough to 
 keep us alive, anybody takes so much comfort livin ," re 
 turned her mother, with a tragic bitterness that sat oddly 
 upon her, as she was so small and feeble. Her face worked 
 and strained under the stress of emotion ; her eyes were full 
 of tears ; she sipped her tea fiercely. 
 
 " There s some sugar," said Louisa. " We might have 
 had a little cake." 
 
 The old man caught the word. " Cake ?" he mumbled, 
 with pleased inquiry, looking up, and extending his grasp 
 ing old hand. 
 
 " I guess we ain t got no sugar to waste in cake," re 
 turned Mrs. Britton. " Eat your porridge, father, an stop 
 teasin . There ain t no cake." 
 
 After supper Louisa cleared away the dishes ; then she 
 put on her shawl and hat. 
 
 " Where you goin 1 ?" asked her mother. 
 
 " Down to the store." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " The oil s out. There wasn t enough to fill the lamps 
 this mornin . I ain t had a chance to get it before." 
 
 It was nearly dark. The mist was so heavy it was al 
 most rain. Louisa went swiftly down the road with the oil 
 can. It was a half-mile to the store where the few staples 
 were kept that sufficed the simple folk in this little settle 
 ment. She was gone a half-hour. When she returned, 
 she had besides the oil-can a package under her arm. 
 She went into the kitchen and set them down. The 
 old man was asleep in the rocking-chair. She heard voices 
 
390 LOUISA. 
 
 in the adjoining room. She frowned, and stood still, lis 
 tening. 
 
 " Louisa !" called her mother. Her voice was sweet, 
 and higher pitched than usual. She sounded the / in Louisa 
 long. 
 
 " What say ?" 
 
 " Come in here after you ve taken your things off." 
 
 Louisa knew that Jonathan Nye was in the sitting-room. 
 She flung off her hat and shawl. Her old dress was 
 damp, and had still some earth stains on it ; her hair was 
 roughened by the wind, but she would not look again in 
 the glass ; she went into the sitting-room just as she was. 
 
 " It s Mr. Nye, Louisa," said her mother, with effusion. 
 
 " Good-evenin , Mr. Nye," said Louisa. 
 
 Jonathan Nye half arose and extended his hand, but 
 she did not notice it. She sat down peremptorily in a chair 
 at the other side of the room. Jonathan had the one rock 
 ing-chair ; Mrs. Britton s frail little body was poised anx 
 iously on the hard rounded top of the carpet-covered lounge. 
 She looked at Louisa s dress and hair, and her eyes were 
 stony with disapproval, but her lips still smirked, and she kept 
 her voice sweet. She pointed to a glass dish on the table. 
 
 " See what Mr. Nye has brought us over, Louisa," said 
 she. 
 
 Louisa looked indifferently at the dish. 
 
 " It s honey," said her mother ; " some of his own bees 
 made it. Don t you want to get a dish an taste of it? 
 One of them little glass sauce dishes." 
 
 " No, I guess not," replied Louisa. " I never cared 
 much about honey. Grandfather 11 like it." 
 
 The smile vanished momentarily from Mrs. Britton s lips, 
 but she recovered herself. She arose and went across the 
 
LOUISA. 39I 
 
 room to the china closet. Her set of china dishes was on 
 the top shelves, the lower were filled with books and papers. 
 " I ve got somethin to show you, Mr. Nye," said she. 
 
 This was scarcely more than a hamlet, but it was incor 
 porated, and had its town books. She brought forth a pile 
 of them, and laid them on the table beside Jonathan Nye. 
 " There," said she, " I thought mebbe you d like to look at 
 these." She opened one and pointed to the school report. 
 This mother could not display her daughter s accomplish 
 ments to attract a suitor, for she had none. Louisa did 
 not own a piano or organ ; she could not paint ; but she 
 had taught school acceptably for eight years ever since 
 she was sixteen and in every one of the town books was 
 testimonial to that effect, intermixed with glowing eulogy. 
 Jonathan Nye looked soberly through the books ; he was 
 a slow reader. He was a few years older than Louisa, tall 
 and clumsy, long-featured and long-necked. His face was 
 a deep red with embarrassment, and it contrasted oddly 
 with his stiff dignity of demeanor. 
 
 Mrs. Britton drew a chair close to him while he read. 
 " You see, Louisa taught that school for eight year," said 
 she ; " an she d be teachin it now if Mr. Mosely s daugh 
 ter hadn t grown up an wanted somethin to do, an he put 
 her in. He was committee, you know. I dun know as I d 
 ought to say so, an I wouldn t want you to repeat it, but 
 they do say Ida Mosely don t give very good satisfaction, 
 an I guess she won t have no reports like these in the town 
 books unless her father writes em. See this one." 
 
 Jonathan Nye pondered over the fulsome testimony to 
 Louisa s capability, general worth, and amiability, while she 
 sat in sulky silence at the farther corner of the room. Once 
 in a while her mother, after a furtive glance at Jonathan, 
 
392 LOUISA. 
 
 engrossed in a town book, would look at her and gesticu 
 late fiercely for her to come over, but she did not stir. Her 
 eyes were dull and quiet, her mouth closely shut ; she looked 
 homely. Louisa was very pretty when pleased and animated, 
 at other times she had a look like a closed flower. One 
 could see no prettiness in her. 
 
 Jonathan Nye read all the school reports ; then he arose 
 heavily. "They re real good," said he. He glanced at 
 Louisa and tried to smile ; his blushes deepened. 
 
 " Now don t be in a hurry," said Mrs. Britton. 
 
 " I guess I d better be goin ; mother s alone." 
 
 " She won t be afraid ; it s jest on the edge of the eveninV 
 
 " I don t know as she will. But I guess I d better be 
 goin ." He looked hesitatingly at Louisa. 
 
 She arose and stood with an indifferent air. 
 
 " You d better set down again," said Mrs. Britton. 
 
 "No; I guess I d better be goin ." Jonathan turned 
 towards Louisa. " Good-evenin ," said he. 
 
 "Good-evenin ." 
 
 Mrs. Britton followed him to the door. She looked back 
 and beckoned imperiously to Louisa, but she stood still. 
 " Now come again, do," Mrs. Britton said to the departing 
 caller. " Run in any time ; we re real lonesome evenin s. 
 Father he sets an sleeps in his chair, an Louisa an me 
 often wish somebody d drop in ; folks round here ain t none 
 too neighborly. Come in any time you happen to feel like 
 it, an we ll both of us be glad to see you. Tell your mother 
 I ll send home that dish to-morrer, an we shall have a real 
 feast off that beautiful honey." 
 
 When Mrs. Britton had fairly shut the outer door upon 
 Jonathan Nye, she came back into the sitting-room as if 
 her anger had a propelling power like steam upon her body. 
 
LOUISA. 393 
 
 "Now, Louisa Britton," said she, "you d ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself ashamed of yourself! You ve treated 
 him like a hog !" 
 
 " I couldn t help it." 
 
 " Couldn t help it ! I guess you could treat anybody de 
 cent if you tried. I never saw such actions ! I guess you 
 needn t be afraid of him. I guess he ain t so set on you 
 that he means to ketch you up an run off. There s other 
 girls in town full as good as you an better-lookin . Why 
 didn t you go an put on your other dress? Comin into 
 the room with that old thing on, an your hair all in a frowse ! 
 I guess he won t want to come again." 
 
 " I hope he won t," said Louisa, under her breath. She 
 was trembling all over. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 " NothinV 
 
 " I shouldn t think you d want to say anything, treatin 
 him that way, when he came over and brought all that 
 beautiful honey ! He was all dressed up, too. He had on 
 a real nice coat cloth jest as fine as it could be, an 1 it was 
 kinder damp when he come in. Then he dressed all up 
 to come over here this rainy night an bring this honey." 
 Mrs. Britton snatched the dish of honey and scudded into 
 the kitchen with it. " Sayin you didn t like honey after 
 he took all that pains to bring it over !" said she. " I d 
 said I liked it if I d lied up hill and down." She set the 
 dish in the pantry. " What in creation smells so kinder 
 strong an smoky in here ?" said she, sharply. 
 
 " I guess it s the herrin . I got two or three down to 
 the store." 
 
 " I d like to know what you got herrin for ?" 
 
 " I thought maybe you d relish em." 
 
394 LOUISA. 
 
 " I don t want no herrin s, now we ve got this honey. 
 But I don t know that you ve got money to throw away." She 
 shook the old man by the stove into partial wakefulness, 
 and steered him into his little bedroom off the kitchen. She 
 herself slept in one off the sitting-rooms ; Louisa s room was 
 up-stairs. 
 
 Louisa lighted her candle and went to bed, her mother s 
 scolding voice pursuing her like a wrathful spirit. She 
 cried when she was in bed in the dark, but she soon went 
 to sleep. She was too healthfully tired with her out-door 
 work not to. All her young bones ached with the strain 
 of manual labor as they had ached many a time this last 
 year since she had lost her school. 
 
 The Brittons had been and were in sore straits. All 
 they had in the world was this little house with the acre 
 of land. Louisa s meagre school money had bought their 
 food and clothing since her father died. Now it was al 
 most starvation for them. Louisa was struggling to wrest 
 a little sustenance from their stony acre of land, toiling like 
 a European peasant woman, sacrificing her New England 
 dignity. Lately she had herself split up a cord of wood 
 which she had bought of a neighbor, paying for it in instal 
 ments with work for his wife. 
 
 " Think of a school-teacher goin into Mis Mitchell s 
 house to help clean !" said her mother. 
 
 She, although she had been of poor, hard-working people 
 all her life, with the humblest surroundings, was a born aris 
 tocrat, with that fiercest and most bigoted aristocracy which 
 sometimes arises from independent poverty. She had the 
 feeling of a queen for a princess of the blood about her 
 school-teacher daughter ; her working in a neighbor s kitch 
 en was as galling and terrible to her. The projected mar- 
 
LOUISA. 395 
 
 riage with Jonathan Nye was like a royal alliance for the 
 good of the state. Jonathan Nye was the only eligible 
 young man in the place ; he was the largest land-owner ; 
 he had the best house. There were only himself and his 
 mother ; after her death the property would all be his. 
 Mrs. Nye was an older woman than Mrs. Britton, who for 
 got her own frailty in calculating their chances of life. 
 
 " Mis Nye is considerable over seventy," she said often 
 to herself; "an then Jonathan will have it all." 
 
 She saw herself installed in that large white house as 
 reigning dowager. All the obstacle was Louisa s obsti 
 nacy, which her mother could not understand. She could 
 see no fault in Jonathan Nye. So far as absolute approval 
 went, she herself was in love with him. There was no 
 more sense, to her mind, in Louisa s refusing him than 
 there would have been in a princess refusing the fairy prince 
 and spoiling the story. 
 
 " I d like to know what you ve got against him," she said 
 often to Louisa. 
 
 " I ain t got anything against him." 
 
 "Why don t you treat him different, then, I want to 
 know?" 
 
 " I don t like him." Louisa said " like " shamefacedly, 
 for she meant love, and dared not say it. 
 
 "Like! Well, I don t know nothin about such likin s 
 as some pretend to, an I don t want to. If I see anybody 
 is good an worthy, I like em, an that s all there is about it." 
 
 " I don t believe that s the way you felt about father," 
 said Louisa, softly, her young face flushed red. 
 
 "Yes, it was. I had some common-sense about it." 
 
 And Mrs. Britton believed it. Many hard middle-aged 
 years lay between her and her own love-time, and nothing 
 
396 LOUISA. 
 
 is so changed by distance as the realities of youth. She 
 believed herself to have been actuated by the same calm 
 reason in marrying young John Britton, who had had fair 
 prospects, which she thought should actuate her daughter 
 in marrying Jonathan Nye. 
 
 Louisa got no sympathy from her, but she persisted in 
 her refusal. She worked harder and harder. She did not 
 spare herself in doors or out. As the summer wore on her 
 face grew as sunburnt as a boy s, her hands were hard and 
 brown. When she put on her white dress to go to meeting 
 on a Sunday there was a white ring around her neck where 
 the sun had not touched it. Above it her face and neck 
 showed browner. Her sleeves were rather short, and there 
 were also white rings above her brown wrists. 
 
 " You look as if you were turnin Injun by inches," said 
 her mother. 
 
 Louisa, when she sat in the meeting-bouse, tried slyly to 
 pull her sleeves down to the brown on her wrists ; she gave 
 a little twitch to the ruffle around her neck. Then she 
 glanced across, and Jonathan Nye was looking at her. 
 She thrust her hands, in their short-wristed, loose cotton 
 gloves, as far out of the sleeves as she could ; her brown 
 wrists showed conspicuously on her white lap. She had 
 never heard of the princess who destroyed her beauty that 
 she might not be forced to wed the man whom she did not 
 love, but she had something of the same feeling, although 
 she did not have it for the sake of any tangible lover. Lou 
 isa had never seen anybody whom she would have preferred 
 to Jonathan Nye. There was no other marriageable young 
 man in the place. She had only her dreams, which she 
 had in common with other girls. 
 
 That Sunday evening before she went to meeting her 
 
LOUISA. 397 
 
 mother took some old wide lace out of her bureau drawer. 
 "There," said she, " I m goin to sew this in your neck an 
 sleeves before you put your dress on. It 11 cover up a little ; 
 it s wider than the ruffle." 
 
 " I don t want it in," said Louisa. 
 
 " I d like to know why not ? You look like a fright. I 
 was ashamed of you this mornin ." 
 
 Louisa thrust her arms into the white dress sleeves per 
 emptorily. Her mother did not speak to her all the way 
 to meeting. After meeting, Jonathan Nye walked home 
 with them, and Louisa kept on the other side of her mother. 
 He went into the house and stayed an hour. Mrs. Britton 
 entertained him, while Louisa sat silent. When he had 
 gone, she looked at her daughter as if she could have used 
 bodily force, but she said nothing. She shot the bolt of 
 the kitchen door noisily. Louisa lighted her candle. The 
 old man s loud breathing sounded from his room ; he had 
 been put to bed for safety before they went to meeting ; 
 through the open windows sounded the loud murmur of the 
 summer night, as if that, too, slept heavily. 
 
 "Good-night, mother," said Louisa, as she went up-stairs ; 
 but her mother did not answer. 
 
 The next day was very warm. This was an exception 
 ally hot summer. Louisa went out early ; her mother would 
 not ask her where she was going. She did not come home 
 until noon. Her face was burning ; her wet dress clung to 
 her arms and shoulders. 
 
 " Where have you been ?" asked her mother. 
 
 "Oh, I ve been out in the field." 
 
 " What field ?" 
 
 "Mr. Mitchell s." 
 
 " What have you been doin out there ?" 
 
398 LOUISA. 
 
 " Rakin hay." 
 
 " Rakin hay with the men ?" 
 
 "There wasn t anybody but Mr. Mitchell and Johnny. 
 Don t, mother !" 
 
 Mrs. Britton had turned white. She sank into a chair. 
 " I can t stan it nohow," she moaned. " All the daughter 
 I ve got." 
 
 " Don t, mother ! I ain t done any harm. What harm 
 is it ? Why can t I rake hay as well as a man ? Lots of 
 women do such things, if nobody round here does. He s 
 goin to pay me right off, and we need the money. Don t, 
 mother !" Louisa got a tumbler of water. " Here, mother, 
 drink this." 
 
 Mrs. Britton pushed it away. Louisa stood looking anx 
 iously at her. Lately her mother had grown thinner than 
 ever ; she looked scarcely bigger than a child. Presently 
 she got up and went to the stove. 
 
 " Don t try to do anything, mother ; let me finish getting 
 dinner," pleaded Louisa. She tried to take the pan of bis 
 cuits out of her mother s hands, but she jerked it away. 
 
 The old man was sitting on the door-step, huddled up 
 loosely in the sun, like an old dog. 
 
 " Come, father," Mrs. Britton called, in a dry voice, 
 " dinner s ready what there is of it !" 
 
 The old man shuffled in, smiling. 
 
 There was nothing for dinner but the hot biscuits and 
 tea. The fare was daily becoming more meagre. All Lou 
 isa s little hoard of school money was gone, and her earn 
 ings were very uncertain and slender. Their chief depend 
 ence for food through the summer was their garden, but 
 that had failed them in some respects. 
 
 One day the old man had come in radiant, with his shak- 
 
LOUISA. 399 
 
 ing hands full of potato blossoms ; his old eyes twinkled 
 over them like a mischievous child s. Reproaches were 
 useless ; the little potato crop was sadly damaged. Lately, 
 in spite of close watching, he had picked the squash blos 
 soms, piling them in a yellow mass beside the kitchen door. 
 Still, it was nearly time for the pease and beans and beets ; 
 they would keep them from starvation while they lasted. 
 
 But when they came, and Louisa could pick plenty of 
 green food every morning, there was still a difficulty : Mrs. 
 Britton s appetite and digestion were poor ; she could not 
 live upon a green-vegetable diet ; and the old man missed 
 his porridge, for the meal was all gone. 
 
 One morning in August he cried at the breakfast-table 
 like a baby, because he wanted his porridge, and Mrs. Brit- 
 ton pushed away her own plate with a despairing gesture. 
 
 " There ain t no use," said she. " I can t eat no more 
 garden-sauce nohow. I don t blame poor father a mite. 
 You ain t got no feelin at all." 
 
 " I don t know what I can do ; I ve worked as hard as I 
 can," said Louisa, miserably. 
 
 " I know what you can do, and so do you." 
 
 " No, I don t, mother," returned Louisa, with alacrity. 
 " He ain t been here for two weeks now, and I saw him 
 with my own eyes yesterday carryin a dish into the Mose- 
 lys , and I knew twas honey. I think he s after Ida." 
 
 " Carryin honey into the Moselys ? I don t believe it." 
 
 " He was ; I saw him." 
 
 " Well, I don t care if he was. If you re a mind to act 
 decent now, you can bring him round again. He was dead 
 set on you, an I don t believe he s changed round to that 
 Mosely girl as quick as this." 
 
 " You don t want me to ask him to come back here, do you ?" 
 
400 LOUISA. 
 
 " I want you to act decent. You can go to meetin to 
 night, if you re a mind to I sha n t go; I ain t got strength 
 nough an twouldn t hurt you none to hang hack a little 
 after meetin , and kind of edge round his way. Twouldn t 
 take more n a look." 
 
 " Mother !" 
 
 " Well, I don t care. Twouldn t hurt you none. It s 
 the way more n one girl does, whether you believe it or not. 
 Men don t do all the courtin not by a long shot. Twon t 
 hurt you none. You needn t look so scart." 
 
 Mrs. Britton s own face was a burning red. She looked 
 angrily away from her daughter s honest, indignant eyes. 
 
 " I wouldn t do such a thing as that for a man I liked," 
 said Louisa; "and I certainly sha n t for a man I don t 
 like." 
 
 " Then me an your grandfather 11 starve," said her moth 
 er ; " that s all there is about it. We can t neither of us 
 Stan it much longer." 
 
 " We could " 
 
 "Could what?" 
 
 " Put a little mortgage on the house." 
 
 Mrs. Britton faced her daughter. She trembled in every 
 inch of her weak frame. " Put a mortgage on this house, 
 an by-an -by not have a roof to cover us ! Are you crazy ? 
 I tell you what tis, Louisa Britton, we may starve, your 
 grandfather an me, an you can follow us to the graveyard 
 over there, but there s only one way I ll ever put a mort 
 gage on this house. If you have Jonathan Nye, I ll ask 
 him to take a little one to tide us along an get your wed- 
 din things." 
 
 " Mother, I ll tell you what I m goin to do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
LOUISA. 40I 
 
 " I am goin to ask Uncle Solomon." 
 
 "I guess when Solomon Mears does anythin for us 
 you ll know it. He never forgave your father about that 
 wood lot, an he s hated the whole of us ever since. When 
 I went to his wife s funeral he never answered when I spoke 
 to him. I guess if you go to him you ll take it out in 
 goin ." 
 
 Louisa said nothing more. She began clearing away the 
 breakfast dishes and setting the house to rights. Her 
 mother was actually so weak that she could scarcely stand, 
 and she recognized it. She had settled into the rocking- 
 chair, and leaned her head back. Her face looked pale 
 and sharp against the dark calico cover. 
 
 When the house was in order, Louisa stole up-stairs to 
 her own chamber. She put on her clean old blue muslin 
 and her hat, then she went slyly down and out the front 
 way. 
 
 It was seven miles to her uncle Solomon Mears s, and 
 she had made up her mind to walk them. She walked 
 quite swiftly until the house windows were out of sight, 
 then she slackened her pace a little. It was one of the 
 fiercest dog-days. A damp heat settled heavily down upon 
 the earth ; the sun scalded. 
 
 At the foot of the hill Louisa passed a house where one 
 of her girl acquaintances lived. She was going in the gate 
 with a pan of early apples. " Hullo, Louisa," she called. 
 
 " Hullo, Vinnie." 
 
 " Where you goin ?" 
 
 "Oh, I m goin a little way." 
 
 "Ain t it awful hot? Say, Louisa, do you know Ida 
 Mosely s cuttin you out ?" 
 
 " She s welcome." 
 26 
 
402 LOUISA. 
 
 The other girl, who was larger and stouter than Louisa, 
 with a sallow, unhealthy face, looked at her curiously. " I 
 don t see why you wouldn t have him," said she. " I should 
 have thought you d jumped at the chance." 
 
 " Should you if you didn t like him, I d like to know ?" 
 
 " I d like him if he had such a nice house and as much 
 money as Jonathan Nye," returned the other girl. 
 
 She offered Louisa some apples, and she went along the 
 road eating them. She herself had scarcely tasted food 
 that day. 
 
 It was about nine o clock ; she had risen early. She 
 calculated how many hours it would take her to walk the 
 seven miles. She walked as fast as she could to hold out. 
 The heat seemed to increase as the sun stood higher. She 
 had walked about three miles when she heard wheels be 
 hind her. Presently a team stopped at her side. 
 
 " Good-mornin ," said an embarrassed voice. 
 
 She looked around. It was Jonathan Nye, with his gray 
 horse and light wagon. 
 
 "Good-mornin , said she. 
 
 "Coin far?" 
 
 " A little ways." 
 
 "Won t you ride?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I guess I d rather walk." 
 
 Jonathan Nye nodded, made an inarticulate noise in his 
 throat, and drove on. Louisa watched the wagon bowling 
 lightly along. The dust flew back. She took out her 
 handkerchief and wiped her dripping face. 
 
 It was about noon when she came in sight of her uncle 
 Solomon Mears s house in Wolfsborough. It stood far back 
 from the road, behind a green expanse of untrodden yard. 
 The blinds on the great square front were all closed ; it 
 
LOUISA. 403 
 
 looked as if everybody were away. Louisa went around 
 to the side door. It stood wide open. There was a thin 
 blue cloud of tobacco smoke issuing from it. Solomon 
 Mears sat there in the large old kitchen smoking his pipe. 
 On the table near him was an empty bowl ; he had just 
 eaten his dinner of bread and milk. He got his own din 
 ner, for he had lived alone since his wife died. He looked 
 at Louisa. Evidently he did not recognize her. 
 
 " How do you do, Uncle Solomon ?" said Louisa. 
 
 "Oh, it s John Britton s daughter! How d ye do?" 
 
 He took his pipe out of his mouth long enough to speak, 
 then replaced it. His eyes, sharp under their shaggy brows, 
 were fixed on Louisa ; his broad bristling face had a look 
 of stolid rebuff like an ox ; his stout figure, in his soiled far 
 mer dress, surged over his chair. He sat full in the door 
 way. Louisa standing before him, the perspiration trick 
 ling over her burning face, set forth her case with a certain 
 dignity. This old man was her mother s nearest relative. 
 He had property and to spare. Should she survive him, 
 it would be hers, unless willed away. She, with her unso 
 phisticated sense of justice, had a feeling that he ought to 
 help hei*. 
 
 The old man listened. When she stopped speaking he 
 took the pipe out of his mouth slowly, and stared gloom 
 ily past her at his hay field, where the grass was now a green 
 stubble. 
 
 " I ain t got no money I can spare jest now," said he. 
 "I s pose you know your father cheated me out of con- 
 sider ble once ?" 
 
 " We don t care so much about money, if you have got 
 something you could spare to eat. We ain t got anything 
 but garden-stuff." 
 
404 LOUISA. 
 
 Solomon Mears still frowned past her at the hay field. 
 Presently he arose slowly and went across the kitchen. 
 Louisa sat down on the door-step and waited. Her uncle 
 was gone quite a while. She, too, stared over at the field, 
 which seemed to undulate like a lake in the hot light. 
 
 " Here s some things you can take, if you want em," said 
 her uncle, at her back. 
 
 She got up quickly. He pointed grimly to the kitchen 
 table. He was a deacon, an orthodox believer ; he recog 
 nized the claims of the poor, but he gave alms as a soldier 
 might yield up his sword. Benevolence was the result of 
 warfare with his own conscience. 
 
 On the table lay a ham, a bag of meal, one of flour, and 
 a basket of eggs. 
 
 " I m afraid I can t carry em all," said Louisa. 
 
 "Leave what you can t then." Solomon caught up his 
 hat and went out. He muttered something about not 
 spending any more time as he went. 
 
 Louisa stood looking at the packages. It was utterly 
 impossible for her to carry them all at once. She heard 
 her uncle shout to some oxen he was turning out of the 
 barn. She took up the bag of meal and the basket of eggs 
 and carried them out to the gate ; then she returned, got the 
 flour and ham, and went with them to a point beyond. Then 
 she returned for the meal and eggs, and carried them past 
 the others. In that way she traversed the seven miles home. 
 The heat increased. She had eaten nothing since morning 
 but the apples that her friend had given her. Her head was 
 swimming, but she kept on. Her resolution was as immov 
 able under the power of the sun as a rock. Once in a while 
 she rested for a moment under a tree, but she soon arose 
 and went on. It was like a pilgrimage, and the Mecca a* 
 
LOUISA. 405 
 
 the end of the burning, desert-like road was her own maiden 
 independence. 
 
 It was after eight o clock when she reached home. Her 
 mother stood in the doorway watching for her, straining her 
 eyes in the dusk. 
 
 " For goodness sake, Louisa Britton ! where have you 
 been ?" she began ; but Louisa laid the meal and eggs 
 down on the step. 
 
 " I ve got to go back a little ways," she panted. 
 
 When she returned with the flour and ham, she could 
 hardly get into the house. She laid them on the kitchen 
 table, where her mother had put the other parcels, and sank 
 into a chair. 
 
 " Is this the way you ve brought all these things home?" 
 asked her mother. 
 
 Louisa nodded. 
 
 "All the way from Uncle Solomon s?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her mother went to her and took her hat off. "It s a 
 mercy if you ain t got a sunstroke," said she, with a sharp 
 tenderness. " I ve got somethin to tell you. What do you 
 s pose has happened ? Mr. Mosely has been here, an he 
 wants you to take the school again when it opens next week. 
 He says Ida ain t very well, but I guess that ain t it. They 
 think she s goin to get somebody. Mis Mitchell says so. 
 She s been in. She says he s carryin things over there the 
 whole time, but she don t b lieve there s anything settled 
 yet. She says they feel so sure of it they re goin to have 
 Ida give the school up. I told her I thought Ida would 
 make him a good wife, an she was easier suited than some 
 girls. What do you s pose Mis Mitchell says ? She says 
 old Mis Nye told her that there was one thing: about it : if 
 
4 o6 LOUISA. 
 
 Jonathan had you, he waVt goin to have me an father 
 hitched on to him ; he d look out for that. I told Mis 
 Mitchell that I guess there wa n t none of us willin to hitch, 
 you nor anybody else. I hope she ll tell Mis Nye. Now I m 
 a-goin to turn you out a tumbler of milk Mis Mitchell she 
 brought over a whole pitcherful ; says she s got more n they 
 can use they ain t got no pig now an then you go an* 
 lay down on the sittin -room lounge, an cool off; an I ll 
 stir up some porridge for supper, an boil some eggs. Fa 
 ther 11 be tickled to death. Go right in there. I m dread 
 ful afraid you ll be sick. I never heard of anybody doin 
 such a thing as you have." 
 
 Louisa drank the milk and crept into the sitting-room. 
 It was warm and close there, so she opened the front door 
 and sat down on the step. The twilight was deep, but there 
 was a clear yellow glow in the west. One great star had 
 come out in the midst of it. A dewy coolness was spread 
 ing over everything. The air was full of bird calls and 
 children s voices. Now and then there was a shout of laugh 
 ter. Louisa leaned her head against the door-post. 
 
 The house was quite near the road. Some one passed 
 a man carrying a basket. Louisa glanced at him, and 
 recognized Jonathan Nye by his gait. He kept on down 
 the road toward the Moselys , and Louisa turned again from 
 him to her sweet, mysterious, girlish dreams. 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 "I NEVER heard of a woman s bein saxton." 
 " I dun know what difference that makes; I don t see why 
 they shouldn t have women saxtons as well as men saxtons, 
 for my part, nor nobody else neither. They d keep dusted 
 nough sight cleaner. I ve seen the dust layin on my pew 
 thick enough to write my name in a good many times, an 
 ain t said nothin about it. An I ain t goin to say nothin 
 now again Joe Sowen, now he s dead an gone. He did jest 
 as well as most men do. Men git in a good many places 
 where they don t belong, an where they set as awkward as 
 a cow on a hen-roost, jest because they push in ahead of 
 women. I ain t blamin em ; I s pose if I could push in I 
 should, jest the same way. But there ain t no reason that I 
 can see, nor nobody else neither, why a woman shouldn t be 
 saxton." 
 
 Hetty Fifield stood in the rowen hay-field before Caleb 
 Gale. He was a deacon, the chairman of the selectmen, 
 and the rich and influential man of the village. One look 
 ing at him would not have guessed it. There was nothing 
 imposing about his lumbering figure in his calico shirt and 
 baggy trousers. However, his large face, red and moist 
 with perspiration, scanned the distant horizon with a stiff 
 and reserved air ; he did not look at Hetty. 
 
408 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 " How d you go to work to ring the bell ?" said he. " It 
 would have to be tolled, too, if anybody died." 
 
 " I d jest as lief ring that little meetin -house bell as to 
 Stan out here an jingle a cow-bell," said Hetty; "an* as 
 for tollin , I d jest as soon toll the bell for Methusaleh, if he 
 was livin here ! I d laugh if I ain t got strength nough for 
 that." 
 
 " It takes a kind ot a knack." 
 
 " If I ain t got as much knack as old Joe Sowen ever had, 
 I ll give up the ship." 
 
 " You couldn t tend the fires." 
 
 " Couldn t tend the fires when I ve cut an carried in all 
 the wood I ve burned for forty year ! Couldn t keep the 
 fires a-goin in them two little wood-stoves !" 
 
 " It s consider ble work to sweep the meetin -house." 
 
 " I guess I ve done bout as much work as to sweep that 
 little meetin -house, I ruther guess I have." 
 
 " There s one thing you ain t thought of." 
 
 " What s that ?" 
 
 "Where d you live? All old Sowen got for bein saxton 
 was twentj r dollar a year, an we couldn t pay a woman so 
 much as that. You wouldn t have enough to pay for your 
 livin anywheres." 
 
 " Where am I goin to live whether I m saxton or not ?" 
 
 Caleb Gale was silent. 
 
 There was a wind blowing, the rowen hay drifted round 
 Hetty like a brown-green sea touched with ripples of blue 
 and gold by the asters and golden-rod. She stood in the 
 midst of it like a May-weed that had gathered a slender 
 toughness through the long summer; her brown cotton 
 gown clung about her like a wilting leaf, outlining her harsh 
 iittle form. She was as sallow as a squaw, and she had 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 409 
 
 pretty black eyes ; they were bright, although she was old. 
 She kept them fixed upon Caleb. Suddenly she raised her 
 self upon her toes ; the wind caught her dress and made it 
 blow out ; her eyes flashed. " I ll tell you where I m goin 
 to live," said she. "I m goin to live in the meetirt- house." 
 
 Caleb looked at her. " Goin to live in the meetin -house /" 
 
 " Yes, I be." 
 
 " Live in the meetin -house !" 
 
 " I d like to know why not." 
 
 "Why you couldn t live in the meetin -house. You re 
 crazy." 
 
 Caleb flung out the rake which he was holding, and drew 
 it in full of rowen. Hetty moved around in front of him, 
 he raked imperturbably ; she moved again right in the path 
 of the rake, then he stopped. " There ain t no sense in such 
 talk." 
 
 " All I want is jest the east corner of the back galPry, 
 where the chimbly goes up. I ll set up my cookin -stove 
 there, an my bed, an I ll curtain it off with my sunflower 
 quilt, to keep off the wind." 
 
 " A cookin -stove an a bed in the meetin -house !" 
 
 " Mis Grout she give me that cookin -stove, an that bed 
 I ve allers slept on, before she died. She give em to me 
 before Mary Anne Thomas, an I moved em out. They air 
 settin out in the yard now, an if it rains that stove an that 
 bed will be spoilt. It looks some like rain now. I guess 
 you d better give me the meetin -house key right off." 
 
 "You don t think you can move that cookin -stove an 
 that bed into the meetin -house I ain t goin to stop to 
 hear such talk." 
 
 " My worsted-work, all my mottoes I ve done, an my 
 wool flowers, air out there in the yard." 
 
4 io A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 Caleb raked. Hetty kept standing herself about until he 
 was forced to stop, or gather her in with the rowen hay. He 
 looked straight at her, and scowled ; the perspiration trickled 
 down his cheeks. " If I go up to the house can Mis Gale 
 git me the key to the meetin -house ?" said Hetty. 
 
 " No, she can t." 
 
 "Be you goin up before long?" 
 
 "No, I ain t." Suddenly Caleb s voice changed : it had 
 been full of stubborn vexation, now it was blandly argu 
 mentative. " Don t you see it ain t no use talkin such non 
 sense, Hetty? You d better go right along, an make up 
 your mind it ain t to be thought of." 
 
 " Where be I goin to-night, then ?" 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "Yes; where be I a-goin ?" 
 
 " Ain t you got any place to go to ?" 
 
 " Where do you s pose I ve got any place ? Them folks 
 air movin into Mis Grout s house, an they as good as told 
 me to clear out. I ain t got no folks to take me in. I 
 dun know where I m goin ; mebbe I can go to your house ?" 
 
 Caleb gave a start. " We ve got company to home," said 
 he, hastily. " I m fraid Mis Gale wouldn t think it was 
 convenient." 
 
 Hetty laughed. " Most everybody in the town has got 
 company," said she. 
 
 Caleb dug his rake into the ground as if it were a hoe, 
 then he leaned on it, and stared at the horizon. There was 
 a fringe of yellow birches on the edge of the hay-field ; be 
 yond them was a low range of misty blue hills. " You ain t 
 got no place to go to, then ?" 
 
 " I dun know of any. There ain t no poor-house here, an* 
 I ain t got no folks." 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 411 
 
 Caleb stood like a statue. Some crows flew cawing over 
 the field. Hetty waited. " I s pose that key is where Mis 
 Gale can find it?" she said, finally. 
 
 Caleb turned and threw out his rake with a jerk. " She 
 knows where tis ; it s hangin up behind the settin -room 
 door. I s pose you can stay there to-night, as long as you ain t 
 got no other place. We shall have to see what can be done." 
 
 Hetty scuttled off across the field. " You mustn t take 
 no stove nor bed into the meetin -house," Caleb called after 
 tier ; " we can t have that, nohow." 
 
 Hetty went on as if she did not hear. 
 
 The golden-rod at the sides of the road was turning 
 brown ; the asters were in their prime, blue and white ones ; 
 here and there were rows of thistles with white tops. The 
 dust was thick ; Hetty, when she emerged from Caleb s 
 house, trotted along in a cloud of it. She did not look to 
 the right or left, she kept her small eager face fixed straight 
 ahead, and moved forward like some little animal with thte 
 purpose to which it was born strong within it. 
 
 Presently she came to a large cottage-house on the right 
 of the road ; there she stopped. The front yard was full of 
 furniture, tables and chairs standing among the dahlias and 
 clumps of marigolds. Hetty leaned over the fence at one 
 corner of the yard, and inspected a little knot of household 
 goods set aside from the others. There were a small cook 
 ing-stove, a hair trunk, a yellow bedstead stacked up against 
 the fence, and a pile of bedding. Some children in the yard 
 stood in a group and eyed Hetty. A woman appeared in 
 the door she was small, there was a black smutch on her 
 face, which was haggard with fatigue, and she scowled in 
 the sun as she looked over at Hetty. " Well, got a place to 
 stay in ?" said she, in an unexpectedly deep voice. 
 
4 i2 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 " Yes, I guess so," replied Hetty. 
 
 " I dun know how in the world I can have you. All the 
 beds will be full I expect his mother some to-night, an 
 I m dreadful stirred up anyhow." 
 
 " Everybody s havin company ; I never see anything like 
 it." Hetty s voice was inscrutable. The other woman 
 looked sharply at her. 
 
 " You ve got a place, ain t you ?" she asked, doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 At the left of this house, quite back from the road, was a 
 little unpainted cottage, hardly more than a hut. There 
 was smoke coming out of the chimney, and a tall youth 
 lounged in the door. Hetty, with the woman and children 
 staring after her, struck out across the field in the little foot 
 path towards the cottage. " I wonder if she s goin to stay 
 there ?" the woman muttered, meditating. 
 
 The youth did not see Hetty until she was quite near 
 him, then he aroused suddenly as if from sleep, and tried 
 to slink off around the cottage. But Hetty called after him. 
 " Sammy," she cried, " Sammy, come back here, I want you !" 
 
 "What d ye want?" 
 
 " Come back here !" 
 
 The youth lounged back sulkily, and a tall woman came 
 to the door. She bent out of it anxiously to hear Hetty. 
 
 " I want you to come an help me move my stove an 
 things," said Hetty. 
 
 " Where to ?" 
 
 " Into the meetin -house." 
 
 * The meetin -house ?" 
 
 "Yes, the meetin -house." 
 
 The woman in the door had sodden hands ; behind her 
 arose the steam of a wash-tub. She and the youth stared 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 413 
 
 at Hetty, but surprise was too strong an emotion for them 
 to grasp firmly. 
 
 " I want Sammy to come right over an help me," said 
 Hetty. 
 
 " He ain t strong enough to move a stove," said the 
 woman. 
 
 " Ain t strong enough !" 
 
 " He s apt to git lame." 
 
 "Most folks are. Guess I ve got lame. Come right 
 along, Sammy !" 
 
 " He ain t able to lift much." 
 
 " I s pose he s able to be lifted, ain t he ?" 
 
 " I dun know what you mean." 
 
 "The stove don t weigh nothin ," said Hetty; "I could 
 carry it myself if I could git hold of it. Come, Sam 
 my !" 
 
 Hetty turned down the path, and the youth moved a 
 little way after her, as if perforce. Then he stopped, and 
 cast an appealing glance back at his mother. Her face 
 was distressed. "Oh, Sammy, I m afraid you ll git sick," 
 said she. 
 
 "No, he ain t goin to git sick," said Hetty. "Come, 
 Sammy." And Sammy followed her down the path. 
 
 It was four o clock then. At dusk Hetty had her gay 
 sunflower quilt curtaining off the chimney-corner of the 
 church gallery ; her stove and little bedstead were set up, 
 and she had entered upon a life which endured successfully 
 for three months. All that time a storm brewed ; then it 
 broke ; but Hetty sailed in her own course for the three 
 months. 
 
 It was on a Saturday that she took up her habitation in 
 the meeting-house. The next morning, when the boy who 
 
4 i 4 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 had been supplying the dead sexton s place came and shook 
 the door, Hetty was prompt on the other side. " Deacon 
 Gale said for you to let me in so I could ring the bell," 
 called the boy. 
 
 "Go away," responded Hetty. "I m goin to ring the 
 bell; I m saxton." 
 
 Hetty rang the bell with vigor, but she made a wild, irreg 
 ular jangle at first; at the last it was better. The village 
 people said to each other that a new hand was ringing. 
 Only a few knew that Hetty was in the meeting-house. 
 When the congregation had assembled, and saw that gaudy 
 tent pitched in the house of the Lord, and the resolute 
 little pilgrim at the door of it, there was a commotion. 
 The farmers and their wives were stirred out of their Sab 
 bath decorum. After the service was over, Hetty, sitting 
 in a pew corner of the gallery, her little face dark and 
 watchful against the flaming background of her quilt, saw 
 the people below gathering in groups, whispering, and look 
 ing at her. 
 
 Presently the minister, Caleb Gale, and the other deacon 
 came up the gallery stairs. Hetty sat stiffly erect. Caleb 
 Gale went up to the sunflower quilt, slipped it aside, and 
 looked in. He turned to Hetty with a frown. To-day his 
 dignity was supported by important witnesses. " Did you 
 bring that stove an bedstead here ?" 
 
 Hetty nodded. 
 
 "What made you do such a thing?" 
 
 " What was I goin to do if I didn t ? How s a woman 
 as old as me goin to sleep in a pew, an go without a cup 
 of tea ?" 
 
 The men looked at each other. They withdrew to an 
 other corner of the gallery and conferred in low tones ^ 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 415 
 
 then they went down-stairs and out of the church. Hetty 
 smiled when she heard the door shut. When one is hard 
 pressed, one, however simple, gets wisdom as to vantage- 
 points. Hetty comprehended hers perfectly. She was the 
 propounder of a problem ; as long as It was unguessed, she 
 was sure of her foothold as propounder. This little village 
 in which she had lived all her life had removed the shelter 
 from her head ; she being penniless, it was beholden to 
 provide her another; she asked it what. When the old 
 woman with whom she had lived died, the town promptly 
 seized the estate for taxes none had been paid for years. 
 Hetty had not laid up a cent; indeed, for the most of the 
 time she had received no wages. There had been no money 
 in the house ; all she had gotten for her labor for a sickly, 
 impecunious old woman was a frugal board. When the 
 old woman died, Hetty gathered in the few household arti 
 cles for which she had stipulated, and made no complaint. 
 She walked out of the house when the new tenants came 
 in ; all she asked was, " What are you going to do with 
 me ?" This little settlement of narrow-minded, prosperous 
 farmers, however hard a task charity might be to them, 
 eould not turn an old woman out into the fields and high 
 ways to seek for food as they would a Jersey cow. They 
 had their Puritan consciences, and her note of distress 
 would sound louder in their ears than the Jersey s bell 
 echoing down the valley in the stillest night. But the 
 question as to Hetty Fifield s disposal was a hard one to 
 answer. There was no almshouse in the village, and no 
 private family was willing to take her in. Hetty was strong 
 and capable ; although she was old, she could well have 
 paid for her food and shelter by her labor ; but this could 
 not secure her an entrance even among this hard-working 
 
416 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 and thrifty people, who would ordinarily grasp quickly 
 enough at service without wage in dollars and cents. Hetty 
 had somehow gotten for herself an unfortunate name in 
 the village. She was held in the light of a long-thorned 
 brier among the beanpoles, or a fierce little animal with 
 claws and teeth bared. People were afraid to take her into 
 their families ; she had the reputation of always taking her 
 own way, and never heeding the voice of authority. " I d 
 take her in an have her give me a lift with the work," said 
 one sickly farmer s wife ; " but, near s I can find out, I 
 couldn t never be sure that I d get molasses in the beans, 
 nor saleratus in my sour-milk cakes, if she took a notion 
 not to put it in. I don t dare to risk it." 
 
 Stories were about concerning Hetty s authority over the 
 old woman with whom she had lived. " Old Mis Grout 
 never dared to say her soul was her own," people said. 
 Then Hetty s sharp, sarcastic sayings were repeated ; the 
 justice of them made them sting. People did not want a 
 tongue like that in their homes. 
 
 Hetty as a church sexton was directly opposed to all 
 their ideas of church decorum and propriety in general ; 
 her pitching her tent in the Lord s house was almost sacri 
 lege ; but what could they do? Hetty jangled the Sabbath 
 bells for the three months ; once she tolled the bell for an 
 old man, and it seemed by the sound of the bell as if his 
 long, calm years had swung by in a weak delirium ; but 
 people bore it. She swept and dusted the little meeting 
 house, and she garnished the walls with her treasures of 
 worsted-work. The neatness and the garniture went far to 
 quiet the dissatisfaction of the people. They had a crude 
 taste. Hetty s skill in fancy-work was quite celebrated. 
 Her wool flowers were much talked of, and young girls 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 4 ! 7 
 
 tried to copy them. So these wreaths and clusters of red 
 and blue and yellow wool roses and lilies hung as accepta 
 bly between the meeting-house windows as pictures of saints 
 in a cathedral. 
 
 Hetty hung a worsted motto over the pulpit ; on it she 
 set her chiefest treasure of art, a white wax cross with an 
 ivy vine trailing over it, all covered with silver frost-work. 
 Hetty always surveyed this cross with a species of awe ; she 
 felt the irresponsibility and amazement of a genius at his 
 own work. 
 
 When she set it on the pulpit, no queen casting her rich 
 robes and her jewels upon a shrine could have surpassed 
 her in generous enthusiasm. " I guess when they see that 
 they won t say no more," she said. 
 
 But the people, although they shared Hetty s admiration 
 for the cross, were doubtful. They, looking at it, had a 
 double vision of a little wax Virgin upon an altar. They 
 wondered if it savored of popery. But the cross remained, 
 and the minister was mindful not to jostle it in his gestures. 
 
 It was three months from the time Hetty took up her 
 abode in the church, and a week before Christmas, when 
 the problem was solved. Hetty herself precipitated the 
 solution. She prepared a boiled dish in the meeting-house, 
 upon a Saturday, and the next day the odors of turnip and 
 cabbage were strong in the senses of the worshippers. They 
 sniffed and looked at one another. This superseding the 
 legitimate savor of the sanctuary, the fragrance of pepper 
 mint lozenges and wintergreen, the breath of Sunday clothes, 
 by the homely week-day odors of kitchen vegetables, was too 
 much for the sensibilities of the people. They looked in 
 dignantly around at Hetty, sitting before her sunflower 
 hanging, comfortable from her good dinner of the day be 
 ar 
 
4i 8 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 fore, radiant with the consciousness of a great plateful of 
 cold vegetables in her tent for her Sabbath dinner. 
 
 Poor Hetty had not many comfortable dinners. The se 
 lectmen doled out a small weekly sum to her, which she 
 took with dignity as being her hire ; then she had a mild 
 forage in the neighbors cellars and kitchens, of poor apples 
 and stale bread and pie, paying for it in teaching her art of 
 worsted-work to the daughters. Her Saturday s dinner had 
 been a banquet to her: she had actually bought a piece of 
 pork to boil with the vegetables ; somebody had given her 
 a nice little cabbage and some turnips, without a thought of 
 the limitations of her housekeeping. Hetty herself had not 
 a thought. She made the fires as usual that Sunday morn 
 ing ; the meeting-house was very clean, there was not a 
 speck of dust anywhere, the wax cross on the pulpit glis 
 tened in a sunbeam slanting through the house. Hetty, 
 sitting in the gallery, thought innocently how nice it looked. 
 
 After the meeting, Caleb Gale approached the other dea 
 con. " Somethin s got to be done," said he. And the other 
 deacon nodded. He had not smelt the cabbage until his 
 wife nudged him and mentioned it ; neither had Caleb Gale. 
 
 In the afternoon of the next Thursday, Caleb and the 
 Other two selectmen waited upon Hetty in her tabernacle. 
 They stumped up the gallery stairs, and Hetty emerged 
 from behind the quilt and stood looking at them scared 
 and defiant. The three men nodded stiffly; there was a 
 pause ; Caleb Gale motioned meaningly to one of the oth 
 ers, who shook his head ; finally he himself had to speak. 
 " I m fraid you find it pretty cold here, don t you, Hetty ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " No, thank ye ; it s very comfortable," replied Hetty, po 
 lite and wary. 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 " It ain t very convenient for you to do your cookin* here, 
 I guess." 
 
 " It s jest as convenient as I want. I don t find no fault" 
 
 " I guess it s rayther lonesome here nights, ain t it ?" 
 
 " I d nough sight ruther be alone than have comp ny, any 
 day." 
 
 " It ain t fit for an old woman like you to be livin alone 
 here this way." 
 
 " Well, I dun know of anything that s any fitter ; mebbe 
 you do." 
 
 Caleb looked appealingly at his companions ; they stood 
 stiff and irresponsive. Hetty s eyes were sharp and watch 
 ful upon them all. 
 
 " Well, Hetty," said Caleb, " we ve found a nice, comforta 
 ble place for you, an I guess you d better pack up your 
 things, an I ll carry you right over there." Caleb stepped 
 back a little closer to the other men. Hetty, small and 
 trembling and helpless before them, looked vicious. She 
 was like a little animal driven from its cover, for whom there 
 is nothing left but desperate warfare and death. 
 
 " Where to ?" asked Hetty. Her voice shrilled up into a 
 squeak. 
 
 Caleb hesitated. He looked again at the other selectmen. 
 There was a solemn, far-away expression upon their faces. 
 " Well," said he, " Mis Radway wants to git somebody, 
 an " 
 
 " You ain t goin to take me to that woman s !" 
 
 " You d be real comfortable " 
 
 " I ain t goin ." 
 
 "Now, why not, I d like to know?" 
 
 " I don t like Susan Radway, hain t never liked her, an* 
 I ain t goin to live with her." 
 
420 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 " Mis Radway s a good Christian woman. You hadn t 
 ought to speak that way about her." 
 
 " You know what Susan Radway is, jest as well s I do ; an 
 everybody else does too. I ain t goin a step, an you might 
 jest as well make up your mind to it." 
 
 Then Hetty seated herself in the corner of the pew near* 
 est her tent, and folded her hands in her lap. She looked 
 over at the pulpit as if she were listening to preaching. She 
 panted, and her eyes glittered, but she had an immovable 
 air. 
 
 " Now, Hetty, you ve got sense enough to know you can t 
 stay here," said Caleb. " You d better put on your bon 
 net, an come right along before dark. You ll have a nice 
 ride." 
 
 Hetty made no response. 
 
 The three men stood looking at her. " Come, Hetty," 
 said Caleb, feebly ; and another selectman spoke. " Yes, 
 you d better come," he said, in a mild voice. 
 
 Hetty continued to stare at the pulpit 
 
 The three men withdrew a little and conferred. They 
 did not know how to act. This was a new emergency in 
 their simple, even lives. They were not constables ; these 
 three steady, sober old men did not want to drag an old 
 woman by main force out of the meeting-house, and thrust 
 her into Caleb Gale s buggy as if it were a police wagon. 
 
 Finally Caleb brightened. " I ll go over an git mother," 
 said he. He started with a brisk air, and went down the 
 gallery stairs ; the others followed. They took up their 
 stand in the meeting-house yard, and Caleb got into his 
 buggy and gathered up the reins. The wind blew cold 
 over the hill. " Hadn t you better go inside and wait out 
 of the wind ?" said Caleb. 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 421 
 
 "I guess we ll wait out here," replied one ; and the othef 
 nodded. 
 
 " Well, I sha n t be gone long," said Caleb. " Mother ll 
 know how to manage her." He drove carefully down the 
 hill ; his buggy wings rattled in the wind. The other men 
 pulled up their coat collars, and met the blast stubbornly. 
 
 " Pretty ticklish piece of business to tackle," said one, in 
 a low grunt. 
 
 " That s so," assented the other. Then they were silent, 
 and waited for Caleb. Once in a while they stamped their 
 feet and slapped their mittened hands. They did not hear 
 Hetty slip the bolt and turn the key of the meeting-house 
 door, nor see her peeping at them from a gallery window. 
 
 Caleb returned in twenty minutes ; he had not fa* to go. 
 His wife, stout and handsome and full of vigor, sat beside 
 him in the buggy. Her face was red with the cold wind ; 
 her thick cashmere shawl was pinned tightly over her broad 
 bosom. " Has she come down yet?" she called out, in an 
 imperious way. 
 
 The two selectmen shook their heads. Caleb kept the 
 horse quiet while his wife got heavily and briskly out of the 
 buggy. She went up the meeting-house steps, and reached 
 out confidently to open the door. Then she drew back and 
 looked around. " Why," said she, " the door s locked ; she s 
 locked the door. I call this pretty work !" 
 
 She turned again quite fiercely, and began beating on the 
 door. " Hetty !" she called ; " Hetty, Hetty Fifield ! Let 
 me in ! What have you locked this door for ?" 
 
 She stopped and turned to her husband. 
 
 "Don t you s pose the barn key would unlock it?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " I don t b lieve twould." 
 
422 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 "Well, you d better go home and fetch it." 
 
 Caleb again drove down the hill, and the other men 
 searched their pockets for keys. One had the key of his 
 corn-house, and produced it hopefully ; but it would not un 
 lock the meeting-house door. 
 
 A crowd seldom gathered in the little village for anything 
 short of a fire ; but to-day in a short time quite a number 
 of people stood on the meeting-house hill, and more kept 
 coming. When Caleb Gale returned with the barn key his 
 daughter, a tall, pretty young girl, sat beside him, her little 
 face alert and smiling in her red hood. The other select 
 men s wives toiled eagerly up the hill, with a young daugh 
 ter of one of them speeding on ahead. Then the two young 
 girls stood close to each other and watched the proceedings. 
 Key after key was tried ; men brought all the large keys 
 they could find, running importantly up the hill, but none 
 would unlock the meeting-house door. After Caleb had 
 tried the last available key, stooping and screwing it anx 
 iously, he turned around. "There ain t no use in it, any 
 way," said he ; " most likely the door s bolted." 
 
 " You don t mean there s a bolt on that door ?" cried his 
 wife. 
 
 "Yes, there is." 
 
 " Then you might jest as well have tore round for hen s 
 feathers as keys. Of course she s bolted it if she s got any 
 wit, an I guess she s got most as much as some of you men 
 that have been bringin keys. Try the windows." 
 
 But the windows were fast. Hetty had made her sacred 
 castle impregnable except to violence. Either the door 
 would have to be forced or a window broken to gain an 
 entrance. 
 
 The people conferred with one another. Some were for 
 
A CHURCH MOUSE. 423 
 
 retreating, and leaving Hetty in peaceful possession until 
 time drove her to capitulate. " She ll open it to-morrow," 
 they said. Others were for extreme measures, and their im 
 petuosity gave them the lead. The project of forcing the 
 door was urged ; one man started for a crow-bar. 
 
 " They are a parcel of fools to do such a thing," said 
 Caleb Gale s wife to another woman. " Spoil that good 
 door ! They d better leave the poor thing alone till to-mor 
 row. I dun know what s goin to be done with her when they 
 git in. I ain t goin to have father draggin her over to Mis 
 Radway s by the hair of her head." 
 
 " That s jest what I say," returned the other woman. 
 
 Mrs. Gale went up to Caleb and nudged him. " Don t 
 you let them break that door down, father," said she. 
 
 " Well, well, we ll see," Caleb replied. He moved away 
 a little ; his wife s voice had been drowned out lately by a 
 masculine clamor, and he took advantage of it. 
 
 All the people talked at once ; the wind was keen, and 
 all their garments fluttered ; the two young girls had their 
 arms around each other under their shawls ; the man with 
 the crow-bar came stalking up the hill. 
 
 " Don t you let them break down that door, father," said 
 Mrs. Gale. 
 
 "Well, well," grunted Caleb. 
 
 Regardless of remonstrances, the man set the crow-bar 
 against the door ; suddenly there was a cry, " There she is !" 
 Everybody looked up. There was Hetty looking out of a 
 gallery window. 
 
 Everybody was still. Hetty began to speak. Her dark 
 old face, peering out of the window, looked ghastly ; the 
 wind blew her poor gray locks over it. She extended her 
 little wrinkled hands. "Jest let me say one word," said 
 
4 2 4 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 she ; "jest one word." Her voice shook. All her cowl- 
 ness was gone. The magnitude of her last act of defiance 
 had caused it to react upon herself like an overloaded gun. 
 
 " Say all you want to, Hetty, an don t be afraid," Mrs. 
 Gale called out. 
 
 " I jest want to say a word," repeated Hetty. " Can t I 
 stay here, nohow ? It don t seem as if I could go to Mis 
 Radway s. I ain t nothin again her. I s pose she s a 
 good woman, but she s used to havin her own way, and 
 I ve been livin all my life with them that was, an I ve had 
 to fight to keep a footin on the earth, an now I m gittin 
 too old for t. If I can jest stay here in the meetin -house, 
 I won t ask for nothin any better. I sha n t need much to 
 keep me, I wa n t never a hefty eater; an I ll keep the 
 meetin -house jest as clean as I know how. An I ll make 
 some more of them wool flowers. I ll make a wreath to 
 go the whole length of the gallery, if I can git wool nough. 
 Won t you let me stay ? I ain t complainin , but I ve always 
 had a dretful hard time ; seems as if now I might take a 
 little comfort the last of it, if I could stay here. I can t go 
 to Mis Radway s nohow." Hetty covered her face with 
 her hands ; her words ended in a weak wail. 
 
 Mrs. Gale s voice rang out clear and strong and irre 
 pressible. " Of course you can stay in the meetin -house," 
 said she ; " I should laugh if you couldn t. Don t you worry 
 another mite about it. You sha n t go one step to Mis 
 Radway s ; you couldn t live a day with her. You can stay 
 jest where you are ; you ve kept the meetin -house enough 
 sight cleaner than I ve ever seen it. Don t you worry an 
 other mite, Hetty." 
 
 Mrs. Gale stood majestically, and looked defiantly around \ 
 tears were in her eyes. Another woman edged up to her. 
 
A CHUR CH MO USE. 425 
 
 " Why couldn t she have that little room side of the pulpit, 
 where the minister hangs his hat ?" she whispered. " He 
 could hang it somewhere else." 
 
 " Course she could," responded Mrs. Gale, with alacrity, 
 "jest as well as not. The minister can have a hook in the 
 entry for his hat. She can have her stove an her bed in 
 there, an be jest as comfortable as can be. I should laugh 
 if she couldn t. Don t you worry, Hetty." 
 
 The crowd gradually dispersed, sending out stragglers 
 down the hill until it was all gone. Mrs. Gale waited until 
 the last, sitting in the buggy in state. When her husband 
 gathered up the reins, she called back to Hetty: "Don t 
 you worry one mite more about it, Hetty. I m comin up 
 to see you in the mornin !" 
 
 It was almost dusk when Caleb drove down the hill ; he 
 was the last of the besiegers, and the feeble garrison was 
 left triumphant. 
 
 The next day but one was Christmas, the next night 
 Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve Hetty had reached 
 what to her was the flood-tide of peace and prosperity. 
 Established in that small, lofty room, with her bed and her 
 stove, with gifts of a rocking-chair and table, and a goodly 
 store of food, with no one to molest or disturb her, she had 
 nothing to wish for on earth. All her small desires were 
 satisfied. No happy girl could have a merrier Christmas 
 than this old woman with her little measure full of gifts. 
 That Christmas Eve Hetty lay down under her sunflower 
 quilt, and all her old hardships looked dim in the distance, 
 like far-away hills, while her new joys came out like stars. 
 
 She was a light sleeper ; the next morning she was up 
 early. She opened the meeting-house door and stood look 
 ing out. The smoke from the village chimneys had not 
 
426 A CHURCH MOUSE. 
 
 yet begun to rise blue and rosy in the clear frosty air. 
 There was no snow, but over all the hill there was a silver 
 rime of frost ; the bare branches of the trees glistened. 
 Hetty stood looking. " Why, it s Christmas mornin ," she 
 said, suddenly. Christmas had never been a gala-day to 
 this old woman. Christmas had not been kept at all in 
 this New England village when she was young. She was 
 led to think of it now only in connection with the dinner 
 Mrs. Gale had promised to bring her to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Gale had told her she should have some of her 
 Christmas dinner, some turkey and plum-pudding. She 
 called it to mind now with a thrill of delight. Her face 
 grew momentarily more radiant. There was a certain 
 beauty in it. A finer morning light than that which lit up 
 the wintry earth seemed to shine over the furrows of her 
 old face. " I m goin to have turkey an plum-puddin to 
 day," said she ; " it s Christmas." Suddenly she started, 
 and went into the meeting-house, straight up the gallery 
 stairs. There in a clear space hung the bell-rope. Hetty 
 grasped it. Never before had a Christmas bell been rung 
 in this village ; Hetty had probably never heard of Christ 
 mas bells. She was prompted by pure artless enthusiasm 
 and grateful happiness. Her old arms pulled on the rope 
 with a will, the bell sounded peal on peal. Down in the 
 village, curtains rolled up, letting in the morning light, 
 happy faces looked out of the windows. Hetty had awak 
 ened the whole village to Christmas Day. 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 BACK of the kitchen proper in the Lee house there was 
 another shed-kitchen, unplastered and unpainted, that was 
 used for rough work like soap-boiling and washing. Each 
 kitchen had its own door opening directly into the green 
 yard on the north side of the house. 
 
 Abel Lee sat in the door of the back kitchen cleaning 
 dandelion greens. His long limbs in stiff blue cotton 
 overalls sprawled down over the low wooden step into the 
 grass. His white head showed out against the dark un 
 painted interior at his back. He had a tin pan full of 
 dandelions between his knees, and he was scraping them 
 assiduously with an old shoe-knife, and throwing them into 
 another pan on the step beside him. 
 
 That morning the narrow green yard that stretched along 
 the north side of the house had been all thickly set with 
 yellow dandelion disks ; now there were very few left, for 
 Abel had dug them up for dinner. 
 
 It was early in May, and the air was full of sudden sweet 
 calls of birds and delicate rustles of flowering boughs. In 
 Ephraim Cole s next-door yard, on the other side of the 
 gray picket-fence, stood three blossoming peach-trees. They 
 were young and symmetrical trees, they stood in a line, 
 and were in full pink bloom. Ever} - time they stirred in 
 the wind they gave out a stronger almond fragrance. 
 
428 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 Abel, as he cleaned his dandelions, breathed it in with 
 out noticing. He had been out there all the morning, and 
 had become accustomed to it, as it seems one would to the 
 air of paradise. Moreover, he had seen seventy-eight sea 
 sons of blooming peach-trees, and a spring had become 
 like an old and familiar picture on his wall ; it had no new 
 meaning for him. And, too, he was harnessed, as it were, 
 with his head down, to dandelions. 
 
 Always as he sat there he could hear a heavy creaking 
 step in the forward kitchen. Back and forth it went, and 
 there were also loud rattling and clinking noises of dishes 
 and iron kettles. 
 
 Suddenly, as he worked on the dandelions, the step and 
 the noises ceased, and a voice took their place. It was a 
 naturally soft and weak voice that had been strained into t 
 hard shrillness. " You mind you clean them dandelions 
 thorough, father." 
 
 " I m takin all the pains I can with em," replied the old 
 man. He examined one which he held in hand at the mo 
 ment with great solicitude. He could not see the woman, 
 but her eyes were upon him through the crack in the blind. 
 She was at the window nearest the door. 
 
 " Well, you mind you do," she repeated. " How near 
 done air they ?" 
 
 The old man surveyed the pans with grave considera 
 tion. " Bout half, I guess." 
 
 "Half! Good land! An you ve been quiddlin out 
 there all the mornin ." 
 
 "It s consider ble work to dig em, mother." 
 
 " Work talk about work ! You dun know what work is. 
 If you d made the pies that I have since I got up from the 
 breakfast-table you might think you d done somethin . If 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 429 
 
 them greens ain t done in half an hour I can t get em 
 boiled for dinner." 
 
 " I guess I can git em done in half an hour." 
 
 " Guess there ain t no guess about it ! You ve got to 
 if I git em done for dinner, an I ve got to have somethin 
 to eat with all them boarders. I want you to git them 
 done, an then wash up the breakfast dishes. I ain t had 
 a minute. Now don t, for the land s sake, putter so long 
 over that one ; it s clean nough." 
 
 The voice ceased and the step began. Abel labored 
 with diligence at his dandelion greens. After a while an 
 other old man came stiffly sauntering across the next-dooi 
 yard, and took up a stand the other side of the picket-fence, 
 He was small, with sharp features and a high forehead. He 
 had very white hair and a long white beard, and he was 
 smiling to himself. He stood between two of the bloom 
 ing peach-trees, and looked smilingly at Abel, who toiled 
 over his greens, and did not appear to see him. 
 
 " Well, Abel, how air ye ?" said the old man finally. His 
 smile deepened, his old blue eyes took on a hard twinkle, 
 like blue beads, and stared straight into Abel s face. 
 
 " Well, I m pooty fair, Ephraim. How air you ?" Abel 
 tiad not started when the other spoke ; he merely glanced 
 tip from his greens with a friendly air. 
 
 " Well, I m bout as usual, Abel." The old man paused 
 for a second. When he spoke again it was more cautiously. 
 He was near Abel, and also very near the kitchen window 
 whence the sound of footsteps and dishes came. " Kitchen 
 colonel this mornin , Abel ?" he queried, in a soft and insin 
 uating voice. His venerable white beard seemed to take 
 quirks and curls like a satyr s ; he gave a repressed chuckle. 
 
 " I dun know what you call it," replied Abel, with a pa 
 
43 o A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 tient gravity. He took another dandelion out of the pan 
 and examined it minutely. 
 
 " Coin to the meetin this arternoon ?" 
 
 "What meetin ?" 
 
 " The town meetin : ain t ye heerd of it ?" 
 
 " No, I ain t." 
 
 " It s a special town meetin bout the water-works they re 
 talkin bout puttin in. There s notices up on all the trees 
 down street. I should ha thought you d seen em, if you d 
 had eyes." 
 
 "Well, I ain t happened to somehow." 
 
 Ephraim cast a glance at the kitchen window, and again 
 cautiously lowered his voice. " Been too busy in the kitch 
 en, ain t ye ?" 
 
 "Well, I dun know bout that." 
 
 " I s pose a kitchen colonel wouldn t git shot if he run 
 for t ; but he might git the pots an kittles throwed at him." 
 Ephraim doubled over the fence with merriment at his own 
 humor. 
 
 Abel s face was imperturbable ; he kept close at work 
 on the greens. 
 
 "Well, I s pose you ll go to the meetin ," continued 
 Ephraim. 
 
 " I dun know." 
 
 " I should think you d want to go, if you was a man, an* 
 have a leetle voice in things. Here they air talkin bout 
 puttin in them water-works, an raisin our taxes four per 
 cent, to pay for t. I ve got a good well, an so ve you, an 
 we don t want no water-works." 
 
 "There s some that ain t got wells," observed Abel, 
 shortly. 
 
 " Well, that ain t anything to us, is it ? We ve got em. 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 43! 
 
 Anyway, I should think you d want to go to the meetin , 
 an see what was bein done, if you was a man." 
 
 Abel said nothing. He began to gather up himself and 
 his pans stiffly. The dandelions were all picked over. 
 Ephraim, still smiling, leaned on the fence and watched 
 him. 
 
 " What ye goin to do now, Abel ?" 
 
 Abel did not seem to hear. When he stood up, one 
 could see how tall he was, although there was a stoop in 
 his gaunt square shoulders. His spare face was pale, and 
 his sharp handsome features had a severe downward cast, 
 although their principal effect was gentle patience. He 
 looked like a Roman senator turned begging friar as he 
 stood there in his overalls holding his dandelion pans. 
 
 " Got the dishes washed, Abel ?" 
 
 " No, I ain t yet," replied Abel, with a mixture of em 
 barrassment and dignity in his tone. He turned on his 
 heel, but Ephraim would not let him go. 
 
 " Stop a minute," said he. " Where s Fanny ?" 
 
 " She s gone to school." 
 
 " Hm !" Ephraim, as he sniffed, cocked his head, and 
 rolled his eyes towards the pink top of a peach-tree, as if 
 in a spasm of contempt. ** I rayther think if Fanny Lee 
 was my granddaughter she d quit school-teachin , an stay 
 to home an* help about the house-work, an /V quit bein 
 kitchen colonel ; I rayther think I would." 
 
 Ephraim raised his voice incautiously ; a woman s head 
 appeared in the window. 
 
 "What s that?" she inquired, sharply. 
 
 "Oh, nothin ," replied Ephraim. "I was jest talkin to 
 Abel, Mis Lee." Ephraim straightened himself from his 
 lounge over the fence, and turned about with a deprecatory 
 
432 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 swiftness ; but the woman s sharp old voice followed him 
 up like a long-lashed whip. 
 
 "Well," said she, "if you aia t got anything better to do 
 than to stan leanin on the fence talkin nothin to my hus 
 band all the forenoon, you had better come in here an 
 help me. I ll give you somethin to do." Ephraim said 
 nothing ; he was in full retreat, and had passed the line of 
 peach-trees. " You d better go home an help Mis Coles 
 carry in the water for her washin ," the woman s voice went 
 on. " I see her carryin in a pail jest now, an she was 
 bent over most double." Seeing that she could get no 
 response, she stood looking after Ephraim with a comical 
 expression that savored of malice and amusement. She 
 turned around when Abel with the dandelions shuffled into 
 the room. " Now, father, what air you bringin that pan 
 that you ve put the scrapin s of the greens in in here for? 
 Don t you know no better ? I should think you d knowed 
 enough to took em down to the hens, many times as I ve 
 told ye. They re shut up now, an they like green things." 
 
 " I ll take em down now." 
 
 " Take em down now ! It does seem sometimes, father, 
 as if you didn t have no sense at all. If I set you to doin 
 a piece of work, you re always takin hold on t wrong end 
 first. Take them greens down to the hens ! I should 
 think you d know better, father." 
 
 Mrs. Lee was a small and frail-looking old woman, but 
 she seemed always to have through her a strong quiver as 
 of electric wires. It was as if she had an electric battery 
 at the centre of her nervous system. Abel stood droop- 
 ingly before her, his face full of mild dejection and bewil 
 derment. 
 
 " Ain t I told you, father," she went on, " that them dan- 
 
A KITCHEN" COLONEL. 433 
 
 delion greens wouldn t get done for dinner if they wa n t 
 on ? an ain t they got to be washed ? You know you ain t 
 washed em, an they ain t ready to put in the kittle, an 
 here you air talkin bout goin to the hen-coop ! I ruther 
 guess the hens can wait" 
 
 " I didn t know jest what you meant, mother." 
 
 "You don t act as if you knew what anything meant 
 sometimes. It does seem to me as if you might have a 
 leetle more sconce, father, with all I ve got to do." 
 
 Abel set the pan of greens in the sink, and pumped 
 water on them with vigor. 
 
 " Mind you git em clean," charged his wife. She was 
 baking pies, and she moved about with such quickness that 
 her motions seemed full of vibrations, and as if one could 
 hear a hum, as with a bird. If she had about her any of 
 the rustiness and clumsiness of age, she propelled herself 
 with such energy that no hitches nor squeaks were appar 
 ent. She stepped heavily for so small a woman ; it seemed 
 impossible that her bodily weight could account for such 
 heavy footsteps, and as if her character must add its own 
 gravity to them. Mrs. Lee was but two years younger than 
 her husband ; but her light hair had not turned gray it 
 had only faded and she did not wear a cap. She had 
 been a very pretty woman, and there was still a suggestion 
 of the prettiness in her face. She had withered complete, 
 as some flowers do on their stalks, keeping all their original 
 shapes, and fading into themselves, not scattering any of 
 their graces abroad. 
 
 Everybody called Mrs. Abel Lee a very smart woman, 
 
 and a very wonderful woman for one of her age. The house 
 
 in which she lived had been left to her by her father. Abel 
 
 had mortgaged it heavily, and she had taken boarders and 
 
 28 
 
434 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 nearly cleared it. Abel Lee had been a very unfortunate 
 and unsuccessful man through his whole life. He had 
 worked hard, and failed in everything that he had under 
 taken. Now he was an old man of seventy-eight, and his 
 wife was taking boarders to support the family and clear 
 the mortgage, and he was helping her about the housework. 
 It seemed to be all that he could do. 
 
 The Lees had had one son, who had apparently inherited 
 his father s ill-fortune. He had a sad life, and died with 
 out a dollar, leaving his daughter Fanny to the care of his 
 old parents. Fanny was about eighteen now, and she 
 taught school. Her school-house was a mile away, and 
 she did not come home to dinner. However, Mrs. Lee s 
 boarders all came, punctually at twelve o clock. The 
 boarders were four women, not very young, who worked in 
 the shoe factory. When they got home, dingy and dull- 
 faced, they always found dinner on the table plenty of 
 good food. Mrs. Lee was a splendid cook, after the vil 
 lage model. She did the helping with alacrity, and Abel 
 had his portion after the boarders. He had a small allow 
 ance of greens to-day ; they were the first of the season, 
 and the boarders were hungry for them. The four women 
 could not grasp many of the pleasures of life, and had to 
 make the most of those that hung low enough for them. 
 They took a deal of comfort in eating. 
 
 After dinner Abel hurried to clear off the table and wash 
 the dishes. He was usually a long time about it, for he 
 was hopelessly clumsy, although he was so faithful at such 
 work. Abel at the dish-tub with one of his wife s aprons 
 pinned around his waist was a piteous object. He bent to 
 the task with a hopeless and dejected air, and mopped the 
 plates with melancholy fussiness. But to-day he rattled 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 435 
 
 the dishes quite like a woman. "Don t you rattle them 
 plates round so ; you ll nick em," his wife remarked once, 
 and Abel obediently tempered his movements. Still, the 
 dinner dishes were washed much sooner than usual. After 
 they were set away, Abel took up a stand at the pantry 
 door ; he leaned against it, and regarded his wife with a 
 hesitating air. Once in a while he opened his mouth as if 
 to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Finally Mrs. 
 Lee turned sharply on him. " Why don t you git the broom 
 an sweep up the kitchen, father," said she. " What air 
 you standin there for?" 
 
 Abel did not answer for a moment ; he looked across 
 the room at the broom on its nail, then at his wife " I 
 kinder thought mebbe I d go to that town meetin this 
 afternoon." 
 
 His wife faced about on him with a spoon in her hand. 
 "What town meetin ?" 
 
 "The one they ve p inted about the water- works. I 
 thought mebbe I d better go an kinder look into it a leetle." 
 
 " Look into it a great difference it 11 make your lookin 
 into it ! I should think you d got about all the town meet- 
 in you could attend to to home, without goin traipsin off 
 there. Here s the churnin to be done, an I ain t got no 
 time nor strength for t. I shouldn t think you d talk bout 
 town meetin s, father." 
 
 " Well, I dun know as I d better go," said Abel, and 
 went across for the broom. However, he swept with more 
 despatch than usual, and when he sat down to the churn it 
 was with a forlorn hope that the butter might come in sea 
 son for him to go to the town meeting. But the butter did 
 not come until the meeting had been long dispersed, and 
 not until Fanny came home from school. Abel was just 
 
436 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 lifting out the dasher when she appeared in the kitchen 
 door with her dinner basket on her arm. " Well, grandpa, 
 has the butter come ?" said she. 
 
 " I guess you ve brought it ; it s been all the afternoon 
 gittin here." Abel surveyed her with adoration. Fanny 
 was a pretty young girl. She looked at her grandparents 
 and smiled radiantly, but evidently the smiles were about 
 something that they did not understand. 
 
 "What air you lookin so awful tickled about?" asked 
 Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Did you have any pudding left from din 
 ner? I m most starved." 
 
 "There s a saucer under the yellow bowl on the pantry 
 shelf." 
 
 Fanny was still smiling when she sat down at the kitchen 
 table with the pudding. "What does ail you?" Mrs. Lee 
 asked again. She was at the other end of the table rolling 
 out biscuits for tea. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, grandma. What makes you think there s 
 anything?" Fanny ate her pudding with apparent uncon 
 cern, but all the time her eyes danced, and the corners of 
 her mouth curved upward. " I didn t have to walk home 
 to-night," she remarked, finally. 
 
 " Didn t have to walk home ? Why not ?" 
 
 " W T ell, Charley Page came along just about the time 
 school was out, and he brought me home in his buggy." 
 
 " Well, I never !" Mrs. Lee s sharp old face softened ; 
 she surveyed her granddaughter with admiring smiles. 
 "That s the second time within a week, ain t it." 
 
 Fanny nodded, and bent lower over the pudding. She 
 was blushing pink, and she could not keep the smiles back. 
 Abel, who was starting the fire, stood stock-still, and stared 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 437 
 
 with delighted wonder at her and his wife. "That young 
 Page is one of the smartest fellars in town," he volun 
 teered; "an* his father s wuth a good deal of property." 
 
 Abel was so pleased that he paid little attention when, 
 on carrying his basket around to the shed door for more 
 light wood, Ephraim again hailed him from the fence. 
 " Hullo, Abel !" he called ; " I didn t see you to the town 
 meetin ." 
 
 " No ; I wa n t there." 
 
 " Kitchen colonel again ?" 
 
 Abel picked up wood vigorously. Ephraim surveyed him 
 with a dissatisfied expression. " Who was that I see your 
 Fanny a-ridin home with ?" he asked. 
 
 Abel straightened himself, and looked over at Ephraim. 
 "That was the young Page fellar," he said, proudly. 
 
 "John Page s son?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "H m!" 
 
 In a moment Ephraim turned about and walked off. He 
 had a daughter of his own who was about Fanny s age, and 
 she was very plain-looking and unattractive, and was not 
 liked by the young men. 
 
 Fanny was much sought for, she was so pretty, and she 
 had such pleasant ways. She dressed nicely too ; her 
 grandmother encouraged her to spend her school money 
 for clothes. Her grandparents had always petted her, 
 and exacted very little from her. She did not help much 
 about the house. To-night, after tea, she stood looking 
 irresolutely at her pretty gray dress and her grandparents. 
 " Don t you want me to take off my dress and help about 
 the dishes ?" said she. 
 
 " Land, no !" answered her grandmother. " Go long ; it 
 
438 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 ain t wuth while to change your dress for this little passel 
 of dishes. Father s goin to wash em while I m mixin up 
 the bread." 
 
 " Yes, you go right along an set down in the parlor an* 
 git rested, Fanny," chimed in Abel. " I ain t got a thing 
 to do but the dishes, an they ain t wuth talkin about. * 
 Abel shuffled cheerfully around, gathering up the dishes 
 from the tea-table. 
 
 Fanny went into the parlor as she was bidden ; she had 
 about her a sweet docility, and she would have changed her 
 dress and washed the dishes just as readily. Fanny would 
 always perform all the duties that she was told to, but prob 
 ably not so very many others. She had little original di 
 rective power in the matter of duties, although she had a 
 perfect willingness and sweetness in their execution. 
 
 She sat down at a parlor window with some fancy-work, 
 and rocked to and fro comfortably. She could look out on 
 the front yard full of green grass, with a blossoming cherry- 
 tree, and a yellow-flowering bush down near the gate. The 
 four women boarders were in the sitting-room, but she did 
 not think of joining them, nor they her. Fanny s grand 
 mother always insinuated her into the parlor when the 
 boarders were in the sitting-room. In her heart she did 
 not consider that these four dingy-handed shop-girls were 
 fit associates for her granddaughter. 
 
 Fanny herself had no such feeling in the matter ; she 
 would have gone into the sitting-room and fraternized with 
 the boarders, had her grandmother wished her to do so. 
 But they rather repulsed her, and held themselves aloof 
 with an awkward dignity, and Fanny was timid and easily 
 rebuffed. They were quite acute enough to understand 
 that Mrs. Lee did not consider them proper company for her 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 granddaughter, and they felt injured and covertly resentful. 
 They were also righteously indignant because Fanny was 
 so petted by her grandparents, and did not help them more. 
 To-night the four women in the sitting-room whispered to 
 gether about Fanny ; how she was sitting all dressed up in 
 the parlor while her poor old grandparents were working in 
 the kitchen. They thought that she ought to give up her 
 school and stay at home and help. She was not earning 
 much anyway, and it all went on to her back ; she need not 
 dress so fine. 
 
 While they whispered, Fanny, small and dainty, putting 
 pretty stitches in her fancy-work, sat at the parlor window. 
 When it was too dark for her to sew, she leaned her head 
 against the window-casing and looked out. The yellow 
 bush in the yard still showed out brightly in the dusk ; the 
 cherry-tree looked like a mist. Over in the east, beyond 
 everything else, was a soft rise of shadow ; that was Eagle 
 Mountain. 
 
 It grew darker. After a while her grandmother came 
 into the room, feeling her way. "Don t you want me to 
 light a lamp, grandma?" asked Fanny, in a soft, absent 
 voice. 
 
 " No ; I don t want none. I d jest as soon set down in 
 the dark a few minutes ; then I m goin to bed. Father s 
 gone." The old woman fumbled into a chair at the other 
 window. "Have you seen anything about your hat yet?" 
 she asked Fanny, after they both had sat still a little 
 while. 
 
 " Yes ; I went into Miss Loring s on my way to school 
 this morning." 
 
 " What you goin to have ?" 
 
 " That brown straw I ve been talking about I m going 
 
440 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 to have it trimmed with some brown velvet and yellow 
 daisies." 
 
 " It 11 be real handsome. When you goin to have it ?" 
 
 " Next week Friday. I ve got to have it then, for I 
 haven t a thing to wear if we go up the mountain Saturday." 
 
 The old woman s face was invisible in the dusk, but her 
 voice took on a pleased and significant tone, and she laughed 
 softly. " I s pose that Page fellar will be goin , won t he ?" 
 
 " I don t know. He was invited." Fanny also laughed 
 with pleased confusion. She had been climbing the moun 
 tain with young Page for the last hour in a dream, and she 
 had worn the brown straw hat with the brown velvet and 
 yellow daisies. 
 
 "Well, I guess he ll go, fast enough. I see his father 
 down to the store the other day, an he stopped an shook 
 hands an asked how I was, and looked dreadful smilin an 
 knowin . I guess he s heerd how his son s been carryin 
 you home from school. Well, I guess he s a good, likely 
 young fellar, an that s wuth more n his father s money." 
 The old woman spoke the last words of her remark in a 
 lagging and drowsy voice. The two were silent again. 
 Presently there came a long heavy breath from the grand 
 mother s corner. 
 
 " Grandma !" called Fanny. 
 
 " What ?" the old woman responded, faintly. 
 
 " Wake up ; you re goin to sleep." 
 
 " Well, I dun know but I be. I guess I d better rouse 
 up an go to bed. I wouldn t set up much longer if I was 
 you, Fanny." 
 
 " I ain t going to." But Fanny sat there and dreamed 
 quite a while after her grandmother had fumbled out of the 
 room. 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 44 1 
 
 That was on Thursday. It was the next day but one, 
 Saturday, when old Ephraim Coles came to the fence and 
 hailed Abel as he was paring potatoes at the kitchen door. 
 " Hullo, Abel ! how air ye ?" 
 
 " Bout as usual," answered Abel. 
 
 " Kitchen colonel this mornin ?" 
 
 " I dun know what you call it." Abel was cutting the 
 specks from the potatoes with clumsy pains. He sat on the 
 door-step with the pan between his knees. Ephraim stood 
 watching him. He had an important look, and his smile 
 was different from his usual one. 
 
 Presently he leaned over the fence. " Abel !" said he, in 
 a confidential whisper. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Come here a minute. Want to tell ye somethinV 
 
 Abel hesitated ; he peered uneasily around at the kitchen 
 window. Then he set down the potatoes, arose, and slowly 
 shuffled over to the fence. Ephraim reached over and caught 
 him by the sleeve when he came near enough. " You know 
 Maria an me own two share in the railroad, don t ye ?" he 
 whispered. Abel nodded. "Well," continued Ephraim, 
 " next Saturday there s a stockholder meetin to Boston, an 
 Maria she don t care nothin bout goin , cause she s goin 
 to have company, an Abby she don t want to, an so if you 
 want to go on Maria s stock you can" 
 
 Abel stared at him in gentle bewilderment. " Go to Bos 
 ton ?" 
 
 " Of course go to Boston for nothin ; twon t cost ye a 
 cent. An I ll stan r the dinner. We ll go in somewhere an 
 git somethin to eat. An we ll go round an see the sights. 
 What d ye say to t ?" 
 
 Ephraim looked at Abel with the air of an emperor ten- 
 
442 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 dering a royal bounty. He drew himself up, put his hands 
 in his pockets, and smiled. 
 
 Abel looked pleased and eager. " Thank ye," said he 
 " thank ye, Ephraim. I d like to go fust-rate if there ain t 
 nothin to hender." 
 
 " I d like to know what there is to hender ! I guess you 
 can quit bein kitchen colonel for one day. The meetin 
 comes a week from to-day, an that s Saturday, an Fanny 
 she ll be home to help Mis Lee." 
 
 " Yes, she will," assented Abel, thoughtfully. " Well, I 
 must go an finish them pertaters now, an I ll see what 
 mother says to it, an let yer know." 
 
 Abel pared the potatoes with greater pains than ever ; he 
 washed them faithfully, and carried them into the kitchen, 
 and tremblingly broached the subject of the Boston trip to 
 his wife. To his great delight it was favorably received. 
 Mrs. Lee said she did not see any reason why he could 
 not go. She had entirely forgotten about Fanny s moun 
 tain party. 
 
 All the next week old Abel was in a tremor of delight. 
 He had long conferences with Ephraim over the fence ; de 
 lightful additions to the regular programme were planned ; 
 every day some new scheme was talked over. Abel had 
 not had an outing for many years ; he was like a child over 
 this one. Still he did not neglect his household tasks ; he 
 worked with anxious zeal, he was so afraid that his wife 
 might see so much to be done that she would veto the plan 
 at the last moment. He was so anxious and nervous over 
 it that he did not say much about it at home, for fear of 
 having some damper cast upon him. Abel had not much 
 shrewdness, but he had learned that a casual acceptance of 
 a situation was much more likely than an eager one to make 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 443 
 
 it lasting when his wife was concerned. Friday night at 
 sunset both of the old men stood out in the yard with up 
 lifted faces and scrutinized the heavens. 
 
 " It ain t goin to be foul weather to-morrow," said Ephra- 
 im, judicially ; "not if I know anything about signs." 
 
 " Ain t you afraid the wind ain t in jest the right quarter ?" 
 Abel asked, anxiously. 
 
 " H m ! I don t care nothin about the wind. Every 
 thing p ints square to fair weather, cordin to my reck - 
 nin ." 
 
 Ephraim was right. The next day was beautiful. Abel 
 looked out of the window in the morning, and his face was 
 like a boy s. Directly after breakfast he shaved himself at 
 the kitchen glass and blacked his boots. Then he went 
 into his bedroom to put on his Sunday clothes. 
 
 He was nearly ready clean collar and best stock and 
 all when he heard Fanny s voice and Ephraim s daughter 
 Abby s out in the yard. He did not pay much attention at 
 first ; then he stood still and listened with a lengthening 
 face. " No, I can t go any way in the world," Fanny was 
 saying. Her voice was perfectly sweet and uncomplaining, 
 but there was a sad inflection in it. " Grandma forgot all 
 about it, and she says poor grandpa has been counting on 
 going to Boston with your father for a whole week, and it 
 would be real cruel to keep him at home ; and it s baking- 
 day, and she s got the sitting-room carpet to put down, and 
 she can t get along alone. Of course I m kind of sorry 
 about it. I d been counting on going ; but I wouldn t keep 
 grandpa at home for anything, and there isn t anything else 
 for me to do but to stay myself." 
 
 "Well, I hope that pretty Rogers girl that s visiting up 
 to Rhoda Emerson s won t cut you out with Charley Page. 
 
444 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 I saw him talking to her in the post-office last night," Abby 
 said. Her voice was like her father s. 
 
 Abel unwound his stock, and painfully unbuttoned his 
 stiff collar. Presently he appeared in the kitchen, and he 
 had on his old clothes. His wife faced around on him. 
 " For mercy s sakes, father, ain t you changed your clothes 
 yet ?" 
 
 " I ain t goin , after all, I guess." 
 
 " Ain t goin ! why not?" 
 
 Fanny was standing at the sink washing dishes, and she 
 stopped and stared. 
 
 "Well," said Abel, " I ve been thinkin on t over, an I ve 
 made up my mind I d better not go, on several counts." 
 
 "I d like to know what." 
 
 "Well, one thing is, it s kinder cheatin . I ve got to go 
 as Maria Coles, an I ain t Maria Coles. That s what it 
 says in the stiffikit. I ve got to show the conductor Maria 
 Coles. An it ain t jest square, cordin to my notions. I 
 ain t thought twas all the time." 
 
 " Well, I think you air dreadful silly, father." 
 
 "Well, I don t think twould amount to much goin any 
 how, to tell the truth." 
 
 " I would go, grandpa," said Fanny. 
 
 But Abel stood fast in his position. His wife, and Fanny, 
 who was anxious to acquit herself honorably in the matter, 
 pleaded with him to no purpose. He was proof against 
 even Ephraim s reproaches and sarcasms. " Well, stay to 
 home, an be a kitchen colonel all your life, if you want to," 
 shouted Ephraim, as he strode out of the yard; "it s all 
 you re fit for, cordin to my way of thinkin ." 
 
 Abel went into the house and pushed Fanny away from 
 the sink. " If there s anything else you want to do, Fanny," 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 445 
 
 said he, "you d better go an do it. I ain t got another 
 thing to set my hand to now." 
 
 Fanny looked at her grandmother. 
 
 " If he a/ff /goin , you might jest as well go an get ready," 
 said Mrs. Lee. 
 
 In a few minutes Abel heard Fanny s voice calling over 
 to Abby : " Abby, Abby, wait for me ! I m goin , after all. 
 It won t take me but a minute to get ready." And Fanny s 
 voice sounded sweeter than a bird s to her grandfather at 
 the kitchen sink. 
 
 Abel had a hard day of it. Putting down the sitting- 
 room carpet was painful work for his old joints, and then 
 there was churning to be done. When Fanny came home 
 he sat in the old rocking-chair in the kitchen, with his head 
 back, fast asleep. Presently his wife came out and aroused 
 him. " Wake up, father," said she ; " I want to tell you 
 somethin ." Abel looked heavily up at her. " I ruther 
 guess Fanny an that Page fellar have settled it betwixt 
 em," whispered Mrs. Lee. 
 
 Abel s head was up in a minute, and he was looking at 
 her, all alert. " You don t say so, mother !" Suddenly the 
 old man put his hand up to his eyes and sobbed. 
 
 " Why, how silly you are, father !" said his wife. Then 
 she went over to a window with a brisk step and stood 
 there as if looking out. When she turned around her eyes 
 were red. " I think you d better go to bed, father, an not 
 set there dozin in that chair any longer," said she, sharply ; 
 "you re all tuckered out." 
 
 The next day, when Abel had to stand a running fire 
 relative to the Boston trip from Ephraim, he gave one coun 
 ter-shot the announcement of Fanny s engagement. He 
 listened while Ephraim related the pleasures of his excursion 
 
446 A KITCHEN COLONEL. 
 
 and berated him ; then he turned on him with an artful 
 ness born of patience. " S pose you ve heard the news ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 " Well, I s pose our Fanny an John Page s son have 
 bout concluded to make a match on t." 
 
 " H m !" Ephraim stood looking at him. " When they 
 goin to git married?" 
 
 " Well, I dun know. Mother was saying she thought 
 mebbe some time in the fall." 
 
 " H m ! Well, there s slips. Mebbe she won t git him, 
 arter all. It s best not to be too sure bout it." 
 
 But Ephraim turned on his heel and went home across 
 the yard, and left Abel to his Sunday peace. 
 
 Abel had to work harder than usual that summer. It 
 was Fanny s vacation time, and she had been accustomed 
 to assist some about the house-work, so Abel s labors had 
 been lightened a little during hot weather. But this sum 
 mer Fanny was sewing, getting ready to be married in the 
 fall, and she could not do much else, so her grandfather 
 got no respite in his kitchen work through the long hot days. 
 He grew thinner and older, but he never complained even to 
 himself. He was radiant over Fanny. She was going to 
 make a match that would lift her out of all his own struggles 
 and hardships. Poor old Abel, in the midst of his hard, 
 pitiful little whirlpool, watched Fanny joyously making her 
 way out of it, and no longer thought of himself. 
 
 Fanny was married in October. There was quite a large 
 evening wedding, and Mrs. Lee had wedding-cake and 
 pound-cake and tea and coffee passed around for refresh 
 ments. Fanny and her bridegroom were standing before 
 the minister, who had already begun the ceremony. Fanny, 
 
A KITCHEN COLONEL. 447 
 
 all in white, bent her head delicately under her veil ; her 
 cheeks showed through it like roses. The bridegroom kept 
 his handsome boyish face upon the minister with a brave 
 and resolute air. Abel and his wife stood near with solemn 
 and tearful faces. The four boarders stood together in a 
 corner. The rooms were crowded with people in creaking 
 silks and Sunday coats, and the air was heavy with cake 
 and coffee and flowers. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the ceremony, Mrs. Lee nudged 
 Abel. "The milk is burnin , father," she whispered; "go 
 out quick an 1 lift it off." 
 
 Abel looked at her. " Be quick," she whispered again ; 
 " the milk for the coffee is burnin . Don t stan there look- 
 in , for mercy s sake !" 
 
 Abel tiptoed out solemnly, with his best boots creaking. 
 
 When he returned, Fanny was married, and the people 
 were crowding around her. He felt a heavy poke in his 
 side, and there was Ephraim. " Had to go out an be 
 kitchen colonel, didn t ye, Abel ?" said he, quite loud. 
 
 The bridal couple drove away, and the guests dispersed 
 gradually. Mrs. Lee had to stay in the parlor until the last 
 of them disappeared ; but as soon as Fanny and her hus 
 band had gone, Abel changed his clothes and went into the 
 kitchen. Things needed to be set to rights a little before 
 morning. 
 
 The happy bridal pair rode away through the October 
 night, the wedding guests chattered merrily in the parlor 
 and flocked gayly down the street, and the kitchen colonel 
 fought faithfully in his humble field, where maybe he would 
 some day win a homely glory all his own. 
 

 
 I 
 
 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 " FATHER !" 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " What are them men diggin over there in the field for? 
 
 There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower 
 part of the old man s face, as if some heavy weight had set 
 tled therein he shut his mouth tight, and went on harness 
 ing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her 
 neck with a jerk. 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare s back. 
 
 " Look here, father, I want to know what them men are 
 diggin over in the field for, an I m goin to know." 
 
 " I wish you d go into the house, mother, an tend to your 
 own affairs," the old man said then. He ran his words 
 together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate as a 
 growl. 
 
 But the woman understood ; it was her most native tongue. 
 " I ain t goin into the house till you tell me what them men 
 are doin over there in the field," said she. 
 
 Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short 
 and straight-waisted like a child in her brown cotton gown. 
 Her forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth 
 curves of gray hair ; there were meek downward lines about 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 449 
 
 her nose and mouth - } but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, 
 looked as if the meekness had been the result of her own 
 will, never of the will of another. 
 
 They were in the barn, standing before the wide open 
 doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing grass 
 and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard 
 in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of wood ; 
 on the edges, close to the fence and the house, the grass 
 was a vivid green, and there were some dandelions. 
 
 The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened 
 the last buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable 
 to him as one of the rocks in his pasture-land, bound to the 
 earth with generations of blackberry vines. He slapped the 
 reins over the horse, and started forth from the barn. 
 
 11 Father /" said she. 
 
 The old man pulled up. " What is it ?" 
 
 " I want to know what them men are diggin over there in 
 that field for." 
 
 " They re diggin a cellar, I s pose, if you ve got to 
 know." 
 
 "A cellar for what?" 
 
 " A barn." 
 
 " A barn ? You ain t goin to build a barn over there 
 where we was goin to have a house, father ?" 
 
 The old man said not another word. He hurried the 
 horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard, 
 jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy. 
 
 The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she 
 went out of trie barn across a corner of the yard to the 
 house. The house, standing at right angles with the great 
 barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings, was in 
 finitesimal compared with them. It was scarcely as com- 
 20 
 
450 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 modious for people as the little boxes under the barn eaves 
 were for doves. 
 
 A pretty girl s face, pink and delicate as a flower, was 
 looking out of one of the house windows. She was watch 
 ing three men who were digging over in the field which 
 bounded the yard near the road line. She turned quietly 
 when the woman entered. 
 
 " What are they digging for, mother ?" said she. " Did he 
 tell you ?" 
 
 " They re diggin* for a cellar for a new barn." 
 
 "Oh, mother, he ain t going to build another barn ?" 
 
 " That s what he says." 
 
 A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. 
 He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his brown 
 hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead. He did not 
 seem to pay any attention to the conversation. 
 
 " Sammy, did you know father was going to build a new 
 barn ?" asked the girl. 
 
 The boy combed assiduously. 
 
 " Sammy !" 
 
 He turned, and showed a face like his father s under his 
 smooth crest of hair. " Yes, I s pose I did," he said, re 
 luctantly. 
 
 " How long have you known it ?" asked his mother. 
 
 " Bout three months, I guess." 
 
 "Why didn t you tell of it?" 
 
 " Didn t think twould do no good." 
 
 " I don t see what father wants another barn for," said 
 the girl, in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again to the 
 window, and stared out at the digging men in the field. Her 
 tender, sweet face was full of a gentle distress. Her fore 
 head was as bald and innocent as a baby s, with the light 
 
THE RE VOL T OF " MO TffER." 45 1 
 
 hair strained back from it in a row of curl-papers. She was 
 quite large, but her soft curves did not look as if they cov 
 ered muscles. 
 
 Her mother looked sternly at the boy. " Is he goin to 
 buy more cows ?" said she. 
 
 The boy did not reply ; he was tying his shoes. 
 
 " Sammy, I want you to tell me if he s goin to buy more 
 cows." 
 
 " I s pose he is." 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 " Four, I guess." 
 
 His mother said nothing more. She went into the pan 
 try, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap 
 from a nail behind the door, took an old arithmetic from 
 the shelf, and started for school. He was lightly built, but 
 clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious spring in 
 the hips, that made his loose home-made jacket tilt up in 
 the rear. 
 
 The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the diihes 
 that were piled up there. Her mother came promptly out 
 of the pantry, and shoved her aside. " You wipe em," said 
 she ; " I ll wash. There s a good many this mornin ." 
 
 The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, 
 the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. " Mother," 
 said she, " don t you think it s too bad father s going to build 
 that new barn, much as we need a decent house to live in ? rt 
 
 Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. " You ain t found 
 out yet we re women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You 
 ain t seen enough of men-folks yet to. One of these days 
 you ll find it out, an then you ll know that we know only 
 what men-folks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, an 7 
 how we d ought to reckon men-folks in with Providence, an 1 
 
452 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 not complain of what they do any more than we do of the 
 weather." 
 
 " I don t care ; I don t believe George is anything like 
 that, anyhow," said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed pink, 
 her lips pouted softly, as if she were going to cry. 
 
 "You wait an see. I guess George Eastman ain t no 
 better than other men. You hadn t ought to judge father, 
 though. He can t help it, cause he don t look at things 
 jest the way we do. An we ve been pretty comfortable 
 here, after all. The roof don t leak ain t never but once 
 that s one thing. Father s kept it shingled right up." 
 
 " I do wish we had a parlor." 
 
 " I guess it won t hurt George Eastman any to come to 
 see you in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls 
 don t have as good a place as this. Nobody s ever heard 
 me complain." 
 
 " I ain t complained either, mother." 
 
 "Well, I don t think you d better, a good father an a 
 good home as you ve got. S pose your father made you go 
 out an work for your livin ? Lots of girls have to that 
 ain t no stronger an 1 better able to than you be." 
 
 Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air. 
 She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. 
 She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one 
 living-room never seemed to have in it any of the dust 
 which the friction of life with inanimate matter produces. 
 She swept, and there seemed to be no dirt to go before the 
 broom ; she cleaned, and one could see no difference. She 
 was like an artist so perfect that he has apparently no art 
 To-day she got out a mixing bowl and a board, and rolled 
 some pies, and there was no more flour upon her than upon 
 her daughter who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be 
 
THE REVOLT O* "MOTHERS 
 
 married in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cam 
 bric and embroidery. She sewed industriously while her 
 mother cooked, her soft milk-white hands and wrists showed 
 whiter than her delicate work. 
 
 " We must have the stove moved out in the shed before 
 long," said Mrs. Penn. " Talk about not havin things, it s 
 been a real blessin* to be able to put a stove up in that shed 
 in hot weather. Father did one good thing when he fixed 
 that stove-pipe out there." 
 
 Sarah Penn s face as she rolled her pies had that expres 
 sion of meek vigor which might have characterized one of 
 the New Testament saints. She was making mince-pies. 
 Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them better than any 
 other kind. She baked twice a week. Adoniram often 
 liked a piece of pie between meals. She hurried this morn 
 ing. It had been later than usual when she began, and she 
 wanted to have a pie baked for dinner. However deep a 
 resentment she might be forced to hold against her hus 
 band, she would never fail in sedulous attention to his 
 wants. 
 
 Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when 
 it is not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn s showed 
 itself to-day in flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the 
 pies faithfully, while across the table she could see, when 
 she glanced up from her work, the sight that rankled in her 
 patient and steadfast soul the digging of the cellar of the 
 new barn in the place where Adoniram forty years ago had 
 promised her their new house should stand. 
 
 The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy 
 were home a few minutes after twelve o clock. The dinner 
 was eaten with serious haste. There was never much con 
 versation at the table in the Penn family. Adoniram asked 
 
454 THE REVOLT Oi "MOTHER." 
 
 a blessing, and they ate promptly, then rose up and went 
 about their work. 
 
 Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of 
 the yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles be 
 fore school, and feared his father would give him some 
 chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door and called 
 after him, but he was out of sight. 
 
 " I don t see what you let him go for, mother," said he. 
 " I wanted him to help me unload that wood." 
 
 Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood 
 from the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while 
 Nanny took down her curl-papers and changed her dress. 
 She was going down to the store to buy some more em 
 broidery and thread. 
 
 When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. 
 " Father I" she called. 
 
 " Well, what is it !" 
 
 " I want to see you jest a minute, father." 
 
 " I can t leave this wood nohow. I ve got to git it un 
 loaded an go for a load of gravel afore two o clock. Sammy 
 had ought to helped me. You hadn t ought to let him go 
 to school so early." 
 
 " I want to see you jest a minute." 
 
 " I tell ye I can t, nohow, mother." 
 
 " Father, you come here." Sarah Penn stood in the door 
 like a queen ; she held her head as if it bore a crown ; there 
 was that patience which makes authority royal in her voice. 
 Adoniram went. 
 
 Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a 
 chair. " Sit down, father," said she ; " I ve got somethin 
 I want to say to you." 
 
 He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER* 455 
 
 looked at her with restive eyes. " Well, what is it, moth 
 er?" 
 
 " I want to know what you re buildin that new barn for, 
 father?" 
 
 " I ain t got nothin to say about it." 
 
 " It can t be you think you need another barn ?" 
 
 " I tell ye I ain t got nothin to say about it, mother ; an 
 I ain t goin to say nothin 1 ." 
 
 " Be you goin to buy more cows ?" 
 
 Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight. 
 
 " I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look 
 here" Sarah Penn had not sat down ; she stood before 
 her husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman 
 * I m goin to talk real plain to you j I never have sence I 
 married you, but I m goin to now. I ain t never complained, 
 an* I ain t goin to complain now, but I m goin to talk plain. 
 You see this room here, father ; you look at it well. You 
 see there ain t no carpet on the floor, an you see the paper 
 is all dirty, an* droppin off the walls. We ain t had no new 
 paper on it for ten year, an then I put it on myself, an it 
 didn t cost but ninepence a roll. You see this room, father ; 
 it s all the one I ve had to work in an eat in an sit in sence 
 we was married. There ain t another woman in the whole 
 town whose husband ain t got half the means you have but 
 what s got better. It s all the room Nanny s got to have 
 her company in ; an there ain t one of her mates but what s 
 got better, an their fathers not so able as hers is. It s all 
 the room she ll have to be married in. What would you 
 have thought, father, if we had had our xveddin in a room 
 no better than this ? I was married in my mother s 
 parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an stuffed furniture, 
 an a mahogany card - table. An this is all the room 
 
456 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 any daughter will have to be married in. Look here, 
 father !" 
 
 Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a 
 tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny 
 bedroom, only large enough for a bed and bureau, with a 
 path between. " There, father," said she" there s all the 
 room I ve had to sleep in forty year. All my children were 
 born there the two that died, an the two that s livin . I 
 was sick with a fever there." 
 
 She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into 
 the small, ill-lighted pantry. " Here," said she, " is all the 
 buttery I ve got every place I ve got for my dishes, to set 
 away my victuals in, an to keep my milk-pans in. Father, 
 I ve been takin care of the milk of six cows in this place, 
 an now you re goin to build a new barn, an keep more 
 cows, an* give me more to do in it." 
 
 She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight 
 of stairs wound upward from it. " There, father," said she, 
 " I want you to look at the stairs that go up to them two 
 unfinished chambers that are all the places our son an 
 daughter have had to sleep in all their lives. There ain t a 
 prettier girl in town nor a more ladylike one than Nanny, 
 an that s the place she has to sleep in. It ain t so good as 
 your horse s stall ; it ain t so warm an tight." 
 
 Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. 
 "Now, father," said she, "I want to know if you think 
 you re doin right an accordin to what you profess. Here, 
 when we was married, forty year ago, you promised me 
 faithful that we should have a new house built in that lot 
 over in the field before the year was out. You said you had 
 money enough, an you wouldn t ask me to live in no such 
 place as this. It is forty year now, an you ve been makin f 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 457 
 
 more money, an iVe been savin of it for you ever since, 
 an you ain t built no house yet. You ve built sheds an 
 cow-houses an one new barn, an now you re goin to build 
 another. Father, I want to know if you think it s right. 
 You re lodgin your dumb beasts better than you are your 
 own flesh an blood. I want to know if you think it s right." 
 
 " I ain t got nothin to say." 
 
 "You can t say nothin without ownin it ain t right, 
 father. An there s another thing I ain t complained; 
 I ve got along forty year, an I s pose I should forty more, 
 it wa n t for that if we don t have another house. Nanny 
 jhe can t live with us after she s married. She ll have to go 
 somewheres else to live away from us, an it don t seem as 
 if I could have it so, noways, father. She wa n t ever 
 strong. She s got considerable color, but there wa n t never 
 any backbone to her. I ve always took the heft of every 
 thing off her, an she ain t fit to keep house an do every 
 thing herself. She ll be all worn out inside of a year. 
 Think of her doin all the washin an ironin an bakin with 
 them soft white hands an arms, an sweepin ! I can t have 
 it so, noways, father." 
 
 Mrs. Penn s face was burning ; her mild eyes gleamed. 
 She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster ; she had 
 ranged from severity to pathos ; but her opponent employed 
 that obstinate silence which makes eloquence futile with 
 mocking echoes. Adoniram arose clumsily. 
 
 " Father, ain t you got nothin to say ?" said Mrs. Penn. 
 
 " I ve got to go off after that load of gravel. I can t 
 Stan here talkin all day." 
 
 " Father, won t you think it over, an have a house built 
 there instead of a barn ?" 
 
 " I ain t got nothin to say." 
 
458 THE REVOLT OF " MOTHER." 
 
 Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bed 
 room. When she came out, her eyes were red. She had a 
 roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it out on the 
 kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for her 
 husband. The men over in the field had a team to help 
 them this afternoon ; she could hear their halloos. She 
 had a scanty pattern for the shirts ; she had to plan and 
 piece the sleeves. 
 
 Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down 
 with her needlework. She had taken down her curl-papers, 
 and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her 
 forehead ; her face was as delicately fine and clear as porce- 
 lain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red flamed 
 all over her face and neck. " Mother," said she. 
 
 " What say ?" 
 
 " I ve been thinking I don t see how we re goin to have 
 any wedding in this room. I d be ashamed to have his 
 folks come if we didn t have anybody else." 
 
 " Mebbe we can have some new paper before then ; I 
 can put it on. I guess you won t have no call to be 
 ashamed of your belongin s." 
 
 " We might have the wedding in the new barn," said Nan 
 ny, with gentle pettishness. " Why, mother, what makes 
 you look so ?" 
 
 Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curi 
 ous expression. She turned again to her work, and spread 
 out a pattern carefully on the cloth. " Nothin ," said she. 
 
 Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two- 
 wheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman 
 charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a 
 minute looking out ; the halloos of the men sounded louder. 
 
 It seemed to her all through the spring months that she 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 45 9 
 
 heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of saws and 
 hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice 
 for this little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in 
 their meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and stood around 
 it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoni- 
 ram did not mention it to her, although sometimes, upon a re 
 turn from inspecting it, he bore himself with injured dignity. 
 
 "It s a strange thing how your mother feels about the 
 new barn," he said, confidentially, to Sammy one day. 
 
 Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy ; he 
 had learned it from his father. 
 
 The barn was all completed ready for use by the third 
 week in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock 
 in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which 
 changed his plans. He came in with it early in the morn 
 ing. " Sammy s been to the post-office," said he, " an I ve 
 got a letter from Hiram." Hiram was Mrs. Penn s brother, 
 who lived in Vermont. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Penn, " what does he say about the 
 folks?" 
 
 " I guess they re all right. He says he thinks if I come 
 up country right off there s a chance to buy jest the kind of 
 a horse I want." He stared reflectively out of the window 
 at the new barn. 
 
 Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the 
 rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very pale, and 
 her heart beat loudly. 
 
 " I dun know but what I d better go," said Adoniram. " I 
 hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of hayin , but the 
 ten-acre lot s cut, an I guess Rufus an the others can git 
 along without me three or four days. I can t get a horse 
 tound here to suit me, nohow, an I ve got to have another 
 
460 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 for all that wood-haulin in the fall. I told Hiram to watch 
 out, an v if he got wind of a good horse to let me know. I 
 guess I d better go." 
 
 " I ll get out your clean shirt an collar," said Mrs. Penn 
 calmly. 
 
 She laid out Adoniram s Sunday suit and his clean 
 clothes on the bed in the little bedroom. She got his shav 
 ing-water and razor ready. At last she buttoned on his 
 collar and fastened his black cravat. 
 
 Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on ex 
 tra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. 
 When he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, 
 and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated 
 on the threshold of the door. He looked at his wife, and 
 his manner was defiantly apologetic, "j^them cows come 
 to-day, Sammy can drive em into the new barn," said he ; 
 " an when they bring the hay up, they can pitch it in there." 
 
 " Well," replied Mrs. Penn. 
 
 Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When 
 he had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back 
 with a kind of nervous solemnity. "I shall be back by 
 Saturday if nothin happens," said he. 
 
 " Do be careful, father," returned his wife. 
 
 She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and 
 watched him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubt 
 ful expression in them ; her peaceful forehead was con 
 tracted. She went in, and about her baking again. Nanny 
 sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing nearer, and 
 she was getting pale and thin with her steady sewing. Her 
 mother kept glancing at her. 
 
 " Have you got that pain in your side this mornin*?" she 
 asked. 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 461 
 
 " A little." 
 
 Mrs. Penn s face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed 
 forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. 
 She formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with 
 her unlettered thoughts. " Unsolicited opportunities are the 
 guide-posts of the Lord to the new roads of life," she repeated 
 in effect, and she made up her mind to her course of action. 
 
 " S posin I had wrote to Hiram," she muttered once, 
 when she was in the pantry " s posin I had wrote, an 
 asked him if he knew ot any horse ? But I didn t, an 
 father s goin wa n t none of my doin . It looks like a 
 providence." Her voice rang out quite loud at the last. 
 
 " What you talkin about, mother ?" called Nanny. 
 
 " Nothin ." 
 
 Mrs. Penn hurried her baking ; at eleven o clock it was 
 all done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly 
 down the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. 
 Penn ran out. " Stop !" she screamed " stop !" 
 
 The men stopped and looked ; Sammy upreared from the 
 top of the load, and stared at his mother. 
 
 " Stop !" she cried out again. " Don t you put the hay 
 in that barn ; put it in the old one." 
 
 "Why, he said to put it in here," returned one of the hay 
 makers, wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor s 
 son, whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm. 
 
 " Don t you put the hay in the new barn ; there s room 
 enough in the old one, ain t there?" said Mrs. Penn. 
 
 " Room enough," returned the hired man, in his thick, 
 rustic tones. " Didn t need the new barn, nohow, far as 
 room s concerned. Well, I s pose he changed his mind." 
 He took hold of the horses bridles. 
 
 K,rs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen 
 
462 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey 
 came into the room. 
 
 Nanny laid down her work. " I thought father wanted 
 them to put the hay into the new barn ?" she said, won- 
 deringly. 
 
 " It s all right," replied her mother. 
 
 Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to 
 see if dinner was ready. 
 
 " I ain t goin to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as 
 father s gone," said his mother. " I ve let the fire go out. 
 You can have some bread an milk an pie. I thought we 
 could get along." She set out some bowls of milk, some 
 bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. " You d better eat 
 your dinner now," said she. " You might jest as well get 
 through with it. I want you to help me afterward." 
 
 Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was 
 something strange in their mother s manner. Mrs. Penn 
 did not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry, 
 and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Present 
 ly she came out with a pile of plates. She got the clothes- 
 basket out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny and 
 Sammy watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and 
 put them in with the plates. 
 
 "What you goin to do, mother?" inquired Nanny, in a 
 timid voice. A sense of something unusual made her trem 
 ble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie. 
 
 "You ll see what I m goin to do," replied Mrs. Penn. 
 "If you re through, Nanny, I want you to go up-stairs an 
 pack up your things ; an I want you, Sammy, to help me 
 take down the bed in the bedroom." 
 
 " Oh, mother, what for ?" gasped Nanny. 
 
 "You ll see." 
 
 During the next few hours a feat was performed by this 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER* 463 
 
 simple, pious New England mother which was equal in its 
 way to Wolfe s storming of the Heights of Abraham. It 
 took no more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to 
 cheer his wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, un 
 der the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at 
 the head of her children, to move all their little household 
 goods into the new barn while her husband was away. 
 
 Nanny and Sammy followed their mother s instructions 
 without a murmur ; indeed, they were overawed. There is a 
 certain uncanny and superhuman quality about all such 
 purely original undertakings as their mother s was to them. 
 Nanny went back and forth with her light loads, and Sam 
 my tugged with sober energy. 
 
 At five o clock in the afternoon the little house in which 
 the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into 
 the new barn. 
 
 Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, 
 and is in a measure a prophet. The architect of Adoni- 
 ram Penn s barn, while he designed it for the comfort of 
 four-footed animals, had planned better than he knew for 
 the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a glance its 
 possibilities. Those great box-stalls, with quilts hung before 
 them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had 
 occupied for forty years, and there was a tight carriage- 
 room. The harness-room, with its chimney and shelves, 
 would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle 
 space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. 
 Up stairs there was as much room as down. With parti 
 tions and windows, what a house would there be ! Sarah 
 looked at the row of stanchions before the allotted space for 
 cows, and reflected that she would have her front entry there. 
 
 At six o clock the stove was up in the harness-room, 
 the kettle was boiling, an^ the table set for tea. It looked 
 
464 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 almost as home-like as the abandoned house across the 
 yard had ever done. The young hired man milked, and 
 Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to the new 
 barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots of foam from 
 the brimming pails on the grass. Before the next morning 
 he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn s wife moving 
 into the new barn all over the little village. Men assembled 
 in the store and talked it over, women with shawls over 
 their heads scuttled into each other s houses before their 
 work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course 
 of life in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in 
 it. Everybody paused to look at the staid, independent 
 figure on the side track. There was a difference of opinion 
 with regard to her. Some held her to be insane ; some, of 
 a lawless and rebellious spirit. 
 
 Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the 
 forenoon, and she was at the barn door shelling pease for 
 dinner. She looked up and returned his salutation with 
 dignity, then she went on with her work. She did not 
 invite him in. The saintly expression of her face remained 
 fixed, but there was an angry flush over it. 
 
 The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. 
 She handled the pease as if they were bullets. At last she 
 looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek 
 front had covered for a lifetime. 
 
 " There ain t no use talkin , Mr. Hersey," said she. " I ve 
 thought it all over an over, an I believe I m doin what s 
 right. I ve made it the subject of prayer, an it s betwixt 
 me an the Lord an Adoniram. There ain t no call for 
 nobody else to worry about it." 
 
 " Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord 19 
 prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. 
 Penn," said the minister, helplessly. His thin gray-bearded 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 465 
 
 face was pathetic. He was a sickly man ; his youthful 
 confidence had cooled ; he had to scourge himself up to 
 some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly as a Catholic 
 ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the smart 
 
 " I think it s right jest as much as I think it was right 
 for our forefathers to come over from the old country cause 
 they didn t have what belonged to em," said Mrs. Penn. 
 She arose. The barn threshold might have been Plymouth 
 Rock from her bearing. " I don t doubt you mean well, 
 Mr. Hersey," said she, " but there are things people hadn t 
 ought to interfere with. I ve been a member of the church 
 for over forty year. I ve got my own mind an my own 
 feet, an I m goin to think my own thoughts an go my own 
 ways, an nobody but the Lord is goin to dictate to me 
 unless I ve a mind to have him. Won t you come in an 
 set down ? How is Mis Hersey ?" 
 
 " She is well, I thank you," replied the minister. He 
 added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he 
 retreated. 
 
 He could expound the intricacies of every character 
 study in the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the 
 Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah 
 Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal cases, 
 but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, although it 
 was aside from his province, he wondered more how Adoni- 
 ram Penn would deal with his wife than how the Lord 
 would. Everybody shared the wonder. When Adoniram s 
 four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put in 
 the old barn, the other in the house shed where the cook 
 ing-stove had stood. That added to the excitement. It was 
 whispered that all four cows were domiciled in the house. 
 
 Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was ex- 
 3* 
 
466 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 pected home, there was a knot of men in the road near the 
 new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung 
 around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. 
 There were brown-bread and baked beans and a custard 
 pie ; it was the supper that Adoniram loved on a Saturday 
 night. She had on a clean calico, and she bore herself 
 imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close at her heels. 
 Their eyes were large, and Nanny was full of nervous 
 tremors. Still there was to them more pleasant excite 
 ment than anything else. An inborn confidence in their 
 mother over their father asserted itself. 
 
 Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. " There 
 he is," he announced, in an awed whisper. He and Nanny 
 peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her 
 work. The children watched Adoniram leave the new horse 
 standing in the drive while he went to the house door. It 
 was fastened. Then he went around to the shed. That 
 door was seldom locked, even when the family was away. 
 The thought how her father would be confronted by the cow 
 flashed upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her 
 throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood look 
 ing about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was 
 saying something, but they could not hear what it was. 
 The hired man was peeping around a corner of the old 
 barn, but nobody saw him. 
 
 Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him 
 across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk 
 close to their mother. The barn doors rolled back, and 
 there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great 
 Canadian farm horse looking over his shoulder. 
 
 Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped sud 
 denly forward, and stood in front of her. 
 
 Adoniram stared at the group. "What on airth you all 
 
THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 467 
 
 down here for ?" said he. " What s the matter over to the 
 house ?" 
 
 "We ve come here to live, father," said Sammy. His 
 shrill voice quavered out bravely. 
 
 "What" Adoniram sniffed "what is it smells like 
 cookin ?" said he. He stepped forward and looked in the 
 open door of the harness-room. Then he turned to his 
 wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened. " What 
 on airth does this mean, mother ?" he gasped. 
 
 "You come in here, father," said Sarah. She led the 
 way into the harness-room and shut the door. " Now, 
 father/ said she, "you needn t be scared. I ain t crazy. 
 There ain t nothin to be upset over. But we ve come here 
 to live, an we re goin to live here. We ve got jest as good 
 a right here as new horses an cows. The house wa n t fit 
 for us to live in any longer, an I made up my mind I wa n t 
 goin to stay there. I ve done my duty by you forty year, 
 an I m goin to do it now ; but I m goin to live here. 
 You ve got to put in some windows and partitions; an 
 you ll have to buy some furniture." 
 
 "Why, mother!" the old man gasped. 
 
 " You d better take your coat off an get washed there s 
 the wash-basin an then we ll have supper." 
 
 "Why, mother!" 
 
 Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to 
 the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his head 
 speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms 
 seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. She 
 poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a piece 
 of soap. She got the comb and brush, and smoothed his 
 thin gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the 
 beans, hot bread, and tea on the table. Sammy came in, 
 
468 THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER." 
 
 and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking dazedly at 
 his plate, and they waited. 
 
 " Ain t you goin to ask a blessin , father ?" said Sarah. 
 
 And the old man bent his head and mumbled. 
 
 All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and 
 stared furtively at his wife ; but he ate well. The home 
 food tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily 
 healthy to be affected by his mind. But after supper he 
 went out, and sat down on the step of the smaller door at 
 the right of the barn, through which he had meant his Jer 
 seys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah designed for 
 her front house door, and he leaned his head on his hands. 
 
 After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk- 
 pans washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was 
 deepening. There was a clear green glow in the sky. Be 
 fore them stretched the smooth level of field ; in the dis 
 tance was a cluster of hay-stacks like the huts of a village ; 
 the air was very cool and calm and sweet. The landscape 
 might have been an ideal one of peace. 
 
 Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his 
 thin, sinewy shoulders. " Father !" 
 
 The old man s shoulders heaved : he was weeping. 
 
 " Why, don t do so, father," said Sarah. 
 
 "I ll put up the partitions, an* everything you 
 want, mother." 
 
 Sarah put her apron up to her face ; she was overcome 
 by her own triumph. 
 
 Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active 
 resistance, and went down the instant the right besieging 
 tools were used. " Why, mother," he said, hoarsely, u I 
 hadn t no idee you was so set on t as all this comes to." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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