QUICKSAND 
 
 WHITE 
 
QUICKSAND 
 
By HERVEY WHITE 
 
 DIFFERENCES. A Novel $ 1 >S 
 
 WHEN EVE WAS NOT CREATED, AND OTHER STORIES . 1.25 
 
 Small, Maynard & Company 
 Publishers, Boston 
 
QUICKSAND 
 
 Hervey White 
 
 SURE 
 Q^OD 
 
 SCIEN 
 
 Boston 
 
 Small, Maynard & Company 
 i 900 
 
Copyright^ /poo, by 
 
 Small) Maynard & Company 
 
 (Incorporated} 
 
 Entered at Stationers Hall 
 
 Press of Geo. H. Ellis 
 Boston, U.S.A 
 
9\*+s m f * / * .^ 
 74:00-4: 
 
 IAJ 
 Book I c/ 
 
 Adelaide 
 
I. 
 
 THE evening was a chill one i\i 
 shadows were lengthening on^tl^e snow;; fcj ajid Jhe 
 bare twigs of trees, hazy blue, .^ere^ d^epeni^ 
 with mystery in the distance, glowing in faint purple 
 on the hills and darkening into sadness in the mountains. 
 The peaks stood out clear and sharp against the cold 
 tints of the sky. Even the lowering sun could barely 
 tinge them with rose light, so dimmed and whitened was 
 he with his swirling halo of frost. His rays found more 
 warmth in the valley, blushing on the surface of the snow 
 and burning with the fierceness of flames in the village 
 windows to westward. But even here, in thrifty, hard 
 working New Hampshire, there answered no human re 
 sponse to this bounty of warmth and of colour. Except 
 for faint wreathings of smoke around the snow-muffled 
 chimneys, the village might be one of the dead, as silent 
 as the graveyard beyond it. The curving road rounded 
 the frozen knoll. White houses, white as the snow, shrank 
 close in their picket enclosures. There was no wind, the 
 laughing of the river was congealed, birds and beasts 
 alike were in hiding, men were within by their fires. The 
 solitude was so absolute and holy that angels might walk 
 unmolested, chanting the beauty of the earth and the 
 majesty of oncoming night, with its limitless glory of 
 stars. 
 
 There came a sudden interruption, a murmur and 
 babble of voices, the shrill, joyous voices of children, 
 increasing in sound and in tension, like the siren of 
 machines newly started. The point of explosion was 
 reached when the door of the village school-house burst 
 open, and the crowded children tumbled out like ripe 
 seeds from their capsule. They spotted the white snow 
 
4 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 around with restless confusion of colour, rolling and 
 bumping in divergence, intoxicated with space and noise, 
 freedom, and the bubbling spirit of childhood. 
 
 " Hooray ! Hooray I " they shouted. " Four o clock I 
 and this is "Friday I No more school till Monday 1 
 Hooray 1 " 
 
 The boys began pelting each other with snowballs, the 
 girls danced and jingled their tin dinner-pails, little ones 
 leaped for pure joy, and added their shouts to the con 
 fusion. The larger girls, who styled themselves young 
 ladies, but were none the less spoken of as " big girls," 
 came out of the door last of all, in a more dignified 
 though giggling group. Many of them were watching for 
 their sweethearts or, as Tamworth Village put it, their 
 " beaux," from the crowd of snowballing boys, who now 
 began shying up bashfully with laughing pretences of 
 boldness. There was singing-school Friday nights, and 
 escorts had to be accepted. 
 
 "There s Adelaide with Rob the Robber. Rob is 
 Adelaide s beau," screamed a mischievous, dancing small 
 boy, whose eyes were always seeing. 
 
 " Shut up I " said a big boy, making a dive at the duck 
 ing urchin. " What do you know about beaux ? " 
 
 " Oh, you want her yourself, Hiram Stubbs, only you re 
 one of the family ! " shrieked the escaping youngster, as 
 he made a dodge through the fence. " Adelaide and Rob 
 the Robber 1 Adelaide and Rob the Robber 1 " he kept 
 singing, as he skipped out of reach. 
 
 Some of the other children took up the cry, and it 
 shrilled out all through the village. The big girls tossed 
 their heads in superior fashion, and the big boys looked 
 sheepishly embarrassed. All of the attention was now 
 fixed on a pair standing near to the doorway, a tall, pale 
 girl with long braids of red hair and a dark youth, foreign 
 
Qji icksand 5 
 
 to New England. The girl s face was flushed as with 
 recent weeping, and her eyes were flashing defiance at 
 the crowd. The bronze face of the youth was suffused 
 with a look of tender concern, like that of a young Saint 
 John in old pictures. He was gloriously beautiful, only 
 the others did not see this. They saw that he was differ 
 ent from themselves, and therefore to be held up for de 
 rision. 
 
 " Adelaide and Rob the Robber ! " went up the cry of 
 the children. 
 
 " What s the matter ? " demanded a dark-haired boy, 
 coming out of the shadow of the school-house, where he 
 had been talking with one of the girls. " Here, Addie, 
 haven t you gone home yet ? Why don t you go along, 
 and tend to Mary? Here, you ve got to carry the 
 dinner-pail. I always carry it in the morning." Then, 
 turning to the youth at her side : " What are you hanging 
 around for, you black gypsy ? I won t have you making 
 eyes at my sister. If I see you talking to her again, I ll 
 slap all the black off your face." He thrust himself in 
 between the two, and forced the girl toward the street. 
 She was at first for turning on him defiantly with the look 
 she had given the others ; but, seeing the distress in the 
 face of the gypsy, the dumb, pitiful pleading of the eyes, 
 she walked away homeward instead, her fierce pride 
 stiffening her like iron. 
 
 " If Rob would only fight him ! " she muttered. " But 
 he s backward and sensitive as a girl." 
 
 She came to the crossing of the roads where a group of 
 children stood waiting. 
 
 "Go on home, Lib, and stop gabbing," she said, taking 
 a black-eyed, twelve-year-old girl by the shoulder and 
 whirling her into position. " Look at Mary half-way up 
 the hill with Hiram 1 " 
 
6 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 " I don t care. I m waiting for Sam 1 " screamed out 
 the startled Libbie. " You re mad because Sam is going 
 to whip your beau. Adelaide and Rob the Robber ! " 
 she began tauntingly, as she skipped about at safe dis 
 tance. 
 
 " Hiram, make her stop 1 " pleaded Adelaide, as soon 
 as her swift steps had overtaken him. " They re nagging 
 the very life out of me." 
 
 " Come, Libbie, come on, and I ll give you a ride pick- 
 a-back. Come on now, and stop teasing your sister. 
 No ? Well, then, I ll give Mary a ride," he said, stooping 
 down to make ready. 
 
 " No, no, Hiram, me first. I ll be good. You promised 
 me a ride before Mary." And the little girl ran to him 
 wildly, and clambered up on his broad shoulders. 
 
 The four went on their way peacefully, big Hiram 
 talking with the children, and Adelaide visibly softened. 
 
 Soon Sam came blowing and puffing, having silenced 
 the crowd at the school-house. 
 
 " Here, Addie, you needn t think your re going to get 
 out of carrying the dinner-pail," he called, and tried to 
 force it into her hands. 
 
 " Sam Hinckley, I won t. Leave me alone. I m car 
 rying all these books." She kept her hands clinched up 
 tight. 
 
 " All right, spit fire : let it stay here till Monday." And, 
 dropping it down in the snow in front of her, he ran on, 
 still puffing and blowing. 
 
 Adelaide walked around the pail, which Hiram picked 
 quietly up. 
 
 " You shan t carry it," she said, seeing that he held it. 
 " It s his place. You have got your books, and may have 
 to take Mary. Leave it sit right there where it was. 
 Mother will make Sam come back and get it." 
 
Qju icksand 7 
 
 "I ought to have taken it from the first," answered 
 Hiram, apologetically, still keeping the pail in his hand. 
 
 "Hiram, you shan t, you shan t! I ll kill myself, 
 Hiram, if you do. Make him come back. Give it up to 
 me, Hiram." She was crying with the frenzy of rage. 
 Hiram Stubbs was powerless before her. Who was this 
 girl struggling with him? Not the Adelaide he had 
 known always, with the gentle, bird-like, wild ways. 
 
 " Take the pail of course," he said gently. " Whatever 
 is the matter with you, Addie ? It s easy enough for me 
 to carry. Your mother would not like it if I left it." 
 
 The girl took the pail back to the exact spot where 
 Sam had set it down. 
 
 " Let it stay there," she said defiantly, " till Sam comes 
 to pick it up. Don t try to go back for it again," seeing 
 Hiram still hesitated. " It shall stay there if I watch it 
 all night." 
 
 He saw how determined she was, and together they 
 went on homeward. 
 
 " How she is changed ! " he kept thinking. " She has 
 always been so gentle before." 
 
 They came to a white house against a hill, with an 
 avenue of elms down in front. The yellow light of sun 
 set was glowing in the sky through the trees. Winter 
 days are short in New England. 
 
 It was Hiram who opened the door. Little Mary 
 slipped down from his arms. A warm rush of light and 
 air greeted them as they stepped inside. 
 
 " Be careful and sweep off the snow," said a voice com 
 ing out from the back. " What has made you so late ? 
 Sam came in five minutes ago." 
 
 " He ran," said Hiram, briefly, taking off his coat and 
 putting on an old one to make ready for the coming 
 chores. 
 
8 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 "And he set down the dinner-pail," began Libbie, 
 bursting with excitement of news to be telling ; " and the 
 children were calling out all the time, Adelaide and Rob 
 the Robber, and Hiram gave me a pick-a-back, and 
 Addie is mad with Hiram." 
 
 Adelaide had slipped away upstairs to the cold room 
 that she shared with her sisters. The fierceness was still 
 burning within her. Could it be that she was really 
 Adelaide ? 
 
 She listened to the talk below. The kitchen stove-pipe 
 came up through the floor of her room, and she could hear 
 all that passed quite distinctly. Sam came in cross and 
 sullen, and Hiram made reluctant admissions as her 
 mother put searching questions. Finally, her father came 
 in ; and explanations of the quarrel were repeated. Hiram 
 was sent back for the dinner-pail. It could not be all 
 Sam s fault. 
 
 Adelaide crept off to the bed. The stove-pipe could 
 not keep her warm enough. She knew she would be 
 called down to supper, and she wondered if a headache 
 would excuse her. 
 
 There came in time the dreaded step on the stairs, her 
 mother s vague form in the doorway, tall and uncertain in 
 the darkness. 
 
 " Adelaide, what is all this trouble ? I have never 
 known you to behave so." 
 
 If the mother s voice had not been kind, she could 
 have braved it out a time longer. But now all the flood 
 gates were opened. Her ignorance and the horror were 
 unbearable. She ran across the room and fell, grasping 
 the woman s knees. "O mother, keep still while I 
 whisper I I I have got to marry Rob Melendez." 
 
II. 
 
 THE atmosphere was heavy that evening. Hiram 
 felt it on coming in from his choring. Mrs. 
 Hinckley did not come down to supper, neither 
 did Adelaide appear. It would be a good time for him 
 to slip over and see Rob Melendez, though Saturday was 
 his usual night. It was generally hard to avoid em 
 barrassing questions when Hiram chose to go out, but 
 to-night he felt that Mrs. Hinckley would not notice. It 
 might be that Adelaide was not well. She certainly had 
 been irritable of late. 
 
 Supper over, he put on his coat, cap, and mittens, to 
 carry in wood from the shed. It was easy enough after 
 the last armful to step out of the wood-shed door, and take 
 a short cut across the pasture. He liked to walk through 
 the unbroken snow : his stout boots sent the star crystals 
 flying. He would go direct to the sap-house to-night, 
 and not take time for the longer road by McDonald s. 
 It was probable that Rob would be there. He always 
 sought the place, when in trouble. The fire, he said, gave 
 him comfort. The pasture crossed, Hiram plunged into 
 a black wood below the hill, then down into a blacker 
 ravine. The snow held the light, however, once he was 
 inside ; and the stars could still be seen overhead through 
 the frost-crackling network of boughs. Up the ravine 
 bank he went through the ghostly solitude till he had 
 reached the brow of the hill, where he stopped to recon 
 noitre. Yes, he had not miscalculated his direction. He 
 steadied himself for a breath, and gave a low, mourning 
 whistle. Was not Rob there, after all ? he thought ; and 
 then a smile came to his face, for the same wailing answer 
 came back. He plunged into the wood straight ahead, 
 the bushes snapping before him. There was the sap- 
 
io Qjiicksand 
 
 house shanty, and firelight flickering through the door 
 way. But why did not Rob come to meet him? He 
 pushed himself in through the door, and shoved it back 
 creaking to the jamb. 
 
 " You re in the dumps," he said cheerily, walking over 
 to the fire. " You can t even speak to a fellow." 
 
 The gypsy half turned and looked toward him, but 
 without the lifting of his eyes. He was lying on a 
 blanket on the hearth, watching the flames in the 
 chimney. 
 
 Hiram walked over to the hearth and stood with his 
 back to the blaze, warming his palms behind him, and 
 looking up at the smoke-browned rafters where the flick 
 ering light battled with huge shadows. It was a picture 
 he was always fond of : he liked it better than the ones 
 he saw printed in books. Could he have seen the whole 
 of the picture 1 But that it was not given him to see. 
 He must pose as the unconscious model. 
 
 The old sap- house with its weather-tanned boards and 
 
 the firelight lapping upon them was but the background 
 
 \ for a group : a fair, stripling youth standing with back 
 
 ; to the fire, his vague face turned to look upward ; and 
 
 beside him, and lying at his feet, another youth, dark 
 
 with the South, and like the South in his beauty. There 
 
 was something of the creature of the sun in this gypsy, 
 
 worshipping his fire-god. There was the spirit of the 
 
 forest in the other, the giant soul yearning toward the 
 
 night, the mystical shifting of darkness. 
 
 But reverses were on them to-night. The melancholy of 
 the forests was merry, and the joy of the sunshine was 
 clouded. Hiram laughed out hearty and long. Perhaps 
 it was the exhilaration of walking through the starlight, 
 or perhaps the animal pleasure of companionship, of being 
 with the creature he loved. 
 
Qj 
 
 uicksand 
 
 ii 
 
 Rob reached up, and took hold of his hand. There 
 was the pleading of a wounded deer in his eyes. 
 
 " Sit down, Hiram," was all that he said. " Sit close to 
 me here on the blanket." 
 
 With the frank laughter still in his eyes, Hiram 
 brought a sap-pail from the corner, and, turning it bottom 
 side up, planted himself firmly on the improvised stool. 
 " I am not good at lounging," he said ; and then, more 
 thoughtfully, with his hand on Rob s shoulder, " You are 
 thinking of Sam Hinckley to-night." 
 
 " I will kill him," replied the gypsy, slowly. " I have 
 brought a knife, and I will kill him." As he spoke, he 
 drew a large knife from his pocket, one commonly used 
 by farmers for pig-killing. 
 
 "Why don t you stand up and fight him, when he 
 insults you ? " said Hiram, undisturbed by the threat. 
 " Use your fists like a man. It s cowardly using a knife. 
 You never would let me teach you to box. Of course, 
 you would get the worst of it with Sam. He s heavy, and 
 you are light. Besides, he knows the play." 
 
 " How do you know it is cowardly to use a knife ? " in 
 terrupted the other, impatiently. " Let him get a knife, 
 too, if he likes. I see no bravery in standing up and 
 pounding with fists and calling everything settled when 
 one is senseless. I hate him, and will only be satisfied 
 when he is dead ; or let him kill me, if he can. I call it 
 cowardly to fight : it is bravery only to kill." 
 
 Hiram was something abashed by this denial of the 
 established rules of society. " But you ll have the law on 
 you," he said finally ; " and they will hang you for a 
 murderer." 
 
 The youth laughed scornfully. " The law ! the law 1 " 
 he said. " When has the law been my protector ? It will 
 hang me for not killing him if it chooses. Has the law 
 ever stopped for a gypsy ? " 
 
12 Qjiicksand 
 
 " But you are not a gypsy any longer. You have set 
 tled and hired out to McDonald. He will see that you 
 receive justice." 
 
 Rob s eyes changed from defiance to cunning. " Lily 
 McDonald," he said, "I believe Sam is in love with 
 Lily McDonald." 
 
 " What s that to you ? " answered Hiram, uneasily. 
 " You care for Adelaide, don t you ? " 
 
 " Poor Adelaide 1 " said the gypsy boy, tenderly. 
 " Poor Adelaide ! She was crying to-day. Hiram, I 
 am breaking her heart." 
 
 " Don t talk like a fool," replied Hiram, gruffly ; but he 
 allowed Rob to reach for his hand, and his fingers closed 
 whh firm, even grip when he felt the smaller ones enter. 
 
 " Ah 1 Hiram, you were never in love. Then you would 
 not talk so to me. How beautiful she is ! " he resumed 
 after a pause. " To me she is always beautiful. Do you 
 remember the Song of Solomon, where the man is singing 
 of his love ? Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and 
 thy speech is comely, goes the song. Thy temples are 
 like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks. Did you 
 ever see a pomegranate, Hiram? I seem to, and yet 
 can t remember." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Hiram. " You are irreverent. That 
 song is to show Christ s love for the Church." 
 
 "It may be," replied Rob, half dreaming. "But it 
 sounds to me like man s love for a woman. Her eyes 
 are like dove s eyes, " he repeated. And then suddenly, 
 half-rising up, " I wonder, Hiram, that you are not in love 
 with her." 
 
 " How could I be, you simpleton ? Living there in the 
 same house as I do, I know too much of her to be in love. 
 She seems to me like a sister. You would never think 
 she s seventeen." 
 
Qjiicksand 13 
 
 " She is a child," said the Southern boy, caressingly. 
 " How beautiful she was in the haying last summer, when 
 you and I were up there with her father in the moun 
 tains 1 " 
 
 " Her father should have known better than to take her 
 up there alone to do the cooking," said Hiram. 
 
 " Yet who would have thought of her loving a gypsy 1 
 And, as you say, you are like a brother," said Rob. 
 
 " I used to think you were a curious fellow until I came 
 to know you," said Hiram, fondly. " I used to fight shy 
 of you at first." 
 
 " I know, and so did she ; but, as you say, she s but a 
 child, and children are never afraid of me. They run to 
 me, just like animals. They only think me strange when 
 they have been taught to think so." 
 
 " Rob, sometimes I think you are a wise man." 
 
 " A wise man is most like a child, and Adelaide is like 
 a wise man. Did you ever hear her sing, Hiram ? " 
 
 " Of course, a little, singing about the house as she 
 works." 
 
 " Oh, but you should hear her sing with me 1 Here is 
 a song she has written down for me. We are going to 
 sing it together." 
 
 He drew from his inside coat pocket a carefully folded 
 piece of paper ; and, after pressing it tenderly to his lips, 
 he proceeded to unfold it on his knee, patting it as he 
 would the head of a child. Inside was a long ring of 
 hair, shining red as copper in the firelight. " Is it not 
 beautiful ? " he said, holding it up before his eyes much as 
 a child might a toy. 
 
 " You great big baby 1 " said Hiram, softly. 
 
 " I put it under my pillow every night," continued Rob, 
 " and all night I dream of her. But her hair is not so 
 beautiful as her eyes. Your eyes make me think of hers, 
 Hiram." 
 
14 Qjiicksand 
 
 " You ve told me that before," replied Hiram, good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 " Yes, but you like me to tell it again. How white your 
 hands are beside mine, now as we hold them together 1 " 
 
 " My hands are red and ugly with the cold." 
 
 " But not far back on the wrist. My arms are as brown 
 as my hands. See ? " 
 
 " Of course, I have seen you in swimming." 
 
 " I must look odd among all the white boys. I don t 
 wonder they think I m different. I am different, I sup 
 pose." 
 
 " You are, that s so," said Hiram, shaking him heartily 
 by the shoulder. " Lying here, talking like a girl. What 
 other boy would do that ? " 
 
 " Any other boy would think it, and I m sure I don t 
 see why I should not be honest. I don t tell anybody but 
 you. You know I don t tell any one else." 
 
 " I know, I know ; and, when I m in love, I ll tell you. 
 That will make us even," said Hiram. 
 
 " Will you, will you really ? " queried Rob, with some 
 thing more of eagerness than usual. Then, thoughtfully, 
 after long thinking : 
 
 " Hiram, there s one thing I have never told you. 
 Something I never could tell, only to-day, from what 
 Adelaide said, I may need you to help me, Hiram." 
 
 " What did she say ? " asked Hiram, abruptly. 
 
 " Why, you know before, when I have asked her to marry 
 me, she has only looked frightened, and said her mother 
 would not let her, that she would see her dead first ; but 
 to-day, you know, after she had been crying to-night while 
 the others were shouting she said, are you listening, 
 Hiram? she said she would have to marry me now." 
 
 " What did she mean by that? " 
 
 " Don t you think ? Can t you guess ? " he half whis- 
 
Qjuicksand 15 
 
 pered, reaching his hand up to the face of the other. 
 " It is very fearful, Hiram, to think of ; and yet it is very 
 sweet. Do you suppose I could be a father ? " 
 
 Hiram Stubbs leaped from his seat as if the house had 
 been struck by lightning. 
 
 " Why, Rob 1 " was all he could gasp. 
 
 The gypsy remained as if dreaming, his eyes fixed in 
 tent on the fire. 
 
 Hiram began walking up and down the rough floor. 
 It was some time before he could find breath for speak 
 ing, and then he seemed fairly to shout. 
 
 " I never thought it could have gone I never 
 dreamed Why, you are a rascal, a villain ! Get up 1 I 
 feel like kicking you out doors. Get up, and fight for 
 yourself ! Pull out your cowardly knife I I will fight 
 with you empty-handed. Such treachery 1 " He kept 
 walking and fuming, while the other lay still by the fire, 
 half dazed with the whirlwind he had excited. 
 
 Hiram continued to walk and revile, calling on the 
 gypsy to fight him. At length he called with some effect, 
 for Rob sprang to his feet like a cat. With one fling he 
 sent the knife whirling into the fire ; and, throwing his 
 coat into a corner, he stood with his delicate muscles all 
 quivering, fine lines playing over his face. 
 
 " I would not fight Sam," he said piteously ; " but I will 
 fight with you, Hiram, if you wish it, and give you as 
 good as I can." 
 
 The mood in some way satisfied the other. He 
 stopped before the threatening figure. 
 
 "What did you mean by it, Rob?" he said in more 
 subdued tone. 
 
 " You forget that we loved each other," answered the 
 dark youth, tremulously. " We loved, and we were much 
 together. I suppose it is terrible with your religion, but 
 to us it was only natural." 
 
1 6 Qjiicksand 
 
 His face had the haunted pleading of a child. Would 
 he lose now his only friend ? 
 
 But Hiram saw that he had other than Puritan stuff 
 here to deal with. He was not very old in his years, but 
 he was beginning to learn already that all people are not 
 like New Englanders. 
 
 " May God pity you both 1 " he said hoarsely ; and, 
 seizing his coat and his cap, he escaped out into the 
 darkness. 
 
 " There was love, though, love in his tones," said the 
 gypsy, after closing the door ; and with that he seemed 
 to take comfort as he nestled down on the hearth. 
 
III. 
 
 ADELAIDE was locked in her room. She had 
 been there since coming from school. Her 
 mother, after listening to her confession, had 
 gone away without a word, locking the door and taking 
 the key with her. Once, late in the evening, she had 
 come in for the children s night-dresses; but Adelaide 
 would have pretended to be asleep, even if her mother 
 had addressed her. There was no lieed of the subter 
 fuge, however. Libbie and little Mary slept downstairs 
 that night, leaving their frightened sister alone to toss 
 open-eyed in her bed. In the morning the door had re 
 ceded for a moment, and some bread was laid on the 
 table near by. The mother had come in later on to get 
 some aprons for the children, but without giving a glance 
 toward her daughter, who sat sullenly watching by the 
 stove-pipe. 
 
 How long the morning had been 1 The girl had listened 
 to all the life going on below, the preparing of breakfast, 
 the coming in of Sam and Hiram from the chores, the 
 quiet of family prayers with the even drone of her father s 
 voice reading, then the clink of knives and forks on the 
 plates. 
 
 She was forever now banned from that cheer of the 
 breakfast together. It had never seemed an occasion for 
 especial rejoicing before, but now it was the light and 
 warmth of Paradise. She listened with her ear to the 
 floor, like Eve outside of the gate. Her thick hair fell 
 over her ears, and she dashed it back as in fury. Only to 
 hear, to catch the loved sound of their voices 1 There 
 was a little circle of holes close around the surface of the 
 stove-pipe, and she strained for a peep below till her 
 temples were blacked with stove polish ; but only the top 
 
1 8 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 of the cook-stove was visible, with its kettles and two flat- 
 irons on the back. She remembered that she had in 
 tended to iron some doll clothes for Libbie this morning. 
 She had been teasing about it all through the week. How 
 far away it seemed now from herself 1 Her past life had 
 become like her view of the cook-stove, only seen through 
 tiny peep-holes and with straining, even then dim with 
 dust and tears and down as from another world. Her 
 point of view had quite altered. 
 
 She was roused from a bewildered reverie by the sound 
 of the pushing back of their chairs. Breakfast was over, 
 it seemed, and not a word nor a thought of her. Then 
 Hiram came to stand close by the stove : he was warming 
 his mittens on the pipe. He was talking now with her 
 mother, asking if the children might go with him and 
 Sam to the upper farm. They were going for a load of 
 wood. 
 
 " We can build a big fire, and have the place warm in 
 no time," he was saying. " And Libbie and Mary will be 
 good and stay in the house as we tell them, won t you, 
 Libbie ? " half teasingly. 
 
 There was vagueness in the matter which followed, but 
 it seemed to have been arranged ; for Mary was singing 
 happily, and Libbie was dancing around the table. After 
 various comings and goings, broken talk about the ride 
 and the weather, and the dinner that was being stowed in 
 a water-pail, interrupted with the babble of the children, 
 there was a slamming of doors and a draught of cold air 
 through the ventilator ; and Mrs. Hinckley was left alone 
 with the routine of work of the dishes and the regular 
 Saturday baking. 
 
 Adelaide drew back on her knees, to rest from her 
 cramped position. 
 
 The change brought her back to herself, to her own 
 
Qjjicksand 19 
 
 world into which she was cast. Gradually the numbness 
 went out of her; and she rose and crossed the room 
 for a chair, which she brought back to the warmth of the 
 stove-pipe. Still, she felt chilled with the winter, and 
 brought a coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around 
 her shoulders. It was a patchwork quilt of star pattern. 
 She had pieced it herself four years ago. According to 
 her habit every morning, she unbraided and began comb 
 ing her hair. Her weeping could not make that ugly. 
 It hung in rich waves on her shoulders, and gathered in 
 red wealth in her lap. Looking at her hair made her 
 think what Rob said of it, and this was the beginning 
 of her present reasons for banishment. She would go 
 through methodically from the first, and try to foresee 
 some conclusion. 
 
 It began with the hay farm last summer ; or had that 
 been the happy conclusion ? Why could not those days 
 have ended it, the pleading of his eyes in the starlight 
 and his breath caressingly on her ? What dear fire glowed 
 from his touch 1 His eyes were like deep wells of water, 
 and his delicate lips moved like blown flames. Rob s 
 hair was beautiful, too, coal-black, and more curling than 
 hers. He used to twine her long hair about his, and his 
 dark face shone starlike with laughter. Rob had very 
 delicate features, clean-cut and shifting in fine lines ; and 
 his teeth were like ivory, polished. What did she know 
 of man s love, except that it was the sweetness of earth ? 
 It belonged to the smell of new hay and the moisture of 
 midsummer nights. 
 
 She had known Rob since her young girlhood. She 
 had liked him, too, because she pitied him. The other 
 children were always taunting him for being a gypsy. It 
 was not known that he was even a gypsy. Her father 
 thought he was more probably the son of a Portuguese 
 
20 i i c k s a n d 
 
 pirate or maybe a Spanish grandee. The gypsies were 
 always stealing children and hardly would be willing to 
 desert their own. 
 
 At all events, the passion of Rob Melendez had spread 
 itself over her that summer. How dreamful it all seemed 
 to her now 1 though she remembered every instant they 
 had been together. The love-light flowing from his eyes, 
 the tremulous fire in his kisses, what did she know of 
 love or of men ? Who had told her that it meant dis 
 grace in this world and everlasting burning in the next, 
 with the devil and fearful imps laughing, and the groans 
 of the thousands in anguish ? 
 
 Even after the summer was over, the long summer with 
 rich star-dark nights, even when the winter s school 
 opened, she did not know how she had sinned. Her love 
 with Rob had been too deep and intimate a thing to con 
 fess to any one, but it was not shame that kept her silent. 
 But one day she overheard Susy Ramsay talking about 
 Jennie Blackwell, to whom she had been bosom friend. 
 Jennie had been suddenly dropped out of all social life, 
 she and all of her family. It was something that Susy 
 had mentioned which brought fear home to Adelaide. It 
 had risen like a chill from the ground, had settled all 
 over her, clutching most breathlessly at her heart. She 
 knew now what Christian must have meant by his burden 
 of sin. Her sin was everywhere with her, more terrible 
 because she could not foresee its import nor could she 
 confide in anybody. She had tried to pray to the Lord 
 Jesus, but probably because her sin was so great she 
 could get no answer now from Him. 
 
 In some vague way an old myth kept haunting her. She 
 did not remember where she had heard it, though she 
 racked her brains morning and night. It was of a 
 woman who had given birth to monsters, hounds or ser- 
 
Quicksand 21 
 
 pents or something. She could not remember the par 
 ticulars, but it was probably a punishment administered 
 to her for some similar sin to her own. She woke up 
 screaming sometimes from her dreams. The monsters 
 were suffocating or stinging her. 
 
 Yesterday she had questioned Susy more closely about 
 Jennie, and had learned more fully the particulars. Her 
 mother had forbade her ever speaking of Jennie to any 
 one or even thinking about her. In this she had com 
 mitted another sin. 
 
 Susy had been much amused at Adelaide s ignorance of 
 matters concerning which she, though but little older, 
 seemed well informed. The conversation ended with 
 Susy s comment : " Jennie was a fool, or she would have 
 made her lover marry her instead of going off, as she did, 
 to the city." 
 
 Adelaide was still in bewilderment when the bell rang 
 to call them back to lessons. She took out her Bible, 
 concealing it behind her geography, and read with new 
 understanding all the places about women and children 
 and the relations implied. The master had scolded her 
 in class because she did not know her geography lesson ; 
 and then she had cried for some reason, though her fever 
 was too high for copious weeping. And at night after 
 school she had told Rob she must marry him ; and then 
 Sam had come up between them, and now she was here 
 in her cold room, shivering in a bed-quilt by the stove 
 pipe. 
 
 The impinging cold was having effect, benumbing her 
 body and her senses. She went over to the table and 
 picked up the untasted bread, bringing it back to the 
 stove-pipe, and gnawing it stupidly as she sat there. Her 
 long red braids hung neglected to the floor. The wan 
 ness was congealed in her face, the fear congealed in her 
 pleading wide eyes. 
 
22 Quicksand 
 
 Minute dragged after minute till three hours had told 
 themselves off. Her mother had left her work in the 
 kitchen, and gone to the front part of the house. Perhaps 
 was consulting with her father. Could she ever look her 
 father in the face ? The miserable girl sat on, careless 
 of the cold or her hunger. Some time her mother would 
 come, pronouncing her sentence of banishment. Or 
 would it be her father s awful voice ? more terrible than 
 God s voice at judgment, because she so passionately 
 loved her father. Would he be sorry when she was burn 
 ing in hell, with the smothering monsters to torture her ? 
 Alas ! her father s sorrow was greatest torture of all. But 
 she could not weep now to think of it. She could only 
 sit waiting and waiting, with the winter sunlight quivering 
 pale on the wall and the long afternoon slowly descending. 
 
Book II 
 
 Hubert 
 
I. 
 
 THE very earliest picture in Hubert Hinckley s 
 memory he often thought of it afterward was 
 that of a snake hanging down from the beams of 
 the ceiling to the cellar, hanging and swinging like a 
 rope. He had probably gone down to get some honey. 
 He was very fond of eating it in the comb, but the pict 
 ure in his memory began without any thought of the 
 honey. There were the whitewashed stone walls, the dim 
 light coming in from high windows, there was the cool 
 dampness of the even ground floor. Vaguely he imag 
 ined that he had seen the hanging shelves where the milk 
 was kept away from the mice ; but of this he could never 
 make sure, he saw them so many times afterward. 
 Only one thing was indelible in his sight after the walls 
 and the light : that was the snake hanging down, darting 
 its red tongue out at him, hanging and coiling like a rope. 
 Of course, he had turned and fled up the stairs, screaming 
 and choking with fright. He had thought that his sister 
 Mary was behind him, but someway she must have been 
 delayed ; for his next impression was the figure of a tall 
 woman standing in the hallway above. That must have 
 been his mother, but there the memory-picture ended. 
 For years after he was afraid to go alone down the cellar, 
 even when he had grown a big boy, fourteen or fifteen 
 years .old. 
 
 His next memory was not of a particular time, but more 
 a general impression. He used to get into the wagon in 
 the yard and lie on his back in the evening, to watch the 
 soft lights of the sky as they changed with the oncoming 
 twilight. Sam or his father were always somewhere near 
 about, doing the evening chores. So at that time he was 
 not afraid, though he had all the sense of being lonely. 
 
26 Qu i c k s a n d 
 
 Sometimes the clouds would float over, gay with color, 
 red or violet or yellow. But he liked the clear sky the 
 best, changing from the dark blue to purple, and often 
 glowing up from the horizon with the clear yellow-green 
 that he imagined was a reflection of the light down from 
 heaven, where God sat all day with the angels. There 
 were swallows, too, to watch, when his restless attention 
 wearied of the sky. The swallows he was never tired of 
 watching as they went skimming and darting above him. 
 Sam said they were catching mosquitoes, and Sam in 
 those days knew everything. An unfathomed depth of 
 knowledge was Sam to the child s steady-flowing ques 
 tions. To be sure, Sam would not always answer, when 
 asked; but that was because he liked teasing. Hubert 
 liked teasing as well, and often pestered Sam till the end 
 came in a scuffle and his own crying. From the wagon, 
 too, watching the sky, sometimes he saw night-hawks fly 
 over. He always looked for the white spots under their 
 wings, and did not give notice to their graceful sailing. 
 He liked to hear their sharp cry, and would rise up and 
 quiver with delight if one dived down when it was near 
 him, with the strong, hoarse, whirring sound. At first he 
 had been afraid, when they did this ; but Sam, the uni 
 versal encyclopaedia, being appealed to, said that they, 
 too, were diving for mosquitoes. 
 
 In the day-time he used to go wafking in company with 
 his big dog Towser, or Towse, as he was commonly 
 called. Towse was a black Newfoundland, and just 
 about Hubert s age. It seemed funny that he should 
 have grown up so much quicker ; for they spoke of him 
 as an old dog now, and really he seemed to know every 
 thing. Hubert used to tease him sometimes, tying things 
 to his head or his tail ; but he always recognised authority, 
 and desisted with remarkable promptness when the dog 
 
Qjuicksand 27 
 
 uttered a warning growl. Towse used to go with Hubert 
 in his walks, sometimes to the edge of the twelve acres 
 or to the oak-tree at the foot of the hill. These were 
 great distances in those days, though afterward they 
 came to be but trifles. 
 
 If he should tire of Towse, he could play with Mary 
 and her dolls. Mary was eleven years old, and read 
 in the Fourth Reader in school. Libbie read in the 
 Fifth Reader, and studied history ; but someway he liked 
 Mary best. Hubert had a doll, too, to play with, a rag 
 doll, Rosie by name. Mary had dolls with china heads ; 
 but he could not have a china doll because at intervals 
 he outgrew dolls, and then he would throw Rosie up a 
 tree, or in winter tie a string to her ankle and drag her 
 naked through the snowdrifts. In time he revolted from 
 this manliness, and returned to tears and meditation, 
 hunting up the wretched Rosie again, and healing her as 
 best he could from her wounds. All the same it was 
 thought best to keep Rosie a rag doll ; and rag she re 
 mained till he was twelve, altogether too big for dolls of 
 any kind. 
 
 Mary used to sing at her playing, just sing quietly all 
 the day long. Mary had brown eyes and brown hair, 
 and skipped about with the daintiest lightness. They 
 used to play at housekeeping together, and Hubert would 
 be the father of the family. Mary would let him play 
 with her dolls so long as his manly fit was not on, and 
 the neighbourhood and family complications they got into 
 would make whole libraries of novels and stories. Mary 
 liked best to place all these doll romances back in Tarn- 
 worth in New Hampshire, when their sister Adelaide was 
 alive. Hubert did not remember Adelaide, for he was 
 born on the day that she died ; but he liked to be told 
 about her goodness, and Mary was never tired of the sub- 
 
28 Qjuicksand 
 
 ject till one day Libbie said to them solemnly that she 
 was sure their mother did not like them to speak of these 
 subjects. She felt so sorry for Adelaide; and the chil 
 dren were thoughtful for their mother, and spoke only in 
 secret after that. 
 
 Libbie was fifteen years old, almost one of the big 
 girls at school. Indeed, as he afterward remembered, 
 she must have been very unfortunate, for, coming as she 
 did, between the two sets, she was claimed and petted by 
 neither. Her tastes were in advance of those of the little 
 girls ; and, when she wearied of their prattle, and went off 
 to see the larger set, they called her " Libbie the Lady," 
 and were spiteful and disagreeable generally. Then the 
 large girls would turn upon her. " Why don t you go and 
 play," they said, " instead of talking of dresses and the 
 boys, and trying to do crocheting and make tidies ? " 
 So when they went arm in arm to take a walk, or in the 
 morning to meet the teacher, Libbie was fortunate if she 
 could hang on to the end of the row, on the arm of some 
 girl who herself was less popular than some others, else 
 she would not be left on the end to feel one side in the 
 cold or worried by the ever-tagging Libbie. Now there 
 were boys at school of Libbie s age, and they made her 
 welcome when she played with them. She could run 
 well and even throw a ball, and had great powers of man 
 agement in prisoner s base ; but, alas I the other girls, big 
 and little, called her "tomboy," and Sam complained to 
 her mother, and this sport was put a stop to. 
 
 The mother, what was she like to Hubert ? how did 
 he regard her ? It was said that she was severe sometimes, 
 but she had never been severe with him that he could re 
 member. She used to take him on her lap, and look at 
 him very fondly. Often he thought he saw sadness in her 
 eyes, and his eyes would take an unconscious sympathetic 
 
Qju icksand 29 
 
 meaning ; but then she would grow almost gay, and tell 
 some story from the Bible. She was very religious, his 
 mother; but in those days she was not gloomy, except 
 only perhaps when at church or when the minister was 
 visiting ! 
 
 " What makes your hair so white ? " he once asked her, 
 smoothing her cheek with his hand. 
 
 " Age," she replied very promptly. " Why, I am forty- 
 five years old." But, in an unknown way, he felt that he 
 had saddened her ; and he tried hard to be good for all 
 day. 
 
 His father was a very quiet man, and gave him little 
 attention, though, secretly, he loved him best of all. He 
 was away the greater part of the time, building people 
 beautiful houses. Sam stayed to manage the farm. His 
 father sometimes worked in the shop back of the house, 
 making the prettiest blocks for him to play with, three- 
 cornered ones and square ones and long, all kinds, in 
 deed, that he needed. Then there were the beautiful 
 shavings, curling precisely like his hair, and precisely, 
 too, of the color. His eyes were black, after his mother, 
 the neighbours said ; but his hair was the colour of the 
 shavings, and hanging down in curls just like them. 
 
 He used to wish often that his father would let him 
 help more, hand up the tools that were needed, and hold 
 the nails in his apron. But no, his father was a sad man, 
 and liked to work alone better. " Run away and play 
 now, Hubert ; and here are some blocks to carry with 
 you." 
 
 In his heart the child was deeply hurt, but he did not 
 let any one see his chin quiver. 
 
 After Sam, that was all of his family ; and at five he 
 began to go to school. 
 
II. 
 
 IT was before he had begun to go to school regularly 
 that a little incident occurred that he often thought of 
 afterward, regarding it as prophetic of his life. The 
 entire family were on their way to the school-house : 
 it was on some gala occasion, probably " last day of 
 school." He remembered he was very newly dressed, 
 and walking along quite important, trying to take strides 
 like his father. When they came to the bridge that 
 crosses the creek, the hot planks burned his bare feet ; for 
 the summer sun had been beating down fiercely. " What 
 are you doing, Hubert ? " called his mother, looking back 
 to inquire why he did not follow. He was down on his 
 hands and knees, blowing on the bridge to cool it. They 
 teased him about it for months afterward ; and the thought 
 of it always gave him shame, even after he had grown up 
 a man. 
 
 The school-house sat at the meeting of three roads, so 
 that there was a triangle of green turf out in front, sur 
 rounded by the three dusty roadways. This always 
 seemed curious to him. He wondered if it grew that way 
 or if some one had made it. Across the triangle, over a 
 rail fence, was a little, deserted house in a cherry orchard. 
 The big girls used to go over to the house at noon-times 
 until one day the teacher forbade it, and that gave the 
 place great mystery to him. The big girls always filled 
 him with strange, awesome feelings, there was such a vast 
 height of calico to them before the real girl began. One 
 girl especially awed him. She was even bigger than the 
 others. She had red hair, and they called her Bessie; 
 and she had heights and heights of dotted delaine skirt 
 for pedestal. He never forgot that delaine. The ground 
 was dull greenish-black, and the dots sprinkled sparsely 
 
Qjiicksand 31 
 
 upon it had the colour and the markings of peach-stones 
 with a little blue checkered space in the centre. 
 
 His seat was away up in front of the girls, right under 
 the eye of the teacher. The teacher had her hair ar 
 ranged very prettily, and wore earrings. She always car 
 ried a lead-pencil, and wore a white apron with crocheted 
 edging on the pockets. She was very kind to him, al 
 ways asking him in the gentlest way to read ; and some 
 times when his seat-mate, Johnnie Murphy, sat with his 
 arm around his neck, choking him till he was red in the 
 face, she spoke to Johnnie reprovingly, and told him to 
 lean on himself. 
 
 Hubert could easily get his lessons. He was always 
 the model boy of his class. He could play, too, at noon 
 time and recess and when the teacher let them out early. 
 There was no more spirited and prancing horse among the 
 boys than he. He could prance and curvet and whinny 
 and bite at his mate in the harness. He would gnaw at 
 a post when hitched to it, and, alas 1 he could balk or run 
 away if he chose to ; but usually he preferred a long 
 swinging gait around and around the green triangle or 
 down the road as far as the bridge. Teacher did not 
 allow them to go farther, though occasionally some of the 
 larger boys disobeyed. 
 
 Three terms a year he went to school, summer and fall 
 and winter. He used to like the winter as well as any, 
 for he could run all the way on the snowdrifts. They 
 lifted him high up where he could see the white fields, 
 and sometimes they would take him over the fences. 
 Other boys, as they grew large enough to help at home, 
 were kept out during the summer and fall terms ; but 
 Hubert s mother wanted him to be a minister, and so he 
 was allowed to keep on and encouraged to do studying 
 outside, until he was in the most advanced classes while 
 
32 Qjuicksand 
 
 yet but a boy of ten. He sat along with the big boys and 
 girls now, and had as advanced books as they. He usu 
 ally had his lessons much better, and was petted and 
 praised by the teacher. At spelling-school he stood up 
 with the longest, and sometimes he used to speak pieces 
 and act in the dialogues till his fame had traversed five 
 districts. There were periods of depression, however. 
 Sometimes the geography lesson was too long or another 
 boy would want to study with him, and bother. Oftener 
 he would get puzzled with the arithmetic, and especially 
 he would get confused in partial payments. Of course, 
 he did not understand that they were about the borrowing 
 and lending of money. No one had ever told him that. 
 He had learned to say the rule from the book : " When 
 Partial Payments have been made, apply the payment in 
 the first place to discharge the interest then due," and so 
 on to the foot of the page. Then Libbie, who was very 
 good at figures, would show him how to do the first sum ; 
 and the others he did precisely like that one, except 
 where a little difference came in, and Libbie would tell 
 him about that beforehand. Now all of this did very 
 well until he came to explain at the board. Then, per 
 haps, the teacher would ask him a question ; and soon he 
 was in such a muddle that he had to take his seat, crying, 
 ashamed to lift his head up all day, sulking through the 
 noontime and at recess, and often refusing his lunch, or, 
 if accepting it from the maternal Libbie, eating it down 
 behind the desk, mingled with dust and tears. 
 
 So life went on until he was eleven years old, and then 
 Hiram Stubbs came into his life. 
 
Ill, 
 
 JUST who Hiram Stubbs was and why he should 
 come there to live, Hubert did not at the time ques 
 tion. It seemed quite natural that he should come. 
 Everything about Hiram always seemed natural. He 
 said he had grown tired of roaming around, and wanted 
 to stay where he could see the same faces. He seemed 
 to be acquainted with the rest of the family. That was 
 probably back in New Hampshire where they came from. 
 At all events, he bought a little tract of land adjoining 
 theirs, lying down next the river ; and there he built him 
 self a log house, and seemed to be the happiest man in 
 the country. 
 
 Hubert used to go over to help him build his house, 
 though he had to miss his breakfast to do it. It came 
 about in this way. Hubert had learned from experience 
 that, if he did not eat any breakfast, he was considered too 
 sick to go to school, and so kept at home for the day. " I 
 don t want any breakfast," he would say. " You must 
 stay at home and keep quiet," his mother would answer; 
 and then, when she was busy with her work, he would slip 
 off to help Hiram build his house. 
 
 " Hullo, Captain," Hiram would shout when he saw him 
 coming. " Give us your hand, my heartie." Hiram had 
 such a warm, big hand ; and he always insisted on shak 
 ing, and always addressed Hubert as Captain and gave 
 him the proper salute. Once he looked at him sharply. 
 " Ain t you hungry ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 Hubert protested he was not ; but Hiram went over to 
 his lunch-pail, and brought him two big pieces of bread 
 with butter and honey spread between. " Eat that," was 
 all that he said; and the " Captain " was bound to obey 
 ship s orders, so that this came to be a regular custom, 
 and Hubert did not miss his breakfast so sadly. 
 
34 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 It was a big day when the new house was finished. 
 Sam had helped Hiram with the heavy parts, and Hubert s 
 father had done the doors and the windows. Hiram had 
 given work in exchange during harvest. There was a 
 roomy log part in front and a lean-to of boards for the 
 kitchen. There were to be a stable and chicken house in 
 the back part of the yard. Hubert used to go over and 
 look at the ground curiously. Then Hiram began to 
 move in his furniture. There was a sea chest, and the 
 wonders that came out of it ; curious blankets to put on 
 the bed and fans to hang on the wall ; and pieces of coral 
 and shells and all sorts of odd boxes and playthings. 
 Then new dishes were bought, of shining tin and blue 
 china, with always a piece extra for the captain ; and a 
 cupboard was built, and a table was made and a little 
 stove set up. There was a fireplace in the saloon, as 
 Hiram called it. His mother did not like the word 
 " saloon." She said it was the entrance to hell ; but 
 Hiram only laughed, and would not change it, though 
 Hubert was forbidden the word. It was a nice room, any 
 way, he thought ; and, if it was like the entrance to hell, 
 why that place must be different from what he had sup 
 posed it to be. Hiram, he had been told, was an atheist ; 
 and his mother did not like him to go to his house. 
 Hubert had never seen anything of it, however, when he 
 had been around ; but perhaps it was true that Hiram did 
 not believe in a God, for he never swore as Sam did when 
 he was milking. 
 
 But best of all, the most wonderful, was the river, the 
 great Mississippi that was forbidden. Hiram had built 
 himself a boat the first winter, bought the lumber and 
 actually built it, a great, big skiff with a sail. Now his 
 mother had said Hubert should never go into it ; but after 
 a deal of wheedling on Hiram s part, and pledging his 
 
Qja i c k s a n d 35 
 
 word that no harm should come to the boy, the fond 
 mother had yielded at last. She may have been influ 
 enced by the boy s frailty, for at that time it was thought 
 he would die. The doctor said he needed the air and ex 
 ercise ; and most of all he recommended rowing and swim 
 ming, as they would develop his lungs. So it was that, 
 after the boat had proved itself safe, the eager boy was 
 allowed to enter it as he chose, provided Hiram was al 
 ways with him. 
 
 And there was never any trouble about that. Hiram 
 was a shiftless farmer, the neighbours said ; but, oh, the 
 long rides in the boat, rowing or sailing over the level 
 shining water or floating down swift with the stream I 
 And what a wonderful sailor was Hiram, like a picture of 
 Neptune in the reader ! He made himself a swimming 
 suit of flannel, also a little one for Hubert ; and with noth 
 ing but these on in their boat they were happy as two fishes 
 in spring-time. Hiram would stand in the boat, and guide 
 it with the oar from the stern. He taught Hubert not to 
 fear the rocking, and later he would tip the boat over after 
 Hubert had learned well to swim. Hiram would dive 
 and swim under the water, and do all sorts of antics where 
 the current was slow. He showed Hubert how the por 
 poises leap, and told how the flying fish sailed. Long won 
 derful stories of the deep he told, as he stood in the boat, 
 with singing and shouting and laughing. How strong and 
 handsome Hiram was ! The boy wondered if he should 
 ever become so. His muscles were as hard and strong as 
 iron, and as cold, too, when Hubert felt them from the 
 water. At first he used to ride on the back of the man 
 while he was swimming, one arm clasped around his fore 
 head. Then he learned to swim for himself, and to roll 
 about and gambol in the water. 
 
 How he loved Hiram at that time 1 His affection 
 
36 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 was quivering whenever he approached him. His mother 
 watched the friendship with growing disfavor. Her darl 
 ing was being won from her so early 1 But, then, there 
 was the doctor s warning ; and she bore with the wrong 
 awhile longer. 
 
IV. 
 
 THE fall that Hubert was thirteen Sam began 
 taking the three children to Fort Madison to the 
 academy, driving with them the three miles every 
 morning and coming in for them at night. By this time 
 Mary was quite a young lady ; and Libbie was almost too 
 old to go to school, and feeling ashamed of her studies. 
 They should have gone a year before, or Libbie two or 
 three years ago ; but at that time Hubert was too young 
 or his health did not seem strong enough. Libbie had 
 wanted to board in the town, and even now suggested 
 that they rent two rooms and keep house ; but the 
 mother was not willing to trust her daughter alone. No 
 telling what might come to her there in the town. She 
 had heard there was a very low class in Fort Madison, 
 the river gang that went to the saloon. It was true that 
 the doctor s family offered to take Libbie to board, and 
 they were church-going people ; but no, Mrs. Hinckley 
 was not willing. She thought of it long before she de 
 cided. She took too good care of her children to let 
 them go from her. Besides, Libbie should learn to think 
 of others than herself, and wait for Mary and Hubert. 
 
 In his classes Hubert did not need any waiting. He 
 and Mary and Libbie took the same work. This was 
 a saving of books, and it was company for them to talk 
 everything over. Mrs. Hinckley had gone in with them 
 on the first day, and made the arrangements with the 
 teacher. Libbie had winced every time that her mother 
 spoke of them as the children. Why should they not do 
 these things themselves? She looked about among the 
 pupils, and pretended not to hear her mother. All of 
 the girls were younger than she, and most of them were 
 more stylishly dressed. But she would soon learn to do 
 
38 Qja i c k s a n d 
 
 over her own dresses. She was clever enough with her 
 fingers. Libbie was a handsome girl then, her features 
 a little heavy, perhaps, but with fine eyes and beautiful 
 black hair. She was tall, too, and erect, and of good 
 figure. Indeed, she wished she were not so fully de 
 veloped. She looked more like one of the teachers. 
 Mary was small, brown, and quiet. Nobody ever gave 
 much attention to Mary. 
 
 The eagerness of the lessons began, and there were 
 great discussions in the kitchen in the evenings. Hubert 
 had the best memory, and would always chip in with the 
 answer before Libbie could get time to think. They 
 used to make Mary the teacher, and get her to give out 
 the lessons, for the main reason because she was more 
 patient, and not partial to either pupil. Then, too, the 
 others wanted to see if they knew it, or Libbie wanted to 
 see if she knew it, and Mary wanted to see if Hubert did. 
 At first Sam tried to be the teacher, and Hiram proffered 
 his assistance ; but studies had changed too much since 
 their days of going to school. And as for the mother, 
 who had once been a schoolmistress, she hardly knew 
 what they were talking about. She could only watch, and 
 smile proudly when Hubert gave some brilliant rehearsal 
 or Libbie wrinkled up her forehead, and untangled a 
 difficult problem. 
 
 Hiram was usually sitting near. In reality, he was sit 
 ting near Mary, though nobody noticed that. Hiram 
 knew every curve of the patient brown head. He knew 
 the pointed chin, too, and sweet mouth ; but best of all 
 he knew the eyes, level and beaming brown lights under 
 the broad, peaceful brow. Mrs. Hinckley took care that 
 Hiram did not give too much attention to Hubert, but 
 the thought that he was giving attention to Mary had not 
 entered her mind. 
 
Qju i c k s a n d 39 
 
 The studying was sadly interrupted after the Christmas 
 holidays by a long series of protracted meetings held in 
 the district school-house, not more than half a mile away. 
 They had some famous revivalist preachers that winter, 
 and people even drove out from Fort Madison and got 
 converted. Now there had been a standing religious 
 war in the Hinckley family ever since Hubert could 
 remember on the question of whether baptism was neces 
 sary for salvation. Mrs. Hinckley insisted that it was. 
 She had been converted through a vision in a dream. 
 She had clearly seen John the Baptist immersing the 
 figure of Christ. But Mr. Hinckley would not accept the 
 vision as divine revelation. He argued with the Script 
 ure in his hand, and sat there stupid and obstinate till 
 Mrs. Hinckley went almost distracted. It seemed to 
 Hubert a terrible struggle at first, when he reflected that 
 his father might go to hell if he was not convinced ; but 
 gradually he became used to the contest, and went about 
 as grown people will, scarcely realising the import of the 
 doctrines, and interested only in which is the more skilful 
 in argument. 
 
 There was still another point of difference quite as 
 essential as that of baptism. This was the necessity for 
 conversion from sin after the mind has reached the age 
 of reason. Mrs. Hinckley had been converted during a 
 revival when Hubert was but a baby. That was the first 
 year they were in Iowa. Mr. Hinckley had been born 
 and bred in the church, as his wife had been, and both 
 were confirmed at the proper time, and this, he main 
 tained, was sufficient for salvation; but his wife held 
 as strongly that it was not. Her husband would be for 
 ever damned if he did not experience conversion, and 
 after conversion be baptised, as everybody here in Iowa 
 had been. 
 
40 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 Now, of course, these revivalist preachers believed in 
 conversion ; and most of them thought baptism essential. 
 It was necessary that the children attend the meetings, 
 even if their studies be neglected. Mr. Hinckley also 
 was willing. He usually attended himself. It gave him 
 new material for argument and helped pass the long 
 winter evenings. Moreover, he was a just man, even in 
 his own obstinacy, and wished his children to decide for 
 themselves. He proposed that they take one of the min 
 isters to board ; and when young Mr. Simmons was 
 chosen, though he was a most ardent advocate of baptism, 
 Mr. Hinckley was first to make him welcome, offering 
 him the best of the house. Mr. Simmons was a tall man, 
 and handsome. He had a red beard and yellow hair ; 
 and he also had pale blue dreamy eyes, which he allowed 
 benevolently to rest upon Libbie, who fluttered about in 
 confusion, while quiet Mary served him with what he 
 needed. 
 
 Every evening the family walked to meeting. Books 
 were put away for the time. Indeed, sometimes Mary 
 was left at home to do the cooking ; and Hiram used to 
 come up for company, as Mary was afraid to stay alone, 
 with all this talk of judgment-day and mercy-seat, and 
 the " vengeance and jealousy of God." Hiram would not 
 go to the meetings, but only laughed, and said they made 
 him wickeder than ever. He was busy making traps. 
 There were beavers in those days in the creeks, and Hiram 
 coined more money with his pelts than some farmers did 
 with their grain and hogs. Hubert was accustomed to 
 go out to visit the traps Saturdays, though he trembled 
 when the poor beasts were killed, and secretly hoped they 
 would not find any ensnared. Hiram had taught him to 
 skate, too ; and this was great sport for him, to glide over 
 the level floor of the creek or creep out to the edge of 
 
Qjuicksand 41 
 
 the river. Hiram had great influence over him in those 
 days ; and he used to creep up softly and hug him, taking 
 the huge yellow head in his arms, and kissing him on the 
 cheeks and eyes. Hiram would laugh at him for this, 
 and joke him about its being beneath the dignity of a 
 captain ; but secretly Hubert felt that he liked it, at 
 least he only pushed him away when his embraces were 
 over-long and full of feeling. 
 
 " Do you believe in baptism, Hiram ? " he would ask 
 him solemnly. 
 
 " Why, no, I don t ; but that doesn t keep it from be 
 ing true," the man would answer evasively. 
 
 " But, Hiram, you believe in a God, don t you, and in 
 everlasting punishment for sin ? " 
 
 " That s two questions," said Hiram, laughing. " Why 
 do you care what I believe ? Each man must think it 
 out for himself." 
 
 " But you believe in a God," the boy persisted, half 
 frightened at such blasphemy as he mentioned. 
 
 " I don t know a thing about it, Captain. That s a fact. 
 I ve only made up my mind to this : that, if we do the best 
 we can in this world, and are honest and charitable with 
 our neighbours, we will not take harm from what s to come. 
 If there is a God and he wanted us to know, I guess 
 he d tell us. Maybe he thinks it is impertinent that men 
 should be trying to run his affairs. There, now, don t 
 think so much about it," he said kindly. " There is 
 plenty of time when you are twenty. They are making 
 you nervous with so much talk. You had better be 
 thinking of skating." That was all Hiram would tell 
 the boy about religion or the welfare and care of his soul. 
 But he told him many things about his body, and how to 
 nurture and care for it ; and he explained the functions 
 with great care, something that neither father nor 
 
42 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 mother had done, and for which the boy might bless him 
 in days to come. 
 
 Night after night they went regularly into the strange 
 life of the school-house. Hubert would sometimes have 
 stayed home with Hiram and Mary, only his mother said, 
 " Come 1 " and he did not know disobedience. 
 
 The place had a strange fascination for him, however ; 
 and he did not need any urging. The gathering of the 
 people he knew under ordinary, practical circumstances ; 
 then silence, with the yellow glare of the kerosene lamps 
 and the heads of all bowed in prayer. There was singing 
 after the prayer ; and then the ministers began to speak, 
 the eloquence rolling from their mouths, and the congre 
 gation getting excited, with sniffs and tears at the stories 
 and low groans of " Amen " from the deacons. When 
 the ministers had finished the picture of the hell awaiting 
 the unconverted, and the boy could smell the sulphurous 
 fumes, the congregation arose, and the low, droning sing 
 ing began, " I will arise, and go to Jesus." Meanwhile 
 a bench was placed in front of the pulpit desk, " a 
 mourners bench," the people called it ; and during the 
 singing people arose and went up, kneeling at the bench 
 and praying for forgiveness from their sins. The minis 
 ters were all kneeling now, each praying independently 
 of the others. Women began weeping and shouting. 
 Groans and cries were on every hand. His mother was 
 up, shouting with the saved ones, praying for others to 
 come to redemption ; and the boy knew that the " others " 
 meant him for one, him and his father and Mary. Sam 
 was already saved, and shouting " Glory " with the blessed 
 ones. Libbie was crying on her knees, rocking back and 
 forth in her agony, calling on the brothers to pray for 
 her. Scores of those he knew were going up to the 
 bench, and women were coming to plead with him among 
 
Qjuicksand 43 
 
 others who were doubtful. The frail youth with wide, 
 staring eyes sat there, vowing he would not, thinking of 
 Hiram all the time, saying, " I won t, I won t," between 
 his teeth that were clenched; clutching his finger-nails 
 into the bench on which he sat, and repeating softly 
 under his breath : " Hiram, I won t, I won t. Go away, 
 don t speak to me to-night 1 " 
 
 He was weak and exhausted when the meeting broke 
 up at half-past nine. But he was ready to go back the 
 next night and the next through those long six weeks, 
 and still he was not converted. Neither was his father 
 or Mary, though Mary would c ry her eyes out in trying to 
 be. Hiram sat by the kitchen stove, working on his traps 
 and telling stories. Mrs. Hinckley would sometimes give 
 him a look of such hate or righteous indignation that 
 it would seem to have annihilated any sensitive body, 
 but it did not pierce the thick skin of the sailor. 
 
V. 
 
 HIRAM STUBBS had various peculiarities of 
 character that Mrs. Hinckley could not approve 
 of. One was his liking for tramps, an unnat 
 ural, if not a criminal, trait. He seemed to find worth in 
 everybody, something to like or to study, no matter how 
 low men might be, vagabonds or drunkards or thieves. 
 Now Mrs. Hinckley herself felt the proper orthodox com 
 passion that she had been taught in her church. She fed 
 all who came to her door, and gave them cast-off clothing. 
 We are commanded to give to the poor, and no one ap 
 preciated duty more thoroughly than Mrs. Hinckley. But 
 with Hiram Stubbs it was different. He treated all men 
 as equals with himself. He asked them into his house, 
 and shared his living with them. 
 
 A travel-stained, idle-looking fellow asked at the door 
 for something to eat. 
 
 "If you are willing to put up with my fare," said 
 Hiram, " come in, and wait till dinner is ready. I have 
 no women-folk about, but I manage to pull through on 
 my own cooking." 
 
 The tramp was often abashed, the room and the host 
 looked so cleanly. 
 
 " Come in, man, don t be afraid. There is nothing here 
 that will hurt you." 
 
 " I am dirty with sleeping out," said the man. 
 
 " Well, there s plenty of soap and water in the shed. 
 How would you like a hot bath ? You can stay over 
 night, and wash your clothes, if you like. I can give 
 you some things for a change while you re doing them. 
 Oh, I know what it is to get dirty in travelling. I have 
 been a sailor ten years, and know enough of roughing it 
 and tramping. Here, do you think these overalls will fit 
 
Qjiicksand 45 
 
 you ? If they are a little big, they are clean. A shirt 
 doesn t need to be a fit. You can tuck up the sleeves if 
 they re too long. Come right back into the shed. You 
 can spruce up while I m cooking the dinner. 
 
 "Say," he would add as a caution, "perhaps you d 
 better throw your old clothes outside. We ll boil them 
 before bringing them into the house. There s no telling 
 what a man may get hold of, sleeping out, as you have to 
 do when you re tramping. I ll bring you plenty of hot 
 water." 
 
 In nine cases out of ten the traveller would be glad for 
 a bath and change to fresh garments. There was some 
 thing so healthy about Hiram that it made all long to be 
 like him. If, however, the man refused the proffered 
 soap and water, there was no offence on either side. He 
 could rest and wait for the dinner, though he hesitated to 
 sit down to the table, feeling unworthy of the cleanliness 
 of white cloth and neat, simple service. Usually, he came 
 in from the shed, his face aglow with recent scrubbing, 
 his hair parted and combed carefully down with glisten 
 ing smoothness. 
 
 " Well, how do you find my shoes fit you ? " the cheery 
 Hiram would call out. " Pull up your chair to the table. 
 Help yourself to meat and potatoes. I think I can make 
 coffee now as good as any woman in these parts." 
 
 As they ate, they talked like comrades. 
 
 " What s your name ? Mine is Hiram Stubbs," he 
 began. " Everybody hereabouts calls me Hiram. Have 
 you been tramping it far this summer ? It s a good way 
 to see the country." 
 
 When they pushed back from the table, the tobacco 
 and pipes were brought out. "There s no use rushing 
 off to work after eating," remarked Hiram. " I get a 
 little lonesome sometimes by myself, and am glad of a 
 fellow to talk to." 
 
46 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 The pipes were finished in time. The traveller was 
 often a good story-teller, and freely related his experi 
 ences. 
 
 "Now I ve got to go to the field," Hiram would say; 
 "but there s no need of you re being in a hurry. Just 
 make yourself at home in the cabin. You can build a 
 fire and wash your clothes if you like. There is plenty 
 of room for you to stay over night. I always keep an 
 extra bed for strangers. If you make up your mind to 
 go on, just sing out as you go by the field. You ll see 
 me at work with the horses." 
 
 It was a new sensation for the tramp to be left thus, 
 in charge of a strange house, with neat though not costly 
 appointments. He often looked about with curiosity. 
 It was comfortable, though there was little that was 
 practicable for stealing. Usually, he did not feel in 
 clined to steal anything. Often he would say he would 
 protect the place with his life, if occasion only offered it 
 danger. There was a wonderful charm in the host. Few 
 people would be willing to injure him. It was very com 
 fortable here. Why not stay over night, and wash up 
 his clothes, as suggested, and sleep in the soft, easy bed ? 
 
 Perhaps, as the evening came on and Hiram drove in 
 from the field, he would find his tramp sawing wood or 
 cooking supper over the stove or offering to help with the 
 horses. 
 
 Often the man would stay for a week, though not un 
 less he helped with the work. An idle man was sure to 
 be restless. There was the spirit of doing in the place. 
 The very first winter there was a boy who stayed through 
 all the cold months, and found work in the spring at a 
 neighbour s. "You see I don t need to hire a hand," 
 said Hiram, " and your work pays ten times for your 
 keeping." 
 
QJJ i c k s a n d 47 
 
 Occasionally his hospitality was abused. He was in 
 sulted secretly or openly. In that case he did not hesi 
 tate to knock the man down or give him a needed 
 thrashing. " I am not one to bear a grudge," he said 
 afterward, as he lightly went on with his housekeeping 
 duties. "Get up and wash your face at the shed. I 
 think we need say no more about the matter of difference." 
 
 Hiram was very fond of gypsies. This also made 
 Mrs. Hinckley nervous. He would go down and visit 
 their camps by the river, and often sat with them at their 
 fires, listening, and joining with their stories. Always 
 they seemed to make him welcome, accepting him as one 
 of their own people. It was as if he possessed some 
 password that admitted him to all of their confidences. 
 They told him strange tales of their wanderings, and of 
 their beliefs and the prophecies that were given to them. 
 
 Hubert was very curious about these dark people, who 
 had no homes, and came and went like the swallows. 
 Where were they when they were not here ? Why did 
 they not have farms like other people ? His mother 
 forbade his ever going down to a gypsy camp. She said 
 there were wicked men there who stole children and 
 carried them off. It always seemed strange to Hubert, 
 especially when Hiram was friends with them. But, then, 
 Hiram was friends with everybody. That was why Mrs. 
 Hinckley did not altogether like him. She forbade Hu 
 bert s ever speaking of trie gypsies, nor did Hiram en 
 courage him to do so. 
 
VI. 
 
 ONE winter passed, and another. It was now a 
 warm evening in spring. Hiram was helping 
 Sam with the corn-planting. Hubert had been 
 dropping for the two ; but, on going to the house for a pail 
 of water, his mother had thought he was tired, and had 
 sent out Mary instead. There were only two more rows. 
 
 " Just one round for one of us," said Hiram. " Sam, 
 you go in to your chores ; and I will finish the business." 
 
 So it came that Hiram and Mary were planting corn in 
 the early May-time evening. 
 
 " I suppose Hubert dropped on ahead ? " began Mary. 
 
 " When there are two covering, it is necessary ; but, now 
 there is only one hoe, you may as well keep with me for 
 company." 
 
 " Two in one hill and three in the next," said Mary, 
 counting. Hiram did not make any reply. 
 
 " I haven t seen you to talk to for a week or more, have 
 I, Hiram ? " 
 
 " It has been two weeks this Saturday evening." 
 
 " Oh, so long ? Well, lots of things have happened ; 
 but Libbie would take my head off if she knew I was 
 telling you." 
 
 " Then you d better not tell me." 
 
 " Oh, but it s about me, too ; and I wanted to ask your 
 advice." 
 
 " That s different," said Hiram, calmly. " You re put 
 ting six grains in that hill." 
 
 Mary stooped over confusedly. She wore a pink 
 ruffled sunbonnet, and it had slipped back from her 
 brown head. 
 
 " Libbie wants me to marry Minister Simmons," she said 
 breathlessly, pulling the sunbonnet back over her face. 
 
Qju i c k s a n d 49 
 
 Hiram straightened up, and rested his arm on his hoe. 
 
 " You are only a child, Mary," he gasped. 
 
 " I m almost twenty," pouted Mary. 
 
 " But Mr. Simmons has been sparking Libbie." 
 
 " Yes, but she wants to marry Oliver Day. She has 
 ever since he was converted. You know it was really 
 Libbie s work, getting him into the church. That was a 
 year ago last winter, when he met her at the academy. 
 He would have kept company with her regularly this 
 winter, only mother would not allow it. She has been 
 encouraging Mr. Simmons. You know Oliver used to 
 smoke and drink, too, it is said, when he was studying 
 law with Mr. Mason." 
 
 " But, he gave that up when he was converted. Libbie 
 has told me so a hundred times." 
 
 " Yes, but mother says you can never tell when he ll 
 backslide. She says you can never trust these people 
 who are converted late in life. Hadn t we better go on 
 with the corn ? " 
 
 " I don t see what that s got to do with you and Mr. 
 Simmons," said Hiram, doggedly resuming his covering. 
 
 " Well, you see, Libbie wants to marry Oliver, and she 
 knows that mother is set on her taking Minister Simmons ; 
 but Libbie thinks that, if mother could get Mr. Simmons 
 into the family, she might be content to let her have her 
 way about Oliver. Everybody is down on Oliver, though 
 I can t see exactly why. Father don t like him, and Sam 
 teases Libbie all the time about her young liar, and 
 Hubert goes into a rage whenever he comes to the house." 
 
 " Well, Hubert isn t going to marry him, is he ? " said 
 Hiram ; " and I haven t heard of his proposing to Sam 
 as yet." 
 
 They had come to the end of the row, and turned 
 around, looking toward the house. 
 
50 Qjuicksand 
 
 " How pretty our house is," said Mary, " with the sun 
 shining red on the back 1 " 
 
 It was a large stone house, built into the hillside, the 
 front facing up to the road, and the back giving down 
 toward the river and the rich lands that lay between. 
 
 " My little cabin is in the shadow," said Hiram, softly, 
 looking off under the hill. 
 
 " We are very well content in our house as we are," 
 sighed Mary. " I don t, see why any one should marry 
 and go away. I don t believe there s another family 
 around here that has so much fun as we do. You ought 
 to come oftener in the evening, Hiram." 
 
 " I m busy now," said Hiram, evasively. " But how is 
 it Libbie is going to get you to marry Mr. Simmons, when 
 he is courting her ? " 
 
 "Well, she said he often speaks of me with admira 
 tion," faltered Mary, digging into the soft earth with the 
 toe of her calfskin shoe. 
 
 " You have grown very stylish, that s a fact, with the 
 two years you ve spent in the academy. I feel like 
 a regular booby beside you." 
 
 " Do you think I ve improved, Hiram ? " she asked 
 archly. 
 
 " Why, I guess so ; but do you want to marry the ac 
 commodating Mr. Simmons ? " 
 
 " Don t speak of him that way 1 He is very nice, and 
 mother says he will rise in the conference yearly. They 
 think everything of him in Fort Madison." 
 
 "It is certainly a good match," said Hiram, " if one 
 cares to marry for position." 
 
 " I don t care for position at all," said Mary, proudly ; 
 " but mother has set her heart upon it. Do you know, 
 she wanted to make a minister of Sam a long time ago ; 
 but we were so poor, and we came out to Iowa. There 
 
Qjuicksand 51 
 
 was no money to send him to school. Libbie says that Sam 
 got cross because he couldn t marry Lily McDonald back 
 in New Hampshire. I don t see why he couldn t have 
 married her if he wanted to; for I can remember Lily 
 McDonald, and she used to think a lot of Sam. He 
 always took her to spelling-schools." 
 
 "You didn t say whether you wanted to marry Mr. 
 Simmons," said Hiram, returning to the subject. 
 
 " Hadn t we better begin w^th the corn ? " answered 
 Mary, beginning to drop on ahead. 
 
 "Wait till I make a smooth place," said Hiram. 
 " This outside row is too cloddy. You mustn t drop till 
 I m ready." 
 
 " Libbie wants me to marry him very much. She puts 
 her arms around my neck, and teases and teases. She 
 says Mr. Simmons is like an angel to his mother." 
 
 " Sit down on that stump a minute, Mary," said 
 Hiram, almost crowding her into a corner of the rail 
 fence, and throwing himself on the ground. " I want to 
 talk to you, little Mary." His voice was mellow and 
 sweet. It was strong, and yet it was trembling. 
 
 She sat down obediently on the stump. Who can say 
 of what she was thinking ? 
 
 Then the strong voice began to throb again, and the 
 blue eyes to help with their pleading. 
 
 " Mary, do you think you could marry a coarse man 
 like me ? I know I am twelve years older than you. I 
 am ignorant and have no academy learning. But I could 
 take care of a wife. I could build a new house, and take 
 care of you, Mary. I ve been waiting all along for you 
 to grow up. I guess it was for you that I gave up the 
 sea and came out here to Iowa. You were a little girl 
 when I left you, Mary ; but I shall never forget how you 
 cried, and how you looked at the window. I guess I 
 
52 Qjiicksand 
 
 must have loved you always, from the start, ever since 
 you were a little baby in my arms. I was a great, big, 
 lonesome boy then, and thinking of my father, who was 
 dead. Do you think you could love me back, Mary ? " 
 His voice was like whispers now. His breath all went 
 into his speech ; and there was none left for the huge, 
 panting body. He reached out and clutched at her skirt ; 
 and his eyes were set, fixed on her own, which were 
 quivering and turning away, looking at the pink flush on 
 the river, the wide Mississippi, so peaceful, settling away 
 south to the sea. 
 
 But the needle will turn to the magnet, and her eyes 
 came tremblingly back. " I guess I am only a little girl, 
 Hiram ; for I don t know what love like yours means. I 
 have always liked you, Hiram ; but you make me a little 
 afraid of you now. But I won t marry Mr. Simmons," 
 she went on, " at least, not without thinking a great deal. 
 I guess marriage means something I don t know anything 
 about yet. Only don t think you are old or coarse. 
 Why, I have known you always; and father often re 
 marks that you are younger than any of us. Mr. Sim 
 mons is as old as you are, and he acts as old as father." 
 Here, not thinking of anything more to say, there was 
 nothing for any sensible girl to do but to begin crying at 
 once, which she did with violent earnestness. 
 
 The lover was transformed to the father. " Don t cry, 
 don t cry," he said tenderly, patting her head with his 
 great hand. " There, I didn t mean to frighten you, little 
 Mary. There, cry as much as you like." 
 
 Mary straightened up from her sobbing. "I think 
 that s Libbie calling to supper now," she said, listening.^ 
 " She ll be running down here in a minute." She stepped 
 out in full view of the field, and waved her sunbonnet and 
 answered. Then she gave Hiram a look over her shoul- 
 
Quicksand 53 
 
 der. There was fright and there was laughter in her eyes. 
 " Don t tell anybody a word about anything," she whispered, 
 " because they would never forgive me." 
 
 " Two grains and then three," she said, counting aloud, 
 while Hiram followed, skilfully covering, and wondering 
 what he knew about women, anyway, except that the tears 
 lay very near their eyes. 
 
VII. 
 
 THERE had been a strain of excitement all that 
 quiet Sunday evening in the Hinckley family. 
 Libbie was the cause of it, undoubtedly; for she 
 stretched her nerves at highest tension simultaneously 
 with the lacings of her stays in making ready for church 
 in the morning. The Hinckleys went to Fort Madison to 
 church now. They certainly had that right, since the 
 children had been two years in the academy. 
 
 They patronized the home services in the school-house 
 whenever there were any in the evening ; and Mrs. Hinck 
 ley was never absent from prayer-meeting, which was 
 held on Wednesday nights. Still, the neighbors blamed 
 them for being " stuck up " because they did not come 
 Sunday mornings. Mr. Miller was good enough for them ; 
 and why not, then, for the Hinckleys ? Mrs. Hinckley 
 said she wanted her girls to hear the best. " Fudge ! she 
 wanted them to marry the best, and one of her fish was 
 Preacher Simmons." 
 
 When, on this particular Sunday, Mrs. Hinckley had 
 gone up to congratulate Mr. Simmons on his sermon, 
 Libbie walked boldly up with her, and had a quiet word 
 with the minister while her mother was speaking to Dea 
 con Hackett. Libbie had also spoken with Oliver Day, 
 who was one of the regular congregation. All that after 
 noon she had been jubilantly expectant, walking about 
 the house with her head up, till Sam asked her if she 
 were looking for a comet. Shortly before tea-time she 
 began fussing with Mary s hair, drawing it back with pre 
 cision, and doing it in what was known as a French twist. 
 "You are old enough to have your hair done like a 
 lady," she said, " not combed down flat, like a school 
 girl. And how brown you got your hands yesterday, 
 
Qjiicksand 55 
 
 out dropping corn 1 You should have washed them in 
 buttermilk last night." 
 
 Minister Simmons just then drove up in his buggy. 
 
 " Why, I declare, he s come to tea I " she said, as if she 
 might be feigning a surprise. Here in Iowa every one 
 said supper instead of tea. " Hubert, run out and help 
 Mr. Simmons with his horse." But Mr. Hinckley had 
 already gone. 
 
 They were all glad for a call from the minister. He 
 was usually preaching Sunday night. As he came in, he 
 began explaining to Mrs. Hinckley how he had made a 
 special arrangement with a brother for a substitute, that 
 he might enjoy this little evening with them. There was 
 not the slightest doubt in Mrs. Hinckley s mind but that 
 Libbie had said yes at last or was going to say it this 
 evening, and the engagement would be announced to the 
 family. They were all very agreeable at table, and after 
 supper withdrew to the parlor. Then Sam and Hubert 
 went out to do the milking. Mrs. Hinckley soon after 
 found it necessary to attend to the dishes. Mary was for 
 slipping out with her ; but Libbie arose in her imperious 
 fashion, and said it was her turn to help and Mary could 
 entertain Mr. Simmons. Their father had already gone ; 
 and Mary attended to lighting the lamp, saying that 
 Libbie would be back presently, and sincerely hoping she 
 spoke truth. 
 
 But to-night Libbie had other quarry ; for who should 
 drive up just as the dishes were finished but Oliver Day. 
 Libbie went down to meet him at the gate. Oliver had a 
 new buggy ; and what should be more natural than that 
 she should get in ? she had by accident taken a light 
 shawl, and she and Oliver drove away to enjoy the 
 beautiful evening by the river. Then it was that the ex 
 citement began to grow more tense with the little group 
 
56 Qjjicksand 
 
 in the kitchen, Mrs. Hinckley sitting reading her Advo 
 cate^ Mr. Hinckley with his Bible, as usual, Sam getting 
 next week s Sunday-school lesson, for he was a teacher at 
 the school-house, and Hubert staring out of the window. 
 There came a murmur of voices from the front room. It 
 was the minister, who was doing most of the talking. 
 Everybody knew that Libbie was out with Oliver Day ; 
 for Hubert had seen them from the barn, and Libbie 
 had called out to him to tell mother that she had just 
 gone out for a little ride. The strain kept drawing 
 tighter and tighter, though the religious reading went on. 
 
 At ten minutes of nine they heard Mr. Simmons depart, 
 doubtless disgusted with the runaway Libbie ; for he did 
 not step out into the kitchen to bid them the customary 
 good-night. 
 
 " Sam, go and help the minister with his horse," said 
 Mrs. Hinckley, sharply. 
 
 Sam rose, and lighted the lantern. " He might speak 
 to a fellow I " he muttered, as he went out, slamming the 
 door. He returned in fifteen minutes; and just then 
 Libbie appeared at the outer door, her face lit with ten 
 der radiance, the nervousness now all departed. She 
 was very beautiful just then, her black hair framing the 
 strong features, her eyes shining mistily from the shadow, 
 and the scarf shawl draping her shoulders. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley folded her Advocate, and laid it with 
 precision on its pile with the others. Then she delib 
 erately took off her glasses, and put them away in the 
 case. Mr. Hinckley looked up from his Bible, a milder 
 reproach in his face. Hubert was trembling by the win 
 dow, and Sam fumbling with the lantern at the shelf 
 behind the stove. Just then Mary came in from the 
 parlor ; but no one gave notice to Mary. 
 
 "You have been out very late for a girl of your 
 
Q^uicksand 57 
 
 position, Elizabeth," began the mother, severely. " The 
 minister has been waiting for you all the evening,, and has 
 just now gone away in great displeasure because you have 
 given him this insult. He did not even bid us good- 
 evening. How can we have the courage to face him next 
 Sunday ? " 
 
 " I guess the minister didn t care much about me," 
 said Libbie, unconcernedly. " At all events, I am only a 
 sister. He told me to-day at church he was coming out 
 to see Mary." 
 
 "What?" said the mother, wrathfully, wheeling about 
 in her chair. " Mary, did he come to see you ? " 
 
 " I suppose he did, mother," said Mary, beginning to 
 cry. " I wanted you to come in all the time." Here her 
 words were lost in her sobbing. 
 
 "I we all have been deceived in this, Libbie. I 
 think you are to blame for this." 
 
 " I don t see why I should be blamed because Mr. 
 Simmons is so bashful," said Libbie, composedly. " Be 
 sides, Mary would always run away. Did he ask you 
 to marry him, Mary ? " 
 
 " Ye-ye-yes," wept the unintelligible Mary. 
 
 " And, mother, I have promised Oliver to-night. He 
 has been asking and waiting a year now. I thought with 
 one minister in the family, and Oliver has a good prac 
 tice and is a church member of over a year s standing." 
 
 "We shall see," said Mrs. Hinckley, moderating. 
 " Your father and I will talk it over. It seems that we 
 are to congratulate our youngest daughter first. Mr. 
 Simmons will make a very good husband. Have you not 
 often said so, Edward ? " 
 
 " We had always thought it was you, Libbie," said Mr. 
 Hinckley, not unkindly; "but, if it is Mary he has 
 chosen," 
 
58 Qjuicksand 
 
 "But, father, mother," broke in Mary, "you don t 
 understand how it is. I don t want I am not ready to 
 marry. I must stay here and work with you." 
 
 " Did you refuse him ? " demanded Libbie, excitedly. 
 
 " Ye-ye-yes," sobbed the defeated Mary again. 
 
 " Why, only yesterday morning you said What do 
 you mean by sliding about so ? I believe you were talking 
 with Hiram, asking his advice about it 1 " 
 
 " I was not," said Mary, fiercely, wondering if the 
 house would fall on her because of the lie she was 
 telling. 
 
 " Oh, I could see you had been crying last night ; and 
 now the minister will never speak to any of us again, 
 because I kept egging him on. O Mary, you design 
 ing little minx ! " 
 
 "That will do," said Mrs. Hinckley, with firmness. 
 " You may both of you go to your room, and let us have 
 no quarrelling there. Your father and I will talk this 
 over." 
 
 " But you ll let me marry Oliver, won t you, mother ? 
 You know I have promised him now." 
 
 " Your father and I will talk it over, I say ; but, for my 
 part, I don t see how I can give my consent. Oliver has 
 been a pretty bad character in the town, smoking and 
 drinking at the saloons." 
 
 " He did not drink, or only a little. He doesn t like 
 the stuff ; and, besides, he s converted. He s been con 
 verted two years." 
 
 " A bad habit will always return. I should hesitate 
 before letting him marry a daughter of mine." 
 
 " I will marry him." 
 
 " Elizabeth 1 " said the father, sternly. 
 
 " I don t see why," began Libbie, her shoulders shak 
 ing with the coming sobs. 
 
Qjiicksand 59 
 
 " Because of the love we have for you," said her mother, 
 sternly, "because of the love you bear us. We have 
 always been happy together, and now you will not be the 
 one to part us." 
 
 The stern woman was crying now herself, her wrinkled 
 face drawing into contortions and great tears rolling 
 down her cheeks. She held out her arms toward Lib- 
 bie, who clasped her wildly about the neck. Mary crept 
 into the group, and lay her head on her mother s lap, her 
 right arm around Libbie s waist. Hubert set up a wail 
 ing by the window. Mr. Hinckley kept closing and 
 opening his Bible nervously; and Sam, with his coat- 
 sleeve dabbing at his eyes went out with a slam at the 
 door. 
 
 The Hinckley excitement had broken. The rain was 
 following the lightning. 
 
VIII. 
 
 AS Hubert grew into understanding, his mother 
 came to grieve deeply that he should turn so 
 much to worldly, idle thoughts, and seem to feel 
 less and less the need of conversion from sin and the aid 
 of a heavenly Redeemer. She spent many hours on her 
 knees, praying in secret for the boy ; and sometimes, when 
 he came upon her surprisingly, the tell-tale red in her eyes 
 made his heart very tender for a moment. And then he 
 was dreaming again ; for a new life was opening to him, 
 not the heaven of religion that she cherished, but a 
 heaven of beauty instead, faint with subtle fragrance and 
 lighting, heavy with heartache and longing, impulsive, 
 vital, deep-stirring, the place whence it cometh unknown, 
 the cause unknown to all science ; a life which falls on 
 but few men, and those are God s chosen forever. 
 Whether they be miserable or happy is little matter : they 
 are always to be numbered of the blessed. 
 
 The mother blamed the influence of Hiram Stubbs for 
 this change that she felt, but could not understand ; but 
 Hubert was in reality already far beyond Hiram. And 
 often when walking with him now, making the rounds of 
 his trapping, the rapt look would come into his eyes ; and 
 Hiram, seeing that the boy was in a vision, had the good 
 sense to keep still, not speaking, but taking his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Hiram, too, had his pleasure of the woods and fields 
 and knew the freedom of the water. But his was a more 
 concrete delight. He was curious of the workings of nat 
 ure, and wanted reasons in language of cause and effect. 
 They would come to a frozen brook, and sit for a time in 
 the sunshine. Hiram would break out a piece of the ice, 
 and, turning it over to the light, note how the water had 
 
Quicksand 61 
 
 cut little intricate channels for itself and lingered in icy 
 palaces and corridors, speculating on how a certain ra 
 pidity of flow would cut this kind of channel, while a 
 slower flow would cut another quite different, sometimes 
 explaining to Hubert, or thinking alone to himself, to tell 
 at a later time if there was mist in the young dreamer s 
 eyes. 
 
 As for Hubert, what was he thinking ? Perhaps of the 
 groaning, struggling brook, controlled and bound in by its 
 surroundings, beating its life out against the ice ; per 
 haps of the fountains whence it came, the silent water 
 falls that were roaring when he saw them in the autumn 
 far up in the lonely hills, with the yellow, sad leaves float 
 ing down, like the souls of dead loves or dead dreams ; 
 or, perhaps again, of the river slipping away to the Gulf, 
 and finally widening to the sea where eternal summer 
 lingered and blossomed, changing only from day into 
 night and back again from night into day, always through 
 soft tints of the water, gray of dawn turning to lavender, 
 lavender to pearl and rose-pink, on to the fire of the sun, 
 then blue with the depths of the sky, back to fire tints in 
 the evening and the obsidian blackness of night. All of 
 this the boy imagined from the river, his river, slipping 
 on with his dreams. 
 
 Again, as they sat by the brook, Hiram noted the 
 plants that grew beside it, and how they were protected 
 xfrom the cold, and what was taking charge of the sowing 
 of the seeds, the wind, perhaps, blowing the fluffy ones, 
 the tiny hooks that others had for clinging, the mice and 
 squirrels that did their share to help out their big friends, 
 the trees. There were roots that did not need any seeds, 
 but took care to manage their own sowing. These Hiram 
 could study at all seasons : snows were not so deep that 
 he could not find them, The uses of the snow, too, he 
 
62 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 could study, and watch its curious driftings. Hubert 
 liked all of this knowledge, but it did not come from his 
 study. He saw the beauty of the dead weeds, the rich 
 browns and soft greys of color. He marked the grace and 
 slenderness of growth, and studied the delicate shadows. 
 These were the trees of little people : his trees were 
 hardly more wonderful. Sometimes he came with Hiram 
 in the moonlight ; and then he lived all he had dreamed, 
 and leaped up ecstatic in the glory. If these were the 
 joys of the winter, what could summer not bring, with its 
 long wealth of green, and the spring with its breaking 
 buds and bird- song, and the autumn with its mellow 
 warmth of harvest ? 
 
 Hubert did not work hard in the fields. Sam was often 
 grumbling at the idle little gentleman. He was a timid 
 boy, and did not take to hardship. At sixteen he was 
 afraid of a cow ; and, as for catching a pig, he would run 
 into the house if he saw one coming. No matter if they 
 did get into the garden, he could not be forced to stand 
 guard while others drove the ugly beasts toward him. 
 Neither would he have learned to ride a horse, had not 
 Hiram taken him in hand, and forced him to learn, whether 
 he liked or not. In time he did enjoy the exhilaration of 
 a gallop, and liked to go out with Hiram or his father ; 
 but never would he go anywhere alone. Indeed, his fears 
 were the talk of the family, and gave him cause for scald 
 ing tears of chagrin. He was a coward all through his 
 boyhood. Much as he loved the woods and fields, he 
 would not go alone for a walk ; that is, not out of hailing 
 distance from some of the members of the family. For 
 this reason he seemed always idle, always a hanger-on of 
 the workers. Everything had terrors for him. The woods 
 were haunted with robbers or insane men. He knew that 
 other boys roamed there in safety ; but the sound of a 
 
^u i c k s a n d 63 
 
 snapping stick sent his heart quivering to his throat, 
 choking him till he was faint and could not get his quiet 
 for hours. Snakes, too, gave him great horror, and 
 things that ran wild in the wood. He did not mind them 
 when walking with Hiram ; but, when he encountered them 
 alone, his fears leaped up in an instant. 
 
 And, then, the terrors of the night, the hidden, haunting 
 shapes in the darkness 1 It was well enough when in 
 company with some one. He laughed and talked merrily 
 then ; but never would he go out alone, not even into the 
 wood-house or cellar. If by some chance he had to go 
 out, the fear that something would seize him overtook him ; 
 and, making a bolt for the house, he would run with the 
 terror of a madman, more and more frightened as he 
 neared the door. He could feel the hot breath of a 
 monster behind him, till, just within a step of the thresh 
 old, he felt the faintness quite overpowering. He reached 
 the knob just as the paroxysm overcame him. He dashed 
 into the light and the safety, and then burned with the 
 shame of his fears as he saw the family secretly smiling. 
 
 He had dreams in his sleep that greatly enhanced his 
 day fears. How he dreaded to see the night come, not 
 withstanding the beauty of the evening I He slept up 
 stairs with Sam, and would never go to bed first, no mat 
 ter how sleepy or tired. If Sam were away for the night, 
 he must have his mother come and sleep in the room, or 
 perhaps he could get permission to stay with Hiram, 
 though his mother was very jealous of that. What a joy it 
 was to lie up close to the big, warm Hiram 1 He never 
 knew any fears then, but only the sense of protection. If 
 he woke up in the night in a terror and waked up Sam, he 
 was often grumbled at for doing so, and always chaffed 
 about it in the morning or when other boys or people were 
 around. But Hiram seemed to understand. Perhaps he 
 
64 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 had been afraid as a boy. He always put his arms 
 around the startled Hubert, and drew him up close to his 
 breast, stroking his head perhaps softly, but, best of all, 
 giving the touch of his strong, breathing body. Hubert 
 could hear his heart beating, pounding like a hammer in 
 the night, threatening all ghosts that could come near 
 with the sound of its never-failing blows. He wished he 
 might live always with Hiram. He would almost give up 
 the love of his mother to come to the safety and affection 
 that he knew in the little log house. 
 
 There were different kinds of dreams that he had, 
 most of them waking him with horror. Once, when 
 quite a child, he had dreamed of being lost in a 
 wood; and even in the strongest daylight, that dream 
 memory had haunted him for months. Then there were 
 robbers and mad men and wild animals, and sometimes 
 the horror of ghosts or the shouts of the wicked in hell. 
 It was not until he had reached the age of fifteen or 
 sixteen, however, that a recurring dream began to come 
 to him. The thought of it by day made him cold. 
 
 Some way this dream got fixed in his mind, and would 
 not leave him, but kept coming back from time to time, 
 maybe haunting him every night for a week, and then not 
 returning for months. 
 
 It seemed that he was boarding in a lonely house in 
 the country. Perhaps he was teaching a school. At any 
 rate, he seemed to be a man, and had regular work 
 through the day. There was an old man and his wife in 
 this house, and in some way they had done dreadful mur 
 der. The dreamer never knew exactly what it was. 
 Perhaps they had killed one of their sons, and hidden his 
 body under the house. It must have been some time 
 before he came there. 
 
 The great fear was that these old people, suspecting 
 
Quicksand 65 
 
 Hubert as they did, would kill him for revealing their 
 secret ; and his daily prayer was that he might not dream 
 any more of this horrible secret, and in this way lay himself 
 liable to the awful wrath of the dream people. He could 
 usually tell when this dream was coming on, and check it 
 by waking himself. Often it started in the simplest and 
 most innocent way. He would be surrounded by a com 
 pany of cheerful people, laughing and chatting at a party ; 
 and then some bit of evidence would be dropped in the 
 gossip, some hint of how the murder had been done. 
 Then the frightened Hubert would struggle, fighting with 
 his sleep, that he might waken and thrust the terrifying 
 evidence out. 
 
 He never dreamed this dream when sleeping with 
 Hiram, nor did he speak of it to him. It was too horrible 
 to be allowed in his thoughts, and it did not occur to him 
 that by discussing it openly it might gradually grow faint 
 and disappear. He asked Hiram to tell him healthy 
 stories, gay, jolly stories of the sea. 
 
IX. 
 
 IT had always been understood in the Hinckley 
 family that Hubert was to be a minister ; and, as this 
 had been given out in the neighbourhood and in the 
 academy as well, the boy had hardly considered the 
 question that it was possible for him to be anything else. 
 To be sure, at times he had received hints from Hiram that 
 a man might be anything he chose ; but, as a minister in the 
 Hinckley estimation was the highest possible personage 
 in society, there seemed to be little choice left for any 
 one who was really ambitious. 
 
 Of course, being a minister meant going to college, or 
 in those days it was coming to mean so. The time had 
 been when the preachers were not of college education. 
 Indeed, most of them Hubert had heard were hardly more 
 advanced in their learning than the farmers to whom they 
 preached. Very often it was the case that the preacher 
 was a farmer himself, or a carpenter or blacksmith, per 
 haps, who did extra duty on Sundays. But the old days 
 of pure religion were passing away, and the day of edu 
 cation was arriving. Now the people wanted instruction 
 with their sermons. Especially in the towns this was 
 true ; and Hubert, if he must be a preacher, would aim 
 for the very highest. He even dreamed of going to the 
 cities and preaching to the multitudes of sinners that he 
 read about in the Sunday-school papers. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley did not feel sure about sending him to 
 college so long as he was not converted ; but here Mr. 
 Hinckley came in with argument that seemed to answer, 
 which was that Hubert was different from other boys, 
 and perhaps did not really need conversion, that some 
 children seemed called from their birth, and never fell 
 into the low ways of sin. It was at all events agreed, 
 
Qju icksand 67 
 
 after serious deliberation, that Hubert should be sent to 
 college. They chose one of the Methodist denomination, 
 as that was the doctrine he should preach; and they 
 wrote to the president there, and asked him to give their 
 boy special attention, and see that he had the influence 
 that would keep him in the strait and narrow path. The 
 president promised most kindly ; and so it was arranged, 
 and the time set, Hubert being then sixteen years old. 
 
 It was hard scraping for the family to raise money 
 enough for this unprecedented extravagance. The neigh 
 bours all spoke of it with scorn, and more than ever 
 the opinion was established that the Hinckleys were 
 a stuck-up lot. Why should they send their boy to col 
 lege ? Other farmers did not take on such expense. If 
 the boy wanted to be a preacher, the main thing was first 
 to get religion. More likely than not, if he went off to 
 college, he would lose what religion he had, and make 
 himself unfit for earning a living, into the bargain. As it 
 was, he wasn t able to do much, just hang around his 
 mother and sisters. The Hinckleys were getting alto 
 gether too high-toned for these parts. First they wanted 
 the biggest house in the neighbourhood. Then they 
 wanted the children to go to the academy. Then they 
 must marry Libbie to Preacher Simmons, though it did 
 take two to make that bargain. And now they would 
 send Hubert to college, that puny little scrub of a boy 1 
 
 But the Hinckleys kept perseveringly on. Sam mar 
 keted his hogs extra early that year for a start. Mr. 
 Hinckley went twenty miles away to take a contract for 
 building. Libbie had been working hard all the summer, 
 marketing her butter and eggs. Mary, who had talent 
 for sewing and fancy work, had secured work that she 
 could bring out from Fort Madison. Mrs. Hinckley 
 added her mite by doing baking and washing for Hiram. 
 
68 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 And Hiram himself was allowed to contribute with a shin 
 ing twenty-dollar gold piece, which he had received for 
 his sales from his trapping. Then preparations began 
 for Hubert s departure. First his mother took him to Fort 
 Madison, and bought him a new suit of clothes. His best 
 suit that he had now for Sundays would have to be worn 
 every day. They bought the new suit large enough to 
 grow to. The buttons could be set over on the coat, and 
 the trousers turned up at the bottom. Then they bought 
 cloth for white shirts, with finest linen for the bosoms. 
 There was a box of paper collars, too, and a pretty little 
 black bow for a necktie. Libbie had wanted a purple bow, 
 and surely ought to have been allowed some right of de 
 cision, as her egg money was being spent on the outfit ; 
 but Mrs. Hinckley insisted on black. " It was more 
 befitting a minister," she said, " and already they must be 
 thinking of that." Then they bought him a fine pair of 
 boots, calfskin, with high heels and narrow toes. His 
 underclothes they made of canton flannel. Great sheets 
 of the fleecy stuff were purchased. Hubert thought that 
 almost the prettiest of all. Meanwhile he was thinking 
 of the coming examinations, and was reviewing all of his 
 books, Mary acting as examiner in the evening, after her 
 day s work was done. 
 
 They almost dreaded the day of departure, notwith 
 standing they were proud to have him going. Libbie 
 grew quite fierce at her work, ironing the newly made 
 shirts three times over before she was satisfied. Mary 
 was seen crying on several occasions, but no one ques 
 tioned her why. Mr. Hinckley bought Hubert a new 
 Bible, writing a dedication on the fly-leaf. Sam gave him 
 a copy of " Pilgrim s Progress," and Hiram a brand-new 
 pocket-knife, with three shining and well-tempered blades. 
 Mrs. Hinckley did not say much. She seemed to say 
 
Qji icksand 69 
 
 less every day ; but, as they watched her going about 
 with the preparations, they could see she was suffering 
 acutely, her face was growing older and more wrinkled, 
 so much so that the evening before the last morning Lib- 
 bie broke down in hysterical weeping, and was hurried 
 off, helpless, to bed. 
 
 And then the morning itself was at hand. The new 
 trunk was receiving its final contributions before it should 
 be closed and locked inevitably. Everybody went around 
 with a heavy sense of weight. Nothing at breakfast 
 tasted good, and they were glad when that formality was 
 over. Mary was now crying in the pantry instead of 
 making herself ready for town. 
 
 It had been decided that Mr. and Mrs. Hinckley and 
 the two girls should go to the train to see Hubert off, 
 and that day Sam would work for Hiram, digging the 
 early potatoes. Hiram came up to see them off, and 
 bid cheery good luck to the Captain. They drove away 
 from the house on the hill, the new trunk in the back of 
 the wagon. It seemed almost like a funeral, yet to 
 Hubert it was a time of delicious excitement. He was 
 glad, however, that Hiram remained merry : otherwise, 
 the Captain might have shed a few tears. It was sad, 
 once they were on the road and the stone house was 
 behind and above them. There were ugly and aching 
 lumps in his throat, and a dim mist quivering over the 
 river as he sat wedged in the spring seat between his two 
 sisters, and the wagon went rattling along in the dust; 
 and still far behind he could see Sam and Hiram walking 
 down the path to the cabin. 
 
 But the agony was yet to be prolonged by the three 
 lonely women staying with him. They arrived at the 
 station an hour early, though they had been in a fidget of 
 worry all morning for fear that they might be too late. 
 
70 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 It is gloomy waiting at a station. Everything to say 
 has been said except the last dreaded thing, the only 
 thing, however, which brings relief. It was a sultry, 
 hot day in early September. It seemed the station clock 
 would never change : the hands must be stuck fast with 
 dust. 
 
 At last the big engine came puffing up. Would it 
 stop long enough to give him time to get on ? Libbie 
 seized him wildly around the neck, regardless of crump 
 ling the newly ironed shirt. Then Mary stood crying help 
 lessly in turn, not doing anything, but feeling very badly. 
 His mother was quivering as she kissed him, and tears 
 were flowing down her cheeks. Hubert was crying, too, 
 as he left them, his father taking him into the car, and 
 stopping to speak to the conductor to see that the boy 
 made the proper change at Burlington. There, now I 
 the bell was ringing, and the conductor uttering that wild 
 and foreign cry, " All aboard ! " his mother and his sisters 
 at the windows, he in the red plush-covered seat. Slowly 
 the station began moving, then the town was slipping 
 away behind him. Hubert was getting sick and dizzy, 
 and turned his attention to the inside of the car. Now 
 that he was going off to college, he must be a man and 
 not cry any more. Already he was thinking of the cheery 
 Hiram s " Good luck, Captain," and no more, the gay, 
 tender laughter all shining, all twinkling and glinting in 
 his eyes. 
 
X. 
 
 HUBERT had never been in a railway carriage 
 before ; and but little time could be given to re 
 grets, as all his attention was absorbed in the 
 strangeness of the new situation. Then there was the 
 change of cars at Burlington after he had ridden an 
 hour, the conductor pointed out the train he was to 
 take, there was the worry of his luggage and his lunch- 
 box. Then the flying landscape began again at the win 
 dows, and the people inside were so interesting. 
 
 All too soon the brakeman was calling Mt. Pleasant; 
 and Hubert was getting off again, arrived at college at 
 last, nothing but a little brown station as yet, but no doubt 
 wonderful in the background. 
 
 A very knowing-looking young gentleman, wearing a 
 blue badge on his coat, came forward at this juncture, and 
 said politely, "Are you Mr. Hinckley, sir?" Hubert 
 looked about involuntarily to see whether his father were 
 behind him; and then, recollecting that he was now 
 entering college, he suggested apologetically, " I am 
 Hubert Hinckley." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Come this way. Let me help you with 
 your grip. You can go to the office at once. The presi 
 dent will see you, and have your room assigned." 
 
 Hubert got into the spring wagon along with the two 
 other boys, who likewise seemed to be new students. It 
 was a comfort to find some one else who did not know 
 more than he did. One of the fellows spoke to him, and 
 Hubert was very thankful to him for it. They stopped in 
 front of a big brick building, standing in the middle of a 
 park. "Here is the office," said the knowing young 
 gentleman, leading the way into a narrow hall, and then 
 turning into a door on the right, where three or four 
 
72 Quicksand 
 
 other students were standing waiting in a line before 
 they should speak to the president, a grey-haired, dig 
 nified-looking gentleman, who spoke with professional 
 kindliness to each new-comer in turn. 
 
 The ordeal, when it came, was not trying, though Hu 
 bert found himself a little breathless and was sadly in 
 need of a swallow of water to enable him to speak more 
 comfortably. The president said much the same thing to 
 him that he had to the boys before. His father s letter 
 was remembered. Yes, they would give him a boarding- 
 place. They knew of a very good family. He was sent 
 on to the Committee on Entrance Examinations, two more 
 men of grey, learned dignity. Hubert was given a list of 
 announcements, told to come in the morning at nine 
 o clock, supplied with pencil and paper, and again turned 
 over to the care of the knowing young gentleman, who 
 took him for a walk across the park and down one or two 
 streets on the side till he knocked at the door of a neat 
 yellow house, and announced to the kind-looking lady 
 there that he had brought her another new boarder. 
 
 Mrs. Newman was a pleasant old lady, and immediately 
 began to concern herself about the welfare of her guest. 
 Would he like a room-mate or a single room ? " A room 
 mate," said Hubert, hurriedly, thinking of the darkness of 
 the nights. Well, she had a boarder now who wanted a 
 room-mate. His name was Mr. O Malley ; and he was a 
 very nice, quiet gentleman. Would Mr. Hinckley like to 
 see the room? And they climbed the carpeted stairs. 
 The room was cheery and light, though with a sense of 
 barrenness of furniture, which was hardly explainable, how 
 ever, as everything needed was in it. There was a wide 
 white bed, a stove, a bureau, a washstand, and a table, all 
 of them standing up high on their legs, as if they might be 
 of feminine timidity and an alarm of mouse had been 
 
Qju i c k s a n d 73 
 
 given. A rag carpet covered the floor, and white muslin 
 curtains the two windows. The wall paper was cream- 
 color and of chicken-fence pattern. Two pictures in 
 black oval frames hung on the walls. They were photo 
 graphs of family groups. And a cardboard motto worked 
 in green zephyr, stating in intricate, ornamental letters that 
 " The Lord is my Shepherd," was tipped with its face 
 well downward over the lintel of the door. 
 
 Hubert barely had time to reconnoitre when Mr. 
 O Malley came in. Mrs. Newman introduced them to 
 each other, and left them with the word that supper would 
 be ready at six, and that, if Mr. Hinckley would like to get 
 his trunk from the depot, he could have the wheelbarrow 
 any time, and perhaps Mr. O Malley would show him the 
 wayi Then the two room-mates were alone together to 
 survey each other and get acquainted. 
 
 Thomas O Malley was also the son of a farmer, and 
 lived only nine miles from Mt. Pleasant. He would some 
 times go home on Sundays. Hubert thought of the lone 
 liness of the nights. He was long and gaunt and brown. 
 His hair stood up in a brush. He was freckled, and had 
 decayed front teeth. He talked chiefly of to-morrow s ex 
 amination, and especially of the study of " algebray," of 
 which he seemed very fond. He told Hubert which man 
 on the committee had been the professor in mathematics, 
 and said that the other was Latin, but that he had no use 
 for him. On the whole, he seemed a very nice fellow. 
 He was older than Hubert, for one thing, nineteen, he 
 said, through his bad teeth, and he offered to go along 
 to the station for the trunk and give a lift on the wheel 
 barrow. It was more like home when they returned and 
 got the trunk open, and Hubert began disposing of his 
 things. 
 
 The supper-bell rang at six o clock. They went down 
 
74 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 to eat with the other six boarders, also students. Mrs. 
 Newman s two daughters waited on the table ; and some 
 of the boys seemed well acquainted, having evidently been 
 there before. 
 
 Hubert was very much alarmed to find everybody so 
 well dressed. He wondered whether it was in honor of 
 the first day or whether they went this way always. After 
 supper he went out for a walk with O Malley, who said in 
 the midst of his discourse on " algebray " that " you might 
 as well call me Tom." This was a relief in the beginning, 
 and Hubert gave his own Christian name. 
 
 They returned, and went to bed early ; but it was a long 
 time before the restless new-comer could lose himself in 
 his sleep. 
 
XI. 
 
 IN a week s time Hubert was established in the regular 
 routine of college study that is such a joy and satis 
 faction to the enthusiastic young student. Latin con 
 struction and Greek verbs, they were the serious matters 
 of life. He dreamed of them now in the night, no more 
 of the haunting murder. He was not even very nervous 
 when Tom went home over Saturday and Sunday. It was 
 quieter for study then ; and, after poring for hours over 
 the print, the boy would put out his light, and soon be in 
 restful sleep. It was a lonely life for a lad, and yet he 
 was never lonesome. There were occasional conversa 
 tions with the other boys of the house, arguments with 
 Tom over the lessons, and the constant procession of prac 
 tical jokes that belong to the Freshmen in college. Then 
 he went for long walks through the town, back and forth 
 through the quiet, shady streets, where the gold of au 
 tumnal leaves was glowing. Sometimes the boys would 
 make up a party, and go out to the woods to gather 
 nuts. A creek half encircled the town, offering picturesque 
 bits of stone bank and low, level stretches of pebbles, with 
 the wooded hills rising beyond. Once on the level of the 
 tops of the hills, the view was a rolling prairie, all beauti 
 ful to the eyes of a youth with the fervor of genius grow 
 ing in him. Hubert sometimes spoke of these things to 
 the boys much as he had done to Hiram ; but, rinding 
 that they smiled at him for his sentiment, he began to 
 keep his thoughts secret. And, this being the surest 
 method of making longings grow, they soon would per 
 force have expression, and found it in bits of verse, in 
 snatches of song and prose idyls. All these he kept to 
 himself, or occasionally sent one to Hiram. The man not 
 being anything of a literary judge read them because they 
 
76 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 were from Hubert, and liked them for the same reason, 
 perhaps ; but he did not speak of them when he saw the 
 lad s parents, neither did he breathe a word of them to 
 Mary. In this Hubert trusted him so much that it had 
 not even occurred to him to urge caution for his secrets, 
 though he would not have had the verses reach his family 
 for the world. The verses were, in truth, not mangels of 
 prodigious genius ; nor yet were they the mere gush of a 
 youth who has not yet let his eyes fall on a maid, but 
 whose growth demands some kind of gushing. They 
 were delicate fancies of song in the skies, of spirits 
 in the hills and the water, and humanity in all living 
 things. They sang with a true ring of music at times, 
 quaint and plaintive in melody, like the poems of Heine 
 almost, though not with their great understanding. Hu 
 bert was reading now. The town library was a mine of 
 wealth to him, and what he read did much to mould his 
 form and thought in the little products that he yielded. 
 They were reflected back from him, though always the rea 
 son of the reflection came from his own heart s yearning. 
 How bashful he was and retiring, as he slipped about 
 in the crowds of the hallways, going to and from his 
 classes 1 He hardly dared lift his eyes as he met the older 
 students promenading, each dapper gentleman walking 
 with a girl, pretending great enlivenment with her conver 
 sation. They came to say Hubert was proud, or was 
 indifferent and did not want acquaintance. This was 
 not true. The boy was breathless for recognition, but his 
 fears were that he might not be worthy. He was ill- 
 dressed and uncouth beside the other students. He felt 
 their superiority at every turn, except when reciting his 
 lessons ; and this did not seem to him a social test. He 
 did not know how much they respected him. The shabbi- 
 ness of his dress never ceased to mortify and subdue him. 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 77 
 
 The grey suit that his mother had thought so fine was 
 worn every day instead of Sundays, and then was ill-fit 
 ting and ugly. The stiff grey was not like the others. 
 The boys had suits in dark colors, or more often black 
 coats that were jaunty and graceful, with grey trousers, 
 fresh pressed and natty. His coat was too big ; and the 
 buttons were set over, making a one-sided opening at the 
 neck. His trousers were too loose and hung in folds. 
 One of the boys at the house had remarked jokingly, not 
 knowing how it would be nurtured for months, that from 
 the fitting of Hubert s trousers one would think several 
 families had moved out. Then he wore paper collars, 
 and his cuffs were always ironed in wrinkles. Why did 
 Libbie make him cuffs sewed on to his shirt? Other 
 boys had smooth, polished linen. His black hat, he 
 imagined, did not look well with his grey suit. He 
 watched every fellow he met, to see if one had a grey 
 suit and black hat. Not one ! And then, if there was 
 possibility of the students speaking to him, the terror- 
 stricken Hubert would cross the street, or keep his eyes 
 on the ground and pretend not to have noticed the fellow. 
 
 He did not take any part in the athletic sports, partly 
 because he was not willing to take off his coat and let the 
 boys see how high he kept his trousers pulled up, because 
 they were large, " for him to grow to," and partly, it must 
 also be said, because he was girlish and backward, never 
 having played base-ball at all, out of fear of being 
 laughed at for his awkwardness. 
 
 He had been accustomed to sew at home, to piece 
 patchwork quilts with the girls, and even to do crochet 
 ing. What if these boys should know of that! He 
 blushed at the very thought; but one day, when they 
 went to the dam in the creek, he thanked Hiram for 
 having taught him swimming. And the way he dived and 
 
78 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 swam under water, doing all the fancy strokes, made him 
 the talk of the college, and brought him the first glory he 
 had known. 
 
 In one matter, however, Hubert had been bolder and 
 more like the other students. He had joined one of the 
 literary societies the very first Friday he was there. In 
 due time his name was posted on the programme for an 
 essay, and on this he had courageously set to work. 
 Perhaps his highest ambition at that time was to be an 
 elocutionist, or, secretly, an actor. He remembered his 
 early successes at the district school and the spelling- 
 schools. He had also won fame at the academy, so that 
 now, with this consciousness of power within him, he 
 would speak out his hopes in this essay, and urge on his 
 hearers at the society the study that seemed to him most 
 important, the culture of the human voice. He had read 
 in an old book on elocution most of the argument he 
 would employ, but this was added to and illustrated by 
 what he had learned in his physiology and the text-books 
 of Latin and Greek. Best of all, he would employ at the 
 end a quotation from Dryden s " Saint Cecilia," which 
 seemed to him the most beautiful poem in existence. 
 
 " At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame," 
 
 it began ; and, then, the magnificent finish, 
 
 "He raised a mortal to the skies, 
 She drew an angel down." 
 
 Hubert had a gesture for this. He had practised it in his 
 room for three weeks. 
 
 At length the appointed Friday came, and tremblingly 
 he waited the call of his name. He tried to listen to the 
 other members, but could only think of his essay and the 
 
uicksand 79 
 
 coming turn. In time he was on the little rostrum before 
 them, the well-dressed gentlemen and young ladies whose 
 faces he knew so well, but whose acquaintance he had 
 so studiously avoided. If it had only been night instead 
 of day ! the glaring sunlight was so bald and harsh, 
 where lamplight gives courage and glamour. In spite of 
 the dryness of his mouth, he began, he would convince 
 these gentlemen yet. The second paragraph was hardly 
 under way when his knees began a terrible shaking. 
 Sidewise and back they went inside the flabby trousers, 
 till the turmoil arose to his waist, and even his voice 
 took the tremor. Once he stopped almost to smile with 
 the audience, it was so pitiful, and yet he knew so funny. 
 Finally, he wabbled over and leaned for support on the 
 piano. The will power it took was something terrible ; 
 but after that the essay went on more smoothly, and the 
 hearers were sincerely interested. But, then, in the end, 
 he tried the gesture; and it ran into miserable failure. 
 His coat was buttoned, for one thing; and that would 
 not let his arm go up high enough. Then, who ever 
 heard of making a gesture in an essay 1 He thought of 
 this while he was making the gesture. Oh, the chagrin 
 of the applause, the weakness upon taking his seat I 
 But, still, he came to the literary society on the following 
 Friday : he was not to be beaten in that. And worthily 
 enough it came out that by the holiday season Hubert 
 Hinckley was recognised by all as one of the most valu 
 able of the new student members. 
 
XII. 
 
 IT was one of the rules of the college that students 
 should attend church on Sunday. There were also 
 chapel services every morning, attendance likewise 
 required ; and special credit was given for going to 
 prayer-meeting on Wednesday night. So that the young 
 people did not lack religious instruction. It is probable, 
 however, that Hubert would have found his way regu 
 larly to the Methodist church, whether it was demanded 
 of him or not. It had always been his habit at home, 
 and habits are not broken easily. He was pleased, 
 too, and surprised, to find so many well-dressed and emi 
 nently respectable people believing as he had been taught. 
 All of the professors came here, and many of the wealthy 
 of the town. It is a good feeling to be with the best of the 
 crowd, even if one s clothes are ill-fitting. Still, Hubert 
 was not to be called religious. His attention was listless 
 at the sermon, and he thought of other things immedi 
 ately after. He would look at the sky or the trees or the 
 fashionable millinery of the ladies as soon as he came 
 out of doors. 
 
 A month before the Christmas season, when he was to 
 go home for vacation, there came a great experience in 
 his life. It came about through a religious revival, some 
 thing that had not claimed him before. 
 
 The revival was an important affair in the town of Mt. 
 Pleasant ; for one of the world-famed evangelists was com 
 ing, and a harvest of souls was predicted. The evangelist 
 always worked in company with a singer also of renown, 
 a man with a beautiful tenor voice, who could make con 
 gregations tremble, so delicate and plaintive was his sing 
 ing. The singer s wife also was with them, to play ac 
 companiment on her small organ and aid her husband 
 
Qjiicksand si 
 
 with her own beautiful voice, a steady, supporting contralto. 
 Crowds filled the big church every night, and many waited 
 outside. Scores of teams came in from the country, and 
 trains brought many from the neighbouring villages. 
 Hubert went almost every night. The pleading voice 
 of the singer drew him. 
 
 The preacher, too, was interesting. He had been an 
 evangelist for twelve years, travelling all over the world. 
 He had been in Palestine and in India, and was constantly 
 recounting his experiences and telling how souls came to 
 Jesus or else just failed in their salvation, and the mother 
 wept over the lost one. His voice was strong and sonor 
 ous, trembling and husky for the proper emotions. Men 
 and women throughout the congregation were in tears, 
 many shoulders shook with sobbing, then the low wailing 
 singing began, penetrating every corner of the building. 
 
 " Sing it o er and o er again : 
 Christ receiveth sinful men." 
 
 A wave of holiness and awe swept over the hushed con 
 gregation. It seemed there was hope for them yet. 
 
 To Hubert this was different from the revivals to which 
 he had been accustomed. Here they did not frighten 
 him with the punishment of everlasting hell-fire, although 
 the idea of hell was in the background. They talked 
 chiefly of, the gentleness of Jesus, of his suffering and 
 meekness and courage. Most of all they talked of the 
 mother s love for her son, and how she was now, perhaps, 
 weeping and praying at home, in order that her absent 
 loved one might be saved, might confess his sins and re 
 ceive salvation, and rejoice after death with her in heaven. 
 The mother, too, was most frequently pictured as being 
 failing in years, being overworked and over-worried with 
 care, yet patient and long-suffering in silence. Alas ! this 
 
82 Qjiicksand 
 
 was all so true. " How selfish and ungrateful I am ! " 
 thought Hubert during the loneliness of the singing. 
 
 "Where, oh, where is my boy to-night? " and the con 
 gregation joining in the chorus till his soul was resound 
 ing with music. He went home the first night thoughtful, 
 paying little heed to Tom and his mathematics. Yes, he 
 was a wanderer outside, he was lonely and restless with 
 heartache. How beautiful if he could find rest! He 
 thought more now of his own mother, the white-haired, 
 hard-working woman, who had cried so when she held him 
 in her arms that last time at the Fort Madison station. 
 He had seen her cry rarely at other times, and it was al 
 ways for love of her children. He remembered how, 
 during the protracted meetings, she had always grown so 
 haggard with watching, so wan with waiting for him, 
 who sat obstinately on the back seat. The tears were 
 flowing from his eyes in the night. He awoke to find 
 himself weeping. He went to the meeting again and 
 again, his torments growing and growing. The third 
 night he stood up for prayers. It was a very simple thing 
 to do. Many of the students were doing it. Surely, pray 
 ers of good people could not harm him. When the praying 
 was over, he was trembling ; and the beautiful music did 
 not comfort him. Two more nights he listened and 
 wavered, his soul drinking eagerly every word. Both 
 nights he stood up for prayers. Crowds of people were 
 beginning to go forward and tell of the joys of salvation. 
 On Saturday he wandered out in the woods. He could not 
 keep his mind on his studies. 
 
 The day was a disagreeable one and dreary. The 
 streets were a mess of black mud, the sky was leaden and 
 low settling, occasionally giving spatters of rain. Often 
 times Hubert would have been afraid to go alone, but now 
 he was reckless in his misery. " Would the Lord receive 
 
Qjiicksand 83 
 
 him if he should go forward ? " he kept thinking, he had 
 been so wicked in the past. He reviewed it all over now, 
 how he had teased Libbie and shirked his work on to 
 Mary ; how he had been defiant with Sam, refusing to 
 obey his orders; how he had sometimes deceived his 
 father because he was afraid of punishment. He could 
 not think of ever sinning against Hiram, but perhaps he 
 should have tried to convert him to religion. Omission to 
 do that, he was told, was the most deadly sin of all. 
 But, most of all, he thought of his mother, and how he had 
 given her only grief and trouble and care. He was cry 
 ing now, as he saw the dismal trees, dripping with bare 
 branches in the fog. Would God forgive and receive 
 him ? he wondered, his heart was so black and festered 
 with sin. Could it become " whiter than snow," as the 
 steady singing promised it could ? He went back weak 
 and weary, but he had taken a vow to the dull sky. He 
 would go forward that night at the church, and ask Jesus 
 Christ for forgiveness. 
 
 At supper he was nervous and disturbed, but the others 
 did not notice it to chaff him. Indeed, they, too, were 
 affected by the meetings. Mrs. Newman and her 
 daughters attended. Hubert tried to read the Bible till 
 it was time to go, but he could not find comfort in its 
 pages. He went early to the church, and took a seat well 
 up in front. It would not attract so much attention when 
 he came to go forward with the mourners. All the time 
 until the services began he leaned his head forward on 
 the pew, and tried to be thinking a prayer ; but he seemed 
 too self-conscious to pray. Then the services began, and 
 the words of the preacher caught and bound him. 
 Surely, he could take the experiences of this man. Why 
 did Satan so tempt him with doubting ? After the singing 
 came the call to go forward. Would he dare to rise be- 
 
84 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 fore them all? The preacher was uttering words of 
 encouragement while the congregation sang. Yes, he was 
 rising, he was going, he was drawn as by invisible ropes. 
 His eyes were fixed, and felt dry and glassy. Would 
 Christ receive his poor soul ? Once forward on the 
 bench, he knelt down and tried to pray. How black and 
 wicked he felt 1 " O God, forgive me my sins 1 O 
 Jesus, receive my spirit ! " he cried, and wept so violently 
 that the preacher himself the great man who had saved 
 so many thousands of souls reached over, and laid his 
 hand on his shoulder. " Have courage, brother," he said. 
 " The Lord will come to you yet." But that night the 
 Lord did not come, though other mourners were bright- 
 eyed with joy. Was his degradation so low? Dear 
 mother, keep praying at home. He could not sleep that 
 night, and was thankful for once that Tom had gone home, 
 and would not be back till Monday. 
 
 The next morning, Sunday, he went to church and was 
 attentive, staying as usual to the Sunday-school. In the 
 afternoon there was to be a meeting for young men alone. 
 The great preacher was to talk to them, and many of the 
 students were going. Hubert listened to the words as 
 for his life. The preacher told how salvation would come 
 to a soul, that it was easy, not difficult, as many sup 
 posed. One had only to remain passive, expecting ; and 
 the holiness would flow in upon him. In the evening 
 Hubert went forward again, and remembered the 
 preacher s instructions. They were praying and plead 
 ing all around him, he alone quietly waiting. 
 
 Suddenly it came. Like a flash of light, peace was on 
 him ! Oh, the restfulness of the souls of the blessed ! 
 Almost he thought he saw the face of Jesus smiling upon 
 him. He would have seen it but for the whiteness of the 
 light. Then his heart was singing content, his life began 
 
Quicksand 85 
 
 flowing again, pain had forever passed away. No longer 
 the singing was pleading. It was the voices of angels in 
 his ears, of angels chanting psalms of glory. He sank 
 back his head on the steps to the altar, his whole soul 
 filled with its sense of completion. This was the consum 
 mation of religion. His body was weak with its ecstasy. 
 
 When the services were ended, he arose with the rest, 
 and waited patiently with the crowd. One would not 
 know he was so changed except by carefully studying the 
 face. But to him within all was different. The slow 
 walking was a majestic march. His legs moved without 
 his will and as in rhythm to the peals of a mighty organ. 
 Once outside the door, the cold, frosty air was a new wind 
 from heaven. Snow was falling thickly on the ground. 
 It was white like his heart from its cleansing. The di- 
 vineness seemed to carry him home. He could sense the 
 hand of the gentle Saviour leading him. " To-morrow I 
 will write to my dear mother," he said, " and tell her of 
 my happiness and salvation. How she will weep with 
 joy as she reads 1 " 
 
 That night he was again alone in his room, but no 
 horrors now could come to him. There were angels 
 guarding his pillow and breathing on him fragrance of 
 peace. 
 
XIII. 
 
 THERE were great preparations for the Christmas 
 festivities at the Hinckleys that year, when Hubert 
 should first come back from college. It seemed 
 as if he had been away a year instead of four months. 
 They even wondered if he had changed since they saw 
 him. How delightful it would be to hear of all he had 
 studied and all he was seeing 1 Libbie had longed to go 
 to college, when she was a girl ; but, of course, they could 
 not spare her from home. Now she should hear all 
 about it, at any rate ; and the joy that she had wished for 
 herself she could feel when talking with Hubert. Mary 
 baked the kind of pies that he liked and almost wept 
 tears into the mince-meat ; but the mother was happiest 
 of all, for she carried his letter about with her, and read it 
 often in secret, his letter that read like a paean of joy 
 when his soul had escaped from its bondage. He would 
 talk to her of spiritual things, teach her, no doubt, from 
 his learning. She had never felt heart to heart with either 
 of her boys the same as she did with Libbie or Mary. 
 Sam sometimes would talk of religion, but it was not his 
 daily habit to do so, on Sundays and in a formal way, 
 perhaps. But with Hubert she thought it would be 
 different. He would recount his experience throughout, 
 and all that he felt now from day to day. 
 
 When he came, it was very dear to him at first, sitting 
 at his old place at the table and having them all listen 
 when he spoke. Mary s cooking tasted very good after 
 the alien preparations of Mrs. Newman. Even his father 
 and Sam gave him attention, and passed him dishes the 
 second time, and listened as he talked of the college, the 
 students and the professors, and the church. But what 
 made him so shy about speaking of religion ? 
 
Qju icksand 87 
 
 His mother thought, "He wishes to keep that more 
 confidential," and waited till she was alone with him. 
 She had no chance for this the first two days ; for it was 
 not one of the practices of the family to leave anybody 
 alone, thinking that he might enjoy the privacy. The 
 mother herself was responsible for this ; though now, for 
 the first time in her life, she began to resent seeming in 
 trusions. It had never been so before. She herself had 
 often insisted that her children should not lock any door 
 against her, nor the girls against each other. They 
 should lead only open lives, she said ; not do things of 
 which they were ashamed. No matter if she came in at 
 any time, they should not feel the need of concealing from 
 her. Now for the first time she found her teachings 
 brought home. She would go into the front room or even 
 Hubert s bedroom for a confidential talk, and imme 
 diately came Libbie and Mary trooping after. " What is 
 that? " they would ask. "What were you talking about, 
 Hubert ? " 
 
 The day before Christmas, however, both the girls 
 went to Fort Madison to purchase presents; and this 
 would give her opportunity. She was working with the 
 baking in the kitchen, and Hubert would come in to 
 watch she knew : it was one of his favourite occupations. 
 
 " You must tell me about the revival, Hubert," she 
 began. " Was Mr. Slater a very wonderful preacher ? " 
 
 Hubert felt bashful and confused. Was this the long- 
 expected confidence with his mother, such as he re 
 membered in the preacher s stones, that had moved him 
 so at the time, where the son had fallen into his mother s 
 open arms and sobbed out his joy on her breast ? He 
 tried to turn the question off lightly. 
 
 " He was very eloquent, mother ; and he had travelled 
 in Palestine and India, and he told most wonderful sto- 
 
88 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 " There were a great many converted, we read in the 
 paper. Were you at the mourner s bench long ? " 
 
 " Two nights," answered Hubert, blushing ; and then 
 he spoke in glowing terms of the singing, and told one or 
 two incidents of the meeting. 
 
 But Mrs. Hinckley brought him back again. "What 
 day were you called to go forward, Hubert? You did 
 not name the day in your letter. I shall make that day 
 the festival of my heart," she said, moving toward him 
 fondly. 
 
 " It was Saturday, the i2th of December," he answered 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "Tell me about it," she said, looking at him. She 
 could see that he was timid, and it cut her to the quick ; 
 but she did not show signs of her hurt. 
 
 " There was very little," he half stuttered. " There 
 were a great many going up. It is different from here 
 in the country, quieter and more educated people, you 
 know." 
 
 He felt like a criminal when he was saying it ; but, for 
 the life of him, he could not say more. And that, too, 
 after all the confidence he had intended; and he knew 
 how his mother s heart was yearning. He went on hur 
 riedly to tell her about the church and the pipe organ, 
 and how the people looked who attended, Then he went 
 back to the preacher and his stories. He told as many 
 as he could remember of the travelling ones, but not a 
 word of those that had moved him, of the wayward son 
 and his mother. And all the time he was loving his 
 mother more and more, loving her and pitying her dis 
 tress. He asked to help her with the cooking, and in all 
 ways tried to be gentle and affectionate, in all ways but 
 the way she wanted. How he wished that Sam would 
 come in, or Hiram, even though his mother did resent it. 
 
Qji icksand 89 
 
 At length there was an interruption, but he was unnatural 
 that evening in his gayety. 
 
 And Hiram Stubbs, how was he getting on with him, 
 the friend he had dreamed of converting, and to that 
 end rehearsed arguments in bed ? In the first place he 
 did not see much of Hiram. His mother kept him 
 closely at home on the pretence of his having a cold. To 
 be sure, Hiram was often at the house ; but then, Mary or 
 Libbie was around, or more frequently all of the family, 
 for Hiram came chiefly in the evening after the day s work 
 was done. 
 
 Once, however, they were out skating on the river ; and 
 the novice considered it his duty to begin. 
 
 " Did they tell you, Hiram, that I was converted two 
 weeks ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, Libbie told me ; and your mother read a part of 
 your letter." 
 
 " The letter was all true, Hiram." 
 
 " I am always glad if you are happy, Captain." 
 
 That " Captain," in the healthy, hearty voice, made it 
 so difficult to go on. It was like Satan tempting him to 
 turn back to talk of other worldly things. 
 
 " Were you ever converted, Hiram ? " 
 
 " Not in your way, my lad." 
 
 " But why not ? " 
 
 " I don t know. I always fought shy of it." 
 
 " It makes you very happy ? " this questioningly. 
 
 "I have always been tolerably happy," said Hiram. 
 " At least as happy as any religious people I know." 
 
 " But, Hiram, it takes away your sins." 
 
 " I don t have any sins to take away, Captain. I do 
 what I think is right. I try to love my neighbour as my 
 self, and do make a pretty good success of it." 
 
 " Everybody likes you, Hiram ; and that s the reason we 
 want you to be saved." 
 
QO Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 " Saved ? I m not in any danger. What shall I be 
 saved from ? " asked Hiram. 
 
 " From everlasting hell-fire, Hiram, where the souls of 
 the unconverted burn." 
 
 " Well, there s no use crossing a bridge before you get 
 to it," said Hiram ; " and say, Captain, you believe in a 
 God, don t you ? " 
 
 " Why, yes," gasped the newly converted. 
 
 " And he watches over the least little sparrow ? " 
 
 "Why, yes, yes: that s what the Bible says." 
 
 " Well, then, can t you trust him to look out for me ? " 
 
 " But you have a free will, Hiram, a soul which the 
 animals have not." 
 
 " Well, if God meant to damn me because I have a 
 soul, why did he give me one ? " asked Hiram. 
 
 They were coming out on the thin ice nearer the cur 
 rent, and getting back occupied their attention. But the 
 eager convert began again. 
 
 " You believe in the Bible, don t you, Hiram ? " 
 
 " Your mother doesn t like to have me talk to you about 
 these things, because she is afraid I have a bad influence 
 on you," replied Hiram. 
 
 " Yes, but now I m converted ; and it s safe," returned 
 the astonished Hubert. 
 
 " I ve known people to backslide," said Hiram. " Sup 
 pose we wait till next summer. Now here s a place to be 
 racing." 
 
 They flew over the glistening ice, forgetting all thoughts 
 of religion. That night after saying his prayers, while 
 lying by the slumbering Sam, Hubert wished he had 
 said more to Hiram. He tried to imagine him in the 
 next world, suffering the tortures of hell, while he was in 
 heaven, looking down on him. He watched for the con 
 tortions of his face, and looked to see if it was pleading ; 
 
Qjuicksand 91 
 
 but the face got tangled in his dreams, and turned out to 
 be an angel s. 
 
 That was the end of his talk on religion, for soon he 
 was going back to college. It was getting to be as well, 
 perhaps. They did not listen to him with such attention 
 now when he spoke, Libbie often chipping in ahead and 
 carrying off the conversation at her pleasure. He was 
 not altogether sorry when the two weeks were over ; and 
 the parting was not so doleful as it had been in the fall, 
 though his mother did cry the harder. 
 
XIV. 
 
 WHILE Hubert s life was opening out at college, 
 things were not entirely stagnant in the quiet 
 stone house left behind ; though any one, watch 
 ing the seasons pass over, would little suppose that things 
 could change there, or, if change came, one would think it 
 would be like that of the river in the distance, flowing on 
 quietly and evenly with the landscape ever the same. Nor 
 did the people s outward persons change. There is, speak 
 ing vaguely, a human landscape as well as a topographical 
 one, and rivers of life flow through it, changing, develop 
 ing, stagnating ; but the banks retain ever the same con 
 tour, the same seasons pass regularly over, and casual 
 passers-by will remark, " What monotony here in the coun 
 try, here among these unchangeable people 1 " 
 
 Libbie s life was one of rapid and whirlpool, if the simile 
 is to keep going. The banks were rigid and precipitous 
 with rock, and the water must dash hopeless against 
 them if it would long for a breath of free wind. Libbie 
 was ambitious surely, chafing and restless with ambition. 
 Nothing about her was to her liking, and yet she would 
 not have anything different. That is, she wanted the 
 same people always ; but these people she would shape 
 for herself. To begin with, there was her father. Why 
 did he not make more of a show in the neighbourhood, and 
 take the place that she felt he deserved ? He knew more 
 than any man in that country, and yet no one outside ever 
 knew it. Why did he not accept some office ? He even 
 refused a place on the school board, and tried to avoid 
 being road overseer. The church was the place that gave 
 most honor ; but her father had never joined the Metho 
 dists, and the Methodists were the only church in the 
 neighbourhood. If her father would look higher even, he 
 
Qju icksand 93 
 
 might get into county politics. He was known for thirty 
 miles around, travelling as he did and building houses. 
 In the towns, too, they knew of his furniture. But no, he 
 sat quietly at home, reading a few books and always speak 
 ing to them with affection. Libbie loved her father with 
 something approaching a passion, but with all that he was 
 a constant source of irritation. 
 
 Her mother next, her dear, devoted, sweet mother, 
 why did she worry and worry, and never give herself any 
 rest until she was broken down with over-weariness ? She 
 had two daughters to do the work. Libbie herself could 
 fly about, and do twice the work for their family. And yet 
 their work was never done. Mother could always find 
 more, and go pottering herself dizzy about it. And, while 
 she would work, she would worry. Would it rain now, 
 and would Sam lose the harvest ? Was Sam s shirt ironed 
 for Sunday ? No one could arrange Sam s things but 
 her. Poor Sam 1 He worked so hard, and had so very 
 little for it. Or again, if Libbie was staying in Fort 
 Madison over night, now how fearful if something should 
 happen to her 1 The wheel might have come off the wagon, 
 or they might have been out in that rain-storm ! Or had 
 they ventured out on the river ? She was lying awake 
 thinking in the night, having a presentiment of something. 
 Once Libbie had planned to stay a week with a friend ; 
 but at the end of the third day her mother had come in, 
 and said they must have her home. She and Mary could 
 not sleep for worrying. She had dreamed something 
 awful had happened. So Libbie had given up a party, 
 and her friend had snubbed her ever since. 
 
 Then there was Sam, great, sullen, black-bearded 
 Sam, who would always ask her to go to parties when she 
 had Oliver for company, and refuse to go when she had 
 no one. Sam was generally cross and bearish, took no 
 
94 Qu i c k s a n d 
 
 interest in her except to offer advice, came into the 
 kitchen on her clean floor without so much as looking at 
 his boots ; and still she loved him and stood up for him 
 against the others, and worried herself to nervousness if 
 he looked a little thin or coughed more than usual in the 
 winter. 
 
 Mary, she just had to stop and hug her whenever she 
 chanced to pass her. Mary was so patient and sweet, 
 always doing the things that belonged to others, singing 
 and happy from morning till night. Mary should have 
 the best husband. She deserved to be a lady, she was so 
 good ; but she was so modest that she was happy as a cat 
 if any one chose to smile on her. She was already half 
 in love with Hiram Stubbs, a good man, but stupid and 
 much older, simply because he paid her attention. He 
 would like her to do his cooking. That was all Hiram 
 Stubbs wanted. 
 
 It had been a great trial to Libbie when Mary had 
 refused Minister Simmons. That was a brilliant match, 
 and would have been the envy of the neighbourhood. 
 Besides she had arranged it all herself. She felt very 
 noble in giving up her lover to her sister. In fact, it had 
 been more than giving up : she had actually transplanted 
 the preacher s affections. If she had ever dreamed that 
 Mary could refuse him, why, she would have taken him 
 herself, and gladly, had it not been for Oliver Day. And 
 Mary had almost promised, and then backed out, proba 
 bly because she was so timid. Mary never did have any 
 backbone ; and now mother would not let her have Oliver, 
 being put out with losing the minister. Mary and she had 
 had an awful time that night, crying it out in each other s 
 arms ; and Mary had sworn it was not the fault of Hiram. 
 Could it be that Mary was a little sly ? 
 
 It was past now, at all events : there was no use bring- 
 
Qji icksand 95 
 
 ing it up. Mr. Simmons had married Belle Green. She 
 was always half crazy to get him, getting converted the 
 third time just to attract his attention ; and, as for Oliver 
 Day, Libbie s heart grew hard whenever she thought of 
 Oliver. She had been holding him off, waiting to get her 
 mother s consent She would get it in time if she kept 
 working, and Oliver had got careless or something and 
 taken to smoking again. Libbie never would endure 
 smoking. Her father didn t smoke, neither did Sam. 
 She and Oliver quarrelled for a time about the smoking, 
 and Oliver threw it at her that she was playing him with 
 one eye on the preacher. In the end he had gone off to 
 Burlington, was doing very well there, they had heard, 
 though some said he had dropped his religion; and 
 there was a hint he had been seen playing billiards. But 
 who had been in the billiard hall to see no church 
 member was able to tell. So it came that Libbie was 
 lonely ; and Sam was calling her " old maid," and telling 
 her her nose was getting red. 
 
 It was about this time that Libbie made a move in an 
 other direction, this time in industrial lines. Now that 
 Hubert must be kept four years in college, why should 
 not she and Mary earn something ? There was a con 
 stant and heavy drain on the family income. Sam was 
 beginning to look nonplussed. The first plan was that 
 Mary should learn dressmaking. She was already taking 
 sewing from Fort Madison ; but why not become a skilled 
 labourer ? The pay was very much better. A place was 
 found at a good shop, and board with the woman who 
 employed her. Mary was to come home Saturday night, 
 and go back on Monday morning. She was a good seam 
 stress already, and Miss Yates seemed pleased to get her. 
 
 Then Libbie began to fret about Mary and how she 
 was spending her evenings. Mary was sly : there was no 
 
96 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 doubt of it ; she would never tell a thing till she had been 
 questioned, and even then there were suspicions of re 
 serve. And where was Hiram Stubbs going so frequently 
 with his new horse and buggy? She and her mother 
 watched him all summer. He drove off regularly two 
 evenings a week, usually Wednesdays and Fridays. 
 Libbie joked him about it one day at the well, and asked 
 him if he was going to get married, that he was dress 
 ing himself up so slick. She watched him, and he had 
 actually blushed. Then he asked her to take a ride 
 that evening along the river, and she could not very well 
 refuse. 
 
 Her mother and she would keep a lookout, however. 
 If it was found that Hiram and Mary were getting to ex 
 pect each other, they would bring Mary home in an in 
 stant. Hiram would never join the church, they were 
 both very certain on that point ; and Mary was wavering 
 always. She had never been truly converted, although 
 she had been baptized and was a member of the church 
 in good standing. Besides, Mary could do better than 
 Hiram. She did not realise her possibilities. They 
 loved her too dearly to see her become the drudge for a 
 plodder like Hiram, and every gentleman looked kindly 
 on Mary. 
 
 Libbie did enjoy the ride that evening, if it was only 
 plain Hiram Stubbs. The new moon was hanging over 
 the hills, and the trees were mysterious in the shadow. 
 How soothing was the effect of the river ! And Hiram 
 seemed to know the pretty places. He must have come 
 here often to know them so well. Once he sang some 
 rolling sailor songs. Libbie could imagine she smelled 
 the brine of the sea. Oh, she had never seen the ocean I 
 just forever this stupid prairie I Hiram always seemed to 
 have new stories. It was a pity he did not have better 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 97 
 
 breeding, at least he might go to church. And then she 
 remembered his smoking. A sailor wedded to his pipe 1 
 Still, she was looking at the sinking moon from the 
 doorstep after his cheery good night. Mary was prob 
 ably enjoying her buggy rides along by the river road. 
 And now the moonlight nights were coming on. It 
 was so lonely here on the farm, thinking of Oliver Day. 
 She had heard to-day that he now had other company. 
 Some forward town girl, no doubt. Hiram made her 
 think a little of Oliver. What a nice time Mary was hav 
 ing in town, seeing so many new people ! And mother out 
 here worrying herself to death 1 But they would suffer 
 anything if Mary enjoyed it. They would put themselves 
 out always for her. 
 
XV. 
 
 MARY S life, how was that river flowing, the 
 brown smiling brook in the meadow ? It is one 
 of the strange things of families that none of 
 ^the Hinckleys ever stopped to consider that Mary was 
 beautiful. Other people saw it at once, but at home it 
 passed by unnoticed. Libbie was stylish and handsome 
 in her best time, and no one was ever ashamed of Mary. 
 As a matter of fact, they hardly thought of Mary at all 
 unless she chanced to be missing. Then there was a 
 great cry and hunting. 
 
 Mary s face was brown as a nut, though a tincture of 
 wine filtered through it. She had brown eyes, too, black- 
 brown, and glistening like clear water where it hollows 
 itself a deep pool. Her hair was wavy brown, too. " My 
 little brown bird " Hiram called her ; and he thought her 
 voice like that of the quail when he heard them purring 
 in the wood. Mary was not little in size, being of the 
 average height and weight. It was only that those who 
 loved her always thought of her as being small. 
 
 Perhaps her first awakening from childhood was when, 
 sobbing at the window long ago, she had seen her tall hero 
 march from her. Perhaps, too, her girlhood had ended 
 when down in the fence-corner at the corn planting she 
 had seen the strong man clutch her skirt, trembling with 
 the tenderness of passion. Otherwise life had gone easily 
 on. It was as if the brook among the hills had done 
 nothing but play with the squirrels until suddenly a prec 
 ipice had been encountered and a frightful plunge 
 brought her into the open. Then the quiet path under 
 the sky had succeeded, with the quiet grass rush-like 
 on the margin. Then a roar of mighty waters was heard, 
 and the meadow brook swept away hurling. 
 
Qji icksand 99 
 
 She did not tell Hiram that she loved him at the time, 
 nor indeed for many months after. Probably it was be 
 cause she did not know it herself, and afterward it was 
 hardly fitting to speak of. It was a big thing to love such 
 a man as Hiram Stubbs, something to be reverent over 
 and holy. 
 
 She often pictured him to herself just as she had seen 
 him on the day of the first home-coming, that was the 
 word she always used. She was a girl of fifteen, straight 
 and lithe as a reed : Hiram had said she was so. She 
 was down in the blackberry field, standing beside the rail 
 fence. She had long gloves made of stockings on her 
 arms, they were to protect her from the briers, and 
 she wore her pink sunbonnet that day. Then she was 
 looking down the road, longing. What had she been 
 longing for ? A man turned the corner beyond the bridge, 
 coming up the road from Fort Madison. He was a stal 
 wart, handsome, fine fellow, and walked with a rolling 
 step. He was whistling as he climbed the hill. She 
 might have been afraid if he had not whistled. At 
 least, she might have been afraid before she saw his 
 merry blue eyes. He leaped the fence almost at a 
 bound. It seemed he hardly touched the rails. " You 
 are Mary Hinckley," he cried. " Do you remember 
 Hiram, little Mary ? " How brown and firm his cheek 
 was when he kissed her 1 She scented a faint fra 
 grance about it. No doubt it was only tobacco, but 
 she had loved the dream of it ever since ; and Libbie had 
 been astonished one time to find her smelling of an old 
 yellow pouch, with a vague eastern light in her eyes. Even 
 now she would ask Hiram to smoke, but never a word to 
 Libbie or mother. No wonder they said she was sly. 
 
 Hiram had been in her life ever since that kiss in the 
 blackberry field. He had laughed then because she had 
 
ioo Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 been eating, and he told her that she tasted of black 
 berries. Other men had been in her life as well, Sam 
 and her father always, and they were gentle and good to 
 her, too ; but Hiram, someway, was more gentle. They 
 did the best that they knew ; but what could they know of 
 her feelings ? Hiram always understood. 
 
 She used to go down to his cabin to take him things 
 they had baked. He never asked her in when she came 
 alone, but he often took a little walk back with her or 
 asked her to come into the garden to see some new inven 
 tion of his. Hiram was always inventing something, a 
 barrier to keep the squash bugs from the melons, or a 
 chicken-coop, or maybe a trellis for morning-glories. All 
 the plants seemed to love Hiram, and all of them did their 
 best growing with him. What was she at that time but a 
 plant ? And what should she do but grow, too, and love 
 him? 
 
 Then he taught her skating, while Hubert was learning, 
 and once he had shown her how to row ; but her mother 
 and Libbie made such a fuss that she could not go on the 
 river often. To be sure, she went with Libbie often ; but, 
 then, Libbie had to learn how to row so long as the cur 
 rent was gentle. Still, Hiram seemed always to think of 
 her in the end, and give her a turn at the pleasure. 
 
 In the winter he came up in the evenings to stay with 
 her while the others went to meeting. She had to cook 
 for the ministers, and anyway did not care for revivals. 
 They made her cry, and cry without anything in particular 
 to cry about. She sometimes thought it might be because 
 Hiram was going to hell ; but then she would think some 
 thing purposely that was enormously wicked, so that she 
 would be in hell, too, with Hiram, she said, and they 
 could comfort the others who did not understand, and 
 they would not much mind the tortures, when they once 
 
Qjiicksand 101 
 
 got used to it a little, knowing that their souls could not 
 die and they could be there always together. Ir was sad 
 to think of her mother and Libbie in heaven,* feeling so 
 sorry for her. > * ,;. 
 
 When they had all gone to the meetings, Hiram would 
 help her with the cooking. Hiram was as handy as a 
 woman. He could peel potatoes and apples much faster 
 than she could ; and, then, he was always at his joking, put 
 ting the apple-seeds on the stove and naming them for her 
 and some school-boy, to see which would run away first. 
 She never cared much for the school-boys ; but she pre 
 tended to him that she did, just a little. 
 
 Everything had changed that day of the planting. She 
 had left all girlish carelessness behind her. Now she 
 must think of every action, and how Hiram would be tak 
 ing it, maybe, and whether her mother would allow it, 
 and what Libbie would say if she knew. It was very 
 troublesome and embarrassing : a hundred times it brought 
 tears to her eyes. Before, she had hardly known what it 
 was to blush, except when some one praised her greatly ; 
 and that was a pleasant sensation. But now she could 
 feel the warming rush often, and invariably at the times 
 she wished to appear composed, when she had been 
 thinking apart from everything that was said. A year 
 had gone on in this uncertain manner, and Hubert was 
 away with his studies. She was almost glad of the 
 chance to take up dressmaking, though she was very fond 
 of her home. It would give her a chance to be away, 
 free from all the eyes she felt on her. Then Hiram came 
 with his new buggy. But why should Hiram not come ? 
 Was he not the whole life she turned to ? 
 
 One night they were driving under the full moon. It 
 was the second night he had come. The first he had 
 been very jolly, but to-night he was more silent and 
 
102 Qjiicksand 
 
 gentle. He asked her if she was tired or was chilly ; and 
 his votee was -half husky, half mellow. They were down 
 on the river rdad: The full moon was bouncing in the rip 
 ples oFtke* river ) another moon steady overhead. For a 
 long time he had hot said anything to her. The horse 
 was walking slower and slower. Then she became con 
 scious of his eyes, the eyes she loved more than life. 
 They were fixed so steadily upon her, burning like fire 
 opals in the moonlight. 
 
 She tried to speak of the beauty of the river, but her 
 thoughts could not formulate the words. Then came his 
 voice deep and steady, God s voice not sweeter in 
 pardon. 
 
 * When are you going to speak to me, Mary ? When 
 may I tell you how I love you ? " 
 
 It was a silly thing for her face to do when she was 
 feeling so happy, a stupid, silly face to begin crying. 
 Perhaps it was not the real crying : it was only her lips 
 that would quiver. No matter, her face held up to his, 
 and eyes and lips begged for his kisses. Hiram s face 
 was firm and cool to touch ; but his arms were warm and 
 protecting, and love s fire glowed at his heart. 
 
 She had never been happy before. The life river had 
 never rested in its flowing. Now it lay calm as the sea, 
 and all the universe reflected on its surface. 
 
XVI. 
 
 IT was some one driving up behind them that brought 
 them to a consciousness of their surroundings. Then 
 they noticed that their horse had stopped, and was 
 contentedly browsing on some bushes that grew in the 
 edge of the road. This made them laugh when the 
 interrupting team was well out of hearing. They thought 
 they had never known real laughter before. This gen 
 tle flowing of liquid sounds was different from former 
 panting. 
 
 "Can you ever forgive me, Hiram, for keeping you 
 waiting so long without telling ? " asked Mary, her face 
 snuggling up on his shoulder. 
 
 " Forgive you, Mary 1 " he returned. " It was all my 
 stupidity not to ask you. I was afraid you would give 
 me the mitten, Mary." 
 
 " I have loved you always, I guess, ever since I was a 
 little girl." 
 
 " I guess you didn t always love me like this," he said, 
 almost stopping the horse again to show her. 
 
 Then they began laughing again and talking to each 
 other like children. It was curious how all the language 
 of formal life dropped out of their vocabulary altogether ; 
 and only the old child words were left, and spoken with 
 the old, childish accents, long dwelling on the soft sound 
 ing vowels and the tender rising inflections. How un 
 fortunate that there can be no spelling for that universal 
 idiom for yes, that sweetness of m s and of Ws so neces 
 sary in the language of love-making 1 
 
 It was when they were back in the town, the flickering 
 light in the avenue of elms chasing across their emo 
 tional faces, that Hiram thought of practical things, and 
 asked when they should speak to her father and mother 
 and get their consent to the marriage. 
 
104 Qjuicksand 
 
 " Oh, not yet, not yet ! " pleaded Mary, her voice for the 
 first time sounding troubled. 
 
 " But, Mary, is it right not to tell them, to go on this 
 way in secret ? " Here he almost stopped the horse right 
 in town to tell her why he did not say darling or dearest 
 or any of the conventional phrases, because just simple 
 " Mary " had always been sweeter to him. 
 
 " I like c Hiram best, too," she said softly, and almost 
 went into a pout because the moon would shine out, the 
 horse now dragging them through the open. 
 
 "You see," she went on after a time, when Hiram had 
 turned down a by-street not in the direction of Miss Yates s 
 house at all, " you see, it s this way, Hiram. It s not 
 cause I want to have any secrets from mother and Libbie. 
 I love them very dearly, Hiram. But, someway, just for 
 a little bit of a time, I want to have something that they 
 can t be talking about as if it were theirs, too. That s 
 your love, you know, Hiram. I don t want them asking 
 questions : there s a difference between secrets and keep 
 ing one s own confidences, isn t there ? Well, I ve never 
 had anything that was just mine before. Wait a little 
 while, Hiram, anyway till father comes home." 
 
 " It seems like deception, though," said Hiram. 
 
 " No, it isn t deception, it s just not telling, that s all; 
 and, Hiram, you know the news will hurt mother terribly. 
 Maybe she won t ever let me marry you at all. Because 
 you know you are an atheist, though I don t mind that a 
 bit. Maybe I m an atheist, too. Sometimes I m shocked 
 to think I m a Methodist." 
 
 " You needn t be shocked, from the way you talk," he 
 said fondly. " And, Mary, I want it understood that you 
 can be a Methodist or anything you want; and I ll never 
 hurt your feelings in that. All that I ask is your love." 
 
 Here they came to a very shady place under some 
 oaks. 
 
Qjiicksand 105 
 
 " It would hurt mother, though ; and I don t like to do 
 that. Let s wait till I can break it to her gently." 
 
 " It seems more the man s place to speak first." 
 
 " But, if we told right away, she might make me stop 
 having you come to see me ; and I couldn t let you come 
 if she told me not to." 
 
 "Well, have your way, little Mary. I suppose you 
 always will." 
 
 She laughed again, silvery as the moonlight. "I ve 
 never had my way before. It s awfully nice, Hiram, 
 isn t it ? 
 
 " Libbie will be mad, too, I guess : she says she never 
 will marry a man who smokes." 
 
 " What do you say about smoking, Mary ? " 
 
 " Oh, I love it. I suppose maybe that s because you 
 do it, Hiram." 
 
 " I guess father likes you," she said, when they were 
 ready for talking ; " and Hubert is fond of you, too. You 
 know he s coming home now, next Thursday." 
 
 " This is Miss Yates s house," replied Hiram, gloomily. 
 
 " So it is, and not a light left. Be careful : they may be 
 looking from the windows." 
 
 He leaped out to lift her down. Perhaps her skirts 
 caught on the seat, he seemed to be holding her in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Good-night, Hiram. You may bring in mother s 
 things day after to-morrow. You won t have time till 
 evening, I suppose. But that will do very well." She 
 was walking up the steps from the gate, quite a young 
 lady of propriety, a very stylish little lady, Lady Mary. 
 
 Hiram went thoughtfully home. This secrecy went 
 against his conscience. Still, the poor little girl should 
 not be teased all the time. There was no harm in waiting 
 through the summer. Then, when they did strike, they 
 
io6 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 would strike hard ; and he would plan for an addition to 
 his house, and, please God, they would be married by 
 Christmas. Hiram was that kind of an atheist who 
 thinks of God only when he is happy. 
 
 He blushed, however, a little later, when Libbie began 
 to joke him about taking so many buggy rides. He 
 avoided Hubert a little, too, that summer, though that 
 seemed hardly necessary, since Hubert was avoiding him. 
 Hubert made excuse of doing some Greek and Latin, 
 though they did find time to go swimming twice a week 
 regularly, in the river. In reality, Hubert s religion was 
 the bar that at that time was placed between them. 
 
 So the summer moved on toward its end, and their 
 happiness ripened with autumn. 
 
XVII. 
 
 THE Hinckleys were seated around the lamp of 
 the sitting-room table one evening late in October. 
 There were only four of them now. They were 
 almost used to the loneliness. Sam was helping his 
 mother with some carpet rags, winding up the big balls 
 for her. Mr. Hinckley was reading his paper, and Libbie 
 deep in a sensational novel. Hiram Stubbs came in 
 through the kitchen, but they thought of nothing unusual. 
 He seemed somewhat restless to-night, however; and, 
 when Mr. Hinckley went into the kitchen to look at the 
 clock, he followed him rather abruptly, and was a little bit 
 breathless in speaking. 
 
 " Mr. Hinckley, could I see you and Mrs. Hinckley for 
 a little time ? I d like to have a talk with you alone." 
 
 Mr. Hinckley turned on him with surprise, but, seeing 
 that Hiram had something to say, walked without a word 
 to the sitting-room. 
 
 " Elizabeth," he said, " will you come into the kitchen 
 a moment ? " 
 
 " Has that pail begun to leak again ? " she asked, rising 
 hastily, though she felt this was not the real trouble. 
 
 " Hiram would like to speak with you and me alone for 
 a moment," said the husband, closing the door. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley stiffened immediately. " I am sure," 
 she said formally to Hiram, " that Mr. Hinckley and I 
 have no secrets from our son and daughter." And then 
 she faltered for a moment. " Is it anything about Hu 
 bert ? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 "It is about Mary," answered Hiram, " about Mary 
 and me." 
 
 " Come right into the sitting-room, Hiram," she said 
 formally again, and leading the way. "Anything that 
 
io8 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 concerns our daughter Mary also concerns her brother 
 and sister." Already she had reopened the door. 
 
 Hiram flushed red with anger, and stood where he had 
 been by the table. 
 
 But Mr. Hinckley spoke to him kindly. " As she says, 
 Hiram, anything that concerns Mary concerns us all. 
 Come in, and let us have open speaking." 
 
 There was nothing to do but to follow. Hiram came 
 in, and sat down. Libbie looked up from her novel, but 
 Mrs. Hinckley and Sam continued their work. 
 
 " Since I cannot see you alone," began Hiram, awk 
 wardly, "as I have asked to do, I wish to ask you and 
 Mr. Hinckley for your daughter Mary in marriage." He 
 spoke it as if it had been a lesson carefully learned and 
 rehearsed; but he spoke it like a true sailor, who is 
 accustomed to address his superior officer. 
 
 There was a tremor of excitement went round the circle, 
 visible even to his embarrassed notice. Libbie clasped 
 her hands tightly, and seemed bracing herself after a 
 shock. Sam looked up a moment disturbed, and then 
 turned his gaze on his mother. Mrs. Hinckley continued 
 to give her attention to the carpet rags, but her hand was 
 shaking so violently that her needle could not be held to 
 the cloth. Mr. Hinckley sat still for a moment. 
 
 " You surprise us greatly, Hiram," he said. " You are 
 so much older than Mary." 
 
 " Twelve years," answered Hiram, mechanically. 
 
 " We have never thought of Mary s marrying, exactly. 
 She seems to us in many ways a child." 
 
 " She is twenty-two years old," answered Hiram. 
 
 " I should think you had better get Mary s consent 
 first," put in Libbie, nervously. 
 
 "I have got it," said Hiram, steadily, still looking 
 toward Mr. Hinckley, while Libbie sank back with a gasp. 
 
Qjjicksand 109 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley here took up the point. " How long, 
 if we may be permitted to ask, how long has this clan 
 destine relation been kept up between you and Mary ? " 
 
 " I asked her first a year ago last May," said Hiram ; 
 " but she would not listen to me then, and I asked her 
 again last June." 
 
 " I knew it," said Libbie, excitedly. " And she would 
 not tell me, though I asked her over and over. I ll never 
 forgive her." 
 
 " You asked her, I presume, at the time Mr. Simmons 
 was paying her attentions," said Mrs. Hinckley, with some 
 acidity. 
 
 " I thought, as you all did, that Mr. Simmons was 
 paying Libbie attentions," said Hiram, honestly. 
 
 " How do you know what we thought ? " But here Mrs. 
 Hinckley interrupted herself. She had too much respect 
 for her dignity to stoop to a quarrel with a neighbour. 
 
 " I am not rich, I know," began Hiram, anxious to get 
 down to business ; " but I own my place, and have some 
 money ahead, some six hundred and fifty dollars. I am 
 going to build a frame front to my house. That will 
 make a parlour and bedroom. I know I am older and 
 have not so much learning as Mary ; but she is satisfied 
 with me, and I care " 
 
 "We shall speak to Mary herself about this," Mrs. 
 Hinckley broke in at this point. " Mr. Hinckley and I 
 are very much grieved to think she has kept this from us 
 in this manner. We always give our children every con 
 fidence, and we expect the same in return from them. I 
 should even have expected of you to be more frank with 
 me in this matter, after all Mr. Hinckley has done for 
 you." 
 
 " It was not that Mary and I would be deceiving you, 
 Mrs. Hinckley " 
 
no Qjiicksand 
 
 " It was a deception. That is the very word." 
 
 " We did not think of it as deception, though we did 
 think of it as secret," began Hiram, patiently, again. 
 " It seemed very dear to us at first, too dear to talk about 
 to any one." 
 
 " Not to her own sister," sobbed Libbie, " and her 
 mother, and those who love her most of all. And I 
 hinted it to her, and she deceived me. I suspected some 
 thing wrong all along." 
 
 " I do not acknowledge a wrong," said Hiram. " The 
 secret was ours to keep, if we chose. It concerned us 
 more than any one else." 
 
 " I knew her head would be turned if we let her get 
 away from our watching," wailed Libbie. 
 
 " Mary is easily influenced," said Mrs. Hinckley, inter 
 rupting with dignity. 
 
 " Why, she says she has cared for me ever since she 
 was a little girl," blurted Hiram. 
 
 " Our chief reason for objection," Mrs. Hinckley went 
 on, without apparently noticing his remark, " the great 
 objection with Mr. Hinckley and all of us, is that you are 
 an infidel, Hiram." 
 
 " Infidel means unfaithful, I believe," said Hiram, 
 stiffening in turn. " I have never professed faith in 
 religion." 
 
 " Our daughter to marry an atheist 1 How could we 
 consider such a thing 1 How can you be so bold as to 
 propose it ! " said Mrs. Hinckley, with hysterical excite 
 ment. 
 
 " An atheist," said Hiram, calmly, " is one who believes 
 in no God. No one has ever heard me say, Mrs. Hinck 
 ley, that I do not believe in a God." 
 
 "You don t, and you know it," snapped Libbie; "and 
 you smoke that nasty old pipe." 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 1 1 1 
 
 Hiram smiled, but answered quite gently : " What I 
 believe or do not believe about God, this is no time or 
 place to make statement. As for smoking the pipe, Mary 
 does not object to that. Instead, she likes to have me ; 
 and I will not smoke in the house when her mother or 
 sister come to see her." 
 
 " I ll never come, so there 1 " snapped Libbie. 
 
 " It is useless to talk of what you will or won t do," 
 spoke up Mrs. Hinckley, calmly, " when nothing as yet 
 has been arranged. We will need some time to consider 
 this matter. Mr. Hinckley and I must talk it over, and 
 also consult with the children. As for Mary herself, we 
 will go in for her to-morrow. I can hardly understand 
 what you tell me, but I have always known she was 
 easily influenced." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Hinckley, kindly, " we will need to 
 talk it over, Hiram. I have always known you to be an 
 honest, straightforward fellow." 
 
 " There are plenty of those who would be glad to get 
 Mary," said Mrs. Hinckley, severely. 
 
 " But I do wish you were a member of the church, 
 Hiram. I have often said to you that I wished it," con 
 tinued the man, as if he had not been interrupted. 
 
 " I suppose it may have something to do with my early 
 training," said Hiram. " My father, you know, was not a 
 believer." 
 
 " I m sure Mr. Hinckley and I did all we could till you 
 took it into your head to go to sea," said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 " You asked me to go," was on his lips ; but he had too 
 much to gain to make them angry. He could afford a 
 little silence now. 
 
 " Then I can hope you will consider the matter," he 
 said, rising ; and here his voice took a tone of gentleness. 
 " Don t think of Mary severely because she did not tell 
 
H2 Qjiicksand 
 
 you before. It was my fault, if it was hers. We couldn t 
 bear to speak any sooner. Besides, Mr. Hinckley was 
 away all summer." 
 
 " I was not away," said Mrs. Hinckley ; " and Sam was 
 not away, her natural protector." 
 
 " It was an affair for father," mumbled Sam, speaking 
 for the first time that evening. 
 
 " And do not consider it your place as yet to say what 
 we shall do or shall not do with our daughter. We can 
 take care of our family affairs. We know each other well 
 enough to do that." Her voice was rising and getting 
 shriller. 
 
 " I will say good-night," said Hiram, quietly, turning to 
 speak at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley s high-strained voice went on, more easily 
 because he was beyond hearing. She was in a fit of 
 scolding hysteria. " You need not hurry to come back, 
 Hiram Stubbs, an infidel, an atheist, though he denies 
 it! Never has he been seen inside the church in this 
 State, staying home and tempting our Mary to sinfulness 1 
 Our Mary, that I have wept for and prayed for when 
 every other mortal was sleeping 1 that I ve nursed when 
 sick, and slaved for; and him, too, the underhanded 
 traitor 1 I ve been like a mother to him, baked his bread 
 and cooked his food and always given him a place by our 
 fireside. The ungrateful, unbelieving scoundrel 1 I see 
 now why she was never properly converted, never re 
 ceived the true blessing of God. Like as not she ll go to 
 hell-fire yet. She will if she ever marries him. She 
 shan t marry him, she shan t 1 We need her at home to 
 do the work. I am the only one who can help her, her 
 mother, the mother that raised her." 
 
 The three moved about much as usual, paying no heed 
 to her words, letting the high shrill go on, knowing it 
 would stop when she began sobbing. 
 
Qjuicksand 113 
 
 " There ! he s set mother into one of her spells. Why 
 can t he keep his spiteful face at home ? " sputtered Libbie. 
 
 " You d better go and heat some water," said Sam. 
 " She ll need it when she is through." 
 
 Mr. Hinckley read or pretended to read his paper till 
 the breathless falsetto broke down and his wife began 
 violent weeping. Then he went over to her kindly, putting 
 his hand on her shoulder. " Go to bed, Elizabeth, go to 
 bed. We will talk it over in the morning." 
 
 Hiram was away by the river. For one night he could 
 not be heard whistling. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 LET us go back to those peaceful groves of learning 
 at the college where family love and strife do not 
 enter, but the world moves on in even commune, and 
 citizens manoeuvre their Liliputian democracy, and quiet 
 monks pore over old volumes. The life was taking vital 
 hold of Hubert Hinckley. He was growing like a young 
 tree in summer. He could not tell where he was happier, 
 whether it was in the class-room where his thoughts were 
 developing daily, or in the literary society with his mates 
 whom he was beginning to know as his equals, working 
 on the debates or orations or scheming their miniature 
 politics, or again in the dusty town library that still held 
 great treasures for him, fiction that took him into new 
 worlds and made him familiar with strangers, poetry that 
 mellowed his soul and gave him a breath of the universe, 
 history that made him ponder as he saw the narrowness 
 of things he had supposed all-encompassing, philosophy 
 that set him to reasoning and encouraged his freedom and 
 daring. Or perhaps, it was not in the town library so 
 much as in the haze of the Indian summer, as he wandered 
 with a comrade through the fields and felt the blue dim 
 ness of distance and the mellowness of the near sunshine 
 as he talked out his heart to his friend, receiving no cau 
 tion to stop nor feeling a shame in expression. The life 
 here, how it was free air to him 1 how it made him breathe, 
 speak, and grow 1 The home life, how it had cramped 
 him in 1 and that, too, because they had always known him 
 and loved him. He began to see how it was in the place 
 where he had grown up from a child. They had known 
 him as a child, had loved him for his childlike ways. 
 Then he had begun to put childish things from him, and 
 they could not understand that. Even Hiram s generous 
 
Qjiicksand 115 
 
 treatment was binding. He, the boy, did not longer 
 want treatment. He wanted acceptance as a mind, a free 
 centre and source of free thought, and free will that no 
 one should question. How could home people know of 
 this need, this wonderful growth spreading within him ? 
 Hiram could reason that it was there, perhaps his father 
 could recognise it ; and these two would leave him in long 
 silence. But as for growing with him, as for sensing 
 his young pulses, they were become rigid with age. He 
 needed youth of his own spirit. A father or wise teacher 
 can do much, but the young man must know his young 
 equals. His mother and the women his sisters, they who 
 loved him most of all in the world, alas ! they were the 
 ones to most bind him. They wanted him to give him 
 self to them, and were jealous of his growing beyond them. 
 They were very proud that he should grow, so long as he 
 grew only on the surface ; and they listened to outsiders 
 praise of him with pleasure that reflected on themselves. 
 But once let him advance a free thought, let him show 
 them that they might be wrong, that there were outside 
 relations to be considered, things they had never heard, 
 ah 1 then how their looks of pain stopped him, and made 
 him feel cruel and hard-hearted to wound those that he 
 always best loved and who were giving their loyal lives 
 for him 1 Or suppose he offered a confidence within their 
 understanding where his affections were concerned, sup 
 pose he should tell them of a love that he bore to some 
 teacher or comrade. They liked it chiefly because it 
 showed that he loved them more, else he would not have 
 given them confidence ; for, in a vague way, they realised 
 that the greatest love is never spoken or displayed except 
 to the beloved who receives it. And then they talked of 
 his confidence with one another, lightly bandying it about, 
 and suddenly throwing it up to him when his heart s nerves 
 
n6 Qjiicksand 
 
 were worn thin with longing. No, he could not speak 
 to them of love, he could not speak to them of growth. 
 least of all, of growth in religion ; for here he was hooped 
 in with iron, and he knew they would break their hearts if 
 he should free himself. 
 
 Here it was so lamentably come to pass, the inevitable 
 that all youth must encounter. To those that he loved 
 best of all he was becoming as a stranger and an alien. 
 He was growing up as with a strange language in which 
 he could speak only of the needs of the body and the 
 trivial gossip of the day. But in all things that were 
 reality to him, he was deceiving them daily. In his col 
 lege life it was all so different. He could walk erect, and 
 speak like a free man. 
 
 He could never in after life forget one warm day in 
 October, when this feeling of the freedom of life seemed 
 quite to exalt and overpower him. He had taken a poem 
 to the wood. It was Sunday afternoon, and he was alone. 
 His comrade had wandered for a walk, and he sat high 
 on a hill-top. The poem was Aurora Leigh, that wonder 
 ful development of a nature. He had been reading at 
 some length till its rhythm was throbbing in the sunshine, 
 and the fluttering, sailing leaves marked its pauses. At 
 the end of the page he was filled, and stopped to look over 
 the fields below him, the creek winding woodsy, smoke 
 fragrant, and the blue sky globing in the earth. 
 
 Nature, the mother-God, was speaking, and he under 
 standing her language. Breathless he sat during the mir 
 acle, and his soul senses drank to satiety. Then he 
 turned his face to the ground, and kissed the sweet earth 
 that upheld him. He stretched out his happy arms as 
 to hug the whole hill to his breast. It was his earth, and 
 he the earth s likewise. The union made him weep from 
 pure faintness, so happiness is overpowering. 
 
Qjiicksand 117 
 
 It may not have been a coincidence that in these years 
 the boy was growing beautiful. Physically, he had never 
 been strong, being undersized and delicate always ; but 
 now, though not yet robust, he was reaching up like a 
 young sapling, and suppleness was straightening his 
 limbs and grace was flowing in his motion. His head, 
 too, was shaping like a poet s, a heavy brow overshad 
 owed by brown curls and sensitiveness and beauty in his 
 features. There was one fault, but age might overcome 
 it: his chin, though modelled with affection, was small, 
 and timidly receding. 
 
 No doubt his dress did something to make this change 
 that had come to him ; but, then, it must always be re 
 membered that it is the man who makes the change of 
 the dress. It was not that his garments were more 
 costly : he was careful in spending his money. No, it 
 was because the garments were selected with a taste, a 
 sense of fitness growing within him. Those who remem 
 bered him in those days thought of a brown jacket coat 
 fluttering with the breeze of his motion, and calling out 
 the color of his curls and hinting at the laughter in his 
 eyes. He wore a brown cap or went with head uncov 
 ered. It was like him to wander bareheaded. Some of 
 them called him "the gypsy." The paper collars, too, 
 were a thing of the past. Now he wore a shirt of soft 
 white flannel always, with a white silk tie of boyish, flut 
 tering bows. The girls all wondered how he ever tied it. 
 His grey trousers were perfect fitting. His shoes were 
 always neat and serviceable. Whence came this transfor 
 mation of two years ? Whence comes the dainty rosebud 
 from the winter ? 
 
 He was writing now, or beginning to write, and with 
 fervour, letters to his absent friends at first, then essays, 
 and poems and stories. Of course, he always wrote home 
 
us Qjaicksand 
 
 to his mother and sisters. Never a week went by with 
 out their letter, and he was just as anxious to hear from 
 them. They sometimes wrote breezy, bright home letters 
 that he was not ashamed to read to his chums. Libbie 
 was the gayest and most satirical. Her lighter vein was 
 sparkling with the quaint sides of the gossip of the neigh 
 bours. Much of it was suggested by the magazine they 
 were beginning to read, a chatty, bright paper for young 
 folk ; for, now that they were earning their own money, 
 bright covers were attractive about the house. Their 
 mother was a little jealous of this reading. She feared 
 it took them from more spiritual things. 
 
 And Hubert s letters were gay in their return, giving 
 long descriptions of picnics and parties or of debating 
 contests and literary doings in the college, all such let 
 ters as would make them proud of their boy at college, 
 and yet with never a real flavour that was in him, with 
 the longings and the discoveries of his youth that went 
 to his student comrades letters. 
 
 He knew of their affairs at home. Libbie told him all 
 about Mary and Hiram, and Mary in turn told him of 
 Libbie. He was much concerned over the trouble about 
 Hiram. He was now at that rebellious age that he did 
 not longer feel Hiram s value or the beauty and gentility 
 of such a character. His dreams of a husband for Mary 
 were of one something in the cut of a college professor. 
 His surroundings counted so much for social position and 
 standing, and that standing meant polish and education. 
 What wonder that his youth was affected, and that his old 
 friend became commonplace for the period? He wrote 
 to Libbie at great length, asking her not to show the let 
 ter to Mary, but secretly intending she should do so. He 
 wrote to Mary as well, in a fashion almost patronising in 
 its manliness ; and frequent hints followed to his mother, 
 
Qjiicksand 119 
 
 as the arguments came into his head. Mary should have 
 a chance in life, he said. She should get to some larger 
 town than Fort Madison. Perhaps Burlington would be 
 the place for her ; but no, that would not do for a girl 
 alone. She must wait, perhaps, till he had finished col 
 lege. Were they quite sure they had done right in tak 
 ing her away from Fort Madison ? They might caution 
 her about receiving Hiram there. Of course, he always 
 added that Hiram was a very honest and fine fellow ; but 
 the hint went out against him for all that. 
 
 This family responsibility, while it worried him a great 
 deal, still did not interrupt the even flowing of his college 
 life, nor take the vital grip it did on those at home, who 
 had it every hour before them in the animal pleading of 
 Mary s tearless eyes. 
 
 It was Hubert s trouble with his religion that gave him 
 greatest discontent. He argued himself into a state of 
 helpless stupidity many a night, only to begin over again 
 the next morning. In the beginning it was easy enough 
 to believe for the first six months after the revival. He 
 had been baptized in that period, and accepted into 
 the routine of the church. He had joined the Young 
 Men s Christian Association, and been an active member 
 of the college branch. Then his faith had begun to 
 wane. He imagined at first that it was because of his in 
 terest in outside reading ; and for a time he gave that up, 
 and confined himself to the Bible or strictly religious 
 literature. He redoubled his enthusiasm in church work, 
 and tried to take heart from other members; but his 
 mind would stray to thinking again, his reasoning would 
 not be silent. He kept up his work in the church, and 
 that made him feel like a hypocrite. One day he went 
 over to see Tom O Malley ; for in the second year he did 
 not room with Tom, but with a mate chosen more to his 
 liking. 
 
120 Qjjicksand 
 
 " I want you to give me all the free-thought literature 
 you have, Tom. I have made up my mind to write an 
 oration on agnosticism, and need to know something 
 more about it, as I can see nothing now to disprove." 
 
 Tom brought out the books without remark. He 
 was a very canny youth, and knew when to keep still. 
 
 Hubert took them to his room, and began devouring 
 their argument. Their logic burned its brands into his 
 brain. He could not think again in the old fashion. 
 How could he ever have been so narrow as to believe in 
 the plan of salvation ? It was not the teaching of Jesus, 
 and Jesus himself was not part of a Godhead, but an 
 ethical reformer preaching against old, established con 
 ventions, many of them much like the churches of to-day, 
 so far as Hubert could make out. This was torture to 
 him while it endured. In the end he suffered only 
 chagrin ; for how could he face the people he respected, 
 his professors and the members of the church ? He took 
 the books back to Tom, and began to confess freely to 
 him. Then Tom told him of a secret free-thought soci 
 ety among the boys, and invited him to join it. There 
 was relief in finding the best brains of the school there in 
 that little organisation. It was a pleasure to know com 
 pany in misery ; and later, as he grew accustomed to the 
 strangeness, it was a pleasure to find company in freedom. 
 The world opened up anew before him once he could 
 follow his reason to the end. The society members had 
 questioned the faculty, and knew about how far their be 
 lief reached on test points. Sometimes they invited in 
 one of the citizens of the town to give them an address on 
 free thinking. It was a revelation to Hubert to find that 
 so many educated men were opposed to orthodox Christi 
 anity. In time he came to feel the joy of freedom, to 
 revel in it, and sport in its free ether ; but then he 
 
Qjuicksand 121 
 
 thought of his mother at home. He could never endure 
 the pain of telling his mother. 
 
 So it came that, when he returned for his second year s 
 vacation, he avoided all talks about religion. His mother 
 could see that he was troubled, but thought it only some 
 of the doctrines of the church that were worrying him, 
 and held no concept of the extent of the chasm. 
 
XIX. 
 
 THERE was a little magazine published by the 
 students of the college, and from time to time 
 there appeared in it verses and stories signed 
 " Hubert Hinckley." It was with the greatest excitement 
 that Hubert received his first congratulations. He walked 
 about in the air after each new recognition of his genius. 
 One morning Professor Saunders stopped him on the 
 stairway. 
 
 " That is some very good stuff you have in the Review, 
 Hinckley. Too good, I should say, for a college paper. 
 How much of it are you writing ? " 
 
 Hubert stammered in his pleasure. " I write often, 
 Professor Saunders, whenever I have inspiration." 
 
 " You may as well be getting fifteen dollars a page for 
 it as publishing it here for nothing. And your poems, 
 too, ought to bring you money. They are good enough 
 for the best of the magazines." 
 
 " I could show you something a great deal better than 
 anything I have in the Review, if you think it would have 
 any value," gasped Hubert. 
 
 "Why, that you have this week is good enough; but 
 by all means bring some around. Why can t you come to 
 dinner next Sunday ? Come right with us from church, 
 and you can read something after dinner to me and my 
 wife. We should be very glad to have you." 
 
 Hubert promised that he would, and Professor Saun 
 ders hurried to his class-room. The boy was dizzy with 
 excitement. He went into the composition-class, but 
 could not attend to the recitations. Then he heard his 
 own name spoken, and the fussy little teacher was saying 
 that Mr. Hinckley had all the versatility to make a suc 
 cessful literary man. His class-mates congratulated him 
 
Qjuicksand 123 
 
 again, going out. They were good fellows, and proud of 
 his distinction. All that day was a dream. He could 
 hardly eat any dinner. In the afternoon he was quite 
 unfit for study, and went out into the quiet streets off 
 toward a country lane. 
 
 Professor Saunders ! He was the instructor in lan 
 guages, and the most talented man of their faculty. He 
 came from an Eastern university, had only been there a 
 year, and would remain only a few months longer. 
 " He s a little too broad for this college," was the criti 
 cism of the free-thought society ; and very probably they 
 were right. Professor Saunders was literary himself, 
 his sonnets often appearing in the magazines ; and it was 
 whispered he was writing a novel. Mrs. Saunders was 
 also much respected. She was the drawing-teacher in 
 the college, and painted in oils to some extent, having 
 spent two years in study in Paris. The very name of 
 Paris was so magical and authoritative to Hubert that he 
 felt a thrill of pleasure on hearing it, and always viewed 
 Mrs. Saunders with wonder. Three days before Sunday 
 should come 1 The country lane gave him no quiet. 
 
 The three days did go by, however, as all days are 
 bound to do ; and Hubert was sitting in the pew, with his 
 little manuscript book in his pocket. Would Professor 
 Saunders forget ? and, if so, should he dare to speak to 
 him of it ? Between church and Sunday-school he was 
 waiting, almost on the point of crying, when Mrs. Saunders 
 came up. She was a pretty, enthusiastic woman, with a 
 wealth of yellow waving hair, which she did up loosely 
 on her head in a manner that was very becoming, but 
 quite in opposition to the fashion. 
 
 " Mr. Saunders tells me you are coming to dine to-day, 
 and afterwards you are going to read us something," she 
 said, on giving him her hand. 
 
Q 
 
 iicksand 
 
 It was all true, then, as he had dreamed it. After Sun 
 day-school he was walking between them, the precious 
 book still in his pocket. 
 
 Hubert had never dined with the Saunders before. It 
 was quite a new experience to him. A few times he had 
 been invited out to Mt. Pleasant to dine at the rich 
 people s houses some members of the church who were 
 hospitable or with the president, who always asked the 
 juniors, or with an older professor in the faculty. He 
 knew what formality meant, and was always made nervous 
 by it, being confused by the number of courses and the 
 selection of the proper utensils. But here was something 
 entirely different. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders kept no ser 
 vant, attending to the cooking themselves. There was con 
 stant chatter about the serving, the dinner having been 
 cooking while they were at church, under the eye of a 
 negro girl who came in to watch it. The two were up 
 and down from the table in the beginning, even asking 
 Hubert to help them. 
 
 He had never seen dainty china before, or such deli 
 cate freshness of linen. Flowers were on the table, a 
 little bunch, too, at each plate. The vase was a delicate 
 goblet. There were tinted pale patterns on the dishes. 
 Mrs. Saunders had done them herself, and called on Hu 
 bert to admire them. This was not like the formal heavi 
 ness of his other dinners of occasion. He was not em 
 barrassed here. The afternoon sun shone in through a 
 purple and wine coloured window. They lingered long 
 over the dessert, which consisted of nuts and raisins. 
 Then coffee was served at the end in tiny, quaint cups of 
 frail china. It would all have been very simple to those 
 who are city-bred or those who have seen a bit of the 
 world ; but to Hubert, from his home at the farm, this 
 dinner was a glimpse into paradise. 
 
Qjiicksand 125 
 
 He had almost forgotten his reading when they spoke 
 of it over the coffee. Had he been writing long ? they 
 asked, with other polite but interested questions. 
 
 " I will only stop to put the dishes in the kitchen, and 
 then we will have the poems at once," said Mrs. Saunders. 
 
 " We are apt to have callers after four, and we must 
 not be interrupted." 
 
 Mr. Saunders helped with the dishes ; and soon they 
 were seated in the dainty little parlour that gave Hubert 
 such a restful satisfaction, something like the spirit of the 
 woods. Then they were ready to listen, and tremblingly 
 Hubert began. It was not that he was frightened, exactly. 
 His hearers were too kindly for that. Besides, he was 
 now used to reading before crowds, and was known 
 all over the college as a clever elocutionist and actor. 
 But this occasion seemed to him momentous. It would, 
 perhaps, decide all of his future, whether he would be a 
 teacher of English literature or a great and known Ameri 
 can writer. He was glad that their eyes were not on him. 
 Mrs. Saunders had a bit of darning in her hands, and her 
 husband was looking at an old piece of Chinese carving. 
 Still, it was hard to begin. 
 
 He had chosen his most childlike things for them. He 
 felt instinctively they would like them. A collection of tree 
 stories he called them, they were of his friends in the 
 wood. There was the oak first, one that he had written 
 three years ago, one day when he was thinking of Hiram. 
 The oak-tree was cheery and strong, and tender with the 
 flowers of the spring-time. Then a sycamore growing by 
 a brook, a sycamore that was really a water-nymph, and 
 took tree-form only when men came, in order that they 
 might not enslave her. Then one day a man came and 
 cut the sycamore down; and the nymph shrivelled and 
 died for want of water there in the sight of the brook, 
 
i26 Qjiicksand 
 
 which ever since has known only sighing. There was a 
 willow-tree, too, done in verse, the simplest form of the 
 ballad, the natural speaking of poetry. Each tale seemed 
 to end in rich sadness, the whispering of limitless death. 
 When he stopped and dared to look up, he saw that Mrs. 
 Saunders was sitting quiet, her eyes, with a far-away look, 
 just moistened with exquisite tears. The professor arose 
 with a sigh. " Who are you, Hubert Hinckley ? " he said 
 solemnly ; " and who has taught you to write things like 
 that ? " 
 
 It was the first time the boy had felt power, real power 
 to move great folk to weeping. The knowledge almost 
 brought sobs to his throat. 
 
 " I am only a boy from the farm," he said softly ; " and 
 no one has ever taught me." 
 
 Then they came out of their reverie, and began ques 
 tioning eagerly. What have you done ? where have you 
 been ? whom have you known ? what have you read ? 
 And as he answered them each time with " nothing," 
 they sought for still another question to explain this 
 miracle to them. 
 
 "It is imagination ! " said Mrs. Saunders, excitedly. 
 " Something that we have denied the existence of 
 throughout this whole Western country. And with imagi 
 nation is expression ; but I insist that the two go always 
 together." 
 
 " Yes," said the man to himself, and slowly, as if pon 
 dering over it. " The most remarkable, the most wonder 
 ful thing of all is, Where did you get that style ? Why, it 
 sounds, it sounds " He began walking back and forth 
 there, in the room. " And it is beautiful and tender and 
 simple." He stopped before Hubert here solemnly. 
 " You may be a great writer some day if you keep on. 
 Have you shown these things to any one ? " 
 
Qjiicksand 127 
 
 Hubert faltered that some of the boys had seen them. 
 
 " The boys ! " said Mr. Saunders, angrily. " These are 
 not things to show boys. Of course, they do very well 
 sometimes ; but I mean any one who knows." 
 
 Hubert thought of the instructor in composition. 
 
 " Oh, she means well, of course," said the questioner ; 
 " but I refer to some one outside. Have you ever tried 
 publishing anything ? " 
 
 No, the young genius had not : he did not know how, 
 exactly. 
 
 " Then you must begin at once. You must get some 
 opinion on this matter. I will show you how I send to 
 the magazines, give you methods of writing and keeping 
 a record. You must put things through a regular ma 
 chine. Send methodically to each periodical, and not be 
 discouraged when they come back, but send them to an 
 other at once." 
 
 Hubert suggested that he had other material lighter 
 and more practical, even humorous. 
 
 Mr. Saunders glanced hastily through it. " Some day 
 you shall show us more, but now we have seen enough to 
 know. Come, while I show you about sending to the 
 magazines. We may be interrupted at any time." 
 
 The callers began to arrive soon. It seemed their 
 friends came in Sunday, though this was hardly a custom 
 with the professors in that straight-laced Methodist town. 
 Hubert was too much excited to stay long. He took 
 leave, and got out into the air. Only he did not go to 
 his boarding-house, but made straight out alone for the 
 wood. 
 
 He had felt his first sense of power, and the sweetness 
 was near overmastering. 
 
XX. 
 
 HIRAM had begun work on his new house in spite 
 of the discouraged objections from Mary. " At 
 any rate, I may as well haul the lumber," he said, 
 " and the stone for walling the cellar." He did not see 
 Mary often alone. Libbie found excuse to keep with her. 
 Mary said she was busy, as well. She seemed to want to 
 excuse her mother s action, and protect her from any harsli 
 criticism. Libbie, on the other hand, could be seen 
 almost any day. She seemed very favourable to Hiram. 
 He began to think her his friend, and whistled while pil 
 ing his lumber. It will all come out right yet, he thought. 
 Meanwhile he would only delay matters by crowding. 
 Winter came on, and Christmas. They began to look 
 toward the spring. " In the summer I can begin build 
 ing," said Hiram. "And in the autumn, but we have 
 wasted a year 1 How foolish at my time of life ! and Mary 
 is growing careworn and listless." 
 
 Once he thought of speaking to Libbie. She came over 
 regularly with the bread, and was in the habit of linger 
 ing if she found him outside. He never invited her into 
 the cabin. 
 
 "When is your mother going to give me another chance 
 about Mary ? " he asked. "It is more than six months 
 now we ve waited." 
 
 Libbie looked embarrassed, and hesitated. " Why do 
 you want to marry ? " she said. " Why not stay like 
 brother and sister? I have always considered you as 
 a brother." 
 
 " I shall be the more your brother when your sister has 
 become my wife." He was always ready with an an 
 swer. 
 
 Libbie was more earnest now. " Marriages are so ter- 
 
Quicksand 129 
 
 rible in a family 1 You live alone, and can t understand 
 how it is. We should be all broken up without Mary." 
 
 " Families are soon broken up if there are no marriages," 
 replied Hiram, laconically. 
 
 Libbie threw her hand out impatiently. In falling, it 
 alighted on his hand, which was resting on the new pile 
 of lumber. 
 
 He did not move his hand at the instant, thinking it 
 was her place to take the initiative. Perhaps she would 
 say she was his friend. 
 
 Libbie moved her fingers, but not her hand. The 
 fingers seemed grasping for something. She was prob 
 ably lonely and careless, thinking of Oliver, no doubt. 
 
 She lingered for some time that day, chatting of various 
 things. When she went home, it was with evident reluc 
 tance ; and all that day she was thinking. 
 
 That night she turned toward Mary in bed. They 
 always slept together, as when children. Mary would 
 prefer to sleep alone ; but Libbie always said Mary 
 was nervous, and needed some one to look after her. 
 During the last year Mary had grown averse to any dis 
 play of affection, yet Libbie was always hugging and kiss 
 ing. To-night there were quavers in her voice, and Mary 
 resolved to put up with the embraces. Libbie was not 
 well, perhaps. At all events, she seemed very lonesome. 
 
 " I was talking with Hiram to-day," began Libbie, in 
 her affectionate voice, the voice used when she was feeling 
 confidential. " I was telling him how it would break up 
 our happiness if you should be taken away from us. He 
 seemed quite touched when I spoke of it. We all of us 
 love you so dearly." She gave her sister a long, passion 
 ate squeeze. " Then I said how nice if we could go on as 
 before, loving like brother and sisters. Really, I am very 
 fond of Hiram. He seems a real brother to me. We 
 
1 30 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 knew him, you know, when we were little girls. That was 
 before Adelaide died." 
 
 Mary made no remark. 
 
 " Yes, I have wanted to tell you many times how much 
 I think of Hiram. To-day my hand rested against his. 
 Do you know, I almost loved him ? " 
 
 " Don t, Libbie ! You hurt me," was all that Mary 
 made answer. 
 
 " I thought then from the way he acted that in time he 
 might come to think of me just in the way he does of you ; 
 and then, perhaps, we could persuade mother to let Hiram 
 come and live with us, and we d have two brothers instead 
 of one." 
 
 " He s not like a brother to me," protested Mary. 
 
 " Well, I feel different toward him, too, than what I do 
 to Sam. Say, Mary, do you love him very much ? " 
 
 " I ve told you before, Libbie." 
 
 " But you love your dear Libbie most, your own and 
 everlasting sister ? " 
 
 " That s a different kind of love," said patient Mary. 
 
 " But, if Hiram cared for me just the same as he does 
 for you ? " faltered Libbie, breathlessly. 
 
 " He did not tell you that," said Mary, stanchly. 
 
 " No ; but I gathered that he might. He has always 
 thought a great deal of us all," answered Libbie. 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 " Let us go to sleep," said Mary, turning over. " Take 
 away your arms. I am so hot." 
 
 " Did it ever occur to you that you know very little of 
 Hiram s past life ? " said Libbie, eagerly. " You know he 
 was away for ten years." 
 
 " He was at sea, I suppose, all that time." 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but sailors, you know, come ashore. 
 And sailors lead a wicked life, mother says." 
 
Qjiicksand 131 
 
 " Hiram was never wicked." 
 
 " But, sister, you believe a man should live as pure a 
 life as a woman, don t you ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I suppose I do." 
 
 " Well, then, don t you think you should know about 
 Hiram s past before you could think of ever marrying 
 him ? " 
 
 " I am willing to trust him as he is." 
 
 "Oh, but you do not know about these things. I 
 declare, you need some one to watch over you every 
 minute. I have read and thought things out. You know 
 how I sent Oliver walking. Well, I had my reasons for 
 that." 
 
 " I should never dream of questioning Hiram," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " Oh, but it s your duty, a duty you owe to your sex. 
 If you didn t think of speaking to him, it would be my 
 duty to speak for you." 
 
 " Libbie, you could never dream of such a thing I " 
 
 " I am very brave," replied Libbie, " where my duty 
 and my loyalty are prompting me." 
 
 The conversation went no farther that night, but she 
 proved to be as good as her word ; for there began a cat 
 echism of Hiram as persistent as it seemed to be hidden, 
 and certainly, as it proved to be, futile. Hiram would 
 only laugh at her inquiries, and pretend not to understand 
 them. If he was forced into speaking plainly, he would 
 only put her off with a laugh, and " What can a girl like 
 you know of such things ? " Once he whispered to Mary, 
 " Anything that you ask I ll answer differently." But 
 Libbie never knew of that aside. Hiram was too kind to 
 tell her in his straightforward English that he would use 
 in speaking to a man, " You had better mind your own 
 business." 
 
1 32 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 Libbie at that time took it upon herself to make him 
 stop smoking, and she also undertook to convert him. 
 Hiram remained immovable as a tree, joking and laughing 
 about it. Sometimes these conversations took place in 
 the evening when he came to the house. For he came 
 perseveringly to see Mary. If they would not let him see 
 her alone, they would have to put up with his company ; 
 and, much as Mrs. Hinckley might show her disfavour, she 
 still liked to have him in to entertain her. The place was 
 not so gloomy with him there. Her husband was much 
 given to reading, and Sam was never talkative with the 
 family. Mr. Hinckley, too, had something to say about 
 Hiram s coming, and would not have him forbidden the 
 house. 
 
 It was during these evening visits, or when Libbie went 
 over with the baking, that she pushed forward her virt 
 uous crusade. It was given, as it was taken, in good 
 humour. No one could be long cross with Hiram. Some 
 times on his coming near she would call Mary to come 
 and make a search of his pockets for the much-hated 
 pipe. Then she would smell of his coat, to see if he had 
 recently been smoking. Once he blew some smoke into 
 her face, and she would not speak to him for days ; but, 
 finding that he was profiting by her sulking to have a 
 quiet talk with Mary, she soon employed other tactics. 
 Their discussions over religion would have been a cause 
 of open rupture, except that Hiram would refuse to dis 
 cuss it. "I suppose I am a pagan," he would laugh, 
 " but just now I am interested in something else." And he 
 would turn the talk to politics or some question of the 
 day until even Sam was enlivened. As for Mary, she 
 used to join in the frolics, but always with sadness in her 
 heart. What did Libbie mean by it all ? she kept asking ; 
 and what did Hiram think of it ? 
 
Qjuicksand 133 
 
 Libbie herself did not know what she meant. She did 
 not mean to be selfish or wicked. Indeed, she was 
 honest in her conviction that she was generously help 
 ing her sister. As she came to grow into the knowl 
 edge that she, too, was loving Hiram, loving him with a 
 passion so intense that it racked her constitution into 
 debility, she prided herself that she was offering this 
 assistance to Mary at the sacrifice of all her most sacred 
 feelings. She would die, she said, for her dear sister. 
 
 As a matter of fact, it is the case with the average 
 woman that, having been prevented from marrying the 
 man of her choice, and having arrived at an age when the 
 demands of a blighted motherhood are clamorous, there 
 can be very little that is rational about much of her \ 
 actions, very little that is reliable in questions of sex, and 
 little that is blameworthy, either. 
 
XXI. 
 
 IT was during Hubert s third year in college tl 
 Hinckley was taken ill, and there was anxiety] 
 recovery. He had been working over-much 
 autumn, and had been careless about avoiding e: 
 The work, too, was very severe and disagreeable, a long 
 job of repairs on the railroad shops in Burlington, tearing 
 off old shingles and putting on new, working in coal-dust 
 and filth that had accumulated around the places for 
 years. There had been heavy storms of rain and sleet 
 that fall, as well ; and the winter set in early. " Throw the 
 job up. It isn t worth the money," said Hiram one day 
 in visiting him. But Mr. Hinckley shook his head, and 
 kept on. He was thinking of the extra expense of 
 Hubert, his board, his tuition, his clothes, and his books. 
 Times were hard on the farm just now, and a little money 
 invested in mortgages was not paying. No, he would 
 keep on till the end in spite of a severe cold contracted 
 and the weariness of age creeping on him. It was not 
 until the middle of December that he came home to stay for 
 the winter ; and the cough had fixed itself on him, and the 
 family had fears of consumption. During the holidays, 
 when Hubert was home and all were trying to make 
 merry, very little was thought of the cough. He would 
 wear it away soon, he said ; but, as the winter deepened 
 and the hacking spasms still continued, Mrs. Hinckley 
 insisted on calling a physician, who gave no encouraging 
 report. " It looks like consumption," he said. " I 
 should advise a change of air. A trip to the mountains 
 would be best." 
 
 Here Hiram, who was heartsick with long waiting, 
 came in, and proposed a trip to Arizona or anywhere in 
 the Rockies of the South, wherever the physicians should 
 
Qjiicksand 135 
 
 advise. They could get work in some of the mining 
 camps, he argued, and easily pay expenses for the winter. 
 He could rent his farm for a year. One of the neighbours 
 could take it on shares. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley with Sam and her daughters held a long, 
 serious conference about it. Could they have their 
 father and husband taken from them by one who was not 
 of their kin ? Who could tell what would happen to him 
 out in the wilderness ? Who would there be to care for 
 him like those who loved him ? Hiram would do his best, 
 of course ; but a man needs the care of a woman, especially 
 when he has daughters and a wife. Hiram had put in an 
 argument that Mary go, too, as his wife ; and this was 
 what Mary much wished, though her voice was nothing 
 against Libbie s. What ! desert her mother and the 
 family after all they had done for her ? And with Hubert, 
 too, away in college, costing them more every month ? 
 She used to want to sew and do what she could for her 
 brother ; but now she would go deserting to the mountains, 
 and perhaps they would all three die out there together. 
 Libbie was going into hysterics, and the mother was 
 trembling with an oncoming fit of crying. Mary saw 
 that it could not be done. At least, she did not have the 
 courage to do it ; and that part of the matter was dropped. 
 Should their father go alone with Hiram ? That was the 
 question to decide. Sam broke out here, and said he 
 didn t see why Hiram should have all the advantage, 
 while he, the real son, should stay home and do all the 
 work. He had never been anywhere nor seen anything. 
 Just stayed on that soggy square of land, and drudged, 
 drudged, drudged. Why couldn t Hiram take his place 
 for a year, and marry Mary and Libbie both, if he wanted 
 to, but give him one year of freedom and a chance to see 
 the world for himself ? Hiram had been at sea for ten 
 
136 Quicksand 
 
 years, and now they were working their fingers to the 
 bone to give Hubert a life of laziness and pleasure. 
 
 This outbreak caused another feminine panic. Sam 
 had never spoken like this to any one. It took the 
 breath quite out of their bodies. 
 
 " What," they gasped, " leave us ? Do you want to 
 leave your mother and your sisters? Who would take 
 care of you out there ? How can you speak so, Sam ? 
 You know you want to see Hubert improve as much as 
 we do. You would mortgage the farm to keep him in 
 college." Mary began to cry here, whether because she 
 was sorry for Sam or whether for herself or her father 
 she could not exactly make out afterward, as she was 
 thinking it over. Everything was in a hopeless tangle. 
 It seemed sometimes as if each one was thinking of her 
 self, and their father was left out altogether. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley ignored Sam s outburst after a brief fit 
 of crying. She could not part with her eldest born, the 
 one who had been her mainstay in all affliction. Sam s 
 eyes were wet, too, by this time. He was very miserable 
 that he had spoken at all, and again they began consider 
 ing the trip with Hiram. 
 
 Libbie was flatly against this. In secret she did not 
 want to see Hiram go away. The world would be dark 
 ness for her then, for he had become to her like the sun ; 
 but she threw the chief part of the argument on Mary, 
 who could see him going away from her like this, leaving 
 her to die an old maid after keeping all other suitors from 
 her. Mary kept quiet, too. It would be very hard to 
 lose Hiram, and perhaps would not help father, either. 
 Then if father should die out there, away from them. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley voiced the wishes of all, and conse 
 quently held the decision. No, it plainly would not do. 
 Their father was getting old, and they could not let him 
 
Qji icksand 137 
 
 go from their watchful protection. As they said, who 
 could tell what might happen out there? And, then, 
 worse things might happen than death. Their father was 
 weakening in his mind : she could see that, she had been 
 watching him often. Suppose that Hiram should turn 
 him to atheism ? She had read of similar cases with old 
 men. Mr. Hinckley was very fond of Hiram ; and, then, 
 he had never been truly converted. No, they must keep 
 him here with their care ; and they must watch over him 
 and pray for him, and pray every night that he be con 
 verted and receive the baptism that was commanded. 
 There was a great revival coming, a famous boy preacher 
 would hold a series of meetings at the school-house ; and 
 they must get their father to go and listen to the truth 
 before it was too late. It was a dreadful shadow now 
 overhanging them, the eternal danger of their father ; 
 and they would have to answer for his soul when they 
 stood before the judgment-seat of God. 
 
 So the conference came to an end ; but it left much of 
 grief and hard feeling, each seeing selfishness in the 
 position of the others, each thinking of the horrors of 
 ingratitude when shown against one s own blood. There 
 was matter for brooding there, surely ; and the seed of 
 internal discontent had fallen on fertile soil, ground that 
 had been enriched for years with the leaves of self-sacri 
 fice and satisfaction. 
 
 "No, I can t get away," Mr. Hinckley was saying 
 afterward to Hiram. "You see, mother and the girls 
 are so tied to me from habit that they couldn t get along 
 without their father. At my very mention of going, 
 Libbie and Mary begin to cry ; and mother is always look 
 ing nervous. When you have a family of your own, 
 Hiram, you ll come to see how it is. You are bound to 
 stay with them and care for them. You can t go away 
 
138 Qjiicksand 
 
 and desert ; and then, if I should die out there, they would 
 break their hearts grieving for me, Hiram. Elizabeth 
 would never be comforted. And we don t know that the 
 air in the mountains would do me any good, either, in the 
 end. I guess I ll get well as it is. This cough will let 
 up in the spring." 
 
 There was brightness and cheer in the family still on 
 the surface, in spite of the underlying gloom. They 
 laughed and chatted in the evening, and Hiram came in 
 as of old. Then the protracted meetings began, and 
 these always furnished interest in the winter. Mary 
 went steadily this winter : there were no evenings alone 
 with Hiram. Libbie sometimes stayed at home alone, 
 and she asked Hiram to come up and keep her com 
 pany ; but in some way Hiram was afraid of her com 
 pany. His breathlessness was evident when he en 
 countered her alone ; and at these times he was always 
 in a great hurry, only stopping for his kindest explana 
 tions. Libbie was cut to the heart by these actions, and 
 then her imagination sought out new and dear explana 
 tions. Could it be, came the fluttering question, could 
 it be that Hiram loved her, but kept back from loyalty to 
 Mary ? Libbie felt very sorry for Mary at this time, and 
 sent her off to meeting out of kindness, in order that she 
 might not feel Hiram s coldness. Then, when Hiram had 
 left her alone, she used to kneel down in the kitchen and 
 pray for his soul, that it be converted. She prayed for 
 her father s soul, too, and pleaded that he might see the 
 light before it should be too late. 
 
 There was a great effort being made for Mr. Hinckley 
 at the meetings that season on all sides. Mrs. Hinckley 
 had whispered to the members, and the neighbours all 
 knew of his bodily condition. Now they must work for 
 the never-dying soul, and the prayers that went up were 
 
Qji icksand 139 
 
 unceasing. The boy preacher was very eloquent and 
 convincing ; and he gave up one sermon entirely to the 
 father who had not yet openly given his heart to the 
 Lord, and was now nearing the darkness of death, leaving 
 his sainted wife and children weeping in despair for his 
 soul. The sermon perhaps was not directly intended for 
 Mr. Hinckley, though the occasion of it was carefully 
 arranged. It left a deep impression on the culprit. After 
 all, what could be the harm in being on the safe side? 
 Everybody believed in conversion and baptism. Why 
 should he hold out in stubbornness, when he stood with one 
 foot in the grave, and his dear wife was weeping and 
 praying ? In the end the sick man gave up. He did 
 experience afterward a sense of peace and pleasure, 
 partly from heaven, it may be, but much of it from within 
 his own home. 
 
 In the spring, as soon as the creek was thawed out, 
 there was to be a great baptising ; for many souls had 
 been garnered in. Mr. Hinckley looked forward to it 
 tranquilly. He was confident that he should live till then. 
 
 A letter of joy was written to the absent Hubert, and 
 word that he must come down to see the baptism, his 
 father and all of them wished it. There was a secret fear 
 in the mother s heart that Hubert was straying from be 
 lief. Still, she argued, it could not be possible in the 
 very heart of the Methodist denomination. But it would 
 be a great example for him, and something he could often 
 speak of as a preacher, when he saw his father s grey 
 hairs descend beneath the water, and felt the blessedness 
 in his soul. 
 
XXII. 
 
 IT was a disagreeable interruption to Hubert, this 
 call to his father s baptism. He was in the midst of 
 the brilliancy of the little free-thought society, and 
 growing in his literary fame. He was now elected an 
 editor on the staff of the Review, and was considered the 
 leading star among the college orators. He was enjoying 
 regular visits to the home of Professor Saunders, and was 
 becoming acquainted in two or three other houses, with 
 something of the same delicate understanding of living, 
 these visits coming about most naturally from friends that 
 were met at the Saunders s. He was already learning 
 what artistic people mean by colour, and what beautiful 
 china and old ware is ; and he was reading of sculpture 
 and painting. Before this time, poetry was the only man- 
 created beauty he had known ; but now other visions were 
 given him. 
 
 He could not refuse the invitation, however. When he 
 thought of his mother, he could not. They had sent him 
 the sum of money for fare. There was no way of plead 
 ing poverty. Moreover, he had been thinking of his 
 father s illness a great deal of late ; and his heart was un 
 usually tender. It would be difficult, perhaps, for him to 
 avoid talking of religion, though experience had taught 
 him, if he would only keep still, those who loved him 
 would keep up the deception, deceiving themselves even 
 more deeply, thinking : " Hubert holds these things so 
 sacredly that he cannot speak to us of them. But how 
 the words will flow out when he is called forth in rever 
 ence to preach 1 " Yes, he must go. It did not entail 
 missing lessons. He could go on Saturday noon, and 
 only stay over Sunday. 
 
 Sam and Mary came to meet him at the station. 
 
Quicksand 141 
 
 " How is father ? " he asked them. 
 
 " He is well, but he does not get strong. It s curious 
 how weak he is," said Sam. 
 
 " And the weather is so backward for May," added 
 Mary. " I m afraid the cold water will chill him. And 
 if he should get one of his spells of coughing 1 " 
 
 " They all say that the water of baptism never does 
 any harm," said Sam, seriously. " No one ever catches 
 cold. I myself have seen them cut a hole in the ice and 
 dip people in ; and afterward they stood around in their 
 wet clothes till the cloth stiffened with freezing. Still, 
 they said nobody was sick after it." 
 
 Hubert almost began disputing this statement, but 
 settled back, silent and thoughtful. " How can I ever 
 tell them ? " he kept thinking. 
 
 His mother and Libbie came to meet him at the gate. 
 His mother was crying softly for joy. " Oh, the blessed 
 ness of this occasion ! " she whispered. And Libbie was 
 hugging him close. She could never realise he had 
 grown to be a man. His mother had much more under 
 standing. He found his father in the kitchen, coughing 
 and sitting by the stove. He had not been prepared for 
 such a change. He had never thought of his father as 
 an old man, but now he was so feeble and thin. They 
 went into the little parlour at once, where Libbie had 
 lighted a fire; and immediately his father began telling 
 him the story of his "experience," as he called it, tell 
 ing him how he had been sinning and rebellious, then 
 he came into a state of doubt, then received salvation for 
 his soul. He was telling this to him, Hubert, his son, 
 and telling it in such a personal way, with the mother 
 listening in front of them. It seemed so bold and harsh 
 to Hubert then. He was at the age when shame for one s 
 parents come easily, and now he could not understand 
 
142 Qjiicksand 
 
 the simple beauty of this confession. He did not love 
 his Wordsworth enough for that. 
 
 An interruption came in the call for supper, but after 
 ward the talk was resumed again. This did not seem 
 like his father, and Hubert nervously kept longing for 
 Hiram ; but his cheerful face did not appear, and they 
 sat in a circle till bed-time, religiously listening to the 
 feeble sick man. At nine o clock Sam got the Bible and 
 read a chapter aloud. Then they all knelt down, as was 
 their custom, and waited the beginning of the prayer. 
 
 " Will you pray, Hubert ? " said the father, softly. 
 
 The boy could answer honestly in this, "Not while 
 you are here, father : it would seem like taking your 
 place." 
 
 Then the old man began feebly, praying much as he 
 had spoken. He became more fervent and eloquent as 
 he went on, speaking rapidly in loud, strained tones. At 
 the end he broke into a spasm of coughing, and they rose 
 without the Amen. Hubert was relieved to get to bed ; 
 but as he lay by Sam, thinking as of old, there were 
 rational troubles haunting him now, and it was midnight 
 before he could sleep. 
 
 In the morning they were busy with the work, and 
 there was little chance for conversation. They were 
 making ready for Sunday-school and church, and there 
 were special and extra preparations. Hubert stood about 
 awkwardly, not being able to help Sam for the danger of 
 soiling his clothes, and feeling always an alien among 
 them as they hurried about the house. Hubert almost 
 hoped that Hiram would put in an appearance, though he 
 was hardly in a mood for Hiram. He was glad when 
 they were all in the spring wagon and pulling along 
 through the mud. 
 
 Sunday-school and church, how long they were to-day I 
 
Qjiicksand 143 
 
 In the town he always amused himself by mentally argu 
 ing with the minister ; but in this cruder form of school- 
 house service there was little argument to combat, just 
 an explaining of the text, a harping on the old, old 
 sentences. He could amuse himself now by looking at 
 his old friends and neighbours. They came up and spoke 
 to him after church, and congratulated him on the happy 
 occasion. But to-day he did not want to see old neigh 
 bours : they seemed only coarse to him now, the men 
 awkward and the women dowdy. He had just enough of 
 growth and education to show him the difference between 
 them and himself without making him see the resem 
 blance. He knew that he ought to be ashamed of him 
 self ; but all the time he was nervously thinking, " Suppose 
 my college friends should see me now 1 " It is a trial for 
 the most generous youthful nature to feel himself su 
 perior to those around him, without knowing the reason 
 of his superiority, and all the time calling it into ques 
 tion. Then, to make matters worse, they asked him to 
 teach a class in the Sunday-school ; and he was obliged 
 openly to refuse. That cut his mother s heart, and the 
 neighbours looked at each other significantly. This was 
 the college-bred young preacher ! " He is so filled with 
 emotion over his father s baptism," he heard his mother 
 explaining to the women later. 
 
 After Sunday-school, all climbed into the wagons, and 
 drove to the pond up the creek: that was the chosen 
 place of baptism. The roads were heavy and the horses 
 slow; "and all the way back," sighed Hubert. He was 
 hungry and tired with sitting. 
 
 At the pond the people clambered out, and the men 
 tied the horses to trees. Then they began arranging for 
 the ceremonies, Sam and Hubert standing close by their 
 father. The pond was a pretty place in summer, made 
 
144 Quicksand 
 
 by a widening in the creek. It was usually shallow and 
 quiet, and lilies grew on its border. But at this time of 
 year there were rains, and the water was sullen and 
 muddy. The flowers were not yet in bloom, and the 
 banks were soggy with the tramping of cattle. There 
 was a house a quarter of a mile away, and the fourteen 
 who were to be baptized went over there to make ready. 
 All of them put on old clothes, the women old wrappers 
 or dresses, the men loose shirts and overalls, invariably 
 with ridiculous suspenders. Mr. Hinckley was the best 
 dressed of them all. His wife had insisted on his keep 
 ing on his white shirt; and he wore a pair of black 
 trousers and a vest, making him almost a gentleman in 
 comparison with the motley crowd. The neighbours all 
 said, as usual, that the Hinckleys were stuck up; but 
 Mrs. Hinckley rather enjoyed that, and Libbie quite 
 revelled in the distinction. Mary was frightened to death 
 lest her father should cough, and went over with him to 
 the house with her mother, making them walk very slowly 
 on the way back that he might not get short of breath. 
 
 How ridiculous it all looked now to the blushing and 
 retiring boy! He could not see the genuine simplicity 
 that may make the most common things holy. 
 
 Two of the old deacons, arrayed in blue overalls and 
 checked shirts, their bare white feet stepping gingerly, 
 first entered the muddy shallow water. They had poles, 
 and were sounding for a deep place. Then the preacher 
 stepped cautiously after. The preacher was Mr. Simmons 
 from Fort Madison, the boy prodigy having long left 
 the country on his work as evangelist. How funny the 
 dignified, red-whiskered Mr. Simmons looked, stepping 
 down into the mushy soft mud and thence into the water 1 
 He wore his usual dress of black, a long coat known as 
 Prince Albert, the regulation, always, for ministers. 
 
Qjiicksand 145 
 
 They could hear the water squashing in his shoes. Then 
 it rose around his trousers. He looked funnier now to 
 Hubert than the deacons, one of whom led him cautiously 
 out till the water was up to his middle. His black coat- 
 tails floated like an ominous raft until he thought to pat 
 them carefully under, where, once wet, they would hang 
 like rubber cloth. He raised his hands after patting the 
 coat-tails, and solemnly called for God s blessing. The 
 mud bottom seemed a little insecure; and, lifting his 
 hands from the old deacon s shoulder, he gave a lurch, 
 and came near going under. No one laughed at this, 
 and Hubert was too near crying for laughter. 
 
 Then the procession began : the women first, one at a 
 time, each piloted along by a deacon who came and went 
 with his staff; each taken by the preacher and another 
 deacon and tipped backward into the water, to come 
 up spluttering and gasping, but often shouting hallelu 
 jah or singing or praying in the water. Two of them 
 had to be dragged out by their friends, they seemed in 
 danger of drowning. 
 
 His father was the first man to go. Oh, the shame 
 :that he felt for his father, and the control he must keep 
 of his face because his mother was watching him 1 The 
 | old man went down very quietly There was a certain 
 dignity about the father that the boy would never possess. 
 But the gasping from the cold water set him coughing. 
 He was in a fit of it when they put him under, and did 
 not recover from his paroxysms while Sam and Mary 
 were leading him away the long quarter of a mile to the 
 house, where they could furnish him with his dry 
 clothing. 
 
 The ceremony dragged a little at the end. One young 
 man was afraid to go under, and the preacher did not 
 have strength enough left. His brother had to wade out 
 
146 Quicksand 
 
 to help them, and he had brought no change of garments. 
 Then the wet, shivering procession was started through 
 the ploughed field to the house, and others who had no 
 reason for waiting began to get into their wagons to go 
 home. Minister Simmons was the last to come out, 
 being led by the deacons. He was shivering and shak 
 ing with cold ; and Libbie was laughing in front of him, 
 talking to Frank Underwood. 
 
 Hubert stood miserably about till Sam and Mary re 
 turned with their father. Mr. Hinckley seemed too weak 
 to talk, and he was shaking as if in an ague. They 
 helped him into the wagon, and, getting hurriedly ready, 
 began the slow drive in the mud, Sam growling a good 
 deal at the horses. 
 
 There was barely time for a hasty lunch at home, and 
 then Sam drove Hubert off to the station. They did not 
 have much of a parting. They were getting the father to 
 bed and surrounding him with bottles of hot water. Sam 
 had little to say on the road, and the black mud seemed 
 blacker than usual. 
 
XXIII. 
 
 MR. HINCKLEY never rose from his bed, 
 though the illness seemed willing to linger. At 
 one time they thought of sending for Hubert, but 
 decided to wait for his examinations. He did not stay 
 to the exercises of commencement, though a Junior 
 should have been in attendance. Once more Sam and 
 Mary met him at the little station, this time with more 
 solemn faces than he remembered on the previous meeting. 
 
 " You d better go right in and see your father," Mrs. 
 Hinckley said after kissing him. " He s having one of 
 his nervous spells to-night, and is a little worse than 
 usual." 
 
 Hubert stepped into the darkened front room, and was 
 surprised to find Hiram sitting by the lounge on which 
 his worn father was lying. 
 
 " He s asleep just now. Wait a little," said Hiram, 
 stretching out his hand ; but the movement wakened the 
 slumberer, and he opened his eyes and looked around. 
 
 " Ah, here s Hubert 1 " he said quite naturally. 
 " Now you may go, if you like, Hiram. I think I shall 
 be better now. I have these sinking spells," he ex 
 plained to Hubert, "and Hiram understands how to 
 handle me." He sat up while Hiram arranged a pillow 
 at his back. 
 
 "Good-by, Mr. Hinckley," said Hiram, cheerfully. 
 " I will call in some time to-morrow." And the father and 
 son were left alone. 
 
 The mother soon came in, however ; and Libbie was 
 hovering around. They wanted to hear Hubert s talk of 
 the college, and of the honours he had taken in the con 
 test, and how he had been first in his examinations. 
 This was payment for their long seasons of denial and 
 
148 Qjiicksand 
 
 drudgery. Hubert felt this, and spoke of his successes 
 freely. All the time, as they were going about through 
 the usual routine of cooking, eating, dish-washing, and 
 sweeping, the boy felt that there was nothing the same. 
 The shadow of death was in the house ; and, however 
 cheerful they might seem, they were frightened and 
 heavy at heart. 
 
 The next morning Hubert learned, from questioning 
 Mary, that the physician had said their father might live 
 through the summer, with care, but they could hardly 
 hope for much more. Mary also told him that he had 
 spoken but little of his religion since the day he had been 
 baptised, but that in every way he seemed very peaceful, 
 except when his weakness came on him, and then he 
 could not rest without Hiram beside him. He would 
 tremble and shake as with palsy till Hiram took hold of 
 his hand. 
 
 The vacation days dragged by, and Hubert had time 
 to become familiar with all of their narrowing home 
 atmosphere. He felt the environment closing in daily 
 about him. It weighed on his breathing as heavily as 
 \ the oncoming of his father s death. " What is it ? " he 
 kept asking himself : " is it religion or sorrow or fate ? 
 It seems like a pressure of love." They were all so dear 
 to one another, each miserable because the other was 
 suffering. 
 
 Libbie, what was ailing with her ? She seemed to be 
 burning to death from some inwardly consuming fire. 
 She moved about restlessly, talking, always talking. She 
 must do this for father, she must save that for mother or 
 Sam, she must deny herself this for poor Mary s sake; 
 and then, when they were least expecting it, at some little 
 chance remark from one of them, she would break out 
 into a terrible passion, scolding, and accusing them of 
 
Qjiicksand 149 
 
 selfishness, and of forgetting all she had done for them. 
 They were used to these ravings of hysteria from their 
 mother : were they now being transferred to Libbie ? It 
 seemed that way; for now, when the daughter was 
 afflicted, the mother, as if seeing the absurdity of it, be 
 came more rational and self-controlled. As Hubert 
 watched the actions of his sister, he could see that she 
 was excited by mention of Hiram, though apparently 
 calmed by his presence. He was not experienced 
 enough in the analysis of human passion to realise the 
 meaning of this. He thought that Libbie was jealous of 
 Mary s love for another than herself: she seemed pas 
 sionately devoted to Mary, and wanted to be with her 
 always. In a measure his conclusions were correct, but 
 her had not dug down to first causes. 
 
 Mary, patient, hard-working, quiet Mary, how worn and 
 tired she looked ! Her sensitive mouth seemed wearied 
 with smiling. She moved about the kitchen constantly, 
 rarely coming into the ever-waiting room, the room that 
 was waiting for death. She sat sometimes with her father in 
 the sunshine while she was preparing the vegetables for 
 dinner. That was before he took permanently to his bed, 
 before Hiram took to coming so often. Mary rarely came 
 in when Hiram was there, it always made Libbie so ner 
 vous. She was often busy with her mother, moreover; 
 for, as the time shortened, the mother was very dependent 
 on her children, asking them to bandage her head or 
 bathe her hands or keep the fan moving while she could 
 sleep. She had very little rest at night ; for, if her hus 
 band was restlessly sleeping, she was keeping herself 
 awake with her prayers. 
 
 Hubert found himself drawn much closer to them. He 
 wondered if he could ever get away. He made up his 
 mind, in that full tide of his love, that he would not go 
 
150 Qjjicksand 
 
 back to college ; that he would stay here and live on the 
 farm, and always be gentle and affectionate, and work for 
 them when Sam was growing old. Then he thought how 
 they would demand him to be religious. They would ex 
 pect him to conduct family prayers and, maybe, to speak 
 at the prayer-meetings on Wednesdays. He could not 
 endure the thought of his own hypocrisy. He could not 
 endure telling his mother of his change. For relief, he 
 turned to the death-bed of his father. Here, at least, was 
 honest, unmixed sorrow ; and death would leave no tangle 
 at the end. 
 
 When he went to his father now, he usually found 
 Hiram sitting there waiting, holding the sick man s hand. 
 Strong, stalwart Hiram Stubbs 1 What was this wrong he 
 had done him in thinking him boorish and ignorant? 
 What one of his college professors, what one of his well- 
 cultured friends, could come and sit here by this bed, his 
 presence breathing peace in the house ? Hiram was the 
 spiritual physician. Their cares lifted whenever he came : 
 only the solemnity of sorrow was with them. Hubert 
 used to look at him often, wondering why they should not 
 let Mary marry him. Why should they oppose her 
 wishes ? Hiram was handsome and well-to-do. His new 
 house was long since completed. It would not be like 
 taking Mary away altogether. She could easily come 
 back and forth. Was it this terrible religion that was 
 binding them down ? Other religious people were not so. 
 No, it was their love for each other. They could not 
 bear to see one go away. Indeed, how could mother and 
 Libbie get along, nervous and quarrelling in their tan 
 trums? Still, they must think of Mary herself; and 
 Hiram, too, had his rights. In leaning over to whisper 
 that he had changed, that henceforth he would work for 
 his marriage with Mary, he hardly saw the sympathetic 
 
Qjiicksand 151 
 
 smile on the waiting man s face, he was so startled to 
 see his hair was half gray, brindled in thick with the yel 
 low on the temples and round behind the ears. 
 
 One day they were summoned to the bedside to take 
 the final farewell. It was a hot morning in the middle of 
 August. How could a man die then with cold? Yet 
 cold had been creeping up for hours from his feet, and 
 now was closing on his heart. Did Hubert love his father 
 so much, or did the grief of the others weigh on him? 
 The man he had never kissed before in his life was now 
 beckoning a first kiss of death. Hubert made way for 
 Libbie next, whose face was a contortion of weeping and 
 shoulders tearing with sobs. Then Mary knelt down, cry 
 ing silently ; and then Sam was making a promise to take 
 good care of his mother. The poor mother, companion of 
 forty years, it was her turn to last touch his cheek with 
 hers, and pillow his head on her face. She was conceal 
 ing his face, bending over him. They could only see or 
 feel the long shudder as they knelt or stood weeping 
 around his bed. 
 
 Hiram 1 He had not said good-by to Hiram I All of 
 them had forgotten him 1 Then they learned that the 
 dead man had not ; for his left hand, stretching out at the 
 back, was clutching the great palm, as if to hold steady, 
 and had been so while he was kissing them all. Now, even 
 in death, it held fast ; and, when the strong, living man 
 unclinched the stiffening fingers, they saw the white print 
 of the grip, a livid mark on the ruddy, warm palm. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 THE funeral was held at the school-house, accord 
 ing to the custom of the neighbourhood. To ex 
 quisitely sensitive people there is something repug 
 nant in the public display of grief so often witnessed at 
 funerals. But with ordinary people this is not true. 
 They find solace and comfort in falling back at the time 
 on the conventions, the mourning garments they are to 
 wear, the weight of the veils, the width of the borders on 
 handkerchiefs, the arrangements of flowers for the coffin. 
 All of these little details take up the dreary time of the 
 waiting till the house shall be relieved of its" death pres 
 ence, and they can come back and mourn in reality over 
 the loneliness that is with them, 
 
 There is, too, a genuine and gregarious comfort in hav 
 ing the sympathy of a crowd, in walking immediately 
 after the coffin, and having all eyes upon one to see if she 
 is bearing it well. The sympathy is soothing and re 
 spectful. Certainly, she will not cry now, walking in the 
 stiff black garments, the veil drawn over the white face. 
 Then some note of tenderness in the sermon, some mem 
 ory a word has brought up, will set the mourner s sobs to 
 rising, and hot tears will rush to the eyes. " Poor thing, 
 how hard she is taking it 1 " think all the watchers behind 
 her ; and there is now a comfort in the crying in public, 
 where before there was comfort in not crying. This is 
 the curious complication with ordinary people, though the 
 super-sensitive will scorn it. 
 
 Poor, passion-tossed Libbie Hinckley 1 What compli 
 cations she had to deal with I There seemed but one 
 thing burning in her thoughts as she stood black-veiled 
 before the mirror, and that was that she would ride with 
 Hiram. Otherwise, she could not bear up with the grief, 
 
Qjiicksand 153 
 
 she could not see her father buried. She knew that the 
 spring wagon would follow the hearse, and after that two 
 would ride in Hiram s buggy. Her mother had especially 
 asked Hiram to go with them as one of the family. She 
 thought he was going in the spring wagon with them, but 
 of this she was not quite sure. 
 
 She went up to Hiram during the preparations for 
 starting. "Who will go in your buggy, Hiram?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Hubert, I believe," answered Hiram. " Your mother 
 wants Sam to ride with her. She is afraid the horses 
 will be restless." 
 
 Libbie would have liked going with Hiram in his own 
 buggy ; but being, as she was, the eldest daughter, she 
 ought to be next to the hearse. She and Hiram would 
 sit on the seat behind her mother, and that would be 
 comfort enough. She slipped back to where Mary was 
 fussing with her veil, the crepe was so stiff she could 
 not tie it. 
 
 " You are to ride in Hiram s buggy, dear," she said, 
 tying the veil prettily for her. " Hurry up 1 Mother is 
 in the wagon, and the hearse is ready to go." 
 
 Mary could not understand why she should be put with 
 Hiram. Perhaps there was some mistake ; but it was 
 late, and she would not bother. She climbed into the 
 single buggy, as she was bid, by the side of Ned Johnson, 
 who was holding the horse. 
 
 Libbie was in her coveted back seat, arranging the lap- 
 robe on her knees, when Hubert climbed in beside her. 
 
 "Go back in the buggy," she said: "mother intends 
 for you to drive with Mary. Hiram is one of the chief 
 mourners to-day." 
 
 "It is all right Stay right where you are," said 
 Hiram. " I think I d better drive my own horse. It s 
 
Qjiicksand 
 
 safer, and he might be skittish." He signalled the hearse 
 driver to start, and got in beside Mary. 
 
 Libbie looked her wrath on them as she was turning. 
 It had all been arranged, she thought, forgetting that she 
 herself had been arranging. Hubert said something 
 about the rug, she was getting it under her feet; but 
 she snapped at him like some wild animal. She could 
 attend to her own affairs, she said, let him see that he 
 did the same. 
 
 Poor Libbie ! she could not cry during the sermon : the 
 hot rage dried up her eyes. She was thinking of how 
 she had seen Hiram helping Mary out of the carriage, 
 and of how becoming black was to Mary with the stiff 
 veil over her white face. And Hiram, how handsome he 
 was, dressed in his best suit of black, the suit he had 
 bought for his wedding ! And neither of them was think 
 ing of her. Hiram was holding her fan. Ah ! she had 
 turned away and walked ahead, she could not bear it. 
 And her poor father dead before them, and they not 
 weeping at all. Then she thought of herself and her 
 father, and how soon they would walk around to look 
 into the coffin and see his dear face for the last time, 
 before the lid was screwed on. How could she look the 
 last time, with all this hatred in her heart ! Nobody 
 cared how she felt 1 Hubert was mooning over his 
 gloves, and the two she hated sat on the other side of the 
 aisle, her mother and Sam shut them from view. Oh, 
 would the preacher never stop ! and how long would old 
 Johnson keep praying ! 
 
 The solemn procession began moving to take the last 
 view of the dead. The mourners would wait till the last. 
 Hiram and Mary were rising and coming forward. Mary 
 was holding Hiram s arm. No, she would prevent it. She 
 rose to step in between them ; but the undertaker from 
 
Qjuicksand 155 
 
 Fort Madison was watching, and firmly held her back. 
 " These two first : they go in the second carriage," he 
 said ; for he could not brook any disorder. 
 
 " Can I not see my own father ? " said Libbie, now 
 fairly crying with vexation. " In a moment, in a 
 moment," said the undertaker, kindly; and Hiram was 
 leading away the weeping Mary, and Libbie was gently 
 pushed toward the coffin. 
 
 Oh, the dead face, turned up toward her as if it were 
 reflected from a mirror 1 The white, strange yet well- 
 known features, the last time she should see them on 
 earth ! Hubert was timidly holding her arm. Her sobs 
 and cries shook her poor body. She could not be led 
 away. She would not go. She must stay here. Both 
 Sam and the undertaker had to lead her, and help her 
 into the carriage. The mother was content to be alone, 
 and walked out gropingly to join them. 
 
 " Poor Libbie takes it harder than any," said the pity 
 ing neighbours. " She was dreadful fond of her father." 
 
 Even now she was sitting in the carriage, she was only 
 intent on getting out. She had seen the two in the little 
 buggy behind her ; and she felt that she would go and 
 pull her sister out, no matter how it scandalised them 
 all. She struggled with Sam, who was holding her. Pie 
 thought her grief had made her beside herself, and his 
 iron grip was on her. " You drive with mother," he said 
 to Hubert, and gave his attentions to Libbie. She felt 
 the wagon moving with her. There was now only one 
 thing to do : that was to sit still for the three long, dreary 
 miles, with the knowledge of those two behind her, to sit 
 there with but one thought in her heart, and that one hold 
 ing her in torture. She would get into the buggy to ride 
 back with Hiram : no power on earth should prevent her. 
 She tried to think of her father as the slow procession 
 
156 Qjiicksand 
 
 moved toward the graveyard. She tried to think of him 
 on getting out and while the coffin was being lowered. 
 But there was only one thought within her, saying itself 
 over and over again : " I will go back with Hiram ! I 
 will go back with Hiram ! " They were singing ; but all 
 that she heard was : " I will go back ! I will 1 " 
 
 When the heavy clods struck the box over the coffin, 
 the mother fell on her son s neck, weeping and calling 
 him to help her. Mary felt a weakness in her knees. She 
 was falling in a faint, when Hiram caught her. With a 
 whisper to Hubert, Hiram picked up the woman he loved, 
 and carried her bodily to his carriage, leaped in, and was 
 driving away. 
 
 Libbie had been distracted a moment by the sudden 
 grief of her mother. When she turned, Hiram and Mary 
 were gone. She saw him just stepping into the carriage, 
 and one arm was around Mary as he took his seat. 
 She saw him place her head on his shoulder. Then the 
 turning top shut them from view. Libbie spoke calmly 
 to Hubert, and asked him to drive up with the. team. 
 She undertook to help her mother away. There was no 
 good of waiting any longer. Why did not Sam hurry the 
 horses ? They could not stand the heat, he replied. 
 
 All the way home she was cursing, cursing with a 
 calmness in her face. Even and regular were her actions, 
 but the raging of the jealousy within I Only one picture 
 in her vision, Hiram driving away and Mary s drooping 
 head on his shoulder. She cursed them all in her heart, 
 her sister over and over, her and the man she hated and 
 loved. She cursed Sam for his slowness and Hubert 
 for his stupid dreaming; and her mother she cursed 
 because she was her mother, and herself most of all, and 
 Godl How could God curse himself? But the Devil 
 might rise up, and curse him. She prayed to the Devil, 
 
Qjiicksand 157 
 
 and promised him her soul everlasting if he would rise 
 up and curse God for her. This fire of hell burned 
 within her, never slacking for the hour on the road. And 
 all the time she was outwardly quiet, speaking to Hubert 
 of the river, of the steamboats that passed, and their 
 names, with little anecdotes and happenings of the houses 
 and people along the road. 
 
XXV. 
 
 BACK in the quiet groves once more, our hero falls 
 in love. There was a pretty girl, Maud Wheeler, 
 who lived in the house next to his. She was a 
 student, too, a Freshman and eighteen years of age. She 
 was a perfect blonde, silken, curling hair around her face 
 and crown, soft and young as a baby s hair. Her eyes 
 were violet blue, her skin most delicate in texture, flush 
 ing shell-pink with mischief, her features dainty and arch. 
 She was dressed in white when he saw her first, with pale 
 blue ribbons fluttering. She swung in a hammock under 
 the trees most of the afternoon, and her book lay idle on 
 the grass ; and the sun flecked the envious shade fighting 
 for place on her dress. 
 
 It was a very beautiful time to love. Hubert had 
 taken a different room that year. The place was almost 
 lonely among the trees. His room-mate already had a 
 sweetheart, and was away the most of the time. If Hu 
 bert had a partner, too, they could rent a carriage on 
 Saturday, and the four go on long excursions to the river. 
 There was economy, almost, in the proposition ; and Maud 
 was so dainty and sweet ! 
 
 Hubert began liking her because she laughed. He 
 himself was inclined to sadness except in moments of 
 enthusiasm, when he could be very gay. But Maud was 
 always laughing, making some cause for mirth if none 
 already existed. She would hate the dusty, old college, 
 she told Hubert the first day he stopped by the hammock, 
 if it were not here she looked down coyly if it were 
 not there were so many handsome young men. Hubert 
 was in the humour for such sentiments. He, too, was tired 
 of books. A Senior is by duty superior to them. He had 
 just come from the strain and the gloom of his home. 
 
Qjiicksand 159 
 
 What wonder that he should fall in love with a pale, little 
 sylph in a hammock ? 
 
 Professor Saunders and his wife had departed, returned 
 to the East whence they came, bearing with them their 
 delicate china and the rare toys he had learned to love. 
 Now, here in the hammock the very first week of his 
 return was a rare toy as delicate as the china, floating 
 and beckoning to him. What could he do but sit on the 
 grass, and say all the clever things and assume all the 
 clever airs that his three years in college had taught him ? 
 
 Maud laughed at everything he said. She knew what it 
 was to be clever. She was born in Des Moines, and 
 used to the ways of the city. Her mother had died when 
 she was little, and her father had been dead now two 
 years. He had been a travelling agent. She had a 
 home with her step-mother, a good home, for she did as 
 she chose ; but the step-mother was thinking of marrying 
 again, and so Maud was sent off to college. Her step 
 mother had chosen this stupid little hole because it was 
 Methodist, and had very strict rules ; but here Maud 
 stopped for a little laugh. She would like to see the rules 
 she could not slip between in case there was any fun to 
 be going. 
 
 Her dainty toe struck the open Latin grammar where 
 it lay as it had fallen on the grass. How she hated 
 stupid old grammar 1 She deliberately tore out the leaf 
 that held to-morrow s lesson, wadded it up in a ball, 
 and threw it over the fence. An old rooster strutting 
 about thought it was a bit of food for himself, but, not 
 finding it over-tasty, began loudly calling the hens. 
 " Help me get it : it s my lesson to-morrow. The teacher 
 will have a fit if I fail." And away she went through the 
 fence, shouting and laughing, after the old rooster, who 
 now prized the tidbit more highly and ftelcj it securely in 
 
160 Qjuicksand 
 
 his bill. Hubert joined in the chase, and together they 
 recovered the morsel and sent the chickens all cackling. 
 " And it s the first declension," gasped Maud, " the very 
 one that I ought to be learning. How I hate to begin 
 it 1 " And she spread out the crumpled leaf spitefully. " I 
 wish the old rooster had eaten it 1 " 
 
 " I will help you," offered Hubert. " It is easy enough 
 when you get started." 
 
 " Oh, do help : you must know so much," said Maud, 
 looking wistfully at him. " I wonder if I ll ever be a 
 Senior. And the girls say you write such beautiful poetry 
 and stories and orations and everything 1 Can you find 
 time to help me with my Latin ? Perhaps I could help 
 you back at something. Do you know how to play the 
 guitar ? 
 
 Hubert s eyes spoke their longing, and Maud knew the 
 language of eyes. 
 
 " Then I will show you that ; and, first, I will give you 
 your lesson." She ran into the house, and came gleefully 
 out with a guitar. " Now I shall do exactly as my 
 teacher did to me. Sit down, and take the instrument so. 
 Now, there, this is the way you hold your fingers. Give 
 it to me. So, one, two three, one, two, three." 
 
 Hubert took the instrument from her, but his fingers 
 were ignorant and unskilled. Maud had to hold the 
 fingers on the frets. Her fingers were very cool and 
 dainty and of a marvellous whiteness. She wore a single 
 ring of turquoise setting. 
 
 " Isn t it a pretty ring ? " she asked. " My father gave 
 it to me the year before he died. You may take the guitar 
 up to your room for practice in the evening. Won t it be 
 fun when you learn ? And then you can accompany me 
 when I sing ; and we can set your poems to music. Can 
 you sing, Mr. Hinckley ? " Hubert had never been 
 
Qjjicksand 161 
 
 trained. " Oh, well, then I can teach you that. Oh, I 
 mean to pay for my Latin instruction I " 
 
 Hubert here proposed a beginning of the Latin. 
 
 " Oh, you ought to have asked me to sing," she pouted. 
 " You are not a bit gracious, Mr. Hinckley. But I m 
 going to sing, anyway, just to spite you. Isn t it nice 
 that no one passes this street ? But it ll be muddy, I 
 guess, when it rains." 
 
 " There s only one bad place on the corner : there s 
 plank walk the rest of the way." 
 
 " One bad place is as bad as if it were all bad," said 
 Maud, strumming. 
 
 " You might get some one to carry you over the bad 
 place," said Hubert, to be teasing. 
 
 " Why, so I might ! Are you strong, Mr. Hinckley ? " 
 
 "I m not very heavy," she added, when she saw he was 
 stammering and blushing. 
 
 Then she began singing mischievously, the guitar 
 hugged tight up to her cheek, her dainty head cocked on 
 one side. She was singing a negro song, " I love you, 
 Susan," her full lips pursed to fit the rich thick Southern 
 accent. Her eyes were tender with the light. The song 
 flowed soft and mellow. Maud had a very pretty voice, clear 
 and with richness of passion just fitted for green trees by 
 a lane where but one person passes in a day. The song 
 had a plaintive ending : the slave singer had been sold to 
 the South. The girl s eyes widened at this as she sang it. 
 There were beautiful curves at the corners, bended like 
 Cupid s bow. Tears would be pretty in Maud s eyes ; and 
 they might come, too, in any gentle sympathy. She had 
 a kind heart, it could be seen very plainly ; and the young 
 poet was trembling with pleasure by the time she had 
 finished the song. 
 
 " I should hate Latin, too, if I could sing like that," he 
 said dreamily. 
 
162 Qjiicksand 
 
 Her laugh again rang out merrily. " Oh, you must 
 laugh more. You are too sad, Mr. Hinckley. I must 
 teach you to laugh as well as sing. There are a great 
 many things for me to teach you." 
 
 " Teach me to laugh now," pleaded Hubert, " or will 
 you sing for me again ? " 
 
 " Oh, you want everything for nothing," she cried. 
 " You are beginning like all other boys." 
 
 " Very well, now we will do the Latin," he said play 
 fully. " This is the nominative case. Say that first." 
 
 " I don t know how to pronounce it." 
 
 " Why, have you not studied over the rules ? " 
 
 " Yes, but I never follow rules." 
 
 " You must in Latin." 
 
 " Very well, if I can do as I choose in English." 
 
 " Now say these over after me, and I will explain the 
 rules." 
 
 " Yes, please," mocked Maud, demurely. 
 
 She was very bright, and remembered with remarkable 
 facility. It was too soon when the lesson had ended and 
 Hubert was going away. 
 
 Once, when they had bent close over the torn page to 
 make out a disputed case of spelling, her soft hair had 
 brushed against his cheek. He was thinking of it after 
 he had gone to bed. 
 
XXVI. 
 
 HUBERT had read in the poets about love, and 
 had even done love-poems himself; but he had 
 never supposed it was so beautiful. He went 
 about blessed in all things. It was like his religious 
 ecstasy at the time when he became converted, only this 
 was sweeter and more thorough: it caught in his body 
 more, while the other had been imagination. Besides, 
 this fire was being constantly renewed, was changing in 
 magnitude and colour according as he moved with his 
 beloved. There was no interruption from the start. 
 Maud told him afterward that she had loved him the very 
 first time she saw him ; and, though both men and maids 
 let their memories exaggerate for them at such periods, it 
 was evident that he needed only to declare himself in 
 order that he be accepted. Of course, he knew his 
 gloomy periods of doubting, vowing that he could not be 
 worthy of such a treasure ; but the two were quivering 
 with their magnetism before they had been many weeks 
 together, and the words only needed to be spoken that 
 they might rush into natural union. 
 
 The words were not spoken, however, until after the 
 Christmas vacation. The two weeks separation had 
 brought them to it. Hubert made up his mind while 
 enduring that laggard monotony that he never would 
 leave Maud again if only she would let him be near her. 
 He wrote pages and pages of poetry, much of it to this 
 effect, the rest of it praising her beauty and goodness, all 
 of which he hid under the carpet for fear that Libbie or 
 his mother might find it when they came up to take care 
 of his room. 
 
 But it was worth the separation and longing, the com 
 ing together again. There was no need to await explana- 
 
1 64 Qjiicksand 
 
 tions : both seemed to understand from the beginning. It 
 was very sweet to say " Hubert " and " Maud," to re 
 count all the sufferings of the past two weeks and to 
 marvel at the happiness for the future. Then each had 
 to learn in minutiae all of the details of the life of the 
 other. They began as far back as they could remember, 
 Hubert with the snake hanging down from the ceiling 
 of the cellar, swinging there like a rope ; and Maud with 
 the death of a kitten that was chased by an ugly black 
 dog when she was three years old. All of this took time 
 and seclusion, but the girl was capable of arranging for 
 that. Hubert got up a class of Freshmen for tutoring in 
 the evenings : it was even recommended by the faculty. 
 It was to meet at the house where Maud was boarding 
 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. There was an 
 attendance of five guaranteed; but Maud had arranged 
 with them beforehand that they were to get back their 
 money, and not come. The parlour was set aside for the 
 class ; and the good lady who kept the house, after seeing 
 the president s permission, did not think of putting any 
 questions, hardly realising anyway from the paper that 
 the class was supposed to be larger. Hubert s room-mate 
 sometimes came in with his sweetheart, and that made 
 the class seem more business-like. The convenient ar 
 rangement for all pupils made very good reports of class 
 progress whenever the faculty was interested. Hubert 
 used to sit on the sofa, and Maud was snuggling beside 
 him. He was used to her hair brushing his cheek now, 
 but the sensation had lost none of its charm. 
 
 They talked of their future as well in the intervals of 
 remembering the past. It gradually came to be settled. 
 Maud s daring leading the way. In the first place, Hu 
 bert was a genius : there was no need of considering that. 
 The fact that the magazines all returned his poems and 
 
Qjjicksand 165 
 
 stories with only a printed notice, " Not available," was 
 sufficient proof in itself. Hubert had longed for accept 
 ance, even if it detracted from his future. He had 
 watched the mails restlessly all winter, counting the days 
 till each manuscript was returned ; but Maud read up the 
 biographies of geniuses, and found all the greatest ones 
 waited, and, she said, were refused by the publishers. 
 Hubert only had need of perseverance. 
 
 They should be married at the end of the year. Much 
 of that, too, the girl had arranged. She had an income, 
 small, but sufficient, a hundred and fifty dollars a quarter. 
 It would be quite enough to keep them both. They would 
 go to the city and settle, Hubert giving all his time to his 
 poems and stories. Probably he would want to write 
 novels, and these would take time and quiet. He was 
 backward about accepting her money. It did not seem 
 to him manly to do it, but she told him he would pay it 
 all back a hundred-fold in a year, and then she began 
 crying, and saying that he did not love her as she did him ; 
 and in the end, as that was the pleasantest, she had every 
 thing her own way. Chicago seemed to them the great 
 city. They would go and settle in Chicago, and then 
 Hubert could carry his manuscripts to the publishers: 
 that would save the expense of the postage. Besides, they 
 might give him more attention if they saw him, and talked 
 with him in the office. Maud knew all about cities and 
 their ways, from having grown up in Des Moines. She 
 knew something of business as well, for her father had 
 made her his companion. His favourite motto, she said, 
 was one that applied to this matter of manuscripts. " If 
 you want a thing done, go. If you don t want it done, 
 send." Wait till they got to Chicago. The publishers 
 would think of him differently. 
 
 It was decided again, this time Maud being consulted, 
 
1 66 Qjjicksand 
 
 that she should inform her step-mother of the intended 
 marriage, but that Hubert s people should not be in 
 formed. Both of them were now of legal age, he twenty- 
 one, and she almost nineteen ; and they had a right to do 
 as they chose. Still, she reasoned, her step-mother would 
 not interfere, would indeed feel a moderate relief if she 
 were out of the way. Her father s lawyer would probably 
 come down to see them ; but he was a sensible man, and, 
 once he had learned of Hubert s respectability and pros 
 pects, would ask no questions further. Her father had 
 not wanted her to marry for money. Her annuity had 
 been settled upon her, so that it would not be taken from 
 her upon marriage. As she said, it would keep them both 
 in the beginning ; and there were really no objections for 
 the lawyer to offer. In the spring all of this worked out 
 as she had said, proving that she was a woman of judg 
 ment. 
 
 It was thought best not to tell Hubert s mother of the 
 marriage till it was over, because she would surely object. 
 When Hubert thought of having the matter common talk 
 in the family, each one discussing Maud, her money, her 
 looks, and her cooking, he himself felt that he could not 
 bear it. What affair was it of theirs ? He was to live in 
 the city away from them, anyway, and would visit them 
 only occasionally. It cut him to the quick when he 
 thought of deceiving his mother ; but Maud said this was 
 not a deception, it was merely saying nothing at all. 
 
 By spring-time, all was arranged. Hubert would stay 
 through his examinations, but not for the commencement 
 exercises. He had received an appointment for an ora 
 tion, but excused himself to the faculty by pleading an 
 excess of work. It was known that Mrs. Hinckley and 
 Libbie and Mary were preparing to be present at the ex 
 ercises ; but they could be warned in good season, after 
 
Qjjicksand 167 
 
 the flight was begun. They would take out their license 
 quietly, with no extra time intervening. Hubert would be 
 through his examinations early, and leave an address for 
 his diploma to follow him. Maud would cut her last day 
 of examinations. They would be quietly married by the 
 justice and step on to the afternoon through-bound express. 
 It was simple, and thoroughly planned in every detail. 
 Hubert felt that it was for the best. If he was going to 
 ever get married at all, he must keep it secret from his 
 mother. He would not explain, either, till then that he 
 had given up being a minister and was going to devote 
 himself to writing. He would not even then speak to her 
 about his departure from her religion. " What is the use 
 of worrying her ? " said the practical Maud. " You can t 
 change her views ; and what s the good of making a lot of 
 trouble both for yourself and for her ? Besides, how do 
 you know that you are not religious ? I am a member of 
 the church, in good standing ; and I never think of the 
 matter, except perhaps a little in church, when I think I ll 
 be as good as I can." 
 
 When spring came, the evening classes were disbanded, 
 having perfectly fulfilled their mission. It was pleasanter 
 walking in the lanes. Dreams flowed more freely in the 
 open, and everything looked toward the end of the term. 
 
XXVII. 
 
 E ? E had been very even and quiet at the Hinckley 
 farm since the death of the father. The loneliness 
 that followed had not been the loneliness of gloom. 
 All had tried to be cheerful ; and Libbie most of all had 
 taken matters in hand, in order that things might move 
 pleasantly on. 
 
 " Her father s death has made her more thoughtful for 
 others," said the mother ; and Mary made no remark, 
 remembering her promise of silence on that terrible night 
 after the funeral, when her sister had grovelled in self- 
 abasement at her feet, crawling like a worm and calling 
 out piteously for forgiveness. There were some things 
 that Mary must keep from her mother, much as it pained 
 her to do so, some things that she must not even tell 
 Hiram, her shame for her sister was so burning ; though 
 she did tell him in the main the cause of the trouble, and 
 begged him to be as careful as possible with Libbie. 
 
 " Let s just go away and get married, and she ll forget 
 all about me in time," said the sensible, over-patient 
 Hiram. 
 
 To which Mary gave the usual answer : "I cannot go 
 just yet, Hiram. Mother needs me more than ever now, 
 lonely as she is without father." 
 
 " The longer you stay, the more she will depend on 
 you," he said sullenly. " You have seen how it has been 
 for the past three years." 
 
 And Mary would only plead ; " Wait, Hiram, wait a 
 little longer. Mother would never forgive me, and Libbie 
 would quite break her heart." 
 
 " You love your mother and sister more than you would 
 love your husband," he grumbled. 
 
 Then she went over to him quite familiarly, even as a 
 
Qjjicksand 169 
 
 wife would do ; and she took his tawny head in her arms, 
 and kissed him squarely on the mouth. " I love you so 
 much, Hiram dear, that I would not shirk duty for your 
 sake. Now be strong with me and give me courage ; for 
 a hundred times a day, as I live, I feel that my heart will 
 wear out with waiting." 
 
 Then what could a generous man do but submit, even 
 a sensible man like Hiram ? He knew that, if he should 
 take her away by main force, even while she rested in his 
 arms, she would never cease to regret the neglected duty 
 to her family. 
 
 Perhaps Libbie herself gathered strength by this quiet 
 but constant devotion ; for life had been very cheerful of 
 late, as it moved along in its routine. 
 
 The month of June had come in ; and there were violets 
 growing on Edward Hinckley s grave, transplanted there 
 from the woods by the hands of the women who remem 
 bered him. It was a week before the commencement 
 when Hubert was to graduate from college. They had 
 thought he would be a preacher at once, but he told them 
 the Christmas vacation that it was customary to take two 
 years more to prepare one fully for the ministry. This 
 was a blow to them all, a blow in more ways than one. 
 They could little spare the money, they thought. The 
 father was no longer earning for them, and there had 
 been some expense for the funeral. Sam had been say 
 ing it was impossible, but the women had reasoned that 
 they could bring Sam around. 
 
 Libbie was over the ironing-board, pressing some 
 pieces of cloth. It was her old brown cashmere they 
 were making over, turning it for the second time and 
 making it up in the fashion, with some new plaid to serve 
 secondarily for trimming, but primarily to conceal the 
 faded places. 
 
i;o Qjjicksand 
 
 "We must dress as well as those city folks," said 
 Libbie ; " for we don t want Hubert to be ashamed of his 
 old maid sisters." Libbie never minded being called an 
 " old maid," so long as her sister Mary was included. 
 Two old maids was her by-word ; but one old maid, and 
 that herself, would throw her into her tantrums. 
 
 Mary was sewing at the machine in front of the window 
 that was filled with geraniums. The sun, spotting through 
 the muslin curtains, seemed throwing kisses on her hair. 
 
 " I guess Hubert won t be ashamed of his mother, at 
 all events, in her span-new black silk gown and the jet 
 beads all down the front of the basque." 
 
 " Say, mother is pretty, isn t she ? " said Libbie, stop 
 ping and her eyes shining with affection. " I often think 
 of it when I see her in church, she is so tall and stately 
 and her white hair is so lovely when it s crimped, just as 
 wavy and natural ; and our mother does look sweet in a 
 bonnet. She s the finest-looking woman in Fort Madison. 
 I ve said it over and over." 
 
 " And you say true, Libbie ; and here she comes. She s 
 got the mail, I guess. Deacon Johnson went by a few 
 minutes ago. He always gets our mail." 
 
 " A letter from Hubert," said Mrs. Hinckley, coming in. 
 " I left my spectacles in the kitchen." 
 
 " She always likes to read Hubert s letters alone first," 
 said Libbie, bringing in a fresh iron. " We ll just leave 
 her quiet in the kitchen. She ll read it to us afterward." 
 
 " I suppose he is telling us what train to take and 
 everything," said Mary. " Look, isn t that cuff just 
 sweet ! You will look lovely in this plaid. It s your 
 most becoming colour." 
 
 " I wonder if he ll take us to his boarding-house ? " 
 said Libbie. " I should hate to go to a hotel." 
 
 " Oh, I guess so. The hotels, you know, are more ex 
 pensive." 
 
Qjiicksand 171 
 
 " I shall never forgive Hubert for refusing to be the 
 valedictorian. How could he be too busy to take the part ? 
 And he s the best orator they ve got in the college ! I 
 should have thought the professors would not have 
 allowed it." 
 
 " I guess the president s son would not have had any 
 place on the programme if it hadn t been for Hubert s 
 refusing," said Mary. " Perhaps he did it on that account. 
 He s had honours enough, anyway. Think of the contest 
 last winter, and all he s had in the papers." 
 
 " He should have been thinking of us who have been 
 slaving at home, and of mother and how pleased she 
 would be. It would have been the proudest day of her 
 life to hear Hubert give the valedictory." 
 
 " I guess that 11 come when he s ordained," said Mary, 
 beginning to sew. The machine made so much clatter 
 and noise she hardly heard Libbie cry out, but turned as if 
 instinct had told her. Libbie was standing stiff as with 
 fright. The hot iron was left on the table, burning a hole 
 in the middle of her cloth. Her mother was holding out 
 a letter, but the hand was shaking so violently that she 
 had to rest it on the table. 
 
 "Mother, what s the matter?" cried Libbie. "Is 
 Hubert ? has anything happened ? " 
 
 , " He s married," said the mother, sitting down. Her 
 shaking limbs would no longer support her. 
 
 Mary rescued the cloth from the burning iron. 
 
 " That baby married 1 " gasped Libbie. " Without ever 
 telling us about it 1 Married ! Why, I never can believe 
 it! Why, the spiteful, ungrateful, little " She could 
 not speak, for her wrath, but went off in aspirant explosives. 
 
 " Shall we see his wife at the commencement ? Is she 
 a student, top ? " asked Mary, after the first shock was 
 over. 
 
Qjiicksand 
 
 " He won t be at the commencement. He s gone to 
 Chicago," said the mother, piteously. 
 
 " Chicago 1 Why, the child will get lost," shrieked 
 Libbie. " Who did he marry, anyway ? I know I shall 
 hate her. I can feel it. I ll bet she s some grasping 
 old widow who has inveigled him away for his genius, and 
 expects to get into society by being a minister s wife." 
 
 " Hubert s not going to be a minister," said the mother, 
 mechanically. There was a grey look on her face as of 
 stone. She seemed a much older woman now, with the 
 mother expression departed and only the age wrinkles 
 remaining. 
 
 " Give me the letter, mother," said Libbie. " I think 
 you ve gone crazy or something. I can t make head nor 
 tail of what you say." 
 
 She sat down, and began reading aloud, through a long 
 page of pleading for forgiveness and appreciation for all 
 they had done for him. 
 
 " It sounds as if he were dead," interrupted Mary. 
 
 " He d better be, if what mother says is true," said 
 Libbie, solemnly, looking up. 
 
 " Maud 1 What a bold name I Maud Wheeler, 
 1 and young and sweet and lovely. Hopes we ll love her, 
 does he ? What does Maud want with him, I wonder ? 
 Maybe she thinks he is rich." 
 
 " Our boy has been trapped by some vile woman," said 
 Mrs. Hinckley. " Go on, Libbie. She pretends to have 
 money of her own." 
 
 " A hundred and twenty-five dollars a quarter, he 
 means four times a year. Let s see, that s over forty dol 
 lars a month," said Mary: "that will keep them from 
 starving." 
 
 " Oh, that s what she says, I suppose. But they ll be 
 here on the farm in a little while, and I ll never do a lick 
 of work for her," snapped Libbie. 
 
Quicksand 173 
 
 " Go on, Libbie," pleaded Mary. 
 
 " It was you who interrupted, wasn t it ? " But curios 
 ity was too great for quarrelling, and the letter was read 
 to conclusion. 
 
 " Chicago 1 I suppose they re on the train now. I 
 wonder if they ll go through Burlington." 
 
 " We might go down and stop them," said the mother. 
 " We might take Hubert off the train." 
 
 " And let her go on to Chicago," said Libbie, grimly. 
 
 Mary had been studying the dates in the letter. 
 " They went through Burlington yesterday evening," she 
 said, "the same train that carried this letter. Hubert 
 must have written it before, and only dated it afterward. 
 They were married yesterday afternoon, and they arrived 
 this morning in Chicago." 
 
 " A great, big place, where we could never find 
 ourselves, let alone Hubert and that minx 1 " said Libbie, 
 disconsolately. 
 
 " How will my poor boy get along ? " said the mother, 
 beginning to cry. 
 
 " Oh, she has lived in a city, and has been in Chicago, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " I guess she can take care of Hubert all right, so long 
 as she was so successful in marrying him." 
 
 " He s given up the ministry," said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 " But he s going to write books, mother dear. Every 
 body says he has such genius, and " 
 
 " He might both preach and write books," said the 
 mother. " Many great ministers print their sermons. I 
 have always intended Hubert should do that." 
 
 " But, as he says, he can print more books if he does 
 not preach ; and he can spread the truth wider through 
 the country. Many people are converted by reading 
 books," 
 
174 Quicksand 
 
 " It s not the true conversion," interrupted the mother, 
 sternly. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley was beginning to cry softly. 
 
 " Go and lie down, mother," said Mary. "I ll make 
 you a cup of tea." 
 
 " Give me the letter," faltered Mrs. Hinckley. They 
 thought she was going to break down, perhaps into one 
 of her old spells ; but the strength seemed too much gone 
 from her, and they helped her off, crying, to bed. 
 
 "Think! If I should run off with Hiram," mused 
 Mary, " she would never get over it, never. As it is, her 
 poor heart is broken ; for she loved Hubert the most of us 
 all." She was busying herself with the tea, but a sense 
 of injury was growing in her breast, a feeling against 
 Hubert in part, but chiefly against the girl who had capti 
 vated him. " And all the commencement spoiled for us," 
 she thought, " after we have saved and contrived all the 
 spring ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Libbie was running down to the field where 
 Sam and Hiram were working. She called to them as 
 soon as she was within hailing distance. " Hubert s mar 
 ried, and gone to Chicago." She expected to see them 
 fall prostrate. 
 
 " Hurrah for Hubert 1 " shouted Hiram. " He shows 
 where his head is level." 
 
 " Hiram Stubbs," said Libbie, breaking into a rage, 
 "when I marry, I ll never ask you to my wedding; no, 
 nor Hubert and his nasty wife, either. I don t care if he 
 is my brother. I ll never tell him, so there 1" And Libbie 
 ran back to the house, nor could their coaxing get a word 
 from her. 
 
 
XXVIII. 
 
 IT was a tumult, a tornado of sensations, that burst 
 across the consciousness of Hubert upon that night 
 and day following his marriage. His love had been 
 growing through the spring till it had given him as much ! 
 of pain as of pleasure. A passion more Oriental than 
 Puritan had burned his dreams like flowing molten metal. 
 Only the idolatry for the angel that Maud now always 
 se~emed to him kept him in steady control. They had 
 walked in moonlit avenues, much like other lovers. He 
 had held her hand whenever no one was near them, he 
 had kissed her a tender good-night at parting, and their 
 talk had been plans for the future. 
 
 But now, once the conventional sanction of marriage 
 had been given, when he entered for the first time one of 
 the sumptuous state-room compartments of the Pullman 
 of the Chicago Express ; when he saw his adored, now 
 belonging to him, his wife, reclining blissfully beside him 
 in the dim, yellow, voluptuous light, and constantly and 
 steadily through it all he sensed the onward rush into the 
 great unknown of the city and his future career, the 
 regular repeated clang ! clang ! of the flying wheels over 
 the rails beating the drum of their wedding-march, he 
 thought in his abandon of happiness that the universe 
 had suddenly flashed on him all of her secrets, that be 
 fore this he had been only a poor human being, but now 
 he was feasting of the gods. 
 
 The pale, cool flush of the morning but gave to him a 
 change of intoxicants. The sun was hardly red on the 
 horizon before they entered a black fog of smoke, the 
 first hint of a great city ahead. The two lovers made 
 ready for the day, marvelling at all of the strangeness, their 
 views of the grey, ugly suburbs still coloured by glowing 
 
176 Qjuicksand 
 
 memories of the night that constantly flitted in luxurious 
 recurrence, mingled with prospect ahead of the roaring 
 rush of the day and the visions of more nights to follow. 
 
 What wonderment the tall smoke-stacks of the factories 
 gave them ! and the deserts of small, smoke-blackened 
 houses ! What mystery in the maze of railroad tracks 
 where the switchmen stood with their signals ! The 
 strange, putrid, chemical odour seeping from the stock 
 yards and the river was not even cause for disgust. It 
 meant regions for them unexplored, and all the world held 
 only delights. Then last came the rush of the people in 
 the streets, men and women going to their work, end 
 less checkers of squares, and the corners all crowding 
 with passers. What a shiver of joy at the end with the 
 porter s wild cry of " Chicago ! Union Passenger Sta 
 tion 1 Change for all points ! Chicago 1 " 
 
 In the daze of smoke, iron, shouting, and hurrying, 
 the two found themselves borne along with the crowd 
 out of the vault where they had landed. Two of the 
 suburban trains had come in at exactly the same time, 
 and the flood of humanity bore the two marvelling lovers 
 out of the semi-underground darkness into the open air. 
 They crossed the bridge, and entered the gloom of the 
 streets, piled up to the sky on each side, with outlook and 
 confusion at the corners. Still borne along with the 
 crowd, they were battered by strangest sensations: the 
 jangling of gongs, the whirr and the rattle of cables, 
 wheels clattering over granite block pavements, and the 
 spat, spat, of horses hoofs ; the shrilling of whistles on 
 the river and the boom of signalling steamboats, news 
 boys, like demons, darting in and out through the turmoil, 
 shouting in frenzy of competition the items of news of the 
 morning. It was all so vast, so moving and ponderous 
 and fatal, all so much more than either had dreamed, 
 
Qjjicksand 177 
 
 that they walked along hand in hand, and marvelled, for 
 getting that they were college-bred and geniuses, and that 
 curious people might be watching. 
 
 It was Maud who became practical first, and began 
 to talk reason to Hubert. Maud had never been in 
 Chicago ; but she had heard her father talk of it often, 
 and knew all about his favourite hotel. It was strangely 
 easy to find. A policeman showed them precisely where 
 it stood ; and, as they were everywhere recognised as the 
 young bride and bridegroom from the country, it was the 
 simplest thing in the world to get attention. 
 
 " A room ? Certainly," said the business-like clerk. 
 " Have you had your trunks sent up ? No ? Just give 
 me your checks : we will have them in thirty minutes." 
 
 Hubert was writing in the register " Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hinckley, Mt. Pleasant " ; while the clerk was speaking 
 politely to Maud. A black porter in uniform had their 
 luggage. They were ushered into a large box, which im 
 mediately began carrying them upward. Before they 
 could speak, the door of the iron box clicked. " This 
 way," said the uniformed porter ; and they walked down 
 a plush-carpeted aisle, it was almost like the church in 
 Fort Madison, and then turned into a square, modern 
 room that Hubert would have thought very elegant, had 
 he not heard the artistic talk of the Saunders. 
 
 The porter had explained to them again that their 
 trunks would be up in half an hour, and left them with a 
 bow and a flourish. Then they began a survey of the 
 room, each object offering interest and delight. Here 
 was the window. Look down on the long, grey street, on 
 to the roofs of the street-cars. Hubert had seen street 
 cars in Burlington, but they were smaller ones ; and he had 
 never looked down on the tops, the oblong, yellow-painted 
 covers that looked like the shells of huge turtles. Then 
 
i;8 Quicksand 
 
 they found the hotel rules framed in gilt on the door, and 
 covered up with a glass, like a picture. All of these 
 rules they read carefully, so that they might not have the 
 embarrassment of breaking any. The rules were chiefly 
 about not paying, and said that travellers without bag 
 gage should be required to pay in advance. It was with 
 a startled feeling of relief that Hubert thought of their 
 trunks, and felt thankful that he had not blundered there. 
 Later on the rules gave notice about meals and also the 
 calls of the bell, which, Maud said, was the button on the 
 wall, close by the head of the bed. 
 
 It was while they were looking into the bureau drawers 
 to see if there was anything in them this necessarily 
 drew their heads close together that Maud found some 
 coal-dust in Hubert s ear, and then the hilarity began of 
 getting ready for breakfast. Outside in the plush hall 
 again, they were wondering what they should do with the 
 key. The star tag attached was almost too big for 
 Hubert to carry in his pocket ; and they were also timid 
 about whether they should go down in the box-like eleva 
 tor or take the more safe plush-covered stairs, when the 
 porter came up with their trunks. He was used to the 
 inexperience of the fresh bridal couple from the country, 
 and explained that they should leave the key with the 
 clerk when they went out ; and he rang the bell for the 
 elevator. Maud had thought this was the way they did 
 in Des Moines. They had virtually decided on this 
 method of procedure, but the porter made everything 
 sure ; and they walked into the big dining-room composedly, 
 and began a pretended intelligent search of the enormous 
 pink bills of fare that contained as much disconnected 
 reading material as a copy of their weekly college paper. 
 The negro waiter, too, offered them assistance ; for even a 
 restaurant waiter loves a lover, and here were two of 
 
Qjiicksand 179 
 
 them, unsullied. He kindly showed them that they did 
 not need to peruse the wine list nor all of the extras with 
 remarkable French names in Italics that are not to be 
 found in the French grammar or reader. There were 
 the meats and the eggs, and vegetables would be served 
 with each order ; and would the lady like coffee or cocoa ? 
 And, in short, everything was as smooth as new love. 
 They had only to pay at a little pavilion, and were ele 
 vated back to their room. 
 
 They sat in the window for a time, and talked of their 
 darling plans. This was Friday morning, to begin on. 
 Maud had been economising as well as Hubert, and there 
 was a neat little partnership capital. 
 
 " We will stay here a week," they said. " The room 
 comes cheaper by the week. To-day we will purchase a 
 guide-book, and make ourselves familiar with the map 
 of the city. In the afternoon we will go out to look at 
 the city, perhaps take a street-car, so as to see more. 
 To-morrow we will settle on a location, and then begin to 
 look for furnished rooms where we can do light cooking. 
 Then Sunday we will go to some nice place, not to 
 church, however, and then Monday we will begin to 
 look for rooms. We can surely find them by Friday, and 
 get moved in during the week." 
 
 " Then you can begin on a novel or a volume of 
 poems," said Maud. 
 
 Hubert wondered vaguely what the novel would be 
 about. It was not so easy to him now, as the time was 
 approaching for writing it. 
 
 He suggested that he go out and purchase the guide 
 book while she was unpacking her trunk. Then, when he 
 had unlocked the trunk for her, he became so interested 
 in the unpacking and in arranging things in the bureau 
 that both of them unpacked both the trunks, and went out 
 for the guide-book together. 
 
XXIX. 
 
 IT was eleven o clock before these two children of 
 Venus had lifted their heads from the guide-book 
 and begun to make ready for the street. They 
 would look at the city hall first, since that was near at 
 hand ; and then they would wander about the streets until 
 lunch time, and then make off for Lincoln Park, they 
 thought, as that seemed to hold most attractions. Had 
 they been less young or less in love or more experienced in 
 cities, they might have considered the intense heat, for 
 people were sweltering around them ; but, as it was, Hubert 
 thought Maud only looked the prettier for the heat, and 
 she thought the tiny beads of perspiration that bedewed 
 his delicate forehead made him manlier and handsomer 
 than ever. Hubert was certainly a comely bridgroom, 
 and if he only had a heavier mustache ; but that was a 
 matter time would mend. They looked at the city hall, 
 and marvelled at its cost as given in the guide-book, and 
 were just a little disappointed that it did not have a dome, 
 like all the public buildings they had known. Maud 
 spoke of the capitol at Des Moines ; and they began to feel 
 so superior in their knowledge that they went into a res 
 taurant for lunch, and spent as much time as they wanted 
 over the bill of fare, as if they knew how to find things, 
 but could not find precisely what they wanted. Hubert 
 had a reserve guard now. When he could not settle on 
 anything, there being so very much to choose from, he 
 would say with an air of experience, " Just bring me ham 
 and eggs." He had seen a man across from him do that, 
 and it never cost very much ; and they always seemed to 
 have this, and he could learn of other dishes in time. 
 
 Still strong in their confidence of getting along in the 
 city, they went out, and tried to stop a street-car that had 
 
Qjiicksand iSi 
 
 the sign for Lincoln Park. Even Maud was puzzled here ; 
 for the grip-man seemed to pay no attention to their wav 
 ing, but waited for some mystic sign that the provincials 
 had not yet learned. 
 
 " This is not the way they do in Des Moines," com 
 plained Maud. " They stop when I hold up my hand." 
 
 " Go to the other corner, miss " ; said a policeman ; and 
 Hubert felt a blush of humiliation as they walked to the 
 other side of the street. They were soon out of sight of 
 the scene of their disgrace, however. That was the best 
 thing they found about Chicago. If they did make a 
 blunder about something, no one who saw them make it 
 would ever see them again. They glided into the cool 
 shade of the tunnel just then ; and, while they were en 
 joying the strangeness and the underground smell, they 
 came out into the sunlight. The car stopped when they 
 got to the park ; and together they walked the shaded 
 paths, and looked at the animals in the zoological gardens. 
 It was getting tiresome walking they had never sup 
 posed the park was so big when suddenly they came in 
 sight of the lake. They had not seen it before, had 
 hardly realised its nearness to Chicago. How beautiful 
 and breezy and blue this wondrous expanse of water 1 
 Neither of them had ever seen anything larger than the 
 Mississippi ; and here was clear level before them. They 
 could not see out across it. They sat down in the shade 
 of a tree, so that their hands could touch. Their ex 
 periences were sufficient for one day : they would not go 
 any farther. 
 
 The next day they went to the South Side, and decided 
 that that was where they should live. The University made 
 it seem like home to them, and there was the lake as well. 
 In the afternoon they went to the Art Institute; and 
 Hubert went through another passion of feeling when he 
 
182 Qjjicksand 
 
 looked on the luminous squares of the canvases, and 
 realised all of his art dreams in the white peopled gal 
 leries of sculpture. It was here, too, that he received the 
 first vague hint that his new wife might not contain all 
 perfections. For Maud wearied of pictures after a look, 
 and wanted to move on and see them all ; while he would 
 stand quite still, dreaming. Still, he loved Maud more 
 than the pictures. Besides, they could come here again ; 
 and she would grow into her love for them later. On 
 Sunday he begged her to go back, that being also a free 
 day; and she was quite willing to humour him, being 
 fond that his genius should be touched by these pictures 
 where her common feelings were not. She enjoyed look 
 ing at the crowd, anyway ; and she also enjoyed having the 
 crowd look at her. That Hubert came to be proud of as 
 well. So both were very well satisfied. 
 
 On Monday they set out to find rooms. They had 
 learned they should ask for light housekeeping; and, 
 choosing the locality they wanted, in reach of the lake 
 and the University, they walked up and down the streets, 
 with eyes set on the cards in the windows. 
 
 " They are all flats," said Maud, disgustedly, after they 
 had done several miles. 
 
 " What are flats, anyway ? " asked Hubert, finding that 
 he could not learn by examining the windows. 
 
 " Oh, they are rooms, only all on a flat," answered 
 Maud. 
 
 V" Wouldn t a little one do for us ? " suggested Hubert. 
 
 " Why, they re not furnished, dear, except some of 
 them that are furnished," she corrected. 
 
 They laughed at this, and wished there were some 
 place to sit down. They would find a restaurant, and 
 go out toward Jackson Park. 
 
 In the afternoon they made so bold as to ask a police 
 man they encountered. 
 
Qjiicksand 183 
 
 " You ll have to go in a little cheaper part of town," 
 he said kindly, and told them the names of some streets. 
 
 They searched all the afternoon, till Maud was quite 
 beat with walking. " We will come again in the morn 
 ing," they said, disappointed. " You know we expected 
 to look till Friday, and this is only Monday now." 
 
 The next day they had better success, being more ex 
 perienced in searching. On a street not very far from 
 the lake, and not such an enormous distance from the 
 University, they found a line of tall wooden houses that 
 seemed all given up to light housekeeping. They looked 
 at various places, Maud not seeming to mind at all the 
 telling of the landlady that the place would not do, where 
 Hubert would not have dared to refuse the first, shown 
 him, and finally decided on one that they said would do 
 very well. It was a large room, with an alcove for the 
 bed, and a tiny closet fitted up for cooking with a little 
 gasoline stove and several patches of oilcloth. The land 
 lady was Irish and good-natured. Maud whispered that 
 Hubert might make her into a character for the novel. 
 The terms were reasonable enough, and the landlady 
 showed them her dishes and let them pick out the ones 
 they thought prettiest. It seemed so jolly and cosey that 
 they decided to move next day and not take the advantage 
 of weekly rates at the hotel, but get away from the big, 
 formal place at once. 
 
 " It is almost like starting into college," said Hubert, 
 when they were moving ; and he thought it was a great 
 deal better when a woman s hands began to touch up the 
 room, making it homelike and pretty. 
 
 " To-morrow we will go down town and buy some 
 cheap stuff for curtains," said Maud ; and she consulted 
 with the landlady about it, and learned the best place 
 to go. 
 
184 Qjiicksand 
 
 What fun they had furnishing their play-house and 
 cooking and eating their first meals together 1 Hubert 
 was proving himself an excellent husband, cooking and 
 sewing as well as Maud could, and skilful in all things 
 about the house. They tacked and hammered and 
 moved, and stopped to kiss each other in the midst of it. 
 The Irish woman caught them kissing one day, but 
 kindly retreated without saying anything. They made 
 some book-shelves for their books and arranged a table 
 for writing. Everything was done by the end of the 
 week and the little rooms were the prettiest place to 
 them in Chicago. They walked by the dreary-looking 
 flats, and wondered how mortals could inhabit them 
 when their place offered the delights of rooms for light 
 housekeeping. 
 
 On Sunday they went to church, just to get the feel 
 ing of old residents. Besides, they liked the pipe organ 
 and the choir. Afterward they had a royal Sunday din 
 ner, and went out to walk in the park. 
 
 " To-morrow you can begin on your novel," said Maud ; 
 " and I will keep as quiet as a mouse, and never speak to 
 you once." 
 
 " Yes," said Hubert, so dolefully that they both burst 
 into irresistible laughter. Maud was laughing the 
 longest. " I will speak to you whenever you like," she 
 whispered. 
 
 But Hubert was looking far away, over the blue level 
 of the lake. 
 
XXX. 
 
 THE main thing in writing a novel is to have some 
 thing worth while to write. Now no one knew 
 this better than Hubert himself. Mr. Saunders 
 had insisted on it often, and his own sense of power had 
 always recognised it. Notwithstanding all that, he had 
 believed that his motive would come, once he could give 
 it occasion. He had much in his life for material, his 
 childhood, his intense love for nature, his religion and 
 the rationality that had rescued him from it, last of all 
 and most important, too, his love for Maud, and their 
 marriage, and their present comradeship together. 
 
 But, as he sat down in the muslin-curtained little room 
 at the neat table Maud had made ready, his motives 
 would not form into a plot. He would dream idly, and 
 not creatively. How very heart-sickening it was 1 He 
 began to go over his list. Surely, one would give impulse. 
 
 His childhood first, that set him thinking of his 
 mother, his dear mother to whom he had given such 
 hopes, who had denied herself and wearied herself for 
 him. He could see her now sitting in the kitchen, her 
 strained eyes fixed on the road in the vague hope to see 
 him returning. Love and care had left their marks on 
 that face. It had changed, perhaps, since he last saw her. 
 Had ever son, he asked himself, had ever son such a 
 mother as he ? There she was, sitting and waiting, erect 
 and proud as he knew her, with the nervous clutching mo 
 tion of her hands, as if she would hold him up to her. 
 
 " Maud, has the postman come yet ? " he would ask, 
 forgetting about his novel and how they had agreed not 
 to talk. 
 
 " No, dear, he did not stop : he has gone by." 
 
 When would his mother write to him again ? He had 
 
186 Qjiicksand 
 
 received one letter, just after they had moved from the 
 hotel. The letter was all love and forgiveness and 
 resignation, though he felt that the resignation had come 
 hardest. It was a short letter, however, and broken in 
 sentences, as if the one who wrote it had been sobbing. 
 He had replied to this with long explanations and a 
 description of their new home in Chicago. Maud had 
 put in a pretty note as well, asking her new mother s for 
 giveness. To that no answer had come : he had waited 
 now for a week. If Mary would write, or Libbie 
 He would wait a day or two longer, and then he would 
 write them again. 
 
 " Are you beginning, Hubert ? " asked Maud, " because 
 it is almost time now for dinner." 
 
 " I wish I d taken you home with me, dear, before we 
 came to Chicago. I want you to know my old home, and 
 love my dear mother and sisters." 
 
 " If we are very economical, we can go down for 
 Christmas," said Maud, petting him. " Now shall I 
 clear off the table and set the plates out for dinner ? " 
 
 His love for nature, again, how could that give him 
 force for a purpose ? He had written some beautiful 
 things : he knew when he created beauty, a critic was not 
 needed to tell him. He had written once since he came : 
 it was while looking out over the lake. He had gone for 
 a walk to work out his plot. Maud had not gone with 
 him that morning. He had sat down on the shore, and 
 then the poet charm had come over him. The intense 
 blue of the water searched his soul ; like inspiration the 
 words had flowed on his paper. There was the joy of 
 creation. There was the pride that power gives. He 
 had taken it home to Maud, and it made them happy for 
 days. But it was hardly a work that could bring fame. 
 Still, they sent it off to a magazine, and had great hopes 
 
Quicksand 187 
 
 in foreseeing the sensation when the blue dream should 
 come out in print. The money, too, would be very 
 welcome. 
 
 There was still another source of inspiration for him 
 now, and that was the pictures in the gallery. These 
 spoke to him as the real fields had done, or his own grand, 
 slow-moving Mississippi. Perhaps they would give him 
 some story. He studied the old Rembrandts especially, 
 and a young man that Franz Hals had imagined. Stories 
 did come ; but they needed a strange foreign setting, 
 something that he knew only from books. He was wise 
 enough in his youth to know that he must write from him 
 self, not from reading, and turned to the landscapes again. 
 In the end, he came to the conclusion that, while nature 
 could lift him for a time, it could not sustain him for any 
 thing of great length or permanence. It was people, 
 people he must write; and he turned to his repertory 
 again. 
 
 Religion ! yes, there was material. That was an 
 experience he had lived through and conquered. He 
 could calmly review it from the past : it was ripe seed, 
 ready in his hand. He plotted a story with the hero a 
 young preacher he had seen at a camp-meeting, a Swed 
 ish country fellow of great magnetism as a speaker, and 
 an experience something like Christian s in the " Pilgrim s 
 Progress " of his childhood. He made this man a success 
 ful preacher, and then began torturing him with doubts. 
 There was love in this tale as well : a girl who was 
 strikingly like Maud, though every feature was changed 
 and her colour swarthy brunette. The girl was religious, 
 too; but she was changed by the preacher s new argu 
 ments, and they were married and happy ever after. 
 This seemed to promise real material ; but how could he 
 ever put it into print and place it before his mother, his 
 
i88 Qjiicksand 
 
 mother, whom he had deceived in these matters, whose 
 only comfort left in her son was the hope that he was 
 writing books of sermons or of Sunday-school stories, 
 those that would bring sinners to Christ, praying at the 
 bench for salvation ? Still, he wrote on blindly for a 
 time, it seemed to be his only hope. Then he stopped 
 suddenly, and put the half-finished manuscript away. It 
 seemed like smothering a baby, but he firmly put it from 
 sight. For three days and nights he had had the vision 
 of his mother sitting before him, the despair settled hope 
 less in her eyes. 
 
 He turned to his love for his wife. That could do 
 nobody harm, and the world was always eager for love. 
 But here was the greatest difficulty of all : he could not 
 write love, because he was all the time living it. He had 
 no sense of throwing it into perspective, he could not get 
 the artist s point of view. Love-songs and sonnets he 
 could write. These he had going from magazine to mag 
 azine, but without anywhere finding acceptance, because 
 they were too genuine, doubtless. But anything like 
 the dialogue of a novel, or any analytical writings, these 
 he could not do at all. Even Maud acknowledged his 
 failure. 
 
 " What s the difference, anyway ? " she comforted. 
 " You can make love, Hubert, if you can t write it ; and I 
 think that s a great deal nicer." 
 
 The winter came on to find him still struggling. They 
 did not go home on Christmas : they could not afford the 
 expense. Living was dear in Chicago. Still his mother s 
 letters were calling him, but he could not say they were 
 poor. A married man who is living off the income of 
 his wife cannot receive help from his family. One pride 
 shuts out the other. How this dependence galled him, 
 when he thought of it, as in fact he was continually doing 1 
 
Qjuicksand 189 
 
 He tried to get work, but there seemed no place. They 
 did not know a soul in the city. He made application 
 for teaching in the night schools ; but the places were 
 political favours, and he had no influential friends. 
 Toward spring he succeeded in getting acquainted with 
 a teacher in the public schools, and secured a little work 
 from him, looking over the examination papers of the pupils 
 and grading them accurately. This gave him something 
 to hold him still when his threadbare nervous system was 
 rebellious. 
 
 Worst of all, this condition of health was making him 
 irritable in his conduct toward his wife ; and she, not 
 being able to understand it, was wearing nervously thread 
 bare, too. Poor Maud ! she, too, had her troubles. It 
 was another case of lack of occupation. She was growing 
 lonesome and restless ; for the light housekeeping had 
 proved to be so very light that it scarcely took any time 
 at all. Then she knew nobody. There are no neighbours 
 in the city. The landlady was not sufficient. How dull 
 the long mornings were, keeping still for Hubert to write ! 
 If he had been writing, she would not so much have 
 minded ; but he just sat stupidly dreaming or nervously 
 inviting her to talk with him. When she did talk, he 
 scolded. When he scolded, she cried. 
 
 The afternoons they had planned for amusements ; but 
 amusements in the city mean money, and money they did 
 not have to waste. This, again, was hard for the wife. 
 Her income had been plenty for one. She had been accus 
 tomed to having anything she chose. She had been proud 
 at first to deny herself ; but self-denial grows monotonous 
 when practised without any return through all the week 
 days and Sundays. They used to walk in the park ; but 
 cold weather made walking uncomfortable, and they were 
 tired of the accurate driveways and landscape effects, and 
 
Quicksand 
 
 the long streets of houses were no better. Then Hubert 
 received the great piles of examination papers to correct, 
 and that kept him in afternoons and evenings. Drudge, 
 drudge, drudge 1 Maud got so she hated the seasons of 
 examination papers more than she hated the novels. 
 Hubert had been accustomed to reading to her, or she 
 would read to him. They were jolly with a lounge they 
 had arranged. He would lie with his head in her lap ; 
 but now that tame amusement was over. It was, per 
 haps, as well, however; for he liked poetry and Shak- 
 spere, while she liked only the novels. " Trashy novels " 
 Hubert had called them. " At all events, they are more 
 than you can write," Maud replied; and then she was 
 sorry, and they tried to make it up. 
 
 Nothing being published the next summer, not even 
 a novel wholly written, they were neither of them sorry 
 for a letter from Mrs. Hinckley, announcing that she 
 would visit them in September. 
 
fir 
 
 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 MINISTER SIMMONS was a widower. His wife 
 had left him two children. There was consider 
 able gossip in the neighbourhood as to whom he 
 should take up with next ; for everybody considered that it 
 was his duty to take another wife, and make a home for 
 himself. It was also common in gossip that he was look 
 ing again toward the Hinckleys. This revived the dis 
 cussion of how it was that Libbie Hinckley did not get 
 him before, when everybody knew she was after him. 
 Perhaps Mr. Simmons would choose Mary this time. She 
 would make the better minister s wife. Some people 
 thought he ought to marry Letty Green, the sister of his 
 deceased wife. She would have more heart for the chil 
 dren. But others held the old prejudice that a deceased 
 wife s sister is not eligible, and these favoured Mary 
 Hinckley or else spoke of the Foster girls. At all events, 
 his choice was the chief interest of the neighbourhood, 
 especially the female part of it. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley and Libbie took secret part in this 
 activity. 
 
 " It would be such a good match for Mary," suggested 
 Libbie ; and this time her mother was considerate. 
 
 " You are older than Mary, Libbie. You ought to marry 
 first." 
 
 i" I have yet to see the man that I will have," replied 
 bbie ; " and I hate and despise other people s children." 
 " Perhaps the Greens will adopt them. I should never 
 give up my daughter s children, and let a strange mother 
 have them." 
 
 "Trust the Greens for that, unless they can throw 
 Letty in with the children, and adopt the whole family 
 together. Did you see her sidling up to him in church ; 
 
Qjiicksand 
 
 and his wife dead only seven months, and her sister into 
 the bargain ! " 
 
 " You know you invited him here," suggested Mrs. 
 Hinckley, mildly. 
 
 " That s different. I m not fishing for myself, and 
 Minister Simmons knows it. He knows, and the whole 
 neighbourhood knows, that I wouldn t take him as a 
 gift." 
 
 " I wish you could look at it in another light, Libbie," 
 still insisted her mother. 
 
 " Mother, don t you know that, if I married, then Mary 
 would marry Hiram Stubbs ? If I can, she can, you see." 
 
 " I don t think she wants Hiram now. I think she 
 realises her mistake. Don t you notice they are never 
 together ? " 
 
 " You ask her," was Libbie s terse reply. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley did ask her soon : the two were walking 
 in the orchard, looking to see if the apples had set. 
 
 " Mary," said Mrs. Hinckley, abruptly, " if I had let 
 you that time, would you have married Hiram Stubbs ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother, I would marry him now if you d let me," 
 replied Mary, blushing deep red, and her soft voice trem 
 bling with earnestness. 
 
 " But, dear, don t you think, now if Hubert or the 
 people of Fort Madison came to see you, wouldn t you be 
 ashamed to introduce Hiram to them as your husband ? 
 Such an uneducated man ? " 
 
 " No, I shouldn t, mother," answered Mary. " I am 
 not well educated myself, and I do not care for society." 
 
 " But it would be nice now to be a minister s wife in 
 Fort Madison, the head of the church society, for in 
 stance ? " 
 
 " I am not fit for it, mother. There are college women 
 in Fort Madison, and I should feel out of my station." 
 
Qjaicksand 193 
 
 " Mr. Simmons himself is not a college man, like Hu 
 bert. He just went to the theological seminary." 
 
 " I should rather be a farmer s wife, mother, and live 
 here close by you." 
 
 " Hiram is such a rough fellow. He is hardly respected 
 in the neighbourhood." 
 
 " Mother, he is thought more of in the neighbourhood 
 than any man I know. He is always called in when there 
 is sickness or trouble, and no one needs to ask Hiram 
 twice." 
 
 " I know ; but that is in such a common way. I recog 
 nise Hiram s good qualities, but he does not go into so 
 ciety." 
 
 " Mother, neither do I." 
 
 " But you should. It s your place, Mary. We are one 
 of the oldest families in this neighbourhood, and of good 
 New England stock. My Grandfather Cummings was re 
 spected throughout his county, one of the best counties in 
 New Hampshire." 
 
 " I thought it was Hiram s religion that you objected 
 to," said Mary. 
 
 " It s that, too ; but I want a position for you, Mary. 
 I care too much for you to see you marry a farmer, a 
 man who has been a common sailor." 
 
 " Mother, I have heard you say that our first ancestor 
 in America was a sailor. The very first Cummings, you 
 said." 
 
 "Why, yes; but society has grown up since then. 
 Besides, sailors were different in those days ; and that was 
 generations ago. That s what makes us an old family." 
 
 " I don t see how old families are better than new 
 ones," faltered Mary. 
 
 " Well, at all events, Mr. Simmons may come here 
 occasionally ; and I want you to be kind to him, Mary, for 
 my sake." 
 
194 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 " I wish Libbie would marry Mr. Simmons," said Mary, 
 impetuously. 
 
 " I wish she would," sighed Mrs. Hinckley, sorrowfully. 
 " Libbie ought to be married and have a home of her 
 own." 
 
 " Yes, she s getting so cross we can t stand her some 
 times." 
 
 " But she objects, you know, to marrying a widower 
 with children. They say Mr. Simmons is a very kind 
 father." 
 
 The conversation drifted here to the neighbourhood talk 
 and the Foster girls and Letty Green and her prospects. 
 Mary did not speak again of Hiram, but a faint hope was 
 awakened within her. 
 
 It began to sleep again, however, when that week Mr. 
 Simmorts called one afternoon, and showed a decided 
 preference to talk with her, being aided and encouraged 
 by Libbie. She could see, too, that her mother was 
 hopeful, thinking that she might come to change her 
 mind. Mr. Simmons s visits continued, and grew more 
 frequent. They were often left alone together. Mary be 
 came more and more nervous. Would they force her 
 into marrying him yet ? She would plan to slip away and 
 see Hiram. He would give her strength to resist. One 
 day she told Libbie she was going to the Johnsons to 
 borrow their largest brass kettle. Libbie thought Hiram 
 was with Sam in the potato field ; but they had found it 
 too wet to hoe, and Hiram was choring about the cabin. 
 She started out toward the Johnsons , and then slipped 
 down behind the hedge and came in the back way through 
 the grove. 
 
 Hiram was working at the wood pile, mending the 
 wooden horse for the draw-shave. 
 
 " Hello, Mate 1 " he called out, as he saw her. " So 
 you re sneaking away from the folks ? " 
 
Qjuicksand 195 
 
 " They are worrying me to death, Hiram," she said ; 
 and he drew her down by his side, forgetting to let go of 
 her hand, his eyes resting fondly upon her. 
 
 " I believe you and I get as much solid comfort out of 
 life as most of the married folks," he said gently : " only 
 you ought to come oftener, Mary." 
 
 " I think of you all the time, Hiram ; but I dare not 
 come because of Libbie." 
 
 " And I think of you, too, all the time, or near all the 
 time," he said, correcting himself for honesty s sake. 
 
 "I ll always love you, Hiram." And here she began 
 sobbing and shaking. 
 
 " There, there, child, of course. That s because I ll 
 always love you back." He rested her head on his 
 knees. She had slipped down to be at his feet ; and he 
 took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, calling her 
 all possible endearing names, his rich voice tender and 
 vibrating. 
 
 " What have they been doing to you lately ? " he said, 
 after she was growing more quiet. " Sit up, and give me 
 a ". But Mary would not sit up. He was obliged to 
 stoop over, and pull back the tangled brown hair to get a 
 wee spot at her temple. Then they were both laughing 
 at the tussle. 
 
 " Is it that Simmons again ? " he said, questioning. 
 
 " They re going to have a camp-meeting at West Point, 
 and they are crazy to make me go to it. Mother and 
 Sam are going, and maybe Libbie, too, though she wants 
 me to instead, and says she will get the Johnsons to 
 come and stay nights." 
 
 " Do you want to go ? " asked Hiram. 
 
 " No, no," fluttered Mary. 
 
 " Then don t go." 
 
 " Libbie will have a fit." 
 
1 96 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 " She s had em before," said Hiram. 
 
 " Mother doesn t say much, but she takes it for granted 
 I m going, and so does Libbie ; and they re helping me 
 with my dresses." 
 
 " Just fool em ; and, when the time comes to say it, 
 say, I m not going, thank you 1 " advised Hiram. 
 
 " Hiram, Mr. Simmons is coming up to-morrow after 
 noon, I overheard mother talking with Libbie, and I 
 am afraid he is going to make me promise to go. You 
 know he will be one of the principal preachers at West 
 Point." 
 
 " Will he ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and, if he asks me, some way I It s hard to 
 say no. I am a little afraid of Mr. Simmons." 
 
 "I ain t," said Hiram, sturdily. 
 
 "Hiram, if they get me there by themselves and all 
 alone, and with the excitement of the meeting, there s no 
 telling what they ll make me promise." 
 
 " You have promised me one thing," he said fondly. 
 
 " But they won t let me. I can t keep that promise, 
 Hiram. It would break their hearts if I kept that." 
 
 " Now look here, Mary," he said, taking her face in his 
 hands and turning it squarely up to him. " You made me 
 a promise to marry me, didn t you ? " 
 
 " Yes, Hiram," softly. 
 
 " Well, if you can t keep your promise to marry me 
 now, you at all events can t break it, can you ? " 
 
 " I don t want to break it, Hiram." 
 
 " And you will not ? " 
 
 " No, Hiram." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " But, Hiram, you ve no idea how they torment me." 
 
 " So that Persimmons is coming to see you to-morrow, 
 is he ? " This thoughtfully. 
 
Qjuicksand 197 
 
 " O Hiram, you mustn t be around. I should be 
 frightened out of my life." 
 
 " How would I frighten you ? " he asked amusedly. 
 
 " Mother says sailors are so rough and and hasty." 
 
 Hiram laughed merrily. " Mary, why are you afraid of 
 sailors ? I haven t been on the sea for ten years, but I ll 
 go again if you don t marry me quick." 
 
 " Don t go now, dear Hiram." 
 
 " And, before I went to sea, I used to live with your 
 father and mother." 
 
 " I remember how you looked," said Mary, wistfully. 
 
 " Oh, you do." 
 
 " But now, I ve got to go to Johnsons after their big 
 brass kettle. I told Libbie I was, and she ll ask them 
 about it to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, they are watching you. Mary, let s run away, 
 like Hubert." 
 
 " Where should we go ? " 
 
 " Go and ask Preacher Simmons to marry us. Just to 
 see how he d take the joke." 
 
 Then he began teasing her for kisses, and she ran away 
 like a girl instead of a woman of twenty-five. And he 
 was pursuing like a boy, laughing and holding her arms 
 tight, rubbing his rough face against her cheek and get 
 ting his prickly mustache in her eyes. 
 
 Finally, she got away from him. 
 
 "I ll never come again," she protested. 
 
 " Until you can get away from Libbie," he laughed ; and 
 then, as a final parting, " I ll be at work in the potato 
 field to-morrow, and, if you need any help, just spread a 
 towel on the end of the grape arbor. I ll be with you in 
 a jiffy." 
 
 She shook her head, and disappeared from view among 
 the trees. 
 
XXXII. 
 
 HIRAM was at work in the potato field the next 
 day, hilling up the earth around the succulent 
 young plants, and whistling " They All love 
 Jack." Sometimes he would hum a stanza for variation 
 or round in a shout on the chorus. He kept an eye on 
 the farm-house up the hill ; though, for that matter, he 
 usually did, just to see if Mary might step out. As he 
 whistled and hoed, he was thinking. 
 
 " How am I going to handle that Persimmons, anyway ? 
 Any other man, now, I could thrash ; but it s a disgrace, 
 I suppose, to thrash a preacher. Preachers are some 
 thing like women : there s no way of handling them except 
 by talking religion. I m not much at talking religion." 
 He moved along with the whistling. " But Persimmons 
 has got to let Mary alone. He must promise me. I ll 
 make him do it some way, even if I have to talk religion." 
 Here the chorus came in loud and strong. It sounded 
 more like a war-whoop than a love-song. 
 
 In the afternoon the potatoes were finished just as 
 Minister Simmons s black-covered buggy was stopping at 
 the Hinckley gate. 
 
 "I ll go up and pick some currants," said Hiram. 
 " Mrs. Hinckley will like some to put with her raspberries. 
 Her currants are not good this year. So they will take her 
 to camp-meeting, will they ? The one thing that keeps 
 Mate from perfection is just a little wanting of spunk. 
 Still, if she had it, she d not be so perfect as she is," he 
 added thoughtfully. He took a tin milk-pail from the 
 rack in the sunshine, and walked off to the currant 
 bushes. They were still further up the hill than the 
 potatoes, just joining the Hinckleys land. " Libbie 11 
 be coming down to help me if I don t keep myself out of 
 
Qjuicksand 199 
 
 sight," his thoughts ran. " Now there s a case of pure 
 meddling. Why couldn t they have let that girl marry 
 Oliver ? He s worth a dozen of the Persimmons. That 
 chalk-faced, lantern-jawed booby 1 How women will run 
 for a minister, especially women who are married or too 
 old to marry." He kept well in the shade of the hedge 
 until he had reached the line of the currant bushes. Then 
 he stepped out nimbly in full view of the stone house, and 
 knelt down behind the bushes with the tin pail between 
 his knees, and began picking the coral red clusters of 
 currants. Occasionally he would look up through the 
 bushes. The minister s horse was gnawing at the gate 
 post. All was quiet about the house. Then he would 
 resume the picking, sometimes humming softly, 
 
 " Mistress Mary, quite contrary, 
 How does your garden grow ? " 
 
 " Hello 1 there s Mrs. Hinckley and Libbie going out 
 to the raspberry patch. So they will pick some berries 
 for the minister, and leave him with Mary in the house." 
 
 His picking was a little uneven : he was getting a good 
 many leaves in the pail. " It takes a preacher for a trick 
 like that," he was muttering, " to take advantage of a 
 woman." He kept on picking for twenty minutes. His 
 haste now was to fill the pail. " That s full enough," he 
 said suddenly. " I think I ll take it right up." He 
 began walking very fast, considering the heat of the day ; 
 and the stern, set look on his face was hardly the expres 
 sion one sees when a gentleman gives a present to a lady. 
 
 Libbie saw him going toward the house, and called out 
 from the raspberry bushes, " Hiram, come over here." 
 
 The wind must have been blowing the wrong way, for 
 she could not make him hear her, and she started with her 
 mother for the house, they could hardly tell what was 
 their reason. 
 
200 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 As Hiram turned the corner of the grape arbor, he saw 
 something that set him on fire. 
 
 Mary was sitting on the kitchen porch, crying; and 
 Minister Simmons was leaning over behind her. He was 
 in the act of slipping his arm around her waist, and his 
 right hand was moving toward her chin. His long red 
 beard hung down in front, half concealing the sobbing 
 girl s face. " It is your soul that is in trouble," he was 
 saying. 
 
 Hiram did not set down his currants. He merely 
 transferred the pail from right hand to left. His right 
 hand clutched the down-hanging red beard ; and, with a 
 series of violent jerks that threatened entirely to dislodge 
 the surprised minister s head, he yanked him into the 
 middle of the yard, and brought him up face to face with 
 his fury, his blue eyes blazing like fires. 
 
 " If you want to talk about souls, come to me," he said 
 scornfully. " That woman has promised to be my wife, 
 and my soul goes along with hers." 
 
 The minister could only make clatter with his teeth, for 
 Hiram s grip still quivered in his whiskers. 
 
 " Now take off your coat, and we will fight," said 
 Hiram, letting go with a final shake. " I ll hold this pail 
 behind me with one hand, so as to give you equal advan 
 tage, though you are an inch taller than I am, and have 
 skin and bones enough for two." 
 
 " I don t fight," said Mr. Simmons, summoning all the 
 dignity left him. " I am a minister of the gospel, and I 
 don t fight." 
 
 " Oh, you don t ? Then we ll see if we can warm you 
 to a spar." And the irate Hiram began cuffing him, a slap 
 on each side of the jaw, first one side, then on the other, 
 with increasing vigour and rapidity. 
 
 The minister was forced to defend himself ; but, being 
 
Qjiicksand 201 
 
 confused in his arms, he brought his foot into action, and 
 gave Hiram an ugly kick upward. 
 
 " So that s your minister s game ! " shouted the farmer, 
 his rage now at whitest of heat. " We ll put a stop to 
 that trick." With his left hand he swung the pail of cur 
 rants ; but, not using it as a weapon, he jammed it 
 instead, with quick turning, down over the minister s head, 
 the bail swinging under his chin. Then he took the long 
 preacher by the collar, and snaked him backward across 
 the yard to the bench where the milk-pans were sunning. 
 He drew him enough out of the direct course to pass by 
 the ash-barrel under the plum-tree. One kick of Hiram s 
 foot sent it to staves ; and, catching one of them up in his 
 hand, he sat down on the bench very lightly, a hip-catch 
 throwing the preacher over his knees face downward, the 
 currant pail still on his head. 
 
 " I ll teach you to kick me, you big baby ! " shouted 
 Hiram, angrily; and, crowding the minister s kicking 
 extremities down under the bench and binding his flutter 
 ing arms with his left hand, he laid aside the barrel stave 
 only long enough to deliberately turn the skirts of the 
 ministerial black coat over the helmeted head, and then 
 with the barrel stave flatwise he rained its resounding 
 spanks square across two shiny worn patches, doubtless 
 sewed in by the minister s first wife, but now needing the 
 repairs of a second. Hiram s rage was increasing with 
 the blows, the minister would not be able to sit down 
 at the camp-meeting, when fortunate interruption came. 
 
 Libbie and Mrs. Hinckley appeared, and the noise had 
 called Sam from the barn. Their screams brought Hiram 
 to himself ; and his anger, going as fast as it came, left him 
 with a grim smile, surveying the flourishing black extrem 
 ities of the preacher with the tin pail wedged tightly over 
 his head. A jerk of the collar brought the culprit to his 
 
202 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 feet. He stood in the middle of the circle, his trembling 
 bony hand working and clutching at the bail under his 
 chin. 
 
 It was Libbie who first began laughing. The minister 
 looked so ridiculously funny as he drew the pail from his 
 head and dug the currants and leaves from his eyes. 
 His red beard, unused to this treatment, was sticking out 
 front like a goat s, and was decorated with clusters of the 
 currants, which also lay in piles on his shoulders and juicy 
 pulp over his ears, while the top of his head was soft 
 jam. Libbie was inclined to be hysterical, and then Mary 
 joined in with her ; and Sam lay down on the ground, and 
 rolled till his black hair was filled with the ashes that 
 Hiram had kicked out of the barrel. 
 
 Only Mrs. Hinckley did not smile, but brought the 
 minister a towel. Then she turned to Hiram coldly. 
 
 " You may leave this house forever," she said drily. 
 " Never darken my doors again 1 " 
 
 Hiram went away toward the cabin, picking up the 
 battered milk-pail. In truth, he did not feel like laugh 
 ing. The heat of his passion had left him only chagrin. 
 It was not until he had filled his pail a second time with 
 currants, and had seen the preacher s buggy drive away, 
 and Sam had come down to join him, that his risibles 
 seized the control. Sam was broadly grinning as he 
 approached ; and he began to tell how they cleaned up the 
 minister, when suddenly Hiram lay down on the ground 
 and began to double up like a jack-knife. In a flash the 
 two men were rolling together, reploughing the soft earth 
 with their heads as they whooped and shouted in laughter. 
 Sam took a hitch in his stomach that made him sore for a 
 week ; and still the two roared and gasped, while the black- 
 topped buggy jogged away. 
 
XXXIII. 
 
 THAT very week the gossip went through the 
 neighbourhood that Minister Simmons was engaged 
 to Letty Green. " The Hinckleys have made 
 another failure," said the spiteful ones. " It looks as if 
 Libbie was going to be an old maid, after all her trouble." 
 
 Something of quite as much import as the minister s 
 engagement had resulted to the Hinckley family, and that 
 was that Hiram Stubbs was forbidden the house. Mrs. 
 Hinckley had pronounced the ultimatum. 
 
 " Why, I shall never dare to go to church in Fort 
 Madison again after that disgraceful affair. I could not 
 bear to look Mr. Simmons in the face." 
 
 " No. I shall always think of his eyes full of currants 
 and the bunches of them tangled in his beard," said 
 Libbie, who had been pleading Hiram s cause. 
 
 " Libbie, I can never forgive you for laughing in his 
 face. I should not have thought you capable of it, and 
 you a convert to religion and a member of the church in 
 good standing." 
 
 " But, mother, his arms and legs were like a windmill. 
 And did you see the dust rise from those patches ? " 
 
 " The vulgar trick of a low sailor," said Mrs. Hinckley, 
 with severity. " I have always said no good can come of 
 a sailor, and I m glad I ve been instrumental in preserving 
 my Mary from such a fate as becoming his wife." 
 
 " I don t think Hiram will tell if the minister doesn t," 
 suggested Mary. 
 
 "It is enough. We will speak no more of Hiram. 
 Henceforth you will not speak to him if you are my 
 daughter, and I have told Mary the same." 
 
 " Sam speaks to him," said Libbie, sullenly. 
 
 " A man may do things that are not proper for a 
 
204 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 woman." And Mrs. Hinckley had made an end of 
 objections. 
 
 While Libbie recognised that there was some justice 
 in punishing Mary, since she had been the one who had 
 brought it all about, she did not consider herself bound 
 by this mandate, and made up her mind to speak to 
 Hiram the first time that she saw him alone. One day 
 she heard his axe ringing out in the woods down on the 
 creek. Mary had gone to the Johnsons and her mother 
 was at work canning raspberries. Libbie had not seen 
 Hiram for two weeks. She would put on her bonnet, and 
 go out hunting wild flowers. Perhaps she would go down 
 by the creek. She put on her afternoon dress and a 
 pretty apron with pockets. Then she gave a last glance 
 in the mirror. " I am not so homely a girl yet," was her 
 verdict, as she ran up over the hill, and down again 
 across the pasture toward the creek. The sound of the 
 axe stopped about here. Perhaps Hiram would soon be 
 returning. Anyway, he must come along the path. It 
 would be quite as well to meet him accidentally. She 
 stopped in the pasture to gather some of the flame-coloured 
 milk-weed, sometimes known as " queen of the meadow." 
 " It would be very becoming in my hair," she was think 
 ing, "if it were not for the sticky, milky juice soiling 
 everything." But she gathered it wherever it grew till 
 she carried a huge clump of its fiery red glow in her arms. 
 Why did not Hiram return ? She walked slowly on 
 along the path. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mary, too, had heard the axe. Perhaps it 
 was intended Mary should hear, for Hiram was getting 
 very lonely. Mary might go to the Johnsons , and she 
 might pass around by the wood. That was the reason 
 the axe stopped and Libbie had not heard its note ring 
 ing. 
 
QJI i c k s a n d 205 
 
 "Ahl little Mary," he said, running to her with out 
 stretched arms. 
 
 "It is very wrong of me to come, Hiram," she whis 
 pered, after a silence. 
 
 " Wrong to come and see the man you have accepted 
 for your husband ? " 
 
 "When my mother has forbidden it, Hiram." 
 
 " Ah ! but husbands have rights as well as mothers, and 
 I forbid you not to come." 
 
 " It would be very sweet to be married," said Mary, 
 with a wistful pleading in her brown, happy face. 
 
 " Sit down. No, here by my knee, but facing me, so I 
 can look into your eyes. Now give me both hands, little 
 Mary; for I have something to tell you." He took her 
 two hands in his one, when they had made themselves 
 comfortable. Sometimes he held them to his cheek. His 
 right hand was free, smoothing her hair. She loved the 
 great palm and firm fingers delicately touching her hair, 
 brushing it away from her forehead. 
 
 " What have you got to tell, Hiram ? I must not stay 
 very long." 
 
 " Listen, Mary ! I will finish up my work here early 
 this year, arrange with Sam to get in my corn, and go up 
 to Minnesota for the harvest. You know it comes later in 
 the north." 
 
 He felt her hands clutch his head, but he only laughed 
 merrily at that. 
 
 " I guess you love me all right, even if I did spank your 
 minister. Well, after the harvest, I will try to get more 
 work. I might even go into Canada hunting for the 
 winter. I think I could make some money up there." 
 
 " What do you need money for, Hiram ? " She could 
 not bear to think of his going away. 
 
 " Wait, You see I haven t much ah^ad, I put most of 
 
206 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 it into the house and barn and all of the improvements 
 I ve made. Now, you see, this is my plan: I will come 
 into Chicago as soon as I can get a little money, and you 
 can get away to see Hubert some way. We will arrange 
 that ; and then we will be married in Chicago, and stay 
 away for a time, long enough for Libbie to get over it 
 and for your mother to forgive you. They will be beg 
 ging us back in six months ; and everything then will be 
 settled, and we will move into the new house at last." 
 
 " It sounds very sweet," sighed Mary. " Are you sure 
 mother and Libbie would forgive us ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it, Mary," he said solemnly. " We 
 ought to have done it four years ago ; but you kept saying, 
 Wait, we will arrange it. " 
 
 " I wish now I had married you then. It would have 
 been much easier," said Mary. 
 
 " Of course ; and every day we wait it gets harder. 
 Promise me you will do it, Mary." 
 
 " How can I hear from you, if you go away ? " she said, 
 temporizing. " Mother may stop any letters." 
 
 "I 11 send the letters to Al Johnson. He d die fora 
 chance to serve me." 
 
 " Everybody loves you, Hiram." 
 
 " That s the trouble. I wish it was only you who loved 
 me." There was a merry sparkle in his eye. 
 
 " Don t, Hiram," she pleaded, pouting. " I love my 
 sister Libbie very dearly." 
 
 " As a sister, she will do very well ; but you have not 
 promised me, Mary." 
 
 " I will try, Hiram." 
 
 " No, no, no. Look me square in the eye. Promise 
 me you will do it, Mary." 
 
 " It is hard to do, when one is surrounded and coaxed 
 and managed." 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 207 
 
 " Promise, Mary," he said, pleading, his own earnest 
 ness getting mastery of his voice. 
 
 " I promise, Hiram," she said, half crying ; and he 
 caught her up close to his breast. 
 
 "You are bound," he said to her, laughing again. 
 " Keep promising, or I ll never stop kissing you." 
 
 " I don t want you to stop yet, Hiram. I ve been so 
 lonely without seeing you 1 How can I ever stand a 
 whole fall and a winter ? " 
 
 " Because spring will be at the end," he said fondly. 
 " Spring and summer and all the winters together." 
 
 " Yes, I promise," she repeated again ; " and we won t 
 need much money, Hiram. If you can get some good 
 place to work, I will come on and help you."^ 
 
 " Would you work out for my sake, Mary ? " 
 
 " Why, I d do anything. I d be a slave for you. It s 
 only my caring for mother that keeps me back. Just get 
 a place to work, Hiram. Never mind about the money." 
 
 " No, my wife shall have things comfortable," he said 
 proudly. " We can wait till another spring. Now you 
 must promise me once more. Promise me as hard as you 
 love me." 
 
 She threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him 
 with all of her strength. Just then Libbie arrived. 
 
 She stood as if petrified for a moment, and then made 
 a dash to snatch Mary away. They were both so sur 
 prised at the interruption that they had sprung up from 
 the ground, Hiram holding Mary s hand in his grip, 
 though she tried hard to draw it from him. Libbie seized 
 her other arm. 
 
 " So this is the way you obey your mother, Miss Mary, 
 and go off on errands to the Johnsons ? Oh, you dis 
 graceful minx ! Drop her hand, Hiram Stubbs ! How 
 dare you face me in this brazen manner ? " 
 
208 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 "You forget, Libbie," he said good-naturedly "that 
 Mary and I have been engaged for five years, and that I 
 am quite able to protect her good name." 
 
 " You are engaged with none of my consent," snapped 
 Libbie, her jealousy burning up like the flowers that she 
 still held clutched in her hand. 
 
 " Your consent was not needed," replied Hiram. " It 
 was Mary s affair and mine." 
 
 Libbie could not endure seeing their hands clasped to 
 gether. She flung the flowers in Hiram s face, and seized 
 the hands that were clasped, trying to pull them asunder. 
 
 Hiram was still laughing slightly, more to reassure Mary 
 than because he felt anything but pity. 
 
 Libbie was exhausted with her own panting. She tried 
 to scratch and bite Mary s arm, and tore open her thin 
 summer sleeve. Then she seized Hiram s hand with her 
 teeth, and bit into his thumb until the blood ran. 
 
 " See here, this is getting disgusting," he said in an irri 
 tated tone. Then he put his hands under her jaw, and 
 held her from biting again. 
 
 But his touch brought complete change to her. His 
 touch, even in scorn, went to her heart. She would die 
 if he only would touch her ; and now all the force turned 
 to weeping for happiness, almost, because his hands lay 
 upon her. In a passion of heavenly weeping or of hell 
 weeping, as some would have thought it, she turned and 
 flung her arms around his neck, and forced her face up to 
 his. For a moment her strength almost equalled his own. 
 She would break all her strength just to kiss him. 
 
 But he held her now firmly at arm s length. " You are 
 making a fool of yourself, Libbie. You will regret this all of 
 your life. Keep off 1 " And he released his hold. " Keep 
 off, I say I " he repeated, as she made a second spring. 
 He stepped one side as she came at him ; and she fell in 
 
QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 209 
 
 a helpless heap on the ground, crying and sobbing on the 
 earth, with the flame-coloured flowers around her. 
 
 " Go home alone, Mary," said Hiram, turning on the 
 sister. " Leave her to come when she chooses." 
 
 " She might hurt herself," faltered Mary. 
 
 " She is not so apt to do it as if you are here," he re 
 plied. " Go on, and I will go the other way." 
 
 Mary saw it was the best. Hiram took his axe with 
 him, and signalled that he would watch Libbie from the 
 distance. 
 
 They left her in a spasm of weeping, clutching at the 
 flame-coloured flowers. 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 MRS. HINCKLEY had never been in such a large 
 city as Chicago, but she felt little fear or confu 
 sion. The smoke and dirt and dreariness im 
 pressed her more than anything else. What a dreadful 
 place for Hubert to live I It must be his wife s will that 
 keeps him here. How can he breathe in such a place ? 
 Once, when the train went jangling through a network of 
 tracks, it did seem to her a little dangerous, there was 
 on every hand a chance of collision. Then it occurred to 
 her that Hubert might not be at the station. He might get 
 lost or injured ; and how could she ever find him in that 
 mixture ? But, when the brakeman called out Chicago, 
 she began to tremble so that she could hardly gather up 
 her parcels. She had not seen Hubert for over a ye: r, 
 and the sorrow for her loneliness was sweeping over h( r. 
 The porter helped her out into the gloomy cavern of tl .e 
 station ; and the crowd went rushing by her, jostling her 
 valise and parcels. What a big place 1 How could 
 Hubert ever find her ? And then he came running up. 
 So handsome and stylish he had grown, and this while 
 away from her fostering ! A pang of jealousy for the 
 wife she had never seen made her hug her boy all the 
 closer, and look for some hidden discontent or mark of 
 sickness in his face. 
 
 " You haven t changed a bit ! " said Hubert, joyfully. 
 " I was so afraid you would look a day older 1 " 
 
 " You are a little pale, aren t you ? " she said, with her 
 eyes still upon him. Why would she look at him as if he 
 were a baby ? It almost irritated him in the very begin 
 ning ; and then he reproached himself for it, and began to 
 pick up her luggage. 
 
 " It is only that the country tan is off, mother, This is 
 the way, up the stairs." 
 
Quicksand 211 
 
 " We must have you in the country again. Libbie and 
 Mary want to see you." 
 
 " Maud and I have been talking of a vacation, but we 
 haven t much money for extras. She did not come down 
 this morning because she thought you d like to see me 
 alone first." 
 
 " Are you happy here in Chicago, Hubert ? " she 
 asked, wistfully scanning him, when they were seated in 
 the rumbling car. 
 
 "It is not like this out where we live," he replied, 
 laughing, to avoid the direct answer. " Our street is as 
 quiet as Fort Madison, except for the street organs and 
 pianos." 
 
 " Well, I don t think I ever shall like it," the mother 
 announced with decision. " I never could get any 
 sleep." 
 
 The talk turned to questions and answers about the 
 family and about the neighbours in the country. In an 
 hour they had reached Hubert s house, and Mrs. Hinck- 
 ley began thinking of Hubert s wife. If she could only 
 have Hubert alone, she might be reconciled even to 
 Chicago. 
 
 Then Maud came running down the stairs, taking her 
 parcels and kissing her. Certainly, Hubert s wife was 
 pretty. She understood the stylishness of dressing. 
 
 " Probably she spends everything on her clothes," was 
 Mrs. Hinckley s mental remark, as she allowed herself to 
 be led up to their rooms. 
 
 The sitting-room, however, did not show any signs of 
 poverty, but was dainty and fresh as a picture. "I ll 
 wait till I see how she cooks," thought Mrs. Hinckley, 
 reserving her judgment. 
 
 " So you live upstairs," she said aloud. " I should 
 think it would be very unhandy." 
 
212 Qjiicksand 
 
 " I like it. I am not so much afraid of burglars," said 
 Maud, flitting about to put away the mother s things. 
 
 " This is to be your room. Come, and we ll show you," 
 said Hubert. "We rented it especially for the occa 
 sion." 
 
 " Let your mother rest a minute," said Maud, kindly. 
 
 " I am not at all tired, thank you," said Mrs. Hinckley, 
 with sudden alacrity. " Oh, yes, the room will do very 
 well," she was saying a few minutes later. " She seems 
 neat, at all events," was what she was really thinking. 
 
 They chatted for some time pleasantly, and then Maud 
 made excuses to get dinner. 
 
 " Is it possible they haven t had any dinner yet," 
 thought Mrs. Hinckley. " No wonder Hubert is looking 
 pale ; and here it is five o clock ! I wonder what he had 
 for breakfast ? " 
 
 " You see, mother, here we have our dinner in the 
 evening, and luncheon in the middle of the day. It 
 leaves me a clearer head for work in the afternoon." 
 
 " It can t be healthy, Hubert, eating hearty before you 
 go to bed." 
 
 " Oh, we don t go to bed before eleven or twelve, so 
 there is plenty of time for digestion," laughed Hubert; 
 "but you can go, mother, when you please." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley gave some pleasant answer for Maud s 
 sake, but inwardly she made up her mind to effect a few 
 changes in their housekeeping before she went back to 
 the farm. 
 
 Maud asked her in to see the kitchen, a place not so 
 large as the pantry at home, but shining with scrupulous 
 cleanness. 
 
 " Where is your stove ? " asked Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 "Here on this table," laughed Maud. "You see we 
 need only two burners. We hardly ever use the oven 
 when we are all by ourselves." 
 
Qjiicksand 213 
 
 " Gasoline 1 " gasped Mrs. Hinckley, stepping back 
 ward. 
 
 " Oh, there s not the slightest danger, mother," said 
 Hubert, standing at her shoulder. 
 
 " There is danger, though, there must be 1 Only last 
 week Sam was reading in the paper of a woman and 
 a child burned to death ! " 
 
 Hubert was explaining that this was through careless 
 ness ; but Mrs. Hinckley was nervous, and wondered that 
 she had found her boy alive. 
 
 The supper, as Mrs. Hinckley persisted in calling it, 
 was very nice when it came. She would have liked it 
 better, she thought, if there had been less show of flowers 
 and dishes, and more substantial victuals, as she called 
 the food. To be sure, there was enough and something 
 over, but not enough over to satisfy her. She was used 
 to having her table loaded with victuals and plenty to 
 warm up in the morning. After Hubert had served the 
 second helping, there were actually no vegetables left. 
 Probably that was the reason they did not pass things, for 
 fear one person would take it all. Mrs. Hinckley was not 
 accustomed to having her portion served out to her as if 
 she were a prisoner or an orphan in an asylum, even if 
 she did have enough. She blamed Maud for these new 
 fangled ways, and wondered how Hubert could put up 
 with them. She, for her part, had made up her mind to 
 put up with anything when she came here, and to love 
 Maud as if she were her daughter for Hubert s sake, if 
 for no other reason. But she saw now it was going to be 
 hard, and her patience would be tried to the utmost. 
 
 " Where is the Methodist church ? " she asked later on 
 in the evening. 
 
 Hubert was prepared for this question. " There is one 
 two blocks from here, mother, over toward the lake." 
 
214 Qjiicksand 
 
 Then came the explanation decided upon. " Churches 
 here are very different from those in the country. You 
 go in and hear the sermon and the music and all, but 
 people do not make it so much of a social gathering-place. 
 Maud and I don t go regularly in one place, and you will 
 probably do the same. There are so many good preachers 
 in Chicago you will want to hear as many as you can, so 
 one doesn t get much acquainted." 
 
 " But don t you go always to the same place to prayer- 
 meeting ? " 
 
 " We don t go to prayer-meeting at all. I usually have 
 to work in the evening." 
 
 " Well, I shall go to prayer-meeting and, I think, always 
 the same place to church. I don t care to hear all the 
 preachers there are. One is enough for me, if he s got the 
 true religion." 
 
 " Maud will go with you to prayer-meeting," said 
 Hubert ; " and that s a great favour for her, because, you 
 know, she was brought up Presbyterian." 
 
 "I have nothing against the Presbyterians," said Mrs. 
 Hinckley, graciously. " But what about Sunday-school, 
 Hubert ? Don t you teach in a class ? " 
 
 " Sunday-school takes so much time, mother ; and we 
 usually go walking on Sundays. You see, Maud and I 
 need the air after being shut in the house all the week." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley said no more about religion that night. 
 It was evident that Hubert s wife was hurrying him off to 
 the life of Satan at a perilous rate. All of the company 
 seemed a little embarrassed, and willing to drop the sub 
 ject. 
 
 " Can t you sing for mother ? " asked Hubert, with his 
 hand caressing the soft hand of his wife. 
 
 Maud went to get the guitar without the modest waiting 
 to be urged and pleading of a cold or no humour for 
 playing that Mrs. Hinckley was accustomed to. 
 
Quicksand 215 
 
 " You sing with me," she said, strumming, with a laugh 
 ing light in her eyes. 
 
 " You first," persisted Hubert. "Sing * Summer 
 Night. " 
 
 Maud sang with quietness and feeling. Hubert was 
 very proud of her. 
 
 Then they both sang a duet, a love-song, though 
 Mrs. Hinckley did not catch all the words. Then they 
 sang old songs that the mother liked, but not one hymn 
 or sacred song of any kind. She did ask for one song, 
 finally, that was popular at that time in the churches; 
 but Hubert did not know the words, though Maud did 
 hum the air over. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley retired that night early, but not to sleep 
 for some hours. She had half expected Hubert to have 
 prayers, though what could lead her to expect that she 
 could hardly know, she told herself, after not saying grace 
 before supper. It was plain he left everything to Maud, 
 with whom he still seemed to be infatuated. 
 
 Well, it was a good thing she had come on this visit. 
 Libbie had been right, after all. She said her own 
 prayers by her bedside that night, but it was not like 
 having the family with her. " Prayer is not prayer when 
 you are alone," she said. " The Lord does not like only 
 one. It does not seem respectful. It s sin. And the 
 eating and the gasoline stove 1 How has Hubert lived 
 through it ? " 
 
XXXV. 
 
 THERE are probably very few mothers who, if 
 they could speak from the heart, would be satis 
 fied with the wife a son has chosen, and not wish 
 that it might have been otherwise. A mother s love must 
 feel the wound when her son turns to another woman 
 with a tenderer affection than that he has cherished for 
 her, try as she may to conceal it. The filial confidences 
 that she has received, or, if she has never received them, 
 that she has craved all the more, are now stopped off 
 short when a confidence too deep for a mother comes into 
 the growing boy s life. He may, indeed, tell part. He 
 wishes her to know of his joy ; but that he should speak 
 to her as to the girl he loves, laying his very soul bare, 
 and that with soft words and caresses such as the mother 
 desires, this is impossible to him. It would be simple 
 sacrilege to do it. And yet the mother heart yearns, no 
 matter how her wisdom checks yearning. It is one of 
 the tragedies of life. The tragedies of death are balm 
 beside it. 
 
 There is one kind of marriage that is different, that 
 will give even joy to the mother ; and that is where, as in 
 old tradition, the mother chooses the bride for her son. 
 That was the method when the true family life was at 
 perfection. Now we are breaking into individual life, 
 and transitions must always mean heartaches. 
 
 "My son, you are lonely. Come to me," said the 
 olden-time family mother. " Tell me what is grieving 
 your heart." 
 
 But the youth does not know as yet, except that his 
 boyhood sports give no comfort. 
 
 "Let me bring you a wife," said the mother, "a 
 sweet girl. I have watched her from babyhood, always 
 intending her for you." 
 
Qjuicksand 217 
 
 The youth is bashful, is persuaded. The mother 
 brings them together and is happy, now having a son and 
 a daughter. 
 
 That was the olden-time mother. And mothers will 
 cling to traditions where children will never once feel 
 them, until they, if they be girls, become mothers. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley was, perhaps, not more jealous than 
 many mothers we know. She had been deceived more 
 than some ; but this may have been her own care. At 
 all events, she made up her mind to like Hubert s wife as 
 much as possible. There were many things she must 
 teach her; for Hubert had a delicate organization that 
 only a mother could understand. Still, Maud was defer 
 ential and willing, and doubtless would do well with time. 
 " Only I should have come before," said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 " They have fallen into very bad ways." 
 
 She began gently the next morning by reminding them 
 that they should rise earlier. She did not go into the 
 sitting-room or speak of the matter afterward. She 
 merely rose herself at an early hour, and made enough 
 noise in the hallway to let them know that she was stir 
 ring and active. She went out for a walk, and spoke to 
 them of the pleasure it gave her at breakfast. After she 
 had been with them a few days, she began to say that she 
 should think Hubert might write so much better in the 
 morning, when the air was invigorating and inspiring. 
 Then she offered to help Maud prepare the breakfast the 
 night before. Then she would hurry through breakfast to 
 get the work done so that Hubert could begin early this 
 morning. Then she asked Maud to go out with her to 
 do some shopping or, perhaps, to take a walk in the 
 park. Could Hubert work better alone? 
 
 She wanted to ask him more about his writing ; but at 
 this time she did not dare, being fearful of offending. 
 
2i8 Qjiicksand 
 
 She had asked, indeed, and in a general impersonal way 
 he had answered ; but the real answer he had not given, 
 and the mother love longed for the confidence. That 
 which made her long the more, which made her jealousy 
 burn, even though in honesty she would not have thought 
 it was jealousy, was the fact that Maud was in the con 
 fidence ; and she must undergo the humiliation of asking 
 her and the chagrin of being put gently aside without 
 the coveted information. 
 
 Watching still perseveringly for her chance, but with 
 love chiefly uppermost for her reason, she noted with 
 some satisfaction that the two were not always happy 
 together, that there was some friction between them at 
 times ; and she thought they needed some one to advise 
 them and act as mediator in quarrels. Now who could 
 do this so well as his mother, who had watched Hubert 
 from infancy ? Mrs. Hinckley began to like Maud at this 
 time, and to try to win her confidence and confession. 
 
 " Was she happy alway with Hubert ? " 
 
 Maud hardly knew whether she was happy or not. She 
 supposed that she was, on the whole, and never hesitated 
 at the affirmation. Still, she might not be happy, though 
 she had hardly considered it before. 
 
 In truth, the wife, like the mother, was cramped in her 
 present understanding. She had married Hubert, think 
 ing that love was enough, that it was all a woman needed 
 in life. But she was a young woman and growing still, 
 and she had given herself no work to do ; and work is 
 needed for a woman quite as much as for a man, if good 
 health is to follow. Some women can make work with 
 their children, and think they are doing quite enough in 
 giving themselves up for them. The result is that they 
 ruin the children, and are only half satisfied in the end, 
 becoming other Mrs. Hinckleys. Maud as yet having 
 
Q^uicksand 219 
 
 no children to care for, missed this dear old delusion. 
 The housekeeping did not take up her time, she had no 
 friends to make her enjoy idleness, even her love for 
 Hubert would not occupy all the hours of the day. Maud, 
 too, was suffering from the family, and in time would 
 listen to Mrs. Hinckley, and conclude it must all be about 
 Hubert, and because his stories would not bring him 
 success. 
 
 " I wish I could get him into the country," she said to 
 Mrs. Hinckley one day, when they were talking on the 
 usual subject, because they had no work of their own. 
 "We had hoped to take a vacation this year. You 
 know Hubert s best work is of the life of the country, but 
 he has had an offer of a regular salary this year as a 
 teacher s assistant, looking over examination papers, and 
 he thinks he is too poor to refuse it ; and it may of course 
 lead to something better if the publishers do not see fit 
 to reconsider his manuscripts." 
 
 It was meat for a day to Mrs. Hinckley that Hubert 
 wrote best of country life. Perhaps she would hear more 
 some day if he would talk more freely alone. Just now 
 she spoke out a longing that had been growing some thne 
 in her breast. 
 
 " Why don t you and Hubert come and visit us on the 
 farm this winter ? " she said. " You wouldn t have to pay 
 any board, so that your money could go into railroad fare. 
 It would be a great comfort for us to have him. His sisters 
 are grieving to see him." In short, her arguments went 
 on ; and Maud was set to considering the matter, and won 
 dering if they really could. 
 
 Meanwhile the process of household education was go 
 ing on, working an influence of its own. Hubert began 
 to see that they were not living as they should. They 
 did not have exercise enough in the open air, perhaps 
 
220 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 they were not sleeping enough, or the food was not 
 nourishing as it should be. At all events, he was not 
 working well on the novels he had tried. He seemed to 
 be losing his old poetic flow of language. Chicago would 
 inspire him no longer. Then, too, from being told so 
 often of his pallor, from having his appetite questioned 
 and his digestion constantly considered, he began to feel, 
 perhaps, that his health was suffering a little, and to 
 long for the old sports with Hiram and the sumptuousness 
 of his own mother s table. 
 
 Concerning the matter with Hiram, he received little 
 encouragement from his mother. He knew from Mary s 
 letters that Hiram had grown in disfavour on account of 
 some hastiness with the minister, and he also learned from 
 his mother that Hiram had gone north to work in the 
 harvest, but his mother knew nothing more about him or 
 when he intended returning. 
 
 The old farm and the childhood surroundings, the love 
 for his mother and sisters, his desire to see Sam once 
 more, all these were pulling on Hubert as his mother 
 talked to him of them, and made the invitation more 
 tempting by forgetting the disagreeable points and the 
 endless worry and routine. 
 
 Did he not owe it to his work to go back to the things 
 that inspired him ? Did he not owe it, again, to his family, 
 who had done so much to educate him, and now were 
 getting no joy from his learning ? How proud they would 
 all be of him 1 and even the neighbours would respect him. 
 Then the bugbear of religion he had been fearing. Per 
 haps that was all passed away now. His mother hardly 
 mentioned the matter. Would not Maud, too, be glad of 
 the change ? The companionship of his sisters ? He 
 talked it over with her ; and she seemed quite willing to 
 go, but said he must think only of himself. 
 
Quicksand 221 
 
 His prospects here, how were they better? This 
 drudgery of endless arithmetic and geography papers? 
 He might as well be teaching the country school at home 
 and making double the money. To be sure, that en 
 tailed responsibility ; and here he was free from all worry. 
 In the end, what difference would it make, when his 
 novels came out and made him famous ? When he came 
 to the city, he had thought it better to be near the pub 
 lishing houses ; but, once he had tried to take advantage 
 of that, he found there was no advantage in it. The 
 editors did not take any interest in him or his books, but 
 rather seemed to scorn them, he thought, because he 
 could not send a messenger or pay the postage of the 
 mails. Moreover, the houses in Chicago all said they 
 did not wish to take up new material. He was turned 
 off with a word, and now sent all material to New York 
 or Boston, of course there to have it refused, but with a 
 feeling that it received as much consideration as if he 
 presented it in person. 
 
 The dissatisfaction, the old childhood yearning, the 
 mother love pleading and managing, all had their way in 
 the end. The high-school teacher was told to look other 
 where for an assistant, the Irish landlady was given due 
 warning, and Hubert and Maud and Mrs. Hinckley 
 packed , trunks and took tickets for Fort Madison. 
 Whether it was for the best, Hubert was still very much 
 doubtful. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley wrote home a note for Sam to meet 
 them at the train. As Libbie read the few lines aloud, 
 they flowed like a chant of triumph. 
 
XXXVI. 
 
 IT was beautiful the first day, the mellow October 
 landscape, the river flowing as ever, the glow of 
 home love and reunion. Libbie and Mary kissed 
 Maud, and felt that they extended to her forgiveness. 
 The supper table was gay that evening. Hubert did not 
 mind calling it supper, and even Sam s asking the bless 
 ing was welcome. After the work was done, Maud asking 
 to help with the dishes, they reassembled around the 
 lamp ; and it was almost as if their father were there and 
 Hiram sitting by the wood-box, whittling some toy for a 
 baby. Afterward came family prayers, Sam conducting 
 the ceremony, reading first a chapter from the Bible. 
 They all knelt down by their chairs, and listened to the 
 drone of his praying. This, too, had the flavour of home ; 
 and the prodigals felt that they were forgiven. 
 
 That night Hubert could not sleep in his bed. He 
 saw the regeneration, the changes he and Maud would 
 bring about. Hiram must come back : that was one of 
 the first moves ; and he and Mary should be married, and 
 settle in the house at the foot of the hill. Then, with 
 Hiram s help and his own knowledge, they would enliven 
 this routine of country life. They would bring in books 
 and pictures and the talk of the world through the 
 magazines. Perhaps they could start a library, inducing 
 the neighbours to subscribe ; and Libbie could act as 
 librarian. Then they would start up a debating society 
 in the school-house, and he would edit a manuscript paper. 
 Maud and he could furnish the music. Perhaps games 
 and even dancing could be introduced if the Methodists 
 could only be persuaded. They might build a hall in 
 time ; and the people from Fort Madison would come out 
 to this country school of philosophy and poetry of which 
 
Qjiicksand 223 
 
 he, Hubert Hinckley, was the head. The castles were 
 building all night. He could hardly wait for the morning 
 when he could tell Maud, and begin planning. 
 
 He was up for an early walk to greet the rose lights of 
 the dawn, and a song began to ring in his head. He 
 sketched out a plan, and wrote the first stanza while the 
 swing of it was with him. How glorious a thing it was to 
 live here, and to teach the old neighbours to enjoy, and 
 see the beauties of their living 1 Men would come from 
 the cities far off to visit the writer of books, who was as 
 well a prophet in his own country. And the river glowed 
 its rose-coloured warmth of rejoicing. 
 
 Breakfast was a damper to these fires of enthusiasm. 
 Everything was set as in granite. Sam was grumbling 
 about the wagon because Al Johnson had borrowed it, 
 and then run it a week without greasing the wheels, with 
 the result of a spindle quite ruined. 
 
 Maud had not wakened yet ; and Libbie, though pre 
 tending to be pleasant, was giving a general understand 
 ing that people must be on time to breakfast, as it set the 
 work back all day to wait. 
 
 Mary was worrying, too, about the trouble with Al 
 Johnson, trying to find an explanation for his neglect or 
 show Sam that it was not all one man s fault. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley asked Hubert if he and Maud had been 
 comfortable, and then began talking to him of the neigh 
 bours that he would meet the coming evening at prayer- 
 meeting, taking it as a matter of fact that he and Maud 
 would attend. 
 
 Maud came in with an apology amid the clatter of 
 knives and forks and the smell of pork and potatoes. 
 Only Hubert greeted her with " good-morning." It was 
 not the custom in the country ; and Mrs. Hinckley, while 
 having accepted the greeting on her visit, thought Maud 
 
224 Q u i c k s a n d 
 
 might now get used to their ways. Maud sat down by 
 Hubert; and Sam passed the meat and potatoes, Mary 
 getting up to get some coffee, and asking Maud if she 
 would not like some toast, a luxury that set Libbie 
 frowning. But the city girl would not take any extras. 
 When she was in Rome, she would do as the Romans. 
 She laughed a little here, but received no smile in return. 
 
 (It was not that the Hinckleys were surly. It was merely 
 not their custom to talk much at breakfast: they were 
 thinking of the work of the day. Maud sipped her coffee 
 from the heavy, white, thick-lipped cups, and tried to eat 
 a bit of pork Hubert had given her. 
 
 " What a fuss he makes over her appetite ! " thought 
 Libbie. " He never makes any bother for his sisters 1 " 
 
 Sam shoved back from the table as soon as he had 
 finished devouring, and asked Mary to bring him his 
 finger-stalls, as he must be out at once in the corn-field. 
 The husking was making his hands bleed worse than 
 usual this year. The soft water was all used up from the 
 cistern, and well-water cut into them like lye. Maud got 
 up here, and helped him tie on the bandages. 
 
 " How they will all love her 1 " thought Hubert. 
 
 " See how she s trying to work herself into everybody s 
 good graces ! " thought Libbie. " But she can t use her 
 soft-soap on me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley, too, was uneasy. " Never mind Sam s 
 hands, Maud," she said. "You will get used to such 
 things as that after you have been a time on the farm." 
 
 Hubert was feeling restless, thinking that he ought to 
 help with the corn husking, as Sam was working alone, 
 and the work should be done before winter. It is very 
 hard to seem idle in a household where all are working, 
 even if one receives pay for thinking; and Hubert s 
 thoughts brought him no income. 
 
Quicksand 225 
 
 Maud began clearing away the dishes from the table. 
 
 " No, don t," said Libbie, sweetly, taking a dish from 
 her. You ll soil your pretty new apron." 
 
 " Why, I do all my own work ! " said Maud, laughing. 
 
 "Libbie and I are used to doing the dishes," said 
 Mary. " You and Hubert will be busy with unpacking. 
 Mother will show you the house." 
 
 This Mrs. Hinckley proceeded to do, enlarging upon 
 all its advantages, and showing its superiority over the 
 houses in the city. Hubert lingered in the kitchen to 
 chat with his sisters, and see if he could introduce some 
 of his schemes into the conversation. He found, how 
 ever, that they were leading him in the conversation, 
 which concerned the prayer-meeting of the evening and 
 a backslider who might return to religion, as he had been 
 telling Mr. Johnson he was going to do. 
 
 Libbie said they did not go now to church in Fort 
 Madison, as mother was ashamed to meet Mr. Simmons ; 
 and then they told him all about the spanking of the 
 preacher, and laughed so loud they feared their mother 
 would hear and question them afterward about it. 
 
 Hubert then asked about Hiram, when he would re 
 turn and what address he had left for writing. Neither 
 of the sisters seemed to know much about him. He was 
 travelling, looking for work, probably. He did not leave 
 any address, as he received no letters at all; and his 
 papers they opened and read. Hubert could see that 
 they did not care to talk about Hiram, that there was 
 something like suspicion between them. He thought he 
 would get at the matter later when he could see Mary 
 alone, and probably remedy the affair by a little brotherly 
 advice. 
 
 Maud came back then ; and he proposed they set about 
 righting their room, unpacking the trunks for the first, 
 
226 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 and then putting up their curtains and pictures, much as 
 they had them in Chicago. Libbie and Mary were 
 curious to see ; and so all five spent the morning in the 
 parlour bedroom and the parlour, talking about every 
 thing, almost, though always roaming back to the little 
 affairs of the neighbourhood in the end. It seemed that 
 they lived in a narrow rut of neighbourhood gossip and 
 personality ; and, do the best Hubert could to drag them 
 out, they but breathed the free air for a time only, 
 to plunge back into their rut and talk of the neighbours 
 again, telling what she said and what he said, as if it 
 were of actual importance. Maud liked this better than 
 Hubert : it was more on a level with her thinking ; and 
 she had been very lonely in the city. Even Hubert liked 
 
 Iit better than he should after he had heard it all the days 
 of a week, and the weeks had dragged into months. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley wanted him to have his writing-table in 
 the parlour instead of in the bedroom off of it. She felt 
 that she could have more of his company in the parlour, 
 while the bedroom would be almost forbidden. But to 
 this Hubert would not yield. For his part, he would pre 
 fer a room upstairs, if it had not been they were already 
 occupied. No one offered to change with them. So the 
 parlour bedroom only was left. But he could not think 
 of occupying the parlour itself, as that must be kept for 
 company. Mrs. Hinckley stretched a strip of carpet 
 between the doors so they would not wear a streak in the 
 brilliant flowers of the Brussels. At present Hubert 
 could have his whim about the table, but in the end she 
 knew she would win. It was more sensible, and she 
 wanted her boy to be comfortable. 
 
 Dinner went something like breakfast, but with freer 
 talk about what the neighbours were doing, as they had 
 seen them pass along the road, or the men at work in the 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 227 
 
 fields. In the afternoon Hubert went out to work with 
 Sam at the husking ; while the girls would take Maud for 
 a walk and introduce her to the Johnsons, who, they ex 
 plained, did not amount to much, but were their nearest 
 neighbours. The corn husking was pleasant for an hour ; 
 and Hubert tried to do as much as Sam, but he could 
 not. Then the tender skin on his hands began to wear 
 thin, the mud of the fields soiled his tan-coloured shoes. 
 Once he got some wheel grease on his trousers, Sam 
 having put it all over the hub, in order, doubtless, to 
 make up for the dearth in the week at the Johnsons. 
 The talk went well. Sam, being questioned, also told 
 about the minister s spanking; but he said it was very 
 hasty of Hiram, and would create a great scandal if it 
 ever got out. He complimented Hubert on his wife, and 
 asked about his literary prospects. Sam s idea of literary 
 success was fetching in a lot of money ; and on this 
 ground Hubert discussed the matter, and told him of men 
 who had got rich, though they had to wait a long time in 
 the beginning. When the chill of the evening came on, 
 Sam advised Hubert to go in for the day, and get rested 
 up before prayer-meeting time. They all seemed to take 
 it for granted he was going, even Maud, when he met her 
 at the house. 
 
 " I want to see what it s like," she said, coaxing, " and 
 meet all the people they talk about. Come on ! What s 
 the use of hurting their feelings, especially the very first 
 day ? " 
 
 So it began from the first with giving way from a stand 
 Hubert thought he had taken. He persuaded himself 
 there was no hypocrisy. It was right that he should 
 give way in small things to others, especially to his 
 mother. The only question was to the smallness of this 
 matter. If he went once, would it not be harder to 
 
228 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 refuse a second time ? If he put off telling his mother he 
 was no longer a believer in the Atonement, when would 
 he set the time for confession, as evidence of belief 
 gathered around him ? 
 
 He went to the prayer-meeting with the family. It was 
 a good time to see the neighbours. But in the experi 
 ence meeting, when the deacon called on our young 
 brother from the city to offer his tribute to faith, and 
 Hubert said he had nothing to say, a shock went through 
 the congregation, its }erk all the more painful for the 
 ensuing quiet. Then the deacon called on another 
 brother, and the experiences went as usually on. 
 
 But, as they walked home in the moonlight, Maud felt 
 as if the day s gain were lost. Mrs. Hinckley s silence 
 was very severe ; and Libbie, Sam, and Mary were none 
 of them naturally talkative. 
 
XXXVII. 
 
 IT was after returning to the farm that Hubert began 
 a set of fairy tales, using the homely life of the coun 
 try as his background, and emphasizing the minuter 
 beauties of nature, such as children see and enjoy. But 
 he met with constant interruption from the family, and 
 often gave up in despair. In the first place it was found 
 that there was no place for a stove in the parlour bed 
 room, and the door must always be open. Then, too, his 
 mother insisted on keeping the windows open two hours, 
 in order that the room might air ; and afterward the bed 
 must be made, for it could not wait over till after dinner, 
 that was too slovenly for good housekeeping. Why could 
 not Hubert write in the parlour ? No one would think of 
 speaking to him. It was a mere whim that he should 
 want to get off alone. If he ever hoped to succeed, he must 
 break himself of these notions, and learn to work wherever 
 his will chose ; and then, when he still insisted on his way, 
 and Maud made up the room and closed the windows 
 early, sitting down opposite to sew, then it was Maud 
 that was called out by some one, she was not needed for 
 the writing. And Hubert could not tell them very well 
 that he could write better when she was sitting cosily 
 opposite him, it kept his mind concentrated, some way, 
 and helped him to forget the cleaning and cooking with 
 out. Once, in his desperation, he did say that he liked 
 to have her there, no matter if it did hurt the feelings of 
 his mother and Libbie ; but then, when his mother re 
 plied that, if he was lonesome, she would come and sit 
 with him, for Maud should be more active for one so 
 young, how could he tell her his mother that she 
 would not do at all, not because he did not love her, but 
 because simply because she would not do ? 
 
230 Qjjicksand 
 
 Nevertheless, Mrs. Hinckley did come occasionally to 
 sit with her knitting or her mending. " Run away and 
 rest, Maud," she would say. " Hubert is taking all the 
 life out of you, keeping you cooped up here in the cold. 
 You will both be down with pneumonia before spring." 
 And then she would sit without uttering a word, but 
 glancing fondly toward Hubert, anxious if his pen was 
 not going, curious if it was, trying to make out from his 
 expression what he might be writing about, but careful 
 not to annoy him, lest genius be interrupted in its burn 
 ing. When Hubert could endure this scrutiny no longer, 
 and his nerves were a jangle of discord, he would rest 
 lessly push back in his chair, or lay his distracted head 
 on the table. That was a signal for his mother. She 
 could not bear to see her boy suffer. She would begin 
 by pulling up her shawl about her own shoulders, 
 not daring yet to interrupt him, but wishing to throw 
 out a silent suggestion that the bedroom was very cold. 
 Then, when he broke out impetilously, " Go into the 
 kitchen, mother, and get warm ! " she would reply with : 
 " Let me make you a cup of hot tea. You will be 
 catching your death in this chill ; though why you can t 
 sit in the parlour by the stove I can never make out." 
 
 In the end, he did move into the parlour. The resist 
 ance against them was more of a strain than the worry of 
 their presence would be. How he hated that parlour! 
 It shut out his inward vision as the noon glares out the 
 thoughtfulness from the heavens. The brilliant Brussels 
 carpet was the first sin, with its enormous impossible 
 nosegays, arranged like trees in an orchard, on a ground 
 work of screaming blue. Everything in that carpet was 
 in rows, which followed in every direction, up and down, 
 back and across, corner-wise, in all four directions, with 
 finer rows quartering the corners. Then the wall-paper 
 
Qjuicksand 231 
 
 took up this mania for regularity, with a pattern of red 
 roses with blue lilies of the valley, tied with a bow of 
 yellow ribbon, that pointed in four other directions. The 
 furniture was of black horsehair-cloth upholstery, bol 
 stered on crooked brown legs, and bulging from tiny 
 black buttons also set in the inevitable checkers, and 
 adorned with geometric tidies that were crocheted out of 
 staring white cotton. The lace window-curtains took up 
 the horror, looped back with lavender ribbon, which was 
 secured to a mirror-like knob. How the cold lace strained 
 the cold landscape, looking up the dull hill to the road 1 
 It was like viewing the world through a colander, a col 
 ander some devil has made, with patterns of flowers from 
 hell or the gardens of orthodox heaven. There were pict 
 ures in plenty on the walls, black squares cutting holes 
 from the wall paper ; and there were embroidered and 
 sewed things, called fancy work, fastened to every possi 
 ble projection. A hanging lamp swung from the ceiling. 
 Hubert envied that hanging lamp. The room had a shut- 
 up smell in spite of its airings. He always thought of the 
 place where his father s body was laid out, across in front 
 of the windows, with the carpet rows converging from all 
 directions. There was a black and fat-cheeked cast-iron 
 stove that gave the final discomfort. This stove was 
 always too hot or too cold, snorting or sulking, as case 
 might be, on its round piece of shining white zinc. 
 
 In this room Hubert tried to write of the ice people, 
 who lived in the palaces of the brooks, walking, with their 
 tiny heads downward, toward the roaring and rushing 
 black water ; of the beauty-loving people, who worshipped 
 the brown weeds in the winter, the tall-plumed, grace- 
 bending trees ; or of the larger folk, who hunted the 
 beaver and otter, and the old tales that Hiram had told 
 him. Dear old Hiram 1 Where was he ? He was the 
 
232 Quicksand 
 
 poet, but not the writer : he was unlearned more nobly than 
 educated. When would he be coming back ? 
 
 At one time Hubert proposed that he go and live in 
 Hiram s house, it would be so much quieter for writing, 
 and he and Maud could be more together. But the fam 
 ily offered countless objections, there was no wood up 
 for the winter, Hiram might be back any day, the expense 
 would be in every way greater, it would be so lonely for 
 Maud ; and, finally, was he sick of his old home already, 
 tired of his mother and sisters ? Did they not do every 
 thing to keep the house quiet, worrying and fretting about 
 it the whole time, and telling all the neighbours about it ? 
 How could he tell them of a silence that is more rasping 
 on the hearing than shouts ? No, he had not the courage 
 to leave them, even for the quarter of a mile. 
 
 Then this running away seemed a cowardice. It was 
 giving up his dreams of regeneration, of cheering and 
 beautifying the whole household. He tried to begin on 
 the parlour, to soften it and make it more habitable. 
 He began with the hideous kinds of sewing that they 
 spoke of as fancy work. Could not this now, for exam 
 ple, be dispensed with ? he mildly suggested to Mary. 
 
 " That ? " Mary asked in surprise. " That is one Libbie 
 and I made for mother last Christmas. Don t you think 
 it is pretty, Hubert ? We had to send away for the card 
 board : there was not any so nice in Fort Madison. 
 Mother says there is no cornucopia so pretty as this in 
 the neighbourhood, though the Adamses have made one 
 something like it. We were going to make one for Hiram, 
 only smaller ; but he said a man had no use for such 
 things. I suppose that s the reason you don t care for it, 
 but I should n t say anything about it to Libbie." 
 
 So it was with each suggestion he made. Each article 
 was an expression of love, like the black and white memo- 
 
Qjiicksand 233 
 
 rial card, framed, for his father. They must all be left 
 for what they signified. Oh, why, groaned Hubert in 
 solitude, must they make their very love for each other a 
 reason for this torture of beauty ? In the end, he gave 
 up the parlour, and opened his eyes only in the bedroom, 
 a dainty little harmony in muslin curtains, that the girls 
 said was pretty, but queer, and, they suspected, very old- 
 fashioned. 
 
 Again, this moving into the parlour had separated hus 
 band and wife. If Maud was in the room, the others 
 seemed to take it for granted that Hubert was not writing 
 then, and they were welcome to come and linger. They 
 all seemed jealous and fearful that some word should pass 
 they did not hear. "What was that, Hubert?" was a 
 phrase constantly on Libbie s lips. It was not so much 
 a suspicion that the two were talking about them : it was 
 merely that their lives were lonely and narrow, and any 
 conversation from outside was refreshing, like water in a 
 desert. Hubert felt his conscience in this, and was never 
 willing to snub them or keep them away, though he did 
 long for the old confidential living together that new 
 husband and wife so much enjoy. 
 
 "After all," he said, " I owe it to them, to mother and 
 Libbie and Mary. They kept me in school and college. 
 They worked and denied themselves always, till they are 
 starved in consequence of it. Now I should pay some 
 thing back. Let them come when they choose, and listen. 
 Maud and I can go back to the city in the summer." 
 
 He did not realise that this separation would have its 
 effect ; that two people who have been confidential, and 
 then have allowed estrangement to come in, will find it 
 harder to return to a confidence than if they had always 
 lived strangers and were meeting now for the first time. 
 The winter was steadily advancing, but the spring-time 
 was yet far away. 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 IT is something that religious people will very much 
 resent, but, if they will carefully think it over, they 
 may admit it to be true, that religion does more to 
 make people selfish than any other factor except selfish 
 ness in the complex make-up of humanity. By religion is 
 meant what is commonly understood by that term, not 
 the high inner consciousness of Deity moving and ruling 
 in all things, but that outward expression of piety of 
 the common orthodox type; the belief in the plan of 
 salvation, and that the believer is saved, though the 
 hearer s case is still pending ; that ownership of heavenly 
 stocks that makes worldly bondholders humble in com 
 parison. 
 
 Hiram, when he left off being a sailor and settled in 
 the orthodox country, was often asked by the members of 
 the church or by the preachers if he were a Christian. 
 He tried to respond politely at first, answering that it 
 depended on the definition of the term, whether he was a 
 Christian or not. In the end, finding that the reply only 
 led to argument and consequent ill-feeling, and that he 
 invariably learned that a Christian was one who believed 
 exactly and entirely as his questioner, he soon hit upon an 
 answer that brought at once silence forever, if not good 
 will. He could trust for his deeds to win that later. So, 
 when the serious-minded inquisitor now came to him with 
 the usual impertinence, "Are you a Christian, Mr. Stubbs ? " 
 Hiram would shrink quickly from his robust self, as if a 
 sudden shame had seized him, and then, glancing down 
 his dejected length, as if he saw himself shrivelling, he 
 would say in a piteous tone : " What s getting the matter 
 with me lately, anyway ? The other day a man asked me 
 if I was a Swede." 
 
Qjiicksand 235 
 
 Who can tell the gloom of a religious household where 
 one of the members is not saved, especially where all love 
 each other? A presence as of death comes upon one 
 whenever a believer approaches. " You may die to 
 morrow," says the presence. " You will burn in fire ever 
 lasting, and I shall watch you, rejoicing, from heaven; 
 that is, unless you think my way. Sit down now, and 
 listen to my argument. The Lord gives you this one 
 more chance." 
 
 That is the gloom of the religious presence. Its 
 absence is often worse ; for it suggests weeping and yearn 
 ing for the lost one, the obstinate, who will not believe. 
 Oh, would he but listen to the calling, the praying, and 
 , the dropping of tears 1 Oh, how the praying heart 
 yearns 1 The long sleepless nights of self-torment 1 In 
 time the believers become selfish. It is the result of their 
 self-elected superiority. It turns most people s heads to 
 live in intimate relations with the Almighty, especially 
 when they are given such a hand in the management of 
 his affairs. 
 
 Hubert felt the gloom presence inevitably closing on 
 him. It was crowding the joy and the poetry out of his 
 heart. He could not more than feebly resist it ; for he, 
 too, also loved deeply, and had not enough force in his 
 make-up, at least, not of that force that is standing, that 
 is calm though the universe waver. He knew that the 
 toils were being woven : he felt them tighten every day. 
 His mother wanted him to give up his writing. She had 
 become convinced that he would not succeed ; and she 
 wanted him to return to his preaching of the gospel, as 
 she had always intended he should do. She did not want 
 him to do this because it was her desire or her will : she 
 wanted it to become his own will, as it was already the 
 will of the Lord. 
 
236 Quicksand 
 
 The first step was to get him to undertake the teaching 
 of a Sunday-school class. That would not compromise 
 any one. 
 
 " It is not generous of you, Hubert," she said to him 
 one day in argument, " when you are so well versed in 
 the Scriptures, and when you read the original Greek of 
 the Testament ; it is not right that you are unwilling to 
 share with others all that you have learned over them. 
 That, too, after all they have done for you, after all the 
 Methodist denomination has done in supporting that 
 excellent college." 
 
 " I am so rusty, mother, and rny stories take all those 
 things out of my head." 
 
 " But those things, as you call them, would surely 
 improve your stories, too." 
 
 " Not now, while I am young. Let men of experience 
 speak first. Why, mother, I hate to stand up and teach 
 men in a Bible class who are older than myself, and who 
 have studied the Bible all their lives." 
 
 " They have not studied it with your advantages, 
 Hubert." 
 
 " The Bible needs only to be read. You say so often, 
 mother. I have not the experience of living." 
 
 " There is only one experience needed, Hubert ; and 
 that is, the experience of conversion to religion. You 
 have that, as I know. You wrote me of it in your 
 letter. I have that letter, Hubert, in my bureau. Shall 
 we read it over together? For myself, I know it by 
 heart." 
 
 " I remember it all, mother. One doesn t forget expe 
 riences when one was young." 
 
 " You are young still, Hubert." 
 
 " Yes, but I have changed much since then." 
 
 " You don t mean that you have changed in your faith ? " 
 
Qjiicksand 237 
 
 " I have faith still, mother, but not in the same way, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " Do you mean that Maud has been turning you toward 
 the Presbyterians ? " 
 
 " No, we never talk of religion. I think of it much 
 less than I used. As one sees more of the world, other 
 things attract attention." 
 
 " Now that you have left the world and come home, it 
 would be a good time to remember them again." 
 
 "I suppose" and Hubert thought the conversation 
 was ended. 
 
 I must get Maud to go to the protracted meetings this 
 winter," said Mrs. Hinckley. " Her mind seems ready 
 and open to reason." 
 
 " Are they going to have protracted meetings ? " 
 
 " Of course, we are going to have them." Mrs. Hinck 
 ley emphasized the pronoun. 
 
 " Well, I must look over my work." 
 
 " But promise me, Hubert, that you will take the class 
 in the Sabbath school." 
 
 " If it were a younger class, now, of boys." 
 
 " Very well, a young class to begin on." 
 
 And so another step was taken, and Hubert was hating 
 himself for it. The only justification he could give was 
 that he loved his mother so dearly, and could not bear to 
 wound her feelings. 
 
 Libbie was sweeping the sitting-room. Scratch, 
 scratch, went the broom, rasping as if on his bare 
 nerves. When would Hiram come back? and where 
 was Maud ? He saw so little of her lately ; and, when he 
 did see her, he was irritable, and tdling her not to worry 
 him. Maud was the only one he could speak out his 
 mind to. So she must suffer for the sins of all the 
 others. How was it he could speak to Maud, though he 
 
238 Qjiicksand 
 
 loved her, and yet could not speak to his mother or 
 sisters ? Well, Maud had not known him when he was a 
 baby ; and who in this world can speak out when those 
 who have heard him crying as a child stand around, and 
 know that he can be comforted with sugar ? 
 
XXXIX. 
 
 AND Maud, the bright, girlish wife, how did the 
 farm life seem to her? At first it was stiff and 
 cold ; but that, she felt, would thaw with acquaint 
 ance and familiarity. Then came the restless intimacy 
 of Libbie, with accompanying jealous fits and suspicions. 
 Mary was sad, and avoided her. Mrs. Hinckley kept the 
 presence of one ruling. It was not a satisfactory atmos 
 phere. If Maud came upon a group of the family in 
 surprise, their evident embarrassment and confusion told 
 her they had been talking about her. If she remained to 
 sit the morning with Hubert, they called her out on some 
 pretence, not by concerted arrangement, but because one 
 of them would see her for something. Whether she was 
 with Hubert or whether she was with them, they were in 
 no way satisfied. The house was not large enough for 
 her to be alone. There was only one thing left, to go 
 out into the chill, wintry air, and pretend she was enjoy 
 ing a walk. There was one other outdoor alternative: 
 she could go to the barn and talk with Sam or stop to 
 chat with him in the field. 
 
 Her big, gloomy, black-bearded brother-in-law had at 
 tracted her attention from the first. It was Maud s way 
 to think more of men. They petted her and said pretty 
 things to her, and teased her and made her pout. Then 
 Sam was handsome in his retired melancholy. He had 
 blue eyes under the bushy black eyebrows ; and a re 
 served, steady voice came from his beard-shadowed 
 mouth. 
 
 As for Sam himself, he had liked Maud always since 
 she tied up his swollen fingers on the first morning after 
 her arrival. There was a tender solicitude in her eyes, a 
 drawing of the pain muscles at the corners of the eyelids 
 
240 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 that he had never seen in his sisters when they were 
 offering him sympathy. Then Maud talked to him freely 
 from her mind, more freely than she dared do to Hubert. 
 
 " Why do you work, work, work all your life, and never 
 stop to think what you are living for ? " she asked from 
 her bench one day, where she was watching him husk 
 corn in the barn. 
 
 Sam had never heard such a question before, but he 
 did not laugh at Maud for her queerness. 
 
 " We have to work for our living," he answered. 
 
 " But you make more than a living. Your mother told 
 me you had money invested in Western mortgages." 
 
 " Yes, a little ; but that doesn t bring in much now. 
 Times are hard out there in Kansas." 
 
 " But you have money in the bank, and your expenses 
 are very small here. Libbie told me that she and Mary 
 bought all the groceries and their own clothes from the 
 money for their butter and eggs." 
 
 " Yes, Libbie is thrifty at that." 
 
 " Well, what do you want to raise so much grain for, 
 and so many hogs and cattle ? " 
 
 " I d like to get the forty joining on the south, but 
 Johnson asks a good price for it." 
 
 " You ve got more land now than you can work." 
 
 " I might hire a hand." 
 
 " Just another man for your sisters to work for." 
 
 " A hand is a nuisance. You re always wondering if 
 they are loafing whenever you go away. Hiram is good 
 help when he s here. He and I exchange work." 
 
 " Well, but what do you want that forty acres for ? " she 
 persisted. 
 
 " Oh, it would make good meadow land." 
 
 " You have hay enough now for your stock." 
 
 " Yes, but then I could keep more stock." 
 
Qj 
 
 u ic k sand 241 
 
 " To sell, and buy more land, I suppose." 
 
 " I need the stock to eat up my grain. There s no 
 money in selling grain." 
 
 " If you didn t have so much land, you wouldn t have 
 so much grain." 
 
 " It is a sort of circle," laughed Sam ; " but what is a 
 fellow to do ? " 
 
 " Enjoy life," said Maud, smiling brightly. 
 
 " What have I to enjoy except my home with my mother 
 and sisters ? " 
 
 1 Go off on a trip. See the world." 
 
 "I m afraid I would find it pretty lonesome. Though 
 I should have liked to go off with Hiram. But, then, I 
 can t think of leaving home over night : the women would 
 go into a fit." 
 
 " You might get married," she said archly. 
 
 " Oh, mother and the girls would never endure my 
 bringing a wife home," he said with confusion. 
 
 " Can t they endure me ? " she questioned with mis 
 chief. 
 
 Sam shifted uneasily, "With Hubert it s different," 
 he said. " He s been away to college, and they don t 
 expect him to keep the farm going." 
 
 " Couldn t you build a house near by, and run the farm 
 just the same ? " she questioned. 
 
 "Mother likes to have us together," he answered, 
 " especially since father died." 
 
 " Is is there some one you d like to you d like to 
 marry ? " faltered Maud. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no, not now. I m too cranky now to ever 
 get on with a woman. I m a crusty old bachelor." 
 
 " Was there ever anybody ? " pursued Maud, astonished 
 at her own temerity. 
 
 " It was a long time ago. I never speak of it," said 
 
242 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 Sam, making a great noise with kicking the husks into a 
 corner. 
 
 " Aren t you cold ? " he asked tenderly. 
 
 " Not much. I ll get up and dance around. Or I 
 might help you with the husking." 
 
 "It would only scratch your hands," he objected. 
 " This is a half-load that I snapped for the hogs, and it 
 looked so good I thought I d shell some." 
 
 " I will feed the sheller for you." 
 
 " Hiram and I used to work together at shelling. He 
 would make the old machine hum. Hiram is always in 
 for his laughing." 
 
 " You don t laugh very much." 
 
 " I like to see you laugh, though," he said wistfully. 
 
 " Then we ll laugh with the sheller. You make it hum, 
 and I ll throw in the ears of corn." 
 
 " Don t you want to go into the house and get warm ? " 
 
 " No, I m in the way in there. Hubert s cross, and 
 the rest are busy." 
 
 Sam did not make any reply. 
 
 " Am I in your way ? " she faltered, to tease him. 
 
 " Why, not a bit. I like you." Then he blushed, and 
 retracted. " I like you to enjoy yourself," he said. 
 
 They began with the corn-sheller merrily, Sam grinding 
 at the heavy iron wheel, and Maud feeding the corn in as 
 fast as she could to see the strong muscles stiffen and to 
 laugh if she could bring him to a stand-still. They were 
 surprised when Libbie came to call them to dinner. How 
 short the morning had been 1 
 
 " I will come and help you often if you will let me," 
 said Maud. "It s so much nicer than poking in the 
 house." 
 
XL. 
 
 ONE sunny day just before Christmas Sam found 
 Maud down by the creek. He was coming from 
 repairing the pasture fence. It was late in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Taking a walk ? " he called cheerfully. 
 
 " Yes," said Maud, forcing a smile. 
 
 He noticed that her face was blotched with color and 
 her eyes were swollen around the lids. 
 
 " Did you hurt yourself somehow ? " he asked kindly. 
 
 " No no no 1 " said Maud, with a sob in her voice. 
 
 " Now has Hubert been cross again ? " angrily. 
 
 "A a little," she faltered. 
 
 " He ought to be thrashed ! " said Sam, grimly. 
 
 " Oh, he didn t mean it exactly ; that is, he is nervous 
 with his book. It isn t that altogether" - Here she 
 stopped, as if in confusion. 
 
 " Has mother or Libbie been pestering you again ? " 
 
 " No ; that is, no. It is only that Christmas is 
 coming, and I am so awfully lonesome." She kept her 
 face away from him, but her shoulders were shaking with 
 sobbing. 
 
 Sam was used to his sisters crying, but this affected 
 him strangely. He was embarrassed, and yet wanted to 
 comfort. They were passing by Hiram s vacant house. 
 
 " Come in here," he said hurriedly. " You mustn t go 
 back home this way. There s a fire in the fireplace. I 
 built it to-day just to get some of the frost out of the 
 place. Come in here 1 " His voice was trembling with 
 sympathy. 
 
 He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the 
 kitchen door, and thence pushed her into the log house, 
 that was standing behind the new part which had been 
 
244 u i c k s a n d 
 
 built for the coming of Mary. There were glowing coals 
 in the fireplace. Sam threw on some light wood, and 
 fanned it with his cap till it burst into a leaping flame. 
 Then he put on some heavier wood, and drew up an arm 
 chair in front of it. Hiram had things arranged for 
 a homely land of comfort. 
 
 Maud, who had been recovering from her sobbing, 
 now sat down dejectedly in the chair. " How warm and 
 pleasant it is here ! " she said. " What a baby you must 
 think I am ! " 
 
 " All women are, I suppose," said Sam, kindly. Why 
 was it that he was looking to see if the window shutters 
 were closed ? The room was in shadow, except for the 
 firelight. 
 
 " Are you better now ? " he asked after a time, when 
 the fire was making them grateful. 
 
 " Yes. It was partly the cold, I suppose. The week 
 has been so dreary till to-day, with the snow shutting 
 everything in." 
 
 " Why don t you and Hubert go to Des Moines to 
 spend Christmas ? " he asked. " It would liven you up a 
 bit. You have plenty of money." 
 
 " It doesn t come due till January." 
 
 " You could borrow enough to go on." 
 
 " Mother wouldn t let Hubert go away for Christmas." 
 
 " Afterward, then." 
 
 " Then the protracted meetings commence." 
 
 " You might go alone." 
 
 " That would seem queer to my friends, wouldn t it ? " 
 
 " A little queer, perhaps," he answered doubtfully. 
 
 " You seem awfully anxious to get rid of me, some 
 way," laughed Maud. 
 
 " It s because you need a change. You are not used 
 to country life. No, we should miss you enough." 
 
Qjuicksand 245 
 
 " It ought not to be so lonely," complained Maud. 
 
 " We are different from you, and so much older." 
 
 " You don t seem old to me." 
 
 " I ? Oh, I m nearly forty years old," he said thought 
 fully. 
 
 " But your hair is black, and there s not a gray mark in 
 your beard." 
 
 " Oh, yes, there is, here, close to my ear." He tipped 
 down his head to show her. Her ringers touched his 
 rough cheek. 
 
 " You are handsomer than Hubert," she said suddenly. 
 " You ought to have had an education, too, instead of al 
 ways working on the farm." 
 
 A wave of pathos swept over him. He had lived so 
 many years in silence, and now she was making his hear 
 speak. He had drudged alone all his life. His pity for 
 himself was overflowing. 
 
 "I ve been all right," he said hoarsely. " You mustn t 
 worry about me." But he reached out his hand and 
 clasped hers. His chair was not far from her own. 
 How the clinging of soft fingers made him thrill ! Why 
 did Hubert have all the education and the idleness, and 
 the joys of a wife, besides? Hubert who And his 
 jealousy flared ominously. 
 
 " You seem to me more lonesome than I am," she said 
 to him after the quiet. 
 
 " I am old, and can stand it," he said. 
 
 " You don t seem to me old. In some ways you are 
 very young. Like a man who never has lived." Whence 
 came her woman s intuition ? 
 
 " A man doesn t live who isn t married," answered 
 Sam. 
 
 " Did something keep you from marrying the girl that 
 you loved ? " 
 
246 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Was it your mother ? " 
 
 " It was many things. It was in New Hampshire. 
 You must not ask me about it." 
 
 " Did she marry some one else ? " 
 
 " I never heard. Probably not." 
 
 " Let me write to her," pleaded Maud. 
 
 " No, no 1 It s all past. Maybe she s dead." 
 
 " I feel so sorry for you 1 I like you so much 1 " she 
 said to him. His hand was again clutching hers. 
 
 " You must not think of it," he said. " You must be 
 happy with Hubert." 
 
 " Oh, we can t be happy any more ! " she said petu 
 lantly. " Some one is always between us. We only have 
 time to quarrel, and never time to make up." 
 
 " But you care for him still, don t you, Maud ? " 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so. But, after you ve loved people 
 enough, they seem only to worry you when you love 
 them." 
 
 "I m glad no woman loves me ; for I could never stand 
 it when she had loved me enough, and then it began to 
 worry her." 
 
 " You are different from Hubert. You are of a jealous 
 disposition." 
 
 " Isn t he jealous ? " 
 
 " Oh, he s thinking all the time of his stories, and 
 everybody to him is only literary material." 
 
 " Are you only literary material ? " 
 
 " Oh, hardly that," she said, laughing restlessly. " But 
 you know he s visiting his mother and sisters, and natu 
 rally has little time now for me." 
 
 " How soft and silky your hair is 1 " he said to her 
 after a silence. 
 
 " Do you think it s pretty ? " she asked. 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 247 
 
 " The prettiest I ever saw," he answered. " Hubert 
 has very good taste." 
 
 " He learned to judge from seeing his brother," she 
 said. 
 
 " I m not good-looking," he objected. " Any one will 
 tell you I am ugly." 
 
 " I don t think so," she laughed. " Your hair is crisp 
 like drawn metal, and your eyes are a beautiful blue." 
 
 Abruptly he bent over and kissed her, kissed her pas 
 sionately on the delicate lips. 
 
 She started up in alarm. 
 
 "It is growing dark. We must be going. Oh, you 
 shouldn t do that 1 " 
 
 " I forgot myself," he said hoarsely. " Yes, let us be 
 going at once : it must be growing quite dark." 
 
 While she was arranging her wraps, he was covering 
 the fire for safety. 
 
 " Why, it s dark ! " she called, as if frightened. 
 
 But it was only because the window shutters were 
 closed ; for, when Sam opened the door, the full western 
 sun flashed upon them. It seemed like a blow in their 
 faces. 
 
XLI. 
 
 THERE was no more of gay helping in the barn 
 for Maud after that day of the walk and the stop 
 ping in Hiram s house. It was not because she 
 was not willing. She felt very sorry for Sam with this 
 new reason for loneliness come on him. She was willing 
 to show her forgiveness. Indeed, what had she to for 
 give ? Was he not her husband s brother ? But Sam was 
 the one to keep aloof. He never spoke to her now in the 
 same way that he had done. He scarcely spoke at all 
 any more ; but sometimes, when he was sitting near her, 
 she would hear him draw a deep sigh, as though pain were 
 rooted in his soul. Life was more dreary than ever now 
 on the farm, since this one relief was taken from her. 
 Sam was kind to her as before ; but, if she came upon him 
 when he was alone, he immediately began making excuses 
 to get away, giving minutest explanations, in a stumbling 
 and breathless manner. The Christmas season passed in 
 this way, and the protracted meetings began. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley s health was not strong this winter, and 
 she could not attend the meetings every night. Libbie 
 and Mary could not always go, either. In truth, they did 
 not wish to meet Mr. Simmons, who conducted the meet 
 ings as usual, and came almost every night. But Maud 
 must go regularly if she would. Maud had never been 
 truly converted, though she was a member of an orthodox 
 church. Hubert should go, too ; but Hubert was strangely 
 rebellious. Then Maud should go, with Sam as an escort. 
 The family must be represented. 
 
 As for Maud, she was glad to get out, glad of the walk 
 and the glimpse of new faces. The excitement of the 
 revival amused her, and she never thought of the religion 
 so far as applying it to herself was concerned. Last of 
 
QJJ i c k s a n d 249 
 
 all, she liked to walk with Sam back and forth in the 
 darkness and cold frost, her hand resting timidly on his 
 arm, which he never openly offered her, as it was not the 
 custom in the country, at least, between members of the 
 same family. She knew now that Sam loved her, and in 
 a way she liked him better for his control ; and liking him 
 better for that made her want him to break it. 
 
 One night they had started as usual, Sam having little 
 to speak of. 
 
 They came to pass Hiram s house. " I was in there 
 to-day," said Sam, " and had a big fire in the fireplace." 
 
 " It is a nice house," she answered him wistfully. " I 
 wonder if the fire is burning yet? " 
 
 Did he feel a pressure on his arm or did he stop of his 
 own accord ? They were standing still in the snow. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to go in and see if I left the fire 
 safely covered," he said hesitatingly. " I didn t pay 
 much attention to it when I left." 
 
 " Have you the key in your pocket ? " she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought you had changed your clothes." Her 
 voice was mellow and rippling. 
 
 " I changed the key, too, into my other pocket." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Will you go in with me or wait here ? " He was de 
 termined to give her a chance, and he prayed to God she 
 would accept it. 
 
 " I will go with you," she said faintly. " It is cold 
 standing here in the snow." 
 
 They looked backward to see that no one was coming. 
 Then they turned into the beaten path, and entered the 
 house together. 
 
 Maud sat down in the chair, while Sam stooped to ex 
 amine the fire. He raked up the glowing coals, and 
 
250 Qjjicksand 
 
 then, instead of covering them with ashes, he threw on 
 some of the lighter wood ; and the flames leaped up and 
 flashed in their faces. 
 
 "There is plenty of time for the meeting," he said 
 breathlessly. " We might as well rest a moment." 
 
 " Can any one see in ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not a soul : the window shutters are tight." But he 
 stepped outside, to make sure whether any of the light 
 could get through. Why should he be doing that? 
 he asked himself. No, not a ray could creep out. The 
 house seemed quite empty in the starlight. How like 
 eyes the stars looked down ! He returned to the house, 
 locking the door behind him. Maud was still sitting in 
 the chair, gazing at the flames with dreamy eyes. 
 
 " Are your feet cold ? " he asked almost harshly. 
 
 " A little cold, not much," she answered. 
 
 He knelt down and removed her overshoes from her 
 dainty feet, an attention he had never given before. 
 
 " They feel cold," he said, clasping her toe with his 
 hand. 
 
 " Your hands warm them," she replied, still dreamily. 
 
 He rose suddenly, and took off his own overshoes and 
 coat. He took off his cloth cap, too, and stowed the 
 mittens in the overcoat pockets. 
 
 The woman offered no objection. When he came and 
 stood before her, she looked up from dewy, bright eyes. 
 " Aren t you going to the meeting, then ? " she asked 
 him. 
 
 For return he stooped over her, and took off her hood 
 and her mittens. She half rose to help him with the 
 cloak. Then he threw some wood on the fire, and drew 
 a chair up beside her, all this without speaking a word. 
 
 Then she offered her first objection. "We ought to 
 be going," she ventured. 
 
Qjuicksand 251 
 
 " It is too late," he replied quite solemnly, his eyes 
 fixed steadily upon her. 
 
 " I don t care. I m tired of the meetings. It s nicer to 
 be sitting here with you." 
 
 He gave no reply, but his burning gaze made her 
 nervous. 
 
 " I want to ask your forgiveness, Sam, for hurting you 
 that day. It was my fault that you acted as you did." 
 
 " It was the fault of neither of us," he replied. " It 
 was fate or else it was the devil." 
 
 " But you acted as if you regretted," she objected, in a 
 pouting of doubt. 
 
 " I did regret then," he said ; " but I do not regret 
 any more." His voice rang true like rich music. There 
 was a sense as of freedom upon him, freedom for the 
 first time in his life. He had lived nearly forty years. 
 
 " How proud you look ! " she said fondly. " I have 
 never seen you so noble before. I wish you would 
 tell me of that girl that you loved some twenty years ago 
 in New Hampshire." 
 
 He drew up a cushion on the floor, it was one Hiram 
 had brought from Calcutta, and seated himself at her 
 feet. " I will tell you everything," he said, " some 
 things you will think very strange, only you must let me 
 hold your hand." 
 
 She stretched her soft hand out to him, allowing it to 
 be encased in his own. His hands were calloused and 
 seamed with work and weather, but she liked them the 
 better for that. 
 
 Then he began the story of his life when he was a boy, 
 together with Hiram, playing in the New Hampshire woods, 
 and his sister Adelaide was alive. He spoke of his boy 
 hood a time, and his voice was eloquent and sweet. He 
 had never talked so before in his life. Then his voice 
 
252 Qjiicksand 
 
 softened still more. He was telling of Lily McDonald. 
 "We were to have been married," he said; and the 
 memory he held made Maud lonely. She asked him to 
 go on with his story. 
 
 Then he spoke of the family shame and the silence to 
 all of their neighbours. But everybody in the village 
 knew, for Adelaide had to be buried. He yearned to see 
 Lily McDonald, but his shame would not let him face her. 
 Then, when they decided to go to Iowa, and take Hubert 
 with them as his brother, he made up his mind to speak 
 to Lily and let her choose between going and staying. 
 He spoke to his mother about it, and she told him in a 
 frenzy it was impossible. Lily would form a connection 
 between their new life and their past. Her people would 
 come to see her, the secret would escape in their talk. 
 No, the family must go quite alone. Love would keep 
 them all silent. Besides, Libbie and Mary were too 
 young for any knowledge. The secret would rest among 
 three. They would cut off all communication with the 
 past, and start a new life in the West. But he must not 
 take a stranger with him, even though she went as his 
 wife. Women will tell : they can t help it ; and the secret 
 must be for three alone, for the sake of his mother, for 
 the sake of his sisters who must grow up in honour and 
 ignorance, and for the peace of his father s declining 
 years. No one thought of Hubert then. It was after 
 ward they came to love him. So he did not see Lily 
 McDonald. He had never heard from her since. Hiram 
 had joined them ten years later. Perhaps one reason 
 that his mother disliked Hiram was her fear that he 
 might suspect something. 
 
 Then the man went on to tell the frightened woman the 
 rest of his lonely life. There was not much to tell now, 
 just work and drag out the years. Hubert grew up, 
 
Qjiicksand 253 
 
 and the women grew to love him ; but in his heart Sam 
 always disliked him. He had taken his youth from him, 
 and his love, perhaps even his education. Hubert had 
 everything, he nothing. How could he like him for that ? 
 Of course, the boy was blameless ; but blamelessness does 
 not make us love people. Hubert had his education and 
 his pleasure. Sam had to work, and give them to him. 
 Now something dearer had come to him ; but that was 
 Hubert s, too. 
 
 Maud was crying now softly. It seemed, too, that 
 Hubert had wronged her ; and unreasonably she resented 
 his marriage to her. What right had Hubert to any 
 thing, since his whole life was a horrible lie ? That he 
 did not know it was a lie only made the matter worse. 
 His fault was he should have known it, and did not. 
 
 Then her sympathy flowed for the man who was talk 
 ing to her, the mournful, dark soul that was blighted, the 
 man she loved at her feet. He, too, had been wronged 
 by this Hubert, this Hubert who was guilty because he 
 was innocent. The strong man was grieving now : a pas 
 sion of self sorrow was on him. The girl bended her 
 golden head down to him, and kissed him on the flushed 
 forehead. 
 
 It only enraged his passion. "I love you! I love 
 you 1 " he pleaded. " I love you, and I cannot give you 
 up. A second denial would drive me to madness ? " 
 
 He was mad now, she half thought, as he crouched 
 there, fawning on her knees. She had never seen man in 
 such passion. His face was contorted with struggling, 
 his forehead was wet as in harvest. His great hands 
 were caressing her own. It seemed that his fire would 
 consume her. Was this, then, love? she asked. This 
 was so different from Hubert s. Hubert s love was puny 
 beside it. Hubert was a boy who had wronged her. 
 
254 Qjuicksand 
 
 It was ten o clock when they left the house vacant, 
 having carefully covered the fire and removed all traces 
 of their stopping. The stars were calm as they had 
 been, shining points from the blue-black of heaven. 
 
 " We must not come here again," said Sam, huskily. 
 " I lose all control of myself." 
 
 Maud gave back no reply; but secretly in her heart 
 she knew, as he knew, that they would often come now 
 again. 
 
XLII. 
 
 HUBERT had completed his volume of stories, 
 carefully copied them for the publishers, and sent 
 them out, seeking acceptance. In a gloomy way 
 they seemed almost like himself when he was seeking 
 work in Chicago. He did not know where to go, he did 
 not know how to ask; but there is one advantage in 
 sending a book, the distance softens the chagrin of re 
 fusal, and the time gives longer chance for hoping. He 
 watched the mails and counted off the days for three 
 months. It seemed they must be considering seriously, it 
 took so very long to give answer. His other stories and 
 poems had all been gathered in now, and laid away with 
 the past. This new volume was his only hope. He would 
 not even think of another until this had come into print. 
 The very thought of his own works in print made his 
 heart fly a-quivering. 
 
 He had not read these stories to Maud. He told her 
 he was going to surprise her. There were various 
 reasons for this, the chief one being that they were never 
 left long enough together. Then, again, he knew, if he 
 read them to Maud, his mother and Libbie and Mary 
 would feel that they had been slighted ; and he could not 
 bare his heart-poems to them all, not until print gave 
 them sanction, and great people were talking about him. 
 Libbie and Mary would speak of them to him when he 
 was nervous. Even their praise and sympathy would 
 nettle him. They had not the artistic sense of silence as 
 being the highest appreciation. Moreover, his mother 
 would worry because the stories did not show religion ; 
 and she would be seeking always for the moral, and read 
 ing her son into them. Do you believe this ? do you not be 
 lieve that ? Why, he had written his visions because they 
 
256 Qjjicksand 
 
 were beautiful ; and his mother did not know about the 
 beautiful, unless it was something probably wicked, ex 
 cept when applied to heaven. She knew about the good 
 and the loyal: loyalty to her own was her strength. 
 Poor Maud ! It was hard to keep them from her, when 
 she had helped so bravely with all the abortive novels. 
 But he could not trust Maud with them now. She could 
 not help telling something to his sisters. They would be 
 sure to ask her. Moreover, if she refused to tell, there 
 would be fresh reasons for quarrel. 
 
 In some way, Maud was becoming a disappointment to 
 Hubert. She did not win the affections of the women as 
 her husband had hoped that she would. It was true she 
 was always pleasant to them, at least, always convention 
 ally pleasant, which, by the way, is often quite the oppo 
 site from being heartily pleasant ; but there was a strange 
 ness growing between them, a chasm that was daily 
 widening. He acknowledged that it may not have been 
 her fault ; and still he blamed her for it. He loved his 
 mother and sisters ; and why could not his wife do the 
 same ? He meant to make their lives happier ; but Maud 
 said once, in a pouting way, that they wanted to keep 
 their happiness to themselves. 
 
 His mother said Maud lacked true religion, and then 
 other complications came in. If his wife became con 
 verted, it would drive him crazy ; for she, knowing all of 
 his secrets, would consider it her duty to tell his mother, 
 and then he would have three women hounding him, 
 his mother, his wife, and his sister. It was not to be 
 denied that Maud was taking an interest in the protracted 
 meetings ; and a change, too, was coming upon her. He 
 noticed fits of abstraction and a look as of one awaking 
 whenever he touched her unexpectedly. Still, she denied 
 taking anything more than a casual interest in the doc- 
 
Qjiicksand 257 
 
 trines of salvation. When she spoke of the meetings at 
 all, she said it was nice to see the people, and she enjoyed 
 the walk and change. Maud seemed to get on well with 
 Sam, and often said she liked him the best of the family. 
 Hubert was relieved at this. It kept her away from his 
 sisters and their jealousy, and left him in quiet to his 
 melancholy, which was now growing to morbid seclusion. 
 The meetings were ended in a month, and Maud was not 
 converted; but Mrs. Hinckley was exasperated, so that 
 new trouble came out of good. 
 
 His mother came into the parlour one day, and sat down 
 on the opposite side of his table. It was the dreary, lag 
 ging cold at the end of February. He had been longing 
 for Hiram to come back, and wondering why he did not 
 write to them, to tell them where he was. This wonder 
 ment had grown habit with him now. He was always 
 longing for Hiram and the healthiness and cheer of his 
 presence. 
 
 As soon as he looked up and saw his mother sitting 
 there, with the nervous, set expression on her face, he 
 knew that he must hear the matter out, about the quarrel 
 between Maud and Libbie ; for Libbie had been red-eyed, 
 and in her headaches three days, and the crisis must soon 
 be upon them. 
 
 " What is it, mother ? " he asked patiently. 
 
 " Hubert, we must come to an understanding. Things 
 can t go on this way longer." 
 
 " You mean Maud and Libbie ? " 
 
 " I mean Maud," said Mrs. Hinckley, decidedly. 
 
 He waited for her to begin. 
 
 " Hubert, I and your sisters have tried to love Maud 
 for your sake. Indeed, we have come to love her ; but 
 she does not appreciate our feeling. We have been 
 patient with her, remembering that she had no mother to 
 
258 Qjiicksand 
 
 bring her up, and the temptations of having her own way, 
 and money to spend as she chooses. We have done 
 everything for her that mother and sisters can do. We 
 have endured her overbearing ways and suffered under 
 her silence, when it became necessary for us to speak. I 
 myself might have kept on for your sake and for my 
 affection for her, but your sisters have not had the experi 
 ence in patience that I have, and Libbie is quite worn 
 into sickness." 
 
 " Is there anything now, especially ? " asked Hubert, 
 feeling that there was. 
 
 "It s the work chiefly now," said Mrs. Hinckley; 
 "though, if it s not one thing, it s another. You know 
 Maud does the chamber work, or did till Libbie could not 
 stand it in her room." 
 
 " Didn t Maud do it well ? " asked Hubert. 
 
 "You know how sensitive Libbie is. She said she 
 knew that Maud was looking into her bureau." 
 
 " Did she see her doing it ? " 
 
 " No, but things were disarranged. Of course, Libbie 
 may have been mistaken. Anyway, Libbie took back the 
 work of doing her own room and expected Maud to help 
 her with the sweeping." 
 
 " But Maud did offer to sweep." 
 
 " She offered to do it all the time ; but Libbie won t let 
 her do that. We don t want Maud to do all the work ; but 
 she says she will sweep all the time or else she won t sweep 
 at all, because she says Libbie won t let her have her own 
 way. As if Libbie were not here first, before she was even 
 born 1 But I don t wish to take up the quarrel, though 
 something has got to be done. I can t stand it any longer. 
 Maud has been out helping Sam, and Libbie has been 
 crying all morning." 
 
 " I suppose we might go back to Chicago," said Hubert, 
 as if light had come to him. 
 
Qjjicksand 259 
 
 "No, no, you can t do that. You can t move in the 
 middle of the winter. It is not so serious as that ; and 
 Libbie, I know, is to blame as much as any one." 
 
 " We might move down to Hiram s house, at least till 
 he comes back." 
 
 " It isn t best. You wouldn t get the care. You d be 
 sick. The work would be too much for Maud. And I 
 don t think Hiram would like it ; that is, I could not have 
 you go there. I have I have forbidden this house to 
 Hiram for something I can t speak of now. He has been 
 ungrateful toward us. No, no, I can t let you go there." 
 
 " Well, Libbie can t go away, can she ? I don t see how 
 they can keep on together." 
 
 " Why couldn t Maud go away ? " said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 " She has the money, and she might visit her friends in 
 Des Moines. You could stay here and write. It would 
 be freer then from interruption. She might make a long 
 visit. You know it s not that we don t want her here, nor 
 that we begrudge her her living. We are willing to do 
 anything for her. What we have done is a guarantee of 
 that, Hubert ; but it would give things time to blow over, 
 and Well, now, consider it, Hubert." 
 
 " I will see. Here comes Maud herself." And Mrs. 
 Hinckley made pretense of some errand, and departed, 
 leaving them together. 
 
 Maud was getting obstinate of late, though Hubert 
 could see something of the reason. She was also getting 
 more beautiful, but the cause of that he did not know. 
 He attributed it to the country air and the exercise of 
 their farm life. It was having an opposite effect upon 
 him, for his face was sallow and haggard. How beautiful 
 Maud was as she entered, the colour aglow in her cheeks, 
 her hair escaping from her hood, and her blue eyes spark 
 ling like frost crystals ! There were some crystals now, 
 unmelted, on her dress. 
 
260 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 "I had to slip through," she apologised, "to get my 
 heavier overshoes. I am going with Sam to the creek to 
 haul up a load of brush." 
 
 " Sit down, just a minute," asked Hubert. " Mother 
 says you and Libbie have been quarrelling. You know 
 Libbie is not well." 
 
 " Oh, it s about that sweeping," said Maud. " Poor 
 thing ! is she still fretting about that ? Well, I was a little 
 ugly ; but I ll go and ask her forgiveness, right now, though 
 Sam is waiting. And I ll tell her she can do as she likes, 
 and scold me whenever I don t do right. There, I ll see 
 to it right off." And away she danced out of the room. 
 
 So the storm passed over, like many domestic ones. 
 Libbie s grief was appeased, and they loved each other 
 quite contentedly for a few days ; and then the break and 
 separation was repeated, each time with a little more feel 
 ing. Mrs. Hinckley did not forget to urge the visit with 
 Hubert, and once he spoke of it to Maud. But she threw 
 the remark aside carelessly. Her step-mother had moved 
 from Des Moines. All her old friends had gone away or 
 were married. She was more contented here now. She 
 did not mind the loneliness so much, and had made nice 
 friends among the neighbours. She did not even look 
 with her old favour upon moving into Hiram s house. 
 " We will be going back to Chicago, perhaps, in the sum 
 mer ; and + hen Hiram might not like to have us go there, 
 considering his trouble with mother." 
 
 March came, and April and May ; but the spring did 
 not give Hubert content. He wandered out listless in the 
 sunshine, and thought only of fate that was against him. 
 
XLIII. 
 
 THERE came a day of crises. It was a beautiful 
 day early in June. Almost it tempted the boy 
 out, but he turned to the shadow of the house. 
 His volume of stories had come back to him that morn 
 ing. There was not a word of comment, simply the usual 
 printed slip of refusal. He knew its wording by heart, 
 he had received enough of them the past three years. 
 Never had a written word come to him. It was useless 
 to try any more. 
 
 He went into the hateful parlour, and sat down by the 
 table to think. The house seemed deserted for once, and 
 he was thankful for its stillness and peace. Presently he 
 crossed over to his trunk, and drew all his manuscripts from 
 it. Should he burn them and have done, or try again ? 
 There were the three unfinished novels, among others. 
 He began to read them in desultory fashion, sometimes 
 fired by their passages, but oftener disgusted with their 
 staleness. The anti-religious one was the best : that 
 glowed with true fervour of conviction, and was written in 
 powerful phrasing. And that one he could finish even 
 now. The bitterness of the winter was with him, his 
 own truckling and concealing and fasehood. But it 
 would break the heart of his mother. That her boy 
 should write an infidel novel ! Still, he felt it spoke truth. 
 He felt that the world needed such books. People must 
 break away, the young men first and most of all. Old 
 traditions were narrowing them into brutes, and he had 
 the power to speak for them. The world needed his 
 message. Against that was his mother s love. No, the 
 world must wait ; and he knew that it was not the world 
 that would feel the sacrifice so much as himself, who was 
 a coward. He did not dare speak the prophecy he had. 
 He was a coward, and would always remain one. 
 
262 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 His hot tears were falling on the paper when Libbie 
 and Mary entered the next room. They were in the 
 height of a quarrel. Hubert had never known of such 
 between them. 
 
 " You think you can fool me, do you ? I can see your 
 lies in your face 1 " The rasping, shrill voice was Libbie s ; 
 but he had never supposed it could speak such words in 
 this way, and that to her sister Mary. 
 
 Mary, it seemed, was sobbing a denial. 
 
 Hubert went into the room. " What is the matter ? " 
 he said wearily. It seemed as if he were a worn-out old 
 man. 
 
 Then came the heaviness of the matter. Libbie ac 
 cused Mary of receiving clandestine letters from Hiram, 
 which Mary both confessed and denied. It seemed that 
 Libbie had proof, but Mary did not know how much. And 
 Hubert saw then Libbie s love for Hiram and her bitter 
 jealousy of her sister, and wondered that he had never 
 seen it before. And he saw all the misery ahead. He 
 succeeded in getting Libbie aside ; and she confessed, but 
 she thought that Hiram loved her, or would if Mary would 
 only let him alone. Later on he talked with Mary about 
 it, who told him of the scene in the wood, and how Hiram 
 had gone away. But she did not tell even Hubert that 
 she had had a letter that day, begging her a last time to 
 come to Chicago. 
 
 Hubert went out for a walk, and left them sullen. The 
 atmosphere of the house was unbearable. He was begin 
 ning to hate the place, and wish it would burn to the 
 ground. 
 
 He walked along in the June heat, his feet in the sand 
 of the road. He stopped for a time on the bridge, the 
 bridge he had blown on as a child to cool it from burning 
 his feet. That had been typical of his whole life. He 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 263 
 
 had blown on the sunshine to cool it with his breath, and 
 naturally with little effect. The dinner bell rang at noon 
 time to call Sam in from the field. He would go back 
 now and sit with the family at the table, a new pain added 
 to those torturing them. He climbed the dusty hill, and 
 was dragging himself around the front of the house when 
 he saw his mother sitting at the parlour window, reading, a 
 stony look of horror in her face. She was reading the 
 manuscript of his novel, the one written for freedom from 
 religion. He stepped close to the window, but aside so as 
 not to throw a shadow. Yes, she was just finishing the 
 description of the young preacher s escape from the im 
 moral doctrines of the Church ; and the white despair of 
 his dear mother s face ! He slipped away, and ran down 
 the hill. He was running away like a coward ; and how 
 could he ever go back ? 
 
 That afternoon he moped, hungry and desolate, in the 
 wood along by the creek. He lay on the ground and 
 wept, till he imagined he heard some one coming, and then 
 leaped up and ran as for his life. What if any one should 
 see him blubbering there like a boy ! The bees droned 
 and circled in the sun, the grass creatures chirped their 
 content. But now he hated all life. He cried out for 
 silence and death. 
 
 Haunting him doggedly all the time was the thought of 
 how he should go home. He would be starved to it in 
 time : he could not go to the neighbours. Then he must 
 face his mother, and confess himself a liar to her face, a 
 coward, a hypocrite, and a liar, and with things most 
 sacred to her heart. He could not go home to-night, at 
 least not till all were in bed. Then he would slip in unbe 
 known, and ask Maud to bring him some bread. 
 
 How long the sun lagged in the sky ! It seemed that 
 the shadows would not lengthen. He set up a stick by 
 
264 Quicksand 
 
 which to measure, and then a feverish haste came upon 
 him ; for he must think of his conduct in the morning. 
 How to face his mother and Libbie and Sam, who had 
 supported him in college 1 
 
 It was impossible to think, though, to-day. Perhaps his 
 brain would freshen with sleep. If Hiram were only here 1 
 But Libbie and his mother had driven him away, and 
 Mary was wearing out her life. What other curses were 
 there in living ? Dear old Hiram, with the gay laugh and 
 the glowing, tender face, if he were here with his 
 counsel 1 
 
 As the shadows deepened and advanced, Hubert be 
 came afraid of the wood. With his thoughts still on 
 Hiram, it occurred to him that he would go over to 
 Hiram s house. He could slip in there, and wait till the 
 family had all gone to bed. At other times he would 
 have been afraid to stay in a vacant house, but now he 
 was too miserable to know fear. He crept over in the 
 stealth of the shadows, and broke into the back kitchen 
 window. Then he went into the larger room, and crouched 
 in the corner on the bed. He tried to open the window 
 shutters, but they were nailed securely outside. 
 
 Then his fears came to add to his misery, all sorts of 
 dismal, haunting fears. What if Hiram were dead, and 
 his ghost should come back to this place ? He knew he 
 did not believe in ghosts, but he was so terribly afraid. 
 He crept down under the bed-clothes. It did not occur to 
 him strange that the bed should be left in the house. He 
 trembled and prayed in his terror, and wished he might 
 cry as in the afternoon ; but the tears were drained from 
 his eyes. 
 
 It must have been eight o clock. He was drowsy with 
 fatigue and with hunger when he heard a step on the path, 
 a man and a woman approaching. He could hear the 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 265 
 
 murmur of their voices and their breathing as they stood 
 by the door. 
 
 He tried to call out ; but his throat was parched as in a 
 nightmare, and his mouth remained set, though wide open. 
 The coldness of fear filled his veins and centred, crowd 
 ing his leaping heart. He could not stir for his horror, 
 though he was lying as on a bed of sharp needles. 
 
 Then a key slipped into the lock, turned, and the door 
 opened stealthily. When would this dream of fright leave 
 him, and give him power to call out for help ? His eyes 
 were fixed on the door when the flood of moonlight poured 
 in, and his brother Sam stood revealed. Hubert was try 
 ing to speak, but he was afraid of Sam now. Sam might 
 be frightened to hear him. Perhaps he had better keep 
 still. Sam had come to get something probably, and 
 might not even strike a light. Then Maud stepped into 
 the moonlight. His wife, his beautiful Maud ! The 
 moon was round and just risen. It bathed them full in 
 its glow, but Hubert was in the darkness of the corner. 
 
 " Ah, dearest ! stand here in the light. I want to look 
 at your face." It was Sam s voice speaking to Maud. He 
 had never heard Sam s voice like that, so clinging and 
 quivering with passion. 
 
 Maud turned her face up toward him : it was glowing 
 with the fulness of love. Sam held her back in the moon 
 light. Hubert could look under his brother s arm. 
 
 Then am clasped Maud in his arms, and held her to 
 him, kissing her passionately, kissing her on the eyes and 
 the mouth, kissing her on her forehead and hair. And 
 her arms were clasped around his neck : she was clinging 
 like a vine to a tree. It was like unto a man and his wife. 
 Hubert could not utter a sound. 
 
 They stood for some time in the moonlight, quivering in 
 their sinuous embrace. Then Sam took the woman in his 
 

 266 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 arms, and was carrying her over to the bed, the bed 
 where the trembling man lay, the man who was husband 
 and brother. 
 
 Ah, his brother 1 the big black man feared in child 
 hood 1 Now all his child fear returned. Would he kill 
 him when he found him there ? Would he murder him in 
 the jealousy of his passion? He heard the laboured, 
 hoarse breathing, the breathing that was raucous and 
 scorching, a great, hairy, hot hand touched his face. 
 
 Then it was Hubert s voice came to him, piercing 
 scream after scream ; and his muscles now came to his aid. 
 He leaped over the foot of the bed, struck the floor, and 
 bounded into the moonlight, out into the sandy road 
 toward the river, cool now with the damp of the night. 
 Scream after scream as he ran, till it came to him Sam 
 might catch and kill him. Then, exhausted, he crept into 
 the meadow, and crawled like a snake in the grass, bur 
 rowing his face in the earth, making mud of his sweat and 
 the blood where the piercing sharp stubble cut in him. 
 
XLIV. 
 
 IT was the moon that first comforted him, the round, 
 calmly shining, white moon. He had turned his face 
 upward to see if his brother was following ; and he felt 
 the moon and her glory and the beauty of shimmering 
 light. " Why, such turmoil, little boy ? " the moon 
 seemed to say to him, kindly. " Here is the depth of 
 heaven, here are the eternal stars. The earth dreams in 
 my diaphanous wrapping. What do you fear ? Only death 
 can overtake you. I am dead. I have been dead for 
 ages, and behold the majesty of my peace. Rise up. Do 
 not crawl like a worm. You are a free thought of God, 
 the Divine. Rise up, and be blessed with my halo." 
 
 The boy rose up, and walked out on the sandy road. 
 It bent before him in faint, rose-coloured light. Perhaps 
 it was the true road to peace, the peace of death in the 
 river. He walked on till he came to the wood, then on 
 through the wood to the shore. The sand was radiant 
 with light; and the treacherous, dark water slipped by, 
 only laughing in the reflection of the moon, that bobbed 
 like a half-submerged bubble, laughing with the laughter 
 of peace. 
 
 Then Hubert sat down, and began thinking. His mind 
 was very clear now. He could look from the beginning of 
 his life down through to the details of this day. It was 
 strange he should think most of Hiram, Hiram as he 
 stood in the boat, laughing and making merry before div 
 ing. He had been in the water once, and was resting for 
 another sporting. He stood with his legs well apart, 
 rocking the boat as he sang. The moonlight caught in the 
 waterdrops that quivered on his gleaming naked flesh. 
 The white muscles played over his body. There was the 
 pathos of love in his face. Then he darted into the river, 
 
268 Qji i c k 
 
 san 
 
 turning somersaults and leaping from the waves, throwing 
 his arms to strike the molten white surface of the moon- 
 wake, shaking his tawny, square head, streaming with 
 rivulets of water, mingling with his shouts and his song. 
 Hubert got up, and returned to the wood. No, he could 
 not die in the river. 
 
 But his old friend followed him to the wood : he was 
 teaching him his comradeship with nature, how to climb 
 a tree, how to look into a bird s nest and not harm 
 the little ones gaping, how to find the fairy paths 
 under the fern copse, how to harness the blustering 
 beetles. Always he saw the tender light in the strong 
 man s eyes, always watched the caress of firm fingers on 
 all of the objects they touched, always the rich, gentle 
 voice. " No, I can t die in the wood." And Hubert took 
 the sand road back homeward. 
 
 Three miles to the stone house on the hill. It was 
 rigid and cold in the moonlight, but his other beloved 
 were housed there. Perhaps, after all, death was not 
 for him. He had a vague prophecy within him that, if 
 he was strong enough to live this experience through, 
 then he could write his great novel. It was the purga 
 tory that presaged his heaven, the heaven of fame and 
 strong doing. 
 
 His brother Sam stepped out of the shadow to meet 
 him as he entered the garden gate. But he was not 
 afraid of Sam now, neither did he hate him in jealousy. 
 The peace of the moon was upon him. 
 
 " Come over to the barn," said Sam, gruffly. " I must 
 see you before you go in." 
 
 Hubert could see Sam was angry. A man like Sam 
 knows the dull burning of anger and resentment against 
 any other he has wronged, especially if the wronged one 
 has been near to him, one he has watched over and pro- 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 269 
 
 tected. Hubert was thinking as he followed, " Perhaps 
 he is going to kill me : perhaps death will come to me in 
 this way." But now he was not afraid. 
 
 The two men stopped by the cow-yard. It was out of 
 sight from the house, the barn and haystacks between 
 them. There was a bench used for resting the milk-pails. 
 
 " Sit down," said Sam, giving example. 
 
 Hubert sat down on the bench, his brother watching 
 him narrowly. For a time neither of them could speak. 
 Then Sam growled out from the silence, 
 
 " I suppose now you are sneaking home to tell your 
 mother." 
 
 " I was not thinking of telling," replied Hubert. " It 
 is an affair that rests upon three, you and myself and 
 Maud." 
 
 " Oh," said Sam, much relieved, " then you don t intend 
 to tattle ? " 
 
 " Not now : I had not thought of it." 
 
 " Well, you wouldn t show up in a very good light your 
 self, that s a fact," said Sam, smiling with cruelty. 
 
 " I should be willing to compare my shame with yours, 
 Sam, any day." There was strength in the moonlight, 
 with peace, for those who were sensitive to breathe it. 
 
 Sam remained silent some time. " I have wronged 
 you, I know," he said hoarsely. " I have wronged your 
 wife. I have wronged myself." A shudder of revulsion 
 swept over him. 
 
 "I could see the depth of your passion," answered 
 Hubert, out from the stillness. " I can realise the tempta 
 tion to you. I myself could not have withstood it." There 
 was the mourning of fate in his voice. Its sympathy 
 touched even his brother. 
 
 " I have been so starved. I have denied and denied all 
 my life. You do not know the bitterness of self-denial. I 
 have been hungering all my life." 
 
270 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 " I know," said Hubert, solemnly. 
 
 "Then Maud was crying and wanting my sympathy. 
 They were nagging her to death in there ; and you were 
 neglecting her, too." 
 
 " I know," again replied Hubert. " I did not realise 
 then ; but, now it is too late, I know." 
 
 " We tried and tried, both of us, to keep apart; and then 
 she was crying, and I kissed her." 
 
 This time Hubert made no remark, but Sam was strug 
 gling for breath. It was as if he were lifting a great 
 weight. 
 
 " Then we tried again to keep apart, but every one kept 
 us together. You sent us together to the meetings every 
 night, and one night we stopped by Hiram s house. The 
 demons of hell were in us both. I never knew before 
 hell was sweet." 
 
 Another long pause and silence. 
 
 Sam s grief was turning to resentment. Again he 
 was thinking of himself and the beautiful woman who 
 loved him, the woman he must now give up to this little 
 scrub of a man, Hubert. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Sam," said Hubert, slowly, " I 
 have been thinking, that I might give her up. I should 
 also think of my brother." 
 
 " Give her 1 give her 1 " sneered Sam, the cruelty again 
 uppermost in him. He could not endure a favour from 
 Hubert, his brother, the husband he had wronged. 
 " When a man talks of giving, he d better stop to think 
 whether the present is his. Ask Maud which one she 
 belongs to. You play a dainty part, you little coward, to 
 sneak around and make a great favour of something that 
 is not yours to help." 
 
 " I can put the law on you and on her," flared Hubert 
 " If there is a child, I can disown it as a bastard." 
 
Quicksand 271 
 
 " It will be of your own company, then," sneered Sam. 
 " You yourself are nothing but a bastard. You are not 
 the child of my mother." 
 
 " You lie ! " shrieked Hubert, striking at him ; but Sam 
 only caught and held his hands. 
 
 " Sit down, and I will tell you a story," he said fiercely. 
 " I will show you how you have wronged my life as well." 
 
 In the beginning Hubert was compelled to listen, as the 
 concise tale was rehearsed now to him. He needed no 
 compulsion soon. It was plain that Sam was speaking 
 truth. His feeling justified that. He was disclosing the 
 ruin of his life, he was forgetting all about Hubert, who 
 weakened with horror, sank back, and leaned against the 
 post that was behind him. 
 
 There was no need to threaten when Sam had done. 
 
 " My mother a liar 1 " was all the dazed boy was 
 thinking. " Not my mother, not my father who died I 
 This man is not my brother 1 I have no sisters nor 
 people 1 " 
 
 " Now you will not be tattling to mother about what you 
 saw last night," said Sam, doggedly. 
 
 " No, I will not tell now." 
 
 " Well, then let s go into the house. It s almost morn 
 ing," said Sam. 
 
 In a dazed fashion, Hubert entered, and made his way 
 into the parlour. He found a lamp burning on the table 
 and a note pinned fast to the shade. He opened it 
 stupidly. It was from Maud. " Don t come in to-night," 
 it said. "I will tell you everything in the morning. I 
 have made you a bed on the sofa." 
 
 Hubert sat down, and tried to think. Who was he 
 sitting here, anyway? His name had been taken from 
 him, no pride of seeing it now in the world. He had 
 no name to be famous, 
 
272 Qjiicksand 
 
 The presence of the household was weighing on him, 
 crowding out the light of the moon. In here all was 
 blackness and shadow, the blackness and shadow of liv 
 ing. His mother who loved him, and would not rest till 
 he was converted to her creed of hell ; his mother who 
 had lived a lie to him always, the most sacred relation 
 he had known was her lie, Maud s lie was not so heavy 
 upon him ; then Libbie, torn with jealousy, burning with 
 hate for her sister ; then Mary, who was as weak as him 
 self, suffering, and no one could help her who had power, 
 those who had would keep up their love torture ; then 
 Sam, the gloomy man overhead, the man who had been 
 grovelling before him, torn by his shame and his cruelty ; 
 then Maud, beautiful Maud, who was sobbing and listen 
 ing perhaps now for his wrath, no, he could not see the 
 morrow. There was no strength for living ahead. 
 
 Vaguely again came the prophecy that, if he could live 
 this down, he would be famous, famous with the strength 
 of endurance. But fame was hateful to him now. He 
 could not go away and live alone, even in the company of 
 fame. He had no life but with these he loved, and his 
 love was their daily suffering. 
 
 He wrote on the back of Maud s letter : * All that I am 
 going to do is not because of your fault. I have come to 
 the end of living. There is no way out but death." 
 
 He was thinking of how she might marry Sam and be 
 happy, only he must be out of the way. But how was 
 death to be found ? 
 
 Suddenly his eyes fell on a loop of trunk cord hanging 
 half-way out in the light on a hook in the hallway. It 
 coiled in the lamplight like a snake. Then the fantasy of 
 fate seized upon him. He remembered the snake of his 
 childhood that hung down from the cellar ceiling like a 
 rope. He stealthily slipped into the hall, and seized on 
 
Quicksand 273 
 
 the rope like a thief. As he looked, he saw the grey of 
 the early summer dawn, ghastly and harsh at the windows. 
 The moonlight was paling already, its vision poet light 
 choking out by the garish daylight that was coming. 
 
 He seemed to see the family coming down and bustling 
 about as usual. Oh, he could not endure it, the shame 
 and falsehood and interference ! Most of all, he could 
 not endure their love. He crept down the dark way of 
 the cellar, unreeling the rope as he went. 
 
 He doubled the cord to make it stronger, climbed on a 
 bench to reach the beam, the beam where the snake had 
 hung down. How the trunk cord reminded him of it 1 
 Then he made a noose for his head, and firmly set his neck 
 in it. The garish light was coming in the small windows, 
 the light that would wake those who loved him. He swung 
 on the rope with his hands to test its strength, then put his 
 hands down beside him, and kicked out the bench from 
 his feet. 
 
 Scrunch ! went the rope on its noose. He felt the burst 
 ing of blood in his head. But his feet struck the ground 
 of the floor ; the rope had stretched with his weight. Al 
 ways a bungler in his life, he had been a bungler in dying. 
 But he was not the coward, at least, now. He held his 
 feet up, bending his knees till his choked weakness forced 
 him to drop them. The light 1 the exposing light ! 
 
 The dead body hung, never moving, with its knees not 
 eight inches from the ground. The toes were balanced 
 behind : they prevented any swinging motion. 
 
 But there was a sickening lurch as of escaping, when 
 Mrs. Hinckley, groping in the dim light of noon, making 
 her way to the potato-bin, pushed her hand against the 
 blood-swollen face, clammy, with dead tongue protruding. 
 
Book III 
 
 Mary 
 
I. 
 
 MARY was standing by the doorway, looking down 
 the road toward the river. The late afternoon 
 sun was shining hot and yellow in her eyes. 
 She lifted her hand to shelter them. 
 
 Libbie put her head out of the window above. " I 
 think I hear a wagon," she said breathlessly. " You 
 come up and sit with mother, and I will run down to the 
 road. It s too hot for you in the sun." 
 
 " Very well," replied Mary. 
 
 She went in through the kitchen, and climbed the stairs 
 to the sitting-room above. Libbie had already departed, 
 tying her sunbonnet as she ran. She would be the first 
 to meet Hiram. She would be waiting down by the gate. 
 
 " We think they are coming, mother," said Mary, going 
 over to the bed. 
 
 " Who is coming, Mary ? " asked Mrs. Hinckley, 
 peevishly. She was partially recovering from her paraly 
 sis, but her memory seemed to be feeble. 
 
 " Hiram, mother, and his children. You know he has 
 adopted three children, the family of a friend who was 
 killed on the railroad. Sam has gone over to meet them 
 at the station, and soon they will be coming home." 
 
 " Where s Libbie ? " asked the mother, restlessly. 
 
 " She s gone down to meet them by the gate." 
 
 " Well, I m glad you stayed. Libbie always makes me 
 nervous. Help me arrange my dress, and I will get up to 
 meet Hiram. I suppose they ll come up to the house." 
 
 " We will send for him, mother, if he does not. He 
 will come up if you send for him." 
 
 " Why, yes, I told Sam to tell him. Bring me my other 
 apron. It was Libbie that brought this one for me. 
 Libbie does everything wrong. I wish you would wait on 
 me, Mary, and let Libbie stay in the kitchen." 
 
278 QJJ i c k s a n d 
 
 " It is such a comfort to her to do something for you, 
 mother." 
 
 " Yes, no doubt, no doubt ; but she makes me nervous 
 with her fussing. Is my hair smooth now ? " 
 
 " It is beautiful, and now they are stopping at Hiram s 
 house. I see him jumping out, and now he is helping the 
 children. Mother, he is waving his hat. I will answer 
 him with my handkerchief." 
 
 The sick woman looked over to where her daughter 
 was standing by the window, and perhaps for the first 
 time in her life it occurred to her that Mary was beauti 
 ful. The lithe form was springing with action. Her arm 
 was waving a greeting. She turned half around to tell 
 her mother what she saw; and a rich colour quivered 
 under her brown skin, like wine bubbling in an old glass. 
 Her brown eyes shone with fire and with tears, that opal 
 light burning from love. Her dark hair sagged back from 
 her face where the patient, sweet features were vibrating, 
 laughing with the joy that they knew, heavy with the sor 
 row to come. 
 
 For a moment it seemed to the mother as if she were 
 losing her daughter. She might fly away out of the win 
 dow, and go to join the angels of heaven. 
 
 " Mary," she called fretfully. " Mary, come here to 
 me." 
 
 " What is it, mother ? Are you tired ? Do you want to 
 go back to bed ? " 
 
 " I want you to promise me something, to promise 
 me before Hiram comes." 
 
 " What is it, mother, that you want ? " The sorrow 
 was mastering now. 
 
 " I want you to promise me, Mary, that you will never 
 leave me while I live, that you will never marry any 
 body." 
 
Qju i c k s a n d 279 
 
 "I promise, dear mother," said Mary, falling on her 
 knees by the chair, and burying her face in her sick 
 mother s lap. 
 
 " You know, Mary," said the mother, the tears streaming 
 down her cheeks, " you know I have not long to live ; 
 and I need you to nurse me and care for me. Libbie does 
 not do at all. She never understands my disease. Prom 
 ise me you will never leave me. It will not be for very 
 long now." 
 
 " I will never leave you, mother," said Mary, sobbing as 
 if her heart would break. 
 
 " And you will go with us out to Kansas. You know 
 I cannot live in this house. I can never get well when 
 I know that that cellar " 
 
 " Hush, mother 1 " 
 
 " But I shall gain when we are started for Kansas. 
 The doctor says the change will do me good. And you ll 
 go along with me, Mary ? You will not marry and leave 
 me?" 
 
 "I will go with you, mother. Now let us think no 
 more about it, for Hiram will be coming up soon." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley allowed her daughter to kiss her ; and 
 Mary went back to the window, but with no joy now in her 
 face. 
 
 The joy came again, however, as she saw them coming 
 up the path. The strong, brown man that she loved, 
 Hiram whom she had promised to marry. He was walk 
 ing between Sam and Libbie, carrying a child on his arm. 
 A little girl ran by his side, holding fast to his free swing 
 ing hand, and timidly shrinking and bumping on his legs 
 to keep a good distance from Libbie, who held fast to her 
 other hand. A boy something younger than she walked 
 gravely on Hiram s other side, tiny between the two men. 
 They had white hair and blue eyes of the north; and 
 
280 Qjiicksand 
 
 Hiram was laughing toward the window, and talking to 
 Libbie and Sam. 
 
 " They are here. Shall we go out to meet them ? Will 
 you let me lead you out, mother ? " 
 
 " Take care, Mary. I am weak. You know I can t hurry 
 at stairs." 
 
 " Yes, mother. Step here. We will meet them out by the 
 arbor." 
 
 "Is my chair outside by the door ? You know, Mary, 
 my sickness won t let me stand." 
 
 "It is here. Sit down. They are coming: they are 
 just there behind the arbor." 
 
 She stood waiting tremulously for him, the copper sun 
 radiant upon her, just warming the depths of her hair and 
 lighting her eyes and her lips. 
 
 Then Hiram, her lover, came in sight, the tawny, 
 square head as of old, the dauntless and laughing blue eyes. 
 
 The children, frightened with the strangeness, clung 
 clogging and fearful to his legs. But he laughed as he 
 tenderly detached them and stopped to give them a caress. 
 " There, Olga, take care of Fred like a little mother ; and, 
 Eric, stand by your sister." 
 
 Then he walked up joyous to Mary, standing smiling 
 before him. No matter now who should see them, no 
 matter if Libbie stood by, nervous, and watching like a 
 snake. From this time there should be no more secrets. 
 He took his broad hat from his curls, the curls that were 
 grown grey with waiting. His eyes saw but two eyes ahead, 
 comrade fires burning and watching. His strong arms 
 were gently around her as he half bent to kiss her on the 
 mouth. No matter who stood there now. Henceforth 
 there should be no more secrets. 
 
II. 
 
 " "W 7"OU see, it was this way," said Hiram, as he sat in 
 || the circle among them, the baby Fred again on 
 JL his knee and Olga crowding against him. " I 
 was living in the same house with them. They let a fur 
 nished room to me in Chicago, and I was right there when 
 the father was brought home in pieces. He was a switch 
 man, and was running across the tracks to rescue a child. 
 He had just dodged in front of one engine, but had for 
 gotten the Milwaukee Express on the next track. He 
 threw the child into safety, but was struck square by the 
 cow-catcher. I guess he never knew where he was hurt. 
 The lady whose child he saved was standing by at the 
 time. Well, when they brought him home dead, it upset 
 his wife terribly. She was sick with the fever, and took a 
 relapse when they told her about it. She didn t live more 
 than a week." He stopped to stroke Olga s head, who 
 looked on them all with sad eyes. 
 
 " But didn t their relatives want the children ? " asked 
 Libbie. 
 
 " No, they didn t have any in Chicago. You see, they 
 were Norwegians, hadn t been more than seven years in 
 this country. Olga was born over there. No, there 
 wasn t any one wanted them but me ; and they wanted me, 
 I guess, too. Their uncle in New York wrote that there 
 wasn t any place for them in the old country, and he was 
 too poor to take them. So the judge was willing to let me 
 adopt them. They all took the name of Stubbs, and now 
 all I need to make a family is to look up a wife somewhere." 
 
 " But Olga will make a good housekeeper," he went 
 on, feeling the awkwardness of the silence. " She s ten 
 now on her next birthday. She knows how to cook Nor 
 wegian style now, and all she s got to learn is American. 
 
282 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 Eric, here, can give a hand, too. Stand up to show them 
 how tall you are, Eric." 
 
 " They may have bad blood," said Mrs. Hinckley. " I 
 always suspect these foreigners. You never know how 
 they ll turn out." 
 
 " Well, as for blood," answered Hiram, " I think their 
 father proved his. The lady whose child he saved walked 
 away, and was never heard from afterward. Oh, but the 
 papers gave it to her! But their mother was a lovely 
 woman," he continued, going back to the subject. " I 
 could see she was as patient with the children I " 
 
 " Sam tells me you re going to have a sale and go to 
 Kansas," he said after a silence. 
 
 " Yes, I can t live here," said Mrs. Hinckley, glancing 
 backward toward the cellar. 
 
 " Sam has a place out there," hastened Mary, changing 
 the subject. " He got it on a mortgage." 
 
 " We all need a change," said Libbie, interrupting. 
 " Neither Mary nor I can stand it to live here : we must 
 get away from these surroundings." 
 
 Hiram sighed, and looked gloomy. " When does the 
 sale come off ? " he asked. 
 
 " In a week from to-day," answered Sam. " We ain t 
 going to try to sell the house now. We ll leave it in the 
 hands of an agent." 
 
 " That s bad," answered Hiram. " Some one ought to 
 live in it right along. It ll get a bad name standing 
 empty." 
 
 "Mother says she can never get well here," replied 
 Sam. " If [she had her way, we d start for Kansas to 
 morrow." 
 
 "I would go to-night," said Mrs. Hinckley. "I can 
 never sleep in this house." 
 
 "I ve been thinking of something," said Hiram; "but 
 we can talk of that later on." 
 
Quicksand 283 
 
 " What is it ? " said the restless Libbie. 
 
 " Well, I ve been thinking I d like to buy the old place. 
 Sam has been giving me the terms. I believe I could 
 take it on time, and I d rent it to Al and Lizzie Johnson, 
 and then I d stock it up with babies from the orphan 
 asylums in the cities, and it would not be like an asylum ; 
 but we d be a family like together, though of course I d 
 live in my own house with my own true children to keep 
 me." And his hand sought Olga s white head. 
 
 " You never could do it," said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 "Well, I d like to try; and I think I could make my 
 payments. Sam and I have been talking it over. The 
 farm is doing well now, stocked up as it is ; and I know 
 Al Johnson would give his work for a home, and Al s a 
 thrifty farmer, and Lizzie is a good housekeeper, too, and 
 would make a mother for fifty." 
 
 " They re from the gutter themselves," said Mrs. 
 Hinckley. " I never liked my girls to go there." 
 
 " Perhaps they will understand all the better children 
 who have come from the gutter," answered Hiram. 
 
 " You d better do it, Hiram," urged Sam. " I know 
 you can keep up the payments, and the house is liable to 
 stand vacant for years. People don t like to move in 
 here. They are superstitious in these parts. Well, I 
 shouldn t like it myself." 
 
 " Hush, Sam ! " said Mary, looking toward their 
 mother, who was showing signs of her fright. 
 
 " Well, we ll talk it over," said Hiram. " But it ll be 
 hard to see you go away." 
 
 No one gave him an answer. 
 
 " I had hoped you could marry me now, and be a 
 mother to my family," he said sadly, smiling as he turned 
 upon Mary. 
 
 " Mary has promised to stay with me while I live," 
 broke in the shrill voice of Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
284 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 " Mary would not live a year in this house or near it," 
 said Libbie, " after all she s gone through." 
 
 "No, I have promised mother," said Mary, speaking to 
 Hiram. " You can see now, Hiram, for yourself that 
 while she lives my place is by her side." 
 
 " Mother says I make her nervous," said Libbie, begin 
 ning to cry. 
 
 " You don t make me nervous," said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 " Nothing makes me nervous, I tell you ; but Mary under 
 stands my disease. That s the reason I must have her 
 with me." 
 
 Libbie smiled a superior silence. " You see what we 
 have to bear with," her smile was seeming to say. 
 
 "Well," said Hiram, " I ll have to give up. I d about 
 made up my mind to it from your letters ; but it goes hard 
 to do it just the same." 
 
 " Mary, it s time to get supper," said Libbie. 
 
 " You ll stay to-night, won t you, Hiram ? " said Mary, 
 looking her pleading through her tears. 
 
 " Not to-night. We have brought things with us for 
 supper, and Lizzie Johnson has made the house ready. 
 How soon do you start after the sale ? " he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 " We have planned to start a week from next Monday. 
 That will be four days after the sale, which is Thursday." 
 
 " Ten days," said Hiram, counting. " And now I have 
 one thing to say," he said to Mrs. Hinckley and Libbie. 
 They held their breath, for they saw he was determined. 
 
 " Just one thing to say," he repeated. "Mary and I 
 have been promised to each other for six years now stand 
 ing ; and now she can t keep her promise, but must go 
 where her first duty lies. Well, that must be ; for she 
 chooses. But during the ten days between I shall choose. 
 Mary and I shall spend much of the time together. The 
 
Qjiicksand 285 
 
 mornings will be enough for her work. You can get 
 Lizzie Johnson to help. All of the afternoons Mary 
 belongs to me, all from dinner till after supper. She 
 will come down to my place and stay with my children. 
 And she shall come alone ; and there will be no use of 
 your interfering or making a fuss about it. You will have 
 her all after that, all your lives ; and I, ten afternoons. 
 Ten afternoons," he repeated; and his voice dwelt on 
 them like a lover s. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley began to fret about her sickness, and Lib- 
 bie to show signs of hysteria ; but Sam brought his hand 
 down on his knee, and said with a vehemence unknown to 
 him, " Hiram is right ; and we will not hear a whimper of 
 objection, and do you hear to it, Libbie." 
 
 Mary was not able to speak, but she signalled her an 
 swer to Hiram. The man gathered up his small flock, 
 and walked away in the twilight. 
 
 " There shall not be a single word said," repeated Sam, 
 looking at the women. 
 
 " To make an orphan asylum for vagabonds from the 
 city," sputtered Mrs. Hinckley, with spirit. " He gets to 
 be a bigger fool every year that he lives ; and I never 
 could have forgiven myself never if I d consented to 
 my daughter s marrying him." 
 
 She rose, and stepped briskly into the kitchen, going 
 about preparing the supper. So great was her excitement 
 that she forgot all about the horror when she looked at the 
 cellar door. 
 
 Libbie flew about in equal restlessness. And Mary 
 crying in the arbor, knew that she would not be interrupted 
 but Hiram should have his way. 
 
III. 
 
 TEN short September afternoons to furnish the hap 
 piness of a lifetime, and these mingled with sorrow 
 and care, the grief that is hopeless for the dead, 
 and the anxiety that solicits the living. 
 
 " It is more than many people have," said Mary, thought 
 fully, one day when they had been watching the children. 
 " It is more than Libbie ever had, or Sam, or Al or Lizzie 
 Johnson." 
 
 " It is not enough for me," answered Hiram. 
 
 " But it has really been more than ten days. It has 
 been ever since the night by the river. I shall never for 
 get that night, Hiram." 
 
 He turned to her with the wistfulness of suffering in his 
 face. 
 
 " Does it not seem to you, Hiram, as if we had been 
 married then, and that these three were really our chil 
 dren ? " 
 
 " If you can make it seem so to you, I shall always love 
 them for your sake." And his voice was hopeful in prom 
 ising. 
 
 She called them to her, and kissed each one tenderly in 
 turn. " You are truly my children," she said, " as he is 
 truly your father." 
 
 Olga sat down quietly by the sweet, gentle lady, but 
 Fred was soon tumbling like a ball ; and Eric, with grave 
 elder air, was needed to mind the baby. 
 
 Hiram began telling of some of their tricks and quaint 
 answers, and the talk went happily again. They were 
 long afternoons, though but short ones. 
 
 In the evening they gathered around the table as 
 though they were the family they had called themselves. 
 Mary showed Olga how father liked his tea, and presided 
 
Qjuicksand 287 
 
 at the head of the table. Hiram sat at the foot, and at 
 tended to feeding the baby. There was only the ordi 
 nary conversation, the talk of improvements in the 
 house to make things convenient in. cooking, the plans 
 for the house on the hill ; for now it had been fully de 
 cided. Albert Johnson had entered into the scheme 
 heartily, willing to do anything at all if he could be in 
 partnership with Hiram. Moreover, he had surprised all 
 the Hinckleys by showing that he had a thousand dollars 
 in the bank ; and he proposed to invest it in stock at the 
 sale, so that the farm would pay from the beginning. 
 Lizzie, as well, came to the front, and showed that her 
 years had not been in vain. She also had savings enough 
 to go a good way on the furniture. So Hiram could be 
 left free with his money to begin on the payments for the 
 land. 
 
 " You see, they are glad to get away from the old folks 
 now," explained Hiram; " for Ned wants to bring home a 
 wife, only you mustn t be telling anybody." 
 
 " Is it little Delia Foster ? " asked Mary ; and then she 
 must know all about it, for what woman is not fond of an 
 engagement, provided, of course, it is secret. 
 
 After the supper was over, Mary would help Olga with 
 the work, though it would appear this demure maid of ten 
 had all the experience of a housewife. Meanwhile Hiram 
 would play with the baby or give Eric instructions in 
 whittling. Afterward there was a chat and a smoke, and 
 the children were helped off to bed. Then Hiram and 
 Mary walked home under the gold moon of the harvest. 
 
 " It might have been for always," Mary said to him 
 one night, " it might have been for our lives, Hiram, if I 
 had seen clearly my duty instead of following the one I 
 was taught." 
 
 " It might," answered Hiram, gently. 
 
288 Qjiicksand 
 
 " But I did not know, I could not foresee ; and I did 
 what I thought then was right." 
 
 " I know, Mary. I always believed you did that." 
 
 " But I should have married you at first. I should 
 have stood against my mother and Libbie and all of 
 them. But, Hiram, it s so hard to stand against those 
 you love." 
 
 " You loved me, though," he said fondly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know ; but I always thought I could get 
 both. I wanted to please every one, Hiram ; and it seemed 
 that we might always arrange things." 
 
 " It seemed so to me, too, Mary," he said. " It was 
 not your fault more than twas mine. I always thought 
 if we waited " 
 
 " No. It was my fault most," Mary interrupted deter 
 minedly. " I will not have you blaming yourself. I need 
 the remembrance of my blame to hold me strong in the 
 future." 
 
 " You strong in the future ! " And he laughed at the 
 humour of the idea. " Why, Mary, do you not know that 
 Libbie and your mother will manage you all the days of 
 your life ? And, even if they should die before you, the 
 memory of what they had said would control you after 
 they were gone." 
 
 " You have a poor opinion of me, Hiram. I wonder 
 that you wanted me for a wife." 
 
 " That was why I wanted you," he said, teasing. " I 
 envied Libbie her command, and wanted to get it from 
 her." 
 
 " Hiram, I believe you would joke if you were going to 
 be hung." How the sorrow with both of them was called 
 up by this old and familiar saying 1 
 
 They were standing by the gate of the garden, looking 
 up to the stone house above them, white in the light of 
 the moon. 
 
 
Quicksand 289 
 
 " You will drive all the shadows out, Hiram, when you 
 get your children s voices in. How many will you have 
 in the beginning ? " 
 
 " Not many. I have been thinking about that. Not 
 more than would make a good family. Families are the 
 best, after all ; but each child must follow his bent, and 
 no one shall interfere." 
 
 " But your own children ? " she said, looking back. 
 
 " They, too, will go their own way. I am already 
 looking forward to the time when Olga will marry and 
 leave me; but I can take another daughter then. This 
 house will always furnish supply. Do you know I have 
 often wondered why parents, when their children have 
 married, don t take other children in their place ? The 
 world, has so many who are homeless." 
 
 " The members of one s family are dearer," said Mary. 
 
 " I wonder at that," he objected. " Did you ever no 
 tice that children almost invariably love some comrade 
 better than their brothers or sisters ? I think this almost 
 always is true when they have grown youths and maidens. 
 Only rarely two brothers are always enough for each 
 other." 
 
 " Sisters often are," said Mary. 
 
 " Now you and Libbie, for instance. Don t you love 
 each other as much as any sisters you have known ? " 
 
 " More," said Mary, with warmth. 
 
 " And, still, have you not loved other girls more than 
 you did Libbie ? " 
 
 " Only once. That was when I went to the academy ; 
 but Libbie and I felt that was wrong." 
 
 " But didn t Libbie love any one more than you ? " 
 
 " Only one, and that girl grew to hate her." 
 
 " Poor little Libbie ! " sighed Hiram. " She is to be 
 pitied more than them all." 
 
290 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 "And loved, too, Hiram. That s the reason I m leav 
 ing you. You and I, we have lived very well." 
 
 " No, not well," he objected. 
 
 " But you will live well with the children, the father to 
 such a large family. And you will swim with them and 
 row with them and skate with them." 
 
 " The girls just the same as the boys," replied Hiram. 
 " I shall make the girls strong in themselves." 
 
 " But some of them will prove bad, Hiram." 
 
 "I shall like the bad ones quite as much as the good," 
 he answered. " And, if there are those I don t like, I 
 will be just ; but I will never pretend a love, Mary." 
 
 " I can see you now, Hiram, sitting like the father 
 among them out in the dear old grape arbor. You will 
 have a good and useful life, Hiram, and a happy one, 
 too," she added. 
 
 " And you, Mary ? " His voice was like winter rain 
 falling. 
 
 " I shall do very well," she replied. " You know I 
 must never leave Libbie. She would go the way of Hu 
 bert if we married." 
 
 " After all," he said, turning to comfort her, " it is not 
 the happiness we know that makes life, but the good that 
 we do, little Mary ; and you have always been good, 
 the most good I have ever known in either a man or a 
 woman." 
 
 " To hear it from you, Hiram, I shall always remember 
 it, though I feel it cannot be true." 
 
 He answered her in the fashion that became him. 
 
 " Tell me one thing more before I go in. Can you for 
 give me for breaking my promise to come to Chicago ? I 
 did try, and try to arrange ; but it was all so mixed up 
 and tangled." 
 
 " You only promised to go to Hubert, and Hubert was 
 no longer there." 
 
Qjiicksand 291 
 
 "It was broken just the same," she replied. "What 
 I really promised was to come to you, and that promise I 
 broke." 
 
 " There can be no forgiveness where there is no blame," 
 he replied. " You did the only thing you could see to 
 do." 
 
 " But do you forgive me ? " 
 
 " I don t think there is any such thing as forgiveness," 
 he answered. 
 
 " Not any such thing as forgiveness ? " 
 
 " No, it s only another word for patronising, a word 
 invented by the one doing it." 
 
 " What do you believe in, Hiram ? " 
 
 " Love," he answered, showing her. 
 
 And by the silence that followed she must have been 
 convinced it was quite enough. 
 
 " Now I must go in, Hiram. Libbie may be watching 
 at the window." 
 
 " Libbie will have her day," he replied ; " and her suffer 
 ing may prove good discipline for her." 
 
 " She is wearing herself threadbare this week. I can 
 never forgive myself for being so happy. And only four 
 more days 1 " she added, sighing. 
 
 " Four more days 1 " 
 
 He stood with the words on his lips long after she had 
 disappeared in the house. 
 
IV. 
 
 THE sale began at nine o clock in the morning, and 
 wagons were coming early. The Hinckleys were 
 known far and wide, as Mr. Hinckley had done so 
 much carpenter work throughout the country ; and the 
 tragic death of his son had called all of the old days to 
 mind. It is probable that many indifferent purchasers 
 came for curiosity merely. They wanted to see the house 
 " where he done it " and " how the family was taking it." 
 They knew that it was the cause of the moving, and 
 judged that they must be taking it pretty hard. " It s too 
 bad to see the old place go," they said. " The Hinckleys 
 were among the old settlers, and you scarcely will find 
 a nicer family. Girls a little bit stuck up, they say ; but 
 I never saw anything of it. It don t pay to go in for this 
 college education. That was what was the matter with 
 the Hinckleys. If they d let that boy work on the farm 
 more, and not got him so over-educated, the family would 
 not be moving away." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley stayed in her room upstairs, though the 
 women were admitted to see her when they asked, and 
 came down full of genuine sympathy, however they may 
 have gone up. Libbie flew about and made everybody 
 comfortable, asking them to lay aside their things, and 
 putting the sleeping babies on the beds, and making ex 
 cuses that they could not furnish dinner, but saying they 
 would have plenty of tea and coffee that could be taken 
 out to the wagons. But Libbie looked worn and hollow- 
 eyed in spite of her hospitable smiles. " Libbie was 
 the brightest of the Hinckleys," said the neighbours. " It s 
 curious she never got married." 
 
 Mary was busy in the kitchen downstairs, where the sale 
 of household goods was to be held. But, as the day was 
 
Qji i c k s a n d 293 
 
 beautifully pleasant, it was decided at the very last mo 
 ment to have everything out of doors. The auctioneer 
 could stand by the kitchen door on the porch; and the 
 crowd were seated or standing around him, some of the 
 women who disliked the sun easily taking shelter in the 
 grape arbor, where chairs were arranged for their con 
 venience. The auctioneer was a well-known one from 
 Fort Madison. His jokes and urging of bids were worth 
 any man s time for a day, if he had not a dollar to spend. 
 
 They would sell the household articles first, and by 
 eleven o clock come to the stock at the barn. That was 
 the time of the biggest crowd. Then the sale of the stock 
 could be resumed when the men were good-natured after 
 dinner. Later in the day would come the odds and ends 
 that would not be of importance. People would begin to 
 go who lived far away, and things would drag at the close. 
 Every one looked into the kitchen, and in the kitchen 
 toward the cellar door. No one saw down there, however. 
 The furnishings had all been brought up, and were ar 
 ranged in display along the wall. 
 
 Then began the sounding of the hammer and the jokes 
 of the auctioneer, the regular repeated exclamations as 
 the articles were turned over to strangers, going once, 
 going twice, going three times, and gone to the highest 
 bidder. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley above could hear every stroke of the 
 hammer, each sound being a blow at her home that twenty 
 years care had built around her. At length she could 
 stand it no longer, but closed the window and crept off to 
 the bed, questioning why God should so punish her as to 
 twice take her home harshly from her. She was weeping 
 and trying to pray, when Libbie came slipping in silently, 
 red-eyed, and sobbing for comfort. 
 
 " You should be downstairs, helping," said the mother, 
 
2 94 Qu i c k s a n d 
 
 after they had been hugging each other. " How can the 
 auctioneer get the things ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mary is doing all that. She doesn t mind it as I 
 do. Mary is not sensitive about such matters. I really 
 believe she s glad to see the things go." 
 
 " How are they selling ? " asked Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 "I asked Mary, but she said she didn t know. It s 
 curious she don t take more interest. She s just carrying 
 things like a store-keeper, doing whatever the auctioneer 
 tells her." 
 
 " I wonder who s buying ? " said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 " Mary says Al Johnson and Lizzie Johnson are getting 
 most of the furniture, the bureaus and tables and beds. 
 It s a comfort to know that they will be left in the house." 
 
 "To be used and galloped over by a herd of dirty 
 ragamuffins from the city. Oh, I have seen those filthy 
 young ones in Chicago I I d rather have my things burned 
 than used by such people. Remain in the house, indeed I 
 And the house itself to be defiled, where we have lived 
 so happy together, under my watch and protection I " 
 Mrs. Hinckley began crying again, and Libbie could offer 
 no comfort. 
 
 " Isn t any one bidding against the Johnsons ? " she 
 soon began, restlessly, again. " Surely, our things are 
 worth more than they can pay for them. I d like to know 
 where they got all their money, though, goodness knows, 
 they skimped enough at home. Well, what can such 
 people do but save, who have no family back of them ? 
 Libbie, never forget that you have a family behind you. 
 Never forget your mother was a Cummings, not rich, not 
 so rich as her ancestors, but a Cummings and a lady born. 
 Those Johnsons came from the gutter, from the gutters of 
 Cincinnati ; and Hiram Stubbs hasn t much to brag of, if 
 he is going to buy our place. He shows what he s made 
 
Qjjicksand 295 
 
 of by the kind of people he takes to. Birds of a feather 
 flock together. There never was truer saying." 
 
 In time there was a lull in the selling. " They ve gone 
 to the barn," said Libbie, peeping out of the window ; " and 
 the women are going to the wagons. I must get ready to 
 serve them their coffee." 
 
 " What s Mary doing, then, that she can t come up to me 
 and see how I am getting on ? It s strange that on this 
 the hardest day of my life she should leave me entirely 
 neglected." 
 
 " I suppose she s at work," said Libbie, with compunc 
 tion ; " but I ll ask her to come up a minute." 
 
 Mary came in, cheerful and quiet. 
 
 " It s hard for you mother, I know ; but the worst of it 
 is over now. I d stay here with you if I could ; but dinner, 
 you know, must be ready. There s the auctioneer and 
 one or two extra from Fort Madison, stock-buyers that 
 Sam will have to ask. Lizzie Johnson is helping in the 
 kitchen, but everything is strange and upset with most of 
 the furniture moved out." 
 
 " How did things sell ? " asked Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 " Pretty well, Sam says. There is a big crowd, it s 
 such a fine day. But you can t expect big prices at an 
 auction." 
 
 " Libbie says the Johnsons got a good many things." 
 
 " Yes, the plain things and the bedsteads and bureaus. 
 They bought the dining table and the range and some of 
 the chairs, but none of the parlour furniture nor carpets." 
 
 " I m glad of that," said Mrs. Hinckley. " At all events, 
 some one civilised will appreciate the best things. Did 
 they get the counterpanes ? " 
 
 " No, only the mattresses and some of the linen and 
 comforters." 
 
 " Who got the hanging lamp ? " 
 
296 Quicksand 
 
 " I think it was Mrs. Green." 
 
 " I suppose she ll give it to Minister Simmons. Well, 
 he will remember that lamp." 
 
 " Now I will get you some tea and toast, mother ; and 
 will you have some chicken and potato ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, I must eat. I d come down and see 
 how things sold, only I don t think it would look very 
 well before all the people. So I guess I ll stay where I 
 am. But, if any of the women want to come up, tell them 
 they are welcome, Mary. I m feeling very poorly, of 
 course ; but my neighbours are always welcome." 
 
 " How changed mother is of late 1 " said Mary as she 
 hurried downstairs. " I suppose she s beginning to get 
 old, and then it s her sickness makes her that way. The 
 day is hard enough for her. I ought to have gone to her 
 sooner." 
 
 There was a half-hour s rest at noon-time, when the 
 people went off to their wagons to partake of their picnic 
 dinner. The sale was going well, they all said ; but what 
 had got into the Johnsons ? Was it possible that Al was 
 going to get married, or would it be Lizzie stepping off ? 
 Then some one knew of the truth, and all of them shook 
 their heads. " Hiram s a curious fellow. Now you d 
 think he d marry, and have a family of his own. It s 
 curious how he picks up so much money. Hiram is not 
 what you d call lazy ; and yet he s always got time to quit 
 working if there s any fun to be had. Well, I d say it 
 wouldn t go at all if Hiram Stubbs wasn t the head of it. 
 Everything seems to go with him. He s a nice fellow, 
 Hiram is." 
 
 Libbie came around with the coffee and tea. She was 
 smiling now again to them. A woman s face clears quickly 
 after a storm. Libbie liked the excitement of the people. 
 " I wish I d been born in the city," she used to say. " I 
 believe I d been different then." 
 
uicksand 297 
 
 Again the selling began. Again the crowd began 
 gathering, following the auctioneer as he went from stock 
 to machinery. There was restlessness and moving at the 
 house until dark, when the last wagon was gone. 
 
 Hiram came up, and found Mary searching for some 
 thing in a pile of old grain-bags. 
 
 "I m so tired I ve forgotten what I m looking for," she 
 said in answer to his question. " I thought it would 
 never be over. And, now that it is, I don t feel any 
 better." 
 
 " It has cheated us out of one of our afternoons," said 
 Hiram, dolefully. 
 
 " And to-morrow I will have to work at this distraction, 
 and next day, too ; for that s Saturday. And then Sunday 
 the neighbours will be in to say good-by. And Mon 
 day " Her eyes were getting misty. 
 
 " I guess the afternoons are over," said Hiram. " They 
 were six instead of ten." 
 
 " They were better than any ten I ve ever had," she 
 replied, " even if I d take my pick of them." 
 
 " Well, I ll come up, and give you a lift from now on. 
 There s more than can be done before Monday, but your 
 mother is bound to start." 
 
 " It is better," said Mary, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes," replied Hiram. " It is better." 
 
V. 
 
 IT had been strongly urged by Sam and Libbie that 
 the family go to Kansas by the train ; but Mrs. Hinckley 
 preferred the wagon. Her physician had thought 
 that the outdoor, active life might do her good, and the 
 constant change of scene might cause her to forget her 
 sorrow. Sam yielded to this argument because the over 
 land method was much cheaper, and Mary was silently in 
 favour of it because of its very slowness. It would take 
 more time, she told herself, to get away from the places 
 she loved. There would be less time to spend in an 
 alien country. They sent a large box of household goods 
 by freight, such as linen, dishes, and family heirlooms. 
 The remainder of the things that had not been sold were 
 stowed in the heavy wagon. They would take a cow, and 
 not attempt to travel many miles a day. The weather 
 would probably be fair for six weeks to come. There 
 would be no need of hurry. 
 
 In the arrangement of the wagon and camp outfit, 
 Hiram was chief workman and director. 
 
 " I have never travelled by wagon," he would say ; "but 
 I can show most people who have how they could have 
 done it better." It was he who made larger bows for the 
 cover, boxing out on the sides, a method unknown in 
 those days, giving the women more room to sleep, and 
 even arranging a tiny stove in the rear in case they 
 should meet with bad weather. Then, with his sailor s 
 skill and knowledge of compactness in stowing, he made 
 them convenient pockets and boxes in every available 
 space, slinging the breakable articles from the top and 
 placing everything where it would be needed, keeping 
 the kitchen in its place and the articles of toilet for the 
 sleeping apartments. By a neat arrangement the cover 
 
QJJ icksand 299 
 
 could be easily slipped up on the sides for fair days or 
 drawn down and buttoned securely for rainy ones, all to 
 be manipulated from within as a housewife would regulate 
 her window-shades. Mrs Hinckley s rocking-chair was 
 slung on behind, even a pocket for her knitting stowed 
 neatly under its seat. Their provision box, their kitchen 
 utensils, the packing and placing of all, were left to his 
 skilful calculations. He showed them how to make a 
 table on the wagon tongue, and gave Mary instructions on 
 camp-fires with practical illustrations. 
 
 " I wish I were going myself," he said, laughing, " just 
 to see that my plans are all carried out. But, then, there is 
 my family," he added, looking back ; and the peace came 
 into his face. " Besides," looking up at the half-gutted 
 house, " there s plenty of work to do here." 
 
 By Saturday night the outfit was well completed. It 
 is remarkable how much may be done when work goes 
 with order and method. Albert Johnson had been in to 
 help ; and Sam had given his aid, though most of his time 
 was employed in making settlements and collections. 
 
 Sunday the white wagon stood ready, its oil-cloth top 
 gleaming in the sun. 
 
 "She is like a ship waiting her launching," said the 
 master, proudly surveying. " We should give her a name 
 and christen her, break a bottle of champagne over her 
 bows as she sails out Monday morning." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley looked severe at the mention of spir 
 ituous liquors ; but Libbie and Mary were so delighted 
 with the idea of a christening that Hiram agreed to forego 
 the champagne and call her the Bonaventure, after some 
 boat he had known, painting the name on the green box 
 of the wagon in deftly scrolling red letters. That was 
 before going to church. Mrs. Hinckley did not like the 
 idea of having such performances on Sunday till Hiram 
 
300 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 silenced her by saying that christenings were always on 
 that day in any civilised country. 
 
 In the afternoon the neighbours came in to say a quiet 
 farewell, for the sense of tragedy and grief was still 
 hanging over the house ; and they looked at the appoint 
 ments of the wagon and talked of the pleasures of travel 
 and new prospect that lay before them as if they were a 
 wedding company, and not four broken, worn souls wan 
 dering into the wilderness to die. 
 
 It was Hiram who was keeping them cheerful : he was 
 bringing his heart and strength to it. Already the Hinck- 
 ley farm was his, the white stone house a new home. 
 The deeds had been made over in Fort Madison, and his 
 mortgage given as security. Since that time he would not 
 be gloomy. The new spirit would be felt in the house. 
 He would not have them leaving a grave, turning their 
 faces to strangers. He would have them leaving his home, 
 the place of the laughter of children ; and they would be 
 looking back upon friends. One friend they should al 
 ways look back to, though they pretended refusing to ac 
 cept him. " There shall be cheer behind, even if there is 
 no hope ahead," said the will of the sturdy Hiram. 
 
 More than they realised, he came to have his way. 
 Mrs. Hinckley, in spite of herself, would interrupt her 
 own broodings, thinking of the grave of her husband and 
 the horror of the hated cellar, by wondering if Hiram had 
 done this or supposing he had forgotten that. She found 
 comfort in always blaming him : if he had not forgotten, 
 she complained that the thing was not as she wanted it ; 
 and, if he had waited for her judgment, she regretted that 
 he had forgotten. But Hiram could always laugh. He 
 could show the many advantages of his method, or even 
 good-naturedly change work to suit her. To be sure, he 
 grumbled under his breath, and aloud when she had left 
 
Qjiicksand 301 
 
 him. In the evening, when he was home, he came very 
 near something like sea-worthy language. But Mary was 
 soon in his thoughts, and the patience would not be needed 
 after two days. Then he must brace himself ahead for a 
 long lifetime of patience. 
 
 Monday morning came, hazy and fair, one of those 
 rapturous days of the soft-sunned Indian summer. It 
 must have been such that gave the Indians the name 
 of Iowa, meaning, in their phrase, the lazy. Never had 
 the molten Mississippi been more beautiful than to-day, 
 never had the drowsing fields been more golden, never 
 the maples more flaming or the oaks more lustrously 
 purple, still holding their rich summer s colour. 
 
 Hiram was up early and stirring, singing as he cared 
 for the horses. Then he told the children to make ready 
 and come up the hill with him to see the ship put to sea. 
 
 The Hinckleys, having been left to themselves, were 
 breathless with the excitement of departing. There had 
 been something of sobbing and tears, something of praying 
 as well, but more of fretful high scolding. Then Hiram 
 moved sturdily among them, and all things fell into order ; 
 and each woman went on with her work, shamed that all 
 should be ready and she alone keeping them waiting. 
 
 Sam had some final packing. So it was Hiram who put 
 in the horses, while Eric gave serious assistance and Olga 
 watched by the cow. 
 
 The women with their bonnets and wraps made the 
 detour of the house to take a farewell of the rooms, osten 
 sibly to see if they had left anything. Mary felt that she 
 was leaving in every one something that could not be 
 taken away, something she would never find again ; but 
 Libbie hated the place. It had been the scene of her 
 torment, and had no visions of peace to come. The 
 mother looked with both of these passions ; but she car- 
 
302 Qju i c k s a n d 
 
 ried the added burden of one who is already old, old 
 and going among strangers. 
 
 But Hiram stood by the horses, his love aglow like the 
 sun. They must see the blue sky overhead when now 
 they were talking to Hiram. 
 
 He helped Mrs. Hinckley in first on the front seat with 
 Sam. He explained the step he had made for her on the 
 wagon and the hand-rail that was fastened to the box. As 
 she stood on the step, almost pleased, he kissed her gen 
 tly on the cheek. She forgot to chide in her confusion, 
 the movement had been so gallant and sudden. 
 
 Then Libbie, too, waiting and expectant, should receive 
 the sister s embrace. Then Mary for a moment in his 
 arms, Mary trembling like a bird that is dying. Hiram 
 spoke no word after that. There was a steady hand-clasp 
 with Sam. Sam s hand ached for an hour afterward with 
 that sweet pain that gives one such pleasure. Then 
 only the smiling of farewells, the waving of hat at the 
 gate where the valiant man stood gazing wistfully, with 
 his children clinging about his knees. 
 
VI. 
 
 BUT, if the women did not cry upon leaving the 
 house, once they were well on the way and out 
 from the cheery man s influence, they made up for 
 all they had lost. Mary could hardly say good-bye to 
 familiar objects, the windings of the creek, the school- 
 house and homes of the neighbours. She was glad they 
 were not going to see the river, for the memories of those 
 old nights of moonlight when Hiram first told her of love 
 would have been more than she could well bear. Be 
 sides, she had Libbie clutching her spasmodically, shaken 
 and torn with her sobbing ; and her mother, too, must be 
 comforted, whose strength must be nurtured for the jour 
 ney. 
 
 Sam drove gloomily, getting out once on the hill in pre 
 tence of going back to look at the cow, but really for a 
 last glimpse of Hiram s house, sheltered under the edge 
 of the hill, the house that held many memories for him, 
 wild passions and sweetness of the past. Maud had gone 
 back to her old home immediately after the funeral. The 
 two had hardly spoken to each other, and she had written 
 only to his mother. He climbed back into the wagon, and 
 the horses walked on to the westward. It was a long road 
 now before them. Their prairie ship was entering wide 
 waters. 
 
 They made camp that night by a high green hedge with 
 a white house behind it, at the end of a lane. Libbie 
 went up to the house to get water, and chatted a few min 
 utes with the women. The evening was gloriously beau 
 tiful, yellow clouds swathing the pale sky. Mrs. Hinck- 
 ley seemed quite hopeful, now that the first grief was 
 over ; and Mary was busy, as usual, getting accustomed 
 to the strangeness of her kitchen, Everywhere she found 
 
304 Qu i c k s a n d 
 
 evidences of Hiram in the neatness of packing away. 
 She seemed to feel his hand s warmth on the dishes, and 
 the little camp-stove burned with his brightness. They 
 made the table, too, on the wagon-pole with the extra fixt 
 ures he had furnished ; and, when they sat down to their 
 meal, they were almost gay with the newness of tin plates 
 and the smoke-taste that flavoured the^fried potatoes. Lib- 
 bie told of the people she had spoken with, and gave de 
 scription of all their appearance, with mimic talk of what 
 they had said. " Oh, I wish we were going to a town 
 or a city," she exclaimed. " I have always wanted to live 
 among people I " Mary thought of Oliver Day, who was 
 now well established in Burlington, an enterprising 
 lawyer, they heard, and had taken to himself a wife. 
 Ah, the past that was gone, and the things that might 
 have been happier 1 
 
 " Mary, eat your supper more quickly," said the mother, 
 watching anxiously. " It is cold in a minute in this open 
 air, and tin plates will not hold the heat." 
 
 " You know, mother, I never enjoy my own cooking. 
 Can I help you to a little more tea ? " But Mary liked 
 holding the steel knife and fork. She was thinking that 
 Hiram had held them. That very morning he had placed 
 them in their compartment of the box. What was Hiram 
 doing now ? She saw behind her thin tears the table 
 with the evening meal spread on it, and the father sitting 
 with his children, listening to their prattle of play. 
 
 Libbie would wash the dishes ; and Mrs. Hinckley in 
 sisted on helping, so that Mary was left to making beds, 
 while Sam was feeding the horses. Sam would sleep 
 under the wagon, and preferred to make his own bed. 
 Hiram had showed him a trick with the boards of the 
 table that would keep him free from the damp even on a 
 rainy night, with curtains of canvas fastened up. Libbie 
 
QJJ i c k s a n d 305 
 
 and her mother were talking by the camp-fire, and Mary 
 wandered back to the road to turn her face again eastward. 
 She had been walking a short time when she was startled 
 by something like the light of a fire in the horizon. 
 Could it be that their old home was burning ? Her ner 
 vousness made her forget that the fire would not show 
 twenty miles. No, it was the late harvest moon ; and her 
 lover was watching its rising. Gently the mellow warmth 
 flowed till the shrunken orb sailed in the blue. Like a 
 golden love-ship it sailed, and carried for her many mes 
 sages sent by the one that she loved. Then the comfort 
 came to her in her passion. This friend would always be 
 with her : the moon would follow all on the earth ; and 
 Hiram s eyes would rest lovingly on it and her eyes would 
 see it as well. Oh, if their glances could rebound ! She 
 turned up her bared face full toward it ; and, like kisses, 
 its beams fell on her mouth. Scientists and fools laugh 
 at this, and say they were not the man s kisses reflected ; 
 but where is the lover who believes them ? 
 
 Mary went back to the wagon with great comfort and 
 peace in her heart. 
 
 " We thought you were lost," exclaimed Libbie. " You 
 need some one to look after you." 
 
 That night was a restless one for all : they were not 
 yet accustomed to ship s quarters. But always was the 
 knowledge to the wakers of their freedom from the haunt- 
 ings of death. The fresh wind blew over the prairies ; 
 and above, in the open, was travelling the late round 
 moon among his stars, like the shepherd who was watch 
 ing his sheep. 
 
 Oddly enough, a herd of sheep went by them in the 
 night. Their backs were half lustrous in the moonlight. 
 They moved like the waves of the river : a luminous cloud 
 of dust, too, hung over them, wavering like the faint river 
 
306 Qji i c k s a n d 
 
 mists. They lifted the curtains to look out, and Sam 
 rose to stand by the horses. Then the muffled bleating 
 and tramp faded in the distance ; and again the crickets 
 and grass folk sang to them, telling of their freedom 
 from the house, with the dead swinging ghastly in the 
 cellar. 
 
 The dawn came flushing to them, gently speaking of 
 new travels and change. Mary was up in her kitchen by 
 the time that the sun could look in. Libbie was arrang 
 ing the beds, and Sam again tending cow and horses. 
 Then their schooner set sail, and a new day was fairly 
 begun. Mary was looking sadly back. " Good-bye, 
 Hiram," she was thinking. " Good-bye, my place of 
 the moon. I will stand again to-morrow night looking, 
 and every night, every night after, as long as the moon 
 shall live ! " 
 
 That day they went through a county seat unknown to 
 them, with its square stone court-house in the centre 
 of a green, and the business houses ranged on the outer 
 side of the square across from the white, dusty street. At 
 night they camped under a cottonwood-tree, whose yellow 
 leaves, flapping and flapping, made them always dream 
 it was raining. Again Mary looked at her moon, and 
 again the kisses came back to her. 
 
 Straight westward sailed the land-ship each day, guided 
 by the north star for compass. Sometimes the earth-sea 
 was rough, and they toiled over hills of its billows. Some 
 times there were islands of trees, with fresh streams and 
 young oaks on the hillsides. In two weeks they had 
 reached the Missouri, and it reminded them of their own 
 dear home river, but only in its width and its swiftness ; 
 for the shores were barren where they crossed, and the 
 waters were yellow with soil. 
 
 There were two days of hills in Nebraska, where the 
 
QJJ i c k s a n d 307 
 
 sea fiction was vivid indeed, rolling, billowy lappings of 
 blue sod; hazy Mediterranean in the twilight. It was 
 there that Mary saw the new moon s faint circle. It made 
 her begin to love the west. There .was a waste of lone 
 liness behind now. Sometimes she lost the directions, 
 and her heart was faint with disturbance. The moon, 
 too, had been hiding a time. But now Hiram could surely 
 look over, and the love-light would speak him her mes 
 sage. 
 
 Prairies, prairies, were swamping them. Their ship 
 was entering bleak waters. 
 
 Three weeks brought them on the edge of these seas ; 
 and, as the fourth week was advancing, the growing moon 
 shone on dead grass, long stretches of fields without 
 fences, saffron and golden in the moonlight, mystic and 
 wonderful always. 
 
 But the river-bred people grew very lonely. The dis 
 tance made them sea-sick, almost. They longed for trees 
 and clay hillsides. This endless monotony of sod dry 
 sod with dead grass parched on it they had not dreamt 
 of before. Besides, it was hard to get wood for their 
 camp-fires and water for the cow and their horses. Feed 
 was getting scarcer and scarcer. One night they had 
 no water or wood, but sat with their thirst in the dark 
 ness. 
 
 " It is like a desert! " wailed Libbie. 
 
 " If I had thought Kansas was going to be like this," 
 said Mrs. Hinckley, "I m sure I should never have 
 come." 
 
 To make matters worse, Sam was in suffering. For 
 a month there had been a lump in his shoulder. He had 
 spoken of it sometimes in carrying things ; but now it had 
 broken open, a running sore, and made them all sick with 
 forewarnings. What if it should be a cancer ; and were 
 
Qjiicksand 
 
 there physicians where they were going? They urged 
 Sam to stop and consult a physician at the town as they 
 were passing through. But he would not listen to their 
 pleading, but set his face doggedly on. 
 
 " A man can t treat me in a minute," he said. " He 
 would want me to stop, and stay a year. No, we ll go 
 on and settle in our house if there is any house on our 
 farm. And then there ll be time for the doctors to ex 
 periment on me. I ve got to live awhile yet." 
 
 So it came that they were watching for the end, 
 and growing more dismal at the prospect. Only Mary 
 took comfort ; for the moon was much brighter on the 
 plains, glowing like the face of a friend. 
 
VII. 
 
 O you see that frame house with the gable this 
 way, out there in the middle of the prairie ? " 
 said a sinewy, wind-tanned farmer, pointing for 
 the anxious women in the wagon. " Well, that s the house 
 you want : that s the old Stebbins place. It s two miles 
 and a half from my corner." 
 
 " It s so far from the neighbours," said Libbie. 
 
 " Oh, there s neighbours enough," said the farmer. 
 " There s a house over there a half a mile, and another a 
 mile and a quarter on the north ; and then the Clark s 
 live down in the draw, you can t see their house from 
 here, and then here I am. Two miles and a half is 
 nothing out here. We always have good roads and 
 horses. 
 
 " So you ve come from Iowa to settle," he said, taking 
 a chew of tobacco. " You bought the Stebbins place ? 
 It went for the mortgage from Stebbins. He said the wind 
 blew away all his crops, and he went to Washington to try 
 it. He writes back good reports from that country. I 
 may go west myself some time, provided I can sell where I 
 am. This country is the best place for cattle, but I am 
 a gardener myself. I hope you ll let us know if there s 
 anything you need in fixing up," he called after them. 
 " My wife would get up to see you, but her health is poorly 
 out here." 
 
 Sam spoke encouragingly to the horses. " We re al 
 most home," he said wearily. 
 
 The women watched from under their bonnets. The 
 wind was blowing a gale from the south-west, dry, shrill 
 blasts from the horizon. There was little but horizon to 
 this landscape. 
 
 The Hinckleys had taken off the wagon cover entirely. 
 
310 Qjiicksand 
 
 It caught too much wind as it was, and now the breeze 
 whistled triumphantly through the bare masts of their 
 ship. 
 
 " I can see now why the grass is so short out here," 
 said Libbie, " the wind keeps it worn off close." 
 
 " It s dry and bleached, just like that man s whiskers," 
 said Mary. 
 
 " His name s Fox," corrected Libbie. " I wonder if 
 every one out here chews tobacco, and gets it all over 
 his chin ? " 
 
 " The house looks like a granary I " said Mrs. Hinckley. 
 
 " More like a rabbit trap to me," remarked Libbie, " a 
 rabbit trap that s caught its game, and been left there." 
 
 " It s caught us, too, I guess," said Mary, trying her 
 best to be cheerful. 
 
 " I don t see why they couldn t have put a little paint on," 
 complained Mrs. Hinckley, when they were nearer. 
 
 " They were probably paying out all their money for 
 interest on our mortgage," said Libbie. 
 
 " If we d known where they lived, I don t believe we 
 could have taken a cent of it," mourned Mary. 
 
 Sam broke in on their remarks. " I wonder where the 
 barn is. " he said, " There s an old cow-shed out there, 
 but the mortgage said a good barn. " 
 
 " Oh, they call anything a barn out here," said Libbie, 
 " where they can find a pole to tie horses to. I guess that 
 stone place is the chicken-house." 
 
 In time they had reached the barren yard, and driven 
 up in front of the house. 
 
 " Welcome home I " said Libbie, sarcastically. 
 
 Mary was peeping in through the windows, having tried 
 the door and found it fastened. " Two rooms down 
 stairs," she announced, " plastered, and papered with 
 newspapers. Isn t it funny there isn t any porch or shade 
 
Qjiicksand 311 
 
 of any kind, nor tree in the yard, nor bush, nor well, 
 nor anything hardly 1 " 
 
 " The wind has blown them all away,"^said Libbie, drily. 
 " Come, mother, we may as well get out." 
 
 Sam was getting his hatchet to open the door, which 
 was nailed. He could climb in through an unfastened win 
 dow. The women were preparing to go inside, beating 
 against the wind which caught their skirts when they 
 stepped from the protected shelter on the north of the 
 house, where the wagon had stopped. They could hear 
 Sam tramping on the floor, then the sound of the drawing 
 of nails. Suddenly the door flew back. The wind had 
 caught it in its gust, and was circling around the bleak 
 little room. 
 
 " This is the kitchen," said Mary ; " and here is the 
 sitting-room. Look 1 How funny the stairs go up ! Let s 
 run up and see the bedrooms." 
 
 " Not much ! If this house blows over, I prefer to be 
 down on the ground," said Libbie, wiping the dust from 
 her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley sat down on the stair, and began a 
 peevish, fretful crying. " I d never have come if I d 
 known it was like this," she said. 
 
 " O mother, the upstair rooms are neat and nice, only 
 the wind roars a little round the corners. Libbie and I 
 will get the beds in, and the kitchen dishes ; and we ll 
 have a nice, warm supper. It ll be such a rest to get into 
 a house and do a little comfortable cooking. This is the 
 third day of this terrible wind, and we re all of us nervous 
 and distracted." 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley s condition roused both of the daughters 
 to action ; and, with their practical knowledge of camp 
 life, they soon had a compromise of living, half house- 
 like and haif savage, but fairly comfortable and ship- 
 
3i2 Qjuicksand 
 
 shape. The little camp-stove was set up in the kitchen, 
 some old pipe found in the chicken-house serving to carry 
 the smoke. 
 
 Sam soon came in with a pail of water. " The well is a 
 quarter of a mile beyond the barn," he said, " but there s a 
 rope there, and pulley and everything. I guess the people 
 use it who go by, or some of the neighbours, maybe. 
 The water is sweet, too, and clear ; but the well is full 
 seventy feet deep. I measured on the rope as I pulled 
 up." 
 
 " Where are the horses ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " Oh, I tied them in that straw and pole stable : there s 
 a manger in there and pegs for harness. It can be made 
 comfortable for winter by piling some straw around. But 
 it s not much like a barn," he added gloomily. 
 
 " Well, we can t expect much in a deserted place. It s 
 a great deal better than camping, and I m glad we found 
 anything at all," said Mary. "Does your shoulder pain 
 you very much ? " 
 
 " I feel so weak," sighed Sam. 
 
 " Well, go upstairs and change the bandage. I will 
 have some warm water in a jiffy. Libbie is making a table 
 of the boxes, and we ll have supper early to-night. You re 
 weak with hunger, I guess. Cold bread is not very 
 nourishing." 
 
 "Libbie," she said, after he had gone and their mother 
 was upstairs with him, " isn t it curious how much we ve 
 learned in five weeks ? If we d been turned in here the 
 day we left home, we couldn t have got supper in half a 
 day ; and now camp life has taught us to make every 
 thing cosey in a minute, and the ham and potatoes do 
 smell just fine." 
 
 There was a homelike comfort in sitting down to the 
 steaming hot supper. Sam looked wan and tired, but 
 
Qjjicksand 313 
 
 his weakness had strengthened the mother ; and their talk 
 was cheerful around the board, as they planned the work 
 for the morrow. The wind, too, had subsided at sunset ; 
 and the sky burned like a huge opal, set off by the dull, 
 sombre plain. As Mary and Libbie ran back and forth 
 from the house to the wagon, carrying the bedding for 
 the night, the joy of this wild country was in them ; and 
 their spirits came up like the wind that had fallen. 
 Never had they known this animal-like sense of exhila 
 ration. The sky seemed shouting for glory. 
 
 " I think I shall like it, after all," said Libbie, " if only 
 we had more neighbours." 
 
 " And if crops and the garden will grow," put in 
 Mary. 
 
 " Oh, this is nearly November now. Of course, every 
 thing looks barren. Besides, no one s worked this place 
 for a year; and that always makes a big difference in 
 looks." 
 
 " I wonder whether the people were happy," said Mary, 
 looking at the house musingly. 
 
 " What does it matter to us, so long as we are happy ? " 
 replied Libbie. 
 
 " If Sam would only get well ! " 
 
 " Oh, they say there s a good doctor in the town." 
 
 " That s three miles, isn t it ? " 
 
 " Yes, and that s the nearest church. Still, it s no far 
 ther than Fort Madison." 
 
 " It s a little, bleak-looking town." 
 
 "Yes, it is," assented Libbie. 
 
 " Well, we must make the best of it, I suppose. We 
 can stand anything if mother is contented." 
 
 That night they knew the shelter of a house, the 
 third home for Mrs. Hinckley. " It at least will be free 
 from hauntings," she said. " There are no ghosts here 
 of the past." 
 
314 Qjiicksand 
 
 But one ghost haunted Mary s chamber; and, rising 
 stealthily, so as not to waken Libbie, she slipped away, a 
 white figure, to the window, and, folding a blanket as of 
 mourning around her, she gazed over the floor of the 
 prairie out into the miles of faint darkness to where the 
 late moon was now rising, her glowing love-lamp of the 
 east. 
 
 
VIII. 
 
 THE Hinckleys had need of the long sunny 
 weather which followed to make ready for the 
 coming winter. There was everything to purchase 
 and arrange, furniture, carpets, and stoves, added to 
 the confusion of repairing and papering the house. Coal 
 had to be hauled and housed, a pig and some chickens 
 secured, grain purchased and stored for feeding, and hay 
 for the horses and cow. Then Sam was busy with the 
 barn and necessary yards and shelters. 
 
 Moreover, Mrs. Hinckley wanted a fence around the 
 house and garden, a white picket fence with a lawn, as 
 she had had in New Hampshire and Iowa. Out here in 
 Kansas, where the cattle were kept from the roads, there 
 was no need of fences for keeping things out. It was more 
 economical to keep things in, and the farmers did not 
 fence their house yards and gardens. But Mrs. Hinckley 
 was not satisfied with this free-and-easy way of doing. A 
 house unfenced was to her no better than a public shop. 
 She wanted privacy, she wanted respectability and re 
 serve. She was positive that, if they had a fence, the 
 neighbours would come to look up to them as, indeed, 
 their station demanded. 
 
 There were long, cold rains in December, though the 
 weather was rarely freezing. Sam, now worn with his 
 sickness, still dragged himself into the weather, and began 
 the work on the fence. 
 
 " Don t go out in the wet, Sam," pleaded Mary. 
 " There is no need of your working out there." 
 
 "Oh, I ve got to do something. I can t sit in the 
 house, and mother won t rest till she gets her fence." 
 
 " Mother is sick and fretful. You mustn t mind what 
 she says, but use your own judgment instead." 
 
316 Qjiicksand 
 
 " I don t mind ; but it hurts less, I believe, when I m 
 working." 
 
 " You ought to go to Kansas City, as we all want you 
 to do," said Libbie, just then coming in. 
 
 " Oh, what do we know about the doctors in Kansas 
 City ? I d rather die than be butchered." 
 
 " You ll catch cold," said Libbie, anxiously. 
 
 " I won t catch cold," grumbled Sam. 
 
 "Well, he will have his own way," sputtered Libbie, 
 after he was gone ; " but, before winter is over, he ll be 
 wishing he had listened to us, and you mark my word, 
 Sam Hinckley." 
 
 Sam did catch the cold that was prophesied, but he 
 did not seem much to regret it. He was listless of liv 
 ing now, once he had the women-folk comfortable. He 
 never spoke of putting a crop into the dust-blowing soil 
 of the prairies. The fields were not those of the old 
 Mississippi bottom, and he did not long for new farming. 
 
 " What s the use ? " he said wearily. " Keep the horses 
 and the cow, and that s enough. We ve got money 
 enough to keep us. Wait till the spring before planning. 
 Maybe then we won t need any plans." 
 
 Libbie, seeing this inattention, set actively to work with 
 her chickens, thinking to keep expenses paid with the 
 eggs. She bought young pullets from the neighbours, set 
 up the little camp-stove in the henhouse for cold weather, 
 and talked of an incubator in the spring, and a yard and 
 more modern improvements. Eggs brought a good price 
 in the town, and her thrift was already being rewarded. 
 She had made acquaintance with the storekeepers and 
 neighbours, and even now they said of Miss Libbie that 
 she was the spunkiest one of the family. 
 
 No, Sam did not want to get well. The blizzards came 
 on in January, and howled like the prairie wolves. Lib- 
 
Qjjicksand 317 
 
 bie took care of the horses and did the milking, and Sam 
 lay on the lounge by the stove, and watched Mary as she 
 went about her duties, now double, of house-maid and 
 nurse ; for the mother, too, was feeble again, and keeping 
 often to her bed. Sam usually kept his Bible with him, 
 and alternately read and reflected. Mary thought some 
 times, as she watched him, that in his quiet moments he 
 was praying. 
 
 " Mary," he said to her one day, " I wish you had mar 
 ried Hiram." 
 
 She could not answer just then, but gave sign that she 
 was paying attention. 
 
 " A man should be married, and so should a woman," 
 Sam continued. " They should marry when they are 
 young." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought that we wronged Hubert by 
 being vexed that he married Maud," said Mary, when he 
 was thinking. 
 
 " Yes, and then we should have let him alone. A man 
 must fight his own battles. You liked Maud, didn t 
 you ? " he asked earnestly, after an interval of silence. 
 
 " I don t know. I m afraid not so much as I could if 
 I d tried," faltered Mary. 
 
 " Do you think she s happy now ? " 
 
 " She seems at least to be more cheerful. She says 
 her step-father is very kind." 
 
 " Do you suppose, if I get very sick, that I ll be deli 
 rious, Mary ? " 
 
 " Why, let us hope you won t get very sick. Libbie is 
 delirious sometimes when she has a nervous headache." 
 
 " Yes ; but she never tells things, does she ? I mean 
 real things that have happened ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, she just babbles. Don t you remember when 
 she thought she was a preacher ? " 
 
Qjjicksand 
 
 " Yes, I remember. I guess it s only when they have 
 brain fever that they tell things." . 
 
 " I never knew a case of brain fever," replied Mary. 
 
 " But, if I ever do get delirious," continued Sam, " and 
 there s a chance of my telling things, Mary, will you keep 
 Libbie and mother away, and never tell them what I m 
 saying ? " 
 
 " Why, of course, Sam, if you wish it. I should not 
 like to be delirious, either," she said, blushing. "I m 
 glad I never get sick." 
 
 " You mean you d talk about Hiram." 
 
 " Maybe. I can t tell, you know, Sam." 
 
 "Well, I think I ll tell only lies, all sorts of lies. But 
 you must never repeat them, Mary. I don t want mother 
 or Libbie to hear them." 
 
 " No, Sam." 
 
 Again he would wander to religion, and talk of heaven 
 and salvation. 
 
 " Do you believe one could be saved who has always 
 been in the church, but has not been converted ? " he 
 asked one day. 
 
 "Father used to think so," said Mary, "at least be 
 fore he was converted. I don t see why it might not be 
 true. "But" glancing toward the sitting-room door 
 " I wouldn t hurt mother s feelings by saying it." 
 
 " Do you believe that Maud, then, for instance, will be 
 saved, provided she s never converted ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I think so," said Mary, who would never 
 condemn any soul she knew, if it were positively not blas 
 phemy to miss it. 
 
 " But, if she s sinned, just supposing she sinned ter 
 ribly, why, then would she have to pray and be con 
 verted in order to be taken to heaven ? " 
 
 " I think the Lord would be merciful," said Mary ; and 
 
Qjuicksand 319 
 
 then she took up the questions, and continued : " Do you 
 think with mother, Sam, that Maud drew Hubert away 
 from religion, and that his confusion in finding himself an 
 infidel drove him to take his own life ? " 
 
 Sam gave a steady reply. " There were a great many 
 things weighing on Hubert, and you know he was never 
 quite strong. Maud may have had something to do with 
 it. Woman is always the tempter of man. I don t sup 
 pose it was altogether the religion that drove Hubert to 
 insanity ; but I do suppose that, if he had held true relig 
 ion, he would not have gone as he did." 
 
 " Do you think he was insane, really, Sam ? " 
 
 " Temporarily, perhaps. They say they all are who 
 are driven to take their own life. But we mustn t blame 
 Maud too much, Mary." 
 
 " I don t blame any one, Sam, but myself, just a little." 
 
 " How were you to blame ? " 
 
 " I might have been different to Maud." 
 
 " Well, we ought to forgive her, all of us." And then ner 
 vously, after some thinking : " Mary, just to show her that I 
 have forgiven her, in case, you know, anything happens to 
 me, will you take this ring off my finger, and send it to her 
 with well, suppose you say, with my love ? You know the 
 Lord tells us to love one another ; and, after all, Maud is 
 our sister. Will you just send it, Mary, with those words, 
 those words are enough, with my love ? That, you 
 know, is better than forgiveness." 
 
 Mary burst into tears. " That s just what Hiram said 
 once," she was sobbing. 
 
 " What ? " asked Sam, uneasily. 
 
 " That love was better than forgiveness. He said for 
 giveness was only a kind of patronizing." 
 
 " That s not Scripture," objected Sam ; but he was lost 
 in some minutes of thinking. 
 
320 Q^uicksand 
 
 " But you ll promise, Mary, about the ring ? " he asked 
 on rousing again. 
 
 " I promise, Sam." 
 
 " And you needn t say anything to Libbie or mother." 
 
 " But, then, you d better take the ring off now for 
 if if " 
 
 " Oh, yes, if I died, don t cry, Mary, if I died with 
 it on, you mean, they would miss it." 
 
 " Yes, Sam. Don t talk of dying." 
 
 " Well, we are only supposing of course. There s no 
 harm talking of it, is there ? " 
 
 Then again, after a pause: "No, I ll leave the ring 
 where it is. Just pretend that you lost it, Mary, or that 
 it got mislaid somewhere." 
 
 The days dragged drearily on. February was a snowy 
 month that year, and the keen wind was bitter and biting. 
 March began with thawing, chill winds, and grey clouds 
 hung over the slush ; and it seemed there could never be 
 an April. It was in April that Sam Hinckley died. The 
 disease had eaten his vitals. The women were sick with 
 its horror. 
 
 The neighbours were very kind, especially Mr. Fox, of 
 the red whiskers, who could even throw aside his tobacco 
 when he went into the room of the dying. Libbie quite 
 came to love him for his kindness. Mrs. Fox said play 
 fully she was getting jealous. 
 
 They buried Sam in the wind-blown, barren little 
 graveyard a half mile south of the town. Mrs. Hinckley 
 was well enough to go to the funeral, and the minister s 
 words were very touching. 
 
 " I ll come up, and do your chores as usual," said Mr. 
 Fox, when they were leaving the grave. " I don t think 
 anything of two miles and a half. The roads are good 
 here for April." But Libbie and Mary both thanked him. 
 
Qjjicksand 321 
 
 "We must get used to the work now ourselves," they 
 answered. " We have done it all winter, in fact." 
 
 The three women got into the wagon, and drove back 
 over the brown prairie to their little box house with its 
 unfinished picket fence. They must now face the world 
 alone. Their men-folk had been taken from them, I \ 
 through the will of their blessed Lord. 
 
IX. 
 
 THE years went monotonously on, but the history 
 of the Hinckley family is quite ended. It is very 
 dreary where one s history ends long before death 
 comes gathering. To stand barren and parching from 
 year to year, bearing no fruit of love, giving no good to 
 the world, loving always of course, for love is essential 
 to woman, but seeing no results of one s love, only 
 querulousness and jealousy and interference with free 
 dom of action. 
 
 Mrs. Hinckley lived, or, it were better to say, Mrs. 
 Hinckley did not die for some fifteen years after Sam. 
 She sat most of the time in her rocking-chair, watch 
 ful of the movements of her daughters, asking them 
 what they had done when they came in, admonishing 
 them what not to do when they went out, petulant and 
 exacting and affectionate, sadly wondering how they 
 would get on when she was no longer spared to direct 
 them. " A patient, good woman," said the neighbours, 
 " who suffers terribly from sickness, and who had seen bet 
 ter times than now." There were, indeed, severities and 
 stringencies that would give younger people ground for 
 complaint, the whistling driving of the wind, the flying 
 dust, the cold of winter storms, the heat of summer days, 
 the hail-storms, and fear of cyclones which so exasperat- 
 ingly always are threatened, and never come to fulfil pre 
 dictions. There were blessings, too, as in all countries, 
 the freshness and beauty of spring, the growth of the 
 early summer, the Indian duskiness of autumn, and the 
 open softness of the winter. Most of all, the immensity 
 and wonder of the night. But these Mrs. Hinckley did 
 not notice ; for she sat in the little box house, and in good 
 seasons remembered the bad, and recounted all of her 
 suffering, and foretold uncomfortable change. 
 
Qjiicksand 323 
 
 She had too much occupation in thinking over her life 
 of the past, and dwelling on all of its sadness, and specu 
 lating why the Lord had given her so much more to bear 
 than other women, and wondering if she would be suf 
 ficiently rewarded when she entered the cities of heaven. 
 Certainly, she said, she would sit in higher seats than her 
 old neighbours who had not suffered. But she would 
 be gracious to them, once they had recognised that she 
 was truly their superior, when they knew of the Cum- 
 mings family and all of her grandfather s ancestors. But 
 her thoughts would soon turn back from heaven to her 
 earthly homes of the past. The old Cummings home 
 stead in Tamworth, white and stately among its green 
 trees: that was a home to be remembered. Her girl 
 hood was spent there, and the happiness of the young 
 wife and mother. Twenty years she had ruled ; and they 
 were thriving, thriving, according to Mrs. Hinckley s 
 idea. Then came a curse, blackening the place; a 
 baby s fretful, faint wailing ; and the remorse of remem 
 bering her daughter s wan face pleading with the March 
 wind and the darkness. 
 
 In Elizabeth Hinckley s philosophy it was this single 
 sin of the daughter that wrought all their disaster and 
 ruin. No matter how they had tried, that sin could never 
 be lived down. No matter how they might keep it secret, 
 its curse came up in the end. Had not she herself taken 
 v all of the affairs of her family into her own control, and 
 managed with superhuman cunning and wisdom? And 
 yet all had failed in the end. Yes, it was Adelaide who 
 had cursed them, her daughter whom she had nurtured 
 in ignorance of all evil. Or perhaps, as was more in ac 
 cordance with religion, it was Satan who had seized upon 
 this daughter as a tool ; and the- wise Lord had permitted 
 the measure, in order that the mother, through suffering, 
 
tf/ 
 
 324 Qjjicksand 
 
 should be raised to a higher plane in heaven, and Ade 
 laide would stand forgiven at last, weeping at the judg 
 ment-seat of God. 
 
 These were the comforts of religion ; and added to 
 them were the still greater comforts of her two daughters 
 waiting upon her, denying themselves individuality of 
 living, and giving her all of their love, warped and 
 twisted though it be, still strenuous and deep and sincere, 
 all that was vital of their souls. 
 
 And, indeed, to merit such love, the mother had given 
 strong affection to them. Elizabeth Hinckley was a 
 strong and capable woman ; and all her strength centered 
 in this, her absorbing love for her family. As witnesses 
 stand the two homes : the New England one, with the 
 wailing wind haunting the lilacs ; and the white one in the 
 valley of the river, with the swinging shadow in its 
 cellar. A trail as of some crawling serpent was dragged 
 half-way across the continent. It was the relic of her 
 Family Love. 
 
X. 
 
 MARY, looking toward the east, waiting for the 
 oncoming night, the morning long since behind 
 her, how were the years leaving her ? 
 
 There are some dispositions that nothing can embitter, 
 no matter how the life be thwarted and ruined. Mary 
 Hinckley s was one of these. Patient, smiling, help 
 ful, she went about her routine of work, cooking, clean 
 ing, clothing, taking quiet interest in her neighbours, 
 giving ceaseless attention to her mother and untiring 
 faithfulness to Libbie. Sometimes she was pouting, of 
 course, speaking out gently against things, but only to 
 give contrast it seemed, to avoid the monotony of al 
 ways being good, and thought of in connection with 
 Sunday-schools and morals and other disagreeable supe 
 riorities that belong to the class of the saved, according 
 to the orthodox religion. But this flash of reaction was 
 only a flash, and never gave trouble when dependence 
 was needed. Mary went on with her work, waiting upon 
 her mother while she lived and taking in plain sewing 
 from the town to help at supporting the family. 
 
 Libbie was the active one of the three, doing the man s 
 work of the farm. They rented the fields to some neigh 
 bour ; but Libbie did the work of the garden, taking care 
 of the stock and selling her butter and eggs. It was a 
 healthy, working life for the two women. But women 
 seem incomplete without the exercise of one function, 
 the bearing and rearing of children. At least, this is so 
 of such women as Libbie and Mary. They need the love, 
 too, of some strong, hearty man. Most of all they need 
 him for loving. 
 
 So it came that, being deprived of all natural objects 
 on which to place their affection, they were left to wear 
 
326 Qjiicksand 
 
 it out on each other after their mother had died. Who 
 does not know the story? Two sisters living together, 
 and loving each other into misery. Not that they may 
 not seem happy to strangers, indeed, may often be happy 
 when alone, if happiness can go along with starving. 
 "The Hinckley old maids," as they were called, were 
 generally liked by the neighbours, and were spoken of as 
 nice girls and jolly, and were never failing in cases of 
 sickness. Yes, they were happy, these two, as thousands 
 of women are happy. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " " Why can t you wait till I 
 go ? " " What will you do all alone ? " " Where were 
 you those fifteen minutes yesterday, when you were not 
 with me ? " " What did he say to you ? " " Was that 
 all ? " "Do you like him as well as some other ? " 
 " Didn t you wish I was there ? " So the chain endlessly 
 runs ; and there is never a confidence given, because all 
 is dragged out by force long before the thinker is sure of 
 herself. There is no independence of living. As the 
 Kansas wind wore and nagged on the nerves, so the 
 temper of Libbie brought equal strain to her sister. 
 
 Sometimes Mary longed to go back, to go home, as 
 she wistfully spoke of it. But the effect on Libbie was 
 disastrous. She would be irritable and jealous for days, 
 full of old-time suspicions, even carrying them to the 
 point of illness, with fits of hysterical weeping. Did 
 Mary not love her ? she sobbed. Did she long to get 
 away from her sister who had cherished and protected 
 her so long? Was it not enough to have her to live 
 for, her dear Libbie, who thought of nothing else ex 
 cept the comfort of her sister ? So Mary told herself 
 patience again. Both she and Hiram feared that Libbie 
 would go the way of Hubert if her jealousy should be 
 aroused by their marriage ; and the winds blew hot in 
 
Qjiicksand 327 
 
 summer and cold in the winter again, and the bleak life 
 went frettingly on. 
 
 She was forty-five years old when her mother died. 
 There were only another twenty-five years to be lonely in, 
 she said; and Hiram was now nearing sixty, and was 
 already sporting with his grandchildren, for Olga had mar 
 ried at twenty, and now mothered a boy and a girl. " Then, 
 too," thought the care-worn Mary, " I cannot be to him 
 as I was then. He thinks of me, of course, as I was. 
 But my face is wrinkled and dried in the wind, and my 
 eyes have a squint from the light. The thin dry hair I 
 have left is streaked into weather-worn grey, there are 
 shadows under my eyes, and my teeth have grown ragged 
 with decay." So it was not such a denial as might be to 
 go on living for Libbie, who had only her in return ; and 
 who was likewise hard-favoured and awkward, stiffened by 
 the wind and the weather. 
 
 But there were times of the full harvest moon when 
 Mary returned to her girlhood, She would slip away 
 from Libbie those nights, and running on the saffron 
 wide plains would turn her face up to the moon ; and its 
 light would give youthfulness to her, even youth s love 
 and its tears. Then she saw Hiram again, felt his 
 strength clasping her closely. He was not, indeed, the 
 Hiram of old ; for his hair was white now with waiting, 
 and lines that came from long years of kindness were 
 seaming his loving face. She saw behind him the house 
 he had made cheerful, whence the swinging shadow was 
 driven away. She saw the children who loved him, and 
 who grew up and left him for lives of their own, to give 
 place to other children coming, they, too, in good time to 
 bless him. 
 
 But on these nights his love lived for her, Mary, the 
 heart s wife he had chosen, but had never taken to arms. 
 
328 Qjiicksand 
 
 Now from the moon came his kisses. From the sky his 
 eyes smiled love down on her. Blue, tender, laughing, 
 manly eyes, Hiram s ; tender as the kisses on her mouth. 
 Then it was she stretched out her arms, and ran 
 toward the light of the moon, the youth-love tremulous 
 in her face. She ran and ran, calling, " Hiram I " Ran 
 till her breath was gone from her ; and her tears, cloud 
 ing out the fair moon, would leave her an old woman, 
 weeping, quivering in helpless heap on dead grass, the 
 night breeze wisping her hair on her sallowed cheek, 
 withered and ghastly. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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