FRK1> M. 1)K>VIT 
 
 BOOKSICI.I.KK 
 
 ic,i><) ri:i.i:<;H.\i'n AVI:.
 
 NEIGHBORS 
 
 . OP CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS AHGELES
 
 THE RESURRECTION OF MISS 
 CYNTHIA 
 
 THOSE QUEER BROWNS 
 
 AND SO THEY WERE MARRIED 
 
 THE GLASS HOUSE 
 
 THOSE BREWSTER CHILDREN 
 
 TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER 
 
 MISS PHILURA'S WEDDING 
 GOWN 
 
 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 NEIGHBORS
 
 NEIGHBORS 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY 
 
 Author of "The Transfiguration of Miss Philura," 
 "The Resurrection of Mis Cynthia," "The Heart 
 of Philura," "To the Highest Bidder," etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1917
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1917 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
 
 NEIGHBORS 
 
 21306G5
 
 I 
 
 ""^t7"ES; I guess it looks full es well plain, like 
 that, es any o' them fancy ways," mused 
 Miss Bennett, as she gazed at the neat 
 black lettering on its white ground which pro- 
 claimed her name and occupation to a waiting 
 world. 
 
 " Looks real p'rfessional V up t' date," com- 
 mented the man in blue overalls who had just 
 affixed the sign to the corner of Miss Bennett's 
 weatherbeaten little house. " Them that runs c'n 
 read, es it says in th' Bible. You ain't had a reg'- 
 lar sign all these years, Miss Malvina; but 'taint 
 hard t' guess why you come to it now. All I got t' 
 say is: I don't blame you none." 
 
 Miss Bennett screwed her small features to one 
 side in a comprehensive sniff of disdain. 
 
 " I don't know what you're a-hintin' at, Henery 
 Pratt," she said, with dignity. " I b'en thinkin' o' 
 havin' that sign painted f'r years V years, off 
 V on. It's one o' them things a body '11 put off
 
 2 NEIGHBORS 
 
 like makin' up their shroud, with the goods 
 a-layin' idle in their bureau-draw'." 
 
 Mr. Pratt spat controversially upon the 
 ground. 
 
 " 'Course you've heared th's a new dressmakin' 
 shop opened up over George Trimmer's store," 
 said he, shifting his quid of tobacco with stealthy 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " I bet I heared it b'fore you did," retorted 
 Miss Bennett. " I knowed it b'fore she hed time 
 t' oil up her sewin'-m'chine, not that she's hed 
 much use f'r it sence. My cust'mers ain't th' kind 
 t' be drawed off that-a-way. Land ! ef you was t' 
 see my shop ; it's s' cram full o' work I don' know 
 which way t' turn ! " 
 
 " Wall, anyway, it's a han'some sign you got 
 there, an' I hope 't will be worth a dollar-seventy- 
 fi' t' your business," observed Mr. Pratt, in the 
 act of gathering his scattered tools. 
 
 " It looks real dignified 'n' like that, I think," 
 assented the dressmaker. " Ma, she got all het 
 up argufyin' for * Malvina Bennett, Female Tail- 
 oress.' But Ma's kind o' narrer-minded. ' Female 
 Tailoress,' I says, * don't cover all I do in th' line 
 o' dressmakin' in a single day, let alone a year. 
 I r'member Mis' Deaconess Buckthorn was in th' 
 shop lookin' over th' spring fashions; 'n' she 
 r'marks in that deep, pray'r-meetin' voice o' hern :
 
 NEIGHBORS 3 
 
 1 1 sh'd advise th' words " Miss Bennett, Man-tua 
 Maker." 'Twould be com-pre-hen-sive an' el'- 
 gant,' s' she. ' Land ! ' I says, ' what on airth is 
 a man-tua ? I never made up one of 'em in m' life, 
 es I know of,' I says." 
 
 " A dollar 'n' seventy-fi' cents is dirt cheap f'r a 
 neat, tasty sign like that," stated Mr. Pratt. " 'N' 
 you couldn't 'a' done no better 'n' what you done 
 in th' wordin' of it. When you stepped int' my 
 shop two weeks ago yist'd'y I says to you " 
 
 " You mem'ry's better 'n your word, Henery," 
 interrupted Miss Bennett. " You promised me 
 solemn you'd git that sign up on th' corner o' my 
 house inside o' three days. Ef it hadn't V b'en 
 I was lookin' f'r you from day t' day I might 'a' 
 changed m' mind th' last minute an' had ' Malvina, 
 Robes-et-Man-toes.' 'Twould 'a' looked real styl- 
 ish, n' might 'a' drawed custom." 
 
 Mr. Pratt frugally salvaged half a dozen nails 
 from among the sprouting daffodils under Miss 
 Bennett's window. 
 
 " Mebbe that's right," he conceded dubiously; 
 " wimin-folks gen'ally runs after what's new an' 
 fancy. The lady over Trimmer's store 's got a 
 black 'n' gold sign 'at reads somepin' like that; 
 an' nothin' would do fer my wife, when she seen 
 it, but t' have her spring suit made b' th' new 
 dressmaker."
 
 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Angry tears rushed to Miss Malvina's faded 
 eyes. 
 
 " D' you mean t' tell me Sar'Ann Pratt's b'en t' 
 that that critter t' hev' a dress made?" she de- 
 manded. " An' me a-doin' for her constant sence 
 b'fore she married her first husban' an' makin' 
 up her mournin' 'n' all! " 
 
 Her voice choked. 
 
 " You might 's well hear it f'om me 's f'om any- 
 body else," grumbled Mr. Pratt, realizing his tac- 
 tical blunder too late. " I ain't got no m'nop'ly in 
 th' sign-paintin' trade, an' I don't see how you c'n 
 'xpect t' do all the dressmakin' f'r th' wimin-folks 
 in this ere growin' community. Competition's th' 
 soul o' trade, y' know. . . . Say, I got a bill 
 here f'r th' sign ; if you feel like payin' it right now, 
 same's you 'greed t' do when you ordered it off 
 me, I'll take off ten cents." 
 
 Miss Bennett instantly produced a half sheet 
 of blue-lined note paper from beneath her shawl. 
 
 " I c'd 'a' paid you hard money right in your 
 fist jest as well 's not, Henery Pratt, an' I might 
 a done it if Mis' Pratt had been hon'rable enough 
 t' tell me right t' my face she was goin' t' another 
 dressmaker. But seein' she ain't no lady, here's 
 th' items: One card o' black hooks 'n' eyes; half 
 a yard o' featherbone, b'sides m' time an' three 
 quarters of a yard o' "
 
 NEIGHBORS 5 
 
 Mr. Pratt paused in the act of extracting a 
 much-needed red and white bandana handkerchief 
 from the hip pocket of his overalls to stare re- 
 sentfully at the dressmaker. 
 
 " Wall, I like your nerve ! " he exploded wrath- 
 fully. " I guess my wife '11 pass fer a lady, f'r 
 all o' you, Malvina Bennett. She never signed up 
 no contract t' let you spile her best clo'es constant, 
 't I know of." 
 
 "Fer pity sake!" cried Miss Bennett, deep 
 scorn struggling with the grief in her voice. " Ef 
 ever I spiled a dress f'r Sar'Ann Pratt an' her 
 with one hip two inches higher 'n the other, t' say 
 nothin' of bein' hollered in where she'd ought t' 
 be rounded out, an' vice verser in th' back, where 
 her shoulder-blades is sprung I defy you t' bring 
 that there dress t' my shop an' prove it. Prove it, 
 I say, right in front o' me ! " 
 
 " Aw, g'long," muttered Mr. Pratt disgustedly. 
 " I clean fergot what m' wife told me. She said 
 you'd be rampin' an' roarin' like a bull of Bashan, 
 if I let on 'bout her goin' t' th' new dressmaker. 
 But she ain't th' only one, I c'n tell you ! " 
 
 " Rampin' an' roarin' ain't my habit o' speech, 
 Henery Pratt," rebuked Miss Bennett. " An' you 
 c'n tell Mis' Sign-Painter Pratt so. This 'ere bill 
 is fer a black dress-waist I fixed over fer her t' 
 wear to her first husban's sister-in-law's fun'ral.
 
 6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 She 't was Em'line Mills. Sar'Ann was feelin' 
 tumble grief-stricken, I r'member, bein' took back 
 t' th' happy days b'fore she married you, Henery; 
 an' I set up most all o' one night so t' she c'd hev' 
 th' waist in time. She ain't never paid f'r it from 
 that day t' this, an' here 'tis : a dollar 'n' seventy-fi' 
 cents f'r work an' findin's." 
 
 " Why didn't you show me yer dratted bill when 
 you come t' m' shop t' order th' sign? " inquired 
 Mr. Pratt, in a deeply injured tone. " You never 
 s' much 's mentioned it." 
 
 " I was a leetle too cute f'r that, Henery," 
 crowed Miss Bennett. " I knowed full well I 
 wouldn't get m' sign till Gabr'l blowed his trum- 
 pet, if you s'spicioned you owed me anythin'." 
 
 " No more you wouldn't, neither," confirmed 
 Mr. Pratt gloomily. " I got a darn good mind t' 
 smash it." 
 
 " What? My sign? Try it, an' I'll git th' law 
 on you ! " promised Miss Bennett. 
 
 ' 'Tain't no better 'n gittin' money on false p'r- 
 tenses," growled Mr. Pratt. " An' that'll make 
 you liable, ef I was a min' t' sue you." 
 
 Miss Bennett cackled derisively. 
 
 " I hope you got some sense left, Henery, Re- 
 ceipt that there bill o' yourn; I'll do th' same with 
 mine, 'n' we're quits, 's fur 's money 's concerned." 
 
 She watched the man's retreating figure well out
 
 NEIGHBORS 7 
 
 of sight; then with the receipted bill tightly 
 clutched in one hand and the skirt of her dress in 
 the other, she mounted the front steps of the 
 house, pausing to gaze once more at the subject 
 of her late spirited controversy with Mr. Pratt. 
 
 " I bet I ketched a 'nawful cold, standin' out 
 there in th' wind all this while," she reflected. " I 
 c'n feel it shootin' up m' jaw this minute. But I 
 don't keer; I got m' sign 'n' it's paid for." 
 
 She sneezed a noisy confirmation of her fore- 
 bodings, as she passed into the " shop " where sat 
 old Mrs. Bennett, patiently pulling white basting 
 threads from the inchoate garment in her aproned 
 lap. 
 
 " Fer goodness sake, Ma ! ef you ain't drawed 
 them bastin's from around the arm-sizes," pro- 
 tested the little dressmaker. " An' me takin' sech 
 pains t' git th' linin' 'n' th' gathered goods on th' 
 outside jes' so." 
 
 " Now, Malviny, don't you s'pose I know what 
 I'm 'bout? " demanded the old lady, keeping fast 
 hold of the disputed garment. " Didn't I teach 
 ye ev'rythin' you know 'bout dressmakin', I'd like 
 t' know? You're a ongrateful child; that's what 
 you be, Malviny Bennett. 'N' there's a verse in 
 th' Bible 'bout a sarpint's tooth " 
 
 " I know it, Ma ; I'd oughtn't t' a' spoke s' 
 brash. But I got kind o' riled with Henery Pratt.
 
 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Of all th' mean spirited men-folks, I ever see, he's 
 th' beatin'est. Ef you'll jes' sew a hook 'n' eye 
 ont' this 'ere waist-ban', Ma, whilst I tack them 
 gathers in place." 
 
 The old lady was rocking herself back and 
 forth, her ancient nose in the air, her voice cracked 
 and querulous with anger : 
 
 " I couldn't set s' much 's a hook 'n' eye t' a 
 wais'-ban' t' suit;yow, Malviny; I don't know noth- 
 in' 'bout sewin', 'cordin' t' you. You can't trust 
 me with nothin'. Soon's your back's turned I spile 
 ev'rythin'. ... I guess I won't do no more 
 sewin' this side o' heaven." 
 
 " Now, Ma, don't take on! " her daughter ex- 
 horted her. " I got t' git this 'ere mornin' wrap- 
 per done, so's t' take it over t' Philury Pettibone 
 this aft'noon. She'll pay me right off, 'n' then I 
 c'n settle up with Obed Salter. I ain't never owed 
 him sech a bill 's I do now. Jes' 's soon 's I c'n 
 tack this 'ere shirrin' so 't wont git skewgeed I'll 
 bile th' kettle 'n' make you a good hot cup o' tea." 
 
 " I don't want no tea," grumbled the old lady. 
 " You al'ays seem t' think, Malviny, 'at you c'n 
 pacify me no matter how sassy you b'en with a 
 cup o' tea. That las' tea you got f'om Salter's 
 ain't worth puttin' in th' pot. I'd 's soon drink 
 hay-water." 
 
 Miss Bennett sighed as her skillful needle flew
 
 NEIGHBORS 9 
 
 in and out repairing the unthinking ravages of her 
 surviving parent. 
 
 " I'll try 'n' git some nice green an' black mixed 
 next time I go t' Boston," she promised vaguely. 
 "... I seen a robin this mornin', Ma." 
 
 "Settin 1 stiller flyin'?" 
 
 " Flyin' right over towards th' pars'nage ! " 
 
 " Ef you see 'em settin' still," pursued Mrs. 
 Bennett, " or hoppin' on th' ground it's a 'nawful 
 bad sign f'r th' whole year, Malviny." 
 
 " This one was flyin' 'way up high." 
 
 " But 't was goin' from you, Malviny," piped 
 the old lady. " Yer luck was flyin' from you. Ef 
 you'd only seen it comin' t'wards you now! I'm 
 awful keerful not t' look f'r robins no more in th' 
 spring o' th' year. But 't don't seem t' change m' 
 luck." 
 
 " Now, Ma," protested Miss Malvina, " it 
 really don't seem right f'r Christian folks t' take 
 s' much stock in signs 'n' like that. Why, ef I was 
 t' notice ev'ry little thing th' way a pin lays on 
 th' floor, when you pick it up; 'n' droppin' a dish- 
 towel, er seein' th' moon over m' lef shoulder, 'n' 
 you know I guess I'd go crazy. We're a-goin' t' 
 hev good luck f'r all th' robins in town. I'll bet 
 we git th' house painted up scrumtious this year, 
 'n' mebbe new leaders t' th' back door 'n' like's not 
 a reg'lar bath-room, with a kur'sene heater, all
 
 io NEIGHBORS 
 
 complete. How'd you like that, Ma ? I ain't never 
 felt better 'n I do this spring; I ain't had sca'cely 
 a twinge o' rheumatiz all winter, 'n' I'm full o' 
 spring an' ginger." 
 
 " Better knock on wood, Malviny," advised the 
 old lady sourly. " You'll be flat on your back, first 
 you know, all twisted up with rheumatiz." 
 
 Miss Bennett swiftly obeyed, her thimbled 
 finger beating a smart rat-tat on the window-sill. 
 
 " I don't see what knockin' on wood c'n do t' 
 pr'vent it," she murmured. " A body'd think th' 
 was some spiteful person lurkin' an' list'nin' 
 round, 'n' all ready t' pounce on a body ef they 
 sh'd fergit. I wouldn't lay sech actions t' th' devil, 
 t' say nothin' o' God." 
 
 " All I know is, ef folks don't knock on wood, 
 when they git braggity, somethin's sure t' happen 
 t' 'em," stated Mrs. Bennett positively. " I seen 
 it over 'n' over agin. Why, I r'member th' winter 
 your poor pa passed away. He was tellin' Deacon 
 Scrimger how awful smart he was. * Ain't had a 
 sick time this winter,' s's he. ' You'd better knock 
 on wood, Pa,' I says t' him. But he was feelin' 
 contrary, like men-folks gen'ally do when th's 
 other men-folks round, 'n' he pipes up 'n' says: 
 4 1 ain't a-goin' t' make a fool o' m'self no more 
 that-a-way to please you, Ma.' Them was his very 
 words. 'N' he set there solid on his cheer, like a
 
 
 NEIGHBORS n 
 
 heathen idol. * I won't do it, Ma,' s's he, real 
 earnest. ' Well, Pa,' I says mournful, * I'll do it 
 f'r you; but I'm 'fraid 't won't help you none 
 when you're took bad all of a suddent,' I says. 
 'Twas the very nex' day he took t' his bed. I knew 
 th' wa'n't no hope f'om th' very first, so I picked 
 
 out th' fun'ral hymns, an' I says t' Pa " 
 
 " There, that's done ! " interrupted her daugh- 
 ter in an aggressively cheerful tone. " Now I'm 
 goin' t' whirl in 'n' git somepin' t' eat b'fore folks 
 b'gins t' drop in; 'n' I wisht you'd step out 'n' look 
 at th' sign right now, Ma, so you c'n act kind o' 
 ca'm 'n' indiffer'nt. I d'clare I c'n feel that sign 
 all through m' system, like a girl would her en- 
 gagement ring. But I s'pose we'll git ust t' it, 
 after a spell."
 
 II 
 
 IT was five o'clock that same afternoon before 
 Miss Bennett set forth, a flat parcel done up 
 in newspaper containing Mrs. Pettibone's 
 completed garment on her arm. Greatly to her 
 surprise, no one had called to congratulate her on 
 the new sign. Nobody, apparently, had so much 
 as noticed it. Yet there it was, the one conspicu- 
 ously new and fresh object on the weatherbeaten 
 front of the little house: " Malvina Bennett, 
 Dressmaker." 
 
 " 'Tain't 's if them laylock bushes was in th' 
 way," cogitated Miss Bennett. " A body can't 
 help seem' it, whichever way they come. 'Tain't 
 so t' say showy, 'n' like that; but it's neat an' it's 
 got style to it, like my sewin'. I don't keer what 
 anybody says t' th' contrary; but ef all my cust'- 
 mers was t' flock t' that critter over Trimmer's 
 store for their spring suits what with more 'n 
 more o' 'em takin' t' ready-mades " 
 
 Miss Bennett bit off the thread of her unhappy 
 hypothesis like a length of thread. 
 
 " I'll bet it's a lot more unlucky t' harbor fears 
 'n' forebodin's 'n' t' fergit t' knock on wood," she 
 
 12
 
 NEIGHBORS 13 
 
 told herself resolutely. " Like enough Pa was 
 skeered int' a fit o' sickness, ef all was knowed. 
 But land! I'd ruther knock on wood t' m' dyin' 
 day 'n hev Ma pick out m' fun'ral hymns prema- 
 ture." 
 
 She was still nerving herself to meet future 
 adversity when she arrived at the parsonage 
 gate. 
 
 "Ef I tell Philura I mean Mis' Rev'ren' 
 Pettibone mebbe she c'n put me on th' right 
 track," meditated the little dressmaker. ' Th' 
 don't seem t' be nothin' Philura can't git out th' 
 surroundin' atmosphere. Now take that baby 
 Land! I hope it comes t' town all right. . . . 
 Mebbe I'd better knock on wood." 
 
 No one answered her modest summons at the 
 front door, and after a discreet pause she ventured 
 a second pull at the old-fashioned bell-handle. 
 
 " I c'n hear it ring inside," she assured herself, 
 as she listened with bent head; " 'n' anyway, she 
 wouldn't be goin' out now." 
 
 It was the minister himself who presently 
 opened the door. Mr. Pettibone appeared pale, 
 almost haggard, and his iron-gray hair stood up 
 in wild confusion above his forehead. He stared 
 uncomprehendingly at Miss Bennett. 
 
 " I come t' bring Mis' Pettibone's mornin' wrap- 
 per," she said timidly. " I b'en quite a spell gettin'
 
 i 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 it all finished off; but here 'tis at last, V I hope 
 she'll like it." 
 
 She thrust the parcel into Mr. Pettibone's un- 
 willing hand and turned to go away. 
 
 "Oh er Miss Malvina!" 
 
 Something in the minister's voice challenged at- 
 tention. Miss Bennett paused tentatively on the 
 doorstep. 
 
 " I er I'm sure Mrs. Pettibone would wish 
 in short, won't you step in for a moment? " 
 
 Miss Bennett obeyed; and the two stood 
 facing each other in the semi-obscurity of the 
 passage. 
 
 " I er possibly you have been aware " 
 
 A sound from above stairs interrupted the min- 
 ister's speech: a sound once heard never to be 
 forgotten. It was the weak yet raucous protest of 
 a human being newly introduced to this world of 
 strife. 
 
 Miss Bennett clasped her hands in wordless 
 emotion. 
 
 " It appears that my son prefers to announce 
 himself," said Mr. Pettibone, with a queer shake 
 in his voice. 
 
 " Fer th' land sake ! " murmured Miss Bennett. 
 "When did it come?" 
 
 "This morning, early; to be exact, at almost 
 precisely seventeen minutes past four."
 
 NEIGHBORS 15 
 
 "An' Philura? I mean Mis' Rev'ren' Petti- 
 bone? Is she " 
 
 The minister cleared his throat; obviously he 
 was listening with some uneasiness to the persist- 
 ent sounds from above. They ceased suddenly, 
 and he drew a relieved breath. 
 
 " Mrs. Pettibone is I am pleased to tell you 
 that she is " 
 
 " 'S well 's c'n be expected, I s'pose," inferred 
 Miss Bennett, nodding her head sagely. " Th' 
 ain't much more t' be said th' mornin' after." 
 
 She spoke with certain knowledge of that dread 
 Valley of the Shadow, which her friend had lately 
 traversed. 
 
 An expression of poignant recollection passed 
 over the minister's pale face. 
 
 ' That my wife is alive this morning," he said 
 slowly, " and able to rejoice with me, albeit feebly, 
 over the er happy event is a a matter in 
 short, a subject for " 
 
 " I'll bet you're both glad it's over," broke in 
 Miss Bennett. "I know I be; an' I guess th' 
 hull parish '11 dror a long breath what with her 
 age 'n' all. I'll go now an' tell Miss Deaconess 
 Buckthorn, 'n' she'll pass th' word t' Lecty Pratt; 
 'n' b' two o'clock ev'rybody in town '11 know.' 
 
 Mr. Pettibone shrugged his shoulders resign- 
 edly.
 
 1 6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Ef I was you," pursued the spinster, " I'd 
 muffle this 'ere door-bell, so 't she won't hear it 
 janglin' when folks begins t' come t' inquire. An' 
 don't you let nobody upstairs; I don't keer who 
 they be, ner what they say. Some folks hes got 
 about 's much sense 's hens." 
 
 The minister bowed his acknowledgments and 
 murmured something about the doctor's orders. 
 
 " 'N' ef you sh'd need me fer anythin', settin' 
 up nights, er like that, jes' let me know. I'd ad- 
 mire t' do fer that baby. . . . Land! when I 
 think o' Philura " 
 
 She turned and went rather blindly down the 
 steps and so out into the street, with a total for- 
 getfulness of the paper parcel containing a blue 
 morning wrapper, elaborately shirred and 
 trimmed with cascades of white lace, the price of 
 which was to have cancelled her growing obliga- 
 tions to Mr. Salter. When she did think of it, it 
 was to picture to herself the new-made mother 
 holding the infant in her arms. 
 
 " It '11 be jes' th' thing f'r her t' set up in," she 
 told herself happily; " 'n' t' think o' me workin' 
 like all possess t' git it finished in time ! "
 
 Ill 
 
 MRS. BUCKTHORN was at home, her 
 head tied up in red flannel, which lent an 
 awful majesty to her aspect as she bade 
 Miss Malvina be seated in close proximity to the 
 kitchen stove. 
 
 " Got neu'ralgy, Mis' Buckthorn? " inquired the 
 dressmaker, rolling her news like a sweet morsel 
 under her tongue. 
 
 To herself she thought: " She ain't beared it 
 yit, f'r all her party-wire." 
 
 Miss Bennett had not felt able to afford a tele- 
 phone, a fact of which certain of her customers 
 had taken mean advantage. 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn heaved a vast, resounding sigh, 
 which appeared to take its rise in the soles of her 
 substantial shoes. 
 
 " It's more like new-ritis," she said. " You 
 ain't never had that, Malvina, but the doctor says 
 my nervous constitution is delicate very delicate. 
 . . . No; I know I don't look it; but it ain't 
 always size an' heft 'at counts." 
 
 " Thank th' Lord it ain't! " said Miss Bennett. 
 '7
 
 1 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " I don' know where I'd come in, ef it did. I ain't 
 no bigger 'n a minute 'n' never expect t' be; but I 
 c'n whirl in 'n' work equal t' th' best." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn eyed the dressmaker search- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Are you 's busy 's usual this spring,' Mai- 
 vina ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Busier," quoth Miss Bennett stoutly. 
 
 She met Mrs. Buckthorn's inquisitorial gaze un- 
 flinchingly: " Land! I was sayin' t' Ma only this 
 mornin', ' I'm so drove,' I says, ' I don't know but 
 what I sh'll hev t' hire a girl.' Not 'at I like 'em 
 'round, clutterin' up th' shop 'n' settin' me ha'f 
 crazy with doin' things wrong. ' Still,' I says, ' I 
 got t' git this 'ere work out m' shop before th' 
 summer sewin' comes in,' I says." 
 
 " I want t' know," syllabled Mrs. Buckthorn 
 slowly. Then she smiled rather disagreeably, and 
 moved her large shoulders. 
 
 The dressmaker's thin face reddened. 
 
 " I jes' took home a beautiful new dress t' Mis' 
 Pettibone," she said defiantly. 
 
 " H'm-m," murmured Mrs. Buckthorn, adjust- 
 ing the folds of red flannel above her brow. " I'm 
 sur-prised t' hear you say so." 
 
 " You be? I'd like t' know why? " 
 
 " Per one thing, I sh'd think under the cir-cum- 
 stances our pastor's wife would need t' prac-tice th'
 
 NEIGHBORS 19 
 
 strict-est economy. I hear she is expecting to em- 
 ploy a trained nurse from Bos-ton." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn shook her head slowly: 
 
 " We all know our pastor's income, Malvina, 
 an' we are a-ware that trained nurses from Bos- 
 ton cost thir-ty dollars a week." 
 
 " I don't blame 'em none," contended Miss Ben- 
 nett. " It's cheaper 'n a fun'ral." 
 
 ' You sur-prise me, Malvina ! " 
 
 " Well, mebbe I c'n s'prise you s' more. Mis' 
 Rev'ren' Pettibone's baby hes come t' town with 
 bells ! It's a boy, an' he weighs nine pounds ! " 
 
 Miss Malvina cast the final item of informa- 
 tion in the balance with a lavish generosity which 
 paid no heed to prosaic fact. " Might 's well 
 say so," she privately excused herself. " Sounds 
 healthy, 'n' anyway, I'll bet he'll weigh his nine 
 pounds, sooner or later." 
 
 " Well, I d'clare ! " gasped Mrs. Buckthorn. 
 "A boy! an' nine pounds!" 
 
 " Dressed," temporized Miss Bennett. " It's 
 kind o' chilly weather, so they weighed him in 
 his clo'es." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn's forehead, in so far as it could 
 be viewed beneath the enshrouding flannel, ap- 
 peared deeply corrugated. 
 
 " We have a telephone," she said coldly, " an' 
 seein' th' Ladies' Aid 'n' Missionary S'ciety hes
 
 20 NEIGHBORS 
 
 lately installed one in th' parsonage f'r th' special 
 use of the parish, 't would seem 's 'o' /, as pres'- 
 dent, should hev been th' first to be in-formed. 
 But to hear it from you, Malvina, strikes me as 
 exceedingly " 
 
 " He was s' flabbergasted V like that, he 
 prob'ly didn't give you ner anybody a thought," 
 interrupted Miss Bennett. 
 
 " Are you referring t' our pas-ter, Malvina? " 
 
 " Cert'nly I be. Prob'ly he didn't git a wink o' 
 sleep all night, an' him bein' new t' th' job, too. 
 Land! he looked like he'd b'en drored through a 
 knot-hole backwards. Th' minute he opened th' 
 door I see somethin' was up. But I didn't ast no 
 questions, it bein' my endurin' rule not to, what- 
 ever I see er don't see in m' cust'mer's houses. 
 Th's plenty o' folks 'at 'd be reg'lar gossips, havin' 
 my 'xceptional op'tunities, s' t' say. But not me! 
 1 No,' I says, ' I shet m' eyes 'n' m' years t' ev'ry- 
 thin' 'xcept m' bizniz, an' that's makin' stylish 
 clo'es, up-t'-date in ev'ry pertic'lar. An' I'll defy 
 any woman in this 'ere town what's worn my 
 sewin' t' show a hook that's come off b'fore its 
 time, or a seam that's parted, 'xcept lawful on 
 'count o' customers bein' too fleshy which nobody 
 c'n lay t' my door, it bein' th' work of our Maker." 
 
 Miss Malvina paused for breath, and Mrs. 
 Buckthorn, who had apparently been lost in
 
 NEIGHBORS 21 
 
 gloomy retrospection, again fixed a searching gaze 
 upon her visitor. 
 
 1 You tell me you did not dis-play curiosity," 
 she said. " Did Mis-ter Pettibone in-form you of 
 what had taken place? " 
 
 Miss Malvina chuckled: 
 
 " He done it himself," she replied. " Jes' 
 squawked right out. You'd ought t' o' heared him. 
 Guess he was hungry, fer he stopped all of a sud- 
 dent like somebody corked him up with " 
 
 " Malvina Bennett, do you mean t' tell me that 
 our pas-ter " 
 
 Miss Bennett stared uncomprehendingly for an 
 instant; then she burst into cackling laughter, rock- 
 ing herself back and forth and slapping her thin 
 knees in an ecstasy of mirth. 
 
 "Fer pity sake, Mis' Buckthorn!" she ex- 
 claimed. " Your intellec' mus' be some affected b' 
 your new-rights er whatever 'tis 'at ails you. I 
 meant th' baby, o' course ! Tell you what ! that 
 baby's got good strong lungs; I bet he'll be heared 
 from, right along." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn looked much offended. 
 
 " New-ritis," said she majestically, " affects th' 
 nerves, not th' brain, Malvina. . . . No; don't 
 go jus' yet; I have somethin' t' say t' you, first." 
 
 " I was only jokin', Mis' Buckthorn," apolo- 
 gized the little dressmaker, paling before the im-
 
 22 NEIGHBORS 
 
 placable expression on the large flaccid face under 
 its coronet of dingy red flannel. 
 
 " You an' I hope all that knows me mus' 
 recognize th' fact I never take any im-portant step 
 in life, without first layin' th' matter b'fore th' 
 throne of Grace," stated Mrs. Buckthorn, in the 
 rotund voice she reserved for prayer-meeting, 
 platform, and conjugal use. 
 
 " Uh-huh," assented Miss Malvina, seeming to 
 grow smaller in her chair. " I know you're a 
 nawful good woman, Mis' Buckthorn." 
 
 " I str-rive t' be," intoned that lady. " An' 
 havin', as I have jus' told you, con-sidered th' 
 matter, care-fully an' pray'r-fully, I have de-cided 
 feelin' it' t' be my Chr-ristian dooty to hence- 
 forth employ the new dressmaker, whose name is 
 Hobbs, I am told, though she pre-fers to be known 
 as Madame Louise." 
 
 Miss Bennett was sitting up very straight now, 
 a red spot in either thin cheek. 
 
 " What'd you say t' th' Lord, Mis' Buckthorn, 
 when you laid th' matter o' givin' me th' go-by 
 b'fore th' throne o' Grace, es you call it? " 
 
 " What did I say How dare you ask me 
 
 such a wicked question, Malvina Bennett, an' you 
 a perfessor in th' Presb'terian church?" 
 
 " Well, I'd like t' know jest how you put it up 
 t 1 th' Lord," replied Miss Bennett composedly.
 
 NEIGHBORS 23 
 
 " I was thinkin', mebbe you laid it b'fore th' 
 wrong throne. Folks is apt t' git things mixed 
 once in a while, 'specially when they're s' much 
 piouser 'an other folks." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn appeared to struggle vainly 
 for utterance; but the little dressmaker went on 
 with a fine show of recklessness : 
 
 " Ef you wa'n't a reg'lar hyp'crit which th's 
 plenty o' folks in this town 'at I could name as 
 thinks you be you'd hev t' own up t' th' Lord 'at 
 Malvina Bennett always made your clo'es honest 
 an' strong, double stitchin' all th' seams, 'n' 's 
 stylish 's was pos'ble, considerin' how fleshy you 
 be; 'n' " 
 
 " Malvina ! " burst from the outraged Mrs. 
 Buckthorn. " I refuse to lis-ten to you." 
 
 "' can't help lis'nin', Mis' Buckthorn," 
 crowed Miss Bennett. " But I ain't a-goin' t' keep 
 you from your new-rights fer long; I got plenty 
 t' do in m' shop fer folks 'at 's jest 's pious 's you 
 be an' a lot easier t' fit. I always thought I'd ad- 
 mire t' tell you jest what I thought; 'n' mebbe it '11 
 do you good t' think it over a spell after I'm gone. 
 One thing you'd ought t' git spanked int' you is 'at 
 real good folks ain't always blowin' their tin 
 horns, th' way you be. 'N' they ain't so set up 
 with their pray'r-meetin' manners 's t' be a nui- 
 sance t' their neighbors. Why, even my gray cat
 
 24 NEIGHBORS 
 
 '11 turn tail an' run when she sees you a-comin' in 
 th' yard, Mis' Buckthorn; an' childern '11 make 
 themselves skurse ruther 'n meet you, specially 
 ef it's Sunday, an' they've been smellin' a flower er 
 listenin' t' a bird singin' in th' trees." 
 
 Miss Bennett had risen from her chair and was 
 backing toward the door, as she poured forth this 
 fervid torrent of words. A joyous energy ap- 
 peared to emanate from her small person; her 
 faded eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Why, you ain't got th' faintest idee o' bein' a 
 reg'lar Christian," she cried. " Even your Bible's 
 got s' mixed with holy Buckthorn you don't know 
 which 's which. . . . And that's about all fer 
 t' day. I sh'll admire t' see you bustin' out o' your 
 plackets when that Hobbs woman gits through of 
 you!" 
 
 Miss Bennett reached the street still scintillat- 
 ing with the joys of combat. But as she sped 
 swiftly along under the budding maples, the spring 
 wind blowing cold in her face, her spirits grad- 
 ually fell. 
 
 " I guess I went an' made a nawful fool o' 
 m'self," she reflected; "never once stoppin' t' think 
 o' Deacon Buckthorn ownin' th' roof 'at covers us 
 an' me b'hind with m' rent, expectin' t' settle up 
 with Mis' Buckthorn's spring dressmakin', es 
 usual. Good land ! What be I goin' t' do ef all
 
 NEIGHBORS 25 
 
 m' customers leaves me? Seems 's V th' Lord 
 wa'n't s' mindful of his own 's th' minister was 
 tellin' las' Sunday. . . ." 
 
 She went two blocks out of her way to pass 
 Trimmer's dry-goods store. Yes, there was her 
 rival's resplendent sign in fresh gold letters on a 
 black ground. 
 
 " Mad-am Loo-ise : Robes," repeated Miss 
 Malvina aloud. " Huh ! Sounds like a fun'ral 
 d'rector. . . . Robes ! Well, I'd like t' see th' 
 way she finishes off a dress-waist inside. Ef I 
 wa'n't 'fraid o' runnin' int' some o' her cust'mers, 
 I'd jes' step up them stairs an' cast m' eye 'round. 
 I'll bet I'd c'd tell inside o' two minutes what sort 
 of a female Mis' Hobbs is 'n' what she c'n do in 
 th' dressmakin' line." 
 
 She dallied with the glittering temptation to the 
 point of crossing the street. Then, with one foot 
 on the lower step of the steep staircase leading 
 aloft, her courage failed her. 
 
 " I ain't got th' stren'th o' mind," she confessed 
 weakly. " I guess ef I sh'd meet one o' m' reg'lar 
 cust'mers up there I'd drop dead in a double duck- 
 fit. Some other time, mebbe." 
 
 The sound of high-pitched voices engaged in 
 earnest conversation on the upper landing lent 
 wings to her feet for two blocks. Then quite out 
 of breath she stopped to reason with herself.
 
 26 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " All th' fools ain't dead yit, Malvina Bennett," 
 she told herself with a sniff of strong disdain. 
 " Now, jest t' punish ye, you turn straight 'round 
 'n' march back t' that there woman's shop. You 
 go up them stairs, an' you knock on her door. . . . 
 What ye goin' t' say t' her when she comes t' th' 
 door? Why, you're goin' to say you want t' see 
 Mis' Hobbs; that'll take th' wind outen her sails, 
 first off. Then you'll think o' somepin' t' say, I'll 
 bet. You'll hev to. Th' ain't nobody goin' t' 
 hurt you ; 'n' ef you was t' meet cust'mers that ain't 
 lady enough t' tell you they're tired o' th' styles in 
 Arts 'n' Modes, when made up es I do it in my 
 shop, / ain't th' one t' git red 'round th' years." 
 
 Communing thus masterfully with herself, Miss 
 Malvina propelled her unwilling body back to the 
 spot from which she had so lately beat a shamed 
 retreat. 
 
 " Now, here you be, Malvina ; now you g' on 
 up them stairs. Bizniz is bizniz; don't you fergit 
 that f'r a minute. You got t' know what you're 
 up against; ef it ain't nothin' t' be skeered of 
 you'll soon find it out. Ef it is, you got t' know 
 that, too. But I'll be switched ef I'm a-goin' t' be 
 skeered of a bogey in under th' bed, at my time o' 
 life!" 
 
 The awe inspiring words " Madame Louise : 
 Robes " were repeated in flourishing gold script
 
 NEIGHBORS 27 
 
 on the curtained glass door .above. Miss Bennett 
 paused to inspect them sternly: 
 
 " I s'pose George Trimmer done that much t' 
 rent his rooms," slie told herself. . . . "No; 
 them han'some gold letters won't bite you, Mal- 
 vina, ner they won't help her none, ef her sewin' 
 ain't good." 
 
 But her trembling hand obstinately declined to 
 aid and abet the bold project she had in mind. 
 
 " Be you tellin' me you're skeered t' knock on 
 that there door, Malvina?" sneered Miss Ben- 
 nett. " D' you s'pose th's a bo'-constricter on th 1 
 other side hay? his chops all a-slaverin' an' 
 ready t' swaller you hull? Well, ef th' is, you got 
 t' pass that there door, all th' same. You hear 
 me!" 
 
 She was spared a final effort of will by the sud- 
 den opening of the door in question. A buxom 
 girl confronted her on the threshold with a quick 
 stare of recognition. Behind the girl stood a tall, 
 thin woman, her face twisted in an artificial smile.
 
 W 
 
 IV 
 
 HY, Miss Malvina ! " stammered the 
 girl. " I I didn't know- 
 u Uh-huh," confirmed the little dress- 
 maker. " 'Taint nobody else; 'n' 'taint my ghost, 
 neither." 
 
 " If you'll step into the reception parlor, 
 madame," simpered the tall woman, adjusting her 
 frizzes, " I shall be at liberty, as soon as I've fin- 
 ished with a lady in the fitting department." 
 
 Miss Bennett, her equanimity fully restored for 
 some reason which she would have found it diffi- 
 cult to explain, stepped boldly past the round-eyed 
 girl. 
 
 " Why, yes," she said. " I shan't mind settin' 
 a spell, whilst you're finishin' off that lady's fittin' 
 in th' d'partment you was speakin' of." 
 
 Her keen eyes were busy with the woman's 
 dress, noting a straining seam under one arm, the 
 slanting sag of the skirt over the left hip and the 
 way in which certain showy trimmings had been 
 applied to the waist. 
 
 The maker of robes appeared in no haste. She 
 28
 
 NEIGHBORS 29 
 
 stood eyeing Miss Bennett's small person doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' You'll find the latest fashion magazines on 
 the stand," she said, indicating a speciously var- 
 nished table, littered with riotously colored pre- 
 sentments of long-limbed ladies. 
 
 " Thank you, Mis' Hobbs, but I'm pretty tor- 
 able f'miliar with th' spring styles," returned Miss 
 Bennett easily. " You're th' new dressmaker, I 
 p'rsume? " 
 
 " I am Madame Louise to the public," stated 
 the tall lady. 
 
 "I want t' know!" chirped Miss Bennett. 
 " Well, t' th' public, an' other folks too, I'm Miss 
 Malvina. Mebbe you've heared o' me." 
 
 The tall lady shook her head. She was a 
 stranger in Innisfield, she said, simpering and 
 twisting her long neck to look sidewise at 
 Miss Bennett, who continued to sway back and 
 forth in a rocking-chair with great apparent 
 enjoyment. 
 
 "Well," explained Miss Bennett, "I jest 
 stopped in I won't say friendly but I thought I 
 sh'd like t' look over some o' your sewin'. I don't 
 keer ef it ain't more 'n ha'f finished off; all I want 
 is t' cast my eye casual over what you call a robe." 
 
 ' You would like to to examine some of my 
 work?"
 
 30 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " That's what I said, Louisa. I'd like t' look at 
 th' inside o' one o' your dress-waists, 'n' take a 
 squint at th' way you finish off your plackets 'n' 
 like that, same 's if I was goin' t' have one o' them 
 robes made up f'r m'self. You don't mind, I 
 s'pose?" 
 
 " Why no, I don't know as I have any objec- 
 tions to showing you an unfinished garment," hesi- 
 tated the woman, " though your request is rather 
 unusual; most ladies trust my taste and skill." 
 
 "You don't say!" commented Miss Bennett. 
 " That don't strike me like good horse-sense, seein' 
 no lady in Innisfield knows you. I sh'd think 't 
 would be a reel good idee t' hev a sample robe t' 
 show inquirers." 
 
 Madame Louise appeared curiously discon- 
 certed by the suggestion. She murmured some- 
 thing incoherent which Miss Bennett dismissed 
 with an airy gesture. 
 
 " G' on t' your cust'mer," she said briskly. u I 
 shan't mind settin' f'r a spell. I got plenty t' think 
 about." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs scuttled hurriedly behind a dingy 
 red hanging which afforded Miss Bennett a fleet- 
 ing glimpse of a female figure in the familiar 
 dishabille of the fitting-room. 
 
 "My gracious!" she murmured to herself. 
 "Ef that ain't Mis' Obed Salter! Ef she sh'd
 
 NEIGHBORS 31 
 
 ketch me in here 'twould be alt over town b' sup- 
 per time." For an instant the little dressmaker 
 meditated cowardly flight; then she stiffened her- 
 self resolutely. 
 
 " I don't care ef she does," she told herself. 
 "Let th' hull of 'em talk! I'll tell Mis' Salter 
 right out what I'm after, ef she asks me. I ain't 
 a-goin' t' take no back seat in this 'ere town. Any- 
 way, it'll be cheap advertisin'." 
 
 Pleased with this conceit, Miss Malvina con- 
 tinued to sway placidly back and forth, her ears 
 brazenly alert for scraps of the conversation 
 which floated out from the curtained seclusion of 
 the fitting-room. 
 
 " Do you think I need any paddin' in under m' 
 left shoulder-blade?" inquired Mrs. Salter's thin 
 nasal voice. " I gen'ally hev' some right there 
 where m' chest 's kind o' caved in. I ain't had no 
 lung t' speak of on that side f'r years an' years. 
 The doctor says I'm a livin' miracle." 
 
 Madame Louise's reply was inaudible. And 
 Mrs. Saltef presently went on : 
 
 " I've had most o' m' suits made up by a dress- 
 maker here in town. But she hain't no more idee 
 o' style! " 
 
 Miss Malvina's thin face crimsoned with indig- 
 nation; she leaned forward eagerly in her chair 
 to hear Mrs. Hobb's comment to the effect that
 
 32 NEIGHBORS 
 
 country dressmakers were generally lacking in 
 style. 
 
 " We're s' glad an' thankful you come t' Innis- 
 field," pursued Mrs. Salter soulfully. u How'd it 
 happen? " 
 
 "What me comin' here?" inquired Mrs. 
 Hobbs, whose utterance indicated a mouthful of 
 pins. " Well, 'course I wouldn't mention it t' 
 everybody, m m m, but I've seen better days, 
 Mis' Salter, m m m. Time was when I had 
 my own m m m cos-tumes im-ported from 
 Paris." 
 
 " Fer th' land sake ! " ejaculated Mrs. Salter, 
 " from Paris ! I want t' know." 
 
 " But I always had such taste, so when my dear 
 
 husban' If you'll jus' turn 'round a little; 
 
 that's right. . . . Now I guess we're through for 
 to-day. . . . No; don't come t'-morrow. The's 
 a lot o' ladies coming in t'-morrow; but the day 
 after. . . . No; I'm sorry but I really couldn't 
 promise, Mis' Salter. I'm s' rushed." 
 
 A pause, filled with active rustlings from within 
 presaged Mrs. Salter's advent into the outer room, 
 where sat Miss Bennett, her features composed 
 to a strong calm. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " faltered the wife of the 
 grocer, her lavender-tinted complexion becoming 
 curiously spotted with red.
 
 NEIGHBORS 33 
 
 " You seem s'rprised t' see me, Mis' Salter," 
 commented Miss Bennett. 
 
 " Why, I You c'd knock me down with a 
 
 feather! " panted Mrs. Salter. 
 
 "I d'clare, ain't that funny! Well, es it 
 happens, I got bizniz with Louisa, same's you 
 have." 
 
 Miss Malvina turned to the proprietor of the 
 new establishment with a dignity which appeared 
 to propel Mrs. Obed Salter out of the door and 
 down the stairs, though quite against that lady's 
 will. 
 
 " Now," she said, addressing the puzzled Mrs. 
 Hobbs, " I'll jest take a look at the suit you're 
 makin' up fer Mis' Obed Salter. It '11 be 's good 
 's another s' fur 's I'm concerned." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs sat down rather suddenly. 
 
 " I ain't ust' to standing," she explained. 
 ' These long fittings tire me something fierce." 
 
 Miss Bennett nodded sagaciously. 
 
 " Guess you ain't bin long in th' bizniz," she 
 inferred. 
 
 " No; not so long," acknowledged Mrs. Hobbs. 
 " But then, I always had such a lot of taste," she 
 added. 
 
 ' The's plenty o' folks c'n brag o' taste 'at can't 
 fell a seam t' save their necks f'om th' gallows," 
 commented Miss Bennett darkly.
 
 34 NEIGHBORS 
 
 She continued to gaze at her rival, who blinked 
 uneasily as if under a searchlight. 
 
 " If you was wanting a dress made," offered 
 Mrs. Hobbs, " I guess I can't 'commodate you 
 not f'r a month, anyway. I guess I took in too 
 much, as it is an' all of 'em hurrying me," she 
 added fretfully. 
 
 "Huh!" ejaculated Miss Bennett. " Mebbe 
 they won't pester ye no more after th' first dress 
 you make up for 'em." 
 
 " That's what I'm afraid of," murmured Mrs. 
 Hobbs unexpectedly. 
 
 Quite unexpectedly too, she began to dab at her 
 purplish lids with a dingy handkerchief. 
 
 " I never supposed I hadn't an idea " she 
 
 said, and broke off with an ^obvious effort. " I sat 
 up till one o'clock last night and the night before 
 trying to to finish some dresses. But " 
 
 " Fer goodness sake why don't you git in some 
 help?" demanded Miss Bennett. "You don't 
 look to me like you hed th' gumption t' whirl in 
 an' really sew." 
 
 " I've got lots of taste an' an' style," almost 
 whimpered Mrs. Hobbs. " But I'm s' nervous 
 an' when they all take to hurrying me " 
 
 Miss Bennett arose with a gesture of large re- 
 nunciation. 
 
 " I guess I must be goin' along," she said. " I
 
 NEIGHBORS 35 
 
 got a few things t' do m'self. But thank th' Lord 
 I ain't nervous an' never was ! Ef a body knows 
 how t' handle their job an' gits busy doin' it they 
 won't hev no time t' tend their nerves. I'm reel 
 glad I come t' see you, Mis' Hobbs." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs followed her visitor's quick, bird- 
 like movements with lackluster eyes. 
 
 ' You was speaking of my getting in somebody 
 to to help," she said doubtfully. " Do you 
 could you tell me of anybody? " 
 
 Miss Bennett stopped short, as if forcibly ar- 
 rested by the other woman's question. 
 
 " How much would you pay? " she asked, in a 
 queer, half-stifled voice. " F'r a reel dressmaker, 
 I mean. One 'at knows their bizniz from a t' 
 izzard an' ain't afraid t' whirl in an' work. The's 
 a friend o' mine I might git t' t' help you out 
 f'r a spell, mebbe." 
 
 Miss BenTiett felt herself deeply humiliated by 
 the suggestion she had allowed to escape her. 
 That she, Malvina Bennett, who had run her own 
 shop for years and years should be reduced to 
 begging for work by the day. It was unbeliev- 
 able ! It was dreadful ! And yet there were the 
 three insistent specters of rent, fuel, and food 
 which had haunted her night and day through 
 weeks of comparative idleness. And there was 
 Ma!
 
 36 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Ef I c'd only hold on till fall," she was telling 
 herself, when Mrs. Hobbs broke in eagerly: 
 
 " Send your friend around the first thing in the 
 morning. I'd be only too pleased to pay her two 
 dollars n' a ha'f a day, if she's what you say." 
 
 Miss Malvina was silent, her eyes fastened 
 blindly upon the door knob clutched tight in the 
 grip of her slippery cotton glove. She could feel 
 her ears burn crimson under Mrs. Hobbs' watery 
 gaze. 
 
 " Three times six is eighteen," computed Mrs. 
 Hobbs. "Yes; I d'clare I'd make it three a-day 
 f'r a while, anyway. I jus' got t' do something 
 'r go raving crazy! " 
 
 Miss Malvina hastily swallowed the round, 
 hard lump which had risen in her throat. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you, Mis' Hobbs," she hesi- 
 tated. " I spoke kind o' hasty. My friend her 
 't I was speakin' of wouldn't hear t' goin' out b' 
 th' day. . . . 'N' I don't b'lieve she'd even 
 come to your shop t' see you, neither. But ef I 
 ef I was t' fetch the work home t' her evenin's, 
 when I ain't busy m'self I'll bet she'd do some 
 a-number-one work fer you. She c'n sew! . . . 
 What d' ye say t' t' tryin' her, on a dress-waist, 
 er like that? Ef you don't like her work, 't won't 
 cost you a red cent. Ef you do, it'll be three dol- 
 lars a-day, same 's you said, 'n' reg'lar hours."
 
 NEIGHBORS 37 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs gripped her visitor's arm. 
 
 " Come in m' work-room jus' for a minute," 
 she urged. 
 
 Once behind the breastworks of Mrs. Hobbs' 
 establishment Miss Malvina gasped with the won- 
 der of what she beheld: chairs, tables, even the 
 floor bore evidence of overwhelming success in 
 the shape of inchoate garments of every descrip- 
 tion. A couple of headless figures, purporting to 
 counterfeit the female form divine, exhibited the 
 more finished products of Mrs. Hobbs' genius, 
 while a soiled teacup, a dispirited dab of butter, 
 and a broken loaf shared the table with a lavish 
 supply of spools, buttons, and parti-colored trim- 
 mings. 
 
 " Per th' land sake ! " cried Miss Malvina, roll- 
 ing up her eyes to an unjust heaven. " The's work 
 enough here f'r a dozen dressmakers a-workin' 
 day an' night f'r a month. What on airth did you 
 take it all in for?" 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs gazed about her with a sort of 
 mournful pride. 
 
 ' The ladies kep' a-coming," she said, " an' I 
 hardly knew where to draw the line. But I haven't 
 sat down to a regular meal since the first day I 
 came." 
 
 Miss Malvina sealed up her complex emotions 
 with a prolonged sniff.
 
 3 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " I might 's well take a dress-waist now," she 
 remarked. " Which '11 it be? " 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs reflected, her frizzled head sup- 
 ported on one dingy hand. 
 
 " Well," said she, " I hardly know where to 
 begin. There's a Mrs. Bucksmith no; that ain't 
 the name, either; I'll look it up in m' book. She's 
 a large lady, an' she says she wants her dress for 
 divine worship nex' Sunday. That's it on the 
 figure there. I'm making up a costume for her 
 daughter, too." 
 
 "Uh huh," Miss Malvina permitted herself 
 to utter. Then she sniffed again. " Do you .mean 
 t' tell me that there brown an' purple is for Mis' 
 Buckthorn? I s'pose that's what you call a robe." 
 
 "Stylish! ain't it?" said Mrs. Hobbs. "I 
 copied it right off a fashion plate the very latest 
 from Sher Par-ee." 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 " Paris we call it on this side the water," con- 
 descended Mrs. Hobbs. " If you c'd take that an' 
 an' persuade your friend to finish it off." 
 
 " All right," said Miss Malvina briefly. " I'll 
 take it along right now." 
 
 Under cover of the gathering dusk she hurried 
 homeward, the large flat parcel containing Mrs. 
 Buckthorn's brown and purple robe under her 
 arm.
 
 NEIGHBORS 39 
 
 11 1 ain't a-goin' t' let Ma starve," she told her- 
 self defiantly. "I'll finish 'em off honest. But 
 land ! what a set o' scarecrows '11 be comin' out t' 
 church bimeby. I sh'll admire t' see 'em settin' in 
 th' pews."
 
 AT her own door Miss Malvina paused. 
 How was she to explain the flat parcel and 
 its alien contents to Ma? 
 
 " Never cross a bridge tell you git t' it," she 
 muttered, and moved cautiously around to the 
 back door with the unformulated idea of conceal- 
 ing Mrs. Buckthorn's Parisian costume in the 
 wash-boiler till Ma should be safely in bed. 
 
 To her surprise the door of the kitchen stood 
 wide open, admitting the freakish April wind in 
 furious gusts. 
 
 " Why, Ma Bennett! " began Miss Malvina re- 
 bukingly. " Ef you don't ketch a nawful cold 
 with all this fresh air in th' house." 
 
 Then she saw that the kitchen fire was almost 
 out and fell to mending it vigorously. 
 
 " I guess Ma jes' stepped over t' one o' th' 
 neighbors," she assured herself. " An' th' wind 
 blowed th' door open." 
 
 Mrs. Bennett herself confirmed this hypothesis 
 a moment later. " I b'en in next door," she an- 
 nounced, as she dropped the heavy woolen shawl 
 from her shoulders. 
 
 40
 
 NEIGHBORS 41 
 
 " It's awful fresh here, Ma," cautioned her 
 daughter. " I found th' back door wide open." 
 
 Mrs. Bennett sneezed three times in rapid suc- 
 cession. 
 
 " I guess I ketched m' death all right," she said 
 complacently. "Where you b'en, Malviny?" 
 
 "Me? Oh, I b'en down town 'n' round. . . . 
 I got some grand news f'r you, Ma! " 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 " Philura Pettibone's got a baby, Ma ! Come t' 
 town this mornin'. A boy, an' he weighs ten 
 pounds! " 
 
 " Born on a Friday," commented the old lady. 
 " An' a minister's son, at that! " 
 
 ' That ain't a-goin' t' hurt him none ! " con- 
 tended Miss Bennett, glancing sidewise at the in- 
 criminating parcel which she had neglected to con- 
 ceal. " Ain't you glad, Ma? I'm tickled most t' 
 pieces. T' think o' Philura at her age, with a 
 real baby all her own! " 
 
 Mrs. Bennett was not listening. She moved 
 stiffly across the floor. 
 
 " Come here, Malviny," she bade her daugh- 
 ter. " Look a' there, will you ! " 
 
 Miss Bennett peered through the small-paned 
 window in obedience to her mother's pointing 
 finger. 
 
 " I d'clare, looks like th' was a light next door,"
 
 42 NEIGHBORS 
 
 she said. " The' is ! Land ! I ain't seen a light 
 over there f'r 1' me see " 
 
 " It'll be two years, come June," wheezed Mrs. 
 Bennett. " They moved in this aft'noon, jes' 
 after you went downtown. I was settin' b' th' 
 kitchen window an' I seen 'em come. Now I guess 
 you're sorry you went off an' stayed two hours. 
 Yes, you did, Malviny, two hours b' th' clock, an' 
 me here all b' myself. No thanks t' you 'at I ain't 
 dropped dead in m' tracks, Malviny Bennett, 
 with you off p'radin' th' streets, like you was 
 sixteen." 
 
 " Now, Ma, don't take on," pleaded the little 
 dressmaker. " I I was kep'. I won't do it 
 ag'in. . . . Who's moved int' Philura Rice's 
 house, Ma? I d'clare I thought nobody 'd ever 
 live there agin; it's s' kind o' gloomy with all 
 them trees in th' yard an' th' ol' rose bushes an' 
 syringas growed mos' t' th' secon' story win- 
 dows." 
 
 ' You couldn't guess ef you was t' try a 
 year," crowed Mrs. Bennett. Then she lowered 
 her voice to an incriminating whisper: " They're 
 fur'ners; an' what's more, Til bet anythin' they're 
 Cath'lics ! " 
 
 Miss Malvina had gathered her cloak and with 
 it the unfinished costume, imperfectly concealed 
 beneath its scant folds.
 
 NEIGHBORS 43 
 
 " What you got done up in that newspaper s' 
 keerful, Malviny?" demanded the old lady, sud- 
 denly alert. 
 
 " Did you find out the name o' them strange 
 folks, Ma, an' where they come from?" parried 
 her daughter. " An' how d' you happen t' git ac- 
 quainted s' suddin'? " 
 
 " Oh, the girl come over t' borry a pitcher o' 
 drinkin' water, 'n' I went over t' show her how t' 
 start the pump. . . . What's in your newspaper 
 bundle, Malviny?" 
 
 Miss Bennett hastily reconsidered her previous 
 resolve. 
 
 " I guess I may 's well tell you," she murmured 
 resignedly. " This 'ere is a cos-tume f'r Mis' Dea- 
 coness Buckthorn. I brought it home t' t' finish 
 off b' day's work. . . . I'm al'ays glad t' 'com- 
 modate." 
 
 ' Yes, I know you be," agreed the old lady 
 mordantly. " Well, ef Mis' Deaconess Buck- 
 thorn's took t' doin' her own dressmakin', all I 
 got t' say is it's about the most onchristian act 
 with us a-dependin' on sewin' f'r th' vit'uls we put 
 in our mouths. . . . The's somebody a-knockin' 
 at th' front door, Malviny." 
 
 Miss Bennett caught up the kerosene lamp from 
 the table. " Mebbe it's somebody come t' look 
 over th' fashion plates," she said hopefully. " You
 
 44 NEIGHBORS 
 
 set th' kettle over, Ma, V put that johnny cake in 
 th' oven t' warm. 'S soon 's we've et, I got t' 
 whirl in an' finish that cos-tume f'r Mis' Buck- 
 thorn. She's got her mind made up t' wear it Sun- 
 day mornin' t' what she calls d'vine service, though 
 goodness knows why." 
 
 Against the dim background of swaying trees 
 the open front door revealed a small, frightened 
 face, and Miss Bennett became hazily aware of 
 wide dark eyes, a tumbled mass of curls, and the 
 scarlet curve of parted lips. 
 
 " You pardon, madame" began the unexpected 
 visitor, " but my fat'er he ees become sick, of a 
 sudden. Could you of your kin'ness, chere 
 madame tell me of a docteur? " 
 
 " Well, I want t' know ! " ejaculated Miss Mal- 
 vina, shielding the wind-blown lamp with the crook 
 of her elbow. " Are you the strange girl jest 
 moved in nex' door? Walk right in; do! " 
 
 "One t'ousand t'anks, madame; but it ees im- 
 possible. My fat'er suffer " 
 
 " Jest you wait a minute till I go 'n' tell Ma 'n' 
 I'll run over with you," volunteered Miss Bennett 
 eagerly. " Guess I'd better stop long enough t' 
 ketch up a shawl 'count of m' neuralgy." 
 
 But the girl had disappeared when Malvina, 
 shawled against the wind, finally returned after 
 appeasing the curiosity of Ma. The little dress-
 
 NEIGHBORS 45 
 
 maker made her way through a gap in the ancient 
 hedge which separated the two yards, and finding 
 the side door of the old Rice house ajar, walked 
 boldly in. By the wavering light of a candle which 
 merely served to accentuate the gloom, she beheld 
 a dense clutter of bales, boxes, and the stark out- 
 lines of crated furniture; and in an arm-chair 
 drawn close to an open window the huddled figure 
 of a man. He was groaning loudly, monotonously, 
 while the girl besought him to drink from the cup 
 she was holding to his lips. 
 
 " Well, f 'r goodness sake ! " commented Miss 
 Malvina. " Ain't this a pretty kettle o' fish ! your 
 pa sick, an' not a bed t' put him in. ... Say, 
 what you givin' him in that cup? Some good hot 
 J'maica jinger, er a dose of Perry Davis' Pain- 
 Killer '11 generally stop th' gripes ef that's what 
 ails him. . . . Got any hot water?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 " Ze fire eet will not burn. I give heem wine ; 
 but he refuse, as you see." 
 
 Miss Malvina considered, her head on one side 
 like a sagacious sparrow. 
 
 " Well," she said, " first off, I'll dash over t' 
 Lecty Pratt's she's got a phone an' call up th' 
 doctor. Course ef 't was Ma, er me, I'd take Perry 
 Davis; but I don't know nothin' 'bout your pa's 
 constitution. . . . I'll be back in two jerks of a
 
 46 NEIGHBORS - 
 
 lamb's tail an' kindle a fire in th' kitchen stove. 
 We got t' hev hot water, anyhow." 
 
 The doctor, a big, gruff man, arrived in a snort- 
 ing little automobile before Miss Malvina had 
 succeeded in starting a reluctant flame in the long 
 unused stove. 
 
 "No wonder it won't dror!" muttered Miss 
 Malvina indignantly. " Jes' look at that there 
 stove-pipe fairly et up with rust! I'll go over 
 an' git m' oil stove." 
 
 Doctor North stared thoughtfully at Miss Mal- 
 vina over the rim of his spectacles, as if the sight 
 of the little dressmaker, her second-best black hair 
 front pushed rakishly to one side, was a new and 
 surprising one. He had already jammed his 
 hat well over his eyes and was drawing on his 
 gloves. 
 
 Miss Malvina was familiar with this wordless 
 verdict as were most Innisfield folks, to whom 
 the good doctor stood as a merciful arbiter of fate 
 between the here, the heretofore, and the here- 
 after. 
 
 " Then he ain't dangerous," she inferred. 
 
 " He's hungry and done up with moving," 
 growled the doctor. " Neither of 'em have eaten 
 a bite since morning. Get him some hot tea and 
 a boiled egg soft, mind you and a good thick 
 slice of bread and butter. Then put him to bed
 
 NEIGHBORS 47 
 
 with a hot brick at his feet. He'll be all right in 
 the morning." 
 
 Miss Malvina cast a hasty glance about the 
 mouldy old kitchen. 
 
 "Whatever possest 'em t' light down here?" 
 she projected after the doctor's retreating back. 
 " Seems 's 'o th' more fur'n folks are the less sense 
 they got. Th' simple idee o' takin' on like that 
 over an empty stomick! " 
 
 But it was not without strenuous and manifold 
 exertions that Miss Malvina succeeded in carrying 
 out Doctor North's simple prescription. There 
 was bread in the house, it appeared, a queer long 
 crusty loaf. " All rind an' no bread," pronounced 
 the little dressmaker disapprovingly. Two eggs, 
 a pinch of tea, and an infinitesimal pat of salty 
 butter she abstracted from her own dwindling 
 stores, to the tune of Ma Bennett's reproaches. 
 
 4 You're more 'n welcome," she told the girl 
 warmly. " We shan't never miss that drorin' o' 
 tea, ner th' eggs, neither; our hen laid 'em." 
 
 But the invalid opposed a fretful torrent of 
 French to the weak decoction of green tea Miss 
 Bennett presently offered him. 
 
 " I guess he'll make out," was her well-founded 
 opinion, " ef he c'n gabble that-a-way. Is he sayin' 
 anythin' p'tic'lar? Now, you git this 'ere egg 
 down him, ef you kin. Then set down an' swal-
 
 48 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ler a bite yourself er first thing we know, we'll 
 hev you keeled up." 
 
 The girl looked sweetly puzzled. 
 
 " I know not w'at is ' keeled '," she said, " but 
 first I mus' prepare ze vin brule; eet ees zat my 
 fat'er reques' not being accustom to drink the 
 vert but t'anking you one mille time, chere 
 madame." 
 
 " I said you was more 'n welcome, bein' neigh- 
 bors, though fur'n," chirped the little dressmaker. 
 " But I ain't what you might call a madam not 
 bein' a married woman, nor yet wantin' t' be. So 
 I'll trouble you t' call me Miss Malvina Bennett. 
 ... I s'pose you know it's downright wicked t' 
 put th' bottle t' y'r neighbor's lips let alone your 
 pa's," she added sternly, as the girl set a basin of 
 wine over the oil burner. " I guess we '11 hev t' 
 git a white ribbin pinned ont' you. . . . Mebbe 
 it's a leadin' o' Providence you come to dwell in 
 our midst." 
 
 The girl, understanding merely that some sort 
 of introduction had been offered, showed the edges 
 of her white teeth in a shy smile. 
 
 " My fat'er ees too ill for polite," she said 
 gently; " but you will permit me to acquaint to you 
 mon pere, M'sieu' Etienne Desaye, Mees 
 Mees " 
 
 " Malvina Bennett," supplied the Good Samar-
 
 NEIGHBORS 49 
 
 itan, all at once aware of her false front, which 
 had slid down over one ear, revealing a mass of 
 curling white hair, wind blown into a maze of 
 glistening silver. " I guess I look like a fright," 
 she added, as the man's dark eyes suddenly fas- 
 tened themselves upon her. 
 
 He had struggled to his feet, and was bowing 
 low. Then, before she had become aware of his 
 further intent, he had taken her hand in both 
 his own and raised it to his lips, murmuring broken 
 words of gratitude. 
 
 " Me, my name is Madeleine," the girl offered, 
 with a quaint little curtsy. " I 'ave mos' g-reat 
 'appiness to know you, Mees Malvina." 
 
 " My stars ! " gasped the astounded Miss Ben- 
 nett, " I guess it's high time your pa was got t' 
 bed, b'fore he gits t' ravin'. I'll jes' run over 
 home an' fetch a hot brick, like the doctor said." 
 
 She was glad to hide her agitation in the 
 friendly darkness outside. 
 
 ' T' think o' that fur'n man actooally a-kissin' 
 my hand," she said to herself as she slipped 
 through the hedge. " I never beared o' sech a 
 thing! ... I wouldn't das t' tell Ma! An' him 
 a-suppin' down hot wine, like 't was a cup o' tea. 
 I guess you see your duty cut out f'r you, Malvina 
 Bennett. Mebbe you'll find you c'n exert an in- 
 fluence 's well 's other folks more 'special when
 
 50 NEIGHBORS 
 
 th' op'tunity's plumped right down in your side- 
 yard, so t' say." 
 
 It was a singularly flushed and complacent Miss 
 Malvina who finally sat down to a belated repast 
 of dry corn-bread and boiled tea. Ma Bennett, it 
 appeared, felt herself justified in displaying a 
 large assortment of injured feelings. 
 
 " I got sech a nawful sinkin' at th' pit o' my 
 stumick," she complained, " I can't eat V all 
 from waitin' on you, Malviny." 
 
 " Swaller down some hot tea, first off, Ma," ad- 
 vised her daughter; " it'll chirk you up. That was 
 jes' what ailed him; but he wouldn't drink his tea, 
 after I fixed it all nice f'r him with milk an' sugar. 
 An' you'd ought t' 'a' beared the heathen lingo he 
 got off ! But she said he wanted hot wine. Did 
 you ever?" 
 
 " Ef Mis' Deaconess Buckthorn was t' hear tell 
 o' that she'd take him in a blue pledge card t' 
 sign," said Ma. " They're gittin' all they can t' 
 trim up th' church Tem'rance Sunday." 
 
 " Looks reel tasty, too, all them blue an' red 
 cards strung up on yellow cord," allowed her 
 daughter. " But I ain't a-goin' t' hev Mis' Buck- 
 thorn buttin' in on this job. I've took it upon 
 myself, Ma. . . . An' don't you tell nobody what 
 I said, Ma. I'm reel earnest t' do some work f r 
 th' Lord. Mebbe I c'd git a star er two in my
 
 NEIGHBORS 51 
 
 crown that-a-way; an' cordin' t' her own tell, Mis' 
 Buckthorn '11 be s' trimmed up with 'em she'll beat 
 th' 'Postle Paul. . . . Now, ef you'll rense up 
 these few dishes, Ma, I'll whirl in an' sew 's hard 's 
 I kin till midnight. I want t' git an hour in th' 
 mornin' t' help them folks nex' door git settled. I 
 don't b'lieve that house 's hed a broom laid to it in 
 two years." 
 
 " Oh, yes, 't has, Malviny," contradicted the old 
 lady. " First thing I see was Deacon Scrimger I 
 guess he had th' rentin' of it he come along in his 
 wagon an' hitched, 'long about two o'clock. I seen 
 him go in th' front door. After a spell he carries 
 out three kitchen cheers an' a lookin'-glass, 'n' like 
 that, an' puts 'em in his wagon. I s'pose likely they 
 was left in th' house when Philura Rice moved 
 over t' th' parsonage after she married the min- 
 ister. Anyhow, he kep' a-bringin' out ol' broken 
 stuff till th' was quite a wagon-load. 'N' after that 
 I seen him take a broom 'n' dus'-pan " 
 
 Mrs. Bennett interrupted the flow of her re- 
 marks to carry the milk pitcher to the pantry. 
 When she returned her daughter was surveying 
 the unfinished costume she had removed from its 
 wrappings and spread upon a chair. Poignant dis- 
 may was depicted upon Miss Malvina's small, anx- 
 ious face. 
 
 " Did y' ever see th' like o' that? " she was say-
 
 52 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ing to herself. " Not one o' them seams bound 
 n'r even overcast; 'n' you c'n see where it's pretty 
 nigh busted out a'ready in the back o' th' arm- 
 sizes, jes' from tryin' on. When you think o' 
 th' way Mis' Buckthorn leans forward on the pew- 
 back durin' th' long prayer it's easy t' see what'd 
 happen. My land ! ef ever I see a dress throwed 
 together 'n' that there madam calls it a robe! " 
 
 " Malviny Bennett," shrilled the old lady ex- 
 citedly, " where 'd you git that dress? " 
 
 " It was give t' me t' finish off, Ma," said 
 Miss Malvina, realizing the maternal presence 
 too late. " I'm goin' t' git good money f'r doin' 
 it, paid right down in my fist. But I don't know 
 what t' do about them seams. They won't last 
 out one wearin'. ... Be keerful, Ma, I don 1 
 know es it '11 stan' much handlin'." 
 
 The old lady, her thin lips puckered into a saga- 
 cious knot, was peering at the creation of Mrs. 
 Hobbs' genius. 
 
 " Do you mean t* tell me, Malviny Bennett, 
 that Mis' Deaconess Buckthorn done that? An' 
 that she give it t' you t' finish off?" 
 
 " I ain't goin' t' tell you nothin',' said Miss 
 Malvina with a fine show of firmness. " 'Tain't 
 none of our bizniz who done it, Ma. All I know 
 is I've got t' put my hand t' th' plough an' do 
 somethin' t' keep that dress-wai-st from bustin' out
 
 NEIGHBORS 53 
 
 in church disgraceful. Tell you what, I'm goin' 
 t' tape them arm-sizes an' double stitch 'em. An 
 angel f'om heaven couldn't do no more." 
 
 The loud whir of Miss Malvina's sewing-ma- 
 chine drowned a highly colored description of her 
 childhood, going back to the notable day when 
 Ma Bennett had seen her duty and done it, to 
 the extent of snipping her daughter's youthful 
 tongue with a pair of sharp scissors " f'r tellin' a 
 wicked lie." 
 
 Miss Malvina had carefully laid side her sec- 
 ond best false front and her abundant white hair 
 curled recklessly over her small head as she ripped 
 and snipped and stitched, being careful to pre- 
 serve the astonishing ensemble of the purple and 
 brown costume. 
 
 " It's enough t' make a cat laugh," she mut- 
 tered to herself, when at midnight the striped 
 tabby awoke to stretch her pink jaws to their 
 widest and blink sleepily at the finished work Miss 
 Malvina was folding away. 
 
 " I done an honest half day b' th' clock," the 
 little dressmaker was telling herself, as she crept 
 wearily up to bed. " 'N' that'll give me time 
 t' do f'r them ef they'll let me." 
 
 She paused in the act of drawing down her 
 blind to gaze at the house across the hedge, and 
 thrilled at sight of a feeble gleam of light in one
 
 54 NEIGHBORS 
 
 of the second story windows of Philura Pettibone's 
 old house. 
 
 " It seems kind o' nice V cheerful t' hev folks 
 livin' over there agin," she murmured, " even 
 ef they be fur'n. . . . An' t' think o' him a- 
 kissin' my han' like I was a queen in a hist'ry 
 book."
 
 VI 
 
 MRS. SILAS PETTIBONE'S baby, though 
 as yet blissfully ignorant of the fact, was 
 quite as much in the Innisfield public eye 
 as Woodrow Wilson or the Duchess of Marl- 
 borough. Indeed, for the first weeks of his life 
 he might be said to outstrip either of the afore- 
 mentioned personages in the interest and excite- 
 ment he stirred up. 
 
 As Miss Malvina Bennett had foreseen, no 
 sooner had the news of his arrival perco- 
 lated through the village telephone system a 
 process materially assisted in its onward course 
 by the prevalent party-wire than the shrill 
 door-bell of the parsonage began to announce 
 numerous visitors from every quarter of the 
 parish. It was almost as thrilling as elec- 
 tion day or a church fair. Old neighbors 
 met at the gate or on the minister's front porch 
 and paused to exchange spicy reminiscences of 
 the past, mingled with comments and prophecies 
 concerning the new baby, whom the female portion 
 of the community were privileged to look upon, 
 
 55
 
 56 NEIGHBORS 
 
 as he reposed in his old-fashioned cradle in the 
 parsonage " spare room." 
 
 The trained nurse from Boston, in her white 
 uniform and stiffly starched cap, opposed an 
 equally stiff resistance to the tide of parochial 
 curiosity which sought to overflow into the cham- 
 ber beyond, where lay the baby's mother. 
 
 But when Mrs. Deaconess Buckthorn, happily 
 recovered from her late attack of neuritis, 
 mounted the stairs, it was felt that all barriers 
 must fall. 
 
 " I shall see our paster's wife, of course," she 
 had announced to a ring of attendant satellites 
 who followed her progress with eager interest. 
 " As president of our Ladies' Aid and Mis- 
 sion-ary So-ciety it is my priv'lege, an' as the 
 Sab-bath School teacher of Philura Rice it is my 
 sacred right.' 
 
 Providentially, or otherwise, the nurse from 
 Boston had descended to the kitchen, where Mrs. 
 Wessells was thoughtfully absorbing a cup of tea 
 in an effort to ' keep up her stren'th 'till she could 
 rub off a few pieces ' of the weekly ironing; there- 
 fore no stiffly starched presence opposed Mrs. 
 Buckthorn's dignified progress as she sailed past 
 the open door of the room where the baby still 
 unconscious of the greatness thrust upon him 
 was holding court.
 
 NEIGHBORS 57 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, looking very small and weak, 
 as she reposed among her white pillows, opened 
 her eyes with a start upon the large, somber figure 
 standing at the foot of her bed. Mrs. Buckthorn 
 was gazing down at her with the dubious mixture 
 of curiosity and resignation the minister's wife had 
 noticed at uncounted funerals, when the wearer 
 of that large fortress-like bonnet bristling with 
 time-defying feathers, advanced to " view the re- 
 mains." She gasped a little and glanced about 
 rather wildly for the soothing white linen pres- 
 ence, which she remembered had left the room 
 only a moment before in quest of gruel. 
 
 " Well, Phi-lura," intoned Mrs. Buckthorn. " I 
 have seen your ba-by an' I felt I could not leave 
 the pars'nage without a word with you. . . . 
 You are lookin' as well 's c'n be expected. How 
 do you feel? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone reflected vaguely. She had not 
 thought much about her feelings since the baby 
 came. It was enough to lie quiet and happy 
 in the still room, and at intervals find the baby's 
 downy little head and questing mouth against her 
 breast. She smiled. 
 
 " I am I think I feel very well thank 
 you." 
 
 " Let me see," pursued Mrs. Buckthorn 
 strongly. " The ba-by is a week old, I be-lieve? "
 
 5 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " A week to-morrow," corrected the baby's 
 mother. 
 
 " When my M'ree Is'bel was a week old I sat 
 up in a straight-backed chair an' read my Bi-ble 
 f'r an hour," stated Mrs. Buckthorn. " An' that 
 same day I done the family mendin', th' Lord 
 helpin' me, Deacon Buckthorn's socks an' th' 
 boys' knee-pants 'n' all. The day after that I was 
 out in th' kitchen attendin' t' my house-hold 
 dooties, es usual. / never indulged fleshly lusts 
 b' remainin' in bed t' be waited on by a nurse from 
 Bos-ton." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone trembled visibly and sought for 
 her handkerchief. She was still very weak. 
 
 " I suppose you know Louisa Wessells is 
 camped down in your kitchen, doin' th' house- 
 work reg'lar b' th' day," pursued her visitor in- 
 exorably. " B'sides that woman drest in white 
 that spen's all her time a-waitin' on you. . . . 
 It mus' be a nawful expense t' our paster; but 
 p'rhaps you haven't thought of that. . . . How 
 much do you pay your trained nurse b' th' week, 
 Phi-lura?" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone gazed piteously past her inquis- 
 itor. She was sure she heard the baby crying. She 
 raised herself on one elbow the better to listen. 
 
 " 'Twon't hurt him none t' cry," said Mrs, 
 Buckthorn. " I guess th' ladies 's been weighio.'
 
 NEIGHBORS 59 
 
 him. I hope you an' Mr. Pettibone wa'n't party 
 to it, Phi-lura, but Malvina Bennett's b'en a-tellin' 
 all over this town that the ba-by weighed nine 
 pounds when he was born. It's a nawful thing, 
 Philura, fer an im-mortal soul t' start out on its 
 journey through this vale of tears with a wicked 
 lie 'round its neck. If you or our paster knew 
 an' you must 'a' known he weighed only six 'n' 
 a quarter, with all his clo'es on it was your 
 dooty " 
 
 " He's been gaining," broke in Mrs. Pettibone 
 eagerly. "Miss Sedgewick weighed him this 
 morning, and she said " 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn wagged her feathers omi- 
 nously. 
 
 " I'm afraid not, Phi-lura. Your child looks 
 very feeble t' me. Nothin' like mine at the same 
 age. An' th's others thinks so, too. . . . You'd 
 ought t' be prepared t' bow your neck submissive 
 t' th' Lord's will, Phi-lura." 
 
 " I am," declared Mrs. Pettibone. " Didn't 
 God give me that baby? " 
 
 A delicate crimson had begun to burn in her 
 thin cheeks; her blue eyes under their childish 
 brows gazed up defiantly at Mrs. Buckthorn's 
 granite front. 
 
 ' Take care, Phi-lura ! " warned that lady in a 
 hollow voice. " Your idees on sacred subjec's is
 
 60 NEIGHBORS 
 
 gettin' t' be pretty well known in this 'ere com- 
 munity. I'm sure I don't know what we're a- 
 comin' to when our paster's wife sets herself up 
 as understandin' th' ways of the Almighty better 
 'an the creeds." 
 
 " I'm thankful God's ways are better than the 
 creeds," willfully misconstrued the small lady 
 from amongst her pillows. 
 
 "What did you say, Phi-lura?" demanded 
 Mrs. Buckthorn sternly. u Would you be willin' 
 t' repeat that, a-standin' up amongst the goats 
 b'fore th' great white throne? Ans-wer me! " 
 
 But Mrs. Pettibone, harassed by the mingled 
 sounds of her visitor's nasal tones and the con- 
 tinued wailing of the baby, seemed incapable of a 
 reply. She began to cry instead. 
 
 " I see that an awakened conscience is doin' its 
 bles-sed work in your heart, Phi-lura," pursued 
 her tormentor. "Don't hender it! ... An' 
 that r'minds me, I fail t' see your Bi-ble anywheres 
 about. I thought, of course, I sh'd find it right 
 t' han' in this house. I sh'd love t' read a few 
 words from th' Psa'ms an' engage in prayer be- 
 fore I leave. You need it." 
 
 In pursuance of this pious project Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn began rummaging busily among the various 
 articles on Mrs. Pettibone's bureau. 
 
 " Huh ! a nursin'-bottle ! I thought you'd have
 
 NEIGHBORS 61 
 
 t' come t' it at your age. . . . Well, I declare ! 
 I guess very few of us 'd think we c'd afford a 
 large flask of cologne with the world in need, 
 as never b'fore. . . . Whis-key as sure as I 
 live ! What does this mean in th' home of our 
 paster ? My ! my ! What a terrible example t' set 
 b'fore th' youth of our community! ... I shall 
 cert'nly speak my mind t' Mis-ter Pettibone before 
 I leave this house. . . . An' still I find no 
 Bi-ble. . . . But perhaps your nurse from Bos- 
 ton has concealed it in one of th' bureau-drawers. 
 . . . What a sad story I shall have t' tell if I 
 
 cannot find that b-lessed book Well, I mus' 
 
 say I am sur-prised an' grieved, Phi-lura. Ex- 
 travagance an' display are surely out of place in 
 th' pars'nage if nowhere else. . . . Comfort 
 an' cleanliness do not call for embroidery ner 
 lace, such as I see on these 'ere garments an' 
 still no Bi-ble ! But I do find here ' Holt on the 
 Care an' Feedin' of Infants.' Is this a proper sub- 
 stitute for your Bi-ble, Phi-lura?" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had hidden her face in her 
 pillow. She was thinking confusedly that she 
 must not listen to what Mrs. Buckthorn was say- 
 ing; that she must be calm quite calm and tran- 
 quil, otherwise the baby might have the colic. 
 Miss Sedgewick had said so, and Miss Sedgewick 
 knew.
 
 62 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn had carried on her pious quest 
 as far as the wash-stand, when she was deflected 
 from her purpose by the sudden appearance of a 
 tall, erect person, panoplied in spotless white 
 and bearing a napkined tray, in the midst of 
 which was set forth a steaming bowl. This in- 
 dividual spoke no word, but there was that in the 
 militant gleam of her eyes which caused Mrs. 
 Buckthorn to hastily abandon her self-imposed 
 task. 
 
 " I was jest a-lookin' fer our paster's wife's 
 Bi-ble," she explained. But her voice had some- 
 how lost its fearsome quality. " I didn't see it 
 nowheres around on th' mantle-shelf ner th' 
 table." 
 
 " No," confirmed the white linen presence 
 briskly. " I took all the books downstairs the 
 first thing. They harbor dust and germs." 
 
 She held the door invitingly wide. 
 
 " I don't allow visitors," she added. " You 
 may tell the others." 
 
 The wailing baby was being vigorously trotted 
 upon Mrs. Scrimger's knee, while an admiring 
 and resourceful audience looked on, when Mrs. 
 Buckthorn reappeared, much ruffled as to her 
 spirits. 
 
 "Did you see Philura?" 
 
 "How does she look?'*
 
 NEIGHBORS 63 
 
 " I wonder if / might step in, f'r just a min- 
 ute," uprose in unison. 
 
 " That woman from Bos-ton," began the wife 
 of the senior deacon, u is a child of Be-lial, if 
 
 ever I see one. She actooally had the brass t' tell 
 mf " 
 
 tfltC 
 
 With a sudden swoop of ample white draperies 
 the woman from Boston descended upon the 
 group of matrons and salvaged the baby. 
 
 " You'll have to excuse me, ladies, but it makes 
 my patient nervous to hear him cry," she vouch- 
 safed over her shoulder, as she bore away the 
 small bundle of lawn and flannel. There fol- 
 lowed the sound of a door firmly closed. 
 
 " Well ! did you ever? " Mrs. Scrimger wanted 
 to know. 
 
 " Ain't we stylish ! " contributed Miss Electa 
 Pratt, with a girlish giggle. " I ain't said any- 
 thin' t' you ladies about it b'fore, but now 'at 
 ma's passed away I b'en thinkin' of takin' up 
 nursin', myself, an' I ofered t' do f'r Philura 
 'n' th' minister pourin' his tea 'n' like that 
 f'r nothin'. But it seems / wasn't good enough 
 f'r her. She said Mis-ter Pettibone wanted a 
 trained nurse." 
 
 " All of us ladies c'd 'a' took turns," sighed 
 Mrs. Buckthorn. " The thought 'd come t' me. 
 An' what a blessin' our conse-crated zeal might
 
 64 NEIGHBORS 
 
 V proved in this 'ere household! Prayer V 
 praise from mornin' till night, a-goin' up like an 
 altar o' sacrifice." 
 
 " Maybe it would have turned out to be one," 
 mused Mrs. Puffer, who had just run over with 
 an extra crib-blanket. 
 
 But when pressed for an explanation, the little 
 woman blushed very pink indeed and said she 
 guessed she didn't mean anything much. She 
 added that being so constantly with the children 
 made her sort of absent-minded. 
 
 That same afternoon, as was his custom, the 
 Reverend Silas Pettibone emerged from his study, 
 where he had spent the morning endeavoring 
 to wrest the meaning from a cryptic Pauline say- 
 ing, and ascended to his wife's room. 
 
 " Well, my dear," he began, after kissing the 
 shining pale face upturned to his, " I hear Mrs. 
 Buckthorn called to see you this morning. She 
 stopped in the study on her way out. ... I 
 was rather sorry, I er supposed Miss Sedge- 
 wick had er interdicted " 
 
 The nurse, who was engaged in folding large 
 squares of white cheese-cloth into infinitesimal 
 triangles, turned quickly around. 
 
 " The woman sneaked in, sir, when my back 
 was turned for an instant," she said. " I don't 
 know what she did to put my patient all in a
 
 NEIGHBORS 65 
 
 tremble ; but I shall turn the key in the lock after 
 this when I go down to the kitchen. . . . You 
 won't leave her, sir, while I run out for half an 
 hour? If I thought you would " 
 
 Mr. Pettibone was instant and earnest in avow- 
 ing his purpose of guarding the sick-room against 
 further intrusion. 
 
 But still the cautious Miss Sedgewick hesitated. 
 
 "Somebody might call to see you, sir; and 
 while you were downstairs take advantage " 
 
 " You could put the baby on the bed, Silas, and 
 lock the door," suggested Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 There was an eager gleam in her eyes 
 which again halted the departing footsteps of 
 authority. 
 
 " Better leave him just where he is," the nurse 
 said firmly. " He is not hungry and he is per- 
 fectly comfortable. If he should cry, please re- 
 member that a certain amount of crying is good 
 for a baby." 
 
 Her clear eyes fixed upon the minister ap- 
 peared to demand some sort of guarantee of 
 obedience. 
 
 " Certainly," said Mr. Pettibone. " Quite 
 right. I will er leave the infant exactly as he 
 is now placed in that crib. I see you have him 
 very firmly immeshed perhaps I might better 
 say er constricted beneath his bed coverings.
 
 66 NEIGHBORS 
 
 . . . I er beg your pardon. I should have 
 said " 
 
 " The infant is quite comfortable," Miss 
 Sedgewick repeated with a touch of asperity. 
 " Do not disturb him during my absence." 
 
 The sound of her firm footsteps retreating 
 down the passage, followed later by a rustling 
 descent of the stair and the distant closing of the 
 front door marked a period during which Mr. 
 Pettibone sat by his wife's side decorously perus- 
 ing a work on the Social Conscience, while Mrs. 
 Pettibone, very demure and bright eyed, watched 
 a sunbeam coquetting with the muslin curtains. 
 
 " Now, Silas," she said softly. 
 
 Mr. Pettibone glanced down at her with a 
 humorous smile. 
 
 " But, my dear Philura," he murmured, " that 
 excellent person extracted an actual promise from 
 me to-day. Possibly er she suspects us of 
 collusion. I fear I didn't get the trick of that 
 tightly banded sheet over the infant's body. Er 
 let me read you an illuminating passage I have 
 just lighted upon." 
 
 " Oh, Silas, please I haven't half looked at 
 him yet. I feel exactly as if he was her baby. 
 She won't allow me to hold him. . . . Anyway, 
 we can't afford to keep her any longer, with Mrs. 
 Wessells in the kitchen. I must begin to take
 
 NEIGHBORS 67 
 
 care of him myself, and and do things. Please 
 let me!" 
 
 Mr. Pettibone ruffled his iron-gray hair with an 
 impatient hand. 
 
 " I should like to give utterance to something 
 er forceful concerning Mrs. Buckthorn," he 
 began. " Of course I can guess the sort of thing 
 she said to you this morning; but " 
 
 " It was all true, I'm afraid," murmured his 
 wife. " I can't help feeling guilty and extrava- 
 gant when I think of what I am costing." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone arose and very deliberately tip- 
 toed his way across the room to the crib, where 
 lay his son peacefully asleep. 
 
 " I am about to perjure myself, I fear, but I 
 think we need to discuss this subject in the pres- 
 ence of the entire family." 
 
 With this remark he skillfully extricated the 
 infant from his well-ordered blankets and bore 
 him to the bed, where he deposited him, all pink 
 and squirming, at Mrs. Pettibone's side. 
 
 " Oh, Silas!" she cried in an ecstasy. "I'm 
 afraid you've waked him up! ... Do look at 
 his eyes! . . . He's looking straight at you. 
 ... I wonder if his eyes will be dark like 
 yours? They're blue now just see! And his 
 hair is curly right on top of his head. . . . 
 Oh, you darling! "
 
 68 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Speaking of expense," pursued Mr. Pettibone 
 logically. " He's worth all he cost isn't he? 
 to you and to me. . . . And I shall never for- 
 get that he nearly cost you your life. ... If 
 I had lost you 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone hid her eyes in the baby's neck. 
 
 " I had forgotten it, already," she murmured. 
 
 It seemed a sacrilege to mention anything so 
 sordid as money at such a moment, but after a 
 period of blissful contemplation the minister pro- 
 duced a roll of soiled bills from his pocket. 
 
 " Filthy lucre," he announced, " amounting to 
 one hundred and fifty-three dollars." 
 
 "Why, Silas!" 
 
 " On account of arrears on my salary," he ex- 
 ulted. " Our good brother, George Trimmer, 
 handed it to me last evening after prayer-meeting. 
 He tells me he hopes to have the full amount by 
 the end of next month." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone drew the blankets softly about 
 the baby with gentle little pats and cuddles. 
 
 " I'm ashamed of myself," she said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I ought to have known the money 
 would come. ... I ought never to doubt or 
 be afraid of anything, now that I have you and 
 him." 
 
 " No, you ought not," he agreed, a humorous
 
 NEIGHBORS 69 
 
 smile touching his grave lips. " And you mustn't. 
 Do you know I find myself singularly dependent 
 on you, Miss Philura, for my spiritual uplift?" 
 
 Whereat they both laughed in memory of old 
 days, happily past now and well-nigh forgotten. 
 
 " Another proof that a beneficent Providence 
 has not failed us, my dear, appears in the fact 
 that your house is rented at last." 
 
 11 Oh, Silas! " she said again. " Really? " 
 
 " Indubitably, and your new tenants have paid 
 down their first month's rent in advance. Here 
 it is, less Deacon Scrimger's lawful commission 
 and the fee to the Boston agent, who really dis- 
 posed of the house for you." 
 
 He paused to observe his wife's face, glorified 
 with a look of rapture which the insignificant 
 sum of money he placed in her hand failed to 
 explain. 
 
 " It is for the baby," she said, " out of the 
 Encircling Good!"
 
 VII 
 
 THE idea that all good things come from 
 the unseen Beneficence we call God has 
 been slow in making its way in the world. 
 Like all ultimate truth it is too large to be seen 
 in its entirety too far-reaching to be appre- 
 ciated by beings engrossed in the small affairs of 
 daily living. So, although Miss Malvina Bennett 
 had caught more than an occasional gleam of the 
 universal effulgence, she was none the less per- 
 turbed when a vigorous shaking of a lank flour- 
 bag failed to dislodge more than a scant cupful. 
 
 " Can't set no bread t'-day," she muttered. 
 " 'N' Ma hates store bread like pison." A like 
 thorough and drastic investigation revealed the 
 emptiness of the various showy packages ranged 
 along her pantry shelves. 
 
 "Well, I d'clare," muttered Miss Malvina> 
 " I ain't never been s' put to it since I begun to 
 sew f'r a livin'. I don't wonder Ma's fractious. 
 She needs a good meal o' warm vittles t' liven 
 her up, 'n' th' ain't a bean o' coffee, neither." 
 
 Hastily she reviewed the meager list of her pos- 
 sible resources. Their solitary hen when in- 
 
 70
 
 NEIGHBORS 71 
 
 spected ruffled her feathers sulkily; the light rime 
 of snow on the ground outside had evidently fur- 
 nished no incentive to lay. 
 
 " You need comp'ny," said Miss Malvina sym- 
 pathizingly. " I'm a-goin' t' let you set jes' soon 
 's I c'n afford a dozen reel eggs, then we'll hev 
 some nice young pullets, come fall, 'n' mebbe a 
 reel han'some rooster t' crow mornin's." 
 
 With this vague promise she scattered a 
 sparse handful of corn and retreated toward the 
 house. 
 
 " The's jes' three things I c'n do," she reflected, 
 as she swept the snow from her front steps, ob- 
 livious to the magical splendor of the budding 
 maples laden with pearl and ermine, through 
 which the sun was darting jealous arrows: "I 
 c'n go down t' th' store 'n' resk havin' Obed 
 Salter tell me he won't trust me no more; er I 
 c'n go t' th' pars'nage 'n' ask th' minister right 
 out f'r the money on Philura's wrapper . . . 
 but I will say I'd hate t' do that. Mebbe he 
 wouldn't be up yit; 'n' what on airth would he 
 think o' me traipsin' t' his house b'fore breakfas' 
 with Philura in bed 'n' all. I s'pose I c'd take 
 that there robe back t' Mis' Hobbs. It's all done 
 s' well 's I c'n make out with it. 'Twon't fall t' 
 pieces first thing, anyhow. ... I s'pose she'll 
 find out who I be, sooner er later. 'N' other
 
 72 NEIGHBORS 
 
 folks will, too; but I ain't a-goin' t' let Ma starve, 
 not s' long 's I c'n hold a needle." 
 
 She was on the point of retreating indoors 
 when the sight of a slim figure speeding along 
 the magical vista arrested her on the threshold. 
 
 " Bon matin, Mees Malvina ! " cried a fresh 
 young voice. " Wat 'appiness to see all zis 
 beauty! Eet ees mos' spirituelle like what you 
 call 'eaven, riest-ce pas?" 
 
 " How's your pa feelin' this mornin' ? " in- 
 quired Miss Malvina. " I thought I'd jes' step 
 in t' inquire after breakfas', V see ef the' wa'n't 
 somethin' I c'd do." 
 
 The little dressmaker drew the black-and-white 
 plaid shawl closer under her chin, and stood 
 smiling down at the girl. She could see her very 
 distinctly, even without her far-seeing glasses, in 
 the clear white light of the morning, and she was 
 thinking vaguely that the vivid face upturned to 
 hers was like no other face she had ever seen. 
 
 " Merci one sousand, chere Mees Malvina, 
 mon papa 'e ees quite recover after sleep. I 'ave 
 make already dejeuner. Also, I find ze shop. See, 
 I bring compliments of my papa to madame, 
 
 votre mere." 
 
 " We don't keep a horse," said Miss Malvina, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 The girl was eagerly extending a basket.
 
 NEIGHBORS 73 
 
 " Non? I not un'erstan'; but for your dejeuner 
 oui?" 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't ketch on t' your kind of 
 talk. You'd ought t' learn English. . . . You 
 want I sh'd take this 'ere basket? " 
 
 The girl smiled and nodded, with a glint of 
 white teeth between red lips. Then she consulted 
 a small book dangling from her belt. 
 
 " See all times I study V Anglais. ... I 
 tell you, very queek: Compliments, ze same 
 of mon pere my fat'er to votre mere your 
 mot'er. Voila! you have eet n'est-ce pas? 
 Goo'-by; you come again queek! " 
 
 " Fer th' Ian' sake! " ejaculated Miss Malvina, 
 as she investigated the contents of the basket in 
 the privacy of her kitchen. " Them folks 're 
 a-goin' t' be reel good neighbors; I c'n see that 
 a'ready. I only fetched 'em over two eggs las' 
 night, 'n' here's six an' much 's a pound o' butter, 
 'n' goodness knows what-all in these 'ere jars." 
 
 Over a slim bottle of suspicious aspect and 
 many-worded foreign labels Miss Malvina shook 
 her head. 
 
 " I'm afraid it's some sort o' intoxicatin' 
 liquor," she said, sniffing gingerly at the seal. 
 " Mebbe I'd better take it back an' tell 'em first 
 thing 'at Ma an' me b'longs t' the W. C. T. U." 
 
 In the end she decided to stow the bottle out
 
 74 NEIGHBORS 
 
 of sight in the gloomy recesses of the upper 
 pantry shelf. 
 
 " 'Twon't do no harm up there," she told her- 
 self strongly. " But you wouldn't ketch me a-giv- 
 in' it t' Ma, even if she was at death's door." 
 
 Half an hour later Miss Malvina, her best 
 frizzed front (inherited from her grandmother) 
 pinned firmly over her white curls and her small 
 figure enveloped in a stiffly starched gingham 
 apron, stood knocking at Philura Rice's back 
 door. She still thought of the erstwhile vacant 
 house as belonging to the wife of the minister, as 
 did every one. Miss Philura Rice had married 
 the Reverend Silas Pettibone three years before, 
 to the amazement, not to say consternation of the 
 village of Innisfield, which had long since rele- 
 gated the modest little lady to the limbo of pro- 
 tracted maidenhood. 
 
 "My!" cogitated Miss Malvina to herself, 
 " how many, many times I've run in here t' bor- 
 row a spoon o' bakin'-powder er like that off 
 Philura; an* when Genevieve 'n' Greg'ry lived 
 here, too. But th' house wa'n't big enough f'r 
 them after th' twins was born. An' o' course Mis' 
 Mort'mer Van Duser wanted 'em in Boston, 
 where she c'd see 'em ev'ry day. I never seen a 
 woman meller up the way she done after those 
 babies "
 
 NEIGHBORS 75 
 
 She paused to once more apply her knuckles in 
 a brisk rat-tat on the closed door. 
 
 " Like enough they're makin' sech a racket 
 movin' furnitur' they can't hear," she told herself. 
 " I c'n see one thing: th' ain't b'en a rag laid t' 
 them winders, 'n' it's all a body c'n do t' see 
 through 'em, what with dust 'n' cobwebs." 
 
 Then all at once she became aware of the 
 approach of slippered feet within. The door was 
 opened on a cautious crack and a bearded face 
 looked out. It was the man she had seen the night 
 before. Miss Malvina blushed like a girl as she 
 recalled the touch of his lips on her rough little 
 fingers. But it seemed suddenly impossible to 
 explain her presence on the back door-steps. For 
 an instant she meditated flight. 
 
 " Ah 1 Goo'-morning," said the man. " You 
 wish er to entaire? " 
 
 Miss Bennett brightened. 
 
 " I jes' run over t' t' help 'round a spell," she 
 said eagerly. " I guess you was mos' too sick las' 
 night t' take notice who 't was doin' f'r you. 
 'Twas reel kind t' send over them things t' Ma. 
 She et a reel good meal o' vittles f'r th' firs' time 
 in I don' know when. It done her good differ'nt 
 things, you know, 'n' like that." 
 
 The man opened the door wide, and with a 
 courteous gesture bade the little dressmaker enter.
 
 76 NEIGHBORS 
 
 He was smiling and his eyes, very clear and dark, 
 again swept the small figure. 
 
 " You 'ave ze wish to see my daughter, n'est-ce- 
 pas? S'e has gone out in search of an ouvri- 
 ere for the moment I cannot perceive the word; 
 of a possibility you can inform me? " 
 
 " You c'n search me," said Miss Malvina. 
 " Why under th' sun didn't she wait till I come 
 over? Mebbe I c'd 'a' made out what 't was you 
 wanted; I've lived here sence I was knee high t' 
 a grasshopper." 
 
 The man had bent his head with grave atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Your language," he said, " ees mos' engaging. 
 Nevair do I weary of its study. But naturelle- 
 ment I spik more readily zan I comprehend. You 
 will pardon me, I 'ave ze hope?" 
 
 " Sure I will," said Miss Malvina, with dig- 
 nity. " 'Tain't reelly your fault you're fur'n. An' 
 I think you speak quite nice. . . ; I see your 
 windows ain't b'en cleaned; s'pose I whirl in an' 
 wash 'em f'r you? I fetched some cleanin' cloths 
 along; 's I says t' Ma, they won't hev none, 'tain't 
 likely." 
 
 " Ah! An ouvriere? But surely I am mistake. 
 Do you not live in the adjoining house? " 
 
 " Cert'nly I do me an' Ma Bennett. I'm a 
 dressmaker b' trade, an' gen'ally I don't have
 
 NEIGHBORS 77 
 
 time t' clean my own windows; but this spring 
 I I ain't s' busy 's usual so I got time t' burn." 
 
 "Time to burn?" 
 
 He smilingly shook his head. 
 
 " I am very academic, I fear. But I s'all per- 
 haps improve; in the interval you will obligingly 
 excuse? " 
 
 u Guess I'll hev t'," chirruped Miss Malvina. 
 " An' I won't say I don't find it kind of enjoyable 
 your bein' fur'n an' so t' say differ'nt from 
 th' folks 'round here." 
 
 Never had Miss Malvina felt more dignified 
 and at ease. The man's gentle air of deference, 
 his grave attention to everything she said had 
 somehow soothed her wounded pride. Her faded 
 eyes sparkled; she even raised a careful hand to 
 Grandmother Bennett's legacy. It was composed 
 of tightly frizzed and very black hair mounted on 
 a net foundation, and it concealed very completely 
 the feathery snow-white hair beneath. Miss Mal- 
 vina had blanched early, but with the aid of the 
 artificial front designed for a larger head than 
 her own it had been possible to keep the knowl- 
 edge of the fact from the general public. She 
 was glad she had worn it this morning, instead 
 of her every-day one, which had faded with the 
 years to a singular greenish tint. 
 
 " L'me see," she went on, " I hed a reg'lar
 
 78 NEIGHBORS 
 
 interduction t' you las' night; but what with your 
 bein' s' upset if not reelly d'lirious an' me 
 a-flyin' 'round like a hen with her head cut off 
 tryin' t' git some supper so 's you'd eat a bite I 
 clean fergot what 't was." 
 
 Her new neighbor shook his head regretfully. 
 
 " Again I accomplis' my ignorance," he said. 
 "You will repeat in words more simple is it 
 not?" 
 
 " I f'rgot your name," said Miss Malvina, 
 " mine's Miss Malvina Bennett." 
 
 "Ah Mees Malvina Bennett; but I hastily 
 make my introduction, my name eet ees Desaye 
 Ettienne Desaye and very much at your service, 
 Mees Malvina. You possess ze good heart." 
 
 " My land ! I ain't done nothin' t' speak of," 
 protested the little dressmaker. " Here comes 
 Mad'lane, now. I'll bet I c'n find out what 
 she's be'n after b'fore you c'n spell Jack 
 Robinson."" 
 
 Madeleine, colorful as a flower, ran up to 
 Miss Malvina with a little cry of pleasure, and 
 stooping her slim young body, touched first one 
 faded cheek then the other with her warm, red 
 lips. 
 
 " Gracious me ! " exclaimed the astonished 
 recipient of these favors. " I don't know when 
 anybody's kissed me b'fore sence I was knee high
 
 NEIGHBORS 79 
 
 t' a grasshopper.. You two cert'nly do beat the 
 Dutch. You ain't no more like Innisfield folks 
 'an th' moon's like green cheese. . . . Now, 
 Mad'lane I hope I got that right I want you 
 should tell me what you b'en lookin' fer, then 
 we'll git t' work. I cert'nly do enjoy gassin' 's 
 well 's the next one; but p'lite conv'sation don't 
 saw no wood." 
 
 The process by which Miss Malvina was led to 
 understand the significance of the word ouvriere 
 was a tortuous one, and involved the use of the 
 French and English lexicons, as well as a search 
 through the popular phrase-book Madeleine car- 
 ried at her belt. 
 
 "What a redic'lous name f'r wash-woman!" 
 she exclaimed, when at last light broke upon her 
 bewildered mind. " But I c'n tell you they're 
 scurcer 'n hen's teeth this spring. L'me see: Mis' 
 Wessells is t' th' pars'nage, 'n' likely '11 stay there 
 f'r a spell on 'count of Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone's 
 baby. . . . You'll git t' know her reel well, once 
 she gits 'round agin. She owns this 'ere house, 
 an' she's th' greatest little woman she c'n tell 
 you all about how t' git anythin' you want out th' 
 surroundin' atmosphere. She got her husban' 
 that-a-way 'n' all her best clo'es. But I don' 
 know; I ain't had s' much luck, myself. . . . 
 Now, I guess we'll tackle this 'ere kitchen, first
 
 So NEIGHBORS 
 
 off, 'n' ef your pa c'n make out t' do a little un- 
 packin' we'll soon hev things ship-shape. 'N' even 
 ef I can't make out all you say, actions cert'nly do 
 speak louder 'n' words, 'n' I guess you'll find I 
 ain't afraid t' whirl in 'n' work, ef I ain't a reg'lar 
 whachucallem, goin' out b' th' day." 
 
 By noon shining windows, clean paint, and vig- 
 orously scrubbed floors attested the genuineness 
 of Miss Malvina's professions, while the new 
 proprietors of Miss Philura's abandoned dwelling 
 showed themselves equally expeditious and re- 
 sourceful. Indeed, Miss Bennett, in one of her 
 flying trips across the yard in quest of a fresh 
 supply of " winder rags " reported to Ma prog- 
 ress of an astonishing character. 
 
 " They ain't got sech a-nawful lot o' stuff," she 
 said; "but I'll bet you'll be s'prised t' see their 
 parlor. Don't look a speck like any other room 
 in town; first thing Mr. Dassay done was t' fix a 
 lot o' books on shelves, 'n' she whips up some 
 han'some lace curtains t' th' winders b'fore I c'd 
 git 'em good 'n' polished. They got pictur's, too, 
 'n' queer kinds o' vases 'n' like that, 'n' rugs. 
 You'd ought t' see them rugs thick 's a board 
 'n' all colors kind o' mixy, I thought. I'd ruther 
 lay down a good red 'n' black ingrain, m'self, with 
 a layer o' straw in under it t' keep the wind offen 
 y'r feet; but bein' fur'n I s'pose they don't know
 
 NEIGHBORS 81 
 
 no better. They even hung up some of them rugs 
 on th' walls. I had t' laugh! " 
 
 Late that afternoon the little dressmaker stood 
 looking about her at the rooms so swiftly trans- 
 formed from dreary emptiness to snug comfort, 
 albeit of a singular and foreign sort hitherto 
 unknown in Innisfield. 
 
 " Well, 'twas lucky f r you folks I waVt so 
 drove in m' shop es usual," she said complacently. 
 " 'N' I will say it looks reel nice, upstairs 'n' 
 down, not 'at I ever heerd o' sech a thing es 
 hangin' up goods b' th' yard on th' walls with 
 brass-headed tacks. But this 'ere blue 'n' white 
 stripe cert'nly does look pretty with Mad'lane's 
 white furnitur'. 'N' th' red 's reel cheerful 
 in your Pa's room. . . . But I got t' go 
 now 'n' git Ma Bennett's supper b'fore she gits 
 fractious." 
 
 " Chere Mees Malvina," said the girl, " one 
 sousand time we are oblige; but you will permit 
 you will not be offend " 
 
 She glanced appealingly at her father. 
 
 " We wish wiz our t'anks to also make ze 
 reward suitable," said M. Desaye, with a propi- 
 tiatory smile, "you will permit is it not?" 
 
 He produced from his waistcoat pocket a small 
 white envelope which he handed to Miss Mal- 
 vina, with a courteous bow. She opened it to
 
 82 NEIGHBORS 
 
 find within a neatly folded bank-note. Just why 
 Miss Malvina should have experienced a shock 
 of bitter resentment at sight of money so hardly 
 earned and so sorely needed furnishes a psycho- 
 logical problem of considerable interest. She was 
 in the habit of earning money by the labor of her 
 hands; then why not this money? Was there, one 
 might inquire, any real difference between plying 
 the needle and the scrubbing-brush? That there 
 was a difference, wide and deep, was evidenced by 
 Miss Malvina's unpremeditated behavior on this 
 occasion. 
 
 " Sakes alive ! " she cried, her small figure quite 
 rigid with indignation. " Th' simple idee o' tryin' 
 t' pay me f'r what I done, like I was Louisa 
 Wessells er Mis' Jabez Trimble ! I come over 
 t' do f'r you folks friendly, b'cause you was neigh- 
 bors 'n' b'cause " 
 
 Something very like a sob choked further utter- 
 ance; but Miss Malvina managed clearly to con- 
 vey her utter repudiation of the idea of recom- 
 pense by casting the envelope and its contents at 
 the feet of the man who had offered it. 
 
 " I'd hev you t' understan' I don't go out b' th' 
 day except t' sew an' only then t' 'commodate m' 
 reg'lar cust'mers," she went on, a bright color 
 staining her faded cheeks. " Ef I want t' do a 
 kindness f'r folks I guess I kin do it, without bein'
 
 NEIGHBORS 83 
 
 slapped in th' face an' me a member in good 
 V reg'lar standin' ! " 
 
 The innocent offenders stood stupefied, aghast. 
 The girl began a hurried search through her 
 phrase-book, while the man rumpled his hair 
 which was somewhat long and curling and frosted 
 lightly with silver with a gesture of despair. 
 
 " Helas! " he murmured. " I am inconsolable! 
 Too leetle? Too much? or not at all I ask you? 
 But w'y? . . . W'y s'ould you derange yourself 
 for us not of your country?" 
 
 Miss Malvina's wrath suddenly vanished into 
 thin air. 
 
 "That's so! " she chuckled. "A body'd ought 
 t' keep in mind constant that you can't help bein' 
 fur'n. As f'r bein' d'ranged, insanity don't run 
 in our fambly, so you needn't be skeered; I git 
 mad quick, but it don't last no time. ... I see 
 you didn't know no better; so we'll call it square." 
 
 ; ' We call eet sq-ware but what ees sq-ware, 
 dear Mees Malvina?" entreated Madeleine. 
 "Eet ees of a frien'ly n'est-ce pas?" 
 
 " Good land, yes ! " laughed the little dress- 
 maker, her dignified complacency quite restored. 
 ' You're 'nough t' kill corn th' two of you ; but, 
 I guess you mean all right." 
 
 In the chill dusk of the April evening, while 
 ashes of violet and rose still mingled in the west,
 
 84 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Miss Malvina sped like a shadow under the 
 budding elms. In a flat parcel under her arm 
 was the brown-and-purple " robe," substantially 
 stitched and conscientiously finished. 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs, still environed with the as yet 
 inchoate creations of her genius, welcomed her 
 with unaffected emotion. 
 
 " I've put in a terrible day," she confessed. 
 " What with ladies telephoning, and coming in 
 droves to talk over styles. . . . You say this is 
 all finished? Well, I'll look it over as soon 's I 
 get a chance, an' let your friend know if she's to 
 send for more." 
 
 But Miss Malvina stiffened her spine, in a 
 valiant effort not to notice the heaps of silk and 
 lengths of trimming which littered the chairs and 
 tables. 
 
 " You'll look it over an' pay fer it now, right 
 down in my hand, same's you promised," she said 
 firmly. " I don' know es anybody c'd say much 
 fer th' looks o' that there robe of Mis' Deaconess 
 Buckthorn's; but 't won't fall t' pieces first time 
 she puts it on; 'n' th' plackets won't bust out, 
 neither, 'n' it's be'n evened up 'round th' bottom. 
 Why, sakes alive, Miss Hobbs, that hem was 
 three inches wide in the front o' th' skirt an' two 
 'n' a quarter in th' back; 'n' th' hooks 'n' eyes on 
 th' waist didn't no more gibe 'n' anythin'. I c'd V
 
 NEIGHBORS 85 
 
 done better V that at dressmakin' when I was ten 
 years old." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs chafed her reddened nose with a 
 breadth of cambric. " I hope you haven't spoiled 
 the hang of the skirt," she said fretfully. 
 
 " Spoiled? me spoiled? " echoed Miss Mal- 
 vina indignantly. Then she took refuge in a fit 
 of coughing. 
 
 " Of course I know who you are," pursued 
 Mrs. Hobbs; "I asked Mrs. Salter to-day, an' 
 she told me." 
 
 " I ain't ashamed t' be knowed," stated Miss 
 Malvina. " I came up here in th' first place, like 
 th' children of Israel went in the Promised Land, 
 t' see what sort of a shop you kep', an' whether 
 you was goin' t' freeze me out permanent. . . . 
 The minute I laid my eyes on this 'ere robe I quit 
 worryin'." 
 
 "What do you mean?" inquired Mrs. Hobbs 
 feebly. 
 
 " Jest what I say. I ain't worried a mite. 
 'Twon't be no time b'fore they'll all be back a-pes- 
 terin' me f'r some reel sewin'. These 'ere throwed 
 t'gether robes ain't a-goin' t' take in this 'ere 
 town, I know; I've sewed f'r 'em, off 'n' on, f'r 
 thirty years." 
 
 " I wonder you dare talk to me like that," 
 almost whimpered Mrs. Hobbs, with a vain
 
 86 NEIGHBORS 
 
 effort after dignity. " All my clientele admire 
 my superior taste." 
 
 Miss Bennett gazed at her rival pityingly. 
 
 " I'm reel sorry f'r you," she said. " Honest, 
 I be." 
 
 " Sorry for me? Why, my good woman, 
 j " 
 
 " Uh-huh ! 'n' I'll tell you why. You can't hold 
 this 'ere trade with th' kind o' work you're doin'. 
 It'll peter out on you in no time." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs fingered her frizzes with an as- 
 sumption of ease she was far from feeling. 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing as a person like 
 you," she stammered. " It it's the most extraor- 
 dinary idea " 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you, Mis' Hobbs, I got kind of 
 des'prit, what with losin' all my cust'mers, 'n' th' 
 rent 'n' groc'ries runnin' b'hind. I got Ma Ben- 
 nett t' do for; Ma's goin' on seventy-nine. She 
 come t' live with me last winter after m' brother 
 died. She ain't got nobody but me, now. An' 
 thinks s' I, I got t' do somethin' right off. . . . 
 You'd laff if I was t' tell you how skeered I was 
 t' come up them stairs th' first time. Ef you'd 
 a' b'en a roarin' rhinoc'rus I couldn't 'a' felt more 
 shrinkin'." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs moved restlessly in her chair. 
 
 *' You c'n go right on sewin'; don't mind me,"
 
 NEIGHBORS 87 
 
 said Miss Bennett kindly. " I'd reelly like t' see 
 how your s'perior taste '11 work out on that there 
 green costume the one on the figur'. . . . But, 
 es I was sayin', I jes' took th' bit in m' teeth an' 
 tromped on all my mos' sacred feelin's. Now I 
 see you ain't no better off 'n' I be, fer all y'r gilt 
 sign 'n' y'r Madame 'n' y'r heaps o' work. I ain't 
 got 'nough work, 'n' you got too much. Ef I 
 whirl in 'n' help you out same's we talked las' 
 night me a-doin' reel honest sewin' like folks 
 'round here 're used to, you may last out quite a 
 spell. Ef you won't, why " 
 
 Miss Bennett's eloquent hands disclaimed all 
 further responsibility for Mrs. Hobbs' career. 
 
 " You cert'nly have got nerve" murmured the 
 new dressmaker; but she said it almost admir- 
 ingly. 
 
 " So 've you," returned Miss Bennett promptly, 
 " er you wouldn't be here." 
 
 The two women stared at each other fixedly for 
 an instant: then Mrs. Hobbs' watery gaze fell. 
 
 'You want I should pay you for this?" she 
 inquired uncertainly. 
 
 11 Uh-huh, an' give me some more work; I got 
 t' live whilst I'm waitinY' 
 
 This ominous reference to the future appeared 
 to galvanize Madame Louise into action. She 
 arose and fetched a plethoric purse.
 
 88 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "How much do I owe you?" she hesitated. 
 " I mean how long we agreed by the day, didn't 
 we?" 
 
 " I put in five hours, stiddy," stated Miss Mal- 
 vina. " So it comes t' a dollar V a half, even 
 money. That robe 's all ready t' send home 's 
 much 's it ever will be this side o' Jordan. . . . 
 It'll be reel enjoyable t' see Mis' Buckthorn come 
 sailin' down th' center aisle with it on. ..." 
 
 The clash of the three silver half dollars was 
 music in Miss Malvina's ears, as she sped home- 
 ward clasping a great parcel of work in her thin 
 little arms. 
 
 " Ain't I glad I stepped on m' pride an' roused 
 m' grit 'n' gumption?" she said to herself. 
 " 'Twon't be no time b'fore I c'n hold up m' 
 head with th' best of 'em all m' bills paid 'n' 
 money laid by. 'N' ef that ain't a lot better 'n' 
 settin' 'round cryin' over spilt milk my name ain't 
 Malvina Bennett I "
 
 VIII 
 
 YOUNG Harry Schwartz whistled pleasantly 
 to himself as he applied a liquid polish 
 to the body of his automobile, which 
 under the further urge of his muscular arms as- 
 sumed a specious semblance of newness. It was 
 a second-hand car of humble origin, and the young 
 man, contrary to the advice of his prudent par- 
 ents, had just taken one hundred and twenty-five 
 dollars from his modest savings to pay for it. 
 
 " Harry," said a voice from an open window 
 close at hand, " is that my new dust-cloth you're 
 using? I've been looking for it everywhere." 
 
 The young man grinned. 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder, ma," he confessed. " Is 
 this it with du-daddles in pink worked round the 
 edge? Crabbed it from a bag behind the door. 
 Just the thing for polishing. Say, ma, come on 
 out and view the flivver ! She sure is some car." 
 
 Mrs. Schwartz presently emerged from the 
 back door, an apron over her head. She was a 
 pretty, fair-haired little woman, and her big son 
 gazed down at her with an amused smile. 
 
 " What you going to do with me, mamma 
 89
 
 9 o NEIGHBORS 
 
 spat my hands?" he inquired good-humoredly. 
 " I had a sneaking notion I was appropriating 
 something valuable; but I was in a hurry. . . . 
 Got the knock out the engine; she runs like a 
 breeze now. Want a ride? " 
 
 " Oh, Harry, just look at the grease spots on 
 your new clothes," wailed his mother. " Why 
 didn't you put on your overalls? " 
 
 The young man surveyed his stalwart person 
 with smiling unconcern. 
 
 " That's nothing," he said rather grandly. 
 " Gas'll take it out. Run in and get your coat and 
 we'll take a spin. I want you to hear her purr." 
 
 But Mrs. Schwartz shook her head. She had a 
 cake in the oven, she said. Besides, there was the 
 week's mending to attend to. She stood for a 
 minute gazing about her, a proud light of happi- 
 ness in her eyes; in the rear was the garden, 
 already plowed in anticipation of fresh vegetables 
 and a harvest of gay annuals; then there was the 
 house, its upper story covered with weathered 
 shingles, its clapboards below freshly painted a 
 light brown, trimmed with white. Everything 
 she looked upon was spotlessly neat and all their 
 own. Even the window-panes glittered in the 
 bleak sunshine she had just washed them and 
 the shades were pulled to the precise middle of 
 the sash; beneath them one caught glimpses of
 
 NEIGHBORS 91 
 
 fresh muslin curtains. There was a bay-window at 
 the side, with a yellow canary, singing shrilly, and 
 a flourishing rubber plant which had been treated 
 to its weekly bath of milk and water. A narrow 
 concrete walk led around the house to the front, 
 where it joined a wide expanse of the same useful 
 substance which conducted one neatly to the street. 
 The Schwartz house was almost exactly like four 
 other houses in the immediate neighborhood; on 
 other streets not far distant were similar struc- 
 tures all with shingled second stories, narrow 
 front porches, and jutting bay-windows. And such 
 is the solidarity of human nature, this very simi- 
 larity added a fine savor of complacency to Mrs. 
 Schwartz's reflections. Any one could see theirs 
 was a new house by merely looking at it, and there 
 were so many old houses in Innisfield. Indeed, it 
 was only lately that the young Boston architect, 
 with plans which seemed so nearly to fit the aver- 
 age income, had come to Innisfield. There was 
 also the Building and Loan Association, a con- 
 venient bridge between inchoate ambition and its 
 fulfillment. Harry worked for the Building and 
 Loan, hence the savings and the second-hand car. 
 After all, nothing of what she saw would have 
 mattered much if it were not for Harry. Her 
 fond maternal gaze rested upon her one surviving 
 child as he bent to his task. He was a handsome
 
 92 NEIGHBORS 
 
 lad other people besides his mother said so 
 and she was never tired of contemplating his 
 ruddy complexion, his light curling hair, his frank 
 blue eyes, all of which fittingly crowned a good 
 six feet of muscular, well-developed body. As 
 she closed the door of her kitchen upon the pleas- 
 ant picture of her boy trundling slowly out to the 
 street, his face as shining as the newly polished 
 car, she fondly reviewed her ambitions for 
 Harry's future. He was to go on working and 
 laying up money till he had enough to buy a 
 building lot. She had her eye on one, already, not 
 a stone's throw from the family dwelling. On 
 this lot Harry would with the aid of the Build- 
 ing and Loan Association build a house, with 
 a shingled top story, a bay-window, a front porch, 
 and cement walks. 
 
 Inside there would be, of course, a reception 
 hall, a parlor, with a dining-room just back of it, 
 both rooms closely associated with the kitchen by 
 a " butler's pantry." She believed Harry should 
 have hot-water heat, instead of steam. It sounded 
 more elegant and expensive, somehow; but for 
 the rest his house should be precisely like all the 
 other half-shingled houses, a few of which were 
 distinguished by red or green roofs. It cost more 
 to have a colored roof, and the brilliant tints of 
 the freshly stained shingles had a provoking tend-
 
 NEIGHBORS 93 
 
 ency to fade to the same dull hue of untreated 
 roofs. But if Harry wanted a red or green roof 
 he should have one. 
 
 Mrs. Schwartz took her cake from the oven 
 it was in three layers, and baked to a delicate 
 brown. By the time she had built her three layers 
 into a perfect structure with chocolate frosting 
 (which Harry liked) she had come to the difficult 
 matter of choosing Harry's wife. The little 
 woman wrinkled her forehead and pursed up her 
 lips, as she passed the girls of Harry's age in 
 critical review. Not one of them seemed to en- 
 tirely fill the requirements. It was natural for 
 Harry to want to marry a pretty girl; but having 
 conceded this much to the unthinking masculine 
 nature, Mrs. Schwartz could not help reflecting 
 on the well-known fact that pretty girls, as a rule, 
 are far less fitted to the domestic treadmill than 
 their plainer sisters. They were more apt to be 
 idle, vain, and fond of a good time. It was im- 
 possible to think of her son's new house presided 
 over by a woman of that sort. 
 
 " Harry's always been used to having things 
 just so," mused Mrs. Schwartz, as she set her 
 cake to cool in close proximity to a lemon pie 
 topped by a fabulous meringue. " And he never 
 could stand it any other way." 
 
 As she washed her hands at the sink she
 
 94 NEIGHBORS 
 
 resolved to guard Harry against the machinations 
 of certain young ladies whom she forebore to 
 name to herself; but who none the less appeared 
 to threaten peaceful possession of her idol. 
 
 " Harry's a good boy," she told herself 
 proudly, " he'll never go against his mother, when 
 it comes to getting married. And anyway, there 
 isn't any hurry." 
 
 Then she took her basket of mending and sat 
 down in the bay-window to darn stockings, com- 
 placently aware of the hard-won order and 
 immaculate Saturday cleanliness of her small 
 domain and of the two dollars and thirty-nine 
 cents she had contrived to save from her house- 
 keeping allowance that week. Unconsciously her 
 small, blond face took on the look of a flower 
 tightly closed against the sun after its one day 
 of blossoming, no more the rendezvous of wan- 
 dering bee or vagrant butterfly, but secretly and 
 exclusively occupied with its own concerns. 
 
 In the meantime, young Harry Schwartz had 
 driven his car straight down the main street of 
 Innisfield with a fine, expansive joy welling up 
 within him and overflowing in smiles on his 
 handsome ruddy face. With his cap pushed well 
 back on his crisp hair he grasped the steering- 
 wheel with both hands, his eyes fixed on the road 
 which appeared to leap forward to meet him.
 
 NEIGHBORS 95 
 
 That several of his acquaintances stopped to 
 stare after him he guessed rather than saw. He 
 had never driven a car before, and it was neces- 
 sary to give his entire attention to the matter. 
 After a while, he had been told, it would become 
 as easy as riding a bicycle easier, indeed. 
 
 He was wondering if he could turn the thing 
 around, as the houses slipped away from him on 
 either side. In a very few minutes he was clear 
 of the village on the narrow country road, which 
 led between farm lands substantially fenced to a 
 cross-roads, dividing the valley in half. He re- 
 flected that he could easily turn his machine 
 around at the intersection of the two roads. It 
 was then that he saw a woman's figure walking 
 slowly toward the sunset. She would, of course, 
 get out of his way when she heard the car ap- 
 proaching. To his surprise she did nothing of 
 the sort. He reached for his horn, which gave 
 forth a feeble honk; then trod savagely on every- 
 thing in sight. 
 
 Things happened swiftly and consecutively 
 after that: the car essayed nimbly to leap the stone 
 wall; failing in this it turned squarely around 
 and toppled over on its side, where it gasped and 
 rattled convulsively. Its owner, rather white and 
 shaken, climbed out over the uppermost wheel. 
 He wasn't even scratched, for which miracle he
 
 96 NEIGHBORS 
 
 should have been devoutly grateful. Instead, he 
 was conscious only of an immense and growing 
 indignation with the cause of the disaster. He 
 finally succeeded in quieting the sputtering engine, 
 after which he turned upon the girl, who stood 
 quite still, her hands clasped, her eyes wide with 
 terror and dismay. 
 
 " Well ! " said the young man. " What in the 
 dickens! Why didn't you get out of the way? " 
 
 He must have loomed very tall and threatening 
 and, for all his youthful good looks, a terrifying 
 sort of a figure, for the girl slowly backed away 
 from him without attempting a reply. 
 
 " You must be deaf and dumb! " he went on, 
 still hotly. " Didn't you hear me blow my 
 horn?" 
 
 The girl essayed to speak, failed; then without 
 a further glance at him turned and walked swiftly 
 away. 
 
 Harry Schwartz stared after her open- 
 mouthed. He was beginning to realize dazedly 
 two things he had at first been too shaken and 
 angry to notice : the first was that she was extraor- 
 dinarily and vividly pretty for all her pallor; 
 second, that he had never seen her before. 
 
 >l Whew ! but she's some sprinter ! " he mut- 
 tered. And forthwith broke into a long stride 
 which brought him abreast of the culprit.
 
 NEIGHBORS 97 
 
 " What's the idea in running away so fast, Miss 
 er eh?" he propounded. Mendaciously he 
 added: " I may need your help, you know." 
 
 The girl flashed him a dark glance. 
 
 " You aire one rude person," she said calmly. 
 "You un'erstan' me eh? Sans raison bete!" 
 
 " What's that? " cried the young man. " Say! 
 I like that!" 
 
 "You like eet eh? Eh bien I not like eet, 
 absolument! " 
 
 " But you should have gotten out of the road. 
 I honked all right. I might have been killed, you 
 know." 
 
 The girl made no reply. And after a perplexed 
 silence he went on. " Maybe you didn't know any 
 better. I guess you're a stranger some sort of 
 foreigner eh? " 
 
 She surveyed him haughtily from under her 
 lashes. 
 
 " I promenade myself, pour des ceufs frals 
 w'at you call aigs. Me I t'ank you for not 
 sm-ash." 
 
 Harry Schwartz stared. Then he threw back 
 his head and laughed whole-heartedly. 
 
 " By George ! " he exclaimed. " I must go 
 back and see what I have to thank you for. But 
 it's strictly up to you to help me set the flivver on 
 her feet, don't you know.'*
 
 9 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 The girl listened attentively to this speech, a 
 little puzzled frown puckering her white fore- 
 head. 
 
 " Stric'ly-up-t'-you," she repeated; "me I not 
 know." 
 
 The color had come back to lips and cheeks. 
 She smiled, revealing adorable dimples in the cor- 
 ners of her mouth. 
 
 He gazed down at her with a growing sense of 
 wonder. 
 
 "Say, where did you come from?" he asked. 
 " I never saw you before. . . . You sure are 
 one beaut," he added, confident of not being un- 
 derstood. 
 
 She glanced back at the prostrate automobile; 
 then at its owner, a tardy sense of compunction 
 dawning in her eyes. 
 
 " I aid you? " she propounded sweetly. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," he said, feeling suddenly 
 ashamed of himself. " The fact is, I'm a green- 
 horn at driving. I should have stopped until, you 
 got past the cross-roads. I meant to have turned 
 around there." 
 
 ' You feex; moi aussi," she offered confidently. 
 "Ow'f" 
 
 She had turned squarely about and was hurry- 
 ing back toward the scene of the disaster. 
 
 Young Harry Schwartz followed.
 
 NEIGHBORS 99 
 
 " I suppose she's teetotally on the bum," he 
 murmured disconsolately. " First time I had her 
 out, too." 
 
 The girl bestowed her precious basket under a 
 bush. 
 
 " Vo'ila! We make eet," she said eagerly. 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that," he doubted; 
 " I don't want to muss her up any more than I 
 can help." 
 
 He gazed ruefully at his treasure; then he saw 
 that she was valiantly dragging a rail from the 
 fence. 
 
 "Oh, I say! that's too much for you. . . . 
 But I get you. Put a lever under her eh? Guess 
 you're right." 
 
 Ten minutes later the little car stood squarely 
 on its four wheels once more, a trifle scratched, 
 to be sure, its mud-guard bent; but, on the whole, 
 vindicating the modest claims of its maker. 
 
 Then Harry Schwartz quite forgot the girl in 
 the all-engrossing business of examining the mech- 
 anism under the hood of his machine. When he 
 finally glanced up she had disappeared, and 
 neither vista of the country road afforded so 
 much as a flutter of her blue skirts. 
 
 " Well, I like that ! " he exclaimed disgustedly. 
 " And I didn't even find out her name."
 
 IX 
 
 THE Reverend Silas Pettibone, attired in his 
 second-best preaching clothes dedicated 
 to parish visiting and rainy-day funerals- 
 bent to kiss his wife good-by. He was not a de- 
 monstrative man, and heretofore his caresses had 
 been of a sparse and meager nature, commen- 
 surate with the dignified reserve of his character. 
 But there was something about the glorified face 
 of his wife in these early days of her motherhood 
 which seemed to draw kisses as the sun is said to 
 draw water, when it sends earthward long, lumi- 
 nous rays from behind an effulgent cloud curtain. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was wearing the blue negligee 
 adorned with cascades of white lace, upon which 
 Malvina Bennett had lavished the pent-up poetry 
 of her lone maidenhood. She looked very small 
 and delicate in the shabby old rocking-chair; and 
 no one but the most discerning would have identi- 
 fied the inert flannel bundle in her arms as a real 
 live baby. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to put him down the minute 
 he goes to sleep," she apologized having ac- 
 cepted his kiss with the slight tinge of maidenly 
 embarrassment she had never quite lost. 
 
 IOO
 
 NEIGHBORS 101 
 
 "According to book, my dear, you should put 
 him down before he goes to sleep," offered Mr. 
 Pettibone, drawing on his gloves. ..." You're 
 looking remarkably sweet today, Miss Philura," 
 he added, with the total irrelevance she had 
 noticed in him of late. 
 
 She blushed becomingly. 
 
 " But if he should cry " she temporized. 
 
 " Haven't you learned by this time that it is 
 the inalienable right of the infant to cry?" he 
 asked. " How else shall he strengthen his lungs, 
 expand his er diaphragm and ' 
 
 " Kittens don't cry," she said stoutly, " nor nice 
 little roly-poly puppies, nor little birds; their 
 mothers cuddle them all the while and feed them 
 whenever they like." 
 
 " A cat, a dog, or a fowl of the air, in any stage 
 of its existence," he reminded her gravely, " could 
 hardly be compared with a human being." 
 
 But she merely cuddled the flannel bundle 
 closer and murmured something in which he 
 caught the words " p'ecious lamb." 
 
 " As for sheep and their offspring," he went on, 
 still argumentatively, " one should really " 
 
 " Silas," she interrupted him, " did you pay 
 Miss Malvina for making this wrapper? " 
 
 " Did I pay Miss Malvina? " 
 
 He rumpled his hair.
 
 102 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "I have no remembrance er let me recall: 
 Miss Bennett brought that er very becoming 
 garment to the parsonage the day of the advent, 
 when such trifles as clothes and money were far 
 from my thoughts. As far I venture to say 
 as from Jacob, the morning after he had wrestled 
 with the angel and received his new name. . . . 
 No, my dear, I did not pay Miss Malvina." 
 
 "Then won't you go there today, Silas? Do 
 you know I'm afraid poor dear Malvina is being 
 quite cut out by the new dressmaker." 
 
 "The new dressmaker ah? I was not 
 
 aware- 
 
 " Over Trimmer's store; don't you remember? 
 We were going to call; only I " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I fear I have laid myself open to 
 a charge of neglect of parochial duties during 
 these last weeks; but now that you are now that 
 I have you safe " 
 
 11 And the baby," she put in, touching her lips 
 to the fraction of a downy head which peeped out 
 from the blankets. 
 
 " Oh, the baby, of course now that I have you 
 both quite safe and er reasonably established 
 in health I must " 
 
 " And there is the new family in my house, too, 
 and Mrs. Salter, with another of her spells." 
 
 " Quite right quite right, my dear. . . . Now
 
 NEIGHBORS 103 
 
 if you will allow me to bestow our son in his crib, 
 I will go. You should rest till tea-time." 
 
 He left her rather hastily at last, having inad- 
 vertently waked up the baby, who began at once 
 to exercise his inalienable human rights, as differ- 
 entiated from the animal creation. 
 
 He decided to call upon the new dressmaker 
 first, after looking in for a moment upon Brother 
 George Trimmer in his place of business. 
 
 Though not a shrewd man in the secular sense, 
 the minister had not infrequently been led to med- 
 itate upon the singular metamorphosis which came 
 over various members of his flock at the dawning 
 of the Sabbath. On a Sunday morning Elder 
 Trimmer was invariably to be found in his pew 
 in church, attired somberly in a long-tailed coat, 
 once decreed by fashion as the habit of a worldly 
 society, now by universal consent the garb of 
 piety. With his Sunday clothes Brother Trim- 
 mer, in common with other members of Mr. 
 Pettibone's congregation, habitually assumed an 
 expression of superior sanctity. When he walked 
 down the aisle with the collection plate, and when 
 he stood before the pulpit, awaiting the minister's 
 benediction on the perfunctory pennies and nickels 
 representing Innisfield's benevolent impulses, the 
 beholders could scarcely help but notice the sleek- 
 ness with which his sparse hair had been brushed,
 
 io 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 the whiteness of his starched linen and the solemn 
 squeak of his Sabbath shoes. Elder George Trim- 
 mer was an indispensable pillar in the house of 
 his God; and he knew it. Without his support 
 and presence " the cause " in Innisfield would 
 assuredly languish, if not completely collapse. 
 The knowledge of this fact lent force and cogency 
 to his utterances more particularly when he con- 
 versed with his pastor. 
 
 On the present occasion Mr. Trimmer was 
 intrenched behind his desk when Mr. Pettibone 
 called, and from this stronghold he vouchsafed 
 the briefest of nods and an inarticulate growl of 
 recognition. 
 
 " I see you are busy, Brother Trimmer," said 
 the minister politely; " I will call again." 
 
 Mr. Trimmer waved his hand, with some im- 
 patience. 
 
 "Sit down; sit down, sir," he said. "See 
 you in a minute. Have something to say to 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone declined to avail himself of the 
 indicated chair. " er I have a small commis- 
 sion for Mrs. Pettibone," he recollected. " I will 
 attend to that first, if you please." 
 
 The minister's experienced eye had caught 
 sight of a new clerk in the shoe department. As 
 he threaded his way among the bargain-laden
 
 NEIGHBORS 105 
 
 tables in the aisles, he continued to examine the 
 face of the stranger. 
 
 The young man, unaware of his approach, 
 stood with folded arms staring at the wall of yel- 
 low shoe-boxes which confronted him; but it was 
 evident to the most casual observer that his atten- 
 tion was not focused upon the stock of footwear 
 in the Trimmer Dry-goods Emporium. It was 
 a handsome, though rather sullen face, with sternly 
 compressed lips and a deep fold between the gray 
 eyes, which turned in response to Mr. Pettibone's 
 question. 
 
 " Slippers? Yes, sir; what size? " 
 
 " Something soft er and becoming, in a light 
 blue," particularized Mr. Pettibone. 
 
 " For a lady," inferred the young man. 
 " What size did you say, sir? " 
 
 " Oh er as to that, I'm afraid I neglected to 
 inquire. The lady is small and slender." 
 
 " Better have the lady come in and try them on, 
 sir, if you don't know the size." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone shook his head. 
 
 ' That would be impossible for some weeks 
 yet, I fear. The lady is er at present she is 
 unable to leave the house." 
 
 " Why not bring in one of the lady's shoes, 
 then?" suggested Mr. Trimmer's clerk, scan- 
 ning his customer with faint amusement.
 
 106 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " You are a stranger in Innisfield, I believe," 
 interpolated Mr. Pettibone. " I don't remember 
 to have seen you before." 
 
 " Haven't been here long," admitted the young 
 man. 
 
 His brooding eyes sought a distant window, 
 with an expression vaguely suggestive of a wild 
 creature unexpectedly trapped. 
 
 " Er permit me to introduce myself," said the 
 minister pleasantly: "I am Mr. Pettibone, 
 pastor of the Presbyterian Church here. We 
 shall be glad to make you welcome. Er what 
 was your last place of residence? " 
 
 The young man hurriedly replaced the cover 
 on a half-open box. 
 
 " London," he replied briefly. 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " commented the minister. " But 
 I recall that there is a town by that name 
 in a neighboring county am I to under- 
 stand " 
 
 The handsome, sullen face flushed darkly. 
 
 " I mean England," he jerked out. " I was 
 born there." 
 
 " Well, well ! " exclaimed Mr. Pettibone, with 
 unaffected surprise. " We are all interested 
 rather particularly interested, I may say in your 
 native land at this time. Are you er you have 
 been here some time, I suppose?"
 
 NEIGHBORS 107 
 
 " A matter of six months," replied the young 
 man. 
 
 The dark flush had crept up to the roots of his 
 hair. He stared defiantly at Mr. Pettibone. 
 
 " Then you don't care to buy anything today, 
 sir?" 
 
 This was clearly a rebuff; but the minister 
 inured to reprisals of the kind persevered. 
 
 " I should be glad of your name and address; 
 er I'll look at those slippers again in just a 
 moment. Er you will, perhaps, know what size 
 small ladies usually wear." 
 
 The minister had taken a notebook and pencil 
 from his pocket and stood waiting with the smile 
 many people found quite irresistible. 
 
 The young Englishman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " My name is Hobbs," he said unwillingly. 
 " Kitchener Hobbs." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone, glancing up quickly, caught the 
 look which accompanied the simple statement. It 
 puzzled him. 
 
 " Named for the great soldier eh? Sad thing 
 for England his death. Very unfortunate, it 
 would seem. . .. . And your address?" 
 
 " I live upstairs with my mother." 
 
 ; ' With your mother? I was not aware " 
 
 Mr. Hobbs showed no lively interest in Mr. 
 Pettibone's bewilderment. He had pulled down
 
 io8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 and opened several boxes containing felt slippers. 
 
 " Something like this, sir? " he inquired, civilly 
 enough; " in size three maybe, or four." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone restored his memorandum book 
 to his pocket and focused his short-sighted eyes 
 upon a pair of pale blue slippers, adorned with 
 fluffy pompons and a lavish display of satin 
 ribbon. 
 
 " These look about the thing," he said, meas- 
 uring the dainty trifle thoughtfully upon his out- 
 spread palm. " Her feet are slender and not 
 much larger than a child's. . . . You say your 
 mother er Mrs. Hobbs am I right?" 
 
 " She calls herself Madam Louise," growled 
 the young fellow; " she's a dressmaker." 
 
 "Ah, yes, yes! Now I place you," said Mr. 
 Pettibone, as he searched his pockets for a certain 
 thin roll of bills. He appeared not to notice the 
 extreme reluctance of the reply, yet all the while 
 he was keenly aware of it, and of the deepening 
 of the frown between the somber young eyes. 
 
 " Now, why," the minister asked himself as 
 he strode away, the pale blue slippers safely be- 
 stowed in his pocket why should this young 
 man, secure from the perils and hardships of war, 
 and, one would say, reasonably well placed in 
 business and for what does he wear the look 
 of a soul tormented?
 
 IT being Mr. Pettibone's particular business to 
 search out the answer to such questions, he 
 proceeded at once to call upon Mrs. Hobbs, 
 who chose to call herself " Madame Louise " 
 though for what purpose he could only vaguely 
 surmise. As he applied his gloved knuckles to 
 the door bearing the flourishing gold script of 
 mystery, it occurred to the minister that he had 
 neglected to avail himself of Mr. Trimmer's invi- 
 tation or was it a command? to return to the 
 office. He knew from past experience that he 
 would later be obliged to pay for this omission, 
 Elder Trimmer's temper being none of the best 
 on any day of the week. Then the door opened 
 and he became at once absorbed in the business 
 of his calling. 
 
 As it happened, Mrs. Hobbs' establishment was 
 at the moment free from her numerous patrons. 
 She therefore received the minister graciously, 
 betraying little of the surprise she felt at his visit. 
 On his part, Mr. Pettibone after begging the 
 
 lady to go on with her avocation, which at the 
 
 109
 
 no NEIGHBORS 
 
 moment appeared to concern itself with an intri- 
 cate arrangement of cord and buttons on a bodice 
 of peculiar shape and color seated himself and 
 gazed kindly at his hostess. 
 
 " I have just had the pleasure of meeting your 
 son," he began. " He tells me he is a native of 
 England." 
 
 A flicker of Mrs. Hobbs' eyelids and the sud- 
 den snap of her needle prefaced her reply. 
 
 " Yes, sir; but I'm an American. I was born 
 in Boston." 
 
 "Ah! " murmured Mr. Pettibone, aware of a 
 slight bristling, as of defiant feathers. " Were 
 you er long a resident of England?" 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs shot a furtive glance at her ques- 
 tioner. What she saw was a man of dignified 
 presence, well on in middle life, his hair of iron 
 gray swept carelessly back from a broad fore- 
 head, his eyes keen yet kindly, his mouth slightly 
 humorous, and his chin square and firm. The 
 women of his parish, for the most part, liked Mr. 
 Pettibone. They found it a comfort to tell him 
 their trials and perplexities. His advice and his 
 sympathy were alike welcome. 
 
 " I used to go to the Unitarian Church, before 
 I was married," offered Mrs. Hobbs, after a 
 slight pause, during which she set several random 
 stitches in her work; " but after we moved to the
 
 NEIGHBORS in 
 
 old country I got confirmed. My husband was 
 a churchman." 
 
 There was pride, of a sort, in the state- 
 ment and a veiled protest which reached its 
 mark. 
 
 " If you are an Episcopalian," said Mr. Petti- 
 bone hastily, " I shall not presume to urge the 
 claims of my own church upon you. It is my 
 custom, however, to call upon all newcomers, for 
 the purpose of ascertaining their church affilia- 
 tions. More than once, I am glad to tell you, I 
 have been able to be of service, in the way of find- 
 ing a church home for strangers." 
 
 " Well, we ain't been to church since we came 
 back to America," stated Mrs. Hobbs. " Hoddy, 
 he don't care much for church, and I well, I've 
 been kind of busy." 
 
 The woman's expression appeared to shut the 
 door upon further inquiry. Mr. Pettibone paused 
 to reflect, the memory of the gloomy young face 
 below stairs recurring to his mind. 
 
 " Most people need friends," he said persua- 
 sively. " And I'll venture to tell you, Mrs. 
 Hobbs, that I could not help seeing that your 
 son " 
 
 He paused to choose his words with care: 
 
 " Er in short, he struck me as being de- 
 pressed, perhaps I would better say harassed
 
 ii2 NEIGHBORS 
 
 over something. Young men interest me strongly. 
 I er have a son, myself, growing up." 
 
 The woman's stiff features unbent in a smile. 
 
 " Your son ain't so very old, is he? If you're 
 the Mr. Pettibone I've heard my customers tell 
 about in the shop." 
 
 The minister's pale face became suffused with 
 youthful color, but he achieved his reply with 
 creditable dignity. 
 
 " The fact that my son is er still in his 
 infancy does not impugn my statement," he said 
 strongly. " If a young person, of either sex, is 
 unhappy, that person is, in my opinion, liable to 
 peculiar temptation." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Well, I don't know as I mind telling you 
 what ails my boy," she said: " He was set and 
 determined on going to the war." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 The monosyllable, exhaled mildly from the 
 minister's lips expressed his sudden illumination, 
 tinged with a certain inchoate sympathy. 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs glanced at him suspiciously, her 
 needle like a slim dagger poised in air. 
 
 " I guess you wouldn't want your boy put 
 down in a nasty muddy trench to be fired at," she 
 said. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Pettibone, drawing his
 
 NEIGHBORS 113 
 
 brows together. "No; I should not. . . . And 
 
 yet " 
 
 " For goodness sake ! I hope you ain't going 
 to encourage him in any such foolishness! " cried 
 Mrs. Hobbs, with sudden sharpness. " It was all 
 I could do to coax him over here to America, 
 where he'd be safe. I got down on my knees to 
 my own child, I did ! An' even then he wouldn't 
 have come, but the doctor said I had heart trouble 
 an' was liable to die most any minute, if I got 
 excited." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone gazed at the woman with strong 
 kindness in his eyes. But he offered no comment 
 on what she had said. 
 
 After a moment of silence she went on : 
 
 " I'm willing to work my fingers to the bone for 
 Hoddy, and he knows it. Yet all he thinks about 
 day and night is getting back to England. I 
 guess he wants to get killed and leave me 
 alone." 
 
 Her voice trailed off in a sob. She wiped her 
 eyes on the gaudy garment she was fashioning. 
 
 " But I tell him I'll jab a hatpin through my 
 heart before I let him go. And I will, too! I'm 
 not going to give up my son to any old King or 
 Czar; why should I? I'm an American." 
 
 Is your husband ? I suppose Mr. Hobbs 
 
 is not living? "
 
 n 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Mr. Pettibone's voice, like his eyes, conveyed 
 his perplexed compassion. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Hobbs, after a pause, " I 
 call myself a widow. But I don't know whether 
 Hobbs is dead or alive. I don't care so much, 
 either. He was a seafaring man. He never 
 came back from his last voyage. They said he 
 deserted in a China port. But folks have a way 
 of disappearing in those parts, and you never can 
 tell. . . . That was years ago." 
 
 The minister nodded thoughtfully. 
 
 " I see I see," he murmured. " You have 
 only your boy." 
 
 The sudden passion of mother-love which flared 
 up in the woman's sallow face startled him. It 
 was as if the sun had suddenly burst forth upon 
 a sodden landscape, glorifying it to an evanescent 
 splendor. Yet she only said, with a sigh: 
 
 " Hoddy's always been a good boy." 
 
 " He seems an intelligent fellow," Mr. Petti- 
 bone recollected vaguely. 
 
 It occurred to him that he should be going, in 
 order to compass the other visits he had planned. 
 
 " He's had the best of schooling," Mrs. Hobbs 
 said proudly. " I had a shop in London, sir. 
 Hobbs set me up in a small way, for fear, as 
 he said, something might 'appen to him. When 
 the war broke out my boy was nearly through
 
 NEIGHBORS 115 
 
 the London Technical School. He'd have fin- 
 ished in another six months. But when it came 
 to enlisting for the war and talk of conscription, 
 I sold out and came straight home. ... I guess 
 I had a right to come home. I wasn't no Lon- 
 doner. And my boy's American, if he was born 
 on the other side." 
 
 " He wouldn't acknowledge it," said Mr. Petti- 
 bone, as he rose to go. " He told me his name 
 was Kitchener Hobbs." 
 
 " That was his father's doings," Mrs. Hobbs 
 said fretfully. " I wanted to call him George 
 Washington; but my husband was a Britisher, 
 through and through. He named him Horatio 
 Herbert Kitchener." 
 
 She followed her visitor to the door, trailing 
 dropped spools and lengths of scarlet cord behind 
 her. 
 
 " I don't want my affairs talked about," she 
 said, as the minister shook her limp hand at part- 
 ing. " We want to keep to ourselves and not 
 bother with anybody, me and Hoddy. I can't say 
 what possessed me to tell you what I did. But 
 if you could keep Hoddy's mind off soldiering, I 
 might maybe " 
 
 ' You may trust my discretion, madam," Mr. 
 Pettibone assured her; "and I shall be glad of 
 another opportunity of talking with your boy."
 
 n6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 The sun was near its setting as the minister 
 walked slowly down the long village street, his 
 hands folded loosely behind him. He noted ab- 
 stractedly the bands of pale yellow and amethyst 
 deepening to dull crimson, which made of the 
 arched vista of naked boughs a groined window 
 more splendid than that of any cathedral. He 
 was thinking over his late interview with Mrs. 
 Hobbs, and in the light of it interpreting albeit 
 in a somewhat sober and middle-aged fashion 
 the look he had seen on the face of George Trim- 
 mer's shoe clerk. It was difficult for Mr. Petti- 
 bone to comprehend the position of the young 
 Englishman, yet in spite of himself he found his 
 sympathy going out to him, rather than to the 
 woman. 
 
 " I cannot approve of warfare," mused Mr. 
 Pettibone, shaking his head: "Warfare is un- 
 civilized, degrading, even brutalizing; and yet 
 no woman has the right to strangle the convic- 
 tions of a man." 
 
 He was still pondering these paradoxical con- 
 clusions when he arrived before the rather dilapi- 
 dated cottage, bearing the brilliantly new sign of 
 Malvina Bennett, dressmaker.
 
 XI 
 
 OLD Mrs. Bennett opened the door in re- 
 sponse to Mr. Pettibone's knock. She was 
 a very small and withered old woman with 
 bent shoulders, which appeared in some remote 
 period of time to have absorbed the semblance 
 of a neck. 
 
 She peered suspiciously at the minister over the 
 rims of her old-fashioned steel spectacles. 
 
 " I guess you'd better step inside," she said. 
 " The air drors is something terrible when the 
 door's open." 
 
 The pent-up atmosphere within the little house 
 appeared to be clamoring for reinforcements; in 
 it were reminiscences of boiled vegetables, fried 
 things, kerosene, feather beds of ancient lineage 
 and descent, of well-conserved black clothes and 
 old stuffed furniture, with the more insistent 
 aroma of a chill cellar, where lingered the ghosts 
 of vegetables, pickles, and smoked meats. Old 
 Mrs. Bennett blinked vaguely at the tall man in 
 the dimly lighted passage. 
 
 "Be you the sewin'-m'chine agent?" she de- 
 
 "7
 
 n8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 manded, in her high quavering voice. " Because 
 if you be, Malviny says " 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Bennett," the minister 
 interrupted in his unruffled voice. " I see you 
 fail to remember me I am Mr. Pettibone, pastor 
 of the Presbyterian Church. I had the pleasure 
 of calling upon you last winter." 
 
 " Well, that cert'nly is one on me ! " crowed 
 the old lady. . . . "Malviny! Malviny!" 
 
 The sound of a sewing-machine driven at full 
 speed ceased at the strident call, and Miss Ben- 
 nett's voice issued from the stuffy little room in 
 the rear of the hall: 
 
 "What is it, Ma?" 
 
 " Here's the minister come t' call, 'n' I went 'n' 
 mistook him f'r th' sewin'-m'chine agent ! " 
 
 Miss Malvina, instant with apology and ex- 
 planation, piloted Mr. Pettibone to the parlor, 
 where a sofa and several chairs covered with 
 black hair-cloth presided over a marble-topped 
 table whose chief ornament was a symbolic cross, 
 wrought in waxwork in the days of Miss Malvi- 
 na's youth and carefully guarded from the tooth 
 of time by a glass cover. 
 
 " Ma's eyesight ain't s' very good lately," 
 offered Miss Malvina, " 'n' my sewin'-m'chine 
 makes sech a racket I can't hear m'self think." 
 
 " I suppose you're busy, as usual," chimed in
 
 NEIGHBORS 119 
 
 the minister cheerfully. He was thinking his wife 
 must have been mistaken about the new dress- 
 maker. Surely there should be work enough in 
 Innisfield for both women. 
 
 " I suppose mebbe Philura I mean Mis' Rev'- 
 ren' Pettibone must 'a' told you?" she said in 
 a low tone, not meant for the ears of Ma. 
 
 "You mean ?" 
 
 Miss Malvina nodded and hitched her chair 
 closer to the minister's. 
 
 " I've kep' it from Ma, so far. I don't want 
 her t' git all riled up. . . . You know how 'tis 
 with a person o' her age. . . . Course I ain't 
 talkin' 'bout it t' most other folks, neither; but 
 that there Madam Louise well, I don't mind 
 tellin' my minister she's took my cust'mers right 
 away from me : folks I'd done fer sense they was 
 babies." 
 
 " This is really distressing, Miss Malvina," 
 said the minister, " and to think that all this time 
 
 I have neglected You perhaps recall the 
 
 circumstances connected with your bringing 
 Mrs. Pettibone's er robe, if that is the proper 
 term for so beautiful a garment to the par- 
 sonage." 
 
 He had drawn the depleted roll of bills from 
 his pocket and was gazing at Miss Bennett, his 
 kind face puckered with distress.
 
 120 NEIGHBORS 
 
 The little dressmaker threw herself back in her 
 chair with a tragic gesture of dismay. 
 
 " Ef I ain't always a-puttin' my foot in! " she 
 exclaimed. . . . "Ma! Seems t' me I smell 
 them turnips burnin'; put some more water in the 
 pot, will you? " 
 
 On the heels of Mrs. Bennett's departure her 
 daughter turned again to the minister. 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' t' take a cent for makin' that 
 there negligee," she said positively. ; ' Tain't 
 much I kin do fer folks, but makin' up them light 
 blue goods f'r Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone was a 
 reel pleasure, 'n' sewin' on th' lace 'n' all. I kep* 
 a-thinkin' all th' while how perfec'ly sweet she 
 was a-goin' t' look a-holdin' her baby up against 
 them satin bows. ... I hope 'n' pray he don't 
 spile 'em." 
 
 " But my dear Miss Malvina," protested Mr. 
 Pettibone. " Let me assure you that while we 
 appreciate to the full your " 
 
 " I didn't tell you everythin'," interrupted the 
 little dressmaker. " The Lord's b'en reel good 
 t' me, 'n' I'm 's prosp'rous an' contented 's a 
 mouse in a cheese. I'll tell you, I jes' took 
 th' bit in m' teeth an' went 'n' interviewed that 
 
 woman- 
 
 4 You mean Mrs. Hobbs?" 
 Miss Malvina nodded briskly.
 
 NEIGHBORS 121 
 
 " She can't no more dressmake 'n' a cat c'n sing. 
 I'm helpin' her out." 
 
 "You are helping?" 
 
 " Finishin' off 'n' like that. But I don't take no 
 respons'bility on my shoulders for patterns; an' of 
 
 all th' redic'lous Jest you wait tell you see 
 
 Mis' Obed Salter an' Mis' Undertaker Beels 
 a-walkin' down the center aisle a-Sunday. I'll bet 
 you'll forget your text. . . . But there ! I ought 
 n't to 'a' spoke that-away." 
 
 Mrs. Bennett sailed into the room, her ancient 
 nose in the air. " Nex' time you want t' git red 
 o' me, Malviny," she said, " you don't need t' 
 tell no lie : them turnips wa'n't even bilin' ! " 
 
 Mr. Pettibone arose with haste. 
 
 u Can you er tell me anything concerning 
 your new neighbors? " he asked. " I had thought 
 of calling there." 
 
 "Well, I sh'd remark! " chirruped Miss Mal- 
 vina. " I feel 's o' I know 'em intimate what 
 with helpin' 'em clean an' settle, an' Mad'lane 
 runnin' in th' back door, friendly, most any min- 
 ute. I'm teachin' her t' talk, so 's folks c'n under- 
 stan' what she's tryin' t' say ... I had t' laugh, 
 first off. But she's reel bright 'n' ketches on 
 somethin' wonderful. Her pa c'n talk pretty 
 good, considerin' he's fur'n. Course he can't 
 help that! Yes, sir; Mr. Dassay is what / call
 
 122 NEIGHBORS 
 
 a reel gent'man. 'N' outside present comp'ny, 
 the' ain't many of 'em t' be found in this 'ere 
 town." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone walked home quickly in the early 
 darkness, which greeted him as he emerged upon 
 the old familiar doorstep of the house which had 
 sheltered the sober late blooming of his second 
 courtship and marriage. He seldom thought of 
 his first wife in these days; many years had 
 elapsed since he believed his broken heart buried 
 deep beneath the rough sod of the village church- 
 yard. And in truth something of himself his 
 young manhood, his shattered dreams of future 
 happiness, the fervent upspringing of his spirit to 
 hers had never risen from the chill silence which 
 enshrouded her there. But today a look in the soft 
 dark eyes of Madelaine Desaye, something in the 
 graceful bend of her head as she sat modestly 
 listening to the somewhat labored conversation 
 between her father and himself, had brought back 
 the vivid image of Mary. And now, as he hurried 
 homeward, she seemed flitting by his side in the 
 deepening twilight, as beautiful, as loving, as 
 when in her first youth she had given herself to 
 him. 
 
 He half put out his hand to the unsubstantial 
 presence, then as quickly withdrew it. There was 
 no bridging of the chasm possible. And were it
 
 NEIGHBORS 123 
 
 possible, he knew he would not choose to call her 
 back. . . . 
 
 The mother of his son sat waiting for him by 
 the study fire. There was a warm rose of wel- 
 come in her uplifted face which vanished at the 
 touch of his cold lips. 
 
 "What has happened, Silas?" she asked 
 quickly. " You look pale and " 
 
 " Nothing nothing at all, my dear Philura," 
 he assured her. " It is damp and er chilly out- 
 side, and I I believe I am a little tired. Parish 
 visiting is never an easy task." 
 
 She watched him anxiously while they were eat- 
 ing their supper, and uneasily aware of her search- 
 ing eyes he made a conscious effort to entertain 
 her, telling her of Mrs. Hobbs and her English 
 son; of the generosity of Malvina Bennett at 
 which she demurred and finally of his visit to 
 the Desayes. 
 
 She presently forgot her uneasiness in eager 
 questions about the father and daughter, the fur- 
 nishing of the house and the probable permanency 
 of her new tenants. 
 
 " If they'll only stay all summer, Silas, we can 
 buy the Ford runabout. You could sell the horse 
 and buggy, and the barn will do perfectly, just as 
 it is. It would be such a help in out of town calls, 
 dear."
 
 i2 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 He did not deny this; and the curious sense of 
 aloofness which she had felt like a chill mist be- 
 tween them gradually disappeared in the sunshine 
 of renewed domesticity. 
 
 " That Frenchman, Desaye," he told her, " is a 
 most interesting person. It seems he is a native 
 of Alsace, and at the outbreak of the war, fearing 
 reprisals from his German neighbors, with whom 
 he had never been on the best of terms, he decided 
 wisely or unwisely to come to America. They 
 have some small means, I should say. But whether 
 they will remain in Innisfield or not depends 
 wholly upon circumstances." 
 
 " You mean whether they like it here or not? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 " Precisely, my dear. And that, as the boys 
 say, ' is up to us'." 
 
 He still seemed struggling with some unknown 
 depression, difficult to shake off. Her eyes tim- 
 idly questioned his, but without response. 
 
 " Then they are not Catholics? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Such religion as they have bears no theolog- 
 ical brand," he said dryly. 
 
 " And you're quite sure you feel well, Silas? " 
 
 He arose from the supper-table with his usual 
 'dignified deliberation. 
 
 " My dear Philura," he said, " Why will you
 
 NEIGHBORS 125 
 
 persist in supposing me ill? Isn't it one 
 of your bed-rock principles to er think 
 health?'' 
 
 She lowered her eyes. 
 ' Yes, Silas," she said meekly. 
 
 He worked diligently in his study that evening, 
 covering uncounted large pages with a dissertation 
 on the life and labors of Saint Paul, garnered 
 from the shelves of his library and the recesses 
 of his own well-stored mind. It was past eleven 
 o'clock when he finally placed the cap-sheaf of a 
 triumphant martyrdom on the apostolic career. 
 The house was very quiet, so quiet that the soft 
 thud of snow against the window was distinctly 
 audible. He arose, crossed the floor noiselessly 
 in his slippered feet and looked out. All sem- 
 blance of spring had vanished in the whirling 
 drift; it might have been January, and yet it was 
 April, and all this show and bluster of winter 
 must shortly disappear before the advancing sun. 
 Half against his will, his thoughts reverted once 
 more to the revery of the early evening and his 
 subsequent discomfiture under the blue eyes of 
 Philura. Was it a species of infidelity to her to 
 return to his lost Mary even in memory? He 
 swept his hand across his tired eyes. Life was a 
 strange, long journey, at best, and one must travel 
 it, for the most part, alone, with only thoughts
 
 126 NEIGHBORS 
 
 unseen, unknown, and often unbidden for 
 company. 
 
 A faint, wailing cry from above roused him. 
 Then the sound of her gentle foot on the floor. 
 Was the response of the Infinite Affection as 
 sure?
 
 XII 
 
 IF Etienne Desaye had ever regretted his 
 hastily formed decision to immigrate to 
 America he never confessed it to his daugh- 
 ter Madeleine. He had likewise refrained from 
 telling her what unspeakable things he feared in 
 the land of their nativity. He contented himself 
 with praising America. It was a safe place, he 
 declared, for persons like themselves, being far 
 removed from the tumult and dangers of war and 
 withal hospitable to strangers. One might have 
 supposed from listening to the worthy gentleman's 
 dissertations on the land of his adoption that the 
 splendid song of the Nativity had been composed 
 and rendered by angelic choirs solely or at least 
 chiefly for the town of Boston. It was here 
 that the wanderers first found refuge, and where 
 for a matter of six months they remained, living 
 in a dark, illy-ventilated flat in South Boston, a 
 locality which was they discovered shortly as 
 different as could be well imagined from any city, 
 town, or village of France. Rents were high, pro- 
 visions of an unthinkable expense, and service im- 
 possible to procure. It was during these initial 
 
 127
 
 128 NEIGHBORS 
 
 weeks that Madeleine, a mere child up to this 
 time, became the practical woman of affairs. She 
 learned to market and to cook, and the touch of 
 her light hand kept all things clean and well 
 ordered or so it seemed to her father, who knew 
 nothing of the hours his child spent in noiseless 
 dusting and polishing while he slept, rousing for 
 his chocolate, when Madeleine brought it steam- 
 ing to his bedside. 
 
 In the first days of spring, when bunches of 
 wilted violets and the rarer arbutus began to be 
 hawked about the streets the girl begged for the 
 country. 
 
 " This American town is very ugly, mon pere" 
 she said piteously; " and in the summer this apart- 
 ment will be too warm under its roof of tin. 
 Think also of a street named Milk! " 
 
 M. Desaye raised abstracted eyes from the 
 book in which he had buried his regrets. 
 
 "You wish again to remove?" he inquired 
 mildly ; " but where ? Do you not find these rooms 
 sufficiently commodious? It is true that the town 
 is ugly; but what would you? We are far from 
 France." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 
 
 Madeleine explained. 
 
 Even in America one might find trees and grass, 
 of a sort, she stated. There were also small cot-
 
 NEIGHBORS 129 
 
 tages, where one might dwell, in localities where 
 eggs and vegetables could be procured of an in- 
 dubitable freshness. Her young eyes were eager, 
 her cheeks flushed with hope. 
 
 It is probable that M. Desaye would have con- 
 tinued to occupy the dreary little flat in South 
 Boston without thought of change, since in the 
 privacy of his own mind he had already con- 
 demned America and in particular Boston as 
 a most undesirable place of residence. He had 
 made a mistake, he told himself, to be somehow 
 endured till the war was at an end. He would 
 then return to France, settle in some unmolested 
 village, where in good time he would arrange a 
 suitable marriage for his daughter. During the 
 months or years which must necessarily elapse 
 before this desirable denouement, he had his be- 
 loved books, and for the rest little mattered. But 
 he was a good father, mindful when not too 
 absorbed in his literary pursuits of his mother- 
 less child. So the brief conversation resulted in 
 various pilgrimages to more or less ugly suburbs 
 where the rents were of a highness! And 
 finally, by the merest chance to a town further 
 away, amid real trees and fields, with country roads 
 and farms not far distant. Here was a vacant 
 house, with the sun looking in through its small- 
 paned windows; here also were shade-trees, shrubs,
 
 130 NEIGHBORS 
 
 plenty of space for flowers in beds and borders, 
 and best of all an indubitable apple-tree with 
 promise of abundant fruitage already visible on 
 its gnarled boughs. 
 
 Here Madeleine, a fresher rose blooming in her 
 cheeks, was presently singing about her work, 
 which appeared less irksome than in the ugly city 
 rooms. And here also, M. Desaye, once more 
 content, resigned himself to the narcotic soothing 
 of his books, satisfied that when the proper time 
 arrived for the marriage of Madeleine the dove 
 of peace would be brooding his distracted country. 
 He even permitted himself to hope that his be- 
 loved Alsace might be restored to France, with all 
 her drooping lilies freshened into new beauty. But 
 of this soaring aspiration he said nothing, bitterly 
 realizing the Teuton prowess. Even in American 
 towns and villages one's eyes and ears were con- 
 stantly assailed by uncouth German names and 
 the dissonant speech of the foe. But what would 
 you? It was always possible to avoid such per- 
 sons "Cochons!" M. Desaye characterized 
 them under indignant breath which epithet as 
 a matter of course, is to be metaphorically inter- 
 preted. As for the Americans as it pleased the 
 English-speaking inhabitants of this crude, almost 
 barbaric country to call themselves one might 
 spend a not unprofitable period in studying their
 
 NEIGHBORS 131 
 
 strange customs. To this end M. Desaye ap- 
 plied himself with some diligence to the mastery 
 of the English tongue. 
 
 It was a bete of a language, being entirely lack- 
 ing in the facile grace of the French; but again, 
 what would you ? The few the very few persons 
 he had met in America who professed to speak 
 his own language accomplished such excruciating 
 torture of his sensitive ears that he begged them 
 almost with tears to desist. " Your pardon, 
 Madame (or Monsieur)" as the case might be 
 " but I will spik to you V Anglais," he would 
 say with dignity. There was a certain fat, blank 
 book reposing in M. Desaye's escritoire in which 
 from time to time he wrote in careful French his 
 impressions of " The Natives of America." Some- 
 where in the back of his brain lurked the secret 
 aspiration of one day achieving a literary reputa- 
 tion ; and why not begin with these deliberate and 
 profound studies of foreign life, as he was now 
 beholding it? 
 
 Miss Malvina Bennett was very far from real- 
 izing the sort of interest she had aroused in her 
 neighbor. But she found a new zest in living as 
 the spring advanced and the yard next door began 
 to bud and blossom under the intelligent care of 
 the Desayes. It was pleasant to sit by her low 
 window-sill, which afforded a convenient resting-
 
 132 NEIGHBORS 
 
 place for spools, buttons, and other properties of 
 her trade, and likewise commanded a sweeping 
 view of the neighboring garden and front porch. 
 
 " He's a-settin' out on the stoop this mornin', 
 with his book, es usual," she would tell her 
 mother. " An' Mad'lane's got her dish-towels 
 spread on th' barb'ry bush t' dry. Now she's 
 diggin' her posies; did y' ever see the beat o' 
 them two?" 
 
 And Ma Bennett would draw her far-seeing 
 specs over her faded eyes and gaze and gaze at 
 the spectacle of M. Desaye in a frogged velvet 
 coat, slowly turning the pages of his book, and of 
 the light figure of the girl coming and going in her 
 pink cotton frock. 
 
 "Land, Malviny!" she would say, " ef he 
 ain't started up t' come over here ag'in. What 
 in creation c'n he want this time o' day?" 
 
 Not being in the secret of the fat blank book, 
 which by now boasted several pages covered with 
 exquisite script recording the writer's impressions 
 of " Une Couturlere d'Amerique" Miss Malvina 
 could only speculate vaguely as to the motives 
 which brought her neighbor so frequently to her 
 door. After one or two occasions devoted to cer- 
 emonial interviews in the hair-cloth parlor, Miss 
 Malvina decided not " t' make comp'ny " of the 
 gentleman from foreign parts.
 
 NEIGHBORS 133 
 
 " 'Tain't as if he was a reg'lar man" she told 
 Ma; "he's 's differ'nt from th' men-folks 'round 
 here 's chalk is from cheese." 
 
 Having arrived at this sagacious conclusion, 
 Miss Malvina fell into the easy habit of permit- 
 ting M. Desaye and his daughter the freedom of 
 the kitchen, where she kept her sewing-machine 
 during the months when fire was a necessity. 
 
 " Set right down in th' rockin'-cheer," she 
 would say hospitably. " I c'n stitch up this 'ere 
 seam in two jerks of a lamb's tail, then we c'n 
 talk." 
 
 On a radiant afternoon in early May behold 
 them thus: Miss Malvina industriously binding 
 the seams of a " robe " destined to enhance the 
 fading charms of Mrs. Obed Salter; Ma sleepily 
 knitting, while the cat played with her ball of 
 yarn under the table, and M. Desaye paying dili- 
 gent heed to the little dressmaker's fluent conver- 
 sation. After various unsuccessful attempts to 
 master her frequent and remarkable figures of 
 speech M. Desaye had concluded that English 
 was a vastly more malleable language than he had 
 at first supposed it. He now resorted to the 
 Socratic method: 
 
 " Mees Malvina," he observed blandly, " I 'ave 
 hear you spik of two jerk of ze tail of ze lamb. 
 I have in my dictionnalre earnestly sought zose
 
 i 3 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 words; but as yet I do not comprehen' ze meaning. 
 You will of your kin'ness tell me if I also s'ould 
 spik zose words, and on what occasion?" 
 
 Miss Bennett gazed pityingly at her visitor. He 
 was a personable figure of a man, though regret- 
 tably foreign in his appearance. Even his gar- 
 ments, though well-fitting and of fine material, did 
 not in the least resemble American store clothes. 
 His eyes, very dark and keen, appeared to emit 
 occasional sparkles of disconcerting mirth. 
 
 Miss Malvina sniffed tentatively. 
 
 " I don' know as I ever give th' subjec' any 
 earnest consid'ration," she said thoughtfully. 
 " You ain't obliged t' say it : but 'twon't hurt you 
 none t' learn t' talk like civilized folks." 
 
 " Voila! " he exclaimed eagerly; " zat is w'at I 
 wish to spik quite correct. You will teach me 
 eh?" 
 
 He smiled engagingly, the corners of his up- 
 turned mustache lending an agreeable emphasis to 
 his words. 
 
 " I s'all learn n'est-ce-pas? in one two jerk 
 of a lamb-tail eh? . . . Do I say exactement? " 
 
 Miss Malvina cackled. 
 
 " You cert'nly do beat th' Dutch ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " But you might's well leave the pa an' 
 ma off your remarks. . . . Mebbe I'd better turn 
 to an' learn French; I says t' Mad'lane yiste'day,
 
 NEIGHBORS 135 
 
 ' Bong swore,' I says, jest like that. You'd ought 
 t' 'a' heard her laugh." 
 
 M. Desaye looked pained. 
 
 " My daughter is young excessivement an' 
 w'at you call foolish," he said. 
 
 He shook his head: 
 
 " Do not, I beg, attempt to spik our language. 
 It ees too" 
 
 " Oh, 'tain't so bad as I thought, first off," in- 
 terrupted Miss Malvina kindly. " I'll bet I'll be 
 parly-vooin' 's well 's th' next one, b'fore you 
 know it. 'T would be kind o' fun, I think. Me 
 an' Mad'lane's gittin' long first-rate. I'm learnin' 
 her, so 't she'll be up t' snuff in no time." 
 
 "Up-t-snuff," repeated M. Desage. "What 
 ees zat word mos' interessant? " 
 
 Miss Malvina, two pins firmly clenched between 
 her teeth, paused to survey a twisting seam. 
 
 " Up t' snuff means what you ain't/' she said 
 cruelly. . . . But there! I guess that wa'n't s' 
 very nice o' me seein' you ain't in no ways t' 
 blame f'r bein' French. . . . Ef th' truth was 
 knowed, mebbe that's jest what ails Mis' Hobbs : 
 a-tryin' t' be fur'n when she ain't. Ef I couldn't 
 do no better 'n that on a dress-waist, I'd eat my 
 best bunnit! " 
 
 " It ees idiome! n'est-ce-pas? * Eat my bes'
 
 136 NEIGHBORS 
 
 bunnit?' All idiomef I sink. Ah, vary great 
 of interes' oui! " 
 
 He wrote briskly in a leather-covered memo- 
 randum book, while Miss Malvina bent her mind 
 upon the intricate problem of the misshapen 
 seam. 
 
 " Malviny," said Ma Bennett, who had sud- 
 denly come to life in the act of rescuing her ball 
 of yarn from the cat, " I see Mad'lane out there 
 talkin' t' a young man over th' fence. . . . 
 Looks t' me like Harry Schwartz." 
 
 "Yes; 'tis," confirmed Miss Malvina placidly. 
 " Well, Harry's a reel nice young feller, an' his 
 folks has got money; I'd like t' see Mad'lane with 
 a likely beau. She's a good girl V pretty 's a 
 pink." 
 
 M. Desaye darted an inquiring look toward his 
 own menage. Then he arose, restored the memo- 
 randum book to his pocket without apparent haste 
 and approached Ma Bennett, as was his invari- 
 able procedure on arrival and departure. 
 
 "Madame," said he, heels together, hand over 
 his heart, " mes compliments! I am excessive- 
 ment oblige for your hospitalite." 
 
 " Land sakes ! don't mention it ! " protested 
 Ma. 
 
 No one, as far as she could remember, had ever 
 paid her the slightest deference. It gave her an
 
 NEIGHBORS 137 
 
 added sense of self-importance which she found 
 singularly agreeable. 
 
 " Permettez moi," continued the Frenchman, 
 still more politely, as he restored the disputed ball 
 of yarn to its lawful owner. 
 
 Miss Malvina dropped her work in her lap and 
 with a subdued sparkle under her lids awaited her 
 own particular leave-taking. It was customarily 
 not less ceremonial than that accorded to Ma, but 
 with a barely perceptible shade of difference an 
 added savor of esteem, apparent to Miss Malvina 
 alone. Today, to her surprise, M. Desaye re- 
 treated nimbly toward the door: 
 
 " Mees Malvina, adieu! my t'anks, my com- 
 pliment ! " was all he said, as he backed out of 
 the door, in perfect form. 
 
 ' Well, did you ever ! " sniffed the little dress- 
 maker, visibly dismayed. 
 
 " Seems like he's in a hurry," observed Ma 
 sagaciously. " Mebbe he's got his eye on Mad'- 
 lane's beau; an' then ag'in, mebbe's he's mad at 
 somethin' er other. I wouldn't git too f'miliar 
 with a fur'ner, ef I was you, Malviny. They 
 ain't t' be trusted." 
 
 But Miss Malvina's sewing-machine opposed 
 a noisy whir of defiance to Ma's unfounded 
 opinions.
 
 XIII 
 
 MADELEINE DESAYE, in her pink cot- 
 ton gown the color of a rose a rare 
 tint which appeared to be reflected 
 more richly in her glowing face was still talking 
 or was it merely listening? to the tall young 
 man on the further side of the fence, when M. 
 Desaye, with no undue appearance of haste, joined 
 his daughter. One might have supposed he had 
 at that moment first perceived the stalwart person 
 of the intruder, so genuine and unaffected was his 
 surprise. 
 
 " Monsieur," he murmured gently, ** possess ze 
 avantage is it not? I have not ze plaisir 
 nonf" 
 
 The girl turned quickly, and in the act a wave 
 of crimson submerged the warm rose of her 
 cheek. 
 
 " Oh! " she breathed, quite and yet not quite 
 as an American girl would have spoken the small 
 word signifying surprise and pleasure or was it 
 merely dismay? 
 
 The young man's head was bare and the wind 
 138
 
 NEIGHBORS 139 
 
 blew his curly brown hair about his blue eyes, 
 which were frankly occupied with the girl to the 
 exclusion of all else. But at the tactful interrup- 
 tion meant without doubt to hold a shade of re- 
 proof he glanced up. 
 
 " Your father? " he asked cheerfully. " Glad 
 to know you, sir. I had the pleasure of meeting 
 Miss Desaye some weeks ago. . . . Perhaps she 
 told you of the spill." 
 
 " Of ze s-s-pill? " echoed the older man, still 
 bland but unsmiling. " I fear I do not un'erstan'. 
 Ze word ees not familiar. An' you ? " 
 
 He turned to his daughter. 
 
 " You have not introduce, my Madeleine. 
 Were, par example, ees your civilite? " 
 
 His playful manner took all sting from his 
 words or so young Harry Schwartz was think- 
 ing. He was therefore quite unprepared for what 
 followed : 
 
 " Permit me to present to to my fat'er 
 M'sieu' M'sieu' Henri Le Noir" she said 
 breathlessly, and flashed a pleading glance at the 
 partner of her late adventure. 
 
 "A-a-ah!" 
 
 M. Desaye's voice held quick relief, undisguised 
 satisfaction, mingled with cautious reserve but 
 the sort of reserve which is ready to melt into 
 complete cordiality.
 
 1 40 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "A compatriote eh? . . . Monsieur, I grasp 
 your hand with great pleasure ! " 
 
 Harry Schwartz understood and took instant 
 advantage of the proffered hand; the rapidly 
 spoken French phrase troubled him. He shook 
 his head regretfully. " I didn't learn much French 
 in school," he acknowledged. 
 
 " Voila! You aire Americaine born, I per- 
 ceive." 
 
 M. Desaye's tone expressed keen regret: 
 
 " But, my frien', you s'ould learn ze language 
 her edit aire. Eet ees great pitie, such ignorant. 
 Forgive, eef I spik wizout disguise of sentiment." 
 
 The young man drew his frank brows together 
 in a puzzled frown. He was trying, with small 
 success, to comprehend not merely M. Desaye's 
 halting English, but the singular sea-change which 
 had come over his own honest name. Why had 
 Madeleine (he already thought of her as Made- 
 leine) called him Le Noir? In the meantime it 
 appeared necessary to say the right thing if 
 one could by any means be sure of it to this in- 
 sistent person in the frogged velvet coat. 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry I'm such an ignoramus," 
 he blurted out. " But I guess I could make a 
 stab at French if I put my mind to it. I wish I 
 Couldn't you teach me, sir! I'd study like a 
 nailer. I vow I would ! "
 
 NEIGHBORS 141 
 
 It was a credit to M. Desaye's quick wits, as 
 well as to his recent studies in the singular English 
 idioms, that he grasped the import of this speech. 
 His grave face brightened. 
 
 " I am not professor of French language an' 
 literature," he stated with dignity. " Still to 
 oblige a compatriote who will, sans doute, ac- 
 quire his own language with ease I s'all have 
 ze mos' great plaisir. You will begin imme- 
 diatement, n'est-ce-pas? I will cause you to for- 
 get ze fac' lamentable zat you aire born Ameri- 
 caine." 
 
 " Oh, I say," murmured the astonished re- 
 cipient of this magnificent offer. " You are a 
 lot too good, sir; but I'm afraid I " 
 
 He stole a look at the girl. She was appar- 
 ently intent upon the spray of lilac bloom she 
 was slowly denuding of its florets. Upon the 
 melting rose of her cheek the dark lashes cast a 
 distracting shadow; about the corners of her 
 mouth an elusive dimple came and went. 
 
 " If you think I could learn, sir. I was never 
 any good at Latin " 
 
 " Certainement! " cried M. Desaye, with some 
 impatience. " Not for nossing have you ze sang- 
 froid to spik to my daughter. Allans! I now 
 present to you book. You s'all also learn many 
 sings mos' necessaire for polite."
 
 142 NEIGHBORS 
 
 He held the gate wide and Harry Schwartz 
 entered, his brow still corrugated with unaccus- 
 tomed thought. Madeleine raised her eyes for 
 an instant. But she did not smile. He even 
 thought he detected a shade of displeasure in the 
 look she bent upon him, as he lingered behind 
 the impetuous Frenchman, who had dashed into 
 the house in quest of the initial medium of in- 
 struction. 
 
 "What's the matter with my name?" he in- 
 quired. " Did you forget it? " 
 
 She surveyed him disdainfully from under her 
 lashes. 
 
 " Stupidef" she murmured. " Not for you do 
 I your so ogly name transfer to more beautiful 
 Francais. But for my fat'er, who ha-ate de- 
 tes' such German word. You un'erstan' oui? 
 Nevaire do I again spik to you, if you " 
 
 " You bet I won't ! " he promised eagerly. 
 
 " I'm not so slow. I get you O.K. But say 
 
 You won't mind if I take your father up on that 
 proposition, will you? I I'm keen to learn 
 French. Always wanted to; honest Injun, I'll 
 study evenings, an' " 
 
 Madeleine smiled inscrutably. 
 
 " Also, I learn to spik Englis'," she said. 
 "Vary queek I learn: Mees Malvina teach me 
 many sings in two jerk of lam'-tail. You see! "
 
 NEIGHBORS 143 
 
 " You mean the old maid dressmaker next 
 door?" he asked incredulously. "Is she teach- 
 ing you English? " 
 
 Madeleine nodded. 
 
 " Mon pere, aussi. We are mos' interes'. 
 We study idiome like ' you eat my bes' bonnet.' 
 . . . Mon Dieu! me I fin' your Englis' not 
 gentil, but mos' risible^ w'at you call fon-ny. 
 I bet dollaire I learn more queek zan you! my 
 star-alive, yes I " 
 
 " You sure are making some progress," agreed 
 the young man cheerfully. " But I can teach you, 
 too. I'll bet I can knock the spots out of Miss 
 Malvina, when it comes to idioms. I know 'em 
 all." 
 
 " You knock ze s-pots of Mees Malvina? Eet 
 ees mos' rude knock." 
 
 " Knock the spots is an idiom; it means er I 
 can lay all over Miss Malvina, when it comes to 
 teaching you good plain American. I can beat 
 her hollow ... or beat her to a frazzle means 
 the same thing. . . . She's old-fashioned." 
 
 11 Ol 1 fashion'?" 
 
 'Yes; behind the times not up-to-date. You 
 want to hitch your wagon to a star that's me ! " 
 
 And young Harry Schwartz grinned auda- 
 ciously. 
 
 " We also have idiome" she informed him.
 
 144 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " You s'all see. . . . But mon pere has discover 
 book of learning. He is not glad for me talk to 
 you." 
 
 "Why not? I flattered myself your father 
 cottoned to me." 
 
 She swept him a quaint curtsy. 
 
 " Goo'-by! I make myself of a sudden scurse, 
 
 like teeth of hen. Queek absent You un'er- 
 
 stan'?" 
 
 " By the living Jingo ! " mused Harry 
 Schwartz, as he walked away ten minutes later, a 
 copy of Fenelon's Telemachus under his arm, 
 " if she isn't a perfect peach ! ... Is little Ong- 
 ree in luck? You can just bet he is! " 
 
 And he tossed M. Desaye's treasured Fenelon 
 into the air and caught it again, to the imminent 
 peril of its old-world binding.
 
 XIV, 
 
 MRS. WESSELLS, her face drawn into 
 myriad puckers of protest, stripped the 
 suds from her red fingers and straight- 
 ened her long, lank back which appeared more 
 or less permanently bowed by much stooping over 
 laundry tubs. 
 
 " You ain't never a-goin' t' take that there 
 baby out t'day, in all this sun an' wind, be you? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone repeated her statement to that 
 effect, adding a request that Mrs. Wessells should 
 assist in lowering the baby-carriage down the 
 parsonage front steps. 
 
 Mrs. Wessells gazed searchingly at the min- 
 ister's wife. 
 
 " Say, the's one thing I'd like t' know, first off : 
 Was that baby took up t' th' attic b'fore you 
 brought him downstairs?" 
 
 " Why, of course not," replied Mrs. Pettibone, 
 with some impatience. " Why should the baby 
 be taken to the attic? " 
 
 " I might 'a' knowed she wouldn't 'a' took the 
 trouble," mourned Mrs. Wessells, rolling up her 
 
 145
 
 146 NEIGHBORS 
 
 eyes to the ceiling. " I'd ought t' 'a' tended t' 
 that m'self b'fore 'twas too late what with you 
 on th' flat o' your back an' Mr. Pettibone likely 
 never knowin' nothin', no more'n th' child. That 
 nurse from Boston was 'nough t' make a body 
 fergit t' say their pray'rs let alone lookin' after 
 other folk's children. 'S I says t' Wessells, * That 
 dratted woman,' I says, ' is what I call th' livin' 
 limit.' I hed all I c'd do t' stomick her sass. An' 
 I wouldn't 'ave neither, ef it hadn't 'a' be'n fer 
 you a-layin' upstairs on your dyin' bed " 
 
 " But I didn't die," protested Mrs. Pettibone. 
 " I'm alive and well, and so is Baby. He's gained 
 half a pound this week, Louisa." 
 
 " You don't say ! Well, I s'pose 'twon't hurt 
 none t' tell you now; but I never looked t' 
 see you 'round this 'ere kitchen agin. 'S I says 
 t' Wessells, * Poor Mr. Pettibone's a-goin' t' git 
 b'reaved a secon' time,' I says. * But where 
 there's a secon' th'll gen'ally be a third,' I says. 
 They kind o' git th' habit not that it's a bad 
 one, what with widows an' ol' maids a-plenty. I 
 guess you know how that is yourself, 'm." 
 
 " What about taking the baby to the 
 attic? " tactfully interrupted the second Mrs. 
 Pettibone. 
 
 " Oh, I guess you ain't lived all these years 
 without knowin' that sign. . . . You haven't
 
 NEIGHBORS 147 
 
 beared it eh? Well, I want t' know! Course 
 it's too late f'r that baby o' yourn now; but in case 
 th' was ever another you got t' take 'em up- 
 stairs b'fore you take 'em down, 'r else they'll 
 come down in th' world, 'stead o' risin'. I rec'lect 
 we didn't have no attic t' th' house where most o' 
 my childern was born; but I says t' Wessells, 
 ' You c'n take 'em up t' th' roof,' I says. . . . 
 Yes, ma'am! Ketch me a-n'glectin' my childern! 
 . . . Wessells kind hated t' try it, but I says t 1 
 'im, * You git th' ladder,' I says, * an' set it right 
 b' my winder,' I says. ' 'N' I'll han' Georgie out 
 's you go a-past. I horned this 'ere baby,' I says, 
 ' 'n' it's your part t' see to it he gits ahead in 
 th' world.' . . . * Suppose I sh'd drop 'im? ' says 
 Wessells. ' Don't you das,' I says. ' I'm boun' 
 an' de-termined t' have our Georgie go up in th' 
 world,' I says. . . . 'N' jest on account o' that, 
 th' ain't a smarter boy in this 'ere town 'n my 
 Georgie. I ain't a-goin' t' be s'prised t' see him 
 Pres'dent some o' these days. I bet th' time was 
 when The'dore Roos'velt an' Woodrow Wilson 
 was jest th' same age 's my Georgie, 'n' wore 
 their knee-pants an' like that, an' hed t' learn th' 
 differ'nce b'tween eight times seven and six times 
 nine ef th' is one. Georgie says th' is. My! 
 he's th' knowin'est boy! " 
 
 " Now if you'll help me lift the baby-carriage
 
 i 4 8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 down the steps," interrupted little Mrs. Petti- 
 bone. 
 
 " Did that critter from Boston tell you a stray 
 dog come along an' dug a hole right in under 
 your bedroom winder th' very nex' day after he 
 was born? " demanded Mrs. Wessells. 
 
 But Mrs. Pettibone pretended not to hear, being 
 already embarked upon her first proud maternal 
 pilgrimage, pushing the perambulator, which 
 seemed to have grown surprisingly heavy during 
 its long sojourn in the attic. 
 
 " Yes'm, 'twas a yeller dog I never seen b'fore; 
 he run right in th' yard where I was hangin' out 
 m' dish-towels an' I drove 'im off," came Mrs. 
 Wessell's pursuing voice. " But he come right 
 back, an' th' nex' thing I knowed when I 
 stepped out to throw some p'tato peels in th' 
 swill-pail there he was 's large 's life settin' b' 
 th' edge of a grave he'd dug 'n' howlin' t' beat 
 the cars! I never knowed it t' fail, Mis' Petti- 
 bone inside of a year, anyhow! So if anythin' 
 happens t' th' baby, r'member you got your 
 warnin' ! " 
 
 The last words borne on the warm May wind 
 reached Mrs. Pettibone's ears like a hateful echo 
 of her own thoughts. She stooped to tuck the 
 blankets more snugly about the sleeping child. 
 
 "I'm not afraid," she said to herself; "I'm
 
 NEIGHBORS 149 
 
 not going to think about losing him. Just because 
 I love him so doesn't mean that God will take 
 him away. God isn't like that ! " 
 
 At family prayers that morning a function 
 which had been resumed as soon as she was able 
 to come downstairs she had listened to her hus- 
 band's voice reading the decalogue. Of course 
 she had known the commandments ever since she 
 could remember; but one phrase had sounded in- 
 sistently in her ears while she bathed and dressed 
 the baby: " For I the Lord, thy God, am a jealous 
 God! " Suppose it should be true? 
 
 After the baby had lapsed into rosy slumber 
 she tucked him into his carriage and pattered 
 softly away to her Mecca: before the door of 
 Mr. Pettibone's study she paused uncertainly. 
 He would be busy writing his Sunday ser- 
 mon, she knew, and there was to be a funeral 
 at eleven. 
 
 He looked up abstractedly as she timidly opened 
 the door. 
 
 "Ah, my dear! What is it?" 
 
 " I wanted to to ask you something," she 
 faltered. " It will take only a minute." 
 
 " And you couldn't wait for that minute ? 
 Then it must be something important," he in- 
 ferred. 
 
 He held out his hand to her kindly.
 
 150 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " It is important to me; and, yes, to you and 
 the baby." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 He surveyed her thoughtfully. This small 
 woman, who had once seemed a wholly negligible 
 personality to most people in Innisfield, including 
 himself, had latterly grown to be of paramount 
 interest to many persons, and more nay, most 
 particularly to himself. She had become his sec- 
 ond wife; she was rapidly becoming his second 
 self. He recognized that self in the question 
 she tremulously put to him : 
 
 "Why is God jealous?" 
 
 He tapped his paper thoughtfully with his 
 pencil Mr. Pettibone preferred a pencil with an 
 eraser for composition. The eraser gave one a 
 pleasant sense of freedom; it appeared to make 
 written thoughts more easily malleable, like clay 
 in the hands of the sculptor. Thought, ad- 
 vanced to the dignity of ink; then to type (which 
 may yet be changed) then to the inviolable plate, 
 approaches the fixed state of marble when what 
 is made is made, be it good or ill. 
 
 " You are thinking," he said, " of the decalogue 
 I read this morning." 
 
 " Yes," she breathed. " And afterward I was 
 afraid. I am too happy, perhaps. And if 
 God "
 
 NEIGHBORS 151 
 
 " My dear Philura," he said gravely, " it is a 
 seemingly unfortunate characteristic of the human 
 mind that our highest convictions, our most il- 
 lumined aspirations seldom remain in a fixed state. 
 We attain the heights, only to slip back again 
 into the depths whence we have so hopefully 
 emerged but a little while before. Go back in 
 your experience, my dear, and recall the days 
 when you found that God was kind and even lav- 
 ishly generous in the matter of gowns and er 
 husbands." 
 
 There was a glint of humor in the eyes he 
 lifted to hers, but with it appeared a shadow of 
 real anxiety. 
 
 " Don't fail me, my dear," he went on, still 
 more seriously; "I shall continue to have need 
 of your optimism and your strong faith. As to 
 the word 'jealous'; it is perhaps unfortunately 
 translated. There is no hint there of the cruel 
 suspicion we mortals call jealousy. Say rather 
 4 vigilant ' or * watchful.' ' I, the Lord thy God, 
 am a vigilant God.' . . . You are quite right in 
 being happy if you are happy." 
 
 His eyes questioned her keenly. 
 
 " Oh, I am I am ! " she cried, clasping her 
 hands passionately. 
 
 " And yet your lot in life is not an easy one," 
 he sighed.
 
 152 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "If one could only be rid once and for all 
 of being afraid," she said, after a longish 
 pause. 
 
 " I believe we shall, some time or other," he 
 murmured abstractedly. " Fear has come up with 
 us from the jungle of creation; it pads pads 
 after us, like a velvet-footed beast in the dark. 
 But the beasts will all be put under our feet 
 once we emerge into the glorious liberty of the 
 sons of God." 
 
 His pencil once more began to move rapidly 
 over the paper. He had forgotten her presence ; 
 perceiving which she slipped away to the kitchen, 
 where Mrs. Wessells, after a third heartening cup 
 of tea, had resumed a belated washing. 
 
 " I don't see how people can live who are al- 
 ways thinking and talking of bad signs'' said 
 Mrs. Pettibone to herself, as she once more put 
 the perambulator in motion. 
 
 She blushed, as she recalled her own unreason- 
 ing anxiety to glimpse the new moon over her 
 right shoulder. 
 
 "Yes; and I prefer to pick up a pin with its 
 head towards me, and I cried once, when I broke 
 a looking-glass and mother did die that same 
 year; but of course it wasn't the looking-glass. 
 And now just because a yellow dog I am 
 ashamed ashamed to be so silly. Our God is
 
 NEIGHBORS 153 
 
 vigilant a vigilant God. I must remember that ! 
 In Him I live and move and have my being. I 
 mustn't forget, even for a minute." 
 
 She stopped first at the butcher's for a modest 
 purchase, receiving with smiles and blushes the 
 heartfelt congratulations of that worthy purveyor 
 of flesh foods. 
 
 " It cert'nly does seem good t' see you out with 
 that little market-wagon o' yourn once more," said 
 Mr. Kelly, as he cut and trimmed the three lamb- 
 chops she had ordered, with scrupulous care. His 
 rotund person and broad red face appeared to 
 radiate hearty good will as he handed the small 
 neat parcel to Mrs. Pettibone, who tucked it care- 
 fully under the blankets. 
 
 " I s'pose I c'n take a peek eh? . . . My! 
 My ! What a fine fat baby ! Coin' t' look exac'ly 
 like th' dominie; ain't it? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone fervently hoped so. 
 
 "Whatever become of th' other little chap?" 
 pursued Mr. Kelly. ..." Say, that was tough 
 his folks takin' him away, after you an' th' 
 dominie 'd put yourselves out the way you done t' 
 raise him." 
 
 " Stephen is well," said Mrs. Pettibone, her 
 bright face clouding a little. " I had a letter 
 from Mrs. Maitland only the other day. They 
 are living in Chicago, you know."
 
 i 5 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 She patted the blue-and-white coverlid which 
 had once brooded another treasure. 
 
 " We felt it was right his parents should have 
 
 him," she said. " But I we It was like 
 
 losing a child when they took him." 
 
 " I'll bet it was ! " agreed Mr. Kelly warmly. 
 " He was a fine little chap an' no mistake. . . . 
 Well, I guess now you got one o' your own you'll 
 never miss him." 
 
 Philura Pettibone allowed the statement to pass 
 unchallenged. It was merely an echo of a wide- 
 spread parochial opinion. Mrs. Buckthorn, in- 
 deed, had congratulated her upon the loss of her 
 adopted child: " A smilin' providence," she called 
 it, adding: " You'd ought t' be glad an' thankful 
 that child's pro-vided for, Philura." . . . But 
 Mrs. Pettibone could not help picturing to her- 
 self the beautiful little figure of Stephen as he 
 looked in the photograph his mother had sent 
 her. He would be large enough by now to trot 
 along beside the perambulator. But the Lord 
 our God was a vigilant God, and He had seen to 
 it that Stephen was restored to his young 
 mother.
 
 XV 
 
 A" this point in her somewhat pensive medi- 
 tations Mrs. Pettibone found herself in 
 front of Trimmer's store, which put her 
 in mind of the pale blue slippers also tucked 
 under the blankets. They had not, after all, 
 proved to be the right size. Several baby car- 
 riages, exuding woolly blankets, stood in front of 
 the Emporium. The mothers presumably were 
 shopping inside. It was a lax maternal practice 
 strongly disapproved by Mrs. Pettibone. What 
 if a baby should wake up and cry? What if he 
 should fall out of his carriage? What if half 
 a hundred things, including runaway horses, kid- 
 nappers, and mad dogs. Still, there was Mrs. 
 Puffer's shabby perambulator with the latest pink- 
 and-white Puffer fast asleep and wholly un- 
 guarded. Mrs. Pettibone wondered if she might 
 add her treasure to the group if only for the 
 moment required to exchange size three for size 
 four in a pale blue felt slipper adorned with 
 pompons. . . . 
 
 Mr. Pettibone had told his wife with con- 
 siderable detail of the gloomy young English- 
 es
 
 1 56 NEIGHBORS 
 
 man, lured to America and despised immunity by 
 the unprincipled arts of his mother. It appeared 
 that Mr. Pettibone strongly disapproved of Mrs. 
 Hobbs' methods of securing safety for her son. 
 " A man," he stated forensically, " should be 
 permitted to decide such questions for himself 
 without female interference." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone differed widely from her hus- 
 band's conclusions. She hugged her baby to her 
 breast with that air of complete ownership the 
 minister had frequently observed in the matrons 
 of his flock. 
 
 " I would never, never let them take my baby 
 away from me to shoot at," she said passionately. 
 " And I wouldn't let them have you, either ! " 
 
 " Let us suppose," suggested Mr. Pettibone, 
 " merely for the sake of argument, my dear, that 
 every woman should take that stand. What then 
 would become of our vaunted patriotism?" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone didn't know, she was sure. 
 She considered the question in mutinous silence, 
 while her husband went to some pains to explain 
 how this supreme test of the universal applica- 
 tion put everything in its true light and solved the 
 most puzzling questions. 
 
 " Women," he concluded somewhat grand- 
 iosely, " are always too prone to take the lim- 
 ited, personal view, whereas men "
 
 NEIGHBORS 157 
 
 " Well, anyway," interrupted his wife, tucking 
 up the baby's feet a little more snugly, " if all the 
 women did it, there couldn't be any war." 
 
 " If the women er " 
 
 " If all the women took all their boys and 
 their husbands away like that Mrs. Hobbs all 
 the English and Germans and French, you know; 
 then the Kings and Kaisers and Czars and Em- 
 perors would be obliged to go into the trenches 
 themselves and " 
 
 " My dear Philura," protested the minis- 
 ter warmly. " You are talking the merest 
 nonsense! " 
 
 " I'm only making it universal," she persisted 
 demurely. " If there weren't any men to shoot 
 and be shot at, then the Kaisers and " 
 
 He arose abruptly, glancing at his watch. 
 ' We are wasting time," he stated, with some 
 asperity. 
 
 She heard the study door close firmly behind 
 him. 
 
 " I don't care," she said to herself; " I'd like 
 to see them shooting at each other." 
 
 Then she laid a pink blanket over the white 
 one and deposited the woolly chrysalis thus formed 
 under a blue slumber robe in the crib, cooing in 
 an absurd little monotone: 
 
 " Nas'y ol' Kings 'n' Kaisers 'n' sings ! Muzzer
 
 158 NEIGHBORS 
 
 would just love t' see 'em right down in a deep, 
 deep muddy trench, so she would. They never 
 s'all get muzzer's lamb ! . . . " 
 
 A vague reminiscence of the foregoing discus- 
 sion recurred to her now as she made her way to- 
 ward the shoe department, where a tall young 
 man, with a dark wave of hair drooping over his 
 forehead, was counting change into the hand of 
 a small girl, in a red tarn. He had white, even 
 teeth she observed this when he smiled at the 
 little girl square military shoulders, and clear 
 gray eyes under strongly marked brows. This 
 could be no other than Horatio Herbert Kitchener 
 Hobbs. 
 
 " He's very good-looking," she decided. " If 
 I had been Mrs. Hobbs I'm sure I should have 
 done exactly " 
 
 Then she launched into a somewhat breathless 
 explanation of her errand, as the salvaged Briton 
 turned to give her his undivided attention. Per- 
 haps Mr. Hobbs would remember a gentleman 
 a tall gentleman with gray hair; Mr. Pettibone, 
 in short, purchasing a pair of pale blue slip- 
 pers 
 
 Mr. Hobbs recalled the circumstances per- 
 fectly. The gentleman had been obliged to guess 
 at the size. . . . Yes, he had rather expected the 
 return of those slippers. And would Mrs. Petti-
 
 NEIGHBORS 159 
 
 bone if, peradventure, he was speaking to Mrs. 
 Pettibone ? 
 
 Mindful of her proud estate as the wife of a 
 clergyman, Mrs. Pettibone held out a timid hand 
 of greeting. After a moment of puzzled inde- 
 cision the young man took it. 
 
 " You are very good," he murmured, an 
 ingenuous blush enhancing his youthful good 
 looks. 
 
 " Mr. Pettibone told me all about you," beamed 
 Mrs. Pettibone graciously. " And I mean to go 
 and see your mother, just as soon as I can leave 
 the baby. . . . And that reminds me, I must 
 hurry." 
 
 The young man turned from an inspection of 
 a row of boxes; his spine appeared to have stif- 
 fened. 
 
 " I'm afraid we haven't that style of slipper in 
 light blue," he said coldly. " Wouldn't cr 
 pink do? or black? " 
 
 " And would you mind bringing them out 
 to me?" asked Mrs. Pettibone in an agitated 
 voice, " the black will do. Yes, size four, 
 please." 
 
 He caught something further about " the car- 
 riage outside," and turned to see the small lady 
 in gray hurrying toward the door. As he stood, 
 still hesitating, he heard a sharp cough at his
 
 160 NEIGHBORS 
 
 elbow and looked down to find his employer, gaz- 
 ing at him with the air of alert suspicion Mr. 
 Trimmer affected toward his clerks. 
 
 "Well, Hobbs," said Mr. Trimmer sharply, 
 " any sales this morning? . . . What did Mrs. 
 Pettibone want in this department eh? I saw 
 her talking to you." 
 
 " She wished to exchange some slippers, sir," 
 replied young Hobbs, rather sulkily. " She asked 
 me to bring them out to her carriage." 
 
 He had conceived a violent and wholly unrea- 
 soning dislike for the pompous, fussy little man, 
 who did not appear in the least to realize that he 
 was merely a haberdasher. The exiled English- 
 man gazed coldly over the top of Mr. Trimmer's 
 shining bald head, a mighty wave of passionate 
 affection for his own country (where tradespeople 
 realized their true position) mingled with futile 
 anger at his own inglorious fate submerging him 
 so completely that he scarcely heard that gentle- 
 man's grumbled comments. He understood 
 vaguely that he was to fetch the slippers out to 
 Mrs. Pettibone's carriage. . . . 
 
 But no carriage was visible when he arrived at 
 the curb. He stood for a moment in the sunlight, 
 his comely head bare, his eyes searching the dull 
 street. Then all at once Fate in the guise of a 
 small and disreputable yellow dog ran between
 
 NEIGHBORS 161 
 
 his legs, almost upsetting him. Just how it came 
 to pass the young Englishman never attempted 
 to explain even in the seclusion of his own 
 thoughts; but he presently found himself in full 
 pursuit of a girl in a pink dress, who fled before 
 him down the street the yellow dog well to the 
 fore, a small brown paper parcel dangling from 
 his jaws. 
 
 A woman's dismayed voice had called " Catch 
 him ! Catch him ! " Then some one had laughed 
 a fresh, joyous sound and Kitchener Hobbs in- 
 stantly joined the chase, his spirits expanding, 
 shaking off the dull load which had harassed him. 
 Neither the yellow dog nor the girl in pink who 
 managed to maintain her lead for some distance 
 appeared to him to be the goal. It was rather 
 the joy of swift motion, the long suppressed sense 
 of power which sprang suddenly to full height, 
 like a grinning and triumphant Jack-in-the-box. 
 He could have run on and on; but the yellow dog 
 foolishly paused for a moment to sniff his booty, 
 and in that moment the girl alertly pounced upon 
 the disputed parcel. 
 
 " Mediant! " she cried. " Petit larronf Qweek! 
 begone or I beat you ! " 
 
 The yellow dog, his diminutive tail between 
 his legs, slunk hurriedly away, turning eyes so 
 expressive of pained disappointment upon the girl
 
 1 62 NEIGHBORS 
 
 that she laughed aloud the fresh joyous sound 
 he had heard before. 
 
 It seemed the most natural thing in the world 
 for him to speak to her, and equally inevitable 
 for her to smile up at him as she replied. The 
 quiet street might have been a meadow in Arcadia, 
 so far removed seemed these two from the stupid 
 conventions of the world. Even the yellow dog, 
 after a brief period devoted to sagacious recon- 
 noissance from behind a bush, turned and trotted 
 wistfully after them. 
 
 " My word ! " said young Hobbs admiringly, 
 "how you can run! And you caught the thief 
 just in time. . . . Was it anything valuable? " 
 
 " Me I am not aware," she smiled up at him. 
 " Folia! I behold zis so bad animal about to 
 devour ze petit enfant! mais non; it was only zis 
 conceal under robe of bebe." 
 
 She held out for his inspection the minister's 
 modest dinner, still secure in its brown paper 
 wrappings. 
 
 He was gazing down at her with entire absence 
 of curiosity as to the contents of Mrs. Pettibone's 
 salvaged property. . . . They were walking 
 slowly, very slowly, as was natural after their late 
 exertions in the chase. There was something 
 vaguely familiar or so he was thinking in her 
 piquant face. It was like recovering a memory,
 
 NEIGHBORS 163 
 
 infinitely precious and only vaguely missed for an 
 indefinite period. 
 
 "Were you ever in London?" he asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Me?" she shook her head. " Non, m'sieu', 
 nevaire. I am of France." 
 
 "Yes; but I have surely seen you before 
 somewhere." 
 
 Recognition slowly dawned in her eyes. 
 
 " In Boston that so ogly cite I sink I see 
 m'sieu' once, twice on street, or in shop. But 
 always vary triste melancolique, n'est-ce-pas? " 
 
 He drew his dark brows into a frowning line. 
 
 " I desired to enlist in the British army," he 
 told her, in the somewhat wooden French of the 
 average Englishman who attempts to acquire the 
 elegant language of his neighbors across the 
 channel. 
 
 Her face became suddenly radiant. 
 
 " Ah, you spik my language ! " she cried. " And 
 also you would fight for my country. . . . But 
 w'y, zen, aire you here? " 
 
 " My mother is an American," he explained, 
 his face crimsoning under her questioning eyes. 
 " I I'm afraid you wouldn't understand " 
 
 She was obviously eager to make the attempt, 
 and he went on haltingly: 
 
 " You see I can speak pretty fair French, and
 
 1 64 NEIGHBORS 
 
 they wanted me for an interpreter. Most of our 
 Tommies can't talk anything but cockney, and so 
 they they My word! I can't seem to re- 
 member my tenses when you look at me like 
 that!" 
 
 He had lapsed into English and was smiling 
 at her boyishly. 
 
 " Spik to me in Englis'," she entreated. " Me, 
 I un'erstan' to beat the cars you see? All time 
 I study your so be-utiful talk. Good Ian' yes ! " 
 
 Her pretty air of triumph halted the smile on 
 his lips. 
 
 " I fancy somebody is teaching you United 
 States," he commented. " But I'm used to it 
 from hearing mother talk. ... I told you my 
 mother is an American? " 
 
 She nodded eagerly. 
 
 " But you will fight for France eh? " 
 
 A dark wing of pain shadowed his face. 
 
 " How can I when I am forced to be here? " 
 he said gruffly. " My mother was ill she was 
 determined to come home. And I like a fool, 
 I came, too. Afterward, I found she was afraid 
 I'd be killed." 
 
 Madeleine absent-mindedly stroked the yellow 
 dog, who at this instant obtruded his starved per- 
 son between them. 
 
 " I un'erstan'," she nodded. " Me, I am not
 
 NEIGHBORS 165 
 
 stupide like zis so mechant. You come to Amer- 
 ica wiz your maman me wiz my papa, enfin! " 
 
 Her gravity broke in delighted laughter. 
 
 " Star alive ! I have sink we are allies of ze 
 entente: vous et moi zis petit larron ees zat so 
 bad, weecked Germany an' ze leettle bebe ees 
 Belgium. You see, my frien' ? We have conquer 
 we have rescue. Eet ees what you call good 
 sign eh? We fight vous et moi, n'est-ce-pas?" 
 
 Without realizing it the two had been loitering 
 unpardonably, so Mrs. Pettibone pushing the per- 
 ambulator with anxious haste had covered almost 
 half the distance of their flight when she met 
 them. Even then, the two unheeding young 
 things would have passed her by without a 
 glance he was bending toward her, his eyes all 
 lighted with ardor; she was gazing up at him; 
 and the yellow dog, quite unheeded, was tugging 
 hungrily at the dangling string of the minister's 
 dinner. What young Hobbs would have said in 
 response to her audacious figure of speech can 
 only be surmised. 
 
 " Oh thank you!" said Mrs. Pettibone. 
 " How very kind of you both to rescue my 
 parcel! " 
 
 She held out her hand for it confidently. 
 
 " Won't you introduce me, Mr. Hobbs? I see 
 that you are friends."
 
 1 66 NEIGHBORS 
 
 The two glanced at each other in sudden dis- 
 may. The girl recovered herself first. 
 
 " You perceive Madeleine Desaye," she curt- 
 seyed; " I have grand plaisir to restore again your 
 possession, madame." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone received the information and 
 the parcel with unaffected gratitude, her small face 
 under its unfashionable hat-brim quite pink with 
 surprise and pleasure. 
 
 " I am Mrs. Pettibone," she said. " Perhaps 
 you didn't know it, Miss Desaye; but you are liv- 
 ing in my house. I was so glad to rent it. ... 
 Don't hurry away, Mr. Hobbs. I haven't 
 
 thanked you yet; and the slippers Oh, yes; 
 
 thank you ! . . . And to think you know Miss 
 Desaye. How very pleasant!" 
 
 " Land sake yes! " agreed Madeleine calmly. 
 " In Boston we aire already met. Me I am sur- 
 prise to beat band when I perceive Mis-taire 
 Mis-taire Hobb; I bet his mais non he bet your 
 boot!" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone's smile became slowly petrified. 
 She turned wide eyes of astonishment upon the 
 girl, who was dimpling with triumph over her 
 mastery of the difficult English tongue. 
 
 " Miss Desaye," offered Mr. Hobbs gravely, 
 " has been acquiring a special brand of United 
 States from some kind friend."
 
 NEIGHBORS 167 
 
 " Oh, I see " murmured the minister's wife. 
 
 " Really, some one should " 
 
 Mechanically she tucked the three lamb-chops 
 under the baby's blanket, cruelly ignoring a pair 
 of bright brown eyes and a small, wistful yellow 
 nose. 
 
 At this slight disturbance of his swathings the 
 youthful occupant of the vehicle awoke to a real- 
 ization of his rights. 
 
 It was his lawful time to cry being ten min- 
 utes of his lunch hour and he announced the fact, 
 loudly, even terrifyingly to the uninitiated. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs glanced at his watch, with the air 
 of one suddenly recalled to earth after a brief 
 sojourn in a super-world. 
 
 " Er I fear I may be needed in the shop," 
 he bethought himself regretfully. " I have the 
 honor to bid you good-morning, ladies." 
 
 And he marched away, very erect and soldierly, 
 aware of Madeleine's bright gaze, which ap- 
 peared to be boring a hole right through to his 
 heart like a well-aimed bullet. 
 
 " How very odd for you to have met Mr. 
 Hobbs before ! " observed Mrs. Pettibone, striv- 
 ing to ignore the shrill protests of her child. . . . 
 " No; he is not ill, my dear, only hungry. I will 
 take him home directly. . . . He seems a very 
 nice young man."
 
 1 68 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Her glance directed the comment from the dis- 
 pleased infant to the rapidly receding figure of 
 Mr. Hobbs. " Have you known him long? " 
 
 Madeleine reflected, her pretty head on one 
 side. 
 
 " I zink I repeat to you one beeg what you 
 call wh-opper, when I say I know zat nize young 
 man," she said. " He ees etranger to me; I see 
 him only vary much sad in Bos-ton. I say to me, 
 ' He is one charmant person; zat man. I lofe him 
 for his beaux yeux.' But to my papa I say nos- 
 sing. He not like for me to lofe." 
 
 " I should think not, indeed," agreed Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone warmly. " You are much too young, for 
 one thing." 
 
 The girl's clear gaze was fastened on her face. 
 
 " You aire vary nize lady," she said politely. 
 " Mais ' mush-too-y'u-ng-f'-one-sing ' I not un- 
 'erstan'. Eet ees idiome n'est-ce-pas? like 
 pretty-kettle-o'-feesh? Vary much of interes' to 
 me zose idiome." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was pushing the baby-carriage 
 with all her feeble strength, her breath coming 
 in short, quick gasps. 
 
 " I will explain later," she said. " Some one 
 should- 
 
 " Permit me I entreat to propel bebe" has- 
 tily interposed the girl. " You aire, I sink, wore
 
 NEIGHBORS - 169 
 
 t' a fr-azzle eh? Me, I am robuste; an' zose 
 so leetle enfants I adore zem." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone sighed her relief as the girl 
 gently pushed her to one side. The baby re- 
 doubled his efforts, his pink fists beating the air. 
 
 " My star alive ! how he holler ze petit 
 pauvref Folia! I cause heem to desist vary 
 qweek, you see." 
 
 She peeped under the cover with pretty gravity, 
 cooing little French phrases of endearment. The 
 baby was her petit cochon de lait, her joujou, her 
 joli pigeonneau, her miette de sucre rosat. But 
 the youthful scion of the house of Pettibone would 
 have none of it; he was blind and deaf but not 
 dumb to all but a single idea. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone strove to be grateful. 
 
 ' You seem accustomed to children," she said 
 weakly. 
 
 "Me accustom? Mon dieu yes! Vary 
 much I take care of bebe. In my own countrie I 
 play wiz so leetle enfants all times, like like 
 poupees you un'erstan' ? Bien! I carry heem in 
 arms for quiet comme celle-la! " 
 
 No one of the four (to include the yellow dog, 
 who still trotted hopefully in the rear) so much 
 as glanced at Trimmer's Emporium, which they 
 chanced to be passing at the moment. The very 
 existence of Kitchener Hobbs was forgotten or
 
 170 NEIGHBORS 
 
 at least totally eclipsed by the gross selfishness of 
 a male being much younger than himself. From 
 his unenviable position behind the shoe boxes Mr. 
 Hobbs witnessed the abrupt pause of the little 
 cavalcade; beheld Madeleine confidently lift the 
 baby, with all his blankets, and cradle him in her 
 arms; noted Mrs. Pettibone's anxious flutterings 
 and preenings; saw them pass out of range of his 
 straining vision. Then his somber face relaxed 
 in a boyish grin: the yellow dog had at last reaped 
 the fruit of intelligent concentration in the shape 
 of a neatly trimmed lamb-chop, with which he 
 was rapidly skurrying to cover in a neighboring 
 alley. 
 
 " By Jove! " commented Mr. Hobbs, under his 
 breath; "the little chap got away with it, after 
 all!" 
 
 For a long, happy minute he forgot that his 
 name was Horatio Herbert Kitchener. He was 
 even conscious of a sneaking gladness that he was 
 in America, to the temporary neglect of that su- 
 preme pinnacle of human ambition: a muddy 
 trench " somewhere in France."
 
 XVI 
 
 FORTUNE was kind to Miss Malvina Ben- 
 nett all during the spring and well on into 
 the early summer or if not Fortuna, 
 that sly goddess of a pagan antiquity who rudely 
 elbows our Christian Providence at every turn, 
 then that superior overruling intelligence easily 
 recognizable in every age. Mrs. Hobbs was sin- 
 cerely grateful for the timely help which had 
 saved her from complete humiliation; the 
 " robes " which came from her establishment with 
 praiseworthy promptness were not only startling 
 in their fidelity to Paris modes, as depicted in 
 American fashion-plates, but they wore well. So 
 Madame Louise plus Miss Malvina Bennett pros- 
 pered exceedingly. 
 
 " I expect I'm a reg'lar fool," said Miss Mal- 
 vina, " a-playin' int' your hand the way I be; but 
 live V let live is my endurin' motto, an' I'm 
 a-goin' t' show you how t' cut a dress-waist so 't 
 it won't skew-gee off t' one side, no matter how 
 th' Lord made women-folks. Es I says t' Ma, 
 ' t No wonder most of 'em is one-sided,' I says, 
 * seein' th' Lord was s' short o' goods.' The Bible 
 says, he hed t' squeeze the first of 'em out o' one
 
 172 NEIGHBORS 
 
 rib V a man's rib at that! 'S fur's I c'n make 
 out, th' wa'n't any too much good material in men- 
 folks t' begin with most of 'em bein' a pertty 
 poor lot, f'om th' patriarchs, down. . . . Now 
 you want t' lay your pattern after you've drafted 
 it, the way I showed you ont' your goods, jes' 
 so. You got t' keep in mind dress-goods is like 
 folks ; you got t' manage 'em. D'ye git the idee 
 naze-pa? es Mr. Dassay says. He's French; lives 
 right nex' door t' us, 'n' I'm a-pickin' up th' lan- 
 guidge t' beat th' cars; same time I'm a-pract'isin' 
 him an' Mad'lane so 't they c'n talk right smart. 
 It's reel enjoyable." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs gazed enviously at her able as- 
 sistant, as Miss Malvina's swift shears shaped a 
 dress-waist. 
 
 " My! " she breathed, "what an opportunity! 
 The reason I had to leave Boston was because a 
 woman moved in right across the street from 
 where I started up my shop. She could put a 
 French name to everything, and first I knew all 
 my customers left me for her. That's how I came 
 here." 
 
 Miss Malvina's mouth was temporarily ob- 
 structed with pins. But her look spoke volumes. 
 
 " I guess that wa'n't th' only reason," she sur- 
 mised darkly, as she stuck the last pin into the 
 heart-shaped cushion which was never absent
 
 NEIGHBORS 173 
 
 from her waist. " I s'pose that's where you got 
 th' bright idee of callin' yourself Madame 
 Louise? " 
 
 " Yes, 'twas," confessed Mrs. Hobbs; " an' it 
 did take ; you can't deny that." 
 
 Miss Malvina straightened her little figure and 
 gazed almost pityingly at Mrs. Hobbs. 
 
 " Well, anyway," she said, " you've got a reel 
 nice boy. I guess he's goin' t' git right in with 
 th' young folks." 
 
 " I didn't know as you'd ever met my son," said 
 Mrs. Hobbs. She held her head stiffly erect and 
 red spots appeared on her high cheekbones. 
 
 Miss Bennett cackled happily. 
 
 " Thank God, I've be'n able t' afford a new 
 pair o' shoes, for Ma an' me, too," she said. 
 "He's reel han'some; I seen that without half 
 lookin'. I'll bet George Trimmer's doin' a first- 
 rate shoe business these days. Last year, I r'mem- 
 ber, Orin Blake was in th' shoe d'partment: 
 Orin's humbly 's a rail fence, with red hair 'n' 
 freckles 'n' a nose skyutin' off t' one side of his 
 countenance. Nach'ally all the girls was buyin' 
 their shoes in Boston. They hadn't one of 'em 
 any use fer Orin, 'n' b'sides he was married t' 
 Em'line Banks. But now you'd ought t' take 
 notice o' the girls 'at's awful hard t' fit. Keeps 
 th' shoe clerk a-humpin'."
 
 174 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs appeared agitated by diverse emo- 
 tions. 
 
 " I fancy my son understands his business," she 
 commented with dignity. 
 
 " You c'n jes' bet he does," agreed Miss Mal- 
 vina, " 'n' so does th' girls. There, now; you'll 
 find this 'ere waist '11 set straight an' level. D'ye 
 s'pose you c'n shape them arm-sizes? Don't, fer 
 pity sake, cut 'em out too much at th' back, ner 
 in th' front, neither. I jest about lost m' rea- 
 son tryin' t' keep them robes from pullin' out 
 premature." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs eyed the result of Miss Malvina's 
 labors coldly. 
 
 " If I wasn't so drove with customers," she 
 began; then stopped short to inquire fretfully: 
 
 " What do you mean by saying by insinuat- 
 ing I can tell you my Hoddy never had 
 
 any use for girls. His mind 's set on other 
 things." 
 
 Miss Malvina nodded, her mouth once more 
 full of pins. 
 
 "Yes; I know," she mumbled, "he wanted t' 
 go t' war an' you wouldn't let him. M-m-m. You 
 told me about it, m-m-m, I don't blame you none. 
 I'd 'a' kep' him out of it, too; m-m-m, but you 
 can't keep him out o' matrimony s' easy." 
 
 "Matrimony!"
 
 NEIGHBORS 175 
 
 Miss Malvina removed the pins, with a swift- 
 ness born of long practice. 
 
 " That's what I said, Mis' Hobbs, an' you'll 
 find I'm dead right," she said firmly. " Bright 
 eyes is more dangerous 'an bullets when it comes 
 t' keepin' a han'some feller all t' yourself. . . . 
 But there, I guess I'd better keep m' mouth shet, 
 or you'll be carting him off th' land knows where. 
 ... I gotta pick up my traps now an' be mosey- 
 in' along home. Where's that green an' purple 
 fer Mis' Henshaw 'n' them hooks V eyes? Oh, 
 yes. Well, ory-vwaw! " 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs followed the partner of her for- 
 tunes there was no longer any attempt at deny- 
 ing their business relations to the door, her 
 vague eyes full of trouble. 
 
 " I wisht you'd tell me what you mean," she 
 said. " I'll be worryin' night an' day, 'count of 
 what you said. 'Twould be pretty near as bad as 
 having him go to war to be married young, I 
 mean." 
 
 Miss Malvina sniffed disdainfully. 
 ' You'd ought t' be ashamed o' yourself," she 
 said. " Ef I had a boy- 
 
 " Well, you ain't," interrupted Mrs. Hobbs. 
 " An' you never will have." 
 
 " Anyway, I'd want him t' be happy, let alone 
 how I was feelin'."
 
 176 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " A single woman can't rightly say what she'd 
 do, if she was a parent," stated Mrs. Hobbs sol- 
 emnly. " Being a parent is well, it makes every- 
 thing different, as I used to tell my husband. . . . 
 But if there was any special girl " 
 
 Miss Malvina blinked thoughtfully at Mrs. 
 Henshaw's green-and-purple robe, which she was 
 investing with newspaper, preparatory to taking 
 it home. 
 
 " I wouldn't worry none ef I was you, Mis' 
 Hobbs," she said kindly. " Young folks will be 
 young folks, 'n' we can't expect " 
 
 "Then there is a p'ticular girl?" quavered 
 Mrs. Hobbs, clasping her bony hands. 
 
 " There ! Now, I got you all stirred up over 
 nothin'," lamented Miss Malvina. " All I got 
 t' say is: Girls is jest like sweet clover-blows in 
 the meadows; they look pretty an' smell sweet, 
 an' th' young fellows can't no more help bein' 
 drored t' 'em 'an honey-bees. Mebbe your boy 
 is diff'rent from th' rest of men-folks, on account 
 o' th' war, an' then ag'in mebbe he ain't." 
 
 Miss Malvina patted her parcel which she had 
 pinned securely. 
 
 " An', anyway, Mis' Hobbs, you'd ought t' be 
 glad an' thankful t' hev him git acquainted with 
 some nice young folks. Mebbe it '11 take his mind 
 off them nasty muddy trenches. . . . They say
 
 NEIGHBORS 177 
 
 the's rats runnin' 'round there, like kittens in a 
 kitchen; ain't it awful! " 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs' faded eyes brightened. 
 
 " That's so ! " she breathed. " It might take 
 
 his mind off. Do you know " She leaned 
 
 forward and whispered in Miss Malvina's ear: 
 
 " I've been so afraid he'd leave me. . . . Uh- 
 huh; an' go back 'n' enlist. My heart's been some 
 better since I come to America. I guess he 
 thought I was shamming. . . . But when you 
 think of millions of boys, like my Hoddy, being 
 
 sent out to Well, I don't think about it any 
 
 more than I can help. I couldn't stand it, if I 
 did." 
 
 " Me neither," sympathized Miss Malvina. 
 " I quit readin' war news quite a spell ago. 
 Thinks s' I it don't do them no good an' it keeps 
 me a-worritin'. I us't t' lay awake nights, first off, 
 thinkin' about all them men an' boys a-layin' out 
 there on th' ground some of 'em hollerin' fer 
 water, an' nobody " 
 
 " Don't! " begged Mrs. Hobbs. 
 
 " Well, I quit that. I bed to. I got s' nervous I 
 couldn't run a gether straight. But Ma, ev'ry time 
 she gits a-holt of a paper, she sets down an' reads, 
 'n' ef she comes acrost anythin' p'ticerlarly dret- 
 ful she'll say: ' Jes' listen t' this, Malviny.' But 
 I know what's comin'. * In a minute, Ma,' I say.
 
 178 NEIGHBORS 
 
 * I got t' run up this 'ere seam.' Lucky my sewin'- 
 m'chine ain't one of th' quiet-runnin' sort. I'll 
 bet I've thanked th' Lord more 'n fifty times fer 
 keepin' me from swappin' it off t' an agent six 
 months ago. It's th' handiest way to break off a 
 conversation. . . . Now, don't you worry none, 
 Mis' Hobbs. 'N' I'll fetch this 'ere green and 
 purple back tomorrow. You might go ahead 
 with them sleeves. You'd ought t' be able to do 
 that. But, say ! Whatever you do, don't you try 
 t' lay them bias folds. I'd ruther not be r'sponsi- 
 ble fer 'em afterwards. Add-you ! " 
 
 Greatly to her surprise Miss Malvina found 
 Mrs. Deaconess Buckthorn enthroned in the 
 patent rocker in the hair-cloth parlor. For a 
 minute her heart beat high with hope: perhaps 
 her rash words of a few months past had been 
 forgotten; perhaps Mrs. Buckthorn wanted a 
 dress made; perhaps 
 
 But that lady's first words dispelled the nascent 
 idea. 
 
 " I come to you, Malvina, because you are a 
 nom-inal Chr-istian," she said; " and because we 
 are str-iving to enlist even the poorest an' hum- 
 blest in our work against a common foe." 
 
 " I want t' know! " murmured the little dress- 
 maker. 
 
 " She's got a p'tition, Malviny," explained Ma
 
 NEIGHBORS 179 
 
 busily. " I signed with red ink, V she wants you 
 to." 
 
 " I don't know as you've learned the terrible 
 misfortune that threatens our peaceful com- 
 munity," pursued Mrs. Buckthorn: "they're 
 a-purposing to build right here in Innisfield a 
 factory for the man-u-facture of B O M B S ! " 
 
 Miss Malvina started back as if one of the 
 munitions of war in question had exploded in the 
 middle of her parlor rug. 
 
 " Fer th' land sake ! " she said weakly. 
 "Whereabouts?" 
 
 " Murderous munitions of a sinful conflict 
 ought not to be con-structed within sound of a 
 Chr-istian church bell ! " intoned Mrs. Buckthorn 
 majestically. " There can be no two o-pinions as 
 to that. . . . You will sign here, Malvina . . . 
 these sig-na-tures are written in b-lood, so you will 
 kindly use this fountain-pen." 
 
 Miss Malvina gazed curiously at the document 
 which Mrs. Buckthorn handed her. At the top 
 of the page was written in very black ink: " We 
 the undersigned, members of the Innisfield Pres- 
 byterian Church, do hereby earnestly protest 
 against the manufacture and sale of munitions of 
 war in our midst, as contemplated by the Merks 
 Munition Company of Boston, Mass. As a 
 church of Christ we are stubbornly opposed to
 
 i8o NEIGHBORS 
 
 war and its desolations, and as citizens of a 
 peaceful and law-abiding community we strenu- 
 ously object being made party to the wholesale 
 slaughter of human beings now going on across 
 the seas." 
 
 u Ev-ery name will be of value, if only to in- 
 crease the volume of pro-test," said Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn. 
 
 " 'Tain't goin' t' be right in the village, is it? " 
 asked Miss Malvina. " I heared a spell back 
 somebody' d bought th' old woolen mills over b' 
 the swamp, an' was fixin' up th' buildin's fer some- 
 thin'. . . . Most o' these names seem t' be 
 women-folks," she added. " Can't you git no 
 men-folks int'rested? " 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn shook her head. 
 
 " The men in this 'ere town," she said acidly, 
 " are dead 'n' buried in trespasses an' sins. All 
 of 'em say they're against war; but when it comes 
 t' writin' down their names in red ink under this 
 'ere petition one an' all of 'em has an excuse. 
 Elder Trimmer thinks it'll be a grand op-pertunity 
 f 'r the church; so many new working-men an' their 
 famblys comin' t' town. An' Deacon Scrimger 
 says he owned stock in the old mill, an' he can't 
 con-scientiously use the money he got for it if he 
 signs the petition. An' Obed Salter an' Under- 
 taker Beels an' Henry Pratt an' George Hen-
 
 NEIGHBORS 181 
 
 shaw Every one of 'em says bizniz rea- 
 sons '11 prevent 'em from signing." 
 
 Miss Malvina seized the pen. 
 
 " I guess I could side-step that-a-way, m'self," 
 she said. " I'll bet the'll be a lot o' new folks 
 at'll want dresses made, 'n' like that; but ef my 
 name wrote down here in red ink 'd prevent one 
 nice young feller from havin' his eyes put out b' 
 one o' them nasty explodin' things I'd write it 
 ef it was t' take th' bread out o' my mouth th' 
 rest o' my life." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn screwed the cap on the 
 fountain-pen, her mouth puckering into a tight 
 knot during the process. She loosened it to re- 
 mark: 
 
 ' That sentiment does you credit, Malvina. 
 . . . An' that r'minds me : how much are you 
 charging for making up a plain gingham dress 
 nowadays? " 
 
 Miss Malvina named a price slightly in excess 
 of her usual rates. She could afford to smile, as 
 she observed Mrs. Buckthorn's protestant eye- 
 brows. 
 
 " Prices f'r most ev'rythin' in th' sewin' line 
 has riz," she stated tranquilly. " I s'pose it's th' 
 war." 
 
 " I had thought of bringin' over a piece of 
 goods t' be made up," said Mrs. Buckthorn.
 
 1 82 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " But not at that price, Malvina. No; not with 
 fuel an' pro-visions at present rates. I cannot 
 afford it." 
 
 She glanced searchingly about the little room, 
 as she spoke, her eyes pausing at last upon the 
 shining toes of Ma Bennett's new shoes, which the 
 old lady with the eager pride of a child had thrust 
 into prominent view. 
 
 " I hope an' pray, Malvina, you're not runnin' 
 into debt," she added sourly. " It's a temptation 
 of the Evil One, Malvina, to wish to appear 
 better off than we are, an' only too common in 
 this age of luxury an' love of vulgar dis-play." 
 
 " I s'pose," joined in Miss Malvina briskly, 
 " that there's folks a-plenty in this 'ere town 'at 'd 
 seen me an' Ma carted off t' the poorhouse without 
 battin' an eye me that's worked summer 'n' win- 
 ter, stayin' plackets an' arm-sizes 'n' like that, 
 faithful, fer folks 'at don't 'predate it no more 
 'n' the air they breathe. But I guess " 
 
 " Other dressmakers are quite as con-scien- 
 tious, Malvina," interrupted Mrs. Buckthorn, as 
 she replaced the document in her black silk bag 
 and drew its strings tight. u I have had no fault 
 to find with Madam Louise." 
 
 It was by a praiseworthy exercise of the will 
 that Miss Malvina suppressed a carnal desire to 
 crow with laughter.
 
 NEIGHBORS 183 
 
 " Well," she said dryly. " I guess mebbe I'd 
 ought t' thank you, Mis' Buckthorn, f'r takin' an 
 int'rest; so I'll tell you I ain't runnin' int' debt. 
 I got work a-plenty; ev n ef the bomb fact'ry 
 don't open up in the fall which I bet it does, 
 seein' the's folks in Canada int'rested. ... I 
 beared 'em talkin' it over in Salter's groc'ry, 
 when I was in there las' night t' buy a pound o' 
 their best print butter an' some o' their eighty- 
 cent mixed tea 'n' a bottle o' an-chovy sauce." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn appeared suddenly transfixed, 
 her hand on the door knob. 
 
 " What did I under-stand you t' say, Mal- 
 vina? " she asked in a shocked voice. 
 
 " I was sayin' folks from Canada owned most 
 o' the stock in that there bomb fact'ry out b' the 
 swamps; an' Obed Salter, when he was doin' up 
 my pound o' coffee says t' me " 
 
 "But an-chovy sauce, Malvina; surely you 
 were not purchasing an-cho-vy " 
 
 "Why not, I'd like t' know?" inquired the 
 little dressmaker. " All them tasty things, like 
 pap-reeky 'n' stuffed olives 'n' 'n' patty-de- 
 foy-grass, is reel appetizin'; ain't they, Ma?" 
 
 "What-say, Malviny?" shrilled the old lady. 
 
 " I was jes' tellin' Mis' Buckthorn we was get- 
 tin' so we reelly liked French cookin', Ma. . . . 
 It makes a nice change f'om codfish 'n' like that.
 
 1 84 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Did you ever eat any pot-a-few, Mis' Buck- 
 thorn, or any pantelette dee-muttong? . . . 
 You didn't? Fer th' land sake! Well, you'd 
 ought t' try 'em. Ma's picked up wonderful 
 sence " 
 
 " I fear you have set your feet in the broad 
 an' dangerous paths of sinful lust, Malvina," 
 said Mrs. Buckthorn, her chaste bosom rising 
 and falling tumultuously. " I had not intended 
 to speak of it; but it is commonly reported that 
 you are I blush to speak it receiving p'ticular 
 attentions from a foreign married man permit- 
 ting him to kiss your hand at your age, too ! " 
 
 " Well, I'd like t' know how that got out," 
 murmured Miss Malvina, honestly abashed. 
 
 She glanced at Ma, whose ancient head was 
 vibrating slightly, as if with suppressed excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " I s'pose Ma must 'a 1 let out somethin' er other 
 t' somebody," she said resignedly. " Well, all I 
 got t' say is, kissin' han's, V like that, don't 
 mean nothin' pertic'lar in French no more 'n' 
 sayin' Mondu which is downright swearin' in 
 English, es I keep a-tellin' Mad'lane constant. 
 As fer her pa bein' married, I s'pose he must 'a' 
 b'en once upon a time, seein' he's got a girl mos' 
 growed up. But, dam-port, as Mad'lane says 
 when she means, anyhow, she don't keer a cotton
 
 NEIGHBORS 185 
 
 hat a body can't help folks bein' fur'n; an' I 
 dunno but what I like 'em that-away on th' hull." 
 
 " I shall pray for you, Malvina," stated Mrs. 
 Buckthorn vindictively, as she passed out of the 
 door, with the air of one shaking off polluted 
 dust from the soles of flat substantial shoes, " at 
 the same hour I offer up p'titions fer the 
 heathen.'' 
 
 " Mercy-bo-coo ! " suitably responded Miss 
 Malvina. "Ory-vwaw!" And she waved a 
 dingy little hand of dismissal after Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn's retreating majesty. 
 
 " Let 'em talk," she said to herself, as she laid 
 out Mrs. Henshaw's green-and-purple costume. 
 " I guess 'twon't hurt 'em none, ner me neither." 
 
 But she blushed almost like a girl as she re- 
 called Mrs. Buckthorn's sentimental accusation. 
 
 " My! I wisht I wa'n't s' old V humbly," she 
 mused. " 'Twould be reel enjoyable t' be r'ceivin' 
 attention, even ef the man was fur'n." 
 
 Then because the weather was warm she re- 
 moved her second-best hair-front and hung it on 
 a nail, already bristling with tissue paper pat- 
 terns, where it dangled like a dejected little scalp- 
 lock before an Indian tepee.
 
 XVII 
 
 THE young French girl who had been swept 
 by the hurricane of war to alien coasts, like 
 some strange foreign bird, seemed joy- 
 ously willing to accept America with all its new- 
 world customs. It was necessary on occasions to 
 explain many things in detail to her father, who 
 when not immersed in his books displayed a 
 critical, even censorious habit of mind toward 
 things American. 
 
 " You will not forget, my Madeleine, that you 
 are not of the bourgeoisie," he would say gravely. 
 " I bewail the fact that in this country where 
 prices are of a highness I cannot afford even 
 a bonne; and to have my daughter go about the 
 streets unattended is also a grief to me. But I 
 beg of you, do not imitate too closely the women 
 of the country; for however diverting, one should 
 constantly remember that all of them are bour- 
 geoisie. Not one is even distantly related to a 
 nobility. Pourquoif There are no nobility. 
 Therefore carry yourself discreetly, my child. 
 One day we shall return to our own beloved 
 country, where you will marry and become the 
 
 186
 
 NEIGHBORS 187 
 
 mother of Frenchmen, who will be sorely needed 
 in a land sown thick with the graves of heroes. 
 In that day I shall have glory because I have pre- 
 served my daughter as a legacy for France ! " 
 
 And he struck his breast with the grand manner. 
 
 Madeleine appeared suitably impressed with 
 this exalted paternal view of her destiny; but in 
 the meanwhile it was spring, and she was eighteen. 
 Also, there were surprisingly pleasant experiences 
 to be met with in this country, where young 
 women were permitted to visit the shops, to make 
 purchases, to attend church, and even the theaters, 
 and likewise to make the acquaintance of such 
 young men, as fortune willed. Miss Malvina 
 Bennett (though not of the nobility) was never- 
 theless found to have opinions on matters per- 
 taining to conduct. 
 
 " I guess ef you b'have yourself like a lady'd 
 ought, Mad'lane, th' ain't no use in havin' a mar- 
 ried woman a-traipsin' 'round after you," she 
 promulgated. " I c'n take you t' church 'n' Chris- 
 tian Endeavor 'n' mebbe t' Loyal Tem'rance 
 Legion. Then the's the W. C. T. U. You'd 
 ought t' go t' that an' git a white ribbon pinned 
 onto you. I promised th' Lord es Mis' Dea- 
 coness Buckthorn says to see you done it. But 
 when it comes t' pickin' an' choosin' a beau, I 
 guess you're the one t' say who it'll be. The's
 
 1 88 NEIGHBORS 
 
 nice young fellows a-plenty in town, V once you 
 git t' goin' out in comp'ny I'll bet th' other girls 
 '11 hev t' look out. Not 'at I want t' make you 
 noways vain; pride goes b'fore a fall; but I don't 
 know why you shouldn't settle right down in In- 
 nesfield in a nice little house o' your own, 'stead 
 o' bein' took back t' a fur'n land, an' like enough 
 married to a cripple. I guess th' won't be no 
 other kind o' men-folks over there, time they git 
 through a-firin' off at each other. . . . Land! 
 it's a wonder they ain't all swallered up like 
 Sodom 'n' G'morrah ! " 
 
 Madeleine's English vocabulary had by now 
 grown and expanded like the scriptural bay-tree, 
 so she was able to compare Miss Malvina's plans 
 for her future with those of her father. There 
 was at present no hero of France, maimed or 
 otherwise, enshrined in her young fancy, so she 
 could think of life in Innisfield with the same gay 
 insouciance she accorded to the patriotic scheme 
 outlined by M. Desaye. Marriage and the seri- 
 ous things of life were yet a great way off. Every- 
 thing appeared fresh and joyous; even the distant 
 echoes of the great war which reached the ear but 
 faintly in this peaceful village of the new world 
 did not seriously disturb her. . . . Sometimes she 
 would find her father, his head bowed over a 
 newspaper containing cabled news from the
 
 NEIGHBORS 189 
 
 elongated battle front, where the terrible curtain 
 of fire lifted only to reveal the heaps of dead and 
 wounded. 
 
 " I should have remained to fight," he would 
 declare, tears of mingled rage and sorrow rolling 
 down his cheeks. " Already men older than I 
 have given their lives, while I sit here a poltroon 
 in cowardly safety! " 
 
 At such times he would rise, cast the paper of 
 ill report upon the floor and stride up and down, 
 his face drawn with anguish. 
 
 " Why did I ever come to this accursed land," 
 he would wail, " where this so frightful war is 
 a mere spectacle? They have no heart these 
 Americans. In the spot where one should find 
 good red blood coursing through the center of 
 the being there is a dollaire composed of silver 
 or gold hard, impervious. I have a sus- 
 picion " and his voice would sink to a 
 
 menacing whisper " that the blight of that di- 
 abolical Kultur is to be found here also. All are 
 Germans or related to Germans. . . . Free 
 America? Peste! I laugh at their vaunted free- 
 dom ! In years to come this so stupid people will 
 see ! Their evil hour will arrive ! Aha ! It will 
 be the turn of France to look on, as at a theater ! " 
 
 It was after one of these frenzied outbursts 
 of prophecy that Harry Schwartz arrived for a
 
 1 90 NEIGHBORS 
 
 lesson in what M. Desaye innocently supposed to 
 be the young man's native tongue. It was a 
 matter for painted astonishment that M. Henri 
 Le Noir did not appear to assimilate the beau- 
 ties of the most elegant of all languages with 
 the ease one should expect. His pronunciation 
 was atrocious, and remained so after hours of 
 impassioned precept and example. 
 
 " Do you not by now dream in French? " de- 
 manded his instructor. " Can you not picture to 
 yourself those brave compatriots at Verdun? 
 Ha ! I see them advance those valiant heroes ! 
 I behold the gray wall of Prussians go down be- 
 fore them! But you you see nothing! " 
 
 M. Desaye was wrong: the young man's eyes 
 were at that moment particularly occupied (from 
 behind the shelter of his book) with the slim 
 figure of Madeleine, who was gathering the first 
 roses of summer within fortunate range of his 
 vision. How enchanting was the curve of the 
 girl's pliant waist as she reached for a bud high 
 up on the unpruned bush ! Harry was finding his 
 lessons in French quite different from the picture 
 his fancy had painted. Madeleine was never 
 present on these occasions; he seldom caught a 
 glimpse of her, even. He sulkily supposed her 
 father was responsible for this. Even the joke 
 about his name it was, of course, a pleasantry
 
 NEIGHBORS 191 
 
 to be explained sometime or other but it was 
 growing distinctly tiresome to be addressed as a 
 compatriot and expected to discuss the latest 
 French victory or defeat in a language which did 
 not appeal to him in the least. Young Harry, it 
 must be confessed, was equally indifferent to the 
 resounding German, invariably spoken at home 
 when the oldest of the three male Schwartzes vis- 
 ited his son's household. Old Heinrich Schwartz 
 had come from Germany with his bride six months 
 before his son was born. The second Hein- 
 rich was an American, albeit by courtesy. In 
 due course he became Harry and married a de- 
 scendant of an old Puritan family, hence the third 
 Harry was an American in reality, brought up 
 to speak the rather slipshod English, jocularly 
 known as "United States"; not unduly addicted 
 to sausage, and meekly signing a pledge binding 
 him to abstain from malt and spirituous liquors 
 at the tender age of seven. 
 
 " I guess I'm a dub all right, sir, as I told you 
 in the beginning," he confessed to his instructor 
 at the close of an impassioned torrent of French 
 of which he understood but a word or two. 
 
 M. Desaye stared at his pupil from under 
 drawn brows. It occurred to him that Henri Le 
 Noir's eyes were of a blueness for a Frenchman, 
 and his features He studied the wholesome
 
 192 NEIGHBORS 
 
 boyish face, with its summer coat of tan, its com- 
 posite nose and its square American chin. 
 
 "Of what nativity is your mother?" he in- 
 quired in easy French. Then repeated the words 
 in English, with an accent of disdain. 
 
 "My mother?" repeated the young man. 
 " Oh, I guess she's just plain American. She says 
 my great-grandfather came over in the * May- 
 flower.' ' And he grinned pleasantly. 
 
 " Your father must have been French, with the 
 name Le Noir of a possibility a Huguenot. 
 You can inform me n'est-ce-pas? " 
 
 " Er I say, sir," began Harry, his honest 
 face turning very red. " I guess it's time I owned 
 up- 
 
 Then he caught a glimpse of Madeleine out of 
 the tail of his eye and desisted shamefacedly. 
 
 M. Desaye perceived the blush and embarrass- 
 ment and smiled. . 
 
 " There is nothing to redden the visage in hav- 
 ing one's descent from the Huguenots," he said 
 indulgently. " But you should know of your 
 family history, my friend. A lions! I require 
 you to write in French a brief account of the 
 Huguenots, including your own family history 
 if, as I suspect, you are a descendant of one of 
 the emigres arriving in America after the 
 persecution."
 
 NEIGHBORS 193 
 
 Translated into less fluent English, the young 
 man pondered the proposal dubiously. 
 
 " I'm afraid " he began. 
 
 But M. Desaye was yisited by an inspiration. 
 
 " Why have I not made ze acquaintance of 
 votre pere? " he demanded. "You will bring 
 him next lesson, mon ami. To him I shall spik 
 of all zose sings. Bienf for today all ees feenish." 
 
 Madeleine had gathered her roses and was 
 arranging them in a glass bowl when young Harry 
 Schwartz emerged from the house, his Gram- 
 maire Franqaise under his arm, deep gloom upon 
 his brow. 
 
 " See here," he said, with a total absence of the 
 French polish his harassed instructor had been 
 endeavoring to inculcate. " I'm in the devil of a 
 mess." 
 
 " Devil-of-a-mess ? " echoed Madeleine, arch- 
 ing her delicate brows. "Ees zat nize word?" 
 
 Innocent, adorable coquetry peeped at him 
 from under her drooping lashes. 
 
 " You not etudier your legon an' my papa 
 es-cold you eh? " 
 
 " I can't learn French to save my life," con- 
 fessed Harry gloomily. " And now he thinks 
 I'm a Hug Hug-er-no; an' I ain't, of course. 
 My grandfather is the Germanest German you 
 ever saw. He's at our house now, eating sauer-
 
 i 9 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 kraut an' drinking lager an' roaring about the 
 war. I guess your father 'd kill me if he got on 
 to the facts." 
 
 " I bet a dollaire oui" agreed Madeleine, 
 dimpling. 
 
 " Well, I must say, you're cool! " cried young 
 Harry indignantly. " Seeing it was you got me 
 into it introducing me as Ong-ree Le-what- 
 you-call-'em. ... I supposed you were going 
 to help me learn French. You said you 
 would." 
 
 Madeleine surveyed her fragrant handiwork 
 with a pleased smile. 
 
 "You aire so mad to me?" she inquired. 
 " For what aire you so mad? " 
 
 " Because I because you 'Tisn't fair to 
 
 leave a fellow in the soup, the way you did. . . . 
 He wants to see my dad; find out if he's a sure- 
 'nough Hug " 
 
 " Huguenot," supplied the girl gravely. " An' 
 you sink 'e ees not? " 
 
 " 'Course he ain't I Dad's American; so am I. 
 And I'm darned glad of it! " 
 
 Young Harry fairly irradiated stars and stripes 
 as he made this declaration. Madeleine gazed 
 at him dreamily, her large dark eyes holding un- 
 sounded depths of mystery. 
 
 " Me I am darn glad aussi" she said calmly.
 
 NEIGHBORS 195 
 
 " I sink I like you because you aire not not 
 Huguenot." 
 
 " Say ! by George ! " cried Harry, suddenly 
 soaring to a seventh heaven of unimagined bliss. 
 
 " Is that a sure-enough fact? Because if it is 
 j 
 
 He was winged in mid-air by the appearance of 
 M. Desaye, a most amiable smile upon his lips. 
 
 " This afternoon," he said, with the faultless 
 accent he had preserved through many vicissi- 
 tudes, " I contemplate doing myself the great 
 honor of paying the visit ceremonious to mon- 
 sieur, your father. I have the desire profound 
 to know more of you, my friend."
 
 XVIII 
 
 BUT again correlated events combined to pre- 
 vent the astute Frenchman from carrying 
 out his designs. In a word, on that par- 
 ticular afternoon, he was not permitted by an 
 overruling Providence to visit the home of Harry 
 Schwartz where old Heinrich sat enthroned in 
 a splint-bottomed chair of massive construction, 
 discoursing upon the exalted characteristics of the 
 German Emperor for the benefit of his son, who 
 listened respectfully. 
 
 When young Harry slid into the room, after 
 depositing his Grammaire Franqaise on the stair 
 leading up to his room, his grandfather, in full 
 tide of sonorous German, was painting the future 
 of the inhabited globe, as it would shortly eventu- 
 ate under the beneficent Prussian rule. Harry's 
 mother, with meekly down-dropped lids, sat mend- 
 ing stockings. She did not understand much of 
 what the old man was saying, though in the first 
 years of her married life she had made a valiant 
 attempt to learn the language of " the Father- 
 land." But as soon as her eyes rested upon her 
 
 son she knew something untoward had happened. 
 
 196
 
 NEIGHBORS 197 
 
 The young man sat down in a chair which com- 
 manded a view of the street, his brow deeply 
 corrugated, his eyes fixed and gloomy. 
 
 " Wie geht's, Heinrich? " shouted the old man. 
 " How you vas, heh? " 
 
 Harry responded feebly. He had never liked 
 the name Heinrich, and today it positively grated 
 upon the ear. 
 
 " Vot dot poy needs is goot milidary drain- 
 ing," declared old Schwartz, staring hard at his 
 grandson from over the top of his calabash 
 pipe. " You know vat I do at your age, 
 zon?" 
 
 Harry muttered something unintelligible, his 
 eyes seeking the street. 
 
 'What's the matter, Harry?" inquired his 
 mother in a low voice, her inquiry perfectly 
 masked by the vociferous remarks of old Hein- 
 rich to the effect that a sojourn in America utterly 
 spoiled a young man. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," muttered Harry. 
 1 You Heinrich ! " declaimed his grandfather. 
 " Grate pig poy you vat for you not go pack t' 
 Dcutschlandt an' pe a man heh? Herr Gott, 
 poy! haf you no lofe of coundry? " 
 
 ' Yes," said Harry. " But you should remem- 
 ber that I'm an American, sir." 
 
 " Ach! You mage me sick! " scolded the old
 
 198 NEIGHBORS 
 
 man. " Vot iss your name heh? Is Heinrich 
 Schwartz von American name heh?" 
 
 " Never mind, dear: grandfather doesn't mean 
 that," soothed his mother. " They've been talk- 
 ing about the war, and it always excites Gran'pa 
 Schwartz." 
 
 The old man surveyed his daughter-in-law 
 belligerently. 
 
 " You haf pring my grandzon Heinrich up to 
 pe von pig sissy," he growled. " But ve s'all see 
 vat happen in two t'ree year. You vill pe glad 
 yourself to brodect under dot good Deutsch name 
 of Schwartz ! " 
 
 At that precise moment M. Desaye, exquisitely 
 gloved and cravatted, stood in the door of his 
 dwelling. He was about to sally forth to pay his 
 respects to an exiled son of France, one M. Le 
 Noir, for the purpose of conversing with him 
 concerning the decadent youth who bore his name. 
 M. Desaye wore a smile of pleased anticipation, 
 and he submitted gracefully to the innocent 
 arts of Madeleine, who detained him for the 
 purpose of pinning a moss rosebud in his 
 buttonhole. 
 
 " You will not derange yourself with the soli- 
 tude of my absence ? " he inquired tenderly. 
 
 " No, my father," replied Madeleine. " I have 
 my duties of the home to attend."
 
 NEIGHBORS 199 
 
 She used the English word home in her demure 
 little speech. 
 
 M. Desaye twisted his mustache thoughtfully. 
 
 " Ah ! I perceive you no longer find your own 
 language adequate," he commented. 
 
 Madeleine's dark head drooped. 
 
 " We have no word for home," she murmured. 
 
 M. Desaye sighed. 
 
 " Nevertheless in France we have homes," 
 he said; "but not you are thinking as in 
 America ? " 
 
 " Not as in America," she echoed. " Mees 
 Malvina " 
 
 " Ah, yes," he smiled, " that very amiable per- 
 son will doubtless tell you many things. I permit 
 you to listen, since you have no female com- 
 panion; but to young men no! " 
 
 He bent to kiss her cheek; then descended the 
 steps with dignified composure. 
 
 " Ah, my father, one small instant permit me ; 
 there is in the rear of your coat a button I run 
 to fetch a needle ! " 
 
 M. Desaye endeavored vainly to adjust his 
 range of vision so as to take in the faulty 
 garniture. 
 
 " I had not noticed the absence of a button," 
 he told his daughter, when she again appeared, 
 with her tiny work-basket. " But surely you will
 
 200 NEIGHBORS 
 
 not repair so serious a loss where the whole world 
 may see : we will retire within." 
 
 But when, apparently much annoyed by the 
 trifling occurrence, he would have removed the 
 garment in question, his daughter demurred. 
 
 It would not be necessary, she said, when only 
 the matter of a few stitches was required. She 
 bent her head to thread the needle. It was sin- 
 gular how difficult an operation this had become. 
 
 "Exalted Mother of the Saints!" besought 
 Madeleine, in the privacy of her young breast, 
 " do not, I beseech of thee, permit my father to 
 seek for M'sieu' Le Noir, for, as thou art aware, 
 there is no such person." 
 
 And she twisted the frayed end of the silk 
 thread, while her father looked on. 
 
 " Have you no wax? " he inquired mildly. 
 
 Of a surety she had; but alas! the wax must 
 have hidden itself with malicious purpose. Seek 
 for it as she would, it could not be found. 
 
 " Kind Lady of Heaven," murmured the girl, 
 as she thrust her head into a dark corner of the 
 kitchen cupboard, " once thou also wert young in 
 years and wisdom. I had no intent to deceive, but 
 only to avoid dissension of which there is al- 
 ready too much in the world. Therefore be 
 graciously pleased to aid me ! " 
 
 And, all the while, the small strawberry of
 
 NEIGHBORS 201 
 
 pink wax was nestling in the nethermost corner 
 of the work-basket. . . . The process of fasten- 
 ing the loose button appeared a tedious one to 
 M. Desaye, but he was magnificently patient 
 withal. What would you, in a foreign land, far 
 from one's tailleur? He thanked his daughter 
 profusely. . . . Ah! but quickly she must run 
 for the brosse a nettoyer les habits! There were 
 threads, visible only to Madeleine's bright eyes, 
 and dust helas! how lamentable the dust in the 
 houses of America. 
 
 " Bienf Now I depart," said M. Desaye. 
 
 Madeleine followed him once more to the 
 door. Her heart filled with vague misgivings. 
 
 " Of a possibility," he was saying, " I will on 
 my return be accompanied by M. Le Noir. If he 
 is a Huguenot ' 
 
 " But, if by chance, you should find that gentil- 
 homme a a Pares-be-be-te-rien," she guilefully 
 sought to detain him. " You will be friends 
 n'est-ce pas?" 
 
 Her father shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 
 
 " Of such things I know nothing," he admitted. 
 " But I will still offer the descendant of a French- 
 man my friendship yes." 
 
 His foot sought the bottom step. He was about 
 to depart. . . . The kind Lady of Heaven had 
 not heard, then. What would befall Harry
 
 202 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Schwartz, she hardly dared to think; and it had 
 been all her fault all! But stay a lady in a 
 light summer gown, wheeling a perambulator 
 had paused before the gate. She was about to 
 enter. 
 
 " It is," warbled Madeleine, " our proprie- 
 tairef " 
 
 Her young face wore an expression of devout 
 thankfulness. . . . One should not be too hasty 
 in censuring the saints, who were doubtless occu- 
 pied with many affairs. M. Desaye's eyes fol- 
 lowed those of his daughter. He advanced nim- 
 bly to hold the gate wide, and Mrs. Pettibone 
 carefully guided the perambulator inside. . . . 
 During the simple process she could not help but 
 think how wonderful that she Philura' Rice 
 should be wheeling a baby, her baby, inside that 
 gate, through which she had passed innumerable 
 times in her lonely and neglected maidenhood. 
 Mrs. Pettibone did not know that she was at that 
 moment both an obstruction and an answer to 
 prayer. 
 
 For a brief moment M. Desaye contemplated 
 excusing himself on the plea of a former engage- 
 ment. A woman, with a baby, did not offer a 
 proper substitute for his contemplated visit cere- 
 monious. But a second glance at the small flushed 
 face of their proprietaire caused him to change
 
 NEIGHBORS 203 
 
 his mind. And his daughter Madeleine she ap- 
 peared singularly pleased to be receiving this 
 strange lady. 
 
 Ah ! they had met before, these two. He must 
 discover the mystery of a yellow dog, to which 
 both were referring with smiles. The yellow dog, 
 it appeared, had returned again and yet again to 
 the parsonage, where at last his wistful brown 
 eyes and hungry little nose had won the com- 
 passion of the minister himself. 
 
 " We have named him Fido," Mrs. Pettibone 
 was saying, rather proudly. " He follows the 
 baby carriage everywhere, and at home he 
 watches the baby, while he is taking his nap on 
 the piazza." 
 
 A plaintive whine from the gate revealed the 
 presence of the persevering Fido. With laughter 
 Madeleine ran to admit him. 
 
 " Ah, mechant," she scolded, " so I meet you 
 again! Tell me, is it bebe you love, or the 
 cotellette eh? " 
 
 M. Desaye had hastened to fetch chairs to the 
 patch of shady lawn, and here presently he es- 
 sayed to make the acquaintance of the lady, whose 
 appearance (he was telling himself) suggested 
 a delicate quaintness, illusive yet undeniably 
 agreeable. She was, he learned, the wife of that 
 ecclesiastique who had already honored him with
 
 204 NEIGHBORS 
 
 a visit. He protested that he was not worthy of 
 such condescension. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone blushed. 
 
 " We should be very glad to see you at 
 church," she said, aware of her opportunity and 
 of her duty, which she strove to keep well in 
 view. 
 
 She gazed shyly at the French gentleman, of 
 whom she had heard such varying accounts. Mrs. 
 Buckthorn had referred to him darkly as " a god- 
 less person in our midst, given over to strong 
 drink and Sabbath breaking." From Electa 
 Pratt, who lived in the rear, had come scraps of 
 information regarding the household habits of 
 the foreigners. 
 
 " I sh'd think you'd hate to have such queer 
 people livin' in your house, Philura," said Miss 
 Pratt. " They set up nights till all hours, an' 
 out in under that apple tree 's if the' wa'n't a 
 thing to do in the world. I seen her bring a bottle 
 'n' a glass out t' him more 'n once. . . . Some- 
 body 'd ought t' do somethin'." 
 
 But (reflected Mrs. Pettibone) M. Desaye did 
 not resemble even remotely the type of person 
 known as " a drinking man." He was smiling at 
 her very kindly, and quite as if he understood her 
 embarrassment. 
 
 " Madame" he said, " permit me to t'ank you.
 
 NEIGHBORS 205 
 
 I s'all be mos' happy to accept your invitation, 
 my daughter Madeleine also." 
 
 " We expect," said Mrs. Pettibone, " to have 
 an evangelist in our church beginning next week. 
 We hope everybody who is not who is " 
 
 She paused, with an appealing glance at the 
 girl who was cooing over the baby, nestled sleep- 
 ily in his blankets. 
 
 " Of course it isn't a very good time of year 
 in the summer. But the session are anxious to 
 have our revival begin before the Methodists; 
 and besides, we can get the evangelist now, and 
 perhaps later I don't know why people shouldn't 
 be converted in the summer as well as in the 
 winter." 
 
 M. Desaye had listened attentively. There 
 were several significant words in Mrs. Petti- 
 bone's little speech which he recalled without 
 difficulty. 
 
 "Re-vival?" he inquired; "of your goodness 
 you will make clear? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone absent-mindedly patted the 
 yellow dog, who laid his head upon her knee with 
 a confiding gesture. M. Desaye saw without 
 seeming to see the work-worn little hand with its 
 painfully clean but uncared-for finger-nails. Did 
 all women in America despise the simple arts of 
 the toilet, he wondered.
 
 2o6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " A revival," said the minister's wife, " a re- 
 vival is " 
 
 She paused to reflect dubiously: she must not 
 betray the fact that she really dreaded the re- 
 vival. She had already ventured to confess as 
 much to the minister. But of course all this had 
 been discussed in the inner fastnesses of the par- 
 sonage. Outwardly it was her duty as Mr. 
 Pettibone had pointed out to appear otherwise. 
 She strove to smile. 
 
 " Why, a revival is I will try to explain we 
 have a special preacher an evangelist 
 
 " Ah, yes, an evangelhtef 'comprehended 
 M. Desaye. " We also have such persons in 
 France." 
 
 " Well, the evangelist preaches, and he has an 
 assistant who sings. They we all try to interest 
 unconverted persons." 
 
 " Qui nest pas transformed murmured the 
 Frenchman. " Bien! I un'erstan'. Many 
 t'anks." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone appeared slightly bewildered. 
 
 " We want we hope every one will come," she 
 concluded. 
 
 "An' be convert?" 
 
 M. Desaye smiled pleasantly. If there was a 
 gentle raillery in his eyes Mrs. Pettibone did not 
 perceive it. She had performed her duty, as the
 
 NEIGHBORS 207 
 
 wife of a clergyman, supposedly concerned above 
 all things in the salvage of souls, domestic and 
 foreign. Besides, Mrs. Buckthorn meant to call 
 upon the Desayes: she had said so. And Mrs. 
 Buckthorn would 
 
 " 'E ees not as-leep zat small one," cried 
 Madeleine ecstatically. " See ! 'e laugh to me. 
 Good Ian', I like to embrace 'eem ! 'E ees one 
 peach of be be." 
 
 "Would you like to hold him?" asked Mrs. 
 Pettibone, with unexampled generosity. 
 
 ' You jus' bet your s-weet your s-weet 
 
 Oh, I forget w'at your bet. Mais, out, I like bet- 
 taire to hoi' zat bebe zan t' eat his bes' bonnet. 
 . . . You permit eh?" 
 
 M. Desaye perceived the startled look which 
 had come over the face of their proprietaire. He 
 had himself been visited of late by doubts con- 
 cerning the strange and interesting idioms, so 
 easily acquired by his daughter. 
 
 "You not like zose idiome, perhaps?" he in- 
 quired, after Mrs. Pettibone had effected the 
 transfer of her child to the soft arms 
 of Madeleine a process accompanied by all 
 those inarticulate cooings common to the 
 mothers of the race since the days of the cave 
 dwellers. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone smiled deprecatingly.
 
 208 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " It is really quite wonderful how well how 
 quickly Miss Desaye has learned English," she 
 said; "but " 
 
 " I learn from Mees Malvina," stated Made- 
 leine proudly. " You are acquaint' wiz Mees 
 Malvina eh?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Pettibone. " I have 
 always known her. Miss Malvina is " 
 
 She paused to consider: 
 
 " She is one of the kindest and best friends I 
 have. . . . But " 
 
 " S'e is mos' adrolte zat Mees Malvina, 
 w'at you call clevaire," said Madeleine joyously. 
 " She tell me so I mak' folks un'erstan'. Before 
 I know 'nough not to come in out of pluie 
 r-rain. Now I am aware of all talk Americaine. 
 . . . La la, bcbc! la la!" 
 
 " Zose idiome of American speech are mos' in- 
 terresant" said M. Desaye pointedly; "but I in- 
 quire of you, madame are zey comme il faut for 
 a young demoiselle not of ze bourgeoisie? I 
 hope I make myself of a clearness? " 
 
 " Well," temporized Mrs. Pettibone, " it is 
 perhaps wiser to first learn to first acquire the 
 simple rudiments of English." 
 
 She spoke primly and distinctly. It seemed im- 
 possible not to harbor the impression that these 
 foreigners were slightly deaf.
 
 NEIGHBORS 209 
 
 " An' zose idiome," persisted M. Desaye. 
 "You not like zem n'est-ce-pasf " 
 
 "Well, f'r th' land sake, Philura! I mean 
 Mis' Pettibone," chirruped Miss Bennett's fa- 
 miliar voice. " Ef it ain't good f'r sore eyes t' 
 see you a-settin' out in your own yard, like you 
 ust' to, an' me a-slippin' through the hedge." 
 
 Miss Malvina joyously embraced and kissed 
 her pastor's wife, in the pretty foreign fashion 
 she had acquired from Madeleine. 
 
 "An* that baby; ain't he the grandest? My! 
 My! An' Mad'lane a-holdin' him 's snug 's a 
 bug in a rug. . . . Kitty kitty! Where's th' 
 nice kitty? . . . Course he sees our cat, with his 
 tail's big's two on 'count o' that there dog. . . . 
 I says t' Ma, I jest got t' run over V take a 
 squint at that baby, ef it's only f'r a minute. . . . 
 Say! Who does he look like? Kind o' reminds 
 me o' your folks, Philura I mean Mis' Petti- 
 bone but his nose an' the set of his years I 
 d'clare, when he turns them eyes o' hisen s' sol- 
 emn, he's the spit 'n' image o' Mr. Pettibone, 
 when he says * let us pray.' ' 
 
 M. Desaye was gazing quizzically at his 
 neighbor, whose appearance indicated entire for- 
 getfulness of self. She was wearing an ancient 
 black and white muslin, and feathery curls of 
 white hair were blowing about her forehead. For
 
 210 NEIGHBORS 
 
 perhaps the first time he noticed the brightness of 
 Miss Malvina's eyes and the piquant energy of 
 her gestures. The name Bennett did not, it was 
 true, suggest any sprightly admixture of French 
 blood; but there was a certain manner, a certain 
 verve 
 
 " In this country," he mused, " where one finds 
 all races commingled like salad in a bowl one can 
 never be sure." 
 
 With this thought in mind, he looked at his 
 neighbor a second time, then a third; and the little 
 dressmaker recalled to self-consciousness by his 
 earnest scrutiny, suddenly clapped her hands to 
 her forehead. 
 
 " My stars alive ! " she cried, " ef I ain't gone 
 an' come over here without my hair front; it bein' 
 s' warm, I took it off 'n' hung it on a nail yistiday, 
 then I guess I must 'a' slipped some paper pat- 
 terns over it an' clean fergot it. I bet I look most 
 's bad 's Billy Sunday, after he's through 
 a-preachin' t' sinners ! "
 
 XIX 
 
 YOUNG Horatio Herbert Kitchener Hobbs 
 turned from the mirror, where he had been 
 knotting his tie with scrupulous care, and 
 faced his mother. He was a handsome fellow, 
 and Mrs. Hobbs' eyes filled with ready tears as 
 she gazed at him: If she had not compelled him 
 by every fond art known to mothers to ac- 
 company her to America, that beautiful young 
 face might even now be hidden in some shallow 
 grave behind the Somme. But she dared not 
 speak her thoughts to her son. Instead, she fell 
 to trembling under his somber eyes. She was 
 afraid of what he had to say. She was always 
 afraid of late, and shivered at the slightest sound. 
 
 Her son fetched a deep, short breath and ex- 
 haled it sharply. 
 
 "What's the matter with you, mother?" he 
 demanded with some impatience. 
 
 "With me? Oh, nothing," the woman lied 
 hurriedly. " I was just thinking what a nice 
 necktie you've got on, Hoddy. It's a real pretty 
 color. I I s'pose you got it down in the store. 
 
 211
 
 212 NEIGHBORS 
 
 . . . Does Mr. Trimmer allow you any dis- 
 count? He'd ought to, seeing you work for him 
 
 an' seeing I But, anyway, I'm glad you've 
 
 got such a nice job, Hoddy." 
 
 She wiped her eyes furtively and sighed. 
 
 "Going to the social?" she added, with an 
 effort after a casual manner. " I would, if I was 
 you. It'll be real pleasant. I heard some of my 
 customers talking " 
 
 " Sit down, mother: I want to talk to you." 
 
 He led her unresisting to a chair, placed her 
 in it, and stood over her, the fold between his 
 eyes deepening. 
 
 " I've been thinking for a long time I have no 
 business to be here. You're comfortable now; 
 got a good business started thanks to that little 
 woman who's helping you. You don't need 
 me " 
 
 " Don't say it, Hoddy: don't say it! " begged 
 the woman, her head sagging weakly against the 
 back of her chair. " I've been dreading it, night 
 an' day, for I don't know how long." 
 
 " Time we had it over, then," he muttered. 
 
 " I'd a sight rather you'd get married, Hoddy," 
 she wailed. 
 
 "Get married? Whatever put that into your 
 head?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know seeing you going out, all
 
 NEIGHBORS 213 
 
 dressed up, I guess. An' there's nice girls here, 
 ain't there, Hoddy?" 
 
 He thrust her suggestion behind him with an 
 impatient gesture. 
 
 " Now see here, mother. I'm going to do one 
 of two things. I've made up my mind. . . . I'm 
 quitting Trimmer's this day week." 
 
 " Oh, Hoddy, you're never going to give up 
 your nice job? Oh, dear! Oh, dearl My 
 heart " 
 
 He flashed her a keen glance: then unbidden 
 fetched her a glass of water from the faucet. 
 
 " Here, drink this," he urged with rough ten- 
 derness. " Your heart's all right, mother of 
 course, it's all right. Now, listen. . . . Don't 
 cry!" 
 
 But she continued to whimper weakly, clutching 
 at the front of her dress. 
 
 " I guess you wouldn't care if I was to die to- 
 morrow," she said querulously. " Maybe you'd 
 be glad. Then you'd be free to go an' get killed 
 in one o' them nasty trenches. . . . That's all 
 you're thinking of day an' night. You don't care 
 for your mother. You only care for getting your 
 own way. That's the way with men." 
 
 He sprang from the chair he had drawn close 
 to hers and began to pace up and down, as if he 
 could no longer listen quietly.
 
 2i 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Thank God all women aren't such cowards! " 
 he muttered. " Heaven help the world, if they 
 were ! . . . Now, see here, mother, you haven't 
 given me a chance to say what I wanted to. It's 
 this: I'll either go over to Canada and enlist 
 plenty of Americans are doing that, and I tell you 
 straight I'd be ashamed to show my face in Lon- 
 don now or I'll go into the munitions plant 
 here and help that way. I won't stay in Trim- 
 mer's shop another day selling silly high-heeled 
 shoes to silly women. It isn't a man's job." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs sat up, dabbing at her eyes. 
 
 " I hear somebody knocking," she said, with 
 suddenly renewed energy. " I suppose it's that 
 Miss Bennett. . . . But let me tell you, Hoddy, 
 I'll never consent to you're going to Canada; I'll 
 die first. Why should you go to Canada? But 
 they do say they're going to pay the munitions 
 workers big money. Maybe if you was to be real 
 careful, Hoddy, I wouldn't mind that so much. 
 Anyway " 
 
 But he was already opening the door to a 
 young woman, to whom he had sold shoes with 
 prodigious difficulty only the day before. He 
 passed her with a nod and plunged down the 
 stairs to the street. More than anything else he 
 wanted to get away from the sound of his mother's 
 high-pitched American voice, which had long pos-
 
 NEIGHBORS 215 
 
 sessed the power of goading him to unexpected 
 bursts of temper. He felt sorry and ashamed 
 as he walked hurriedly along the dark street, 
 splotched unevenly with wavering circles of light 
 from the buzzing arcs. He had meant to be 
 quite calm and gentle in explaining to her how 
 impossible it had become to work longer for 
 Trimmer. In common with other employees of 
 the Emporium, young Hobbs had early been made 
 acquainted with his employer's superior brand of 
 piety. Only that day Mr. Trimmer had invited 
 his shoe clerk to join the choir, training for the 
 forthcoming evangelistic campaign, accompanying 
 his request with a card, upon which was inscribed 
 in bold black type the question : " Are you saved ? " 
 
 The young man gazed at the card coldly; 
 whereat Mr. Trimmer had exploded in a sharp: 
 " How about it, Hobbs ? You'll have to answer 
 that question before the great white throne, some 
 day. Why not now? " 
 
 The young man narrowed his frowning gaze to 
 a point directly between his employer's eyes. 
 
 "How about yourself, sir?" he returned 
 sulkily. 
 
 " I'm an elder in the Presbyterian Church," 
 stated Mr. Trimmer. 
 
 His shoe clerk received the information with 
 British phlegm.
 
 216 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Is that tantamount to being saved, sir? " he 
 inquired coldly. 
 
 " You're an impudent puppy, Hobbs ! " barked 
 
 Elder Trimmer. " I Confound you 
 
 T'ii , 
 
 1 IX 
 
 " That being the case, I have the honor of 
 quitting your employ this day week, sir," said 
 Horatio Herbert Kitchener Hobbs instantly. 
 
 He squared his shoulders and his chin, while a 
 great joy surged over his young soul. 
 
 " I can leave today, if you like," he added, ex- 
 panding still further. 
 
 " You, Hobbs, get busy," growled Mr. Trim- 
 mer. " I'll 'tend to your case in the office, when 
 I get ready." 
 
 The card, with its pertinent question, stared 
 up at the young man from the floor. He picked 
 it up, with the inward conviction that he had al- 
 ready taken the first step toward personal salva- 
 tion. . . . And now he had taken the second. 
 . . . But what, after all, was it to be " saved "? 
 He pondered the question as he strode forward 
 in the semi-darkness. Of one thing he was sure : 
 to be " saved " one must be free to follow one's 
 inner conviction of right. 
 
 Then all at once his introverted thoughts be- 
 came sharply aware of the outer world. Hurry- 
 ing toward him out of the shadows was a girl's
 
 NEIGHBORS 217 
 
 slight figure. As she passed him, almost running, 
 he caught the sound of a stifled sob, and recog- 
 nized the young French girl, who had been his 
 companion in the chase, but a few days before. 
 
 He turned and overtook her in a long stride. 
 
 " Hello ! " he accosted her with boyish rude- 
 ness. " What's the trouble? " 
 
 " Mossing," she denied. 
 
 " But I heard you Besides, you were run- 
 ning. Did anything frighten you ? " 
 
 " I am mad like wet hen," she confessed. 
 " One two rude mans spik to me. I am run 
 queek away from such person." 
 
 " You have no business to be out on the streets 
 alone at night," he said severely. " Didn't you 
 know that?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders: 
 
 " Mees Malvina tell me if I be'ave mysel' like 
 nice lady in America I am okay. You un'erstan' 
 okay ouif " 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 " You oughtn't to be out alone," he repeated. 
 " Where is your father? " 
 
 She glanced up at him, her face dimpling with 
 mischief. 
 
 " Me I am mos' interes' in so-so-ciable my 
 fat'er, 'e ees not interes'; aussi, Mees Malvina's 
 Ma s'e have mal de tete, so I be'ave mysel' like a
 
 218 NEIGHBORS 
 
 lady an' come queek to so-ciable at ze parson-age 
 very nize person zat Missis Pet-ti-bone. S'e 
 do me ze honeur to invite, so I 'ave politeness to 
 come." 
 
 " Well, don't you do it again," said Mr. Hobbs 
 sternly. " America isn't a fools' paradise, I don't 
 care what anybody says. It's every bit as bad as 
 Paris, or London worse, maybe." 
 
 He scowled down at the girl. 
 
 " Take my arm," he commanded. " I shall es- 
 cort you to the sociable, and I shall bring you 
 home again." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Me I 'ave not require beau" she said 
 sweetly. " From zis corner I run to beat cars, 
 queek I arrive; bienf " 
 
 " You'll do nothing of the kind," he contra- 
 dicted her stubbornly. " Don't you suppose I 
 know?" 
 
 "Don' you s'pose 7 know?" she mocked 
 him airily from under lowered lashes. " Me 
 I s'ould worr-y! " 
 
 " Where did you pick up all the slang what? " 
 he inquired. " Really it's not at all the thing, you 
 know." 
 
 " Sl-ang w'at? Of kin'ness explain to me zat 
 sl'ang w'at? I not know zose words." 
 
 " Why just now, you said ' I should worry ';
 
 NEIGHBORS 219 
 
 that's slang the worst kind of United States. So 
 is ' run to beat the cars.' You should drop all that 
 sort of thing. It's jolly bad form. You don't 
 mind if I tell you?" 
 
 She considered his question. 
 
 " You aire not of America," she told him 
 kindly. " An' of idiome I perceive you 'ave not 
 es-tudy. Eet ees pitie. I teach you some nize 
 sl-ang w'at. You like to learn joli bad form 
 eh?" 
 
 He was staring straight before him with British 
 solemnity, unlighted by any alien gleam of humor. 
 Then he began a labored explanation in his 
 wooden French, by means of which imperfect 
 medium of speech he contrived to make his mean- 
 ing clear. By the time they had corre within sight 
 of the lighted windows of the parsonage Made- 
 leine's drooping face betrayed her complete dis- 
 comfiture. Two big tears trembled on her lashes; 
 she shook them off impatiently. 
 
 " Spik to me in Englis'," she ordered him im- 
 periously. " Zat so beautiful langue Franqaise 
 you 'ave keel eet you 'ave murdaire. Me I 
 s'all spik all times sl-ang, like vary nize young 
 man, name of Har-ri, teach me. He is peach of 
 polite person zat Har-ri; much bettaire zan you 
 I like heem." 
 
 Mr. Hobbs frowned.
 
 220 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "Who is Harry?" he inquired. "If he 
 teaches you slang he is a bounder, let me tell you." 
 
 " I let you tell me nossing," replied Madeleine 
 with spirit. 
 
 He gazed down at her gloomily. 
 
 " We're fools to quarrel," he said. " I was 
 only trying to help you ; but I should have known 
 better." 
 
 All women he was thinking with youthful bit- 
 terness were alike foolish, vain, unreasoning. A 
 lump of passionate self-pity surged up in his 
 throat. 
 
 " I'm sorry," he murmured. " I hoped " 
 
 He did not in the least know what it was that 
 he had hoped; but he appeared to himself to be 
 gazing mournfully at something broken which 
 had been inconceivably valuable. 
 
 " Me I ex-cuse," murmured the girl. 
 
 After a moment's hesitation she held out her 
 hand to him with the simplicity of a child. 
 
 He was silent, battling with his vague thoughts ; 
 but he took the small, repentant hand and held it 
 fast. 
 
 "You 'ear me?" she asked. "You aire not 
 deaf like post? You aire sor-ry for such rud' 
 spik? Me, I ex-cuse. Bienf" 
 
 Her eyes sparkled up at him out of a lovely 
 tear-mist.
 
 NEIGHBORS 221 
 
 He roused himself. They had by now reached 
 the gate of the parsonage. 
 
 " I'll not go in," he said. " I've been awfully 
 out of sorts all day and that's the truth." 
 
 He appeared to have forgotten her hand, still 
 clasped in his own; but he was in fact intensely 
 aware of it. Warm currents of hope and courage 
 appeared to be flowing from that little hand to 
 the very center and core of his being. 
 
 " You like bettaire to fight zan put shoe on 
 lady," surmised Madeleine, nodding her head 
 wisely. " Zose shoe make you feel mad like 
 hops." 
 
 " You are a witch to guess it," he cried. " Tell 
 me, shall I go to Canada and enlist, or shall I 
 make shrapnel? I have only one life." 
 
 She had no need to inquire the dire significance 
 of the word shrapnel. She considered his ques- 
 tion with downcast eyes. 
 
 " You 'ave on-li-one life," she repeated, " on- 
 li-one ; but you aire glad to give zat on-li-one for 
 France ees eet not? " 
 
 A great thrill went through him. 
 
 " Would you care," he asked huskily, " if I 
 if I never came back? " 
 
 Some one struck up the Star-Spangled Banner 
 in the lighted parlor of the parsonage; shrill 
 voices caught up the strain and carried it forward
 
 222 NEIGHBORS 
 
 in a burst of raucous triumph. Somehow the song 
 with its shouting rhythm appeared to intrude itself 
 between them like a visible presence. 
 
 " Eet ees chanson patriotique" murmured the 
 young French girl. " Very loud zey sing zose 
 Americaine." 
 
 " Yes," he said dully; " they sing very loud. 
 Are you going in? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Suddenly I feel alien," she told him in French. 
 " Take me home, please." 
 
 Her hand slipped from his, as they turned to go 
 away, the sound of that boastful chorus gradu- 
 ally lessening on the breeze, till at last only the 
 bolder peaks of song stood out against the back- 
 ground of their troubled thoughts. 
 
 At the gate of the small brown house under 
 its tall maples, the girl paused: silhouetted 
 against the drawn shade appeared the studious 
 head of M. Desaye; also his hand, holding a 
 book. 
 
 " He has not missed you," said Hoddy Hobbs. 
 
 " He sink I 'ave attend so-ciable wiz Mees 
 Malvina." 
 
 " And you will tell him that you have not? " 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders, while her 
 hands described an eloquent arc. 
 
 " If I tell monsieur, my fat'er, I 'ave walk
 
 NEIGHBORS 223 
 
 wiz es-trange young man? Wat you zink he 
 say to me? Nevaire again do I spik to you, I 
 am not permit." 
 
 " Promise me you will not go out again alone 
 in the evening," he urged, waiving the dilemma. 
 " It isn't safe." 
 
 " But wiz you I am safe n'est-ce-pas?" 
 
 " Of course. But not with any one else. . . . 
 Promise ! " 
 
 She ran lightly up the path. 
 
 "Goo' night," she breathed softly; "one 
 mille t'anks for such nize plaisir" 
 
 "And you'll remember what I said? You 
 must not be on the streets alone at night." 
 
 A jealous qualm assailed him at sight of her 
 hesitation. 
 
 " You spoke of some bounder you called 
 Harry," he growled. " You'd better tell your 
 father about him. You shouldn't know such 
 persons." 
 
 'You aire mos' kind," she syllabled sweetly; 
 " but already my fat'er is acquainted wiz M'sieu' 
 Le Noir. He ees one vary nize person. . . . 
 I hitch his wagon to my star oui. . . . Goo' 
 night!" 
 
 He heard the door close softly after her; be- 
 held M. Desaye's silhouette manifest surprise, 
 then arrested attention, as before the lighted
 
 224 NEIGHBORS 
 
 curtain flitted the girl's slim figure, her hands 
 fluttering a piquant accompaniment to the words 
 he could not hear. 
 
 In common with most Englishmen young 
 Hobbs entertained a lurking suspicion of Gallic 
 veracity. 
 
 " Of course she'll have to tell him something," 
 he conceded to the exigency of circumstance.
 
 XX 
 
 THE end of an arid August witnessed the 
 opening of the Merks Munitions Works 
 in the enlarged and renovated buildings 
 over by the swamp. For months past Innisfield 
 had enjoyed a vastly increased volume of busi- 
 ness which the new enterprise had brought to 
 town, and now a small army of workers had 
 taken possession of the barrack-like buildings 
 erected by the Company in the immediate neigh- 
 borhood of the plant. Mrs. Buckthorn's pro- 
 test, with its red-ink signatures, had been duly 
 forwarded to the Company; its receipt had been 
 promptly acknowledged by the secretary of the 
 Merks Munition Works, who stated in a letter 
 to Mrs. Buckthorn that its contents, as noted, 
 would receive the earnest consideration of the 
 stockholders. At a subsequent meeting of the 
 Ladies' Aid Society the damning fact was dis- 
 closed that a document of quite a different sort 
 had been sent to the new concern signed by the 
 business men of the community, who had banded 
 together to furnish substantial inducements to 
 
 225
 
 226 NEIGHBORS 
 
 the Merks Munition Works to " locate in our 
 midst." 
 
 It was a burning, scarifying shame, agreed 
 the ladies. And Mrs. Buckthorn who as the 
 head and front of the movement, naturally took 
 the lead in the spirited discussion which followed 
 spoke strongly of " Belial," and mentioned the 
 Merks Company as " an instrument in the hands 
 of the Devil," which somehow mollified every- 
 body's feelings. It was thought to be a truly 
 providential circumstance that the Rev. George 
 Pilgrim would open his evangelistic cam- 
 paign on the very day the Merks Munitions 
 Company began its operations. And when in 
 his initial sermon preached on a hot August 
 night to the fluttering of innumerable fans the 
 Rev. Pilgrim alluded to the coincidence in pic- 
 turesque terms, the women leaned forward in 
 pleased attention still cooling themselves busily. 
 Whereat the Rev. Pilgrim suddenly shot up to 
 the full height of a substantial stool, placed be- 
 hind the pulpit, and leaned far out over the desk, 
 gesticulating with energy: 
 
 "Put down those fans!" he shouted. "I'm 
 not preaching to fans baseball or any other 
 kind. Put 'em down, I say! Some of you 
 folks '11 be so hot in hell some o' these days 
 you'll holler for a drop of water to cool your
 
 NEIGHBORS 227 
 
 tongues; but you won't get it, unless you repent 
 and be converted. . . . And there won't be any 
 fans there. Talk about munitions workers! I 
 tell you you've all got t' get busy take off your 
 kid gloves an' get into working clothes! You 
 can't raise a blister with the sort of blank car- 
 tridges you've got in this church. I know your 
 sort. You can't fool me, and you can't fool God, 
 either. They tell me there's a munitions factory 
 started just outside of your dead old town. 
 There's nothing dead out there. Those men are 
 working like devils in hell to make stuff to kill 
 men's bodies. . . . But you what have you been 
 doing all these years to save men's souls? I 
 counted fifteen saloons in this town today and 
 six houses of ill-fame and a hundred loafers. I 
 haven't counted the hypocrites yet, nor the liars, 
 nor the religious fakers. Maybe you think there 
 aren't any. God knows better. I shall know 
 better after I've been here a week. It's my 
 job to throw all such stuff on the junk pile. And 
 I'm going to do it! God can't work with stiffs; 
 he wants real, live folks that ain't afraid of 
 dynamite. We're going to need shrapnel in this 
 town to blow up the intrenchments of the 
 Devil. And we are going to begin with the 
 ministers and the elders and the deacons 
 and the church-members that's where we're
 
 228 NEIGHBORS 
 
 going to begin! And we're going to begin 
 right now! " 
 
 The people in the pews derived a fleeting 
 satisfaction from the sight of their pastor's pale, 
 distressed face. Mr. Pettibone was pilloried on 
 the platform in full view of his congregation. 
 He had read from the Bible in his usual forensic 
 style; his succeeding prayer had been earnest and 
 spiritual, full of pleadings for the divine mercy 
 and the leadings of the Spirit. But its phrase- 
 ology had been formal and scriptural, it had 
 differed in no wise from the sort of prayer he 
 had been wont to offer from what was popu- 
 larly known as " the sacred desk " for many years 
 past. 
 
 "Do look at Mis-Jer Pettibone f" whispered 
 Miss Electa Pratt to her neighbor, Mrs. Dea- 
 coness Buckthorn. " An' Philura, too. Ain't 
 it funny?" 
 
 " I do hope an' pray it's goin' t' do 'em 
 good," responded Mrs. Buckthorn piously. 
 
 But the attention of the ladies was suddenly 
 arrested by the high-explosive voice of the evan- 
 gelist, which appeared to be aimed directly at 
 them, with the effect of a bursting shell. 
 
 ' What sort of folks do I mean by hypocrites?" 
 he bellowed. "You don't know eh? Well, 
 I'll tell you what God means by a hypocrite
 
 NEIGHBORS 229 
 
 And you pay attention to what I tell you, or 
 you'll wish you had some day: every pious old 
 duffer who keeps a corner grocery, but whose 
 weights and measures have been fixed so's to 
 bring in a few more measly pennies to his till 
 . . . know any of 'em? Every woman who 
 teaches a Sunday-School class on Sunday and 
 gossips spitefully about her neighbors on Mon- 
 day, Tuesday, and the rest of the week . . . 
 know any such? . . . Every girl who draws her 
 skirts aside from her soiled sisters on the street, 
 but stands ready to sell herself to the highest 
 bidder who'll give her the right to put Mrs. 
 before her name. . . . Ever hear of such a 
 thing? ... I see some of you folks grinning. 
 That's right, laugh and be dammed! You 
 thought I didn't get you, and you're just mean 
 enough to laugh when you see the other fellow 
 hit. God understands your sort. You can't fool 
 him, not for a minute. . . . Why, there's more 'n 
 fifty-seven sorts and varieties of hypocrites; I'm 
 not going to waste your time nor mine naming 
 'em. But I'll tell you one thing, my smiling 
 friend, an' just you paste it in your hat unless 
 you get down to brass tacks and corner that 
 slippery, slimy self if you don't hunt out your 
 own particular brand of hypocrisy an' yank it 
 out, root an' branch, you can't count yourself in
 
 2 3 o NEIGHBORS 
 
 the kingdom. . . . Stop snickering long enough 
 to take in the proposition: right now you're either 
 saved or lost! Ever think of that? There's no 
 rail fence between heaven and hell for you to 
 roost on! . . . Your minister never talked to 
 you like this, you're thinking. You're dead right. 
 He never did. Why? Because your churches 
 make cowards of your settled pastors. They 
 ain't one of 'em between here an' Frisco that 
 dares call his soul his own. They've got the no- 
 tion that their bread and butter depends upon 
 pleasing a lot of whining, hypocritical church 
 members, an' nothing short of an earthquake '11 
 shake 'em out of it. How do I know this? Well, 
 I'll tell you; I was the pastor of a church in a 
 Western town once, and there was a rich brewer 
 in my congregation. Used to locate of a Sunday 
 morning right down in a conspicuous pew in the 
 center aisle a big, fat, pompous-looking chap. 
 He was worth a million or so; and he had that 
 church right where he wanted it. I hadn't been 
 their pastor a week before one of my elders 
 warned me against the subject of temperance. 
 ' You got to be careful, Mr. Pilgrim,' says he ; 
 ' 'twon't do to antagonize Mr. So-an'-so. Why, 
 d' you know he contributes annually to the sup- 
 port of this church something like a thousand 
 dollars! We couldn't afford to pay your salary
 
 NEIGHBORS 231 
 
 if it wasn't for So-an'-so.' Did I see the point? 
 You can bet I saw it, all right I had a wife 
 an' three kids, an' I'd never understood the story 
 of Eiljah an' the ravens for a cent. So I was 
 mighty careful to skate around the extreme edge 
 of the booze question. Never went near it for 
 more than a year. Then one Sunday the spirit 
 of the Lord came upon me mightily. I looked 
 down from the pulpit an' I saw that smug old 
 sinner sitting there as complacent as a stuffed 
 boa constrictor an' I let out the thunders of Sinai. 
 . . . God spoke through me that day an' I 
 ripped the booze question up the back. Then I 
 told 'em the truth about their measly, cowardly 
 church. And how they'd tried to put the muzzle 
 on me, same as they had on all their other min- 
 isters. The Lord gave me utterance. In the 
 middle of it old So-an'-so got up an' stomped 
 out of the church ; an' at the same minute I caught 
 a glimpse of my wife's white, scared face. But 
 I was free, thank God. And I stayed so ! " 
 
 During the fervid appeal to sinners and the 
 tumultuous singing of the closing hymn during 
 which a few impressionable girls and a sparse 
 sprinkling of gray-headed men and women repre- 
 senting the " backsliders," came forward to 
 grasp the Evangelist's hand Mr. Pettibone's con- 
 trolled features manifested little of what he was
 
 2 3 2 NEIGHBORS 
 
 thinking. He was dimly aware of various zealous 
 members of his flock as they approached to con- 
 gratulate Mr. Pilgrim on the success of his open- 
 ing sermon. 
 
 " Tell ye what, that's th' stuff ! " wheezed Dea- 
 con Scrimger. " Sinners needs rousin'. Give 'em 
 hell-fire! I've be'n urgin' it ont' our paster 
 right along. But shucks! he's one o' them 
 meechin' fellers, you was tellin' about. He-he! " 
 
 "Praise th' Lord! you ain't afraid t' speak 
 right out," said Mrs. Buckthorn, wiping the per- 
 spiration from her massive countenance. " My, 
 my! what a bl-essed season we're enterin' upon! 
 . . . I c'n tell you some o' your r'marks fairly 
 drored blood. But the's those in our midst needs 
 rousin', an' I guess you ain't very wide of the 
 mark when you begin with th' minister." 
 
 Mr. George Trimmer announced himself as 
 so favorably impressed by Mr. Pilgrim's sermon 
 that he was disposed to invite the evangelist to 
 dinner on the following day. 
 
 " I should like you to meet the members of 
 my family around the family altar," said Mr. 
 Trimmer sonorously. " A few words from you 
 on the subject of personal sanctification might 
 serve to cheer us as we travel along life's 
 pathway." 
 
 But Mr. Pilgrim shook his head. He never
 
 NEIGHBORS 233 
 
 made social visits while at work, he stated. Half 
 an hour later as he turned to speak to Mr. Petti- 
 bone, he appeared to notice for the first time that 
 gentleman's perturbed and pallid countenance. 
 
 " See here, Pettibone," said Mr. Pilgrim, 
 " you don't want to take too seriously what I 
 said to-night. I make it a rule to begin with 
 heckling the ministers, because nothing rouses 
 the people so effectively. Nothing personal 
 about it; merely an opening gun. Wait an' see 
 me open up on those intrenched old hypocrites 
 tomorrow night. I sized 'em up all right . . . 
 By the way, how long have you preached here? " 
 ' Twenty years too long, I begin to think," 
 said Mr. Pettibone with some bitterness. " But 
 what can I do? You were young when you 
 broke your chains. Besides, not all ministers can 
 be evangelists." 
 
 The Rev. Pilgrim smiled humorously. 
 
 "No; but many of them might be better em- 
 ployed than they are now," he said. " Mind, 
 I don't mean you. . . . Though I'm not so sure, 
 now that I've had a bird's-eye view of your field." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone was stonily silent. 
 
 " The fact is, Pettibone," pursued Mr. Pil- 
 grim, with waning enthusiasm, " the church, as 
 a whole, could be handled more effectively with- 
 out settled pastors. What is needed is an organ-
 
 234 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ization of trained specialists, paid by the church 
 as a whole, to do the work. Imagine one of 
 these atrophied old churches treated to a course 
 in spiritual dynamics by men like me. Men not 
 dependent upon any one church for salary; an- 
 swerable only to God and the central adminis- 
 tration, which would have the care of all the 
 churches. . . . Get me?" 
 
 Mr. Pettibone drew his brows into a frowning 
 line. 
 
 " I understand what you mean yes," he as- 
 sented coldly; "but " 
 
 " It doesn't hit you very hard eh? Well, I'm 
 not surprised. It's tremendously revolutionary, 
 I know, and would involve a complete overhaul- 
 ing of those respectable refrigerators we call 
 theological seminaries; but it's bound to come." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone strove to consider the matter 
 objectively. 
 
 " Does your scheme provide for the usual pas- 
 toral duties, and er such special sacraments as 
 burials, weddings, and sick-bed ministrations?" 
 he propounded mildly. " It would seem to me 
 that in severing the bond between pastor and 
 people much would be lost." 
 
 But Mr. Pilgrim was experiencing the inevita- 
 ble reaction, due half an hour after preaching. 
 His versatile mind was now occupied with
 
 NEIGHBORS 235 
 
 thoughts of the hot bath, supper, and bed await- 
 ing him at his hotel. He had already set down 
 Mr. Pettibone as one of a negligible type to be 
 eliminated from his future scheme of things. 
 More particularly he had disliked Mr. Pettibone's 
 timid manner of addressing the Deity. The Rev. 
 George Pilgrim spoke loudly and familiarly to 
 his God, using the vernacular of the streets. Peo- 
 ple sat up and listened to that sort of prayer. 
 It was original, snappy, full of piquant surprises 
 and racy epithets. . . . Pettibone, he saw 
 plainly, was a hopeless duffer. No use of wast- 
 ing energy in argument with Pettibone. 
 
 " Good night," said Mr. Pilgrim definitely. 
 
 " H'm er, I should be glad to call on you to- 
 morrow morning," said Mr. Pettibone, " for the 
 purpose of conferring " 
 
 " At eleven-thirty," snapped the evangelist, 
 " not a minute sooner. ..." 
 
 His wife, in her blue dressing gown and pom- 
 ponned slippers, was waiting for him in the study 
 when the minister let himself into the parsonage 
 half an hour later. 
 
 " I thought you might be hungry," she ex- 
 cused herself. " And the baby waked up and 
 cried. So I wasn't " 
 
 " Better go to bed, my dear," he advised. " I 
 I'm not at all hungry."
 
 236 NEIGHBORS 
 
 His eyes wandered toward his books. She 
 stood waiting expectantly, her hand on the knob. 
 
 " I think I'll read awhile," he said presently. 
 " I'm not er sleepy." 
 
 She turned and came toward him swiftly, im- 
 pulsively. With a spent breath he opened his 
 arms to receive her. For a long minute neither 
 spoke; then she stood on tiptoe to kiss his pale 
 face. 
 
 " Silas," she said. "Silas!" 
 
 He patted her brown head awkwardly. 
 
 " Yes, my dear; I know I know. . . . Better 
 not say it." 
 
 " But, Silas, that man " 
 
 He led her unresisting to the door and gently 
 closed it between them.
 
 XXI 
 
 "TTARRY," said Mrs. Schwartz, "why 
 didn't you go to the meeting last 
 
 T A night?" 
 
 Mrs. Schwartz's rosy face wore a slightly anx- 
 ious expression, as she gazed across the break- 
 fast table at her son, pleasantly engaged on his 
 fourth muffin. 
 
 " I didn't see you in the gallery, or anywhere," 
 she concluded, passing him the butter. 
 
 " I didn't say I was going," said Harry, 
 watching a lump of butter sink luxuriously out 
 of sight in the steaming interior of his muffin. 
 
 "Where did you go?" 
 
 The young man gazed across the table at his 
 pretty little mother. 
 
 " Well," he said slowly, " I did have a hazy 
 notion of stopping at the church. I've been prac- 
 ticing up with the choir, you know." 
 
 ' Yes, I know you have," she prompted him, 
 her blue eyes searching his face. " It was a won- 
 derful sermon; I never heard anything like it." 
 
 " Uh-huh," murmured her son, folding his nap- 
 kin with unnatural care. 
 
 237
 
 238 NEIGHBORS 
 
 She followed him into the hall. 
 
 "Harry!" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " I heard something that worried me terribly 
 last night." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 He took down his straw hat from the rack and 
 examined it with frowning intentness. 
 
 " You don't want to let that sort of thing worry 
 you, mother," he said. ' There's a lot of old 
 tabbies around this town, who haven't anything 
 else to do except " 
 
 " Yes, I know. But this was Well, never 
 
 mind who it was I heard you've been seen talk- 
 ing to that French girl, and that she " 
 
 " Well, what of it? What's the harm in speak- 
 ing to a pretty girl? " 
 
 "Oh, Harry!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" he repeated. "You 
 knew I was taking French lessons with her father. 
 I told you so, a long time ago." 
 
 He threw his hat up in the air and caught it 
 twice; the third time it struck the gas fixture with 
 a jingling sound. 
 
 " Please listen, Harry. . . . You make me 
 nervous, throwing that hat around. You'll break 
 the globe." 
 
 " If I do, I'll buy another."
 
 NEIGHBORS 239 
 
 There was a boastful note in her son's voice 
 which did not escape Mrs. Schwartz. 
 
 " Then it's true," she decided, clasping her 
 hands. " Oh, dear! and I said I knew it wasn't. 
 I said you wouldn't think of doing such a 
 thing." 
 
 "As what?" 
 
 " Why, as marrying a foreigner." 
 
 Harry burst into uproarious laughter. 
 
 " That's what you did, mother," he accused 
 her. " You're a great one to talk about marry- 
 ing a foreigner; now, aren't you? " 
 
 " Your father was born in America," she re- 
 minded him with dignity. " And besides, that's 
 different: a French girl 
 
 " Now, see here, mother," he said gravely: " in 
 the first place, I don't know as I have the ghost 
 of a show with Madeleine " 
 
 His mother made an inarticulate sound, expres- 
 sive of extreme unbelief. 
 
 " And even if she even if I her father 
 wouldn't look at me. He hates everything Ger- 
 man like poison. . . . He thinks I'm French." 
 
 Harry smiled rather sheepishly under his 
 mother's incredulous stare. 
 
 "He thinks you are French!" she exclaimed, 
 horror stricken. " What would your grandfather 
 say?"
 
 2 4 o NEIGHBORS 
 
 Rather hazily he sketched the circumstances 
 which had resulted in the small deception. 
 
 " What a thing for a girl to do ! " she 
 commented. " I should never have thought 
 of it" 
 
 " Of course not," agreed Harry. " You would 
 never have thought of it. ... Pretty clever 
 eh? . . . I've meant to explain, you know, all 
 along. But hearing the old duffer rave about the 
 war our brave compatriots, and all that sort of 
 thing I er haven't done it yet. Of course 
 sometime or other " 
 
 " It's your duty to tell him right away, Harry," 
 his mother said solemnly. " I'm afraid Mr. Pil- 
 grim would say you were a regular hypocrite. 
 You should have heard what he said about hypo- 
 crites, Harry. It was awful! " 
 
 Harry tossed up his hat once more. Then sud- 
 denly he threw his arms around his mother and 
 stooped his tall head to her neck. 
 
 " Say, ma," he whispered coaxingly. 
 
 "Well, Harry?" 
 
 " I wish you I wish you'd go an' see Made- 
 leine. She's the sweetest, dearest but I'm afraid 
 she's way over my head." 
 
 Mrs. Schwartz held her boy jealously fast. 
 
 4 You're too young to be thinking of such 
 things, Harry. It's downright foolish."
 
 NEIGHBORS 241 
 
 " I'm as old as father was when you were 
 married." 
 
 "No! I didn't realize it. ... Dear, dear, 
 how the time does fly! It seems only yesterday 
 that you were running around in dresses." 
 
 " And you'll go an' see her, ma? " 
 
 Mrs. Schwartz drew a deep sigh, while she 
 patted her boy's crisp, curling hair. 
 
 " I suppose I'll have to, if you But if her 
 
 father " 
 
 He kissed her hurriedly. 
 
 "Thanks, mother; you're the best ever. . . . 
 Good-by ! Don't worry ! " 
 
 Harry walked very fast till he was well out of 
 sight of his mother's tearful gaze; then he lapsed 
 into frowning thought which at last halted his 
 steps in front of an inconspicuous building on the 
 main street. A flight of dusty stairs confronted 
 him, when he opened the door. He mounted 
 them, still slowly. A door at the top of the stair 
 stood ajar and a subdued clicking of typewriters 
 filled the corridor. 
 
 " No, sir," he heard some one say, in what 
 might be termed a dry, business voice; " I don't 
 doubt what you tell me is O.K.; but y' see we 
 don't employ Germans at the plant hyphenates, 
 or any other sort. Our Canada folks are firm 
 on that point."
 
 242 NEIGHBORS 
 
 A man, his hat pulled low on his forehead, 
 plunged angrily down the stair. Harry stood 
 aside to let him pass; then he entered the door 
 purporting to usher one into the temporary offices 
 of the Merks Munitions Company. The man 
 with the business voice had not yet resumed his 
 place behind his desk when Harry entered. He 
 glanced sharply at the newcomer. 
 
 " Right-o ! we're advertising for a few more 
 men," he said in answer to Harry's question. 
 
 With the information he slid an application 
 blank across the flat-top desk. 
 
 " Fill it in," he commanded crisply. " No 
 use wasting your time, or ours." 
 
 His own time, it appeared, could be used to ad- 
 vantage in whistling " Tipperary " between closed 
 teeth. Harry vaguely recognized the tune as he 
 examined the card; it contained spaces for the 
 applicant's name, age, nationality, and other data 
 supposedly pertinent to the manufacture of 
 ammunition. 
 
 "What's matter?" asked the clerk jauntily; 
 " can't you read an' write? " 
 
 Harry's ears turned scarlet; he wrote with 
 fierce little jabs and dashes, and in scowling si- 
 lence flipped the card into the hand waiting to 
 receive it. 
 
 The clerk nonchalantly narrowed his gaze
 
 NEIGHBORS 243 
 
 upon it, shifting his whistle to the corner of his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Hen-rye La-Nore that what you call your- 
 self eh? Foreign, ain't it?" 
 
 " I'm American born," said Harry thickly. 
 
 " Jus' so. But we're bein' kind of particular 
 what brand. . ,. . Well, s' long as it ain't Ger- 
 man. . . . An' you want to be a guard? Uh- 
 huh. . . . Well, now you take this card out to 
 the plant, main office, an' ask for Mr. Mills. I've 
 O.K'd it. ... See!" 
 
 A man with indignant gray eyes stood near the 
 door, in an attitude of surprised attention, as 
 Harry, still red and perspiring visibly, passed out, 
 his card clutched tight in his hand. The two ex- 
 changed swift glances of appraisal. 
 
 "Where have I seen that chap?" Harry was 
 asking himself, as he hurried away, his hat 
 jammed low on his sweating forehead. 
 
 He wanted something to divert his attention 
 from too close a contemplation of himself. At 
 the back of his mind there already arose a clamor 
 of protest demanding his swift return to the re- 
 cruiting office of the Merks Munitions Plant. 
 
 ' What ! go back there and own up to the name 
 of Schwartz, and let that bloomin' jay kick me 
 down stairs?" he asked his boyish conscience, 
 which had received much coddling at the hands
 
 244 NEIGHBORS 
 
 of his mother and was therefore alive and kick- 
 ing. ..." What's the harm in calling myself 
 Le Noir, I'd like to know? Means the same as 
 Schwartz. Both of 'em mean Black. Henry 
 Black that's my name, b'rights. By George, 
 I've a good mind to change to Henry Black, 
 sometime or other! Sick of being a hyphenate." 
 
 An hour later the good French name Henri Le 
 Noir was set down on the pay roll of the Merks 
 concern, at a weekly wage which would soon finish 
 paying for Harry's building lot. In imagination 
 he already beheld there a half-shingled house with 
 dormers and a red roof. The thought of Made- 
 leine as the mistress of this modest air castle gave 
 the knockout blow to conscience, which finally 
 ceased its feeble protests altogether amid the en- 
 grossing industries of the munitions plant. 
 
 Late that afternoon Harry again encountered 
 the young fellow he had seen in the town office. 
 He was engaged in checking up the finished prod- 
 uct, which had already begun to be assembled in 
 vast piles and serried ranks in the shipping ware- 
 house. Harry, unused to thoughts of bloodshed 
 and destruction, felt a slight shudder stiffening his 
 blond hair at sight of those long rows of mur- 
 derous shells; but it appeared quite otherwise 
 with the stranger: the look of anger and vague 
 disgust, which Harry had noted in the morning,
 
 NEIGHBORS 245 
 
 had given place to one of rapt enthusiasm. So 
 intent was the young man upon his work that he 
 did not glance up as Harry passed. 
 
 " That fellow's name is Hobbs," said the man 
 who had been deputed to coach Harry in his 
 new duties. " You'll find him here every day 
 after noon. Mornings he works in the filling 
 shed." 
 
 Harry turned for a second look at the man 
 who was engaged in counting the day's product 
 with such an air of triumph; and once more that 
 vague shiver passed along his spine. . . . 
 
 His mother met him at the door when he came 
 home that night, tired and dusty. 
 
 " Your grandfather is here," she said, in the 
 suppressed voice she always used in announcing 
 the large authoritative presence in the splint-bot- 
 tomed chair. ..." And, Harry, your father 
 says you haven't been at the Building Loan Of- 
 fice for two days. Nathan Scrimger came over 
 to the shop to see if you were sick." 
 
 Harry scowled. 
 
 " I've quit the Building Loan," he said sul- 
 lenly. " Never get anywhere working for that 
 bunch. . . . Got another job with a live con- 
 cern." 
 
 " Why, Harry," exclaimed his mother. " Why, 
 Harry!"
 
 246 NEIGHBORS 
 
 He edged past her and raced up the back stairs 
 to his room, uneasily aware of his grandfather's 
 booming voice in the parlor. Should he face 
 the old man and tell him what he had 
 done? Some sort of explanation would be 
 required of him, he knew, probably at the supper 
 table. 
 
 " It's none of grandfather's business," he told 
 himself, as he strove to drown the dominant 
 German gutturals in a rush of water from the 
 faucet. " I've a right to earn my living any darn 
 way I like: I'm an American!" 
 
 He could hear his mother stepping briskly 
 about the kitchen, while the tantalizing odors of 
 freshly baked biscuit and broiling ham floated up 
 the open stairway. Harry flung his six feet of 
 sturdy length on the banister and slid noiselessly 
 down. 
 
 "Supper most ready?" he inquired in 
 a whisper. " Gee ! but that ham smells 
 good!" 
 
 " Harry," said Mrs. Schwartz nervously, " I 
 wouldn't get to arguing with your grandfather 
 tonight, if I were you. And, Harry " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " I called your father out to the kitchen a 
 minute ago to pry the top off a jar of pickles, 
 and I told him not to mention your leaving the
 
 NEIGHBORS 247 
 
 Building Loan, at supper. You can explain 
 afterward." 
 
 A conscience-stricken blush mounted to Harry's 
 forehead. 
 
 " Mother," he said fervently, " you're some 
 brick!"
 
 XXII 
 
 " T GUESS, Mad'lane, you'd better go t' th' 
 r'vival meetin' t'night along with Ma an' 
 me," said Miss Malvina to her young 
 neighbor. " I ast your Pa t' go, an' he says he 
 don't want t' be revived till after th' war; 'n' 
 unless the Germans give 'em back Alsace he ain't 
 never a-goin' t' be. * That's downright wicked,' 
 I says, ' t' talk that-a-way.' I kind o' felt it my 
 dooty t' speak right out. ' Your immortal soul,' 
 I says, ' has got t' be saved, no matter how th' 
 war turns out.' Jes' like that I says t' 'im. 
 Then I shrugs m' shoulders an' says, ' may-nam- 
 port,' meanin' in your lingo : ' but I don' know 's 
 it's any o' my fun'ral.' I thought I sh'd die 
 a-laffin' t' see his face. * Why, Mees Malvina,' 
 says he, ' I hope it would matter much to you.' 
 . . . T' think o' him understandin' my French ! " 
 " You aire sure progress fine an' dandy," said 
 Madeleine complacently. " Me aussi, I spik 
 Englis' easy as log from roll." 
 
 Miss Malvina bent double with cackling 
 laughter. 
 
 'That ain't right," she corrected her pupil: 
 
 248
 
 NEIGHBORS 249 
 
 " y' want t' say ' easy 's rollin' off a log.' . . . 
 Uh-huh ! . . . But I guess b' rights I'd ought to 
 be more solemn-like, seein' we're goin' t' meetin' 
 t'night. Me an' Ma '11 call f'r you in plenty o' 
 time. They say seats is skurse after eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 "As teeth of hen?" inquired Madeleine. 
 
 " Oh, y' don't always hev t' put in th' hen, 
 ev'ry time you speak o' things bein' skurse/' 
 replied Miss Malvina kindly, " tho' th' ain't 
 anythin' any skurser 'an hen's teeth, fur's I 
 know." 
 
 The little dressmaker had composed her face 
 to a proper seriousness by the time she and Ma 
 Bennett arrived at M. Desaye's door that even- 
 ing. The Frenchman, in the easy dishabille of 
 his frogged velvet coat, received them with his 
 wonted ceremonious politeness. 
 
 " Ah-h-h ! Madame! bon soir! an' Mees Mal- 
 vina ! Honor me by entering my 'umble 'ome. 
 Zat ees very nize word 'ome. You have made 
 it 'ome by entering, mes chere amis." 
 
 Mrs. Bennett submitted awkwardly to having 
 her hand kissed; then, seated in a large crimson- 
 cushioned fauteuil, she gazed through her far- 
 sighted specs at the strange metamorphosis of 
 Miss Philura Rice's front parlor. . . . The rugs, 
 the pictures, the dim splendors of leather-bound
 
 NEIGHBORS 
 
 books, the curious bits of faience afforded the 
 old lady a singular satisfaction. As she had 
 frequently expressed it to her daughter: "I c'd 
 set all day a-lookin' at the mess o' things in that 
 house." 
 
 On the present occasion, absorbed in vague 
 contemplation of her surroundings, she paid 
 small heed to the conversation between her 
 daughter and M. Desaye. Madeleine, she un- 
 derstood, had been late in clearing away the 
 supper dishes ; she would be down toute-de-suite 
 a phrase Ma Bennett interpreted uncertainly as 
 referring to Madeleine's youthful beauty. 
 
 " 'S fur's Ma's concerned," Miss Malvina was 
 saying, " she don't need no revivin'. The' never 
 was a piouser woman 'an Ma Bennett in this 'ere 
 vale o' tears. She's went t' church reg'lar, rain 
 er shine, for more 'n fifty years. 'N' as fer 
 fun'rals 'n' like that, th' couldn't nobody be more 
 faithful, always settin' in th' front row b' th' 
 remains. I r'member bein' took t' fun'rals when 
 I wa'n't no bigger 'n a grasshopper. But Ma ust 
 t' say it never took th' laugh out o' me. ... I 
 remember tee-heein' right out at oF Mis' Bas- 
 com's fun'ral, 'n' Ma hed t' carry me out. She 
 warmed me good f'r that, I c'n tell you." 
 
 Miss Malvina was appropriately clad in her 
 Sunday best Henrietta-cloth dress, with the pur-
 
 NEIGHBORS 251 
 
 plish black of her best hair-front carefully dis- 
 posed under the brim of a black straw hat 
 adorned with jaded flowers. M. Desaye secretly 
 deplored his neighbor's costume, more particu- 
 larly the hair-front, which concealed, as he knew, 
 snow-white locks of persistent curliness. He lis- 
 tened attentively to Miss Malvina's remarks, 
 making mental notes of several unfamiliar idi- 
 oms to be looked up later. At present he had 
 in mind an inquiry, which related itself to Miss 
 Malvina's bright eyes and piquant gestures. 
 
 "You have lived always in America?" he 
 asked. "You are a native n'est-ce-pas?" 
 
 ' Well, I don' know as I ever thought o' 
 m'self 's a native; they're mostly colored, like 
 Injuns an' such but I was born right in this 'ere 
 town. So was Ma. We're reel ol' timers any- 
 way, th' Bennetts was; 'n' I guess th' D'boises 
 was, too. That's Ma's folks; Ma's name was 
 Henrietta D'boise b'fore she married Pa 
 Bennett." 
 
 Miss Malvina pronounced the maternal cog- 
 nomen D'boise, with a strong accent on the final 
 syllable. She was astonished at the effect of her 
 words upon her listener. 
 
 " Madame, your mother, was called Henri- 
 ette?" he cried. " Eet ees Frangaise! Epeler 
 er s-s-pell for me zat Dubois. Eet ees Dubois
 
 252 NEIGHBORS 
 
 eh? Henriette Duboisf Allans! . . . Now 
 I un'erstan'. Enfin, I have perceive! " 
 
 Miss Malvina stared. 
 
 " D'boise is spelled D-u-b-o-i-s," she said; but 
 it wa'n't never pronounced Du-bwah, 'at I know 
 of. ... Ma ! Listen here, Ma ! " 
 
 " Yes, Malviny," murmured the old lady, 
 roused from a rapt contemplation of a certain 
 carved tabouret covered with faded tapestry. 
 
 "Wa'n't your folks reel Americans?" de- 
 manded her daughter. " The' wa'n't none of 
 'em fur'n born was they?" 
 
 Mrs. Bennett's dim eyes brightened to some- 
 thing like animation. 
 
 " I r'member hearin' my father say his folks 
 come f'om th' other side," she said. " I guess 
 pa was some fur'n: I know he ust t' git all het 
 up b'cause folks never spoke his name right. 
 But us childern didn't mind; 'n' after us girls 
 got married we never thought no more about 
 it. The' wa'n't no reason t' be p'tic'lar whether 
 it was D'boise er Du-bawh as Pa ust t' 
 call it" 
 
 M. Desaye arose with an air of solemnity; he 
 bowed low before Ma Bennett, heels together, 
 hand upon his heart. 
 
 " Madame Henriette Dubois Bennett," said 
 he with magnificent disdain for the uncomprom-
 
 NEIGHBORS 253 
 
 ising Bennett " mes felicitations: you aire of my 
 countrie by extraction!" 
 
 Ma Bennett emitted a little cackle of remon- 
 strance at the touch of his bearded lips upon her 
 forehead. But by virtue of that chaste salute 
 she had become forever enshrined, as it were, in 
 those inner fastnesses of M. Desaye's affections 
 reserved for compatriots alone. To Miss 
 Malvina he said nothing, being apparently 
 absorbed in a contemplation of Ma's faded 
 lineaments. 
 
 " Per th' land sake ! " exclaimed the little 
 dressmaker, with a sort of awe, " t' think o' Ma 
 Bennett bein' French!" 
 
 M. Desaye turned quickly around. 
 
 " Ma chere amie," he murmured, " you aire 
 also one of us. ... Ah-h-h ! I knew it : not for 
 nossing zose gesture zose expression piquante. 
 You aire Francaise all Frangaise! " 
 
 " Well, I don' know es I care ef I be ! " chir- 
 ruped Miss Malvina joyously. " A body might 
 be a sight worse off, I guess. . . . But what in 
 creation '11 Mis' Deaconess Buckthorn say?" 
 
 Madeleine, who had entered the room unno- 
 ticed, observed the excited demeanor of the three 
 elderly persons, with the surprised compassion of 
 youth. To be old, to wear a false front and an 
 ugly hat seemed to her incompatible with jubi-
 
 254 NEIGHBORS 
 
 lance of any sort. She betrayed little surprise 
 when informed of the momentous discovery. 
 
 " C'est le meme chose/' she murmured, as she 
 kissed Miss Malvina's cheek and spread a grace- 
 ful courtesy before Madame Henriette Dubois 
 Bennett, to whom her father presented her with 
 empressement. " No more I can love you zan be- 
 fore. . . . But 'f my fat'er e' love you bettaire 
 zen I am 'appy as tide at 'igh clam! " 
 
 "You'll kill me yit, Mad'lane!" vowed Miss 
 Malvina. ' Your talk 's a reg'lar hasty puddin'. 
 ... But sakes alive! We won't git no seats ef 
 we don't make tracks f'r th' church."
 
 XXIII 
 
 MISS BENNETT'S apprehensions were 
 well founded: the church was already 
 filled to overflowing when they arrived. 
 But Mr. Henry Pratt, in the role of a zealous 
 usher, thought there might be a few choice seats 
 in the choir. He had been instructed, he told 
 Miss Malvina, with a secular chuckle, to fill such 
 vacancies with sinners, on the stroke of eight. 
 
 "Go 'long with you, Henery Pratt!" chided 
 Miss Malvina indignantly. " Ain't you 'shamed 
 t' talk that-a-way t' Ma Bennett an' me? . . . 
 Ef we're sinners I'd like t' know what in crea- 
 tion you be? " 
 
 There was a loud chorus in progress, goaded to 
 quickened repetition by the energetic young man 
 occupying a conspicuous soap-box between choir 
 and congregation. 
 
 " That's th' evangelist's reg'lar singer, Jim 
 Baldwin," Miss Malvina explained to Madeleine, 
 as the three ladies followed Mr. Pratt's brisk 
 lead to the platform. " They say he ust t' be a 
 street-car c'nductor. I guess you c'd hear him 
 
 255
 
 256 NEIGHBORS 
 
 holler from here t' Boston. . . . He's jes' grand 
 f'r a r'vival." 
 
 Madeleine was still very much in the dark as 
 to the nature and purpose of a " revival," when 
 she took her seat next to a pink-cheeked girl 
 who was singing loudly out of a paper-covered 
 song-book. The erstwhile street-car conductor's 
 stentorian tones penetrated the tide of song: 
 " Come ! wake up there ! Can't you put some 
 pep int' your singing? . . . Now, then, open up 
 everybody, an' let her fly t' th' glory o' God ! " 
 
 " Better pretend t' sing, even if you can't," 
 whispered the pink-cheeked girl. " Baldy won't 
 stan' for it t' see folks sitting in the front row 
 with their mouths shut." 
 
 But Madeleine timidly shook her head: she 
 was wishing she had not come to the revival with 
 Miss Malvina and Ma Bennett, who, looking 
 unnaturally pale and solemn in their black cloth- 
 ing, were seated on the opposite side of the plat- 
 form. But she was temporarily relieved from 
 apprehension when the loud young man got down 
 from his soap-box and the evangelist rose to 
 speak. For a while Madeleine strove to under- 
 stand what the man was saying in his monoto- 
 nously loud, hoarse voice. She thought he must 
 be very angry with every one present, for he 
 shook his fists, banged the books on the desk,
 
 NEIGHBORS 257 
 
 and when in a climax of fiery denunciation he 
 climbed nimbly to the very top of the pulpit, she 
 involuntarily clutched at the pink-cheeked girl. 
 
 " Wat ees mattaire wi' zat man? " she asked. 
 " Me I sink I am alarm." 
 
 " Sh ! " warned the other girl, conscious of the 
 watchful regard of Mr. Baldwin. 
 
 Madeleine's startled eyes were gradually find- 
 ing friends in the congregation; in a pew near 
 the front sat their proprietaire, Mrs. Pettibone. 
 She did not appear alarmed, the girl perceived, 
 though her face wore the tense, strained expres- 
 sion which seemed to have communicated itself 
 from the speaker to his audience. Madeleine 
 had vaguely understood from Miss Malvina's 
 previous explanations that the revival was a 
 special sort of religion. It was difficult, she 
 thought, to understand religion, and more par- 
 ticularly the religion of America. In France it 
 appeared to associate itself with shadowy, peace- 
 ful old churches, with sunshine mellowed by im- 
 memorial stained glass streaming in across kneel- 
 ing worshipers, and with the snowy veils and 
 wreaths of one's first communion. In the world it 
 meant doing small deeds of kindness and keeping 
 the heart pure from guile. 
 
 Madeleine's wondering gaze roved from one 
 troubled, intent face to another, till at last it
 
 258 NEIGHBORS 
 
 rested with pleased surprise upon Harry 
 Schwartz, sitting next to the rail on the opposite 
 side of the platform. A faint blush stole into 
 the girl's cheeks as she passed in swift review 
 their meeting of yesterday. " I think of nothing 
 but you, all day long," Harry had said, as he 
 held her hand at parting. And Madeleine some- 
 how understood the English words perfectly. 
 . . . She wondered if Harry was thinking of 
 her now as he sat motionless, his head supported 
 upon his hand which partly concealed his face. 
 
 She had seen Harry almost every day of late 
 always by chance, of course, and sometimes for 
 the briefest of moments. It was most desirable 
 indeed necessary for one's health to take the 
 air in the cool of the morning, or better yet in 
 the cool of the evening; and it was singular how 
 often one chanced to meet one's friends bent on 
 similar errands of refreshment. 
 
 That queer Mr. Hobbs, too, who spoke French 
 whenever she would permit. . . . Mr. Hobbs 
 had come quite boldly to call upon her father 
 soon after their small adventure, and had been 
 received by M. Desaye with marked favor. On 
 such occasions Madeleine sat unobstrusively si- 
 lent, listening to the conversation, which as a 
 matter of course concerned itself with the war. 
 M. Desaye and young Hobbs had quickly found a
 
 NEIGHBORS 259 
 
 common ground in their keen regret at being per- 
 sonally absent from the great conflict. Then both 
 men had glanced guardedly at Madeleine, as if 
 in her quiet presence each found a satisfying 
 reason for his conduct. Madeleine still found 
 the young Englishman interessant. But only once 
 had she compared him in the privacy of her 
 thoughts with Harry. There were no further 
 French lessons, now that Harry was working in 
 the munitions plant. And it was just at this 
 point of their common labor that she had been 
 led to think of the two young men at one and 
 the same moment: Mr. Hobbs was working at the 
 manufacture of shrapnel because he wanted to 
 kill Germans; but Harry was working for her. 
 He had told her so, both in French and in 
 English. 
 
 His French was of a frightfulness, to be sure; 
 but his English left large loopholes for the im- 
 agination. 
 
 " I'm going to build a bang-up house on my 
 lot," he informed Madeleine. " And don't you 
 forget it, little girl, you're going to live in that 
 house some day. That's why I changed my job; 
 I'm out for the simoleons for fair." 
 
 " Simoleons " was a long and difficult word 
 for money, Madeleine learned; the very much 
 soiled American money was likewise called
 
 2 6o NEIGHBORS 
 
 " cash," " bucks," " rocks," as well as dollairs. 
 It was all very puzzling. Yet her thoughts lin- 
 gered about the novel idea of Harry actually 
 building a house. She had shaken her head over 
 his odd notion that she should ever live in that 
 house. 
 
 " But you will, sometime," he urged. " Please 
 say yes." 
 
 " I not like zat word e-e-s," she objected, an 
 illusive sparkle in her eyes. " Nevaire do I spik 
 e-e-s; eet ees not nize word." 
 
 " Say we then," boldly urged Harry. " We, 
 us, and company is a dandy idea." 
 
 Was Harry thinking about his house, she won- 
 dered, as he sat, his head on his hand, appar- 
 ently oblivious to the thunders of oratory from 
 the pulpit? Her dark gaze lingered question- 
 ingly on his averted face. But, no! it could not 
 be with that expression of keen anxiety, almost 
 of pain. . . . Why was he so still, as if frozen 
 into rigid immobility? Her girlish curiosity was 
 rapidly merging into anxiety, when suddenly, as 
 if all at once aware of the soft fire of her gaze, 
 the young man looked up. Their eyes met. . . . 
 An innocent smile dimpled the corners of Made- 
 leine's lips. 
 
 For a thrilling instant he watched her, his 
 troubled eyes full of the question which had been
 
 NEIGHBORS 261 
 
 tormenting him under the spell of the evan- 
 gelist's preaching. . . . He had been consider- 
 ing his monstrous fraud in assuming the name Le 
 Noir. He had known all along that it was ques- 
 tionable; that he should have explained himself 
 and his paternity to Madeleine's father. And 
 now he was using it to gain money for her; 
 all for her. But was it honest money? 
 
 Mr. Pilgrim had chosen the subject of Hon- 
 esty with God and Man, as the topic of his sermon 
 that night. With unsparing hand he had stripped 
 off the multi-colored rags of hypocrisy and deceit 
 with which sinning humanity strives to cover its 
 nakedness. A wayfaring man, though a fool, 
 could furnish no valid excuse for not understand- 
 ing the purport of Mr. Pilgrim's discourse. The 
 entire congregation with the exception of Made- 
 leine, whose engrossing thoughts in fluent French 
 shut out all save the sound of the preacher's 
 voice realized themselves glissading down a 
 slippery incline leading to fiery death. Thus it 
 was that Harry his stupefied conscience once 
 more awake and loudly seconding the sermon 
 beheld only one way of escape : he must presently 
 stumble to his feet and before all the staring eyes 
 of the village must somehow compass the dis- 
 tance between his shaky camp-chair and the open 
 space before the pulpit reserved for those " under
 
 262 NEIGHBORS 
 
 conviction." He must confess bis sins particu- 
 larly those of omission to some one, any one. 
 There was no other way by which to save his 
 soul from that eternity of poignant misery which 
 yawned beneath his very feet. The reproaches, 
 humiliation, and obloquy which would assuredly 
 follow upon the heels of his confession seemed 
 of little moment to Harry compared with the 
 blessed relief of once more facing his future with 
 unabashed eyes. He must he would be 
 " saved " at any sacrifice of pride or passion. 
 
 In token of this momentous decision Harry 
 once more raised his head and straightened his 
 bowed shoulders. His eyes were searching the 
 crowded room for his mother's face. She would 
 be horrified, he knew, at the revelation of his 
 crime his deceit appeared no less than a crime 
 to Harry in his excitement but she would be 
 
 happy when Then all at once his heart 
 
 leaped to his throat. . . . Some potent force 
 had drawn his questing gaze to the chairs oppo- 
 site to Madeleine's face, with its soft rose and 
 the melting fire of dark eyes. . . . Madeleine 
 smiled. . . . 
 
 After all, what was there to confess? He had 
 committed no sin worthy of an unthinkable 
 Hades. . . . Had not Madeleine given him that 
 name? Like a knight of old he would wear his
 
 NEIGHBORS 263 
 
 lady's favor in the battle of modern existence. It 
 was a glorious thought. 
 
 The loud singing waxed and waned, obeying 
 the imperious baton of the young man on the 
 soap-box. Harry's lusty young baritone swelled 
 the chorus. He felt joyously light and free, as 
 he watched the reluctant progress of persons 
 from all parts of the house toward that small 
 cleared space before the pulpit. The evangelist 
 was stooping forward to grasp the hands out- 
 reached to his, his lean face flushed with the tri- 
 umph of hard-won victory. 
 
 "That's right! That's right! " he was saying, 
 over and over. 
 
 When the slow procession of repentant sinners 
 appeared to linger unduly he again leaped to his 
 feet, by turns pleading, cajoling, threatening. 
 The " personal workers " under the whip and 
 spur of his stinging rebukes redoubled their ef- 
 forts. Harry watched impersonally the majestic 
 approach of Mrs. Deaconess Buckthorn, as she 
 mounted the wooden steps of the platform. Then 
 he glanced once more at Madeleine, who stood 
 gazing at the confused scene with the wide-eyed 
 amazement of a child. He saw the pink-cheeked 
 girl stoop to whisper in her ear; saw Madeleine's 
 puzzled smile. And a sort of fierce indignation 
 surged up within him.
 
 264 NEIGHBORS 
 
 It was as if some ignorant blunderer had 
 ruthlessly broken the innocent sleep of 
 childhood. 
 
 "Darling!" he muttered to himself. "She 
 doesn't understand a word of this farce. Why 
 should she?" 
 
 Then he became aware that Mrs. Buckthorn 
 had come to a standstill at his side; her eyes, 
 between opposing folds of flesh, were fixed tear- 
 fully upon him. 
 
 " My de-ar young friend," she said, " I've been 
 a-watchin' you all through that b-lessed sermon. 
 An' thinks, s' I, Harry Schwartz is a sinner 
 under conviction, if ever I see one. Praise th' 
 Lord! Let me take you b' th' hand an' lead 
 you t' th' ark of safety." 
 
 Harry shook off the moist, fat hand which 
 sought to enfold his own. 
 
 " Oh, I guess you're mistaken," he muttered. 
 " I'm all right." 
 
 " Oh, my de-ar boy, don't put it off ! " en- 
 treated Mrs. Buckthorn. " If the's anythin' 
 holdin' you back any darlin' sin that's got a holt 
 of you do repent b'fore it's too late! " 
 
 But Harry pushed rather rudely past the lady. 
 He wanted more than anything else to take Made- 
 leine away from Jim Baldwin, who appeared to 
 be urging her forward almost by force.
 
 NEIGHBORS 265 
 
 The girl glanced up at Harry with a sigh of 
 relief as he gained her side. 
 
 " Oh, I like bes' t' de-part from zis so es-trange 
 plaice," she murmured plaintively. " Me I am 
 not devote, nonf To be a religieuse I will not. 
 I find Mees Malvina an' go 'ome queek to my 
 fat'er." 
 
 " Great heavens, man ! Can't you see she 
 doesn't know enough English to understand what 
 you're saying?" demanded Harry roughly. 
 " Leave her alone, will you? " 
 
 Mr. Baldwin stared angrily at the intruder. 
 ' You'd better hit the trail yourself, young 
 man," was his trenchant advice; " before the trail 
 hits you see? " 
 
 Harry's sole reply consisted in a well-conducted 
 retreat. 
 
 " Never you mind Miss Malvina," he said to 
 Madeleine, " I'll take you home all right."
 
 XXIV 
 
 THAT same evening Mr. Kitchener Hobbs 
 had also attended the services in Mr. Pet- 
 tibone's church. He had done so for a 
 good yet simple reason entirely disassociated with 
 religious convictions of any sort: Mrs. Pettibone 
 had asked him very sweetly to come. The little 
 lady was walking slowly along the street pushing 
 the perambulator before her; enthroned in this 
 luxurious vehicle and quite pink and complacent, 
 young Master Pettibone viewed the passing show, 
 which consisted at the moment of a muddy farm- 
 wagon, a yellow dog, frisking ahead with ex- 
 travagant demonstrations of joy, and a single 
 rather grimy pedestrian. This person would 
 have hurried past without show of recognition had 
 not Mrs. Pettibone stopped him. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Hobbs," she said; "how do you 
 do?" 
 
 The young man touched his cap respectfully. 
 He did not wish to stop and talk with Mrs. Petti- 
 bone; but he appeared to have no choice in the 
 matter. 
 
 " Don't you think the baby has grown? " she 
 266
 
 NEIGHBORS 267 
 
 demanded proudly. " He'll soon be six months 
 old!" 
 
 The young Englishman affected to examine the 
 infant with surprise. He was a thorough gentle- 
 man, as was the illustrious soldier whose name he 
 bore. 
 
 " He's jolly well grown since I saw him last," 
 he agreed with gratifying sincerity. " And is that 
 the dog we chased the day you exchanged your 
 slippers, Mrs. Pettibone?" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone beamed rosily upon Mr. Hobbs. 
 To think of his recalling the trifling circumstance 
 so precisely! He must really be a remarkable 
 young man. She would speak to Mr. Pettibone 
 about him. ... In the meanwhile she must not 
 forget his immortal soul. 
 
 " It's the very same dog," she told him. 
 " He's the most intelligent animal, and he loves 
 the baby." 
 
 Having exchanged these amenities, Mr. Hobbs 
 appeared about to pass on. 
 
 " Oh-h," faltered the minister's wife. " I I 
 just wanted to ask you : are you attending the 
 revival services at the church? " 
 
 Mr. Hobbs shook his head. He seldom went 
 out of an evening, he said. 
 
 " But but " Mrs. Pettibone's face had 
 
 crimsoned painfully with the effort she was mak-
 
 268 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ing to do her duty. " If you haven't, you really 
 ought, you know. . . . Every one ought to- 
 don't you think one should be quite sure?" 
 
 The young man looked honestly puzzled. 
 
 " Quite sure " he repeated. 
 
 "Yes; of being saved. . . . But, oh! I 
 never could speak to any one properly about their 
 souls as of course I ought, being a minister's 
 wife." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was quite breathless by now. 
 She clutched the handle of the perambulator so 
 tightly that her knuckles showed white through 
 the skin. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs blushed youthfully. 
 
 " Oh er I'm sure I ought to thank you," he 
 said. " But er really " 
 
 " Please promise me you'll go to the meeting 
 tonight," she persisted, still breathlessly. . . . 
 " I I'm afraid I'm not a good worker in the 
 church, but if you " 
 
 He was surprised to see tears glistening on her 
 sparse lashes. 
 
 " I promised Mr. Pilgrim," she added deject- 
 edly; " and now I've tried; but if you " 
 
 " Oh, I'll come to your church, if you'd like 
 me to," he said quickly. " I shan't mind, really." 
 
 Her gratitude was touching; young Hobbs got 
 away from it hastily.
 
 NEIGHBORS 269 
 
 Still he had promised to attend the meeting, 
 and being a man of his word, he found himself 
 in a rear pew as the church bell ceased its urgent 
 appeals. He listened with serious attention to 
 the sermon and the singing. ... In the light of 
 his thoughts it was unfortunate that to Elder 
 George Trimmer had been assigned the task of 
 speaking to the unconverted and backsliders in 
 that section of the congregation where young 
 Hobbs was seated. The conversation between 
 the two men was brief and pointed; at its conclu- 
 sion the erstwhile shoe clerk of the Trimmer Em- 
 porium, with a bitter smile upon his lips, strolled 
 out to the vestibule. He had seen Madeleine 
 enter with Miss Malvina and Ma Bennett, and 
 the thought of himself walking home with 
 her in the cloudy darkness of the autumnal 
 evening soothed his ruffled feelings. Through 
 the open door of the church he saw that a 
 light rain was falling and congratulated 
 himself on his forethought in bringing an 
 umbrella. 
 
 It seemed a long time before he saw her coming 
 through the swinging door, closely followed by a 
 tall young man with indeterminate features and 
 a ruddy complexion. He had seen him before, 
 he knew; also, for no reason whatever, he dis- 
 liked the fellow, even before he perceived his
 
 270 NEIGHBORS 
 
 arrogant assumption of proprietorship in Made- 
 leine. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Madeleine," said 
 Kitchener Hobbs in French, affecting not to see 
 her companion. " It is raining; but fortunately, 
 like a true Londoner, I fetched my umbrella. 
 . . . You will let me take you home ? " 
 
 The girl blushed with girlish embarrassment. 
 
 " You aire of a politeness," she murmured. 
 "But you will excuse mos' kind, n'est-ce-pasf " 
 
 " It is raining quite fast," particularized Mr. 
 Hobbs, still unconscious of the masculine pres- 
 ence at Madeleine's side. 
 
 Harry Schwartz scowled blankly at the wet, 
 shining pavements and the wet, dripping foliage. 
 Then his eyes brightened: in. an umbrella stand 
 near the door he spied the means of escape. 
 
 " I have an umbrella," he said, calmly possess- 
 ing himself of a large, substantial article bearing 
 the name Buckthorn prominently displayed upon 
 its handle. He assured his badly abused con- 
 science that he would return it before Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn had finished her pious labors within. Upon 
 Mr. Hobbs he bestowed a single glance of 
 defiance. 
 
 " Perhaps we'd better hurry along," he sug- 
 gested to Madeleine; "then I'll hustle back with 
 an umbrella for Miss Malvina and the old lady."
 
 NEIGHBORS 271 
 
 Madeleine hesitated: to avoid wounding a 
 friend while declining a kindness required one's 
 savoir-faire. 
 
 " Mistaire Hobb," she began, with a bewitch- 
 ing glance of entreaty, " I am very much 'ope you 
 aire not mad wiz me. But I 'ave honeur to 
 tell you Mis-taire Sh-sh-wart-z take me 'ome. 
 . . . You aire acquainted wiz heem, n'est- 
 ce-pas?" 
 
 The two young men stared at each other, with 
 a slight a very slight stiffening of their spinal 
 processes. In their eyes shone the primeval glint 
 of the male animal. 
 
 Madeleine was vaguely alarmed. 
 
 " Vary nize person M'sieu' Le Noir," she 
 murmured. " Vary much you like 'im, Mis-taire 
 Hobb." 
 
 " I didn't catch your name, sir," said Kitchener 
 Hobbs. 
 
 " My name is Schwartz," snapped Harry. 
 
 Then he grew suddenly pale. 
 
 "Haven't I seen you at the Plant?" inquired 
 Mr. Hobbs, unpleasantly circumstantial. 
 
 Harry controlled himself with an effort. 
 
 " I work there," he said. 
 
 Madeleine had retreated to the door of the 
 audience room, from whence issued triumphant 
 bursts of song.
 
 272 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Oh, I sink I bes' wait for Mees Malvina," 
 she murmured, her eyes wide with apprehension. 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Mr. Hobbs, 
 deliberately turning his back upon Harry. " Miss 
 Bennett might er be alarmed at not finding 
 you." 
 
 Harry's heart was pounding furiously in his 
 scarlet ears. 
 
 " Look here ! " he said thickly, addressing him- 
 self to his rival, " who asked you to butt in? " 
 
 Mr. Hobbs assumed as well as he was able 
 the expression of Lord Kitchener after his return 
 from Khartoum. He did not appear to have un- 
 derstood the rude question. 
 
 " I think you will not have long to wait," he 
 said to Madeleine, in her own language, which 
 to his angry antagonist sounded precisely like the 
 flawlessly unintelligible speech of M. Desaye. 
 
 Harry, all his Teuton and Revolutionary 
 blood suddenly rising to the boiling point with 
 love and fury, closed in upon Mr. Hobbs. He 
 had not been so angry since a boy in the third 
 grade of the public school had called him 
 " sissy," because his mother had persisted in 
 sparing his yellow curls. On that occasion young 
 Harry had fallen fearlessly upon the aggressor, 
 though he was twice his size, and beaten him 
 unmercifully.
 
 NEIGHBORS 273 
 
 " You didn't answer me," he stated hoarsely, 
 in unpleasant proximity to Mr. Hobbs' ear. 
 
 "No; and I don't intend to," replied Mr. 
 Hobbs disdainfully. " You're the sort of bounder 
 a gentleman doesn't recognize." 
 
 At this psychological instant Madeleine's 
 quick wits prevented a continuation of hostilities 
 which might have resulted disastrously on the 
 very threshold of the revival. She laid her hand 
 lightly on Harry's sleeve, beneath which bulged 
 angry muscles. 
 
 ' Very much oblige," she said sweetly. " You 
 aire mos' frien'ly an' of a politeness oui. Me 
 I present to you one tousan' tanks. . . . We 
 wait for Madame Dubois-Bennett an' Mees Mal- 
 vina e-e-ss? " 
 
 Into the final word which she had declined to 
 utter only the day before at his entreaty the 
 girl managed to convey such coaxing sweet- 
 ness, such alluring charm that Harry felt 
 his rage suddenly vanish like a wind-blown 
 mist. 
 
 " All right," he murmured, his honest blue 
 eyes beaming down upon her. " Anything you 
 say goes." 
 
 " Sure it does," she made haste to agree, 
 "you aire, my frien', of a right deadness; tres 
 bien!"
 
 274 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Then upon the smart of Mr. Hobbs' resent- 
 ment she poured the balm of her smile. 
 
 " How I am g-lad for very nize ombrell," she 
 warbled. " Mees Malvina, aussi, an' Madame, 
 her Ma snug as rug in bug : all ev-e-rie one 
 wiz such gr-eat kin'ness of our frien's." 
 
 Mr. Hobbs regained his presence of mind at 
 a single bound. 
 
 " Charmed, I'm sure, to be of some small 
 service," he said, with a bow which would have 
 gained him recognition in Hyde Park. " Permit 
 me " 
 
 He pressed his umbrella into Madeleine's 
 hand, and was gone into the rainy night before 
 she could utter a remonstrance. 
 
 Perhaps it was fortunate that Miss Malvina 
 and Ma Bennett came hurriedly forth at that 
 moment. Miss Malvina's cheeks were flushed, 
 her eyes bright. 
 
 "Well, I d'clare, Mad'lane!" she exclaimed; 
 " so that's what b'come o' you? Harry Schwartz, 
 you'd ought t' be in there, settin' with th' mourn- 
 ers this minute: I seen you take Mad'lane away, 
 jes' as Jim Baldwin was a-laborin' with her." 
 
 " She wanted to go home," Harry excused him- 
 self inadequately. 
 
 " A poor excuse 's better 'n' none," retorted 
 Miss Malvina. " Ef it hadn't a-ben f'r Ma I
 
 NEIGHBORS 275 
 
 don' know but what I'd a-jined in with th' back- 
 sliders. But Ma didn't ketch much o' what he 
 was sayin' ; an' b'sides she got a pain in th' small 
 of her back from settin' s' long in that pesky 
 camp-cheer. . . . An' then along comes Henery 
 Pratt an' hed th' nerve to ask Ma V me t' hit 
 th' trail. ' Why, who's got on a trail, Malviny?' 
 says Ma, innocent. I thought I sh'd die ! ' Mr. 
 Sign-painter Pratt,' I says severe, ' ef you'd 
 a-took that sermon in,' I says, ' you wouldn't be 
 talkin' no sech nonsense t' Ma Bennett. You 
 ain't worthy t' unbutton her shoes,' I says. * 'N' 
 I'd like it t' sink deep in your years speakin' of 
 the subjec' of the sermon,' I says, ' which was 
 honesty, that the paint on my dressmakin' sign is 
 peelin' off a'ready an' me payin' a dollar V 
 seventy-fi' cents for it less 'n' six months ago. 
 You go down on that trail, Henery,' I says, ' 'n' 
 see ef you can't git a-holt of a brand o' r'ligion 
 'at '11 make you mix your paint with linseed oil 
 'stead o' kur'sene! '" 
 
 Quite unabashed by this pointed exposition 
 on common honesty, Harry spread the Buckthorn 
 umbrella over Madeleine, while Miss Malvina 
 and Ma went on before under the shelter so 
 kindly loaned by Mr. Hobbs. 
 
 " Wa'n't it nice o' him t' think of two old 
 women, like me an' Ma 1 " floated back to the
 
 276 NEIGHBORS 
 
 two young people over Miss Malvina's shoulder. 
 " I'll bet a dollar Hoddy Hobbs '11 get a star in 
 his crown fer that ! " 
 
 "Wat ees star-in-crown? " propounded Made- 
 leine, striving to pierce the gloom of Harry's 
 demeanor. 
 
 " I never saw one of 'em," replied Harry de- 
 jectedly, " an' I guess I never will now." 
 
 " Will I evaire see one of zose crown-in- 
 stars?" persisted the girl. "You like zem 
 eh?" 
 
 " They'd look dandy on you," sighed Harry. 
 " But I hope you won't get one for a long time 
 yet. . . . Say, Madeleine, there's something I 
 want to ask you." 
 
 " Tres bien ee-ss?" 
 
 A cold trickle from the Buckthorn umbrella 
 winding deviously down the back of his collar 
 still further depressed the sinking barometer of 
 Harry's feelings. 
 
 " There's a lot of things I want you to tell 
 me. I've got to know 'em, or go up the spout." 
 
 " Alrigh-t," the girl encouraged him. 
 
 " Say, do you think it's square for me to go 
 on being called Le Noir? On the level, now, 
 have I any right to that name ? " 
 
 Madeleine pondered the proposition, expressed 
 in terms of two dimensions, with care.
 
 NEIGHBORS 277 
 
 "Wat ees sq-ware?" she inquired cautiously. 
 " Eees zat nize word sq-ware?" 
 
 " If I could jabber French like that nervy chap, 
 Hobbs, I could explain in a jiffy," he growled 
 deep in his throat. 
 
 "In a jiffy? an auto-mo-bile? Oui I un'er- 
 stan 1 ! " 
 
 " Hang it ! I didn't say jitney," protested 
 Harry. " Look here, Madeleine, we'll cut out 
 the figures of speech, for once, an' try to get 
 down to brass tacks, so you'll savez see ? " 
 
 " Brasstack oui. Tres bien!" 
 
 " Do you remember when you introduced me 
 to your father votre fader. You know? You 
 didn't want him to catch on that I was German. 
 . . . Of course I ain't! I'm American clear 
 to the backbone; and I'll knock the spots out of 
 any cheap sport who dares to say I ain't. I'm 
 American all right. But I've got a Deutsch name : 
 Heinrich Schwartz. I don't care; it's a blamed 
 good name. And it's an American name, because 
 I'm one. And what's more, it's going to be an 
 American name for I don' know how long! " 
 
 Harry paused, impressed with the spotless 
 pages of American history embellished with the 
 name of Heinrich Schwartz, which seemed sud- 
 denly unrolled before him. 
 
 " It's time all this darned nonsense about names
 
 278 NEIGHBORS 
 
 was wiped out ! " he stated with some violence. 
 " Why isn't Schwartz as good as Black or Le 
 Noirf I'm blamed if it ain't! But I guess I've 
 put my foot in it by translating it into blooming 
 belle Frangaise. ... If that British chap should 
 give me away at the Plant " 
 
 "You call yourself Le Noir at Plant?" 
 asked Madeleine, suddenly pouncing upon the 
 crux of the matter, like a preternaturally bright 
 kitten. 
 
 " Y-yes," admitted Harry reluctantly. " They 
 were turning away applicants with German 
 names. ... I wanted the job you know why. 
 If you don't, I'll tell you again: I want you to 
 marry me as soon as I earn enough to build my 
 house. . . . I I love you, Madeleine." 
 
 Harry's voice was scarcely audible as he made 
 his final fateful statement. It seemed to him that 
 he had shouted it from the housetops; every 
 lighted window glimpsed through vistas of drip- 
 ping foliage appeared to be spying upon him with 
 stealthy enjoyment. His heart thumped loudly in 
 his ears as he waited for her answer. 
 
 But Madeleine, it seemed, was still pondering 
 his initial question: ought he to call himself Le 
 ( Noir in order to earn money? This much she 
 had comprehended clearly. 
 
 " I zink I ask my fat'er," she said at last. " I
 
 NEIGHBORS 279 
 
 ex-plain all to heem, zen I tell to you You 
 
 like me to ex-plain, n' est-ce-pas? " 
 
 " Then you do! Oh, Madeleine ! " 
 
 Harry's further utterance was choked with 
 rapture ; but he managed to possess himself of her 
 hand, which he squeezed fervently. 
 
 " But I guess it's up to me to face the music," 
 he added dubiously. . . . She had withdraw the 
 squeezed hand with a little cry. 
 
 " Did I hurt you ? " he inquired penitently. 
 " I'm so happy I guess I didn't realize say, 
 Madeleine; did you mean it? " 
 
 Her upturned face in the strong radiance of 
 a swinging arc light was so lovely that he yearned 
 to kiss it; but the puzzled pucker between her 
 brows deflected him from his purpose. f 
 
 " I can never be sure just how much you take 
 in of what I'm saying," he complained. " Darn 
 it! if I'd only worked harder while I had the 
 chance I might have been able to parlez-vous, by 
 now. . . . Come to think, I do know the first part 
 of one verb: J'aimef Savez j'alme, Madeleine? " 
 
 To his dismay she burst into ringing mirth. 
 
 " You aire mos' fonny, 'Arry," she told him. 
 " Qweek I die laffin'." 
 
 "Funny?" he echoed. "Then you think it's 
 a joke, when a man asks you to marry him, do 
 you? That's what I'm trying to say. I want
 
 28o NEIGHBORS 
 
 you for my wife I . . . Do you know what 
 wife means? " 
 
 His face, changed subtly from the inchoate 
 good looks of the boy to the stern masterfulness 
 of the man bent toward her. 
 
 " Do you? " he urged. 
 
 She shook her head airily. 
 
 " I zink bes' you etudier le dictionnaire Fran- 
 gais," she said. " Enfin, I un'erstan' more 
 qweek." 
 
 Her eyes, bright as stars in the uncertain light, 
 told him nothing. 
 
 " All right," he said doggedly. " I'll get busy. 
 There's a few words I'm going to make you un- 
 derstand, if I study all night." 
 
 " Merci one sousan', my frien'; me I also 
 es-tudy my dictionnaire dnglais an' I fin' all zose 
 es-trange word zose wi-ife an' tomarrieem. 
 You like me to do eet 'Arry? " 
 
 "Madeleine!" 
 
 But already they had reached the gate of Miss 
 Philura's little house which had once swung 
 wide to the sober, middle-aged wooing of the 
 Rev. Silas Pettibone and she had passed quickly 
 inside. 
 
 " Zose parapluie," she reminded him. " You 
 aire oblige to take heem? " 
 
 " That's right ! " he exclaimed, a vision of the
 
 NEIGHBORS 281 
 
 outraged Mrs. Buckthorn, vainly searching for 
 her umbrella, adding itself to the sum total of his 
 discomfiture. . . . As he sprinted down the street 
 he could hear Madeleine's high sweet call of 
 greeting and farewell to Miss Malvina, who had 
 evidently been watching for her safe arrival. 
 
 14 Confound it! " murmured Harry, vaguely 
 displeased with Miss Malvina, the world at large, 
 and most of all with himself.
 
 XXV 
 
 A~ was entirely natural, Mr. Hobbs called for 
 his umbrella on the following evening. He 
 did not, he explained to M. Desaye, wish 
 to put any one to the trouble of returning the 
 parapluie, which he was only too happy to have 
 had with him for the service of the ladies. 
 
 M. Desaye knew of no such umbrella. He 
 searched among his own without success. But 
 would not Monsieur Hobbs do him the honor of 
 entering his humble abode? His daughter Made- 
 leine, who was at the moment visiting their amia- 
 ble neighbor, Mademoiselle Dubois-Bennett, 
 might know about the umbrella. And this put 
 him in mind of the singularly interesting dis- 
 covery he had made with regard to Miss Mal- 
 vina's ancestry. 'It was pleasant to be able to 
 relate the piquant incident in his own tongue, 
 which the young Englishman understood without 
 difficulty. And so for the better part of an hour 
 the father of Madeleine discoursed at length 
 on the amazing tout ensemble of the so-called 
 American, born of many nations, yet resembling 
 
 282
 
 NEIGHBORS 283 
 
 none. Even the German-American M. Desaye 
 pulled a wry face at the hyphenate word fre- 
 quently exhibited small traces of his deplorable 
 Teuton blood. . . . Did M. Hobbs, par ex- 
 ample, number any such person among his 
 acquaintance? 
 
 Mr. Hobbs hesitated. Here was the appro- 
 priate dagger, its handle toward his hand. 
 Should he use it? Was it not, indeed, his duty 
 to warn the unworldly father of Madeleine that 
 a certain bounder he could think of no other 
 descriptive adjective for the rude and bucolic 
 Harry a German (never mind the American) 
 even now threatened his domestic peace? His 
 newly acquired sense of duty and the stern 
 Kitchener code of honor struggled together for 
 an instant. He determined upon a safe middle 
 course. Far be it from a Kitchener Hobbs to 
 meanly retaliate upon his rival: but to instil 
 a proper amount of caution into the receptive 
 mind of M. Desaye need not collide with the 
 strictest manual of deportment. 
 
 " I er since you ask me, sir, I will say that 
 I do know such a person. A er " 
 
 Young Hobbs grew uncomfortably hot inside 
 his starched collar. How was he to convey the 
 much needed warning without actual hypocrisy? 
 
 M. Desaye eyed him intently.
 
 284 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "Ah-h-h?" he ejaculated softly. u An' w'at, 
 pray, do you zink of heem? " 
 
 " I don't like him, sir," said Mr. Hobbs 
 sternly. 
 
 " Naturellement" agreed the Frenchman, with 
 a shrug. 
 
 Kitchener Hobbs frowned at his boots, which 
 were impeccably polished. Then suddenly his 
 brow cleared: he had determined upon a 
 bold course; one which would give him the 
 right to speak unreservedly to the father of 
 Madeleine. 
 
 " The fact is, sir," he. blurted out, " I love 
 your daughter. I hope you have no objections." 
 
 " You lo-ove my daughter! . . . An' you 
 aire 'ope I've no objection?" 
 
 M. Desaye's tone was carefully modulated; his 
 smile might even be construed as encouraging. 
 
 " I'm not rich," modestly admitted Mr. Hobbs; 
 " but I'm clean and honest. I'm an Englishman, 
 er my mother is American." 
 
 "Allans! You aire also of zat melange 
 tant bon que mauvals." 
 
 The Englishman reddened angrily. 
 
 " Better English-American than German- 
 American," he said stiffly. 
 
 " But why either? " inquired M. Desaye, pleas- 
 antly impersonal. "I return to France; my
 
 NEIGHBORS 285 
 
 daughter also. Enfin she marries a Frenchman: 
 eet ees my purpose." 
 
 ' You forget that your daughter is beautiful, 
 and that she is unprotected from the advances of 
 even Germans in a country where, as you say, 
 the good and the bad are mixed in pretty even 
 proportions." 
 
 It was M. Desaye's turn to redden angrily. 
 ' You will of your goodness explain yourself, 
 monsieur," he said with ominous politeness. 
 
 " Do you chance to know a fellow who calls 
 himself Le Nolr? " asked Hoddy Hobbs, casting 
 altruism and the Kitchener code to the winds. 
 
 "Henri Le Noir? Young eh, of a ruddy 
 complexion? Certainement! I have attempted to 
 teach him French." 
 
 " Did you succeed, sir?" 
 
 M. Desaye drew his brows together. Many 
 things recurred to his agile memory. He linked 
 them swiftly into one sinister whole. 
 
 "Ah-h-h!" he exhaled lightly between closed 
 teeth. ' You aire telling me zat young man ees 
 I 'ave been dupe deceive? Wat ees zis you 
 say?" 
 
 " His name," stated Kitchener Hobbs distinctly, 
 " is Schwartz Heinrich Schwartz. He told me 
 so himself. . . . He has somehow managed to 
 win the confidence of your daughter and you
 
 286 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ought to know it, sir, he walked home with 
 Madeleine last night." 
 
 Dead silence followed these correlated state- 
 ments. The father of Madeleine opened and 
 closed his sinewy fingers two or three times, while 
 the veins on his forehead swelled visibly. But 
 he did not burst into excited recriminations. His 
 eyes, very bright and rather unpleasant to con- 
 template, were fixed immovably upon an odd bit 
 of faience, representing a Dutch woman in a 
 winged cap carrying balanced water-jugs. 
 
 " I fancy I've made a bally ass of myself," 
 stammered Kitchener Hobbs, hating the Dutch 
 woman with ardor. " But I thought it seemed 
 to me " 
 
 M. Desaye arose. 
 
 " Monsieur," said he, " permit me to t'ank 
 you. . . . Ah regrettable that you cannot of 
 your goodness pay me a longer visit. . . . Bon 
 soir, monsieur! Goo' night! " 
 
 His smile was pervasive, irresistible. Young 
 Hobbs found himself wafted, as it were, on 
 waves of good will and friendly cordiality to the 
 front door, which closed gently very gently 
 behind him. 
 
 Outside in the cool darkness Mr. Hobbs took 
 brief counsel with himself. 
 
 "Confound a Frenchman, anyway!" he mut-
 
 NEIGHBORS 287 
 
 tered, and permitted himself a brief though re- 
 freshing interval of impersonal criticism. Every 
 Briton is of course aware of the inherent insin- 
 cerity of the French character, " slippery " being 
 the favorite descriptive adjective. One never 
 knew where to find a Frenchman, he told himself 
 banally. Upon further reflection, during which 
 young Hobbs passed his late conversation with 
 M. Desaye in swift review, he perceived that his 
 bold declaration of love for Madeleine had hope- 
 lessly muddled the situation. 
 
 " She'll hate me for telling," he concluded 
 simply. 
 
 There was but one course of action which sug- 
 gested itself under existing circumstances. He 
 resolved to follow it. 
 
 Miss Malvina opened the door to his agitated 
 ring. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " she exclaimed, as she recog- 
 nized her visitor, " if it ain't you, Hoddy Hobbs ! 
 Walk right in, do." 
 
 Mr. Hobbs inwardly resented Miss Bennett's 
 familiar use of his mother's undignified abbrevia- 
 tion of the magnificent Horatio Herbert. He 
 detested the name Hoddy; but he walked in, 
 aware of Madeleine's light laugh in the room 
 beyond. 
 
 " I got your ombrel' all safe," said Miss
 
 288 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Malvina. " My ! I don' know what we'd a-done 
 without it, with Ma's r'eumatiz an' all. It cert'ly 
 was reel sweet o' you t' r'member Ma an' me. 
 I was jest a-sayin' t' Mad'lane, * Th' ain't many 
 young fellers,' I says, * would give us a thought.' ' 
 
 She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear: 
 
 " I put in a good word f'r you, Hoddy. . . . 
 My! ain't she a lovely girl! But you'll hev t' 
 watch out, er Harry Schwartz '11 cut you out. 
 . . . He's an awful nice boy, Harry is. I've 
 knowed him sence he was in dresses prettiest 
 little feller y'ever see, with yellow curls down on 
 his shoulders an' th' pinkest cheeks. My ! " 
 
 11 1 er wish to speak to Miss Desaye," said 
 Mr. Hobbs stiffly. " I was told she was here." 
 
 11 1 want t' know! " wondered Miss Malvina; 
 " her pa must 'a' told you. She run in jes' f'r a 
 minute t' bring Ma some gaiters that's what she 
 calls them little cakes with a raisin on top. . . . 
 Here's your ombrel' an' your hat right on top 
 of it, so's you can't forgit it. ... Come t' beau 
 Mad'lane home you'll be s' excited you'll likely 
 forgit you ever owned one." 
 
 Madeleine blushed when she beheld the pale, 
 stern face of Kitchener Hobbs. He had an air 
 of mastery about him, which caused a vague but 
 agreeable shiver to pass over her. 
 
 " Speak of angels," announced Miss Malvina
 
 NEIGHBORS 289 
 
 joyously, " an' you ketch th' flutter o' their wings. 
 . . . Wa'n't we jest a-talkin' about Hoddy 
 Hobbs? Set right down clost t' Ma, Hoddy, so 's 
 she c'n hear what you're sayin'. An' I was tellin' 
 'em what a nice, neat boy you was, never givin' 
 your ma any trouble, an' " 
 
 But Mr. Hobbs declined the chair Miss Mal- 
 vina kindly cleared of sewing materials for him. 
 Madeleine had retreated toward the door with 
 a murmured explanation which concerned her fa- 
 ther, alone and missing her. 
 
 " Oh, I guess your pa c'n git along without you 
 fer a spell longer," protested Ma Bennett. 
 " Don't go yit awhile." 
 
 Miss Malvina winked knowingly at Ma. She 
 had witnessed the exchange of glances between 
 Hoddy Hobbs and Madeleine, with a youthful 
 quickening of her own pulses. 
 
 " Why, Ma," she said, after she had closed the 
 front door on the two, " ef you wa'n't blinder 'n 
 a bat you c'd see he's a-payin' attention t' Mad'- 
 lane. Didn't you take notice how red she got 
 when he come in? An' he fairly 'et her up with 
 his eyes." 
 
 Miss Malvina sighed plaintively. 
 
 " My ! it must be awful nice t' be young an' 
 han'some an' have a beau. . ... I don' know 's 
 I ever had one."
 
 290 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Yes, you did, too, Malviny," contradicted 
 Ma. " Don't you r'member th' was Obed 
 Salter " 
 
 " Yes," scoffed Miss Malvina, " Obed come 
 home with me from prayer meetin' once, after 
 his first wife died. I wouldn't look at that oF 
 widower, no more 'n I'd fly! No, sir! not ef he 
 was th' las' man on earth." 
 
 " An' th' was a feller named Peck," went on 
 Ma eagerly. " He was " 
 
 " Oh, th' ain't no use in rakin' up them old 
 mem'ries," interrupted Miss Malvina, almost 
 pettishly. " I got an autograph album up in the 
 attic; I r'member we passed it 'round in school, 
 'n' all the boys wrote opp'site the girls they liked 
 best. George Beels wrote opp'site me; but then 
 he went off an* courted Hattie Myers. But, my 
 goodness! I'd no more 'a' married Undertaker 
 George Beels, not ef he was th' last man 
 
 The loud whir of the sewing machine drowned 
 further reminiscences. But Miss Malvina's 
 cheeks were almost as pink as Madeleine's when 
 she finally drew down the shades preparatory 
 to going to bed. There was a young moon 
 in the sky, companioned by a single bright 
 star. 
 
 Miss Malvina sighed as she gazed. It made 
 her think of Madeleine and Hoddy Hobbs.
 
 NEIGHBORS 291 
 
 " My ! " she repeated wistfully, " it must be 
 awful nice to be young an' hev a beau." 
 
 There was a light burning steadily in the win- 
 dow of her neighbor's house; it finally drew her 
 eyes from a contemplation of the heavenly 
 luminaries. 
 
 " Whatever 'd he do, ef Mad'lane was t' take 
 a notion t' git married?" she asked the cat. 
 Then she put a nail into its worn hole above the 
 sash and shut the outer world from view, won- 
 dering as she did so what Hoddy Hobbs could 
 be saying to Madeleine out there in the moon- 
 light. In her youth which seemed a great way 
 off Miss Malvina had never walked under 
 moonlit trees with a young man. Now, with a 
 curious, unaccustomed ache, she wished she had. 
 
 " Jest once so 't I could look back an' r'mem- 
 ber it," she murmured humbly, as she blew down 
 the chimney of her kerosene lamp. ... 
 
 But Madeleine had appeared wholly indifferent 
 to her superior opportunities, as she walked 
 quickly down Miss Malvina's graveled path. 
 With every light footfall young Kitchener Hobbs 
 beheld his immediate opportunity of putting him- 
 self right with her slipping away. If she should 
 
 see her father first Yet it seemed impossible 
 
 to speak. 
 
 " Oh, I say," he managed to murmur huskily,
 
 292 NEIGHBORS 
 
 as they reached her own gate, a short distance 
 from Miss Malvina's. 
 
 " Bon soir" said Madeleine sweetly. " Qweek 
 I make track for 'ome." 
 
 " Not yet please ! I must speak to you." 
 
 The girl paused, with the tentative air of a 
 bird on a windswept bough. 
 
 " Oh, Madeleine, I love you and I have told 
 
 your father. But he but I Wait ! you must 
 
 listen. I have something more to tell you." 
 
 He strove boldly to detain her; but she shut 
 the gate between them. 
 
 " I 'ave now to 'urry," she said, retreating 
 from his questing hand. " You 'ear zat horloge 
 say nine heures? " 
 
 There was no denying the brazen clang of the 
 town clock. 
 
 ' You'd better not go in to your father till 
 you've heard what I have to say," he sent after 
 her desperately. " You'll be sorry if you do." 
 
 " Bienf Qweek you tell; I wait one minute." 
 
 " Madeleine don't be so cruel. If you knew 
 how I love you! " 
 
 " Eet ees mos' extraordinaire zis lo-ve. . . . 
 I lo-ve you lo-ve 'e lo-ove like leqon in gram- 
 maire Anglaise. Me I not like to es-tudy 'er 
 non! " 
 
 She shook her head with a tantalizing laugh.
 
 NEIGHBORS 293 
 
 " Madeleine, why did you allow that fellow 
 with two names to walk home with you last 
 night?" demanded Mr. Hobbs, in a tone which 
 he vainly strove to make elderly and impersonal. 
 " Really, that sort of thing won't do." 
 
 "W'ynot, pi-ease?" 
 
 " Because Can't you understand that a 
 
 man who deceives his employers by using an alias 
 isn't to be trusted? . . . Especially when he's a 
 German and in a munitions factory." 
 
 " 'E ees not German ! 'Arry 'e ees Ameri- 
 caine vary much star an' stripe, zat 'Arry. You 
 zink I am bebe?" 
 
 " So you call him Harry," commented Mr. 
 Hobbs grimly. "Why not Heinrich? That's 
 his real name Heinrich Schwartz! " 
 
 " An' 'is ozzer name pi-ease? " 
 
 " Le Noir. The fellow actually has the impu- 
 dence to call himself Le Noir at the Plant. . . . 
 Of course, I told your father. I had to do it. 
 . . . Can't you see? Schwartz may be a dan- 
 gerous fellow." 
 
 Young Kitchener Hobbs' voice shook with two- 
 fold passion: Madeleine, illusive as mist, seemed 
 about to vanish into the night. 
 
 "Hear me out!" he called after her. . . . 
 "You shall!" 
 
 " Vary much I 'ear you; Mees Malvina an' my
 
 294 NEIGHBORS 
 
 fat'er, aussi ) so loud you holler. Me I am not 
 deaf 's pos'." 
 
 " But you seem so far away. . . . Listen, 
 Madeleine it is because I love you because I 
 want you to be my wife I can't bear to see you 
 deceived by " 
 
 She was gone. There could be no doubt of it. 
 The door opened, showing an oblong of yellow 
 lamplight; then closed. For an irresolute min- 
 ute he stood staring at the little old house be- 
 neath its canopy of swaying trees. Suppose he 
 should storm that closed door should insist 
 upon being heard in French, in English or in 
 the absurd patois Madeleine chose to speak? 
 . . . After all, what more could he say? He 
 had at least made his motives clear. And from 
 his present intrenched position as the declared 
 lover of Madeleine he would not easily be dis- 
 lodged. To Harry Schwartz he gave but a single 
 disdainful thought: " He is the sort of bounder," 
 said Kitchener Hobbs, " who attempts to cover 
 his misdeeds with the stars and stripes and calls 
 himself an American I "
 
 XXVI 
 
 MRS. PETTIBONE had just taken up her 
 child from his afternoon nap, in the 
 moist, pink, entirely adorable condition 
 peculiar to a baby going on seven months. After 
 she had kissed, cuddled, and cooed over him in 
 a hopelessly old-fashioned manner, she knocked 
 on the study door. Mrs. Pettibone had never 
 given up this modest custom, when thus intruding 
 upon her husband's solitude. He did not at once 
 answer; and boldly very boldly his son upon 
 her arm, she repeated her summons. 
 
 ; ' Why don't you walk right in, Miss 
 Philura ? " demanded Mr. Pettibone's laughing 
 voice from within. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone blushed. She always blushed 
 when he called her Miss Philura, thus reminding 
 her of all the sweet and wonderful happenings 
 of a not distant past. 
 
 " I wanted you to see him, Silas," she said. 
 " He's wonderful today ! And you know, Silas, 
 he'll never be just six months and four days old 
 again." 
 
 295
 
 296 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " True," admitted Mr. Pettibone. " I hadn't 
 thought of it in that way before." 
 
 "I think of it every day," she sighed: "he's 
 growing up so fast, Silas." 
 
 " But we want him to grow up, don't we? We 
 wouldn't like to see him atrophied in babyhood, 
 would we? " 
 
 " Of course not! but he's so sweet just as he 
 is. ... Look at his eyes, Silas! He's looking 
 at you, see ! he wants you to take him and play 
 with him." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone promptly abandoned Volume 
 IV of a series of commentaries on the Pauline 
 Epistles in favor of the baby, who began to 
 gurgle and kick with delight as his father held 
 out his arms for him. 
 
 " Just six months and four days old this morn- 
 ing!" repeated Mrs. Pettibone, gazing at her 
 treasures in the shabby armchair with unconcealed 
 delight. " I can hardly believe it, Silas. ... If 
 
 any one had told me five years ago Hark! 
 
 Was that the door-bell? It doesn't ring very 
 well lately. . . .." 
 
 He heard her voice in greeting, which seemed 
 to convey a note of surprise. Then the parlor 
 door closed. Mr. Pettibone gazed in some per- 
 plexity at his son. Surely, it was a man's voice 
 he had heard in the passage, , . . Five minutes
 
 NEIGHBORS 297 
 
 elapsed and still she did not return. The baby, 
 tiring of the minister's silver watch and of his 
 persistently offered key-ring which the infant 
 finally cast upon the floor with a shrill little yelp 
 of displeasure was becoming somewhat unin- 
 teresting as compared with Volume IV of the 
 Pauline Commentaries. Mr. Pettibone paced the 
 length of his study several times, inanely repeat- 
 ing "Pretty pretty!" in the presence of his 
 rows of theological books. The infant quite evi- 
 dently failed to appreciate this form of enter- 
 tainment, for he began to howl lustily. The in- 
 fant's clothing, moreover, displayed a strange 
 tendency to creep up about his ears; in vain the 
 distracted Mr. Pettibone strove to pat and pull 
 these inchoate garments into place, as he had 
 seen his wife do a score of times. Finally in 
 despair he deposited the small demoralized 
 bundle of muslin and flannel on the floor, and 
 stood looking down at it dubiously. The min- 
 ister could think of no adequate reason for the 
 infant's displeasure, but there appeared to be 
 little doubt of it in view of his screams. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone opened the door upon his 
 discomfiture. 
 
 " Why, Silas Pettibone ! " she exclaimed, 
 " what are you doing to the baby? Come here to 
 mother, darling! "
 
 298 NEIGHBORS 
 
 There was implied censure in her voice and 
 the way in which she skillfully righted the in- 
 fant's garments and hushed his abominable cry- 
 ing, which was not meekly to be borne. 
 
 " I was not doing anything to the baby, my 
 dear Philura," protested Mr. Pettibone, with un- 
 wonted spirit. " I merely held on to him as long 
 as I was able, and then " 
 
 " Never mind, Silas," said his wife, with the 
 new and superior forbearance he had noted in 
 her manner of late. " Please come and speak to 
 Mr. Desaye. I have been talking with him he 
 wanted to see me; but I thought perhaps we 
 ought to consult you. . . . Besides, I heard the 
 baby." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone gazed at his wife with honest 
 amazement. She had " thought perhaps " well, 
 well! 
 
 M. Desaye, in an immaculate frock-coat and 
 striped trousers, a black pearl in his scarf and a 
 flower in his buttonhole, presented a pleasant 
 contrast to the somewhat disheveled minister. 
 
 "The baby," said Mrs. Pettibone, "wanted 
 me. . . . Now I think we can go on with our 
 little talk. Possibly Mr. Pettibone can advise 
 you better than I about your daughter though 
 I am sure everything will be all right." 
 
 " My Madeleine 'as no mot'er," said M.
 
 NEIGHBORS 299 
 
 Desaye gravely: "'ad it been God's will zat 
 madame, my wife, survive to now eet would not 
 'ave been necessaire to consult es-tranger. I 
 regret ze gr-rand trouble I make wiz you; but 
 
 eet ees impossible to avoid You un'erstan' 
 
 me, is eet not? " 
 
 u Harry Schwartz has been making love to 
 Madeleine," explained Mrs. Pettibone, very pink 
 and smiling. " I've been telling Mr. Desaye that 
 Harry is a splendid boy; we've always known 
 him. . . . He thought Harry was a German 
 spy!" 
 
 "A German spy?" repeated Mr. Pettibone; 
 "oh, no no, indeed! Let me assure you, sir: 
 Harry Schwartz is one of our own Sunday-School 
 boys. He is above suspicion of anything like 
 that." 
 
 " But 'e ees of German bl-lood," persisted 
 the Frenchman, polite but unyielding. " You will 
 of your kin'ness pardon me eef I say zat ees for 
 me suffisamment. Beyond, he 'as also deceive 
 me: I zink 'im Huguenot, name of Le Noir. I 
 
 fin' 'im German, name of Schwartz What 
 
 will you? " 
 
 M. Desaye's eyes, shoulders, and outspread 
 hands were eloquent of disbelief: but his expres- 
 sion suddenly changed to one of amazement and 
 alarm.
 
 300 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Ecoutez! " he exclaimed sharply, " what ees 
 zat?" 
 
 All three occupants of the parsonage parlor 
 sprang to their feet: That loud, booming ex- 
 plosion which had shaken the old house from 
 rafter to cellar what was it? 
 
 Mr. Pettibone was the first to recover himself. 
 
 " I am told they are at work constructing a 
 new state road some miles away," he began; "it 
 was probably necessary blasting. I believe " 
 
 But again the terrible sound interrupted the 
 minister's explanation. Then followed many 
 short and sharp explosions, like the discharge of 
 volleys of musketry. 
 
 " Oh ! it must be something awful ! " mur- 
 mured Mrs. Pettibone, clasping her baby closer. 
 
 M. Desaye stood with bent head, the frown 
 with which he had listened to the minister's some- 
 what vague defense of Harry Schwartz deepen- 
 ing between his eyes. The sound of the ex- 
 plosions continued: now heavy, dull, shattering 
 noises; again that sudden bursting crackle like 
 machine guns in action. . . . Then he spoke one 
 French word, which the world pronounces as it 
 will: 
 
 "Munitions!" 
 
 The two men, moved by a single impulse, 
 rushed out of doors. But Mrs. Pettibone, her
 
 NEIGHBORS 301 
 
 baby in her arms, hurriedly climbed the stair to 
 the nursery. The terrible sounds continued, but 
 in this quiet sunny room, with its small, pendant 
 garments and its white furniture, one somehow 
 felt safe from immediate catastrophe. She had 
 not comprehended M. Desaye's laconic explana- 
 tion, and in her confusion she began mechanically 
 to gather the baby's garments into a neat bundle. 
 . . . Perhaps they would be obliged to fly. 
 Other women the world over had been forced into 
 the open, their babies in their arms. . . . Some- 
 thing terrible and unexpected was happening. 
 She must be ready. . . . Oh, yes, and extra socks 
 and handkerchiefs for Mr. Pettibone and would 
 he need his pajamas? She strove to think calmly. 
 . . . Where was the baby's talcum powder? A 
 sound of trampling feet on the stair mingled with 
 a fusillade of frightful explosions. 
 
 " Well, fer th' land sake, Mis' Pettibone ! " ex- 
 claimed the strident voice of Mrs. Wessells, from 
 the door. "Ain't this th' livin' limit! I was 
 a-washin' t' home t'day this bein' a Thursday; 
 an' I hed m' han's in th' suds, when in runs 
 Georgie : ' Ma,' says he, * th' works is blowin' 
 up,' he says. ' What works? ' I says, ' fer good- 
 ness sake, Georgie ! ' ' Why, them bomb works 
 out b' th' swamp, ma,' he says. . . . He's ont' 
 everything my Georgie is. ... I tell you, Mis'
 
 302 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Pettibone, th' can't nothin' take place without him 
 knowin' it, first off. He's th' smartest boy our 
 Georgie. . . . Why, what 'n creation you doin' 
 packin' up? 'Tain't goin' t' do no great harm 
 in th' village, Mis' Pettibone. But I'll bet th' 
 swamp '11 be chuck full o' r'mains after th' 
 bombs is all fired off. . . . Here they come now, 
 a-runnin' like a pack o' lun'tics! Look, Mis' 
 Pettibone! fer pity sake, jes' see 'em! " 
 
 The minister's wife needed no second bidding; 
 the sound of hundreds of running feet drew her 
 to the window. Workmen from the plant, flee- 
 ing from before the 'terrific bombardment meant 
 for others, were hurrying past the house in small 
 irregular squads. A confused rabble of women 
 and crying children bringing up the rear. They 
 had passed the danger zone, but they were still 
 running, their eyes fixed and staring, their feet 
 striking the pavement with dull heavy thuds. 
 
 " Well, I guess I'd better be goin' along," said 
 Mrs. Wessells, gathering her shawl under her 
 chin with an air of keen enjoyment. " Thinks 
 s' I, I'll stop in first off an' see if anythin' hit th' 
 pars'tiage, yit. . . . Land! if there ain't Harry 
 Schwartz scorchin' along on his bike! I didn't 
 know as he worked out there; did you? But I 
 guess he must of; his cloe's is all black." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone turned from the window, her
 
 NEIGHBORS 303 
 
 face pale and anxious. She was recalling con- 
 fusedly certain scraps of her conversation with 
 M. Desaye. He had insisted that Harry 
 Schwartz was working at the munitions plant 
 under an assumed name. . . . But it must be time 
 for baby's bottle; little whimpering sounds from 
 the crib reminded her of the paramount fact. 
 She followed Mrs. Wessells downstairs. In the 
 hall Mr. Pettibone was talking with two or three 
 excited neighbors; the house seemed suddenly full 
 of people. . . . The baby was crying upstairs. 
 . . . Mrs. Pettibone found herself trying to com- 
 fort a distracted woman, who declared that her 
 son had been killed. . . . And still the terrible 
 sounds of exploding shells rent the air. . . . 
 
 No one in Innisfield learned the full extent of 
 the disaster that day nor the next. The detona- 
 tions continued fitfully during the afternoon and 
 well on into the night, when a dull red glow 
 streaked with brilliant arcs of light revealed the 
 spot where the munitions works had stood. 
 Mounted police from Boston and fire engines 
 from near-by towns invaded the streets, and by 
 daybreak a tentative effort was made to round 
 up the workmen. It was thought at first that 
 many were missing; but as the hours passed it 
 appeared that several who had run blindly from 
 the scene of the disaster had become entangled
 
 3 o 4 NEIGHBORS 
 
 in the more distant fastnesses of the swamp, from 
 which they emerged covered with slime, their 
 clothing torn to shreds, but otherwise unin- 
 jured. . . . 
 
 On Sunday morning Mr. Pettibone, pale but 
 calm, in the face of a large and excited congrega- 
 tion, rendered heartfelt thanks to God for the 
 almost miraculous preservation of human life dur- 
 ing the late terrifying calamity. That not one 
 of the hundreds of workmen employed had met 
 with sudden death was due to the extraordinary 
 presence of mind and bravery of one young man 
 so Mr. Pettibone informed the Almighty, and 
 incidentally his congregation. After a time- 
 honored custom " the long prayer " was devoted 
 to a masterly recapitulation of recent events, 
 previously unknown to mortals, but without rea- 
 sonable doubt stored up in the divine intelligence 
 from the foundation of the world. 
 
 At its close Mrs. Buckthorn was seen to nudge 
 her neighbor, Miss Electa Pratt: 
 
 "Who'd he mean?" she whispered: "what 
 young man? " 
 
 " I guess it must 'a' been that young Hobbs," 
 Miss Electa whispered back from behind her 
 hymn-book; " they say he telephoned all over the 
 plant after Sadie Banks fainted dead away, settin' 
 in her chair. After he'd got everybody on the
 
 NEIGHBORS 305 
 
 run he drug her out an' r'vived her an' she come 
 home 's lively 's a cricket. But he didn't come 
 home for mos' two hours. Most everybody 
 thought he was killed. His mother took on till 
 you c'd hear her way down in th' store." 
 
 As these circumstantial details were already 
 known to Mrs. Buckthorn, she listened without 
 comment, her large countenance composed to a 
 pious rigidity befitting the time and occasion. It 
 was not until the benediction had been pronounced 
 and the organ burst forth in vague triumph that 
 she turned again to Miss Pratt. 
 
 " I suppose," she said in a hollow voice, " that 
 you've heard the ter-rible intelligence about 
 Har-ry Schwartz?" 
 
 " My gracious me ! " cried Miss Pratt, pausing 
 round-eyed in the act of buttoning her jacket. 
 "Was he killed?" 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn shook her head. 
 
 " I al-most wish I c'd say * th' Lord's will be 
 done ' t' that question, Electa," she syllabled 
 slowly. "No, he ain't dead: he's been a-rested 
 an' he's in jail" 
 
 " Harry Schwartz arrested! in jail! " 
 shrilled Miss Pratt. "Why, I run in t' Mis' 
 Schwartzes only las' night after supper to borrow 
 a cup of sugar, an' she didn't say anything about 
 Harry's being arrested."
 
 3 o6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn continued solemnly to oscillate 
 her massive headgear. Out of the corner of her 
 eye she beheld Mrs. Obed Salter, Mrs. Under- 
 taker Beels, and Mrs. Henry Pratt advanc- 
 ing down the aisle: they had not heard the 
 news. 
 
 " No, Electa," she said distinctly, " Mrs. 
 Schwartz was not a-ware of her son's dis-grace 
 at that hour. I understan' Har-ry was pre-parin' 
 to re-tire for the night, when " 
 
 " I s'pose they had to put reg'lar han'cuffs 
 ont' him," offered Miss Pratt. She also had 
 noted the approaching bevy of ladies, and 
 framed her comment thus dramatically with 
 purpose. 
 
 44 Fer pity sake, what's happened now?" de- 
 manded Mrs. Salter excitedly. " Who's been 
 han'cuffed? I ain't heard a word." 
 
 " Nor me, neither," chimed in Mrs. Pratt. 
 
 Mrs. Undertaker Beels, as became her hus- 
 band's gloomy trade, preserved a non-committal 
 silence. But her eyes under their black lashes 
 were active and observant. 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn sighed heavily. 
 
 " I suppose," she said, with an air of reluct- 
 ance, u that we can hardly hope to keep the 
 matter to ourselves much as we should be g-lad 
 to spare the young man's family. . . . They do
 
 NEIGHBORS 307 
 
 say his pictur', took in jail, will be in all th' 
 papers t'morrow. . . . My ! My ! when I think 
 how, durin' our late bl-lessed r'vival, I set an' 
 watched that young man an' him a-lookin' seri- 
 ous fer th' first time in his life; an' of how I went 
 pers'nally an' labored with him, face t' face, doin' 
 m' prayerful best to dror him t' th' mourner's 
 pew; an' how " 
 
 But the flood of question and comment which 
 had been gathering in force could no longer be 
 stayed ; even the taciturn Mrs. Beels insisted upon 
 being heard. 
 
 " George Beels knew of Harry Schwartz's ar- 
 rest early this morning," she stated. " Mr. 
 Schwartz was around trying to get bail." 
 
 " What 'd he do? " demanded the other women 
 in chorus, turning with one accord to Mrs. Beels. 
 " Why did they arrest him? " 
 
 " Ladies ! " spoke Mrs. Buckthorn loudly and 
 authoritatively, " if you'll listen to me " 
 
 But Mrs. Beels triumphantly held the floor. 
 She could be depended upon to be brief and to 
 the point, without reservation or rhetorical 
 embellishment. 
 
 ' They say he blew up the plant," she said 
 bluntly. " But I know he didn't; so there! " 
 
 "La-dies!" intoned Mrs. Buckthorn, "/ can 
 tell you something awful, if you'll pay attention
 
 3 o8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 to me: that poor, mis-guided young man who 
 will undoubtedly be hung in the near future 
 was a-rested because " 
 
 Mr. Pettibone's tall black-coated figure sud- 
 denly appeared in the center of the excited group. 
 Not one of the women had noticed his approach, 
 but its effect was magical. Even Mrs. Buckthorn 
 became silent for a moment. In that moment the 
 minister spoke: 
 
 " I wish you would all disperse quietly to your 
 homes," he said in low, even tones. " I see you 
 have heard of the terrible accusation which has 
 been lodged against a young man who has grown 
 up in our midst one of our own children. I 
 believe him to be innocent of the horrible crime 
 laid at his door, and until he has been proven 
 guilty he is entitled to that belief by the rulings 
 of common law." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn wagged her bonnet, decorated 
 with a plenitude of black beads as hard and soul- 
 less as her eyes. 
 
 " As t' that, I guess each an' every one of us 
 is en-titled t' our private o-pinion, Mis-ter Petti- 
 bone," she said acidly. " An' when it comes 
 to " 
 
 " Let me implore you to keep that opinion as 
 private as possible, Mrs. Buckthorn," interrupted 
 the minister.
 
 NEIGHBORS 309 
 
 His gaze, anxious and troubled, passed quickly 
 from one plump, matronly face to another; then 
 his head drooped. 
 
 " The tide of public opinion seems to be setting 
 strongly against the lad," he said slowly. " Let 
 us hope that the members of this church will en- 
 tertain the reasonable doubt, and give voice to 
 none but charitable comments. ... Go home, I 
 beg of you, and pray that the truth may become 
 speedily apparent." 
 
 The rustle of Sabbath skirts and the sound of 
 hushed footfalls ceased at length, and silence, 
 broken only by the sighing of the wind, brooded 
 the sanctuary. Still the tall spare figure of the 
 minister stood motionless, his hands folded 
 loosely upon the pew-front. 
 
 " O Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place 
 in all generations : before the mountains were 
 brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the 
 earth and the world even from everlasting to 
 everlasting thou art God! " 
 
 The majestic words rose to his lips unbidden; 
 in them was the strong comfort his soul craved: 
 " even from everlasting to everlasting thou 
 art God." 
 
 As he passed, at length, down the aisle he 
 almost stumbled upon a small figure, kneeling 
 there in the gloom of the projecting gallery. The
 
 3 io NEIGHBORS 
 
 next instant he had recognized the young French 
 girl, Madeleine Desaye, her face stained with 
 weeping. 
 
 Me I 'ave come," she whispered, " to pray 
 le bon Dieti for 'Any! "
 
 XXVII 
 
 HARRY SCHWARTZ sat on a wooden 
 bench in the Innisfield jail. It was Sun- 
 day: he heard the church bells ringing. 
 After awhile he got up and looked out of the 
 barred window high up in the wall. People were 
 walking along the streets. At first he did not 
 associate himself with the fact that nearly every 
 one looked up at the jail as they walked along. 
 Then a slow, painful crimson surged up into 
 his brain, forcing the tears to his eyes. He went 
 back to his bench and sat down. It seemed a 
 long time since yesterday morning. . . . He 
 forced himself to go back to the moment when 
 he had stood by the kitchen table watching his 
 mother cutting sandwiches for his lunch. 
 
 " Harry," she said, " I wish you'd give up 
 working 'way out there at the munitions plant. 
 I worry about you dreadfully." 
 
 14 Why should you worry, mother? " 
 It was a comment rather than a question. He 
 knew well enough why his mother worried. It 
 had all been talked over a score of times in the 
 
 311
 
 3 i2 NEIGHBORS 
 
 last month. But while she spread the thick slices 
 of home-made bread with plenty of butter and 
 added a generous filling of minced chicken she 
 told him all her reasons once more. . . . Harry 
 swallowed childishly as he remembered how good 
 those sandwiches had tasted at noon. . . . The 
 conversation ended as usual: Harry fastened his 
 lunch-box to the handle of his bicycle, kissed his 
 mother good-by, and sped away. He intended 
 to stop working in the munitions plant as soon 
 as his building lot was paid for. After that he 
 could borrow the money to build his home. But 
 in the meantime his weekly pay envelopes, bearing 
 the name Le Noir, worried him. At least once 
 every week generally on pay day Harry found 
 himself going over the whole matter with him- 
 self: Le Noir was merely a French translation 
 of Schwartz; he meant no harm by accepting 
 Madeleine's smooth substitute for his harsh 
 German name. He did his work honestly and 
 well. What possible harm could there be in the 
 small deception? There wasn't any harm in it! 
 But Harry guessed he'd better stop working at 
 the plant before long. He hated to have his 
 mother worry. Of course he had never showed 
 her his pay envelope with the name Le Noir on 
 it. He knew about what she would say; and 
 yery likely she would cry, which was worse. . . .
 
 NEIGHBORS 313 
 
 He had not seen Madeleine since the night he 
 told her he loved her, though he had studied his 
 French every night and had learned the inade- 
 quate word for wife. 
 
 He got up from his bench again and went to 
 the window; his head ached when he thought of 
 Madeleine. . . . Looking down into the familiar 
 street, which somehow looked unfamiliar seen 
 from this barred window, his thoughts went 
 monotonously on: nothing out of the ordinary 
 had happened till afternoon. Everybody was 
 working as usual. He saw Hobbs counting shells 
 about half-past one. At two o'clock he met him 
 crossing the yard. Harry had not spoken to 
 Hobbs since the night of the revival. . . . Why 
 should he speak to Hobbs? The fellow owed 
 him an apology. ... It might have been half an 
 hour later when he heard a slight explosion and 
 saw a sudden flare-up of brilliant light in the 
 filling-shed. He was on his way to investigate 
 the reason for this when somebody shouted to 
 him to run. . . . Suddenly the yard was full of 
 men, running, cursing, shouting. Harry looked 
 around for Hobbs: to his surprise he found him- 
 self thinking of Hobbs with keen anxiety. Then 
 came the first heavy explosion. Harry jumped 
 upon his wheel, which he had left by the gate, and 
 rode swiftly toward home. Something hit him in
 
 NEIGHBORS 
 
 the back of the head as he went, but he did not 
 notice it: he was thinking of his mother, who 
 would be " worrying dreadfully." He must let 
 her know he was all right. . . . 
 
 The church bells had stopped ringing by now. 
 Harry wondered dully if his father and mother 
 had gone to church. He pictured them there in 
 the fourth pew from the pulpit, where he seemed 
 to see himself, a very little boy with yellow curls 
 on his shoulders, looking at Deacon Scrimger's 
 shining bald head two seats in front. Sometimes, 
 when the sermon was long, his mother would give 
 him a pink and white peppermint drop out of her 
 pocket. He would grow very sleepy after the 
 peppermint was eaten. How comfortable his 
 mother's smooth silken lap felt as he laid his 
 head upon it! After that the preacher's voice 
 seemed to come peacefully from a great way off: 
 then it ceased altogether. ... A queer hard 
 lump in Harry's throat ached intolerably as he 
 thought about it. ... His mother had cried 
 when they took him away last night. They had 
 come for him just as he was going to bed after 
 the " nice warm bath " she insisted upon. The 
 covers of his bed were turned down and the 
 breeze from the open windows fluttered the mus- 
 lin curtains. 
 
 " I'm glad it isn't any worse," he told her,
 
 NEIGHBORS 315 
 
 when she exclaimed over the matted hair at the 
 back of his head. 
 
 He had forgotten all about the something that 
 hit him on his way out of the plant. His mother 
 called his father to look at the tiny scalp wound. 
 She wondered if there ought to be a stitch taken, 
 and should they call the doctor? It was just then 
 that the door-bell rang sharply. . . . 
 
 The sound of a key grating in the lock 
 roused him. He turned his head and saw his 
 father coming into his cell, followed by an- 
 other man. 
 
 ' Well, Harry, my boy," said his father, with 
 an affectation of great cheerfulness, " how did you 
 make out last night? " 
 
 Harry made no answer. He was looking at 
 the other man. He had known him by sight for 
 a long time. The man's name was Calvin S. 
 Northrup. He was a lawyer. Mr. Northrup 
 returned Harry's look sharply. Then he rubbed 
 his hands, which were dry and bony. 
 
 " A bad business a very bad business," he 
 said, and glanced around the cell. . . . "Hey? 
 Water coming in through the ceiling ! Hr-rumpp ! 
 Roof wants repairing. . . . Well, now, let's look 
 into this business." 
 
 He sat down on the wooden chair and again 
 stared at Harry.
 
 3 i6 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " I've engaged Mr. Northrup to defend you, 
 Harry," explained Mr. Schwartz. 
 
 " Just so, just so," confirmed the lawyer. 
 " Now then, don't incriminate yourself, young 
 man!" 
 
 He wagged a long, yellow finger at Harry. 
 " Don't forget what I tell you. The prosecu- 
 tion will likely put you through the third degree. 
 I'm told they're preparing their case for the pre- 
 liminary hearing, which may take place tomorrow. 
 
 But until you're proved guilty " 
 
 " I'm not guilty," said Harry, with some vio- 
 lence. " I didn't blow up the plant. Why should 
 I?" 
 
 " That's just the line of defense Calvin S. 
 Northrup intends to follow," approved the law- 
 yer. " Why should you blow up the plant? Ex- 
 actly! Hum er now you'll have to be careful 
 what you say. They'll try to catch you with all 
 sorts of tricky questions. They'll endeavor to mix 
 you up, bewilder you; but you just stick to that 
 one statement: You don't know anything about 
 the cause of the explosion. You went to your 
 work, as usual: always faithful. Didn't hear or 
 
 see anything out of the common till " 
 
 " But I did," interrupted Harry. " I saw- 
 Mr. Northrup's active eyebrows and waving 
 forefinger halted Harry's eager explanation.
 
 NEIGHBORS 317 
 
 "Why shouldn't I tell?" asked Harry, bewil- 
 dered. " I saw " 
 
 " Young man, you didn't see anything and you 
 didn't hear anything until after mark my words 
 carefully until after you left the plant. You 
 got out at the first alarm. Now then paste that 
 in your hat." 
 
 Mr. Northrup wrinkled his lean face into the 
 semblance of a smile. 
 
 " Fact is," he said, sinking his voice to a 
 whisper, " you've got yourself into a devilish fix, 
 young fellow. I'd a leetle rather your father had 
 gone elsewhere for counsel. But, seeing your 
 family has been resident in our town for a con- 
 siderable while, and you yourself bear a good 
 general reputation, Calvin S. Northrup has un- 
 dertaken the case. But you'll have to follow his 
 advice to the letter, or he'll drop it." 
 
 Harry's father wiped the perspiration from his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Guess you'd better do as he says, Harry," he 
 said huskily. " Mr. Calvin S. Northrup ought to 
 know what's " 
 
 " Calvin S. Northrup does know! " exploded 
 the lawyer, expanding his narrow chest. " My 
 experience as a criminal lawyer stands behind 
 every word I have said. . . . Let me tell you: 
 last year I was sent for from Boston to defend
 
 3i8 NEIGHBORS 
 
 a young man accused of murder in the first de- 
 gree. I advised him, as I have advised you. . . . 
 Did he profit by it? No! " 
 
 "Did you get him off, sir?" inquired Mr. 
 Schwartz, after a heavy pause. 
 
 Mr. Northrup eyed his client with a frown. 
 
 " The accused was as guilty as hell," he stated. 
 " I saw it the minute I laid eyes on him. It 
 stuck out all over him; and he would talk about 
 himself. Couldn't stop him. . .. . Executed last 
 week. Not my fault." 
 
 Mr. Northrup glanced sidewise at Harry, as 
 if to note the effect of his words. 
 
 " Now maybe you'll watch your step," he added 
 jocularly. u Of course that alias of yours is a 
 bad bit of evidence, and I'm afraid we can't dis- 
 prove it: name on company's blanks in your own 
 handwriting: employment clerk ready to swear 
 it was signed in his presence. . . . Clerk might 
 be proved insane; though I shall, if forced to it, 
 prove you insane. . . . Insanity in the family, 
 and that sort of thing. Mind you don't deny it, 
 either of you." 
 
 Harry's face reddened. 
 
 " See here ! " he said thickly, " you've got an- 
 other guess coming about me. I didn't blow up 
 the plant; but I did sign under the name of Le 
 Noir. I did it because they weren't taking on
 
 NEIGHBORS 319 
 
 Germans. I'm an American, but I've got a Ger- 
 man name. . . . You may as well give up my 
 case right now. I shan't try to lie out of any- 
 thing I've done." 
 
 " Harry," said Mr. Schwartz in a broken voice, 
 " you ought to be thinking of your poor mother. 
 She she's sick, Harry. I didn't tell you before, 
 but " 
 
 The young man turned violently upon his 
 father. 
 
 "You you think I did it?" he cried in a 
 shocked voice. 
 
 " Come, come, my lad, don't get excited," ex- 
 horted Mr. Northrup. " We'll do the best we can 
 for you, depend upon it. But we're going to leave 
 you to think it over; yes, to er reconsider. 
 You're no fool, I can see that. . . . Now, Mr. 
 Schwartz, we've plenty to do. Nothing to be 
 gained by further talk with the accused." 
 
 Harry did not look at his father, as the two 
 men turned to go out. . . . The key grated in the 
 lock. It seemed to be grating in his soul. He 
 realized now that half unconsciously he had been 
 waiting for his father's strong interference: of 
 course everybody would know he was innocent of 
 the monstrous charge against him. He would go 
 home to his Sunday dinner, somewhat soiled with 
 the disgrace of his night in jail, somewhat sheep-
 
 320 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ish under the curious eyes of the neighbors, but 
 ready to laugh ruefully over the unhappy blunder 
 of the local police. The lump in his throat hurt 
 him cruelly as he thought of his mother. He 
 wondered dully if she had found his pay envelope, 
 marked with the name Le Noir. Why hadn't he 
 told her all about it? 
 
 The town clock struck twelve, after a dreary 
 hour spent in pacing up and down the narrow 
 limits of his cell. The jailer brought him his din- 
 ner on a battered tin plate. Somebody it might 
 have been another prisoner tossed in a news- 
 paper. It contained an account of the explosion. 
 Harry saw a villainous picture of himself under 
 big head-lines : " German plot unearthed ! Chief 
 conspirator working in Merks Plant under as- 
 sumed name! Other arrests may follow! " 
 
 He forced himself to read the page, while the 
 Sunday dinner on the battered tin plate developed 
 rims of solidified grease about its slabs of meat 
 and dingy mounds of vegetables. Harry drank a 
 cup of muddy coffee, and read on. He saw him- 
 self described as a big, hulking fellow, with a sin- 
 ister eye. . . . He had been for some time in the 
 pay of the German government; his expenditures 
 proved it. ... Short work would doubtless be 
 made of the Schwartz case, there being not a 
 shadow of doubt of the guilt of the accused.
 
 NEIGHBORS 321 
 
 The keeper looked at Harry with a sort of 
 respect, when he came to take away the untasted 
 dinner. 
 
 " Some job fer a young feller like you," he ob- 
 served. " But o' course you didn't do it b' your 
 lonesome. I'd peach on m' pals higher up, if I 
 was you." 
 
 " I didn't do it," said Harry wearily. 
 
 " No ? . . . Nice pictur' they got o' you in th' 
 paper. . . . Say, I guess you'll find your appetite 
 b' t'morrow. Better eat while you c'n git real 
 victuals : they won't treat you s' well up state." 
 
 When Harry failed to respond to this playful 
 allusion to his undoubted fate, the friendly official 
 chuckled. 
 
 ; ' Take it from me, you innercent guys wins th' 
 bun! Say, you got a real baby stare, ain't you? 
 . . . But don't you try no hunger strike 
 on yours truly. I got your number all right, 
 young feller ! " 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Miss 
 Malvina Bennett called. Harry had abandoned 
 his introspective studies and was gazing out of the 
 window at the procession of Sunday pedestrians. 
 He had ceased to notice their upward glances at 
 his window. It seemed a long time since he had 
 talked with his father and Mr. Northrup. . . . 
 Of course everybody had read the papers. . . .,
 
 322 NEIGHBORS 
 
 He turned a lack-luster eye upon Miss Bennett, as 
 she hesitated before his door. 
 
 " Sweetheart t' see you," announced his jailer 
 facetiously. " I ain't a-going t' look." 
 
 " You go 'long, Ed Lucas ! " Miss Bennett ex- 
 horted him. " I ain't seen an awful sight o' you 
 sence you ust t' steal apples offen my sweeting 
 tree. I guess you was about th' meanest boy in 
 town in them days, an' you ain't changed much, 
 'xcept ycr whiskers." 
 
 Upon the retreat of the discomfited official Miss 
 Malvina went up to Harry and laid her hands 
 upon his shoulders. 
 
 " I ain't a-goin' t' pity you none," she said 
 briskly. " Ef the's anythin' I hate on top th' 
 ground it's the pison sentiment folks call sympa- 
 thy; but I will say this: I believe in you right 
 down t' the ground, Harry. You may 'ave made 
 a mistake mos' folks do, one time er another. 
 But I know you're all right. Ma Bennett thinks 
 th' same as me, an' so does Mad'lane Dassay an' 
 her pa." 
 
 Harry's unhappy face brightened. 
 
 " Does she ? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 " Meanin' Ma Bennett, o' course," chuckled 
 Miss Malvina. "Now you jes' set down; 'n' 
 you 'n' me '11 take counsel t'gether, es it says in 
 th' Psa'ms. But first off, ain't you hungry? I'll
 
 NEIGHBORS 323 
 
 bet Mis' Lucas can't cook a decent meal o' victuals 
 t' save her life. When th' two of 'em got ap- 
 p'inted t' this 'ere jail I says t' Ma, ' Malefactors,' 
 I says, ' '11 git all 'at's comin' t' 'em jes' from 
 eatin' 'Liza Jane Lucases cookinV Anyhow, I 
 brought you some ham sandwiches an' a lemon 
 pie an' some o' Mad'lane's gaiters. She brought 
 'em over t' me this mornin' a-purpose. But when 
 I come in an' asked fer you I hed t' laugh. ' What 
 you got in your basket, Miss Malvina ? ' says Ed 
 Lucas, kind of important. ' We hev t' be keer- 
 ful,' says he, ' what goes in t' desprit criminals.' 
 ' Well, Ed,' I says t' him, ' I guess you done well 
 t' take up your res'dunce in jail on your own hook. 
 It's where you b'long,' I says. ' Es f'r desprit 
 criminals,' I says, ' I ain't got no dealin's with 
 'em. I've come t' see Harry Schwartz, an' I 
 brought him somethin' fit t' eat, knowin' full well 
 he wouldn't git no relishin' victuals here.' With 
 that I opens up my basket 'n' showed him this 
 'ere pie. Land! You c'd fairly see Ed's mouth 
 waterin'. . . . That's right! jes' you pitch int' 
 them sandwiches. Y' don't want t' git all run 
 down an' tuckered out. I tell you, you got t' keep 
 a stiff upper lip. It's a-goin' t' come out all 
 right." 
 
 Miss Malvina beamed upon Harry like sun 
 upon the frozen ground. In the generous warmth
 
 324 NEIGHBORS 
 
 of her friendly presence he swallowed the aching 
 lump in his throat and ate the sandwiches to the 
 last crumb, and likewise the pie, with its deli- 
 cately fragrant lemon filling. 
 
 " That tastes like mother's pie," he said 
 wistfully. 
 
 " 'Tis," confirmed Miss Malvina. " I went in 
 t' see your Ma. I heerd she was jes' prostrate. 
 An' 'twas 'n' awful shock havin' her boy took off 
 th' way they done. . . . Th' wa'n't a mite of ex- 
 cuse f'r it, neither. 'Twas them measly Boston 
 d'tectives 'n' th' local p'lice. They feel kind o' 
 cheap ef they can't arrest somebody. Most any- 
 body '11 do, so l s they git their names in print. 
 . . . R'minds me of an old dog we ust t' hev' 
 at home : he'd chase a squirrel till he was all beat 
 out; then he'd fetch a stick t' Pa 'n' lay it down 
 afront o' him, tail a-waggin' s' much 's t' say, 
 'Ain't I some dog?' . . . Your Ma 's feelin' 
 better. But I says t' her, * Fer pity sake, don't 
 go over there, 'n' cry over Harry. It'd take th' 
 tuck all out of 'im,' I says. So she's a-goin' t' 
 brace up, same's I told her; an' I guess you'll 
 see her b' t'morrow. . . . Eat a gaiter, do! 
 Mad'lane '11 be awful pleased when I tell her." 
 
 ' 4 They are too pretty to eat," protested Harry, 
 sighing over the delicate scalloped cakes. " I 
 suppose she she must be : "
 
 NEIGHBORS 325 
 
 " She says it's all her fault," interrupted Miss 
 Bennett. "She give you that, name in th' be- 
 ginnin' fer a kind of a joke on her pa. . . . 'N' 
 I can tell you, I give him a real good goin' over 
 this mornin' : ' Ef you'd asked me,' I says t' him, 
 4 1 c'd a-told you first off 'at Harry Schwartz was 
 about th' nicest boy in this 'ere town. . . . An' 
 th' simple idee o' tryin' t' keep a sweet posy of 
 a girl like Mad'lane from havin' beaux. Why,' 
 I says, ' you might 's well try t' keep th' summer 
 from comin' right along after June first. 'Tain't 
 natur',' I says t' 'im. . . . He's a reel nice man, 
 
 even ef he is fur'n, an' 's fer Mad'lane 
 
 Well ! ef she ain't peaches 'n' cream I don' know 
 who is." 
 
 " She'll never look at me again," sighed Harry. 
 
 11 You c'n jes' bet she will. Mad'lane's got 
 plenty o' grit 'n' gumption, an' she c'n see 
 through a hole in th' wall, even ef th' p'lice is 
 blinder 'n bats. Now you jes' chirk right up, 
 Harry. The Lord ain't forgot you, 'n' we ain't, 
 neither." 
 
 Miss Malvina fumbled in her pocket, which 
 for greater safety was hung amid the folds of 
 her petticoat. 
 
 "Land! I hope I ain't mislaid it . . . " she 
 murmured. " No : here 'tis. It's a note from 
 Mad'lane. Thinks I, I won't mention it first
 
 326 NEIGHBORS 
 
 off, f'r fear you wouldn't relish y'r victuals 
 thinkin' about it. Mebbe it '11 pass th' time away, 
 studyin' it out. . . . She'd a-come right along 
 with me; but her pa wa'n't willin', V I don' 
 know 's I blame 'im none. You wouldn't want 
 Ed Lucas a-gawpin' at her." 
 
 Harry's big brown hand trembled as he reached 
 for the small envelope bearing his name. 
 
 Miss Malvina picked up her basket. 
 
 " Now, don't you git down-hearted," was her 
 final exhortation. " Ef th's anythin' in holdin' 
 th' thought, like Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone her 
 'twas Philura Rice says, you'll be out o' here 
 b'fore you know it. Ev'rybody 'at c'n wag a jaw 
 is prayin' fer you t' beat th' cars. . . . Now, Ed 
 Lucas, I'm a-goin'. . . . I c'n see 'at you feel all 
 swelled up with pride t' be lockin' 'n' unlockin' 
 your fellow-creeters, like they was circus animals. 
 But you want t' r'member pride goes b'fore a 
 fall an' not s' fur ahead of it, neither." 
 
 Harry did not hear the objectionable sound of 
 the key in the lock on this occasion: he was read- 
 ing Madeleine's letter in the light from his barred 
 window. It was worth going to jail for that 
 letter! Harry read it, then folded it carefully 
 and bestowed it in the breast pocket of his coat, 
 where it appeared to diffuse a roseate glow 
 through his entire being. But it must needs be
 
 NEIGHBORS 327 
 
 read again and yet again, while quite unnoticed 
 the town clock struck four, and after an insig- 
 nificant period five. And yet Madeleine had only 
 written this: 
 
 " Mon ami, I have grate mad to myself parce- 
 que you suffaire. Me I have weep some tear 
 from a past time when I see you. I explain all 
 to mon pere. He say to me, ' Madeleine, you are 
 more simple comme une enfant: I translate for 
 you to say I know nossing no more an bebe. I am 
 mos' triste all times, spedalement when I cause to 
 bake les petit gateaux aux raisins de Corinthe 
 you translate by eat wis teeth les gateaux, which 
 I sen you by very good neighbor, Miss Malvina. 
 Fonnie word neighbor. I look for him in dic- 
 tionnaire. All times I study my dictionnaire very 
 severe, all word astonishing like wife, I achieve 
 more queek zan scat. Beyond, I am also arduous 
 to my grammaire Anglaise, an' meditate such 
 verbe like I love you you love me we one 
 another love. Some elegant nice verbe. I have 
 now to desist from write. I make to come to 
 you mos respectful regard very much friendly. 
 Adieu, 
 
 11 MADELEINE." 
 
 Grandfather Schwartz, a package of choice 
 Frankfurter sausages and pretzels under his arm, 
 was obliged to announce his presence with more 
 than his usual explosiveness before the prisoner 
 turned from his window, where he appeared
 
 328 NEIGHBORS 
 
 deeply engrossed with an insignificant scrap of 
 paper. 
 
 " Hello, grandfather," said Harry, almost 
 cheerfully. 
 
 " Wie geht's, son," responded the old man, 
 with a cautious glance into the corridor. " How 
 you vas heh? " 
 
 Harry carefully bestowed the letter in the left- 
 hand breast pocket of his coat. 
 
 ** I guess I'm all right, grandfather," he replied, 
 with a notable access of gloom, " as right as I 
 can be in this hole." 
 
 " Ach ! too pad," growled the old man, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 He sat down heavily on the bench. 
 
 " A pad pizniz," he muttered. " Hr-rumph ! " 
 
 After a longish pause, during which he gazed 
 at Harry with an odd grimace, he added: 
 
 " I see your vater, son. He tell me." 
 
 Harry stared at the floor. 
 
 " I guess they'll find out they're mistaken be- 
 fore long," he offered miserably. 
 
 'You pet! " agreed his grandfather, with un- 
 looked for buoyancy. " Zo I myself find; I vas 
 wrong mit you, Heinrich. You are goot poy." 
 
 He pulled Harry down to a seat beside him on 
 the bench. 
 
 " Ach, let me look at you, Heinrich ! "
 
 NEIGHBORS 329 
 
 Harry submitted to his grandfather's arm 
 about his shoulders. 
 
 " I I'm glad if you aren't ashamed of me, 
 grandfather," he murmured. " Father said I 
 I thought he didn't seem to understand." 
 
 "Ach! he mage me sick: he haf no V 'er- 
 st andniss my son Heinrich." 
 
 The old man stooped his booming whisper to 
 Harry's ear. 
 
 " You vill not go to prison, son! Nem! You 
 haf learn much to me addentive heh? Goot 
 poy!" 
 
 Harry stared at his grandfather, a doubt of 
 his complete sanity crossing his mind. His 
 mother had succumbed under the shock of his 
 arrest, and now, too evidently, the old man had 
 been crazed by it. He must attempt to divert 
 his attention. 
 
 "Have you seen mother today?" he asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 Old Heinrich shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Ya" he drawled, and shook his head. 
 " She is unzurechnungsfachig." 
 
 Harry was silent. He was not quite sure 
 what unzurechnungsfachig meant. 
 
 " Not a Mutter for a Deutsch Helden. You 
 vill see, son, vat I do. I pet you from our 
 Kaiser obdain eiserne Kreuz: you know vat I
 
 330 NEIGHBORS 
 
 mean? . . . Neln? Ach! you are von pig fool, 
 Hemrich, you no speak Deutsch. Veil, I learn 
 you von vort: eis ernes Kreuz vat you call iron 
 cross so? You mage von pig victory for your 
 vaterland, Heinrich." 
 
 Harry was now miserably certain that his 
 grandfather had lost his reason. He wriggled 
 uneasily in the strong grip of the old man's arm 
 about his shoulders. 
 
 " I guess you'd better go home, grandfather," 
 he said remorsefully. " I I hope things will be 
 cleared up by tomorrow. . . . Of course you 
 know I didn't " 
 
 " Sure, Heinrich: no blace to talk. I know I 
 know ! I go avay, an' you see vot I do. ... In 
 Boston we haf friends. I tell vot I know about 
 my prave Enkel, Heinrich Schwartz. You vill 
 see vot happen! " 
 
 Harry stared. The unnatural complacency of 
 his grandfather troubled him. 
 
 " What do you mean? " he asked abruptly. 
 ' Vot I say," nodded the senior Schwartz, 
 clapping his grandson resoundingly on the back. 
 
 Harry's face whitened slowly. He was begin- 
 ning at last to get the drift of the conversation. 
 
 " Do you mean you think you believe I did 
 it?" he shouted. "For God's sake, grandfa* 
 ther!"
 
 NEIGHBORS 331 
 
 The old man stiffened into a rigid military 
 attitude. 
 
 4 You haf gain pig victory for Germany 
 nicht wahrf " he asked in a hoarse whisper. 
 "You blow up der vicked factory heh?" 
 
 The big veins swelled on Harry's forehead. 
 He clenched his brown hands. But when at last 
 he answered the proud old man, who had never 
 forgotten the land of his birth, his voice was 
 gentle. 
 
 " Grandfather," he said slowly, " I am an 
 American. . . . You don't know what it means to 
 be an American. But try to think, grandfather. 
 I couldn't commit a crime which might have mur- 
 dered hundreds of people. ... I couldn't ! " 
 
 His head drooped, as he perceived the fierce 
 question which leaped to his grandfather's eyes. 
 
 " I ought never to have worked in the accursed 
 place," he murmured humbly. " It was for 
 money I did it." 
 
 ' Yaf " growled the old man, "for money you 
 did it! Ach ! You are an American, an' I t'ink 
 you are a hero! " 
 
 Without another look at the boy who bore his 
 name, old Schwartz went heavily away. . . . 
 Harry heard the key turn in the lock.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 "T 'M awfully proud of you, Hoddy dear," de- 
 clared Mrs. Hobbs, as she set a platter 
 containing three lamb-chops, fried after 
 the American fashion, before her son. 
 
 " You've nothing to be proud of, mother," her 
 son said gloomily. 
 
 " If you ain't dyed-in-the-wool British, clear 
 to the backbone, Hoddy!" complained Mrs. 
 Hobbs. " You'd ought to remember you're half- 
 American." 
 
 He narrowed his eyes at the rapidly cooling 
 chops. 
 
 "Why don't you eat your dinner, Hoddy?" 
 inquired his mother, returning to the table after 
 a trip to the gas-range with a dish of potatoes, 
 also fried and exuding grease. " My ! if you 
 c'd hear my customers talk about you ! " 
 
 " Damned glad I can't! . . . Don't listen to 
 'em, mother; and for God's sake, don't brag 
 about me ! I can't stand it." 
 
 " I don't see why you should be so cross about 
 it, Hoddy," soothed his mother, setting a glass of 
 jelly in convenient proximity to her son's plate. 
 t.- . . " Try some of this nice rhubarb jell. Miss 
 
 332
 
 NEIGHBORS 333 
 
 Sadie Scrimger brought it over a-purpose for 
 you. She's a real pretty girl, Hoddy; and she 
 says everybody in town is talking about your 
 brave acts at the explosion. I shouldn't wonder 
 if you had a medal presented for saving life." 
 
 He choked wordlessly over a fragment of 
 bread, which he was in the act of swallowing. 
 His face was crimson as he set down his glass of 
 water. 
 
 ' They're talking about a Carnegie medal," 
 pursued Mrs. Hobbs complacently. " And Mrs. 
 Obed Salter says her husband was at the town- 
 meeting last night, and your name was brought 
 
 up prominently For goodness sake ! Hoddy, 
 
 what is the matter? " 
 
 Her son had pushed back his chair from his 
 untasted meal. 
 
 " Don't you like your chops cooked that 
 way?" inquired his mother solicitously. "Your 
 father always said I couldn't cook a chop decent. 
 . . . He had his notions, an' I guess you got 
 yours, Hoddy. . . . Sometimes I almost wish I'd 
 married an American: British ideas is so odd. 
 . . . But when I think of that young man, shut 
 up in jail for blowing up the plant, an' of the 
 disgrace an' all his poor mother has to stand, I 
 ca/i't help feeling proud of my boy, an' glad he 
 ain't got German blood, I should think you'd
 
 334 NEIGHBORS 
 
 feel real happy over it, Hoddy, instead of being 
 so down in the mouth you can't eat your victuals. 
 . . . Don't go 'yet: I got a nice apple pie for 
 dessert. One of my customers brought it in when 
 she came for her fitting. She thinks you're just 
 great, Hoddy ! " 
 
 He turned from the door, his hat jammed over 
 his eyes. 
 
 u I'm going out," he said abruptly. " Don't 
 wait supper for me, mother." 
 
 But when he reached the street he paused un- 
 certainly, not observing the eager approach of 
 a lady attired in black and white checks, her hat 
 poised at a coquettish angle over one eye. It 
 was Miss Electa Pratt, and she literally pounced 
 upon the unobservant young man. 
 
 " Oh, M /j-ter Hobbs, I'm so glad I have an 
 opportunity of congratulating you in person!" 
 italicized Miss Pratt. " It was so awfully noble 
 of you ! I'm sure not many young men would 
 do anything so gr-rand, risking your life and all. 
 As I was telling aunty perhaps you didn't 
 know, but since dear mamma passed away I have 
 the sweetest aunty in the world chaperoning me 
 ' That noble Mr. Hobbs,' I says to Aunty Em, 
 ' ought t' have a laurel wreath. An' I've a good 
 mind to make one for him myself. It would be 
 awfully becoming, don't y' know?,'
 
 NEIGHBORS 335 
 
 And Miss Electa giggled coyly, with the con- 
 viction that she had said something peculiarly 
 English. 
 
 Kitchener Hobbs regarded the disturber of his 
 solitude with stern self-control. 
 
 " Madam," said he, with a frowning dignity 
 which Miss Electa later described as " perfectly 
 fascinating, don't y' know?" "I beg that you 
 will do nothing of the sort. I am not entitled 
 to a laurel wreath, nor to your distinguished 
 praise." 
 
 With that he whipped off his hat and strode 
 away, before the lady could devise a valid excuse 
 for detaining him. 
 
 He had definitely made up his mind where he 
 was going. And he marched toward his ob- 
 jective point with all the courage needed to face 
 a storm of shrapnel. It was Horatio Herbert 
 Kitchener, with a very small admixture of Hobbs, 
 who presently met Madeleine Desaye walking 
 slowly along, all the sweet color gone from her 
 face, her slight figure sagging like a slim birch 
 tree under the bitter assault of the north wind. 
 
 Kitchener Hobbs halted her with a peremptory 
 gesture. 
 
 ' Where are you going?" he demanded. 
 ' 'Ome," she replied; but the word was an 
 irrepressible sob.
 
 336 NEIGHBORS 
 
 ; ' What is the matter with you? " was his suc- 
 ceeding inquiry. But he thought he knew. 
 
 She was mute before his searching gaze. 
 
 ' You know I love you," he said sternly. 
 
 She looked up, her eyes unnaturally big and 
 dark. 
 
 " I'm reminding you of this because I need 
 some sort of excuse though of course there isn't 
 any." 
 
 He paused to kick a pebble out of his path. 
 
 " Me I love 'Arry," she quavered piteously. 
 44 You know 'Arry " 
 
 She choked, a slender hand at her throat. " I 
 call heem Le Noir jus' for fonnie. 'Arry 'e like 
 zat name Le Noir; mais I 'ave now large tristesse 
 to myself because I make zat fonnie." 
 
 He was gazing at her, his gray eyes full of the 
 sadness she had confessed. 
 
 " Madeleine," he said slowly, " after today 
 you will never see me again. . . . But before I 
 go " 
 
 He stopped short, further utterance suddenly 
 impossible. Rain began to fall from the low- 
 hanging clouds. 
 
 " I mustn't keep you standing here," he said 
 hurriedly. " I I'm rather a rotten sort of 
 bounder what I called Schwartz that night and 
 * and afterward. But I'm sorry in time. I'm'
 
 NEIGHBORS 337 
 
 going there now to the inquiry, I mean. . . . 
 Do you understand me? I'm afraid I can't 
 speak decent French today." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " All person spik like pretty-kettle-o'-fish. 
 Ev'ryboddie mad to 'Arry." 
 
 " Have you been there at the hearing? " 
 
 " Non, m'sieu', Mees Malvina, she say so. I 
 am wait at cornaire me." 
 
 " You should have told them how he got his 
 name Le Noir." 
 
 " My fa'ter 'e not permit; 'e say to me, 'Go 
 'ome, Madeleine, immediatement' Me I am 
 make queek track." 
 
 The cold drops on her cheeks reproached him 
 poignantly. 
 
 " See here,"' he said in a firm voice; "perhaps 
 I have no right to be taking things into my own 
 hands. But we've got to put up a stiff fight to 
 save him, now. they're all against him, and the 
 police have worked out a bloody chain of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence. Come on ! " 
 
 " To 'imf " she. breathed, a faint color staining 
 her cheeks. . . . 
 
 The preliminary hearing, necessary to a formal 
 indictment of Heinrich Schwartz, accused of wil- 
 fully causing the destruction of the Merks Muni-
 
 338 NEIGHBORS 
 
 tions Plant, was drawing to a close. The evidence 
 against the accused had been strong, his defense 
 weak. He had obtained employment under the 
 alias, Le Noir, for the express purpose of con- 
 cealing his German name. This much the pris- 
 oner had confessed. But so far, after the most 
 rigid examination, continued throughout one en- 
 tire night, the accused had stubbornly refused to 
 divulge the names of his associates in crime. 
 There was little doubt that the Government de- 
 tectives would, during the course of the trial, 
 succeed in unearthing a sinister, far-reaching plot, 
 which would involve persons of the highest stand- 
 ing. The prisoner Schwartz, it was plain, was 
 merely a tool in an august hand. This much the 
 reporters had added to copious reports of the 
 proceedings, to be hastily licked into shape for 
 the evening papers, when two persons entered the 
 crowded court-room. 
 
 The magistrate, a local official rather dazed 
 by the spot-light of publicity thus suddenly focused 
 upon him, was about to pronounce the words 
 which would condemn the prisoner to the long 
 torture of a trial by jury, with no uncertain out- 
 come. It was evident that the magistrate had 
 no doubt of the prisoner's guilt. 
 
 Calvin S. Northrup, counsel for the accused, 
 kept his own private convictions well hidden under
 
 NEIGHBORS 339 
 
 a mask of frowning silence. He had made up 
 his mind to prove his client insane. Having thus 
 determined, Mr. Northrup rather resented the in- 
 trusion of fresh evidence, insisted upon by the 
 two persons before mentioned when they had 
 forced their way through the crowd. 
 
 The bunched reporters simultaneously noted 
 the beauty of the girl and the stern good looks 
 of the young man who accompanied her. The 
 associated press photographer slipped a fresh 
 plate into position, while the usual legal pre- 
 liminaries were in progress. . . . The girl was 
 permitted to testify first. 
 
 " Oui, m'sieu', I am acquaint wiz 'Arry Sch- 
 wartz. . . . Oh, for long time. I call heem Le 
 Noir w'en to my fat'er I present heem. Me 
 I make of Sch-wartz one French name you un'er- 
 stan' non? My fat'er 'e ha-ate all such oglie 
 German name as Sch-wartz vary oglie, you see? 
 Me I like 'Arry; so easy-as-roll-from-log I 
 queek translate: Sch-wartz very dark, w'at you 
 call black, like night Le Noir. You see ? . . . 
 Oui, m'sieu' : 'Arry 'e like zat nize French name 
 bettaire zan Sch-wartz. I give heem zat name; 
 'e like eet. . . . Non, m'sieu', I not tell my fat'er 
 such fonnie joke not for long time. My fat'er, 
 'e ees vary mad to German: we are of Alsace,
 
 340 NEIGHBORS 
 
 Informed that the accused had already con- 
 fessed to adopting the name Le Noir in order to 
 obtain employment at the Merks plant, Mile. 
 Desaye blushed very sweetly. 
 
 " Me I am aware," she said. " 'Arry 'e like 
 to earn monnie to make 'ouse. . . . You know 
 w'at ees to make 'ouse for marry? " 
 
 The reporters were writing like mad. Even 
 the solemnly important magistrate smiled. He 
 had once built a house for his bride. His next 
 question brought the quick blood to the prisoner's 
 face; but Madeleine answered it with sweet 
 composure. 
 
 " Out, m'sieu', 'Arry, 'e like to marry me 
 myself. I ex-plain to you : 'Arry 'e call heemself 
 Le Noir to earn queek simoleon for 'ome. Fine 
 elegant word 'ome. Me I like to live in some 
 nize 'ome of 'Arry." 
 
 Her glance at the prisoner was the merest 
 flicker of long lashes, but it carried with it the 
 sweetest assurance. 
 
 The associated press artist was recording im- 
 pressionistic sketches as fast as his nimble pencil 
 could work : " featuring " Madeleine Desaye as 
 she gave her " deliciously quaint testimony," which 
 entirely exonerated the accused from inventing the 
 French alias for some " sinister purpose "; of the 
 beautiful French girl taking her seat beside the
 
 NEIGHBORS 341 
 
 weeping mother of the prisoner; of the piquant 
 profile of the witness with its delicately tip-tilted 
 nose and the bewitching curve of lips and chin. 
 He paused only for a deliberately appraising look 
 at the young Englishman who succeeded Mile. 
 Desaye upon the stand. 
 
 " Some name ! " murmured the nearest re- 
 porter, as he inscribed the hieroglyphs represent- 
 ing " Horatio Herbert Kitchener Hobbs " upon 
 his pad. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs told his story baldly. 
 
 " I saw the accident," he stated. " A girl in 
 the filling shed dropped a wire hairpin as she left 
 the place. It somehow landed on the belt of the 
 motor-driven shaft. There was a spark. It 
 caused the explosion. . . . Schwartz wasn't near 
 the place. I saw him in the yard fifty feet or 
 more away two minutes before the explosion. 
 He is innocent." 
 
 When asked why he had not come forward 
 with this important bit of testimony before, 
 Hobbs bit his lip and turned noticeably pale. 
 
 " I see no reason why you should ask that 
 question," he said stiffly. " I was not called as a 
 witness. . . . What I have told you is God s 
 truth; what more do you want? " 
 
 After all, the magistrate was human. So were 
 the lawyers and the reporters and the rest in-
 
 342 NEIGHBORS 
 
 eluding the artist. There was a rigid cross- 
 examination, of course, on the part of the prose- 
 cution, establishing certain technical points. But 
 in the end the testimony of Horatio Herbert 
 Kitchener Hobbs stood. 
 
 As the witness stepped down from the stand, 
 M. Desaye who stood with folded arms looking 
 on at the scene observed that he cast a single 
 quick glance at Madeleine; but he did not at- 
 tempt to speak to her. His face was sternly 
 controlled as he replied monosyllabically to the 
 questions showered upon him by the reporters. 
 There were those who declared that the young 
 Englishman refused to further enlighten the 
 representatives of the press, and that he bolted 
 from the room without so much as a word to 
 the man he had saved. But in the light of later 
 events, the conduct of Kitchener Hobbs earned 
 him not even a nine days' wonder. Being out 
 of sight in those days was tantamount to being 
 swiftly forgotten. And no one in Innisfield 
 except perhaps the station-master at the depar- 
 ture of the evening train ever set eyes upon 
 young Hobbs after he left the court-room. 
 
 It was generally known on the following day 
 that the Hobbses had left town. Nobody ap- 
 peared to know where they had gone. The sign, 
 bearing the words " Madame Louise, Robes "
 
 NEIGHBORS 343 
 
 swung fitfully in the wind for perhaps a week 
 longer. Then one day it was taken down and 
 replaced by another, presenting to the public eye 
 the advantages to be derived from a visit to the 
 skilled chiropodist, one flight up. 
 
 And yet the disappearance of the American 
 Mrs. Hobbs and her son, who was a British sub- 
 ject, was merely a logical sequence of preceding 
 events. Mrs. Hobbs was busily engaged in 
 draping a lay-figure with voluminous folds of 
 mustard-colored voile when her son tramped 
 heavily up the stair. Without a glance at his 
 mother he sat down in a chair by the table, where 
 the neglected dinner still sojourned amid its con- 
 gealed grease. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, Hoddy! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Hobbs, removing a quantity of pins from 
 between her teeth, " you wouldn't eat your dinner 
 when it was nice and hot, and now " 
 
 He turned his head slowly and looked at her. 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs was a commonplace person, with 
 limited powers of insight and imagination, but 
 not even the dullest woman could have gazed 
 upon that tragic young face without a stirring of 
 the emotions. Mrs. Hobbs dropped the mustard- 
 colored stuff, while her scissors, hung by a cord 
 about her neck, clashed noisily against the earth- 
 enware teapot as she leaned across the table.
 
 344 NEIGHBORS 
 
 "Hoddy!" she cried. "What has hap- 
 pened? Are you sick? " 
 
 Then she ran to him and took his comely head 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Hoddy," she whispered, "what is it? Tell 
 mother ! " 
 
 He turned and buried his face on her shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, mother," he groaned, " I'm so bloody 
 miserable ! " 
 
 But she couldn't be made to understand the 
 cause of his unhappiness, even after he had hon- 
 estly tried to tell her everything. 
 
 " Why, Hoddy," she said, " I don't see why 
 you should feel so bad over it. You haven't done 
 anything to be ashamed of. You was a real hero 
 at the fire, Hoddy. Everybody says so. Lots of 
 folks would have been killed if it hadn't 'a' been 
 for you. An' you say they let that Schwartz 
 fellow off, after you went of your own accord and 
 told. I think it was real noble of you." 
 
 The blood rushed to his temples and ham- 
 mered there. 
 
 " You you never can see," he choked. " It 
 must be because you are- " 
 
 He swallowed his wqfds with an effort. 
 
 " But, Hoddy dear, I wish you'd try an' be 
 sensible, for once, an* " 
 
 He fetched a deep breath.
 
 NEIGHBORS 345 
 
 " If you'd ever call me by my name," he mur- 
 mured, despair in his voice. 
 
 She looked at him sharply. 
 
 " You mean you don't like I should call you 
 Hoddy?" she said. "Why, I've always called 
 you Hoddy since you were a baby." 
 
 " My name," he went on unsteadily, " is 
 Horatio Herbert Kitchener, and IVe allowed a 
 man to go to jail because I was jealous. Does 
 that convey anything to your mind? I meant to 
 let him go to prison, or to death anything to 
 get him out of my way! I'm a liar with 
 that name. I'm a coward with that name. 
 I'm a murderer with that name. My God, 
 mother! " 
 
 Mrs. Hobbs sank weakly into a chair and 
 mopped her eyes with a breadth of the mustard- 
 colored stuff. In the silence, broken by his hard, 
 wrenching sobs, she went back over the brief 
 story of his life. ... It seemed to her scarcely 
 more than a year or so since he was a little, little 
 boy, playing with his tops and marbles. . . . He 
 always had such beautiful eyes, and his hair was 
 like silk to the touch. . . . She found herself 
 touching it now, almost timidly. 
 
 " Hoddy," she said, close to his ear, " I I'm 
 going to let you go. I'm not going to hold you 
 back any longer from the war, I mean. . . .
 
 346 NEIGHBORS 
 
 I'll go with you, Hoddy. You can enlist as soon 
 as we get home. ... I guess maybe you'd 
 ought to, after all." 
 
 And having thus made the supreme renuncia- 
 tion, she was equal to what followed. . . .
 
 XXIX 
 
 METIENNE DESAYE sat in his fa- 
 vorite chair by the window in an atti- 
 tude of deep dejection. All about him 
 on the floor scattered newspapers, both French 
 and English, bore witness to the fact that M. 
 Desaye had been spending his Sunday in a char- 
 acteristically American manner. His rumpled 
 hair and the deep pucker between his brows evi- 
 denced the singular dissatisfaction he had de- 
 rived from his survey of the world's doings. The 
 house was very quiet, save for a moaning little 
 wind, which seemed to be seeking entrance about 
 the doors and windows of the shabby old house. 
 . . . He wondered a little as to the whereabouts 
 of his daughter Madeleine. He had not seen her 
 since dejeuner, being dimly aware thereafter of her 
 fresh young voice in the kitchen warbling certain 
 old French chansons he had taught her when a 
 child. Absorbed in a disquieting account of his 
 country's economic condition, he had scarcely 
 lifted his eyes from his reading when she paused 
 for a moment on her way upstairs. . . ,. He had 
 not heard her come down. 
 
 347
 
 348 NEIGHBORS 
 
 M. Desaye arose, spurning the illustrated edi- 
 tion with his foot. For perhaps ten minutes he 
 marched up and down the room, unwonted 
 thoughts stirring in his mind. . . . Where was 
 Madeleine? He would go upstairs and see. But 
 a visit to her nest of a chamber under the eaves 
 revealed nothing save the evidences of a hasty 
 toilet. M. Desaye picked up a knot of rose- 
 colored ribbon exhaling a faint perfume. He 
 sighed deeply. It had not been soberly consid- 
 ered this coming to America. And now he felt 
 that he must return. No longer could he remain 
 enjoying an unearned and inglorious idleness, 
 while France grew pale and cold from uncounted 
 wounds. 
 
 " I am no less than a coward I " he told him- 
 self between clenched teeth. 
 
 But what of Madeleine? Had she been dearer 
 to him than France? Was it because of her he 
 had fled from his duty to this alien land, where 
 even now the distant rumblings of war could 
 be heard? Very gently he put down the rose- 
 colored token of youth. It was as if he had laid 
 Madeleine herself upon the blood-stained altar 
 of his country. He had at length determined 
 upon his course. Neither tears nor pleadings 
 should deflect him from it. . . . 
 
 His brow was still corrugated with care when
 
 NEIGHBORS 349 
 
 half an hour later he presented himself in frock- 
 coated elegance at the door of Mile. Dubois- 
 Bennett. He had come, he said, to seek counsel 
 from madame, sa mere. 
 
 "Now, ain't that too bad!" regretted Miss 
 Malvina, recognizing the importance of the oc- 
 casion, as her eyes perused the person of her 
 neighbor from his polished boots to the tri-color 
 of France in his buttonhole. " Ma don't go out 
 once in a coon's age; but t'day Mis' Adelbert 
 Cummins her t' was M'randy D'boise come 
 after Ma in her auto, 'n' I says t' Ma, ' You go 
 right along,' I says, ' 'n' don't you come back tell 
 you're good 'n' ready.' Mis' Cummins wanted 
 Ma should stay all night, b'cause th' was a third 
 cousin o' hern comin' t' dinner. So here I be, all 
 b' m' lonesome. . . . But come right in, do ! I'd 
 b' pleased t' see you, even ef Ma ain't t' home." 
 
 M. Desaye hesitated for the fraction of a min- 
 ute. It occurred to him that possibly he might 
 be committing an indiscretion in thus visiting the 
 unchaperoned Miss Malvina. But the sight of 
 the glistening silver curls about her temples reas- 
 sured him. He remembered that he was no 
 longer young; neither was Miss Malvina. Much 
 could be overlooked in the conduct of persons no 
 longer young. 
 
 .They were presently seated in the hair-cloth
 
 350 NEIGHBORS 
 
 parlor facing one another from two slippery 
 chairs with carved rosewood backs, designed 
 especially to remind frail mortals of the passage 
 of the moments. M. Desaye gazed earnestly at 
 Miss Malvina. She was wearing a lavender 
 gown with a garniture of yellowish lace. Miss 
 Malvina's cheeks were of an unwonted pink. Her 
 eyes shone under her white curls. 
 
 " Say, first off, I want t' tell you the smart trick 
 Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone's yellow dog played on 
 me yist'day," she began, without waiting for her 
 visitor to unfold his errand. "Might's well 
 speak right out fer I see you can't help noticin' 
 my loss. My nice black hair-front was a-layin' 
 on a cheer, right where I c'd put m' hand on it 
 ef the door-bell rang. I seen Philura 'n' the 
 baby a-comin' in th' gate, th' dog a-followin' 
 'em 's large 's life. But, thinks s'l, Mis' Rev'ren' 
 Pettibone knows my hair 's been gray sence I was 
 twenty; so I left m' front a-layin' keerless. Well, 
 th' baby, he set there on an old comfort I keep 
 a-purpose f'r babies when their mas is bein' fitted 
 a-playin' with a string of empty spools, 'n' Fido, 
 he set solemn 's a jedge a-watchin' th' baby. Mis' 
 Pettibone was tellin' what a wonderful dog Fido 
 Pettibone was ^when she wa'n't r'latin' incidents 
 about th' baby, with me a-listenin' patient, whilst 
 I draped th' goods fer her skirt, like they do in
 
 NEIGHBORS 351 
 
 shur Paree, as Mis' Hobbs ust t' say, when all 
 of a suddent I noticed Fido. He was worryin* 
 somethin' in th' corner an' growlin' fierce, an' th' 
 baby was laughin' t' beat th' band. . . . He'd 
 stole my hair- front! 'N' time we got it away 
 from him th' wa'n't nothin' left but the founda- 
 tion. I felt pretty well cut up over it. 'N' 
 Philura, she said she'd buy me a new one in a 
 nice mejum shade o' brown. But I says 'No; 
 Mr. Pettibone's sal'ry,' I says, ' wa'n't planned 
 for purchasin' lux'ries; 'n' b'sides,' I says, 'Fido 
 didn't know no better.' I guess I told Mis' Petti- 
 bone a fib; but I says t' her I'd made up m' mind 
 t' look old, 'n' be done with it. So here I be ! " 
 
 M. Desaye had listened to Miss Malvina's ex- 
 planation of her bereft condition with an air of 
 profound interest, his occasional well-timed ges- 
 tures and murmured comments sustaining the 
 little lady's narrative to its conclusion. 
 
 " Mes compliments to Fido," he observed 
 gently. " I have to t'ank zat mos' noble animal 
 for deed of kin'ness perform." 
 
 " For th' land sake, do you mean t' tell me 
 you like m' looks better without m' front?" de- 
 manded Miss Malvina excitedly. 
 
 " Pretisement" murmured M. Desaye. " You 
 'ave now ze air gentil autrefois regrettably lack- 
 ing merci, grace a Dieu! "
 
 352 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Well, I d'clare ! " breathed Miss Bennett. 
 11 Ain't I r'lieved t' hear you say that! I s'posed, 
 bein' French, you'd admire most anythin' stylish 
 an' han'some. But ef you don't ' 
 
 Miss Malvina paused uncertainly, the faint 
 color in her cheeks deepening to rose. 
 
 M. Desaye sighed. 
 
 " Dear friend," he said, " I am about to bid 
 you adieu. I 'ave determine ! I 'ave resolve 1 
 No longer I remain in America, supinely attentive 
 to the groans of France. I go, I fly to offer my 
 breast to the sword that seeks her life ! " 
 
 M. Desaye had considered this eloquent ex- 
 planation of his purposes with care, hence its be- 
 wildering effect upon his listener. 
 
 Miss Malvina's late blooming roses withered 
 on the instant. 
 
 " You're a-goin' away? " she quavered. ' You 
 'n' Mad'lane, jes' 's I jes' 's Ma 'n' me was 
 gettin' gettin' ust t' hevin' you fer neighbors?" 
 
 "Noblesse oblige: I can no longaire remain," 
 assented M. Desaye, with an eloquent gesture. 
 " But of Madeleine I would spik. I regret to 
 tear Madeleine from your mos' kin' affection an' 
 ze Discreet curatelle of madame, votre mere. 
 Eet ees of zis I would spik beyond." 
 
 Miss Malvina sighed, her eyes seeking the 
 window where an hour earlier she had watched
 
 NEIGHBORS 353 
 
 Madeleine walking with Harry Schwartz in an 
 almost visible aureole of happiness. 
 
 " I sh'd cert'nly hope not," she agreed warmly, 
 " considerin' Mad'lane's got a stiddy beau 'at 
 can't be beat nowheres in France, t' say nothin' 
 o' Europe. . . . When it comes t' husban's, a 
 good, plain American is good enough fer me. 
 . . . Ef you'll leave her with Ma Bennett 'n' me 
 we'll take keer of her till Harry c'n afford t' git 
 married." 
 
 M. Desaye frowned thoughtfully. 
 
 " Your country also faces war," he said. " But 
 eet will not invade your 'omes, as in France." 
 
 He cast a swiftly appraising glance about the 
 sparsely furnished room, his thoughts, mean- 
 while, sweeping the wider prospect of his past 
 and future. 
 
 " Eet ees improbable I return," he said at 
 length. 
 
 Two large tears welled up in Miss Malvina's 
 eyes, trembled for an instant on her lashes, then 
 without pretense of concealment rolled down her 
 cheeks. M. Desaye observed the phenomenon 
 gravely. It suggested a heretofore unconsidered 
 way out of his dilemma. 
 
 He arose and with careful dignity bowed low 
 before the lady who had thus honored him with 
 her tears.
 
 354 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Sans ceremonie, ma chere arnie, since ze hour 
 eet ees brief, let me ask zat you do me ze grand 
 honneur of becoming before my departure Ma- 
 dame Desaye. Mos' 'appy I leave my Madeleine 
 in your care. . . . You will consent ouif " 
 
 Miss Malvina trembled to her feet. 
 
 " What what You want I should 
 
 I'm afraid I don't " 
 
 " I am reques' zat you 'onor me by marry I 
 regret I 'ave not propaire Englis' to spik an' no 
 dictionnaire in pocket. . . . You un'erstan' me 
 out? " 
 
 " Well, I ain't quite a ninny," said Miss Mal- 
 vina, recovering her self-possession : " you want I 
 should marry you, so 's to look after Mad'lane 
 when you're gone back to France. I guess that's 
 about th' size of it." 
 
 She nodded emphatically. 
 
 "Ah-h! You 'av spik mos' noble! I t'ank 
 you, dear frien', you s'all not eet regret, I 
 promise ! " 
 
 Miss Malvina submitted, as on previous occa- 
 sions, to the touch of bearded lips upon her hand. 
 A wave of rose-colored mist appeared to enfold 
 her. 
 
 M. Desaye was of a sudden radiant, loquacious. 
 Like one in a dream she heard him setting forth 
 his plans for an immediate marriage, with incom-
 
 NEIGHBORS 355 
 
 prehensible details concerning apanage and dot. 
 Also, he apologized profusely for not having 
 asked the honor of her hand in marriage from 
 Madame Dubois-Bennett, as was indeed right and 
 proper. 
 
 Miss Malvina roused herself -at this. 
 
 " I don't know es Ma '11 hev any reel objec- 
 tions t' offer," she said, with dignity. " 'N' I 
 guess mebbe I'm old enough t' speak f'r m'self." 
 
 Then, without warning, a sob escaped her 
 tremulous lips. 
 
 " I wisht I wa'n't s' old," she whispered. " Ef 
 I was only young 'n' V han'some, like 's not 
 
 you But, land! I guess you'll think I'm 
 
 crazy fer thinkin' o' such a thing." 
 
 She wiped her eyes and sealed up her tears 
 with an energetic sniff. 
 
 M. Desaye was looking at her very kindly. If 
 he did not entirely comprehend her thoughts, his 
 Gallic sympathies suggested his quick rejoinder: 
 
 " Helas! " he murmured, " eet ees true we aire 
 no longer possess of la jeunesse; but I fin' you 
 mos' charmante, chere Mees Malvina. For you 
 I s'all ever cheris' la consideration profonde." 
 
 Miss Malvina smiled bravely. 
 
 44 I'll be good t' Mad'lane," she said, " 'n' I 
 hope she won't mind me bein' her stepmother. 
 . . . Course I I c'n see why you thought o'
 
 356 NEIGHBORS 
 
 marryin' me. . . . 'Tain't like we was young 
 folks. ... But I I'd redly like t' stan' up t' 
 be married in a white dress. I c'n keep it put 
 away, afterwards t' look at, V r'member." 
 
 Again M. Desaye's active imagination rose to 
 the occasion. He took Miss Malvina's work- 
 worn little hand in his. 
 
 " Chere amie," said he, " I 'ave not deserve 
 such bonheur. On far-distant battlefield I s'all 
 also remembaire." 
 
 From his finger he drew a ring, fashioned of 
 gold and bearing a heraldic devise of dragons in 
 deadly combat. Miss Malvina's fingers were 
 rough with needle pricks and her joints bore wit- 
 ness to rheumatic pains humbly borne; but the 
 quaint old ring, treasured through many genera- 
 tions, slipped easily into place. 
 
 " For remembaire of mos' happy heure," he 
 said gently.
 
 XXX 
 
 WHEN Ma Bennett, fairly brimming over 
 with details of her visit to Mrs. Adel- 
 bert Cummings, arrived home on the 
 following afternoon, she found her daughter sur- 
 rounded by breadths of shimmering white ma- 
 terial, which she was busily engaged in fashioning 
 into a gown. 
 
 " For th' land sake, Malviny," exclaimed the 
 old lady, " that looks like a weddin'-dress." 
 
 Miss Malvina's needle described a sort of 
 flying arc of basting stitches about a small 
 arm-size. 
 
 " Tis," she said briefly. 
 
 "Who in creation 's goin' t' git married?" 
 inquired Ma. 
 
 " I bet you couldn't guess, ef you was t' try a 
 year," twinkled Miss Malvina. " 'Twas unbe- 
 knownst t' me till yist'day." 
 
 Ma Bennett sat down heavily, her eyes blink- 
 ing behind her far-sighted specs. 
 
 "Is it Sadie Buckthorn?" she inquired. "I 
 heared she's keepin' comp'ny with a young man 
 from Boston." 
 
 357
 
 358 NEIGHBORS 
 
 " Nope," said Miss Ma'lvina, inserting a long 
 seam under the needle of her machine and snap- 
 ping down the presser-foot, " 'tain't anybody 
 you'd ever think, nor me, neither, f'r that mat- 
 ter. I thought I sh'd have a double duck-fit when 
 I heared of it." 
 
 Ma Bennett gazed searchingly at her daughter's 
 face during the deafening whir which marked 
 the passage of the shining white stuff under the 
 busy needle. 
 
 1 You do look kin' of worked up, even yit," 
 she commented. " When's th' weddin' comin' 
 off?" 
 
 " A Wednesday afternoon, at four o'clock, at 
 th' pars'nage," particularized Miss Malvina, 
 smiles rippling over her face like breezes over a 
 wheat-field. ..." My ! I guess most every- 
 body '11 be some s'prised when it gits out a 
 Thursday." 
 
 " Malviny Bennett, who's goin' t' git mar- 
 ried?" demanded Ma, with rising asperity. 
 " You cert'nly kin be th' aggravatin'est person, 
 when you're a min' to." 
 
 " You're invited t' th' ceremony, Ma," offered 
 Miss Malvina, evading the maternal wrath with 
 a demure smile of protest. 
 
 "Me? invited! I don't b'lieve no sech 
 thing."
 
 NEIGHBORS 359 
 
 " True 's preachin' ; 'n' so be I, Ma. I got out 
 your bes' black silk this mornin' early, whilst I 
 was waitin' fer the stores t' open, an' I fixed the 
 waist 'n' put some real han'some lace on the 
 sleeves. You'll look scrum'tious, Ma." 
 
 u What you goin' t' wear, Malviny? " inquired 
 the old lady suspiciously. ..." I'll bet you're 
 jes' foolin', anyhow. I sh'd think you'd ruther 
 hear me tell 'bout Mis' Adelbert Cumminses new 
 parlor furnitur'." 
 
 Miss Malvina canted her curly head to one 
 side, as she gazed earnestly at the inchoate gar- 
 ment in her lap. 
 
 " I got t' hurry so like all possess t' git this 
 'ere dress done b' t'morrow night, I ain't really 
 got time t' dig up any curiosity," she said. " It's 
 a-goin' t' be made up princess, with a trail: I 
 can't abide these 'ere short skirts with a breadth 
 o' goods tacked on the back, like they're wearin' 
 now. This 'ere is goin' t' be a reg'lar weddin'- 
 dress. How d' you like the goods, Ma? Ain't 
 it shiny an' pretty kind o' like my hair, when 
 
 you come t' think of it I guess 'twould be 
 
 right becomin' /' me." 
 
 ;< Well, / guess you've gone plumb crazy, Mal- 
 viny," commented the old lady sternly. . . . " I 
 want a cup o' tea, 'n' I want it good 'n' hot." 
 
 " Teapot's on th' stove, Ma. . . . Say, don't
 
 360 NEIGHBORS 
 
 y' want t' know who's a-goin' t' step off in this 
 'ere dress? " 
 
 " I don't know 's I do," sniffed Ma. " When 
 folks is 's smart an' uppity 's you be, I b'lieve 
 in lettin' 'em alone tell they git good an' 
 ready " 
 
 " It's me, Ma ! " cried Miss Malvina, laughing, 
 but with a mist in her eyes which momentarily ob- 
 scured the glistening bridal web. " I'm a-goin' 
 t' marry our neighbor, Mis-ter Dassay, so 't he 
 c'n go t' th' war over in France 'n' leave Mad'- 
 lane. . . . Y'see I'll be her step-ma, 'n' you'll 
 be her gran'ma; won't that be lovely? " 
 
 " Mal-viny Bennett! " screamed the old lady. 
 "You ain't tellin' me th' gospel truth?" 
 
 " Yes, I be, Ma ! It's jest as true as I'm a-set- 
 tin' in this 'ere cheer, a-sewin' on m' own weddin'- 
 dress. He asked me yist'day, 'n' I says, ' Yes.' 
 Thinks s'l, folks'd ought t' 'commodate their 
 neighbors. . . . Want t' see m' engagement 
 ring?" 
 
 Confronted with this visible token of the im- 
 pending event, Ma Bennett gasped. 
 
 " Ain't you some older 'n he is? " she inquired 
 feebly. 
 
 " I don' know, 'n' I don't keer a cotton hat! " 
 stated Miss Malvina. " The' wa'n't nothin' said 
 about ages But I guess he ain't s' awful
 
 NEIGHBORS 361 
 
 young but what he knows his mind, } n' I ain't, 
 neither. ..." 
 
 The little dressmaker's head drooped low over 
 the buttonhole she was fashioning. 
 
 'Tain't 'tain't, so t' say, a weddin' like mos' 
 folks," she breathed. " He he's a-goin' off th' 
 same day on th' 'leven o'clock train. We're 
 goin' t' hev supper over t' his house. 'N' he 
 wants we sh'd go over there t' live after he's 
 gone. He's bought th' house off Mis' Rev'ren' 
 Pettibone 'n' put it in my name. He says you 
 an' me '11 never hev t' want, Ma. He's got ev'ry- 
 thin' fixed so th' '11 be money comin' in reg'lar, 
 with a dot fer Mad'lane's settin' out, when she 
 comes t' git married, 'n' all. The' ain't nothin' 
 he ain't thought of. An' Mad'lane says she 
 loves me like a mare, a'ready; but that 
 don't mean horse, Ma, though it does 
 sound like it." 
 
 " Where'd you say he's a-goin 1 ," inquired the 
 old lady, " t' Boston?" 
 
 She appeared to have retreated into the dim 
 mists of age, where echoes from the outer world 
 reach the ear faintly. She fumbled with her 
 bonnet strings, her old hands trembling. 
 
 "Land! I'd ought t' 'a' got your hot tea, first 
 off," said her daughter contritely. " Here, you 
 set right down, Ma, 'n' I'll git it ready in two
 
 362 NEIGHBORS 
 
 jerks of a lamb's tail. You're all tuckered out, 
 what with your visit 'n' all. ..." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was attired in her best brocade 
 dress, exhibiting large purple flowers on a black 
 background, though it was only half-past three 
 in the afternoon. It was a handsome dress; Mrs. 
 Pettibone rustled in its ample folds so richly that 
 the baby's wide bright eyes exhibited his pleased 
 surprise. He even refrained from his wonted 
 squeal when his mother invested his small person 
 in a clean white dress, the sleeves of which were 
 a trifle small as compared with his chubby fists. 
 
 " You've got to wear it, precious," cooed Mrs. 
 Pettibone, " because Aunty Bennett made it for 
 you, and you're going to stand up at her wedding. 
 . . . There now, mother's lamb my ! how sweet 
 he is. ... Doesn't it seem a pity, Silas? " 
 
 Mr. Pettibone, engaged in knotting a fresh 
 white tie, glanced at his family with a grave 
 smile. 
 
 " Do you mean that it is a pity the baby is 
 sweet, my dear? " he inquired, 
 
 " Of course not! I was thinking of Malvina." 
 
 " Hm-m." 
 
 " Seeing the baby looking so perfectly darling 
 well, you know, I couldn't help thinking how 
 dreadful to be a widow on one's wedding day.
 
 NEIGHBORS 363 
 
 It amounts to that, of course. If he goes to 
 France and gets killed " 
 
 " It's just possible M. Desaye may survive," 
 suggested the minister. " Some do, you know." 
 
 ' He's going to offer his breast to the German 
 bayonets; Malvina said so; and if a person does 
 that " 
 
 " I believe they're coming, my dear Philura," 
 interposed the minister hastily. " Do try and be 
 your optimistic self. One should hold the 
 thought " 
 
 " Yes, of course ! I'm going to insist that he's 
 coming back safe, some day or other. . . . Silas, 
 do you think we're going to have war in this 
 country? " 
 
 The minister was saved from the pain of avow- 
 ing his convictions on this point by the arrival of 
 the wedding party. And presently they were all 
 gathered in the hushed parlor, which had wit- 
 nessed so many marriages in days past: Miss 
 Malvina, in her snowy splendors; M. Desaye, 
 stern and pale, as he thought of his future; Ma 
 Bennett, dim and ancient as some faded daguer- 
 reotype; Madeleine, tremulous between grief and 
 joy, and Harry Schwartz, awed into almost rigid 
 gravity by the talk he had had with Madeleine's 
 father a few hours since. Mrs. Pettibone, in her 
 rustling brocade, reminiscent of her own wedding,
 
 364 NEIGHBORS 
 
 held her baby close while the solemn words were 
 being spoken, from the " Dearly beloved, we are 
 assembled " to the final sonorous " Amen." 
 
 There followed the strange little silence which 
 seems quite as much a part of the ceremony as 
 the wedding ring; then M. Desaye, looking very 
 tall and elegant in his rather shabby frock coat 
 with the tri-color of France in its buttonhole, 
 bent over his bride and deliberately kissed her on 
 the lips. 
 
 "My wife" he whispered, with all the gen- 
 erous warmth of a nature which could envision the 
 belated and frost-bitten romance she would cher- 
 ish to the end. 
 
 Yet it was not a sad wedding. The bride wore 
 a radiant look which forbade all futile sympathy. 
 
 " He was bound t' go, anyhow," she told Mrs. 
 Pettibone, " 'n' now I got a right t' think of him 
 affectionate, 'n' I c'n talk ev'rythin' over with 
 Mad'lane. Besides, Ma 'n' me's goin' t' live in a 
 nice house, with runnin' water 'n' all, an' we'll 
 hev Mad'lane t' love an' t' cherish." 
 
 Her voice broke a little over the last words, 
 but her smile was all sunshine as she embraced 
 and kissed the girl who wept in her arms. 
 
 " That's right, deary," she soothed her, " jes' 
 you cry it out on mother's shoulder 'n' you'll feel 
 better. , . . An' here 's Harry a-longin' t' com-
 
 NEIGHBORS 365 
 
 fort you, too. Oh, we're a-goin' t' take care o' 
 this little girl; ain't we, Harry?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Malvina," said Harry firmly, " we 
 will!" 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, holding up the baby to be 
 kissed, smiled. 
 
 " We shall all be obliged to remember that 
 our dear Miss Malvina is Madame Desaye, now," 
 she said. 
 
 The bride looked startled. 
 
 " Madame Desaye? " she repeated wonder- 
 ingly. " Well, I d'clare t' goodness that part of 
 it never occurred t' me : I've been so took up with 
 all that's happened, 'n' like that. But here I 
 be, sure's you live Madame Desaye! Well, I 
 guess ! " 
 
 But reflections of a practical sort could wait 
 until tomorrow. Of today her wedding day 
 there yet remained several golden hours, as 
 bright as the shining new ring upon her hand, 
 which M. Desaye had put there to keep the other 
 company. There was the supper, for one thing, 
 cooked and served by Mrs. Louisa Wessells, with 
 divers amendments by Madeleine. To be sure, 
 no one of the party, with the possible exception 
 of Ma Bennett, knew what they were eating. 
 Miss Malvina no longer sat at the head of the 
 table in her shining bridal white, with M. Desaye
 
 366 NEIGHBORS 
 
 opposite; Harry and Madeleine, their hands 
 clasped under the cloth, faced Ma, who was in- 
 forming Mrs. Wessells that the tea was " stun 
 cold." . . . 
 
 " If I wa'n't teetotally flabbergasted," declared 
 Mrs. Wessells, as she described the scene later in 
 the various kitchens of her clientele. " I don' 
 know 's I'd 'a' b'lieved my years, ef anybody'd 
 told me about that dinner. . . . Yes'm, they had 
 wine; but t'was this 'ere kind, made in France, 
 they say don't make folks drunk. It didn't make 
 me drunk, fer I took down 's much a teacup full 
 out in the kitchen afterwards, an' I only broke 
 one veg'table dish 'n' two o' them cass'-rolls, es 
 she calls 'em. I says t' Miss Malvina, ' Ain't 
 you a member of the W. C. T. U.? ' I says, jes' 
 like that. * Hush,' s' she, * it's only fer this once,' 
 s' she * t' drink toast with.' * Toast ! ' I says ; 
 ' I ain't made no toast, 'n' what's more, I ain't 
 a-goin' to; you got more 'n 'nough, 's 'tis,' I says. 
 Well, they kep' it up fer more 'n an hour. . . . 
 I didn't git home till past nine o'clock. She 
 wanted I should wash up all them dishes, 'n' I 
 done it. ... Yes'm, she set there, eatin' her 
 p'rtaters 'n' meat in a white silk dress, all trimmed 
 up with lace an' pearl tossells, an' a big bunch 
 o' white roses layin' alongside on th' table. . . . 
 Yes'm, I sh'd 'a' thought she'd a-wanted t' put
 
 NEIGHBORS 367 
 
 on somethin' plainer t' eat her victuals in; but she 
 didn't. 'N' bimeby I seen her out in the yard 
 with him. . . . Yes'm, she was a-trailin' that 
 there white dress o' hern right down th' front 
 steps. . . . No'm, I didn't ketch what he said to 
 her. But he's gone all right. That fur'n girl o' 
 hisn told me he was goin' t' th' war, when she 
 give me m' two dollars. . . . Yes'm, he left her a 
 grass widder th' same day they was married; 
 but I guess she'll be sod all right, afore th' year's 
 out: he'll either git drownded by one o' them 
 nasty suds-m'reens, they talk about s' much; 
 er else he'll git killed over there. The' ain't s' 
 much t' pick V choose be'twixt 'em, 's I says 
 t' Georgie. . . ." 
 
 But it was not of their uncertain future the 
 newly wedded pair spoke, as they walked arm 
 and arm in the moonlight. That the moon 
 chanced to be at its full was a matter for won- 
 dering happiness to the bride. 
 
 " I always kind o' hankered t' go walkin' in 
 th' moonlight along with a beau," she confided 
 to her companion ; " V here I be a-walkin' out 
 with you." 
 
 His hand sought hers. 
 
 " Of a possibility we s'all again make togezzer 
 ze promenade," he said. " Eet ees of zis you 
 mus' sink."
 
 3 68 NEIGHBORS 
 
 After a pause he added: 
 
 " I 'ave still ze regret profond for Madeleine. 
 My daughter s'ould not marry wiz a German." 
 
 "Who, Harry? Harry ain't a German! 
 Course he ain't! Lots o' times I've heared Mis' 
 Schwartz her 'twas M'lissy Meadowcroft tell 
 about her great-gran' father, Cap'n Meadowcroft. 
 He was English, 'way back in ol' colony days, 
 'n' he married a real Injun princess I forgit her 
 name; so y' see Harry ain't German, no more 'n 
 I be. He's reel American, Harry is, an' he'll take 
 awful good keer of Mad'lane. He's a-goin' t' 
 build a bran' new house, Mis' Schwartz told Ma 
 so." 
 
 M. Desaye shook his head. 
 
 " Not a present" he said. " I 'ave advise 
 heem no for now. Beyond, ze skies in America 
 aire dark wiz war, aussi your country owes to 
 France red blood of patriot." 
 
 He glanced hurriedly at his watch. 
 
 " But of zis, suffisamment. . .. . To you, chere 
 amie, I devote my las' moment. . . . You will 
 be 'appy n' est-ce-pas? All my bes' treasure I 
 am leave wiz you. ..." 
 
 Her upturned face, pale with anticipated grief, 
 seemed the face of youth in the dim moonlight. 
 
 " I'm a-goin' t' miss you somethin' fierce," she 
 confessed. " But but I'm glad I c'n love you
 
 NEIGHBORS 369 
 
 after you're gone. . . . You won't mind 
 'way out there? Course I know why we was 
 married, 'n' all; 'n' I ain't a-goin' t' worry 
 Mad'lane none b' takin' on. ... I'm a-goin 1 t' 
 be reel bright an' cheerful 'n' take good keer of 
 your bes' treasure." 
 
 "Ah-h! You 'ave love me a leetle, n'est-ce- 
 pas?" he wondered. " 'Ow I am 'appy to 'ear 
 zat! In France I remembaire my wife, my 
 child togezzer in my 'eart, toujours." 
 
 Then because her steadfast face quivered be- 
 neath his gaze, he gathered the small white figure 
 in his arms. 
 
 4 Togezzer in my 'eart alway," he mur- 
 mured.
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 To M. Etienne Desaye, 
 
 Somewhere in France: 
 
 " My dear & respected Husband : Your letters 
 to me & Madeleine come this morning. To say 
 we was fairly keeled over with joy is to put it 
 mild. Madeleine has been writing to you in 
 French all morning, but I ain't up to snuff yet. 
 But I'm coming on. Me & Madeleine talk 
 French most all the time, doing up dishes & like 
 that. Even Ma has learned how to ask for the 
 butter, and is her tea biling hot. I will say it 
 makes a nice change to hear it said in a furren 
 language. Well, Husband, you had ought to see 
 how nice we are fixed, now we are all living in 
 our own home together. Madeleine insisted I 
 was to sleep in your room & Ma sleeps in the 
 room over the front hall, being next to me, with 
 Madeleine over the dining-room, as before. 
 Everything is house-cleaned & looking as neat as 
 wax. I was put in mind of the day after you 
 moved in and I come over to help, being a next- 
 door neighbor. I ain't never forgot how you 
 wanted to pay me. I guess I got paid all right, 
 naze-pa ? 
 
 " I grieve to tell you you was dead right about 
 the war. We are a going to have one, & Harry 
 Schwartz has enlisted in the Navy. He says it is 
 
 370
 
 NEIGHBORS 371 
 
 strictly up to him to prove he is an American 
 citizen, after all thats come & gone. Madeleine 
 is real brave & only cries nights, sometimes. 
 Then I go in & cuddle her up, like I was her 
 mother. She is a real little comfort & we love 
 each other dearer every passing day. I see your 
 looks in her constant, more especial your eyes & 
 the cant of the head in talking. 
 
 ' There is one thing I have to tell you which 
 mebbe you wont like so well. But I made up my 
 mind twas best, all things considered. You 
 probly reclect I been sewing most all my life & 
 to set and baste a seam by the window, with an 
 eye to the passing, comes natural to me. Well, 
 Husband, after folks found out I was married I 
 guess most every woman in this town come to see 
 me. They could not seem to realize it, first off. 
 But when I showed off my two rings they was 
 forced to believe. Like as not you will snicker 
 right out when I tell you I felt real mad to have 
 all the folks calling me Miss Malvina, same as 
 before. That ain't my rightful title, I says to 
 Mis Deaconess Buckthorn. I am a married 
 woman, I says to her, full as much as you be, & 
 my name is Madame Desaye. You can ask the 
 Revrend Pettibone, I says, & he will tell you tis 
 gospel truth. Well, Husband, what with the 
 above, & all the women folks pestering the life 
 out of me to make up their spring suits, I give 
 in at last & sent for Henry Pratt to paint me a 
 sign, reading Madame Desaye, Robes. I guess 
 folks will soon learn my rightful name seeing it 
 on the front of the house in gold letters. Made-
 
 372 NEIGHBORS 
 
 leine views all my acts sensible & she ain't a mite 
 of objection to anything I done. I calklate to 
 save all extry cash for Madeleine's dot, as you & 
 her call it. 'Twont do no harm, I says, to leave 
 money a laying in the bank for a spell. I hope 
 you will think I done right, more especial about 
 the sign. It cost me three twenty-five, being war 
 prices. While I set writing this, at the desk in 
 your room up-stairs, I see our Madeleine talking 
 to Harry Schwartz down by the front gate. He 
 expects to join his ship to-morrow, so the poor 
 young things is going through what we did, not 
 so long ago. I found the waist of my wedding 
 dress all spotted up with tears, when I come to 
 lay it away in blue paper to keep it from turning 
 yellow, & right off the bat I put a hansome double 
 cascade of lace on to cover it. It looks full as 
 stylish as before, if not stylisher, but I ain't a 
 going to forget whats in under them lace frills 
 as long as I live. Those spots was true heart 
 tears for one I love more than tongue can tell, 
 like it says in the Bible. I hope this letter finds 
 you in health. 
 
 " Very respectfully, Your affectionate wife, 
 
 Malvina Dubois-Bennett Desaye. 
 " P. S. Some name, Naze-pa? "
 
 A 000 1 1 1 264 8