OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY
 
 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 a 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWIN ASA BIX 
 
 AUTHOR OP "DEACON BRADBURY" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1901
 
 -M-j 
 6 
 
 Copyright, 1901, by 
 EDWIN ASA Dix 
 
 THE DEVINNE PRESS.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 i. U !N THE MIDST OP LIFE" 1 
 
 H. DE MORTUIS 27 
 
 in. A WAITING POLICY . 45 
 
 rv. THE TOILERS 60 
 
 v. IN THE POST-OFFICE 72 
 
 vi. THE FIRE 88 
 
 vn. AFTER-TALK 108 
 
 vm. REVOLUTION 122 
 
 ix. DEPARTURE 145 
 
 x. A NINE DAYS' WONDER 153 
 
 xi. A LOVERS' QUARREL 169 
 
 xii. CRUSOEHOOD 186 
 
 xiii. BEATEN DOWN 201 
 
 xiv. As MAN TO MAN 214 
 
 xv. A NOVEL PROPOSITION 232 
 
 xvi. TREASURE -TROVE 247 
 
 xvn. THE CATASTROPHE 252 
 
 xvin. "A HAPPY ISSUE" . 270
 
 OLD BOWEJVS LEGACY
 
 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 I 
 
 " IN THE MIDST OF LIFE " 
 
 EiWYEK CLARK sat in his office, busily 
 engaged in drawing up memoranda for 
 an abstract of title. It was a bright, breezy 
 day in early May, a month which in Vermont 
 can exhibit both extremes of climate with equal 
 facility, but which, this year, had so far held 
 most laudably to the middle path. The joyous- 
 ness of spring was in the air. The moist ground, 
 giving up the imprisoned frosts of winter, was 
 releasing also the hibernating germs of vegeta 
 ble and floral life. Bits of yellow-green were 
 dotting the fields. The grass in the village 
 grass-plots, as on the hillsides, had taken on 
 fresh and vivid tints. Peeping crocuses and 
 stately little sprays of hyacinth put forth in the 
 sunny garden-patches. A light breeze blew 
 capriciously in from the distant hills, foothills 
 of the Green Mountain range. The day was 
 i i
 
 2 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 one in which you felt the life of spring, yet not 
 its languor. 
 
 The lawyer's office was a cozy little one-room 
 " L," or extension, jutting out from the side of 
 his comfortable brown frame-house. It was 
 reached from the front gate by a short, sepa 
 rate path which struck off at an angle from the 
 main one that led to the front porch. The of 
 fice was raised above the ground-level by three 
 low steps, and there was a tiny portico with 
 two opposing bench-seats, where, in open-air 
 weather, waiting village clients might sit, pend 
 ing the conclusion of some interview within ; 
 for Mr. Clark's legal den consisted of only one 
 apartment, and there was none of the forbidding 
 dignity and pomp of waiting-room and office- 
 boy and an inner office walled off by partition 
 and ground-glass door. There was, indeed, sel 
 dom occasion even for the portico benches, for 
 the local needs for the law's aid were not ex 
 acting. Still Mr. Clark was kept fairly busy, 
 and had always found his legal income large 
 enough for easy living. 
 
 He was turning over and reviewing his thin 
 batch of manila-paper memoranda, throwing 
 back the long legal-cap leaves at the upper end, 
 one by one, as he ran over their contents. 
 
 " An easy search," he reflected with satisfac 
 tion. " I wish all titles were as straightforward 
 as this Bradbury one. Three generations with-
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 3 
 
 out a conveyance, and precious few before that. 
 I 'd 've been willing to guarantee this mortgage 
 without troubling to do the searching. How 
 ever, it 's as well to have it done and ready for 
 the loan when he wants it at the end of the 
 summer." 
 
 The inner door leading from the house opened, 
 and Mrs. Clark, a composed yet alert-faced 
 matron, entered the room. 
 
 " Samuel," she said, " Peter Merritt 's 'round 
 at the back door. Old Mr. Bo wen 's sent him 
 down after you." 
 
 " What for ? " queried the lawyer. 
 
 " He 's down sick, Peter says ; and he wants 
 to see you." 
 
 " Anything serious 1 Why did n't Peter come 
 around here to th' office door?" 
 
 " I don't know how serious it is. Peter seems 
 to think he 's rather bad, but you can't tell much 
 from what Peter Merritt says. He has n't much 
 sense. When he came trapesing 'round to the 
 back door, I had to ask him if he expected to 
 find you helping Lucy with the clothes-lines or 
 doing odd jobs 'round the chicken-house ;" and 
 Mrs. Clark's face broke into an irrepressible 
 smile. 
 
 "Well," said her husband, good-humoredly, 
 as he put away his papers, " he might have, you 
 know. I 'd like to know who keeps those 
 chicken-house laths nailed firm if I don't. Yes,
 
 4 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and I did help to string up some new clothes 
 lines, only week before last." 
 
 He slipped his thin steel-rimmed spectacles 
 into their case, took a sheet or two of legal-cap 
 paper, and stood up. 
 
 " Where 'd you leave Peter 1 " he asked. 
 
 " 'Round at the back. I could n't get him to 
 come here to the office for you. He seemed to 
 have an idea that a lawyer's office was a dread 
 ful place." 
 
 " I suppose it does come to seem so to people, 
 sometimes," mused Mr. Clark, with a little laugh. 
 "No doubt it 's the fault of the lawyers or the 
 law." He reached for his hat. "Well, let 's 
 hunt up Peter and see what he says. Sim 
 Bowen comes of pretty lusty stock, and I don't 
 believe there can be anything serious the matter 
 with him. Let me see : he 's only seventy-four." 
 
 " Seventy-four is old, when you 've lived such 
 a hard and loveless and disappointing and soli 
 tary life as Sim Bowen has," returned his wife, 
 as the lawyer followed her into the house ; and 
 Mrs. Clark's tone was not without the element 
 of divine pity which all true women feel for 
 thwarted or fruitless lives. She went back to 
 her sewing-room, and her husband passed on 
 through the cheery dining-room and the kitchen 
 to the little arbor in the rear, just outside, 
 where awkward Peter Merritt sat, nervously 
 twirling his battered felt hat.
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 5 
 
 "Mornin', squire," said the messenger, rising 
 as the lawyer approached. 
 
 "Morning, Peter. Mrs. Clark says you 've 
 come for me to go up to Mr Bowen's." 
 
 " Yes. He 's pretty bad." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the other, 
 startled. 
 
 " I don' know. P'ralysis, likely. Took earl/ 
 this mornin'." 
 
 "Paralysis? You don't say! Come, let 's 
 get up there at once." They moved out from 
 the lattice arbor and around the house to the 
 front path and through the gate. " Doctor 
 been up ? " went on Mr. Clark, as they quickened 
 their pace along the street. 
 
 "He was jest leavin' when I came down fr 
 you." 
 
 "What did he say about it?" 
 
 "I did n't stay t' hear. Seemed as ef you 
 were th' one th' ol' man wanted t' see, more 'u 
 th' doctor. More 'n th' minister, too, I guess," 
 added Peter, with a vacant chuckle. " Don't 
 b'lieve th' minister 'd know th' way ef he was 
 arst. Th' ol' man ain't troubled ministers much 
 in his day." 
 
 The lawyer knew this well, enough, and re 
 flected on it while he hurried on through the 
 village street with his shambling companion. 
 They turned off into a narrower road which 
 led up a long hill.
 
 6 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Mr. Clark said little more, but his thoughts 
 were busy as they moved on. Among persons 
 knowing or knowing of each other so long and 
 intimately as is the case in a small village like 
 Felton, there is a certain shock attendant upon 
 news of the death or illness of a member of 
 the community, akin to that felt in the case 
 of an own relative. People come to interlock 
 so closely into one another's lives and associa 
 tions, their personalities are so near and vivid 
 and constantly present, that anything affect 
 ing one sends a thrill through all. Simeon 
 Bowen had been a conspicuous if not admired 
 landmark in the region for more years in the 
 past than the middle-aged lawyer himself could 
 count ; and his fall would be as the fall of some 
 gaunt, prominent village elm, long since riven 
 and sapless, incapable of affording shade or 
 beauty, yet a fixed part of the street scene so 
 familiar to all. 
 
 Bowen's house stood, bare and lonely, in a 
 large, neglected inclosure, protected by a strag 
 gling " Virginia fence," and widening off at the 
 rear into outlying fields, a vegetable-garden, and 
 a pasture. The grounds, despite a certain neg 
 lect, were all evidencing, in leaf and shoot and 
 bloom, the uprush of the spring, and the wind 
 coursed buoyantly through the thinly green 
 branches overhead. Mr. Clark looked about 
 with practised eye as they moved up the path.
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 7 
 
 " You don't keep this up very well, Peter," he 
 remarked as he took in the details of the scene. 
 
 " I do as well 's need be," returned the other, 
 bridling at the attack, yet not boldly. " Th' ol' 
 man don't eat much an' don't want much, an' I 
 don't, an' we git more 'n enough off th' farm 
 jest as 't is. An' he won't let me give any o' th' 
 produce away, n'r yit sell it." 
 
 " Yes, I know," responded the lawyer, discern 
 ing that, with all motives to thrift thus removed, 
 the farm-hand and man-of-all-work was perhaps 
 not much to blame, after all. " I dare say any 
 of us would get to feel the same way in Peter's 
 place," was his broad mental comment, as he 
 pushed open the creaky front door and entered 
 alone. 
 
 There was in his mind a dimly felt irritation 
 against the old man whom he had come to see 
 and whose selfish views of life had resulted in 
 a policy so narrow and wasteful and in a frui 
 tion so barren. He ascended the stairs with 
 sure step, for he had been in the house before, 
 at infrequent times, though never to find its 
 owner ill. On the upper landing he paused. 
 
 "Which room, Mr. Bo wen!" he called out 
 distinctly. 
 
 " In here," came a reply, and he followed the 
 direction of the voice. 
 
 Simeon Bowen lay on a bed opposite the 
 entrance, and his visitor at once saw that Le
 
 8 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 was gravely stricken. Part of the face was 
 drawn and contorted, and even underneath the 
 sheet and blanket the outlines of the thin, 
 withered body seemed to reveal a sudden limp 
 helplessness of the entire side turned toward 
 the newcomer. The sick man was lying on his 
 back, but he was able to turn his head and neck 
 as the other came in, and his voice, curt and 
 rasping as ever, showed that the stroke had not 
 affected his vocal organs. 
 
 "I 've been wantin' t' see ye, Sam Clark," 
 was his greeting, as the other came to the 
 bedside. 
 
 Mr. Clark could not but feel a sympathy for 
 the man's helpless condition, although the 
 indomitable ring of the latter's voice showed 
 that the old fighting Bowen spirit had lost 
 little of its pugnacity, and asked no pity, no 
 quarter. 
 
 "I 'm very sorry to find you in this state, 
 Mr Bowen," he said, taking inadvertently the 
 other's useless hand and hurriedly substituting 
 for it the other, which crisply returned his 
 grasp. "I only just heard of your attack, 
 and came right up." 
 
 "Yes," came back, in the other's raucous 
 tones. "Y' can't wrastle with an angel or a 
 devil thet '11 end by techin' th' hollow o' y'r 
 thigh an' takin' an underhand advantage. I 
 c'd 've kep' it up f'r years yit, on even terms ; but
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 9 
 
 what c'n y' do when Omnipotence won't play 
 fair?" 
 
 " What is it f " asked the lawyer, briefly. 
 
 " P'ralysis. Doctor thinks it 's affected th' vital 
 organs. I sent f r ye t' help me make my will." 
 
 "I hope it 's not so serious as that, Mr. 
 Bowen. Doctors may be mistaken, you know. 
 We can fix the will, safe enough, of course ; but 
 you -must n't regard signing it as signing a sort 
 of death-warrant, the way so many do." 
 
 "I hev n't got many superstitions left," said 
 the old man, grimly ; " an' thet ain't one o' those 
 I hev. Set down, will ye ? " 
 
 "Can I get you anything, do something for 
 you, first!" Mr. Clark looked around with 
 an earnest desire to be of help, but with a mas 
 culine helplessness in the presence of illness. 
 The stricken man, little used to self-coddling, 
 was equally at a loss as to matters that might 
 now conduce to his comfort, and had no favors 
 to ask. 
 
 " Pete gave me s'm' breakfst b'fore he went 
 out," he said ; " an' there 's beddin' enough on 
 me, an' I don' know of anythin' else I want. 
 'Cept t' git up an' move about ag'in," he added, 
 with a glance along his motionless frame, " an' 
 I don't see 's I 'm ever likely t' do thet now." 
 He made a wry, impatient face, which was far 
 from expressing resignation. 
 
 Mr. Clark stood for a minute uncertainly, and
 
 10 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 then, thinking of no immediate service to 
 proffer, drew up a light chair to the bedside. 
 
 "Doctor wanted I sh'd hev a nuss or some 
 one t' do f r me," went on Mr. Bowen ; " but I 
 said, no ; I 'd done f r myself all my life, an' I 'd 
 keep on doin' f r myself till I was done fur by 
 th' Almighty. An' ef thet 's happened now," 
 he added reflectively, " I don' know 's I keer." 
 
 Mr. Clark was a stanch church-member and 
 a strong believer. 
 
 "You ought to care," he said authoritatively. 
 
 " Why 'd I ought f keer ! What 's life done f'r 
 me, or you either, or any of us, f'r thet matter, 
 but what 's it done f'r me, t' make me keer f'r 
 it? What 's th' world done f'r me? What 's 
 any person in this 'ere village, thet I 've known 
 an' lived in all my life, done f'r me ? " 
 
 "Perhaps the question is just as much, 
 what 've you done for them?" 
 
 "No, 't ain't. I ain't talkin' o' thet side. 
 We '11 allow I 've done much or little, jest as 
 y' 'd ruther hev it. Thet ain't th' p'int. What 
 I want t' know is, what good 's it done me, me, 
 y' understand, t' exist? What good 've I got 
 out of it ? Here 's seventy-four years gone, an' 
 hard work an' hard knocks an' hard feelin's in 
 every one of 'em sence I c'd creep, pretty nigh ; 
 an' here I be, in th' year eighteen seventy-one, 
 lyin' on this bed with one half o' me dead an' 
 th' other half likely t' foller."
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 11 
 
 The old man was evidently in the mood for 
 an outpouring of long-nourished feelings. His 
 visitor saw this, and found himself not averse 
 to it. Mr. Clark's compassion remained un- 
 lessened, but he felt the instinct of healthy com 
 bat rise and range itself beside it. Mr. Clark 
 was no dumb listener, and doubtless the dying 
 old farmer was the more willing to try conclu 
 sions with a foeman worthy of his steel. 
 
 " Sixty year out o' these seventy-four," pur 
 sued old Bo wen, "I 've been wonderin' what I 
 was made fur; an' what I was gittin' out o' 
 livin' ; an', ef I was n't gittin' it, who was ; an' 
 I s'pose I kep' thinkin' I 'd know some time or 
 other b'fore th' years were finished. An' now 
 here 's th' end, an' I see I don't know, after all, 
 an' never come near knowin', n'r would have, t' 
 th' end o' time. An' ef I can't tell myself, you 
 can't tell me ; n'r any one else." 
 
 "No; if you can't tell, no one else can tell 
 you. But that 's not a thing to reproach 
 the world with, Mr. Bowen," said the lawyer, 
 sternly. 
 
 " Who keers f r reproachin' 1 Ef y' mean thet 
 I 'd ought t' reproach myself, I don't agree. 
 But ef I did, it don't matter; it don't answer 
 my question." 
 
 " How do other people answer it for them 
 selves 1 " 
 
 " I don' know. I 've heared 'em tryin' to, onct
 
 12 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 in a while, an' even think in' they were suc- 
 ceedin' ; but I never c'd see it. They 're a poor, 
 miser'ble lot, every man-jack of 'em, in this 
 taown or any other ; an' as fur as my observa 
 tion 's gone, they 've got more bad faults than 
 good feelin's, they make more misses in life 
 than they do hits, an' they git a dern sight 
 more onhappiness out of it than they ever 
 git pleasure." 
 
 " Then men are in a way to be a good deal 
 pitied," observed his hearer, not without satire. 
 
 The old man restlessly moved his sound arm 
 and leg beneath the covers. 
 
 " No, they ain't," he affirmed. " They deserve 
 all they git. Many a time I 've run my mind 
 over th' people in this taown o' Felton, Sam 
 Clark, an' I c'n tell ye there 's precious few thet 's 
 got enough good stuff in 'em t' 've made it wuth 
 while t' create 'em. An' they 're a fair sample, 
 I take it." 
 
 " Then you think Creation 's a failure ? " 
 
 " Most o' what I 've seen of it is. There 's 
 frost t' nip an' drought t' wither ; th' crops fail, 
 but trouble never does. An' mankind, which 
 we 're told is the sum an' crown o' Creation, ain't 
 nothin' but jest a mean, bickerin' set, with all 
 th' cardinal virtues under an' all th' cardinal 
 vices up an' fightin' among themselves. Mebbe 
 they 're too pitiful t' blame, but they 're cert'nly 
 too blamable t' pity."
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 13 
 
 " It would be better to help than either to 
 blame or pity, as I look at it." 
 
 " Help ? What c'n y' do ? What 's th' use o' 
 tryin' ? Y' can't git th' salt tears out o' th' ocean. 
 Y' can't git th' sufferin' an' th' littleness an' 
 contemptibleness out o' mankind. Beelzebub 
 reigns." 
 
 "Beelzebub reigns over those who sacrifice 
 to him," spoke the other. "If one chooses to 
 believe in horns rather than wings, one 's open to 
 do so. But more surely than there are devils, 
 there are angels, Simeon Bowen, and I tell you 
 so solemnly." 
 
 " They ain't so much in evidence, then, I tell 
 ye," returned the other, invincibly. " Now you 
 take me. I git back t' where I started. What 's 
 been th' use of it t' me! I 've been visited by 
 mighty few angels, but more horned devils of 
 trouble an' worry an' misfortune than y' c'd 
 shake a stick at. An' here I be, as th' end of 
 it all." 
 
 "Yes. It 's a text for Creation to preach a 
 sermon to you from, rather than for you to 
 preach at Creation." 
 
 " J don't see no sermon in it." 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" 
 
 " I wish y' would, ef y' c'n do it." 
 
 " Very well ; then I will." The lawyer's face 
 took on an unwonted expression of sternness, 
 mingled wHh the intense earnestness of convic-
 
 14 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 tion, as he moved his chair the better to front 
 the sick man's eyes, and leaned forward to meet 
 his gaze. "You 're an older man than I am, 
 Simeon Bowen, but, before God, I have a mes 
 sage to deliver to you, and if I don't deliver it 
 now, I never may. I '11 tell you why the world 
 looks dark to you: it 's because you 've shut 
 your eyes to its light. I '11 tell you why men 
 seem despicable to you: because you 've prac 
 tised despising, all your life, and never once 
 tried admiring, let alone revering. I '11 tell you 
 why all Creation seems a failure : because you 've 
 let all Creation center in you ! " 
 
 The drawn face upon the pillow attempted to 
 form itself into an instinctive sneer. 
 
 "No," said the lawyer, answering the look; 
 " this is n't smart speaking ; it 's truth. From 
 the time you 've known men at all, you 've 
 moved among them getting blinder and blinder 
 to their good points and readier and readier 
 to see their bad ones.. You 've painstakingly 
 walled up your soul to every good impression 
 that any other soul might make on it. You 've 
 dug underground and never looked up at the 
 sky. You 've had two wide-open, microscopic 
 eyes for every little petty vanity and fault and 
 failing of the people around you, and you 've 
 closed both to the charities and generosities and 
 noblenesses and general humanity that 's to be 
 found in every one of 'em. They have faults
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 15 
 
 and failings, goodness knows, and the very fact 
 that nature 's hard, as you say, accounts for 
 half of 'em ; and the other half are a good deal 
 more than offset by what they feel and do that 's 
 good." 
 
 " That 's a matter o' calc'lation," rasped the 
 other, dryly. "I can't say 's I agree with 
 ye." 
 
 " I don't expect you will. A man can't change 
 the beliefs of a lifetime in an hour, nor in 
 a year nor ten, sometimes, even if he should 
 come to want to. All the more risk when he 's 
 forming his beliefs. But it 's not calculation. 
 It 's plain, bare, naked truth. I tell you there 's 
 a million times more right in nature than there 
 is wrong, and ten million times more good in 
 the human race than there is bad. Why, if 
 your eyes had ever been open to it all, you 'd 
 see good hearts and good thoughts and good 
 acts as thick among men as the stars in heaven ; 
 and just as thick in this town as anywhere 
 from Maine to California or China or the Gala 
 pagos Islands." 
 
 Mr. Clark, usually genial and self-contained, 
 seldom grew excited. He was invariably calm 
 in court, and equally so elsewhere, save on the 
 rare occasions when his feelings were strongly 
 affected. On such occasions he could speak 
 out, as now, with a power and passion based 
 only on the intensest convictions. It had never
 
 16 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 happened to Mr. Bowen to see him. in this 
 mood before, and he listened with a half-startled 
 thrill. 
 
 Mr. Clark's firm, frank, fearless face grew set 
 as he J ilked, and his voice gathered depth and 
 fuJl ,,*s as of a judge delivering sentence. 
 
 " Even if men were half good and half evil," he 
 went on impetuously, " it would be a contemp 
 tible thing to dwell only on the latter for a 
 whole lifetime. Even if they were one tenth 
 good, one hundredth, if you like, have n't we 
 got to make the most of what there is, keep the 
 little sputtering flame alive rather than puff at 
 it and spit at it and call out that it 's out and 
 there is nothing but cold and evil 1 " 
 
 " I sh'd say it was out without any puttin' 
 out, ef it ever was lighted," observed Bowen, 
 with the old scoff. 
 
 " You ask what life has done for you. I ask 
 what you 've done for life. I 'm preaching no 
 sermon, Mr. Bowen, and I 'm talking no cant ; 
 but I tell you squarely that a man gets out of 
 life whatever he puts into it. You can twist 
 that truth out of shape, if you like, and play with 
 it and jeer at it, but at bottom it 's true; and 
 the greatest pity that the Deity and his angels 
 can feel is for those who have gone through life 
 and never realized it." 
 
 A strange, wistful glitter came into the sick 
 man's eyes, and his free hand came forth from
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 17 
 
 under the bedclothes and nervously began 
 clutching at the outer blanket. 
 
 " I hain't gotten much out of it," he said ; 
 "an' I don' know 's I ever tried to put much 
 into it." 
 
 "Then you 've missed the only reaso. "or 
 living at all, apart from its bearing on any 
 future life, and I 'm not bringing that into the 
 question. I 've merely put it on the lower plane 
 of self-interest." 
 
 " I did n't know y' hed sech strong feelin's in 
 ye, Lawyer Clark," said the old man, in involun 
 tary admiration. 
 
 " I have ; though I don't always express them. 
 But this is one of the times to do it, it seems 
 to me." 
 
 " What fur 1 It 's too late f 'r ye t' change my 
 way o' thinkin'." 
 
 " Perhaps it is. But it 's not too late to show 
 you there 's other ways ; and I should n't won 
 der if you admitted they might be better ways." 
 
 " P'r'aps they are. I hain't seen much t' jus 
 tify 'em." 
 
 " Because you never looked. You started out 
 to keep your eyes shut, and then said there was 
 nothing to see. You say that frost nips and 
 drought withers. Yes ; but you don't say that 
 seeds spring up and harvests ripen, and flowers 
 and fruit come, and birds sing ; and that on this 
 glorious spring day outside, the very earth is so
 
 18 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 full of life and sap and strength that it 's just 
 bursting with it and filling even these neglected 
 old grounds with promise." 
 
 " Look here," cried the other ; " you 've never 
 tried t' git y'r livin' out of a farm, or ye 'd think 
 more about what winter an' summer does, an' 
 less about spring an' fall. Ef it 'd been all 
 spring an' fall, I 'd 've been well-to-do b'fore 
 now, 'stead o' dyin' at th' end of it with a scant 
 five thousand dollars t' th' good, an' part o' 
 thet was handed down t' me." 
 
 " And if it 'd been all winter and summer, 
 you 'd be dying with none. You 're not a soft 
 man, Mr. Bowen, and I don't take it that you 
 want soft words now any more than any time ; 
 so I 'm saying what I think." 
 
 " Say ahead," responded the other, with a half- 
 chuckle, half-sigh. " It don't do no harm, an' 
 it 's calc'lated t' do good, though I 'm afeared it 
 won't. I don't say I would n't be willin' t' see 
 all them good p'in'ts in natur' an' human natur' 
 thet you talk of; but I hain't, an' I ain't likely 
 to now. Ef I could, I might know better how 
 t' make my will." 
 
 The word recalled the lawyer's attention to 
 his client 's stricken and critical condition. 
 
 " I 'm afraid I 've said too much," he said, with 
 a sudden access of compunction, "and not the 
 right kind, either. I ought to have remem 
 bered"
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 19 
 
 " No, y' ought n't," broke in the other, impa 
 tiently. "When 's a man t' talk truth ef not 
 over a death-bed? Don't you worry. Fact is, 
 well, y' 've shaken my idee 'bout thet will a 
 leetle, even ef y' hev n't shaken anythin' else." 
 
 Mr. Clark waited for a further elucidation. 
 
 " I 've been hatin' th' hull run o' humankind," 
 the old man burst out. " I don't say I don't 
 hate 'em still, fr thet matter, though mebbe 
 there 's grains o' good, as you say. But I 'd 
 settled it thet none o' my five thousand dollars 
 was t' go t' do any good t' people in this taown, 
 ef I c'd help it; an' I don' know of any other 
 taown thet 's any better. I hain't got a relation 
 in th' wide world; I s'pose you know thet as 
 well 's I do. My only sister's daughter, thet 
 lived in New York State, ran off an' married a 
 wariderin' furriner, an' a Watertown man wrote 
 me she died soon after. Barrin' twenty-five or 
 fifty dollars f 'r Peter Merritt, I was goin' t' leave 
 my money somewheres fr spite, say t' Jim 
 Dole, th' liquor-seller, or t' th' free-thinkers, or 
 somethin' like thet." 
 
 The other said nothing, although his nostrils 
 dilated a little. 
 
 Old Bowen attempted to raise himself on his 
 elbow, but ineffectually. 
 
 " S'posin' I don't do thet," he demanded. 
 " S'posin' I 'm willin' t' take y'r view a leetle, an' 
 use it t' do some good 1 "
 
 20 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Don't you say l church ' t' me ! " 
 
 " I was n't going to say l church' to you," re 
 turned the other, warmly. " It 's a wider ques 
 tion than what '11 benefit any one church." 
 
 " Yes, it is. See here ; you go down-stairs an' 
 look 'round th' place f'r 'bout ten minutes, will 
 ye? I want t' think." 
 
 Mr. Clark went down-stairs, and employed 
 the interval in giving Peter a few friendly hints 
 regarding the sick man's dinner, which the other 
 already had partly under way. Bowen kept no 
 housekeeper. He would not have one. The 
 washing was put out weekly to Mrs. Watkins ; 
 but in other matters he and Peter made shift to 
 do for themselves. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of an hour the lawyer 
 returned to the room up-stairs. 
 
 " There 's one thing I want t' say right now," 
 observed old Bowen, as he entered ; " an' thet is 
 thet I 've hed idees like yours myself, some 
 times. Onct in a while I 'd git t' thinkin' thet 
 mebbe things an' people wa'n't so bad, after all. 
 I 'd git over it mighty soon, but I did n't want 
 ye t' think I was was " 
 
 "Of course you 're not," responded Mr. Clark, 
 promptly. " No one is. No one could be if he 
 tried. Everybody has moments when he knows 
 that the good is true." 
 
 "I did n't say 'know,'" returned the other, 
 cautiously; "an' I ain't savin' so yit. But
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 21 
 
 p'r'aps p'r'aps. D' y' want t' know what I 'm 
 goin' t' do with my money 1 " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I 'm goin' t' f oiler your views an' not mine. 
 Ef there 's any resk, I reckon 't won't worry 
 me any after I 'm gone." 
 
 " They 're not my views. They 're wise men's 
 views, from Bible times down. They 're natural 
 views. They 're true views." 
 
 " Mebbe. I 'm willin' t' give 'em a trial. This 
 farm 's t' be sold. Hiram Wheeler offered two 
 thousand dollars f'r it onct, when I was talkin' 
 o' sellin'. He '11 stand by it still. Th' place 
 joins on t' hisn, y' know. It 's a fair an' liberal 
 price. You close with it. Furniture an' fixin's 
 go with it. Thet 's two thousand." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " In th' Hingham Bank there 's three thousand 
 more, drawin' int'rest. Th' bank-book 's in 
 thet drawer yonder. Git it, will ye ? " 
 
 The lawyer did so. 
 
 " Two an' three 's five. I hain't got no other 
 accounts." 
 
 His listener waited in silence. 
 
 " Now thet five thousand I 'm goin' t' leave 
 f'r you t' dispose of." 
 
 " For me I " asked Mr. Clark, startled. 
 
 " Yes. Y' 're t' put it where it '11 do th' most 
 good, in this 'ere village o' Felton, any time 
 within a year." 
 
 " That 's pretty indefinite, Mr. Bowen."
 
 22 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " You wait till I git through. Now. in th' fust 
 place, it ain't t' go t' no church. Y' under 
 stand?" 
 
 " Clearly." 
 
 " Well, an' 't ain't t' go an' be frittered away 
 in little gifts here an' little gifts there. I want 
 it t' go t'gether. Ef I 'm goin' in f'r doin' good 
 at this late day," the old man made a queer, 
 rueful grimace, "I'd ruther do one bigger 
 good than a lot o' little ones." 
 
 " Often the little ones count more." 
 
 " I don't keer. What 's more, I don't think 
 so." 
 
 " Sometimes it 's the other way, of course." 
 
 "Well, you make it so this time. An un 
 mistakably worthy object; an' no conditions. 
 Did y' bring any law paper with ye ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the lawyer, producing it. 
 
 "There 's pen an' ink over on thet table. 
 Now you go ahead an' draw all .thet up." 
 
 "But see here, Mr. Bowen," protested the 
 other ; " that 's a very wide latitude you 're giv 
 ing me. I don't know that I can accept any 
 such responsibility. Be more definite." 
 
 "*I don't see any need to. I '11 trust you, Sam 
 Clark." 
 
 "It is n't the trusting; it 's the deciding 
 that I 'm thinking of. It is n't an e very-day 
 occurrence to bestow five thousand dollars in 
 a lump sum in a small town like this."
 
 "IN TPIE MIDST OF LIFE" 23 
 
 " Well, see here : I '11 make three trustees in 
 stead o' one. You write that th' money 's t' be 
 disposed of by you an' Nathan Bradbury an' 
 let 's see Mr. Pickering ; actin' t'gether." 
 
 " But the law won't recognize any such in 
 definite trust as that," protested Mr. Clark. 
 
 "Won't it? Well, it need n't, then. I don't 
 keer what way it 's done, s' long 's it 's done th' 
 way I want it. I '11 leave all th' money t' you, 
 then, outright ; an' you jest write in thet it 's 
 my desire thet you three decide how t' dispose 
 of it th' way I said. I '11 trust you with it, fast 
 enough; an' I don't see 's th' law c'n object 
 t' thet. You fix it some way, anyhow." 
 
 Despite Mr. Clark's hesitation, the impatient 
 old man would brook no negative, but hurried 
 forward the lawyer's pen, until the will, broadly 
 drawn in accordance with his instructions, was 
 duly written out, subscribed, and attested, a 
 neighboring farmer and his son being hunted up 
 by Peter and brought in as witnesses. 
 
 " There ! " said Simeon Bowen, with a little 
 sigh of relief, as the witnesses went tramping 
 down-stairs again with Peter, "thet 's done. 
 P'r'aps I 've made futur' trouble f'r you, Lawyer 
 Clark, but I 've got present trouble off o' myself. 
 I did n't feel quiet, somehow, till thet property 
 was disposed of in one way or other. Now ef 
 it keeps my mem'ry green, it '11 be more 'n I 
 deserve."
 
 24 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Mr. Clark reached down and clasped the 
 other's withered old hand with real emotion. 
 
 " There 's good in you that you 've never ex 
 plored, Simeon Bo wen," he said earnestly. "Are 
 you exploring it now, perhaps ? or is it too late ? " 
 
 " Oh, it 's too late," [replied the other. His 
 voice broke a little, and he tried slightly to turn 
 away his face. " I hed some trouble," he said, 
 with an effort, "a good many years back. I 
 don't doubt it ought t' 've sweetened me. It 
 did n't. It soured me wuss 'n ever. I might 
 've felt diff'rent 'bout a good many things, 
 'ceptin' f 'r thet. Well, it 's all past now. You 've 
 done me good to-day, Sam Clark." 
 
 "If that 's so, I wish I could do you more, 
 another day. There are higher things to think 
 of than you and I have talked about this morn 
 ing." 
 
 " I don't want to think of 'em, then. We 've 
 gone plenty high enough f'r me. Don't you let 
 Parson Marshall come 'round here ! 'Cause ef 
 he does, I won't see him." 
 
 " You '11 let Mrs. Marshall come, won't you 1 " 
 asked the lawyer. " Or, better still, Mrs. Clark ? 
 She '11 insist on coming right up, I warn you, 
 directly I tell her how sick you are; so you 
 might as well make up your mind to it. Her 
 chicken soup is famous ; and you ought to see 
 her take hold of this room and fix things up and 
 make you comfortable."
 
 "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE" 25 
 
 Old Bowen smiled. 
 
 " She 's welcome," he said. " She won't hev 
 t' come but onct, I guess. Doctor said he 'd 
 look in ag'in, airly in th' afternoon. I guess 
 th' airlier th' better." 
 
 Something in his tone and appearance told 
 Mr. Clark that the forebodings were well 
 founded. The poor, wizened face on the pil 
 low looked so pitifully white and small and 
 yearning, its hard lines had so strangely dis 
 appeared in the mysterious approach of death, 
 that the visitor felt the pathos of the desolate 
 old man's fruitless, bitter life as he had never 
 imagined it before. 
 
 "You must n't take things too hard, Mr. 
 Bowen," he said ineffectually. 
 
 The other gave a tart laugh. 
 
 "Things?" he repeated. "Y' mean dyin'? 
 Pooh ! It don't matter any t' me. Dyin' 's jest 
 as good as livin'. Only I find I hate t' come t' 
 die without knowin' what I 've lived fur." 
 
 "I suppose those things have to be found 
 out by us earlier in life, if they 're to be found 
 out at all." 
 
 " Y' 're right, I guess. Anyway, y' don't find 
 'em out at th' end. I 've kep' ye long enough, 
 Mr. Clark." 
 
 "Not a bit of it," returned the lawyer, ear 
 nestly, as he rose. " I feel as if I had n't said 
 the things I ought to ; as if I had n't shown you
 
 26 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 any soft side, somehow. And yet I 've felt one ; 
 and all the world would, Mr. Bowen, seeing you 
 in this way. There 's more sympathy in life 
 than you think for, depend upon it." 
 
 The other grunted. 
 
 "What you 've said is all right," he rejoined. 
 " There 's th' will t' testify to it. PVaps it 's 
 jest as well thet way as ef I 'd favored th' free 
 thinkers or sonitthin'. Jest you see thet it 's 
 well bestowed. I don't want tbet money t' go 
 till y' 're perf'c'ly sartin sure it 's goin' right, 
 all three of ye. Y' understand 1 " 
 
 Mr. Clark nodded. 
 
 " Ef I 'm goin' in f r doin' good at this late 
 hour, as I said, I want it t' be some partic'lar 
 good, somethin' special; not jest books f'r th' 
 lib'ary an' sech. You mind, now." 
 
 He was evidently getting wearied, and the 
 lawyer, after arranging two or three minor 
 comforts, closing a shutter to screen him from 
 the glare, and cautioning Peter, as he came 
 down-stairs, to keep a close watch by the sick 
 room, left for his home, where his report speedily 
 sent his good wife, accompanied by Mrs. Mar 
 shall, to old Bowen's bedside.
 
 II 
 
 DE MOKTUIS 
 
 MR. CLARK accomplished little office-work 
 for the rest of the day. He found too 
 much to think of. He had been more stirred 
 up by the morning's strange interview than 
 he had realized, and it was not easy to readjust 
 himself to commonplace conditions. The words 
 and thoughts of the discussion kept presenting 
 themselves again and again before his mind. 
 He found himself querying how far he was 
 right in his views of life, and how far old 
 Bowen might be right. He found Bowen's 
 question, as to what value the latter's life had 
 had for him, more difficult to settle each time 
 it raised itself. And, finally, the subject of 
 the .legacy kept persistently obtruding itself, 
 not precisely as a matter for immediate settle 
 ment, but as one whose solution might prove 
 to be even more difficult than he had appre 
 hended. 
 
 " An unmistakably worthy object," he mused. 
 "Will it be so simple? For five dollars, yes. 
 
 27
 
 28 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 For five thousand in a lump ! well, I 'm not so 
 sure." 
 
 He ran over in his mind various possible 
 worthy uses for the sum, and rejected each 
 in turn. Then his thoughts reverted anew 
 to the eccentric testator, and he alternately 
 hardened and softened as he thought of the 
 somber old man dying up there in that lonely, 
 neglected house. " I can't call it ' home,' " he 
 reflected idly; "for Bowen has never had a 
 home, in that sense, and has n't known any 
 thing of one." Had he been too severe I What 
 nature would his own have been at his age of 
 fifty if he had not known the home which was 
 so dear, so vital, a part of his existence ? How 
 could cheerfulness survive without cheer ? How 
 could you understand, or value, or give love, 
 never having experienced it! At least, the old 
 hermit farmer had never harmed any one. No 
 man lived who bore him a personal grudge. 
 That was much, surely. More might be asked ; 
 but could it be demanded I 
 
 And yet at the end, as unswervingly as in 
 the morning, he knew that it could, and he 
 abated no word that he had uttered. 
 
 About four o'clock Mrs. Clark returned. She 
 came around by the front path to the office door. 
 Her husband knew, before he asked, the sig 
 nificance of her sobered face. 
 
 "When?" he asked quietly.
 
 DE MORTUIS 29 
 
 "About an hour ago. There was no pain. 
 He was unconscious." 
 
 " Was Peter by to help you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mr. Clark was feeling the startled sensation 
 we all have when a death, however surely ex 
 pected, actually takes place. 
 
 " I thought it might not be so soon," he said 
 vaguely. 
 
 "Poor old man," said Mrs. Clark, with her 
 broad, forgiving sympathy. " It 's a death more 
 to be sorrowed over, perhaps, than many an 
 other we 've seen." 
 
 " Yes. An abstract kind of sorrow." 
 
 "But just as real; maybe more real, be 
 cause it 's wider, somehow. It 's a sort of sor 
 row for an an idea, rather than as well as 
 a person." I 
 
 "I know what you mean, Annie," he said 
 softly. 
 
 "Please step around and have Tom Secor 
 drive up right away, Samuel," she said. " He '11 
 take up whatever 's necessary ; and you tell him 
 the coffin should be ready by day after to-mor 
 row." 
 
 " Who 's up there now with Peter ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Marshall stayed ; and I stopped at the 
 parsonage on the way back, so Mr. Marshall 's 
 gone up." 
 
 " Then I suppose I can't do anything," said
 
 30 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 the lawyer. He had risen, and now, as his wife 
 passed on silently into the house, he went out 
 by the way she had come, and up the street 
 to Secor's, the carpenter-undertaker's. Secor, 
 greatly surprised at the news, promptly left 
 for the Bowen house. 
 
 Mr. Clark stood irresolute on the curb as the 
 carpenter drove off. He felt disinclined to go 
 back to his office. His footsteps turned in the 
 other direction. 
 
 " I '11 just step up and tell Deacon Bradbury," 
 he decided ; and he moved off up the street to 
 the deacon's home, a well-located farm at the 
 edge of the town. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury was out in the fields, but his 
 wife, who greeted the visitor hospitably, sent 
 out her "help," 'Mandy, to search for the 
 farmer and bring him in. Miss Lorinda Park, 
 an invalid neighbor, was making a call. 
 
 " Set down, Mr. Clark," said Mrs. Bradbury, 
 cordially, as she drew forth another chair. 
 
 " You always have comfortable chairs in this 
 house, Mrs. Bradbury," he remarked as he took 
 the seat, reflecting swiftly on the contrasted 
 lack of comfort in the substitute for a home 
 he had that morning visited. 
 
 "I 've allers held thet good chairs give th' 
 best welcome," rejoined Mrs. Bradbury; "an' 
 every one o' these chairs has been got, at one 
 time or another, with thet idee."
 
 BE MORTUIS 31 
 
 " It 's a very gracious idea, I 'm sure," com 
 mented the visitor, with a pleased feeling. 
 
 "Jest like th' Bradburys, too, ain't it?" put 
 in Miss Lorinda. 
 
 " Exactly," he assented heartily. 
 
 " Oh, I don' know as to thet," said Mrs. Brad 
 bury, flushing nevertheless at the little tribute. 
 "Ef people will come t' see ye," she added 
 slyly, " of course y' Ve got t' seat 'em ; an' y' 
 may as well make 'em comf table while y' 're 
 'bout it." 
 
 "That 's a wide principle," smiled Mr. Clark, 
 " and a good one." 
 
 " It 's more than natur' always does," Miss 
 Park observed. 
 
 The lawyer gave a slight start at finding this 
 unlooked-for renewal of the morning's topic. 
 Miss Park, however, laid claim to being a phi 
 losopher, or rather a philosophize!* ; and he re 
 membered that this remark was merely one in 
 her favorite vein. 
 
 "Well," observed Mrs. Bradbury, "mebbe 
 aatur' don't b'lieve in easy-chairs an' rockin'- 
 chairs as much as we do. I don't say she ain't 
 right." 
 
 " I can't see," returned Miss Lorinda, fretfully, 
 " why y' 're any better f r hevin' t' set in a hard 
 chair rather 'n an easy one when y'r day's work 
 is done. I know. I 've hed t' set in a hard 
 one most o' my life."
 
 32 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Miss Park had long had an incurable spinal 
 disease which gave her much pain and com 
 pelled her always to sit bolt upright w^hen she 
 sat at all. Rumor had it that her ailment was 
 growing worse instead of better. 
 
 The others looked at her with understanding 
 sympathy. 
 
 " So y' hev, poor dear," said Mrs. Bradbury, 
 " an' fur" 
 
 " For no fault of hers either, was it ? " put in 
 the lawyer, involuntarily. He was himself a 
 little astonished, the moment the words were 
 uttered. Had some of old Bowen's cynicism, 
 exorcised from its possessor, taken hold on 
 him? 
 
 The door leading in from the kitchen opened, 
 and Mr. Bradbury appeared, large and hale, 
 healthily aglow with the work of the farm. 
 
 " How d' y' do, Miss Lorindy ? " he said heart 
 ily, advancing. " How are ye, Lawyer Clark ? " 
 He looked from one to the other and then to 
 his wife with humorous suspicion. 
 
 " Makin' y'r will, Martha 1 " he asked. " Call 
 f'r me t' be another witness!" 
 
 Mr. Clark smiled, but gravely. 
 
 " I did call about a will, Mr. Bradbury," he 
 said ; " though not your wife's." 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 " Simeon Bowen's. He died this afternoon." 
 
 His hearers gave a start.
 
 DE MORTUIS 33 
 
 " Sim Bo wen f Y' don't say ! " ejaculated Miss 
 Park; while husband and wife uttered a sur 
 prised " Sho ! " almost in unison. 
 
 " He had a stroke early this morning. I was 
 sent for, later on. Mrs. Marshall and my wife 
 were there afterward." 
 
 They pressed for additional details, and Mr 
 Clark described events more fully. 
 
 " Sho ! " said Mr. Bradbury again, with a cer 
 tain large sorrow in his voice. " Now thet he 's 
 dead, a body feels pity f'r him." 
 
 " It 's astonishin' how much kinder it allers 
 makes a person feel," commented Mrs. Brad 
 bury. " He did n't seem t' git much pity while 
 he was alive." 
 
 " He did n't ask for it," interjected Lawyer 
 Clark, dryly. "And the world does n't pity 
 much unless it 's encouraged a little." 
 
 " It blames, though," remarked Miss Park. 
 
 " Yes, more 's the pity, I suppose. The old 
 man made a rather strange will." 
 
 " What was it T " inquired Mrs. Bradbury. 
 
 " Well," said the lawyer, reflectively, " there 's 
 no 3ecret about ity that I know of. It concerns 
 Mr. Bradbury somewhat, and I may as well let 
 the rest of you hear about it, too." 
 
 " Concerns me ! " queried the farmer, incredu 
 lously. 
 
 " Yes ; " and Mr. Clark proceeded to relate the 
 circumstances of the legacy. He touched but
 
 34 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 little on the morning's interview, though some 
 mention of it and its trend was necessary in 
 order to show any color at all for the crabbed 
 old recluse's unexpected philanthropy. 
 
 "Well, I swan!" was Mr. Bradbury's aston 
 ished comment. 
 
 "I thought you would," said the lawyer, 
 unable to repress a smile. "I find I do my 
 self." 
 
 "What d' y' think of it?" questioned the 
 farmer. 
 
 " I don't quite know. I have n't shaken down 
 yet, I guess. I rather wanted to see what you 
 thought of it yourself." 
 
 The farmer passed his hand thoughtfully 
 through his heavy iron-gray hair, and slowly 
 sought a seat in his large cane rocker. 
 
 " Five thousand dollars, eh I " he said. 
 
 " In one lump, too," added his wife. 
 
 " Yes," returned the lawyer ; " and no church 
 can come in." 
 
 " It 's too big," pronounced Mr. Bradbury, 
 positively. 
 
 " That 's what I 've been fearing. Not that 
 you can't give away five thousand dollars easily 
 enough, if you try. But to give it where it 's 
 sure to do five thousand dollars' worth of good, 
 that 's another matter." 
 
 "Yes, it is," said the farmer. "Now, you 
 take th' Watkins family. They 're our town
 
 DE MOETUIS 35 
 
 poor, I s'pose, as much as anybody in Felton. 
 Of course there 's one or two other families 
 like 'em, but I 'm just considerin' them as an 
 example. Ef we give Sneezer Watkins five 
 thousand dollars, " 
 
 " Lawks ! " interjected Miss Lorinda, with 
 an irrepressible laugh. " He 'd spend half in 
 t'bacco an' cider, an' th' other half in ribbons 
 f r th' children, in two days." 
 
 "'Bout like thet," assented Mr. Bradbury. 
 " No way o' puttin' restrictions on it when it 's 
 given ? " 
 
 "No," Mr. Clark said. "I suggested that 
 while I was writing out the will; but he 
 would n't have it. I think he rather foresaw 
 that we might find some difficulties, and en 
 joyed the notion. I 've thought, since, that it 
 may have been an idea of his to show me and the 
 rest of us that perhaps well, never mind about 
 that. When it goes, it 's to go unconditionally." 
 
 "When it goes," repeated Mr. Bradbury, 
 musingly. "A year, you said? There 's no 
 hurry, then?" 
 
 "No; there 's no hurry. At the same time, 
 we 've got to get accustomed to keeping our 
 eyes open." 
 
 " There 's one thing," Miss Park put in, with a 
 certain admiration. "Th' ol' man picked out 
 th' very best an' uprightest committee y' c'd 
 find in this town or any other town." t
 
 36 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Thet 's so, every word of it," agreed Mrs. 
 Bradbury, heartily, "ef my husband is on 
 it." 
 
 The farmer's thoughts wandered back to the 
 dead man himself. 
 
 "Hard kind o' life he 's hed, ain't it? Not 
 thet he was pinched, as fur 's money went, sence 
 he c'd leave thet much. But it was a narrer 
 'nough life in other ways." 
 
 "Narrow and juiceless and a failure all 
 around, one would say," corroborated Mr. Clark. 
 
 " What right 've any of us got t' label it. a 
 failure ? " demanded Miss Lorinda. " We don't 
 know all its ins an' outs." 
 
 " That 's perfectly true," the lawyer agreed. 
 
 "Before y' c'n say any life 's a failure," she 
 went on, "y' 've got t' know all about it, an' 
 jest what it hed t' contend with. An' y' can't 
 tell thet 'bout any one else. Sim Bowen may 've 
 j edged his life t' be a failure ; we can't." 
 
 " Mebbe," added Mrs. Bradbury, " he did an' 
 got more good than we think." 
 
 " We '11 hope so," rejoined the lawyer, skep 
 tically yet not uiisympathetically. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury was deep in reflection. 
 
 " You an' I an' Mr. Pickering 've got a hard 
 job t' do right, Mr. Clark," he said presently. 
 
 " Yes ; I realized that right away." 
 
 " I s'pose we '11 git applications thick on all 
 eldest
 
 DE MORTUIS 37 
 
 " Why, Nathan ! People ain't beggars here," 
 said his wife, reproachfully. 
 
 " Oh, people won't ask. They may hint, but 
 they won't ask. They '11 git others t' ask fur 
 'em. But I did n't mean people ; I was thinkin' 
 of societies an' town committees an' sech." 
 
 " We must talk all that over. What do you 
 say to walking up to Mr. Pickering's with me, 
 Mr. Bradbury ? Then I thought we 'd all three 
 go up to Bo wen's, just to see if we can be of 
 any use." 
 
 " A good idee," replied the farmer, promptly. 
 " I '11 jest go out an' tell Abner 'bout thet seedin' 
 an' then come back an' tidy up a leetle, an' we '11 
 go right off." 
 
 Mr. Bradbury speedily reappeared, and the 
 two men left the house. 
 
 "Well, I guess I '11 be goin', too," said Miss 
 Park, who was burning to communicate the 
 news to various intimate friends. " I '11 bring 
 ye thet receipt fust thing in th' mornin', Mrs. 
 Bradbury; an' don't f'rgit t' put th' yelks in 
 after th' batter 's mixed, not b'fore." 
 
 Miss Lorinda made her way painfully but 
 unswervingly down the street to Reed & Kem- 
 ble's store. She looked disappointed as she 
 entered and perceived that there were no cus 
 tomers at the time. 
 
 "No, I did n't want any thin' this afternoon, 
 Enos," she said. "I 'm goin' on 'round t' th'
 
 38 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Kembles'. I jest looked in t' say ol' Bowen 's 
 dead. Died this afternoon. I only jest heared. 
 P'ralysis. Took this mornin' airly." Miss Park 
 shot out one detail after the other as she turned 
 from the door, and moving across the front 
 wooden platform, stepped off upon the side 
 walk. She walked on, leaving the other to 
 digest the news at his leisure. Arrived at 
 the Kembles' house, a little farther on, in the 
 main street, she overtook at the gate Mr. Kem- 
 ble himself, who, it being a slack afternoon for 
 business, was returning home. Mr. Kemble 
 was a small man with a gray mustache and a 
 reputation as a wag. The latter did not con 
 flict with a reputation for being fully as close 
 in money matters as his partner, Mr. Reed. 
 
 "Out scatterin' seeds o' kindness, as usual, 
 Miss Lorindy?" he asked, not without covert 
 reference to the lady's fondness for dissemi 
 nating news and discussing character-studies. 
 "Come right in an' scatter some here. Don't 
 know as they '11 grow on our settin'-room car 
 pet; though it gits pretty dusty, the children 
 play in there so much." 
 
 There was a large family of Kembles, and 
 they all seemed to be in the sitting-room as the 
 two entered. Mrs. Kemble banished the chil 
 dren, all save two partly grown-up daughters, 
 and the visitor lost little time in bringing out 
 her news.
 
 DE MOETUIS 39 
 
 Her hearers, including Miss Harvey, Mrs. 
 Kemble's sister, appeared to feel far more in 
 terest in the subject of the legacy than concern 
 for the old man's death. 
 
 " Who on airth '11 it go to 1 " speculated Mrs. 
 Kemble, a trim, vigorous, quick little woman 
 who looked at one sharply, wore glasses before 
 her keen, inquiring eyes, and always gave an 
 impression of one alert to question advances 
 and repel boarders. 
 
 " Well, there 's me," announced Mr. Kemble, 
 striking an attitude. 
 
 His two young daughters giggled audibly at 
 this. 
 
 " Pooh ! you ! " retorted his wife. " He said 
 a worthy object." 
 
 "Well, there 's you, then. It '11 be all in th' 
 fam'ly." 
 
 " You quit foolin', George Kemble. I 'm won- 
 derin' ef I could n't git it t' go t' th' Dorcas 
 S'ciety." Mrs. Kemble was president of this 
 society, which was her pet. At the same time, 
 it was a considerable drain upon her stock of 
 half-used clothes, cuttings, and useful odds and 
 ends, as well as on the similar stocks of other 
 members; and the thought came to her at once 
 that such a legacy would effectually put a stop 
 to such drains for all time. 
 
 "Charity begins at home," observed her 
 spouse, sententiously.
 
 40 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " I don't know why our s'ciety should n't git 
 it," went on Mrs. Kemble, musingly, much at 
 tracted by the idea. " I b'lieve I '11 see Lawyer 
 Clark 'bout it t'-morrow." 
 
 " No hurry," put in Miss Lorinda. " There 's 
 a year f'r 'em t' decide in." 
 
 "Th' sooner th' better, I think," the other 
 responded, with decision. " We need th' money 
 right away." 
 
 Miss Harvey interposed. 
 
 " Letitia," she said severely, " I must say I 'm 
 surprised thet y' f'rgit 'bout church int'rests. 
 Now, our church " 
 
 "Oh, it can't go t' any church," hastily 
 explained the visitor, who had forgotten to 
 elucidate this point. 
 
 "Can't?" echoed Miss Harvey. She was 
 taken aback. "Well, then, th' Sunday-school. 
 I do say, I think it 's a buroin' shame thet " 
 
 " No, n'r Sunday-school. Nothin' in connec 
 tion with a church." 
 
 " I d'clare ! " remonstrated Miss Harvey. " Of 
 all wrong an' foolish restrictions ! Well, 
 there 's poor Tom Henry, thet was hurt last 
 week workin' on th' pike. He 's laid up f'r six 
 months, I hear. An' I must say I think it 's 
 jest sinful, th' way th' neighbors 've acted so 
 callous 'bout it. Mrs. Henry was tellin' me 
 how " 
 
 " Tom was hurt through his own fault, sister,"
 
 DE MORTUIS 41 
 
 spoke up Mrs. Kemble, sharply ; " an', anyway, 
 th' neighbors 've done a hull lot f'r him. His 
 wife ain't one t' acknowledge it, an' never was, 
 an' I sh'd think y' 'd know her better." 
 
 "Well, there he lies with his leg broke," re 
 torted Miss Harvey, who was always in a state 
 of indignation with some one or something; 
 " an' how y' c'n talk o' th' Dorcas, with him lyin' 
 there, likely t' want, is more 'n I c'n see." 
 
 " Yes," assented Mr. Kemble, ironically ; "any 
 dead-beat ol' good-f r-nothin' 's better 'n Letty's 
 foolish s'ciety, ain't it, Sophrony! Y' '11 be 
 votin' f'r Garrett Coe next ; I guess he 's 'bout 
 th' ugliest-tempered brute in town, an' I hear 
 his front fence is out o' repair." 
 
 There was a general laugh at this, Miss Har 
 vey alone not relaxing her face. 
 
 " I would n't, neither," she asseverated. " An' 
 it doos seem t' me y' 've no call t' say sech things, 
 George. I 'm goin' t' talk t' Deac'n Bradbury 
 'bout Tom Henry, fust chance I git." 
 
 " All right," agreed her brother-in-law, cheer 
 fully; "an' Letty '11 see Lawyer Clark 'bout th' 
 Dorcas ; an' I '11 buttonhole Mr. Pickering 'bout 
 bestowin' th' money on me. We 'd ought t' do 
 somethin' with it, b'tween us all." 
 
 Miss Lorinda rose. They had all forgotten 
 so much as to mention the dead man. 
 
 " I must be movin' on. I only dropped in Fr 
 a minute t' see how y' all was ; " and she took
 
 42 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 her departure. It was half -past five, but being 
 in May was still full daylight. 
 
 " Goin' on supper-time," reflected Miss Park ; 
 " but I don' know 's I want t' go right back home 
 yit. Let 's see: who c'n I peek in on fr jest 
 a few minutes I " 
 
 She moved tentatively along the street, and 
 presently, seeing the postmaster standing at 
 the post-office door, crossed the street to him. 
 
 " Evenin', Miss Lorindy," he called out pleas 
 antly. " Come f 'r letters 1 There ain't any fr 
 ye this afternoon." 
 
 " No, I don' know 's I come f r thet, exac'ly ; 
 I was n't expectin' any. Hev y' heared " 
 
 " Hev y' heared th' news ? " he asked, unin 
 tentionally cutting in. " Old Sim Bo wen 's jest 
 died of p'ralysis, up at his place." 
 
 " How 'd you hear 1 " she asked, disappointed. 
 
 " I seen Tom Secor drivin' by pretty fast, an 
 hour or so ago. Harry Hayes said he turned 
 up th' Bowen road, past Wheeler's. Then, 
 awhile ago, Lawyer Clark an' Deac'n Bradbury 
 went by, with Mr. Pickering, an' they turned 
 up th' same way. So I jest sent Harry 'round 
 f Mr. Marshall's f ask." 
 
 Miss Park was thankful that there remained 
 yet more to tell, and she told it. 
 
 " Poor ol' Bowen ! " said sympathetic Mr. Lea- 
 vitt, his kindly, anxious face showing his sin 
 cerity of feeling. "Did n't know what f do
 
 DE MOKTUIS 43 
 
 with his money, eh I Well, he 'pears t' ' ve tried 
 t' do th' best he could. Makes y' feel kind o' 
 sorry f'r him, lonely an' all thet, don't it, eh?" 
 
 " Yes, it doos. I guess he 'd 've lived his life 
 diff'rent ef he hed it t' do over ag'in." 
 
 "We all would, f'r thet matter," said the 
 postmaster, with a slight sigh. "What does 
 Lawyer Clark say they '11 do with the money 1 " 
 
 " He don't know, so fur." 
 
 " Ef they 'd use it t' pay f'r a free d'livery," 
 ruminated Mr. Leavitt, " I don' know but it 'd 
 do more good t' most than in other ways. ]Jow- 
 ever, 't ain't f'r me t' say. Th' fund 's in good 
 hands. By th' way, there 's another piece o' 
 news. Burt Way 's a-goin' t' marry 'Vinie Coe." 
 
 " Thet ain't news," returned Miss Park, scorn 
 fully. " Leastways, I 've known it was comin' 
 f r a month or more ; an' so has others." 
 
 " Well, it 's out now. It '11 be a good thing 
 f r 'Vinie." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Might use th' money t' make 'em a weddin' 
 present ; " and Mr. Leavitt's eyes twinkled hu 
 morously. "Poor Sim Bo wen!" he added. 
 "Makes me feel real affected, somehow. We 
 never used t' see much of him down here ; he 
 never hed any letters an' never came nigh th' 
 office. Mebbe I 'd ought t' 've looked him up 
 more, an' thought kinder of him." 
 
 " Ef you did n't, there wa' n't much cause to,"
 
 44 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 remarked Miss Park, who liked Mr. Leavitt, as 
 did every one in Felton. " Anyway, it 's too 
 late now. Well, I must git home t' tea. Good 
 evenin'." 
 
 She passed on down the walk to her own little 
 home, where she stood for a moment thought 
 fully at the gate before going in. The sun was 
 dropping toward the horizon. The breeze had 
 subsided, and the wide street lay peaceful in the 
 brilliant western light. The sun's rays struck 
 gloriously on the fresh, new, living green of the 
 elms overhead, and irradiated the distant east 
 ern hills with parting splendor. New England 
 folk are perhaps little prone to dwell on the 
 beauties of sky and landscape arid nature's 
 myriad lavish displays ; yet Miss Lorinda was 
 vaguely touched. The dying day seemed trans 
 figured, as the memory of the dead man was 
 fast becoming. The dull metal of common 
 place morning and noon was burnished into 
 silver and gold. 
 
 " It is a pretty world," she said softly. " We 
 don't look f'r thet side often enough. Mebbe 
 it 's so with life itself." 
 
 She turned and went into the house.
 
 Ill 
 
 A WAITING POLICY 
 
 DURING- the weeks immediately following, 
 the three trustees and executors of Mr. 
 Bowen's last testament found themselves a more 
 marked center of interest than their modest 
 natures were accustomed to. The will was pro 
 bated, and the three duly qualified to discharge 
 their duties. No difficulty was found in dispos 
 ing of the farm property, for Hiram Wheeler 
 was the only offering purchaser, and he stood 
 stanchly by his previous offer, and took over 
 the farm for two thousand dollars, which he 
 paid in cash. This was deposited to the account 
 of the estate in the bank at Hingham, making 
 five thousand dollars in all, besides a little ac 
 crued interest. The old man's personal effects 
 were very scanty and of little value. The fur 
 niture, as directed, went with the house, and 
 what there was of clothing and other small items 
 had been explicitly bequeathed, at Mr. Clark's 
 suggestion, to Peter Merritt, who by his faith 
 ful and uncomplaining service, and his long 
 
 45
 
 46 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 endurance of his employer's whims and humors, 
 was assuredly entitled to this recompense. He 
 received, also, fifty dollars in cash, according to 
 the terms of the will. 
 
 Mr. Clark, Mr. Bradbury, and Mr. Pickering 
 had been unaware that there existed in Felton 
 so many meritorious objects of charity, so many 
 worthy societies and small philanthropic agen 
 cies, so many individually deserving poor, until 
 they entered upon their new trusteeship. Ap 
 plications came from all directions, and from 
 the most unexpected quarters. They came 
 variously in words of boldness or of modesty, 
 with confidence or with hesitation, directly or 
 by means of roundabout hints. The little local 
 charities pressed openly, and rightly enough so, 
 through their most prominent representatives. 
 The individual poor had friends in almost 
 embarrassing number, who, generally without 
 solicitation, presented their respective claims 
 with clearness and cogency. The lawyer found 
 it necessary to keep a little book in which he 
 carefully entered details of every application 
 as soon as made, reserving a space under each 
 for further particulars. The town council was 
 not unrepresented among the claimants, and 
 many public-spirited suggestions were made for 
 spending the money on such a public object as 
 would conduce to the good not of one or a few 
 but of all. Each of the trustees found his time
 
 A WAITING POLICY 47 
 
 perpetually and often seriously invaded. They 
 were subjected to buttonholing in the street or 
 in the stores, to domiciliary visits, to invasions 
 respectively of their law, farm and business 
 work. Mr. Pickering, a well-to-do quarry- 
 owner, who was frequently compelled to be 
 absent from Felton for long or short periods 
 on business, suffered the least in this respect, 
 though he was by no means unmolested. It is 
 scarcely the truth, perhaps, to say that any of 
 them suffered; for they were all men of large 
 forbearance, with a way of taking life as easily 
 as was practicable, and of not setting that wor 
 rying, disproportionate value on detached por 
 tions of time which has become an increasing 
 characteristic not only of urban but of rural 
 populations. They were each blessed, besides, 
 with a tolerably large and appreciative sense of 
 humor, and this threw a saving light on many 
 of the applications and interviews, and appre 
 ciably lessened the exactions of the situation. 
 
 Yet among all the suggestions made, none of 
 them unworthy and most of them undeniably 
 the reverse, the three men found not one which 
 seemed adequately to fit the demands of the 
 case. Each of the few indigent families known 
 in the town seemed far more likely to be de 
 moralized than benefited by the sudden recep 
 tion of such a sum as that at the trustees' 
 disposal. In an evenly prosperous Vermont
 
 48 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 village in the seventies, continued or chronic 
 indigence was usually traceable to continued or 
 chronic fault or incapacity, and was such as to 
 be much more wisely relieved or regulated by 
 occasional private benefaction than by a sudden 
 access of comparative wealth. There were 
 several deserving widows in the town, but all, 
 save one or two, were sufficiently, if not amply, 
 provided for, and the exceptions were never 
 allowed seriously to want. The executors could 
 not feel that they would be serving the real 
 purposes of their trust by turning over the 
 bank-account to any one of these. The indi 
 visibility of the account was a particular source 
 of difficulty. Had it been permitted to break 
 up the legacy into several smaller sums, there 
 would have been little trouble; for the three 
 knew the needs of the townspeople fairly well, 
 and in so far as they had been ignorant they 
 had been kept fully informed since their ap 
 pointment as trustees. 
 
 In the matter of local charitable and other 
 organizations they experienced similar diffi 
 culty. Each was good; but in the first place, 
 none was preponderatingly so, and in the sec 
 ond place, each was already kept fairly well 
 equipped with the small funds needed for its 
 particular work. The committee reasoned that 
 such an endowment given to any selected one 
 among them would not only foment local jeal-
 
 A WAITING POLICY 49 
 
 ousies, but would simply allow to be retained in 
 private pockets the subscriptions which would 
 otherwise be forthcoming. Each project sub 
 mitted was repeatedly and conscientiously can 
 vassed, but no conclusion emerged so clearly as 
 to justify assured action. 
 
 These, be it understood, were merely the com 
 mittee's own convictions. They may not have 
 been unimpeachably wise and right ; they may 
 have been based on an underestimate of various 
 elements of worth. They were, however, the 
 reasonings of men unquestionably as honest 
 and careful as could be found in any New Eng 
 land or other community; and they were 
 strengthened by the fact that the townspeople 
 themselves were hopelessly disunited in their 
 advisory verdict. There was no guiding pre 
 ponderance of view with respect to any one use 
 for the fund, which might serve to show the set 
 of popular decision, and thus perhaps aid the 
 executors. The conflict of factions, though 
 friendly and void of rancor, became, in fact, 
 rather more than less strong with the lapse of 
 the weeks. And meanwhile the three trustees, 
 with the best will in the world, did nothing. 
 However, they were comfortably aware that 
 there was time remaining as well as interest 
 accumulating. 
 
 "Mr. Clark," said Mr. Bradbury, one day, 
 meeting him, " let 's you an' I go 'round t' Miss
 
 50 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Jewett's an' see what she thinks 'bout all this. 
 I hev n't thought t' ask her when we 've met, an' 
 she ain't one t' volunteer opinions unless she 's 
 asked." 
 
 " Good idea," said the lawyer, readily. " We 
 can step around now, if you like." 
 
 Miss Jewett was at home, having just finished 
 a rather unusual colloquy with her faithful 
 " help," Ann Mead. Ann, who rarely ventured 
 out of her own domain, the little kitchen, had 
 donned a clean apron, and with some unwonted 
 trepidation had approached Miss Jewett, who 
 was knitting in the " middle room." 
 
 "What is it, Ann?" inquired the other, in 
 some surprise. "Anything wrong with the 
 baking?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it ; it 's come out splendid. I 
 wanted t' t' speak 'bout another little matter, 
 Miss Jewett." 
 
 The latter wondered what it could be, but 
 held her peace and waited for Ann to speak. 
 
 Ann Mead, who was a strongly built and not 
 uncomely woman of something less than middle 
 age, hesitated uneasily before speaking. 
 
 " It 's 'bout Peter Merritt, y' see," she began 
 bluntly, at length. 
 
 "Peter Merritt?" 
 
 " Yes. He 's asked me ef I 'd keep comp'ny 
 with him." 
 
 " Peter Merritt ! Why, Ann, how surprising ! "
 
 A WAITING POLICY 51 
 
 " I don' know 's it 's so very surprisin','' re 
 turned the other, bridling a little. 
 
 "Oh, I did n't mean that way," said Miss 
 Jewett, hastily, perceiving her error. " I mean, 
 I did n't know Peter thought of marrying." 
 
 " He 's got fifty dollars now, b'sides a lot o' 
 clo'es an' things of ol' Mr. Bowen's; an' I 've 
 got a little money saved up myself; an' he 
 thought we c'd git a small place somewheres at 
 th' edge o' town, mebbe thet empty Robinson 
 cottage, an' make a good start t'gether." 
 
 Miss Jewett was still in a state of astonish 
 ment at the mere idea of her sober, rather ma 
 ture help " taking up " with well-meaning but 
 shambling Peter Merritt; but she prudently 
 withheld further expressions of surprise, and 
 quietly asked: 
 
 "What did you tell him!" 
 
 " Oh, I put him off. I hed t' know what you 
 thought about it." 
 
 " If you mean about my being unwilling to 
 have you leave me, Ann, or anything like that, 
 why, you know of course I would n't stand in 
 your light for a minute." 
 
 " No, I know thet, Miss Jewett ; an' thank ye, 
 too. But what what d' y' think o' th' idee I " 
 
 Miss Jewett paused a moment. 
 
 " Do you want I should say just what I think, 
 Ann I " she asked. " Because if I say at all, I 
 have to do that ; it 's my way."
 
 62 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Oh, I want thet, Miss Jewett." 
 
 Miss Jewett looked directly, kindly, steadily 
 into the other's eyes. After a pause, she said 
 slowly, almost solemnly : 
 
 " I believe in marriage, Ann. I believe it was 
 divinely ordained and is daily blessed. There 's 
 nothing sweeter or more precious on this earth." 
 
 She was silent an instant, then went on : 
 
 "I was near once to having it. We failed of 
 it through through Providence, with no fault 
 or blame on either side. It 's long past now, 
 but I like to live with the memory. You 
 must n't ever speak of this, Ann, for it 's not 
 for people to know and talk over. But I 'm 
 willing you should know of it now, so as you 
 can see that I know how to value what you 
 speak of." 
 
 " Yes, 'm," said the other, touched and at 
 tentive. 
 
 "But unless it 's a true marriage, it 's an 
 untrue one; unless it 's a happy one, it 's an 
 unhappy one ; unless it 's a fit one, it 's an unfit 
 one. That 's my observation, and I 've been 
 observing all my life." 
 
 " I calc'late thet 's so, Miss Jewett." 
 
 "It is so, Ann. And I never was one who 
 believed it was every woman's destiny. If a 
 woman does n't marry, it does n't always fol 
 low that she 's missed the best of life, not a 
 bit of it."
 
 A WAITING POLICY 53 
 
 Miss Jewett spoke with energy, adding : 
 
 " I can say this freely enough, because I feel 
 that I did miss the best of it. But there are lots 
 of women who are safer and happier single, no 
 matter who wants them. And there are others 
 who never may meet a man really adapted to 
 them or suited to make them happy, the way 
 true marriage ought to ; and I think they 're 
 better single, too." 
 
 " How 's a body to tell?" objected the help. 
 
 "You can't, always. Perhaps you can't al 
 most ever. There 's an l unknown quantity ' in 
 everything. The more need for caution, say 
 I ; not the less need." 
 
 " Well, 'bout Peter an' me, f'r instance 1 " 
 
 " Sometimes an outsider can see better than 
 an insider," Miss Jewett rejoined. " You said 
 for me to say just what I think. I think you '11 
 be vastly happier single than with Peter 
 Merritt." 
 
 Ann was not offended, on the contrary, she 
 seemed rather relieved; but she naturally in 
 quired : 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Peter and you have n't a thing in common. 
 Peter means well, and is true and honest and 
 all that; but he has n't the qualities of a hus 
 band for a careful, independent, thrifty person 
 like you. I would n't abuse Peter for the world, 
 and I like him in his way; but you could n't
 
 54 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 possibly picture him as the head of a household, 
 say of your household. And fifty dollars is n't 
 really enough to set up housekeeping on." 
 
 " There 's more." 
 
 "Not enough more, certainly not enough 
 with an easy-going lad like Peter. I call him 
 a lad, for he does seem like one, really." 
 
 " Peter 's twenty-eight, he told me." 
 
 "And you 're ten years older. I think the 
 fact is, Ann, that you don't care for Peter in 
 reality, not in that way ; and I don't believe he 
 has the nature really to care for you. But I 
 suppose the thought of marrying comes to every 
 one in a lifetime at least once; generally a 
 good deal oftener, I dare say. And Peter got 
 to toying with the idea of a home and a wife, 
 the minute he got his little windfall." 
 
 Miss Jewett was not attempting to turn the 
 other's thoughts decisively by one single dis 
 cussion, but merely to put before her certain 
 grave things to consider, knowing that earnest, 
 careful-thinking Ann would give them full con 
 sideration. Her "help" had originally been 
 taken from a foundling asylum, of course in 
 the days before Miss Jewett kept single house, 
 and she had never known any other condition 
 than this of household assistant. But such a 
 position, in a New England town like Felton, 
 was one in which the feeling of dependence or 
 servitorship bore very lightly, and was often in
 
 A WAITING POLICY 65 
 
 great part supplanted by that of companion 
 ship. Ann never transgressed the limits of her 
 "place," but that place had for two decades 
 brought her into a certain friendly contact with 
 those whom she " helped," such as to foster a 
 self-respecting personality, and to cultivate and 
 encourage in her the traits which she admired 
 in them. The old New England system of " help " 
 was one that might be, and sometimes was, 
 woefully abused in the underpayment and over 
 driving of awkward, self-defenseless girls who 
 were virtually remediless apprentices; but it 
 was also capable of producing very good re 
 sults, and in such cases did as much toward 
 wisely and helpfully solving the always diffi 
 cult problem of domestic service as any method 
 yet devised. 
 
 Mistress and maid (if the terms are justly 
 applicable) talked a little further regarding 
 Peter's marriage proposition, and Ann returned 
 to the kitchen to think over the other's views 
 at leisure. 
 
 Miss Jewett sat and ruminated after the 
 other had gone. 
 
 "'Marrying and giving in marriage,'" she 
 mused. " How the thought goes everywhere ! 
 A life alone seems a life aloof. Is it, I wonder ? 
 Why need it be ! Yet here 's my sensible Ann 
 willing to seriously consider taking up with a 
 poor, vacant lout of a boy like Peter Merritt.
 
 56 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 And there 's Peter fancying lie wants Ann, 
 who 's more like his mother than his wife, and 
 who 'd be stirring up his shiftless ways in a 
 manner to make him long even for old Bowen 
 before a year 's out." 
 
 Her knitting lay neglected in her lap, and her 
 thoughts wandered back to another and more 
 personal theme, while her face slowly grew 
 sad. 
 
 It was at this time that Mr. Clark and Mr. 
 Bradbury approached the house. Ann let them 
 into the little parlor, and Miss Jewett, entering, 
 greeted them with composure and cordiality. 
 
 " I s'pose y' 're s'prised t' see us payin' a reg'- 
 lar call this way," began Mr. Bradbury, with a 
 twinkle in his eye. 
 
 "I don't mind being surprised once in a while," 
 smiled their hostess. 
 
 " We jest thought we 'd drop in an' talk with 
 ye a leetle 'bout this money we 've got t' dis 
 pose of." 
 
 Miss Jewett listened sympathetically, and Mr. 
 Bradbury unfolded their perplexities, the lawyer 
 adding an occasional word. 
 
 " Of course you knew it pretty much all 
 before, Miss Jewett," added Mr. Clark. 
 
 " Yes, I knew you had a good many alterna 
 tives. I suppose it 's natural. It must be hard 
 to know what 's best, as you say." 
 
 " The reason we thought we 'd come and talk
 
 A WAITING POLICY 57 
 
 with you," said Mr. Clark, " is because you 're 
 about the only person who has n't come to talk 
 with us. And, besides, I think all of us set a 
 good deal of store by your views. We want to 
 get all the light we can." 
 
 "That 's very natural; but I 'm afraid I 
 have n't any views that would be of special 
 help." 
 
 " Well, ef y' hev any at all, we '11 add 'em t' 
 our collection," remarked Mr. Bradbury, humor 
 ously ; " an' give 'em a place of honor, too." 
 
 " Thank you," she said, with mock gravity ; 
 " but if I have any views they 're chiefly nega 
 tive ones." 
 
 "How d' y' mean?" 
 
 " If you ask me, I 'd simply advise waiting." 
 
 "Waitin', eh?" 
 
 " Yes. You have plenty of time. Now some 
 things I believe in working out and settling; 
 but other things, I find, are very apt to settle 
 themselves if you let 'em alone." 
 
 " How 're y' goin' t' know which is which ? " 
 
 " If we knew that, we 'd know a good deal 
 more about life than we do. Of course it 's 
 principally guesswork. I was only giving my 
 guess, that this is one of the things that can 
 be let alone for a while." 
 
 "What makes you think so?" asked Mr. 
 Clark. 
 
 "Nothing particular. It is n't a presenti-
 
 68 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 ment, for I never have any. It 's just my sense 
 of it." 
 
 " Your sense is gen'rally common sense," re 
 marked the deacon. "As it happens, we 've 
 been comin' t' think 'bout th' same way our 
 selves." 
 
 "I 've only the view of an outsider," Miss 
 Jewett said. " But if you ask me, I should say, 
 leave it to take care of itself for the present. 
 If it does n't, later on, then you can figure over 
 it some more. There 's a lot gained, sometimes, 
 by knowing when not to prod a thing or a 
 person, either." 
 
 " I think that 's so, Miss Jewett," agreed the 
 lawyer. " Things happen." 
 
 "Things are always happening," returned 
 Miss Jewett, with emphasis. "You take this 
 quiet little town, and count back on the things 
 that have happened in it, say just within a year, 
 not to speak of the long years you and I and all 
 of us have known it. There 's a dozen histories 
 that could be written every twelve months right 
 on this main street of Felton. Yes, and they 'd 
 make as good reading and teach full as much 
 as any history in the village library, if we only 
 knew how to write 'em and how to study 'em. 
 And there 's history ahead, the same as behind." 
 
 Mr. Clark was singularly struck with this 
 novel summarizing of their village life, and felt 
 its truth instantly.
 
 A WAITING POLICY 59 
 
 " Things do happen here, when y' think of it," 
 remarked Mr. Bradbury, who had been mentally 
 running over village chronicles since Miss Jew- 
 ett had spoken. 
 
 "Yes," assented she; "it 's a world of hap 
 penings ; and every place, little or big, gets its 
 share."
 
 IV 
 
 THE TOILERS 
 
 COE'S farmstead was rather 
 unfavorably situated on a northerly slope 
 of ground a little to the south of the main vil 
 lage. It yielded a living, but only through 
 hard and unremitting work. Such work forti 
 fies and fructifies some natures ; others it slowly 
 renders harder and harsher. The latter was the 
 case with Garrett Coe. A man of forty-five, 
 his firm, fixed face showed lines that were not 
 agreeable. The wiry, square-trimmed, iron- 
 gray beard, the square shoulders, the strongly 
 set frame of medium height, all corroborated, 
 in their several ways, the testimony of the face. 
 His wife realized but dimly the increasingly 
 dominating characteristics of the man. He had 
 been other and better in the earlier days, an 
 ardent wooer, a tender if imperious lover, an 
 attentive young husband ; and she still mechani 
 cally imputed to him these qualities of his 
 former years. She herself had sprung from 
 kindlier stock, with slowly roused initiative, 
 
 60
 
 THE TOILEES 61 
 
 though with unguessed capacity for action. 
 Harshness in her family had been little known, 
 and, as appearing in her husband, was even 
 now excused or scarcely confessed as such. 
 
 It was a strainful, stressful life. Through 
 winter's cold and summer's heat the sheer labor 
 of living took their time and engrossed their 
 energies. Coe kept no indoor help, and his wife 
 and daughter lived the hard life of the Plymouth 
 and Puritan housewives of earlier generations, 
 a life common still to so many of those house 
 wives' descendants who get their living from 
 the same soil. The burden was a grievous one, 
 not easy to be borne, and it had told on Mrs. 
 Coe. 
 
 It was near the end of August. Garrett Coe, 
 with his summer-hired farm-hand, stamped in 
 from the fields, and plunged his hands and 
 wrists, and then his blazing face, in the deep 
 tin wash-basin that stood in the kitchen sink. 
 Mrs. Coe, her face equally blazing from the heat 
 of the stove, was anxiously watching the bub 
 bling of a " boiled dinner," stopping frequently 
 to note the progress, in another covered pot, 
 of some boiling ears of late corn. Fair-faced 
 'Vinie, graceful in her simple pink calico house- 
 dress, had already set the larger kitchen table 
 with cloth and plates. One of the two sturdy 
 younger boys came staggering in with a 
 pailful of drinking-water, drawn from the well
 
 62 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 outside by means of the long sweep that over 
 hung it. The other was sitting on the back step 
 in the sun, whittling on a small boat. 
 
 The farmer reached for the hand-towel, while 
 the other man took a turn at the basin with 
 some fresh water. 
 
 "Found some o' th' fruit-tree props down 
 ag'in this mornin', an' th' branches hangin' 
 heavy," said Coe, savagely, to his wife. " Thet 's 
 the second time ; an' ef I ketch th' boys thet did 
 it, I '11 lick 'em so hard they won't do it a third 
 time." 
 
 "The wind blew pretty strong las' night, y' 
 know," she reminded him. 
 
 "Pshaw! Wind would n't blow 'em down. 
 I tell ye 't was boys, some boys or other. 
 You wait till I find out who." 
 
 "Did y' bring in them berries fr dinner, 
 Garrett?" 
 
 "No," irritably returned Coe, who had for 
 gotten them. " Sol an' I 've got other things t' 
 do, these days, b'sides pickin' berries." 
 
 " Y' said y' would, 'cause y' wanted th' boys 
 t r stay here an' stack up thet wood in th' shed. 
 They 've been at it all th' mornin'." 
 
 "Why did n't y' send 'em afterward, then? 
 They 've got t' do a share, seems t' me, now thet 
 school ain't runnin'. Here, Garrie ! "to the boy 
 whittling," you take thet pail an'bring in some 
 ras'berries an' blackcaps ; d' y' hear ? "
 
 THE TOILERS 63 
 
 " Oh, pa ! w remonstrated his wife. " It '11 take 
 him half an hour, an' we 're jest dishin' dinner." 
 
 " Well, what of it ! 'T won't hurt him t' be a 
 little late. I want some dessert, ef you don't." 
 
 " But he '11 come in all hot an' tired, an' Gar- 
 rie ain't been jest well, y' know." 
 
 " Ain't I come in hot an' tired ? Don't I hev 
 t' come in hot an' tired every day? 'T won't 
 hurt th' boy. You go, now ! " to the latter, 
 " an' don't stan' there gapin'." 
 
 Garrie, who had stood divided between fear 
 and hope, departed reluctantly with pail in 
 hand, and his mother, with a sigh, turned again 
 to the stove to serve up the simmering meal. 
 
 "Everything went wrong t'-day," declared 
 Coe, flinging himself into a chair. He began 
 peevishly to narrate one incident after another, 
 little noticing or caring that the mere recital 
 seemed to act on weary Mrs. Coe's nerves al 
 most as tryingly as the happening of the actual 
 things themselves would have done. She had 
 enough of her own work and worries ; but her 
 husband never spared her his, making each 
 meeting for meals an opportunity for marshal 
 ing every annoyance and set-back of the day's 
 work. He scarcely seemed to derive even a 
 surly satisfaction from this, his grievances 
 rather increasing as he dwelt on them ; yet his 
 talk was rarely of anything else, unless it were 
 a growl or complaint against a neighbor. Coe
 
 64 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 was a good hater. His wife did not realize how 
 this incessant and nagging outcry dispirited and 
 told on her ; she did not consciously formulate 
 her dread of it ; yet, none the less, it added re 
 morselessly and immeasurably to her own daily 
 burdens. A trouble shared is a trouble halved ; 
 but a worry shared is often only a worry 
 doubled. A woman, in particular, cannot di 
 vest herself of the impulse of sympathy, even 
 when she deliberately tries to, which it never 
 occurred to poor Mrs. Coe to do. So she found 
 herself facing the daily recital, each time with 
 new outgiving of the precious and diminishing 
 capital stock of composure and endurance with 
 which she had, so many years before, started on 
 her untried married life. 
 
 At the conclusion of the meal, after little 
 Grarrie had come back with a rather unsuccess 
 ful half-pail of hastily picked berries, Mr. Coe 
 found himself more discomposed and out of 
 sorts than before. The farm-hand had eaten in 
 stolid silence; Mrs. Coe fragmentarily and by 
 piecemeal, since much of her attention was al 
 ways distracted by the helping and overseeing 
 of the meal. 
 
 " No sugar on th' table," grumbled the farmer. 
 " I wish you or 'Vinie 'd 'tend t' things properly." 
 The girl rose silently and got the sugar. " As 
 I was sayin', it 's all Hayes's fault. He lives 
 clus in town, an' thinks he c'n run this piece o'
 
 THE TOILEES 65 
 
 farm-land o' his, next t' mine, without ever 
 comin' up t' look it over more 'n onct a day. 
 An' with Harry an' Cheever, too, strappin' 
 young fellers thet 'd ought t' take holt an' git 
 t' work ruther 'n set 'raound an' clerk it in th' 
 post-office or studyin' law. He puts on airs, ol' 
 man Hayes does: thinks he '11 put his sons a 
 leetle higher. He 's jest got t' keep his fences 
 mended, though, an' his critters off my land, or 
 they '11 go off hurt." 
 
 " I thought I heared say he kep' his farm up 
 pretty well," returned Mrs. Coe, whom her hus 
 band always required to "answer up" to his 
 tirades, under charge of " sulkin' off." 
 
 "Well, he don't. Nobody in Felton does. 
 They don't none of 'em know shucks 'bout 
 farmin', compared t' what it 's said folks used 
 to in th' ol' times. Th' town 's goin' down, 
 thet 's what it is, an' th' people in it. I heared 
 this mornin' thet Charlie Bradbury 'd run away, 
 an' taken a lot o' post-office money." 
 
 Mrs. Coe was roused, for once, into eager 
 astonishment at the tidings. 
 
 -"No! Don't tell!" she ejaculated. "How 
 ridic'lous ! What yarns people spin ! " 
 
 "I don' know 's it 's ridic'lous," said her hus 
 band, sharply. " He 's gone, sure 'nough. An' 
 I dare say th' rest 's true." 
 
 "'T ain't possible, no way," she affirmed. 
 " Why did n't y' tell me b'fore ? "
 
 66 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Coe had been wanting to speak of it sooner, 
 yet had held it back from a kind of tempera 
 mental unwillingness to afford his wife or 
 any one else the natural interest in a bit of 
 news or other fact. He was not affirmatively 
 cruel, but of late years he was always nega 
 tively so. 
 
 The wife forgot, for the moment, her round 
 of clearing up while she pressed for details ; but 
 the farmer either could not or would not gratify 
 her curiosity, and, lighting his pipe, gruffly 
 bade her get on with the work and not leave 
 table-things lying over. Mrs. Coe acquiesced, 
 rebuffed, and it was not long before her hus 
 band was engaged on his favorite theme of vitu 
 peration, Mr. Reed. Mr. Eeed had once got the 
 better of him in a pretty sharp though legally 
 just money transaction, and still held a small 
 mortgage on the farm in consequence. The 
 storekeeper was not loved by many in town, but 
 G-arrett Coe's hatred of him exceeded immea 
 surably the passive, mechanical, hardly con 
 scious dislike felt by the average villager. Coe 
 never lost an opportunity of expressing it, and 
 made opportunities when none offered. The 
 farm-hand had tramped out to his work. 'Vinie 
 was aiding her mother in clearing up the dishes. 
 
 " I told ye," Coe was snarling, " I did n't want 
 ye t' send in t' Reed's store f 'r any thin'. There 's 
 other stores in town. An' yit Garrie was tellin'
 
 THE TOILERS 67 
 
 me, this mornin', thet he was in there yest'rday 
 t' buy a rollin'-pin." 
 
 " He tried every other store first," explained 
 Mrs. Coe, " and he knew I needed it right away." 
 
 " Y' 'd ought t' 've got along without it fust. 
 What we hev t' git at Reed's, we '11 make our 
 selves, or do without. We ain't got money t' 
 spend on rollin'-pins, anyway." 
 
 " I had t' hev one," she repeated ; " an' 't was 
 only fifteen cents." 
 
 " I '11 warrant Reed made ten on it. He 's the 
 hard-fistedest man in town, an' his little laughin' 
 hyena of a partner, Kemble, 's another like him. 
 I hate th' sight of 'em both." 
 
 Mrs. Coe was long ago weary of this topic, 
 and did not respond. Resolved to force a reply, 
 her husband went on : 
 
 " Reed 's th' kind o' man thet ought n't t' be 
 let live or prosper. I hear all his money 's in 
 thet store business, an' it 'd suit me mighty well 
 t' see th' ol' shell burn down. An' fust thing y' 
 know, I '11 burn it fur him ! " 
 
 " Why, Garrett ! " cried his startled wife, 
 jarred into speech. "How can y' talk so? I 
 think it 's almost wicked t' say sech things." 
 
 " Wicked, is it ? Well, mebbe it 's . no 
 wickeder to do 'em, then. I 'm good f'r this 
 one. You see ! Pass me a drink out o' th' 
 dipper, will ye?" 
 
 'Vinie did so. Her father rose.
 
 68 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " S'pose I 've got t' git t' work ag'in," lie said 
 discontentedly. " Work, work, work ! Remem 
 ber thet smooth-faced French feller I took on 
 f r a week or so last summer 1 " 
 
 "Th' one y' kicked off th' place afterward!" 
 
 "Yes; I caught him drinkin' th' milkin' or 
 somethin'. But I was wishin' I hed him on ag'in 
 now. He was a smart worker." 
 
 " He '11 never come back after th' kickin' y' 
 gave him." 
 
 " No, I reckon not. Gee, how furious he got ! 
 Turned 'most black." Coe laughed harshly. 
 " Said he 'd git even with me ef it took a year. 
 Bluster, of course. F'rgot it nex' day, likely. 
 Those furriners hain't got much sperrit." 
 
 "He was a performer or somethin', was n't 
 he ? " asked Mrs. Coe, absently, busied with set 
 ting out the materials for doughnut-making. 
 
 "Yes; out o' work, he said, or out o' luck. 
 Smart worker, though. Ef we 'd hed him last 
 week, we 'd 've got th' hay in b'fore thet rain 
 came. My luck, I s'pose." 
 
 He stalked moodily toward the door, impa 
 tiently spurning with his boot the thin, frayed, 
 rag-carpet mat which lay on the floor and which 
 his heavy foot encountered as he passed. 
 
 " We 're goin' t' pick fruit f'r preserving" he 
 said, " an' I want y' t' do up all we c'n fetch ye 
 an' git it out o' th' way. I hate t' hev it 
 stewin' 'raound day after day. We an' th'
 
 THE TOILERS 69 
 
 boys '11 bring y' in plenty this afternoon an 7 
 early mornin'." 
 
 "All right," assented his wife, with a long 
 breath, and the farmer passed out into the sun 
 light, carrying his hates and grumblings with 
 him. 
 
 The mother's thoughts slipped successively, 
 half-auto matically, from one topic to another as 
 the kitchen work went on. Presently she said : 
 
 " Burt comin' 'round this evenin', 'Vinie ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the girl. 
 
 " He 's pretty reg'lar," observed Mrs. Coe, ap 
 provingly. " Guess there 's no doubt thet he 
 keers a lot f r ye. I 'most wish y' 'd hurry up 
 an' git married, 'Vinie." 
 
 " Why, ma ? " she asked timidly. 
 
 "'Cause well, things is kind o' hard fr ye 
 here. There 's a deal t' do an' no let up, an' y' 
 never was over-strong, y' know." 
 
 " I suppose there '11 be just as much to do for 
 Burt," said 'Vinie, with a queer little, ungirlish, 
 pathetic apprehensiveness. 
 
 Her mother started slightly. 
 
 " Oh, I guess not," she said quickly. " I sh'd 
 hope not, I 'm sure. Seems as ef it '11 be difiP- 
 rent with you, somehow." 
 
 "Yes," assented 'Vinie, but whether doubt- 
 in gly or merely listlessly her mother could not 
 tell. 
 
 " Burt 's a big, strong fellow," went on Mrs.
 
 70 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Coe, cheerfully, " an' he '11 take good keer o' ye. 
 His father 's given him a good piece o' land t' 
 start with, an' he 's built thet nice little house, 
 an' ye '11 find it '11 all be reel easy. Y' don't 
 seem t' git no rest here, an' it worrits me." 
 
 " As much as you do, ma." 
 
 " Oh, thet ain't th' same thing-- I 've got t' 
 work, of course. It 's jest plain, straight dooty. 
 But I don't want you should, not so much, 
 anyway." 
 
 " 'T is n't th' work," spoke the girl, who had 
 many flitting thoughts to which she rarely gave 
 utterance. " Seems as if there was worse than 
 work in life sometimes." 
 
 " Mebbe there is," agreed Mrs. Coe, vaguely, 
 her attention being centered for the moment on 
 measuring certain cupfuls of flour. "Yes, I 
 don't s'pose I'd ought t' complain." 
 
 " You ? Oh, dear, dear mamma ! " 'Yinie sud 
 denly burst into tears, she could not have told 
 why. Dropping her polishing-cloth, she darted 
 impetuously toward her mother, and seizing the 
 tired face between her two hands, kissed it once 
 and repeatedly, then strained the other's form 
 to her in a sudden tumult of daughterly love 
 and womanly sympathy. " As if I meant that ! 
 Oh ! " She choked again, and then stood gazing 
 into the older woman's eyes, her own swimming 
 with tears and affection. 
 
 "Why, 'Vinie! What 's got holt o' ye?"
 
 THE TOILERS 71 
 
 queried her mother, strangely touched yet 
 uncomprehending. " There, there !" She gen 
 tly disengaged herself. "We hed n't ought 
 t' be keepin' th' work back. I 've got mendin' 
 t' do afterward, thet y'r father '11 be wan tin'." 
 She kissed 'Viuie, who still drew little sobbing 
 breaths at intervals. " There ! I can't think 
 what took ye." And with an unexpected little 
 sigh of her own, Mrs. Coe addressed herself to 
 twisting strips of dough into doughnut-shape 
 for frying; while 'Vinie, fuller of unanalyzed 
 emotions than she had ever known herself to 
 be, fled for a few niched minutes to her little 
 room up-stairs, and had a good, unreasonable 
 cry.
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 
 
 A FTER supper that evening, Garrett Coe took 
 /"\ his hat and went off down-town, osten 
 sibly to ask for letters at the post-office, but in 
 reality to hear more of the day's gossip regard 
 ing Charlie Bradbury. The post-office, on a 
 summer evening after tea, was a sure center of 
 village news. The postmaster was not com 
 pelled to open it in the evening, and in bad 
 weather and in winter did not ; but he cheerfully 
 complied with the long-standing local custom to 
 open its doors from seven till eight, when the 
 days and seasons permitted. 
 
 Coe shouldered his way in through people 
 grouped near the doorway and within, and 
 ascertained, as he expected, that there was no 
 thing for him at the wicket. Then he stood 
 about, harkening to the undercurrent of talk, 
 and now and then taking positive and rather 
 vehement sides with those who affirmed that 
 young Bradbury was guilty of the theft ru 
 mored against him. Mrs. Kemble and her 
 
 72
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 73 
 
 sister Miss Harvey had strolled bareheaded 
 down the street to the post-office with the same 
 object of gathering news and disseminating 
 views; and Coe fonnd a strong ally in Miss 
 Harvey. 
 
 " There ain't no doubt on 't, t' my mind," she 
 declared. " Anybody c'd 've seen 't was in th' 
 boy. What I can't see is how Postmaster 
 Leavitt" she lowered her voice " hed n't any 
 more sense than t' take him on here." 
 
 "Thet 's so," corroborated Coe, harshly. 
 
 " Well," winked Mr. Kemble, who had come 
 up, " anybody '11 do f'r Uncle Sam." 
 
 " Thet ain't so," indignantly replied his sister- 
 in-law, who nearly always took him seriously. 
 " I 'd like t' know who 'd ought t' be honest ef 
 not them thet handles our letters. I call it jest 
 a burnin' shame thet any one" 
 
 "Why, now, Miss Harvey," came from an 
 other voice behind the group, a voice so 
 kindly, so mellow, so deep and rich, as to com 
 pel attention, as it always did, " ain't y' goin' 
 a leetle too fast ? F'r y' know we 've reelly got 
 t' be sure b'fore we c'n condemn." 
 
 It was Hiram Wheeler who spoke. A big- 
 framed, big-souled farmer, with a circular white 
 fringe of beard under a fine, round, russet face 
 that glowed as beneficent as the harvest sun, it 
 was a benediction, a summons to cheerfulness 
 and charity and largeness of j udgment, merely
 
 74 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 to look at him. Few in Felton really gauged 
 the quiet, controlling, imperceptible influence 
 for good that emanated from Hiram Wheeler 
 and his wife and the rather few others such as 
 he in the narrowed community. His gentle 
 ness did not preclude power ; for at rare times 
 men had seen his blue eyes flash with sudden 
 lightning of righteous anger, and he had even 
 put forth his great strength in one or two past 
 emergencies calling for manly action. Nor did 
 it imply a smooth and untroubled life; for, 
 though successful, his life, as was known to all 
 his neighbors, had not been without its hard 
 and anxious work and its poignant griefs. 
 But these things had left him or made him 
 the man he now was. 
 
 " We 're sure enough, I guess," Miss Harvey 
 answered, with tartness oddly mingling with a 
 certain respect. 
 
 " Well, now, it don't seem so t' me. What 've 
 we got t' go on? Nothin' but this," and Mr. 
 Wheeler went into the matter at some length 
 and with undeniable acumen. " I allers b'lieve 
 in jedgin' easy," he finished. 
 
 " A body c'n carry thet too fur," asserted the 
 unconvinced Miss Harvey, rebelliously. 
 
 " Yes, they kin," declared Garrett Coe. 
 " " I don't think so. I 'd ruther be wrong ten 
 times in thinkin' a man good than once in 
 thinkin' him bad."
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 75 
 
 " Y' '11 git cheated right an' left on thet view," 
 remarked Mrs. Kemble; and her husband 
 nodded assent, ruefully slapping his pocket with 
 the air of one who had suffered by experience. 
 
 " I can't say 's I 've been," rejoined the hearty 
 old farmer. "I 've never hed a hand go back 
 on me yit, thet I know of; nor hook a dollar 
 n'r an ear o' corn ; an' I guess I hev n't ended 
 up wuss in life because I 've been trustin'." 
 
 " No ; you 've ended up better," rang in the 
 clear, genial voice of Mr. Clark, who had come 
 in. " You 'd 've ended up better, just the same, 
 even if you 'd ended up worse, if that makes 
 the sense I mean. I 've often said that Mr. 
 Marshall could save a sermon, some Sunday 
 when he 's behind, by just getting you up in 
 the pulpit and pointing to you." 
 
 " There, now, Sam Clark," laughed the other, 
 as they shook hands, " don't you palaver me 
 as ef I was a jury. What does it amount to, 
 t' try an' think well o' y'r fellow-men ! " 
 
 ''Everything," returned the lawyer, with 
 energetic earnestness. He glanced around the 
 circle. " I 'm getting to believe it 's the begin 
 ning of the moral law." 
 
 " Huh ! " sneered Coe, with little-concealed 
 dissent ; and Miss Harvey gave an open sniff. 
 
 " Well," remarked Mr. Kemble, " I wish I c'd 
 c'llect some debts our firm has by thinkin' well 
 o' th' persons thet owe 'em."
 
 76 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Mebbe y' 've never tried," interjected Hiram 
 .Wheeler, slyly. 
 
 " It don't work in business." 
 
 "It don't work anywhere," supplemented 
 Coe, tersely. 
 
 Mr. Wheeler looked at him slowly, with a 
 chasing shadow of indignation on his face. 
 
 "I 'm not sure thet th' other way allers 
 works any better," he rejoined meaningly. 
 " Poor Mrs. Bradbury ! " he added, with an 
 instant return to himself, " an' th' deac'n, an' 
 th' girls, too ! I hope they won't hear all th' 
 town talk. It 's hard enough t' hev their boy 
 go fr'm home, no matter f r what reason." 
 
 "I jedge likely they '11 hear fast enough," 
 blithely said Mr. Kemble, as the little knot 
 broke up. " Town talk creeps in like like " 
 
 " Red ants," suggested Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 " Yes, red ants ; or an east wind ; an' y' can't 
 keep either out, ef they git movin'." 
 
 They passed out of the post-office, save Coe, 
 who sauntered across and joined another small 
 group. While they were talking, Mr. Reed 
 entered. He was evidently one of the few who 
 had come for business, for he mailed a few let 
 ters, registered one, and transacted other mat 
 ters at the window. As he was passing out he 
 paused a moment at Coe's group and briefly 
 addressed the farmer in his hard, blunt voice 
 with:
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 77 
 
 " Your interest 's due next Friday. See that 
 it 's paid." 
 
 " Look here ! " Garrett flamed out in fierce 
 resentment. " Thet 's your business an' mine ; 
 not th' town's." 
 
 Mr. Reed, who had turned away, paused 
 again. 
 
 " It '11 be th' town's business if you 're sold 
 out," he said brutally. 
 
 The farmer's fist clenched and his eyes blazed. 
 The attack found him in ready mood, and he 
 made a step forward. 
 
 "It '11 be your business most of all, ef thet 
 ever happens," he said loudly and threaten 
 ingly ; " an' I 'm th' one thet '11 'tend to it 
 f r ye." 
 
 The little group around, all of whom hap 
 pened to be women, fell back in apprehensive 
 silence. Mr. Eeed promptly took up the retort 
 courteous. 
 
 " If you could 'tend to your own successfully, 
 you would n't have to 'tend to mine," he said 
 cuttingly. 
 
 Garrett Coe's temper yielded, and he made a 
 rush at the storekeeper. The latter had not 
 anticipated a physical attack, and retreated a 
 step or two. The women gave little cries and 
 shrieks, and hurried pell-mell toward the door. 
 Mr. Leavitt, who heard the sudden fracas from 
 behind the glass screen of call-boxes, made for
 
 78 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 the door that opened into the outer office in 
 order to interpose. 
 
 Mr. Reed was brave enough, and was firmly 
 built. He clenched Coe instantly. 
 
 " You drunken boor ! " he uttered angrily. 
 " Come on, then ! " 
 
 There was a rush for within by the groups of 
 men lounging and talking outside in the mild 
 evening air. But they were impeded for the 
 moment by the frightened outrush of the 
 women who had formed the group inside. 
 
 Mr. Leavitt darted excitedly out and laid 
 hold of the struggling Coe from behind. He 
 did not pause to feel caution. 
 
 " Stop ! " he panted, tugging at the farmer's 
 arm. " Don't fight here ! What 're y' doin' ? 
 Stop ! " He gave a vigorous pull. 
 
 Coe and the storekeeper had not exchanged 
 blows, but had clasped each other at the outset, 
 and were now swaying strongly, each striving 
 to overthrow the other. Mr. Leavitt's inter 
 ference was not much, for the mild, gray-haired 
 postmaster had little muscle to enforce it ; but 
 it hampered and hindered Coe just when he 
 needed all his forces. With a quick, powerful 
 jerk of his arm backward, he caught Mr. Lea 
 vitt full in the forehead with his elbow, and the 
 postmaster was thrown to the floor. 
 
 At the same moment the men outside had 
 forced their way in, just in time to see him 
 felled. It all had happened in a few seconds.
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 79 
 
 The struggle was forcibly ended in an in 
 stant. The raging Coe was pulled off by half a 
 dozen heavy hands, while others were laid upon 
 Mr. Eeed, who of course stood in no need of 
 their restraining services. Mr. Leavitt, bruised, 
 dazed and trembling, was instantly caught up 
 and succored, with a burst of real affection 
 which few, perhaps, had realized that they felt 
 so warmly for the kindly official. Mr. Reed 
 haughtily shook himself free. Coe, on the con 
 trary, was gripped with increasing firmness, 
 though he struggled violently. 
 
 " Hit th' postmaster, did he ? " one voice was 
 saying threateningly. 
 
 "Coward ! " "A hidin' 's too good f'r ye ! " 
 "Allers was a brute!" and other exclamations 
 mingled high about him. He paid no heed. In 
 deed, his thoughts were not upon Mr. Leavitt 
 at all. 
 
 " You rascally ol' money-grubber ! " he roared 
 at Mr. Reed. " I '11 hev it out with ye ! Le' me 
 go ! " wrestling viciously with those who held 
 him. " I '11 knock y'r teeth in, an' I '11 burn 
 out y'r store, b'fore I 'm done with ye. Skin 
 flint ! " 
 
 " Shet up ! " commanded one or two, sternly, 
 and a wide, rough hand was quickly clapped on 
 his mouth. 
 
 "You men had better put a strait-jacket 
 on him," observed Mr. Reed, curtly. " A fellow 
 with a temper like that ought n't to be at large."
 
 80 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 He picked up his hat, brushed off the dust with 
 his arm, and stalked out. 
 
 It seemed as though Coe would get rough 
 handling. But meanwhile Mr. Leavitt had 
 recovered, and, beyond the shock and the jar 
 on the forehead, proved to be entirely himself 
 again. He was the first to intercede for the 
 farmer. 
 
 " He wa' n't hittin' me," he urged. " Thet 
 was accidental. Besides, he 's only jest excited 
 a leetle, an' a body don' know what he 's doin' 
 then. Come, now, you better let him off." 
 
 Numbers of people were crowding in again 
 by this time. Mr. Leavitt rubbed the swelling 
 bump on his brow and smiled cheerfully. 
 
 There was a brief, impromptu court-martial 
 held over the prisoner, while he was gripped as 
 in a vise, with somebody's right hand over 
 his mouth and beard and the left one over his 
 eyes. Then he was straightened up, pushed 
 toward the door through the throng, which 
 made way for him perforce, shoved also through 
 the gathering crowd on the walk toward the 
 curb, and propelled with a hearty kick out into 
 the semi-darkness of the road. 
 
 "You pick y'rself up an' walk straight off 
 home, now, or we '11 ride ye there on a rail," 
 was the emphatic and contemptuous admoni 
 tion flung after him. Two stalwart farmer 
 lads volunteered to keep him in sight, as he
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 81 
 
 stumbled off, and see that he did no violence 
 on the way, while the rest turned again toward 
 the post-office focus, to shower friendly queries 
 and good offices on Mr Leavitt. Few asked 
 for Mr. Reed, who had disappeared in the dark 
 ness in the other direction. 
 
 Half mad with vindictiveness at the rough 
 justice he had received, and little comforted by 
 the evidence that his hates and hatefulness had 
 gradually made him in return the best-hated 
 individual in Felton, Garrett Coe stumped off 
 up the street, cursing under his breath. He 
 did not seek to pursue Mr. Eeed, and in fact 
 his animosity toward that individual was now 
 merged in a wider animosity, that expanded 
 and grew until it swept within its purview not 
 merely those who had laid hands upon him, 
 but the entire population of Felton, and of the 
 county and State as well. In a word, he was 
 in a fighting mood toward all humankind. He 
 did not see his two shadowers as he hastened 
 blindly along, and they, after following him for 
 a sufficient distance to assure themselves that 
 he was not in present quest of the storekeeper 
 or his property, returned to the buzzing center 
 at the post-office, where the people now had 
 two exciting themes to talk about, instead of 
 merely one, which in itself would have been 
 sufficient riches. Mr. Leavitt earnestly depre 
 cated any hard feelings or vengefulness toward
 
 82 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Coe that might be felt on his behalf. Apart 
 from the general dislike long felt for Coe, there 
 was no other behalf on which vengefulness 
 could be very strongly felt, for Mr. Eeed was 
 not much more popular in his way than the 
 farmer himself; and the excitement over the 
 incident by degrees subsided. 
 
 Coe himself had sobered down somewhat 
 when he reached home ; but he was not feeling 
 agreeable, nevertheless. The little boys had 
 gone to bed. Burt Way had just left, oddly 
 disquieted by a certain new, almost distrustful 
 reserve in 'Vinie's manner, which had kept him 
 at a distance in some subtle fashion, and had 
 made him feel strangely at a loss. 'Vinie her 
 self was sitting silent, idle for the nonce, ab 
 stractedly staring at her mother, who, in the 
 glow of the kerosene lamp, was at work on 
 her never-failing pile of sewing. 
 
 The girl started as her father tramped ab 
 ruptly in, but her mother, apathetic or too busy 
 and fatigued for demonstration, gave no sign 
 and did not even look up as he entered. 
 
 Her omission added vaguely to his hot and 
 angry feelings, and had the effect of directing 
 them upon herself. 
 
 " Lamp smokin' ! " he snorted, and crossing 
 the room, he reached unceremoniously over his 
 wife's shoulder, and in turning down the flame 
 extinguished it.
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 83 
 
 " Plague take th' concern ! " he ejaculated 
 furiously. " Where 's a match I Bring a match, 
 can't ye ! " 
 
 As the kitchen door happened to be closed, 
 the light from the kitchen lamp was shut 
 out; and it was only after a minute of deft 
 groping in that direction that 'Vinie pulled 
 the door open and thus illuminated the room 
 sufficiently to find a match and presently set 
 matters straight again. 
 
 " Sarves ye right," puffed the farmer, irritably. 
 " Ought t' look after y'r lamps better." 
 
 Mrs. Coe picked up her tumbled sewing, and 
 said without resentment : 
 
 " We reelly ought t' hev a new lamp, Garrett, 
 ef y' c'd afford it. This one 's out of order, it 's 
 so old, an' th' kitchen one ain't even as good. 
 I hev t' do so much, evenin's, sometimes, an' it 
 seems t' make my eyes smart." 
 
 " Then what d' y' want t' work at night fur ? " 
 demanded her husband. 
 
 " 'Cause I gener'lly hev more than I c'n 'tend 
 to in th' daytime." 
 
 " Pah ! " said Garrett. " Ef y' 'd work a leetle 
 smarter y' would n't. I hain't got any patience 
 with these complaints all th' time." 
 
 " Why, I was n't complainin', Garrett." 
 
 " Yes, y' was. Y' 're allers doin' it. I won't 
 hev it." 
 
 'Vinie's eyes blazed, though she said nothing.
 
 84 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Grot th' preservin'-things ready f'r t'-mor- 
 row ! " he pursued. 
 
 " I told ye at supper I bed." 
 
 " Well, tell me ag'in, can't ye f No harm in 
 sayin' so twice, is there I " A pang of pain shot 
 through his left arm, which had been wrenched 
 in the recent struggle. " Ow! " he grunted, and 
 pulling off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeve 
 and began rubbing the skin, which showed red 
 and swollen. 
 
 His wife sprang to his side, her work falling 
 again, disordered, on the faded carpet. 
 
 " Garrett, what is it f " she cried with impe 
 rious solicitude. " Hev y' hurt y'rself !" 
 
 "I twisted my arm somehow, down-town," 
 he replied shortly. 
 
 " Le' me rub it. Set right down there in my 
 chair by th' lamp. 'Vinie, you git th' arnica in 
 th' bedroom closet on the left-hand shelf, 
 quick, there 's a dear." She sought to draw her 
 husband toward the chair. 
 
 " It don't want rubbin', I tell ye," he said 
 testily. " You leave it be." 
 
 " It ought t' hev rubbin' right away, Garrett," 
 she pleaded. " Y' '11 hev a lame arm t'-morrow 
 ef y' don't let me fix it, an' then y' can't work. 
 Do set down." 
 
 " I won't," he repeated, repulsing her almost 
 with a push. " You git t' y'r work. I '11 'tend 
 t' th' arm."
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 85 
 
 'Vinie made up to him, her slight fist clenched. 
 
 "How dare you treat ma that way?" she 
 burst out. 
 
 " 'Vinie, child ! " called her mother, in dismay 
 and disapproval. " What d' y' mean by speakin' 
 so t' y'r father 1 He ain't treated me any ways. 
 Mebbe his arm 's better left th' way 't is." 
 
 Garrett gave a harsh laugh. 
 
 " This is a result of your bringin' up, I guess," 
 he said shortly. " You been puttin' idees in th' 
 girl's head?" 
 
 "No, she has n't," cried his daughter, indig 
 nantly. She stood glaring at him, her slender 
 chest heaving. 
 
 " Go an' set down," he ordered roughly. 
 
 " Please do, 'Vinie," begged Mrs. Coe. 
 
 'Vinie did not, but she flung out of the room 
 in a tempest of pent-up feeling. 
 
 " Young spitfire," growled her father. 
 "What 's come over her?" 
 
 "I don' know," sighed the woman, meekly. 
 "'T ain't like 'Vinie, somehow. 'Pears as ef 
 her thinkin' 'bout Burt so much hed kind o' 
 I don' know," she finished lamely. 
 
 " Well, I won't hev any more of it. You tell 
 her so. She ain't any too old t' whip yet. 
 Talkin' thet way t' her father ! " He came and 
 stood looking down on his wife. " See here," 
 he said, "I 'm goin' t' take thet silver cande- 
 labber o' yourn over t' Hingham nex' week."
 
 86 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 She gave a distressed cry. 
 
 "What fur?" 
 
 " 'Cause I want some money on it. OP Reed 's 
 howl in' f'r his int'rest. He '11 git it. I ain't 
 goin' t' give him th' satisfaction o' sellin' me 
 out o' this place. I '11 git even with him, never 
 fear ; but I '11 pay him his int'rest." 
 
 " But not thet," she urged, her voice break 
 ing a little. "Thet was mother's. It stood 
 in th' ol' home f'r years. She gave it t' me. 
 It 's th' only handsome thing I 've got. An' it 
 came fr'm her." 
 
 " I don't care," he returned doggedly. " I c'n 
 git sixty dollars on thet, f r th' silver alone." 
 
 Mrs. Coe, greatly discomposed, made a pro 
 longed and almost tearful plea for the retention 
 of the valued heirloom ; but her husband was 
 obdurate. She never dreamed of giving a simi 
 larly obdurate and emphatic veto, and her lesser 
 urgings were not merely ineffectual but added 
 to his ugly mood as well as to his obstinacy. 
 She could only end by acquiescing, with a long, 
 sorrowing breath, and turned again to her work 
 with swimming eyes ill able to cope with the 
 close needlework and the inefficient light. 
 
 There was a silence, glum on his part, griev 
 ing on hers. He had flung himself into a dis 
 tant chair. Presently he rose. 
 
 " I 'm goin' t' bed," he said briefly. " Y' c'n 
 foller when y' git ready. Good night."
 
 IN THE POST-OFFICE 87 
 
 "Good night!" she returned, looking up, 
 and the grieving suddenly left her eyes, and in 
 its stead came a light of love such as heroes and 
 knights might give of their noblest to win. 
 
 " Good night, Garrett," she called again after 
 him, wondrously forgetful for the moment of 
 all else save woman's swift, compelling caring. 
 " I do hope y'r arm '11 be better in th' mornin'. 
 I 'm so sorry ! "
 
 VI 
 
 THE FIRE 
 
 Fire!" 
 
 " Reed & Kemble's store 's afire ! " 
 These were shouts that roused the village, 
 late one evening of the autumn following. It 
 was about eleven o'clock. Most of the towns 
 folk had gone to bed. Burt "Way and Cheever 
 Hayes, who had been having a little friendly 
 boxing practice out in the Hayes barn by lan 
 tern-light, were standing on the walk afterward, 
 discussing feints and guards, when, a little way 
 down the street, a man emerged from the alley 
 leading to the rear of Eeed & Kemble's store, 
 and crossing over moved off into the darkness. 
 There was a peculiar, wide-brimmed black felt 
 hat always worn by Garrett Coe and recogniz 
 able as far as seen ; and it was this hat which 
 the two now saw disappearing into the distant 
 gloom of the street vista. The youths made a 
 passing remark on the lateness of the hour for 
 that brute Coe to be prowling about in town, 
 and turned again to their conversation. (Way
 
 THE FIRE 89 
 
 did not love Coe any the more because of being 
 the latter's prospective son-in-law, and was not 
 blinded to his disposition and reputation.) Five 
 minutes afterward they smelled smoke. A 
 moment later, as they stood with nostrils sus 
 piciously sniffing the air, a thin column of smoke, 
 curling up from the alley side of Reed & Kem- 
 ble's store, became distinctly visible, and the 
 two young men started on a run for the scene. 
 There was no mistake. The warning call was 
 promptly given, and quickly taken up by others ; 
 and in a phenomenally short time the scene was 
 the center of an excited group, whose numbers 
 rapidly increased. 
 
 Burt, after giving the first call, rushed down 
 the little alley to the place in the broad clap- 
 boarded side of the store from which the smoke 
 was forcing its way. There was a low cellar 
 window just beneath, and the smoke was com 
 ing from this and oozing from the clapboards 
 above as well. The fire had evidently started 
 in the cellar at or near this window. It was 
 impossible to effect anything here, and Burt 
 darted on around to the back part of the store. 
 The rear door was locked, but the muscular 
 young farmer, throwing his weight against it, 
 sent it crashing inward, and, with two or three 
 other men who had followed him down the alley, 
 sprang recklessly into the darkness inside. 
 
 Cheever Hayes had started on a run down the
 
 90 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 street for the hand-power engine, which stood 
 always ready in a detached building. Two men, 
 hurrying toward the scene, joined him, Mr. 
 Pickering and Peter Merritt. They took hold 
 of the long handle with Cheever, and ran the 
 machine out into the road. 
 
 "Where is it!" demanded Mr. Pickering, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " Heed's store. Hi ! Sneezer ! Come here 
 and give us a hand, quick. You too, there ! " 
 calling to Watkins and another figure ap 
 proaching along the dark street. "Hurry up, 
 whoever you are ! Now, all together ! " 
 
 They moved off at a brisk pace, two on each 
 side of the tongue and Sneezer Watkins push 
 ing, and the engine was quickly rushed to the 
 scene of the fire. 
 
 Buckets and pails had meanwhile appeared 
 mysteriously from all sides. Women came has 
 tening up with them, one or two in each hand. 
 No one stopped to look at or criticize his neigh 
 bor's costume. A village fire meant work and 
 nothing else. Men had dragged on their trou 
 sers and coats and stepped into gaping shoes, and 
 were out of their houses, gathering themselves 
 together as they ran. The women were more de 
 liberate, yet no attempts were made at toilets, for 
 every minute of every helper might be of value. 
 
 There was a large well at the front of a neigh 
 bor's property, the Kents', across the street,
 
 THE FIRE 91 
 
 and a double line of men, boys and women 
 quickly formed from this to the alleyway. 
 While the stalwart owner of the place vigor 
 ously worked the great well- wheel and kept 
 filling the pails from the dripping bucket, 
 Dutchy Keller and Tom Secor at the other end 
 of the line began dashing the water down into 
 the cellar aperture and against the rapidly 
 warping, blistering side of the store, where 
 little puffs and jets of flame were following 
 out the bursting smoke. 
 
 Burt and the others who had forced an en 
 trance into the store-room at the rear groped 
 their way through into the main store. The 
 long, wide room was alight with a dull, red, 
 angry glare, there was a buzz and crackle in the 
 air, and flames were leaping fiercely up from 
 below, behind a counter, near the spot where 
 the smoke had first been perceived outside. 
 The familiar opposing counters running the 
 length of the store, the nondescript little in- 
 closure for the cash-keeper in the center, the 
 boxes and barrels and bales, and the jars and 
 canisters and packages and rolls of goods on the 
 shelves, all seemed to have lost the easy wonted- 
 ness of daytime and looked strange and spectral 
 and queerly, livingly apprehensive in the dim 
 crimson glow. 
 
 Burt made for the hardware corner, and seized 
 a heavy new ax, with which he quickly opened
 
 92 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 a way through one of the barred front windows. 
 Some of the crowd outside had been trying to 
 break in, but the front door and window-bars 
 were stout and had held firm. The smoke came 
 surging up in thicker and thicker masses, and 
 flames licked their way high along the side wall. 
 Men poured into the store, and goods and wares 
 were recklessly flung down from the burning 
 shelving. Two or three men hastened down to 
 the cellar, but there the smoke and blaze made 
 it impossible to remain. The engine had now 
 been connected with the well across the street, 
 and while willing hands grasped the long double 
 lever of the engine-pump, the nozzle of the hose 
 was dragged within the store door by Peter 
 Merritt, who pushed it intrepidly into the very 
 face of the flames. 
 
 But the fire was rapidly escaping control. 
 Burt Way, now engaged with many others in 
 salving goods by throwing them to those out 
 side, wondered fleetingly that it should have 
 gained such swift headway during the little time 
 elapsing since he and Cheever had first seen that 
 black slouch-hat, no, it was the smoke, five 
 minutes later. He gave a slight start at some 
 thing in the collocation of the two ideas, then 
 continued his work without cessation. The 
 shelves were rapidly being stripped. There 
 were plenty of workers. The books and ledgers 
 had been carried out. Mr. Eeed and Mr. Kemble
 
 THE FIRE 93 
 
 had arrived from different directions almost at 
 the same time, and Mr. Reed himself had boldly 
 forced his way through the blinding smoke to the 
 safe, and, unlocking it, had borne outside a part 
 of the contents, followed by Mr. Kemble with 
 much of the rest. Mr. Reed's son Enos was 
 busy seeing to it that the most valuable articles 
 of the stock were taken out first. 
 
 The snapping and crackling of the fire made 
 itself heard more and more. Men were driven 
 out by the fiery heat inside the store, and came 
 tumbling forth, one by one, gasping and reluc 
 tant, with red and sweating faces, drinking in 
 with momentary relief the cool autumn evening 
 air. Flames burst out at the side and front of 
 the building, and the roof itself was now on 
 fire. 
 
 On the side of the store away from, the alley 
 was a small brick drug-store, the individual 
 property of Mr. Reed. Mr. Bradbury and Mr. 
 Pickering were among the first to perceive that 
 the larger store had to go, and to direct the 
 general energies toward saving the drug-store 
 and the neighboring houses and keeping the 
 fire from spreading. Peter Merritt had even 
 sooner realized this, and for several minutes 
 had been playing his hose on the side of the 
 store opposite to that on which the fire had 
 started. The awkward farmer's hand was dis 
 playing no little coolness and generalship.
 
 94 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 When he had turned the nozzle away from the 
 hottest of the flames and had dragged the hose 
 across to the other side, there had been sur 
 prised and vehement protests. Some had at 
 tempted to snatch the hose from his grasp. 
 Burt Way and one or two others, however, were 
 quick to see the meaning of Peter's maneuver, 
 and stoutly sustained him; and he had thor 
 oughly saturated that side of the store before 
 the creeping flames and rolling smoke, driving 
 others one by one from the building, expelled 
 him last of all. Forced finally to haul out his 
 reluctant hose, he gave it into the hands of Tom 
 Secor, the carpenter, with instructions to play 
 on the little drug-store building within and 
 without. Men had already climbed to its low 
 slate roof and were covering this with lengths 
 of water-soaked matting from the store's stock, 
 letting long ends fall over the rear and sides. 
 
 Across the alley, sitting somewhat back, was 
 a frame house, whose occupants had taken alarm 
 and with others' help had been carrying out 
 their household effects and depositing them on 
 the wide grass-plot beyond. In a marvelously 
 short time the house was almost completely 
 stripped. Strong-armed Ann Mead did a man's 
 work helping in this. Miss Jewett was out 
 on the lawn, with the owner's wife and Mrs. 
 Bradbury, Mrs. Leavitt, and even crippled Miss 
 Lorinda Park, who had hobbled up, and they
 
 THE FIEE 95 
 
 received and guarded the outpour of belongings. 
 Some of the tall elms, their dying leaves crisp 
 and combustible after the summer's heat, had 
 begun to catch fire, and this was a new source 
 of danger. 
 
 The water from the line of buckets was now 
 directed upon this house. Men sprang up-stairs, 
 and throwing open the trap-door in the roof, 
 were soon busily dashing pailfuls of water upon 
 the shingled slope from a tank in the attic, while 
 the kitchen pump which supplied the tank was 
 kept steadily going. Pieces of carpet were hung 
 out to cover as much of the roof and exposed 
 side as possible, and were kept thoroughly wet. 
 
 Ann Mead was among the bucket- wielders at 
 the trap-door. While flinging the water from 
 her pail, she lost her footing, slipped on the 
 sodden carpeting, and slid, not rapidly but 
 surely, down the wide slope of the roof till her 
 progress was arrested by the gutter at its edge. 
 Her position would not have been perilous save 
 for the great heat and multiplying sparks, and 
 the ignited leaves which kept drifting down from 
 the burning elms. As it was, the spot was one 
 of some danger. There were shouts from below 
 and cries for a ladder. Ann did not scream nor 
 call. There was no need, for Peter Merritt, who 
 had come over from the drug-store, had been 
 working close beside her. Brushing others im 
 petuously aside, he leaped back upon the tank-
 
 96 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 room floor, and tore down-stairs, knowing 
 precisely what lie wanted, a length of stout 
 clothes-line. He found what he sought, and 
 was back up-stairs again more quickly than 
 seemed possible, tying an end of the line around 
 his chest as he came. Giving the line to Abner, 
 Mr. Bradbury's hired man, to pay out, he slid 
 down the slope of the roof to the point where 
 Ann was clinging. It was time. Her sturdy 
 efforts to climb up had proved ineffectual. The 
 wet shingles and saturated carpeting gave no 
 foothold. Her dress had already caught fire in 
 several places. These little flames she was able 
 to extinguish, but her actions were hampered 
 by her insecure position, and the sparks were 
 falling thicker and thicker. The angry roar 
 and the blaze and glare from the now flaming 
 building, so near, as it seemed, dominated every 
 thing and might well have terrified her. Those 
 who called Peter Merritt shambling or slow 
 would have had no occasion for such epithets 
 as he slid agilely down toward the woman, and 
 grasping her firmly under the arms, was drawn 
 up with her by Abner and the others to safety. 
 Numbers of those below had stopped their 
 labors for the moment, and watched the rescue 
 with interest. Miss Jewett, who, when the cry 
 regarding Ann's danger had been raised, had 
 hastened around to a point where she could view 
 that side of the building, saw Peter's movements.
 
 THE FIRE 97 
 
 She hurried back to her post the moment Ann 
 was safely extricated ; but she found time to 
 make a passing mental reparation to Peter for 
 certain views concerning his awkwardness and 
 inefficiency. 
 
 Burt Way was now working on the drug-store, 
 with Enos Reed and others. Cheever Hayes, 
 his arms stiff with engine-pumping, delegated 
 his task to another and came into the dripping 
 little room to help. As he came up to Burt, he 
 said with a meaning grin : 
 
 "Big blaze for Garrett Coe's shavings to 
 start, eh?" 
 
 Burt started slightly to hear his own vague 
 suspicions thus distinctly formulated. Enos 
 Reed also heard. 
 
 " What 's that ! " he demanded, wet and pant 
 ing. 
 
 "Tell you by and by," said Burt, shortly. 
 " Keep to work." 
 
 The store roof fell noisily in, amid a shower 
 of sparks and fiery splinters. The front and 
 rear walls collapsed at the same time. But the 
 alley side of the building still presented a mag 
 nificent and menacing sight. It was ablaze 
 from top to bottom, a great plane of flame that 
 towered and roared up into the air, illuminating 
 the scene far down the double vista of the dim 
 street and lighting the landscape for a long 
 radius around. But the flames now ate away
 
 98 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 the timbers so rapidly that soon only a gaunt 
 skeleton was left, a red, bony outline in the 
 dazzling glare; and this slowly crumbled and 
 sank almost in situ. 
 
 The dark throng in the street, their faces all 
 ruddy in the reflected light, gave a cheer as the 
 wall's thin framework fell and it was seen that 
 the neighboring house and the drug-store were 
 saved. 
 
 Garrett Coe, not yet gone to bed, had, from 
 the slight elevation of his home, seen the distant 
 light, as also had his wife, who had been sitting 
 up sewing; but he shortly and stubbornly re 
 fused to go down and see whose house was burn 
 ing and what aid he could render. He refused 
 also to let his wife go, although she could 
 scarcely restrain her impulse to hurry off in 
 aid. 'Vinie, without waiting to ask, had at once 
 slipped out into the gloom, and at the scene had 
 lent her small strength and great nervous energy 
 in various directions where it might be needed. 
 The two small boys were awake and up, in their 
 nightgowns. Their insistent clamors to go had 
 been sternly silenced by their father, and they 
 had to be content with watching the glow with 
 their parents from the windows. One of them 
 took the occurrence with boyish eagerness and 
 interest; the other, sensitive little Garrie, ap 
 peared unaccountably distressed and alarmed. 
 
 " Oh, papa," he kept crying out, " where d' y'
 
 THE FIKE 99 
 
 think it c'n be? I can't bear t' think of any 
 body's place burnin' up ! " 
 
 His father admonished him to be silent ; and 
 in fact Coe was unusually silent himself. 
 
 At the scene itself, Burt and Cheever now 
 found time to tell of their discovery of the first 
 smoke, and of their previous recognition of a 
 well-known felt hat. Enos Keed had already 
 dropped statements here and there concerning 
 what he had overheard, and the accounts of the 
 other two were eagerly sought. Tom Secor 
 contributed to the discussion by exhibiting a 
 large, horn-handled pocket-knife which he had 
 picked up, open, in the alley. It bore the ini 
 tials " Gr. C." scratched deep into the handle, and 
 several persons recognized it as Coe's knife. 
 He was an inveterate whittler, and nearly 
 always when in town was seen, knife in hand, 
 absently but determinedly slivering splinter 
 after splinter from some piece of soft pine. To 
 those with sharp eyes for details his knife had 
 in time become quite as well known as himself. 
 
 The fire was by no means over, nor even 
 wholly subdued. Much more work and water 
 were necessary before the town could go to bed, 
 that night, with the feeling that its labor was 
 done. In fact, the work was still going on vigor 
 ously. The men pumping the engine and 
 passing the water-pails were steadily busy. A 
 constant sputter and vast hissing of steam arose
 
 100 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 from the red-hot ruins, where rebellious flames 
 were still spurting up and licking hungrily the 
 fallen timbers. The store was of course a 
 total loss, and a large part of its contents was 
 either destroyed or damaged. Mr. Reed never 
 theless moved about with a calm, hard, unper 
 turbed demeanor, active and resourceful in 
 working and in giving orders, but apparently 
 not at all downcast or distressed at the disaster 
 to his business. Mr. Kemble had not lost his 
 waggish habit, and had cracked jokes or uttered 
 pleasantries as freely while hauling at a length 
 of hose or running out barrels and butter-tubs 
 as habitually when standing at the store door 
 during business hours. More and more the ral 
 lying flames were beaten down, a dull glow 
 succeeded the daylight glare, and the incessantly 
 plied water gained a wider victory ; until at last 
 the tired relays of pumpers at the engine were 
 able to cease work. The fire was over, and the 
 familiar old high frame store, so long a land 
 mark, with the legend, "Reed & Kemble" 
 painted in black letters across the front, had 
 disappeared and given place to an unsightly 
 heap of water-soaked charcoal and smoldering 
 ashes and embers. 
 
 Meanwhile the little knots discussing Garrett 
 Coe grew greater, as new recruits were released 
 to join them. 'Vinie, shrinking aghast among 
 the fringes of the groups, had no idea before 
 of the intensity of the popular dislike of her
 
 THE FIEE 101 
 
 father, now rapidly swelling to threats of open 
 violence. The pocket-knife was passed from 
 hand to hand. Burt Way and Cheever Hayes 
 were eagerly questioned again and again and 
 repeated their accounts. Burt had not caught 
 sight of 'Vinie in the crowd, but it would have 
 made no difference to him if he had, for he had 
 never concealed from her his dislike of her 
 father, nor his often fierce resentment at Coe's 
 treatment of her mother and herself ; and hav 
 ing seen what he had to-night, he was impetu 
 ous and outspoken enough to have indignantly 
 published it to all the world. Nor did he f ear 
 that clear-seeing, intense little 'Vinie would fail 
 to share in his scornful anger. Had he been 
 older, he might have prudently said less, but 
 excited youth rarely stops to consider the con 
 sequences of its words. 
 
 It was not till calls for a rope began to be 
 heard, and sinister-looking preparations seemed 
 to be makiog for a march on Coe's home, that 
 Burt realized what passions he had aroused, 
 and immediately and wisely sought to hedge. 
 He was altogether unwilling to go to the 
 length of hanging his prospective father-in-law 
 or of inciting to that act. In fact, the act was 
 probably not contemplated with seriousness 
 even by those who were calling for the means 
 of accomplishing it. Sober Vermonters are not 
 in the habit of going lynching, even with blood 
 and temper inflamed by fire and vindictiveness.
 
 102 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Still the crowd was in a mood to be ugly. The 
 incendiarism, if such it was, had imperiled 
 other buildings in Felton than the one de 
 stroyed, and moreover few crimes are so utterly 
 odious in a village community as arson. There 
 were men quite ready to march up to Garret t 
 Coe's house, drag him forth, and punch his head 
 or cowhide him, or possibly administer a coat 
 of tar and feathers. 
 
 While matters were in this threatening state, 
 hearty Hiram Wheeler, who, despite his years, 
 had been doing yeoman's work at the fire, ap 
 proached, and quickly perceived the drift of 
 matters. Men respected, and in their restrained 
 way loved, old Farmer Wheeler, and his words 
 bore weight. He at once addressed himself to 
 turning the tide of opinion into more smooth- 
 running channels. 
 
 " How much d' y' know? " he urged. " Thet 's 
 th' main p'int. Admittin' there 's good reason 
 t' punish a fire-bug, it 's mighty important t' 
 be sure o' y'r bug." 
 
 "We 're sure 'nough," came sulkily from 
 several. 
 
 "Well, now, air ye! What 've y' got t' go 
 by ? a black hat thet these two lads saw in the 
 dark ; a knife picked up somewheres near ; an' 
 an unpop'lar reputation. 'T ain't enough, by 
 long odds." 
 
 " Come, now, you 're as sure as we be, ef y' '11
 
 THE FIRE 103 
 
 only confess it," said one, with good-humored 
 impatience. 
 
 "It 's one thing t' be sure, supposin' I felt 
 so, an' another t' know. When y' 're f r start- 
 in' off like this, y' 've got t' know. Bein' sure 
 ain't enough." 
 
 " / won't have anything to do with going up 
 there, for one," chimed in big Burt, authorita 
 tively. " And what 's more, if any go, I '11 go 
 too and help G-arrett Coe." 
 
 'Vinie, hidden in the edge of the group in the 
 dark, felt an involuntary thrill of quick approval 
 of her lover ; but she promptly suppressed this 
 and for some strange reason chided herself. 
 
 " Same here," called out easy-going Cheever, 
 who loved laughter better than tears or frowns 
 and was instant to be dissuaded from harsh 
 judgments. 
 
 "Well, I '11 go, fr one," growled a listener, 
 still breathing hard with his recent work and 
 seeking vent for further energies. " I 'in ready 
 t' tackle Burt an' oP Coe t'gether." 
 
 " So 'm I," " An' I," came from several. Mat 
 ters were wavering. A quick, business-like 
 tread approached. It was Mr. Pickering's. He 
 was in his shirt-sleeves, as were most of the 
 others, and, rich and influential man though he 
 was, had worked as hard as any of them. 
 
 " What 's going on ! " he demanded, scenting 
 mischief. Matters were quickly explained to him.
 
 104 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said lie, contemptuously. " You 
 men have got a little hot-headed, that 's all. 
 Do you want Felton's good name mixed up with 
 any such row? Remember how a thing like 
 that has stuck to Westbury all these years. 
 I thought there was better sense here." 
 
 Mr. Pickering's quick scorn and his authority 
 carried weight. Another voice here interposed, 
 that of Nathan Bradbury, who had come up 
 with Mr. Pickering. His tall, muscular, well- 
 formed figure loomed high in the gloom, and 
 his words fell deliberately. 
 
 " This town 's allers been ruled by law an' 
 order," he announced grimly, " an' it 's goin' t' 
 keep on bein'. Ef there 's mischief afoot, I '11 
 be there t' help stop it." 
 
 Mr. Bradbury was six feet two, but there was 
 power about him that was not due to feet and 
 inches. Certain recent family troubles of his 
 own, followed by his secession from the church, 
 had withdrawn him of late from village fellow 
 ship, but they had in no wise lessened his pres 
 tige and potency in an emergency. His firm, 
 weighed words, following upon Mr. Pickering's 
 wholesome rebuke, turned the scale. The dis 
 affected moved away in different directions, but 
 not in the direction of Coe's farm. There would 
 be no skulking reorganization of the project, 
 as its opposers well knew. Coe's punishment 
 not being carried out then and openly and in the
 
 THE FIRE 105 
 
 heat of the moment, New Englanders were not 
 the men to seek to effect it by subsequent plot- 
 tings and secret means. The execrated farmer 
 was safe, from the moment Mr. Bradbury's stern 
 words had carried the day, and 'Vinie knew it 
 as she bounded silently off down the dark street, 
 her apprehensions gone. 
 
 At the same time, the bitterness of popular 
 feeling against the man gained rather than lost 
 from thus being deprived of collective manifes 
 tation. Persons who would have deprecated 
 horse- whipping him were the quicker to tongue- 
 lash him. G-arrett Coe's ears must have burned, 
 that night, at the diatribes of his townspeople, 
 as the story of the evening flew from lip to lip. 
 Disliked before, though generally passively, he 
 was now actively detested. Mr. Clark, who had 
 been making a careful circuit and survey of the 
 entire premises, was hunted up by muttering 
 little knots of men and consulted as to the possi 
 ble jailing and prompt criminal prosecution of 
 the accused incendiary. He was quick to share 
 the general indignation ; but on hearing all the 
 evidence obtainable from the talk, he shook his 
 head. 
 
 "There 's no real proof," he said, "nothing 
 even to arrest any one on. What Hiram Wheeler 
 said is as good law as it is sound sense." 
 
 The lawyer, disliking Coe as warmly as the 
 rest, added that he would be glad to act when-
 
 106 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 ever any tangible testimony should be forth 
 coming; but there seemed small likelihood of 
 this. Disappointed but controlled, people now 
 began to disperse. A number hunted up Peter 
 Merritt, who had surprised every one by coming 
 to the front so unexpectedly and had won golden 
 opinions. They gripped him heartily by the 
 hand and said friendly things, friendlier things 
 than Peter had often listened to in his twenty- 
 eight years of disdained, unwatched-over life. 
 Felton, as it happened, had for long been re 
 markably free from important fires or other 
 public emergencies where he might earlier have 
 displayed his mettle. Now, the stress over, he 
 had become again the shambling, silent, ill-con 
 ditioned youth he was before, and he received 
 the praises offered with abashed and clumsy 
 deprecation. None the less, his night's work 
 had lifted him permanently upon a higher and 
 different plane in the estimation of the villagers, 
 and a hitherto unknown capacity was nowrecog- 
 nized by all. 
 
 Others, too, had done well that night. In fact, 
 it would be truer to say that all had done so. 
 People of their fiber are able to meet resource 
 fully and successfully the sudden test of local 
 emergencies. Each one had done his or her 
 share of the common work, and knew that his 
 neighbor had done the same. Mr. Eeed, per 
 haps preoccupied with a close scrutiny of the
 
 THE FIEE 107 
 
 ruins and the removed stock, addressed few 
 words of thanks to any one. Mr. Kemble said 
 more, in his bantering, half-insincere way. 
 But thanks were not looked for. The town 
 had merely done its duty, the duty of all to 
 each, often more clearly recognized and ob 
 served in a small community than on a larger 
 and more complicated scale. Enos Reed and 
 Peter Merritt remained to watch the smoldering 
 ruins, and in a brief time Felton was sound 
 asleep.
 
 VII 
 
 AFTER-TALK 
 
 LAWYER CLARK was early astir in the morn 
 ing, and walked down before breakfast to 
 take a look at the ruins. Early as he was, 
 others were earlier; and quite a little knot of 
 spectators stood discussing the affair, while 
 others roamed where possible among the 
 slowly cooling debris, or wandered here and 
 there gazing at the neighboring dwelling-house 
 and the drug-store, so wet and desolate, or up 
 at the stark trunks and remaining branches of 
 the blackened trees. 
 
 "I hear they '11 rebuild," Mr. Leavitt was 
 saying. 
 
 " Yes ; Kemble says they ain't goin' t' lose a 
 day." It was Secor, the carpenter, who an 
 swered. " I 'm t' begin gettin' out lengths right 
 away this mornin'." 
 
 "What '11 they put up?" 
 
 " Brick. Masons comin' over fr'm Hingham." 
 
 " That 's quick work," commented Mr. Clark. 
 
 " Yes, 't is. Y' 'd think ol' Reed hed hed th' 
 
 108
 
 AFTER-TALK 109 
 
 hull thing planned out in his mind a'ready, al 
 most. Spoke t' me 'bout it last night, b'fore 
 th' flames was all out, even. Level man, ol' 
 Reed is. Keeps his head." 
 
 " Keeps his money too, gener'lly," commented 
 another. " Still I reckon he did n't calc'late on 
 this here fire." 
 
 "No, of course. But he ain't th' man t' be 
 out on it much, y' c'n depend." 
 
 Enos Reed, who had had little sleep that night 
 and looked tired, lounged over from across the 
 way, and he confirmed and amplified the car 
 penter's statement about the new building. 
 
 " Can't afford t' lose time," he said. " Losin' 
 time 's losin' trade. Losin' trade 's losin' money. 
 Father 's rented Barney Holmes's paint-shop, 
 this mornin', till th' end o' th' year or so ; an' 
 y' '11 find us ready f r trade t'-morrow afternoon." 
 
 " Was considerable of the stock saved, on the 
 whole ! " inquired Mr. Clark. 
 
 " Some little. I 'm t' drive over t' Hingham 
 f'r more, this forenoon. An' we 're sendin' 
 orders t' Boston an' other places." 
 
 Brisk Mr. Pickering had also stepped up, and 
 he heard Enos with a business man's admiration 
 for business methods, even though with little 
 liking for the Reeds. 
 
 " How much were you insured for ! " he asked 
 Enos, with commercial directness and interest. 
 
 Had Mr. Reed been there, he might have
 
 110 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 fenced on this, as the amount was undeniably 
 excessive. Enos had no scruples against the 
 fencing process, but he was taken off his guard 
 by the question and told the truth. 
 
 Tom Secor was engaged in explaining some 
 detail about the fall of the wall to a newcomer, 
 and others had turned to listen. None heard 
 the query nor Enos's reply save Mr. Clark and 
 Mr. Pickering. The latter opened his lips for 
 an ejaculation of incredulity, but checked him 
 self. 
 
 " H'm," was all he said. " Then I judge you 
 won't lose much. I '11 walk your way if you 're 
 going back toward your house, Mr. Clark." 
 
 The two moved off, and Mr. Pickering began 
 animatedly talking. Enos watched them dis 
 trustfully, till a greeting from Miss Lorinda 
 Park fell on his ear. The nervous little invalid 
 had done perhaps more than she should have 
 done in excited services the previous night, 
 and in addition she had been able to sleep but 
 little afterward. Her eager, peaked face looked 
 wan, and she walked with increased difficulty. 
 Yet her sharp, indomitable interest in all things 
 mundane had dragged her out again after a 
 scanty morning bite, and she approached the 
 little knot of talkers with receptiveness and 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Well, what d' you think of all this, Miss 
 Park ? " questioned Tom Secor, cheerily.
 
 AFTER-TALK 111 
 
 " Think ! I think it 's a good thing. When 
 a place gets old and unserviceable, clear it out 
 or burn it out. Same with people. Me, f'r 
 instance." 
 
 " Oh, no," laughed the other, deprecatingly. 
 
 "Why not? Ain't it a good thing here? 
 There was this ol' store, dingy an' inconvenient 
 an' crowded an' ready t' fall down in parts any 
 way. An' now this fire 's stepped in, an' room 's 
 made f r somethin' better. There 's other ol' 
 houses in this town would git good, th' same 
 way. An' I don' know why th' same ain't true 
 of some o' their occupants. Me, f r instance, as 
 I said." 
 
 "Nobody 'd want t' see you burned down, 
 Miss Lorindy," interjected lively Mr. Kemble, 
 who had strolled up with his wife and sister-in- 
 law, accompanied by several of the children. 
 
 Miss Lorinda's seriousness broke down a little 
 at this. She had to laugh with the others, but 
 she rallied and said defiantly : 
 
 " Ef I 'd got a safe insurance on my soul an' 
 hed th' premium receipt locked away where I 
 was sart'in sure of it, I 'd be willin', seems t' 
 me." Her face showed a spasm of pain, as her 
 back twisted a little. 
 
 There was real pathos in her poor little bent 
 figure and in the tone of bravado with which 
 she spoke. Those who heard her felt for her 
 with a new discernment and compassion. Miss
 
 112 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Harvey alone was less impressed with this feel 
 ing than with righteous horror at the sentiment 
 uttered. 
 
 "Lorindy Park," she remonstrated severely, 
 " I 'm ashamed o' ye. I do say it 's a sin t' talk 
 so, 'bout dyin' an' all thet, so light an' keer- 
 less. As Pr dyiii', we 've got t' wait till we 're 
 asked." 
 
 " Same as with comp'ny bein' helped at table," 
 suggested Mr. Kemble. 
 
 " Somethin' th' same," she assented ungra 
 ciously. 
 
 " There 's th' difficulty, too," added Mr. Kem 
 ble, perceiving more, but willing to give the 
 subject a lighter turn again, " of bein' sure o' y'r 
 insurance." 
 
 "It is a difficulty Pr some," returned Miss 
 Park. 
 
 "What d' ye mean by thet, Lorindy!" de 
 manded Mrs. Kemble, alert to scent attack. 
 
 "I hain't no call t' explain, as I know of," 
 oracularly returned the other, secretly delighted 
 with the success of her mysterious generaliza 
 tion. "I only say it is a difficulty Pr some. 
 An' it is." 
 
 "I call it a shame," remarked Miss Harvey, 
 " thet folks can't talk plain an' straight, without 
 insinuations an' innuendoes. A burnin' shame. 
 Before I 'd-" 
 
 " Pretty well gutted, wa' n't it 1 " deftly inter-
 
 AFTER-TALK 113 
 
 posed good-natured Tom Secor, pointing to the 
 ruins opposite. "Lucky there wa' n't much 
 wind." 
 
 " We 'd ought t' hev two engines in this town/' 
 said Miss Harvey, " or even three. I 've allers 
 said so. T' think of tryin' t' do with one! 
 We 'd 've hed th' fire out in no time. It 's a 
 burnin' shame thet " 
 
 " A burnt shame, you mean," Mr. Kemble put 
 in jocosely. "Nex' town meetin', Sophrony, 
 I '11 propose a vote fr twenty new engines, an' 
 we '11 keep 'em all ranged in line 'round th' 
 new store an' our house. There won't no Gar- 
 rett Coe git ahead o' thet." 
 
 " Scoundrelly fellow ! " declaimed Mrs. Kem 
 ble, with strong emphasis. 
 
 " He 'd ought t' be jailed," added her sister. 
 "It 's a sin fr th' town t' leave him at large 
 like this. I 'm s'prised there ain't more sperrit 
 in Felton." 
 
 "There 's sperrit enough; but there 's sense 
 too," observed Miss Park. " Hiram Wheeler an' 
 Nathan Bradbury an' them were right enough. 
 Jmay know 't was Coe ; an' you may know, an' 
 th' rest of us. But th' law don't know." 
 
 " Thet ain't th' p'int," remarked Secor, desir 
 ous of defending his adhesion to the Bradbury 
 side. "Th' p'int is thet we don't none of us 
 know. We may feel sure, an' all thet; but 
 knowin' 's a different thing."
 
 114 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " He 's ugly enough t' 've done it," commented 
 Mrs. Kemble, acidly. 
 
 " Thet 's true enough ; but it don't show he 
 did." 
 
 "I was up there, th' other day," said Miss 
 Harvey, " tryin' t' c'llect f r th' missionary s'ciety. 
 He came in while I was there. Spoke cross 
 enough t' his wife 'bout not sparin' money fr 
 any sech things as missions." 
 
 "I guess she has a hard time," agreed Mr. 
 Kemble. " Has t' keep at it pretty stiddy." 
 
 "No more 'n th' rest of us hev to," his wife 
 said sharply. 
 
 " Oh, it 's her dooty, same as any one's," he 
 agreed hastily. " Pity thet dooty 's apt t' be so 
 domineerin' in this world." 
 
 " I 'd like t' know where you men-folks 'd be 
 ef 't wa' n't," rejoined his wife, triumphantly. 
 "I ain't goin' t' waste any sympathy on Sally 
 Coe. Not thet I 'd excuse her husband. But, 
 after all, she 's only doin' work, like we all 
 do." 
 
 " Oh, 't ain't th' work, I s'pose. There 's other 
 things thet add up, sometimes." Mr. Kemble 
 was unusually sober-spoken for the moment. 
 But his moods did not lie deep. " Better not 
 add 'em up, I dare say. Add up blessin's ; an' 
 as fr troubles, jest don't keep any books, an' 
 never stop t' take 'count o' stock. Thet 's my 
 philosophy."
 
 AFTEK-TALK 115 
 
 "A very poor one, George Kemble," com 
 mented Miss Harvey, with severity. "I 'm 
 ashamed t' hear ye pr'fessin' it. Ain't troubles 
 f r chastenin' ! An' what right 've we got t' take 
 no notice of 'em 1 " 
 
 " Well, it 's better than it is t' nurse 'em an' 
 coddle 'em an' bring 'em up on a bottle till they 
 git big an' settle down t' stay; an' t' open a 
 foundlin' asylum f'r other people's troubles an' 
 add them t' tli' nursery too." 
 
 " George, who does thet, I 'd like t' know ? " 
 demanded his wife, her eyes keen behind her 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Nobody in this town, 's fur as I c'n say," he 
 rejoined ironically. "But I 've beared tell 
 there 's sech in other places in th' county." 
 He winked at Tom Secor, and crossed the street 
 to interview Mr. Reed, who was coming up. 
 
 Comment on the fire and the night's occur 
 rences was of course universal in the commu 
 nity; and the various breakfast-tables were 
 occasions for innumerable narratives of per 
 sonal incidents and experiences. There was 
 little but hostility expressed for Garrett Coe, 
 who was accepted on nearly all sides as the 
 author of the outrage. The probable effects of 
 the fire were talked over from every point of. 
 view : its bearing on the firm's immediate busi 
 ness, the size and appearance of the building 
 that would supersede the old one, the efficiency
 
 116 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 of the volunteer fire corps as tested so severely, 
 the trials of the unfortunate adjoining neigh 
 bor whose house stood this morning sadly 
 dismantled, and the individual coolness and 
 brave work of the various helpers at and around 
 the scene, not forgetting Peter Merritt. 
 
 The latter, in fact, was the subject of one 
 conversation in particular which concerned him 
 more closely than the others, though he of 
 course knew nothing of this. It was between 
 Ann Mead and Miss Jewett. Ann was in a 
 state of suppressed nervousness and flurry 
 all during breakfast. It was an unprecedentedly 
 poor breakfast. The coffee was unsettled, the 
 eggs were hard-boiled, the toast was almost in 
 cinerated, the piece of mackerel was wretchedly 
 broiled, and only the biscuits, baked the day 
 before, were really impeccable. Miss Jewett, 
 however, ate the meal gravely, without com 
 plaint, for she knew her help's ways, and per 
 fectly understood the effects of last night's 
 excitement. She herself was tired, as all in 
 Felton were, and she wisely was little disposed 
 to criticize shortcomings arising, partly at least, 
 from a similar cause in another. 
 
 Ann had said little about the fire while bring 
 ing in the breakfast, and the little she had said 
 was noticeably of generalities. Miss Jewett 
 discussed it with her from this point of view. 
 As the second and last cup of weak coffee was
 
 AFTEK-TALK 117 
 
 being finished, however, Ann, who had been in 
 and out, said: 
 
 " What did y' think o' Peter Merritt ? 
 
 " Splendid ! " said Miss Jewett, enthusiasti 
 cally. "There was n't a one there that did 
 better work." 
 
 Ann flushed with pleasure. 
 
 " And the way he got you up from that edge ! " 
 went on the other. " I declare I was thankful, 
 as I told you last night coming home. It was 
 a ticklish place." 
 
 "Th' sparks was droppin' pretty fast," as 
 sented Ann. 
 
 " Indeed they were. They burned your dress 
 badly, as it was. There 's my old black cash 
 mere hanging in the hall wardrobe up-stairs. I 
 was going to make it over a little and wear 
 it some more, but I want you to have it 
 now." 
 
 Ann protested with thanks and sincerity, but 
 absently. Her thoughts were evidently at pres 
 ent on another topic. Soon she said : 
 
 " Don't don't Peter's doin's make ye " 
 
 "Make me think differently about what we 
 talked of last summer 1 " 
 
 " Yes," blurted the other. 
 
 Miss Jewett moved her chair a little away 
 from the table and sat back in it. 
 
 "No, Ann. They don't in the least. Yes, 
 they do in one way, certainly. I never gauged
 
 118 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Peter's capacity in an emergency. I did n't 
 give him half credit enough. It 's been quite a 
 lesson to me." 
 
 " Same with all th' town, I guess," observed 
 the other, with an odd little vicarious pride. 
 
 " Yes. We owe him quite a little for our mis- 
 judgment. The fact is, we 're too quick to 
 misjudge, anyway. 'Most every one is. I keep 
 teaching myself that, every year, every day, 
 almost ; and yet I go right on falling into the 
 same trap. Here 's a special case ; and I wonder 
 if it '11 teach me anything." 
 
 "I s'pose I thought th' same, more or less. 
 An' so it 's it 's occurred t' me, mebbe you an' 
 I was wrong too 'bout thet other subjec'." 
 
 "It does n't follow," Miss Jewett said de 
 cidedly; "and I can't think we were, a particle. 
 Peter 's shown the stuff that 's in him. If he 'd 
 been in th' war, we 'd 've heard of him. He 'd 
 likely 've come back captain of his company, 
 at the very least. He '11 shine in action, in 
 emergency. I 've known a few persons like 
 that." 
 
 " Well, but " 
 
 " But this other thing 's another matter. It 
 concerns just plain, humdrum living, and cer 
 tain other qualities are needed for that. Peter 
 has n't those." 
 
 "Howc'n y'tell?" 
 
 " You mean I 'm as liable to be mistaken in
 
 AFTER-TALK 119 
 
 one set of qualities as in the other ? I may be, 
 of course. But I don't think so. You want my 
 views, and the dear knows I 'd like to have them 
 favorable ones, especially after last night's 
 lesson. But the two things are n't the same." 
 
 " Y'r views are ' favorable ' t' me, Miss Jewett, 
 whatever they are," said honest Ann. 
 
 " Yes, they truly are. And to Peter too, for 
 that matter. How should I condemn faults in 
 either one of you ? If two people care enough, 
 probably faults ought n't to stand between, 
 though I don't say that 's always so. But I 
 don't really believe there 's any such caring 
 between you and Peter, Ann." 
 
 " No, I can't say 's there is, exac'ly, of course," 
 admitted the other, meditatively. 
 
 " Well, apart from it, you have n't a bit more 
 in common than you had yesterday or last sum 
 mer. You 've no more need of him than you 
 had then. And he 's no better suited to you for 
 a husband than then. There 're qualities in 
 Peter's character that I did n't suspect and 
 did n't allow for. I admit that and I blame 
 myself a deal for not having given him credit 
 for them. But the character itself remains 
 what we took it to be." 
 
 "Ye-e-es," said Ann, half doubtfully. 
 " Though I don't see how a body c'n jedge of 
 a hull character an' make a mistake in th' part. 
 What shows it I "
 
 120 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Facts. Poor Peter ! We know his difficul 
 ties of course, first with old Mr. Bo wen, and 
 now since he has gone to work sawing marble at 
 the quarries. He has n't had many chances to 
 show up. But well, there are some things that 
 lie on the surface somehow." 
 
 " Yes, 'm," said the other. 
 
 " It 's a matter for yourself to decide, Ann, 
 wholly. Don't think I 'm presuming to decide 
 it for you. I 'm only advising, as far as an out 
 sider can. Sometimes that can be wisely done ; 
 sometimes it may be wrong and biased. We 're 
 none of us omniscient ; and advising is always 
 pokerish, at best." 
 
 " Oh, no ; not thet, Miss Jewett," deprecated 
 Ann. 
 
 " You think it over in this way : Do you want 
 Peter Merritt for himself and because he is 
 Peter Merritt and no one else ? or has he simply 
 set you thinking of the whole general idea of 
 marriage and wondering whether you were n't 
 perhaps missing every woman's natural destiny ! 
 And you must turn both those questions the 
 other way too, about his wanting you, you 
 know, and all that. And the question of ways 
 and means ought always to creep in, to a right 
 and fair extent, too." 
 
 " An' last night an' what he did an' all thet ? " 
 Her imagination had clearly been caught by her 
 knight-errant's behavior.
 
 AFTER-TALK 121 
 
 "No; not in that sense. You can't have 
 houses burning down every day." 
 
 "Yes, 'm," said Ann, dutifully. "Thank 
 ye, 'm." 
 
 And she went back to her work.
 
 VIII 
 
 KEVOLTJTION 
 
 COE had gone off to bed before 'Vinie re 
 turned, on the night of the fire. Her 
 mother was sitting up for her, a little anxiously, 
 and eagerly absorbed the details which the girl 
 proceeded to pour forth. 
 
 'Vinie gave a vivid picture of the scene. 
 She omitted all mention of her father's alleged 
 implication in the affair; but her mother, un 
 knowingly but persistently, pressed for light on 
 how the blaze could have originated and what 
 people had said about it ; and almost before the 
 girl, full of the topic, knew what was said, the 
 secret was out and Mrs. Coe knew of what das 
 tardly work her husband was believed to be 
 guilty. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, the impul 
 sive daughter growing more and more repen 
 tantly terrified. But Mrs. Coe took the matter 
 with surprisingly little feeling. 
 
 " It 's a shame they sh'd say sech things, of 
 122
 
 REVOLUTION 123 
 
 course," said she. " But people will talk ag'inst 
 somebody, an' I know Garrett ain't been alto 
 gether liked by a good many." 
 
 'Vinie was not a little astonished at this quiet 
 reception of her ugly facts, and relieved that 
 her indiscretion had apparently not pained and 
 agitated her mother so greatly after all. She 
 remembered that her mother had of late ap 
 peared a little changed in some respects. Not 
 in a way that could be exactly defined; but it 
 seemed as though the farmer's surliness and her 
 unremitting work were more and more deaden 
 ing Mrs. Coe's softness and responsiveness and 
 interest in daily happenings and even her real 
 tenderness toward her husband. A dulled, al 
 most hard tone had crept into her voice in the 
 daily little nagging discussions with the fault 
 finding farmer, and 'Vinie had even seen her 
 mother once or twice steadily regarding Garrett 
 with a new, strangely awakening discernment 
 in her gaze. The girl had not analyzed her 
 impressions at the times, but now they seemed 
 oddly to present and catalogue themselves. 
 
 " Did y' speak t' Burt?" asked Mrs. Coe. 
 
 "No. I did n't want to." 
 
 "Why not!" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Y' 've tried Burt a good deal this fall, I 'm 
 af eared," said the mother, in a troubled tone. 
 " Half th' time he comes, y' won't see him ; an 7
 
 124 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 th' other half, y act queer an' stand-offish, 
 what I 've seen of it." 
 
 " I don't care, mamma. I just can't help it." 
 
 " Are y' out with him ? " 
 
 " No, I don't know as I am, exactly." 
 
 " Well, what is it ! Do tell y'r mother, 'Vinie. 
 Y' need n't mind me. Don't y' like Burt 1 " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I like him, but" 
 
 " True an' straightforward, ain't he 1 " 
 
 " Perfectly ! " averred the girl, with energy 
 and a certain admiration. " Only " 
 
 "Only what!" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, ma. Only nothing, I 
 guess. Really, there is n't anything." 
 
 Her mother was not satisfied, but 'Vinie could 
 never be pressed for confidences beyond a cer 
 tain point, and Mrs. Coe always had known 
 instinctively when that point was reached. 
 Her knowledge of this had contributed more 
 than she knew to the close relations subsisting 
 between them, and to 'Vinie's instinctive trust 
 and repose in her mother's sympathy. It was 
 a virtual recognition, on the mother's part, of 
 the child's entity, her individuality, and, of late 
 years, her florescent womanhood; and the in 
 tense, brooding, self-conscious, shy girl dimly 
 recognized this and was aboundingly grateful 
 for it. 
 
 Long after going to bed, that night, Mrs. Coe 
 lay wide awake, her unseeing eyes staring up in
 
 REVOLUTION 125 
 
 the dark to the ceiling overhead. Her mind 
 was churning over many things, though none 
 consecutively, and in her restless dreams images 
 of her husband and of her daughter and of Burt 
 came and went, teasing her, as it seemed, with 
 imperious problems of life that she had always 
 put aside or never thoroughly solved. 
 
 Even her troublous sleep was not undis 
 turbed, for Grarrie, who with his brother slept 
 in the room adjoining, was feverish and un 
 quiet, and his mother kept slipping in at inter 
 vals to look after him. The child, who usually 
 slept well, would drop off into a light slumber, 
 and then awake suddenly with a start and a 
 muffled cry which drew his mother quickly to 
 his side. Finally he fell asleep more soundly ; 
 Mrs. Coe, returning to her own bed, was 
 blessedly enabled to do the same; and the re 
 mainder of the eventful yet lagging night wore 
 away. 
 
 Coe was astir at six, and as usual made little 
 ceremony of rousing his wife at the same time 
 that he heavily unrolled himself and got out of 
 bed. He was moody and taciturn, and little 
 was said by either husband or wife during 
 breakfast. The boys were still sleeping, and 
 Mrs. Coe had let 'Vinie sleep also. No allusion 
 was made to the subject of the fire. 
 
 When the meal was finished, the farmer said : 
 
 " I want some lunch sent out after us to-day.
 
 126 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 You hear ? We 're fixin' th' f encin' over by tli' 
 other pasture, an' it 's too fur t' stop an' come 
 f'r dinner." 
 
 " All right, Garrett," she assented. 
 
 Her acquiescence irritated him. It often did. 
 
 "An' I don't want you comin' out with it, 
 either," he went on harshly, " th' way y' did th' 
 other day, wastin' time thet y' c'd be usin' here. 
 You stick t' this part o' th' premises. There 's 
 enough t' do, ain't there ? Y' 've allers said so." 
 
 " Yes, there 's enough t' do," she replied ab 
 sently, partly blunted to his tone, partly desir 
 ous of avoiding conflict. 
 
 Her assent was unfortunate, though she was 
 far from echoing his words complainingly or 
 sardonically or indeed consciously at all. But 
 he grew angrier, and with the anger came the 
 will to provoke hers in return at any cost and 
 break through this passivity. The passivity 
 annoyed him as much as its opposite would 
 have done. Garrett Coe did not realize his own 
 state of mind toward his wife. Human nature 
 often strangely hates those whom it hurts, and 
 then it strives to hurt the more. This man 
 had hurt this woman, in countless little sure, 
 diversified, and merciless ways, for long years 
 past; at first, accidentally or unintentionally 
 and with regret; then with encroaching delib- 
 erateness, daily adding to the infinite debt of 
 just compunction and reparation he owed her,
 
 REVOLUTION 127 
 
 while yet writhing resentfully under the burden 
 of the debt. The homely saying that one may 
 as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb 
 operates, powerful though unsuspected, in many 
 a hidden corner of human emotions and activi 
 ties, and nowhere perhaps more curiously and 
 cruelly than in this domain of the bruised affec 
 tions, where the one who has inflicted one blow 
 feels the more steeled and spurred, sometimes, 
 to the infliction of others. 
 
 Coe was one who brooded. In his daily work, 
 his restless mind kept revolving ceaselessly the 
 various ideas and incidents that were at the time 
 before it. And chief among his mental material 
 for this purpose had come to be the vexatious- 
 ness of petty things, and the shortcomings of 
 people, particularly his wife. Few points 
 though poor Mrs. Coe presented for his grie 
 vance, these points were sedulously, mechani 
 cally, half-unconsciously revolved and enlarged 
 upon by the farmer's nervous, brooding, inimical 
 mind during the long working-hours of morning 
 and afternoon. He could thus successfully 
 goad himself into a state of resentment and 
 willingness to inflict pain, which grew ever 
 easier and more chronic. That he did hurt his 
 wife, and that she never struck back, carried no 
 appeasement, but rather the reverse, until his 
 habitual feeling and manner toward her had 
 departed from the lines of that of their early
 
 128 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 married days more widely and incredibly than 
 either of them had ever realized or than they 
 realized even now. Mrs. Coe knew, in a vague, 
 hopeless, uncomprehending way, that matters 
 were fatally ajar, that their lives were embit 
 tered, that their ways were apart. But she knew 
 not why. Had she known, she could not have 
 remedied. 
 
 'Vinie, with her different, quick, intuitive 
 grasp and intense sensitiveness to impressions, 
 understood more than her mother, though she 
 could not have put her thoughts into words. 
 But these and many other thoughts were with 
 her, as she stood, poised and fluttering, in the 
 sweet, flowery archway between youth and 
 adulthood; and her maiden dreams were not 
 all of the garden behind her, but in part of 
 the terrifying, hard-trodden road of life that 
 stretched away before her into untried distance. 
 
 Coe's voice broke in upon his wife's momen 
 tary abstraction. 
 
 "'Nough t' do, is there?" he echoed sneer- 
 ingly. " Well, I 'd hev less, as well 's you, ef we 'd 
 never married, I reckon. Thet 's over an' gone. 
 Now 'bout thet lunch-pail : you send one o' th' 
 boys out with it. They '11 be up fr'm school, 
 won't they?" 
 
 "Yes, but I 'm af eared th' recess won't give 
 'em time. Le' me bring it, Garrett. I 'd love 
 to ; an' I c'n catch up on th' work."
 
 EEVOLUTION 129 
 
 " You send Game, I tell ye. What 's th' use 
 o' two lazy boys 'round th' place ef they can't 
 do a mite o' work now and then ! " 
 
 "Th' boys work hard, out of hours, on th' 
 farm an' here 'bout th' house. You know they 
 do," said the mother, the spirit of defense 
 that could not be roused on her own behalf 
 rising for her off spring. " Besides, Garrie ain't 
 well." 
 
 " What 's th' matter with him!" 
 
 " I don' know. He slept reel uneasy all las' 
 night. Tossed 'round c'nsider'ble. He ain't 
 over strong, y' know, an' I hope there ain't any- 
 thin' th' matter with him." 
 
 " Nonsense ! He 's shammin'. Wants t' git 
 out o' goin' t' school. He comes it over ye thet 
 way too often. Le' me see him. I '11 hev him 
 up." Coe strode toward the door to go up 
 stairs. 
 
 In his heart he was quite as deeply attached 
 to the boy, after his way, as was his wife, more 
 deeply even than he knew. His threat of harsh 
 ness meant little, for he would never have laid 
 really rough hands on the sleeping lad, nor per 
 haps even have aroused him. But he seized 
 upon the menace as a means of strife, with 
 devilish ingenuity. 
 
 Mrs. Coe sprang forward. 
 
 " Garrett ! Y' must n't go up ! " she cried. 
 
 " What 'st' hinder?" 
 
 9
 
 130 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Y' must n't ! " She got between him and 
 the door. 
 
 He had a curious satisfaction in his own 
 rising anger. 
 
 "Must n't!" he snorted. "Well, I guess I 
 will ! I '11 go up there, an' I '11 hev them boys 
 out o' bed feet foremost in jest half a minute, 
 an' no more playin' off an' makin' b'lieve sick ! " 
 He was pushing through the doorway, genu 
 inely in earnest this time. 
 
 " No, y' sha'n't ! " She barred his way firmly. 
 
 " Move away, Sally ! " he said warningly. 
 
 " I won't. Y' can't go." 
 
 He took hold of her thin arms with iron 
 hands. 
 
 It was the first time he had ever touched her 
 in violence. At the grasp, unguessed whirl 
 winds of feeling were released within them both. 
 His was that of a beast who at last grips his 
 patiently stalked prey. Hers it was as the 
 clash of worlds and the breaking up of the deeps. 
 He turned her slowly back into the room, and 
 with a careful, deliberate shove, sent her swiftly 
 backward toward a wide rocking-chair. She 
 reeled, struck its edge, and fell into it. 
 
 " It 's my house," he said fiercely, " an' I 'm 
 master in it, not you. You git t' y'r work. 
 Thet 's your place." 
 
 She sat panting with quicker and quicker 
 gasps for a full half-minute without moving.
 
 REVOLUTION 131 
 
 He stood glaring down at her. As her strained, 
 staring eyes met his in return, something was 
 in their gaze that was there never before, and 
 he moved back a step involuntarily as he him 
 self, through his excitement, dimly perceived 
 it. 
 
 There was for the moment no sound save her 
 quick breathing. Her hands were tightening 
 and loosening their grasp of the rocker's arms. 
 
 " Oh, what shall I do ? " she wailed out, and 
 then was silent again. 
 
 Coe had really done more than he meant, and 
 was a little startled at it. 
 
 He turned toward the kitchen door. 
 
 " Git up an' look after th' boys y'rself, ef y' 
 want to," he said sulkily. "A-burstin' out on 
 me like thet ! " 
 
 " Garrett ! " she called, rising to her feet with 
 an effort. " Come here." 
 
 There was something authoritative in her 
 tone, and he obeyed perforce. 
 
 " Set down there." 
 
 "What fur?" 
 
 " Set down there ! " 
 
 He did so. 
 
 Breathing heavily, she stood over him as he 
 had just stood over her. 
 
 "D' y' know what y' 've done!" she asked 
 tensely. 
 
 "What d'y'meanr'
 
 132 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " I '11 tell ye as soon 's I git my idees straight. 
 Somethin' 's happened." 
 
 "Nothin' 's happened, either, 'cept thet you 
 went a leetle too fur." 
 
 " I did n't go fur enough," she said, her eyes 
 dilating strangely. "I 've never gone fur 
 enough sence we were married. I 've got t' go 
 further now, t' make up fr it." 
 
 "Y"d better not." 
 
 " Yes," she repeated agitatedly, " thet 's what 
 it is. Th' more I 've held back, th' further 
 you 've tried t' go, till it 's got a settled habit. 
 Not thet I knew I was holdin' back, exac'ly; 
 but 't was jest th' same." 
 
 " I don' know what y' 're talkin' 'bout," he said 
 impatiently. 
 
 " I 'm only b'ginnin' t' find out myself. Y' 've 
 kind o' doused me awake with cold water, some 
 how ; an' I 'm all shiverin' an' gaspin'." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " But I 'm openin' my eyes at th' same time, 
 an' I 'm seein' all sorts o' things." She gave a 
 quick, writhing shudder. " I 'm seein' what kind 
 of a life I 've been livin', an' what you 've been 
 makin' o' me ; an' things 'bout you y'rself thet I 
 never reelized b'fore, somehow. An', oh, it 's 
 awful ! " Her voice rose to an excited, almost 
 despairing cry. 
 
 " We ain't been husband an' wife," she burst 
 out. "We 've been master an' help. Thet 's
 
 REVOLUTION 133 
 
 what I 've been, a help: bound out f'r life 
 instead o' three years or seven years; an' no 
 wages. An' y' 've scolded an' browbeaten me, 
 an' now y' 've struck me accordin' ! " 
 
 " I did n't strike ye." 
 
 " Pushed, then. Shoved. It 's th' same thing. 
 Wuss, p'r'aps, 'cause y' c'd stop an' think. But 
 't ain't th' push. Thet 's one thing, th'last, th' 
 hardest, maybe. But there 's a thousand gone 
 b'fore. An' they 're all comin' crowdin' up now." 
 
 "I never teched ye b'fore. An' 't wa' n't 
 nothin' this time t' make a fuss over." 
 
 " There 's other things than techin'. There 's 
 speakin'; an' thinkin'; an' actin'. Thet 's all 
 my life 's been, Grarrett Coe, an' now I 'm jest 
 seein' it. But I 'm seein' it mighty clear, all of 
 a sudden." 
 
 She was growing more and more aroused, 
 rather than less, and he looked up at her with 
 vague alarm. He made a move to rise, but a 
 motion from her peremptorily forbade it, and 
 he sank' back with sullen, unwonted docility. 
 
 " F'r a good many years, now," she hurried 
 on, her words escaping impetuously yet clearly, 
 " y' 've been gittin' harder an' harder, an' y' Ve 
 taken it out on me. Y' 've f'rgotten all 'bout 
 carin' f'r me th' least bit. Y' 've gone more an' 
 more out o' y'r way t' peck at me, an' scold an' 
 storm an' complain. But more than thet 's th' 
 idee thet y' hed th' mind t' do it. It 's got t' be
 
 134 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 a habit. An' y' 've traveled so fur f r'm th' way 
 y' felt when 'Vinie was born, f'r instance, thet 
 y' never c'd git back ef y' wanted to. Thet 's 
 what I 'm seein'." 
 
 " 'Pears t' me you 're traveling too." 
 
 " I am. I 'm travelin' as fur in these five 
 minutes as you 've been travelin' these eighteen 
 years. I 've got to, t' ketch up. An' there 's 
 more travelin' ahead o' me." 
 
 "Oh, come, let 's quit this," he said impa 
 tiently, yet uneasily, rising this time with de 
 termination, and facing her. " I 've got work 
 t' do, an' you hev too." 
 
 She confronted him firmly. 
 
 "The work c'n wait," she said rapidly. 
 " Yours kin, an' mine 's got to. There 's things 
 t' say an' do b'fore you or I leave this room, 
 G-arrett. No ! y' can't go." She barred his way 
 again, dauntlessly. " An' don't you lay a finger 
 on me, this time." 
 
 He did not dream of doing so. She seemed 
 taboo, as she stood there, her whole being 
 aroused into excitement, quivering all through 
 with the defiant warning, " noli me tangere." He 
 stood before her, angry, yet arrested, cowed, 
 mastered. 
 
 She gave a harsh, mirthless laugh as she 
 watched him. 
 
 " It 's th' last time y' '11 try thet on, I guess," 
 she said decisively. A strange, fierce contempt
 
 EEVOLUTION . 135 
 
 was gathering in her eyes, and she seemed to 
 see him in a myriad new lights as he stood there 
 silent, returning her gaze with angry discom 
 posure. Her whirling thoughts were ordering 
 and marshaling themselves momently, far be 
 yond his power to arrest or govern. 
 
 "How was it I did n't see it!" she cried. 
 " How is it I 'm knowin' it now f 'r th' fust time ? 
 Is it the same with other women? Are they 
 jest help, too? Is it all so? Ain't there any 
 real marriage ? " 
 
 She paused again, panting a little with the 
 uprush of emotions. 
 
 "Yes, there is," she went on, answering her 
 own query with positiveness. " There was with 
 us, in th' early days. Where has it gone! 
 What 've we done to it? Somethin'! What 
 is it? 'T was too precious t' lose. An' it 's 
 mighty hard t' find ag'in, I take it." 
 
 " There, now, Sally," he interrupted. " Give 
 over talkin'. You let me out. I 've got to " 
 
 " i Git t' work ' ? " she said ironically, repeating 
 his worn formula. " Sounds familiar. An' I 'd 
 ought to, too, y' think? Well, I won't. It 's 
 been l git t' y'r work,' l git t' y'r work,' f'r a good 
 while stiddy now, an' mebbe it 's time t' stop 
 gittin' f r once." 
 
 "Don't I git t' mine, jest as reg'lar?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I don't tell ye to. There 's a big 
 difference."
 
 136 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "P'r'aps I don't need tellin'," he growled. 
 
 " P'r'aps I did n't either ; but y' never tried 
 me t' see. Jest think of it a minute. Here 
 we 've been .married twenty year, goin' on 
 twenty-one. We 've hed ups an' downs, chiefly 
 downs," he felt the sting of the allusion to his 
 lack of success, "we 've hed bad things, an' 
 good things, too, come to us ; we 've hed seven 
 childern, an' four of 'em 've been laid away in 
 th' graveyard," her voice broke a little, " an' 
 it ought t' 've brought us closer. An' has it ? 
 I want t' ask. Hev you hed any thin' f r me, as 
 fur back 's we c'n remember, but grumble, 
 grumble, grumble, blame, blame, blame?" 
 
 " Now see here, Sally, I " 
 
 "Hev ye? Answer me thet! An' never a 
 word o' lovin' or carin'. Never a feelin' of it, I 
 c'n see now. An' then comes this mornin', an' 
 it shows up all thet 's gone b'fore." \, 
 
 " Oh, there, don't harp on this mornin'," he 
 broke in. " I did n't mean anythin'. I 'm willin' 
 t' take it back, seein' as it 's made sech a stir as 
 all this." 
 
 " It can't be taken back," she vehemently re 
 turned, spurning his clumsy attempt at propi 
 tiation. " It 's years an' years o' shovin' put 
 into one shove, an' I 'm feelin' 'em all at onct. 
 It 's too many t' take back, offhand like thet. 
 No, Garrett; somethin' 's happened, an' some- 
 thin' else has got t' foller."
 
 EEVOLUTION 137 
 
 " What d' y' mean by thet ! " 
 
 "You 'd better set down," she said calmly. 
 " You an' I 've got a lot t' talk over yit b'fore I 
 git through." 
 
 " I can't stop now, I tell ye." 
 
 " Y' Ve got to. We may n't git a chance t' 
 talk often ; an' there 's things t' say." 
 
 " Hurry up, then, an' say 'em an' git 'em over." 
 
 "There 's no sech hurry. Y' c'n make up 
 time when I 've gone." 
 
 "What d' y' mean by 'gone'?" he sniffed 
 contemptuously. 
 
 "Y' '11 know pretty soon. What I want t' 
 say is this : We 've hed a wrong idee 'bout mar 
 riage, you an' I. Mine 's been as wrong as yours. 
 Marriage ain't a contract f r hired service. It 
 ain't a thing where one takes an' th' other gives ; 
 where one lords it an' th' other knuckles under ; 
 where there 's nothin' in common but th' grind 
 o' livin' and bringin' up childern. It 's some- 
 thin' more ekal than thet, more close, more uu- 
 derstandiri', more workiri' t'gether, more give an' 
 take. D' y' understand? An' thet we hev ri't 
 hed. I s'pose it 's a matter o' people's carin' 
 f'r each other. You gave over carin' f r me a 
 good while ago. I kep' on, kep' on till this 
 very day ; but I 've found out now there 's an 
 end to all things, even a woman's carin', when 
 it 's thrown back on her too long." 
 
 " Y' 're pretty unjust ; thet 's what I say."
 
 138 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "Unjust? I 'm only jest learnin' t' be just. 
 Justice works both ways." 
 
 "Hain't y' hed a home, same 's th' rest o' 
 people ? " 
 
 "'T ain't been much of a home. Food an' 
 clothin' an' a roof don't make a home, even ef 
 they cost a big sight more than those I 've hed. 
 Home 1 No, I hain't ; an' there 's jest th' p'int. 
 I hain't known what home is, these years. 
 Strange I never come t' see it till now." 
 
 " There 's worse, in Felton." 
 
 " I don't agree with ye. Take the Watkinses. 
 They 're a sight poorer than we be, an' Mrs. 
 Watkins works harder than I do, ef any thin'; 
 an' Sneezer 's got a foolish head f'r makin' or 
 spendin', an' fr other things too, most likely. 
 But he 's jest wrapped up in Molly an' th' chil- 
 dern. Y' ought t' 've seen him, th' other day, 
 when I was in there, worryin' over Molly's hand 
 thet she 'd scalded, an' skurryin' 'round f'r things 
 t' put on it." 
 
 " Sneezer ain't wuth makin' into a lamb pot- 
 pie." 
 
 " He 'd be tenderer than you be. Then there 's 
 Tom Henry. I 've heared he scolds his wife; 
 but he hugs her, too. 'T ain't th' work an' 
 worry thet comes b'tween husban' an' wife, 
 Garrett ; no, n'r a word now an' then. There 's 
 one thing thet '11 make th' other things all 
 right. But thet 's a thing y' hain't given me."
 
 EE VOLUTION 139 
 
 " P'r'aps there 's things y' hain't given me" 
 
 " There 's many things I hain't given ye ; but 
 thet wa' n't one." 
 
 " Those other things count too, I reckon. Y' 
 say I hain't keered Pr ye th' way I 'd oughter ; 
 but mebbe y' 've caused thet y'rself, admittin' 
 it 's so. A woman c'n gener'lly keep her hus- 
 ban's affection ef she d'serves it." 
 
 " I don't say I d'serve it. But I hain't given 
 reason Pr y'r goin' off so fur th' other way as t' 
 lead t' what y' 've jest done this mornin'. No, 
 Grarrett ; somethin' 's happened. An' somethin' 
 else has got t' follow." 
 
 "What 're y' talkin' 'bout?" 
 
 " I 've got t' leave ye." 
 
 " Leave me 1 " he echoed, incredulous despite 
 the solemnity of her tone. 
 
 " Thet 's what I said. An' this very mornin'. 
 B'fore noon, I an' my b'longin's '11 be out o' 
 this house Pr good an' all." 
 
 He thumped down into the chair behind him 
 with angry skepticism. 
 
 " Talk sense ! " he commanded. 
 
 " I 'm talkin' it," she responded with energy, 
 her eyes beginning to blaze again. " Th' fust 
 sense I 've talked Pr some years, I reckon. I 'm 
 goin' t' leave ye, G-arrett Coe ; d' y' understand 
 me ! Groin' t' leave this house an' th' work an' 
 th' farm an' you, an' goin' somewheres else. 
 An' I ain't comin' back."
 
 140 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Somewheres else, eh ? Where ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know yet. Over t' Westbury, 
 likely. Cousin Annie there '11 take me in Pr 
 a while, an' be glad to ; an' I 've got egg-an'-butter 
 money thet I was savin' up Fr 'Vinie an' thet 's 
 my very own, an' thet '11 keep me while I 'm 
 there. I ain't no dependent." 
 
 " An' after thet ! " he sneered. 
 
 " After thet 1 I 've no idee. It 's all come on 
 me too quick, like. But I '11 tell ye one thing : 
 what I 've got '11 keep me there till I c'n git 
 somethin' or other t' do, takin' washin' or 
 scrubbin' floors, even; an' I 'd do either one 
 b'fore I 'd come back here to you." 
 
 The sudden flash almost of hate in her eyes 
 was a revelation to him of things he had not 
 dreamed of, and he shrank from it. 
 
 "Thet 's th' way with you women," he said 
 bitterly. " Lovin' one day, hatin' th' next. I 'd 
 ruther hev " 
 
 " Yes, thet 's just us," she interrupted 
 abruptly. "'T ain't easy t' shift over, but 
 we 're apt t' go a mighty long way ef we go at 
 all. Why, I would n't stay under this roof an 
 other day with ye, any more than I 'd commit 
 adultery." 
 
 " Hsssh ! " he ordered sternly. " Leave off. 
 Don't say sech things as thet." 
 
 " Well, I would n't," she retorted defiantly. 
 
 "Much y' 're respectin' th' marriage tie by
 
 KEVOLUTION 141 
 
 goin' away," he flung back, "seein' y' 're so 
 bent on th' Commandments." 
 
 " Th' marriage tie 's been loosed not by me, 
 but by you ; an' not to-day 'specially, but durin' 
 years back. All y' did this mornin' was t' give 
 the final pull. I did n't know how much 't was 
 loosened b'fore." 
 
 " It ought n't t' 've been loosened by anythin' 
 thet could happen." 
 
 " So I used to think ; but I was wrong," she 
 said firmly. "I don't deny there 's a certain 
 amount o' strain thet marriage has got t' en 
 dure, any marriage; a good big lot, ef y' like. 
 'T ain't a thing t' be snapped apart f'r every 
 little happeniri', u'r even f'r every big one, n'r a 
 good many of 'em put t'gether. F'r thet matter, 
 it ain't a thing t' be snapped apart ever, an' I 'm 
 not one t' say it is. But livin' apart 's another 
 thing. Yest'rday I 'd 've said thet was sinful, 
 too; but to-day I know there 's times when 
 stayin' on 'd be sinfuller. No, 't ain't exactly 
 thet, either. What I meant t' say is, there 's 
 times when stayin' on 's jest out o' th' question." 
 
 She automatically fingered first one arm, 
 then the other, where he had grasped her, and 
 her tone grew heated again. 
 
 " T' think 't was my own husban' done it," 
 she said with bitterness, and the man winced 
 under her cutting tone. "My husban', Garrett 
 Coe. Raised his hand to a woman, an' thet
 
 142 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 woman his wife. Ordered her t' git t' work, 
 like a fact'ry-hand or a slavey. Been orderin' 
 her t' do it f'r years. Been clenchin' her, too, 
 th' same way, in sperrit." 
 
 " Oh, come now," Coe remonstrated. 
 
 " Course y' hev. What else is it 1 An' at 
 last I 've been made t' see it." 
 
 "How 'bout 'Vinie an' th' boys! Hev y' 
 thought o' them!" 
 
 "I hain't f'rgotten 'Vinie an' th' boys. Ef 
 'Vinie 'd stay, I 'd like it, an' she c'd do f'r you 
 an' th' boys, f'r a while, anyway, till she gits 
 married. But she won't stay." 
 
 "What 's th' reason she won't!" 
 
 "Well, she won't." Mrs. Coe gave a harsh 
 little laugh. " You '11 see. I know 'Vinie." 
 
 " Y' '11 tell her y'r own story, of course ! " he 
 sniffed. 
 
 " I '11 tell her not one word," declared his wife, 
 indignantly; "n'r any one else. 'T ain't their 
 business what 's happened b'tween you an' me. 
 Thet 's f'r you an' me t' know, an' others t' 
 guess." 
 
 "They '11 guess wuss than 't is," he said 
 sullenly. 
 
 "They could n't, not ef they reelly knew. 
 But I sha'n't help 'em ; an' I take it you won't. 
 'Vinie '11 go with me, an' wild horses could n't 
 keep her when she hears I 'm goin'." 
 
 " Y' 're not reelly goin'," he said, unable even
 
 EEVOLUTION 143 
 
 now to realize that she meant it, and meant it 
 with deadly determination. This phase of his 
 wife's mind he had never, remotely fathomed. 
 This sudden stiffening of her nature, this savage 
 insurrection, this alternation from heat to cool 
 ness playing over an invincible determination, 
 this new, clear, unsparing, retrospective vision 
 of hers, which seemed to set all things, for her 
 as for him, in a blinding light, these were un 
 wonted and dazing developments, and they 
 sobered and astounded and strangely alarmed 
 him. Had not her own sight been obscured by 
 her tumult of feeling she would have perceived 
 a sudden falling away of his bullyingness and 
 bluster, a collapse of his mental attitude of 
 offense, a reversal of his fanciful hates and 
 grievances, a kind of violent upturning of the 
 whole unreal world of brooding and self -justifi 
 cation in which he had lived, which left him 
 naked and ashamed in soul and abased before 
 her. 
 
 But these things were not on the surface. It 
 needed a wondrous, a wifely insight. She no 
 longer possessed such; she was no longer his 
 wife in spirit; and he was not one to tell of 
 them nor even to admit them. His tone was 
 hard and cynical as usual, as he asked the ques 
 tion about her really going. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with a finality which 
 admitted of no possible doubt. "Fr'm this
 
 144 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 day on, you an' I begin different lives. They '11 
 never run on t'gether ag'in." 
 
 " Oh, come, Sally," he said, seriously dis 
 quieted. " Y' can't mean a thing like thet. 
 What '11 1 do I What '11 folks say 1 " 
 
 "I can't help what they say. I owe some 
 things t' myself b'fore I owe 'em t' other peo 
 ple. An' as t' what you '11 do, y' '11 hev t' settle 
 thet f'r y'rself ." 
 
 She threw herself on the sofa, and burst into 
 a fit of passionate weeping. 
 
 " Oh, Garrett, Garrett," she cried. " All these 
 years ! Here I 've been lovin' you an' you 've 
 been hatin' me. Why did n't I find it out 
 sooner 1 Why did n't y' tell me b'fore we were 
 married how 't was goin' t' be 1 " 
 
 A slender figure stood in the doorway as these 
 last words were uttered, and 'Vinie quivered 
 violently as they fell upon her ear. Swiftly, 
 softly, she passed her father, and was kneeling 
 by her mother's side, wordless, but infinitely 
 comprehending, tender, comforting, caressing. 
 
 Coe looked sullenly down on the two. Then 
 he crossed to the kitchen door and left the 
 room.
 
 IX 
 
 DEPAKTUKE 
 
 FOE a long time, overstrained Mrs. Coe con 
 tinued to cry, first vehemently, copiously, 
 then more quietly, while her daughter's fair 
 fingers stroked her hair or clasped her hand, or 
 gently busied themselves in similar little offices 
 that spoke sympathy and alliance more openly 
 than words would have done. Gradually the 
 mother, relieved by the paroxysm of grief and 
 weeping, regained composure, but with deter 
 mination unchanged. This determination she 
 disclosed to 'Vinie, saying little of the morning's 
 events, and seeing as she talked that even the 
 little was unnecessary. The daughter seemed 
 to divine the whole affair by some swift intui 
 tion or long-accumulating ' perception ; and 
 while startled and keenly distressed, she uttered 
 no word to turn or dissuade her mother, partly 
 as seeing the futility of any remonstrance, and 
 partly as impulsively indorsing the act. She 
 forbore, as did the other, all direct condemna 
 tion of her father. 
 
 10 145
 
 146 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Mrs. Coe's face, from the time that her hus 
 band had laid rough hands upon her, had never 
 parted with a certain frightened yet fixed ex 
 pression, as of a new but irrevocable realization 
 of tragic facts. Rising, she insisted that 'Vinie 
 should eat a little breakfast, and going up- stairs, 
 she proceeded mechanically to gather together 
 her things. Her daughter soon followed her. 
 
 "Mamma," said 'Vinie, timidly, "I '11 stay." 
 
 Mrs. Coe looked up, for the moment discon 
 certed. Her daughter's moral desertion would 
 have been a hard additional thing to bear, 
 though it would not have shaken her purpose. 
 But 'Vinie's was no desertion; rather truest 
 loyalty. 
 
 u Oh, it 's for you ! " she cried, catching her 
 mother's glance. " Did you think it was be 
 cause I wanted to I You know how I just ache 
 to go with you. But what could you do with 
 me I And there are the boys to look after. You 
 know that the thought of them is 'most killing 
 you, this very minute." 
 
 " Oh, 't is, 'Vinie ! " cried the mother, miserably. 
 " I can't leave 'em ; an' yit I can't take 'em. Ef 
 't was jest me an' Garrett, how plain an' simple 
 things would be ! But things never do seem 
 plain an' simple f'r anybody." 
 
 "I '11 watch over the boys," 'Vinie said 
 simply. 
 
 " But you can't stay here an' do th' work,"
 
 DEPARTURE 147 
 
 argued Mrs. Coe, anxiously. " It 's too much 
 fr ye. I would n't hear to it." 
 
 11 Don't you worry about the work, mamma," 
 responded the daughter, with a little disdainful 
 toss of the head. "I '11 do what I 've always 
 done ; but pa '11 have to get some one in to do 
 the rest, if he wants it done at all. That 's one 
 of the ways he '11 see what you 've been to him, 
 though it 's the littlest way of all." 
 
 The elder woman paused in her abstracted 
 sorting out of her possessions. 
 
 "What can I do!" she uttered appealingly. 
 " I can't go off an' leave ye all, this way. I 
 can't ! " Then the memory of the morning 
 brought back the past years. "An' I can't 
 stay," she exclaimed swiftly, decisively. "I 
 can't ! Why, I c'd no more " She broke 
 down again. 
 
 Agitated 'Vinie could be of little comfort, 
 though comfort was so sorely needed. In a 
 minute or two Mrs. Coe had recovered herself, 
 and rapidly went on with her task. There was 
 an old packing-trunk in the attic, now filled 
 with winter bedding and clothing folded away 
 in tar and camphor until the coming of cold 
 weather. This trunk, which had belonged to 
 Mrs. Coe, the two emptied and brought into 
 the bedroom. As the mother worked, silently 
 aided by 'Vinie, her face never softened its 
 expression, and there was clearly no faintest
 
 148 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 weakening of her desperate resolution. In fact, 
 her face grew steadily harder. Impressions, 
 recollections, came tumultuously into her mind. 
 Countless long forgotten or excused incidents of 
 her husband's behavior to ward her clamored now 
 for recognition and review. Instances of his be 
 havior toward others, his harshness and incivil 
 ity and lovelessness, pressed forward at the same 
 time. Rumors that had reached her ears of 
 the trouble at the post- office some weeks since, 
 took on sudden and definite meaning. 'Vinie's 
 unguarded reports of the very night before, 
 anent the fire and Coe's believed complicity, 
 flashed before her, showing his status in still 
 another loathsome light ; and she started, for a 
 moment, to find that she could now give full 
 credence even to his alleged incendiarism. The 
 riot of feeling, passing so swiftly into revolt 
 and rebellion, had become revolution. For the 
 first time she was seeing her husband with 
 alien eyes, and she saw him in all his detested- 
 ness and ostracism. And her lips compressed 
 themselves with keener and keener scorn. 
 
 Coe, who had returned to the house, came 
 stalking up the stairs, uneasy yet with a bold 
 front ; but his wife positively and with few words 
 forbade his entering the room. He felt an odd 
 powerlessness as he claimed permission ineffec 
 tually. She would not speak with him further, and 
 after a minute he stalked down again, rebuffed.
 
 DEPARTUEE 149 
 
 The sight of the uncleared breakfast-things on 
 the table below gave him an indefinable little 
 shock as he passed through the kitchen and 
 wandered aimlessly out to join Sol in the fields. 
 
 The Westbury stage always left the Corners 
 at eleven in the forenoon. 'Vinie volunteered 
 to go down-town and instruct the good-natured 
 driver to pass the Coe house and take up her 
 mother and the trunk, and she hurried off for 
 this purpose. She found the driver among the 
 knots of people which, all the morning, had 
 been forming and dissolving about the scene of 
 the fire; and drawing him aside, imparted her 
 errand quietly and with an injunction to say 
 nothing about it. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Coe, trembling, energetic, 
 had been seized with a new and compelling im 
 pulse, and had begun to pack little Game's 
 things in along with hers. From time to time 
 she slipped noiselessly into the adjoining cham 
 ber, where both the boys, with the limitless 
 somnolence of unburdened childhood, were still 
 sleeping soundly. Garrie had ceased to toss 
 and turn since the hours of the night, and his 
 delicate, wistful little face had lost its lines of 
 vague restlessness and disturbance. He was her 
 favorite. She bent over him with a great thrill. 
 
 " I can't leave him behind," she whispered to 
 herself, her lips softly touching his cheek, " an' 
 I won't. Garrett sha'n't have everythin'."
 
 150 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Passing around the bed, she bent over and 
 lovingly kissed the face of the other lad also ; 
 but when she went back to her packing, it was 
 to resume with added resolve the gathering 
 together of the clothes and small belongings of 
 little G-arrie. 
 
 'Vinie returned, and was swift to indorse 
 Mrs. Coe's new plan, rightly divining that with 
 out at least one of her cherished ones near her, 
 the mother-heart must burst with yearning. 
 The girl, herself ardently aroused, and wrought 
 up to a high pitch of sympathy and emotion, 
 showed a curiously swift and living compre 
 hension of the significance of what was happen 
 ing, and appeared to enter into her mother's feel 
 ings with an entirety and intensity which would 
 have been thought to be possible only to one who 
 had had far more deep and varied experiences 
 than 'Vinie had ever encountered. But hers was 
 a life of the soul, of the feelings, of deep-prompted 
 instincts and impulses that did not base on 
 analysis or experience and yet that rarely 
 found themselves in error. She knew and 
 shared her mother's very soul on this day, 
 though in silence ; and the mother realized it, 
 through all her tumult of thoughts and deter 
 minations, and felt its uplifting, buoying help. 
 
 GrARRETT COE tramped back from the farther 
 pasture for midday dinner, after all. He had
 
 DEPARTURE 151 
 
 stubbornly resisted the unceasing desire, all the 
 morning, to come back sooner. He had held 
 doggedly to his fence-repairing, telling himself 
 that his wife's sputter would shortly be over, and 
 that she would quiet down and be deep in work 
 by the noon-hour. He found it impossible to 
 imagine that her announced determination to 
 leave him was seriously meant; yet he was 
 thoroughly disquieted and, had he confessed it, 
 anxious and a prey to misgivings as, after 
 telling Sol that he would see why dinner had 
 not been sent out, he pressed back with grow 
 ing unrest to the farm-house. 
 
 'Vinie was in the kitchen, and he knew that 
 he had lost a daughter as well as a wife when 
 she informed him that the latter had gone 
 away. Her tone was controlled, but something 
 in it told volumes. He stared at her stupidly. 
 
 " Where 's the boys ! " he demanded. 
 
 " She took Grarrie with her. I sent Bruce 
 down to school. I wrote him an excuse for 
 being so late, and told the teacher that Grarrie 
 would n't be coming again." 
 
 "Took Grarrie with her?" he began; and 
 then, words failing him, he betook himself in 
 continently up-stairs to verify these incredible 
 things. There was no one there ; and a glance 
 around convinced him beyond cavil that two 
 of the missing were not coming back. 
 
 He stood there, looking vacantly around the
 
 152 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 familiar room, which, almost undisturbed in its 
 visible furnishings and its few small adorn 
 ments, yet impressed him with a strange air of 
 emptiness. He stood a long while, scarcely 
 stirring, and many thoughts came and went. 
 But his face betrayed nothing as he went 
 down-stairs again. 
 
 " Where 's dinner ? " he asked curtly. 
 "It 's ready. I got it, this time." 
 He grunted, perceiving a certain significance 
 in her remark. 'Vinie set the hot dishes upon 
 the table, and they ate the meal in silence.
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 
 
 ' T WANT t' know ! 
 
 J- It was Mr. Leavitt's incredulous voice. 
 The stage-driver had just driven in on his return 
 trip, and having delivered at the post-office his 
 scanty bag of mail, lingered behind the screen 
 of call-boxes long enough to impart his latest 
 news. It was late in the afternoon, as he had 
 been detained at Westbury by a broken whiffle- 
 tree. 
 
 He had carried Mrs. Coe and Garrie over to 
 Westbury in the morning, but his adroit ques 
 tioning had failed to elicit from her any infor 
 mation as to the reason for the journey. On 
 the way back he made it a point to pass again 
 by the Coe place. 'The farmer was standing 
 vacantly at the front gate, apparently lost in 
 abstraction, his gaze fixed idly upon the sandy 
 road before him. The driver drew rein, and 
 accosted him genially : 
 
 " Hullo, Mr. Coe. Druv y'r wife an' boy over 
 with me this mornin'." 
 
 153
 
 154 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "Well, what of it?" demanded the other, 
 gruffly. 
 
 " Thought y' 'd like t' know they got there 
 all safe. I took 'em right to her cousin's door, 
 trunk an' all." 
 
 " Huh ! " 
 
 " They goin' t' stay long?" 
 
 "F'rever, as fur 's I know or keer," said 
 Coe, briefly. " She 's left me. Drive on, will 
 
 "Left ye?" queried the astonished stage- 
 driver. 
 
 " Thet 's what I said, ain't it ? Y' might as 
 well be told fust as last. Women are all fools. 
 Come, drive on." 
 
 " Th' road 's free, I guess," answered the dri 
 ver, with spirit. " I '11 drive on when I git ready, 
 an' not b'fore." 
 
 " Well, when y' git ready, I '11 come out ag'in," 
 snapped Coe, turning from the gate. "Pity 
 folks ain't got a right t' be let alone at their 
 own door." 
 
 " Oh, y' 're let alone enough t' suit ye, most o' 
 th' time," the indignant driver called after him, 
 with a shake of his reins on the horses' backs. 
 " I 'm willin' t' keep it up, f'r one ;" and he trotted 
 on into town. But it was big news, and with 
 the natural alacrity of one who had a " scoop," 
 he lost no time in disburdening himself of it at 
 the center of intelligence, the post-office.
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 155 
 
 " I want t' know ! " repeated Mr. Leavitt, highly 
 amazed and interested. 
 
 " Best thing- she ever done," warmly returned 
 the driver, fresh from his outburst against the 
 husband. "I 'd ought t' 've gotten down an' 
 kicked him." 
 
 He was muscular, but Mr. Leavitt surveyed 
 him dubiously. 
 
 "Y' 'd 've got kicked back," he observed. 
 " Garrett would n't be any too easy t' wrastle 
 with. I wondered Mr. Reed c'd 've held him 
 as long 's he did, thet evenin' here. An' so he 
 told ye himself she 'd gone 1 " 
 
 " Thet 's what he did." 
 
 " Sho ! An' she 's in Westbury ? an' took 
 Game with her ? Well, I d'clare ! " 
 
 Mr. Leavitt masticated the surprising infor 
 mation with difficulty but relish. Naturally 
 he was also rather scandalized. 
 
 " She 's run away, then ; thet 's what she 's 
 done," he summarized wonderingly. 
 
 " Thet 's about it. Ef I 'd been her, I 'd 've 
 run away a dern sight sooner. He 's a reg'lar 
 ol' cur. I bet he 's hit her or somethin'." 
 
 " Y' don't reelly think so ! " 
 
 "Yes, I do. He 's one thet would." 
 
 " Well, well ! Fust time any thin' like thet 's 
 happened in this town, as fur back 's I c'n 
 r'member," said Mr. Leavitt, thoughtfully. 
 " Gone an' left him f'r good an' all ! I d'clare ! "
 
 156 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Well, it 's good sense," said the stage-driver, 
 emphatically. " I never was one t' see why a 
 man an' woman sh'd hev t' stick t' one another 
 everlastin'ly, jest b'cause a parson 's spoke a few 
 words over 'em. Not ef they 're as badly used 
 as I guess Mrs. Coe 's been." 
 
 "Well, I don' know," deliberated the post 
 master. "Paul did n't set any store by 
 divorces." 
 
 " He did n't say anythin' ag'inst separating" 
 the other argued, " an' thet 's all Mrs. Coe 's 
 done. No, sir ; I '11 stick up f'r her, f 'r one, an' 
 I jedge everybody in town will. You see. But 
 I wish I 'd gotten down an' kicked him, as I said. 
 Jest f'r luck." 
 
 A call for stamps interrupted the conversa 
 tion, and the driver made his way back to his 
 team, moving out through the outer office. He 
 exchanged a few words with some persons pass 
 ing on the walk outside, and then jogged slowly 
 on down the main street, accosting several 
 whom he met, and leaning sociably forward for 
 a minute's chat while the horses paused. In 
 this way he contrived to disseminate his in 
 teresting news not only impartially but quite 
 widely, on his leisurely way to the Say res', 
 where he boarded. 
 
 Gran'pa Sayre was an infirm and aged wid 
 ower, who had misty boyhood recollections of 
 the War of 1812, and who was still alert as to
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 157 
 
 current happenings. His widowed daughter-in- 
 law, Lyddy Sayre, lived with him, as did also her 
 only daughter, Belle, a hearty, cheery, blond- 
 ringleted girl, who took after her dead father 
 rather than after her sorrowing, care-troubled 
 mother. Gran'pa Sayre, now ably aided by 
 Walt Hopkins, the stage-driver, still kept up 
 the modest livery-stable which had for two 
 generations supplied Felton's occasional wants, 
 and which yearly brought in its small but use 
 ful revenue. He controlled the Westbury stage 
 and also the one to Hingham, and still took an 
 active interest in his stable, though deputing 
 the actual care of it to Walt and to Walt's 
 younger brother, who attended to the work 
 during the hours when Hopkins himself was 
 on the route. 
 
 The driver put up his horses in the roomy 
 stable at the rear, and came into the house, 
 where he promptly told his item of news. Its 
 reception was all that could be desired. Gran' 
 pa Sayre was sitting, idle in the failing light, in 
 his comfortable, wide-armed chair. Mrs. Sayre, 
 his daughter, was also unoccupied for the time, 
 her sewing interrupted by the dusk. It was 
 not time to light the lamps. The quarter-hour 
 of " blindman's holiday " was an interval that 
 active, restless Belle always detested, and she 
 was now moving objectlessly about, tidying 
 the room here and there, and killing time by
 
 158 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 various small doings. Lorinda Park had been 
 in spending the afternoon, aiding Mrs. Sayre 
 and Belle in some assorting of squares for a 
 patchwork quilt, and was now on the point of 
 leaving. All welcomed the coming of Walt 
 Hopkins, who always seemed to bring in with 
 him fresh air and cheer from the outer world. 
 They listened to his announcement with be 
 fitting amazement. 
 
 "I guess she could n't put up with a man 
 thet sets fire t' people's stores," observed Mrs. 
 Sayre. 
 
 " Small blame to her," declared the driver, 
 tossing his hat upon a distant what-not, and 
 stretching himself luxuriously along the wide, 
 roomy lounge. 
 
 "'T ain't right," pronounced Gran'pa's high, 
 positive voice. " 'T ain't right, no way y' look 
 at it," 
 
 "Why don't y' think so, father?" asked his 
 daughter, with a certain typical deference to the 
 views of an elder. 
 
 " It 's a tie thet ain't of our makin', an' hed n't 
 ought t' be of our breakin'." 
 
 " How d' y' mean, it ain't of our makin' 1 " 
 asked Lyddy. 
 
 " Ain't marriage a divine ord'nance f " 
 
 " So we 're told." 
 
 " Well, then ! " he said triumphantly. 
 
 " I don't believe it was meant to hold as tight
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 159 
 
 as all that," put in Belle, with conviction. " I 
 can tell you what it is : if I was married to a man 
 like Garrett Coe, I M do just what she 's done." 
 
 " Y' '11 feel diff'rent when y' 're married," said 
 her mother. 
 
 " I don't think so. I don't see why I should 
 stay on and be unhappy and hard pressed all 
 my life, just because I once thought a man was 
 different from what he turned out to be." 
 
 " A woman ought t' know at th' start," ob 
 jected Lyddy. " It 's a risk she has t' take." 
 
 "You can't know at the start," the girl de 
 clared. " I don't believe any girl does." 
 
 " Thet 's so, fast enough," affirmed Walt, from 
 his sofa. " There 's men thet 's as smooth an' 
 straight an' slick outwardly as th' very elect, as 
 fur as women c'n see, an' yit they 're bad 
 through an' . through. Other men may know 
 'em ; but ef they do, they can't say so, most 
 gener'lly. Or they won't. Pity, too. It takes 
 a man t' size up a man. An' I guess likely it 
 takes a woman t' size up a woman, though I 
 ain't so sure as t' thet." He stole an admiring 
 look at Belle. 
 
 Miss Park spoke. 
 
 " One 's as true as th' other," she asserted. 
 " But thet only makes th' risk ekal an' evens 
 things up." 
 
 "Evens 'em down, don't you think?" sug 
 gested Belle.
 
 160 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " No, I don't. Where 'd life be ef everybody 
 thet 's husband or wife was free t' leave, any 
 time they concluded they was dissatisfied ? " 
 
 " It 's been a good sight more than jest bein' 
 dissatisfied, as fur 's Mrs. Coe 's concerned, I 
 take it," remarked Hopkins. 
 
 "G-arrett was a likely young man enough," 
 put in Gran'pa. " I rec'llect him well as a 
 young feller. Allers straight and well-be 
 haved." 
 
 " Well, then, that only makes another kind of 
 risk," argued his granddaughter, "where a 
 man turns out different, not from what you 
 thought, but from what he really was." 
 
 " We all turn out diff'rent, f 'r better or wuss," 
 generalized the old man. " An' it 's f'r better 
 or wuss thet we marry." 
 
 "Yes, thet 's exac'ly it," added Miss Park. 
 "A body can be jest as unhappy or hard 
 pressed single as married." There was a deep 
 wistf ulness in her voice. " There 's jest as much 
 risk. More, sometimes. A married woman 's 
 got blessin's thet she ain't always thankful 
 enough fur. But she 'd miss 'em ef she 'd never 
 hed 'em, I tell ye." 
 
 " I ruther expected you t' take th' other side, 
 Lorindy," put in Mrs. Sayre, with a friendly 
 little smile. " Y' 're gener'lly pretty outspoken, 
 y' know." 
 
 " I say what I think," agreed the other. " But
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 161 
 
 I don't allers think different fr'm what 's usual. 
 I don't 'bout marriage, f r one thing." 
 
 " Thet 's right," approved Gran'pa Sayre. 
 "We 've got t' hold by some things ef we 're 
 goin' t' hold at all. When we git t' playin' fast 
 an' loose, 't ain't easy stoppin'. I 'd ruther hold 
 by 'em all. I 've done it f r seventy-eight year." 
 
 " Well, I don't calc'late thet I kin," observed 
 Walt Hopkins. " I may ef things go right ; but 
 thet 's all I c'n say." 
 
 " They hev n't allers gone right with me," 
 averred the old man. 
 
 "No, indeed, they hev n't, pa," his widowed 
 daughter said, not without admiration. "N'r 
 with me," she added, with a sigh. 
 
 " Still, ma, you did n't have the kind o' thing 
 Mrs. Coe 's had to bear," contended Belle. " And 
 I guess Gran'pa did n't either," she added, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 " No, child," assented her mother. " I did n't ; 
 thet 's true. But I 'd 'most ruther 've hed y'r 
 poor father alive an' bad t' me than good t' me 
 an' dead." Lyddy rarely obtruded her bereave 
 ment, and never her grief ; and now, to conceal 
 a rising emotion, she hurried out of the room to 
 light and bring in the lamps. 
 
 " Hugh never would 've been bad t' her," said 
 the old man, with paternal pride in the fact. " A 
 big, hearty, cheery lad like Hugh ! Poor boy. 
 Well, I wish Providence c'd 've spared him." 
 
 u
 
 162 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "I do feel so sorry for 'Vinie," Belle said, 
 with love for her playmate and schoolmate. 
 
 " I s'pose she '11 hev t' take charge o' things," 
 piped Grran'pa, " th' house an' th' other leetle 
 boy an' all." 
 
 " No, she won't," said Belle, promptly. " Not 
 'Vinie Coe. I know her better than that. 
 She '11 do her part, as she 's been doing, but 
 she won't let her father get a servant's work 
 out of her after lie 's just driven her mother 
 off with too much of it. You '11 see." 
 
 "I don't b'lieve 't was too much work thet 
 druv Sally off," put in Miss Park. " 'T was too 
 much grumble an' scold an' gen'ral ugliness. 
 Work ain't a bad diet. Ef 't was, we 'd all be 
 dead." 
 
 " I guess it sort o' gits t' be a bad diet when 
 it 's seasoned with thet kind o' sauce," reflected 
 Hopkins. " It 's wuss than red peppers, I sh'd 
 say." 
 
 " Red peppers is good seasonin'." 
 
 " Not when they 're in every dish, an' dessert, 
 too ; an' fed t' ye 'tween-times b'sides." 
 
 " Well," acquiesced Miss Lorinda, rising to go 
 as Mrs. jSayre returned, " mebbe not. A body 
 can't tell till it 's tried. I 'm sorry f'r Sally Coe, 
 of course, dreadful sorry; but I think she 'd 
 ought t' 've stuck by. An' I think y' '11 find 
 thet th' gen'ral, sober, orthodox sense o' th' com" 
 munity '11 be ag'inst her. Thet ain't sayin' thet
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 163 
 
 people won't sympathize with her, or thet they 
 don't despise her husban'. But they '11 feel thet 
 thet kind of a remedy 's too dangerous f 'r gen'ral 
 practice." 
 
 "Well, I can't agree with ye, beggin' pardon, 
 Miss Lorindy," said the stage-driver, vigorously, 
 as he stood up. " I 'm glad I c'd help in gittin' her 
 out of it. Ef she hed n't been able t' pay fare, 
 I 'd 've been glad t' pay it out o' my own pocket. 
 An' I guess, on th' whole, th' town '11 say th' same. 
 Ef y' 're goin', Miss Lorindy, I '11 see ye safe 
 down t' y'r house ef y' '11 let me." 
 
 Belle looked as pleased at the little gallantry 
 as did the visitor, and Walt and Miss Park 
 moved off together. 
 
 As they approached the Kembles', who were 
 near neighbors of Miss Park's, they saw through 
 the windows the family sitting around the lamp 
 in the room within, and the little woman could 
 not resist the desire to " drop in " for a few mo 
 ments. Miss Park liked to discuss and talk, but 
 she never bore tales from one household to an 
 other ; so that she was always a welcomed caller 
 wherever her neighborhood peregrinations led 
 her. Walt left her at the gate, and she entered. 
 
 The new topic was, of course, engrossing dis 
 cussion at the Kembles' also, but it had taken a 
 somewhat different turn. Mrs. Kemble and 
 Miss Harvey had found a verdict extremely 
 difficult. On the one hand, they were naturally
 
 164 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 bitterly hostile to Coe since the affair of the fire 
 which had so closely affected the Kemble inter 
 ests, and upon the redeeming features of which 
 Mr. Kemble had not dwelt at injudicious length. 
 On the other hand, the opportunity of criticiz 
 ing sharply a troubled sister's revolutionary act 
 was not one to be lightly thrown away. Mr. 
 Kemble divined the conflict of ideas, and viewed 
 its development with secret glee, not alone as a 
 humorist but as an enlightened psychologist. 
 
 " Well, what d' you think of it all, Lorindy I 
 the two women demanded, turning to the new 
 comer with a certain relief. 
 
 " Me ! Well, I can't say 's I approve." 
 
 "N'r I," said Miss Harvey, with positiveness. 
 
 "Why, there, now," Mr. Kemble reminded her, 
 " you was jest a-sayin' thet " 
 
 "No matter," she interrupted sharply. "I 
 don't care how good-f'r-nothin' an' wicked a 
 husband is, it 's a wife's dooty t' stick by him." 
 
 " Th' way Letty 's stuck by me," illustrated 
 Mr. Kemble. "An' the way you hev, too, f'r 
 thet matter, Sophrony." 
 
 Miss Harvey looked at him sharply, but his 
 face was very innocent, and her suspicions were 
 lulled. 
 
 " 'T ain't dooty on my part," she said ; " but 
 't is on Letty's." 
 
 " Thank ye," murmured Mr. Kemble. 
 
 "Oh, there, now, George, I did ri't mean
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 165 
 
 thet. Do talk sense. An' it 's dooty on Sally 
 Coe's." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble felt instantly wary of accepting 
 this doctrine even by silence, not knowing pre 
 cisely whither it might lead ; and rather invol 
 untarily she found herself ranged with the 
 defense. 
 
 "There 's allers a limit even t' dooty," she 
 said, scanning her sister alertly through her 
 spectacles ; "an' I guess it 's been more than 
 reached in her case." 
 
 " Why, Letty, you said, a few minutes ago, " 
 remonstrated her husband. 
 
 " I did n't say any thin' o' th' kind," retorted 
 she. " You misunderstood me, whatever 't was. 
 I c'n tell y' what : ef I sh'd ever git t' be abused 
 th' way I reckon Sally 's been, I 'd leave this 
 house quicker 'n a wink." 
 
 " Oh, no, y' would n't, ma," chaffed he. " Y' 'd 
 jest turn 'round an' abuse me back. An' then 
 / 'd be th' one thet 'd talk o' leavin'." 
 
 Mr. Kemble's way of putting things often left 
 his hearers in doubt as to whether they were 
 being complimented or the reverse, and his wife 
 now felt this uncertainty. While she scrutinized 
 him questipningly, Miss Park judiciously took 
 up a new thread. 
 
 "I wonder whether she '11 stay on at her 
 cousin's right along," she speculated. 
 
 "Yes, think o' thet," added Miss Harvey.
 
 166 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Th' idee of her goin' an' quarterin' herself 
 there on her relation, thet ain't got any too 
 much herself, I take it, an' layiii' out t' stay 
 there on charity. I call it shameful." 
 
 "How d' y' know she 's on charity?" de 
 manded her sister, now fully aligned on the 
 defensive. 
 
 " How c'd she be on anythin' else ? " retorted 
 Miss Harvey. " Where c'd she git any money t' 
 pay with? unless she stole it, an' I don't jedge 
 she 's done thet." 
 
 " I wish more people hed your lenient way o' 
 jedgin', Sophrony," put in Mr. Kemble, with 
 apparent heartiness. " It 's allers th' right way 
 o' takin' things, an' I like t' see it. Now, I 'd 've 
 said thet most likely she must 've stole th' " 
 
 " George ! " interrupted his wife. " You stop. 
 I wish y' 'd talk serious once in a while. Th' 
 idee o' Sally Coe's takin' what did n't b'long t' 
 her ! " 
 
 " Then how 's she livin' ? " Miss Harvey put in, 
 with a note of triumph. 
 
 "P'r'aps she hed some little of her own," 
 hazarded Mrs. Kemble, vaguely. 
 
 " Humph ! I guess likely," returned her sis 
 ter, sardonically. " P'r'aps she hed a big wad 
 o' shinplasters an' greenbacks behind a brick 
 up th' chimney, an' a hull lot o' silk dresses an' 
 di'monds an' hosses an' kerr'ages laid by where 
 they 'd be handy ; but I don't believe it."
 
 A NINE DAYS' WONDER 167 
 
 " Sophrony," admonished Mr. Kemble, ear 
 nestly, "it 's terrible t' see you meddlin' with 
 sarcasm , this way. Somethin' '11 come of it, some 
 day, sure. I hate t' see th' habit growin' on ye." 
 
 Miss Harvey was rather flattered at this trib 
 ute, as every one is when styled a satirist. It 
 was Mrs. Kemble's next word, but Miss Park 
 deftly cut in again. 
 
 "There 's one thing I like," she said, "an' 
 thet 's Sally Coe's d'termination, now thet her 
 sperrit is up. Fire an' water won't move her. 
 She may be wrong, an' people may all shout at 
 her thet she 's wrong ; but those yieldin' women 
 're jest th' ones thet won't set down ag'in when 
 they 've once stood up. It 's splendid, I think." 
 
 " Yes, thet 's often come home t' me," mur 
 mured the storekeeper. 
 
 "What d' you think o' th' case y'rself, Mr. 
 Kemble 1 " went on Miss Park. 
 
 " 'Bout Mrs. Coe's quittin' home ! Well, th' 
 Goes hev n't patronized our store, anyway, f'r a 
 long while, so I don' know as two of 'em goin' 
 away will make much difference in th' trade." 
 
 " No, but sober, now." 
 
 Mr. Kemble met her mood for the minute. 
 
 " Well," he said, " t' tell th' truth, Pr once my 
 wife agrees with what I think." 
 
 The spectacles were turned on him instantly. 
 
 "What 's thet?" questioned Mrs. Kemble, 
 with suspicion in her voice.
 
 168 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " I should say," he hastily explained, " thet f'r 
 once I agree with what my wife thinks." 
 
 "F'r once?" she echoed, not fully appeased. 
 
 " Once among many times, my dear," he as 
 sured her, with a bow. " As fur as I c'n speak 
 in Sally Coe's place, I 'd rather run ag'inst St. 
 Paul an' Malachi an' th' Song o' Solomon an' 
 all th' Tables o' th' Decalogue t'gether, than 
 house up f r more than a day with sech a surly, 
 rascally brute as thet precious husband o' hers." 
 
 It was firm, deliberate, emphatic speaking, 
 such as Mr. Kemble was abundantly capable of 
 when he cared to be. But his jesting manner 
 quickly returned. 
 
 " I don't want t' be sowin' seeds o' discontent 
 in my own household," he added apprehensively. 
 
 " Never you fear, George," returned his wife, 
 coolly. " I guess I 'm stony soil, or they 'd 've 
 taken root long ago without your plantiri'." 
 
 "Yes," he admitted; "sometimes it 's power 
 ful hard to raise a crop, even with careful 
 seedin'." 
 
 " Huh ! " sniffed his wife, who had no retort 
 ready. "Lorindy, you stay an' take tea with 
 . us. Your table ain't set, an' there 's no use your 
 goin' home." 
 
 Miss Park assented cheerfully, and the dis 
 cussion was later adjourned to the supper- 
 table, where it was waged with un diminished 
 interest.
 
 XI 
 
 A LOVEKS' QUAKKEL 
 
 ON the same evening, a somewhat unusual 
 conversation was being carried on, just 
 outside the Coe house. It was between 'Vinie 
 and Burt Way. Without waiting for her lover 
 to hear the news of her mother's departure 
 from other sources, 'Vinie had that afternoon 
 sent him a brief note by the hand of little 
 Bruce. It simply told the fact, and added that 
 she must see him about something that very 
 evening. It was not one of Burt's evenings for 
 coming over, as the girl had latterly limited 
 him with singular but fixed strictness to certain 
 and infrequent evenings in the week, and it 
 was with an undefined feeling of apprehension 
 that he obeyed her mandate and hurried over 
 after supper. 
 
 She made him wait in the rusty though neat 
 little sitting-room while she washed up the 
 tea-things. Coe had gone up-stairs. As she 
 came in to him, he sprang up eagerly to kiss 
 her and pour out his tide of questionings and 
 
 169
 
 170 OLD 'BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 sympathy; but she repulsed the caress with 
 a little gesture, paying no heed to his impul 
 sive remonstrance; and taking up her light 
 worsted shoulder-wrap, which she had placed 
 within reach, she led the way out of doors to 
 the foot-path bordering the road in front, where 
 they might pace up and down out of ear-shot. 
 
 She was strangely quiet, but she answered 
 his eager queries about her mother directly and 
 openly. Burt had a right to know, and indeed 
 there was nothing to conceal. His astonish 
 ment at it all was immeasurable, and though 
 she scrupulously said as little as possible regard 
 ing her father, Burt's indignation against him 
 waxed hot as she spoke the meager facts. 
 
 " 'Vinie," he burst out, " we must get married 
 right away, this very week. I won't have you 
 living under that roof any longer." 
 
 There was instant intolerance of his authority 
 in her quick reply. 
 
 " We 're not going to be married at all, Burt," 
 she said with decision. "I 've thought it all 
 out, and that 's what I sent for you to tell 
 you." 
 
 "Not going " he began blankly. "What 
 the dickens do you mean, 'Vinie? Thought 
 what all out?" 
 
 " All this about you and me," she answered 
 clearly. " I 've got to take back being engaged. 
 I don't want to be, any longer."
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 171 
 
 " Take it back ? " he echoed. " You can't. I 
 won't let you. What do you mean? I don't 
 understand." 
 
 His tone was perhaps unfortunate, though it 
 expressed chiefly perplexity and bewilderment ; 
 and her own tone stiffened the more. 
 
 " What do you mean by saying you won't let 
 me ! " she retorted. " You have n't the right to 
 say that yet, remember. I 'm free still; and 
 I 've decided to stay so." 
 
 Burt stopped in their walk and stared at her 
 helplessly. Even now, he did not fully under 
 stand. He had not in the least grasped the im 
 port of her tense, deadly earnestness. 
 
 " I mean," she went on hastily, " that I 've 
 got to stay home here, now that mamma 's gone, 
 and look after Bruce and see to a great many 
 things." 
 
 " Why, it 's just the time when you 've got to 
 leave," he broke in amazedly. " You can't 'tend 
 to this house and the work. You sha'n't. It 's 
 twice too much for you, even if your father was 
 was different. I won't think of such a thing. 
 It 's preposterous, that 's all. Bring Bruce 
 with you. We '11 look after him together." 
 
 " That 's out of the question, Burt," she said, 
 almost curtly. " Of course I could n't do that." 
 
 "Well, it 's just as much out of the question 
 for you to stay here and do all this work. That 
 is, if I have anything to say."
 
 172 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " You have n't. Not a single word," she de 
 clared firmly. " I sha'n't do more than my own 
 part of the work, the same part I 've been 
 doing. But if I did, I 've got the right to, and I 
 mean to hold it." 
 
 She spoke with curious energy, and her 
 slight figure quivered a little with a certain 
 excitement as she paced slowly on beside 
 him. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, 'Vinie," said 
 big, honest Burt, aggrieved and puzzled. " Have 
 I done anything ? " 
 
 " Not a thing. I 've decided to stay on here 
 at home, that 's all; and so our engagement 
 is n't to hold any more." 
 
 " You can't mean that ! " he exclaimed, grow 
 ing more and more astounded and incredulous. 
 
 " Yes, I do mean it. I mean every word." 
 
 " Well, you 've got to tell me why," he as 
 serted. "Either I 've done something or I 
 have n't. I have n't meant to, 'Vinie, really," 
 he pleaded. " I 'm awful sorry if I have. 
 Please tell me." 
 
 "You have n't done anything, Burt. I 've 
 told you that already." 
 
 "Well, who has? Somebody has. Some 
 thing or other 's up. Anybody been making 
 mischief ? " he demanded with swift suspicion. 
 
 "You mean between us? Not a soul. I 
 would n't have it. You know that."
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 173 
 
 " Well, then, what 's up 1 I 've got to know. 
 I won't listen to such stuff as this without a 
 reason." 
 
 "Nothing 's up," returned 'Vinie, little sof 
 tened by his tone, excusable though the intona 
 tion was. " I 've got duties here at home now, 
 as I said, and I 'm going to stay here and look 
 after them." 
 
 "For how long?" 
 
 "For always, as far as you and I are con 
 cerned." , 
 
 He caught his breath. 
 
 " Do you, mean that, 'Vinie ! " he asked 
 slowly. 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 "Eeally?" 
 
 "Yes; really." 
 
 " Think a minute what you 're saying." 
 
 " I have thought." 
 
 " You 've promised to marry me." 
 
 " Well, I take the promise back." 
 
 " You can't." 
 
 "I can, too," she flashed back defiantly. 
 "Who says I can't?" 
 
 " I say so." 
 
 " That does n't make it so." 
 
 Burt ground his teeth. His anger rose. 
 
 " See here, 'Vinie," he said roughly ; " I don't 
 believe you know what you 're talking about. 
 Something 's come over you. You 're upset by
 
 174 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 what 's happened to-day. And you 're taking 
 it out on me." 
 
 "I 'm not, either!" she indignantly cried. 
 " I mean every word I say, Burt Way, and I 'm 
 going to stick to it, too." 
 
 He stopped again, as they walked, and caught 
 her wrist. There was the dim light of an early 
 moon, visible through a filmy haze in the sky. 
 
 " Look at me ! " he commanded peremptorily. 
 
 She looked at him unflinchingly, and her 
 hand closed tightly on itself as he held her 
 wrist. 
 
 " You 're not telling me everything," he said 
 fiercely. " You 're keeping something back. I 
 know you are ! You 've got to tell me." 
 
 They stood eye to eye, neither daunted. 
 
 " Is it some other fellow ? " he asked sharply. 
 
 " No ! " she cried. " It is n't ! " 
 
 "Then what is it?" 
 
 " I told you." 
 
 " You did n't tell me a thing," he said con 
 temptuously. " That 's all nonsense about the 
 house and Bruce and all that." 
 
 She knew he was right, and he knew it as 
 well. After a moment her gaze fell. 
 
 " Let go of my wrist," she said. 
 
 " I will when you tell me." 
 
 " Let go of it now ! " She pulled it suddenly 
 from his grasp. " You 've no right to do that ! " 
 she declared.
 
 A LOVEES' QUARREL 175 
 
 He laughed grimly. " I 've no right to do 
 anything now, it seems." 
 
 " No ; you have n't." 
 
 " I 've got a right to ask that question." 
 
 Her glance dropped again. 
 
 " I don't know that you have," she returned 
 irresolutely. 
 
 " Well, I have," he insisted vehemently. 
 " And you 've got to answer it." 
 
 The flash of rebellion leaped again to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Suppose I don't," she said laconically. 
 
 " You must, 'Vinie. You know there 's some 
 thing." 
 
 " S-s-sh ! " she said warningly. " Pa '11 hear 
 if you talk so loud." 
 
 " I don't care." His voice dropped, however. 
 " I 've got to know about this thing." 
 
 He confronted her determinedly, his broad, 
 youthful shoulders on a line with her head. 
 She regarded him in return, swerved to comply 
 despite herself. 
 
 " All right," she said quietly. " If you want 
 to know, so much, I suppose I may as well tell 
 you." 
 
 " I guess I do want to know," he avowed. 
 "A darned sight more than you seem to 
 think ! " 
 
 " There 's no use swearing about it." 
 
 " That is n't swearing."
 
 176 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " It 's pretty near it. I don't like it, any 
 way." 
 
 "Excuse me, 'Vinie," he said humbly. "I 
 did n't mean anything. I did n't notice what I 
 was saying." 
 
 "I thought you said / was the one that 
 did n't know what I was saying." 
 
 The swift feminine illogicality floored him 
 for the moment, as it will floor the sagest of 
 men. No answer came to his relief. 
 
 " Tell me, 'Vinie," he urged. 
 
 " Well, you sit down, there on that stump." 
 
 " You too 1 " he queried radiantly. 
 
 " No, indeed," she said shortly. " I 'm goiDg 
 to walk up and down here close in front of you. 
 I can talk better when I 'm not always looking 
 at a person." 
 
 "H'm," said Burt, doubtfully. He seated 
 himself. " Well, fire away." 
 
 But it was apparently not easy to " fire away." 
 The girl moved up and down before him sev 
 eral times without speaking. 
 
 " Well ! " he prompted impatiently. 
 
 " I don't know how I can say what I mean," 
 she began haltingly, " without seeming to say- 
 to say hard things, about papa and about 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, don't mind about me," he returned 
 with bitterness. " And your father won't hear. 
 Do him good if he did, perhaps," he added under
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 177 
 
 his breath, for he had a confused thought that 
 Garrett Coe was in some way or other respon 
 sible for this sudden overturning of his high 
 hopes. 
 
 "All right, then," said the girl. "I '11 go 
 ahead." 
 
 There was another silence. 
 
 "Well, why don't you, then?" he inquired 
 with some ire. "Are you just trying to fool 
 with me ? " 
 
 " Burt," she said, breaking the pause with a 
 sudden effort, " I 've come to believe that mar 
 riage makes most people unhappy." 
 
 " Oho ! " he whistled. " Is that the tack ? So 
 does being born, you might say." 
 
 " I 'm getting to believe that too. But people 
 can't help that ; and they can help getting mar 
 ried. I 'm going to help it." 
 
 " Well, of all nonsense that ever got into a 
 girl's head," he began, with masculine scorn. 
 
 "You can call it nonsense if you like," she 
 said, with rapid utterance. " It is n't nonsense 
 on my mother's part, I can tell you, and never 
 has been, as far back as I can remember. It 's 
 been terrible hard truth, and I 've been knowing 
 it long before she did. It is n't nonsense on 
 Mrs. Watkins's part, and people like her that 
 have to work to keep body and soul together, 
 and no chance of ever stopping. Sneezer Wat- 
 kins seemed to be doing well when she married
 
 178 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 him, I 've heard Gran'pa Sayre say. It is n't 
 nonsense on Mrs. Bradbury's part, with all this 
 awful worry, first about Charlie and now about 
 the deacon and the church. It was n't nonsense 
 on Mrs. Dare's part, before her husband died, 
 with a nagging little bully like that to lord it 
 over her. 'T is n't nonsense on Mrs. Kemble's 
 part, I 'm pretty sure, for I 've heard she was a 
 very different kind of girl. Nor on Mrs. Reed's 
 either, hard as she is, for her husband 's a fear 
 ful sight harder. Nor on poor Mrs. Lorimer's, 
 that 's been sick ever since her last baby was 
 born, and Mr. Lorimer has n't any patience with 
 her. I don't believe it 's nonsense for hardly 
 any woman in Felton, if they could only dare to 
 speak out or if they realized their own feelings." 
 
 Truths and misconceptions were so inextri 
 cably mixed up in this impetuous speech that 
 Burt, even though dimly discerning the en 
 tanglement, was quite powerless to argue them 
 out in detail. Through it all, too, he com 
 menced to feel, though in remote, uncompre 
 hending masculine fashion, something of the 
 storm of rebellion against thraldom which had 
 for months been gathering in the young girl's 
 breast and which had burst with the events of 
 the day. 
 
 "Don't you love me, 'Vinie!" he asked in 
 controlled tone. 
 
 "I don't know whether I do or not. If I
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 179 
 
 did, I don't know that I would ten years from 
 now. And even if I did all the time, that does n't 
 make up for everything." 
 
 "Does n't it?" 
 
 "No. Mamma loves papa; at least, she did 
 till to-day, or supposed she did. That has n't 
 helped her being about the unhappiest person 
 in the world most of the time." 
 
 " Your father's character 's got something to 
 do with that." 
 
 "Well, Burt, since you make me tell it, I 
 don't feel sure of your character either." 
 
 " What 's that ? " he exclaimed harshly, leap 
 ing to his feet. 
 
 " There, now, that 's an evidence itself," she 
 said excitedly. " If you flash up like that now, 
 what '11 you do later I " 
 
 " Who would n't flash up, I 'd like to know. 
 See here : did you just say that to try me and 
 see!" 
 
 " No, I did n't. I said it because I thought 
 it, and because you wanted me to say what I 
 thought. If you won't sit down again, I sha'n't 
 say anything more." 
 
 He dropped upon the stump behind him with 
 an angry bump. 
 
 " I 've come to feel pretty afraid," she went 
 on, " that some things about you about most 
 men, I guess are a good deal like some things 
 about father."
 
 180 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 He glared at her impotently. 
 
 " Yes, I have. I don't mean that you 're like 
 him altogether." 
 
 " I should hope not," he muttered. 
 
 " But you 're big and strong and pretty quick- 
 spoken, you know you are, Burt; and you 
 want things your own way; and you don't 
 understand girls very well, me, anyway; and 
 you have no idea about what things count and 
 what don't, and what things hurt and what 
 don't, and how much little things and big things 
 matter; and, oh, I don't know! There 's lots 
 more." 
 
 " Don't stop," he said sardonically. 
 
 " Well, you 're one of the ones, I 'm afraid, 
 that expect us women to work and work hard. 
 You work hard yourself. I 'm willing to work 
 hard too, and I always expect to, but I don't 
 want to be expected to. Oh, dear, you won't 
 know what I mean," she finished despairingly. 
 
 "It 's plain enough," he returned cuttingly. 
 "I 'm partly a blind pup and partly a bull 
 dog. I want to set up as a slave-owner, and 
 you don't choose to be the slave. Is that 
 it!" 
 
 " If you talk like that, you just spoil it all," 
 she said. 
 
 "What is there to spoil?" 
 
 " You 're just putting us farther apart." 
 
 " Is n't that what you want 1 "
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 181 
 
 " I don't want we should misunderstand in a 
 way like that. I knew I could n't tell you ! " 
 
 " Oh, you 've told me fast enough." 
 
 "No, I have n't. Can't you see, Burt, just 
 for a minute ? Forget that it 's you, and let 's 
 speak as if it was somebody else." 
 
 " That is n't so easy." 
 
 "Well, I don't care, anyway." A charming 
 little pout mingled on her face with a very real 
 aloofness and hostility. "You wanted me to 
 talk out, so I 'm not going to mind. All I 
 say is that getting married is too much of a 
 risk. A risk in a good many more ways than 
 one. And I don't care enough for it to take it." 
 
 She looked so pretty, so tempting, in her in 
 surrection, as she stood there, her slim, white- 
 gowned figure dimly illumined under the hazy, 
 moonlit sky, that poor abused Burt, loving- 
 hearted and earnest-natured, groaned in spirit, 
 and looked up at her with the devouring gaze 
 of a lost soul looking on Paradise. 
 
 "Oh, 'Vinie," he uttered miserably, "you 
 don't seem to realize what all this means to 
 me." 
 
 At the appeal a sudden look came into her 
 eyes which he did not see, and she made an 
 instinctive movement toward him. She checked 
 it on the instant, yet her voice when she spoke 
 was softer than before. 
 
 " I would n't have you think I think badly of
 
 182 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 you, Burt," she said, a little unsteadily. " For 
 indeed I don't. How could I ? You 've always 
 been true and fair, and you 've borne with, lots 
 of my little ways, and I know all that. Please 
 don't think it 's anything I have against you. 
 It 's more against marriage in general." 
 
 " How long has this been coming on, 'Vinie I " 
 
 "You mean my feeling this way? Oh, for 
 months. Ever since last summer or spring. I 
 suppose things at home here set me thinking. 
 But plenty of other things have kept me think 
 ing since." 
 
 "What other things?" 
 
 " About other people, as I was saying just 
 now; and about life generally; and oh, all 
 sorts of things." 
 
 "Oh, well," he said hopelessly, getting up 
 again, " if it 's come to all that, I dare say we 'd 
 better break off, as you say. I did n't know I 
 made you feel that way." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 " Is this the reason why you 've been so offish 
 with me all this fall 1 " he pursued. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why did n't you have it out sooner ! " 
 
 " I was n't clear enough myself." 
 
 " I should think you 'd have stopped any 
 way." 
 
 "Why, I don't know." 
 
 "Well, I should think so. If you 've been
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 183 
 
 hating or dreading me like that, all this time, 
 what was the use of keeping things up 1 " 
 
 " I did n't hate you or dread you, Burt dear," 
 she said softly. 
 
 The little word of endearment slipped out 
 before she was aware ; she bit her lip, and hur 
 ried on : 
 
 " I mean it 's more the thing, not you. Oh, 
 can't you understand a little tiny bit? I mean 
 that getting married, the way I see it around 
 here, seems to me like getting bound, sold into 
 bondage almost, sometimes. It is n't an equal 
 thing. The husband expects the wife to take 
 hold and never let go, even if matters get bigger 
 and bigger and life grows harder and harder. 
 And she 's got to. He makes her, somehow. 
 Or people make her. I don't know how it is in 
 other places in the world, but that 's the way it 
 is here." 
 
 "How about being made himself?" 
 
 " She does n't make him. He 's freer. But 
 supposing he is n't, that just means that two 
 people are bound instead of neither of them. 
 What 's the need of it ? Miss Park is n't bound ; 
 nor Miss Harvey; nor Miss Jewett, nor even 
 her girl, Ann Mead. And they would n't be for 
 anything. I know they would n't." 
 
 Burt little knew what material for his side of 
 the argument lay in the real truth concerning 
 at least three of the spinsters mentioned;
 
 184 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and he made no effort to demolish her con 
 tention. 
 
 "No," continued his former betrothed, sum 
 marizing her stand with inflexibility, "I 'm 
 never going to get married. I shall stay and 
 look after Bruce here for a long, long while. 
 Papa '11 never try treating me the way he has 
 mamma. And when I get older, I shall have a 
 little bit of a house of my own, and a cat, and 
 perhaps some one as 'help,' and I '11 live an 
 independent, interesting, helpful life like Miss 
 Jewett." 
 
 Burt forbore to point out the glaring defect 
 in this arrangement, the absence of even the 
 small means which Miss Jewett possessed. He 
 was very deeply agitated as he stood there be 
 side the stump looking down upon her. 
 
 " I can't really believe you mean it all, 'Vinie," 
 he said earnestly. "I don't half think you 
 do." 
 
 " Well, I do ! " she answered back, and with a 
 finality that left no doubt. "I 've luckily 
 looked ahead in time, instead of being one of 
 the ten thousand Women who look back when 
 it 's too late. They all go tumbling into the 
 same trap. And every one of them would say 
 I was right if they only dared to speak out or 
 think for themselves." 
 
 "Good night," said Burt, abruptly, and he 
 strode off down the road.
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 185 
 
 "Why, Burt!" she half called after him, 
 startled and disconcerted. " Are n't you " 
 
 But he paid no heed, and went vigorously 
 forward into the dimness and distance until 
 his steps died away and he had disappeared. 
 
 'Vinie gazed after him blankly. A sudden 
 catching of breath, half gasp, half sigh, came 
 upon her uncontrollably. Her eyes seemed to 
 yearn after his retreating figure. An expres 
 sion of passionate longing came into them. 
 Then it passed as she recollected herself; she 
 threw her head back, her face stiffened into 
 resolution again, and she moved toward the 
 house. 
 
 " I 'm glad ; I 'm glad ! " she repeated to her 
 self with suppressed emphasis as sh6 pushed 
 open the creaking gate.
 
 XII 
 
 CKUSOEHOOD 
 
 MISS PARK proved to be quite right in her 
 estimate of the general verdict regarding 
 Mrs. Coe's fiery sundering of her fetters. The 
 weight of opinion was strongly, overwhelm 
 ingly disapproving. Great as was the odium 
 in which Coe himself was held, it was felt that 
 open desertion of this sort could not be justi 
 fied or condoned. The fact that quiet Sally 
 Coe had been driven to this extreme step shed 
 new light upon her husband's traits for many 
 who had not hitherto suspected him of such 
 unendurable home tyranny ; and it was seen in 
 retrospect that she had borne in silence many 
 things during the past years which no one 
 perhaps had adequately apprehended. Never 
 theless this was deemed no sufficient warrant 
 for her present course. Sympathy, wide and 
 varied, was expressed and felt for her ; but in 
 the final analysis it was rather a siding against 
 her husband than a siding with her. Strangely 
 enough, those who found most to say in her 
 
 186
 
 CEUSOEHOOD 187 
 
 extenuation or defense were among the men ; 
 but even they were careful to limit the appli 
 cation of the principle. Many were inclined 
 to doubt that Mrs. Coe would long hold to her 
 position ; but those who knew her best, or who 
 were the most accurate judges of character, 
 gave little countenance to this doubt. " Sally 
 Coe was a Mitchell," Gran'pa Sayre reminded 
 several. " I knew those Mitchells over in Wes'- 
 bury, forty year ago, they 're 'most all died 
 out now. An' I tell ye, they may n't 've been 
 easy t' rouse, but once y' got 'em roused " His 
 thin voice brought up with a meaning pause, 
 and he gave a significant shake of the head. 
 
 One inevitable and universal effect was to 
 deepen the already great animosity against 
 Garrett Coe himself. Partizans and critics of 
 his wife alike joined in outspoken utterances 
 against the farmer. Probably no individual had 
 ever been more unpopular, more generally exe 
 crated, since Felton was first settled. Coe's 
 house was rather out of the way of traffic, on 
 an unfrequented cross-road, so that few had oc 
 casion to pass and evince their hostility; and 
 he himself seldom came into the center of the 
 village, and now, for the day or two since his 
 wife's departure, had kept strictly within his 
 own domain. Thus the popular feeling found 
 no direct expression. It was, however, little 
 allayed by this circumstance.
 
 188 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 'Vinie's estrangement from her lover was, of 
 course, not immediately known, else it would 
 undoubtedly, and perhaps with a certain remote 
 justness, have gone into the general account 
 against her father. Speculation as to the 
 girl's own plans, now that her mother had 
 gone, was but little divided, it being at once 
 assumed that the change in affairs would merely 
 have the effect of hastening her marriage with 
 Burt. None contended that her duty in any 
 wise lay with her father and the house. 
 
 There were a few, however, who reflected that 
 an interval, long or short, must necessarily 
 elapse before the girl could even decide on her 
 future arrangements, and who felt a kindly 
 solicitude as to how she and her little brother 
 would fare in the meantime, it being conceded 
 that Mrs. Coe's burden of house and dairy work 
 was a heavier one than her less hardy daughter 
 could safely undertake, if such was the girl's 
 intention. Among those who felt this were 
 Mrs. Bradbury and her daughters, and the girls 
 determined to call promptly and ask 'Vinie 
 about her plans. The Marshalls also brought 
 up this question at their home, and discussed it 
 with a view to friendly intervention. But the 
 Wheelers, as it happened, were a little quicker 
 to act. 
 
 Before noon of the day following 'Vinie's 
 evening conversation with Burt, Mrs. Wheeler
 
 CEUSOEHOOD 189 
 
 made her way to the Coe farmstead. The haze 
 of the night before had thickened into a gray 
 autumnal sky, and the air was heavy and chilly. 
 Mrs. Wheeler's motherly face was an unex 
 pectedly pleasant sight to 'Vinie as she opened 
 the door in response to her visitor's knock, and 
 the girl returned the other's warm embrace and 
 kiss with a flush of longing and a feeling of 
 real affection. 
 
 "Well, my dear," was the elder woman's 
 hearty greeting, " I jest hed t' come right over 
 an' see 'bout all this an' find out f r myself how 
 things were gittin' along." 
 
 Coe, who had been sitting in a chair by the 
 corner window, having come in rather early for 
 the noon meal, rose reluctantly and uncom 
 promisingly as she entered. 
 
 " How d' y' do, Garrett ? " she said ; and her 
 wonted friendliness of tone struggled curiously 
 with the dislike and condemnation she could 
 not but feel. Something in his manner vaguely 
 touched her, though he returned her greeting 
 briefly and gruffly ; and the reserve in her voice 
 lessened as she went on : 
 
 " I told Hiram I jest hed t' come 'round right 
 away, as soon 's I heard what 'd been hap- 
 penin' up here." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler," said 'Vinie, 
 gently. 
 
 " I did n't come t' pry, n'r t' ask questions, n'r
 
 190 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 t' intrude advice," went on the good woman, 
 " an' I would n't hev ye think so." 
 
 "Nobody that knows you would ever think 
 such a thing as that," said the girl, with sin 
 cerity. 
 
 "Well, I 'm glad ef thet 's so. 'T ain't easy 
 t' be friendly an' not seem meddlin' sometimes. 
 But I says to Hiram, ' I 've jest got t' see thet 
 poor child over there, an' little Bruce, yes, an' 
 Garrett Coe, too, an' see how they 're all farm* 
 an' what they 're goin' t' do, an' mebbe I c'n 
 help 'em a little, some way ; ' an' Hiram says, 
 ' thet 's right,' an' I 'd better come right away ; 
 an' so I hev." 
 
 Mrs. Wheeler's kindly loquacity was rather 
 grateful both to Coe and to his daughter, as both 
 were feeling some constraint from a brief con 
 versation which the visitor's entrance had inter 
 rupted. 
 
 " I s'posed likely y' 'd be lookin' f 'r a ' help ' f r 
 a while," she continued, addressing the farmer, 
 " till till Sally conies back ; an' I only heared 
 this very mornin' thet Polly Watkins has come 
 back fr'm livin' out at Hingham, an' she 's th' 
 very one fr ye, strong an' clever t' work, an' 
 one thet '11 take right holt." 
 
 " Sally ain't comin' back," returned Garrett, 
 curtly. "Y' might as well understand thet, t' 
 begin with. An' I ain't goin' t' hire no help." 
 
 " Y' ain't I Why, how '11 y' git along ! "
 
 CRUSOEHOOD 191 
 
 " Pa was just talking to me about it when you 
 came in," remarked 'Vinie. 
 
 "She 's th' one t' do th' work. I 've been 
 telliii' her so," declared the farmer. 
 
 " She f Who, 'Vinie ! Gracious me, Gar- 
 rett ! " exclaimed Mrs. Wheeler, indignantly. 
 "'Vinie ain't built f'r hard work like thet. 
 She could n't do it a week, 'thout beiri' down 
 sick. Y' don't reelly mean it ! " 
 
 "Yes, I do. She ain't so poorly as all thet. 
 She 's never been sick a day, thet I re 
 member, sence she hed th' mumps once when 
 she was little. She 's jest as well as her 
 mother." 
 
 " They 're very diff'rent. 'Vinie ain't got th' 
 same make-up at all." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Thet 's all nonsense. Whose duty 
 is it, I 'd like t' know, t' look after this house 
 an' me an' her brother if not an own daughter's ! 
 What 'd I bring her up fur ! Jest t' set 'round 
 an' play fine lady ! " 
 
 'Vinie's eyes blazed at this speech. 
 
 " She ain't said nothin' 'bout not bein' well," 
 went on the farmer. 
 
 " She is well," Mrs. Wheeler said wa'rmly. 
 " There ain't a thing th' matter with her. But 
 she ain't equal to a house an' farm like this." 
 She glanced around the rooms and out through 
 the window as she spoke. 
 
 "Well, she ain't taken thet tack with me,"
 
 192 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 answered Coe. " She jest said she would n't do 
 it, thet 's all." 
 
 Mrs. Wheeler threw the insurgent daughter 
 an involuntary glance of approval. 
 
 " I '11 do my part of the work," said 'Vinie, 
 simply. "And that 's always been half, as 
 far as I could make mamma let it be so. I 
 used to ache to do more, sometimes, when 
 she 'd look so tired, but she just would n't let 
 me." 
 
 " Y' don't seem to ache t' do more now," said 
 her father, maliciously. 
 
 "No, I don't, papa, and I can't see how it 's 
 my duty." 
 
 " Whose duty is it 1 How 's th' work goin' t' 
 git done, I 'd like ye t' tell me f " 
 
 "Polly Watkins 'd be glad t' come f'r jest 
 her board an' keep, f'r a while anyway," put 
 in Mrs. Wheeler. " I know, fr'm what I heared 
 thet Sneezer said." 
 
 " I won't hev no Polly Watkins, I tell ye, n'r 
 any other Polly," replied the farmer, angrily. 
 "I ain't never lied t' keep help yit, an' I ain't 
 goin' t' begin now. 'Vinie 's got to take holt, 
 an' thet 's all there is about it." 
 
 " I 'm not going to, I told you, papa," said the 
 girl, with quiet positiveness. "I 've been do 
 ing it since since mamma left, of course, and 
 I will for a little while till you can arrange 
 something ; but not after that."
 
 CEUSOEHOOD 193 
 
 " Then y' won't do it at all ! " stormed he. 
 "Not even half. It 's all or none." 
 
 "What d' y' mean, Garrett!" inquired Mrs. 
 Wheeler, with rising hostility. 
 
 " She does th' work or she leaves th' house. 
 One or th' other." 
 
 "Then, 'Vinie, you come to ours," said the 
 visitor, promptly. " This very day." 
 
 'Vinie looked startled. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Wheeler ! " she said. 
 
 " Yes. Why should n't ye ! " 
 
 "Y' c'n take her, an' Bruce, too, an' y' '11 be 
 doin' me a favor," growled Garrett. 
 
 The man seemed to have a faculty for making 
 enemies. Good, easy Mrs. Wheeler was thor 
 oughly aroused, and her eyes snapped. 
 
 " I 'm not try in' t' do ye any favor, Garrett 
 Coe," she retorted. "There 's precious few y' 
 deserve, t' my thinkiu'. But I will take 'Vinie, 
 an' Bruce with her." 
 
 "Oh, I could n't, Mrs. Wheeler," protested 
 the girl, utterly taken aback. 
 
 " Yes, y' could, my dear. Why not ? Why, 
 we 'd jest love t' hev ye come an' stay with us. 
 There 's poor Hiram an' me all alone an' lonely 
 in thet great big house of ourn, an' there 's 
 nothin' we 'd love better. We 've hed eight 
 childern, an' one by one they 've gone t' th' 
 grave," her voice broke a little, "'cept one, 
 an' thet 's wuss, mebbe. An' we 're jest piuin'
 
 194 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 f r some fresh young life. You allers was a fa 
 vorite o' Hiram's, 'Vinie." 
 
 " But oh, I could n't do that. Go and live 
 with you, and not be able to pay anything ? " 
 
 "Pay anythin'? Dear heart, now what do 
 we want o' pay? We 've got more 'n enough 
 t' live on an' t' live on comf'table. As f'r thet, 
 there 's lots o' little ways y' c'n help me. Thet 
 Irish help of ours is goin' t' leave, an' I 've got 
 t' break in a raw one nex' week, an' you c'n 
 assist. An' y' c'n earn pin-money by helpin' me 
 with th' light sewin'. Why, I 'd jest love t' hev 
 ye 'round ! " She was really in earnest, and her 
 pleasant face glowed as she urged her idea. 
 
 " Y' 've got my permission t' hev her," grunted 
 Coe, " ef y' need any." 
 
 " Well, I '11 take it, but I won't thank ye f'r it," 
 said the old lady, defiantly. "An' y' c'n try 
 playin' hermit f'r a while an' see how y' like it. 
 I don't blame Sally Coe, not one mite, after all. 
 Come, 'Vinie ; I 'm goin' t' send up f'r yours an' 
 Bruce's things this very afternoon." 
 
 Coe left the room with a slam of the door. 
 
 'Vinie at first quite decisively declined Mrs. 
 Wheeler's pressing invitation. She was inde 
 pendent to her finger-tips, and she could not 
 endure the thought of eating another's bread 
 without recompense. Her natural impulse was 
 to go to her mother if she left at all ; and yet she 
 saw that this might be impracticable. Mrs.
 
 CBUSOEHOOD 195 
 
 Wheeler, meanwhile, grew more and more in 
 earnest. The suggestion became increasingly 
 alluring to her, for 'Vinie had always had a 
 gift of winning and holding affection, and had 
 been beloved at the hospitable Wheelers' ever 
 since she was a tiny, golden-haired child. The 
 prospect of hearing her clear young voice about 
 their quiet halls gave a strong motherly thrill 
 to the elder woman. Her heart went out to 
 Bruce also, and her new opposition to the 
 father would have led her to welcome the two, 
 even had they been far less lovable than they 
 were. 
 
 It was not long before 'Vinie, puzzled, remon 
 strant, and at a loss, was made to feel that her 
 visitor was honestly in earnest, and indeed 
 would probably experience deep disappointment 
 if her impulsive proposal should now fail of 
 acceptance. Coe ate his lunch cold and by him 
 self that day, and dinner was woefully disor 
 ganized at the Wheelers' by the goodwife's 
 absence, while she and 'Vinie, having repaired 
 to the latter's bedroom up-stairs, debated for an 
 hour the new project, Mrs. Wheeler pressing 
 her points, 'Vinie yielding slowly and with a 
 growing willingness and anticipation. She 
 realized gradually that her mere presence in 
 the Wheeler home, her companionship, and the 
 countless little ways in which she could be of 
 comfort and pleasure to the two old people,
 
 196 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 would in actual fact far outweigh the debt of 
 hospitality which they themselves would so 
 lightly feel. And she was not one to stint the 
 recompense which she might render them, how 
 ever stoutly she might, under the circumstances, 
 limit her meed of slave-work in her father's case. 
 
 When Mrs. Wheeler left, she had scored a 
 victory. 'Vinie had consented to come, for a 
 time at least, conditional, however, on Mr. 
 Wheeler's hearty and sincere indorsement of his 
 wife's scheme. The sign of this was to be the 
 appearance at the Coe house, in the afternoon, of 
 Hiram's farm- wagon ; and his man would wait 
 while 'Vinie gathered together her things and 
 Bruce's, and would take them over. 
 
 Coe had gone off again, after his lunch, into 
 the fields, as he had on the occasion of his wife's 
 departure, the day preceding. For an hour 
 'Vinie considered and reconsidered her resolu 
 tion, torn by countless questions as to its pro 
 priety, its rightfulness, its possible sacrifice of 
 freedom. She broached the plan to her brother 
 on his return from school, and the little boy's 
 genuine and unfeigned delight went far toward 
 reassuring her. Bruce had not yet realized the 
 finality of his mother's and brother's departure ; 
 but he was lonesome without Game, and in 
 addition he displayed a frank gladness to leave 
 his father which might have given Coe a sharp 
 twinge had he known it and had he been sus 
 ceptible of any feeling on the subject.
 
 CEUSOEHOOD 197 
 
 While 'Vinie's motives and wishes were still 
 undergoing conflict, the Wheeler wagon drove 
 up to the front gate. Its coming seemed to 
 bring a kind of authority, arid almost before 
 she was aware, the girl was busily engaged in 
 sorting out her possessions. Before the after 
 noon had fully waned, and certainly before she 
 had altogether realized the sudden change, she 
 found herself, with Bruce, at the Wheelers', 
 where both the old people welcomed them as 
 would parents, and where two inviting little 
 bedrooms had lovingly been made ready. 
 
 Thus within the short space of less than two 
 days, the interval elapsing since the fire, Gar- 
 rett Coe had not merely become the most un 
 popular individual in Felton, but in addition 
 he found himself antagonized and deserted by 
 his entire household. Even the hired man, who 
 had only been taken on for the summer and 
 fall work, disconcerted him that afternoon by 
 declaring abruptly that it was the last day he 
 should work for him. The man added that 
 he was tired of being bullied and would n't 
 stand it any longer. Coe gave some sharp re 
 tort, but paid him off ; and at six o'clock, hunt 
 ing around in his pantry and milk-room for 
 the skeleton of a meal, he came to realize that 
 a sailor marooned was not more alone in life 
 than he. 
 
 Burt Way was one of the first to hear, with 
 a lover's quick ears, of 'Vinie's sudden move;
 
 198 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and that very evening he presented himself 
 eagerly at the Wheelers' door. Mrs. Wheeler, 
 knowing nothing of the preceding evening's 
 occurrence, greeted him with warmth ; and 
 'Vinie had no recourse but to come in to see 
 him in the large, square parlor, Mrs. Wheeler, 
 after a few moments, judiciously slipping out. 
 
 Burt instantly attacked the subject from the 
 standpoint of 'Vinie's own reasons as first given. 
 There was no longer possible excuse of her ser 
 vices at her father's home. But his impetuous 
 pleading was of no avail. She was as entirely 
 firm in her purpose as on the evening before. 
 And the short interview ended only in another 
 outspoken protest from sorely pressed Burt, 
 followed by his abrupt and rather unceremo 
 nious exit. 'Vinie, of course, after this had 
 to tell the Wheelers the fact of the broken en 
 gagement. She gave no reason, and the good 
 people were seriously distressed and concerned 
 at the news, though they could not press their 
 questionings. 
 
 The days passed, and life settled into grooves 
 again for these members of the Coe household, 
 so widely and determinedly separated. Mrs. 
 Coe gave no sign to her husband, but she sent 
 an occasional missive to 'Vinie, from which it 
 appeared that she was still at her cousin's. 
 'Vinie herself slipped quickly and tenderly into 
 the Wheeler modes of living, and her unyield-
 
 CRUSOEHOOD 199 
 
 ing behavior toward Burt seemed to make her 
 but the more gentle and solicitous in the in 
 finitude of small ways which conduced to her 
 new foster-parents' gratification and their satis 
 faction in her. Bruce, whom she looked after 
 watchfully and almost maternally, was abun 
 dantly pleased with the change, and his at first 
 frequent pleadings for his mother and brother 
 gradually grew less, though they did not en 
 tirely cease. 
 
 Coe himself took up his Crusoehood with 
 dogged will. He forced himself to the work of 
 two on the farm, toiling hard and long in all 
 weathers. He looked after his household needs 
 in a fashion, dispensing with numerous super 
 fluities of dusting and cleaning, but undertaking 
 with set face tasks to which he was grotesquely 
 unaccustomed. Few came near him or his place 
 intentionally, and he even made shift to do his 
 own rough laundry- work and mending. He 
 went without store supplies for the time, draw 
 ing his provision as far as possible from actual 
 farm resources. The fruit crop was abundant 
 and good that year, and the farmer lived largely 
 on apples and winter pears. There was also on 
 hand a fairly plentiful quantity of certain late 
 vegetables, and the supply of milk, eggs, and 
 poultry, though never generous, was of course 
 sufficiently constant. 
 
 Thus the autumn wore away, and both Coe
 
 200 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and his wife virtually dropped out of the life 
 of the townspeople. The wife was remembered 
 with sympathy, if with blame, and many sent 
 kindly messages to her through 'Vinie. The 
 husband was thought of with hearty detesta 
 tion, and if he had not already betaken him 
 self to Coventry, would have been speedily 
 sent there and mercilessly kept there by his 
 neighbors.
 
 XIII 
 
 BEATEN DOWN 
 
 THE winter months had come and gone. 
 The cold had not asserted itself until late, 
 that year, and though sharp and keen for a while 
 when it came, had been interspersed with inter 
 vals of mild weather. This fact had favored the 
 progress of Reed & Kemble's new brick store, 
 the building of which had been vigorously 
 pressed during the autumn, and its fitting up 
 pushed rapidly with the coming of the cold. 
 By the first of February the firm had relin 
 quished the temporary quarters in which they 
 had been doing business, and had moved into the 
 new building, which stood with clean-cut front, 
 a well-built and ornamental feature of Felton's 
 main street. 
 
 Bowen's legacy had by no means dropped 
 out of the townspeople's remembrance, nor 
 out of the thoughts of Lawyer Clark, busy man 
 though he habitually was ; but there had been 
 no developments in this matter, although it was 
 still a subject of general curiosity and con- 
 
 201
 
 202 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 jecture, as well as of periodical conference by 
 the committee. 
 
 On a windy day in March, Mr. Clark met 
 Miss Jewett in the street. 
 
 " I just saw rather an odd sight," she said, 
 after they had exchanged greetings. "I was 
 passing along that lane that runs from Wheel 
 er's and Bowen's road to Garrett Coe's, the 
 one old Mrs. Henderson lived on, you know." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "And I saw Garrett sitting on a log with 
 little Bruce, and whittling him out a boat or 
 something. They 'd evidently happened to 
 meet, and Garrett was willing to make friends." 
 
 " It was an odd sight," said the lawyer, struck 
 with the circumstance. " Did he speak to you ? " 
 
 "He looked up and nodded in a surly sort 
 of way." 
 
 "My wife said she saw him a week or two 
 ago. She was startled at the change in him. 
 Said he looked haggard and old and half sick. 
 She felt almost sorry for him." 
 
 "He does look every one of those things. 
 But I don't think I was startled at it, after all." 
 
 " How do you mean 1 " 
 
 "He 's had a winter of hard labor and soli 
 tary confinement." 
 
 " That need n't do it. Coe 's strong enough 
 and hardy enough." 
 
 " He is, as far as work goes. Though I ima-
 
 BEATEN DOWN 203 
 
 gine that double work and poor feeding don't 
 do any man real good. But I think there 's 
 more than that in his case." 
 
 " You mean missing his wife and all that ? " 
 " Gtarrett Coe has one trait, I think, that no 
 body knows much of, and that 's a way of 
 brooding. He broods all the time. Has done 
 it for years. I had an uncle who used to do 
 the same thing, or perhaps I 'd never have 
 noticed it. But I know it is in Garrett." 
 " We all brood sometimes, don't we ! " 
 " This is different. This is a kind of brood 
 ing that 's never done; that 's always taking 
 thoughts and working them over and over 
 again and twisting them inside and out, and 
 enlarging and distorting some, and taking away 
 from others, and never resting. It 's a terrible 
 trait when it gets going." 
 
 "Why, do you know, I believe some people 
 do have that habit," said Mr. Clark, greatly 
 interested. " I never heard it dissected before, 
 but now you speak of it, I remember one or 
 two instances in my own experience." 
 
 "We all do it now and then, as you said. 
 But it is n't often that it gets a real fixed hold 
 on us like that. At least, I don't think so." 
 "Well, it '11 do Coe good to brood a little." 
 "It may, or it may not," responded Miss 
 Jewett. " It 's never done him any good so far. 
 He 's grown moodier and moodier every year,
 
 204 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and he 's pored over his dislikes and resent 
 ments and animosities till it 's made him a 
 kind of monomaniac." 
 
 " I dare say you 're right. You 're a pretty 
 keen observer, Miss Jewett," remarked the 
 lawyer, admiringly. 
 
 " I don't think Garrett Coe 's quite as black 
 in reality as he 's painted. That is n't saying 
 he has n't been bad enough." 
 
 " I never happened to hear what you thought 
 of Mrs. Coe's leaving, last fall," observed Mr. 
 Clark. 
 
 " I never said much about it. Opinions about 
 other people's doings, when the doings are 
 done, don't help much, I find." 
 
 "Well, what did you think of it! if I may 
 ask the question." 
 
 " Wrong in principle, right in that particular 
 case," promptly replied Miss Jewett. "Or if 
 not exactly right, the very best thing she could 
 have done. In fact, the only thing, as I see it. 
 Sometimes a state of affairs gets really and 
 truly unendurable, you know, and has no 
 promise of ever mending." 
 
 " Best thing for both, do you mean 1 " 
 
 "Perhaps I ought n't to have said 'best.' 
 It is n't quite the word I mean. Though to 
 day's little scene makes me think the word is 
 usable, after all. The question all depends on 
 this : Which way has Garrett Coe been moving,
 
 BEATEN DOWN 205 
 
 during these months, out, or in deeper? Has 
 he possibly been brooding for the better, after 
 all his brooding for the worse 1 " 
 
 " It 's a mightily important question," said 
 the lawyer, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes, it is. Nobody can aid him, though. 
 That sort of thing works away by itself, and 
 you can't influence it a feather-weight. But 
 it was a vast sight better to have something 
 or other happen than for things to go on as 
 they probably were ; and that 's why I 'm glad 
 Sally Coe left. And I have n't seen a more 
 encouraging sight in a long while than that 
 man whittling away beside his boy, this after 
 noon." 
 
 Mr. Clark was much impressed with this 
 acute and striking view of the Coe affair. The 
 thought that perhaps, during the long, silent 
 winter months just past, a shunned and solitary 
 soul had been working out its own salvation 
 or damnation ; that aspiration had been strug 
 gling with desperation, and if here, then the 
 more surely always and everywhere ; that this 
 man had been fighting, as it comes to many a 
 man to fight sooner or later and single-handed, 
 the battle of his life ; and that they could only 
 await the issue, all this powerfully seized and 
 held the imagination and the broad sympathies 
 of the thoughtful lawyer. He realized, too, the 
 strength of Miss Jewett's theory that in Garrett
 
 206 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 Coe's case the battle had been salutarily forced 
 by the decisive events of the autumn ; that the 
 man's skulking passions had thus at last been 
 driven to come out into the open and wage fair 
 life-and-death war, the fierce resulting mental 
 turmoil giving no sign to the careless world 
 outside, quick-eared though it was. He looked 
 off in the direction of Coe's house with a certain 
 kind of awe. 
 
 " How very little we know what is going on 
 in our midst ! " he mused aloud. 
 
 " How little indeed ! " assented Miss Jewett. 
 " My guess here may be the wildest improba 
 bility. But I 've been feeling something of it 
 all this winter." 
 
 " Ought n't some one ought n't we to 
 have " He hesitated, with a pang of self- 
 reproach. 
 
 " No," she said emphatically. " I don't think 
 this is a case for anybody's intervention. Once 
 in a while a man has to fight out his own 
 fights." 
 
 "You would n't extend that generally, I 
 hope, Miss Jewett f" he asked doubtingly. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! What little good we can 
 be or do to each other in this puzzling world, 
 let us be and do with all our might. But some 
 times we 've got to know when to be wise and 
 stand aside." 
 
 " And you think this has been such a time ? "
 
 BEATEN DOWN 207 
 
 " I think it is still." 
 
 " Well, we 've all stood aside, stiffly enough ; 
 though I can't say that it came from meaning 
 to be wise. Mr. Marshall has been up once or 
 twice during the winter, he told me, and tried 
 to see Coe ; but he would n't let him in." 
 
 Miss Jewett laughed. 
 
 " Mr. Marshall is as good as gold," she said 
 kindly, " but Garrett would be likely to say that 
 there are some places where the Bible and 
 prayer won't go. I don't mean it irreverently. 
 There 's no religion in Garrett Coe, and never 's 
 likely to be. But perhaps there is some healthy 
 manhood, buried down deep, that 's painfully 
 struggling up. Who knows 1 " 
 
 " And you think that all this that 's happened 
 is giving it " 
 
 "Its last chance. Yes. It 's been caught 
 midway for a good many years. Now, it 's up 
 or down with it." 
 
 " And he was out there in the lane whittling 
 a boat for Bruce." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Let 's hope he '11 keep on whittling," said 
 the lawyer, with impulsive heartiness. 
 
 " Amen," gravely responded Miss Jewett as 
 they separated. 
 
 Mr. Clark did not speak of this interview to 
 any one except his wife. He felt that a general 
 discussion of such a momentous matter,
 
 208 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 momentous as concerning the development of 
 a man's inner self, was not fitting or admis 
 sible. Miss Jewett had spoken with him as 
 with an old and tried and trusted friend. She 
 would speak with equal clearness and frankness 
 to certain others, if the matter should come up ; 
 but not for town talk. In fact, in turning the 
 matter over with his wife, the lawyer found 
 himself far from optimistic as to the results of 
 Garrett Coe's intensified introspection. Indeed, 
 Miss Jewett herself had not been pronouncedly 
 so. She had done no more than to express a 
 hope, to hint at a possibility. And to Mr. 
 Clark, on reflection, it seemed, if a possibility, 
 certainly an improbability. He pictured Coe in 
 his mind, the scowling, sullen brow, the grim 
 mouth, the hard, square jaw with its square- 
 trimmed chevaux-de-frise of iron-gray beard ; he 
 heard the harsh, mirthless voice; he recalled 
 the traits and cumulative acts that had made 
 the man's name a hissing and a by-word in the 
 village ; and generously as he might hope that 
 Coe would " keep on whittling " with his little 
 boy, now for months a stranger to him, he could 
 not feel that the incident gave much promise of 
 ripening into better things. In fact, as the days 
 went on, the subject gradually passed from his 
 mind, engrossed as he was with other matters. 
 One of these matters, though a minor one, 
 was some correspondence with a brother of his,
 
 BEATEN DOWN 209 
 
 living in a southwestern State, regarding Peter 
 Merritt. Peter was not fully satisfied with his 
 quarry-work, and had come to Mr. Clark for 
 guidance as to a change. The lawyer bethought 
 himself of his brother, who had a small stock- 
 farm in southern Kentucky, and wrote to him 
 regarding Peter. One or two letters had passed 
 between them, and the suggestion being taken 
 up, it was arranged that Peter should go out in 
 about two months. Peter had accepted his 
 rejection at Ann's hands as final, as indeed Ann 
 herself had fully come to regard it ; and per 
 haps rather to the surprise of each of them, no 
 heartburnings lingered on either side after the 
 decision. Ann found her thoughts and activi 
 ties contentedly and usefully employed, as 
 before, in her work and her various minor asso 
 ciations with the village life. She searched her 
 rather prosaic, middle-aged heart in vain for 
 traces of repining or of unsatisfied affection ; 
 and she perceived more and more clearly the 
 wisdom of Miss Jewett's counsel. Peter, on his 
 part, grieved little, perhaps as having antici 
 pated little. He had, as was said, quietly 
 accepted the verdict as irrevocable, and his 
 imaginative powers were too slight to lead him 
 to dwell perversely or persistently on what 
 might have been. His motive in seeking a 
 change of scene was something quite different. 
 The routine and the absence of all independent 
 
 14
 
 210 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 volition in his quarry labor was proving irk 
 some and unbearable. Even in the humble 
 capacity of farm-hand and inan-of-all-work to 
 old Simeon Bowen, he had had latitude of 
 action, for of late years Bowen had deputed 
 much to his management; and in this Peter 
 had found an unfailing if lowly joy. This life 
 had been closed to him, and no similar one had 
 offered itself. He was not one whom Mr. 
 Pickering or his foreman could advance to 
 clerical work, and as the business was arranged, 
 there were almost no other positions above the 
 grade of workman. So Peter stayed on, work 
 ing faithfully and uncomplainingly, and earn 
 ing good pay; but he was unhappy and ill at 
 ease, and he gratefully welcomed Mr. Clark's 
 successful effort to aid him in shifting the 
 scene. 
 
 In the lawyer's conversation with Miss 
 Jewett, one topic regarding Coe had been but 
 momentarily touched upon, but it was, for the 
 farmer, one of more import than they guessed. 
 This was his unmistakable ill health, signs of 
 which would have been visible to the most 
 casual observer, had the man ever gone where 
 he was seen or encountered. Few realized the 
 amount of work that he had stolidly, stubbornly 
 undertaken since the day when he was left 
 alone. His farm, though of poor soil and 
 unfavorable location, or partly because of this,
 
 BEATEN DOWN 211 
 
 required the full working energies of at least 
 two or three men. The scanty minimum of 
 housework claimed more time and labor than 
 he would have credited. His food, ill assorted 
 and imperfectly prepared, was very different 
 from that to which he had been accustomed, 
 and its unsuitableness had steadily told on him. 
 In the late fall he had contracted a heavy cold, 
 followed by a slight rheumatic fever. Save for 
 four days, he had kept obstinately at his work 
 throughout the attack, but it had left him with 
 an unaccustomed weakness, and he experienced 
 frequent recurring twinges of pain. Above all, 
 mental unrest, whether or not it was of the kind 
 conjectured by Miss Jewett, preyed on him vis 
 ibly, and accentuated the effects arising from 
 physical surroundings. Garrett Coe was not the 
 man he had been the autumn before, though he 
 was only slowly conceding the fact to himself. 
 He went about his work as usual, albeit with 
 lessened energy ; but the habitual frown on his 
 brow was becoming less a forbidding scowl 
 and more an indication of tremor and trouble. 
 In addition, monetary difficulties were thick 
 ening around ,him. He had sold but little farm 
 produce. His four days' illness in bed had 
 wrought damage among his live stock. He had 
 no ready money. And in February, six months 
 after his encounter in the post-office with Mr. 
 Eeed, had come a curt note from the latter,
 
 212 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 left at the house by a clerk, reminding him of 
 the inexorable interest again falling due. 
 
 Coe had found the note on his door-step, and 
 over his baked apples and milk he sat and 
 stared at it. It forced him to realize, as he had 
 not realized before, how near to actual penury 
 he was. Even without the mortgage, his bar 
 ren and exhausted farm had long been proving 
 a yearly diminishing asset, and he knew it 
 would not sell even for the face of the encum 
 brance. In other words, it was practically Mr. 
 Reed's already. Both of his cows had died; 
 but even if they were alive, they would pass out 
 of his hands with all the rest, for the instrument 
 had been specially and rigorously drawn, in 
 accordance with Mr. Reed's invariable stipula 
 tion, to constitute a chattel mortgage as well, 
 and included not merely the land and buildings, 
 but furniture, live stock, and all other belong 
 ings not strictly personal, " upon or in any wise 
 connected with said lands, tenements and 
 hereditaments." 
 
 Little wonder if, at this time in his life, with 
 all his vindictive buffetings of the world thus 
 suddenly repaid him at once and with unspar 
 ing and remorseless compounding of interest, 
 he should find himself facing new problems, 
 or rather the one never old problem of his own 
 relations with life and humankind. 
 
 And a little later came a new and crushing
 
 BEATEN DOWN 213 
 
 blow. A sudden melting of the snows on a 
 steep hillside bordering his farm caused a small 
 landslip, denuding almost completely the farm's 
 most fertile slope and filling his bottom-land 
 with a chaos of wild-strewn rocks and rubble. 
 Coe surveyed the disaster stupidly. It meant 
 literal ruin, as he well knew. Money and time, 
 or the volunteered work of many, might redeem 
 the lost land in small part ; but the instant and 
 friendly offices which would have been proffered 
 by the village to any other of its inhabitants 
 were no longer at his disposal, as he realized 
 with a little irrepressible gulp in his throat ; and 
 money was as little his as his neighbors' friend 
 ship. He stood there long, that morning, as in 
 a daze; but his face seemed to soften rather 
 than grow harder, and its dumb expression was 
 not one of cursing but rather of chastisement 
 and appeal.
 
 XIV 
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 
 
 'T JEST kind o' feel as ef I 'd ought to," 
 J- Hiram Wheeler said. 
 
 "Well," responded his wife, doubtfully, "I 
 would n't say anythin' t' keep ye back, Hiram. 
 Mebbe some one hed ought to, as you say. 
 But I can't think y' '11 git let in." 
 
 "I 'm goin' over t' try, anyway," said the 
 good old farmer, resolutely. "We 've all let 
 him alone too stiddy. Every one in Felton 
 has. No man 's as bad as we 've treated Gar- 
 rett Coe. He ain't pitch an' he ain't p'ison; 
 an' I 'm sick an' ashamed of havin' acted so 
 harsh an' stand-offish all this winter." 
 
 "Well, y' know, pa, we 've talked it over 
 more than once; but when I git t' thinkin' of 
 how ugly he acted thet day I took 'Vinie away, 
 an' what he 'd done t' her mother an' all, I jest 
 can't see my way t' makin' it up." 
 
 " It 's all so," answered her husband, his large, 
 serene face losing for the moment its kindly 
 look, and his mellow voice sounding unwontedly 
 
 214
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 215 
 
 severe. "There ain't nothin' c'n excuse some 
 things he 's done an' been. They 're consider- 
 'ble, or you would n't harbor 'em up ag'inst 
 him th' way y' hev. I never knew ye t' be so 
 set ag'inst a person b'fore, ma, as fur back 's I 
 c'n r'member." 
 
 There was no breath of blame in his tone, 
 but rather implied praise; for Mrs. Wheeler 
 was as large-souled as her husband, and, like 
 him, was slow to anger and never one to nurse 
 it, 
 
 " No ; I don' know 's I ever was," she assented. 
 "But somehow, after th' way he talked an' 
 acted to our 'Vinie thet day, still, mebbe 
 you 're right in wantin' t' go over, Hiram. I 
 would n't be one t' say no. Thet landslip 's 
 jest turrible f r him. I don' know what he '11 
 do. An' there ain't many o' th' neighbors '11 
 come near him, I 'm afeared. Mr. Marshall 
 may ; but like as not Grarrett won't see him. He 
 would n't see him when he 's called b'fore. An' 
 Nathan Bradbury 'd 've been likely t' go, a year 
 ago ; but he don't seem t' go much of anywheres 
 sence thet church trouble. One o' th' best men 
 thet ever breathed, too," she added impulsively, 
 "spite o' what happened. But as we was 
 sayin', Hiram, I s'pose now 's the time when 
 G-arrett wants help or a kind word, ef he ever 
 will ; an' I don't say but thet y' 're right in 
 goin' over an' offerin' it."
 
 216 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 This little conversation occurred the morn 
 ing after the catastrophe on Coe's farm, the 
 results of which Mr. Wheeler had just seen at 
 a distance, from an accidental vantage-point, in 
 the course of his own outdoor morning's work. 
 'Vinie was out, and Bruce had gone to school. 
 Mr. Wheeler had hurried in with his report, 
 feeling a momently increasing compunction for 
 the deliberate holding aloof from his solitary 
 neighbor through so many months. 
 
 Thus encouraged by his wife in his prompt 
 impulse to render succor or at least sympathy, 
 the farmer left the house and went over to 
 Coe's. Coe was indoors, whither he had sought 
 refuge after an aimless and abstracted tour of 
 inspection among the ruins and debris that 
 had overwhelmed the best of his poor land. 
 He had dropped into a chair and buried his 
 face in his hands. A corner of Mr. Eeed's 
 terse note protruded from the pocket of his 
 rough, threadbare working- coat, where he had 
 placed it a few days before. 
 
 He roused himself at the sound of steps out 
 side and Mr. Wheeler's firm knock ; but instead 
 of getting up and barring all entrance by 
 an inhospitable query through the grudgingly 
 opened door, he called out " Come in ! " and 
 experienced an odd thrill of gratification as 
 some one again entered his house from the 
 outer world.
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 217 
 
 Farmer Wheeler's large, kindly personality 
 was not one to make a host repent his wel 
 come. As he entered, Grarrett Coe's heart 
 strangely went out to meet him. The deserted 
 man felt the other's strong helpfulness, his 
 friendly sincerity, as he had never felt it be 
 fore; and he sorely needed human comfort. 
 He got up impulsively and gripped Wheeler's 
 hand. 
 
 " By George, I 'm glad t' see ye ! " he said. 
 
 "Well, I 'm glad V see you, then," returned 
 Mr. Wheeler, with warm responsiveness. "I 
 did n't know 'bout comin' ; but I jest felt as ef 
 y' hed n't ought t' be let alone any longer." 
 
 "Well, I don't want t' be; I 'm sart'in o' 
 thet," was Coe's involuntary confession. " I 've 
 hed enough." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler felt a swift sympathy as he 
 heard these words. 
 
 " Set down awhile," said Coe, trying with 
 brusque tone to cover the urgency of his wish. 
 " Y' ain't in a hurry, air ye 1 " 
 
 "Not a bit," returned the other, dropping 
 into the cane-seated arm-chair which his host 
 pushed forward. " Thet 's a bad slip y' 've hed 
 out there on y'r pastur'." 
 
 " Fallow ground 's gone too," rejoined Coe, 
 briefly. " Stripped clean, y' might say. But 
 somehow I don't seem t' be thinkin' o' thet as 
 much as o' some other things."
 
 218 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "Whatd' y'mean?" 
 
 "See here, Mr. Wheeler," broke out Coe. 
 " What 's th' matter with me ! What 've I got 
 t'do?" 
 
 "'Bout what?" queried the other, a little 
 surprised. 
 
 "'Bout gittin' right with th' world. I ain't 
 right with it now, I 've got reason enough t' 
 know thet." He gave a half -bitter, half-wistful 
 laugh. "An' I 'm mighty sure I ain't right 
 with myself." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler felt a great compassion rise 
 within him. As he looked at Coe, who had 
 dropped into his old chair, his condemning 
 judgments seemed gradually to yield place to 
 other feelings. 
 
 " I don't s'pose a man c'n ever be right with 
 himself when he ain't right with others," he 
 said thoughtfully. 
 
 " No, he can't," Coe cried. " An' I can't stan' 
 it. I 'd 've said I could. I 'd 've said 't was 
 what I wanted, almost. But I tell ye, it 's 
 diff'rent when y' try it once." 
 
 " There 's men thet c'n do it, p'r'aps," said 
 Mr. Wheeler. "But I 'm glad ef you ain't 
 one." 
 
 " I don't b'lieve any man c'n do it," the other 
 declared vehemently, " not an' find life livable. 
 I can't, anyway. What 's th' matter with me? 
 How 'd I git where I am? How 'm I t' git
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 219 
 
 where I 'd ought t' be ? I 've been goin' over 
 things all th' fall an' winter, an' I don't git any 
 wheres. Ef I keep on th' same way through 
 th' spring, I '11 end crazy." 
 
 He paused and stared appealingly at his 
 visitor. 
 
 Mr. Wheeler felt strangely moved. 
 
 "How d' y' feel y' 're wrong with things, 
 Garrett ? " he asked. " In what ways ? " 
 
 " Every way, so fur 's I c'n see. It 's a clean 
 sweep." 
 
 "Well, I dare say a body c'd call it thet," 
 assented Mr. Wheeler, candidly. "Fam'ly, 
 friends, natur', an' y'r own self, all down on 
 ye. But th' last 's fust, I take it." 
 
 " I don' know 's it 's fust. I '11 allow it 's wust." 
 
 "An' y' want we sh'd talk it over a leetle?" 
 
 "Yes; thet 's jest what I want." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler drew his chair over nearer to 
 Garrett's, and the two men sat facing each 
 other. The weather, following the freshet, was 
 soft for March, but fleecy masses of cloud 
 wandered continually across the sun, and the 
 low-ceiled room, with its long-unwashed and 
 weather-streaked window-panes, was dim in the 
 obscured light. 
 
 "Well, Garrett," said the old farmer, "I 
 ruther guess you began it by bein' down on 
 others." 
 
 "P'r'apsldid."
 
 220 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "You know as well 's I do," went on Mr. 
 Wheeler, with a touch of severity in his tone, 
 " thet it 's been a good many years, now, senee 
 you hed a reel friendly word f'r people." 
 
 " Thet 's true enough.-" 
 
 "It 's astonishin' how thet sort o' feelin' 
 grows, when y' begin t' give it ground-room. 
 It spreads along th' soil like th' Canada thistle. 
 Ef y' like people, there 's lots in 'em t' like. 
 Ef y' begin t' dislike 'em, there 's lots t' dislike. 
 Things ain't all white, in th' world, n'r all black. 
 But even ef they 're gray, why, gray 's a nice 
 enough color in some ways ; but ef y' git t' con- 
 siderin' every gray as jest white dirtied over, it 
 don't look th' same." 
 
 " Gray is white blackened." 
 
 "It 's black whitened, jest as much. An' t' 
 my thinkin', there 's a mighty sight more o' th' 
 white than th' black. An' I '11 tell ye another 
 thing." Mr. Wheeler's voice grew earnest as 
 he pursued his metaphor. Plain people have at 
 times an instinctive fondness for figurative lan 
 guage as being far the most graphic and expres 
 sive. " I '11 tell ye this : thet in all human natur', 
 so fur 's I 've seen, there ain't any parts thet 's 
 all black ; but there 's parts in plenty thet 's all 
 white." 
 
 " I guess people think there 's some thet 's 
 all black in me." 
 
 " Thet 's b'cause you 've b'lieved there 's so
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 221 
 
 much black in them. Nobody c'n go on hatin' 
 people an' not git hated back." 
 
 " Hev I been hatin' people ? " said Coe, ques- 
 tioningly, as one awakened from a dream. 
 
 "Hev n't ye, now?" 
 
 " Why, I don' know. I never put it jest thet 
 way. There 's things I don't like." 
 
 "Yes. Well, they 're what y' 've been cen- 
 terin' on, more an' more, f'r years, now, Garrett. 
 I 've been noticin' it, but it did n't seem t' bear 
 talkin' of t' ye." Mr. Wheeler in this touched 
 curiously close to Miss Jewett's perception that 
 Coe's state of mind had been one not hitherto 
 to be influenced by intervention. 
 
 " An', Garrett," the old farmer went on, lean 
 ing forward in his chair, "thet ends up by 
 makin' a body an Ishmael. Fust it turned ye 
 ag'inst outside people ; then ag'inst y'r friends, 
 or those thet would be; an' then ag'inst y'r 
 wife an' fam'ly. An' now I guess it 's gone 
 further than Ishmael, an' kind o' turned ye 
 ag'inst y'r self." 
 
 " I jedge likely y' 're right," said the other, 
 with a sigh. " I wish I hed your ways o' 
 lookin' at things f'r a while." 
 
 "There ain't no patent on 'em," replied his 
 visitor, " an' ef they 're any good, I 'm mighty 
 ready t' show ye how they 're made." 
 
 Coe looked around at the forlorn, untidy 
 room with a shudder.
 
 222 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "My ways 've brought me t' this," he said 
 ruefully. " I ain't countin' th' landslip. Thet 's 
 bad enough; but it 's made other things seem 
 wuss, somehow. An' I 'm willin' t' change." 
 
 " 'T ain't easv," said the older man, solemnly. 
 
 v 7 / 
 
 " It c'n be done, but 't ain't easy. Y' might as 
 well make sure o' thet. Y' can't change habits 
 an' ways o' thinkin', th' way y' change clo'es. 
 They git more like skin than clo'es." 
 
 "" Well, I '11 flay 'em off, then," Coe rejoined, 
 with grim determination. "I don't mind th' 
 hurt." 
 
 " 'T ain't th' hurt ; it 's gittin' 'em off at all. 
 Y' can't strip 'em in one hull piece, th' way y' 'd 
 strip a carcass; but little bits at a time, an' 
 hard tuggin' at thet." 
 
 Coe sat in silence, his thoughts busy with 
 many things. His questioning, rebellious mood 
 changed to one softer and more thoughtful. He 
 gazed with a gradually deepening insight into 
 his caller's serene, benignant face. 
 
 "You 've be"en wiser in life than I hev, Mi-. 
 Wheeler," he said slowly ; " an' it 's clear t' see 
 y' 've got more out of it. I s'pose y' hed a 
 diff'rent natur', t' start with." 
 
 "At your age or mine," the other said, "a 
 man's natur' is pretty much what he 's made it. 
 He 's no right t' hark back t' what he started 
 with. I settled it, years ago, that a natur' hed 
 t' be made, ef y' wanted it right; an' I 've tried
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 223 
 
 a leetle t' make mine. It 's a blunderin', home 
 made job; but it 's better than not tinkerin' 
 with it at all." 
 
 " Well, I 'm willin' t' try tinkerin' with mine." 
 
 " Good ! 
 
 " How '11 1 go 'bout it?" 
 
 " Begin by thinkin' kinder o' people." 
 
 " Huh ! " said Coe, Naaman-like, a shade dis 
 appointed. " Thet ain't much." 
 
 " It 's a grand sight more than you imagine. 
 Y'r wife, f r instance." 
 
 "My wife?" said Coe, eagerly. "Why, I 
 never thought bad o' her. 'T was she thought 
 bad o' me, an' right enough. But there 
 wa' n't a truer, faithfuller wife in Felton, an' 
 I 've allers said thet." 
 
 " T' her ! " 
 
 " T' every one." 
 
 " Well, but hev ye ? You think." 
 
 " I allers felt it." 
 
 "We '11 let thet go, fr th' time. Did y' say 
 it?" 
 
 " Why," said Coe, " o' course. I don't say I 
 said it as often 's I might hev ; an' I used t' say 
 a lot I 'd never ought t' 've ; but she knew it, 
 jest th' same." 
 
 " No, she did n't know it, Garrett, an' thet 's 
 why she left ye. I don' know what reason she 
 or you gave, or what she thought she was 
 leavin' fur, 'cause th' work was too hard, or
 
 224 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 'cause y' druv her too much, or 'cause she 
 did n't feel toward ye as she used to. Th' reel 
 reason, an' I know it as well as I 'm settln' 
 here, was thet y' did n't feel toward her as y' 
 used to." 
 
 "I allers hev," asserted Coe, indignantly. 
 
 " Y' 've shown it precious little. You look 
 back, now, on th' last ten years, an' stop t' think 
 how many times y' Ve harried her an' worried 
 her an' blamed her; an' then how many times 
 y' Ve said th' other thing; an' see which adds 
 up biggest." 
 
 There was silence for a minute. Then Mr. 
 Wheeler added: 
 
 "No, what y' ain't said, y' ain't felt. Thet 
 stands t' reason." 
 
 "It don't," contended the other. "Don't I 
 know how I feel now?" 
 
 "Well, you keep it up," commented his 
 visitor, dryly. " It 's wuth all th' winter y' 've 
 hed, an' more." 
 
 " I can't git her back by it." 
 
 "I would n't try, yet awhile, Garrett," said 
 the old man, kindly. " 'T ain't much of a life 
 y' c'n offer her now. I want t' git over an' hev 
 a look at thet landslip, by th' way. Then 
 mebbe I an' some o' th' neighbors c'n set t' 
 work, this month, an' clear things off an' give 
 ye a start." 
 
 "Can't be cleared off," replied the other,
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 225 
 
 quietly. " Y' hev n't seen th' thing clus to. 
 All Felton, workin' a year o' Saturdays, could 
 n't more than clear it. An' all Felton ain't 
 likely t' work th' year. I s'pose they 're right 
 enough, too." 
 
 " Ef y' begin t' think they 're right, they 're 
 wrong," said Mr. Wheeler, epigrammatically. 
 
 " How 's thet ? " 
 
 " Y' think they 're right 'bout holdin' off, eh ? " 
 
 "Well, I guess I would in their place," 
 rejoined Coe, with an odd touch of humility. 
 " I rather jedge thet I hain't given people much 
 call t' be particularly friendly. I was down on 
 th' hull race, I guess. No reason why. They 
 never did any thin' t' me. An' when y' look 
 over Felton people, one by one, Mr. Wheeler, 
 y' find they 're a pretty good set, take 'em all in 
 all. I 've been tryin' t' figur' out, this winter, 
 what it all was I was so ag'inst in 'em, an' I 
 can't say 's I c'd find much of anythin'." 
 
 "Thet so? Y' 're on th' right track, then," 
 said Mr. Wheeler, with satisfaction. 
 
 " I bar ol' Reed," Coe added hastily. 
 
 "Well," said the other, suppressing a smile, 
 " we '11 let ye bar him f 'r a while. We '11 let ye 
 begin with others, an' p'r'aps y' c'n work up t' 
 him later." 
 
 Coe did not follow up the Reed attack, as he 
 was wont to do. He threw himself restlessly 
 back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.
 
 226 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "I s'pose what y' say 's true," he said pres 
 ently : " an' in fact I 've been thinkin' out some 
 o' th' same things myself. I did n't lay out 
 t' be sech an ugly brute,, exac'ly ; I reckon it 's 
 jest grown on me, until I 'd come t' act wuss 
 than I reelly felt." 
 
 "Mebbe thet 's so, Garrett." 
 
 "Thet's possible, ain't it, Mr. Wheeler?" 
 asked the other, almost beseechingly. 
 
 " Sart'in it is," replied the old farmer, 
 promptly. " An' now y' 've been diggin' down 
 t' see what y' reelly felt." 
 
 " Yes ; an' 't wa' n't so much, after all." 
 
 The topic of the Reed & Kemble fire had 
 not been absent from Mr. Wheeler's thoughts, 
 but he could not allude to it himself, and the 
 other did not apparently have it in mind. 
 
 " I want t' thank ye, Mr. Wheeler," went on 
 Coe, after a pause, looking again at his visi 
 tor, " f'r takin' f r takin' keer o' 'Vinie an' th' 
 boy." 
 
 " I did n't know 's y' thanked me much." 
 
 "Well, I do. Ef I c'd only pay ye, or do 
 somethin'." He looked around the bare room 
 helplessly. 
 
 "Pshaw! Don't y' talk o' payin'. We 'd 
 ought t' pay you f'r supplyin' 'em," returned the 
 other, with a touch of humor. " Th' house ain't 
 been th' same sence they came. An' it won't 
 be th' same ag'in when ef they go."
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 227 
 
 " I don't want they sh'd go. They 're a long 
 sight better off with you than with anythin' 
 I c'n give 'em here. But you won't mind Bruce 
 comin' 'raound here now an' then, will ye 1 " 
 
 "No, of course not. I don' know 's he '11 
 want to, though." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he will," said Coe, quickly. " I 've 
 I 've seen him, run across Mm, like, two 
 or three times lately, an' we 've " 
 
 "Y'hev?" 
 
 "Yes. We 've kind o' made friends, he 
 an' I." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler got up and put his hand on the 
 other's shoulder. 
 
 " Good ! " he said. " Thet 's th' best thing 
 yet. I swan I 'm glad t' hear it. You keep it 
 up!" 
 
 "I 'd like to. An' an'. 'Vinie, d' y' think 
 she 'd come over too, now an' then, an' visit a 
 leetle?" 
 
 " 'Vinie ! There ain't a week she don't want 
 t' see ye. She 's come here a dozen times at 
 least, this winter ; but every time, she 's come 
 back an' said all th' doors an' windows was 
 locked, an' you not in sight, an' gener'lly no 
 answer. Two or three times she said y' roared 
 out, t Git away ! ' " 
 
 "I did n't know it was 'Vinie," murmured 
 Coe. "I 've yelled thet out, once or twice, 
 t' keep people off, likely enough. An' when
 
 228 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 I 'm out at work, I 've allers locked up. So 
 'Vinie 's been over, has she 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; an' I c'n tell ye it made her feel pretty 
 bad t' come back without seein' ye. It 'd jest 
 take th' heart out of her, f'r a while, t' think y' 
 would n't even look at her." 
 
 " Well, you tell her it 's it 's a little diff'rent 
 jest now, will ye?" 
 
 "I will, t' be sure. An' y' '11 see her over 
 here b'fore I 'm home half an hour, or I miss 
 my guess. She 's a wonderful lovin' little girl, 
 Garrett; an' as lovable as she is lovin'. I 
 declare I can't see why she broke with Burt 
 Way." 
 
 " What 's thet ? " asked Coe, startled ; and Mr. 
 Wheeler realized as he had not before what 
 utter isolation had been the other's, that he 
 should not have known even of this long past 
 happening. The visitor explained the matter, 
 so far as he knew it, which was but slightly. 
 The bare fact was about all that 'Vinie had 
 ever vouchsafed. The two discussed it, but 
 could hazard no conjecture as to the cause. 
 
 Coe gave a rasping cough. 
 
 " Thet don't sound right, Grarrett," said Mr. 
 Wheeler, with concern. "An', t' tell th' truth, 
 y' 're lookin' powerful bad, seems t' me. I 
 noticed it the moment I came in. I don't 
 believe in worry in' ye, but what 's been th' 
 matter!"
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 229 
 
 " Oh, nothing" said Coe, indifferently, telling 
 him in few words about his attack of the 
 December preceding, and certain effects it had 
 left over. "It 's no matter," he repeated. 
 " Don't say anythin' 'bout it, please. An' say : 
 I 'd ruther y' would n't say anythin' 'bout this 
 talk, or me, or anythin', fr a while. I don't 
 feel like meetin' people jest now, an' I 'd ruther 
 not hev 'em 'raound." 
 
 " I thought y' said y' 'd hed enough o' bein' 
 alone." 
 
 " I 've hed enough o' bein' down on people, I 
 s'pose I meant." 
 
 " An' y' 're goin' t' stop f " 
 
 " I 'm thinkin' o' slackin' up." 
 
 " They '11 go on bein' down on you, ef they 
 don't know of it." 
 
 " I don' know 's I mind thet so much. Any 
 way, one thing at a time." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler was nonplussed at this unex 
 pected position, and sought to argue against it, 
 but in vain. He then turned the talk again to 
 the landslip and the general state of the farm ; 
 and his kindly, persistent questioning gradually 
 elicited from Coe some reluctant facts about 
 the state of affairs, showing how serious the 
 outlook, even apart from this last catastrophe, 
 had come to be. But for the present there 
 were few ways in which his neighborly help 
 could be of effect, and Mr. Wheeler felt instinc-
 
 230 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 lively that Coe would accept none of a financial 
 kind. 
 
 "An' y' don't want t' make friends with 
 people?" he queried, returning to the former 
 topic. 
 
 "No. Not now, anyway. I ain't goin' t' 
 shet myself off as long as I 'm makin' a livin', 
 an' now come 'raound whinin' an' palaverin' f'r 
 friends when it looks as ef I can't. I 'm ready 
 t' make friends with them; but I ain't ready t' 
 hev 'em make friends with me." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler saw and respected something of 
 Coe's feeling. 
 
 " Y' '11 let me come over, won't ye?" 
 
 " Sure ! " responded Coe, looking up frankly. 
 
 " An' my wife ? " 
 
 "Why, yes; ef she wants to." 
 
 "An' 'Vinie an' Bruce, y' say?" 
 
 "Yes; I wish they would," said the other, 
 eagerly. "An' thank ye, Mr. Wheeler, f'r 
 comin' 'raound y'rself, this mornin'. I 've never 
 given ye much encouragement." 
 
 "Oh, yes, y' hev, right here, this very 
 mornin'. I don't feel thet we 've talked out, 
 somehow." 
 
 "I dare say we hev n't. We '11 hev other 
 talks, ef y' like. You don't preach, Mr. Wheeler, 
 an' thet 's why I c'n talk with ye. Nathan 
 Bradbury 's another one thet would n't. But 
 most would."
 
 AS MAN TO MAN 231 
 
 " I ain't goin' t' promise not to, f'r always," 
 said the other, warningly. 
 
 "All right. I '11 resk it. But I tell ye, four 
 or -five months' lonesomeness c'n preach 'bout 
 as well as most ministers." 
 
 Mr. Wheeler at length took his leave, and as 
 he had predicted, 'Vinie was at her father's door 
 within just sufficient time for the making of 
 the double journey. She did not knock this 
 time, but entered swiftly and silently. Her 
 father was sitting by a table, and his head was 
 bowed upon his crossed arms. The girl's heart 
 thrilled with a quick pang of remorseful love, 
 and in an instant her young arms were about 
 his neck and her head was pressing down upon 
 his.
 
 XV 
 
 A NOVEL PEOPOSITION 
 
 FOR the next few days there was much 
 interest manifested in the village in the 
 news of Coe's landslip. In the case of any other 
 person, the impulse would have been to hurry 
 thither and offer help. As it was, there were 
 many who felt the impulse, but few who 
 believed that it would meet with encourage 
 ment from Coe himself. These few put the 
 matter to the test by boldly making their 
 way individually to his house. But each one 
 found it locked and silent. There was no 
 response to their knockings. A few ventured 
 upon the farm itself, and explored the scene of 
 the accident; but no one, as it happened, 
 encountered Coe there, and their visits only 
 convinced them that village help, however will 
 ing, would prove utterly unavailing in view of 
 the extent of the damage. It was evident that 
 the farm was practically ruined. When this 
 became clearly known, there were not wanting 
 words of sympathy for Coe; in fact, a small 
 
 232
 
 A NOVEL PROPOSITION 233 
 
 revulsion of feeling began to take place in town 
 on the subject of the ostracized farmer. The 
 things treasured up against him. were not for 
 gotten ; but the passing of the months had sof 
 tened the impressions made, and many now 
 dimly felt that perhaps he had had retribution 
 enough. They had no opportunity to show 
 him this, however; for he kept himself as 
 secluded as ever, and on his own part knew 
 little of his neighbors' relaxing judgment. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury alone gained an interview with 
 Coe, and that only by determination. The 
 feeling had been upon him more overwhelm 
 ingly than upon others that the man must not 
 be left in his solitude any longer. The ex- 
 deacon's first call was unsuccessful. On his 
 second, he espied Coe vanishing from the win 
 dow, and simply refused to take "no admit 
 tance " as an answer. Coe was perhaps on the 
 whole not sorry to see Mr. Bradbury, for whom 
 he had a peculiar and very strong respect. It 
 was an hour before the interview was over, 
 and Coe followed his visitor to the door for a 
 warm hand-shake at parting. 
 
 Shortly after the catastrophe to the farm, 
 Coe hitched up, one afternoon, and drove over 
 to Hingham. He had a small amount of farm 
 produce on hand over and above his imme 
 diate needs, and he preferred to market it in 
 Hingham, not merely because he could get
 
 234 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 slightly better terms there than in Felton, but 
 because he did not wish to be seen in his own 
 village. He drove around it by a slight detour, 
 and disposed of his little stock in Hingham at 
 fair prices. It took several of the few dollars 
 received to make certain absolutely necessary 
 purchases ; and as he emerged finally from one 
 of the Hingham stores with two or three care 
 fully tied parcels in his hand, he realized dis 
 consolately that his tiny capital stock had been 
 sadly diminished. 
 
 Putting his packages in the wagon, he 
 strolled rather aimlessly down the sidewalk, 
 peering abstractedly into the unpretending store 
 windows. He had no further errands to do, 
 yet he felt in no hurry to drive back to his 
 forsaken house. The gentle bustle of the 
 town street was agreeable to him, the visit was 
 a welcome change, and it was a pleasure to 
 linger about in the bright March afternoon and 
 scrutinize the new faces, and forget himself 
 and his carking cares for a while. He tried to 
 enjoy to the full the passing hour, and wan 
 dered along, noting every feature of the scene 
 about him. 
 
 He had stopped in front of a high fence 
 inclosing a wide vacant lot, and was studying 
 with listless interest the occasional bills and 
 posters pasted upon it. One rather attracted 
 his attention. It announced a performance for
 
 A NOVEL PROPOSITION 235 
 
 that evening by one Monsieur Franco, cele 
 brated professor of legerdemain. The perform 
 ance was to be in the town hall at half-past 
 seven o'clock, and the various illusions and 
 feats of magic with which the " professor " was 
 prepared to startle the audience were enumer 
 ated in telling and polychromatic scare-heads. 
 The climax of the exhibition was to be reserved 
 until the last, the bill announcing that the pro 
 fessor would conclude by "publicly cutting to 
 pieces one of Hingham's most prominent citi 
 zens, and putting the pieces together again, in 
 full view of the audience." 
 
 Coe was idly poring over the placard, when 
 he heard a voice behind him : 
 
 " Ah, I see you read ze bill." 
 
 Coe turned, and encountered a suave-looking 
 person, with dark complexion and eyes, and 
 long, black, flowing side-whiskers. 
 
 "Are you coming to ze performance, eh?" 
 the newcomer asked in friendly tone. 
 
 " Can't," said Coe, briefly. " I don't live in 
 town. Got t' drive back t' Felton." 
 
 " Felton ? Where is zat ? " 
 
 " It 's a place near here." 
 
 "You live zere?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Could I give zere iny performance, some 
 night?" 
 
 " You mean, is th' place big enough ? "
 
 236 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Yes ; is it beeg enough ! " 
 
 "Why, I don' know," said Coe, doubtfully. 
 " There are shows there once in a while." 
 
 "Iszereahall?" 
 
 "They 've got a town-meetin' hall thet is 
 pretty fair-sized." 
 
 " I weel come," said the Frenchman, with de 
 cision. "You weel help me, eh?" 
 
 "If" Coe gave a short laugh. "I guess 
 not." 
 
 " Oh, but yes," urged the other. " I know no 
 one zere. I cannot make ze arrangement 
 alone." 
 
 " Well, I 'm afraid y' won't git me t' help ye." 
 
 " Mais pourquoi ? " Monsieur Franco grew 
 interested in his new plan. " Look here. 
 You stay and go to my performance to-night. 
 You can take supper wis me at ze hotel, and 
 drive to your home after. I gif you a free 
 ticket. You see if ze show is good, eh ? and if 
 it is good, you make ze arrangement for Fel- 
 ton." 
 
 " But I don't want to, I tell you," returned 
 the other, impatiently. " Why sh'd I go 'raound 
 makin' y'r arrangements ! " 
 
 " You like to see my performance, eh I " 
 
 " Oh, I 'd like thet well enough." 
 
 The professor stepped to the fence with an 
 important air, and laid his ringer on the lower 
 lines of the poster.
 
 A NOVEL PROPOSITION 237 
 
 " You see zat, eh ! " 
 
 "Yes, I see it." 
 
 " I cut a man to pieces. You haf read 1 " 
 
 "Yes. What of it!" 
 
 "It is most exciting. I haf made much 
 reputation in New York State." 
 
 " I dare say." 
 
 " To-night you shall come behind ze scenes. 
 I show you how it is done. Zen you let me try 
 it wis you in ze performance in Felton." 
 
 " Th' dickens I will ! " said the farmer, with 
 a sniff at this cool proposal. He felt a grim 
 amusement in trying to picture himself thus 
 unselfishly furthering his townspeople's inno 
 cent enjoyment. 
 
 " I gif you twenty dollars." 
 
 "What's thet?" 
 
 "Yes. Twenty dollars." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 "Not nonsense. Listen. You are well 
 known in how you call it! Felton, eh?" 
 
 " Yes, I 'm well known enough," returned 
 the other, with inward satire. 
 
 " I must haf a man well known, is it not ! 
 Zen people weel come. Sometimes I must pay. 
 It is good beesness." 
 
 Coe was becoming rather attracted by the 
 idea, after first being strongly repelled. The 
 sum named seemed a large one in his present 
 circumstances, and he needed money sorely.
 
 238 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Y' can't afford t' pay twenty dollars," he 
 said incredulously. 
 
 "Do I not know? Figurez-vous. I charge 
 each ticket feefty cents, and twenty-five for ze 
 children. If I announce to cut up what is 
 your name, eh I " 
 
 "Coe,-G-arrett Coe." 
 
 "If I announce to cut up Grarrett Coe 
 instead of some not known man, some working- 
 man, zere weel be forty people more weel come. 
 Zere is ze twenty dollars. I lose nossing. And 
 you help me make ze arrangements into ze 
 bargain." 
 
 Coe stood silent. He was little versed in 
 average returns from such entertainments, and 
 had no means of knowing whether the pro 
 fessor's calculations were reasonable or other 
 wise. However, that was not his affair. If the 
 other chose to take the risk, well and good. 
 
 "I pay you fife dollars to-night. You get 
 ze rest in Felton before ze performance. Zat 
 makes you sure, eh 1 " 
 
 Coe's reflections went on. The prospect of 
 thus appearing before Felton in public assem 
 bled was supremely distasteful, almost unthink 
 able. Yet why should he not 1 He was shrewd 
 enough to realize that he would prove even -a 
 better drawing card than the enterprising 
 Frenchman imagined ; in fact, the house would 
 probably be packed, not so much for the
 
 A NOVEL PROPOSITION 239 
 
 entertainment as to catch once more a glimpse 
 of the long-secluded hermit, whom a certain 
 atmosphere of mystery had of late come more 
 and more to surround. And his appearance in 
 this unique role would be a sensation indeed. 
 Coe laughed within himself, even while he shud 
 dered. 
 
 " You agree, eh ? " 
 
 "I can't make y'r arrangements," answered 
 the farmer, sullenly. "I don't go about in 
 town much. I 'd ketch myself goin' 'raound 
 stickin' bills ! " 
 
 "Very good," acquiesced Franco, coolly. 
 "You do not want to. So. I cannot inseest. 
 But you haf not to stick ze bills. Of course 
 not. You gif zem to ze painter or ze carpenter 
 or some one in ze town, eh? you pay him a 
 dollar,/ weel pay him ze dollar, and it is 
 done, n'est ce pas f " 
 
 Coe thought of Tom Secor, and reflected that 
 the carpenter would very willingly undertake 
 the job of bill-posting, and would also attend 
 to hiring the hall ; so that he himself need not 
 appear in the matter until the eventful evening 
 itself. 
 
 "Zen you weel not, eh? Very good," said 
 the professor, turning away. 
 
 "Yes, I will," said Coe, suddenly. "It 's a 
 bargain." 
 
 " You weel accept ? "
 
 240 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " So. And you weel come wis me and see ze 
 performance zis efening, so as to know how 
 you haf to do ! " 
 
 " Yes. Lucky I allers carry thet ol 7 lantern 
 in th' wagon, t' git home by." 
 
 " Very good. If you weel be at ze let me 
 see ze Central Hotel at six o'clock, we weel haf 
 supper togezzer, eh? I pay for ze supper, and 
 we weel go to ze hall after." 
 
 Coe nodded, and the Frenchman strolled 
 away. The farmer stood for some time, endea 
 voring vaguely to summarize and reduce to 
 order his ideas and views on this uncommon 
 incident. His eyes glistened a little as he 
 thought of the twenty dollars. Appearing 
 before the Felton public as a man in process 
 of vivisection was perhaps repugnant, but it 
 was infinitely less so than appearing before 
 them as a mendicant, an alternative which 
 seemed to menace him sternly. With twenty 
 dollars and the sum remaining on his day's 
 trading, he could pay his mortgage interest, 
 and thus at least gain an interval of precious 
 time to turn in. 
 
 He made his way musingly back to his horse 
 and wagon, and arranged for its care for the 
 evening at a friendly farrier's, as he was not 
 prepared to pay stabling fees. He wandered 
 about the streets in the waning afternoon, and
 
 A NOVEL PROPOSITION 241 
 
 at the hour appointed repaired to the Central 
 Hotel, where Franco awaited him. They sat 
 down to an excellent supper of steak and pota 
 toes and brown bread and hot biscuit and cold 
 slices of lamb and preserved peaches and cake 
 and milk and coffee, and it seemed to the ill- 
 fed farmer that he had never tasted anything 
 so good in his life. He ate ravenously, and the 
 professor watched him with discreet surprise. 
 Monsieur Franco asked him several questions 
 about Felton and himself and other matters, 
 which he answered more or less cursorily ; and 
 his host explained to him how the large printed 
 bills which he always had on hand would be 
 filled in with the place, date and hour at the 
 bottom, and, with a number of small bills for 
 distribution, would be sent to him in a day 
 or two, as soon as they could be struck off. 
 
 " Send 'em to Thomas Secor, S-e-c-o-r," said 
 Coe, "an' I '11 fix it with him." 
 
 The professor made a note of the name. He 
 added that he was staying in Hingham for a 
 few days, but that he had evening engage 
 ments in neighboring villages for most of the 
 time. Hingham was on the railroad, and a 
 number of places could be conveniently reached 
 by rail, bringing him back by late train again 
 to town. The day was Monday ; and they fixed 
 on Friday of that week for the performance in 
 Felton. 
 
 16
 
 242 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 "I weel drive over and drive back," said 
 Franco. " I shall take supper wis you, eh ? " 
 
 Coe was a little embarrassed, and stumblingly 
 explained that he lived alone, and that he was 
 afraid this would not be practicable, sorry as 
 he was. The , other looked surprised, but 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " As you like," said he. " I weel haf supper 
 here early, before driving over. Ze drivers here 
 weel know ze road, eh ? " 
 
 Coe, between inouthfuls of cake and pre 
 serves, assured him that they would, and they 
 finished the meal in silence. They adjourned 
 to the office, where the professor produced 
 cigars and ordered a small cup of clear coffee. 
 He had not taken coffee during supper. The 
 farmer felt strangely, blissfully content in the 
 memory of that hearty and delicious meal, and 
 he smoked his cigar, quiet, absorbed in retro 
 spective enjoyment, until the time came for 
 them to repair to the hall. 
 
 The exhibition was a good one, the French 
 man succeeding in various showy and clever 
 tricks, and doing some good juggling. The 
 closing feature of the evening, though it prob 
 ably would not have startled a metropolitan 
 audience, proved fully adequate to thrill the 
 less sophisticated though alert Hinghamites. 
 Coe was behind the scenes on the platform, and 
 saw all that was done. One of the prominent
 
 A NOVEL PEOPOSITION 243 
 
 storekeepers of the town had good-naturedly 
 consented to pose as the victim of the dissec 
 tion, and two other citizens were brought up 
 on the stage to see fair play. The storekeeper 
 was bound by them firmly to a door at the 
 back of the stage, a light rope being passed 
 several times around his body and arms and 
 secured to projecting pegs in the wood. A 
 dark cloth curtain, sliding on a wire overhead, 
 was then interposed between him and the audi 
 ence for a minute, the professor remaining in 
 sight and making impressive passes in the air 
 with a death's-head baton. The cloth was then 
 flung back again, and disclosed the victim 
 apparently in precisely the same position. 
 He moved his head from side to side, his eyes 
 were open, and he answered audibly a question 
 addressed to him. Franco made a few passes 
 as though to send him to sleep ; and then with 
 much voluble talk and many dramatic flour 
 ishes he approached the bound figure and with 
 a huge carving-knife began to detach the 
 right leg. It came off easily under his ma 
 nipulation, and he triumphantly displayed it, 
 trouser-legged and booted, to the audience, 
 and carefully placed it on a table, pointing 
 significantly to the wet blood on his knife and 
 hand. Several of the spectators, especially the 
 children, experienced considerable alarm at this, 
 and in fact the proceeding looked not a little
 
 244 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 ghastly. The left arm, with its gloved hand, 
 followed the leg; and the remainder of the 
 figure, bound stiffly against the door, with the 
 face in plain view, and the eyes closed as in 
 death, presented an undeniably gruesome 
 sight. Lastly, the Frenchman passed his knife 
 around the neck of the figure and flung a 
 black cloth over the head. He left it there an 
 instant, and then he was seen to lift the head 
 from the body, a round object enveloped in the 
 cloth, the headless trunk remaining in position. 
 At this culmination, the audience was really 
 electrified, and many of them scarcely knew 
 whether they were witnessing a tragedy or not. 
 There was a slight movement toward applause, 
 but it was swiftly suppressed, and they awaited 
 in almost anxious silence the next advertised 
 process of reconstructing the dismembered 
 victim. 
 
 Coe, behind the scenes, was of course able to 
 observe the whole modus operandi. He saw 
 how the door to which the storekeeper was 
 bound was opened quickly inward out of sight 
 when the dark curtain was interposed ; how 
 another similar door, with a lay figure bound 
 to it, carefully dressed like the storekeeper, was 
 noiselessly set in its place by an attendant; 
 and how the storekeeper himself, the door to 
 which he was bound being pushed up close 
 behind the other, was enabled to insert his
 
 A NOVEL PEOPOSITION 245 
 
 face and head in the hole just above the lay 
 figure's shoulders. During the dissection that 
 followed, Coe tiptoed around to a point at the 
 side of the stage from which he obtained a 
 partially front view, and he could thus see how 
 startlingly perfect the illusion really was as 
 viewed from the front. He returned to the 
 rear in time to see the storekeeper withdraw his 
 head during the moment's interposition of the 
 piece of black cloth ; and a dummy wooden 
 sphere was instantly substituted by the atten 
 dant, enveloped in the cloth by Franco, and 
 carried off in his hands, the hollow through 
 which the head had protruded being instantly 
 closed by a neatly fitting disk of paneling. 
 
 The process of rehabilitation was successful, 
 and to many seemed a decided relief. Laying 
 the wrapped-up head on the table, the garru 
 lous professor proceeded to restore to the 
 figure first the missing arm and then the leg. 
 Lastly, with many new flourishes, he ap 
 proached it with the enveloped head. His 
 own form hid things for an instant from view ; 
 and when the cloth was withdrawn from the 
 head, the latter was seen serenely in place, and 
 the well-known lineaments of the storekeeper 
 good-humoredly contracted into a grimace at 
 the spectators. 
 
 There was now at last a burst of applause; 
 and when the large black curtain had been
 
 246 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 drawn forward and flung back once more, the 
 two men who had occupied seats on. the stage 
 were invited to come forward and release the 
 happily resuscitated figure; and the store 
 keeper, alive and hearty, stepped forward upon 
 the stage and bowed his acknowledgments to 
 his townspeople's plaudits.
 
 XVI 
 
 TREASURE-TROVE 
 
 AS Coe jogged off, that night, setting out with 
 /~\. lantern alight for his dark ride home 
 ward, he felt a certain contempt for an audi 
 ence that had been so easily fooled and in part 
 genuinely startled by such a facile illusion. He 
 had been able, from his position, to see also 
 how several of the other tricks were done, and 
 they seemed to him absurdly simple. But the 
 audience had been undeniably held and satis 
 fied, and Franco's receipts must have been 
 gratifyingly ample. The professor's five-dollar 
 bill, duly tendered at parting, lay crisp in Coe's 
 pocket, along with the remaining proceeds of 
 his day's small trade; and as he abstractedly 
 shook the reins along his horse's back, he felt 
 that the magician's business was not such a bad 
 one, after all, and found himself not sorry that 
 he had happened to encounter this particular 
 exponent of the profession. 
 
 He had driven about two miles along the 
 Hingham pike leading to Felton, when he dis- 
 
 247
 
 248 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 cerned, in the dim light thrown ahead by the 
 lantern, a small figure trudging slowly forward 
 on the road. He quickly overtook it. To his 
 astonishment, he saw a small, big-eyed, black- 
 haired girl, who halted at the approach of his 
 wheels and ran imploringly to the side of the 
 wagon. 
 
 " Oh, please, please take me up, mister ! " she 
 cried in an imploring little voice. " I 'm so 
 frightened, all alone here by myself; an' I 've 
 walked a whole lot, an' I don't know where I 'm 
 going, or what I 'm going to do, or anything." 
 
 The voice ended in a sob. 
 
 Garrett Coe, amazed, was out of the wagon 
 at the word, and his arm was around the child. 
 His voice sounded unwontedly tender as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "What 's th' matter, little one? What 're 
 ye doin' out here all alone at this time o j 
 night?'' 
 
 " I 'm running away," said the disheveled 
 little figure, confidingly, yet with determina 
 tion. 
 
 " Runnin' away I " 
 
 " Yes, I am. Papa 'd gone out for the even 
 ing, an' he did n't lock the door, an' I just put 
 on my shoes an' coat an' things, an' ran down 
 stairs an' out of the hotel, an' nobody saw me." 
 
 "What 're y' runnin' away fur?" 
 
 " Papa frightens me so."
 
 TREASURE-TROVE 249 
 
 " Who is y'r papa ? What 's y'r name ? " 
 
 "Julie B. Joline," she said with quaint pre 
 cision. 
 
 Coe did not know the name. 
 
 " What does y'r papa do t' ye f " he asked. 
 
 " He gets crazy an' comes in an' hits me." 
 
 The farmer felt a blaze of indignation, and 
 the protective instinct rose within him. He 
 sat down on a roadside stone and took the little 
 girl on his knee. It was a strange and sweet 
 comfort to him to feel her trustful clinging. 
 
 " Tell me some more 'bout him," he urged. 
 
 But the child would tell very little. She 
 seemed apprehensive and thoroughly unnerved 
 at the mere mention of her father, and could 
 hardly be brought to talk of him. By dint of 
 questioning, Coe learned that they did not live 
 in Hingham, but were staying there at the Hing- 
 ham House for a time ; and that the man had 
 occasional violent fits of insanity or passion, 
 Coe could not quite ascertain which, when he 
 would lock himself, with shrewd promptness, 
 in his rooms, where he was secure from outside 
 observation, and would terrify his timid little 
 daughter with strange ravings. Often he 
 would even beat her. She showed Coe some 
 ugly wales on her arm. The child had made 
 previous but unsuccessful attempts to escape, 
 and to-night had stolen desperately out again, 
 speeding fearfully along the turnpike, with
 
 250 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 no guiding impulse save a growing and over 
 mastering fear. 
 
 The very bringing up of the matter distressed 
 the poor child the more, and she began to cry 
 convulsively. Coe wanted to ask again who 
 the father was, and what was his business, but 
 she was clearly in no state to answer. He 
 felt himself in a dilemma. It would be sheer 
 cruelty to return the little one to her parent, 
 at least in her present condition of excitement 
 and fright ; and he could think of no acquain 
 tances in Hingham to whom he could take her. 
 On the other hand, he was scarcely prepared to 
 kidnap or abduct her. Yet as he sat with his 
 arm around the child, trying lamely to reassure 
 her, that strange joy in her trustingness stole 
 again upon him. He knew nothing of the 
 father, but clearly the man was no fit parent. 
 A swift resolution came to him. 
 
 "Well, now," he said comfortingly and with 
 decision, "I '11 tell ye. You git up into th' 
 wagon 'long o' me, an' I '11 take ye t' my house 
 f r a while, anyway. 'T ain't much of a house, 
 an' I live all alone; but I 've got a daughter 
 thet '11 jest love t' come over an' look after 
 ye." 
 
 " Papa '11 hunt for me." 
 
 "Let him hunt," returned Grarrett, with a 
 grim chuckle. " He won't find ye f'r a while, 
 thet 's sure ; we '11 keep it secret. An' when he
 
 TEEASURE-TROVE 251 
 
 does, we '11 hev Lawyer Clark see ef he 's got th' 
 right t' take ye, seein' he treats ye like thet." 
 
 Coe had for the time resolutely put aside the, 
 to him, important questions of ways and means 
 of providing for this new charge. His heart 
 was strongly stirred. The child was tired out 
 with the excitement of her escape and the long 
 walk. As he lifted her up and swung her gen 
 tly into the wagon, he felt a tender, defiant 
 sense of proprietorship in his "find," and an 
 impulse to hold her against all the world. He 
 had so little, now. She fell asleep on his 
 shoulder as he drove on. He determined not 
 even to question her further for the next few 
 days, but to give her little mind a chance to 
 rest from its terrors and feed itself on new 
 scenes and thoughts. 
 
 When he at last unlocked the door of his 
 dark, still house, it was with the feeling that a 
 ray of light and life had unexpectedly entered 
 it again.
 
 XVII 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 
 
 THE Friday evening of the advertised per 
 formance had come. For two days, the 
 multicolored posters had adorned the Felton 
 barn-sides, and a generous pile of hand-bills 
 with fuller particulars had been distributed 
 among Felton homes and scattered about on 
 the store counters. Tom Secor had attended 
 to all this, and in addition had made the 
 arrangements for the hall, and had seen to the 
 lighting and seating, and the few local proper 
 ties required by the professor's instructions. 
 Coe had taken him freely into the secret, going 
 down to his shop, quietly and unobserved, on 
 the evening following the return from Hing- 
 ham. The carpenter agreed to act as the pres 
 tidigitator's assistant behind the scenes, Coe 
 giving him directions about fitting in the door 
 and partition at the back of the stage for the 
 final trick, and explaining how it was done. 
 
 Little Julie had made herself instantly and 
 confidingly at home in her new surroundings. 
 
 252
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 253 
 
 'Vinie, who came over daily now, and who in 
 deed would have come home to stay if her 
 father had not opposed it on her own account, 
 was immeasurably astonished to see the new 
 comer, on the morning after Coe's return from 
 his trip. She took the child at once into her 
 affections, and fitted her out delightedly from 
 her own small wardrobe. Coe told her all he 
 knew of the circumstances of the escape. 'Vinie 
 was rather aghast at first, but the spirit of ad 
 venture took possession of her as it had taken 
 possession of her father, and they agreed that 
 for a while at least the child should be held 
 against all comers, and the whole occurrence 
 kept a secret, the Wheelers alone being told 
 of it. They also agreed that it was wise not 
 to harass Julie with further questions at pres 
 ent. She visibly shrank from the topic, and 
 was happy only when able to forget it. G-ar- 
 rett felt that he had learned enough to warrant 
 him in the course he was pursuing, and if not, 
 he did not very much care, saying to himself 
 determinedly that he would pursue it anyway. 
 There came no rumor from Hingham, 
 through the stage-driver or otherwise, of a 
 lost child. Whoever the father was, he was 
 keeping quiet. Probably he had been through 
 this experience before, and not being greatly 
 worried, found it better to bide his time and 
 carry on a still hunt than to raise a hue and
 
 254 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 cry and possibly bring out the facts regarding 
 his abuse of the child and his own condition 
 of mind. At all events, Julie remained unmo 
 lested, and she developed a quick and demon 
 strative affection toward her new protector. 
 
 The latter's indignation over the child's ill- 
 treatment waxed rather than waned, as he saw 
 how she blossomed out in this change of atmo 
 sphere. He felt a growing willingness to defy 
 her father openly, if the latter should turn up, 
 and less and less concern as to guarding the 
 secret of her whereabouts so sedulously. 
 
 Garrett Coe's full name, as the central figure 
 in the finale of the approaching exhibition, had 
 of course been conspicuously blazoned forth by 
 the posters, and the news had speedily spread 
 among the more distant farms. The professor 
 had reckoned more shrewdly than he knew. 
 Everywhere the surprise and interest were im 
 mense, and many a family that ordinarily 
 might not have thought of coming to the per 
 formance, promptly determined to do so. In 
 fact, there were few, whether or not able to 
 afford it, who would willingly stay away. Pub 
 lic opinion had much softened toward Coe ; but 
 there were still many who were prepared to hiss 
 him, as against those who would applaud. 
 
 'Vinie and the Wheelers, the only persons 
 with whom he came in contact in the interval, 
 were of course astonished when he told them
 
 THE CATASTEOPHE 255 
 
 of his agreement, as he made a point of doing 
 before the bills came out. He gave his reason ; 
 and while the three felt a little dismay at the 
 idea, they rather welcomed anything which 
 would take him once more among his fellow- 
 men, and they offered but slight remonstrance. 
 
 On the evening announced, Coe, with 'Vinie 
 and his newly adopted charge, had just finished 
 supper in the kitchen, when there was the 
 sound of wheels, and a minute afterward some 
 one came around the side of the house, and a 
 knock was heard at the door. 'Vinie had come 
 over from the Wheelers' for the meal, bringing 
 with her a delicious loaf of fresh white bread, 
 a pat of new-made butter, and a generous con 
 tribution of mutton-chops, which she broiled 
 with artistic finish, Her father relished the 
 meal almost as much as he had relished the one 
 at the Central Hotel in Hingham. At the knock 
 all started. 'Vinie discreetly hurried Julie out 
 of the room, and Garrett, after a moment's 
 pause, unwillingly opened the door. The visi 
 tor proved to be Monsieur Franco himself. 
 
 "Hullo," said Coe, admitting him rather 
 ungraciously. " I thought y' said y' was comin' 
 over a little later an' was goin' t' drive right t' 
 th' hall. How 'd y' know y'r way up here?" 
 
 "Oh, I knew ze way, zat is," explained the 
 professor, " ze driver he find ze way. I sought 
 better I come here first and see from you eef
 
 256 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 all is right. I haf had supper," he hastened to 
 add, with a glance at the scanty remaining 
 fragments on the table. 
 
 " Oh, everythin' 's all right," answered Coe. 
 " It 's all fixed jest as you wanted, an' I don't 
 see why it should n't go off all straight. We '11 
 drive down t' th' hall right now, ef y' say so, 
 an' look things over." 
 
 "You haf cheeldren, eh!" asked the new 
 comer, his restless black eyes noting the three 
 chairs around the table and a child's frock lying 
 on another across the room. "You said you 
 lived alone, is it not 1 " 
 
 "I do live alone; or rather I did. My 
 daughter lives near, and she comes in once in 
 a while." 
 
 " And zis is your daughter's ? " asked Franco, 
 with satire, going over to the distant chair and 
 picking up the frock. 
 
 "No, it is n't," said Coe, bluntly. "Thet 
 belongs t' a child I found runnin' away fr'm 
 Hinghain, an' I don't keer who knows it." 
 
 " I did not know a child vas run away from 
 Hingham." 
 
 "Well, there was, th' night I was drivin' 
 back fr'm your show." Coe briefly detailed the 
 circumstances. " There 's no use makin' any 
 secret of it. I could n't keep her in hidin' all 
 her life. But her father '11 hev hard work 
 gittin' her back, I c'n tell ye."
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 257 
 
 " What is his name, eh ! " 
 
 " Joline, she said." 
 
 " I do not know ze name," said the professor, 
 musingly. 
 
 " He 's a brute, anyway. Think of his goin' 
 crazy, like she says, an' beatin' her ! I '11 hev 
 th' law on him ef he tries t' git her away fr'm 
 here, an' we '11 clap him in th' jail or th' asylum, 
 I don't keer which." 
 
 The Frenchman gave one of his shrugs, and 
 turned to another topic. 
 
 "Haf you secured a good asseestant ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Fust-rate, Tom Secor, th' taown carpenter. 
 Could n't be better. Door all made, pegs in, 
 bolt on, an' every thin', though I can't see 
 why y' wanted a bolt. I 've showed him his 
 part like a book." 
 
 " Good ! And ze takin' ze tickets ? " 
 
 " They 've been sellin' at Eeed & Kemble's. 
 Tom 's got Peter Merritt t' sell an' take at th' 
 door." 
 
 " He is honest, eh ? " 
 
 Coe laughed. "I reckon so. Folks don't 
 thieve much in these parts. They hev their 
 faults, but I guess stealin' ain't one of 'em." 
 
 The professor produced three more five- 
 dollar bills. 
 
 " Zis is for you," he said. " I am honest too, 
 eh?" 
 
 17
 
 258 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Looks so," returned the farmer, pocketing 
 the money. " "Well, now, s'pose we start down 
 right away, an' give ye half an hour or so at 
 th' hall t' make sure every thin' 's all right." 
 
 " Zat is good. Wait." 
 
 The professor went out to his conveyance 
 and returned with a bundle. 
 
 "Here is ze coat and pants and gloves you 
 weel wear," he said. " Zey weel fit quite well. 
 You weel put on ze coat and pants now, eh 1 " 
 
 "All right," assented Coe, and he took the 
 bundle and went up-stairs to put the garments 
 on. His boots he had already blacked, and 
 when he had donned a clean shirt with turn 
 down collar and black tie and had put on the 
 black frock-coat and dark trousers, he felt quite 
 oppressively dressed up as he appeared before 
 the admiring 'Vinie. 'Vinie was to take Julie 
 over to the Wheelers', where the child would be 
 left in charge of their help for the evening. 
 Bruce, who was a little older, was to go with 
 the rest to the entertainment. Coe went down 
 stairs again, after they had exchanged a few 
 words about the evening, and found the pro 
 fessor just reenteringthe kitchen from out-doors 
 with a dipper of drinking water in his hand. 
 
 " I had much thirst," the visitor gracefully 
 explained, "and zere was no water left on ze 
 table, so I go out and help myself from ze 
 bucket at ze well."
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 259 
 
 " I 'm glad y' knew th' way," responded the 
 farmer. " It 's good water I 've allers bed here. 
 Now, ef y' 're ready, we '11 go." 
 
 He took his old wide-brimmed black felt hat, 
 and the two left the house and went out to the 
 buggy waiting in the road. There was a driver 
 from Hingham, and the floor and the rear of 
 the box were taken up with various bundles 
 and packages containing the conjurer's prop 
 erties. The two men squeezed into the seat 
 beside the driver, and they all drove down to the 
 hall, where they found Secor, and where there 
 proved to be plenty to arrange and attend to 
 during the final half -hour. 
 
 Even before their arrival, the hall had begun 
 to fill. There were no reserved seats, and every 
 one sought to come early. Peter Merritt, sitting 
 importantly behind a table at the entrance door, 
 found himself steadily busied in taking or sell 
 ing tickets and giving change, and the deaf old 
 janitor soon discovered that the rows of benches 
 would be insufficient, and, with one or two vol 
 unteers, began to hurry in extra chairs from an 
 adjoining room. 
 
 The hall, of fair size, was not precisely 
 adapted for entertainment purposes, but it was 
 all that Felton possessed. There was scaffold 
 ing for a stage, which was put up on occasions 
 like the present. It was an unusually high 
 stage, and inconveniently inaccessible from the
 
 260 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 front, save by a small movable set of steps at 
 one end. As there were no flies, or points of 
 side entrance to the stage, most lecturers and 
 showmen were forced to ascend it by these 
 steps, either before or after the curtain was 
 drawn aside. Secor's construction of a rough 
 partition across the rear where the stage nar 
 rowed, and of a door cut through this, gave a 
 small space behind, where Coe and he might 
 remain out of sight till needed for the final 
 scene. 
 
 When the curtain was withdrawn and dis 
 closed to the audience the figure of the professor 
 standing before the candle footlights in irre 
 proachable black and white, it disclosed to him, 
 on the other hand, a house full to the remotest 
 corners, a dense row of " standees " filling the 
 space behind the seats. His eyes gleamed with 
 gratification, and the fingers of his thin, nervous 
 brown hands worked with manifest excitement 
 as he stood facing the silenced audience. In 
 deed, almost the entire population of the town 
 was before him. Lawyer Clark and his wife 
 were there; so were the Bradburys, even 
 Nathan himself, who went out so little nowa 
 days; Mr. Pickering and his daughter Mattie 
 had prominent seats; and there were also 
 there the Kembles, the Sayres, the Reeds, the 
 Leavitts, Miss Jewett and Ann, Miss Lorinda 
 Park, the Wheelers, of course, with 'Vinie and
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 261 
 
 Bruce ; and Burt Way in another part of the 
 hall, his glances continually drawn toward 
 'Vinie, despite his determination to look the 
 other way. Even Tom Henry and Sneezer 
 Watkins and their families were present, Tom 
 having recovered from the accident of his 
 broken leg, and Sneezer having had an extra 
 windfall of a dollar or two by some recent 
 profitable odd job. It was emphatically a pay 
 ing house, and Franco had abundant incitement 
 to meet and if possible to surpass its expecta 
 tions. 
 
 His dark eyes flashed here and there along 
 the rows of faces before him, as, with much 
 empressement and with a certain nervous tension, 
 he made a step forward and delivered his volu 
 ble introductory harangue. 
 
 The legerdemain and juggling proved even 
 more brilliant than at the exhibition at Hing- 
 ham. Franco seemed to be on his mettle. His 
 feats went off with marvelous elan, and the 
 hand-clapping and foot-pounding were fre 
 quent. The hall became close and hot, but the 
 audience little noticed this as they leaned 
 intently forward, genuinely absorbed in the 
 performance. The Frenchman himself grew 
 quicker and quicker in his motions. He strode 
 animatedly from one side of the stage to the 
 other, keeping up an impassioned monologue, 
 and gesticulating more and more dramatically
 
 262 OLD BO WEN'S LEGACY 
 
 with the introduction of each new and telling 
 illusion. When the curtain was finally closed, 
 as a preliminary to the last and crowning 
 act, Felton was enthusiastic; while Coe, com 
 ing through the rear partition door upon the 
 stage to arrange for the ensuing scene, found 
 the conjurer panting heavily, bathed in per 
 spiration, and worked up to a high pitch of 
 stage triumph and excitement. He waved Coe 
 off for the moment with a curiously fierce and 
 almost vindictive look, his eyes glittering 
 strangely. Coe wondered rather scornfully at 
 this agitation over what was to the performer 
 but one of many country exhibitions. The 
 Frenchman recovered himself instantly, how 
 ever, as Secor too came out, and the three pro 
 ceeded to arrange the properties for the coming 
 climax. The lay figure was in readiness at the 
 rear, bound to a duplicate door. When all was 
 prepared, Garrett Coe, hastily pulling on the 
 dark-brown gloves which matched the figure's, 
 slipped outside by a window at the rear of the 
 stage, and hurried around to the front, where 
 he entered quietly behind the throng of stan 
 dees. 
 
 Once more the curtain was withdrawn, and 
 Franco, still visibly excited, explained what he 
 was about to do. When he ended, and, an 
 nouncing the name of Garrett Coe as the one 
 who was to be vivisected, called on the latter
 
 THE CATASTEOPHE 263 
 
 to appear, the interest and excitement in the 
 hall leaped to a high pitch. There was a simul 
 taneous movement of heads and craning of 
 necks, and many who were sitting stood up for 
 a better view, as Coe quietly forced his way 
 through those standing at the back and 
 marched up the aisle in the center. His face 
 was pale, and he himself had caught something 
 of the pervading spirit of excitement, and trem 
 bled just a little with a touch of stage-fright. 
 It was scarcely to be wondered at, for this con 
 spicuous appearance could not but be intensely 
 trying to him. The marks of his winter's ill 
 ness and hard work were upon his face, besides, 
 and a low murmur of surprise and almost com 
 passion ran through the hall as he made his 
 way toward the footlights, and turning to the 
 left, ascended the stage by the small, movable 
 set of steps. 
 
 " Now, genteelmen," called out the professor, 
 in brisk, electric tones, " weel two of you please 
 also to step up to ze stage and asseest me to 
 bind Monsieur G-arrett Coe securely wis ze 
 rope ? " 
 
 Walt Hopkins and Cheever Hayes sprang 
 promptly forward and ascended the steps to 
 the platform. The professor produced a length 
 of clothes-line; Coe took his position with his 
 back to the closed door in the partition at the 
 rear of the stage, and the two volunteers pro-
 
 264 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 ceeded, after a word of greeting to the farmer, to 
 bind him securely to the pegs fixed for the 
 purpose in the door. 
 
 "As tight as you like," admonished Mon 
 sieur Franco. "Zere is no deception about 
 zis." 
 
 The binding was faithfully and thoroughly 
 done, and Coe stood pinioned, gloved hand and 
 booted foot. He returned unflinchingly the 
 gaze of the myriad eyes bent upon him. 
 
 " Step down, please," said the professor 
 abruptly to the two helpers. They obeyed 
 rather surprisedly, having expected to remain 
 on the stage as close witnesses. Coe himself 
 was slightly surprised, remembering that the 
 witnesses at the performance in Hingham had 
 remained. 
 
 Franco reached down and lifted up the short, 
 movable set of steps, placing it upon the stage. 
 He then stepped to Coe's door, as if to inspect 
 his bonds, and conspicuously fastened the door 
 with the bolt. The audience noted this with 
 approval, but Coe wondered at it as seeming to 
 defeat the accomplishment of the trick. Still 
 with quick steps, the Frenchman moved to a 
 side-table and took up his formidable, sharp- 
 pointed carving-knife, and also another small 
 object, which he pocketed. As he advanced to 
 the front of the stage, the knife trembled a 
 little in his clasp, and the spectators were
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 265 
 
 momentarily startled at his realistically san 
 guinary expression. 
 
 " Ladies and genteelmen ! " he said loudly. 
 " In zis little tragedy, you are to imagine zat zis 
 man is my enemy. For zat reason, I cut him, 
 zen I am perhaps sorry and restore him. You 
 are to imagine zat I haf long hated zis man ; 
 zat I worked for him on ze farm last summer, 
 at a time when I was out of luck and when my 
 stage property was held for debt in Rutland. 
 I had not zese w'iskers zen. He kicked me off 
 ze farm, kicked me, you understand, eh? 
 me, a Frangais, well born and proud, and 
 insulted me." The audience enjoyed the 
 dramatic little tale, but Coe felt a sudden 
 vague start of fear as he realized that the ges 
 ticulating professor was narrating fact. Franco 
 spoke rapidly on : 
 
 " I swore to haf revenge. I was coming here 
 zis week, when I meet him in Hingham, and 
 know him, and haste to plan zis spectacle. I 
 hate him, you understand! My honor must 
 haf sateesfaction." The man's earnestness was 
 very real, and the listeners were vastly pleased. 
 Coe could utter no word. " Eet was enough to 
 wound him. Zat I was going to do. I care 
 nossing for ze consequences. Is eet not honor ? " 
 His voice rose higher. " But I come to hees 
 house zis night, and I find he haf stolen my 
 little girl, Joline is my name, Franco ze stage
 
 266 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 name, and he taunt me wis cruelty, and say 
 he weel not ever gif her up, and I know he 
 weel not, and he rob me of my child ! " 
 
 The knife waved in the air. 
 
 "And for ze one sing, ze kick, I wound 
 him." 
 
 " Help ! " cried Coe, suddenly. 
 
 " And for ze ozzer, I kill him ! " 
 
 There was a swift thrill of panic in the audi 
 ence. They did not realize even yet that this 
 was not all part of the exhibition, but some 
 thing in the orator's raving eye, his now hot 
 and frenzied utterance, genuinely alarmed 
 them. Several men rose to their feet. Coe 
 struggled violently to get an arm loose, and 
 instinctively shouted again. Tom Secor at the 
 rear heard him and tried to wrench open the 
 door, but the bolt and hinges held securely. 
 
 " Stand back ! " yelled the mad Frenchman, 
 brandishing his savage blade with the left 
 hand, and with the right whipping out from 
 his pocket a gleaming revolver. "Eef any of 
 you climb up here, I shoot. I am going to kill 
 zis brute, Garrett Coe, wis ze knife, before you 
 all, as I haf advertised. But I shall not bring 
 him to life again ! " 
 
 There was a rush for the high stage. Men 
 swarmed at it from all directions. Far at the 
 rear of the hall a woman's shriek rose above all 
 the other noise in the room. The Frenchman,
 
 THE CATASTEOPHE 267 
 
 now clearly beside himself with passionate 
 frenzy, discharged his revolver, though without 
 effect. Then, before the rescuers could strug 
 gle to a footing on the platform or the desper 
 ate wrenches of the carpenter behind the door 
 could loosen its fastenings, Franco had leaped 
 back to his bound victim, and with his left hand 
 he drove the long, keen knife deep into Coe's 
 shoulder, the blood spurting forth at the act. 
 
 The uproar was indescribable. Men were 
 shouting, and women cried out hysterically. 
 The madman had no time for a second blow, 
 for the rescuers were upon him, and he was 
 borne down by a dozen iron hands, while men 
 cut and tore loose Coe's bonds and caught his 
 insensible form as it fell released. 
 
 But penetrating through all other sounds 
 rose again a distracted shriek at the rear of 
 the hall, and a woman was seen wildly forcing 
 her way forward through the throng. She had 
 dashed off a veil she had worn, and at sight of 
 her face, all, even the most excited, instinc 
 tively made way. It was Mrs. Coe. 
 
 Few in Felton ever forgot that thrilling 
 night. The Frenchman, still yelling impreca 
 tions and now frothing at the mouth, was sav 
 agely bound with stout pieces of the clothes 
 line; while Mrs. Coe, swiftly assisted toward 
 the stage and then bodily lifted upon it, was on 
 her knees at her unconscious husband's side
 
 268 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 and seeking desperately to staunch the flow of 
 blood. 'Viriie had sprung toward the stage 
 even before her, and the two met once more 
 face to face over the man's prostrate body. 
 
 The village doctor was also prompt to reach 
 the stage. The stab was in the left shoulder, 
 and though deep and dangerous, he pronounced 
 it not necessarily fatal. He soon had the flow 
 of blood arrested, and temporarily bandaged 
 the wound. The door was lifted from its 
 hinges to serve as a stretcher. The Clarks, 
 who lived near the hall, urged that Cpe be 
 carried to their home; and many others, in 
 cluding the Wheelers, likewise offered their 
 houses. But Mrs. Coe, who little knew the 
 reduced resources of her old home, pleaded for 
 the doctor's consent to his being taken directly 
 there, and finally won her point. Preparations 
 being made, the litter was raised and carried 
 off by willing and tender hands, while Mrs. Coe 
 and 'Vinie, with the scared Bruce, were accom 
 panied by many of their friends as they followed 
 after it. The town seemed then and there to 
 take the stricken family to its heart once more 
 and unreservedly, a public rarely doing things 
 by halves. The Wheelers furtively slipped 
 around to their own house on the way to the 
 Goes', and hurried after the party later with a 
 basket of supplies which they wisely guessed 
 might be needed in the depleted larder.
 
 THE CATASTROPHE 269 
 
 Those remaining in the hall deliberated over 
 their prisoner. But while they stood over him, 
 watching his vindictive grimaces and listening 
 to his incoherent and violent raving, a sudden 
 change came upon him. His face flamed a 
 fierce purple; his eyes, coal-black and glaring, 
 seemed as though about to start from their 
 sockets; his voice gave way; he made a con 
 vulsive movement to rise, and fell stiffly back. 
 
 The doctor, who had gone with Coe, was 
 instantly sent for, and came hurrying in again. 
 
 " Dead," he said curtly, after examining the 
 body. " Apoplectic fit. No wonder ! A good 
 riddance too, I should say."
 
 XVIII 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 
 
 FOE the next few days Garrett Coe knew 
 very little of what was passing around 
 him. In his physically weakened state, the 
 wound proved even more serious than would 
 otherwise have been the case, and the inflam 
 mation was complicated with a low fever which 
 kept his vital powers feeble. During his inter 
 vals of consciousness, he lay very still on his 
 pillow, asking no questions, seeking no informa 
 tion ; and whether his mind at these periods 
 was silently but still steadily revolving its 
 thoughts, or whether it had for the time ceased 
 to do this, it was impossible to tell. 
 
 His wife watched over him with unflagging 
 care, and there was no lack of warm-hearted 
 volunteers to aid her. The pantry was kept mys 
 teriously supplied, and Mrs. Coe, her thoughts 
 and attention all centered upon the bedside, 
 little noted the circumstance. 'Vinie prepared 
 the meals, helped by generous-hearted Belle 
 Sayre. On the eighth day, the gruff doctor 
 
 270
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 271 
 
 gave a more satisfied nod as he drove off, while 
 Garrett began to feel a salutary restlessness 
 and a desire to ask questions. 
 
 As he turned his face on the pillow to observe 
 his wife, who sat near and had taken up some 
 sewing, he gave a deep, racking cough, as he 
 had so often done of late. She came quickly 
 nearer. 
 
 "How 'd you git there thet night, Sally?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Coe put her thin, worn hand caressingly 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 " I heared durin' th' week through Walt Hop 
 kins 'bout th' performance, an' it sounded so 
 queer, I jest felt I hed t' see it an' you. Walt 
 said he 'd drive me over fr'm Wes'bury Friday 
 afternoon, an' he 'd fix it f'r me t' stay all night 
 at th' Sayres', an' drive me back nex' mornin' ; 
 an' there need n't many know anythin' 'bout it." 
 
 " An' y' was n't even goin' t' tell me 1 " 
 
 "No, I was n't," she said determinedly. 
 " But oh, Garrett ! when I saw thet dreadful 
 man fust come out on th' stage, an' heared his 
 voice, I jest felt somethin' was goin' t' happen." 
 
 " I did n't know his voice." 
 
 " I did ; though I could n't seem t' place it." 
 
 "What 's b'come o' th' fellow?" 
 
 Mrs. Coe told him. He lay still for a few 
 minutes, greatly impressed. 
 
 "He wa' n't responsible," he said. "He 'd
 
 272 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 worked himself up till he was jest ravin' crazy, 
 I c'n see now. An' I don't say thet he did n't 
 owe me consider'ble f'r thet kick an' all, any 
 way. I guess I got off as well 's I d'serve." 
 
 The Frenchman's other and greater cause of 
 animosity came, at this, into his mind. 
 
 "Where 's th' little girl?" he asked, strug 
 gling with another cough. 
 
 " She 's here in th' house, an' wantin' every 
 day t' see ye," his wife reassured him. " She 
 don' know anythin' o' what 's happened." 
 
 " We 've got t' keep her," he said positively. 
 
 His wife did not answer directly. It was a 
 problem that had been troubling her. She too 
 had been led captive by the little waif, yet felt 
 how ill prepared they were to undertake her 
 adoption. 
 
 "Y' must n't talk any more now, Grarrett 
 dear," she said. "A little at a time only, th' 
 doctor said." 
 
 He turned away obediently, and soon dozed 
 off again. 
 
 In the afternoon, when he again began to 
 look about restlessly, he found Mr. Clark in the 
 room conversing with Mrs. Coe. The lawyer 
 returned his greeting with unreserved and 
 almost wistful friendliness. 
 
 " Grarrett," he said, after they had talked for 
 a few moments, "I owe it to you, and the 
 quicker the better, to take back anything I may
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 273 
 
 have thought about that fire ; and every one else 
 wants to say the same thing." 
 
 "What fire?" 
 
 " Why, Seed & Remble's." 
 
 "What 'bout it!" 
 
 The lawyer was a trifle nonplussed. 
 
 " Thinking you you might 've had some 
 thing to do with it, and all that, you know," he 
 explained lamely. 
 
 "Me?" ejaculated Coe, with a quick, remi 
 niscent flash of his old hostile tone. "Who 
 ever said I hed anythin' t' do with it?" 
 
 " Why, did n't you even know people thought 
 so ? " uttered the lawyer, in astonishment. 
 
 " How sh'd I know sech a thing ? I ain't 
 hardly stirred out o' this door sence it hap 
 pened. An ? you mean thet folks 've been 
 thin kin' thet I " He paused, overcome with 
 the idea. " Well, I did n't, Mr. Clark," he added 
 more quietly. 
 
 "No; that 's all known now," the other as 
 sured him, almost sorry that he had raised the 
 topic. 
 
 " Well, now I want t' know who did do it," 
 persisted the sick man, his thoughts engrossed 
 with this new subject. 
 
 "Oh, I would n't mind about it at present," 
 the lawyer said evasively, willing to shift the 
 discussion. 
 
 "I do mind," returned Coe, though not 
 
 18
 
 274 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 ungently. "I never dreamt I was mixed up 
 with it. Who did it, then ! " 
 
 Mr. Clark looked appealingly at Mrs. Coe. 
 
 " Why, dear," she said, " it 's all over now, 
 an' I 've told people how I found it out ; but " 
 
 "You found it out?" 
 
 " Only jest on th' very mornin' b'fore I druv 
 over here. 'T was Garrie ! " 
 
 "Garrie?" 
 
 " Yes. He seemed dreadful frightened when 
 I told him I was comin' over t' Felton ag'in. 
 In fact, he 's acted queer all winter. An' b'fore 
 I started, it all came out." 
 
 Coe lay amazed, grappling with the informa 
 tion. 
 
 " 'T was an accident, o' course. He 'd been 
 whittlin' down there in th' alley, thet afternoon, 
 with some other boys." 
 
 Coe nodded. 
 
 "I remember," he said. "He 'd used my 
 knife, an' he lost it there, an' I went down late 
 in th' evenin' t' try an' find it." 
 
 " Well, it seems they 'd started a little bonfire 
 there, an' by an' by they heared Mr. Reed's 
 voice 'bout somethin', 'round at th' rear door, 
 an' th' other boys ran, an' Garrie he jest poked 
 th' burnin' shavin's down th' store cellar win 
 dow an' ran too." 
 
 " They must have fallen on some waste or 
 something, you see," said Mr. Clark, taking up
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 275 
 
 the narration, " and this smoldered away till it 
 blazed up in the evening. You must have been 
 down there just before the fire broke out." 
 
 The wounded man took it all in slowly. 
 
 "An' they thought I did it?" he said at 
 length, with another little cough, which gave a 
 twinge of pain to the bandaged shoulder. 
 
 "Well, yes, most did," reluctantly admitted 
 Mr. Clark, adding quite humbly : " We 've done 
 you an injustice, Garrett; and I guess every 
 one 's feeling kind of sorry about it. I am, for 
 one." 
 
 "Y' need n't, Mr. Clark," answered Coe, 
 heartily. "Nobody need. I guess p'r'aps 
 they 've hed reason fr'm other things. Only 
 I 'm glad I did n't know of it, all these months. 
 I 've hed enough, as it is." 
 
 He said it simply and without appeal, but his 
 wife leaned over him and buried her face on 
 the pillow, while Mr. Clark experienced an odd 
 thrill of feeling. 
 
 " Where is Garrie 1 ".queried Coe 
 
 " I 've kep' th' boys out, most o' th' time," 
 Mrs. Coe replied, raising her head but still 
 standing bending over him. "He 's 'round, 
 though. Walt brought him over nex' day. 
 An' y' don' know how relieved an' lively he 's 
 been, an' how he 's picked up this week, sence 
 he got thet thing off his mind. He knew 't was 
 th' shavin's thet did it, th' minute th' fire hap-
 
 276 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 pened. He 's worried 'bout you, of course, but 
 tellin' tli' other 's done him jest a heap o' good. 
 I could n't guess what 's been in him all th' 
 winter." 
 
 "OP Eeed know it now?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Clark. " He is n't going to 
 do anything. He probably 'd have more diffi 
 culty than inducement. Insurance company, 
 the same. It was half an accident, you see. 
 And " He glanced around. 
 
 "An' they would n't git much on damages 
 here I " finished Coe. 
 
 " Well, no. Anyway, the matter 's dropped." 
 
 "We got somethin' else t' tell ye, Garrett," 
 went on Mrs. Coe, eagerly, as she resumed her 
 seat, "thet is, ef y' feel like hearin' things 
 now." 
 
 "Jest like it," assented her husband, with 
 interest. " I 'm feelin' fine. What is it I " 
 
 " Whoever d' y' s'pose thet Frenchman was ? " 
 
 " I don' know." 
 
 "An' little Julie!" 
 
 " Not th' least idee." 
 
 "What 'd she tell ye was her name? She 
 told me." 
 
 "Joline, she said. Julie B. Joline. I re 
 member th' 'B.'" 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Coe, triumphantly, "thet 
 'B' stan's f'r Bo wen." 
 
 "Bowen?" ejaculated Coe.
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 277 
 
 " Yes, Bowen. An' she 's ol' Sim Bowen's 
 own grandniece." 
 
 " Th' dickens she is ! " cried Garrett, astounded 
 at this new disclosure. 
 
 "Lawyer Clark, here, found it out. He 's 
 been makin' inquiries, y' know." 
 
 " Mr. Bowen once had a married sister living 
 out in New York State, somewheres near Water- 
 town," explained the lawyer. "I knew that 
 long ago. She died ; and I remember his telling 
 me that her only daughter ran off and got 
 married to some foreigner. He never knew 
 anything more, except that she died too ; but it 
 turns out that this French conjurer was her 
 husband, and that she died in giving birth to a 
 little girl. I don't believe the Frenchman ever 
 knew there was such an uncle in existence, and 
 old Bowen, on his part, probably did n't even 
 know the man's name." 
 
 There was a good deal in all this for the 
 invalid to digest, and he lay in absorbed silence 
 for some time. 
 
 " How 'd y' find it out ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, I had to trace up the dead man's 
 belongings, over at the Hingham House, and " 
 
 "He was at th' Central Hotel. Leastways, 
 thet was where we hed supper, one night." 
 
 " "Well, he was n't staying there. He was at 
 the Hingham. And his papers and things 
 finally put me on the track, and I 've since
 
 278 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 written out to Watertown and had a reply. 
 It 's all so." 
 
 " An' little Julie is" 
 
 "Little Julie is old Bowen's only remaining 
 kith or kin." 
 
 There was another interval of quiet. 
 
 "I wish she was mine," said Coe; and the 
 tremor in his voice betrayed how strongly he 
 had become attached to the child in the three 
 or four days following her finding. She had 
 come to him when he was loneliest and in sorest 
 need of human love, and his starved heart had 
 devoured her. His eyes after a minute sought 
 his wife's. 
 
 " I 've got plenty t' keer fur," he said. " An' 
 I find I keer f'r 'em more than I knew I did. 
 Only they '11 hev t' keer fr me now, in th' 
 other sense." He coughed a little, and again 
 the pain in his shoulder caught him. " I '11 
 never be good f'r work any more, most likely." 
 
 Mrs. Coe turned away a moment, but the 
 lawyer said cheerfully : 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will, Garrett. The doctor says 
 he '11 have you around again in a couple of 
 months." He made no reference to other things 
 the doctor had said. 
 
 "Y' can't farm much with one arm," said 
 Coe, with a weary little smile ; " partic'larly 
 when there ain't anythin' o' the farm left but 
 loose rocks an' a mortgage."
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 279 
 
 " There, now, Garrett," interposed his wife. 
 " Don't you think o' sech things. We '11 live 
 somehow. Y' 've talked enough now, hain't 
 he, Mr. Clark I" 
 
 " Perhaps I 've talked too much with him," 
 said the latter, with compunction. " He seemed 
 to want to hear things so." 
 
 " Course I do," returned Coe, gratefully. " I 
 ain't tired th' least bit." 
 
 " Well, you turn over now, anyway," said the 
 lawyer ; and he took his leave, while Mrs. Coe 
 arranged the pillow and made the sick man 
 comfortable, proceeding afterward to lay out 
 new bandages and a basin for warm water 
 pending the doctor's approaching call. 
 
 The invalid gained gradually during the next 
 few days, and was soon enabled to sit up a 
 little. The wound was healing fairly well, 
 though the left arm seemed likely to be per 
 manently disabled. The cough, however, was 
 giving the doctor no little concern. Coe's con 
 stitution had in truth suffered severely during 
 the winter, and his emaciated form and hollow 
 features presented a striking and saddening 
 contrast to his former appearance. Mrs. Coe 
 hung over him ceaselessly and remorsefully, 
 blaming herself with merciless exaggeration for 
 all his sufferings, and filled with unresting 
 solicitude. 'Vinie and the boys and little Julie 
 now came in and out freely. As Coe became
 
 280 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 able to see people, there were people in plenty 
 to see. Every one wanted to greet him once 
 more, and grasp his thin hand, and bury old 
 scores. The facts about the fire had now 
 become well known, and all felt a vague, rue 
 ful desire to do justice for their unfounded 
 suspicions and atone in some degree by a new 
 friendliness. And of course the dramatic 
 events of the evening of the performance had 
 broken down all barriers of reserve, and the 
 previously accumulating sympathy for his 
 recent ill fortunes had burst forth in a tor 
 rent. 
 
 The sensation over the disclosure of little 
 Julie's existence and relationship was great, 
 and the child came in for no small amount of 
 attention and petting from the visitors who 
 daily came to the house. But their chief in 
 terest centered about Coe. The latter's wife 
 had come to know the true state of the larder, 
 and to realize the condition of financial affairs ; 
 but the neighbors laughed good-humoredly 
 at her remonstrances, and few came to the 
 house without slipping into the kitchen and 
 leaving a small parcel or larger basket upon 
 the table. Mrs. Coe was sorely troubled over 
 this dependence, necessitated as it was for the 
 present; and though she said nothing to her 
 husband about the matter, he guessed the 
 facts more and more clearly, and the resulting
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 281 
 
 worry did not brighten his eyes nor round out 
 his sunken cheeks. 
 
 " Where 's 'Vinie this afternoon ? " Coe asked, 
 one sunshiny April day. 
 
 "She 's gone out t' walk," said his wife, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "Alone!" 
 
 "N-no, not exac'ly." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 Mrs. Coe looked cornered. 
 
 "With with Burt Way," she plumped out 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " Burt ! Why, they broke off long ago." 
 
 " Yes." Mrs. Coe's reluctance to speak 
 melted into a contented little laugh. "But I 
 guess they 're mendin' things ag'in." 
 
 " I want t' know ! " 
 
 " I 've kind o' seen it comin' on, fr'm watchin' 
 'Vinie a little. But I was n't goin' t' tell ye 
 till 't was reelly done an' settled." 
 
 " Oh, y' can't keep things fr'm me, I tell ye," 
 Coe said, with childish pride. " I hev my eyes 
 open." 
 
 She did not attempt to dispel this fatuous 
 but mild delusion. 
 
 " Burt 's jest as good as gold," she said, " an' 
 as strong an' true as he is good. I guess 'Vinie 
 rather mis j edged him awhile back, an' she 's 
 been watchin' him lately an' kind o' f eelin' surer 
 what fine stuff he 's made of."
 
 282 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 " Has she said anythin' t' you 1 " 
 
 " She told me, fust off, all 'bout th' thing bein' 
 broken off. Of course I knew it b'fore, fr'm 
 one of her letters this winter. Thet 's all she 's 
 said." 
 
 "An' now she 's gone off f 'r a walk with him ? " 
 
 " Yes. Jest a little while ago." 
 
 He leaned back in his rocker and revolved 
 the news with satisfaction for 'Vinie. 
 
 "Then we '11 need Julie all th' more, ma!" 
 he said, almost pleadingly. 
 
 Mrs. Coe did not reply, fearing yet to voice 
 her accumulating misgivings as to future ways 
 and means for providing even for the remain 
 ing ones of their own little family circle. Coe 
 with his right hand restlessly adjusted his 
 helpless left arm more comfortably on the cush 
 ioned chair-arm. 
 
 " 'Vinie did n't once write me how sick you 
 was, Garrett, with thet cough an' all," said 
 his wife, presently. 
 
 " She did n't know, not till a few days b'fore 
 you came. An' then I told her not to." 
 
 There was silence again, broken soon by the 
 distant click of the front gate and the sound of 
 footsteps on the path. Visitors had fallen into 
 the way of entering without knocking, and Mrs. 
 Ode did not go to the door. She looked a little 
 surprised, however, when three men entered the 
 bare little sitting-room where husband and wife
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 283 
 
 had been talking. The three were Mr. Clark, 
 Mr. Bradbury, and Mr. Pickering, and their 
 hosts felt rather impressed at the simultaneous 
 arrival of three such prominent citizens. 
 
 Greetings were exchanged, and the new 
 comers sat down. 
 
 " Mrs. Coe," said Lawyer Clark, " I had a talk 
 with the doctor, the other day. He says your 
 husband won't be able to live in this climate 
 any more." 
 
 The wife was startled. She gave a quick, 
 distressed look at Garrett, dreading the effect 
 upon him of this bluntly put statement. 
 
 " But we can't go anywheres else," she pleaded 
 apprehensively. " I think Garrett '11 git all 
 right ag'in." 
 
 " Course I will," said Coe, more troubled for 
 his wife's discomposure than for himself. " I '11 
 be up an' out now soon, an' 'most as good as 
 ever." 
 
 " Did I hear you cough as we came in 1 " 
 
 "A leetle, mebbe. Not t' amount t' any- 
 thin'." 
 
 " The doctor says otherwise. He says you '11 
 get all right in a warm climate, but that you '11 
 have to live there. Says another winter here 'd 
 be impossible." 
 
 " Thet 's nonsense," said Coe, weakly, though 
 he realized that perhaps it was not. 
 
 " I 've got a brother down in southern Ken-
 
 284 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 tucky," pursued Mr. Clark. " He 's got a stock- 
 farm there. Peter Merritt 's going out next 
 month, by the way. Now I propose that you 
 all move down there and start fresh. There 's 
 a nice little place next my brother's for sale, he 
 writes me. And Peter '11 make a capital man 
 for you to have around." 
 
 Coe's eyes glistened. 
 
 " Gee, how I 'd like it ! " he uttered, with a 
 deep wistfulness. "Would n't you, ma? We 
 can't, of course ; but jest supposin'." 
 
 Mrs. Coe did not answer, but her eyes filled. 
 
 " Y' 've no idee," said Coe, " how I kind o' 
 dread gittin' 'round an' takin' up life ag'in here. 
 I 've made a pretty bad thing of it, somehow. 
 Th' house an' th' farm an' th' town 're all full o' 
 hard reminders. An' people 've been awful 
 good, but sometimes I feel as ef I wish I 
 did n't hev t' face 'em, y' know." 
 
 " I know," assented Mr. Clark. " Sometimes 
 a man reaches a point where he longs to change 
 his whole surroundings." 
 
 "Thet 's it," cried Coe. "Was it Kentucky 
 you said?" He gave a long, eager sigh. 
 " Sally, jest think o' th' blue-grass, an' th' sun 
 shine, an' th' thoroughbreds, an' th' th' " 
 
 " Whisky," suggested Mr. Bradbury, slyly. 
 
 " Yes, th' whisky, too ; an' th' new livin' an' 
 all." 
 
 " There, G-arrett," urged his wife, quietingly,
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 285 
 
 " what 's th' use o' thinkin' o' sech things ? We 
 can't, an' thet ends it." 
 
 " No, we can't, o' course," he agreed, his dream 
 collapsing. 
 
 "An' I don't think," said gentle Mrs. Coe, 
 almost indignantly, turning to Mr. Clark, " thet 
 it 's well even t' bring sech idees up, ef I c'n 
 say so." 
 
 Mr. Clark looked at Mr. Bradbury. Mr. 
 Bradbury looked at Mr. Pickering. 
 
 " The fact is, Mrs. Coe," said the latter, nerv 
 ing himself briskly for an announcement, 
 " that we think we see a way to bring the thing 
 to pass." 
 
 "How 's thet?" she demanded incredulously. 
 
 " We 've awarded you old Bowen's legacy." 
 
 Coe gasped, and his wife found herself upon 
 her feet with a great start. 
 
 "What- 's thet y' say?" she questioned 
 stupidly. 
 
 The quarry-owner repeated the fact clearly, 
 and the Goes stared at each other. 
 
 " It 's a fact, sure," put in Mr. Bradbury, 
 hugely relishing their astonishment. 
 
 Mr. Clark took up the word. 
 
 "We have full power to put that money 
 where we honestly think it '11 do the most 
 good," he said. " And we 've decided that this 
 is the place to put it, with Mrs. Coe, for the 
 Coe family. It 's make or break with you.
 
 286 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 We 're going to have it ' make.' It 's exactly 
 what Bowen would have liked." 
 
 " But," stammered Coe, " I ain't one t' d'serve 
 any sech " 
 
 "Ask the town," interrupted Mr. Pickering. 
 "Pretty nearly every one in it 's been at us, 
 ever since you 've been laid up, to do this very 
 identical thing." 
 
 " But he said l some one big thing,' did n't 
 he ? " the farmer remonstrated. 
 
 " If putting you right with life again is n't 
 big, what is I Mr. Reed 's welcome to the farm 
 and all there is on it. I hope he '11 find it 
 a good bargain." Mr. Pickering chuckled. 
 "There 's a nice new one down in Kentucky 
 waiting for you, and some money left over for 
 you to get Peter Merritt help you work it, and 
 to let you live in the sunshine, all of you." 
 
 Coe drew a long breath. " Y' don't all reelly 
 mean this, do ye ? " he asked incredulously. 
 
 "We certainly do," asseverated Mr. Pick 
 ering, very positively; and the others nodded 
 their heads. 
 
 " It '11 be th' makin' o' y'r little boys," remarked 
 Mr. Bradbury, " an' 'Vinie too, f'r thet matter," 
 he added, with pretended unconsciousness. 
 
 "Oh, as t' 'Vinie," said Coe, remembering 
 his wife's conjectures, "I don't much b'lieve 
 thet 'Vinie 'd go. She 's out walkin' with Burt 
 Way."
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 287 
 
 " Yes ; we saw 'em, up th' Henderson lane," 
 smiled the ex-deacon; "an' we rather guessed 
 likely there 'd be only five o' ye t' go." 
 
 " But I can't think all thet money 's meant 
 f r us," Mrs. Coe cried, still confused. 
 
 " There 's a good deal of justice in it, when 
 you think it over," observed Mr. Clark. " Simeon 
 Bowen shut his soul against the world, and his 
 soul shriveled up pretty small before he died. 
 Garrett Coe tried the same thing, but he found 
 out his mistake in time and it 's come out the 
 other way. If Bowen's uneasy ghost is linger 
 ing about here anywhere, it 's admiring Gar- 
 rett's result best, you can be sure." 
 
 There was a long conversation before the 
 farmer and his wife could be brought to believe 
 that this good fortune was actually theirs. 
 
 " Ef it 's reelly so, then there 's one thing I 
 sh'd want t' do," Mrs. Coe said. " I 'd want t' 
 reg'larly adopt little Julie, an' we 'd leave her 
 half th' property when we 're dead." 
 
 " Jest what flashed over me, too," put in Coe, 
 eagerly. "It 's only fair fr her t' hev some 
 good of her granduncle's money." 
 
 " Good ! " approved Mr. Clark, heartily. " We 
 knew you 'd do something like that, though 
 we could n't attach any conditions." 
 
 " Well, we jest would ! " said Mrs. Coe, with 
 positiveness. 
 
 "But why sh'd Felton do sech a thing fr
 
 288 OLD BOWEN'S LEGACY 
 
 me ? " Coe queried again. " I 've been down on 
 Felton people pretty stiddy." 
 
 " Well, they 've been down on you, and more 
 than you deserved in one respect anyway, and 
 very likely more than any man deserves. Any 
 how, they 're voting for it. I don't think that 's 
 influenced us any, as trustees, but it 's pleasant 
 to know they approve our decision." 
 
 "It 's a right one, too," affirmed Mr. Picker 
 ing, with business-like certitude, yet with a 
 manifest cordiality. 
 
 " Givin' a big lift jest at th' turnin'-p'int in 
 a man's hull life an' idees," Mr. Bradbury put 
 in. " Y' can't do better with money than thet." 
 
 There was a distant sound of footsteps in 
 unison. As they listened, puzzled, the tramp 
 ing came nearer. The gate was heard to click 
 open loudly. Mrs. Coe looked out, and beheld 
 an informal assemblage of Feltonians, chiefly 
 of the young people, but with a goodly sprin 
 kling of older faces among them. The news 
 that the three trustees had gone to the Goes' to 
 declare their decision had crept swiftly about, 
 and there had been an impulsive collecting of 
 every one within reach in town who could be 
 spared, for an impromptu march up to the 
 farmer's to clamor their indorsement of the 
 award and congratulate the recipients. 
 
 Garrett Coe, pale and disconcerted, yet full 
 of gladness, was helped to his feet, and appeared
 
 "A HAPPY ISSUE" 289 
 
 at the opened window, where the hearty greet 
 ing he received made bygones bygones and 
 warmed his heart with a new thrill of outgiving 
 toward all humanity. 
 
 "YES," said Mr. Kemble, that evening, in the 
 bosom of his family, " it 's queer how things 
 come out. A year ago, I was gibin' at Garrett 
 Coe as th' ugliest brute in town. Mebbe 't 
 wa' n't sayin' so much, ef he was. An' now I 
 vote th' committee 's done jest right." 
 
 " An' I think," added Miss Harvey, " it 's a 
 burnin' shame they did n't do it b'fore." 
 
 At the same time, Coe, at his home, was say 
 ing to his wife, who was bending over his chair : 
 "Ma, th' fust sixty dollars we git clear, off o' 
 th' Kentucky farm, I 'm goin' t' use t' buy back 
 thet candelabber o' yours thet 's over in Hing- 
 ham."
 
 Date Due
 
 A 001 362 964 7